Tom's Angel

by Linda George

  A row of crib houses, where the cheaper whores plied their trade, stretched from Main to Rusk on Tenth Street. Each crib, barely wide enough for a door and one window, appeared to be about a dozen feet deep. Tom cringed, thinking about the women who rented these shacks and what they did there for twenty-five cents.

  Tom had never felt the urge to visit one of the “soiled doves,” as the newspapers called them, even in one of the nicer “sporting houses” in Denver. Why any man would want to share intimacies with a woman he could only pity and despise went beyond Tom's comprehension.

  If Kincannon really did live in the Acre, what did that say about his daughter, Rosalie? Tom shook his head. Amos would bust a gut if Miss Kincannon turned out to be a whore.

  Not many cowboys in the Acre at the moment. They swarmed into town after driving their herds in from the Chisholm Trail, collected three or four months' pay, then spent it all in one night in the Acre, trading weeks of backbreaking work and eating dust for one night of drunkenness and pleasure.

  Tom's idea of pleasure ran a mite different. A Colorado sunset. A newborn calf or colt. Fire in the hearth after a long day's work on the ranch. Now, that was real pleasure.

  There...on the right...the house after the last dance hall. On the front of the house hung a sign that said, “William Kincannon, Esq.”

  Tom tied his rented horse to the front porch support, stretched his back, wiped sweat from his brow with one sleeve, then knocked on the door. He heard nothing inside. After a moment, the door cracked open an inch. He couldn't tell who might be behind that door. He reached for his hat and dragged it from his head, ran his fingers through his damp, tangled hair, and nodded at the unseen resident.

  “Morning. I'm Tom McCabe. I've come to escort Miss Kincannon to Denver.”

  “Mr. McCabe, did you say?”

  A woman's voice. He still couldn't see if she was old or young, the person he'd come to escort or her mother. Hell, he didn't know anything about this woman.

  “Yes, Ma'am. My father is Senator Amos McCabe. William Kincannon sent a wire, asking that an escort be sent to take Rosalie Kincannon to Denver. Am I at the right house? The directions I had—”

  “You're at the right house.” The door opened a bit wider. “But I can't let you in right now, Mr. McCabe. I'm...that is...my father is not at home presently. It would not be proper to ask you in while I'm here alone.”

  Proper? Concerned about being proper, living here?

  “All right, Ma'am. When should I come back?”

  “My father should return around two o'clock.”

  “All right, then. I'll be back about two.” He nodded, replaced his hat and turned to leave.

  “Mr. McCabe?”

  Glancing back, his breath caught in his throat. Rosalie Kincannon had come out on the porch. Long, shiny hair, as dark as a blackbird's wings, curled and nestled about her shoulders. Her eyes made it difficult for him to think straight for a moment. Just what color they were, he couldn't rightly say, but they made him think of the mountains at dusk. Incredible eyes. Focused on him.

  “Ma'am?” He finally remembered his manners and jerked his hat down again.

  “Thank you for coming. You...that is...I am most grateful. You cannot imagine how much I appreciate your father's generosity in sending you to escort me to Denver.”

  “My pleasure, Ma'am.” Truly. “I'll be back at two. Is there a hotel nearby?” He glanced down the street. “A fairly nice one? Where I could clean up a little?”

  “Not here. You don't want to stay here.”

  The way she said it made him feel cold in spite of the sun blazing down on his head and shoulders. She hated this place. He revised his previous assumptions about her.

  “No, Ma'am, that wouldn't be my first choice.”

  “The El Paso Hotel, at the corner of Third Street and Main, is quite nice. I think you'll find it to your liking.”

  “Thank you, Ma'am. I believe I passed it on the way here.”

  She averted her eyes, stared at her feet, straightened her skirts. “I must apologize, Mr. McCabe, for your having to come to...this part of Fort Worth. Have you been to the city before?”

  “Not for a long time, Ma'am.”

  “Please don't judge the whole city by this place.”

  “No, Ma'am. Denver has an area much like this one. I understand what you're saying.”

  She seemed to relax a bit. “Good.” She smiled.

  The gesture transformed her face. Tom took a step back toward the porch, needing to be closer for a moment before leaving.

  “Are you happy to be going to Denver, Ma'am?”

  She hesitated. “Yes. I am.”

  Considering where she lived in Fort Worth, he could believe that easily. Yet, something in her eyes, and that brief hesitation before she spoke, told him she might not be telling the whole truth. He replaced his hat, climbed on the horse, nodded once, then rode off down the street.

  <><><><>

  Rosalie watched until he'd disappeared behind the buildings then hurried back inside, careful to lock the door behind her. Most doors in the Acre stood open, night and day, as did the wooden shutters on the windows. With doors and windows closed, and temperatures reaching one hundred degrees or more in the shade, the house and anyone inside sweltered during the day. But she preferred suffering in the heat to having drunken cowboys wander in from the street, stinking of cows and dirt, whiskey and sweat, “looking for a good time.”

  At last, she might be able to escape this fetid sewer. Never, living here, could she expect to be accepted as a lady and treated with the respect she craved so desperately. Going to Denver meant climbing from a dark, airless well into the light, where she could breathe clean air, hold her head up, and apologize to no one for who she was, where she lived, or what she'd done. Even though, in Denver, she'd be house maid for a man she'd never met and for his vile son, the Strickland family had to be better than the scum who frequented the establishments in the Acre. Perhaps Mrs. Strickland, at least, would be kind. She might even provide some protection, when needed.

  For years, since Rosalie had gotten old enough to recognize the truth of where they lived, and what kind of man her father had become, she'd begged him to move to the north side of Fort Worth, where they could live in a decent house, among respectable people. Instead of a dance hall, she'd suggested a dry goods store. But William Kincannon had no interest in respectability. And he certainly didn't like hearing her complaints.

  “Get yourself a job at one of the houses!” he'd yelled at her dozens of times. “If you want to leave this place, it takes money. You'll have to earn your own. The hall hardly keeps us in beans and ham.”

  Rosalie knew better. They'd had a nasty fight when she'd needed money to buy material to sew a new dress. He said he had no money, but she'd seen folding money in his pocket earlier in the day. It didn't take much snooping to find his stash, in a can, buried under a board in his bedroom floor. He had hundreds of dollars hidden away. Since then, he hadn't spent a fraction of that amount. There had to be a substantial sum under that board, no matter what he said.

  Yet, stealing the money would make her as bad as he. She had to escape without any additional burdening of her soul. And, if at all possible, she had to take Elizabeth with her. The thought of leaving her behind was abhorrent.

  The means for escape—for both of them, perhaps—had just arrived in Fort Worth. Tom McCabe. Thinking about him comforted her. She lingered on the way his mouth crinkled at the corners when he smiled, his brown eyes, gentle and kind. His hair, thick and unruly, hadn't seen a barber's chair lately, but it didn't detract from his handsome features. In fact, she liked the way the damp curls lay on his forehead when he took off his hat.

  She liked everything about him. After all, he'd come to take her away from Hell's Half Acre. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd been toothless and eighty years old. She had a job and a family waiting in Denver. Just because Tom McCabe was the first courteous man she'd met in a month
of Sundays didn't mean she had to moon over him like a lovesick calf.

  Still, it felt rather nice to be attracted to him. She'd certainly never felt an attraction for any other man she'd met in this wretched place. Except for Joe, of course, but she'd vowed four years ago never to think about him again if she could help it. He'd taken the most valuable possession she would ever own, for no good reason other than fun and “a real good joke.” Well, the joke had been on her, all right. She would have to live with the consequences for the rest of her life.

  If she ever married, she suspected her husband would be an older man, a widower perhaps, seeking a wife to see him through his last years, without concern for her virtue. Rosalie knew better than to hope he would be as handsome as Tom McCabe. Or as polite. And he certainly would not catch his breath the way Mr. McCabe had when she'd stepped onto the porch.

  <><><><>

  Tom found the El Paso Hotel with no trouble at all. He called to a freckled boy with red hair sitting on the front steps.

  “Hey there, son. Want to earn two bits?”

  “Sure!” He came running.

  “Take care of my horse. I'll need him again about one-thirty. See that he's watered.”

  “I know all about horses. I'll take good care of him for two bits.

  “Good. I’m obliged. What’s your name?”

  “Joshua. Folks call me Josh. When will I get paid?”

  “At one-thirty, when you bring him back here.”

  “Yes, sir!” He led the horse around back.

  Tom went inside, signed the register, and headed upstairs to a room he hoped he wouldn't occupy for more than a week. He'd see Kincannon this afternoon, ride to Gabriel's ranch outside of town tomorrow spend a couple of nights there, return to Fort Worth by Friday, visit the Mallorys on Saturday, and, he hoped, catch the train back to Denver Sunday. The long ride had been tolerably comfortable, thanks to Pullman cars available for travelers well-off enough to afford them. Reserving two would cost a pretty penny, but Amos would not want a young lady who’d been charged to the safety of the McCabe family to sleep in the passenger car. The train ranked considerably better than taking the stage and sleeping in road houses on bug-infested straw mattresses.

  Surely, Miss Kincannon could pack all her belongings by Sunday. As eager to leave Fort Worth as he'd found her to be, he wouldn't be surprised to learn her baggage was already packed and sitting just inside the door of that ramshackle house.

  She hadn't been dressed or made up like a whore. He had to apologize to her for his previous speculation, if only in his mind. She'd be riled, to say the least, to know he'd suspected her of being a soiled dove. No doubt that supposition had been wrong. In fact, Rosalie Kincannon in Hell's Half Acre was dead wrong. She didn't belong there any more than he did. Even though it had cost him time and considerable effort to come all the way from Denver to fetch her, he would be glad to help her leave this place.

  Tom had considered asking around about William Kincannon, to get an idea of the sort of person he'd become since Amos had last seen him in Denver. That wouldn't be necessary now. No doubt remained about Mr. Kincannon. A man couldn't live in a pig sty and keep his boots shined.

  Tom stretched out on the counterpane covering the four- poster bed and closed his eyes. The sooner he could get out of Fort Worth, the better.

  Had he ever seen eyes that color?

  <><><><>

  William Kincannon stomped his boots on the porch before coming into the house. Rosalie appreciated she’d been able to teach him that much. As a child, she'd lived with filthy floors. As a young woman, she'd teased and cajoled her father, trying to get him to remove his boots and leave them, and the mud and muck clinging to them, on the porch. He refused, saying they'd disappear in the night and he'd be barefoot while some thieving galoot sidled up to the bar with new boots.

  Finally, Rosalie persuaded him to at least stomp away some of the filth before coming into the house. Not entirely unsympathetic to her pleas and her attempts to tidy the house during the day, he stomped each boot once on the porch, no more. Far from adequate, Rosalie acknowledged any concession to her wishes.

  When William entered the front room, Rosalie smelled whiskey on his breath, as usual. Blood spattered the front of his shirt, his neck and one side of his whiskery face.

  “What happened?” she asked. No use getting excited. In the Acre, blood was common. Seeing it no longer shocked her, but still caused her stomach to churn at the pungent odor, mixed with her father's own revolting stench.

  “Same as always. Some cowboy took exception to his girl showing attention to a new arrival.”

  “Did he kill him?”

  “Naw. Just beat him senseless.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Beat her up pretty bad, too. She'll think twice before pulling that stunt again, I'll tell you.”

  Rosalie closed her eyes in sympathy for the unfortunate bawd.

  “Who?”

  “Belle.”

  At least Lizzy had been spared further injury. Her wounds from a month ago had healed, but something inside her had died that night. She hadn't smiled since.

  Rosalie said a quick prayer of thanks that she and Elizabeth would soon be away from this nightmarish existence.

  “I seen hoof prints out front. You got a feller you ain't told me about?”

  The thought nauseated her. “No, Papa. Mr. McCabe was here. The one you sent for, to escort me to Denver.”

  “Amos McCabe himself? I figured he'd send one of his sons.”

  “He did. This was Tom McCabe, not Amos.” His face in her mind set her heart pounding.

  “So, where is he?”

  “I asked him to come back at two. It wouldn't have been proper for me to let him in.”

  William laughed at that. “Wouldn't be proper? Look around you, girl. There's no way any McCabe will expect propriety here.”

  Rosalie's cheeks burned and her eyes filled with tears. “Just because we live in the Acre doesn't mean I have to give up all vestiges—”

  “Spare me your preachin', girl. I've heard it before.”

  Heard, perhaps, but never believed or cared. After all these years, he never would.

  “Once I'm in Denver—”

  “You can be as hoity-toity as you like. I know. You've told me that a hunnert times, too.”

  Rosalie heard a horse outside and hurried to the window. Just as she'd hoped. Tom McCabe.

  “He's here. Please be polite to him. Please!” Her father had no concept of true civility. She could only hope he would not treat their guest like one of the cowboys who frequented his dance hall.

  “Get out of the way, girl.” William pushed past her and opened the door.

  Tom had already removed his hat. Rosalie could see that he'd washed his hair, and his face. When he smiled and said, “Ma'am,” her throat closed. She could only nod in return.

  “Come in, come in. Rosalie should have invited you in before. I been tryin' to teach her some manners her whole life, but she never took to it much.”

  Manners! She wished she could stop her father from denigrating her in front of this kind, polite man, who knew more of manners than he ever would.

  “I had to get settled in at the hotel. Best I came back.” Kincannon motioned him to sit. Tom came into the front room, glanced around, smiled at Rosalie, then went to the sofa.

  Rosalie's face burned with embarrassment. What must he think of the room they were in? She'd done the best she could to make it livable, but her father granted her little in the way of decoration. She and her mother had made the rag rugs and crocheted the curtains and the antimacassars for the arms and back of the sofa and two chairs, but her father refused to allow the walls to be painted more than once every five years. It lacked six months being five years since the last coat they'd enjoyed, a few months before her mother died. Most of the paint had long since peeled away, leaving weathered gray boards showing through, in too many places to hide. But Tom McCabe hadn't show
n any sign of distaste.

  Her father babbled on about what a fine man Amos McCabe was and always had been.

  Rosalie hurried to the kitchen and returned shortly with a tray holding a steaming tea pot, three cups, three spoons and a fourth cup full of white sugar.

  “Would you care for tea, Mr. McCabe?” She set the tray on the table before the sofa.

  “Tea! Tea is for sissies!” William boomed, his face screwed into a grimace of disgust. “Tom would prefer something stronger. Rotgut? Red eye? Name your poison.”

  Tom waved away the suggestion. “Tea is fine. It's a little early in the day for me for anything stronger.”

  Clearly puzzled by this admission, Kincannon bellowed with laughter. “Well, none of that sissy stuff for me. Give me a glass of Who-Hit-John over tea every time.”

  Tom smiled politely.

  Rosalie, grateful Tom had accepted the tea, didn't know how to thank him without gushing. She tried to tell him with her eyes and saw that he understood. What an incredible man he was. Once again, she prayed that Zane Strickland’s father would have at least some of the refinement and sensitivity of the McCabes.

  Her father babbled on, about business now. He boasted about the success of The Yellow Rose while Rosalie bit her tongue, wanting to laugh at his ridiculous claims, wanting Mr. McCabe to know the truth. They lived in squalor because every penny made, primarily from racing horses, went into the hole under the bedroom floor, allowing only the smallest amount to be spent on food and clothing. They might have been respectable people, if only her father were more like Amos McCabe and his fine son, Tom.

  Tom seemed to be tiring of William's boasting. He finished his tea and set the cup on the tray.