Crazy Woman Creek

by Welch, Virginia

  Crazy

  Woman

  Creek

  Crazy

  Woman

  Creek

  © 2013 Virginia Hull Welch

  To Emerald: Dream big. Write from your heart. Just do it.

  and,

  To the precious people of Buffalo, Wyoming:

  Thank you for letting me wander all over your charming little town. Thank you for letting me sleep at the super cool Occidental Hotel where the cowboys in the saloon downstairs kept me up all night singing under a bullet-riddled ceiling. I loved every minute.

  ISBN - 978-0-9888739-2-6

  E-Book ISBN - 978-0-9888739-3-3

  Crazy Woman Creek

  Copyright 2013 by Virginia Hull Welch. All rights reserved. This book may not be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever, in whole or in part, without written permission of the author, except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Virginia Hull Welch, ginnywelch@gmail.com.

  Published by Virginia Hull Welch, 2013 www.ginnywelch.com

  Cover design by Piret Mänd

  Other books by Virginia Hull Welch:

  The Lesson

  Inspirational Romantic Comedy

  Based on a True Story

  What to Do When the Blessings Stop

  When God Sends Famine (2013)

  The Hiss from Hell Only Women Hear

  Is It Truth or Is It Tradition? (2013)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Buffalo, Wyoming and Crazy Woman Creek are real places, but names, characters, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Buffalo, Wyoming Territory, March 22, 1880

  “James is missing, Sheriff Morris.”

  Lenora Rose stood primly across from the desk, her grim face belying how flabbergasted she was as she watched Cyrus Morris stop fiddling with his pocket knife, look up and stare a few seconds at the impeccably dressed young woman, and then wordlessly drag his worn leather boots from his desk to the floor with an irreverent thud. With no attempt at discretion, he looked her over from her frilly hat to flounced-topped toe, screwed up the corner of his mouth in disdain, and leaned to one side to direct his comment not to her but to his counterpart across the room.

  “Luke, get the lady a chair,” he said, still sizing up Lenora.

  The deputy nodded and in a moment set a hard-back chair in front of her. “Ma’am,” he said, nodding politely.

  Lenora registered only a tall blur of denim, leather, and faded cotton before the younger man returned to stand behind his desk.

  “Have a seat Mrs. Rose,” said Sheriff Morris.

  The sheriff’s order was bland enough, but his tone of weary resignation, as if he were greatly put upon, having to chase down and drag home runaway husbands several times a week, made Lenora woozy. His contempt for the fairer sex was well known throughout the Territory, but Lenora hadn’t expected crass. This was going to be more difficult than she had thought, but she needed his help so she sat down, creating as she did a waterfall of chocolate velvet billows that spilled around the chair and across the floor. Now that two pairs of eyes were trained on her, she was glad she had taken the time to steam press her best winter dress, which had been stored in the oversized trunk she had brought from New York. Her life might be falling apart, but at least she looked presentable. Then again, the clothes-as-confidence tactic that normally sustained her suddenly made her feel terribly conspicuous in this citadel of guns and tobacco. She clutched her matching beaded reticule more tightly to calm her hammering heart.

  “Mrs. Rose,” said the sheriff, sounding bored and motioning toward the deputy while rummaging noisily in his desk drawer, “this is Deputy Luke Davies.” Sheriff Morris pulled a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from the drawer. “He’s new.”

  Lenora turned toward the deputy. “How do you do?” she said, expecting no reply. She did not recognize the deputy from around the Territory. But she did remember that James had told her months back that Buffalo was preparing to hire a second lawman sometime this year. The sheriff’s office had been enlarged for his coming; the sweet fragrance of fresh lumber met Lenora’s nose the moment she stepped into the sparsely furnished room. She smiled a half-smile. Deputy Davies nodded politely a second time, made a semblance of a smile, and sat down.

  Just then a moisture bubble inside a piece of wood hissed sharply through the door of the wood stove next to the sheriff’s desk. Someone had recently put coffee on to boil. The gray speckled graniteware was beginning to make inviting little percolating sounds.

  “Now, Mrs. Rose, what do you mean by ‘missing’?” Sheriff Morris leaned back in his chair with his arms across his chest.

  Lenora was taken aback by the barely veiled skepticism that undergirded the sheriff’s inquiry. Missing meant missing. It wasn’t as if she was too simple minded to interpret the seriousness of the events of the last forty-eight hours. Bizarrely, as she was thinking this she noted a brass cuspidor to the side of the sheriff’s desk. She was glad she was seated at an angle that prevented a view of its odious contents. Her stomach was queasy enough without having to avert her eyes from an open bucket of spit.

  “I mean he didn’t come home. All night. He left the ranch on Saturday evening on horseback. I thought he’d be back by the time I put out the lamp, or perhaps by morning, but he never arrived.”

  “So you think something has happened to him, huh?” said the sheriff. He picked up the fountain pen and began making squiggly marks on the sheet of paper.

  Lenora glanced at his work. Doodling. The man was doodling. “I think it’s possible.” Wasn’t that a logical conclusion?

  “Did you ask around to your neighbors?”

  “No. I thought—”

  “Was he drunk?” Sheriff Morris leaned forward a bit, elbows on his desk, his large, rough fingers resting under a ragged gray mustache. He stared into Lenora’s eyes as if his glare alone would root out the truth.

  Lenora shrunk back a little in her chair. “You know James never imbibes.” Sheriff Morris’ insinuation stung, but Lenora wouldn’t allow herself to dissolve into a sloppy mess of nose-blowing, handkerchief-dabbing weeping womanhood. If she did, she surely she would irritate Sheriff Morris more than she already had. He was her only hope. She willed herself to stay calm.

  “Where did he say he was going?”

  “My husband chose not to reveal that information to me.” The facts, just the bare facts.

  “You mean to tell me that he jumped on his horse and rode away, in the damned dark, without giving you any idea where he was headed?”

  Sheriff Morris’s irritation fo
uled the air like an unpleasant body odor at a social gathering, unsettling Lenora despite her rehearsals on the long wagon ride to town meant to help her keep her poise. Hastily she unbuttoned the pearl clasp on her glove and reached into her bag for a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes quickly and discreetly, hoping to draw little attention to her increasing distress; but of course, it was too late for that now.

  And as if her lack of composure were not bad enough, there was the problem of the deputy, whose presence only served to heighten her humiliation. The law office was too cramped to allow privacy. She could not see him, but she could feel him still watching her, his eyes following her as continuously as her own shadow since she had stepped through the door, observing her every movement, absorbing her every tortured word.

  Between the two lawmen, Lenora felt as though she were on the witness stand and had just delivered damning testimony about James’ disappearance to a jury of her peers. One of them, to be sure, had already cast his vote to throw her in the hoosegow at best or condemn her to the gallows at worst. How the other would vote she was not sure. Nevertheless, she felt an absurd compulsion to trace her fingers around her throat to assure herself that her neck was still free of anything more constricting than her collar. Finding only the familiar ruffle of white lace she had sewn herself, she stiffened her back and continued with renewed spirit.

  “A husband is under no obligation to reveal to his wife all his business,” she said, searching for a timeworn route to reason the sheriff could understand. “My husband is not just my husband, Sheriff Morris. He’s my friend. But even I don’t know what he was thinking when he left Saturday night.”

  “Did he take food and water with him?

  “He left in haste. He packed no provisions.”

  “Was he armed?”

  “He left his Sharps behind.”

  “No rifle? He went out at night unarmed?”

  “He may have taken his revolver. I didn’t think to check the house for it.”

  Sheriff Morris glared at Lenora a few seconds. “Sounds like he was in a real bad hurry.” Then he halted his questions and stared at Lenora, dissecting her story with his eyes.

  The coffee pot rattled. Deputy Davies’ chair scraped the wood floor behind her. He walked to the stove and wordlessly grabbed a flour sack towel from where it hung on a nail and used it to push the coffee pot to a cooler part of the stove top. Like nearly all men she’d seen in the Territory, he was fit from a life of physical work, but he was much taller and broader than James. Lenora noted, somewhat absently, that he had lots of wavy brown hair, spare facial whiskers, and wore no wedding ring. Without a doubt a lot of girlish hearts had set to fluttering and swooning around Buffalo when Deputy Davies first rode into town.

  She shook herself. How could she notice such things about another man considering the grave business that had brought her to town? The strain of James’ disappearance was making her as mad as a March hare.

  Deputy Davies returned to his chair, out of Lenora’s sight. No one seemed interested in coffee right now.

  “Sheriff Morris,” she said finally to break the impasse, “It’s not like James to run off and leave me for two days.”

  “Oh? How long is he usually gone for?”

  Lenora blanched. “Sir, you misunderstand—”

  “No, Mrs. Rose. I understand real well. James got himself worked into a pother over God-knows-what you did or said and took off on his horse.”

  Lenora fingered her handkerchief trying to find a dry spot to wipe her eyes. She felt attacked. She felt naked, utterly stripped of the cloak that concealed her private thoughts. How could Sheriff Morris so keenly assess the situation she had brought to his door? She felt as if this evil man had peered into the darkest part of her mind; worse, he had put his finger inside and touched her there. She wanted nothing more than to finish this dreadful questioning business, obtain a promise of a search party, and run out of his office to the safety and privacy of the ranch.

  “Or else,” continued the sheriff, in a wicked tone befitting this twisted seek-and-find, “he’s found more comfort at Lydia’s place than at home.”

  Sheriff Morris’ reference to the brothel above the Buffalo Belles Saloon was outrageous to be sure, but it confirmed to Lenora that she had lost control of this interrogation; it was useless to spar.

  “I’m worried something unfortunate has befallen him.” Speaking aloud her fear made it spring to life. Lenora could no longer hold back the sobs. She covered her face with her handkerchief and gulped for air. “Perhaps,” she said, gasping for breath, “most husbands withhold parts of their lives from their wives, but my James does not. I trust him, and he trusts me.”

  Sheriff Morris snorted.

  How dare he! Something in Lenora’s heart shifted. She must fight for James. He was missing, possibly injured or dead, and this, this infuriating man wasn’t taking her seriously. In short order the tears stopped as anger fed by humiliation trumped fear. Rage began to bubble quietly from her core, like a hot spring deep within the earth. If she didn’t get away from this vile man soon she would burst forth with a steaming geyser of scalding retorts. She must not let that happen. James’ life was at stake. This was about him not her.

  “What did you do, Mrs. Rose, to make your husband run off and abandon you?”

  Before Lenora could form a response, the deputy moved suddenly in his chair, as if he were about to stand up, thought better of it, and sat down again. She avoided looking in his direction. She felt less visible if she didn’t make eye contact. No doubt the deputy was too enthralled with her salacious drama to do anything but listen. Just think of the gossip that would spice up every supper table around Buffalo this evening. The delicious story of James and Lenora Rose would be spooned up just after the onion soup but before the tea and custard. Yes, she was certain that the scandal of her life would be the main dish in every dining room in town. Well, she didn’t care. If that’s what she must suffer in order to find her missing husband and bring him home again, so be it.

  Through the thin office walls the clatter of a team of horses pulling a loaded wagon over frozen mud interrupted the interrogation. “Whoa!” shouted the driver, then the muffled thump of a man jumping to the ground and the snorting and pawing of large animals.

  Lenora used the brief interruption to compose herself. “My husband did not run off and leave me,” she said, “I didn’t do anything.” That was true. “It was after supper.” Also true. Then what? How to say it? “After we had finished eating, instead of going out to the porch with his pipe, as he always does, he got up and left. That’s all. He left and hasn’t returned.” Lenora had said enough, and though not a fully developed picture of the events of that night, it was all true. She fervently hoped that Sheriff Morris would see she was telling the truth, end his stupid questions, and immediately form a search party.

  “Mrs. Rose,” the sheriff finally said, standing up, signaling an end to their meeting, “Your husband is a solid citizen, a churchgoing man, and a smart rancher.”

  Lenora nodded, grateful for the softened tone in the sheriff’s voice, though she was guarded. She did not know how to read this man, which badly upset her apple wagon.

  “Everyone in this town will speak of his honesty and trustworthiness in business and whatever else he’s involved in. James Rose is a good man.”

  Lenora nodded again and stood up as well. Surely his words of praise meant something positive. Off to the side she heard the deputy politely stand up in anticipation of her exit.

  “James Rose,” the sheriff continued, leaning forward on the desk with both hands so that Lenora got a better look at his tobacco-stained whiskers, “is also the biggest hothead in all of Wyoming Territory.”

  Lenora gaped. James had a temper. But that didn’t mean he was hateful enough to abandon in a moment of passion his wife, his ranch, and the herd they’d worked so hard to build. James loved her. Even with his hot temper, he was a faithful husband who took care of his wife
. His love was stronger than his anger was hot.

  Wasn’t it?

  “I’d wager a week’s pay that your husband is off somewhere, waiting it out, hoping to put the fear of the Almighty in you. Probably thinks you’ve learned your lesson. Probably headed toward your place right now.”

  What an outrageous excuse for a sheriff!

  “Nevertheless,” he said, standing straight again, “if it makes you feel better, I’ll get some volunteers together and have them search the area around your ranch.”

  If it makes me feel better? This man was impossible.

  “Thank you again, Sheriff Morris,” said Lenora, extending her hand and smiling demurely.

  “I’ll send one of the men to your ranch if we have any news.”

  She thanked him again and somehow managed to add, “Good day.” She had gotten what she had come for, but ooh she was mad. Now she must flee this upsetting office, she must get outside into the brisk, head-clearing spring air, away from these arrogant lawmen while her eyes were still dry and while she still held the reins on her tongue. She turned to say something polite to the deputy but was so close to tears that all she could manage was a brief nod. Then she turned abruptly toward the street, and with a fetching swish of her voluminous petticoats, was out the door.

  #

  “Silly woman,” muttered the sheriff as the door clicked shut. Having taken no notes for the investigation, he sat down again and returned the paper and fountain pen to the drawer. When he looked up, he saw his deputy, who was still standing motionless behind his desk as he had been when Lenora made her brisk adieu.

  Deputy Davies stared, eyes transfixed either by his own imaginings or by whatever captivated his attention on the other side of the windows that flanked the office door—or both.

  “Whatcha looking at? I was polite,” said the sheriff, his tone brittle with mock defense.