A Match Made in Texas

by Margaret Brownley

  Mama drew her gaze from Papa’s retreating back. “That’s…that’s so far away.”

  “I know, Mama,” Josie said. “But they say the dry climate does wonders for the health, and Ralph has an uncle who lives there in Tucson. He promised Ralph a job in his general store, and…and I’ll write every day. I promise.” She made a gallant attempt to pull herself together and even managed a wan smile. “Once the railroad reaches Tucson, you can all come and visit.”

  Amanda swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “But that will take too long.”

  “Not that long,” Ralph said. “The Southern Pacific has already reached Phoenix, and there’re plans to connect.”

  Next to him, Josie dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Ralph covered her hand with his own. “We might not have to stay there permanently,” he added with a look of apology.

  Amanda sympathized with him. With Josie too. But she also felt bad for Meg, whose happy news got lost in the gloom that followed Josie’s announcement. No one felt much like eating, and the evening ended abruptly with hugs and tears all around.

  Twenty-two

  The following night, Amanda sat in her office and stared at the items found at the Wendell farm.

  Not much there. A bullet casing, several cigarette butts, a length of string, a piece of leather, and a tin can. Normal trash that might be found on any piece of property. Nothing that spelled out the identity of the horse thieves.

  Despite questioning farmers, ranchers, and railroad workers, she still didn’t have a clue as to who stole the Wendell horses. She’d sifted through the ashes left from the Freeman fire, and that still remained a puzzle too. There had to be a reason why Mary-Louise had stormed out of the hotel dining room and seemed to be avoiding her. There was nothing on the cattle thieves either. Or the chickens or the bank robbers or…

  Elbows on her desk, she buried her head in her hands. She should go home. Get some sleep. She’d allowed Deputy Hobson to take the upstairs apartment. She wasn’t ready to live by herself. Not yet… But if Papa continued to act like he was ready to disown her, she might well change her mind.

  Papa was the least of her problems. She still didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about the town’s crime wave. Didn’t even know where to start. With the thought came the tears.

  “You crying?”

  Rennick’s voice startled her. Embarrassed to be found feeling sorry for herself, she quickly reached for the handkerchief in her sleeve. She’d not noticed that the door leading to the cellblock was open. Again. Scooter must have forgotten to shut it.

  “No.”

  “Sure sounds like it to me.”

  “Sheriffs don’t cry.”

  “Sure they do. Everyone cries.”

  She dabbed at tears streaming down her cheeks. “Including you, Mr. Rennick?” she called.

  “I’ve done my share.”

  “Not many men would admit to such a thing,” she said.

  “Been my experience that neither will some women.”

  For several moments, neither of them spoke. Nevertheless, something like a magnet pulled her to the door separating her office from the cellblock. The gas lantern Scooter lit earlier was still burning, casting shadows on the shabby walls and floor.

  She hardly recognized the man on the cot. For once, he wasn’t pacing. Nor did he look like he was ready to spring up. He sat with his knees spread, arms folded across his chest, gaze boldly raking her over. On his lap was a notebook. On the floor by his foot, a bottle of ink.

  He sure did look different without his beard and his hair trimmed to just above his collar. Younger, even. He’d also put on some much-needed weight. He was attractive before, but now he was just plain handsome.

  Pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she leaned against the threshold. “All right, I admit it. I was having a weak moment.”

  She hoped he’d give her one of those derisive looks she knew so well. Those, she could handle. Instead, his eyes filled with sympathy, and she struggled not to burst into tears again.

  “You’re not still beating yourself up for that fire, are you?”

  “Maybe a little.” The fire bothered her on several levels, but she didn’t want to talk about it.

  He regarded her from beneath a furrowed brow. “How come you’re into all that women’s rights stuff?”

  The question surprised her, coming as it seemed from out of nowhere. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  He shrugged. “I could understand it if you lived in a big city. But here in this one-horse town…”

  “I’ll have you know we have a lot more than one horse.” Though that might not be true in the near future if the horse thieves continued to decimate the area.

  “You know what I mean.”

  In the golden glow cast by the lantern, he looked sincerely interested in what she had to say. But he wasn’t, of course. It was all an act. Engaging her in a conversation was just his way of trying to win her over and earn her trust. Still, she was in no mood to fight him. She’d been fighting all day. All week. Now she just wanted to enjoy a quiet moment before the saloon rowdies started shooting up the town again as they did every Saturday night.

  “I guess you could say I was influenced by my grandmother.” For some reason, Grandmama had been very much on her mind of late. “When I was ten, I spent a whole summer with her. I’d been sent to her as punishment.”

  “Punishment for what?” he asked.

  “For defacing property.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Defacing?”

  “I tore down all the ‘say no to women’s rights’ signs posted in town.”

  “At ten?”

  She smiled. Now that she thought about it, it did seem like a strange thing for one so young to concern herself with, but then, she had always been a serious-minded child.

  “Papa said I was born fighting for equality.”

  “Did the punishment do any good?” he asked.

  The question made her laugh. “Absolutely not. Grandmama lived in Austin, and the town always held a foot race for the Fourth of July.” Her mind traveled back to that hot, sticky summer. She often wondered how such a forward-thinking woman raised someone as old-fashioned as her father.

  “I wanted so much to enter but couldn’t because I was a girl. Grandmama came to the rescue.” Amanda had no idea why she was telling him this, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “She altered a pair of trousers to fit me and pinned my hair beneath a boy’s cap. I entered the race in my disguise, and no one clapped louder from the sidelines than she did.”

  He chuckled, bringing her back to the present. “Did you win?”

  “Came in third,” she said, surprised at the note of pride still in her voice. She came in mere seconds behind the first- and second-place winners. “But I won first in the armadillo racing contest.”

  His eyes opened wider. “Armadillo?” He laughed. “Wish I could have seen that.”

  She laughed too. Sometime during the fifties, the animals migrated to Texas from Central America, though no one knew what brought them so far north. Never had she seen such a strange creature. Despite her fear, she bravely picked one up by the tail, something some of the boys refused to do.

  “The secret is to blow on them like crazy to make them run.”

  Even though she’d lost the foot race, she could still recall the thrill of being judged by ability rather than gender. A person could accomplish a lot with ability and skills. Skills were something a person could work at. Something that could be controlled. Improved. It was a heady moment and one that changed her forever.

  This is just the beginning, Amanda, her grandmother had said. You’ll see.

  “I promised Grandmama a blue ribbon for running the next time, but unfortunately, that was the last summer we spent together.” She’d sobbed for a week upon hearing the
news of her grandmother’s death.

  “I bet your grandmother is still rooting for you,” he said.

  Something stirred inside—some emotion that surprised her with its power. It felt as if someone had reached into her chest and gently squeezed her heart. Refusing to succumb to more tears, she swallowed the lump in her throat. Did Lucy Stone ever cry? Probably not.

  Blast him anyway. He always knew how to disarm her, even when he didn’t mean what he said. This was all part of his plan to charm her into believing his innocence. But for an instant—a split second in time—she imagined he meant what he said.

  She studied him. Even in the dim light, his haunted look was evident. That part was real. She’d noticed it the first day they’d met, but it was even more noticeable now that he was clean-shaven. Every plane of his face, every line, seemed to point to a deep sadness. Suddenly, she wanted to know more about him. A lot more.

  “If you weren’t here, what would you be doing?” she asked.

  “Doing?”

  “Your profession.”

  “Horses,” he said. “I once owned a horse ranch.”

  That didn’t surprise her. Spirit was no ordinary horse. He had been well cared for, trained. “What happened?”

  He clenched his jaw and looked away. “Long story.”

  “Long night,” she said.

  His gaze met hers, and she got the strangest sense that he wanted to tell her. Instead, he shook his head. “You better get some shut-eye. You look beat.”

  She sagged against the doorframe. She was beat. Still, she wanted to know more about him. Peeling herself away from the doorjamb, she moved closer to his cell and whispered a plea. “Talk to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Right now, I’m the only friend you have.”

  She didn’t want to tell him the real reason—that she needed someone to talk to. Whenever things had gone wrong in the past, she’d depended on her sisters. But now, they were both happily married, and she felt more like an outsider than ever. Rennick was a surprising but strangely adequate substitute.

  “Been my experience that sheriffs are more apt to make enemies than friends,” he said. “You and me aren’t even on borrowin’ terms.”

  She smiled. “Case you haven’t noticed, I’m not like most sheriffs.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed all right. But long as you refuse to believe I didn’t kill nobody, I don’t see much chance of us bein’ what you call friends.”

  “It’s not my job to decide your guilt.”

  “But you have. Admit it.”

  “What do you expect? You tried to escape.”

  “And that makes me guilty?” He flashed an appealing smile that threatened to melt her defenses. So now they were back to the usual cat-and-mouse games. “What do I have to do to convince you of my innocence?”

  “Nothing. Only a court of law can do that.”

  He splayed his hands. “Why not save the court trouble? If you let me out now, we can look for the real killer together.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. The man could charm the hide off a steer if he had the mind to do so.

  He arched an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

  “You,” she said. She’d taken an oath to protect and serve, and by George, that’s what she intended to do. No handsome, charming, smooth-talking man could make her derelict in her duties.

  “You just never give up.” She tilted her head. “So why are you so against independent women?” she asked, steering the conversation away from the subject of his guilt.

  She heard his intake of breath. “When I was two, my mother left me and my sister to pursue a singin’ career. She billed herself as America’s answer to Jenny Lind.”

  “She left you?” Amanda couldn’t imagine a mother leaving her children. “But she came back, right?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Never did. She left my pa to raise us. We never heard from her again.”

  Was that the source of his sadness? Or was it something else, something more recent? “I’m so sorry. I could never do that to a child,” she said softly. “Leave him, I mean. That’s why I’ve chosen to remain single.”

  Few suffragists were married, which allowed them to travel at will. Elizabeth Cady Stanton was one of the few exceptions; she had several children but primarily stayed home and scripted speeches.

  “You better not fall in love then,” he said. “Some people say the only cure for love is marriage.”

  She thought about her parents’ devotion to each other. Marriage sure hadn’t cured them of their love for each other; it only enhanced it. Papa’s eyes still lit up when Mama came into view, but such a love was rare.

  “I have no intention of falling in love,” she said, blushing. What a thing to be talking about—to a man, no less. A man accused of murder… “I have neither the time nor inclination for such nonsense. I see how marriage has changed my sisters. A woman having to please a husband and run a household can no longer pursue her dreams.”

  Certainly, a married woman had no time for important stuff like making the world a better place to live. What little time Mama had left after catering to her family’s needs was devoted to the church and a small circle of friends.

  “My hat’s off to you,” he said. “You’re savin’ some poor man a life of misery.”

  “As well as myself,” she said, stifling a yawn. Never could she remember feeling so exhausted.

  “You better get some sleep,” he said.

  Nodding, she started for the door. “Good night, Mr. Rennick.”

  “Turn off the light on your way out.”

  She turned and reached for the hanging lantern.

  “Miss Sheriff.”

  Her hand froze. “Yes?”

  “Just so you know, your grandmother’s not the only one rootin’ for you.”

  She turned off the light just in time to hide her tears.

  Twenty-three

  The sound of her footsteps fading away nearly tore Rick apart. He wanted her to come back in the worst possible way. The memory of hearing her cry awakened a part of him he’d long thought dead—the part that felt for another.

  Still, he was surprised he’d told her about his mother. It wasn’t like him to talk about his past. He couldn’t remember when he last spoke of his mother’s desertion. He thought he was over it, but the reopening of old wounds made a lie out of that.

  Why would he reveal something so gut-wrenchingly personal to someone he knew only under the most trying of circumstances? He’d known Christy a year before the subject of his mother came up. Yes, he’d wanted to win the sheriff’s trust and help, but not like that. Never like that.

  He sucked in his breath. The damage was done. Nothing to do about it now except to wait till the open wounds healed, allowing him to rebury the past.

  As for the lady sheriff…

  She sure hadn’t struck him as one of those independent suffering women tonight, and that surprised him. Usually, she had the single-minded purpose of a thrown dagger.

  Odd as it seemed, he wanted to take care of her and tell her detractors where to go. The thought made him grimace. As if he could take care of anyone. Hadn’t even been able to take care of his wife.

  Fortunately, Hobson arrived with the latest roundup of suspects, saving him from his thoughts. This group of six men were almost exact copies of the others the deputy had hauled in front of Rick’s cell.

  Some were indignant at being brought in for questioning for some imagined offense. Others were too drunk to care.

  Hobson issued orders like a general. “All right, men, stand straight and face the cells.”

  This command brought more grumbling, but Hobson did some fancy maneuverings with his gun that convinced the suspects he meant business. Feet shuffled as the men turned toward Rick’s cell.

 
Rick’s gaze lit upon each one in turn, mentally comparing him with the man seen leaving Cooper’s room. How was it possible that so many in town fit the description of the suspected killer? It seemed like half the population stood five foot eight or there about. And who would have ever thought there were so many men with light-colored hair?

  Rick signaled to Hobson to make the suspects walk back and forth in front of his cell. Some shuffled their feet, and others couldn’t walk a straight line, but none appeared to have an unequal-sized leg.

  He’d only got a quick glance at the man leaving Cooper’s room, but it was enough to know that they’d hit another dead end.

  Frustration rose inside like steam from a kettle. This was taking too long. There had to be another way.

  He caught Hobson’s eye and shook his head.

  Hobson took the night’s disappointment in his usual stride. “All right,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

  The men filed out of the cell room, muttering among themselves.

  “I’ll check out the Golden Spur,” Hobson said. “Maybe your guy is there.”

  Rick rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me go with you. It’ll save time.”

  Hobson’s eyebrows shot up. “Not a good idea. You might get the itch to run.”

  Rick thrust his hands through the bars. “Then handcuff me!”

  “Your hands were tied the last time you tried to escape.”

  Rick pulled his hands in and dropped them to his side. “Then forget about dragging anyone else in here. It’s a waste of time.”

  Hobson shrugged. “We can’t stop. No, sirree. Can’t do that.”

  Rick narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

  “Grandpappy said you should never blow out the match until you see the light.”

  “Is that so, eh?” Rick managed a half grin. The more he got to know this kid, the more he liked him.

  * * *

  Amanda rode her horse home to Peaceful Lane. She no longer thought of Spirit as Rennick’s horse, and that could be a problem if she ever had to give him back. But she was too tired to worry about it now.