Mr. Tilson was sweating, and had obviously ridden hard. Foam and dust hung on him in spatters, and his suit coat was sadly rumpled. He was red-faced, too, and Cat stared at him curiously. His hat was cocked sideways, and the slicked-down strands of his dark hair were dangerously disarranged.
“You!” He pointed at Cat, and spat the word. “You. I’ve words for you, Miss.”
What on earth? She drew herself up. The children had frozen, including Cecily Dalrymple at the board. Their eyes were wide and round, and quite justifiable irritation flashed under Cat’s skin. “Mr. Tilson. You shall not shout indoors, sir. It sets a bad example.”
That brought him up short. The redness of his cheeks and the ugly flush on his neck was not merely from the heat. It was also, Cat suspected, pure choler.
He actually spluttered a little, and her fingers found the yardstick laid across her desk. “Step outside, sir. I shall deal with you in a moment, once I have finished giving the second and third forms their lessons. Miss Dalrymple, you may return to your seat; that is quite enough.”
“I ain’t gonna be put off—” Mr. Tilson started, and Cat searched for her mother’s voice. It came easily, for once.
“Sir.” Every speck of dust in the room flashed under her tone. “You shall not disturb my students further. Step outside. And do close the door properly, the wind and heat are very bad today.”
His jaw worked, but he seemed to finally realize the eyes of every child in the room were upon him. He backed up a single step, his gaze purely venomous, and whirled, banging the door shut.
Cat’s knuckles ached, gripping the wooden yardstick. Her heart pounded. She tilted her chin slightly, an ache beginning between her shoulder blades.
I can handle a whorehouse manager, Mr. Gabriel had said. Surely a Barrowe-Browne could do no less. At least it was not a shambling corpse at the door.
That was an entirely unwelcome thought, and she did her best to put it away. “Second form, take your slates and solve the row of sums under first form’s line. Third form—” All three of you, who can puzzle out a word or two. “Take out your primers and occupy yourselves with page six.”
“Yes ma’am,” no few of them chorused, and Cecily Dalrymple actually sat down without flouncing, for once. Cat suspected she might regret showing leniency, but there was nothing for it.
She passed down the aisle, stepping over the cleansed patch where the corpse had landed—there was no evidence of it on the floorboards, but she still disliked setting her feet in that vicinity—and braced herself for whatever unpleasantness was about to ensue.
* * *
“You.” Tilson pointed a stubby finger at her. “What are you playing at? Them whores don’t need to read!”
So that’s it. Her mother’s voice still served her well—the exact tone Frances Barrowe-Browne would use in dealing with an overeager gentleman, or a brute of a salesman who sought to engage her custom. “You will adopt a civilized tone in speaking to me, sir.” Cat drew in a sharp soundless breath. Dust whirled along the dry track serving as a road, and the horse Tilson had arrived on hung its head near the trough, its sides lathered. “And your horse requires some care.”
“Goddamn the horse, and God damn you, too! Civilized tone my ass. What’n hell you think you’re doing, teaching whores to read? I won’t have it!”
She still held the yardstick, and the image of cracking him across the knuckles with it was satisfying in its own way. Cat gazed at him for a few long moments, her face set, one eyebrow arched in imitation of her mother’s fearsome You Are Not In Good Form expression.
When she was certain she had his attention, and further certain that he was beginning to feel faintly ridiculous, she tapped the yardstick against the schoolhouse’s ramshackle porch. The shade here was most welcome, though she quailed a bit inwardly at the thought of the afternoon walk back to her little cottage. “The next moment you use such language, sir, this conversation is over. Now, am I to understand you have an objection to some of my students?”
“Your—” He visibly checked himself. “They ain’t gonna read! You just tell them that!”
“I was engaged to see to the education of those in this town.” Dangerously quiet, and Cat’s back ached. “Those in your employ are not heathen slaves, sir; they are members of this town and, as such, are entitled to my services. Additionally”—she overrode the beginning of his bluster, and it was Miss Ayre’s example she drew upon now—“I am a charter-free Christian woman, sir, and you do not have any leave or right to speak to me in this manner. You may remove yourself from my schoolhouse immediately. If you do not, I shall be forced to seek a remedy against you by applying to the forces of law and justice in this town.”
“What, Gabe? He ain’t mixed up in this. You mark my word, you little bitch—”
“Good day, sir.” She turned on her heel.
Tilson took a step forward, and his broad, callused hand closed around her arm, squeezing brutally. “I am talkin’ to you, you little—”
The yardstick snapped up, its tip crackling and spitting sparks. She meant to merely startle him into dropping her arm, and heard Robbie’s voice inside her head. Don’t let them manhandle you, little sister. That’s what a Practicality’s for.
Instead, it cracked across Mr. Tilson’s face as he sought to shake her, pulling her toward the three rude stairs leading off the porch. The mancy popped, and blood spattered. She recoiled, his hand falling away from her aching arm, and it was as if Robbie were next to her. The image of the locket in the pawnshop window rose, glittering coldly, and she realized that in this town, she could perhaps sally into such a place without worrying overmuch about such a thing as Reputation.
Still, she was alone with this man, with only a group of children inside, and Reputation was thin tissue indeed to shield her from violence.
Perhaps she should have been more…discreet? Passive? What was the proper word?
The saloon owner tripped, tumbled down the steps, and landed sprawled in the dust. Cat found words, harsh and rude as a lady’s must never be. Still, they fell out of her mouth before she could halt them.
“Do not dare to lay hands upon me in such a manner, you foulmouthed brute!” She hit a pitch just under “fishwife’s scream” and for once, did not wish to writhe in embarrassment. The yardstick fizzed with sparks, and she held it in both hands, much in the manner of a sword.
He scrambled to his feet, dust rising in puffs and golden veils. Cat’s heart thundered, her palms sweating, and a curl had fallen in her face. The children had probably heard her. Gossip would run through the town, and—
You’re here to find Robbie. Or find what has happened to him. This brute does not matter one whit.
And yet Miss Tiergale had been very frightened. Almost trembling. If she lived with this man, Cat could see why.
And the knowledge made her sick all the way through. Another session of heaving off the school’s porch could not be borne either, so she merely set her jaw and swallowed the bitterness.
Mr. Tilson pointed one thick, trembling finger. “I’ll get you. So help me, I’ll get you.”
“Your threats are as ugly as your character.” She pointed the yardstick, a single star of light hurtfully bright at its tip. The wood was scorched, and Tilson’s face was bleeding, one eye already puffed shut. The blood was shockingly bright in all the dun and dust. “Do not ever come near me again, sir. Or I shall hand you more of the same.”
He blundered back for his horse, and Cat stood watching as he spurred the beast unmercifully. She tried to tell herself it was because she wished to make certain he would not return and possibly make another scene in front of her students.
In reality, however, it was because she was trembling, and her stomach cramped. She watched the man on the horse recede into the distance toward the smoke-smudge of the bulk of Damnation, and her mouth was full of thick, foul fear.
If I were not such a lady, I would spit. A lady did not smash a man in the face with
mancy and a yardstick, however.
I would do it again, she realized. Most assuredly I would.
I would even enjoy it.
Chapter 11
As soon as he stepped into the Lucky Star, Gabe knew something was amiss. The hush was instant, and he didn’t need to see Mercy Tiergale’s badly bruised cheek to tell Tils was unhappy. It wasn’t like him to tap a popular girl in the face where it would show, either.
It was midafternoon, so the serious drinking hadn’t started yet, and wouldn’t for hours. The card games were going full-force though, and Mo Jackson was banging on the tinny little piano, waltzing his way through “She Was A Charming Filly” and humming off-key. Mercy made a beeline for Gabe, and he barely had time to lay his littlebit on the counter and accept a shot of something passing for whiskey before she was at his elbow.
“He left an hour ago,” she said, and the bruise was fresh red-purple, glaring and still puffing up. Her breasts swelled almost out of the dress—well, dress wasn’t quite the word, it was just a scrap of corset and lace, and low. “Gabe…”
“Tils?” He nodded as the ’tender, weedy Tass Coy, slapped his hand over the bit and made it vanish. Coy’s jaw was a mess; you could clearly see where the horse’s hoof had dug in and shattered bone. Not even the doctor could do much for it, and Russ Overton’s mancy didn’t extend to fleshstitching.
“He said he was gonna talk to her.” It was a strained whisper. “I sent Billy to the jail, but you warn’t there.”
Coy watched this, his brown eyes neutral. He plucked at one of his braces with long sensitive fingers, and turned away very slowly. There was nothing wrong with his ears.
No, I was ridin’ the circuit, dammit. Gabe’s chest knew before the rest of him. A cold, hard lump settled right behind his breastbone. “Tilson’s visiting the marm?”
“He said he was gonna ride right out to that schoolhouse and teach her not to interfere.” Mercy’s hands clutched into fists. “Gabe…now don’t be hasty.”
Hasty is one thing I’m not. “Tilson. Visiting the schoolhouse.” He repeated it slowly, just to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “When did he leave, now?”
“An hour, maybe more—Gabe, I—”
He bolted the shot. No use in wasting liquor, even if it was terrible. When he cracked the glass back down on the sloping counter, Mercy cringed like a whipped dog. Did she think he was going to tap her, too?
“Goddamn.” He headed for the swinging doors, but he didn’t have to take more than two steps before they whipped open as if disgorging a flood. Emmet Tilson stamped through, looking halfway to Hell. Blood and dust crusted his face, and one eye was swollen shut. It looked much worse than what he’d inflicted on Mercy, and Gabe stopped dead.
What the Hell? His jaw felt suspiciously loose, and the way his hands were tense and tight-knotted, Gabe was suddenly afraid he was going to break a finger or two.
Tils saw him a bare half-second later, and stopped dead as well. He wasn’t wearing a gun, which was a piece of good fortune, because Gabe saw the saloon owner’s hand twitch, and almost drew himself.
Now, don’t lose your temper, something inside him was trying to say. Oddly, it sounded a little like Annie, and a little like an archly amused schoolmarm.
There was a general shuffle as everyone in the saloon noticed the two of them eyeing each other like rattlesnakes, and moved out of the way.
Gabe decided to be mannerly. Why not? “Afternoon, Tilson.”
The man twitched again, and Gabe was mighty glad there was no gun on Tils’s hip. On the other hand, the saloon owner had gone out to the schoolhouse without an iron? That was very unlike him.
Maybe he thought Miss Barrowe wasn’t worth shooting. ’Course, Tilson preferred to talk to a woman with his fists.
A spike of heat went through Gabe. He realized, miserably, that he was not about to keep his temper. Especially if the whorehouse manager said one, small, wrong word.
“Sheriff.” Brittle, but at least Tilson wasn’t shouting. “My office. Now.”
Since when do you order me around like one of your whores? “Beg your pardon?” He drawled it nice and slow, as if he didn’t understand. Give the man some time to reconsider his tone, as it were.
The garish blood and dust all over Tils was thought-provoking. The cold was all through Gabe now, except for that hot spike of rage in his chest, beating like a heart. He hadn’t felt that heat in so long, it was almost comforting.
Whatever was in his expression made the saloon owner back up a step, his spurs jangling a discordant note against the worn wooden floor. If Gabe were still of the Faith, now would have been the moment for him to punish the man for a transgression real or imagined.
But that part of him was long gone, wasn’t it? And thinking about its loss was not guaranteed to keep his temper, either.
“I mean, ah…” Tilson coughed, rubbed at his swollen lips with one hand. But slowly. “I mean, Gabe, we’ve got business. Care to step into my office?”
That’s better. But you’re still likely to bite. Cowards always are. “I ain’t aware of any business between us, Tilson. Unless you want there to be.” It was hard, but he glanced aside at Mercy Tiergale, whose hands were clutched at her mouth. “Miss Mercy. Don’t you and the girls have an appointment?”
The silence was so thick you could pour it into a cup. Tils stiffened as if Gabe had just slapped him. The doors squeaked on their hinges, and the wind on Damnation’s main street was a low moan as wheels rumbled and horses neighed outside.
A susurrus behind him as he returned his gaze to Tilson. “You look like hell, Emmet.”
“Tangled with a she-cat.” Tils straightened. The tension leached out of the air, and Mo brought his hands down on the keys again. The tinny crash almost made him jump.
“Is that so.” Looks like she tangled you but good.
“Gabe…” Mercy sounded as if she’d been punched. Maybe she had. Or maybe she found it difficult to breathe. Mo noodled through the first few bars of “My Old Mother Is Watching,” and Gabe wondered if it was the man’s comment on proceedings, so to speak.
“You just run along now.” Gabe said it evenly, slowly. “Take the girls with you. I’ll be along to see all’s right.”
Tils seemed to have a bit of a problem with this. “You can’t—”
“You want to think right careful before you finish that sentence, Tilson.” And so help me God, if you hurt her, I’m going to make you pay.
It was an uncomfortable thought. He didn’t even like the marm; she was a prissy little miss, and he had no need to be involving himself in this trouble. It was too late, though. He was well and truly involved, because he had opened his fool mouth.
And besides, he was lying to himself again. A knight of the Order must never commit that sin, of untruth in his own soul. The smell of incense rose in his memory, the moment of struggle before the altar before he had turned away, leaving his brothers praying in their plainsong chant, his hands fists as they were now and a single thought burning in his brain.
Annie.
Except it wasn’t her he was thinking of now, was it.
The saloon owner subsided. But the ratty little gleam in his eye told Gabe there would be trouble later.
Oh, damn.
* * *
The news had spread like wildfire. By the time Gabe arrived at the schoolhouse the Granger wagon was there too, and he winced again.
Maybe this would all blow over. Tils might not use his fists too much on the girls now that Gabe was involved, but there were a hundred other ways he could make their lives even more miserable. And the miss might find that teaching a bunch of saloon girls was not as easy as the little ’uns—though Gabe didn’t know how easy the little ’uns were, rightly. About all he knew was that he wouldn’t care to be trapped in a schoolroom with them all day.
He took his time pumping fresh water for the horses. The sun beat down unmercifully, and even though the water was brown and the bottom of the tro
ugh none too clean, he still thought longingly of just sinking into it and letting the entire damn situation play itself out with no help from one tired, head-buzzing Jack Gabriel.
He had just finished pumping and settled his hat more firmly when Letitia Granger sailed out of the schoolhouse door, her bosom—the only soft thing on that big bony body—lifted high with indignation and plump with starched ruffles. The rest of her was in severe dark stuff, and she looked so rigid with disapproval he was surprised her skirts didn’t creak.
She sallied down the stairs, head held high and the poor feathers on her hat hanging on for dear life. “Sheriff!” she crowed, her lips so pinched the word was a hoarse croak.
Oh, Lord. He tried his best not to wince yet again. “Afternoon, Mrs. Granger.”
“Do you know what she’s done?” Granger was fairly apoplectic. Her color was a deep brick-red, and strings of her graying hair stuck to her forehead, wet with sweat. She looked fit to expire right there on the steps. “Do you?”
He decided a measure of strategic befuddlement might work. “Last I heard, she was teachin’.”
“There are unrespectable women in there, Sheriff! On the very seats our children…the seats…” Letitia Granger’s jaw worked.
He tipped his hat back a little, scratched at the creased band of sweat on his forehead. He took his time with it, as if he was stupid-puzzled. “Well, where else should she teach ’em? At the church?”
That was probably the wrong thing to say, for Mrs. Granger’s eyes flashed and she sailed across the yard, dust sparking and crackling in her wake. She was so het up she was throwing mancy even though she had no Practicality, and Gabe at least had the comfort of knowing he wasn’t the only one the Boston miss had tied up in a tangle there was no working free of.
“It’s unchristian!” The woman stopped, her hands fisting at her sides. She probably packed a punch like a donkey’s kick under all that starch.
“Well, they ain’t no Magdala nuns, I’ll allow that.” He nodded, slowly. “But they paid her fair and square, and I can’t find no law against it.”
The Damnation Affair Page 8
