Rustlers and Ribbons

by Kirsten Osbourne

  “Iris, I apologize. I’ve clearly overstepped our boundaries,” Anne said. “It isn’t your responsibility to get us out of the predicament I’ve caused with my stubbornness.”

  “A stubbornness that’s perfectly understandable, my lady.”

  Anne wondered about her actions being reasonable. She could fix their situation with a couple of carefully worded letters. Letters that had the potential to ruin her life as she knew it.

  Laughter at the next table drew her attention. Two women sat with their heads together, reading what looked like a newspaper. One last giggle between them, and they left the dining room.

  Anne noticed the paper still folded on the table. She glanced at Iris and said, “Wish I knew what they were reading that was so amusing. I could use a laugh or two.”

  Feeling mischievous, she reached stood and grabbed the curiosity off the other table. She returned to her seat and slipped the paper beneath her reticule as their meal arrived. After the waiter left, she spooned a potato from her stew.

  “My lady?” Iris raised her hand to her mouth, partially hiding a grin. “What are you up to?”

  “My nosiness is getting the better of me, I’m afraid,” she said. “I want to read it, but rather than be seen reading something possibly risqué in public, I’ll wait until later to read the piece in the privacy of my room.”

  “It might be embarrassing.”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “But, better to be safe than sorry.”

  After they’d eaten their meals and retired upstairs to their rooms, Anne tried to take a nap, but the effort was wasted. The paper on the desk across the room called to her like a child demanding attention. She finally gave in and went to the desk. Pulling out the chair, she sat and unfolded the paper, the size of which was no larger than a small magazine.

  The title, The Grooms’ Gazette, topped the page in bold letters. Throughout the booklet were what appeared to be advertisements from men for wives. Some of them were clever or funny sounding and, as she read them, she could see why the ladies might have thought them humorous. But some were also sincere and from the heart. The fact that anyone, either male or female, would need to seek a marital companion in this way was beyond sad and desperate.

  Anne thought of her own situation that bordered on desperate, and realized her father, by forcing her hand, had placed her in the same predicament. Suddenly, she understood their motivations and, as she continued to read the entries, she began to form a plan. This surely was the remedy to their dilemma. She started from the first page reading each advertisement until she found the one that intrigued her the most. It read:

  To whom it may concern,

  Seasoned bachelor needs wife to keep house and husband in smooth running order. I am the City Marshal in the south Texas town of Beaumont. I am of good moral character and prefer lady of same. Would consider pretty a bonus. I am in the fourth decade of life, tall, reasonably good looking, and in good health. Seeking someone willing to be a companion for quiet times.

  Homer Rutledge, Marshal, Beaumont, Texas

  Her mind churned with the seed of an idea. What if she answered this advertisement? How much worse could it be than her present situation? A knock sounded at the door, and Anne said, “Yes?”

  “My lady?”

  “Come in, Iris.”

  The door opened, and after a moment, Iris entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and saucers. Anne made room on the side table for the tray and noticed a napkin-covered plate. The fragrance of something freshly baked tempted her nose and her mouth watered.

  She lifted the cloth and asked, “What is this?”

  “The cook called them sugar cookies. Don’t they smell divine?”

  “They do, indeed.” She put one each on their plates, while Iris poured the tea. Breaking off a piece of the cookie, she popped the bite into her mouth, and said, “These are still warm and delicious.”

  Iris took a taste and smiled. “Aye, they are.”

  Anne sipped her tea and glanced toward the gazette lying on the bed. The words of Mr. Homer Rutledge came back to her as if he’d spoken them aloud. ‘Seeking someone willing to be a companion for quiet times.’ The more she thought about his proposal, the better sense her idea made.

  She poured them both another cup. “Iris, as you said, I too think of you as family. You are closer to me than either of my sisters ever were.”

  The young woman’s cheeks pinked, and she smiled. “We’ve had some adventures together, ‘tis true.”

  “I’m afraid it goes deeper than that. You know all my secrets.” When Iris blushed from the neck up, Anne cleared her throat and continued. “Anyway, I’ve made a decision concerning our future, and I wanted to tell you straight out, since it involves your future, too.” She handed the gazette to Iris, pointed to the advertisement, and waited.

  “My lady, this could be worse than the situation with Mr. Ballard. You don’t know this gentleman.”

  “I thought I knew Mr. Ballard, and look how that turned out,” Anne said. “I don’t see how this could be any worse.”

  “I’m trying to see your logic, but must we travel all the way to Texas?”

  “Yes,” Anne said. “Out of all the ones I read, this is the one I like.” She went to the desk for paper and pen. Turning to Iris, she said, “Now, what shall we say?”

  Chapter 2

  Beaumont, Texas, January 1901

  Anne stepped off the train onto the platform of the Beaumont Station. After what seemed an eternity, they’d finally arrived at their destination. Once her feet hit stationary ground, she found herself frozen in place. A bevy of sensations assaulted her, from the hustle-bustle of activity playing out around her, to the pungent, nauseating odor hanging heavily in the air.

  As her maid landed behind her, carrying their valises, she wondered again about her decision to accept a marriage proposal from a man she didn’t know. Had he had any qualms about placing an advertisement in The Grooms’ Gazette? Did he, like her, have no other alternatives?

  “Iris, do you see anyone fitting the description of Mr. Rutledge?” she asked. Standing on tiptoe, she scanned the crowd.

  “Not yet, my lady,” Iris answered, setting the bags at her feet.

  “I wonder where he is. The letter said he would be here to meet us.”

  “We’ve only just arrived, my lady, and the expedited schedule did put us here a few days early. We don’t know if your telegram has even arrived.”

  “I sincerely hope so. If not, that could be most inconvenient.” Anne turned slightly toward Iris with a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bundle of nerves. You do have the directions stating where we are to go from here?”

  “Yes,” Iris said. “I have those, and the letter from Mrs. Elizabeth Tandy in my pocket.”

  “Good, keep them handy until I—”

  “Excuse me, little lady, but you’re blocking traffic.”

  A strong pair of hands grabbed her by her upper arms, lifted her off her feet, and then set her off to one side away from the steps. The burly man on the other end of those hands stood a head taller than she and smelled like the stale end of a cheap cigar.

  “Well, I never!” Anne exclaimed, struggling for her balance, and a civilized tone. “Take your hands off me!”

  At the same time, Iris swung a valise hitting him square in the back, shouting, “Remove your hands from her ladyship at once!”

  With obvious surprise, the man let her go, and then threw his arm up to block another assault. Chuckling, he circled Iris’s waist with his hands and lifted her, holding her straight out at arm’s length. “Ain’t you the little spitfire.”

  “Unhand my maid, you . . . you . . . ruffian!”

  Anne’s indignant bravado did nothing to improve the man’s manners, but she was determined to handle the situation. She had never been treated this way before, nor would she have been if she were still in England. Reminding herself she was in a new country with vastly different behaviors
, she changed her plan of attack. Without further delay, she hauled off and shoved him with both fists.

  He dropped Iris, unceremoniously, and swung around with a glare. “Who are you to make demands of me?”

  Though queasy and trembling, Anne squared her shoulders and faced him. “I am Lady Medvale of Thamesford, and I demand you leave us alone, this instant.”

  “Well, your ladyship,” he said, raising his hand. “I oughta smack—”

  “You should do as the lady asks.” A stranger calmly spoke up from the edge of the crowd.

  “You ain’t nobody to tell me nothin’,” the ruffian crowed.

  The stranger stood steady, and said, “Well, yeah, I am.”

  “Who says?”

  “The city of Beaumont, and these.” The stranger pulled his jacket back to reveal a badge pinned to his shirt, and a gun strapped onto his hip.

  “Come on, Percy,” another man interjected, as he reached out and grabbed the man’s arm. “We better get on out to the rig.”

  The man called Percy chucked Anne under her chin. “We’ll be seein’ each other again.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” she said, mustering the conviction of every British ancestor she knew.

  Percy leered at her from over his shoulder, as he walked away from the station.

  Anne gathered Iris over to her side, along with their bags, and glanced at the man who had intervened. He stood several inches taller than she and had shoulders wider than any doorway she’d ever walked through. He wore a black wide-brimmed hat, in addition to the badge, and the gun. She thought he must be what was generally considered a cowboy.

  She’d read in western magazines they were rowdy and wild, perhaps not unlike the rude man they’d just encountered, but this one seemed different. Quiet and well-behaved, his calm manner made her think there must be different kinds of cowboys, as there were regular men.

  “Ma’am? May I be of assistance?”

  “Possibly.” She faced him, straightening her clothing. “I’m looking for Mr. Rutledge, the marshal.”

  “Well, crap,” he said under his breath. “We weren’t expecting you until next week.” He grabbed the handles of the two bags into one hand and supported her elbow with the other. “Here, let’s move closer to the depot, and get you ladies off the platform and safely out of the way.”

  She complied and said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Oh, sorry, I’m Deputy Morgan Grant,” he said, setting the bags down, and extending his hand. “It’s just that Homer told us where you’re from, and with your manner of speaking, I figured you had to be Lady Medvale.”

  Golly. Perhaps his size had something to do with her perception, but he was the largest and most handsome man she’d ever seen. If Mr. Rutledge was half as handsome, she would be fortunate.

  “Deputy Grant.” She shook his hand in greeting. “This is my maid, Iris O’Donnell.”

  He shook Iris’s hand.

  Anne adjusted the angle of her hat. “Thank you for intervening on our behalf. It’s fortunate you were at the station today. Now, if you’ll take us to Marshal Rutledge?”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, “I’m afraid it was just luck that brought me here for, as I said, we didn’t expect you today.”

  “Obviously, he didn’t receive my telegram explaining our early arrival. I apologize for any undue inconvenience this has caused. If you will get us to Marshal Rutledge, then I won’t trouble you any further.”

  “I’m afraid you aren’t going to be staying at the hotel, ma’am. There isn’t an empty room for miles. Due to oil being discovered recently at Spindletop, everything’s full up.”

  “I’ve read about this. I believe it’s called an oil boom?”

  “Yes, the influx of people hoping to strike it rich has placed quite a strain on the town’s resources.” He studied the toes of his boots, and said, “Ma’am, you might want to consider going back to where you came from.”

  “Since Marshal Rutledge knew we were coming, perhaps he’s made prior arrangements for our lodgings.”

  “It’s possible, though I can’t speak to what Homer had planned.”

  “Then I suggest you take me to him, so he can tell me.”

  His hesitation irritated her, which only added to her mounting frustration. The train’s whistle sounded, the conductor shouted, “All aboard!” The wheels of the train began to turn, pulling it away from the station.

  Her first instinct was to run and jump on board to leave this God forsaken place, but she couldn’t afford one ticket, much less two. She’d spent the last of the money getting her and Iris to this town. She couldn’t even afford a room or food for the two of them, as she’d counted on Marshal Rutledge to cover any immediate expenditures prior to their marriage ceremony.

  “Deputy Grant, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Well, I’m sorry but . . .” The clank and grind of wheel on steel rail covered his words, as the train pulled away from the platform.

  A cloud of steam blanketed them, and when it dissipated, she asked, “What did you say?”

  Sadness clouded his eyes, and he held her hand in his. “I said, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, ma’am, but Homer Rutledge is dead.”

  Anne heard men’s voices in the distance, one of them she recognized as belonging to Deputy Grant. He seemed to be defending himself.

  “Walt, I told her because I thought she deserved to know.”

  The other man said, “I’m not disagreeing with you, but bringing her here first might have been better.”

  “There’s no way to soften being told the man you’re going to marry is dead.”

  “I’ll give you that one.”

  A few seconds passed before she heard Deputy Grant speak again.

  “Question is, what we do next?”

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. She was lying on a narrow bed, inside a small cell surrounded on three sides with iron bars, and a damp cloth cooled her forehead.

  Iris appeared by her side, “My lady?”

  “W-what happened?” she asked, as she removed the cloth and sat up.

  “I’m afraid you fainted at the news about Marshal Rutledge.”

  Although she could guess, she asked, “And I got here how?”

  “Deputy Grant carried you all the way across town.”

  “Ah, you’re awake, m’lady.” Deputy Grant stood in the opening to her compartment. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Embarrassed,” she stated, as heat rushed from her neck to her ears. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

  “It’s understandable. You had a shock.”

  “In addition to that,” Iris said, “We haven’t eaten today.”

  “That’s a problem easily fixed,” he said. “Marshal Fountain has ordered sandwiches from the café.”

  Anne was certain he heard her stomach growl for, at that precise moment, he looked directly at her and grinned. Was she to be spared no indignation today? She had to get both she and Iris out of here before she was forced to explain their desperate situation.

  “We appreciate your kindness, but if you’ll just show us to the hotel, we’ll get out of your way.”

  “As I told you earlier, ma’am, the hotels are full up. There isn’t a room to be had anywhere in town.”

  Not that it mattered, she couldn’t afford a room if one was available, but that was the last straw. Suddenly, the stays of her corset were too tight. She couldn’t draw in enough air, and the room started to spin. She stood, but when her vision blurred, she sat back down on the bed, lest she faint again.

  In an instant, he was by her side. He placed his hand on her knee, and asked, “Do you want to lie down?”

  “No!” Anne answered hastily.

  She glared first at his hand, and then into his eyes. She was unaccustomed to anyone touching her in so personal a manner but saw nothing other than concern. None the less, his touch made her uncomfortable. He mu
st have noticed her discomfort for he removed his hand.

  Another thing adding to her uneasiness was the fact she was resting in a place reserved for prisoners. She’d been a prisoner far too long in a rigid system she’d begun to question. A door opened, and she heard voices.

  “That must be our lunch,” he said. “I’ll go get your sandwiches and bring them to you.”

  “If it’s all right, may we join you and your Chief?”

  “Yes, if you’re up to it.” He slipped his hand under her elbow, as she stood, and asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Better,” she confirmed. “The prospect of food is enough to propel me onward.”

  “Well then, ladies, I’ll lead the way.”

  She and Iris followed him into a moderately sized room containing two desks, chairs, a bench, and two windows on either side of the door.

  A man looked up from the lunch tray and smiled. Quickly, he arranged the chairs for her and Iris to sit where they could use the desk for a table. “Ladies, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, Marshal . . .?”

  “Sorry ma’am,” he said, dusting his hand on his pants. “I’m Walter Fountain, City Marshal. Folks call me Walt.”

  She shook his outstretched hand. “Lady Anne Medvale of Thamesford and my maid, Iris O’Donnell. Thank you for allowing us to rest here.”

  “I’m glad we had the room. Most days, lately, we’re full up. A couple of weeks ago, we had ‘em hanging from the rafters. Right, Morgan?”

  “Yeah, one night in particular, I thought I was going to have to hammer some nails into the walls.”

  She took the sandwich offered to her, but try as she might, she didn’t understand his reference, so she asked, “Hammer nails?”

  “It’s something my grandma used to say when all the family came to her house.” He grinned, as he sat at the end of the desk, and explained, “When it looked like the beds were going to fill up, she’d say for us not to worry. She’d just hang us by our shirt collars on a nail.”

  Anne thought that sounded frightful. “Golly, did she . . .?”

  “Actually, hang us by our shirt collars? Nah,” he said and chuckled. “Occasionally, though, we did line up, eight or ten of us, crosswise on the bed.”