Love Finds You in Tombstone, Arizona

by Miralee Ferrell

  “It’s Logan.”

  “Pa? What about him?” The fear was evident in Joshua’s expression.

  “He’s been shot.”

  “How bad is he hurt?”

  She raised eyes swimming in tears to meet her brother’s. She herself felt no love or sorrow for the dead man, but she knew what the news would do to Joshua, and her mother’s grief was palpable. “I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

  The young man emitted a cry like a wounded animal and fled from the house. The flimsy front door slammed behind him, and Christy heard footsteps outside the window racing away. That was so like Joshua. Fight or flee, the two options he typically chose. She sighed, suddenly ashamed. She hadn’t cared for Logan Malone, but he’d been a part of Joshua’s life for several years, and her brother had grown attached to the man. Even if Joshua was nearly twenty years old, he had the right to grieve like anyone else.

  Christy turned to her mother, who still had her face buried in a pillow spotted with dirt. But the sobbing had lessened.

  “Ma?” Christy touched her gently. “Come on. Sit up, now. We need to talk.”

  Ivy Malone groaned and rolled over, her back toward Christy. “Go away. I want to be alone.”

  Christy hesitated, torn between insisting her mother get up and deal with what had happened and wanting to protect her from more pain. Ma had always been the strong one of the family and rarely exhibited much emotion other than anger when one of her children stepped out of line. To see her this way left Christy shaken and unsure. “All right. I’ll see if I can find something to fix for supper.”

  She moved away from the bed, wanting nothing more than to wash her hands. In fact, a bath sounded wonderful. Getting this house in order, bringing her trunk from the livery, and finding something to eat all pressed in at once. But first she’d better discover if there was a place to sleep.

  Christy wandered through the kitchen and into the small front room. A crude table shoved against one wall, a threadbare sofa, and an upright chair comprised the furnishings. Not even a rag rug covered the dirty wood floor. She grimaced. No way would she ever walk barefoot in this place. A movement in the kitchen caught her eye, and she turned. A long-tailed mouse skittered across the floor and disappeared in a hole at the base of a wall. Christy gritted her teeth. Or was it a rat? If so, thankfully it was a small one. She hated those filthy creatures. Securing a cat moved to the top of her list.

  A glance determined that the sofa would serve as a bed, but she sincerely hoped there might be somewhere else in the house to sleep. Moving to a boardinghouse might be a better option, and she could visit during the day to care for Ma. After all, Joshua would be home during the night, even if he did spend his days gambling in a saloon. He had to sleep sometime.

  Further investigation led her to one more room not far from her mother’s, just as tiny and dirty as the rest of the house. It appeared to be where her brother slept, as his clothing was strewn across the narrow bed and floor. An hour later she’d picked up and folded the last of the somewhat clean clothes, pitched the rest in a corner for scrubbing, swept the floor, and stripped the bed of the disgusting linens. Her arm throbbed and pain shot down to her fingertips, but she couldn’t have rested in that filthy room. She made her decision. Josh would have to sleep on the sofa if he expected her to stay.

  No sound emanated from her mother’s room, so Christy could only hope Ma had dropped into a restful sleep.

  Consumption. The word made Christy tremble. This house would need a thorough cleaning, but she couldn’t tackle another chore with her injured arm. Exhaustion and pain swamped her already. She wandered into the kitchen and opened a cupboard door. Her heart sank. Almost empty. Three tins of beans, a sack of flour, salt, rice, and little else.

  There went more of her tiny stash of money in her trunk.

  The padding of feet on the wood floor turned her around. Ma stood with her hand braced against the doorframe, her face pale and drawn. “Christy? When did you get here?”

  Christy rushed forward and wrapped her arms around her mother, giving her a gentle hug. Ma stiffened in her embrace and Christy released her, stepping away. “I’ve been here for over an hour. I came into your room earlier. Don’t you remember?”

  “No. I didn’t see you there. You sure?”

  “Yes, Ma. You’d just read the telegram the boy delivered.” She said the words slowly, wondering what effect they might have.

  “Telegram?” Ivy gripped the doorframe and frowned. Her body started to shake, and she bent over, coughing and gasping for breath.

  Christy supported the slender woman and urged her forward until they reached the sofa. Her mother sank onto the lumpy surface, the coughing spasm finally ending. “Thank you. What’s this nonsense about a telegram?”

  “You don’t remember, Ma? Cousin Jake sent word about Logan.”

  “Logan is comin’ home soon as he finishes minin’ that gold strike he’s workin’ on.” Ma settled against the sofa and closed her eyes.

  “No, Ma. The telegram said Logan was shot in Albuquerque, and they need money for his burial.” Christy sat down beside the older woman and frowned. Surely she’d read it, or she wouldn’t have been wailing and crying when they arrived.

  “I don’t believe it for a minute. Jake is wrong. Logan is alive and comin’ home soon with plenty of money.” Ivy shook her head stubbornly. “Jake always was a fool with not enough sense to shake a stick at.”

  Christy stared, not sure how to respond. Her mother was obviously ill. Maybe she couldn’t deal with the situation, and the possibility her husband was dead. She forced herself to relax. “Whatever you say, Ma. Are you hungry? I didn’t see much food in the pantry.”

  Ivy wagged her head. “Not hungry. Where’s Joshua? That boy was supposed to bring his winnin’s home. He been here yet?”

  Christy shut her eyes as despondency rolled over her. She’d so hoped somehow that Ma would have changed since her last visit when Ma, Logan, and Joshua lived in Sacramento. After her mother married her third husband, Logan, they’d moved from one mining town to the next over the next few years, dragging Joshua with them. Tombstone was only one of many attempts to get rich at either gold mining or gambling, whichever hit first. Problem was, they were always chasing a golden rainbow that had yet to pan out.

  “He was here for a while, but he left. He didn’t say anything about winning any money.” Best to keep the episode at the saloon to herself, Christy decided. “Joshua said the cash Logan left you is gone. I thought Logan hit a nice little pocket of gold and left you plenty to live on.”

  Her mother frowned. “Joshua promised he could increase what we salted away, but I think he lost most of it. I put some aside he don’t know about, though. And don’t you be tellin’ him, neither. It’s all the food money I got left.”

  “Don’t worry, Ma, he’ll not hear it from me.” She felt sick to her stomach. Ma had never been able to stand against Joshua’s wheedling when he needed money to gamble. Why Ma allowed him to tag after Logan and sit at a poker table at the age of sixteen, she’d never understood, but her brother’s fascination with the game had only increased since. She doubted the stash would last long. “How about you let me take care of it for you? In fact, if you’ll give me a little now, I’ll go to town and buy some supplies so I can fix us a decent meal.”

  Ma twisted her lips to the side and seemed to study on the idea for several moments, then pushed to her feet. “I’ll give you some, but you can’t take charge of the rest. You stay here. Don’t want nobody knowin’ where I keep that money.”

  “Oh, Ma.” Christy blew out a hard breath. “I won’t touch your money without permission.”

  “Don’t care what I think I know. I keep that money in a secret place, and I ain’t tellin’ where it is.”

  “Fine. I’ll sit right here.”

  “No. You step outside so you can’t see what room I go in.” Ma waved toward the door. “Go on now, scoot.”

  “Will you be all right if
I walk to the livery and ask them to deliver my trunk?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be all right? I’m here every blamed day alone, ain’t I? Not like you been around to care for your ailin’ ma before today.”

  Christy winced and walked to the door. There was no sense in answering. Her mother had already turned and headed for the kitchen.

  Christy had hoped when she’d left Last Chance that she might start a new life and find some happiness. Now she stepped outside, not looking back. She couldn’t see anything resembling happiness in this place and doubted she ever would. Maybe she’d made the wrong decision in coming to care for Ma. After all, Ma didn’t act as though she cared to have her around. Returning to Last Chance and the warm acceptance of friends sounded mighty appealing about now.

  Chapter Seven

  Christy stepped into the livery stable. No one in sight. Strange. She was certain the stage driver stated someone would be here all day so she could retrieve her trunk. He’d said the OK Corral Livery, and the sign outside clearly proclaimed this to be the correct location. A horse whinnied, and a pungent odor drifted from one of the stalls. She wrinkled her nose. A few steps took her to the back of the building. “Anyone here?”

  The large door on the front trundled open, and someone stepped inside. “Help you, Miss?” A slender, stooped man shuffled out, a pipe clenched between his teeth. A young boy about ten years old followed. The man pulled the pipe from his mouth and grinned. “Never smoke it in here. Don’t want no fire, no sir. You lookin’ to rent a buggy?”

  Christy shook her head and found her voice at the same time. “No, thank you. I came in on the stage. The driver told me he’d drop my trunk and bags here.”

  “The one that got robbed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shore, all the bags from the stage are here that ain’t been picked up yet.” He pointed with the stem of the pipe to a dark corner on a small platform, then turned to the boy and leaned over, whispering something. The boy scampered out of the stable. The hostler flashed a grin. “Name’s Charlie.”

  “Christy Grey. Happy to meet you. Do you think you could deliver my things for me?”

  “Let’s see if we can find the right one first.” Charlie plucked a lantern off a nail and scratched a match against the wood. He lifted the glass chimney and placed the blazing match against the wick, then replaced the chimney. “There we go. What’s she look like?”

  “Oh, my trunk?” Christy suppressed a smile. “It’s about this wide”—she spread her arms—“and dark gray with black bands.”

  “Here she is.” Charlie stooped over and latched hold of the leather strap on one end and tugged. He emitted a grunt and yanked a little harder. “What you got in there—a boatload of books? It’s heavy.”

  At that moment the young boy raced back inside panting. “Uncle Charlie, the marshal is here. I got him, like you asked.”

  Startled, Christy turned toward Charlie. The marshal? Why would the livery man think he needed to call an officer of the law? “Could you see that my belongings are taken to my mother’s home?”

  “Sure. Give me directions, and I’ll be happy to oblige.” He waved toward the tall man with the badge. “Reckon the marshal needs a word with you first.”

  “Ben Sippy, ma’am.” The marshal held out his hand, and a grin warmed his solemn features. “Nothing to worry about. I just have some questions.”

  “About what?” She gazed into the soulful eyes nearly covered by the brim of his hat. A mustache dropped down on each side of his cheeks, reaching almost to the edge of his chin.

  The marshal withdrew his hat. “Are you the lady who came in on the stage that was held up?”

  Christy’s heart rate picked up at the man’s words, suspecting what might be coming. “Yes.”

  “I hear you were shot during the fracas. You see the doc when you got to town?”

  “It was a flesh wound, and Doctor Goodfellow tended to it. It’s sore, but I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” He hesitated, twisting his hat in his hands. “What can you tell me about any of the men who robbed the stage?”

  “Very little, Marshal Sippy. The shooting started, the stage rolled to a stop, and I was wounded. My attention remained on my injured arm from that point forward.”

  “Do you mind if we step over to the doorway, Miss? It’s a mite dark in here, and Charlie’s stirring up dust dragging your trunk.”

  “Certainly.” She allowed him to escort her to the gaping doorway. The street bustled with activity even though it must be near suppertime. People exited the newly erected city hall and hurried down the steps, and wagons rolled past carrying supplies. “I really must get home to my mother. She’s quite ill and can’t be left alone for any length of time.”

  “I understand. Now, tell me what the outlaw looked like who tended your arm. I spoke to the driver and two of the other passengers who confirmed one of the robbers took you into a stand of brush. The others weren’t able to see any distinguishing characteristics, but they know he removed his mask.”

  “Yes, but I really can’t tell you what he looked like. He tied up my wound, put his mask back on, and disappeared. I can’t give you any more information, Marshal.” She wrapped her fingers over the throbbing wound above her elbow and grimaced. “Other than it’s bothering me right now, and I’d like to go home.”

  He nodded, his eyes crinkling against the shafts of sun glinting off a nearby window. “All right. Maybe once the pain subsides, your memory will be a mite more clear, Miss…?”

  “Grey.” She didn’t care to offer this man more. Right now she simply wanted to escape.

  “May I inquire where you might be staying?” He hitched at his holster belt and the Colt .45 shifted.

  “With my mother and brother. My mother’s name is Ivy Malone, and her house is on Toughnut Street, around the corner from Second.”

  “Your brother wouldn’t be Joshua Grey, by any chance? Likes to frequent gambling halls and get into fights?” He peered at her, clearly watching for her reaction.

  “I can’t speak to the fighting, but Joshua is my brother. Why?”

  “No reason. Just getting the lay of the land.” He placed his hat back on his head. “I’ll be stopping by tomorrow to visit, Miss Grey, and see if your memory has returned.”

  Christy paid Charlie and gave him her address, then hurried away, eager to escape the marshal’s intuitive gaze. She hadn’t seen the man who’d tended to her wound since arriving in town and sincerely hoped he’d decided to move on and not stop in Tombstone. It wasn’t her nature to break her word, but even if she hadn’t given it, something in the man’s riveting eyes would have compelled her to silence. Not from fear, either. His heartfelt appeal and explanation tugged at her heart. She shook her head and frowned. Another man gone bad.

  She cut down Fourth Street and landed on Allen Street, a block away from the Golden Eagle Brewery and the Oriental Saloon. A burning desire to see if Joshua sat at a table turned Christy in that direction. She made it half a block before slowing her pace. What would she do when she arrived? Storm inside and grab him by the ear and drag him out? No. He wouldn’t tolerate interference again, and besides, Ma was alone at the house. She made a decision and swiveled, running smack into a woman hurrying the opposite direction.

  Christy staggered backwards, but the young lady grabbed her with strong hands, keeping her from sprawling on the boardwalk. “Oh my. Thank you.” Christy straightened and peered at her rescuer.

  A deep red cape slung around the girl’s shoulders did a poor job of covering the cleavage beneath. Long crystal earrings dangled from under the pale blond hair hanging in neat ringlets, and the indecently short skirt ended at her calf instead of her ankles. Her face flamed and then paled at Christy’s perusal. She drew herself up and tilted her chin. “I beg your pardon. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The blond moved to pass Christy on the outside of the walkway.

  Christy reached out and touched the girl’s arm. “No, I’m so
rry. It was entirely my fault. I’m thankful you were quick-witted enough to keep me from falling.”

  The girl waved a hand at her dress. “Nice ladies like you don’t talk to my ilk. You’d best move on before someone hears you.”

  “It’s no one’s business who I speak to. Besides, I’m the last person in this town who would judge you, or your occupation.” Christy smiled and tipped her head to the side. “What’s your name?”

  “Why? You going to try to get me in trouble with my boss?”

  “No, I wondered, that’s all.” Christy extended her hand. “I’m Christy Grey, and I’m new to Tombstone.”

  The young lady gave a harsh laugh and ignored the gesture. “You must be new in town to talk to me. I’m Sara.”

  “Sara what?”

  “Just Sara. I haven’t used my last name for a while, and I don’t aim to start now. No sense in shaming my family.”

  “Ah. I understand.” Christy stepped up against the wall of the City Bakery, her mouth watering at the heavenly smells wafting out the door each time a patron entered or exited. She beckoned for Sara to join her. “We’d best step out of the way. With the number of people visiting this place, we could get trampled. Do you have time for a cup of coffee and a sweet?”

  Sara shook her head. “I have to get to work. I had an errand to run and need to get back. If I’m late, my boss will skin me alive.”

  “Do you mind if I ask where you work?”

  “The Oriental Saloon.” She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “Sorry you asked me?”

  “No. I used to work at a place like that, years ago.” Christy barely suppressed a grimace. Sara’s words about her boss brought back harsh memories. She hurt for this girl who didn’t look a day over seventeen. From the hard set to her jaw she’d seen plenty she shouldn’t and probably endured more hardship than most women twice her age.

  “You?” Sara’s mouth dropped open and she stared. “I don’t believe it. Are you one of those do-gooders, out to save saloon girls from going to perdition?”