by Jodi Thomas
She tried to keep calm, and use her good senses. That was the only thing that would keep her alive.
A partial shadow crossed in front of the opening. This time she knew it wasn’t a branch or a tumbleweed. Hope washed over her. She needed to keep Gideon distracted, so he wouldn’t notice what she thought she saw. “I deserve knowing why,” she pressured him, recognizing he was getting more confused by the minute.
“Just shut up.” He rubbed his forehead.
“Tell me and I’ll never say another word.”
“If it’ll shut you up, I guess it won’t hurt. As soon as I figure out the best way to dispose of you, you’ll be dead anyway.”
“Did my parents really commit suicide?” Laurel asked, choking on the question.
“I said shut up, I’ll do the talking!” Gideon bellowed. “My sister married way below her station in life. Your dad took her right after the wedding back to San Antonio to take care of his precious cotton gins. When Father died, your mother and I jointly inherited the family bank but she didn’t want anything to do with it. Just wanted me to send her share of the profits to her every now and again, and she was happy. So that left me to do all of the grunt work, spending sleepless nights, while she reaped the profits without lifting a finger.”
Laurel refused to accept what she was hearing, but had to stay alert to watch for any movement and noise coming from outside. Her uncle rambled on about how poorly her father had managed the cotton gins, while Gideon was working to buy up land around Farley Springs in anticipation of the railroad coming through town without asking Laurel’s mother’s permission.
His world was about to come to an end when Laurel’s mother asked to liquidate her shares in the bank. He didn’t have the money any longer because it was all invested in land in his own name and she didn’t know it. He’d had her parents prepare a new will and trust, naming him as a trustee, thus giving him adequate time to rebuild the trust account at the bank. But that never happened.
“So you see, you are supposed to inherit your trust on your birthday, but the money is all invested in land ... so you have nothing. Everything you might have had now belongs to me.”
Laurel took a deep breath and tried to understand the awful truth, but had trouble absorbing what was being thrust at her so quickly.
“But that doesn’t tell me anything about my parents’ deaths,” Laurel said.
Hunter stepped through the opening, backed up by Stubby.
Two Winchesters were leveled at Gideon Duncan.
“Go ahead and answer her question, you bastard,” Hunter demanded. “Tell her who killed her parents.”
The reality of what Hunter was implying turned Laurel’s stomach. She’d never heard anything about someone killing her parents.
“Two against one.” Gideon kept his pistol aimed at Laurel from his sitting position on the floor. “I can have her brains all over this shack before either of you can get off a shot.”
Hunter stepped between Gideon and Laurel, shielding her with his body. “Stubby or me, if not both of us, will have you down before your bullet clears the barrel. To get her, you’ve got to kill me first. That’s two shots.” Hunter kept a steady aim on the overstuffed man trying to bring himself to his feet while keeping aim on his captive. Hunter continued, “Why don’t you go ahead and tell her the rest of the story? How you put arsenic in her parents’ coffee to make it look like they’d committed suicide because you needed control of her mother’s inheritance to keep the bank solvent. They didn’t have any financial problems; you just made it look like they did. You don’t have the guts it takes to kill anyone.”
Suddenly, Hunter rushed Gideon, knocking him back to the ground, and snatching the pistol out of his hand, while Stubby pointed his Winchester right at the old man’s head.
“For two cents, I’d tie your flabby ass to Buckey and let him take you anywhere in hell he wants, but the ol’ bushwhacker doesn’t deserve someone like you on his back. Besides, I’d much prefer to see you hang for killin’ Laurel’s parents and doing everything you can to destroy her.”
Hunter tied Gideon’s hands behind his back and, with Stubby’s help, pulled the banker to his feet.
“You’re the sorriest sonofabitch I’ve ever met,” said Hunter.
With a smile on his face, Stubby kept the nose of his Winchester pointed directly at Gideon’s heart.
After untying Laurel, Hunter took her into his arms and wiped away her tears. “And you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.” He kissed her forehead.
“I’m sorry that you had to learn the truth about your parents in such a horrible way,” he said. “I’m truly sorry.”
“I think deep inside I’ve known for a while, but wouldn’t admit it because it was sure to open up too many old wounds that I wasn’t sure I could face. I never believed Mama and Daddy killed themselves, although Gideon pounded it into my head that it was all my fault. For years, I’ve carried the guilt that maybe, just maybe, it was.”
“Hush,” Hunter said tenderly. “It wasn’t your fault.” He kissed her fully on the mouth.
Shaking, Laurel whispered, “How did you find us?”
“Buckey came here straight as an arrow. I guess he did what he’s known for and got loose as soon as he could and came to the ranch for help.” Hunter smiled down at her, then said, “Notice I didn’t call him a hammerhead?”
She rewarded Hunter with a warm, dazzling smile.
“If you’re okay, I need to get you safe. Take you out to the ranch because we’ve got a couple of things to resolve this afternoon.” He returned her smile. “Mama is gnawing at the bit to get you started on your new job, plus she wants to order some material for new curtains in your room upstairs.” He raised an “I told you so” eyebrow at her.
“And we’ve got to work out the details of the Valentine’s Day festivities,” she said.
“I’ve been thinking about something Stubby said. Why can’t we do one big event? I’m thinking you’ll be so busy with Mama that the hat shop can wait, so I could donate Bobbie Ray’s building to the citizens for a library. With the men’s help, we could build shelves, paint it, and have us the best library in the Panhandle.” He felt damn proud of himself for giving his friend the credit. “I think you’ll be a great leader of the women’s group.”
“So with a big joint hootenanny, we’ll raise enough money for both projects. You’re so tricky, Mr. Mayor.” Laurel threw her arms around Hunter’s neck and kissed him. “I love you so much.”
He sheepishly smiled down on her. “And I’ve been loving you, Miss Laurel, since the day you stepped off the stagecoach and walked into my life.”
So the president of the Men’s Club and Miss Laurel Dean Womack, the new leader of the Women’s Society, forged an inseparable bond stronger than the West Texas wind. They cochaired the most profitable Valentine’s festivities ever held in the little piece of heaven known as Farley Springs, in the heart of the Texas Panhandle.
From the Author
To my fictional town of Farley Springs, Texas, the spring of 1887 brought with it the Fort Worth and Denver City Railroad, but the town never became the shipping Mecca that Hunter Campbell dreamed of.
Historical Note
In the spring of 1887, the Fort Worth and Denver City advance building crew of approximately five hundred men camped in tents a mile southwest of the Amarillo Creek bridge to the Frying Pan Ranch pasture in the Texas Panhandle.
Freight service became available in October 1887, and cattle shipping began to focus on the newly platted town of Amarillo as a railhead. The city grew to be the largest rural shipping point for cattle in the nation.
Amarillo became the county seat of Potter County, Texas, in 1887, and today it is still a major railroad shipping point.
Sweet Talk
DEWANNA PACE
To:
Gary Williams, Sandy Williams, Markel Rose,
Rose Williams, and Roy Pace.
Our better halves.
&
nbsp; Smch-smch-smch.
Thanks for always saying what you mean
and meaning what you say.
We love you, too.
Chapter 1
Late January 1888
Screams of heavy labor stopped, followed by a baby’s first cry and a shout of joy from the farmer waiting outside of the log cabin where Dr. Noah Powell worked. Echoes of happiness, he thought, wondering if the sounds would ever be part of his own life.
“Give me a minute,” Noah told the farmer. “I’ll clean up your wife and son, then you can see them.”
He worked fast but thoroughly, making sure mother and child were presentable and resting. “You can come in now,” he said, opening the door to the man whose weathered face beamed as bright as the first streaks of dawn lining the horizon.
The farmer grabbed his hand and pumped it so hard that Noah felt his lips could have spouted water. “You might want to save some of that, Crenshaw. That boy of yours is going to demand a lot of your stamina just taking care of him. You won’t be getting much sleep till your wife’s on her feet again.”
“Sorry, Doc, I’m just so ... so ... it’s a boy, you say?”
“A son,” Noah repeated, knowing what the once childless man was really asking. The couple’s first two had been stillborns. He was pleased to reassure the man. “Strong and healthy as an ox.”
Crenshaw raced past the doctor to gather his wife in his arms, telling her how much he loved her and would till his dying day.
Noah did the one thing he always did at such moments meant for privacy. He turned, gathered his medicine bag, and headed for home and the quiet nothingness that awaited him there.
Sometimes he wished this Panhandle bunch of Texans weren’t so bent on populating the prairie, allowing him time to do something about his own particular woes. But the people who lived in and around Longhorn City, Texas, were folks who loved to the fullest, and Noah preferred to live wherever love thrived with a strong voice.
An hour later, exhaustion made stowing away his horse and tack at the livery stable seem longer than usual. The walk down Main Street to his office felt like an endless trek. Silence met him as he opened the door and set down his bag by the medicine cabinet, lit the lamp, and took a look into the birdcage that hung in one corner of the room he used as both parlor and waiting room. “You asleep, little buddy?”
No answer.
“Maybe you’re hungry.” Noah made his way through the rooms that had become home and office since his return to Longhorn City four years ago. In the kitchen, he caught a brief glance of himself in the glass that covered the doors of the china hutch.
He hadn’t combed his hair in two days and it spiked like porcupine quills dipped in tar. Dark whiskers shadowed the lower half of his normally well-shaved jaw. He reached up to rub his chin and wondered if he ought to hang a closed sign on his door for a couple of days and catch up with himself. Eyes that were normally the color of a clear Texas sky stared back tired and intent, searching for sight of the Noah Powell who might have once allowed himself to ignore his better judgment.
He didn’t see him there.
This Noah had penance to pay.
Noah turned from his rough image and was glad to see that his housekeeper had replenished the tin of sunflower seeds kept for the bird. He broke open an egg and drained the contents into a bowl, taking the shell, seeds, and fresh water with him.
Wind from an open window fluttered curtains, causing a frightened squawk to come from the parlor. Noah loved to sleep with fresh air, and he would need it if he just went straight to sleep. Which he should since others would learn of his return and expect him to open for business come full daylight. Better to wash up later.
“Turn around, little buddy,” he urged his pet, entering the parlor and putting the offerings in trays stationed along the perches in the cage. Noah held his finger up to the tiny blue rump dappled with rainbow-colored feathers. “Tell Doc what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
The lovebird’s peach-colored face rose from behind one wing, where it had been hiding, and a dark brown eye peered at Noah, waiting. A few moments passed and the bird still refused to turn completely around.
“I know you feel bad, fellow, but I brought your favorite this morning.”
The bird finally gave Noah a better look. Someone else might just see colorful feathers, but the doctor noticed a few of them had started molting. Amigo’s eyes looked dull, without their usual shine. His tiny head didn’t bob in its customary manner but tilted slightly as if it hurt to be upright.
Something was wrong and Noah didn’t have to be the town doctor to figure out part of the problem. Amigo had started pecking at himself in the mirror hung on one of the perches for entertainment, and the bird had quit making any happy, chattering noises. Instead, he squawked and gave high-pitched squeals.
The traveling peddler who had sold Noah his pet a few months ago warned that Amigo would demand lots of attention and would become grumpy, maybe even sick, when he didn’t get it. Noah had thought the man was simply trying to make twice the sale. Now after getting to know Amigo, he realized the peddler knew his business. Amigo needed company.
Something Noah could relate to and understand. But taking care of folks didn’t give him much time for socializing and even less time with Amigo. Maybe he should find the bird a better home or a mate. He wasn’t being fair, but he’d grown to care for his pet and didn’t like the prospect of having to give him up. Noah had bought the littlest member of the parrot family hoping he might teach it to talk and give him some company, but so far Amigo remained mum. At least he was someone Noah could talk to without feeling he was just talking to himself.
The peddler had mentioned that not all lovebirds learned to speak but some did. Maybe the man’s route would bring him back to town soon and a lady friend could be found. One that talked and might encourage Amigo to do the same.
“Is that what you need, buddy? A lady friend?” Noah laughed when the bird hopped up onto his extended finger. “You are a boy, aren’t you?”
He wished he’d asked a lot more about the species, but he’d been in a hurry the day he’d bought him and hadn’t taken the time. His knowledge of animals was limited to barnyard beasts, not the exotic fare brought up from Galveston. He slowly withdrew his hand from the birdcage and stroked Amigo’s head. The peddler had said that it took a few months before the gender could be determined, and even then, it might not reveal itself unless another bird was nearby. “Maybe you need a little hero to call your own,” Noah pondered aloud, “not a heroine.”
A loud rap on the door caused Amigo to squawk and fly off to the top of the secretary that housed ledgers and medical books.
“Doc Powell, you back? My wife, she’s about to ... foal.”
Noah recognized the man’s voice. He’d already delivered four babies for the expectant father. He’d be adding a couple more this go-round. “Come on in, Mr. Boatright. I’ll just grab my bag and head over to the livery to get my horse.” Noah looked longingly down the hall at his bedroom and imagined his long, lank body stretched out in the comfort of the four-poster bed, but that would have to wait.
When he left home, it was usually due to an emergency. When he returned, he didn’t have to expend any effort looking for keys because he always left the door unlocked. It just made sense to do so and simplified his comings and goings.
The bald rancher rushed into the parlor, his face flushed and his eyes as wide as flapjacks. Disturbed by the interruption, Amigo’s squawking became louder.
“Go back inside, buddy.” Noah shooed the bird toward the cage, but Amigo refused to obey and continued to shriek. Noah didn’t try to make him stop. He didn’t believe in silencing anyone.
“I left my boy at the livery.” A frown plowed across the rancher’s brow. “You take his horse and he’ll ride yours.” Boatright grabbed the bag from Noah’s hand, urging him to hurry. “Y’all can swap out when she’s all birthed out.”
Boatright had re
ason to be worried. The twins weren’t due till next month and the pregnancy had come too soon after the last one. Noah wrote a brief note, folded it, and put an inkwell on it so his housekeeper would find the message when she cleaned up for him, as she did every other day. “Sorry,” he apologized, “had to leave instructions for Mrs. Lassiter, in case this takes a while.”
Concern etched the man’s face. “You expecting my wife to have trouble?”
Amigo flew to Noah’s shoulder and Noah crooned to the bird softly. He had to reassure Boatright, too, even though he couldn’t promise there wouldn’t be problems with birthing twins. “The while I’m talking about has to do with my pet. He’s feeling a little puny and I want Mrs. Lassiter to look out for him while I’m gone.”
“Give me your word that my wife will make it through. My babies, too.” The rancher’s concern deepened into challenge. “It’s no comfort knowing you can’t fix what’s yours, Doc, when I’m trusting you with mine. You can handle this, can’t ya?”
Noah moved toward the cage, giving a soft whistle, which was the signal for Amigo to return to his home. Instead the lovebird flew away and roosted on the top of the medicine cabinet. “Guess you’ll have to find your own way back then, little buddy.”
Realizing Boatright was still waiting for reassurance, Noah gathered the mask of unerring judgment he’d worn since returning to Texas. Four years ago he had erred in making a choice and lost someone dear to him—a patient whose death would never allow him to hold the truth back from anyone ever again.
He finally looked the man squarely in the eyes and vowed, “I promise to do the best I can. But if she needs more than my skills, I guarantee you, I’ll ask for help.”
“From Thurgood?” Surprise etched the rancher’s face.
“Especially from him.”
“But he’s retired and I thought you two weren’t talking to each other.”
