Mail Order Bride- Summer

by Sierra Rose

  Over her head, buried in the hollow of his shoulder, Ben exchanged a helpless glance with their guest. “Seems to me that’s pretty understandable, Cam. Most folks would prob’ly have the same reaction.”

  “Natural or not, I want to see Quinn Hennessey hurt, too, as he’s hurt my sister. I want to see him face-down in the street, bleeding his life away!”

  “Uh, beggin’ your pardon, Miz Forrester,” interrupted the sheriff in his usual quiet, grave manner, “but I am an officer of the court. I can’t hear you make any threats to anyone, no matter what he’s done. Like everybody else, he’s got the right to a trial, either by judge or by jury. Now, if I should happen to find Mr. Hennessey layin’ shot dead somewheres—”

  “You can’t blame her, Paul. I’m ready to shoot the son of an antelope myself.”

  With a groan, Paul sank back in his chair in surrender. “No more. Don’t say anything else incriminatin’. God knows I don’t wanna be stickin’ the two of you behind bars.”

  “Where is he?” Camellia demanded, straightening with a glare.

  “Dunno, sweetheart. I was about to come hot-footin’ home, but Paul convinced me to have a quick look around town, first. No sign of him in his usual haunts. And he turned in the rig to Abel Norton, though why I can’t quite figure. If he was plannin’ to go back out to the cabin...”

  “He mentioned buyin’ a couplea horses. And he was s’posed to be stoppin’ first at Mrs. McKnight’s, and then here. But we ain’t seen hide nor hair of the man.”

  “So you’ll stop looking?”

  “No, ma’am.” Paul’s mild response took some of the starch from Camellia’s words. “Me and my deputies will be scoutin’ up street and down street. But I wanted to wait to see what word there might be from Gabriel about Miz Hennessey’s—uh—condition.”

  “And she didn’t say nothin’ about what happened?” Ben asked again, for the third time.

  “I told you, no!” Camellia flounced away and back to the stove, where she took up the spoon to begin stirring something in a pan with incredible vigor.

  The mood in the room was weighted with tension, and all three of them were feeling its effects. One of their own had been harmed; how badly was yet to be determined. Retribution must come.

  “Did she say anything to you, Paul?” If nothing else, Ben was persistent.

  “Said she couldn’t leave. She had to stay.”

  “Oh, Paul!” Camellia cried, approaching to lay a grateful hand on his arm, resting with easy grace upon the table top. His arm, and his wrist, sprinkled over with black hair, bared by the blue homespun cuff; and his hand, long-fingered and elegant, made more for pen than pistol. “Thank God you didn’t listen to her. Thank God you brought her home!”

  “Careful, there, Miz Forrester.” The sheriff offered one of his infrequent smiles; its warmth lightened the gloom and spread inspiration and encouragement. “I’m liable to take you up on that promise you made, to go a-strollin’ in the moonlight.”

  “Huh,” said Ben, unimpressed. “You must be in rare form, darin’ to tease my wife like that.”

  “Who’s teasin’? I’m warnin’. I make mention outa the good of my heart.”

  “Who’s got a good heart?” The question came from Dr. Havers, descending the stairs and entering the room, for once so cat-footed that the sound of his steps had not been audible.

  “You do, Gabriel, dear. Come, sit down, have some coffee, and please—tell us—” Camellia, hovering between stove and table and three big men in her kitchen, felt her resolution quaver as to whether she really wanted to hear the worst.

  Gabriel, exhausted to the marrow of his bones, collapsed onto a nearby chair. In the course of one day—actually, in the course of just a few hours—he was having to deal with not one, not two, but three of the Burton sisters. And it was too much. All he’d need was the fourth one to show up, haranguing and complaining, as she normally did.

  It had begun with Letitia’s importunate insistence upon his medical skills. Not professional, but professorial. During the time he had spent, attempting to impart just a tiny percentage of his knowledge and experience, she had asked at least a thousand questions, criticized his teaching methods, and demanded access to patient records for a fuller understanding of diagnostics.

  When she finally decided she wanted to inspect—and rearrange—his precious supply of both pharmaceuticals and herbals—and managed to spill the contents of several small containers—was when he’d had enough.

  Politely, but firmly, he had thrown her out of the office.

  Only to be confronted by a new calamity involving these newcomers to his town.

  For Molly, however, he could only feel a great deal of sympathy and patience. He had even put aside his usually brusque manner at the door of the bedroom where she was hiding out.

  Few people realize just what a physical and emotional toll doctoring takes, if one truly cares for the sufferer needing attention. Would it be sacrilegious to compare a good physician to the healing Christ, for whom every touch to the arm, every grasp of the robe, meant depleted energy and a surge of actual pain?

  “Thanks, Cam,” he said, accepting the cup of fresh hot coffee whose stimulant he so desperately needed. “That’ll help.”

  Ben managed to wait for at least four gulps to hit the lining of Gabriel’s stomach before he once again brought up the subject everyone wanted to discuss, albeit succinctly. “And?”

  Scrubbing at the face that had been freshly shaved a lifetime ago, but now felt prickly with afternoon stubble, the doctor harrumphed. “She’s gonna have to have time.”

  Camellia and her husband exchanged a bewildered glance. Just what did that mean?

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to sound so all-fired mysterious.” His look intercepted those of his hosts, and then swerved to the plate of cookies. “Can I have some of those? Good. Haven’t had any solid food since—well, I dunno.” No breakfast, little sleep, and he was still functioning off the blunt end of a hangover.

  “How you can eat—” murmured Camellia, taken aback. “No, please, have more. Just—”

  Get on with it!

  “Sit down,” Gabe advised gently. “Sit down, Cam, and stop lookin’ like you’re gonna take flight out into the wild somewheres. Your sister is scared to death, and she wouldn’t tell me half of what happened in that cabin. Scared...and ashamed, I think.”

  “Ashamed?” Camellia had, fortunately, taken a seat before this astonishing revelation was made. Otherwise, her legs might not have supported her upright. “But—I don’t understand. What has she to be ashamed of?”

  “Oh, the whole thing, I reckon. Goin’ about this mail order business on her own, without listenin’ to anybody. Makin’ such a hasty marriage, even though so many were agin it. Harin’ off with somebody she didn’t even know, without no surety of finances or location. Or the temperament of a new husband.”

  At this, Paul, listening in silence, stirred. “So he is responsible.”

  “Yeah, sure ’nough.” He waggled his brows at Camellia, not in humor, but in concern. “And she’s worried what you’re gonna say to her, for actin’ so foolish.”

  “But I—I wouldn’t say—” She began an immediate protest, then guiltily backed down. “Blame. Recriminations. Yes, you’re right. Perhaps I would...”

  “Ahuh. Most people can’t help an I-told-you-so, no matter how much pity might be involved. Well, anyway. You’re married now, Camellia; you know what’s goin’ on in the world. But my tellin’ you what little bit that Molly shared with me gets a tad indelicate in places.”

  “I understand.” Her pallid complexion suddenly flushing with color, Camellia straightened her spine with boarding-school correctness and nodded. “Go on, Gabe.” Unseen, under the table, Ben reached out one comforting hand to hold hers.

  “He hit her. Once they got to the shack—b’cause that’s all the place is, really, just some boards nailed together—and she dared question more about livin’ there, in such squalor,
he hit her. Hard. Several times. Then he dragged her inside, threw her on the floor, and—well, you can imagine the rest. Several times for that, too,” Gabe finished off in disgust.

  Camellia’s left hand, held imprisoned in her husband’s, had tightened to a white-knuckled grip; her right hand was clenched against her mouth, to muffle the little moan that had slipped free.

  “Reckon we none of us ever saw that side of Quinn Hennessey,” Paul said quietly. “Put on a right good act, that whole week he was in town. Reckon he had to be alone, with a helpless victim, to let all that rottenness pour out.”

  Gabriel needed another few sips of the blistering coffee to continue. “That’s how the rest of the night went on, accordin’ to what Molly told me. And accordin’ to what I was able to see.”

  Bite marks and bruises, blemishes and blood. For just a split second, he closed his eyes, hoping to rid his vision of the image. It didn’t work. To the end of his days, he would see her soft white flesh after insufferable hours spent under Quinn Hennessey’s merciless fists.

  “Why, Gabe? Why? Why would he do this? He seemed to care for her; he gave every indication that marriage to Molly was exactly what he wanted. How could he turn into such a—such a monster?”

  “Honey, there’s some folks just take pure delight in hurtin’ others.” He looked not only sorrowful, but so tired of dealing with all the sins enacted by cruel, careless humans. “Makes ’em feel strong and powerful, somehow, havin’ someone smaller and weaker to pound on. And the more a victim cries and screams, the more those devils like it.”

  Camellia shuddered.

  “See, Hennessey figured hookin’ up with Molly would give him a nice easy life. She insists she told him the truth about the situation. But he didn’t realize till after their weddin’ that you Burtons aren’t some rich, successful family with a lotta money in the bank, that Molly was actually putinear dirt-poor. So then he got mad. Really mad. And he took it out on her.”

  Quinn had risen this morning, cleaned himself up as best he could, and left the desolate cabin with a hard, cold threat to his wife of one day: stay here, don’t try to leave, don’t tell anyone. If you do, I will hunt you down, wherever you are, and kill you. And then I’ll go after your sisters, as well.

  Heaving a sigh, the doctor finished his coffee in one final gulp. “Surprised I got that much outa her. The girl is plumb scared of her own shadow.”

  Camellia had been making tiny whimpering noises of pure horror during the last few minutes, until Ben scooted his chair closer to pull her into the sheltering harbor of one long arm.

  “What—what can we do for her—?” she finally managed to whisper.

  “She’ll want a bath, soon. I’ll leave this bottle of arnica oil, so’s you can add it to the warm water, that’ll help ease the discomfort she’s feelin’ right now, and fade somea the bruises. And some laudanum—that’ll help her sleep; also good for pain.”

  “Of course.” Camellia pulled herself slowly upright, as if every muscle ached. “I’ll go now, and—and get things started.”

  “Cam.” Another straightforward, meaningful look from the doctor. “She wants the bedroom door kept locked. And the downstairs doors kept locked. And the shades pulled. You’ll remember—”

  Flashing back to her own not-too-distant experience with the brutal Putnam brothers, she nodded. “Yes. I remember.”

  “I’ve heard all I need to hear,” said Paul, rising. “Will she press charges, Gabe?”

  “Dunno. Doubt it. But if she don’t, I will.”

  “Good man.”

  And the gathering broke up, each to his own separate task. Each with his own set of emotions.

  Each plagued by his own list of regrets.

  Chapter Eleven

  AS MUCH OF A FUSS AS Ben made about demanding to be deputized, Paul adamantly refused.

  “I said no, Mr. Mayor. It ain’t gonna happen. You’re too close to what’s goin’ on, and that’s always a problem.”

  “Tarnation. I ain’t no green kid, sheriff. I think I can separate emotion from logic when I need to handle a gun.”

  Early evening sunlight was fading away into the soft goldy-rose glow of dusk as they left Camellia to the tending of her sister and started stalking the half dozen blocks or so downtown toward the jail. With Ben squawking protests like a blue jay with every step.

  “That wasn’t your opinion when we dealt with the Putnams,” he huffily pointed out. “And I had a lot more reason at that time to go off the deep end, if I needed one.”

  “That’s so. But, if you recall, I was down a man at the time; Colton Bridges was off in Waco, visitin’ kinfolk, and not due back for another week. I needed the firepower. Today I don’t. Austin and Colton and I can manage things just fine.”

  Their strides were long and quick; Ben found himself catching an in-between breath just to keep up. “The man is no better’n a rabid dog. He deserves killin’.”

  Suddenly furious, Paul stopped dead. “Now, see, that there is exactly what I mean. Stop sayin’ things like that, or you’ll have trouble fallin’ down around your head in a big way. Now g’wan back to the store, and count your money, or somethin’, since your wife wanted you outa the house for a while. And I sure don’t want you hangin’ out with me!”

  Eventually, of course, the long arm of the law caught up with Quinn Hennessey; in a town the size of Turnabout, on a Sunday, there are only so many places a man can squirrel himself away.

  This happened to be in a private room on the upper floor of the Prairie Lot, along with several other miscreants much better-heeled, playing draw poker and Omaha Hold ’Em. And Hennessey showed himself to be clearly unhappy about being dragged away for what he assumed was no good reason.

  “But I am winning, kind sir,” he tried to politely inform Paul, when the deputies signaled their intent to physically lift him from behind the edge of the baize-covered table did he not willingly rise on his own. “Let me at least gather in what I’ve—”

  “Zat so?” the sheriff inquired of the players remaining in place. “You been losin’ hands, there, Danny? Your wife know you’re here, spendin’ the grocery money, Frank? You hit some private bank account b’fore you come up here, Taylor?”

  “It’s just a friendly little game,” one of those called out said sullenly. “You got no grounds to interrupt when we’re in the middle of a friendly little game.”

  “Ahuh. How long did you figure to let him rake in cash until you started fleecin’ him? And on a Sunday, no less. Ain’t you an elder in your church, Calvin? Whatddya think your preacher would say about that?”

  The man addressed as Calvin looked up cheerfully from his cards. “Rev. Holcomb? He’d prob’ly be cheerin’ me on. A bigger cut in the collection plate, y’ know.”

  Ignoring the byplay, Hennessey was hurriedly gathering up whatever greenbacks had accumulated in his corner to stuff into a side pocket of his flashy coat. Then, warned by a little growl by Deputy Blakely that time was of the essence, he rose gracefully and offered an elegant bow to his fellow poker enthusiasts.

  “Gentlemen, I thank you for your consideration. Perhaps we can expect another game in the near future—a game that will not be so rudely interrupted.”

  The law and its accused clomped heavily down the bare wooden stairs. As owners, the Putnam brothers had put no extra funds into the amenities of their saloon / gambling den; as temporary owner, Clunker had followed suit. Stepping back outside, into the twilight air that felt so fresh and welcome compared to the Prairie Lot’s stale atmosphere reeking of cigar smoke and sweat, came as a considerable relief.

  “Am I under arrest for some reason?” Quinn wanted to know, as the group began their return to civilization.

  “You ain’t wearin’ cuffs, are you?” jeered Colton, the younger and more garrulous of the deputies.

  “But, then, why am I—”

  “You’re with us,” Paul explained patiently, “b’cause we need to talk over a few things with you. And the bes
t place to do that, away from the rest of this town, is at the jail.”

  “Been lookin’ all over for you, too.” This was Colton again. His elbow accidentally jarred their detainee, who stumbled before righting himself with a glare. “Sorry.” Although there was no trace of apology in the tone. “We wasted a few man hours trackin’ you down. Mister Hennessey.”

  “Well, I certainly regret your effort.” Quinn could high-hat with the experts, and his bearded chin raised a few inches in challenge. “Simply because I’ve been briefly incommunicado...”

  Now it was Austin’s elbow that grazed the man more held hostage than free, from the other side. Another stumble, another glare, this time full of outrage. “Yeah, we been combin’ the streets, checkin’ all your favorite hang-outs. Mighta known you’d be set up with Wild Card and Caribbean Stud.”

  Quinn turned toward the sheriff, honestly perplexed. “I’ve never heard of either of those. I was just trying to get a little money ahead for—what is this all about, anyway? You haven’t even explained why you need to talk with me. Wait!” He halted dead, there, half across the dusty street; a few passersby, on their way to or from legitimate business, sent casual but curious glances their way. “Is it Molly? Did something happen to Molly?”

  “Well, you would know, wouldn’tcha, fellah?” snarled Deputy Bridges.

  For most men, women in the west, even the soiled doves among them, were considered a precious commodity. The ladies might have pioneered in ranch building and child-raising; they might be as lovely as Eve or as decrepit as the Witch of Endor; they might wear flounces and perfume or trousers and cow muck. But they were, for the most part, revered and treated like delicate flowers who needed a masculine hand-up to survive.

  That a member of their own species might have abused one of these fragile creatures had set the blood of both young officers boiling. Formally charged or not, Quinn Hennessey now ran the significant risk of some injury—or worse—once he was shut up behind the town jail’s solid door. Mere suspicion, let alone solid proof, of a crime had sent plenty of innocent travelers to some shallow grave.