As he shuffled along, hands stuffed into front pockets, head lowered in thought, he felt much like a small boy just dreaming about some sort of mischief to get into, simply because he could. Because he wanted to. Because he needed to. A window to be broken, for example, or every horse in the livery corral set free to thunder through the streets, or someone’s surrey to be splashed with whitewash.
What was wrong with him?
He ought to be so grateful he’d gotten home, out of that hellish war, in one piece, with most parts of him intact. Other than a truly faulty memory, which might or might not repair itself.
The Marsden family farm wasn’t much, and didn’t offer great opportunity, but possibly between himself and his brother the place could be built back up into a paying commodity again. He had a beautiful girl waiting for him, anxious to become his wife. Never mind that he felt no sense of connection to her, and no great desire to wed.
What exactly did he expect? How was his life to treat him?
More importantly, what was Beau Draper doing about now?
Drinking his dinner, as it turned out, at the Redeye Saloon. Although, to be fair, he was working his way through a large bowl of soup and its accompanying platter of bread at the time, in conjunction with the bottle of beer.
Beau seemed both surprised and pleased to see him. “Well, well, if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes. Wanna siddown? This soup is a lot better’n what we got back in the day.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Thanks.”
Removing his hat, Sam glanced gratefully around the room as he took a seat at Beau’s table. Ah. Now, this was a man’s place, with a man’s feel to it—bare rough floorboards, bare décor, bare unfinished walls. Not like that frou-frou Hotel Dupree, with its silly foreign name and its probable foreign food. Sam felt comfortable here. He felt at home.
“How you been, boy?”
“Fair to middlin’, I reckon. Yes, sir,” he acknowledged the boy, wearing a dirty apron, who approached to take his order. “I’ll have the same as my friend here, if you please. Thank you kindly.”
“You still gettin’ them headaches?”
“Wearin’ down some. Almost tolerable.” Sam’s dark sober expression brightened a bit. “What’re you up to these days?”
It was good to sit with someone whose experiences in the War related to his own. He felt he could relax and let his true self show, instead of putting up a barrier for protection against outsiders, who could neither know nor understand. Those who had directly suffered in that bloody conflict rarely spoke of what they endured; it was enough to feel the silent empathy of a fellow soldier.
Beau, a slender fair-haired young man close in years to Sam’s own twenty-two, had found himself employment at the Whistle Creek Stable, and was happy to have it. Even better, the job came with a living arrangement of sorts: a small shack tacked on like an afterthought to the building proper that would serve for now as a dwelling place.
“And I like horses, and I like the area, so it’s all good, y’ know?” Beau pointed his spoon for emphasis. “Main thing is, people leave me alone.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Sometimes you just need to get away from everybody yappin’ atcha.”
“Huh.” Beau favored his companion with a knowing grin. “That won’t stop, since you’re gonna be walkin’ down the garden path pretty soon.”
Sam mimicked a small shudder of foreboding. “Don’t remind me. S’pose you haven’t heard anything of Carey or Silas?”
“Naw.” A last slice of bread, a last sop of broth, and he was finished with his noon meal. “Too soon, I reckon. All you can do is wish ’em both well. Didn’t seem to have any roots to put down here.”
“Do you?” Opting for coffee, rather than redeye of any kind, Sam eyed the other man curiously.
Beau shrugged. With curly straw-colored hair tumbled around his ears, blue eyes full of good humor, and lean frame lazily tilted back in his chair, he had changed little in the months since their release from prison camp, other than to regain some semblance of the health he had lost, and the slow healing of a leg wound.
“Not yet, my friend. But who knows? Looks like a decent enough place, and Lord knows you and me’ve been in far worse. For right now, figure I’ll stick around, see how things go.” Raising his bottle, he clinked the glass against his friend’s cup and they both drank to the idea.
Stick around, and see how things go.
What choice did any man have?
Even if he had made a promise he had no memory of making?
Chapter 9
Lazy September days can drift by as easily as summer turns to autumn, if all seems well in the normal realm of events.
If, however, one is dissatisfied with one’s lot in life, even if on the surface one seems to be blessed with every advantage of what is available, then each day begins on a sour mood and rapidly descends from there.
Such was Jessica.
Oh, she was deeply gratified to boast of this or that about her intended and the upcoming wedding—even if he were far less ardent than she had hoped. But that was merely a temporary situation with which she must cope, one easily resolved by marriage. It wasn’t the physical part she was looking forward to, anyway, but the courtship leading to that point. About any problem occurring after the vows were said, she refused to even consider.
So there was that aspect. Jessica’s dream world—and reality.
There was also the fact that she had finally settled upon the pattern for her gown, and the sumptuous silk out of which it was to be constructed. In fact, she was due to see Maisie, the seamstress, a month hence for her first fitting.
One more pressing item to be crossed off her list.
Aunt Sophie had promised to accompany her soon for a formal appointment with the Reverend Aaron Whittaker, of Whistle Creek’s Heavenly Light of God Church, to schedule her wedding date and use of the large church hall for a reception afterwards.
Whether she would be able to snag the attention of her affianced to attend that appointment was another matter entirely, and one that proved to be the crux of all that was bothering Jessica.
Why couldn’t he be more heedful of her and her needs?
He should be so anxious to see her that he was clamoring to visit the ranch every day, at the very least. He should be wheedling for her favors. He should be trying to snatch kisses and bold caresses. He should be arguing for a wedding set sooner than so many months into the future.
Why wasn’t he?
Small wonder that Jessica was feeling cheated. Other girls had all the glamour and excitement they were craving during their betrothal period.
Why not she?
Part of the reason, she felt positive, was the interference of her sister.
No matter that Vickie was proving to be extraordinarily quiet and retiring, often out on the grounds with her precious animals all hours of the day and away from the house and her sister. Somehow, she had managed to interpose herself between Jessica and her betrothed. Jess didn’t know how. She couldn’t even begin to guess.
But she would lay odds that the determined minx had done it.
That needed to be undone.
And who else could be counted on but she, herself?
The first step must be to find those blasted letters her sister claimed to have in her possession, letters from Sam at the front, letters that inexorably tied the two of them together and provided a bond upon which Vickie could refer to and rely.
Find the letters.
And destroy them.
“What are you doing in here, Jess?”
Caught by surprise, she whirled from the bureau drawer through which she had been rifling to confront her aunt. “Just—uh—just looking for some hair ribbons that Vic had borrowed from me and failed to return.”
Sophie put down a stack of clean, pressed laundry upon the bed and stood, hands on hips, disapproving. “And have you her permission to be going through her things?”
“Uh. Well. Not permission, ex
actly…”
“As I thought. I doubt Vickie would thank you, in any case, just as you would not thank her for the same behavior in her room. Haven’t you some other place to be and some other thing to do?”
So Jessie had been momentarily thwarted. Soon, however, she would find a way to attain her goal. When it came to herself, and her wishes, Jessica could be quite determined.
She was so longing to escape the tedium of this ranch!
Now safely betrothed, with a marriage in the offing, she would no longer have to face the possibility of serving as her father’s nursemaid. No, that job could now be relegated to the butter-won’t-melt-in-her-mouth Vickie Clark, the stay-at-home spinster of the future!
And long may she reign, thought Jess spitefully, as the golden opportunity to snoop finally presented itself.
A gentle rain had decided to move in toward the end of the week, promising to lay on the dust of a dry late summer and bring needed moisture to crops and stock. At least, it started as gentle. By Friday night, a demented wind was stirring everything from tree tops to fallen leaves with its mighty hand, sending nervous cattle to huddle for shelter in protected coulees and watchful herdsmen to search for stragglers. Heavier rain and wind continued throughout Saturday, not to clear until the dawn of Sunday morning.
By then, Yellowstar cowboys were already out and about, checking for problems, cleaning up damage, and reporting in to the boss.
Who was in his usual testy mood.
And who could blame him?
His immediate vicinity was currently at sixes and sevens, since Riley had finally determined (with his sister’s gentle nagging assistance) that the time had come for his move downstairs. With his study on the first floor completely emptied, all his bedroom furniture had been unassembled, hauled piece by piece into the study, and patiently reassembled.
Fortunately, during this process, while four of his men had labored, sweated, and strained, Riley had been ensconced in the parlor, knocking back a sizable portion of his favorite redeye. The irascible weather, along with the upheaval, had worsened his physical condition, and Sophie was finally driven to indulging him in his desire for laudanum. That mixture of opium, codeine, and morphine not only helped ease his pain, but sent him reeling off into la-la land.
Which had come as a great relief for all those around him.
Sophie, scurrying about, had been able to direct traffic and see that both rooms were thoroughly cleaned and had furnishings put into place as her brother would like them. He would want to make changes in arrangement or perspective, of course, Riley being Riley. And she had deliberately left a few of those details undone, just so he himself could make final decisions.
But the worst of it was over. Once he woke, he could take himself slowly and carefully into his newly established habitat and settle in.
From this lair, he could keep a firm hand on the reins of managing his beloved ranch.
On Sunday morning, with the weather once more clear as quartz and shining like a benediction, Sophie shook the dust of travail from her skirts and had the surrey hitched up. She and Vickie were going to attend church services in town.
Jessica had been invited, as she always was to any family outing.
But she claimed to have caught a cold, due to sleeping with her windows open during the storm, and begged off.
This was her golden opportunity.
With her father either working (or dozing) in his bedroom / study, and her aunt and sister away for at least several hours, Jess could search high and low for that elusive stack of correspondence. Once found, the paltry papers could be done away with once and for all.
“Papa?” Approaching cautiously and silently, she peered through the open door of his room.
Only the sound of heavy breathing met her tentative inquiry. He was, fortuitously enough, stretched out on the divan, deep in dreamland. As she had hoped.
Upstairs, then, to her sister’s chamber. Then began a slow ransacking of every surface, every bureau drawer, every nook and cranny which might hold a boxful of envelopes. How many might she have received anyway? How much might she have stashed away?
It would have been a much easier process, and much faster, had she been able to leave everything a mess after being pawed through. But, no. To ensure the pretense of being about her own business only, she must keep track of order and decorum, to replace exactly as found.
Frustrated, after a solid hour of hard work, Jess was about to give up when the realization struck.
Where else would a young girl keep the romantic outpourings of a swain’s heart but under her mattress, directly beneath her pillow?
Jessica slipped her hand, then her whole forearm, between featherbed and springs, searching, searching…
Her fingers touched paper. Something crackled. Ah, the just reward of the guilty over the innocent!
She pulled forth a small packet of creased envelopes, held together by a bright blue ribbon.
Success!
Pausing at the threshold, she glanced around the room to ensure that she had left nothing behind, no clue as to her clandestine investigation of what could not be rightfully claimed. Everything was as it should be: quilt and pillows straightened, books in apple-pie order, wardrobe hanging straight and even.
Then, for privacy, she hurried down the hall to her own room, and locked the door.
* * * * *
It was such a pitifully small bundle, after all, that Jessie almost laughed aloud with pity and scorn. So much for her sister’s grand romance! This only made clearer the fact that Vickie had no right to Sam Marsden at all, and Jessie had been absolutely in her own right to snap him up—however convoluted the snapping.
Sitting grandly on her room’s pretty chaise longue before an open window, she opened the first envelope to peruse its contents, then a second, and a third, and a fourth. Each was dated many weeks apart: from some nameless fort at which he had trained, on the march, in a camp where time passed slowly while waiting for what must come. The final note started and ended as a hurried scrawl, while his unit, comprised of several thousand anxious, nervous, apprehensive soldiers, prepared for battle.
No correspondence had been sent from behind enemy lines, locked in the Rock Island prison. No wonder Vickie had lived first on borrowed hope, then on very little hope at all.
However few and far between the missives, Sam’s overall tone caused Jessie now, nearly two years later, to gnash her teeth with frustration. Each letter brimmed with love—almost nauseatingly so. Respect, decorum, affection…but mostly love.
He wrote of how proud he would be to make her his wife. To share a home and life with her. To look forward to their future together, and all that could be accomplished. He spoke of hope.
With clenched fists and a heart turned suddenly to stone, Jessica bunched the papers into a furious wad.
How dare he send such drivel to her guttersnipe of a sister! How dare he even consider making such plans!
Those plans were for he and she—Sam and Jessica—to make.
Since his return, he had apparently shut Vickie out of his very existence. For whatever reason, he had decided to throw away his youthful love, and any promises of marriage, and move on. To her.
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 15
