Weeping Angel (45 page)

Wearing only his underdrawers, Frank walked stiffly through the debris. He headed for the counter to brew some coffee strong enough to grow fur on the pot. He bent to open the icebox. There wasn't anything inside besides beer, so he closed the door. He wasn't hungry anyway; his stomach was recuperating from Pap's fist and One-Eye Otis's poor victuals. He'd taken the girls over to the Chuckwagon for supper last night after he'd made sure they got settled into the Oak Tree hotel. Eugene Thistlerod had been reluctant to allow the ladies to stay in his establishment, but Frank had convinced him otherwise by paying the first month's bill up front.

As Frank set the enamel pot on the burner, he put the flat of his hand on his belly. He felt sick. And it wasn't just from the food and Pap's pummeling. He felt sick in the heart.

He turned and put his arms on the bar, resting his head on the tops of his hands. “Amelia . . .”

He missed her.

He missed waking up in her bed . . . her hair draped over his chest. He missed her smile . . . her laugh. He already missed her coming into the saloon.

He could understand why she was upset. He'd wanted to tell her about the boys but hadn't been able to before she'd overheard him arguing with Pap. And right after that, the girls had arrived. If he'd known he was going to be married to Amelia, he never would have sent for the dancers. Now it was too late. In Amelia's mind, he'd betrayed her like Jonas Pray. Except Frank had no intentions of running off. If only he could convince Amelia. But she didn't want to talk to him. He should have explained things to her on their wedding night, but he hadn't wanted to spoil anything. His silence was costing him big now.

Lifting his head, he gazed at the New American upright. He was out a wife, and he was out a friend. And he'd lost them both in one day.

None of the new girls could play, so there was a big problem with dancing when there wasn't any music to step lively to. However, they had enticed enough curiosity seekers with their presence to make the Moon Rock do a prosperous business for a Tuesday evening. But what would happen when their newness wore off and Lloyd's organ lured customers over? He hated to think a stack of pipes that needed a tonic dropped down them could sway customers from socializing with four hurdy-gurdy girls. He didn't like the idea of leaving the dancers high and dry.

Frank straightened, rubbing his throbbing jaw. He had to think clearly, but his mind wasn't working. He had a headache so big, it wouldn't fit in a corral. Pap had knocked him ass over teakettle. “Dammit,” he mumbled, “I should have hit him at least once.”

He ran his fingers through his hair while he turned to grab a clean cup. Frank walked to a chair and sat down with his hot cup. He took a sip, the thick coffee potent enough to inoculate an ox. While he nursed the
brew he thought. He could go to Amelia and try reasoning with her again. She'd had a night to think about everything. Maybe she'd be more forgiving. Maybe she wouldn't be. In any case, he could try.

“Frank?” Cobb peeked his face through the doors.

Frank dropped his chin to his chest. He wasn't in the mood for one of Cobb's beaver stories. Lifting his head, Frank said, “Yeah, Cobb. What is it?”

Cobb took Frank's greeting as a sign he could enter the saloon. He strode in on quiet moccasins, the fringe on his pants slapping against his outer thighs. His wild hair fell around his face, looking more bedraggled than ever. He plopped into a chair opposite Frank, his eyes wistful. “I've got a problem, Frank.”

“Isn't it a little too early in the morning to be finagling free beers off me, Cobb?”

“It ain't that.” Cobb combed his unruly beard with his fingers. “I did jist like you told me about the shirt.”

“Shirt?”

“You know, the shirt you give me the dollar and twenty-five cents to buy.”

“Yeah.” Though at the moment, he was sketchy as to why he'd told Cobb to buy a shirt.

“I dirtied it up real good and brought it to Miz Shelby. She looked surprised as a dawg encountering its first porcupine when she see'd me in her laundry store. She wasn't one for talking much, so I saved her the trouble. Told her all about that beaver den I found up near Yeller Creek. She don't like beavers much,” Cobb said with melancholy. “Anyway, she took the shirt to wash. When I got it after, it smelled purdy, jist like Miz Shelby herself. I kind of like the smell of soap, and—”

“Is there a point to this, Cobb?” Frank pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, sir. Remember that dollar and ninety-five cents you let me borrow last night?”

Looking over the tops of his knuckles, Frank frowned. “I told you I didn't want to know what you needed that money for.”

Cobb disregarded Frank's admonition. “I bought a thirty-pound pail of mixed candy from the mere.”

Frank brought his hand down. “Thirty pounds?”

“Yes, sir. I gave the candy to Miz Shelby this morning.” Cobb's expression grew forlorn. “She said she didn't have a sweet tooth. She weren't looking herself. Said she didn't sleep well last night, and for me not to bother her in her store no more.”

Frank guessed Emmaline Shelby must have heard the news about him and Amelia getting married.

“I was wondering what you think I ought to do now, Frank?” Cobb asked. “I don't know what move to make. You see, the thing of it is, I 'spect I'm in love with Miz Shelby.”

An edge of cynicism spilled into Frank's voice when he said, “Well, Cobb, I'm afraid you're asking the wrong person. You should be talking to someone who understands love. I sure as hell don't.”

*  *  *

“Miz Brody—”

“Please, Mr. Weatherwax,” Amelia broke in while standing on the threshold of her front door, “it isn't necessary to address me so formally.”

His hat scrunched in his hands, Cobb replied, “But I can't call you Miz Marshall no more 'cause you ain't Miz Marshall. You're Miz Brody now.”

“Just call me Amelia then.”

His gaze grew contemplative. “Only if you call me Cobb.”

“Very well.”

Cobb said nothing further.

Amelia stared at him, waiting for him to state his business. The initial shock of discovering him on her doorstep after his unending ringing of her bell was wearing off. In its stead, curiosity was getting the best
of her. Had Frank sent him over to speak with her? She shouldn't have concerned herself at all about Frank Brody. Thoughts of him should have been pushed to the back of her mind. Too bad she couldn't take her own advice.

She'd lain awake most of the night doing just what she was reprimanding herself for doing now. It would have been easy to shove Frank aside if she hadn't loved him. That was the hardest part. When Frank hadn't come home last night, she'd hated herself for worrying about him. She started watching for him from the bedroom window around two in the morning. By four, she knew he wasn't coming home.

What did she expect? She'd told him not to. But he'd said he would. A piece of her, that part of her heart that was still hanging on to her love for him, had hoped he would come home. That the whole horrible mess would go away and they would be happy again. Just as they'd been on their wedding night.

Amelia blinked back her tears, fighting not to cry again. She'd done enough of that, and she especially didn't want to in front of Cobb.

“Is there something you wanted?” she finally asked when he remained speechless.

“Ah, yes, Miz—I mean, Amelia, ma'am.”

“What is it?”

“I was hoping . . . that is . . . I was wondering . . .”

Amelia could swear he blushed, but wasn't altogether sure because of the hair covering his cheeks. “Would you like to come in, Cobb, and have a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Amelia let him in and showed him to the parlor. He stood in the middle of the room looking like an out-of-place bear amongst her delicate curios and finely upholstered furniture.

“Please sit down,” Amelia offered. “I'll get the coffee.”

“No need to, ma'am. I just had a cup with Frank.”

She froze. “Oh.” Her heartbeat picked up its pace. “Did he send you over here?”

Cobb's thick brows rose. “How did you know?”

Her knees weakened, and she lowered herself onto the edge of her pink tête-à-tête. “I . . . didn't. Not really. I . . . Forget I said anything.”

Cobb didn't sit, despite the fact she had. “You see, t'other day when you said you were in love, it stuck in my craw.”

“Well, things change.”

“You mean, you ain't in love no more?”

Amelia sighed. “I'd rather not discuss my
affaire du coeur.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Her fingertip traced the scroll-effect pattern on the divan. “I don't mean to be rude, but I have a . . . have a pie that I need to bake.”

“I won't keep you, but I was hoping . . . that is . . . well, you see . . . the thing of it is . . . I been doing like you and Frank said. I got the shirt and I got the candy, but I ain't having no luck with Miz Shelby and I was hoping . . . wondering . . . if you could oblige me and tell me what I'm doing wrong.”

Amelia thought a moment, not in the mood to play Cupid when her own love life needed a shot with an arrow. But seeing Cobb's hopeful expression made her think twice before refusing him. “Perhaps it's nothing that you're doing, Cobb. Perhaps it's your appearance that's putting her off. I know you for who you are. I find you . . . attractive because I know you. Reverend Thorpe says, ‘Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.' I'd quite agree in this instance.”

“What do you think I should do?”

Amelia tried to think of something resourceful to say, but her ingenuity was sorely taxed by her own crisis. She had three weeks to come up with a mortgage payment, and she had no more income. She
would never go to Frank and ask him for the money. She'd been half hoping the ring of the bell was her lady friends come to say they still believed in her and wanted their children to continue with their lessons on Dorothea's piano.

Early this morning, Amelia had had a heartfelt talk with Narcissa about the events of the past twenty-four hours. Narcissa had spoken in Frank's defense, which had surprised Amelia. Her friend related the conversation she'd had with Frank before the wedding, and Narcissa was fairly certain Frank cared very much for her. Be that as it may, their marriage was in a shambles, and Amelia had no bright ideas for the future. Narcissa had confirmed the ladies were not easily appeased by her new status as a missus. It didn't matter to them that she'd married Frank. They considered her a bad influence on their children and meant to keep them at arm's length.

Right now, Amelia was devastated by many things. But she'd always been able to count on the steadfastness of the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society. They'd deserted her, and she realized just how hypocritical they really were. With no one to turn to other than Narcissa, Amelia needed to focus on something besides Frank, the ladies, and her finances, or she would go crazy. Even if it was just for an hour, she had to look for the bright things in life.

She felt a spark of purpose flickering inside—slightly, then with more intensity. She considered Cobb Weatherwax a friend, and though Emmaline Shelby might not be a tried and true friend, there had been a time when they'd been civil to one another. There might come a day when Emmaline would thank her for sending Cobb her way.

“I think,” Amelia said at length, “that you should start by cutting your hair.”

Cobb's eyes went wide as supper plates. “Oh, no, ma'am. I couldn't do that.”

“Oh, come now.” Amelia was already on her feet. “I used to trim my aunt's hair, and I can trim my own. I'm certain I can cut yours, too.”

Cobb started edging toward the door. “Well, thank you Miz Brody—ah, Amelia ma'am, for the advice. I don't think I'll be taking it none . . . ah, no offense.”

She took him by the wrist. “Do you want to get Emmaline Shelby to notice you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then a change is in order. While we're at it, you can shave your beard and mustache.”

“No, no, no,” he stuttered. “I don't think you understand the relationship a man has with his facial hair.”

She disregarded his protest, beginning to get caught up in the idea. “I've never shaved a man before. But I can pare the skin off an apple in one long ribbon.”

“I don't want my beard peeled off in one long ribbon, Miz Brody!”

“Then you'll have to do the shaving yourself while I get my scissors.”

Before Cobb could object, she was hauling him up the stairs.

*  *  *

Frank let himself into the house without having to use his key. The foyer was bathed in patterns of color from the open transom window above the front door. Floorboards creaked under his weight as he entered the parlor. A breeze stirred the sheer curtains in the oriel, the glossy leaves on her spotted pink orchids flitting silently, gently. The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. One toll.

He went toward the kitchen. On the way, he deposited the box of baseball gear and fishing tackle he was carrying on top of the dining room table. The sound of his boot heels was muffled by the braided throw rug in front of the pantry.

The back door was open, and Amelia's voice drifted
through the screen mesh. “There really isn't much to trimming a man's hair.”

Frank cut his steps, feeling like he'd just walked into a brick wall.

“You're being a good sport about this,” she said with a trace of laughter. “Just wait until you see yourself.”

Jealousy sliced him to the quick like the blunt edge of a knife sinking into his skin. He'd come home to settle things with Amelia. His lack of sleep last night had shortened his fuse, and the foremost question sizzling inside him was: Who the hell was his wife talking to?