The Major's Daughter

by Regina Jennings

  Chewing, Frisco headed to the center of town, where the election was being held. True to McFarland’s word, the three candidates sat on stools in the wagons. Frisco had missed the speeches, but when he recognized two as being part of the founders’ group, he went to join the line behind the wagon of Bill Matthews, the man from Sedalia he’d helped get placed as a candidate.

  What would it take to get Caroline off his property? Once upon a time, he could have tempted her. Now she claimed that she was impervious to his charms, but was she? What would it take to convince Miss Adams that he was a serious suitor?

  Living on the streets with easy relationships and scant regrets, Frisco had never seriously considered what courtship of a lady like Caroline would entail. For the most part, he’d avoided the hoity-toity set, preferring to spend his time with practical women, strong women, women who rode in the rain, women who spoke their minds, and women who’d call you down from across the street just to say howdy.

  Like Caroline used to.

  But if he needed to swallow his ire to sway her, then that was what he’d do. And it wouldn’t hurt to listen more closely to her plans. While he couldn’t bring a railroad through Plainview, he could try to create her dream on his town lot. It would make his offer of a trade more attractive. And in the meantime, he needed to keep her away from the likes of Deputy McFarland and any other man who might be tempted by the combination of a beautiful woman and a promising homestead.

  “Are you in the line for Matthews?” a young man asked.

  “Yes, I think this is the end,” Frisco replied.

  “My name’s Ernest Pickens. My brother is in the next line.” He waved, and a similarly dressed man at the back of the other line waved back. “We can’t agree on anything. Can’t imagine how we’re going to run a bakery together.”

  Frisco looked from the man standing next to him to the man in the other line. They were more than similarly dressed. They had to be twins. “A bakery? Please fire your ovens up immediately. The restaurateurs need the competition,” Frisco said.

  “Yes, sir! We’ve got our brick oven about completed. Needs seasoning, but then we’re running. Come by, and I’ll give you your first dinner roll free.”

  He took his place behind Frisco. Wait in line to be counted, and then they’d see who won. Sounded simple enough. Frisco looked ahead, and his was easily the longest line. It’d take longer to go through, but that was the cost of democracy.

  After some instructions, the line started moving. A scribe in the wagon made a tally mark as each man went by. A handful of men joined Frisco’s line, but he was surprised to see the baker’s brother with more people behind him than in front.

  “Mr. Bledsoe’s supporters must live on the outskirts,” said Frisco. “They are tardy about getting in line.”

  The baker looked behind them. “Now they have more folks. If Evan’s fella wins, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Bledsoe clearly was going to win. While the other lines were almost through, his line kept growing. Frisco watched as the voters were counted at the front. Was that register going slower than the others? Then he noticed something. After they’d voted, a couple of men meandered toward the back of the line. For a second they stood, as if only in the vicinity, but then after a furtive look around, they stepped one behind the other and rejoined the line.

  Frisco grabbed the sleeve of the baker and spun him to face the other line. “Did you see that? Those fellas just got in line to vote twice.” And they weren’t the only ones. About half the men going through worked their way around for a second time . . . or was it a third or fourth?

  “Well, I’ll be. You’re right. That fella was in front of Evan, and now he’s in line behind. I wonder—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Frisco hollered as he stepped out of line and waved his hands over his head. The vote counters in the wagons strained to see him over the crowd. “We have an irregularity occurring.”

  Deputy McFarland and another deputy came busting through the lines to get to him. A few of the other town fathers had gathered next to the third group. It looked like a reunion of all the men who’d gotten involved with the last election trouble. Maybe Frisco should be happy that he wasn’t responsible for messes like this.

  “I’m Deputy Juarez,” the man said. He had a black, flat-brimmed Spanish-style hat with a pull string that hugged his chin. “Is there a reason you’re interrupting our residents just as they are exercising their civil rights?”

  Frisco took a step back to size him up. He recognized back-alley bullies, but he also knew that some of them grew up and continued their ways beneath the safety of a badge. Frisco had won a fight or two, but his strength had always been in persuasion. He scanned the crowd, drawing every eye as witness. “I watched that line and saw men getting back in line after casting their vote. Some are voting twice.”

  Evan Pickens stretched his long torso out to look behind him. “Well, I’ll be.” The two brothers shared expressions, even if they didn’t share political views. “Those fellas were in front of me. I saw them both go through and vote. And y’all too.” He gestured at another handful of men who were trying to leave the line without being noticed.

  “Don’t look at me!” Sitting in the wagon, Mr. Bledsoe lifted his hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell them to do that.”

  McFarland and Juarez exchanged glances. McFarland didn’t let it take any wind out of his sails. “Then we’ll have to start over. Throw away your tally marks, and in an hour we’ll vote again. This time sign your name next to your vote, and each wagon will have a deputy in it to watch that the same man doesn’t go through twice.”

  “We’re twins,” Evan Pickens called out. He pointed across the way at his brother and then at himself. “Just ’cause we favor each other doesn’t mean we don’t each get to vote.”

  “Duly noted,” McFarland said. “Thank you for the clarification.”

  “Excuse me.” The first candidate, known to Frisco only as Mr. Feldstein, stood in the back of his wagon. “I’ve had some time to think it over, and I’m withdrawing my name from the race. I’m throwing my support to Mr. Bledsoe. He’ll do a fine job, so go on and vote for him.”

  Frisco studied the lines. That meant that Mr. Bledsoe would win even without the cheating. Not surprising. Bill Matthews was a Johnny-come-lately, supported only by some of the common people and none of the deputies. By banding together, the deputies had managed to get their man in position.

  “Once again you have proven yourself invaluable to Plainview, young man.” McFarland motioned Frisco away from the wagons as people began to rearrange themselves into two lines. “We’re lucky to have you here. When will you be ready to start reading law?”

  The question surprised Frisco. What did McFarland know about that?

  “I’ve already started. Saw my first client today.” If he was wary, he had good reason. So far, every bit of official business done in Plainview had been tainted.

  “Excellent. Once we’re up and running, the city would like to utilize your skills. I have the feeling we’ll need someone who has an eye for the law looking over our ordinances. That’s not to mention getting all the property disputes settled.”

  Frisco nodded. That sounded promising. Perhaps the irregularities were only disorganization. “For something as straightforward as a race, there was a lot of corruption,” he said. “It’ll take years to get it all straightened out.”

  “Nothing like a guaranteed income,” McFarland laughed. “Not that you would wish conflict on people,” he hastily amended, “but you might as well profit when it’s there.”

  It was the profession Frisco had chosen, but he didn’t like McFarland’s assumption. And yet he was the deputy in town and was looking for honest men to help him in a difficult situation. Frisco would be a fool not to offer his services.

  “Don’t forget the dance on Friday night.” McFarland slapped him on the back. “And be sure you bring that feisty redhead.”

  Frisco
ran a finger under his collar. Dancing with Miss Adams when everything was at stake? Who would blink first? But if he was going to see clients in earnest, he needed somewhere better than a tent to store his records. One good Oklahoma Territory thunderstorm and his files would be carried by the wind, page by page, all the way to Arkansas. He might ask around and see if more shipments of sawn lumber were coming in from the Chickasaw. Or maybe Sophie would have a strongbox for sale that would hold records until he could build something more permanent.

  Forgetting where the roads were, he cut across a lot to return to her wagon but stopped when he came across a furniture builder. The man had a row of chairs sitting alongside his wagon. Chairs? That was definitely something Frisco would need for customers.

  Three rockers, two ladder-backs, and one spinning office chair were displayed. He sat in the office chair and swung back and forth, testing the spring.

  “That’ll be a dime.” A copper-topped man had appeared from behind the wagon.

  “A dime for this chair? Sold.” Frisco reached for his pocket.

  “No, you dolt. Not for the chair. It’s a dime to sit in the chair for an hour.” He brushed sawdust off his sleeve.

  “Why would I pay you to sit in a chair? That’s ridiculous.” The chair’s spring squawked as Frisco leaned back in it.

  “Someone got tired of having nowhere to sit besides the grass and asked if I’d lease it to him. These chairs have already paid more than I was ever going to sell them for.”

  Of all the tomfoolery . . . “But are they for sale?” Frisco asked. “I don’t have any interest in leasing one, but—”

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Frisco turned to see Patrick Smith, dirty and dusty but none the worse for wear. Frisco grinned, but then his smile hardened when he remembered why his friend would be searching him out.

  “So this is Redhawk?” Patrick said. “You really did it? If I remember the map correctly, my plot is going to be on the north side.”

  “This isn’t—” Frisco rocked forward in the chair. “Did you get your farm, Patrick?”

  Patrick dropped his traveling bag and took a rocking chair next to Frisco. “The train was a bad idea. The one I was on was the fourth one to leave the station. By the time it set out, three other trains and all the horsemen had already had their pick. We did pass through one section that looked unclaimed, but the train didn’t slow down. People started jumping out the doors. I couldn’t because I was stuck in the middle of the car, but I did get to a window. Scared me to death thinking about what would happen to Millie and Jonathan if I didn’t clear the tracks, but I did it anyway. Hit the ground, rolled, and then ran.”

  “By the tracks? How far did you have to go?”

  “Till right here. Never did find land that didn’t already have someone on it telling me to keep moving. But I didn’t despair. That deal I struck with you was the best investment I’ve ever made.”

  Frisco looked at his shoes, dirt still resting on the tops of them. “This isn’t Redhawk, Patrick. I didn’t get my land either.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you had it all figured out.”

  “I made a mistake. Several mistakes. When I got there, someone had beat me to it, but I haven’t given up. I’m going to get it.”

  “So you have nothing? We have nothing?” His rocking chair stilled. His head drooped.

  Frisco’s throat tightened. He didn’t have what he wanted, but he had something, which was more than Patrick and his family had.

  “I have one city lot,” he said. “One. I have hopes of regaining my town site. I don’t think the current homesteader can prove out.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Frisco drew in a long breath. “It’s a particularly stubborn person. I couldn’t say.”

  Patrick might have been brave on the train, but the fear was starting to show on his face. “We sold out of Kansas. We sold everything, loaded up, and came this way. How can I go back and tell Millie that we have nothing?”

  “You can stay on my lot,” he said. “Be right here in town. There’s good money to be had for a saddlemaker and laundress. You can start by fixing me up with new reins. And while every lot may be claimed right now, once the dust settles, a lot of people will pack up and go home. With my position in the city, I’ll be the first to know when someone quits a claim.”

  “What do you mean, ‘position in the city’? I thought you were going to get your Redhawk land back.”

  “Keep your options open,” Frisco said, while trying not to wince. “Didn’t you teach me that?”

  “Show me where this place of yours is,” Patrick said. “Maybe I can get Millie and Jonathan back before dark.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Excuse me.” The chair owner stepped between them. “That’s rentals of two chairs that you owe me for. Twenty cents, please.”

  Patrick turned on the man, ready to make him answer for his insolence just as he’d done for many of Frisco’s foes.

  Frisco sighed and put his hand in his pocket. “Twenty cents,” he said as he dropped the coins into the man’s hand and started back to his property.

  It was only a square of empty field. Not much to offer a family, but it was everything to those who sought it. And at this rate, it might be all he ever had.

  Chapter thirteen

  She could do this. She could.

  Amber hooked the heel of her boot on the plow and bounced on it. The reins had gone slack as the horse waited for her command. Convinced she had the clod busted, she called to the horse, and it stepped forward. Success. The plowshare—that was what the instruction booklet had called the blade—sliced through another six inches of red soil, then popped up. Another clod? Amber wiped the sweat from her eyes. She wouldn’t give up. She had to get the field plowed. She threw her weight against the handles to drive the blade back into the ground. Another call to the horse. Another six inches before the blade hopped out again.

  This would take forever.

  She’d been proud that she’d succeeded in the race, proud that she’d made it to Darlington and back with her supplies, and thrilled when she’d managed to set up a tent on her own land with the help of the Schneiders, but now it was time to settle down and start this farm, and she’d met with nothing but discouragement. The two lines she’d managed to scratch in the dirt snaked back and forth, overlapping each other and separating. The handbook she’d bought described the correct method, but it didn’t explain how to instantly make oneself stronger and heavier to control the plow.

  Three steps, then stopping the horse to drive the plowshare back into the ground. Three steps, maybe four if she was lucky. She might get half a line done before it was time for dinner. Or maybe she wouldn’t stop for dinner. It didn’t seem worth the hassle and cleanup. She didn’t have anything hot to eat anyway.

  She gasped and dropped the handle of the plow. Pulling off her glove, she turned her hand over to see watery blood trickling from a broken blister. She hadn’t thought to include bandages in her supplies. The homesteaders’ handbook hadn’t listed them as a necessity.

  Maybe she’d take time for dinner after all. Keeping one hand clenched, she tried to unhook the trace from the collar to give the horse a break, but her fingers were too weak. Biting her lip, she straightened her hand and pried her numb fingers open. If she were just a little stronger, a little tougher, how much easier this would be. But even then, there was so much to do.

  The horse could wait until after she’d eaten. Wearily, she walked to the tent and, taking a knife, cut off a piece of a rag she’d brought along. She wrapped it around her hand. With a wince, she tugged it tight, but tying it with one hand proved more difficult than she’d imagined. Biting on one end of the rag, she made a loop, but before she could thread it, she heard someone outside.

  “Amber? Are you in there?”

  Her hand dropped to her lap, and she felt giddy with relief. “I’m here,” she called.

&nbs
p; Bradley’s outline moved across the tent’s canvas before he came through the door. Her heart swelled at the dashing figure he cut in his cavalry uniform and his shiny black boots. There was no one she’d rather see at that moment.

  He stood over her, his hands on his waist. “You can’t quit already,” he said. “You’ve barely got started. If we don’t get the seeds planted before summer hits, then we won’t have anything to show for our first year. Nothing to eat. There’s not time to sit around and daydream.”

  Amber blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “And you’re doing the furrows the wrong way. You have to put them in against the slant of the land, or the topsoil will disappear with the runoff. Thankfully, you’re only getting started. By the end of the day you should have—”

  She jumped to her feet. “You haven’t asked how I am, how I’m doing, or if I’m hurt. You just come in telling me what to do and telling me that I’ve done it wrong. But where have you been? Sitting on a horse and parading around when you could’ve been helping me?” She looked for something to throw at him as her indignation grew, but she was too tired to give it much effort.

  “Oh, simmer down,” he said. “I’m doing everything I’m assigned to do, including hauling Caroline’s personal things to her by request of Major Adams. He gave me leave for the rest of the day, so here I am. Now you don’t have to worry about anything.”

  Her hand fell on her pillow. If she couldn’t find anything heavier, it’d have to do. He was smiling so big that he didn’t see it coming. Amber swung and walloped him upside the head.

  “That’s what you should’ve said in the first place.” She drew back to hit him again, but he intercepted her and pulled her into his arms.

  “I’ve always been slow about my lessons, honey. But once I learn them, I learn them good.”

  He cradled her head against his chest. Her burden felt lighter, although her hand stung just as sharply.