A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  Ben moved to the edge of the sofa, set his forearms on his knees, and listened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Remington coming down the stairs. It did not seem that Ridley had heard him. Ben waved him off, and without a word passing between them, his brother turned and quietly started back up.

  “Is he gone?” she asked.

  So she had heard him. “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ben took a breath, released it slowly. “Ridley, I am—”

  “Not now. You can say anything you like later, but not just now. I want to finish.”

  Though he knew she couldn’t see him, he nodded anyway.

  “I’m aware that I had advantages not available to many other women, but my sister had those same advantages and chose another path. While I aspired to become a doctor, she aspired to become a doctor’s wife. I don’t think less of her for that. What I am trying to tell you is that it was her dream, not mine. I had a different future planned, and it did not include being someone’s wife. So, no, I didn’t often think about marriage. I was single-minded in the pursuit of my own happiness. I had to be. But it’s occurred to me since coming here that perhaps I was also shortsighted. What I could not conceive of on that train ride or any time before has lately been tickling my imagination.”

  Ben did not respond immediately, waiting to hear if she had more to say. When she didn’t speak, but remained turned to the window, he said, “How do feel about that?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know what that means. Are you indifferent? Unhappy? Have you no words?”

  Ridley swiped at her eyes before she turned around to face him. Her back was not as stiff as it had been earlier; her arms were at her sides. “When have you known me not to have words?”

  Ben was encouraged that the shape of her mouth hinted at a smile. “It happens. Not often, but it happens. The kiss that Remington mentioned earlier? It happened then.”

  It was true; the kiss had struck her dumb. She conceded the point with a slight nod.

  “Ah.” He threaded his fingers and regarded her candidly. “Are you going to tell me straight, Ridley? I figure I understand it’s marriage that’s been tickling your imagination, but you haven’t said how you feel about it.” He watched her expression turn pensive and wondered if she would speak at all or if she would tuck every one of her thoughts away.

  “Uncomfortable,” she said at last. “Or maybe it’s simply that it doesn’t make me feel easy. Did you ever wade into a lake or a river and the bottom is beneath your feet and then it isn’t? It’s like that. You know the bottom will fall away, you just don’t know when, and the anticipation is exciting and frightening and you want it to be over but not really.”

  “I guess I know why you shrugged.”

  Her short laugh was rife with self-mockery. “I guess you do, but do you understand that what’s been tickling my imagination isn’t just marriage and the notion that I could be someone’s wife?”

  “It isn’t?” He hadn’t just swallowed hard, had he? Ben felt as if he should clear his throat or pull his collar away from his neck. He manfully resisted the urge.

  Ridley shook her head. “No, it isn’t. What’s been tickling me is the realization that someone could be my husband. It’s merely a shift in perspective, but it means there are possibilities I couldn’t see before.”

  Ben considered that. His collar did not feel quite as tight. “A shift in perspective. Yes, I see how that could change things.”

  “So?” she asked.

  “So?” he echoed.

  “So you’re going to marry me, aren’t you?”

  “Well, sure, but . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “But . . .” she prompted.

  “I reckoned I’d still be the one proposing.” He shrugged a little helplessly when she gave him an eyeful. “Yeah, well, the new century isn’t here yet and I like it under the rock.”

  Ridley sighed, but her smile was indulgent. “So much work to be done.”

  Ben stood and walked over. She stepped easily into his embrace. “That work you mentioned,” he said. “You were talking about me, not the wedding.”

  “I was.” She looked up at him, met his eyes. “That doesn’t appear to trouble you.”

  “Hell, no. I’m relieved. Ellie will take care of the wedding. We only have to show up.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Colt Frost slithered down the stairs on his belly, a descent that was a far cry from his galloping climb. “Uncle Ben,” he said in a whisper suitable for the stage. “Uncle Ben!”

  Ben took his time lifting his head. Ridley gave him no indication that she was eager to break the kiss. Her lips moved softly under his. The hum he felt against his mouth was the sound of pure pleasure. When Ben finally responded to his nephew, he didn’t shift his attention from Ridley’s face. He couldn’t. She was glowing.

  “What is it, Colt?”

  “Pa wants to know if he can come down now. I’m a spy. You want me to tell him there’s kissing?”

  Ben was less amused than Ridley. He put a finger to her lips as she chuckled under her breath. “You can tell him to come down.” He winced as Colt hollered up the stairs.

  “Uncle Ben says you can come down, Pa. There was kissing, but now there ain’t.”

  “Isn’t,” said Ben.

  “Isn’t,” said Ridley.

  “Isn’t,” said Remington from the top of the stairs.

  Their correction had no effect. Colt slithered to the bottom and jumped to his feet. “Mrs. Rushton! That’s cookies I smell, ain’t it?” Then he was running at a full gallop toward the kitchen.

  Remington was still shaking his head when he reached the front room. “My son’s too young to appreciate our grammatical chorus.”

  Ben noticed there was no cookie dough in Remington’s hair. He would like to have seen some of that. “Phoebe and Winnie doing well?” he asked, stepping away from Ridley. He gestured to her to proceed to the sofa and then sat beside her.

  “Both are doing very well. I moved the rocker from the bedroom where Colt was sleeping to your bedroom. Mother and daughter like it there.”

  “Good. I wish I’d thought of it.”

  Remington dropped into a chair. He looked from his brother to the doctor and raised an eyebrow. “Put things right, did you? I don’t think I could slide a slip of paper between you now.” When Ben looked at him sharply, he said, “I’m asking because Phoebe wants to know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ridley pressed her elbow lightly into Ben’s side. “You can put her mind at ease. Tell her that we did indeed put things right.” She looked askance at Ben. “For now.”

  Remington put out a hand to ward off the response that his brother was about to make. “Save it for the battle worth fighting, Ben. Everything else is a waste of your breath.” Now it was Ridley who gave him a look every bit as sharp as Ben’s. “My advice is the same for you. Take it or don’t, just keep in mind that I said it.” He smiled amiably. “Can we talk about what happened when you were at the Salts’? What I have to tell you is that Phoebe is going to acquire a handsome weather vane for our roof and some kind of elaborate wind spinner for the garden. Jeremiah swears it will scare the crows away. Neither came cheap.”

  “I’ll reimburse you,” said Ben.

  “Not necessary and not my point.”

  Ridley seized on a moment of silence to explain what she observed while she was with Lily Salt. She left nothing unsaid so that Ben was finally able to fill in the gaps in her earlier telling. When she was done, she sat back and awaited their reaction.

  Remington said, “You had the measles, Ben. I remember because I had them at the same time. So did most of the men working at the ranch back then.”

  “That’s what you have to say?”

  Remington shrugged. “I thought i
t was important. If I didn’t know that you’d had them, I couldn’t let you anywhere near Winnie. She probably would not survive measles and you would not survive knowing you carried them into the house.”

  Ben paled as the consequences were borne home to him. In an odd way he felt as if his brother had just saved his life. “Thank you, then,” he said quietly. “It was important.”

  “So is what’s happening to Lily. Can’t you do anything, Ben? Maybe put the Gordon brothers together in one cell and give the other to Jeremiah.”

  “What law has he broken that his wife will support? She denies everything. You heard Ridley. She doesn’t know how Lily was hurt. There is a great deal she can infer from their conversation, but that will not stand with the judge. You know Judge Miner as well as anyone, better than most. What I know is that he plays fast and loose at the card table and never at the bench. Am I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “In the eyes of the law, this is a matter between a husband and a wife. It would be a difficult case for a lawyer to make on Lily’s behalf even if she did swear out a complaint. Not every judge is inclined to find for the wife. Ridley tells me there’s a new century on the way and I’m still living under a rock. You’re a lawyer. Do I really have to explain to you that these laws are living under there with me?”

  Remington shook his head. “No. I know that’s how it is.”

  Ridley rubbed her temple where a headache was beginning to take form. “We can’t protect her from Jeremiah, and we can’t save her from herself. There’s really nothing to be done. We can rail against it, but laws change after attitudes change. I don’t think Lily has that much time. The new century won’t be here fast enough for her.”

  Ridley rose. “If you will excuse me, I’d like to return home now. I’ll ask Martha to stay here with Colt and help out however she can. I have notes to write. Perhaps a patient came by while I was gone and left a message on my slate. I should attend to that.”

  Ben was already on his feet. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “It’s only a few—” She stopped when she saw Remington arch an eyebrow at her. “Yes. That would be welcome.” And the truth of it was, she meant it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mrs. Rushton climbed the stairs quietly and knocked lightly on Ridley’s door before she entered. Her employer was lying on her side in the bed, mostly covered by a fan quilt in deep hues of blue and green and yellow. Ridley’s stocking feet peeked out at the bottom. The housekeeper eased the quilt down over them.

  “You’re a dear for doing that,” said Ridley.

  Mrs. Rushton jumped away from the bed. “Oh, I surely didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. Dozing more than sleeping. What time is it?”

  “Half past seven. Mr. Frost sent me home, gave me something for my trouble even though I told him it weren’t no trouble, only my pleasure. You don’t have to pay me for today. On account of what he settled on me, you don’t have to pay me for the week.”

  “So he’s generous, is Mr. Frost.”

  “To a fault. I was preparing to leave when the sheriff asked me to look in on you, which was also no bother since I planned to anyway. He said you looked as if you were sickening for something when he left you on your doorstep.”

  Ridley pushed herself upright and leaned back against the headboard. She rubbed her eyes and reached for her spectacles. When they were settled on the bridge of her nose, she said, “I had a headache. That’s what he saw. It’s gone now. I took a powder a little while ago and lay down.”

  “A little while ago? But you were home hours before that.”

  “Yes, but someone left a message on Mr. Winegarten’s behalf that his gout was troubling him, so I went to the Songbird. While I was there, I took out a splinter that was festering in George Hotchkiss’s thumb. Hank Ketchum dropped in and complained rather loudly that he wasn’t hearing as well as he used to. I removed so much wax from his ears that I believe I understand what it means to muck out a stall.” She nodded sympathetically when Mrs. Rushton wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I know. It was like that. Afterward, I walked down to the jail to see how the prisoners were faring. I made Tom Gordon show me his stitches, and gave his brother some medicine to ease his aching chest.”

  “Land sakes, Dr. Woodhouse, you keep going like this and you will be sickening for something. And you, barely recovered from the last bout of whatever it was that ailed you.”

  “On the contrary, it felt very good to be of use. Not being able to do anything is more wearying than seeing a dozen patients. And Mr. Winegarten offered me space at the back of the saloon where I could see patients. Can you imagine?”

  “Mark my words, that man wants you at his beck and call. You’d be good for his business, and he knows it. Now, is there anything I can do for you before I leave? There’s a quart of vegetable soup if you want to warm it. Turnips, carrots, celery, and some onion. It will put a pleasant heat in your belly. I used one of the soup bones and some lean beef to make the stock. Did you notice there are more packages on the back porch?”

  “Yes. When I came in.”

  “Suddenly everyone’s a cat laying a mouse at your feet.”

  “Mm. Perhaps we can think of a less stomach-churning image.”

  Mrs. Rushton produced an ironic lift in her right eyebrow. “So says the doctor who treated a gouty foot, cleaned a festering sore, and mucked out an ear canal.”

  “It’s a fair point.” Ridley offered a guilty, confessional smile. “It’s just that I don’t like mice.”

  The housekeeper’s jaw went slack as she stared at her employer. After a moment, she shook her head and then turned to exit, muttering something about odd ducks. She was already outside the room when she called back. “Oh, and you can expect the sheriff to drop by.” Then she left, grinning ear to ear, as Ridley peppered her with questions that she pretended not to hear.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ben paused to tap snow off the toes of his boots when he walked in his office. He was more than a little comforted to see Hitch posting new wanted notices on the wall. He would not have been terribly surprised to find his deputy relieved of his gun, trussed like an old whore in a new corset, and the prisoners nowhere in sight. He tossed his hat on the desk and pushed his fingers through his hair before he unbuttoned his coat.

  “Do you think you have enough wood in the stove?” he asked. “It’s hotter than Hades in here.”

  “The boys complained about the cold. Not much heat gets back to the cells.”

  “Then open the door.” Ben walked over and did just that. He stuck in his head, looked over the prisoners, and withdrew just as quickly. “I don’t like you calling them boys, Hitch. You’ll start to think of them as less threatening. It’s not a good idea.”

  “All right. Except for the coughing spells, I hardly heard from them. Frankie Fuller carried down their lunch and dinner from the hotel. You’re keeping that boy pretty busy with some paying chores.”

  “Figure it helps him some.”

  Hitch finished tacking up the last poster and stood back to admire his work. “Rearranged them. Thought it couldn’t hurt to look at them in a new way from time to time.”

  Ben nodded. “That’s the second time today someone’s telling me that a new perspective changes everything.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” He picked up the pot on the stove. “How old is this coffee?”

  “Made fresh about an hour ago.”

  Ben poured a cup and sat down, moved some papers around on his desktop. “Anyone come in today? Complaints? Concerns?”

  “Mr. Washburn was here. Wanted to thank you again for what you did at the bank. He says you can expect a letter of commendation from the main branch in San Francisco. They’ll probably send Doc Woodhouse a soup bone.”

  Ben ga
ve him a reproving look.

  “Sorry. It seemed funny right before I said it.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Mr. Salt stopped by.”

  Ben’s head snapped up. “What did he want?”

  “Did you ask him to make you some shackles for transporting prisoners?”

  “I did. That was a while back. I forgot all about it.”

  “I guess he did, too, though that surprised me some. Anyway, he heard about the attempted robbery and the prisoners and it came back to him. He wanted you to know that he’ll have them ready the day after tomorrow. He said something about doing a special request for Mr. Frost.”

  “He is.”

  The wanted notices fluttered as Hitch dropped to the bench below them. “You know, Sheriff, you can mail order things like shackles and cuffs nowadays. I can get you a catalog.”

  “I’m satisfied with Jeremiah’s work. I know what I’m getting.”

  “Lots of choices in the catalogs. Might be that there’s something you could use that you ain’t thought of. It can’t hurt to look over what’s available.”

  “So help me, Hitch, if you tell me I’m living under a rock, I will shoot you where you sit.” He was satisfied when his deputy looked sufficiently alarmed. “I’m twenty-nine years old, not eighty-nine.” Ben took a swallow of coffee and scalded his tongue. “Damn. You’ve got the stove so hot, this is boiling and burnt.”

  Hitch started to rise. “I’ll make another pot.”

  Ben waved him back down. “Don’t trouble yourself. I don’t need it anyway.” He pushed his mug to the side and shuffled more papers.

  “At the risk of you threatening my life again, Sheriff, I feel duty bound to say you’re a mite on edge tonight.”

  “Am I?” asked Ben, but he knew Hitch was right. Lily Salt’s situation was like a raspberry seed stuck between his molars. He couldn’t leave it alone and he couldn’t get it out. He kept hearing Ridley’s voice. We can’t protect her from Jeremiah, and we can’t save her from herself. The feeling of helplessness was nearly overwhelming. Ridley had seemed resigned to it. He was not. Not yet. But short of abducting Lily and the children and secreting them away, nothing was occurring to him. Laws change after attitudes change. Ridley had said that, too, and it echoed in his mind. The sound of it should have vanished by now, but it hadn’t. He wanted, no, needed, to see her.