Texas Lonesome

by Caroline Fyffe

  “She’s a bold one, all right,” John said, once again admiring his handiwork on the window. “And stubborn as well. I’m sure Chaim tried to talk her out of it, but once her mind is made up . . .”

  Candy tugged on her mother’s arm. “Mommy, can we go in the dress shop? I like looking at the pretend lady. Ingrid.”

  John laughed and nodded. “Go ahead. Lily’s there. I’m sure she’d like the company.”

  Lily must have heard the conversation because she stepped out of her shop and smiled at them. “I thought I heard your voice, Martha. You too, Candy.” She hurried over and wrapped the two females into her arms.

  “Did you recognize my voice too?” Dustin asked, and then laughed at the way her lashes lowered to her soft-looking cheek. Lily McCutcheon was always such a delight to see. John was a lucky man.

  “I did. But I didn’t want to interrupt you and John.”

  “I can understand why. We had important window washing to discuss.”

  She was avoiding him, and that was fine. He understood. A day would come when hugging him felt as comfortable and natural to her as hugging Chaim was to her now. Dustin looked forward to that day, but also never wanted it to happen. Her cheeks had turned a dusty pink.

  Martha spoke up. “As much as we’d like to come in, Lily, we can’t.” She looked down at her daughter and raised her brows. “My sister-in-law is expecting us at the post office. Louise wants our help in dressing up her work area since she spends so much time there. Today is our first meeting. We’re sewing curtains.”

  She laughed, and then glanced at the watch penned to her bodice. “Why, we’re late already. Come along, Candy. Another day, Lily, I promise.”

  Dustin watched them go, and Lily disappeared back into her shop. He needed to quit his lollygagging and get himself to the bank, and be on his way. Leaving Calhoun out at the ranch was playing with fire. He trusted Brick Paulson and Manolito with his life. Problem was, he had no idea how far Noah Calhoun would carry the grudge.

  “Well, I’m off to the bank.” Dustin saw that odd expression cross his cousin’s face once more. He wished he had the time to learn what was on John’s mind, but he had more pressing problems to worry about. “And then I’m headed back to the ranch. Duty calls.”

  Would Noah try to even the score with Winston, no matter how unfounded the stupid grudge might be? That was a question he couldn’t answer.

  Noah was a Calhoun, and he’d not trust him for a second.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When he was alone again, John hefted the water bucket, dumped the contents into the street, and headed toward the hot springs.

  Mrs. Beck would arrive soon with Andrew, her six-year-old boy, for his biweekly treatments. The lad had patches of dry skin around his ankles that never completely disappeared. They itched something fierce, and the child was always scratching, making the problem worse.

  After much reading on the healing effects of mineral water, John prescribed twice-weekly sessions for Andrew. Since the child was small, his mother didn’t want him sitting in the hot springs for fear he’d somehow drown. Therefore, instead of that, John fetched water back to his office, where Andrew was inclined to stay soaking longer with the entertainment Tucker provided. When the sulfuric water cooled, they heated it, soaked some more, and then coated the boy’s ankles in the aloe serum made by Bixby.

  John’s thoughts drifted to the problem that was never far from his mind. How could he earn more money?

  He’d considered applying for the sheriff’s job. Surely, he’d get that position with no problem. He bore the McCutcheon name, which everyone around here respected. Taking on outlaws didn’t scare him, and he was a good shot.

  Still, would sheriffing and doctoring mix? By his way of thinking, the duties were a contradiction. And what if an emergency occurred when the bank was being robbed? What if something happened when he wasn’t around?

  Sure, Bixby was always here. In all likelihood, the old coot would probably be around for a good long time, and John was glad for it. But the retired doctor was getting older by the day, and liked having turned the reins over to John. The doc had gone fishing three times last week.

  No, he couldn’t, and shouldn’t, count on him. The two jobs didn’t go hand in hand. As boring as Rio Wells was when nothing was happening, John needed to be in town in case something did.

  Ranching was always a possibility. He was a proven hand at that vocation. A month’s pay as sheriff earned about as much as riding for an outfit—twenty dollars a month. Maybe he could hire on at the Rim Rock, and ride for his uncle and cousins. Surely they’d welcome him with open arms.

  But that solution didn’t feel right either. If he was returning to ranching, he might as well pull up stakes and head back to Montana where he’d have a percentage in the ranch. Where he’d make real money. His pa had told him he was always welcome to come home anytime.

  John knew one thing. He couldn’t give up doctoring completely.

  Nodding to a few women making their way past him on the boardwalk, he continued on, the bucket by his side, swinging from a rope handle. Bartending and clerking were options, but those jobs paid a pittance.

  John rounded the corner of Dry Street and Spring.

  Lily hadn’t asked him about her sister since their last conversation. As a matter of fact, she’d steered clear of the subject altogether. Why? Had she spoken with someone? Had she discovered how little cash they actually had?

  Having dealt with Jas Bixby for the last forty years, people of Rio Wells were not used to paying cash for services. Just yesterday morning, Martha had tried to leave him a fresh-baked pie after she brought Candy into his office complaining of a stomachache. A quick checkup and a few simple questions had revealed the little girl had eaten three unripe apples straight from their tree.

  For those few moments he’d examined her daughter, John could hardly agree to take a whole pie, even though Martha had assured him that the pie had been made with perfectly ripe apples. On the other hand, he certainly could take his patients’ money.

  Bixby, a bachelor and in need of very little, had been fine with bartering. Being old and unmarried, he sometimes preferred the cooked and baked offerings over cash payments.

  The townsfolk think bartering is the normal way to do business, and I don’t have the heart to insist otherwise.

  Sure enough, he was in a pickle.

  Discouraged, John trudged down Spring Street. The sulfuric aroma grew stronger as he drew closer to the bridge. At the edge of the ten-foot wide steaming pond, he ignored the heat that touched his face and carefully picked his way down the bank, then dipped the bucket into the churning waters.

  The hot steam brought to mind the image of Aunt Winnie’s burn he’d recently seen. Bixby’s salve had done an outstanding job healing that, and the same with the scar on his face. She’d even asked for more.

  An idea struck him. He stood at the edge of the spring, staring at the bubbling hot water.

  How many doctors did he know? The college had hundreds of students, most who went on to start practices of their own. Not only that, but he’d struck up a friendship with the dean, an older, retired physician who had all kinds of connections.

  As far as he knew, aloe vera plants were nonexistent in cooler climates, which made procuring the restorative juice much more difficult. And who cared if they could anyway? Who had the time to go through the process of extraction? Wasn’t ordering a case from a company in Texas easier?

  John’s heart raced as he thought through the possibilities. The concoction belonged to Bixby, but maybe he’d go fifty-fifty. John would do the work and make the contacts, and Bixby would provide the knowledge from his years spent tinkering with the formula. They’d have to take into account the cost of cooking up the salve, bottling, and shipping. Nothing of value was ever free or easy—at least, that was what his mother had always preached.

  For the first time in several days, John’s mood lightened.

  Pe
rhaps raising enough money to rent a real house in town wouldn’t take long once production began. Then, if Lily wanted, she could use the profits from the shop to bring Giselle from Germany, and when his new business took off, he’d pay her back.

  That was something he would insist on, and only if she didn’t want to wait for him to save enough to do both. He was the breadwinner, and he aimed to stay the breadwinner. No wife of his would wear the pants.

  He had work to do. First and foremost, he would speak with Bixby.

  Chapter Twenty

  The hour was well past three in the afternoon, and Sidney couldn’t stay holed up in her room for one more minute. She pressed her hand to her middle, her empty stomach feeling as if it were filled with burning cinders.

  How long before I keel over from lack of food? She ached for a strip of jerky. A small apple. Anything! A piece of sweet cherry pie. She closed her eyes and smiled, thinking of Carmen’s favorite dish.

  She hadn’t had a morsel since leaving Draper Bottom yesterday. Perhaps gently refusing to take anything from the McCutcheons wasn’t such a sound idea. The breakfast table had been covered with delicious-smelling fare, but she’d held firm. She’d not be beholden to the family that had tried to kill her father.

  Dustin had tried his best to get her to accept a small loan so she could eat until her money showed up. Curse her foolish pride now. She’d eat her pride if she could, and enjoy every humiliating bite.

  Her stomach gave a riotous rumble, as if agreeing. Several mouth-watering aromas had wafted through her open windows since she’d checked in, telling her someone, somewhere in Rio Wells—and probably a McCutcheon, no less—was eating and enjoying the fare.

  This morning spent at the ranch felt like a year ago. The two McCutcheon sisters had generously provided her with a skirt and blouse, since her spare had been lost along with her money in the saddlebags of her runaway horse.

  She lifted the hem of the mulberry-colored skirt and gazed at her own black riding boots. They weren’t the height of women’s fashion, but no one would see them under the skirt. She dropped the hemline, straightened the crisp white blouse, and then looked at the matching mulberry bow tied around her neckline.

  She’d brushed her hair to a sheen, thinking the golden mass that reached to the middle of her back blasé in comparison to Madeline’s rich dark brown, or Becky’s pale blond hair, lighter than Sidney’s and much closer in color to Noah’s.

  She needed a job. Something to take her mind off her own troubles.

  Renewed with purpose, if not sustenance, Sidney left her room and ventured downstairs. Peeping into the Lillian Russell Room, the restaurant located inside the hotel, she was surprised to see a multitude of paintings of scantily clad women, many shockingly so. She took a moment in the quiet dining room, now empty of patrons, thinking the artwork attractive in an enlightened sort of way, which filled her with the pluck to forge ahead. When she had money, she’d take supper here and enjoy every moment.

  Back in the lobby, the man behind the counter didn’t even glance up when she approached.

  Should she ask him if he knew of anyone in town that was looking to hire? Where did a stranger go to find out? A church? The sheriff?

  Surprisingly, none of the people she’d met so far had flinched much when they heard her last name. They’d been surprisingly welcoming. She thought of Cradle giving her a ride to the Rim Rock, and Stanton Drake personally bringing her the telegram she’d been waiting on, and then inviting her out for a meal.

  I should have accepted.

  But mostly, the McCutcheons surprised her—all of them from Dustin to his siblings, and even his parents. She’d expected scorn, but they’d been hospitable. Would the McCutcheons fare in Santa Fe as well if the tables were turned?

  No, she wouldn’t ask the clerk about work. He might think her unable to pay and kick her to the street.

  Sidney stepped out onto the boardwalk and walked with slow steps. From the post office across the street, she heard women’s laughter, and even the high-pitched giggle of a child. The brick sheriff’s office, the one they’d visited last night, was only two buildings over on her side of the street. She should start there.

  She pulled open the door and looked inside. Vacant. Cool air rushed into her face.

  Moving on, she continued toward the intersection where a black iron bench, two olive trees, an eye-level clock on a black pole, and a saguaro cactus dressed up the corner. A burly man dressed in farmer’s clothes sat on the bench, studying the ground between his boots. The way he leaned dangerously to one side made alarm bells go off in her head.

  His bleary red eyes opened wide, and a crooked smile appeared on his face when he noticed her approach. Clasping his hands together in a gesture of happiness caused his massive biceps to strain against the fabric of his well-worn shirt.

  “Frrrancine?” he slurred, his voice filled with thankfulness and awe. He struggled to his feet. “I’m sooorry for lying to ya. Please forgive your Billy Willy.” He grasped the clock pole to keep from falling. “I’ll swear off the bottle if you’ll let me come home. Pleeeease, Francine,” he sobbed. “Nothin’s the same without you. My life’s gone straight ta hell.”

  Thunderous emotions stormed across his blotchy pink face. He held out a massive hand, and tears filled his eyes. Staying upright proved difficult, and he took an unsteady step in her direction.

  A sudden urge to bolt punched Sidney in the gut. She glanced behind to see if indeed a woman named Francine had arrived to take Billy Willy home. No other woman in sight. As she’d presumed, he’d mistaken her for his beloved Francine.

  In a split-second decision, she made for the first door she spotted, one that belonged to a cute little dress shop. Before Billy Willy was any the wiser, she dashed past him and slipped into the door, releasing a breathy sigh.

  A young woman stood at the counter, speaking with an older lady. She was willowy with beautiful thick blond hair. The mass was piled loosely on her head, but the few tresses that had escaped streamed around her shoulders. A pencil stuck behind her ear looked out of place with her femininity.

  The young woman glanced up and smiled. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said.

  “Thank you, no rush,” Sidney replied, liking her mellifluous German accent.

  Relieved to get past the drunken sot without incident, she looked around slowly, admiring the pretty bolts of lace and the stunning garment on the dress form. Waves of maroon velvet billowed to the floor, trimmed with golden cord. An unusual piece of art on the wall had been made from fancy buttons, sequins, and other shiny objects used to decorate a gown.

  A sandwich sign outside the window told her she was in Lily’s Lace and More. Sidney assumed the pretty woman at the cutting counter must be Lily, for the name fit her to a tee.

  “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Harbinger,” said the young woman. “With Mrs. Tuttle’s blue velvet gown to finish, and also the dress I’ve only just started for Miss Schad, I couldn’t possibly take on another project to finish in thirty days. Not in good conscience, anyway. I couldn’t deliver the garment on time.”

  The woman patted her shiny forehead with a folded handkerchief, and her nose wrinkled in annoyance. “But, Lily, I don’t want any other designer. My gown must come from your shop. There has to be something you can do? Surely, a way must be found . . .”

  Sidney straightened, her hand stilling in midair as she reached to feel a bolt of soft-looking velvet trim. She wasn’t eavesdropping, but in the minuscule shop, she couldn’t avoid hearing the conversation between the two ladies. She looked up and inched toward the counter. The poor girl looked wretched about having to turn away a prospective customer.

  “Perhaps you can speak with Teddy Moore?” Lily offered. “As you know, he makes dresses, as well as—”

  “I’ll do no such thing!” Mrs. Harbinger cried, her nose lifting into the air. “I want something from a true dressmaker for my fiftieth anniversary celebration. Teddy is m
erely a tailor. If I can’t have you, I don’t know what I’ll do.” She pressed the hanky still clutched in her weathered-looking fingers to her lips. “Actually, Lily, I can’t believe you’re treating me in this manner. I’ve been your best customer since you’ve opened.”

  Now standing close to Mrs. Harbinger, Sidney softly cleared her throat, and both women looked over.

  “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but hear about the dilemma you’re in,” she said, giving Lily a knowing look. “This woman needs a new gown, and you need help in your shop to make that happen. May I offer you my services?”

  Lily’s brow wrinkled into a frown, but a wide smile began on Mrs. Harbinger’s face that would have had the portly woman committed.

  Sidney’s stomach pushed her on, imagining all the delicious foodstuffs she could afford once she’d put in a day’s work. “I’m available right now.”

  “Hire her, Lily!” Mrs. Harbinger cried. “I need this gown, and you need the help.”

  Lily hadn’t stopped staring at her throughout the conversation. She seemed to be taking her measure, calculating something in her mind.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “John and I usually talk over every decision. What experience have you had sewing clothes?”

  Not much. But when Sidney imagined the feel of a hot roast beef and gravy dinner weighing her stomach, her mouth watered. She needed this job, but she wouldn’t lie.

  “Some. As a girl with my mother, and a little more with our housekeeper. I have several brothers, so I’ve darned more socks than I can count, and sewed on a multitude of buttons.”

  Lily’s expression darkened. “So, really none at all with dressmaking?” The shopkeeper’s voice said everything. She needed someone with experience.

  “I won’t disappoint you,” Sidney said quickly. “I’m a good, hard worker and a fast learner. If nothing else, I can cut a straight line if you have me cut out the pattern. How hard can that be?”