Eight

Maggie placed Jodee’s parcel of old clothes on the bed. “There you go, Miss.”

Jodee wanted to put the nervous-looking maid at ease but didn’t know what was bothering her. She felt surprised at how tired she was after her morning of shopping. Sinking into the chair by the window, Jodee asked, “Have you worked for Avinelle and her ma for a long time?”

The maid looked as if the door might be listening. She ducked her head but her eyes shone with furtive excitement. “Yes’m.” Just when Jodee thought that was all she was going to say, Maggie whispered, “I know everything.”

“What do you mean?” Until that moment, Maggie had seemed uninteresting.

Maggie dashed to the bureau and lifted the lid of the silver box. Tinkling music filled the room. Seconds later, she snapped the lid closed and stood hunched and listening, her eyes wary. “A treasure,” she whispered, “from long ago.”

When Maggie started to open the wardrobe doors, Jodee cautioned her, “Don’t do that! I don’t want to know what’s in there.” That was a lie. Jodee longed to see everything in the wardrobe and bureau, everything in the house, truth be known, but she feared if she saw something she might be tempted to take something. It was a foolish fear but real nonetheless.

Before the maid could reply, they heard a buggy arrive out front. Maggie bolted downstairs to answer the door. Jodee felt amazed at how quickly the woman could move when she needed to. Jodee heard a male voice and let out her breath. It wasn’t Corbet. It must be the caller Widow Ashton expected for luncheon. As voices moved from the entry into the parlor, Jodee pressed her door closed.

Unwilling to muss or take off her new clothes, Jodee sat by the window where she could look out between the panels of dimity. It was a good spot to watch for Burl. He was out there somewhere. Why, she didn’t know. He was taking a crazy chance, hanging around when he was wanted for murder. She hugged her new hand bag. Inside it, the new pistol felt hard and reassuring.

An hour later, Hanna found her there.

“Silly child, sleeping in a chair. Are you all right, honey? Did Miz Avinelle or Miz Theia hurt your feelings? Don’t you let them bother you. Them clothes are just fine.”

Jodee roused herself, grateful for the woman’s encouragement. She stood up, feeling a bit groggy and stiff. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“You can watch me set the table.” Hanna brushed Jodee’s hair into a long tail, twisted it, and within moments had enough new hairpins stuck in to hold the knot at the nape of Jodee’s neck. “If I do say so myself,” Hanna said smiling at her handiwork, “you look ready to catch yourself a husband.”

“Oh, Hanna, I told you I don’t want a husband. I should’ve bought something more practical. When I start working, these clothes will get dirty.”

“I got aprons.”

They went down the back stairs. In the pantry, Hanna gathered plates and chattered happily as she spread a fresh lace cloth on the dining room table. As she worked she explained what each plate and piece of silverware was for. Then she parked Jodee on a stool and made certain Jodee knew how to peel apples. Happily, Jodee whittled them clean.

“Maggie has a room in the attic,” Hanna said, keeping her voice low. “She hardly says a word, but she don’t miss a thing. Now me, I have all my children. My oldest girl looks after the younger ones while I work. And Bailey, he sleeps in the carriage house. He used to drive for Mr. Ashton, you know, before he got sick. Bailey's too old to go back east, so I don’t know what he’s going to do. Burdeen was just a turn in the road when the Ashtons and Babcocks moved here to expand the stage line and open the depot. Mr. Ashton claimed Burdeen would be a metropolis someday.” She chuckled. “Big ideas. Lots of investor friends back east. My husband and me, we worked on a ranch near here. I was cook, he was a drover. Then Elmer—my husband—he got himself killed in a stampede. There I was, a widow with five children. I moved into town and found Miz Ashton desperate for help. I’ll stay on a while, I guess.” She shook her head, paused to think and laugh.

“What happened to Mr. Ashton?”

“Avinelle’s step-father just up and died. Maggie won’t tell me who Miz Ashton was married to before him. Some rich feller back east. Now Miz Avinelle, she was a bride when she first got here, but not a happy one. Hated Burdeen. Mr. Ashton took sick the first winter. You wouldn’t expect it, but after he was gone Miz Ashton was beside herself. Now, Miz Avinelle’s husband, he was no better than a chicken with its head off. All the time riding to Cheyenne City or Fort Laramie or Denver on business. My foot. He liked his faro, that’s what. Miz Avinelle had to sell jewelry to pay his debts. He went off to Cheyenne alive one day, came back the next day in a pine box, shot in a saloon brawl. Now, remember, honey, you get caught touching anything, them two so-called ladies will toss you out. They’re watching, you can bet. When they told me you was coming here, I thought they’d gone off their heads. Not on account of you just coming out of jail. On account of them two aren’t the charitable kind. They like to think they’re fine, putting on airs, but I know them better’n anybody.”

“What about Maggie?”

“She’s Miz Theia’s pet.”

Wearing a peculiar expression, Hanna darted from the kitchen to check the tall clock in the front hallway. “Plenty of time ’til dinner,” she called loudly when she returned. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “Maggie was listening at the door. Don’t say nothing around here you wouldn’t want announced in church.”

At supper time Hanna filled a hand-painted tureen with chicken stew from the cook pot. The apple pie was almost done. Its heavenly aroma filled the kitchen. Even Artie’s fare didn’t compare.

“I used to roll pie crust with my grandmother,” Jodee said. “Used to sneak bites of dough. I haven’t thought of that in a long time.”

“I’ll never forget when they hired Corbet as city marshal,” Hanna went on. “Big strapping man. Folks laid odds he’d marry Avinelle in a month and take over the stage line, but he backed off.” She gave Jodee a wink. “It’ll take a smarter gal than Avinelle Babcock to get that man in harness.”

Jodee turned away. She didn’t want to think about Corbet and Avinelle together.

Hungry and looking forward to a delicious meal, Jodee realized, however, that Avinelle and her mother expected her to learn to serve as well as set a table. As a waitress, she didn’t get to eat with them. All through the meal, Hanna, Maggie, and Jodee stood in the dining room at the ready, fetching fresh water, more bread, and another crock of corn relish from the cellar. Jodee wondered if the women deliberately dawdled to keep her on her feet.

Finally, blessedly, the ladies withdrew. After clearing the table, Jodee ate with Hanna and Maggie in the kitchen. Even cold, the food tasted wonderful. Jodee did the dishes so Hanna could go home. Without a word, Maggie vanished to her attic room. While Jodee put away the last of the dishes, she saw so many valuables in the pantry she couldn’t help but think of Burl. Sterling serving pieces and heavy silver flatware, cut crystal, and fancy porcelain with gold around the edges. She almost felt as if she should guard the house.

In her room that night, Jodee put on her new bed dress. It smelled of peppermint. She turned back the bed’s coverlet and allowed herself the luxury of crawling between the soft linens. She was only half done reviewing the day’s remarkable events before she was asleep.

The following day she helped with chores and saw the doctor briefly in the afternoon. Avinelle and her mother took turns with the bathing tub in the sewing room after supper. Jodee stood by, fetching extra towels, scented oil, and velvet slippers, wondering how servants endured the boredom of housework.

• • •

Burl hunched at the rear corner of a smoky saloon, the town’s newspaper sheet on the bar before him, rumpled and damp. The place was so dim he could hardly see. He needed to know what the newspaper said.

The barkeep ambled closer. He gave a nod toward Burl’s empty shot glass. Burl nodded. “One more.”

“The barber charges four bits to pull a tooth,” the barkeep said.

Burl pinned him with a black stare.

Shrugging, the barkeep filled the glass to the brim. “Anybody can see you’re hurtin’, friend. The whole side of your face is swolled up. Toothache’s been known to kill a man. Doc can do it, but he’ll charge more. He’s educated.”

Snapping one of the last of his stolen coins on the bar, Burl rapped the newspaper sheet with his knuckle. “Helluva thing,” he mumbled with effort, giving the near-empty saloon a furtive glance.

The barkeep snickered. “Says here, the marshal has recovered near everything stolen, so he let that girl outlaw go. Can you believe it? You in town long, friend?”

His question was too casual to take lightly. Burl extended his hand. “R. W. Preston out’a Nebraska. Buttons and sundries.” Burl pretended interest in the barkeep’s frayed sleeve garters.

The barkeep shook Burl’s hand. Wiped the bar. Watched the door. It was late. He looked bored and tired.

“Where you suppose she went? Cheyenne?” Burl asked.

A man rose from his seat at a nearby table, clapped his hat on his head, and gave Burl a once-over. “Come over to my store Monday morning, Mr. Preston. I can always use more stock in buttons. I hear she’s rooming with the widows. Helluva thing, all right. The widows get robbed at gunpoint and then they take the girl in. That’s decent church-goin’ women for you. I say she robs ’em blind ’for they know what for.”

“That a fact,” Burl said, taking more whiskey into his mouth. The pain eased. He closed his eyes and swallowed. Saloons were such informative places. “Barber, you say? Four bits? Then I’d better not drink away my salvation. Business has been slow. I better be gettin’ back to the hotel.”

He straightened, gave a nod to the barkeep and the stranger, and headed for the door. He only wished he had a room at the hotel.

“Preston?” the stranger said, detaining him at the door. He extended his hand. “Horace Wilson. My store’s right over there.” He pointed at the street lined with darkened storefronts.

Burl gave an impatient nod. “See you Monday.”

• • •

At dawn Sunday, before Hanna had arrived to put on the first kettle, Jodee was in the kitchen laying the cook stove fire when a knock came at the front door. Maggie hadn’t come down from the attic yet.

Nervously, Jodee opened the front door to a grizzled stranger in dirty overalls. She had no idea what to do. “Who should I say is calling?” she said, feeling silly. That was the proper thing to say, she hoped.

The stranger handed her a folded paper. “I got this here note.”

Avinelle appeared at the top of the stairs. “Jodee? Who is it?”

“I’m jes’ the marshal’s new hired help. Grady’s the name.” The stranger tipped his hat.

Avinelle tumbled down the stairs in her frilly silk dressing gown and snatched the note from Jodee. She didn’t look at the man. “Messengers to the back door.”

As the man shambled down the steps, Avinelle read the note and then flung it aside. “Mother,” she shouted, ignoring Jodee. She stormed back up the stairs. “Corbet’s been called away.”

Upstairs, a door slammed. Jodee heard strident weeping. Did Avinelle care so very much for the marshal that she would carry on like this? Jodee returned to the kitchen, wondering if dinner would be cancelled.

Hanna came in. Upon hearing of the message, she made a bemused face and sank onto the nearest chair. “Mercy me, you watch, honey. Them two will be like two cats in a bag all the rest of the day.”

• • •

Corbet reined his horse behind his deputy. It was mid-morning and cold in the mountains. He was supposed to be having dinner at Avinelle’s in an hour, but instead he was miles away, looking at a body half buried in the pines.

“Over there,” Hicks called, reining on the narrow trail and pointing through a dense stand of pine. “That’s where I seen him. Laying just like that. I didn’t move a thing.”

Corbet saw a dark coat and what looked like soles of worn boots splayed beneath a thin blanket of dry pine needles. It was difficult to tell how long the body had been there. Dismounting, he prowled the area. If the man had fallen from a horse, his body would be closer to the trail. He suspected the man had been waylaid, robbed, and dragged into the trees. Corbet’s face felt taut with disgust.

No horses missing a rider had been reported in Kirkstone, Hicks claimed.

No sign of a bedroll, travel case, or saddlebags. Corbet bent to examine the body. The coat pockets were empty.

“It’s Tangus,” Hicks announced around a cigar.

Corbet wasn’t sure. “Could be anybody.”

“Cheap pistol. Old boots. It’s him.” Hicks hooked his knee around the pommel of his saddle.

If the dead man had been waylaid, why leave the pistol and the boots? Corbet wondered. “We’ll bury him here.”

They dug the grave alongside the remains. Corbet kept the pistol and coat to show Jodee. If she identified the items as Tangus’, he’d take her word, but he dreaded bringing up the subject.

When the grisly chore was finished, he sent Hicks back to Burdeen to write the report. He went on to Kirkstone, where he spent two hours at the bath house soaking the smell of death from his hands. After a bad meal at the only restaurant, he asked around. No one said anything different than what Hicks had told him.

Corbet decided not to stop by Avinelle’s when he got back to town, not even to check on Jodee. He didn’t relish the scolding he’d receive when he eventually showed his face there. Instead, he reined his horse at the Robstart’s cabin. Having a door slammed in his face sounded like a good way to end a depressing trip, he thought.

At his knock, Pasty Robstart yanked the door wide and glared. Scarcely five feet tall, she bore the red and swollen eyes of recent weeping. “Just the man I want to see,” she snapped in a peevish tone. “Get in here, Corbet.”

Startled, he saw Virgil propped in bed across the room beyond a blanket curtain. Virgil lifted his hand in a weak hello. Corbet felt kicked in the belly. Virgil looked worse than he could’ve possibly imagined. The cabin felt chilly and smelled of sour milk. The hearth fire was out. There was no kindling in the box. His friend wasn’t mending.

Patsy pushed untidy red hair from her face. “I can’t care for a colicky newborn, watch over a gunshot husband, and chop firewood, too. My mother says I made my bed, so now I’m lying in it. Well, I’m not sorry. I love Virgil, but he’s no better, as you can see. I have to blame somebody, so I’m blaming you, Corbet.” Her face split into a tortured mask of misery.

Corbet gathered her into his arms and let her sob helplessly, and heart-rendingly, against his chest. Over her head he saw Virgil’s sad eyes cling to him. Damn Tangus and all men like him, Corbet thought. What he wanted out of life meant nothing in the face of this. All Virgil had wanted was a brief respite from the emotional storms of a very pregnant wife. By taking Virgil on the posse, Corbet had thought he’d been doing them both a favor.

Suddenly, Patsy punched Corbet's chest hard and tore free of his patting hands. “I need a few things from Papa’s store. Would you stay? I couldn’t leave Virgil.”

Corbet scarcely had time to drape Patsy’s shawl around her shoulders before she was out the door. She looked small, hurrying away, clutching her squalling baby to her neck. She was so proud, so stubborn. Corbet felt awash with pity and admiration for her.

Shedding his coat, he went outside to split kindling until he dripped with sweat. If Patsy had let him in sooner he might’ve been more help, but he didn’t blame her for rebuffing him. When he’d stacked kindling to the roof poles and filled the wood box inside, he made fresh coffee, took note of Patsy’s supplies, and determined that if her parents failed to send what she needed, he’d send everything himself at his own expense.

By then it was full dark, and he was hungry. He built up the hearth fire until it roared. Then he sank into the rocking chair next to Virgil’s bed where his friend lay so ghastly pale.

Virgil opened his eyes. “Trying to burn the place down?”

Corbet forced a smile. “You’re looking better.”

“I look like hell. Try not to mind Patsy. It was a difficult birth, Doc said. She’s sore and she’s tired. The baby feeds every two hours, so she can’t sleep. I thought the baby would make her happy, but she’s so touchy. Doc says new mothers get like that. I know she’s worried. If I could get up, Corbet…but the…I try to hold the baby, but I got no strength.” Virgil turned his eyes away.

To distract him, Corbet talked about Jimmy Hicks finding the body up in the mountains. He told Virgil about his new helper, old man Grady, and the new deputy, Charlie Malone, up from Cheyenne City. “I wrote for another deputy, one with experience, so I can let Hicks go. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll keep both.” He left the remainder of his thoughts hanging, thoughts that he was considering turning things over to the new man, a man who wanted to be a lawman.

“I never should’ve married her,” Virgil said as if he hadn’t heard a word Corbet spoke. “I should’ve stayed on the ranch, but no, I saw that sweet face and started making up excuses to come to town to hang around her pa’s store. They didn’t want me for their daughter. Said I was no-account. I knew they were right. That’s why I clerked for them as long as I did, trying to make up for taking her from them. To prove myself, I guess.” Virgil sounded drunk. His voice sounded as soft as death.

“Patsy loves you,” Corbet said, fearing the defeated note in his friend’s voice.

“I was no good at keeping accounts, or pressing folks to pay, but I was a good deputy. Wasn’t I, Corbet?”

“The best.”

Virgil caught Corbet’s sleeve. “Look after her and the boy. See she finds a good man.”

“Virg—” Corbet started an alarmed protest.

“I’m sorry about them times,” Virgil whispered, “you brought me home drunk. She’d cry. I felt like a rotten dog, doin’ that to her. She didn’t deserve that.”

Corbet laid his hand on his friend’s fist. “Stop.” He hadn’t forgotten his shock the first time he carried Virgil home from Rella’s. Virgil had a temper. He and Patsy had had fights. “She forgave you.”

Hearing footfalls outside, Corbet tried to send Virgil strength with his voice. “You’re not going to die.” He watched Virgil take a deep breath and relax. Unburdening his mind had helped. Corbet felt better, too. Heavier, but better.

Pasty came in, her expression brightening at the sight of the blazing hearth fire. “Artie sent a pot of his best chicken broth.”

She set a kettle on the table. Behind her ventured her mother holding the sleeping baby and her father with a carton of goods. There had been strain in the family since Virgil and Pasty ran off to marry without their blessing.

Corbet greeted Virgil’s in-laws. He hoped there had been a reconciliation, but he seethed to think Patsy’s parents had done their best to make this young couple suffer.

“Looks like you’re in good hands, Virgil. I’ll be going now, but I’ll be back tomorrow to see what other chores need doing.” He ignored Patsy’s automatic protest.

Glancing at the squirming bundle waking in Pasty’s mother’s arms, Corbet thought he had seen bigger loaves of bread. Young Henry Robstart chose that moment to fill the cabin with a wail that sliced Corbet’s ears.

“Get out of here,” Patsy said, pushing him toward the door. “You take up more room than you’re worth.” She had nearly closed the door on Corbet’s back when she paused to add, “I'm sorry. Thank you. I know Virgil begged you to take him on the posse. I can’t keep blaming you for that. It could’ve been anybody getting shot.”

Corbet had no idea what to say.

He spent the remainder of the evening prowling Burdeen’s saloons, asking for information about Tangus and the body in the mountains. Had anyone heard talk of a missing man, a horse with no rider or a rough-looking stranger? He heard nothing useful. It had to be Tangus in that badly dug grave, he told himself.

He found his new deputy, Charlie Malone, asleep behind the desk when he entered the jailhouse late. Hicks had come and gone hours before. No report lay on his desk, just spittle on the floor and the faint bite of whiskey in the air.

Charlie stumbled off to his boarding house. Corbet wrote the report himself. The cells were empty. The heating stove was cold and choked with ash. When he was done writing, Corbet wandered into his sleeping room where only days before Jodee lay with her fearsome fever. He let himself think about that kiss she had bestowed on him. What was he so afraid of? It didn’t mean anything…but it did. Otherwise why would he be so reluctant to think about it?

He went back into the main room and took the dead man’s gun and coat from his saddlebags. The smell of death clung to them. No bullet holes in the coat. No blood stains. There were scratches on the gun that might be considered notches, except until the stagecoach holdup Tangus hadn’t been known as a killer.

Corbet found no murder warrants on him among his collection. The dead man was just a clumsy traveler with an old gun. The gun belt offered no information other than the wearer had been skinny. Corbet feared he’d never know who he buried.