by Kaki Warner
“I can’t . . . see . . .” He lifted his left hand.
Lottie pushed it away. “Be still.” Pulling a hanky from her skirt pocket, she tried to mop up the blood so she could see the wound. “Help is on the way.” Starting to panic, she looked around, hoping she was right.
Down the street, the mustachioed leader tied a kerchief around the leg of the other wounded ranger, while the fourth ranger lashed the prisoner to one of the legs of the water tower. The sheriff bent over the would-be rescuers. Both lay motionless in the dirt.
Where was the doctor?
The young ranger groaned. “Why is . . . everything so . . . blurry . . .”
“A bullet grazed your head. You should be fine.”
“The others . . .” Breath hissed through clenched teeth as he shoved the hanky away and struggled up onto one elbow. “Have to . . . go . . .”
“No, you don’t.” She put a staying hand on his shoulder. “They’re fine. The shooting has stopped. It’s over.”
For a moment, he looked around, his gaze unfocused until it settled on her. He looked startled to see her. “Who . . . are you?”
“Lottie. Now lie back until the doctor comes.”
His eyes were blue. The bluest she had ever seen. Not as light-colored as a robin’s egg or as dark as hill country bluebonnets. More like the glowing blue of a candle flame near the wick where the fire burns hottest. And like all flames, they drew the eye. Only when she heard motion behind her could Lottie look away.
“Make room!”
Lottie stumbled to her feet as the old ranger shoved in beside her. “Ty, can you hear me, son?”
Before he got an answer, Doc Helms and Sheriff Dodson rushed up. Several onlookers crowded behind them, brave now that the shooting had stopped. Lottie found herself pushed back until she lost sight of the young ranger beneath the growing crowd.
“He hurt bad?” Becky moved up beside her, moneybag clutched to her chest. She gaped at Lottie’s skirt. “Lordy! You got blood all over yourself. He’s dying?”
Lottie wiped her hands on her ruined work skirt, but the blood was already tacky in the dry heat. It stank like hot metal. “I don’t think so.” At least she hoped not. Something about the farm-boy-ranger had struck a chord with her. A connection. Almost like she knew him already even though she had never seen him before. Probably his youth. He looked only a few years older than she, and that was too young to die.
But Becky was right about one thing. With those eyes, he would be a striking man someday. If he lived that long.
By dark, two new mounds graced the little cemetery outside of town. The manacled prisoner was under double guard in one of Sheriff Dodson’s cells, the two wounded rangers were resting in the back room at Doc’s house, and the saloon was crowded with men anxious to give their accounts of the “Great Greenbroke Shoot-out.” The two unharmed rangers listened from a corner table, accepting congratulations with crooked smiles and cynical eyes.
Or so Becky said that night when she came to the back door of the market for the stew and cornbread Lottie had saved for her.
“What were you doing at the saloon again?” Lottie asked her. “That’s no place for a good girl.”
Becky grinned through a mouthful of cornbread. “I ain’t that good. Besides, like I told you a dozen times already, Juno wouldn’t let anything happen to me. He likes me.”
Juno was the owner of the Spotted Dog Saloon, which also served as the town’s gambling house and only brothel. Lottie had never spoken to him but had seen him around town. He made her uneasy. Stern and unsmiling, he volunteered nothing—not even his full name—and had dark, watchful eyes that seemed to cut right through a person’s skull to expose all the secrets hidden within. Lottie had the eerie feeling he somehow knew about Grandpa and what she had done, but he never did more than give her a polite nod when he came into the store or saw her on the street. “What Juno likes is the idea of you working for him upstairs.”
Becky gave a dismissive wave with her fork. “That’ll never happen. I’ve pinned my sights on marriage and he knows it.” Setting her empty plate on the floor beside the crate she used as a stool, she gave Lottie a wink. “Maybe I’ll get me one of them rangers.”
“If you did, he wouldn’t be a ranger for long. The Frontier Battalion doesn’t allow married men.”
“Then maybe I’ll go visit the two staying with Doc Helms. Maybe the one with the hurt leg needs a sweet loving woman to help him regain his strength.” Becky rocked back, laughing at the notion.
“What about the other one?”
“The kid? Too young. He’s barely older than me, I bet.”
“I meant how is he doing?”
Becky gave her a sharp look. “Got your eye on him, do you?”
“Just curious. He bled all over my second-best work dress, after all.” Hoping to deflect further questions—although she wasn’t sure why the subject of the farm-boy-ranger made her skittish—Lottie picked up Becky’s plate and set it on the stoop until she could wash it later. She had enough mice running around as it was.
“He’s fine, I hear,” Becky said when Lottie returned to her seat on the end of her cot. “Should be able to leave with the others tomorrow.”
So soon?
“Heard he asked Doc Helms about you.” Seeing Lottie’s look of surprise, Becky added, “There’s no other Lottie in town, so it must be you.”
Lottie vaguely remembered telling him her name. It surprised her that he remembered it. She remembered his name, too. Ty, the old ranger had called him. Short for Tyler? Tyrone? Tyson? Tiberius? She wondered if she would ever know.
Becky rose from her crate and brushed cornbread crumbs from her skirt. “Better go. Mrs. Ledbetter doesn’t like me staying out too late, and she’ll be wanting her night medicine soon.”
“How’s she doing?” Lottie asked, walking her to the door. The old lady had some sort of female ailment and seemed to be wasting away.
“Poorly. Won’t be long, Doc says. Then I don’t know where I’ll stay. The crab doesn’t pay me enough to cover a room anywhere else.”
“We’ll think of something.” Lottie feared that after Mrs. Ledbetter passed on, Becky would become easy pickings for Juno. She didn’t want her dearest friend turning whore just to get by.
At the door, Becky paused. “Be sad to see the rangers leave tomorrow. It was nice having a bit of excitement around here for a change.”
“Those killed and wounded might not agree.”
“Still . . .”
Smiling, Lottie gave her a gentle push. “Good night.” As she closed the door, she wondered if the rangers would leave on the southbound tomorrow morning, and if the boardwalk would need to be swept again.
The rangers took the early train. Lottie was emptying onions into the bin and didn’t see them, but Becky did, and said they weren’t as impressive going out as they’d been coming in, what with one man limping on a crutch, and another sporting a thick bandage around his head. By the time they’d loaded their horses into the stock car, retrieved the prisoner, and climbed aboard, they were relegated to memory. Main Street was once again nearly empty under the baking late summer sun, and Greenbroke was settling back into its slow routine.
The dog days of August drifted into September with only slightly cooler temperatures. Every day, cloudbanks rolled inland from the Gulf of Mexico, promising rain and relief from the dry heat. Every evening, dry lightning bounced through the clouds as though trying to blast out the moisture.
But no rain came and tempers grew short . . . until September brought another visitor to Greenbroke and things began to change.
Chapter 2
“Lordy, could it get any hotter in here?” Becky grumbled, dragging an arm across her sweating brow. “I can hardly summon the energy to chew.”
She and Lottie were in Lottie’s sleeping area in the s
toreroom, sharing a plate of roast chicken, green beans, and biscuits that Becky had cooked for Mrs. Ledbetter. Since the elderly lady suffered terribly from the heat, on hot evenings there were plenty of leftovers to share.
“Why is everything so gritty?” Lottie complained.
“It’s from the dust kicked up by the cows,” Becky said between bites. “One climbed the boardwalk and charged into the store. The crab had a conniption. I thought she was going to shoot it. I don’t know which was worse, the cow or the two cowboys trying to corral it. The heat sure brings out the stink.”
And this evening felt hotter than usual, the air thick with dust and the smell of manure left behind by the fifty head of cattle driven down Main Street by riders from the sprawling Bar M ranch outside of town. Even from this distance, Lottie could hear the bawling of the restless animals as they milled about in the pens by the railroad tracks. Hopefully, tomorrow morning, once they were loaded into stock cars bound for the auction barns in Fort Worth, the air would clear. Her eyes and teeth felt scratchy as emery paper.
“Things are hopping over at the saloon.” Becky’s voice was muffled by the petticoat she was using to blot sweat from her forehead. “Juno’s making a killing.”
“I don’t know why you go over there. You’ll get yourself into trouble one of these days when some cowboy mistakes you for a whore.”
“Whores make a lot more money than we do.”
Lottie looked at her in surprise. “But they’re whores.”
“Whores who live better ’n us.” Becky popped half a biscuit into her mouth. “And Juno treats them good.”
“I thought you had your mind set on marriage.”
“I do. But whores marry, too. Didn’t Bucktooth Maggie get hitched to that patent medicine salesman through town last month?”
“You can do better than that.”
Becky looked over with hope in her eyes. “You really think so?”
“Of course I do. You’re pretty, smart, hardworking. A man would be lucky to have you. Especially one who had a farm or ranch to run.”
Becky finished chewing her biscuit, then shook her head. “My daddy was a farmer. Never had two coins to rub together no matter how hard he worked. Brought out the meanness in him. No, I think I’d rather a city fellow. A man with a future, rather than a plow.”
“And you think you’ll find him in the Spotted Dog Saloon?”
“Why not? Horace Griffin is in there all the time, and he owns the bank. Even that circuit judge drops by whenever he’s in town, and last night a preacher was in there spouting Scripture and dealing cards like the Devil had a hold on him. Not everybody’s a drunk cowboy.”
“A traveling preacher?” Not many came by sleepy little Greenbroke. Pickings were too thin, Lottie guessed. Even the town’s only church—if the Greater Glory to God Assembly could be called a church—met in a barn because they lacked the funds to build their own house of worship.
“He rode in behind the cattle. Been putting up posters everywhere calling for a Sunday come-to-Jesus-meeting.” Becky gave her a wink. “You might like him. He’s full of advice, too.”
Lottie set down her fork. “Am I that hard on you?”
“Worse than my ma.” The lopsided grin didn’t erase the hurt of her words.
“I—I’m sorry, Becky. I worry about you, is all.” A knot of emotion stuck in Lottie’s throat and she had to pause until it eased. “I’ve never had a friend before. I guess I’m not very good at it.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re a great friend!”
Grandpa had called her bossy, too. But the older he got, the more he’d needed someone to look out for him, and who was there to do it but her? If she was bossy, it was because she’d had to be—especially during those last terrible days when she’d tried so hard to get him to eat whatever she could find in their meager supplies.
Becky’s laugh broke through her thoughts. “How could you not have any friends? With your looks, you must have had a dozen boys chasing after you.”
“Not hardly. We didn’t go to town that often.” Embarrassed to admit how inexperienced she was, Lottie changed the subject. “Why would a preacher be gambling in a saloon?”
“Said he needed to win money to spread the Lord’s word. But I think he likes it. I’ve seen that wild, hungry look before. Pa would get it and head to town. Then Ma would have to drag all us kids along to help haul him home before he lost the farm, too. But the preacher must have God on his side. He seems to win a lot more hands than he loses.”
The preacher, Nathaniel Lindz, remained the town’s main topic of conversation for several weeks, not only because of his gambling habits, but also because he was excessively handsome. So much so Becky said just looking at him made her teeth hurt.
In addition to a thatch of thinning blond hair that stuck up around his head like a halo, he had a voice that could make angels weep, and a smile that made a girl feel like the most important person he’d met that day.
Or so Becky said.
Lottie had her doubts. She wasn’t sure she trusted that flashy smile.
Before moving to Greenbroke, she’d been around few men. Whenever she and Grandpa had gone into the nearest town, San Angela, she was just Old Man Lofton’s granddaughter. Boys didn’t notice her, probably because she didn’t look like a girl with her hair cut short, and didn’t dress like a girl in her hand-me-down dungarees. Which was fine with her. She’d never paid much attention to boys, either. Until she’d looked down into the startling blue eyes of the farm-boy-ranger. The connection she’d felt in that moment still haunted her. She didn’t understand it. Or understand why her thoughts kept circling back to him. It was confusing. And unsettling. And made her feel things she had never felt before.
It also made her aware of other men. And how they looked at her.
Like Reverend Lindz.
The only other traveling preacher she’d met was one who had come by the ranch years ago. Grandpa had asked him to bless Grandma’s grave and that of Lottie’s ma, who had died from a bee sting when Lottie was ten. He had been much older than Nathaniel Lindz. Less robust, and certainly more somber. Reverend Lindz had a big smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes and showed a mouthful of strong white teeth. And he had beautiful manners, too. When he saw Lottie studying him the first time he’d come into the market, he’d lifted his hat and given her a flashy bow, his eyes never leaving hers. He might have said something but she was too flustered to remember, much less respond. It didn’t sit right—the way he flirted and the way heat rushed into her cheeks when he did. He was a preacher, for heaven’s sake.
Apparently, Mrs. Brackett felt the same way.
“It’s indecent,” she announced to her husband one morning after the reverend left with a tin of sandalwood-scented hair pomade. “No preacher should be that handsome.”
Mr. B. made a noncommittal sound and squinted through his spectacles at the list in his hand.
Undeterred, his wife pressed on. “Such comeliness generates lust in the female parishioners and mistrust in the men, isn’t that right, Lottie?”
Lottie gave a vague smile and continued stacking cans on a display table. Was that what she was feeling? Lust? For a man of God? Add another mark on her list of sins.
Mr. B. turned to his wife with a twinkle in his cloudy blue eyes. “Are you feeling lustful, dear?”
“Mr. Brackett!”
“If so, I’m sure Lottie would be happy to watch the store for a spell so we could discuss it further.”
Lottie ducked her head to hide her blush. Lord sake! The Bracketts were in their sixties, at least. The idea of them even contemplating lust was unsettling.
His wife huffed out her ample breasts. They weren’t as impressive as Becky’s, but were a good deal longer. “Hush that talk, Mr. Brackett! I’ve got chores to do.” And before her husband could elaborate o
n his suggestion, she fled into their living quarters behind the front counter. But Lottie could swear she saw a smile on the kindly woman’s face.
The Bracketts had been Lottie’s salvation since the day she’d arrived in Greenbroke and they’d caught her digging through the refuse bin behind the market. By that evening, they’d given her a hot meal, a place to sleep in the storeroom, a job doing odd chores, and Mrs. B. was altering two of her old dresses to replace Lottie’s patched trousers and tattered shirt. A month after that, Mr. B., whose eyesight was failing, learned Lottie could do simple number calculations, and he began teaching her how to keep tallies on the market’s expenses and profits. They soon became the parents she’d lost too soon, and she became the child they’d never had. An instant family. Lottie loved them dearly.
“You going to the tent meeting this Sunday?” Mr. B. asked Lottie after a while. When she looked over at him, he gave her a smile. “Pretty girl like you should get out more. Meet some young bucks.”
“At a revival meeting?”
“Why not? Services is where I met Mrs. Brackett. Prettiest girl in the choir.”
Lottie hadn’t been around many married folks. Her father had died in the War of the Rebellion before she was three, and her mother had passed seven years later. She couldn’t even remember her grandmother. Mostly, it had just been her and Grandpa, so she had no idea how married folks were supposed to behave. Since arriving in Greenbroke, she’d come to know several couples, but most of them seemed to be people staying in the same house but living separate lives.
Not so the Bracketts. Maybe they’d been together so long they’d merged into one person with the same thoughts and expectations and temperaments. Seeing the way they looked after each other—the teasing words, the gentle pats when they thought no one was looking, the tired smiles across the counter after a long day—was a revelation to Lottie. Watching them made her feel a bit lonely and made her wish for someone special in her own life. Someone other than Becky.
