The Trouble with Patience (3 page)

“You liar! You know you did somethin' to that deck of cards 'fore you dealt the hand!” The miner held his fists up, but Jedediah knew the man was no match for the gambler and his slick ways. “I ain't no dummy,” the miner added. He shot a wad of tobacco into the dirt, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Jedediah almost smiled at the futile attempt to look tough.

The gambler removed his jacket, threw it across a hitching post, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and reached up to smooth his mustache. “You'd have to prove it, little man, and I don't hear any eyewitness verifying your story.”

The red-faced miner swayed a bit on his feet—no doubt from a few rounds of liquor.

Jedediah strode up to the two men. He knew most gamblers carried a small derringer, and he figured the gambler would use it rather than lose the gold he'd just won. “Let's settle this peacefully, or I'll haul you both to jail. I've got plenty of room.” Joe and others from the saloon stood about, watching the proceedings.

“Step aside, Marshal. I'm not lettin' this scoundrel get away with cheatin' me outta my gold!” The miner staggered toward his assailant.

The gambler smirked. “You shouldn't play cards with a professional then.”

The miner fumbled in his pocket, and the gambler withdrew his derringer, firing once. As the miner crumpled to his knees and fell over, Jedediah drew his gun, shooting the gambler in the chest. The dandy fell on his face onto the dusty street, a pool of blood below his chest.

Gasps came from the crowd, and a voice muttered, “Somebody shoulda warned 'im about Marshal Jones.”

“He's dead, all right,” another man said, bending over the gambler.

Jedediah stuck his gun into the holster and walked over to examine the miner. Joe quickly joined him and helped roll the first dead man onto his back. There were more gasps as they saw what the miner had been reaching into his pocket for. “Well, I'll be doggone! He didn't even have a gun, Jed.” Joe was holding up a chain with a gold cross.

Jedediah bent over and lifted an eyelid of the dead miner as the crowd pressed closer. “This didn't have ta happen,” Joe murmured. “Wonder what he'd planned on doin' with it?”

“Praying, most likely. Joe, see if you can find any papers on him. We'll need to notify his next of kin.” Then turning to the crowd, Jedediah said, “Someone go after the undertaker. Tell him we have two dead.”

He stood, hands on his hips, staring down at the miner, feeling sorry for him, hoping he didn't have a wife and kids. Jed didn't usually feel this concerned about a gunfight. Maybe he was getting soft. Time was when settling a fight or overseeing a hanging didn't bother him like this.

Later, after seeing the men's bodies taken to the morgue, he remembered Shorty's supper. It'd be cold now—like the two men who'd just lost their lives. He didn't want to dwell on it. He'd had no choice but to shoot the gambler when he'd shot the miner. And he wasn't feeling sorry about that since the miner wasn't even carrying a gun. Just a cross—a small gold cross. It brought to mind the wooden cross in the little clapboard church back in Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, when he'd first heard the gospel preached, first took it as his own. A lot of water under the bridge since that time. Plenty of drifting through Kansas, Texas, and Colorado before coming here. He wiped his brow and breathed a brief prayer for the miner's soul and his family. But there was weariness deep inside as he carried Shorty's supper to the cell.

He stood and watched his prisoner devour the chicken. “Keep your nose clean, you hear?” he said. “Don't want to see another body carried off to the cemetery anytime soon.”

In the evening after each pan was cleaned, dishes washed, rinsed, and put away, Patience would retire to the parlor and
sit in front of the carved cherry desk. Her grandmother's Bible was precious to her, and Patience kept a diary—just a simple notebook—to write down her thoughts as she read each evening. She reflected on how much she had grown in character, what she was learning from her reading, and how God was blessing her.

She finished reading the first chapter of Philippians and had just begun the next one when she came to words that seemed to leap off the page: “In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.” Patience put the book down on the desk and stared into the cold fireplace. She finally let herself wonder about the way she'd acted when she marched in high dudgeon into the middle of the marshal's arrest the other day. Was this what he'd meant?

She closed her eyes and the Bible with a sigh. Did she think she was better than he? Was what he had said about humility more or less true about her? About her lack of it? It was a bitter pill to swallow. That was not how she wanted others to see her—lacking in humility, boastful. But maybe even that thought was prideful—more worried about what people thought of her than God's view of her.

Well, anyway, she'd have to give this some more thought, prayer. And it was right to apologize somehow, even though she'd declared he'd never get the chance to know her better. By the time she'd tossed and turned more than half the night, she had an idea.

Patience smoothed the crisp, clean sheets across the bed and tucked them in, breathing in their fresh smell of the spring outdoors. Her new boarder, who called herself Emily, was a pretty young girl who worked at the café just down the street. “I've been living in the back of the café,” she had explained, “but I sure would like someplace nicer . . . like here.” The girl smiled, and Patience liked her immediately. It turned out that it would cost Emily only a little bit more than her current room.

Patience was tired and very tempted to crawl between the sheets herself after tidying everything up. She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the spacious bedroom. It had taken her most of the morning to lug up a bucket of suds to wipe down the window and mop the floor. Now sunshine sparkled through that window, highlighting the fluffy pillows and rose-colored quilt adorning the bed. After numerous trips up the stairs today, her legs and back were sore. But she hummed to herself, trying to forget how weary she was.

She was truly happy to finally have a few more boarders.
Not everyone ate in her dining room all the time. But she always provided a hot breakfast in the morning and a good meal at supper. She had changed her schedule so that instead of giving them lunch, her boarders were on their own—which freed her up to do her chores and find a little time to herself. Guests who had previously come for lunch now often joined her boarders for the evening meal.

She gathered up her cleaning supplies to take downstairs and paused, rubbing her back, at the bedroom window. Her mind drew her back to the town of Helena, her mother—and Russell. She and Russell had become friends, and she was pretty sure he was about to ask her to marry him. And then came his tragic death. She still agonized over it all, wishing she knew more details about his accusers and the awful hanging.

Setting the cleaning items down once again, she shook her head and turned away from the window, her stomach in a knot at the terrible memory and the appalling scene she'd imagined way too often. She was still sure it was all a terrible mistake. Russell had just begun a small ranching operation with his brother, Nathan. There was no way he would even think of stooping so low as to steal a neighbor's cattle. Never. Of
that
she was sure. Her heart ached at how unjust it all was.

They'd met at church where she played the piano, and together attended several dances and outings. He'd been charming and, in her mind, perfect for her. When she'd learned of his death, she thought her life was over too. She hadn't seen Nathan since and idly wondered if by now he'd moved away.

Back in Helena, she'd considered driving over to their place to see what she could learn, but she would've had to rent a buckboard and horse, and money was as tight in Helena as it was here. Besides, she reminded herself again, Russell had
never invited her to his ranch, probably because he was so busy fencing it in. Either way, there wasn't anything she could do about it now, but it was hard convincing her heart of that.

Only a few months after that terrible loss, her grandmother had passed away, leaving the boardinghouse to Patience—much to her mother's dismay. Patience had been happy to leave home and start fresh. Especially away from her mother's eyes, both pitying and prying.

It was hard to believe the place needed so many repairs after being open only about two years. It looked like it had been hastily built, and with the constant flow of miners and travelers, it already had begun to show wear on the rugs and furniture. She'd just have to live with it until she could squirrel away some money to get things done the way she'd like them. At least she'd keep it clean and neat.

Patience shook her head and turned her attention to happier thoughts—her situation
was
beginning to look up. Tomorrow she would find out if she could buy paint for the front of the boardinghouse. It was in desperate need of a sprucing up, and she thought she could do it herself. She'd have to borrow a ladder, but she figured someone around here would loan her one. Emily would know of someone, she was sure.

As she turned to leave the room, satisfied now that it was as immaculate as she could make it, her eye caught her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. At twenty-five, she was considered an old maid. Right now she was a sight to behold—smudges on her face, unruly dark hair falling from its pins, buxom on top and hips flaring beneath her soiled apron and dress. But her green eyes were still clear and bright. She considered them her best feature. Now, if only she could look
like the new boarder, Emily—a little taller and thinner—she just might see a bit of interest from some eligible bachelor.

Patience sighed, picked up the mop bucket and cleaning items, and made her way downstairs. No point in whining about her looks. She couldn't change what she was, but hopefully someone of God's choosing would look at her heart and not her outward appearance.
Stay focused on the tasks at hand and work as
unto the Lord
, she repeated silently. She wanted her grandmother to be proud of her—maybe look down from heaven with a smile. It made her sad that her grandmother had a soft spot for her that her own mother did not. Especially after her father died. Without him there to intervene on her behalf when it came to her mother's demands, she felt her life had been totally controlled and stifled.

She decided to have just another tiny slice of her lemon cake. That would surely make her feel better, wouldn't it? Tomorrow she would pay the marshal a brief visit.

Patience placed sizzling sausage, scrambled eggs, hot coffee, and fresh biscuits on the sideboard for her guests. Three biscuits she kept aside, wrapped in a blue-checked napkin. She paused, considering whether to add the sausage to her basket. It seemed that a man like Marshal Jones would enjoy meat with his biscuit, so she tucked two of the sausages in with them. She donned bonnet and shawl and picked up the basket. If she got to the marshal's office early enough, no doubt it would be breakfast she was delivering.

She stepped into spring's chill, pausing to watch the morning sun just beginning to spread its golden rays across the
mountain ridge. She surveyed the small town, barely six blocks long, which was host to thousands of miners traipsing to and from Alder Gulch. With three general stores, two saloons, a butcher, livery stable, and blacksmith, even at sunup there was always steady activity. She lifted her skirts at the end of the boardwalk to avoid the disgusting road littered with horse droppings. So unlike Helena.
But I don't miss living with
my mother
, she reminded herself. She rather liked her newfound independence. She would no longer be viewed simply as a spinster but instead as a businesswoman with her own boardinghouse.

Delicious fragrances drifted from The Star Bakery as she hurried along. She'd bought a cinnamon bun there once, and enjoyed chatting with Hannah, the middle-aged lady who owned the establishment. But it was an extravagance she really couldn't afford—at least not very often. She nodded to Hannah through the shop window and hurried on.

She was pleased to see light from the marshal's window and quietly swung open the wooden door. She found him leaning back, hat over his face and boots resting on his desk. She called out a cheery good morning as she placed her basket on his desk. Yanking off his hat, he quickly sat up, boots thumping on the floor, and blinked at her. He swept his hand through thick hair and ran his fingers over his mustache. It appeared he'd slept in his chair all night.

“What in the world are you doing here at this hour, Miss Patience?” he growled.

“You could be a bit nicer, Marshal—a little less grumpy,” she admonished, tucking her arms beneath her shawl. “Actually,” she said, moderating her lecturing tone, “I brought you some of my biscuits as a peace offering for my rude interfering
last week. By the looks of you, I'd say you haven't already eaten—am I correct?”

He just stared back at her—
Disbelief or
irritation?
she wondered—and she was afraid he was going to throw her out. She stared back into his deep-set, dark eyes and at the dimple in his chin—which she bet could be disarming if he wasn't always scowling.

Jedediah pulled the basket over and lifted the napkin. He closed his eyes, sniffing the hot biscuits. “Oh my! Miss Patience, for this, you deserve an olive branch
and
a good morning!” He rubbed his hands together and licked his lips—apparently delighted by the addition of the sausage links. Standing up, he motioned toward a chair. “Uh, please have a seat while I boil some coffee to go with this mighty fine peace offering.”

She complied and watched as he filled the pot, added coffee, and lit the wood stove. She noted his shirt pulled tight across his broad back and the shaggy, dark hair curled into his collar. When he turned around to retrieve two mugs from the shelf, she pretended to be gazing out the window.