Two for Home

by Tinnean

  “What’s going on?” Steve asked.

  “Bart got a letter from his mama,” Charlie told them as he led the way into the parlor. Everyone was gathered there, including the cat Mrs. Hall had brought west with her and the litter of cream-colored kittens the cat had produced a few weeks before. Perhaps Sharps would ask for one when he and Steve moved to their spread. A barn cat was always useful.

  “I thought you might want to hear this.” Bart met their curious gazes. “We’ll eat later, if it’s all right with you?”

  “That’s fine. I have plenty of time before I have to relieve Marcus Wilby.” The young man had been deputized so Steve would have some help while Sheriff Cottyn continued to mend. Steve took a seat on the horsehair sofa, and Sharps made himself comfortable beside his captain. Sheriff Cottyn had originally given Steve the night shift when Steve requested it, and if he knew the captain wanted that watch because Sharps also worked nights, he never brought it up. As long as Steve was available during the day if Wilby needed him, the sheriff didn’t seem to care.

  “How about you, Sharps?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I’ve got time, too.” The owner of the Diamond Garter had hired Sharps to deal cards in the evening after he realized how good Sharps was.

  “All righty, then. Everyone ready?” Bart glanced at all of them.

  “You’ve got us on pins and needles, querido,” Mrs. Hall told him, the look she sent his way filled with love.

  He blushed, cleared his voice, and began. “My dear son…”

  My dear son,

  I take pen in hand to tell you the news here at home. Sam moved us out of the tenement, as I’m sure I informed you in one of my earlier letters, but as nice as the house he’s renting for us is—it’s so large and airy, and truthfully, I have no idea how he can afford it—we’re looking forward to joining you and your lovely family, in hopes that will be no later than early summer. I thought for a time Mary Beth would be joining us, as Mrs. O’Connor, the lady who ran the boarding house where she worked, passed away a few months ago after being ill for some time—

  “Oh, my. Papa and I lived in her boarding house when we first came east.” Mrs. Hall seemed more surprised than upset.

  “I’m sorry, querida,” Bart said.

  “Don’t be on my account. She tried to pull a nasty trick on Mama, putting roses in her bed without removing the thorns. Papa was mad at her for doing that. And I got yelled at until Papa realized she was behind what happened.”

  “That witch!”

  “Never mind. It seems she’s gone now. Keep reading.”

  Bart scowled. “I wish I’d known. I’d have—”

  “Done what, querido? We hadn’t even met yet.”

  “Still—”

  “Never mind.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Keep reading,” she said again.

  “Fine.”

  —However, Mrs. O’Connor’s companion, Mrs. Keogh, who was left the boarding house, has plans to continue running it, so Mary Beth will remain there. She’d been promoted from housemaid to parlor maid, which has made her insufferable, but you know how your sister can be. I could never understand Mrs. O’Connor’s decision, but apparently she was pleased with your sister’s work. So Mary Beth won’t be accompanying us, and that’s a relief to me. Does that make me an unnatural mother?

  “I don’t think it does,” Mrs. Hall said flatly.

  “Neither do I.” Bart sent a wry grin toward his wife. “God knows I love my brother and sisters, but I’ve never liked Mary Beth very much.”

  Mrs. Hall sighed. “I can’t say I blame you in regards to Mary Beth. Although when Mama was dying, she tried to be helpful. She went out of her way to bring soup for Mama. It was an act of kindness, I know—”

  “Hmm. I hate to say this, but Mary Beth never did a kind thing for anyone,” Bart said.

  Sharps had been listening intently, and now he shook his head. He’d grown up regretting not having siblings, but perhaps he’d been lucky all along.

  Mrs. Hall looked pensive. “By that time, Mama was just too ill to eat. Mary Beth would…hover. Insisting Mama drink the soup was…not helpful. Finally I had to ask her to leave. Even then, she kept asking whether Mama had finished the soup.”

  “You’re right, that wasn’t helpful. I should have kicked Mary Beth down the tenement’s stoop.” Bart slid an arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her cheek.

  “Never mind. Please continue.”

  Bart shook out the page and resumed reading the letter.

  Nate’s employer, who I learned only recently was the wicked man who tormented George’s sisters and brother, has also passed—

  What? Sharps had been lounging against the back of the sofa, enjoying the warmth of his captain’s thigh against his, but he straightened on hearing that. “How?”

  Bart coughed. “Ma says he was crossing Broadway late at night and was run down by a streetcar.”

  “That truly happened?” Sharps knew such accidents, freakish as they were, did occur, but this seemed a little too convenient.

  “Ma included an article from the Evening Mail.” He shook it out and handed it to Sharps, and Sharps ran his gaze over the newsprint.

  “It’s not very thorough.” He held it so Steve could also read it. Mostly it spoke of the man’s antecedents, his standing in the community, and how greatly he would be missed. No mention was made as to who exactly would miss him. It contained nothing about how he chanced to be run over by a streetcar, a vehicle it should have been easy enough to avoid.

  “A man like St. Claire,” Steve mused. “He’d have any number of enemies.”

  “What are you getting at, Cap?”

  “I wonder if he had help going under that streetcar.”

  Sharps had been wondering the same thing, but how had his captain come to that conclusion? To Sharps’s knowledge, Steve had none of the experiences Sharps had.

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Hall had been listening, and she also seemed arrested by Steve’s statement. “Bart, when you write your mama, I want to include a letter to Sam Pickett.”

  “Who’s Pickett?” Sharps asked Steve.

  However, it was Mrs. Hall who answered. “He was a friend of my papa’s, and he helped us get out of the city.”

  “Why would you write to him?”

  “He’s a private investigator. If anyone can get to the bottom of St. Claire’s death, it will be him.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to get to the bottom of,” Bart said. “He was probably drunk and didn’t realize what kind of danger he was walking into. You know one of Ma’s earlier letters mentioned he’d begun hitting the bottle.” He turned to Sharps. “Sam had been keeping an eye on St. Claire to make sure he stayed ignorant of our whereabouts, and he gave that information to Ma.”

  “Hmm.”

  “No, truly, the man was an assho—” Bart glanced at the three Pettigrew children. Chris sat on the loveseat, his hands folded on his lap; Charlie sprawled on the rug in front of the fireplace; Thomas with one of the kittens draped over an arm. Bart cleared his throat and addressed them. “I’m not going to be a hypocrite and say I’m sorry about this, but it seems your uncle is dead.”

  “I understand.” Chris was pale, his lips in a thin, tight line. As the oldest of the brothers, it made sense he would grasp the meaning of the situation. “Good.”

  Mrs. Hall tilted her head and observed her siblings. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  Charlie reared up on his knees. “That miserable—” he started, then stopped when he saw the way his sister was looking at him. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes, but that isn’t what I meant. You can stop wearing trousers. You can go back to being girls, to wearing dresses.”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “I can? I can be Noelle again?” He buried his face in his hands and began to weep. Sharps shifted uncomfortably—he never knew what to do if someone cried—Steve started to push himself off the sofa, but Frank was the one who went to comfort him.
r />   “I don’t want to wear a dress.” Charlie thrust out his lip. “I don’t want to be a girl.”

  Thomas looked up from the kitten he was playing with. “I don’t want to wear a dress either.”

  “You don’t have to,” Mrs. Hall assured him. “You’re a boy.” That seemed to satisfy him, and he resumed playing with the blue-eyed kitten. “Charlie, we’ll talk about this later. Bart, will you continue reading the letter?”

  “Sure, querida. Now, where was I?” It took him a moment, but then he found his place.

  —has also passed, and of course his wife dismissed his household and put the house up for sale. Since your brother has lost his job, he may well be joining us on the journey west. I’m reluctant to admit how little I like that thought.

  Bart groaned and raised his gaze again. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “Put him to work in the general store?” Mrs. Hall suggested.

  Bart began chuckling. “Remind me never to get on your wrong side.”

  “What’s so funny about that?” Sharps asked. In aid of his actual job for Colonel Sebring, he’d swept floors, stocked shelves, and generally helped out the shopkeeper in any way he could. It was honest work and had him in a position to gather information. In addition, it put coins in his pocket, and since Colonel Sebring saw he was generously paid, Sharps made sure people who needed the money more received it without having their pride injured.

  Bart continued to chuckle, this time so hard he began snorting. His wife rolled her eyes, but a small smile curled her lips. Finally, Bart was able to say between gasps and snorts, “My brother Nate used to sweep the floor of a dry goods store. He hated it.”

  “You’re right.” Steve was amused. “You definitely don’t want to cross Georgie. She has…hidden depths.”

  “You could say that.” Mrs. Hall gave a combination of a bow and a curtsey, then turned back to her husband. “What else does your mama have to say?”

  “Hmm.” He went on.

  Not all your sisters will be making the journey with us. Mary Agnes has married, a nice young man named Philip Danforth, who’s a Merchant Mariner. I’m not a granny yet, but they have time enough for that.

  Bart paused. “I’m glad the war is over. At least he won’t be in danger of capture.” There were hums of agreement, and then he took up where he’d left off.

  A young carpenter is courting Mary Katherine. You may know him. His name is Jimmy Hartman.

  Bart groaned and hit his forehead.

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Mrs. Hall asked.

  “He’s the one I punched in the face when he said something nasty about you.”

  His wife closed her hand around his upper arm and fluttered her lashes at him. “My hero.”

  “Silly wench.” But Bart stole a kiss. “That seems to be all the news. Ma closes by saying they’re all well, and she hopes this finds us the same.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “If most of the girls and Nate are coming with Ma and Sam, then I reckon I’d better talk to Phipps about making the house larger than we’d originally planned.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” A grandfather clock that had been in the house when they’d moved in began chiming the hour. Mrs. Hall dusted her hands briskly. “All right, everyone. The table is set. Help me get supper on the table.”

  * * * *

  It was a good meal, very tasty, and while Sharps had always been able to keep himself fed, his meals weren’t up to that quality.

  “I’m gonna miss this once Steve and I move onto the Double S,” he said after he’d wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it aside.

  “You could always hire a cook,” Mrs. Hall suggested.

  “What woman will want to live so far out of town?”

  “It doesn’t necessarily have to be a woman.”

  “You have a point,” Steve agreed easily. “We’ll see how it goes. If it looks like Sharps is going to poison me, I might have to agree with your suggestion.”

  Some handsome man who might make a play for Steve? Sharps wasn’t inclined to agree with that, and he was tempted to make a rude sound, but the grandfather clock chimed once again. He pulled out the pocket watch his captain had given him for Christmas to verify the time.

  “If you folks will excuse me, I’ve got to leave for work.”

  “I have to go also,” Steve said. He slung an arm around Sharps’s neck. “Marcus will be waiting for me to relieve him.”

  The younger deputy had a pretty little bride waiting for him, and he was always anxious to get home to her.

  Sharps grinned up at his captain. Steve had someone he was always in a hurry to get home to, too.

  “Thank you for an excellent meal, Mrs. Hall—”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “—and thank you for sharing your letter with us, Bart.”

  “Welcome.”

  Charlie bounced up out of his chair and ran to Sharps. “You’ll let me ride Sorrowful again soon, won’t you?”

  “I sure will.”

  He beamed at Sharps, and Sharps ruffled the boy’s hair.

  He and Steve said good night and walked out of the room. Steve dropped his arm from Sharps’s shoulders, and they put their hats back on. It was snowing harder.

  “Looks like you will be able to build that snowman tomorrow.”

  Sharps grinned up at him again. “I reckon I will.”

  And they stepped into the chill evening air.

  Epilogue

  It had been a busy night at the Diamond Garter, what with it being payday at the sawmill, and as usual on payday, most of the men stopped by to wet their whistle, dance with the girls, and maybe play a hand or two of cards. By the time the saloon shut down for the night, Sharps’s clothes reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume—even though the girls knew he wasn’t interested, they still tended to drape themselves over him on the off chance he might change his mind.

  There were still some men in the Garter, finishing their drinks at the bar or folding their hands of cards at his table

  Tobias, the kid who played piano, began the opening chords of “Home Sweet Home,” signaling the evening was coming to an end. He wore a vest, solid at the back but embroidered with vines and leaves in shades of greens and golds over the front, and when he noticed Sharps watching him, he smiled and ducked his head. He’d come in one night wearing the vest and told Sharps he’d bought it with the greenbacks Sharps had given him.

  “Join me, Mister Sharps?” he asked, a slight drawl in his soft voice.

  “Why, sure.” Sharps took out his harmonica and brought it to his lips. For a short time he let the simple harmony weave in and out of the piano notes. He loved this song and enjoyed memories of playing it for the men at the end of a long day.

  The girls escorted the last of their patrons down from their cribs, waved them off, and called out a good night.

  “‘Night, ladies.” Sharps tapped his harmonica against his thigh, slipped it into a pocket, and then rose and began stacking the chips to be put away. He’d split his take with Jacob, as per his deal with the owner.

  Tobias closed the lid of his piano and reached for his coat. “‘Night, Mister Sharps, Mister Jacob.”

  “‘Night, Tobias.”

  Sharps helped the barkeep clean up the saloon. That wasn’t part of his job, but Steve would be working for another hour or so, patrolling the town’s streets and making sure Woody Draw was safe for its inhabitants, so it would kill some time.

  Finally, a glance at his pocket watch showed Sharps it was time to head on home. He slid his arms into the sleeves of the coat that had been another Christmas present, said good night to the bartender, and stepped out into the night. It was snowing again—or perhaps still—and he walked home through the flakes that were falling thick and hard.

  Sharps softly hummed the melody Tobias had played at the end of the evening. He no longer had to worry about Lewis St. Claire turning up in Woody Draw and causing trouble for Mrs. Hal
l and her siblings—he grinned to himself for a moment. It was going to take a while to get used to thinking of the two older boys as the girls they actually were, although if Charlie had his way, he’d remain in canvas trousers.

  Well, he reckoned that was Mrs. Hall’s concern—Sharps’s had been having to travel east, but that was no longer something he had to worry about. He’d be able to stay with his captain, and Steve would never find out the worst of what Sharps had done after the War.

  He felt lighter than he had in years—nine years to be precise, when he’d first marched off to war, a dumb kid filled with patriotic fervor.

  He let himself into the house they shared with Frank Thompson. Frank would already be in bed, so Sharps made sure to be quiet as he removed his hat and coat, shook the snow from them, and hung them from the coat tree in the corner before going to the kitchen. He stoked the fire in the cast iron stove, set on a pot of coffee, and took a couple of cups from a cupboard.

  While he waited for the coffee to brew, he worked a brick free from the hearth, placed it to the side, and removed a small wooden box Bart had made for him at his request. The man was an excellent craftsman—he’d carved Sharps and Steve’s actual initials in the sides, as well as images of Bella and Twilight, and even hinged the lid.

  Sharps brought the box to the table, opened it, and began emptying his pockets of all the coins he’d won that evening.

  He was still counting them when he heard the front door open. There was quiet as Steve no doubt hung up his own hat and coat, and then footsteps coming down the hall to the kitchen. Sharps looked up, and Steve was there, bringing with him the chill of the night.

  “Evening, Sharps.” Steve came to him and tipped up his chin. His fingers were cold, but Sharps liked the contrasting sensation against his own warm face.

  “Evening, Cap.” He went up on his tiptoes to welcome his beloved’s kiss. “Mmm.” He relished the brush of Steve’s lips over his.

  Steve raised his head, and his amber eyes smiled down into Sharps’s. “How’d your night go?”

  “Good.” He nodded toward the coins he’d spilled onto the table.

  “I’d say you did more than good.”