Divided Heart

by Sheryl Marcoux

  Maybe a better question was—who’d be cold-blooded enough to kill a member of the clergy and steal his horse? From behind, the man was tall and slim, the same size as the Reverend, but a lot calmer—and a lot cockier. In fact, he was just about the same size and shape as Tom Drown, the man who’d shot Beaufort.

  Nate dove behind an acacia tree. The thorny shoots growing out of the trunk stabbed his chin, but he lay on his belly, still as a wide-eyed rabbit.

  The gunfire stopped. Had he been spotted? Hoping he wouldn’t find the barrel of a Colt pointed at him, he peered out.

  To his relief, he saw the man was just reloading his pistol. But from this angle, Nate also saw the face.

  The Reverend faced the targets, barely specks in the distance, and drew. Bang! Crash! A twirl and then holster. It was lightning fast. Then, he got even faster. Bang! Crash! Twirl. Bang! Crash! Twirl. Bang! Crash! Twirl.

  Nate had never seen anything like it.

  He might now live in a city where guns were as rare as elephants, but he’d grown up in Ramsden where guns were a part of a man’s apparel as common as his hat and his boots. A man’s hat protected him from whatever came at him from the sky, a man’s boots from whatever came at him from the ground, and a gun from whatever came from in between. Every man his father employed was required to be able to shoot adequately. But his father paid good money to hire extra protection, because driving five thousand head of cattle through the middle of nowhere meant a good chance of encountering cougars, Comanche, and cattle rustlers.

  Nate had seen the best gunmen. Or thought he had up until today.

  This is no ordinary man. Much less a clumsy Reverend. So why was he playing the fool? One answer was obvious—because he wanted to make sure no one knew how well he could shoot.

  Stiffened by the best shooting he’d ever seen—and worse, the person he’d seen it from—Nate backed away from his hiding spot—and hightailed away. He ran until he was winded, and a cluster of rocks offered a place to sit down and think. This so-called “Reverend” had given him plenty to think about.

  Those sharp-shooting skills didn’t come overnight. He must have been sneaking away for years to practice. And because I was sneaking around I discovered his secret.

  The Reverend must have decided to practice at the break of dawn instead. He obviously didn’t want anyone to know he was a crack shot.

  Questions about the Reverend began to make some sense, such as why he took a job in small-town Ramsden. This man had found a good way to hide in the open by wearing a black suit with a white collar and acting like he had two left hands dipped in butter.

  Today’s encounter kicked up a dust devil of new questions. Who was the man hiding in the clergy suit? What was he hiding—beyond the fact he was a deadeye? And if he was willing to risk even a ghost of a chance of being caught shooting, he didn’t want to get rusty, so—What’s he still hiding now?

  Nate’s blood ran cold.

  Hattie, what did you get mixed up with?

  7

  Sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere, Nate dragged a hand through his hair. The “Reverend” was a dangerous man and that put Hattie in peril. She had to be warned. But how?

  If Nate told her that her clumsy beau was a deadeye, she’d accuse Nate of being crazy and jealous. In fact, if Nate went back to her house after she’d threatened to tell the sheriff, he’d likely land in jail. And telling the Reverend to stay away from her wasn’t an option. A man corrupt enough to hide in a clergy suit was the type who’d eliminate a problem with a bullet. The Reverend wouldn’t appreciate someone knowing his secret, and Nate could never outshoot him.

  How could Nate save a damsel in distress who wasn’t willing to be rescued—especially when he was the dragon she wanted to be rescued from?

  But Hattie was no helpless damsel. She’d proven time again that she was a resourceful bobcat of a woman bold enough to go against a bear. He’d seen her take a gun right out of man’s hand back when she’d worked in the saloon.

  Nate dropped his hand between his knees. Maybe the best thing to do was to leave a capable Hattie to her own resources and to move on. He had a job to get back to, and she’d made it clear she didn’t want him barging into her miserable life like a prince on a steed to sweep her off to his faraway castle.

  Hattie. She’d come a long way from the little girl who’d stolen his heart, the one who’d once needed his rescuing—or a boy’s attempt at rescuing her, anyway. He smiled sadly at the memory of the first time he’d seen her.

  “Who are you?” the teacher asked a thin, six-year-old girl who’d walked into the schoolhouse long after everyone else was seated.

  “Hattie Brown, ma’am,” she’d said in a quiet voice.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d like to come to school if you please, ma’am.”

  “School started three weeks and fifteen minutes ago. Why are you so late?”

  “My maw needed me at home, ma’am.”

  The teacher hesitated. “Go find a seat.”

  She chose the one next to Nate, and sat down. She was so unique. Her skin was olive, her braids were blacker than black, and her eyes were large and dark and hard to look away from. She caught Nate staring at her and smiled at him so prettily, he could have sworn she was a princess from a far-away country, had it not been for her burlap dress.

  Later, he found out it was made out of a flour sack, and it itched her all day long. As if things weren’t miserable enough for her, the children started poking fun at her.

  “Stay away from Hattie Brown,” they taunted. “She’s got fleas.”

  She never said a word back, and the ridicule continued until her pretty smile began to fade.

  Each day found him wishing she’d come to school wearing something different, only to be disappointed to find her wearing the same itchy, albeit clean, dress.

  Finally, when the days of ridicule took away her smile altogether, he set his mind to fix things for her. Nate’s plan was that of a child’s. He would take it as far as he could go, and trust God to bring it to a fairytale ending.

  God seemed to test Nate’s determination as Nate sneaked off early one Saturday morning. It was chilly, and he hadn’t brought his coat. His boots were new and chafed his feet raw. But he wouldn’t turn back. This was for Hattie so she could smile again.

  When he reached her home, what he saw took him by surprise. He’d never seen anyone work so hard for what little they had. Clotheslines crossed the property, and he passed through veils of overalls, shirts, and bed sheets. He found Hattie stooped over a bucket scrubbing clothes against a washboard. She stopped when she saw him.

  “That ain’t enough scrubbing,” Mrs. Brown said. “Scrub some more.”

  It was the first time Nate had ever seen an African woman up close, and he stared at her. She looked at her daughter and then what her daughter was looking at. Mrs. Brown’s eyes peered at him like two big pearls. “What do you want here, boy?”

  “May I speak to Hattie, ma am?”

  Mrs. Brown huffed and left them to hang up some clothes. She had good reason to dislike the Powells. Nate’s mother claimed she’d do the clothes herself before she’d let Mrs. Brown touch them. It wasn’t Mrs. Brown’s color; it was the fact that there was no Mr. Brown that Nate’s mother sputtered on about.

  “Hello, Hattie,” Nate said.

  Hattie made sure her mother was out of earshot before setting aside the shirt she’d been scrubbing. Her burlap dress was as soaked as the clothes she was washing. If it was cold for Nate, it was too cold for a girl that thin to be that wet. But even being wet and cold and wearing an itchy dress, her face lit up as he approached her.

  “Howdy, Nate.” Her teeth chattered, but the smile that returned to her pretty face was even more radiant than the first time he’d seen it. It sent a ray clear through to his heart, and he was sure it lit up his face as well.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you wash this for me?” He handed her a
shirt that had already been laundered, because that wasn’t the point. “I can pay you.” He extended a fist full of money, every cent he had. “Here. Maybe you can buy yourself a new dress.”

  Nate stared into the stillness. It was strange how Hattie had evolved from a girl with a burlap dress and an angelic smile to a saint wearing a high-neck calico dress, because of the woman wedged in between.

  She’d once worn the off-the-shoulder dress of a saloon girl.

  He’d never considered her the immoral woman folks had accused her of being. She may have drawn the line further than she should have when she’d taken on the job, but when she’d established that line, it was more like a moat. In a town dominated by love-sick men and a stop along the way for love-starved cowboys, she could have made a fortune selling herself. But she didn’t. And no man dared ask her twice.

  Nate had never asked her once. Her self-respect relied on her virtue, and he couldn’t take it away from her. By not taking her virtue from her, he’d only grown to admire her more. I’ll never stop loving you, Hattie. Doing so would mean giving up all the good that was ever in him. There were times she made him the man he wanted to be.

  There was always good in Hattie, and there’d always be. For the Reverend to have tricked someone as astute as her, he was as good at acting as he was at shooting, because Hattie would never take part in such a deception.

  Hattie, I know you can fend for yourself against anything. If she knew what she was fending herself against.

  He glanced in the direction that would take him back to a safe but lonely life. Then he glanced toward a town haunted with memories. His hands trembled a warning to stay away from Ramsden. But he tucked them under his arms and began to walk toward the lion’s den.

  8

  Hattie put her pies in the oven, wiped some sweat off her brow, and hung her potholder on a nail head. She heaved a sigh at the kitchen bench encrusted with dough, potato peels, and chicken bones. Since Nate had come back and offered her a way out, pie baking was beginning to feel like less of a job and more of a drudge. She looked down at her faded dress and remembered that, for some reason, Nate had always cared about what she wore.

  She sat in a rocking chair, knowing she should be spending this time patching a hole in the henhouse. But while her pies were baking, she took some time to rock and remember a time back when her dresses weren’t so modestly high on the neck.

  ~*~

  “So, where’re you headed off to, Nate?”

  “I’ll be back in a week or two.”

  Achy didn’t begin to describe how each passing day felt without seeing him. Hoping to see him walk into the saloon, she’d look at the scarred door that cooped her up seven days a week. One week without seeing him felt like a year. Two weeks passed, and she found it difficult to smile for the belching, sweating customers who smelled more sour than the horse droppings they brought in with them on their boots.

  Then two weeks and one day too long passed. Had some other woman taken him away?

  He was a gentleman, always clean shaven and neatly dressed. He never cussed, not even the time his horse stepped on his foot. And with his wavy blond hair, chiseled jaw, and blue eyes he was finer looking than any man she’d ever seen. He looked more like a picture of Eros she’d once seen in a mythology book. And he was smart as a whip.

  Why would he want to marry you, Hattie Brown? You’re nothing but a two-bit saloon gal who doesn’t even own a proper dress. The yellow dress, the one she wore the most because it was her best, had four faded red and green plaid patches on it. Plaid and yellow. It mixed as well as her and Nate.

  Two weeks and two days passed. She spent a quiet day staring at the door.

  That evening brought in the regulars and more than the usual share of men passing through and stopping at the only saloon in town. It also brought in a stranger who decided he liked the bar stool one of the locals was sitting in. The stranger grabbed old Malachi by the scruff of the shirt and threw him off.

  While Malachi, a peaceful and cockeyed old goat, limped over to another stool, Hattie eyed the stranger. He was a bull of a man looking for trouble, so she coined him Mr. Trouble. She knew the type. Someone who had to prove with his fists that he was bigger than everyone else because he was too stupid to judge he was a head taller and a belt notch wider. She also knew it wasn’t wise to get that sort too drunk because they only got meaner.

  But the man came in with a bulging pouch of money he’d set on the bar—and Hattie’s boss caught sight of it. She didn’t want to talk sweet to a man who’d done that to Malachi, but flirting with men to buy drinks so Boss could get their money was her job. Or part of it, anyway. Keeping peace in the saloon and seeing to it that the mirror didn’t get busted was the other half of her responsibility.

  Although a mirror made the place look nicer, its real purpose was for the staff to keep an eye on customers in case they drew a gun or started tearing up the place—and why Boss invested so much money in one. In fact, he had invested such a fortune in it, neither Hattie nor the bartender dared to put a smudge on the glass or even touch its ornate walnut frame.

  The doors swung open again. Her heart fluttered.

  Nate!

  After two and a half weeks, he’d come back all duded up in a suit, vest, and tie. He carried a fancy box with him.

  She wanted to run to him, but Boss caught her attention and jerked his head, signaling her to flirt with Mr. Trouble.

  She slung her arm around Mr. Trouble’s shoulder but kept her eye and smile on Nate as he walked through the crowd, over to the only empty table, and set the box on it. With a smirk, he crossed his arms. He’d wait as long as it took until she could come around to him—and see what was in the box.

  She wanted to get rid of Mr. Trouble quickly, so she called to the bartender, “Mel, set us up with two glasses of your best whisky.” Then she said to Mr. Trouble, “Think you’re man enough to drink dollar-a-glass whisky?”

  Mel planted two glasses on the bar, one filled with their best whisky, and for Hattie, a glass of water mixed with sarsaparilla to color it amber. She hoped Mr. Trouble’s money ran out before his thirst did.

  He thrust back his head and downed the shot.

  Mel was busy catering to the cranky, thirsty crowd while Boss stood on the sidelines socializing.

  She poured Mr. Trouble another expensive whisky and took care of some of Mel’s orders as well. But all the while she kept looking over at Nate and at the box he’d brought in, all tied up pretty with ribbon. If the box was that fancy, what could possibly be inside?

  “Hattie, get me another whisky.” Mr. Trouble again.

  Boss cast her a narrow-eyed threat. “Keep him drinking,” he mouthed. Once a man left town, so did Boss’s chance of getting all his money.

  She went around the bar and as she poured another, she watched Mr. Trouble’s head wobble in the mirror. Then she smirked as she looked down into a glass of the same whisky everybody else was paying twenty-five cents for.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Mr. Trouble barked at Malachi.

  She quickly slid by his side and breathed into his ear, “You’re the kind of man a gal hankers for. Look at you, so tall and strong.” It calmed him. It worked on all the Mr. Troubles.

  She sighed at Nate, still waiting, still without a drink, but looking content just to watch her. Watching him watching her made her smile back.

  Boss didn’t like her smiling at Nate. He jerked his head toward another customer to keep her busy. But the moment she left Mr. Trouble’s side, he riled up again.

  “I said, stop looking at me like that.” He flung a stool over the bar toward the mirror.

  Hattie’s heart throbbed in her throat as Mel handed her the stool Mr. Trouble had thrown. A bead of sweat trickled down Mel’s brow, but it wasn’t there for his sake. It was there for hers. If something happened to that mirror…

  She set the stool down where it belonged, but it took a moment longer to calm her nerves. “What’s th
e matter with you?” she demanded of Mr. Trouble.

  “I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.”

  She followed Mr. Trouble’s glare to cockeyed old Malachi. “For Pete’s sake,” she said, “the man can’t help it. He’s got one eye looking this-a-way and one eye looking that-a-way, so it doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re standing because he always looks like he’s got one eye on everybody everywhere.” She planted her hands on her hips.

  Mr. Trouble was nothing but a big man itching for a fight, and Malachi had the misfortune of being singled out.

  She’d liked to have kicked him out, but Boss wouldn’t have allowed it. So she did what she could to keep the peace. With the tip of her finger, she turned the man’s head from Malachi’s crazy eyes toward hers. “How about you look at me instead?” She winked at him and his eyes lighted up in his broad, bearded face.

  She went behind the bar to get beers for a table of customers who were cussing at the bartender for moving too slowly. “Here you go, boys. And for waiting so long…” She gave each a thrill by taking a kiss-like sip from their mugs.

  She kept distracting Mr. Trouble from Malachi by winking at him. She earned everyone else’s attention and some wolf calls by swaying her hips. It gave her and Mel the opportunity to get the drinks everyone had been clamoring for until everybody was happy. And that gave her a chance to do what she’d been hankering for.

  “Here you go.” She set a glass in front of Nate and sat in the chair across from him. She pulled her black hair forward on her shoulder knowing he liked it that way. She nodded toward the box. “Who’s that for?”

  His cheeks dimpled. “You know who it’s for.”

  Her face heated. He was the only man who’d ever made her blush. “What are you buying me presents for? Are you trying to buy my affections?” She gave him a half smirk, because he knew better. Hattie Brown may have flaunted her wares, but they weren’t for sale.

  “Are you going to see what’s inside?” he said. “Or just admire the box?”