The Accidental Lawman (6 page)

Her back was straight, unbowed. She wore her courage as easily as she donned her clothes. She was a product of the rolling plains and prairie, the harsh winters, the rain-soaked springs, the unbearably hot summers.

She would make a perfect character for his novel.

The woman scooped the little boy onto her hip, stepped off the porch and headed toward the buggy. Hank tugged on the reins. When they stopped, Amelia hopped out before he set the brake.

The older woman embraced her, but only for a second. Amelia took the time to ruffle the toddler’s hair. She spoke to him so softly that Hank couldn’t hear what she said. The little boy laughed and then Amelia was all business again.

It was a touching scene. One he would remember—for the sake of the novel—he told himself. Nothing more.

Amelia was headed toward the house when, as an afterthought, she called back, “Hattie, this is Hank Larson. He’s Glory’s new sheriff. Thank you for the ride, Mr. Larson. I’m sure the Ellenbergs will see that I get home.”

He watched her hike up her skirt, saw a flash of petticoat around the high tops of her black shoes as she dashed inside. He hadn’t thought about merely dropping her off and leaving. He hadn’t thought past delivering her here and questioning her along the way.

Now there was more he wanted to ask. More he needed to know. He’d like to believe she’d had no part in the robbery, that mere circumstance was how she ended up in the bank two days ago. Her talk of her belief in God might be genuine, or it might only be a cover.

Could Amelia be living an outwardly exemplary life, but in reality be a member of a roughshod gang of outlaws?

He reminded himself not to let his writer’s imagination run away with him.

“I’m Hattie Ellenberg.” The woman had remained near the buggy. She added, “This is my grandson, Orson Wolf Ellenberg.”

The love, the joy she took in introducing her grandson shone on her face. For a heartbeat, she appeared years younger. He could see she had once been a fine-looking young woman.

He had a thousand and one questions for her. How did she come to be here living in a house of rough-hewn logs in the middle of the Texas plains? How long had she been here? Where was she from?

He’d been so focused on her face, on her expression, that it was another moment before he noticed that a puckered scar cut a wide swath across her head along her hairline. The scar set her hairline back a good three inches.

“Scalping,” she said matter-of-factly. Obviously she’d caught him staring.

“Pardon me?” He thought she’d said
scalping
.

“I was nearly scalped. Luckily I lived to see my son
married and my grandbaby here. With God’s blessings I’ll be holding his little brother or sister in my arms by nightfall.”

“Nearly
scalped?
” Hank tried not to stare.

“By Comanche. I used to try to hide the scar, but a couple years ago my daughter-in-law convinced me it was a badge of honor and a sign of bravery. Now I only cover it up when we go into town. Puts folks at ease.”

“I…” Hank rarely found himself speechless. Hattie Ellenberg was definitely someone he had to talk to at length.

“How about we go set on the porch and get out of the sun? I’ve got some coffee on.” She started toward the house.

Amelia had dismissed him. There was no reason for him to wait, but he was intrigued by Hattie and unwilling to leave yet.

“Coffee sounds fine, but I don’t want to take up much of your time, ma’am. Surely you’ve got your hands full. I’ll just have one cup and be on my way.” He purposely avoided looking at the toddler. What sane man intentionally poured salt in open wounds?

“Nonsense.” Hattie motioned him to follow her inside. “Set a spell.”

At just that moment, a tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired man strode into the kitchen. There was urgency in his tone and movements. He barely glanced at Hank.

“Ma, Amelia needs you.” His worry was more than evident.

“What is it, Joe?”

“Amelia didn’t say, but something’s not right.” Joe Ellenberg’s gaze touched on things around the room. Hank knew the man wasn’t seeing anything, that he was on the verge of panic.

“Amelia knows what she’s doing. Don’t you worry.”
Hattie handed Joe the boy, Orson. Then she flew over to the cupboard, grabbed a mug, filled a cup of coffee for Hank and set it on the table in the middle of the room. “You two set and jaw and I’ll see what Amelia needs. Keep that water boiling.”

Joe sat in complete silence. Hank stood by awkwardly, then walked over to the other side of the table and sat down. The rancher seemed completely unaware of the child in his arms. The little boy picked at a button on Ellenberg’s shirt.

“I’m Hank Larson,” Hank introduced himself. He added, “I drove Amelia out.” He lifted the coffee mug to his lips. It was too hot to drink. “Her horse needs a new shoe.”

“Thanks. Much obliged.” Joe jiggled his knee and the child perched there laughed.

“Amelia threw you out?” Hank didn’t try to disguise his bitterness.

Joe shook his head no. “Rebekah asked for Ma. Amelia doesn’t believe in keeping fathers away from the birthing.”

“You don’t say.” Hank had never heard of such a thing and said so.

“It was her father’s way, I guess. Some folks disagree with the notion, but Amelia’s not one to run from a good head butting. Rebekah likes having me there.”

If that were the case, Hank wondered how long Joe would sit and jaw.

Just as Hank lifted the mug again, a horrific scream cut the air. His own hands began trembling. When hot coffee splashed on the skin between his thumb and forefinger, he quickly set the cup down and willed himself not to think. Not to remember.

“I’ve got to go,” Hank mumbled.

Joe Ellenberg’s face went ashen. “Last time it was
easier.” He ran his hand over his son’s dark hair, smoothing it against the boy’s crown. “Didn’t take more than a couple hours.”

Hank was mute. His Tricia had suffered for what seemed like days.

“Amelia’s here. She’ll know what to do,” Joe reassured himself aloud.

For this family’s sake, Hank hoped it was true. He sincerely hoped Amelia was as skilled and confident as she had tried to lead him to believe. He still doubted she was as knowledgeable as any male physician.

Hank pushed out of the chair. He had to get away from this house, away from the nightmares the birthing conjured. He would head back to town without Miss Amelia Hawthorne and save his questions for another day.

Just then, another long, terrible scream rent the air and Joe Ellenberg stood so abruptly little Orson almost rolled off his knee and onto the floor. Joe caught him in time, hauled him up.

“I’m going back in.” Joe headed for the door, turned around and shoved the toddler at Hank.

There was nothing to do but hang on as Ellenberg rushed out of the kitchen. Hank held Orson at arm’s length and looked him over. The boy gurgled, laughed and waved his arms. He was chubby, pink cheeked and strong. Hank had to tighten his grip to keep the boy from squirming out of his hold.

Hank sat down heavily and moved the steaming cup of coffee beyond the child’s reach. As the boy made himself comfortable on his lap, an ache the size of a boulder grew in Hank’s heart.

His son would have been about this child’s age. Is this how it would feel to hold his own flesh and blood on his
lap? To feel the touch of his little hands as they explored the cuff of his sleeve? To hear his son babble nonsense noises and giggle?

By now, would he have been taking this sweet baby smell for granted?

If it wasn’t for Miss Amelia Hawthorne, Hank could have remained numb to the pain searing his heart like a hot iron. He wouldn’t have been forced to face all he had lost, to touch and feel all the joy he would never know.

And if it wasn’t for
her,
he probably wouldn’t be sheriff of Glory, Texas, either.

He had to get out of this house. Now.

U
pon entering the bedroom Rebekah shared with her husband, Amelia found the young woman lying on a pallet on the floor. Rebekah Ellenberg insisted on giving birth as she’d seen Comanche women do during her years in captivity. At least Hattie had successfully talked the young woman out of delivering her child on the ground outside.

Amelia had known the Ellenbergs for years. She’d nursed Hattie back to health after a Comanche attack on the Rocking e Ranch. She knew all the heartbreak Joe and Hattie had suffered. But time and prayer heals all wounds and when Rebekah came into their lives, Joe found his faith again.

Amelia prayed that one day, her brother Evan might find the peace of mind and of heart that Joe had finally found.

She knelt on the floor beside Rebekah and comforted the young woman in the last stages of delivery. Little Orson Wolf, named after his grandfathers, had come so swiftly Amelia had barely arrived in time to usher him into the world. But it appeared his sibling was not going to follow his lead.

Rebekah was in great pain, clinging to Joe’s hand, pushing with all her might but nothing was happening. Afraid this might be a breech birth, Amelia sent Joe after Hattie and did a quick examination. The baby was well positioned, so Amelia suggested Rebekah scream as loud and long as she wanted. A few moments later, the child began to move.

Hattie knelt on the opposite side of the pallet and supported Rebekah’s back. Amelia encouraged the young mother to push. The birth process was too far along for Amelia to give Rebekah a concoction of sweet nitre and syrup of saffron, or laudanum, or acetate of morphia.

The time for rest was over. There was nothing to do at this stage but encourage her to try to push her baby into the world.

When Rebekah screamed again, Joe came running. His dark eyes were shadowed with worry. Sweat beaded his brow.

“Where’s Orson?” Hattie was about to leave, but Rebekah clung to her hand with a strength that belied her pain.

“I handed him to the gent that drove Amelia out here. I forget his name.” Joe looked lost as he stared at his wife. As he smoothed back her hair, his hand shook. He pressed a wet towel against Rebekah’s brow.

As if he sensed her gaze, Joe’s eyes found Amelia’s. She forced a smile.

“This isn’t unusual, Joe. It’s just not what you all expected after Orson’s easy arrival. You let her hang on to you and everything will be fine.”

“Dear God,” she whispered. “Let this child come into the world to love and serve You. Let Rebekah and Joe
continue to live out their lives as witness to Your goodness and the blessings You bestow upon us.”

Joe and Hattie added, “Amen.”

Rebekah screamed. And pushed. And screamed.

Twenty minutes later, Orson Wolf’s sister entered the world with a lusty cry.

Amelia had two equal lengths of string ready. She tied off and cut the cord and handed the infant to Hattie, who carried her over to a wash table where a bowl of warm water waited. Rebekah’s gaze followed the woman’s every move until her mother-in-law brought the baby back and laid her in Rebekah’s waiting arms.

As Joe and Rebekah stared in wonder at their perfect little girl, Amelia monitored Rebekah, expecting the womb to contract and expel the afterbirth. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth, slipped her father’s gold watch out of the pouch pocket dangling at her waist and checked the time.

Ten minutes later, when nothing had happened, she lay her hand on Rebekah’s abdomen, employing both friction and pressure to stimulate the contraction of the womb.

She glanced up and found Hattie watching her closely. The woman’s eyes conveyed unspoken concern. Amelia gave a slight shake of her head. Nothing to worry about yet. She waited five more minutes. Time was of the essence now.

Rebekah appeared to be growing weaker. She lay back and closed her eyes. Joe and Hattie’s expressions reflected their anxiety, but they didn’t say anything. They watched Amelia expectantly.

As if she could hear her father voicing directions in her ear, she took the end of the umbilical cord in her left hand and used it to guide her right hand slowly upward until she could cup the placenta in her hand.

Once it was brought away from Rebekah, Amelia bundled the rags and washed her hands. She directed Hattie to fashion a broad binder or girth around Rebekah’s body and tie it into place. This done, Amelia waited for the womb to contract on its own and was finally rewarded.

Not until she was certain Rebekah was in good health did she breathe a sigh of relief and whisper a prayer of thanks.

There was nothing left to be done. Unlike other mothers who relished a lying-in period of at least four days, Rebekah would be on her feet within the hour. This, she told Amelia, was the Comanche way. She had seen women give birth and within the hour disassemble a tipi, pack up their worldly possessions and be on the move.

Amelia left Joe and Rebekah to coo over their little girl and followed Hattie outside to dispose of the soiled rags. Then the women made their way along the dogtrot to the smaller log structure that housed the kitchen.

Amelia had all but forgotten Hank was there. The minute she laid eyes on him, she reminded herself not to let down her guard.

He was seated on a chair drawn up to the kitchen table. Orson Wolf was awake but his eyelids had grown heavy. His chubby cheek was pressed against Hank’s vest, his fingers curled around a handful of Hank’s shirtsleeve. The scene would have warmed the coldest heart if Hank’s expression hadn’t been as hard as stone.

Hattie hurried across the kitchen and gingerly lifted Orson to her shoulder without waking him.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Larson,” she said. “We surely didn’t mean to dump this child on you.” Hattie patted Orson’s bottom and instantly frowned. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” Hank shook his head and stared at the damp spot on the thigh of his wool trousers.

As Hattie hurried Orson away, Amelia covered a smile that threatened to bloom—until Hank’s eyes met hers and she saw a fathoms-deep bleakness. It gave her the urge to comfort him, to lighten his burden somehow.

My wife and child died at the hands of an incompetent midwife.

She watched him swallow, heard him clear his throat.

He looked away. “Mrs. Ellenberg. Is she…”

Again, Amelia remembered Hank’s own words.
I didn’t get to tell her goodbye
.

“She’s fine,” she told him. “The baby, too. A healthy little girl named Melody Rain.”

“Orson
Wolf
and Melody
Rain?
”

“Orson was Joe’s father’s name. Running Wolf was Rebekah’s father’s. Melody was Joe’s sister’s name. Gentle Rain was Rebekah’s mother’s.”

Curiosity immediately replaced the sadness in Hank Larson’s eyes.

“Rebekah is an Indian?”

“No, but Rebekah was raised by Comanche. She was a captive most of her life. But that’s another story.”

“One I’d love to hear someday,” he said.

Suddenly exhausted, Amelia settled on a nearby chair. “I’m sorry to have taken up your day like this. I know you have work to do.”

He got up and walked toward the dry sink, opened a cupboard and took down a coffee mug. She watched as he poured a cup of coffee and brought it to her without her having to ask.

“I’m not the happiest man alive right now, but I’m glad I could be of help.”

She took a sip of the strong, black coffee. For a moment he appeared so thoughtful, she thought he was going to apologize for doubting her skill.

Instead he said, “If you plan on leaving soon, I’ll wait a few minutes longer. You may as well ride back to town with me.”

She knew Joe Ellenberg had plenty to do without worrying about how she was going to get back to Glory. He needn’t spare a man to drive her back now that Hank was still here and offering. She stared down at her coffee cup before looking up at Hank’s gaze again.

“If you’re going to continue to badger me about Evan, I’ll have to decline. I truly don’t know where my brother was the morning of the robbery.”

Hank suspected Amelia might not know exactly where her brother was the morning of the holdup, but he had the feeling she may have an inkling.

He also knew the truth often had a way of revealing itself on its own. “I won’t badger you,” he promised.

She looked relieved but completely exhausted. “Then I accept.”

With a glimmer of a smile, her entire countenance changed. Arrested by the hint of a sparkle in her green eyes, he found himself wondering why such a well-spoken, dedicated young woman had never married.

Perhaps it was that dedication to her work that got in the way.

“I insist you let me help you make up lost time,” she said. “When I walked down Main Street yesterday I happened to notice your storefront window was too filthy to see through. I’d be happy to bring over some vinegar and clean it for you. Do you have a ladder?”

“That’s not necessary.” He found himself picturing what she might look like perched atop a ladder. “But if you insist—”

“I surely do. I insist.”

She was as good as her word.

The next day, as Hank was downstairs in his combination newspaper publishing house, print shop and sheriff’s office assembling his Hoe revolving press, he heard determined footsteps outside the front door. He looked up in time to see Amelia come breezing in carrying a bucket and a crock of vinegar. She’d tucked a bundle of rags under her arm and had a long, navy-blue work apron tied over her dress.

The woman was ready for business. He wished he’d made as much progress.

“So, Mr. Larson,” she began, “I’m here to wash your window.” She surveyed the long narrow room and sniffed. “Could this lye smell be any stronger?”

“I’m hoping by the time I get some lamps in here and the windows are all open every day that it’ll air out.”

“My father always suspected there was an opium den upstairs.”

“That might explain the cloying smell of incense up there.” He was beginning to suspect he knew why the previous owner had been so anxious to sell the place.

“Do you have a ladder?” Amelia set down her bucket, rags and crock and folded her arms. “Where is your water pump?”

“Harrison Barker said I could use his ladder. The pump’s out back, but I’ll get the water for you—”

“Don’t bother,” she called out over her shoulder as she grabbed the bucket and bustled out the door. He watched
her long, rust-colored braid sway against her back, sighed as he looked at the press, and hurried out to borrow the ladder.

By noon she was still wiping down the wall around the window and waging a war on cobwebs. Pieces of the press were laid out around him and lined up across the top of his desk.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” she’d said when she first started. She hadn’t stopped talking since.

He still wasn’t much further along than he’d been the day before and if Amelia kept waylaying him, she was going to single-handedly sink his newspaper venture before he even got it off the ground.

“If I were you, I’d come up with another lead story. The robbery is old news.” She paused to scuttle down the ladder to rinse out her rag. She’d been trying to talk him out of covering the robbery for the past forty minutes. “Nobody will be interested in reading about that now.”

“It just happened three days ago. Everyone is still talking about it,” he assured her.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide for a moment before she looked away again. He found himself staring at the braid trailing down her back, knowing without even touching it that her hair would be as soft as silk.

He watched her climb back up the ladder.

Hank turned back to the press pieces and tried to ignore her. He took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. The lye and incense smells now mingled with the odor of vinegar.

Twenty minutes later, she was polishing away at the window glass, but Hank wasn’t doing much of anything except watching her. He reckoned that being so long without a woman’s company, he was bound to begin to
notice all the things he’d taken for granted when he was married; the turn of a woman’s ankle, the merest flash of a petticoat beneath the hem of a full skirt, the softness of cottons, flyaway wisps of fine hair that refused to be tamed by pins or combs.

Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, Hank forced himself to concentrate on the bolts and screws and nuts lined up like metal soldiers on his desk. He wondered about this fascination with her and reminded himself how very different Amelia Hawthorne was from Tricia.

Headstrong
and
determined
weren’t words he would have used to describe his late wife. Tricia was cultured, soft-spoken, genteel. Her hands were manicured, her hair always perfectly coiffed. She was never in the sun without a wide-brimmed hat or an umbrella. Not a single freckle marred her perfect ivory skin.

No, Tricia was nothing like Amelia Hawthorne. It was impossible to imagine that he’d ever take a second glance at a woman like Amelia.

After Tricia’s death, an old friend in Missouri tried to convince him that life goes on. He said that Hank would never forget Tricia, nor would he ever replace her in his heart, but Hank would surely find love again.

His friend said people’s hearts healed over time, just like wounded flesh. Scars were left behind but you eventually healed. Hank didn’t believe it.

Hank picked up a gear that worked the tumbler and found himself wandering closer to the ladder in search of a screwdriver. He shuffled through boxes of books, pausing to look over things in open crates—books he wouldn’t need until everything else was set up.

He was backing up with a box full of stationery in his arms when he accidentally bumped into the ladder. The
thing began to weave, and Amelia gasped and let go of the wet rag. Hank dropped the box, turned to grab the ladder and the rag fell on his face.

He had overestimated his steps and bashed his shin against the lower rungs. The rag slid off his face. Amelia let out a squeak and Hank glanced up as she came tumbling down.

He held out his arms and caught her before she hit the ground. She grabbed hold of his shirtfront with one arm and hooked the other around his shoulder.