"I'm not attractive," Fern said. No matter how kind Rose's intentions, it made her angry Rose would try to make her feel better by telling her she was pretty.
"Who told you that?"
"Everybody I've ever known. My cows usually come out on top in a direct comparison."
"Then you've got to get some new friends."
"I know what I look like," Fern said, tears rising in the back of her eyes. "It doesn't help to have you tell me otherwise."
"Okay, I won't, but Mrs. Abbott said she never would have guessed you could look so fetching once you were out of that hat and vest. George has remarked on it, too. He thinks you're rather statuesque. From a man like him, a single word is a tribute. If you ever get a whole sentence, you'll know you're beautiful."
Fern picked at the sheet clutched in her hand. If Rose had any idea how much she longed to feel just the tiniest bit attractive, she wouldn't torture her this way. "It's nice of you to say those things, but it doesn't matter. Madison doesn't think so."
"You'll never know if you don't give him a chance to tell you. And he won't tell you if you're at each other's throats all day."
Madison would never tell her she was pretty. He probably didn't even think of her as a female, just one of the peculiar species of fauna found on the Kansas prairie.
"I'll try to be nice to him, but I don't expect him to tell me I'm pretty. I give him credit for honesty."
"So do I. Now I think I hear Mrs. Abbott coming with your milk. It'll probably taste awful, but drink it up. It'll help you sleep. We'll talk some more in the morning."
But it was a long time before Fern could get to sleep.
Rose's comments had cracked the seal on a part of her soul she hadn't dared look into for a long time. It was almost as though she had lifted the lid to Pandora's Box. A whole flock of demons swirled about her. Hopes and longings she thought abandoned long ago, open wounds she had thought long healed, slights and hurts she had thought long forgotten filled her head until she felt dizzy with confusion.
Struggle as she might, she couldn't get the lid on again. She was going to have to confront everything she had tried to avoid all these years.
And all because of Madison Randolph.
She wished Hen had shot someone in Ellsworth or Newton. Then Madison wouldn't have come to Abilene. She wouldn't care whether he was unhappy, and she wouldn't have to be nice to him.
It would be a lot better if she could just go back to the farm and forget she had ever met him. Then she wouldn't have to wonder whether he really might like her, whether that moment when he held her in his arms, that thrill of excitement before he kissed her, was real or just her imagination.
It was important that she know. She hated herself for being so weak -- she had a terrible premonition it would lead to all kinds of trouble -- but she had to know. And as long as Rose thought there was the slightest possibility he could like her more than a one-eyed saloon girl with a squint, she would hang around.
Besides, she had two things to prove to him: that she wanted justice as much as he did and that Hen had killed Troy.
* * * * *
Light spilled from more than a dozen Abilene saloons, gambling establishments, and hotels. Cowhands trying in just two or three wild, uninhibited nights to forget the loneliness of two months on the trail, laughed, drank, and played with desperate haste. The noise of dancing, singing, occasional shouts, and the clang of the ubiquitous piano poured into the street.
During the day, merchants tried to empty the cowboys' pockets by hawking hot baths, haircuts, and a shave, the finest in new clothes and custom-made boots, as well as the chance to sleep in a warm, dry bed. By night the saloons, gambling halls, and an assortment of soiled doves tried to relieve them of any money they might have left.
As long as their sixty or ninety dollars lasted, they lived like princes. When it was gone, they quietly left for Texas, tired and broke, but determined to do it all over again next summer.
Madison didn't enter the first saloon he reached. He kept walking until he reached the loudest and noisiest, the Bull's Head. It pleased his sense of the ironic that he should have had to pass the school house and the Baptist church to get there. It was rather symbolic of leaving civilization behind and entering an area of Texas Street where the savage passions of men were freed from their chains.
He felt a lot like a wild beast straining against the manacles of expectation. Expectation based on who he was, who he had been, and who he intended to become. All three decreed that he should return to his hotel, have a quiet drink in his room, and go to bed in the hopes tomorrow would be a better day.
But Madison had a strong streak of his father in him.
He didn't feel like a quiet evening. He wanted to do something loud and physical; he wanted to do anything that would strike at the heart of the anger and resentment that choked him. He wanted to hurl firebrands at his brothers' cold-hearted refusal to extend to him the same forgiveness they allowed everyone else.
No, he wanted to say to hell with all of it. He intended to show them their approval or disapproval didn't mean a thing to him.
"Give me a bottle of your best brandy," Madison said to the seamy looking character behind the bar.
The Bull's Head Saloon was not a pretty building. It had been built of raw lumber, likely shipped in from wooded hills farther east. George said it had been put up in less than a week, clearly with more attention to haste than detail. The only attempts at decoration consisted of several posters tacked to the walls and a mirror behind the bar.
A few women sashayed among the customers, encouraging them to drink and accepting invitations to visit the rooms upstairs. Other customers sat around tables engaged in various games of chance. One man stood at the bar. He looked up when Madison ordered his drink.
The bartender placed a bottle and a glass on the counter. Madison eyed the glass with distaste. He held it up to the light. "Is there a certain number of fly specks required before people are allowed to use your glasses?" he asked, handing the glass back.
"Nobody else complains."
"Maybe Abilene should advertise for an eye doctor."
The bartender chose a new glass and wiped it carefully before he snapped it down before Madison. The force shattered the glass.
"Probably the only clean one in the place," Madison murmured.
The now surly bartender produced another glass, which he set down with more care. Madison poured out a finger of brandy. He didn't like the color of the liquid. He didn't care for the bouquet. He hated the taste.
"Do you have any real brandy," he asked, "the kind you keep for the owner?"
"This is real brandy," the bartender insisted.
"Only in Kansas. Bring me something decent, or find someone who can."
The bartender stepped through a door at the back and returned a moment later with a second bottle.
"See if this pleases your highness," he said.
Madison recognized the brand. "It will if you haven't tampered with the contents."
The bartender moved away to tend to another customer and Madison tasted the brandy. It was good. Some of the tension left his body. He could stay here as long as he wanted, knowing the brandy at least would fulfill his expectations.
"You must be George Randolph's brother." His neighbor at the bar had moved closer.
"So?"
"You here to see about getting Hen out of jail?"
"So?"
"You won't get no help in this town." He took a taste of his whiskey and shuddered as the liquid burned its way down his throat. "The merchants are all for the Texans, but the farmers and land speculators are against them."
Madison took a deep swallow from his glass. He didn't know what was worse, teasing himself about Fern or listening to this hayseed ramble on about the close-held sentiments of the citizens of Abilene.
"Course you can't blame the farmers, not when your herds trample their fields."
"More crops are destroyed by you
r own people wintering over longhorns than by Texas herds," Madison told the man. "Besides, the drovers pay for the damage their herds do." He knew because he had asked. He hadn't spent all his time in Abilene running afoul of his family and Fern Sproull.
"Sure you do, but it don't make the farmers like you 'cause of it."
Obstinate people. You'd think they wouldn't care what happened to their crops as long as they got paid for them. But that was the attitude he'd seen everywhere since he got here. All temper and emotion. Nobody seemed capable of rational thinking. Or interested in trying.
It described him as well when he was around Fern. He couldn't understand how she could get to him so easily. Usually he was an even-tempered man not prone to senseless outbursts.
"You think your brother did it?"
"Would I be here if I did?"
"Sure. Blood's thicker that water."
"Not always," Madison said, remembering George's chilly greeting and Hen's open animosity.
"Who do you think done it?"
Madison looked deep into his glass. He had no idea who killed Troy, but he wasn't likely to find out as long as the killer thought he was safe. Even if he could prove Hen was wandering about the countryside somewhere between Abilene and Newton, the killer only had to remain quiet and no one would ever discover his identity. Something had to be done to cause him to make a mistake, and maybe this talkative hayseed was just the person to see the murderer found his secret was no longer safe.
"Can you keep this close to your vest?" Madison asked in a conspiratorial tone.
"Won't utter a peep," the man assured him, his eyes alive with curiosity.
Chapter Eight
"I've been looking around the Connor farm, and things don't add up the way they're supposed to," Madison confided. "I think somebody killed Troy Sproull somewhere else, took his body to the Connor place, and then tried to blame it on Hen."
The man's eyes grew wide with surprise. "Who?"
"That's what I've got to find out. Do you know anybody who wanted Troy Sproull dead?"
The man's sharp bark of laughter caused several heads to turn. "Just about everybody in Dickinson County," he said, dropping his voice into a whisper. "Troy was real mean, and he'd cheat his mother. Nobody liked him. Not even his uncle."
Great. I've got a murder victim the whole state of Kansas wanted to see dead.
"Baker Sproull fired him sometime back in the spring. Troy swore he'd kill him for it, but nobody took him serious. He was always swearing to kill somebody. Can't think of anybody who liked him."
"Fern Sproull thinks he was some kind of saint."
"He weren't too nice to her either, but she always did take his part. Never could figure it."
Neither could Madison. He tried to pay attention as the man rambled on, relating one disreputable incident from Troy's past after another, adding name after name to the list of people who had a grievance against him, but he found nothing more than petty irritations. Certainly no reason to try to blame the murder on Hen.
Instead he found himself wondering why anyone as rigidly moral as Fern Sproull would champion a man who apparently had no morals at all. True, they were cousins, but his brothers had turned against him for less.
Damn! He didn't mean to get started on his family again. It seemed his mind couldn't pursue any line of thought for five minutes before it came up against his family. He drained his glass and poured himself another brandy.
". . . hated Buzz Carleton. They bristled at the sight of each other . . . "
Why did Fern like her cousin so much? Or maybe more accurately, why did she dislike Hen, or the Randolphs, or Texans, so much she wanted to see Hen hang whether he was guilty or not?
He didn't know the answer to that any more than he could figure out why a woman as attractive as Fern would parade around dressed as a man. And not a very good looking man at that. Her slim, rounded figure might look fine on a woman, but it didn't make the kind of rugged hand most farmers needed. And the delicate features of her face, the somewhat angular line of the jaw, the high cheekbones and generous mouth, looked downright stupid on a man. Who would trust a cowhand who looked like that?
But on a woman . . . well he'd been given a very precise idea of how they all came together in Fern, and it had been quite a shock.
" . . . surprised when he went to work for Sam Belton. Never figured Troy to be a draw for farmers looking to buy land. More likely to shot them for trying to fence in the range . . . "
It didn't change his opinion on the propriety of women wearing pants. It didn't even change his opinion of Fern Sproull, but he'd be lying if he didn't admit it changed his interest in her. For the life of him he couldn't explain the tug of kinship that flew in the face of their seemingly endless differences.
It's this place. It gets into your brain and makes you crazy. It's already driven the locals insane. You stay here much longer and you'll be deranged, too.
Two men came up to the bar, a cross between farmers and cow hands if Madison was to judge by the look of them. He moved over to give them room.
"If you need to know anything about anybody else, you just ask me," his friend continued. "I was here when the buffalo still crowded the plains. Ain't nobody I don't know something about."
"Who're you talking to, Amos?" one of the newcomers asked.
"This here's George Randolph's brother," Amos said, rather proudly.
"You're drunk," the man replied. "Hen Randolph is in jail."
"This ain't Hen. It's another brother."
"I know them Randolphs breed like rabbits, but the rest of them is still in Texas."
"I'm Madison Randolph," Madison said, "and any resemblance I may have to a rabbit is probably due to the quality of whiskey in this establishment."
"This is Reed Landusky," Amos informed Madison. "He owns a place next to Baker Sproull. He and Pike sometimes work for Fern."
Madison turned back to Reed only to find him in whispered conversation with Pike.
"That's got to be him, I tell you," the medium-sized dirty blond was saying to Reed. "It couldn't be nobody else."
"Fern wouldn't go off with nobody who looks like a squirrel."
"You seem to be on terms with an unusual number of rodents," Madison observed.
"Are you the dude who brung Fern back so banged and bruised she can't ride?"
"I'm the dude who brought her back to town after she fell off her horse," Madison said.
"Fern never fell off no horse," Pike stated emphatically. "She rides like she was born on one."
"Perhaps she was reborn since you saw her," Madison said.
"A smart one, are you?"
"I have it on good authority that has been one of my failings since childhood."
He ought to leave before he said something that would cause trouble. The more he drank, the sharper his tongue.
He got that from his father.
But a stubborn streak wouldn't let Madison stir from the spot. It was unthinkable he should run from anybody. If Reed and Pike wanted trouble, they could have it.
He got that from his father, too, and neither Harvard nor Boston had been able to take it out of him. He sometimes wondered if it ever could.
"Maybe you thought there was nothing wrong with having a little fun with the local females while you were here," Reed said.
Madison was stunned that any stranger would presume to pass public judgment on his morals, but he was infuriated they would so thoughtlessly include Fern in their loose talk.
"I'm not familiar with local customs, but it's not my habit to abduct innocent females to satisfy my carnal appetites. Nor, I'm certain, is Miss Sproull in the habit of allowing herself to be abducted."
Reed pushed up against Madison, jostling his hand, causing him to spill his brandy.
"You're about to find out one custom we got hereabouts."
"Which?" Madison inquired. "Rudeness or clumsiness?"
"We don't take kindly to fancy swells hitting on our women,"
Reed said, crowding Madison a little more. Pike positioned himself on the other side.
Madison was hemmed in.
He felt an upsurge of energy, a feeling almost of euphoria rising in him. In Boston he would have had to control his anger and work it out boxing. Here there was no such restraint. He felt his muscles gather, his grip tighten on his glass. He was ready to fight.
"Miss Sproull suffered no harm at my hands. She fell when her horse stumbled. I brought her to town because her father was away from home."
"The last dude who tried something like that was carried out of here on his back," Reed said.
"I have every intention of walking," Madison said. He could feel anticipation in every limb. He wanted the fight. He wanted it now.
Reed grabbed a handful of Madison's shirt. "I'm going to wipe the floor with you. When I get through there won't be enough for your brother to sweep up."
Madison felt the dead calm he always felt before a boxing match. His concentration narrowed until nothing existed for him except Reed. "Remove your hand, or I shall remove it for you."
"You remove it for me," Reed said, laughing. "Did you hear that, Pike? He's going to remove it for me. And how do you propose to do that?"
"Like this."
Reed looked mystified when Madison merely took him by the wrist. But the moment Madison found the exact pressure point he was seeking and his fingers closed in a vicelike grip, Reed turned dead white. The veins stood out on his neck as he struggled to keep his hold, but it was useless. His hand popped open like a lock when the key is turned. The men in the saloon stared at him in disbelief.
"Now I would appreciate it if you would drink your whiskey and leave," Madison said.
"I'm going to kill you," Reed exploded.
"Allow me to remove my coat first," Madison said.
"It don't matter what you're wearing. You're going to be dead."
"He's the best fighter in town," Amos warned as Madison took off his coat, folded it with great care, and placed it on the bar. "He'll murder you."
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