In Want of a Wife

by Jo Goodman

  Morgan gauged the distance to the rail station’s entrance and lengthened his stride. He turned sharply when he reached the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Finn make another artful dodge to keep himself from being bowled over. Morgan could feel the boy dogging his heels right up to the counter.

  “Afternoon,” Jefferson Collins said. The station agent raised himself a few inches above the stool he was sitting on, leaned over the counter, and extended an arm around Morgan Longstreet to grasp a handful of his grandson’s shirt and pull him sideways. “You think I can’t see you hiding behind Mr. Longstreet? What are you fussin’ at the man for, Finn?”

  “I wasn’t fussin’.”

  Morgan looked down at Finn and saw the boy was regarding him hopefully, anticipating perhaps that there would be support for his denial. He promised himself he would make it up to Finn some other time. Today, Morgan said nothing.

  Mr. Collins released Finn’s shirt, smoothed the material over the boy’s shoulder, and gave him a light swat. “’Course you weren’t. Go on outside. Find your brother and make yourself useful to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. Their son will have bags, maybe a trunk. Mind you don’t get underfoot.”

  “But I—”

  The station agent stopped the protest with a stern look and pointed toward the door. Finn hung his head and heaved a sigh. Mr. Collins was unmoved. He kept his arm extended and his fingerpost firmly in place until Finn shuffled out. When the door closed, he sat back on his stool, adjusted his spectacles, and sighed almost as heavily as his grandson.

  “He’s a trial, Mr. Longstreet. Growing like a weed, but still a trial.”

  Morgan thought he heard more affection than complaint. He shrugged. “It’s been remarked the same about me.” It was his recollection that there had been more complaint and less affection.

  Mr. Collins nodded. “I reckon it’s a universal truth about boys. We are all of us trials.” He set his folded hands on top of the counter. “What can I do for you, Mr. Longstreet? Don’t often have the chance to inquire how I can help. You’re still a stranger to town.”

  Morgan ignored this last observation and spoke only to the question. “Is the train running on time?”

  “Since you’re standing here now, I suppose you’re asking about the two-forty train and not the one that passes through at eight.”

  “Yes. The two-forty.”

  The station agent checked his pocket watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes, Mr. Longstreet. Last communication was about an hour ago. No reason to expect No. 486 is going to be anything but on time.” He pointed to the long bench in front of the window. “You’re welcome to wait there. I offered the same to George and Abby, but they’re too excited to sit. They’ve been waiting since one thirty just in case the train arrived early. Son’s coming home from college. That’s something, I can tell you. Buster coming home and being a college graduate. Only one other person in Bitter Springs with that kind of education.”

  Morgan watched Mr. Collins’s prominent Adam’s apple bob as the agent took a deliberate pause and swallowed. Morgan supposed he was expected to ask after the identity of the only other person in Bitter Springs who could claim an alma mater, but he decided against posing the question. It would make him seem interested, and he wasn’t. He also figured that Collins would tell him anyway, and he was right.

  Bitter Springs was the kind of town where you learned things whether or not you wanted to know them, and guarding secrets required the kind of vigilance that wore at a man’s soul. Morgan was better than content to live outside the town proper.

  “That’d be the schoolteacher,” Mr. Collins said, filling the silence. “Mrs. Bridger. The marshal’s wife. But then, you probably guessed that.”

  Morgan thought he might actually prefer Finn’s fussing to the station agent’s familiarity. He made a quarter turn so he could see the platform. The Johnsons had not moved. Morgan did not like his choices. There was the rock, and then there was the hard place. Stepping outside almost guaranteed Buster’s proud parents would lasso him, while staying at the counter meant he would remain Mr. Collins’s captive. He did not want to sit, but the bare bench was looking more inviting.

  “I think I’ll wait over there,” he said, lifting his chin toward the window.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Morgan sat and struck a casual, even negligent pose. He leaned back against the window, stretched his legs, and tugged on the narrow brim of his pearl gray Stetson so that it shaded his eyes. If Mr. Collins read the signs meant to deter further conversation, he ignored them. Morgan sighed inaudibly when he heard the station agent draw a breath.

  “You know my grandsons would have been happy to take your delivery out to the Burdick place. You could have saved yourself a trip to town.”

  “It’s that kind of thinking that keeps me a stranger,” Morgan said.

  “How’s that again?”

  “It’s not the Burdick place any longer.”

  Mr. Collins frowned. “Did I say that? Didn’t mean to. Takes a while to get used to, the Burdicks bein’ gone and all. Only been three years. And you’re the second owner since the property was sold at auction. Reckon it’ll be the Burdick place until folks know you’re the sticking kind.”

  “I’m sticking.”

  “Saying so doesn’t make it so.”

  Morgan recognized the hard truth in that. The Burdicks were early settlers to Bitter Springs, arriving as the railroad was being built. The rails moved on, so did most of the men, but those who stayed behind saw opportunities. Uriah Burdick had been a cattle rancher who benefited from the proximity of his spread to the new depot. The way Morgan understood it, Burdick had acquired land and power in equal measure until his ranch was the largest in the southeastern quarter of the Wyoming Territory. His influence extended beyond the bank, the land office, and the marshal’s jurisdiction and marked a clear trail to Washington. For all intents and purposes, Uriah Burdick and his three sons had been the law in Bitter Springs for more than twenty years.

  When the Burdicks were finally driven off like so much cattle, the spread was taken over by a consortium of eastern speculators. They lost interest when they were unable to acquire an important government contract for water rights and hydraulic construction. Morgan did not care about that. He was able to purchase the spread for well below the original asking price, below even what the speculators had paid for it.

  Under the management of the speculators’ foreman, the ranch acquired the legal name Long Bar B. It was a name of convenience since it meant adding only a single bar to the B brand that the Burdicks used. As far as Morgan could tell, no one ever called the ranch the Long Bar B. It wasn’t clear that many people knew the Burdick place had a new name. What was clear was that it didn’t matter. Morgan figured that at twenty-nine, he had maybe another twenty-five or thirty years to prove that he was the sticking kind. He would need every one of them. In all likelihood, his ranch would not be known as Morning Star until he was buried under it.

  Mr. Collins tapped his thumbs together. “Must be a special mail order to bring you around.”

  “Must it?”

  “I have a suspicion that you don’t like coming to town.”

  Morgan shrugged. He didn’t dislike it. Mostly he would rather be doing something else.

  “So what are you waiting for?” Mr. Collins checked his pocket watch again. “In ten minutes.”

  “Just what you think. Mail order.”

  “From Chicago.”

  “From New York.”

  The station agent whistled softly. “We take a lot of orders shipped from Chicago, St. Louis, even Philadelphia. New York is just about as rare these days as Paris, France. ’Course, we do take delivery of books from Mr. Coltrane. He sends them regular. You heard of Nat Church? Whole series of dime novels about his adventures. Everyone in town reads them.”

  “Read them at the ranch, too.”

  “Is that right? Well, we get them from New York.”

  “Huh.
” Morgan shifted, crossed his ankles. He peered down at his boots. They were scuffed and dull with dust. He had not taken time to give them a shine. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he hadn’t wanted to be late. He considered giving them a spit and polish now but decided against it. He told himself that he would rather be judged for who he was than who he was pretending to be. It might even be the truth.

  Morgan removed his hat, knocked it against his thigh a couple of times to dislodge dust, and raked his hair with his fingers before he returned the Stetson to his head.

  “Funny thing how my mind plays tricks,” said Mr. Collins. “I didn’t recollect that you were a redhead. Folks ever call you Red?”

  “Never twice.”

  There was a pause, then, “Oh.”

  Satisfied, one corner of Morgan’s mouth lifted a fraction. The expression faded a moment later when the station agent had more to say on the subject.

  “I’m thinking maybe I never saw you without your hat. There’s more orange under that Stetson than red anyway. Seems like I would remember that properly.”

  “Seems like.”

  Jefferson Collins rubbed the back of his head where his own hair was thinning. He sighed and dropped his hand back to the countertop. “You staying in town long?”

  “Haven’t decided.”

  “I like to recommend the Pennyroyal if you care to take your dinner here. Ida Mae serves good fare.”

  “I’m familiar with Mrs. Sterling’s cooking.”

  On the verge of another question, Mr. Collins’s lips parted. They closed again, this time in a firm line when his grandsons raced past the window. He blinked once, and then they were pushing their way into the station office.

  Morgan felt the telltale rumble under his boot heels before the boys pounded down the platform. He was on his feet by the time Rabbit and Finn worked out the contortions necessary for both boys to burst into the room simultaneously.

  “Train’s comin’!” Rabbit announced.

  Finn echoed his older brother, but while Rabbit delivered the message to his grandfather, Finn had turned sharply at the point of entry and spoke to Morgan Longstreet.

  It went through Morgan’s mind that it was easier to hold ground in the face of stampeding cattle. The enthusiasm of two boys was a force to be reckoned with.

  Morgan looked from Finn to Rabbit and back again. He imagined that at one time the boys were a closely matched pair of towheads, but the couple of years that Rabbit had on his brother had darkened his hair, broadened his shoulders, and added several inches to his height. Finn would grow, but he might never catch up.

  Morgan hadn’t.

  Finn stopped toe-to-toe with Morgan Longstreet. “Train’s comin’,” he said again, this time an echo of himself. “You want some help? I saw right off that you didn’t bring any hands with you.”

  “Just my own,” said Morgan. He set those hands on Finn’s narrow shoulders.

  Finn grinned. “You know what I mean, Mr. Longstreet. Your ranch hands.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Rabbit and me can carry just about anything.”

  “I’m sure, but then so can I.” He slipped his hands over Finn’s shoulders to his upper arms, squeezed just hard enough to get a firm grip, and lifted the boy off the floor. He set him aside as easily as a saltshaker. “Now, about that train . . .”

  Morgan figured he’d be followed. Mr. Collins and the boys would take delivery of the mail and whatever parcels and crates the train was carrying to Bitter Springs. They probably would want to greet Buster Johnson, too. What he hoped was that those bits of business and the niceties of conversation would occupy them long enough to give him a measure of peace. Even a brief respite would be welcome.

  When Morgan stepped onto the platform, the train was still half a mile away. He heard the whistle, the warning, and sensed the engine slowing as the brakes were applied. Beneath his feet, the platform shook. He felt the vibration roll up his spine. Something else accounted for the tension that pulled his shoulders taut.

  Morgan moved away from the door to keep the path clear for Mr. Collins and the boys. They filed out just as the train was pulling in. Morgan noted that only Finn had a sideways glance for him. Mr. Collins and Rabbit were all about the business of the train.

  Even after No. 486 came to a full stop, Morgan hung back. A minute passed before porters appeared and placed steps on the platform so passengers could disembark. He watched Abigail Johnson rise anxiously on her tiptoes to glimpse the travelers through the windows. Her husband’s head moved back and forth between the coaches as he tried to anticipate the appearance of his son.

  Morgan guessed the first flurry of passengers to leave the train were probably among the hungriest. Their visit to Bitter Springs would last approximately twenty minutes, about as long as it took to fill the tender with wood and the tanks with water. Sure enough, he watched them hurry toward the eatery adjacent to the rail station where something close to a hot meal awaited them if the biscuit shooters delivered it in a timely fashion. He surmised the experienced travelers were the ones carrying small baskets on their arms or large handkerchiefs in their pockets to take their food back to the coaches.

  There was a lull after the first wave of passengers emerged. The mail car door slid open and Finn, Rabbit, and Mr. Collins veered toward it. Morgan’s gaze followed them until he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned. There was no wave of passengers this time. It was a trickle.

  Morgan recognized Ted Rush as he emerged. Ted was the owner of the hardware store, and Morgan had had enough dealings with the man to know that he did not want to run into him now. Ted was a fair and honest tradesman, by all accounts a decent man, but he was an inveterate storyteller and every encounter began and ended with one. Morgan thought it was his good fortune that Ted spied George and Abigail first. Ted sidled up to them and began an animated conversation that only the arrival of Buster Johnson could have interrupted.

  Morgan observed the tearful, happy reunion as Buster, lean and green as a string bean, was swallowed in his mother’s arms and clapped soundly on the back by his father. Ted managed to find a hand to shake and pumped it gleefully. Buster disengaged himself long enough to be sick at the edge of the platform. Apparently the college graduate did not travel well.

  Sympathetic and a little amused, Morgan set his shoulder against the station’s wall and folded his arms across his chest. He shifted his attention to another of the passenger coaches. A man appeared carrying a large valise. He passed the bag to a porter. Once he stepped down, he took it up again. He was a stranger to Morgan, but then Morgan acknowledged that he was a stranger to most people in Bitter Springs. The man wore a black bowler, black wool trousers, and in deference to the chill permeating the dry air, a black scarf and heavy black coat. Morgan expected the man to move on, but after taking possession of his valise, he turned and held out his free hand toward the coach. Morgan watched as a woman emerged from the train and came to stand on the lip of the step. Bright red poppies trimmed her stylish black velvet hat. She wore a red scarf that matched the poppies exactly, arranged to wrap around her throat just once. The tails were so long the fringed ends brushed her fingertips.

  Morgan thought he saw the briefest hesitation before she accepted the proffered hand, but he could only guess at the reason for it. She might be reluctant to accept help; she might be reluctant to leave the train. He would like to believe she paused because she had some slight aversion to the gentleman who offered his aid, but he doubted that was the case. This man was cut from the kind of cloth that women always admired, the kind that slipped like liquid over their skin and between their fingers and lay coolly against their cheeks.

  “Hey, mister. Can I help you with that bag?”

  Morgan’s musings were interrupted by Finn’s boisterous cry for attention. He watched the boy abandon his post at the mail car and hurry toward the gentleman in black, calling out a greeting to Buster as he sprinted past the Johnson family
and Ted Rush. When Finn came to a stop, he held out both hands for the man’s valise. “That’s my wagon at the end of the platform. I can take you and your wife straightaway to the Pennyroyal.” He bobbed his head in the direction of the woman, and asked, “That’s where you’ll be staying, isn’t it? It’s the best hotel in Bitter Springs.”

  Morgan noticed that Finn did not explain it was the only hotel. There was a boardinghouse run by the Sedgwicks, and the Taylors had rooms to let at their laundry and bathhouse, but the Pennyroyal Saloon and Hotel remained the place to stay if one cared about amenities, and Morgan had already formed the opinion that this man enjoyed his amenities. He hoped the same was not true of the woman.

  Finn dropped his arms to his sides. “Maybe your missus has bags you want me to carry.” He ducked past the porter and bent to hold the wooden steps steady. He looked up when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I have this, Finn,” Morgan said. “She doesn’t need these.” He nudged the steps aside with the toe of his boot, released Finn, and inserted himself between the gentleman and the woman. He used his shoulder to disengage their handclasp. He did not reach for the woman immediately. Instead, he raised his face so she could see past the shadowing brim of his hat. “Do you know me?”

  There was no hesitation. She nodded. “You are very like your photograph.”

  “You’re not, but you can explain that later.” He glanced pointedly at the red poppies adorning her hat. The flowers, not her features, were how he had identified her. In her last correspondence, she had described her new hat in great detail and wrote that she would be wearing it when she greeted him. It had been of a purpose, he supposed. He would not have known her otherwise.

  Without asking permission, Morgan placed his hands at her waist and tried not to think about how insubstantial, even fragile, she felt between his callused palms. Her smile was tentative, fleeting, but she placed her gloved hands on his shoulders as he lifted her. It seemed to him that she did not weigh much more than Finn. When he set her down, he noticed that after making allowance for the height of her hat, the crown of her head was level with his mouth. He was tall, but then so was she. He held on to that fact as perhaps the one thing she had not misrepresented about herself.