She hoped Aunt Roberta hadn’t frightened him away. He’d acted put off by her. Reading was the love of her life; she was sure once Mr. Wade, with his love of travel, got a taste for it, he’d see the value in stories that could transport a person anywhere.
With a sigh, her thoughts turned back to business and she moved to her desk. She stared down at the poster she’d been working on before opening the shop this morning and running into Mr. Wade.
COME ONE, COME ALL, TO A PUBLIC READING!
GREAT EXPECTATIONS BY CHARLES DICKENS
EVERY TUESDAY EVENING TWO CHAPTERS WILL BE READ ALOUD.
THIS EXCITING NOVEL FOLLOWS THE COMING-OF-AGE EXPERIENCES OF AN
ORPHAN NAMED PIP. GOOD ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY.
STORYBOOK LODGE, SIX O’CLOCK
REFRESHMENTS WILL BE SERVED
Tabitha wrinkled her brow. Well, it’s a start.
If this didn’t get customers into her shop, and readers interested in the books she had to offer, she’d have to try something else. Perhaps she’d have a sale in conjunction as well. She rubbed her chin. No, she couldn’t afford to discount any of her inventory just yet. She’d wait. See how the event went. Back home in the city library, authors often came to read their works. She never missed one. She wasn’t Charles Dickens, but an oration would be something different for Logan Meadows.
Tabitha glanced around the interior of her shop. How many people would Storybook Lodge hold? If she moved the center bookshelves to the side, several more rows of seats could be added, which all depended on what she’d use for seating. Who would attend? Hannah, Thom, and Aunt Roberta would be here, and Uncle Frank. Most likely Jessie and Chase. Susanna and Albert. Brenna, Greg, and their brood. If Nell wasn’t too busy on the ranch, maybe she would drag Charlie out, and even Maddie and Julia, the nice young woman who’d broken her arm when the train crashed a few months back.
What about Mr. Wade? Would he come as well?
A spark of excitement skittered around in Tabitha’s heart. Maybe he would. Even if a quarter of her friends came to the first reading, that would be a great start. And she’d be content. A list of other acquaintances filtered through her head. Mrs. Hollyhock, Maude Miller. Dr. Thorn seemed the type who might enjoy a night out, as did Reverend Wilbrand. Win would come just to be supportive of her—and if these readings really started to catch on in the months to come, maybe some of the folks would venture over from New Meringue.
Just imagine how many books she could sell then. She hadn’t thought ahead to have extra copies of Great Expectations available for purchase, in case some customers showed an interest. She’d put in an order to have in two to three weeks.
Tabitha leaned back in her chair. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Or a month. Or even a year! She couldn’t get discouraged. She had to have faith.
She went to the shelf for her feather duster. She had things to do besides speculate on possibilities that may never happen. And that went as well for Mr. Wade. She still didn’t know his past, but she did know a little more about him than she had yesterday. And if he actually did come in for reading lessons, she’d get to know him even better.
CHAPTER NINE
Let me see that!” Kendall Martin roared, grabbing for the document as Hunter pulled the note out of the angry bartender’s reach. “It’s a fake! I don’t owe you nothin’. You’re not gettin’ the Bright Nugget! I built this place on my own. Now get out of this office before I throw you out on your backside.”
Hunter had known this wouldn’t be easy before he’d stepped through the batwing doors. No man wanted another staking claim to his livelihood. He understood that, but he had to think of himself as well. He’d done the job for Quincy Malone, and the once-rich land baron owed him a bundle. Kendall Martin had owed Malone, and hadn’t paid up. If he had, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. This was the only property Malone had left to give. It was so insignificant, he had completely forgotten about the saloon until Hunter had made him search the safe hidden away in his closet, from top to bottom.
“You may have stopped paying, but you still owed Malone. And Malone owed me. It’s as simple as that. Signing this over was Malone’s way of paying off his debt to me. I can’t say it any plainer. We’re partners. Equal in every way. Get used to it!”
The two had been standing face-to-face in the small liquor storeroom Kendall called an office for the past twenty minutes, yelling at each other. A droplet of sweat trickled down Hunter’s temple, but he stayed the impulse to brush it away. Martin might mistake any quick movement for him going for his gun.
Martin’s face relaxed. “We’ll take it to the sheriff. See what Preston has to say. He’s not going to let some stranger waltz in and take over.”
“Good idea. Let’s go.” Hunter knew the signed document was legal and binding. There wasn’t a thing Martin could do to change the inevitable.
Martin threw open the door and stormed out. Philomena watched with wide worried eyes as Hunter followed the bartender out the front door.
Sheriff Preston’s head jerked up when the bartender angrily threw open his office door, banging it against the wall with a loud crack. Hunter had met the sheriff the night before in the restaurant. “What’s this?” Preston barked. A large dog by the woodstove pounced to his feet and growled.
“What in God’s name is wrong with you, Kendall?” The sheriff’s gaze followed Hunter as he went to one side of the sheriff’s desk, and Martin the other.
Martin jabbed a finger in Hunter’s direction. “He’s trying to hoodwink me. Says he has documentation stating he’s now half owner of the Bright Nugget! He’s a liar and a fool if he thinks I’m going to turn my life over to him just like that! It’s a forgery, and—”
“Just settle down, Kendall, until I have all the facts,” Preston said, glancing over at Hunter and then back at the red-faced bartender. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, but the two remained standing, so he stood as well. “What claim do you have on the Bright Nugget?” he asked. “Explain everything to me the same as you did to Kendall. Don’t leave anything out.”
Hunter nodded. “I did a large job for a businessman in Soda Springs by the name of Quincy Malone. A contract that took more than a year to complete. When I returned for the pay that was owed me, I learned Malone had mortgaged himself to the devil and had lost everything. Had no way of paying. But on closer inspection, he found this one, forgotten note that Kendall Martin had taken out with him years ago. Malone had provided Martin a substantial grubstake to get started. Martin made payments for a few years, but somewhere along the line, stopped. Since Malone was building his empire, the note went forgotten. He signed it over to me in payment.”
“Did you have a loan with Malone?” Albert asked Kendall.
Kendall’s nod was barely perceptible.
“Do you have the money to pay off your debt to Mr. Wade?”
Kendall shook his head.
Hunter withdrew the paper from his pocket.
“May I see that?”
Should he trust the sheriff? Without the signed note, he had no claim on the saloon. Hunter glanced at Martin. “If you don’t give it to him.”
The sheriff gave Martin a no-nonsense stare. “Behave yourself, Kendall.”
Sheriff Preston unfolded the legal paper and scanned it over. He checked the date several times. “So, if I send a telegram to Soda Springs to check out your story, the sheriff will have knowledge about this?”
“You bet he will. I was sure to cover my back, anticipating just that.”
“It’s a setup,” Kendall complained. “Maybe his men killed everybody and took over the town, just waiting for you to contact them.”
“Over the Bright Nugget?” Sheriff Preston’s tone spoke volumes. The Bright Nugget wasn’t worth that much trouble to anyone.
“You can be sure I’ll be sending some telegrams of my own,” Kendall mumbled. “I used to live there. Nobody’s gonna barge in on me.”
The sherif
f refolded the document and handed it to Hunter.
“I’d like to move in to one of the upstairs rooms,” Hunter said.
“What! That ain’t possible. I live in one and Philomena the other.”
“I saw four doors at the top of the stairs.”
“One is rented out to Wilson’s Feed and Seed for extra space. The other one has been torn up for years. Needs two new walls, and the mice have eaten out a couple holes in the ceiling, which need to be patched. It don’t even have a bed.”
“You sure aren’t getting the most out of your saloon, Martin. You’ll be glad I showed up to help. I’ll bet I can double your profit in three months.”
“Why you . . .” Martin lunged across Preston’s desk, going for Hunter’s throat.
Sheriff Preston threw his arm around Kendall’s neck and wrestled him away, the large bartender grappling at anything within his reach, knocking items to the floor. Preston pushed Kendall up against the wall, the sheriff’s face red with anger.
“Don’t make me lock you up, Kendall! I will if you don’t stop this foolishness.” The sheriff stooped over and picked up an ink bottle, frowning at the black puddle on the wood. “Mr. Wade is minding the law. You should follow suit. Let me check out his story before you try to kill him.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Hunter said, ignoring the hate-filled scowl coming his way. “I guess I can throw my bedroll in the back of the saloon until I figure out where I can live, for a time anyway. Or better yet, stay in the meadow. Doesn’t bother me to camp.”
Preston stared at him so long he feared the tide might be turning against him.
“You won’t have to do that. There’s an empty apartment directly above here. I moved out when my son, Nate, came to live with me. The place has a bed, and some other useful things.”
“Sheriff!”
“Be quiet, Kendall.”
Hunter couldn’t believe his good luck. “Thank you. Next door to the Bright Nugget will be handy.”
“And next to the bookshop,” Kendall spat. “Miss Canterbury don’t like all the noise the rowdy cowboys make on Saturday night. You’ll find that out soon enough. Now you’ll have to contend with her yourself.”
That didn’t sound so bad. An image of Tabitha almost made him smile, but he didn’t want to rile Kendall any more than he already had.
“Come on,” Sheriff Preston said. The sheriff grabbed his hat as he strode over to the door. “I’ll show you the apartment before I go to the telegraph office.”
Kendall’s face twisted. “Isn’t that putting the plow before the ox?”
Preston shrugged and walked out.
That evening Hunter stood behind the bar, essentially watching Kendall and copying whatever he did. How difficult could it be to pour whiskey and talk to men? Whenever a patron put coins on the bar top in payment, they went directly into Kendall’s pockets behind the apron tied around his belly. When those began to bulge, he discreetly emptied them into a box below the bar, attached to the shelf with a chain. Alongside that was a loaded shotgun, as well as two .45 Colts. Out of habit, Hunter still wore his Peacekeeper on his thigh, thinking someday he might feel comfortable enough to go without, but that was doubtful.
The saloon was filling up. The length of the bar was standing room only, and the tables more than half full. Sheriff Preston had stuck his head in at ten o’clock, taking stock, he’d said. The friendly feel of the early-evening customers had morphed into a more serious nature. Farley, the pleasant, middle-aged piano player, pounded out songs on the piano keys, and when Philomena found herself free from delivering a tray full of whiskeys, some cowboy would swoop her into his arms and dance her around the outside of the tables, shuffling through the shavings.
“You told that joke five minutes ago!” an angry drifter-type yelled over the piano music to the bleary-eyed man at his side, the two directly in front of where Hunter stood behind the bar. “I’m tired of your repeating everything you say a hundred times over. Shut your trap! You’re givin’ me a headache.”
The man he was addressing belched loudly then pulled a steel blade from somewhere below. Hunter lunged forward and grasped his arm, bending the fella’s wrist back until he yelped. The weapon clattered to the bar surface. Men looked over.
“There’ll be none of that tonight,” Hunter said sternly, looking them all in the eyes. “Keep it nice, or get out.”
“I didn’t mean nothin’,” the knife holder sneered. He took up the gut sticker and slid it back into his belt. “I was just gonna give my friend a haircut. That’s all. Hey, Kendall,” he hollered over to the bartender, who was pouring two shot glasses of whiskey. “This new fella’s a darn sight stronger than you!” He circled his wrist several times, to the snickers of others. “A darn sight!”
Shouting broke out deep in the room. Hunter glanced at Kendall, but he just shrugged and tossed back one of the drinks he’d just poured. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sent Hunter a hate-filled stare. It was easy to see his partner had yet to soften. The fella Kendall had just refilled smirked, making Hunter think that perhaps he was the topic of their conversation. For one instant, he recalled the quiet bookshop, and Tabitha agreeing to tutor him. Only two doors down, but a world apart. He wondered if she was upstairs reading right now.
Crash!
A bottle flew past Hunter’s head and landed in a rack stacked with clean glasses, the tumblers exploding into shards. A table in the middle of the room was upended, and one man dived for the other’s throat. Hunter dropped the damp rag and dashed around the bar, hoping to stop the fight before too much more of his new property was ruined. If he’d been worried that becoming a business owner would make him soft, he realized that wouldn’t be a problem. He pushed through the throng of men that had surrounded the combatants, ducking one misguided fist, but taking another to his gut. Tending a saloon after midnight was much like wrestling a bear. Which of the two was more unpredictable was yet to be decided.
CHAPTER TEN
Midmorning Saturday, Violet Hollyhock ignored the ache throbbing in her spine as she lifted the large fruit jar of fall leaves, arranged just so. She positioned the container, accented by a few cattails collected from the banks of Shady Creek, on one side of the church’s altar. The room was quiet. The only illumination streamed through the six rectangular windows, three to each side, that ran the length of the simple nave.
She rotated the jar, careful not to spill water on the snowy-white altar cloth she’d just laid down. After a long scrutiny through discerning eyes, she turned the adornment back to its original position.
“It’s simple, Lord, but the best I can do this time of year. Hope ya like it.”
When the door opened, she turned. Reverend Wilbrand, wearing brown trousers and a light coat, stepped inside and stopped. “Violet? What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect to find you here this early.”
“Just dressing the church for tomorrow’s service.”
The reverend came forward. Although he was in his midforties, the preacher’s face always reminded her of a mischievous boy’s. He was tall and trim. Had come to Logan Meadows some ten or twelve years back, passing through on his way to Washington. When he’d discovered their preacher had taken sick and died, he stayed on.
“Don’t you usually do this in the afternoon?”
“Ya know me pretty well, don’t ya, you young whippersnapper?” Sentiment swirled in her breast. Would anyone miss her after she’d passed?
He cocked his head and chuckled. “Yes. I think I do.” His astute gaze took in her face. He came closer. “Is something wrong, Violet? Are you feeling well?”
She straightened her spine, despite the bolt of lightning it caused, putting on a good front for the reverend. “I’m as fit as a fiddle, as you can see.” She pointed to the broom, dusting rags, and jar of lemon oil she’d left next to the wall after she’d given the pews a good polishing, and the floor a thorough sweeping. “I jist wanted ta get done a mite early. No sin against th
at, last time I checked—though things may have changed?” She narrowed her eyes at him. No youngster was going to boss her around, even if he was the preacher. “I have some bakin’ ta do later on.” And I’m movin’ slower than a turtle this week. When Pansy crowed this morning, I had ta force my ol’ bones from the warm covers. Right then and there I knew iffin I didn’t start early, I might not get finished on time.
He put his hand on her shoulder. “You need to let the other ladies help you. I know a handful have offered more than once. Susanna, Hannah, Brenna, Tabitha, just to name a few, but you always turn them down. It’s not a crime to grow older, Violet. Or to ask for some help.”
“I don’t do it for them, I do it for the Lord!” She gazed at the ceiling, imagining a multitude of angels looking down at her from puffy white clouds. “He and I have a standing date. I’m not givin’ that up for nothin’.”
The patient look on the reverend’s face almost made her scowl, but that wouldn’t be right in the house of worship.
“I’m not asking you to give it up, Violet. All I’m saying is let the others help. Have you ever thought that you might be robbing them of their chance to do something for God? Maybe they’d like to have a standing date, too.”
“Let ’em do something else. This job will be open soon enough.”
She hadn’t meant to sound so crotchety. It was just that she wanted to live her days out until the end her way. If she stopped doing, and being, and saying, what kind of life would that be? Not one to contemplate in her way of thinking.
Reverend Wilbrand took a deep breath, and slowly turned a circle. “Everything looks very nice. Like always. Thank you for all you do.”
Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5) Page 6
