Wild Dream

by Duncan, Alice

  Even then he wasn’t safe from Addie’s sweet kindness because she fussed and tutted over him until he wanted to holler. Actually, what he wanted to do was draw her into his arms and make sweet love to her until they were both spent, but he knew to do such a thing would prove him to be worse than the despicable villain Fermin Small considered him.

  What really depressed him was the knowledge that he was worse than Fermin considered him. After all, who but a patently evil being would steal from Adelaide and Ivy Blewitt? Yet try as he might, Charley could figure out no other way to help his band.

  Sure, most of the boys had jobs now, but the jobs weren’t apt to last long enough to do the band much good in the long run. After all, they needed to set themselves up somewhere as a band. What did Rothwell, New Mexico Territory, need with a brass band?

  The main trouble though, as Charley saw it, was that sooner or later, one of the boys would utter an indiscretion about that fiasco in Arleta, and the jig would be up. Or that shopkeeper from Arleta would come to Rothwell and recognize one of them.

  He couldn’t think of any way to protect them without leaving Rothwell. And he couldn’t think of any way to support them all until they reached safety without those blasted rubies.

  But, oh, how he regretted it. It made him sick to know he’d had to turn to a life of crime. Even if they hadn’t succeeded at either of the two robberies they’d attempted, they had attempted two robberies, and guilt sucked at Charley’s heart like a leech. He remembered the lecture he’d given Homer Paul and thought bitterly what a fraud he was.

  Fraud or not, though, he was ready when the Ladies’ Literary League of Rothwell began arriving at the Blewitt farm at ten o’clock on Wednesday morning. His band looked as though they were ready, too. To a man, they’d shaved and bathed, and wore the best clothes they owned.

  Harlan Lewis dusted off his denim trousers. “Wish we still had our old uniforms.”

  “I ain’t had no uniform since we was captured in sixty-four,” added Peachy Gilbert ruefully.

  “We’ll have uniforms again someday, boys,” Charley said, hoping to make himself feel better with the lie. It didn’t work. When the whole band, from Harlan to Lester, looked at him as if his were the voice of God, he wanted to hang his head in shame.

  “Kin we get dark blue ones, Charley? With silver braid?” Francis Whatley’s eyes fairly glowed. Francis used to be a deputy sheriff back home, and had always favored a military-style uniform.

  George Alden nudged Francis hard. “Blue? Now why you want to go dressin’ yourself like some damned Yankee general, Francis?” He added, a little dreamily, “Now, mebbe a nice brown with gold braid would be nice.”

  Francis looked pensive, as though he hadn’t considered George’s point before.

  “Brown?” Harlan frowned. “Ain’t brown a little dull, George?”

  “Well, now,” said Peachy, “I don’t expect brown needs to be dull, Harlan. Mebbe if we was to make it a rusty color.”

  “Rusty?” Harlan’s eyebrows arched. “That don’t make no sense, Peachy, to want to go and look like rust.”

  “I kinder like an orangey-brown color myself,” Peachy said defensively.

  “Now boys,” Charley said in an effort to placate, “I’m sure we’ll think of a good color for our uniforms when the time comes.”

  Which will be never, he thought gloomily. Unless those uniforms were crafted in black-and-white stripes. They’d be lucky if they weren’t all locked up in prison after their stay in Rothwell. Of course, Charley figured he deserved to go to prison for what he planned to do. But his boys didn’t. Criminy, these men needed guidance. He wished he’d been able to guide them along a higher path.

  Lester said, “Red,” and they all turned to look at him. He tucked his head in and mumbled, “I fancy a red uniform.”

  The other men looked at one another. Charley got the impression of a pack of hounds putting their noses together to investigate a particularly enticing scent.

  “Red,” murmured Francis.

  “Dark red?” asked Peachy.

  Lester shrugged.

  “What about a nice maroon color?” George suggested.

  “What’s a maroon color?” asked Francis.

  “You know, the color of cooked beets. Not yaller-red, but more of a dark purpley red.”

  “Cooked beets,” mused Harlan. “Reckon I like beets all right.”

  “Cooked beets,” murmured Francis.

  George turned to Charley, always the last word when it came to band business, and generally the first word, as well. “What about a cooked-beet color, Charley? With gold trim?”

  Charley gazed at his men and felt a swell of affection in his breast. “Sounds fine to me, boys.”

  He felt ridiculously tender toward these men. It was probably stupid to feel so responsible for them; but they’d always looked to him for leadership, ever since the very beginning of the band. He couldn’t let them down now.

  Addie opened the barn door just about then, so he was spared a further descent into sentimentality. His insides lit up when she stepped into the barn, her engaging smile bright enough to encompass the entire band.

  “Morning, Miss Adelaide,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound so much like a love-struck schoolboy.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wilde. Good morning, gentlemen.”

  She’d been practicing, Charley noticed. She swept into the barn as though she were a grand lady entering a ballroom. He couldn’t suppress his grin.

  “The ladies are just reading the last passages of A Tale of Two Cities, now, and they’ll come outside after that. Aunt Ivy thought it would be nice if you could play on the porch, since that makes it more like a stage. I set out chairs for the ladies, so we can watch you from the yard.”

  She was more excited than he’d ever seen her, and Charley wanted his band to give her the most thrilling performance of their lives. He wanted to make Miss Adelaide Blewitt the belle of Rothwell. He shook his head in astonishment. My God, maybe he was love-struck.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde, I think it’s so grand of you and your band to play for the Literary League. The ladies are just thrilled about hearin’ your fine music.”

  Addie executed a little twirl in the barn, and Charley felt a twinge of regret that she couldn’t show off in a finer arena; she sure deserved one. She didn’t seem to mind, though.

  “And after you play, we have tea cakes and apple cider, and Aunt Ivy even brought up some of her special dandelion wine, just for you.”

  The band members nodded and muttered appropriately gracious thanks. Addie clasped her hands to her bosom and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness gracious, you shouldn’t be thankin’ me. I’m the one who thanks you! Why, I’m so excited, I can hardly stand still.”

  As if to prove her words, she twirled again and darted back out of the barn, tossing, “I’ll come fetch you all in a tiny little minute” over her shoulder.

  Charley found himself grinning after her.

  The band’s performance was superb. Charley had never been more proud of his men than when they played “Beautiful Dreamer” on the front porch of the Blewitt farmhouse. When he stepped forward and played “Wood Up Quick Step,” he watched Addie the entire time. Her eyes shone.

  He saw her wipe away a discreet tear at the end of his solo, and his heart soared. To the best of his recollection, he’d never stirred a woman to tears with his music before; and there was no woman he’d rather move to tears than Addie Blewitt.

  Shoot. He had it bad.

  The concert finally ended after the last melodious notes of “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair” faded away into the surrounding desert. The ladies’ enthusiastic response prompted a total of five encores, and the boys would probably have continued playing far into the evening if they’d had more offerings prepared.

  As he lowered his horn, Charley thought how good it felt to play for an audience again. Oh, how he’d love to roll back the years and dwell in America City before the war forever. It
was an idle fancy, though, and he guessed idle fancies didn’t pay dividends. He’d been hard-pressed to find anything that did for years now.

  Addie rushed up to him while he was still staring at the Ladies’ Literary League and wishing. He watched her and wondered if he might have found something worthwhile after all.

  “Oh, Ch—Mr. Wilde! You were wonderful! Just wonderful!”

  He stood at the top of the porch steps, and it seemed natural to open his arms when she ran up to him. She plowed into his chest and hugged him tight, and his arms wrapped around her as though they knew she belonged there, no matter how hard he tried to fight the truth.

  Since his entire band and the Rothwell Literary Ladies were watching curiously, Charley refrained from kissing her hair, as he wanted to do, and then devouring her delicious lips. Instead, he settled for an unsatisfying squeeze, then released her. His body protested, as did his innards, which wanted to keep her clutched to his chest.

  If only—if only—no. Charley didn’t dare think in terms of “if only’s”. His first responsibility, before his own happiness, even before Adelaide Blewitt, was to his men.

  “I’m glad you liked it, Miss Adelaide.”

  “Liked it? Oh, Charley, I loved it. I mean, Mr. Wilde.”

  She had to wipe away another tear and Charley fought a mad impulse to crush her to his breast and kiss her right here in front of God and Aunt Ivy, his band and the Literary Ladies. Good grief, what was the matter with him? He never used to have to fight for control.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde!” cried a voice, ringing with anguish.

  Both Charley and Addie turned, surprised.

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Paul. Did you wish to speak with Mr. Wilde?” Addie said in her best southern-lady voice.

  “Oh, Addie! Oh, yes!”

  Mrs. Paul stood at the foot of the porch steps, wringing her work-worn hands, her light-weight shawl tied in front of her. Charley recognized her resemblance to the boy Homer, and a feeling of dread invaded innards which had, only moments before, been singing their delight in Addie Blewitt.

  “Do you mind, Mr. Wilde?” Addie whispered to Charley. “Poor Mrs. Paul has so many burdens to bear.”

  “I guess not,” Charley muttered. When he saw the compassionate Addie’s eyes open wide at his obvious unwillingness to add another person’s problems to his already-overloaded shoulders, he felt like a cad.

  Standing straighter, striving to look good in Addie’s eyes, he lied nobly, “I’d be pleased to speak with her, Miss Adelaide.”

  “Oh, thank you, Charley! I mean, Mr. Wilde.” Addie stood on her tiptoes, and bestowed a chaste kiss upon his cheek.

  At once, Charley decided it would be no burden at all to speak with Mrs. Paul. Shoot, he’d be willing to walk over hot coals if Addie would kiss him again.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde,” Mrs. Paul cried again

  She trudged up the porch steps as though she bore the weight of the ages on her shoulders. Whereas Addie tripped up the stairs, her body feather-light, Mrs. Paul slogged. Whereas Addie’s expression held laughter and excitement and the thrill of being young, vibrant and alive, Mrs. Paul’s bespoke heaviness, weariness and despair. Charley hadn’t even talked to her yet, and already he felt sorry for her.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” he asked politely.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde,” Mrs. Paul whimpered again.

  Charley had just begun to wonder if she experienced as much trouble expressing herself as Lester did, when she laid a hand on his arm and whispered, “May I speak to you apart from the others, Mr. Wilde?”

  Charley looked at Addie, who immediately said, “Why, I’ll just go help Aunt Ivy serve refreshments, Mrs. Paul, Mr. Wilde.” She left them with one of her stunning smiles. Charley wanted her to come back and smile at him again like that, as a keepsake. A miserable sniffle from Mrs. Paul made him pay attention to her.

  “Would you care to step to the side of the house, ma’am?” he asked courteously. She nodded, apparently not trusting herself to speak.

  So he led her around to the barn side of the house. “Now, ma’am, is there something I can to do to ease your distress?” He hoped to blazes she wouldn’t accuse him of leading her son astray, but he didn’t harbor much optimism.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde,” she said yet again, and Charley wanted to shake her. Luckily, she immediately continued, “Homer told me all about what you did for him the other day.”

  Charley was astonished. Good heavens, maybe there was justice in the universe after all.

  “He did, ma’am?”

  “Oh, yes. He said if it wasn’t for you, he’d be running from the law right now, with people shooting at him all the time, and him never getting a night’s sleep and living under the cruel night sky in terror and—and—”

  Her recitation of the evils Charley spared her son hiccupped into a series of unhappy sobs. Feeling awkward, Charley tried patting her on the back, then staggered when she threw her arms around him and began to cry onto his chest. Lordy, he hated it when women did that to him.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde!”

  Charley sighed deeply and tried not to swear.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde, I have no right to ask you to do anything else for my boy, but he said he listened to you and your band rehearse after you saved him from the clutches of the law, and when I heard you today, I just knew you were a good man. And because of what you did for Homer, I know you’re a kind one, as well, and I—I—well, I—”

  She was gone again, weeping as though she’d never stop. If Charley hadn’t been so astounded by her assessment of his character, he might have been annoyed. As it was, he could only pat her back mechanically and wonder how she and her son could be so absolutely mistaken in somebody.

  “It’s all right, ma’am,” he murmured, striving for a soothing tone.

  She reared away from him, leaving him patting the air, an activity he ceased as soon as he realized she wasn’t there any longer. Shoot, the woman moved fast.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde, I have no right to ask you this, but do you think you could find it in your heart to give my Homer cornet lessons?” Mrs. Paul kneaded her hands and stared at him as if he were her last hope.

  Teach cornet? To Homer Paul? Charley blinked, stunned, when he realized he’d just been offered an opportunity to do the only thing he’d ever wanted to do in his whole life: perpetuate his music.

  In a wild, impossible, almost insane burst of longing, Charley saw himself as the leader of the Rothwell, New Mexico, Community Brass Band, his men and himself respectable and respected members of the populace, giving concerts in Calhoun Park on Sunday afternoons, playing at weddings, entertaining at town functions. He saw himself mentoring the Rothwell Junior Band, grooming young lads to become real band members someday. Boys in town vied with one another to be selected to play in his band. The girls swooned for them, just as they used to swoon for him, and he was the reason.

  He saw himself waving good-bye to his precious little Addie as he rode off to work at his legitimate carpenter’s shop in Rothwell each day, and returning to one of her fine suppers each evening. He saw her waving back at him, love radiating from her glorious smile, surrounded by a veritable herd of their adorable little children.

  Charley’s brain lit up like fireworks with yearning. It all sounded so wonderful.

  His wonderful daydream burst like a soap bubble in his mind’s eye when reality struck him in the face like a boxer’s fist.

  No matter how grand it sounded, he’d been offered it at the time he could least appreciate it: when he was eluding the law and planning more crimes. He was indulging in selfish, idle fantasies, and he knew it. His duty lay clear before him, and it was to his men. Unless some benevolent angel flailed his wand and came up with permanent jobs for every man in the band—and wiped away the past so that it could never catch up with them—Charley guessed he was doomed to a life of crime. At least until he secured the Blewitt rubies, robbed the bank, and led his men to someplace where nobody could ever find them and connec
t them to two failed attempted robberies in this part of the territory. One of these days, somebody smarter than Fermin Small would show up in Rothwell and link Charley and his band to that fiasco in Arleta; Charley felt it in his bones.

  Well, hell.

  He realized Mrs. Paul still stared at him in a rapt manner, as though he were some god-like being who held the answers to her troubles in his hands, and he felt like howling in rage and frustration. Why in God’s name did everybody always look to him for answers? He had no answers! Blast it all, he was just a poor cornet player fallen on hard times. Turned to crime, for pity’s sake!

  Another glance at Mrs. Paul let him know she wouldn’t believe the truth, even if he were to be so crude as to tell her. Charley smothered his curse.

  “Ma’am,” he began, and floundered. He didn’t know what to say. Then he decided to hell with it, and offered, “Ma’am, I don’t know how long we’re going to be in the Rothwell area, but I’d be proud to teach your son cornet for as long as we’re here.”

  Mrs. Paul looked as though he’d just lifted a thousand-pound sack of worries from her shoulders. Charley shook his head in wonder.

  “Oh, Mr. Wilde, thank you.” She grabbed his hand in both of hers and began wringing it as thoroughly as she’d been wringing her own a moment before. “I just don’t know how to thank you enough.”

  “That’s all right, ma’am,” Charley mumbled, wishing she’d return control of his hand. He thought of something else, though, and guessed he’d better bring it up. “Er, does Homer have a horn, ma’am? I only have the one.”

  Thank heaven she let go of his hand. She did it so she could grab a hankie, with which she mopped her eyes and blew her nose before she answered him.

  “My grandpa left us his horn, Mr. Wilde. He served in the last war, in twelve. It’s old, but I reckon Homer can use it all right.”

  “I’m sure that will be the case, ma’am.” Charley felt a tug of awe at the thought of being able to teach a student on such an historic instrument. Shoot.