Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (30 page)

“Where you been, boy?” the man demanded, his eyes hard as stone. It was obvious from his slurred words he’d been drinking, if he wasn’t altogether drunk.

Before Scooter could answer, she stepped in front of him. “I’m Jenny Higgins.” She held out her hand, but the man ignored it.

“Matt Maxwell,” he spit out.

So this was Scooter’s father. A tall thin man with a bushy beard and balding head, the only resemblance to his sons was the poor condition of his clothes.

“Git your butt home, boy. You got chores.”

She grabbed on to Scooter’s arm to prevent him from leaving.

“Your son Jason almost drowned today. He suffered some minor injuries and he’s at the doctor’s—”

Maxwell glared at Scooter. “What did you do now? I told you to stay out of trouble.” He took an unsteady step forward, hand raised. Next to her, Scooter cowered.

The man’s hand came down, but Jenny stayed it with a swing of her parasol. Caught off balance, Maxwell fell back. Surprise soon turned to rage, and his eyes glowered dangerously.

“What gives you the right to go interferin’ in other people’s bithness?”

Seething with anger, she glared back at him. “I just told you that your youngest son was injured, and you didn’t so much as ask how he was. What kind of father are you?”

“You know nothin’ ’bout me.”

“I know that you neglect and mistreat your sons,” she sputtered. “I don’t need to know anything more.”

His lip curled upward. “You’re jus’ like the rest of ’em. You fink it’s eathy takin’ care of two boyth? Let me tell you somfin’, lady, it ain’t eathy.”

“No one ever said it
was
.” Her voice thin with anger, she stared straight at him. A crowd had gathered around, but she didn’t care. “You do what you have to do. You care for them; you love them. You don’t always get it right. Sometimes you’re so afraid to let them fail that you try to do too much.”
Like telling them who they can and cannot wed
. Talking more to herself than to him, she added, “In the end, they’ve got to know that everything you did or tried to do was out of love.”

“I think they know that.” Rhett stood a few feet away, looking at her with an odd expression. How long he’d been standing there, she didn’t know, but she was glad to see him.

“About t–time you got here, Marshal,” Maxwell slurred. “Thith woman athalted me. Arrest her.”

Rhett glanced at Scooter, then at the damaged parasol Jenny held at her side. He shrugged. “It looks like a clear case of self-defense to me,” he said.

He held up a paper. “I have an order here signed by the honorable Judge Fassbender to remove Scooter and Jason Maxwell from your custody and place them with another family.”

Tears stung Jenny’s eyes. In the past, neglected or abused children were put in orphanages. It had only been in recent years that the
S
ocieties for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children advocated placement with families.

Maxwell’s face turned white. “You can’t take my boys away,” he said. The news seemed to have a sobering effect as he hardly slurred his words.

“I just did,” Rhett said. He folded the paper and turned to Scooter. “Reverend and Mrs. Wells have agreed to let you and your brother stay with them until your father has time to work things out.”

Afraid to take her eyes off Maxwell, Jenny held her breath. She wasn’t certain how he would react to the news, but he surprised her. Instead of turning violent, he gave his son a spiteful look.

“Good riddance,” he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Without another word, he turned and staggered toward the nearest saloon.

Jenny turned to Scooter. The boy’s stricken face drove a nail in her heart. “He didn’t mean that,” she said. “It was the alcohol talking, not him.”

“It don’t matter none,” Scooter said.

But it did. It did. She could tell by the look on his face that it mattered more than he was willing to admit. He would never forget his father’s hurtful words, but she prayed to God he would one day forgive them.

Rhett laid a hand on Scooter’s shoulder. “Come on, son,” he said.

Later that afternoon, after Rhett had fetched Jason from Doc Myers’s, he drove both boys out to the pastor’s house. Sarah Wells greeted them with a wide smile and ushered them into the cozy cabin they called home.

Holding his young daughter in one arm, Reverend Wells reached out to shake Rhett’s hand with the other. “Welcome.”

Sarah turned her attention to the two boys. Rhett had done his best to calm their fears, but Jason still looked pale and shaken by his earlier ordeal. Scooter just looked sullen. While Sarah tried to make Jason and Scooter feel at home, Rhett looked around.

He couldn’t believe what they’d done to the place since he’d last stepped foot in it. Originally built with only two rooms, the cabin now had an additional bedroom that the boys would share.

A colorful rag rug centered in front of a woodstove provided a cheerful contrast to the dark wooden floor. The room was modestly furnished with table and chairs and a plain wooden bench. A small cot that appeared to be Elizabeth’s bed was pushed against one wall.

Blue gingham curtains hung from the windows. Colorful flowers from Sarah’s garden cascaded out of canning jars. A child’s rocking horse stood next to a half-built woodblock tower. The bright cheery colors and scattered toys filled him with longing. His room at Ma’s boardinghouse was adequate and, some might say, even cheerful, but it was lonely and stark and lacked the warmth of the preacher’s home. Much to Rhett’s surprise, he found himself wanting more.

“You can call me Mrs. Bumble Rumble,” Sarah was saying to the boys. “Don’t tell me your names. Let me guess.” She tapped a finger on her chin while she studied Jason.

“I know. You must be Bronco Buster Picklepiper, and you . . .” She turned to Scooter, “You must be Chuckleberry Scooterdoodle.”

Justin giggled and Elizabeth laughed. Scooter tried to maintain his serious expression, but even he couldn’t suppress his smile for long.

Rhett relaxed. At first he hesitated to accept Sarah and Justin’s generous offer to care for the boys. Not only did the preacher watch over Marshal Owen’s widow and three children, but he and Sarah also had their hands full with Elizabeth and an infant on the way. Rhett couldn’t imagine how they would manage two more. Since no other family offered to give the boys a home, he finally relented despite his reservations. Now he was glad that he had.

“Come along Mr. Picklepiper and Mr. Scooterdoodle,” Sarah sang out. “I’ll show you to your room.” She winked at Rhett before herding the boys into the next room.

At Elizabeth’s insistence, Justin set her down and she ran after them as fast as her little feet could carry her. “Wait for me.”

Rhett was grateful for the opportunity to talk to the preacher in private. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“It was Sarah’s idea,” Justin said. He pointed to the wooden bench. “Have a seat.” He swung a chair away from the table and sat opposite Rhett. “What’s going to happen to Maxwell?”

Rhett glanced toward the door of the bedroom to make certain the boys were out of hearing range. “I’ve got a warrant for his arrest for child neglect,” he said, keeping his voice low. It took weeks of badgering the county sheriff and judge, but it was worth the effort. “I didn’t want to arrest him in front of his sons.”

Justin gave a grave nod. “I’d like to talk to him.”

“It won’t do any good until he’s sober.”

“I’ll wait.”

“What makes you think he’ll listen?” Rhett asked. The preacher had talked to Maxwell many times before. They both had, and it had done no good.

“This time, there’s more at stake.”

How Rhett wished that were true. “When I informed him that I was taking his boys away, he showed no remorse.” The memory of Maxwell’s cruel words to his son sickened him.

Pastor Wells didn’t look the least bit surprised. “Grief can separate us from God. It happened to the disciples Peter and John. If you recall, they didn’t recognize Jesus after He rose from the dead. I believe it was because they were blinded by grief. Anything that keeps us from God keeps us from our loved ones.” Justin looked Rhett square in the face. “Grief’s not the only thing that keeps us from God. Guilt does that too.”

They were no longer talking about Maxwell or even his sons. Rhett shifted uneasily in his seat. He now wished he hadn’t been so forthright in telling the preacher he had accidentally caused his friend’s death.

“God and I are on good terms,” he said. “I go to church. I pray and read the Bible.”

“A lot of people go to church and read the Bible. Doesn’t mean they have a good relationship with God. Going through the motions doesn’t mean it’s coming from the heart.”

The pastor’s words sent a jolt through him. Is that what he was doing? Going through the motions? “I never blamed God for what happened. I blame myself.”

“There are many ways to separate one’s self from God,” Pastor Wells said. “One way is to keep from loving and being loved by His people.”

Rhett didn’t know what to say. He hated to contradict the preacher but it just wasn’t true. Okay, maybe it was in the past but no more. If it had been, he wouldn’t have gotten so involved with the Maxwell boys.

Wells regarded him thoughtfully, not as a preacher but as a friend. “Sarah thinks you’re in love with Jenny Higgins.”

Jolted, Rhett was momentarily speechless. To hear it so plainly stated by another was a shock. He didn’t know what to say.

Wells didn’t let the silence last for long. “I hope you don’t let your guilt for what happened to your friend keep you from acting on your feelings.”

He shook his head. “It’s not me. I’ve tried to get close to Jenny, but she keeps pushing me away.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Rhett frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I sense that you still think yourself undeserving of love or forgiveness. That you’re still hiding behind your guilt.”

“That’s not true.”

Wells gave him a sharp look. “Isn’t it?”

Rhett shook his head. “Now you sound like Ma.”

“Oh?”

“She said there’s a difference between godly sorrow and guilt.”

Wells smiled fondly. “Sometimes I think Ma’s a better preacher than I am.”

Despite his earlier denial, Rhett wondered if what the pastor said was true. Maybe he
was
still hiding behind his guilt. Perhaps deep down he wanted Jenny to reject him as proof of his unworthiness.

He was still mulling that possibility when Sarah returned with the children. Shaken, he stood to leave. He suddenly needed to be alone.

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner, Marshal,” Sarah said.

“Thank you, but I . . . have some business to attend to.” That was partially true as he intended to arrest Maxwell before the day was over.

Bidding the boys good-bye, he left. He drove the wagon slowly back to the livery stable. It was hard to know what weighed more heavily on his mind—the thought that he’d been holding back from Jenny and maybe even God, or the burden of having to arrest Jason and Scooter’s father again, this time for child neglect.

Twenty-six

Never fall victim to fashion’s tyranny unless it enhances, flatters,
and, at the very least, dazzles your intended.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

M
y life is ruined!” Mary Lou wailed. She sat in the bathtub and covered her face with both hands. “Ruined, do you hear? Ruined!”

Jenny dumped a pitcher of water down her sister’s back. “I’m sure the whole town heard,” she muttered. Certainly everyone in the hotel did.

Covered from head to toe in poison ivy, Mary Lou hadn’t stopped complaining since the first spot appeared following her ill-fated swim. One eye was swollen shut, and blisters oozed on her arms and legs. The toxic plant evidently surrounded the old swimming hole, which probably explained why no one swam there anymore.

Jenny did everything Doc Myers told her to do, but nothing seemed to stop the itching—or Mary Lou’s incessant complaints.

“My life is ruined,” Mary Lou cried again.

One of the other hotel guests pounded on the wall and shouted a string of obscenities. “Can’t a body git some sleep ’round here?”

Brenda lay on the bed, a pillow over her head.

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. and Jenny was exhausted. She set the pitcher on the stand and grabbed a towel. “Get out of the bath, and I’ll put more salve on you.”

“It won’t do any good,” Mary Lou blubbered. “My life is ruined.”

“It’s not ruined,” Jenny said. Her voice thick with impatience, she stifled a yawn. “By your wedding day, you’ll be as good as new.”

Mary Lou pulled her hands away from her swollen face. “What wedding?”

Jenny sighed in resignation. She no longer had the strength or inclination to fight what she now believed to be inevitable. “
Your
wedding to Mr. Trevor, of course.” Still angry at Mary Lou for sneaking behind her back, she nevertheless felt sorry for her. “I like him. I like him a lot.”

Mary Lou’s mouth dropped open. “You
like
him?” she asked aghast. “Even if he can’t read or write?”

“One has nothing to do with the other,” Jenny said. She made some inquiries around town, and everyone from Mr. Barrel to Mr. Fairbanks had nothing but good things to say about him. At this point, however, she was desperate enough to approve Mary Lou’s marriage to that outlaw Jesse James in return for peace and quiet.

“He’s a good man and I believe he loves you very much.”

Mary Lou stared with her one good eye. “He loves
me
? Someone who’s
not
perfect? Is such a thing possible?”

Jenny chose to ignore Mary Lou’s sarcasm. “Of course it’s possible. You’re a beautiful woman. Your Mr. Trevor is a lucky man.”

“But, but—” Mary Lou dropped her hands in the tub, splashing water on to the floor, and stared at Jenny in disbelief. “What about Miss Jenkins and those interviews and that silly test?”

Jenny twisted the towel in her hand. In retrospect, it all did seem rather silly. “It’s come to my attention that there’s another marriage expert I’d not considered.”