Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] Read online

  The moment her tears subsided, Jenny questioned her, an anxious look on her face. “Did Mr. Hampton . . . do something?”

  Mary Lou shook her head. “No, he was a perfect g–g– gentleman,” she said. “Just like you said.”

  Jenny smoothed her hair away from her face. “Are you sure? You would tell me if he wasn’t, wouldn’t you? If he tried to—”

  Mary Lou pushed Jenny’s hand away. “I told you, he was a gentleman.”

  Brenda bounced up and down again. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “That just shows how little you know,” Mary Lou said, sticking her tongue out.

  Jenny stood back, hands at her waist. “So what is the problem?”

  “I told you he’s a bore, and I don’t want to ever see him again! He even makes Mr. Wordsworth seem interesting.”

  Jenny sighed. “It would be a shame to waste such a strong candidate. There doesn’t seem to be as many eligible men here as that newspaper article suggested. Perhaps”—she turned to look at Brenda—“Mr. Hampton would consider courting you.”

  Brenda paled, but Jenny didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she hastened to the desk—a woman clearly on a mission— and pulled a sheet of stationery from the drawer.

  She thought for a moment then checked both The Compleat and Authoritative Manual to Attracting and Procuring a Husband and The Worcester Letter Writer.

  Mary Lou raised her eyes to the water-stained ceiling. It was never a good sign when Jenny consulted her reference books.

  “Dear Mr. Hampton . . .” Jenny said aloud, putting pen to paper. “I shall forever be in your debt for the kind attention you’ve shown my sister, Mary Lou. However, I believe it would be in both our best interests if you would kindly consider courting Brenda instead.”

  Brenda’s eyes widened in alarm and, for the first time in her life, Mary Lou felt sorry for her.

  Nine

  A lady, if promenading, must avoid seeking the attention of the

  opposite sex. Looking over one’s shoulder to gauge a man’s interest is never permitted.

  — MISS ABIGAIL JENKINS, 1875

  The following morning, Jenny left the hotel and headed for the general store. It was still early but already the air shimmered with heat. The horse-drawn sprinkler wagon had passed earlier. Nevertheless, the stage churned up clouds of dust as it barreled into town.

  The marshal stood in front of his office talking to Redd Reeder. Neither man paid her any attention. Bracing herself, she passed by with nary a glance at Marshal Armstrong, but no amount of determination could keep her from looking back to see if he had noticed her.

  Had she not been so busy peering over her shoulder, she might have seen the boy darting out of the general store. As it was, she didn’t know what hit her. One moment she was standing properly upright, the next flat on her back, her petticoats in shocking disarray.

  Dazed, she stared up at a youth of perhaps eleven or twelve. The hair that fell over his eyes failed to hide the startled look on his young face.

  “Ma’am, I—”

  Mr. Fairbanks ran out of his shop wielding a broom and yelling, “Why you—”

  The boy glanced at the shopkeeper, then back at her. Self-preservation evidently taking precedence over common courtesy, he took off running with the shopkeeper close behind.

  Rhett reached her side, followed by Redd, but already she was on her feet.

  “Stop!” she called. She started after the shopkeeper but swooned. The marshal caught her in his arms and held her steady.

  “Miss Higgins, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  Frustrated at her inability to rush to the boy’s defense, she buried her face against his vest. “If he hurts that boy, I’ll—”

  “Don’t worry about Fairbanks,” Redd said. “He yells a lot, but he wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Redd’s right.” The marshal cupped her chin and tilted her head upward so he could see her face. His eyes were soft with tender concern. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Her mouth went dry. It had been a long time since anyone worried about her. “I’m fine,” she managed, though her heart beat so fast she could hardly breathe.

  She allowed herself the luxury of relaxing in his arms a moment longer before pulling away. Lifting her hand to the back of her head, she felt a small lump. “Ouch.”

  “Come on, sit down.” His arm encircling her waist, he led her to the boardwalk steps. “There you go.” He dropped down beside her. “After you’ve rested awhile I’ll take you to see Doc Myers.”

  “Is that a direct order?” she asked, trying to make light of her mishap.

  His gaze locked with hers. “It wouldn’t hurt to have the doc check you out,” he amended.

  “Want me to go and fetch him?” Redd asked.

  “Thank you, Redd, but that won’t be necessary.” She moved her legs and arms. “See? Nothing’s broken. I’m sure the doctor has more pressing matters to attend to.”

  Rhett frowned. “You could have a concussion.”

  “I’m fine. Really I am.”

  Redd looked down the street and suddenly turned white. “If I’m not needed here, I just remembered today’s the day I make fresh coffee.”

  Before Jenny could thank him for his concern, he took off running. He barely made his escape before Miss Erma Hogg’s buckboard roared down Main and pulled in front of the bank.

  Rhett laughed. “Perhaps you could give Miss Hogg some pointers on how to catch her man.”

  “I could use some pointers myself,” she said. She thought her plan to travel to Rocky Creek infallible. Two pretty young women, a town full of eligible men. What could be simpler? Or at least it seemed so at first. But nothing was working out the way she hoped.

  He studied her. Something passed between them, a flare of light perhaps. A sudden flame. A physical awareness. Whatever it was, it caught her off guard. A flood of warmth rushed through her body.

  “Would you at least allow me to walk you back to the hotel?” he asked.

  Before she could reply, Mr. Fairbanks returned, broom in hand. He was breathing hard and sweat beaded his forehead. “I’m telling you that boy will be the death of me yet.”

  Rhett stood, and the moment, if there had been a moment, was gone.

  “What did he do this time?”

  “Stole cheese and beef jerky, he did. Right from under my very nose.”

  Rhett’s face grew somber. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Mr. Fairbanks scoffed. “That’s what you said last time, Marshal.”

  “The boy’s twelve. What do you want me to do? Put him in jail? You know his situation.”

  Fairbanks spat out a stream of tobacco juice. “I don’t care about no situation. Scooter Maxwell is a thief. And I expect you to do something ’bout it.”

  Grimacing in disgust, Fairbanks stormed into his store. The bells jingled loudly in the wake of the slamming door. A pickax on display fell over and Rhett stood it upright.

  Jenny rose and brushed off her skirt. “Cheese and beef jerky hardly seems like something a boy his age would steal.” A twelve-year-old would be more likely to steal sweets or maybe even something off-limits such as alcohol or tobacco. She glanced at him sideways. “Unless he’s hungry.”

  “His father’s a drunk.” A muscle quivered at his jaw. “He probably took the food to feed himself and his younger brother.”

  She stared at him in dismay. “You aren’t going to punish him, are you?”

  “What he did was wrong,” he said.

  Anger flared inside her. Her father died during tough economic times. Haswell families barely had enough to feed their own, let alone three orphans. Rocky Creek was nowhere near as fiscally sound as the Lone Star Tribune indicated, but neither did anyone look like they were doing without.

  “What is wrong with this town?” she cried. “The boy is hungry and all you can think about is punishing him!”

  “It’s my job to maintain law and order,” he said.

  “And what about your job as a human being!”

  He drew back as if she’d physically attacked him. “I told him that when things got bad, to come to me for help.”

  “He won’t ask for help,” she said.

  The marshal tilted his head slightly and she could see him struggling to understand. “Why not?”

  She bit her lip, not knowing how much or how little to say. After her papa died, her maternal grandfather offered to help her and her sisters, but she turned him down. He thought her father a ne’er-do-well and blamed him for his daughter’s death. Partly out of pride but mostly to protect her dear papa, she told everyone that he’d left them financially secure. Not only was it an out-and-out lie, it was the worst mistake she ever made, and she paid dearly for it. Was still paying for it.

  Her anger spent, she drew a deep breath. “He doesn’t want anyone to know how bad things are.” She gave him a beseeching look. “He’s protecting his father. It’s what children do.”

  His face clouded in emotion. He shook his head as if chasing away whatever feelings had momentarily overcome him.

  “Are you sure you can get back to the hotel okay?”

  The back of her head still hurt but otherwise she felt fine. “Quite sure.”

  He studied her with cool regard. “Then if you’ll excuse me, I need to ride out to the Maxwell place.” He hesitated. “I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt. Take care of yourself.”

  Without another word, he walked away. A moment later, he was astride his horse. He gave her one last lingering look before riding out of town as if something or someone gave chase.

  The Maxwell cabin was located a mile out of town off the main road. The place looked deserted, and only a slight movement at the window told Rhett someone was home.

  Rhett tied his horse to the hitching post, noting the lack of water in the trough. Mrs. Stevens, or Ma as she was fondly called, owner of the boardinghouse where he lived, insisted that the Maxwell cabin had once been a happy home. That was long before he arrived in Rocky Creek. Even so, it was hard to believe.

  “When Cynthia Maxwell died, we should have put her husband in the grave right next to her,” she’d said. “It would have been the humane thing to do.”

  Rhett walked up the steps to the porch. Twisted needles from the towering loblolly pines that surrounded the area muted his footsteps. He banged on the door.

  “Scooter, open up.”

  Nothing. He tried the doorknob, and the door sprang open. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. He doubted his nose would ever adjust to the unpleasant smell that rose up to greet him. A young boy stood in the back of the room. It was Scooter’s eight-year-old brother, Jason.

  The boy looked scared.

  Rhett held his hands palms out. “I won’t hurt you,” he said gently. “Do you know where Scooter is?”

  The boy continued to stare at him but said nothing. Stepping inside, Rhett moved slowly so as not to startle him. The log cabin with its clay-chunked walls and rough-hewn wood floors was consistent with dozens of other cabins in the area, but that’s where the similarities ended.

  Shocked by the condition of the small room, he stopped and stared.

  The room was dark and dingy mainly due to the dirty windows. Only the red-and-white oilcloth on the table added a splash of color. Flies circled and buzzed around the dirty dishes stacked on the counter. Cupboard doors stood open, bearing empty shelves. Clothes, trash, and empty whiskey bottles were strewn everywhere. The smell alone was enough to turn his stomach.

  “Remember me? I’m the marshal,” Rhett said, turning his attention back to the boy. He’d seen Jason in town on occasion but hadn’t really gotten to know him. Now he wished he had.

  Jason continued to watch him but showed no recognition, though curiosity had replaced the earlier fear in his eyes. His trousers were so threadbare it was a wonder they still held together, and his oversized shirt practically buried him. His hair was long and dull.

  Rhett felt sorry for the boy. When was the last time he had a bath? Or a decent meal? When did the child last smile?

  “I brought you something,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to frighten Jason any more that he already was. Rhett had stopped at the boardinghouse on the way to the Maxwell cabin to pick up some of Ma’s delicious macaroons. Now, he opened the cloth napkin and held it out.

  Jason stared at the offering but made no motion toward it.

  “I brought them for you,” Rhett prodded.

  This time, Jason grabbed an almond cookie and stuffed it whole into his mouth.

  Rhett nodded approval. “There you go.”

  Jason wiped the crumbs away with the back of his hand and reached for another one without further invitation. In quick order, he finished off the lot.

  “Do you know where your pa is?” Rhett asked.

  Jason shook his head but said nothing.

  “What about Scooter? Do you know where he is?”

  Again the boy failed to respond.

  Rhett debated what to do. Matt Maxwell worked odd jobs here and there. He wasn’t able to keep a job for very long because of his drinking, so he could just as easily be at one of the saloons in town. Scooter was probably hiding in the woods or down by the river.

  A fly buzzed in his ear and he slapped it away. Glancing around the room, he was sickened anew. No one should live like this. Certainly no child.

  Things were bad, but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t against the law to live in a messy house. Even the laws that applied to child neglect were vague and, for the most part, unenforceable. The cabin wasn’t even in his jurisdiction. It was the county sheriff’s problem, not his.

  He turned to leave. And what about your job as a human being!

  He froze. No, he wasn’t going to get involved. Couldn’t. He’d promised himself years ago not to get too close to anyone. Not to feel. Not to care too deeply. It was the only way he knew to keep from drowning in the murky waters of his guilt.

  He glanced back at the boy. Never had he seen a child look more neglected. Something stirred inside. Sorrow, sadness, and empathy washed over him. Rage surged through him. He cursed his feelings—fought them—but in the end he had no choice but to surrender to them.

  Spurred both by anger and the need to breathe fresh air, he threw open the windows. Grabbing a metal pail, he filled it with empty whiskey bottles and carried it outside. In a work shed out back, he found a shovel. The soil was soft and easy to dig, giving little release to the rage inside.

  What was the matter with Maxwell? Couldn’t he see what he was doing to his sons? Where was God in all this?

  And why did God have to let Leonard die?

  There it was. He knew it. The moment he started caring about something, it would start. At sixteen, Rhett had fought in that terrible war. Seen things he never thought to see. When his childhood friend Leonard died, Rhett managed to survive by ignoring his feelings and learning to focus on the here and now. It was thinking about the past that got you in trouble. It was giving into feelings that could kill you.

  He hid behind his marshal’s badge and, for the most part, it worked. But one comment from Jenny and everything changed.

  Spurred on by the need to keep his thoughts at bay, he kept digging until the hole was close to six feet deep and almost as wide—the same size as the grave he’d dug all those years ago on a remote battlefield for his friend.

  Shaking the memory away, he picked up the pail and dumped the contents. Bottles tumbled and crashed to the bottom of the pit with a clatter. Glass shattered.

  He turned to find Jason by his side. The boy studied him with serious eyes. He held two empty bottles by their necks as if holding up a peace offering.

  “Good boy,” Rhett said, nodding approval.

  The boy tossed the bottles one by one into the hole then ran into the house, presumably to gather more.

  It took them both several trips before the room was cleared of trash. Leaving Jason with the task of filling the hole with dirt, Rhett pumped water from the well, dumped some into the horse trough, and heated the rest on the wood-burning stove so he could wash the dishes. The food was caked on and it took much scrubbing before the dishes were clean.

  Then he swept the floor and porch.

  Jason returned to the house and watched in silence. Rhett tried joking with the boy and singing silly songs, but Jason never said a word. Nor did he smile. It was eerie to see a child that young so grim and silent.

  More than an hour later, Rhett stood back and surveyed his work. Not bad. The last of the flies were gone, but the smell of whiskey still lingered. It was as if alcohol had seeped into the very foundation of the house, along with the owner’s grief and depression.

  He turned to Jason. He had passed the point of no return, and this time he didn’t even try to fight the need to help this child. “How would you like to go for a little ride?”

  The boy stared at him.

  Rhett looked around for paper and pencil to leave a note for Maxwell but found nothing he could write on.

  Giving up the search, he led Jason outside to his horse.

  “Say hello to Lincoln,” he said. The horse gave a low whicker, but the boy remained mute.

  Rhett helped Jason onto the saddle then mounted behind him. The sun disappeared behind a veil of dark clouds and lightning zigzagged upon the distant hills. A few drops began to fall, but the full impact of the storm didn’t hit until they arrived at the boardinghouse.

  Ma, his landlady, greeted him with a buttery smile. She was round as a muffin, her white hair in a neat bun. Her whole face lit up at sight of Jason.

  “And who have we here?” she asked, clapping her hands in delight. She blinked. “Not Jason Maxwell. Look how you’ve grown.”

  “I invited Jason to have supper with us,” Rhett said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Ma nodded approval. “I wondered what I was going to do with all that fried chicken and berry pie.”

  Jason looked all around him, his eyes wide with amazement. Next to the Maxwell’s modest cabin, the boy probably thought the boardinghouse looked like a castle.