Tempest in the White City by Deeanne Gist

O f all the exhibits the Chicago World’s Fair had to offer, how had he ended up being assigned to the Woman’s Building? The Woman’s Building. Why couldn’t he have been put in the Government Building, where there were guns and cannons and a Civil War musket? Or an assignment to the secret service part of the command would have been good. As a Texas Ranger, he was certainly qualified.
    But Colonel Rice gave no explanation for the jobs he issued, nor did Hunter question the man. Instead, he accepted his duty with as much dignity as he could muster, then took up a position in front of a building that had been designed by women, stocked by women, and run by women. They’d even wanted to plaster its exterior all by themselves, but the National Commission had put its foot down. Manual labor would be done by men, as well it should be.
    He tried to imagine a woman on a scaffold, her voluminous skirts whipped by the wind as she tried to man a plasterer’s trowel. Impossible. One did not woman a plasterer’s trowel.
    Still, after all the trouble the colonel had gone to in recruiting him, Hunter had expected something a bit more hazardous. The boys in Company A back home would have a hearty laugh if they discovered he’d taken leave from chasing desperadoes in order to guard a bunch of lace and embroidery.
    A frail woman with a cane approached the wide, marble-like steps leading to the building’s entrance. The brim of her somber bonnet framed a face as wrinkled as a burned boot.
    Jumping forward, he offered his arm, and caught a whiff of camphor rising from her black gown.
    “Thank you.” Her drooping eyes examined the pompon on his blue fatigue cap, the whistle pinned to his left breast, the five rows of black braid cutting across his blue jacket like railroad ties, and the strip of red running down the seams of his matching trousers.
    Straightening, he wished for the umpteenth time he’d been allowed to wear his Stetson and guns. But they insisted on the military cap, and the most they’d let him carry was a small sword that was about as useless as a knot in a stake rope.
    “You have on cowpuncher boots.” Her voice was gravelly, as if she gargled with pebbles. “Reminds me of my William. He was the third husband I buried, you know. And my, did he love his boots. He wasn’t as handsome as you, though he made up for it with charm. The next three didn’t hold a candle to him.”
    Next three what? he wondered. Husbands? She’d had six husbands?
    “What do they call you?” she asked.
    “Scott, ma’am. Hunter Scott, of Houston, Texas.” He touched the brim of his cap. “And you?”
    “Mrs. Garnett-Frerking-Duke-Rowland-Roebuck-Hachenburg of Denver.”
    He lifted a side of his mouth. “Which one of them was your favorite?”
    She placed a crooked hand against his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Mr. Duke. The one with the boots.”
    “Mrs. Duke it is, then.” He took his time, allowing her to place both feet on each step before attempting the next.
    “Can you tell what that’s supposed to be?” She pointed to the frieze above the entrance. “It hurts my neck to crank it back that far.”
    He gave it a quick glance. “It has a bunch of sculptured gals on it. Each one’s supposed to represent different women’s occupations, but I haven’t been able to figure what those are, exactly.”
    She shook her head. “Only one occupation is suitable for a lady. Those women belonging to suffrage leagues are going to get more than they bargained for if they aren’t careful.”
    “Amen to that,” he mumbled.
    At the landing, he pulled open the heavy wooden door. “You have a nice day now, ma’am.”
    Mrs. Duke had barely shuffled in when a young nurse in a white gown hurried up the entrance steps. The ornaments of her occupation dangled from her chatelaine, swinging and clanking with each hop. Between her lips, she clamped two long, sharp hat pins.
    “You might want to slow down, miss,” he said,