by Sasha Gold
After he tied Arlo’s reins to the post, he strolled into the store. The pup had tucked his face against Matt’s arm either to sleep or to hide. Maybe someone at the livery would take the critter of his hands. The last damn thing he wanted was something that needed taking care of. The only responsibility he wanted was Arlo.
He glanced around the Mercantile. For a small town it was surprisingly well stocked. There were dry goods, fabric, garden tools, a few copper tubs and franklin stoves. The smell of peppermints drew his attention. Large glass jars held brightly colored sticks of candy. He selected some saddle soap and a new pair of spurs for himself, setting them on the counter.
“Give me some dark thread and a couple of sewing needles,” he told the shopkeeper. “A few of those peppermint sticks, too.”
The spry, grey-haired man clad in a smock hurried to fill the order, noting the purchases on a pad and wrapping them in paper. He tied a string around the parcel.
“That comes to two dollars and fifteen cents, Mr. Hudson.”
Matt could feel the attention of the other customers. Usually he came and went without being recognized. The shop grew quiet. A man and wife stood at the counter beside him, and the woman’s hand flew to her throat. She let out a small gasp and then smiled timidly. Two young boys gaped, and a young woman gazed with a mixture of admiration and apprehension.
An elderly gentleman took off his hat and nodded. “We’re lucky to have a man like you bring in Darrell Hughes. Thank you, sir.”
A few people muttered their agreement.
“Happy to be of service,” Matthias murmured, turning away. The pup shifted in his arms, burrowing deeper.
“Would you like me to put that on your account?” the storekeeper asked.
It took a moment for Matt to realize the man was addressing him. “What account?”
The shopkeeper looked up from his pad. “The account we have for Mrs. Hudson.”
Matt waited for him to say more, but the man merely gave him a blank look.
“Mrs. Hudson set up an account here?” Matthias asked. “A Mrs. Matthias Hudson?”
“Yes, sir.” The man pulled out a ledger and flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He set it on the counter and traced the columns with his finger. “Here we are. She came in a month after Pastor Holt’s funeral. She told us that she’d married again and needed the account to be moved to your name.”
“Poor girl,” someone muttered. “Tragic…”
“Widowed at nineteen…and insistin’ on keepin’ those two young-uns…”
Matt clenched his fist as he looked at the ledger in disbelief. Numbers, written in pencil, lined neatly along columns. The woman who was posing as his wife had done a fair bit of shopping. His vision clouded with anger. Who would dare do this? He never stayed in one place for long, but wherever he went he was treated with respect, even awe, and now some woman walked the streets of Colter Canyon having stolen something he prized. His good name.
“How much is the balance on the account?” He could feel the eyes of the townspeople on him and tried to keep his tone even.
“Mrs. Hudson has made regular payments with that needlework of hers. Ladies around here buy it up the minute she brings it into the store. She’s real talented. You must be proud.”
The shopkeeper lifted his index finger, and his eyes lit. “I planned on delivering the silk for her sometime this week, but seeing as you’re probably heading that way, I’ll let you take it.”
The shopkeeper pulled out a length of material, checked the tag and nodded. Scanning the ledger, he hummed and ran his finger across the page. “Yes, she paid for this last time.”
Matt took the edge of the material and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. It was pale blue, whisper thin and translucent. He tried to imagine a woman who’d stood right where he was standing and ordered this silk. His fury faded for a moment as he peered at the material.
“What the hell did she buy this for?”
The clerk’s neck colored. He coughed. “I believe it’s for a night gown, sir.”
The floorboards creaked behind him. People muttered, and Matt could feel their curious gazes on him and the silk.
“Why, that’s pretty….Isabelle Hudson’s a real beauty…that she is...”
A ribbon tied around the silk had a tag. Isabelle Hudson. Pine Road.
Matt gritted his teeth, but he schooled his features to conceal his rage as he shifted the pup so he could reach his wallet. He took out his money and set it on the counter. He scanned his purchases, things he needed for his job as a bounty hunter. Usually he would buy bullets and rope and other supplies, but today all he needed was a pair of spurs and a few other odds and ends. The shiny rowels glinted on the counter, sitting next to the blue silk.
Somewhere in Colter Canyon was a woman who’d played a pretty good trick, not just on the townspeople, but on him, too. He imagined her going about her business unaware that he’d come to town. He was going to find her, confront her and make her very sorry she’d ever thought about tangling with him.
“Wrap that up for me,” Matt said. “I’d be more than happy to be sure that Isabelle gets it.”
Chapter Six
The bend in the stream curved beneath a bank of weeping willows. The trees trailed their branches in sparkling water. It was, in Isabelle’s estimation, the prettiest spot in all of Colter Canyon. The river water was another matter. It chilled her to the bone, and she always dreaded that first step. Thankfully, the children seemed immune to the cold temperatures.
Her late husband hadn’t believed in niceties like bath tubs. In the long nights she sat up with him while he clung to life she’d had a chance to get to know him a little better. She tried not to tax him too much, but there were things she needed to know, mostly things about the children and household. When she’d asked about the whereabouts of a bathtub he’d acted almost affronted, scowling at her.
Did Christ and his disciples have such luxuries?
Jerome believed in simplicity and humility. He penned essays on sin and virtue and sold or gave the pamphlets to churches and devoted followers. She wondered if Jerome’s austere ideas convinced his readers to give up their hot baths.
Jerome’s two children loved the time at the river, and she had no trouble convincing them to make the short trek. Luke pointed at the small minnows darting in the shallows, chuckling. Seth always washed up right away so he could play.
“Watch Luke while I wash, Seth,” she said, stepping behind a small outcropping.
“Yes, ma’am.” He tore his attention from his little wooden boat to watch over his brother.
She sat in the water and washed her hair. With a quick glance at both boys she leaned back and rinsed the suds. Her blonde hair was long, curly and completely unruly. Often she considered cutting it to shoulder length which would make it much easier to wash. It would dry more quickly, too. Then she could twist it into some semblance of a knot and forget about it, but she couldn’t bring herself to cut it just yet. People often commented on her flaxen locks, and she enjoyed the admiration. Jerome would have called her feelings prideful, but, well, he was dead now so she wasn’t too terribly worried about he would think.
Wringing out her hair, she called to Luke. “Come to me, sweet boy. I want to help you with your hair.”
Luke crossed the small expanse of water, carrying three river rocks. They were smooth and perfectly round.
“Excellent choice. Show me, but careful you don’t hit your brother,” she said.
Luke chuckled, and he tossed one of the stones. It arced in the air and plunked into the water with a single splash. He frowned and tossed the others. The boy wanted to skip rocks like his older brother, but the best he could ever do was make a splash.
She washed his head and helped him rinse. While he soaped and finished with his bath, she stood and let her underclothes drip. It wasn’t decent to bathe in the river clad only in a chemise and bloomers, but Jerome’s piety left
her little choice.
His deep convictions hadn’t been obvious in his letters to her. He’d described himself as a widower of two years, a simple man and one who would cherish and care for her. He left her enough money to buy a dozen tubs, but she couldn’t bring herself to go against what he believed. When winter came she’d have to buy one, but for the time being the icy river would have to do.
After ducking behind a clump of reeds, she stripped off her wet clothes, dried and pulled on a simple dress. She’d make the trip back to the cabin barefoot, she decided. She kept her eyes on the boys while she dressed.
“Who’s hungry?” she asked, bundling her wet clothes into a cloth sack.
“Me, I could eat a horse,” Seth said.
Luke wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Isabelle tousled his dripping curls. “Don’t worry, Luke. We’re not eating horse. I have a lovely stew cooking, a loaf of bread, and I’m going to put a pie in the oven.”
Both boys smiled. Jerome’s cooking had been just like everything else he did: frugal and minimal. While her cooking wasn’t fancy, the boys acted like it was something special. She’d learned to cook growing up in the orphanage. Mrs. Stowe’s Children’s Home housed anywhere between twenty and thirty-five children at any given time. She’d toiled in the kitchen from the time she was old enough to peel a potato.
“On the way back can we go by Papa’s grave?” Seth asked.
“Of course.”
A flock of doves cooed and twittered some fifty yards away. They rose up suddenly from the riverbank and flew over the river. A thread of worry slid down her spine, and she peered through the grasses for a sign that someone was there.
“You boys get dressed,” she said. She walked around the outcropping slowly and with bated breath.
Jerome’s land was leased to neighbors, Ben and Cameron Sutton, for grazing. Every so often they sent a cowboy over to check the herd, but they never ventured to this part of the river. She prayed it wasn’t some stranger prowling her property. Again.
“Do you see something?” Seth called.
“No, it was probably just a hawk that startled the doves.”
She helped Luke with his socks and shoes, and they turned for home. Jerome’s grave lay amidst a grove of oak trees, beside his first wife, Ruth. Seth remembered a few things about his mother but Luke didn’t know her at all. She’d died a few weeks after giving birth to Luke when Seth had been only four.
After Jerome passed away, they’d visited the grave several times a day, but now they went a few times a week. The dirt was beginning to settle, and grasses were doing their best to take root.
Last week the stone mason from Colter Canyon delivered Jerome’s headstone, and it sat neatly beside Ruth’s. Jerome didn’t want a headstone and thought it was enough to be buried beside the boys’ mother, but Isabelle bought one anyway. It read, Jerome Robert Holt, Loving Father, and Servant of God. She traced the contours of the letters with her fingertips.
A horse nickered from somewhere near the cabin.
“Someone’s here,” Seth blurted and took off in a dead run towards it.
“Seth, come back,” she called.
The boy stopped in his tracks and waited.
“We’ll go together.” She tried to keep her tone even. More than anything she hated being surprised by visitors. Her thoughts went to the small dog, and she wished she’d bought him. Biting her lip, she tried to tamp down her fear.
The boy looked at her with wide eyes. He was scared, but trying to be brave for her sake.
“You might frighten the horse if you go racing around the corner,” she tried to reason. Her thoughts swirled as she tried to think of how to confront whomever was there. She needed to remain calm so she wouldn’t reveal her panic to the children. She took both boys’ hands and walked up the path. Her heartbeat crashed against her ribs. Her palms were slick.
A beautiful palomino stood in front of the cabin, and standing on the porch was a stranger.
“Can I help you?” Her voice shook. Seth’s small hand tightened around hers.
She stopped a few feet from the steps. The man was tall, his head clearing the porch ceiling by just a few inches. He studied her for a long moment, his gaze traveling from her face and down her dress. His inspection was leisurely and made her shiver. She must look a mess. Her hair wasn’t dripping wet, but it was damp and bedraggled. Her dress clung to her damp skin.
He arched a brow. “Mrs. Hudson?”
“Yes.”
The man knew her name. That gave her some measure of relief. The name shielded her from the rougher elements in Colter Canyon. An evening breeze blew a tendril of hair into her eyes. She waited for him to say something more, but he was silent, studying her intently.
Men had come onto her property uninvited before, but none of them possessed the same aura of menace. His cold grey eyes held her captive, and she knew without a doubt he was dangerous.
He walked down the steps, never taking his gaze from her. “They asked me to bring your material to you. The silk you were going to sew into a nightgown.”
The rough voice hinted at improper things. Her nightgown? He pulled a package from his saddle bag and held it out.
She let the boy’s hands go and stepped forward to take the package. Her hands shook, and her mouth felt as dry as cornmeal. Part of her expected him to spring, but his posture was casual. He draped his arm over his horse as she peeked inside the paper. It was, in fact, her blue silk. She let out a tremulous breath. How odd that the mercantile shop owner would have sent it. And with a stranger, too.
A squeak came from the stranger’s saddle bag, followed by a tiny whimper. A puppy peered out of the top of the bag. The horse, sensing the movement, lifted his pinned his ears and shook his head.
“Easy,” the man soothed. He reached into his bag once more and pulled out a small wriggling pup.
“Oh, my,” she murmured.
Both boys made small cries of astonishment and delight.
Her breath caught in her throat. The animal she’d admired that morning was somehow here at her home. The man set the pup on the ground, and it sniffed around, taking a few tentative steps into the grass.
Luke and Seth went to him and crouched on their haunches. The puppy wagged his little tail and wriggled when Seth stroked his head.
Some of her worry fell away. The pup brought a smile to her lips. “That Mr. Rawlings is wicked,” she said as she watched the boys’ expression of happiness. “He knew I wanted that pup, and he knew if you brought it I wouldn’t have the heart to say no. A dog. Just what I don’t need.”
The man looked bewildered for a moment. It was just a flicker of confusion that passed over his eyes, and she wondered if she’d offended him. He wasn’t a neighbor, and judging by his fine horse and expensive tack he was no mere delivery boy. So who was he?
“My name is Isabelle,” she said, extending her hand.
His lips curved into a smile as he took her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Isabelle. I’m Matt.”
The smile he gave her transformed his face, and as his hand enveloped hers, a jolt of awareness shot through her. His hand was rough but warm, and she wondered if that meant he had a cold heart. Wasn’t that how the saying went? Why she would wonder about a stranger’s heart was nothing but sheer foolishness, but he held her an instant longer than was seemly. His touch unsettled her, but she didn’t try to tug free. She flushed with embarrassment when his gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth.
“Something smells good,” he murmured, finally releasing her hand.
“It’s beef stew.” She retreated a few steps.
He nodded. “I like beef stew.”
This felt awkward. He seemed to be waiting for an offer for supper, perhaps as a gesture of thanks. He towered over her and had a look about him that made her think he was used to getting his way.
“The stew happens to be my husband’s favorite,” she said.
She emphasized the word ‘husband�
�� for his benefit. While the man hadn’t harmed her or threatened her in anyway, he radiated power and danger.
“Your husband,” he drawled. “You don’t say.”
She nodded. “He’s down in the barn. I expect him any minute. He doesn’t really care for strangers coming onto the property around dark.”
The man squinted at her. “Sounds like you’re telling me to be on my way.”
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’ve had some trouble in the past.”
“What do you mean?”
She glanced at the boys, not wanting them to overhear. “Someone burned my chicken coop down,” she said quietly. “Before that someone left me a note tacked to my front door telling me to be careful, and that he was watching me.”
A shudder ran down her spine, recalling the morning she found the note and the horror she’d felt, knowing that a stranger stood on her porch while she and the boys slept inside the cabin. The note frightened her almost as much as the fire.
“Maybe the note was meant for your husband.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I thank you for bringing me my things. I didn’t want a puppy, and I explained that to Mr. Rawlings this morning, but now that he’s here I’ll keep him. I’d welcome the security of having a dog here.” She added pointedly, “To keep strangers away.”
“Seems like that would be Mr. Hudson’s job.” He tilted his head to the dog. “That little guy doesn’t weigh more than a pound. He’s not going to be much help for a while.”
“I know that.” She grew flustered. Did this man think she was a fool? “You should go now. B-before my husband gets back. He has a fierce temper.”
“That ain’t good. I sure hate to make him mad. Maybe I ought to make sure he doesn’t mind me leaving this pup here, and then I’ll be on my way.” Picking up his reins, he started down the path to the barn. “I’ll just say hello and let him know he owes me a nickel for that pup.”
Isabelle bit her lip and glanced from the boys and back to the stranger. “You boys stay put.”