Peeling a handful of potatoes, she scooped some lard from a can where she kept her bacon fat and dropped it into a skillet on the woodstove, then sliced the potatoes into the pan. There was bread she’d made the day before, and a small tin of berries she’d gathered on Sunday. It was hardly supper, but it would do. Of course, any meat her father frequently promised had not materialized, but she wouldn’t berate him. What was the point?
She fought back her tears as he returned with the pot of water. He handed it to her, his hand trembling, his face flushed. She forced herself to smile. “Thank you.”
In spite of the fact that he’d been reduced to this, Kitty loved her father. She had been the apple of his eye throughout her childhood, and she believed—at least she hoped—that someday, he’d overcome the drink and recover himself.
She turned back to the stove and stirred the potatoes.
“I—I didn’t get a chance to get any meat,” he said. “I—I thought maybe tomorrow I’d get Albert to go with me. Hunt up some rabbits or maybe a deer. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Kitty bit her lip and nodded. “Nice, indeed, Papa.” She didn’t often call him Papa anymore, but her heart hurt as she listened to his wistful voice. He wanted to do these things, she reminded herself. He wanted to provide what he could.
It was just that—what?
She pointed to the table. “Why don’t you sit down? Supper will be ready shortly.”
****
Chance rolled out of his cot and shivered. The small space adjoining the sheriff’s office was nearly as cold as the out-of-doors. With little more than paper walls to enclose it, no wonder few relished the job. On the other hand, it was better than sleeping out in the elements, and his life before receiving Marta’s letter had become a hand-to-mouth existence, at best.
He was certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He carelessly pushed his hand through his hair, which he suddenly realized needed serious trimming. Well, I’d better get cleaned up before showing up at Frank and Marta’s for supper this evening. It was the least he could do to thank them for rescuing him from his miserable life.
A knock at the back door startled him. Slipping on his shirt, he pulled the door open. His eyes widened as he peered down at the trim and tidy figure of Miss Whitworth. Dressed in a dark green dress with a lace collar and dainty buttons, she hardly looked like a barmaid. He quickly buttoned his shirt, aware he was not quite dressed.
He stepped back. “Yes?”
“Uh, sheriff?” panted Miss Whitworth.
“Yes. Chance Riebold,” he added. He tried to smile, but the young woman’s distracted expression brought him up short. “What is it, Miss Whitworth?”
“The saloon,” she said, her eyes wide, her mouth twitching as if she was trying to keep from crying. “Papa’s saloon. It was broken into during the night—”
He nodded. “Let me get my hat and gun.”
“Thank you,” she stammered.
Chance quickly grabbed his hat then slipped his holster around his waist. As he pulled the door shut, he fell into step beside Miss Whitworth.
Her presence was definitely unsettling; the subtle fragrance of soap and lavender assaulted his senses, even as the rustle of her skirt and petticoats assaulted his ears. This was not a used woman, he thought starkly, noting the way she held her fingers close to her and the way she kept her head slightly bent. She seemed to be avoiding contact with him at all costs.
If she were not a she-wolf, he thought, what was she?
It had been a long time since he’d walked with a respectable woman anywhere. After years of loose women, and having been duped by the first woman he believed loved him, he had forgotten how titillating a gentle woman’s sheer presence could be.
But, he reminded himself ruefully, he had trusted that woman and it nearly cost him his freedom. No, the act of trusting any woman was dangerous; therein lay his own destruction.
He moved ahead determinedly, his long steps leaving her scrambling to keep up.
They reached the saloon and he waited until Miss Whitworth had entered before following her into the dark, dreary space. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and then he looked around. The place was a mess: the few rough tables were scattered and the few chairs broken; bottles had been strewn about, drained out, leaving dark puddles on the plank floor. Even the mirror—most likely the symbol of one man’s dream—had been broken and lay in pieces.
He studied Miss Whitworth as she moved through the rubble. “It wasn’t—isn’t—much,” she mumbled, “but it was everything Papa had left.”
He cleared his throat, resisting any sign of sympathy. “Where is your father now?”
She turned, her face reflecting obvious grief and disappointment. “At home, with a bottle and a broken heart.” She leaned down and picked up one of the larger pieces of mirror. “After Mother left, he gave up.” Her voice trailed off into the shadows. “Why would someone do this?”
Chance mulled the thought over carefully. “Did your father have any enemies?”
Miss Whitworth shook her head. “No, hardly. As Mother described him before deserting him, ‘he’s a milksop.’” She turned, her eyes bright and angry. “But he’s not! He is a gentle, kind man.”
Chance shrugged. “The West is a hard place. Very few good men can remain good in a place like this.”
She stiffened as she turned away abruptly. “We can’t all carry a gun or wield power over others, can we, sheriff?”
Chance pushed his hat back, flustered by Miss Whitworth’s obvious disdain. She was certainly a woman of strong sentiment, and he found her passion intriguing. He looked around one last time, hoping to change the tone of their exchange. “Was anything taken?”
Miss Whitworth sighed. “Yes, not that there was much money in the box. I thought it was well hidden, but they found it. Took about thirty dollars in coin and another fifty in gold dust.”
He could see that the loss was as devastating as the break-in. “Well, I can’t promise much, Miss Whitworth. Likely the money’s gone, but I will keep my eyes and ears open. Hopefully, whoever did this will reveal himself before long. I’ve learned that some men can’t keep their lips buttoned.”
He didn’t add that this very irony was what turned the tide for him; the fool who had actually stolen the stage’s strongbox, along with his woman, couldn’t keep from bragging after Chance had been thrown into prison. Lucky for him, the sheriff had caught him, and eventually sent word of Chance’s wrongful conviction.
****
Kitty locked the doors to the saloon after the sheriff had taken his leave. There was no point in keeping it open—at least for now. Truth be told, unless she was willing to dip into her own private purse, they had no money with which to operate. All but one barrel of beer and a half-dozen bottles of rotgut had been broken and wasted, and little remained of the furnishings.
She was glad for the sheriff’s quick departure; the man was infuriating. His large frame and rakish good looks only emphasized his arrogance. And those penetrating gray eyes…
Marta was absolutely wrong about this man’s character!
She returned home to find her father locked in his room. No doubt he lay in a stupor, but she decided not to wake him. What could he do about the break-in, anyway?
She sat down at the table and looked around. Such a meager life they lived now. She tried to imagine what her mother might be doing this very moment. Perhaps she’d be dressing for some kind of social engagement. Layers of petticoat, hair neatly coiffed, a brooch at her throat—perhaps the one she’d worn so often when Papa took her out. Dressed for the theater or some fancy dinner?
Kitty pushed the memories of her past life aside. It wasn’t as if she wanted to go back to that—the rules, the expectations, the starched and rigid role as the daughter of one of Boston’s elite. But what future did she have here?
Did she dare move forward with her own plans? She felt for the pouch still hidden under her d
ress and sighed. She’d not turn that money over to her father—
She got up and forced herself to tidy up the front room. It didn’t take long.
Clearing out the muddle in her head, she decided she’d make bread; that always gave her a sense of satisfaction and wellbeing. She’d even take a loaf to Marta this evening when she joined them for supper.
****
Chance moved down the street, his eyes moving over the ragged men moving along the narrow main street. Were any of these poorly dressed men the scoundrel? He frowned. The thief had left little in the way of clues.
But it wasn’t the robbery that had overtaken his thoughts; Miss Whitworth had invaded his mind. Obviously a young woman of some quality—or had been—she certainly didn’t fit into the low character of settlements like Lone Pine. She belonged in some refined environment, not here. She’d indicated that her mother had left, most likely to return to such a place. New York? Baltimore? Maybe Boston?
He headed to the mercantile, the most substantial building in town, pushing the lovely, albeit annoying, Miss Whitworth from his mind.
Frank Gracie had done well for himself, he thought as he scanned the neatly lettered sign above the door and real glass window boasting a peek into his store. Being the only storekeep for miles around, he had carved out a nice living.
He caught Frank’s image through the pane and waved, then entered on the heels of an elderly woman dressed in men’s overalls and heavy boots. Not a picture one saw in towns of any size outside of California’s wild mining communities, he mused.
She spat a stream into the spittoon just inside the door. “Frank?” she called out as she approached the counter. “I need some coffee, beans and flour. And a tin of canned meat. We’re down to moldy bacon and I can’t stomach another meal of Albert’s poor cooking. He ain’t even been able to trap us a rabbit of late.”
Frank laughed as he filled her order. “Good morning, Hildy. You better tell Albert he can afford more than that. I saw his poke last week and he’s got dust enough for more than rotten pork. Why don’t you surprise him with some canned fruit? We got peaches, don’t you know.”
The woman smiled a toothy smile. “Sounds good. Throw in two cans.”
After she left, Chance had to laugh. “I take it she’s a woman never to argue with.”
Frank smiled. “You’re right.”
Chance moved around the store. “Well, we have our first situation.”
Frank’s tone changed. “Oh?”
“Whitey’s was broken into last night. Miss Whitworth came to the office this morning. Whoever it was knew where to find the moneybox and didn’t leave much else behind that she could use.”
Frank frowned. “Poor Kitty. She’s had her work cut out for many months.”
“What’s her story anyway? She’d be better fit as a schoolteacher—”
“That’s true. She’s refined. Originally from Massachusetts, I believe, although her mother is Bostonian. Ran out on Kitty and Hiram last year. Good riddance, I say, but a shame, all the same. Kitty had to take on everything after ol’ Hiram started in with the bottle.”
“Hmmm,” returned Chance, shoving away the sudden compassion he felt for this member of the fairer sex. “Well, if you hear anything, let me know. I’d like to nail the son-of-a-b—”
****
Kitty finished dressing, then donned her cape and wrapped the loaf of freshly baked bread in a cloth. She wondered if she should knock on her father’s door then decided against it. He’d not worry; no doubt he’d think she was at the saloon, anyway.
She considered dimming Mother’s lamps, but left them lit. She didn’t want Papa to stumble around in the dark when he stirred. She left the second loaf of bread on the table along with two fresh eggs. Hopefully, he’d at least fry himself an egg if he got hungry.
She headed down through town, refusing to respond to the men who called out to her, demanding to know why Whitey’s was closed.
She didn’t stop until Adam Cox appeared out of nowhere, blocking her path. He smiled and tapped the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Kitty.” His eyes were as cold as chunks of blue ice.
Anger surged through her. “Mr. Cox.”
“Now, don’t be shy,” he slurred. He’d obviously been drinking. “I’ve been waiting most of the afternoon just to catch your eye.” He smiled again. “You closed the saloon—”
She bit her lip, not wanting to reveal anything, especially since she suddenly wondered if he might be the culprit. The sheriff had clearly humiliated him in front of no fewer than a dozen men. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” she said at last. She raised her chin and tried to stare him down.
“That’s all right by me,” he said, leaning forward. “That leaves more time for you—and me.”
“Hardly,” she snapped. “If you’ll excuse me—”
He stepped into her path once more. “You don’t seem to understand,” he murmured, reaching out to draw her closer. “You’ve been giving me the run-around for too long, Kitty. I’m not a patient man.”
Kitty pulled away, nearly dropping the loaf of bread. “I don’t know why you think I’m interested in you,” she said. “I have no illusions about the kind of man you are. Now, step aside.” She steeled herself against some further action, but to her surprise, he moved out of her way.
She rushed past him, refusing to look back—her heart pounding wildly in her throat, her palms wet with perspiration.
When she reached Marta and Frank’s house, she took a slow, deep breath. It would do no good to upset them, she thought. They’d been so good to her since her arrival in Lone Pine; she relished the time she spent with them. Marta, eager to befriend her, had taken it upon herself to have Kitty come over at least one night a week. The two often talked late into the night, and there was very little Marta didn’t know about Kitty’s life or her aspirations.
Frank opened the door, a broad smile on his face. Homely, but not un-handsome, he had likewise taken Kitty into their family circle. “Hello,” he said. “Was afraid you might have cancelled on us.”
“No, never,” returned Kitty, hoping the quiver in her voice didn’t give her away.
“Come in,” called Marta from the kitchen.
Kitty followed Frank into the familiar over-sized kitchen, which served as parlor and dining room, as well. Few homes in Lone Pine had separate living spaces; most were lucky to have a separate bedroom or two.
She slipped off her cape and, stepping into the warmly lit kitchen, she stopped when she saw the sheriff seated at the table.
He rose and smiled. “Hello, Miss Whitworth.”
“Uh, hello, sheriff,” she stammered, and looked away. Marta seemed to be smiling encouragingly, and Kitty knew she’d finagled this dinner to accommodate their meeting.
Sheriff Reibold held out his right hand, forcing her to look up and into his haunting gray eyes. She nodded obligingly.
Frank rushed to introduce them. “Kitty, this is Chance Riebold, our sheriff, and an old friend. Well, not so old,” he chuckled. “He was our scout on the trip west,” he said. “A damn fine scout,” he added. “We never ran into any trouble on the trail, and the credit goes to Chance. We’re so glad he agreed to try Lone Pine on for size.”
Marta grinned as she stepped forward to take the loaf of bread. She sniffed it and turned to Chance. “This girl can cook.”
Kitty blushed. Please, she wanted to say to Marta—I am not in the market. At least not for a man like him.
Frank took Kitty’s wrap and slipped it over a hook on the wall next to the back door. Kitty then went over to where Marta leaned over a steaming kettle. “Let me,” she said.
Marta shook her head. “You will not. You are dressed far too nicely to be cooking or stoking a fire. But you may set the table,” she said with a nod toward the sideboard.
Kitty pulled out the ironstone dishes Marta stored in the lower half of the cabinet and headed to the table.
Chance stood up and put out his h
ands. “Let me,” he offered. He had noticed her hands were trembling. “Are you all right, Miss Whitworth?”
She held her breath. “I’m fine, Mr. Riebold, just fine.”
“I doubt that,” he returned boldly, his voice a husky whisper. He distributed the plates around the table but his eyes remained on her. “If it’s about—”
“Come on, you two,” interrupted Frank. “Dinner will be getting cold.”
Marta raised her eyebrows as she gave Frank an impatient glance. “Now, Frank,” she said, “let these two get to know one another.”
Kitty flushed. She dropped the knives and forks to the table. “Marta, I’m not feeling well. Maybe I should leave—”
“You will not,” returned Marta. “Chance told us about the break-in. Who wouldn’t be undone? Frank, pull up another chair—”
Chance pulled out the chair nearest her. “Please, Miss Whitworth, take a seat.”
Frank cleared his throat. “Let’s all sit.”
Marta carried the kettle to the table and set it down with a thud, then thrust the ladle into Frank’s hands. “Here,” she said, “serve up—”
Just then, a far-off caterwauling interrupted her. Startled, Kitty glanced from Frank to Chance.
A bell tolled.
Frank pushed back his chair. “Fire!”
****
Kitty raced to keep up with Chance, her stomach rolling as she saw the smoke curl up and around the trees that hid much of Lone Pine’s settlement. “Papa!” she cried as she rounded the edge of town to spot the flames engulfing her home. “Papa!”
Chance glanced back over his shoulder. “Stay back!”
“No!” she sobbed. “That’s my house. And my father—”
Marta and Frank were at her side.
Frank took hold of her arm as Marta encircled her in her arms. “You can’t go in there—”
“But Papa—”
“Stay back, Kitty,” whispered Frank.
A handful of men had already set up a small bucket brigade—although the majority stood back in resignation—but they could not quell the flames that lapped at the sides of the small house. Water was not held in any quantity in Lone Pine, which meant that fire was an ever-constant threat.
Lariats, Letters, and Lace Page 22
