by Sierra Rose
Best if I just slip away, be on the move again, run away from the mess I’m tangled up in. Leave everybody here and leave ’em alone. No point drawin’ them in, havin’ to deal with my problems. It’s a nice place, Turnabout, one where I could see buildin’ a home, and maybe a family. But it ain’t for me.
It’d be better for Tish if I took off and went back to my wanderin’, just like I been doin’ for so long. Had this burden weighin’ me down for some four years now, and the stress has just about done me in. It’s hard to consider lightin’ out again, for some place where my old name ain’t known.
I think I’ve been outa the company of decent women for so long I’ve forgot they need to be pampered a little, spoiled, taken care of. Dunno that I can do that, even with all the love I hold for her.
Please let me go to sleep. Please. I am feelin’ so afeared.
Upper level bedroom: Medical Office. I am wearied beyond all measure. Too much goin’ on today for my poor ole brain and my poor ole body to handle. Been there every step of the way for both Paul and Ben, with their romantic complications, givin’ whatever support I can. And then to have that snippet of a girl question my motives—! Why, it’s enough to fill your soul with gall.
Imagine ole Ben Forrester with a baby. Somethin’ to look forward to. Need to get Cam into the office, answer any questions, see how she’s doin’, and so on. And Molly finally settlin’ down with Paul—now that’s a weddin’ I don’t intend to miss, come Hades or high water.
I must say, Ben was bein’ mighty savvy when he shut things down tonight. It was too late for anybody to see or think clearly any more, and we needed some time away from each other.
Lookin’ forward to that meetin’ at the jail tomorrow, though. It’ll be interestin’ to see what Reese—or Cole; he’s gotta figure out which one he’s gonna be—has to say. And what can be done. We all of us who survived the War didn’t come back whole and unharmed; we all carried our history and our memories wherever we went.
But these Forrester brothers prob’ly have the most convoluted past I’ve ever seen. Hard to leave your kin behind, a couplea states away, even if they are nincompoops. And vicious ones, at that. No wonder neither of these boys wanna see their folks again.
Gotta check in on my patient in the mornin’. Man, if that boy has diphtheria, it’s gonna mean a whole new range of tribulation for this town. Haveta think on what else I can do. Then there’s the O’Day baby, little Terrence—oughta take a ride out to their farm, see how he’s farin’. Letty is doin’ right well, helpin’ out, and learnin’ as we go along. Should fill her in on our patients, maybe that’d take her mind off this tight spot her young man has got himself into.
Lordy, I am bushed.
Please let me go to sleep. Please. I am feelin’ so discombobulated.
Chapter Fifteen
LAUGHTER DOES NOT DISAPPEAR because a family faces possible tragic consequences from some untenable act. The usual daily routine does not change, nor do the demands of life cease. If any member of the Forrester and Burton clan, and their extended clan, felt a smidgen of guilt for picking up the reins of how much each must necessarily accomplish, logic stepped in. What everyone was waiting for was not a death knell, but deliverance.
The meeting at the jailhouse, that quiet Saturday afternoon, began with casual conversation: just four men, getting together, in less than sociable surroundings. Important matters must be discussed. But, first, there was, as always, the laying of the groundwork.
Gabriel arrived on the dot of two. Drawn unerringly to the coffeepot brewing steadily and noisily atop the stove, he poured a cup full and immediately began to harangue his friend about the color and quality of its contents.
“Paul Winslow, I do declare, if you don’t appropriate some city funds to buy yourself some decent equipment, I will do it for you. You can’t be havin’ people show up here and serve ’em sludge. Why, every last one’ll run off with his tail between his legs and never come back.”
The sheriff, leaning back comfortably with ankles crossed upon his desk, sent over a beatific smile. Come to think of it, he was smiling an awful lot these days. “Maybe that’s my purpose. Didn’t you just finish havin’ dinner?”
“Huh. Son, I was havin’ my dinner whilst you were still gettin’ your beauty sleep. I’m a busy man, unlike others I could name.”
“Oh, yeah? Whozzat, you ole pig sticker?”
Grabbing the back of a chair, Gabriel hauled it forward, both back legs uttering a scrawk of protest along the wooden floor, and plopped down for a closer confrontation. “Been out to the O’Day farm to check on little Terrence. You remember, the one with croup?”
“Yep. How’s he doin’?”
“I’m relieved to tell you that he’s just about fully recovered.”
“Glad to hear it. And the older boy, Willie, that got stuck with the pitchfork?”
Gabe couldn’t help preening just a bit. “Thanks to my excellent skills, and those of my nurse, he’s gettin’ along fine. Now, the problem may lie with a family on the outskirts of town. Possible diphtheria.”
The dread word instantly caught Paul’s attention. “Diphtheria.” His feet swung to the floor and he straightened in his chair, intent on the news.
“Possible, I said. Checked in with them, too—the Carpenters, just moved in not long ago. Young couple, with two sprouts, he works for Abel Norton over at the livery. Anyway, it’s the husband that’s afflicted, Thaddeus. He ain’t no better, but he ain’t no worse.”
The sheriff was turning that over in his head; one could almost see the wheels clacking along a railroad track as he worked it out. “Pretty bad disease, ain’t it?”
“It can be. It can be virulent. I’ve already got the man quarantined in the house, and we’re all washin’ with carbolic acid and changin’ clothes. I’ll keep you abreast of the details.”
“Appreciate that, Gabe. Sure wouldn’t want somethin’ so serious runnin’ rampant through the town. Well, then, I take back all the evil thoughts I was havin’; you got every right to complain.” He snorted. “I’ll put in a requisition for a new coffeepot, just for you.”
“That’d be fine. And then find some high-minded woman to teach you how to use it.”
Just then, the door opened to admit both Forrester brothers, out of a slightly overcast and less than sunny day in the street to a rather dim interior lit only by shutters thrown wide apart from barred windows and a couple of lamps. Paul’s office, considered part of the jail proper, and often referred to as such, was a spacious enough and fairly comfortable room, provided by the town for three lawmen who worked odd hours, many hours.
“H’lo, boys,” the sheriff greeted them. “Glad to see you made it through the night. Have a seat.”
Ben stepped aside to hang his hat on a wall hook. With his usual economy of movement, he fitted his loose, large frame into a chair, slung one ankle over the other knee, and waited. His clean-shaven face displayed little effect of the stress he must surely be feeling, nor did he fidget or fuss.
Not so young Reese. Oh, neither did he fidget or fuss; he had had too many years of looking over his shoulder down the road behind him, watchful for an enemy. He, too, hung up his hat and sat, bareheaded, while light, easy conversation flowed on around him. But a few new threads of silver could be seen in the rough brownish-blonde curls, and the scar showed barely at all against the pallor of his skin.
“D’joo get everything done that you wanted to this mornin’, Ben?” Gabe, coat removed for comfort and full white sleeves rolled up, rested one hairy forearm on the arm of his chair.
“Putineer. Spent a few hours at the store. Checked out sales and inventory with Jimmy. We had a couple families of settlers passin’ through, and they bought up a wagon load of stuff.”
“Oh, yeah? I did see some strangers a few days ago; that must’ve been them. Any idea where they were headed?”
Ben grinned. “Jimmy tried to talk ’em into gettin’ some land around here, addin’ ont
o the city limits, but I guess they were movin’ on further. Maybe south and east t’ords Dallas. You gotta give Jim credit—he’s always promotin’ his birthplace.”
“And what’s new with the town council?”
“Well, now, not so much. Reckon that’s a good thing; means they’re happy with the way affairs are goin’ and not makin’ any complaints.”
“I can complain, for one,” said the doctor. “Wait’ll you taste Paul’s coffee.”
“Oh, shut up,” Paul good-naturedly ordered him. “I’m tired of hearin’ you jaw about my coffee. So, nobody said nothin’ about wantin’ to get a couple new horse troughs for Main Street?”
“Nary a word. B’cause that issue has been floatin’ around for some months now, and it ain’t been resolved yet. Which you’d know, Paul, if you attended our meetin’s a little more regular.”
“I figured the council would prefer havin’ their little metropolis kept safe than seein’ me at the back of the room while they argue back and forth,” Paul protested mildly.
Ben sent him a snarky grin. “Thought that’s why you have deputies, Sheriff, so’s you could send them out in harm’s way whilst you go politickin’. No, Turnabout’s events are pretty quiet right now, and I’d like to keep ’em that way.”
Shifting in his chair, Gabe tried another sip of the godawful stuff Paul had brewed, and grimaced feelingly. “You get wheels set in motion for the annual Thanksgivin’ dinner?”
“Startin’ to. Rev. Beecham volunteered the hall over to Church of Placid Waters, since it’s the biggest room available—”
“Other than the Firewater Saloon’s dance floor,” was Gabe’s facetious contribution.
“—and we can fit quite a crowd of folks in there, tables and all,” Ben, ignoring the interruption, continued blandly. “With the overflow out on the lawn, if needs be. Somea the ladies are workin’ on arrangements, as we speak. Thanksgivin’ dinner is always excuse for a big foofarah round here,” he explained to his silent brother.
“As a holiday, it’s startin’ to catch on,” said Reese, in the first words he had spoken since entering the sheriff’s office. “President Lincoln did a good thing, settin’ that day aside.”
“And how has your day been passin’ by?” Paul turned toward the younger Forrester with interest.
He looked tired. And a little frazzled. With a slow half-grin not surprisingly very like his brother’s, he shrugged. “Slow. Ben and I had a pretty good dinner at the Sittin’ Eat.”
“Didn’t eat much, though,” Ben confided. “Belly all tied up in knots, I suspect.”
“Well, then, enough chewin’ the fat. Let’s get down to it.” Pencil in hand, Paul leaned forward to concentrate on his visitor and the problems with which he was contending. “How about you tell me what’s goin’ on, son? Tell me what you did to get your name and face on a wanted poster.”
“They say I killed three men.”
“Ahuh. Who is ‘they’?”
“The law—what there was of it—in San Francisco.”
The sheriff had pulled forward a small blank sheet of lined paper to begin making notes. “Reckon you’d better give me the particulars, Reese.”
Heartsick and soul-sick, wounded and scarred, he’d left behind a whole huge scope of battlefields and bloodshed, up and down the east coast, and traveled away about as far from the Civil War as he could, without falling into the ocean. He wanted some place cool and quiet to recover his sanity and nerves, to earn a living, possibly to settle in permanently. Somehow, he had ended up in the “Paris of the West.”
“Huh,” said Reese, recalling the past with a frown and wrinkled brow. “Shows how wet I was b’hind the ears. Thanks to the gold rush, San Francisco was about the wildest and woolliest place on earth. Certainly the biggest city on the west coast.”
He’d been employed, for a brief time, in the telegraph office; but, though the work was occasionally challenging, there wasn’t enough of it to hold his interest. He’d gotten bored and moved on to a large general store, where he was both physically and mentally stimulated.
“Enough men were still immigratin’ to try their luck in the mines, so we were sellin’ a lot of equipment—shovels, tents, rockers, pickaxes, and the like—plus all the supplies needed to set up camp for months at a time. They weren’t as crazy to get into the hills as in ’49 and ’50, but the craze was still there; not so much gold, which was bein’ played out, but silver. I think the merchants were makin’ more money than the miners themselves.”
Merchants, and the banking industry, and construction trades. The city by the bay was a beehive of activity, building streets, piling earth into the water to build more streets, expanding borders, putting up wharfs.
One rainy afternoon three members of the farming Hutchins family had wandered in to purchase everything necessary to strike it rich. Originally from Nebraska, they had made their way west and were anxious for any advice anyone could offer, even if their plans did happen to be a few years past its peak.
Reese had done his best, volunteering information, assisting in sales, calling for reinforcements by way of the store’s management. After loading their wagon, father John, brother Emil, and son Matthew had expressed their gratitude (partially for the help, partially for not having been taken complete advantage of by the helpers). Then they had literally headed for the hills.
Busy with his own life, and—let’s face it, enjoyment of some female companionship on the side—he had thought nothing more about the family. Until the same three men had appeared in the store once again, some three months later.
They had returned for more supplies, John explained, leaving wife Matilda, daughter Carrie, and a second adult son, Leland, behind to maintain the area of rocky land upon which they had staked a claim. During the proceedings of piling up fifty pound bags of flour and chunks of salt pork wrapped in brown paper, John had pulled his shopkeeper aside.
“He told me the Hutchins clan was in luck. B’cause they’d actually been pannin’ gold,” said Reese at this point. “And then he pulled a pouch outa his pocket to show me. Little grains, like sand, and some bigger nuggets. And heavy as all get out.”
Alarmed, Reese had warned Hutchins to put his stash away, and quickly. It wasn’t safe to display a find like that in this settlement known more for its number of gambling dens and murders than for its scrupulous city officials. Also, the man should keep his voice down. Too many questionable customers were meandering through the store’s aisles, too close for comfort and security. And then John needed to get himself over to the nearest branch of the Bank of California, for a deposit, as soon as possible.
The Leg of Lamb did a—
Ben blinked at this point in the recital. “Wait a minute. The what?”
Even under duress, even in the throes of unhappy memories, Reese blushed. “Uh. Kind of a dance hall, kind of a saloon. There was this girl I was seein’ at the time, and she—uh—sorta worked in the place.”
“Ahuh.” His brother sent him a stern, what-the-devil-were-you-thinking look and sat back with hands folded around his cup full of cold coffee. “All right. Continue.”
Anyway, the Leg of Lamb did a landmark business later that night. It was Saturday, with most merrymakers letting off steam and few planning on church attendance next morning. The Lamb was in its heyday, with liquor flowing easily and freely (though not cheaply), poker games being exuberantly arranged, and a satisfactory number of fights springing up. Some roisterers made it through the evening in one piece, with heads and wallets intact; some did not.
Reese had been idling in a corner with his current inamorata, bent on spending a week’s pay, when the Hutchins males once again appeared. Relieved to spy a friendly face, they made a beeline for his table. Clearly the three of them felt they had been let off the leash, after exhausting days spent at their claim, and they were determined to make the most of it.
“Those farmin’ fellahs were pleasant enough to talk to, and we passed the time of day fo
r a while. I even bought ’em a drink or two.” Reminiscing, he shook his head, with a deepening blush. “O’ course, Theodosia, my—uh—the girl I was—uh—”
“Yeah, we get your drift,” said Ben dryly. “She got bored and left?”
“Too bad for her, she missed all the drama.” Reese, eyes blazing, suddenly pushed back his chair and rose to stride about the room, as if, churning over with emotion, he could no longer sit still.
“Them fools. Them ignorant, short-sighted fools. I told ’em to keep quiet about their strike, didn’t I? I told ’em not to be flashin’ around their poke. I told ’em to take it to bank. But did they listen? Hang it all, no. They were so proud of what they’d done!”
“What happened then?” Paul, who had remained mostly silent up till now, asked quietly.
“I knew what kinda place it was, and what kinda people hung around. So I hustled all three of ’em out the back way, and through an alley, hopin’ nobody had spied what they were carryin’.”
“Reckon that was a mistake,” murmured Gabriel.
“Yeah. Shoulda gone out the front, with a crowd.”
“So you got cornered there?”
Reese had tumbled his hair into careless curls, swiped one sleeve across his face. “Don’t even know for sure what went on. I was ahead of ’em, showin’ the way b’cause it was dark and the path was littered with garbage. Then somethin’ hit me over the head, and I saw stars. Next thing I knew...”
Next thing he knew, he was sprawled flat on his back, under a slow seep of cold rain and fog that went straight to the bone. He was also, he discovered, upon coming finally to full consciousness, handcuffed. Shaking away blood and muck in an attempt to clear his vision, he could barely make out several tall figures standing over him. One of them wore a badge.
“They hauled me up—none too gentle, neither. And then I saw—I saw—”
All three Hutchins males also sprawled prostrate here and there, on the rough, muddy ground. Their pockets had been turned inside out, their possessions stripped away. Each had been shot dead. By the Colt revolver that had lain clutched in Reese’s hand.
