Texas Moon TH4 (36 page)

The stranger didn't even bother removing his hat. "I warned the boy about that wheel, but he didn't listen. You lookin' for someone?"

Since the telegraph operator was still cringing inside, murmuring curses and nearly weeping, Janice took a bold chance. "I'm looking for my husband, Peter Mulloney. Do you know him?"

The stranger scowled, pulled his hat farther over his forehead, and spit into the street, away from her. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Finally, he turned his head back in her direction, but the shadow of his hat hid his eyes. "Know of him, I reckon," he reluctantly admitted.

Janice's insides went empty. She'd been around these shy men who were easier with guns and horses than women. She knew when one of them didn't want to tell her something. And she could think of only one good reason why he didn't want to tell her about Peter. He knew something bad had happened.

She refused to panic. She would be calm and not let her imagination run away with her. Clutching Betsy, she asked, "Could you tell me how I can reach his cabin?"

He shrugged, looking around as if he might find someone else to supply the answer, then nodded slowly. "Reckon."

She wanted to bounce something off the man's skull and draw a complete answer out of him. Perhaps he was a simpleton. She tried to be patient. "Is there somewhere I can rent a wagon to take me out there?"

The man eyed the heap of boards with wheels that now supported the porch as much as the post. "If it can be fixed."

Janice gave the pile of lumber a resigned look. "This is the only wagon available?"

The man spit again. "Reckon."

Janice really thought she would have to scream. Instead, while she gathered her wits for a more precise question, Betsy released her hand and hopped down the steps to stare up at the stranger.

"Are you a gunslinger like my Uncle Daniel writes about?"

The child's golden hair gleamed in the sun. Her pale face was one of transparent innocence. Blue eyes looked up at him through thick lashes in unblinking fascination. The cowboy rested his rifle on the ground and stared back with equal fascination and a great deal less boldness. He seemed terrified.

"He writes all about Pecos Martin. Do you know Pecos Martin?"

Janice had never seen Betsy behave so boldly. She was almost as amazed as the stranger. She wasn't so amazed that she didn't hear his answer.

"Reckon."

If she didn't kill the cowboy, she might just roll on the ground with laughter. Stifling a giggle, Janice noticed the young man running down the hill toward his dismantled wagon.

"Thanks, old man. Help me get that wheel back on, will you?" The boy grabbed the lone wheel and rolled it up to the porch. At sight of Janice and Betsy, he pulled at a hat that wasn't there, then made an awkward nod. "Afternoon, ma'am. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Sorry for the inconvenience. She thought she might be hysterical any moment now. They'd almost been killed, and it was an inconvenience. She was amazed that this dirty, half-grown boy even knew what the word meant.

This was the strangest place she'd ever been in. The telegraph operator appeared at her shoulder, and she wondered if he might transform into a pumpkin or a king.

"Could I persuade you to loan me the use of your conveyance to haul my luggage to my husband's place?" Janice asked in her best schoolteacher manner.

The boy stared at her as if she were the one to convert into a pumpkin. The cowboy elbowed him and removed the wheel from his grip. The boy jerked back to attention.

"Yes, ma'am. It'd be an honor, ma'am. Let me and Martin put this wheel back on and hitch up Bossie. We'll take you out in no time." He hesitated slightly, a frown forming on his forehead. "Uh, just exactly where is your husband at, ma'am?"

The cowboy came to her rescue. "I'll go," he said gruffly, lifting the wagon bed up from the porch. As an afterthought, he added to Janice, "You might want to get out here in the street, ma'am."

Janice had just about decided that for herself. Hurriedly she ran down the stairs and pulled Betsy farther into the road. The telegraph operator did the same. As the men pushed the wagon off the porch, the broken post creaked, sagged, and gave way entirely. The wooden overhead crashed to the ground in a puff of dirt, directly where they had been standing.

Janice sighed and pointed out the obvious. "That was my luggage under there, gentlemen."

It looked like the day could only get longer. While the men scratched their heads and drew a relatively small crowd, Janice took Betsy's hand and led her toward what she hoped was the general store. Betsy chattered excitedly the whole way about the stranger and gunslingers and "Uncle" Daniel's heroes. Janice thought she really could use a hero about now, but she didn't think the stranger called Martin was him.

Inside the general store she found a weary man in a red-checked gingham shirt leaning against the counter, staring out the dirty window. When she entered, he began to rub the wood counter.

"They'll be all day straightenin' that out," he advised her sorrowfully. "Best get you a sarsaparilla and set a spell."

That sounded an excellent idea even if the stranger's pessimistic outlook sounded familiar. Sure enough, as soon as she and Betsy settled on a crate with a bottle of sarsaparilla, a complaining voice called from the interior, "Henry, ain't you done that polishing yet?"—the voice of the fat woman from the stage.

Janice was familiar with Lewis Carroll's works and she wondered idly if she'd fallen through a rabbit hole or a looking glass. If Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee ran the general store, was the laconic stranger the Red King or the White Rabbit? She hid her giggles from Betsy and resolved to remain mature about this. Or at least she wouldn't give in to hysterics unless she saw a cat disappear without his grin.

"I got a customer, Gladys," Henry called back. "I'll be with you right shortly." Resting on his elbows and not appearing overly interested in selling her anything, he turned to Janice, "You just in on the stage?"

Perhaps she could use this opportunity to learn about Peter. Janice sedately adjusted her hat and smiled in her best imitation of what she thought a lady like Peter's wife ought to use. "Yes, sir. I've come to join my husband, Peter Mulloney. Do you know him?"

Henry idly swiped at his counter some more. "Mulloney," he snorted. "Fellow who bought a mountain. What's he goin' to do with a blamed empty mountain, now tell me? Ain't nothin' up there but buzzards and scrub."

Janice closed her eyes in brief prayer. He'd made it here in time. She hurriedly returned her attention to her informant. "I believe he means to ranch. He has a fondness for horses. Does he get to town much?"

Henry gave her a shrewd look. "Not that I know of. Ain't seen him since he came through here a month or more back. Horses, you say? Seems a mite strange to buy a mountain for horses."

Janice smiled brightly. "My husband is an eccentric man. Did he buy supplies when he came through? I might need to buy floor and sugar and such if he didn't."

That distracted him sufficiently. With a real live customer on his hands, Henry became all business, suggesting more impossible staples than Janice could ever want or need. While the men outside repaired the wagon and unburied her luggage, Janice set about showing the storekeeper that she wasn't entirely a greenhorn. A box of pepper that would last her into eternity and a barrel of pickles that had already grown soft were not high on her list of necessities.

But she was persuaded to buy a bolt of muslin and some dyes. She hadn't been able to bring her sewing machine, but she had the rest of her sewing kit with her. She had expected to be sewing baby clothes, but she could still make Betsy a few things. She also eyed some tanned deer hides and furs in one corner, but her supply of money was running low. She didn't want to be caught out here with no means of leaving. Perhaps if Peter found his gold, they could indulge in some warmer winter clothing.

The sun was sliding behind the hills by the time the wagon was finally loaded and ready to go. Henry suggested she and Betsy might want to overnight in the empty barber/physician's office, and the man called Martin agreed. It would be better to start off at first light. Peter's ranch was way up in the hills.

Reluctantly Janice agreed. She spent the night tossing and turning on blankets on a hard wooden floor, worrying about what she might find on the morrow. If Peter had arrived safely and bought his mountain, why hadn't he come down and wired for her by now?

She had sent her message to the Hardings, but she hadn't received any answering one telling her about any message from Peter. And no one in town seemed to have seen him recently. That meant something was wrong. She wouldn't believe that it meant he'd decided he didn't want her out here.

She refused to terrify herself with wild fears. Peter had never claimed to love her. He'd wanted a wife and had made a practical choice. She would rely on his practicality faster than she would something so ephemeral as love. He needed her. She knew it.

And she would show him what a good wife she could be by arriving when he needed her. She knew very well how to make herself useful. She couldn't believe anyone would want her for herself, dull old maid that she was, but she knew for a fact that people wanted her for her efficiency and organization. She would make Peter glad to see her.

And maybe he would be a little glad to see her in his bed too. It wasn't one of her talents, but he hadn't complained earlier. She would learn that part of married life soon enough, once given the chance.

Reassuring herself with that notion, Janice finally drifted into sleep, only to be woken by the kicking of a boot on the wooden door at dawn.

Groaning, she dragged out of the bedroll, straightened her sadly rumpled attire, pulled on her long mantle to conceal some of the wrinkles, and helped Betsy to dress. Today they would go home.

That thought cheered them as the wagon rocked and tilted up the rocky mountain path in the cool hours of morning. Betsy pointed out jackrabbits and bright birds flashing wings of blue. The stranger pointed out buzzards circling dead prey. Janice admired the cool clean air and the refreshing glimpses of green and gold after years of grays and browns. The stranger muttered ominously of early snow.

The whole town seemed to be made of cynics. Janice refused to fall prey to the same skepticism. The air was invigorating. The thin aspen woods teamed with wildlife. She had lived in towns all her life, but she wasn't immune to the beauty of nature. Having lived inside herself all these years, she wasn't concerned about the lack of neighbors. All she wanted was a roof over her head and food in her stomach. Surely Peter could manage that.

"Have we met before, Mr. Martin?" she asked at one point.

The man jerked his hat brim down. "Don't reckon."

She couldn't place him in Mineral Springs, but she finally traced him to Natchez—the man at the race. But that man had worn a beard. She didn't dare stare directly at him, but she studied him from the corner of her eye. Both men had worn their hats over their eyes, concealing their faces to a great extent. That didn't mean anything. It was something about the attitude, the way they carried themselves.

She frowned. "Do you have any cause to go to Natchez sometimes?"

"Maybe." He sent the whip cracking over the ox and pointed out a bright woodpecker to Betsy.

She might as well talk to the trees as try to get information out of the old goat. She ought to be grateful that he'd agreed to help her and leave him alone. She encouraged Betsy to sing a song while she unpacked the lunch Henry's malcontented wife had prepared. She would keep in good cheer until she knew better.

The sun was setting by the time they rolled into the valley Martin said was their destination. Janice didn't think they had traveled fifty miles, and she glanced at him quizzically. "Are you sure?" We couldn't have gone much more than ten miles, could we?"

He shrugged. "About that."

She looked at the cabin, trying to picture Peter in such a remote and empty place. "My husband said he was fifty miles out of town."

"He ain't here," the man pointed out unnecessarily.

"Then where is he? We can't stay in someone else's home."

"He's up the mountain. This here is his." He stopped the wagon outside the narrow log porch.

Janice didn't know why she had assumed Peter would be living in a house instead of sleeping on a mountain. How foolish of her to think he would do anything so simple. She glared up at the pile of rocks and trees towering over this place. If it would do any good, she would shake her fist at the mountain—or him. She wasn't sure what or whom she was angriest at. She had come out here to find her husband only to be left admiring his empty house.

There was nothing for it. She had come all this way and she couldn't go back. With stoic resignation, she helped unload their numerous bundles and bags and supplies. At least the roof over their heads would be their own.

The minute Janice walked into the dim interior she had her doubts about this assumption also.

Cast carelessly over the room's one chair lay a woman's heavily embroidered and deeply ruffled petticoat.

Chapter 30