How to Lasso a Cowboy (50 page)

At the first stop, she was encouraged to take the seat on top of the stage. She'd pulled on her bonnet and gladly crawled into the chair tied among the luggage. As she watched the sunset that day, Lacy took the letters from her bag that Walker had written to his father years ago. She fell in love with her husband through reading his letters of adventure, memorizing every line as if it were written to her.

One by one, she watched them blow out of her hands, drifting in the wind behind the stage like dead leaves. That day she put away childhood. That day she'd given up on dreams.

Lacy stood in the dimly lit shop and pulled her shawl around her as if the wool could hug her frame. She stretched tired muscles. It was late and tomorrow would be a busy day. Every Saturday after all the papers were sold and the flyers nailed, Lacy rode out to her friends' farm. There, she could relax for a few hours. She'd play with Bailee and Carter's children and remember how years ago, when Sarah, Bailee, and she had been kicked off of a
wagon train, they'd talked about what life would be like in Texas. Bailee had sworn she'd never marry and Sarah had thought she wouldn't live to see another winter. But Lacy, then fifteen, had boasted that she would marry and have so many children she would have to start numbering them because she'd run out of names.

“Five years ago,” Lacy whispered to herself as she climbed the stairs. Five years since they came to Texas half-starved, out of money, and out of luck. Bailee found her man and had three sons with another baby on the way. Sarah wrote often about her twins.

“And then there is me.” Lacy walked into her small apartment above the shop. “I had a husband for fifteen minutes, once.”

Her rooms welcomed her with colorful quilts she'd made and tattered books she'd collected. When she first moved in and began to learn the newspaper business, she could barely read, but Lacy studied hard. Her father-in-law never tired of helping her learn those first few years. He'd treated her like a treasure even though she'd been little more than a rag-a-muffin when he'd paid her bail and married her to his son by proxy. From the first he talked of what a grand jewel she'd be to his son when the boy finally came home from serving in the army.

On evenings like this, she missed the old man dearly. She longed for the way he always talked about Walker as if his son were still a boy, and the way he could quote every article he'd ever written as though it were only yesterday and not material from twenty years in the business.

Before Lacy could heat water for tea, someone tapped on the back door.

She lifted the old Navy Colt from the pie safe drawer and went to answer. No one ever climbed the stairs to her back door except Bailee and she wouldn't be calling so late.

The minute she saw Sheriff Riley's stooped outline through the glass, she relaxed and set the gun aside.

“Evening.” She opened the door to a cold blast of air that almost took her breath away. “Want to come in for a
cup of coffee, Sheriff? It's cold enough to snow.” The little porch area at the top of a narrow flight of stairs held no protection from the night and lately, the sheriff was thin as bone.

Riley shook his head. “Now you know I can't do that. What would folks say, a lady like yourself having a male guest after dark?”

She grinned, knowing no one would think a thing about the old man coming in from the winter night to sit a spell, but she wouldn't spoil his fun. “You know you're the only gentleman I ask inside. I'd shoot any other man who came knocking after dark.”

Riley nodded. “I'd hope so. You being a respectable lady and all. I wouldn't even bother with a trial if I found a body on this porch.” Though he'd listened to their confessions of killing a robber on the road to Cedar Point five years ago, the sheriff had always treated Lacy, Sarah, and Bailee more like daughters than outlaws.

The sheriff, like everyone else in town, regarded her as if her husband had simply left for the day and would be back anytime. Here, she was Mrs. Larson and there was a solidness about it even if there was no substance to the man she married.

Riley shifted into his coat like an aging turtle. “I just came to tell you that I got a telegram a few minutes ago saying Zeb Whitaker will be getting out of jail next week. I promised you I'd let you know the minute I heard.”

Lacy fought to keep from reaching for the Colt. Big Zeb Whitaker was an old nightmare she laid aside years ago when he'd finally gone to prison. She could still feel his hands on her when he'd grabbed her and ripped the front of her dress open to see if she were woman enough to kidnap. She thought she killed him once. She would kill him for real if she had to. He was the first man Bailee, Sarah, and she met when they came to Texas and if Zeb had his way he would have taken their wagon and left them for dead.

“Lacy?” Riley said as though he didn't think she listened.

“Yes.” She balled her fist to keep her hands from trembling.

“Rumor is he still thinks one of you three women has his stash of gold. I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up around here. I'm not too worried about Bailee way out on the farm with Carter watching after her, and Sarah tucked away where Zeb will never find her.” Riley's face wrinkled. “But you . . . with your man gone and all.”

He didn't need to say more. She knew she was alone. Her man wasn't gone, Walker had never been here. Except for the one brief meeting he was no more than a name on a piece of paper.

“I think you should leave town, Lacy.” When Riley met her stare, he added quickly. “Just for a few weeks. Go see Sarah. Or maybe you have family back East you could visit.”

Lacy wanted to scream, ‘with what!' There were times over the past few years when she didn't have enough money left to buy food. Once she survived on a basket of apples Bailee brought in from their farm. The two friends never discussed how Lacy was doing, but Bailee always brought apples and eggs and more from the farm, claiming she wanted to trade them for a newspaper. More often than not, Lacy swapped a ten cent paper for a week's worth of food.

Lacy didn't want the sheriff, or anyone else in town, to know how little she had. They all seemed to think her invisible husband sent her money regularly. “I'll be fine here, Sheriff, don't worry about me.”

Riley shook his head. “I don't know, Lacy. I'm not as spry as I used to be. I'm not sure I can face a man like Zeb Whitaker.”

“He's aged too, you know. He's probably barely getting around. Who knows, he might come back to say he's sorry for causing us so much trouble five years ago.”

“Mean don't age well.” The sheriff frowned. “I'd feel a lot better if your man were here.”

“Walker's down on the border fighting cattle rustlers,”
Lacy lied. She'd been using that excuse for months now; it was time she made up another reason. “I'll be all right. I have the gun you gave me.”

Mumbling to himself, Riley turned and headed down the steep stairs. Lacy knew he wasn't happy about her staying, but this was her home, her only home, and she needed to run the shop. None of the three men who worked for her could take over her job.

Duncan was almost deaf. Folks coming in to place an ad had to stand next to his good ear and yell their order. Eli's bones bothered him so much in winter that he stayed on his feet most of the day. If he sat for more than a few minutes he seemed to rust. And, of course, Jay Boy was just a kid Lacy paid a man's wages because he supported his mother and little sister. He might be learning the business between errands, but he couldn't take over.

Lacy closed the back door and locked it. She had to stay. If Whitaker came, she'd fight. Maybe even die, but she wouldn't run.

 
“AMAZING GRACE,
how sweet the sound . . .”

The voices of the Sunset Methodist Church members blended with wheezy organ notes to circle Emma Louise Hartwell. Emma's lips moved with the remembered words, but no sound came forth. Although she held her head high and aimed at the front of the church, her gaze followed dust motes, which drifted aimlessly through sunlight slanting in between boards covering a window. Next week the shutters would be removed, heralding the church's official recognition of spring.

Emma shuddered as the four walls closed in on her, and her heart pounded like a war drum. She should've waited until next Sunday to make her first public appearance. At least then she would have the illusion of freedom through the glass panes. Now there was only warped wood and shadowed corners, so unlike . . .

No!
She didn't dare think about that, not while surrounded by those who had judged and sentenced her even
though they didn't know the truth. Of course, if they knew everything, her total condemnation would be assured.

A hushed scuffle between the Morrison children caught Emma's attention. The boy and girl were tugging and punching at one another as their parents ignored them.

A Lakota child would never be so disobedient during a religious ceremony. They were taught from infancy to remain quiet and honor their elders, as well as revere their traditions and rituals. But then, the Lakota children wouldn't have had to sit on hard benches surrounded by four walls for two hours either. Emma, who'd grown up attending Sunday service, found herself anxious to escape the confinement. However, the intervening years had taught her to remain still and silent, like a mouse when a hawk passed overhead.

The final hymn ended with a concluding groan of the organ, and Emma herself nearly groaned in relief. She wished she could forego decorum and run outside like the children, but this was the first time she'd attended service with her family since her return five months ago. Her mother said they had wanted to spare her the pitying looks. Emma believed her parents wanted to spare
themselves
the town's censure.

Familiar townsfolk greeted John and Martha Hartwell, as well as their fair-haired daughter Sarah, but only a few acknowledged Emma's presence. Even Sally and George, whom she'd known for years, didn't stop to visit with her, but only sent her guarded nods, as if she had a catching disease. Still, Emma could understand their wariness. They had all grown up with the same stories she had heard about the “red devils.”

But they hadn't lived in a Lakota village for almost seven years.

Emma followed her family to the doorway where the minister stood, shaking hands with the members of his flock.

“Fine job, Reverend,” Emma's father said. He'd spoken those same words to the minister every Sunday that Emma
could remember. It was another one of those oddly disconcerting reminders that some things hadn't changed.

“How is Emma doing?” the reverend asked.

Emma bristled inwardly, but kept her outward expression composed and her eyes downcast. They talked about her as if she wasn't standing right beside them. She hated that, but had promised her parents to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

“She's fine, Reverend,” Martha Hartwell replied.

Emma risked sneaking a look at her mother and recognized the strain in her forced smile.

“We're thinking of sending her to visit her aunt back in St. Paul,” her father interjected.

Emma gasped and opened her mouth to protest, but his warning look silenced her. Her cheeks burned with humiliation and anger. Her parents were going to rid themselves of their embarrassment one way or another. And they hadn't even deemed her important enough to discuss their plans for
her
future. Bitterness filled her and the air suddenly seemed too heavy.

“Excuse me,” Emma whispered and stumbled past her sister, her parents, and the minister.

Her face burned from all the looks—pitying, accusing, and morbidly curious—directed toward her, as if she were a wolf caught in barbed wire. Her eyes stung, but she lifted her head high and held the tears at bay with the same stubbornness that didn't let her despair overcome her. She had lived a life that few white women could even imagine. Nobody had a right to judge her.