Texas Tall

by Kaki Warner

  “When are you going to San Francisco?” Becky asked, worry in her voice.

  “Not for a while. Doc says I shouldn’t travel for a few weeks. Oh, did I tell you?” Sally looked up with a bright smile, despite the weariness on her wan face. “Tim wants to go with me. He thinks there may be a better job for him out there, too. He’s tired of wrangling cows all day.”

  Becky frowned. “What about Anna?”

  “We haven’t decided. Here.” Sally held out the baby. “I think she’s wet. Would you change her for me?”

  Before Lottie could move, Becky rushed forward to take the baby.

  A few minutes later, Lottie left. It saddened her how emotionally fixed on Anna Becky had become. It was an attachment that had been building for months and now that the baby had arrived, it seemed even worse. If Sally took the child with her to San Francisco, it would break Becky’s heart. Lottie had hoped Juno would come around by now, but he was still dragging his feet, and now she sensed Becky was headed for heartache. She had to do something.

  Her opportunity came several days later. She was digging through Juno’s bottom desk drawer for receipts when Becky came in with the baby.

  “Where’s Juno? Sally’s sleeping so I brought Anna to meet him.”

  “I haven’t seen him.” Closing the drawer, Lottie went over to grin at the baby, who was sucking on a rag wrapped around a stub of sugar cane and attached to a string. “She looks so bright-eyed this morning.”

  “She should. Last night, she slept five hours straight, God love her. Doc says she’ll do even better once Sally starts making more milk. Meanwhile, she’s stuck with this sugar tit.” Becky tugged on the string, which renewed Anna’s efforts on the sweetened scrap of cloth. “Poor thing’s hungry all the time.”

  “Has Tim been in to see her?”

  “Last night.” Becky settled in Juno’s chair with a sigh. “I never saw a man change his mind so fast. You’d think Anna was his, the way he’s carrying on.”

  “He might be, considering he’s the only redhead around Greenbroke.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s his.”

  “His what?” Juno asked, coming through the open door. When he saw Becky, he came to a dead stop. “What’s that?”

  “Sally’s baby. Come see. She’s adorable.”

  With dragging feet, Juno moved closer.

  Lottie thought that for a man who had once had a child in his life, he seemed strangely reluctant to get near the baby.

  He peered warily over Becky’s shoulder, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing with it?”

  “She’s not an ‘it,’” Becky chided. “Her name is Anna, and I’m nursemaiding her while Sally gets some rest. You want to hold her?”

  “No thanks.” He held out a finger. A tiny hand bumped into it and quickly latched on. For a moment they played tug-of-war. “She’s strong,” he said, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a smile.

  The baby kicked her legs.

  Becky grinned up at him. “She likes you. You sure you don’t want to hold her?”

  His smile faded. He gently pulled his finger free and stepped back. “I just came in to get something.” As he spoke, he gathered up a stack of loose papers piled in the bookcase behind his desk, then crossed to the door. “You want me to send Henry in with coffee or something?”

  Becky didn’t answer, her gaze drawn to the small tintype on the shelf where the papers had been.

  “We’re fine,” Lottie answered.

  Juno left.

  Becky continued to study the photograph. “Who’s that?” she finally asked. “The boy has the look of Juno around his eyes.”

  It was a subject Lottie had dreaded. But she figured it was time Becky understood the things that had shaped Juno into the lonely man he was today, and why he was so reluctant to open himself to the possibility of a second chance with Becky. “They’re Juno’s wife and son.”

  Becky’s head whipped toward her. “You said he isn’t married.”

  “He’s not now. They died long ago.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me.”

  That seemed to surprise her. “He never said anything to me about them.” She studied the tintype again. “They’re both so beautiful. He must have loved them very much to keep their photograph so close after all these years.”

  “I think it’s less about missing them than having a reminder of the life he once had.”

  Becky continued to study the tintype. “What do you mean?”

  “The war, and then their deaths, changed him. Took away his hope. He told me that now he’s just waiting out his time. Sad, really.”

  Becky tried to pretend she didn’t care, but Lottie saw the quiver in her chin. “That’s ridiculous. He’s not that old.”

  “Certainly not too old to marry again. And father more children.”

  “Maybe.” When Becky turned, Lottie saw anger on her face, but sadness in her eyes. “Yet what woman can compete with a ghost?”

  Lottie had no answer to that.

  A few minutes later, Becky left and Lottie settled at Juno’s desk to record the receipts in the Spotted Dog ledger. She wished Juno would come back—she had some prime words for him—but he never did.

  From the Spotted Dog, she went to Fashions by Fanny, the dry goods store, then on to the Greenbroke Hotel to bring their accounts current. She’d finished the club’s books yesterday, so all she had left was the market. Mr. Brackett had been in bed, battling a cold over the last few days, and stocking chores were lagging behind.

  When she came through the door, Mrs. Brackett pushed a letter across the counter. “This came while you were out,” she said in a disapproving tone. “Probably from your ranger.”

  Lottie curtailed the impulse to run over and snatch it up. Mrs. B. had been suspiciously quiet about Ty since Lottie and “her ranger” had gone to supper almost two weeks ago, no doubt critical of the way they had behaved—holding hands, and all. Until now she hadn’t said anything, but Lottie guessed that was about to change, judging by the pinched look of Mrs. B.’s mouth.

  “A man shouldn’t be writing to a single woman unless his intentions are honorable,” the elderly woman announced in a righteous voice. “Much less holding hands with her.”

  Lottie hung her head. “You’re right, Mrs. Brackett. But Ranger Benton is a dear friend, and I asked him to write and let me know he was all right. After the shoot-out here last summer, I worry about him.”

  Unable to maintain her stiff posture, Mrs. B. reached over the counter and patted Lottie’s hand. “You’re such a kind person, Lottie. Too sweet for your own good, I fear. I’m only watching out for you as I know your mother would have had she been able. I’m sure your ranger is an honorable man. But we shouldn’t allow others to get the wrong impression, should we?”

  “No, ma’am.” Lottie gave a sniff—not completely fake. She loved the Bracketts and dreaded the idea of disappointing them. But she wasn’t about to give up Ty. “I promise I won’t tell anyone he’s writing to me. They can’t gossip about it if they don’t know, can they?”

  Mrs. B. gave a worried sigh. “I suppose not. But no more handholding, Lottie. That goes too far.”

  She would probably faint if she knew Ty’s tongue had been in her mouth. Lottie was still a bit shocked herself. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll remind the ranger of that if I ever see him again.” Another sniff for effect, then she picked up the letter and happily escaped to her room.

  Dear Miss Lottie,

  I hope you are well. I am, although I’m so bored I’m building houses in my mind. I miss you a lot, and probably think of you more than I should. But nursemaiding a congressman is so dull I have to do something for fun. Like remembering our picnic and dinner and how pretty you looked. I felt so proud knowing you were with me.

  I do not know when
I will get to Greenbroke again, but until I do, I hope you will write back like you said you would. You do know how to write, don’t you? (That’s a joke.)

  Give my regards to the Bracketts and stay away from Briggs.

  Waiting to hear from you,

  Lieutenant Tyree Benton,

  Texas Rangers

  Lottie wrote back immediately.

  Dear Ranger Benton,

  I am sorry you’re so bored, but glad you are out of harm’s way. I, too, fondly remember our time together. I have not had such an enjoyable day in a long time.

  I will share with you all the news from Greenbroke, but I warn you there isn’t much. One of the “girls” at the Spotted Dog had a baby, Briggs has kept his distance, and Mrs. Brackett warned me away from men who have not professed “honorable intentions” but still insist on holding my hand. You rogue. I am still shocked that you would do such a thing. I probably won’t feel better about it until I see you again and we can discuss it in more detail.

  Until then,

  Charlotte Weyland,

  Bookkeeper Extraordinaire

  Chapter 12

  Spring stormed into Greenbroke with branch-snapping winds in a daylong deluge that sent the creek south of town over its banks and turned Main Street into six inches of churned up mud and manure. Several townspeople complained to the mayor, Pete Spivey, who said the town couldn’t afford paving stones. Dissatisfied, they went to Sheriff Dodson to complain about the mayor, but he was busy hunting his chicken coop that had washed downstream. By week’s end, most of the mud had dried into a mountain range of ruts, the stink had faded, and things were back to normal. Meanwhile, Juno saw a rise in whiskey sales, Sally and her freckle-faced cowboy started talking marriage—which threw Becky into a panic—and Lottie took Griffin’s advice and invested in a new venture called the Edison Electric Light Company, which had begun operation the previous October.

  And life went on.

  In late March, another letter came from Ty. He was through squiring the congressman around, and had been assigned to prisoner escort. He seemed to like it no better.

  It is just as boring, but at least I feel I am doing something useful. Local law enforcement issues the warrants, then rangers find the suspects and deliver them to their jurisdictions. Thus, there is a lot of travel involved, which gives me too much time to think. And I am starting to think maybe it is time to leave the Frontier Battalion and try my hand at ranching the property my uncle left me. It wouldn’t be an easy life, but I would be building something for the future. What do you think?

  Lottie thought it was a wonderful idea . . . for him. For her, it was terrifying. It wasn’t the hard work. Striving toward a goal that would better one’s life was something she understood. But struggling just to stay alive was a different matter.

  Bitter memories flooded her mind. Sharing what food she had with their rail-thin hound. Wrapping her feet in rags to protect blisters caused by boots that were the wrong size and already worn out by the time they came to her. Putting patches over patches on clothes Grandpa found in the charity bin at the church. Watching half-starved cattle pawing for water in the dry creek bed, and wondering what they would do when their well finally went dry. “God will provide,” Grandpa always said. But God also helped those who helped themselves. So Lottie had found her own way out of the hole she was in by setting fire to all that misery and escaping into a better future. She’d survived. But now, if she wanted Ty, she might have to go back to that life again.

  She couldn’t do it. She had worked too hard to build something worthwhile here in Greenbroke. She couldn’t toss it all away. Even for Ty. Yet the thought of a life without him felt like a blade ripping into her chest.

  It wasn’t until two evenings later that she was able to write him back. She kept it light, telling him about the storm and flooded creek, and how well baby Anna was doing, and how upset Becky was that Sally and the baby might be leaving soon.

  I won’t be that sorry when they go, since I plan to move into Sally’s room at the house Becky rents. It will be a sight more comfortable than a cot in a storeroom. Meanwhile, things at the club have been so tense lately that Lady Jane and Briggs are going at each other like two cats in a bag. Whatever it is, it has Lady Jane in a tizzy. I will tell you more when I find out what is going on.

  She thought hard about how to respond to his question about taking up ranching. She didn’t have the courage to tell him the outright truth, so she only brushed up against it with careful words.

  I have lived the ranching life. And you’re right—it is hard. For me and Grandpa, it was an endless, daily struggle toward failure, so my memories are not happy ones. But you are a stronger man than Grandpa was, and wise for someone so young. Unlike him, I think you know the difference between a dream and what is real. If you decide the ranching life is for you, I know you have the fortitude to make it work.

  She stopped before adding, But don’t expect me to be there beside you. It sounded too final, too much like good-bye. She wasn’t ready for that. Knowing how easily she might change her mind, as soon as she sealed the envelope, she hurried to the Wells Fargo office before it closed and dropped the letter into the mail slot. Then she went back to her lonely room and cried for most of the night.

  The problem at the club wasn’t financial. As the bookkeeper for the restaurant and hotel, Lottie knew they were turning a nice profit. Nor were there issues with the employees or she would have heard. No complaints on food or accommodations, either. So it must be something personal. Briggs was as tight-lipped as ever. So if she was to discover what was troubling them and maybe find a way to help, she would have to go to Jane. Hoping to talk to her, Lottie went to the club the following day.

  “Morning, Mr. Kearsey,” she said as the doorman opened the door. “How’s it going today?”

  It was a code they’d begun using as tensions had built. If he mentioned the weather, it meant all was clear. If he complained about his bunions, she was to lie low and avoid Briggs, who had been in an especially foul mood of late.

  “This wet weather makes my bunions ache.”

  Lottie sighed. “Pick one,” she said in a low voice. “Weather or bunions.”

  Kearsey leaned closer. “Both.”

  That couldn’t be good. As Lottie started down the hallway to the back rooms, she was almost run over by Briggs, who stomped by with a furious expression. She continued on, then heard a loud crash from Jane’s office. She hesitated but, concerned that something had happened, she cracked open the door and peered inside. “Jane?”

  The Englishwoman stood at the mantle, the shattered remains of a vase showing on the unlit hearth. “That man!”

  Lottie didn’t have to guess who she was talking about. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, stepping farther into the room.

  Jane whirled. If Lottie had expected tears, she’d have been disappointed. Jane’s face fairly glowed with fury. “Do you have a bat? A rock? Anything I could use to beat some sense into his thick head?”

  “I assume we’re talking about Mr. Briggs?”

  “Who else is that hardheaded?” Jane began to stomp to and fro, her hands fisted at her sides. “I won’t return to England, no matter what he says!”

  Return to England? Lottie stared at her in shock. The town wouldn’t be the same without Jane and her band of English misfits. What would happen to the Social Club? “You can’t leave Greenbroke, not after all the work you’ve done.”

  “Precisely what I said. But Anson insists. ‘Go back,’” she mimicked. “‘Assume your rightful position in society.’” She threw her hands up in agitation. “What position? Spinster cousin? Wallflower at local assemblies? I am too old to be a blushing debutante at her first season. Besides, I have struggled too hard to build a life here to simply walk away. I love Greenbroke.” Her voice broke. Pulling a lace hanky from her sleeve, she pressed it agains
t her eyes. “I don’t want to go.”

  Lottie was on the verge of tears, too. She didn’t want Jane to go, either. Or Kearsey, or even Briggs. They’d become her family. How could she bear losing all of them, and maybe Ty, too? “Why does he want you to go back?”

  “He’s a tyrant, that’s why.” Jane dabbed her face one last time, then slipped the hanky back into her sleeve. With a sigh, she slumped into one of the gold velvet chairs before the marble-framed fireplace. “I left England under difficult circumstances. But now that things have changed, Anson is convinced I should return to my former life. What life? My parents are gone. My brother is dead. My cousin and his vicious wife have made it impossible to return home, no matter how many apologies they offer. What’s left for me there?”

  When Lottie moved toward the second chair, Jane held up a warning hand. “Mind the glass.” She gave a brittle laugh. “I’m afraid I had a bit of a tantrum.”

  Lottie toed several shards aside then took the chair opposite Jane’s. “What’s changed? Why did you have to leave in the first place?”

  “Scandal, of course. English society feeds on scandal the way a starving man gobbles up bread.” She made a dismissive gesture. “It’s complicated. And sordid. Suffice to say, I shan’t ever return, no matter what Anson says.” Tipping her head back against the chair, she closed her eyes as if to distance herself from unhappy memories. “If only he could see how much better things are here, where anything is possible and class distinctions don’t matter. If he could just . . .”

  “Just what?” Lottie prodded.

  Jane gave a hopeless shrug. “See me for who I am, rather than the title before my name. See past all the rules that were pounded into him as a vicar’s son. But apparently, some things can’t be overcome.”

  Lottie had the feeling that Jane was alluding to something more personal than their argument about her return to England. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She gave a weak smile. “Simply having a sympathetic ear to listen to my complaints helps. I so value our friendship, Lottie. That’s what I miss most about my life in England—the company of other women. Even servants.”