CHAPTER 10
IT WAS ALONG toward evening when Rowdy came.
Lark, sitting in the rocking chair close by the cookstove, with a quilt-bundled Lydia sleeping in her lap, knew it was him by the way he knocked.
Mrs. Porter had gone to bed, worn-out from the long night just past and the wearying day that followed. Mai Lee was off somewhere, probably helping Hon Sing with saloon duties neglected during the crisis with Lydia.
“Come in,” Lark called.
Rowdy opened the door and stepped over the threshold, Pardner with him. And Lark saw the grim tidings in his face, even before he voiced them.
“How is she?” he asked, nodding to indicate Lydia, as he hung up his hat.
“Weak,” Lark said, “but she’ll recover, thanks to Hon Sing.”
Rowdy took off his gloves, stuffed them into a pocket in his coat, shed the garment, and laid it over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
“What about you, Lark?” he asked, very quietly, stopping at a little distance and watching her with eyes that would see right through any lie she told. “You look pretty done in yourself. Have you had anything to eat? Slept a little, maybe?”
She managed a thin smile, shook her head. Waited.
“Well,” he said philosophically, “neither have I.”
“Rowdy,” Lark said.
“No,” he sighed, gazing down at Lydia’s still, sleeping form. “The doctor didn’t make it home.”
Lark closed her eyes, held Lydia a little more tightly. “Where is the—where is he now?”
“At the undertaker’s,” Rowdy answered. “I took him to his house first, but Mrs. Fairmont didn’t want him laid out there.” He sighed again. “I reckon I can’t blame her.”
“You’ve gathered, I suppose, that Mabel Fairmont isn’t the most dedicated mother?” Lark’s eyes burned. What was Lydia going to do? Was there a family somewhere—grandparents, perhaps, or aunts and uncles? Anyone who might take her in?
“I gathered that much, all right,” Rowdy said.
Pardner, sitting as close to Lark’s chair as he could without being in her lap, gazed mournfully at Lydia. Nuzzled her cheek with his snout.
Lydia stirred, smiled a little, tried to stroke the dog’s head. Murmured a greeting.
Meanwhile, Rowdy went to the sink, rolled up his shirtsleeves and pumped water to wash his hands. That finished, he headed for the pantry and came out with a bowl of eggs and a loaf of bread.
“Supper,” he explained.
Supper. Lark was reminded of the plans she’d made with Maddie, to visit the O’Ballivan ranch on Friday. Though she had barely a hope of getting there, it made her feel a little better to imagine being a guest at Sam and Maddie’s table, speaking of pleasant things. After the meal was over, Maddie might even be persuaded to play the spinet.
Lark ached for music.
Rowdy cracked four eggs into a bowl, whipped them to a froth with a fork and set a skillet on the stove to heat. The lard he added smelled good as it melted.
“Do you think there’s more snow coming?” Lark asked with a note of dread in her voice, starting to come out of her stupor. For once she was too warm—the kitchen, kept hot because of Lydia, felt close and stuffy.
“I don’t know,” Rowdy said, slicing bread and then forking it into the bowl of beaten eggs. “The roads will be impassible for a while, though. No sign of a thaw, as far as I can tell.”
Lark studied him, intrigued. Had there been a hint of relief in his voice, when he’d spoken of the roads?
“The ground will be too hard for a—” she paused, looked down at Lydia, who was nodding off again “—burial.”
“Do you think she’d eat something?” Rowdy asked, again indicating the child.
Lark shook her head. “She can take broth, that’s all.”
Rowdy set the egg-coated slices of bread in the pan, one by one. They sizzled, and sent up an aroma that made Lark’s empty stomach grumble.
“Gideon told me you put in a rough night,” he said.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help, Lark.”
“You had your hands full,” Lark replied. He’d never know, if she could help it, how desperately she’d longed for him, during those dark and endless hours of uncertainty.
He turned the frying bread—by then Lark’s mouth was watering—and then pushed the skillet to the back of the stove.
When he approached Lark, stood in front of her chair, looking down into her eyes, her heart skittered. Gently he took Lydia from her arms and, his every step closely supervised by Pardner, carried her into the adjoining room.
All Lark’s limbs had gone numb, sitting in the chair for so long, holding Lydia. She stood, and swayed slightly before regaining her equilibrium. Then she followed Rowdy.
He was tucking Lydia under the covers, quietly promising to build a fire on the nearby hearth right away.
The sight struck Lark to the heart.
One day Rowdy would make a fine father.
Lydia grabbed at his hand when he would have straightened and turned away.
“My papa?” she whispered. “Did he come home? You promised you’d find him if he didn’t come home—”
Lark held her breath.
Rowdy hesitated, indecision visible in the line of his shoulders and the set of his head. “I found him, honey,” he said sadly.
“He died, didn’t he?” Lydia asked, brave and small and clinging to Rowdy’s hand with both her own.
Rowdy didn’t answer right away. He was probably weighing his words, trying to find ones that would soften the blow, realizing there were none.
“Your papa’s gone,” he said. “I’m sorry about that, Lydia—sorrier than I can ever say.”
Lydia sighed, released his hands. “I need to sleep now,” she told Rowdy, as Lark watched through tear-blurred eyes. “Can Pardner get up on the bed with me?”
Rowdy’s voice was hoarse. “Sure he can,” he told her.
Pardner looked questioningly up at Rowdy.
“Take care of your little friend, here, will you, boy?” Rowdy asked.
At a gesture from Rowdy, Pardner bounded onto the mattress, huddled close against Lydia’s side, sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.
Lydia gave a little shudder, perhaps struggling to hold back tears of grief, flung a small arm across Pardner’s furry side and slept.
Lark meant to step back out of the doorway before Rowdy saw her, but she didn’t manage it. Her mind gave the order, but her befuddled body couldn’t seem to translate it into action.
Rowdy’s gaze collided with hers as he turned to start the fire he’d promised Lydia, and his blue eyes were bleak with sorrow.
“I’ll set the table,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
The fried bread was lukewarm when they sat down to eat, Rowdy and Lark, alone in Mrs. Porter’s kitchen. Even so, with butter and a little raspberry jam, the stuff was delicious.
They said little, during the meal. Both of them were too tired to talk.
“Do you reckon I should have made something for Mrs. Porter?” Rowdy asked, later, while he was making coffee and Lark was clearing the table.
Lark shook her head. “She specifically said she didn’t want to be disturbed. Saturday is Mr. Porter’s birthday, and she plans to bake a rum cake. Evidently, the process is quite involved.”
Rowdy looked mystified. “Mr. Porter? I didn’t know there was a Mr. Porter.”
Lark stood very close to him and lowered her voice. “His things are all over the house, as though he’ll be back at any moment, and there’s the rum cake, but surely he must be, well, dead.”
“Mysterious,” Rowdy said, with a grin. “Like you.”
Lark ignored that, too tired to engage in another battle of wits. And a part of her—the foolish, reckless, and very lonely part—would have liked to tell Rowdy Rhodes all her secrets and then demand to know his in return.
“You’d better go, Rowdy. I appreciate all you’ve done, but you’re about to fall over.”
A grin quirked the corner of his mouth. Then he cleared his throat eloquently. “I believe I’d like to have some of this coffee before I go,” he said. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
Lark couldn’t help reflecting on what a good thing it would have been to lie down next to Rowdy and sleep in his arms. But even if convention had permitted a schoolmarm such a wanton luxury—which it certainly didn’t—Lydia and Pardner were occupying the only bed on the first floor. There was, quite simply, no place to commit that particular sin with any grace.
Rowdy curved a finger under Lark’s chin, lifted and placed a soft, brief kiss on her mouth. She wondered if he’d somehow known what she was thinking, and the possibility, remote as it was, made her blush.
“Maybe I’ll go after all,” he said. “Get some rest.”
She wanted to plead with him to stay, and shamelessly, too, but she knew that wouldn’t be wise. So she nodded and permitted herself the indulgence of laying both her hands against his strong chest, just for a moment.
He smoothed her hair, which was tumbling from its pins and badly in need of brushing. She probably looked like a madwoman, just escaped from some asylum.
“Good night, Miss Morgan,” he said, without the mocking lilt he usually employed when he addressed her thus.
“Will you be leaving Pardner with us?” she asked.
Something like pain moved in his eyes, gone so quickly that it might never have been there at all. “Best not,” he said. “You’ll want to stay close to Lydia tonight, and there won’t be room for all three of you in that bed.”
She nodded again, and Rowdy gave a low whistle.
Pardner padded in from the next room, yawning.
Moments later he and Rowdy were gone.
Lark left the dishes for Mai Lee to wash when she returned, went into the bedroom she’d coveted with an unholy yearning, added wood to the fire Rowdy had built earlier, and pensively stripped to her bloomers and camisole.
Turning back the covers carefully, she crawled into bed beside Lydia, shut her eyes and tumbled into an instant and profound sleep.
* * *
“MAYBE THAT CHINAMAN could stick a bunch of those needles in Pa, so his nose would stop hurting,” Gideon speculated the next morning, as he and Rowdy and Pardner approached the back door of the jailhouse, where the old man had spent the night. “I shouldn’t have hit him so hard.”
Rowdy smiled. “I wouldn’t mind sticking a few needles in his hide myself,” he said, thinking of the good set of clothes his pa had stolen from him and then ruined by bleeding all over them. Then there was the horse Pappy had almost helped himself to and the money pouch. “As for the sucker-punch, he had that coming.”
For a lot more reasons than horse thieving, Rowdy thought.
They went inside.
Pa was ready with a list of complaints.
The fire had gone out.
He was hungry.
He had to piss like a racehorse.
Rowdy picked up the cell key and let his father out of jail.
“Your face,” he remarked, taking in Pa’s bruised cheek and swollen nose, “looks like somebody stomped on it.”
Pa pushed past Rowdy, tossing Gideon an accusing glare, and made for the back door, probably heading for the outhouse.
“What if he steals your horse and runs away?” Gideon asked, looking worried as he opened the stove, bent on getting a fire going.
Rowdy grinned. “I’ll send my deputy after him,” he said.
Gideon flushed. “I know I’m not really a deputy,” he told Rowdy. “You just said that because you didn’t want me chasing after Pa on my own.”
“You caught a man in the act of committing a crime and detained him,” Rowdy said. “That makes you a deputy.”
“I shouldn’t have hit him,” Gideon repeated.
“Maybe not,” Rowdy answered. “But, the way you tell it, he meant to lead a horse over you, since you were blocking his way out of the lean-to. Short of shooting the old coot, I don’t see what else you could have done.”
“He said I’d never make an outlaw. That I don’t have the stomach for it.”
“That’s a good thing, Gideon.”
“I guess I didn’t really think about what it meant, being an outlaw. Folks always chasing you, and a lot of hard riding and sleeping on the ground—”
“That and more,” Rowdy said, taking up the coffeepot and heading for the door.
The weather was a little warmer, though the snow was still deep.
He’d just pumped water into the coffeepot when he scanned the street and saw Sam O’Ballivan riding toward him from one direction and Mabel Fairmont picking her way along on foot from the other.
He could deal with Mrs. Fairmont.
He’d hoped for a little more time—and for his pa to be long gone—before he had to face O’Ballivan, though.
He could just imagine the conversation they were about to have.
There’s been another train robbery, Sam would say.
Yes, Rowdy might answer, and I let the most likely suspect out of my jail five minutes ago. His name’s Payton Yarbro. Did I ever mention that he’s my pa, and I rode with him for years?
Mabel reached him first. “I have just been to see my husband at the undertaker’s,” she said, “and he’s bent. Poor Herbert is going to have to be buried sideways.”
“I’m sure there’s a solution, Mrs. Fairmont,” Rowdy said. Most likely the undertaker would have to break poor Herbert’s bones or sever a few tendons to straighten him out for the coffin, but of course it wouldn’t have been mannerly to say so.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sam was drawing nearer. He wasn’t riding with any urgency, but he did look mighty serious.
“I’m not meant to live alone,” Mabel said sweetly. “I’ll need another husband. Are you single, Marshal Rhodes?”
Rowdy stared at her, forgetting all about Sam. He’d only met the woman once, and he’d disliked her instantly. Now, looking at her in the daylight, he was even less impressed. She was skinny, with dark hair and shrewd, greedy little eyes that seemed to pull perceptively at everything she saw.
And right now, she was seeing Rowdy.
“It’s a little soon to be thinking about getting married again, isn’t it?”
She bridled a little. “If you’re worried that you’ll have to raise Lydia,” she said huffily, “you needn’t trouble yourself. I’ve sent a wire to Nell Baker, down in Phoenix, and she’ll be on her way here to fetch that little brat as soon as the roads are clear.”
Well, there was some good news, anyway. Lydia had someone who cared enough to travel all the way from Phoenix to collect her.
“You’ve been busy this morning,” Rowdy said dryly.
Sam was dismounting, near the hitching rail.
Mabel didn’t seem to notice him. “If you don’t want to marry me, just say so.”
“I don’t want to marry you,” Rowdy complied.
Sam approached. Touched the brim of his hat to Mabel, though his gaze was fixed on Rowdy.
“I was sorry to learn of your sad loss, Mrs. Fairmont,” Sam said.
Mabel didn’t even acknowledge the man’s condolences. She just gave a frustrated snort, hoisted her skirts and turned to pick her way angrily across the road, stepping high because of the snow.
“You thinking of getting married, Rowdy?” Sam asked, both of them watching her go. Sam seemed mildly amused, but Rowdy was seething.
“No,” he snapped.
The irritation subsided, though, as he recalled the probable reason for Sam’s ride into town, which must have been no mean enterprise, given the state of the roads.
Rowdy let out his breath. By now, his pa was probably back from the outhouse. He was a famous train robber, almost legendary—most likely, there’d be dime novels written about him anytime now. And there was a good chance that Sam, being an experienced lawman, would recognize Payton from some sketch he’d seen in the course of his duties, or even a written description.
And Pappy might just be spiteful enough to throw himself in front of the train, so to speak, just for the pleasure of seeing his next-to-youngest son locked up in his own jail.
Yes, sir. Pappy would love that.
Rowdy sighed, remembered the coffeepot he’d just filled at the pump. “Come on inside, Sam,” he said. “It’s cold out here.”
* * *
AFTER DRESSING as warmly as she could, Lark left Lydia in Mai Lee and Mrs. Porter’s care and set out for the Fairmont house. No one answered her knock, and she was wondering if Mabel might be inside, stunned with grief, when a voice called tartly from the road.
“What do you want?”
Lark turned and saw Mabel striding toward her. Before she could say anything in response, Mabel spoke again.
“If you think you’re bringing that girl back here,” she said, “you’re wrong. Miss Nell Baker is on the way to get her, and you can just keep her until then!”
Lark’s mouth fell open, and her temper flared. The woman is in mourning, she reminded herself. Be kind. “I was just coming to tell you that Lydia is better, and to ask for some of her things, since it wouldn’t be prudent to move her just yet,” she said moderately.
“Well,” snapped Mabel, “come in, then.”
She shoved her way past Lark and opened the door.
Lark followed her over the threshold. She’d never been to the Fairmont house before, so she’d had no expectations, but if she had, they wouldn’t have matched what she saw.
There was almost no furniture in the front room, and the floors were bare of rugs and dirty. Discarded clothing—or was it bedding of some sort?—lay piled in a corner, and something moved inside the heap.
“Go ahead,” Mabel taunted. “Look till your eyes are full.”
Lark blushed. She had been staring, and that was rude. “If I could just have Lydia’s nightgown, and perhaps a warm dress—”
Mabel laughed and, quiet as it was, the sound had a screeching quality to it. “She doesn’t have much, and what she does have might as well be burned. That’s what snooty Nell Baker will do. Burn it all and tell the whole world how her dear brother-in-law, the doctor, married a slattern after her sainted sister died and brought up his precious child in a pigsty!”
Lark bit her lower lip, still reining in her temper, still trying to decide how best to respond. “Mrs. Fairmont, I know you’re very upset over your husband’s death, but—”
Mabel didn’t let her finish. “In there,” she said, jabbing a thumb toward one of two inside doorways. “That’s where Lydia sleeps.”
Just the other day Lark had walked Lydia home from school, and the child had rushed in to ask for last night’s soup bone, so she could give it to Pardner. The recollection made the backs of Lark’s eyes sting, and a lump formed in her throat.
What kind of teacher was she? She’d never dreamed the child was living like this.
Lydia was always cheerful, her face washed, her hair neatly braided. If her clothes were a little shabby, well, many of the other children wore hand-me-downs and patched garments, too. Most of them probably didn’t even put on shoes until the weather turned cold, and often they’d already been worn out by an older sibling before the new owner inherited them.
When Lark didn’t move, Mabel flounced through the indicated doorway and came out a few moments later with an untidy bundle in her arms. She thrust the things at Lark.
“Here,” she said sourly. “It’s what she has. Write it up in the newspaper. Have posters printed.”
Lark barely heard her. Dr. Fairmont must have been the one to care for Lydia; it certainly hadn’t been this impossible, wretchedly unhappy woman.
“You can leave now,” Mabel said.
“Mrs. Fairmont, what are you going to do?” Lark asked. Mabel’s surliness surely stemmed from shock over her husband’s sudden death. And perhaps she was subject to melancholia, and that was how the house had fallen into such a state. She might be ashamed to let anyone, especially her stepdaughter’s teacher, see the place, and therefore she was prickly. “How will you support yourself?”
“I’ll marry somebody,” Mabel answered blithely. “I already tried for a new husband, just this morning, but he figures he’s too good for me, that Rowdy Rhodes. I don’t know who he thinks he is. Some drifter, just riding into town with a dog sharing his saddle—”
Lark fought a strange desire to smile. Suddenly, despite all the struggles and the sorrows and the fear, she felt almost elated. “You proposed to Marshal Rhodes?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mabel said petulantly, “and he practically spit in my face.”
Lark bit the inside of her lip and tried to look sympathetic. “I’d better get back to Lydia,” she said. “Thank you, Mrs. Fairmont, and if there’s anything I can do—”
“You can get out of here and leave me alone,” Mabel snapped. “I just lost my husband, you know.”
“I know,” Lark said mildly.
And she left.
* * *
WHEN ROWDY AND SAM stepped inside the jailhouse, Gideon was there, but Pappy was nowhere to be seen. Rowdy felt a curious mixture of relief and anxiety.
Where was the old reprobate?
Riding away on Rowdy’s good horse?
Had he taken the money pouch and the saddlebags after all?
Gideon cleared his throat and put out his hand to Sam. “I’m Gideon Rhodes,” he said, without so much as a hitch in his delivery. “Rowdy’s my brother.”
“Sam O’Ballivan,” Sam said. “Glad to meet you.” He must have noticed the slightly bent badge pinned to Gideon’s shirt pocket, but if he did, he didn’t say so.
Rowdy set the coffeepot on the stove, measured in some ground beans and spoke as calmly as he could. “Gideon,” he said, “why don’t you take Pardner out back for a little while?”
Gideon looked mutinous for a second or so, but he was a bright kid. He finally nodded and excused himself. Patted a thigh smartly so Pardner would follow.
And as soon as the dog and the boy were gone, Sam said the words Rowdy had anticipated he would.
“There’s been another train robbery.”
Rowdy kept his expression impassive. “When?” he asked.
“Day before yesterday,” Sam answered. “I just got the telegram this morning. The man who brought it to me said you’d spent the night out in that blizzard, looking for Dr. Fairmont.”
“I guess I didn’t look fast enough,” Rowdy said, and the rueful note in his voice was real. The doc had probably been only a few years older than he was, and despite a bad choice of brides, he hadn’t deserved to die so early.
“Let it go, Rowdy,” Sam said. “You can’t save them all.” He sighed. “Learned that the hard way myself.”
Rowdy shoved some wood into the stove, hoping he’d get a chance to take a gulp or two of the coffee before he had to rush off in pursuit of outlaws he didn’t want to find. Pappy was probably racing for Mexico, and Rowdy planned on heading in the opposite direction.
He didn’t like doing things this way, though. Didn’t like accepting pay for rangering that might go undone, and he surely didn’t like lying to Sam, even if it was only by omission.
Especially not Sam.
Sam O’Ballivan had picked him out of a crowd, standing in front of the jailhouse down in Haven, and deputized him on the spot. Given him a badge and the first honest work he’d done in a long while, guarding a prisoner accused of a brutal murder.
Sam had trusted Rowdy, with no cause to do so.
“I guess you want me to track those train robbers,” he said, resigned.
Fortunately, Sam seemed to take that resignation for plain weariness, but it was hard to tell with him. He’d gone to Haven and convinced everybody but Maddie that he was a schoolmaster, when he was really an Arizona Ranger, on the trail of a pack of outlaws that made Pappy look like a choir leader.
No one who knew Sam O’Ballivan for more than five minutes would risk underestimating him.
“There are a slew of rangers coming into Flagstaff,” Sam said, in answer to a statement Rowdy had almost forgotten he’d made. “Once the trail is a little clearer between here and there, we’ll join them.”
“Any idea where we ought to start looking?”
Sam considered the question, considered Rowdy, too, but his expression was typically unreadable.
The coffee began to perk.
Rowdy’s mouth watered, even as his heartbeat speeded up and something coiled in his belly, the old readiness to either fight or run like hell.
“I figure if we find Payton Yarbro,” Sam said, at long last, “we’ll have solved the problem.”