Montana Maverick

by Ramona Flightner

  As she turned toward the café, she jumped as a figure emerged from the shadows of the buildings. “Gettin’ friendly with the banker?” Walter Jameson drawled as he stood in front of her. Although not a tall man, he loomed over her short frame. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed as he crossed his arms across his chest, a testament to the hours he had recently spent toiling in the nearby mines.

  “Please allow me to pass, Mr. Jameson.” She took a step to walk around him, but he matched her move, his mocking grin meeting her glare.

  “Now why should I do that for the woman intent on ruining my sister’s life?” He spat a thick wad of chewing tobacco near the tip of her boot and took a step closer to her.

  She ignored his attempt to intimidate her and held her ground. “I should think that was your role. You’ve done a wonderful job of it so far.”

  He bent down, his fetid breath mixed with coffee and whiskey wafting over her face. “How dare you imply I am not concerned about my sister’s welfare.” His greasy brown hair fell over his shoulders but did not obstruct the fire in his brown eyes.

  “You will never convince me that your concern for your sister is genuine. I know men like you.” She shook her head with disgust as that comment made him puff up with pride as though she had praised him. “You see her as valuable as long as you hope to gain something from her.”

  She gasped as he gripped her arm in a punishing hold. “Your articles are making her a laughingstock in town. They are ruining her reputation. You must cease writing about her.”

  She jerked on her arm but was unable to free herself. “If you are that concerned, perhaps you should speak with the lawyer about a lawsuit.”

  Walter scowled. “That man is contemptible and will never be worthy of my sister.”

  Jessamine frowned in confusion as she attempted to discern the riddle of his words. “Is that because you are unable to manipulate him as you would like?” Her cognac-colored eyes lit with amusement as she saw agreement in his gaze. “I’ve always wondered why you never encouraged your sister to approach Mr. Clark.”

  Walter opened his mouth as though to say something and then clamped it shut again.

  “There is a story here,” she murmured.

  He leaned forward until she arched away from him, her arm still in his hand’s vise. “You will cease your interest in my sister. She will marry a MacKinnon this time.”

  “What happens if she doesn’t?” Jessamine asked, ignoring the ache in her arm.

  “She will discover what happens when she disappoints Mother and me.” He smiled malevolently as Jessamine shivered at his words.

  After a moment she leaned forward as though desirous of a more intimate conversation with him. She saw interest flare in his eyes a second before her boot heel struck the toe of his boot. She wrenched her arm free as he yelped in pain. “Don’t ever think to hold me against my will again, Mr. Jameson. For I believe the lawyer is respectable. Perhaps it is you who is beneath our regard and thus not worthy of speaking to the lawyer.”

  She pushed past him, walking at a rapid pace toward the café.

  Fact or Fiction? For our latest edition, I have a woodsman’s tale from a miner at the Obsidian Camp. Is it Fact or Fiction?

  According to local legend, the ghost of a cougar haunts our peaceful town on dark, lonely nights, especially on moonless nights, emerging from shadows when you least expect it. Valuables and perishables disappear after each sighting, and some in town refuse to leave home after dusk due to their fear of meeting with the wretched ghost.

  It all began around the time of the town’s inception, when Bear Grass Springs was known as Bachson. One day town cofounder Mr. Bachman stumbled into town, bloodied and battered, his clothes in tatters, dragging the carcass of a cougar behind him. The cougar, half starved after the harsh winter and dry summer, had leaped from his perch in a tall tree, tasting success with each bite until the brawny man wrestled with the mad beast and broke its neck. Not one to wait for help, Mr. Bachman emerged from the forest and into the town’s only saloon, demanding a stiff shot of whiskey before he was patched up.

  You tell me. Is this Fact or Fiction?

  Ewan entered the café and sat at a table toward the middle of the room. He nodded to Harold and sipped appreciatively from a cup of coffee placed in front of him. He had foregone a lunch at home and had decided to visit with Harold and Irene while also grabbing a quick meal. He leaned back in his chair as he listened to the men near him debate the latest newspaper article.

  One man doggedly argued for fact, while the other dug in his heels that it was fiction.

  “All’s I know is that I’ve seen that ghost a time or two,” the man behind Ewan said in a deep voice. “I hate bumping into it after I leave the Waterin’ Hole.”

  “You see it because you’re leaving the saloon! You’re too drunk to know what you’re looking at,” said his friend in a slightly higher-pitched voice.

  “No, I’ve seen that cougar, and it’s always a harbinger of ill will,” the first man said. “Besides, you should not speak ill of the dead. Mr. Bachman suffered at the hands of Mr. Erickson before he died.”

  The friend snorted. “They were drunk scoundrels, and you know it. I’ll think what I like about our town founders. That journalist didn’t even bother to mention our other town founder in her tale.”

  Ewan fought a smile and met Harold’s amused glance as he ignored the bickering friends. “What do ye think?” He nodded his thanks for the coffee refill and the bowl of venison stew with a thick piece of bread.

  “What I think and what I know are two entirely different matters,” Harold said with a laugh. “That young journalist is smart. Someone fed her a tale about Liver-Eating Johnson, and you all enjoyed it.” He watched as Ewan flushed with embarrassment. “He never had no wife living in the wilderness, and the only Indians he had problems with were the Sioux.”

  Ewan frowned. “Now ye’ll tell me that his name was no’ Johnson.”

  Harold shrugged. “It’s easy to reinvent yourself in a place like our Montana Territory. I imagine a man such as he did the same.” He chuckled. “To make that man’s actions sound honorable, oh, what a farce!”

  Ewan crossed his arms over his chest as he studied Harold for signs of trickery. “How did he earn his name?”

  Harold shook his head. “How would I know? I imagine some fool he was with gave it to him, and it stuck. Why is Fast-Draw Larson called that? We all know he’d be dead before his pistol left his holster if he were ever in a duel.”

  Ewan huffed in frustration. “Ye’ll no’ distract me from this discussion. Is that Johnson no’ a lawman now?”

  Harold shrugged. “I think he was for a time near Billings. He might still be. But he was no hero and he never outsmarted an Indian tribe.”

  Ewan blew on a spoonful of the hot stew as he again focused on his meal. “I imagine yer grandsons ken him.”

  Harold shook his head. “They have no reason to know the sheriff of Red Lodge.” Then he laughed. “And, if they do, I don’t want to know about it.” He watched Ewan. “What do you reckon about the newest tale?”

  “Seems fiction to me. I walk home late most nights, an’ I’ve never seen a ghost.” He shivered. “But I ken ye shouldna doubt them. That’s when they make themselves known, ye ken?”

  Harold laughed. “You Scots always were superstitious.” He slapped Ewan on the back. “I would say I wouldn’t put such a yarn past either one of those men. Except they would have found a way to make money off of it.” Harold chuckled. “If it had happened, the poor beast’s pelt would be enshrined in the Hall!” He fought another chuckle and moved on to the next table.

  After eating, Ewan returned to the worksite behind the café which buzzed with his men working and with conversation about the cougar ghost. Consensus among his men was that there most likely was a ghost but that the man would have stabbed the cougar, not broken its neck. “So ye think it’s both fact and fiction?” Ewan asked as he swiped a
hand over his forehead, smearing wood dust into his sweat.

  Ben nodded. “Yeah, that would make the most sense. Nothing else does.”

  Ewan laughed. “The whole story sounds like a pile of horse dung to me.” He scratched at his head before hefting a board.

  Ben shrugged as he held the board in place, and Ewan began to hammer. “Perhaps, but it’s a darned good story. I can’t wait to see what she writes next week.”

  Ewan studied Ben a moment, frowning at the excitement in his eyes before he glanced at his men. “Are ye intent on purchasin’ her paper now?”

  Ben nodded. “It doesn’t cost much, and I had to wait until almost noontime to read the copy passed around today. I want to see what she publishes next week.” He called out to one of the men to bring Ewan more nails.

  Ewan nodded his thanks as he continued to hammer in the board with ease and efficiency. “I wonder if this will finally bring her success.”

  Ben’s smile broadened as he watched his friend. “Among her News and Noteworthy column, the town’s fascination with you, and now with this newest section, I think she will be as successful as a small-town newspaperwoman can be.”

  Ewan knocked on Alistair’s door, slapping his brother on the shoulder as he answered. He shucked his jacket and hung it on a peg by the door before following his brother into the living area to the right of the main hallway. The house was similar to Cailean’s, with a sitting room on one side of the house and a large room with a kitchen and dining area on the left. A staircase in the hallway led to three bedrooms upstairs, rather than four as in Cailean’s house.

  Ewan warmed his hands over the stove for a moment before sitting in a chair beside Cailean. “Why did ye want to meet with us here rather than at the family house?”

  Alistair shrugged. “Leticia wanted time with Anna, and Hortence likes to play with her aunt, Sorcha. Seemed easier for us to meet here and to let them have their time without us at the bigger house.” He smiled as he thought about his wife, Leticia and daughter, Hortence. “Hortence was restless, and I dinna think she would have been happy remainin’ here.”

  “Ah, wee Hortence. She’s a good lass,” Cailean murmured.

  Alistair nodded as he thought about his daughter, whom he had considered his own long before he had formally adopted her. “Aye, although I worry she’s sufferin’ due to that journalist.”

  Ewan frowned. “Why? That woman hasna written more about her after that horrible comment in the newspaper the first week she was in town.” He shook his head as he thought about Jessamine picking on a young girl because her father was a thief and a liar. Thankfully, the MacKinnons were well respected, and Alistair had made it clear he considered Hortence his daughter. Few were willing to risk angering Alistair, and Jessamine had never written about her again.

  Alistair stared at the stove a moment and swallowed as though trying to control his rage with as much ease. “I’d forgotten how cruel we were when we were children.”

  Cailean furrowed his brow. “Were we cruel?”

  Ewan shrugged as he stretched his legs in front of him and slouched in his chair. “We teased wee Angus MacDonald for believin’ his father a great war chief.”

  Alistair winced. “Poor wee bugger was naught but a bastard. Needed to believe in somethin’, and we lorded over him that we went home to our own da every night.” He sighed. “This is what I mean.”

  “Teasin’ never killed anyone, Alistair,” Cailean said.

  “Nae, but it can kill your spirit. An’ I’m afraid ’tis killin’ wee Hortence’s, an’ she’s just seven years old.” He shared a worried glance with his brothers. “Ye ken how Hortence doesna like her red hair? How the children tease her about it?” The brothers nodded. “I learned today it has only worsened since that journalist arrived.”

  Ewan sighed. “Ye canna blame the poor woman for havin’ red hair!”

  “Nae, but she isna makin’ friends. An’ she acts outside the bounds of propriety. There are whispers she kens more than she should about the Boudoir.” Alistair glared at Ewan as he burst out laughing.

  “I’ve never seen the woman there, an’ I’m there most nights. I imagine those rumors were started by men she spurned. Or by Mrs. Jameson.”

  Cailean tilted his head to one side as though in deep contemplation. “Either way, it doesn’t help Hortence. She already battled terrible teasing with her red hair last year. What do the children say now?”

  Alistair clenched his jaw and then his fist, his eyes a molten brown. “That she willna ever marry, as no man could love a red-haired woman. That she will end up alone, like the journalist, despised and unwanted.”

  “Eejits!” Ewan yelled. “How can they say such things to a wee lass?” He frowned as he looked at Alistair. “Hortence kens none of that’s true, does she no’? She kens we love her and always will?”

  Alistair shrugged. “I think so, but she has doubts.”

  Cailean growled. “She should only have certainty.”

  Alistair rose and paced. “’Tis near to tearin’ Leticia’s heart out,” he rasped. “An’ my own. I dinna ken how to soothe this hurt.”

  Ewan rose and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. “Ye do what ye’ve always done, Al. Ye show them yer love every day. With yer constancy. Yer kindness. Yer compassion. This will pass.”

  Alistair shook his head. “I fear too many remain angered over Leticia’s deception this summer. I should have kent better than to believe a party and a piece of cake would soothe their ire.”

  Cailean snorted. “No one in this town is above reproach. If we don’t know that, we soon will with all the reporter is publishing.” He sat in deep thought a moment. “From what I hear, the new teacher has little control over the classroom, and many parents are yearning for the days when Leticia was the teacher. That sentiment will spread, and her deception will be forgotten as the townsfolk remember her dedication to the children she taught.”

  Alistair sighed and sat again. “I hope what ye say is true, Cail. But waitin’ for that day is a challenge. An’ I canna wish for Leticia’s agony to ease at the expense of the new teacher.”

  Ewan shook his head. He remained standing and leaned against a window frame. “Do ye ken I’ve never seen him in command of his students when I walk by the school? I pass by frequently on my way to the sawmill. All I see is chaos an’ mayhem.”

  Cailean shared a rueful look with Ewan. “I wonder how long he’ll remain in Bear Grass Springs?”

  Alistair sighed. “An’ the problem is no’ that we need a new teacher. It’s that we need a second. Forty-four students is too much for one, and Leticia kent that. If we had money for another teacher, everything would be different.”

  Ewan shrugged. “You ken there are those in town who dinna want to spend the money on the one teacherage, never mind two.” He shook his head. “How do they think the wee ones will succeed if they are ignorant?”

  Cailean snorted. “Ignorant and uneducated are two different things, and you well know it. Plenty of those same people who would deny the children an education had one, and they are the most ignorant in town.” He sighed. “However, from what I hear at the livery, townsfolk are most interested in other improvement projects. If all the tax money were focused on the school, there would be discontent.”

  Alistair sighed. “Aye, especially considering we are plannin’ to add a gamblin’ tax.” He shook his head. “Timmons eyed my pitchfork with a bit too much interest today when he visited the livery. Seemed interested in stabbin’ me with it.”

  Ewan scoffed as he thought about the owner of the Stumble-Out Saloon. “He’s too worried about the profits he makes from the gamblers.”

  Alistair shrugged. “’Twould be a help if that reporter were less sharp tongued and in favor of what we propose. Instead she seems most interested in inciting unease and mistrust.”

  Ewan moved to sit next to his brothers. “Aye, Warren couldna have done a worse job in his choice of reporter. However”—he made a motion with
his hand as though returning to their original topic—“’tis no’ her fault she has red hair, no more than it is Hortence’s. An’ although I dinna like all she reports, she should no’ be judged by appearances any more than anyone else.”

  Alistair snorted. “Perhaps. But she should ken that someday she will wish for friendship, rather than animosity.”

  Cailean nodded. “Aye.” He smiled as Ewan looked pleased at the prospect of the reporter receiving her just deserts.

  Chapter 3

  News & Noteworthy: One wonders why a man, who reportedly adored his son, left him at the mercy of others. If the MacKinnon family did not fear having the man at their home, wouldn’t they offer him a bed in the house rather than expect him to live in the tack room and to sleep on a cot? It makes one wonder if they are more concerned than they tell the townsfolk that savage blood wins out. The father’s death did seem precipitously fast …

  Ewan entered the new worksite in mid-October and glared at his men. “I dinna want to hear about anythin’ that woman wrote.” He stormed to the side of the room, where he had a workbench and plans tacked on the wall. He leaned on the bench, his hands gripping the wood with such ferocity that his knuckles turned white. After a few deep breaths, he focused on the drawing in front of him.

  “Ewan,” Ben whispered.

  Ewan held up a hand and took a deep breath. “I dinna want to talk about the vile filth spewed in her column today.” He glared at his friend and worker.

  Ben nodded and lowered his voice to the point Ewan barely heard him. “I understand. But the men are upset. And I’ve heard mumblings about starting a group to liberate your family from such a danger.”

  Ewan threw down the pencil and shook his head. “Dammit!” He let out a piercing whistle that sounded over the sawing and nailing. His men spun to face him, ceasing their work. “I will have yer attention.”