His Rip-Roarin' Bride

by Martha Hix

  She said, “You mentioned food...”

  “You wanna eat now, or after your bath?”

  “Now!”

  Holding a bucket aloft, the deputy said, “Mrs. Craig left buttered biscuits, boiled eggs, a slab of ham. Some bread-and-butter pickles. And there’s a big ol’ slice of cinnamon cake. She’s real good with cakes. But she always complains about cooking ‘em over an open flame.”

  That pricked Lisa-Ann’s ears up. Was this flat, ugly place so backward that cooks didn’t have ovens to bake in? Seemed like a person could make a business out of building honeycomb-shaped ovens in Lubbock.

  “When a person gets hungry, anything tastes good,” said A.J. “Sweets are even better.”

  Lisa-Ann surprised herself by chuckling. “I never gave that much thought. But I’m willing to try, for sure.”

  “I bet you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  Thus, the deputy and the accused launched further into conversation. Lisa-Ann enjoyed the exchange. It seemed like a million years had passed since she lost Granny Fan, instead of fifteen months. She missed everything about her, especially her companionship.

  Once Lisa-Ann finished off the best tasting meal of her life, having added last night’s apple to it, she smiled. “Delicious. I especially enjoyed the cinnamon cake. Mrs. Craig is quite a cook.”

  “She prides herself on it, even if baking does vex her. She’s a Louisiana lady, you see, and they’ve got all kinds of good stuff over there. It’s hard for womenfolk, living day to day in Lubbock County.”

  Lisa-Ann stood up from her cot and shot A.J. a smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re just as welcome as the flowers in May.” He smiled widely. “I’d best get you that bathing tub.”

  Once the deputy had returned with tub and water, leaving her locked inside the jail, she set to cleaning. Using the soap and the other niceties of life to make herself halfway presentable, Lisa-Ann felt better. No. Lots better. But the tub and the food, as well as the mystery woman who provided it, left her to wonder: Why did the sheriff go to so much trouble?

  When A.J. reported back in, she asked the chatterbox about it.

  “Sheriff Wes is a good, fair man. He looks out for his people. That’s a big job at times, I can tell you, especially when the nights get wild at Jenny’s.” A.J. tsked. “I swear, that place is gonna ruin this town.”

  Lisa-Ann cared naught about the saloon’s fate, but she did want to know about Wes Alington. “The sheriff fussed at me, said I’d turn a saint to sinning. Is that how men act around here?”

  “I can’t speak for every hombre in Lubbock, but the sheriff? If he was actin’ all put-out, it probably had somethin’ to do with his mama. He was always devoted to her. But that lady, tarnation! A firecracker with a short fuse, that was her. And a bad cook. You just can’t imagine how bad. Whenever there was a cake sale at Heaven’s Gate, Sheriff Wes had to pay people to bid on her donation.”

  “Amazing.”

  “That Mrs. Estella Orrey-Alington, she always referred to herself by her full name. She was right proud of her maiden name, even though the Orreys walked through a Garden of Gethsemane. I hear tell in Brownwood—that’s my hometown, Brownwood—that her family is from Sugar Land. Down on the Gulf of Mexico. Her daddy, Marmaduke Orrey, he was a sugar-cane farmer and miller. He drank. He was a big drinker. The family lost a lot, because of his drinking. Then he died of it.”

  “Sad.”

  “I heard that she gave what little she got from her dead daddy to her friend, that Carrie A. Nation lady, for their cause.”

  “I’ve heard of Mrs. Nation. She wants to ban alcohol, even beer.”

  “That’d be her.”

  “I just don’t understand how people can be so against drinking. I’ve been around it all my life. It’s just part of living up on The Divide. We’re mostly of German descent.”

  “My mama? She says a lot of it has to do with heritage. People from Germany, they drink. They can hold it. The English? They’re too stove-up to enjoy it. Irish and Indians? Katy, bar the door! Firewater ain’t such a good thing.”

  “What about the French?” she teased.

  He lifted his hands, rotating them at the wrists. “Oh, we don’t allow no French froggies in Brownwood!”

  She and the deputy chuckled, then he added, “Somebody told my mama, who told Lizzie Carson, who told Sadie Robinson, who swears she knows it to be true—Mrs. Orrey-Alington’s daddy was a breed. That’s why she and her children are all so dark.”

  Lisa-Ann began to feel uncomfortable with this gossip. She’d never heard nice people use “breed.” “I’ve got a map in Priscilla’s saddle bags. And my grandmother taught me geography. I know it’s a long way from Sugar Land to Brownwood. I can’t imagine how Brownwood people know so much about the Gulf of Mexico. Stories probably got balled up, between Fort Bend County and your hometown.”

  “Sheriff Wes himself told me that before they ended up in Lubbock, the Alingtons had plans to follow Mrs. Nation to Kansas. The sheriff, he was just a whippersnapper, but he dug in his heels to stay put around here, so his daddy—he was a preacher—demanded to be heard. He said, ‘Wife, Kansas is not for us. I have sheep to gather in this pasture.”

  “Sounds like your sheriff got his cojones from his daddy.”

  “I ain’t sure what cojones are, but folks around here, they say Mrs. Nation ruint Mrs. Orrey-Alington, when they was together in Fort Bend County.” The deputy continued his blather. “I heard some people call Sheriff Wes’s mother the witch of Lubbock. If everyone didn’t love the sheriff, they probably woulda taken a page from that other town’s book and run her outta here.”

  “She casts spells on people? Rides a broom?”

  “I think they meant ‘hateful.’ If the sheriff got cross, he was seeing his mama in you.”

  “That’s not flattering.”

  “I’m just guessing. But you gotta admit, going after a feller with a gun? That’s pretty durned mean-minded.”

  The shoe did fit. “He had a true cross to bear with his mother.”

  “It’s past him now. Mrs. Orrey-Alington, she’s gone to greener pastures. Gone forever.”

  Even if he had been insulting, Lisa-Ann suddenly felt sorry that Wes had lost his mother. “Is she resting here or in her childhood hometown?”

  “Naw. She’s in San Angelo.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “A month ago.”

  Having lost so much of her family and having felt the loss of many fine folks on The Divide, Lisa-Ann pictured the sheriff’s despair. “It must have been a heartwrenching day for Wes Alington, his final good-bye to his mother. “No wonder he needed a beer yesterday evening.”

  “Naw. He was—well, I wouldn’t call it happy, but he was durned sure relieved not to listen to her yapping anymore.”

  That seemed terribly callous of a grieving son, but Lisa-Ann had seen all kinds of reactions to grief and it wasn’t her habit to pass judgment, so she didn’t.

  Thankfully A.J. changed the subject. “Mrs. Craig, she said our sheriff was at her door at dawn. Asking her to call on you.”

  It just seemed odd. At this point, this beggar couldn’t be a chooser. “How is that? Did she say anything about my spectacles? I really need those glasses. If I’m sent to the pen, I understand ladies at the Johnson Farm”—was there a person in Texas who didn’t know females served their time at the rural part of the Huntsville Prison?—“are expected to do piecework in the garment factory.”

  “I’ve heard that, too. Matter of fact, the warden, he’s from Brownwood. He told me, when I was home last Christmas, that if a woman ain’t up to sewing, he’ll hire her out to do domestic work. Some of ‘em even clean the men’s toilets at the big house. A blind person might be better off, not having to get too close a look at those latrines.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel a lot better.”

 
“I hate to say it, but you sure stepped into a mess. And Corporal Bellingham? Why, he’s probably done taken off for the hills.” A.J. scratched his head. “The sheriff, he’s calling on the High Hopes Ranch today. That’s where the Craigs live, at the High Hopes.”

  “What do the Craigs and some ranch have to do with Orville Bellingham?” Skeptical as all get-out, Lisa-Ann asked, “What is going on here?”

  “Corporal Bellingham and Mrs. Craig—why, they’re twins.”

  The mere idea that their might be two Orvilles was enough to make Lisa-Ann feel the urge to gag.

  * * *

  Wes Alington did his best to avoid the county jail. Upholding the law had been blessedly quiet. With no more miscreants to arrest, what would be his excuse even to stop by the jail for simple updates? He had dependable deputies seeing to Jewel Bellingham Craig’s care and keeping, of this he could take comfort.

  Nevertheless, he still dropped in. Usually just to get a look at Lisa-Ann Wilkins. He really couldn’t explain it. Frankly, Wes wasn’t proud of the way he asked A.J. for tidbits about Lisa-Ann Wilkins.

  Just yesterday the deputy had begged Wes’s pardon on a situation. He mentioned that he’d given the lady in Cell One a wrong impression. A.J. said he unwittingly led her to believe that Estella Orrey-Alington had died, and he was too embarrassed to admit his blunder.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” Wes told him. “I’d just as well have an end to the gossip about Mother—especially about her departure from town—so let it go.”

  Wes, too, should have just let it go.

  Why did he keep obsessing over the harridan in Cell One? Could it have to do with guilt? She might be the sort to drive a man stark-raving mad, but this man realized he’d been offensive and uncouth.

  Why had he allowed her to push him into a loss of temper?

  He desired her. He needed a woman, and often. But he refused to allow anyone in Lubbock County to think he debauched the local womenfolk. He had no desire to frequent faded roses, not anywhere, even though Jenny Benoit and her tutelage when he was just a green boy remained foremost in pleasant memories.

  What he wanted and needed was a respectable, yet trainable wife—a sweet virginal young lady, schooled in the social graces and deft of hand in the homemaking arts. At the top of his list? A well-read miss who could carry on an intelligent conversation, while discussing literature, history, and geography.

  He yearned to then teach his sweet rose how to be a tart between the sheets.

  If he got too much older, young buds of femininity would see him as an old man, teetering around, his balls petrified. Even if a wifely candidate did see past his age, she might hold his height against him.

  Women didn’t seem to know that short men were often the longest endowed.

  His last choice in a wife would be a woman who knew this.

  Thus, he had the freedom to find a suitable bride, now that his beloved yet annoying mother could not steer the wheel in his choosing process.

  Two weeks earlier, he received a post from San Angelo, where she’d gone to be with Wes’s sister, Temperance Culpepper, and her husband. “Forever” had been her promise upon huffing away, given her disgust over his refusal to consider any of the Heaven’s Gate young ladies as a suitable wife.

  According to the letter, Mother received a sizable post from genealogist Gustav Anjou, including a lengthy pedigree chart, where he definitely traced the Orrey lineage back to the Emperor Charlemagne.

  Very little in life could have pleased her more, especially the part that promised not one ounce of Comanche blood flowed in her veins.

  Thus, mother and daughter had decided to book passage to England, on the first spring sailing, to survey the countries of their ancestors. They were leaving as soon as Donald went to Fort Worth to conduct business with the packing houses. Evidently Temperance didn’t plan to run the Europe plans past her husband.

  The ladies planned a stop in South Texas to pay homage to the sugar fields and mill that had been Orrey holdings before Marmaduke Orrey’s untimely demise from alcohol poisoning. Way before, actually.

  Wes always groaned when she mentioned alcohol poisoning. He couldn’t remember her talking about the downfall of the Orrey family, not without mentioning her father’s demise.

  She’ll be gone a year, maybe two. Outstanding!

  He fleetingly recalled A.J. and his blunder, but decided to put the deputy’s concern out of mind. Anyway, if Lisa-Ann Wilkins were to become a part of the community, she’d know the truth sooner or later, and whether she did or not didn’t make a whit of difference. She was business; his mother, private. And he didn’t have any interest in talking about it.

  On to lighter thoughts, he decided it was definitely time to plan a spring trip to San Antonio to catch up with old friends and to attend the Fiesta debutante balls. Yet, for the first time, Wes questioned his perfect plan to find a wife. The cotillions were not a new thing. Maybe he was getting old, because those girls now seemed just girls. Silly, simpering, giggling. When was the last time he’d held a conversation with one? When was the first time?

  Best he just concentrate on the inmate in his charge, the fair-haired, giantess from The Divide.

  In that she claimed to have been robbed of money and the companionship of a pet, it was his duty as a peace officer to look out for her interests. He decided that the best course would be an air of aloofness. Why can’t I get over this nagging urge to spar with her?

  Why? He wasn’t a fool. He yearned to find out if she tasted as good as she looked...now that she’d gotten cleaned up. He wanted to run his fingers through that light hair, then touch her...everywhere.

  But he kept to business. Throughout the week, he searched for Bellingham. Each day, Wes rode through the county, and especially north of town to the High Hopes Ranch, where Jewel Craig’s husband, Charlie, served as ranch manager. He and Charlie, often joined by Charlie’s ranch-owning nephew, Sam Kincaid, combed the lands and the arroyo secos, searching for the missing soldier-pianist.

  They even searched Mrs. Sam Kincaid’s cotton patch. By Saturday morning there was still no sign of the accused. This go ’round, Wes combed the dugout that the missing man had built, when Bellingham first arrived on his twin sister’s front step, in October of aught four.

  The mud hut smelled like—he couldn’t pinpoint the smell, but it definitely had body odor to it. This prompted a return to Wes’s mount and the retrieval of a drawstring kit that he kept for investigative purposes. With a folding stick, he picked through soiled clothing, cigarette papers, and the burned leavings of tobacco, as well as stale food.

  As a rule, he wasn’t overly fastidious, but a scene like this? He was glad he packed soap and a canteen of water, along with an ivory-handled toothbrush that Temperance gave him as a gift for his thirtieth birthday. His sister also supplied him with several flagons of perfume concocted for men, she claimed that she and Donald had purchased on their French Riviera honeymoon. Fearful that eau d’Orville now clung to him, he splashed a bit of Fougère Royale on his jaw.

  He then called on Jewel Craig in her dugout, which smelled like sugar cookies. After greetings, then his thank-you for helping out with Miss Wilkins, he accepted the offer of a seat and a coffee.

  Jewel sat in a rocking chair, holding her young daughter, Texas Rosemarie. “I’ve reached the end of my rope with my brother. I love him. He’s my twin. But I’ve long suspected something stinks in Denmark. I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Wilkins is the one telling the truth.”

  “True.”

  “Then set her free!”

  “You might say the jury is still out on Denmark. There’s the issue of her criminal behavior.”

  Quite slender, Jewel Craig had a lot of coal-black hair, along with what seemed like fifty very long incisors. She hadn’t been in the county but two years. Even in that short a period of time, her reputation as vinegar in a pecan pie had been well established.

  “C
riminal behavior?” she said. “You mean, about her tearing up the Garter? Huh! This town ought to give her an award. Shoot, if she’d burned the place down, Lubbock should have sainted her.”

  Choosing to ignore that suggestion, Wes then asked, “Have you noticed your twin spending more money than you’d expect?”

  “Orville? You gotta be kidding. He doesn’t spend a dime on anything. Even charges his tobacco to my husband’s account. That owner over at Jones Feed & General can vouch for that. And my Charlie? He doesn’t like it one bit how Orville sponges off our larder.”

  “When he first got here, was he carrying much with him?”

  Jewel screwed up the right side of her mouth, her nose twitching. “You know, I did think it odd. I saw him pulling a wooden box out of a muslin bag. I asked about it, and he said it was a gift from a lady who had rejected his bid for marriage. He said she laughed and jeered in public. He held on to the box to remind himself what happens when he gives his heart too freely.”

  “Perceptive of him.” Wes took a sip of coffee that was perfectly prepared with just the right amount of milk and honey. “I didn’t see anything like that box in his quarters. Where might he keep something along that order?”

  Jewel laughed, her lower jaw quivering. “What a question! This is Texas, Wes Alington, need I remind you? There are five stars to our state, each with hidey places for treasure.”

  “That box may hold the evidence of his crime, if any. Likely, it’s empty by now, but let’s keep our eye out.”

  “You got it, Sheriff.”

  Wes dug in his kit for a pencil and a bound journal. “Would you please describe that box?”

  “Dark wood. Rectangular. About the size to hold a pair of men’s shoes. It looked like it might have started out ornate, but had rough handling.”

  Finished writing down the description, Wes put the journal away and rose to his feet. “Thank you, Jewel. I do appreciate all you’ve done this week.”

  He said his good-byes, then headed back to town. He wanted to reach the jail before Lisa-Ann left for her day in court. Why? He had an idea. It might make up for his uncouth behavior. He stopped at the drugstore. “I need a replacement for these,” he told the pharmacist as he pulled a busted pair of eyeglasses from his shirt pocket.