Cowboy Charm School

by Margaret Brownley

  “How do you know that? How do you know her favorite color is blue?”

  “How do you not know it?” Brett shot back. The only way to combat Foster’s jealous streak was through guilt. In that regard, Foster gave him much to work with.

  Guilt worked this time too. Foster looked like someone had pulled the stuffing out of him. “Why you making such a fuss? I don’t even know my own favorite color.”

  Brett shook his head in disbelief. He’d been in love only that one time, but he still recalled how it felt. He’d wanted to learn everything he could about the woman he’d loved—what she thought about, dreamed about. How she spent her time. No detail had been too small or irrelevant. Love had a way of turning even the smallest details of one’s life into something big and magical.

  “Is it really that important?” Foster asked. “To know her favorite color, I mean?”

  “Of course it’s important,” Brett said. “The way to a woman’s heart is to pay attention to all the little things that make her who she is. Knowing her favorite color might seem trivial to you, but it will tell her how much you care.”

  Foster set his elbows on the table and raked his hair with both hands. “Cripes! Why am I even listening to you? You’re the reason I’m in this mess.”

  “And I’m trying to help you out of it.”

  A dubious look crossed Foster’s face. “What makes you such an expert on women?”

  “Experience,” Brett said. Okay, claiming to be experienced where women were concerned was an exaggeration, but it seemed to do the trick. At least Foster looked less resistant.

  “Okay, so we know what color she likes.” Foster gazed at Brett in despair. “Now what?”

  “Now you purchase the biggest bunch of flowers you can find. And don’t give me that garbage about flowers dying. Flowers are an expression of love, and that’s the language any woman understands.” Brett reached into his vest pocket for a small notebook and slid it across the table.

  Foster examined the notebook. “What’s this for?”

  “That, my friend, is the key to success. You will write words so sweet that they will melt your lady’s heart.” The signs that hung in the candy shop and the books displayed in a corner suggested Miss Denver had a fondness for the written word. Why else would she decorate her shop with sayings by Shakespeare, Tennyson, and Elizabeth Browning?

  Foster’s forehead creased. “I’m not very good at…you know…putting my feelings on paper.”

  “That’s what you have me for.” Brett glanced around. “Where do you keep your writing supplies?”

  Foster pointed to the parlor. “In the desk drawer.”

  Brett left the kitchen. Finding what he was looking for in the rolltop desk, he returned a moment later. He set pen and ink in front of Foster and sat again.

  Foster took the pen in hand and stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. “I’m not good at expressing my feelings. I don’t even know how to start.”

  “It’s customary to start a letter with the word Dear, as in Dear Kate.”

  Foster’s eyes flashed. “You have no right calling her ‘dear.’”

  Brett was fast running out of patience. “If you’re serious about winning her back, you’ve got to control your jealousy. Otherwise, you’ll drive her further away.”

  “So, what’s a man supposed to do when someone else hankers after his gal?”

  “I don’t know. Sing. Dance. Think about something else.” Brett thought a moment. “Whistle.”

  Foster frowned. “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Whistle.” Brett demonstrated. “Whenever that green-eyed monster starts to roar, whistle. It’ll help you focus on something else.” Convinced he’d hit upon the perfect solution to Foster’s jealousy problem, Brett tossed a nod at the still-blank paper. “Now write.”

  When Foster hesitated, Brett pounded his fist on the table. Holding Foster’s hand was not what he’d come to Haywire to do. “I said write!”

  Surprisingly, Foster did what he was told, this time without argument. He formed each word with slow, careful movements, then stopped. “What should I write next?”

  Brett stared at the two-word greeting and sighed. The man was hopeless. “How do you feel about losing her?”

  “How do I feel?” Foster’s eyes grew as dark as two deep wells. “I’ll tell you how I feel,” he said, his voice shaking. “I feel like crap. Like rotten eggs. I feel like a big mound of horse—”

  “Okay, that’s good. Real good. Now you just need to find a more…delicate way of putting your feelings into words.”

  Foster eyed him in bewilderment. “How do you mean?”

  Brett thought for a moment, and a vision of Miss Denver on her wedding day popped into his head. No sooner had the vision faded than another took its place. It was all he could do to keep from smiling at the memory of entering her shop following the attempted bank holdup.

  She’d been ready to fight him tooth and nail. No soldier in combat could have looked more determined than she had in protecting that little boy. Grateful that the candy jar hadn’t hit him in the head, Brett rubbed his still-sore arm.

  Later, when he’d stopped by to make sure the window had been replaced to her satisfaction, she’d looked happy to see him. Well, at least she didn’t throw anything at him.

  He’d found her in the kitchen, cranking hard candies from a press. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, and her lips looked velvety soft. She wore a pink apron over a blue floral dress, and shiny gold globes danced at her ears.

  “Well?” Foster said, snapping Brett out of his thoughts. “What should I write next?”

  “I’m thinking,” Brett said. It had been a long time since he’d written words of love. “Maybe you can say something like ‘My heart is broken in a hundred little pieces.’”

  Foster dipped the nib of his pen into the bottle of ink. “You want me to write that down?”

  “Maybe not in those precise words, but something like it. It’s better if the words are your own.”

  Foster thought for a moment and then brightened. “Kate loves animals. How about ‘Losing you is like riding a lame horse.’”

  Brett wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think that’s the image we’re looking for.”

  “A lame mule?”

  “Forget ‘lame.’”

  Frank’s mouth drooped for a moment. “Okay, what do you think of this? ‘Losing you is like walking around with my head in a bag.’”

  Brett made a face. “That’ll only make her think of the bank robber. Confound it! Why are you making this so difficult?”

  “I’m not making it difficult,” Foster said peevishly. “You are.”

  Brett pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. When did you two first meet? When did you first know that you were in love?”

  Frank answered the questions in long, rambling sentences. He and Kate had met as children. “I was nine, and she was six,” he said. “We both came out west on an orphan train.”

  Hearing how the two of them had met under such trying circumstances, how they had protected each other and grown up together, made Brett feel worse for having come between them.

  At long last, Foster fell silent, and Brett sat forward, feeling hopeful. Maybe the trip down memory lane had served as inspiration. “You’ve known her for most of your life. Now think. How does losing her make you feel?”

  “Like rotting fish. Like garbage that has been in the sun too long.” Brett’s spirits sank, but Foster didn’t seem to notice. “Hey, that’s what I call poetic. I bet what’s-his-name Poo couldn’t do any better.”

  Brett slumped in his seat. “Poe. You mean Poe.” Pulling the watch out of his vest pocket, he flipped the case open with his thumb. It promised to be a long and torturous night.

  7


  Kate left the shop early the next morning to make deliveries. Most of them were to shut-ins. The shop made no money off such deliveries, but the smiles she received were payment enough.

  The moment she drove her horse and wagon away from the winding streets of Haywire, she relaxed, and the nagging pain in her neck began to subside. She’d hardly slept the night before. Each time she’d closed her eyes, a vision of the outlaw came to mind.

  Not wishing to ruin the day with such dark thoughts, she inhaled the rich fragrance of warm grass and blooming wildflowers. It had rained the night before, but only a few clouds remained. The brief shower had left the air clear and fresh.

  This was by far her favorite time of year. That’s why she’d chosen to have a spring wedding, rather than waiting for the more traditional month of June. The sun’s golden glow spread over the land like warm honey, but that wasn’t the only thing that lifted her spirits.

  Today, the earth was dressed to the nines in its finest attire. Bluebonnets stretched across the prairie for as far as the eye could see, filling the air with a pleasing, sweet fragrance.

  Cattle raised broad white faces as she drove by, ears perked. Birds rose from the tall grass in graceful flights. Butterflies and bees vied for nectar.

  The calm, peaceful scenery cleared Kate’s head and allowed her time to think. Maybe Aunt Letty was right; maybe she had been too hard on Frank. She’d always known he had a jealous streak. As a young girl, she’d been flattered, but that was before she’d come to know that jealousy had nothing to do with love. Rather, it stemmed from insecurity. Knowing Frank’s background, she couldn’t blame him for feeling insecure, but that didn’t make his possessive nature any easier to bear.

  Since the day was too pleasant to dwell on such thoughts, she focused her gaze on the long, narrow dirt road ahead.

  After making two stops, one to a Civil War amputee and another to a bedridden grandmother, she reached the small adobe house owned by Old Man Fletcher. His wife had died ten years earlier, and since then, he’d not left his house.

  She knocked on the door. It took so long for Fletcher to answer that she feared something might be wrong. Just as she reached for the doorknob, she heard his gruff voice.

  “Come in.”

  She threw the door open and found him sitting in his usual upholstered chair, his well-worn face resembling a peach pit. “Thought you could use something sweet,” she said, holding up a basket packed with his favorite treats. He was particularly fond of the candy she’d named Uncle Joe’s Licorice Balls, but he also favored peppermint candy.

  He grunted and indicated the table next to his chair with a toss of his near-bald head.

  She set the basket by his side. “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “Wake me? No, why?”

  “When you took so long to answer the door, I thought you were asleep.”

  “Don’t I wish.”

  She studied him. He didn’t look like his usual cheery self. Today, his eyes were dull, and he appeared distracted. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

  “Nope. The trouble is not sleeping.”

  “I could ask Doc Avery to stop by. Maybe he can give you something to help.”

  Fletcher made a face. “Forget it. The last time that ole sawbones forced me to take that vile poison he calls med’cine, I stayed sick long after I got well.”

  Kate laughed. “I still think you should have him check you over.”

  He scoffed, his eyes dark and remote. “Can’t a man feel a little under the weather without calling in the cavalry?” He tossed a nod at the basket by his side. “So, what did you bring me today?”

  “All your favorites,” she said. “I also brought you the latest Mark Twain.”

  “That’ll keep me occupied,” he said.

  She glanced around the room. Fletcher usually kept his place spotless, so the muddied boots by the door seemed out of place. “Anything else you need?”

  “How about a rich woman willing to play nursemaid to an old man?”

  “If I find one, I’ll send her your way.”

  He managed a wan smile. “You do that.”

  “I better get a move on.” She hated to rush away, but she had a lot more deliveries to make and wanted to finish before the heat of the day. “I’ll stop by next week.”

  She left with more than a little concern. Fletcher lacked his usual sparkle. Maybe he was just tired. He did say he was having trouble sleeping. Still, it might not be a bad idea to ask Doc Avery to stop by and have a look.

  Leaving Fletcher’s house, Kate drove her wagon along the old trail following the river’s edge. The route would take her slightly longer to reach her next destination, but the scenery was worth it.

  Beneath the bright glare of the sun, the normally muddy water looked like a strip of shiny brown taffy. Had it not been for the deliveries she had to make, she would have been tempted to stop and sink her feet into its murky, cool depths. How she longed to put the fishing pole kept handy in the wagon to good use! She hadn’t gone fishing since Uncle Joe died. The shop now took up most of her time.

  A movement on the river caught her eye, and she pulled the wagon to the side of the road for a better look. Was that what she thought it was? Squinting against the water’s glare, she shaded her eyes with her hand.

  At first, she thought it was an alligator. None had been spotted this far north, but that was still a possibility. She narrowed her eyes. The current caused the object to turn slightly, allowing for a better view. She now saw that it was a log, and clinging to it was a white spotted dog.

  Alarm coursed through her, and she gasped, “Oh no!”

  Farther downstream, the river dropped into a series of rocky waterfalls. The dog’s life was clearly in danger. She must do something, fast!

  Setting the wagon brake, she scrambled to the ground and pulled off her shoes and stockings. Quickly unhooking her skirt, she let it drop to her feet. Tugging on the ribbons of her bonnet, she tossed it away and took a running leap into the frigid water.

  Her muscles stiffened in response to the cold, and she immediately regretted not removing her petticoat. The buoyant fabric caught the river’s undertow and threatened to drag her down. Nonetheless, she kept going. Kicking hard, she sliced her arms through the water. Between the strong current and the weight of her nether garments, she made slow progress.

  Surfacing, she treaded water to get her bearings and spotted the log no more than fifteen feet away.

  The muscles in her arms and legs burned, and she felt limp with exhaustion. Fearing her ability to keep fighting the strong current, she wiggled out of her petticoat, hoping that would help, and her garment floated away like a giant marshmallow.

  The dog let out a whining sound, then wagged its tail and barked as if cheering her on.

  “Hold on,” she called. Wearing only pantaloons from the waist down, she found it easier to kick now, but the flow of water kept pulling her under. Kicking harder, she lengthened her stroke. Progress was slow, but persistence paid off, and she made it to the middle of the river. The log bobbed up and down just out of reach. Gasping for air, she kicked with all her might, but it was no use. The log drifted away, and the dog howled like a lone wolf.

  The canine’s safety paramount in her mind, she swam as hard as she could. Just as she was about to reach the log a second time, an excruciating pain shot up her calf.

  She threw her head back and tried to float, but the current dragged her under. Breaking through the surface, she spewed water and gasped for air. She tried to flex her foot and kick through the cramp, but the murky depths sucked her in again. Gathering her strength, she shot upward, sputtering.

  Taking a moment to catch her breath, she doubled over and stretched her leg until her lungs screamed for air. Popping her head out of the water, she moved her arms as if climbing an invisible ladder but coul
dn’t stay afloat long enough to fill her lungs.

  Icy fingers of terror gripped her heart. No, no, no! This can’t be the end. Don’t panic! Mustn’t panic… God, no!

  She thought of Aunt Letty. Her dear, sweet aunt. What would become of her? Kate had promised her uncle she’d take care of her. Oh, Uncle Joe, forgive me. She thought of…of… Her mind went blank.

  Darkness closed in on all sides. All at once, she was back on that orphan train. The rank, sour smell of cattle filled her head. Frank was halfway out the open door. She grabbed his feet, but he slipped away from her grasping hands. Helplessly, she watched his body fly out of the train and into the night air like a bat from a cave.

  She opened her mouth to scream but instead gulped a mouthful of water. She couldn’t move. Her arms, her legs, her body felt stiff as marble. Suddenly, she was five years old again, standing by her mother’s bed.

  “Wake up, Mama, wake up,” she cried. But her mother wouldn’t move. Hadn’t moved all day.

  Desperate now, she shook her mother’s lifeless body, sobbing, but no one in that dark, dingy tenement building came to help her. Nor was there anyone to tell her what to do. She was all alone. Fear unlike any she’d ever known washed over her.

  She threw herself across her mother’s lifeless body. As she lay there, crying her heart out, firm, ironlike fingers reached out to grab her. All at once, she knew how it felt to be in the unrelenting grip of death.

  8

  “Miss Denver!”

  Startled, Kate gasped for air and battled her way through the darkness. Had she only imagined the voice? Was she dreaming?

  She couldn’t feel her body. Couldn’t feel anything. She was floating. Was this how it felt to die?

  The voice again filled her ears, this time louder. Clearer. “Don’t move. You’re safe.”

  Safe.

  That’s what the social worker had said the day Kate had been forced onto the orphan train against her will. That horrid cattle car hadn’t made her feel safe then, but for some unknown reason, she felt safe now.

  “Miss Denver!”