My Heart Will Find Yours (2 page)

“Tell Royce I loved him so, and my son, Garrett.”

A bright burst of white light exploded penetrating her closed lids. The train rocked and came to a stop, throwing her forward against the wall in front of her seat. Her head bounced against the hard surface, and everything went black.

****

June 15, 1880, Waco, Texas

Marshal Royce Dyson closed the desk drawer with a bang.

He shoved aside the pile of “Wanted” posters and arrest warrants, propped his feet on his desk, and leaned back in his chair to think.

It was time to accept the inevitable. He’d done everything in his power to find his missing wife. Along with his brothers and Pearl’s, he’d spent six months combing the countryside for a hundred-mile radius between San Antonio and Waco. No one remembered seeing her get off the train at any of the stops between the two cities. It appeared she’d vanished into thin air. He shook his head in regret. Pearl was dead, and he and their son, Garrett, would never know where her body rested, never be able to put flowers on her grave. He didn’t know the particulars, but would talk to Judge Stone and find out if he needed to have her declared legally dead. The nicker of horses and rumble of wagon wheels rolling over the hard dirt street drifted in through the open window of his office. The light breeze was welcome as it washed over his skin, ruffling papers as it passed. Through the open door, Pete’s off-tune whistling was muted by the clang of metal as the deputy locked the steel door after checking on the prisoners. His boot heels thudded across the room to the desk in the front office where he plopped down in the hide-bottomed chair. It creaked as the leather bore his weight. These familiar sounds should have been comforting, but they weren’t. It wasn’t everyday a man laid his wife to rest.

His feet hit the floor. Dammit, he needed to get some fresh air. Shoving his chair back, he stood and strapped on the pistol that lay on the corner of his desk. He grabbed his shotgun and hat and strode through his office door to the outer area.

Pete sat with feet propped on the desk. He dropped them to the floor when Royce entered, the wood planks vibrating from the force.

Royce stopped in front of the deputy. “Who’s working with you tonight?”

“Jason and Ross.”

Royce nodded. “Keep an eye on Ross, and send for me if you need me.” Ross was his newest deputy and had yet to prove himself.

“Yessir, Marshal.”

Stepping outside, his gaze scanned the street. Hopefully, things would remain quiet tonight. No cattle drives were due through until tomorrow night, and his jail cells were empty but for one drunk who’d leave when he sobered up.

Royce started walking down Austin Avenue. He tipped his hat at ladies as they passed, nodded at the men. The hot breeze dried the beaded sweat on his forehead, cooling him for a short time. He turned on Third and walked toward Mary Street.

For the first time in the nine years he’d been marshal, Royce stepped into the Brazos Saloon as a paying customer instead of as a lawman. Today would be a turning point in his existence, he’d put Pearl behind him, move forward, and build a life for him and Garrett. Men cleared a path, and those at the bar located a table. Hans, the big Swede serving drinks scowled at him.

Royce sat down on one of the stools and laid his shotgun on the bar. “Whiskey, Hans.” In the reflection of the big mirror behind the bar, he saw all eyes were on him and his shotgun.

Hans sat a glass on the bar and poured Royce a drink, then started to turn back, but Royce reached out and caught the big man’s arm. “Leave the bottle.”

“Sure thing, Marshal.” Hans studied him closely. “You all right?” He leaned over the bar and whispered. “You’re not exactly good for business, you know.”

Royce nodded. He tossed down the whiskey. For a moment, his heart stopped. The burning liquid took his mind off the ache lodged there. He poured another glass, and with one hand on his shotgun, he turned and raised the glass to the quiet group of men. “Relax, gentlemen. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” echoed around the room in sporadic bursts, but they lacked sincerity. The men started talking again, but with subdued enthusiasm. In the mirror, Royce watched the whirl of the wind-up ceiling fans. It reminded him of his life—a merry-go-round ride that never ended—today he intended to jump off and get his life settled.

Royce studied the amber liquid in his glass. Pearl had been missing for four years today. Tonight, for the first time since she disappeared, he’d visit the Reservation, Waco’s red-light district, and pay for the company of a woman. Before today, touching another woman would have felt like cheating. His Ma and Pa, God rest their souls, raised him and his brothers to be honorable men, men who were faithful to their women. But his wife was dead, and his body screamed for release. There were a number of women in town who’d expressed their sympathy when his wife went missing, and several made obvious their eagerness to give him comfort. He’d do his own picking and choosing when the time came. Until then, one of the girls for hire at Josephine’s would do.

Royce studied his face in the mirror, ran his hand over his jaw, feeling the scratch of whiskers. Shaving everyday was a pain, but he couldn’t stand the dandified mustaches and beards so many men favored these days. If he started courting, he’d have to shave twice a day. He glanced over in time to see Judge Stokes in the big double window as he passed by the saloon. The judge’s daughter, Danielle, was still single. At twenty-eight-years-old, she was well into spinsterhood.

Just last week she’d made a point to speak to him and Garrett after the monthly Saturday social. She’d blushed prettily when she invited them to dinner. Before Pearl, he’d escorted Danielle to a number of social functions and considered marrying her. But he’d made that trip to San Antonio, met Pearl, and then no other woman would do. Odd Danielle had never married. She was a beautiful woman and well thought of in the community. He might just invite her to the upcoming July Fourth dance.

Hell, he’d ask her as soon as possible. It couldn’t be tonight though as he’d never approach a woman with the smell of Josephine’s clinging to his clothes. He grinned at the thought and shook his head. Tomorrow night he’d go home, clean up, and he and Garrett would ride out to the judge’s place. Maybe take her a handful of those gardenias she liked.

He finished his drink and laid money on the bar. “Thanks, Hans.”

“Anytime, Marshal.”

The heat, fueled by the high humidity of summer, hit him as he stepped outside. He tilted his hat forward a notch to keep the sun out of his eyes, yet allow him to see clearly. A man couldn’t be too careful on the streets, especially a lawman in a town nicknamed Six-Shooter Junction. Trouble could come from any direction. His eyes studied a stranger in the alley leaning against the wall of the hardware store, and then flicked to the angry cowboy riding by, whom last week Hans had tossed from his saloon into the street. Probably most dangerous was the cocky kid, spoiling for a fight and out to make a name for himself, ambling toward him now. He stayed alert as he passed the boy and walked toward the banks of the river.

The suspension bridge looked odd stretched out across the Brazos. Though completed ten years ago, it looked foreign and disrupted the stark beauty of the river with its grass and tree-covered banks. But industry was changing towns, and folks had to accept modern inventions or be left behind in the rush for prosperity.

He found a big oak, sat down, and leaned against its large trunk—a barrier for bullets, stray or otherwise. Its rough bark was uncomfortable against his sweat-soaked back, but he didn’t care. It would be dark before too long, then he’d go to Josephine’s. Prostitution was legal, but it went against the grain to be seen going in a whorehouse in broad daylight. He removed his hat, let his head rest against the tree, and closed his eyes.

Goodbye Pearlina, my lovely Pearl. Rest in peace.

Chapter Two

Texanna woke to see a mustached man wearing a three-piece, old-fashioned suit bending over her; a gaggle of curious faces were looking over his shoulder. Her eyes flicked from his to the watch chain hanging from the small pocket on his vest, and then back.

Mouth agape, he sputtered. “My God, she’s not dressed.” He shucked out of his jacket and laid it across her chest.

She shoved it away and tried to rise. The man took her arm and helped her to stand. She swayed as the floor beneath her feet rocked to a different beat—a clack-it-tee-clack unlike the sound of the train she’d boarded. If she wasn’t mistaken, burning coal generated the black smoke rushing past the window.
What was going on here?

Voices and expressions of shock echoed around her.

“Well, I never...dressed like a harlot.”

“Never seen a camisole like that, especially one that color. Why that’s the pinkest pink I ever saw.”

“Cover yourself, young woman.” Mr. Mustache held the coat, trying to block her from view. Too shocked to do otherwise, she took it and held it across her chest.

A harlot? What was wrong with her clothes?
Her pink tank top and jeans were nothing unusual.
She turned ready to send them a rude gesture when, with a hand to her aching head, she saw the other people in the car. They were dressed in nineteenth-century clothing and looked like an old tintype photograph, not a smile among them. Too shocked to speak, she sat down on the hard, low-backed seat and pulled the carpetbag close. Gone were the plush seats and air-conditioning. Hot wind blew in from the open window, bringing black soot with it. Panic rose in her chest. Before she could assimilate what was happening, brakes screaming, the train slowed, pulled into the depot, and lurched to a stop.

Texanna’s breath rushed from her lungs at the scene outside the train car window. Traffic filled the dirt roads paralleling the wooden depot. The ripe scent of horse manure reached her nostrils making her nose twitch. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand.
Oh dear Lord, please tell me I’m dreaming.

A voice at her side made her jump. “Ma’am, my coat if you please.” Numbly Texanna handed it to the mustached man feeling naked with nothing but the carpetbag to hide behind. He took it and left. The other passengers filed out behind him, each casting her a scathing glance as they passed.

Knees shaking, Texanna stepped off the train onto a wooden platform. Horse and mule-drawn wagons lined the street as people milled back and forth collecting luggage or stacking theirs to be loaded. Swirling dust caught on a breeze and blew in her face. She tried to brush dirt from her face and sneezed. Her chin quivered, and she bit her lip to still it as people gave her ample space and formed a wide circle around her.

She started across the street. The crowd parted but followed at a distance. Body tense, she fought the rising hysteria.
This isn’t real. It’s a dream. There’s no such thing as time-travel.

Their words reached her ears.

“Oh my Lord, it’s, Pearlina Dyson.”

“My God. I can’t believe it. Look how she’s dressed.”

“Somebody get the marshal.”

A tall thin cowboy with a star on his shirt advanced toward her. When he touched her arm, she snapped. Remembering her Kung-Fu instructor’s teachings, she moved, and in a flash had his arm in a joint lock hyperextending it. He shrieked in pain.

****

A woman’s scream and the grunts of men fighting woke Royce. Maybe he’d been dreaming. But no, there it was again. This time a man’s yowl split the air.

As Royce hurried up the riverbank to town, Pete rushed toward him, agitation evident in his every move.

“Marshal, you gotta come quick.”

Royce quickened his step and wondered, what now?

A large crowd gathered in front of Hans’ Saloon.

“Shoot her in the foot.” He recognized the baritone immediately. It was Hans. “If you don’t, she’s going to hurt someone else. I think she’s already broke Jason’s arm.”

She?
Royce broke into a run.
What the hell was going on? They’d never had a woman cause trouble before.

A female resounded, “Don’t come any closer, leave me alone.” She attempted to sound controlled, but her voice became shriller with each word. But still not at all like what he’d expect of a woman gone wild.

Jason’s voice, filled with pain, broke through the mumbling of the crowd. “Stop...stay back...she’s scared. Royce will...be here...in a minute.” Jason’s statement ended with a groan.

“Yeah, well I’m not going to let the Missus’ hurt anyone else,” said Hans.

Royce shoved his way through the crowd. He glanced quickly at Jason to see if he was breathing, then turned to the woman the crowd had backed up against the boardwalk in front of the saloon. Hans eased behind her and quickly caught her under the arms and locked his hands behind her head. Head pushed forward, the woman fought to break Hans’ hold. She kicked backwards, but Hans lifted her off the ground and swung her from side to side so her feet couldn’t make contact.

“Hurry up, Marshal, get some cuffs on her. How else you gonna get her home?”

A quick scan of the woman indicated she didn’t have a weapon strapped to her side or in her hands. His gaze moved from the unusual shoes she wore, up indecently clad legs encased in denim pants. How else could he describe it? When his eyes reached her torso, his body jerked in response. Beautiful breasts were fully outlined by a skintight blouse. Her pebbled nipples showed through the thin, pink fabric. His face burned with anger. It was downright scandalous. No decent woman would dress so provocatively. Then he noticed the flame-colored curls. Hans eased his hold, and her head jerked up toward him. His eyes met hers, and his heart stopped.
God, she’s beautiful
. He looked at her face again and thought he’d faint from sheer joy. His bliss quickly turned to rage.

With a growl, he bit out, “Get your hands off my wife.” At least, he thought it was his wife. The hair was the same, but her eyes were bluer, her nose thinner, and damned if she didn’t have kohl on her eyebrows and lashes.