The little girl smiled. "My name is Emily," she said, dashing around Joshua to the doorway that led downstairs. She waited until he came up behind her, and then she took his hand and led him down to the kitchen.
At the foot of the stairs, Joshua emerged into a world awash with children of every age and size. Most were huddled around the big table that dominated one side of the room, while others stood at the sink or stove. The tallest boy was holding an armful of firewood just inside the rear door, and Joshua noticed he had a purple bruise on his cheek, as if he had been in a fight. Nearby, the oldest looking of the girls stood in the open pantry doorway, and Joshua thought he saw someone inside the pantry gathering food.
The children who were facing the stairway immediately fell silent and began to shake or prod the ones whose backs were to the door. The silence spread like a wave through the room, until everyone was facing the minister in stockinged feet who was holding little Emily's hand.
"Oh, dear," the oldest of the girls whispered.
"What's that, Alice?" a woman called from the pantry, and then a dark figure appeared behind the teenager and moved past her into the room. "What's going on out here?"
Joshua's mouth dropped upon seeing that Emily's sister was actually a Roman Catholic nun. As if to confirm the fact, Emily tugged his arm and said, "That's Sister Lorraine."
Her face breaking into a broad smile, Sister Lorraine clasped her hands and approached the minister. "Reverend Markham," she declared, "I'm so glad you're feeling better." Stopping a few feet in front of him, she turned to the children. "Boys and girls, this is the Reverend Joshua Markham, who has been so kind as to open his home to us."
"I—I'm not sure I understand," he replied hesitantly.
"Of course not. You were feeling so ill, and I didn’t want to disturb you. These children are all orphans under the care of our Dominican order. We are on our way to Wichita to found an orphanage, but one boy"—she signaled Patrick to stand so that Joshua could see his bandage—"was injured yesterday. Dr. Keller insisted he spend the night in a bed, and she suggested we come here. I hope I didn't—"
"Of course not," he cut in with a wave of his hand. "I'm only sorry I was not well enough to greet you myself last night." He smiled cautiously.
"Let's not speak of last night again," she proclaimed. "Today is a new day, and I'm certain a good hot meal is just what you need to set your spirits right." She smiled, and Joshua averted his eyes.
Sister Lorraine spun around and circled the room, motioning for the children to continue what they had been doing. Most were finished eating, but there were still plenty of eggs and bacon on the stove ready to be fried. A place was quickly set for Joshua at the head of the table, and before he knew what was happening, Emily and some of the other smaller children had dragged him over and plopped him down in the seat. In short order, a steaming plate of food and a mug of black coffee were placed in front of him.
The final shift of children seated at the table all picked up their forks, waiting for Joshua to begin. He gave them a thin smile, then gingerly picked up his own fork and took the first bite. Immediately the others dove at their own plates, and within moments the kitchen was alive again with the sound of children laughing and talking, seemingly all at the same time.
Joshua seemed to forget how unsettled his stomach had felt only minutes before, and he ate heartily. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a delectable meal, and when Sister Lorraine brought a platter of bacon and eggs around, he allowed himself to be served a second heaping portion, which he quickly consumed.
"Delicious," he declared, totally forgetting the slight throbbing at his temples as he put down his fork. "I don't think I ate yesterday. I...I had a funeral to attend."
"Yes," the nun said, "I'm so sorry about your father."
Joshua nodded. "I guess I was hungrier than I thought."
"Then have a bit more." She scooped up several thick strips of bacon and dropped them onto his plate, then pushed the plate in front of him.
"I shouldn't," he said, but then he picked up his fork and added, "but I suppose one more wouldn't hurt."
He was wrong. The feeling came over him quite suddenly, between the second and third strip of bacon. At first it felt as if a large lead weight had been dropped from the top of the church tower directly into his stomach. But then the weight came alive and began to roil around inside him like a gathering hurricane. His stomach caught fire as the hurricane became a volcano, with the lava threatening to erupt.
"Is something wrong?" Sister Lorraine asked, standing over him with the plate of bacon almost directly under his nose. "Perhaps another piece...?"
"I...I th-think n-not," he managed to stammer, his face turning sheet white and his eyes bulging at the sight of the crisp, greasy bacon. He gave a rumbling belch, and his eyes opened even wider.
"Oh, dear," Sister Lorraine whispered. "I hope—"
The second belch was louder and deeper. "Ex-excuse me," he blurted as he pushed the platter of bacon away and stood on shaky legs. He almost knocked over the chair as he backed from the table.
"Quick! The door!" Sister Lorraine called to one of the children, who yanked open the back door.
Joshua turned and headed across the room, his stockinged feet slipping on the polished hardwood floor. Grabbing the doorjamb, he pulled himself through and went stumbling through the rain across the muddy backyard.
The children gathered at the rain-splattered windows and watched Joshua stagger through the outhouse doorway. The moment the door closed behind him, the most god-awful, gut-wrenching noises reverberated across the yard, as if Vesuvius itself were spewing forth from the very bowels of the earth.
"Oh, dear," Sister Lorraine muttered as she stood in the kitchen doorway and stared across the yard, shaking her head with pity. "The saints be spared!"
Joshua Markham spent the rest of the morning resting in his room and wisely decided to skip lunch. He had washed and changed his clothes and felt much better as he sat in a chair near the window and read his Bible, seeking appropriate passages for the upcoming Sunday service.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and he called, "Yes? Come in."
The door creaked open, and Sister Lorraine entered carrying a small tray. "Some tea and a slice of fresh bread," she said, approaching and placing the tray on the stand beside the chair. "It will settle your stomach."
"Thank you," he replied, looking a bit sheepish. "I'm sorry about this morning..."
"No need to apologize. We are intruders in your home."
"This is supposed to be God's home. I'm afraid I'm not a very worthy caretaker."
"Just because you got a bit sick—"
"Drunk is the word," he corrected her.
"I got drunk once, myself. How else can we understand the ways of the world to which we are trying to minister?"
Joshua stared at her a long moment, as if gauging her character. Then he motioned her to the chair by his desk. When she was seated, he said, "I haven't gotten drunk just once. When I was younger, I was drunk much of the time."
"Before you took up the cloth?" she asked, and he nodded. "But you were a different person then."
"I've been sorely tempted since."
"The bottle is a powerful seductress."
"And once since becoming a minister I was seduced by the bottle—after my younger brother strapped on a gun and left home. I should have been stronger."
"You blamed yourself," she said knowingly. "And with your father's death, you feel that same guilt. But why?"
Joshua sighed. "My father was murdered by Willis Donnelly, and I should have seen it coming."
"So they've caught his murderer?"
"Donnelly?" He laughed bitterly. "He practically owns Abilene. No one will touch him, and anyway, they could never make a case stick. He may not have pulled the trigger, but he paid the man who did."
"But how could you be to blame?"
Joshua picked up the warm mug of tea and held it b
etween his hands. "I've spoken against him from the pulpit, urging my parishioners to do what they can within the bounds of the law to see him brought to justice. But it isn't enough—I realize that now. I should have been speaking out on the streets, not hiding behind an altar. I left my father out there to fight alone, and they killed him for it."
"It sounds like you were fighting—in your own way. We are each given our own pulpit—and yours is in this church. Dr. Keller said your father was a judge?" she asked, and he nodded. "Then his was in the courtroom. It could have been you who took that bullet, but your father must have had this Donnelly fellow more worried—enough to kill. Don't turn your anger at Donnelly against yourself. There are millions of Donnellys in this world, and God will judge each."
"Are you saying I should do nothing?"
"Not at all. But you were right not to sink to Donnelly's level. Any action you take must be within the law and with the support of the people. There is no profit in defeating one Donnelly and creating another."
He waved his hand in an offhand manner. "Oh, I know what you say is true. But the problem runs deeper."
Sister Lorraine leaned forward in her chair. "Just what do you mean?"
"I want to kill the bastard," Joshua said bluntly. "Slowly. Without mercy."
The words settled into a heavy silence. "But you won't," she finally said, a statement more than a question.
"I just don't know. It goes against everything I believe. But perhaps my faith isn't as strong as I had thought. Maybe..." His voice trailed off.
"Maybe you are a man, Reverend Markham, with the natural feelings of a man. A man who is being far too hard on himself. You must first forgive your desire for vengeance before you can hope to forgive others."
"I will never forgive Willis Donnelly," he said flatly.
"He, too, is a man—a very weak man. Don't let him make you weak, too."
"I let him murder my father."
"God allowed that, as well. Don't expect more from yourself than you do from God."
"I know," he muttered, taking a deep breath. "But this desire—this anger—it feels so unchristian."
"It's human, and so are you. Accept your weaknesses. Just don't magnify them."
Joshua nodded, then took a sip of tea. "Thank you," he said at last, putting down the mug. He forced a smile but still looked somewhat troubled. "I'm afraid my mind is a whirl of thoughts that I'll have to sort out. But it was good to talk with someone about all this."
Sister Lorraine stood and headed to the door, then looked back and said, "By the way, the children and I will be leaving shortly. We'll be taking lodgings at—"
"No," he cut in, standing and raising his arm, "you must stay here."
"We've imposed—"
"Not at all. I insist. Your funds must be saved for the journey ahead. You're going on to Wichita?"
"Perhaps tomorrow—after Dr. Keller examines the children."
"Then you will stay here until you leave," he declared, and she smiled and nodded. "And one other thing," he added as she started out into the hallway. "I should be able to put myself to bed tonight."
"I hope the same holds true for me," Sister Lorraine replied with a broad smile. "It's been a long journey, and now I know where you keep your whiskey."
"I'm afraid you'll have to settle for communion wine. I poured out the whiskey this morning." When Sister Lorraine pouted, Joshua shrugged apologetically and added, "They say there's no one more falsely pious—or troublesome—than a reformed drunk!"
"Yes, there is, Reverend Markham," she insisted, "and pray you never see it."
"What's that?" he asked, his dark eyebrows arching above his wire-rimmed glasses.
"A tipsy nun!"
9
The rain had stopped, and the wind had diminished by the time Lucas Flint and Dr. Rose Keller returned to Abilene from the Lillingston farm late Wednesday afternoon. Young Wesley had regained consciousness and was resting peacefully in his own bed. He hadn’t yet spoken, and only time would tell if his injury had caused serious brain damage. Dr. Gilmore was feeling better but would spend a day or two at the farm, both to recuperate and to keep an eye on the teenage boy and his new baby sister.
After helping Rose bed down her horse for the night, Flint led her around the house to the front door.
"I'd like to invite you in for some tea," Rose said as they stood on the porch, "but I have to visit some of the patients who came while the office was closed."
"That's all right," Flint assured her. "But eventually you'll need some dinner. Perhaps you'd be my guest at one of the local restaurants?"
"I'd like that." She smiled gently. "But I don't know when I'll be back. I'd hate to keep you waiting."
"I've got nothing to do. I'll just check in every hour or so."
Rose shook her head and said, "I've a better idea." She pointed at the kerosene lantern on the wall beside the front door. "When I get back, I'll light this lamp."
"Fine. Until later, then." He tipped his hat, then waited while she unlocked and opened the front door. As she started inside, he said, "Rose, what you did this morning was mighty impressive—and took quick thinking."
She blushed slightly. "I didn't have any choice."
"You could have stood there and done nothing."
"No." She slowly shook her head, and her eyes looked into the distance. "You see, I'm a physician."
"Yes, you are. And you're fortunate to be so sure of who you are."
Detecting a slightly despondent tone, she said, "Surely the famous Marshal Lucas Flint . . . the Rattler . . . knows full well who he is."
"Who he was. I'm not so sure anymore who or what I am."
"How long has it been?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Since your wife's death."
Flint looked down. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, "Only a few months."
"Give yourself time. You'll discover soon enough where you're headed."
"I'm not eager to take up a badge again. I've seen enough of death." He paused. “Seems like it’s been following me around for a mighty long time.”
Demons danced behind his eyes—or memories. Seeing them there, Rose felt a moment of sudden fear, as if she had come unexpectedly upon a wild, dangerous animal.
Or a snake coiled to strike.
But this grieving man wasn’t the same Lucas Flint who had tamed Wichita, Rose reminded herself. She placed a hand on Flint's forearm. "One year out of medical school I felt the same way. I was working at a women's hospital in New York City during a cholera outbreak, and the poor women kept dying despite our greatest efforts. Then one day a pregnant woman died, and I could still hear the heart of her unborn baby beating inside her. I cut the woman open and brought the child crying into the world. I wondered if I'd done it a service, but when I handed that baby to its father and saw the joy in his eyes, I knew there was a reason I had become a physician. Perhaps just for that one child, or maybe the boy today."
"But you never knowingly took a life."
"And you must remember the lives you've saved," she reminded him, withdrawing her hand from his arm.
He looked at her closely. "Are you saying I should put on a badge and strap my gun back on?"
"Not at all. But you were meant to have served as marshal of Wichita, just as I am meant to be a physician. And in time you'll know what you're supposed to do next."
"I hope so."
"And what will you do until then?" she asked.
"I suppose I'll continue on to Wichita—try to pick up the trail I left three years ago.”
"Maybe you never left it, Lucas. Maybe you're on it right now."
Flint grinned. The demons had receded—for now. "Just so long as it takes me to a comfortable seat at one of Abilene's finer eateries."
"Yes, I'd like that."
Flint waited as she stepped over the threshold and disappeared inside. Then he turned and looked out toward the street, watching as a wagon crossed in one direction and
a pair of mounted cowboys passed the opposite way.
He had hardly spoken about his feelings since before Mary had died—and it felt good. The only thing that might feel as nice just now was a drink from the special supply behind Angus MacQuarrie's bar.
"Who goes there?" a weirdly high-pitched voice called as Flint entered Angus's Tavern.
Flint looked around but didn’t see the big Scotsman. "Angus? Is that you?" he asked as he stepped up to the long mahogany bar that ran along one wall.
"Dinna be daft, man!" the thin voice with a strangely lilting brogue replied.
Flint jerked his head around, looking for Angus. But he was neither behind the bar nor in the large main room, which was empty save for a quartet of poker players at a rear table who looked as though they had been in from the range for several days and were taking a breather between one drunk and another.
"Angus?" Flint called, turning toward the bar.
"Gone fishing!" the squawky voice answered.
Furrowing his forehead, Flint leaned over the bar to look down at the floor. "You down there?" he asked.
"Dinna be daft! Gone fishing, I say!"
Flint heard a ruffling sound, and he looked up quickly to see a beautiful green bird fluffing its feathers on a perch that stood on the rear shelf of bottles.
"You down there?" the bird suddenly spoke, perfectly mimicking the tone Flint had used.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Flint muttered.
"Dinna be damned!" the bird replied, cocking its head to one side.
"So ye met Old Bailey," a voice called, and Flint turned to see Angus coming through a door at the far end of the bar. He stepped up to the perch and put out his finger. The bird hopped aboard, and Angus swung around and held him out to Flint. "I'd have introduced ye two last night, but Bailey boy was upstairs in his cage, catching some sleep."
"I'll be damned!" the bird squawked, and Angus gave a hearty laugh, which the bird immediately imitated, though an octave or two higher.
"Ye ginna have t'mind ye language around Old Bailey, Lucas. He picks things up as quick as ye say 'em, but fortunately forgets 'em just as fast."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 10