Patricia Potter (4 page)

R
EVEREND
C
ECIL
M
OONEY
opened the town meeting with a prayer. Mayor August Stillwater then took over as nearly eighty people stirred nervously in the rough wooden pews of the church.

There had not been very many town meetings prior to Willow George Taylor’s arrival.

And then there was the biggest one of all.

The first town meeting had been held four years earlier to discuss the establishment of a school. The valley population had grown. Civilization was coming to Newton. A school was needed.

A collection was taken up to build a school and advertise in an eastern newspaper for a schoolmaster.

There was collective relief when the advertisement was answered by one Abner Goodbody. A fine, stable-sounding name. A responsible name. The town sent fifty dollars for traveling expenses.

Abner Goodbody arrived, and was gone three months later to the gold fields.

The second applicant also had the solid name and credentials that warranted a town celebration. Samuel T. Morgan. A graduate of Harvard. No one asked why a Harvard graduate would come to a small plains town of some three hundred people. But they began to wonder two weeks after he arrived. He couldn’t remember the alphabet, much less figure how much money a herd of one hundred cattle would bring. One month later he, too, left—for the silver mines.

And then came the application from W. George Taylor, who had taught for three years at a prestigious school for boys. Stable. Obviously qualified. Money was sent. The fund was reaching rock bottom.

Much of the town gathered to welcome the coach bringing the new schoolmaster. High hopes changed to horror when a young woman stepped off and introduced herself as Willow George Taylor.

The pronouncement precipitated a crisis. The advertisement, the mayor thought, had been quite clear that a man was required. Who else could handle half-wild boys? The town had been deceived and wanted its money back.

“Not at all,” Miss Taylor had countered. She had given them her legal name and rightful credentials. She was a competent teacher. If they wanted her to leave, she would, but the money was gone. Or they could give her a chance.

After a long, acrimonious meeting, the town decided to do just that: give her a chance. The decision wasn’t reached out of tolerance or kindness. There was simply no more money to send for another teacher.

Much to everyone’s surprise, the new schoolmarm did know how to calculate the price of a hundred head of cattle. More important, the students almost instantly adored her, and her stories, and her special ability to make learning fun. Boys who wouldn’t go to school before seldom missed a day if they could help it. When the term of her employment expired, it was grudgingly renewed. There was still a residue of resentment at being gulled.

And then there was another town meeting when she decided to adopt Chad. A single woman certainly shouldn’t adopt a boy, even a young boy. It just wasn’t proper.

Sullivan Barkley stood up and asked if anyone else would take the boy. When there was silence, he merely looked from one woman’s face to another until heads hung and gazes lowered.

There was an even longer meeting when Willow took in Estelle. What kind of example was she for children? Taking in a soiled dove, which was the kindest description of Estelle offered that night.

“Cast not stones,” the doctor said as he studied each man’s reddening face.

And then old Jake left her his ranch, and another meeting resulted. What had the schoolmarm done to merit such a gift? Alex Newton was furious she wouldn’t sell the land to him and was pressuring the town to fire her.

By then, Dr. Sullivan was becoming very impatient with the town. If Willow Taylor went, then he would leave also. Faced with the possibility of losing the only doctor within one hundred miles, the townspeople reluctantly agreed to keep her on.

A new crisis loomed now. According to the telegraph operator an infamous gunman called Lobo was heading their way. All because of Willow Taylor’s stubbornness.

“We’re to be invaded by a notorious gunman,” Mayor Stillwater pronounced, his face flushed in the flickering light of oil lamps. “You all know what that means. None of us will be safe. Our womenfolk won’t be able to walk outside our homes.”

Sullivan stood up. “We all knew this was coming the day Jake died. He was the only one who kept Newton and Morrow separated, and he did the only thing he knew to keep it that way.”

“But a woman?” The complaint came from the back of the room. “She has no business running a ranch. She should be teaching.”

Sullivan leaned against the wall. “Any complaints in that direction?”

The wife of the mercantile owner stood up. “My Robert just got a scholarship out east because of Miss Willow. She’s the best thing that ever happened to this town.”

“And the most dangerous,” grumbled a man who had no children.

Another man rose. “We all admit she’s a good teacher. But why does she insist on keeping that damn…darned ranch, specially if old Alex wants it? I say we tell her to sell it to him.”

Another voice spoke up. “You think she’d listen? She ain’t never listened before.”

Sullivan broke in again. “And what do you think will happen if she did sell to Alex, and Gar Morrow was cut off from water? We’d see more than one gunfighter in town. The whole damned range would go up in flames. We’d have more gunfighters in town than citizens.”

The mayor turned to the current sheriff, a quiet man who seldom had much to do except jail a drunk or break up a fight between Morrow and Newton cowhands. “Is there anything you can do about the gunman?”

“He ain’t wanted anyplace I know of,” the sheriff said. “I checked. Seems he’s mighty careful in letting the other feller draw first. Or else there ain’t no witnesses.”

“You can tell him to get out of town,” the mayor suggested.

The sheriff looked down at his badge. “You can have the badge back ’fore I go against someone like that renegade. They say he lived with the Apaches and is meaner than any of ’em.”

There was a silence. They all knew no one would take the job, considering the current situation. The town had always been a relatively quiet place, except for the bank robbery four years before when Brady Thomas was still sheriff. And now the damned feud between Alex and Gar.

Everyone at the meeting knew the story. Alex, Gar, and Jake had been close friends when they came to the area twenty years earlier. Alex and Jake had chosen land along the river, but Gar had picked a spectacular piece of rolling acres to the west. The land included a stream, which Gar believed would provide enough water. But the stream dried up during a drought, and Gar became totally dependent on the river. There was no problem for years since they were all friends. But then Mary Newton was killed.…

The mayor cleared his throat. “Maybe we should just wait. Maybe this…gunman won’t even come. Maybe we can talk some sense into Alex.”

“And if we can’t?” That came from Sullivan.

“She could always sell,” the mayor said.

“You know she won’t do that,” Sullivan countered. “She loves that ranch. And she needs the room.”

“We didn’t ask her to take in all those—”

“Fact is,” chimed in another voice, “we advised her not to.”

Sullivan stared at the gathering. “If anything happens to her, it will be on all your heads.”

The meeting ended on that discordant note.

L
OBO SLOWED, FORCING
himself to relax as he rode toward the Newton ranch house at daybreak.

During the night, he had reached a decision. He was going to shove this job down the man’s throat. And keep the money for his trouble.

When he arrived at Newton’s ranch, he strode in the house without knocking, his anger visible in his clenched jaw and the icy glare of his eyes. He half expected Newton to still be abed, but the man was up, eating breakfast.

Alex was startled when the gunman burst into his house. He looked up, certain his objective had been accomplished, that Lobo had, indeed, frightened the woman into selling.

“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me the woman had kids? Four of them. What else didn’t you tell me?”

Alex stared at the man in confusion. He hadn’t told him because he hadn’t thought it important.

“I…didn’t think it mattered,” Alex said. “I was told—”

“That I frighten kids?” Lobo said with cold fury.

“Just the woman. Did you see her?”

“No,” Lobo said with satisfaction. “But I rescued the little girl from an old well she fell into.”

“You did what!”

Lobo grinned. Alex thought it a wolfish grin. Or something the devil might display before grabbing a soul.

“You’re going to have to find yourself another hobgoblin,” Lobo said. “I just became a hero.”

“Who else was there?”

“A boy, about twelve. A thin woman who seemed terrified of me.”

“That had to be Estelle.”

“Who in the hell is Estelle?”

“Used to work at the Golden Slipper Saloon. Saloon girl.”

“That was a whore?” He found it almost beyond belief as he recalled the woman’s terror, the thin form, the hair bound in a straggly knot.

Alex nodded, amused at the gunman’s reaction.

“Christ, what else?” Lobo queried. “A saloon girl. A passel of kids.”

“I told you there’s no way she can manage that place. It would be a kindness if she’s made to realize the benefits of selling.”

“I’m not in the kindness business.”

Alex couldn’t stop a small smile this time. “No, I guess you’re not. And did you tell them just what business you’re in, who you are?”

“No. What difference does that make?”

“Perhaps,” Alex said thoughtfully, “it will still work.”

“You didn’t hear me, Newton. I’m through.”

“I was told you always finished a job.”

“Only when I’m told everything. Everything! You left out a lot of details, my friend.”

The way Lobo said “friend” made Alex itch. “She did cheat Jake. The ranch was supposed to be mine.”

“Sorry, Newton.”

“The kids aren’t hers,” Alex said desperately. He had pinned all his hopes on this man. Not to speak of the two thousand dollars he had already paid.

Lobo was almost out the door when he turned abruptly. “Not hers? What do you mean?”

“They’re kids she uses to help farm the place.”

“Even a little girl?”

Lobo was trying to grasp Willow Taylor’s character. A mother who was not a mother at all. A schoolteacher who made slaves of kids and housed a whore. A seductress and cheat. Newton had more or less accused her of all of that. But none of it fit. It certainly did not fit with the eagerness of the boy who’d asked him to stay for cookies, or the well-fed chubbiness of the little girl named Sallie Sue.

Suddenly understanding dawned in his head. Newton hadn’t told him the woman would be away during the day because he had wanted him to frighten the children! Perhaps Newton believed that was the best strategy.

Lobo’s fury boiled. He’d done a lot of things he wouldn’t brag about, but he’d never harmed a child. “You wanted me to scare the kids,” he said, his voice low and deceptively gentle. “That’s not a man’s job, it’s a coward’s.”

Alex winced. Twenty years earlier he would have killed a man for saying those words. Now he was helpless. And he hated himself as much as he hated Lobo. But he also needed the gunman.

“I’ll up the ante. Ten thousand if she sells. No violence. Just let her know you’re just one of many I’ll hire if she doesn’t sell the land to me.”

“I’m through,” Lobo said.

Alex played his trump. “If you leave, I’ll send for Canton. I understand he’s available now.”

Lobo’s long stare was cold and menacing. He knew exactly what Newton was thinking, and Newton was right. He and Canton
were
competitors, but they were also professionals. Lobo respected Canton because he, like himself, never let emotions get in his way, especially personal likes and dislikes. There was tension between them when they met, because they were each wary of the other, and even warier of the crowds that always gathered, crowds aching for a gunfight between the two, crowds eager to see someone die. But he and Canton had never been on opposite sides, not yet.

“I’ll think about it,” Lobo repeated, contempt on his face.

“How long?” Alex didn’t like the tightness in his throat, the way his words seemed to stick in it.

Lobo narrowed his eyes. “I’ll let you know, Newton.” He turned and strode out of the room with long, lazy strides just as a pretty girl came flying down the stairs. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw her stop abruptly and stare, but he ignored her and went straight out the front door. He’d had enough of Newtons.

Marisa went into her father’s study. “Who is
that?”

Alex winced. “Just a drifter. Stay away from him.”

But Marisa sped to the door, throwing it open to watch the man mount a magnificent paint horse. He didn’t use stirrups like other men; he effortlessly used one hand on the saddle horn to propel his body up in one lithe movement.