The Listening Sky (23 page)

The preacher shifted the Bible from his right hand to his left and took Jane’s hand in a firm clasp. His eyes flicked from
her to Kilkenny. The hand on the woman’s back said clearly that she belonged to this tall black-haired man who had more than
a trace of Indian blood.

“Pleased to meet you.”

T.C. picked up a paper from his desk. “I’ve written out a few things about Dr. Foote. You may want to read them over.”

“Is either of you related to Dr. Foote?”

“No. The doctor has no blood relatives that I know of.”

“Herb,” Jane prompted.

“Herb Banks is his foster son, so to speak.”

“Do you know if the doctor was baptized? And if so, what church?”

“I don’t know.”

The preacher looked over what T.C. had written, folded the paper and put it in his Bible.

“What time did you want to start the service?”

T.C. looked at Jane. She lifted her brows in a question. T.C. held her eyes with his as he answered.

“Any time now.”

Fifty or more people followed Doc’s body to the cemetery. The young preacher walked directly behind the wagon, followed by
Herb holding Polly’s hand as if the small girl were his anchor during this sorrowful time. Jane walked between T.C. and Colin
and was the envy of more than one female in the crowd. When the wagon stopped at the foot of the knoll, Herb, T.C., Colin,
and the man called Tennihill gently lifted the coffin to their shoulders and carried it up the grassy hill.

The place where Doc would spend eternity was a quiet, beautiful spot shaded by tall pines with a clear view of the mountains
to the west. Jane thought it symbolic that the clear melodious sound of a mourning dove came from faraway as the box was lowered
to the ground beside the gaping hole. As the mourners gathered around, T.C. reached for Jane’s hand and pulled her up beside
him.

The service was short. The preacher read the eulogy T.C. had written. Nathan Foote had been born in Virginia, had gone to
medical school there and had served in the Confederate Army. The preacher read of his deeds on the battlefield and told of
his commendation by the president of the United States.

After reading a short passage from his Bible, the preacher began to sing “The Lord’s Prayer” in the most beautiful voice Jane
had ever heard. His voice was rich and vibrant. It reached to Jane’s listening sky. The mourners were awed into silence. Jane
felt the spell of a strange enchantment settle over her. Her eyes were drawn to those of the tall man beside her. He gazed
down at her and squeezed her hand, and for a short while she felt as if she really belonged to him.

“Join me in singing ‘Shall We Gather at the River.’ “

The mourners at first were hesitant. The preacher sang as if all had joined in, and soon most of them had. Jane was surprised
not only to hear T.C. sing, but that he knew all the words. Raised in the church school, she believed she knew every word
of every hymn ever written.

Standing at a distance where he had an unrestricted view, Bob Fresno saw the look exchanged between Jane and Kilkenny. The
look was one of… intimacy. A feeling of frustration and anger knifed through him. Hell! She was damn lucky he’d noticed her.
What was Kilkenny, but a… breed?

Jane lifted her eyes and saw Bob Fresno gazing at her. During the few seconds when their eyes met, Bob lowered his eyelid.
When Jane realized what he had done, her face flamed. She had not been so isolated at the school that she had not learned
about the flirtatious wink of an eye when a man wanted a woman to know that he desired her. She didn’t dare look around to
see if anyone else had noticed.

T.C. let go of Jane’s hand to join with the others when it was time to hold the ropes and lower the box into the ground. It
was then that Jane’s eyes flooded with tears. She remembered standing beside Aunt Alice, when her mother was buried. At that
young age she had not realized the finality of death. Out of time immemorial Nathan Foote had spent a mere fifty years on
this earth and now he was no more than—

“Ashes to ashes,” the preacher said, “Dust to dust.”

Nature had provided a beautiful late summer day for Nathan Foote’s burial and the gathering that followed in front of the
house where he had lived his last days.

The tables brought over from the cookhouse were lined up in front of the porch. Maude, Polly, Sunday and Jane carried the
food from the kitchen. Families had gone home, changed out of their Sunday best and returned with more food to add to the
meal.

The day before, on hearing that Dr. Foote had passed away, Sweet William had had a steer butchered. In the pit lined with
adobe bricks, the steer was placed over a fire of hickory wood. A tin lid, fashioned to hold the smoke, covered the pit. All
morning, before and after the service, men lounged around the pit, giving advice and swapping yarns about pit-smoked meat.

The roasted steer was pulled from the pit with a chain and a pulley and swung over a table where Sweet William had an array
of knives and cleavers. He sliced the meat and placed it in large pans to be carried to the table.

Theda Cruise came, her flaming red hair tied back with a ribbon. She wore a dark blue satin dress with a bustle on the back.
Her waist was tightly cinched, the corset pushing her breasts up to show a slight cleavage at the neckline. Her dress was
modest and stylish according to Denver standards.

Her contribution to the affair was a sack of stick candy she had purchased at the store as a treat for the children. Jane
was more than mildly surprised by the saloon woman’s gesture.

Noticeably absent was Patrice Guzman Cabeza, who had moved to the hotel. When asked about Patrice, Maude said she had been
told that the woman complained of not feeling well and wanted to be left alone.

Sunday and Colin were spending more time together. Perhaps Patrice Guzman Cabeza was not ill but unhappy over the fact that
she had been unable to bring Colin Tallman to heel.

The picnic atmosphere of the gathering was baffling to Jane… such a gala event arising from a death. All those attending seemed
to be enjoying themselves. Buddy Winters, for one, was reveling in unusual freedom. He ran and played with the other children
while their mothers visited with their neighbors. To Jane it all seemed rather… disrespectful to Doc.

She was in the kitchen with Maude and Polly when T.C. came in. He still wore his white shirt and string tie. His blue-black
hair was still neatly combed. Jane was drying cups as Maude washed them. He came up close behind her, so close his lips touched
her ear.

“Honey, folks are getting impatient to eat.”

Jane looked quickly to see if Maude had heard, then sent a jabbing blow to his abdomen with her elbow. He grunted but didn’t
move.

“Then let the feast begin! This whole thing is barbaric.”

Maude turned in surprise, her hands dripping dishwater.

Jane, no! Folks in small towns always get together after a burial. They’re celebrating the doctor’s life, not his death.”

“I’ve never seen the like. People are acting as if… as if they were at a fair.”

“They’ve not forgotten Doc. They are remembering him, honey.” T.C. emphasized the endearment He turned her around to face
him. “Every story that was ever told about Doc is being told and retold. Herb is out there bragging about how Doc stood up
to a bunch of outlaws and dared them to shoot him again. Tennihill is telling all he knows or heard about Doc during the War.
By the end of the day folks will swear he was a saint”

“None of them will ever accomplish in their lives what he did in his.” Tears flooded Jane’s eyes, and she had to look away
from him.

“Aren’t you about through here, Mrs. Henderson?” T.C. exchanged a knowing look with Maude. “As soon as you are, will you and
Polly come on out on the porch?”

T.C. untied the strings on Jane’s apron and hung it on the back of a chair. With his hand in the small of her back, he propelled
her out into the hall and toward the door. Before they reached it, she dug in her heels and refused to take another step.

“Just a minute. I look a mess.” She began poking the loose strands of hair into the knot on the back of her neck.

“Honey, even if you looked a mess, which you don’t, you’d still be the prettiest woman in town.”

“Stop calling me that and… stop lying. You know it isn’t true. You’re just buttering me up thinking you’ll not have to honor
your promise to take me to the railroad, and you’ll have one more female in town.”

“You don’t want me to call you honey?” His silver eyes glinted with amusement. Doc was right about her. She’s a pistol!

“No. It’s nothing but senseless twaddle.” She stepped back and raked him with unkind eyes.

“Humm—And you don’t want me to say you’re pretty, either. Is that it?’

“More twaddle. It isn’t true and you know it.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I may have been stupid for coming here, Mr. Kilkenny. But I’m not blind.”

“Mr. Kilkenny? We’ve kissed—several times. You know me well enough to call me T.C.”

“I don’t even know what T.C. means.”

“I’ll whisper it if you promise not to tell anyone.” He put his lips to her ear, nipped the lobe gently with his teeth, then
kissed it. “Thunder Cloud,” he whispered.

She jerked away. Her face was set. She refused to look at him when he tilted her chin to look into her face.

“Someday we’re going to have to talk.”

T.C. heard Maude and Polly come out of the kitchen and urged Jane ahead of him out the door.

The preacher stood on the porch. At T.C.’s nod, he raised his hand and a hush fell over the waiting crowd. He began to pray
in his beautiful vibrant voice.

“Our Heavenly Father, we are gathered here to remember our brother, Nathan Foote, who has by now been welcomed into Your Kingdom
and into Your warm embrace where he will have eternal life. While on earth he was a man among men, often risking his own precious
life to help others. Bless this food provided by his friends. Bless those gathered here to honor his memory. Keep them safe.
Help them by their hard work to prosper. I ask this in Your name. Amen.”

The preacher stepped back.

T.C., holding tightly to Jane’s arm so she could not move away, stepped forward.
Drat him!
He was deliberately making it appear that they were an engaged couple. A pair. Mates or mates-to-be.

All Jane could do was stand there and fume silently. She endured being made a spectacle of by thinking of all the things she
would like to do to him, including hitting him squarely in that beautiful, smiling, lying mouth!

“Reverend Davis will be holding church services on Sunday. I’ve not yet figured out a place. As long as the weather holds
I reckon we can hold the services outdoors.”

“How long will ya be here, Parson?” A man from the back shouted. “I’m plannin’ to get married.”

“I intend to make this my home. I hope to bring my family here in a few weeks. Mr. Kilkenny tells me that he will furnish
building materials for a church. I’m not a bad carpenter. Not good, but not bad.”

“I’m the best dang carpenter in the territory. Ain’t no sense havin’ a church house that’ll cave in at the first snowfall.”

“I’m better’n him, Parson.”

“And I’m better’n him.” This brought hee-haws from the crowd.

“Yo, Pastor”

“I’ll do the mason work.”

“Ya gotta roof, preacher.”

“Bullfoot! Ya couldn’t hit a nail on the head with a sledge. Count me in.”

On and on it went. The preacher seemed to have won over his future congregation.

B
OB
Fresno watched Jane.

He had heard something today that had given him hope that all was not well between Jane and Kilkenny. The talk was that she
planned to leave Timbertown. A scatterbrained twit named Bessie was spreading it around that Kilkenny had promised to take
Jane to the train if she would stay and nurse the doctor to the end.

Bob could hardly believe his luck.

He went through the motions of filling his plate, talking to the men who sat on the ground to eat, but his mind was busy.
He was trying to think of a way he could get close to Jane. The opportunity came when she brought something from the house
and walked down the row of tables to find a vacant place to set it.

Bob put his plate on the ground and hurried to the table on the pretext of getting more bread. He reached around her and,
not knowing he was there, she backed up against him.

“Pardon.” She glanced over her shoulder.

“Jane,” Bob said quickly, his hand clasping her upper arm. “I hear ya want to leave. I’ll take ya to the train, now, tonight.
Just let me know when ya want to go.”

“Thank you, but I’ve made arrangements.”

“No, ya ain’t.”

“Let go of me.”

“I’d not hurt ya for the world, Jane. Kilkenny ain’t goin’ to let ya go. He wants ya in his bed.”

“You are rude and crude.” She jerked her arm from his grasp and hurried into the house.

It wasn’t what Bob had hoped for, but it was something. He would watch. If Kilkenny took her, he’d follow. You could bet your
life on that.

Tennihill watched Bob Fresno watch Jane. He sat on the porch of the cookhouse and whittled on a stick. From that vantage point
he could see not only across to Kilkenny’s house, but down the street toward the saloon that had opened up after the burial
and was doing a thriving business.

The men, having eaten before the women and children, were gathered in bunches, enjoying the free day.

Tennihill had noticed Fresno at the graveyard, standing off to the side staring at Kilkenny and Miss Love. At first he had
thought it was Kilkenny who was the center of Fresno’s attention; then his sharp eyes discovered the man was in a state of
discomfort due to the bulge that he soon covered with his hat.

If Tennihill had read the cards right, Miss Love was Kilkenny’s woman. He had known T.C. and Colin Tallman for a few years,
having first met them at Trinity through Garrick Rowe. T.C. Kilkenny was not a man to fool with when it came to something
that belonged to T.C. Kilkenny. If Fresno didn’t know that, he would soon find out.