by Carol Arens
Dodging half a dozen people rushing in all directions, he hurried to her, caught her up in an embrace.
“Your mother.” She pointed toward the bank.
A hundred feet up the boardwalk, his mother knelt on the ash-dusted wood, weeping. Lark and Dove patted her back but he doubted that she felt the comfort in her grief.
There was no reason for his mother to believe they had not perished in the fire. She’d been there, witnessed the hopeless situation. Watched her son choose to die with his wife.
None of them should have made it out of there. Had it not been for part of the upper floor falling, delivering the miracle of the bed bridge, they would not have.
Seeing his indomitable mother on her knees, her face buried in her hands, broke him. A single sob clenched his lungs. After everything that had happened within the last half hour, this was what finally left him staggered.
But Agatha was there to take his hand. “Let’s go to her.”
He drew upon her strength. It was all he needed to get his legs back under him.
Together, they hurried toward her.
Kneeling, he drew his mother’s hands away from her face. “Ma, I’m alive. So is Agatha.”
“Of course you are!” She swiped her face with the back of her hand. Tears and ashes streaked her cheeks. He lifted her to her feet. “I never doubted—”
She hugged him tight then reached out her arm and drew in Agatha. “I thought I’d never see you again. Ivy and Travis? The boy?”
“Over there.” He pointed a building up. “A bit toasted, but fine. I’m not sure about the boy. He was unconscious last I saw, but alive.”
“I’d better see what I can do to help.” His mother patted each of them on the cheek then spun about to hustle down the boardwalk.
William grabbed his wife by the hand and pulled her into the privacy of the alley.
He skimmed her arms, touched her neck and ribs, making sure she was as whole as she seemed. Cupping her cheeks he looked at her, accepting the fact that she was alive and unharmed. Then he kissed her long and hard with a full and thankful heart.
“I’ve got to get to work. Will you be all right?”
“As right as anyone else.” She touched him in the same probing way as he had done to her. Apparently satisfied, she squeezed him about the ribs.
Coming out of the alley with his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close, he watched the chaos he would need to deal with. People ran about crying, wailing, huddling on the boardwalk and staring while the formerly elegant hotel collapsed, spraying sparks and flames into the night sky.
“I see your uncle and his wife. Will you go with them while I deal with this?”
She kissed his cheek. “You taste like smoke. I’ll be helping your mother.”
Watching her go, he was so damn grateful. He only hoped everyone had been as lucky. That no one was watching the collapsing saloon, fearing for loved ones who might still be trapped inside.
One man didn’t seem concerned about survivors, or about those who might not have.
Pete Lydle.
He crawled about in the dirt grabbing money that folks had lost while fleeing the saloon. Seemed he couldn’t stuff it into his pockets fast enough.
The greedy fool didn’t notice William’s approach. It was no wonder, with his focus on his lost wealth and not the people in need of help.
“Lydle!” He looked up, seeming surprised to see William. Twisting flickers of crimson from the dying saloon reflected in his eyes. “I’m arresting you.”
“On what grounds?”
“More grounds than I know about yet. For now it’s false imprisonment and theft.”
“That woman was only a whore. It hardly matters. All this cash came from the Palace. It’s mine by rights.”
William yanked him up and found he had help from three of Lydle’s “girls.” One by one they kicked him in the rump.
“Did all of you make it out?” he asked.
“I believe so,” said one with ash dulling the orange hue of her hair.
“Not that crazy old woman, though,” said the last one to kick Pete. “I saw her. I think she was already dead when the beam from the second floor fell on her.”
Chapter Eighteen
Clean.
Agatha trailed her chipped fingernails down one arm and then the other while she sat at her dressing table. She studied her face in the mirror, looking at it from one side then the other.
She had doubted for a time that the ashy residue on her skin would ever wash off.
There was that one last speck on the tip of her nose. She scraped it off then picked up a brush and tugged it through her damp hair.
If only the memories that haunted her mind could be scrubbed away. No amount of rosewater was going to make her forget the scent of kerosene and burning wood; of fear and the certainty of death.
Not just her death—worse—Ivy’s and Travis’s, her own dear William’s.
And the grief that death would have left! That is what tore at her. No matter how hard she scrubbed her mind, she could not wash away the image of Victoria weeping on the boardwalk.
If they had all perished, what would have become of baby Clara?
She hadn’t heard yet if anyone had died in the fire besides Hilda Brunne. There was no way she could have survived, running into the flames like she had.
Setting her brush aside, she dumped the pail of water she had been warming over a low fire into the bathtub.
Heat and flame were not things she appreciated right now, even if safely contained in the fireplace. But she wanted a warm bath for William when he finally came home.
Going out into the hallway, she listened to the quiet sounds of the sleeping household. No one who lived here or any of the guests had been injured.
At three in the morning, they had all yielded to exhausted slumber.
All except William—he was still in town dealing with it all, either as mayor or sheriff.
Walking to the window at the end of the hallway, she drew the curtain aside. Flames no longer twisted toward the stars but had given way to an orange glow that eerily shifted over rooftops between the mansion and the saloon. It was a wonder that no other buildings had burned.
It must be because the wind had quit as quickly as it had begun. The still air kept the embers from blowing and setting other blazes.
Down below, she heard the doorknob quietly turn. Heavy footsteps crossed the foyer.
Agatha dashed down the steps and would have welcomed William home with a big hug but he held her away from him, indicating with a quick nod how dirty he was.
“Come upstairs. There’s a bath waiting.”
“I feel like you just told me a bit of heaven slipped into the bedroom.”
“Something like that.”
Coming into his room, their room now, she closed the door softly. She had no intention of staying apart from him ever again.
William stood beside the tub, gazing at the water. He seemed too exhausted to take off his clothes.
“Let me help,” she said while unbuttoning his shirt. She peeled it carefully off his shoulders, the fabric being stuck to his skin by sweat and ash. He winced when the shirt sucked over a beet-colored welt on his shoulder. “You’re hurt.”
“That’s the worst of it,” he assured her. “Not too bad.”
With his clothes shed, he stepped into the tub. She understood his sigh of surrender when his body relaxed into the bath.
Cupping her hands, she dribbled warm water over his cheeks and nose. He closed his eyes. With dripping fingertips, she rinsed and stroked until the grime was gone.
His lips tugged up at the corners. He kissed her hand.
“The saloon is gone, but I reckon you guessed it woul
d be.”
“I’ve heard it was a beautiful building at one time.”
She pushed his shoulders further down into the short tub. His knees poked out of the water like twin mountain peaks.
“It was. Sure isn’t how it ended up, though. No one will miss it.”
She massaged his scalp, washed his hair and watched rivulets of ash drip into the water.
“Were there many injuries? Did everyone survive?”
Her heart felt like it stopped while she waited for him to answer.
“The last patient left the doctor’s office half an hour ago. There were burns and broken bones, but nothing critical.”
He caught her hand, opened his eyes. “One person died. Hilda Brunne.”
“I thought she had.”
With a nod, she resumed washing his hair. She didn’t need to, it was black and glossy now, but it was a comfort to touch it.
“Did anyone see her body?”
She had been presumed dead once before.
“One of Pete’s employees saw her unconscious. She also saw a beam fall on her. So I assume she’s gone, but it will be a while before the fire cools enough to know for sure.”
“How is the boy we brought out?”
“He came to with a big lump on his head. The doctor says he’ll recover in a few days.”
“It was Hilda who hit him in the head when he tried to stop her from lighting the fire. She left him to die without a thought, not a single sign of remorse.”
“Everyone’s been wondering how the fire began.”
“She tied me and Ivy to the bed. She poured kerosene in the hall and some in the room, but she lit the match in the hallway.”
“I do love you, Agatha. I’ll be grateful to God for every day I get to spend with you.”
“Yes, I won’t begin a day without being thankful. Or go to sleep not loving you.”
They sat silently for a moment. She couldn’t tell what William was feeling in the moment. Strangely enough, in spite of all that had gone on, she was simply happy.
“Odd,” he said at last, “how the fire burned faster in main part of the saloon than where you were.”
“Hilda took the can of kerosene with her when she ran into the main area. That might have had something to do with it.”
“Plenty of alcohol for fuel, too. Once those drapes lit, it would have burned in a hurry.”
She became silent again, listening to sound of his breathing and the whisper of the water swishing through his fingers.
“Oh! I sent you a young woman! Did she find you?”
He laughed, just a little, but somehow it made the horror of the night lose its chokehold.
Not a single innocent person had perished. The saloon was gone. After a while the nightmare would fade, folks would go on with their lives.
“You could send me a hundred women and I’d never even notice them.” With a hand at the back of her neck, he tipped her face down to his, kissed her. “But, yes. She found me. Actually, she led me to you. And because of her, Pete Lydle is in jail. In his way he is as crazy as Brunne was. So greedy he thinks he can own people.”
He squeezed her hand and kissed it once more.
“It was dangerous going to the saloon on your own. I wish you hadn’t, honey. I was on my way over there to deal with Brunne when the fire began. I wish you could have trusted me to take care of you.”
“There’s no one I trust more. It’s just that I hoped to convince her to go away. I thought if she saw me she would understand that I was no longer vulnerable to her, she would realize she could not make things the way they were before. If you were with me, she would have seen you as the strong one. She might—probably would—have believed that if she got rid of you, she would have me again.”
He nodded, sighed deeply. “I understand. I see the logic of it. But still, I’m your husband and in the future when you need protecting, I’ll do it. As much as I respect your right to watch out for yourself, I have the right to do it, too.”
She rested her chin on the top of his head, crossed her arms over is chest. “I always did think of you as my brave prince. The truth is, I don’t mind you watching out for me on occasion.”
“I know how strong you are, in your body, your mind, your heart. I’m in awe of you, wife. I can be overbearing sometimes, but it’s not out of disrespect for you, because I respect you more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s just who I am.”
“And I love who you are. I don’t want you to change. I saw something tonight, William. It made something clear to me that I’d never understood.”
He turned his head to kiss the crook of her elbow. The brush of his lips and beard stubble tickled her skin. “What?”
“Grief. I never knew how crushing it could be until I saw your mother crying because she thought you were dead. I was sad when my father died, but he was distant from me and I guess that made the grief distant, too. Growing up, I never even had a pet to cry over.
“What I’m trying to say is that it would kill me to lose you. Life would be desolate—life would be death.”
Sitting up in the water, he pivoted as best he could in the cramped tub to look at her.
“I understand, now, why you wouldn’t risk my life by taking me to bed. If that is still what you want, I will accept it.”
Slowly, he stood up. Water dripped down his tall muscular body. Looking up, she watched a drop slide swiftly down his neck, over his chest until it caught on a dark hair near his nipple. It hung there for an instant then slowly traced the defined shape of his belly. She lost track of it when it slipped into the shadow of his private hair.
Her throat gone dry, she swallowed hard. She would accept whatever he decided, but it was going to be difficult.
In the end, she loved him far too much to be the cause of his heartache.
Stepping out of the tub, he lifted her, carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he stretched out beside her, traced a line from her throat to her belly with his finger.
“I’ve learned something, too.” Leaning down, he kissed her tenderly. “Life is precious, beautiful. Love is worth the risk.”
* * *
“It’s a shame about the old woman,” Roy Backley, the banker, declared while staring at the heap of ash and debris that used to be the saloon.
It had taken ten days for the rubble to cool enough to allow the town coroner to retrieve the body and determine how Brunne died.
No matter how he felt about Hilda Brunne, William was glad to discover that it had been by a blow to the head and not by fire.
Agatha and Ivy wanted to see her buried in a proper way because there was no one else to do it. No matter that she was deranged, she had been an employee of the Lucky Clover for many years.
“She was a crazy old besom.” Mrs. Peabody wagged her cane at the debris pile. “I, for one, will sleep more peacefully in my bed now that the saloon is gone, and those gamblers in my posies with it.”
“Yes, I won’t miss the saloon one little bit.” Aimee Peller put up her parasol to block the glare of the sun. “I’m so very grateful that our sheriff put nasty Mr. Lydle in jail.”
Not that William knew quite what to do with him now that he had. A circuit judge was coming in a couple of weeks. He’d let His Honor deal whatever justice required.
Miss Valentine whined in his arms. The mouse was out, crawling up Ivy’s sleeve and across her shoulder. For as much as Ivy and Agatha loved the rodent, William shared the dog’s point of view.
Of course he would not whine his opinion like Miss Valentine was free to do. He set the dog on the ground.
Standing beside him, his mother held baby Clara, rocking and cooing to her. She was rewarded with a giggle.
“You sweet, sweet, girl,” his mother answered.
That was an opinion he would gladly express.
“She sure is. Pass her over.”
Her weight settled into his arms. He tickled her belly. “I’m your uncle, little darlin’. Your daddy and I will protect you from every danger.”
No matter what she might say about it when she got older.
The odor of burned wood lingered all over town, a reminder of what had happened. In case a reminder was needed.
Every day people visited the ruin, standing, staring, feeling grateful that no other buildings had burned as they might have.
A few gamblers remained in town, waiting on the judge. They believed that during the fire Pete had taken money that was rightfully theirs. They were hopeful the judge would see things their way. They were the only folks who were saddened by the loss of the saloon.
“Hello pretty baby.” Agatha kissed Clara’s cheek, slipped her hand in the crook of William’s arm and squeezed. She glanced up at him with a wink.
It was not impossible that this time next year he would be making his own child giggle. In fact, given that he and his wife spent nearly as much time in bed as out, it seemed likely.
Joyful, that was what he felt about it. If the future held something else, that was for then. He was living now, in a time of gladness.
Leaning down, he answered Agatha’s wink with a kiss—a promise.
During the kiss he became aware of a horse’s hooves galloping up the dirt street.
He broke the kiss reluctantly. Horses didn’t normally gallop unless their riders needed something. Probably something of the sheriff, but hopefully only the mayor.
Circumstances had proven to him that he was far better suited for being mayor than sheriff, even if a few folks—his mother for one—thought otherwise.
The man stirring up the dust looked familiar. Bringing his mount up short, he slid off the saddle then wound the reins about a watering trough.
Striding forward, he tipped his Stetson back from his face.
“Mayor,” he stated, hand on hip, his stance self-assured. “I’ve a matter to discuss.”
