Eight

“You have only one item that might interest me, Miss Day.” Fieldings’s slack mouth glistened with unswallowed spit. “And I don’t think you’ll part with that.”

Livid, Glory jumped to her feet, snatched up the valuables, and stuffed them into the bag.

He chuckled. “Should you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Confusion swept Ruth’s face as Glory grabbed her hand and yanked her from the office.

Before the door slammed, she heard the fat pig snort, “Two weeks. Not a day more.”

Shaking, she didn’t stop or take a breath until they reached fresh air outside.

“He said we had one thing to bargain with, whatever he meant. Think of your father.”

Glory’s thoughts stumbled. For a brief moment, her mother had stood with her. Though wobbly at best, a post to lean on. Now, in the wink of an eye, she’d slipped back into confusion, jerking away that brief support.

“No, Mama. I’d do almost anything to save the farm, but I’m not going to let him touch me. Not for anything.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Ruth put her hand over her mouth. “Thank goodness you’re taking care of things until your father gets back from his trip. He should return any day.” The vacant haze they’d grown accustomed to of late had returned.

“I know.” Glory patted her hand and helped her into the buckboard. “Let’s go sell the eggs and milk we brought.”

Unusual activity took place at Harvey’s Emporium. The group of men congregating in front appeared awfully agitated. She pulled the brake, tied the reins to it, and hopped down, beating Horace Simon. He arrived nearly out of breath, a huge grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Howdy, Miss Glory.” He took the basket of eggs from her while she helped Ruth from the seat. “Been hopin’ to see you. I’m still your beau, ain’t I?”

Innocence glowed in the boy’s face. Unlike Uncle Pete, whose head clicked, whirred, and jangled with constant noise, Horace’s inner workings appeared quiet and unmoved. In a way, she envied that. No pressure, no worries. Simply happy to be alive. At this moment, it seemed like pure heaven.

He might be slow-witted, but he had a heart as big as the sky. More than she could say for the majority of Santa Anna’s citizens, lumping a good many of them with that overstuffed feather mattress Fieldings.

Glory patted his arm. “Of course, Horace, you’ll always be my beau.”

“Okay.” If he’d been a dog, he’d have beat her half silly with his wagging tail.

She nodded toward the men. “What’s going on?”

“Pete Harvey’s a-tellin’ about treasure.”

“What kind?”

“The buried kind.” Horace scurried to hold the door for Glory and her mother.

Uncle Pete noticed them and waved. Though short in stature, he made up for it in tall tales. Most of the townsfolk had long ceased to listen to his ramblings and it surprised her now to see their enthusiasm. She did admit that talk of buried treasure made her ears perk up though.

Aunt Dorothy greeted them. “Is that old coot still out there spouting his mouth?”

“Afraid so.” Glory set the bucket of milk on the counter.

“I told him to shush up about it. But he never listens to a word I say.”

“Here’s some eggs Glory done brung you, Mrs. Harvey.” Horace handed over the basket, his feet moving in constant motion. If the rest of him had followed, he’d have found himself five miles down the road. Anxious to get back outside to the man talk, she supposed.

“Thanks for your help, Horace.” Glory cringed when he tripped over an uneven place in the floor. “You are quite thoughtful.”

“Okay. I gotta go hunt for treasure.” The door banged, setting the bell in motion.

“How you doing, Ruth?” Dorothy led Glory’s mother to a seat at the back of the store where the men gathered to play checkers on rainy days and Saturday mornings. With nary a teaspoon of rain in the last four months, the area saw little use.

“Why does everyone make a fuss about my health?” Ruth’s argumentative tone had her aunt raising an eyebrow.

“We’ve been to see Fieldings. Things look pretty bleak,” Glory explained.

“Let me get your mother a cool drink of water and we’ll chat a bit. Not often I have company. At least the sort who stops in for reasons other than to spread rumors or ask for advice.”

Glory could comfortably say neither applied to them.

She had just finished relaying the eviction news when Pete Harvey shuffled inside.

“There’s my Glory girl.” The dapper man removed his derby hat when he noticed his wife’s silent scolding. Glory smiled at his customary red garters that anchored white sleeves. To her knowledge, he’d never stepped outside the upstairs living quarters without red garters on his upper arms that shortened the length of his long sleeves. She’d always wanted to hide and watch what happened when he removed them. A giggle rose. She could picture the sleeves striking him about the knees.

Pete Harvey put her in mind of a Mississippi gambler. Only his bowed legs, curved in a perfect circle, ruined any misconception one might have of that.

Not that she had any idea of the characteristics of a Mississippi cardsharp. None other than the description in the dime novel Aunt Dorothy had loaned her that she’d read three times. Yet, she felt almost positive they showed no affinity to any kind of regular horseback riding.

“Morning, Uncle.” She returned his infectious good humor. “Having a meeting of the minds out there? They want to elect you mayor or something?”

“Pshaw! The ‘or something’ would be more like it, gal.” He drew her away from the other two women and lowered his voice. “Was tellin’ the boys about runnin’ into Sam Sixkiller.”

“That old Indian who comes into town occasionally?”

Everyone in the county put old Sam and Pete in the same looney category. They could truly hatch some good stories when the two of them got together. Two peas in a pod.

“Yep.” Uncle Pete’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

“You two weren’t drinking cactus juice, were you?”

“Not particularly at the time. You wanna hear or not?”

“Horace mentioned something about buried treasure.”

“Shh.” He drew her closer, casting a suspicious glance around the store. “Keep it down.”

His logic escaped her. She didn’t point out the fact that he’d already told half the town and by now the tale had spread to every home and prairie dog hole in the county.

“Sam said when he was a young brave, his tribe ambushed a group of prospectors somewhere in this area coming back from gold country in the Rockies. They had a powerful lot o’ pack mules and burros with ever’ one loaded down with gold nuggets.”

“So the Comanches took the gold?”

“That part’s kinda fuzzy.” Uncle Pete pressed his mouth to her ear. “Sam thinks they only had eyes for the animals and scalps. Didn’t know nuthin’ about yeller rocks. To the best of his recollection, they emptied the bags onto the ground. Or they might’ve dug a hole and buried ’em.”

“Uncle Pete, you’ve got to quit listening to every fanciful concoction. Sam’s probably laughing his head off for pulling your leg.” Glory gave him a peck on a grizzled cheek that sported at least a week’s worth of bristles. “If there truly was gold, don’t you think Sam would’ve taken it by now?”

“Nope. That ol’ Comanche can’t rightly recollect the spot. Been a lot of years and the land changes.”

She’d learned from experience if you didn’t work for anything, you didn’t deserve it. Could’ves and maybes, or the dreams of an eccentric uncle, wouldn’t keep the wolves from the door. Though for all her struggles, nothing but hard times seemed destined to fall in her lap. Who was to say if one was better than the other?

Unless…

The proposition with McClain shot into mind. Given the man’s skill, they’d have no trouble apprehending Perkins. Her portion would see them debt free and she could concentrate on her father.

One question nagged at her conscience. At what price? Beyond a doubt, he’d hold her to the promise.

A delicious shiver wound around her heart like a clinging wisteria vine.

* * *

Jack Day lay bathed in his own sweat. Not that he minded. It was a welcome relief from chills that normally rattled his bones. He welcomed the pain that came with each breath, for it assured him he hadn’t yet departed this life.

“You awake, Jack?” Dr. John Fletcher laid a hand on his forehead. “Fever’s broken. For now, anyway.”

“Any visitors? My wife…” He asked the same question every day, except the days when he’d been delirious. Lately, the latter descended on him with increasing frequency.

Dr. Fletcher didn’t meet his gaze, but paused before pressing a stethoscope to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Just as well.” He sighed wearily. “Wouldn’t want them to see me like this.”

“They’ll come. You have to hold on to that thought.”

“Yeah, for Ruth. She’ll be here. Someway. Somehow.”

The beautiful vision floated into place in his mind. Fragile Ruth. She despised the harsh Texas land with a vengeance, the howling winds, the dry heat, and the blue northers. It stole her spirit little by little, sinking her into a hell of her own making.

Here lies Jack Day, the soul killer. The epitaph carved on his tombstone would surely speak the truth.

He figured killing a person’s soul had to be the worst crime a man could commit. Breaking your lady’s heart, destroying her faith—those were the kinds of deaths that lasted forever.

“Tell me about your girls. You rarely speak of them.”

A coughing spasm suddenly engulfed him. He gasped for air, tasting the sickening blob that stuck in his throat.

“Spit it out, Jack. Just relax and let it come up.” The doctor lifted him to an upright position and wiped the bloody phlegm from his mouth.

“Don’t have much time left, do I, Doc?”

“The good Lord hasn’t seen fit to give me your departure date, son. Guess when He gets ready, He’ll take you home.”

“Reckon so.” Jack leaned weakly against the pillows. “You asked about my girls. Still want to humor a dyin’ man?”

“An old sawbones like me always loves hearing about pretty little ladies.”

“Glory, Hope, and Patience—my pride and joy. Each is special in her own way. Glory is strong of mind and spirit. She’s the provider now. Underneath Hope’s calm sweetness lies surprising strength. And Patience, my baby daughter, took her time comin’ into this world. Twenty-one hours to be exact. But don’t let her name fool you. That little girl can put a Texas whirlwind to shame. Curious and full of excitement.”

The prison doctor patted his shoulder. The touch of human kindness brought a measure of warmth to his cold fear.

“If I was a bettin’ man, Jack, I’d lay odds you’ll see them all soon.”

A hopeless sigh escaped his lips. The dice he’d rolled had come up snake eyes. Thank the Lord the doc hadn’t put up a stake on his prediction.

Jack’s despair wore like a pair of long johns—clinging and personal.

The state of Texas served him an unjust fate. A higher power robbed him of ever setting eyes on his loved ones again this side of the shore. And cruel destiny made certain he would die alone inside these dark prison walls.

* * *

Twenty-five cents jingled in the pocket of Glory’s dress. That’s what a dozen eggs and a gallon of milk fetched. A mental tally of their finances now had them within eighty-one dollars and fifty-seven cents of their goal.

Two weeks, and then the bank would put a no-trespassing sign on the farm, making it a crime to step foot on their land. Her grandfather had fought Indians, pestilence, and outlaws to settle there.

To lose it now would mean she’d failed in every single way.

Glory left her mother visiting with Aunt Dorothy and strode purposefully toward the Santa Anna Gazette. Charlie Gimble, the paper’s editor and her only true friend besides Horace Simon, usually lent an ear no matter how much type needed setting.

The onslaught of a dust cloud swirled in the wake of three horseback riders who galloped past. She fanned the air to keep the grit from her mouth and tried to separate the yelling from the jangle of noise.

“They robbed the stage! The driver’s been killed!” The men jumped from their saddles almost before their mounts stopped. A crowd quickly assembled.

“What’s that you say?” Glory heard a man ask as she drew closer.

“Over by Post Oak Springs. A gang of masked, murderin’, thievin’ outlaws robbed the stage and shot the driver. Blood ’n’ guts everwhere.”

“Joseph, ride over to Abilene town for the marshal. Quick,” Fieldings ordered, waddling from his bank doorway.

“What this town needs is a sheriff,” a woman piped up.

“Why, even if Coleman had one, it’d help,” whined another.

“With a whole cavalry at Fort Concho practically camped on our doorstep?”

“The cutthroats haven’t let that little item stop them, now, have they?”

“Go peddle your notions elsewhere, Mrs. Woody. This is man’s work.”

Glory watched the woman flounce up the street in a huff. Though suffering from a self-righteous disposition, Mrs. Woody had a point. The robbers’ boldness had everyone asking questions, including Glory. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that McClain might be involved. Perhaps he considered Perkins the gang’s ringleader. That could explain Luke’s obsession with the man. After what he let slip to Squirt, only to deny it, he hid more than he told. Why say he was a lawman if he wasn’t? It certainly made a person suspicious.

The next thought brought nausea. Was he with them or against?

“Another stage holdup.” A man she recognized as Henry Sackett spoke to Cap Bailey, shaking his head sadly. “What’s that make now? Seven, eight in the last two months?”

“Yep.” Cap released a stream of tobacco juice. The hardened earth greedily accepted the brown blob as if grateful for whatever form of moisture came.

Glory turned back toward the paper office. At least no one could blame this crime on Jack Day. Though they would dearly love to try. Maybe her father’s situation had a bright side. He’d never fully know the hate this town harbored.

Charlie peered over his horn-rimmed spectacles when she opened the door. “What’s all the ruckus?”

“Another stage robbed and driver killed. Makes you wonder what this world’s coming to.”

“Whoever is behind these keeps me in a helluva lot of printing material.” He shifted the short stub of a cigar to the other side of his mouth, pushed back the bill of his green visor, and wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.

She didn’t bother to tell him about the ink he smeared on the side of his temple. A waste of good breath. Ink and Charlie went together and she accepted that as gospel.

“Timmy, get your tablet, boy!” At Charlie’s beckoning call, his young apprentice ran from the back room. “This is your chance. Get out there and get the lowdown on this stage robbery and murder.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Gimble.” Timmy tucked a tablet under his arm and grabbed a pencil. He paused for a second at the door to jam a hat over his bright-red spikes.

Glory suppressed a grin. She’d never seen the twelve-year-old without them. Even in church, his mother’s efforts failed to slick the rebellious mess into neat order. All the spit and hair tonic in the world couldn’t glue it down. Unhindered, the spikes sprang back like toy soldiers on a march to save Texas from combs and spit.

“My name’s Charlie, not Mr. Gimble. Make me proud, boy.”

The shine on Timmy’s teeth matched the sparkle in his eyes. “Okay, Charlie.”

He tripped over his own feet and fell against the counter before he made it through the door.

Charlie groaned. “I’m training the lad. If he don’t kill himself first.”

“You’re a saint. Not many in this town would give him a chance to learn a trade.”

“Timmy’s a good lad.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Wonder why the criminal element picked Coleman County to terrorize.”

“It’s a shame law-abiding folks have to risk life and limb to travel through these parts.”

“Yep. Can’t complain too loud though. Sure makes interesting reading. My sales have shot up.”

“Guess they get tired of reading about Uncle Pete’s latest debacles and the dry spell.”

“That’s the honest truth. Why, I haven’t even had to resort to filling space with Elmer Knox’s hog farm or the perils of Josephine Baker’s scandalous bloomers in the last three months.”

Glory smiled at the mention of Josephine Baker. The rough-and-tumble woman owned the only boardinghouse. A freethinker, she stayed in hot water with the townsfolk for shedding dresses in favor of baggy bloomers and tunic shirts. Though she’d never had the pleasure of the rebel woman’s acquaintance, Glory admired her spunk just the same. It took courage to swim upstream.

“Speaking of old Pete, what’s this newest rumor?”

“He claims Sam Sixkiller babbled about some gold his tribe lifted off some prospectors. Between you, me, and the fence post, I’m pretty sure it’s simply liquor talk.”

Charlie squinted over his horn-rims. “I wouldn’t be too quick to toss it out the window with the bathwater. Isn’t the first time I heard such.”

“From who?”

“Newspapermen never tell.” He gave her a sly wink.

“And I know my uncle. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the stories he’s spouted. I love him dearly, but he’s a big bag of wind.” She sighed.

No, bad as she could use a hole full of gold, she’d have to rely on a more stable means…

The skills of a certain mischievous stranger would do for starters.

There went her stomach again.