Her Runaway Heart's Safe Harbor, page 4
That he would listen to her story, and would believe what she told him.
And that he would serve as a willing accomplice to get her out of there and to her rightful destination of some place called Jamboree.
Chapter 5
Jamboree, Texas 1884
Paperwork. All the dang paperwork. This would be a much more interesting job if he weren’t required to fill out reports on just about everything that happened in this town. Cooper could sympathize with his friend’s complaints about the woes of weekly or monthly bookkeeping chores. Both of them preferred working in the great outdoors to spending any time inside at a desk.
It was enough to give a man squinty eyes and a permanent backache.
Today, for instance. Only ten o’clock in the morning, and he had already broken up a fight outside the livery stable, where Jackson Hurley, possessor of the renowned shortest temper in the universe, had complained to the owner, Martin Woodson, possessor of the renowned second shortest temper in the universe, about his outrageous price set for the rental of one measly horse stall. Words had flown back and forth, and all too soon fisticuffs had ensued.
An interested crowd had gathered by the time Cooper arrived. Catcalls and cheers were being bandied about, and wagers were being placed on the probable winner.
“Whatsa matter here folks?” he wanted to know, just before he waded into the fray. “Short on entertainment at this hour, are you? Jackson, leave off, right now! Martin, back up, ’fore I haul both of you off to the hoosegow.”
As it was, he himself had narrowly escaped ending up as a casualty, with the wild swings being thrown by the two combatants. After dispersing the dozen or so rubberneckers, much as a housewife might have shooed away a flock of curious hens, he had issued a stern warning against any future examples of such a blatant public spectacle.
Along with a citation to appear before Judge Larson right soon. Might as well add teeth to the verbal admonition.
Paperwork.
Then there came the report of a pop-pop-pop, and the shattering of glass, from one of the back alleys between The Hermosa Tap and Lolly’s Gin Mill, way down at the end of Main Street. A prompt but quiet investigation revealed three boys, barely into their teens, taking pot shots at beer bottles, lined up along a fence.
“Indulgin’ in a little target practice, fellers?” he asked, stopping dead in the middle of the entrance so there could be no escape.
At the sound of his voice, naturally, they whirled. The boasts each had made to the others about a perfect aim, and the demand to pay off whatever bet had been made, deflated as instantly as their skinny bodies sagged. The gleam of a heavy badge pinned to the sheriff’s vest, reflecting in the sun, made matters even more consequential. And official.
“Uh,” said one, taking a few steps backward.
“Well,” said a second, with a gulp.
The third said nothing. His eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple jerked in reflex.
“Some reason you ain’t in school?” Cooper, standing hipshot, mildly inquired.
“Well, sir, Miss Hannah let us out for the day.”
“Did she, now?” Hogwash. Keeping a tight rein on the grin that threatened to break loose, the sheriff looked each boy in the eye. “Well, this is a fine mess you’ve made here. Didn’t any of you ever think about your bullets flyin’ wild and maybe hittin’ somebody?”
Three glances crossed, three sets of brows creased into frowns.
“Okay, then, how about this? Where’d you youngsters get them guns?”
This was met with downcast regard and a shuffling of feet.
“Uh huh. Sneaked ’em outta wherever they’d been tucked away by your pops, I reckon.”
He was acquainted with the families of these young rascals. As Jamboree residents, their fathers either owned businesses or worked in businesses; their mothers served on church committees and organized Fourth of July celebrations; their siblings attended local schools or boarding schools.
The boys were not on their way to becoming full-fledged hardened criminals. They were simply mischievous, adventurous, and curious. And with too much time on their hands.
Cooper, full of memories of his own mischievous, adventurous, and curious youth, was not about to cripple their spirits. They merely needed to be reined in.
He nodded. “All right, fellers, here’s what we’re gonna do. You hand over your weapons to me, and whatever ammo you got left. Then you go knock at Lolly’s back door, and you ask real nice to borrow a broom and a dustpan so’s you can clean up all this broken glass.”
The younger boy looked up, and, with his voice quavering, asked, “Can we have the guns back then, Sheriff?”
“Here’s the thing, Danny. We’re all gonna go have a little chat with your folks, and you can turn over the firearms at that time. Seems t’ me that’d be the grown-up thing to do, don’t ya think?”
More paperwork. Yet that event had ended on a positive note, with the boys accepting responsibility and extending apologies, and Cooper had felt satisfied with the outcome.
Then, of course, there was the ongoing regular routine established by Mike O’Dell, which required no more than note-taking as to check-in time and check-out time. Mr. O’Dell, per his own request, was a frequent occupant of the cot in the back cell of Jamboree’s jail, where he was inclined to sleep off a drunk rather than face the shrewish Mrs. Maisie O’Dell at home.
Although the sheriff was becoming a tad disenchanted by the idea of his lockup being used as a hotel room, free of charge.
With these somewhat mundane but necessary duties of the day managed and dealt with, Cooper was ready to pour a fresh cup of coffee and take a seat outside, under the porch roof, and enjoy a slow, relaxing scan of his town.
Deputy Harm Kittredge, who was out on patrol, was due to return shortly; Deputy Kyle Smith had ambled over to the café for an early dinner.
“Sheriff!”
Oh-oh. The distress in that voice could only mean trouble.
Cooper put aside his desire for a few minutes’ respite and rose from behind his desk—and the everlasting paperwork—as Henry Tucker, foreman at the Pinetree, came rushing inside. “Sheriff, you gotta come. Now.”
“What’s goin’ on, Henry?”
He was a man of middle age, tall and slightly stoop-shouldered, with a strong sense of loyalty to the ranch where he worked and to the owner who employed him. “It’s Tom. He’s took bad.”
A clenching of the gut was Cooper’s only reaction, and that movement invisible. Not so his right hand, tightened into a fist. “What? What happened?”
Hastily, Henry explained. Just a short time ago, he and Tom had been out scouring the acreage for some runaway cattle which had broken through a fence. The trail was dry but winding, through plentiful sod, beneath various groves of towering oaks, uphill and down dale. Crossing one of their several meandering creeks had caused a sudden disaster.
Tom’s horse, a strawberry roan stallion named Nutmeg, had set one hoof wrong on the slippery, mossy bed, and twisted, accidentally throwing off his master into the water and headfirst against a massive boulder.
Cooper sucked in a sharp breath. “Where is he?”
“Got him back up on his horse and got him back to the house lickety split. Couple of boys and me loaded him in our buckboard, and I rode like a bat outa Hades to the Sisters of Mercy.”
Cooper knew the sanatorium, located for health and healing on private land at the outskirts of town would provide excellent care. Mature shady trees, quiet green nooks, and flowering borders surrounded the place; a qualified physician and several compassionate nurses managed and occupied the six-bed clinic, which attracted sufferers and convalescents from a wide-range area.
“And he hadn’ come to by the time I left there to scutter over here to fetch you, Sheriff.” The foreman stopped, swallowed hard, and swiped his sleeve across a forehead dripping with sweat.
“Thanks, Henry. I’ll saddle up and get on over there now.”
With a nod, Cooper reached for his hat just as Deputy Smith returned to duty, whistling, and looking quite happy with himself after a satisfying meal. “Man, that Cozy Corner Café sure serves up some real appealin’ food. And there’s a waitress, her name is Chloe, and she—”
Cooper interrupted with a flash of impatience. “Kyle, there’s been an accident, and I’m headin’ out to the Sisters. Keep an eye on things till I get back.”
He could hardly race Pepper through Jamboree’s streets at breakneck speed, but he did encourage the piebald to pick up his hooves and move it along. After all, they were on a mission, and they couldn’t be lollygagging like there was all the time in the world just to sightsee.
Hastily dismounting to tie Pepper’s reins to the hitching post, Cooper jogged up the flagstone walk of an imposing two-story frontier mansion complete with double verandas, scattered wicker chairs, and plenty of potted plants just about bursting at the seams with exuberance.
“Yes, Sheriff, I understand your concern. I’m not withholding information, mind you; it’s just simply too soon to tell what’s happening.”
Despite his official calling, Cooper had to wade through a layer of insulating health care attendants in order to reach his goal. First step was breaching the guardian at the gates: one Miss Lydia Rozinski, a stout, dragon-like lady who took very seriously her position as general front desk executive.
Upon hearing the sheriff’s request to see Thomas Buchanan, she immediately closed ranks against potential brow-beating outsiders and refused.
“Ma’am, that boy is a good friend of mine, as I’m sure you know. I don’t wanna be holdin’ my badge over your head, but—”
“Then don’t,” the redoubtable lady said crisply. “Because I would pay no attention, anyway. You are on my turf here, Sheriff Grayson, and I give the orders. You’ll need to speak with Dr. Murray, who happens to be busy at the moment. If you’d care to wait…”
“I’ll speak to him when he’s free. Meanwhile, you get somebody to show me where Tom Buchanan is, and I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Miss Rozinski?” A pretty young dark-haired woman, wearing a simple navy shirtwaist and skirt covered by a white apron, had appeared soundlessly from behind one of the hallway doors. “May I be of assistance?”
Frowning, the middle-aged martinet slapped a few papers together and deliberately took time to set the edges straight. “This gentleman is demanding to see a patient, Miss Egan. I have already explained to him that—”
“Oh, I have time to escort him, ma’am, since you are involved here. And then I’ll let the doctor know, if all that meets with your approval.”
With a sniff of disdain for the whole affair, the lady reluctantly conceded.
“Very well, then. But I shall be keeping an eye out for you, Sheriff, by the clock. I expect you to be quiet, non-disruptive, and to leave within a half-hour. More than that, and I shall have you forcibly removed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He had no doubt she would do just that, too; he’d attempted to cross swords with her kind in the past. Verbally beaten up, and by a self-important woman, in fact, Cooper slunk off in the wake of his rescuer.
“This way, Sheriff. We’ve put Mr. Buchanan in our nicest room. In case you’re wondering.” Two dimples suddenly appeared around an intriguing mouth. “It’s best just to give in to Miss Rozinski. Far less trouble that way.”
Her smile was attractive, reassuring, seductive, and had he nothing else on his mind, Cooper would have gladly followed her anywhere beyond the confines of this building. However, he was most concerned right now about the condition of his closest and best friend, and the comeliness of a nurse could have no effect.
It was a nice room, as stark and severe clinical rooms go. Plain white walls, airy white curtains shifting like pale shadows at the two opened windows, plain wooden floor bare of even the most nondescript rag rug, plain white iron bedstead. In that, Cooper was most interested, for there his unconscious friend had been installed.
The cotton bandage wrapped around Tom’s head was as white as everything else, and he lay silent and still beneath a white cotton sheet and lightweight blanket with eyes closed, each arm supine on each side of his frame, and toes pointed upward to form a small tent under the covers.
Cooper, hat in hand, swallowed. He had never seen the rancher so motionless. It was as if his spirit had taken flight for some other plane, leaving behind a husk which merely took in and let out slow, shallow breaths unaware of those present or of anything that might be going on around him.
“Where… where is he?”
“I don’t believe anyone knows, Sheriff,” Miss Egan said gently. “But never fear, we’re taking good care of him. Dr. Murray will be along soon, to talk with you. Would you like to sit here for a little while, and watch over your friend?”
“Yes, ma’am, I would. Thanks.”
She exuded a sickroom scent—carbolic acid, and some sort of cleaning agent—and her skirts swished softly as she slipped away. Cooper gratefully sank down onto one of the room’s empty chairs, leaned forward with elbows resting on thighs, and sighed. Accidents in life occur often, without warning, and no one is ever prepared for the repercussions as others are forced to pick up the pieces.
Ranching can be a dangerous business. So can so many other occupations: mining, logging, freight-hauling, mountain-climbing, and yes, executing the law with badge and gun.
Broken bones, sure. Busted legs. A gash or major cut or two, sometimes.
But who could have expected this, where whatever damage had been done to Tom’s splendid cranium had laid him flat and low, with no cognizance of his surroundings?
Cooper was still slouched in his hard upright chair, watching the measured rise and fall of the patient’s chest and musing bleakly over their past upbringing together, when Dr. Ian Murray made an appearance.
“Hello, Sheriff,” he said quietly. After a quick examination of Tom—who might have been lying peacefully asleep, were anyone not aware of the facts—the doctor stepped out into the hall, gesturing Cooper to join him.
“Can he hear us if we talk in front of him?”
The doctor shrugged. “Hard to tell. But let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, shall we? Your friend has got himself a whale of a concussion—knocked his brains around some—and he needs time to recover.”
“I ain’t never seen him so… limp. It’s, well, it’s not the most reassurin’ sight.”
“I know. Try looking at it as Tom has gone away for a while. Physically, he’s here, for us to watch over and take care of. But mentally? Well, that’s another story. C’mon, let’s stroll outside.”
Greenery and glutting flowers were all fine and dandy, reflected Cooper dismally, if you were awake enough to enjoy the scenery. If not, then all that pretty stuff didn’t amount to a hill of beans. On the veranda, near a wicker standing basket which held an overflow of something wispy and fragile, holding small purple blooms aloft, Dr. Murray paused.
“This kind of injury is frustrating, to say the least,” he offered, in a fretful tone. “It’s like the invalid has taken a step back from the world, of his own accord, and is residing in some misty never-land halfway between here and heaven.”
“Is he hurtin’?” Cooper asked from a dry, scratchy throat.
“I don’t believe so. About all we can do is keep him clean and comfortable, and wait for him to wake up on his own.”
