by Eric Flint
They'd found Sam Houston, missing since the night before. He was sprawled on a pew in the city's big Catholic church, just underneath the wall where the new painted carving of his wife was suspended.
Drunk as a skunk, as the saying went-except no skunk who ever lived would get this drunk. He was almost comatose.
The Laird took a deep breath. "What I figured," Cal heard him mutter.
Standing next to Driscol, Charles Ball shook his head. "Like old times, isn't it? Tarnation, he hasn't had hardly a drop of whiskey in:how many months has it been, Patrick?"
"Twelve," he replied stonily. "Exactly. God damn me for a fool, I plain forgot. His wife was murdered a year ago yesterday."
On the Laird's other side, Charles Crowell sighed. "Oh, Lord. I forgot, too."
He heaved his massive shoulders and moved toward Houston. "Old times, Charles, as you say. I carried him before; I'll do it again."
"Wait," said Driscol, putting a hand on the huge banker's arm. His eyes were on the carving.
"For what?" asked Ball.
The Laird didn't answer for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"No. The boy will have to deal with this soon enough. Not often, I'm hoping. Sam made it through a widowing, and moving his son to a new home, and fought and won a battle. But it'll happen again. You know it and I know it. So go to the Wolfe Tone and bring little Andy here. It's the best place to begin."
Ball nodded. Crowell hesitated. "Are you sure-"
"No, he's right," said Ball. "You stay here with Patrick and watch over him. I'll get the boy."
"Tiana'll have your hide, Patrick, when she finds out," said Crowell.
"No, she won't. She'll not say a word. Times like this, she's pure Cherokee."
Driscol turned to Callender. "Thank you for your assistance, Lieutenant McParland, but it won't be needed any longer. My apologies for detaining you."
Cal left with Ball. At a dignified enough pace, until they got out of the church and went their separate ways. Then he starting walking as fast as he could.
Adaline would have his hide, for sure. And the worst of it was, he still couldn't figure out exactly how he'd found himself in this fix. As close friends as they'd become, he understood what drove Sheff to his fixation on Imogene. But what was his excuse?
The girl was only thirteen! Cal wasn't any sort of Puritan, sure, but some things a man just didn't contemplate. And he wasn't looking for a wife of any age. Not yet, anyway. Most men didn't get married until they were ten years older than he was. He'd figured to do the same.
He still hadn't come to any conclusions by the time he reached the boardinghouse. Except the dim, growing, horrible sense that things just happened because they did. Whether a man planned them or not, or wanted them or not, they just went right ahead and happened all on their own.
Then he was ushered into the salon by Mrs. Wilson, and Adaline squealed the moment he came in, and the next thing he knew she'd raced over and was hugging him and-sure enough-her mother was fit to be tied.
" Adaline! You come back here right this instant! And stop behaving disgracefully!"
After about three seconds, Adaline obeyed. Cal was pretty sure that had been the most thrilling three seconds of his life.
The dragon's glare now got leveled on him. Tarnation, he hadn't done anything!
"Lieutenant McParland."
But he'd look on the bright side. Might as well, since it was obvious the world would toss him however it would.
"How nice of you to come."
An ice cream parlor had finally opened for business in New Antrim. Wildly popular, of course, with Cal as much as anyone. Whenever it was open, the line went around the block. But it wasn't open very often, because ice was so hard to come by.
"Sit. Here. Please."
Not any longer. Just bottle that voice.
When Adaline put her hand on his shoulder, he liked to fly out of the chair. But, to his astonishment, the dragon didn't say a word.
Of course, if you could bottle the look in its eyes, you could probably freeze the whole chiefdom of Arkansas. And whenever Adaline so much as twitched a finger, the monster's hiss was enough to freeze your blood.
Still. It was an awfully thrilling two hours, with that hand there the whole time. By the end of it, Cal was halfway reconciled to the inescapable chaos of existence.
"Mrs. Johnson," said Sheff, sounding a bit timid.
"Yes, Captain Parker?"
"Ah:If I might ask, what's the-I mean. What are we doing here?"
She bestowed on him a look that was a lot warmer than anything she'd given Cal in at least two months. Just another example of life's essential unfairness.
"Oh, that's simple. I told my husband I'd have a portrait of us made up. Since it may be quite a while before we see him again. Mr. Wiedeman assures me he can have it shipped safely to Kentucky."
"Oh, certainly," said the artist. "Might be a problem a few months from now, of course."
Cal almost choked. He leaned over a bit to get a good look at Sheff.
Sure enough. Amazing that a face that black could manage to look that purple at the same time.
"Ah:am I going to be in the portrait?"
"What a ridiculous question. Of course you are, Captain Parker. Why else would you be sitting here?"
"But:ah:"
" Imogene! I told you! Not so close to the neck! For that matter, the session is over. Remove the hand, please. At once."
All the ice cream you'd need for everyone in New Antrim, dawn to dusk.
"Is Daddy all right? He looks real sick."
Driscol shifted the boy a bit farther into his lap. "He's fine, Andy. A little sick, yes. But he'll be fine by tomorrow. It might happen again, mind. You needn't worry about it though, lad, because we'll take care of it. Your father has many friends."
The boy looked up at him uncertainly. Then, just as uncertainly, swiveled his head to look up at the carving.
"That's Mommy, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is."
There was silence for a time as the boy settled his head on Driscol's shoulder and stared up at the carving. Houston's gentle snores were the only sound in the church.
Antoinette really had done a splendid job. It was Maria Hester, almost to the flesh.
"Will she go away again?"
"No, lad. She will not." All the weight of the Ozarks and the Ouachitas was in that voice. Ireland, too, and the mountains of Spain.
"Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
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