Cactus Flower (12 page)

      
However,
other than the occasional rude suggestion, Eulalie was not finding her
experience in Rio Peñasco as arduous as she’d feared it might be.
Oddly enough, it seemed that many people actually came here on purpose
from back East. According to Nick, the warm, dry air of the region was
considered to be healthful for people suffering from consumption—a
piece of information that made Eulalie’s heart ache painfully for
a moment when she considered her dear Edward, who might have benefited
from the atmosphere here.

      
Another
moment’s thought disabused her of this opinion. Poor Edward had been
too fragile to exist in this rough place. His sensibilities had been
exquisite. He would have suffered terribly.

      
Unlike
Nick Taggart, who thrived in the inhospitable clime of Rio Peñasco.

      
Eulalie
frowned and for a brief moment entertained the rebellious reflection
that Edward had been quite the delicate flower and rather a whiner upon
occasion. She mentally chastised herself severely for the thought.

      
However
wholesome the air of Rio Peñasco might be for consumptives, Eulalie
had a hunch more people came here to escape their problems in the States
than for their health. She also had a hunch those problems ranged from
pesky wives and families to pending felonious charges. She knew for
a fact that she’d never experienced some of the problems back East
that she encountered in Rio Peñasco, although that might have had something
to do with the fact that back East she was surrounded by a loving family.
Here, she had to depend on the kindness of the Taggarts.

      
After
one show, as Junius waited at the foot of the stairs to ward off any
fellows who were inclined to disregard Dooley Chivers’ warning that
Miss Gibb was
only
a singer, and Nick waited outside her dressing-room
door, in case Junius proved unsuccessful as guardian of the staircase,
Eulalie called out to him from behind her dressing screen. “Do you
believe that man named Dwight Singleton is really wanted by the law
in Massachusetts and New York?” She’d heard a rumor to that effect
earlier in the day.

      
“Wouldn’t
surprise me any. He’s pretty shifty.”

      
Shifty.
Eulalie liked that word. And she had to admit that it seemed to apply
to Mr. Singleton. “Do you suppose that’s his real name?”

      
“Doubt
it,” Nick called back. “Sometimes I think Junius and I are the only
folks in town who kept their birth names. Well, except for the Johnsons.
And probably Chalmers.”

      
“My
goodness.” She unhooked the devices holding her costume together in
front and sighed deeply when the garment fell away, allowing her to
take a deep and unobstructed breath. These costumes, however much Eulalie
appreciated them for other reasons, were torture devices. “I’m surprised
that the two lieutenants are in town so often, Mr. Taggart. I should
think their duties would keep them more closely attached to Fort Sumner.”

      
“It’s
a frontier fort, you know. Now that the Indians have all been sent to
the Bosque, there’s not as much for the soldiers to do, I reckon.”

      
Indians.
Mercy. Eulalie hadn’t even considered the possibility of Indians when
she and Patsy decided the West was their last, best option for escape.
Of course, the Twentieth Century was almost upon them, and the eastern
states hadn’t had an Indian problem—if it could be termed that.
Eulalie suspected that white men had been far worse a problem for Indians
than vice versa—for decades now. Why, New York, Boston and Chicago
were as up-to-date and modern as London or Paris. The only reminders
of the Indians were a few names of rivers and towns.

      
Which
still left Rio Peñasco sitting all by itself out here in the southeastern
edge of the New Mexico Territory. Eulalie could hardly imagine a more
desolate place, unless she and Patsy took it into their heads to hide
out in the Gobi Desert, which sounded as if it might be moderately worse
than Rio Peñasco.

      
“I
see. Er … what exactly do they do then?”

      
“Who?”

      
“The
soldiers at the fort.”

      
“Beats
the hell out of me. Drill and target practice, I reckon. Every now and
then I guess they have to quell a squabble in the town or between ranching
factions.”

      
“A
range war,” Eulalie said, her head filling with brutal images of gunfights
being carried out on horseback while wild cows, frightened by all the
noise, stampeded in the background. Imagine that. A real range war.

      
“I
guess you could call it that. And there are rustlers, I reckon. Incursions
from outlaw gangs from Mexico from time to time. There’s a fellow
called Jesus Malverde who’s been causing some trouble along the border.”

      
“I
do believe I’ve read about him.”

      
“Yeah.
I hear he’s a real piece of work.”

      
“I
believe one of our newspapers back home called him a Mexican Robin Hood.”

      
“He
steals stuff, if that counts,” Nick said in something of a grunt.
“I haven’t heard that he’s given any of his spoils to poor folks.”

      
“Another
one called him a lone eagle.” She’d thought at the time that the
appellation was rather romantic, but she sensed that Nick wouldn’t
agree.

      
“More
like a lone buzzard if you ask me,” he said, confirming her suspicion.

      
She
smiled behind her screen. As much as she’d tried to detest Nick Taggart,
she couldn’t do it. They sparred verbally all the time. He still considered
her a stuffy city girl and probably no better than she should be, and
she knew full well that he was a rough-edged oaf, but she couldn’t
help but like him.

      
The
same went for his uncle. Junius, who was probably around fifty years
old, actually reminded her of her uncle Harry, who was one of the finest
actors she’d ever known. Harry could wring tears out of an audience
with the same ease with which he made them laugh. And entertaining?
Goodness sakes, Eulalie would never forget some of the evenings the
company had spent being regaled with stories by Harry. Aunt Florence,
Harry’s sister, had often told Eulalie she dispared of Harry, but
she always laughed at his stories along with everyone else.

      
She
missed her family like fire. But it wouldn’t be too much longer before
she could send for Patsy. It didn’t take mail as long to get back
and forth to Chicago as she’d feared it would, thanks to the stage
lines and the railroad. Patsy claimed to be almost ready to make the
arduous journey by train and stagecoach to Rio Peñasco. Eulalie needed
to begin searching for lodgings for the both of them. Unlike most of
the places she’d lived, there weren’t boarding houses or hotels
on every corner. There were few corners, for that matter, in the town
of Rio Peñasco proper—if such a term could be applied to so improper
a place—consisting of one long main street. She sighed as she slipped
into a modest blue dress, which was quite a pleasant change from the
tight green monstrosity she’d worn for the show this evening.

      
Nick,
Junius, and she made it a habit to stop at Vernon’s chophouse for
a meal before Nick and Junius deposited her at the Johnson place. Eulalie
didn’t think it would be fair to Mrs. Johnson to make her prepare
a meal in the middle of the night, which was when she left work. The
fare was monotonous but nutritious, and the good Lord knew, there was
plenty of it, and Eulalie didn’t mind too much. Once she and Patsy
got settled in a house of their own somehow or other, they could fix
their own meals.

      
They
had just left the chophouse and were making their way down the road
to Mrs. Johnson’s house when Nick put a hand on her arm. “Just a
minute. I hear something.”

      
Eulalie
wasn’t sure why hearing something required becoming alarmed—she
heard things all the time—but she honored Nick’s request, having
come to the conclusion that he knew more about life in the Wild West
than she. Therefore, she stood still while Nick and his uncle hurried
forward. When she listened harder, her brow furrowed and she understood
Nick’s concern. It sounded like a scuffle to her. Oh, dear. She hoped
it wasn’t about her.

      
“Here!”
Junius shouted. “Stop that!”

      
“Dammit!”
yelled Nick.

      
Eulalie
started to distinguish the noises coming to her out of the dark, Rio
Peñasco being too unsophisticated to have acquired street lamps thus
far in its existence. The only illumination available after dark was
the faint light spilling from various doors and windows, and since it
was after midnight, there wasn’t much of it available this night.
Thumps, grunts and thuds smote her ears. When she heard a boy’s voice
cry, “She ain’t there, I tell you!” her blood ran cold and her
heart sank.

      
That
was Charles Johnson; she’d bet on it. She rushed toward the sounds,
praying that some crazed cowboy wasn’t beating Charles to a pulp.
“Charles!”

      
“Izzat
her?” a voice asked in the blackness.

      
“You
can’t have her!” Charles’s voice cried. His declaration ended
in a grunt.

      
A
hand like a ham grabbed her arm, and Eulalie found herself jerked to
a stop before she’d reached the scene of the fight. “Just a minute,
girlie,” slurred a voice. “What you think you’re doin’?”

      
“Unhand
me!” she shrieked, kicking out at her attacker with the pointy toe
of her shoe, connecting with a hard part of his anatomy. She assumed
it was a shin or something.

      
“Ow!
Dammit, lady, that’s not nice.” And the fiend gave her a wallop
to the face that would have sent her staggering if he hadn’t had a
grip on her.

      
Well,
this was ridiculous. Not only was Eulalie now injured herself—she
could taste blood in her mouth—but she feared for Charles’s safety,
as well. That being the case, she reached into the pocket of her demure
blue dress, withdrew her Colt Ladysmith, and shot the man who held her;
she wasn’t sure where. He screamed and let her go, and all other sounds
ceased, as if by magic.

      
Because
she’d been struggling before the ham-like hand released her, Eulalie
reeled away and would have fallen to the ground had she not bumped into
something as hard, if not as dirty, as the packed earth beneath her
feet. She heard someone say, “Umph!” and decided it must have been
Nick’s body that had broken her fall. She knew it for a fact when
his hand, not unlike a ham itself, steadied her.

      
“Did
you just shoot somebody?” Nick roared. “Shit!”

      
“He
hit me!” Eulalie cried. “And don’t use bad language! There’s
a child present.”

      
“I’m
not really a child anymore, Miss Gibb.” Charles’s voice was faint
and a little mushy, but he sounded firm in conviction of his manhood.

      
“He
hit you?”

      
Eulalie
had never heard Nick sound so menacing.

      
“She
shot me!” a whiny voice came from Eulalie’s feet. “Damn it, she
shot
me!”

      
Eulalie
had endured quite a bit of unpleasantness this evening, and the realization
that her attacker believed
she
had abused
him
was too
much for her to endure. Her temper snapped. “And I’ll shoot you
again if you don’t be quiet this second!”

      
Gunshots
weren’t unheard of in Rio Peñasco, but they weren’t as common as
Eulalie had previously supposed, having read a good many yellow-backed
novels in recent months. Therefore, at the sound of the shot the little
village sprang to life. Doors opened, window sashes were thrown up,
lamps were lit, and people cried out. Eulalie saw lanterns bouncing
toward them, carried by folks whose faces she could not yet distinguish.
The door to the Johnson home flew open, and Mrs. Johnson, followed by
a swarm of children, hurried out to the scene of the action. William
held a kerosene lantern to guide the way.

      
Eulalie
sighed heavily, wishing she could live a less public life. This was
especially true since she was trying to hide.

      
“Give
me that lantern, Will,” growled Nick when the Johnson contingent arrived.

      
The
boy flinched but obeyed. “Sure, Uncle Nicky.”

      
Nick
held the lantern up so that he could see Eulalie, who shied away because
the bright light hurt her eyes. “By damn, he
did
hit you!”
He turned back to William. “Here, take this.” He shoved the lantern
at the boy.

      
William
did, and Nick reached down and grabbed the man Eulalie had shot by the
scruff of his collarless shirt. Heaving him to his feet, Nick drew back
a lethal-looking fist and would have broken the man’s jaw had not
Sheriff Wallace shouted, “
Nick
!
No
!”

      
Three
people, including his uncle Junius and Mrs. Johnson leaped upon Nick’s
arm. Eulalie didn’t know why they were doing that; she believed the
fiend who’d attacked and hit her deserved to be leveled by somebody,
and Nick seemed like the best-qualified fellow to do it. By the flickering
lamplight, Eulalie had seen another man on the ground, face up, and
guessed he was the one who’d been struggling with Charles. She presumed
Nick had dispatched him, thereby rendering him unfit to continue the
fight. She believed the villain who’d hurt her deserved the same treatment.