Margaret Brownley (39 page)

After Noel had been placed on a clean sheet on the floor, Sarah opened up a chest and pulled out a dress. She held it up for Libby to see. “You look to be my size.”

“It’s beautiful,” Libby exclaimed. The lightweight wool dress was a lovely beige color and trimmed in brown. A full gathered skirt was attached to a fitted high-necked bodice. Full balloon sleeves were edged in white pelerine cuffs that matched the collar.

“I was wearing that dress when Frank proposed marriage.”

“Then you must keep it.”

“I want you to have it,” Sarah insisted. She shrugged her shoulders. “Where in the world would I ever wear such a dress in this town?”

“But it has a special meaning for you.”

“Yes, it does. And it will bring you good luck, just as it brought me. Here, try it on.”

While Libby tried the dress on, Sarah rummaged through an old trunk until she found a pair of side-button boots.

While Libby finished dressing, Sarah fussed over Noel. “What a darling little outfit!”

Libby finished buttoning up one boot and started on the other. “His godfather made that for him.”

“His godfather must be very special. I’ve never seen such a practical outfit. I can’t believe the clothes that people bring out west. I see them getting off wagon trains dressed in silk and velvet dresses like they were going to a fancy dress ball. Sakes alive! Some of them bring more ruffles and lace with them than any woman in her right mind should ever have to wash and iron! Now this…” the woman fingered Libby’s discarded buckskin dress. “This is what I call practical.”

Libby smiled at her. She’d felt an instant rapport with the owner’s wife almost from the moment she’d first walked into the store. Now she knew why.

Libby straightened. The dress was a little loose around the waist, but otherwise fit perfectly.

“It looks lovely on you!” Sarah exclaimed. “Come and look.” She pushed a chair aside to clear the way to the beveled mirror.

Libby stared at her reflection. It had been so long since she’d had the luxury of a looking glass, she hardly recognized herself. She moved closer to have a better look. As would be expected her breasts were fuller, but her hips were still slender. The sun had turned her skin two shades darker during the trip to Centreville, and this made her hair appear lighter in color.

But these were subtle differences and did not explain why the woman reflected in the mirror seemed like a stranger to her.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” Sarah was saying. “Just like a grand lady from Boston.” She leaned closer. “The kind of lady that would turn the head of that nice handsome man Mr. Wellerton.”

Libby frowned. “You know Thornton?”

“He was in here yesterday looking for baby clothes. He told me all about you and the fire. What a nice man. And so handsome.” She gave a coy smile. “This dress has already inspired one marriage proposal.”

Libby turned to face the mirror once more. “You’re right, Thornton would love this dress.” And so would Jeffrey. And so would her parents, her parents’ friends and everyone else back in Boston. She felt closed in, suffocated. The dress seemed too confining. Desperate to free herself, she reached for the china buttons.

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked.

“I do appreciate the offer, Sarah. It was most generous of you, but I can’t wear this dress. It’s simply not me.”

Sarah looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

Libby took the dress off and felt a sense of relief wash over her. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her buckskin dress. “This is more my style.”

“It’s very attractive on you,” Sarah said. “But what do you suppose your family will say?”

“They’ll say I’ve taken leave of my senses.”

After dressing Libby picked up Noel and dashed down the stairs to the first floor calling Hap’s name.

The storeowner looked up from his ledger and nodded toward the door. “He’s gone and I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“He’s not a bad as he seems.” Libby said as she rushed by him. She called back over her shoulder, “Thank you, Sarah.”

She raced out the door and glanced up and down Mill Street hoping to catch sight of the men before they left town. But apparently she was too late. She did, however, catch sight of Thornton strolling along the boardwalk with a young dark-haired woman.

Libby raised her hand and waved. “Thornton.” Thornton turned.

“Wait for me.” She waited for the stagecoach to pass before crossing the dirt-packed street to the other side.

Thornton’s face was cool and impassive as she approached. The slender beauty slipped a possessive hand through the crook of his arm.

“Have you seen Big Sam or Sharkey?”

“The whole group of them left,” Thornton said icily. “About ten minutes ago.”

Libby felt crushed. “They….they left?”

“Went back where they belong,” he said with a sneer. “To the hellhole called Calico Corners. Come along, Cynthia.”

Thornton and the woman sauntered away. Libby stood watching them, not knowing what to do or where to turn. She decided to hire a horse. Surely, she could catch up with Big Sam and the rest as they headed back to Calico Corners.

She rushed back across the street toward the livery stables and almost bumped into a portly woman who was surrounded by three young children. She apologized profusely, but the woman was too busy fawning over Noel to notice.

“What a darling outfit!” the woman exclaimed. “Look, children, look at the darling baby.”

Libby smiled as the two little girls and a tall skinny boy gathered around to peer at Noel.

“I want a suit just like that,” the boy said.

“Me too,” said the oldest of the two girls.

Much to Libby’s surprise, she soon found herself surrounded by a crowd. Everyone oohed and aahed at Noel and his little buckskin suit.

It took a while, but she finally managed to free herself from the admiring spectators and find the livery stables. She walked up to the fleshy man who was shoeing a horse and introduced herself.

“I need a horse to take me to Calico Corners.”

The man shook his head. “You and everyone else. That must have been some gold strike to send everyone scurrying over that mountain.”

“Gold has nothing to do with it,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna tell anyone. Do you think I want everyone to desert this town? It could put me out of business.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. Now about that horse….”

“I’m ‘fraid you’re out of luck. Those men cleared me plumb out of all the extras.” He indicated the row of empty stalls in back. “I can sell you a mule real cheap.”

Libby’s heart sank. “A mule.”

“He’s over there.”

She followed the man’s finger. “That’s Man Killer. I can’t ride that mule. I have a baby to think about. We could both be killed.”

He shrugged. “That’s all that’s available.”

Libby left the livery stable feeling depressed and discouraged. She returned to the hotel room to nurse Noel, and while he slept, she stood on the balcony watching the street below.

Thinking she recognized someone, she stepped closer to the railing to have a better look. There was no mistake; the driver who had abandoned her outside of Deadman’s Gulch that past December was loading crates onto the bed of his parked wagon across the street from the hotel. Anger welling inside, she rushed from the room and stormed down the staircase.

Just wait till she got her hands on that awful dreadful man!

“Mr. Thornborough, isn’t it?” she called as she dodged around a bullock cart and raced across the street.

The man turned. “That’s Roseborough. Harvey Roseborough at your serv’ce.”

“Mr.
Rose
borough, I have a thing or two to say about your service.” Everything about that long-ago night came back in painful detail. The fear, the icy water, blindly racing through town, the stray bullet.
The warm caress of Logan’s hands.

In an effort to erase the last and most vivid memory, she allowed her voice to rise another octave. “I could have been killed because of you…you…” She called him every name she could think of.

A crowd began to gather, but Libby was too incensed to care.

Finally, a man dressed in a brown suit and vest stepped between her and the unfortunate driver. “My name is Mr. Whittaker. I own this wagon. Mr. Roseborough is my employee. Any complaints must be directed to me.”

Libby gave the man her full attention. “I would be most happy to direct my complaints to you,” she said, and then proceeded to tell him how she had been abandoned outside of Deadman’s Gulch. The nearby spectators gasped when she described being shot.

It was obvious where the crowd’s sympathies lie and Mr. Whittaker appeared anxious to make things right. He voiced his apologies and gave his employee a stern look. To Libby, he said, “How might we make amends for the inconvenience that was caused?”

Libby placed her hands on her hips. “It was hardly an inconvenience, Mr. Whittaker. Because of Mr. Thornborough--”

“That’s Roseborough,” the driver interjected.

Libby glared at him. “I was nearly killed!”

Mr. Whittaker appeared flustered. “I assure you that nothing like that will happen again. And as a token of goodwill, I shall have my driver take you wherever you like. Sacramento. San Francisco. You name the place.”

“I wish to go to Calico Corners.”

“I never heard of it,” Mr. Whittaker said.

“It used to be called Deadman’s Gulch,” she said glaring at the driver. “As Mr. Thornborough well knows!”

The driver looked about to protest, but Mr. Whittaker stopped him. “My driver will personally see that you arrive in Calico Corners safe and sound. Won’t you, Mr. Thorn…uh, Roseborough?”

The pounding echoed along the granite walls of the mountain and bored like a relentless drill into the hazy fogginess of Logan’s mind.

He stirred from the bed of pine needles where he’d been forced to lie for weeks now.

He’d traveled no farther than the hills above Calico Corners before his horse reared back on its haunches and threw him. He’d landed on his bad leg and the pain had rendered him unconscious. How many hours or days he’d lain on the ground he had no way of knowing. All he remembered was when he finally gained consciousness a mangy and persistent coyote was gnawing away at his shirt whangs.

He’d managed to reach his knife and plunge it into the coyote, but with no strength to protect himself further, he feared the animal’s blood would only attract more predators.

Somehow he’d found the strength to brace his leg with his rifle and scoot along on his posterior until he found an empty cave. The cave offered some protection from the elements, although it lacked the depth necessary to keep the temperature from dropping too low. During several long nights, he nearly froze.

His leg was red and swollen. For days, he’d floated in and out of consciousness. It was always a sound that pulled him from his dazed stupor. A baby crying. A woman’s voice. In the hazy fuzziness that followed, he called their names. But his lips and throat were too parched for more than a whisper to escape.

The sheer act of speaking did, however, bring a clarity of thought that lasted only a moment before his instincts took over. He breathed in the air, hoping to detect a possible rescuer. But for days on end, it was coyotes he smelled and coyotes he heard. And whenever he took the trouble to look, it was coyotes he saw, standing guard outside his cave, thick red tongues hanging out of drooling mouths.

But the constant banging was not coyotes. His mind still foggy, he decided it was a tom-tom.

He reached for his rifle. He’d used the last of his bullets soon after his accident. On the slightest possibility that someone was within hearing distance, he’d fired the universal distress signal that had been worked out by trappers years earlier at a rendezvous. One shot, silence. Two shots, silence, three shots. But no one came.

Blackberries grew in abundance. During moments of lucidity he inched his way a few feet outside the cave to pick them, and licked the dew off the leaves. Fortunately, it rained off and on, allowing him to collect water in his moccasins. For added nourishment, he chewed on the buckskin whangs or rather what was left after the coyote had finished with them. After many days, he started on the rawhide laces of his moccasins.

If he were to guess how long he’d been in that cave he’d say ten days. The swelling on his knee had gone down. He’d lost a lot of weight and his clothes hung loose around his body.

He shook his head to clear it. He had to concentrate on the message sent by the tom-tom. The pacing of the drumbeats puzzled him. Indians rarely rapped out a message so slowly.

He had no idea how weak he was until he tried sitting up. Dizziness assailed him. As if to sense his vulnerability, the coyotes that guarded the cave began to yip and howl. It was this threatening sound that kept him from blacking out. He would belong to the coyotes soon enough, but he had no intention of serving himself to them on a silver platter. They could bloody well wait.