Whippoorwill

by Sharon Sala

  ***

  Daily, Truly Fine fielded the rude, sexual innuendoes from her customers with a skill born of long years at the task. And every day that came and went past Miles Crutchaw’s usual time of arrival made her nervous. For the first time since he’d started their odd courtship, Truly began to realize that she’d been existing for those fleeting moments in her life when a man had pretended to care.

  Only Miles Crutchaw had not come back to Sweetgrass Junction and Truly went to bed each night praying that she’d be given one more chance—wishing that the wild, bushy miner would come bursting through the swinging doors of the Sweetwater Saloon and yank her out of some man’s lap before it was too late. This time she wouldn’t tell him no. This time when he came, she’d willingly ride a mule for the rest of her life, rather than ride one more man and pretend he was the best ever to come her way.

  Even if she didn’t have a roof over her head.

  Even if Miles didn’t have many teeth.

  Even if he never struck it rich.

  It was a sad and unavoidable fact, but Truly Fine had realized too late that wealth lay not in the money in a bank, but in the arms of a man who cared.

  As the days passed, Truly began to believe that she’d told him ‘no’ once too often. It broke her heart to think of never seeing him again.

  ***

  A dog barked outside the Sweetgrass Saloon as the squeak and rumble of wagon wheels drifted through the open door. Truly didn’t bother to look up from her game of solitaire. She’d know soon enough who it was. Sooner or later, everyone who came to Sweetgrass Junction came into the saloon.

  As she’d expected, someone did come through the swinging doors. Moose the Bartender was the first to look up. The glass he was drying fell out of his hands, shattering on the floor at his feet. Shock spread over his face as he started to grin.

  Without looking up, Truly slapped a red Jack on a black Queen. “Dang it, Moose, you break many more like that and you’ll be sending back East for a new set.”

  Moose didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the man who’d come through the doors.

  “Truly Fine, are you a woman of your word?”

  Startled by the question, Truly looked up. The cards she’d been holding fluttered to the floor. The voice was familiar, but not the man. He didn’t look like anyone she knew.

  “I don’t get it,” she snapped, then narrowed her eyes as the tall, clean-shaven man started toward her from across the room.

  His suit of clothes fit him to perfection and his boots were shining like new. And then he grinned, revealing a set of fine, white teeth in a nearly-healed face and something clicked inside her heart as he yanked her out of her chair and began to spin her around.

  “Yes, you do. You get it all, just like I promised, Truly darlin’.”

  By now, the skirt of her yellow satin dress was flying above her waist. Her henna-red curls were bobbing against her cheeks as her eyes widened in shock. She didn’t know the man, but those blue eyes looked an awful lot like—

  “Miles?”

  He whooped with laughter and set her down on her feet.

  “I’m askin’ you again, Truly Fine. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Consider your choices, now,” Miles argued, unaware that she’d already buckled easier than an old belt. “You’re not getting any younger, although to my eyes you’re still as pretty as a peach.”

  “Yes,” she repeated and clasped her hands together to keep from shaking.

  “Remember your promise,” he added, having practiced his speech for so long that he’d completely tuned her and her answers out.

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t go back on—” His eyes widened. It was finally soaking in. “Yes? You said yes?”

  She nodded and tried not to cry. She looked like hell when she cried. It made her nose all red and her eyes swelled shut like a horny toad. If he saw her like that, he might change his mind.

  “Oh, Truly! You will marry me? Without the gold? Without the riches?”

  “Yes, Miles, yes.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and knew that she’d found her place in life.

  “That’s good, Truly darlin’.” He stole a kiss before she could change her mind. “I promise you won’t regret it. When can you leave?”

  She started out the door.

  He stared at the low-cut dress and the length of leg showing from beneath the skirt and tried to imagine her on the road in an outfit like that. “Don’t you want to change and pack your belongings?”

  “There’s not a damned thing here that I want except you, and I didn’t think you were coming back to ever ask again.”

  A wide grin spread across his face. While he’d come to grips with getting Truly on any terms, it felt good—damned good, to know that she came without knowledge of what he’d gained except, the obvious—his mouthful of teeth.

  Miles followed her out the door and lifted her into the wagon. “When we get to Lizard Flats, I’ll buy you some new clothes.”

  She frowned as he climbed into the seat beside her. “I’ve already been to Lizard Flats. I can promise you there’s no gold there, and we can’t afford to buy clothes. Neither one of us has two dimes to rub together.”

  He grinned and stole one more kiss before he broke his news.

  “I’m not lookin’ for gold in Lizard Flats. We’re going there to get married. While I was down in Dodge City, I heard tell that a real preacher is on his way there to marry the town banker. As for money—”

  Truly frowned. He went to Dodge? So that’s where he’s been all this time.

  He grinned. There was something about the way she kept looking at him that told him she still didn’t get it.

  Truly stared at his smirk. The longer she stared, the more certain she was that he had a secret he still hadn’t told.

  “Miles?”

  He grinned again.

  “I’d like to know what’s so funny.”

  His grin widened even further.

  She looked past the mouthful of pearly-white teeth to the cut of his suit, the clean-shaven face, the new, nearly-healed wounds, and the twinkle in his eyes. There was something about the way he carried himself that had nothing to do with promises and everything to do with pride.

  It hit her then. Her mouth dropped and she pressed both hands to her lips.

  The twinkle in his eyes deepened. It was almost as if he had read her mind. It was then that she gasped.

  “Oh! Miles!”

  “What is it, Truly dear?”

  “You didn’t… did you?”

  He started to laugh.

  She began to hug herself in disbelief! He’d actually found wealth and still came back for her—a woman who’d soiled her body as well as her soul.

  “Oh, but I did, Truly darlin’. I found a mother lode.” He flipped the reins across the back of his team. “Giddyup,” he shouted, and melted as Truly leaned her head against his arm and started to cry.

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “You’re the first man who ever kept his promise to me.”

  Miles shifted in the seat as he looked down at the top of her head. “And I’ll be the last, too. As soon as we can find that preacher, you’ll be as honest as any woman on the street. I don’t want you to ever have to turn your head away in shame again. Not from any man, woman, or child, and especially not from yourself. Do you hear me, Truly Fine?”

  She batted her eyes, her breasts bouncing lightly with the sway of the wagon as the wheels slipped in and out of dry ruts.

  “I hear you, Miles darling. Truly I do.”

  THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS AS THEY SEEM

  Other things were brewing in the territory beside Letty Murphy’s rage and grief.

  A three-day ride away, Milt and Art Bolin, a pair of would-be outlaws, were brewing up their own concoction of trouble and as always with the Bolins and their plans, whatever they started, someone else would have to finish.


  ***

  “I tell ya’, Milt, that ain’t no boy. ’At’s a girl, so hep me God.”

  Milt Bolin sneered at Art, his one and only brother, who was peering through a crack in the stable wall at the red-headed youth forking hay. The observation he’d just made was almost too far-fetched to swallow. No self-respecting female would cut off her hair, or for that matter, be caught dead in a pair of men’s pants, but the idea of starting a little trouble was too good to ignore.

  “There’s one sure way to find out,” Milt said. He pushed his brother aside and swaggered through the door of the livery as if he owned it and Mudhen Crossing, as well.

  If it hadn’t been for the dust in the hay she was forking, Caitlin O’Shea might have seen them coming. But she sneezed, and when she did, her eyes went shut. When she opened them, Milt and Art were standing between her and the door.

  “I don’t know,” Milt said. “He don’t fill out those pants enough to be a she.”

  Caitie’s heart sank. It was all over now. What, she wondered, had given her away?

  “Yeah. And he’s wearin’ his hair shorter than any girl I ever seen,” Art added, ready to deny the theory, although it was his suspicions that had started the conversation to begin with.

  “Speak up, boy! What’s your name?” Milt asked, and poked Caitie roughly on the arm.

  Caitie aimed her pitchfork at the men to punctuate her warning. “Leave me the hell alone, ye sneakin’ bastards.”

  Milt grinned. “Oowee. He’s a feisty one, now, ain’t he? And damned if he don’t talk funny. I don’t know as how I much care whether he’s a he or a she. I might be tempted to try a little of that anyways. Where are you from boy? Are you one a’ them English dudes? I might like to try out a tea-sipper.”

  Rage at being unjustly accused of belonging to the hated English race made her shake, but at this moment, keeping quiet was a wiser decision than arguing the tongue of her native country.

  Art frowned. His older brother’s tastes were definitely not his own.

  “Oh hell, Milt, give it a rest. That’s plumb indecent and you know it. If Mamma could hear you she’d—”

  Milt slapped him up aside the head. “Mamma’s dead. And you’re gonna be too, if you keep tellin’ me what to do all the time. Got that?”

  Art flushed. Fury mingled with fear. Fear won out. He glared at the stable boy and stepped aside. He lived for the day when someone, even his brother, would give him the respect he believed he deserved. Unfortunately, it was unlikely to happen.

  The Bolin Brothers undistinguished reputation had earned them nothing but ridicule throughout the territory. No matter what crime they attempted to commit, it either went awry or fell short of their expectations. They were so unimportant in the scheme of things in Mudhen Crossing that they didn’t even have a price upon their heads. It was a constant matter of great discussion between them as to how that might be rectified. And while they were always planning on bigger and better things, it never hurt to keep the waters muddied, which was what they were about right now.

  Milt glanced at Art, then back at the kid, squinting his eyes against the light. “We could kidnap him and trade him for ransom.”

  Caitie laughed aloud. “And who the bleedin’ hell would be payin’ a plug nickel for me hide?”

  It was a mistake. They’d been laughed at all their life. Having a snot-nosed boy laugh at one of their plans wasn’t going to be tolerated.

  “Get him!” Milt yelled, and lunged for the pitchfork as Art went for Caitie’s feet.

  Two against one was nothing for a girl who’d raised herself on the streets of Dublin. She threw the pitchfork like a spear, nimbly dodging their attack. It sailed through the air with unerring aim, pinning Art’s hands to the stable floor just as he tripped and fell.

  “Aagh! Milt! Milt! Gawdalmighty! Help me! He’s gone and kilt me and that’s for sure!”

  Milt had trouble all his own. While the boy’s initial maneuver to escape had been successful, he wasn’t ready to give up. Milt pivoted, scattering dust and hay as he lunged for another try, catching the boy on the run, shoulder high. They went to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. It was, however, a move Milt would soon regret.

  Sharp, deadly jabs from the stable boy’s knees hit the tender territory hanging low between Milt’s legs. Milt grabbed at himself and groaned, certain his manhood would no longer be swinging as God intended and he would be forced to carry his balls out of the stable in his pockets.

  “I’ll be killin’ ye both,” Caitie shrieked, wind-milling her arms and fists like a madman and nailing Milt with a random assortment of blows that kept him too busy to do anything but dodge.

  Meanwhile, Art continued to shriek and moan as he tried to get free. It was no use. One of the tines from the pitchfork had gone through his hand and into the floor. Certain that he was dying, Art lay with his face in the dirt and hay, crying like a baby.

  Disgusted with his brother’s lack of help, Milt could do nothing but defend himself. And in the midst of it all, Caitie suddenly rolled free. Jumping to her feet, she yanked the pitchfork from Art’s hands and aimed it at Milt.

  The pitchfork had hurt like hell going in. Coming out, the shock and the pain were too much for old Art to bear. A new set of tears sprang to his eyes as he filled his britches like a diapered baby.

  Milt staggered to his feet only to come face to face with the boy and his pitchfork—aimed at him—balls high.

  Milt took several steps back then pulled his gun and waved it in Caitie’s face.

  “It’s all over kid.”

  She paled as Milt yelled at his brother.

  “Draw your gun, Art. We got him cornered now. He can’t fork both of us at once.”

  Art’s hat fell back as he lifted his head, revealing a shiny bald spot in a circle of ratty, brown hair. “That’s easy for you to say. He’s done forked me. I couldn’t draw a bucket of water, let alone my piece. ’Sides, he made me shit my pants.”

  Milt made a face. “Well, my Lord a’mercy. If you ain’t the sorriest excuse for a—”

  “Fun’s over boys.”

  Caitie jerked at the sound. Another man had come in behind her when she wasn’t looking. Fear gripped her as she shifted her position, trying to decide which man now posed the worst threat. Two she could handle, but three, she wasn’t so sure. In spite of her indecision, she stood her ground with a bloody nose and a busted lip, daring one of them to make a move.

  Milt’s confusion matched Caitie’s. He didn’t know who to shoot first, the stable boy, the stranger, or his brother, who was beginning to stink.

  “Who the hell are you?” Milt growled.

  The stranger’s stare never wavered. “Joe Redhawk. Now you get your brother and get the hell out of the stable before I shoot you both and come up with the reason afterward.”

  Caitie shivered. The ominous tone in the big man’s voice held more than a warning. There was menace even in the way he slouched against the wall, holding that blue-black pistol aimed straight into Milt Bolin’s face, which had already turned pale.

  Art moaned louder. “Gawdamn, Milt. Help me up. That there’s Breed, one of the fastest guns in the territory. He’ll kill you a’fore you can blink.”

  Milt holstered his gun with fake bravado. “I know who he is. Now listen here, Breed. There’s no hard feelin’s between us, okay? We was just havin’ ourselves a little fun with the kid. Didn’t mean him no harm or nothin’. Why don’t you let me get my shitty brother and leave before someone makes a mistake they can’t fix.”

  Joe gave the stable boy a telling glance, and when the boy finally nodded his acceptance, he took one step to the side. But only one.

  Milt grabbed Art, cursing him all the way out the door for stinking himself up. There was no way they’d get a reputation when Art kept humiliating them like this.

  Caitie poked the pitchfork into the ground and used it for a leaning post to steady her shaking legs. She couldn’t let herself cry. She
’d forgone that luxury when she’d lopped off her hair and put on men’s pants.

  Joe took his time about holstering his gun because the Bolin Brothers weren’t known for keeping their word. When he was convinced that the two were really gone, he shifted focus.

  “You all right, kid?”

  Caitie nodded and looked away. This was the kind of man who would see straight through a short haircut and a pair of man’s breeches to the woman beneath.

  “I had them cold, I did,” she muttered. And then felt obliged to add out of courtesy. “But I’ll be thankin’ ye just the same.”

  Joe’s eyebrows arched. The lilt to the kid’s voice was unmistakable. He’d known men like him before—from the country of Ireland they called it. Only they hadn’t been as small as this one. And not nearly as pretty.

  His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The thought had come out of nowhere, and it shouldn’t have. The kid was a kid. He could be sissy. He could be tough. But he shouldn’t have been pretty!

  Joe looked closer. Red-gold eyelashes as long as butterfly wings shaded the upper portion of the kid’s cheeks. His nose was too turned-up. His chin too shapely. A thought occurred. If he could only see the rest of his face.

  “Hey!” Joe yelled.

  His sudden shout made Caitie look up.

  He’d seen a lot of things in his twenty-nine winters, but never a boy with a mouth like that. He considered calling her hand and then shrugged. Her deception was ludicrous, but Joe Redhawk was a man who minded his own business until someone minded it for him. After that, it was a different story. The girl obviously had her reasons.

  Caitie pulled the pitchfork out of the ground, suddenly afraid she’d be needing it again. “And why would ye be yellin’ at me now?”

  The corner of his mouth tilted. Just a little. Just once.

  “Just checking your hearing, I reckon.”

  Caitie started to roll her eyes, and then caught herself. That was not a manly behavior.

  Joe turned away to hide his grin. Yep. I was right. This here’s a girl and that’s a fact.

  “Better watch your back for a day or two,” he warned. “That pair hasn’t got sense enough to pound sand in a rat hole, but that don’t mean they aren’t dangerous, just the same.”