by Beverly Long
But that would be too late.
Averil patted her father’s hand. “You know, it has to be Bella or me. I’m the oldest. I’ll go.”
Bella looked at her sister. “You can’t go. You had your appendix removed three days ago. The trip would be too hard on you. It’ll have to be me.”
Averil got slowly to her feet. “No. I . . . ”
Bella held up her hand, stopping her sister’s protest. She looked at her father. “I know you both think I’m unreliable, maybe even a little careless. But I can do this. I know I can.”
Her father looked at Averil, who had sat back down on the couch. She stared off into space, worrying the corner of her lower lip. Finally she looked at Bella. “I think Bella’s right,” she said. “We need to trust her.”
Bella looked at her father’s hands. They were clenched so tightly that the skin around his fingertips was turning white. “You know,” he said, his tone a combination of challenge mixed with a little misery, “you won’t have any magic.”
She understood. Being half-mortal was a real drawback at times. Her father’s magic could get her there and back but in-between, she’d be left without her usual bag of tricks. “Averil’s been on me to cut back anyway,” she said. She tossed her hair and smiled brightly at her father and sister.
Neither one of them smiled in return. Her father reached for her hand. “You know what needs to happen? Bad Magic died that night. It won’t be enough to simply prevent Toomay from going up those stairs. You know that, don’t you?”
There were beads of sweat running down her father’s face. Bella understood why. Her father had stopped the Bad Magic, had saved others from it. To let Rantaan Toomay live beyond that night, to give him a chance to spread his Bad Magic, to have it potentially overcome the Good Magic, could have dire consequences. The world, as people had known it for more than a hundred years, and people would know it for all the years to come, would be very different.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She was going to have to kill a man.
No. Not a man. Bad Magic. She licked her lips. “I know, Daddy,” she said.
“What about your job?” Averil asked.
Bella felt a sharp pang in the middle of her chest. It was silly to give it a thought given the task she had before her, but just yesterday, her boss had told her that the windows looked the best they’d ever looked. “All the displays are done until after the holidays. It’ll be fine,” she said, hoping her boss agreed.
“Are you sure you can do this?” her father asked, his voice sounding tired. It seemed liked he’d aged five years.
“I am,” she said. “Toomay and his Bad Magic won’t know what hit him.”
Again, her father looked at Averil. She nodded.
“Okay,” he said, looking back at Bella. “Let’s figure out a plan.”
“Great,” Bella said. “In the meantime, I’m starving.” With a deliberate look in Averil’s direction, she twitched her nose—which was so ridiculous because everybody knew a real witch didn’t need to twitch her nose—and a huge bowl of spaghetti and meatballs appeared on her kitchen table.
Averil didn’t so much as roll her eyes.
***
Jedidiah McNeil leaned back in his chair, one knee braced against his sturdy desk, and considered the man in front of him. “I am not the least bit inclined to escort Madeline Devine to Saturday’s dance,” Jed said.
“Damnit, Jed. You know I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t plum desperate. Patience won’t go with me unless there be some arrangements for her older sister.”
Jed shook his head at his deputy. Madeline Devine had been trying to get Jed’s attention for the better part of three months. He wouldn’t put it past the woman to have prompted her sister to say yes to Bart, in hopes that he’d coerce Jed into coming along. But he couldn’t tell his deputy that. The man had been going on about Patience for the last week. “I’ll be on duty that night,” Jed said. “I can’t go. What if we have a prisoner?”
Bart pushed back his hat and made it obvious that he was looking at the empty cell at the rear of the Sheriff’s office. “We ain’t had all that much activity in Mantosa lately.”
Jed shrugged. “That’s the way I like my town. Quiet.” He leaned forward and the wheels of his chair hit the floor with a solid thud. He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket. “Afternoon stage is about due. Guess I’ll take a walk on down, make my acquaintance with the passengers.”
Bart rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Christ. I really hope there is somebody who plans to rob the bank or hold up Freida Stroganhaufer at the Mercantile.”
Jed reached for his hat which hung on a hook next to the door. He placed it on his head and pulled his coat off a second hook and slipped it on. “I’d put my money on Freida. She not only can lift a hundred pound flour sack, she can throw one a fair distance too.” He opened the door and was halfway out before Bart spoke again.
“You know there’s going to be a day when you won’t be able to protect all of us,” he said, his voice serious. “A day when somebody’s going to ride into town and none of your scowling is going to get him to ride on.”
Jed looked back at the man who’d been his deputy for going on five years and his friend for nearly thirty. They’d been barely weaned when their mommas had introduced them, or so they’d been told. “Well, hell. Then I guess I’ll just have to ask you to sing to him. That’s a sure-fire way to get a body running for the next stage.”
Jed let the door slam shut behind him. As he took long, even strides, he pulled the collar of his sheepskin coat higher, protecting his neck against the cold wind that hadn’t let up for days. Damn, it was bitter. The thermometer outside Doc Winder’s office window, which got a fair amount of afternoon sun, hadn’t registered above twenty degrees for the last week.
If it was this cold on the twenty-ninth of November, then it had the makings of a long, miserable winter. He put his bare hands in his pockets and walked another thirty feet. He heard the sounds of the approaching stage just as he had to stop abruptly to avoid running into Freida Stroganhaufer when the woman, who was tall and stout, barreled out of her store.
“Whoa,” Jed said. He grabbed for the wool hat that flew off the woman’s head, managed to catch the brim, and then he handed it back to her. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“My husband’s niece is on the stage. I don’t want her having to wait in this cold.”
Freida Stroganhaufer’s husband had been dead for more than five years. He’d died the same year Jed had taken over wearing his father’s badge when his own father had passed on. In all the years, he didn’t recall Freida ever entertaining any of her husband’s kin. He fell into step with the woman, hugging the storefronts to give her as much space as possible.
“I don’t believe I ever met any of Herbert’s family,” Jed said.
“I only saw this niece once, back in Iowa. It had to be fifteen years ago at least. She was about eight or ten then, I suppose. Truth is, I’d almost forgotten about her.” Freida pumped her arms and picked up the pace.
He sucked in a breath of cold air and it stung his lungs. For a large woman, Freida set a fast stride. “But suddenly she wants to come for a visit?” he asked.
“I’m not sure she wants to come. Her mother, Herbert’s oldest sister, is insisting. I got a telegram a couple weeks back and I could tell the poor woman was fit to be tied. You see, my niece lost her husband less than a year ago and she’s been at loose ends since then.”
Jed felt his arm tense—the one that had gotten broken during his final conversation with his father, almost six years ago. Why the hell couldn’t people just die? Why did they always have to leave some memory hanging around, hurting the folks left behind? The good memories made people want more time. The bad memories made people wish it could all have been different. In either case, the dead could rest but the mourners could not.
When they rounded the corner, Jed saw that the stage had already arrived. The driver,
who had taken over the route just a month earlier, took his time, as usual, getting off his perch. Once on the ground, he shuffled to the back, like he had all the time in the world. He pulled one case at a time out of the back.
The stage door was wide open and he could see people start to spill out. First one man, then another. They had their backs to him. It didn’t matter. He recognized the Bean brothers. Thomas and Earl were the tallest men in town. A few weeks back they’d gone east to fetch their mother.
Thomas, who’d celebrated his fiftieth birthday just a week before the trip, turned to help an older woman out. Once both her feet were steady on the ground, Jed wasn’t a bit surprised to note that if he stood next to Mrs. Bean, they’d be looking eye to eye. Shorter than her sons, the woman was still easily a match to his own six feet.
Thomas turned and stopped short when he saw Freida and Jed. He nodded at Jed, one quick jerk of his head. He looked toward Freida, tipped his hat, and mumbled, “Howdy, Freida.”
“Afternoon, Thomas,” she answered.
Concerned, Jed glanced at her. She sounded winded, almost breathless. “Freida, you need to rest a spell?”
She waved a hand, dismissing his inquiry. Jed let it go. It was probably just the cold air catching up to her. He saw that the driver had finally finished unloading cases and had moved around the side to help the rest of the passengers. The driver helped a woman down. She had a big black wool hat pulled low on her head, but even so, it did little to hide the scowl on her round face. She wore a heavy cloak that came to her waist and while Jed was no expert when it came to women’s fashion, even he could see that it only served to emphasize the span of her hips.
If he had to venture a guess, he didn’t think Freida Stroganhaufer’s niece was all that happy about being in Mantosa. “What’s your niece’s name?” he asked. As Sheriff, he’d do his best to make her feel welcome. After all, the woman had lost her husband.
“Mrs. Merribelle Wainwright.” Freida was staring at the woman, frowning, making no move toward her.
It dawned on Jed that Freida, who capably handled her own business better than most men could have, might be a bit nervous seeing her niece after such a long time. He stepped forward and took off his hat. “Mrs. Wainwright?” he said.
The woman, who looked to be in her middle thirties, moved a step closer to Mrs. Bean. Given that the top of Freida’s niece’s head didn’t even reach Mrs. Bean’s shoulder, the two of them looked ridiculous next to one another.
“Mrs. Merribelle Wainwright?” he asked again. He offered what he hoped was a congenial smile.
She didn’t smile back. “My name is Constance VanHopple,” she said. Her voice was high and it made him think of the birds he’d chased out of his barn that morning. “Mrs. Bean’s companion.”
Jed took a step back and looked at Freida. She looked at first relieved and then immediately troubled. She turned to the stage driver. “I was expecting my niece,” she said, in a tone that made the driver take a step back.
Before the man could reply, Earl Bean edged forward, practically pushing the stage driver into his horses. Given that it was the most aggressive thing Jed had ever seen the normally shy forty-five year old do, he immediately got suspicious and his smile faded.
“Merribelle?” Earl repeated, like somebody who’d lost his senses.
Jed looked at Thomas Bean, who had always been the more stable of the two, and Thomas just shook his head. Thomas had remained a bachelor. Earl, on the other hand, had been married twice, both times for less than a year before his wife had run off. Thomas had told Jed once that it was too easy for Earl to fancy himself in love.
The comment had caused him to wonder if that had been his father’s issue as well. After a while, he’d stopped thinking about it and focused on being grateful that he wasn’t that kind of fool.
He watched as Earl, now bent nearly double, stuck half his upper-body into the stage. “Bella,” Jed heard him say, “we’ve been in this stage together for the last five hours and you never once mentioned that you were Freida Stroganhaufer’s niece.”
“I…uh…”
Freida stepped forward, yanked on the back of Earl Bean’s coat, and tossed the man aside. “Get the hell out of my way,” she said. She stuck her own head inside the stage.
“I’m your Aunt Freida, Girl.”
“Aunt Freida?”
Mrs. Merribelle Wainwright’s voice was as smooth as a good glass of whiskey on a cold night. Potent. And when Earl Bean swayed, all seven foot of him, Jed got ready to catch him. However, at the last minute, the man righted himself.
“It’s been a long time,” Freida said, “and I don’t expect you to remember me. But you’ve got the look of your momma. When she was young, she wore her hair long, too. Come on, I imagine it’s been a cold ride.”
“Oh, yes.”
Freida looked over her shoulder at Jed. She looked happy, confident, and he started to relax. Freida poked her head back into the stage. “So you call yourself Bella now?” she said. “Your ma forgot to mention that in the letter.”
“Right.… The letter,” she echoed.
Jed had always loved a good whiskey and he was tempted to let her voice settle over him. However, when he saw Earl bring his hands together and hold them up to his chest, as if he was at worship service, it gave him a start to realize that he was close to carrying on in a very similar manner.
Jed heard a rustle of skirts as Mrs. Merribelle Wainwright got out of the stage. He sucked in another deep breath and didn’t even feel it hit his lungs. The woman didn’t have a hat on, and in this cold, that was damn stupid. The black cloak she wore looked like it was better suited for a spring day. And he’d never ever seen a pair of shoes that looked less sturdy.
All that registered while he was trying to ignore the obvious. She was lovely with long, very dark, brown hair that curled over her shoulders. She had wide-set black eyes and a fine nose set straight over lips that were pink and full.
Now he understood the adoration on Earl Bean’s face and Thomas’s rather grim acceptance. This was a woman who could turn a man’s head. A woman who could take good, rational, ideas and turn them into a jumble of incoherent thoughts and unfinished deeds. This was a woman who could bring trouble to his peaceful town.
This was a woman who could change everything.
CHAPTER TWO
Her brand new Aunt Freida had a grip that was somewhere between that of a Sumo wrestler or a very bad golfer. Fierce. Strong. Way too tight.
Bella’s feet and thoughts were both scrambling to keep up as the woman dragged her four steps. They stopped so abruptly in front of one very serious-looking man that she almost bumped into him. He was tall. And broad shouldered. He wore a long suede-looking coat, unbuttoned, and she could see both the wide leather gun belt that he wore low on his waist and the five-pointed Sheriff star he wore on his chest.
His eyes were blue. Not sky blue like Averil’s but rather a smoky blue, and she thought someone could easily mistake them for gray. His dark hair, which curled over the edge of his coat collar, was a shiny brown with slim streaks of silver. He had a mustache, nicely trimmed, and it was more silver than brown. He held his leather cowboy hat in his hand and it looked like he was squeezing it to death.
“Bella, this is Sheriff Jedidiah McNeil,” Aunt Freida said. “He’s the sheriff of Tazwell County but since we’re the only town of any respectable size in the county, he spends most of his time right here in Mantosa.” She turned slightly and waved in Bella’s direction. “Jedidiah, this is my niece, Mrs. Bella Wainwright.”
Mrs. Bella Wainwright.
She had a name. And by the sounds of it, a husband. Oh boy, this could get complicated in a hurry. She should have struck to the story that she had worked on with her father and Averil. She could have pulled off being a schoolteacher looking for work. She wasn’t going to be able to persuade Mr. Wainwright that she was his wife.
She hadn’t been listening to the conversation outside t
he stage—she’d been too busy working up her nerve to get out and begin the search for Rantaan Toomay. Then Aunt Freida, had stuck her head inside the stage, welcomed her home like the prodigal son, and Bella had switched to Plan B.
Except there was no Plan B. This would not have happened to Averil. On the big highway of life, her sister stayed on her side of the road, her hands firmly in the ten and two position, always signaling a lane change well in advance. She would not be caught driving with her knees, while she put on lipstick and drank coffee. She most certainly would not have made an illegal U-turn and veered off her carefully planned route at the first opportunity.
“Ma’am,” the Sheriff said, nodding his head at her.
Ma’am? Okay. She’d been called that once, by a sixteen year-old bagger at the grocery store. She hadn’t liked it then, either. She’d gone back in time, right? She certainly shouldn’t look any older.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he added.
Oh, good grief. She looked old and she’d lost something. She ran her tongue across her teeth, hoping it wasn’t them.
Satisfied to find her bite intact, she nevertheless kept her mouth shut and settled for merely nodding and smiling. That had, after all, gotten her through a semester of biology. It might get her through a week in Kansas.
Aunt Freida patted her hand. “It’s hard to lose a husband, Girl. But life goes on. You’ll see.”
The pat, the supportive tone, it all screamed that Merribelle Wainwright’s husband wasn’t really lost—he was dead. All of which was unfortunate for Merribelle, but very fortunate for Bella. She was relieved that the man wouldn’t show up and blow apart her story but oddly enough, given the woman was a stranger, Bella felt sorry for Merribelle. She knew it was a horrible thing to have a spouse die. She’d been fifteen when her mother had died and in the brief glimpses when she’d been able to see past her own heartache, she had realized that her father had been devastated.
