Tom's Angel

by Linda George

  “Yesterday.”

  “You weren't fighting, were you?”

  He ducked his head.

  “Fighting won't get you what you want, Josh. You have to use your mind and your wits to make things happen in your favor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom remembered when he was Josh's age, tussling with Will or Bo in the barn, listening to the same lecture from his father, practically word for word the way he'd delivered it to Josh.

  The thought led him to his own son. Would he have a son someday? He wanted one, of course. Every man wanted a son. That led back to Kincannon, with three daughters. An uneducated man like Kincannon might very well discount his daughters as worthless. He might also blame the woman who'd borne those daughters for not giving him a son.

  <><><><>

  Holding the Bible in her lap, Rosalie sat next to the open window, letting the stifling breeze bathe her face. What she'd read in her Mother's letter had shaken her soul. She unfolded the pages carefully and read it all again.

  My dearest Rosalie,

  I cannot expect you to forgive me for letting you live with a lie all these years. I can only hope you'll try to understand.

  I met William Kincannon in a small town in East Texas. He came into the saloon, which was owned by a prominent man of the town, and asked to buy me a drink. I declined and explained I wasn't one of the girls available for entertaining gentlemen. I had promised my boss I would entertain only him.

  William accepted this without protest, at first. The more he came into the saloon, though, the more his attitude changed.

  One evening, when I had to lock up for the night, William came to the saloon and said he couldn't stand it any longer. He wanted me to leave the saloon and live with him, as his wife. I didn't know what to say. My boss had never offered marriage. I had long ago given up hope of any respectable relationship with any man.

  I cannot explain why, but I said yes to William's proposal. We left that same night.

  Only a few days later, I realized I was pregnant, but not with William's child. That child was you, Rosalie. Elizabeth was two and had the sister she'd longed for.

  Rosalie laid the letter in her lap. She still couldn't believe it. All her life, the man she'd believed to be her father was only a man from a saloon, in an unnamed town in East Texas. Her memories were hazy when she tried to recall the days before they'd come to this house, when she was seven. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and read the rest.

  I've asked William to give you this Bible after I die. I've known for quite some time now that I will die young from consumption. The doctor says I have less than a month left, so it's time to write all this down. I want you to know the truth. I hope you can forgive me.

  I know you're wondering about your father. When you were ten, I heard he'd left Texas. I have no idea what happened to him.

  His name was O.T. Lattimer. Oliver.

  I pray that you'll take care of your sister. Lord knows she was never any good at taking care of herself.

  I love you, child.

  Rose Elizabeth Montgomery.

  Rosalie tried to remember the years before Fort Worth and Hell's Half Acre. Only snatches of memory surfaced. Elizabeth falling into the edge of a slow-moving river, getting wet and skinned for her carelessness. Paw—the man she believed to be her paw—scolding her for causing her mother more work, washing a muddy dress.

  The realization came like a swift wind. William Kincannon had cared deeply for Rose. Yet he never seemed to care much for Rosalie or Elizabeth. It was plain to see why, now. They were not his own flesh and blood. Penelope would've been his daughter, if she'd lived. So much made sense at last. His apparent lack of caring for Lizzy, even when she'd been abused and tortured. His willingness to indenture Rosalie to the vilest of men out of greed and disdain.

  So clear.

  As clear as her path had suddenly become, having read her mother's confession. She had to free herself from Zane Strickland. To somehow bring honor to her mother. This house, the dance hall, the horses—none of it meant anything to her. Thinking about Rusty, she realized there might be a way to accomplish her goal of being free.

  The more she thought about it, the more right it seemed. She'd see to it first thing tomorrow morning. It would mean going to the jail, but she'd endure the stench if it meant freedom.

  What would her mother think of the solution? She had a feeling Rose would've approved.

  “I forgive you, Mama,” she whispered.

  <><><><>

  The next morning, Tom sat on the front porch of the hotel and gazed at the sunrise, dreading the heat of the day to come, and the reality of the entanglements to which he'd succumbed since arriving in this sun-blistered city. The hour just before dawn had proven to be the coolest of the day, and the only one remotely tolerable.

  Josh plunked down beside him.

  “Mornin'.”

  “Good morning to you, too. Don't you go to school?”

  “Yep. When the teacher ain't sick with the epizooty.”

  “So, she's sick, and there's no school until she gets well again.”

  “Yep.”

  “You're wishing her a speedy recovery every day, isn't that right?”

  Josh grinned. “Yep. But 'til she's back, it sure is nice not to have to do all them ciphers.”

  “All those ciphers.”

  “Are you some sort of teacher?”

  “Nope. Just went to school and learned how to talk properly, that's all. When you grow up, you'll want to be someone respected and admired. Won't you?”

  “I 'spect so.”

  “Well, then you have to learn all you can in school so you don't sound like a dummy to other people.”

  “I want to be a cowboy and ride with the herds.” He leaped from the steps and pantomimed riding and roping, whooping and hollering at imaginary steers daring to stray from the trail. After a minute, he finished his little demonstration and sat back down on the step.

  Tom tried to think of a reason a cowboy would need to speak properly, but couldn't come up with one. So, he took another stab at it, from a different angle.

  “Seems pretty exciting, doesn't it?”

  “Yeah!” Josh's eyes were as round as billiard balls. “Ridin' and ropin' and yellin'. Being a cowboy is fun.”

  “I suppose.” Tom waited. It didn't take long.

  “You don't think it's fun?”

  “Never was fond of sitting in a saddle from before dawn until after dark every day, chewing dirt, smelling nothing but the stink of sweaty cows and their dung. Then, when your insides are so empty you think your backbone is pushing right through your belly button, Cookie hands you a plate of half-cooked beans and wormy bacon, and a cup of coffee to wash it down with that's so black it could be used to grease the axles of Cookie's wagon. If you think that's fun, Josh, then being a cow hand is what you ought to do, for sure.”

  A couple of horses rode past. Tom took off his hat and waved the dust that swirled in front of his face. Josh's forehead had scrunched up with puzzlement. Finally, he shook his head slowly.

  “I guess that wouldn't be too much fun after all.”

  “Nope.” Time for the next step. “But ranching is great fun.”

  “It is? You have a ranch, Mr. McCabe?”

  “Sure do. Outside of Denver, where it's cool. We don't ever have it this hot. Eighty, maybe, at summer’s peak. In Colorado, a man can take a deep breath and not feel like his lungs have been branded by wind and dust.”

  “Gosh. I'd love to see your ranch sometime.”

  “Maybe you will. If you ever get to Denver, just ask in town where the McCabe Ranch is. We'd be glad to have you visit.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “Wow. Can I tell my Grandpa?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Josh ran into the hotel, boots clomping on the stairs.

  For a moment, Tom felt lonely with the boy gone. Someday, maybe he and Rosalie would ha
ve a son like Josh. And a daughter he suspected they'd name Rose Elizabeth. Tom shook his head to clear away those thoughts. This wasn't the time to be dreaming about having babies and what to name them. They had a long way to go before thinking about anything so pleasant and satisfying.

  Josh came downstairs, then ran off toward a bunch of boys on the far side of the street who waved for him to join them. In two shakes, he headed back, fast as his bare feet could run.

  “Mr. McCabe! He's out!”

  “Whoa, now. Slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “That man who got put in jail in the Acre twice. He got out, sometime yesterday. He told the marshal if he tried to put him back in there again, he'd get him fired! Then, he went to a saloon and drank so much, he passed out. Bartender dumped him out back. He's awake now, though.”

  “Are you talking about Zane Strickland?”

  “That's the one! Toby says he's looking for you. If I's you, Mr. McCabe, I'd leave town quick. We been hearing 'bout what he done in the Acre. He might shoot you! Or cut you with that big knife of his. We heard tell it was more'n a foot long, and sharp on both sides, with a jagged tip that rips, 'stead of cutting clean.”

  “Most of that's exaggeration. I can take care of myself, Josh. You stay away from him, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir. I ain't been anywhere near him since he came to Fort Worth. We heard that he cut a lady into six pieces!”

  “You heard wrong. Don't go telling stories about him, or he might come looking for you.”

  That seemed to make a believer of Josh Winslow.

  “No, sir, I won't tell no more stories!”

  “Now, go get me a saddle horse. Quick.”

  “Yes sir!” He ran off toward the stable.

  If Strickland was out of jail, he might very well go back to The Yellow Rose. Tom had to get back there. Fast.

  <><><><>

  Rosalie was just going out the front door when Zane Strickland arrived, looking better than she'd ever seen him. Clean clothes, his hair cut and oiled, didn't make sense at all after being in that filthy jail. He must've gone straight to a hotel to clean up.

  “Stop right there, Mr. Strickland. Don't come any closer.”

  Zane leaned against the gate post, swaying slightly, as though intoxicated. No surprise there.

  “I just came to tell you we'll be leaving for Denver in the morning. The marshal didn't cotton to my paw’s lawyer showing up on the train to bust me out of his jail again. He's just looking for a reason to put me back in that filthy hole and throw away the key.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Zane's eyebrows went up at that. “I'm all ears, sugar plum.”

  Rosalie swallowed her retort and squared her shoulders.

  “My father was murdered yesterday.”

  “Oh, was he now?”

  “Yes, he was. Shot in the back. If you hadn't been in jail, I would have sent the law looking for you.”

  Zane said nothing.

  “Also, my sister killed herself. I hold you directly responsible for her death. If you hadn't attacked her the way you did, twice, she would be alive today.”

  “You thinking about calling the marshal?”

  “It would do no good. I am aware of how things work in the Acre.” Grief clutched at her, but she pushed it down and continued. “This means I'm the sole owner of this house, The Yellow Rose, and the horses my father prized so highly.”

  Zane brightened at that. “Once we're married, all that will be mine.”

  “I won't marry you. You cannot force me to do so. I am betrothed to Tom McCabe.”

  “Well, now, isn't that nice. There's still the matter of the money your sorry paw couldn't cover in the game. You may be betrothed, but you're also indentured. To me.”

  “You don't have to remind me. That's the reason for what I'm about to offer you in exchange for my being released from that indenture.”

  “I'm listening.” He switched to the other elbow, on the other gate post.

  “All of what I own here in Fort Worth is yours, including the horses, in exchange for my freedom.”

  Zane considered a moment. “The whole lot isn't worth two thousand dollars. No deal.”

  Rosalie was afraid that would be his reaction.

  “Very well, then, I have another deal to offer you.”

  He swayed so much, he almost fell. After recovering his feet, he slid down the fence post and sat on the ground, knees bent to brace himself. “I'm listening.”

  “A race. Between my horse and yours. If you win, I shall serve my indenture as house maid to the Strickland family. Not as your wife. You will own this house, The Yellow Rose, and my horses, everything of value that's mine. I'll have it appraised as to fair market value. That amount will be deducted from the two thousand dollars owed, and I shall work off the rest at acceptable wages for a house maid.”

  “And if I lose?”

  “Then my indenture is cancelled and I’ll keep what’s mine.” It pained her to think he might come out of this mess exactly as he went in. “And your horse will be mine.”

  Zane laughed until he lost his balance against the post and fell backward.

  Rosalie saw a rider heading for the house in a big hurry. Tom. She'd hoped to have everything arranged before he knew what she was doing. He'd try to talk her out of it for sure. Zane Strickland still had not agreed to the terms she'd presented.

  Tom stepped down from his horse. “I'll take care of this filthy, stinking pile of garbage for you, Miss Kincannon.”

  “Leave him be. He isn't threatening me.” She stared at Zane for a moment, appalled at the thought of this man as Tom's banker. “What do you say, Mr. Strickland. Do we have a deal?”

  Tom frowned. “A deal? What are you talking about?”

  Zane pulled himself off the ground, grabbed the fence post, then grinned that malevolent grin she'd come to hate.

  “Deal, Miss Kincannon. You’ll need to give me four days to get my horse to Ft. Worth.”

  “Agreed. Saturday. Shall we say one o’clock in the afternoon?”

  “Works for me. And now, I'm heading for someplace with lots of whiskey.” He turned, walked past Tom as though he weren't there, and headed down the street.

  Tom came to the porch. “What was all that about? What have you done?”

  Rosalie started to tremble. The shaking got so bad, she had to sink onto the top step to keep from falling. Tom sat beside her.

  “Rosalie, answer me! What have you done?”

  She told him.

  “Dammit, woman, are you daft? Making deals with the likes of that scum? You don't honestly think he'll live up to his end of the bargain if he loses, do you?”

  “I've thought of that. I'm going to write everything down and get him to sign it in front of the marshal, before the race. In Denver, That way, he’ll have to live up to it.” She gripped Tom's arm, needing him to understand. “Don't you see, Tom? This is the only way. I care nothing for this house, that dance hall, or the horses. Unless Zane Strickland brought a horse with him from Denver, he's going to have to buy the fastest horse he can find. It won't make any difference, though, because Rusty has beaten all of them. This is my chance to be free of him, of this place. Free to pledge myself to you, body and soul, for the rest of our lives. Isn't that what you want, too?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Then support me in this. If you turn away, I'll have nothing. Nothing!”

  Tom gathered her into his arms. “Rusty will beat the horse set against him, and then we'll go home to Denver.”

  He could feel some of the tension leave her as the trembling stopped. If he'd gotten here only a few minutes earlier, he could've stopped this nonsense. There was one rock-bottom fact about Zane Strickland that Rosalie didn't know. He never played fair.

  Chapter 15

  After Tom left, saying he had to wire his paw and let him know what was happening, Rosalie sorted through everything in the house, searching carefully for a
ny sign of the money William had stashed.

  She couldn't think of him as her father any more. The word stuck in her throat like a day-old biscuit, dry and unpalatable.

  Some of the furnishings could be sold, but most of what she owned had no real worth. The antimacassars on the chairs and sofa had been crocheted by Rosalie and her mother, while Rosalie was learning the gentile art of needlework. The intricate tatting escaped her, though. Folded carefully in a trunk, waiting for just the right table and time, lay the tablecloth Rose Montgomery had tatted two years before she died.

  Rosalie pulled out the old trunk and found the cloth. It had mellowed to the soft yellow of candlelight. Perhaps, someday, it would grace the dining table in the Tom McCabe household.

  With a sigh, Rosalie refolded the cloth, placed it between two quilts, and closed the trunk.

  Four days until the race. Four short days to sort through her life, select what she could take with her, and decide what to do with the remainder. With a rush of heat and anger she knew what she'd like to do when the time came to leave Fort Worth.

  She wished she could burn the dance hall to the ground, just throw a torch through the front door, then watch the building consumed, just as Elizabeth had been consumed. But such a thing was unthinkable. The next building, less than two feet away, would burn, too, and the building next to it, and the next, down the line.

  With another flush, but this time one of gratification, she watched in her mind as the whole of Hell's Half Acre burst into flames and disappeared from the face of the earth in billows of acrid black smoke. Yes. That's exactly what she'd do if she could.

  But the house and dance hall wouldn’t be hers to burn if Rusty didn't beat Zane Strickland's horse come Saturday.