The Outlaw Takes a Bride (7 page)

The train slowed, and Sally braced herself against the seat ahead of her. They were stopping, and she ought to get out and walk around.

“This is my stop,” said the portly woman next to her. “I hope the rest of your journey is pleasant.”

“Thank you,” Sally said with a wan smile.

“You should eat something,” her seatmate recommended, fumbling for her shawl, handbag, a parcel, and a parasol. “I don’t believe you’ve eaten a thing since I boarded this morning.”

Sally ignored the last remark and waited until the passengers disembarking had gathered their belongings and left the car. Slowly, she stood, clinging to the seat back. Her head swam. She closed her eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

She opened her eyes. The dark-skinned porter stood in the aisle, concern written in his features.

“Just a little woozy,” she managed. “Stood up too fast, I imagine.”

“We’ll be here a half hour, if you’d like to have a stroll or get something to eat.”

“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.” Clutching her handbag to her side, she stepped cautiously into the aisle. The porter nodded and moved on down the car. When she reached the steps, Sally had a moment when she feared she would pitch down them headlong, but another uniformed man appeared at the bottom, extending a hand.

“May I assist you, ma’am?”

“Thank you.” She plummeted down the last step, which jolted her, and the man steadied her.

“All right?”

“Yes. How long until we reach Beaumont?”

“Beaumont? Let’s see.…” He rolled his eyes upward for a moment, as if the line’s timetable were written somewhere up there. “Not until tomorrow morning, about ten o’clock, I’d say.”

“Thank you.” Another night on the train. At least the seats on this one leaned back. Sally tried to console herself with the thought that in less than twenty hours, she would be with Mark. She hoped they would have another stop long enough for her to get her valise and change clothes. She didn’t want to spend the night in her new dress. The black would do for a few more hours, though it had grown rather grimy.

She walked slowly toward the station. To one side of the ticket window was another where people could send telegrams. She wished she had enough to send Mark a message confirming the time of her arrival, but telegrams cost thirty cents a word. Her meager funds had dwindled to eighty cents. That was plenty for food between here and Beaumont if she continued to eat sparingly, but it wasn’t enough for even three words in a telegram, so that option was out. She hoped the information she had sent him when she posted her final letter in St. Louis was accurate enough for him to know he should meet her at the station in Beaumont tomorrow. She would have to trust the Lord that everything would work out.

The smells from a luncheon counter inside the station made her stomach clench. The lady on the train was right—she should eat something. Maybe that would take care of this lightheaded feeling.

Fifteen minutes later, Sally settled back into her seat on the train. She could have lingered a few more minutes, but she wanted to make sure she had no chance of missing the train and that no one else claimed her familiar seat. She had drunk a cup of lukewarm tea and eaten a sandwich, and she had an apple in her handbag, along with a biscuit stuffed with cheese and sliced ham, wrapped in a napkin. She would eat those later today, and maybe that would get her through to Beaumont, where Mark would be responsible for her welfare. She hoped so, because food at the train depots cost much more than it would in other places, and she now had only twenty cents left. If she could just get through today and tonight, Mark would take care of her.

Rain at last. Not a hard, soaking rain, but at least it came down. Johnny had feared they were in for a first-class drought.

“What should we do today?” Cam asked.

“I brought that harness in,” Johnny said.

“What good will that do? My horse never pulled a wagon before. Did yours?”

Johnny shook his head. He’d never tried to hitch Reckless to anything, and the cow pony probably wouldn’t like it. “Sometime we’ll want to use that wagon. Stockpile some horse feed and some coal.”

Cam shrugged. “Fine.”

“And I’ve been thinking we could build another bunk in here. There’s a couple of boards out in the barn. It’s not enough, but it would be a start.”

“I am tired of sleeping on the floor.” Cam sighed and shoved himself to his feet. “All right, I’ll oil the harness if you want to work on that.”

Johnny gazed up at the rafters, but he couldn’t see anything useful above them. “Maybe if I poke around, I’ll find a few more pieces of wood.” That would mean going out to the barn, but the rain would let up after a while. In the meantime, he could clear the space where he’d been thinking of putting Cam’s bed. They’d be squeezed for floor space, but they’d worry about that later. If they stayed very long, they could add on to the cabin. But he didn’t want to think that far into the future.

They puttered around, and the day dragged. When he went out in the drizzle to fetch more water, Johnny thought maybe a windlass for the well should be his next project.

That afternoon, while Cam sat at the table, humming and rubbing neat’s-foot oil into the leather, Johnny took the broom and swept the side of the room farthest from the stove. He figured he had found enough boards now for a bunk frame. Might as well sweep up and start building Cam’s bed.

He poked around under his bed with the broom and was rewarded with a nail and a penny, both useful items. He prodded farther into the corner beneath the bed with the broom. It thunked against something back by the wall. He turned the broom around, poked it again with the handle, and got a hollow thud.

Johnny lay on his stomach and peered under the bunk. Way back against the wall was a box of some kind. He wriggled under the bed until he could grasp it and pulled it out.

As he emerged backward from beneath the overhanging quilt, Cam said, “What on earth are you doing?”

“Found something.” Johnny slid the small wooden box out the last foot and studied it. Made of pine, the lid was intricately carved, and he was certain Mark had crafted the box. Both brothers had developed a talent for woodcarving at their grandfather’s knee.

Cam came over and gazed down at the geometric pattern. “Nice box.”

“Yeah.” Johnny picked it up and set it on the bunk. A small lock was set into the front of the box. He tried to lift the lid.

“Locked?” Cam asked.

“Yeah.” Johnny got up and walked over to the worktable, where he opened the drawer and rummaged through the small items there. He came out with the key.

“What’s that?” Cam asked.

“A little key. I found it a couple of days ago, but I didn’t know what it went to.” He fitted it into the lock and turned it. It gave a satisfying click. He opened the lid. “Papers.”

“Any cash?” Cam leaned in close to look.

Johnny lifted the items out—a loose envelope and a packet of letters tied together with a short piece of twine. On the bottom were a few folded sheets of paper. He smoothed out the creases on the first one.

“This is the deed to the ranch.”

“Let me see.”

Johnny passed it over, and Cam carried it near the window. “Looks like he owned it free and clear.”

“That’s good.” Johnny fished out the last item. “This looks like a receipt for fifty head of cattle. Bought last fall.”

“Better and better,” Cam said. “Your brother did things nice and legal, and he kept his business tidy.”

“Yeah, seems like it.” Johnny had never had papers to keep track of. He just went from job to job and punched cattle. Mark had really started to make something of himself, as a landowner and a ranchman. He’d always been a big brother to look up to. Johnny wished he had stayed closer to Mark and learned his steady ways.

He studied the receipt. “If he bought fifty head, where are they? There’s not that many now, unless you count every calf, and they’re mostly only a few weeks old.”

“I dunno. Maybe some of them are in another pasture, or maybe he sold them already. What’s the rest of that stuff?” Cam asked.

“Well, here’s another receipt…for the cookstove.” He wondered why Mark had spent so much on a fancy kitchen range. He could have gotten along fine with a smaller heating stove for the short Texas winter and a bachelor’s cooking needs.

Johnny picked up the loose envelope. “Huh. This is from me. I remember I wrote to him a year or so ago, to tell him where I was at.” He took out the scribbled note and gazed at it. He had never been much of a correspondent. But Mark had thought enough of him to keep his note, with the address on it—the Lone Pine Ranch, where Johnny was accused of killing his foreman.

Cam reached for the letter, and Johnny gave it to him. Cam glanced at it. “We should probably burn this.”

Johnny swallowed hard. Cam was right—if he never wanted anyone here to know Mark had a brother. If anyone saw that note, they could connect him to the ranch in Colorado—and Red Howell’s murder. He gave a curt nod. Cam walked over to the stove and fitted the handle into one of the round lids on top. He lifted it and tossed the letter into the firebox. Johnny shuddered and turned back to the treasure trove. The packet of letters was the only thing left.

He picked up the whole bunch and squinted at the handwriting and the postmark on the top one. He didn’t recognize the hand, and he didn’t know anyone in St. Louis. He slid the twine off and fanned out the letters. Must be a dozen or more, and all from the same person. The writing was gentle and curly. Cam walked over beside him.

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “They’re all letters from St. Louis.”

“Anyone in your family there?”

“No.”

Cam took the top one. As he removed the missive from the envelope, Johnny studied the others.

“He stacked them with the newest ones on the bottom. That would be the oldest.”

Cam shook out the sheets of paper. “
Hmm
. Whoever it’s from had a lot to say. It was written in December.” He flipped to the back page. “Sally. Who’s Sally?”

Johnny’s throat went dry. Mark had a whole life he knew nothing about. “I dunno.”

Cam went back to the front page. “Dear Mr. Paynter, I take pen in hand—”

“Hold on,” Johnny said.

“What?”

“Do you think we ought to read those?”

“Why not?” Cam sounded slightly annoyed.

“Well, you know. They’re private. This Sally person didn’t expect anyone but Mark to read them.”

Cam sighed. “Johnny, listen to me. Mark is dead. This is sort of a relic. It may help us know more about him. You want that, don’t you?”

“Well…”

“It can’t hurt anyone if we read them now.”

Johnny wasn’t sure about that. But if this Sally was a good friend of Mark’s, maybe someone should write and tell her he was dead. Cam wouldn’t like that, though, he was sure.

“Pen in hand”—Cam scanned the words and found his place—“with great hesitation. I am a widow now living in St. Louis, where my late husband and I resided. He passed away more than a year ago, and I have lately resided in the home of a kind minister and his wife. I have never replied to an advertisement before—”

Johnny reached over and grabbed Cam’s arm. “Good night! Mark placed an ad for one of those mail-order bride women!”

“Sounds like it.”

Johnny’s stomach felt a little dodgy. He would never have imagined Mark doing such a thing.

Cam cleared his throat. “But I summoned courage to do so when I saw that you live in Texas, which is where I grew up. My family lives to the north of you, near Fort Belknap. You describe yourself as a starting rancher. Sir, I assure you that I am capable of making a ranchman a good wife. I was raised practically on horseback, and I often helped out with the livestock on our small holdings. My father has a freighting business, and two of my brothers are now partners with him. It would give me great joy to return to Texas and make a home there.” Cam looked up. “Sounds a little desperate, don’t you think?”

“Hard to tell.” The more Cam read, the more wrong it seemed to be reading this and witnessing the poor woman’s exposure of her personal life.

“Let’s see.… She says, ‘You’ve probably received many replies to your advertisement. I don’t know what to tell you that would keep you from passing over mine. You are thirty years old. Well, I am twenty-eight. Some women might shave off a few years in the telling, but I feel honesty is the best foundation for a relationship. Sir, I have no children and would expect nothing from you other than a home and a chance to begin a new life. I tell you frankly that I have few assets. My husband left me nothing, and I am now earning my keep by cooking and keeping house for the minister. I also do some sewing for people, and I could stitch clothing for you and any ranch hands you might have. I am in good health and used to hard work.’ ”

Johnny felt his face flush at the revelation of these intimate details. The whole thing made him feel a bit sad.

“Finally, sir, if you see fit to answer, please direct your letter to the address below. Very truly yours, Sally V. Golding, in care of the Reverend Mr. Elijah Winters, General Delivery, St. Louis, Missouri.”