She left the small cabin without stopping in to check on her father. She’d heard him stumble in late the night before so, no doubt, he was dead to the world, lost in a stupor. Ever since Mother had climbed aboard the stage back in Sacramento one year ago, declaring she’d had enough of the wilds of California, he’d taken to the bottle.
If she had been smart, she’d have left, too, but seeing the desperation in her father’s face as he stood back, watching Marian Whitworth turn away without a backward glance, she’d been unable to climb aboard. She had been his doting daughter since early childhood, while Mother—straight-laced and tight-lipped—had been the disciplinarian, with little to soften the harder edges of her Boston pedigree.
Even now she was still the dutiful daughter, but resentment had begun to harden her heart, and that frightened her.
She tramped up the dusty street to the narrow, shanty-like building that served as “Whitey’s Saloon.” Locals had taken to calling her father, Doctor Hiram Whitworth, “Whitey,”—and at first, the nickname had been endearing, but now it only reminded Kitty of how low her father had fallen in the eyes of all who knew him.
She unlocked the back door, although it could have been kicked in by anyone who chose to put a shoulder to it. As she entered the dusty, dim space, she frowned and wrinkled her nose as the odors of dirty bodies, vomit, stale beer, and whiskey reached her.
“Oh,” she moaned, noting the broken chair that lay across her path. Would these lawless men never quit breaking up furniture or using it for target practice? The place was hardly more than a hovel no matter what she did, in spite of the fact that she tried to clean it up each morning, if only for her own sanity.
She slipped on the apron that hung from a peg near barrels of beer and the roughly hewn shelves lined with bottles of whiskey. Reaching for a rag, she began wiping down the bar and small-framed mirror her father had hung on the back wall with high hopes of success. The gilt had long since been chipped off. She paused long enough to catch her own reflection.
Was she doomed to waste her youth in this hole? She reached up and pushed the strands of loose hair back into the tightly drawn bun.
Well, she sighed, this would only be for a while longer. Just until she garnered enough money to get herself out of here. Perhaps she’d head to San Francisco or Sacramento. Perhaps she’d head back east. No—like her father, she detested the starched and rigid life her mother favored.
No, she’d head to San Francisco. But she couldn’t leave until she had collected enough money to make the move possible.
****
Chance surveyed the dingy office. There was one jail cell, hardly bigger than one of Madame Rose’s cribs back in Dodge City.
The reminder made him frown and turn away.
A single oil lamp sat on the corner of a battered oak desk. A revolver, a shotgun, and a rifle were locked up in a small cabinet behind the desk, and as he opened the only drawer on the desk, he spied a well-worn Bible and some kind of law book. He noted the year; it was twelve years old.
Chance moved to the only window and scanned the narrow dusty street, noting three saloons on the opposite side and another one just two doors down from his office. “Whitey’s,” the bar farthest away, seemed to attract the most men as a small handful spilled out of the narrow opening onto the landing outside.
He decided he’d take a walk through town a little later. Introduce himself to the more respectable citizens of Lone Pine and check out the saloons’ proprietors and survey their clientele. Marta’s letter had assured him that there were no ‘soiled doves’ in town, but that seemed unlikely. What town didn’t boast a few women on the prowl? Like bad stones, a few would probably turn up; that was his experience, anyway.
For now, he was content to study the landscape and the rough and tumble settlement. Like so many mining towns that had boomed and faded, this one was likely doomed, too.
Which was all right, he thought. He probably wasn’t destined to remain anywhere very long. But at least he was a free man, and maybe coming here would help him carve out a new direction for his life. He would make good on his promise to Frank that nothing in his past would compromise his role as sheriff.
Yes, being sheriff had a hopeful ring to it.
He picked up the room’s only chair and carried it outside. He would make a move to show himself before trouble broke out. Surely, some of those more inclined to create a scene might be mollified when they saw the badge—and the gun.
Chance sat down and rested the shotgun across his lap. His revolver, less visible, was shoved into the holster at his hip. He leaned back and closed his eyes then inhaled deeply; the crisp mountain air was only slightly tainted by the heady smells of stale cook fires and horse manure.
****
“Mr. Riebold?”
Chance jerked forward, startled out of his snooze by a pair of pale blue eyes under a broad bonnet hovering close to his shoulder. He smiled. “Marta?”
“Of course.” She straightened and held up a basket. “I’ve brought you your supper, although I told Frank he was quite wrong not to insist you come to the house.”
Chance smiled. “I insisted,” he said. Standing the shotgun against the arm of his chair, he removed his hat and stood up. “I guess I fell asleep—”
“Well, no wonder. You were on the trail for days, I suspect.”
Chance opened the door to the office and waited for Marta to enter. She was smaller than he’d remembered, but her broad smile and freckled good looks were as pleasant to the eye as ever. “You really didn’t need to bring me supper,” he said, although the aroma of her famous meat pie already had his stomach growling.
“Yes, well, we can’t expect you to cook for yourself—at least, not on your first days on the job,” she returned. She set the cloth-covered basket on the desk. “Goodness, this place is a disgrace,” she grumbled, glancing around the room. “It’s not a proper office, and certainly not a reasonable place for a residence. We do have a spare room, Mr. Riebold.”
“This suits me just fine,” Chance said with a smile. “I’m not particular.”
“Humph,” sniffed Marta. “Still, it’s a roof, I guess. And we are pleased you agreed to come. The town needed a sheriff, and you,” she smiled, “needed a new start.”
“A second chance?”
Marta chuckled. “Something like that. But with the right sort, Lone Pine could become a real community.”
Chance shrugged as he peered out through the open door. “Doesn’t seem to have the markings of a real town, Marta.”
She stiffened. “First impressions are often wrong—”
“Yes, maybe so,” he said.
Marta wiped her hands across her apron thoughtfully. “Some of the folks round here are just down on their luck. But lots of them have high hopes. Maybe build a school. And a church. We even have a handful of respectable, marriageable young women—”
Chance cleared his throat. “Marta, I know you are probably trying to restore my faith in the fairer sex, but believe me, I’m a lost cause. I’ve sworn off marriage and women entirely—”
Marta shook her head. “Your heart is not as hard as all that, Mr. Riebold.”
“No?” He shrugged and moved to the desk. Raising the cloth, he spied an enormous slice of meat pie. He made a point of inhaling the sweet savory scent of venison and apples and—what else—currants? “I won’t take up any more of your time, Marta. I’m sure Frank will be looking for you. But thank you for the delicious dinner, and I promise to return your basket and dish tomorrow.”
Marta nodded. “Come around seven o’clock, after Frank locks up the store. You two can catch up over supper. Yes?”
Chance grinned. “Won’t pass up such a delightful invitation. Thank you.”
Marta started for the door. “Be sure and wash up first, Mr. Riebold,” she added with just a hint of a smile. “My humble home is still a respectable place.”
****
As dusk finally settled over Lone Pi
ne’s gray canyon walls, Chance stood up and stretched. He’d sat for too long.
Besides, after finishing off Marta Gracie’s wonderful meat pie, he could use a drink. Not whiskey—which had often come between him and good sense—but maybe a beer.
He moved down the narrow would-be street, nodding to the small groups of men and two women who brushed past him. One woman smiled as she approached him, her hazel eyes highlighted by lightly dusted brows.
“Evening, Sheriff,” she said.
Chance nodded, but refused to engage in conversation. Though more subtle than the women of Dodge City, this woman obviously knew her way around a man. He smiled at Marta’s naïveté.
When he reached the crowd of men hovering outside Whitey’s, he eased through the opening, greeting them with a soft voice. “Evenin’ boys,” he said. “A good night to grab something cold, eh?”
A few men paused and turned. One man, most likely a miner, spied Chance’s holster and gun. He roared, “Kitty don’t let no guns into her place.”
Chance nodded. “I’m only here for a beer. And to keep the peace, if necessary.”
“Ain’t nobody causin’ trouble.”
Chance smiled. “That’s good. I’m in no mood to settle any disputes.”
The miner then noticed the badge on his lapel and backed away. “So, we finally got us the law?”
Chance turned. “That a problem?”
The miner shook his head. “Not by a long shot, mister. I’m a law-abidin’ man—at least I was ’til I hit California,” he added. “A man’s got to protect what’s his in this god-forsaken part of the world, and too many low-lifes think they can steal what ain’t theirs.”
Several men had already stepped aside and now stared up at Chance, who stood a good head taller than most. He felt their eyes on him as they sized up more than his height. He let his cool glance settle on each man individually. He was no stranger to the hard look of men, and his months in prison had given him greater insight than he cared to acknowledge. That knowledge would serve him well, he realized now.
Finally, he pushed his way into the dimly lit room that served as the saloon’s proper. He glanced around. It was little more than a hole-in-the-wall, he mused.
He took it all in in less than a minute: the roughly hewn plank that served as the bar; broken chairs and stumps that were crowded around a few small tables; a drab mirror that reflected the faces of worn and dirty men who seemed to be pressing in to gawk at a woman standing behind the bar.
He stared at the woman’s distorted figure illuminated in the faded mirror. So here was another of Lone Pine’s respectable women. Clearly, Marta was too good-hearted for her own good, he thought.
The woman was obviously engaged in an intimate conversation with one man in particular. Clean-shaven, wearing a tailored shirt under a trim, striped vest, he was, no doubt, one of the town’s more appealing men. He wore an empty holster at his hip, another sign that he was more than just a penniless miner.
Chance also noted the man’s persistence as he moved closer to the woman whose face was half-hidden by the man’s strong profile.
Just then, the woman slapped the man, and the sudden movement startled everyone in the room. All eyes turned as if in one fluid movement.
It was then Chance saw her clearly and her countenance even startled him.
Auburn hair was pulled back in a stern bun, in stark contrast to the wispy strands curling around her ears. Her eyes, bright, even in the dull room, were as deep as rubbed mahogany, and her cheeks were flush with unfettered emotion.
“Mr. Cox,” she was saying, her words clipped, her tone curt. “I do not welcome your presence here.”
Cox tipped his head. “But Miss Whitworth, you play the tart. Tempt every man in town with your smiles, then pull away as if you are a—a maiden.”
A peel of nervous laughter erupted even as the young woman’s lips curled. She turned, and her dark eyes raked over Chance.
He held her gaze for a long moment, not sure of what her glance implied. As all eyes turned on him, he remembered: he was the sheriff.
He cleared his throat and, drawing himself up, said, “Miss Uh—Whitworth? I take it you are the proprietor of this—” He glanced around, frowning, once more taking in the shabbiness that surrounded them.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And you are the sheriff Frank Gracie promised us? The astute and sterling sheriff?”
Chance could feel the pulse of blood at his temples. This one has a tongue. He continued to hold her glance as he fought to repress a stinging retort. Finally, he turned to Cox. “I believe Miss Uh—Whitworth has indicated that your presence is not welcome here.”
Cox shrugged. “Sheriff? That’s good. Well, not to worry, sheriff,” he drawled, “Kitty likes me—plenty well—when it suits her. She’s just play-acting, if you know what I mean.”
Chance said nothing as he looked over at Miss Whitworth once more. Her cheeks were now red, and her breath came in quick, short bursts. In spite of her sharp tongue, he couldn’t help but notice her shapely bosom rising and lowering under her faded brown shirtwaist. She was no ordinary chit—that much was for sure.
She had leaned toward Cox. “You are a liar—” she hissed.
Chance felt the changing tension in the room. Well, he’d have to intercede now—even if he regretted it later on. Moving closer to Cox, he slipped his hand over the gun at his side. “I might not generally interfere in a lovers’ quarrel,” he said carefully, “but it appears that the lady, here, does not take kindly to your insinuations. That said, please take your leave.”
Cox flashed Miss Whitworth a slow smile before turning to stare at the ring of rowdies craning for a better look. “The lady. Did you hear that, boys?”
The man closest to Cox laughed out loud while the men lining the wall merely snickered. It was quite clear, thought Chance, that Cox had a following; this made him a slightly more dangerous opponent.
“So, you think Kitty, here, is a lady?” Cox had turned back to Chance, his words harsh, his tone sardonic. “Her father’s a drunk and she runs a saloon.”
Miss Whitworth’s voice immediately rose. “Mr. Cox,” she declared, her eyes bright in the dying light, “if you don’t leave, you will find out just what kind of lady I am!”
Instinctively, Chance took another step forward, letting his height speak its own warning. “This is not the way to settle things, Mr. Cox. And if you don’t want me to arrest you, I suggest you go—now.”
Silence fell across the room as men angled to get a better look at the new sheriff. Chance felt the tension-laced curiosity fill the space that separated them. No doubt, some of these men would welcome a real showdown.
He lowered his voice. “Now,” he said.
Exhaling slowly, Cox tugged at the edge of his starched sleeve. “Miss Whitworth, I will see you later.” He then nodded to the sheriff as he moved through the throng of men. “Evening, sheriff—”
****
Kitty flopped down on the edge of her bed. Flushed, she grabbed her pillow and threw it across the room. She wouldn’t cry. She simply wouldn’t.
And she absolutely refused to let anyone intimidate her.
She pulled off her gloves, one at a time, and dropped them to the floor. She knew how to handle the arrogant Adam Cox. His kind was easy to understand. A second good slap to the cheek would’ve set him straight. Either that, or a kick to the—
But him—that new sheriff! He had looked her over just too presumptuously, and his derision was only too apparent. He had already decided she must be exactly what Adam Cox had implied. How dare he? How dare he?
What did he know about her? Surely, Marta did not know the kind of man he truly was. She had spoken of him with such regard. Marta had told her he was a good man, a man with heart, and a man to be trusted...that his coming to Lone Pine was exactly what the town—and mayhap Kitty—needed. Even Kitty had thought for a while that a husband would fix her situation; that Marta’s obvious matchmaking
might just be the answer to her lonely existence.
Now, she realized that a man like Sheriff Riebold would only complicate her otherwise desperate situation. Marriage to someone like him?
Over my dead body.
Kitty got up and straightened her dress. Just then, she heard her father moving about the front room. No doubt, he was already half-drunk—again—she thought, sighing. He certainly hadn’t left the house at all today—never a good sign.
She opened the door of her small room and entered the area that served as kitchen, dining room, and parlor. Hardly more than ten feet square, it was illuminated by two hand-painted oil lamps Kitty’s mother had brought west with them. A stark reminder of the life they had left behind, the elaborate lamps were also a reminder of her mother’s finely bred arrogance.
Even now—twelve months later—Kitty could not contain her bitterness. Why hadn’t Father realized that Mother could never live outside the restraints of a well-ordered society any more than Kitty or her father could remain enslaved by them? His foolish dream had brought them west, into a haphazard world Marian Whitworth could not abide.
She spotted her father huddled in the farthest corner of the room. Seated in a small rocker, he was nearly hidden by the shadows cast by the lamps’ flickering lights. That this house was one of the finer ones in Lone Pine was another irony, mused Kitty. It had little to recommend it, except that it did boast plank floors and a small woodstove. Most of the miners’ cabins were little more than tents or shanties.
“You’re up,” she said, her voice flat, her demeanor unflappable.
“Just,” her father returned blandly. He removed his glasses and wiped them with the soiled edge of his sleeve. “Thought there’d at least be some coffee.”
Kitty nearly sputtered a nasty retort. Had he no idea how she spent her days now?
She pulled a battered coffee pot off the shelf above the woodstove. “You want coffee,” she said, holding the pot out to him, “we’ll need some fresh water.”
Her father got up slowly, as if unable to move without faltering. Kitty watched him, saddened but irritated that this man of accomplishment had allowed himself to wither away into a shadow of his former self.
Lariats, Letters, and Lace Page 21
