Secondhand Sunsets, page 21
“If he makes a dash, Captain Whitaker and Private Reser, on the perimeter, will capture him. Sergeant Bowman, take charge outside the barn.”
Martin sucked in his breath. He would sooner be dragged by wild horses than face this reprobate who almost killed Abby. But in an odd way, Papa’s death grounded him. Having survived that, he could overcome anything.
Captain Whitaker and Private Reser faded into the brush, and Colonel Simms repeated his orders. “No firing unless he shoots first.”
An awareness enveloped Martin, similar to what he experienced before battle. What he once thought to be cowardice squeezed him like a vice. Docker’s muscles tightened too, so Martin stroked his mane. As Colonel Simms approached the barn, Martin fingered his Remington New Army six-shooter.
Colonel Simms scanned one last time for Private Reser and Captain Whitaker. A flash showed in the trees, and then the door squeaked open.
Cold sweat broke on Martin’s neck. Within minutes, the Colonel exited with the scoundrel, hands held high. His soulless glare magnetized Martin. Sergeant Bowman bound his hands as McHale spat at Simms.
Spittle ran down his chin, but the Colonel only stiffened. Sergeant Bowman cinched a rope around McHale’s waist, pulled him to a scraggly juniper and secured him.
Already, Colonel Simms was devising a plan. “Perhaps Sergeant Bowman and I ought to proceed to Camp Reno while you escort Colonel Masters back to Camp Verde. Who knows what he might try if you were to confront him, Captain.”
“Nothing would bring him more pleasure than to kill me.”
Colonel Simms tapped his gloves on his saddlebag. “We have no orders to inform him of the charges, so the reason for the journey to Camp Verde will remain a secret. This way, General Crook can enjoy all the thunder.”
“Perfect! Masters will think the general has summoned him for a promotion.”
“You will accompany the prisoner, then. We shall follow you in a few days, but you must remain at Verde as witnesses.”
The Colonel glanced at Sergeant Bowman. “Who rides west with them?”
“Sir, Sergeant Tolzmann and Private Reser already have some history of success.”
Colonel Simms chuckled. “Indeed.” Martin figured his own countenance probably matched Private Reser’s florid coloring.
And so it was. After the Colonel’s party rode east, Captain Whitaker took over. “Sergeant, saddle the prisoner’s mule. Best get this over with while the weather’s good.”
Sick at the thought of guarding McHale all the way to Camp Verde, Martin made quick work of it. Then he ordered Private Reser to prod Ray forward.
When he struggled, Captain Whitaker barked, “The sooner you cooperate, the better.” This produced a low growl, and Private Reser shoved McHale into the saddle.
With every mile, regret tinged Martin. Now he would have no opportunity to relay the good news to Abby. By nightfall, they straggled to the top of the Rim, where he looked toward the Allens’ place. If only—
But this mission waited for no man. On the second afternoon, huge snowflakes turned red clay into a soggy mess. New lines decorated Captain Whitaker’s forehead when they made camp.
“T’would be easier for the prisoner to escape in this cold,” he declared. “Never leave the prisoner alone, not even to relieve himself,” he commanded.
Martin accompanied McHale and Private Reser to a secluded spot, with McHale sputtering the whole time.
“Private, assist the prisoner.”
Private Reser sucked in his breath. What worse duty than unbuttoning a dangerous man’s trousers? Stark hatred coursed Ray’s eyes—he looked as though he would slay a man for breathing. If only General Crook had asked for him alive or dead.
On the third night, Private Reser tethered McHale to a tree a distance from the crackling fire and whispered, “Sir, could we untie the prisoner, just while he does his business?”
“If a chase ensued, we might be forced to shoot him, but I promise to report your faithfulness to duty.” Any other time, Martin might have exchanged places, but his skin crawled at the thought.
Private Reser swallowed his objections as recollections swamped Martin. If McHale should escape, he would stalk Abby and finish the job.
Her bruised face rode Martin’s memory, along with the sensation of holding her in his arms. To make up for Private Reser’s abominable task, he took cooking duty and made conversation with him once McHale was tethered for the night.
“You come from Kentucky, private? What led you here?”
“Wanderlust. Joined up with a buddy after the war.”
“Sounds familiar. And now we’re freezing to death guarding a miserable criminal.”
Private Reser took first watch, but sleep evaded Martin. McHale had gotten under his skin. What a riddle—meeting Abby in Missouri, being reunited here, and now this.
Pastor Schultz said the Almighty ruled over all, and Mama found unique comfort in believing. But why did He allow men like McHale to live, and an innocent young woman to fall under his wicked spell?
Chapter Twenty-three
“The lad looks so wan. I surely hope he pulls through.” Elda Mae’s tone revealed such concern that Fred looked up from his reading.
“Mr. Fuller tells me the poor child lost his mother just a few weeks ago on the trail.”
“And they had just this one—David?”
“No, they started out with another boy and an infant. Buried both somewhere in New Mexico Territory, along with his wife.”
“These folks come ill-prepared, with no idea about the rigors of the journey.”
“Yes. They possess abundant hope, but far too little preparation.”
As she listened, Abby mopped David’s forehead with a wet cloth. Elda Mae had nursed the boy all night and finally allowed her to take over this morning.
After refusing Fred’s offer of the warm barn, the child’s father had fallen asleep over in the corner.
“With his fever, the cool air actually proved a blessing.”
Before Elda Mae went inside, Abby offered, “Fred and I filled the tub for you to bathe.”
“Oh my, how thoughtful. But I may fall asleep and drown.”
Soon a splash carried to the porch. So intent on nursing David, Elda Mae had no idea how she looked. Working all day yesterday on the lean-to, she’d been covered with red mud when David arrived, and sacrificing the old hen had spattered her with blood.
Meanwhile, David still thrashed with fever. Fortunately, his father slept on after Elda Mae entered the cabin. Losing two of his children and his wife had to take its toll—most likely typhoid, Fred said.
But somehow David had survived, only to meet with a rattler. His fair eyelids shuttered—could he be waking? No more sounds from inside. Perhaps Elda Mae had fallen asleep with her head propped against the edge of the copper tub.
Over and over, she freshened the cool cloth and applied it to David’s skin, and gradually, his fever decreased.
Engrossed in watching him, she barely noticed when Fred went inside, and heard no movement when his father suddenly appeared at David’s other side. “Yer an angel ’a mercy, ma’am.”
Abby doused her cloth again. If only he knew how far she fell short.
“Thet yer Ma n’ Pa?” He gestured to the door with his head.
“No, but they are my family.”
“Hain’t got one a’ yer own?”
“Mister... What was your last name?”
“Kett’rin’.”
“Mr. Kettering, would you please get me some more cold water from the tank?”
He eyed her askance but did her bidding, and she had half a notion to summon Fred from the house. But just then, David let out a moan and twisted on the quilt Elda Mae had folded under him.
“There, now. There—”
“He done waked up? He’ll be all right then, I wager.” Water sloshed, and Mr. Kettering’s trousers brushed Abby’s arm. A shudder took her as David lifted his head a bit. With no warning, vile green liquid projected from his mouth, straight at his father’s face.
He leaped back. “Upchuckin’, n’ right on yer Pa, eh?”
Just then, Fred stepped out with a bucket of hot water. “Go right on down to the tank and wash up.”
His expression a mixture of chagrin and disgust, Mr. Kettering obeyed. Clearly, his wife had handled the sickness in their family.
“Miss Abby, are you all right?” Fred helped her slip David’s foul-smelling shirt over his head. “You look awful pale.”
“You brought the water just in time. Thank you.”
“One of my old shirts might fit the lad.” He glanced toward the tank. “It will only take a minute for me to fetch one.”
His eyes revealed his concern. He had taken in the scene and understood. But even she could not have predicted the upset in her stomach when Mr. Kettering had come so near.
†††
“Elda Mae, come quick! Never saw such a sight in all my born days!”
Abby bumped into Fred as he raced up the porch stairs with straw clinging to his shirt. What could be stranger than a man toting his son from the wagon road with a rattlesnake bite?
Two weeks had passed since Mr. Kettering and his son went on their way. Elda Mae warned that David was not ready to travel, but the man set his mind on leaving.
“Oh my heavens.” Fred’s eyes popped as Elda Mae joined him on the porch.
“Well, knock me over with a feather. How is that contraption holding together? Such a light frame—even Dougherty wagons have trouble out here.”
A dandy in a gray flannel frock coat pulled a rickety buckboard to a stop. From his blue silk brocade waistcoat and neckerchief to the contrasting cuffs and collar, he painted quite the picture. His left hip showcased an engraved leather gun belt.
Beside him, shaded by a delicate red silk parasol embroidered in lavish black scrollwork, sat a shapely woman. As they neared, she could not hide evidence of her rouge running in the heat.
Elda Mae planted Fred against the porch pole and hissed, “Stay right here, or go in and heat the coffee. Let me handle them.”
Fred’s shoulder trembled against Abby’s, and she recalled his agitation when he and Elda Mae first visited her. Meeting new folks must distress him.
“Go on, then. You can watch from inside.”
Dust whipped a whirlwind around the lurching vehicle as the lady fanned her face with her gloves. She half-stood. “Is this the McHale ranch?” Her coarse voice matched her dress, a brilliant scarlet hue.
Her coiffure, a harsh blend of blue and black, blazed in the sun. Her shoulders and chin jutted forward so that her bust, already notable in the low cut of her dress, became even more so. She might be an exotic bird torn from its natural environs.
Could this be one of those saloon women Mama’s friends used to describe at tea? Mama never allowed Abby to walk to the end of Main Street, where the saloon sent forth music and laughter and an abundance of smoke.
Fred wheezed, so Elda Mae shoved him toward the door. He hurried in as she addressed the visitor.
“No, but I can give you directions. The McHale place lies about a half hour south of here.” She drew herself up. “But you must park at a trailhead and descend on foot.”
The tall fellow’s face turned stony as he faced the woman. “See? I told you so.”
“What better idea did you have?” His companion slapped at a gadfly and muttered under her breath.
“Would you like to refresh yourselves?”
“Very kind of you, madame.” The stranger’s handlebar mustache bounced when he moved his lips, reminding Abby of dashing male heroes in theater productions that once passed through Poplar Bluff.
“Abby, please bring the coffee.” Elda Mae descended a step and held out her hand. “Elda Mae Allen. Good to meet you, Mrs.—”
“McHale. Lola McHale.”
Elda Mae never flinched, but Abby staggered back against the cabin.
“Help yourself to some water at the pump. It always helps to wash off the dust of travel.” Elda Mae turned. “Dear, would you please fetch a clean towel for our guests?”
Like a wooden puppet, Abby did her bidding and returned to the stove.
Lola McHale...
Would her heart ever resume its normal beat? But Elda Mae’s steady green eyes infused her with strength as she peered in through the door. Was that a glint of humor, too?
“Slice that bread we baked yesterday and bring out a pot of honey while we get better acquainted.”
Fred grabbed Abby’s arm as if he were sinking in a stormy sea. “That woman, she—” His breath came hard. “Would you mind if I—” He gestured toward Abby’s room and the arbor, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
“Of course not. What a good idea you had to build a second door back there.”
He slipped out while she corralled her thoughts. Then she carried the bread and honey to the porch and retreated as the visitors seated themselves.
While the tea steeped, she peeked out her bedroom window to the arbor, where Fred shifted from tree to tree like a hummingbird. With every round, his forehead furrows eased a bit. He paused to study a grey squirrel scrabbling up a tall pine, peeling off bits of bark in its wake.
“For whatever reason, he knows what he cannot manage—” Her whisper settled over the small homey room like a prayer. Yellow curtains and a quilt cheered her simple furnishings—bed, table, wardrobe, and chair.
Today, Elda Mae’s work on the door proved mighty handy. Fred made regular trips around the yard until his lowered brows declared him almost back to normal. Finally, he sat at the arbor table, as was his custom.
If he could calm himself, so could she. The teapot whistled, and Abby returned to the kitchen.
“Stop shaking!” She commanded her fingers to cooperate, and teapot in hand, stepped onto the porch. Elda Mae gestured her to a chair across from Lola and poured the tea.
“What brings you to Arizona Territory?”
Mr. Aldrich twirled his mustache. Abby and Lizzy used to wager whether the actors glued on their mustaches, but this one seemed unmistakably real.
“Business.” His tone matched the ice in his eyes.
“Miss McHale, you must be Ray’s sister?”
Lola brushed her lace-lined bosom on the table’s edge as Mr. Aldrich tightened his hand around her elbow.
“I seek my ranch. Mind you, I am Mrs. McHale.” Her tinted fingernails scratched against the table.
Few women in Poplar Bluff buffed their nails with scented red oils until they shone, and Mama always frowned on such frivolity. “Who has time to shape their fingernails and shine them with a chamois cloth? Rubbing in a little sweet oil gives the same effect.”
Lola bared her teeth like a rabid dog, revealing harsh lines around her mouth through her applied veneer. “I have the great misfortune of having married Ray McHale.”
Abby massaged the base of her neck, wishing Elda Mae kept smelling salts in the house. But she was not one to believe in fainting. Now, she played the grand hostess, and her smile ruled over all.
“Oh, really? How long have you been married, dear?”
“Far too long, curse his rotten soul.”
Mr. Aldrich’s long fingers tightened again, and Lola fidgeted. “You have met Mr. McHale?”
“We spoke with him years ago.”
“You have visited his ranch?”
“Oh, yes. At that time, Mr. McHale had a—” Elda Mae angled her head. “He seemed to have a different wife.”
Tea spewed across the table and dripped from Lola’s chin. Aldrich reached for the towel while Elda Mae mopped a puddle from the bread platter.
“Why, that no good for nothing—” Lola snarled, but controlled her outburst after another hearty squeeze on her shoulder.
“I married Ray in ’57, proper-like, in Kansas Territory. Brought the certificate along to prove it. That ranch belongs to me, and I’ll be hanged before some other woman steals it. I won that land in a poker game, won my saloon too, fair and square. That low-down thief stole my deed when he lit out—”
Abby’s ears rang. Ray had married a saloon owner and stole her ranch? At that wagon encampment on the way, he condemned those travelers for taking more than one wife. But he—
That deed Elda Mae kept for her—she tore her eyes away from Lola and sought Elda Mae, who anticipated her unspoken question. With a flick of her fingers, she dismissed the idea.
Mr. Aldrich slid his hand down Lola’s arm. “Mrs. McHale has been wronged, and now has suffered a shock. She followed this rapscallion from Kansas Territory to a paltry Missouri town where Ray practiced even more deception. For the sake of justice, I accompanied her to this godforsaken wilderness.”
The Rim’s eastern side, gorgeous in full sun, caught Abby’s eye. How could anyone call this sprawling creation godforsaken?
A paltry Missouri town? Practiced more deception? He must mean Poplar Bluff!
Elda Mae swept her hand over her brow. “Why, I never! I am so sorry for your misfortune.”
Lola dabbed her eyes with her hanky, and Elda Mae murmured, “My, my.” Then she addressed Aldrich. “You are a lawyer, sir?”
“Mm.” He slid his hand over Lola’s. “Would you be so kind as to direct us to the McHale ranch?”
“Certainly, but I just recalled. A cavalryman stopped by a few weeks ago, also looking for Mr. McHale.” Elda Mae leaned back to observe the effect of her words.
Mr. Aldrich paled, and Lola’s tone spiked into staccato. “Cattle thieving. That fool could steal cattle from heaven’s gates.” She flashed a venomous look at Aldrich. “Hurry! We must find him before the Army does.”
“Oh, my. I never would have surmised—” Elda Mae led the way down the steps.
Lola followed her, creating an upsurge of perfume. Abby’s head swam, but the tightness in her chest slackened as the couple climbed aboard. They followed Elda Mae’s pointed finger.
