by Jo Goodman
Kellen watched the boys come to attention as if they’d heard a whip crack, but Collins hadn’t raised his voice in the least. Kellen cast a glance back to see if the agent was threatening his grandsons with the brass bell, but no, he had already returned to the stool, his long expression more indicative of martyrdom than menace.
“Introduce yourselves, boys,” Collins told them.
The taller of the pair, and in Kellen’s estimation the elder by a year, maybe two, stepped forward first. “Cabot Theodore Collins. Folks call me Rabbit on account of me being fast as one.”
Before Kellen could respond to this overture, the boy who was not Rabbit inched forward until he was sharp elbow to sharp elbow with his brother. “I’m Carpenter Addison Collins, but everyone but my granny calls me Finn on account of I like it better than Carpenter.”
“Well, yes,” Kellen said carefully, and wondered why he hadn’t thought to choose a better name for himself when he was eight. “Finn. Of course.”
Finn said, “Carp-enter. Fish have fins. See?”
“Yes, I do. Clever.”
Jefferson Collins eyed his grandsons. “This gentleman wants to go to the Pennyroyal. You two think you can manage?”
The boys began to dance in place before Collins finished. “Is all that yours, mister?” Rabbit asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the trunks.
“It is.”
Finn turned around to look where his brother was pointing. “Sure. We can put all that on the wagon. Won’t be a bit of bother.”
“Then get to it,” Collins said, and the boys were out the door with significantly less commotion than when they entered. “They’ll bring the buckboard around, back it up to the platform, and drag the trunks over to the bed. Won’t take them but a few minutes. And in case you’re wondering why they’re so eager, it’s because they like to visit with the widder.”
“Good to know. I thought they sized me up as someone who would give them money for their trouble.”
“Could be they did, but it won’t hurt them to learn different.” Collins picked up several envelopes and neatly squared them off, tapping one corner against the countertop. “You never did tell me your name,” he said casually.
“You never did ask.”
Collins chuckled. “You know what? I don’t think I will. Nothing wrong with speculating on it until the boys get back from the hotel.”
“You think they’ll wheedle it out of me?”
The station agent spoke quite sincerely. “Wheedle? You count yourself fortunate if they don’t set your hair on fire.”
Bitter Springs had a wide main street typical of cattle towns that were serviced by the railroad. Corrals near the station accommodated the herd until the cows were driven single file onto the waiting cattle cars. Except for a half-dozen horses milling around close to the livery, the corrals were empty.
In contrast, the thoroughfare and the wooden walkways on either side of it were crowded. From his cushioned perch on the buckboard, Kellen observed that the station agent’s grandsons knew everyone in town, or at least everyone that was out and about. In spite of a clear azure sky and a sun suspended overhead like a crystal ball, there was a chill in the air. It began to settle deeply in Kellen’s bones almost as soon as he left the station. He sat between Rabbit and Finn with the collar of his leather duster turned up and the brim of his black Stetson turned down. For their part, the boys didn’t seem to notice the sharp bite of the wind and frequently pulled down their scarves to call out an enthusiastic greeting to a passerby. Their cheeks were positively apple red with windburn and excitement, and Kellen thought the latter’s influence might be the greater one.
Rabbit held the reins loosely, letting the dappled mare meander at a pace a three-legged mule could outrun, while Finn, often in the middle of his commentary about the town and its inhabitants, repeated his request to be allowed to have his turn.
Kellen turned his attention from the brotherly bickering by making mental notes as the buckboard passed one establishment after another. He learned that Mr. Ransom operated the livery and what he didn’t know about horses wasn’t worth knowing. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson owned the mercantile for dry goods and every kind of whatnot, including things Finn wasn’t sure there was a use for. The land office was where Mr. Harry Sample and his cousin, Mr. Charles Sample, worked. Mrs. Garvin and her daughters, Millicent and Marianna, fashioned clothes and hats for the ladies and sometimes shirts for men as long as the shirts were for fancy occasions and not for range riding. The kind of clothes that a man needed for long days in the saddle and nights on the ground could be bought at Ted Rush’s hardware along with tools for every particular job. Mr. Burnside was the town druggist, but his wife worked behind the soda fountain and made cherry phosphates for two pennies, or one if that’s all you had and you asked her real nice.
There was a bathhouse and laundry owned by the Taylors, and a barbershop next door where you could get yourself nicked proper by Mr. Stillwell’s apprentice if you didn’t know enough to ask for Mr. Stillwell. Mr. Webb managed the Cattlemen’s Trust Bank, although there was no sense to the name, Finn said, because his grandfather told him that cattlemen didn’t really trust banks and spent their money as fast as they earned it on cards and dancing girls.
“There aren’t any dancing girls in Bitter Springs,” Finn said. “Leastways not the kind that kick their legs so high in the air you can see…” He leaned forward, looked around Kellen for his brother, and asked, “What do you call it?”
“France,” Rabbit said. “They kick their legs so high you can see France.”
Finn nodded. He looked up at Kellen. “You ever seen France?”
Kellen sighed feelingly. “Not in a long while.”
“I almost saw it once,” said Finn.
“You did not,” said Rabbit. He shot Kellen a wise-beyond-his-years glance. “He did not.”
“Did,” Finn insisted. “Nat Church and the Frisco Fancy. Remember that?”
Surprised, Kellen interrupted. “You read that novel?”
Rabbit answered. “He didn’t. Pap read it to us. Finn mostly stared at the dancing girl on the cover.”
“So did you,” said Finn. He puckered his lips and made kissing sounds. “You said you were going to marry her.”
“Not her. Someone as pretty as her, though.”
“Ain’t no one as pretty as her.” Finn nudged Kellen and offered a confidential aside. “If Pap held the book up just right, I could about see up her underskirts all the way to France.”
Kellen nodded. “She did have a kick like a mule.”
“That’s what Nat Church said, too. I remember because Pap had a laugh about it. You know that story, mister?”
“I do.”
“There’s more of them, but Granny, well, she won’t let Pap read them to us anymore. She says they’re…” Frowning, he leaned forward again to look around Kellen and catch his brother’s eye. “What is it that Granny says they are?”
“Unfit.”
“She doesn’t say that. What’s the other word?”
Rabbit sighed. “Gruesome.”
Finn sat back, satisfied. “Gruesome. I expect that’s because there’s blood and knife fights and shooting and such.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Kellen.
“You shoot many people, mister?”
Rabbit’s head jerked around and he glared at his brother. “We said we weren’t going to ask him.”
“You said. I didn’t. I want to know. What about it, mister? How many people have you shot?”
Kellen could see the hotel on the right up ahead, but at the wagon’s current speed, it might be as long as ten minutes before they reached it. They had just passed the marshal’s office and jailhouse, and neither boy mentioned it as a point of interest, further proof their attention was solely focused on him. The station agent’s grandsons were living up to their advance notice, and Kellen made the decision to surrender. “The name’s Coltrane. Kellen C
oltrane.”
Rabbit took the reins in one fist and held out an open hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Coltrane.”
Finn asked, “You related to the Coltranes from Denver? Mister and Missus stay here when they’re taking the train to Sacramento. They probably stop other places because Missus has the rheumatism, but they talk about here like it’s the best. Mostly that’s true. So, you kin to them?”
“I’m not, no.”
“They’re real nice. Don’t think they ever shot anyone.”
“How about that.”
Finn’s bright blue eyes narrowed on Kellen’s profile. “You’re not sayin’, is that it?”
“I’m not sayin’.”
“We saw the guns,” Finn said.
Rabbit groaned at his brother’s confession, but Kellen gave no sign that he’d heard anything at all.
Finn went on. “Are you figurin’ on endin’ trouble in Bitter Springs or causin’ it? It could be that there’s folks here that would hire you and your guns. Unless you already signed on with the Burdicks. That’d just be a shame. A real shame.”
Rabbit flung an arm past Kellen’s chest and shoved Finn’s shoulder. “Will you shut up?”
“What? He doesn’t shoot kids. You don’t, do you?”
Kellen set his jaw and kept his eyes on the hotel. He spoke softly between clenched teeth. “I’ve never been tempted before.”
“See?” Finn said to his brother. Then the full import of what Kellen said came home to roost, and he pressed his lips tightly together.
Rabbit felt compelled to explain. “It was an accident about the guns,” he said. “The bag was heavier than I thought so Finn was helping out. We grabbed the opposite handles at the same time and the bag opened. The Colts were there, right on top. Guess you wanted it that way so you could get at them quick. I figure you for a detective with the railroad, but Granny says Finn’s got a lurid imagination, and he figures you for a shootist.”
It was an earnestly delivered explanation. Kellen nodded once, accepting it as close to the truth as he was likely to hear. “Your grandfather figures me for a gambling man.”
Rabbit made a dismissive motion while holding the reins. The mare sidled to the left. “He doesn’t know about the Colts. Besides, Pap thinks everyone’s a gambler, but that’s because our father is. That’d be Pap’s son. On the road to ruin, Granny says.”
“Your father doesn’t live in Bitter Springs?”
“Used to. Now he rides the Union Pacific. And plays cards with men who have more money than sense.”
Kellen supposed that Rabbit was repeating something he heard regularly from one or both of his grandparents.
“Maybe you met our pa,” Finn said. “Thomas Jefferson Collins.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Finn’s shoulders sagged. “Didn’t think so.”
“I don’t play cards with professional gamblers. It’s unlikely that our paths would cross.”
“Oh.” Kellen heard the boy’s disappointment. He laid one hand on Finn’s knee and placed the other over Rabbit’s doubled-up fists. He tugged the reins to the right and gave Finn’s knee a squeeze.
They traveled the last one hundred yards to the Pennyroyal in silence.
Walter Mangold leaned his broom against the porch rail the moment the buckboard stopped in front of the hotel.
The springy buckboards were sagging under the weight of the trunks. “Both these trunks yours, sir?” he asked the stranger in the front.
Finn spoke up first. “And the bag. Better not forget the bag.”
“Right,” said Walt. “Why don’t you and Rabbit take one end of a trunk while I take the other? Pass me the reins, Rabbit. I’ll tether Ginny.”
“I got it,” Rabbit said, jumping down.
Once Finn was over the seat, Kellen stood. “I’ll take my bag.” He jumped lightly off the wagon and onto the porch steps at the same time Rabbit climbed up to help his brother. Kellen took the valise from the boys, making a fist around both handles to make certain it wouldn’t open, and swung it against his thigh. He was prepared for the heaviness of the bag as he hadn’t been when he carried it off the train. The extra weight of it was now explained.
Nat Church. Kellen remembered seeing Church bent over in his seat, riffling through his own valise. If he had gotten there a few moments earlier, he might have caught the older man in the act of transferring the guns. It made Kellen wonder what else Church had redistributed. There had been nothing in the former marshal’s bag to identify him as a citizen of anywhere, and the single photograph of a handsome woman they all assumed was Church’s dead wife was a standard studio portrait. The gold lettering in the right-hand corner that might have told them the name of the studio had faded to illegibility. When the doctor suggested that Mr. Church should carry the photograph to his grave, the conductor agreed. The rest of Church’s belongings became the property of the railroad.
Except for those things Nat Church had not wanted the railroad to have.
While Walt, Rabbit, and Finn saw to the off-loading of his trunks, Kellen went inside.
He set the valise at his feet before he tapped the bell at the registration desk. He looked around while he waited for someone to appear. Above the walnut wainscoting, the walls were painted butter yellow. There was a bench just below the stairs for the weary traveler, and an area rug fashioned with the colors of every burnt shade of a high plains sunset covered most of the polished hardwood floor. Sunlight from the windows at his back dappled the walls and rug and…
And set the woman’s hair on fire.
Blinking would have been too obvious. Instead, Kellen’s wintry, blue-gray eyes narrowed a fraction as he took in the curling flames leaping and dancing away from the woman’s scalp. Some might call that color copper, but Kellen Coltrane thought that understated the brilliance of the blaze and didn’t explain why he had been struck dumb. It wasn’t until she stepped from sunlight into relative shadow that he remembered why he was standing at the front desk of the Pennyroyal.
“I’m looking for the Widow Berry.”
“Are you? About what?”
Kellen arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t decide if she was being protective of the widow or if caution was in her nature. More than caution, he thought. Suspicion.
“About a room, for one thing,” said Kellen. He spoke more firmly when he added, “And business.”
She stepped closer, close enough for him to catch the fragrance of lavender. Her dress was plain, severely cut, and crisply pressed. He imagined her flicking lavender water over the dull green fabric before she set an iron to it and thinking herself daring for having done so.
“Mr. Church?”
Kellen watched her put out a hand, not to take his, but more tentatively than that, in the way a person does when there’s a need to confirm that something is real. Her slender fingers hovered just above his elbow for several long moments then fell away. She didn’t step back as he’d expected her to. Rather, she subjected his face to the kind of scrutiny that a wife was apt to employ when she expected to catch her husband in a lie. He stood for it because there was no harm in doing so, and just as important, it amused him.
The commotion at the entrance as the boys and Walt carried in the first trunk did not distract her from her study.
“Which room, Mrs. Berry?” Rabbit asked.
“Mr. Coltrane needs the biggest one you have,” said Finn.
“Two trunks and a bag,” Walt said. “Room six would probably be best.”
“You’re not Mr. Church,” Raine said.
“You’re the Widow Berry,” said Kellen.
Finn nudged Rabbit when the three adults began talking at the same time. “When people get to talking like that, I’m always wishing I had Pap’s bell.”
Chapter Two
Kellen stopped unpacking to respond to the knock at his door. “Who is it?” There was a long pause, so long that Kellen began to think he’d only imagined the interruption.
�
��Sue Hage, Mr. Coltrane. The maid.”
Kellen opened the door just enough for his frame to fill the space. The young woman in the hallway showed no interest in trying to see past him. On the contrary, not only did she keep her eyes averted, she took a rather sizable step backward. He thought she was probably not yet twenty, but certainly she was old enough to give a better accounting of herself. Her fingers twisted nervously in her apron, and she was biting down hard on one corner of her lower lip.
“Mrs.Berrysentmetoaskifyouraccommodationsaresatisfactory.” She darted him a glance as she sucked in a breath. “Are they?”
Kellen had to mull the words over before he could seize their meaning. “I have need of a table and a chair,” he said. “If that can be arranged, my accommodations will be entirely satisfactory.”
The request appeared to flummox the maid. She fidgeted with one of her long, straw-colored braids and shifted her slight weight from side to side.
Finally she said, “We do not serve meals to guests in their rooms.”
“Then it’s a good thing there are other uses for a table and a chair. You may tell Mrs. Berry that I intend to take my meals in the dining room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kellen did not wait to hear if she had more to say. He shut the door.
Emily Ransom cornered her friend in the deserted dining room. “You spoke to him?” she whispered. “What is he like? Was he wearing his guns?”
Sue glanced around—the second check she’d made of her surroundings since Emily waylaid her. “You better let me pass, Emily Ransom. Mrs. Sterling is going to give you what for if she catches you lollygagging.”
“I do not care about what for.” Emily held her ground, giving Sue no opportunity to escape. “Just warn me if she’s waggling her wooden spoon.”
Sue grabbed the ends of her braids before Emily took to yanking on them like they were udders. “He shut the door in my face.”
Emily’s bright blue eyes widened a fraction. “He did not.”
“There is no point in you asking me questions if you are not going to believe what I tell you.”
