Brother Archer tightened his grip on her shoulder for an instant, then stepped away. “I’ll do what I can.”
But would it be enough?
7
Crockett couldn’t seem to extricate Joanna Robbins from his mind during his ride to Deanville. Every time he started to mentally compose a telegram message for the Brenham elders or review his sermon points, memories of a certain redhead intruded.
The woman was a series of contradictions. His first impression had marked her as a shy, timid creature, yet she defended her father with fiery passion. And when given the chance to solicit help for her mission, she finagled time alone to plead with a stranger. Her wild hair and elfin features were more girlish than womanly when it came to feminine charms; but when her eyes sparked with humor or enthusiasm, her face lit up in a way that made his breath catch. And though she fussed at Jackson Spivey as if he were the bane of her existence, she went out of her way to include him in her birthday supper.
Yep. Joanna Robbins was the kind of woman a man could take his whole life trying to figure out. Not that he was in the market for that kind of puzzle. He had enough to worry about with solidifying his position in Brenham.
Perhaps he could check in on her after he was settled, though. They’d forged an odd sort of friendship, after all, during their brief encounter. Then again, that might prove awkward for whomever she found to fill the pulpit of that old church of hers. Better to focus on the here and now and let tomorrow take care of itself.
Deanville was a tiny place compared to Palestine and Brenham, but it boasted all the necessities of an up-and-coming town—general store, schoolhouse, cotton gin, grist mill, saloon, and two churches. He wondered which of the two was shepherded by the preacher who’d left Joanna’s church.
Crockett dropped his horse off at the livery and paid for its board, instructing the stable hand that the animal would be collected by someone from the Lazy R in a day or two. Then, after untying his travel bag, which Joanna’s father had returned to him with a belligerent glare, he solicited directions to the telegraph office.
Crossing to the opposite side of the road, Crockett sidestepped a farmer hefting a pair of feed sacks into a wagon bed and tipped his hat to a middle-aged woman carrying a market basket who’d halted to stare at him outside a shop window that read Dean’s Store.
“Ma’am.” He offered one of his most charming smiles. The woman nodded in return, yet he felt her disapproving stare follow him down the street. He was several steps past the store when the rattle of the door and the soft jangle of a bell announced the end of her perusal and the resumption of her shopping.
He probably looked a sight in his rumpled suit coat and dirt-stained trousers. The Lord only knew what the woman must’ve thought of him. A hot bath and change of clothes would work wonders, but they would have to wait. He had to contact the Brenham church.
The telegraph office stood a few yards north of the general store, a tiny shack of a building with wires strung from wooden poles stationed behind it. Crockett entered and strode to the counter. A short man wearing black sleeve protectors sat hunched over a desk, scribbling furiously as the machine beside him clicked out a pattern of long and short signals. When the clicks ceased, the operator tapped back a brief response, then pushed to his feet.
“What can I do for you, mister?” The fellow’s mustache twitched as he talked.
Crockett grinned. “I need to send a wire to Brenham.”
The operator shoved a tablet across the counter to him and reached above his ear to extricate a pencil. “Nickel a word.”
“Thanks.” Crockett wrote out his message, then struck through as many words as possible. He handed the paper back to the operator and tossed a fifty-cent piece onto the counter.
ABDUCTED FROM TRAIN.
RELEASED.
IN DEANVILLE.
WILL ARRIVE LATE TOMORROW.
As the operator scanned the message, his eyebrows arched high onto his forehead. “I done heard about that holdup this morning. The wire’s been buzzin’ with it for hours. You telling me you’re the fellow those bandits took from the train?”
Crockett hardened his gaze. If he answered one question it would only open the floodgate for myriad more. “Just send the telegram, please. To Mr. Lukas Hoffmann.”
“How’d you escape?” The little man leaned his elbows on the counter and stared up at him, nearly salivating in anticipation of a tale Crockett had no intention of telling. Telegram contents were supposed to remain confidential, but something told him this particular operator relished juicy tidbits too much to keep them to himself.
Crockett braced his palms atop the counter near the operator’s elbows and bent his head close enough to growl his response in the man’s ear. “Send the telegram.”
The man jerked backward. “No need to get your dander up, mister. I’s just curious.” He carried the paper back to his desk. “Wanna wait for a reply?”
“I’ll stop back in after I clean up a bit. That is, if you can direct me to a place where a fella can buy a bath.”
“Harold’s Barber Shop, across the street. And the boardinghouse is around the corner if you need a place to hang your hat for the night.”
“Thanks.” Crockett nodded to the operator and turned for the door, his gut telling him that news of his arrival would be all over town before his bathwater cooled.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the little operator with the big mustache really did keep things to himself. Maybe he just wanted to assuage his own curiosity. But as Crockett approached the barber shop, a reflection flashed in the window of a man with dark sleeve protectors scurrying down the street. Crockett sighed. Maybe he better make his bath a quick one.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in his spare trousers and a clean blue chambray shirt, Crockett tucked his soiled suit under his arm and opened the small bathing chamber’s door. A man with a tin star on the lapel of his dark gray coat stood waiting on the other side.
“Evening, stranger.”
“Evening.” Crockett adjusted his grip on his satchel and summoned a smile for the lawman as he stepped past him.
“Thought you might like to share a cup of coffee with me over at the office, so’s we can get better acquainted.” The man didn’t lay a hand on him, but the authority in his voice gave his suggestion the weight of a command.
Crockett slowed his step. “That’s mighty neighborly of you, Marshal, but I’ve had a rather trying day. Perhaps we can visit tomorrow?”
“Won’t take long, son.” The barrel-chested lawman strode forward, firmly took charge of Crockett’s bag, and extricated his clothes from beneath his arm. “Harold will secure a room for you at Bessie’s place and see that your belongings are delivered.” He handed the bag and clothes to the barber, a thin man with heavily pomaded hair. Then he dug out a coin from his vest pocket and pressed it into the barber’s hand.
“Harold, have Miss Bessie clean and press our guest’s suit. On me.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal Coleson. I’ll see to it.” Harold spun around and headed to the front of his shop while the marshal gestured toward a side door.
“After you, mister.”
Out of options, Crockett nodded and moved toward the exit. “Of course.”
Once outside, the lawman steered him back in the direction of the livery, to a stone building boasting an uninviting small barred window high up the south wall. The glass-paned window at the front promised a warmer reception, but Crockett’s chest only tightened as his promise to Joanna ran circles in his mind.
The inside of the marshal’s office was dim but tidy, the man’s desk empty except for an inkstand and a half-finished plate of food. Crockett frowned. The man had left his supper to chase him down. Such a man wouldn’t be easily put off.
“What’s your name, son?” the marshal asked as he dragged a chair from against the wall to a spot nearer his desk.
“Crockett Archer, sir.”
“Brett Coleson.” He offered his han
d and shook Crockett’s with an iron grip. “Have a seat, Archer.”
The man’s age and manner reminded Crockett of Silas Robbins, and an odd sort of recognition filled him as he took his seat. Marshal Coleson moved past him to the stove behind his desk, where a coffeepot sat waiting.
“Thanks for taking care of my laundry,” Crockett interjected into the growing silence. “You didn’t have to do that.”
The lawman filled a chipped crockery mug, set it on the desk in front of Crockett, and then grabbed his own half-full one and splashed in a couple inches of fresh brew to reheat the dregs. “Glad to do it, son. You’ve had a trying day, after all.” The marshal peered meaningfully at him over the top of the pot as he echoed Crockett’s earlier words. “One I’d like to hear more about.”
Crockett grasped the mug’s handle and held it between the desk and his lips. “What would you like to know?”
“Is it true that you’re the man those bandits took from the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe this morning?”
“Yes.”
Coleson lowered himself into his chair and took a swig from his mug as if he had all night to get the answers he sought. “What’d they want with you?”
A rueful grin slid into place on Crockett’s face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Crockett shook his head, then met the lawman’s eye without flinching. “I was supposed to be a birthday present.”
Coleson held his gaze, assessing. Silence stretched, but Crockett didn’t turn away. He left himself as open as possible, hoping to disarm the marshal with his honesty so that the vague answers he’d be forced to give later might cause less suspicion.
Finally Coleson blinked. “You know those fellers?”
“Nope. I was as surprised as anyone when they forced me from the train. I thank the Lord they decided they didn’t need me after all and let me go. I’m supposed to be in Brenham tomorrow.”
“That’s right,” Coleson said, lifting his cup. “The witness accounts said the men were looking for a preacher. Seems like a strange request for a gang of outlaws.”
“Doesn’t it, though? They didn’t even steal anyone’s belongings, even when the passengers offered them up. I tell you, this adventure will make a great tale to add to a sermon. Jesus warned that he will return like a thief in the night. I experienced a thief in the daylight, but it was certainly no less unexpected. Goes to show one must always be ready to meet one’s Maker.”
“I reckon so.” Coleson thumbed his hat back on his forehead. “You hear any names or see any faces you could identify?”
“They wore bandanas over their faces.” Which was true—at least for the first part of the encounter. Crockett worked to change the direction of the conversation before Coleson demanded more details. “I appreciate your thoroughness, Marshal, but I won’t be pressing charges.” Crockett set his mug down, scraped the chair backward, and stood. “The men let me go, and except for a little inconvenience, no harm was done. Besides, what kind of parson would I be if I preached forgiveness from the pulpit but failed to extend it to those who do me wrong?”
“No charges, huh?” Coleson gained his feet, as well, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he saw right through the conversational maneuver. “Well, I guess that’s your right. The railroad might take a different stand, though, so your testimony is still needed.”
“Of course.” Crockett edged toward the door. “I’ll be sure to leave my home address with the boardinghouse proprietress, in case you hear from the railroad.” Praying that would prove sufficient, Crockett lifted a hand in parting. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You know, Archer,” Coleson called out before Crockett could reach the door, “justice is a biblical concept, too. A man is to be held accountable for his crimes. To make restitution. Or don’t you think the book of Exodus applies today?”
Crockett held his face carefully blank, despite the fact that every nerve ending in his body seemed to be sending alarms to his brain.
Marshal Coleson stepped around the desk. “It sticks in my craw when a criminal eludes justice. Reminds me of a gang I chased around Texas the first couple years I served as a Ranger. They were the only outlaws I chased that never gave in to greed. Smart, really, seeing as greed is what leads most thieves to their ruin. They never went after army pay wagons, government shipments, or banks. I’m guessing because they were too well guarded. They seemed content to rob stage passengers and an occasional railcar. And because no one was ever injured in the robberies, most lawmen saw them more as a nuisance than a serious threat.”
He moved closer, his eyes locked on Crockett’s. “They up and disappeared fifteen or so years back. Strange how your kidnapping is suddenly bringing them back to mind.” He raised a brow. “Always bothered me that them yahoos didn’t pay for their misdeeds. Thievin’s wrong, no matter how little is taken.”
“Indeed it is, Marshal,” Crockett hurried to agree. “But remember, though all will be held accountable for their actions on the Day of Judgment, justice is not always achieved through men’s efforts.”
“Mmm,” the lawman murmured noncommittally. “The witnesses had a sense the outlaws you encountered were older men.” Coleson obviously wasn’t ready to let the matter drop just yet. “Gray hair, stiff gaits. What did you obser—”
The door swung open, cutting off Coleson’s question. “Howdy, Marshal.” The telegraph operator rushed through the opening, oblivious to the tension filling the room. Crockett felt like kissing the little weasel—or at least bear-hugging him.
“A reply came from Brenham for you, Mr. Archer. Thought you’d want to see it right away.”
8
Crockett reached for the slip of paper in the operator’s hand and managed to sidle around the fellow, putting the little man squarely between him and the marshal. “You’re a godsend, my friend.” He tossed the operator a coin for his most timely interruption and turned back to Coleson.
“I’m afraid this is rather urgent, Marshal. Would you excuse me?” He reached behind him for the door frame, eager to make his escape.
Coleson crossed his arms over his chest, his expression none too pleased. “You really ought to press charges, Parson. If not for yourself, then for the poor fella they choose to kidnap next time. Do you want his fate on your hands?”
Recalling the way Joanna had taken her father to task over the day’s shenanigans, Crockett felt certain Silas Robbins wouldn’t be attempting any future clerical abductions. The train-riding preachers of the area should be safe.
“Your concern is well-meaning, Marshal, but unnecessary.” Crockett backed fully into the doorway, pleased when the lawman made no move to stop him. “Today’s events were instigated by a misunderstanding that has since been cleared up. These men pose no further threat. Therefore, I insist on extending forgiveness. I’ll not be filing charges. Good day.”
Crockett hesitated a moment longer, but the instant the marshal grunted and waved him off, he dashed through the door and made for the boardinghouse. He stuffed the telegram in his pocket as he went, afraid that if he paused to read it now, Coleson might corner him again. Better to save it for the privacy of his room.
Orange and red streaked the sky to the west, hailing evening’s rapid approach. Crockett lengthened his stride as he rounded the corner where the now-darkened barber shop stood and searched for some kind of a placard to identify the boardinghouse.
The side street only boasted three homes, none of them very large. But the second one on the left had a porch lantern lit. Like a ship seeking safe harbor, Crockett aimed for the welcoming light, hoping his knock wouldn’t disrupt a family’s meal.
A woman tall enough to look him in the eye answered the door. “Yes?”
He doffed his hat. “Evenin’, ma’am. I’m looking for Miss Bessie’s boardinghouse.”
“Ya found it.” She turned and started off down the hall, leaving the door gaping behind her. “Scrape your boots afore ya come in. I
don’t abide no boarders trailing mud on my rugs.” Her voice filtered back to him and smacked him into action like a wooden spoon across the knuckles.
Crockett darted to the edge of the porch. He’d polished his boots yesterday before boarding the train, and except for some dust, they’d survived his adventures relatively unscathed. But he didn’t want to risk offending his hostess, so he gave them an obligatory scrape against the end of a floorboard and then hastened after Miss Bessie, taking care to close the door behind him.
“You’ll be in the west room. Here.” The woman pointed to a doorway on the left of the hall but moved past without stopping. “Harold put your belongings in the room. Parlor’s to the right.”
Crockett barely spared the rooms a glance in his effort to keep up.
“I’m dishin’ up supper now,” she said as they entered the kitchen. “Breakfast’s at six thirty. Food hits the slop bucket at seven, so don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman marched up to the stove and ladled some kind of soup from the bottom of a small pot. As she poured it into a bowl, he thought he smelled chicken. But when she slapped the bowl onto the roughhewn table, all he could identify were a few orange chunks that he guessed might be carrots and a green bean or two. Nothing resembling meat floated in the pale broth.
“I don’t eat with the boarders, so don’t lollygag.” She opened the door to the warming oven and brought out a pan of yeast rolls that smelled heavenly. Man might not live on bread alone, but Crockett suspected the rolls would do more to sustain him through the night than the watered-down soup.
That was unkind. Crockett harnessed the uncharitable thought and forced his mind onto a godlier path.
Miss Bessie hadn’t been expecting company. She’d probably diluted her own small portion in order to share with the guest thrust upon her. He should be thankful for her generosity.
The woman covered the rolls with a dish towel and set them on the table along with a crock of butter. Then spoon and knife clattered beside the bowl. When she finally glanced his direction, it was to singe him with the heat of a perturbed glare.
Karen Witemeyer Page 5
