CHAPTER 11
“OF COURSE YOU’LL GO to supper at Sam and Maddie’s tomorrow night,” Mrs. Porter said, standing in the doorway as Lark helped Lydia into one of her own nightgowns, having just given the child a sponge bath. Directly after taking her leave from Mabel Fairmont, and coming straight home with the ragged bundle clenched in her arms, Lark had saved Lydia’s aunt the trouble of disposing of the little girl’s pitifully few clothes by stuffing them into the belly of the cookstove.
Lark sighed. She hadn’t wanted anything, in a very long time, as much as she wanted to accept Maddie’s kind invitation—except, of course, for Rowdy Rhodes, and that was a very different kind of wanting.
“Lydia will be just fine here with Mai Lee and me,” Mrs. Porter insisted. “Won’t you, dear?”
Lydia managed a little nod and drifted off to sleep.
“Come and have tea,” Mrs. Porter told Lark, and though she spoke kindly, there was an underlying note of command in her voice.
Lark, her energy renewed after the brisk walk to and from the interview with the recalcitrant Mabel, felt restless. She wanted to march right down to the schoolhouse, fling open the door and ring the bell, announcing to all and sundry that classes were resuming now.
There would be no point to that enterprise, of course, since so few of the children—many of whom lived well out of town, along trails and roads buried under snow—could be realistically expected to attend.
So Lark followed Mrs. Porter into her kitchen and resigned herself to sitting down and sipping tea. This was inordinately difficult, since she was besieged by a strange, urgent sense that she needed to prepare for some impending crisis.
Mrs. Porter brought the teapot and the usual elegant cups and saucers to the table. Mai Lee was out on some errand, and they had the place to themselves, though Mr. Porter’s coat, hanging on one of the pegs by the door, neatly brushed and aired, as though he might appear and put it on at any moment, belied the fact.
“Did you speak to Lydia?” the landlady asked, standing to pour tea for both of them and then sitting down. “About Nell Baker’s coming for her, I mean?”
Lark sighed. Toyed with the handle of her teacup. “I asked her if she knew her aunt—though I didn’t say the woman would be on her way to Stone Creek to fetch her as soon as there’s a thaw—and she said she’d never met her. Apparently, Lydia’s father and Miss Baker corresponded.”
“What kind of person do you suppose she is?” Mrs. Porter fretted.
“I wish I knew,” Lark said. Given her druthers, she would have raised Lydia herself, but Miss Baker was a blood relation, the child’s maternal aunt, and as such she would have a legal advantage. “She can’t be worse than Mrs. Fairmont.”
“Mabel Fairmont,” Mrs. Porter said, “is nothing but a trollop.”
“Was it—” Lark paused, bit her lower lip, then made herself ask the question, well aware that contained an implicit accusation. “Was it common knowledge in Stone Creek that Lydia was living in squalor?”
Mrs. Porter straightened her spine, and her gaze was direct. “Poverty is not unusual around here,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that, even though you’ve been a member of our community for a relatively short time. Some of the children in your school don’t have enough to eat, nor shoes or coats, either. We do what we can to help, people like the O’Ballivans and Major Blackstone—and me. But the need is very severe, and then there’s the matter of pride. Most of these little ones would rather starve and go barefoot year-round than accept charity.”
“I really didn’t mean to imply—”
The landlady softened. Patted Lark’s hand. “I know,” she said. Then, after a pause, she went on. “I’ve noticed the quality of your clothes, Lark. Even the banker’s wife doesn’t have such fine things, nor Maddie O’Ballivan, either, and Sam is wealthier than most people think and generous with his wife. Rooming here, living as you do, well—”
Lark resisted an urge to bolt from her chair and flee, thereby forcing an immediate end to the conversation. She didn’t, though, because Mrs. Porter, for all her little prejudices and intrusive ways, had been kind, taking Lark in as a boarder without references, seeing that the school board provided her with lunches she couldn’t afford to provide for herself, and now even providing sanctuary for Lydia.
Wherever she went, and whatever happened to her in the uncertain future, Lark knew she would always be unceasingly grateful to Mrs. Porter for being so generous and helpful. Lark wouldn’t have had the first idea what to do if her landlady had turned Lydia away. Tears burned behind her eyes, just to think of the desperation she would have felt and what might have happened to the child.
“There, now,” Mrs. Porter said, probably misreading the expression on Lark’s face. “You know I hate to pry—” at this, Lark had to hide a smile “—but it’s obvious I’ve struck a nerve. Who are you, Lark? Truly? And what are you doing in Stone Creek, of all places, when you so clearly belong in Boston or Philadelphia or some other fancy city?”
Lark wanted to answer those questions. She yearned to. But she didn’t dare. Her situation was simply too precarious and so was Lydia’s, at least until Nell Baker arrived. “I wish I could tell you,” she said, for that was the best she could do.
To her utter surprise, Mrs. Porter subsided. She’d been leaning forward, watching Lark’s face avidly. Now she sat back and sighed delicately. “Perhaps one day you’ll be able to confide in me. I do know this much about you, though—you are a good person, Lark Morgan. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have stood by that poor little Fairmont girl the way you have.”
“Thank you,” Lark said quietly.
There was a brief, tremulous silence.
Then, glancing at Mr. Porter’s coat and the date circled in red on the calendar, Lark said, “There’s a story behind your husband’s absence, isn’t there?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Mrs. Porter said, and though she’d tossed Lark’s own words back at her, there was no flippancy in her tone or manner. Instead, she looked wistful, as though she truly would like to explain.
Secrets, Lark thought. We all have them.
She certainly did.
Mrs. Porter did.
And so did Rowdy Rhodes. She couldn’t afford to forget that, not for a moment, but it was so perilously easy to forget. Especially when he kissed her.
* * *
BY THE TIME Sam O’Ballivan left the marshal’s office, having conveyed a message from his wife that Rowdy ought to come to supper at their place tomorrow night, along with Lark Morgan, provided the thaw came, of course, Rowdy was practically sweating blood.
He and Sam had made plans to ride out for Flagstaff as early as Sunday morning, to meet up with the converging rangers, and while that was a prospect Rowdy dreaded, it had been nothing compared to his fear that Pappy might stroll into the jailhouse while Sam was there. He’d lived under an alias for a long time, Pappy had, but he was still Payton Yarbro, from the top of his obstinate head right down to the soles of his feet. He’d fooled a lot of people in his time, including himself, but fooling Sam O’Ballivan, now, that was something else again.
“Where’s Pa?” Rowdy asked Gideon, who had been making a simple pot of coffee the whole time Sam was in the office.
“Hiding out in the lean-to,” Gideon said, looking a little shame-faced to say it. Though he didn’t have the time or inclination to pursue the thought just then, Rowdy wondered what it had been like for Gideon, growing up with Pa and Ruby.
Had “Jack Payton” been a different sort of father than Payton Yarbro?
Rowdy sure as hell hoped so.
Gideon moved to warm his hands at the stove, probably more because he was nervous than cold. “He said to let him know when O’Ballivan was gone. Pa, I mean.”
“Let him sit in the lean-to awhile,” Rowdy said, getting his mug off the desk and helping himself to some of Gideon’s coffee. “A little reflection on his ways might do him some good.”
Hesitantly Gideon grinned. “You’re taking Lark—Miss Morgan—to supper at the O’Ballivans’ tomorrow night?”
“If the roads are clear,” Rowdy said, after a restorative sip of very hot coffee. “And if she’s willing to leave Lydia for that long. There are a whole lot of ifs here, Gideon.”
“You like her,” Gideon said, still grinning.
“Of course I like her,” Rowdy replied, after more coffee. “She’s a nice person.”
Gideon’s eyes glowed, and Rowdy would have bet he was wishing he was older, so he might pursue Lark himself. “You’re taking her to the O’Ballivans for supper,” he repeated, good-naturedly stubborn.
“It’s not like it sounds,” Rowdy argued casually.
“We’re both heading to the same place, so it makes sense to travel together.” He thought of the dance coming up Saturday night. He fully intended to go and have Lark on his arm, if he had to drag her out of Mrs. Porter’s house. No doubt his younger brother would have a few things to say about that, too.
Rowdy sighed.
“You should have seen her with that little girl,” Gideon said, turning wistful all of a sudden. “She’d have done practically anything to get her better.”
Rowdy recalled the small grave outside that Flagstaff churchyard. “Tell me about your sister, Gideon,” he said quietly.
Gideon averted his eyes for a moment, looking straight through Pardner like he was a window, then shifted his gaze back to Rowdy’s face. “Rose died when she was only four years old,” he said, his voice gravelly at the memory. “It was my fault.”
Stunned and trying not to show it, Rowdy set his coffee aside on the desk. “How do you figure a thing like that?” he asked. “You must have been pretty young yourself.”
Gideon’s throat worked painfully. “I was six,” he said, remembering. He found a chair, dragged it close to the stove and sat sideways on it, still staring through Pardner. “I was supposed to watch her. Ruby told me to watch her.”
Rowdy debated a moment, then approached and laid one hand on his brother’s shoulder. “What happened?”
Gideon braced his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his palms, his fingers raking through his thick, light-brown hair. “Rose had a kitten,” he said bleakly, his voice muffled and hoarse. “We were playing on the sidewalk in front of the saloon, Rose and me. I got to looking at this horse that was tied up to a hitching post, and while I was doing that, the kitten must have wriggled out of Rose’s hands.” He paused, looked up at Rowdy with such abject misery that Rowdy would have gone back in time and lived that moment for him if he could have. He would have taken what he knew must have come next and all the pain that went with it, and borne it himself. “She chased the kitten into the street before I could stop her,” Gideon went on, forcing the words out. “And she got run down by a wagon.”
“I’m real sorry that happened, Gideon. I’m sorry it happened to Rose, and to you.” And what about Pappy? Rowdy reflected, with a sudden and unaccustomed sorrow. How had the loss of his only daughter, at such a young age, affected him? “But it wasn’t your fault. You were six. If you’d tried to run after her, you probably would have been killed, too.”
Gideon swallowed again, tried for a smile and fell about a mile short of attaining it. “The kitten survived, though,” he said, as if Rowdy hadn’t spoken at all. “Ruby gave it to a rancher’s wife, for a mouser. It’s old now, for a cat, anyhow.”
Rowdy squeezed Gideon’s taut shoulder once before letting go. “You visit Rose’s grave a lot, don’t you?” he asked.
Gideon nodded. “Every day,” he said. “It’s hard, being so far away, but I figure I need to get used to that, if I’m going to be a deputy.”
Rowdy’s throat tightened, and he shoved a hand through his hair. He couldn’t help recalling his last visit to his mother’s grave—she was buried a mile or so from John T.’s resting place. He’d gone to tell her he wasn’t riding with the Yarbros anymore. And there was another grave that came to mind, as well, outside Laramie, Wyoming. There were two people buried in that coffin, one of them younger than Rose.
“I guess a lot of us have a trail of graves behind us,” he mused. “Ones we’d like to go back to but can’t.”
There was another silence.
“You reckon Pa’s all right, out there in that lean-to? It’s got to be cold, and his face probably hurts.” Gideon paused, smiled wanly, maybe at the memory of yesterday’s one-sided brawl, or maybe at some recollection of Rose.
“I’ll go and look in on him,” Rowdy offered quietly, because Gideon was red around the eyes, and probably needed a few minutes to collect himself. And because, suddenly, he needed to know how his pa was faring.
Pappy was sitting on an upturned crate, watching the three horses, Paint, Gideon’s livery-stable mount and his own black gelding, chew on hay.
“Is that ranger gone?” he asked.
“He’s gone,” Rowdy said. “Gideon’s worried about you. Says your face probably hurts.”
“It hurts plenty,” Pappy complained. “Thanks to him. Things have come to a sorry pass when a man’s own son roundhouses him for no reason at all.” But Pappy was nothing if not mercurial. In the next instant, a proud grin cracked the old outlaw’s bruised and swollen face. “He packs a hell of a wallop, though. I’ve gotta say that for him.”
“He told me about Rose,” Rowdy said, taking up a grooming brush for something to occupy his hands and stroking the paint’s back with it. “I’m sorry, Pap—Pa. That must have been a hard thing to get through.”
Payton’s expression changed. He looked away, but not before Rowdy glimpsed the old pain that had long since hardened in his eyes. “She was such a sweet little thing, our Rose. Full of mischief and bright as could be. It like to have killed Ruby, losing her, and I wasn’t good for much of anything for a year afterward. Gideon was the strong one, but he’s gone to that grave practically every day since. I wish he’d leave off from that.”
“He blames himself for what happened,” Rowdy said. “Did you know that?”
Payton looked glum. Nodded. “Ruby was wild with grief. She said some things to the boy that she shouldn’t have—you know how people do when they’re hurting.”
Rowdy had to clear his throat before answering. “I know how they do,” he confirmed. When his young wife, Chessie, had perished, and their two-year-old son, Wesley, had gone with her, both of them falling sick of a fever, Rowdy’s mother-in-law had told him at the funeral that it was God’s wrath. He’d been an outlaw, and Chessie had sinned by marrying him. And they’d both been smitten by the mighty hand of the Lord.
Rowdy didn’t figure the Lord was anywhere near that mean-spirited, but some of His followers surely were.
“I’ve got to get out of here, boy,” Payton said, jolting Rowdy out of a recollection he usually avoided. “I didn’t rob that train. But I’m going to be blamed for it—you know I am. You have to get me a fresh horse or let me take this paint of yours.”
“I won’t stop you from going,” Rowdy said grimly, “but you’ll have to take your own mount. Even if you got out of Stone Creek without being seen, folks would notice I was riding a different horse, and they’d wonder why. When folks wonder, they start gathering into clusters to try and work it through.”
“You’d think of something.”
“No, Pa,” Rowdy said. “Anyhow, I like this horse. It wouldn’t be the same without him.”
“No,” Payton growled, back to his usual obstreperous self. “It wouldn’t be the same, because I’d be miles from here, a free man, instead of being hauled up in chains by a bunch of Rangers.” He stood, dusted off his pants, which were actually Rowdy’s. “Samson can’t make it to Mexico, Rowdy,” he went on, patting the dark gelding. “He’ll be fit in a week or ten days, but I can’t wait that long. You know I can’t.”
Rowdy sighed. It would solve so many problems, for both of them, if Pa just vanished. But it wasn’t going to help Gideon much, or Ruby, either. “All right,” he heard himself say. “Take the paint. But I want you to leave him at the livery stable in Haven, Pa. You can buy another horse there and cross the river into Refugio—it’s a little town just the other side of the border. Once you’re across, you’re on your own.”
Payton considered the idea. “You’d come down there, when you could, and fetch back your horse?”
Rowdy sighed. “That’s what I intend to do,” he replied, still brushing Paint. “And if you try to steal him, I’ll track you to the far ends of hell. You’ve got my word on that.”
“Sounds like you care more for this horse than your old pa,” Payton lamented.
“I’d trust him a sight farther than I would you,” Rowdy said. Damn, he hated to lose that horse, even for a few months. And it was a long trail down to Haven and back, one Pardner couldn’t be asked to undertake again.
Explaining the black gelding wouldn’t be easy, either. Once Paint and Pappy were gone, he’d say he’d swapped with some cowpoke passing through, but folks were bound to ask themselves, and each other, why he’d done it. Samson was aging, like Pappy, but Paint was in his prime, and Rowdy loved him almost as much as he did Pardner.
For a moment, he rested his forehead against the gelding’s neck, saying a silent goodbye.
Pappy, meanwhile, slapped Rowdy on the back and made a stab at fatherly concern. “I’ll leave the horse in Haven,” he said. “You’ve got my word on it.”
Rowdy glared at him. “He’d better be waiting when I get there, Pa,” he said. “Because I’ll stake you out on an anthill, naked and slathered in honey, if he isn’t.”
“I believe you,” Pappy said, and he looked like he did.
“When do you plan on leaving?” Rowdy asked.
“Tonight, if this thaw holds,” Pappy replied. He looked earnest now, even sincere, and his voice was low and quiet. “You look after Gideon. See he goes to college when the time comes. Ruby and me, we’ve already paid for it, and he can earn his keep doing odd jobs around the school. Don’t let him play deputy past time, or fall in with bad companions.”
“Bad companions,” Rowdy repeated, raw because his horse was going away and he wasn’t. Because Chessie and Wes were dead before their time, and little Rose, too, and because innocent children like Lydia had stepmothers like Mabel Fairmont. “Now, that’s almost funny, Pa, coming from you.”
“You’re just bitter,” Pappy accused, disgruntled again. “And it ain’t very becoming, either.”
“You’re damn right I’m bitter,” Rowdy replied, but he was already weary of sparring with his pa. His mother had been right, years ago, when she’d said there was “no salvation” in arguing with Payton Yarbro. The poor woman, she’d seen salvation everywhere she looked, it seemed, but as far as Rowdy could discern, she’d never quite reached it. Just the same, he wished he’d had the same gift.
He’d glimpsed his mother’s true salvation once, though—in John T. Rhodes. Trouble was, both of them had been too upright to take what was offered them.
“Anything you want me to say to your brothers, should I cross paths with them?” Payton asked, eager to ingratiate himself in any way he could.
“Yeah,” Rowdy answered. “Tell them not to rob trains.”
* * *
ON FRIDAY MORNING, just after dawn, Lark awakened to a world so glittery and fresh-skyed that she wanted to sing with sudden joy.
The snow had softened to slush.
Exuberant at the weather change, and because she knew now that Autry had not crushed the music out of her soul after all, she crept out of the bedroom behind the kitchen, careful not to awaken Lydia, and found Mrs. Porter and Mai Lee already up and around. Mai Lee was unwrapping a parcel at the table, while Mrs. Porter poured copious amounts of what looked and smelled like rum into a huge bowl of batter.
“Mr. Porter liked lots of rum in his cake,” she explained.
Lark was drawn to the package. “What’s this?” she asked, drawing up alongside Mai Lee to look. Inside the sturdy brown-paper wrapping were two little flannel nightgowns and two equally tiny woolen dresses, one brown, one dark blue. Mai Lee must have purchased them the day before, when she was out of the house for several hours.
For a moment, seeing the dark, practical colors, Lark was reminded of boarding school, and some of the delight she’d felt on waking seeped out of her.
“For little girl,” Mai Lee said, pleased. “Mrs. Porter, she pay. Put on account at mercantile.”
Lark’s gaze shot to Mrs. Porter, who lowered her eyes modestly.
“It was my Christian duty,” the landlady said, blushing. “Nothing more.”
“It was a very kind thing to do,” Lark said, very softly.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Porter said, sounding brisk now as she went back to preparing her rum cake. “Mr. Porter always maintained that charity begins at home. ‘Ellie Lou,’ he would say, ‘we must see to those less fortunate than ourselves.’”
Lark wanted to hug Mrs. Porter in gratitude, but she sensed that the other woman would not welcome such a demonstration, so she simply said, “Thank you.”
“You’d better hurry,” Mrs. Porter responded, with a little sniff. “You don’t want to be late for school.” At Lark’s hesitation, she added, “Mai Lee and I will tend to Lydia. And you’ve got your supper at the O’Ballivans’ tonight, don’t forget. The road out to their ranch will be muddy, to be sure, but probably no strain on Sam’s team and wagon.”
Lark’s swooping heart rose skyward again at the reminder of her upcoming visit to Sam and Maddie’s place. Until Mrs. Porter offered to care for Lydia in her absence, she’d been resigned to sending her regrets. “You’re sure you won’t mind—after all, Lydia still needs a great deal of care.”
“You will go to that supper,” Mrs. Porter said, cordially firm, “because I want to hear all about it when you get back. What was served. Whether there’s real china, or tin plates, like Sam would have used if he was there by himself. What Maddie’s done to that ranch house since she and Sam moved in. Are there curtains on the windows? And especially whether or not she plays Abigail Blackstone’s spinet.”
“Abigail Blackstone?” Lark frowned, searching her memory, but she didn’t recall ever hearing the name before.
“The major’s daughter,” Mrs. Porter clarified. Another little sniff followed. “She died very tragically. Abigail was the dearest girl, though she never came to church.”
Lark’s heart took another dive, steep enough to leave her breathless, but she recovered quickly. She had to, for she had a long day ahead of her, classes to teach, followed by the journey to Sam and Maddie’s ranch and an evening of gaiety.
She hurried upstairs to her old room to wash and dress and pin up her hair. She would wear her blue silk frock, she decided, even though it was unsuited for teaching. There might not be time to come home and change before Sam came to fetch her after school.
Forty-five minutes later, she unlocked the schoolhouse door, went inside, humming a song she’d once sung full-voiced, built a fire and proceeded to ring the bell, putting all her weight into pulling the heavy length of rope dangling from the little belfry.
To her disappointment, only four students came to school.
Gideon.
Susan and Mary Sommerville, whose father was the local undertaker.
And Roland Franks.
Roland glowered defiantly at Lark as he entered the schoolhouse, stomped over to her desk and set down her lard-tin lunch pail and lesson books with a condemnatory thump.
She smiled at him, determined to smooth his ruffled feathers and get him to wade through his McGuffy’s Reader again. “Roland,” she said cheerfully, “I’m so glad you changed your mind about coming back to school.”
“I still think you ought to go to the dance with me,” Roland said, unappeased.
Gideon sat up a little straighter in the chair behind a desk that was much too small for him. Before, his attention had wandered; now he was obviously listening.
“I had already accepted an invitation from Marshal Rhodes when you asked me,” Lark lied patiently. “And, besides, it really wouldn’t be right for you and me to socialize. After all, I’m your teacher. Such things simply aren’t done.”
Roland’s neck flushed crimson. “A teacher down by Phoenix married my cousin Albert,” he informed her. “Albert was in fifth grade at the time.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lark saw Gideon frown.
“Be that as it may,” Lark said warmly, “I’m not interested in marriage, Roland—to you or anyone else.”
“Not even that marshal?” Roland asked suspiciously.
Gideon sat up even straighter, and a little smile, reminiscent of Rowdy’s, quirked at the corner of his mouth.
“Not even the marshal,” Lark said. Then some imp of the perverse made her say, “I did hear that Mabel Fairmont was looking for a husband, though.”
“Maybe I’ll see if she wants to go to the dance with me,” Roland said, ruminating. The change in his countenance was even more unsettling than his previous aspect had been.
“Roland, I was merely being—well, I shouldn’t have spoken so lightly of such a serious matter. Mrs. Fairmont just lost her husband, and it would be highly improper to ask her to a dance when she’s barely begun to mourn—”
As if Mabel Fairmont intended to waste any time mourning.
“I’ve got to go,” Roland said decisively.
The Sommerville girls twittered.
Gideon watched the exchange between Lark and Roland with pensive amusement.
Roland strode out of the schoolhouse, bent on his mission.
Lark set her elbows on the top of her desk, buried her face in her hands and groaned aloud.
Within five minutes, Roland Franks would be pounding on Mrs. Fairmont’s front door, with marriage on his mind.
What had she done?