by Carol Arens
The man was the candidate for sheriff that the town’s people had dismissed as being too short.
William handed Clara to her auntie Agatha.
People turned away from the fascination of the ruins and gathered closer to hear what the fellow wanted to discuss.
“Did you ever hear of the Potter gang? They robbed the train near Cheyenne last winter. Or Millard Creed, the bank robber who terrorized three states?”
“Everyone’s heard of them.” Mrs. Peabody shivered visibly.
“I’m the one who arrested them.” He handed William a bunch of papers folded up in twine. “It’s verified in the letters of commendation I brought with me last time.”
“I read them. It was my opinion that you were highly qualified.”
“If your only reason for rejecting me is that you all,” he said with a quick glance at the people who had turned him away the first time, “thought I’m short, I assure you I am more than qualified for the position.”
“I agree. Always have.”
“In that case, if you haven’t already hired someone, I’d like the job.”
“The job is yours, Sheriff.”
He slipped the badge from his own shirt and plunked it in the lawman’s hand.
“Welcome to Tanners Ridge.”
The horse snorted in the silence that followed.
If any man objected to his hiring a sheriff without the counsel’s approval, he would appoint him to the job instead.
Aimee Peller twirled her pink parasol, strode forward, her skirt swaying flirtatiously.
“Welcome to Tanners Ridge, Sheriff.” Her smile at him was every bit of welcoming. “I’d so love to hear of your adventures.”
* * *
“Your mother is right,” Agatha said moments later, after Aimee latched onto the new sheriff’s arm and led him down the street for coffee. “You were a much more handsome sheriff.”
“At least he knows what he’s doing.”
“You were brilliant and brave,” she said because he was.
Still, she knew how relieved he must be to have the responsibility for Pete Lydle transferred to a genuine lawman.
“I’m glad to see that matter settled,” declared Uncle Patrick, walking up and hugging her shoulder. “I’ve another thing I’d like to discuss with all of you. Can I treat you to pastries at the bakery?”
Fifteen minutes later they sat at an oval-shaped table, a plate of chocolate cookies centered on the lace tablecloth.
Victoria rocked Clara who had fallen asleep in her arms. It was hard to know which of them was more content.
Seeing it, William reached for Agatha’s hand under the table, squeezed it gently. The expression in his glance spoke something more fervid than gentle.
Uncle Patrick sure was taking a long time building up to what he wanted to discuss.
Antie nudged him in the ribs. Whatever it was must be important. All of a sudden her heart froze. Was he ill, beginning his goodbyes?
“The Queen is for sale again.” His grin shot so wide it looked like it might split his face. “I want to purchase her.”
Antie must want that, too. Her smile was nearly as wide as Uncle Patrick’s.
“What do you mean?” Ivy’s brows dipped low, her gaze at their uncle dubious. “You told me the river trade was dying.”
“And so it is.” He patted Ivy’s hand across the table. “I told you the truth about that.”
“You planning on dry docking her until she rots?”
He shook his head, laughing. “You know I love that old boat. I wouldn’t do that to her.”
“Tiens! Mon mari, you have kept the suspense too long. Tell them!”
“Yes!” Agatha leaned forward, eager to hear.
“Tanners Ridge now needs a hotel so I propose to bring the Queen here and turn her into one that’s more grand and elegant than the Bascomb ever was.”
What? How?
Everyone looked back and forth at each other, at Uncle Patrick. He appeared confident, so he must have a plan.
“I can’t do it on my own.”
“Gosh almighty, Uncle. More help than we can give, I reckon. Do you figure on sailing her in on a cloud?”
“That’s where I’ll need your help, Ivy. I plan to take her apart, bring her here by train then put her back together. You know every stick of that riverboat. There’s no one knows her better.”
“Will you keep her as she is?” Ivy asked, her eyebrows creeping up.
“As much as I can and still make her a landlubber.”
“I’m so happy I could dance a jig.”
“Hold on to your feet a minute, my girl. I’ve made an offer on the land. Had a wire this morning that it’s been accepted. But I’ll need a financial partner.”
Agatha nudged William’s boot, letting him know she wanted this, but he was already extending his hand to her uncle.
“What about the Queen? Did you already offer for her?” Agatha had heard so much about the River Queen and wanted badly to see it.
“Aye, and it’s been accepted as well.”
Under the table, Agatha felt her sister’s feet move. Sitting in her chair Ivy discreetly danced her jig.
“We shall have a toast to our success and the bright future of Patrick’s Queen.” Antie lifted her teacup.
The rest of them lifted coffee mugs.
“To the future,” William stood to say, circling his drink to include each of them.
While he spoke the words to them all, his gaze was upon Agatha.
“To the future,” she answered.
Whatever lay ahead, no one knew for sure. But today the future shone bright with hope and love.
Lots and lots of love.
Epilogue
September 1889, Cheyenne, Wyoming
Fifty-five men had been elected to draft the new State of Wyoming’s constitution. Forty-five of them gathered with their friends and families for a photograph on the capitol steps.
William stood proudly among them. On July 8 he had been elected a delegate.
The moment that he and Agatha had worked so hard toward was happening.
His mother and forty of her closest acquaintances stood at the foot of the stairs cheering along with many others.
Statehood for Wyoming was something to wave flags for—to cheer about. There was a lot of work to be done to make the new state a place folks wanted to come to and call home, and he couldn’t wait to get to it.
He wasn’t running for governor, not yet anyway. But drafting the constitution was important work.
It was a task they had only twenty-five days to complete.
For all the work that lay ahead, today was a time for celebration.
Patriotic tunes lifted on the same breeze that ruffled brand-new flags bearing forty-two stars.
Down below, he watched people in the crowd proudly pointing out their relatives on the stairs.
The photographer readied her equipment.
One person was missing from the hoopla. His wife.
He scanned the assemblage for her. Perhaps she had changed her mind about climbing the steps for the photo.
Climbing the steps in her condition was something they had discussed. Depending upon how she felt, she would either stand with him or his mother.
Since she was not standing beside him, she ought to be with his mother.
She was not.
A knot of worry tickled his belly. But perhaps she was with Ivy and Travis who were apparently running late.
As soon as he saw Agatha he would remind her about the importance of staying close by—or maybe he wouldn’t.
A blue feather fluttering on a woman’s hat caught his attention. He watched it bob across t
he back of the crowd.
After a moment the wearer, his beautiful Agatha, strode into view. She was walking fast, carrying their eighteen-month-old son Matthew in her arms. Trailing behind like a row of ducklings were five-year-old Billy and three-year-old twins Mary and Ellen.
Spotting him, Agatha waved her hand, shot him an excited smile.
He was proud of standing here with the other men eager to draft the constitution. He and Agatha had worked so hard to get here.
He had stayed on, serving as mayor of Tanners Ridge for four years after the saloon burned. It had been a good time, with the children beginning to come and watching Uncle Patrick and Ivy bring the River Queen back to life.
The folks of Tanners Ridge were proud of having a steamboat in their town.
For the English family, life in Tanners Ridge could not go on forever. The time came when he moved them home to the ranch to prepare for the run for delegate.
Yes, he was proud of being here on the capitol steps, for everything he and his wife had accomplished to be standing here.
But down below, lined up in a row in front of his mother, were his children.
Nothing he would ever achieve in his life would make him more proud than they did. Billy was learning to ride a horse. Mary wanted to be a mommy. Ellen hoped to be gubernor, same as her daddy wanted. Peter had gone from walking to running.
Agatha, his heart, approached the bottom of the steps. She had blossomed into a hostess to rival his mother.
He had a few things to be proud of, but mostly it was his wife, his children.
Leaving his spot, he hurried down the steps. Agatha placed her small hand in his. He could not help but be reminded of how reluctantly she had placed it there when they wed.
Of how far they had come since that windy night.
“How are you feeling? Can you make it up?”
“Of course I can.”
“We can stand down here for the photo.”
“Not unless we want one of the children running to us and making the picture blur.”
“If you’re certain.”
Glancing at the swell of her belly, he wasn’t so sure. From the looks of things her time could come at any moment. He scanned the crowd, spotted the family doctor nearby his mother and felt the tension ease from his shoulders.
“After all this time, you still worry.”
“Because you are my heart walking around outside of my body. You and our little one in there.” Placing his hand on her belly, he felt the child heave, stretch. “I’ll never get used to the idea there’s a live person in there, even though I know it.”
“I wonder who it is.”
Lifting her face with one finger, he kissed her.
The photographer ducked under the cloth that covered the camera. She counted down, lowering her fingers one by one to indicate the exact moment she would take the photo.
Five...the crowd cheered. Four...he readied his smile. Three...he felt Agatha gasp. Two... “My water broke,” she stated, her smile wide as forever. One...he smiled back at her.
And there it was, their gaze of love for each other, forever preserved in black and white. The moment when the future held its breath, when the promise of new life lived in the smile of its parents.
* * * * *
If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to miss these other great WESTERN stories from Carol Arens:
THE COWBOY’S CINDERELLA
WED TO THE TEXAS OUTLAW
WED TO THE MONTANA COWBOY
OUTLAW HUNTER
Keep reading for an excerpt from A SECRET CONSEQUENCE FOR THE VISCOUNT by Sophia James.
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A Secret Consequence for the Viscount
by Sophia James
Prologue
James River, Virginia—1818
He was bone-weary and cold and had been for a long time now.
He could feel it in his hands and heart and in the fury wrapped around each intake of breath, fear raw against the sound of the river.
Once he knew he had been different. Such knowledge sent a shaft of pain through him that was worse than anything else imaginable, an elusive certainty drifting on the edge of misunderstanding.
He swore as he lowered his body into the water, closing his eyes against the sting of cold. With the hand that still had feeling in it he grabbed at the rushes and steadied movement. He was here somewhere, the man who had slashed at him with a blade. He could feel his presence, close now, a shadow catching at space between darkness, barely visible. He held no weapon except for his wits, no way of protecting himself save for the years of desperation honed in distance. He couldn’t remember ever feeling safe.
The voice came unexpectedly and close.
‘Nicholas Bartlett? Are you there?’
The sound had him turning his head. For more or for less he knew not which. The name was familiar, its syllables distinct as they ran together into something that made a terrible and utter sense.
He wanted to stop the sudden onslaught of memories, each thread reforming itself into more, building a picture, words that pulled at the spinning void of his life and anchored him back into truth. A truth that lay above comprehension and disbelief.
More words came from the mouth of his stalker, moving before him, as he raised steel under a dull small moon.
‘Vitium et Virtus.’
A prayer or a prophesy? A forecast of all that was to come or the harbinger of that which had been?
‘No.’ His own voice was suddenly certain as he shot out of the water to meet his fate, fury fuelling him. He hardly felt the slice of the knife against the soft bones of his face. He was fearless in his quest for life and as the curve of his assailant’s neck came into his hands he understood a primal power that did away with doubt and gave him back hope. He felt the small breakage of bone and saw surprise in the dark bulging eyeballs under moonlight. The hot breath on the raised skin of his own forearm slowed and cooled as resistance changed into flaccidity. Life lost into death with barely a noise save the splash of a corpse as it was taken by the wide flowing James to sink under the blackness, a moment’s disturbance and then calm, the small ridges slipping into the former patterns of the river.
He sat down on the bank in the wet grass and placed his head between his knees, both temples aching with the movement.
Vitium et Virtus.
N
icholas Bartlett.
He knew the words, knew this life, knew the name imbued into each and every part of him.
Nicholas Henry Stewart Bartlett.
Viscount Bromley.
A crest with a dragon on the dexter side and a horse on the sinister. Both in argent.
An estate in Essex.
Oliver. Frederick. Jacob.
The club of secrets.
Vitium et Virtus.
‘Hell.’ It all came tumbling back without any barriers. Flashes of honour, shame, disorder and excess after so very many years of nothing.
Tears welled, mixed with blood as the loss of who he now was melded against the sorrow of everything forgotten.
The young and dissolute London Lord with the world at his feet and a thousand hours of leisure and ease before him had been replaced by this person he had become, a life formed by years of endurance and hardship.
‘Nicholas Bartlett.’
He turned the name on his tongue and said it quietly into the night so he might hear it truly. The tinge of the Americas stretched long over the vowels in a cadence at odds with his English roots, though when he repeated it again he heard only the sorrow.
He searched back to the last memories held of that time, but could just think of being at Bromworth Manor in Essex with his uncle. Arguing yet again. After that there was nothing. He could not remember returning to London or getting on a ship to the Americas. He recalled pain somewhere and the vague sense of water. Perhaps he had been picked up by a boat, a stranger without memory and shanghaied aboard?
He knew he would not have disappeared willingly though his gambling debts had been rising as he had been drawn into the seedy halls of London where cheating was rife. There had been threats to pay up or else, but he had by and large managed to do so. His friends had been there to help him through the worst of the demands and he also had the club in Mayfair. A home. A family. A place that felt like his. He loved Jacob Huntingdon, Frederick Challenger and Oliver Gregory like the brothers he’d never had.
Shaking fingers touched the ache on his cheek near his right eye and came away with the sticky redness of oozing blood.
