by Hebby Roman
He had to find out. He rounded the three corners of the porch and stared into the night. The lamp shone in the kitchen window, and the back yard was empty. That only left the barn. She liked Jezebel and had let Kevin take riding lessons on his mare. Maybe she was in the barn.
He opened the double doors and slipped inside and saw her, curled in a pile of straw in front of Jezebel's stall. The kerosene lantern she'd taken was sputtering and almost out.
Was she awake? He didn't know, but he didn't want to startle her. Cautious, he cleared his throat.
She lifted her head and stared at him. In the flickering light, he could see the silvery track of her tears. His heart went out to her. He knew how grief could consume you, destroy your days, and make you wonder if your life was worth living.
He prayed she didn't feel that way—she still had Kevin…and him.
She wiped her face with a shredded handkerchief. “Clint, you shouldn't be here. I'm… I'm not myself.”
He held up one hand. “I understand. Grief is tough, only time, a lot of time, helps.” He wished he could take his own advice, but he wondered if there would ever be enough time to get over losing Jenny and Timothy.
“I don't know what you're saying. Are you grieving too?”
Maybe if he told her his sad tale, it would help. He wasn't good at this, and he'd never talked about his losses with another human being. But he remembered something Jenny had told him long ago—talking about your feelings helped—at least that was what his sister had said.
He cleared his throat again, hoping Jenny was right. He could try. He guessed there was a first time for everything.
“Yes, I've known my share of grief. Am still grieving. It's one of the reasons I took the sheriff's job.”
She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling out bits of straw. He had her attention, and she hadn't asked him to leave again. Maybe his sister had been right.
He pulled a bale of hay over and sat down. Jezebel nickered, probably wanting his attention. But he was afraid to move closer to Abby. He knew how easily she spooked.
She wiped her eyes again. “Tell me about it.”
He smoothed his hand over the stubble on his chin. “It's not pretty, my past. But if I don't tell you all of it, you won't understand.”
She nodded.
“My mother was a…ʻlady of the night.ʼ We moved from town to town in the West, mostly following the boom times, mining strikes, lumber camps. That sort of thing.”
“ʻA lady of the nightʼ—what does that mean?”
Good Lord, for a married lady, she was an innocent. He flushed, praying for the right words to explain. But there weren't any right words. The plain, unvarnished truth would have to do.
“My mother was a whore.”
She gasped and then covered her mouth with her hand. She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Clint. Sorry for you.”
“That I'm a bastard who never knew his father?”
“No, I make no judgments. It wasn't your fault. You can't help who your parents…or your family are.”
He gulped and grit filled his eyes. Most people weren't so accepting. But he'd known from the first day Abby was different. Maybe that was what had attracted him or the gut-deep feeling that she needed his protection. All he knew was his arms ached, wanting to hold her and feel her snuggled tight against his chest.
“Thank you for your kindness. Most people…” He hesitated, not wanting to talk about what he'd suffered as the child of a whore. “My mother had another child, a little girl, Jenny, my half-sister. When we were young, we were inseparable. When Jenny turned eight and I was thirteen, I begged my mother to send her away to school, away from the saloons and…”
She dropped her handkerchief and wrapped her arms around her midriff. “That was very noble of you, but how did your mother find the money to—”
“That was the bargain I struck with my mother. I'd quit school…” He paused again, wondering how it would sound, spoken out loud. “We moved around a lot and my schooling was sketchy at best. But I was already a big guy, and I didn't need much sleep. Found out I could work two jobs and get by and have plenty of money for Jenny's boarding school. My mother, she had a kind heart, but she was frivolous…” He shook his head. “Not much ʻhorse sense,ʼ you know. Once she saw I could provide for Jenny, she sent her East to school.”
“Did Jenny come back? What happened to your mother?”
“My mother died two years later of consumption. Jenny finished her schooling and met one of her roommates' brothers and married well. He was a doctor.”
“Was? Isn't Jenny and her husband…”
He shook his head.
“Oh, no, I…I'm so sorry for your loss.” She looked down. “How did it happen?”
“Train wreck, passenger train.”
Her head jerked up and she shook it back and forth, slowly. “Oh, no, no, not another train wreck.” She met his gaze. “How terrible for you. You loved your sister and sacrificed for her and then...” She clutched the cameo at her throat and twisted the ribbon around her index finger. “I'm sorry, Clint, so very sorry.”
He rose and moved closer to her, a few steps away, hoping against hope she'd let him hold her and kiss her and…
He'd never felt this way about another woman. Why was Abby different?
“It gets worse, you might as well know all of it. My sister and her husband had a baby, and he survived the train wreck. My sister's husband had no family to speak of. I tracked the baby, Timothy, down.” He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “The poor mite had no one, just me. I'd become a bounty hunter because the money was good. I didn't spend much—saved most of my bounties. With the money I bought a sheep ranch on the Devil's River and settled down. Settled down to give Timothy a home.”
“Where's Timothy? I'm surprised you didn't bring him to town. Kevin would love to have…”
Her eyes widened and she stared at him.
He shook his head again. “I lost Timothy two years ago on the river.” He removed his Stetson and dusted it on his leg. He trained his gaze on the hay-covered floor. “Most times, Devil's River is little better than a stream with a few deep pools. And Timothy grew up wading and swimming there. But two years ago, when I was out with the vaqueros in the north pasture, rounding up strays, Timothy decided to go swimming. And Leticia, my housekeeper, let him.”
He sank back onto the bale of hay and hunched his shoulders. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. “That's when it happened. There was a thunderstorm in the hills and the river filled up faster than you could…” He paused and his eyes filled with tears. “We found Timothy, three days later, five miles downstream… He would have been eight years old the next week. He was all I lived for. I wanted him to inherit my ranch and—”
“Don't! Don't say it.” She covered her ears with her hands. “I can't stand it.” She rose and stood before him, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Too much sorrow, too much grief. There aren't enough words, there isn't enough…anything.”
He rose and put his arms around her waist. And she didn't pull away. Instead, she slumped against him and buried her face in his chest.
Talking about what had happened made the grief fresh again, like a knife cutting out his guts. But at the same time, he felt a breath of relief, as if he'd cauterized a gaping wound, and stopped the bleeding.
Jenny had always been wise for her years.
He rested his chin on the top of Abby's head and sighed. Her hair was soft and silky. And holding her in his arms helped—just touching her. He hoped she felt the same way.
She lifted her head and gazed at him. “Kevin reminds you of Timothy?”
He nodded. “Yes, being with your son is the only thing that's helped. I took the sheriff's job to make money and restock my ranch. But the real reason was to get away from the river. I couldn't stand to look at it—to be reminded of what happened.”
He trailed his fingertips al
ong her cheek and down her throat. “I know I'm a crazy man, Abby. But being around you and Kevin makes me less crazy.” He snagged her gaze. “That should be a good thing, right?”
“Yes, Clint, a good thing.” She ran her pink tongue over her ruby-red lips.
And God help him, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
At first, she started to pull away, but he made himself go slow. He brushed her lips lightly, gently. She sighed and leaned into his embrace. He caressed her lips with his, angling his head this way and then that, but careful not to seek entrance to her mouth.
She might be the mother of an eight-year-old boy, but she acted like a virgin.
He cradled her and she snuggled closer, offering her mouth to him.
He groaned.
Would he ever get enough of her?
Clint's groan startled her, bringing her back to the moment, making her realize she was a married woman, allowing another man to kiss her.
Lucas' kisses had been sweet at first—sweet and tender. But once they'd married, he'd shown his true side, his twisted desires. He'd forced her to do unnatural things with her mouth and tongue to arouse him. And if he couldn't…wasn't able…then he'd taunt her and say terrible things. Tell her she wasn't a real woman.
And now, another man was touching her, kissing her. She jerked her head back and pushed at Clint's chest. “I can't.” She shook her head. “I can't.”
He stepped back. “I understand. It's too soon after your father's death.” He took her hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. “I apologize, but I've never told anyone else what I told you and…”
“But I'm a married woman, Clint.”
“How long since you saw your husband?”
She shook her head. “Six years, but it doesn't matter. In the eyes of God, I'm still married.”
He exhaled. “I know, I know. Please accept my apology.”
Tentatively, she reached out and touched the right-hand corner of his mouth, letting her fingers trace the scar that tugged at his full lips. “How did it happen?”
He covered her hand with his. “Oh, that's from when I was a boy.”
“And?”
“Got in a fight with a bigger boy. He pulled a knife.”
She gasped. “What were you fighting over? It must have been awfully important.”
He shrugged. “Thought it was at the time. I was fighting over my mother's honor. I learned not to…after that and…after the school master explained to me.”
She shuddered and crossed her arms. Between her father and Lucas, her life hadn't been a bed of roses. But she couldn't begin to imagine what Clint had gone through with his mother and her profession.
Chapter Six
Abigail turned away and went back to Jezebel's stall. She reached up and grasped the mare's halter, stroking the horse's nose. “You've been so honest with me, Clint.” She slanted a look at him. “So honest, I can do no less for you.” She faced him and tilted her chin up. “It's not just about my marriage and my father's passing.”
Shaking her head, she said, “I'll tell you the real reason I was hiding in the barn. Not because of my grief but because my family, or at least, my oldest brother and sister attacked me because Father left me the boardinghouse and the rest of his fortune to the Presbyterian Church.”
He sucked in his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.
She shook her head again. “That was Father, he never cared about people's feelings—only his money. He left me the house so I could raise Kevin.” She paused and licked her lips. “But my father didn't protect me from my husband…he could have. But he didn't care enough.”
He reached out his hand. “Oh, Abby, I didn't know.” His eyes widened and he let his hand drop. “Protect you, what do you mean?”
Her neck and face heated, and she looked away. “I can't, can't say anymore. Not right now. Maybe one day.”
How could she tell this good man what her husband had done? Why she feared a man's touch and kisses? But at the same time, a tiny part of her craved to be close to Clint.
“To be fair to my brothers and sisters, they were victims of my father, too. He made them quit school and work for him, turning over their wages, from the time they were Kevin's age. Even the girls took in sewing.” She shook her head. “Except for me. I'm the youngest and when Mama died, my brothers and sisters, like you helped Jenny, begged my father to let me finish my schooling. He agreed because they fought for me. I'm the only one who had a childhood. The rest were my father's slaves.”
She faced him again. “So, you see, I can't fault them for being disappointed and taking it out on me.”
“But you didn't make your father leave his fortune to the church or ask for the boardinghouse, did you?”
“No, but it doesn't matter, does it?” She twisted her hands together. Spying her dropped handkerchief, she bent and picked it up, stuffing the shredded cloth into her apron pocket.
She straightened. “The damage is done. I'm the scapegoat. They know Father didn't care, didn't care enough to leave them anything.” She dropped her head and hunched her shoulders.
She'd already cried a river. Her mouth and throat felt like a desert. She hadn't known her body held so many tears. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron.
“Abby, you can't—”
“I know, I know. I can't change anything. At least, not about what Father did.” She touched her mother's cameo, her talisman, the only thing that remained of Jean Kerr. “Maybe I can make it up to my brothers and sisters. I could sell the boardinghouse and split the proceeds with them. Then, at least, I would have done the fair thing.”
“But they're all married, and you're alone in the world. As you said, your father wanted you to take care of Kevin.”
“I've saved some money. Elisa taught me how to sew bridal trousseaus. With what I've saved and my share of the house, I'd have enough to open a shop.” She hesitated, considering. “Leanna, my youngest sister, and I are close. She defended me when Will and Viola… She and her husband don't have children. Kevin and I could live with them in El Paso while I get my shop going. And her husband owns a mercantile. He could refer me business.”
He rubbed his chin. “I know you want to be fair with your brothers and sisters, but please think it over before—”
The barn door squeaked, startling them both. Clint grabbed the butt of his holstered Colt pistol and spun around.
Henry Palmer stuck his head inside. “Sheriff Graham.” He exhaled and his gaze skimmed her. His eyes narrowed and then he looked back at Clint.
“Whew, am I glad I found you, Sheriff. Been looking all over.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Big brawl down at the Prickly Pear. We need you now.”
Clint nodded and let go of his Colt. “I'll be right there, Henry.”
Facing Abby again and for the benefit of nosy Mr. Palmer, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Sanford for checking on Jezebel and getting her to eat some carrots. She's been off her feed, and I was worried. Seems like she's perked up now.”
“My pleasure, Sheriff Graham. Kevin has enjoyed learning to ride your mare. I wanted to help.”
He replaced his Stetson and tipped the brim. “I'll wish you good evening, Mrs. Sanford.”
***
Clint drew his Colt pistol and fired it in the air.
The heaving, brawling mass of men jumped apart, sputtering and shaking their heads. Eyes wide and filled with fright, they looked around and their gazes settled on him.
From the looks of things, the vicious gossip had done its work. Tables and chairs were overturned and broken. Mugs of beer lay on their sides, their smelly brew soaking into the sawdust-strewn floorboards.
And the familiar lines were drawn.
Sheep ranchers on one side and railroaders on the other. Despite having only one hand to fight with, Tom Weaver was in the thick of it.
Clint shook his head. Some people never learned.
“Oh, but I think you do need me, Mr. Weaver. Unless you want me to pull you in for disturbing the peace.” He glanced down at the tin star pinned to his shirt. “I'm the law here and whether you like it or not, I'll decide what's a friendly tussle.”
He straightened his spine and let his gaze sweep the room. “What's the problem here?” He wanted to ask who'd started the fight but knew better. No one was going to tell him that.
Pete Baker, the man who'd taken a pot shot at Sheriff Cunningham and scared him off, stepped up. “These damned railroaders think we ranchers pulled up track and caused Mr. Kerr's train to wreck.” He fisted his hands and raised them, ready to go at it again. “The lying sons of bitches.”
“Pete, how'd you like to spend another night in jail. Wasn't one night in that hell hole enough for you?” Clint asked.
Slowly, hesitantly, Baker lowered his fisted hands, his chin in the air and his stance guarded, as if he expected to be jumped at any moment.
“Okay, I've had enough of this gossip about the train wreck,” Clint said, raising his voice over the muttering men. “Since everyone is so doggone interested in the wreck and can't wait until the railroad investigates—”
“We ain't trusting no railroad investigation.” Autry Lamb spoke up. Autry was a neighbor of his, his spread lay west of Clint's ranch, along the river.
Clint nodded. “I thought that might be the case.” He unknotted the bandana at his neck and wiped his face. “I've been thinking on it, and I believe I have a fair solution. We're going to convene our own investigation. I'll need six men, three railroaders and three ranchers. I'll head up the team, but everyone will have a say-so. What do y'all think?”
The ranchers and railroaders each bunched together, discussing and gesticulating. He shook his head again. If he didn't take the initiative, they could argue all night.
“Weaver and Baker,” he barked.
The men fell silent. Both Weaver and Baker straightened and looked at him.