Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  When she'd first come here a year ago, the firing of guns usually meant there'd be meat for the table. Since Will had been shot, she knew the treachery and human tragedy that was possible. And now she'd committed murder herself. This man might have been the answer to her prayers and here she'd gone and killed him.

  What did she do now? Her first instinct was to run to the house and slam the door shut behind her. The second, and more humane instinct, see to the man whose life she'd taken. She shouldn't leave him in the barn, but what else could she do? There was no one to help and the stranger was too large for her to move by herself. She supposed she should at least try and figure out who he was so when the sheriff came he could notify the next of kin.

  The man's outer coat pockets yielded nothing. Unbuttoning the heavy garment revealed a green vest layered over a heavy woolen shirt. Further searching found a leather pouch safe, fastened at his waist. A drawstring bag containing tobacco, rolling papers and a few coins were inside, along with a strip of jerky and part of a biscuit wrapped in a scrap of cotton cloth. Nothing to help her identify him.

  Replacing the bag into the pouch, Angel carefully folded the flap back in place and re-buttoned his coat. He'd certainly been a handsome man. Taller than most, his shoulders were broad and his hands were big as dinner plates. She jerked her hand away when her fingers brushed his neck as she straightened the vest and the collar of his coat. She found it impossible to think him dead when his skin was still warm beneath her touch.

  Tentatively, she caressed his cheek. Whether it was an effort to show remorse for her actions or to will him back to life, she couldn't say, but the act seemed right. Without warning, his hand shot up behind her neck and pulled her head down until their noses nearly touched. Panic enveloped her and she tried to push away but to no avail. He held her with an iron-like grip. When his eyes popped open, she shrieked.

  Pinning her with an accusing glare, he whispered, “What the hell did ye do?”

  Angel stared into eyes the shade of dark turquoise. They radiated pain and confusion while a handful of minutes ago they'd held laughter. At her, she reminded herself.

  “It was an accident,” she pleaded while struggling to pull out of his grasp. “I didn't mean to shoot you.”

  “Like hell ye didn't. Ye aimed the gun didn't ye?”

  “Yes, but you scared the life out of me, busting into my barn the way you did. I thought you were a brute from my neighbor's ranch.”

  He closed his eyes in obvious pain. “I should take ye over my knee and blister yer behind.”

  “You'll do no such thing, why I—”

  “Oh, holy hell.” His free hand reached to the side of his head. With all bluster absent from his tone, he captured her gaze and pleaded, “Help me.”

  Chapter Two

  Angel landed flat on her bottom when he let go of her neck. She gulped air as she swallowed, trying to force her heart back into her chest. She scrabbled to her knees and then to her feet, thanking her lucky stars she was young and strong. After Will being shot and what had happened today, if she'd had her Pa's bum ticker, she'd be dead.

  Keeping her distance, she leaned over the stranger. She made sure he was completely out then took off her scarf and wrapped it around his head to help slow the bleeding. By all appearances, she'd only grazed his temple so he'd likely survive. That is, if she managed to get him inside by the fire.

  She searched the barn for anything that could be used to drag him to the house, but nothing lent itself to the task. Her only option appeared to be getting him up to walk with her assistance. Kneeling beside him, she jostled him slightly.

  He moaned, but didn't open his eyes.

  “Sir, I need you to wake up.” She placed her hand on his chest where his heart beat strong. “Sir? I need your help.”

  Shifting his position, his hand covered hers. He blinked as if trying to focus and then whispered, “Where am I, colleen? I'm looking for Will Rivers and the Double R.”

  “Why? What do you want with him?”

  “He's a friend.”

  “Will's never mentioned any friends except those I know in town. Who are you?”

  “Ja-Jamey O'Donnell.” He cleared his throat, swallowed, then tried to raise himself to a sitting position. He propped himself up and leaned on his left arm. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out an envelope from his left breast pocket. “Here, he sent me a letter.”

  Angel took the folded and wrinkled paper from him. She immediately recognized Will's familiar scrawl and opened it. He'd written it well over a month ago asking for help, presumably from this man.

  “And how do I know you are this Jamey O'Donnell?” She pulled her husband’s coat closer to her and crossed her arms against the chill. “How do you know my husband?”

  “We were drovers a few years ago on a cattle drive with my brother-in-law, Ian Benning.”

  She noticed he'd started to shiver and knew they both needed to get inside. She'd heard Will mention someone named Benning so she supposed this man spoke the truth.

  “If you can stand and lean against me, I'll help you get inside to the fire.”

  “Not until I've taken care of Rusty.”

  “I'll come back out and get him grain and water.”

  “No, I'll do it.”

  Great, just what she needed, another stubborn man. She'd dealt with plenty of those in her twenty odd years.

  “Come on,” Angel said, giving in to the man's obvious pig-headed nature. “We'll do it together.”

  ***

  Jamey stirred. The pain pinging around the inside his head had calmed to a dull ache. He no longer thought the top of his skull was going to come off and that was a blessing. He wondered where he was, but didn't open his eyes for fear he'd find he was still outside in the cold and he was much too warm to borrow that trouble anytime soon.

  It would be so easy to drift along in the warm quiet, to be lulled into a false sense of security. Problem was he couldn't remember any of the last few hours, and he needed to get his bearings. Was he really inside or had he gone delusional? Was he laying out somewhere in the cold, close to death with his mind tricking him into believing he was warm? He'd heard of people being so cold they felt hot. They'd get so confused they'd take off their clothes and die from exposure.

  He forced himself to recall everything he'd done since leaving the town of Denison this morning. He remembered parting ways with the stagecoach to search for either the Double R or a place to bed down for the night. From there the sequence of events flooded his mind, ending with the gun's explosion and the whoosh of air as the bullet had grazed his head above his ear.

  Jamey's heart accelerated at that remembrance but subsided quickly at the sound of a woman's voice speaking quietly in the distance. He opened his eyes and checked his surroundings. He was lying on blankets by the fireplace located near the cook stove. A table and two chairs sat in the middle of the room. Darkness hung outside the single window on the front wall. Sitting up, he noticed an open door to a back room where he guessed the voice was coming from. He listened closely.

  “I'm so sorry, I never meant to shoot him. I think he'll be all right, though, since the bullet only grazed him.”

  He recognized the voice as that of the woman who'd shot him. Standing, he held the side of his head and walked over to what was most probably a bedroom and met her coming out. He startled her and she jumped.

  “Oh, good gussie,” she exclaimed. Eyes wide her hand clutched at the fabric covering her heart. “I didn't know you were up.”

  “Who are you're talking to?”

  “My husband.”

  “Will? I'd like to speak to him.”

  “I'm afraid that's impossible.”

  Jamey disregarded her. “Ah, nothin's impossible.” He opened the door and right away the freezing temperature and stench of death hit him between the eyes. An odor so foul, that once smelled, it was never forgotten. His friend lay lifeless beneath the blankets. Slowly he backed out of the room, clos
ed the door, and whirled to face his shooter.

  “What the hell happened to him?” Turning made his head spin and he grabbed for a nearby chair back. “He said in his letter he needed help but this . . .”

  Facing the stove, she ignored him. “Would you like something to eat or drink? I've just made some soup—”

  “Hell no I don't want to eat,” he blasted. “What's happened?”

  “We've been having some problems.”

  “I'd say ye got that right. Care to tell me what those might be?”

  “Will should be the one to tell you, but since he's—”

  “Woman.” Jamey spoke in a tone meant to intimidate. His sister, Matelyn, knew he was mostly bluff, but strangers often backed down. “Ye're tryin' my patience.”

  Pulling out the other chair, she sat at the table, her hands clasped tightly together. In a tone just above a whisper, she answered, “Will was shot two weeks ago. He died the day before yesterday.”

  “Any ideas who did it?”

  “Yes, a couple, but nothing you could hang your hat on as Will would say.”

  A sad smile touched her lips. Nice full lips, he noticed.

  “Care to elaborate on those?”

  Jamey watched her closely as she buried her face in the crook of her arm and began to cry. Obviously overcome by her ordeal of the last few weeks, he understood she was most certainly upset. Anyone would be. Perhaps he should try another approach. He wasn't a monster after all.

  He walked over to the stove, lifted the lid on the soup pot and drank in the aroma of cooked chicken. Simultaneously, his mouth watered and his stomach growled. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. If she was as hungry as he, maybe she'd be more forthcoming on a full stomach

  After he retrieved two bowls, he filled them, set them on the table and sat across from her. Pushing her bowl nearer to her, he sampled a spoonful of the savory smelling soup. For being mostly broth, it was some of the best he'd ever tasted.

  Picking up her bowl, she sipped at the broth then closed her eyes. She lifted her head and gave him a look he couldn't quite figure out. One thing he knew for sure. This information gathering just might prove harder than pulling eye teeth.

  ***

  Angel swallowed the broth, enjoying its warmth all the way to her stomach. She'd been about frozen through, but the soup and the fire would go a long way toward thawing her out. Luckily there'd been just enough chicken left over to make the pot of soup this morning.

  The man sitting across the table clinked his spoon against the bowl, then shifted in his chair. Slowly she opened her eyes to concentrate on the flowers embroidered in yellow and red thread on the table cloth. It was one of the few things she had left from her previous life that, most of the time, helped her to feel connected and reminded her of happier times.

  Today, however, she only felt sad and overwhelmed. How was she supposed to survive losing a second husband in one year? How could she manage to run the ranch by herself and fend off the men who wanted to take it all away from her? If they could get away with killing her husband, a strong and determined man who'd faced them alone until three weeks ago, what would happen to her?

  Would this Jamey O'Donnell be able to help her stand against Cleve Moran to protect Will Rivers' head right that was now her own? His demeanor projected strength, confidence, and tolerance. He’d exhibited patience before and after she’d shot him and expected the truth. Perhaps it was time for her to trust him.

  Chapter Three

  “Colleen?” he asked softly, staring, waiting for her to answer.

  Avoiding eye contact, Angel placed their bowls into the dishpan, wiped down the drain board and then folded the dishrag. Stalling. Why was she stalling? And why did he keep calling her Colleen? Turning to face him, she leaned against the counter with her hands braced on the edge.

  “Mr. O'Donnell, we haven’t been formally introduced but for some reason you seem to be under the impression that my name is Colleen and, while you say it real pretty with your Irish brogue, my given name is Angela. Most folks call me Angel.”

  “Angel,” he repeated, coughed and covered a grin behind his hand. “Pleased to be under your roof.”

  She should really be upset he laughed at her but seeing as how she'd shot him, she let it go.

  Exhaling, she began, “The trouble started just before Will and I married last year.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had a run of bad luck after he returned from the cattle drive. Seems he'd borrowed money from his neighbor, Cleve Moran, and then lost what he had left in a poker game. He couldn't afford to pay his debts or his ranch hands and had to let them go.”

  She pushed away from the counter and sat down at the table. “After we married, he tried to borrow money from the bank but they turned him down. Moran started badgering him for payment of his debt.”

  “Aye, I imagine that was difficult. I know what this place meant to Will. He’s had this place since before the war.”

  “Will had great dreams for his ranch. He wanted to turn it into a home for troubled boys. For a time as a young man before the war, he'd almost gotten in with a band of outlaws. Someone had helped him turn his life around and he wanted to return the favor. He'd already taken in a few boys when I came along. Seems he had a thing for lost causes.

  “Anyway, he thought if he planted wheat and cotton and promised to make restitution after harvest, he'd be out from under Mr. Moran.”

  “I take it that didn't appease the man?”

  “No, it didn’t. Several sections of our fence were cut so Moran's cattle could reach water and graze. The beeves ruined everything we planted.”

  “What'd the marshal have to say about it?”

  “Will didn't want to involve the law, thought he could take care of matters himself.”

  “I remember he was a proud man.” Resting his forearms on the table, he leaned forward. “Can ye tell me how he ended up bein' shot?”

  His voice, soft with care and concern, nearly undid her. She didn't know much about the details, but she could tell him what little bit she recalled. She'd thought of nothing else since her husband had shown up late that December evening. Steeling herself against the memories, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I don't know exactly. Will left before dawn two weeks ago to check and fix the fences. He took provisions for a week.”

  “That's quite a long time to be out alone in December.”

  “There's a small shack on the other side of our land where he could stay if the weather got too bad. I didn't begin to worry until a few days into the second week.”

  Deep in thought, she examined the Mason jar she used as a spooner. It sat on the table holding her spoons for jellies and jams. One day she hoped to have one like the cut glass ones she'd seen at the hotel. She thought of anything to keep from dwelling how long Will had lain out there wounded with no one to help him. Finally the grief, sadness and tears refused to stay bottled up inside.

  The dam broke as she sobbed into her hands. “By the time he showed up back here, he was too far gone. I couldn’t save him.”

  ***

  Jamey stood and knelt by her side, slipping his arm around her shoulders.

  “There, there, Col—” He stopped in the middle of his usual endearment. Not wanting to contribute to her distress, he used her own name. “Angel, let it out.”

  Without hesitation, she turned into his arms, crying on his shoulder. Finally, she pushed herself away from him, took a deep breath, and wiped her cheeks and nose with a towel lying on the table.

  Hiccoughing softly, she said, “Thank you, I needed that.”

  “Aye that ye did. Sometimes there's nothin' better than a good cry.”

  “That's true, but how do you know that?”

  “I've been surrounded by women all my life. I've learned a thing or two.” He thought her name suited her. She looked like an Angel. Her pale blue eyes stood out against creamy skin that remarkably showed
no traces of her recent crying. His sister, Matelyn, and cousin, Katie, cursed their Irish heritage for they always had blotchy skin and swollen eyes when they shed tears.

  Her smile, however, was anything but angelic. Her mouth, while certainly kissable, sent his thoughts down a devilish path.

  Standing, he chastised himself. She was just widowed and her husband had been a friend. He had to clear his mind and take control of the situation. One of his first priorities should be to stop calling her by her given name, Angel.

  He took a closer look at his surroundings. The cabin, as a whole, was sparsely furnished. A few jars of canned vegetables sat on the counter next to the stove. Meat was in question, but being a pretty fair shot, he could hunt. The room had taken on a chill as the fire had died down and he only saw a few small logs beside the fireplace.

  She'd seemed to have gathered herself, so he asked, “Mrs. Rivers, do ye have a stack of wood stored outside?”

  “There's enough for tonight and part of tomorrow in the lean-to beside the cabin. I've just about gone through what Will had chopped before he left.”

  “What about food? Do ye have any meat to go with those canned vegetables?”

  “The last of the chicken's in the pot and there's a small amount of venison in the smoke house.”

  “Good.”

  “Mr. O'Donnell, shouldn't we bury Will soon?”

  “Depends. The ground may be too hard to dig right now, and we have to tell the authorities,” he said, trying to be honest. When her eyes filled with fresh tears, he quickly added, “But, one way or another, we'll do our best to lay him to rest as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.” Going to the door, she pulled on her boots and her husband's coat.

  “Where're ye headed?”

  “Out to get the wood we'll need for the night.”

  “Take those off. I'll get it when I go out to check on Rusty and the other animals.”