Chapter Five
Charlene gaped at the knife in shock. “Mr. Johnson,” she began, taking a step back, her hands raised. “Put the knife down. Please.”
Rather than heed her conciliatory words and tone, Harvey Johnson advanced on her, flicking the knife’s handle backward and thus setting the blade into a slashing rather than stabbing mode. “Injun lover,” he repeated, the feral light in his eyes never fading. Saliva slicked his lips, his grimace still in place.
Risking a lightning glance around, Charlene saw no one in the vicinity who could help her. Any other time there’s fifty people out here. The Winston widows gawped from across and down the street, in front of the bank, staring at the scene. Charlene took another step back and screamed, “Help! Get the sheriff.”
From her peripheral vision, she saw Johnson lunge forward, his knife swinging around in a fast arc, cutting through the air toward her throat. Twisting, Charlene ducked in the same motion, spinning out of range. As fast as she was, Johnson pounced, slashing his blade toward her again. She danced into the street, never taking her eyes from the glittering knife. “Help,” she yelled again.
Johnson grew frustrated at his inability to cut down one frail girl, for he rumbled in his throat, his eyes narrowed, still lunging at her with wild swings of his blade. Why isn’t anyone helping me? Charlene ducked another stroke from the madman in front of her, then spun out of reach, dodging his knife with the agility she never knew she possessed.
Concentrating on Johnson and where his hand was, she never heard the sound of galloping hooves until they were right on top of her. Charlene caught sight of a big bay horse that slammed chest first into Johnson, knocking him several feet back from Charlene. The knife flew from his hand as he rolled over and over in the dirt.
Whether by the rider’s intent or the horse couldn’t stop in time, she never was quite sure. What she did see, however, were big hooves cracking across Johnson’s chest and ribs as the horse stumbled over his body. Johnson choked on a scream, grunting, cursing as the bay wheeled around to trot back to Charlene.
“Are you hurt?”
Barely hearing anyone speak, Charlene breathed hard, unable to cease staring at Johnson as he curled into a ball in the street. Adrenaline still raced through her, her heart beating fast in her chest. People ran from stores, the bank, the saloon, gathering in a circle in the middle of the street, some shouting for the sheriff.
The rider slid down from his saddle, standing over Charlene. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.
Charlene stared up into the concerned face of Mr. Price. “I – I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps, you should sit down.”
The Winston widows thrust their way through the crowd, pushing anyone who didn’t get out of their way in time. “Come sit down, dear,” Miss Harriet ordered, taking Charlene by the arm, leading her to a bench on the sidewalk.
“We saw everything,” Miss Darla said. “That dreadful man attacked you. We’ll tell the sheriff so. He’s a menace, is that Johnson.”
Sitting down on a bench, a window to either side of her and Mr. Price looming over her, Charlene shivered despite the heat. “He tried to kill me.”
“Yes, dear, we saw it.”
“But we could not reach you in time, dear. Thank God for this young man.”
Trembling uncontrollably, Charlene tried to relay her gratitude to Mr. Price, but nothing emerged from her mouth. She glanced past him as Sheriff Barker cantered up to the crowd on his dun gelding, swinging down from his saddle even before the dun stopped moving.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, dropping his mount’s reins to the ground. He pushed his way through the gathered townsfolk, staring down at Johnson, who still lay curled in a fetal position.
Miss Harriet stood up and marched imperiously to him, the crowd now parting respectfully for her. “That drunken maniac tried to kill our Miss Quinn,” she grated, pointing back toward Charlene. “With that knife there. My sister and I saw everything.”
Barker looked from Charlene to the knife and to Johnson on the ground. “That true, Miss Quinn?”
Still unable to talk, Charlene nodded, her arms wrapped around her torso to still her shakes. Miss Darla stood up, glaring fiercely. “She is shaken up badly, Sheriff. If it hadn’t been for that young man, Johnson would have killed her. Now we are going to take her back to the store. Once she has calmed down, you may speak with her then.”
Miss Harriet agreed with a snort and stalked back through the now quiet crowd to Charlene. “Tie your horse up, young man, and come with us.”
Charlene caught a quick glimpse of Mr. Price tipping his hat to them, then picking up the reins to his bay. Behind her, as the widows helped her toward the Apple Tree with one on each of her arms, Charlene heard Barker ordering the people to disperse and two men to carry Johnson to the jailhouse. “And someone fetch the doctor,” Barker snapped.
Mr. Price held open the door, its bell chiming, as the two old women helped Charlene across the store’s threshold. Both Jean and Harold dropped what they were doing the instant they saw Charlene’s face and the two widows. “Good Lord, what happened?” Jean asked, rushing to Charlene.
“Mr. Maple, get her a chair,” ordered Miss Harriet.
“Mrs. Maple, fetch her some sherry. Or brandy. Brandy is better.”
If she hadn’t felt so queasy and frightened and shaky, Charlene might have chuckled at the sight of the Maples hurrying to obey the two old ladies. Mr. Price closed the door behind them, then stood with his back to it as though on guard.
“I’m all right,” Charlene tried to tell the widows. “Really.”
“Unless pale gray is your usual color, child,” Miss Harriet replied, her tone dry, “you are far from all right.”
“I – just – I don’t feel well.”
“It’s the shock, dear,” said Miss Darla. “Here comes Mr. Maple with a chair. Now sit down and catch your breath.”
Charlene obediently sat on the chair, grateful for it, for she didn’t think she could have stood on her feet much longer.
“Why did that lunatic attack you?” Miss Harriet asked as Harold hovered over her shoulder.
“Let us wait for the sheriff, Harriet,” Miss Darla told her sister. “That way she doesn’t have to tell her story twice.”
Jean arrived with a small glass and a bottle of brandy from the back. Her hands trembled slightly, the neck of the bottle clicking against the rim of the glass. Miss Harriet watched her impatiently for a moment, then took both from her. “Let me do it.”
She poured brandy from the bottle with the expertise of a bartender, then handed the glass to Charlene. “Drink it, child. All of it.”
Obedient, Charlene drank it down in a few gulps, grimacing at the taste. She had never liked brandy. Yet, within moments, her trembling subsided, and her stomach calmed. She nodded, handing the empty glass to Jean, who wrung her hands as she stood watching her.
The door opened, smacking Mr. Price in the back. He stepped aside to permit Sheriff Barker in, who swept off his big hat in the presence of the ladies. “Tyler,” he said with a quick nod, “if you wouldn’t mind, lock that door. I don’t think we need visitors right now.”
As the tall, silver-haired sheriff approached, Charlene gazed up at him, trying to smile. She heard the door lock snick closed as Mr. Price locked it, then he crossed the floor to stand beside Harold.
“Now, Miss Quinn,” Sheriff Barker asked, his demeanor friendly yet stern. “Please tell me what happened.”
When Miss Harriet opened her mouth, he held up his hand to silence her. “I need it from her. Then I will ask you two, Miss Harriet and Miss Darla, for your statements. Miss Quinn?”
Charlene nodded. “I was walking home for lunch, Sheriff,” she said, her voice trembling only slightly. “Mr. Johnson blocked my way, called me an Injun lover. He pulled the knife, attacked me.”
Swallowing hard, she took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes to the side, remembering those
desperate moments when Johnson slashed at her with the knife, trying to cut her throat open. “I couldn’t do anything except try to dodge him,” she went on. “Just avoided the knife. I yelled for help, but no one came.”
“We couldn’t get to them in time,” Miss Darla stated. “We saw it all. He was trying to cut her, but she moved faster than he did.” Miss Darla beamed with pride, gazing down at Charlene. “She was a sight to behold, she was.”
“You both witnessed Harvey Johnson attack her?” Barker asked.
“We certainly did.” Miss Harriet swelled up like an indignant bullfrog. “I hope you send that maniac to jail for life.”
Sheriff Barker glanced at Mr. Price. “And you stopped it?”
Mr. Price nodded, his stunning eyes on Charlene. “I need a few things from the store here, Vic,” he said. “I rode down the street, saw what was happening. I put my horse into a gallop and knocked him away from her.”
Sheriff Barker sighed, slapping his hat against his thigh. “It’s fairly clear what happened then. I found the knife in the street. Doc McFadden is looking at him now, seems he may have a few busted ribs. He’ll spend some time in jail, Miss Quinn, you have no worry that he’ll be out to hassle you again.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she whispered.
Sheriff Barker glanced around at the semi-circle around him. “This is an explanation, not an excuse,” he said, his voice stern. “Old Johnson used to be a soldier in the cavalry. He’d seen some awful things the Comanche have done in years past and lost his wife to a Comanche attack. Like I said, it explains why he hates them Indians.”
“That boy never did him any harm,” Harold thundered. “Why take his anger out on Charlene?”
Sheriff Barker held up his hands, palms out, in a placating gesture. “I done told you it was an explanation, not an excuse. What he did to Miss Quinn is inexcusable.”
Her trembling returned on the thought of what might have happened to her if Mr. Price had not needed to come to town that afternoon. She tried to smile at him, but when he didn’t return it, she thought perhaps her mouth didn’t work quite right. Her stomach churned the brandy into a sickening sway, making her believe she might throw up.
She started to stand. “I think I will go home now.”
Miss Harriet nodded. “We, my sister and I, will accompany you. Mrs. Maple, will you permit Miss Quinn to have the rest of the day off?”
“Of course.” Jean took Charlene’s hand. “Go home and lie down. I will come by the house and check on you later. Harold still needs to carry your goods, so I will fix supper for you and your mother tonight.”
This time Charlene managed a wan smile. “You are too kind.”
Jean huffed. “A man attacking a young girl on the street in broad daylight. What is this world coming to?”
Once again, Charlene found her arms held by the Winston widows as they marched her toward the door. Mr. Price unlocked it and held it open for them, giving all three of them a short bow as they passed. She would have liked to have paused to thank him, now that she had discovered her voice, but the two determined ladies took her outside before she could even try.
The crowd had dispersed, but many townspeople still stood on the sidewalks, watching her and her bodyguards emerge from the store. No few stepped up to ask if she was all right or if there was anything they could do. The widows brushed her past them imperiously, politely asking them to step aside. Though Charlene had no doubt they would have simply marched over anyone who did not.
Olivia, an empty plate in her hand, gaped in shock as Charlene and her escorts entered the house. “Charlene! What happened?”
“That maniac drunk Johnson tried to harm her, Olivia,” Miss Henrietta said, helping Charlene to the sofa. “I imagine the boy is in her room?”
Olivia stared, uncomprehending for a long moment. “Um, yes, he is. I just gave him some food.”
She lifted the empty plate as proof, apparently still unable to realize that Charlene had been moments from death, if Charlene read her expression correctly. Yet, she still found a polite smile for their guests. “Harriet, would you ladies like some tea?”
The widows seated themselves in armchairs, across from where Charlene sat, who wished wholeheartedly that they would go away and leave her to lie down. “Yes, Olivia,” Darla replied. “That would be lovely.”
Still, the tea that Olivia poured tasted good and did as much to halt her shivers and shakes as the brandy had, and she had no need to say a word as to what had happened – both widows explained in graphic detail what had transpired with Johnson and his knife. Olivia let her tea grow cold as she listened in growing horror, Harriet reminding her time and again how she had come within a hair of losing her daughter.
Trying not to show her growing alarm, Charlene patted her mother’s hand. “I’m fine, Mother. Just a little shaken up.”
Olivia’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I almost lost you,” she whispered. “What would I do if I lost you, too?”
For the first time, Miss Harriet and Miss Darla seemed to realize just what their extravagant detail had done to Olivia’s fragile emotions. As though ashamed of themselves, they glanced at one another over their cups, suddenly refusing to speak or look at Olivia for long moments. “Perhaps we exaggerated the situation, Olivia,” Miss Harriet admitted, at last, sipping her tea without looking up. “Charlene is fine, and the miscreant Johnson is in jail, where he will remain for some time.”
“It’s all because of that boy in there. We should never have taken him in.” Her mother seemed prepared to break down and sob into her hands.
Charlene squeezed her wrist. “Never regret a good work, Mother,” she said sternly. “I do not, and will not, regret helping him. Ever.”
“Charlene is quite right, Olivia,” Miss Darla said firmly. “Doing one’s Christian duty is never to be second-guessed. Please put that from your mind.”
Olivia nodded, wiping her eyes with a napkin. “All right,” she whispered.
Miss Harriett set her cup on the table and stood. “I think Charlene needs to rest, don’t you? Come, Darla. We must return home.”
Charlene also stood, walking the widows to the door. “Thank you so much, Miss Harriet, Miss Darla.”
Miss Darla patted her cheek, smiling. “We will see you tomorrow, child.”
She watched them stroll down the street, their heads together as they gossiped about the day’s events. No doubt, they would tell and retell this story to anyone who would listen until the end of their days. Charlene smiled a little as she closed the door. Turning, she found her mother weeping silently, tears flowing down her cheeks and dropping onto her lap.
Anguished, Charlene rushed to her. “Mother.”
Sitting back down on the sofa, she took her mother into her arms to rock her back and forth as though she were a small child. Olivia clung to her, her sobs growing louder, her tears wetting Charlene’s bodice. Feeling her own eyes sting, she blinked several times to clear her vision, letting her mother cry herself out.
When at last, she lifted her head to wipe her wet face, Olivia tried to smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have cried all over you.”
“Hush.” Charlene swept her mother’s hair back from her face. “It’s all right, Mother. Do you want to lie down for a while?”
Olivia nodded. “Will you look in on our guest?”
“Certainly.”
Charlene walked with her mother to her bedroom and watched her lie on the bed. Covering her with a light sheet, she kissed Olivia’s brow. “Jean will be fixing us supper tonight.”
Smiling, Olivia closed her eyes. Stepping lightly as she left, Charlene didn’t close the door, as that would make the bedroom too stifling, and went to her own room. The Comanche boy was asleep. Moving softly so she wouldn’t wake him, she sat in the chair beside his bed. She nearly died because of this Indian, the knowledge driven home to her now that she was finally alone and could think.
I would do it again. I would blackmail McFa
dden, and let this boy stay here to recover, even if it cost me my life. It was, and is, the right thing to do. She sat with him for the afternoon, two hours perhaps, and watched him wake up. She observed his face creased with pain as he stirred, waking fully with a yawn, then realizing he was not alone.
The boy stared at her for a long moment, and Charlene wondered if perhaps he didn’t recognize her. Then the wariness in his countenance slowly seeped away, and he smiled shyly. Charlene returned it. She pointed to herself. “Charlene.”
She then pointed to him. The boy seemed puzzled, for he cocked his head, his sleek black hair sliding over his shoulders. She tried again and turned her index finger toward her chest. “Charlene.” And once again with the gesture, she politely asked for his name. A wide grin crossed his face. He tapped his chest. “Tosahwi.”
An Unconventional Bride For The Rancher (Historical Western Romance) Page 5