Heartbreak Creek

by Kaki Warner

  “I doubt I’ll be sleeping all that soundly, either,” Declan said wryly. “So same goes for you.” Nodding good night, he stepped inside.

  As he closed the door behind him, Amos rose out of the shadows, rifle in his hand.

  “All quiet?” Declan asked him.

  “L-L-Like my old ch-church on M-M-Monday,” Amos stuttered.

  Declan was relieved not to smell whiskey on the former preacher’s breath. Amos was mostly a binge drinker, but he was overdue to cut the wolf loose, so Declan was keeping an eye on him.

  “Where’s Yancey?”

  Amos hooked a thumb toward the closed door behind the front desk. “Can’t you h-h-hear him sn-snoring?”

  “Many guests?”

  “A p-patent medicine salesman and t-two old lady temtemperance agitators.”

  “Any of them using the washroom?”

  Amos shook his head.

  Like many small-town western hotels, the Heartbreak Creek Hotel had a washroom off the kitchen that held a copper washtub and a stove on which simmered pots of hot water. A pump inside the back door furnished cool water, and it was customary to refill the pots on the stove when you were finished, so the next bather would have hot water to warm up the tub. For an extra nickel, you could have fresh water for your bath, rather than use the water left by the previous bather. Lucinda Hathaway also furnished soap and toweling and a mirror for shaving. A real high-toned outfit.

  “Any hot water left?”

  Amos shrugged.

  He should have known better than to ask. Amos was only marginally fonder of water than Chick was and about as talkative as an Indian totem carving. Between that and his stutter, it was a wonder he had ever managed an entire sermon. “Give me a minute to clean up, then you can head back to the house.”

  He moved through the dining area into the small room off the kitchen and was relieved to find fresh water in the tub and hot water on the stove. He recognized a stack of garments on a stool and realized Ed had anticipated his coming here and had left clean clothes for him, bless her heart.

  He bathed quickly, dressed, and went back to where Amos dozed in the lobby. “Thanks for waiting. Go on and get some rest. I’ll take it from here.”

  After Amos left, Declan opened Yancey’s door so the old man would hopefully hear anyone who came in, then headed wearily up the stairs. He felt like it had been a week rather than fifteen hours since he’d ridden into town with Sally. It had been a long and hellacious day.

  He paused in the hallway outside the suite Lucinda Hathaway had set aside for his family. He heard nothing, and no light shone under the door. Taking out the spare key Lucinda had given him, he unlocked the door and eased it open. Moving through moonlight shining through the sitting room window, he went to the boys’ bedroom, looked inside, and found all three asleep. He crossed to the bedroom Ed and Brin shared.

  In the pale silvery light he could see two lumps beneath the quilt. Moving toward the biggest, he looked down into Ed’s sleeping face.

  So beautiful. So innocent of this mess his life had suddenly become. What was he to do about her? About their marriage? How could he live the years stretching ahead without her?

  His mind as weary as his body, he slumped into the chair beside the bed, unwilling to go to his empty room.

  Tipping his head back, he stared up at the shadowed ceiling and tried to figure an escape from this quagmire. He could see no way out. Only bad choices and worse choices. It would be simple if it was just him; he felt no husbandly duty to Sally. She had made her feelings clear when she’d left with Slick Caven. But what would be best for his children? Could he separate them again from the mother they clearly loved?

  But hadn’t they come to love Ed, too?

  Christ.

  Too exhausted to think about it, he closed his eyes and let the gentle sound of Ed’s breathing soothe his turbulent mind.

  Tomorrow. He would make a decision tomorrow.

  Hell. It seemed his life had dwindled to a series of “laters” and “tomorrows,” and he wondered if he would ever get it back on track again.

  Snoring awoke her from a terrifying dream about Pru and Indians and Mother. Opening her eyes, Edwina saw Declan’s wide bulk slumped in the chair beside the bed, long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, muscled forearms resting on the upholstered armrests with his big hands relaxed and dangling off the ends. His head was thrown back and his jaw was slack, and in the faint moonlight, the cords of his strong neck showed in rounded relief beneath the dark stubble of his unshaven beard.

  He had come here—to her—to find his rest.

  How could she bear to live the rest of her life without this man?

  She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  Empty, loveless years loomed ahead. She had already lost so much—was she to lose him, too?

  No. She would think of something, a way out of this wretched coil, because she wouldn’t go meekly out of his life. She would fight for her husband with every fiber of her being because she wasn’t going to lose Declan to a woman he didn’t love, and who didn’t love him.

  Resolved, she pushed back the covers and rose, careful not to wake Brin. After pulling on her robe, she stepped into her slippers, then bent over her husband. Laying a hand to his bristly cheek, she whispered his name close to his ear.

  He startled, his head jerking off the backrest. “What?”

  “Ssh. It’s me. Don’t wake Brin.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She kissed his cheek, then picked up his big hand. “Come with me.” Gently, she urged him from the chair and out of the room. After pausing to lock the door of the suite behind her, she led him down the hall and into the room Lucinda had set aside for his use.

  She closed the door and locked it, then leaving him almost asleep on his feet in the middle of the room, she crossed to the bureau and lit the lamp. When she turned back, she saw him fumbling with his belt buckle.

  “Let me,” she said, pushing his hands aside.

  She slowly undressed him down to his drawers, which were half unions that he must have cut off to accommodate his long legs, rather than have them ride up his calves. The rough alteration was both endearing and utterly masculine in its ragged practicality and made her want to laugh and weep at the same time.

  This man needed her. He needed a gentle touch in his life. Her touch.

  Feeling the sting of tears, she kept her head down so he wouldn’t see and tried to keep her mind on the task rather than the powerful body she was unveiling. Declan was no longer her legal husband, she reminded herself, and lying down with him would pose a risk of conception, which would only complicate an already impossible situation.

  But, mercy, how she wanted to.

  Leading him to the bed, she pulled back the covers.

  With a deep sigh, he stretched out on his back, his arms tucked under his head. She felt him watching her from beneath drooping lids as she went to the bureau and turned off the light.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  “I won’t.” Pulling off her robe, she draped it over the chair beside the bed, then slid onto the mattress beside him. Draping an arm over his waist, she rested her head on his lightly furred chest, drawing comfort from the strong steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. “Rest,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

  In answer, he began to snore.

  Declan awoke to a pink dawn and an empty bed. For a moment, he thought he must have dreamed that Ed had undressed him and climbed into bed beside him, then he saw his neatly folded clothes on the bureau and realized it wasn’t his imagination.

  For several minutes he lay staring up at the ceiling, his mind sluggish and confused. But by the time the sun cleared the ridges, he knew what he had to do.

  First, he would go see Doc Boyce and ask him what he could do for Sally. Then he would see if Judge Witherspoon had arrived yet, and if so, find out from him what he should do about his two marriages. Then maybe he would have a clea
rer idea of how to go about cleaning up this mess.

  It promised to be another hellacious day.

  Sally held court most of the morning.

  From a table in the dining room, Edwina watched a parade of visitors head up the stairs—Alice Waltham, Cynthia Krigbaum—the mine owner’s wife—Biddy and Pastor Rickman, the Gebbers, Cal Bagley’s wife, and a few other faces that were familiar but ones Edwina couldn’t put a name to.

  “I had no idea she had so many friends in town,” Maddie muttered.

  Lucinda made a dismissive motion. “Morbid curiosity.”

  “At least this should finally put an end to the gossip about Declan,” Edwina mused, staring down into her coffee cup.

  “Oh, I doubt anyone believed that Waltham creature’s vile accusations,” ever-loyal Maddie said. “One has only to talk to him to realize what an honorable man your husband is.”

  Your husband. If only that were true. With a sigh, Edwina said, “I fear it’s that very sense of honor that will put an end to our marriage.”

  “Surely not.”

  Edwina gave her friends a wobbly smile. “Can you truly imagine he would abandon the mother of his children, especially after she has suffered so much and is now dying?”

  Lucinda stared thoughtfully out the window. “Why are you so certain she wants to stay?” Turning to face them, she added, “She happily left her family four years ago. Perhaps she will again.”

  “She wasn’t sick then,” Edwina pointed out. “Besides, she was in love with another man.” Although how any woman could pick another man over Declan was incomprehensible to Edwina.

  “And Declan paid her, isn’t that right?”

  “He didn’t pay her to leave,” Edwina defended. “Only to leave the children behind.”

  “That was rather sordid of her,” Maddie said.

  “Nonetheless,” Lucinda went on with a smile that made Edwina uneasy. “She took the money and left. Perhaps she will again.”

  Maddie perked up. “You mean bribe her to leave?”

  “Why not? It worked before, didn’t it?”

  Hope bloomed within Edwina. Then just as quickly withered. “I doubt Declan would even make such an offer in view of her illness. And we have no money, anyway.”

  “Perhaps not.” Lucinda’s smile broadened. “But I do.”

  After much discussion, Maddie and Lucinda decided Edwina would approach the other Mrs. Brodie that afternoon after all her guests had departed, and see what her intentions were about her marriage.

  “If she wants to remain wedded to your husband,” Lucinda said, not even realizing how odd that sounded, “then we will have to come up with another plan. But if she’s ambivalent, perhaps we can give her an inducement to continue on to San Francisco—wasn’t that where she was headed with that gambler fellow when the Indians attacked the stage?”

  Edwina frowned, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the whole idea of bribing a dying woman to abandon her family. Again. For the umpteenth time she wished her sister was here to advise her. Thomas should bring her home, rather than keep her holed up in some sweaty lodge. “I miss Pru.”

  Lucinda reached over and patted her hand. “We all do. But from what Declan said, she’s in good hands with Thomas.”

  “I think they care a great deal for each other,” Maddie added.

  Edwina fervently hoped so. Having her sister gone left a hole inside her. Yet, oddly, it wasn’t as painful as it had been at first. Perhaps knowing Thomas held her safe helped. Or perhaps she was learning to stand on her own without using her sister as a crutch.

  Turning back to the discussion at hand, she said, “It just seems so . . . cold . . . paying Sally off like that.”

  “You’d rather she stay here with Declan?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then talk to her. If she seems set on staying, you needn’t even make the offer.”

  “Oh, do it,” Maddie prodded. “At least then you’ll know what you’re up against. And the children would be better off with you rather than her, so we must do all we can to make sure that happens.”

  Two hours later, Edwina presented herself at the other Mrs. Brodie’s door. She was so nervous her heart sounded like calves were stampeding in her chest and her palms were damp with sweat. If only Pru were here. Her smart, levelheaded sister would know the perfect thing to say.

  For long moments she stared blankly at the closed door, her courage wavering, all the carefully rehearsed words dimming in her mind. Then she remembered what was at stake here. Taking a deep breath, she wiped a damp palm down her skirt, then tapped lightly on the door.

  “Enter,” a voice called.

  Donning a bright smile, Edwina swung open the door.

  Sally Brodie was seated in an overstuffed chair that seemed to dwarf her small form. She looked much better this afternoon than she had upon her arrival the previous day. Even though she was so painfully thin her borrowed dress hung on her slight frame, her blond hair had regained its luster with a good washing, and she had a bloom of color in her cheeks that contrasted starkly with the ghostly pallor of her skin. Or perhaps that was the flush of fever. Edwina wasn’t well enough acquainted with her to know.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, stepping into the room. “I hope you don’t mind one more visitor. I’m Edwina—”

  “I know who you are,” the other woman cut in with a thin smile. “The children have told me a great deal about you.”

  Edwina shut the door behind her, then turned with her pasted-on smile. “You have wonderful children.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve missed them terribly.”

  “And they’ve missed you. They speak of you often.” Not entirely a lie. But Edwina was desperate to find a common ground with this woman so they might be able to speak freely, and she sensed the children would provide that connection. “I suppose they’ve changed a lot in your absence.”

  “Perhaps. But they’re still my children.”

  “Of course they are,” Edwina hastened to assure her. “And always will be.” Hearing the combative note in Sally’s voice and not wanting to further upset her before she even had a chance to say what she had come to say, Edwina strove to keep her tone light. “How do you feel . . .” She hesitated, then gave a weak laugh. “How confusing this is. I don’t know what to call you.”

  “Mrs. Brodie will do.”

  So much for being nice. “Of course.” Idly wandering the room while keeping her distance from the sick woman, Edwina finally stopped at the window, where bright afternoon sunlight dispelled the chill gloom that seemed to be closing around her heart. “I’m sorry for what you suffered, Mrs. Brodie,” she said, facing her again. “I cannot imagine all you have endured.”

  “I’m sure you can’t.”

  “And I’m very sorry you’re ill,” she ground out, determined to maintain civility. She understood the woman saw her as a threat. But this wasn’t just about the two of them—there were children involved, and nothing could be accomplished on their behalf if she and Sally Brodie couldn’t get past this distrust and hostility and at least talk to each other. “Declan said you have consumption. Are you certain?”

  “Declan? How formal you are.” She gave a laugh that ended in a cough. With a shaking hand she lifted a glass of water from the table beside the chair and took a sip. It clattered as she set it down. Sitting back once again, she said, “Yes, I’m certain it’s consumption. I nursed an old woman who died of it.”

  “That must have been difficult. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She was a cruel, hateful woman who gave birth to a monster.”

  “Lone Tree?”

  Sally Brodie nodded.

  “And you caught the disease from her?”

  “Perhaps. Several in the encampment were afflicted with it.”

  “Do you think your children will be at risk?”

  “At risk?” Bitterness flared in the hazel eyes. “I think anyone who is forced to live in a filthy tipi with little food a
nd constant abuse is at risk!” The outburst seemed to drain her strength. She sank back in the chair, one trembling hand pressed to her chest, her eyes closed. After a moment, her breathing eased and she opened her eyes. “But you needn’t fear for my children,” she said in a reedy voice. “I will protect them.”

  How? Edwina wondered. There was no cure for consumption, and anyone in prolonged close contact with an infected, feverish person had a high chance of catching the disease. She studied the sick woman, wondering if that vindictive edge had always been there or if it was a legacy of her ordeal with the Indians.

  Pity welled within her for this lost, brutalized woman. But she also felt anger. She had seen that same bitterness in her mother, and knew how it poisoned all who came within her reach. Declan and the children deserved better.

  Deciding it was a waste of time to mince words with a woman determined to be her enemy, Edwina asked bluntly, “Do you intend to stay?”

  Sally gave a bark of laughter that ended in another coughing spasm. She pressed a linen handkerchief to her mouth until it passed, and when she took it away, Edwina saw a red stain. “And where would I go?” she asked, once she’d regained her voice.

  “San Francisco, perhaps? Wasn’t that where you were headed when your stage was attacked?”

  A crafty look came into the woman’s fever-bright eyes. “Are you trying to run me off so you can have my husband?”

  Edwina shrugged. “You don’t want him.”

  “Perhaps not. But I’m sick. I don’t have much time left or anywhere to go.”

  “You could go to San Francisco like you planned. They have wonderful hospitals there.”

  “How? I have no money.”

  “Money might be arranged.”

  Sally Brodie studied her for a long time, her lips pressed tight, her fingers plucking at the stained linen.

  Edwina tried to see past the layers of anger and bitterness to the true woman inside. Frightened. Lonely. Defeated.

  “You poor thing,” Sally finally said. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Then I pity you. Bobby is a man of great passion, but he has little of it to spare a wife. It’s all about the ranch with him.”