Free No Job for a Lady by Carol McCleary

big fancy red hat with purple feathers all around it. She has a British accent.
    “The cowboys.” She points behind me.
    I glance back and laugh. “Oh, them, they were fine—like knights of the Round Table, as long as you’re a woman. Why? Did you have an unpleasant encounter with them?”
    “No. I was going to attempt the crossing earlier, but they looked more dangerous than crocodiles on a sandbar. You’re a braver woman than I.”
    I like her immediately. She has a certain openness and confidence that makes one feel welcomed.
    “Actually, a rather interesting young cowhand named Sundance cleared a path for me, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Only he has a six-shooter rather than a staff.”
    “Oh, you must introduce me to him when you get the chance. We have absolutely no cowboys in the British Isles. So, Sundance kept all the other cowhands in line?”
    “Yes, except for a drunken old prospector who can’t keep his hands to himself. He jerked my skirt to tell me something about a map to Montezuma’s pile. You wouldn’t know if that is some sort of gold or treasure?”
    “If I am correct, I think he means Montezuma’s treasure. We must ask my uncle Don Antonio about it at dinner. I’m Gertrude Bell.”
    Unlike most women, she puts out her hand as an offer to shake, and I take it.
    “Nice to meet you. You’re Señor Castillo—Don Antonio’s niece?”
    “Not by blood. He attended university with my father and it’s a title of affection we’ve given him.”
    My instant liking of Gertrude has grown. The handshake sealed it. Most women won’t offer to shake and sometimes stare at me a bit offended when I put out my hand to them. Better yet, she has a firm handshake. My dad was a stickler on how to shake a hand. He never wanted me to shake hands like a fish—soft and wimpy—but to have a good strong grip. “Shows character, very important first impression,” he said.
    One of the first things I notice about Gertrude is her hair. It’s this big, thick, curly mop of reddish—light auburn—hair that is untidy in a fashionable way. Her eyes are piercing green-blue and seem frank, honest, and inquisitive, but I also pick up a hint of confrontation—someone who likes a good fight. I’ve been accused of having the same look and temperament.
    Her face is rather oval, with a good rounded chin, her lips bow-shaped, and her nose long and pointed, a bit sharp. Rather than great beauty, she radiates energy and a lust for life, as if the smallest things could interest her and bring great delight.
    “Oh my, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Nellie Bly. From Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”
    “I know. Don Antonio told me all about you. He said you’re a newspaper reporter. How utterly exciting! I’ve never met a female reporter, though I’ve heard of one in London who covers the society page. Are you a society reporter?”
    “I’m a foreign correspondent.”
    Gertrude gasps. “ No. Nellie, that’s so amazing. And they’ve sent you to Mexico? Don’t they know how dangerous it is? Oh, this is so marvelous! I am so impressed. You must tell me—”
    The look on my face has caused her to stop. I know my face is beet red, and I have to hold back tears.
    “Nellie … what is it? What have I said to offend you?”
    I pull her down next to me onto a pair of empty seats.
    “I’m…” I hesitate, trying to get my composure. “I’m going to tell you the truth, but you must promise me you will keep it a sworn secret. Please, promise me this, Gertrude.”
    “Of course, I promise.”
    I believe her. It’s those eyes—they don’t lie. But where do I start? I can’t just tell this obviously well-bred woman that I quit my job and headed for Mexico and am only pretending to be on assignment. She would never understand without comprehending that I haven’t had the bed of roses I’m sure she’s been raised in. I don’t know how to tell a high-class British girl that I once worked in a factory