The Frontiersman

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’d say it was pretty well settled when she told Aylesworth, ‘I do.’”

  Breckinridge dumped the bucket of water over his head, shook out his long red hair, and pulled on a buckskin shirt.

  “Are you gonna stop me, Pa?” he asked.

  “You know I can’t do that. I wouldn’t, even if I could. Sometimes a man’s got to make his own damn-fool mistakes, or else he’s never going to learn anything.”

  At least his father had just referred to him as a man, Breckinridge thought. To the best of his memory, that was the first time his pa had acknowledged the fact.

  He put a saddle on one of the horses and was about to ride away when he stopped and looked around at his father.

  “I just remembered, I don’t know where they live,” he said.

  “I shouldn’t tell you,” Robert said, “but you’d just ask somebody in Knoxville and find out that way. The boy’s father bought them a house.” He told Breckinridge where to find the place, then added, “Don’t lose that horse this time.”

  Breckinridge nodded ruefully. He had told his family that Hector had been stolen, which certainly was true as far as it went. He merely left out the part about how he’d been drugged and double-crossed by a gambler and a runaway girl.

  The ride to Knoxville didn’t take long. It was a cool, late autumn afternoon, with small patches of blue sky peeking through a gray overcast.

  Breckinridge found the house without any trouble and tied the horse to a post beside the gate in the picket fence around the yard. The house was large and comfortable looking, sitting under tall trees that were mostly bare at this time of year. A couple of stately evergreens flanked the flagstone path leading up to the verandah, though.

  Breckinridge stood there looking at the house for a moment, then took a deep breath and opened the gate. As he approached the house, he thought he saw a curtain move a little at one of the windows on the second floor.

  Was Maureen behind that curtain, looking out at him? Was she shocked to see him? Happy? Angry?

  A maid answered Breckinridge’s knock on the door. He said, “I’d like to speak to . . . Mrs. Aylesworth . . . please.”

  He hated the way those words sounded in his mouth. They were so wrong they made his skin crawl.

  The maid told him to wait and closed the door. As Breckinridge stood there, the wind picked up a little. It felt chillier now than it had when he was riding into town, Breck thought.

  The maid opened the door again and said, “The missus says you should come on in.”

  She led Breckinridge into a well-appointed parlor and told him to have a seat. All the chairs looked a little spindly to Breck, so he lowered himself onto a divan instead, worrying slightly about its even being able to support his weight.

  He didn’t have to sit there for very long. Maureen appeared in the parlor’s arched doorway. Breckinridge caught his breath at the sight of her.

  She was as beautiful as ever, wearing a dark blue, high-necked dress. Her hair was pulled to the back of her head and fastened there. As she came toward Breckinridge, he saw the rounded belly. She was in the family way, all right. Richard must have gotten her like that not long after their marriage.

  “Breckinridge,” she said softly as she held out both hands toward him. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

  He stood up and clasped her hands. No power on earth could have prevented him from doing so. As usual, he towered over her, so she had to tip her head back to look up at him.

  His father had been right about one thing: she wasn’t a girl anymore. Even though less than a year had passed since he last saw her, she had changed dramatically. She was a woman now . . . with a woman’s burdens haunting her dark eyes.

  “Maureen . . .” he said as he struggled to come up with the right words and cursed himself for being so tongue-tied. Finally he went on, “I had to see you again.”

  “And it’s good to see you,” she said as she managed to put a small, sad smile on her face. The smile went away as she added, “But Richard wouldn’t like it if he knew you were here.”

  Breckinridge saw something flare in her eyes as she mentioned her husband. He thought at first that it was worry, then realized it was more than that.

  She was afraid.

  His hands tightened on hers, although he was careful not to grip them too hard. He said, “Maureen, what’s wrong? Are you scared of that—”

  “Scared?” she broke in. “Of my own husband?” She let out a little laugh that didn’t convince Breckinridge at all. “Why would I be afraid of Richard? He loves me.” She hurried on, “Please, sit down. I told the maid to bring us some tea. We’ll have a nice visit, but then you’ll have to go. Richard is at the store now, but he’ll be home directly.”

  “He works in his father’s store, does he?”

  “He runs it now. The elder Mr. Aylesworth was struck down by apoplexy several months ago. He survived the attack, but he can’t work anymore.”

  So Aylesworth had taken over his pa’s store. That came as no surprise to Breckinridge. A lot of fellas went into the family business. Breck, however, wasn’t one of them.

  Breckinridge sat down on the divan again. Maureen sat, too, keeping a proper distance between them. Breck wished he could take her in his arms and give her a kiss, just one kiss, but he knew that would be wrong. He wouldn’t be able to forget that she was carrying Aylesworth’s baby, either.

  “So tell me,” Maureen said with that forced brightness again, “where have you been? What have you been doing while you were gone?”

  Breckinridge condensed the tale even more for her than he had for his parents and brothers. He gave a brief account of how he had worked on a keelboat on the Mississippi, then joined a military surveying expedition out onto the prairie. He purposely didn’t mention river pirates or Indians or bloody death.

  “That sounds very exciting,” Maureen said. “With all that going on, what brings you back to Knoxville?”

  “I got a letter from my brother Edward. It said I wasn’t, uh, wanted by the law anymore.”

  Maureen’s face grew solemn as she nodded.

  “Yes, that was all terribly unfortunate,” she said. “Richard told me that you misunderstood the situation and were afraid you’d be blamed for the tragedy. He tried to find you to let you know that you didn’t need to leave, but he was too late.”

  In other words, thought Breckinridge, Aylesworth had spun a whole passel of bald-faced lies, and Maureen had swallowed each and every one of them.

  Or maybe she just pretended to believe them. Maybe she was even pretending to herself. That might be easier than accepting the truth about the man she had married.

  The maid brought cups of tea on a fancy silver tray. Breckinridge felt awkward as he held the dainty china cup in his big hand. He worried that he would crush it without meaning to, so he was careful as he sipped the tea.

  “What made you decide to marry Richard?” he asked, then thought that the question was too blunt. It was too late to take it back, though.

  “Why, he said that he loved me and proposed to me,” she replied.

  And that was all it took, Breckinridge thought bitterly.

  “My father was opposed to the idea at first,” she went on. “He said that I was too young to be married. But Richard swore his devotion to me, and that won Father over, I suppose. It was quite a fine wedding. I . . . I wish you could have been there, Breckinridge.”

  Somehow he doubted that she was being sincere. He knew good and well that he wouldn’t have wanted to be there to see her united for life with a no-good scoundrel like Richard Aylesworth.

  He looked down into the tea cup and said, “And now the two of you are startin’ a family.”

  “Yes,” Maureen said. When he glanced at her he saw that her face was pink and knew he shouldn’t have brought up the subject. He’d embarrassed her. She went on, “I hope to have many children.”

  “Well, I hope you get what you want.” He drained the cup and lean
ed forward to set it on a table. “I reckon I’d better be goin’—”

  She surprised him by reaching toward him and resting her hand on his arm.

  “Breckinridge,” she said, “why did you really come to see me today? What have you heard?”

  Her voice held a tone of urgency. She was upset about something again. He said, “Why, I just wanted to say howdy and find out how you’re doin’. I’d like to think that we were friends.”

  She smiled again.

  “We were. We are friends, Breckinridge.”

  “And I, uh, wanted a chance to say so long to you. I never got to tell you good-bye when I left before.”

  “Are you leaving again?” Suddenly she looked worried. “You haven’t come home to stay?”

  “No, I reckon not.” He hadn’t told his family yet, but he knew there was no doubt in his mind. He’d be going back to the frontier, probably before winter set in.

  “Oh, I wish you would. I’d really like to see you every now and then. As long as . . . as long as you don’t pay any attention to any crazy stories you might hear . . .”

  There it was again, her worry about something he might have heard. Breckinridge was baffled about what she was referring to, but he didn’t want to admit that.

  “Well, I won’t be leavin’ right away,” he said. “I think it might be a good idea if I didn’t come back by, though—”

  A heavy footstep on the porch interrupted the conversation. Maureen’s head jerked sharply in that direction as her eyes widened.

  “Richard . . . !” she breathed.

  Breckinridge came to his feet as the front door opened and the footsteps continued into the foyer. They stopped short as Richard Aylesworth appeared in the entrance to the parlor, looking as dapper as ever. He stared at Breck, apparently as shocked as he would have been if he’d come into his home and found a grizzly bear sitting in the parlor sipping tea.

  For a moment Aylesworth struggled to get any words out of his mouth. Then he said with utter venom, “Wallace!”

  “That’s right,” Breckinridge said. “I’ve come home, Aylesworth . . . no thanks to you.”

  Aylesworth’s surprised expression turned to one of anger as his gaze darted toward his wife. He said, “Maureen, what’s this oaf doing here? How could you allow him into our home?”

  Maureen’s hands fluttered helplessly in front of her as she stood up and said, “Please, Richard, there’s no need for an unpleasant scene. Breckinridge simply came by to say hello. He and I are old friends—”

  “A man’s wife has no need for male friends, old or otherwise,” Aylesworth said coldly. He looked at Breckinridge again. “I’ll thank you to get out, Wallace.”

  “I was just goin’,” Breckinridge said. He took a step toward the door. If Aylesworth didn’t get out of his way, he was prepared to walk right over the varmint.

  Maureen reached out and clutched at his sleeve, stopping him.

  “Breck, please—” she began.

  “Let him go, darling,” Aylesworth said, and despite the affectionate term, the words were as cold and flinty as if he’d been giving an order to a servant.

  Breckinridge turned to look at Maureen. Her hand fell away from his arm and her eyes turned toward the floor. She murmured, “Of course, Richard,” and stepped back so that she was standing with her legs against the divan.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Aylesworth,” Breckinridge forced himself to say. “I hope you have a long, happy life.”

  Maureen flinched slightly, as if he had just slapped her instead of wishing her the best. Maybe that was really the way he’d meant it. Breckinridge didn’t know.

  Aylesworth stepped aside and came over to Maureen as Breckinridge stalked out. From the corner of his eye he saw her pull away from him slightly as he grasped her arm. He wasn’t rough about it, though, so Breck didn’t see any reason to stop.

  She had made her own bed, as the old saying went. Her life was no longer any of his business, not by any stretch of the imagination.

  Despite that, as he rode away a thought nagged at the back of his brain.

  He wished he knew what she’d meant by that comment about things he might have heard.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The patches of blue sky had gone away and the afternoon had turned blustery. By the time Breckinridge made it back to the farm, a cold rain was falling. As usual, he hadn’t worn a hat, so his head was soaked when he came in. He didn’t really feel any discomfort, though. His mind was still reeling from the encounter with Maureen and Aylesworth.

  “Land’s sake, you’re as soaked as an old wet hen,” Samantha Wallace exclaimed when she saw him. “Go on over by the fire and dry out for a while.”

  “Where are Pa and the boys?” Breckinridge asked as he did what his mother told him. He had to admit that he was a mite chilled. The warmth felt good as he stretched his hands out toward the flames dancing in the fireplace.

  “They’re in the barn,” Samantha replied. “One of the cows is calving, and your pa said it might be a difficult birth. He expected they’d be out there all afternoon. I’m sure if you want to join them it would be all right. Put on a hat first, though, for goodness’ sake.”

  Breckinridge had no desire to help with the calving. He had done enough work like that in his life. Anyway, he had something else on his mind.

  “Ma, what have you heard about the marriage of Richard and Maureen Aylesworth?”

  Her lips pinched together as she turned to regard him. After a moment she said, “Your father told me you planned to go see that girl. That was a mistake, Breckinridge. You’ve no right to intrude on someone else’s marriage.”

  “But what have you heard?” Breckinridge insisted. “Does he treat her badly?”

  “What goes on behind the closed doors of a man’s house is no business of anyone else.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  She snorted and said, “Indeed I do! And I don’t indulge in gossip.”

  “So there’s something to gossip about,” Breckinridge said.

  His mother threw her hands up in exasperation.

  “I’m glad you’re back, son, but Lord, you’d pester a person to death! I’m telling you, forget about Maureen Grantham. You’ll cause nothing but trouble if you insist on poking your nose in where you have no business.”

  Breckinridge saw the stubborn determination on her face and knew he wasn’t going to find out anything from her. He nodded and said, “All right, Ma. I understand.”

  “Do you really, or are you just saying that to placate me?”

  “I understand,” Breckinridge said again, and as far as he was concerned, that was true.

  He understood that something was wrong between Maureen and Aylesworth, and he couldn’t just ride away and head back to the frontier without finding out if there was anything he could do to help her.

  * * *

  He let things lie for a few days while he pondered the best course of action. Although he had plenty of suspicions, he didn’t actually know anything about what went on between Maureen and Aylesworth. He supposed it was possible he had read all the signs wrong, so he decided to find out more before he proceeded any further.

  He went to the blacksmith shop in Knoxville to talk to Phineas Cobb, who shoed horses for just about everyone in town. Because of that, Cobb knew what was going on with most of them. He liked to talk, too, and he had a fierce streak of independence that made him unafraid to share what he knew.

  Also, Breckinridge thought with a grin as he rode up to the blacksmith shop, Cobb was a natural-born busybody who could put most old women to shame when it came to gossiping.

  “Breckinridge Wallace!” the blacksmith greeted him. Cobb was a short man, almost as broad as he was tall, with massively muscled arms from swinging a hammer. He was bald except for two tufts of white hair that stuck out above his ears. “I heard you was back in these parts. What can I do for you?”

  “Horse needs a new shoe,” Breckinridge said. That
was true enough. When Breck’s father had mentioned the problem, he had volunteered right away to take the animal into town and have the chore attended to, because he knew that getting information out of Cobb wouldn’t take much effort.

  “Well, let me take a look. You’re lucky I can get right on this job. Not very busy this afternoon.”

  Cobb led the horse into the shop and started examining the animal’s shoes, probably checking to see if he could justify replacing any of the others, Breckinridge mused.

  “I wondered if you’d ever hear that it was safe for you to come back here,” the blacksmith said as he worked. “Things looked mighty bad for you for a while there. Old Junius Carlson wanted your hide after you killed his boy.”

  “That was an accident,” Breckinridge said. “I didn’t like Jasper, but I wish it hadn’t happened. Who was it broke down and told the law what really happened?”

  “That was the Copeland boy, William,” Cobb said as he pried off the shoe that needed to be replaced. “But then the rest of the bunch went along with him. Afraid of windin’ up in jail for lyin’ to the law, I reckon. All but Richard Aylesworth. He kept insistin’ that you jumped them and started the whole thing. Way I heard it, his pa finally pulled him aside and ordered him to tell the truth. Richard did, but you could tell he didn’t like it. He made out like it was all a mistake, a misunderstandin’, that he never said what ever’body knew he really did.”

  “Everybody but his wife,” Breckinridge said. “She must’ve believed him.”

  The blacksmith shot a glance at him and then nodded.

  “She wasn’t his wife then, but they got married not long after that. Yeah, Mrs. Aylesworth wants to believe him, I suppose, but I bet deep down she don’t. She’s bound to know by now what sort of polecat Richard Aylesworth really is, the way he treats her.”

  Cobb couldn’t be cooperating any better, Breckinridge thought. He felt anger bubbling up inside him, but he tamped it down and said apparently casually, “Mistreats her, does he?”

  Cobb’s beefy shoulders rose and fell in a shrug as he said, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say he beats her . . . but I wouldn’t say he doesn’t, either. ’Course, any woman’s got to be kept in line by her husband if he’s worth his salt, but hell, the Aylesworth boy’s always had a habit of carryin’ things too far, if you know what I mean.”