Not the Marrying Kind

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  She huffed and puffed and stormed inside. “To think I almost let you.”

  Chapter Nine

  December 4, 1877

  The Lord must have known Rafe wasn’t meant to put down roots in Cut Creek or He wouldn’t have made his week in San Antonio such a productive one.

  He probably should have signed the induction papers while he was there but Captain Bryant urged him to take them home and think on it a spell first.

  To his mind there was nothing to think on. He was born to be a Ranger; the Lord made him to follow in his father’s footsteps. Why then did he feel as jumpy as a frog on a hot skillet about leaving the place he’d spent the past seven years?

  True, Captain Bryant had given him the lecture about how hard it was to be a ranger and a family man. Well, he knew about that first hand, but spending long periods of time with Pop away on duty hadn’t killed him.

  Could be his strange inability to get Peony Potter out of his mind. While he’d managed to steer clear of her for the better part of a month, his brain went goofy and his heart thudded whenever he thought of her. On those occasions when he found himself in the vicinity of her or her dress shop, he took pains to keep from having any actual conversations.

  Trouble was, whenever he looked at her, he thought about kissing her. Whatever transpired between them in the rubble of the old newspaper office had long since been forgotten by the dressmaker anyway. That much was obvious on those rare occasions when he caught sight of her and she crossed the street to keep from having to say hello.

  Rafe stepped off the train and waved to Bob McLinn over at the telegraph office. Making a passing glance toward the direction of the dressmaker’s shop, Rafe noted that in his absence the dressmaker had added a fluff of lace curtains in her front window and a neatly lettered sign reminding the ladies the time was at hand to order dresses for the Christmas social season.

  What Christmas social season? Little did the silly Miss Potter know, but the closest thing Cut Creek had to a social gathering at all was the Christmas Eve pot roast special at Abigail’s Diner. Given the skill of the cook, or rather the lack of it, that post-church gathering could hardly be described as a social one. The family party to celebrate his birthday generally didn’t fare any better as Abigail tended to keep her cake recipes too high on the shelf to go by most years.

  Bless her heart, dear Abigail did try though, and thanks to her he’d never spent a birthday feeling unloved or alone. Christmas Day was the one day of the year Pop and his buddies were always home.

  As for Abigail’s pot roast, however, a single man ate what he could batch up in his own kitchen before he succumbed to the infamous Christmas Eve lunch, often seasoned up with sugar and other things your average cook wouldn’t think of throwing in the skillet. But then Abigail was not your average cook. The only reason tradition held was because being with others suffering the same fate seemed a slight bit better than suffering through another Christmas Eve alone in bachelor’s quarters.

  Rafe heard his father’s laughter before he rounded the corner and caught sight of his pa and the others. Seated at their usual spot, the men looked to be plotting trouble – their usual state of affairs. Rafe slowed his pace and absentmindedly palmed the barrel of the revolver strapped to his hip.

  The gun still saw less use than a mirror in a pig sty but as sheriff, he wore it all the same. Actually he did shoot the thing occasionally in the line of duty. Just last year he’d had to fire off a round to scare a half-dozen wild boar that were feasting on the remains of the preacher’s garden. Before that he’d be hard pressed to think of the last time he used a bullet on anything more dangerous than the tin cans he kept around for target practice.

  A sorry state of affairs for a man called himself a sheriff.

  “Well, I don’t see another way around it.” His father again. “He simply ain’t gonna be convinced lessen we take action.”

  “Who’s not going to be convinced?” Rafe looked down into four of the guiltiest innocent faces he’d seen all week. “And what action are you planning to take?”

  He turned first to the guiltiest of the lot, his father. “Pop, have you been reading my mail again?”

  Eb Wilson had the decency to look offended, except that the expression didn’t quite make it to his eyes. They twinkled with glee even as he frowned.

  “I’ve been busy all morning and haven’t had a chance to barely sit down.” His nudge of the fellow sitting to his left was almost imperceptible.

  Almost but not quite.

  “Ja,” Swede said. “Eb’s been helping me set fence posts all morning. We’ve barely had a chance to sit down.”

  “Is that right?”

  A chorus of agreement rose among the men. Rafe turned his attention to Creed and Sully. Neither would look him in the eye. Finally he swung his gaze back to Pop, who suddenly found a great interest in studying the domino in his palm. The edge of a telegram peeked out of his pocket, evidence to Rafe’s mind that Eb Wilson and his pals had been meddling again.

  “You’re a full grown man, son,” his father said. “Why in the world would I want to waste my time poking my nose into your business?”

  “Because you’ve been meddling in my business ever since I was out of knee pants, Pop. So have the rest of you.” He paused to let the others express their half-hearted outrage. At least his father hadn’t denied the accusation. “Look, I’m full grown and able to make my own decisions on whatever. . .”

  The rest of his statement caught in his throat as Peony Potter, dressed in something pink and pretty, appeared in the window of the dressmaker’s shop. He struggled to capture his escaping thoughts and head them back in the direction they were supposed to go. Unfortunately, gaining his voice and speaking anything other than nonsense was like trying to scratch your ear with your elbow. It just couldn’t be done.

  Peony looked over in his direction and for a moment he thought she might wave. Instead she looked past him to the four old Rangers then slammed the curtains shut.

  “That girl’s about as sociable as an ulcerated back tooth.” Rafe didn’t realize he’d spoken the comment aloud until the four meddling men hooted with laughter.

  “She’s as harmless as a bee in butter, son.” Eb rose to slap Rafe on the back. “All she needs is a little attention from the right man and she’d be sweet as honey.” He glanced down at his partners in crime then winked at Rafe. “Maybe you ought to be the fellow who turns her attention to something besides criticizing decent folk for minding their own business on a public sidewalk.”

  Chuckling, Rafe pointed to his father. “You’re the one with all the answers, Pop. Why don’t you go smooth talk her?”

  “I would, son, but out of respect for the young I thought I might give you a chance.” He settled back into his chair and looked up at Rafe with a smug grin. “Lessen you don’t think you’re up to a challenge.”

  Any other challenge he would have taken in a split second. This one, however, he knew he’d never accomplish. Peony Potter had taken a dislike to him that time had not changed one lick. Better the subject moved on to something less ticklish.

  “So, Pop, what’s that in your pocket?”

  Eb Wilson patted his chest. “This? Why, it looks like a telegram.”

  “Anything I ought to know about? Maybe something that beat me here from San Antonio?” He gave his best shot at looking like a lawman deep in the midst of a serious investigation. “I know you and your buddies at the Ranger command post are still thick as thieves. You got something you want to fess up to?”

  The older man seemed to consider his question for a moment. His pals watched him without expression. Rafe had to give it to the four them. These old Rangers might be slowed by age but not a one of them showed any signs of weakness when questioned.

  “Something to fess up to? I don’t reckon so.” His father’s grin widened. “Besides, we all know Bob McLinn can’t keep a secret. If it was anything important you’d have heard about it before you stepp
ed out of the depot.”

  This much was true. The telegraph operator could best any woman in town in a gossiping contest.

  “You all in agreement with Pop? Nothing new I need to hear about?” The other three nodded although Rafe noted that none of them could quite look him in the eyes. “Then I guess you aren’t interested in what I told your old buddy Captain Bryant when he asked me if I could report for duty with the Rangers the first Monday in January.”

  With that, he tipped his hat and walked away.

  Chapter Ten

  Peony stepped back from the curtains and watched the sheriff move with purposeful strides toward the building that housed the jail. “That man makes me so mad.”

  Peony spoke to the orange lop-eared cat that had taken up residence in her shop during the former owner’s absence, the same cat that had almost lost her life to the sheriff’s bullet. Naming the feline Tabby, Peony appreciated the fuzzy guest’s listening ear. Who else could she complain to about a man who was obviously the paragon of virtue and respect in Cut Creek?

  She’d mentioned to Mrs. Chamberlain, the owner of the boarding house, that she’d been irritated at the lack of concern the lawman showed in ridding the streets of the riff raff only to find out the woman had practically raised him and thought he hung the moon. A discussion with Abigail over breakfast regarding the men who insisted on gambling within earshot of her establishment resulted in bitter coffee and cold flapjacks. Of course, in dear Abigail’s case, that could have been the norm and not any sort of statement regarding her opinion.

  Sighing, Peony lifted a stack of neatly folded fabric onto the shelf nearest the door then stood back and admired her handiwork. In no time, she’d managed to get the former newspaper office clean and orderly and had even pried the boards off the window in the back to allow the morning sun to shine in.

  That last feat had been accomplished with ease. It was amazing what a woman could do when she was angry. Why, if she lived to be a hundred and ten she would never understand men.

  Especially that man.

  Shuddering at the reminder of the cranky lawman, she forced her mind onto the task at hand. Soon a pretty yellow calico dress wore bright green buttons and a thick set of seams down the side. The newly expectant farm wife who ordered the garment would have plenty of room to let it out once her belly began to swell.

  Peony allowed the dress to slip from her fingers. For a moment she allowed herself the luxury of imagining what it might be like to be some man’s wife, some child’s mother. As quickly as the image appeared, she chased it away with thoughts of the next project on her list, unpacking the newest parcel of fabrics from Dallas.

  She pushed the ancient rolling ladder, a welcome left-over from the previous owner, closer then climbed to reach the topmost shelf. Peony settled a stack of multicolored calicos atop the shelf then climbed down to retrieve a basket of thread.

  Unfortunately, Tabby had taken up residence inside, and she complained bitterly when Peony ousted her onto the floor. The cat gave her an irritated look then turned tail and headed for the crate that held Peony’s unpacked sewing machine.

  A cackle of male laughter followed by four distinct voices all speaking at once assailed her through the front windows. Those awful gamblers again. This time, due to threatening skies, they seemed to be headed for Abigail’s diner.

  “Believe me, we all have our irritations, Tabby,” Peony said as she hefted the basket onto her shoulder then stepped onto the ladder. “At least you can find another place where you won’t be bothered. I don’t have that luxury.”

  Not with the sheriff refusing to do his job.

  His job. Peony shook her head. Well, of course the man wasn’t doing his job. The ring leader of the gamblers was his father. She’d found that out over breakfast one morning in the diner.

  And the others three, well, to hear Nellie tell it, they were practically family as well. Of course the man was loyal to those he cared for, an admirable trait under most circumstances. Goodness how she disliked admitting he had good traits.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but might I have a word with you?”

  Peony looked up to see Eb Wilson standing on the porch looking in. He seemed out of place, a rough man among laces and calico, and his demeanor showed he felt that way too.

  Mama might have done a lot of things wrong, but one thing she did right was to teach Peony respect for her elders. “Please, do come in,” she said, rising to meet him halfway. “Would you like some tea? I was just about to make myself some.”

  The older man clutched his hat in his hands and studied the sidewalk. “No ma’am, and if you don’t mind I believe I’ll just stand out here. Fancy stuff makes me nervous.”

  Suppressing a smile, she took a few steps forward. “How can I help you, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Well now, it’s me who’s aiming to help you, actually.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “It’s about my boy, Rafe. I believe you two are acquainted.”

  Irritation rose. “Yes, we’ve had several conversations,” she said.

  “And I feel bad about that, ma’am. I believe my friends and I are the source of those ‘conversations’ and I’d like to apologize right now for that.”

  “You would?”

  He nodded. “You see, it’s come to my attention that the friction between you and my boy might be the cause of him not telling you his true feelings.”

  Bob McLinn appeared in the doorway of the mercantile across the way. Peony offered the man a polite wave then turned her attention back to Mr. Wilson.

  “What do you mean ‘his true feelings’?”

  “Miss Potter, I’m a single man myself, have been for nigh on twenty-seven years now, but when my Carolina was alive, rest her soul, well . . .” He paused to clear his throat. “Let’s just say I remember what it felt like to be in love and I feel terrible that I might be keeping you two apart.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Wilson, you are not keeping us apart.”

  Eb Wilson let out a yell that caused the horses tied in front of the bank to skitter and complain. He took a step inside to clasp Peony’s hand and shake it with vigor. “Now that’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes indeed. Thank you for clearing that up, Miss Potter.” He set his hat back firmly on his head. “I believe I’ll go let Rafe know he doesn’t have to hide his affections any longer.” With a wink, he added, “You have a lovely afternoon, you hear?”

  Peony stood in the door and watched the elder Mr. Wilson cross Main Street with a spring in his step. Tipping his hat to Bob McLinn, he headed in the direction of the sheriff’s office.

  A plaintive meow reminded Peony that she wasn’t alone in the dress shop. She turned to see Tabby sunning herself beneath the lace curtains and knelt to scratch the soft fur behind the cat’s right ear. The cat stretched and nestled against her hand.

  “Now that was an interesting conversation.”

  * * *

  Rafe leaned back in his chair, resting the heels of his boots on his desk. He need not worry about disturbing the contests of it surface with his big feet. There hadn’t been anything of value sitting on the scarred wooden surface since he took the job back in ‘71.

  Hearing from the Rangers had been the only bright spot in his week – his year, actually – and just thinking about getting out from behind this desk to ride with them gave him a smile. Only his pop’s strange reluctance to discuss the matter kept him from jumping for joy.

  Why Eb Wilson couldn’t be proud that his only son wanted to join the family business was beyond him. It was a plain fact that Pop and his buddies only left the Rangers because the government folks disbanded the units and sent their men off to fight in the War Between the States. Pop never talked about why the three of them chose to settle in Cut Creek and take up the ordinary life of gentlemen farmers and such after the war ended. When pressed to comment, Eb’s response was always the same.

  “I made a promise.”

&nb
sp; What sort of promise or to whom remained a mystery to this day, one Rafe had chosen not to try and solve. For whatever reason, his father gave up a life of adventure and purpose to loll about a small town with little to do but play dominoes with his buddies and rehash the old days. The funny thing was, this man who once captained a unit of fearless lawmen seemed perfectly content sitting in front of the old newspaper office until it got too dark to see the checkerboard.

  Only a heavy rain or Sunday services broke up the rhythm of the day for the old codgers. Worse, they seemed to like it that way.

  “Well that’s not for me,” he muttered as he leaned back a notch further and settled his hat over his eyes to begin his morning nap. “This man’s going places.”

  “Well, not today, you ain’t.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rafe jerked to attention and caught his hat before it hit the floor. His pop stood in the doorway. He half expected at least one of Pop’s cronies to be standing with him. The fact that he stood alone could only mean one thing.

  Here it comes. The lecture about being content. So much for the nap.

  With a heavy sigh, he placed both feet firmly on the floor. Resisting the urge to speak, he merely stared. As much as he loved his father, he had no desire to have his good mood ruined by the contentment lecture. Come Christmas day he’d be twenty-seven years old – if that wasn’t too old to be told what to do then he’d eat his hat.

  Besides, he was content, wasn’t he? There were only a few things in his life he really wanted to change. If a man was looking to hang his hat somewhere besides Cut Creek and to take a paycheck from someone other than the mayor of this fair city, where was the fault in that?