Cactus Flower by Alice Duncan Page B

I’m your best bet unless Nicky decides
to build you a house.” She winked at Nick, who didn’t appreciate
it.
           “Build
me a house?” Eulalie said blankly.
           Again
Mrs. Johnson laughed. “He’s a mighty handy fellow, our Nick. And
he’s got the biggest heart in the world. I reckon if you asked politely,
he’d build you a house, houses out here being on the small side and
easy to build out of adobe bricks.”
           Peeved,
Nick stood and said, “She’s joshing you, Miss Gibb. I’ll go get
your bag.”
           Eulalie
said, “Thank you,” and steeled herself for the coming ordeal—being
left alone to fend for herself with Mrs. Johnson.
           Not
that Mrs. Johnson didn’t seem like a perfectly nice woman. But the
notion that Eulalie was driving two little girls out of their bedroom
made her feel just terrible. She didn’t want the children to hate
her. Life was already hard enough.
           Eulalie
wasn’t a snob. She’d come from a theatrical family and was accustomed
to making do. But these territorial residences were … different from
what she was used to. Most of the places she’d stayed in back east
had been hotels or rooming houses of one sort or another.
           With
a sigh, Mrs. Johnson rose from the chair on which she’d been sitting,
picked up a squashed throw pillow and endeavored to fluff it into life.
“While Nicky’s getting your things, why don’t I show you where
you’ll be staying, Miss Gibb? It’s not elegant, as I said, but it’s
safe. I reckon, what with your job and all, you might have to endure
a few misunderstandings before Nick sets all the men in town straight.”
           The
older woman’s candor made Eulalie’s cheeks get hot. She got up from
the sofa and prepared to take the tour. She didn’t anticipate that
it would take long. “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. Um … I assure you
that I really am a singer. I don’t do … anything else.”
           “Oh,
my goodness, you don’t have to tell me that, sweetie. Nicky wouldn’t
have brought you here if you were anything but a lady.”
           Eulalie
decided perhaps she hadn’t given Nick the credit he deserved, although
her opinion had been colored by that embarrassing episode with her corset.
Or without her corset.
           Mrs.
Johnson bustled ahead of Eulalie toward the kitchen. Following, Eulalie
assessed her hostess. They were about the same height, although Mrs.
Johnson was perhaps an inch taller than Eulalie’s own five feet, two
inches. Eulalie couldn’t even guess at her age. She looked about a
hundred and six, but Eulalie imagined she wasn’t more than forty or
thereabouts. The territory, clearly, was very hard on its women. That
might have given Eulalie pause had she not already discovered that there
were many ways in which life could be hard on women, and at least Patsy
could probably be safe here.
    Every now and then she experienced
a compelling urge to shoot Gilbert Blankenship dead. Unfortunately she
was prevented by distance from fulfilling her desire. Thanks to the
lessons she’d taken in Chicago, however, she’d be ready for him
if he ever showed up.
           The
kitchen was a large room, with a big wood-burning stove in one corner,
a table and six chairs in the middle, and lots of cupboards. The sink
and counters sat under a window decorated with pretty, frilly yellow
curtains and that gave a perfect view of … nothing. Offhand, Eulalie
couldn’t recall ever being anywhere with less scenery, unless you
counted scrub grass, rocks and cacti. If she hadn’t been prepared,
she might well have succumbed to melancholia.
           “I’m
going to plant me a garden out there,” Mrs. Johnson said, indicating
the ground outside the kitchen window. “I get durned tired of looking
at dirt. I’m from Massachusetts originally, and I miss seeing