Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5) (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

M
idmorning Saturday, Violet Hollyhock ignored the ache throbbing in her spine as she lifted the large fruit jar of fall leaves, arranged just so. She positioned the container, accented by a few cattails collected from the banks of Shady Creek, on one side of the church’s altar. The room was quiet. The only illumination streamed through the six rectangular windows, three to each side, that ran the length of the simple nave.

She rotated the jar, careful not to spill water on the snowy-white altar cloth she’d just laid down. After a long scrutiny through discerning eyes, she turned the adornment back to its original position.

“It’s simple, Lord, but the best I can do this time of year. Hope ya like it.”

When the door opened, she turned. Reverend Wilbrand, wearing brown trousers and a light coat, stepped inside and stopped. “Violet? What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect to find you here this early.”

“Just dressing the church for tomorrow’s service.”

The reverend came forward. Although he was in his midforties, the preacher’s face always reminded her of a mischievous boy’s. He was tall and trim. Had come to Logan Meadows some ten or twelve years back, passing through on his way to Washington. When he’d discovered their preacher had taken sick and died, he stayed on.

“Don’t you usually do this in the afternoon?”

“Ya know me pretty well, don’t ya, you young whippersnapper?” Sentiment swirled in her breast. Would anyone miss her after she’d passed?

He cocked his head and chuckled. “Yes. I think I do.” His astute gaze took in her face. He came closer. “Is something wrong, Violet? Are you feeling well?”

She straightened her spine, despite the bolt of lightning it caused, putting on a good front for the reverend. “I’m as fit as a fiddle, as you can see.” She pointed to the broom, dusting rags, and jar of lemon oil she’d left next to the wall after she’d given the pews a good polishing, and the floor a thorough sweeping. “I jist wanted ta get done a mite early. No sin against that, last time I checked—though things may have changed?” She narrowed her eyes at him. No youngster was going to boss her around, even if he was the preacher. “I have some bakin’ ta do later on.”
And I’m movin’ slower than a turtle this week. When Pansy crowed this morning, I had ta force my ol’ bones from the warm covers. Right then and there I knew iffin I didn’t start early, I might not get finished on time.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “You need to let the other ladies help you. I know a handful have offered more than once. Susanna, Hannah, Brenna, Tabitha, just to name a few, but you always turn them down. It’s not a crime to grow older, Violet. Or to ask for some help.”

“I don’t do it for them, I do it for the Lord!” She gazed at the ceiling, imagining a multitude of angels looking down at her from puffy white clouds. “He and I have a standing date. I’m not givin’ that up for nothin’.”

The patient look on the reverend’s face almost made her scowl, but that wouldn’t be right in the house of worship.

“I’m not asking you to give it up, Violet. All I’m saying is let the others help. Have you ever thought that you might be robbing them of their chance to do something for God? Maybe they’d like to have a standing date, too.”

“Let ’em do something else. This job will be open soon enough.”

She hadn’t meant to sound so crotchety. It was just that she wanted to live her days out until the end
her
way. If she stopped doing, and being, and saying, what kind of life would that be? Not one to contemplate in her way of thinking.

Reverend Wilbrand took a deep breath, and slowly turned a circle. “Everything looks very nice. Like always. Thank you for all you do.”

That was better. She nodded. “My pleasure, Reverend. Now, I best put these things away, and get on to my other errands. Time’s a-wastin’.”

With her basket of eggs over her arm, Violet took the little dirt path that led down the hill from the church to Main Street. Halfway there she noticed Bao Ling come out the back door of the laundry. The poor woman, large and past her sixth month, lumbered toward the clothesline with a basket of linens in her arms.

Violet hurried over. “Give me that! Ya gonna hurt the peanut.”

Bao resisted, but Violet wrested the clothes away. She might be old, and in pain, but she was still stronger than most women she knew.

Bao blinked several times. “Mrs. Holly
hock
,” she breathed out on a sigh. “Let me have back.”

Violet marched to the taut rope strung between two medium-sized oaks and set the load on the ground, pushing back the groan in her throat. “After I hang these, I’m gonna have a word with that man a’ yours. He can’t be expectin’ you ta do the things ya did afore you was with child.” She took a sheet from the basket and snapped it out. She stuck a few clothespins in her mouth, then went down the line fastening on the sheet. Bao hurried to get the other end.

When she went for another sheet, Bao stopped her with a hand to her forearm. She looked into her face. “Please, no do that.”

“But ya need help, honey. Think of the little one.”

Bao’s face clouded over and she glanced away. Violet was sure it was to hide her tears.

“We get by.”

Maybe now they got by. But in another month, all the hours over the boiling pots would take their toll. Violet had seen it before. She didn’t want to see this sweet woman lose her baby.

“Ya gots ta hire some help.” Surely they could. They were the only laundry business in town, and were always washing. “Just for a few months. Until the babe is born.”

She shook her head, sending her long braid swishing back and forth. “Can’t afford.”

Lan, her young daughter, stepped out the back door. When she saw Violet, she stopped and slowly stepped back in. That was strange for the friendly child. Turning, Violet fetched a nearby chair and set it by the basket.

“Sit yerself down. Jist for a minute while I string these up. Your face is redder than any beet from my garden.” When the shy woman tried to resist, Violet narrowed her eyes. Bao sat.

“That’s better.” An expert after many years of hanging her own laundry, Violet was finished in ten minutes. “What other heavy work ya got planned fer the day?”

“That’s all.”

Violet lifted a brow.

Bao smiled. “I promise.”

“That better be the truth.” Once the wet garments were dry, they would be much easier to remove from the line. “I’ll be by tomorrow ta handle your sheets.”

“No. Sunday. You have service.”

“And you have work. I seen ya. You and Mr. Ling work seven days a week. I can’t say as I understand that, but I won’t harp.” When Bao began to object once more, Violet pointed a finger in her face. “God put you protector over that little one. You have ta think of him or her first.”

Bao dropped her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Violet patted her arm. “I’ll be on my way now, but look for me around this time tomorrow. I’ll be here.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

W
hisk broom in hand, Hunter brushed the shards of glass strewn over the Bright Nugget’s bar onto a tray, wondering how much it would cost to replace the broken glassware. A pretty penny, he was sure. Sheriff Preston had warned him that the saloon could get rowdy, but Hunter had thought the lawman had been exaggerating, since Logan Meadows wasn’t the largest of places. Boy, had he been wrong. His first night working the bar had been an eye-opener.

A door opened upstairs. Hunter didn’t even look up. Kendall was still giving him the cold shoulder. He guessed he’d feel much the same if someone horned in claiming half of his territory.

Footsteps clomped down the stairs.

From the corner of his eye, Hunter saw Kendall pull his suspenders up over his shoulders as he passed Hunter without saying a word. The man continued behind the bar where he poured himself a short drink and tossed it back.

Hunter set the tray down. “Feel better?”

Kendall glanced his way with bloodshot eyes and rumpled hair. “I’m not talking to the likes of you.”

“That’s gonna make things a mite hard, Kendall. Just get over it. I said I was sorry.” He’d eat a little crow to hasten the bonding process.

“You never said you were sorry! Not once.”

“Guess you’re right. Well, I’m saying it now.”

Kendall’s gaze dropped to Hunter’s hip and the gun he’d strapped back on this morning after only a few hours of sleep. Kendall placed both palms on the bar top and watched the people walking past their front door. The paunchy bartender didn’t look like he felt very well.

One thing Hunter couldn’t abide was a hangover. Thorp Wade, a teetotaler for as long as Hunter had known him, was a smart man. When Hunter had been old enough to be curious about the whiskey jugs being passed around the campfires at night, Thorp hadn’t forbid him. He actually provided Hunter with a small bottle of his own. After vomiting his guts into the prairie grass and a few bouts with a head that felt like a buffalo herd had used it for a river crossing, Hunter wised up. From that time on, he only allowed himself one drink. The rule had served him well over the years. He’d seen many a good man fumble when it counted the most, and be killed.

His apology hadn’t garnered a response. “Kendall, what do you say we bury the hatchet? I can handle this cleanup if you want to go to the bathhouse and then relax for a few hours.”
A bath might help our business.
“I don’t mind at all.”

Kendall scowled and began wiping down the other end of the sticky bar. “What? So you can go through the books?”

“You got something to hide?”

The man Hunter recognized as Dwight Hoskins pushed through the batwing doors. Another man followed. “We’re not open yet,” Hunter said, thinking of all the housekeeping ahead.

Kendall shot him a glare. “We’re always open to paying customers. Especially Dwight.”

“New rule. We open at one. That’s only two hours away and will barely give me time to clean up this mess and repair the broken tables and chairs from last night. We’ll need them if tonight is anything like yesterday. I noticed more in the back alley, too. Things around here can use some repair.”
You’ve been shirking your chores for some time, Kendall.
“If the men want coffee, we can do that.”

Hunter was surprised that Kendall didn’t offer more resistance. He had no problem if others wanted to throw their money away. He’d gladly take it. But the sooner they got to drinking, the sooner more fights would break out. This place needed some down time. With both him and Kendall now, maybe they could make some headway on the chores, since Kendall didn’t seem to have the desire.

Dwight and his friend exchanged a glance, then went to the bar.

Clyde, a regular who, according to Philomena, spent every day in the saloon, came in and ambled to a table in the back. He plunked down without saying a word, content to doze right there until a decent hour to begin drinking.

Since Kendall was moving slower than molasses, Hunter went to the stove for the pot of coffee he’d brewed not long ago. Returning, he brought up two mugs from under the bar and placed them before Dwight and his friend.

“Here you go, fellas,” he said all friendly-like, filling each mug to the brim with steaming black liquid. “It’s on the house.”

Hunter hadn’t yet had time to figure out Dwight Hoskins. The man had a shiftiness to him that kept Hunter on edge. Almost like the ruthless flimflam men he’d seen plenty of who didn’t bat an eye when stealing from a muddled old man. The other individual was a different matter. Hunter had seen his share moving back and forth between states and territories on the hunt. Predators. An aura surrounded them like the stink of a rotting carcass. This man was a killer. Hunter wondered what business he had in Logan Meadows.

A shout of warning from outside brought Hunter around. He set the coffeepot down and sprinted out from behind the bar. Grasping the tops of the batwing doors, he glanced left and then right.

Nothing.

Only one feeble old woman crossing the street with a basket over her arm. Her lips moved rapidly as if she were holding a heated conversation with herself.

Another shout.

From the direction of the livery, a buffalo charged down the middle of Main Street headed directly for the unsuspecting woman.
That’s Max!
No, it’s Clementine, the wilder of the two.

Hunter blasted out the doors and sprinted as fast as he could.

I’m not going to make it. She’s too far away.

The pounding of the enormous hooves shook the ground. As he drew alongside, he saw the animal’s eyes rolled toward the top of her skull in fear. She’d mow down the scrawny woman and not even notice.

He shouted and waved his arms.

The woman glanced up. Her eyes grew round and she clutched her basket to her calico-clad chest.

His only chance was to dive. Hunter gathered his muscles and pushed off his feet, ignoring the pain that sliced through his weak knee. He reached out, not wanting to hurt the old woman, but his blow would be better than the animal’s hooves enforced with a thousand pounds of meat.

Clementine’s hot breath scorched down his back.