Sterling's Way (Lawmen & Outlaws)

by Leone, Sarita

  She sat at the desk and pulled out a sheet of stationary. The grade wasn’t as fine as the vellum she used at home, but it would serve its purpose. A deft twist of the wrist opened the half-full jar of blue ink she’d brought with her. Then, she lifted her favorite pen and held it above the jar for a moment while she composed the opening words in her mind.

  Finally, she dipped the pen and began to write.

  Dear Mother,

  It is with a light heart that I open this letter. I hope it is received with an equally cheerful, and loving, heart. Firstly, let me assure you I am fine. I have reached my destination and while I am still uncertain whether or not I will remain where I now find myself, I am, at least for the time being, happy. I plan to remain here for the foreseeable future or until an event or person causes me to change location.

  I apologize for any worry I caused you and Father. I know I have done so, so please do not try to spare my feelings by denying the fact. I did not attempt to spare yours when I ran off, did I? I deserve no better treatment, Mother, nor do I ask for it now.

  What I do hope to receive, with all my heart and soul, is some measure of understanding. I did what I felt obligated to do. I could not, and still will not, do what Father demanded. While I realize his proposed plan might, to some, seem perfectly ordinary, it felt like anything but ordinary to me. The thought of doing what he wanted was like wearing a noose around my neck, tightening and squeezing every breath and bit of life right out of me. I could not bear the thought, and I pray you take my feelings on the matter into consideration when you judge my actions.

  I know you will judge me, Mother. It is something we all do, whether or not we care to own up to it. I myself am guilty of the practice. I have been judgmental in the past, have formed opinions without facts and formulated ideas about people without truly trying to see beyond the obvious. While you and Father taught me better than to think myself above those who served our household, I never before had the opportunity to get to know people—especially women—who come from circumstances wholly dissimilar to my own. I have been surrounded—insulated, if you will—by those whose prospects and situations were nearly identical to my own. That is not the case anymore. Here I have become acquainted with women who do what they must to survive. Lest you jump to conclusions, and think I am in cahoots with women of loose moral values, let me tell you that is not the case. I am simply saying I have learned, and continue to learn, that life in Boston isn’t the only life for me and that even reduced circumstances and prospects are far more palatable to being swept into a match I am vehemently opposed to making.

  Don’t get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with the man Father chose for me—at least nothing I am aware of. He is intelligent, and kind, and will make some other woman a fine husband. But I will choose my own man. And if one does not show himself to my heart, I prefer to remain alone rather than in a loveless marriage.

  So, in closing, I wish you well and hope you do the same in my regard. I meant no harm, Mother. You and Aunt Irene always told me I’d find my own way in the world. It seems you both knew me better than I knew myself, and were right on the point. I am making my way, and am pleased with how it is being made.

  Love to both you and Father.

  Your daughter,

  Jane Kristen Marsh

  With a satisfied sigh, she blew gently on the drying words. Hopefully her parents would forgive her rash actions. Maybe they might even see—someday, anyhow—that they had played a part in her middle-of-the-night flight.

  She folded the letter, then carefully slid it into an envelope. Writing the address she had known all her life brought a pang of homesickness but she quickly pushed it aside. There was no room in her new life for regret or recrimination. No looking back. With an eye to what the future held for her, Kristen stood, brushed a piece of lint from her skirt front with an impatient hand, and then headed for the door.

  I should mail this before I change my mind—and before they send some Pinkerton men or a posse out looking for me. Goodness, let’s hope they haven’t already done so!

  Irritated, that’s what he was. Uncharacteristically so, but still, there was no mistaking it. Since the previous afternoon, Jack felt like he’d run his hands over a rough-hewn log—except that the splintery feeling covered his whole body.

  It had been many years since he had made the mistake of wiping any part of his anatomy over a partially finished log. One of Grandfather’s earliest lessons at the family sawmill had been to mind the wood slivers. They went in more easily than they came out.

  “Under the skin, can drive a man to sin,” Jack muttered.

  He wasn’t sure if he only had splinters in mind, or if the miller’s motto applied to women, as well.

  One thing he knew for sure: That honey-haired eastern woman had gotten under his skin—big time. And now that he and Brown were hammering out their differences, he might not be in her company too much longer. The thought brought a fresh wave of irritation.

  “Nice morning, isn’t it?”

  “A fine morning, ma’am,” Jack responded. His lips curled but the smile did not reach his eyes or warm his heart.

  With a nod, he tipped his hat to the elderly woman exiting the Emporium. She carried a lumpy bundle in her thin arms, and he wondered if she had far to go. Perhaps he should offer to carry it for her? The last thing he felt like doing was toting who knew what to who knew where for some old woman who was bound to chew his ear off but ignoring one’s upbringing was nearly impossible.

  Jack was relieved to see a young mother, a red-cheeked toddler on one hip, hurrying to meet the woman. She balanced the package on her other hip while she somehow managed to extend a steadying elbow to the woman she called Granny. He watched the trio walk away before he turned to gaze into the Emporium’s plate glass window.

  The window display catered to nearly every shopping taste and almost any need. Denim trousers and work shirts, muslin by the yard, household goods and even a few luxury items spread across the wooden plank shelving. The Emporium’s owners had ingeniously added a second tier to their display, where an ivory porcelain teapot claimed the spot of honor. It was not the teapot, however, that caught Jack’s attention. It was what lay beside it that made him suck in a breath.

  His mother had left precious few personal possessions behind when she passed on. Most were ordinary items, things any young homemaker might need in her daily activities. They had been quickly absorbed into the rhythm of family life, used until they were no longer serviceable, and then replaced. There was one small box of more intimate treasures that belonged to his mother. Grandmother kept them in the top drawer of her dresser, and Jack had only seen them on rare occasions.

  From the time he was knee high to his Granny’s mare, one pair of earrings had caught his attention. Silver with inlaid turquoise, they were nearly identical to the pair behind the glass. One strand of sunlight danced on the surface of one of the teal stones, bringing to mind the depths of the ocean—and the delight he felt gazing into Kristen’s wide eyes.

  There couldn’t be any harm in buying a trinket for a friend, could there? Moreover, the simple pieces couldn’t be expensive, so it wouldn’t look like he was openly vying to gain her affections.

  It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to begin a romance that was doomed from the start. Once the Kansas deed was in hand, he was leaving Brown’s Point—and Kristen—behind.

  But a gift between friends? And such an inexpensive one, at that, seemed within the scope of acceptable behavior. Once made, the decision wiped a good measure of Jack’s irritation away.

  He turned toward the Emporium’s open doorway but a reflection in the glass stilled him.

  Her back was turned to him but he would recognize her petite profile anywhere. Small shoulders, slim neck and faultlessly erect posture gave her the presence one usually saw in a ballroom, not on a rough street.

  She reminded him of one of the lilies Granny kept in her yard, slender and supple, yet strong enou
gh to withstand a lackluster gardener. So often Granny lamented that if her lilies were not tough and resilient, her inattention to their needs would be the death of them. Neglect or over attentiveness were the bane of the lilies’ existence, he had learned that long ago.

  Now, with a smile on his lips and a decidedly lighter heart, Jack prepared to shower Kristen with a bit of his own brand of consideration. She might care to take a walk, or maybe something else in the shop might catch her eye or suit her fancy. Jack could take pleasure buying anything for her. If he were especially lucky she might allow him to call on her later this evening, maybe consent to play a round or two of whist or—

  A fast volley of shots rang out, breaking the newly acquired peaceful mood of his day. They were close—far closer than Jack cared to contemplate. Of course, the possibility of brash, liquor-driven disputes, often settled with fists or pistols, existed but since his arrival there had been blessedly few altercations of any kind. None had resulted in shots being fired.

  Before now.

  Jack’s first instinct made him spin on his heel and stride into the street. A pair of heavy workhorses, more accustomed to fieldwork than gunfire, nearly ran him down as they raced past. The wagon hitched to their harnesses clattered—driverless—behind them, its wooden wheels pounding hard over stones and into ruts. Miraculously the wagon made its way down the street intact, but by the time Jack got around it someone else sheltered Kristen.

  Patrick Godsend covered Kristen’s slight form completely from view, his own broad back between her and the ruckus at the end of the street. Jack turned in the direction of the shots, and saw a man lying sprawled at the edge of the saloon’s front walk. A small group of men ringed the body. Had any of them been inclined to fire another round, their bullets might strike Patrick or Jack, but Kristen was more than adequately protected from harm.

  Jack should have been grateful to the man who put Kristen’s life above his own. He should have kept walking across the street, clapped the preacher’s grandson hard on the back and thanked him. Buying him a sarsaparilla to celebrate the bravery might not be out of order.

  Instead, bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it down, and took one final look at the couple fifteen feet from where he stood.

  They were untangling slowly from each other—far too slowly for Jack’s liking. Kristen pushed a wisp of golden hair off her temple, looking up at the man whose arms were still around her with a glowing smile on her lovely face.

  It made no sense, but the annoyance he felt over seeing her with Patrick eclipsed all sense of appreciation. He once again turned, this time in the direction of the saloon and the dead man. Shopping for trinkets, or walking with women, no longer interested him.

  Instead, he felt thirsty enough for something a bit stronger than sarsaparilla.

  Chapter Seven

  “Good heavens!” Kristen pushed the lock of hair dangling before her left eye out of the way with the back of one gloved hand. She gasped, the hammering of her heart making her dizzy.

  A spicy scent filled her nostrils when she inhaled, and she knew immediately it wasn’t Jack Sterling who covered her. Blindly, she wiggled a hand up and shoved against the hard form, hoping to get room enough to do more than gasp like a landed fish.

  At the sound of the first shot, she had been unceremoniously pushed against the bank’s façade—hard. Her breath left her lungs in a very unladylike whoosh! and she had been covered, thrown into virtual darkness by the gray coat pressed against her face. She knew the wall covering her was designed for her protection, but in the precarious seconds when she had felt encased fear mixed with excitement.

  Before she had ventured westward, Kristen had never been so close to a man, felt the firm contours of a hard male body pressed against hers. Now it had happened to her not once, but twice.

  It wasn’t that a man hadn’t attempted to hold her in an embrace. One man had tried, many times, but Kristen had ducked and dodged his open arms so often that doing so had nearly become a game between them. That option, however, was not at her disposal in this wilderness. Men didn’t give fair notice they planned to move close, the way a certain man had done back in Boston. Here they simply came upon a woman without warning. It seemed that ever since she had stepped off the stagecoach, Kristen had been running—literally—into one man or another nearly every day. And if she took the stagecoach encounter into account…

  “Hold on, now. Not so fast. Let’s make sure the shooting’s over before we get too comfortable.” Patrick took a small step backward, but kept his palms on the building on either side of her shoulders. He looked down the street, squinting against the glaring sun. He shook his head, and then stepped further away. “Looks clear.”

  “Thank goodness!”

  He turned a serious gaze on her. “Are you all right?”

  With a nervous laugh, Kristen nodded. “Thanks to you, I’m in one piece.”

  She swept a shaky hand over herself, making sure the words were true. There was no pain, but she had never been so near a gunfight before. If she had been hit, how much would it hurt? When her gloves showed no sign of blood and she caught her breath enough to realize she felt fine, she nodded again.

  Smiling, she looked up into Patrick’s anxious face. “I am fine. Really, I am.”

  “Thank God you’re all right. I had just spotted you, and was about to catch you up to speak with you, when the shooting started.” He glanced at the crowd gathered in front of the saloon. Ruefully he turned back to Kristen and said, “I hate to say it, but I guess things like this are part and parcel of living out here. This kind of life makes good men rough and rough men unconscionable. Grandfather aims to do all he can to calm this town down, but, as you can see, he hasn’t made much headway yet.”

  “Change takes time. Any kind of change.” The new preacher’s job was not going to be a simple one. “I’m sure your grandfather will work his good on even the unruliest of townspeople. Just give him time…plenty of time.”

  “I hope you’re right. I intend to stay here with him, and although I know he believes the Lord’s got a plan for us I’m not so certain this place—” Patrick looked over his shoulder again, a look of distaste on his face.

  Kristen followed his gaze, and saw a man being carried away. She wondered if he was dead, and if so, why the conflagration erupted. Surely, there had to be a better way to solve a difference. Nothing seemed important enough to lose a life over. Nothing.

  “Let’s just say I’m not as sure as Grandfather is that Brown’s Point is the right place for us.” Patrick smiled down at her, put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. From him, and with her heart still racing, the familiar gesture did not seem bold. “But now that you and I have met, I’m not so sure that God and Grandfather aren’t on the right track.”

  There seemed to be no response to the statement so she mustered a small smile.

  Patrick went on speaking. “Before this uproar began, I had a mind to ask if you would like to accompany me on a spur-of-the-moment picnic. I know it seems impolite, and perhaps a bit forward, to just foist the idea on you but I have to make the most of what I’ve been given. Namely, the church buckboard.”

  She followed his head nod and noticed a pretty Appaloosa horse tethered to the hitching post at the edge of the walk. Behind it a nondescript buckboard, with a towel-covered basket on the seat.

  “Grandfather has no need of it this afternoon, so I thought you and I might take a ride down to the creek. I have yet to see it, but I hear there’s actually grass and greenery down that way. I don’t know about you, but I’m awful tired of all this red dust. Some green would do my soul a world of good. What about yours?”

  “The same.” What harm could it do? Patrick was, after all, a preacher’s grandson. He had to know—and adhere to—the rules of gentility. Going anywhere with him was probably the safest thing to do in this town. Besides, she had heard that the creek was not far. Within walking distance, actually. “I’d love to see s
ome green, and have lunch with you.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Kristen took his arm but she needed no help climbing into the seat. It was considerably closer to the ground than a fancy carriage or coach and she practically leapt into the seat. Patrick raised an eyebrow at her display of agility but kept any comment to himself as he grabbed the horse’s lead. He went around to the driver’s side, climbed onto the seat and, with a word to the horse, they were off.

  The ride was very short but provided a drastic change in scenery. Just beyond town’s dirty main street, rutted track gave way to meandering lane. Brushy scrub turned into low, green bushes and eventually into a sparse canopy of older trees. Cottonwoods, their limbs heavy with leaves, leaned over the track and blocked out the sun’s hot rays.

  Until the cool shade quieted her galloping pulse, Kristen had not recognized how frayed her nerves had been. The toll of her journey, coupled with her financial fears, had done their work on her without her even knowing it. As the tension ebbed, Kristen leaned closer to Patrick and smiled.

  “This is lovely. Thank you for suggesting the ride.” A bird trilled above them, its song like music against the rustling tree leaves and the steady beat of the horse’s hoofs. “I wonder what that is?”

  Patrick shot a glance to the branches, and then turned his attention back to Kristen.

  “A lark. To be more precise, a horned lark. Did you know they actually prefer barren spots to nest? As soon as foliage, grass or, heaven forbid, people encroach on their nesting area, they look for somewhere more isolated to live. Not a very social bird, but it sure does have a pretty song. We should count ourselves fortunate to hear it. Not many people do.”

  It took a special sort of man to turn so quickly from being a human barricade to expert on birdcalls. Kristen wondered idly just what other kind of surprises this soft-spoken, obviously intelligent man kept.