The Glovemaker

by Ann Weisgarber

  At the cabin and my chores finished, I sat down at the table. My eyelids were heavy.

  All at once, Sally bounded to the door, startling me awake. Her tail swung from side to side. Whining, she scratched at the door, then looked at me.

  Nels.

  “You’re here,” Nels said when I opened the door. “Thank God.”

  “You’re safe,” I said, the relief of seeing him making my eyes water.

  He came inside. Sally circled around him, her tail swinging. “I went to my cabin,” Nels said. He put his right hand out toward me, and I thought he might touch my arm. He didn’t. His hand dropped to his side. Nels said, “You weren’t there. The marshal was gone. I thought his deputies got here and they’d arrested you.”

  I blinked back the tears. “I was worried about you.”

  He didn’t say anything but swallowed hard. Then, “What happened? Where’s the marshal?”

  “He died this morning.”

  “Where is he?”

  “His body’s in my barn. Brother Orson and some of the others are making a coffin.”

  “How much do they know?”

  “They know it’s trouble. And you? What happened?”

  “The landmarks were easier to read.”

  Nels had gotten Braden to Floral Ranch. My knees went loose. I sat down at the kitchen table and fought back tears. Braden was gone. That part was over.

  “You did good,” I said, looking up at Nels.

  “I don’t know about that, it doesn’t seem so.”

  “You did.”

  He looked away from me, shaking his head a little. I believed he was thinking of how much had gone wrong. After a moment, still wearing his coat, Nels sat down across from me. The skin around his eyes was dark with weariness. He took off his gloves, the ones I’d given him two Christmases ago, and put them on the table. He said, “Was it bad at the end?”

  I knew he was talking about the marshal. I said, “It was a mercy when he died.”

  Nels didn’t say anything. He and I had wanted the marshal’s death. We hadn’t said it in words but we both believed it could save us. Now, no one but Nels and I knew Braden had been here.

  I said, “The marshal said a woman’s name. Mary Louise.”

  Alarm swept across Nels’ face. “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing. He called for her two times. She must be his wife.”

  “Put all of that out of your mind.”

  “The more I tell myself to forget, the more it sticks.”

  “The mind’s a stubborn cuss.”

  I smiled.

  “That’s a fine sight,” he said.

  “What is?”

  Something inside of Nels seemed to turn inward. He fixed his gaze on the flame in the table lamp. “Nothing,” he said.

  The corners of the cabin were deep pockets of dark. A kind of hush had all of a sudden descended on the room. Now Nels was looking at me. I felt myself lean toward him. His gaze held me. In his eyes, I saw a kind of wanting.

  We were alone. It was nighttime. This wasn’t like before when the marshal’s presence filled the room. This was different.

  It took everything I had to look away from Nels. My gaze darted to the parlor chairs, the clock, the cookstove, anywhere but at Nels. An uneasy silence stretched between us. Samuel should be here. It should be the three of us.

  Nels began to tap the floor with his foot. I picked up one of his gloves. The leather was soft from use but the stitches still held. I put it back down.

  He backed his chair away from the table. “It’s been a long day.” He stood up. The silence between us cracked loose but nothing was like it had been before. I had seen something deep in Nels’ eyes.

  He said, “Might be best for you to stay at your sister’s. I’ll take you.”

  I couldn’t look at him.

  “Sister Deborah?”

  “No.” The word came out sharp. Nels stepped away from the table. I got up. “This is my home. I belong here.”

  “The marshal’s men could show up.”

  “I’m staying here.” My tone was still sharp. It had to be. Nels had come to care for me in a way that shouldn’t be. I saw it in his eyes. I had allowed it to happen. I depended on him too much.

  It had to stop.

  He said, “I’ll come by in the morning to make sure you’re all right.”

  “No. Don’t.”

  He flinched.

  “Coming by will look peculiar. Like you’re expecting the deputies.” I had to harden myself against Nels. I had to put distance between us. Yesterday, for a moment, I thought I’d seen how he felt about me. It had so taken me by surprise that I convinced myself I’d imagined it. Now I knew I hadn’t. I nodded toward the door and said, “It’s late. You’re tired, I’ve kept you here long enough.”

  He looked away but not before I saw the hurt flash across his features. It wounded me to do this to him but I had to. He went to the door and opened it. Turning toward me but not ­meeting my eyes, he said, “In the morning, I’ll find a reason for coming by.”

  Before I could argue against that, he left, Sally going with him. A crush of aloneness swept through me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DEBORAH – THE BARN

  January 14, 1888

  Two men came the next day. Wrapped in my shawl, I watched them from the parlor window. They each carried a rifle. Leading their horses, they pushed through the snow along the creek. Every step brought them closer to my cabin. I knew who they were. Thomas Fletcher’s men.

  One of the horses limped. This must have been what kept them from coming with the marshal. Everything would be different if the horse hadn’t gone lame and the three men had stayed together.

  They passed out of my sight. I wanted Sally with me. I should have asked Nels to leave her.

  It had stopped snowing during the night. The sky was a piercing blue and the sun made the snowfall glitter like crystals. Long, pointed icicles hung from the roof at the front of my cabin. Waiting, I held Samuel’s black-and-white rock in my hand.

  The knock on my door was loud. The room tilted sideways. Stay with the plan, I told myself. I had to make like I didn’t know anything about the dead man other than he got hurt and I did my best to help him. These were his friends, they were looking for him.

  A second knock. I gathered myself, slipped the rock into my apron pocket, and opened the door partway. The men’s neck scarves were high. They wore their hats pulled low. There were only their eyes. The men held the rifles down at their sides. They stared at me. I willed my knees not to crumple.

  One of them pushed his scarf down to his chin. “This here Junction?” he said.

  The words were thick and stretched long. A Southerner.

  “Yes,” I said. “Who’re you?”

  “Name’s MacGregor.” He nodded toward the man standing beside him. “Henry Fletcher.”

  Fletcher. The marshal’s name.

  MacGregor said, “You got a husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “We want to talk to him.”

  I swallowed down my nerves and tried not to look at their rifles. “He isn’t here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s working. Fixing wheels.”

  MacGregor gave me a squinty look. He glanced at Henry Fletcher, then over his shoulder like he thought something was behind him. All I could see were their horses. Turning his attention back to me, he said, “Where’s the rest of this town?”

  “On down the creek.”

  “How many people?”

  “There are eight families.”

  “Who else is here? With you?”

  “I have family on the other side of the orchard.”

  “I’m talking about here. On your property.”

  “Just me.”

  “Where are the other wives?”

  “What?”

  “Your husband’s other wives. Where are they?”

  “I’m his only wife.”

 
; “That so?”

  “Yes.”

  MacGregor pushed his hat back like that would help him get a better look at me. It took everything I had to hold his gaze. He said, “We’re on government business.”

  I took that to mean they were lawmen. I expected them to show me their badges. They didn’t. I said, “Are you here looking for somebody?”

  MacGregor’s eyebrows shot up.

  I said, “We found a stranger. He was in a bad way.”

  “Where is he?” This came from Henry Fletcher. He spoke like a Southerner, too.

  Treat these men like I had nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. Their friend was dead. Show charity, not fear. I said, “It’s cold. Come in.”

  Henry shook that off. “Where is he?”

  “In the barn.” Both men’s attention was fixed on me. “He died yesterday.”

  “How?” Henry said.

  My teeth chattered. I was standing in the open doorway but it was mostly nerves that made me shake. I wrapped my arms around myself. I said, “A neighbor found him on the bridge.” My words were choppy from the chattering. I clamped my jaw and spoke through closed teeth. “The bridge was icy. His horse might have thrown him. He had a knot on the back of his head. His breathing was bad, uneven.”

  The men looked at each other, then at me. I couldn’t keep my teeth from clattering. The men were cold, too. MacGregor’s eyes were red-rimmed and the end of his nose was red. Henry’s lips had a blue cast. MacGregor said, “You sure about being here alone?”

  I nodded.

  He looked toward the creek. Henry studied my orchard. They were twitchy with nerves. Outnumbered in Mormon country, I could almost hear them thinking. Nothing had gone as planned.

  The men turned back to me. For a moment, I saw weariness in MacGregor’s eyes. That made him like all the other men who came to my cabin. He said, “It’s cold. Like you said. Your offer to let us in still hold?”

  It was a question with only one answer. I opened the door wider for them.

  MacGregor came in first. He went to the bedroom and looked in. “She’s alone,” he called out to Henry who then stepped inside.

  The men made the cabin feel small and narrow like how the marshal had. I stood close to the table. MacGregor was about my age. He was stocky and his nose was off center as if it had been broken. Henry, his scarf now pushed down, was young, maybe twenty. He was a tall, narrow man and the stubble on his face was patchy.

  MacGregor said, “What’s the dead man’s name?”

  “I don’t know. He was bad off and couldn’t talk.”

  “You see Marshal Tom Fletcher?”

  “Who?”

  Henry said, “The dead man got a thick dark beard? He around thirty?”

  I shook my head. “No beard and he was older than that. By maybe twenty years.”

  Henry sucked in some air. He and MacGregor looked at each other, talking without saying a word.

  MacGregor said, “When’d you find him?”

  Think, I told myself. The past days were a smear of time. I couldn’t confuse Braden’s arrival with the marshal’s. “The day before yesterday. Around dusk. That’s when we found him. He died yesterday morning.”

  MacGregor gave Henry a sideways look. “No,” Henry said to me. “You’re lying.” Looking at MacGregor, he said, “She’s aiming to trick us. It’s not him. He wouldn’t let nothing like that happen to himself. He wouldn’t let his horse throw him. She’s lying.” To me he said, “What bridge? We didn’t see a bridge.”

  “It’s three quarters of a mile farther down the creek.”

  “He have a marshal’s badge on him?”

  Not now, I thought. “No.”

  “It’s not him,” Henry said. “It’s somebody else. It’s not Pa.”

  Pa. This young man was the marshal’s son. The resemblance was before me. It was his eyes. They were wide set like the marshal’s. Henry could be the boy in the photograph. Grown, and a lawman like his father. He was a son who might want revenge when he saw his father’s body in my barn.

  “You’re playing us for fools,” MacGregor said. “Nobody’s dead. You’re fixing to trap us.”

  I shook my head.

  MacGregor said, “Your husband the one that took Braden to Floral Ranch?”

  “Who?”

  “Braden. We’re tracking him. Your husband take him to Floral Ranch?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he then?”

  “Braden?”

  “Him and your husband. Where are they?”

  “My husband’s working. In a town south of here.”

  “That’s mighty convenient.”

  “It’s true.”

  Henry said, “Where’s Braden?”

  “Is that the dead man’s name?”

  “It’s a trap,” MacGregor said. “You’re trying to lure us into your barn.” His hand gripped the rifle.

  My heart was high in my chest. I said, “I have no reason to trap you.”

  “You’re a Mormon. It’s what you people do.”

  I put my hand on the table behind me to steady myself.

  Henry said, “You saw my pa, we know you did. You described him. Where is he? When’d you last see him?”

  “He died yesterday morning.”

  Henry said, “If anybody’s dead, it’s Braden. I’m going to the barn to see for myself.”

  Desperation underlined his words. He didn’t want to believe his father was dead. An unexpected rise of pity came over me. Henry going to the barn convinced about one thing and finding another could punch the air out of him. Be charitable, I told myself. Be kind to this young man. Prepare him for hard news. Even if he was my enemy.

  I said, “The man who died has a watch. It’s silver with a chain. It was in his vest pocket. It still is.”

  Henry pulled in some air.

  “Hell,” MacGregor said. “That’s Tom’s.”

  Henry said, “Braden, the bastard. He stole it off of Pa. I’d wring his neck myself if he weren’t already dead.” His face twisted with anger. “I want to see him for myself.” He jerked the door open.

  “Wait,” I said.

  “Like hell.”

  “The man in the barn. You have his eyes.”

  Henry’s mouth opened in surprise, then all at once his face collapsed.

  “It’s a trap,” MacGregor said.

  Looking at Henry, I said, “I’ll take you to him.”

  Last night, Orson Miller and some of the other men nailed together a rough-hewn coffin for the marshal. They got his spare trousers that were rolled inside his bedroll and put them on him. After that, we wrapped the body in a blanket and laid him in the coffin. Orson put heavy rocks on top of the closed lid to keep varmints away.

  The coffin was off to the side of barn door and away from Buttercup’s stall. The flame in the lantern that I held wavered. MacGregor might have thought it was a trap but he came with us. He and Henry moved the rocks and opened the lid. MacGregor pushed aside the blankets so the marshal’s face and chest showed.

  Henry’s breathing hitched.

  “Hell,” MacGregor said.

  “No, Pa,” Henry said. “No.” He touched his father’s forehead, then pulled his hand away. He buckled. MacGregor reached out to steady him. Gulping in air, Henry bent over with the palms of his hands flat on his knees.

  “Why?” Henry said. “Why?”

  I ducked my head not wanting to witness his pain. MacGregor put his hand on Henry’s back. Henry shuddered, drawing in air. Finally he pulled himself upright. Looking at his father, he said, “Pa. How’d you let this happen? What am I going to tell Mama?”

  I winced, recalling the image of the woman in the photograph and hearing again the marshal call for his wife. Mary Louise.

  “Henry,” MacGregor said. “Get yourself some air.”

  “I’m not leaving him.” To me, Henry said, “Who did this to him?”

  “We found him on the bridge.”

  “Who’s we?�
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  “A neighbor. He found him. He came and got me to take care of him.”

  “Pa broke horses. He wouldn’t fall off his own horse. Not a good one like Cinch.”

  “The bridge was icy.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  My pulse rushed.

  “Where’s this neighbor of yours? Is he the one? He killed my pa?”

  “He found him. He carried him to his cabin to take care of him.”

  “Your husband do it? Is that why he ran off?”

  “No, no. He’s been gone since September.”

  “Somebody killed him and you know it. He wouldn’t fall off his horse.”

  I shook my head. My breathing was ragged.

  MacGregor said, “Where’s his horse?”

  “At the neighbor’s.”

  MacGregor didn’t say anything. The corners of the barn were dark. I was alone with these two. They didn’t believe anything I said.

  MacGregor bent over the marshal’s body and moved the blankets.

  “What are you doing?” Henry said. “Leave him alone.”

  The watch chain clinked as MacGregor pulled it from the vest pocket. He handed it to Henry, saying, “Get yourself some air.”

  Henry didn’t seem to see the watch. He said, “What are you doing to him?”

  “Making sure her story holds up.” MacGregor’s voice had softened. “It’ll be easier if you aren’t here.”

  “I’m not leaving him.”

  MacGregor gave him a long look. “All right,” he finally said. Putting the watch in his pocket, he turned back to the marshal. With one hand, he lifted the marshal’s head. He felt the back of it with his other hand. “Damn,” he said. “Somebody hit him hard.”

  My knees went loose. He didn’t believe the story about the marshal falling off his horse.

  MacGregor eased the marshal’s head back down and pulled the blanket down to the dead man’s knees. He was looking for other wounds, I realized. He studied the body and then said to me, “Where’s Braden?”

  “I told you. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”