Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] Page 6

  “I thought it might relieve you to know that every newspaper has been accounted for and destroyed.”

  “Excellent,” she said crisply. So far, so good. Message delivered and received. No reason for him to hang around.

  Only that’s exactly what he continued to do.

  He watched her with a puzzled frown.

  “Would that be all, Marshal?” she asked.

  “That’s all,” he said, though he still made no motion to leave. “Just out of curiosity, what made you come here to look for husbands?”

  “Rocky Creek has the most eligible bachelors per capita than any other Texas town,” she explained. “And the most financially secure.”

  His brows quirked upward. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “An article in the Lone Star Tribune.” She leaned forward, hand on her chest, and lowered her voice. “Although I must say, by the looks of this town, the men around here certainly hold a tight purse.”

  “If what you say is true, they also have tight lips, because it’s the first I ever heard of it.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “So how do you interview a prospective husband?”

  She stole a slanted glance at him. “Every man will have to pass a test.”

  He knitted his brows together. “A test?”

  She nodded. “It’s called the Potential Husband Aptitude Test. PHAT for short.”

  He scratched his temple. “I never heard of such a thing.” He squinted. “What kind of questions are on the test?”

  She shrugged. “Questions about a man’s background and occupation. His past.”

  “And a man’s financial status,” he said, his voice edged with disapproval.

  “Yes, that too,” she said evenly.

  After a moment, he asked, “May I see the test?”

  She didn’t want to show it to him. He would only criticize or deride it. Still, she couldn’t think of a way to turn down his request without seeming rude. Reluctantly, she pushed the open book across the table.

  He read the questions in silence, his eyebrows inching upward as he progressed down the page. Finally, he shook his head and pushed the book toward her.

  “It sure does seem like a strange way to pick a husband.” He sounded more puzzled than critical.

  “A woman can’t be too careful,” she replied. Nothing was more detrimental to a woman’s well-being than an ill-chosen mate.

  “Is that all you’d ask a prospective groom? Where he lives, went to school, plans for the future?”

  “What else is there?” She eyed him with curiosity. “What would you ask a prospective bride?”

  He looked straight at her. “I would ask if she believed in God.”

  His answer given without hesitation or justification surprised her. Shocked her, really. The PHAT covered many aspects of a man’s life but failed to consider his religious beliefs. She hadn’t thought to ask the question herself, and this worried her. Obviously, she’d grown more distant from God than she knew.

  “I plan to ask additional questions,” she said defensively.

  Anxious to show that her methods were prudent if not altogether conventional, she said, “Let’s say for the sake of argument that you qualified as a suitor—which, of course, you don’t—which Higgins would you choose for a wife?”

  “Sorry, not interested,” he said.

  “But if you were?” she pressed.

  He looked her straight in the eye. “If I were interested, I’d choose the oldest one,” he said.

  His answer restored her confidence and she could barely contain her delight. “Which proves my point, exactly. Without asking proper questions, I’m likely to choose unsuitable mates for my sisters, as you just did.” She folded her arms. “Mary Lou is definitely not your type.”

  “Mary—” He stopped himself.

  He looked momentarily surprised, and she could easily guess why. “Some people think Brenda’s the oldest, but Mary Lou is.” At nineteen, Mary Lou was one year older than Brenda. “Do you still want to stay with your first choice?”

  He gave a distracted nod. “So why do you think . . . eh . . . Mary Lou isn’t my type?”

  “For one thing, she’s stubborn.”

  “Stubborn, eh?” No longer scowling in disapproval, his eyes twinkled as if he were privy to some joke. “I would never have guessed it.”

  “And single-minded,” she added. “Once she gets something into her head, there’s no changing it.”

  “I seem to have noticed that,” he said, lightly.

  “And she tends to set unrealistic goals.”

  He drew back, hand on his chest in an exaggerated gesture. “No-o-o.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” she hastened to add. “She is very attractive, as I’m sure you’ve noticed—”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “And she can be very sweet and loving—”

  “Excellent qualities,” he said. “The question is, can she cook?”

  “I’ll have you know, all us Higginses are excellent cooks,” she replied with more than a little pride. She had personally made certain her sisters were well versed in running a household.

  He splayed his hands. “I’m sure she’ll make some man a fine wife.”

  “But not you,” she said.

  “Definitely not me.” He looked so relieved she couldn’t help but laugh.

  He grinned back at her. “Ah, so you can laugh?”

  She snapped her mouth shut and resumed her usual businesslike demeanor. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Except you’re always so serious.” He pointed to her notes and lists. “I doubt you do anything without first committing it to paper.”

  “I’ve been known to be spontaneous,” she said.

  “Ah, yes, I seem to remember a . . . certain incident.” His gaze swept across her reddening cheeks, and he gave a knowing smile.

  It irritated her that the kiss that had caused her so much grief did nothing more than amuse him.

  “Yes, well . . .” Spotting her first interviewee walking through the lobby door, she stood, grateful for the interruption. “Sorry, I have no more time for this.”

  The marshal glanced at the man standing next to the counter and nodded with approval. “I know Harold Hampton. Nothing tight-lipped about him. He has money and isn’t afraid to let it be known.” He stood, walked around the table and whispered in her ear, his warm breath caressing her neck.

  “He could teach Mary Lou a lesson or two in single-mindedness.”

  He straightened and greeted the man in a loud, cheery voice and an equally exuberant handshake.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said as if doing them a favor. He scooped his hat off the settee, placed it on his head, and stalked away.

  Mr. Hampton greeted her with a nod. “I apologize for being late.”

  She wouldn’t have known he was late had he not mentioned it. Normally his failure to arrive on time would go against him, but she could ill afford to dismiss the most promising candidate the town had to offer.

  “Mr. Hampton. Please take a seat.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. The marshal had already left the hotel, but thoughts of him continued to plague her. So he was interested in Mary Lou, was he? Rhett Armstrong and Mary Lou. What a disastrous combination. A woman would have to be strong willed to stand up to the likes of Rhett Armstrong. Jenny couldn’t imagine him giving into her sister’s whiny complaints or passion for fashion.

  She might have continued her reverie indefinitely had Mr. Hampton not given a discreet cough.

  She covered her inattention with a quick shuffle of notes then regarded him with a critical eye. He was a compact man with a round face, brown hair, and brown eyes. Though he had no distinguishing features, he was pleasant enough to look at.

  According to his application, he was a rancher. Dressed in pin-striped trousers and vest, his hair and sideburns neatly trimmed, he looked more like a banker.

  She liked that he had taken the interview seriously enough to dress for the occasion. She started with the first question on her list. “Exactly what are your intentions?”

  “My intentions are to be a good and loyal husband,” he said with perfect ease. “And, if the good Lord is willing, to raise a family.”

  Encouraged and somewhat relieved that he had alleviated the need to broach the subject of God, she bombarded him with one question after another. His answers were quick, honest, and precise, earning a full five points each. He was nothing like that annoying marshal who thought this all a big joke.

  By the end of the interview, she was convinced that she had found the perfect match for Mary Lou, and his financial statement supported her opinion.

  She stood and offered him her hand. “Would you be available to meet my sister tonight, say, at seven?”

  “I’m afraid I have to travel out of town on business. Would you mind if I meet her next week instead? Perhaps you would allow me to take her on a carriage ride.”

  “I’m sure she would find that most pleasurable.”

  They settled on a date and time. He then took her offered hand and raised it to his lips. He donned his hat and she watched him walk away, noting for the first time the stylish carriage parked in front. Smiling to herself, she sat down, convinced that she had taken a very important step in securing a long and happy future for Mary Lou. Now she could concentrate on finding a suitable match for Brenda.

  She glanced down at her notes. The next man to be interviewed was Timber Joe, a strange name to be sure. She wasn’t even certain why she chose this particular man except that he seemed fairly educated and described himself as a man with a cause. What that cause was, she had no idea.

  “Ma’am?”

  Startled, she looked up from her notes. “I’m sorry, you must be—”

  “Timber Joe,” he said. He pulled out a chair and sat down, his wooden leg extended straight out. The barrel of his rifle on the floor, he leaned on the wooden stock.

  Jenny’s heart sank. Though the War Between the States had been over for fifteen years, he was dressed in a Rebel outfit that should have been retired several battles ago. He wore a kepi hat, sported a beard, and his long hair was tied behind his neck.

  “Go ahead, ma’am. Ask your questions. A man who’s got nothin’ has nothin’ to hide.”

  She cleared her voice, not sure where to start. “I’m not clear about your occupation.”

  “Nothin’ to be clear about, ma’am. I’m a Rebel soldier.”

  “Still?” Her gaze traveled down his threadbare gray jacket. “But the war is over.”

  “That’s what they want you to think, ma’am.” He glanced around as if to look for spies. He then lowered his voice. “But don’t you believe it for a second.”

  Jenny studied his earnest face and tried to think of a tactful way to end the interview.

  “No need to worry, ma’am. When they attack, I’ll be ready. I’ll defend hearth and home till my dying day.” For emphasis, he raised his rifle and thumped it against the floor. The thud startled the sleeping hotel clerk, who opened his eyes, looked around, and then promptly fell back in his chair.

  “That’s . . . very nice to hear.” Not wanting to hurt Timber Joe’s feelings, she went through the motions of questioning him. She took care to write his answers down, no matter how ridiculous or absurd. At last she stood, indicating the interview was over.

  “Thank you for coming . . . Mr.—”

  “Just call me Timber Joe,” he said. Taking her cue, he stood and saluted her. He then walked away, his wooden leg pounding the wood plank floor like a hammer.

  Jenny sat down with a sigh. She’d only conducted two interviews but already she felt exhausted. The last interview was almost as laughable as Rhett thinking he and Mary Lou would be a match.

  Pushing the thought out of her mind, she rose to greet the next candidate.

  Seven

  No marriage-minded woman should engage in rowdy behavior,

  coarse language, or gossip. Such disagreeable habits can only be

  broken with unyielding vigilance.

  — MISS ABIGAIL JENKINS, 1875

  That Sunday, Jenny pulled up in front of the white clapboard Rocky Creek church in a carriage rented from the livery stable. The church stood on a hill overlooking the town. The building listed to the side like a slow-sinking ship. The clapboards were warped and the edges of the tin roof curled upward. Still, with all its faults, the church was in better shape than any of the buildings in town.

  According to the sign out front, it had been built shortly after Texas became a state in 1845. Behind the church was a cemetery surrounded by woods.

  “I still don’t see why we have to go to worship,” Mary Lou complained. “We never went to church in Haswell.”

  “Haswell didn’t have a church,” Jenny said. What Haswell had was a circuit preacher who rode into town every six months with a Bible in one hand and a six-shooter in the other.

  The explanation did nothing to relieve her guilt. She couldn’t remember the last time she prayed or read the Bible. After that terrible winter when she and her sisters practically starved to death, everything changed, even her relationship with God.

  Especially her relationship with God.

  She waited for her sisters to climb out of the wagon.

  “Save me a seat,” she called. With a click of her tongue, she snapped the reins and drove off to find a place to park.

  Ignoring the stares of other churchgoers, Jenny followed the narrow footpath toward the double doors. A knot started in her stomach and worked its way upward until it felt like a rock in her throat.

  She wasn’t even certain she belonged here. She swallowed hard. Dressed in her finest attire, she looked like a lady but felt like a hypocrite. How did things go so terribly wrong?

  Surprised to find herself shaking, she took a deep breath. She couldn’t do this. Not yet. Maybe never. She whirled about and started back toward the carriage.

  Without warning, she was accosted from behind.

  Startled, she turned to find herself staring down into the sunny, bright face of an adorable little girl whom she guessed was around two. Clinging to Jenny’s skirt, the child stared up at her, her eyes rounded in surprise. Apparently, she had mistaken Jenny for her mother.

  The little girl pulled away and started to run off again, but spying a woman she suspected to be the child’s mother, Jenny caught the little girl around the waist and held on to her.

  From a short distance away, a woman hobbled down the path toward them, one hand on her protruding belly.

  “Elizabeth Wells, I’m gonna tan your hide,” the woman called, the loving smile on her face contradicting her words. She was still smiling when she reached them, though terribly out of breath.

  She held out her hand. “I’m Sarah Wells, the preacher’s wife. You must be one of the sisters I heard so much ’bout.”

  “Jenny Higgins.” Keeping one hand on the squirming toddler, she shook Sarah’s hand with the other. The woman’s hair, red as a hen’s comb, was almost the same color as her well-worn boots. Giving no heed to fashion, she wore her hair loose down her back beneath a man’s felt hat.

  “This here is Elizabeth,” Sarah said, taking her young daughter by the hand. “Say hello to the nice lady.”

  Elizabeth gave Jenny a shy smile but said nothing.

  Jenny smiled back. “I’m pleased to meet you, Elizabeth.” She was a pretty little girl with long blonde hair and fringe bangs. Though the mother was rather plainly dressed, there was nothing plain about Elizabeth’s outfit. Her navy blue knee-length dress was edged in lace and tied in back with a full bow.

  Old man Applegate glared at Jenny as he ambled past them, but he smiled at Sarah. “I see you’re still wearin’ your bustle in front,” he called.

  Sarah laughed. “’Fraid it’s gonna stay that way till September,” she called after him.

  “Is that when your baby’s due?” Jenny asked. “September?”

  “Sure as shootin’ is. Only three more months to go.” Sarah looked Jenny square in the face. “It’s hard walkin’ into a new church and all. But you’ll find us friendly as a swarm of bees.”

  Jenny wasn’t sure if Sarah meant that in a good or bad way, but she couldn’t help but smile. The preacher’s wife was as plain talking and straightforward as her dress. “It’s been a while.”

  Sarah regarded her with clear blue eyes. “Before I met Justin . . . Reverend Wells . . . I hadn’t stepped foot inside a church for sixteen years.” She glanced at the building, a fond look on her face. “Didn’t think I belonged here either.”

  Jenny stared at her. “I didn’t say I didn’t belong here.”

  “You may not have said it, but you sure do look it,” Sarah said.

  From inside the church came the sound of a piano. The tin roof vibrated, sending a hapless raven into the air, screeching in protest.

  “Come with me.” Sarah linked her free arm around Jenny’s, giving her no choice but to comply. Without another word, she walked Jenny into the church like she had every right to be there.

  All eyes were on the two women as they made their way down the center aisle. Gloved hands muffled whispered voices, but no amount of feathers, veils, or plumes could hide the disapproving stares from Rocky Creek’s small but opinionated female population.

  Jenny took her place next to Mary Lou. Sarah and Elizabeth sat on the other side of her.

  “It’s about time you got here,” Mary Lou said, sounding strangely flustered. Next to her, Brenda gave a shushing sound.

  Jenny glanced at Mary Lou’s red face. Was it possible that her sister felt as awkward at coming to church as she did? But why? What did Mary Lou have to worry about? It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong.

  After a few moments of silence, the pianist pounded the ivory keys again, and the choir stood. The choir consisted of a motley group of men. Most of them didn’t seem to know a high C from a cow’s moo. One singer, however, saved the day, his resonant voice rising above and eventually drowning out the other voices.

  Jenny recognized the prominent singer. If she recalled correctly, his name was Mr. Barrel. He had presented himself as a potential suitor and was one of the few men whose writing skills met her criteria. However, his unfortunate choice of a profession disqualified him, as did his finances. With a voice like that, he should have been a singer rather than a barber. His bank account couldn’t have suffered any worse.