A Match Made in Texas

by Margaret Brownley

  Riding her own pony was an entirely different experience. He bounced up and down like a sewing machine needle. Spirit’s longer legs provided a much more pleasant ride. If she didn’t know better, she’d think someone had smoothed out the rutted road. After a few turns, she forgot her fear of heights and relaxed. Several more turns, and it felt like she and the horse were one.

  “Wow!” Catching herself, she laughed. She had spent too much time with Scooter. Now she even talked like him. If she didn’t watch out, she’d soon be quoting Grandpappy.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s go. Whoopie!”

  Spirit responded with a smooth, easy gait. Only a slight shift of weight, leg pressure, or seat motion was needed to increase speed or change directions. In no time at all, they were out of town and enjoying the open countryside.

  Amanda loved her brown-and-white cow pony dearly, but my, oh my, did this horse make her feel like she could conquer the world.

  Last night’s windstorm had left the sky dark with dust, but the air was now still, and only Spirit’s trotting hooves broke the silence. She was tempted to keep going and could have ridden forever through the wooded canyons and over dry grassy hills. But running was not the Lockwood way. Nor would it help the suffrage cause. Like it or not, she had to stay and show her naysayers that a woman was up to the task of maintaining law and order.

  She was just about to turn back when she spotted smoke. She reined in Spirit and rose in the saddle for a better look. A jolt of alarm rushed through her. The black column appeared to be coming from the Freeman farm.

  Clicking her tongue, she pressed her heels into the horse’s flanks. Spirit took off in a gallop and raced up an incline.

  At the top of the hill, the cabin came into full view, and she gasped. Dark smoke curled from the shingled roof. Oh no!

  John Freeman had built that cabin with his own hands for his bride, and the couple was expecting their first child.

  With rising panic, she snapped the reins, urging the horse to go even faster. Spirit’s hooves pounded the ground as he carried her down the incline and toward the burning cabin. No sooner had they reached the property than she slid off the saddle and ran up the steps to the porch.

  “Mary-Louise! John!”

  She jiggled the doorknob, but it held tight. The recent surge in crime had everyone on edge, and doors that had never before been locked were now bolted.

  Pounding on the solid wood, she screamed their names. Maybe they weren’t home. Oh God, please let that be true. But since her friend was heavy with child, it seemed odd that she would have left the house.

  The windows were still shuttered from last night’s windstorm, and there was no way to open them from outside. Convinced the house was empty, she drew away from the window, but something made her stop in her tracks.

  Was that… She gasped. “Oh no!” Please don’t let that be a baby’s thin cry. But it was; she knew it was. That meant that Mary-Louise had already given birth, and never would she leave her child alone.

  She pounded the door with both fists. “Mary-Louise! Open up!”

  She kicked hard, and pain shot up her leg. The door didn’t budge. Having lost family members during the Indian Wars, John took no chances, and the door was strong enough to guard a fort.

  She yelled and pounded, banged, and kicked. She shoved her shoulder against the door hard. Tears of pain blurred her vision as she desperately battered the door like an angry ram.

  Growing more desperate by the minute, she ran around the house, checking windows, hoping to find one not shuttered. Thick smoke shot out of the eaves, and the sound of crackling flames filled her heart with terror. Frantically looking for something—anything—to use on the door, she spotted a woodpile with a hatchet sticking out of a log.

  Grabbing the ax with both hands, she raced back to the porch. She raised the tool over her head and swung it with all her might. A spidery crack appeared in the wood.

  “Come on, come on.” Swinging the ax hard, she struck the door again and again.

  Suddenly, the house’s owner, John, appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Step back!” he shouted.

  Face grim, he heaved his shoulder against the door, but it held fast. He gave the door a mighty kick with a booted foot, and the already weakened wood splintered. Two more kicks, and the door fell inward with a bang.

  She dashed inside after him. Thick smoke curled around her like a giant serpent. Orange tongues licked the wall dividing the kitchen from the parlor. Flames leaped to the ceiling, raced along a rafter, and showered bright-orange sparks across the room.

  Mary-Louise was sprawled on the floor, and John dropped to her side.

  Throat closing in protest, Amanda covered her mouth and nose with her hand and frantically searched the room. The baby… Where was the baby? She was sure she’d heard an infant’s cry.

  Eyes burning, she flew to the bedroom and burst through the door. Blinking against the smoke, she quickly searched the room. No baby. She slammed the door shut. That’s when she heard a soft cry.

  The baby could barely be heard over the roar of flames and crackling wood. “Where are you, where are you?” she cried in both a question and a prayer.

  Frantically knocking over chairs, tables, and a footstool, she finally found the child hidden beneath a cover in a basket next to the sofa. Grabbing the basket with both hands, she stumbled blindly out the front door, down the porch steps, and away from the burning house.

  She set the basket ever so gently beneath the shade of a cottonwood. Coughing, she gasped for air and fell to her knees. Her eyes stung, and her raw throat felt like it was lined in acid.

  The crying had stopped. Fearing the worst, she lifted a corner of what looked like a canvas flour sack. The baby—a boy—was naked and still attached to the umbilical cord. His red skin moist with birth fluids, he was unbelievably tiny—no larger than a child’s doll. Eyes squeezed shut, he sucked hungrily on his hand.

  She blinked back tears and gave a prayer of thanksgiving. Had the baby’s basket not been on the floor below the smoke, she doubted he would have survived.

  Blood dripped onto the child’s rounded belly. She lowered the sack, folding the coarse fabric away from his face, and held up her sore hands. The knuckles were battered and covered with blood. Blisters had formed on her palms from gripping the hatchet.

  Wiping her hands on her skirt, she noticed for the first time Mary-Louise lying nearby on a patch of grass. Fearing the worst, Amanda ran to her side. She shook her gently. Why, oh, why didn’t she carry smelling salts with her like Mama always did?

  “Mary-Louise.” There was a strange rasping sound emerging from her parched throat. “Your baby is safe.”

  She pressed her ear to Mary-Louise’s chest. She was still breathing, but barely. Where was John? Oh God, where was he? Had he gone back inside the burning inferno looking for his child? How did they miss each other?

  She sprang to her feet and watched in horror as the entire roof of the house collapsed. Convinced John was inside, her legs folded like a fan beneath her, and she dropped to the ground, knees first, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Then she heard something. Holding her breath, she glanced to the side of the house just as a horse and wagon charged out of the barn. Driving the wagon helter-skelter, John pulled up in front of her. Looking like a wild man, he jumped from the wagon and scooped Mary-Louise off the ground. He laid her in the back of the wagon.

  “The baby,” Amanda rasped, handing him the basket. Face grim, John took it from her and set it next to his wife. “It’s a boy, and he’s fine,” she said, hoping to relieve his mind, but the panic in his eyes remained.

  “You better have the doctor check your throat,” he shouted as he scrambled onto the driver’s seat.

  She said she would and told him to hurry. Between her croaking voice and the rattle of wagon whe
els, she doubted he heard her. He drove away with nary a glance at his burning house, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

  She turned to where she’d left Spirit, but the horse was nowhere in sight. In her haste to reach the burning house, she had neglected to tether him.

  She tried calling his name, but all that emerged from her dry throat was a rough frog-like croak.

  By now, even the walls of the house had caved in. She shuddered to think what would have happened had John not arrived in time.

  Worn to a frazzle, she leaned against a tree trunk before starting back to town on foot.

  Sixteen

  Amanda entered the sheriff’s office with bandaged hands and headed straight for the bucket kept in the corner. After ladling water into a tin cup, she gulped it down. Her throat felt prickly and dry as a pinecone. Never could she remember feeling so thirsty.

  Dr. Stybeck said her lungs were clear but it would take a day or two for her throat to heal. Mary-Louise and the baby were resting comfortably in the doctor’s spare room. John had left to see if a hotel room was available until they could make other arrangements.

  Amanda was working on a second cup of water when Mr. Rennick’s voice drifted through the door. She set the half-empty cup on her desk. Who was he talking to? Had her deputy arrested someone in her absence?

  Dreading having to explain Rennick’s missing horse, she walked to the door dividing the office from the cellblock. Scooter had already released the drunk, so the other cells were empty. Rennick’s back was toward her, his low baritone voice directed out the window.

  “Who are you talking to?” she rasped. It better not be someone planning to help him escape.

  He turned, his gaze dropping to her bandaged hands. “What happened to you?”

  She closed the distance between them so as not to strain her voice. “Never mind that. Who are you talking to?”

  “I was talkin’ to Kill…eh…Spirit.”

  Her mouth dropped. “Spirit is here?”

  “Spirit always finds me. Eventually.” He slanted a gaze at her hands. “I’d hate to see the other guy.”

  “Very funny,” she said, and then she told him what had happened.

  Concern filled his eyes, and it was all she could do keep from bursting into tears. Grace and charm. Grace and charm. Grace and charm. Miss Brackett insisted that those two little words would get a woman through every difficult or awkward situation. Unfortunately, her chant was better suited for withstanding censure than kindness.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked.

  She struggled to speak around the lump in her throat. “Yes, thank God.”

  She felt oddly self-conscious beneath his steady gaze. What a sight she must look. Somehow, her hair had fallen from its usual tight bun to trail down her back in a tangled mass of waves.

  Seldom did she pay more than the obligatory attention to her appearance, except for when attending suffragist conventions and giving speeches. It irritated her that he always made her aware of how she looked. Or how she wished she looked.

  “You should go home and get some rest,” he said, and she caught a note of sympathy in his voice.

  She groaned inwardly. That’s all she needed: a suspected killer feeling sorry for her. “I can’t. Not till Deputy Hobson returns. Do you know where he went?”

  “When Spirit showed up, I got worried and sent your deputy out to search for you.”

  She blinked. “You sent my deputy—”

  He shrugged. “Someone’s gotta look after you.”

  Something softened in her chest for as long as it took to remember that his so-called concern was all part of his plan to con her into believing him innocent. Even if he was sincere—which he wasn’t—an independent woman didn’t need a man taking care of her. Certainly, Amanda didn’t need him. The very idea went against everything she believed in.

  “I can take care of myself,” she said in a rough voice that had little to do with her sore throat.

  “If that’s true, then I reckon you plan on goin’ home and restin’ that throat.” When she hesitated, he added, “I’ll hold down the fort.”

  The idea of her prisoner taking over in her absence made her laugh, and she forgot her irritation with him. “All right, but not till I take care of Spirit. A horse smart enough to locate its owner might be smart enough to help him escape.”

  She turned to leave, very much aware that Mr. Rennick’s gaze followed her up the steps and into the office. Grace and charm. Grace and charm. Grace and charm…

  * * *

  Amanda hardly slept that night. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the burning cabin and relived every horrifying moment. The memory of her own failed efforts to save Mary-Louise and the baby haunted her.

  As sheriff, her job was to protect citizens, and she had failed her first test. Or would have had John not shown up in time.

  The thought was still on her mind two days later when she met Mary-Louise for an early breakfast in the hotel dining room.

  Before taking a seat opposite her friend, she peered into the wicker baby carriage. “He’s beautiful,” Amanda said. He had his mother’s reddish-brown hair and the cutest button nose imaginable. “Have you come up with a name yet?”

  “We named him Randall after John’s brother.” Randall had died two years earlier of consumption. John had taken his brother’s death hard. “We’re calling him Randy for short.”

  Amanda sat. “That’s a fine name.”

  Mary-Louise had dark shadows under her eyes and seemed distracted. She hardly touched her breakfast. No doubt, more than the fire was on her mind. It was common knowledge that John’s shoemaking business had been struggling in recent years. Mail-order catalogs were booming, and ready-made shoes from back east could be purchased cheaper than John could make them. The fire couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  Mary-Louise didn’t want to talk about the fire, but she did mention that John had gone to the house that morning to see if anything could be salvaged. Their livestock was being taken care of by other farmers in the area who offered to help.

  After leaving the hotel, Amanda rode out to the Freeman homestead. Sifting through ashes was never a pleasant experience, and John could probably use a friend.

  John greeted her with a terse nod. In his hand was a stick that he used to poke through the ashes. His eyes were black as coal and his mouth set in a grim line.

  “Find anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He threw the stick down. “Yeah, so am I.”

  He started to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. They’d been friends for a good many years, long before he married Mary-Louise. He liked to play practical jokes and make people laugh. That was up until two years ago when his business began to fail. That’s when the laughter stopped. Mary-Louise insisted everything was fine. He just has a lot on his mind. Amanda felt there was something she wasn’t saying and worried that perhaps their marriage was in trouble.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked. Her throat felt better, but her voice was still slightly hoarse.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. There’s nothing anyone can do.” He turned abruptly and walked away. Head low, shoulders rounded, he looked like he carried the world on his back, and her heart went out to him.

  After he left, she rounded the perimeter of the foundation. Stopping by the area that was once the kitchen, she thrust the toe of her boot through the ashes. A black fork lay next to a charred frying pan.

  Sighing, Amanda turned to leave when something caught her eye. It looked like a corner of a banknote. She tried picking it up with her bandaged hand, but it crumbled at her touch.

  Moments later, she sat astride Spirit and took one last look at the cast iron stove rising from the ashes like an angry fist. Dark clouds sailed across the sky.
For some odd reason, a sense of foreboding washed over her, sending shivers down her spine.

  * * *

  Upon returning to town, Amanda found a group of agitated cattle ranchers waiting in her office. The sight made her groan. Now what?

  “How can I help you?” she asked, taking her place behind her desk and hiding her bandaged hands on her lap.

  Everyone started talking at once.

  “Quiet!” yelled the man known as Tee Pee, short for Tall Tale Pete. “We’re lookin’ for the sheriff.”

  “I am the sheriff.”

  Tee Pee pushed his hat back and regarded her with black button eyes. “When I heard ’bout a lady sheriff, I thought it was a joke.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s no joke.”

  Tee Pee’s eyebrows met in a frown. “It seems like we got more troubles than we knew.”

  Ignoring his comment, she said, “Suppose you tell me what brought you here.”

  “Someone’s rustlin’ our cattle,” one of the men said.

  “Hush,” Tee Pee hissed. “I’m doing the talkin’.” Palms on her desk, he leaned forward. “Someone’s rustlin’ our cattle.”

  “Yeah,” added the owner of the Double R Ranch. “They went and took a bunch of our calves.”

  That wasn’t too surprising. Many ranchers waited until the calves were weaned before branding them. That made a rustler’s job easier, as it allowed him to put whatever brand he wanted on calf hides.

  “Any idea who the rustlers might be?” she asked.

  Tee Pee straightened. “If we knew that, we wouldn’t be here. We’d be stretchin’ their necks from the tallest cottonwood.”

  “Okay, I’ll check into it,” she said.

  Tee Pee glared at her. “Yeah, well, you do that.” He turned to the others. “Come on, men. We’re on our own.”

  Heart sinking, Amanda watched the ranchers stomp out of her office. She didn’t have the first idea how to track down cattle rustlers, and even if she did, she didn’t have the time. Not with the stack of criminal complaints already piled up on her desk.