The Gamble

by Karen Sommers

  “Excuse me,” Margrett said, still standing just inside the door, feeling more and more lost by the minute. This whole situation was just so…overwhelming. “That gentleman who just walked in here, who is he?”

  “You mean Floyd? He’s the owner.”

  “Owner?” Of all the things he could have said, Margrett would never have guessed this particular possibility. It took her a moment to absorb that piece of information. What reason would a man of means have to steal, particularly women’s clothing? “May I… I would like to speak to him, right away, please.”

  The barkeep looked at her. His eyes traveled from the floor to her face and back again. Margrett never felt like such an… object before.

  “Well….” The barman said in a long drawl… “I suppose you’ll do nicely.” He sounded almost disappointed.

  “Oh, no, oh dear… no… I’m not…” She sputtered, but she did it to the man’s back. He’d already left, presumably looking for “Floyd.”

  Margrett turned and would have bolted that very moment, but a new voice behind her stopped her momentum, bringing up the anger she felt about being robbed, and she had to steel herself.

  “New girl, is it?” the voice said. “Needing a room? The house takes half, plus rent, plus food.” He surveyed her like the barman had when she turned, but there was no recognition in his eyes.

  “Mr….” Margrett realized she hadn’t been told his last name. “Sir! I believe you are in possession of a certain trunk that belongs to me. I would like the return of it.”

  Floyd stared at her as though she’d grown another head. For a moment she wondered if she’d chanced upon the wrong individual after all, but he moved toward her then, and she caught a whiff of his…odor. Oh yes, this was most certainly the same man.

  Margrett took a small step backward as Floy turned to the barkeep and asked, “What is she talking about?” with such bewilderment, that it occurred to her he actually didn’t recognize her in the least.The barman just shrugged and continued his monotonous wiping.

  “Sir, yesterday, at the train station, you called yourself Mr. Jackson and one Mr. Harmen asked you to mind a large steamer trunk for me. I would have its return now, please.”

  “Lady,” Floyd began walking toward her, his bulk looming over her. “I got no need for a bunch of frippery and lace.”

  “I’ll take it!” a woman called leaning over the upstairs railing.

  “YOU SHUT UP ANGEL!” Floyd yelled without ever breaking eye contact with Margrett. “I don’t know what the hell you’re blathering about, I don’t know a Harmen, don’t know about a damn steamer trunk, and I sure as hell don’t know you!”

  Each word brought him a step closer. By the time he was done, his rather large frame was pressed against Margrett, and she could smell the trace of rotted teeth on his foul breath. She stood her ground, but her knees had begun to shake. The door was at her back. She only had to turn and run.

  Run? I want my trunk back.

  “Mr. Jackson.” She tried the only name she knew for him. “It’s a simple steamer trunk, of no value to anyone but myself. I wish to have it back again. That’s all.”

  “Then maybe you better file a claim with the railroad, lady, ‘cause you won’t find it here! Now get out or….” He smiled at her. It was the same smile cats have when seeing a grounded bird. “… or pick a room and start getting to work.”

  Margrett blanched. That was twice now in as many days she’d been accused of harlotry. Truly this was a savage and indecent place.

  There was nothing for it. She turned and walked out. It was a testament to her self-control that she neither bolted nor left weeping, but it was a close thing on both counts.

  She made it across the street, still able to hear the derisive calls of the man and a few of his ladies following her. She grabbed a post for strength, under the overhead awning of a shop and concentrated on breathing, nothing more, just breathing.

  “Very well,” she said to the post. “we’ll just see what the law says about all of this.”

  She stalked back to the sheriff’s office, wasting no time in storming in. He had his feet up on the desk and was smoking a large cigar. The crumpled remains of his newspaper still littered the floor. “What did they take now, Miss?” he asked her in a voice that could not have sounded less interested.

  “I found you someone to ‘shoot at,’ as you so eloquently said.” Margrett sniffed.

  “You found your man so soon?” He smiled as the smoke encircled his head. “I should use you instead of bloodhounds when I go tracking.” He looked at her and blinked. “Though I think you wouldn’t much care for the collar and leash…” He thought himself hilarious and nearly lost his tenuous balance while laughing.

  “Sheriff,” Margrett seethed, thinking that if she weren’t a lady, she’d kick that dratted chair right out from under him. “A theft has occurred, I found the man, what else do you expect from an ordinary citizen? Are you or are you not the representative of law and order in this place?”

  He was waving her off before she’d finished. “Alright, alright. You want to get a lot of people riled up for nothing but a few dresses, that’s fine.” He dropped his feet and stood, but the cigar stayed firmly in place.

  “Well,” he sighed, “might as well lead the way.”

  Margrett turned and once more made the trek to The Pines. Her confidence bolstered by the sheriff, she pushed through the doors and found Floyd sitting at a table, going over a sheaf of papers. He looked so like a businessman she began to doubt herself.

  “That’s the man,” she said, pointing with more confidence than she felt.

  The sheriff sighed heavily and walked over to Mr. Jackson.

  “Hey Floyd,” he said, tipping his hat to the man.

  “Hello, Leroy. We’re still closed, you know. But what the hell…” He turned to the barman, “George, bring a shot for my cousin, will ya?”

  Margrett realized that, though he hadn’t looked at her, all of that was for her benefit. With a sinking feeling, she knew then how this was going to end.

  “Young lady here says you’ve got something of hers, Floyd… is that true?”

  “She come in here a few minutes ago saying I had her dresses,” Floyd returned his attention to his paperwork. “Pretty sure they wouldn’t fit me right no how…”

  The Sherriff guffawed and nearly choked on the cigar smoke. It took downing the shot before he could speak.

  “Well,” he finally said, “not like there’s a lot of room to make up for upstairs.” He clouted Floyd’s shoulder.

  “Hey Leroy,” Floyd said coolly, “have a little respect for the lady.”

  “That’ll be the day!” a woman called from the upstairs. “

  “SHUT UP ANGEL!” both men yelled in chorus.

  “Tell me, cousin,” Floyd said off-handedly, giving Margrett a look that would have curdled milk, had there been such an innocent beverage in the establishment. “Don’t you arrest vagrants?”

  The sheriff turned to her speculatively.

  Margrett felt her face grow hot. Chin up, she turned and walked out, once more to the sounds of laughter and ribald comments. Maybe she was fighting tears, but she was also madder than she’d ever been. And that included the time Tommy Marks stole a kiss back when they were both eight. She’d punched him for it. Right in the nose.

  I wonder what would happen if I punched a certain sheriff right in the nose.

  It was a comforting thought and entertained her all the way to the end of the street.

  Chapter 10

  The flush in Margarett’s cheeks was enough to set her hair on fire. She was humiliated and angry. The idea that she would have no assistance from the law settled into her stomach like lead.

  The problem with stalking off like that was that it was easy to get lost. She’d stalked past several storefronts, and a part of her mind not preoccupied with her mistreatment at the hands of the men noticed that she was being stared at. She’d somewhat gotten used
to the stares of men. They were open, lustful. But the angry stares of women was a new experience for her. She’d always gotten along well with members of her own sex.

  Yet, the looks here were hostile, calculating and cold.

  Did a blasted hat make that much of a difference?

  She fought the urge to put a hand up to her head. There was nothing disrespectful in a neat braid. This far from polite society a bonnet shouldn’t matter at all. In fact, not every woman she passed wore a hat. There were one or two who had been downright bareheaded, just like her.

  Nothing was making any kind of sense, and it ate at her. She stopped at the end of a street, where the sidewalk simply ended in dirt and scattered pine needles.

  She had no recourse, nowhere to turn. She thought a moment about a US Marshal or someone with authority over a local sheriff, but US Marshals, do not, by and large, drop everything and travel hundreds of miles to retrieve a lady’s steamer trunk. As far as the money, that was well and gone. Any mention of it simply lead her listener to gales of laughter at her stupidity.

  “Perhaps we can all agree that I am an idiot,” she told the pine trees that whispered to each other, unconcerned for her fate, “and get it over with? One good belly laugh at my expense and then perhaps we can get it out of our system and begin to address the issue?”

  The trees simply continued their empty whispers and ignored her.

  It was noon, Margrett could tell because the bells of a nearby church began to sound. It was a bright sound, lovely and clear. There was a church near her home in Boston whose bells would ring on the hour, a crisp melody of praise and joy.

  Margrett thought for a moment discovering that while she hadn’t spent a lot of time in churches in recent years, she wouldn’t mind a bit of prayer for her fate. If there were anyone in a town of this size who might know how to get around the status quo, it would be the reverend. She turned and strode briskly toward the spire that marked the church grounds, reaching the door as the last crisp chime echoed through its wooden heights.

  She pulled the door and found it open. It was a pleasant surprise to find the door unlocked; it hinted at the possibility that someone might actually be about to render her assistance. Then again, it wouldn’t be unlikely for the church to be left unlocked as a matter of course.

  Opting for the more hopeful possibility, she walked in. She’d had too many things go wrong in the last two days to assume anything at this point. For all she knew, the roof would cave in as she stood under it.

  But the ceiling stayed intact, and as she stepped into the sanctuary, she was struck by the simplicity of it. Most communities lavished money on their place of worship, creating a group identity in the style and beauty of the place they shared. Here, the church was plain, clean, but simple and unassuming. There was only one stained glass window, over the altar, the rest offered plain views of the pine forest outside and several houses in the near distance.

  The pews ran in two columns, leaving an aisle between them, with narrower aisles down the sides of the building. In front of the nave, instead of a large pulpit, there was a lectern, simple and basic. With due reverence, Margrett walked through the middle of the pews and approached the nave.

  “May I be of assistance?” a voice called to her as she approached. She turned and looked around without seeing anyone. A shadow detached itself from the darkness behind the lectern, and a middle-aged man rose to meet her.

  He was wearing overalls and what might have been an undershirt and was covered in soot.

  “I…” Margrett started and stopped just as quickly, what was it she had come in here for? Revenge? A miracle? God’s wrath? “I was hoping to see the priest…” she finished lamely.

  “Sorry,” he said with a charming smile, “this isn’t a Catholic church, I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for a pastor.” He looked down at himself and chuckled, “and despite all appearance to the contrary, I am Pastor Michael Humphries. Forgive my appearance.” He gestured to the stained and dirty clothing. “I was attempting to clean out the flue. The days will be getting colder soon, and I was hoping to clean and clear the stove before calling it into service.”

  Margrett stopped herself in mid curtsy. “I…see….It’s just…” the door opened, and a middle-aged woman carrying a basket over one arm walked in. The basket was heavily laden, with various packages neatly wrapped, though the woman carried it effortlessly, as though she were accustomed to such physical tasks. She was a lean and angular personage, with high cheekbones and snapping eyes. Her black hair was neatly covered by a bonnet with such an ostentatious feather that it was a wonder her head didn’t bend under the sheer weight of it. The woman stopped dead in the center and stared at Margrett, her gaze going straight to Margrett’s bare head with such a look that Margrett felt naked in front of her.

  “Ah, may I introduce my wife, Amelia,” the pastor said, rising with a genuine smile of welcome, even if he looked a little confused as to what would bring his wife into the church with her market basket.

  “Michael, I need to speak to you.” The woman said without acknowledging Margrett in the least.

  She did, on the other hand, manage to flick a gaze in Margrett’s direction which would have been the same had she just seen a rat and been told it was a new family pet

  “Please excuse me a moment,” the pastor said and hurried over to his wife, with a frown that grew deeper by the minute as a heated argument ensued. Margrett stood uneasily between the pews, spending that time trying to remember where she had seen this woman before, so familiar was her face.

  And that frown.

  It occurred to her in a rush that when she’d left Mr. Baker’s house this morning, two women had witnessed her departure, and this woman in her much-washed green dress was one of them.

  Margrett closed her eyes and counted to ten. By the time she opened them again, the pastor was turning toward her, but his expression had become closed off and hard.

  “What is it God’s house can do for you?” he asked archly.

  “Sir, I have been the victim of a most heinous crime. I have been robbed!” It was senseless to plead like this, but she’d already lost any kind of assistance from the governing authorities. To lose the support of the moral backbone of the community as well was downright…well it just wouldn’t be fair, now would it?

  “Then that is a matter for the sheriff,” the pastor said, “or is there a reason you do not wish the law involved?”

  She took a deep breath, trying not to clench her jaw, as she knew such an action would hardly win back his support. Not that she was going to. The pastor’s wife was standing off to the side, arms crossed, basket clutched against her stomach with so much smug self-righteousness it was a wonder that God didn’t smite her then and there for trying to take over his job.

  “I did ‘involve’ the law, Sir, but it turns out that there was a connection between him and the fellow that robbed me. It appears they are cousins.”

  The Pastor leaned back, his face even less welcoming than before. “The only ‘cousin’ our sheriff has owns a house of immorality and hedonism,” he said, taking on all the tone of a Sunday sermon and reminding her why she didn’t attend services anymore. “And the girls associated with him are base and despotic creatures of no morality. Would you care to explain to me how you are associated with such a man?”

  “Sir,” Margrett said sharply, “I am a victim. I arrived at this town yesterday and under the influence of a man calling himself ‘Harmen,’ I was swindled out of a great deal of money. My bags, such as they were, were left at the station under the care of this ‘Floyd’ person.

  “Mr. Harmen cheated me, sir, he cheated me out of a great deal of money by selling me a house he did not own. When I went to retrieve my bags, they were gone as well.”

  “My dear girl,” the pastor began sternly, Margrett could see his wife stiffen in disapproval at the marginally gentle tone that crept into his words. “You were seen exiting the home of Mr. Baker this morni
ng, a known man of ill-repute, and seen twice entering The Pines, a house of low morals. I do not know what game you are playing, but if you expect me to believe you are fool enough to buy a house for cash without careful investigation and planning, that I will not believe.

  “What I do believe is that you are either a former employee, or perhaps you desire to be a former employee of The Pines and that you have struck out on your own, incurring the wrath of that establishment. I don’t know what you expect from God’s house in this matter, but I can assure you, you’ve come to the wrong place and that your kind will find neither welcome nor reprieve.”

  He drew himself up with all holiness and condescension.

  “This is a holy place, my dear woman, I ask that you no longer profane it with your presence!” With that, he pointed to the door.

  “I am NOT….” She couldn’t even find the words she was so mad. She could only sputter with indignation as the pastor’s wife’s face pinched together harder than ever before. “You slander me sir!” she shot at him.

  “That may or may not be,” he was now using a voice of a professional orator. “But you WILL leave this place, and now!”

  Margrett simply stared at him. She was in shock. This couldn’t be happening. The pastor finally stepped in her direction, taking her arm in his grip with an expression of distaste and squeezing hard, leading her to the door.

  He opened it and nearly flung her out of the door, but did not release her. She staggered against him on the doorstep. The pastor whispered roughly against her ear, “I’ll be in The Pines day after tomorrow for a poker game,” he said looking over his shoulder nervously. “if you have a room by then, come get me. I’d like to give you a different blessing.” With that, he smiled, winked, and closed the door in her face.

  Margrett stared at the closed door for a long time, feeling such a raw mixture of rage, humiliation, and despair that finally all she could do was walk numbly across the empty lawns and through the graveyard until she found a bench were she could collapse and cry.