by Eli Easton
“A touch faster there, Carson,” Trace drawled.
Carson blinked away a sleepy look and moved the fan he was holding vigorously. Trace sighed in satisfaction at the gentle breeze puffing along his face.
It was midday in April in Flat Bottom, which meant nothing much got done. Not that much ever did get done in Flat Bottom, at least not on Trace’s account. But it was especially quiet in the streets today. From the porch of the sheriff’s office where he sat in his chair, boots on the porch rail, Trace had a wide view of Main Street, tip to tail. There was Pete’s General Store, the saloon, a smithy shop, the livery stables, the city office, and Mrs. Jones’s boarding house, which served meals when she felt like it, and had a few surveyors in residence at the moment. There were another half-dozen private homes. And at the south end of town sat the school house with its big willow tree and fenced-in yard.
Very little moved anywhere. Which was just how Sheriff Trace Crabtree liked it.
“I gotta go muck stalls at the stables at two o’clock,” Carson said proudly.
“That’s fine.” Trace yawned and closed his eyes.
“Can you tell me when it’s nearly two? Don’t wanna miss it.”
“Sure thing.”
Trace might have felt guilty about having a boy stand there and fan him, as if he were some fat pasha in a storybook. But Carson, at eight years old, was the most enterprising soul in Flat Bottom. He didn’t have a daddy, and his mama took in laundry, including Trace’s. Carson helped out doing just about any work he could scrounge up when school was out. And Trace had little else to spend his pennies on, seeing as how meals and board came with his job.
He’d just about dozed off when he heard the rumble of wheels. He slit his eyes open to see who it was. A flatbed wagon lead by two chestnut horses was coming up the street. The driver was a large young man in an old blue coat faded nearly to gray, too-short pants that revealed hairy ankles above battered work boots, and large hammy hands on the reins. His most notable feature was the wild black hair that sprung up all around his head like a cloud and a big bushy black beard. Next to him on the seat were two young ladies, both wan-looking and dressed in threadbare clothes. A baby was in the arms of one of the gals. Likewise, the three children in the flatbed looked like they’d dressed out of the beggar’s box at church. The wagon stopped in front of the general store.
Several ladies emerged from the store, tilted their noses haughtily in the air, and offered the family a perfunctory greeting before hurrying away.
With a heavy sigh, Trace pulled his boots off the rail and stood up. He took a dime from his pocket and tossed it to Carson. “Gotta get a move on.”
“Gosh, thanks!” Carson ran off toward the stables with renewed optimism. The boy would be president one day, Trace was pretty sure.
He moseyed over to the general store. Up close, he noticed that Marcy had the fading yellow of a black eye as well as the more recent scrape on her cheek. Emmie had some purple discoloring near her hairline. Their dresses were nearly colorless from washing and frayed in spots.
Christ on a crutch. No wonder the ladies in town shunned the Crabtrees.
Marcy gave him a shy smile. “Hey there, Trace.”
“Marcy. Emmie.” Trace tipped his hat.
“Uncle Trace!” Billy, an eight-year-old dynamo, sprang over to Trace before remembering he was too big a boy to be picked up. Instead he bounced on his toes at Trace’s side. Paul, six, and Missy, five, were not as concerned about their maturity and they each claimed a hug.
“How are y'all?” Trace asked, swinging Missy up into his arms and looking her over. She was healthy, her eyes bright. But she was far too pretty for that misshapen brown dress she wore.
“We’re fine,” Marcy said. “Pa-Pa wanted me to ask you to supper tonight.”
“Can’t. Gotta work.” Trace chucked baby George on the chin. He sat on Emmie’s hip, staring around placidly.
“Uncle Trace!” Missy tugged on his sleeve. “Guess what? There’s a mess of new piglets and I got to name one. Wanna know her name?”
“Um . . . Bessy?” Trace guessed. “Sunshine? Sweet Cheeks?”
Missy laughed. “No, Snowbell. Ain’t that a good name?”
“She’s a red pig. It’s a stupid name for a red pig,” Billy scoffed.
“Now come on, children. Let’s get the shoppin’ done,” Emmie urged, bouncing the baby. She looked around the street with some disappointment before herding the kids and Marcy into the store.
Clovis finished tying up the horses. “I could use a drink.”
“Lead the way,” Trace said.
“Less you’re too busy bein’ sheriff.”
“Well, now, Clovis, you’re the worst element in the town at the moment, so I figure keepin’ an eye on you is my job.”
Clovis punched his arm lightly, and they headed across the street to the saloon.
All of Trace’s brothers—Wayne, Roy, and Clovis—worked the ranch with his pa. It was hard work, sometimes grueling, and they gave Trace guff about his sedentary life. And they weren’t wrong.
The saloon was mostly empty since it was barely noon. They both ordered a ginger beer. Trace asked about the ranch, and Clovis gave a longer account than Trace wanted—number of heads, a sickness that had worried them but hadn’t turn out too bad, the cases of hoof rot and the runs caused by a pernicious spring weed.
That was the world Trace had grown up in, and he’d fought like hell to get out of it, running off and joining the army at sixteen. Now here he was, ten years later, back in Flat Bottom. It was enough to downright discourage a man.
“You should come by tonight for supper,” Clovis said, when the list of animal maladies had run dry. “We’ll probably wrassle.”
“Gotta work,” Trace said flatly.
“What the hell do ya do in town at night? Sit in here and drink?” Clovis scoffed. He sounded jealous.
“Just when do you think a town needs sheriffin’ anyway? As ya can see, there ain’t a whole lot of rowdy goin’ on this time of day.” He swept his hand at the empty room. “And cattle rustlers don’t do business in broad daylight.”
“Cattle rustlers would be where there’s cattle,” Clovis muttered.
It was funny, and Trace couldn’t stop a smile. “Well, Crabtrees aren’t the only ranchers in the area.”
“Pa gets testy when ya never come. Then we have to hear him moan about it.”
“I’ll come on Sunday.”
Clovis shrugged and drank his beer.
Trace felt a familiar unsettled itch. He needed to figure out what the hell he was doing. Long before he’d gotten shot at La Ebonal, he’d been unhappy with the army. He enjoyed trick-shooting for sport and felt pride in his ability. But he didn’t much like being a sharpshooter for the government, picking off unwary men—usually Indians—when ordered to do so. It was one thing when they were in a battle, and he was killing men who were attacking his regiment. But it was another thing when he was shooting men at a distance, when they were unaware he was even there. The sound of the rifle shot, the violent jolt of the bodies, the life that was stolen from one breath to the next . . . These things plagued his nightmares.
Then he’d come home wounded and being back here didn’t fit either. A few days under the same roof as Pa, and Trace had remembered why he’d run away from home. No sir, he couldn’t stay in that house.
The three months it took him to heal out on the ranch had been a misery. Seemed he was always in the gals’ way, and he couldn’t be out helping the men. He started sniffing around Santa Fe for a job. That’s when Flat Bottom decided to hire a sheriff. It was true that the town was growing, and there’d been cattle rustlers in the area. But his pa had been the one to press the town board to act. And he’d pushed Trace to apply for the job. One shooting demonstration later, he’d been handed a badge.
Well, he wasn’t complaining. It suited for now. It offered a room in town, peace and quiet, and as little fuss as possible. Or it would, if Pa would quit pe
stering him about spending more time at the ranch.
Clovis let out a hearty belch just as the saloon door opened. Miss Stubbens, the schoolmarm, walked in. Clovis jumped an inch in his chair, and Trace had to bite back a grin. Poor Clovis. He always did have the worst timing.
Miss Stubbens blushed when she spotted Trace and Clovis. She quickly looked away and approached Stan at the bar. “Have you seen Carson Meeps? I know he works here sometimes.”
“Ain’t seen him this mornin’, Miss Stubbens. Sorry ’bout that.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Winston.”
Trace spoke up. “Carson is over at the stables.”
Miss Stubbens turned to face them. She always reminded Trace of a little yellow bird. She was tiny—both in height and build. Her straw-colored hair was tucked neatly back in a bun and her face had a pleasing fragility, Trace supposed. If a man liked that sort of thing.
Clovis lumbered to his feet with the grace of a bear and swiped the hat off his head. “Good morn—um, day, Miss Stubbens.”
Miss Stubbens’s back stiffened and her face paled. “Good day, Mr. Crabtree. And, uh, thank you, Sheriff.”
She hurried out of the saloon like she’d seen a ghost.
Clovis sank back down heavily in his chair, looking like a mighty felled tree. His face, what you could see if it around his massive beard and shaggy hair, was an alarming color.
“You look like a plum I et once,” Trace said with some amusement.
“Aw, shut up.”
“No sir. I don’t think that gal is ever gonna come around to it.”
“I know that,” Clovis said sullenly. He kicked the floor with his toe.
Trace felt a pang of guilt for teasing Clovis—but only a little. A man had a right to tease his baby brother. It was practically a sacred duty.
“There’s plenty of fish in the sea, Clovis.”
Despite his words, Trace had his doubts. Miss Stubbens had outright refused Clovis’s attempts at courting and her attitude wasn’t uncommon. There wasn’t a gal in town who’d marry up with the Crabtrees. Marcy had been the first—marrying Trace’s oldest brother, Wayne. And she’d been the last too, once the other ladies in town had noted how seldom she’d been seen and in what condition. Roy, the second oldest, had found his wife, Emmie, in Santa Fe. And now, from what Trace had heard, none of the good women there were interested either.
Trace didn’t give a good goddamn for himself. But Clovis was all but dying for a bride. Frankly, Trace didn’t want to think too hard about why that was, but he supposed Clovis was just plain horny. Living at the ranch with his two older brothers and their wives probably made his lonely bed seem all that much colder.
“Pa says he’s got it taken care of already,” Clovis said.
“He took care of gettin’ ya married up? How?”
Clovis shrugged. “Won’t say. He just says I’m already spoken for, and I’m not to talk to Miss Stubbens anymore.”
“Doesn’t look to me like you’ll have any trouble there.” Trace smirked.
“Shut up.”
Trace rubbed his jaw. Knowing his pa, he’d thought up some crazy scheme. “I sure as hell hope, whatever tricks Pa’s pullin’ with you, he doesn’t try to do the same with me.”
“Everyone knows ya don’t wanna be married,” Clovis said stiffly.
“No, I don’t. It’d take a noose around my neck to drag me to the altar,” Trace confirmed. If he said it loudly and adamantly enough, maybe his pa would respect the matter.
Clovis finished his ginger beer. “I’d better see if the gals are ready to go. We got fence mendin’ to do.”
“You have fun with that,” Trace said lazily.
Clovis shot him a look and left the saloon.
Chapter Three
The first few days on the wagon train were every bit as uncomfortable and tedious as Robby would have imagined. If he’d ever given a moment’s thought to taking a wagon train. Which he most certainly had not. Wagon trains were for immigrant families, men foolish enough to believe they’d strike it rich in a gold mine, and those out to make a name for themselves.
Robby had already made a name for himself. Robby, who’d run away from his Pennsylvania farmstead at the age of fifteen, had beaten the odds and made it in New York City. He’d busted his tail, sewed costumes until his fingers bled, done hair and makeup for impatient and occasionally ill-tempered actors, pushed away roaming hands with a laugh so as not to offend. And when he’d finally gotten his break, he’d thrown everything he had into his stage career, eschewing drink and the libidinous ways so common in the theater. Now all that hard work and sacrifice counted for nothing, his career snatched away in the space of one unfortunate moment, and it galled him to no end.
His first plan had been to hide out in St. Louis for a few months, then make his way back to Boston or Philadelphia where he could rebuild a life. But two Bowery Boys had shown up in St. Louis asking about Robby Riverton and showing around his poster. Robby had fled. He’d taken a coach to Independence, Missouri, picturing a bullet between his eyes the entire way. Once there, he’d joined the next wagon train heading west.
He’d hoped to go to San Francisco. But the only spot he was able to find at such short notice was with a blacksmith named Stoltz who was taking provisions to the army in the New Mexico Territory via the Santa Fe Trail. Stoltz had room for two passengers on his wagon.
The price was steep—two hundred dollars. It was one hell of a price to pay to travel in a direction he didn’t want to go, and it took nearly all the money Robby had. But he figured it was head west or give up on breathing. And Robby liked his life, thank you. He intended to keep it.
Surely Santa Fe had at least one theater? Maybe they were starved for talent. Maybe those ranchers and prospectors would think Robby was a hoot and a half. If not, he could make his way on to San Francisco from there.
“Why do you keep watching behind us?” Miss Fairchild asked. “You got someone chasing you, Mr. Smith?”
Robby’s fellow passenger in Stoltz’s wagon was a young lady. She was statuesque, well-bred, and finely dressed. She had light-brown hair that flirted with the idea of being red and a starry sky’s worth of freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her current dress was a green brocade, though she had six trunks filled with gowns and parasols and hats and other folderol. They took up an annoying amount of space. She wore a lacy ecru shawl about her person, always, despite the heat. She sat at the back of the wagon where the tarp was open, enjoying the scenery.
Said scenery was nothing but endless green woods and flies, and Robby couldn’t be bothered. Besides, he was still nervous about being seen.
“As a matter of fact, I’m being chased by a Russian countess whose heart I broke,” Robby said dramatically. “She sent a regiment of Cossacks to drag me back to her side.”
Miss Fairchild stared at him blankly for a second then laughed. “Oh, you! My Aunt Fanny! But I can believe you’re leaving behind a broken heart. Or a dozen. You’re what my mama would call a bonny lad.”
“Ack, would she now, your sainted mother?” Robby switched to his best Irish brogue.
Miss Fairchild grinned with delight. “Lands, that’s good. Are you Irish?”
“Not even a wee little bit. Not a blessed hair on me head.”
She studied him, amused. “What are you, then? Your clothes, your hands . . . You’re no laborer. You don’t look stuffy enough to be a preacher or a teacher, and you’re too young and handsome to be a politician. Are you a poet, sir?”
Robby laid his finger alongside his nose and then pointed at her and winked. “Close, dear lady. I’m an actor.”
“Oooh, I’ve never met an actor before! Mama took me to poetry readings last summer and the gentleman who did them, Roe Farley? He was exceedingly handsome too. Do you know Roe Farley?”
“Can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure. And what about you? What adventure are you off to all on your lonesome, Miss Fairchild?”
He’d wondered about
Miss Rowena Fairchild. At first, he’d assumed she was with Mr. Stoltz. But Stoltz paid her even less mind than he did Robby. Which was to say, he ignored them both, going off to take his meals elsewhere, sleeping out in a bedroll under the wagon, and spending his days driving the team.
Her chin lifted defiantly. “I’m going to meet my husband.”
Wasn’t it Miss Fairchild? Robby blinked in confusion. “Ah. And when did Mr. Fairchild go out West?”
She started to speak, hesitated. A mischievous gleam lit her eyes. “Can you keep a secret?” she whispered.
“I know not a single soul on this wagon train but you. And it’s awfully tight quarters for secrets.”
“That’s true. Besides, there’s only so long I can hide this if you and me are sharing this wagon all the way to Santa Fe.” Moving her shawl to the side, Miss Fairchild revealed a very definite mound at her waistline.
“Ah,” Robby said.
“I told Mr. Stoltz I was going to join my husband. But the truth is . . . Here. This will explain better than I can.” She drew out an envelope from her tasseled purse and leaned over.
Robby hurried forward to take the missive, worried about her straining her belly. He joined her at the back of the wagon and, after checking again that there was nothing but a long chain of wagons behind them and no hint of the Bowery Boys, he took out the letter and attached contract and peered at it.
“A mail-order bride?” he said in surprise. “Well, that’s certainly adventurous. What do you know about this . . .” He scanned for a name. “This Mr. Clovis Crabtree?”
Miss Fairchild palmed her stomach and relaxed against the edge of the tarp. “He’s twenty-five, his family owns a wealthy ranch, and he’s clean, godly, and a hard worker. That’s what it said in the letter. We’re to be married just soon as I get to Flat Bottom. That’s a town north of Santa Fe.”
“And so ingeniously named. Does Mr. Clovis Crabtree know about your delicate circumstance?” Robby asked, seeing no reason to play coy.
Miss Fairchild blushed, but the way her eyes sparkled, it was more with pleasure than shame. “But that’s what’s so very clever of me! I have it all planned out. You see, I managed to hide this before I left since I wasn’t showing much.” She touched her belly which, to Robby’s eye, was showing more than a little, but maybe she’d always been round there. “No one back home’s the wiser. And at my biggest, I’ll be on this wagon train where no one knows me. By the time we reach Santa Fe, I’ll have had the baby. I hope so anyway.” She frowned slightly. “They say it’ll take three months to get there, and that’s about right.”
