A Lady Like Sarah (23 page)

"Well, now, would you look at those big blue
eyes!
" Ma exclaimed.
She
made little clucking sounds with her mouth.

"Her name's Elizabeth," he said, introducing her with a sense of pride that surprised him.

Ma clapped her hands together. "I didn't know our new pastor was a family man."

"Oh, no, no, I'm not married. Her
mother. . .
I'm just takÂing care of her, and I need someone to watch her till I find her a permanent home."

"You think you're
gonna
find a good home for this baby in Rocky Creek?" she said, shaking her head. "Not too many families around here willing to take on another mouth to feed."

"I'm counting on help from the Lord," he replied.

"Well, now." Ma lifted Elizabeth out of his arms and cuddled her close. "It's been a mighty long time since I've held a
young'un
. I would be happy to take care of her."

"That's very kind of you," Justin said. "I will, of course, compensate you."

"Nonsense.
It's the least I can do to welcome our new pastor."

"Do you by any chance happen to know where Marshal Owen lives?" He wanted to fulfill his promise to the marshal as soon as possible.

"Follow that road out front and take a right at the fork. You'll see his house on the left." She gave him a questioning look. "But if you plan on paying them a visit, you best wait. The marshal's out of town on assignment, and his wife and their children are in Dallas visiting her sick mother."

"I see." He didn't want to tell anyone about the marshal's death until he had a chance to talk to the widow.

"Do you know them?" she asked.

"I met the marshal." He purposely kept his answer vague. He dabbed at Elizabeth's cheek with a clean kerchief, hoping to discourage more questions.

She waited, but when he offered no further details, she shrugged in resignation. "Come along and I'll show you to your room. There's a barn in back. You'll find fresh hay and water and just 'bout
anythin
' else you need."

She led the way upstairs to the room at the end of the hall. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers, and a single chair. A door led out to the balcony. It was more than he'd hoped for, and Ma offering to care for Elizabeth until he made other arrangements was an added blessing.

Later, Ma made a bed out of a little wooden crate, lining it with a handmade quilt. She gave the baby a bath, talking to her and making silly faces. "It feels mighty good to hold a baby again," she told Justin as Elizabeth stared at her.

Watching her, Justin knew that Elizabeth was in good hands, at least until he found her a permanent home. With this thought in mind, he walked outside to tend to the animals.

That night, he slept fitfully. Though the bed was soft and comfortable, he kept waking up. Each time he woke, he searched for Sarah's bedroll as he had done countless nights in the past, straining his eyes for a glimpse of her in the dark.

The following morning, after a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and flapjacks that Ma prepared for him, he left Elizabeth in her care and headed for the barbershop.

The barber's name was Kip Barrel, a descriptive yet unÂfortunate name for the rotund man with a deep booming voice that shook the very rafters.

"A pastor, eh?" he said, after Justin introduced himself. "It seems that you and I have a lot in common."

Justin settled himself in the high barber chair. "Oh? What might that be?"

"You're a preacher and I sing opera, and the town has no use for either one of us. That's why I'm cutting hair." He laughed and motioned with his scissors. "I can teach you the trade. I could use another barber. Give you something to do."

Justin shook his head. "I think I'll stick to what I know." He watched Barrel in the mirror. "Shouldn't you be in San Francisco or New Orleans?
Somewhere with an opera house?"

Barrel shook his head. "I suffer stage fright. As soon as I get up to sing in front of an audience, I squeal like a stuck pig. My big opening night at the French Opera House in New Orleans ended in disaster. I came here to lick my wounds and open a singing school. As long as I don't have to perform in public, I'm all right. The only client I had was a rancher who wanted to improve his singing skills for his cattle." Barrel shook his scissors dangerously close to Justin's ear. "I ask you, do I look like a man who wants to teach someone to sing to cattle?"

"Hardly," Justin said. Painful memories of the night he and Sarah sang together assailed him, and he gripped the arms of the chair for support.

He waited until Barrel's face had returned to its normal ruddy red color and he had calmly resumed cutting hair. "I could use a singer at the church. Would you be interested?"

Barrel shook his head so hard that his triple chins jiggled.

"I'd have to sing in front of people, and that's something I can't do. God gave me this enormous talent, but He forgot to give me the courage to use it."

"I don't think God forgot," Justin said. "I think He simply gave you a challenge that you haven't yet conquered."

A short while later, Justin paid Barrel and left.
No sooner had he walked outside than Barrel's strong tenor voice streamed out of the empty shop as smooth as liquid gold.

Justin stood outside and listened, recognizing
"La Donna
é
Mobil
" from
Rigoletto.
Justin had been to more operas than he cared to remember out of obligation to the church and its annual fundraiser. Not a fan by any means, he was nonetheÂless struck by Barrel's vibrant voice. The church could use a talent like that.

He walked to the hitching post and grabbed the reins of his horse. "What do you say, Noah? Do you think we can perÂsuade Mr. Barrel to switch from Verdi to Newton?"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he saw Sarah on a rock singing "Amazing Grace." So clear was the vision that he reached out to touch her only to find his hand pressed hard against Noah's neck.

Pushing his thoughts away, Justin mounted and followed Ma's directions along a winding dirt road leading to the church.

The square clapboard building sat upon a hilltop, affordÂing a view of the town in the valley below. According to the sign in front, the place of worship dated back to shortly after Texas became a state in 1845. The structure had fallen in disÂrepair in recent years and the little cemetery in back was covÂered in weeds, except for the areas around newly dug graves.

The door hung from a single leather hinge, and a few jagged pieces of stained glass was all that remained of the winÂdow. Dry leaves covered the wooden plank floor and the potÂbellied stove was turned on its side. Sun poured through the sieve-like tin roof, and dust particles danced in the golden rays.

Someone had built a fire pit in the center aisle, and the remainder of a charred pew spilled over the blackened rocks.

Justin stared in dismay at the rubble, trash, and decay around him. The building bore no resemblance to the red brick church in Boston with its polished oak pews and stained glass windows. He hadn't expected such luxury, of course, in Rocky Creek, but never had he imagined anything quite so humble.

The church mirrored everything that was wrong with his life, and he had no idea where to start to make things right again. Without Sarah, he wasn't even sure if he could.

The
stage reached Fort Smith shortly after noon. Sarah stared out of the window with both a sense of relief that the journey was over and dread at having to return to a life she wanted to escape.

In the distance, lightning forked the angry clouds, folÂlowed by a clap of thunder.

It had been a long and difficult ride, requiring three overnight stays at crowded stage stop inns. The road was impossibly rutted, causing the coach to sway from side to side and bop up and down like a cork in water. Every last bit of space not taken by passengers was packed with bags of mail.

There were only three other travelers, one an older man who snored for the whole trip. A young woman was traveling with her father to Fort Smith for an arranged marriage. During the entire trip, her father sat with his arms wrapped around the suitcase on his lap, his face grim, while his daughÂter sobbed by his side.

Between snoring and hysterics, no one paid any attention to Sarah, and that was fine with her.

Her body cramped and her muscles throbbed, but the pain of leaving Justin was so great that no amount of physical discomfort could compare to her grief.

She dreaded reuniting with her brothers. By now, they must know she didn't go
direcdy
to Fort Smith, and she could well imagine George chewing iron over her disobedience. He was a firm believer in family loyalty, and every time she'd struck out on her own, trying to make a fresh start, she'd always wound up in trouble.

She found it increasingly difficult to go back to the family in recent years, but never more so than now. She'd stayed with Justin longer than she meant to, longer than was prudent.

Justin.

Just thinking his name made her heart ache anew.
Waves of loneliness washed over her. She squeezed her eyes tight in an effort to forget the feel of his lips on hers. She dug her finÂgers into the palms of her hand and tried to erase the memory of him from her mind. But nothing she did could make her forget a single moment they'd spent together.

Nor could she stop thinking of Elizabeth. The sweet baby had managed in a very short time to steal her heart, leaving behind an aching hole that robbed her of her very breath.

Her thoughts scattered with the smell of burning wood. She moved aside the leather curtain and stuck her head out the window. The fresh air was a welcome change from the stale air inside the crowded stage, and she inhaled until her lungs were filled. Ahead, a thin gray smoke curled from the stone chimney of a two-story white wood house.

The single-lane road crossed over a wooden bridge, the horses' hooves beating hard against the wooden slats, the coach pushing its leather thongs to the limit.

Garrison Avenue was the main thoroughfare, stretching from
the center
of
town
all the way to the fort. It was a wide dirt road, deeply rutted in parts, and beaten into fine dust by hooves and wagon wheels. There were no gas lights, paved roads, or even boardwalks, which one would expect given a town of this size and notoriety.

Still, Fort Smith had its benefits. Crowded enough to provide anonymity, it was the sort of town her brother George favored. It was also progressive enough to provide ample means of escape should the need arise. Out of habit, she noted the location of docks and train station. George had taught her well.

The stage followed the stone wall of the old fort that gave the town its name. Overgrown with weeds and marred by the toppled walls of buildings destroyed by fire during the War Between the States, the fort could no longer guard anything more than
its
past. The garrison did however, house Judge Parker's courthouse, which was the only court with jurisdicÂtion over Indian
territory
.

Spotting the sixteen-foot-high wall that hid the well-used
gallows,
Sarah shuddered and quickly looked away.

The fort overlooked both the Arkansas and
Poteau
Rivers. Ferry boats, Indian canoes, skiffs, and merchant ships
batded
for the right of way upon brown muddied waters. From the distance came a shrill whistle announcing the arrival of the train at the station on the far side of the river.

The stage turned off the main street before coming to a stop opposite the Ferris Hotel, where George told her to stay.

Sarah disembarked first. After stretching the kinks out of her neck and back, she glanced around anxiously before crossÂing the street and heading for the hotel entrance. George said this would be the last place anyone would think to find the Prescott gang, and she fervently hoped he was right.

In the distance, a dog barked. Music drifted out of one of the many saloons that dotted the town.

An Indian dressed in buckskin pants and fringed shirt loaded crates filled with goods onto the back of a governÂment issued wagon. A Mexican youth wearing loose cotton pants, shirt, and sombrero chased a squawking hen down the middle of the street. A lanky boy spun a ring with a stick. The
scabless
spots on his skin revealed a recent bout with measles.

Inside the hotel lobby, a clerk stood behind a high counter. He looked up as she
approached,
his brass-framed spectacles making his eyes appear larger than normal. His mustache twitched as she approached the desk.

"I'm looking for someone by the name of Cooper," she said. It was the name George used when checking into hotels.

The myopic clerk lowered his head until his beaklike nose practically touched the registration book. "No one by that name has checked in."

Surprised, she wondered if he could see enough to read the names even up close, but not wanting to offend him, she accepted his word. She wasn't all that anxious to deal with her brothers and was perfectly willing to wait till after she'd had a good night's sleep to do so.

She paid for a room and bath and signed herself in as Sarah Cooper. She dragged herself up the narrow stairway and found her room at the end of the hall.