West Winds of Wyoming

by Caroline Fyffe

  “Shush, now, Mr. Hutton,” she said firmly. “You can put away your worries. With all the children I have, I’ve been exposed to almost everything under the sun, and then some. I’ll be fine. I nurse them, and I can nurse you as well.”

  Propriety forbade her admittance to a single man’s bedroom, especially since they were alone, but there was no help for it. He must have picked up on her thoughts because as they approached his door he began peeling her arm from his side.

  “I can take it from here, Mrs. Lane,” he croaked out. “Thank you. I’ll just—”

  He coughed and wiped his forehead with his palm. Without warning, he went down on one knee, taking Brenna with him. Pain sliced up her leg when her kneecap connected with the wooden floor, pushed all the harder by his weight.

  “Oh!” she cried out, but she instantly wanted to recall the word. She struggled, trying to stand and pull him up with her. Somehow, pushing, pulling and praying, she got him into the postage-stamp-size room, and helped him sit on the edge of his bed. She took his shoulders and guided him back. He pulled his feet up on his own and she covered him with the top sheet.

  Taking the matches on the bedside table, Brenna went into the living room and lit several oil lamps, turning the wicks low. In the kitchen, she lit the lamp on the counter, and another on a small kitchen table. Now that there was light, she reached around and buttoned up her dress. Having found several folded dishcloths tucked away in a drawer, she worked the indoor kitchen pump until she had a trickle. She soaked a cloth and wrung it out.

  When she returned to the bedroom the teacher’s eyes were closed. Perspiration shimmered on his forehead and the gray pall to his skin had her worried. Leaning over, she softly wiped the moisture from his forehead and cheeks, then dabbed gently over his lips. Finished, she folded the cloth several times and gently placed it on his forehead.

  The house was so quiet. She wondered what illness he had. Worry for her children was never far from her mind. She’d need to stay away until they found out what they were dealing with, and until after she’d changed her clothes and washed.

  Uneasy, Brenna left him and went to the front door and looked out. Is Penny awake yet? She’ll be frightened if she finds me gone, my bed empty and me nowhere in the house. The hour was still early, but the sun had just topped the faraway mountain range and the rosy glow of the sunrise extended out.

  Behind her living room curtains, the room lightened. Brenna stepped out onto the porch. “Penny,” she called out through cupped hands. Picking up the hem of her dress, she crossed the street and stopped at her gate. “Penny,” she called louder.

  The front door slowly opened. “Mama, is that you?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  Penny stepped out and started down the steps. “What are you doing out here?” Her voice held alarm, and a bit of surprise.

  “Stay where you are, sweetie.” Brenna’s words stopped her daughter in her tracks. She tried to keep all traces of fear from her voice but by the size of Penny’s eyes she knew she’d failed.

  “W-why? What’s wrong?” Penny replied shakily.

  By now, the other children were huddled in the doorway behind her, trying to see who Penny was talking to.

  “Nothing too terrible,” she answered, nervously clutching her hands in front of her dress. I pray that’s true. Poor Mr. Hutton looks like death warmed over. “Mr. Hutton is sick. I want you to get dressed and as soon as the sun is up go to town for Dr. Thorn. If you can’t find him, go down to the sheriff’s office and tell Sheriff Preston and Deputy Donovan, or whomever is there. They’ll know what to do. If neither of them is around, tell any adult you can find and then come straight home. Don’t dally, or else I’ll worry.”

  When Penny turned to go, Brenna added, “And take Prichard with you.” Even though her foster child was younger than Penny, he was almost as tall and was growing strong. “Two heads are better than one.” And safer.

  Penny scuttled back inside and Brenna turned and crossed the street. She climbed the steps and was just pulling the door open when the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves brought her back around. She strained to see who was coming up their road.

  Dwight! Good Lord, of all the people to see me on Mr. Hutton’s porch at daybreak. She scooted in quickly and closed the front door, careful not to make a sound. She leaned back against the barrier until she couldn’t hear the hoofbeats anymore. Dwight won’t care about the truth, or even if Mr. Hutton is dying. He won’t waste a minute before spreading the gossip all over town.

  She firmed her resolve. If the people of Logan Meadows were so hard-hearted that they would fault her for coming to the aid of a person in need, then she didn’t care. As she crossed the room, Brenna took note of the furnishing for the first time since coming inside. Most of the things she recognized as Maude’s, the owner of the small rental. The brown corduroy couch looked as worn-out as ever. A cushioned chair sat opposite the sofa and next to it was a straight-back wooden chair that was still missing a spindle. The rectangle maple table that divided the two seats held a lantern and a couple of books.

  She stopped. Looked around more closely. A smile blossomed. She’d not fancied him a boot wearer until she noticed a beat-up pair of black walking boots by the door. Also, on top of the books on the coffee table was a pair of spectacles. Did he wear them to read? She hadn’t known. Now the room seemed to come alive with his presence. A sweater tossed on a sideboard drew her like a magnet. She touched the tightly knit wool.

  Her heart trembled softly as she took it all in. Did he come from a large family? Did he say a blessing before his meals? Had he ever been in love?

  She snatched her hand away. Don’t go snooping into things that aren’t your business. Curiosity only leads to trouble.

  In the bedroom, she placed the back of her hand on one of Mr. Hutton’s cheeks. His fever had climbed. He opened his eyes and looked at her groggily.

  Not wasting a second, she hurried into the kitchen to rinse the cloth again in cool water. She took a glass from the cupboard, filled it, all the while wishing she had some of the soup Penny had made last night. Thick with chicken meat and carrots, she knew the sustenance had marvelous healing capabilities. She’d have Jane bring out the pot where she could retrieve it.

  On her way back into the bedroom, she grabbed a chair so she could sit by his side. “Here you go, Mr. Hutton.” She gently replaced the folded cloth on his forehead.

  His eyes opened again. They were bleary from his high fever. He studied her face. A ripple of awareness passed between them, and she couldn’t stop a small smile.

  “Thank you.” The words were weak and barely audible. “Thank you, Mrs.—”

  “Hush now, Mr. Hutton. You’re such a chatty squirrel. Save your strength. You’ll be happy to know Penny and Prichard will be on their way to fetch the doctor within minutes. I’ll have some nice tepid soup for you soon, as well.” Please, God, let Dr. Thorn be in his office and ready to come right away.

  “I can’t eat anything. My throat feels like it’s filled with broken glass.”

  “Still, you need to take some of this cool water to lower your fever. Do you think you can manage?”

  He nodded.

  She lifted his head and placed the glass to his lips. “Tiny sips,” she crooned, holding his head as he struggled to drink. “Just enough to wet your mouth.”

  When he was finished she laid him back. That’s when she noticed the first little red dot on the tip of his nose. Looking more closely, she found a cluster on his neck, and another at the collar of his nightshirt. Taking liberties, she gently pulled the neckline a bit lower and found hundreds of red dots. She didn’t need Dr. Thorn to tell her what ailed the teacher. The answer was as clear as the spot on his nose.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The sun hadn’t made an appearance yet when Charlie rolled from the comfort of his small cot in the back of the house and quietly dressed. In the kitchen, he cut several slices of bread from a waxed paper–wrapped loaf,
sliced a chunk of beef from the roast Seth had cooked last night and wolfed them down. Being careful with the door so it wouldn’t bang, he stepped out into the day. Dog, still on his tattered blanket, eyed him as if wondering why anyone would be up this early on a Sunday morning. Standing, the animal shook his scraggly fur, then followed Charlie to the barn.

  Chickens dashed out into the yard when Charlie pulled open the tall, sun-bleached doors, winding their way between and around his feet like a river of poultry. He went to the feed room, scooped some scratch into the rusted can, and tossed the feed into the yard, causing a round of cackles and clucks from the hungry birds. Working quickly, he fed the horses, cleaned the stalls, then bedded them with fresh straw. Making several trips with a large bucket, he watered the vegetable garden behind the house and walked to the end of the far pasture to open the gate so the small herd of steers grazing out back could come up to the barn for some grain. When Georgia had finished her hay, he saddled up, then headed off to town.

  He was anxious to see Maddie. It was also time he got a feel, a real feel—not some holiday picnic—for the town. Learn its layout. Get familiar with faces. From what he’d seen on his two prior visits, Logan Meadows seemed to be a quiet place. Not many drunks shooting off their guns in the streets or other rabble-rousers loitering here or there. Not like Wilsonville.

  Didn’t take him long to reach the outskirts. Just as he approached the bridge crossing the stream, the double doors of the livery stable swung open and a fella came out leading a horse toward the back of the property. No time like the present to get acquainted. Halting, he dismounted and tossed his reins over the hitching rail.

  He paused to admire the pair of shaggy-haired buffalo standing in the corral; they made him think of Nell and her wild ideas about animals. He didn’t quite know what to make of them.

  The larger of the two meandered over to the fence, looking to see if he had something tasty to offer. The buffalo’s large eyeball rolled around as it snuffled though the fence. Charlie reached out and felt the thick, wooly, robe-like fur that covered his neck and head. The gentle giant twitched his ear to remove a fly. Maddie would get a kick from feeling that coarse hair that felt like wire. He wondered if she had.

  “His name’s Maximus, but we call him Max.”

  Charlie turned. “He’s sure something to see. Seems pretty gentle for such a huge critter.”

  The man held out his hand. “I’m Winthrop Preston. Owner and operator of the livery and forge, and dubious caretaker of these two cantankerous beasts. Seemed like a fun idea when they were small.”

  “I’m Charlie Rose. Nice to meet you.”

  “You won the quilt yesterday.”

  Charlie nodded, wondering about that little stroke of unwanted luck. He’d intended to remain in the shadows while he got his feel around the place, but the one inopportune moment of winning the raffle had everyone in town aware of his presence.

  He stepped back when the smaller buffalo came close and gave the fence where he was standing a nice hard prod with her horns. He looked at Winthrop in surprise.

  “That’s Clementine. I don’t turn my back on her, or she gets me every time. When she was just a calf, controlling her wasn’t a problem, but now that she’s grown and has a set of horns that I don’t want to feel jabbing in my back, I’m more careful. Consider yourself warned.” He chuckled. “You’re working out at the Cotton Ranch, I hear.”

  “That’s right. Are you any relation to Albert Preston, the sheriff?” Charlie liked Winthrop’s friendly face and easy smile.

  “Only his little brother.” He patted the front of his overalls. “I’ll amend that to younger.”

  Movement caught Charlie’s eye. From the direction he’d ridden in, Brenna Lane was hurrying into town. She was lost in thought, her smile pulled flat and her expression pinched. In less than five heartbeats, Mrs. Lane had reached them, then passed the livery.

  His first worry was that something had happened to Maddie. “I don’t mean to be rude, Winthrop, but I need to be going.”

  Winthrop’s brows rose in question and he glanced at Mrs. Lane’s retreating figure. “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you and talk a spell. I can stable your horse for two bits a day if you have the need. Oh, and call me Win.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie called over his shoulder as he hurried to the hitching post and grabbed Georgia’s split reins. He jogged after Brenna, his horse trotting behind him to keep up.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he called when he was within hearing distance.

  Brenna stopped and turned, then glanced up the way she’d been traveling, as if she didn’t have a second to spare. “Yes?”

  “I’m Charlie Rose. I met you yesterday at the school fundraiser. I won the quilt?”

  “Of course, Mr. Rose. I remember you.” Her frown lessened for only a moment. “What brings you out from the Cotton Ranch so early this Sunday morning? Are you a churchgoing man?”

  “Er, no. Not really.” His face heated. “But, I used to be.” Seemed church was always forefront in every woman’s mind. How could he find out anything about Maddie without his questions sounding strange? “Just thought today is a good a day as any to meet some of the townsfolk—since it’s my day off.”

  “Still early for most folks.” She anxiously looked down Main Street again. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I must be on my way.”

  He smiled as amicably as he could muster. “I’ll walk with you, if that’s all right.”

  “I’m walking fast. No leisurely stroll.”

  “That’s good with me.”

  She gave a sideward glance to his horse, as if trying to figure out what he was about, then nodded. They marched past the sheriff’s office and approached the Bright Nugget Saloon. The bar’s door was open and sounds of chairs scraping on the floor floated out to meet them in the street. A man stepped through the door and when Brenna noticed, she jerked her gaze away.

  “Who’s that?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking, as they passed the bank, and then the appraiser’s office.

  “Dwight Hoskins,” she mumbled. “A rude troublemaker. He used to live in Logan Meadows but moved to New Meringue last year. Respectable women don’t give him the time of day.” By then they’d passed most of the businesses and she came to a sudden stop. “Really, Mr. Rose, you needn’t bother yourself accompanying me any longer. I’m headed all the way around the corner to the Red Rooster Inn, on the outskirts of town. Surely you have better things to do than tag along with me.”

  Before he could answer—or figure out how to ask her about Maddie—she’d picked up her brisk pace again.

  He started after her. Just a word or two about Maddie. That’s all he needed. Just to make sure she was safe and that Mrs. Lane’s urgency had nothing to do with her.

  He’d just caught up to her again when a rider came down the street, headed in their direction.

  Brenna’s eyes followed him, and when she noticed Charlie watching, she said, “He must be new to town. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You get a lot of those, do you?”

  “Those?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I meant drifters. He looks like a drifter to me.”

  She nodded. “Actually, yes. We used to be a sleepy little town, but not anymore.”

  Charlie took note of the man’s hat pulled low over his eyes. He rode easy, with a Colt 45 strapped to each leg. Charlie didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been hired by Grover Galante.

  They rounded the corner of Main Street and Cottonwood Lane to see an old building up ahead. A rooster weathervane topped the moss-covered thatched roof, and a large wraparound porch held several rocking chairs. Pine trees and oaks surrounded the building with shade. A hitching rail out front and a small, shed-like building in the back completed the homey picture. “Ah, the Red Rooster Inn?”

  “Exactly. The place for anyone who can’t afford a room in the hotel.”

  At Mrs. Lane’s pace it didn’t tak
e long to get there. They stopped in front of the long-standing structure. When he started to tie his reins to the hitching rail Brenna’s expression turned no-nonsense. “What’re you doing?”

  “Going in with you.” That was the only way he could find out what was going on.

  “Mr. Rose, this is where I draw the line.”

  Her tone said he’d better take note. “Fine. I’ll just wait here.”

  “If you say so.” She hurried up the steps and knocked on the door. The door swung open to reveal the newcomer who’d set the other women to whispering and Chase Logan to grousing at yesterday’s picnic. A pinched expression graced her long face.

  “Oh,” Brenna remarked. “I was expecting Violet. Is she here?”

  “Yes. Come in.”

  The door opened wide, and Brenna walked inside. When the woman looked out at him, he nodded an acknowledgment and her expression went from sour to sweet. “Would your husband like to come inside also?”

  Brenna’s laughter bounced between nervous and disturbed—and much too embarrassed. He cringed at the thought that he was scaring her off. “Mr. Rose is just a friend. And he prefers to wait outside with his horse.”

  When the door closed, Charlie stroked Georgia’s neck, urgency burning in his belly. He hadn’t discovered much on the walk here. If the return trip didn’t prove better, he’d just have to ask Brenna straight out what had her so edgy. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything if he thought Maddie was in some sort of danger.

  Unbidden, Seth’s words about the riverside tracks came back to him. So did an image of the gun-toting stranger they’d passed in the street. Blood for blood. An eye for an eye. Galante wanted vengeance for his son, but Charlie would die before letting Maddie pay the price.

  As he waited for Brenna, he turned uneasily in the street.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN