by Vivi Holt
Belle didn’t reply for a moment, just arched an eyebrow and settled back in her seat to stare out the window. “Think you’ll go through with it?” she finally asked.
“Go through with what?”
“Marryin’ the man!” she exclaimed, as if indignant at the very idea of doing something she hadn’t set her mind to.
“Well, of course. I mean, I hadn’t thought about it. Father said I should … I suppose I must.”
“Good grief, girl, if you don’t wanna do it, ain’t no one can make you. You’re free, same as Pip and I here are. We weren’t always, but we are now and don’t we know it!” Belle slapped her thigh as she spoke, her eyes flashing. “You always been free, though it don’t seem to me like you understand it. You always do what you’re told?”
Pearl grimaced and nodded.
Belle laughed, a hearty chuckle that filled the coach. “Well, now’s good a time as any to find your own way, make your own choices. You could be buffaloed into marryin’ a man you don’t want and raisin’ his children. Or you could decide to have an adventure.”
“What … kind of adventure?” Pearl asked, her eyebrows pulled low.
Belle leaned closer and whispered, “Any kind you like.”
There was a shout from the driver and the stagecoach swayed dangerously to the right, then the left. It stopped suddenly and flung Pearl at the feet of the man opposite her, her face almost in his lap. He’d been snoozing as they rode and his eyes flew open in alarm, focusing on her upturned face. She gasped and struggled to her feet. “So sorry, Mr. Gunderson.”
He nodded and straightened his vest. “Never mind, Miss Stout. Never mind.”
Before he could say more, there was another cry from outside. Pearl and Mr. Gunderson looked out the window – and her breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Some thing was there – it looked almost like a horse, but bigger and deformed. Dust swirled around it as it galloped by the coach. And a headless rider clung to its misshapen back!
The coach horses reared up on their hind legs, whinnying across the desert landscape. Belle screamed as Pearl was hurled back into her seat, her head thudding hard against the frame of the coach. She clutched her head even as the wagon toppled onto its side and she and Belle crashed onto Pip with cries of terror. Mr. Gunderson managed to get on his feet and help pull Pip free.
Between gasps, Pip’s voice sounded strangled. “What de debbil was that? Mr. Gunderson, Miss Stout, what you see?”
The noise of the horses trying to regain their footing, clawing and neighing in fright, turned Pearl’s stomach. “I don’t know,” she said with a glance at Mr. Gunderson’s pale face. “Some strange beast.”
Mr. Gunderson swallowed hard. “With a rider on its back.”
Pip looked from him to Pearl and back again. “What kinda rider?” he demanded.
Pearl shivered. “A headless one.”
Chapter 2
Hilton Pullman pushed the wayward pencil into line. Now all three pencils were lined up perpendicular to the top of his desk. He sighed in satisfaction and ran his fingers over his mustache, twirling the ends between his fingertips.
This was his favorite part of each day – setting his desk to rights before he left work. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his job at the Tucson Gazette. It was just that being a reporter was a messy kind of undertaking. All day long, things were pushed out of place and left out of order, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end just thinking about it. But at the end of each day, he could set everything right and all felt well with the world again.
He straightened a pile of papers with notes on his latest story, then thought better of it, picked them up and slipped them into the empty middle drawer. That made all the difference. Now the top of the desk was empty, save the three pencils.
His mustache twitched. Preferable to clear it completely, really. He opened the top drawer, brushed the pencils into it with one swipe and closed it with a long sigh. Much better. He wiped a hand across the desk to whisk away any residual dust or pencil shavings, pushing what he found into the open palm of his other hand and dropping the remnants in the trash can beside the desk. Perfect. He stood and tucked his chair neatly in place beneath the desk.
His gaze wandered over the rest of the newsroom. Piles of papers balanced precariously on the tops of dusty, food-encrusted desktops. Trash cans were piled high with lunch scraps and crumpled pieces of paper. He closed his eyes tight for a moment, then let himself take one final look at his own clean desk to calm his thoughts. Ahhh …
He picked up his briefcase, tucked it neatly beneath his arm and hurried from the room before the cleaning mania overtook him. He’d tried that before, cleaning up after his colleagues – and they did not appreciate his efforts the way he thought they would.
His hat hung on a peg beside the exit, and he grabbed it and put it on his neatly combed, middle-parted hair, being careful not to muss it too much. The staircase leading outside was narrow and the hallway dim as the afternoon sunlight filtered through the false storefronts opposite the newsroom, casting long shadows across the dusty street. Stepping outside, he adjusted his spectacles as the light blinded him for a moment.
“Afternoon, brother.”
The voice startled him and Hilton stumbled, one hand out. Twisting his neck, he searched for the speaker and found a cowboy leaning against the siding, one boot up against it, his hat drawn low over his eyes. “Hank?”
The cowboy chuckled and stepped forward, tipping his hat back to reveal blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Miss me?” He pulled Hilton into a firm embrace and thumped his brother on the back, making him cough.
“Hank, what are you doing here?”
Hank’s mouth twisted. “So you’re sayin’ you didn’t miss me?”
Hilton’s cheeks burned. “Of course I missed you – you’re my brother. But what are you doing here? You didn’t gamble all your money away … again?”
“Thought I’d come home and see you. Been awhile.”
“Six months,” clarified Hilton, nervously tugging the ends of his mustache.
“Like I said, been awhile. And no, I ain’t gambled it all away – not this time, anyhow.” He grinned, his eyes twinkling the way they always did when he was poking fun at his little brother.
“So that’s the only reason you’re back, to see me?” Hilton strode toward home with his head angled at the ground in front of him.
Hank fell into step beside him. “Course it is. Ain’t that reason enough? Why else would I come back?”
Hilton stopped and faced his brother, studying him intently for any sign of the real reason for Hank’s sudden reappearance. “No, I suppose you’re right. There wouldn’t be any other reason … unless you heard something.”
Hank’s eyebrows shot up. “Heard what?”
“Oh, nothing. Never mind.” Hilton spun on his heel and continued down the street. He hopped over a pothole filled with muddy water and went around a steaming pile of horse manure, being careful to keep the tips of his black preacher boots clean. He’d had them shipped all the way from Atlanta and didn’t intend for them to become covered in refuse the first week.
He stopped at a doorway in an alley beside a mercantile store, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and paused to study his brother. Hank being here usually meant one thing – trouble. And he didn’t need trouble at this particular juncture in his life – even more than at most times. Today was a big day for him, a life-changing day. The last person he wanted there to witness it was his big brother, Hank “the Pistol” Pullman, fastest draw – and temper – in four counties. He sighed. “Well, come on in, then.”
Hank grinned and pushed past him through the door and up the whitewashed staircase. Hilton followed with another sigh. He was diligent in keeping the stairs clean and well-maintained. Mr. Peretti, his landlord and the owner of the mercantile below, was a good man, but things like the regular sweeping of a staircase seemed to
escape his attention. Still, Hilton didn’t mind doing it. Tidying things was a way to calm his thoughts.
Hank stopped at Hilton’s door. He knew which one belonged to his brother, having been there before. Hilton had lived there three years, ever since coming to the Gazette from the Atlanta Chronicle. But wherever he went, Hank always found him, and seemed to treat his lodgings as home – the kind of home he’d never built for himself. “Who lives in the other one?” he asked, leaning against the wall again.
Hilton frowned. No doubt his brother’s soiled clothing would leave a stain on the wallpaper. He’d have to wipe it clean later when Hank wasn’t watching. His brother always teased him about his cleanliness, even when they were boys. “No one at the moment. Mrs. Coventry did live there, but she died a few weeks ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Hank’s eyes narrowed.
“She’d lived a good life.”
“Maybe I’ll take it.”
“It’s taken,” Hilton added quickly. “I mean, someone’s already claimed it.”
“That so? I’m sure I could have a word with Mr. Peretti. He likes me well enough, if I remember rightly.”
“No!”
Hank tilted his head to one side. “No?”
Hilton bit his lower lip and opened his own door with a push. “It … wouldn’t be right.” He stepped inside, set his briefcase down on the hall table, then hurried into the bedroom to wash up. He couldn’t think straight with his brother around. He had things to ponder and his mind needed space to do it. He’d anticipated coming home to a quiet, empty apartment, so he could sit in his favorite chair and do just that. But things weren’t going quite according to plan. He needed time, space – but Hank never gave him those, nor seemed to understand the concepts.
Hank followed Hilton into the bedroom. “What’s goin’ on, brother? You’re nervy as a mare in heat.” He took off his hat and tossed it onto Hilton’s neatly-made single bed.
Hilton’s heart rate accelerated at the nerve of the intrusion. He rubbed a wet washcloth over his burning face, wiping it slowly dry with a towel. He might as well tell his brother the truth. There was no point in keeping it to himself now, not after everything that had happened. He hung the towel back on the rack, tugging it until the ends matched in length. “The reason I don’t want you to speak to Mr. Peretti about the place across the hall is that he’s promised it to me.”
“What? You need two places now?” Hank chuckled and crossed his arms over his thick chest.
Hilton felt his stomach turn over. His brother always upset him, made his stomach roil and his armpits sweat. “I do. Because I’m getting married.”
Hank’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You’re what?”
“I’m getting married. I know you thought I never would, but lately I’ve begun to realize what I’m missing out on. I want a family. I know that’s not something you care about, but I do. I want a family and I want it before it’s too late and I’m too old. I’ve saved my money over the years, enough to build us a small cottage on the outskirts of town someday. But in the meantime, until we marry, she can stay in the room across the hall.”
Hank grinned. “Well now, congratulations! I’m happy for you, little brother. So when do I meet her? And does she have a name?”
Hilton closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath. “Her name is Pearl Stout, and I suppose you’ll meet her when I do – later today.”
* * *
Hank watched Hilton stride from the bedroom out to the kitchen. He stood still a moment, digesting the information his little brother had just told him. Married! That was nothing short of a miracle, something he’d never thought he’d see. He’d always imagined marriage was too messy a venture for his brother.
And he was marrying a woman he’d never met – how could that be? His brother planned everything down to the last detail, never went into anything without knowing all about it. He hated surprises so much that when they were small, he made Hank search out every Christmas gift in the house to tell him what he was getting ahead of time. He was marrying a stranger?
He followed Hilton into the kitchen and stood watching his brother light the stove, then set a full pot of coffee on top. He could see the sun had begun to set, and felt the cooler evening air filter through the apartment’s open windows. “So when does she arrive?”
Hilton’s nostrils flared and he set his hands on his narrow hips. “Actually, she should already be here. The stage was due to arrive hours ago. I’ve been waiting to hear it – it always passes by the newspaper, since the station is just around the corner. I hear it every week at the same time. But not today. So I don’t know where she is or when she’ll get here, or what happened that she hasn’t. The train tracks are being repaired just outside of town, so she had to take the stage…and now its been held up somewhere. I’m sure it’s fine…” He rubbed his hands over his eyes.
For the first time Hank noticed the worry lingering there. He never saw his brother worried. Anxious, yes; nervous, always; but not worried. Worried implied he was thinking of someone else, not just his own comfort.
He sighed – he wasn’t being entirely fair to Hilton. He’d always been a kind boy and had grown into a considerate man, helpful, thoughtful. But in all that time, he’d never seen his brother concerned over another’s welfare. Though maybe he hadn’t seen it because he’d had enough trouble keeping himself out of harm’s way. “Did you check …?”
“Of course I did,” Hilton interrupted. “I stopped by the Hillside Express offices an hour ago. They didn’t know where the stage was, and it should have come already. They didn’t seem concerned, though.” He checked the coffee pot, though it hadn’t had time to warm.
Hank pursed his lips. “Could be they came across some trouble.”
“Anywhere between Albuquerque and here. Hundreds of miles of road. I wouldn’t know where to start …”
Hank went back to the bedroom, retrieved his hat from the bed and headed for the front door. He stopped and glanced back over his shoulder at his younger brother’s pale face. “Don’t worry, Hilton. I’ll find her for you.” He ran down the stairs and out into the twilight.
He hurried down the street toward the livery by the saloon, where he’d stabled his horse earlier that day. The animal hadn’t gotten much rest, but he’d be ready to go. An Arabian stock horse mix, Pax never let him down. He kept his head low, knowing that people in this town recognized him and loved to stop and chew the fat. He didn’t have the time or desire to catch up with anyone for the moment.
All Hank could think about was his brother’s bride-to-be stranded out on the road somewhere. He’d passed enough hours on the road to know that it was never a good place to spend the night.
* * *
Pearl watched Al Gunderson sigh again and hike his satchel over his shoulder. He stumbled forward, stretching out his hand as though to catch himself. But there was nothing to catch himself on, not in the middle of a dirt road somewhere in the southern Arizona Territory.
They’d been walking for hours. The driver had told them they were close to Tucson when they stopped for lunch, so surely it couldn’t be much further. But now the sun had dipped beyond the far horizon and only trailing golden shafts illuminated the darkening sky. Before much longer they’d be thrust into darkness, and with clouds skidding across the wide open sky overhead, she knew they wouldn’t have stars or moonlight to see by.
The poor driver. Sam had been crushed beneath the stagecoach when it turned over. After she’d thrown her lunch up on the side of the road, she helped to cover him with one of the picnic rugs packed in the back of the vehicle. Her throat ached as she thought about the last time she’d seen him, smiling as they pulled out of the clearing after lunch. He’d seemed so happy, so jovial. It was hard to believe he was gone, just like that.
She wondered for a moment what kind of wildlife lived out here. Did they have bears? Cougars? What about coyotes? She thought she remembered talk of coyotes in the West – l
ike wild dogs, only bolder and more aggressive. She shuddered and pulled her shawl tighter around her blue damask gown. The bottom of the gown dragged in the dirt, and she could see that already it was soiled several inches above the hemline. She sighed and tried to hold it up, but it was no use – she couldn’t do that and carry her carpetbag and reticule as well.
“You doin’ all right there?” asked Belle, coming up beside her. Belle only had a small shoulder bag to carry, and she looked as though she could lug it all the way back to Richmond and not grow weary.
“Yes,” Pearl puffed, pulling the strap of the bag up on her shoulder. “Just fine and dandy, thanks for asking. I couldn’t have imagined a better way to spend my day.” She knew she shouldn’t snap at Belle – it wasn’t her fault this was happening. But she was angry – angry at her parents for putting her in this situation, angry with herself for going along with it. Belle was right, she shouldn’t have done what her parents asked. She could have run away, chosen her own path.
Even as the thought flitted through her mind, it was chased by another – how could she have survived on her own? She had no way to make money, no one to care for her. She’d done the best she could. She’d done what she knew to do – obey her parents.
“Sorry,” Belle mumbled, dropping back.
“No, please. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I’m just angry, and I had no right to take it out on you. We’re in this together, aren’t we?” She reached for Belle’s hand with her free one and squeezed it.
Belle smiled. “Guess we are.” They continued walking.
Pearl watched the last remnants of sunlight vanish. Darkness descended and the sounds of night creatures calling and rustling in the scrub and grasses along the road grew louder. She shivered. “So how did you get your name, Belle? It’s so pretty.”
Belle shrugged, her brow furrowed. “Well, the master Mr. Brown, he said the Missus named me on account of the way I cried every time they rang the dinner bell when I was little. I couldn’t ask her, since she died in childbirth when I was but a youngster.”
