Romancing the West (5 page)

“I’ll thank you to watch your language, Cole Sawyer,” Miss Frisbie called.

He mumbled an apology, but his gaze--riveted on the poet--sparked white-hot fury.

Thanks to Cole, Emily was as uncomfortable as a camel in the Klondike. She had to nip this nonsense in the bud once and for all. Although she couldn’t meet the rancher’s eyes, at least her voice didn’t crack. “Your concern is appreciated, Cole, but unnecessary.” There. That sounded firm. Didn’t it?

“I beg to differ. As I’ve said before, Emily, I only want what’s best for you. As your husband, I could make your troubles disappear.”

She thought about her
Savior
and shivered. Still . . . “I have a lot of living to do, Cole. The last thing I want or need is a husband.”

Mr. Pinkerton mumbled something under his breath.

Cole narrowed his eyes. “You’re the daughter of a preacher. I’m thinkin’ you don’t know diddly about real life. Otherwise, you wouldn’t allow this stranger to lay hands on you.”

It was then that she sensed a change in Mr. Pinkerton. A softening of sorts in his expression, his posture. “I assure you, I represent no threat to Miss McBride’s reputation.” He smiled, released her, and addressed the membership. “Pardon the interruption.” He gestured to the wing chair. “I don’t need a physician, but I would like to sit a spell.”

“It’s a public facility,” Mary Lee piped in, no doubt intrigued by a new man in town. “We can hardly turn him away.”

“Fine, fine,” Mr. Thompson said, glancing at his pocket watch. “Hurry on in then, Mr. Pinkerton. This meeting’s running late. Cole, dad blame it, plant your keester.”

The denim-clad rancher worked his jaw then graced Emily with a tight smile before retreating. “Looking forward to your reading, Emily. Knock ‘em dead.”

She’d prefer to knock some sense into him, specifically, as well as Mr. Pinkerton who seemed oblivious to danger. Instead, she waited until her unwanted suitor was halfway to his seat then turned on the good-natured, sweet-smelling poet. “You don’t want to get mixed up in this. It’s . . . tawdry.”

He raised one brow, smile steady, gaze tender. Kind and trustworthy, Paris had written.

She didn’t care. She wouldn’t risk it. After the reading, she’d pull him aside and convince him to go away. Just like Cole, the man was annoyingly persistent. “Just don’t say anything about my . . . troubles.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He acknowledged her with a nod then strode toward the wing chair.

Goodness. He even walked pretty--confident, controlled. She’d trade her treasured edition of Cooper’s
The Last of the Mohicans
to be that comfortable in her skin.

“Now then,” Mr. Thompson said. “This afternoon we are setting aside our more literary pursuits to partake in a reading of I. M. Wilde.”

Mumble. Murmur.

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose.

Mr. Thompson tapped his gavel. “Now, now, we all read the dime novels and penny dreadfuls. Ain’t nothing wrong with sensationalized adventure. I know for certain we all read stories featuring the exciting tales of our homegrown heroes, Rome and Boston Garrett. Past year or so, most of them stories have been written by I. M. Wilde.”

Grumble. Whisper.

At this point,
Showdown in Sintown
weighed mightily in Emily’s heart and hands. Soon as she started reading, folks would get hot under the collar as this was a hot topic. She had the sweaty palms to prove it. She glanced at Mr. Pinkerton who sat rigid in the chair, his hat resting on his knees. He looked intrigued and annoyed at the same time. She wondered if he considered dime novels an inferior genre. Her temper flared at the notion. She’d never had patience for literary snobs.

Mr. Thompson paced in front of the committee table, his pudgy hands clasped behind his back. “Now I’m sure most of you read that little item in the Napa County Reporter regarding Mr. Wilde’s next publication. Apparently, it’s a full-fledged novel. A historical novel with unsavory content.”

Frank Biggins pumped his fist in the air. “You mean s-e-x. Just say it, Ezekiel. We’re all adults. Sinful, that’s what it is. I’m voting to ban it from this town.”

“Firstly, you didn’t say the ‘S’ word, you spelled it out, Frank.” This from Miss Frisbie, the head librarian and an energized ball of sunshine even at fifty-one. “Secondly, how can you vote to ban a novel you’ve yet to read? Not that I believe in banning books, period. And lastly,” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “if I recall, the article touted Mr. Wilde’s novel as a historical romance.”

“Historical romance with erotic elements,” said Mr. Biggins.

“Exotic elements,” Miss Frisbie countered. “I’m almost certain it said, exotic, not erotic.” “Same difference.”

She rolled her river-blue eyes at the silver-haired cobbler. “That’s why you’re single, Frank. No woman wants to hitch herself to a man who doesn’t know the difference between exotic and erotic.”

The library exploded into a cacophony of rude noises.

Again, Emily pinched her nose and stole a glance at the poet, whose brows were raised in amusement . . . or shock. She couldn’t get a bead on this man.

Again, Mr. Thompson pounded his gavel.

Honest to gosh, Emily wanted to rip it from his hands. Between the gavel pounding, the poet’s presence, Cole’s unwanted attention, and Mary Lee’s snooty looks, she had a considerable headache.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” said Mr. Thompson.

Yes, let’s,
thought Emily. She hurried forward, whipped open the dime novel with a determined nod, and read. She did fine, real fine. Then she reached page three.

“Dread snaked down Rome’s spine,” she read aloud, “as he bent over Miss Sarah Smith. His gut clenched at the sight of her swollen, discolored temple. What kind of a man buffaloed a woman? A coldhearted pissant, that’s what. She’d refused to hand over her reticule when threatened at gunpoint. That called for admiration, not a damned clubbing.”

Assorted grunts and titters caused her to falter. Maybe she should have glossed over the vulgarities. Then again, Wilde had used those specific words to emphasize Rome’s anger. Anyone who knew Rome knew his predilection for swearing. In the upcoming showdown with Four-fingered Angus, Wilde had peppered dialogue with
son of a bitch
and
bastard.
Truth told she’d overheard Paris’s brothers say worse. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. She resisted the urge to sleeve it away. Purposely refrained from making eye contact with anyone in the audience, especially Mr. Pinkerton. A professional scribe. A gentle man.

“Go on, Emily,” Cole urged. “I, for one, am eager to hear the outcome.”

Was this part of his plan to win her favor? A public display of approval and support? She couldn’t get a bead on him either. Clearly, she was inept where men were concerned. Her stomach contracted and her voice warbled as she picked up where she’d left off. “Swearing Four-fingered Angus to the devil, Rome brushed tendrils of fine coal-black hair from the woman’s slack features. Dead to the world she was, so the Wells Fargo detective bestowed upon her the kiss of life. He pressed his mouth to hers and . . . and . . .”

She swallowed, tugged at the collar of her shirt. Gracious, the room was warm.

Mary Lee sniggered.

“Grow up, Mary Lee,” Miss Frisbie whispered. “Keep going, Emily. You’re doing fine.”

She told herself to rally. She so desperately wanted to be the new Emily. Outspoken and fearless. Mary Lee deserved a pop on her powdered nose or, at the very least, a lecture on compassion. The woman was a bitter menace. Emily knew she could shut her up, by telling everyone she’d seen the woman kissing a ranch-hand down by the stream last week. But Emily didn’t have it in her to humiliate another human being. Mary Lee’s husband and father would suffer as well. She just couldn’t do it.

Squashing down her discomfort, she plowed on. She choked out one more line before reverting to the old Emily. She stared down at the print, at the romantic scene, hopelessly tongue-tied. How could she not say the words? She knew them by heart.

Mary Lee sniggered. “Prude.”

“Hussy,” Miss Frisbie rallied in Emily’s defense.

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. “Ladies, please.”

Someone coughed into their hand. Wooden chairs creaked with fidgeting bodies.

Then silence prevailed as the audience waited for her to continue with the story. Mr. Biggins, the stuffy cobbler. Sheriff McDonald’s pious wife. Mary Lee, the uncharitable hussy. She imagined them, along with a scattered intolerant few, scooting to the edges of their seats, making mental wagers as to whether she could get through
Showdown at Sintown
without succumbing to the vapors or a babbling episode.

Gaze riveted on the dime novel, Emily’s skin burned. The wings of a thousand butterflies ravaged her stomach. It’s not that she was embarrassed by the scene. She believed in the passion behind the words. Trouble was folks expected her to behave in a certain manner. Like a preacher’s daughter. A puritan. A
prude.
If they only knew. Well, actually someone did know. Her
Savior.

Now why did she have to go and think of that wretched soul? Everything inside of her seized. Her vision blurred and her hearing buzzed. She heard voices but couldn’t distinguish words. She stared at page three, paralyzed.

“Pardon me.”

The roaring in her ears grew louder.

“Excuse the interruption, but . . .”

Mr. Pinkerton’s accented voice rose above the din, breaking Emily’s trance. She glanced up just as he started toward her and went down hard, face first, with an undignified yelp.

Though the membership turned, not a soul offered assistance. They probably figured the stranger would get up and dust himself off, only he didn’t. Concerned, Emily passed the dime novel to Miss Frisbie and rushed forward. She dropped to her knees and touched his shoulder. “Mr. Pinkerton. Are you all right?” When he didn’t answer, she nabbed his arm and tried to flip him over. Mercy. For a soft-spoken, sweet-smelling man, he certainly was solid. She could feel sculptured muscles beneath his jacket sleeve, and couldn’t help but wonder how he’d come to be so fit. One didn’t develop rock-hard biceps from pushing a pen or pencil across paper or solving crimes from an armchair.

“Out cold,” Mr. Biggins declared as he stooped and helped to turn Mr. Pinkerton onto his back.

“Must’ve hit his noggin hard.” Miss Frisbie leaned over Emily’s shoulder. “Maybe I should fetch Doc Kellogg.”

By now the whole membership had huddled.

“Give him a sec,” Mr. Thompson said, shooing everyone back. “Give him some air.”

“Sure does smell pretty,” the senior librarian noted as Emily readjusted the man’s specs. Knocked askew in the fall, it was a wonder the lenses hadn’t cracked.

“Looks pretty, too,” Mr. Biggins said, hands on hips. He looked over at Cole. “Don’t know what you got so riled for. This Nancy boy doesn’t look like much of a threat.”

“His name is Phineas Pinkerton,” Emily grit out. “He’s a poet in search of inspiration.” A half-truth, but better than the whole truth. She couldn’t reveal why he’d really come to Heaven.

Several people repeated the word
poet
and chuckled.

Their intolerance for anyone who marched to a different beat struck her anew and with a vengeance that had her grinding her teeth. She tapped the scribe’s clean shaven cheeks in hopes of reviving him. The longer he was out, the more she worried he’d suffered serious harm.

Bones popped and creaked when Mr. Thompson hunkered down for a closer look. “A poet. Guess that would explain his prissy clothes and delicate constitution.”

Blood burning, she locked gazes with the proprietor of the general store. An essentially good man, or at least she’d thought until this moment. “Mr. Pinkerton doesn’t seem to be coming around, Mr. Thompson. Miss Frisbie’s right. We should fetch Doc.”

Duly contrite, he nodded and rose with another series of snaps and creaks. “Cole, would you mind? You move a mite quicker than me.”

Cole spared Emily a look that caused her stomach to flutter . . . and not in a good way. “I’ll be right back.”