The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  Hank shoved himself out of his chair. “I’m not arguing…we’re discussing,” he said, taking his cup to the wash pan. With his back to her, he stood for a moment, shoulders and arms aching with tension. He leaned on the counter and took a deep breath to relax the cramp in his neck.

  Exhaling, he turned around to meet his wife’s puzzled gaze. Her worried expression said it all—she didn’t understand and never would. They would never see eye to eye on this subject, he knew that—had known all along. He didn’t have a cure for what ailed him, and the realization had him feeling mean, out of sorts, frustrated.

  In a rush, his words came out like fermented hops. “You’re right, Anora isn’t right for Paxton, or Paxton for Anora. He wouldn’t marry her. Oh, he’d be tender with her. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he would never deem to give her his name. No, he’s interested in her because she’s vulnerable. He can move in and control her, control what she does with the ferry and the land it sits on. I’m sure he envisioned himself as her savior. It would salve his ego to help her become a prominent land owner and businesswoman.”

  Lydia tried to interrupt, but he didn’t give her the chance. “As for the cowboy doing her any good…we’ll see. All I know is Ben Talbot is gone. That’s the one, sure, bright spot I can see today.”

  In a hurry, he said, “I’ll go with Paxton and Isabell to the mercantile. But I have to go back out to the planer. I won’t be home for lunch. We’ve got a big shipment of lumber to get out. The Willa Jane should be coming upriver this week.”

  He grabbed his coat and hat off the back of the chair. “Seems to me you’ve got a couple of hours here to yourself. Might be a good time to go lie down for a while.”

  He leaned down to give her a buss on the cheek and met her penetrating gaze and knew himself for a liar. At least Paxton’s feelings were out in the open for everyone to see. He’d lied to Lydia, he’d lied to everybody, including himself.

  He moved in to kiss her on the lips. She took his face between her hands, giving him no choice but to look straight into her eyes. “I think you’re more upset over what happened yesterday than you want to admit. I know you care for Anora. You have a big heart, Hank Reason. It’s one of the many reasons why I married you. Now, you go do what you have to do. I am going to savor a little peace and quiet. You’re right, I may not have another opportunity like this for years.”

  He started out the door, stopped to tell her, “I love you, Lydia. If you need me, I’ll be at the mill.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Would you look at that?” Paxton said, his head down, grumbling, cursing the rain, walking down the muddy street.

  Hank had Isabell up on his shoulders to keep her out of the quagmire. With her arms wrapped around his head, his hat off to the side, he had a limited view, but he too saw the buckskin tied to the hitching rail. “Looks like our cowboy’s in town. What I don’t see are all the eyes watching us—I can feel them, but I don’t see anyone out here on the street.”

  “Oh yeah, we’re being watched all right. The whole town knows what happened yesterday. Barney wouldn’t let a good story like that go unreported. And he probably got it all wrong, turned it upside down and inside out. Barney has a way of embellishing the facts.”

  “I’ve never known gossip to hold close to the truth,” Hank said, “but what’s the cowboy doing in town? I’d a thought he’d still be with Anora.”

  Glaring at the buckskin, Paxton muttered a curse and said, “Piece of scum, he’s abandoned her. Damn drifter.”

  “Isabell,” Hank said, giving her ankle a tug, “You will disregard your uncle’s foul language.” He heard her giggle, and groaned, knowing full well she would do no such thing.

  Hank set Isabell on her feet once they made it to the boardwalk in front of the mercantile. He opened the door in time to hear Tamara Gregson declare from behind the curtain at the back of the store, “Ellen Ambrose brought in a couple of dresses she made especially to trade for food stuffs a month back. I didn’t put them out because they were more for spring. You know, cotton, flowery prints, and pastel colors. I thought I’d put them back here. I hope I can find them.”

  The cowboy stood over the glass display case near the front of the store, eyeing the lion-head Meerschaum pipes.

  Behind Hank, Paxton stopped cold, his hand on the door handle.

  The cowboy answered Mrs. Gregson without looking up, “Do you have ladies stockings? Add a new bonnet…maybe a woman’s cape too.”

  Moving the curtain aside without looking to her customers, Mrs. Gregson said, “My, my, you’ll be wanting the works then. I have some French corsets, just in, and some fancy lace drawers.”

  She vanished again; Hank could hear her rummaging through boxes and paper.

  “I know I have a cape of black seal-skin, completely lined with blue satin. Teddy traded a keg of nails and a bucket of tar for it. At the time I thought I might want it, but Teddy went to Oregon City and bought me a cape of otter pelts. It’s so much finer. Not that the seal-skin cape is in anyway inferior, no…no indeed.”

  Mrs. Gregson came tripping out from behind the curtain, head down, hands fussing with the stray tendrils of gray hair that had come lose from the bun on the top of her head.

  Paxton closed the door. The bell overhead chimed, and the room went quiet as a tomb.

  Jerking to a standstill, Mrs. Gregson’s eyes opened wide as saucers. Flashing a warning glance in the cowboy’s direction, she gave a little hop. Trotting forward to greet her customers, her voice cracked, she choked, coughed, but managed to say, “Oh dear, oh dear, dear. Good day to you Mr. Hayes, Miss Isabell, Mr. Reason. My, isn’t this a coincidence.” Her eyes wide, she pleaded with Paxton, saying, “I do hope there won’t be any trouble.”

  Nervously, she kept sending warning glances to the cowboy. Her fingers fluttered and fumbled to withdraw a snow-white lace hanky from her sleeve. She pressed the dainty cloth to her lips, her cheeks aflame, and perspiration forming on her upper lip and forehead. “Well, of course there won’t be trouble—you own the store, don’t you, Mr. Hayes. What I mean to say is…well, this is serendipitous, isn’t it? You have me all aflutter, yes, yes, you do, gentlemen. I…I haven’t had this many handsome gentlemen customers this early in the day for quite a while, not since Christmas, anyway.”

  She pressed her lips together and stopped talking, her gaze darting from Paxton’s scowling visage to the cowboy’s shit-eatin’ grin. The cowboy nodded and said, “I sure hope you can find those dresses, ma’am. I don’t think Miss Sennet’s had a new dress in quite a spell.”

  The cowboy’s words set Mrs. Gregson off to locate the dresses. She did so reluctantly, glancing several times over her shoulder, one hand to her lips, eyes wide with trepidation.

  Holding out his hand, the cowboy said, “The name’s Whit Comstock. We didn’t exchange names yesterday.”

  Hank fought the urge to punch him in the nose. He heard Paxton snort, but to Hank’s surprise, Paxton shook the man’s hand and began the introductions, albeit his tone cold enough to freeze hell several times over. “Paxton Hayes, part owner of this establishment and the saloon across the street. This is my brother-in-law, Hank Reason, and his daughter, my niece, Isabell.”

  “Miss Isabell,” Comstock said, his greeting accompanied by a gallant bow to Isabell.

  Isabell, delighted, giggled, curtsied, then slipped behind Hank, peeking around his thigh, looking up at the cowboy.

  “I’m glad to know you, Hayes—you have a fine store. I stopped in at your saloon for a beer. Met Mr. Bowdin the barkeep and a Mr. Simmons. Both of them were mighty put out to hear old Ruben had left town. Seems he owed some folks money around here.”

  Pulling his gaze away from Paxton’s hostile glare, he said to Hank, “I’m glad to meet up with you too, Mr. Reason.”

  Comstock stuck his hand out for a shake. Hank, taken by surprise, accepted the gesture.

  “A good thing you two were there. You put a flea in old Ruben’s ear. That wo
man sure was a hell-cat, wasn’t she? Ruben’s been overdue for a good beating.”

  Comstock’s effusive stream of palaver had Hank thinking the cowboy guilty of something; or scared. But then, Paxton’s unwavering stare could be damned unnerving.

  The cowboy chuckled and shook his head. He put his arms out to the side, his hands going to the countertop behind him. “I s’pose you two, and everyone in the whole damn town, would like to know who the hell I am, where I came from, and how is it I know Miss Sennet?”

  Hank could see by Paxton’s tight jaw and pursed lips he wasn’t about to say one way or the other, he simply glared, tongue in cheek. He’d closed up, arms folded across his chest, fingers gouging into his forearms.

  Hank couldn’t help it, he was curious as hell, and nodded his encouragement.

  Whit shrugged Paxton off, grinned, and leaned his hips against the glass counter. “Anora Claire, her folks, and her aunt, Carrie Tillery, Ruben’s wife, were on the same wagon train as my grandpa, Joe, and me when we come out west in ‘46. Anora’s folks died along the way. Kind’a funny that. Took both of ’em sudden like. Carrie and Ruben took Anora in. Ruben didn’t seem to give a damn for his wife once she got a bun in the oven. He took up with every female willing to give him the time.

  “Anyway, I went through here a few weeks ago and crossed the ferry. Thought I recognized Ruben then, but he called himself Ben Talbot. He didn’t look exactly as I remembered. He looked stouter, meaner, so I let it go, but I couldn’t stop thinking on it, so I come back through. Pretty good timing even if I do say so myself.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tamara Gregson said, flying out from behind her curtain, “I remember now. I put those dresses up there above the bolts of fabric. I swear I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.”

  The cowboy rushed over to help her, reaching over the little woman’s head, bringing down two big boxes.

  “My land, look here, the cape is in this other box. I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten about it. It should be out here on display. It’s very fine, considered keeping it myself. Well, I said that, didn’t I? And stockings, you said. I have some soft, black cotton, very warm and long wearing.”

  The cowboy cut her off saying, “The blue dress with the daisies and the green and blue plaid. Two pair of the stockings and the cape. And, if you have a bonnet that would go with the cape, that would be fine. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “How is Anora…Mrs. Talbot…this morning?” Paxton asked, taking Hank by surprise, causing him to choke on his own spittle.

  Mrs. Gregson had positioned herself behind the counter, down toward the backroom. But Hank thought he could see her ears stretching to funnel the conversation into her head.

  Isabell tugged on his pant leg. “Can I get my licorice, Papa?”

  Paxton put his hand on her head. “You go tell Mrs. Gregson you want four pieces. She’ll get them for you.”

  Comstock smiled. Isabell skipped away. Once Isabell had Mrs. Gregson’s attention, Comstock answered Paxton’s question. “A bit down, I’d say. But that’s to be expected. No lasting harm was done. At least nothing I can’t fix. I just took care of everything. A few gee-gaws will bring her around, make her forget all her hurts. A new dress will do her a world of good.”

  The cowboy’s smirk had Hank’s palms itching; he wanted to push those straight white teeth down the man’s throat.

  Oh yeah, a new dress, some warm stockings—that ought’a do it, all right. He seriously doubted anything tangible, or, for that matter, spiritual, would ever erase from Anora’s mind her pain or humiliation at Talbot’s hand. And more than that, he suspected she’d resent anyone who tried to gloss over her abuse with gifts. Which lessened his jealousy by a degree or two, knowing Comstock was about to make a big mistake.

  Paxton interjected, asking, “Mrs. Gregson, would you mind keeping an eye on Isabell?”

  Isabell stood on tiptoe, studying the jars of hard candy, seriously considering the contents of each jar. “We’re gonna step outside with Mr. Comstock. He’ll be right back to pick up his purchases.”

  With her hand to her heart, Mrs. Gregson waved them off with a flick of her hanky.

  Comstock shrugged and headed for the door.

  Paxton followed the man. Hank hesitated. “Isabell, licorice, that’s all. Mrs. Gregson, don’t let her talk you into a lollypop or even a jawbreaker.”

  “Oh, Papa,” he heard his daughter say, and he closed the door behind him and stepped out onto the boardwalk.

  Paxton had gone to the corner of the store, his back to the street. Comstock leaned against the side of the building, his arms folded across his chest, the damn grin on his face.

  “Staying at the ferry landing with Mrs. Talbot is bound to cause a lot of talk, none of it complimentary,” Paxton said, wasting no time in coming to the point. “Anora…Mrs. Talbot, has had a very, very rough time. Her credibility, thanks to Ben Talbot, is whisper thin. If you’re here to take what you can get from her, use her for your own amusement, leave now, forget it…or I’ll have to do to you what I did to Ben. I won’t stand by while you hurt her. I can’t.”

  Comstock straightened up, threw his chest out and shoulders back. He looked around the edge of the building. A wagon full of empty crates appeared, coming toward them from the direction of the tannery, driven by a wizened, bearded man in a heavy, brown canvas coat. Comstock waited for the rattling wagon to pass, continuing down the street toward the ferry.

  Settling his gaze on Paxton, the grin replaced by a jutting jaw and tightly clenched teeth, he said in a low, threating voice, “I ain’t never hurt a woman. I have feelings for Anora Claire, always have. I don’t give a rat’s tit about you, or this damn town. From what little I’ve seen, none of you’ve done one damn thing to protect her from Tillery, Talbot, whatever Ruben calls himself around here. I care about her. If I’d ‘a known he was hurting her, I’d ‘a stopped his clock right off. I want her to be like I remember, strong and happy. You can’t run me off. I won’t leave until I know she’s gonna be all right. As for this town talking about her, you’d know more about that than me—you, and Reason.”

  Paxton flinched. Hank figured Paxton had to acknowledge the man’s hit. After all, Paxton had thought the same as everybody else not so long ago. But he, and Paxton, had gotten one thing right—the cowboy wasn’t going to stay. He was a drifter.

  Paxton shook his finger in Comstock’s face. “We care what happens to Anora. I do, and so does Mr. Reason. And Mr. Reason’s wife, my sister, Lydia,” Paxton said, on the defensive.

  Comstock nodded, his shoulders relaxed a bit, exhaled and nodded. “Well, that’s good. You seem like good people. I’ll do what I can to protect her from gossip. For starters, I’ll let that old gal in there know I’ve taken up residence in the barn. I’m an old friend, and I’ve come to help Anora work the ferry. I go to the house for my meals, and that’s all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got to get back. Barney’s gonna show me how to work the ferry. He has to help his pa with the lambing.” With that, Comstock left them and disappeared back into the mercantile.

  Paxton measured off the distance to the back end of the mercantile, taking long, angry strides. When he returned to the street, he stopped, his hands going to his hips. “You believe the son-of-a-bitch?”

  Hank heard the door of the mercantile open, Comstock appeared, jumped down off the boardwalk and headed for his horse with his parcels.

  Hank shook his head. “No, he might be sleeping in the barn but who’s to say what they do when he’s not working the ferry. I don’t like it that he’s not going to stay. On the other hand, I’m damn glad he’s not. Right now, I don’t know what to think. I guess it’s up to Anora. She knows the man, likes him.”

  Paxton huffed, tore his hat off his head, and slapped his thigh with it. “I need some hair of the dog. A tall glass of beer might clear the pitch from my brain. I can’t think. Let’s go across the street a minute. Isabell will be fine with Mrs. Gregson for a bit long
er.”

  »»•««

  “Beer,” Paxton ordered.

  “I’ll have a glass of milk,” Hank ordered, ignoring the snicker from the table behind him. Paxton raised his glass of beer, glaring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind the bar.

  “Saw you talking to the cowboy,” Bill, the barkeep, said to Paxton. “He was in here a little while ago, you know. He needed a drink too. Guess Nutty Norie has that effect on men. Old Ruben kept a running tab. Which, by the way, he’s run out on—left me holding his IOU’s to the tune of nearly fifteen dollars.”

  Paxton slammed his beer down on the counter. “I thought I told you not to run a tab for anyone, especially Talbot. And, Bowdin, her name is Anora, not Nutty Norie. Mrs. Talbot to you, and the rest of the mongrels in this town. Never, ever, ever call her Nutty Norie again. You hear? As a matter of fact, never talk about her at all…ever. She’s a fine woman, a lady. A lady with more backbone than most men, and she sure as hell’s got more sense.”

  Paxton reached out, taking Bill by the collar, he gave him a good shake. “If you want to keep your job, you’ll discourage anybody else from abusing the lady’s reputation. Do I make myself clear?”

  Eyes bulging out of his head, his collar twisted up into a tight noose about his throat, Bowdin croaked out his reply, “Understood. Yes, sir.”

  Hank laid a hand on Paxton’s arm. “I think he gets the idea.”

  Paxton released the barkeeper and shoved him back against the counter, where stacks of freshly washed glasses were lined up in the ready. A couple of them fell and broke. Bowdin immediately ducked and began to pick up the broken bits of glass out of the sawdust on the floor.

  Paxton downed his beer and then set the glass on the bar. “I’ll be in later, Bill, to see how well you’ve implemented the new policies we were discussing.”

  Outside Hank asked, “What the hell were you thinking in there? The whole damn town’s talking about you and Anora and the cowboy. You don’t have to go and make more of a horse’s butt of yourself. If not for your sake, think of Anora.”