Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  She turned her head once more and stared into the dark street in front of them.. “I suppose. I believe Uncle Fred and Aunt Mae are prepared to help if it doesn’t.”

  She seemed troubled, and Jack suspected he knew the reason. “What about Sunshine? Have they warmed up to her?”

  An enormous sigh preceded, “Well, I’m not sure. They don’t like the idea of me taking in an Indian child.”

  It looked to Jack as though she were trying to create a scowl, but couldn’t quite summon up enough anger. She only succeeded in appearing sadder. His heart executed another wild lurch.

  “I told you how it would be in Santa Fe,” he said gently.

  After a brief pause, she said, “Well, I guess you did, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

  “You could still come to San Francisco with me, Phoebe.”

  When she turned to look at him, he could see tears shimmering in her beautiful eyes. They nearly tore his heart right out of him.

  “No, Jack, I can’t do that.”

  He saw a tear slip its mooring and glide down her cheek, and picked it up with his finger. “Why can’t you do that, Phoebe?”

  She turned away again, this time giving him the back of her head. She’d drawn her hair back and tied it with ribbons, and it cascaded down her back in beautiful waves. Jack itched to run his fingers through it.

  “Because,” she whispered. “I just can’t.”

  “That’s no reason, Phoebe. Why can’t you come with me? Life would be easier for you there.”

  She took another deep breath, this one, Jack suspected, to sustain her during her next words. “I can’t because I’m not that sort of woman, Jack Valentine.”

  He was proud of her when her voice didn’t shake. In fact, her voice sounded very proper and ladylike. He grinned in spite of himself.

  “And what sort of woman is it that you aren’t, my darling Phoebe?”

  His voice caressed her like velvet, and Phoebe almost burst into tears. Oh, how she loved him. Her throat ached so much, she was sure she’d never get her answer out. But her upbringing did not fail her. It was her upbringing that answered him.

  “An unmarried woman being used as the mistress of an unmarried man. That’s the kind of woman I’m not.”

  His soft chuckle about did her in. It took all the determination of herself and her upbringing combined to keep her from swooning dead away.

  “I know you’re not that sort of woman, sweetheart.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Don’t call me that!”

  “Don’t call you sweetheart?”

  “No.” Furiously, Phoebe dug her rag of a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. She was so embarrassed.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t mean it.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, Jack! Don’t say that! I can’t stand it.” She felt absolutely humiliated to be sitting here crying while he smiled at her. She tried to turn away again, but he wouldn’t let her. His big fingers caught her chin and held her head still.

  “Why can’t you stand it, Phoebe? It’s the truth.”

  “No,” she sobbed. “You make it sound as though you . . . you care about me.”

  “I do.”

  “Oh, Jack, don’t you see? I know you mean well, and I know you’re being nice. I never expected you to be nice.” She had to stop and blow her nose again.

  His grin went a little cockeyed. “Of course not. You’d never expect a damned Yankee to be nice.”

  “Of course I didn’t.” She didn’t realize he was being ironic; she was too upset. “But ‘nice’ isn’t what I mean. I mean you don’t-don’t love me.”

  “Do you want me to love you, Phoebe?” His voice had gone very, very quiet.

  For only a moment she considered not answering, not exposing herself to further humiliation. But she’d never seen him again. The knowledge had already eaten a huge, bleeding wound in her heart. She couldn’t let him leave her without knowing. She couldn’t.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, Jack. I want you to love me.”

  “Why, Phoebe?”

  Oh, Lord, he wasn’t going to give up. Well, so be it.

  “Because I love you, Jack. I love you to death.”

  She wondered why he shut his eyes and breathed deeply after her confession was out. She wished he’d say something. Anything. Just to cover up her words. They seemed to hang in the air and echo in her ears.

  After a moment, during which he took several swallows and breathed hard a few times, Jack said, “I have something for you, Phoebe.”

  She had to sniffle a couple of times before she could whisper, “You . . . you do?”

  He nodded, reached into his breast pocket, and drew out a small box. “Here, Phoebe. Open it. It’s for you.”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she took the box. It looked tiny in his huge hand. When she opened it up, her mouth dropped open and she couldn’t speak.

  It was a ring. It wasn’t just any ring, but one adorned with a cluster of brilliant gems, winking at her under the light of the stars. They made her think some of those stars must have gotten loose and attached themselves to the band of gold lying in the box clutched in her trembling fingers.

  “What-what is it?”

  His chuckle sounded strange. “It’s a ring, Phoebe.”

  “A-a ring? For me?”

  She was startled when he grabbed her hand. His movement was so abrupt, she couldn’t figure out what was happening. But, all of a sudden, he was on one knee in front of her, her hand, hankie and all, clasped in his. Her other hand still held the box full of ring.

  “It’s an engagement ring, Phoebe. And the wedding band is in my hotel room, waiting for you. I needed you to say the words first. I needed you to say that you loved me, a damned Yankee. Because I love you with all my heart. All my soul. Everything. Please marry me, Phoebe. Marry me and come to San Francisco with me.”

  Phoebe could scarcely hear him through the roaring in her ears. He wanted to marry her. Her!

  “Oh, Jack.”

  “That better be a yes, Phoebe.” He was trying to grin, but it was rough going, he was so close to tears.

  Phoebe stared at him through her own tears and wondered how it was possible to love him more than she had a second ago, but she did. The next words she said were the hardest she’d ever spoken.

  “Thank you, Jack. I’ll cherish your proposal forever.”

  Suddenly Jack didn’t feel like crying anymore. “What?” It came out sort of a bark, but he didn’t apologize.

  Phoebe winced. “Oh, Jack. I truly do thank you. I don’t know how to express my appreciation properly.”

  Jack’s knees hurt so he stood up and dusted them off. “You can express your appreciation by saying you’ll marry me, damn it.”

  Her lips pinched. “Please don’t swear at me, Jack. This is very difficult for me.”

  He glared at her. “Damn it, Phoebe, I just asked you to marry me. I never asked a woman to marry me before. I’ll swear all I want until you agree to marry me!”

  “But, Jack, I can’t! Don’t you see? Don’t you understand yet?”

  Raking a hand through is hair, Jack executed an abrupt turn in front of the porch swing. When he faced her again, his frown was ferocious. “No, Phoebe. No, I don’t see, and I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all. Not one little tiny bit. Explain it to me, please, because I don’t understand, damn it!”

  Phoebe winced again, and this time she frowned afterwards. She whispered furiously, “Stop swearing at me, Jack. The whole world can hear you! I can’t marry you because I can’t give you children! For heaven’s sake, an idiot could see that!”

  “I don’t want children!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack, and for heaven’s sake don’t patronize me. Every man wants children of his own.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vai
n, Jack Valentine,” Phoebe hissed violently. “The children might be listening.”

  “Damn it, Phoebe—”

  “No!” Phoebe stood up. She thrust the box full of ring back into Jack’s hand. “No, I won’t listen to another word from your mouth, Jack Valentine. If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, then I just won’t listen to you at all.”

  Jack stuffed the ring into his shirt pocket. “You’re a bull-headed damned southern belle, Phoebe Honeycutt!”

  “And you’re a black-hearted Yankee pig!”

  Furious, Jack snatched his hat from the porch newel, where it rested next to the broken pump handle. The handle fell with a loud clank and he stooped, snatched it up, and slammed it back onto the newel.

  “Fine, Phoebe. That’s just fine. I come over here with a ring for your finger, tell you I love you and ask you to marry me, and all you can do is tell me not to swear when you refuse my proposal. Well, all right. I won’t bother you anymore tonight.”

  “Jack—”

  Phoebe held out a restraining hand, but Jack’s vanity had been wounded enough for one night and he was mad as fire. He slapped his hat on his head, whirled around, and stomped back down the porch stairs. Stopping abruptly at the bottom of the steps, he turned again and pointed a quivering finger at Phoebe.

  “But I’ll be back, damn it. I’ll be back and back and back until you agree to marry me. You’re not going to get away with this! I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go, Phoebe Honeycutt. You’re mine, damn it!” He started to storm away, thought of something else, and turned around again. “And you’d better change your mind fast, too, because I want to get home!”

  “Jack—”

  Phoebe stared at him, her mind awhirl, wondering what had gone wrong with the evening. It had seemed like heaven for a few seconds there. With a deep sigh, she realized this was just the way things happened with herself and Jack.

  Peering after his retreating figure, Phoebe’s fury abated slowly. Slowly, the reality of what just happened trickled into her brain. Jack Valentine wanted to marry her. Knowing she was barren, he still wanted to marry her. Her. Phoebe Antoinette Honeycutt.

  “My goodness,” she whispered into the darkness.

  She’d just about gone completely dreamy when a sudden rank, familiar odor assaulted her nostrils. Her mind registered an instant of panic a split-second before a filthy hand closed over her mouth and she felt cold, naked steel press against her throat.

  # # #

  Jack was mad enough to chew nails when he charged away from the Forrests’ front porch.

  “Damned stubborn, idiotic woman. I’ll make her see reason if I have to spend the rest of my damned life here in this godforsaken place.”

  He looked around, but couldn’t see much since it had become so dark by this time. The Forrests lived in a quiet part of town. No tinny pianos rang in the night air. No light spilled from saloons. Saloons and pianos belonged in another neighborhood entirely. Jack stopped dead still in the road and listened.

  So why did he feel this sudden terrible unease? Straining into the silence, he didn’t hear a thing.

  Still, he hadn’t felt this tingling, frightening sensation of impending violence since the war. Was it a remnant of his anger caused by Phoebe’s refusal to marry him?

  He thought about it, trying to make his brain work rationally, trying to allow his senses to operate.

  No. It wasn’t nothing. It was definitely something.

  Puzzled by his own feelings, almost embarrassed by them, wondering if he were merely being fanciful, Jack turned around and headed slowly back towards the Forrests.

  “You’re a damned fool, Jack Valentine,” he muttered to himself. He kept walking, though.

  # # #

  Even before she heard Yves Basteau’s evil, French-accented voice, Phoebe knew it was he. But it couldn’t be Yves Basteau! Yves Basteau was dead! She tried to scream, but his big, fleshy palm pressed her mouth; she could taste the filth on his hand. He held her close to his chest, and his vile smell almost overwhelmed her.

  “You bitch,” he snarled. “You stinking bitch. You hurt me with that damned skillet. Then you got my brother killed by them damned Indians. Well, you’re going to pay for it now, bitch. You’re going to pay.”

  His brother! Phoebe’s brain reeled with the implications in Basteau’s obscene diatribe. His brother? That body Pete Spotted Pony took to Fort Sumner was Yves Basteau’s brother?

  And Jack Valentine hadn’t told her? He hadn’t warned her this creature was still at large and after her?

  All at once the unfairness of her life struck Phoebe like a fist in the gut. All the injustices, indignities and horrors she’d suffered during the past several years slammed through her. She felt the prick of Basteau’s knife on her throat, felt a trickle of blood dribble down into her nice, clean collar—the collar of a dress she’d washed with great difficulty in the Pecos River because Basteau had chased them there—and she blew up.

  You’re dead anyway, Phoebe Honeycutt, her brain screamed. Are you going to let this fiend murder you without even a struggle?

  In one enormous burst of fury, Phoebe struggled her mouth open and chomped down as hard as she could on the fleshy part of Yves Basteau’s dirty hand. She brought the heel of her worn shoe down on his moccasin-clad foot. She crooked her arm and slammed the point of her elbow into his ribs.

  Phoebe had the satisfaction of hearing Basteau’s roar of pain, and of knowing she’d surprised him. He faltered only momentarily, but it was enough for her to wrench one of her arms free. Flailing wildly for something—anything—Phoebe reached behind her and her fingers closed around the cold metal of her Uncle Fred’s broken pump handle.

  Basteau bellowed, “You damned bitch!” right before Phoebe brought the pump handle down on his body. She knew not where she’d connected, but she felt a jolt as the metal met something at once soft and solid. Basteau roared again, lost his footing, and stumbled.

  Phoebe was disconcerted when she realized she and her adversary, who simply would not let go of her, were tumbling down the porch steps entwined with one another.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, Jack Valentine’s terrified holler registered, but, although she felt a swell of anger directed at Jack, Phoebe didn’t waver in her current purpose. She’d deal with him later. Right now she had another adversary to conquer.

  Ferociously, she battered Basteau with the only weapon in her possession. Time and time again she felt the metal handle connect with his flesh, and triumph surged within her. She heard Basteau scream in pain and fury, and renewed her attack.

  It took a second or two for Phoebe to realize they’d landed at the foot of the stairs with him underneath her. Somehow in their wild fall, he’d loosened his grip on her other arm, so she was able to wrap both hands around the pump handle. Phoebe rode Basteau astride, as she’d been shocked to see Sarah do with Antelope’s horse.

  When Jack had heard a man’s shout of anger, he’d stopped wondering if he was being a fool and raced back to the Forrests’ place, every nerve in his body shrieking in fear for Phoebe’s welfare. Basteau couldn’t possibly have found her, could he? Oh, God.

  Jack, Pete and Antelope had elected not to tell Phoebe the body Pete carted to Fort Sumner was not that of Yves Basteau. They didn’t want her to worry. Now, Jack realized, they’d been wrong not to warn her. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Please let her be all right. His brain howled the prayer, even as his hand reached for the pistol in his belt.

  When he got to the Forrests’ home, he screeched to a halt, stunned at the sight he beheld. His eyes went round and his mouth dropped open. Then he very carefully shouldered his way through the crowd of people who’d swarmed out of their homes to see what was happening in their quiet neighborhood.

  Phoebe sat on Yves Basteau’s enormous paunch. Her hair flew every which way, and her face bore the same mask of fury Jack had seen on soldiers’ faces during the heat of battle. In the space of a breath, he rea
lized she didn’t plan to let up on battering Yves Basteau’s head until the man lay dead underneath her. And, while Jack figured Basteau not only deserved death by the hand of the woman he’d tried to rape and murder, and also that Basteau’s head was probably the least vulnerable part of his anatomy, he also figured Phoebe would regret killing him later.

  Very carefully, so as not to unduly startle her and set her to beating him with her unlikely weapon, Jack eased up to her.

  He said softly, “Phoebe. Phoebe, come on now. It’s all over now.”

  “Stay away from me, Jack Valentine! You just stay away from me!”

  Basteau groaned miserably. Jack realized he’d tried to protect his head with his hands, and that his hands were taking the brunt of Phoebe’s blows. Basteau’s fingers must be broken by this time, but at least his skull was probably nominally intact.

  Rolling his eyes, Jack stuffed his gun into his waistband and walked around the combatants until he reached Basteau’s feet. Then he tiptoed up between Basteau’s legs until he figured he could get a grip on Phoebe’s waist. Right before he plucked her off of the villain’s body, he saw Pete Spotted Pony and Antelope shove their way through the crowd.

  “It’s about time you two showed up,” he said sourly.

  Phoebe squealed with rage when she felt Jack lift her off her adversary. “Let me at him!”

  “You’ve already been at him, sweetheart,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice loving and tender.

  “Damn.” Pete Spotted Pony stared at the whimpering heap of Yves Basteau in disgust.

  “Hell. I reckon the bounty ain’t rightly ours anymore Pete,” Antelope muttered. He kicked Basteau in the stomach because he was peeved and said, “Bastard.”

  Basteau groaned and rolled over, burying his head in his broken hands.

  Phoebe still struggled. Now she was trying to turn in Jack’s embrace, Jack assumed so she could continue her assault and battery on him this time. His arms were strong enough to hold her, though, and she couldn’t get at him with her pump handle. Her feet, however, were a different matter, and she connected a couple of good ones with his shins.

  He grunted and snapped at Antelope and Pete, “Will one of you please take the goddamned weapon away from this woman before she kills me?”