by Sierra Rose
“Oh, spare me,” grumped Gabriel. “Reckon I’ll just haveta head back to my bachelor quarters, alone.”
“Cheer up, Doc.” Could Letty, for whom a great sense of peace and satisfaction had begun to permeate her spirit, have shown herself as being less sympathetic? “Maybe you’ll have someone waiting there for treatment.”
Chapter Eight
“GOT ENOUGH WORMS DUG yet to go fishin’?”
Things were so quiet on this late afternoon chasing itself into October that the town might have declared it a Do Nothing Day. Not much business was being conducted, for some reason, so the restaurants and saloons were about ready to close up shop; no deliveries were being brought in or sent out; no crimes had been committed, and no illnesses or accidents reported.
Thus Dr. Gabriel Havers, half-mad with boredom, went out looking for trouble. Where else would he go first but to the back yard of Ben and Camellia Forrester, where something might be brewing in the way of activity?
He found what he was looking for in the person of one dusty, grubby, hot and irritated Hannah Burton. She was wearing a big floppy hat to protect her fair skin against the southern sun, gardening gloves, and something that looked like a canvas feed bag enveloping her dress. A wheelbarrow filled with miscellaneous roots and a great deal of rich black soil stood off to one side; a spade had been shoved deep into the earth to stand upright, a few steps away; a large bucket of water waited to be used when necessary.
“Worms?” Hannah straightened an aching back and looked up with asperity. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Well, that.” From where Gabriel slumped, both arms folded atop the picket fence while he watched her, the spread of his hand indicated an expansive work area. “Figured you were plannin’ a day over at Juniper Creek, just loungin’ in the shade. Lotsa good places to catch a bullhead or two.”
She snorted, an unladylike sound completely uncharacteristic of her beauty but not of her temperament. “You come right on over and help yourself, if you’re so inclined. I have better things to do than go fishing.”
The doctor’s eyes drifted half-closed with remembered pleasures. “Oh, honey, there ain’t much better to do than go fishin’. Well...maybe some things. I’ve been told there’s a swimmin’ hole there that is just perfect for skinny-dippin’. Never had the fun of that here myself, but I’m willin’ to give just about anything a try.”
“Letty was right.”
“Was she, now? About what?”
“You are incorrigible. And you’re obviously at loose ends. Why not go over to the Drinkwater and trip someone into falling down the stairs? Make sure you have your satchel in hand.”
Straightening, Gabriel posed with hand over heart in a flamboyant and aggrieved gesture. “Miss Burton, ma’am, you wound me. You truly wound me. To insinuate that I might deliberately—”
“I didn’t insinuate. I told you outright. I can’t help it; that’s my nature. Now go away.”
Shaking his leonine head with its mane of overlong hair, he made his next stop the Prairie Lot. Nothing much doing there, either. He partook of the saloon’s finest sampling of bourbon (only a few steps down in quality from what the hotel bar would offer) and waited hopefully for a fight to break out over who got to enjoy the favors of a certain soiled dove, or a gun battle to erupt over accusations of cheating from one of the poker players.
Alas and alack, no such luck. Only two regulars lounged in the dim corner, sipping their beer and mumbling desultorily, and nary a single soiled dove even showed up for duty. As for the gun battle during a card game, the tables were dusty and deserted, and sawdust lay on the floor, days old and barely trodden upon.
Business was abysmally slow, and the place was as dead as the proverbial doornail.
Gabe, realizing by now that someone could have shot a moose in the darkened interior without any patron turning a hair, decided it was time to move on.
The Mercantile, sparked with Ben’s convivial presence, might have provided some entertainment for a poor southern gentleman riddled by ennui and apathy. Except that Ben was still absent, setting up his second store and probably busier than a one-armed paper hanger. No point in paying a call there.
“Heard any word back yet?”
He might just as well pop in on his good friend Paul. With both deputies nowhere to be seen, he found the sheriff tilted comfortably back in his rolling chair, ankles propped atop his desk, hat slanted down over his face for shade and solitude. Obviously taking a nap. Or about to.
“Word?” Yawning, Paul attempted a swift return to consciousness by changing position: sitting up straight, with boots swung flat to the floor.
“Wake up, Lawman. What if I was a burglar, bent on robbin’ the place blind?”
“Then I’d say you were prob’ly pretty poor at your job, considerin’ this here’s a jail, without piles of money sittin’ around, and not a bank. Somethin’ I can do for you, Doc?”
“Would I be here otherwise? But, first, you got any coffee?”
Paul squinted at a small cast iron stove across the room. Cool enough for a fire to burn; warm enough that wood needn’t be replenished on a regular basis. He couldn’t remember the last time the coffeepot had been refilled. Or even cleaned. “Help yourself.”
Grunting, Gabe complied. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, he pulled up a chair near the desk and settled himself in for the long haul. “Last we discussed, after that dinner at the Sarsaparilla with your ravishin’ betrothed a few days ago, you planned on checkin’ out this newest arrival to our little hamlet. Remember?”
“Yeah, Gabe, I remember. I don’t often forget important stuff like that.”
“All right, then.”
The sheriff leaned forward enough to pull a few papers into his grasp and briefly peruse the written notes before tossing the miniscule stack toward his visitor. “Have a look-see. More than I was able to dig up on Quinn Hennessey, anyway.”
Gabriel’s eager gaze scanned the report. “Subject: Reese Barclay.”
Residing most recently at 206 Fairway Lane in Denver, Colorado, for the past year. Occupation of last six months: purveyor for Flintlock Assay Office; prior employment, also of six months’ duration: sawyer at McEwen’s Lumber Mill. Physical description: blonde hair, green eyes, faded scar on cheek; 6 feet in height, 180 pounds; age 25. No criminal record.
“Ahuh. So far, so good. Got anything b’fore that?”
“Keep readin’.”
Residence for the preceding year: Birdsong, New Mexico Territory, in an adobe building with no designated number on an unnamed street. Employed for four months as manager of the Brittany Stagecoach Station. Earlier employment, no dates listed, at a gunsmith shop. Same basic physical description, but with less weight and heft to his frame.
Previously found as a resident of San Francisco, California; no address given. Employed for a time at one of the general stores; for a time at a telegraph office; for a time disappearing off the map, as did many a minor, to pan for gold.
“The last part is kinda sketchy,” complained Gabriel, rending his brows to read the scrawl. “The feller jumps around like a bug on a hot rock. So whatdya have that’s earlier?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nothin’? You mean this here Reese Barclay character just up and appeared outa nowhere in San Fran like a newborn babe?”
“Yup. That’s about it. Been sendin’ telegrams all over creation, tryin’ to track him down, and this was where he first showed his face.”
“Huh. Well, I’ll be hornswoggled.” Plainly, Gabe was being set back on his heels. “A man with a past, that he ain’t willin’ to share with nobody.”
Paul rubbed his cheek—the one Molly had kissed so prettily when they had met for dinner at the Sittin’ Eat. He had never looked so neat as now, in the presence of his bride-to-be. Or so clean-shaven. “Appears like.”
With a disgusted look, the doctor picked up his cup. “You don’t seem much worried about it. This is your f
uture wife’s sister we’re talkin’ about here, and her own betrothed, and tryin’ to keep her from makin’ the same mistake Molly did.” Suddenly he came to himself. “Paul, I swear, that is the godawfulest coffee I’ve ever in my life tasted. Can’t you brew a decent pot for this place?”
His initial response was a lopsided grin. “Got you to sit up and take notice, didn’t it?” The secondary response was a more serious one. “Of course I’m worried, you lop-eared jackass. I’ve been deliberatin’ on the subject. Should I hit this fellah with my knowledge head-on, or should I lead up to it gradually and let him somehow work through it?”
“Either way, you ain’t gonna be talkin’ with him right soon,” Gabe, sinking down on his spine, said gloomily. “He’s gone.”
Had Paul been maintaining his earlier position, his feet would have hit the floor with a crash. As it was, he stiffened and straightened as if to better confront some adversary. “Gone. Gone where?”
“Dunno. Letty came over to my office this mornin’, as usual, and gave me the news. Didn’t seem too upset by his takin’ off, though. She said somethin’ about some job he wanted to look into.”
The sheriff’s steady dark gaze met that of his friend’s. “Think he’ll be back?”
“Reckon so. Left his carpet bag and belongin’s in his room at the Drinkwater.” Gabe bared his teeth in a semi-smile. “B’sides, the man is smitten.”
“Huh.” A moment filled by reminiscence passed by before Paul spoke again, with a quiet semi-smile of his own. “Ain’t we all.”
“Speak for yourself, son. These Burton ladies have all the destructive qualities of a tornado tearin’ through this town. There may be three of you fellers already roped up and hog-tied, but I ain’t about to join your crowd. So. What’s the verdict on Mr. Barclay?”
“About the only thing from here on is to wait till he gets back, and then have a little chat.” Thoughtful, he scratched his chin and considered the matter. “You think Letty is at all bothered?”
Gabe shrugged. “Knowin’ what we know now—or don’t know? Maybe. She’s dependin’ on us to get the background her hole-and-corner paramour has evidently forgotten to pass on.”
“I know we’re both lookin’ at what happened with Hennessey. But let’s not jump to conclusions and tar this individual with the same brush. He’s seemed decent so far.”
“Huh. So did the other’n.” Sighing, the doctor heaved himself upright. “Well, Alcalde, reckon I’ll leave you to whatever important tasks you got in front of you. Me, I’m gonna go drum up some business. There’s gotta be somebody in this place with some hurt needin’ attention. Oh, and, Paul?”
He paused at the door, “Do your stomach a favor and get rid of that filthy coffeepot. It ain’t fit to boil your socks in.”
Chapter Nine
HE RETURNED TWO DAYS later, riding in on the chestnut filly named Stargirl upon whom he lavished such care and affection. A bit wrinkled and rumpled as to clothing, to be sure, a bit disorderly and untidy as to hair and beard, he trotted directly to Norton’s Livery for the watering, feeding, and pasture that his mount deserved.
It wasn’t until he had had time to bathe, shave, and change into fresh attire that he sought out his wandering bride-to-be.
She wasn’t settled anywhere in or near the boarding house. However, he did attract all manner of unwanted attention from other residents. A couple of the male porch-sitters (in Ben’s absence, they had been chased away from the Mercantile’s front porch by Jimmy Dunlap, to take up temporary quarters on Mrs. McKnight’s painted verandah) heartily slapped him on the back; a couple of the ladies gushed and simpered without giving a clear reason as to why.
Once he had escaped from the clutches of these well-meaning but persistent individuals, he headed on over to the doctor’s office. She wasn’t there, either. Nor was anyone, in fact. The place was as empty as some of the business buildings a few days into the past. In the vacancy of its rooms, his footsteps echoed almost eerily.
Outside the door, he paused. Where to, now? The time was mid-morning, not an hour when she might customarily be taking a meal at one of the restaurants. Her landlady had suggested stopping at the Forrester house in search of his elusive bride, and given directions. That seemed the logical next try.
Approaching, he was quite favorably impressed with the appearance. Well-established, sheltered by plenty of mature trees and greenery; neat and obviously nicely tended (much like his own sweet-tempered filly; he supposed each man does his best to care for that which he loves), from fresh paint to whitewashed picket fence to second-story shutters. A prosperous place. The owner must be doing well for himself.
As he lifted a fist to knock at the front door, the soft sounds of feminine laughter reached him. Not from inside the house, however, but outside, around back. Smiling, he retraced his steps and circled the house through plush sod still violently green.
They were sitting, all three sisters, in the dappled shade of a giant sycamore, upon artistically arranged twig chairs drawn up to a small twig table. Broad-brimmed autumn hats, rich black hair loose to the shoulders, glowing complexions, gowns such as one might see at a tea party. Difficult to imagine a more endearing sight than beautiful women enjoying a few free moments in each other’s company.
Just then, while he stood savoring the air of peace and harmony, Letitia, caught, perhaps, by some sixth sense where his presence was concerned, glanced up. Instantly her expression seemed to trap all the radiance of the sun, radiating out like ripples in the sea to draw him in.
“Reese!” she half-whispered, half-called, and rose to her feet as if involuntarily tugged upright by the mere fact of his being there.
“Hello, Letty.” Responding with his own heartwarming smile, he yanked off his Stetson, strode forward, and, heedless of spectators, swept her roughly and demandingly into his arms. “Hello, sweetheart,” he breathed, seeking out her luscious mouth to snatch a series of hungry kisses.
“Ahem.” Hannah, having had enough of this display when she herself had none, finally cleared her throat and rattled the china teapot. “I suppose this is a welcome back.”
Molly, who was blessed with her own enthusiastic and ardent suitor, was not about to play dog in the manger toward another’s good fortune. Beaming like a proud mama, she proclaimed, “Of course it is. Hello, Reese. I hope your trip was successful?”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t, ma’am, but thanks for askin’.”
“Here, Reese, do sit down. We just happen to have an extra chair.” Still flustered by the wonderful greeting, her cheeks pinkened and her hair mussed even beneath the hat, Letty pulled him into the group.
“Just what sort of job interview did you have?” practical Hannah, already pouring another cup of tea for their guest, wanted to know.
“Ah. Appreciate somethin’ to drink. And what’s that—cookies of some kind?”
“Oatmeal.” Letitia was almost purring with contentment. “They’re Ben’s favorite. Yours, too?”
In the short time she had known him, this man had never appeared so favorable, with his rough-and-tumble locks tamed somewhat into submission by a wet comb, and his freshly ironed red cotton shirt that shouted, See me; I’m here! Squeezing her hand, he grinned at her and replied that sure enough, he had always had a hankerin’ for oatmeal cookies, even as a little shaver.
“The job?” Hannah patiently returned him to her question.
“Sorry.” Hastily Reese chewed and swallowed, then took a sip of tea. “Found an ad posted in your local newspaper here, someone lookin’ for help at the train depot down at the connection in Claremont.”
“Claremont?” repeated Molly with a slight frown. “But that’s so far away. It must be at least—”
“Thirty miles, near due south,” affirmed their guest with a wry expression. “I know you wanna stay in Turnabout, Letty, and I’ll do best to find somethin’ in the neighborhood. But a job is a job.”
“Apparently not. The employer didn’t favor your da
shing good looks?”
Somehow Hannah, she of the sour moods, could just not keep a civil tongue in her head. But the man took no offense. “As to that, I can’t say. But either the newspaper I read was a tad out of date, or more people are lookin’ for work than I figured. The position was already filled.”
Letitia’s position, upright against the unforgiving back of her chair, relaxed a bit. “Well, as far as that goes, I must say I’m relieved. I’d rather not have to move out of the area.”
Brow arched, he sent her a quiet look. “Even if I’m prowlin’ the streets to find employment? Uh-uh. I need to have that settled before any future steps get taken.”
“Oh, Reese, that’s so—so chancy!”
He touched a light, teasing finger to the tip of her nose. “What, you got so little faith in me? You don’t think I’ll be able to earn my keep?”
“Well, yes, of course I do. It’s just that—”
“Letty,” he said so softly that the two of them might have been alone, “I been takin’ care of myself, by myself, for a long time. Reckon I can take care of you, too. Don’t worry.”
Shades of Molly Burton Hennessey! Her anxious thoughts couldn’t help flying to recent events concerning her sister and similar words spoken in similar circumstances. Bravely she gulped down any further protests, pasted an understanding smile on her face, and nodded.
“Man,” murmured her husband-to-be then. Finishing one cookie, only to take another, he slumped down on his spine, stretched his long legs out into the grass, and crossed one ankle over the other. “This is a mighty pleasant spot in this back yard. Like a little piece of Paradise, bar none. An oasis in the middle of a deserty. Your sister do all this with the flowers and the garden and such?”
“Our sister, yes.” Molly sent an appreciative, amused glance across the table. “But not the one you think. It’s Hannah, here, who has put so much work in making things so nice.”
“You don’t say.”
When he turned that slow sizzling smile upon the object of his attention, Letty thought, watching, enthralled, the facial scar just faded away into nothingness. As if it never were. One saw only the genuine interest that drew conversation back and forth. She wondered if the same would hold true of the other scars he had mentioned, those hidden away from view. And then blushed.
