“You haff lived here long?” Annalisa wanted to know. From the handshake, she moved in closer, pressing her substantial bosom in its crisp white muslin against his upper arm. She was a pretty girl, in a robust, hearty sort of way, and probably, he was beginning to suspect, a determined one.
“I don’t live here. Just passin’ through, and stopped by t’ visit with my brother and family.”
“Oh, you must need reason to stay,” she suggested. And then giggled. The force of which sent every iota of her flesh, exposed and not exposed, quivering with mirth.
Paul, looking faintly alarmed, was trying to tactfully extricate himself. “Uh—”
“There you are, Paul,” realized Caroline, emerging from the side door as if she had been searching for him for hours. “Hello, Annalisa. What a glorious morning it is! And welcome to our congregation.”
“Vy, thank you so much, Mrs. Yancey.” A slight note of annoyance for the interruption had crept into Annalisa’s robust voice.
“I know you’ll excuse my brother-in-law,” Caroline swept on in great good humor, “but he promised to take the littlers off on their very own picnic, just the four of them, and Delilah has already gone home to prepare a basket. Go along with you then, Paul, and please don’t be gone too long.”
Gratefully Paul slunk away, leaving Caroline behind to bear the brunt of serving as a minister’s wife. That woman was a treasure, indeed. And he didn’t mean Annalisa.
The worst part of that deal was that he actually did have to take the three littlers on a picnic. Caroline wasn’t about to have her word disputed, not when she had made such extravagant promises.
So, heaving a forlorn sigh, he had dragged himself off in the company of human beings that he regarded as not much more than an alien species. What did you do with children—girl children, at that? What did you talk about? How did you treat them?
As it turned out, all four of them had the rip-roaring time of their lives. While they feasted from Delilah’s provisions of fried chicken and biscuits, Paul recounted adventures of the outlaws he had helped capture, and the violent end to which some of them had succumbed. Who knew that young females would be so bloodthirsty? Finished, they had flown a kite into the wind and scattered for flower-picking.
Paul’s next encounter with the redoubtable Annalisa occurred the following day.
With no ministerial obligations requiring his attention, Nathaniel had decided some physical exercise would be in order. Not only in response to that teasing remark about extra pounds being added to his frame—which did, admittedly, rankle just a bit—but also as one of many household chores that should be taken care of.
Therefore, the brothers had set off for the far edge of the bordering field, where, over years, fallen trees and mossy dead timber had collected. Kindly parishioners often took it upon themselves to cut and stack firewood for the parsonage’s ever-ravenous kitchen stove and several hearthsides, but today the good Reverend was just in the mood to do some of that labor himself. Might as well take advantage of another Yancey’s muscles, as well.
For a couple of hours, the solid thunk of hand axes and hatchets biting into hardwood echoed across the lot. Along with an occasional mild “Dang it all!” from the spiritual brother (the catapult of a large wood chip slicing across one cheek, sharp as an arrow’s bolt) and a blistering string of oaths from the secular one (a bounce-back from the axe head onto a boot, and the foot inside).
It was a warm and humid almost-summer day; between that, and the heat of exertion, eventually both men shed their shirts to keep up with the work. For the Reverend, that meant stripping down to a lightweight cotton undergarment. For the journalist, that meant stripping down to the waistband of his trousers.
Which was the scene Annalisa Meierling happened upon. Deliberately, as it would turn out.
“Ach, you are so busy!” she marveled, approaching through a flurry of shavings and sawdust.
“Look out there!” cautioned Paul sharply at her advance.
Luckily for her, she heeded his warning in time to avoid the small tree that came crashing down not five yards from where she stepped. “Verdammt,” Annalisa cried out, surprised. “Vas close call, yah?”
“Coulda been closer.” Since she was still new to the community, and apparently to the realm of common sense, Paul bit down on a flash of temper. “Somethin’ we can do for you, ma’am?”
The buxom Teutonic lovely watched with avid interest as he reached for the shirt draped over a nearby bush in order to dry his face. One could almost see her mouth watering while she took in the stunning array of might and sinew, sturdy shoulders, and wide hairy chest, all arrayed in a wrapping of naked, sweat-sheened skin.
“Miss Meierling?” Nathaniel, who had also paused, prodded her gently.
“Uh. Oh.” Jerked back into awareness, she turned with a beaming smile. “Mama sent me, Pastor Yancey. To ask, vould you and the Missus Pastor come along to supper, one night?” A swift turn again to add, “And you, too, Mr. Yancey. Vould be remiss, did I not invite you, also.”
Paul’s startled gaze flew to his brother, in a communication of helplessness anyone could read.
“Well, now, that’s mighty kind of your maw.” Again Nathaniel entered the breach, leaning upon the axe handle to survey their visitor. “Dunno how much longer this rapscallion here is gonna be gracin’ us with his presence, but we’ll surely see what we can work out. Didja have a partic’lar day in mind?”
He could be forgiven if he felt somewhat left out of the conversation, since the young lady was speaking to him but eying his brother as if he were the only dessert in a bake shop window and she a starving patron. “Ach, at your convenience, Mama said. But—soon, gut?” she finished up hopefully.
Annalisa lingered for a few more optimistic minutes, until she realized that the men really did wish to return to their labors, without her presence to hinder. After that, her disappointed departure had Nathaniel staring thoughtfully as she meandered away.
“Knew someone like that once,” he murmured, once she was out of earshot.
“Like what?” Irritated, Paul was chopping hard and fast to lop off the small branches from a larger one. With the range of his motion, and the force of his blows, he was apparently planning to produce toothpicks.
“Dreamin’ up things she shouldn’ta. Persistent as hell, too.”
“Why, Reverend!” said Paul in mock horror. “When was this?”
“Right after I got here, a year ago. Pesky woman. Made things miserable for a while.”
“Oh, yeah?” A cessation of the whack and hack to peer up, curious. “Hard t’ imagine you with some gal tailin’ after you. Howdja get rid of her?”
Mischief sent sparks glinting in the Reverend’s dark eyes. “Had her excommunicated from the fold.”
When fortune smiles upon one individual, another is often slighted.
In this case, it was the derring-do journalist so favored, while the hapless blonde was left out in the cold.
A letter arrived from Ezra Ferguson. Signed by Ezra, anyway; apparently written by son Teddy. It began with an acceptance of the business proposition presented by Paul Yancey, included a detailed list of necessary supplies to be provided (and their accompanying prices), and closed with a suggested meeting three days hence at the Ferguson operation in Carson City.
“Whoo-Hoo!” crowed Paul, perusing this several times before passing it over to his brother to read. Not only plans coming into fruition, but a quick and entirely logical escape from the determined Miss Meierling, besides.
“Well, looks like things are startin’ t’ shape up for you.”
The men were sprawled on the front porch, taking some well-earned late afternoon leisure time. Both were enjoying glasses of fresh cool lemonade thoughtfully provided by a loving Caroline and carefully served by the sticky-fingered little Hollie. The day had been productive, with a good quantity of wood cut into kindling, transported by small wagon to the rear of the house, and ranked almost to
the height of the rafters.
“May as well keep your arrangements all in the family, Paul; t’morrow we’ll head on over t’ the Templeton Livery—owned by my brother-in-law and kin—and see about gettin’ you a coupla horses for this excursion.”
“And then a visit t’ your local emporium. Need t’ lay in provisions of my own, b’fore I set off for the south.” Paul, dark eyes alight, could feel excitement mounting at the prospect of once again climbing into a saddle to head off into the wilderness. Ah, adventure…in contrast to the humdrum of routine daily life.
Nathaniel studied his brother with fond amusement. “You got yourself an itchy foot, son,” he observed.
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re all made different enough that—”
A sudden howl from under his chair had Paul almost leaping out of it.
“Godalmighty!” he yelped, swiping down at whatever beneath him had made that unearthly noise, to chase it away. A swipe back, with claws extended, left several long scratches oozing scarlet drops across the back of his hand, and he was forced to subside. “Jezebel! Damn it t’ hell, I mighta known. What the goldarn blue blazes is this animal, anyways?”
Laughing, Nathaniel lay back, laced his fingers together across a comfortable middle, and relished watching this novice cope with what he himself coped with, on a daily basis. “Jezzy is a cat who dreams of bein’ a giant ferocious dog. And, let me tell you, Paul, after what she did last year, that feline can have her own way in just about anything she pleases around here.”
Still grumping as he examined the wound dealt his good writing hand, Paul wanted to know the story behind that statement. “What exactly did she do?”
“Saved little Hollie’s life.” And Nathaniel proceeded to relate, with a great deal of gusto, the details involving the child’s rescue.
Briefly his brother’s gaze shifted from the Reverend to the porch, the front yard, and the dusty lane beyond, almost in wonderment at finding everything still in normal order. Finally, shaking his head, he muttered, “Man, this is one screwball household you’re runnin’ here.”
Next morning, after this temporary respite, Nathaniel needed to delve once more into The Little Chapel affairs. That meant attending—and refereeing—a somewhat fractious meeting of the church council, some of whom wanted to beautify the Memorial Garden, some of whom didn’t want to spend the money; a short visit to one of the eldest parishioners, now sadly ailing; a counseling session scheduled for the mayor’s starry-eyed daughter and the weak-chinned young man she intended to marry. Since he would be tied up until mid-afternoon, he suggested that Paul should hitch horse to carriage and meander on down to Slydell’s Dry Goods and Mercantile, to put together whatever supplies would be needed.
“May I help you, sir?”
Paul turned from a confusing perusal of cotton shirts folded and stacked upon a table. “Sure can. Lookin’ for—” he consulted his list, “—uh. Well. Lotsa stuff.”
“May I, sir?” The shop clerk, aproned, accommodating, and helpful, reached out for the crumpled sheet of paper upon which Paul had so carefully compiled his tally of items.
“M’h’m. Flour, sugar, salt and pepper, saleratus, beans and bacon, coffee—no tea?” A pause, and a smile.
“Nope. Not much of a tea drinker.”
“Rice, dried fruit, pack of medicines for first aid, sewing kit…” The smile broadened, with a curious upward glance. “Looks like the outfit for a camping trip.”
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” Paul brightened at the thought. “Headin’ south in a day or two.”
“Are you? And evidently you plan to be gone for a while.”
He shrugged. “Hard t’ tell, at the moment. Can I get me a good Winchester here, and ammo?”
“Oh, by all means. Slydell’s prides itself on offering anything the discriminating buyer might want. Do you—um—plan on returning to this area, once the camping bug has been taken care of?”
Now it was Paul’s turn to smile. And a discerning, charming smile it was, one of his best that encouraged imps to dance in his dark eyes and anchored a dimple into one cheek. “Well, now, I might have to, just t’ stop back at the store and say hello. My name is Paul Yancey, been here visitin’ my brother Nate for a short spell.” A brief, firm handshake to seal the deal.
“Mr. Yancey. I’m Norah Slydell.”
“Miss Slydell. Related t’ the owner, are you?”
She straightened, flashing her own set of dimples, in a whimsical way. “You might say that. I am the owner.”
“Do tell?” Deliberately slouching against the counter, he exercised the good ol’ Southern boy appeal that came with such unconscious ease. “Well, then, I reckon you surely would have just about everything I might want. Too bad I didn’t stop in here, first thing when I arrived.”
“Definitely too bad,” Miss Slydell agreed, with a touch of wry. “But maybe that can be rectified, once you return. Will this be travel for the fun of it all, Mr. Yancey?” as she glanced once again at his meticulous list.
“Partly. With some work at the end.”
By force of habit a private person, who kept information close to himself, Paul decided, What the hell? No harm in describing what he was up to. The job would be finished and sent off for publication before any word could leak out anyway. So, briefly, he described the work he did, and what he was up to.
“Catamount Clemens?” she frowned. “I’ve heard of him. Quite an outlaw, from all the stories going around. But I thought he was dead?”
“No, ma’am. Not unless the gentleman who contacted me is an imposter.” Paul offered his trademark grin.
Attractive, capable, and not too long in the tooth, Miss Slydell began to move efficiently and energetically through the aisles, assembling his order. Along with all the foodstuffs, she gathered together a glass bottle of her best whiskey, cooking utensils of cast iron skillet and Dutch oven, tin plates and cups and cutlery, an enamel coffee pot, matches and candles, a canteen, soap, a small shovel, a hatchet, bedding, and various other sundries.
Paul paid the whopping big bill without a word of complaint. If all these supplies actually helped him to not only locate Mr. Catamount Clemens but also to shake free the story of a lifetime, then it would be well worth every penny he had spent.
After a gracious tip of his hat to the lovely lady proprietor, and a promise to return in the near future, Paul started hauling his supplies outside, ready for transport. One of the male clerks came forward to help carry.
It wasn’t until he had finally managed to cram everything into the overloaded carriage that he realized Miss Slydell’s rich brown eyes and svelte figure had suckered him into two extra flannel shirts, a second glass bottle of brandy, and a perfectly unnecessary small wooden box of loose tea.
III
Early morning found Paul riding out of Virginia City, pointed southwest toward Carson City. With his brother’s friendly advice, he had purchased two horses outright from Andy Templeton: a rangy chestnut quarter horse, aptly named Weedy, and Bianca, a sturdy, patient mare who bore the weight of well-distributed packs as if this loading were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it had been.
Delighted to be out and on the move again, Paul sucked in a lungful of fresh piney air, far enough away from the Virginia City mines to be free of dust, and relished the beauty of his surroundings. From the vast azure sky overhead to the thickly grassed earth underfoot, he could enjoy what was here, country still mostly untouched by man.
Amazing what a mess humankind was making of the planet: boring great giant holes deep into the earth, pouring sludge and slag into once pristine waterways, sending fire and clotted smoke far into the heavens. A fella needed to get away from all that, once in a while, and live as nature intended.
A trot took them through the flat plains, dotted by fragrant sage and bitterbrush, then a slower walk to climb up rising hills where ponderosa towered over shorter yew and silver fir. From the crest, he could see off in the distance a small lake, glitt
ering in the sun.
He had thought to affect an easy leave-taking from the parsonage, with a casual hug from its residents and a lighthearted wave farewell.
Not at all. Instead of sleeping to a normal rise-and-shine hour—say, seven o’clock, or so—the littlers had sprung out of bed shortly after he himself had crept from his room. And they had pounced like a tiger on its prey.
“You ain’t goin’ already, are you, Uncle Paul?” one had whined, twining around his leg.
“You wasn’t even gonna tell us goodbye?” another had pouted, grabbing his boot.
“You gotta give us all kisses and promise t’ bring us stuff,” threatened the third, holding onto his arm. Emmie, of course: the eldest and most ferocious.
Was ever a man so beset? He had managed to make his way to the breakfast table laden down by small flossy-haired cherubs and pleading silently for rescue from any passerby.
Nathaniel, running into the crew in the hallway, only grinned. “No quick escape, eh, son?”
Paul had the grace not to let out a string of oaths in the pastor’s house, in the children’s presence. He suspected, however, given the glint of mirth in Caroline’s eyes, and the deliberate control of Delilah’s mouth, that this behavior was not beyond the norm.
Eventually, after a substantial breakfast, he was sent on his way with sticky smooches and extravagant demands from the littlers, a warm and wonderful embrace from his sister-in-law, a cordial back-slap from his brother, and a cotton bag of cinnamon rolls from the housekeeper. All had wished him well; all had extracted his pledge to return as quickly and safely as possible.
Reminiscing now, as a red-tailed hawk wheeled above and a number of vireos exchanged insults in the thicket, Paul smiled. Family. It was good to have family. And health. And prospects. And the feel of a strong sturdy horse beneath your saddle.
Reaching the Carson River, named by John C. Fremont after the famous mountain man himself, took him closer to the city. But, once in the area, he paused for a slow, deliberate scan around. Now, this was God’s country. Shades of blue and green, with tipples of purply-white at mountain peaks, as far as the eye could range. He’d bet there was plenty of good hunting and fishing roundabout.
A Western Romance: Paul Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 8) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 3
