Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (32 page)

But he was already gone.

For the last couple of weeks Rhett had worked nonstop to help Maxwell, but to no avail. The stubborn fool refused to admit he had a drinking problem, let alone a need for a cure.

Reverend Wells had spent long hours at the jailhouse counseling Maxwell. He prayed for him and read from the Bible—all which seemed to fall on deaf ears. Even Doc Myers had lost hope that anything could be done for the man.

Late one afternoon Rhett was sitting at his desk when Scooter walked into his office. At first, Rhett didn’t recognize the boy in his new clothes. He’d even put on some weight, or at least his face looked less gaunt. Rhett couldn’t thank the preacher and his wife enough for the care and love they had shown the Maxwell boys.

“Is it okay if I see my pa?” he asked.

Rhett hesitated. No good would come out of such a visit. Maxwell’s withdrawal symptoms had subsided in recent days, but he was still belligerent. Scooter was likely to end up more hurt than he already was.

“Give it a couple more days,” Rhett said. “I’ll let you know when he’s ready.”

Scooter’s gaze flickered toward the door leading to the cells in back, but he said nothing. He simply nodded and left.

Rhett stared at the door long after Scooter was gone. He then grabbed a chair, reached for the cell keys, and walked through the door leading to the jail.

He placed the chair in front of Maxwell’s cell and sat.

Maxwell lifted his head. “Get out of here. I want to be alone. I ain’t listenin’ to any more of your lectures.”

Rhett remained seated and said nothing.

“Get out of here. Do you hear me?”

When that got no response, Maxwell shook the bars, yelling for him to leave at the top of his lungs. When that didn’t work, he picked up a cot and threw it. It hit the bars and fell to the floor with a hollow clang. He kicked the mattress out of the way, screaming obscenities. The cussing went on for close to an hour before he crumbled to the floor, holding his head.

After a long silence, he looked up. “What do you know about it? You never buried a wife.”

They were the first civil words out of Maxwell’s mouth since he was jailed, and Rhett felt a flicker of hope. “You’re right. I never did. But I did bury a friend.”

“Not the same.”

“No, I’m sure it’s not. But the guilt is similar.”

Maxwell studied him. “What do you know about guilt?”

“I know,” Rhett said. “The friend I buried . . . my best friend . . . I’m the one who killed him.” He found himself telling Maxwell the whole story. The words were slow in coming. Had to be, for they were coming from a very deep well. He talked for a solid hour. He described in detail the way it happened. For some reason, it seemed necessary to describe his friend’s blood that even now he could see and smell, the sound of his shovel in the soil as he dug the grave, the nightmares, the aftermath.

He didn’t know if Maxwell heard a word he said, nor did he care.

By the time he finished, Rhett felt sapped. Empty. Had someone turned him upside down like a burlap bag and dumped the contents of his body to the floor, he couldn’t have felt emptier.

“So much blood,” Maxwell murmured. Rhett nodded before he realized Maxwell was describing the night his wife died in childbirth. “I should have called the doctor, but everything seemed normal. She was in labor for more than eighteen hours with both boys. I thought we had plenty of time before . . .” His voice faded away.

It was a long time before he continued. He talked about the rest of that long-ago night, the stillborn child, his wife slipping away, his sons’ cries.

But then he did something that surprised Rhett. He talked about the happy times he and his wife shared. He talked about her life rather than her death.

“She was a good mother,” he said. “The best.” An anguished expression crossed his face. His mouth twisted, his eyes dark with despair, he sobbed.

Rhett envied Maxwell’s ability to talk about her life even if it did hurt. He never thought much about Leonard’s life. About the fun times they had growing up in Missouri on adjacent farms. It was as if Rhett had blocked out everything but the day he died.

Not only had Rhett stolen Leonard’s future, he’d robbed him of his past.

It was something else to feel guilty about, something else to grieve. This time, at least, his misery had company and somehow that made it more bearable.

Maxwell began rocking back and forth. Moving faster and faster he cried out, “What have I done, Lord? What have I done?”

And Rhett found himself echoing the very same prayer.

Morning came and Rhett hadn’t slept a wink. He left his office, but instead of heading to the boardinghouse as he intended, he found himself riding up the hill to the church. He’d spent an entire night watching Maxwell, but what he really observed was himself. And he didn’t like what he saw, not one bit. Didn’t like the shadow of the man he’d become.

Reverend Wells greeted him on the steps of the church. Judging by the pastor’s worried expression, Rhett figured he looked pretty bad. No matter.

“Rhett? What’s wrong?”

“Me,” Rhett said. “I’m what’s wrong.”

Twenty-seven

A smart, marriage-minded miss never shows her hand until the ring is on her finger.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

Miss Jenny Higgins requests the pleasure of your company
at the marriages of
Miss Brenda Lynn Higgins
to
Mr. Kipland Robert Barrel
and
Miss Mary Lou Higgins
to
Mr. Jeffrey William Trevor
at two o’clock on Saturday, July 30, 1881
at the Rocky Creek Church

T
he door to Rhett’s office flew open, and Redd Reeder stuck in his head. “Looks like trouble in front of Fairbanks,” he called.

Rhett rose in one swift movement, plucked his hat off the hook, and followed Redd to Fairbanks General Merchandise. At least half the townsfolk gathered in front. Everyone talked at once, gesturing to the handwritten invitations in their hands. They were written on the back of the hotel stationery and had been delivered earlier by Scooter.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Mrs. Taylor was saying. “Is it like a theater ticket?”

“They never sent out wedding invitations much before the war,” Mrs. Cranston explained. “I heard they used to do that back east.”

Mrs. Taylor sniffed and looked down her considerable nose. “If you ask me, that war has been nothing but trouble. Before the war, you never had to have a passport to travel abroad. Now look at us.”
Sniff
. “Imagine having to pass out handbills just to get married.”

Mrs. Hitchcock nodded, the feathers in her hat bopping up and down like a nervous actor onstage. “Before the war, ladies knew how to act, how to act.” She glared at Mrs. Taylor. “They also knew how to dress.” She repeated herself two times for good measure.

“I think we should go back to the way things were,” Mrs. Taylor said with a haughty toss of her head. “When Reverend Wells married Sarah, they simply put up signs all over town.”

Mrs. Hitchcock wrinkled her nose. “A wedding calls for a bit more pageantry, don’t you think?”

Before she could repeat herself, Mrs. Taylor scorned the idea. “A wedding should be sedate and dignified.”

“If you had your way, a wedding would look like a funeral,” Mrs. Hitchcock charged.

“Sounds right to me,” Hank Applegate interjected.

Mrs. Taylor placed a gloved hand by her mouth as if confiding a secret, though she made no attempt to lower her voice. “Handbills are the least of it. Would you believe they actually
rehearsed
the wedding ceremony?”

A collective gasp rose from the group. “Nooo!”

“Just like a stage play,” she continued. “With music, the preacher, and all.”

Link Haskell, the town blacksmith, spat a stream of tobacco onto the dirt-packed street. “That’s the most ridiculous thin’ I ever did hear. Next they’ll be rehearsin’ the honeymoon.”

Mrs. Hitchcock looked about to faint. “The very idea, idea.”

Applegate clucked his tongue. “If you ask me, this whole marriage thin’ is gittin’ out of hand. Next they’ll be sending out engraved invites.”

“Are you going to the wedding, Marshal?” Mrs. Taylor asked.

Caught off guard by the question, Rhett took a moment to answer. “I haven’t thought about it,” he said, though in reality, he’d done little else but think about it since Scooter delivered his invitation . . . think about Jenny, that is, not the double wedding.

Since he kissed her at the railroad station, Jenny had avoided him. Once or twice he caught her staring at him from a distance only to turn away the moment he made eye contact. On several occasions, she crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him. Obviously she wanted nothing more to do with him.

And who can blame her, God? Who can blame her?

The day of the wedding dawned hot and humid. The month of July had seemed interminable. If Jenny had her way, the wedding would have taken place weeks ago, and she would now be far away from Rocky Creek.

Unfortunately things didn’t work out as planned. Mary Lou insisted upon waiting until every last unsightly bit of poison ivy had disappeared.

It was worth the wait. Mary Lou and Brenda radiated so much happiness on their wedding day that their faces seemed to shine. Surprisingly, Mary Lou hadn’t uttered one word of complaint during the last week’s hectic preparations.

Equally amazing, the laces on Brenda’s corset required only a minimum of tension. She hadn’t stopped eating but neither was she stuffing herself. Kip Barrel had clearly replaced food as her main source of comfort.

Mrs. Hitchcock had delivered the wedding dresses the day before. She and Mrs. Taylor did an amazing job of turning two plain frocks into beautiful gowns that even
Harper’s Bazar
would approve.

Mary Lou’s gown had a soft pleated skirt. Strips of gathered fabric took the place of expensive lace. A carefully draped overskirt ended in a delicate bustle in back.

“Don’t you think the neckline rather high?” Mary Lou asked. She stood in front of the mirror, turning this way and that.

Jenny straightened Mary Lou’s skirt and fastened the row of bone buttons in back. “Remember what Reverend Wells said?”

“I know, I know.” Mary Lou wrinkled her nose. “Marriage is a serious step.” She sighed. “I can be just as serious in a lower neckline.”

“You’re not going to a ball. You’re going to a religious ceremony.” Jenny turned to examine Brenda’s dress.

Brenda’s dress had less trim, but the plain skirt and circular cape had a slimming effect.

“Perfect,” Jenny said. “I’d say Mrs. Hitchcock and Mrs. Taylor achieved the perfect balance between a ruffled rooster and a plucked hen.”

Brenda laughed. “At least I don’t look like a porcelain chamber pot.”

Jenny reached behind her neck and untied the cameo she wore. “I don’t think even Mrs. Taylor and her disdain for ruffles and flourishes could manage that.” After a moment, she added, “I have something special for both of you.” The cameo belonged to their mother. She tied the white ribbon around Mary Lou’s neck. “Something borrowed.”

Mary Lou looked in the mirror and touched the delicately carved ivory with her fingers. “I wish Mama was here,” she whispered. “Papa too.”

“They are here,” Jenny said. She was encouraged that Mary Lou wanted her father at her wedding. Maybe she’d forgiven him, or at least accepted his imperfections. Maybe they all had. She met her sister’s eyes in the mirror. “I can feel them.”

Fearing that Mary Lou would start to cry and mess up her face, Jenny picked up a crown of white orange blossoms tied with blue ribbons and set it on her head. “Something blue.”

She then turned to button up Brenda’s dress. Even leaving Brenda’s corset lacings loose, Jenny was able to fasten the buttons without any difficulty.

“Has anyone seen Papa’s watch?” Mary Lou asked. “Since I’m wearing something of Mama’s, it seems only right that I carry something of his.”

“It
was
on the desk,” Brenda said.

“There.” Jenny spun Brenda around so she could have a better look. “You make beautiful brides, both of you.”

She reached over to her jewelry box and pulled out her mother’s locket. Brenda cupped the locket to her throat while Jenny fastened it around her neck.

“What is this?” Mary Lou asked. She picked up the railroad ticket from inside the desk where Jenny had hidden it.

Jenny crossed the room to snatch the ticket out of Mary Lou’s hand and placed it back in the drawer. “What are you looking for?”

“I told you. Papa’s watch.” Mary Lou narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Since there was no way around it, Jenny explained her plans. “I’m leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Leaving?” both girls gasped in unison.

“Don’t look so surprised. That was my plan all along. Surely you didn’t expect me to stay here.”

“Why not?” Mary Lou asked, her voice shrill. “We’re still your family. Where else would you go? Back to Haswell?”

“Certainly not!” The very thought turned Jenny’s stomach. “I want to check out San Antonio. Maybe even Austin.”

“Why not stay here?” Brenda looked about to cry.

Jenny scoffed. “In Rocky Creek? What would I do here? The money from the sale of our farm won’t last forever.” The double wedding had saved money, but it still cost more than she planned. “Maybe I’ll open up a women’s ready-made emporium.”

An article she’d read predicted that, one day, women’s gowns would be produced in large quantities and sold in stores. Given the intricacies of design and the diversity of women’s sizes and shapes, she doubted such a thing possible. However, corsets and cloaks came ready-made, along with gloves and other accessories, and she envisioned a shop where women could try such things on before purchasing.

“Why not open an emporium in Rocky Creek?” Mary Lou asked. “We certainly could use one.”

“Here?” Jenny blinked. The idea was so absurd it was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. “I’d probably sell more fashions on the moon than I could ever sell here.”