Pathfinder, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Anna Schmidt
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Craig White
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P. O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
www.sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Author’s Note
Anna’s Easy Chicken Chili
About the Author
Back Cover
WANTED
Young women, 18–30 years of age, of good moral character, attractive and intelligent, as waitresses in Harvey Eating Houses on the Santa Fe Railroad.
Wages $17.50 a month with room and board. Liberal tips customary. Experience not necessary.
Write Fred Harvey, Union Depot, Kansas City, Missouri
Chapter 1
Juniper, New Mexico, Winter 1903
“Miss Elliott! A moment please.” Aidan Campbell, manager of the Palace Hotel, hurried toward Emma. They had worked together for several years now in the Harvey Corporation, and Emma took pride in knowing he held her in high esteem. That respect came in spite of the fact that they had shared a brief romantic relationship, one Emma had broken off. Since that time, Aidan had been overly formal in his dealings with her.
Aidan handed her a telegram he’d clearly just received. “Read this,” he said. Given his smile and obvious excitement, Emma had to assume this was good news.
MY DEAR FRIEND CAPT MAX WINSLOW AND COMPANY COMING TO JUNIPER STOP ARRIVING TODAY BY PRIVATE TRAIN STOP MAKE THEM WELCOME STOP
It was signed Ford Harvey. Ford was the son of the company’s founder, Fred Harvey, and the heir apparent to the empire of hotels and restaurants his father had built.
“Well,” Emma said, handing the telegram back to Aidan. “One does not say no to Mr. Harvey or his son, but really, Aidan, a military company here in the hotel? The other guests will surely wonder what brought this about.”
Aidan’s eyes bulged. “You have no idea who Captain Max Winslow is?”
“Should I?”
In his excitement, Aidan dropped all hint of formality. “Emma, he is a famous former army hero as well as part owner and star of the Last Frontier Wild West Show—a show that is coming here to Juniper for the winter. It’s bound to be a boon to business.”
Emma chewed her lower lip. Housing and feeding a bunch of soldiers was one thing. In her opinion, doing the same for a troupe of theater people would be far more challenging. According to everything she’d heard or read, such people could be quite rowdy, and their moral standards were questionable as well.
“How many are in this group?” She hoped raising the practicalities of the relatively small number of rooms available in the hotel measured against the number of performers might give Aidan pause.
“Only Captain Max, his leading lady, and the troupe’s manager will stay here. The roustabouts, livestock handlers, and other members of the cast and crew will have their own quarters on the grounds.”
“The grounds?”
“The area the town council has leased to them for setting up the show just outside town.”
“None of that was covered in Mr. Harvey’s telegram,” she noted.
Aidan sighed. “Are you so busy managing the dining room and counter and playing mother hen to the girls you haven’t time to read the paper?”
“The girls are young women we rely upon to maintain the high standard of decorum and service for which we are known,” she reminded him. “They are the face of this and every other Harvey establishment.” She pressed her palms over the starched front of her pristine white apron as she stared at the tips of her perfectly polished black shoes. She rarely challenged Aidan in this way. He was, after all, her superior. “I apologize. It’s just that…”
“We’ll make it all work out, Emma,” he said, lowering his voice. “We always do. Alert your staff, and I’ll see to getting rooms set up.” He glanced once again at the telegram. “No time given, so we need to get ready.” He motioned to his assistant at the front desk before turning back to Emma. “I’ll reserve a table for the captain and his costar and manager to use whenever they choose. You should appoint your very best waitress to serve them.” He started toward the desk and hesitated. “Better yet, you should serve them. No one better.” He hurried away.
Emma bristled. She already pulled double duty as the manager of the dining room and more casual counter service as well as housemother to the waitresses. Harvey Girls always lived on-site, in this case on the top floor of the hotel. They were expected to set an example of ladylike manners and morals as well as abide by strict rules and curfews. There was always at least one who thought she could ignore the rules, meaning Emma had the added role of disciplinarian. She had her hands full already, and now Aidan expected her to wait on these show people in the bargain?
Fortunately, she had established the practice of meeting with all the waitresses just after the morning breakfast crowd at the counter thinned and before the dining room opened for lunch. They were waiting now in the dining room. Emma mentally counted heads as they lined up so she could make sure their uniforms—a black dress covered by a bibbed white apron—were spotless and their shoes polished.
Trula Goodwin was missing.
Emma sighed and glanced at Trula’s roommate, Sarah.
“She’s got another of her headaches, Miss Elliott,” Sarah murmured. Two other girls rolled their eyes.
“And did this headache come upon her around two this morning by chance?” She saw Sarah’s eyes widen in surprise. “Perhaps as she was creeping up the kitchen stairs, past my door?”
“It was…later,” Sarah stammered.
Emma had discovered that letting these young women know she was aware of infractions of the rules worked miracles in terms of making them think twice before crossing that line. Still, Trula continued to test the boundaries, and Emma had given her enough warnings.
She tapped her pencil against her lower lip, pondering how best to handle the situation. In the distance, a train whistle sounded—the 9:05 freight train. She would give Trula until noon tomorrow to pack her things and decide her destination. Of course, that would leave them shorthanded at a time when that was the last thing she needed. But they would manage.
She forced a smile and faced the girls. “Ladies, we have some special guests arriving perhaps as soon as later today. My understanding is that they will be with us for some time. Has anyone heard of a Captain Max Winslow?”
The girls gasped in unison, and their eyes widened with excitement.
“He’s the one on the posters all over town,” one girl announced as others turned to one another with animated smiles.
“I saw his show when I was in training in Kansas City. He is gorgeous,” a second waitress said.
Emma cleared her throat to regain their full attention. “Apparently, the entire company will winter here in Juniper, although only the captain and two others will be staying here in the hotel. The point is, Captain Winslow is a personal friend of Mr. Ford Harvey, so we all need to be at our—”
A tap on the closed double glass doors interrupted her lecture. Emma turned as the door opened halfway and possibly the best-looking man she had ever seen in her life stepped i
“I apologize, sir, but the dining room does not start serving until…”
He removed his hat to reveal thick waves of black hair, a face tanned golden, deep-set eyes beneath the ridge of his forehead, and a nose that might have seen a fight or two. He moved toward her.
“Max Winslow, ma’am.” His eyes were gray, almost silver, and he was standing close enough that she could not help but notice the fan of thick black lashes that framed them.
“It’s miss,” she said, her voice a raspy whisper. Behind her, a few of her girls tittered and were shushed by others. “Miss Elliott,” she added primly, finding her full voice.
“Well, Miss Elliott, I’m mighty pleased to meet you. I stopped at the front desk, but no one was there, and I heard you talking to these fine ladies and…”
“Your train is here?”
“Ah, that answers the question of whether or not we’re expected. I don’t take the train if I can help it. I came on horseback. Diablo’s tied up right outside there. The others will be along later tonight after they tear down from our last performance and load everything and everyone on the train.”
Several of the girls broke ranks and hurried to the window to look outside. “He’s gigantic,” one of them murmured.
“He’s marvelous,” another added.
Emma wondered if they meant the captain or the horse. She gathered herself and looked up at him—at least six feet of him with broad shoulders that filled the cotton chambray shirt he wore, a shirt stained with perspiration and dust from his journey. “I’ll go find Mr. Campbell, the hotel manager,” she said. “I’m sure he has a room ready for you and—”
“No need to fuss, Miss Elliott.” He stepped toward the girls at the window. “If you ladies could direct me to the livery, I’ll get Diablo settled and then come back.” He flashed a smile, and Emma thought at least two of her waitresses might swoon. This was getting out of hand.
She cleared her throat. “The livery is just to the other side of the railway station,” she said and, with a sweep of her hand, indicated the door. “I can have Tommy, our bellboy, take care of that for you if you like.”
Once again, she had his full attention, and that smile was now aimed exclusively at her. “I reckon I’d best take care of it. Diablo can be a little touchy when it comes to who handles him.” He had reached the dining room doors. He swept back the hair that had fallen over his forehead and tugged on his hat before tipping two fingers to the wide brim. “Ladies,” he said, glancing at the group of waitresses. “Miss Elliott,” he added with a slight bow.
And then he was gone. As soon as the doors clicked shut, the girls started to babble like a brook sprung from its winter bonds.
“He’s even better-looking than his posters,” one girl said.
“He’s downright adorable,” another sighed.
“I heard him and Rebel Reba are sweethearts,” a third chimed in.
Emma couldn’t help herself. “Who on earth is Rebel Reba?” she asked.
The girls froze and stared at her, much the same way Aidan had when she hadn’t known who the captain was.
“She’s the captain’s costar,” one explained.
“She’s as good as he is with a six-shooter,” another added.
“And she’s beautiful besides.” Trula stepped in from the kitchen, tying the sash of her apron as she joined the others.
Emma ignored her. “Let’s get back to business, ladies. The captain and his party will have this table available at all times,” she instructed as she pointed to a round table near the double doors. “They are not to be disturbed by staff or other guests.” She saw Trula grin. The table she’d indicated was one Trula served.
“Mr. Campbell has asked that I serve our special guests,” Emma added, and Trula’s smile faded. “In the meantime, we have our regulars from the train due to arrive soon, so that will be all. Prepare your stations. We have a busy day ahead.” The girls turned away. “Trula, my office, please.”
* * *
As Max rode slowly down the street, past the railway station, he saw Ed Brunswick, the show’s advance man, tacking up posters announcing the Last Frontier Wild West Show, the Only Authentic Portrayal of the American West. Max raised a hand in greeting to Ed, who grinned and pointed to the latest poster. The sign covered a good part of the side wall of the local mercantile, and its vivid color portrayed Max on Diablo, the horse reared on hind legs as Max waved his hat in the air.
The truth was it was all an act. Max hated what his life had become—what the West had become. With the driving of the native populations onto reservations and the floods of settlers and now tourists, everything had changed. That rugged, independent, free-spirited land he’d known as a younger man was pocked now with towns like Juniper and cattle and sheep ranches—some huge and others smaller—all fenced off with barbed wire. Any hint of what the open range had been had all but disappeared. The life Max had planned—a ranch of several thousand acres on open land—seemed as improbable as the idea years earlier that the vast herds of bison roaming that open prairie would be all but eradicated. But the bison were pretty much gone, and so was Max’s dream of living out his days on the raw frontier.
After finishing his service with the army, he’d bummed around, trying to find work, but his skills as a scout and pathfinder were no longer in demand. The coming of the railroad had changed all that. He’d been dead broke and prone to drowning his sorrows in a pint of rye whiskey when the Last Frontier Wild West Show had come to Montana. He’d heard they were hiring men to set up tents and care for livestock while playing extras. After signing on with the company, he realized how much he hated the phony way life on the range was being portrayed. One night, fortified by whiskey, he’d gone to the show’s owner and laid out his complaints.
To his surprise, Bert Gordon had not only listened, he’d offered to let Max come on board as the show’s advisor, giving him free rein to restructure the acts to make them more authentic. “We’re up against the big guns—Buffalo Bill Cody, for one,” Bert had told him. “We need an edge. You give me that, and I’ll make you a full partner, Max Winslow.”
And Max had done exactly that. He’d stopped drinking altogether, spending all his time figuring out how best to show people—especially youngsters—what the West had once been in a way that was both entertaining and educational. One of Gordon’s instructions had been that Max would need to find roles for all current performers.
“These folks have stayed with me in spite of offers from those bigger outfits,” he had explained. “Loyalty like that deserves loyalty in return.”
Over time, Max had come to think of the rest of the company as family, and they had urged him to take on a role himself. So three years after first walking into Gordon’s office, here he was—Captain Max Winslow, American hero and the star of the show. He was uncomfortable with the title. Sure, he’d done his part to serve his country and to protect others, but he would not count himself a hero.
He shook his head at the strange ways life can turn and led Diablo into the shadowy interior of the blacksmith shop. The smithy looked up, wiped his hands on a stained rag, and stepped forward. He was grinning, and Max had learned that usually meant he’d been recognized. It looked like Ed’s hard work passing out handbills to the locals had paid off.
“You’re the captain,” the blacksmith said.
“Well, hopefully, even with everything at peace, the country still has more than one captain,” Max replied with a grin. He extended his hand. “Max Winslow,” he said by way of introduction.
“Mick Preston. You need a place for Diablo there?”
Max’s horse was almost as famous as he was—some days, maybe more. One of the highlights of the show was when Max put the stallion through its tricks—counting, running a gauntlet of barrels, playing dead. “You’ve seen the show?”
Mick nodded. “Caught it up in Columbia last summer.” He walked toward an empty stall at the back of the shop. “Diablo will be fine here. You can count on that.”
The horse had a sixth sense about people, and Max saw that he’d accepted the blacksmith without question. “Much obliged,” he said as he bent to unbuckle the saddle and remove it. “I’ll keep this with me at the hotel.”
