That response satisfied Ed, and just before sundown on the fifth day, they completed their work.
“I best go get cleaned up,” Ed said. “The missus is particular about smelly menfolk at her supper table.” He scratched his head, then glanced over at Caleb.
“Why don’t you join us tonight, Cal? Evelyn sets a fine spread, and I know she’d welcome you. She’s been after me to fetch you home, but I figured with you working yourself to the bone here the last thing you felt like was socializing of an evenin’.”
Along the way he’d met quite a few of the townsfolk, most of them arriving carrying a baked good of some sort. They welcomed him like an honored guest rather than the inmate he was to become, and they all called him Cal, which struck him as odd. Still none of them had invited him to socialize.
He met Ed’s gaze. “You sure about this, Ed? I mean, I’m a—”
“Pa, you still in there? Mama said to tell you she’s buttering the corn bread.”
Ed grinned. “Looks like I’m being called to supper. You comin’ or what?”
Caleb pondered the invitation for a moment before shaking his head. He sure did like a good piece of buttered corn bread. In fact, he loved to eat.
“I really ought not to get used to such luxuries. You tell your wife I appreciate the invite, though.”
Ed studied Caleb a moment, then shook his hand and headed out the door. A moment later he returned. “I know you’re tired and all, but we need to talk about getting you moved in here. What say you fetch your things from the Widow Sykes’s place after breakfast and meet me here? Say eight o’clock?”
“Eight it is.” Caleb straightened his hat and walked out into the dying rays of the last sunset he would see as a free man—at least for quite a while.
“Lord,” he said under his breath, “I sure would like another chance. If You’d see fit to let me get a clean start, I’d be much beholden.”
Bypassing the dining room, Caleb made his way upstairs and kicked off his boots. It would be a shame to spend his last free night alone, yet he felt no need to go any farther than the table where’d he left his Bible.
A sound drifted up and pulled Caleb toward the window. There below, in the sliver of dirt and rocks the Widow Sykes called her garden, the dark form of a person huddled against the far wall. Upon closer inspection he could see skirts.
The sound found him again, and this time he knew it was the sound of a woman crying. While he watched, she doubled over, then sank to her knees.
His first instinct was to leave her be. A woman’s tears were a more dangerous weapon than a gun or a knife, and he generally steered clear of a female packing a damp hankie.
But what if she’s hurt? What if she’s hiding from someone looking to do her harm? Despite what Ed said about Dime Box’s low crime rate, plenty of bad guys were lurking out there, and they could just as likely be hiding here as anywhere.
Caleb ought to know. He used to be the worst of the worst, and his favorite hiding places were where the decent folk went. That’s how he’d learned to pass himself off as a gentleman.
Some days he felt like he was still playing that game: an outlaw pretending to be a man of character. Then the good Lord would give him some reminder He had settled the score and wiped away the past.
Caleb waited a moment longer, then made his decision. “Nothing like spending the night before I go to jail doing a good deed.”
Shoving his feet into his boots, Caleb headed outside. He might not be able to do much with his immediate future, but the least he could do was help a woman who was obviously in some kind of distress.
Chapter 4
Lydia’s breath came in gasps, and her eyes stung from the tears she’d held back all day. So much for making the best of the situation. The moment May fell asleep, the strong facade Lydia had kept all week crumbled.
Try as she might, she hadn’t managed to believe the Lord intended her to be here.
In this place.
Doing what her mother insisted she must do.
A sob tore from her throat, and Lydia silenced it by taking a deep breath. The spot she’d chosen was private enough, with only one darkened room having a view; still she worried someone might happen upon her.
Funny how she had no trouble making a spectacle of herself to get sent home from all the finishing schools she’d attended over the years, yet she couldn’t shed a single tear in front of a witness.
She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Always she had found a way out of her predicament, a way to get back home. This time, however, her situation seemed a bit more…dare she even think it?
Permanent.
Tears sprang afresh, and this time she gave them free rein to flow down her cheeks and soak her frock. To think Papa knew of this and still—
“Anything wrong, ma’am?”
Lydia scrambled to her feet, then reeled backward and thudded against the wall. Her head banged against the rough stones, and she cried out. A pair of strong arms lifted her off her feet.
“What are you doing? Put. Me. Down.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, the stranger whirled around with her in his arms and headed for the boardinghouse.
“Put. Me. Down!”
The man froze. A slice of moonlight cut across chiseled features she might have thought handsome had the oaf not just hauled her around like a sack of potatoes.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
He cocked his hat back, revealing more of the face she knew must have caused more than a few women to take notice. “I thought I was helping a lady in distress.”
“The only distress I’m feeling is because I’m being tossed about by a complete stranger. Put me down before I call for the sheriff.”
This time he complied, setting her feet on the rocky ground, then taking a step backward. “Go ahead.”
Lydia gave him a look. “I mean it. I will.”
The cowboy leaned against the side of the rooming house and crossed his arms over his chest. “Like I said. Go ahead. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
He shrugged. “Far as I know, there’s not a sheriff in Dime Box. Leastwise there wasn’t one this afternoon.”
No sheriff? This was interesting. Dare she hope?
“Since when is there not a sheriff?”
Another voice spoke up. “Ed says the sheriff is going to be sworn in tomorrow morning.” The Widow Sykes turned the corner. “You ought to know that, Cal.” She turned to Lydia. “Everything all right out here, Miss Bertrand? I was takin’ a pie out of the oven and thought I heard some commotion.”
She gave the stranger a look, then turned her attention to the innkeeper. “Yes, I’m fine. Will you excuse me? I’d like to return to my room.”
“Let me go with you.” The landlady gave the man named Cal a nod, then reached for Lydia’s arm. “What say I walk with you just to be sure you’re all right?”
“That’s not necessary, really.” A light breeze blew past, bringing the scent of something delicious in its wake. “What sort of pie is that? It smells wonderful.”
“It’s my mama’s recipe. She called it a Jeff Davis pie. She was from Savannah, you know.”
“Might I have the recipe?”
The older woman stopped short. “You like to cook, do you?”
“Very much,” Lydia said, “although I haven’t had the chance to do so in far too long.”
“Now isn’t that interesting? I was just asking the Lord for some kitchen help this mornin’. I can pay in wages or free rent. You interested?”
The dark-haired gal reminded Caleb of his mama’s banty rooster, and he would’ve told her so except he intended to leave there in one piece. He watched the Widow Sykes usher her out of sight, then lifted his gaze to the heavens. The stars shone bright.
Somewhere beyond them was his real home. Knowing this made what he faced tomorrow seem a little less awful.
It occurred to him that in all
their time together Ed hadn’t mentioned anything about the charges against him. Of course he hadn’t asked, either, but then neither he nor Ed cared much for idle chatter. They’d worked most days in silence.
By the time Caleb climbed under the threadbare blanket and laid his head on the pillow, he’d come up with a sizable list of possible crimes he’d committed. Some he’d already confessed to, and a few others he might have forgotten.
Still others might have been blamed on the Wilson boys but committed by others. That happened occasionally.
A spark of hope rose. What if I can prove I’m innocent? What if Ed’s mistaken?
He winced when he thought of the man he was. The Good Book said the Lord could wash a man clean and turn his scarlet sins to pure white.
If the Lord said it, Caleb believed it. Understanding it—now that was another matter.
But then, come tomorrow he’d have plenty of time to study on the idea.
That night he slept in short doses and met the Lord in His Word well before sunrise. Dressed and ready before six, Caleb wandered downstairs with the intention of taking one last walk around Dime Box before meeting Ed.
Passing the dining room, he turned down good coffee, then thought better of it and sat down to let the widow pour him a cup. One cup turned into two, and before he knew it, he had a plate of eggs and bacon sitting before him.
He stabbed a fork into his eggs and took a hefty bite, then washed it down with black coffee. Before his mug could hit the table, Widow Sykes wandered in from the kitchen and set a pan of biscuits on the table, then disappeared with a promise to bring more butter and some honey.
He grabbed three biscuits, then set one back on the plate. No sense being greedy, even though he sat alone in the dining room. Two more bites of eggs and he was ready for that butter and honey.
Once the bacon was gone, Caleb began to wonder if she’d forgotten. The biscuits smelled too good to ignore, so he decided to taste one plain. It was so good he had another.
Caleb winked. “They’d be even better with butter and some honey.”
He thought to call his landlady’s name just to see if she was heading this way, then decided he’d amble into the kitchen and help her find that butter and honey. One push on the door and he found it stuck. On the second try, it almost felt as if the door pushed back.
He gave it a good shove, and the door cooperated, swinging open to reveal the Widow Sykes standing at the black cookstove.
The door slammed against the wall, and a woman screamed. Caleb took a step forward, then tripped.
About the time he landed on his posterior, he found the source of the roadblock—and presumably the caterwauling. There in all her honey- and butter-covered glory was the dark-haired gal from last night.
Chapter 5
Caleb tried to right himself under the glare of the sputtering woman but found nothing but slick floor boards beneath him. He tried rolling onto his stomach to push up from the floor but landed on his face.
A few more maneuvers, and he managed a sitting position. The pretty gal looked as if she wanted to wring his neck, and he fully expected the first words out of her mouth to be directed at him.
Instead, she surprised Caleb by looking past him. “Might I trouble you for a length of toweling, Mrs. Sykes?”
A length of toweling? She certainly wasn’t from these parts.
She met his gaze, and her eyes narrowed. At that moment Caleb felt about as welcome as a wet dog at a church picnic.
“What are you doing here?”
It was more of a demand than a question, really, and with her glaring like that, Caleb had to think hard to remember how to respond. “I came to fetch the butter and honey,” he finally managed.
She seemed less than impressed with his answer. Of course, with honey smeared across the front of her dress and a streak of butter running from the corner of her mouth to her nose, she probably wasn’t paying much attention.
“I thought I was helping,” he decided to add. “Best batch of biscuits that ever come out of the cookstove, ma’am,” he said to the widow.
Widow Sykes looked like she was about to double over laughing. “I appreciate that, Cal, but I’m not the one who mixed up that batch.” She gestured to the dark-haired gal. “You’ve got Miss Bertrand to thank for that.”
Caleb dared a sideways glance at Miss Bertrand. “Them’s prize-winning biscuits, ma’am.”
She lifted the corner of her apron to swipe at her cheek, smearing the butter in the process. “Glad you liked them,” she said without much enthusiasm.
“Miss Bertrand’s gonna be cooking for us. Least until she says her ‘I-dos,’ that is.”
“Is that right?” When she didn’t respond, he tried again. “So when’s the hitchin’?”
“Hitchin’?”
“Your wedding. When’s the wedding?” He reached for his hanky, clean as of this morning, and handed it to Miss Bertrand.
She dabbed at the butter, then handed it back. For a moment her expression softened. “I’m not exactly sure.” Soon as the words were said, the temper returned. “I’m thankful it’s not today. This was my only clean dress.”
“Bein’ as I’m not your intended, I’d rather not imagine you without a clean dress, ma’am.”
His joke fell flat. Rather than smiling as he hoped, she deepened her frown. “Just what are you suggesting, sir?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Bertrand. It’s just that you’ve unintentionally given me an image of you that a gentleman doesn’t need to have.”
Caleb dabbed his finger in the honey and tasted it for effect. Yes, it would be mighty fine on those biscuits waiting for him back in the dining room. From the look of his clothes, however, he probably ought to eat on the run.
Dare he hope the widow might see fit to send a meal or two his way while he was a guest of the jailhouse? He’d have to ask once he knew exactly how long a term he faced.
With that thought weighing on his mind, Caleb struggled to his feet and reached to offer help to Miss Bertrand. When she declined, he made his way back upstairs to step into the last set of clean clothes he owned: his Sunday suit.
He knew he looked ridiculous wearing it to jail on a Tuesday morning, but it was better than parading over to the jail in his long johns.
“Be still, Miss Lydia, or I’m never gonna get that honey outta your hair.”
Lydia leaned farther over the basin while May poured yet another pitcher of water over her sticky hair. She gritted her teeth and entertained a few unsavory thoughts as the icy water splashed onto her neck then began to trickle down her back.
“That Wilson fellow is the most irritating man I’ve ever met. I mean, the nerve of him. Last night he hauled me around like a sack of potatoes. A sack of potatoes, May. Do you hear me?”
“Um-hum.” May began to work lavender soap through Lydia’s tangles. “Potatoes. I hear you.”
“And today. If you’d been there, you would have seen what a cad the man is. Can you feature that he would actually be amused by causing me to spill butter and honey all over myself?”
May stopped scrubbing and reached for the pitcher.
“And of all the nerve. Do you know what he said to me? He said he was a gentleman, and he didn’t want to imagine me in my—.” Lydia yelped as icy water cascaded over her head. “Warn me next time, May.”
“Cold water ain’t what you need to be warned about, chile.” She set the pitcher down. “You all done. Now let’s get you dry.”
Lydia stewed until May finished the process of drying and braiding her hair. When the last pin went in, she could stand it no more.
“What exactly do I need to be warned about, May?”
May pressed the wrinkles out of the skirt of the yellow frock Lydia had worn the day before, then held it out toward her. “I don’t believe you really want an answer to that question, Miss Lydia.”
She stepped into her dress and frowned. “And why not?”
“Why, ind
eed.” Whirling Lydia around, May began fastening the row of buttons that ran down the back of the dress. “It most certainly wouldn’t be to your likin’.”
Lydia stepped away and turned to face May. “Try me.”
The older woman shook her head. “Chile, you are as stubborn as your mama sometimes. When are you gonna learn that the Father knows what’s best, and it ain’t no use to run from Him or put off what He’s a-wantin’ you to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s no use frettin’ and fussin’ when the good Lord brought you here for a purpose. You know why you’re here—now you need to go present yourself.”
Lydia swallowed hard. “You mean, just walk up to him and say, ‘Hello, I’m Lydia, the bride you ordered’?”
May rested her hands on her hips. “That’s exactly what I mean. Now you scoot outta here and do just that, or I’m gonna start worryin’ you’re gettin’ sweet on that fella who ’bout ran you down in the kitchen.”
“That man?” Lydia grimaced. “Trust me, May. He’d be the last man I’d ever be sweet on. I can promise you that.”
“Oh, I don’t know ’bout that.” May made a soft clucking sound as she turned her back to empty the basin out the window. “I got me a feelin’ ’bout you and that fella.”
She pointed to the letter her mother had sent along with the one she’d written. The man who paid her way to Dime Box had penned this. The man who bought her lock, stock, and petticoat.
Lydia took one last look in the mirror. “Your feelings aren’t worth anything when compared to that letter over there. Fetch it and let’s go get this over with.”
“How ’bout we take him a pie, Miss Lydia?”
She stopped short. “A pie? Whatever for?”
May shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ a man likes better’n a good fresh-baked pie, and you done made an extra this mornin’. I doubt Miz Sykes’ll mind.”
“Oh, all right. But if this fellow’s awful, I’m heading for the hills. You understand?”
May chuckled. “Oh, I been speakin’ to the Lord, and I believe He’s got a nice surprise for you.”
Texas Brides Collection Page 46