A Match Made in Texas

by Margaret Brownley

  She guessed he was in his late forties, maybe early fifties, but he acted much older. Miners aged early, that’s for sure. Still, there was something odd about the man. Like he’d been hobbled together with spare body parts, none of which seemed to fit.

  “Hello, Mr. El,” she called, but her greeting got no reaction. He just kept whittling away as if in another world.

  The house was simply furnished with sagging sofas and Shaker-type tables and chairs. The upstairs rooms were arranged barrack-style to fit as many bodies as possible. Women and children shared one dormitory, men another. Because his cough kept others awake, Mr. El was the only resident with his own room.

  Mrs. Wendell led the way to the large but cozy kitchen. A brick fireplace and oven took up one wall. An icebox and large free-standing cabinet with built-in bins for flour and rice occupied another.

  Mrs. Wendell arranged the tin cans on a pantry shelf, careful to turn the labels outward. “Why are you so against men?” she asked when they were alone again. “You have a fine father and two very nice brothers-in-law.”

  “I like men fine. It’s just…” Amanda searched for words. Some women took offense at any perceived criticism, and she didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Wendell’s feelings. For that reason, she chose her words carefully.

  “Women have more opportunities today than ever before.”

  Mrs. Wendell wrinkled her nose. “Trust me, the right man will support you in whatever you want to do.”

  “Like your husband,” Amanda said, knowing it would do no good to argue. Billy-Bob Wendell and his wife had created a fine home for the county’s poor and had gotten many down-and-outs back on their feet. Still, like most men, he was a traditionalist and frowned on Amanda’s advocacy work. “Speaking of which, where is Mr. Wendell?”

  “He rode into town to report a theft, for all the good it will do us.”

  “Oh no! Not another.”

  Mrs. Wendell sighed. “They stole a couple of our good horses this time.” Last time, it was their small herd of cattle.

  “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Don’t know that there’s anything anyone can do.” She reached into a cupboard for two drinking glasses and set them on the table.

  Amanda pulled out a chair and sat. “Something’s got to be done about the crime in Two-Time.” It wasn’t that long ago that people felt safe in their own homes. Now, people had resorted to installing locks on their doors. “Even the stage was robbed.” She then described her own close call with outlaws.

  “Mercy! You’re lucky to have escaped alive.” Mrs. Wendell threw up her hands. “The thing that worries me is that the candidates running for sheriff aren’t worth a plugged nickel.”

  Amanda bit her lower lip. “Did you know that I’m running too?”

  Mrs. Wendell laughed. “So I heard. Billy-Bob and I had a good laugh over that one.” She grew serious. “You’re the best of the lot, and I’m not just saying that to be nice. It’s true. Too bad you’re a woman.” She lifted a pitcher of lemonade out of the icebox.

  “Actually, I think it’s an exciting time to be a woman,” Amanda said and then described her trip to Austin. “Women are capable of doing all sorts of things, but unless we gain the right to vote, we’ll always be second-class citizens. That’s why I’m starting a women’s rights group; I’d like you to join.”

  Mrs. Wendell tittered. “Oh, mercy, not me. I’ve got about all the rights I can handle right here. Don’t know why you young folks want to take on more responsibilities. If you ask me, it’s unwomanly, not to mention exhausting.”

  Mrs. Wendell’s opinion wasn’t all that surprising. Many women had expressed similar views, even Amanda’s own mother.

  “But don’t you want a say in how the country is run? Wouldn’t you like to vote for our next president?”

  Mrs. Wendell leaned forward and lowered her voice. “We women might not have the vote, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have influence. I told my husband bad things would happen if Mr. Garfield became president, and I was right. That’s why he voted for that Hancock fellow. Most men wouldn’t admit it for the world, but they do listen to their wives, even in political matters. So why bother to vote?”

  “What about the women who are orphans or widows and have no men in their lives? What influence do they have?”

  Mrs. Wendell scoffed. “I doubt that such women have a notion to vote. They’re too busy trying to survive to care about politics.”

  Amanda sighed. Gaining the vote was only the first step. She hoped to see the day when women could own property under their own names and take out bank loans to start businesses. But it seemed as if women of a certain age had little or no interest in such things, so arguing was a waste of time. “If you change your mind—”

  “The only mind that needs changing is yours, and I’m a-hoping and a-praying that a man comes along and does just that.”

  Amanda smiled. Mrs. Wendell meant well but was clearly a product of her generation. “That would be some man,” she said and laughed. Some man indeed.

  Six

  R. B. Rennick bellied up to the long, polished bar of the Golden Spur Saloon and rested a well-worn boot on the shiny brass foot rail. The bar and walls of the saloon were buried beneath an onslaught of campaign handbills promising everything short of the moon in exchange for votes.

  But none belonged to the lady candidate. Far as he could tell, Miss Lockwood was the only one running for sheriff not actively campaigning. Not that she had a snowball’s chance in hell of winning. Still, he didn’t expect her to give up without a fight. Maybe he read her all wrong. Maybe she wasn’t as determined and independent as she wanted everyone to believe.

  Not that it mattered to him one way or another. He had no time for women, even a looker like her. Didn’t even know why she was on his mind. Especially now that he was close, so very close, to the man he had traveled all this way to find.

  All that mattered was regaining some of what had been taken from him. Was that even possible? Hard to remember the time he’d lived a normal life.

  Pushing his thoughts aside, he focused on his current surroundings. A haze of blue cigar smoke stung his eyes. The smell of whiskey permeated the air, along with the potent body odor of a group of cattlemen fresh off the trail. Every so often, he caught a whiff of sickly sweet perfume from one of the good-time gals. Except for a passing glance, the women left him alone. Either they sensed he was trouble or too lacking in funds to make it worth their while. They were right on both accounts.

  Five long years spent in prison had sharpened his senses and taught him to keep up his guard. Now, he could usually smell trouble a mile away. Mostly, he could tell if someone recognized him or had seen through his disguise. The wrong person knowing he was out of prison could ruin his plans.

  At the moment, he was safe from detection. The beard and long hair helped, as did the buckskin pants and fringed shirt, a stark change from his usual dungaree trousers, collarless shirt, and vest. The hand-tooled boots and bead-banded hat, however, were the same. A mistake, perhaps, but a necessary one. Anyone who knew him and took the time to look would instantly recognize the boots if not the hat, but the risk was worth it. Sometimes, a man needed a reminder of who he was and from whence he came, but never more than now.

  Except for a few curious stares when he first walked in, everyone ignored him, even the bartender, who had yet to take his order.

  Hat pulled low, Rick riveted his gaze to the large mirror on the wall behind the bar. His spine stiffened, and the hackles rose at the back of his neck. He could view practically everything behind him, including the man he hated more than anyone in the world. The man who’d brought him to town in the first place.

  Rick clenched his fists and fought to suppress his anger. One wrong move on his part could spoil everything. Spoil months of planning, years of waiting.


  Rick had searched high and low for this man. Had practically turned the state upside down. He’d followed every trail, no matter how faint or remote. At long last, he’d found him.

  The man’s name was Michael Cooper. And unless Rick’s eyes were deceiving him, the man he’d come all this way to find was standing but fifteen feet away…

  * * *

  Amanda rode her pony the length of Main Street and couldn’t believe her eyes. The town looked like it had been hit by a blizzard. Every window, door, wall, and post was plastered with campaign handbills, all of them handwritten.

  Some candidates were more creative than others. Calling himself a human hound, the dogcatcher Mutton’s campaign motto was Sniffing Out Outlaws with Dogged Determination.

  Vote for me, proclaimed the butcher’s handbills. No bones about it; I’ll make mincemeat out of crime.

  Vote for Baker

  Vote for Miller.

  Your troubles will be over if you vote for Simpson.

  If the handbills weren’t nuisance enough, candidates stood on soapboxes at practically every corner yelling insults about their opponents. They were like a bunch of angry birds fighting over a single morsel of food.

  “Unprincipled usurper,” snarled Mr. Mutton, the dogcatcher, calling attention to the butcher’s money-grabbing ways. With his bulldog jowls and disagreeable expression, he looked more dangerous than even the most rabid canine in town.

  T-Bone yelled back from his soapbox across the street. “And you, my friend, have all the chara’teristics of a dog ’cept loyalty.”

  “Place your bets here, place your bets here,” called a faro dealer who’d apparently decided the real action was not in the saloons but on the street. No one bothered placing bets on the possibility of Amanda winning.

  “Hey, Amanda!”

  Amanda reined in her horse when she spotted the baker’s boy. “Hi, Scooter.”

  He rested his broom against the building and moved to the edge of the boardwalk. The sparse mustache he’d managed to grow did nothing to make him appear older. He stood six foot two, but his face forgot to keep up with his body, and he still looked half his age.

  “I don’t see any of your handbills around town,” he said. “I’ll make you some, if you like.”

  “That’s okay, Scooter. Voters have already decided they don’t want a woman sheriff. Handbills won’t change anyone’s mind.”

  He pushed his lips outward. “That’s a pity. I was kind of hopin’ I could talk you into lettin’ me be your deputy sheriff.”

  Amanda leaned over her saddle horn. “I didn’t know you were interested in law and order.”

  He grinned, and his face got beet red. “Been inter’sted in law and order ever since I was knee high to a milk stool.”

  His enthusiasm made her smile. “Why didn’t you run for sheriff?” Despite his youth, he had a better shot of getting elected than she did. For crying out loud, even a gnat would have a better chance.

  “By the time I heard about the election, it was too late to throw in my hat.” He grinned. “Maybe next month,” he said, alluding to a sheriff’s short shelf life.

  Some people considered Scooter lazy, but she always thought there was more to him than met the eye. Turns out she might be right.

  “I’d vote for you if I could,” she said.

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “Maybe you can be my deputy.”

  The thought made her laugh. “That’s all you need.”

  He laughed too. “So is it a deal? If you become sheriff, can I be your deputy?”

  “It’s a deal,” Amanda said. “Meanwhile, I have another idea. I’m organizing a women’s rights group. Any chance you might like to join?” She told him a little about what she hoped to accomplish.

  He shook his head, and his hair flopped from side to side like a dog’s tail. “Any man joinin’ your group better know how to die standin’ up. That’s fer sure.”

  “Other men who joined the women’s movement have lived to tell about it. A lawyer in California is helping us.”

  “Yeah, well, Texas ain’t California.”

  She sighed. “I’ll let you get back to work,” she said. She pressed her heels against her horse’s flanks and continued on the way to her father’s shop.

  Papa stood outside his shop, mumbling to himself and angrily ripping campaign posters off his windows. Soap and water would be needed to remove the paste left behind.

  She dismounted and tethered her horse to the hitching rail in front.

  Papa greeted her with a nod. “There ought to be a law,” he complained and tore Mutton’s promises off the glass.

  “The election will soon be over,” she said.

  “Humph! You know full well that no matter who’s elected, he won’t last past the next full moon.”

  “Unless they vote for me,” she said in an effort to tease him out of his bad mood.

  Her father yanked a handbill off the nearby lamppost. “That’s all we need. A woman sheriff. Heaven help us.” He spun around and tramped into his shop.

  Spirits sinking, she followed him inside. All her life, she’d had to choose between pleasing Papa and following her heart. Only one person had accepted her for who she was—her now deceased grandmother. Would she ever find anyone like Grandmama again? She doubted it. Certainly no man wanted a woman with a mind of her own.

  The walls of the shop were alive with ticking clocks and swinging pendulums, bringing her out of her reverie. The familiar smell of sperm oil and old wood tickled her nose.

  Her sister Meg looked up from behind the counter where she stood marking the prices on a new batch of men’s pocket watches, a bright smile on her face as Papa walked to the back of the shop, leaving the two of them alone.

  Amanda studied her sister. Something was different about her face—a new maturity, perhaps. Marriage certainly seemed to agree with her, and today, her eyes sparkled like two turquoise gems.

  Meg insisted upon keeping her job at the shop even though married. Papa couldn’t understand how his new son-in-law could let his wife work. Papa held the old-fashioned belief that no respectable man would allow such a thing. In his mind, a man’s job was to support his family, and shame on him who couldn’t or wouldn’t.

  She watched Meg write a number on a small tag, preceded by a dollar sign. “I came to ask if you want to join the new group I’m starting.”

  Meg arranged the watch in a square cardboard box. “New group?”

  Keeping her voice low, Amanda told her about the trip to Austin and what she hoped to accomplish. “So what do you say?”

  Meg looked over her shoulder to where Papa sat at his workbench oiling a regulator clock. Pushing a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, she walked around the counter and motioned Amanda to the front of the store.

  “It sounds exciting, but… Belonging to your group wouldn’t be a good idea right now. I’m afraid I couldn’t be any help to you.”

  Amanda frowned. It never occurred to her that either of her sisters would turn her down. “Oh? Why not?”

  Meg glanced at Papa and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m expecting.”

  Amanda grabbed her sister’s hands in hers. “Oh, Meg!”

  “Shh!” With a nod of her head, Meg mutely indicated she didn’t want Papa to hear. “We haven’t told anyone yet. You’re the first to know.”

  “That’s the best news ever,” Amanda whispered. “I can’t believe it. I’m going to be an aunt. Mama will be thrilled!” All Mama ever wanted was for her daughters to marry and fill her lap with grandbabies. Meg was about to fulfill her mother’s wishes, and that was bound to take the pressure off the rest of them.

  “But why aren’t you jumping up and down with joy?” Amanda released Meg’s hands. “It’s what you want, right? To be a mother?”

  Meg relieved Amanda’
s mind with a smile as wide as all of Texas. “Of course I do. Grant and I can hardly wait to welcome our first child.”

  “So why all the secrecy?”

  Her sister’s smile faded, and the corners of her mouth turned down. “Josie…”

  Amanda groaned. Of course. She should have known. So far, their oldest sister’s marriage had produced no children. It was a sore subject with Josie, though she tried not to show it.

  “She’ll be happy for you,” Amanda said. Josie was always happy to hear other people’s good news. Even news about a blessed event.

  “I know but…it’s got to hurt. I’ve only been married for a short time, while she and Ralph have been married for ages.”

  “I know, Meg, but you can’t let Josie’s problems spoil your happiness. She would be the first to tell you that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Meg bit her lower lip. “Promise you won’t say a word until I figure out how to break the news to her myself.”

  “I promise.”

  “As for your new group…”

  “It’s okay. I understand. You’ll have your hands full with a new baby.”

  She was thrilled for her sister, of course, but oddly enough, it felt as if the chasm between them just got a whole lot wider.

  Seven

  On Friday, a line of male citizens waiting to vote snaked from the mayor’s office halfway down Main.

  The voices of candidates rent the air, turning Two-Time into the land of promise. Despite the inherent dangers the job entailed, many were drawn to the benefits of a regular salary and free living quarters. Some even saw the job as a stepping stone to a political future. It was well-known that state Senator Ross once served as county sheriff, and there was talk of him running for governor.

  “Vote for me,” blacksmith Steele shouted, “and I’ll give each of you a ‘get out of jail’ pass free.”

  Not to be outdone, T-Bone railed, “Vote for me, and I’ll put a steak on every table.”