This trip to town had been a waste, and the trail out of Cimarron Springs had dried up, yet he found himself loitering in the sheriff’s stale office, surrounded by walls yellowed with cigar smoke, as his growing defeat warred with his burgeoning curiosity. Jack had discovered long ago that if he let people talk long enough, they let down their guard. That’s when his job got interesting.
He kicked back in his chair, forcing himself to link his hands behind his head. Gossip was a good lead into more important matters—like outlaws and stolen money. Of course his renewed interest in interrogating the sheriff had nothing to do with the widow and her newborn. This exercise was strictly related to the Wells Fargo job.
“What happened to Mr. Cole?” Jack asked.
“I miss that Will.”
Jack’s sudden consternation at the mention of Elizabeth’s husband startled him. Before now, he hadn’t actually thought of her late husband as an actual flesh-and-blood man with friends and family. Will Cole had been a shadow figure, undefined, relegated to the past. Talking with the sheriff about Will made him real. Jack had a sickening realization he wasn’t going to shake the dead man’s presence any time soon.
“You miss Will?” Jack asked noncommittally.
“He was a man who appreciated a good joke.” The sheriff shot Jack a telling look, as if sending a fellow lawman into a snowstorm was some sort of great lark, and Jack was a spoilsport for not appreciating the humor.
Jack forced himself to concentrate on the droning conversation while the sheriff touched on a multitude of subjects with the mentions of Will Cole spread out sparsely in between. The way the sheriff carried on about everything from the weather to the lack of tasty licorice at the dry goods store, Jack figured he’d see the spring thaw before an insightful piece of information spilled.
The sheriff spat a wad of tobacco juice into the spittoon at his feet. “That Will Cole sure was a charmer. Came into town every night when he wasn’t traveling. Had a job with the railroad, ya know.”
“The railroad, huh?” Jack encouraged. So far, the sheriff had bragged about all of Will’s dubious attributes—his gambling, his drinking, his roving eye. The last transgression bothered Jack most. He wondered if Elizabeth knew, and prayed that she didn’t. What kind of man dishonored his wife that way? If Jack had a woman like Elizabeth waiting for him, he wouldn’t be hanging around rancid saloons.
He recalled the humor in Elizabeth’s clear blue eyes as she’d thanked him for his help. She had a way of looking at him, really looking, as if nothing was more important than listening to what he had to say. When she’d smiled at Rachel, her face had lit up like the sun rising over the Rockies. He’d never seen anything like it.
The sheriff scratched at his domed belly. The unwelcome grating of his overly long fingernails against coarse cotton interrupted Jack’s fond recollections of Elizabeth.
The potbellied man wiggled his upper lip to adjust the wad of chew tucked between his cheek and gum. “That Will sure had a lot of luck with gambling. Real generous, though. Always bought a round of drinks before he left.”
Elizabeth’s fearful words echoed through Jack’s head. You won’t bring whiskey into this house.
She might not have known every disreputable detail about her late husband, but she knew plenty. Did she know that her husband had most likely supplemented his income as a card cheat? Professional sharps often gave away just enough of their winnings to keep the other players from growing suspicious.
Jack stared at a spot of cracked plaster scarring the wall above the sheriff’s head. “What happened to Mr. Cole?”
The sheriff’s expression grew somber. “Will and his horse slid down a gully sometime early summer. Must have been the end of May or the first part of June. Can’t rightly remember. We had a real bad rain. Just kept pouring down for over a week. I was about to build an ark myself.” The sheriff cackled at his own joke.
Jack forced a grin to keep the sheriff talking. He’d rather be anywhere than listening to the painful details of Elizabeth’s troublesome past, but shying away from cold, hard facts never solved a problem.
“Anyway,” the sheriff continued, “Will was riding over by Hackberry Creek. His horse slid down an embankment, broke its neck. Landed right on Will’s leg. The poor guy must of drowned when the creek water rose.” The sheriff leaned forward. His overburdened chair groaned in protest. “We kept that part about his suffering from his missus. I told her he died right off. She’s one of those greenhorns from back East. Real weak little thing. I figured she’d die within a year. Most of those city folk don’t survive long out here.”
The sheriff’s remarks had Jack’s hands curling into fists. He recalled Elizabeth’s accent, the slight lilt in her voice that gave her words a lyrical quality.
“She from Boston or something? She’s got a particular way of talking.”
“New York, maybe. Leastways, that’s where Will found her. Real whirlwind courtship from the way he told it. She was some sort of orphan working for scraps in a bakery, when Will saved her. His job with the railroad took him all over the country. I think maybe her parents came over from England. Can’t say for certain. She wasn’t much for talking. Hardly came to town at all. Not even for church.”
Jack muffled his snort of disgust. From what the sheriff had just said, her husband came to town often enough for the both of them, and his activities weren’t conducive to attending services on Sundays.
What kind of a fellow left his wife all alone for weeks on end, this close to Indian territory, then took off again to gamble just as soon as he’d arrived home? Life on the plains was too dangerous for that kind of self-centered idiocy.
Jack adjusted in his chair. “Mrs. Cole shouldn’t be out on that homestead all alone.”
“I talked to her after Will died. Told her she was a fool to stay.” The sheriff lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I even offered to marry her myself.”
Jack’s heart skidded to a halt. “You what?”
“Offered to marry her. Women around these parts are harder to find than an Irishman at work. Not that I care to raise another man’s brat, but sometimes you gotta take the wheat with the chaff.”
“I see.”
Jack gritted his teeth at the insult to Elizabeth. He wasn’t a man who liked violence; most problems could be solved amicably with subtle negotiation, but some people were just too pigheaded to listen. That’s when a man had to use force.
The sheriff brought his hand to his cauliflower-shaped ear and buried one finger up to his grimy knuckle. “Never could figure out why a man with that much to live for would be down by the creek that day. Doesn’t make any sense.”
His casual declaration finally piqued Jack’s interest. “What doesn’t make any sense?”
The older man continued working his finger back and forth in his ear. He scratched so deep, Jack figured his brain must itch.
“Will was awful fussy about his appearance. He wasn’t much for dirt or mud. Kept his hat dry and his boots clean. His buttons shined so bright, they’d darn near blind a man.”
Jack felt himself flush. Hadn’t his own brothers mocked him for his fussy way of dressing? He’d ignored their ridicule because they didn’t understand life outside a cattle ranch. A Texas Ranger mingled with people from every walk of life. Jack had discovered early on that men respected appearance before they respected words. His dress wasn’t vanity, it was survival.
Elizabeth’s sweeping assessment of him that first day flashed in his mind. Her gaze had lingered on his coat. Had she been thinking of Will? Was the disappointment blazing in her pale blue eyes directed at Jack, or at her late husband?
His mind lost in thoughts of Elizabeth, Jack snapped back to the present when he realized the sheriff had spoken.
“You touched in the he
ad, Ranger?” the sheriff all but shouted.
Beginning to wonder himself, Jack bit back a sharp reply.
“I said, where are you going from here?”
“Thought I’d make my way to Wichita,” Jack said.
“Yep. If I was a bank robber, I’d travel on up to Wichita.” Spittle ricocheted into the spittoon. “There’s more money to be had in the big cities.”
“If you were a bank robber, my job would be a whole lot easier.”
The sheriff started to laugh, then thought better of it and stuttered to a halt. “You mean something by that, mister?”
“Not at all,” Jack soothed. “Just means you’re a lot handier, being as you’re sitting right in front of me and all.”
“That’s what I thought you meant,” the sheriff replied, mollified for the moment.
Jack assumed the “hey, we’re all friends here” smile he used when gathering information. “You’ve been real helpful, Sheriff…”
“Stanton.”
“Sheriff Stanton. Don’t suppose I’ll ever forget that name.”
Jack forced his hands to unclench. Pushing off from the arms of his sturdy wooden chair, he stood. “It’s been real nice to meet you, Sheriff Stanton. I’ve got to visit the doctor before I leave. If you think of anything else that might be useful, that’s where you’ll find me.”
The sheriff struggled out of his chair, his lumbering rise to his feet accompanied by the crackle and pop of his joints. Straightening, he hoisted his muddy brown trousers over his potbelly, then shook them back down into place.
Jack had never been so grateful for the double security of a belt and suspenders.
The sheriff picked at his yellowed teeth. “Think I’ll head over to the saloon. Get something to eat, maybe something to drink, then call it a day.”
Jack added gluttony to the sheriff’s growing list of sins. The clock hadn’t even struck the noon hour, and here the man was ready to start drinking. Spending only twenty minutes a day on the job didn’t leave much time for work. The next time Jack needed a lawman in Cimarron Springs, he’d know better than to count on Sheriff Stanton.
Too dense to pick up on Jack’s disgust, Stanton droned on about how much the community paid him to play cards. Jack cut short the pleasantries and stepped into the gray afternoon.
A young couple bumped past him, bundled against the cold. The gentleman took his companion’s hand as they traversed an icy patch. The woman smiled shyly.
A flurry of memories drew Jack to a halt. He hadn’t thought of his parents in years, but something about the couple brought them to mind. How many times had his own father displayed the same courtly manners with his mother? Held her elbow to cross a rocky patch of ground, or stepped forward to hold open a door? Jack recalled their private looks over the dinner table, their shared jokes.
He’d never thought of his parents as anything but two ordinary, middle-aged folks raising a family. But a newer, more mature understanding dawned on him. His parents had been young once, like the couple he’d just seen. Young and courting. The novel idea kept him rooted to the spot.
“Someone nail your feet to the boardwalk, Ranger?” The sheriff nudged him out of the way. “Looks like the doc’s heading for his office. There’s another sawbones farther down the road, but I wouldn’t recommend him. Takes a little too much of his own tonic.” The sheriff held his pinky in the air and touched his thumb to his lower lip. “If you get my meaning.”
Jack gave a curt nod. With every other person in this town drunk or loafing, he wondered how any work got done.
Focusing his attention on the tall, slender man the sheriff had indicated, he crossed the snow-packed road. Crystalline flakes caught on Jack’s eyelashes and stood out like dandruff on his wool coat.
He squinted at the ominous sky. Great. Just what this day needed, more snow.
Brushing the flakes from his shoulders, he stalked toward the gentleman sporting a black bowler and clutching a crisp, leather satchel.
“You the doc?” Jack asked abruptly.
The man glanced up, his sharp gaze annoyed at the interruption. “Yeah, that’s me, Doc Johnsen.”
The fair-haired doctor was younger than Jack had expected, with translucent blue eyes indicative of the Norwegian populations farther north. Blond hair curled beneath the brim of the doc’s bowler. While Jack sized up the man, two well-dressed young women paused on the boardwalk. One of the women pointed a gloved finger at Doc Johnsen, whispering to her companion. They both giggled, holding hands to their mouths before scurrying away.
Jack tugged his hat lower over his dark hair. You never could tell what women found attractive. What did looks matter when there was work to be done? A head full of curly golden locks never stopped a bullet. Besides, the doc still had the “wet behind the ears” appearance of a body too young to be seasoned by life.
Then again, something in the way the younger man sized Jack up with one long sweeping gaze told him he’d be able to survive the West with his wits intact. Glancing down the street, Jack sighed. What other choice did he have? The doc might be young, but at least this fellow wasn’t imbibing his own tonic.
Jack stuck out his hand, his faultless instincts urging him to trust the man. “You’re just the person I wanted to see. I’m Jack Elder. I was wondering if you could check on Mrs. Cole. She delivered her baby on Sunday. I’ll pay you double your usual fee to check on the widow and her baby.”
“I’ll be.” Doc Johnsen gave Jack’s hand a brisk, solid pump. “I just checked on the McCoy family a few days ago. I planned on visiting Mrs. Cole on my way back, but the weather changed, and I didn’t want to risk the trip. I hope she was able to get help. It pains me to think of her out there all alone.”
Jack had been so focused on locating the doc, he hadn’t thought of how he would explain his own involvement. “Well, Jo—uh—Jo McCoy was with Mrs. Cole last I knew.”
Those translucent blue eyes narrowed with curiosity. “You don’t say.”
Forced to elaborate on his role, Jack paused, searching for an answer that wouldn’t incite more questions. The emotions attached to those events were still too raw, too slippery to share with a stranger. “I, ah, passed by on the way to town.” That was the truth. Not as if he was lying or anything. “Jo was there with Mrs. Cole. The baby seemed healthy.”
“Well, then. I’m sure everything is fine. Mrs. McCoy is about the closest thing we have to a midwife around here, and Jo often assists her. If need be, Jo’s smart enough to send for help.”
Jack’s stomach contracted into a tight ball. How would Jo send for help? The widow’s swayback mare probably scraped the snow drifts with its distended belly. What kind of fool lived on the prairie without a decent horse and wagon? He gave himself a mental shake. The same kind of fool woman who stayed on a homestead, alone, when she was nine months pregnant. That’s who.
His heart rate quickened with anger before he hardened his resolve. The widow was someone else’s problem now. “How are the McCoys?”
“There’s a whole lot of McCoys leaning over chamber pots.” The doc chuckled. “They’re a strong lot, though. The fever has gone through two of the older boys. Should take another week or so before everyone is healthy again.”
“Is that the worst of it?”
The younger man gave him a knowing look. “We’ve had deaths in town, to be sure, but mostly the elderly and the infirm.” He switched his satchel from one gloved hand to the other. “There’s not an elderly or infirm McCoy in fifty miles. They’ll need some time to recover, but I’m confident of the outcome. I’m sure they’ll be out to see Mrs. Cole soon enough.”
“Confident, are you?” Here was another person with a total disregard for the dangers Elizabeth and her newborn faced. Almost everyone he’d talked to so far acted like a
lone woman with an infant, living on the plains, was just a matter of course.
“Mrs. Cole shouldn’t be living out there by herself,” Jack snapped. “Someone ought to talk some sense into her.”
The blond man shrugged. “It distresses me, too, to think of Mrs. Cole doing all that work, especially with a baby to care for. Don’t see how we can stop her, though.” Doc Johnsen stood up straighter, his neck flushed. “I offered to marry her myself after Will died. She turned me down so politely, I almost felt bad for asking.”
Something hot and ugly rolled in Jack’s stomach. “Really? Seems like I heard something similar from someone else.”
The snow must have covered the divots left in the road by the town’s bachelors in their treks to and from the widow’s door after Will’s funeral. While it wasn’t unheard for a woman living out West to marry within weeks after her husband’s death, Elizabeth had turned them all down flat. She’d chosen to remain a widow, rather than remarry. Had she loved her husband that much?
The logical conclusion nearly bowled him over. She’d wasted her love on that fool, and Jack didn’t like waste. He also didn’t like the way his own emotions had tipped upside down. Instead of anger at her refusal of the handsome doctor’s perfectly reasonable offer, the only feeling he could muster was cold relief.
Lack of sleep must be driving him mad. The boarding house in town had played host to a crowd of rowdy cowboys until the wee hours of the morning. Whatever the cause of his unrest, he vowed to leave all thoughts of the widow behind and concentrate on the present. Jack reached into his pocket for payment, but the doc waved away the proffered bills.
“No payment necessary. I was heading in that direction, anyway. I’d best be going, the day’s half over already. Nice to meet you, Mr. Elder.”
Winning the Widow's Heart Page 7