Divided Heart

by Sheryl Marcoux

  “I’d like to admire the box for a while, if you don’t mind. I’ve never seen anything so fine.”

  “That’s because you’ve never seen yourself from behind my eyes.”

  She looked at his face framed by playful curls and then into eyes as serene as a Texas summer sky. Nate was as appealing as a man could be, yet he’d never overstepped his bounds with her, never acted uncomely. What exactly was he thinking behind those eyes? Was it too much to hope he was thinking the same thing she was but was too afraid to say, because if he didn’t say it back…?

  She looked down. If he didn’t say it back, her heart would cave in on her. “Let’s see what’s in this box.” She tugged the end of a big red bow, lifted the cover off, and what she found inside took her breath away.

  It was the prettiest dress she’d ever seen—red satin with enough fabric on the bustle to clothe every woman from Ramsden to Kansas City. It must have cost him a fortune. “Nate. I…” He was also the only man who’d ever rendered her speechless.

  “It’s a gift for me as well as it is for you,” he said.

  “And why is that?” She recovered her voice enough to tease him. “So you can enjoy ‘the view’ better?”

  “Because that dress you’re wearing has patches on it. I don’t like to see you wearing rags, Hattie. Now go upstairs and put this on.”

  She kissed him and rushed off to put on the new dress.

  She tore off the old, patched dress and put on the new. She looked at her image in the looking glass. “Now ain’t you something, Hattie Brown.”

  The new dress made her look more like a fancy stage singer than the two-bit saloon girl she was. Her smile was as broad as could be. She turned to see what the back looked like and lost her smile.

  It wasn’t what the back of the dress looked like that saddened her; it was what her skin looked like. She tugged the dress so that it covered the gouges and scabby scars she didn’t want Nate to see.

  Looking at the front view again gave her back her smile. She glowed in this dress. She couldn’t wait to show it off to Nate.

  It wasn’t until she headed down the stairs that she realized the five minutes she’d been gone was ten seconds too long.

  Thump. “Quit looking at me that way!”

  Whack. “Leave the man alone!”

  Thud. “Mind your business.”

  Boom. “He is my business.”

  And then came the worst sound of them all.

  Crash!

  Hattie froze in her steps.

  Nate never got to see what the dress looked like on her that night because that was the sound of Boss’s mirror getting busted.

  Boss fired a shot and cleared out the saloon early that night.

  As Mel swept the glass, Boss glared at her. “Get back upstairs, Hattie. I need to have a talk with you about spending too much time with Nate.”

  Those were the words she’d dreaded, because Boss didn’t lash her with his tongue.

  Tears burned Hattie’s eyes as she touched the small of her back. Through the thin cotton she could still feel the scarred gouges Boss’s belt buckle had left behind almost a decade earlier. Beatings Nate never knew about. Beatings he would have saved her from had he asked her to marry him way back when.

  The hand-me-down dresses she now wore came with the house she’d inherited from an old Christian widow who’d taken pity on her. This was how Hattie had gotten out of the saloon and away from Boss, not by marrying Nate as she’d hoped. She’d also inherited, along with everything else the widow had, the recipe for chicken pie.

  A home, a way to make a living, the right kind of clothes to wear. They all witnessed to Hattie who had rescued her in the end.

  You had your chance, Nate. It would have saved her a lot of grief had he taken it.

  9

  Nate walked past thigh-high bushes of snakeweed. His gut warned him to turn back, but his heart urged him toward downtown Ramsden and a solution to warn Hattie about the Reverend. If I can’t tell her that the Reverend isn’t as pious as he appears to be, I know who she’ll listen to.

  Sheriff Breck had always been respected by everyone, and he’d always gotten to the bottom of a matter even when the matter sounded absurd. An old recluse had complained that his house was haunted because coins were disappearing. While everyone laughed, Breck scrutinized the house until he found the ghost to be a thieving packrat. Accusing a fumbling Reverend of being a deadeye would sound just as ludicrous, but Breck was sure to get to the bottom of that matter as well—where he was sure to find another rat.

  The morning sun glared past the narrow rim of Nate’s stylish but impractical derby hat and in his eyes. Blisters on his feet throbbed. Working at a desk inside a building had turned him into a tenderfoot. There was a time when he’d lived out here for months at a time. That, however, was not of his choosing.

  A memory of the year he’d turned fourteen wormed its way through the boredom. He’d been reading when his father walked in on him and snatched the book away.

  “‘How do I love thee?’” His father had quit school in the third grade and read choppily. “‘Let me count the ways.’ What kind of nonsense you reading here, son?”

  “It’s not nonsense. It’s a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

  “Elizabeth? You’re reading a book written by a woman?” His father closed the book. “Books like that ain’t going to do you no good.”

  Nate had made a promise to his teacher. “Miss Clake’s taken sick and she asked me to teach class for her, so-”

  “So she can find one of the girls to do it for her. Get your head out of the clouds. Man’s got to learn how to make a living and that’s why you’re coming on this next cattle drive.” Marcus Powell was the most successful rancher in the county, and once a year he and his hired hands would drive five thousand cattle to the train station in Dodge City.

  “But I don’t want to drive cattle. I want to be a teacher.”

  “I didn’t ask what you wanted to be, son, I’m telling you what you’re going to do.” His father started walking away, which meant the conversation was over. Or almost over. He had one more thing to add. “While we’re out there, I want you to keep a good eye on my point rider. Zachariah’s the same age as you, and he’s as good as they come.”

  A cactus snagged Nate’s sleeve, and he pulled himself free. There was a river nearby, and he abruptly steered off the path for a refreshing drink. But when he returned to the path, thoughts of Marcus were there waiting for him.

  Marcus. Nate wouldn’t call that man “father” again, least of all pay him a visit. Not after where Marcus had sent him, though more than likely, Marcus had simply told everyone that he’d sent Nate back East to live with his aunt.

  Nate snorted. He didn’t live with Aunt Sarah, she just took care of business, and when it was over she gave Nate a stack of letters she’d collected for him while he was “away” as she’d called it.

  There were five years’ worth of letters. The ones from Marcus were postdated the first three years, and then his mother wrote some later. Nate learned that Hattie had moved into that old shack, and that Marcus had promoted Zachariah. Nate tired of reading about cowboys like they were heroes, and lovers of books like they were fools. Sickened by his father’s boasts about how skillful Zachariah was, Nate had tossed the rest of the unopened letters into the fireplace, including the ones from his mother whom he’d assumed wrote on Marcus’s behalf because Nate never wrote back.

  Nate had always been and always would be a failure in his father’s eyes, because the way Marcus measured success was by how well a man could ride and rope and how much he knew about cattle. Marcus made it clear that Zachariah measured up, and Nate never would.

  Nate’s eyes burned. Just one more day in this God-forsaken place. Tomorrow would find him on his way back to the prestigious job, the impressive house, and the elite acquaintances that included him in their parties. But a place he could never call home.

  He looked at the
Texas sky, wide above his head. Massachusetts had an altogether different sky, made smaller by giant oaks and maples. He didn’t look up there often. But although the sky here was familiar, he couldn’t call Ramsden home either. Home was a place that wanted a person. A place that evoked good memories. Home was where someone belonged, and he didn’t belong here. Because Ramsden was where Zachariah belonged.

  Everything. That’s what Zachariah took from him. His father’s love, and then Hattie. Nate hadn’t become engaged to Lillian out of love, but out of revenge. He had attempted to steal her from Zachariah, so that Zachariah would never find happiness.

  ~*~

  Oh no.

  Hattie had gone outside with a hammer, some nails, and a board to patch the hole in the henhouse at the wrong moment.

  “I see you could use some help.” The Reverend seemed always to catch her at her worst—when she was fixing things. But even that wasn’t the worst of it.

  “Be careful of—” Hattie started, but she was too late.

  He tripped over one chicken and staggered over another until they were all in a rumpus, squawking at him. The man was lanky and gangly and it seemed his arms and legs were so long his mind couldn’t keep track of his hands and feet. Then, to top things off, he took the hammer from her.

  “If you hold the nail,” the Reverend said, “I’ll—”

  Before another disaster could happen, she snatched the hammer back. “How about if I swing the hammer and you hold the nail?” She needed her fingers unbroken more than she needed the henhouse fixed. Besides it wasn’t so much to keep the chickens from getting out as it was to keep the foxes from getting in. And even that was questionable, as Hattie’s scarred-up arms attested. Any fox that dared to get near this brood of killer hens would scurry out just as fast as it had scurried in. She disguised her apprehension of doing things the other way around. “You think a woman can’t swing a hammer?”

  The Reverend pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. “I suppose…”

  She laid the board flat on the ground and tapped two nails into either end of it first. Then she put it against the henhouse. “Here. Just hold the board still.” She closed her eyes with frustration.

  He couldn’t even do that right.

  “Your face,” she said. “Either you’ll have to move it to the side, or I’ll smash those eyeglasses of yours.” Which wouldn’t be a loss, since they didn’t seem to do much except make him look like a befuddled owl.

  He focused on the board, as if he had to count every knot in order to hold it there.

  Hattie held her tongue. Intelligence was something to admire in a man—even if the Reverend was more book-learning than common sense.

  He moved his head to the side, and she started hammering. Less than four strikes later, the board he was supposed to be holding steady had slipped out of place. She stopped and politely readjusted it. “Reverend,” she said when she was ready to start hammering again, “please move your face.” She managed to nail in one end of the board, even though it had slipped so that it was slightly askew of the hole. But it was close enough to the place she wanted it—or rather, she was too frustrated to try to correct it—and so it was time to switch places with him so she could nail in the other end. But they kept getting in each other’s way.

  “How about if I…?” He started to move in one direction as she started to move in another. It only resulted in them being entwined with one another, with their faces inches apart.

  He backed away from her and let go of the board he was supposed to be holding.

  It was a good thing she’d managed to attach the one side because it swung vertically.

  “Put your hand here.” She took control by swinging the board back into place and planting his hand on the end that needed steadying. “Now don’t move.” She walked around him. She pulled back the hammer to strike. “You’ve got to move your face out of the way, Reverend.”

  He shifted his face as well as the board.

  She hammered in the nail. “I reckon that just about does it.” If she wanted to save her sanity, she’d better put off patching the henhouse until after he’d left. Then she could get it done right in a fraction of the time it was taking them to do it wrong together. And she still had to get her pies over to Kate’s. “Thank you for stopping by, Reverend. I’ll see you at church Sunday.”

  That was a hint that it was time for him to leave. However, after she sat in the wagon and took the reins, he was still standing there. “Is there something else, Reverend?”

  “We’re not done fixing the hole yet. I—”

  “I could sure use a glass of sarsaparilla. How about if you come to Kate’s with me, and I’ll treat you to a glass to thank you for helping me fix the henhouse?” She didn’t have to worry about the man thinking she was being forward or thinking anything romantic at all. She’d known him for seven years, and they’d never even held hands. He was as romantic as the mumps. She wanted a man who gave her goose bumps. A man like…no, she wouldn’t allow herself to even think his name.

  The Reverend glanced back at the unfinished patch. “But it’s not—”

  “It’s fixed good enough for now, Reverend.” It came out louder than she’d intended. “Now get in.”

  ~*~

  Nate climbed a hill of loose sand made even more hazardous by patches of prickly pears. He’d sneaked into town by a path he’d used only once before—and that was when he’d brought a rifle along to kill Zachariah.

  Nate made his way to the top of the hill where he could see the town buildings below, including the new telegraph office. They’d put in a larger window when they’d rebuilt it after the fire.

  The fire he’d set.

  Memories of that long-ago event stabbed at him. After Lillian had confessed she loved Zachariah, Nate’s lust for revenge escalated into blind rage. Instead of shooting Zachariah, circumstances offered Nate an opportunity for greater retribution when Lillian walked into the telegraph office. Clayton, the telegrapher, had just finished varnishing the walls, and when Clayton left her alone inside, well, the last thing Nate remembered was the flare as he slipped in, lit a match, and set the wall aflame.

  To this day, he didn’t know if Lillian had made it out alive, because he didn’t wake up in Ramsden. He woke up in Independence, Iowa. He clutched his head and fell to his knees in a swirl of turmoil. Until one word brought him back.

  Hattie.

  He stole his way to his last cover, a hedge of prickly pear. He’d have to slide down the hill and then dash across open space before finding cover again behind the town buildings. The sheriff’s office was just across the street, and that would be the end of Nate’s trouble. He’d tell Breck about the Reverend, purchase a horse from the livery, and hightail out of this den of bad memories.

  He peered out at Main Street, quiet but for a few pedestrians. Yes, this would go smoothly. Something stirred some dust—a wagon heading toward town—so he ducked and waited for it to pass. The horse moved as slowly as growing grass. Finally, creaking wheels and whiffs of a horse reached him, and he peered out to see who might be driving it.

  Hattie—and the Reverend.

  Nate wanted to yank that lying sack away from her but forced himself to wait. The solution was moments away. A tapping on his boot caught his attention. He looked down. He was standing in a nest of scorpions.

  10

  Nate leaped away, and a split second later, something flew out of the wagon.

  “I dropped my hat,” the Reverend said to Hattie. “Would you…?”

  Nate scampered back behind the hedge. Had the Reverend spotted him? A man who could shoot as well as the Reverend would have the eyesight of an eagle. Was dropping his hat just an excuse to look around?

  Her voice dripped with irritation as Hattie called out, “Hold on there, Nellie.”

  The wagon below came to a halt.

  The Reverend jumped off. He walked up to his hat and kicked it toward the incline—in Nate’s direction.

  Nate
crouched low. Was I know you’re hiding something written in the sweat that dampened his shirt or whispered in his heavy breathing? Was his heart pounding it out in Morse code?

  A large scorpion crawled onto the back of his hand. He flicked it off before it could sting him. But a dozen more were climbing up. He swallowed as the insects he’d always hated crept up his trousers, their segmented and curled stingers ready to strike. The sting smarted like a branding iron. And the ugly pests made his flesh crawl.

  “Sorry, Hattie, but my hat keeps getting away from me.” The Reverend was still close by.

  All the scorpions were now on Nate. One crawled onto his neck with a prickle, and he held back every muscle itching to spring out and brush it off. A crunch of sand said that the Reverend was just on the other side of the hedge. Another crunch, and Nate and the Reverend were eye to deadly eye.

  Nate’s throat was too dry to swallow. Every drop in his body had turned to sweat.

  “Reverend,” Hattie called. “Did you get your hat back?”

  If you hurt her…

  The Reverend stared at Nate and then plucked his hat off the ground. “I caught up to it. Must have been the wind.” Was that the sound of one outlaw covering for another?

  If it was, Hattie didn’t notice. “Must have been.” Her voice bristled at the frayed end of her tolerance. How could she not see through his foolishness? “Now Reverend, if you’d kindly get back in the wagon, I need to get these pies over to Kate’s.”

  The Reverend released Nate’s glare and then played the clumsy oaf climbing back into the wagon. The lazy thuds of the horse faded away.

  “Ouch!” A scorpion stung him on the neck. Another stung him on the wrist. Nate managed to brush the rest of them off. The stings burned. But not as much as the encounter with the Reverend. Nate’s skin prickled with unease that had nothing to do with insects.

  ~*~

  Hattie halted the horse in front of the wooden building with the big window and the sign that read “Kate’s Eatery.” She had a potential disaster on her hands. To immediately head off the calamity, she jumped off the bench, rushed to the back of the wagon, and grabbed two pies. She gave neither Zachariah nor Clayton enough time to offer their help, because someone else was bound to offer.