Daisies In The Wind

by Jill Gregory

  Doc Wilson waved his hand in the air. “I agree with Wolf and Caitlin. Do we want vigilante groups running our town, or do we want the law? Wolf Bodine is the law. And until this Rawlings woman does something wrong, it seems to me, the law can’t touch her. And neither can we.”

  “Are you saying that we should just sit around and wait for her to rob the bank or the mill payroll or the stage? Or to run down some innocent child while fleeing the law—just like her pa and his gang did?” Myrtle countered, stamping her foot.

  “I say we wait and see what’s going to happen and trust our sheriff to look out for keeping the peace and preserving law and order in this town,” Doc Wilson responded, glaring at her, his eyes fierce brown specks above his handlebar mustache. “So far as I know, the woman has done nothing wrong.”

  “You’re right, Doc,” Caitlin answered, wagging a finger in the air. “And if having a disreputable parent is cause for being branded dishonest, then a lot of folks in this town could be in a heap of trouble.” She popped to her feet. “Why, Simon Jones, wasn’t your father thrown in jail about three times every week for being drunk and disturbing the peace?” she demanded of a short, bandy-legged rancher, who flushed a deep crimson. “Well, you turned out just the opposite, didn’t you? No one here’s ever seen you touch a drop or step a peep out of line. And that’s sure to your credit. And you, Myrtle, didn’t we hear tell that your pa was accused of jumping a claim over at Last Chance Gulch in sixty-four?”

  “Nothing was ever proved!”

  “No, it wasn’t, but I hear folks sure whispered a lot. Still, that didn’t stop you from becoming one of our leading citizens. Why, you’re head of the town social committee and a very important member of the school board. Which reminds me, I think you should be spending more time thinking about who’s going to teach our children this winter than worrying your head over some young woman all alone in the world who so far ain’t caused a peep of trouble—except to kill that no-good Scoop Parmalee, who was trying to rob the stagecoach. Only yesterday folks were admiring her, but today, because we know her name, half the town wants to run her out of the Territory. Makes me ashamed to be a citizen of Powder Creek!”

  Everyone started talking at once, arguing, gesturing, raising their voices to be heard over the growing din. Myrtle Lee Anderson, furious at the turn of events and the shift in mood begun by the sheriff’s comments, not to mention the low blow Caitlin had inflicted by bringing up the despicable and completely ridiculous charges against her very own father, grabbed up the gavel and began to pound on the podium.

  “Well, maybe we’ve got no call yet to be sending that outlaw’s daughter hightailing it out of town, but I’ll eat a rattlesnake before I consent to considering her for the schoolteacher’s position, which Caitlin Bodine wants to do!”

  At this another silence fell over the room.

  “That true, Caitlin?” Abigail Pritchard inquired, her wide brow puckered with concern. “I’ve got nothing personal against the girl, you understand, not so far as anything I’ve heard here tonight, but to consider her as the new teacher ...”

  Wolf took command of the meeting once more, holding up a hand for silence, and getting it. “I telegraphed some inquiries back east about Miss Rawlings, and I think you folks might be interested in hearing what I found out. Are you?”

  A chorus of voices shouting “Hell, yes” followed. Wolf nodded and waited until the room had quieted again. Surveying the faces fixed expectantly upon him, most of them frowning or thoughtful, all of them concerned, he noticed a stranger seated on the far right of the back row. A young man, perhaps in his twenties, black-haired and clean-shaved, dressed in a finely cut dark suit and handsome derby. Briefly Wolf wondered what the man was doing here at the meeting. Being a stranger, not a citizen, he therefore had no stake in the discussion.

  Taking in the man’s neat attire and quiet demeanor, Wolf surmised that perhaps he had heard talk of it in the saloon and decided to see what all the commotion was about.

  He could be a gambler, Wolf decided. But the dark-haired young man didn’t have the typical slick oiliness and darting eyes of many frontier gamblers Wolf had met. Still, though he watched the proceedings quietly, his hands folded in his lap, Wolf’s shrewd gaze detected something bright and exuberant gleaming in his eyes, something that would bear watching.

  The room had grown as quiet as it ever would. Rain began to pelt the hotel windows. The storm in all its fury would be here soon.

  Wolf raised his voice so that he could be heard over the rain and wind. “It is a fact that there’s nothing known about Rebeccah Rawlings to make anyone suspect she’s dishonest—setting aside the name of her father. But there are a few more facts I’ve learned about her, folks—facts which might make some think she could be a damned fine schoolteacher, just what Powder Creek needs. She attended a fancy private school called Miss Elizabeth Wright’s Academy for Young Ladies. It’s in Boston. And she graduated with honors and earned a teaching certificate. According to the school’s records, Miss Rawlings excelled at literature, history, and music, and she is more than competent in mathematics and geography. Moreover she’s had two years teaching experience at the academy, and that’s two more years than that brand-new untried teacher we last hired had—the one who turned tail and ran after the holdup attempt.”

  “But can she be trusted with our children?” Emily Brady asked, worrying at her lower lip. Her son, Joey, was Billy Bodine’s best friend, and she wanted to support Wolf and Caitlin, but it was her niece, Lottie Mason, who’d been run down by the Rawlings gang, and Emily Brady was still deeply affected by that tragedy. “We don’t know what kind of a young woman she is, after all. A teacher must set an example of high moral values, as well as educate the youngsters. She must have a trustworthy character.”

  “I spent the better part of a day with her yesterday, and she struck me as a fine young lady,” Caitlin responded, meeting Emily’s worried gaze directly. “Of course that’s just my opinion. For heaven’s sake, why doesn’t the school-board committee interview her and see for themselves? Then they can make a recommendation.”

  Nods all around followed this suggestion. Some doubters still shook their heads, but Culley Pritchard said, “Makes sense. Personally I say give the girl a chance. Why don’t we take a vote?”

  Wolf banged the gavel. “All in favor of the school-board committee interviewing Miss Rebeccah Rawlings for the teacher’s position, say Aye!”

  “Aye!” came a resounding chorus, immediately followed by a clap of thunder.

  “All against, say No!”

  “No!” shouted out fewer than a dozen voices, Myrtle Lee Anderson’s strident one chief among them.

  The slim stranger in the back row slipped out of the room.

  Wolf noted his departure, then returned his gaze to the assembly. “Motion passed. Let’s everyone get home to our families before this storm takes hold.”

  In less time than it takes to hitch a wagon the room was emptied. Only Wolf and Caitlin remained. “Nice work, son. I’m proud of you.”

  Wolf stared a moment at the silver badge on the table before pinning it back onto his vest. “You’re the one who swayed them,” he told her. “I don’t think Miss Rawlings will have any trouble convincing the board that she’d make a fine teacher—if she chooses to do it.”

  Wolf saw again that sensuous, fine-boned face with the upturned violet eyes and wide, generous mouth. He remembered her graceful carriage, her sweeping black hair, and the full, rounded breasts, which had been so temptingly outlined by her nightgown. And he again heard her voice, low-timbred and velvety, a voice that heated a man’s blood. He had a hunch that Rebeccah Rawlings could be quite sweetly persuasive if she chose to be. Misgivings ate at him as he led Caitlin out of the hotel and into the wagon beneath a tumbling silver rain.

  He only hoped that they both hadn’t made a big mistake in defending Rebeccah Rawlings so strenuously to the town.

  What did they really know about
her? She was pretty, a damn good shot, independent, and closemouthed. He frowned. And damn stubborn to boot.

  But remembering that stoic pride, the rigid insistence on not being beholden to anyone, and the pain in her eyes when he’d told her some folks might not want her in Powder Creek, Wolf sensed there was a great deal more going on inside Miss Rebeccah Rawlings than she let on.

  But it was none of his business, he reminded himself. He couldn’t afford to waste his time thinking about a woman who was no good for him, or for Billy, a woman who seemed to carry along her own special parcel of trouble. He’d had one like that before, and lived to regret it. No matter how attractive or intriguing Rebeccah Rawlings might be, Wolf had no intention of allowing himself to fall into the same she-trap twice. Whatever it took, he would steer clear of any woman marked Trouble.

  * * *

  Billy Bodine glanced apprehensively at the ominous sky. It was thick with clouds and growing blacker by the moment. Anyone could see that a bad storm was brewing, and the sudden slash of blue-white lightning, followed closely by an explosion of thunder, almost made him turn back.

  Guilt stabbed at him, as well as trepidation. Pa and Gramma thought he was at home tonight. They had warned him about the storm and instructed him to keep an eye on the house and barn and to do the spelling lesson Caitlin had asked Mary Adams to write up for him. Gramma was particular about education, and it was driving her plumb crazy that there was no teacher in Powder Creek, so she made up lessons for him now and again, just to keep his brain sharp, she said.

  But Joey had dared him to come along spying on the lady outlaw living on the Peastone place. Joey’d said that if Billy didn’t come with him, he was a yellow-livered chicken.

  He’d had no choice!

  Still Billy had waited a while, done his spelling, wrestled briefly with his conscience, and then at last saddled up Blue. He’d called Sam to heel and ridden off in the direction of the Peastone ranch, determined to find out what that Rebeccah Rawlings was really up to. Then he could tell his father all about it and show Joey that he was no chicken. But Billy hadn’t counted on the storm, at least not on it blowing up quite so quickly and ferociously as it did.

  He met Joey near a rise covered with bluestem, less than a quarter of a mile from the Peastone cabin. Spruce trees and tamaracks shook all around them beneath the gathering wind and eerie gray-yellow light. Tumbleweed and dust blew every which way.

  “You ready?” the other boy challenged. Joey Brady was a year older than Billy, taller and stockier, with curly, carrot-colored hair, a good-natured, freckled face, and ears that stuck out like an elf’s.

  “I sure am,” Billy answered with more assurance than he felt. They’d picked a bad night for this job—if they didn’t hurry up and get this spying business over with fast they’d both get drenched.

  “Let’s go,” Billy said as Sam gazed inquiringly up at him and whined. “Maybe we should leave the horses here and walk the rest of the way—”

  At that moment gold lightning streaked across the sky. It hit the spruce tree nearest to Joey with an earsplitting crackle. The boys yelped in fright, and Sam let out a blood-chilling howl.

  But it was the horses that truly panicked. Spooked, Blue reared straight up. Billy used every trick he knew, and somehow managed to stay seated, but Joey’s mare bolted forward so suddenly that the boy was whipped right off his saddle by a low-hanging branch. He hit the ground with a thud as the mare disappeared into the darkness.

  “Joey!”

  Billy jumped from his saddle as the rain began to pound down. A boom of thunder drowned out his frantic cries as he tried to rouse his friend, and the next thing he knew, Blue ran off. In dismay he watched the horse race toward home with nostrils flaring and a scream of terror that echoed through the wild night.

  Don’t panic, Billy said to himself with a gulp. He knelt beside Joey as lightning again split the sky and wind and rain assaulted them. At least Sam’s here, he thought, fighting back tears of anxiety. The dog crouched beside Joey, whimpering, his red fur streaming with water. Through the sickly gray-green darkness of the storm, Billy saw that Sam’s eyes glowed with fear.

  “Joey, wake up. Please, wake up,” Billy begged, but as he peered into his friend’s freckled face and saw the blood oozing from his temple, Billy knew that something was very wrong.

  I have to get help, he thought, glancing dazedly around as the night exploded in storm. “It’s up to us, Sam, you and me,” he whispered, his lips trembling.

  Billy shoved himself to his feet. Without Blue he couldn’t ride to town for the doctor. It would take too long even to run to the Adams place, which was the next nearest neighbor, after the Peastone ranch ...

  The Peastone ranch. It was right over the rise, less than a quarter of a mile ahead.

  Billy remembered what his father had said: Stay away from her.

  But this was an emergency. He needed help, and he needed it fast. Even a lady outlaw would help an injured kid, Billy reasoned, and tried to dismiss the scary voice inside him suggesting that she might have other company, bad company, someone like Fess Jones, sitting in her parlor right now.

  But that was a chance he had to take. Billy took one final, frantic look at Joey’s bloody face and started forward.

  “Come on, Sam,” he shouted, stumbling through the wind and rain toward the top of the rise. “We’ve got to hurry!”

  9

  It was the barking that captured her attention. Over the rushing wind and the thunder and the whoosh of tree branches it came, incessant and strangely urgent, startling her as she lit the lanterns, stoked up the hearth fire, and prepared to last out the storm.

  Barking ...

  Rebeccah hurried to the window and peered out. She saw nothing but greenish darkness, slashing rain, and furiously swaying prairie grasses. The mountains were shadowy monsters looming in the distance.

  But the barking persisted.

  And then she saw the small figure hurtling through the night and the large red dog bounding at its side.

  What in the world? she wondered, her hand at her throat. She ran to open the door.

  A huge gust of wind shook the trees to their roots and nearly knocked the boy over, but though he stumbled, he kept running, and the dog beside him barked more frantically.

  Rebeccah had the door flung wide by the time he reached the steps. A great rush of rain and wind flew at her, but she clung to the doorframe and watched the small figure dart toward her.

  Why, he was no more than ten or eleven. He was soaked to the skin, his red flannel shirt plastered to his bony chest, his hair streaming water into his eyes.

  “We need help,” he gasped, skidding to a stop on the porch before her, and as if for emphasis the dog gave two short yaps.

  “Come in! What’s happened?”

  She reached for his arm, to draw him safely out of the violent night, but he flinched back, shaking his head.

  “It’s not me, it’s Joey.” The boy, who was thin and dark, with huge, intense gray eyes, stared up at her pleadingly. He seemed unaware of his own soaked and muddy condition, of the cold that was turning his lips blue. His face wore a pinched, desperate look that alarmed her more than his startling appearance out of the storm. “Please, I think he’s hurt bad. He fell off his horse when the lightning struck. Please, ma’am, he’s out there, just over the rise, and he won’t wake up. You have to help him.”

  “Just a minute,” Rebeccah said crisply. She spun back across the parlor, through the kitchen, and dashed into the pantry. She grabbed the slicker folded inside the wooden box. Donning it as she ran, she cast a swift glance over the boy and the dog.

  “You wait here and take off those wet clothes. There’s a blanket in the bedroom—you can wrap yourself in that. I’ll find your friend.”

  He shook his head. His mouth was set with a strangely familiar, determined expression she couldn’t quite place, and then he said emphatically, “No. It’ll be quicker if I show you.”

&nb
sp; He was right. Rebeccah nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They found the injured boy a short while later. He had come to and was moaning as he lay in the grassy mud, rivulets of blood and earth streaking his face. Rebeccah never knew how, but somehow she lifted him in her arms and staggered back in the direction of the cabin. The dark-haired boy and the dog ran beside her as the storm lashed out its fury.

  It seemed an eternity until they reached the shelter of the cabin.

  “He’ll be all right,” she gasped as she laid the injured boy upon the sofa. She fired off rapid directions to the other youth as she examined the gash from which blood still trickled. “Get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death. There’s some long flannel shirts in the chest of drawers in the bedroom—put one on and bring him the other. And take the quilt from the bed. You can both share it.” Seeing his anxious expression, she shot him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, the gash isn’t deep. I’m going to bandage it for him, and he’ll be fine. What’s his name?”

  “Joey.”

  “Joey,” she said, rubbing the boy’s icy palms between her own. “Joey, can you hear me?”

  He stopped moaning and looked dazedly at her. Rebeccah squeezed his hand. “It’s all right, Joey. Don’t try to move. You’re going to be fine.”

  She worked feverishly for the better part of an hour, stripping off his soaked garments, buttoning him in two layers of flannel shirts so long, they reached his knees. While the other boy warmed his hands and his dog before the fire and watched her, she deftly cleaned the cut and dabbed on salve.

  When Joey cried “Ouch!” as she ministered to him, the boy near the fire grinned.

  “I reckon he’ll live,” he said, much more cheerfully, and stroked the dog’s damp head.

  “I reckon,” Rebeccah responded calmly, and reached for a bandage. “How would you boys like a nice hot cup of tea?”