by Patty Devlin
Dear God, he just prayed that she was all right.
Chapter Eight
“Where is he? Can you see?” Hugh whispered to Celia. It was hard to hide when it was broad daylight. They were trying to peek in the windows of the cabin and still had yet to formulate a plan. They could see the man left behind to guard the boy but couldn’t find Donnie.
It was a small house, with only four rooms—two bedrooms, the sitting room and the kitchen. They finally found the boy sleeping, tied to the bed, but it had only been through a slit in the curtain that they’d seen him.
After tossing one idea after the next, they decided to go the simple route. Celia would knock on the door while he tried to get in the bedroom window. It would all depend on Celia’s acting skills because she was as nervous as could be.
“Who is it? Whatdaya want?” It was more of a growl than anything else.
“I don’t know, you tell me. I was told to come to you to find out where my husband is.”
“What?” The door opened a sliver, and then the shifty-eyed, ornery looking man cautiously stepped out and looked around. “Who sent you?” The man’s eyes went from skeptical to flat out disbelief as she spoke. He kept his gun aimed straight at her and went to both ends of the porch to look for a set-up but finally came back.
“Sam Parker. He said to come out here and you’d tell me where my husband is. Do you have him? If you did something with him, I’m going to cut out your—”
“Stop your prattling, woman. If Sam said to come here, your husband must be on his way. Come on in and sit down.” He turned and pushed the door wider for her to enter.
Celia had to force her legs into motion, they were shaking so badly. She was sure it wasn’t a good idea to walk right into the enemy’s hands, but she had to do what she could to get the boy out. He was probably terrified. What if it were Frankie? She bravely took her first step forward. Just as she was ready to cross the threshold, the man shoved her roughly inside. “Move along, you’re letting the flies in.”
As soon as the door slammed behind him, Celia saw Hugh behind the door. He held a wooden chair high over his head and slammed it down over the man’s head. The nasty lecher crumpled to the floor like a puppet. Then, when she finally took a much-needed breath after holding it for so long, she coughed as smoke filled her lungs. Flames were slowly but surely consuming the small table and the curtains beside it.
“Hurry, he must have been smoking when your knock startled him. I have to get Donnie, and then we have to get out before the whole house goes up in flames. There hasn’t been rain in the last couple weeks and the wood is very dry.” He grabbed a knife from the bench in the kitchen and ran to the room the boy was in.
Celia wanted to follow because she was a little afraid to be alone. When she heard a noise at the door, panic clutched her throat and froze her in her tracks. Then, before she could run or scream, a head popped around the door.
“Are you okay, Miss Celia? Come on, you better get out of here. Let me help you.” Old Solomon came to her side. Moments later, Hugh came out, carrying the six-year-old boy. Celia and Solomon brought the boy out while Hugh dragged the outlaw to safety. Within minutes the whole house was engulfed and half the town had arrived, including the other three Farley boys, whom Hugh had sent out fishing, forbidding them to go to school that morning so they would be safely out of the way.
Celia wanted to see no one more than she wanted Jackson. She flew into his arms the moment she spotted him and he’d dismounted. He crushed her to his chest, lifting her feet from the ground.
“Thank God you are safe. I was so worried. I love you,” he said into her hair. She couldn’t have replied if she wanted to, and she did, but she was out of breath from crying and from the force of his crushing embrace. Her heart clung to the whispered “I love you” and she completely disregarded the following, “I’m going to blister your backside for putting yourself in danger.”
Hugh gave his side of the story to Jackson and the sheriff, his remorse as obvious as his love for his children. Buck and Bill Wilson were his wife’s cousins. They’d been taking food and other supplies from the Farleys, hiding in a cellar on their property for two years and threatening Hugh with fake proof that he had killed Hannah. They’d also threatened his children’s lives, many more times than this time. And today, they had no intentions of freeing Celia once they’d made it free of the bank. That was why he had to find a way to help her. She felt terrible for the pain and all the hardship they had been living under. It would be a whole new freedom for them now that the men were captured. Unfortunately, they would have to rebuild.
*****
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Sure, he sounded very patient and placating, but Celia knew where this was leading. They had stayed the night at the boarding house because it had been so late by the time the fire had been put out and all taken care of. School had been cancelled the next day to give everyone a break. Now Jackson and Celia had just come home, and he started right in about her dangerous behavior.
“I’m never allowed to put someone else’s life before my own, not even a child’s.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him from her position at the kitchen work bench.
“Cecelia.” The way he growled her name made her stomach do something funny. It also caused her bottom to prickle. She wanted to run away and hide, and yet she wanted to cling to him. “It was very brave of you to help Hugh, but two of my men were on their way there right behind. You can let the men do their jobs. We just want to keep you safe.”
“Maybe you should wrap me in quilts and keep me on a shelf.” Where the sassy reply had come from she didn’t know, but once it was out she couldn’t take it back. She wished she could, though, because the effect it had on Jackson’s already “concerned” features made her bottom want to leave her body and run away of its own accord.
“This isn’t a game, young lady. If you think I’m playing around, you have another thing coming. I was just planning to talk to you about the seriousness of the matter, but seeing you want to be a smart aleck, I think you need a lesson. Let’s make it an over-the-knee lesson.” He walked over to her and took her hand.
“Oh, right, I can’t teach from the shelf, but maybe you could send a deputy to guard me at the schoolhouse every day. You never know when something might—oomph.”
They had made it to his large chair and he’d tugged her down over his lap. Her tummy met his thick, hard thighs with a hearty woof of air leaving her lungs. She was madder than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. She kicked and thrashed, bucked and fought him, to no avail. He threw his leg over both of hers and caught her free arm, locking it to the middle of her back. Her other arm was tucked between their bodies, so she was immobilized. All she could do now was wiggle, which did her no real good. He was still able to pull her skirt up and untie her drawers.
“Cecelia Grace, this behavior is so unbecoming. Do you honestly think I enjoy seeing this in my wife?” He didn’t wait for her answer before laying into her rounded cheeks with his heavy palm. If he was holding back, or warming up, Celia couldn’t have guessed. Each swat brought a fresh wave of heat.
“You insufferable lout!”
The swats kept coming, faster and harder. “If I have to spank you to make you think of your own safety first, that’s what I’m going to do.” She couldn’t move at all, her tears running into the strands of hair that had fallen loose from the tight bun at her nape.
“Pig-headed, ego-tistical… maaan…” Her words broke up and went from screaming to sobbing as she lost control and submitted to his hand.
“I’m all that, because I love you? Because I don’t want something to happen to you? Because I want to take care of you?” He’d stopped spanking her and tenderly rubbed her blazing cheeks as he spoke. The sound of his voice soothed her, the same way his gentle stroking did. “Come here, little dove.” He lifted her onto his lap, being careful of her sore bottom, and hugged her to his chest.
His chin rested on her head, and she could hear his heartbeat under her ear. He whispered many comforting endearments as she drifted off to sleep, but it was his simple “I love you, Just Celia” that she hung on to.
*****
It was loud, but it was joyful. The table was full, full of family, and Celia was a part of it all. She couldn’t believe that in a couple short months she’d become so attached, so embedded in the life of these Westerners. A smile touched her lips as she watched Mrs. Owens, soon to be Mrs. Farley, teasing the poor man. His sons were not to be left out and gave their father a hard time as well, siding with their new mama. All except Calvin, the oldest, were thrilled with the idea. Calvin was adjusting, albeit a bit more slowly. After their house had burned, they’d come to the boarding house. Mrs. Owens wouldn’t hear of anything other than that.
In the next couple weeks, everyone who had eyes could see very clearly the love blooming between the two widowers. Although, many were surprised when Hugh announced he was writing again. He told them how he used to write a column called the Western Traveler for The Chicago Daily, chronicling the adventures of the West. After Hannah had become ill and passed away, he’d lost all of his motivation. He’d tried many other odd jobs, but none fully supported his family (nor could they with the Buck and Bill stealing from them). He’d gotten back into it by telling the long sad tale of the Wilson Brothers’ Gang.
“I can’t believe how well Frankie’s doing. It’s a night-day difference.” Susanna said as she leaned toward Celia on her right. At Sunday dinner, everyone ate at the table, including Mama and Susanna. The men insisted on it.
Celia agreed. “He’s worked hard, and he is doing really well.” She smiled toward the freckle-faced boy in case he heard. He was too busy pushing his turnips away from his mashed potatoes and paid no attention to her.
“It’s because of you, Celia, taking the time, and being so encouraging. No one else has ever made learning so much fun.”
“No.” She shook her head and her cheeks warmed. She wasn’t used to people singling her out with praise. But, she was also reminded of a conversation during one of Jackson’s reading lessons. She’d been trying to tell him that learning could be fun, should be fun. If you want to learn about growing a certain plant, you could read about it in a book. Or if you wanted to cook a certain food, there were recipe books. Wasn’t there anything he wanted to learn?
His lips had lifted at one corner into a cocky smirk and a glint of mischievousness sparkled in his green eyes. Dragonflies took flight in her tummy when his left eyebrow lifted as if to ask her if she really wanted to know the answer.
“I like to learn about you. What it takes to drive you wild?” He grazed her cheek with his knuckle and then traced the neckline of her dress with his fingertip. “What you like me to do to you? What makes you excited?” He leaned forward to kiss her, and she turned her head. His kiss fell on the corner of her mouth.
“You are getting distracted. I thought you wanted to learn to read.”
“I want you more right now.” He’d captured her chin in his fingers and covered her lips with his. The lessons that day were taught in the bedroom, and her heart still raced at the memory.
“How is he doing? I mean is he worried about meeting his brothers?” Susanna’s question brought her back to the present.
“Oh, he goes back and forth. He keeps saying he isn’t going. Then sometimes he says he is—just to meet them. He keeps guessing at different scenarios, like perhaps Mr. Hastings was married and had the other children so that was why he wouldn’t acknowledge him. I don’t know how many more times he will change his mind in the next week before the meeting, but as of now I think he is going again,” Celia said, chuckling.
Chapter Nine
He wasn’t going to the damn meeting. The man couldn’t have cared about Jackson or his mother, so why should he give a wink what the man did with his possessions? Jackson wouldn’t be receiving anything—and he didn’t want anything! He wanted a father, one who loved him, and it was way too late for that. So, he was going to go in there to see the man’s legitimate children receive his goods? Why bother?
Why? Because Celia had weaseled and nagged until he finally agreed. She was right; he wouldn’t have the opportunity to do it again if he regretted it later. Same as the service she’d talked him into going to. He and Celia, his mother, the lawyer and two of Hastings’ servants were the only ones in attendance. Yep, he could have passed on that opportunity.
But, he had to admit he was a mite curious about “brothers.” Byron was the closest thing he had to a brother. Both of them had grown up in Denver, been friends since they were babies. Byron was all he needed. He didn’t need to go meet them. Probably city folk. He turned back from the door and headed for the carriage.
“Jackson, you made it this far. Don’t turn around now. Come on, remember, Susanna said that one of your brothers stayed at your mother’s and he seemed like a nice man.” She’d been hanging onto his arm, and now she pulled him toward the fancy front door of the lawyer’s office building.
He sighed and let her lead him through the door. They walked into the secretary’s office, but no one was in there. He could hear voices coming from the open door to the left and went that way. As soon as he stepped inside the room, the talking stopped. He would have thought they’d been discussing him, but it was the lawyer’s clearing of the throat that brought their attention around to his arrival. It seemed everyone else was already there.
“Now that Marshal Owens, who is from right here in Denver, and his wife, Celia, are here, we can begin.” Jackson’s blood rushed in his ears as he led Celia to the empty seat and stood behind her as the other men had. He wanted to stare at them, study them. Four brothers? He was vastly curious about them. He could hardly concentrate on St. James when he started to speak again. “Thank you for coming here today, Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Caine, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Pride, Marshal Owens, and ladies, of course. I asked you here due to the death of my client, Mr. John Hastings, your father.”
He shuffled his papers as if gathering his thoughts once more. “You gentlemen are the heirs to his estate, which, while hardly enormous, was sizeable. Despite the circumstances of your births, Mr. Hastings kept track of you as much as he could. He traveled extensively for his career as a gambler. Occasionally, he had to leave towns somewhat speedily, but he kept many of his possessions in a small space, here in Denver. Eventually, he settled here where he had no trouble with the law. I have passed on the letters he kept from your mothers.”
“Thank you,” said the dark-haired man with the beard.
St. James pushed his spectacles back into place. “He also kept journals. I believe he kept them for a purpose. We shall never know what exactly that purpose was, but they did help us identify each of you and find your whereabouts.
“Here is the text of his will,” St. James said before reading the document.
May 1, 1872
I, John Renfrew Hastings, being of sound mind, though failing health, do hereby acknowledge my five sons as my legal heirs. I leave them my estate, in the hopes that they will forgive my absence in their lives. I would never have been a good parent, and I knew that from the moment I found out about the eldest of you. It was a difficult decision to make, and one I am not proud of, but I believe it was the right and only decision I could make at the time. My congress with your mothers was, perhaps, less than wise, but each was irresistible in her own way, and I am not a man of great discipline. I only hope I have not missed one or more other children, begat over many years of philandering. Pinkerton has done its job well, if you are here for this event.
I wish you well, sons, and hope your days are easier for this bequest.
John Renfrew Hastings
Celia turned to say something to Jackson, but St. James held up his hand, and the room grew quiet again.
“He was a hard and difficult man. I knew him for many years. I firmly believe he thought he was doing right, even though each of you has re
asons for disbelieving his sincerity. Be that as it may, he left each of you a tidy sum and a variety of possessions.
“Each of you is to receive fifty-thousand, one hundred, thirty-two dollars and eleven cents, and you may divide up his worldly goods or give them to charity, as you see fit. The journals are of particular significance, and have no charitable value, so one of you should take possession of them.”
He gave each of them a long look, straightened the sheaf of papers and then reached for his check book.
Jackson felt numb as each of the brothers and wives introduced themselves, one giving him a calling card and asking him to visit. He became worried about his foggy state when he stood face to face with a man whose face was printed on a wanted poster hanging in the sheriff’s office. He hadn’t even recognized him until the man said, “I want you to know I cleared up that business with Mick Malone, just in case my face looks familiar from the wanted posters.”
Jackson’s brain was at home on his bureau or something, for he had no response. Celia was out of the chair and at his side, tugging his arm in an instant.
The other man’s wife sprung to defend her husband, too. “My husband was unjustly accused after acting in self-defense.” They left without waiting for his response, which was good because Jackson didn’t know how he was supposed to react. He knew one thing: his little dove needed another lesson in staying out of trouble.
He turned back toward her, giving her what he hoped was a look that would curb her willfulness, and said, “Cecelia Grace.”
“Just Celia.” She smiled prettily at him and fluttered her lashes.