The Man from Stone Creek (18 page)

Her eyes burned and her throat tightened. “Next,” she heard herself say, “you'll want to teach him to shoot.”

“Terran's growing up, Maddie. Let him be a man.”

She turned away, busied herself putting away knives and forks and spoons. “I'd like to see him get that far,” she said. “By my reckoning, learning to use a gun won't help his chances.”

Sam laid his hands on her shoulders, gently turned her to face him. “Don't hold the boy too tightly,” he told her with the tender pragmatism that made him rescue Bird, buy eggs from Hittie Perkins, take in the Donagher pup and God only knew what else. “He'll run, first chance, if you do.”

Maddie wanted to pull away, but she couldn't seem to work up the will to follow through with it.

Sam tilted his head to one side and his mouth came within a hairbreadth of touching hers. Then he sighed and stepped back.

It was as if Abigail's shadow had passed between them. Maddie figured she shouldn't have been disappointed, but she was. Now she'd wonder, for the rest of her days, what it would have been like to be kissed by Sam O'Ballivan.

“School in the morning,” he said. “I'll say good-night, and thank you kindly for one of the best meals I can remember.”

Why did she want to cry?

Was it because there had been a funeral that day? Because there was a sad, lost little boy upstairs with Terran, right that very minute, with his eldest brother dead and his father in jail for doing murder? Was it because Bird's folks didn't want her, and Charlie Wilcox's poor horse had to stand out in front of the Rattlesnake Saloon, all day, every day, swatting at flies with his skimpy tail?

She shook her head slightly, flinging off the questions. The answer to each and every one of them was yes, and yet the sense of sadness and loss she felt went a lot deeper. It flowed beneath her heart like an underground river.

Sam hesitated, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “It's been a hell of a day,” he said. “Get some sleep, Maddie. The world will go right on turning without your helping it along.”

Maddie opened her mouth, closed it again.

Sam O'Ballivan crossed to the door, took his hat from Warren's peg and paused on the threshold to put it on.

She waited, expecting something, though she couldn't think for the life of her what it was.

He nodded and then he was gone.

Maddie stood rooted in front of the sink, staring at the closed door. At some length, she went to turn the lock.

 

A
LONE IN HIS ROOM
behind the schoolhouse, except for the pup, who was curled up on the bed bold as you please, Sam remembered Abigail's letter. Took it out of his vest pocket, broke the wax seal on the envelope and lifted the flap.

There were at least six pages, and Sam flapped them back and forth a little, trying to dispel some of the rosewater smell.

“This is a hell of a situation,” he told the dog.

Neptune spared him a pitying look and went back to sleep.

Sam laid the pages on the table, walked away from them, went back. He and Abigail had a deal. It wasn't her doing that he'd met up with Maddie Chancelor, and his thoughts had snagged on her like fleece on a cactus thistle.

He forced himself to read the letter.

“My Dearest Sam,” it began.

He sank into a chair at the table.

Sam stopped reading. Panic enlarged his throat, and if he'd been wearing a collar, he'd have unfastened it.

“Good God,” he said. “She's coming here.”

Neptune opened one eye. Evidently he didn't grasp the gravity of the situation, though he did make a low growling sound that might have been sympathy.

Sam bolted out of his chair to pace and curse.

Once, he even reached for his coat, planning to head right over to the telegraph office, get that sneaky little operator by the throat and make him send off a wire, telling Abigail, in no uncertain terms, not to come.

Problem was, if her letter was to be believed, and Abigail had never told a lie in her life, she could arrive on next Wednesday's stagecoach.

Damn it all to hell.

He stopped, rubbed the back of his neck. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to send Abigail straight back up north, where she belonged. She'd be put out by that reception, for a certainty, after spending a full week bouncing over dusty roads in a stagecoach, but there was nothing for it. She had cousins up near Phoenix. She could bide a while with them, take some of the strain out of a long trip made for nothing.

“
Damn
it, Abigail,” he said.

Neptune raised the other eyelid.

Sam pictured himself meeting the coach in front of the mercantile, come Wednesday. He even imagined up a fistful of wildflowers, to make up a little for the return ticket he'd be holding in his other hand.

What he couldn't get clear in his mind was Abigail's face, and that took him aback. He'd known her since he was a boy, not much bigger than Terran and Ben.

How could he have forgotten what she looked like?

I
N SMALL TOWNS
like Haven, death come in threes, clearly delineated because everybody knows everybody else, and with Garrett Donagher laid to rest and the shock of Mungo's confession subsiding, folks were uneasy. They began to murmur that a new round had begun.

Maddie heard the grim speculations, since the mercantile was the place where people congregated to exchange theories and gossip, but she was too distracted to give the matter any real credence. She had a business to look after, as well as an extra and very troubled youngster, and the weather had turned unseasonably warm, even for the southerly part of the Territory. The grass was dry, and everybody worried about wildfires.

Terran mentioned the swimming lessons Sam had promised him first thing every morning, last thing every night, and whenever he got the opportunity in between.

On Wednesday afternoon, with the stagecoach due in any minute and her young brother hectoring to go down to the river with a fishing pole, a drifter left the front door ajar, and flies bumbled in to buzz around the dry goods, bounce off the lid of the pickle barrel and whir at Maddie's ears. There was a strange, tremulous weight in the air—
when would it rain?—
and then Banker James put in an unexpected appearance.

She'd known
something
was about to happen. Well, here it was.

“Afternoon, Maddie,” he said. The store was empty, except for two of Oralee Pringle's “girls” huddled in a far corner of the room and poring over a catalog, while she perched at the top of a ladder, dusting the tins of peas, green beans, corned beef and peaches that most people put up at home, during the harvest and at butchering time. She saved tables and lower shelves for things that sold better, staples like flour, sugar and salt, rope and nails, boots and cigars and dime novels.

Maddie made sure she wouldn't catch a foot in the hem of her dress and climbed down with careful dignity. “I'll have the books ready for examination on the first of the month,” she said. “That's our regular day—”

Mr. James put up a pale and uncalloused hand. “I'm sure they're in good order,” he said with unusual kindness. “They always are.”

Maddie's heart, already skittering, lurched. She set aside the feather duster and wrung her hands once before she caught herself. With men like Elias James, one did not show weakness. “Then you must be expecting a letter.” She glanced at the clock. “The stage should come in pretty soon.”

James allowed himself a very slight, unnerving smile. “I've come about the store,” he said.

Maddie's knees wobbled. She'd saved a reasonable sum of money, since she'd been hired to run the mercantile, but it wouldn't last long if she and Terran had to start over in a new place. Food and lodgings would gobble it up in no time, and then what would she do? This job had literally been a godsend, but such positions were rare, especially for a woman.

“Mrs. Donagher wishes to sell the establishment,” Banker James announced, his gaze narrowed and speculative. “With Mungo in jail, and those two grown boys of his nowhere to be found, she's getting nervous. Wants an income, over and above what the ranch brings in. And, of course, she needs to hire a lawyer for her husband.”

“But the store
provides
an income,” Maddie said, trying not to look fretful and failing miserably. Dear God. It had been bad enough, being at Mungo's mercy. Being at Undine's would be beyond bearing.

James approached the counter, lifted the lid off a crock full of hard-boiled eggs and helped himself to one. “Mrs. Donagher and I have a proposition for you,” he said, picking up the saltshaker and sprinkling liberally before taking a thoughtful bite. He made Maddie wait while he nibbled, every nerve in her body trilling with suspense.

To keep from going mad with tension, she went behind the counter, took up a pencil stub, and wrote, “E. James. One egg. 2 cents” on a scrap of paper.

“Mrs. Donagher would, of course, prefer a cash settlement, rather than a mortgage,” the banker went on presently. He had the advantage, and he intended to press it.

Maddie felt heat rise under the high, prim collar of her second-best calico dress. “That's quite impossible,” she said evenly. Mentally she was already packing her and Terran's personal belongings, such as they were, loading them into the battered wagon they had come to Haven in nearly six years before. Wondering if her decrepit horses could pull the rig even as far as Tucson without collapsing from old age.

“As a woman,” James went on, after finishing the egg and licking the remaining salt off his fat fingers, “you would have a hard time securing a proper mortgage, of course.”

Maddie seethed inwardly. What he said was regrettably true. Old Charlie Wilcox, who did odd jobs to support his drinking habit, could have borrowed against his signature. “I am aware of that,” she answered.

“However,” the banker went on, dragging the conversation out and clearly relishing Maddie's discomfort, “Mrs. Donagher is also very concerned for her stepson's welfare. Ben has been staying with you, as I understand it.”

Everybody in town knew she was looking after Ben. Maddie bit down on her lower lip to forestall a rush of imprudent words. She nodded.

“If you'd be willing to serve as the boy's guardian until things settle down, Mrs. Donagher is prepared to offer you a very generous allowance toward the purchase price. The net cost to you would be fifteen hundred dollars.”

Fifteen hundred dollars!
It was a fortune. After more than half a decade of scraping by and making do, Maddie hadn't a tenth of that tucked away.

“I don't have that much,” Maddie said. “And I can't raise it.”

Mr. James sighed. “Then I guess I will have to place an advertisement in the Tucson
Gazette.
You may have a few months before we find a buyer.” With that, he turned, headed for the door.

Maddie stopped him. “Mr. James,” she said.

He paused, looked back at her, an avaricious glint flashing in his eyes. “Yes?”

“That will be two cents.”

“Two cents?”

“For the egg.”

He froze, and for a moment Maddie thought he was going to send her down the road right then, for insolence. He had the power, since he managed Mungo's affairs, to do just that. Instead, though, he reached into the pocket of his vest, walked past Maddie to the counter, where the register stood, and slapped down two gleaming copper pennies.

Without another word, he crossed back to the door, opened it and went out, closing it smartly behind him.

Maddie stared after him, watched as he walked by the front window.

In the distance she heard the familiar rumble of the Wednesday afternoon stagecoach, normally a signal to get ready for a rush of folks wanting to collect their mail or send things out last-minute, but Maddie didn't move. She
couldn't
move.

“Miss?”

The voice startled Maddie out of her stupor. She blinked and turned to see the dance hall girls standing close by, one of them holding the catalog they'd been so absorbed in during the interview with Banker James, with her finger marking a place.

“We want to order this frock on page sixty-three,” the woman said shyly. “We mean to share it. Can we pay when it comes in?”

Maddie sighed. “Yes,” she said, forcing herself to focus on the printed drawing they showed her. She noted the item number, size and price.

“Blue gingham,” the quiet one said eagerly.

Maddie nodded, wondering where these two planned to wear a jointly owned blue gingham frock ordered all the way from Chicago, and promptly deciding that it wasn't her business. By the time it arrived, she'd probably be gone.

The bell over the door jingled and Maddie glanced in that direction. The stage was still a ways off, though by the racket it was making, it was getting closer.

Sam O'Ballivan loomed just that side of the threshold, and he looked agitated, tugging at his shirt collar with one finger. “I need a stagecoach ticket,” he blurted. “And I need it fast.”

Maddie had just lost everything she'd spent six long, hard years building, and she was testy over it. Besides, she hadn't seen Mr. O'Ballivan, except from a distance, when he stopped in front of the Rattlesnake Saloon to pat Charlie Wilcox's horse, since he'd come to supper a week ago, after Garrett Donagher's funeral.

“As you can see,” she said, indicating Oralee's girls with a nod of her head, “I am presently occupied.”

“This is an emergency,” Sam insisted, and remembered to take off his hat.

“It's all right,” one of the young women said. “We've got to get back to the Rattlesnake anyhow.”

Maddie suppressed a sigh. Watched as the pair dashed out of the store, pausing to admire Sam as they went by him. The door slammed on their giggles.

“I need that ticket,” Sam repeated.

Maddie moved behind the counter, in a swish of skirts, and got out her ticket book. “I'm not surprised that you're leaving,” she said. “But I did think you'd take your horse.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Sam said, watching that ticket book as though it meant admission to heaven and he would be turned away without it.

Maddie was too frazzled to be relieved, though something stirred in her heart at his words, muffled and sweet. She tapped the end of the pencil impatiently on the countertop. “What is the destination, please?”

“Flagstaff.” He shoved a hand through his hair, raising his voice a little to be heard over the din of the rapidly approaching team and coach. “One way,” he added anxiously.

“Who is traveling?” That information wasn't actually required; Maddie just wanted to know, so she gave the question a businesslike tone.

A muscle bunched in Sam's jaw. “Abigail Blackstone,” he said. “She may want to stop off at Phoenix on the way.”

Maddie didn't dare meet his eyes; she was afraid he might see curious interest there, along with a glimmer of despicable and totally unfounded exultation. She reached for her official stamp and struck the ticket hard in three places. “Two dollars,” she said.

Sam thrust the money at her as if it was about to catch fire in his hand. “Damn!” he swore.

Maddie started. “Is something wrong?”

“I need flowers,” he told her, and dashed right through the curtain leading to her private kitchen and the back door beyond it.

Glad her prize peonies weren't in bloom, Maddie shook her head, put the two dollars into a cigar box reserved for the purpose, and prepared herself for the arrival of the weekly mail.

And Miss Abigail Blackstone. Who would, it seemed, not be staying long.

Maddie told herself the pleasure she took in that knowledge was downright unchristian, but it didn't help.

The stagecoach rolled up out front, in a billowing rise of dust, and Maddie straightened her hair, smoothed her skirts. She was grateful for Miss Blackstone's arrival, if only because it gave her something to think about besides Undine's decision to sell the mercantile out from under her.

She saw Sam pass the window, a bunch of hastily gathered weeds fairly crushed in one hand.

Curiosity drew her outside. She was usually too busy to greet the stage, and if anyone took notice and inquired, she would simply say she was eager to get the mail sorted.

Nobody noticed her presence at all, as it happened, let alone asked why she was there.

Sam opened the coach door before the driver could even get down from the box, and Maddie quelled the twinge she felt at that. He might be planning to send Miss Blackstone straight back to the high country, but he was eager to set eyes on her, too.

Silently lamenting the lingering flurry of dust that would soil her dress and settle in her hair, Maddie waited stalwartly, like Charlie Wilcox's horse.

Abigail Blackstone, dark-haired and lovely in a lavender traveling suit, unrumpled even after her long journey, flung herself straight into Sam O'Ballivan's arms.

Maddie's heart slipped down her rigid spine.

Abigail planted a smacking kiss on Sam's forehead. “You
are
glad to see me!” she crowed. “Papa said you'd be grumpy as a bear, but here you are, and you brought flowers!”

Weeds,
Maddie thought uncharitably. A tug at her sleeve startled her.

She looked down into Violet Perkins's upturned face. The child was wearing the little muslin dress Sam had paid for; Maddie had told her it was a sample a salesman had left behind, way last spring. “Miss Oralee Pringle says to come,” Violet said. “Soon as you can. She gave me a whole nickel to bring you word!” She held up the coin to prove the miracle. “See?”

Maddie smiled, patted the child's thin little shoulder. “Now what would Miss Oralee Pringle want with me?” she asked, glad of the distraction.

“She just said come see her, and be quick about it.” Violet's forehead furrowed with thought. “I reckon I'd better go and ask Ma what to do with this nickel,” she said, and scampered away.