Prairie Song (15 page)

As he lifted her onto her horse, he held her in midair for a moment. He had to ask the one question on his mind that would not wait. “Maggie, are you sorry?”

Now she looked at him with her dark, endless, indigo eyes. “No,” she whispered. “Never.”

Suddenly he didn’t care that it was broad daylight and they were standing in the open where anyone for miles around could see them. He kissed her long and hard. She was his and no man on God’s earth would keep her from him.

When she finally lifted her head, her cheeks were fevered with passion. There was nothing else that needed to be said. He lifted her onto her saddle and they rode toward Fort Worth, both lost in their own thoughts.

When he’d seen her politely to her door, he talked with his men on duty. Once assured her house was safe, he excused himself. He wanted to pull her in his arms and say good-bye, but he would not disgrace a respectable lady that way. She was not the kind to be made light of by gossip. He would see her later. Now they both needed sleep.

But sleep wouldn’t come for Grayson as he lay in the only hotel in town. He finally climbed from his bed and rode back down to Hell’s Half-Acre. He’d thought about his problem all day and the first thing he had to do was get rid of Westley. A man could hardly court a woman with her husband living in the same town. He’d thought about calling the gambler out, but knew there would be an investigation if an officer shot a civilian. So he took the only logical course of action and prayed to God that Margaret didn’t find out about it.

Maggie was bombarded with hugs from Cherish and Barfield as soon as she entered the house. They had a hundred questions for her and she tried to answer theirs as she asked her own questions about Cherish. Maggie laughed and hugged her niece, feeling a joy surround her that she had never known before. Everything in her life was brighter—as if someone had cleaned the smoke-caked lantern that surrounded her eyes.

Cherish told Margaret of the raid on Hank’s place and of the Indians she met, but she left out Brant Coulter’s name altogether. She didn’t want her aunt to worry about him.

Bar explained how the lawyer had been by twice and how the guards had sent him packing both times. The afternoon settled into a party atmosphere. Even old Hattie seemed glad to see the young ladies back, though she didn’t remember their names. So many people had come and gone from her house over the years that she viewed everyone as transient.

Maggie made a fabulous supper, silently hoping Grayson might come by.

Azile was of little help to anyone, for she was upset by the past days’ events. She seemed like a flesh-covered ghost walking from room to room. She’d drank herself to sleep for so many nights that dawn no longer cleared her eyes.

Cherish gave Azile time off to go into town and visit a woman who knew about signs and who might be able to tell her the meaning of the raven at her window every morning. In truth, the women were glad when Azile left; her fears darkened their reunion.

As evening passed, a peace fell over the house. When Grayson didn’t come, Margaret politely offered both the guards a meal. They seemed hesitant at first, obviously having heard about her shooting at Holliday’s; by the time she served dessert, however, they were dishing up mighty compliments in their funny northern voices.

Margaret would never allow herself to flirt, yet she couldn’t help but notice the way they looked at her: not like she was some dried up widow, but like she was a lady. They were as respectful and kind as if they’d been with a friend’s mother or sister. Even when she went inside, she heard no harsh remarks when they thought she wasn’t listening.

Maggie smiled to herself. Grayson had changed her, not just on the inside, but somehow on the outside as well. His unshaken belief that she was desirable had softened the edges of her personality.

Bar fell asleep on the floor while Maggie and Cherish did the dishes. Cherish excused herself to check on the horses Brant had left in their barn. Maggie climbed the stairs exhausted. Both women seemed to need a moment alone with their thoughts and dreams.

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” Margaret insisted as she shoved the last bit of breakfast into her mouth and dusted the crumbs from her hands. “Bar will be with me and I’ll have a gun in my pocket.”

“Ain’t anyone goin’ to mess with Miss Margaret,” Barfield chimed in as he lifted his plate toward Cherish for a third refill. “Especially not after what she did at Holliday’s place. I heard one man say that if he were her husband he’d be in the Oklahoma Territory by now.”

Cherish frowned at him, fearing he might have hurt Maggie’s feelings, but Maggie only laughed and nodded as if Bar had proved her point.

“I’ll be back in an hour. I only need a few things,” she added casually as she stood. “I thought I’d stop by the dry goods store and see if I can find any material for a new dress.”

Cherish tried to hide her shock. In twenty years of knowing Margaret she’d never heard her say such a thing. Oh, she bought bolts of cloth when necessary, but always with little or no interest. Even for her wedding, she’d insisted that there hadn’t been time to buy anything new. Now, with them almost penniless and having their lives threatened, she’d decided to look at fabric.

Silently resolving to watch Margaret more closely, Cherish wondered if the fall from the stairs hadn’t somehow injured more than her wrist. Her aunt was different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on how, but Margaret was different.

Margaret didn’t seem to notice Cherish’s gaze following her. She lifted her bag and marched out of the room as if there were nothing in the world more to worry about than the weather. Bar grabbed the last buttermilk biscuit and ran to catch up.

Sunshine warmed Margaret’s face as she stepped out into the bright afternoon. The streets were busy with supply wagons from several small cattle drives that were stocking up for the long days across unbroken plains to markets. Fort Worth was fast becoming the last place to stop at the beginning of the long trail and the first place to return to when the cattle were sold. The stores sold supplies to the chuck wagons and the saloons provided a place for the returning cowhands to lighten their money pouches.

Margaret held her head high as she marched toward the dry goods store. Today her dress was dove gray and the brooch was missing from her jacket. She hadn’t told Cherish, but Bar had taken her once treasured brooch to the goldsmith and she’d gotten enough to buy supplies for a month, with some left over for a few yards of material.

The store was crowded with Monday afternoon shoppers. The customers were mostly women who had nothing better to do than browse while their husbands visited the blacksmith or had a drink before heading back to their farms.

Without a word, Margaret moved to the dry goods and began looking through the bolts of cloth. She heard the shopkeeper whisper, “That’s her,” but she paid no notice. In a town this size, one could hardly shoot one’s husband in a bar without being talked about.

A plump woman, dressed from toe to crown in pink, whispered back, “Well, I’ll be. I never would have thought her that kind.”

“Can’t never tell,” answered another woman. She and her friend were alike enough to almost be a matched set. Both women’s faces turned sour as they looked toward Margaret. They crossed their short arms over their plump bodies and bobbed their double chins.

Margaret kept fumbling with the material.

The shopkeeper paused while wrapping a package. “Weren’t bad enough that she shot her husband. Then, last night, she was named as stakes in a poker game. Like she could just be passed around to the winner.”

Margaret’s head shot up, her new dress completely forgotten. The plump ladies looked away, but the shopkeeper met her stare.

“Sir, you must be mistaken.” Margaret walked toward him. She would ignore just so much talk about her before she confronted a liar.

One plump woman nodded her head as if her neck had suddenly been replaced with a wagon spring. The other wagged a stubby little finger. “I think she’s right, Charlie. Look at her. She isn’t the kind of woman who would be gambled over in a saloon.”

The former shook her head. “Can’t ever tell, I told you. Money doesn’t make a lady any more than respectable clothes can change a whore.”

Margaret’s dark eyes stared at the two women, silencing them both. She needed no supporters, she could champion her own cause.

The storekeeper suddenly looked embarrassed, more from the fear of losing a sale than from anything he’d said. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just repeating what I heard. Some huge man sat down with the regulars last night at Holliday’s place. He gambled most of the night until it was down to just him and your husband. The final pot”—he swallowed loudly—”your name was thrown in to cover the bet. The man that won the pot got to keep you.”

The pink lady whispered something to her friend and they moved farther down the counter.

Maggie’s eyes were funeral black and her body so stiff it might have snapped like overbaked peanut brittle if she’d been touched. In all her life, of all the comments and jokes she’d heard about herself, never, never, had anything been as bad as this. She had no need to ask who the huge man was and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know who won the last pot.

Without another word she marched out of the store and headed down the street. People jumped out of her way as she walked in long strides toward Hell’s Half-Acre. Conversation halted in midsentence, whittlers’ front chair legs hit the floor, and mothers pulled their children inside. Margaret couldn’t have drawn more attention if she’d been Lady Godiva herself coming down the street.

When she reached the door of Holliday’s, Margaret turned and ordered Bar home. The boy backed away, but he didn’t turn around.

Margaret marched into the saloon with the same determination she’d had when she’d gone looking for Cherish days ago; only this time her rage would steady her gun hand.

As she stepped inside, Holliday turned from the bar. The saloon owner smiled as Maggie entered. “Afternoon.” She raised her drink. Maggie’s gunplay had done more for business than a rainy weekend after roundup, so Holliday owed the lady a salute. Every man within twenty miles had been in to have a drink and talk about the Confederate widow who tried to kill her deserter husband.

Margaret nodded. “Miss Holliday, where is he?”

“If you’re asking about your husband, I never know where husbands are. This once, I might make an exception—if I knew. I’ve had a few like him that weren’t worth the bullets to kill them, so I reckon I’d tell you if I could.”

“I’m referring to Grayson Kirkland.” Maggie didn’t miss the frown that narrowed Holliday’s eyes. She looked as though she’d really regret losing Grayson.

“He left here about two last night. I offered him a bed”—she didn’t bother to look embarrassed—”but he said he had one at the hotel.” Holliday might have added more, but she felt a growing respect for this skinny woman who never backed down.

Margaret thanked her and turned toward the door. As she stepped into the sun, she collided with Bar. Bar jumped back in fear, then looked ashamed for his weakness and forced himself to stand in range of a blow.

His silent strength brought reason to Maggie’s mind. She placed her arm around the boy and said, “Thank you for waiting. You may see me home.” Her tone was crisp, but her touch was gentle.

Bar straightened with pride and walked through the crowd of people who had gathered. Margaret didn’t look at their faces. She’d reached a point where she no longer cared what people thought. She was silent all the way back home, but her mind was working … planning.

Cherish stepped into the evening air and took a deep breath. She’d spent the afternoon hearing all about what Maggie planned to do with Grayson when she saw him again. After all the ranting and raving, one thing was clear to Cherish: her aunt was in love with Grayson Kirkland. If she didn’t kill him over what he’d done, she’d probably be very happy with the huge man.

It had been hard for Cherish not to talk about Brant with Maggie, for he was in her thoughts. She walked to the barn, wondering when she’d see him again. They hadn’t discussed meeting, but she knew she could get a message to him through Hank or Father Daniel.

Bar tumbled out the back door trying to eat a slice of pie without spilling any of the juicy bites of apple. “I’ll see to the horses tonight, Miss Cherish.”

Cherish waved him toward her. “I’ll help.” When they were well free of the house, she added, “We both could use the peace and quiet.”

Bar rolled his eyes upward. “I’ve heard stories of what Indians do when they torture white folks, but it ain’t nothin’ compared to what Miss Maggie’s goin’ to do to Grayson. If I was him, I’d pay the undertaker before I came to call at this house.”

Cherish laughed and prayed the Yankee was up to the challenge of loving her aunt.

They walked toward the barn together, but Bar stepped on ahead to light the lamp while Cherish took a moment to look at the stars.

She loved the evening most of all in this land. She loved the way the sun blazed out slowly in a long moment of glory before it fell. Then the stars would span the night sky. As a child, Cherish used to sleep out on a wide porch and watch for falling stars to wish on.

She glanced over to the barn and noticed that Bar hadn’t lit the lantern. Like a wisp of wind that comes up suddenly before a storm, she heard a thud just inside the barn. Bar must have tripped over something and fallen. She ran to help him.

Stepping into the darkened interior, she reached for the lantern. The odor of hay and horses blended with a foreign smell to the area … whiskey.

Cherish groped again in the darkness for the lantern. It wasn’t on the hook. She stepped back suddenly, feeling that she wasn’t alone. “Bar?”

The toe of her boot struck something. Cherish knelt in the blackness, feeling her way along Bar’s unconscious body. “Bar!” Panic froze her spine. She could hear the slow breath of someone behind her in the shadows.

“Brant?” she whispered.

Something moved through the blackness, rustling the straw on the ground between her and the door. Fear rippled in tiny waves along her skin.

“Who’s there?” she said louder. Brant wouldn’t frighten her so and she couldn’t believe he’d ever hurt a child. Maybe a drunk had crawled in to sleep and now only wanted an escape. The smell of whiskey assaulted her nose as she stood and moved toward the door.

Heavy footsteps ventured closer … stalking.

Cherish fumbled behind her, grabbing in the blackness for something, anything, to use as a weapon. “Identify yourself,” she said with all the volume she could shove past her contracting throat, “or I’ll scream!”

Large, beefy hands jetted from the shadows and encircled her arms. They jerked her violently backward against a wide expanse of stomach. The odor of cheap cigars blended with whiskey as sweaty hands closed around her like a greased bear trap.