Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5) Page 7

That was better. She nodded. “My pleasure, Reverend. Now, I best put these things away, and get on to my other errands. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  With her basket of eggs over her arm, Violet took the little dirt path that led down the hill from the church to Main Street. Halfway there she noticed Bao Ling come out the back door of the laundry. The poor woman, large and past her sixth month, lumbered toward the clothesline with a basket of linens in her arms.

  Violet hurried over. “Give me that! Ya gonna hurt the peanut.”

  Bao resisted, but Violet wrested the clothes away. She might be old, and in pain, but she was still stronger than most women she knew.

  Bao blinked several times. “Mrs. Hollyhock,” she breathed out on a sigh. “Let me have back.”

  Violet marched to the taut rope strung between two medium-sized oaks and set the load on the ground, pushing back the groan in her throat. “After I hang these, I’m gonna have a word with that man a’ yours. He can’t be expectin’ you ta do the things ya did afore you was with child.” She took a sheet from the basket and snapped it out. She stuck a few clothespins in her mouth, then went down the line fastening on the sheet. Bao hurried to get the other end.

  When she went for another sheet, Bao stopped her with a hand to her forearm. She looked into her face. “Please, no do that.”

  “But ya need help, honey. Think of the little one.”

  Bao’s face clouded over and she glanced away. Violet was sure it was to hide her tears.

  “We get by.”

  Maybe now they got by. But in another month, all the hours over the boiling pots would take their toll. Violet had seen it before. She didn’t want to see this sweet woman lose her baby.

  “Ya gots ta hire some help.” Surely they could. They were the only laundry business in town, and were always washing. “Just for a few months. Until the babe is born.”

  She shook her head, sending her long braid swishing back and forth. “Can’t afford.”

  Lan, her young daughter, stepped out the back door. When she saw Violet, she stopped and slowly stepped back in. That was strange for the friendly child. Turning, Violet fetched a nearby chair and set it by the basket.

  “Sit yerself down. Jist for a minute while I string these up. Your face is redder than any beet from my garden.” When the shy woman tried to resist, Violet narrowed her eyes. Bao sat.

  “That’s better.” An expert after many years of hanging her own laundry, Violet was finished in ten minutes. “What other heavy work ya got planned fer the day?”

  “That’s all.”

  Violet lifted a brow.

  Bao smiled. “I promise.”

  “That better be the truth.” Once the wet garments were dry, they would be much easier to remove from the line. “I’ll be by tomorrow ta handle your sheets.”

  “No. Sunday. You have service.”

  “And you have work. I seen ya. You and Mr. Ling work seven days a week. I can’t say as I understand that, but I won’t harp.” When Bao began to object once more, Violet pointed a finger in her face. “God put you protector over that little one. You have ta think of him or her first.”

  Bao dropped her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Violet patted her arm. “I’ll be on my way now, but look for me around this time tomorrow. I’ll be here.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Whisk broom in hand, Hunter brushed the shards of glass strewn over the Bright Nugget’s bar onto a tray, wondering how much it would cost to replace the broken glassware. A pretty penny, he was sure. Sheriff Preston had warned him that the saloon could get rowdy, but Hunter had thought the lawman had been exaggerating, since Logan Meadows wasn’t the largest of places. Boy, had he been wrong. His first night working the bar had been an eye-opener.

  A door opened upstairs. Hunter didn’t even look up. Kendall was still giving him the cold shoulder. He guessed he’d feel much the same if someone horned in claiming half of his territory.

  Footsteps clomped down the stairs.

  From the corner of his eye, Hunter saw Kendall pull his suspenders up over his shoulders as he passed Hunter without saying a word. The man continued behind the bar where he poured himself a short drink and tossed it back.

  Hunter set the tray down. “Feel better?”

  Kendall glanced his way with bloodshot eyes and rumpled hair. “I’m not talking to the likes of you.”

  “That’s gonna make things a mite hard, Kendall. Just get over it. I said I was sorry.” He’d eat a little crow to hasten the bonding process.

  “You never said you were sorry! Not once.”

  “Guess you’re right. Well, I’m saying it now.”

  Kendall’s gaze dropped to Hunter’s hip and the gun he’d strapped back on this morning after only a few hours of sleep. Kendall placed both palms on the bar top and watched the people walking past their front door. The paunchy bartender didn’t look like he felt very well.

  One thing Hunter couldn’t abide was a hangover. Thorp Wade, a teetotaler for as long as Hunter had known him, was a smart man. When Hunter had been old enough to be curious about the whiskey jugs being passed around the campfires at night, Thorp hadn’t forbid him. He actually provided Hunter with a small bottle of his own. After vomiting his guts into the prairie grass and a few bouts with a head that felt like a buffalo herd had used it for a river crossing, Hunter wised up. From that time on, he only allowed himself one drink. The rule had served him well over the years. He’d seen many a good man fumble when it counted the most, and be killed.

  His apology hadn’t garnered a response. “Kendall, what do you say we bury the hatchet? I can handle this cleanup if you want to go to the bathhouse and then relax for a few hours.” A bath might help our business. “I don’t mind at all.”

  Kendall scowled and began wiping down the other end of the sticky bar. “What? So you can go through the books?”

  “You got something to hide?”

  The man Hunter recognized as Dwight Hoskins pushed through the batwing doors. Another man followed. “We’re not open yet,” Hunter said, thinking of all the housekeeping ahead.

  Kendall shot him a glare. “We’re always open to paying customers. Especially Dwight.”

  “New rule. We open at one. That’s only two hours away and will barely give me time to clean up this mess and repair the broken tables and chairs from last night. We’ll need them if tonight is anything like yesterday. I noticed more in the back alley, too. Things around here can use some repair.” You’ve been shirking your chores for some time, Kendall. “If the men want coffee, we can do that.”

  Hunter was surprised that Kendall didn’t offer more resistance. He had no problem if others wanted to throw their money away. He’d gladly take it. But the sooner they got to drinking, the sooner more fights would break out. This place needed some down time. With both him and Kendall now, maybe they could make some headway on the chores, since Kendall didn’t seem to have the desire.

  Dwight and his friend exchanged a glance, then went to the bar.

  Clyde, a regular who, according to Philomena, spent every day in the saloon, came in and ambled to a table in the back. He plunked down without saying a word, content to doze right there until a decent hour to begin drinking.

  Since Kendall was moving slower than molasses, Hunter went to the stove for the pot of coffee he’d brewed not long ago. Returning, he brought up two mugs from under the bar and placed them before Dwight and his friend.

  “Here you go, fellas,” he said all friendly-like, filling each mug to the brim with steaming black liquid. “It’s on the house.”

  Hunter hadn’t yet had time to figure out Dwight Hoskins. The man had a shiftiness to him that kept Hunter on edge. Almost like the ruthless flimflam men he’d seen plenty of who didn’t bat an eye when stealing from a muddled old man. The other individual was a different matter. Hunter had seen his share moving back and forth between states and territories on the hunt. Predators. An aura surrounded them like the stink of
a rotting carcass. This man was a killer. Hunter wondered what business he had in Logan Meadows.

  A shout of warning from outside brought Hunter around. He set the coffeepot down and sprinted out from behind the bar. Grasping the tops of the batwing doors, he glanced left and then right.

  Nothing.

  Only one feeble old woman crossing the street with a basket over her arm. Her lips moved rapidly as if she were holding a heated conversation with herself.

  Another shout.

  From the direction of the livery, a buffalo charged down the middle of Main Street headed directly for the unsuspecting woman. That’s Max! No, it’s Clementine, the wilder of the two.

  Hunter blasted out the doors and sprinted as fast as he could.

  I’m not going to make it. She’s too far away.

  The pounding of the enormous hooves shook the ground. As he drew alongside, he saw the animal’s eyes rolled toward the top of her skull in fear. She’d mow down the scrawny woman and not even notice.

  He shouted and waved his arms.

  The woman glanced up. Her eyes grew round and she clutched her basket to her calico-clad chest.

  His only chance was to dive. Hunter gathered his muscles and pushed off his feet, ignoring the pain that sliced through his weak knee. He reached out, not wanting to hurt the old woman, but his blow would be better than the animal’s hooves enforced with a thousand pounds of meat.

  Clementine’s hot breath scorched down his back.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tabitha swallowed a scream, both hands pressed against the glass. Everything had happened so fast. At a loud crash, she’d bolted from her desk to the bookstore window. A second later, Clementine streaked by faster than Tabitha thought possible for such a large animal, heading directly for Violet.

  She grasped her skirt and ran out the door.

  Outside the saloon, Mr. Wade took two running steps and dived from the boardwalk just as the buffalo was about to run Violet down.

  The two tumbled in a cloud of dust as the beast thundered past.

  It took an eternity to get to their side. Entwined in each other’s arms, they lay still as the prairie grass at sunup, a mixture of dirt and egg yolk covering them both. Surely, Mr. Wade wasn’t dead, but Tabitha worried about Violet. She crouched down and touched Mr. Wade’s shoulder.

  He opened his eyes. “Did I make it in time?” He tipped his head down to inspect Mrs. Hollyhock cradled in his arms.

  “I’m not sure,” Tabitha replied, keeping her gaze on Mrs. Hollyhock. “You both took a bad fall.”

  “Is this heaven?” Violet patted around Mr. Wade’s chest, her eyes closed. “Sure feels like heaven ta me.”

  Tabitha squelched a thankful smile that the old woman was still alive and had retained her sense of humor. “Let’s get you up.” She helped Violet climb to her feet.

  Mr. Harrell had run from his haberdashery to see what the commotion was all about. Kendall had arrived, as well as Dwight and another man she didn’t know.

  Tabitha’s gaze traveled down to the large, shiny gun strapped to Mr. Wade’s thigh. This was the first time she’d seen him since the news had gotten around town about his dubious history in Soda Springs. Kendall had told Dwight, who’d in turn told her aunt, who in turn had told her, that Mr. Wade was a gunfighter. A killer. Kendall’s friend in Soda Springs had replied to Kendall’s telegram the same day. When Tabitha had heard the words, she’d found them difficult to believe. Is a gunfighter determined to better his education? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. Since he hadn’t returned to the shop after the encounter with Aunt Roberta, she hoped they hadn’t, in some way, discouraged him. She’d felt a friction between them. Still, concerning the information Kendall had discovered, she wouldn’t turn a blind eye.

  Dwight shifted his weight.

  Mr. Wade flicked several eggshells from his shirt and pants. “I didn’t think I was going to make it. That critter is fast.”

  “Well, ya did,” Violet said, her voice filled with emotion. “Ya done robbed me of my heavenly reward.” She glanced up at him with a wobbly smile and her eyes softened. “Even though I don’t get to go see my mama and pappy today, I’m still grateful to ya. Yer faster on yer feet than the grim reaper himself.” She gave him a long look up and down and nodded her approval despite the egg and dirt. “You must be that handsome new fella come ta run the tavern.”

  Kendall harrumphed.

  Win galloped up on a horse, a rope in hand. He slid to a halt. Short leather blacksmith chinks covered his thighs, singed in places from work at his forge. He wasn’t wearing a hat. The panic on his face was impossible to miss. “Everyone all right?” he shouted.

  “They’re both fine, except for needing a bath,” Kendall replied.

  “’Cept fer my basket of broken eggs I was taking to the mercantile.” Mrs. Hollyhock’s eyes narrowed on the livery owner.

  Mr. Wade bent, retrieved the wicker carrier, and handed it to her. Yellow yolks and white shells spotted the blue-and-white-checked cloth inside.

  “You know I’ll make good on those, Violet,” Win said, a hurt expression darkening his eyes. “Pay for your dress as well, if it’s ruined.” His horse danced nervously. “Something spooked Clementine when I went in to fill the water barrel. There was a noise and then Clementine crashed right through the slightly ajar gate with her impressive set of horns.”

  Violet straightened. “They ain’t so impressive ta me.”

  “No, I guess not.” Win shook his head. “She’s never acted crazy like that before. Cantankerous, yes, but . . .” He straightened in the saddle. “I better go find her. Which way did she go?”

  They all pointed down the street.

  Win nodded and galloped off in a shower of dust.

  The onlookers meandered away now that the excitement had passed and Violet was going to live. The usually stubborn woman actually let Tabitha and Mr. Wade help her over to the mercantile side of the street.

  “I’d like ta thank ya. What’s yer name? Mr. Way?”

  “It’s Wade,” he corrected. “And there’s no need for thanks, ma’am.”

  Violet pulled back, affronted. “What? Yer gonna deny me the chance to thank ya, ta bless ya? After what you gone and done? That’s a disgrace!” Color suffused Violet’s blanched face. “Why not? Don’t ya think you’re good enough for a simple thank you?” She reached out with a claw-like hand and took ahold of the fringe of his leather shirt. “How many others have ya turned away, Mr. Wade? You’re a good actor, I’ll bet, but I can see the uncertainty in your eyes.”

  Stunned, Tabitha watched Mr. Wade drop his gaze to the boardwalk. Was that true?

  “Well, Mr. Wade, ya gonna let me bless ya?”

  He nodded.

  A smile blossomed on Violet’s face. “Thankee.” She reached across and took the hand that dangled at his side. “You saved my life, young man, and I’m indebted to ya. You risked yer own neck to help a crotchety old woman ya didn’t even know. In my way of thinkin’, that makes you the best kind of man. I thank ya, and bless ya, and hereby proclaim myself yer granny.”

  A lump of emotion squeezed Tabitha’s throat. She wished she weren’t here to witness such a private moment. Chancing a glance at Mr. Wade’s face, she saw sentiment and pain lurking deep in his eyes. Was that regret over men he had killed?

  He swallowed once. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m old enough—”

  “Hush!”

  “It’s just that I’ve never known a grandmother before, ma’am, and I can hardly remember my own ma and pa. Your sentiment has moved me deeply.”

  Mrs. Hollyhock straightened. Now that she’d gotten her way with Mr. Wade, she seemed back to normal, except for the spots that marred her skirt and brown calico blouse, or the long gray strands of hair that had escaped her bun and straggled in front of her face. “Dandy. That makes two of us. I expect ta see my grandson at my place each week for supper—every Thursday night. I live at the Red Rooster. You know where t
hat is?”

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

  Tabitha took a small step back and they both looked at her. “Violet, would you like to go down to my shop and sit in my soft chair? You’re looking a little peaked.”

  “No, missy. I have lots ta do today.” She looked down at the basket in her hands. “I need ta let Hannah and Maude know I won’t have any eggs fer ’em today. That might present a problem. Best take care of that right now.”

  Mr. Wade kept ahold of her elbow. “I’ll escort you there.”

  “As will I,” Tabitha added. “Just give me one moment to run down and lock my door.” As strongly as she’d felt drawn to Mr. Wade in their encounter in the bookstore, perhaps he was one of those types that could snap on a dime. Listening to Aunt Roberta, she’d believe anything was possible. Tabitha would feel better about Violet’s safety if she went along to keep an eye on things.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Scrunched in with Mr. Wade and Tabitha at a small table in front of the window, Violet enjoyed the two young people’s company and conversation. It was a far cry from speaking with Beth Fairington, the woman who lived at Violet’s boardinghouse. Depending on which way that girl’s wind was blowing each day, one could never know if she’d ignore you, or bite your head off. Violet had to walk softly until she knew which side of the bed she’d crawled out on. That made company with these two all the sweeter.

  Lifting her teacup with both hands, she took a sip. Funny how Tabitha colored up each time Mr. Wade addressed her. Her strong spirit was a good match for his insecurities. Violet might just have met her new grandson, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t see through several layers of his character. One had to look past what was on top. Just like peeling an onion . . .

  “What do you make of Clementine getting loose?” Tabitha asked.

  “Critters have a way of gettin’ out,” Violet answered. The warm tea had settled her nerves considerably. She relaxed in the chair as she watched through the window. The Wells Fargo stage pulled to a halt in front of the hotel. “I’m sure some of the townsfolk will put up a squawk, worried it might happen again.”