Mallory

by Hebby Roman

  As much as she might be attracted and secretly admire him, she couldn’t help but remember how trusting and naïve she’d been about men before. Hiram had been exceptionally handsome and charming. And she’d thought she’d known his character, too, but she’d been a fool. A simple and silly fool.

  She never wanted to be that kind of foolish again.

  The summer night was turning cooler, and she wished she had her shawl. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist and hugging herself.

  She returned to the front porch rail and gazed across the parade ground again. Shadows shifted and milled in front of Doc Winslow’s window. Straining forward, she hoped Will was coming soon.

  After what seemed like hours, the lights in the doctor’s office dimmed. Will should be coming back. She heard the crunch of his boots on the gravel before she glimpsed his form, silhouetted against the dark night.

  He strode toward her, his back ramrod straight and his head thrust forward. She wanted to run to him, to nestle in the comforting circle of his arms. But she knew better than to show her emotions too blatantly.

  She waited and then he was beside her, joining her without a word. Standing alongside her and leaning against the rail, he gazed out at the dark night.

  As strange and silent as his approach had been, she wasn’t frightened or anxious. Not now. Not now that he was here. A kind of peace settled between them—as if being together was enough—offering each other comfort without words. She’d never felt this way about a man, not even her sweet Beau.

  Finally, he shifted and extended one leg, standing with his boot over the edge of the porch. “How’s Peggy?”

  “She’s fine. I checked. Sleeping.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “Thank you again for staying.”

  “My pleasure. You know I care for Peggy.”

  “Yes, I do, and it gladdens my heart.”

  Hearing him say such a thing, so open and easy—her own heart leapt in her chest, beating faster. She sucked in her breath. “How’s the reverend?”

  “He took an Apache arrow in the fleshy part of his thigh. Doc Winslow got the arrowhead out and sewed him up. Barring an infection, he should be fine.” He turned toward her. “Did you know the good reverend asked to be transferred?”

  She was surprised, but not shocked. She’d never thought the man was suited to the frontier. “No, I didn’t. Though, I could have guessed.”

  “How so?”

  “It was obvious from the first day Peggy took me to the church; he wasn’t happy here.”

  He puffed out his cheeks and nodded. Facing her, he leaned his back against the porch rail and rested his elbows on the wooden bar. “The arrow wasn’t meant for the reverend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Looks like the Apache wanted to kill Phineas Bolton, a rancher. He owns a small spread between town and the Lazy M. The reverend was officiating at a funeral, one of Bolton’s cowhands. Reverend Finley thinks when Mr. Bolton leaned down, the Apache shot him by mistake.”

  “Oh, no, that’s terrible.” She shook her head. “But why would the Apache want to kill Mr. Bolton? Were they raiding his cattle?”

  “No, I don’t think so. As far as the reverend knows, it was a lone hostile. I plan on talking to Phineas tomorrow, though, to be certain of my facts.”

  “Sally mentioned since you’ve deployed the infantry, the raids have dwindled.”

  “That’s true, but I think this was more planned, more purposeful.”

  “How so?”

  “You remember the way Ben Murphy treated us?”

  She shuddered. “How could I forget?”

  “He seemed set on inheriting his brother’s ranch, and he mentioned something that made me think he shelters the Apache for his own ends.”

  “But why would he do that? Isn’t he afraid of them?”

  “I doubt he’s afraid of them. He has a small army at his command. No, I think he’s using them to run off or kill neighboring ranchers. Then, he can take over their land.”

  She gasped. “What a terrible thing to do.”

  “Yes, but not as terrible as killing your own brother so he can’t marry.”

  “You still believe that. Don’t you?”

  “Everything points to it.” He sighed. “Though, I have no way of proving it.” He shook his head. “I tried to raise a reward, but people around these parts are hard-put to make a living. They’ve given a few dollars, and the reverend gave me a donation, but it’s not enough money to get one of Ben’s men to come forward. Without someone on the Lazy M to verify my suspicions, there’s nothing I can do.

  “I didn’t tell you before because I was disappointed.” He shook his head. “When Judge Beadle, the circuit judge, came to town, I asked him about Ben’s financial responsibility to you.” He shrugged one shoulder. “The judge didn’t think there was anything he could do, no law on the books—”

  “I don’t want Mr. Murphy’s money.” And as much as she wanted to return to her son, what she said was true. She wanted nothing to do with Ben Murphy.

  “I understand, and I can’t say as I blame you.” He lowered his head and scuffed his boots on the wooden planks.

  Then he looked up. “Have you or Sally noticed a stranger in town? I know you go most days to town for fabric, needles, and such.”

  “Yes, we do, but we haven’t noticed anyone new.”

  “There was a stranger, waiting outside Doc Winslow’s. I tried to introduce myself, but he took off. He was of medium height and build, wearing a Stetson, and a red-checkered bandana, knotted at his throat. He rode a brown mare.”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t remember anyone who…” Then she suddenly remembered that far-off day when she’d received Nancy’s first letter. She’d thought, for a split second, the man lounging in front of the saloon had been Ben Murphy.

  She’d pushed the disturbing image to the back of her mind, but listening to Will’s suspicions about Ben and his concern over a stranger, she wondered if she should have said something sooner.

  “I… I, uh, now that you mention it…”

  His head came up, and he gazed into her eyes. “Did you see the man?”

  “No, not the stranger you saw tonight. Not him. But I thought I saw Ben in town one day, after you warned him off.”

  “Why didn’t you…?” He stopped himself and held up one hand. “Forget I said that. You were scared and not certain it was Ben. Am I right?”

  She gulped. “Yes, I was frightened.” She clasped her hands and twisted them together. “Thinking about Ben Murphy upsets me. And that day, I’d gotten my first letter from home. Sally was with me, but she had to get back to cook supper for her husband. We’d been in town, talking to families about the school. Sally didn’t want to leave me, but I thought I would be fine.

  “We both looked around and didn’t see anyone threatening. But there was a man, sitting on the bench in front of the saloon. He had his Stetson pulled over his face, as if he was sleeping.”

  “Why did you think it was Ben? What was he wearing?”

  Her knuckles popped and she untangled her fingers, pushing her hands into her apron’s pockets. “I didn’t notice what he was wearing. I was too excited to hear from home, so I sat on a bench outside the post office and looked over my letter.”

  She reached up and patted the bun at the back of her head. “Then I got this creepy feeling, and I glanced up from my letter. The man in front of the saloon was staring at me. I thought I recognized him as Ben, but before I got a good look, he lowered his head again and pulled his hat down.” She grimaced. “I hurried back to the fort.”

  “You did the right thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you remember when this happened?”

  “Only a couple of days after we got back from the Lazy M.”

  “That would have been when the payroll for the fort was due in.”

  “Do you think Mr. Murphy was in town to s
teal the payroll?”

  “No, it arrived intact. But it might explain why my best translator took his pay and quit without a word.”

  “Oh,” she said, though, she didn’t quite understand. What did one of the fort’s translators have to do with seeing Ben Murphy where he wasn’t supposed to be in town?

  As if reading her confused thoughts, he said, “If Ben is using the Apache to drive his neighbors from their land, he needs a translator. Some Apaches speak English but only a few. And the few who do, seldom admit it.

  “Most Apache speak Spanish, though. They’ve been fighting the Mexicans for at least two hundred years and have learned their language. Their chiefs usually adopt Spanish names, too, like Victorio and Caballero, but they hate the Mexicans worse than they hate us. Ben’s shrewd enough to not use a Mexican to translate for fear of insulting them. That’s why I think he needs Deer Stalker.”

  “I see. It seems everyone has enemies on the frontier. And Mr. Murphy stirring up trouble, makes things more difficult.”

  He sighed and admitted, “It’s just a hunch of mine... about Ben. I need more facts to prove it.” He turned toward her and smiled. “I think that’s enough for a Saturday night. You must be tired. Can I escort you to Sally’s?” He put his arm around her shoulders.

  Instinctively, she shied away from him.

  He let her go and gazed into her eyes.

  She stared at his mouth, wishing he would kiss her again. But she’d pulled away. Now, he’d never kiss her. And she didn’t want to drive him away. She wanted him near. His strength kept her going in this alien land.

  She was flattered he’d explained his suspicions about the Apache who’d shot the reverend and his missing interpreter. Most men didn’t confide their business to women, thinking the female sex was too flighty or dim-witted to comprehend men’s undertakings.

  Even her father had been unwilling to teach her how to oversee the plantation, and when she’d asked how the Cotton Exchange would work, he’d told her women didn’t have a head for business.

  Will’s consideration of her as a person warmed and pleased her. Wanting to make amends for pushing him away, she took his arm and draped it over her shoulder, glancing up at him.

  His lips quirked into a smile. “I’ll take you home… or would you care for a cup of tea before you go? It’s been an exhausting evening. I know I could use something.”

  She giggled, a nervous laugh bubbling forth. “I agree. It’s been very upsetting, especially about the reverend, and your suspicions.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if I can go straight to sleep. A cup of tea might be nice.”

  “Come on. Let’s see how Peggy is. Then I’ll brew some tea.”

  “Would you happen to have something stronger on hand?”

  “Why, Miss Reynolds, I never took you for a tippler.”

  She half-smiled. “I’m not, only on occasion. You don’t know much about me, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. But I wish I did. Would you care to enlighten me, over some brandy, perhaps? I keep a very smooth French brandy, brought in from Galveston.”

  She giggled again and, this time, it wasn’t her nerves. “I’m surprised, Will. I wouldn’t have taken a former seminary student for a drinker, either.”

  He laughed. “Touché. I don’t partake often, but sometimes, as you so elegantly put it, the occasion calls for a tot of strong drink.” He caressed her arm. “I think tonight might be one of those times. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, and I’d be delighted to join you.”

  “Only if you promise to talk about yourself. I’d like to know more about you, Mallory.” He lowered his arm and squeezed her waist. She leaned into him.

  She was tall for a woman, but he towered over her. Curving her body into his long, rangy frame felt so right, as if they belonged together.

  “How about it?” he asked.

  She blinked. What was he asking? He wanted to hear more about her? She could do that… to a point.

  She turned her head up and smiled. “All right, Will, we have a deal.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mallory watched as Will reached into the topmost cabinet and fetched a bottle of expensive-looking brandy. He turned and grinned, putting his index finger to his lips. “I keep it hidden. Don’t want Peggy and Martina to know about my bad habits.”

  “Oh, you have other bad habits? What would those be?”

  He fetched two glasses and wagged his finger. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Steering the conversation toward me. I want to hear about you, Mallory. I thought we had a deal.”

  “You’re right, we do.”

  He poured the brandy and handed her a glass. He raised his glass and touched it to hers. “To hearing more about the very cultured and refined Mallory Metcalf Reynolds.”

  She saluted him with her brandy and took a sip. The brandy burned a pathway to her stomach. She hadn’t tasted good brandy in a long time, not since she’d lived in Charleston.

  The grandfather clock in the parlor chimed, ten times; she counted the strokes. It was later than she’d thought, but as she’d told Will, she would have been hard-pressed to fall asleep after the distressing events of tonight.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She smiled. “All right, then. Let me think.” She tapped the side of her glass with her finger. “As you know, I’m from Georgia. I grew up on a plantation near Savannah. We called it Riverbend, as our home was in the bend of the Chattooga River. We grew rice in the lowlands, but our primary crop was cotton. We had a townhome in Savannah, too. I guess you could say we were wealthy. My father had inherited the plantation; my father’s family were some of the original settlers.”

  “I thought so, everything about you told me you grew up privileged.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “Yes, but not in a bad way, Mallory.” He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. No one could call you snobbish. But you’re cultured, well-spoken, and educated. The mark of a true lady.”

  She took another sip of brandy, savoring the nutty taste. And savoring his kind words. It had been a long time since she’d heard such compliments, and then those had been a foil and a trap.

  But not with Will. The man was as open and expansive as this wild frontier he inhabited. Her skin prickled and heated. “That’s kind of you.”

  “Kind, perhaps, but my honest opinion, as well.”

  His compliments warmed her, better than the expensive brandy. She was transported back in time to when she was a debutante in Charleston. Then, she’d felt beautiful and special, like a spanking-new gift, tied up with a big bow.

  She hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time.

  Her neck and face heated, and the tips of her ears burned. She knew she must be blushing.

  She lowered her head. “It’s true, I was well-tutored from an early age. I’m an only child and my father wanted me to have the best education, even though I was female. My mother was English. My father met her when he toured Europe as a young man after university. But she was like a hothouse orchid and very frail.

  “When I was eight, we lost her to yellow fever. I was so filled with sorrow, like a misplaced lamb. She was gentle and kind.” She paused, thinking it odd the same qualities her mother had possessed, she valued in this strong, brave man.

  Her father had been different, brash and ambitious. And she’d thought she wanted a man like her father.

  Sighing, she continued, “I didn’t think I’d survive the loss. All I wanted was to go to my sweet mother and join her in heaven.”

  He inclined his head and cleared his throat. “It’s no wonder you and Peggy have formed a bond. She lost her mother at about the same age.”

  “Yes, I’ve often thought of that.”

  He reached across the table and touched her hand. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

  “Yes.” She nodded and tried to smile
but failed. “I knew you’d understand what a blow it was.”

  He lowered his voice and spoke softly, “And after your mother passed?”

  “Oh, it was a bad time.” She lifted her glass and took a swallow. “The War Between the States had started, and my father marched off to the war at the head of a cavalry unit of Georgia volunteers. Mostly men of importance like himself, banding together.”

  This time, she managed to smile, remembering. “My Mammy, Astarte, used to say there were too many chiefs and not enough soldiers.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. Then he released her and sat back. “We often say that in the Army.” He finished his brandy and poured himself another. He held up the bottle, offering.

  She shook her head.

  “So, you were alone on the plantation with your Mammy?”

  “Yes, and the other house servants and my governess. Papa left an overseer to run the place, too, but I was lonely.” She sipped her brandy, almost finishing the glass.

  “Now I know why you’re so strong. You’ve had to rely on yourself from a young age.”

  Oh, my, another compliment.

  Her head was swimming, and she didn’t know if it was from the brandy or his obvious admiration. But she didn’t dare tell him the whole story. If she did, would his admiration turn to disgust?

  The next part was tricky—should she tell him about Beauregard and how she’d nursed him when he returned from the war? But to what use? Yes, she’d cared for Beau, but he was gone, and his passing might have changed the course of her life, but to talk about her childhood sweetheart seemed unnecessary.

  “After the war, my father came home, unharmed. In that, we were blessed. And Sherman didn’t destroy Savannah, either, not like Atlanta. The Union general was taken with the town’s beauty and “gifted” the city to Lincoln for Christmas. Sherman was satisfied with destroying the Charleston-Savannah railroad, which cut us off from the rest of the South.

  “Despite our blessings, my family was financially ruined. Most of our slaves had remained on the plantation, as my father was a kind master. They became sharecroppers. But he still couldn’t find enough laborers.” She shook her head. “Then the carpetbaggers descended.”