After all, she’d only accompanied him halfway.
Half an hour later she returned to her room and fell atop the narrow bed, not bothering to remove her traveling clothes. She would need them soon enough.
Chapter Three
Christmas Day, 1876
Rafe Wilson stepped away from his birthday celebration to cast a glance out the back window of Abigail’s diner. Pop and his three constant companions raced across the broad expanse of space to slip behind the privy.
He chuckled. Like as not, the four of them were plotting trouble. Well, they’ve earned the right.
Together the men formed the backbone of a Ranger unit that, in its heyday, struck fear in the hearts of outlaws from San Antonio to the Brazos River and on up to the Oklahoma border.
Slowed by age, the four had lost none of their Ranger camaraderie. They had, since entering retirement, shifted their focus from clearing Texas soil of evildoers to arguing the finer points of nearly everything while presiding over the town of Cut Creek. For the past seven years the quartet and their various friends and acquaintances had turned their little place on the Texas prairie into a right fine home for God-fearing folk.
If he weren’t so anxious to leave, he’d be glad to call the place home. Why it would be a nice place to set up housekeeping with a pretty girl, maybe raise up a passel of young’uns.
Too bad he wasn’t the marrying kind.
* * *
“I don’t care what the captain says. Rafe’s not joining up with the Rangers and that’s that.”
“He’s a full grown man, Eb. Older than you were when you took the oath,” Swede said. “I don’t see how you can stop him if he takes a notion to go.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”
Eb leaned away from his hiding place behind the privy and checked to see if the coast was clear. Thus far no one inside Abigail’s Diner had noticed the absence of the town’s four original citizens. From the laughter drifting toward them, the dual celebration of Christmas and Rafe’s birthday was still going strong.
Soon Abigail would insist Rafe make a birthday wish and take the first slice of cake. That’s where the party usually went south. While everyone in Cut Creek loved Abigail, her cooking left something to be desired. Too bad she put all the sugar in the pot roast and none of it into her birthday cakes. Even though her pound cake could pound nails, Abigail had practically raised Rafe and his cousin Wyatt too. Leaving her out of the family party that always followed the Christmas services at church never entered his mind.
Setting her kitchen afire so she couldn’t offer up her grub at the festivities, now that had occurred to him on more than one occasion. Too bad he was a law-abiding citizen and a God-fearing man.
“You’ve always got some sort of plan, Eb.” Sully jabbed his ribs with a sharp elbow. “I hope this one’s better than the time you set the hogs on the preacher’s garden. I though we never would catch those critters once Rafe scattered them with buckshot.”
“Well it worked, didn’t it? Before he lit out after those hogs my son had about as much interest in his sheriffing as he did in learning to knit purty. Ever since then he’s been walking with a spring in his step and acting like he’s useful around here.” He paused. “Until lately, that is.”
“Late?” Creed, deaf as a door post in one ear, turned to walk away. “We don’t want to be late. We might miss the birthday singin’. The cake, now that’s another story.”
Eb caught his friend’s elbow and spun him around. “We’re not late yet,” he said into his good ear.
“Well why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled. “I don’t want to be late lessen it’s for the cake eatin’.”
“So you really think your hare-brained scheme will work?” Swede asked. “Maybe we should just have a talk with the boy, explain to him that his mama didn’t want him to be a Ranger and leave it at that. That makes sense, ja?”
Eb had pondered that possibility for years. Setting the boy straight on his mama’s bias against Rangering seemed like a tempting prospect, one that would certainly get him off the hook. While the finer points of the plan were obvious, Eb never could get past the idea that somehow the knowledge that his mama went to her reward with a dislike for the Rangers might make Rafe think less of her. One thing Eb Wilson would never do was tarnish the memory of his beloved Carolina.
No, he had to keep his peace about the promise he made to her. The Lord and his Ranger friends would just have to help him out on this one.
“Trust me,” Eb said. “This plan’s foolproof.”
Sully leaned back against the rough wall of the privy and peered up at Eb from beneath the brim of his bowler hat. “That’s what I’m worried about, my friend.”
“What do you mean?” Eb narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you want Rafe to stay in Cut Creek?”
“Of course I do,” the Englishman said. “But I am a bit concerned about being shot in the process. If you’ll recall he didn’t miss when he aimed at the pigs.”
“Yes I do recall that. Who do you think taught the boy how to shoot?”
“Abigail, actually,” Sully said. “So what’s your point?”
Eb ignored his friend’s joke to offer a knowing smile. “The point is that even though Captain Bryant keeps me posted on things, I can’t help but wonder when Rafe’s going to come around to talking to him about joining up. You know he’s taken quite an interest in my boy.”
“Bryant is a good man,” Sully said, “but if Rafe decides to join up there’s not much he can do. He’s a good man and any company would be lucky to get him. If Bryant won’t take him, one of the other company commanders will.”
Swede nodded. “Ja, I see how that might cause you to worry about your promise to Carolina, but the boy’s a man now. How can we interfere?”
“Well, we won’t exactly be interfering,” Eb said. “I like to think if it as helping the Lord along with His plan.”
“Sounds like meddlin’ to me,” Creed said.
Eb narrowed his eyes and stared at each of his friends in turn. “Well then, any of you fellows object to being called meddlin’ men?”
“Nope,” Creed said.
Sully smiled. “Not I.”
“What about you, Swede? You mind being a meddler?”
“In this instance, I don’t mind.”
“Well then, it’s settled.” He hit the high points of a strategy so brilliant he couldn’t believe he’d thought of it. “Now, the thing is, until we know for sure that he’s making plans to sign up with the Rangers we just keep the scheme on the back burner. Deal?”
Creed shook his head. “Burning? Somebody say something’s burning? That Abigail must of done gone and set the kitchen afire.” He chuckled and slapped Eb hard on the back. “That there’s an answer to prayer.”
“No, my friend,” Sully shouted. “The kitchen’s fine.”
The former Ranger looked about as happy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. “Well now, that’s too bad.”
“Eb Wilson, are you and those friends of yours out there? You better get in here afore Christmas and your only boy’s twenty-sixth birthday is done over and gone.”
“Uh oh, it’s Abigail.” Eb held his hand out to seal the bargain. “Look, are we agreed on this? We wait until the time’s right then we implement the plan. In the meantime, we pray Rafe doesn’t get a wild hair and take off for San Antonio and the Rangers.”
* * *
Daylight sliced across Peony’s sore eyes only moments later. Something jabbed her in the ribcage and, with care, she leaned away from the offending spring to reach for the edge of the mattress. Where was she? Shaking off the cobwebs of last night’s disturbing dream, she placed her feet on the floor, fully expecting to feel the rocking of the rails beneath her and hear the roar of a train’s engine. Instead, she heard a loud rap at the door.
“Management,” a female voice called. “It’s high noon and past time to go.”
Gathering her wits, she
stumbled toward the door and threw it open. A rather surly looking woman of advanced years stood inches away.
“Noon?” she said as she stifled a yawn. “Already?”
“Yes’m, it’s nigh on half past, actually, and ya gotta vacate, hon,” the woman said. “Room’s been rented.” She took a step backward and gestured toward the stairs with her thumb. “That’un there paid me for a whole month. I’ll hold him off a minute or two so’s you can change.”
An older fellow, spry but graying, headed their way at a fast clip. Peony looked down at the wrinkled mess she’d made of her only traveling dress. Although she looked a fright, there was no one in Dallas she needed to pretty up for.
“No, really,” she said as she stepped away from the door. “Let me just fetch my bag and I’ll be out of your way. I meant to be on my way to the train station hours ago.”
“Ain’t no train till late this afternoon,” the older woman said. “Like as not you’ll find the benches hard down at the station. ‘Sides, it’s Christmas. Nobody’s gonna be keeping to a schedule today.”
Christmas. Peony’s heart sunk. She’d all but forgotten. Back home in the bells on the cathedral would be ringing out the good news of the Christ child’s birth. At Mama’s place, however, it would most likely be business as usual.
“Where you headed anyway?”
“West. North. I haven’t exactly decided although I’ve prayed about it quite a lot.” She shrugged. “Anywhere a good seamstress is needed and reasonably priced storefront space can be had.”
“Now isn’t that interesting?”
Peony whirled around to see the elderly gentleman standing in the doorway. He held a battered hat in his hand and carried a valise under his arm. His linen suit belied the fact that Dallas had awakened to the coldest day in the month of December so far.
“Thomas Morrison,” he said with a smart nod. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
She returned the greeting then offered a weak smile.
Mr. Morrison gave her a quick shake of his head then addressed the proprietor of the hotel. “I’ll not be responsible for putting this gentle woman out on the street on Christmas day. Dropping his valise at his side, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I insist she be allowed to stay. I will remain in the dining room until the lady can secure a ticket and be escorted to the train. If she cannot make arrangements until tomorrow then so be it. I’ll take lodging elsewhere.”
The woman snorted. “Only empty rooms in Dallas on Christmas day’s at the jailhouse and that ain’t for certain.”
“No, really, I insist.” Peony stuffed her feet into her shoes and slipped the handle of her bag onto the crook of her arm. “I’ve missed breakfast and I’m about to miss lunch, too.” She slipped past the linen-clad man to address the proprietor. “Would it be improper for a single woman to sit alone in your dining room?”
The older woman gave a most unladylike snort. “Hon, this is Dallas. You come on downstairs with me and I’ll see you’re not bothered.”
A few moments later, Peony found herself settled into a corner table near the kitchen and the watchful eyes of the proprietor’s son, an overlarge man of middle years. While her stomach offered the dual complaints of hunger and queasiness, her heart offered only one – desperation. She closed her eyes and offered a blessing over the plate of home cooked fare, finishing with a plea more centered on her future than the present meal before her.
Lord, You led me out here, I just know it. Why have You left me high and dry in Dallas, Texas, on the very day Your son was born? This was supposed to be my best Christmas ever. Now what do I do, Lord?
Chapter Four
The sound of a man clearing his throat broke into her prayer. Peony opened her eyes to see Mr. Morrison standing before her.
“I’m very glad to see you’re still here,” he said. “I feel just terrible putting you out of your room, especially with it being a holiday and all.”
She waved away his concerns with a sweep of her hand. “Think nothing of it, sir. I assure you I’ll be heading for . . .” Peony paused. She peered up at the gentleman who now stared at her expectantly. “Well, I’ll be heading out of Dallas very soon.”
Touching the corners of her lips with the rough napkin, Peony hid her frown. Perhaps the man would leave if she acted disinterested. She stabbed at a salted hothouse tomato slice and took a bite. He stood watching her chew until she swallowed the tomato and her fears and asked him to join her.
Peony gave the dapper Mr. Morrison a sideways look, smiling despite herself as he winked and said, “I assure you I’m far too old for anything other than dinner. I’m nothing but an old reporter looking to change my ways. I’m working on a book, you know.”
“A book?” She set her fork down and narrowed her eyes. The wrong answer would send her scurrying for the train station for sure. “What’s your book about, sir?”
He shrugged and rested his elbows on the gently worn checked tablecloth. “My adventures,” he said. “All those years chronicling the ways of Texas seem to be paying off. I’m actually being paid a livable wage this time to boot.”
“But don’t you have family you’d rather spend time with today?” His answer lay in the expression on his face. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Actually I don’t mind the question. It’s the answer that’s difficult.” The reporter offered a weak smile. “You see I was once a family man with a wife almost as pretty as you.”
“What happened?” The question was out before she could take it back. She winced. “I’m sorry. Again I’ve overstepped the bounds of propriety.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “The nomadic life of a report didn’t set well with my bride. She took our little girl and went home to mama some years back.”
“You simply have to go to them.” Once more she’d spoken before her good sense could stop her. “Forgive me. Perhaps I’m speaking out of turn because it’s Christmas Day and I’m here in this place without a family of my own. It’s just that I know, or rather I can imagine that it would be most difficult for a girl to grow up without her father.”
Mr. Morrison’s face grew solemn and he seemed to give great thought to her words. The pain of the memory of growing up without her own father burned almost as bright as the shame of thinking she might have accidentally told someone about it.
“Just consider it,” she said quickly. “Think about making things right with your family.”
A smile lit the older man’s face. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were some sort of Christmas angel sent to guide me home.”
Peony laughed out loud at the thought of her being any sort of angel. “I don’t know that the Lord has any use for the likes of me but if I’ve given you something to think about, I’m grateful to Him for providing the words.”
“Well you have.” He paused. “So, why don’t you tell me more about what brings you to this worthy establishment on Christmas day?”
Peony winced. “I’d much rather you tell me your story than to bore you with mine.”
Moments later, the gentleman was entertaining Peony with tales of his two decades of news papering, the most recent centering on a place called Cut Creek, Texas.
Somewhere along the way, Peony managed to finish her lunch and two of the best cups of coffee she’d had all week. She also confided her hopes for a future designing dresses, making him the second stranger in as many days with whom she’d shared her carefully guarded dreams.
By the time Mr. Morrison pulled a gold pocket watch from his lapel she’d all but forgotten she had no plans beyond lunch save the short walk to the train station. She hadn’t even considered whether the train would be heading east or west, and she told him so when he asked.
“Perhaps I can provide an impetus to set you aboard a train going north.”
North?” She placed the folded napkin beside her coffee cup and topped it with a few coins.
He looked away and seemed to be considerin
g whether to speak. Finally his gaze met hers. “My dear, I do believe the town of Cut Creek is in dire need of a dressmaker.” He leaned forward. “And I am in dire need of someone to purchase a certain empty newspaper office set right on the main thoroughfare.”
Peony gathered her traveling bag into her lap. The most she could spare would be a meager one hundred dollars, a sum so low she dare not mention it for fear of offending the kind man.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison, but I don’t have the money to-”
“You’d be doing me a great favor.” He waved away her protest then removed a slip of folded paper from his tweed jacket and set it on the tabletop between them. With gnarled hands, Mr. Morrison smoothed out the document, a deed, and turned it toward Peony. “Could you afford one hundred dollars?”
Ten months later, on the last day of October, Peony stepped out of the train station and stopped at the edge of the platform, taking a moment to look over the peaceful little town of Cut Creek, Texas. Not much to it, just as Mr. Morrison warned, but still it fairly resembled the image she carried in her mind. She reached into the pocket of her traveling dress and pulled out the key to her future.
Giggling at the pun, she set off toward Main Street and the old newspaper office, soon to be the home of her new dressmaking shop. The first of several trunks of essentials was due to arrive from Dallas in a few days, so until then she would have to make do with what she’d managed to fit into the carpetbag at her side.
And make do, she would. After working as a maid at the boarding house in Dallas since the day after Christmas, she’d finally scrimped and saved enough to purchase a proper inventory for her dressmaker’s shop. She’d even managed to purchase a smart new Singer sewing machine.
Offering a smile to the dapper man at the telegraph office, she marched across Ranger Street onto Main and strolled along until she stood in front of the building – her building – situated between a boarding house and a diner with a hand-letter sign reading “Abigail’s”. A stiff North breeze kicked up the hem of her skirt and blew a strand of hair into her eyes as she fitted the key into the lock.
Not the Marrying Kind Page 2