“Why don’t you just come back to the ranch with us, right now?” Concepcion asked, her tone revealing none of the anxiety Emmeline saw in her eyes and the set of her face, “We’ll drive into town in the morning, together. You can see Doc and send a wire to Seth’s folks. Just tell them things are real hard out here and you’d like to come home. If they want you, and I’m sure they will, they’ll probably wire you right back to say so. You could show their telegram to Seth; knowing there’s a place waiting for the both of you in Iowa, he might stop being so stiff-necked.” She paused. “As for the fare—I’ll lend you that myself. I have plenty saved.”
Phoebe Anne blinked back tears. “I been dreamin’ of goin’ home,” she said softly, “and I’ll sure go to town with you tomorrow, but I can’t leave the place with Seth gone. He’d be real mad. I’ve got these chickens and old Molly to milk.”
Concepcion smiled. “All right,” she said, surprising Emmeline with her easy acquiescence. “We’ll come by for you in the morning.”
“Seth—”
“I’ll deal with Seth,” Concepcion said firmly.
Phoebe Anne nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for bringin’ this food, especially. Seth won’t like it, but he’ll be glad there’s something to eat in the house, too.”
Emmeline and Concepcion stood. Emmeline’s heart was breaking at the prospect of leaving Phoebe Anne alone in this desolate, hopeless place, and she suspected that Concepcion felt the same.
“It was real nice makin’ your acquaintance,” Phoebe Anne said, shaking Emmeline’s hand.
Emmeline smiled. “Likewise,” she said. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Concepcion reiterated, affectionately stern.“You be ready.”
Phoebe Anne nodded, and Concepcion and Emmeline took their leave, both of them silent for most of the drive back.
That night at supper, Angus made a grim announcement.
Several of the Triple M hands had been out looking for strays, he told the small gathering—from which Kade and Jeb were conspicuously absent—and they’d heard a shot, then come across Seth Pelton sprawled in a dry wash, with the top of his head blown off. Evidently, he’d put the barrel of his hunting rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Emmeline threw down her napkin and jumped to her feet, surprising everyone at the table except Concepcion, who had done the very same thing.
“I knew it,” Emmeline cried. “I knew something terrible was going to happen!”
“She’s all alone over at that place,” Concepcion fretted, twisting her apron in both hands.“Poor little thing—-”
“What’s all this fuss?” Angus asked, genuinely surprised. He obviously didn’t know about Concepcion’s friendship with the Peltons. “Jeb and Kade took the body back to the missus. If she needs anything, they’ll see to it.”
“Why didn’t somebody tell me about this?” Rafe asked.
“You’re the foreman,” Angus retorted. “You’re supposed to know what goes on on this ranch.” He looked at Concepcion, then at Emmeline. “Now the two of you just set yourselves down. It makes me nervous, all this hen clucking and carrying on.”
“A man is dead!” Emmeline burst out.
“Things like this happen all the time,” Rafe said quietly.“Sit down, Emmeline, and finish your supper.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Rafe McKettrick!” Emmeline cried.
“Now there’s no sense in everybody getting all riled up,” Angus said.
“Be quiet,” Concepcion told him.
“We have to go over there right now,” Emmeline said.
Concepcion nodded.
“Hold on,” Rafe said, staning. “Nobody’s going anyplace. It’s stone-dark out there. Kade and Jeb will bury Pelton and see that his wife is looked after.”
“Rafe is right,” Angus said, rising.
Before either Emmeline or Concepcion could reply, they heard a wagon approaching. They both made for the back door.
Kade was at the reins of the buckboard, with Phoebe Anne sitting rigid and pale on the seat beside him and the Peltons’ milk cow tied to the back. Jeb rode alongside, leading Kade’s gelding.
“Seth’s dead,” Phoebe Anne said woodenly. “He kilt himself.”
Kade exchanged glances with Concepcion and Emmeline, then set the brake and climbed down. He reached up for Phoebe Anne, setting her gently on her feet.
Concepcion and Emmeline immediately rushed forward to claim the girl, each draping an arm around her, escorting her toward the light and warmth of the house. Rafe and Angus, who had followed them into the yard, parted to let the three women pass.
Becky Harding, who prided herself on courage and fortitude, almost wished she could just stay on the stagecoach, when it rolled into Indian Rock early that summer afternoon, and keep right on heading west until she hit San Francisco or Seattle, somewhere, anywhere, else, but that wasn’t to be. She’d tracked Emmeline this far for a purpose, and she meant to see it through, no matter what the difficulties involved.
“Is there a good hotel in this town?” she inquired of the driver, as he was unloading her trunks and valises from the boot at the back of the coach. The weather was dismal, and the roads had been muddy for days. She yearned for a decent cup of tea, first, closely followed by a hot bath, fresh clothes, food, and, ultimately, sleep. Hours and hours of uninterrupted sleep.
The bearded and unwashed driver, who had introduced himself as Eustis Bates at the last stop, favored her with a gap-toothed grin. “Well, now, ma’am,” he said, pointing a gnarled forefinger, “there’s the Territorial Hotel, right down that there street. I don’t know how ‘good’ it is, but they’ve got a fair dining room, and they’re well away from the saloons, so it’s peaceful.”
Becky gazed in the direction indicated, shading her eyes with one hand; the sky was a brilliant blue, and the sunlight dazzled.“There?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Eustis replied. “Just past the telegraph office. You can see the side of the building from here.”
She nodded, raising her parasol over her head and snapping it open.“Thank you,” she said, glad for a chance to stretch her cramped legs with a short walk. “I shall send someone for my baggage.” Having made this pronouncement, she set out, taking care not to be run down by a wagon or a horse as she crossed the rutted, manure-strewn road, headed for the Territorial Hotel. Once she’d secured her lodging and recovered a bit from the arduous journey, she would make her way to the Triple M Ranch, and Emmeline.
She had a few things to say to that young woman.
The inn, euphemistically called a hotel, was a two-story structure of raw lumber, new enough that it hadn’t weathered to the usual gray-brown. There was a wooden sidewalk out front, along with a hitching rail and a horse trough, and flour-sack curtains graced the four visible window strethe upper floor.
Becky swept in, crossed what passed for a lobby to the makeshift registration desk—two barrels with planks stretching between them—and thumped the hand bell with one gloved palm. She closed her parasol and rapped the floor with it once, out of simple impatience.
A curtain covered the doorway behind the desk, and it wriggled a little. Then a scrawny little hatchling of a man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit appeared, beak first, twitching all over.
His small eyes widened behind his spectacles when he saw Becky standing there in her wool travel suit, which was a sensible shade of brown, trimmed in jet-black braiding. She’d taken every care to look the part of a lady, as she did whenever she set foot outside her boardinghouse, but it was always possible that she’d be recognized. Maybe this little creature had visited her establishment in Kansas City at one time or another, though she doubted it. He didn’t look as though he had the necessary equipment, let alone the courage.
“Yes?” he asked.
She suppressed a sigh. “I should like to take a room,” she said. She would have thought her purpose would be obvious, since she had presented herself at the registration
desk.
The man looked past her, first on one side, then on the other, as though expecting to see someone else standing there. “You’re alone?” he asked, making no effective effort to hide his surprise.
“Yes,” Becky said, somewhat tautly.
“I don’t know what our policy is in regards to letting rooms to ladies traveling by themselves,” he fretted.
Becky, used to giving orders and having them obeyed, was inclined to grab the little man by his cheap celluloid collar and haul him to his tiptoes, but she restrained herself.“Perhaps,” she said, in a careful voice,“you had better find out.”
He flushed vividly, cleared his throat.“I’ll be right back,” he said, and dashed out from behind the desk, across the lobby, and out the front door. Becky stared after him in consternation, then marched around behind the desk, examined the registration book, and deduced that rooms 2, 5, and 8 were available. She plucked a pen from the stand, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote her public name beside the numeral 8 with a grand flourish. Then she collected the key from its peg on the wall and made her way upstairs.
She had chosen wisely, as it turned out. Rooms 2 and 5 faced the street, and would therefore be noisy, while number 8 was at the back of the hotel, and closest to the communal bathroom. She unlocked the door, inspected the sheets for signs of previous use and vermin, ran her fingers over the bureau top. The bedding was clean, and the place was only moderately dusty. In a place like Indian Rock, this was probably the best accommodation one could reasonably hope to find.
She rested her parasol in a corner, removed her gloves, and left the room. She reached the lobby just as the anxious desk clerk was returning with the marshal behind him. The lawman grinned when he saw Becky.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said, tugging at the brim of his hat. He was a disreputable-looking sort, to Becky’s mind, but he was unapologetically male, too, and she liked that. “Clive here tells me you’re a woman alone,” he said.
Becky drew herself up, well aware that she made a picture, standing there at the base of the stirs, one hand resting gracefully on the newel post. Becky had had a lot of practice at striking poses, and she knew how to use appearances—and almost everything else—to her advantage. “Is that a crime?” she asked, with a wry—and admittedly coy—twist just at the corner of her mouth.
“No, ma’am,” he said.“It just doesn’t happen much out here. Clive needed a frame of reference, I guess, so he came to me.”
“Judge Struthers is drunk again,” Clive explained, to show that he’d tried to consult the highest possible authority. “And there’s no talking to him when he’s like that.” He scampered back to his post behind the desk, saw the name she had scrawled in the registration book, and twitched at her.“Mrs. Charles Fairmont III?”
“Yes,” Becky said.
“You have a husband?” the marshal asked. He didn’t seem pleased by the prospect.
“He died,” Becky said.“Run over by a freight wagon six years ago, in St. Louis.”
“That’s too bad,” the marshal responded, but he looked like he’d gotten over the revelation handily enough.“What brings you to the Arizona Territory?”
Clive was still blustering.“You can’t just rent yourself a room!” he sputtered, before Becky could answer. “There are procedures, protocols—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Becky said, and though she was speaking to Clive, she was still looking at the lawman, “shut up. You wouldn’t help me, so I helped myself. Please be so kind as to send someone for my baggage, and mind you have a care with it, too.”
The marshal stood patiently, hat in hand, watching her. Waiting for a response to his question.
“I’ve come to visit a relation of mine,” she said, supplying it.
“And who would that be?” the lawman persisted.
If Becky had had a fan, she would have snapped it open and flicked it back and forth in front of her face a few times.“Do you question everyone who comes to your town, Marshal?”
He smiled. “Pretty much,” he said, and then waited again. He was, Becky concluded, a damnably patient man.
“Very well.” Becky sighed. “I believe my niece is living near here. Her name is Emmeline—Mrs. Rafe McKettrick.”
Recognition lighted the marshal’s pale blue eyes. “The mail-order bride,” he said. “She’s out on the Triple M, I reckon. That’s about two hours from here.”
Two hours. Becky sighed inwardly. As important as the upcoming interview with Emmeline was, it would have to wait until she’d rested. She wanted to be at her best when she saw her niece again.
“You could get a buggy over at the livery stable,” the lawman went on, when he saw that Becky was at a loss. “You know how to drive a rig, ma’am?”
Becky had never had occasion to take up the reins, running her business in Kansas City. She’d ridden in cabs then, or walked. “Yes,” she said. After all, how hard could it be?
“Fine, then,” said the marshal, and he put out his free hand, still holding his hat in the other. “Name’s John Lewis,” he said. “Welcome to Indian Rock, Mrs. Fairmont.”
Becky hesitated, then responded by putting out her own hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” she said. Then she turned to poor Clive. “Do send someone for my things,” she added crisply. “I’ll want hot water for a bath, as well, and supper brought to my room at seven. Meatloaf would do nicely—not too spicy, mind.”
“We don’t serve meatloaf,” Clive said in a pettish tone, but John Lewis ran right over his words with a remark of his own.
“I’d be pleased and honored if you’d take your supper with me, Mrs. Fairmont, in the hotel dining room. The cook is a reasonable fellow, likely to make up whatever dish you want, if the price is right.”
Becky smiled gaily and nodded once, graciously. She had never been able to resist a man who took charge and got things done—not that there was any earthly reason to resist.“Are you married, Mr. Lewis?” she asked.
The marshal shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Not as I recollect.”
Becky was pleased.“Then I should be happy to take my supper in your company.”
And so the matter was settled. They met at seven sharp, in the hotel’s small dining room, sharing a table next to the window, and the meatloaf was delicious, plentiful, and not too spicy.
Phoebe Anne didn’t make it even as far as the back porch before she gasped and doubled over between Emmeline and Concepcion. A rush of water soaked her skirts.
“The baby,” Concepcion said grimly.
“I want to die,”Phoebe Anne sobbed,“same as Seth did!”
“Nonsense,” Concepcion replied. “Emmeline, run ahead and light a lantern in the spare room. We’ll need some hot water after that.”
Emmeline didn’t hesitate. She hurried inside, grabbed a handful of matches from the metal container on the wall next to the cookstove, and rushed upstairs. Rafe soon joined her, carrying a whimpering Phoebe Anne in his arms, Concepcion at his heels, warning him to be careful.
Emmeline, having lighted the lantern, drew back the covers on the spare-room bed, and Rafe gratefully laid down his burden.
“I’ll see to the water,” he said. “Pa sent Kade on to town, to bring back the doctor.”
Concepcion was already unlacing Phoebe Anne’s shoes, which were as pitifully worn as her dress. She nodded, without looking at Rafe, and he went out. Concepcion and Emmeline undressed Phoebe Anne, and Emmeline brought her a nightgown to wear, the one Rafe had given her the day she arrived on the Triple M.
“I’m real scared,” Phoebe Anne said, her eyes huge with grief and pain, as well as fear. “What are me and this baby gonna do, with no man to look after us?”
“Don’t fret about that now,” Concepcion said kindly. “You’ll go home to Iowa, soon as you’re well enough, and Seth’s family will take you in.”
Emmeline hoped Concepcion was right, but it seemed to her that the other woman was placing a lot of confidence in the elde
r Peltons. Nobody knew better than she did that families could be very fragile institutions.
“I’m hurtin’ somethin’ fierc” Phoebe Anne confided.
“I know,” Concepcion said gently. “I know. It’ll all be over soon.”
Phoebe Anne tensed, then let out a haunting shriek. Blood gushed out of her, soaking the sheets and the delicate nightgown.
“Dear God,” Concepcion muttered, barely above a breath.
Phoebe Anne didn’t seem to hear her; she was screaming now, flailing blindly with both arms.
Concepcion tore the top sheet off the bed and began tearing the clean parts into strips. A pile of bloody cloth mounted on the floor at her feet.
“Help me,”Phoebe Anne pleaded.“Oh, God, help me—”
Bile scalded the back of Emmeline’s throat. She wanted to run away, to put this horrible scene out of her mind, but another, stronger part of her wouldn’t have it. “What can I do?”
Concepcion shook her head, trying her best to stop the bleeding by packing Phoebe Anne’s most private place with cloth. It seemed, after a hair-raising few minutes, to work.
Emmeline thought of Kade, off to fetch the doctor, and wished him Godspeed. Two hours to town, and who knew how long, searching for the physician, then two hours back.
Phoebe Anne began to sob, and her breath came in ragged gasps that were terrifying to hear.“It’s comin’!” she cried.“The baby’s comin’!”
There was another rush of blood, saturating the bedding and even the mattress. Concepcion had already thrown back the covers, and sure enough, the baby slipped from between Phoebe Anne’s legs, slick and bloody and very, very still.
Concepcion looked at Emmeline and, ever so slightly, shook her head.
“Get me some clean sheets,” Concepcion said. “Some shears, too. And see what’s keeping Rafe with that water.”
Emmeline nodded and hastened out of the room. In the hallway, she paused, certain she would swoon, and drew in a deep breath. Then Rafe was there, at the top of the kitchen stairs, a bucket of steaming water in either hand.
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