A Stone Creek Collection Volume 1

by Linda Lael Miller

  Sarah rocked Owen, thinking hard. She couldn’t leave her ailing father to escort Owen to Philadelphia, and she knew if she sent a wire protesting Charles’s terse instructions, he would simply hire someone, a Pinkerton or a lawyer or a business colleague, to collect her child and put him on an eastbound train.

  Still, she had to acknowledge the message in some way. If she didn’t, Charles might call out the military, or something equally drastic. With his influence and resources, he could do it.

  She took a deep, shaky breath. Used one hand to wipe her cheeks. Then she stood Owen on his feet, gripped his shoulders firmly, and looked into his eyes.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she told him, “but I am going to do something. I promise you that.”

  Owen sniffled, nodded.

  “You go on home, now. Read to your grandfather and look after Lonesome. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

  Again, the child nodded.

  Sarah watched with her heart in shards as Owen left the office without another word, his small back straight.

  “It might be a mistake, getting his hopes up like that, Sarah,” Wyatt said.

  “It might,” Sarah agreed stiffly, rising from her chair. She’d leave Thomas in charge of the bank, send Charles an answering telegram, and pay an unexpected call on Judge Harvey.

  “Owen came all the way out to Stone Creek Ranch on foot,” Wyatt persisted. “He’s full of talk about running away, so be real careful how you handle this.”

  “I’m grateful that you brought him home,” Sarah replied, reaching past Wyatt to take hold of the doorknob and go about her business. She couldn’t allow herself to think much about all the dangers Owen might have encountered—wolves and rattlesnakes were only two of the many possible perils—she might lose her composure if she did.

  Wyatt waylaid her, his grip light on her arm, but not to be escaped until he deigned to let go. “Think, Sarah,” he said. “Be careful what you do. What you promise that boy.”

  “Let me go, Wyatt,” Sarah said.

  He released her.

  And Sarah headed for the telegraph office.

  * * *

  “I’LL BE DAMNED if I know why she’s mad at me,” Wyatt told Rowdy, fifteen minutes later, as the two of them led Rowdy’s horses back from the livery stable to settle them in the barn behind his house, where they belonged. “I brought the boy home, after all.”

  Rowdy’s grin was thoughtful. “Women are complicated creatures,” he said. “Once, when Lark was carrying Hank, I told her she wouldn’t need a bustle to stay in fashion, and she cried for a week.”

  “You told her she had a big backside?” Wyatt marveled.

  “That’s how she interpreted it, anyhow,” Rowdy admitted. “I liked the way she looked, but she damn near peeled off a strip of my hide.”

  Wyatt laughed, shaking his head. “If you’re stupid enough to say something like that,” he said, “I guess there’s hope for me.”

  Rowdy slapped him on the back. “If you care about Sarah, and it seems you do, stick with her. She might lose the boy, there’s no getting around that. Langstreet has the full weight of the law behind him. She’ll need somebody to lean on, and even though she won’t take comfort from it now, there’ll be other children in time.”

  The thought of Sarah carrying, bearing and nursing his child filled Wyatt with a yearning so fierce, he ached. But he was fond of little Owen, and no matter how many babies he and Sarah had together, none of them could replace the boy.

  Wyatt was silently miserable. He should have stuck to his old policy of not letting himself care too much about anybody. It had been one hell of a lot safer.

  “After we put these horses away,” Rowdy said, “let’s stop by the dining room over at the hotel and put away a couple of specials. It’s fried trout on Fridays, caught fresh in Stone Creek and battered as soon as they quit wiggling.”

  Wyatt’s stomach rumbled. He’d long since burned off the pears and peaches he’d had for breakfast, but Sam O’Ballivan had given him a job and he meant to do it.

  He was set on riding back to the ranch as soon as he and Rowdy got the horses back home—his own mount was still tethered to the hitching post in front of the bank—so he started to refuse.

  Then he felt that prickle at the back of his neck again, keener now, as though somebody was watching him. Staring a hole right into him, hot as a beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass.

  He stopped, looked around.

  “Something wrong?” Rowdy asked.

  Wyatt shook it off again. “Just a peculiar feeling,” he said, just as Jody Wexler and his bunch rode around the bend into town and drew up to say howdy.

  “I’m looking to hire some ranch hands,” Wyatt said, glad of the distraction, and glad he might be able to make this trip to town count for something in Sam O’Ballivan’s eyes. He’d sure made a snarl of things with Sarah, and never mind that he’d been trying to help.

  She didn’t want his help, and he was ninety-nine percent certain she meant to do something rash, if she couldn’t reason Charles Langstreet into letting Owen stay with her.

  “Be a good thing to get these wasters off the street,” Rowdy joked, grinning at the boys. “They’ve got too much time on their hands.”

  “Not much money,” Wyatt added, “and a whole lot of hard work. If you’re willing, head on out to Stone Creek Ranch and pick out a bunk.”

  Wexler beamed, already reining his horse in that direction.

  They took off, racing down Main Street, whooping and hollering like a pack of Apaches on the warpath.

  Rowdy shook his head. “If I wasn’t so set on eating trout for lunch,” he said, “I’d lock the whole pack of them up for reckless behavior on a public thoroughfare.”

  “You don’t have a jail to put them in,” Wyatt reminded him.

  “There’s that,” Rowdy agreed, with a nod.

  They put the horses away, made sure they had plenty of hay and water, and headed for the hotel. The fish being fried up inside smelled so good that Wyatt relented, went inside with his brother, and ordered himself a special. For all he knew, Thaddeus was still in charge of the stove out at the bunkhouse, and a man had to eat, didn’t he?

  * * *

  SARAH PRESSED PEN TO PAPER so hard, writing out her telegram to Charles, that she punctured it and even scarred the counter beneath.

  “Guess you’re some rattled, Miss Tamlin,” observed the telegraph operator, who, like Thomas, lived with his mother and passed on every whit of gossip that came in or went out over the wire. Which, of course, was considerable. “Everything all right? I hear your father isn’t well—”

  “My father, Elliott,” Sarah broke in sharply, “will be just fine.”

  Elliott reddened. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “I need a fresh sheet of paper, please,” Sarah told him, speaking more moderately, by dint of great effort and forbearance.

  Elliott gave her the paper.

  She wrote her message, which she’d been rehearsing in her head since she’d stormed out of the bank to send it.

  Elliott’s eyes widened as he read. Since he was the telegrapher, there was no way to keep the missive private. “That’ll be twenty-five cents,” he said.

  Sarah took the change from her skirt pocket, since she rarely carried a handbag, and plunked down five nickels.

  Elliott scooped them up, still blushing. “If there’s an answer, shall I bring it to the bank?” he asked.

  “The bank closes promptly at three o’clock,” Sarah said, keeping her head high and her backbone rigid. “After that, I will be at home.”

  Elliott went to his desk and began tapping out Morse code on his telegraph key. Sarah listened for a few moments, as if she understood the incomprehensible dots and dash
es and clicks and wanted to make sure the message was being sent correctly, then turned on one heel and marched to the door.

  “Give your mother my best regards,” she said, passing Elliott a level look.

  Elliott, blushing fiercely, merely nodded.

  Wyatt’s horse, Sarah noted abstractly, was still standing in front of the bank, slurping water from the trough. Looking around, she saw Mr. Yarbro walking into the Phoenix Hotel with Rowdy.

  Her hackles rose.

  She crossed the street briskly, skirt hems fluttering.

  Stomped up the steps in front of the hotel and straight into the lobby, then the dining room adjoining it.

  Wyatt and Rowdy had already taken seats at a table by the window but, seeing her, they both got to their feet.

  Sarah looked briefly at Rowdy, apologetically furious, then turned to Wyatt. If she hadn’t been raised as a lady, she would have slapped his face for him, and the worst thing about it was that she didn’t have the vaguest idea why she wanted to do that in the first place.

  “Join us?” Rowdy asked, grinning slightly and gesturing toward the chair next to Wyatt’s. “We’ve already ordered, but I could go fetch Wong Su from the kitchen.”

  “No,” Sarah said, drawing herself up. “Thank you.”

  Wyatt raised an eyebrow, and a grin twitched at one corner of his mouth. He waited, and it galled Sarah to know he was enjoying her discomfiture. She hadn’t a glimmer what she was doing there, and that only made the whole experience more mortifying.

  “Sarah—” Rowdy began, but he fell silent at a swift glower from Wyatt.

  Sarah drew a deep breath, her face flaming, wishing the floor would open wide, like the maw of some great beast, chew her up and swallow her.

  Still, Wyatt didn’t speak. Still, he grinned that grin.

  Sarah looked around, saw that the three of them were alone in the dining room, which was a miracle given the popularity of the fish special, and then faced Wyatt again.

  “I telegraphed Charles,” Sarah heard herself say, with helpless horror at her own audacity, “and I told him that you and I are going to be married and we want to raise Owen from now on. Are you willing to marry me or not, Wyatt Yarbro?”

  Rowdy pressed a napkin to his mouth, probably to stifle a guffaw.

  “I don’t reckon you’ve left me much choice,” Wyatt said drily. All that time not speaking, and that was what he had to say?

  “Fine,” Sarah said. “The wedding is Sunday afternoon.”

  “Don’t we need a license or something?” Wyatt asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sarah admitted, losing some of her steam.

  “I can arrange for one,” Rowdy put in. By then, he’d sat himself down again, and put the napkin aside, but his eyes were bright with hilarity.

  “Well, then,” Wyatt said, “I guess it’s settled.”

  I don’t reckon you’ve left me much choice.

  Sarah seethed, swamped in humiliation. “Good!” she spouted, then she spun around and marched right out of the Phoenix Hotel, down the sidewalk a ways, and across the street to the bank.

  She stomped through the small lobby, Thomas staring openmouthed as she passed, and into her father’s office, where she slammed the door behind her, dropped into Ephriam’s chair, laid her head down on her arms atop the desk, and cried until her eyes hurt.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THERE WAS NO SIGN of Davina when Sarah got home, at five minutes after three that afternoon, and she found Kitty upstairs, sitting with Ephriam, and staring bleakly into space. Except for their respective positions—Kitty in the rocking chair and Ephriam lying on the bed—it would have been difficult for an objective observer to discern between patient and nurse.

  “Kitty?” Sarah asked softly, from the doorway. Owen, calmer now, was in the backyard with Lonesome, and the dog’s happy yips wafted in through the open window. Lonesome, at least, was on the mend.

  Slowly, Kitty turned her head, looked at Sarah without apparent recognition. Said nothing.

  “Where is Davina?” Sarah asked carefully, going to her father’s bedside to straighten the already-straight sheets and bend to kiss his forehead. His skin felt cool and moist. She didn’t look at Kitty at all, during this exchange, giving the woman the privacy to shift from her sad reverie to the everyday world.

  “She’s gone to the schoolhouse,” Kitty said, her voice toneless and, somehow, raw. “She knows, Sarah. She knows.”

  There was only one chair in the room, and Kitty occupied it, so Sarah perched on the wide sill of the window. “You told her, Kitty? About the Spit Bucket Saloon and—and everything else?”

  Kitty shook her head, her gaze fixed on the wall above the headboard of Ephriam’s bed, or something well beyond it. Beyond Stone Creek, even, or the distant horizon itself. Perhaps even beyond the day-cloaked stars. “Someone on the train told her,” Kitty said. “She—Davina, I mean—was chatting with the person in the next seat, the way people do to pass the time on a long trip, and said her mother was Kitty Steel, married to a rancher named John Steel.”

  Then, of course, the other passenger had disabused the young schoolmarm of her deception. Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, imagining what a shock that must have been to Davina. At the same time, she had known all along that discovery was inevitable.

  “Did you explain?” Sarah asked.

  “I tried, but Davina was having none of it. She said if she didn’t have a contract to complete a full school term, she’d get right back on the train and head home to Illinois.” Kitty paused, swallowed painfully. “She said I wasn’t—I wasn’t her mother, Alvira Wynngate was, because she and her husband took her and her sister in when I didn’t want them.”

  “But you’ve been corresponding with Davina and Leona for years,” Sarah reasoned gently. “You must have told them you did want them, even with all the lies about being married to a rancher.”

  “Being wanted by an upstanding mother who once fell on hard times is one thing,” Kitty said. “Being wanted by one who’s a whore and has to fight off the bottle every day of her life is another.”

  Sarah bit her lower lip. “At least she’s staying in Stone Creek until the school term is over,” she said. “You have until next summer to establish some kind of understanding.”

  “That’s going to be hard to do,” Kitty replied, “given that Davina never wants to see me again, let alone listen to me.”

  “With time—”

  But Kitty shook her head, cut Sarah off with, “No. You didn’t see how angry she was, Sarah. You didn’t hear the things she said. I’ve met up with lots of women who wanted to spit in my face, even some who did, but none of them were my own daughter, my own sweet baby.”

  Sarah stood on shifting sands herself, given that she’d wired Charles of her impending marriage to Wyatt Yarbro, and then corralled Wyatt into agreeing to participate in the ceremony. Her father was desperately ill, and she was almost certain to lose the child she loved more than anything, or anyone, in the world, for a second time. And on top of all that, the bank.

  Despite it all, her heart went out to Kitty, and to Davina, too. By now, the girl had probably written to her sister, as well as her adoptive parents, and any illusions remaining to Leona would be shattered. Sarah could only hope that Helga and the delegation had kept the young woman too busy celebrating her installation at Stone Creek School to fall into despondency.

  She made up her mind to go and talk to Davina at the first opportunity. Perhaps, as a person one step removed from the situation, she could help establish some kind of truce between the two women.

  “Why don’t you go across the hall and rest for a while, Kitty?” she asked quietly. “I’ll sit with Papa.”

  Kitty hesitated, then nodded, rose from the rocking chair. Moving like a sleepwalker or someo
ne mesmerized, she left the room. Sarah heard the door across the hall open and close.

  She sank into the rocking chair.

  Ephriam opened his eyes.

  “I’m going to marry Wyatt, Papa,” Sarah said. “I’m going to be a ranch foreman’s wife.” The tears that stung her eyes should have been ones of happiness—she was about to be a bride at last—but instead, they were ones of frustrated humiliation.

  Ephriam didn’t respond, except to gaze at her, his own eyes suspiciously moist. He didn’t need to tell Sarah what he was thinking; she knew. What will become of my girl?

  Presently, he slept. Sarah sat and rocked.

  And then Owen appeared in the doorway, red-eyed himself, and pale. He was a boy in summer, wondrously dirty, his hair a-tousle, his clothes speckled with mud and caked with dust.

  Sarah’s heart wrenched just to look at him.

  “There’s a lady here to see you,” he told Sarah. “She’s sitting in the parlor.”

  Sarah nodded, got out of the chair and adjusted Ephriam’s covers again.

  Owen took her place in the rocker, bare feet dangling high off the floor.

  Hoping to find Davina waiting downstairs, having had a change of heart, Sarah was mildly disappointed, but also encouraged, to see that her caller was Fiona. She was dressed for travel, no doubt planning to board the six-o’clock train to Flagstaff, which stopped in Stone Creek only on Fridays, weekly in spring and summer, every other week in fall, and once a month in winter.

  Sarah paused in the doorway of the parlor, at a loss for words; odd, when she and Fiona had exchanged so many confidences over the length of their acquaintance.

  Fiona flushed. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye, Sarah,” she said, fiddling awkwardly with her practical handbag. “I—I hope you won’t mind if I write.”

  “I won’t mind,” Sarah said, but it was more a concession to manners and traditions of hospitality than truth. She remained in the doorway.

  “I shouldn’t have told Mr. Yarbro what I did,” Fiona said.

  “No,” Sarah agreed. “You shouldn’t have. It might be easier to forgive you if you’d spoken to me first. We were friends, Fiona. I trusted you.”