“That so?” Wyatt replied. The kid talked like a brat, using swearwords and bragging about poking a girl down a chute, but there was something engaging about him, too. He wasn’t pestering Wyatt out of devilment; he wanted somebody to talk to.
Wyatt knew the feeling.
“He’s going to take Aunt Sarah’s bank away from her,” Owen said.
Wyatt stopped cold, looked down at the kid, frowning. “What?”
“Papa says there’s something rotten in Denmark.”
“Just who is your papa, anyhow?”
“His name is Charles Langstreet the Third,” Owen replied matter-of-factly. “You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“Can’t say as I have,” Wyatt admitted, setting his course for the Stockman’s Bank, though he had no business there, without a dime to his name. If Sarah was around, he’d tell her he was Rowdy’s deputy now, out making his normal rounds. It made sense for a lawman to keep an eye on the local bank, didn’t it?
“He’s very rich,” Owen said. “I’m going to have to make my own way when I grow up, though. Mother said so. I needn’t plan on getting one nickel of the Langstreet fortune, since I’m a bastard.”
As concerned as he was about Sarah, and the fact that some yahoo called Charles Langstreet the Third was evidently plotting to relieve her of the Stockman’s Bank, Wyatt stopped again and looked down at Owen. “Your mother called you a bastard?”
Owen nodded, unfazed. “It means—”
“I know what it means,” Wyatt interrupted. “Does this papa of yours know you’re running loose in a cow town, all by yourself?”
“I’m not by myself,” Owen reasoned. “I’m with you. And you’re a deputy. What could happen to me when you’re here?”
“The point is,” Wyatt continued, walking again, “he doesn’t know you’re with me, now does he?”
“He knows everything,” Owen said, with certainty. “He’s very clever. People tip their hats to him and call him ‘sir.’”
“Do they, now?”
The bank was in sight now, and Wyatt saw a tall man, dressed Eastern, leaving the establishment, straightening his fancy neck rigging as he crossed the wooden sidewalk, heading for the street.
Spotting Owen walking with Wyatt, the man smiled broadly and approached. “There you are, you little scamp,” he told the boy, ruffling the kid’s hair.
“This is Wyatt Earp,” Owen said. That explained all the chatter.
“Wyatt Yarbro.”
“Charles Langstreet,” said the dandy. He didn’t extend his hand, which was fine with Wyatt.
Wyatt glanced over Langstreet’s shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sarah through the bank’s front window. He didn’t know much about Owen’s papa—but he figured him for trouble, all right.
“You’re not Wyatt Earp?” Owen asked, looking disappointed.
“No,” Wyatt said. “Sorry.”
“But you’ve got a gun and a badge and everything.”
“Come along,” Langstreet told the boy, though his snake-cold eyes were fixed on Wyatt’s face. “Aunt Sarah has invited us to supper, and we’ll need to have baths and change our clothes.” His gaze sifted over Wyatt’s borrowed duds, which had seen some use, clean though they were. “A good day to you—Deputy.”
With that, the confab ended, and Langstreet shepherded the boy toward the town’s only hotel. Owen looked back, once or twice, curiously, as if trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.
Wyatt made for the bank. A little bell jingled over the door as he entered.
Sarah, standing behind the counter, looked alarmed, then rallied.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
Wyatt took off his round-brimmed black hat and tried for an easy smile, but the truth was, the inside of that bank felt charged, like the floor might suddenly rip wide open, or thunder might shake the ceiling over their heads. “Everything all right, Miss Tamlin?”
She blinked. “Of course everything is fine, Mr. Yarbro. Whyever would you ask such a question?”
“Partly because it’s my job.” He indicated the star on his shirt. “I’ll be looking after Stone Creek while Rowdy’s out of town. And partly because I just met a boy named Owen Langstreet down by the depot.”
She paled. “What did he tell you?”
“Just that his father means to take the bank away from you.”
Sarah tried to lasso a smile, but the rope landed short. “This bank belongs to my father, not to me. Mr. Langstreet is merely a—a shareholder. There is no need to be concerned, Mr. Yarbro, though I do appreciate it.”
Wyatt nodded, went to the door, replaced his hat. “I’m a friend, Sarah,” he said. “Remember that.”
She swallowed visibly, nodded back.
Wyatt opened the door.
“Mr. Yarbro?”
He stopped, waited. Said nothing.
Sarah’s voice trembled. “I wonder if you’d join us for supper tonight? Six o’clock?”
“I’d like that,” Wyatt said.
“We’ll be expecting you, then,” Sarah replied brightly.
Wyatt touched his hat brim again and left.
Walking back along Main Street, toward Rowdy’s office, he was intercepted repeatedly; evidently, word had gotten around town that while Marshal Yarbro was away, he’d be watching the store. Folks were friendly enough, if blatantly curious, and Wyatt offered them no more than a “howdy” and an amicable nod.
Thoughts were churning inside his head like bees trying to get out from under an overturned bucket. He meant to leave Stone Creek. He meant to stay.
He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.
Distractedly, he counted the horses in front of every saloon he passed—the town had more than its share, considering its size—saw no reason for concern, and went on to the jailhouse. Now that he had a supper invitation from Sarah, his spirits had lifted, though he was under no illusion that she’d asked him over out of any desire to socialize. She didn’t want to be alone with Langstreet, that was all; she was terrified of him, and it was more than the threat of losing control of the bank.
Back at the jail, Wyatt collected his bedroll and saddlebags from the cell where he’d passed the night and headed for the small barn out behind Rowdy’s house. He’d bunk out there in the hayloft, he’d decided, with Reb and the other horses. He’d be behind bars again soon enough, if Rowdy and Sam caught up with Billy Justice. Soon as Billy heard the name Yarbro, he’d put paid to any hope Wyatt had of living as a free man.
He could lie, of course. Say he’d never crossed paths with the gang, let alone helped them rustle cattle. His word against Billy’s. Sam might even believe him—but Rowdy wouldn’t. No, Rowdy’d see right through to the truth.
Inside the barn, Wyatt tossed his few belongings up into the low-hanging loft, and the sweet smell of fresh hay stirred, along with a shower of golden dust.
Reb nickered a greeting, and Wyatt crossed to the stall to stroke the animal’s long face. “You like it here, don’t you, boy?” he asked. “Time you led the easy life.”
Wyatt added hay to Reb’s feeding trough, then to those of the other two horses. He carried water in from the well to fill their troughs.
Rowdy’s spare horse was a buckskin gelding named Sugarfoot. He looked capable of covering a lot of ground—he and Sugarfoot could be a long way from Stone Creek in a short time. Maybe he’d leave a note for Rowdy, on the kitchen table, along with the badge, saying he was sorry and promising to send payment for the horse as soon as he got work.
He closed his eyes against the emotions that rose up in him then—shame, frustration, regret—and a hopeless yearning for the kind of life his younger brother had. Rowdy would understand; he’d been on the run himself. But if he found out about Wyatt’s brief associa
tion with Billy’s gang, he might come after him, not as a brother, but as a lawman.
And there was more.
He’d never see Sarah again, or poor old Reb.
He sighed, shoved a hand through his hair.
After a few moments, he made for the house. He’d been kidding himself, thinking he could stop running and put down some roots. Now, he was going to have to cut himself loose, and it would hurt—a lot.
Entering by the kitchen door, Wyatt noticed the envelope propped against the kerosene lamp in the center of the table right away. Took it into his hands.
Rowdy had scrawled his name on the front.
After letting out a long breath, he slid a thumb under the flap, found a single sheet of paper inside, along with three ten-dollar bills.
Thanks, Wyatt. It’s good to know I can count on you. R.
Wyatt swore under his breath. He didn’t doubt Rowdy’s gratitude, but he suspected the marshal had an additional motive—he wanted to make it harder to leave.
He checked the clock on the shelf under the far window—it was nearly noon—and saw another slip of paper, folded tent-style. A rueful grin hitched up one side of his mouth. He hadn’t gotten this much mail in a long time.
The second note was from Lark.
Wyatt—Help yourself to the food, and if you run out of anything, use our account at the mercantile to buy what you need. Make yourself at home.
He folded the note carefully and tucked it under the edge of the clock, his throat strangely tight, his eyes burning a little. He jollied himself out of the melancholies by looking around for a third note, from Gideon, or maybe even Pardner.
Neither of them had written a word, though.
He went to the larder, a wooden box with a metal handle, opened it up, and found cold meat inside. There was half a loaf of bread, too, so he made himself a sandwich and walked through to the little parlor beyond the kitchen. He hadn’t passed much time in a real house since he’d left the homeplace for the last time.
His ma had cried that day. Begged him to stay and work the farm.
He’d ridden out instead. He’d had better things to do, he’d thought back then, than plowing fields and milking cows. No, he’d preferred to rob trains with Pappy.
“Fool,” he said aloud, admiring but not touching the framed photographs set up on a wooden table near the windows. Lark and Rowdy, posing solemnly on either side of a Grecian pillar. Little Hank, bare-ass naked on a fur rug, in the saddle in front of a grinning Rowdy, cradled in Lark’s arms in a rocking chair.
The soreness in Wyatt’s throat got worse, and he had to blink a couple of times. He retreated from the row of pictures, scanned the rest of the room. There were two other doors, one open, one closed.
The open door led to the bathroom, a swanky one with a flush toilet and a copper boiler to heat water, just as Rowdy had said. Wyatt stepped inside the small room and looked into the mirror above the pedestal sink. He needed a shave, he decided, rubbing the dark stubble on his face. Rowdy had left behind a razor and a soap mug, and the tub looked mighty inviting.
Just go, he told himself. Saddle up Sugarfoot, ask some neighbor to look after Reb and Lark’s mare, and go.
He thought about supper at Sarah’s, sitting across a table from her, just for one meal. He’d make sure Langstreet didn’t pose any kind of serious threat to her, and leave in the morning.
First thing in the morning, for sure.
No matter what.
In the meantime, he might as well go into the jailhouse, in case somebody came by needing a lawman.
He was amused to find, when he approached the desk, that Gideon had left a note after all. Scrawled on the back of a Wanted poster and carefully centered in the middle of the blotter.
Don’t steal anything. If you do, I’ll come after you for sure. Gideon Yarbro.
Wyatt chuckled. He had no doubt that the kid was sincere. Two lawmen in the family now, Pappy, he thought. And me wearing a badge, too. Guess you must be wondering where you went wrong.
* * *
THE AFTERNOON, BLESSEDLY quiet in terms of business, passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. Sarah spent the time examining the books—column after column of figures penned in her distinctive handwriting, every cent accounted for—and wondered if Charles would believe the only lie she could come up with on such short notice.
Her father’s eyesight had been very poor before Dr. Venable had arranged for a pair of spectacles to be sent up from Phoenix, and she’d fallen into the habit of managing the ledgers for him.
Flimsy, but it might work.
Carefully, she recorded the statement in her own small book, which she carried in the pocket of her skirt. Ever since lying had become a necessary art, Sarah had taken pains to record the fibs she’d told, both for the sake of continuity in conversations with others and, she supposed, as a form of penance.
God recorded both sins and virtues in the Book of Life, according to the preachers. Maybe He’d understand, on Judgment Day, that writing down the lies she told was a form of honesty in and of itself, convoluted as the idea seemed, even to Sarah herself.
More likely, He’d order her flung into the Lake of Fire, immediately if not sooner. After all, God hated a liar, didn’t He?
Sarah sighed. If the Lord was as cranky and hard to please as Brother Hickey and his ilk made Him out to be, she couldn’t hope to get along with Him anyhow.
When closing time finally came—neither Thomas nor her father had returned from the visit to Dr. Venable, who was probably subjecting poor Thomas to all manner of painful cures—Sarah hung the sign in the door, locked up, and headed for home.
She’d been a fool to invite Wyatt Yarbro to take a meal under her roof—he was an outlaw, badge or no badge—but it would be better than being alone, for all practical intents and purposes, with Charles Langstreet. Owen and her father would also be present, but both of them were children, despite the vast difference in their ages.
A new worry rose up whole in her mind as she approached her front gate and stooped to pat Mehitabel, the three-legged cat, who sometimes came by to lap up a bowl of cream or sleep contentedly behind the cookstove when the weather turned cold.
What might Ephriam say when he saw Owen? Once, she could have depended on her father’s discretion, but given the state of his mind, he might blurt out something the boy wasn’t prepared to hear, or understand.
A chill rippled in the pit of her stomach.
Owen.
She could adapt to almost anything, including losing control of the Stockman’s Bank, if matters came to that pass, but seeing Owen hurt in any way would be beyond toleration.
Charles claimed he’d brought the boy to Stone Creek because he could not remain at school, or at home with Mrs. Langstreet; he’d simply had no other choice. Caught off guard, Sarah had accepted the explanation the way someone at the top of a burning staircase would accept a wet blanket. Now, with the storm of her thoughts abating a little, she knew there had to be another reason. Charles could have left Owen with his aging mother, prevailed upon one of his three married sisters.
Instead, Owen was there, in Stone Creek.
Why?
Certainly not because Charles felt any kindly inclination toward her. She’d begged him for photographs of Owen over the years, receiving only one, sent letter after letter to the child, revealing nothing, always signing the long missives with the spinsterly affection of an aunt. There had been no replies, but given Owen’s tender age, that wasn’t surprising.
Sarah blinked, realizing she was still standing at the gate, Mehitabel curling into her hem, and worked the latch. The hinges creaked as she passed through.
Are you my aunt Sarah? Owen had asked earlier, in the bank, his eyes wide and trusting.
What had Charles—or, more worrisome
yet, his wife, Marjory—told the boy about his “aunt”?
The front door opened as Sarah approached, and Doc appeared in the gap. He was a stoutly built man with gentle eyes, and an old friend as well as physician to her father. The two men had met in the army, serving under General Grant, Ephriam as an infantry captain, Jacob Venable as a surgeon. Ephriam had sustained a bayonet wound to his right shoulder during a skirmish with Confederate cavalrymen, and Venable had tended him. Having a number of things in common, but primarily a shared passion for books, they’d swapped whatever rare and treasured volumes they managed to get their hands on. Both men had been at Appomattox when Lee surrendered, and taken off their hats to the living legend as he left Grant’s presence, proud even in defeat. Every winter they sat smoking in front of the fire in the Tamlins’ parlor, reliving that day and the events that led up to it.
Now, looking up at Doc, with his graying beard and dignified bearing, Sarah thought he resembled General Lee, for all that he, like her father, had been a Union man, born and bred.
Doc was also the only person who knew about her book of lies. She’d confided in him, one late night, while keeping a vigil by a dying neighbor’s bedside.
“Is Papa ill?” she asked.
“I dosed him with laudanum and put him to bed,” Doc said matter-of-factly. “He was in another one of his states—asking after your mother.”
Sarah swallowed hard, blinked back tears. She felt relieved that her father wouldn’t be at the supper table, unpredictable as he was. She also felt guilty for being relieved.
Doc took a seat in the porch swing and patted the space beside him. “Sit down, Sarah,” he said gently.
“I’ve got to fix supper for company and—”
“Sit down, please,” Doc repeated.
Sarah sat. Doc and the teller, Thomas, were the only people in Stone Creek who knew for sure that Sarah ran the bank, though there were surely others, like Sam O’Ballivan, who suspected it.
A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1 Page 67