Ticket to Tomorrow, page 3
part #1 of A Fair to Remember Series
Annie fought back the wave of homesickness with an effort and squared her shoulders. This was her home now, at least for the duration of their stay in Chicago. She had better get used to the idea.
She crossed to the dressing table and pulled the tortoiseshell hair brush through her tangled curls. There would be no hundred strokes for her tonight. Tired as she felt, she would be glad to make it to her bed without falling asleep on her feet.
Weaving the ash blond strands into a quick braid, Annie staggered across the room and turned down the bedspread. If that mattress felt half as inviting as it looked...
She gave her tired muscles permission to relax and sank blissfully onto the crisp white sheets. The mattress more than lived up to its promise. Its downy softness wrapped her like a mother enfolding a child in her arms.
With a contented sigh, she tucked her feet under the top sheet and pulled the covers up to her waist. What a day it had been! And tomorrow promised to hold just as much excitement.
Annie curled up on her right side and tucked her hand beneath her cheek. If she had her choice, she would sink into the welcoming pillow and sleep for a week. She levered herself up on her right elbow, ready to blow out the lamp on the bedside table, and caught sight of the satchel again.
What on earth was she going to do with the thing? By now, the reason for its sudden appearance in Silas's possession seemed clear enough. When he collided with the stranger at the station, their belongings had flown everywhere. The satchels looked similar enough at first glance. They must have gotten switched then. It was the only logical explanation.
Easy enough to figure out what happened, but not nearly so simple to plan a course of action for getting this one back to its owner.
How could she find the ill-tempered man among the masses at the fair? Annie directed a glare at the satchel that should have reduced it to ashes. There were goals aplenty to accomplish during their time in Chicago. She hardly needed one more thing to worry about.
She could simply turn the satchel in to the Lost and Found department. Surely a fair of this size would have such a place. The owner would realize his loss and be able to retrieve his missing property with no further effort from her. Thus satisfied, she settled back on her pillow and closed her eyes.
But how would that help her get Silas's things back? He was a wonderful man and a dear friend, but he would be hopeless at coming up with a solution on his own.
Annie groaned. Pushing herself off the bed, she reached for the satchel and settled it atop her sheets. She started loosening the straps that held it closed then paused, hesitant at the thought of going through someone else's things.
But Silas had already looked inside it, or he would never had realized it wasn't his. Tamping down her distaste, she unfastened the buckles and pulled the top flaps apart.
Gingerly, she reached inside and drew out the contents one by one, setting them on the bed: a shirt; a pair of cuff links; a bulging manila folder; a kit containing a razor, soap, and shaving brush; a small square envelope; and a pair of socks.
Annie slipped the shirt and socks back in the satchel right away. Handling some unknown man's clothing went far beyond the lengths she was willing to go to in order to find the owner.
With increasing reluctance at the violation of privacy, she picked up the cuff links and turned them over in her hands. Both were engraved with an F in flowing script, but bore no further clue to their owner's identity. Annie dropped them back inside the satchel with the clothes.
She saw nothing unique about the shaving things. They followed the cuff links and clothing.
There has to be something in here. Annie opened the folder. The papers within proved to be letters to and from a Mr. Frost of the Pan-American Sugar & Rum Company. The address used was in Philadelphia. That wouldn't help her here in Chicago. She wrinkled her nose and put the file away.
The square envelope still lay on the bed. Annie picked it up and held it between her thumb and forefinger, her sense of intrusion growing stronger. The flap of the envelope was sealed, but the top had been slit open. She reached in and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside.
Feeling like the worst sort of snoop, Annie shook the paper open and stared at the bold lines scrawled across the surface. Only a few words appeared on the page. Not even words, really. Certainly nothing she could make sense of.
She turned the note—if it was a note—over, but the back of the paper was blank. Mystified, she held the page closer to the lamp and peered at the writing.
In the flickering light, she could make out: MT 10a; TH J8; STAT REP.
Annie rubbed her forehead. It made no sense at all. Could it be some kind of shorthand? She thought back to the notes she made for Will in his work. She often shortened words when writing quickly. Perhaps this was a similar sort of abbreviation or code.
She stared at the page as if she could make its meaning clear by sheer concentration. MT 10a. She had no idea what that might mean. Her mouth stretched wide in a yawn, and she blinked to clear her vision. What about the next group of figures?
Annie traced the writing with her forefinger. TH J8. She often used TH as an abbreviation for Thursday. Could this be a date? Closing her burning eyelids, she tried to force her tired mind to concentrate. Today was Wednesday, June the seventh.
Her eyes flew open. Maybe the note indicated Thursday, June the eighth. Heartened, she continued. What about MT 10a? The name of a place, perhaps? But what could it be? Her mind sifted through several prospects—mountain, metal, material. She shook her head. Too many possibilities.
Wait a minute. Could MT indicate "meeting"? If that was the case, then perhaps MT 10a meant a meeting at ten a.m. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning.
Further encouraged, she went on to the last group of letters. She had the possibility, at least, of a meeting time and date. Maybe this would give her the place.
STAT REP. Annie stared at the letters, willing them to mean something. Her mind drew a complete blank.
Her shoulders drooped. Who was she trying to fool? With a sense of defeat, she replaced the paper in the envelope, then stuffed both back inside the satchel before setting it on the floor and blowing out the bedside lamp. She needed to get some sleep, not waste her time playing detective.
But sleep refused to come. Thoughts chased through her mind in a whirl. Solving the puzzling scribbles might provide her only chance to find out where Silas's satchel could be. She heaved herself back up on her elbow and lit the lamp again.
Propping herself up against the headboard, she cradled her head in her hands. All right, think! Someone was apparently planning to meet at ten tomorrow morning. But where?
STAT REP.
Annie ordered her mind to dredge up any words that might fit, muttering them as they came to mind. "Statistics of report?" No, that wouldn't name a place. "State Representative?" That might give her a who, but she still needed a where.
Statutory... no. Statute? Or maybe Statue..." Annie's heart beat faster. A statue would make a good meeting place, but which statue could it be? There must be dozens scattered throughout the city of Chicago.
Think, Annie, think! She closed her eyes and massaged her temples with her fingers, trying to remember whether she had packed a headache powder. There had to be a logical way to approach the problem.
She went over the few facts she had. The collision occurred at Terminal Station, the entrance to the exposition. Wouldn't that indicate that the satchel's owner might have an interest in the fairgrounds specifically, rather than Chicago in general? He had arrived in the afternoon along with her and Silas, too late to do much in the way of sightseeing. A person would need days, maybe weeks, to see the whole fair.
Her eyelids flew open again. In that case, tomorrow's meeting—if there was one—might be located right on the fairgrounds.
She remembered the papers Nick handed her earlier. Hadn't there been a map of the fairgrounds among them? She retrieved the envelope and sorted through it, giving a soft cry of triumph when she located the paper she sought.
She unfolded the map and peered at it closely, squinting to make out the tiny print in the dim light. She would approach the task with the same tenacity she used when she and Will were trying to work out a problem. Order and logic had served her well in the past. There was no reason to suppose they wouldn't now. Starting with Terminal Station, Annie worked her way east toward the lake.
The Machinery Building and its annex, and across from it, the Agriculture Building. A stock pavilion and exhibit halls for leather and forestry. Nothing there that would fit the bill.
She moved her finger along the shoreline, noting the long pier, the Music Hall, and an assortment of exhibits dotting the east side of the Manufactures Building. The certainty of being on the right track faded. With over six hundred acres and what looked like dozens, maybe hundreds, of buildings, she would never be able to find every detail. But she couldn't give up. Not yet. Just a few minutes more, and she would go back to bed.
The map became a blur of meaningless lines and shapes. Maybe if she went back over the tiny segment of the grounds she had already seen to reorient herself...
She planted the tip of her finger on the rectangle that marked Terminal Station, locating the spot where the collision occurred, then finding the place where they met Nick.
From there, they had walked past the Administration Building. Annie traced their path across the plaza, recalling the shock of delight she felt when she first glimpsed the huge reflecting pool beyond.
What was it called? She peered closely at the tiny lettering. Ah, the Grand Basin. She ran her finger along its length.
Her eyelids snapped open when her fingernail reached a dot at the farthest end of the basin. The map labeled the spot the Statue of the Republic.
Annie sat bolt upright, her heart racing. She held the map up to the light to make certain she had read the writing correctly. Yes, that was the statue's name. But was it the location of the meeting, assuming there was one?
It had to be. It all fit. She blew out the light, then settled against her pillow, ready to get some rest at last.
5
"Come on, Ranger, let's give it a try." Nick nudged the stallion with his heels.
The horse didn't need further urging. Nick sat loose in the saddle and let his mount's long, smooth stride speed them around the horseshoe-shaped arena.
In the evening, silver conchos on the performers' saddles and costumes would catch the spotlights, sending glittering flashes dancing across the faces in the audience. Eighteen thousand spectators would alternately gasp and cheer at the feats of derring-do as the troupe recreated scenes of life on the frontier.
This morning, Nick heard only the steady thrum, thrum of Ranger's hooves on the packed earth as they completed their circuit. At the top of the arc, he nudged the horse with his left knee. Ranger wheeled to the left and shot straight down the center of the arena like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Dead ahead, a large hoop hung suspended seven feet above the arena floor. Nick stood in his stirrups, then brought his right foot up to the saddle seat. Shifting his weight to his right leg, he pushed himself upright, bringing his left foot to the seat as he did so.
Balancing atop the saddle, Nick flexed his knees to absorb the roll of the horse's gait and narrowed his vision to focus on the hoop.
In another twenty yards... ten... five... Now!
As the horse's head passed under the hoop, Nick bunched his muscles and sprang into the air. Tucking his knees and bending his body forward, he let the momentum of Ranger's speed carry him through the hoop, ready to land back on the saddle on the other side.
At the top of his leap, he realized things weren't going to work out according to plan. His position was off. Only by a matter of inches, but it was enough. Nick made a valiant effort, twisting his body to try to regain the correct placement, but it was too little, too late. Instead of his boots reconnecting with the saddle, they scraped against Ranger's flank. Nick plummeted downward and landed on the dust of the arena in an ungainly heap.
He lay still for several long moments, waiting for breath to return to his lungs. Then he wiggled his fingers and toes. When nothing appeared to be broken, he tested his wrists and elbows, ankles and knees, working up each extremity to his torso.
Everything seemed to be intact, if his joints did feel a bit looser than before. He gingerly moved his jaw from side to side and ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Not even a broken tooth. Amazing!
Nick gathered his knees under himself and managed to stagger to his feet, grateful that his only injury appeared to be to his dignity.
Ranger came to a stop thirty yards away. Now he whickered and trotted over to Nick, wearing a curious expression, as if wondering what had gone wrong.
"You and me both, fella." Grateful that no one besides his horse had seen his humiliating fall, Nick leaned against the stallion's shoulder for balance while he bent to retrieve his hat and then used it to swat the dust from his clothes.
"I take it you won't be performing that particular stunt at tonight's performance?"
Nick whirled around and grimaced when he saw a tall, slender man step out of the shadows of the grandstand. Bill Cody. Wonderful. Of all the people in the world, his boss was the last he would have chosen to witness his disgrace.
He managed a rueful smile and shook his head. "Looks like it's going to take a little more time to work the kinks out of it."
Cody's silver goatee trembled with suppressed mirth. "From the way you hit the dirt, I'd wager you're going to have some pretty big kinks to work out of your shoulders, too." His face split in a wide grin. "You keep working like this, and I'll have to give you a star position." He dropped Nick a wink and strode off.
Nick caught up Ranger's reins and led him back to the stables, where he brushed his coat to a glossy finish. One of them, at least, would look his best for the evening crowd.
Had Bill been serious about his comment about stardom? Nick ran his hands down Ranger's legs, checking for hot spots. Based on what he knew of the man's character, there was a good chance he meant exactly what he said. He pulled a hoof pick from his hip pocket and went to work on Ranger's feet, trying to contain his excitement at the prospect.
Back when Nick joined the show, he'd been little more than a willing learner, barely able to believe his good fortune at the chance to spend his days working around the legendary Buffalo Bill.
He would have been content to remain just one of the background performers, but Bill had seen potential and given him the chance to advance. And now it looked like he might go even further.
Leaning against Ranger's flank, he reached down to pick up the horse's near hind hoof and winced. Bill wasn't kidding about the kinks in his shoulders. He need to do something to make sure he'd be fit for the evening's performance. Rolling his shoulders cautiously, he went back over the practice session in his mind. What had gone wrong? He'd tried that move before and it had gone without a hitch. He knew the moves, knew the timing. All it really required from him now was a high level of concentration.
And immediately, he knew where the problem lay.
He'd felt a little off kilter ever since his uncle wandered back into his life. Nick's lips parted in a fond smile. Crazy old Uncle Silas.
Or maybe not so crazy. From what he'd seen yesterday, the Crockett-Trenton Horseless Carriage just might have the makings of a viable invention. He patted Ranger on the neck, then turned him over to one of the stable hands and headed back toward his tent, trying to ignore the stiffness in his muscles that increased with every step he took.
Hurrah for Uncle Silas! After all those years of dreaming, to think he had finally come up with something that really worked. Nick well remembered the jokes that flew around the family while he was growing up—the sly nudges, the winks.
He had always felt a sympathy with his uncle. It was nice to think the old boy might have turned the tables on the rest of the relatives and be getting the last laugh after all these years. He and that partner of his.
Nick reached his tent and sailed his hat onto the small table in the corner. He felt the muscles catch in his shoulder. He needed to do something about that, and soon, or he'd never be able to pull himself onto the top of the coach during the rescue of the Deadwood Stagecoach in tonight's program.
He took off his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head, then took a bottle of horse liniment out of his foot locker and stared at it thoughtfully. It seemed to do all right by Ranger.
He poured a dollop into his palm and massaged it into his shoulder. Warmth spread through his muscles, and his nostrils tingled at the scent of menthol and oil of wintergreen.
And speaking of Uncle Silas's partner, where was the man? He'd half expected him to come striding out of the station behind his uncle and Mrs. Trenton, but both of them went off to set up the carriage without any mention of him. Perhaps he'd been delayed for some reason in Indiana.
Nick pulled his shirt back over his head and buttoned the front. What kind of delay would keep a man behind and still allow his wife to travel on ahead of him to take care of business? Especially a wife as attractive as this one.
Attractive? The word didn't do her justice. A picture of Annie Trenton's pensive face and delicate features sprang into his mind. What kind of man let a woman like that out of his sight? And with only his uncle for protection, no less.
Nick stretched out on his cot with a sigh and pillowed his head on his folded arms. Uncle Silas was the best-hearted man he knew, but he had all the protective instincts of a kitten.
Maybe he ought to step in and lend a hand. Other than an occasional rehearsal, he didn't have much to occupy him outside of the performance times. With several hours a day to call his own, he could take it upon himself to keep an eye on both of them until the absent Mr. Trenton showed up.
Finding the idea appealing, Nick pushed himself up off his bed. He wouldn't mind spending more time with Uncle Silas at all. He could go right now, as a matter of fact. He slicked his hair and pulled his buckskin jacket on.
