Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  “You and the new Mrs. all settled in, out to the old Rutledge place?”

  “Oh, just getting a start, thanks. Think it’ll take us a good while.”

  “Ah. Things left in bad shape, were they? Kinda figured. Rutledge died a year or so ago, and his son hasn’t taken real good care of the property left to him.”

  “It’s in bad shape, all right. I need to get hold of some tools and dig in out there. I wonder...” Quinn paused, seeming to think aloud in between bites, “...wonder if my brother-in-law might be persuaded to lend me what I require.”

  Paul felt a little riff of distaste. “Dunno. Reckon that’s somethin’ you’ll have to take up with Ben. So Mrs. Hennessey, she’s over visitin’ her sister, then?”

  “Molly?” Her husband laughed, the sort of scornful we’re-all-brothers-here laugh that denigrated women everywhere and deepened Paul’s riff. “No, Molly stayed back at the cabin. She’s up to her elbows in cleaning and didn’t want to quit. But I do have a list of what she wants me to pick up from Mrs. McKnight’s. Oh, and a note for Camellia, so I’ll stop over at the house later.”

  “Ahuh.” For a moment, considering, Paul assessed the man across the table. “Just outa curiosity, how d’ you plan on gettin’ all this stuff back home?”

  “How courteous of you to take such an interest in our humble affairs, Sheriff. At the moment,” Quinn said, with an offhand air, “I’m renting the horse and surrey. Living so far out of town, however, I’m sure Molly and I will need transport. That’s a problem I’ll have to resolve.”

  “Ahuh,” said Paul again. “Well, good luck to you in that.” Pushing back his chair, he rose with his usual easy grace. “Reckon I’d better get back to doin’ what I do. Maybe I’ll see you later, Mr. Hennessey. You have yourself a good afternoon, now.”

  Half an hour later, the sheriff was trotting out of town mounted on his big blue-black gelding, Diablo. A misnomer, actually; the horse had been blessed with the temperament of a pussycat, and was inclined to run away from, not toward, suspected danger. At any rate, Paul was making an unplanned—and what would be a momentous—visit.

  His first errand, having left the garrulous newcomer to the rest of his dinner, was another stop back at Forrester’s, where he collared Ben in the stockroom checking items being unloaded and stacked from the most recent order delivered.

  “He’s over at the hotel,” Paul said without preamble.

  “Ah.” Thoughtfully, Ben put down his list and the pencil with which he had been writing notes. “And is Molly with him?”

  “No. Says she’s workin’, cleanin’ the house, and so on.”

  “Interestin’. Hard to clean a house if you’ve got no supplies to do it with. He plannin’ to pick up the stuff she wanted?”

  “Yup. And to borrow—or outright take—tools from you he says he needs.”

  “Is he, now?” As usual, Ben’s stoic features kept him from showing any emotion, whether for upset, or outrage, or disgust. (He could occasionally be goaded into it, of course, as witnessed by the Putnam brothers. And his wife, the only person he had allowed to see beneath the stoicism.)

  Since this was Sunday, the sheriff had chosen to attire his lean frame in clothing slightly nattier than the usual weekday wear. He had replaced the worn brown Stetson with one of smooth gray felt, set off by a diamond concho hatband; a band-collar shirt of blue homespun and black wool trousers, tricked up with pewter suspender buttons and watch pocket, completed the look. The accouterments of his trade—weighty silver badge and gun belt loaded down by weapon and ammunition—were on prominent display. Just in case.

  However, not many residents, even those foolhardy ones, would consider accosting the sheriff in all his glory.

  “Need you to take care of somethin’ for me, Ben.”

  “Name it.”

  “Keep an eye out for Hennessey, keep track of when he leaves the hotel. Then haul him over to your house and delay him.”

  “Delay him?”

  “Yeah. Get him talkin’—the man does love to hear the sound of his own voice—and stuff him fulla food. I got a funny feelin’ about this whole affair. Wanna take a ride on out to the house, see what’s afoot.”

  Paul’s second stop was the law office, where his second-in-command, Deputy Austin Blakely, was holding down the fort.

  “Gonna be gone a while,” he said, glancing around to ensure that everything was in ship-shape condition.

  “Okay,” assented the amiable Austin. “Got somethin’ special in mind?”

  “Figured to see whether a twister might be headin’ our way, and five miles out gives me the best view. No, Aus, I’m plannin’ to check in at the old Rutledge place.”

  The front two legs of Blakely’s chair, lifted some two inches in the air by his backward tilt against the wall, came down onto the floor with a soft thud. “Ain’t that where—”

  “Yup.”

  With one brow raised, the deputy eyed his boss askance. “Goin’ with your gut, huh?”

  “Yup. Hennessey is over at the Drinkwater, and I put Ben in the know. Just stay awake, and don’t let nothin’ untoward happen. I wanna see my town standin’ all in one piece when I get back.”

  It could have been a pleasant (if quite warm) afternoon ride out through the country, along a quiet, shady dirt road, but for the little nagging worry that had lodged itself into the pit of Paul’s belly and refused to be disbursed. That spark of intuition had served him well in the past, most notably the memorable shootout between Earl and Eli Putnam, barely a month ago. He relied on what the feeling might portend, and he had learned to listen and obey.

  Diablo seemed happy to be out and about, curving his neck for the occasional pat, curvetting and cavorting like a colt in pasture, instead of being the responsible eight-year-old he was. The animal didn’t get taken anywhere for a good gallop often enough, that was the problem. One corner of Paul’s mind made note of the fact, with a promise to do better. The rest of his mind centered upon what he would find at the Rutledge now Hennessey house.

  At first glance, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Paul had taken the turning off the main road into an overgrown lane that the average traveler would not even see, obscured as it was by hanging branches and shrubbery. The cabin was set back even farther into the trees, in a small clearing.

  It was a disheartening, unprepossessing place, with potential for anyone inclined to put a lot of time, hard work, and cash into its remaking. Right now, though, that was not the case.

  As he dismounted and tied Diablo’s reins to a convenient bush, Paul kept a sharp lookout.

  No smoke from the chimney, no movement at the window, no sound of activity.

  Heart beating more quickly than usual, hand hovering near the butt of his Colt, he climbed the rickety steps and knocked at the warped front door.

  Silence.

  Another knock.

  “Miz Hennessey,” he called out. “It’s Sheriff Winslow. You in there, ma’am?”

  Still silence.

  Another knock. “Miz Hennessey? Just stopped by for a quick visit, if that’s all right. I gotta tell you, if you ain’t comin’ out, then I’m comin’ in.”

  Finally the door, its splintery boards scraping over the threshold, its rusty hinges rasping in protest, was pulled inward a few inches.

  Paul took a slow, careful step forward. “Ma’am, I was wonderin’ about—”

  Instantly a hand emerged, palm up, in the universal sign of “Stop.”

  He did. And waited. Still silence.

  Then the barest of whispers: “You have to—go away...”

  “Miz Hennessey—Molly—I came out here special to check on you. I ain’t leavin’ till I see you’re all right.”

  From the gloom within there was the glint of turquoise eyes. “Where—where is he—?”

  “Your husband? He’s in town, last I saw. Bein’ kept occupied by Ben and the family.”

  The door was open just wide enough for him to see the wh
ite-clad form give a sudden violent shiver. And then, with one soft moan, it sagged and slowly crumpled to the floor.

  Chapter Nine

  WET. SOMETHING WET. Not cool, not hot—just the temperature of the surrounding air. Not exactly a shock to the system, except for coming into contact with abrasions or scrapes.

  Light pressure. Pleasant in some places; painful in others.

  Someone was ministering to her. What a miracle simple gentle touch could be, after the torment of the last—what, twenty-four hours? It seemed a month, or longer. But what would follow a gentle touch? It could only be more mistreatment. As she had so wretchedly, helplessly, hopelessly learned.

  Molly came to full consciousness with a sudden harsh gasp and a frantic scuttle away from those ministering hands. Scooting on her bottom across the rough planks of the rickety front porch, she came flat up against the outer wall as if poleaxed and stuck there, panting.

  “Miz Hennessey. Molly. It’s me, Sheriff Paul Winslow. Paul. I was a guest at your weddin’, remember?”

  Her eyes blank with memory, she shuddered.

  “Looks like things’ve been kinda rough for you,” Paul commented quietly. He was squatted down near the steps, watching her with kind, pitying eyes; the handkerchief he had wetted from his own canteen still lay gripped by his fingers. “Can you tell me about it?”

  Slowly she shook her head.

  It was early afternoon, with bees buzzing companionably in the stillness, and squirrels chattering furiously at one another and the bothersome bluejays. A lovely summer day, under any other circumstances: a Sunday given over to family dinners and naps and easy conversation and, perhaps, as twilight drew in and the temperature cooled, a game or two of croquet.

  Not here. Not now.

  Molly, barefoot and bare-armed, was wearing only a dirty white cotton batiste nightgown. Lord only knew what damage lay underneath. Her hair, the color of Diablo’s coat but presently absent the sheen, was a tangled mess that hung around her pale, bruised face like a curtain, as if to hide from the world what might be otherwise revealed.

  “Okay, then. Whatever happened, Molly, can you accept that I’ll do you no harm?”

  Another slow, mute shake of the head.

  Unseen, Paul gritted his teeth. Not with frustration, but with fury for the force that had changed a beautiful, vivacious bride into this battered, bedraggled wife of one day.

  “Can you at least understand that you’re safe now? That I’m here, and that I won’t let anyone touch you, ever again, without your say-so?”

  The gaze of tearful turquoise eyes fell away, in shame, and she pulled herself into an even smaller curled-up body of gelatinous goo. Perhaps then no one would take notice of her.

  “I’m gonna go inside now, and gather up anything you brought along out with you. Then we’re headin’ back to your sister’s.”

  “No!” At that, she came suddenly to life, croaking, “No, I can’t! You can’t take me away from here, I have to stay!”

  “Molly.” Carefully he took hold of the clutching hand that had scrabbled out to restrain any movement he might make. “You can’t stay here all alone, Molly, just waitin’ for Hennessey to come back. Why, there ain’t even a stove set up, to cook your meals, and I dunno where you might find a well for water.”

  “I have to stay. He said—he said he’d—he’d track me down—and—and kill me—if I left!” And, overwhelmed, Molly burst into a flood of bitter tears.

  The sheriff had never claimed to be an expert in the care of weeping women. But he could recognize when any human being needed sheltering, and cosseting, and concern. Murmuring something unintelligible, even to himself, he drew Molly right into his arms and held her close and tight. One big hand smoothed down the tumbled hair, much as he might soothe his restive gelding; the other gently patted the sharp wing of her trembling shoulder blades.

  At last, when her sobs had quieted (and the muscles of his thighs had almost gone to sleep in protest of this awkward position), Paul released her and got to his feet. Bone and sinew nearly groaned as he took a few steps to disburse the pins-and-needles sensation from hip sockets to ankles.

  “You just wait right on this spot for me, y’ hear? I’ll be back sooner’n you can figure out I’m gone.”

  The few personal items she had brought with her—hat and stockings, shoes, hairbrush, and so on—were bundled into the food sack and easily fastened onto the Diablo’s cantle. The horse, obliging soul, wasn’t likely to take offense at a bag hanging off his flank. One necessity taken care of.

  The cover of a typical Penny Dreadful might depict a stalwart hero mounted upon his brawny charger, rearing into the air, with some beautiful golden-tressed damsel lolling across his thighs. In real life, the details were a bit more difficult to arrange.

  True, Paul had the charger (albeit one that rarely reared), and he had the damsel (albeit with tresses of black instead of gold); he just wasn’t so sure about assuming the role of stalwart hero. Given two of those three specifics, however, the events tying everything together until they could set off for Turnabout would forever remain a bit muddled in his mind.

  Daring to risk moving the girl’s palsied limbs, after indulging in their prolonged embrace, he wrapped Molly in yesterday’s brave and spritely pink-and-white lawn dress and plumped her lightly atop the saddle. Then he climbed aboard and settled her, as in those illustrations, across his thighs. Surprisingly, she gave a trusting little sigh and snuggled against his accommodating sturdy chest as if he were her last bastion of hope.

  She spoke not a word during the several miles’ return trip. A little moan now and then did escape her lips, when a stumble by the usually sure-footed horse might jar something particularly hurtful, or if Paul shifted position just enough to accidentally cause harm.

  It seemed a surreal couple of hours. A situation to which Paul, despite years of varied experience, was entirely unaccustomed. He could be forgiven for this unusual state of mind, for daydreaming, as they trotted along, with only the sycamore tilting their green branches toward each other, overhead, and bird song preceding and accompanying and following every hoof beat.

  He would admit that, no matter the circumstances, this was a delightful burden he was carrying in his arms. The lavender scent of her hair, blowing loose without a single pin to hold it in place; the soft warmth of her body, astonishingly unfettered by corset or crinoline; the unconscious vulnerability of her face, turned away from sight, darkened and dirtied and discolored by who knew what.

  Paul wanted to hunt down Quinn Hennessey with tracking dogs and whips. His palm itched to curl its fingers, to form a fist, to take the errant husband in hand for fitting punishment. As an officer of the law, charged by duty to do what was right and proper, he might never know the full story of Molly’s treatment in such a short time. But he could guess. He had seen enough other cases, over the course of his career, to realize what damage a raging temper could cause.

  Fortunately the Forrester house lay situated far enough from the edge of town that no near neighbors could witness Paul’s arrival with his rescue. Molly stirred, as he pulled Diablo to a halt at the hitching post, and murmured something querulous but faint.

  “You don’t need to worry right now, girl,” the sheriff soothed, as he swung one long leg over the saddle and to the ground. “Just hang for on a few minutes more.”

  So she did. Paul lifted up, lifted down, and swept her off, bundled garments, bare feet, and all, to the front porch.

  To give her credit, Camellia let out only a little squeak of disbelief at the apparition that stood before her door. Then she immediately stepped back, allowing Molly to be carried to the settee—the settee which had seen so much use as a hospital bed during the past few weeks.

  Struck completely dumb, Camellia turned to the sheriff with no idea what to say or do.

  As a good professional law officer, Paul resolved the immediate problem for her. Lightly touching his hat brim, he excused himself to go fetch Ben.
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  Chapter Ten

  “NO, SHE SAID HARDLY a word to me,” Camellia repeated, in answer (for the second time) to Ben’s interrogation.

  “Wonder if Gabe will be able to get more out of her,” said Paul glumly.

  After the sheriff had retrieved Ben from his work in the stockroom, the two men had paused in their return to the house long enough to haul Dr. Havers away from the mess Letitia had made with supplies stored in his own impressive pharmacy. He was all prepared to snort and snarl about another interruption until he heard the news about Molly. Then, grabbing his bag, he had hastened along in tandem, spitting out questions that had no answers.

  He was upstairs now, closeted with his patient, while everyone else remained huddled in the kitchen for a family confab. Ben and Paul were at the table, sipping coffee, though neither had any appetite for the plate of oatmeal cookies Camellia had put out.

  “I want a gun,” she said abruptly, over her shoulder, from the stove.

  “A gun? You?” Ben couldn’t have been more astonished if a kitten had suddenly transformed itself into the worst kind of hissing timber snake.

  “Yes.” Camellia turned, wooden spoon in hand, wearing an expression that showed she would prefer to be holding a Winchester. Her eyes were blazing with a fierce blue light, augering ill for anyone who might decide to cross her wishes. “I want a gun. That monster Quinn Hennessey is responsible for this. You, Paul, will arrest him. And, when you do, I intend to shoot him dead.”

  “Darlin’, I didn’t realize you were so bloodthirsty.”

  “Oh, when it comes to my family, I can be more vengeful than any homicidal maniac. Oh, Ben.”

  Alarmed by the anguish of her tone, he looked up. “What is it, Cam?”

  Suddenly the fierce gaze dimmed with tears. Laying aside the spoon, she dropped onto his available lap—a lap seeming ready-made for her bottom to nestle into—and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I was so relieved—no, I was glad!—when you killed those vile men who attacked me, more than a month ago,” she confessed in a muffled voice. “I know it isn’t a Christian feeling, but part of me—part of me wanted to rejoice that they are no longer around. They can’t harm me any more!”