A Match Made in Texas

by Margaret Brownley

  “A wooden stake!” Amanda shouted from her saddle as she rode by, and this brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.

  T-Bone yelled something back to her, but by then, she was out of earshot.

  I suspect no one’s ever accused you of being a lady.

  The voice in her head was so clear and distinct that at first, she thought its owner was in the vicinity, but a quick glance around relieved her of that notion.

  Now why in heaven’s name did Mr. Rennick pop into her head? And it wasn’t as if it was the first time. The way he kept intruding on her thoughts, one might think she was interested in him—which she definitely was not.

  Even if she wanted a beau, which, of course, she didn’t, she would never set her cap for the likes of him. He was too…arrogant and far too surly. Furthermore, he was totally without manners. Wild and woolly didn’t even begin to describe the man.

  Reaching her destination, she dismounted. So far, only three people had joined her women’s rights group. One man had signed up—her brother-in-law Ralph—but even he had shown reluctance and joined only as a favor to his wife. Nevertheless, she wasn’t giving up.

  Bells tinkled as she walked into the general store. The welcome smell of freshly ground coffee, spices, and candle wax greeted her like an old friend.

  She’d barely made it inside when she was accosted by a store customer, Mrs. Aldridge.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I bumped into you,” Mrs. Aldridge said, walking toward her as if a steel rod ran up her spine. An older woman with a figure round as a pot-bellied stove, she had recently purchased one of the fancy headgears Amanda created. She pointed to the top of her head. “I’m afraid my hat will fall off.”

  Women, especially the older ones, were leery of giving up bonnet strings and didn’t trust pins to keep hats secure.

  “Let me see,” Amanda said. She stood on tiptoes and tried to move the hat, but it held fast. It was a black lace toque with handmade silk flowers, designed to pull the eye away from the woman’s ungainly figure. The hat was a work of art, if Amanda did say so herself, and suited the woman to a T.

  She pulled a hatpin from her own hat, more for Mrs. Aldridge’s peace of mind than necessity, and fastened it onto the woman’s hat.

  “There,” Amanda said, stepping back to better observe her handiwork. “That should withstand even a tornado.”

  “Does it look all right?” Mrs. Aldridge asked, turning her head ever so carefully.

  “It looks wonderful, and you can wear it different ways.” Amanda demonstrated with her own hat, a confection trimmed with blue silk rosettes. “Pushed back like this gives the wearer a friendly, open look. A perfect way to wear it to church, don’t you think?” She continued, “Tilted over one eye will make you look mysterious.” She posed to show what she meant. “But if applying for a loan at a bank, you really must wear your hat straight to show you mean business.”

  Mrs. Aldridge laughed. “No hat will convince a banker to make a loan to a woman, no matter how she wears it.”

  “That’s why you need to join the new group I’m forming.” Amanda quickly explained what she hoped to accomplish.

  “Sorry, but personally, I think women have enough to do as it is. Though I do thank you for inviting me.” With a wave of her hand, she tottered toward the door, balancing the hat on her head like a waiter one-handing a tray. “Good day.”

  After she left, Mr. Spencer called from behind the counter. “Those peacock feathers you ordered haven’t arrived yet.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll check back tomorrow.” She hesitated. “Actually, I’m here for another reason. Would you consider renting out space? Perhaps over there by the window.” Real estate in the town was at a premium. What little money she earned designing hats wasn’t enough to pay for rent on a shop of her own, no matter how much she wanted it.

  Spencer blinked. “Rent out space?” He made it sound like she had asked him to turn over his profits.

  “Just a shelf or two,” she assured him. A proper place to display her hats was bound to help her sell more. If things went according to plan, she would be able to afford rent on a shop of her own, maybe sometime next year. Eventually, she hoped to earn enough money to pay for her trips out of town to fight for women’s rights.

  Her trip to Austin revealed a gift for public speaking, but she was still unknown and would have to pay her own way until she had made a name for herself.

  “I hardly have space enough to display my own goods,” Spencer said.

  She sighed. So far, every shopkeeper she’d queried had turned her down. The only two places she hadn’t tried were the gun shop and casket company, neither of which suited her purpose.

  Refusing to be discouraged, she asked him if he would join her new group.

  “Women’s rights?” He looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Any man joining a group like that ain’t working with a full deck.”

  “I’ll join.”

  At the sound of the familiar male baritone, she spun around. This time, she hadn’t imagined his voice, for there stood Mr. Rennick in the flesh, looking tall and very much in charge. How could she have missed knowing that such a commanding presence was in the shop?

  Today, he wore a buckskin shirt with fringed cape, his hair pulled back and tied with a piece of rawhide. He was the most masculine man she’d ever met, and her pulse quickened.

  “I thought you didn’t approve of suffragists, Mr. Rennick.”

  “Nothing’s changed in that regard,” he said, tilting his wide-brimmed hat rakishly over one eye.

  His derisive grin irritated her. Gaining the right to vote was serious business, and she didn’t appreciate him making fun of it. “Then why would you want to join my group?”

  “Sounds like it might be good for a few laughs.” This time, he adjusted his hat to show he meant business. So he’d been eavesdropping.

  She lifted her chin. “If it’s laughs you want, Mr. Rennick, I suggest you join the circus.” With that, she whirled around, petticoats flapping against her ankles, and left the shop amid a frantic jingle of bells.

  Eight

  It was nearly ten o’clock that night before Michael Cooper left the saloon and walked the short distance to the hotel, seemingly unaware that he was being followed.

  For three days, Rick had shadowed the man. Cooper was up to something, but what? Every night, he dropped a bundle on faro, women, and whiskey. He seemed to be rolling in dough but had no visible means of employment.

  Money like that almost always came from illegal activities. Murder might be his worst crime, but it sure in blazes wasn’t his only.

  Tonight as usual, Cooper walked through the lobby and up the stairs. Looking neither left nor right, he talked to no one. The years hadn’t been kind to Cooper. In his younger days, he’d stood straight and tall, as quick in mind as he was on his feet. Though he was barely out of his thirties, his skin was sallow, eyes puffed, and he walked like a man with gout.

  Following behind at a discreet distance, Rick debated whether to confront him now or wait till the new sheriff was installed to place Cooper under arrest.

  The fact that Cooper was staying at the hotel, rather than one of the boardinghouses, suggested he didn’t plan on making Two-Time his permanent home. So what was he doing here?

  Rick paused a moment before climbing the stairs. He arrived at the second-floor landing just as Cooper entered his room midway down the hall. Room 108—three rooms away from Rick’s own.

  Watching him, Rick knew he could no longer wait. Tonight was the night he would confront his wife’s killer, even it meant having to lock Cooper behind bars himself.

  Rick curled his hands into fists by his side. He’d waited so long for this moment, he’d almost forgotten that his real name was Rick Barrett. Rennick had been his wife’s maiden name. Using it was his way of keeping her memory alive
and the promise made to find her killer the day he buried her. That was more than five years ago. Five long, hellish years.

  For the last six months, he’d been on the road—ever since being released from prison. The vagaries of law made no sense to him. Steal a horse, you hang; kill your wife, it’s prison. Not that he was complaining. The devaluation of human life by the justice system in some counties was what kept him alive.

  He served five grueling years for a crime he didn’t commit before he finally got lucky. A witness on his deathbed cleared his conscience by naming his friend as the real killer.

  Rick swore up and down he was innocent, but no one believed him. Instead, it took the word of a dying man to free him.

  He’d walked out of prison to a world he hardly recognized. A world that now included extended train lines. There was even talk about running trains to the border.

  He walked out of prison a man without a home, a man without a future. A man without a country, or at least one that he recognized. But none of that mattered. The only thing on his mind was tracking down his wife’s killer. He’d lived for the day he avenged her murder, and that day was finally here.

  Instead of making a dash for the door, Rick stood rooted in place. He wanted to absorb the moment. It had been a long time coming. Five years, eight months, and two weeks to be exact.

  But now at long last, it was payback time. The man had stolen everything from him, maybe even a little bit of his soul.

  The prosecutor had painted Rick as a jealous husband who couldn’t bear to think of his wife with another man. That was absolutely true, but not in the way the prosecutor suggested.

  Christy had been forced against her will. Anger didn’t begin to explain the rage that shot through him the day he found his wife huddled in their bedroom, sobbing.

  Cooper had threatened her with harm if she told anyone what he’d done, but she told Rick. That’s because she trusted her husband enough to know he would not blame her. He’d held her close that day, murmuring soothing words, while all the while, hate unlike any he’d ever known simmered beneath the surface like a volcano about to erupt.

  Cooper had worked for Rick and was one of many wranglers who helped him with his horse ranch. Rick had trusted him, like he trusted all his men. That had been his first mistake.

  His second mistake was leaving Christy alone that night while he went looking for Cooper. He never found the man, but Christy did. Fearing what Rick might do, she’d gone looking for her husband. Instead, she’d found Cooper…and was shot through the heart. Rick still blamed himself for her death.

  Rick was arrested, tried, and found guilty of her murder. No one believed him innocent, not even his in-laws. So for five long years, he sat in prison and would still be rotting behind bars had it not been for a previously unknown witness—Cooper’s friend.

  Never for a moment did he give up hope that this time would come. Never had the thought of revenge tasted so sweet.

  A young couple stepped out of a nearby room. The man and woman looked like newlyweds. The woman had on a pretty floral gown fit for a dance. Such a handsome couple, so young. So vibrant. So full of hope and promise. Hold on to that, he wanted to tell them. Don’t let anyone take it away.

  They were so wrapped up in each other, they didn’t seem to notice him as they passed by and headed down the stairs.

  Two people having a good time. Living a normal life. Doing the same things that he and his wife Christy once did. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to block out the memories assailing him.

  Can’t think of that. Not now when he needed a clear head. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see a stranger hurry out of Cooper’s room. The corridor was dimly lit, leaving the man’s face in shadow, except for the tiny orange glow of his cigarette. Hat pulled low, the man glanced at Rick before turning in the opposite direction. He had a funny walk, like one leg was shorter than the other.

  Rick waited until the man had vanished somewhere at the far end of the hall before making his move. It was payback time. His breath whooshed out of him as he walked to the room marked 108.

  Nine

  That night, Amanda woke from a deep sleep to the sound of something…hammering.

  Willing the disturbance to go away, she buried her nose deeper in her pillow, but the banging persisted. Groggily, she lifted her head and struggled to make sense of the battering sound that shook the very foundation of the house. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but a man’s gruff voice below her open window told her otherwise.

  “Open up!” More pounding followed.

  Wide awake now, she slipped out of bed. Grabbing her dressing gown, she ran to the window and moved the chintz curtains aside. The covered porch was hidden from view, but two horses were tethered by the gate, their dark, shiny hides glowing in the moonlight. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. Was that more horses in the street?

  Alarmed, she spun around. Such a late-night visit could only mean an emergency. Ripping open the bedroom door, she ran barefoot into the hall.

  Mama stood on the top of the stairs, holding a lantern. “What do you suppose is wrong?” she whispered, her face pale as a winter moon.

  Amanda shook her head. Shoving her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown, she hurried past her mother and down the stairs. She reached the first floor just as Papa finished lighting the gas lamp in the entryway.

  Papa’s white nightshirt fell to his ankles in ghostly folds.

  “Is it a fire?” Amanda asked anxiously, lifting her voice to be heard over the incessant banging. That was always the main concern.

  “Guess we’ll soon find out.” Face stoic, Papa practically yanked the door off its hinges. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  Peering over her father’s shoulder, Amanda was surprised to see Judge Lynch and Mayor Troutman on the porch. She glanced back at the tall clock in the corner. It was a little after eleven p.m.

  “Sorry to wake you, Lockwood.” Mayor Troutman pulled off his hat. “Trouble’s brewing. Just outside of town. Some of the boys are getting ready for a lynching.”

  “So why the deuce are you telling me?” Papa’s voice was prickly as the hair standing up on his head.

  “Thought Miss Lockwood should know,” Troutman said.

  “What in blazes for? She can’t do anything about it!”

  “We were hoping she could. As the new sheriff, it’s her respons—”

  “What?” Amanda crowded into the doorway next to her father. “What did you say?”

  The mayor shifted his gaze to her. “I said since you’re now the new sheriff…”

  Amanda’s jaw dropped. She glanced at the judge for confirmation, but he remained silent. This couldn’t be happening. She was dreaming. “There…there must be some mistake.”

  Papa blew out his breath. “If this is your idea of a joke—”

  “It’s no joke,” Troutman said. “We counted the ballots a dozen times, and they always came out the same. We planned to make the announcement tomorrow, but this can’t wait.”

  Amanda’s mind whirled. “I couldn’t have won.” She hadn’t even campaigned. “I mean…this is crazy. Who would vote for me?”

  “Don’t know,” the mayor growled. “But if I ever find out, I’ll—” He stopped and cleared his throat.

  Amanda pressed her hand to her forehead. She was the new sheriff? That didn’t seem possible. This had to be a dream. Since the two visitors were staring at her, she willed herself not to panic or faint, despite the temptation to do one or both.

  Papa’s jaw hardened. “Go back to bed, Amanda. I’ll handle this!”

  “Papa, please…”

  He shook his head. “I won’t have my daughter putting herself in harm’s way. Now go!”

  She backed away—the good little daughter.

  From the deepest reaches of h
er heart came a familiar echo: You can do it, Mandy. You can do it. The voice was so clear, so distinct, that for a moment, she imagined her grandmother standing at the top of the stairs instead of Mama. Her beloved grandmother believed Amanda could do anything she set her heart on and once dressed her in trousers, shirt, and male cap so she could enter a boys’ sporting event. For a girl to participate in such an activity would have been impossible without help.

  The memory made Amanda square her shoulders. Something that felt like a steel rod rose up her spine. Filled with a new sense of purpose, she lifted her chin as she had seen Miss Lucy Stone do when attacked by the opposition. This is for you, Grandmama. She took a deep breath. This is for you…

  Braced with new determination, she rejoined her father at the door where he stood arguing with the mayor.

  She tugged on his arm. “If I won the election fair and square, I’ll do what’s required of me.” Lucy Stone and the other suffragists would do no less.

  Papa shuffled back a step, his jaw dropping. It wasn’t the first time Amanda had fought him, but never had she so openly opposed him in front of others. “You’ll go against my wishes?” he asked, his voice hollow with disbelief.

  “It’s my duty, Papa,” she said, beseeching him to understand before turning to the mayor. “Where’s this lynching taking place?”

  If the mayor was surprised at the sudden turn of events, he didn’t show it. “Near the old Barstow place. There’s a posse out front waiting for you.”

  Amanda sucked in her breath. A posse? Waiting for her? Sweat broke out on her forehead. “I’ll…I’ll get dressed,” she said, her voice thin as air.

  The mayor slanted his head toward the judge at his side. “You must take the oath of office before you can act in a professional capacity. That’s the law.”

  “Very well. Let’s get on with it,” she said.

  “Amanda.” Papa’s eyes flashed a warning. “I forbid it…”

  Mama joined them and laid her hand on his arm. “Henry, the vote—”