The farmer shook his head. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. Rebecca was still in her nightgown.
“You’re not the only one who’s struggled with sleep lately,” his wife said. She yawned and glanced at the rising sun.
When Robert and Nathaniel died in the war, Morgan had buried his grief while his wife mourned very visibly. With Abel’s passing, it was Morgan who was having obvious difficulty coping with the pain. “I’ll put some coffee on,” Rebecca said. Then she was gone.
He surveyed the sky until she returned, and the couple drank their coffees together. Morgan looked at his wife. She seemed to be toying with vocalizing something. Rebecca had worn a troubled look on her face for the last few days. Finally, she spoke.
“Landon, the farm is a mess.”
He looked out over the ranch. She was right. Following Abel’s death, he had allowed the farm to descend into a general state of disarray. Some days, Morgan spent entire afternoons in Casper, just to get away from the ghosts around the ranch. Without his son to help him with chores, he was falling behind.
“I’m doing the best I can,” he said, unable to return his wife’s gaze.
Rebecca reached out and pulled him to her. She took his hands in hers.
“You need someone to help out around here. Neither of us is as young as we once were.”
“I was planning to go to town later,” he eventually replied. “I’ll look after it then.” Morgan saw doubt in Rebecca’s eyes.
The couple stood there, listening to the sounds of morning and finding no comfort in them.
* * * * *
Buzzards circled overhead. The birds hovered over an animal that had likely succumbed to the strain of the desert heat. Wagon wheels rolled steadily over cracked, dry soil. Tightly secured by a series of ropes, the pile of lumber cast a shadow over the wagon’s two occupants.
Christian was grateful for the shade provided by the sea of clouds swimming above. Searing heat marred the two-day journey to Rawlins, but the return trip was far more pleasant.
“We’re getting close to home. You see that canyon ahead?” asked his companion, a stocky man named Mark Forrester.
Christian didn’t recognize the formation, though he trusted Forrester’s experience. Aside from occasionally filling in for Griffith as a bartender, Forrester ran all sorts of errands for the saloon owner. According to Forrester, Griffith often joked that he was a “hand without a ranch.”
“Why don’t you let me take the reins?” the stocky man asked.
Christian handed the reins over. When he unscrewed the lid of his canteen and put it to his mouth, the lukewarm water felt good against his lips.
“It’ll be good to get back,” Forrester said. “Four days on the road is enough, if you ask me. I just don’t sleep right if I’m not in my own bed.”
Christian didn’t reply.
“What about you, fella? Where do you call home?”
Christian sighed. “These days, mostly the road.”
Like Griffith, Forrester was a friendly man. It was easy to see why the two got along. Christian, on the other hand, tended to keep to himself. He knew he was coming across too cool, but he couldn’t exactly share his life’s story without raising a few eyebrows. It was easier to say nothing and let the chips fall where they may.
“You don’t talk about yourself much, do you?” To his credit, Forrester hadn’t given up yet, even after four days of near silence.
“No, Mr. Forrester. I reckon I don’t.”
Forrester laughed softly. “I already told ya. Nobody calls me Mr. Forrester. Call me Mark.”
Christian decided to attempt conversation, as long as he steered the topic away from himself. He wouldn’t be able to find future work if people thought he was a snob.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Griffith?”
“For as long as I can recall,” his companion answered. “I remember when he first came to Casper. Nobody knew where he’d come from or who he was. Rumor had it that he’d moved around a lot, taking work where he could find it until he built up enough fortune to go into business for himself. I heard somewhere that his wife left and took a train east.”
“How did you come to work for him?”
“He helped me out of a tight spot with the law once,” Forrester answered and left it at that. “I’ve helped him out ever since. Mr. Griffith has all kinds of ideas and plans for the town. He’s made investments in all sorts of businesses over the years.” Forrester’s face darkened. “I suppose you’ve heard about this ugly business with Jim Markham?”
Christian nodded. “He’s the rancher who lives on the mountain.”
“Big Jim doesn’t like anyone in town competing against him. He’s made it his business to drive Mr. Griffith out of Casper and take over the saloon.”
“Sounds like trouble. From what I hear, gangsters are involved.”
“If Mayor Hale had a backbone, this never would have happened. Mark my words, Emerson, one day there’s going to be a reckoning. And they’ve got all the guns.” The man’s expression grew brighter. “But hey, there’s the river! We’ll be back before you know it!”
True to his word, they crossed into Casper less than a half-hour later. Forrester guided the wagon to a storage building behind the saloon where they stopped to unload the greater portion of lumber. It was noon by the time they finished. The rest of the lumber, purchased by the county, would be delivered to the school.
Christian and Forrester took a break for lunch at the Dusty Traveler, where Griffith entertained them for almost an hour with stories and jokes. Soft music played in the background from a fiddler sitting in front of the empty fireplace. Griffith confessed that he was currently attempting to persuade the mayor to entice a railway to come through Casper. He admitted that with the turmoil the town was going through, this was unlikely. Christian was actually starting to enjoy himself near the end of the conversation, when the two workers excused themselves and headed back to the wagon.
They were across the street from the saloon when Christian spotted a man in a dark hat riding into town on a black stallion. Christian noticed a black bandana tied around the man’s neck. The stranger’s spurred boots hit the ground, and he fixed his stallion to a post outside the saloon.
“Looks like the saloon got a new guest while we were away,” Forrester said. He took out his gloves and stepped up to the wagon. Christian continued watching the stranger in front of the saloon. The man was tall and powerfully built. There was a look of cruelty behind those eyes that unsettled Christian. He strode into the saloon, his body almost completely filling the doorframe. A few moments later, most of the saloon’s patrons spilled outside with anxious looks on their faces. Christian guessed the stranger belonged to Charlie Sheldon’s gang.
“You coming?” Forrester called after him. Christian’s gaze lingered on the saloon’s entrance for a few seconds longer before he turned and climbed back onto the wagon. The two men drove the wagon to the schoolyard and began unloading the rest of the lumber. From time to time, a child or two would peek at them from the school windows.
As the day progressed it became increasingly hot, and Christian found his canteen starting to run low. He pushed himself harder. Not to be outdone by the younger man, Forrester picked up his own pace.
“Almost done,” he said. “I’ll hand it to you, Emerson. You’re a quiet fella but a hard worker.” Forrester excused himself to visit the outhouse. Christian removed his gloves and leaned against the wagon. He was parched.
Suddenly, the door to the school opened and a group of children descended upon the schoolyard. Several of them watched him for a time before their friends roped them into a game. Two women—one older and the other much younger—appeared behind the children. The younger woman was a blond girl who probably had yet to reach her twenties. The ol
der woman pointed to the schoolchildren, whispered something in her junior’s ear, and the girl hurried off toward the group wearing a warm smile.
The older woman approached Christian. She carried two tall glasses in her hands.
“You look thirsty, Mr. Emerson,” she said. “Here, have some lemonade.” The woman handed him the glass.
Christian took a drink. It had been years since he’d tasted anything as delicious. He took a second, longer drink. “You have me at a disadvantage, ma’am,” he said. “You seem to know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Don’t be too worried,” she said, noticing the concern on his face. “It’s a small town. People will gossip. I am Mrs. Kays, the schoolteacher here. That’s Abigail Vincent,” she said, pointing to the blond girl. “Her father, Tobias, is on the town council and the bank’s board of directors.”
Christian tried not to stare. Abigail Vincent certainly was a beautiful girl, but he wasn’t in Casper for romance. “Well, Mrs. Kays, thank you for the lemonade. It is surely the best I’ve ever had. I sorely needed it.”
“Are you enjoying your stay in Casper, Mr. Emerson? There’s a great deal of speculation on where you come from. I suppose it’s not from anywhere near here.”
Christian swallowed another mouthful of lemonade. Mrs. Kays was a surprisingly direct woman. “I guess we’re all travelers, in the grand scheme of things,” he said. “You probably know more about that than most. New Jersey is a long way from Wyoming.”
“Fair enough,” Mrs. Kays said, likely assuming he’d heard of her place of origin from that small-town gossip she’d mentioned. In fact, Christian had simply placed the accent. He was more than a little familiar with the northeast.
“What’s the wood for?” Christian asked. “Mark didn’t seem to know.”
“We need new steps and chairs in the schoolhouse. Mayor Hale was good enough to allocate some funds. Are you an educated man, Mr. Emerson?”
Christian laughed. “As much as any man, I reckon.” The truth was, he was probably the only person within days of Casper with a university education, though he was careful not to give anyone cause to suspect as much.
He spotted Forrester returning from across the yard. Christian was glad for a reason to excuse himself from the conversation. Mrs. Kays evidently possessed a keenly analytical mind, and he was worried what she might see if she studied him too closely.
“Well, I’d better get back to work. Thank you again for the lemonade. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Kays.”
“Likewise, Mr. Emerson. I look forward to seeing you again.”
The two men finished the remainder of their work in under an hour. Mrs. Kays sent them away with two more glasses of lemonade, which Christian finished before he even sat down on the wagon. Forrester dropped him off in front of the saloon, where the two men shook hands and parted ways.
Music flowing from inside the Dusty Traveler caught Christian’s attention. He stepped into the saloon, relishing the reprieve from the heat. A violinist next to the piano had replaced the fiddler from earlier. The musician played with his eyes closed. If he sensed Christian’s entrance, he gave no sign of it.
Other than the violinist and the bartender, the room was empty save for a thin man seated alone at one of the card tables. The man stared down at the cards covering the table, as if replaying the last hand in his head. As the tune intensified, the man lowered his head into his hands. Christian averted his gaze, deciding to give the man some privacy in his despair.
Christian approached the bar and rested his hand on the counter. He started to speak to the bartender when he heard light footsteps echo behind him. A young woman descended the staircase, her soft eyes cast in shadow under the saloon’s dim candlelight. She met Christian’s gaze and offered the slightest of smiles before walking toward the violinist. He recognized the girl instantly. It was May Turner—the girl Finley pined for.
The violinist stopped playing and looked to May, waiting for his cue. May surveyed the nearly empty room for a moment. She seemed disappointed, as if she had expected more people. Then she opened her mouth and started singing. Christian paused for several moments and listened to the girl.
Finley was right, he thought. May was very talented. He turned his attention back to the bartender, who was also watching the brown-haired girl. Christian motioned toward the envelope of bills waiting for him behind the bar. He thanked the bartender and took a seat in the far corner of the room, listening to the music as he counted his money. The violin picked up again in the middle of the song, a tragic and haunting melody that evoked emotions of loss he would rather forget.
Christian returned his attention to the envelope. The thin stack of bills inside was enough to cover his room and board, along with rent at the stables. Aside from that, it would be sufficient to buy food for a couple of weeks if he spent the money wisely. Unfortunately, his wages weren’t nearly enough to pay for new clothes or the supplies he needed. Christian tried to look at the positive. Now he had time to look for a more permanent job. It would be a while before he could move on, but as long as he kept his head down, he was confident he would find some way to earn the money and be gone in a couple of months.
The wooden stairs creaked again, and Christian looked up from his spot in the corner of the room. It was the stranger he’d seen earlier that day, the man with the cruel eyes. The music faltered for a moment when the stranger crossed the last step. The man was clad in the same clothes as before, including the dark hat and black bandana. He stared at May Turner for almost a full minute before striding toward the bar. He took no notice of Christian.
The stranger sat down on a barstool and watched May while he waited for the bartender to approach. Christian saw the worried look on the bartender’s face.
“I’ll have a shot of bourbon, straight,” the man demanded impatiently. Matthew placed a shot glass on the counter and quickly filled it up. The stranger drained it in seconds. The man cleared his throat. “Keep it coming,” he said.
“You still haven’t paid off your tab from earlier,” the bartender replied hesitantly.
The large man reached into his jacket and laid a revolver on the counter, facing the bartender. He took his hand off the gun and pushed his glass forward.
“I don’t pay,” he said flatly.
Matthew bit his lip and filled up the glass. Christian watched the exchange through clenched teeth.
It’s not my business, he thought. This isn’t my problem.
Christian forced himself to look away. He took out a piece of paper and started composing a letter to his friend in Cheyenne, warning against expecting him for a few months. He took great pains to word the letter in such a way as to avoid giving superfluous details in case the letter was intercepted. Finally, he signed it with an alias his friend would recognize.
As a new song began, Christian wondered how his life had reached the point where he could no longer travel using his given name. He thought of the real Emerson, a man who saved his life on more than one occasion during the war. Emerson was a seasoned veteran, a man much older than the boy Christian was at that time. Initially, Christian distrusted his cynicism. In time, he came to understand Emerson’s wisdom.
“Life is about the choices we make,” Emerson once said. He died leading a group of soldiers into an ambush the next week. It was something that stuck with Christian ever since. He thought about his life before the war. Everything seemed a distant memory, like a tale in a storybook. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Even in the pale light, he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Was he so different now from the man he once was?
The song stopped, and with it, Christian’s reminiscence.
“Want to do another song?” the violinist asked May Turner.
“In a moment,” she replied. “I want to get some water for my throat.” T
he girl walked over to the bar to speak to Matthew, two barstools away from the rustler. Several glasses sat on the counter in a neat row, all empty.
The rustler stared at May while Matthew poured her a glass of water. He dwarfed the young woman.
“The name’s Brock,” he said. “I like your singing. Maybe you can come up to my room and sing some more for me.”
May’s smile faded. “I don’t think so,” she said coolly. She turned to leave, but Brock seized her arm. Christian knew the look in his eyes too well. It was the look of evil.
“Don’t you turn your back on me,” the outlaw hissed. “I wasn’t finished talking to you.”
The bartender watched silently, apparently too frightened to do anything.
“Stop it,” May pleaded. “You’re hurting me.”
“I’m going to do a lot more than that,” Brock replied.
“Leave the lady alone,” Christian said loudly. He walked toward the bar, never taking his eyes off the threat.
“Stay out of this,” Brock warned. “Or I’ll put you in the ground.” He tightened his grip on the girl.
Christian punched the man squarely in the face, and Brock tumbled from the barstool onto the floor. “I warned you. Next time, I won’t ask nicely.” He turned to May. “Get out of here. Now.”
He looked back at Brock, who stumbled angrily to his feet. The man’s eyes boiled with feral rage.
“Don’t you know who I am?”
Christian was careful to keep himself positioned between the outlaw and the gun on the counter. He knew this was a man who would kill him if he had the chance.
“I know,” Christian said. “I just don’t care.”
“You’re gonna wish you were never born.” When Brock lunged at him, Christian deftly sidestepped him. Brock’s momentum nearly carried him into the wall. Christian was on him before the man could spin around, raining punches down on him. He caught Brock’s jaw and hit him several times in the stomach before Brock growled and pushed Christian off him with incredible strength.
Atonement Page 5
