4

There was a man passed out cold in the doorway of Foster’s Saddle and Leather Shop.

The drunk didn’t surprise Brett. As in any other western town, Saturday night was the time to press boot to brass and bend the elbow. Already, he’d spotted two men who were three sheets to the wind. By the sound of the off-key singing drifting from the saloons on the opposite side of the Dead Line, others were well on the way to oblivion.

Brett wouldn’t have given the drunk a second glance had he not recognized the name on the weathered sign hanging from the building’s false front.

A closer look was enough to identify the man slumped in the recessed doorway sawing logs as none other than Frank T. Foster, jilted bridegroom and owner of the shop. Only now he looked as forlorn as a discarded toy, or maybe even something the cat had dragged in. Tonight, the man with steel knuckles sure didn’t look like he could harm a fly. Not unless the insect succumbed to the rank smell of whiskey.

Brett hesitated. If he had the sense God gave a gnat, he’d walk away and never look back. If only he didn’t feel responsible for the man’s plight! If the town scuttlebutt was right, Miss Denver would have nothing more to do with her former fiancé. Lord knows, had he been in Foster’s shoes, he might have been tempted to cozy up to a bottle or two himself. Like it or not, he’d created this mess; it was now up to him to make things right.

Stooping, he gave Foster a good shake. The man kept snoring but otherwise didn’t stir. Brett straightened and glanced around. Not a single soul was within shouting distance. At least no one in any condition to help him. Wasn’t that just fine and dandy? That meant either leaving Foster where he was or hauling the man up the stairs to the second-floor living quarters himself.

As tempted as Brett was to mind his own business, he couldn’t in good conscience do so. Had it not been for him, Foster would be married by now and wouldn’t be sleeping off a bender in a crummy doorway.

Recalling the devastated look on Miss Denver’s face, Brett clenched his jaw. Like it or not, he felt compelled to do something. To make it up to her. To make it right.

Giving the staircase a measuring glance, he grimaced. Fourteen steps led to the second floor. Fourteen very steep and very narrow steps.

Since there didn’t seem to be any way around it, he rolled up his sleeves. Rubbing his hands together, he turned the prone body over. Foster sputtered, and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Brett heaved the man off the ground and hoisted him over his shoulder. Frank’s head flopped against Brett’s back like that of a rag doll, his arms dangling past Brett’s waist.

Knees threatening to buckle beneath the deadweight, Brett staggered toward the stairs.

By the time he reached the upstairs landing, he was out of breath, his forehead slick with sweat. Fortunately, the door to the apartment was ajar, and he kicked it open with his foot. The room was dark except for the soft glow of gaslight streaming through the dusty windows.

After depositing Frank in a heap on the sofa, Brett fumbled to light the gas lamp on the table in front of the window. The flame sputtered before settling into a steady glow. Two wing chairs flanked a single sofa and a low table piled high with issues of the Police Gazette. Clothes were scattered about the room, tossed over the backs of chairs and the sofa and heaped on the floor in little piles.

Brett opened a window, but even the cool night air couldn’t erase the stale smell of half-eaten food left on the table to rot.

It hardly seemed like the kind of place a man would bring a bride. But then, maybe the couple hadn’t planned on living there after the wedding.

He reached into his pocket for the bag of caramels, hoping the candy would make the sour smell more bearable. Only two were left. Just as he pulled one out of the bag, something floated to the floor. It was a slip of paper. Bending to reach it, he popped the caramel in his mouth.

He unfolded the paper and read the note written in flowery script.

Leaving town would be good for your health.

A vision of flaming-red hair and big, blue eyes came to mind, sparking a smile. Well, now. Either the lady was worried about his safety, or she had a sense of humor. He doubted she meant him any real harm. At least, he hoped not.

Slipping the scrap of paper into his leather vest pocket, he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and surveyed the room before heading for the kitchen. He struck a match and held it up until he spotted a lamp next to the cookstove. Blowing out the flame before it burned his fingers, he then struck another match and lit the smoke-stained wick.

The kitchen was in no better condition. The sink and counters were piled high with dirty dishes.

He circled the room, opening and shutting cabinet doors. He finally located a package of Arbuckles’ Ariosa Coffee in the pantry. He found the coffeepot in a lower cabinet, but no clean cups.

While the coffee perked, he washed out a cup and filled a bowl with cold water. He then walked back into the parlor and splashed water on the man’s face, hoping to bring him out of his stupor. “Come on, Foster. Wake up.”

Foster groaned and muttered something beneath his breath, showering Brett with the vile smell of whiskey. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Brett made him sit up. “Yeah, well, same to you, fella.”

The sorrowful excuse for a human being in front of him made Brett grimace. It would have been a whole lot easier to let Foster sleep it off, but Brett couldn’t bring himself to do that. Somehow, he had to make up to Miss Denver for the terrible wrong he’d done. The only way to make that happen was to get her and Foster back together, and that’s what he intended to do.

God help him.

It took nearly two hours and two pots of coffee before Foster could sit unaided. He looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin the color of cold ashes.

Groaning, Foster rubbed his forehead. “Leave me alone,” he slurred. “Lust leave me alone.”

“It’s too late for that,” Brett said. “Like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

Foster squinted through bloodshot eyes. “Why? Whatya want?”

“Two things.” Brett dug into his pocket for a photograph mounted on a card. The picture taken at his sister’s wedding wasn’t a good one, but it was the only one he had of Foster One. “Do you know this man?”

Even though Brett held the photograph no more than a nose-length away, Foster Two still had trouble focusing. “No.”

“Are you sure? His name is also Frank Foster. He’s not a relative? A cousin? A long-lost brother?”

“Sever naw the man in my life.”

Sighing, Brett slipped the photograph back in his pocket. Another dead end.

Foster regarded him like a cat regarding a mouse. “You…you said there were two things you wanted.”

“I want to make things right. Between you and Miss Denver, I mean.”

Foster’s squinty red eyes suddenly flashed in recognition. “Hey, you’re the one who caused the problem in the pirst flace. Why, you…” He struggled to get to his feet but was still too drunk to do anything but fall back against the sofa cushions in defeat.

Heaving a sigh, Brett waited until Foster had simmered down. “Word around town is that Miss Denver is finished with you,” he said, speaking in a slow, concise voice.

Foster glared at him but said nothing.

Brett moved a ladder-back chair closer to the sofa and sat. “I heard she gave back your ring.”

“Yeah, she gave me the mitten, all right. But that don’t mean nothin’. So don’t go gettin’ any ideas.”

“Relax. The only thing I’m interested in is getting the two of you back together.”

Foster’s eyes gleamed with suspicion. “Why? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing but a lot of trouble by the looks of it.” Brett bent forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands together. “I’m the one who stopped the wedding. I figure it’s up to me to help make things right.” Brett gave Foster a moment to digest this before asking, “So what’s the plan?”

Foster pinched the bridge of his nose. “Plan? What plan?”

“The plan to get her back.”

Holding his head, Foster rocked back and forth. “Must you shout?”

Brett heaved a sigh. If he spoke any softer, he’d have to whisper. “Have you talked to her? Apologized?”

“She w-won’t l-listen. Said…said she’s sick and tired of my…jealousy.”

Brett leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about it myself.” He thought for a moment. “What about flowers?”

Foster stopped rocking. “Flowers?”

“Yeah, you know. The things that grow in the ground. Did you send her any?”

“I never send flowers.”

“Why not? Women love flowers. They convey all sorts of messages that only a woman can understand. If you’re smart, you’ll buy the store out—the whole kit and caboodle. Just to make sure she gets the right message.”

Foster shook his head. “This is Katie we’re talking about. She’s more the practical type.”

“Practical?” Brett blinked back the vision of twirling whirligigs and flashing blue eyes that came to mind. Miss Denver with her spinning earbobs and sign-plastered walls hardly seemed the pragmatic type. Idealistic, maybe. Optimistic. Compassionate. But definitely not practical.

“She doesn’t like all that fussy stuff. Besides, flowers die. What kind of message is that?” Foster screwed up his face as if trying to think. “But…but…but I could send her a new jack.”

“A jack?”

“Yeah, you know. For changing…” He made a spinning move with his hand as he searched for the right word. “A…a wheel. That’s the kind of gift Kate likes.”

Brett frowned. How was it possible that two men could look at a single woman and see her completely differently? “You’re kidding, right?”

“She’s always breakin’ tires,” Foster slurred. “That’s why I make her carry a spare.” He squinted. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s just—” Holy blazes, where to start? Foster didn’t have a clue where women were concerned. Not that Brett was an expert in such matters. He’d never had much luck with the opposite sex, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. The life of a Texas Ranger didn’t leave much room for romance. Most women soon grew weary of a man whose idea of settling down involved a horse and saddle.

“Forget the jack. If you’re serious about winning her back, you’ll stick with flowers.” Brett thought a moment. “I’ll meet you tomorrow at Gordon’s. We’ll pick out a bouquet, and you can compose a nice note.”

Foster narrowed his eyes. “Note?”

“Yeah, you know. The little card that accompanies a bouquet and will say all the right things, like how sorry you are.”

“You want me to put that in writing?” Foster looked as if he’d never heard of such a thing.

Brett studied the blurry-eyed man and shook his head. What did Miss Denver ever see in the likes of him? There certainly was no accounting for taste.

“For crying out loud, Foster. It’s a simple note. That’s all. And it will show her how sorry you are. How much you care. Now, what kind of flowers does she like?”

“How am I s-supposed to know?”

“Okay. Forget about flowers for now.” Brett thought for a moment. “What is her favorite color?”

Foster’s face went blank for a moment. “Pink, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Maybe it’s white.” Foster thought for a moment. “Her shop is pink and white.”

“White’s not a color.”

Foster looked surprised. “Is that so? Okay, it’s gotta be pink.”

Brett rolled his eyes; the man was hopeless. He rubbed his forehead, and a vision of Miss Denver came to mind. He was willing to bet that pink was not her favorite color. Maybe it was the violet-blue of her eyes. Perhaps it was her dazzling red hair or the glow of her smooth ivory skin.

“Forget color. Does she have a special song she likes? A favorite author or poet?”

Frank scratched his temple. “Beats me.”

Brett knitted his brow. Maybe he was going about this all wrong. He decided to try a different angle. “What do you two talk about when you’re together?”

“The usual. Leather.”

Brett stared at him, incredulous. “Leather? You talk about leather?”

“Yeah, so what’s the big deal? It costs a bundle to make a saddle these days. The price of leather has gotten outta hand.”

Brett sat back in his chair. Great guns; he didn’t know which task looked more daunting. Tracking down Foster Number One. Or turning Foster Two into a fine and proper suitor.