Give My Love to Rose

by Nicole Sturgill

  Without looking at the man again, Marston walked back to the horses and swung himself into the saddle. As he rode away the man’s words kept clawing their way into his mind and replaying themselves.

  Should Marston do as he had promised and take the money and horse to Harper Louisiana and the wife and son Langston had waiting there? Surely the wife would be an old woman and the son a grown man and surely neither of them would be in need of this money after living for so long without Langston. Marston, on the other hand, needed this money. He had debts to pay and ammunition stocks to refill and while he had money stashed away he’d just as soon not have to use it.

  ‘But the man thanked God for you,’ a small voice inside his head reminded him.

  “There ain’t no such thing as God,” Marston shot back, not caring that replying to the voices in his head made him seem more than a little crazy. He figured if anybody heard him he’d just tell them that the summer sun had fried his brain.

  ‘Langston trusted you,’ the voice added.

  Marston chuckled quietly. That wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault the man had gotten himself shot before he’d made it home to his wife and son. Nope, Marston didn’t owe the man or his family a damn thing.

  He was now six hundred dollars richer and had not only one horse but two. Yes, life was certainly looking a lot better than it had just yesterday.

  Chapter Two

  “Deal me in,” Marston said as he sat down in a rickety chair at a ramshackle saloon four days later. The dealer, an elderly man employed by the saloon owner, nodded and included Marston in the next deal of the cards.

  Marston won the first hand and earned himself a dirty look from one of the three other players at the table. When he won the second and third hands as well, the scowling man threw down his cards.

  “How do you keep winning?!” he demanded harshly.

  Marston shrugged and used his cards to scratch at his beard before tossing them down on the worn green felt of the table. “I guess cuz you keep folding.”

  The man’s eyes flashed with anger. He threw back his chair and stood, weaving slightly on his drunken legs. Clearly the man had been enjoying his liquor and beer a bit too much tonight. “I say you keep winnin’ because you’re a damn cheat!”

  Marston felt his own temper rise. “You don’t call a man a cheat unless you’re willing to die for it,” he warned as he stood much more slowly than the other man had and let his hand hover over the gun in the holster.

  The drunken man’s eyes dropped to the gun and then came back up to Marston’s face as he swallowed hard. “A man shouldn’t cheat at poker unless he’s willing to die,” he warned, with a shakiness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

  “Is that so?” Marston asked as a smile curved his lips.

  The man didn’t reply. Instead, he lowered his own hand toward his own revolver. The men surrounding them quickly scattered to the left and right to ensure they’d be out of the path of flying bullets.

  “You say when,” Marston urged, the smile never leaving his face. He’d been told before that it was the smile that he kept on his face that seemed to scare people the most. They claimed it was unnerving to have a man smiling at you as he threatened to end your life.

  Dead silence had fallen over the crowd around them. Marston saw the twitching of the other man’s hand as it hovered just above the handle of his revolver. He watched the man’s throat bob as he swallowed hard. He saw the tension come over his shoulder as he prepared to draw and went for his gun. Marston didn’t give him time to clear leather before pulling his own revolver and shooting a hole through the drunkard’s chest.

  As the blood pooled around the man and soaked into the wooden floorboards, Marston shook his head, gathered up his winnings and downed the last of the dead man’s beer. He gave a wave to the bartender, tipped his hat to a whore and made his way out into the night.

  There wasn’t any law in this pitiful excuse of a town. Marston tried to never play poker in a town that law enforcement frequented. He was walking toward his hitched horses when an angry voice called out behind him. “He was drunk, mister! You didn’t have to kill him!”

  “I beg to differ with you about that last part,” Marston replied calmly, without turning around.

  “My brother didn’t know what he was doing! You could have just walked away!” the angry man insisted.

  Marston rolled his eyes as he unhitched the gray and climbed up on his broad back, never once looking in the angry man’s direction. “Your brother wanted to die or else he would never have called me a cheat.”

  Marston heard the unmistakable sound of metal rubbing leather and knew the man was drawing on him and hoping to shoot him in the back. With a sigh, Marston drew his own gun, twisted in the saddle and fired a single shot ensuring the man met the same fate as his brother.

  Marston rode out of town before any more family members could show up to avenge their kin. Despite his reputation, Marston didn’t enjoy killing people and tended to try to avoid it whenever possible. But there were times when a man had to do what a man had to do and in those times it was foolish to waste his energy on remorse or guilt. Those emotions would only serve to get him killed the next time he faced someone.

  After riding several miles out of town and off the beaten path, Marston stopped for the night and set up camp. As he sat in front of his small campfire in the dark, he let his mind drift back to that old man he’d found dying four days before. The man’s words had been haunting him since that day and, try as he may to ignore it, the guilt of Marston’s broken promise was laying heavily on him.

  Marston was not a man of his word. He wasn’t known for being honest or trustworthy and he had never pretended to be any of those things. He wondered why his conscience was bothering him now, but he supposed it was because he had never before made a promise to a dying man. The trust that had been in Langston’s eyes kept working its way into Marston’s memory and eating at him.

  Hell, he hadn’t even sold the man’s horse or used any of his money yet! Maybe he should simply return it to Langston’s wife and son the way he had promised. It would be the only decent thing Marston had ever done in his life since he didn’t make a habit out of being decent--it gave him indigestion.

  Marston took a long draw off his cigarette and stared into the dancing flames of the campfire, willing them to tell him what he should do. Marston had always been a man who prided himself on doing what he wanted when he wanted and never feeling guilty over his actions and so it surprised him that he was having these thoughts and doubts now.

  “Lord, I don’t like you and you sure as hell don’t like me, but just now I’m stuck and unable to come to a decision. Now, that man thanked You for me finding him that morning and, well, I ain’t so sure about that but if You did want me to find him and if I am supposed to take this money back to his family then why don’t You send me some sort of sign?” Marston felt more than a little foolish as he spoke to the cloud-covered night sky.

  He senses were on high alert watching for any hint of a sign in the night around him. He knew that if there was anything, he would notice it. Most believed there was Indian blood in his veins that gave him increased senses that others didn’t have. He could hear and see with sharp clarity. He could tell when someone was going to move simply by the tension in their muscles. He could also easily tell when someone was lying based on their body language and posture. Hell, maybe he was part Indian. He’d never known his family and he had fairly dark skin.

  Marston snorted at the direction his thoughts had gone and cursed himself a fool when no sign magically appeared in the darkness. Grabbing a stick, Marston began to stab mercilessly at the fire. He stilled instantly when a swollen droplet of rain plopped onto the brim of his hat. Seconds later, more droplets fell and sizzled in the flames.

  Within moments, the rain was coming down hard and the drought hardened ground was soaking up the moisture like a sponge. Marston cursed and leaped to his feet. He
dug through his saddlebags and pulled out his duster coat before sliding into it. They hadn’t had rain in these parts in weeks!

  “Is this my sign, God?” he demanded of the sky. “A little rain shower is the best You could come up with?”

  A flash of lightning lit the sky and the accompanying thunder, cracked so loudly that Marston felt the vibration in his chest. He chose to pretend that the thunder and lightning hadn’t accompanied his mocking of the Almighty as he went about ensuring the horses were secure.

  “Still waiting on that sign,” Marston grumbled as he hunkered down beside some boulders and the rain ran in rivers off the brim of his hat. Suddenly the wind kicked up and blew his hat off his head. If flew through the air and Marston chased after it, his long duster coat whipping around his thick legs. He snatched his runaway hat from the ground and clutched it to his chest.

  Now, Marston was not a religious man by any means but one of the women at the orphanage had always preached about the Lord’s will and signs. Even Duke, as cold-hearted as he was, believed there were times the Lord sent you signs and told you what to do. Maybe Marston should listen just this once….

  ***

  The rain had stopped falling by the time the sun began to rise over the horizon the next morning. The clouds were still gray and heavy with the promise of more rain as Marston went about cleaning up his camp. His fire had died shortly after the rain had begun and he was soaked to the bone.

  With a sniff, Marston climbed up in the saddle and turned the horse to the east. Though he knew deep down it was foolish to believe that a rainstorm was a sign from God, he was still going to listen. He could be in Harper, Louisiana in three days and just as soon as he dropped the money off with that old lady, his guilt would be gone and he could get back to chasing after Jeremiah.

  Marston had made up his mind to give Langston’s family his money but not all of it--they didn’t need six-hundred dollars. He had taken half of the money out of the leather bag and shoved it inside his saddlebags. The old lady and her son never needed to know there’d been more than three hundred dollars in that worn leather pouch.

  Chapter Three

  Marston rode into Harper Louisiana three days later. He’d never been to this town before and found that it was little more than a muddy main street dotted with rough-hewn lumber buildings.

  Having no idea where to find this Rose or her son, Marston hitched the horses outside the mercantile and headed toward the steps, his boots sinking in the thick mud. He hated rain. Thanks to the recent downpour he had mud caked to his shins and the bottom of his duster coat was filthy.

  When he stepped into the dimly lit building, two older ladies glanced up from the catalog they’d been scanning behind the counter. Their eyes widened substantially upon sight of him.

  “Can we help you, sir?” one of them asked. She was short and stick thin with a mouth that seemed to naturally pucker as if she’d spent most of her life sucking lemons.

  “I’m hoping you can,” Marston admitted, a friendly smile curving his lips as he stepped closer.

  The thin woman swallowed hard and her eyes stared up at him from behind her half inch thick glasses. “My name is Hester,” Lemon lips stated. “And this is my sister, Hattie.”

  Marston nodded as she motioned to the woman beside her and kept his face a mask of politeness while inside he wondered how in the hell the two women could possibly be related.

  Hattie was short and so plump he was left to wonder if maybe they had a bigger door in back that she came in and out of. He had a soft face, but it was a friendly one and lacked the sour puss expression her sister seemed to wear at all times.

  Marston held out his dirty hand to the sisters who stared at it a moment before quickly shaking it. He pretended not to notice as they wiped their hands on their aprons. “Fine store you have here,” Marston lied as he glanced around the dusty interior.

  Clearly the H&H Mercantile didn’t see a whole lot of business. Most of these things appeared to have been sitting there since before the wrinkly duo had been born. “Well aren’t you a fine gentleman!” Hattie exclaimed, adjusted her apron on her ample belly.

  Marston winked. “It’s hard to be anything but a gentleman around such lovely ladies.”

  The sisters glanced at each other before breaking into fits of schoolgirl giggles and fiddling with their gray hair. “Come on now!” Hester scolded, adjusted her glasses. “What can we help you with?”

  Marston met her gaze. “I’m actually looking for someone—a woman and her son.”

  Both women sobered immediately. “Why?” Hester hissed, her giant blue eyes narrowing behind her spectacles.

  “Hester!” Hattie gasped, clearly shocked by her harsh tone.

  Hester shrugged her thin shoulders. “We don’t know him, Hattie. He’s a mud-covered, filthy, bearded giant of a man with more weapons than the union army combined! I fail to see what business he’d have with any woman and her boy.”

  Hattie began chewing on her fingernails, her chins wobbling as she did so. Hester, however, had a deadly glare fixed on Marston that nearly made him laugh. She was no bigger than a damn field mouse, but it was clear she had spunk.

  “I don’t mean them any harm, ma’am,” Marston assured her truthfully. “I have some things that belong to them and I need to see that they get them.”

  “Where did you get these things?” Hester inquired with a raise of her thick gray brow. Hattie looked back and forth between them as if she were a nervous child.

  “I’m not gonna tell you that,” Marston replied. “At least not until I’ve told the woman.” Marston smiled and stooped lower, leaning his forearms against the counter to bring himself eye level with the vertically challenged women. “Now will you two lovely ladies tell me where I can find Rose Howell or do I need to go door to door to every surrounding homestead.”

  Hester and Hattie shared a look of surprise. Hattie’s eyes widened and she shook her head, but Hester grinned as she turned her attention back to Marston. “It’s Rose you’re looking for?”

  Marston nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Hester no…,” Hattie whispered, but Hester raised her hand to let her sister know she didn’t appreciate her input.

  “Take the south road out of town, veer right at the fork. You’ll go about a half a mile through the thick forest and then you’ll top over a hill and the cabin will be in view. Rose and Langston Junior should be home.”

  Marston nodded and stood back straight. Hattie whimpered. “Sir, I truly hope you don’t mean them physical harm…”

  With a shake of his head, Marston chuckled. “Of course not.” He tipped his hat. “Thank both of you kindly for your help.”

  He heard them fall into a hushed conversation as he stepped back out onto the boardwalk. Marston could feel the eyes of several town folk on him as he hopped back into the gray’s saddle. Marston glanced toward several women standing on a porch across the street and he threw up his hand in greeting. Quickly they disappeared back inside and Marston sighed.

  He turned the gray’s nose toward the south road and headed out of town. It was time to find the old woman, give her the horse and the money, (or half of it anyway) and get the hell out of town and back to looking for his good for nothing brother.

  Marston was riding slowly and so he began whistling his favorite little tune as he rode. When Marston topped the small hill a bit of a ride later, he saw the homestead exactly where the sisters thin and fat had said he would.

  Instantly Marston knew he had greatly misjudged the wealth of these people. The cabin before him was one good windstorm away from being labeled ruins. That roof had to leak, some of the shutters were barely hanging on and others were crooked and there were cracks in the log walls that Marston knew had to let the wind and rain in.

  A small barn stood a short distance from the cabin and it didn’t appear to be in any better shape. As a matter of fact, from up on this hill, he could see a hole in the roof nearly big enough to drop
a horse through.

  A lone skinny horse was currently standing within the muddy corral. The animal could have easily gotten free of that rickety fence holding it prisoner, but it appeared too tired and run down to attempt freedom. A woodshed and smokehouse nearby matched the cabin and barn.

  Marston was beginning to wonder if perhaps the sisters had been wrong about Rose and her son still living in this house. It didn’t appear fit for anyone to call home. He was contemplating turning around when the door to the cabin opened and a woman stepped onto the porch.

  She had a broom in her hands and began sweeping the dirt from the wooden planks—Marston couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Deep red curls framed her ivory face, breaking free of the binds she had attempted to hold it back with. Her body was full, rounded and soft beneath the worn fabric of her dress and apron. Marston wished he could make out her features, but he was still too far away.

  Maybe she lived here to help out the old lady… maybe she was Langston Juniors wife. Marston snorted. It didn’t matter whose wife she was. He wanted her and he would have her before he left one way or the other.

  The brown mare tied to Marston’s gray let out a snort as they started down the hill and the woman’s eyes were instantly on him. She tossed her broom aside, lifted her skirts and ran into the house, closing the door behind her.

  Marston sighed and again had to wonder just how ugly he’d gotten. These days it seemed that everyone ran away from him. Hopping from his horse and hitching it to the porch, Marston stared at the ramshackle cabin. He helped himself to a drink of water from the well beside the house and then wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve as he started up the porch.

  “Stop right there,” a feminine voice warned from inside and Marston found himself heeding the warning. Not because she told him to but because the rifle barrel sticking out of a hole in the door told him to.