by Micki Miller
With two swift steps, Penny moved to take the woman by the hand. Her skin was still damp from working in the kitchen. “No. I mean it, Pearl. I have to start doing for myself. I want to. You were right all along, and not just because of the bits of conversation I heard tonight.”
Pearl winced in a pained expression. “I was hoping those things got by you. This big, old house carries sound where it’s not supposed to go.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Most of those people, Penny, well, they care about you and they’re just concerned.”
“I know,” Penny said, believing her. Only a couple of the comments she’d heard had ill intent. Most did sound as though they were purely worried about her. “I have a lot of thinking to do,” she told Pearl. “You go home now. Be with your husband. I’ll be fine, truly I will.”
After a moment, the older woman gave a reluctant nod and turned to the rack by the door to retrieve her coat.
“And Pearl.”
Pearl twisted around as she slid her arms into her sleeves.
“Papa always knew how lucky we’ve been to have you in our lives.”
Pearl fastened her coat as if giving thought to each button, a noticeable tremble in her hands. When she raised her head, Pearl’s gathering tears seeped into Penny’s heart. Penny flew into the arms of the woman who’d looked after her since she was a little girl, and they held on, each trying to ease the other’s grief. After a moment, Pearl took her by the shoulders and leaned back.
“Your father pampered you, but you’re not spoiled rotten. You’re a good girl and smart, too. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Penny smiled a little, wiping at her own tears. “Thank you.”
“Oh,” Pearl said, pivoting. “Look at me. I forgot to put out the lamps in the parlor. Are you done in there?”
“Yes, but I’ll get them,” Penny said, smiling at Pearl’s wide-eyed reaction. “I’m going to start doing things for myself. I mean it. Lots of things, like cooking. I want to learn how to cook.”
Pearl’s eyebrows shot up.
“You’ve been at me for a long time to learn, and well, as I said, you were right. It’s one of many things I should know.”
Pearl nodded and even smiled a little, looking as proud as she would of her own children. “All right. We’ll start this week. Tomorrow, if you like.”
“Tomorrow is your day off, Pearl.”
“Well, normally, but I thought I should—”
“You stay home with Kenny tomorrow and tend to your own business. In fact, take the next day, too. You’ve worked long and hard today. All of this has been difficult, and you haven’t even had proper time to grieve.”
Pearl shook her head. “Oh, Penny, I don’t think…”
“I insist. No arguments,” Penny said with more strength than she felt. She was trying to feel it, thinking about Coleen’s Aunt Claire and wanting to be as strong as a good bag of tea. Just recalling those words helped.
“But you’ll be here all alone.”
“I have a lot of thinking to do. I need to be alone for a little while.”
After a moment, Pearl said, “Well, only if you promise to come get me if you need me, for anything at all.”
“I promise.” From where she stood, Penny could see out the parlor window, tapped now with only light droplets. The winds had dwindled to a breeze, but the sun hung low on the horizon, and it was getting colder by the minute.
“It’s almost dark, Pearl. Go home while you can still see out there. I’m just going to bed now anyway.”
After another hug and a reluctant goodbye, Pearl left. Penny closed the door and wandered back into the parlor. She lingered there for no particular reason. Exhaustion dragged on her and she needed to go to bed, but her mind was suddenly abuzz, so she rambled about the room where she and her father had spent so much time together.
Faint echoes of what she’d heard earlier haunted her thoughts, goaded her with the worst possible scenarios. Shifting her gaze upward, she could see, as if there were no barrier, her grand collection of dresses and shoes, of bonnets, petticoats, ribbons, ruffles, and so much finery that took up most of the spare bedroom. What she owned all for herself could likely clothe many women for a good long time. She thought now of the women she knew. Some had dresses they’d worn for years, with faded colors and oft-mended hems. Of course, they thought her spoiled. How could they not when she paraded by them regularly with something new?
Shame nipped at her heels, so Penny walked some more. Maybe she could shake it before it followed her upstairs.
She let her hand drag across the top of the shiny piano where many a night she’d played and sang for her father. Pausing at the small table beside the Melas rug, she let her fingers rest gently upon the Swiss Rosewood music box he had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Butterflies adorned the wood, painted in yellow and gold with a few splashes of red. She could hum every note of the enchanting ballad, having listened to it so very many times. Today, the lid stayed closed beneath the reverent touch of her fingertips. She wasn’t that strong yet.
The fire had dwindled to nothing, and the room was cooling fast. Though she hadn’t gone upstairs yet, Penny already knew Pearl had lit the fire in her room, and it would be warm when she walked through the door. That was something else she should start doing for herself. Keeping her mind pointed in that direction seemed a constructive way to avoid the hungry sorrow threatening to swallow her whole.
Rubbing her arms with her hands, Penny walked to the window. Strands of deepening purple wove through the charcoal gray sky. They dissipated before touching ground. Soon there would be no light at all. Still, she stood there staring blankly at the world in which she now lived alone. She shivered once, and then wrapped her arms around herself before taking and releasing a deep, shaky breath. Turning from the window, Penny walked through the room using the brass knobs to twist down the mantles on each kerosene lamp before blowing out the flames. It’s a start.
In her bedroom, a fire blazed behind the grate. The room was warm and her bed turned down. She would start doing these things for herself, but tonight she was grateful Pearl had done them for her. She changed from her heavy dress to her nightgown and burrowed into the covers, but she didn’t fall asleep for a good many hours.
Penny spent most of the night rearranging the contents of her head.
Chapter 4
After leaving his horse at the livery, Garrett took his time walking through town. The morning was bright with only a few wisps of white clouds floating on the horizon and sunshine making a decent effort to nudge out the chill. The streets were still muddy and pockmarked with puddles of various sizes, but the storm had moved on, thank the powers that be. He thanked them again, because he’d found shelter last night with a benevolent farm family before the worst of it hit.
Mill’s Creek was as he remembered, small but civilized and well tended, with swept boardwalks along the storefronts. The windows all looked wiped of dust and smudges. Shop owners maintained the simple wood plank buildings, right down to the steps in front of their businesses. The water in the public horse troughs was fresh and free of scum. The town wasn’t fancy, but it was clean and cared for.
Two young women, one with light brown hair and one with a head of red, both dressed in simple calico walked toward him. Their gazes latched onto him about ten seconds after he noticed them. The redhead was the first to lock eyes on him, slowing her step and ceasing conversation. Her friend followed her line of sight and did the same.
“Ladies,” Garrett said, tipping his hat.
They both giggled before answering in unison, “Marshal.”
The one with red hair let her admiring stare linger until her blushing friend tugged her arm and dragged her past him. They left a trail of giggles and whispers in their wake, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Eventually, their sounds faded away.
Half a block later, Garrett paused as if someone had called his name,
and his head tipped back for a sniff. Though he couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from, he caught the unmistakable aroma of baking bread. The air suddenly seemed full with it, warmer, too. It brought to mind delicious memories of home cooking, and that made him think about his family.
Work kept him busy. He hadn’t seen his mother or his younger brother and sister in almost four months, the longest stretch yet. Garrett closed his eyes and drew in the warm smell of bread again. The aroma connected his mind to family meals, to the good-natured teasing, to all he’d gone without during his relentless pursuit of every outlaw that needed catching.
It didn’t matter that even if he worked twenty-four hours a day, he couldn’t get all of them. He still meant to try. Meanwhile, the years were passing quickly. Too quickly. A future filled with criminals and endless days on their trails loomed. Here he was, twenty-eight years old and he’d yet to start a family of his own.
Lately, on his endless travels, on the long nights sleeping on hard ground alone, or with some worthless outlaw tied to a nearby tree, he’d begun to think about how good it would be to settle down with a nice, simple woman. Not yet, though.
Garrett couldn’t even consider such a life at this time, not when there was so much that needed doing. Predators were on the loose, innocent people were dying; there was too much lawlessness in this world for him to think of a wife and children. He didn’t have time, and no woman should have to settle for the scraps he could offer. When he settled this matter, he decided with another good whiff of baking bread, he’d go home for a visit and get himself reacquainted with his own family. Before he could think about even that taste of personal comfort, he had a killer to catch.
The townspeople he passed were quick with a smile and a tip of their heads in a pleasant hello. It was a friendly town; yet with the exception of the two young ladies, the cheer in the greetings he received was subdued. He could feel it. He could see it in their caution. It was fresh and ill fit. There’d been a murder here, one of their own. Life would go on, but it would not be the same.
The outskirts of the town spread wide over many miles. The heart of Mill’s Creek, the part where some people lived and others rode in to do their business, was small. Only two blocks one way and two the other, not a lot of frills. One hotel with a restaurant, a mercantile, albeit a sizable one, a livery, a telegraph office, and a ranch supply store along with a few other little shops and businesses. The town did host three saloons, he noted with a half-smile. At least two of them had rooms upstairs where he was sure many a ranch hand spent his pay.
Several ranches and farms subsisted within just a few miles. None of them, however, was huge. This town didn’t host enough wealth to gain the attention of a bank robber.
Usually someone willing to kill a man and risk the gallows to rob a bank would set his sights on a larger town where he could get a much bigger take for his trouble. There were several within only a two- or three-day ride. Why would the outlaw pick this town?
A few answers to his question sprung to mind; desperation, drunkenness, lack of forethought. It could also be since it is such a small town; the outlaw believed he could be in and out without any trouble. Maybe the banker had tried to stop him and things just turned bad.
As Garrett approached the mercantile, he came upon a man sweeping the boards in front of the store. He was a thin man in a clean white apron with a few brown hairs combed neatly over the crown of his narrow head. At the sound of Garrett’s boots, he looked up to nod a friendly greeting. Then for just a flash, the man looked surprised, even a bit wary. Garrett was used to that. As a man who stood six foot three with a broad build, well, sometimes people got the feeling simply by virtue of his size he could be dangerous. And of course, the town had just suffered a terrible crime. Then the man’s gaze caught on the silver star pinned to Garrett’s shirt pocket, visible since his duster hung open.
“Mornin’, Marshal,” the man said with a grin that bespoke relief.
“Morning.”
“Jeb Carter,” the man said, stilling his broom and holding it in front of him as he straightened his back. “You here to catch the bastard that killed Frank Wills?”
“Name’s Kinkaid, and yes, I am. You see anything that day?”
“No. Came runnin’ out when I heard the shots. We don’t get much of that kind of stuff around here, and never had nothin’ like this. Usually it’s just some drunken fool wandering out of a saloon thinkin’ to shoot at the moon. This was right in the middle of the day. He rode out the other end of town. All I saw was dust. Surely do wish I could help. Frank was a good man. Not one of those stuffed shirt types you find in the big cities, the guys who do their jobs with all head and no heart. You know the type I’m talkin’ about?”
“I do.”
“It’s a cryin’ shame, that’s what it is. I don’t know what’s going to happen to poor little Penny.”
“Who’s Penny?”
“Penny Wills, Frank’s daughter.”
So the man had a family. The murder was striking close to home, and that didn’t bode well for the killer once Garrett got his hands on him. Oh, he’d bring him back to stand trial, all right. He didn’t hold with vigilante justice. With the slightest provocation, however, he’d turn over the killer, as John Gladwin had put it, ‘a mite damaged.’
“What about the girl’s mother?” Garrett asked.
“Oh, Mary died when Penny was six or seven. She ain’t got nobody else.”
A child left without any family because of one man’s greed and lack of respect for human life. Garrett’s gut tightened in conjunction with his fists. The image strove to leave him feeling weak and helpless. But he was neither. He had a badge, a gun, and he was well versed in both. While he couldn’t bring the little girl’s father back, he could make damn sure she got justice, and he’d see to it the killer never did this to anyone else.
“Jeb!” a woman’s harsh voice called from inside the store. “You got Sam at the back door.”
“Coming,” Jeb shouted back.
“Nice to meet you, Marshal. I surely do hope you catch that snake-belly.”
“I will,” answered Garrett, confident he would. That wasn’t arrogance talking, either. The plain fact was Garrett had brought to trial every outlaw he’d ever sought. Except, that is, for the few who foolishly thought they could outgun him. Those men bypassed the trial and drove themselves straight to execution.
Jeb carried his broom into the store, muttering under his breath about a snake-bellied bastard. Garrett headed for the sheriff’s office.
When he stepped inside, he found the portly sheriff tipped back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, snoring loud enough to loosen the bricks. He had a pillow tucked behind his head of bushy brown hair and another one under his bootless feet. Garrett shut the door behind him, hard. The sheriff jumped, nearly rolling from his beleaguered chair. Awkwardly, he managed to get to his feet, thick brows drawn in annoyance at the intrusion, until he caught sight of the badge pinned to Garrett’s chest.
“Marshal.” He coughed to clear the sleep from his throat before saying, “Hello. I’m Sheriff McElroy.”
“Garrett Kincaid,” he stated to the soft man who didn’t look like he could subdue his baby sister in a fight, unless he fell on her.
He guessed the sheriff to be about thirty-five years old. He stood five foot seven or so, with a ruddy complexion and weighed enough for two sheriffs. He had a soft look about him, like bread dough that had risen and was ready to bake. The bulge around his middle stressed his buttons. The way Garrett had just walked right in without him even knowing it, having had to slam the door just to get him to wake up, didn’t speak well of the man’s instincts.
“Oh, um, Marshal. Come in, come in. Glad you’re here. I…um, I don’t usually sleep in the middle of the day like this,” the sheriff said, looking embarrassed as he glanced at his pillows, caught in an obvious lie. His eyes darted a moment before meeting Garrett’s. “It’s just that,
well, I’ve been working myself to the bone since the robbery and murder.”
“You’ve worked yourself to the bone in two days?” Garrett asked. Before the man could respond with any more nonsense Garrett said, “What information have you gotten from the witnesses?”
“Well, the people who were in the bank are too upset to talk to right now. I figured I’d give them some time, let their minds rest a little before questioning them.”
Astonished, Garrett said, “You haven’t spoken to them yet, not at all?” Once again, he put forth a second question before the sheriff could answer the first. “What about the people who were outside the bank?”
After a moment of sputtering, Sheriff McElroy said, “I don’t think anybody saw anything.”
“You don’t think?”
“Well, I haven’t talked to anybody yet.”
“Because you’ve been out riding with a posse of men, men properly suited to the job, instructed, and sworn in?” Garrett asked, sarcasm flagging his suspicion because he was sure that wasn’t the case. He was equally sure the sheriff was in over his head with this. Likely, his job had never entailed anything more taxing than throwing a drunk into his single cell for a night. Still, McElroy had sworn himself to a duty here, and if he couldn’t do the work, he should find another job.
“A posse?” the sheriff questioned, his thumbs slipping into his taut suspenders, hands sliding up and down while his mind stirred up some indignation. “Now see here, I don’t care for your attitude. The fact is I had to stay put. I’m the only law here. Someone had to be here to protect the good people of this town.”
“Lucky people,” Garrett muttered under his breath as he turned toward the door. It was just as well the sheriff hadn’t gathered any of the local folk. A town like this was hardly fraught with posse material. More likely than not one of them would get killed. No, it was best if he handled this alone.
