Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

  “Ruth Ann said her father’s gettin’ a hundred and sixty acres for free.” Wesley’s voice perked up. “Is that what Daddy’s gonna do?”

  I scooped a cupful of grits from the tin. “Your father and I have thought about the race. Plenty of people have been talking about it. It’s in the New Territory that the government’s opening up. Used to be Indian land.”

  “Indian land? Can we get some? Sure would like to live with the Indians.” Wesley climbed on the chair at the end of the table and propped his chin on his folded hands. “It wouldn’t cost us nothin’.”

  “Anything,” I corrected. “First of all, the Indians have been moved off the land to other areas.” My son’s serious expression made me smile as he tried to understand that his idea of living with Indians and chasing buffalo on horseback was no longer a reality. “Besides, everything costs something. Even if it’s free.”

  The water in the cooking pot bubbled, inviting me to add the grits. “We have our home here.” Even if it doesn’t feel like it any longer.

  *****

  The walk to the jail felt longer than the few streets we actually passed. Maybe it was because Wesley was preoccupied with kicking a stone that bounced and rolled haphazardly on the rutted ground. While he was intent on keeping the whereabouts of his rock, my thoughts focused on what my reaction and words might be at seeing Tuck behind bars. I dreaded the thought of how he might look after a night of hard drinking and from the roughing up by Taylor’s men.

  Was it wrong to bring our son along? Maybe he should have gone to Mother’s. But then she would ask what happened. And it’s impossible to lie or keep a secret from her.

  My sweet mother wasn’t fond of Tuck’s behavior either, but she was forever encouraging me to forgive. Forgive. Forgive. Forgive. Just like the Lord has forgiven us.

  We passed the last street and made our way to the front of the sheriff’s office. Our town didn’t need much of a jail since little happened around here. Unfortunately, Tuck had been a visitor quite a few times since the twins died, to sleep off a night of drinking—and causing problems in the saloon. The last time it happened, Sheriff Murphy said Tuck needed to have time to think on a hard cot and an empty stomach. But that wasn’t all he had to say. “He needs to know what it feels like not to be snuggled up next to you for a night. A respectable man wouldn’t take for granted sharing a bed with a woman like you.”

  Replaying the lawman’s words caused me to stumble on the steps leading to the door. I gathered my courage and blew out a sharp breath before stepping up to the entryway.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Sheriff Murphy reclined behind an oak desk, hands folded behind his head, feet propped on the desk. His leather boots were shined to perfection. “Even brought the boy along.” He winked at Wesley.

  “He’s come along to escort his father home.” I pulled my son closer to my side.

  The sheriff slid his feet off the desk and stood, towering over me. “Now, I wouldn’t be in such a hurry, Mrs. Roberts. There’s a few people I need to speak with to determine exactly what happened.”

  “And who would those folks be?” I tried my best to keep my voice from quivering, but the combination of the sheriff’s ominous stature and smug stare unnerved me.

  “The Taylor men ought to be showing up any time now to give their account. They have better things to do than come up with false stories, so I reckon’ they’ll have plenty to say.”

  “Let me talk with my husband.” I stepped forward, feigning more courage than I possessed. “Privately.”

  “Suit yourself, but he ain’t a pretty sight.” He nodded towards Wesley. “He can wait here with me.”

  The thought of leaving my son with this man did not sit well, but seeing his father beat up and half-drunk behind bars was not good either. “Wesley, mind your manners and stay put. I’ll only be a few minutes. We’ll be heading home with your father shortly.”

  “Take your time. Me and the boy’ll be within earshot if you need us. Right, Son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wesley’s eyes were firmly fixed on the shiny badge proudly displayed on the lawman’s pressed shirt.

  *****

  Tuck was unrecognizable except for his dark hair, which was matted against his cheek and caked with dried blood. One eye was swollen shut, ringed with purple, and his lips were distorted. Like an animal, he huddled in the corner of the cell, knees drawn to his chest and head leaning back against the brick wall.

  “Tuck.” His name sounded foreign since the man on the floor appeared a stranger.

  “Mary?” His good eye opened.

  “Yes. You all right?” My question was ridiculous, but I found myself at a loss for words that usually came easily. “It’s time to take you home.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.” He almost produced a smile, then grimaced at the apparent pain in his split lip. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong, promise.”

  “They’re saying you tried to steal a horse. You wouldn’t do that, would you?” My voice cracked. “Taylor’s men are coming here to give their account.”

  My husband edged onto his side and pushed himself up on hands and knees. I had never seen him in such pain. Watching him wince with each motion caused anger to swell in my gut.

  “What did they do to you?”

  “Must have busted my ribs ’cause I can barely breathe.” Grasping the bars, he pulled himself to a half stand. “Like I said, I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  Not anything like taking a horse to ride in the land race? “Nothing you can remember,” I said coldly. “You promised you wouldn’t drink like that anymore.”

  He reached through the bars to take my hand. Instinctively, I stepped back. My husband had betrayed me before, and the pain still lingered.

  “Mary, I’m sorry.”

  His breath reeked of bad whiskey, causing my hand to cover my nose.

  “I love you.” The usual pleading brown eyes weren’t as convincing this time, especially with his left eye shut. “I’ll make it right with you. You have to believe me.” Again, he reached through the bars and held a fold in my skirt. “Will you forgive me?”

  I want to believe you and forgive you. You’ve been given that gift time after time. I don’t know if I have it in me any longer. “I forgive you.” I touched his bloodstained hand and then pulled away. “But this time it’s for Wesley’s sake, not yours or mine.”

  “Mary—”

  “Let me see about getting you out of here.” I spun on my heels and walked toward the office, willing myself not to look back.

  “I’ll be escorting my husband and son home now,” I said to the sheriff’s back.

  Wesley and the sheriff were in deep discussion over the rifle collection standing at attention in the gun case. “This one’s a beaut, ain’t she?” The sheriff handed a rifle to him.

  “She sure is.” My son rubbed his small hand over the smooth wood. “I’d like to learn to shoot one like this someday.”

  “Hasn’t your father taught you to shoot a rifle? A big boy like you?”

  “No, sir. He—”

  “That’s enough talk now, Son.” I stepped forward, lifted the rifle from his hands, and handed it to the sheriff. “Here. It’s time for our family to head home. All of us.”

  “That’s a pure shame. Young Wesley and I have been having a good man-to-man talk.” He patted the top of Wesley’s head. “Right, Son?”

  Wesley nodded with wide-open eyes, as though this lawman were larger than life.

  “There’s some good news for you and your husband. The Taylors think there may have been a mistake. They sent one of their men a few minutes ago. Seems your husband was cavorting with a rough group of drunkards last night. The Taylor boys ain’t sure which one of the carousers unhitched and tried to take a mare belonging to their father, Sam. Fact is, it may or may not have been your husband. Anyway, he’s off the hook … for now.” The sheriff returned to his desk and plopped into
the chair.

  “You mean this is what happened to my husband over a mistake?” I waved my hand toward the back of the jail. “Or for that matter, any man who simply unhitched the wrong horse?” My face burned, and I was sure redness swept across my cheeks.

  “A man knows his own horse,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest, “whether he’s stone drunk or not. And to my recollection, your husband doesn’t even own a horse.” He chortled. “Not that he could afford one.”

  I averted my eyes and tried to calm my swelling anger that would only fuel his ego. “Would you please release my husband and let us get on our way?”

  “Not quite yet. He should be home before dark. Some tables were busted up at the saloon. The owner may have something to say about restitution before I let Tuck go.”

  Pleading with this man would only produce a trite refusal. It would be easier to deal with my husband when he was completely sober. Besides, time was needed to prepare my son for his father’s appearance. “Very well. We’ll have supper waiting for him.” With Wesley’s hand in mine, we headed for the door.

  “Thank you for showing me the guns, Sheriff,” Wesley called out as I pulled him down the steps.

  “You’re welcome, Son. Anytime.”

  Whether it was my imagination or his voice carried on the breeze, I could hear the pompous lawman chuckle at my folly.

  CHAPTER 3

  Mary ~ Shattered Innocence, July 14, 1893

  By eight o’clock, the remaining stew was cold. Reluctantly, Wesley crawled into bed, but not before asking if his father would check on him once he arrived home. I avoided answering, but my son was insistent. A false promise was made. His father would kiss him goodnight. I hated myself for lying, but something in my gut warned we would not see Tuck tonight.

  Once Wesley was asleep, I gathered my shawl and quietly slipped out the door. A few lights from neighboring homes cast enough glow for me to navigate my way toward the jail to see why Tuck had not returned home.

  Others were outside, enjoying an evening stroll or sitting on porches to escape the heat that still lingered on late summer nights. The O’Reillys called a greeting, but I merely waved, not in the mood for small talk about the weather. My pace quickened until I rounded the corner and stood in front of the brick building. On the rise above the steps, Sheriff Murphy leaned against the wall. The butt of his cigarette glowed as he raised his hand and tipped his hat.

  “Good evening, dear lady. What brings you back here, especially in the dark?”

  “You know exactly why.” My hands fisted as anger grew. “You said Tuck would be home by supper. Obviously, that time has passed.”

  The sheriff took a long drag and then released a plume of smoke that swirled around his head. “That’s interesting.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your husband was released well before suppertime. Can’t imagine he got lost trying to get home, can you?” The cigarette dangled from his mouth. “Told him to get on home and count himself a lucky man that the Taylors and the saloon owner felt sorry for him and let him go.”

  I crossed my arms tightly, trying to steady myself. “Was he too injured to make it home on his own? He must have stopped somewhere along the way.” My excuses were weak, but they were all I had.

  “Come on now, you don’t live far. Even a man weak in the knees would make it home to a woman like you.” He dropped the cigarette and smashed it under his boot. “Maybe he headed to the saloon, but he’d be a fool to think Amos would open his doors to him, especially after just letting him off the hook for damaging things last night.”

  “He wouldn’t—”

  “But then again, that man of yours is a fool.” He stepped to the edge of the porch and bent over, leveling his eyes with mine. “Mary, you deserve much better than a husband like him.”

  My mouth opened, but words refused to form. Lately, my mind was caught between reality and dreams of what my life should be. Could the sheriff’s hurtful words be sprinkled with truth? Our eyes locked, but I backed away with measured steps as though cornered by a wild animal.

  “You let me know if you need help finding him.” He resumed his stance by the wall. “If I can help with anything. Anything at all.” He tipped his hat and pulled another cigarette from his shirt pocket.

  My feet hurried down the street toward the saloon. I needed to pull myself together. Be strong. Surely, Tuck was at home by now. Probably went another direction, and we missed each other. I would peek inside to make sure he didn’t stop to make things right with the owner or clear up another friend’s name with this misunderstanding.

  At the saloon, I paused to gather myself. This was not an establishment most women would enter. Inside was dingy, and a cloud of smoke hovered over the heads of a small group of men at the bar. Others sat among scattered tables, lifting glasses and playing cards. A survey of the room confirmed the absence of my husband.

  A man behind the bar, presumably Amos, called out to me. “Can I help you, ma’am? You seem lost.”

  “No, sir. Just looking for my husband.” Several chuckles rose from the cluster of men. “Aaron Tuck Roberts.”

  The group turned as one and looked directly at me. A few laughed again, and a fat one snorted and banged on the table.

  “Tuck Roberts, you say?” The bartender tossed a towel over his shoulder. “First of all, he ain’t welcome here ever again. Busted up the place last night.”

  “So I heard. You haven’t seen him at all today?”

  “Yeah. Had the nerve to come in and say his good-byes to the few he would dare to call friends.”

  Again, chuckles erupted. A gravelly voice added, “and to bum whiskey and a cigarette from Ruthie.”

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, your husband was lucky to get out of town with his hide.” Amos poured whiskey into a shot glass and placed it on the counter. “Here, it’s on me. You look like you might be needing this.”

  Blood rushed to my face, and I grasped the back of a chair to steady myself. “I don’t drink.”

  “You may want to start,” the gravelly voice chimed in.

  “Enough, Ebner.” Amos tossed the wadded-up towel at the bald-headed man. Then he leaned over the counter and motioned me closer.

  I approached the bar, careful to turn my back to the group of men. “Good-byes? What do you mean he came by here to say his good-byes?”

  “Don’t you know? I mean, being his wife and all.” Amos wiped a large hand across a crooked nose. “He was heading to Colorado. Cripple Creek, he said.”

  “Colorado?” Without looking, I knew all eyes in the saloon were on me.

  “That’s right. Said he was off to make his fortune at a gold strike in the Rocky Mountains. Some say there’s more gold to be found in those parts.” This time, he lifted the glass and offered it to me again.

  “I wish I did drink.” My spirit sagged under the reality that was punching me in the stomach.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Thought you knew your husband’s plans.”

  “I thought so too.” As I turned away from Amos, all the men now stared openly at me. It was hard to read their faces, but I imagined that some of them had an ounce of compassion for a wife abandoned by her husband.

  CHAPTER 4

  Daniel ~ Boston, July 30, 1893

  “Daniel, you look pathetic. Worse than a stray dog with no hope for a home.” Finn shook his head in disgust as I frowned back at him.

  For the third night in a row, sleep had evaded me. Without invitation, the nightmare had returned to remind me of my cowardice. “That bad?” I tried to force a smile, but my best friend and sidekick photographer for the newspaper knew me too well. Even though I was ten years plus his twenty-five, we had developed a strong working relationship when Finn arrived four years ago from Scotland—hungry for food and work.

  “’Tis the dream, it ’tis.” His left eye squinted even though my small studio room was depressingly dark. Finn spent a good part of his life with his
left eye closed—peering through the lens of his camera with his right eye wide open, or when summing up the quality of a person. Finn knew me better than anyone, particularly when I slipped toward the guilt that regularly tried to consume me.

  I stood and stretched my arms above my head. “A walk is what is needed.” The draperies hung helpless in front of the window, pooled on the floor in dark green puddles. Pulling them apart allowed entrance for the little sunshine available on a dreary East Coast morning.

  “Friend, allow me to correct you. A woman is what you need.” Finn snickered.

  “Hardly. I don’t get enough sleep as it is.”

  The red-brick facade of a six-story building stood directly across Washington Street. THE GLOBE, emblazoned in stately lettering, crowned the entrance to my daily existence. For the past eight years, I had diligently worked as the illustrator of “urgent news and future historical importance” as Chief Editor McKelvey reminded me each shift—every day except four years ago, January 5, 1889. That was the day after the famous Burning of the Boston City Stables.

  “How about we go to Melville’s for a bite of breakfast?” Finn patted his stomach, and it rumbled in response. “I’m starving, and you look like you could use some fattening up.”

  “Too much work to do.” I pointed across the street. “The deadlines keep piling up. This city isn’t about to go to sleep so I can get on top of all the happenings around here.”

  My permanently ink-stained fingers were a constant reminder of my long days hovering over my work table. Over the years, with pen and ink, I illustrated the news important enough to make the front section of the Globe, gathering every possible detail—texture, feature, color—before the moment slipped away. The work had branded me. Not merely my fingertips, but my view of the world.

  Finn knew that ever since the fire, my disposition had changed. Observing life from a distance was now my permanent vantage point. Like a boat loosened from its moorings, I was slipping away into a fog that would eventually separate me from the past and the painful memories that haunted me.