Unfortunately, I do not have a magic wand to prolong my days, and that saddened her for a moment. So, I will just have to make do with what minimal free time I have. At the same time, she was rather excited. She couldn't wait to see what Mrs. Henley gathered for her.
Geraldine felt thrilled at the prospect of learning something new and then discussing it with her favorite teacher. Instantly, she had another revelation. As long as she felt like this about something, learning in particular, she would be capable of doing everything else that needed to be done with a confident smile on her face. Because after a day of hard work, she would always have something to look forward to that would fill her with joy and hope.
Chapter Three
In Fort Mohave, looking at the clear blues skies that were bathed in sunshine, Robert thought it was such a fine day for riding. By urging his horse to go at a slower pace, he could enjoy some more time outside. He wished he could simply keep on riding and live off the land as he went, completely alone with no one to keep him company apart from his horse during the day and stars during the night.
He would ride until he ran out of roads or even land he could ride upon, then turn around and do it again from the start. Naturally, he could not. Robert had duties, and people who relied on him, so that trumped his silly fantasies on any given day. And this was nothing more than just that - a fantasy.
Besides, he loved his life, it was just he sometimes fantasized there was more to it than his job. Banishing those thoughts, Robert dismounted and walked toward the old yellow house on the outskirts of Fort Mohave.
“Good morning, Mr. Gibson.” Robert greeted an elderly man that sat in the rocking chair by the front door on the big porch. Josef Gibson was his last visit for the day. To begin with, he saw this duty as a nuisance, and he would be glad to finish. He loved his job, simply not all aspects of it.
“Good Mornin', Sheriff.” Mr. Gibson greeted him back with a smile. Mr. Gibson had been good friends with Robert's late grandad, and Robert always felt a bit uncomfortable when the people he knew and respected all his life treated him differently simply because he now wore a gold star on his vest. On the other hand, that was the price to pay if he wanted to do this position justice.
I still don't have to like it, he grumbled to himself.
“What brings you here, Robert? Not that we mind the company,” Mr. Gibson asked. After a heartbeat, he answered his own question with another one, clearly thinking out loud. “Is it really that time of the year again?” There was a true wonder in his voice.
“I'm afraid so.” Mr. Gibson swore as Robert shrugged. “Time tends to fly by when we're not looking.”
“It sure does. I better start lookin', or I'll wake up in my own grave one day,” Mr. Gibson started laughing out loud at his own bad joke before standing up. “I'll be right back,” he added before going inside the house as Robert remained on the porch.
Robert wasn't particularly fond of this part of his job. Collecting property taxes was a task he did well, albeit grudgingly. Ever since he was a small boy he wanted to enforce the law, catch bandits and then watch as they get precisely what they deserved in the court of law.
Not surprisingly, in all his childhood fantasies, collecting money for the state was not a part of that vision, but he did it proudly and professionally as he did with his other duties. Despite some drawbacks, he loved his job; the post as Sheriff meant everything to him. He considered himself very fortunate to fulfill this goal. These were dangerous times and most people tended to avoid dangerous situations, but on the other hand, Robert was not most men.
He lost both his elder brother and father when a group of bandits passing by decided to raid their ranch simply because it was on their way. His family tried to fight back despite being outnumbered. Robert survived because his father made him hide in the root cellar. Witnessing them fighting, and in the end, dying, were the worst experiences of his entire life.
For years, the thoughts about those events tormented him, and at times, they still did. Robert wished he did something that day, other than hiding, which might have made all the difference. Or maybe I would end up dead as well. A big part of him felt ashamed, acting a coward for staying away. But he could not change the past, so Robert focused on the future to make some kind of difference in other people's lives and protect them from harm. As soon as he became of age to be eligible as a deputy, he sold his farm and started his training. His reasoning was quite simple. If he could prevent just one tragedy from happening, he knew his father would look down on him from heaven and feel proud.
Over time, his natural skills and hard work made him stand out, and eventually, he became the sheriff. A job that turned out to be slightly more difficult and demanding than he thought it would be; not that he was complaining.
Mr. Gibson returned with a sack of coins. He counted them in front of Robert, despite his protests, before handing it to him. “Here you go, son.”
“Much obliged, Mr. Gibson.”
“Would you care to stay for some breakfast? My Mary is still the finest cook in the county despite being older than me,” Mr. Gibson cackled. Robert did not get the opportunity to reply.
“I heard that, you old hump.” Mrs. Gibson suddenly appeared at the door. Robert greeted her and she smiled in return. She was always happy to see him, and the affection was mutual. Mr. Gibson was right, Mrs. Gibson was the finest cook in town. “You know that's not true,” she continued speaking to her husband. “When we met, I was far younger than you.”
Mr. Gibson chuckled, clearly pleased he managed to rattle his wife. “You are aged dear, you forgot how old you are,” he jibed.
Mrs. Gibson narrowed her eyes. “Josef Gregory Gibson, if you don't stop right there, I will give your supper to the wolves.”
“Poor wolves,” Mr. Gibson said under his breath and Robert barely kept a straight face. He loved when they got like this, which was all the time.
“What was that?” Marry Gibson inquired.
“I said fine. But I still look younger than you,” he insisted stubbornly.
Mrs. Gibson snorted. “Tell that to your wrinkled face, you old rascal,” she replied, but there was no real fire behind her words. She was enjoying this banter as much as Mr. Gibson. Robert simply smiled and listened to them go at one another. It was such a delight to observe such a loving couple.
He wished he would be so fortunate to meet someone in the future who wanted to share his life, love, and laughs. Someone who could complete and challenge him every step of the way. Robert wanted a love that was true and free, but so far he was lacking. None of the women he encountered made his heart flutter or even intrigued him long enough for him to show any interest, and that was tragic.
There must be something wrong with me, he thought to himself, glumly.
Still, he refused to lose hope. Despite the fact that nowadays people marry for status, wealth, or fear of loneliness. All kinds of the wrong reasons led to married folks acting more like business partners sharing a roof, rather than two people bonded out of true adoration and respect. Robert refused to settle for anything other than true affection. Arranged marriages made his skin crawl. If he ever decided to marry, and that was a big if, considering his work was extremely dangerous, he wanted to do it for all the right reasons. He was going to love his wife with all his might, expecting the same in return, or he would never marry at all. Maybe he was a dreamer; that was one dream worth having.
Robert wanted his own Mrs. Gibson, although he would never admit such a thing to anyone, only to himself. “Robert?” Mr. Gibson's voice snapped him from the reverie. He had been calling out for him for quite some time, which was embarrassing. “Breakfast?”
“Pardon me, I got distracted for a moment. And no, thank you, I already ate,” he lied. For some reason, he couldn't be in their presence anymore. Probably because they showed him something he was missing and desperately wanted. Besides, he tried to reason with himself, he had too much work to do. “Duty calls, eh?” Mr.
Gibson pressed.
Robert simply nodded in return, and the elderly couple sighed in unison. It was uncanny watching them share the same thoughts even. And Robert already suspected what will come out of Mr. Gibson's mouth next.
He did not disappoint. “You work too much, son. You need to find a girl and marry her, settle down.” Just the things he was thinking about himself. Unfortunately, as it turned out, that wasn't his destiny to have, or at least not yet. “You cannot go through life alone, chasing scoundrels. A man needs a woman to complete his life,” Mrs. Gibson decided to join in.
“We shall see, Mrs. Gibson. Besides, not many girls want to be tied down to a sheriff,” he added with an exaggerated sigh, getting back up on his horse. That wasn't technically a lie, simply an exaggeration.
Unfortunately, the Gibsons saw right through his charade, sharing another one of their poignant glances, but refrained from commenting. For which Robert was grateful. Instead, they waved Robert goodbye, and he did the same. “I expect you to come on Sunday for some apple pie,” Mrs. Gibson shouted after him. They were having a small celebration being wed for forty-five years and Robert was one of the people they decided to invite, for which he was much honored.
“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” he replied honestly.
After that, Robert jabbed his horse and Duke responded instantly, making them soar through the plains, clearly happy to finally stretch his legs. Robert felt a bit raw and restless after that conversation, and he did not appreciate the sentiment one bit.
He hoped some riding would clear his head because it always did in the past. Best medicine in the world. It did not have the desired effect this time. His mind kept swirling back to the Gibsons and the bond they clearly shared. It was true Robert was known as a suitable bachelor in their small part of the world, some would add that he was even desirable in that area, but he did not see things that way.
Despite his words to Mrs. Gibson, he found a few girls did show a bit of interest toward him, but unfortunately, Robert did not share their enthusiasm. Maybe I'm too picky, he thought to himself. He didn't think so, not really. It was just so far, none of the girls he knew really piqued his interest or awoke a desire in him enough to want to spend a bit more time getting to know them, their likes or dislikes, let alone marry one of them. Thoughts of spending the next forty-five years with one of them made him shudder.
His skin practically crawled at the mere thought of the girls he grew up with. That was not to say there was something wrong with them. One of the problems was that he was living in a somewhat small town and knew most of the unmarried girls from childhood. As he had said before, they were all fine young women, all pretty in their unique ways, well-behaved. It was just that he wanted more from a woman he planned to spend his life with.
You are too picky Robert, he informed himself. And for that, you will die alone.
* * *
Once he felt more comfortable in his own skin, Robert rode back into town. Entering the Sheriff's Office, he greeted his deputies, shared a few words with them, mostly about work, before going to his desk. After making a note about Mr. Gibson's deposit, and a few others, he placed all the coins in the safe with the rest of the taxes. There were some letters on his desk, telegrams from other sheriffs, all containing information about current bandits and their locations. Robert liked to keep track of such things.
Once satisfied with his work, Robert took the keys from a desk drawer and approached one of the cells. Their office wasn't that big, and their holding area looked formidable, with small dark cells and fat iron bars. To put fear in the souls of the weak and easily corrupt.
He looked at the man held inside. “Did you sober up?” he asked without preamble, in a much louder voice than was necessary. Still, only a muffled groan greeted him back and Robert sighed.
“Close enough,” one of his deputies commended; the rest laughed.
Robert opened the door and marched inside the small cell. He gave the man inside a firm shake. “Come on. Wake up.” Eventually, the man sprawled on the cot turned to look up at him, with a frown, clearly not appreciating being awakened in such fashion.
He is fortunate I did not use cold water on him, or something even worse, smelly even. Speaking of worse and smelling, Robert had to hold his breath while standing so close to the man because he reeked of alcohol and probably urine, with a dash of horse manure, a common aroma in that place.
Not wanting to stay any longer than was necessary, Robert spoke again. “Time to go home, Mike.”
“Excellent,” Mike slurred, sleepy. It took some true effort, but he managed to get up on his feet. Is this fool still drunk? Robert wondered, eyeing him. He smelled like a distillery. His face was covered with dried blood, some mud—or at least Robert hoped that was mud—and the slightest breeze could put him back down on his behind. He's just hungover, Robert realized, and no longer his problem.
“Next time you decide to start a brawl for the most ridiculous of all reasons, I will use your head as a battering ram; maybe that will put some sense back into you. Understood?” Robert threatened.
“Yes sir,” Mike stammered, saluting.
Please God, watch over this fool.
Mike left the cell and the station altogether while Robert's deputies were laughing. Mike was known as a local fool, and he spent most nights right here in this very cell to the utmost chagrin of his family. In essence, he was a good lad but when you put some liquor in him, he became extremely prone to doing stupid things, and last night was no exception.
He got into a fight with a local rancher known for having a bad temper, a really hard, tough man that you should not treat lightly. And what led to the brawl? Over a boot. And it wasn't even Mike's boot, or the rancher's for that matter, but one of the other patrons of the saloon. The argument started over the quality of imported leather compared to domestic or something similar.
Like Robert said, ridiculous, and certainly not something was worth dying over, which would have happened if Robert didn't show up in the nick of time. The place was a madhouse by the time he arrived to save that fool, and it was a true miracle Mike hasn't died already, for being loudmouthed and surrounded by the wrong crowd. He would have been, but he tripped and fell while the rancher aimed and fired, fortunately missing. Both were beyond drunk which probably saved them from killing each other.
So, Robert fired his arm in the air to get everyone's attention. Once the crowd settled, he picked up Mike from the pile of broken chairs and dragged him to jail, for his own protection. “I bet he will be back tonight,” one of his deputies, Ross, had to voice his opinion, and another simply snorted. “That's a safe bet. I say, he will be back this afternoon.”
While his deputies started to bet, Robert rolled his eyes, closing the cell. He wished there were a way to reach Mike and force him to see reason, prevent him from coming back ever again.
Yet you can't save everybody, he thought with a small amount of sadness, remembering his older brother and father while returning to his desk. He still had a lot of work to do. Even though he completely ignored their jokes, he shared their views. Mike will be back, I just hope he will be breathing next time...
Chapter Four
Geraldine's visit to Mrs. Henley was a pleasant one, and the teacher was rather surprised to see Geraldine come by that very day. Of course, she was pleased and did not let Geraldine leave without some biscuits and lemonade. That was not what put a smile on Geraldine's face; she got three new books to read.
I can't wait to start reading them. Mrs. Henley really did go out of her way to find books Geraldine would be interested in, and made excellent choices. Geraldine was beyond happy. Despite that small respite, Geraldine was tired; her back ached, and she was more than aware her day was only half finished. But I have new books now, she tried to cheer herself a bit, and it somewhat worked.
It wasn’t just that she still had so much work on her hands. She didn't simply feel tired but completely prostrate. Perhaps one of the
reasons she rode home slowly was to postpone her chores a bit longer. Not too much, since she would feel guilty, yet enough to catch her breath and just be.
Of course, there was another reason. Even though the cart was empty apart from the baskets and the precious books, she did not want to tire Whitey; he wasn't in his prime anymore. Once upon a time, he was a true menace, but Elsa Potter, Mother's best friend, managed to tame him. He was actually a gift from Elsa to Geraldine for her thirteenth birthday.
Geraldine's father disappeared when she was twelve, and she was almost as distraught as her mother was, but she tried to hide it. Somehow Elsa knew, and when her next birthday came, she gifted Geraldine Whitey in hopes to cheer her up. Geraldine fell in love with him at first sight; Whitey responded much the same, and they were inseparable ever since. She couldn't imagine her life without him in it.
When Whitey was younger, Geraldine rode him all the time, and all the way up to the Rocky Mountains that surrounded their small town, especially when Geraldine needed some time for herself. She had a favorite place where she would try to calm her racing mind or to cry for a while. It was a small meadow, completely surrounded by trees from all sides. Geraldine liked it because it was so hidden, and easily overlooked. Geraldine stumbled upon it by accident and returned many times with Whitey.
At that time, he did not want to overexert him with such adventures and simply used him to pull her small cart, with products she had to sell, to and from the market. Sometimes, she thought he was resenting her for keeping him at a slower pace, but she was doing that for his own good. Geraldine loved her horse too much and wanted to keep him in her life a bit longer.
Geraldine would look wistfully at the mountains. I do not want to go home, I want to be a normal girl doing normal things. Susannah's face, with her perfect hair and immaculate attire, came to mind, and she grimaced. Geraldine wanted to be perfect in her own way.
The Salvation 0f A Runaway Bride (Historical Western Romance) Page 32
