Robby Riverton Mail Order Bride

by Eli Easton

  “Well. Decent clothing is hardly a frippery,” Robby said firmly.

  “Please don’t say nothin’ to Pa-Pa,” Marcy begged. “He would about kill us if he thought we’d given you a bad notion!”

  “The two of you have not given me a bad notion,” Robby promised sincerely. In fact, they were the best thing about Crabtree Ranch, in Robby’s opinion.

  “Anyway, I don’t mind for myself,” Emmie said. “But I do wish we had better things for the kids. It’s hard on the ones that go to school. The other kids can be cruel.”

  “Still,” Marcy reminded her. “We have good food on the table, and a solid roof over our head. And there’s never a worry about money. We have it right good. And clothes ain’t all that important.”

  Robby reminded himself he wouldn’t be there long, and his primary task was not to rock the boat. But Rowena wasn’t inclined to be meek. “I know! How about we go into town tomorrow, just the three of us? We can pick up some fabric at the store in Flat Bottom.”

  Emmie giggled. “I’m startin’ to like you, sister-in-law.”

  But Marcy shook her head. “Oh, we ain’t allowed into town alone. And the menfolk never have time to take us ’cept on Saturdays.”

  “I can drive a buggy,” Robby said.

  Marcy and Emmie shared a grimace.

  Marcy sat down on the daybed and patted a spot. “There’s somethin’ you oughtta know.”

  Robby was sure it couldn’t be anything good, but he sat. Emmie took a spot on the other side of him.

  Marcy looked around as if to make sure no one was listening. “See, Pa-Pa’s wife, the boys’ mama? She ran away. She went to visit her family and just never came home.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “It must have been awful hard on Pa-Pa,” Emmie said sadly. “What with four little boys. He ain’t looked at another woman since.”

  “So, Pa-Pa, he’s real touchy about us goin’ off alone,” Emmie said. “It’s just best to wait till Saturday.”

  “Hmm.” That explained the locked-up tack in the barn. “So, there wasn’t a woman in this house for years, not until you married Wayne?”

  Marcy nodded. “I tried to get them to learn some manners. My pa was just a farmer, but he was . . . well. Better. But there was four of them and one of me, and Pa-Pa didn’t like me criticizin’. So . . .”

  Emmie nodded, a frown on her face. “Really, Rowena, it ain’t worth it. They ain’t got nice manners, but all in all, they’re good men. Hard workers. Clovis too. You’ll see.”

  She looked at the open trunk and stood. “Now let’s finish unpackin’. George will be up soon.” She took out a shirt from the bottom and held it up. “What’s this?”

  It was one of Robby’s white shirts with large, stiff cuffs.

  He felt his face heat. “Oh, I brought a few of my brother’s things. I thought they might look nice on Clovis. But now I realize how silly that was.”

  Marcy and Emmie both looked at the shirt and burst out laughing. The idea of Clovis in the delicate shirt was pretty hilarious, so Robby laughed too. They laughed so hard, his side started to hurt. As soon as one would sober up, the other two would set them off again.

  Finally, the laughter died down.

  “Rowena, I do hope you’ll stay,” Marcy said with spontaneous affection.

  “Me too,” Emmie agreed earnestly.

  Robby felt a pang of guilt. Marcy and Emmie had no idea Robby would escape the moment he could. And that felt awful. He swallowed a lump in his throat, and his gaze fell on the row of pretty dresses.

  “Well, ladies. How are you with a needle and thread? Because I think this—” He took the peach silk and held it up to Emmie. “—and this—” He held the pink dress up to Marcy. “—would look lovely on you two. And I want you both looking your best at my wedding.”

  The squeals could probably be heard in Flat Bottom.

  Chapter Ten

  Trace started out for Santa Fe before daybreak. It was downright annoying to have to make the trip two days in a row. But after talking to Robby in the barn, there were things he needed to know. And he could only figure them out in Santa Fe.

  He arrived by ten o’clock. He left his horse at the livery stables and went to the Palace of Governors on the plaza to see the sheriff. Sheriff Brooks was in his forties, with graying brown hair, skin bronzed by the sun, and a broken front tooth. Besides being Santa Fe’s sheriff, he was a territorial marshal. Trace had met Brooks but had never had a reason to work with the man before.

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff Craptree?” Brooks asked, after making Trace wait an hour in the lobby.

  “That’s Crabtree.”

  “My apologies.” Brooks’s toothy grin said he thought he was funny. Trace decided to ignore it.

  “That man who was killed yesterday—Stoltz. I was wonderin’ if you had any idea who did it, or if anyone else’s turned up dead?”

  Brooks leaned back in his chair and studied Trace. “Why would you care about that?”

  Trace shrugged. “I heard Stoltz came in on a wagon train on Tuesday. A lady who was travelin’ on that same wagon train is stayin’ with a family in Flat Bottom. Thought I’d best check up on it.”

  He kept his tone slow and disinterested. He took a cigarette from a pocket and rolled it between his fingers.

  “What’s the lady’s name?”

  “Miss Fairchild. She’s from St. Louis.” Trace figured even the Bowery Boys knew that much, so there was no point being coy.

  Brooks grunted. “Why would the murder of Stoltz have anythin’ to do with this Miss Fairchild? She didn’t kill him, did she?”

  Trace gave him a disgusted look and lit the cigarette. “Want one?”

  Brooks shook his head, instead picking up a cigar from a box and lighting it. He seemed to think it over. “Yup. Something smells bad about that wagon train all right. Three of the other drivers unloaded and set back out again yesterday. Not even a full day in Santa Fe. Drivers don’t do that.”

  “That so?”

  “Maybe they were worried they’d get their throats cut like Stoltz. And maybe it has something to do with this.”

  Brooks searched through a stack of papers on his desk and held one out to Trace. It was a WANTED notice. It had a drawing of Robby and his name at the top.

  Feeling sick, Trace took it and scanned it quickly. The U.S. Marshal’s office was looking for Robby Riverton, a New York actor. He was wanted as an eyewitness to a murder. If he was spotted, he was to be detained and guarded until a U.S. Marshal could pick him up.

  The feeling of relief was strong and sweet. The poster verified Robby’s story. And it also explained why the Bowery Boys were still after him. If the U.S. Marshals wanted Robby to testify, they had to want the murderer pretty damn bad. Or perhaps the man who was killed was an important dignitary or a member of the upper class. In any case, the Bowery Boys would want to get to Robby first to make sure he kept quiet. As quiet as the grave.

  “Keep that, if ya want. I got more.”

  Trace folded it up and put it in a pocket. He looked up to find Brooks watching him closely. “You think this Riverton has somethin’ to do with Stoltz’s murder?”

  Brooks pursed his lips. “Talked to one of the drivers who stayed in town. He said a couple of Easterners searched that wagon train lookin’ for someone. Sure sounds like this man.”

  “Hmmm.” Trace took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly.

  Brooks flicked the ash off his cigar. “Had a wire that U.S. Marshals are on their way. Maybe a few weeks out? Maybe less. You have any idea where this Riverton is?”

  “Nah.” Trace blew a perfect smoke ring. “What about the Easterners who stopped the wagon train? You think they’re still around?”

  “Oh, I know they are,” Brooks said easily. He stretched his arms behind his head, cigar clenched in his teeth.

  “Can’t you arrest them for killin’ Stoltz?”

  “No one saw them do it. Can’t pr
ove it. Can you prove it?”

  Trace just gave him a look.

  “Maybe it was them. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe Stoltz sat on the wrong bull, insulted a man, cheated at cards.”

  “Maybe.”

  Trace and Brooks smoked and watched each other.

  Trace considered telling Brooks everything. But he’d heard rumors that Brooks was crooked. Something to do with a rich ranchero’s son getting off on murder charges. Something else about wagon trains having to pay him off to avoid getting robbed by “bandits.” Trace didn’t put much credence in rumors. But he also couldn’t be 100 percent certain they were wrong.

  His imagination conjured up an image of Robby sitting in a Santa Fe jail cell, Brooks taking a wad of cash from the Bowery Boys, and then letting them in while he went out for a walk. The thought made him sick.

  Trace ground out his cigarette in an ashtray. “Welp. Been good talkin’ to ya.” He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.

  Brooks spoke up. “Maybe your Miss Fairchild is right to worry. I hear those two men from the East, they’re hiring guns.”

  Trace paused. “How many guns?”

  Brooks shrugged.

  “Know where they’re goin’?” Trace asked coolly.

  “I suppose they’re still after this Riverton fellow. Wherever he might be. Pretty sure he’s not in Santa Fe. If I see they’re headed up your way, I’ll send a wire. Okay?”

  Trace nodded. “’preciate it.”

  Trace opened the door.

  “I expect the same, no? You hear anything about Riverton, you tell me. Understand, Crabtree?” Brooks’s eyes were flinty.

  Trace tipped his hat and left.

  Trace had a lunch of fresh corn tortillas, beans, and spicy beef at a little cubbyhole restaurant near the livery stables. The senoritas there served the best food in town, and it was cheap.

  As he ate, he pondered his next move. He could try to track down some of the men who’d been on the wagon train, as Brooks had done. See what they’d told the Bowery Boys. But if he made too much of a fuss here in Santa Fe, word would get back to Brooks and maybe the Bowery Boys too. And that would just bring more attention to Flat Bottom and, thus, to Miss Rowena Fairchild.

  Besides. If the Bowery Boys did question everyone they could find from that wagon train, sooner or later they’d hear one of two things: either that Miss Fairchild had not been on that wagon train after Dodge City, or that Riverton, aka Nick Smith, had been on it up till the end.

  Either of those things would send the Bowery Boys charging after the “Miss Fairchild” they’d talked to in Santa Fe. And they wouldn’t come alone.

  And goddamn, but it chafed his hide. He’d gone back to Flat Bottom to get as far away from drama and danger as he could get. And it had just moseyed its way on into his town anyhow.

  After lunch, Trace left Santa Fe. Once again, he didn’t visit Rafael the barber.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday

  The following day, Trace had things to square away in town, and he got to the ranch just as the sun was setting. As he tied his horse Jasper up to the corral fence, he had an unusual moment of introspection.

  It had been years since he’d been able to look around at the “Crabtree & Sons” ranch and not feel an urge to leave it, to get away as soon as he could. But those bad feelings had more to do with his pa than the ranch itself. Objectively, it was a fine-looking spread. The house, barn, and pig pen were in good condition. The yard and garden were clean. Neat fencing ran all along the road. Trace had spent enough of his boyhood cutting grass, pulling weeds, and sweeping the porch to appreciate the work that went into its maintenance. Pa always had been “land proud,” and he had enough free labor to keep things neat and tidy.

  But his pa’s rigid control grated against Trace’s independent streak like broken glass on broken glass—always had. He’d been only four years old when his ma had left. Growing up with Pa as the only parent had been rough. Trace left home before Marcy and Emmie came along. But the few months he’d spent at the ranch recently with his shot-up leg had driven him crazy. In some ways, the women improved the place—the meals were a hell of a lot better than anything Pa had ever fixed, and the house was clean. Plus, Trace was genuinely fond of his nieces and nephews—in small doses. But watching Pa boss the gals around, and his brothers letting him, had renewed Trace’s disgust. He wanted nothing to do with the place.

  Now Robby Riverton was in there. In that very house. That caused such a mess of conflicting urges it made Trace’s head hurt.

  He entered the house without knocking. Hearing voices, he went on through to the dining room. The family was eating supper. And there was Miss Rowena Fairchild sitting next to Pa, who was spruced up in his best gray vest and shirt with his hair slicked back and his face and hands clean.

  The image was so strange, Trace’s mind caught on it like a hangnail. He stood dumbly in the doorway. Robby stared at him with wide, alarmed eyes.

  “Ya decided to come for supper, did ya?” Pa snorted. “It must be a blue moon out there tonight. Or hell’s froze over.” He jabbed a piece of steak with his jackknife and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “Howdy, Trace. Let me set you a place.” Marcy rushed to the cupboard.

  “You don’t need to go to any trouble,” Trace replied, not meaning it because he was hungry, and the steak smelled good.

  Marcy squeezed him onto the end next to Clovis. Clovis shifted over with a grunt and looked at Trace warily.

  “Hey, baby brother.” Trace slapped Clovis on the shoulder.

  “No big gunfights to break up in town tonight?” Clovis drawled.

  “Shut up and pass the potatoes.”

  He ate, forcing himself not to look at Robby. But he couldn’t help overhearing Pa tell an old cowboy yarn about a lost calf, laughing as he did so. “Rowena” looked charming as she listened raptly, smiled and cooed, and even gave the old man a bit of sass. Pa laughed like she was the funniest thing.

  Stunned, Trace looked at Clovis with one eyebrow raised and Clovis looked back. He blushed pink and shrugged as if to say, “Don’t ask me.”

  At least the charade seemed to be going well. That was good, though Pa’d be livid if he ever found out he’d been fooled.

  After dinner, Trace asked to speak to Pa alone. He ignored Robby’s panicky look as he and Pa left the dining room. He didn’t speak until they were alone in Pa’s study with the door firmly closed.

  “What is it?” Pa asked. “I shoulda known you wouldn’t come to supper without a damn good reason.”

  “We got trouble,” Trace said.

  Pa poured a shot of whiskey into a dirty glass that was always on his desk. “Well, say what you come here to say, boy.”

  Trace went to the window and looked out over the ranch. He told Pa how two men from a gang in New York were looking for a fugitive that had been on Miss Fairchild’s wagon train and how at least one man had been killed so far. He described how he’d met Miss Fairchild in Santa Fe as the two men accosted her on the street.

  “Well, what kindy wagon train is that?” Pa said bitterly. “I paid two hundred dollars for her fare and they let damned fugitives ride along? That ain’t right!”

  “They probably didn’t know he was a fugitive, Pa,” Trace replied, managing not to sound impatient.

  “Well, what the hell has Rowena got to do with it?”

  “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Trace said, which was more or less the truth. “But if the men are goin’ after everyone on that wagon train to twist their arm, they might come after her.”

  “Well, they can’t have her! I paid two hundred dollars for that gal. And from what I’ve seen, she’s worth it. I reckon her and Clovis are gonna have a passel of long-faced, tall, and hairy children. But, by God, they’ll have gumption!”

  Trace wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry over that statement. Pa was as crazy as ever.

  “I just wanted to warn you. And I suppose i
t’d be wise to make some preparations.”

  “Aw, they won’t come here,” Pa said dismissively. “This place is way out from Santa Fe. Anyhow, this household is cattywampus enough as it is what with waitin’ on the dang weddin’.”

  He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring it. Trace knew his father. Pa wasn’t afraid of hard work—or rather, having others do hard work for him. But if he didn’t think something was important, he could be stubborn about not wasting a moment’s thought on it.

  Trace leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms. “I think they might. They probably think Miss Fairchild’s fiancé is some slack-jawed hick. Probably think they can just waltz in here and take her iffen they decide to,” he said with a low, disgusted grumble.

  Pa choked on whiskey and coughed until his face was red. He stood and pounded on the desk. “Any goddamn Easterner lookin’ for any goddamn fugitive dares come on my land, I will fill his behind so full of buckshot, he’ll be workin’ as a salt shaker!”

  “I don’t know, Pa.” Trace rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I heard they’re hirin’ guns. They might be kindy tough.”

  “Tough? Tough?” Pa bellowed. “There ain’t an Easterner who knows the meanin’ of the word! I’d like to see them work with a herd of animals that weigh a ton each or sit in a saddle from sunup to sundown. No sir! I’d like to see them try to take Rowena! I got me four strong boys, and I’m still in my prime. Plus, you’re the best gun I ever knew.”

  Trace felt a pang of warmth at Pa’s praise. It was so rare. And goddamn but he hated that he could still want the old man’s approval.

  “We’re of a like mind on the subject then,” Trace agreed. “I reckon we should all brush up on our shootin’. And we can shore up a few spots along the lane.”

  “I guess,” Pa said testily. “This sure is messin’ with our routine. I’ll be glad when they’re done married. Did you know that gal is makin’ us wait till August first? Somethin’ about it bein’ lucky. Bunch of hoo-haw if you ask me, but she got her way. Yes sir, that gal’s got gumption.”