Lisa's Broken Arrow

When the final rays of twilight melted into night, Lisa Feiklin realized that she was stranded.

Twisting a long lock of wavy black hair around a shapely finger, she sat at the restaurant table, idly sipping cold coffee from a blue enamel cup and staring out the window at horse shadows ambling down Main Street -- relieved and yet afraid, wondering what she should do.

Brent's dandified ways had charmed Lisa as much as his angelic good looks. If not for his strawberry-blond mustache he could have been a twin to the valentine cherub.

Last summer at the Rocking H barbecue, she'd never dreamed her taunting looks and teasing glances would end like this. Brent Cavenaugh had caught her eye the moment she first saw him, so sleek in his sharply pressed cowboy garb, a black silk bandanna knotted exactly halfway between his Adam's apple and his ear.

He'd noticed her, too, and stood opposite her in the square dance. She'd felt such a tingle when he took her hand to lead her in the promenade.

Later, in the line of people easing toward twin tables loaded with bread and beans and beef, pies and tarts, Lisa whispered to her sister, Jessica, who was a year younger than she. "Did you see Brent? He's the one in the red-checkered shirt."

"I saw him sure enough," Jessica hissed back, her heart-shaped face showing disapproval. "You'd best stay away from him, Lisa. He's trouble."

Flipping fingers through her glossy black waves, Lisa chuckled in her throat. "He's my kind of trouble, Jessica child. When you grow up you'll understand."

Two weeks after they met, Brent started spinning rosy dreams of marriage and a cabin in the mountains where they'd be together always. He called on Lisa every Saturday night, squeezed her hand by moonlight and wrote her love notes tied with red ribbon. None of Lisa's many beaux had ever done that. Gazing into her mirror, she daydreamed by the hour.

At the end of Brent's fourth visit Lisa's father, stocky Sheriff Rod Feiklin, pursed his lips and stared after Brent's cantering palomino. "Lisa, I'm not so sure about that hombre," he said. "He's too polished. There's something not right about him."

She slanted her eyes at him. "I like him, Daddy."

"He's turned your head with pretty talk, I'll bet." He shook his head in a warning. "Next time he comes around here tell him to keep riding."

Turning her head away, Lisa didn't answer him. After that she met Brent by day in a copse of trees near the river. When he tried to kiss her, she'd laugh and push him away, exhilarated that he found her appealing, intoxicated with her own feminine powers. In late October, he touched the tiny mole at the corner of her lips and looked into her soul. "Come with me, Lisa," he murmured, his hazel eyes roving over the delicious curve of her cheek to rest on her ruby lips. "We'll go to South Dakota and find a preacher. I can't live without you any longer."

Mesmerized, she breathed, "Tonight. After midnight."

Like a knight rescuing a maiden from an evil baron, Brent had waited under her window astride his palomino stallion, wearing a tailor-made black broadcloth suit and black bowler instead of his usual Stetson.

In Denver the runaway couple boarded a stage heading north, and Brent's arm stayed protectively around her. At first she felt secure and relaxed against his shoulder, but when his grasp on her tightened and his hand found her waist, she began to squirm, wishing she could put some distance between them. After all, they weren't married yet. After the wedding, they'd have a leisurely honeymoon in a plush hotel, and she'd have time to warm up to him. Sitting tight against him on a stage filled with strangers made her feel cheap. She glanced at his round cheek next to hers. Why couldn't he understand how she felt?

In Laramie they had to wait a day for the next stage. That evening, Brent stepped into her tiny hotel room uninvited. "Come here, Lisa girl." He smiled down into her face like a fox in a chicken yard.

She stepped away from his grasping fingers, using an arch look to hide her dismay. "Let's get some supper, honey. I'm worn out and hungry."

He dropped his hand, but his eyes glinted. Heart thumping, Lisa swished past him and yanked opened the door. With the air of a man biding his time, Brent followed her.

This wasn't the first time Lisa had eloped with a man. The other time, her father had stopped her and Hank Penbrook before they boarded the stage. Afterward she'd sobbed and blamed her father for interfering. Now, she yearned for him to appear. Brent made her feel hunted.

The cat-and-mouse game lasted more than a week. Brent's advances became more insistent, and Lisa frantically searched her mind for a ways to delay a showdown with him. A dozen times a day she asked when they'd stop to find a preacher, but he remained vague or unhearing.

For the first time in her life, Lisa regretted the haughty, flippant attitude that made her toss her head at her mother's warnings and her father's rules. More than anything in the world, she wished the scarlet Concord stage were headed toward Juniper Junction again.

When they reached South Dakota's Black Hills, time ran out.

In the only restaurant shack of a newborn mining town called Silverville, they found seats at a rough plank table. The dining room's other four tables stood empty. Two had used enamel plates and cups on them and no waitress in sight. The smell of old grease hung heavy on the air.

Grabbing a chance to speak unheard, Lisa asked, "When are we going to stop traveling long enough to find a parson, Brent?"

He stiffened, then relaxed and slowly brushed a forefinger over his strawberry-blond mustache, studying her. When his hand glided down to the table, his slack mouth turned hard. "I'm tired of playing games, Lisa." He let out an exasperated breath. "After the way you led me on, I never dreamed you'd be such a Polly Prude." His head tilted forward. His hazel eyes bored into her. "If you play by my rules, I'll consider buying you a ring and calling on a preacher to do the honors some day. If you tilt your nose in the air, I'll dump you here without a penny."

Clenching her hands around her empty handbag, Lisa swallowed and tried to breathe. "You promised to take care of me, remember Brent?" Her pleading tone turned accusing. "You said we'd be together always come rain or shine. What about your duty as a gentleman?" Lips tight, she gazed from his perfect hairstyle to his impeccable mustache. "You can't act like a gentleman because you aren't one. You're nothing but a double-dyed fraud." Her chin came up. "I'm staying here."

"And do what?" He spoke low and intense. "You don't know a soul here, and you haven't any money. Where will you sleep? What will you eat?"

Black eyes flashing, she forced her jaws to release enough to speak. "I wouldn't go another mile with you if I have to sleep on a bare floor and eat sawdust."

A slim, graying waitress brought them a card with the menu penciled on it. "Here's today's grub. I'll be back in a minute." She marched to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Brent tapped his pockets and stood, reaching into them. "I've dropped my wallet. I must have lost it at the stage station." His longs legs stretched toward the door. He stood aside for an elderly couple to enter, then disappeared into the afternoon. The biting chill of late autumn reached Lisa across the room.

When the waitress returned, Lisa smiled nervously and tapped long, slender fingers on the wooden table. "My friend will be back in a moment. I'll wait for him, so we can order together."

"How about a cup of coffee meanwhile?"

"Thank you."

The coffee came soon afterwards, but Brent didn't appear. Lisa fidgeted, eyes on the smudged window nearby. Her stomach rumbled, and she smoothed down her lavender skirt, anxiety mounting every minute. More than an hour later, the last rays of an orange sun vanished from the rooftops across the street.

What should she do now?

The waitress returned. "Looks like he got held up," she said with a small, cautious smile. She swept from her cheek a strand that was gray mixed with blond, an unusual color. Her hair was her best feature. She had a flat, long face with a straight nose. A curved scar circled her left cheekbone giving her a harsh look, but her eyes were kind.

Lisa pulled the corners of her full lips into an upside-down smile. "I can't order until he comes back." She ran fingers along the strings of her empty purse. She ought to leave, but where could she go? With nothing to eat since breakfast, she was starving.

"It's okay, honey. We're not busy, so you can sit tight. I'll warm up your coffee." She brought the pot and poured. "My name's Bess."

"I'm Lisa. Thanks very much."

"Don't mention it." Bess hurried to serve the other table and didn't return for an hour. Lisa gnawed her lip and fought back tears. Resting her chin on her hand, she closed her eyes.

"You okay?" Firm fingers touched her shoulder.

Lisa jerked erect and stared at Bess. The older woman slid into the seat across from her. "You're in trouble, aren't you?"

Forcing her lips into a small curve, Lisa nodded. "My gentleman friend left me stranded. I don't know what to do. I don't have any money." She ran a thumb over the handle of her coffee cup. "Would the boss let me clean the kitchen in exchange for supper?"

Bess looked at the younger woman's ruffled cuffs and embroidered bodice. "I reckon he might, but you wouldn't be much good in that getup."

"My suitcase is at the stage station. I have other clothes in it."

Bess watched her, considering. "I suppose he may give you a try. The girl who used to be our waitress and dishwasher moved to greener pastures last week. I've been doing triple duty for five straight days. I'm the cook here...for my sins." She stood. "I'll bring you a hot meal and send a boy to the station for your things. I'll mention you to the owner." She hustled back to the kitchen and returned five minutes later with a short, round man beside her. He was bald except for a fringe above his ears.

"This is Lisa, Mr. Brockwyn," she told the restaurant manager.

He let his eyes trail down Lisa from her crown to her fingertips. "This ain't no society parlor. She looks like she's never done a day's work in her life." Brockwyn was a full inch shorter than Bess, but he moved with a swagger and had a cynical twist to his fleshy lips.

Lisa met his disdainful black eyes. She wanted to tell him what she thought of him, but desperation pinned her tongue.

"Please give her a chance, Mr. Brockwyn," Bess said. "I can't do everything myself for much longer. If she don't work out, you can always let her go."

Brockwyn spoke like a Gatlin gun. "You will wait tables, wash all the dishes and pots, and after closing time mop the floors. If Bess needs help, you'll do as she says. Report at six in the morning and leave at eight at night. Salary's five dollars a week."

When Lisa nodded, the manager trundled into the kitchen and let the door bump closed behind him.

Five dollars a week. Could she even afford a telegram to let her parents know she was safe?

"Thank you!" Lisa called after him.

"Save your thanks," Bess replied, shaking her head. "That job is no prize, believe me."

Lisa pulled in a sharp breath. "I forgot to ask him when I get my first pay. I'm starving."

Bess reached into her apron pocket and pulled out some change. "Here." Gold and silver coins clanked onto the rough table. "Consider it a loan until you get paid." She hurried away and returned carrying a heaping plate.

Beef and beans never tasted so good. Relief made Lisa almost giddy. With a job, she'd be able to get a room somewhere nearby. A nagging voice asked her how soon she'd get home, but she pushed it aside. One problem at a time.

In a chilly storage room, she changed into her brown work dress and forced the lavender frock into the suitcase. Twisting up her black tresses, she pinned her hair into a high bun, ignoring the wisps around her face.

Rolling up her sleeves, she had to summon up some grit to plunge her soft pink arms into an iron sink filled with cold, greasy water thick with stale food particles. Biting the inside of her cheek to hold back the disgust rising in her throat, she lifted out stack after stack of plates and cups. Finally, she reached the bottom and pulled the plug. Water chugged into a bucket under the sink.

Bess called to her from the rusty stove three strides away. "Dump that waste bucket outside on the ground. I've got hot water in the stove reservoir for new wash water." Acrid wood smoke drifted upwards as Bess lifted a heavy iron circle from the top of the stove to add another small log.

A few minutes later, Lisa panted as she set down the pail of filthy water and tipped it over onto frozen earth. She paused, enjoying the frigid air on her burning cheeks, already exhausted and she hadn't washed a single dish.

"Where are you from?" Bess asked half an hour later. The dining room had closed, and she poured leftover beef stew into a wide bowl. Lisa looked up from the sudsy dishpan. "Juniper Junction, Colorado." Bess replied over her shoulder. "Never heard of it."

"I never heard of Silverville either, until the stage drove in this afternoon."

"I've been in South Dakota for five years," Bess told her, setting the dented soup pot on the counter near Lisa's arm. "I used to work in Deadwood, but when I heard about the silver strike, I decided to come over here and get in on the excitement." She shrugged. "Didn't take me long to see that this place is just like the last one. You get up and go to work, you eat and you sleep and you start all over again the next morning."

Lisa kept her eyes on the dishpan. Is that all she had to look forward to as well?

"You can bunk with me if you'd like. I have an extra bed. The waitress that left used to be my roommate."

"Thanks." Lisa straightened and drew in a slow breath. At least she wouldn't be sleeping in the icy storage room.

No thanks to Brent Cavenaugh. Now that her initial fears had calmed, hot anger rushed in. She scoured a pot with vengeance. Men were beasts! She'd had enough of them to last a lifetime.