The Measure of a Lady by Deeanne Gist Read Free Book Online Page A

a good deal of water if our efforts are to be fruitful. Would you be so kind as to show Lissa where she could fetch some?’’
    He swallowed. ‘‘Yes, miss. I suppose I could.’’
    ‘‘Why do I have to haul the water?’’ Lissa asked. ‘‘Why don’t I stay here and you haul the water?’’
    Rachel took a deep breath. ‘‘Mr. Soda, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Miss Lissa. Lissa, this is Mr. Soda and he is going to show you where to fill the water pails.’’
    Soda nodded his head in acknowledgment and Lissa threw her sister a glare before following him out the back.
    Rachel put away the frying pan, slipped on an apron she’d found earlier, and grabbed a gunnysack. She walked back into the hotel only to stop short as she spied a crowd of men jostling for position at the front window.
    One tipped his hat. Another waved. And yet another pasted a ridiculous grin onto his bushy face.
    Oh, for heaven’s sake. Ignoring them, she ripped a hole in the bottom of the sack, walked over to the statue, and pulled the burlap bag over it until the statue’s head popped through. There. Much better.
    Brushing her hands together, she hauled a tick off the bunk closest to the kitchen.
    The front door crashed open. ‘‘Here, miss, let me get that fer ya.’’
    She whirled around. A man wearing the customary garb of rolled pantaloons, muddy boots, and an unadorned monkey jacket hurried toward her.
    ‘‘Good heavens, sir,’’ she said, touching a hand to her throat. ‘‘You scared the living daylights out of me barging in that way.’’
    He halted and whipped his hat off. ‘‘I’m sorry, miss. It’s jus’ that I cain’t rightly stand around watching you struggle with this here tick when there’s a man around to carry it fer ya.’’
    She offered him a soft smile. ‘‘It’s no trouble, sir. It’s my job. But thank you. Now, please, you’re keeping me from my work.’’
    He rolled his hat round and round in his hands. ‘‘It’s right sorry I am to be disturbin’ ya, miss. But, I’m not leavin’ till ya tell me where it is yer wantin’ this here tick.’’
    Sighing, she stepped away from the mattress. ‘‘Very well, Mr. . . .?’’
    ‘‘Albert Roberson.’’
    ‘‘Mr. Roberson. I’m taking it out back to the line I’ve rigged up.’’
    Throwing the tick to his shoulder, he glanced at his friends still peering in the window and tossed them a triumphant grin.
    Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she guided Mr. Roberson to the cord she had tightly stretched between two posts in the yard.
    ‘‘Careful not to let it drag in the mud, sir. It’s a nice sunny day for cleaning, but I don’t wish to add to my labors by caking the tick with mud.’’
    ‘‘No, miss. I’ll be real careful.’’
    He threw the tick over the line, its weight causing the rope to bow some. Thanking him, she walked him back to the front door and closed it firmly behind him. The latch did her no good, for the ring it was to slip over held a padlock that was closed tight. And with no key in sight.
    Turning her back on the men, she went to the kitchen and retrieved a coal shovel. After wiping it clean, she set to using it on the tick.
    Never had she seen—or smelled—a mattress so filthy. With each whack of the shovel, more dirt and debris poofed out. Stopping to catch her breath, she propped her hands—shovel and all—against her knees.
    She mentally counted the number of ticks lining the walls of the hotel and groaned inwardly. How could anyone let his bedding get into such a state?
    Straightening, she lifted the shovel again.
    Whack. Whack. Whack .
    When her arms stung to the point they no longer obeyed her commands, she returned to the kitchen, found a broom, and started knocking away cobwebs and brushing down the plank walls of the hotel.
    She wondered where Lissa was and what was taking her so long. She wondered what exactly Michael was helping Mr. Parker with. And she wondered what on earth she