by Anna Murray
Aiken's arrogance began to chap Ned's hide. Like Sarah, he'd figured this man wasn't a detective. And he didn't resemble the bloodsucking bounty hunters that used to drift into Lola's place either.
Ned stepped in front of Sarah and grunted. "You ask your questions, but I can't give you leave to go poking around the place. The Eastons ain't far away. I'll call them in."
Ned stepped up to the bell and rang it long and loud. "Go on. Ask your questions while you're waitin' on the Eastons," he spat.
* * *
Roy and Cal heard the distant ring. Both men grimaced and stomachs twisted. The last time they'd heard the house bell mid-morning Mama had fallen, during her first fit of apoplexy. A ranch hand found her lying in the garden.
Ten minutes of hell-bent riding felt like an hour as they approached and saw men sitting on the porch. Save for the fact that one was sitting too close to Sarah for his liking, Cal was greatly relieved. He could see Mama in her chair; Ned and the women looked fine. And, although he couldn't yet hear their words, the tone of the floating voices was amiable. Emily was looking at rocks with an older man wearing blue work pants and a plaid shirt.
As he drew closer it grated to see the man next to Sarah was Aiken.
The sheriff rose and came down the steps.
"Morning boys." His salutation lacked starch, as he had to bend his head back to look up at a man six inches taller than himself.
"I brought the fellow I told you about," Aiken announced. "This here's Mr. Peck, the agent from Denver. " He motioned toward the man sitting next to Emily on the porch. "We talked to Miss Anders. We're ready to ride to the site of the crime." His expression tightened. "Just head us in the right direction, and we'll be on our way." He spoke the words quickly, hopeful that his casual manner would elicit the desired response.
Roy managed to hold his surprise in check when he saw the man Emily was chatting up on the porch. Peck winked and put his finger to his lips. Then he rose from the swing and clambered down the steps to shake hands.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance."
Roy played along. The men shook and grinned at each other.
Aiken puffed out his chest and turned to Peck. "I was sayin' these boys don't need to tag along. They ken just steer us."
Peck ignored the hint in Aiken's tone. "I say they oughta come along. I've already paid for the guide service." His grin broadened and amusement danced in his eyes. "Didn't you say Mr. Cal Easton was there? He'll, no doubt, give useful information." Peck smirked as he watched Aiken's eyes dart back and forth.
Cal eyed Peck's mule. His expression was curious, as the animal looked damn familiar. He was thinking about that when he heard the slam of the front door and looked up. Sarah emerged, balancing a pot of coffee in one hand and a fresh baked apple pie in the other.
Cal had a full view, and he forgot about the mule and instead savored the curve of her neck and gentle sway of her hips as she crossed the porch. When she turned he noticed the silver combs glittering against her dark hair. The sight pleased him more than he expected. He began thinking about the perfect way to gently remove those combs, along with her hairpins, as he trailed his lips up her smooth neck and inhaled her sweetness.
He shook himself, and with some difficulty he forced his focus to Emily, who was trailing Sarah's backside, juggling cups and plates.
"You men like pie?" Sarah asked.
Cal stiffened as the sheriff raked narrowed eyes over his territory. Hell, Aiken was grinning at Sarah like a fool. And after he was served he gulped his coffee and wolfed down pie.
"Sarah, this here's the best apple pie I've had in years," Aiken lowed as he groped at her with his lusty gaze.
When did the buzzard start calling her Sarah? Cal had the urge to slug the sidewinder sheriff and figured he would have, if not for the fact that his Mama was sitting there.
"Thank you, Sheriff," Sarah accepted the compliment. "And thank you and Mr. Peck for your hard work trying to catch those outlaws." She looked around at the men congregated near the porch. Twisted scowls jagged across their faces, and Cal's held a look of dark fury. Mr. Peck seemed like he'd rather be anywhere else. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Aiken nodded.
Peck averted his eyes.
Minutes later, as they were preparing to leave, Aiken saw Ned limp a path to Cal. The lame leg was worse than Aiken had remembered, and the sheriff briefly wondered why the Easton men bothered to keep the man around.
Cal's eyes searched for Sarah as they passed the house, and when they caught hers he touched his hat brim. She grinned shyly.
Just past the corral Cal put his heels to his powerful mount, and he galloped ahead to lead the small party.
* * *
On her walk back from the porch Sarah spied Ned's silhouette cast in the sunlight pouring into the study. His head was angled to read titles on spines as he browsed the bookshelves. Curious, Sarah stepped into the room.
"Oh, it's you Miss. I'm trying to find one that I ain't read."
She was stunned. "You read? Mr. Easton lets you borrow?" She hadn't dared pluck one from the shelf herself although she'd made a mental list of which she'd choose first.
"Yah, Mr. Cal says I can. My ma was a teacher. Lately I like Whitman." He turned from her and continued his search. "Trouble is, most of these is those blood and thunder dime types. Cowpunchers like to read 'em. Ya' see, the title gives away the action."
"Oh sure, plenty of folks read those. Why I--" She dropped to her knees, reconsidering the wisdom of confessing her reading habits. "You read 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'?"
Ned uttered an affirmative grunt. "Lost it in the fire." He sniffed. "Stored my books in Lola's pantry. I taught her."
Ned frowned at the memory. "Sometimes books is what gets you through tough times. Like during the war . . . don't know what I'd do without a book when my leg's achin'." He sighed. "Yep, books and whiskey is all a man needs."
"I know what you mean," she replied. She blushed. "At least the books part."
Ned laughed.
Sarah thought about the lonely times at Uncle Orv's. Often an escape into a book borrowed from the local schoolteacher was all that stood between her and despair.
Ned's face brightened. "Ah, here it is." Pulling a tome from the lower shelf he wiped the dust off the top with his bandanna. He rose and limped past Sarah, out the door.
Ned set his book on the porch rail and dragged a chair to the place where he had a good long view of the path, barn, and corral. He could easily guard two sides of the structure. Then he sent Emily and Mrs. Easton inside the house.
* * *
After a while Ned's eagle eyes spotted a rider coming along the main path. He reached for his spyglass and peered out through wavy heat, across dancing grass. It was the bay from the local Western Union office. He could make out the distinctive leather message pouch slung over the young rider's slim shoulders.
Working for the Western Union Telegraph Company was a good job. Ned had considered it after the war, as he could read and write, and he'd taught himself the Morse code. But when he applied for the job the station manager told him he'd have to start as a messenger, walking miles each day to deliver telegrams around town. Ned knew his leg wouldn't hold up. He'd reluctantly given up on the prospect.
The approaching man was Tom Black, a fair haired, wiry young man with a quiet disposition and a discrete reputation.
Tom trotted his horse up through the heat and waved a greeting. Then he swung down and looped his reins around the porch railing.
"How do, Mr. Kingman!"
Ned stood. "Howdy, Tom."
"Got a wire," the young man sang out. "For a Miss Sarah Anders."
Black peered nervously at Ned and his cache of weapons.
Ned read Tom's thoughts and laughed. "Yep, I'm a one-man army. Hold on Tom, she's inside." He stepped to the door, and pulled it open.
"Miss Anders!"
Sarah heard Ned call and briskly walked to the front
door. The hinges creaked when she opened it a crack, and she saw Ned, speaking amiably with a young stranger.
Tom Black went slack-jawed at the sight of her.
Guffaws rose from Ned. "Ain't you never seen a pretty girl before?" He shifted to put his weight onto his good leg and boot leather squeaked. "Miss Anders, this here's Tom Black from Western Union. Says he's got a message for you."
Sarah had never received a wire.
Tom, suddenly mute, colored and pretended to search for something in his pocket. "W-well, the message is really for Orville B-Bain," he stammered. "Y-yesterday an operator in Illinois asked to locate him in Montana. So I went over to Aiken this morning to ask him if he knew the feller, but Aiken wasn't at the jailhouse. Next thing I run into the preacher. He said you buried Mr. Bain. S-seeing as you're next of kin, I rode it out."
Black swung the pouch down from his shoulder and pulled a small envelope from inside.
Sarah reached a trembling hand to take it. "Oh. Thank you," she mumbled, perplexed, as she accepted the note.
She wondered who would send a message to Uncle Orv? His sister? Helen and her husband lived twenty miles from the old farm. They'd rarely seen each other. Over the years Helen's husband had grown tired of Orville's drinking, gambling, and occasional requests for money. Ties were severed, and except for times when a death or family business made it necessary, they never visited.
"I'll stay, in case you want to make a reply," Tom offered.
"Oh. Yes, of course."
The messenger drifted away to the watering trough to give her privacy.
Sarah sat on the steps and opened the envelope. She read:
CLAIRVILLE ILLINOIS VIA CHICAGO JUL.TWENTYFOURTH TEN-THIRTY A.M.
BE THARE SOON TO COLLECT WHAT YOU OWE. PLEASE ANSER. ANSEL CRANE
Anxiety knotted in the pit of her stomach. The message was confusing at best. Orv owed Crane more than the farm? Crane had won the deed to the property in a three-day poker game.
Sarah considered Crane to be the same as her uncle -- he drank and gambled. The only difference was he was luckier than Orv. Crane visited the farm on several occasions, and he had a way of looking Sarah up and down that made her very uncomfortable. The last time had been the eve of their departure, when he'd met with Orv in the barn to haggle over the remaining stock. They'd left the next morning, and Sarah hadn't given it another thought.
Wringing her hands, she paced back and forth across the length of the porch. Each time she glanced uneasily over her shoulder she saw Ned and Tom Black quickly averting their gazes.
Finally, as casually as she could manage, Sarah spoke. "May I make a reply?"
"Sure." Tom Black jumped up and pulled a blank sheet of paper from the pouch. He pulled a pencil from his vest pocket.
As Sarah accepted the paper and pencil thoughts whirled through her head. She couldn't be responsible for her dead uncles' debts. They weren't even blood relations. She flattened the piece of paper on the porch rail and crafted her response.
Mr. Crane
Orville B and son dead. All money stolen. No reason to come.
Sarah Anders
She handed the message to Tom Black. He ran his lead-gray eyes over her lines.
"I've never written a telegram." Her voice drifted lower and she looked down.
"It's perfect," Black assured her. His lips formed a taut line. The reply message was tucked into the bag, and he folded the flap over the top. Goodbyes were exchanged, but Sarah was preoccupied. She needed to think.
The young messenger reluctantly jumped over the porch rail, untied his horse, and lit off back to town.
Ned didn't stir as Sarah stowed Crane's message away in her pocket.
The message nagged Sarah like a loose bootlace. If only Crane had mentioned what her uncle still owed.
Chapter 18
Cal pushed his horse into a gallop as he led the men northward. They passed beeves grazing lazily on buffalo grass as the sun crept higher in the late morning sky.
Roy broke off and waved to several weathered cowhands. The men turned away from the herd and made for Roy, who spoke to them before trotting his horse back to join the trackers.
Aiken observed three hands as they headed south, back toward the ranch. He noted they were heavily armed, and alert, eyes scanning and narrowed, as if waiting for somebody to jump them.
A gloating satisfaction filled the sheriff. His harassment strategy had forced the Eastons to take extreme measures to secure their spread. And today he'd seen Cal Easton's weakness for the Anders woman. That bit of information would prove useful when the time came to move the boys from dilemma to desperation. Then they'd be willing to sell the place to Dullen for a mere fraction of its true worth.
The sheriff stretched in his saddle, daydreaming about the saloon he planned to catch with the reward Dullen promised. He decided it was time to grease the axles; he smoothly sidled his horse up between the brothers.
"All this trouble gotta make ranching rough," Aiken drawled easily. "You boys still got cattle wandering off?"
Icy silence met his comment, but it made no matter to Aiken. "Ya' know, other ranches aren't complainin' 'bout losing none. Boys, how can I say this nice-like? It could be your own hands doing the stealin'," he prattled. "Sad," he shook his head, "Sad! Ya' know, boys, there's easier ways of makin' money than rasslin' steers."
Except for a muscle twitching in his jaw, Cal's face was hard. "It'll get easier again," he spun out, "after we kill the bastards." Cal turned to Aiken and slowly smiled. "Every last bastard." His lips edged up, but the glacier covering his eyes didn't retreat.
Aiken shuddered inwardly. Dullen was flat out wrong about these men.
Roy had silently deferred to his older brother, but he was anxiously twisting in the saddle, ready to take his turn at the trough.
"Yeah, we like a good challenge, a chance to kill us a few outlaws." Roy added, slow and easy. He wore a playful smirk. "And that reward money we earned bringing in the Malgers – that'll be downright helpful. We hired on more guns."
Aiken looked surprised, and Roy's grin broadened.
"I guess you plum forgot to tell us Sheriff. Anyhoo, I stopped at the bank. And tarnation, if that five hundred dollars wasn't being held for Cal and me. Golly, they were happy to move the reward into our ranch account. We surely appreciate you taking care of it, Sheriff.
Aiken felt like a mule had kicked him in the backside. Damn, it must have been flap-mouthed Ella. He'd forgotten she was sweet on the younger Easton. The afternoon the Eastons hauled in the Malgers, one dragging a wounded leg and another completely lifeless, a US Marshal had been in his office. It turned out the Malgers were wanted over in Butte for robbing a payroll stage and killing the two men riding shotgun.
Aiken had turned the wounded outlaw over to the deputy sent over from Butte. He'd forgotten the whole incident until another lawman passed through, carrying reward money, and he'd insisted on taking it direct to the bank to put it into a special account for the Eastons.
Aiken didn't have a dodge, so he pledged bank president Abe Wright to secrecy. So the loose cannon had to be Ella, Abe's daughter, the on-duty teller who made the deposit. Aiken had plumb forgotten about Roy Easton's dalliance with the woman.
Aiken swallowed. "Anytime. You boys earned it. Er, how's that shoulder Cal? Not totally useless I hope."
"All healed," Cal replied tersely, and then he abruptly reined in his horse. "Here it is. The place Sarah was hit."
* * *
Emily cleaned and polished the black stove in the kitchen until it was shinier than new. Midday was bearing down, and Sarah opened windows in hopes of a breeze. Emily read a story about a jumping frog to Mrs. Easton while Sarah sat with mending in her lap. Through open windows they heard ranch hands passing, talking to Ned on the porch, voices fading as they walked around the house and out to the barn.
Sarah couldn't stop thinking about the telegram. Crane's words gnawed and chafed until she had to set aside her sewi
ng. She remembered the wooden box filled with old letters, and she hurried to their shared quarters to find it. Even the barest of clues might ease her mind.
Entering the room she swiftly shut the door. Dropping to her knees she groped under the bed until her fingers touched the rough box.
Sarah sat back on her rump, and as she was alone, she hiked her skirt to her thighs. Cross-legged, she lifted the hinged top, hoping to find the explanation for Uncle Orv's outstanding debt to Crane.
She thumbed through notes about money owed to other creditors, some dating back ten years. She sifted through old letters from Orv's sister. She pulled the contents from each envelope, scanned, and hastily stuffed it back. Nothing. It didn't take long to empty the box. Sarah was ready to give up when she felt the envelope wedged against the side under the latch. An edge was stubbornly caught in the seam between the bottom and backside of the box. She yanked the paper free, ripping one edge. Orv's unruly scrawl ran across the front of the envelope. Mr. Ansel Crane.
Sarah's hands trembled as she carefully unfolded the letter. She glanced at the date at the top – the day before Orv was killed!
Sarah dared her eyes to carry on.
Dear Ansel,
I wright to give you notise that we reached Montana. I kennot pay you the $350 I owe. Tharefore as we agreed you ken haf the girl if you come to git her. She will, no dobt, maek you a fine wife she knows how about running thengs at the farm. Her sister is worth speakeing off and although I thout to reserve her for myself I woud consider to accept an offer for her.
Yours Truely,
Orville Bain
The shudder that ran though Sarah would have knocked her down, had she been standing. Orv had betrothed her to Crane, the ugly, old, gambling sot!
A hollow ache grew in her stomach. How dare he?
A harsh bitterness slowly festered inside her as she pictured the bulldog Crane -- three chins, and more than twice her age!
