Whistler in the Dark Read Online Free PDF Page B

Amaretta boarded here, too? Emma considered pretending that she’d never met her mother before and only chance had brought them into the dining room together.
    The silence became painful before Mother found her voice. “Good morning!” she chirped. “I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is my daughter, Emma.”
    Miss Amaretta studied her plate. Emma’s cheeks flamed. She wished she could melt into the floorboards.
    â€œWhy … good morning!” One of the men, a handsome blond of middling age, jumped up to pull out a chair. Then he paused, as if unsure whether a woman in Reform Dress would accept his gesture. With a gallant smile he stepped back, indicating the chair with a flourish: a successful compromise. “You must be the newspaper editor we’ve heard so much about.”
    Emma slid into the empty chair beside Mother’s. Mrs. Sloane collected herself and silently poured coffee for the Hendersons. Emma sipped the scalding, bitter stuff, grateful to have something to do.
    The man reseated himself. “Call me Blackjack,” he said, looking mildly amused. He was dressed impressively in a pair of checkered wool trousers with a dark coat, brocade vest, and striped cravat.
    â€œThat’s an unusual name,” Mother said, reaching for a platter of chipped beef. Her cheeks were flushed. Emma suddenly realized that this first public appearance in Reform Dress was more challenging for Mother than she wanted to admit.
    The second man had followed the exchange with a sour look. Unlike Blackjack, he wore the worn trousers, wool vest, and stained work shirt of the miners Emma had seen in the street. “‘Aces’ would be a better name,” he observed in a humorless drawl. “He’s usually got an extra up his sleeve.”
    â€œI own The Raven—the saloon across the street,” Blackjack told Emma and Mother calmly. He used his knife blade to sprinkle salt on his fried potatoes. “I’m afraid my good friend Dixie John here has lost a poker game or two at my establishment.”
    Dixie John . Emma sucked in a slow breath. This man was Southern! Had he been a Confederate soldier? Had he fought against Father?
    Dixie John scowled. “I don’t mind losing in a fair game,” he muttered, then addressed Mother. “What will our newspaper editor have to say about a crooked gambling house?”
    â€œI don’t write stories based on hearsay,” Mother said carefully. “But if I find firm evidence of illegal activity, I will write the truth.”
    Mrs. Sloane emerged from the kitchen and set a basket of biscuits on the table. “Mind your tongue,” she warned Dixie John. “I’ll have no trouble stirred up under my roof.” She marched back into the kitchen.
    â€œI ain’t aiming to stir up trouble. Just asking a few questions of the editor-lady here.” Dixie John leaned back in his chair. His gaze swung from Mother to Emma. “I’m trying to decide if I should subscribe to the paper or not,” he continued, looking back at Mother. “I may not be inclined toward your politics. I may not be comfortable with your family background, so to speak.”
    Emma couldn’t bear his wordplay for another moment. “My father was a captain in the Union army,” she said with cold pride. “Is that what you wanted to know?” So there!
    Mother squeezed Emma’s hand beneath the table. “My daughter and I are proud of my husband’s service,” she told Dixie John quietly. “But the war is over.”
    Dixie John shoved away from the table. His boots clattered down the hall. The front door slammed. He began to sing as he stumped down the steps, and the words drifted through the window: “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land …”
    Emma balled her napkin in her lap and willed the wave of