It seemed like every occupant of the hotel was in the narrow passageway when he left his room. Some greeted him with a congratulatory pat on the back, some with curiosity, others with anger. It pleased him to greet them all with a beaming smile.
Maybe because he was thinking of Fern the whole time.
Why couldn't he get this tomboy out of his mind? It wasn't like she was beautiful, rich, or had any accomplishments. She was a nobody from a squalid little town perched on the edge of nowhere.
He had to give it to her. Nobody else could wear pants like she could.
"Good morning, Mr. Randolph," the desk clerk greeted him when he reached the lobby. "I hope the bath was to your liking."
"It'll take several more before I feel clean, but I imagine the lingering effects of incarceration are all in my mind."
"It can't be nothing like what a man of your position is used to," the clerk said.
Unctuous devil, Madison said to himself. Wonder what he's up to.
"I heard Reed and Pike forced the fight on you. Probably thought you was an easy mark."
"Apparently everyone else did, too. They seemed willing enough to enjoy the fun."
"From what I hear, you handled yourself real good. It comes as a surprise to some."
"I have one sport at which I'm considered rather good," Madison said, not without a touch of pride. "Boxing."
The streets were quiet despite the number of people about. Early morning was the time of the day when the solid citizens of Abilene conducted their business. Even the cowhands ambling about looked sober.
Women shopped and gossiped while their children darted from one spot to another in search of entertainment. Madison had come to understand that these women probably had to be as tough as Fern just to survive being married and raising a family in the West. It was a quality he was learning to appreciate.
Not that he would consider marrying a western woman. She would never fit into Boston society. Besides, there were dozens of young women in Boston who would make him an excellent wife. Freddy's sister, Samantha, was exactly the kind of girl he admired. Lovely, cultured, always properly behaved and dressed. Unfortunately he'd never found anyone of decorous behavior lively enough to interest him.
It was odd he should be thinking of marriage. Maybe seeing George and his growing family had touched off the mating instinct in him. He guessed he'd have to give it some serious thought when he got back home.
Leaving behind the business district of Abilene, Madison walked past several residences. They were small, frame dwellings of mean appearance completely unlike the spacious stone or clapboard homes of New England, but at least they were better than the sod and log homes he had seen at the edge of town and scattered over the prairie.
He wondered how old Fern was. He also wondered if she'd ever wanted to be married. Even in Kansas, he imagined she'd have to wear a dress before a man would ask her to be his wife.
He wondered what she would look like properly clothed. He couldn't picture her in anything but pants and a sheepskin vest with the brim of her hat pulled down over her eyes. Not a picture, one would have supposed, to keep him awake at night.
Yet she had done exactly that.
It's nothing more than irritation. She's an irritation to look at, an annoyance to think about, and an aggravation to deal with. Since that was exactly how the oyster felt about the grain of sand which it turned into a pearl, that must be why he had just made up his mind to see her in a dress at least once before he left Abilene.
"Morning, Mr. Randolph."
"Do I know you?" Madison said, turning to face a man who spoke to him from the doorway of one of the houses.
"No, but I heard about you."
"After the other night, I imagine everybody has."
"I don't mean that. I mean about why you're here."
"I guess everybody knows that, too."
"They don't like it neither. Lots of people likes Texans as long as they're spending money, but nobody likes fancy lawyers from back East."
"So I've learned."
"They won't tell you nothing."
Madison's gaze intensified. "Do you mean you will?"
"I don't know nothing for sure, but I got a couple of questions out looking for answers."
"I've got more than enough questions myself."
"I know somebody who might be able to answer one or two of them. You want to come inside? Some people might not be too happy to see me talking to you."
Madison was fully alert to the possibility of danger. He was unarmed. He knew he could very well step into this stranger's house and disappear into an unmarked grave somewhere on the vast prairie. Or he might find a way to prove Hen hadn't killed Troy Sproull. To achieve one, he must chance the other.
Madison turned toward the house.
Chapter Ten
The room was plainly furnished but scrupulously clean. It seemed like such a honest room, Madison felt he could trust the man who lived here.
"Have a seat," the man said, motioning Madison to the most comfortable chair in the room.
"I'll stand if you don't mind. I've spent too much time lying down or sitting the last two days."
That seemed to make the man uneasy, but Madison wanted information, not comfort. He was also anxious to see Fern.
"My name's Tom White," the man said, extending his hand. "I run a small freight business."
Madison took Tom's hand. "I imagine you get around."
"A bit."
"And meet a lot of different people."
"A few."
Madison curbed his impatience while Tom rolled and lighted a cigarette. He obviously wasn't going to talk until he was ready.
"Amos tells me you got a different idea about how Troy died," Tom said. His empty eyes showed nothing. "How'd you come by it?"
"The body was stiff so Troy had to be killed at least eight hours earlier. And the killer went to the trouble of painting a horse to look like Hen's."
"Do you have any idea who the killer might be?"
"No. Do you?"
Tom shook his head.
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"A friend of mine says he saw Hen the night Troy was killed."
Madison's body tensed. "Who is your friend? How can I get in touch with him?"
"I'm not sure he'll talk to you. He may want some money first."
Madison stiffened. Maybe this man was going to try to blackmail him, to threaten to say he saw Hen at the Connor place if the Randolphs didn't pay up.
"What does he know?"
"He says your brother wasn't anywhere near that soddy when Troy was killed."
Madison's well-schooled features didn't betray his mounting excitement.
"Where did he see Hen?"
"He wouldn't say."
"Will he tell it to a judge and jury?"
"I don't know."
"I've got to talk to him."
"He may not agree to meet you. He's not a trusting man."
"Tell him I'll meet him anywhere, any time," Madison said.
"I'll do what I can. I'll let you know."
Madison turned to go. "What do you get out of this?" he asked, turning back.
"I want to know who killed Troy."
"Why?"
"I want to shake his hand. I hated the son-of-a-bitch.”
* * * * *
"You shouldn't leave yet," Rose said. "You're still so stiff you can hardly move."
"I have to go home," Fern said. "There's nobody to do my work. Besides, there's nobody to take care of Papa."
"There's not a man alive who can't get along by himself if he has to," Rose stated. "I can't describe the condition of the house when I arrived at the Circle Seven. It was enough to kill rats, but the Randolph men were thriving."
"I don't imagine they'd want to live like that again," Fern said, thinking of the meticulous care Rose took of her family.
"Wait until you meet Monty. As long as he has a full stomach, he could live in a cr
eek bottom and be happy."
"I don't imagine I'll meet any more Randolphs," Fern replied, thinking of the things Madison had said to her in the jail. She had tried to put the entire exchange out of her mind, but she couldn't.
"You'd like Monty. He's not like Madison."
Fern was surprised how much Rose's comparison irritated her. She'd accused Madison of nearly every shady practice she could think of, yet now she found herself wanting to defend him. Her brain must be getting soggy.
Still, he wasn't really bad, not if you didn't mind his arrogance. She never would have guessed he could ride as well as he did. She'd had plenty of time to remember every mile of that agonizing ride. She still blushed when she remembered he had brought her back in his arms.
That hadn't meant so much at first. There hadn't been any other way to get her back, but the more she thought about it, the more confused she felt.
At first she had been incensed he would dare treat her with such familiarity. But only a few hours later, somewhat to her surprise, she hadn't been so angry.
In fact, when she had the courage to be honest with herself, she admitted it made her feel good. But when she thought of it in connection with his kiss and the small sliver of time when her body responded to his touch, she lost her way. She didn't know what she felt or wanted to feel, but she knew it was something totally unexpected, something with a promise so wonderful she couldn't forget it no matter how much it frightened her.
"Take this nightgown with you," Rose said.
"I can't," Fern answered.
"Of course you can. I've got lots more. They're about all a woman in my condition can wear."
It didn't matter what Rose wore. She had an elegance about her, a natural grace which drew attention even though she was no great beauty and was relatively short in statue. Fern wondered how it was possible for an expectant mother to look so dainty and feminine.
Fern couldn't. She was at least half a foot taller than Rose, much too big to be considered dainty. She didn't even bother to envy Rose's white skin. Years of working in the sun and wind had turned her skin to leather.
But she had liked wearing the gown. It made her feel feminine even if she knew she didn't look it. It was a small vanity, like her hair and lace chemise, but harmless as long as she remembered it was just an illusion.
"Okay, I'll take it, but I don't know when I'll wear it. If Papa sees it, he'll swear I've taken sick."
She wondered what Madison would think. A stupid question. If he wanted to see a woman in bedclothes, he would look for someone much prettier, much more feminine, much more fetching in pink.
She wondered if he had a mistress.
He was much too straightlaced to seduce a lady. If he was to satisfy his physical needs, it would have to be with a soiled dove, much as the Texas cowhands did when they reached Abilene after being on the trail for two or three months. She wondered what soiled doves in Boston were like. Probably a lot more ladylike than anybody in Abilene.
"You ought to have more than one nightgown," Rose said. "Pretty dresses, too. A woman owes it to herself to look her best as often as possible. It does wonders for the way men treat us."
It wouldn't do wonders for the way they treated her. No one in Abilene could remember seeing her in a dress, and they never would.
"There's not much call out here for women to look pretty," Fern said. "Men are more pleased if we're strong and hard workers."
"They like strong, hardworking women in Texas, too," Rose said, "but there's no reason we can't be both. Besides, I expect George to look attractive. Just because he keeps company with horses and cows is no reason to smell like one."
Fern laughed. "I'll have to tell Papa that next time he comes in smelling like the barnyard."
"You can't use reason on them," Rose warned. "They don't understand it for all they consider themselves rational creatures."
"Don't make me laugh. It still hurts."
"Which proves you have no business leaving. How do you plan to get home? You can't mean to ride your horse."
"I've ridden a horse more than I've walked," Fern said, trying to think where to pack the pink nightgown. She had nowhere but her saddle bags, but she didn't want it to smell like her horse by the time she got it home. Not that she planned to let anybody know she had it. It would just be nice to know it was tucked away in the bottom of her drawer.
"That may be true, but you're in no condition to ride just yet."
"I'm much stronger than you think."
"Maybe, but I can see you wince every time you bend over."
"I'll probably keep on wincing for another week, but it won't kill me."
"Are you always this stubborn?" Rose asked, her exasperation showing.
"I'm usually worse," Fern said, trying to smile. "I'm being very polite."
"Damn your politeness. I'm more concerned about your well-being."
"I'll be just fine. I've taken much worse falls and had no one to look after me. My mother died trying to have the son Papa always wanted."
"Mine died when I was twelve, but I think my father was well satisfied with his daughter."
"So is mine, as long as I do my share of the work."
"You mean as long as you act like a son."
"It's not his fault," Fern said, not meeting Rose's gaze. "It's my choice."
"Why?" Rose asked, baffled. "You're pretty enough to have half the young men in Abilene wearing out the trail to your farm."
"Don't!" Fern said, so desperate to block out the words she almost put her hands over her ears. It had taken her years to accept the fact she wasn't pretty, that she never would be, and she didn't want anybody trying to tell her differently now. It would just set her up for someone like Madison to tear her down again.
"You may have gone through an awkward age," Rose said, "I did myself, but you aren't in one now. I don't know any woman with a more stunning figure. I've been envying it ever since you arrived. Even Mrs. Abbott noticed."
Fern could see Rose wasn't going to give up until she discovered why she preferred to dress like a man. Relief had to be the reason her heart started to beat so fast when Madison entered the room.
"What's this Mrs. Abbott tells me about you going back home?" he asked. "You're not well enough."
Mrs. Abbott trailed in on Madison's heels. "That's what Mrs. Randolph has been telling her for the last hour, but she won't listen."
"Maybe you'll have better luck," Rose said to Madison. "She's still in a lot of pain."
The symptoms Fern was experiencing just now -- lightheadedness, shallowness of breath, and a decidedly uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach -- had nothing to do with pain.
"Judging from our last conversation," Fern said, "he's more likely to chase me from the house with a shotgun than try to keep me here."
She tried to calm her reaction to his presence, but she couldn't act like he was just another man when merely looking at him made her feel faint. He was freshly washed and shaved; his hair still glistened with moisture. He looked like a new-minted penny, all bright and shiny. She couldn't understand why he was still single. If she'd been a Boston heiress, she'd have paid someone to kidnap him for her.
"This has nothing to do with my ill-chosen remarks," Madison said. "You took a terrible fall. You shouldn't even have gotten out of bed to come to the jail."
Fern wondered why men were always thinking they could put the parts of their lives into separate little boxes and deal with one box without even peeking into the others. Even cows didn't do that. If they were depressed, they'd stop giving milk. Didn't people have the same right to be all tied together in a single bundle?
"I figured that out about a minute after I entered the jail."
Madison looked chastened. In fact, if she hadn't known it was impossible, she'd have said he looked repentant.
"That's part of the reason I'm here," he said, "to apologize. I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean them."
Fern was stunned. She could see
the apology cost him a great effort, but she was even more surprised at the effect on her. It wasn't just that her anger dissolved; she felt weak and weepy. It was disgusting that a few kinds words, a tiny vein of decency in the man, should make her feel like crying.
She wanted to be able to be in the same room with him without arguing, but she didn't want to stand here gaping at him, wondering how he could breathe with such a stiff collar, why a man who didn't care what anyone thought of him should be so meticulous in his appearance. In a town where scruffy beards, threadbare clothes, and the smell of sweat and cow dung was the norm, he took her breath away. Even though she couldn't quite accustomed herself to a man smelling of scent, she found the faint aroma of shaving cream appealing.
Jerking her mind out of its rumination, Fern said, "I have to go home. I'm behind in my work."
"If you have any intention of picking up a knife and going after those poor young bulls--"
A tremulous smiled appeared on Fern's lips. "I wish Reed and Pike had taken out their anger on those bulls instead of you."
"Maybe your father has taken care of it already," Rose suggested.
"Not him. The only person who ever helped me was Troy. Until Papa fired him. There's no need to look like a cat that's just been handed a bowl of cream," she said to Madison. "Papa didn't kill Troy. They just never got along. Everybody knows that."
"Then you're better off without him," Madison said. "But as for this going home today--"
"I must," Fern said. "I've trespassed on Rose's kindness too long."
"It's no bother," Rose assured her. "We'd already hired the house."
But Fern knew Rose would offer Mrs. Abbott extra compensation. She also knew Mrs. Abbott would ask for it if it weren't offered.
Fern bent over to pick up her saddlebags. Only through a heroic effort did she prevent her face from reflecting the agonizing pain that tore through her chest when she tried to lift it. Instinctively, her gaze cut to Madison. He saw. He knew.
She left the saddlebags in the corner.
"You're not going to ride," Madison stated. It wasn't a question. It was a flat denial, and denials always got her back up.
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