Her pair of aces, with a miracle, were about to become three, or with some regular luck her king would find a mate. After bringing the fan of cards to her lips, she realized her mistake. Covering the mustache might betray the rest of her feminine features. Furthermore, the gesture came off as demure. Had she been herself, a flirtatious fluttering of the lashes would have followed. Instead, Emma yanked the hand to her chest and hid briefly under her hat’s brim.
When she tilted her head up, the open chair in her periphery pulled back.
Pointing to the space in front of him, the man called out to the barmaid, “Whiskey, darling.”
The smooth, deep cadence of his voice filled Emma’s ears like a dram of poison. It couldn’t be. There was little chance that demon dared to show himself in Winona—not after what he’d done. Not after announcing his plans for Canada. But when she met those mountain stream blue eyes, her heart ceased beating for a moment. The whole room slowed like a wind-up toy sputtering to a stop. All sound terminated.
She ground her teeth. The sight of those ringed hands, the fleck of light from the gem pinned to his vest heated her blood to a froth. Her body shuddered with fury. Emma catapulted from her seat, her cards sailing to her feet. The gun at her waist called to her, since this moment qualified as a dire emergency. However, one blast from this distance wouldn’t suffice. She wanted him to suffer at her bare hands, up close and nose to nose.
Once she flung the whiskey in his face, she broke the glass against the table and held the jagged edge to his throat. Her other hand gathered a fist-full of his shirt. His hat toppled from his head. Those piercing eyes opened wide.
“You sonofabitch! You murderer!” Emma shouted, not tempering the pitch of her voice.
A trickle of blood traveled down his neck.
Emma’s shaking hand jabbed the serrated glass. Before she sliced his throat, a grip assaulted her by the shoulders, forcing her backwards. She kicked in protest as her boots slid across the floor. Her upper arms struggled for freedom.
“Let me go!” she said.
Once her feet clonked along the saloon’s porch, she turned around with a grunt. Either the thrust of her movement, the passing breeze, or both, dislodged her Stetson. Her hair spilled over her shoulders as she caught the hat with one hand.
“Thought I smelled roses on ya.” The handsome newcomer raised his brow at her. “I know all ‘bout havin’ to cheat to get what you want.”
“Oh, I wasn’t cheating in there.”
“Maybe not at cards, but you sure be twisting the truth.” He gave her the once over, probably searching for her curves under the baggy clothes. “You’re quite the trouble-maker. I reckon I spared ya. At least for today.”
Emma gathered her hair back up and tugged her hat over it. She sniffed, inhaling a hint of her mother’s perfume. Inside the saloon, the scent had gotten lost amid the sweat, booze, and smoke. Out here, the reminder of Mama smacked her in the face. Her eyes blurred with tears. “I reckon you did.” Lost in her tango with revenge, that fact hadn’t occurred to her until he’d mentioned it. “I suppose I should thank you.”
He started to smile, but was interrupted.
The saloon door swung open and a pair of boots stamped out, spurs rattling. “Thank him for what, you fairy fucker?” He pulled the handkerchief from his neck, examining the blood before casting it aside.
Emma fought the reflex to step backward.
Her companion turned, his arms poised for action.
“I got me a new whiskey, and said, ‘if them lowlifes are still out there when I finish, then that’ll be providence.’ And, here you are,” the gambler said, a crooked grin spreading across his face.
Emma went to draw the pistol from her trousers, but her opponent already had his cocked and pointed at the man who’d have one darned time trying to get her out of this scenario.
“Leave him out of this,” she said in the deepest tone she could muster, turning her throat into sandpaper.
She swallowed the frog in her throat.
“Your boyfriend here shoulda let you finish me off. That’s the only way this’ll end.” He brandished the pistol, choking his captive with his other arm. “Either you or me is gonna meet our maker. And this pretty boy’ll be first, if you take another step.”
Her feet were rooted in a wide stance. Her hand inched under her shirt at her back. “You murdered my Mama. And if there’s a God, then you’re gonna die, mister.”
“Well, I expect, I’m gonna live, then.” He chortled, strangling the neck under his arm. “There ain’t no way you can outgun me.”
It fired Emma up that he didn’t seem the least bit interested in whom her mother was or what had happened. How many lives had this man taken—how many women, men, or even children? His failure to recognize anything about her also made her pause. Perhaps he didn’t care enough. Other people meant so little to this bastard, especially females. She bet his tiny noggin couldn’t fathom this woman had the gusto to impersonate a man.
She looked to the pretty boy, who’d managed to loosen the chokehold on himself. In that brief instance he and Emma experienced a meeting of their minds through their eyes. Inexplicably, their instincts synchronized. Now it was simply a matter of following the moments downstream.
The captive threw his weight back into the gambler, thudding him against the wall.
Emma freed her weapon from her waistband. Rivulets of perspiration tickled her cheeks.
As the pistol waved around, the two men grappled with each other and for control of the gun. They rolled on the deck of the porch while Emma got closer.
A shot discharged, sending a billow of smoke into the air. The pistol skidded across the floor.
Emma recoiled. She scanned for wounds on both men, praying the gambler took the hit.
The former captive, now clutched his side, staunching the blood. There didn’t appear to be that much. It hadn’t seeped past the perimeter of his hand, and the hand itself only bore hints of crimson. Having seen all types of physical damage from the wars, Emma thanked the heavens it wasn’t much worse.
A few patrons from inside the saloon crowded onto the porch.
“Well, well, well,” one of the gamblers said.
A can-can girl gasped and crouched over the incapacitated man, who’d at least sat up.
Emma pointed her weapon between the eyes of her mother’s killer. “This means there’s a God, darling.” The barrel of the gun poked so hard into his skin that the area reddened. “But I’m gonna let you live. In front of all these witnesses, let it be known you got beat by a queer—or what did you call me? A fairy fucker?”
The man at her mercy closed his eyes, squeezing his lids. Perhaps she’d touched a nerve, diminishing his sense of manhood. “That’s right,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She was dying to pull the trigger, to snuff this sonofabitch, but there was too much at stake. Even if she didn’t have to face the law, there was her hidden identity, which wouldn’t remain hidden for much longer. Then there was her father. God, if Papa discovered she’d put herself in this mess, he’d sink her like a stone in the Mississippi. Forget justice. Forget his own need for vengeance. His daughter humiliating him, and the scandal of her charade, would overshadow everything. No lynch mob would be too small. Then they’d run her father out of town.
“He needs a doctor,” the girl said, breathlessly.
“I’ll be right as rain,” he said, getting to his feet.
Emma returned to her senses, the need to bring her wounded friend home to stave off a possible infection taking precedence. Rushing to him, she and the can-can girl propped him up and brought him to the front steps. He steadily advanced on his own two feet, yet he didn’t shirk free of the assistance. As he straightened up, the dancer let him slip from her arm.
“Can someone get us to the Durley’s?” Emma asked. Her place was not that far of a walk, but she’d wasted enough time distracted by her own private ramblings.
“Take my horse,”
a man who’d been at the gambling table said, motioning to the steed at the end of the hitching post. “I’ll fetch him back from the doc this evening.”
“Much obliged,” Emma said, before turning next to her to ask how the victim was holding up. After what they’d gone through, it was a strange feeling not knowing his name.
“I think I’m gonna make it,” he replied, forcing a limp upturn to the corner of his mouth.
“Good,” she said with a sympathetic smile, leading him down the stairs and to the horse. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
Once Emma and her patient perched from atop the saddle they shared, she grabbed the reins and steered the animal away from the saloon. The villainous gambler now at their back, she felt those eyes boring into her from where he stood. “And I better not hear hide nor hair of you in these parts ever again. You hear me?” she called.
The stomp of his foot on the porch, with the jingle of the spur, told her he’d be embarking on that long overdue move to Canada, maybe even before dawn. Emma’s parting wish for him was that no amount of distance would ever completely patch up his bruised ego. His having to live with being bested by her was satisfying and would have to do. Served him right for all he’d done.
Having said her peace, Emma tuned into the company riding behind her. Although she’d never really been this close to a man for such a stretch, it didn’t rouse in her the uncomfortableness she’d anticipated. She’d imagined not liking the breach of her personal space, having to breathe in his brand of sweat and tobacco. However, being near him seemed to erase any negative emotions, replacing them with stillness and contentment.
She noticed his hands floundering, seeking an appropriate place to rest them in order to maintain a gentleman’s status. Possessing the wherewithal to contemplate such matters was another indication he wasn’t hurt all that much.
Grinning at the prospect of his being all right, and at his respect for her, she reached for the hand on his good side. A shiver ran down her spine at his touch. After pulling his arm around her middle, she prompted the horse to pick up the pace.
Emma understood the need to keep a certain distance from her patients. The bond that formed when she nursed someone back to health or watched him or her suffer into the next world proved a delicate tightrope to balance. Here was someone who’d saved her—and more than once, if she looked the truth in the eye. Considering the expression little town, big hell, what providence it was to have at least one guardian angel, even if he might just be passing through.
Summer 1988
Mom called Mark and Tausha to the dining room table. Books and papers gathered in haphazard piles, instead of the usual chaos.
His back resting on the chair, arms crossed, Dad jiggled his leg. When the rest of the family took their seats, he picked up a pen and seesawed it between his fingers.
Upon glimpsing the Native American pipe dead center on the table, Mark’s hands moistened. “Oh, shit,” he said under his breath.
“Excuse me?” his mother said.
If she’d really heard him, Mark might be facing a full hour lecture. He held his breath.
“Which of you has been smoking this?” Mom gestured to the item in question.
Tausha sucked in her cheeks and gave Mark the thanks a lot, asshole, for dragging me into this eye. Her reaction verified what he’d seen the other night was a hallucination. She couldn’t remember what didn’t happen, right?
He wondered where his mother had found the pipe and what was up with the big trial, but feared questions begot more suspicions. Mark’s pulse quickened, unable to surmise what was going through his mother’s mind. The fuzzy recollection of burning cloves suddenly poked at him. Was that relevant? Why else would he be thinking of it now?
“Well?” Mom threw her hands in the air.
The pen in Dad’s hand still wiggled. His eyes wandered with anxiousness.
Mark glanced at the stone artifact, which was a five-inch long tube that flared at each end. Which side held the tobacco? How hot did the thing get? Where did a lighter or set of matches hide in this house?
His teen brain fired all its synapses until he opted for the truth. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know how to use that thing.”
“Don’t give me that bull. Evidently, this has been going on for some time.” She reached for the pipe. As she grasped it, Tausha rested her head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling, likely hunting for cracks or shadows to entertain her during the inquisition.
Dad seemed to be ingesting all of his words.
Had he not gotten a peek of it out the window that day, Mark wouldn’t have even known what that contraption was. Left to his own devices, he might’ve assumed the pipe was a kazoo or a candleholder. “Seriously, Mom, it wasn’t me.”
“How do you explain the patch job, huh?” She shoved the object near Mark’s face, making him jerk back. His doggy nose rubbed in shit. It was a comical departure from the way she introduced the pipe to Dad. “Look, if it went any further, you’d have covered the engraving”
Mark looked at the pipe, the carvings hardly looked like anything to him. He side-eyed to his left.
His father had yet to look his way. Help me out here, son, emanated from him. “Maybe that was the way you found it?”
“No, it was in mint condition, Justin,” she replied. “Mint condition.”
Mark, wanting to utter how it was just a random material object, chewed a fingernail and shut his eyelids. It was up to him to end this, to launch them all into closing arguments so they could get on with the day. He itched to yield to sweet boredom. Anything but this.
“Look, I don’t know who’s been lighting up around here.” Mark felt his Adam’s apple squirming in his throat. “But I patched it.” Where had his sudden burst of courage come from? How might he summon more of it?
His father continued avoiding eye contact.
“My guess is that Salem knocked it down. I thought it’d be best to put it back like brand new, like it never happened.” The no good deed goes unpunished cliché elbowed him in the chest.
“How on earth did you manage that?” Mom’s upper lip curled.
Mark shrugged. “Learned a thing or two in art class.” With effort, he managed to formulate this into a statement instead of a question.
Mom bit down on her lip, clearly sorting fact from fiction.
If the pipe damage was really the dog’s fault, then Mark was more or less a hero, and a hero with bitching artifact restoration skills. Museum quality, in fact. Nothing out of the ordinary there, really. She couldn’t deny he was artsy fartsy, no question about that.
Mark prayed she’d let the smoking business go.
“Okay, listen up.” Mom widened her stance and put her hand on a hip.
Tausha jerked straight.
The once and for all moment continued. “I’m hiding the pipe. And I better not smell tobacco in this house. If anyone touches this,” she raised the prized possession like the body of Christ, “there will be hell to pay.”
The pen in Dad’s hand dropped to the tabletop. He melted into the chair, his shaking leg stilled.
Mark breathed normally, wanting to pat himself on the back. Case dismissed.
Finally, with approval written on his face, Dad looked Mark straight in the eye.
Mark questioned if they’d ever know who’d been puffing on the pipe. His parents had always hacked and fanned the air when anyone smoked around them. Trying weed at Jack’s house had incited Mark’s knee-jerk reflex to gargle a bottle of Listerine. Forget cigarettes. Bleh. And, he and Tausha had cringed whenever the service announcement came on television with the lady rasping through a voice box, and the same went for the guy with the rotted off mouth.
The case of the smoking pipe was case closed, at least for the moment.
Mark was curious if he’d be collecting any restitution for covering his dad’s ass. That was quite possibly the only positive. His creds with his father were accumulating. Too bad they didn’t
spill over to Mom.
—
Dad drove Mark to the lone second hand record store listed in the town’s phone book. They’d announced to Mom they were going to wander around—cruising and having a man to man chat about honesty and responsibility. That was the agenda. Funny she had no clue Mark was entitled to be the lecturer, instead of the other way around.
“I guess we could’ve walked here.” His father sniggered. “Still used to city life, I suppose.”
“We can walk next time.”
“Next time? You greedy little bastard.” He mussed up his son’s hair on their walk into the shop.
Mark didn’t brag about how he’d definitely earned it, partly because achieving a reward for dishonesty unsettled his stomach. The records were payment for unpacking, but if the teen had been Pavlov’s dog, he’d be associating the payoff with aiding and abetting a guilty father. Nonetheless, Dad was a man of his word, regardless of how horrible the timing was. Mark’s father wasn’t sleeping on the couch tonight, and that was an additional reason to throw a mini-parade.
A bell jingled overhead as they entered the store.
The owner’s eyes overly scrutinized his newspaper. A steaming anger emanated from the guy. Annoyance at being disturbed might be understandable, but anger? At what? Someone wanting to help him pay the rent? God knows, Mark had heard enough about paying bills in his short life.
No popular album or radio played in the background. The room was insulated dead air. Outside, the street lay quiet. No pedestrians passed by.
Mark and Dad were the only two customers, shopping in silence.
While his father’s hands plucked their way through the LP jackets, Mark studied them. Dad’s palms didn’t span that wide and the fingers were long and thin, with smooth and unassuming nails. The texture of the skin was silky. The Almighty Creator must’ve spent some time buffing the pores out, and deciding too much hair ruined the aesthetic. Consequently, glancing at his own hands, Mark resigned himself to the fact that he’d never have powerful, construction worker hands, flaunting an ape-like surface, with grit under the nails—grippers that didn’t know their own strength, accidentally breaking things. Hands that made people wonder what he was packing in his jeans. Mark was acting just like one of strangers in checkout lines who stared too long at his father’s hands, most likely contemplating genetics and gender stereotypes. Was that in Mark’s future too?
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