Cowboy Charm School

by Margaret Brownley

  “He had no business looking at you like that. Far as I’m concerned, he has no business here at all!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. He’s here on special assignment and is looking for the man who caused his sister’s death.” The poor man had sounded absolutely devastated when he’d spoken of his sister’s death.

  All eyes turned to her, but only Frank broke the silence. “How come you know so much about him?” he asked, grinding the words out between wooden lips.

  Before she could answer, Mr. Foster threw up his hands. “I thought the purpose of this meeting was to reschedule the wedding.”

  Ignoring his father, Frank jumped to his feet, his red eyes blazing with jealousy. “I thought you didn’t know the man.”

  “I don’t. He came into the shop to apologize. But that’s something you know nothing about!”

  “I have nothing to apologize for.”

  Kate shot up from her seat, hands at her waist. “Oh no? How about making us the talk of the town? And what about the time you accused me of flirting with the postmaster? And then there was the time…” On and on she went, naming his offenses one after another. All had to do with his annoying and unwarranted jealousy. Saint Peter at the pearly gates couldn’t have produced a more thorough list of offenses.

  “That’s because I love you,” Frank sniffled.

  Kate glared at him. “Love has nothing to do with this. This is about trust!”

  Frank’s mother glanced helplessly at her husband, hands fluttering. “Do something, Howard.”

  Howard looked like a fish out of water. His door-knocker mustache twitched, and his eyebrows quivered. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. Finally, he cleared his throat and leaned forward, hands spread. “All right. This is getting us nowhere.”

  “I agree,” Aunt Letty said, nodding. “I suggest we put all this behind us and set another date for the wedding. I was thinking about a week from—”

  Kate stared at her aunt in total disbelief. The fact that she and Frank stood facing each other like two bulls in a territorial dispute seemed to have escaped her notice. “There isn’t going to be another wedding.”

  Aunt Letty folded her arms across her chest. “Now, Kate, you promised to listen to what Frank had to say.”

  “I did listen, and nothing he’s said so far has changed my mind.” She pulled off her ring and tossed it. He caught it midair, his reflexes better than his instincts.

  Kate hated disappointing her aunt, but it couldn’t be helped. She leveled her angry gaze at Frank and pointed to the door. “This meeting is over!”

  * * *

  No matter how many times Brett had ridden through town, he still couldn’t make hide nor hair of the way it was laid out. If ever a town deserved to be named Haywire, this was it.

  Main Street was the only one that made any sort of sense. At least it ran straight—or nearly straight. On one end was Railroad Street. On the other end, the town was split in two by a hundred-foot-wide cross street. Known as the Dead Line, the street separated moral businesses from those beyond the pale.

  The street was wide enough so that anyone accidentally venturing into the wrong side of town—occupied by saloons, bordellos, and, inexplicably, the barbershop—could easily turn horse and wagon around. Thus, delicate constitutions were saved and reputations left unharmed.

  The other streets curved, made sharp turns, and then circled back on themselves like pretzels. Brett had passed the same blacksmith shop three times while trying to locate the post office.

  Shops and businesses on the streets away from the center of town were laid out willy-nilly, some with entryways facing alleyways. Boardinghouses and private homes were planted on lots in haphazard fashion, as if tossed in place by chance, like dice in a gambler’s hand.

  The telegraph operator, known as Flash, had explained that the streets followed the original cow paths. All Brett could say was if that were true, then the cows must have been on locoweed.

  Haywire wasn’t the only town so designed. The idea of building a town on a grid didn’t come about until after the war. Prior to that, many towns had been built along bovine trails—even Boston—but none had streets as confusing as those in Haywire.

  Reaching his destination, Brett tethered his horse and stomped up the steps of the boardwalk. Overhead, a wooden sign reading SHERIFF swung gently in the breeze.

  He doubted cows were to blame for the office, unlike any Brett had ever seen. The jail was upstairs. That meant the office below was privy to the pounding feet of irate prisoners, and today was no different. Brett lifted his gaze to the vibrating ceiling and prayed it didn’t collapse.

  He moved from beneath the swinging gaslight fixture just in case it should fall. Lowering his gaze, he studied the man behind the weathered oak desk.

  Sheriff Keeler stabbed a finger at the newspaper in front of him, his eyes glittering. “I see that your little fiasco landed on the front page.” He tutted like an old woman, and the ends of his curling mustache quivered.

  Brett had disliked the man the moment they’d first set eyes on each other. Nothing had changed his mind since. Still, he’d done wrong. A Texas Ranger had no business letting his emotions get the best of him, and that he’d done in spades. He deserved a dressing-down.

  “I’ve apologized to the lady for the trouble I caused,” he said, lifting his voice to be heard above the sound of pounding feet. “And I apologize to you. Nothing like that will happen again.”

  The sheriff sat back in his seat and regarded Brett with obvious disdain. Keeler didn’t take kindly to having to work with the Texas Rangers—outsiders, as he referred to them. He’d made that clear from the start. He viewed Brett’s presence as an indictment against him and his office. In that regard, he wasn’t alone. Most lawmen felt the same way, but never had one gone to such lengths to show it.

  “By right, I should have put you in jail with the bridegroom.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Keller shrugged. “Well, unfortunately, nothing in the law says you can’t stop a wedding. As for the rest, witnesses said you’d acted in self-defense. No law against that either. As for decapitating Jesus… That one’s a bit iffy. That could go down as destroying property or even blasphemy.”

  Brett took that as a warning. The sheriff evidently didn’t think he had enough damaging evidence to get Brett removed from his assignment. But he was definitely keeping track, which meant Brett had better watch his step. It seemed like a good time to change the subject.

  “Anything new on the Ghost Riders?” The gang of outlaws had been given that name because of their habit of robbing a bank or stage and seemingly disappearing into thin air.

  The sheriff reached into a wooden box for a cigar and carefully snipped off the tip. “Do you think I’d tell you if there was?”

  Brett was tempted to walk out of the office then and there. Unfortunately, he needed the sheriff as much as the sheriff needed him. “Either we work together peacefully, or we don’t. Your choice.”

  “Let me tell you something, boy.” The sheriff stuck the cigar in his mouth and reached for a box of safety matches. “I don’t need no Texas Ranger telling me how to do my job. So there’s no place here for you or that cinco peso badge of yours.”

  Brett’s hands curled into fists by his sides. “Well, it seems like we have ourselves a little problem. Because like it or not, I’m staying until I do what I came here to do.” With that, he turned and stalked out of the office.

  * * *

  Kate spotted Frank sitting on the porch steps the moment she arrived home. It had been nearly a week since the disastrous meeting with him and his parents.

  Gritting her teeth, she shook the reins and drove her wagon helter-skelter up the long drive and into the barn in back.

  Her dogs, Taffy, Blondie, and Mutt, stood at the fence with wagging tails. A red hen sc
rambled out of the way.

  It had been a long, hard day at work. Her disastrous wedding had made the candy shop the center of attention, and business was booming. Her feet were killing her, and her corset poked like steel fingers into her ribs. She was in no mood for another argument.

  By the time she’d unhitched her horse, Frank was waiting for her by the barn door. It was as close as he dared come to her horse for fear of breaking out in hives. She turned to him, hands at her waist. “What are you doing here?”

  To his credit, Frank looked pathetic. He had bags under his eyes, his hair stood on end, and his wrinkled shirt and trousers looked like they’d been slept in.

  He waited for her to put her horse, Cinnamon, into his stall before answering her. “We need to talk.”

  “We? It seems that the last time we met, you did most of the talking.” Stomping past him, she barreled through the yard, past the barking dogs, and into the house. Normally, she would have stopped to pet the dogs, but not today.

  Frank followed her through the mudroom and into her aunt’s small but adequate kitchen. The fluffy white cat, Gumdrop, stretched her feline limbs and jumped from a chair. From his cage, Blackie fluttered his wings and squawked. Kate had found the raven with a broken wing and had nursed it back to health. As soon as she thought the bird ready, she planned on releasing him back into the wild.

  Frank pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sneezed. “Okay, this time you talk and I’ll listen,” he said and sneezed again.

  She slammed her purse on the counter and whirled about to face him. Feathers and fur were already starting to do strange things to him, and he stared at her with watery eyes.

  “I have nothing to say to you, Frank Foster!”

  “That’s not like you, Kate. You usually have something to say. Ah-ah-ah-choo!”

  “Okay, how about this? I’m sick and tired of your jealousy. You’re even jealous when I spend time with friends.” As a child, he’d complain about his adoptive parents showering more attention onto their other children, though Kate knew that wasn’t true.

  Since he’d insisted, she let him have it, firing words at him like so many bullets. The knot of hurt and anger inside unraveled like a never-ending ball of yarn.

  When she stopped to catch her breath, he interjected, “Man alive. For someone who had nothing to say, it sure took you long enough to say it.” He made a face and wiggled his nose. “Ah-ah-choo!”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m done now, so you can leave.”

  He dabbed at his watery eyes with his handkerchief. “Ah, come on, Katie. This isn’t like you. All I want is a second chance.”

  “Sorry, you’re all out of second chances. Third, fourth, and fifth chances too.”

  He frowned. “So, what are you saying?”

  She sighed. For someone who saw amorous intent in every man’s smile or glance, he sure could be thickheaded when it came to his own would-be romance. “I can’t go through this anymore, Frank. Your jealousy is driving me crazy.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

  “The only mistake I made was believing that you could change and learn to trust me.”

  “I do trust you. Ah-choo!”

  “Only when there’s no other man in sight!”

  A muscle tightened at Frank’s jaw. “Okay, so I’m just supposed to ignore it when another man takes a fancy to you. Is that what you want me to do?”

  Kate’s eyes flashed. There was no getting through to him. “That’s it. I’ve had it! Do you hear me?” She meant business, and by golly, this time he’d better take it to heart. “It’s over. We’re finished. Done. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  He sniffled and sneezed. “Does that mean you don’t want to see me anymore?”

  She threw up her hands. “Not only do I not want to see you, but I don’t want to even hear your name.”

  “Kate—”

  “I mean it, Frank. Now go.”

  “I’ll go, ah-ah-ah-choo! B-but”—sniffle—“I’m not giving up on us. I’ll be back.” Turning, he stomped through the mudroom.

  Bracing herself against the slamming door, Kate squeezed her eyes tight. She and Frank had a long history together, and it was hard ending it like this.

  She’d first met Frank on the orphan train that had brought her west from New York. He was nine and she only six. No sooner had they been pushed into the stock car than his face had swollen up like a rubber balloon. Never had she seen anything like it.

  It was the cattle, he’d explained. She’d looked around that dark, rank boxcar but hadn’t seen any cattle, only the other orphans sobbing quietly in the dark corners or staring into space.

  Later, as the train sped away from the city and whizzed through the frozen countryside, he had done something that had scared her more than even his swollen face. He’d slid open the stock-car door. Thinking he’d planned on jumping, she’d cried out in alarm. Instead, he’d lain flat on his stomach and stuck his head outside to breathe fresh air.

  Horrified at the thought of him falling from the train, she’d grabbed hold of his legs and refused to let go. The air was frigid, and she’d worn only a thin cotton dress and threadbare cape that had been far too small. Still, she’d held on to him, fearing for his life if she let go. That’s how the two of them had traveled across the country. Never once had it occurred to her that had he fallen from the train, he would have taken her with him.

  Thus began a bond that had only strengthened through the years. It wasn’t an easy bond to break. But what else could she do?

  4

  There was a man passed out cold in the doorway of Foster’s Saddle and Leather Shop.

  The drunk didn’t surprise Brett. As in any other western town, Saturday night was the time to press boot to brass and bend the elbow. Already, he’d spotted two men who were three sheets to the wind. By the sound of the off-key singing drifting from the saloons on the opposite side of the Dead Line, others were well on the way to oblivion.

  Brett wouldn’t have given the drunk a second glance had he not recognized the name on the weathered sign hanging from the building’s false front.

  A closer look was enough to identify the man slumped in the recessed doorway sawing logs as none other than Frank T. Foster, jilted bridegroom and owner of the shop. Only now he looked as forlorn as a discarded toy, or maybe even something the cat had dragged in. Tonight, the man with steel knuckles sure didn’t look like he could harm a fly. Not unless the insect succumbed to the rank smell of whiskey.

  Brett hesitated. If he had the sense God gave a gnat, he’d walk away and never look back. If only he didn’t feel responsible for the man’s plight! If the town scuttlebutt was right, Miss Denver would have nothing more to do with her former fiancé. Lord knows, had he been in Foster’s shoes, he might have been tempted to cozy up to a bottle or two himself. Like it or not, he’d created this mess; it was now up to him to make things right.

  Stooping, he gave Foster a good shake. The man kept snoring but otherwise didn’t stir. Brett straightened and glanced around. Not a single soul was within shouting distance. At least no one in any condition to help him. Wasn’t that just fine and dandy? That meant either leaving Foster where he was or hauling the man up the stairs to the second-floor living quarters himself.

  As tempted as Brett was to mind his own business, he couldn’t in good conscience do so. Had it not been for him, Foster would be married by now and wouldn’t be sleeping off a bender in a crummy doorway.

  Recalling the devastated look on Miss Denver’s face, Brett clenched his jaw. Like it or not, he felt compelled to do something. To make it up to her. To make it right.

  Giving the staircase a measuring glance, he grimaced. Fourteen steps led to the second floor. Fourteen very steep and very narrow steps.

  Since there didn’t seem to be any way aro
und it, he rolled up his sleeves. Rubbing his hands together, he turned the prone body over. Foster sputtered, and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.

  Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Brett heaved the man off the ground and hoisted him over his shoulder. Frank’s head flopped against Brett’s back like that of a rag doll, his arms dangling past Brett’s waist.

  Knees threatening to buckle beneath the deadweight, Brett staggered toward the stairs.

  By the time he reached the upstairs landing, he was out of breath, his forehead slick with sweat. Fortunately, the door to the apartment was ajar, and he kicked it open with his foot. The room was dark except for the soft glow of gaslight streaming through the dusty windows.

  After depositing Frank in a heap on the sofa, Brett fumbled to light the gas lamp on the table in front of the window. The flame sputtered before settling into a steady glow. Two wing chairs flanked a single sofa and a low table piled high with issues of the Police Gazette. Clothes were scattered about the room, tossed over the backs of chairs and the sofa and heaped on the floor in little piles.

  Brett opened a window, but even the cool night air couldn’t erase the stale smell of half-eaten food left on the table to rot.

  It hardly seemed like the kind of place a man would bring a bride. But then, maybe the couple hadn’t planned on living there after the wedding.

  He reached into his pocket for the bag of caramels, hoping the candy would make the sour smell more bearable. Only two were left. Just as he pulled one out of the bag, something floated to the floor. It was a slip of paper. Bending to reach it, he popped the caramel in his mouth.

  He unfolded the paper and read the note written in flowery script.

  Leaving town would be good for your health.

  A vision of flaming-red hair and big, blue eyes came to mind, sparking a smile. Well, now. Either the lady was worried about his safety, or she had a sense of humor. He doubted she meant him any real harm. At least, he hoped not.