by Caryl McAdoo
Braxton only nodded, then he, too, looked her way. “Gwendolyn, how was your day?”
She enjoyed the way he smiled, except she wanted more time to study on the men. “Excellent, sir, and yours?”
His smiled increased. “Had a wonderful day, thank you very much. Tomorrow I’ll go investigate that timberland I told your father about.”
She feigned interest and encouraged him to tell her more, loving Clay’s hangdog expression. He was so smitten with her, no doubt about that. But was he the one she’d choose? Before Elijah and Braxton came along, she thought he was her best option, but now….
“Only about five miles north from Wellington’s if I’ve got it right.” He looked at her daddy. “Is that correct, sir?”
For a bit, Henry only stared then nodded. “About that, no more than seven. Easy ride there and back.”
“Good. Figure I’ll leave out first thing in the morning.”
Again Henry nodded then turned his attention to Clay. “Your mama didn’t seem too happy yesterday after church.”
“No, sir, but unless I’m hanging onto her apron strings, she’s that way. Doesn’t dote on any of the others like she does me.” He grinned. “ ’Spect we’ll have to alternate Sunday dinners….” His faced turned red. “Uh…well…I mean if….”
“Some mothers have trouble letting go.” He’d heard that about Maud Briggs, but until this minute had passed it off as an old wife flapping her gums.
A glance Gwendolyn’s way proved she’d heard him, too, smiling like a woman with someone wrapped around her little finger and tied in a bow.
“Elijah tells me you’re a big help.”
“Try to be, sir.”
Henry eyed Eversole. “You tell Clay what we decided?”
The Californian set his fork down, glanced at Clay then back. “Yes, sir, sure did. We’ve already moved his bedroll from the bunkhouse.”
Gwen’s puzzlement amused him, but she didn’t need to know everything he did. The young man obviously saw it, too, as he sent her a quick grin. “Excellent, let me know if we need to make any changes.”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t anticipate any. Early on, I bunked with two other miners in closer quarters.”
“That the claim you and Jethro are partners on?” Henry leaned back, hoping the young man would take the conversation to the gold fields. At first, he only hinted at his past, but then with each question asked and answered, it brought out more.
Houston—always first to finish eating and usually itching to get the table cleared and dishes done—hung on every word out of Elijah’s mouth. The gold miner himself stood first and started stacking plates and bowls.
With both hands full, he turned toward the kitchen.
Seemed to Henry that Braxton walked slower through the chore each meal he ate, but had to give him staying until the end, unlike his own little man-plant. More times than not, Houston slipped out, disappearing before the last dish was dried and put away.
From the kitchen, he joined his wife and the young folks in the parlor, but everyone kept their good distance.
His Bonnie Claire watched them with her hawk eyes, so he figured that he could retire to his quarters. He bade them a good night and left. Later than he would have preferred, May joined him.
As she swept into the room, he looked up from his ledger. He loved the way she moved. Almost like floating, but with a joy in her step. That wouldn’t be lasting through the next half year though. “Want to sit here?”
“Why, please, kind sir, and thank you.” She grinned. “That chair of yours fits me perfectly, and the wingbacks seem to pain my back worse.”
He resisted mentioning what she’d gotten herself into. He loved his babies, every one, but still would have liked it best if Crockett had satisfied her need to mother. Miss Jewel had gone out of her way to tell him May would be fine though.
He eased into the right hand wingback. Truth be known, he preferred sitting there instead of his chair.
Once she settled in, he gave voice to what he’d been thinking since the man gave himself away. “We need to have a word with Gwendolyn.”
“About?”
“You ever heard of Wellington’s?”
“No, I can’t recall. Do they go to church? I thought I’d met about everyone.”
“No, not a family. There’s only one of them, and he runs the only saloon or card parlor in the county.”
A bit of interest flashed in her pretty eyes then turned to concern. “Oh? Where is it?”
“North of town four or five miles. Can’t find it if you don’t know what you’re looking for and have decent directions.”
“So…you figure Mister Hightower has been there?”
“Looks that way to me.”
Her shoulders hiked a bit. “Oh, darling, is it so bad? I’ve been known to make a wager or two, you know.”
“So have I, but I been thinking. Figured after the way Gwendolyn was making eyes at the both of them, I could save us all a lot grief and shoot them both.”
She snickered then shook her head. “Henry Buckmeyer, what about Elijah?”
“He’s going home to California in a couple of months. If Eversole does come back, I could shoot him then.”
“Sweetheart, you cannot keep these girls your babies forever.”
Even though she was right, he hated it that they’d grown up so fast. “Still, we need to warn Gwendolyn about Hightower. You got any inkling who she might be leaning toward?”
“No, I believe we need to stay out of it right now. She’ll make the right choice when the times comes.” She tilted her pretty head and smiled that smile he loved more than life.
He started to bring up Mary Rachel and her bad decisions, but his second-born daughter wasn’t her older sister. Rebecca had downright spoiled him, waiting so long to get married.
Why his daughters seemed in such a rush perplexed him. Wasn’t like he had them out working in the fields every day. They had no idea how hard life could get.
Their mother learned the hard way.
Was that it? Had he spoiled them? Made life too easy for them. Sheltered them too much…that’s what he’d done. Even Bonnie Claire. Twelve years old and campaigning for him to change his courting rules. What was the world coming to?
No doubt shooting all the suitors sure would make his life easier. If only it were legal. “Is Crockett with Gwen tonight?”
“Last I saw, Houston and Bart had him outside holding the jar of fireflies. They’re catching and he’s the keeper. But she said she’d take him up when she goes.”
He stood. He certainly liked the new sleeping arrangements. “You ready for bed?”
“In a minute. Sit back down, please, sir. I wrote three pages on the pirate story I need you to read.”
He did as told, she asked so nice and all. If only someone would be as plain telling him what he needed to do with his baby girls.
Chapter Thirteen
As the month of May melted into June, Clay knew for certain three things. He loved Gwendolyn more than he thought possible.
Whenever he laid eyes on her with the baby, it swelled his heart. She’d make him one fine wife and his babies an exceptional mother.
Pleased him to no end that Elijah and Cecelia were settled, put even more pressure on his love’s father to give him the go ahead on courting his lady love. Wouldn’t be right, the younger sister marrying first.
Some old wives’ tales even claimed that would destine Gwendolyn to be a spinster, not that Clay would ever let that happen.
Second, he liked Eversole better than any of his own brothers. The man treated him like a peer instead of the snot-nosed tagalong he’d been most of his life. He’d always hated being the baby.
To top the biscuit with a good lathering of cane molasses, Elijah had offered him ten percent of his planter out of his own cut.
Once the patent came back, and Elijah and Mister Henry went into production, that might mean better than a hundred dollars a year, and
all he did was speak his mind about making a few changes here and there, knowing more about farming.
That Elijah Eversole was top shelf. In every way.
He’d learned so much helping the man build the steam engine and his first planter. Almost made him want to forget ranching and be a smith, except Elijah called himself a machinist. He’d sure hate to see him go when the time came.
And his third certainty? First chance he got, he was going to plug the scoundrel, Braxton Hightower. That Gwen could even possibly be interested in the pompous dandy hurt his heart. It remained the only black mark against her.
Smart as she was, he could not understand how she didn’t see at first glance.
His new friend claimed she only toyed with the man to make Clay jealous and to let her daddy know she didn’t fall for the first handsome fella to stall his horse in the Buckmeyer’s barn.
Another reason he chalked up as to why he liked the gold mining machinist so much. The man talked good sense.
And Clay hoped that was truth, but every time he got a private word with Gwen, she would only say. “You know you have to get my father’s blessing. Do that, and then we’ll talk.”
With the planting finished and the children back to their books, those quiet moments spent almost alone with his love proved harder to come by.
The ladies only brought dinner to the mill once or twice a week, instead of every day. At least he found delight that seeking timberland kept Hightower away more and more.
Then, to his surprise, his oldest brother’s horse chomped hay in a stall in the Buckmeyer’s barn that mid-June evening. Halfway through unharnessing Elijah’s gelding, Jake busted through the man door.
“There you are, Clay. Ma says to get yourself home. Tonight.”
“What’s the rush?”
“You ain’t heard about the yellow fever outbreak?”
“No. What about it?”
“Killed over seven thousand in New Orleans, and Ma wants all her chickens close, especially her precious sweet little baby chick.” He hated his brother’s nasty falsetto, hadn’t missed that.
At twenty-five, Clay figured he could best Jake who was pushing forty. But then what? Ma would just send another brother to fetch him home.
At least the old boy wasn’t twisting his ear and kicking his backside as he ran toward the house. Wouldn’t do him any good to argue. Much as he hated leaving, he’d just have to make the best of it.
“Give me a few minutes to take my leave.”
“Go on then. Where’s your saddle, and I’ll wrangle for you like when you was three.”
Clay told him and didn’t miss the smirk Elijah tried to keep from erupting into a full-blown haw.
The news the boy’s brother brought about yellow fever breaking out in Braxton’s home town explained why Raines hadn’t responded to his missive. After only a few minutes of reflection, without his partner’s help or Bull’s coin, he had no reason to stay—other than Gwen, and she had rebuffed most of his advances.
Once he had horse ready and tied to the main hitching post in front of the big house, he found Henry in his library huddled with May and her brother.
“Hate to bother you, sir, but the fever hitting New Orleans explains why I’ve not heard from my partner there. As much as I hate leaving before I could finalize any timber purchases, I must get back and see to my friend’s well-being. Sometimes Claude’s good works takes him places he shouldn’t go.”
How many times had he warned his partner about the brothels and back alley dice games he frequented?
He let his lie sink in.
Hopefully, he’d put enough sincerity in his voice. Perhaps he should have practiced that line in front of the mirror before he delivered it. Oh well, most likely he’d never see Buckmeyer again.
Henry stood and extended his hand. “Send word, if you’re of a mind. Let us know. And of course, you’re welcome any time.”
Braxton grasped the man’s hand, surprised at the strength. “Thank you, sir. I’d like to write Gwen if that’s permissible.”
Henry nodded. “Enclose it in my envelope, and I’ll pass it along.”
“Of course.” He smiled at Miss May, and even found a grin for the ex-slave, who only stared. Uppity came to mind, but he didn’t voice it. All the hours gaming not only taught him to keep a straight face, but also to hold his tongue.
Henry walked the man out, then once the visitor topped the rise, he faced Chester who had followed. “What was that all about?”
His brother-in-law shook his head. “Didn’t put it together until just now. I’d bet my cut of May’s pirate novel, that Braxton’s last name isn’t Hightower.”
Henry had grown to love the man, but sometimes, he flat out infuriated him. “Explain yourself.”
He nodded toward the house. “Let’s go inside. May will want to hear this.”
For Henry’s taste, Chester spent too many words getting to the point, but then he finally dropped the anvil. “So until just now, I didn’t realize that Claude Raines is the one he wrote to. Had to be.”
Not enough buck bang for Henry’s ear time. “That name doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Really? Every time Jean Paul tells the story of you fighting Bull, he mentions Claude Raines.”
“Young guy with wavy hair?”
Chester shrugged. “Don’t know about that. But that letter he posted last month only had C Raines on it. Just now though, he called his partner’s name. Claude. Then it hit me. His visit all came together, the way one of May’s stories winds down to its completion with all the loose ends rightfully tied.”
His wife’s brother went on for a bit. She seemed quite enthralled at his assumptions. Wasn’t like the man talked much at all, but when he did get going, he could gust to gale force. “Well, seems the Lord spared us all.”
Smiling at his almost child bride, Henry pondered what the man being in cahoots with Raines could encompass. A talk with Jean Paul was in order to be sure. “Guess we can forget even thinking about ’60?”
“No. How can you say that? We cannot forget that. The country needs you. That bunch in Washington have obviously lost their collective minds. Someone that’s wise and brave and as levelheaded as you needs to go throw the whole bunch of them into the ocean.”
“True, but if Jackson couldn’t do it, what makes you think I could?”
Chester, evidently just as enamored about him running as his sister, threw in his penny’s worth. “He did pay off all the debt.”
“So? That isn’t solving the slavery issue.” How could the man not remember that?
With a chuckle, his brother-in-law stretched his back. “But if we were in charge? We could buy them all and send them north. Avoid any bloodshed fighting over it.”
Now there was an idea, but mercy, the price would go through the roof. Then again, if he was in charge, he could get Congress to…. Before that bill got passed, reality bit him. He couldn’t get himself nominated, much less elected.
Took Jackson two tries, and he was the hero who whipped the British at New Orleans.
Of all happenings, she did not expect both of her suitors to leave in one day. Gwen hated it all the way around the stump, hated it even worse when she allowed herself to even think of Cecelia Carol getting married first, before her.
Once, June had been her favorite month, but no more, not ever again would she trust it, robbing her of both her beaus.
Wasn’t right.
The next to last day of the unbearably hot month brought at least some solace. Braxton had written.
Of course, her pigheaded father’s insistence that the man put her letter in an envelope addressed to him kept it from being very personal—as if she wasn’t full grown enough to receive her own correspondence.
She hated it that Daddy read it first.
Once alone in her blistering bedroom, she sat at her desk, smoothed it out, and studied on how the man wrote her name. Penmanship said a lot about a person. Braxton wrote with such
a neat and flowing script, especially for a man.
A bead of perspiration trickled down her forehead.
Wanting to relish her letter with no distractions, she jumped up and pulled her lace curtains all the way back then tied them with a sky blue ribbon. A slight breeze cooled her skin. She unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress and let the neck lie open.
Thank the Lord, Daddy had built the house with such great ventilation to catch every breath of air the prairie offered. Sitting back at her desk, she lifted the paper. One page failed to impress her, and it not even full.
Why, she could write three or four pages without even trying, but at least it was a letter—and all she had at the moment. Clay hadn’t written.
Dearest Gwendolyn,
She loved him using her full name, a Belle would have
been nice, but perhaps too much.
In any case, he’d started well.
I miss you and your family so much, but I have sad news. My partner and friend was one of the thousands to die from the fever. Poor man, caught it working with the Sisters of Mercy, the Order I told you about that taught both us in school.
Oh, the poor man losing his dear friend who contracted cholera trying only to help others. Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She blinked, daubed her eyes with her hanky, then managed to read on.
I long to return, but with Claude gone, I cannot fathom leaving our business interest here unattended. Perhaps once the outbreak is over, you and your family could visit.
I hate to ask, but if it would be possible for you to write, I would surely cherish every word. I pray your father will approve our correspondence. If I cannot at this time be deemed a suitor in his eyes, then perhaps you could write me as a friend. I’m feeling a bit lonely here and would appreciate it greatly.
Always yours,
Braxton Hightower
Post Script, I pray you will not think me forward, but if I may speak my mind, Clay Briggs is too much a boy for a fine lady like you, dear Gwendolyn.
