She glanced at Kin. Did she dare go out to get the eggs? That would mean leaving him alone for longer than the two or three minutes that it took to run plates to the tables. And what was she going to do with him when she needed to dash upstairs? She certainly couldn’t take him with her. The boy had faced enough trauma today without watching her give a lethal dose of laudanum to her lout of a husband.
The dilemma was solved for her when a soft knock sounded at the back door. She opened it to find Liora hunched against the wind. Despite her reservations over hiring a woman of Liora’s former profession, she couldn’t help but be thankful to have her help. Besides, who was she—a woman planning a murder—to judge?
“Please, come in.” Dixie stepped aside and let her in.
Liora stood rubbing her arms, looking a bit uncertain.
Dixie would need to walk her through how things worked, but there was no time for that now. She motioned her to the sink. “You can wash up there. Do you know how to scramble eggs?”
Liora looked uncertainly toward the stove.
“Never mind. I’ve rolled out some biscuits there on the side board. The cutter is just there. Please cut them out and put them in the iron skillet at the back of the stove. I’m going out to gather more eggs.” Dixie slipped on her gloves and lifted one of the hot bricks she kept warming on the rock shelf behind the stove. She paused by the door. “Oh and Liora…” She waited till Liora turned to her, then nodded her head meaningfully toward Kin.
Liora tipped a nod of understanding as she washed her hands at the sink.
Out at the henhouse, Dixie swapped the warm brick for the now cold one that she’d put in last night and covered it with the old bent pie tin again. The pie tin kept the bricks from getting too soiled.
She quickly displaced the hens from their nests and gathered the eggs, thankful to find nine larger and two small ones. A quick scoop of food into their trough and she closed the lid to keep the heat inside. The log walls of the hen house—natural insulation—along with the hot brick, helped keep the interior warm, even through the coldest months.
With the eggs held carefully in her apron, she lifted the cold brick and hurried back inside.
She put the brick into the sink, where she would scrub it later, and gently settled the eggs into a bowl and filled it with warm water.
Liora had all the biscuits cut and in the iron skillet and had busied herself cleaning Kin’s forehead. Dixie looked closer. It appeared she was stitching the boy up. Dixie was pleased to see she’d taken that initiative.
With the eggs scrubbed, she nodded her thanks to Liora, who once more washed up at the sink. “Now let me show you how to scramble the eggs. Put the biscuits over the hottest part of the stove there and drop three healthy scoops of butter into the pan.”
While the biscuits bubbled in the melted butter, Dixie pointed out the potatoes she’d already grated. “We have three orders for two eggs, potatoes, and biscuits. The potatoes go on the griddle here. Butter into the frying pan here. Then you crack the eggs like so.” Dixie demonstrated how she cracked two at a time, one with each hand.
Liora’s eyes grew wide. “It might take me some time to master that.”
Dixie smiled. “Never fear. We’ll work together.” At least until I go to jail, leaving you to run the place on your own. She flipped the biscuits over, sprinkled some salt over the potatoes, and gave the eggs another stir.
Beside her, Liora’s stomach rumbled loudly.
Dixie wondered when Liora had last eaten. Guilt—a feeling that was becoming all too common in her life lately—nudged her. Liora was looking very thin and frail these days. She should have noticed sooner. She always had leftover food that was hardly touched on some plates.
She pulled three plates from the shelf above the stove. “These should be my last orders and then the three of us should be able to eat.”
Yet one more delay in getting upstairs, but she couldn’t very well just leave without making them a meal.
She scooped the shredded potatoes onto the plates, golden side up. “Let me just take these out to the table. I’ll be right back.” She slid the eggs on beside the potatoes and added the biscuits too.
With two plates in one hand, and the third in the other, Dixie used her back to push open the doors to the dining room. Kin still had his chin resting on his crossed arms, but at least his face was no longer bloody. He hadn’t said a word since Joe dropped him off earlier.
Concern for the boy wouldn’t leave her as she set the plates on the table before the patrons. It was good that Kin didn’t have to go to school today.
Well she remembered how she’d felt when her mother died. Her father had been a hard man who grew even harder after. And Dixie had fled from home. Straight from the frying pan and into the fire, as it were. A fire she was about to snuff out for the last time.
Back in the kitchen, she squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Are you hungry?”
Kin stirred, sitting up and rubbing his palms down his pants. A frown furrowed his brow as he glanced around the room, as if he might be wondering how to answer that question.
“Never mind. Of course you are hungry. I’ll make you something.”
Liora was at the sink washing dishes.
Dixie wasn’t a bit hungry herself, even though she hadn’t had time to eat yet today. Her nervous stomach churned at just the thought of food. She made herself a portion anyhow, because she didn’t want to raise questions. It didn’t take her long to have three plates filled. She waved Liora over from the sink. “We can finish those dishes later. Come now and eat.”
They were halfway through the meal, Kin doing more toying with his food than eating, and Liora eating steadily but with reserve, when the doors to the kitchen pushed open.
Parson Clay poked his head inside.
Dixie felt her eyes widen. He was back already? Wasn’t he still supposed to be talking with Zeb about the church building? “You’re back early.”
He nodded. “Mr. Heath apparently ate something at McGinty’s Alehouse last evening that didn’t sit well with him.”
Liora sniffed. “Ewan’s devil hot chili could nearly take the iron off a skillet.”
A light of appreciation for the humorous sentiment danced in the parson’s eyes, but he didn’t smile. He glanced instead at the plate that Dixie had hardly touched. “Mrs. Pottinger, I’m sorry to disturb you, but the doctor said that if Mr. Pottinger needed pain medicine that you were the one to speak to. I believe he requires your attention now.”
At the name “Mr. Pottinger” Kin looked a little startled and Dixie realized that with him being in jail he probably hadn’t heard the news that had spread like wildfire through the rest of the town after the stagecoach’s arrival.
She wiped her mouth with her serviette, hoping that no one noticed the sudden trembling of her hands. “Thank you. I’ll be right up.” She pushed her plate back, unable to stomach the thought of even one more bite. The time for a decision had come. Was she going to throw her life away on revenge?
She looked at Liora. “If you don’t mind finishing the kitchen clean-up, I’ll be down as soon as I can to discuss my expectations with you.”
Liora nodded. “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
The resolve she’d felt so certain of only this morning seemed to be slipping from her. Dread weighted her steps as she hefted her skirts and took the stairs to the top floor ahead of Parson Clay. The stolen vial in her pocket felt like it might be glowing bright enough for the minister to see. His quiet tread ascended the stairs behind her.
At the door of room five, she hesitated, trembling. Was this really who she wanted to be?
The minister stepped to one side, looking over at her to see why she hesitated. He cleared his throat softly. “Mrs. Pottinger, I sense a great battle waging within you, ma’am. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”
Dixie jolted and looked at him. Tears came unbidden to her eyes.
He folded his
hands in front of himself and simply looked at her, an unfathomable softness in his expression.
The anger she’d felt yesterday morning at the service flared to life. “Let me tell you about the man that you prayed for at your service, Parson Clay.” She stabbed a finger against the door to room five. “That man routinely choked me until I couldn’t breathe. He relished holding his grip just to the point before I would pass out.” She fumbled with the buttons at her cuffs. “That man”—she yanked her sleeve up and exposed her forearm to him—“burned me over and over with his cigar stubs.” She jerked the material down again and worked to refasten the buttons, satisfied to see his eyes widen. “That’s the kind of man whose survival you were so diligently petitioning the Almighty for.”
Parson Clay looked down at the floor for a moment, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you went through all that, Mrs. Pottinger. And yet we are responsible for ourselves. We are to be people of compassion and forgiveness. People who offer only good to others, even if they spitefully use us. So…” He hesitated and, if possible, his expression softened even more. “I cannot apologize for my prayers, Mrs. Pottinger.”
Perhaps it was the tenderness of his tone, or the kindness in his eyes. She wasn’t sure, but now that she’d spilled all of her humiliation she seemed to have lost all her indignation and didn’t know what else to say.
“I can assure you that unless such a man repents, come the day of judgment he will find himself facing the harshest ire of the Almighty.”
Day of judgment… If she followed through with this she herself would be facing judgment sooner rather than later.
A weariness that could no longer be held at bay fell over her. With a sigh, she took both bottles of laudanum from her pockets. First, the one she’d stolen, and second, the much smaller one that Flynn had given her when he left for the logging camps this morning. She rolled both bottles around in her hand. “Do you think God might consider it self-defense, Parson, were a woman to put an end to such a man at a time like this?”
The minister cleared his throat, and she heard his feet shuffle, even though her attention was still fixed on the two bottles in her hands. “I think man is ever striving to make gray out of what the good Lord has clearly laid out in black and white, Mrs. Pottinger. Often the Lord asks us to wait for justice. We may not understand it or like it, and it can be wearying, but we are promised that if we wait on the Lord, we will renew our strength.”
Dixie’s eyes fell closed. The very verse that Flynn had mentioned to her just the other day. “And what happens, sir, when we’ve given up waiting on the Lord to bring justice a long time ago? Can we ever get back to a place of willingness to wait, and to trusting Him again, do you think?” She lifted her gaze, needing to see his expression as he answered.
His expression held no judgement and there was a world of empathy in his eyes. “Is that what you want, Mrs. Pottinger? To begin trusting once more that His ways are always higher than ours, even when we can’t understand why?”
Her hand tightened around the two bottles, and she studied the brass number five on the door. “So you are saying that God would view it as murder.”
The man stepped close to her and took her shoulders with the gentlest of touches. “The Good Book promises that in this world we will have tribulation, Mrs. Pottinger. But we are to take heart because our Lord has overcome the world. There is no ‘unless’ to the command ‘Thou shall not kill,’ though I do believe that, as you pointed out, a case could be made for self-defense, or the defense of others. However, you and I both know the man lying in that bed inside is in no condition to harm anyone. Sometimes, though we don’t understand it, the Lord asks us to remain in our trials for a time.”
Dixie’s gaze flew to his, eyes narrowing. Was he saying that he thought it would be the Lord’s will for her to stay with such a man?
The minister held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not condoning his behavior, mind you, or encouraging you to return to a relationship with him. But I get the impression that you have been somewhat angry with God for some time now? Am I correct?”
“I have.” She nodded.
She thought of Kin sitting downstairs having just lost his father because the man couldn’t let go of his anger over losing his wife. She thought of Rose, who would truly be left alone in her elder years, if Dixie followed through with her revenge. She thought of herself—caught, tried, pronounced guilty, and sentenced to hang—walking slowly from the jailhouse to face a noose, and looking out over the crowd comprised of people she cared about. Flynn would be standing in the front row because it would be his job to pronounce her death. She pictured the pinched furrows of pain and sorrow crinkling his brow as he watched her. The sadness in the blue of his eyes.
With a blink, she came back to the present. That wasn’t the future she wanted. She didn’t have a choice in some things. But as the minister had just said, there were other things she could control. Herself. Her actions. Her choice to hope or not to hope in a Savior. A wave of longing to let go of all her anger and vengeance swept over her. She met the minister’s gaze. “Would God take me back? If God will take me back, I would like nothing more.” She searched his face almost desperately, holding her breath.
He tilted his head and squeezed her shoulders. “Mrs. Pottinger, I assure you He would love nothing more.”
A breath puffed from her and she thrust the bottles of laudanum at him. “Please take these, Parson.”
The bottles clanked loudly against each other as he gathered them into his hands.
Dixie pressed one palm to her chest, feeling suddenly like a bird just freed from a cage. “If you could give him the dosage he needs? Twenty drops. I’ve a sudden urge to go pray.”
He smiled at her. “It does my heart good to hear you say so, ma’am. I confess that I wondered how the Lord was going to use me in a place such as this, and yet I find that He orchestrated my arrival just in time.”
She was once again struck by how much younger he looked when he smiled. And awed by the fact that the Lord may have sent him here at just the right moment to save her from herself. “If you’ll excuse me, Parson.” She hefted her skirts and hurried into her apartment and fell to her knees next to her bed.
She spent the next half hour weeping in repentance, crying out for forgiveness, and begging God to give her the strength to do what was right. And when she finally rose and washed away her tears, it was with dread but firm resolve settled in the pit of her stomach.
She had to confess to Dr. Griffin what she had done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Joe returned to the boardinghouse for Kin two hours later. He poked his head through the back door.
Liora looked up from where she was blacking the stove and motioned him in.
He stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, wiping his boots on the mat. Lord, bless Charlotte Brindle for her thoughtfulness. Working here at the boardinghouse was going to be so much better for Liora than trying to find odd jobs out in the cold this time of year. Already she seemed to have more color in her face. Of course, that could be from working near the hot stove.
Liora offered a sympathetic twist of her lips and a meaningful glance in Kin’s direction.
Right. He wasn’t here to stare at the beautiful woman. Joe gave himself a little shake.
The boy didn’t seem to have moved, for he still sat morosely in the same seat at the little kitchen table.
Joe approached the boy’s side. “Kin, we’ve…uh…we’re ready for you to say goodbye to your pa, son.”
Kin stirred. He looked up for a moment but a semi-vacant look remained in his eyes. The kid was still in shock. But he did get to his feet and start for the door.
Joe was glad to see that his cuts had been stitched up. He met Liora’s gaze across the room, tapped his forehead in the same place Kin had been injured, and then mouthed, “Thank you.”
She nodded, her lower lip pooching out to indicate she felt sorry for the boy.
Joe didn’t let his gaze linger on the pout. At least not for too long. He hoped. Hurrying after Kin, he dipped his chin in her direction and gave her a little farewell salute.
He felt sorry for the boy too. They all did.
When they stepped outside, he made sure the door latched tightly behind them and directed Kin back to the jailhouse.
Normally a body would need to be buried right away. But he and Reagan had talked it over. With the bitter cold they’d been having, there wasn’t any worry about the body decomposing too much so long as it was kept in the cold. And that way the boy could have a few days to adjust before the burying.
In the meantime, they didn’t know what to do with Kin so he would need to be returned to the cell until they could figure out where he was going to live. Clearly, he was too young to remain on his own. And there was still the matter of the charges to figure out.
Reagan had hammered together a pine box. They just needed to know if the boy wanted any of his pa’s effects.
Kin’s footsteps faltered as they stepped into the jailhouse and he saw the coffin.
Joe squeezed his shoulder and directed him to a table where they’d laid out the contents of Luther’s pockets. It wasn’t much. The makings for cigarettes… A couple pennies… But there was a ring Joe felt certain Kin would want.
“This is what we found in his pockets. We wanted you to have it.”
Kin nudged aside the cigarette papers and reached immediately to pick up the gold band. He rolled it between his fingers. “He didn’t sell it.”
The words hadn’t really been spoken to him, so Joe held his silence.
“It was my ma’s. I thought he sold it.” Kin swallowed and blinked hard. His focus traveled across the room to where the coffin was. “We used to be happy when she was alive.”
Joe had no words. What had the kid been through these past few years? He couldn’t imagine.
On Eagles' Wings (Wyldhaven Book 2) Page 18
