“Oh, dear Lord,” Maggie whispered prayerfully.
Wesley Peterson smiled, creating deep dimples in his pudgy, pink cheeks. “Well, Judith, it’s well and good that you plan to marry one day, but I’d not set my cap for Mr. Coleman.”
“Why’s that?” Jude seemed genuinely puzzled. “Don’t you think he’ll have growed out of his wild ways by the time I’m a woman?”
“Will have grown out of his wild ways,” Wesley corrected. “Mr. Coleman will most certainly marry one of his own kind. I’m afraid, dear little cousin, that we are but simple God-fearing people and can never attain the social position to which Thayer Coleman was born.”
“Maggie’s going to make a lady out of me,” Judith told him. “I guess I’ll be one of his kind then.”
Ignoring any more foolishness from the child, Wesley stopped the buggy in front of a small, two-story building set between rows of other similar structures. Above the front door a sign read GOWER GENERAL STORE.
“Oh, my. Oh, my,” Wesley groaned.
“What’s the matter?” Maggie searched the man’s face, suddenly void of any color. She followed his glazed stare in the direction of the sidewalk.
There, in front of the store, stood a short, obese woman with her tiny, fat fists planted squarely on her wide hips. Her steel-gray hair was slicked tightly back into a huge bun at the nape of her chunky neck. Her eyes, as coldly silver as her son’s, declared her outrage before she spoke.
“Is it true?” Mathilda Gower asked as her round, taffeta-clad body waddled closer to the buggy. “Dear Mrs. Stanford had her boy drive me here as soon as we heard. Auntie Gem’s little grandboy ran all the way from the station with the news.”
“Calm yourself, Mama.” Wesley departed the carryall quicker than an agile child, and hurried to his mother’s side. “You must not overexcite yourself.”
“Is it true?” Mathilda yelled, then caught herself behaving improperly, and lowered her voice. “Gem’s grandboy said that Mr. Stone had been shot and lay dying in the arms of a beautiful redheaded woman who had just got off the train to meet Mr. Wesley. Tell me it was not our Margaret.”
“Mama,” Wesley said, trying to console the raging woman.
“There girl.” Her sharp gray eyes inspected every inch of Maggie as she pointed a finger at the young woman. Sighting the scarlet stains defacing Maggie’s blue dress, her aunt gasped. “Merciful Lord, Wesley, I do believe this is all too much for my poor heart.” She swayed, clutching the bodice of her black dress.
“Let me help you inside,” her son said.
“Yes, dear boy, please do. Poor Chester was too ashamed to come outside. His own dead sister’s child!”
“Come, Mama.” Wesley assisted his mother to the entrance of her husband’s store, and then turned to the Campbells. “Please come in, cousins. We will work through this tragedy with the Lord’s help.”
Micah hopped down to the street, reached up for Judith, and deposited her on the sidewalk before turning to offer Maggie assistance. But she and Daisy were already on the street, standing silent and unmoving.
“Is that the kind of gentleman you want me to become?” Micah asked.
No one responded. Maggie took a deep breath and looked around. Uncle Chester’s store was well situated on Main Street. Her pa had spoken highly of his wife’s older brother. He’d always said that the man had done well for himself.
“I don’t want to live with her,” Judith said.
“Hush up,” Maggie said, taking her sister by the hand. “Micah, you stay here with Daisy and our belongings. We may be looking for a place to stay the night.”
With that said, she and Jude marched into her uncle’s general store. Once inside, they both stared, amazed by the vast supplies that lined the numerous shelves and the variety of fruits and vegetables displayed in a center aisle. The whole room reeked of an earthy sweet aroma. The sound of unnatural quiet in the store was broken by the hum of a stray fly that had entered with the Campbell sisters. Maggie gazed upward where stalks of bananas hung from the ceiling. Huge wooden barrels flanked the corners of the counter, and a much-used chopping block stood near a front window.
Mathilda Gower was seated in a cane-bottomed chair, her excess flesh hanging over the sides. Her son held a dipper filled with water to her lips as he fanned her with a folded piece of paper.
Chester Gower met the girls at the door, embracing each in turn and bestowing a light kiss on their cheeks. If it had not been for the familiar brown eyes, Maggie would not have recognized her uncle, so much had he changed in five years. His once brown hair had grayed and thinned to baldness, his always slender frame was slumped and skinny, and his once healthy fair coloring had yellowed to a sickly pallor.
“Come in, girls,” he said.
“Then we’re still welcome?” Maggie whispered.
“Tilly will calm herself eventually,” Chester assured his nieces as he led them farther into his establishment. “The news that Mr. Stone had been shot has spread like wildfire. And, of course, er . . . hmph . . .” He cleared his throat as he wiped his perspiring hands on the long, white apron covering him from chest to knees. “How ever did you make his acquaintance, Maggie?”
“It was all my fault, Uncle Chester,” Judith said, her hazel eyes filled with tears.
“How so, child?” her uncle asked.
“I went over to say good-bye,” Jude replied. “And to thank him again for the fried chicken.”
Realizing by her uncle’s expression that he was bewildered, Maggie spoke. “We had a bit of trouble boarding the train in Chattanooga. Mr. Stone was kind enough to help. We didn’t see him again until we stopped in Huntsville since he was riding in his friend’s private car.”
“That’s when I fell out the window,” Judith added.
“What?” Chester strangled then recovered quickly after he coughed a few times.
“It wasn’t Judith’s fault. Mr. Stone was offering her his box lunch, and when she reached for it she fell.”
“I see. I see,” Chester mumbled as he neared his wife, who sat quietly while her son continued fanning her. “The girls have explained their acquaintance with Mr. Stone, my dear Tilly. It was all quite innocent. Once we tell everyone, there should be no problem.”
“Indeed,” the hefty Mrs. Gower said. “Within minutes after her arrival in town, your niece is involved in an incident that will be a topic of conversation for months, perhaps for years.”
“I fear you exaggerate, Mama,” Wesley dared speak. “The gossip-mongers will weary of this in a few weeks.”
“Don’t be foolish, Wesley,” his mother admonished. “If it were common ruffians involved, I would agree, but not when it involves important gentlemen like Mr. Stone and Mr. Coleman, and the niece of a renowned merchant of Mr. Gower’s standing.”
“Aunt Tilly.” Maggie approached the older woman.
“Yes?”
“We’re so pleased to be here and grateful that you’d have us.”
“It was our Christian duty. The Lord commands us to care for our own.”
“Yes, but thank you all the same. And I’m awfully sorry about what happened.”
“You know a young girl’s most precious possession is her reputation. Lose that and you have nothing. Lusts of the flesh must be overcome for they are tools of the devil. Evil begets—”
“Tilly,” Chester interrupted. “The girl has done nothing wrong.”
“Do you promise to have nothing else to do with that man?” Mathilda asked, taffeta rustling with the movement of her heavy body as she struggled to stand.
“I . . . I . . .” Maggie stammered, knowing she should agree to the request. But agreeing would be a lie. She knew she must see Aaron Stone again, if only once, to see with her own eyes if he were dead or alive. Somehow she had to persuade Aunt Tilly that it was the proper thing to do. “I feel my moral duty to inquire about Mr. Stone. After that, I see no need to further any acquaintance with him.”
“There is no n
eed for you to inquire personally,” Mathilda said. “Wesley can go. After all, it would be proper for a minister to attend the . . . er . . . the sickly.” “Please, Aunt Tilly,” Maggie said. “This is something I feel I must do.”
“I shall go with her,” Wesley told his mother. “Perhaps it would be best. It might show the town that Cousin Margaret has nothing to hide.”
“He’s right, Tilly,” Chester said. “The girl would most certainly prove herself an innocent party by attending upon Mr. Stone in Wesley’s presence.”
“You’re possibly right, Mr. Gower,” his wife said. “Go then, and do it quickly. I’ll have Mrs. Stanford’s boy take me home to rest before supper. Bring the others when you come, Wesley.”
“Yes, Mama.”
For the second time in less than an hour, Maggie found herself riding down Railroad Street, right past Commercial Row, but this time she was stopping at the Parshall House instead of leaving the railroad station. Her small hands lay in her lap, her fingers clutching at the material of her skirt. She knew she must have looked a sight with no ribbon tying back her hair, her one good Sunday dress ruined by crimson stains, and her entire body dusted with grime. She wondered if the combination of sweat and dried blood was something only she could smell. Pa had set great store by cleanliness. He would sure enough have told her that she needed a bath.
But a bath would have to come later when she joined the others at her uncle’s home. Right now, she had to see Aaron. It was plumb crazy to care so much about a damned fool stranger. The man didn’t mean a thing to her, and she was sure she didn’t mean anything to him. A man like that could have his pick of women. No doubt, every well-to-do mama in town had set her sights on the wealthy Mr. Stone, hoping he might marry her daughter.
After this one last time, she would have to keep away from him. He could mean nothing but trouble for her. Aunt Tilly had come mighty close to sending them packing. Dear Lord, what would she have done? They couldn’t go back to Grovesdale. There was nothing to go back to. The land Pa had sharecropped had already been rented out to other folks.
She would have to find a way to appease Aunt Tilly’s wrath, but keeping on that woman’s good side was going to be hard. Maggie knew that all three of the Campbells had a problem with holding their tongues. She was well aware of her own fiery temper and outspokenness. She would have to force herself to come to terms with these sins. She wasn’t too sure how well Micah and Jude would handle theirs.
Wesley hitched the buggy in front of the impressive Parshall House, helped Maggie down, and walked with her to the entrance. Upon entering the lobby, they saw Thayer Coleman sitting on a long, oak bench, his head in his hands.
“Mr. Coleman,” Maggie called as she approached him.
He turned his dark head, his black eyes recognizing the beautiful woman speaking. “Miss Campbell?”
“We’ve come to inquire after Mr. Stone,” Wesley said.
“Where is he?” Maggie held back the tears, trying to keep from begging this man to take her to Aaron immediately.
“He’s down the hall,” Thayer said. “The doctor is still with him.”
“Is he hurt real bad?” Maggie had to know.
Thayer smiled at the lovely woman. He couldn’t ever remember seeing anything quite as perfect as the angel who stood before him, her eyes gleaming like topaz stones. “I’m sure he’ll live. Aaron’s tough. He’s lived through worse.”
“Could I . . . that is, would it be possible . . .”
Wesley cleared his throat loudly, giving her a stern, disapproving look.
Thayer stood, his tall frame towering over a five-foot-five-inch Maggie. “You’ll be the first to see him when Doc Cooper comes out.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said.
“Of course, I shall accompany her,” Wesley said.
“Of course, Reverend Peterson.” Thayer’s dark eyes glared at the man mockingly. “Even in his condition, a rascal like Aaron might ravish Miss Campbell.”
“My dear sir,” Wesley said. “Such talk is unnecessary.”
“I want to see Mr. Stone,” Maggie told the two men. “With Cousin Wesley, with both of you, or alone. I don’t care.”
“I assure you, Miss Campbell, that you will see Aaron.” Thayer smiled sheepishly at the good reverend.
“I feel that your passionate display of concern is uncalled for, Cousin Margaret,” Wesley said.
“Dear Reverend Peterson, surely you have taken no offense at Miss Campbell’s concern for my friend?” Thayer asked.
“I don’t need you to do any pretty talking on my behalf, Mr. Coleman,” the titian-haired girl snapped. “No doubt, it was some of your pretty talk to that Whitcomb gal that got your friend shot.”
“Margaret!” Wesley’s voice vibrated with shock.
“A body couldn’t help but wonder,” Maggie said. “Micah told us that he overheard some men talking about how her pa tried to shoot you and accidentally hit Mr. Stone. I figure you sweet-talked your way into trouble.”
While Wesley stood there mortified by his cousin’s comments, Thayer Coleman threw back his head and roared with laughter.
A bare-chested, bandaged Aaron Stone sat propped up against several feather pillows, resting in the big double bed. His thick, golden hair was mussed and his bronzed face was a bit pale, but he’d felt worse. He wanted a cigar, but knew Doc Cooper would veto the idea.
“Well, am I going to live?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, it would appear that you are,” Dr. Cooper said jovially. “A couple of days’ rest and you should be as good as new.”
“A couple of days? I’ve got things to do. I haven’t got time to lie around in bed.”
“Well, you’ll rest for tonight. That shot I just gave you would put a mule to sleep. And it looks like that’s what you’re trying to be, a stubborn mule.”
“You calling me names, Doc?” Aaron guffawed, and then grunted when a sharp pain ripped through his midsection.
“You were damned lucky that fool Whitcomb was such a poor shot,” Dr. Cooper said.
“Actually, I’d be better off if he were a better shot. He was aiming at Thayer. If he’d hit his target, Thayer would be laid up here instead of me.”
“Well, if you boys would quit messing with the likes of Sally Whitcomb, you wouldn’t have half-crazy fathers putting bullets in your chest.”
Aaron laughed. “Talk to Thayer. I’ve already decided to put my evil ways behind me. I’m planning on settling down one of these days soon.”
“Well, well. Wouldn’t be the Widow Arnold, would it?”
“Now that’d be telling.”
“So it would. You get some sleep. I’ll be around tomorrow to take a look at you.”
Dr. Cooper closed the door quietly behind him and walked down the hall to the lobby where Thayer Coleman was waiting.
Seeing the doctor enter, Thayer met him. “How is he?”
“Damned lucky.”
“He’s going to be all right, then?” Maggie asked.
Thayer remembered his manners. “Dr. Cooper, may I present Miss Margaret Campbell. Of course, you already know our esteemed Reverend Peterson.”
“Miss Campbell.” The doctor nodded. “A few days’ rest and he’ll be fine. I’m counting on you to keep him here and in bed, Thayer. He lost quite a lot of blood. That old revolver of Whitcomb’s did a nasty job on Aaron’s insides. A few inches higher and he’d have a bullet in his heart.”
“Can he have visitors now?” Thayer asked.
“Well, maybe for a few minutes. I just shot him with enough painkillers to make him sleep till morning.”
“Go ahead, Miss Campbell,” Thayer said. “He’s in room six. Down the hall and to the right.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said as she turned to find her way down the corridor, not waiting for Wesley.
Her cousin quickly followed but was stopped by Thayer Coleman’s muscular body planted squarely in the hallway entrance. “I give you my word, as a Coleman, that
Miss Campbell will be safe. By the way, Reverend, just what connection do you have with her anyhow?”
“Margaret is the niece of my dear stepfather, Mr. Chester Gower,” Wesley said. “Her father passed away this winter, and, of course, Mama insisted that, since she and Micah and Jude were Mr. Gower’s dearly departed sister’s children, it was our Christian duty to provide a home for the orphans.”
“Hmm . . . mmm . . .” Thayer knew Maggie Campbell and her family would have a hard time adjusting to people who lived such a strictly proper life as Mathilda and Chester Gower did. And Reverend Peterson? My word, the man was considered saintly by the townfolk.
Aaron’s eyelids felt heavy, and it was becoming a struggle for him to keep them open. He couldn’t figure out why Thayer hadn’t come in to check on him. He supposed Doc Cooper and Thayer could be having a drink to his recovery, but doubted the busy doctor could spare the time. Maybe Thayer has gone to check on Maggie Campbell, he thought. He’d asked his friend to do just that before the doctor ran Thayer out of the room.
He knew she had left with that holier-than-thou preacher. He’d heard rumors about that man, whispered words from some of Loretta’s girls. What was the not-so-saintly reverend to Maggie? Aaron could never picture a woman like her betrothed to a popinjay like Wesley Peterson. A girl like Maggie needed a man, a real man to initiate her into the pleasures of lovemaking. More than anything, he wanted to be that man. He had had more than his share of women over the years, whores and ladies alike, but he had never wanted anyone the way he wanted Maggie Campbell.
He had to get the notion out of his head before it became an obsession. He had no place in his life for the beautiful redhead. He had to think of his plans for the future . . . White Orchard... a country gentleman... a genteel wife . . . well-bred children . . . Eunice Arnold. The highly respectable Widow Arnold was his future wife, not some seductive farm girl with hair like a hot July sunset and eyes the color of pale amber crystal.
God, but he was sleepy. And his chest hurt. But the pain was not nearly as bad as an agony from the past, one he well remembered. The night Phineas had come into his life. The night the big black man had saved him from a gang of unsavory, knife-wieding cutthroats, in a New Orleans barroom.
The Right Wife Page 4
