Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (10 page)

She patted down her hair and brushed off her sleeves. After putting on her shoes and stockings, she sank to the ground, her back to a willow to hide her unfastened dress. He returned a short time later carrying a pie with both hands.

“Siebel gathered flowers and placed them at Marguerite’s door. Me? I have nothing to offer thee but pie.”

She gasped in delight and clapped her hands together. “Please tell me you didn’t steal that. And who is Siebel?”

He grinned and pulled two forks out of his pocket. “I didn’t steal the pie, honest. And Siebel is a young lad in the opera
Faust
.”

She’d never heard of Faust and knew nothing about opera, but she liked the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke of it. “Is that your house?” she asked.

“That’s Ma’s boardinghouse, and I live there.” He handed her a fork and sat down by her side.

“Did your mother bake the pies?”

He chuckled. “Ma’s the name of the proprietress. She’s not my mother, but everyone calls her Ma. She acts like a mother sometimes. And yes, she baked them.” He motioned toward the pie. “I believe it’s customary for ladies to go first.”

That’s all Brenda needed to hear. She stuck her fork into the pie and lifted a morsel to her mouth. The pastry was flaky and practically melted in her mouth. She leaned her head back and savored the sweet, tart taste of fresh berries on her tongue.

“Mmm.”

Laughing, he followed her lead.

“What made you want to be an opera singer?” she asked between bites. It struck her as an odd occupation for one to pursue.

“When I was seven, I accompanied my father to Washington on business and he took me to a concert. I’ll never forget it. Have you ever heard of Jenny Lind?”

She shook her head.

“She came to America to give a series of concerts sponsored by Mr. P. T. Barnum. I’ll never forget her voice and how it touched me here.” He placed a hand on his chest next to his heart. “To touch someone like that, to bring tears to their eyes . . . it’s a gift from God.

“After that, whenever I was alone and feeling sad, I sang.” He shrugged. “Of course, when I announced my decision to pursue a singing career, my family disapproved. It didn’t help matters that when I tried singing to my father’s cattle, they stampeded.”

“Oh, no.” She laughed. “So how did you end up here, in Rocky Creek, as a barber?”

“To pay for my singing lessons, I worked in a barbershop. After I failed in my opera debut, I decided to travel back to Texas to join the family cattle business. I’m not cut out for the job, but I didn’t know what else to do. While passing through Rocky Creek, my horse suddenly died.”

“Oh, no,” she gasped. “The poor thing.”

“Died just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I took it as a sign from God and decided to stay in Rocky Creek. I taught singing, but that didn’t work out too well. The only students who showed up were cattlemen wanting to learn to sing to their cattle.”

He laughed and she joined him. She couldn’t remember ever having so much fun. On and on he talked. She wasn’t sure which of his stories, if any, were true, but she loved hearing them all the same.

He looked surprised when she told him she was originally from Haswell. “My family owns property there,” he said. “My cousin often travels there on business.”

“Maybe I met him,” she said.

“I hope not.” Changing the subject, he immediately plunged into another tale, this one about a magical flute.

She forgot all about the time until the sun disappeared behind the distant trees. “Oh!” She jumped to her feet. “I better go.” Jenny would kill her if she knew she spent the afternoon eating pie with a near stranger.

He rose and looked genuinely sad to see her go. They stood on either side of an empty pie dish, staring at each other. “When can I see you again?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Jenny would never—” She backed away, then turned and ran.

Eight

A woman wishing to win the heart of a man must refrain from
disapproval or boredom should he engage in frivolous discourse.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

R
hett looked up from his desk and groaned. Not again.

Hank Applegate was given to making almost hourly visits to the marshal’s office since Jenny and her sisters had swept into town. Today was no different. He seemed to think it his God-given duty to report their daily comings and goings.

Now he stood in front of Rhett’s desk chomping on his gums and waiting respectfully for the marshal to quit writing.

Rhett took his own sweet time finishing his report. He then stuck his pen into its holder and sat back. Soap lather covered one side of Hank’s face. The man couldn’t even finish his shave before barreling in here?

“What is it this time, Hank?”

“Colonel Hussy is at it again.”

Rhett sighed. No surprise there. “Her name is Miss
Higgins
.”

“I don’t care what her name is, she’s going where she ain’t got no bus’ness goin’.” He pointed to his face. “See this?”

Rhett stared at Hank’s half-shaven chin.

“I’m sittin’ in the barber chair mindin’ me own bus’ness and who should walk in but the colonel. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, she walks up to the man in the chair next to me and demands to know why he missed his interview.”

Surprised, Rhett sat back. “James Martin missed his interview?”
After he ran around town bragging that he made Jenny’s approval list?

Hank tilted his head. “How did you know it was Martin?”

“I told you I was keeping an eye on things.”

Hank wiped the back of his hand across his lathered chin. “You ain’t doin’ a very good job. Not if she can walk into a man’s domain like nobody’s bus’ness. Nothin’s sacred anymore. One day a woman walks into a barbershop. The next day, she’ll try to turn Texas into Wyomin’ terr’tory and demand the right to vote. I’m tellin’ you, there ain’t gonna be no stoppin’ ’em.”

“So what do you want me to do about it, Hank?”

“I want you to make certain places off-limits to the colonel and her two husband-chasin’ sisters.”

“Off-limits?” Rhett shuddered to think what Jenny would say if he were to be so foolish as to restrict her movements. Not that he had any intention of doing so.

“It’s a mighty sad day when a man can’t get his beard trimmed in peace. Even the preacher’s pushy wife knows enough to stay out of the barbershop.”

“I’ll talk to her, Hank.”

“Talkin’ ain’t gonna do no good. The woman needs to know where she ain’t welcome. She needs to know who’s the boss.”

Rhett rose from his chair and walked Hank to the door, hand on his back. “You go and finish your shave, and I’ll take care of Jenny Higgins.”

No sooner had he gotten rid of the old man than he headed for the hotel. It was high time that he and Miss Higgins had a heart-to-heart.

Jenny sat at the table in the lobby alone, writing. She looked up when he approached, then closed her leather notebook. Scattered across the table were notes. He wondered if the woman ever did anything without first writing it down.

“Closing shop?” he asked.

“For the day,” she said with a sigh.

He couldn’t help but notice that she looked frustrated. In the dim afternoon light, her eyes appeared to be more violet than blue.

“Problems?” he asked.

“None that would interest you.” She looked him up and down. “What are you doing here? I don’t recall your name on the day’s schedule.”

He swung a chair around and straddled it. “I thought we both agreed that I fail to meet your qualifications.”

“You’re right.” She studied him a moment. “So why
are
you here?”

He considered how best to broach the subject. “It seems that some men have strong opinions about a . . . woman’s place.”

She stared straight at him, an indulgent glint in her eyes. “By some men, would you be referring to yourself, Marshal?”

“It’s your good fortune that I have a more democratic mind than most.”

She sat back, her lips curved upward. “Broad-minded
and
arrogant,” she said lightly. “What a winning combination. Perhaps I misjudged you. Perhaps I
should
schedule you for an interview. You couldn’t be much worse than some of the other men.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. The lady had a way of disarming him. No question. “That’s a mighty generous offer, but I think I’ll stop while I’m ahead. Wouldn’t want you to change your mind and add me to your eligibility list.”

“I doubt things would go that far.” She arched a light brow. “You’re hardly Mary Lou’s kind.”

He sat back in surprise. “Mary Lou?”

She gathered up her notes before transferring her gaze to him. “You said if you had a choice it would be the oldest, and that’s Mary Lou.”

He drummed the back of the chair with the palms of his hands. “You got me there.”

She watched with a wary expression. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

He chose his words with care, watching for the first sign of objection. “There’s been a . . . complaint.”

“About me?” she asked.

“About you entering the barbershop.” A warning cloud settled on her face. Obviously, he’d hit a sore spot. “Some people take exception to a woman’s presence in a male establishment,” he added.

Her eyes blazed. “I can assure you I wasn’t there by choice. I was looking for Mr. Martin, whom I was told was getting a haircut.”

He leaned forward. “Even so, it would be best if you refrain from entering”—he tried to think of a tactful way of wording it—“certain establishments.”

Her lips thinned and her nostrils flared. “Is that an order or a suggestion?” she asked, her voice cold.

“I never found suggestions to be of much use,” he said, lightly. “So just for the sake of argument, let’s call it a direct order.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered. “It’s a free country.” She raged on and on, dragging in every known argument about the unfairness of women’s rights—or rather, the lack of them. She did everything but recite the Gettysburg Address.

Well, now. He sure did like watching her rant and rave. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks grew pink, and an inner fire melted her cool facade.

When she finished—ran out of breath was more like it— he stood. “Just trying to keep the peace, ma’am.” He touched a finger to his hat and walked away, chuckling to himself.

Mary Lou didn’t think it possible that anyone could be more boring than Mr. William Wordsworth. But if Mr. Hampton didn’t exceed the poet in mind-numbing verbiage, he certainly was a close second.

They had been riding along the countryside for more than two hours, during which time Mr. Hampton had managed to talk nonstop about the prickly barbed wire that took over Texas and, in his words, “changed the cattle industry forever.”

No matter how hard she tried to look at least halfway interested, her mind wandered. She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Mr. Trevor. She tried to envision the cabin he built that needed a woman’s touch. What would it be like to be Mrs. Jeffrey Trevor? The thought blazed through her like a bolt of lightning, yanking her back to the present. Not that she had any interest in Mr. Trevor, of course.

Even if she did, he would never pass Jenny’s stringent requirements. Even if he could read and write, his profession disqualified him.

She sighed and forced herself to concentrate on Mr. Hampton’s monologue. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t missed a beat. His monotone voice threatened to put her to sleep.

The sun had set more than a half hour ago, and stars studded the darkened sky. Though it was still relatively early, no later than eight, she started to nod off. Catching herself, she took a deep breath and sat up straight, forcing her eyes wide-open.

“Really?” she asked, feigning interest. “There are five hundred types of bob wire.” She pronounced the word
barbed
the way he did. She stifled a yawn and pulled her wrap tighter to ward off the cool night air. “Who would have guessed?”

Who, for that matter, even cared?

Mr. Hampton was too caught up with his own enthusiasm to notice her bored tone. If anything, the question seemed to delight him.

“I was the first rancher in the area to see the benefits of bob wire,” he said without modesty. “Not that I’m taking
all
of the credit. I was lucky enough to meet a bob wire salesman by the name of John Gates. He told me his product was ‘light as air, stronger than whiskey, and cheap as dirt.’ No truer words have been spoken.”

Mary Lou rolled her eyes. The quarter moon hidden behind the trees provided no light, and the small carriage lantern supplied little more. It was too dark to see much of anything beyond the rumps of Mr. Hampton’s two fine horses.

The carriage followed the dirt road along the river’s edge. Mr. Hampton surprised her by changing the subject. “You can’t see it for all the bushes, but there’s an old swimming hole over there. Hardly used anymore.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Perhaps you and I can take a dip together some day.”

Over my dead body
, she thought. Out loud she said, “My sister forbids me to swim.” That was true if not altogether accurate. What she didn’t say was that her sister had forbidden her to swim in the
nude
.

“What a pity,” he said.

From across the water came the sound of fiddles playing a lively tune. A bonfire blazed on the opposite embankment.

“That’s the sawmill over there,” Mr. Hampton said, correctly guessing the object of her interest. “Sounds like Trevor and his men are having themselves a good time.”

At mention of Mr. Trevor’s name, Mary Lou’s heart skipped a beat. “D–do you know Mr. T–Trevor?” she asked, hoping he didn’t hear the tremor in her voice.

“I know him all right,” he said, showing no signs of noticing her stammer. “He and I stand on the opposite of the fence where bob wire is concerned.”

She blinked. Barbed wire again. Was there anyone or anything that didn’t involve what Mr. Hampton called “the wire that changed the West”? Nonetheless, her interest was piqued.

“Are you saying that the two of you don’t get along?” Not that it surprised her. Jeff Trevor was determined to get his own way and didn’t take no for an answer.