Forgiving

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Again she laughed. “Mr. Campbell—”

  “Call me Arden.”

  “Arden, there aren’t a lot of women in this town. I think we would start a lot of gossip if I ate lunch with you.”

  “Why, shee-oot, who’s afraid of gossip! Come on...” He took her by an arm. “If they say Arden Campbell’s out sparking the new woman in town I’ll spit in their eye and say damned right.”

  She found herself being hauled toward the door, and resisted. “But I don’t know you, I said!”

  “You’re going to! Now get your coat, or your pocketbook or whatever you need, because you’re going to dinner with me whether you like it or not.”

  It was quite a meal. He dragged her down the street to Ruckner’s and deposited her in a chair and glued his eyes to her, removing them only long enough to cut his elk roast. He jabbered like a magpie and made her laugh so often she had to keep covering her mouth with her napkin to keep food from flying out. He volubly greeted every man who entered the place, calling out, “You’ve met Sarah Merritt, haven’t you?” He said he was a Christian, and looking for a wife, and intended to be farming his own place inside of two years, and have a family inside of three, if he had to send for a mail-order bride to do it, which he hoped he would not have to do. He said he could sing like a nightingale, fight like a terrier, dance like a highlander and cook flapjacks better than his ma. He told her one day he’d like to whip some up for her. He claimed he found life too serious to be serious about, and thought the best way to get through it was to laugh whenever you could. He told her he was tough, and honest, and hardworking and lovable—just that he’d never been around a woman long enough to prove it. He told her he was coming into town Saturday night to take her to the play at the Langrishe, and gave her no option to refuse. He’d pick her up at seven, he said, leaving her, somewhat overwhelmed, at the door of the newspaper office.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Noah heard the news before Arden came into his office. “Hey, big brother!” Arden greeted with a wide smile.

  “Big brother, my foot! What the hell’s the idea of taking Sarah Merritt out for dinner?”

  “I told you I was going to.”

  “And I told you to keep away from her.”

  “I asked her if you had dibs on her and she said no.”

  “You did what!” Noah came up out of his chair.

  “I asked her if you had dibs on her and she said no. I asked her if anybody else did and she said no again, so I’m courting her.”

  “Courting her! Why, you just met her two hours ago!”

  “We got along real well in those two hours, though. I had her laughing fit to kill. I’m taking her to the Langrishe Saturday night.”

  “The hell you are!”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about. You don’t want her.”

  Noah didn’t, so he dropped back into his chair. “Does Ma know?”

  “Not yet, but she’ll be happy. She went over and checked Sarah out, too.”

  Noah clutched his head. “Judas priest.”

  “Ma invited her out to the house for a meal sometime. I wouldn’t be surprised if she comes.”

  “What about Pa? I suppose he went to gawk at her, too.”

  “Pa’s in the saloon getting happy. He’ll be patting Ma’s butt while she’s fixing supper tonight.” Arden laughed. “You see him yet?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him and Ma both, earlier.” After a pause he said, “Listen, about that woman—forget what I said, and whatever you do, don’t tell her I said it!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got better things to do with Sarah Merritt than talk about you.”

  For the remainder of the day Noah stewed over the turn of events. He remembered Arden’s grin when he’d said he had better things to do. Exactly what better things? Hell, the brat was only twenty-one! But recalling himself at twenty-one, Noah scowled. Unless he missed his guess, Sarah Merritt was one hundred eighty degrees from her sister in the worldliness department. She wouldn’t be accustomed to fending off randy young whelps with hubris the size of a barn loft and preco-ciousness to match.

  At suppertime that night Noah stood inside his bedroom with his hand on the doorknob and his watch in his palm. At the dot of six he heard a door open down the hall, opened his own and snapped his watch shut.

  “Well... hello,” he said, feigning surprise as he overtook Sarah Merritt from two doors down.

  “Hello.”

  “You had quite a day.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “By the sound of it, you met my whole family.” He loitered in the center of the hall, forestalling her progress toward the stairs until he’d said what he was disinclined to say before the big-eared audience around the supper table.

  “Not quite. I didn’t meet your father. The other two were charming though.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So you heard about my going to dinner with Arden.”

  “The whole town heard about it.”

  “Well... he’s a persuasive young man.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I imagine you know that he’s taking me to the theater, too.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “The bill has changed. Mr. Langrishe’s troop is performing Only a Farmer’s Daughter, which I must see anyway in order to review it. I may as well take the opportunity with your brother.”

  My brother who’s only twenty-one and keeps you laughing fit to kill? The thought was irksome because Noah was much more suited to her age and he’d never seen her laughing fit to kill. That once on the boardwalk she had let go briefly, but usually she remained serious, almost contained, around him.

  What could he say?

  “That makes sense,” he replied. With a flourish toward the stairs he said, “Shall we go down? I think I smell onions.”

  For the remainder of the week he continued to stew.

  On Saturday evening he retired to Mrs. Roundtree’s parlor immediately after supper and parked himself there with the only reading material he could find, a copy of the Montgomery Ward Catalog for Fall and Winter of 1875–76. He really should be uptown. Saturday night and Sunday, when the miners all came to town for liquor, baths and whoring, were the rowdiest days of the week in Deadwood. Many Saturdays Noah skipped his supper or gobbled it and ran back on duty, for he’d discovered that his mere presence on Main Street put qualms in the way of most belligerent fist-slingers. So it might look fishy, him sitting here in the parlor when he’d normally be uptown, but he sat nonetheless, scanning all the tempting bargains as if he cared one iota.

  Spring beds for $2.75.

  Farm wagons for $50.

  72 dozen buttons for 35c.

  The haberdasher, Mr. Mullins, sat for a while with him, then went away. Tom Taft stuck his head in and said, “Staying home tonight, eh, Marshal?” Taft continued out the front door. In the kitchen, Mrs. Roundtree clattered dishes.

  Shortly before seven, Sarah Merritt came downstairs and entered the parlor.

  “Hello again,” she said quietly, taking a seat on a maroon horsehair settee.

  Noah looked up and said nothing. She had used some contraption to make her hair look like chain, all quirked up and kinked in peculiar squiggles around her face. Low at the rear, it was clumped loosely with a few wormy-looking strands crawling down her neck. She wore the same brown coat he’d seen dozens of times, but where it fell open he saw a bluish, striped skirt he’d never seen before. And damned if she didn’t smell like lavender!

  “Ordering buttons, are you, Mr. Campbell?” she inquired, tilting toward him to eye the open catalog. He slapped it shut and tossed it aside.

  “So you’re going to review the play.”

  “Exactly.”

  He linked his hands over his vest and drew doughnuts with his thumbs.

  She had never seen this precise pursed expression on his face before, like that of a headmaster facing a naughty student. It made his m
ustache beetle out in the most unattractive fashion.

  “Is there some reason you object to my going to the play with your brother, Mr. Campbell?”

  “Object? Me?” Wide-eyed, he tipped his thumbs toward his chest. “Why would I object?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what puzzles me, yet earlier this week you asked me if I thought it was a good idea, and tonight, here you are, waiting in the parlor like some grousing father. Have you some objection?”

  “Hell no!” He shot from the chair, flapping both arms heavenward. “I have no objection at all. I was just sitting here letting my supper settle before I went back to work.” He plucked his jacket and hat from a tree in the corner and clapped the latter on his head while opening the door. “I’ve got enough drunks to tussle with that I don’t need to do it with you!”

  He met Arden coming up the path, wearing a smile as wide as a miner’s pickax, smelling sweet enough to corrode metal at fifteen paces.

  “Hey-a, big brother, what’s n——”

  “H’lo, Arden.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  “It’s Saturday night. They’ll be raising hell in town.” Noah stalked on downhill at a bone-jarring clip.

  “Well, cripes, can’t you even stop to say hello?”

  “Nope. I’ve got work to do!”

  “But Ma sent these shirts she mended!”

  “Just put them in my room. Mrs. Roundtree won’t mind. And tell Ma thanks!”

  Continuing down the hill, with the smell of Sarah’s lavender water and Arden’s bay rum lingering in his nostrils, Noah thought, I hope the two of ‘em choke each other!

  Entering the parlor, Arden Campbell seemed to bombard the room. There was no description for him as apt as cute. He had a face shaped like an apple, with round, boyish cheeks and the faintest notch in the chin. His black sparky eyelashes gave his deep blue eyes a look of perpetual excitement. His mouth looked as though it had been sucking on a very sweet peppermint stick for a long, long time: lips slightly puffed, pink and shiny, wearing the expression of a man very pleased with the world.

  When he smiled—and he smiled most of the time—one could imagine that he’d taken in some effervescent substance that filled and vivified him. He had the ability to focus all his radiance in one direction—for the present on Sarah—and gave the impression nothing else of importance was happening within at least a hundred miles.

  His comeliness quite startled Sarah.

  “Hello, Sarah! I thought tonight would never come!” he bellowed. “Gosh, you look pretty! Let’s go!” Without wasting time on polite parlor talk he commandeered her hand, linked it through his arm and took her from the house. Luckily she was wearing her coat or he might have herded her off without it, he was so eager.

  The night was brisk and clear, but she had little chance to appreciate it. He walked as he did everything else, at the clip of a buck deer at rutting season. She had to quick-step to keep up with him.

  “So how have you been? How’s the paper doing? What have you heard about the play?”

  “Fine. Wonderful. Nothing yet—Mr. Campbell, would you please slow down!”

  He did so with a laugh, but it lasted only a dozen steps before he was towing her again at his enthusiastic stride.

  At the Langrishe, he led her right up front to the third row, bellowing out hellos that drew additional attention their way. He solicitously helped her with her coat, draped it over her shoulders, then sat forward in his seat without using the backrest, as if preparing to spring from it. During the performance he hooted uproariously at the humor, and at the end of each act not only clapped but stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, nearly puncturing Sarah’s right eardrum.

  When the play was over he tucked Sarah’s hand in the crook of his arm while walking her home.

  “Did you like it?” he asked.

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “The way I saw it, it poked fun at the rural community, and I intend to say so when I review it.”

  “I’m more rural than you, and I didn’t feel like they were poking fun at me.”

  “We all have a right to our own opinions. I could see you enjoyed the show very much, and that’s fine, but consider the humorous lines again—don’t you think they portrayed farmers as slow-witted dolts?”

  He considered a while and answered, “Maybe in some ways, but a person has to be able to laugh at himself.”

  “At himself, yes. But should he draw the line when others do so at his expense?”

  They had a lively discussion on the subject, and by the time they reached the path leading to Mrs. Roundtree’s house he was holding her hand. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the house he tugged her to a halt. “Wait.” He captured her other hand and tipped his head back. His palms were hard and smooth as boot soles. “We’ve got some great stars tonight. Stars this great deserve to be admired, wouldn’t you say?”

  She gave them her attention. “Do you know what George Eliot calls stars? Golden fruit upon a tree all out of reach.” She lowered her chin and met his eyes. “Eloquence has always touched me.”

  He gazed at her. “You’re the smartest girl I ever met.”

  “I’m not a girl, Arden. I’m twenty-five years old. Most women my age are married with families already.”

  “You want to be?” He grinned.

  “Not particularly. I just meant to point out the difference in our ages.”

  He transferred his hands to her neck and began rubbing it through her coat collar. “Let’s see if it makes any difference.”

  Her heart did a little dance of curiosity as he tipped his head and kissed her. The pressure of his mouth was warm, moist and brief. It turned her cheeks warm. She had never smelled bay rum at such close range, nor had her lips wet by any tongue but her own. It was a startling but grand sensation.

  He drew back and said, very close to her mouth, “Nobody ever done that to you before?”

  “A time or two.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven, I believe.”

  He laughed, landing a puff of moist breath on her nose. “And truthful, too.”

  “I must go in, Arden.”

  “Not so fast. One more.”

  What a one more. He used both arms, both hands and opened his lips wider than before. With his tongue he encouraged her to do the same. Bedeviling sensations skittered everywhere through Sarah. When he turned her loose he said, “That’s how it’s done. Now what do you think?”

  She was surprised to find herself slightly breathless as she answered, “I think I’d better say goodnight and thank you for a lovely evening.”

  “Can I see you next Saturday night again?”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to make a regular thing of it.”

  “Why? You didn’t like the kissing?”

  “The kissing was interesting. I enjoyed it.”

  “Interesting! Is that all?”

  “Actually, no. It was a lot more than interesting.”

  “Well, then...” Had he been a rooster his neck feathers would have been ruffled.

  “Good night, Arden. Let’s not rush things.”

  He attempted to waylay her for one more kiss, but she turned him around and waited until he’d retreated down the path. She climbed ten steps, turned at a landing and climbed another thirteen before reaching the final landing where she came up short.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Having a last smoke before bed.” In the deep shadow of the house with its unpainted exterior, Marshal Campbell blended into the dark, propping his spine and the sole of one boot against the wall behind him. He drew on his cigarette and made a bright red dot in the blackness.

  “Shouldn’t you be making your rounds?”

  “Quiet tonight. Town’s starting to settle down since we got our ordinances.”

  “Marshal, let’s get one thing clear. I resent your spying on me.
<
br />   He blew out some smoke and chuckled once so quietly it scarcely carried to her.

  “I’m twenty-five years old!” she said, piqued. “Quite old enough to take care of myself, and I can spend my evenings with whom I choose!”

  “You’re absolutely right,” he answered levelly, still leaning indolently against the wall. “Good night, Miss Merritt.”

  She left him as he was, smoking alone, and went to her room to lie down and evaluate kissing his brother. It had been, she decided, a thoroughly pleasant distraction.

  Given the amount of attention Sarah’s presence had generated since her arrival in Deadwood, even she had been surprised that no other male than Arden Campbell had dredged up the nerve to come calling on her. His doing so, however, seemed to release a ground swell. On the Sunday following her date with him no fewer than three suitors appeared at Mrs. Roundtree’s asking to see her.

  The first was a total stranger—middle-aged, thick-waisted, with heavy-lidded eyes and a face like a bumpy gourd—who introduced himself as Cordry Peckham and said he was a wealthy man; he’d struck a rich vein early in the summer on Iron Creek and would be pleased to buy her the best the town had to offer of whatever she’d like if she would only come for a ride with him in his buggy.

  She thanked Mr. Peckham but told him it would be unacceptable for her to ride out with a man she’d never before met.

  The second was Elias Pinkney, who looked up into her face and turned the color of his name and got great sweat dapples on his bald head as he invited her to his home for supper. He had a thirteen-stop organ, he said, which she would be welcome to play, and a stereoscopic viewer with a large collection of photos of such wonders as Niagara Falls, Covent Garden and the Taj Mahal. He owned, too, a lap harp, a priceless chess set carved of Indian ivory, a respectable collection of books, any of which she was welcome to borrow, and a wonderful curiosity called a kaleidoscope which must be seen to be believed. She would, he believed, find a number of entertainments if she’d accept his invitation.

  She thanked Elias as graciously as possible, feeling a measure of pity for the poor sap, and subdued the urge to find a handkerchief and dry his dripping pate.

  The third caller was Teddy Ruckner, who invited her to his restaurant for supper that evening. He had, he said, been hoarding a roast of beef, which he would prepare along with the vegetables of her choice and warm bread pudding (which he already knew was one of her favorite desserts). Teddy seemed like a sensible young man. He had always appealed to her; they were more suitable in age; she ate most of her noon dinners at his place and thought he would be pleasant company. Also, she thought it prudent on her part to demonstrate to Arden Campbell that her evening with him was not to be construed as any sort of assignation. Furthermore, real beef sounded heavenly.