Arriving From Arkansas (The Pioneer Brides 0f Rattlesnake Ridge Book 1)

  Arriving from Arkansas

  The Pioneer Brides of Rattlesnake Ridge, Book 1

  Elisa Keyston

  © 2019, Elisa Keyston

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover Design by RockSolidBookDesign.com

  Proofread by Alice Shepherd

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

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  Contents

  Publisher’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  What’s Next?

  You May Also Like

  More from Sweet Promise Press

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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  Prologue

  WANTED: a steady Woman of good character to serve as cook in a respectable boarding house. Must be able to bake, wash, iron, milk and feed cows; age not under 18. Selected applicant will have travel expenses paid. Apply to Box D, Rattlesnake Ridge, Sierra County, Nevada.

  Chapter 1

  Late August 1870

  Josephine Lane read the words again, for what must have been the thousandth time this week alone. She’d tucked the small newspaper clipping into the envelope containing her offer of employment, and she’d unfolded the letter and the clipping dozens of times on the long journey here, by horse and cart, then by riverboat, and finally the last leg of the trip by rail. She’d arrived in Reno, Nevada the night before, and now, on the stage ride from Reno to the place her uncle had always called “the Ridge,” she found herself opening the envelope once more, running her fingers over the printed words, wondering if she’d made the right decision.

  You can do this, Josie-girl, she thought to herself. You cooked for Pa. You baked him bread. You churned him butter. And he never complained. So maybe you didn’t learn how to cook from no highfalutin chef uncle from Philadelphia like you said in your application. It won’t matter to a bunch of dirtwater miners and loggers. All they’ll care about is getting a home-cooked meal.

  That’s what she’d told herself ever since she’d sent in her application. Two months ago, it had seemed a perfectly rational argument. Now, though—the guilt had been building in her ever since she’d stepped on the train to Reno. She shouldn’t have lied, not for something like this. Not when the lie could so easily turn around and bite her like the snake the town derived its name from. But she’d been desperate. She had to get to Nevada. And when an opportunity like this all but fell into her lap—travel expenses paid and all—she couldn’t let that chance slip away from her.

  Besides, it hadn’t been a complete lie. Her uncle had been from Philadelphia originally, before heading off to the California gold fields and then the silver hills of Nevada. Surely he’d had to cook for himself during those years on his own; he may have even been a fine cook. He just hadn’t been a chef, nor had he taught Josie anything. Not about cooking, at least.

  She bit her lip, her eyes looking over the words once more without seeing them. Just a small lie. One of many.

  “Letter from a sweetheart?”

  Josie started at the voice. She’d all but forgotten about the other passengers on the stage: an elderly couple on their way to Virginia City, and a younger man, likely in his late twenties or early thirties. The couple—the woman beside Josie and her husband seated across from them beside the younger man—had both fallen asleep shortly after the stage had departed this morning. The younger man, though, had remained alert but utterly silent, looking out the window at the pine-covered mountains and, beyond, blue snatches of the massive body of water that straddled the California-Nevada border, Lake Bigler (or, as the stage driver had informed them this morning, more commonly known by the locals as Tahoe). But now the forested mountains had given way to a reddish rocky cliffside, and the man had turned his attention inward, eyeing Josie with curiosity. And now, as the afternoon light streamed in sideways through the stage’s window, Josie noticed for the first time how handsome he in fact was: raven-colored curls peeked out from under his hat, brushing across his tanned forehead, and his gray eyes sparkled in the sunshine. He had a strong, square jaw that softened with the easy smile he now offered her.

  She straightened, schooling her voice with practiced care into the refined tones of her mother’s upper-class Philadelphia accent. “Certainly not,” she replied, glancing at the sleeping woman beside her, hoping the man’s words hadn’t awakened her.

  “My mistake,” the man said, his smile not wavering. “When I heard you were traveling to the Ridge, I assumed it was to meet someone. I understand very few young ladies travel out here for any other reason.”

  Josie bristled even as her cheeks warmed at the man’s smile. She felt exposed, as though this handsome stranger could see right through her. As if he knew her real reason for being here had nothing to do with the newspaper ad or offer of employment in her hand. She swallowed, and said in a smooth, clipped voice, “I am here for employment purposes, sir.”

  “Ah, I see,” the man replied easily. “So we’re here for similar purposes. I was hired by Jacob Winthrop as foreman in his new lumber mill, in the hills west of town. It’s nice to know I won’t be the only newcomer in town.”

  Josie relaxed a little. She needed to not be so jumpy. The man was merely making conversation. He wasn’t trying to pry into her true reasons for coming here. It was her own nerves making her feel this way, and she needed to get a handle on them or she would never last a week here. “No, you won’t be. I’ve accepted the posit
ion of cook at the local boarding house.”

  “Oh, Miz May’s?” When Josie looked at him curiously, he shrugged. “Mr. Winthrop filled me in on some details about the town. Your employer is a highly respected pillar of the community. Her boarding house has an excellent reputation. I hope you’ll be happy there.”

  “Thank you, Mr.…?”

  “Griffin,” he replied quickly, flashing her another disarming smile. “Jim Griffin. Lately of Otsego, Michigan.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Griffin. I’m Josephine Lane.”

  If he noticed the way she sidestepped mentioning where she was from, he didn’t give any indication. He simply replied, “The pleasure is mine, Miss Lane.” They rode in silence for a moment; then Mr. Griffin added, “We should be there soon. Not a tree to be seen from where I’m sitting. We must be close to where the old mine was located. You know much about the Ridge’s history, Miss Lane?”

  Josie’s spine stiffened involuntarily, but she tried to cover it by shifting in her seat, adjusting her bonnet on her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said, “though I have heard much about the silver riches of Nevada. There’s a mine here?”

  “Used to be. And it’s Mr. Winthrop’s hope that there will be again, sometime soon. The way I understand it, the Spanish Main mine was only in operation for a year or so, about ten, twelve years ago. This area’s known for flash flooding, and a big rainfall in the winter of…oh, I think it must have been fifty-eight, maybe…triggered a cave-in. The whole mine was a loss. Fifteen men lost their lives.”

  “How terrible,” Josie said.

  Mr. Griffin nodded. “It took its toll on the town, that’s for sure. Then a couple months later there was the Comstock strike down in Virginia City. Most prospectors packed up and moved south. Rattlesnake Ridge was all but a ghost town until Winthrop bought it out.”

  “And you said he’s hoping to reopen the mine?” Josie said, careful to keep her tone one of bland disinterest. “He’s not concerned about the dangers?”

  “A lot’s changed in the last twelve years. That was before the days of square set timbering, so the mine was completely unsupported. New technology has made mining an infinitely safer occupation than it used to be.”

  “Timber,” Josie said, quirking her eyebrow. “And that’s where you come in, Foreman Griffin?”

  He chuckled. “You got it. The hills between Tahoe and the Ridge are a logger’s paradise. Winthrop’s got a camp out there felling trees and hauling them to the mill. We make the lumber, and then the Virginia and Truckee short line brings the lumber to the mine.”

  “So the mill isn’t in town?”

  “No, Winthrop’s got a horse waiting for me in town. I was hoping to stop in for lunch at Miz May’s before I head out, but I don’t suppose you’ll have time to get those stoves fired up before I need to leave.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I will,” Josie said with a laugh. “But I understand Miz May already has a woman helping her in the kitchens part-time. She has two young children that need looking after, so I’ll be taking her place. Regardless, though,” she teased, “it must be close to two o’clock by now. Lunchtime is long over. You should have packed something to eat on the trip.”

  Mr. Griffin grinned, an almost sheepish expression that made his face appear boyish. “Well, I’ll have to stop by the boarding house after you settle in to get a sample of your cooking, Miss Lane. I hope to make it into town a few times a month. Maybe more, time permitting.”

  Josie flushed, but didn’t have the chance to reply. Just then, a knock came from above their heads, and the driver, who’d turned slightly in his seat to rap on the roof of the stage, called out, “Rattlesnake Ridge coming up!”

  Josie turned quickly to the window, all thoughts of Jim Griffin fleeing from her mind. This was it. The town she’d traveled nearly two thousand miles to see. She’d left behind everything and everyone she’d ever known to chase down this dream. A chance to make good on everything her uncle had taught her. To make a new life for herself, one without hours of thankless work in the fields, one without the judging eyes of neighbors. A life where Josie, and no one else, would be in charge of her own destiny.

  Uncle Gideon had said Rattlesnake Ridge wasn’t much to look at. He hadn’t been wrong.

  Ten minutes later, the stagecoach driver was handing Josie her bag from the rooftop storage as dust settled around her skirts in clouds heavy enough to make her cough. The air here was so dry it seemed to leach the moisture straight out of her skin, a stark contrast from the oppressive humidity she’d left behind. There was no station—the driver had said eventually the stage route would run parallel to the V&T freight line and drop off and pick up passengers at the Rattlesnake Ridge station, but as the stretch of rail running through town was still under construction, the best he could do was stop in the center of town. There wasn’t much traffic to speak of in the town, so there was no interference with his plan.

  Josie looked around the small, almost desolate intersection as Mr. Griffin disembarked after her and the driver handed him his own travel bag. There appeared to be only two streets in the town, just as Uncle Gideon had described. The junction where she now stood said Hill Street and Main in faded letters on a worn clapboard sign. On the north side of Hill Street stood a brick building with a large window in the front. Across the glass the words Garrett’s Bank were painted in filigree. A small placard reading Assay Office was propped in the corner. Across from the bank on the south side stood a saloon, which sounded busy even at this time of day. Josie wondered with mild amusement if anyone around these parts had ever heard of the temperance movement.

  As the stagecoach bearing the older couple to Virginia City pulled away, kicking up more dust in its wake, Mr. Griffin turned toward the building kitty-corner to the saloon, on the northeast intersection of Hill Street and Main. “I believe that’s the boarding house, Miss Lane,” he said, gesturing to a two-story wood building with aging paint. Adjacent to the building was a small pasture surrounded by a likewise aging but otherwise well-maintained fence. A cow stood near the fence, chewing lazily, and Josie could hear the clucking of chickens nearby—likely in the same pasture beside the boarding house.

  She swallowed and squared her shoulders. Come what may, she’d arrived.

  “Shall I escort you home?” Mr. Griffin asked in a teasing voice. Josie grinned. The front steps to the boarding house were no more than ten yards away.

  “Please do. Oh, I can manage,” she said when he began to reach for her carpetbag. Mr. Griffin tipped his hat and the two crossed the dusty square and climbed the three wide steps up to the boarding house’s front porch.

  As she reached the top step, the door opened, and Josie was surprised to see a very pretty Chinese woman standing in the doorway wearing a neatly-pressed calico dress. “Hello,” the woman said. “You must be Josie.” She spoke with the clipped tones of a Yankee, but otherwise had no discernible accent.

  Josie blinked. “Miz May?” she asked. The woman nodded with a smile, then glanced past Josie at Mr. Griffin, who had frozen on the bottom step. Her smile wavered slightly.

  “I’m sorry, I was under the impression you were unattached. I’m not sure I have accommodations for a husband and wife—”

  “Oh, no, no,” Josie stammered, her face burning. “He’s not—”

  “I’m just a fellow traveler, ma’am,” Mr. Griffin added quickly. “I’m the new foreman out at the lumber mill. Miss Lane and I came in on the same stage. I just walked her over here, and now I’ll be on my way. Mr. Winthrop will be expecting me.” Looking up at Miz May, he asked, “You wouldn’t be able to point me to the public stables, would you? Jacob Winthrop arranged for me to take a horse from there.”

  “They’re about half a mile west down Hill Street. To get to the mill, keep going west about another four miles or so. Hill Street turns into a track into the foothills. Just stick to that, it will get you there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Much obliged.” He lifted his
hat to her, then to Josie. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lane. I’ll have to stop by again soon to get a sample of that cooking of yours.”

  Josie nodded at him, still blushing, and turned to follow Miz May into the boarding house.

  “My, my,” Miz May said, closing the door behind them. Josie blinked as her eyes adjusted from the blinding afternoon sun to the dim vestibule in which she now stood. “Mr. Winthrop’s new foreman certainly is handsome, isn’t he? And so tall! Though I suppose he didn’t seem so to you. You’re rather tall yourself, aren’t you? Almost as tall as Barb.”

  “Did someone say my name?” a woman’s voice drifted into the vestibule from the hallway. Josie let out a silent sigh of relief at the interruption, as she was quite unsure how to respond to Miz May’s comment about Jim Griffin. It was uncharacteristic for a man to leave her so tongue-tied, but Miz May was right—he was very handsome. For a brief moment she felt a small pang of disappointment that his work at the mill would likely prevent him from coming into town very often. Then she snapped to her senses. She wasn’t on a hunt for a husband. She’d waited eleven years and traveled two thousand miles to get here. She had more important things to worry about. She was here to make a fortune for herself.

  But first, she’d need to survive the day at Miz May’s boarding house.