by Sierra Rose
“We received a few letters, here and there,” said Camellia, still in that detached tone that related events of so long in the past, “detailing progress in their new home, and describing Molly’s growth. They sounded happy, at least according to what Temple told us. But, oh—it must have been a fiercely difficult life. So few amenities, and so cut off from their families. I’m afraid poor little Molly must have suffered.”
Little mention had been made, in that correspondence, of anyone’s suffering. But, reading between the lines, guessing more accurately than might be realized, one could see hints of hardship:
clothing for the beleaguered Burtons being acquired via missionary donations from their main church; toys and books for the child being always in short supply and often homemade; even being subjected to an occasional lack of food.
“They were poor, desperately poor. My father, suspecting that might be the case, sent funds to them, to help out. My uncle would always accept anything as a donation to the cause, to help out those who, he said, were far worse off.”
Aquaintances were made; friendships were formed, several linked by the common problem of poverty and need.
Nearly five years passed by, with the Burtons having satisfactorily converted a few heathen to their own brand of religion, and increased membership by a dozen more regular attendees. Prospects for the future looked rosy, indeed, with the promise of a visit home within the next few months.
And then they were attacked. Right there, in the church where they had so faithfully and diligently served. Attacked suddenly, by an Apache war party as savage as fired-up hornets, with no warning from anyone, for no reason that made sense, and been viciously, cruelly slain.
“And Molly saw everything,” said Camellia quietly. Her fingers were clasped tightly together, to control unsteadiness; her hands were anchored by Ben’s strong supporting grip.
The little girl had, at her mother’s first scream of horror, flung herself inside the large chest containing altar provisions: vestments and apparel, statues, candles and chalices, and the like; all hidden beneath a serape woven of wool. There she had remained, terrified and trembling, peeking through a knothole near the lid, until at last all was silent, and even past that. No more chilling, petrifying howls of revenge, no more shrieks of pain or fear, no more tumult of overturned pews or crash of broken windows.
Much later, she had crept out to a scene of carnage.
Just as a family friend, Marta Espinoza, one fortunate survivor of the raid, had raced to the church, sobbing and nearly hysterical, to find her.
The pastor and his wife were only two among the fallen, which, at the final count, added up to eighteen dead and twenty-seven wounded. The attack, a culmination of simmering rage built up over years, caused by unfair treaties written and fair treaties broken, had hit both the small town and outlying ranches. The U.S. cavalry had been called in from Ft. Defiance, located some forty miles to the east. By the time they arrived, the invaders were, of course, long gone.
The soldiers were not too late to salvage what was left of the town and the area, however, and those left devastated by the attack. Including one five-year-old child, who had yet to speak a word since witnessing the brutal, bloody murder of her parents.
Kindly Marta, who had served as the Burtons’ housekeeper, had taken immediate charge; from there, General Roger Nighthall had assumed responsibility for conveying Molly Burton back with him to the Fort, when the troops returned. A representative from their church had been notified and summoned, and would be waiting. Thence would come a lengthy journey to St. Louis, and what remained of her family.
Too much awfulness to take in; too much fear to absorb; too many people to deal with; too many miles to traverse; too many ordeals to get through.
“She was so—so shocked, so traumatized,” recalled Camellia in shaken tones. “And no wonder, seeing what she’d seen. For months, she slept in a wardrobe, hidden under her blanket. For months after that, she would wake up screaming from nightmares. They had warned her, those well-meaning people, what happens to children who are kidnapped by those roving tribes. I’m—I’m not sure she’s ever completely gotten over the frightfulness of—of everything.”
“That poor kid,” muttered Ben, beside her.
“And during all that,” she paused to swallow, and grab another deep breath, “there was the adjustment. Molly was used to only the—the rudest, the most crude living arrangements. Dirt floors, and—and insects all over inside the house, and just—well, just the bare rudiments of anything. It was so difficult for her, not really knowing any of us, and then finding herself suddenly in a civilized society. Linens on the dining room table, and curtains at the windows, and—and having to wear shoes—!” Camellia broke off with a little teary laugh.
“I had no idea,” the sheriff said slowly. “Somethin’ like that stays with you a long time, that’s for sure.”
“And so your parents adopted her as one of their own children?” asked Ben. He had moved enough to slip one arm around her shoulders, as support, as succor.
“Well, she had no one else, you see. So we just accepted Molly, the three of us, as another sister. And we’ve laughed and cried and argued together, like birth sisters do.”
“I understand more now of why you’ve been so protective of her. She did have a rough beginnin’, didn’t she?”
Camellia sighed. “More than any of us will ever know, Ben.”
“And,” his grasp tightened just a little, “when your mama died, you just stepped right in and took over runnin’ the whole brood.”
Setting aside his empty glass, stubbing out the stogie, Paul arranged the Stetson neatly atop his well-shaped head and gracefully rose.
“I thank you for lettin’ me be part of your tellin’, ma’am. I will certainly keep it in mind for any future dealin’s with Mr. Hennessey.” His gaze shifted to encounter Ben’s, and he nodded. Both knew that any future dealings would not be sympathetic. “Reckon I’d better be headin’ back to the jail, check in with Austin and make sure he hasn’t put anybody b’hind bars outa sheer boredom. I appreciate the supper and the confab, and I’ll now say good evenin’ to both of you.”
“Good night, Paul.” Camellia, ever the well-mannered hostess, rose as well. “Thank you for joining us, and for listening.”
He touched his hat. “Anytime, Mrs. Forrester.” And shambled away, a tall, loose-limbed shadow against the light of distant lanterns hung here and there on the street.
“Ben.”
“Ahuh.”
“When do you think he might start calling me by my first name?”
Chuckling, he stood to pull her into his embrace. “Prob’ly ’nother couple years or so. By then he’ll figure he knows you well enough to get so familiar. C’mon, let’s go inside. These goldarn skeeters have putineer eaten me alive.”
Chapter Eight
SUNDAY DAWN CAME SWEETLY and softly, peeking over the eastern horizon to encompass the last bit of fading night. Cool and fresh and clear, first thing, with a scent from Juniper Creek that mixed in with dew and the fragrance of flowers and effluvia from Norton’s stable; enervating heat would come later, and humidity that wilted hairdos and flushed faces and sapped vitality.
Turnabout, having been built near flowing water, into the dip of a valley, in the midst of hundred-year-old oaks and sycamore, suffered less during the throes of summer sultriness than did the average Texas municipality set under a blazing sun. Busy residents and visitors rarely gave thought to the extremely fortunate circumstances of their existence, but clergymen of the five established Houses of God often exhorted their parishioners to give thanks for blessings received.
On a typical Sabbath, townsfolk went about their usual routine. Church attendance was hardly mandatory; it was, however, expected, unless one were too ill to go out or absent elsewhere. A service might last anywhere from a single to several hours (depending upon how stoked up a particular preacher might be). After being repeatedly warned against the d
angers of hellfire and being occasionally promised the glories of heaven, congregants—somewhat dazed by their time spent imprisoned in sacred surroundings, only to be either harangued or baited—would wander out into the sunshine, to congregate gratefully elsewhere.
Such was the case now, heading toward high noon.
A few inhabitants had ambled home, to partake of a hearty dinner and an equally hearty nap. A few others—mostly those with nowhere else to go—were on their way to the Sittin’ Eat Hash House, or the Sarsaparilla Café, to gobble and gab in their usual routine. Yet others, such as Ben Forrester, were working in defiance of custom, this being a so-called day of rest.
Some of the more notable locals were also out and about, doing whatever needed doing.
One was Hannah Burton. Not only had she totally taken control of her sister’s sprawling flower garden, she had enlisted the aid of Amazin’ Adam Hayes and his trusty spade to dig up where and when she so ordered. Amazin’, who was floundering in the pangs of dedicated hero worship at the ripe old age of almost sixty, generously agreed to whatever Miss Hannah, ma’am, wanted.
Along the way he imparted his own wisdom: this blooming plant would look best mixed in with that blooming plant; those hollyhocks would do well smack up against the picket fence; summer squash and a second crop of pisum sativum (green peas) could easily still be grown, over in that corner next to the shed. Come spring, he would put in a plot just chock full of vegetables; they’d have plenty for fresh eating, and for canning later on, too. Maybe even sell some of the surplus at Forrester’s Store.
Hannah couldn’t help feeling a trifle dubious about the preservation part. She wasn’t sure just how Camellia would greet the news that she would be coerced into such hard, hot, and unfamiliar labor. Still... she shrugged. That was nearly a year away. A lot can happen in a year.
So she happily accepted Amazin’s undertaking, paid him weekly out of the meager stipend Camellia was allowing, and promised him a portion of whatever they managed to successfully grow.
Besides that, the two of them were drawing up a design of walkways, rose beds, a fountain of sorts, plantings of shrubs, and landscaping, plus trimming bushes and grass, and the like. Amazin’ seemed especially taken with the Royal Star Magnolia tree, tucked away in bare ground, that Dr. Havers had given Camellia as a housewarming gift. Although he did complain that the poor thing desperately needed water and he would get on that straight away.
It was such a treat to watch Hannah and her helper wrangling cheerfully over the major points of gardening that Camellia, from inside her kitchen, couldn’t help smiling. If nothing else, their industry served as a distraction. So, too, did the double recipe of bread she had mixed up and was now kneading with a fury and determination that ought to guarantee positive results.
She was waiting impatiently for the first sign of Molly, anxious to hear a report on the girl’s initial impactful night of marriage, her circumstances, and every other detail that could be squeezed out and shared. However, there had been no sign of Quinn anywhere yet today, and Camellia could actually feel her body vibrating with nervous anxiety.
Letitia, too, had her plans in order for the day. She had eaten a filling breakfast at the boarding house table, politely conversing with some half-dozen similar boarders. Then, turned out in a white cotton dress printed all over in lavender flowers, with ruffles and laces and flounces to her heart’s content, she had meandered on over to the Church of Placid Waters. There, at least, the sermons by Rev. Beecham didn’t leave her nodding off to sleep in the pew.
Her duty done to God, she continued on with her duty to be done to mankind.
Namely, sashaying into Dr. Gabriel Havers’ office as if she owned the place and demanding his presence.
“Lawdamercy, child,” he complained bitterly, emerging at last from some back room where, clearly, he had been taking a nap, to judge by the wild state of his dark red hair and the wrinkled state of his loose white shirt. “You got no call bustin’ in here, botherin’ me on a Sunday mornin’. What’s put you all in a lather, anyway?”
Letitia, being brimful of the grace of the Holy Spirit, was in no mood to put up with the antics of a curmudgeonly purported employer. Pulling out a hatpin that looked as sharp and malevolent as a dagger and removing the white straw hat topped by purple silk flowers, she calmly took a seat.
“I’m here,” she told him, “for my first hours of instruction in your—um—facility.”
Looking besieged, Gabriel rubbed his eyes and collapsed into the wooden chair behind his desk as if both legs had suddenly given way. “Huh. Did I agree to that?”
“Need I remind you? Yes. You took me to dinner and we discussed my working for you. And so I’ve arrived.”
“I see that.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes again.
She looked him over with a curious, assessing glance. Quite astute, these Burton females, and more mature than their years might lead one to expect. “Do you ever tend cases during the day, or are you always called out at night?”
Gabe had the grace to give her a sheepish grin. “Well, now, I can’t exactly blame this hangover on my doctorin’. A night of drinkin’ and poker will do that to a man.”
“I should think you would need a steady hand in case any medical emergencies come up,” Letty tut-tutted him.
“Oh, my hand is steady enough.” Laid straight out in the air, his palm showed no sign of unsteadiness, proving his claim. “Just got a headache to beat the band, and a powerful thirst. Lemme get some coffee for us.”
“None for me, thanks,” Letitia told him primly. “But, pray, don’t let me stop you.”
When he returned, she was poring over the pages of a heavy medical textbook, staring in awe at a series of illustrations, puzzling about the words used and what they meant. Clearly she had helped herself from the numerous tomes stacked or splayed upon an accessible shelf, taking advantage of his absence, and was absorbing whatever indelicate information she could.
“Thinkin’ to become another Florence Nightingale?” he asked mildly, waggling his brows.
“No. I’m thinking to become Letitia Burton.” Her response was crisp, cool, and to the point. “Will you teach me what you know?”
“Nope. But I’ll teach you enough to act as my nurse, providin’ you don’t fall over at the sight of blood or some disgustin’ suppuratin’ wound. At least you’d be able to take over care for some of the less complicated ailments, if I don’t happen to be around.”
“On those occasions when the cards are likely to come calling.”
He tilted his head slightly. The pose, with his red hair standing up in a crest, reminded her of a curious cardinal, eyeing her with beady consideration. “Why here, Letty?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why here? Why not a nice, safe schoolmarm job?”
“It’s summer, for one thing, with the session being closed, and I need work now. Even if there were an opening for classes this fall. Which I doubt. Besides,” she finished off, returning to a book page she had marked with one finger, “that would be boring.”
Plopping once more into his chair to slurp down a large mouthful of hours-old coffee, he carefully studied his visitor. “Ain’t no flies on you, are there?”
“It’s a family failing, I’m afraid. This chapter, here—”
“—is far too advanced for you right now. Let’s start out with the easy stuff, whatddya say?” Another sip; the stuff was ferociously bad, lukewarm and thick enough to float a spoon in. “Tell me the first thing you’d do if a man walked through that front door with his arm bleedin’.”
“Well, I’d—”
“Letty,” he interrupted. “How’s that sister of yours gettin’ along?”
It was the sheriff’s habit, on those days when one or both of his deputies manned the office, to stroll through town every hour or so. Crime has a smaller chance to flourish if its potential is witnessed and immediately nipped in the bud. Paul figured he had managed to prevent any numb
er of shop windows from being shattered by young boys with a slingshot, and quite a few serious injuries from being inflicted when he had busted up a bar fight, and the breakout of a fire from some forgotten candle or kerosene lamp left accidentally (or intentionally) burning away.
He had even, upon one auspicious occasion of pausing near the bank during his rounds, stopped a robbery in its tracks. Merely because the eagle eye of the law had caught sight of an unknown character taking a few furtive looks around the street before pushing inside the building. Paul had immediately reacted to something seeming suspicious. Sliding his enormous 1860 Colt smoothly from its holster, he slipped through the double doors, moved just behind the man standing nervously at the teller’s window, and stuck the cold, businesslike end of a gun barrel into the would-be desperado’s ribs.
Today’s route around town held no such excitement.
He had stopped in Forrester’s for a fresh cup of coffee, strolled past Norton’s Livery, poked his head inside the barber shop, greeted Mr. and Mrs. Thorson with a tip of the hat, taken a gander behind the Prairie Lot and the Firewater (both Blue Law closed) just to ensure that nothing untoward was going on, and righted a little boy who had tripped off a boardwalk step and fallen.
All routine, everyday, accepted occurrences.
Until, stepping across the Drinkwater’s raised threshold, he happened to spy Quinn Hennessey sitting in solo splendor at one of the dining room tables.
“Good day to you,” Paul said quietly, approaching.
Surprised, Quinn looked up. “And to you, as well, Sheriff. Fine weather we’re having.”
“Tolerable. Tolerable. Mind if I join you?”
As the sweep of one arm indicated assent, Paul pulled out a chair. For a few minutes he made small talk, while Quinn continued sipping from his coffee cup and sawing into a steak cooked almost to cinders. Paul asked casually about job prospects; Quinn as casually shrugged off the question. Nothing much doing on Sunday, the shrug implied; may as well wait another day or two. Or more.
