The Listening Sky

by Dorothy Garlock

  Sunday had been delighted to break the news to Paralee.

  “He what? Married that old maid? She’s twenty-five years old if she’s a day.”

  “Yup, he married her, and they’re as happy as a pair of bear cubs in a honey tree.”

  “He could’a had any woman in town without havin’ to marry her” Paralee’s pouty face was creased in an expression of disbelief.

  “Ya mean he could’a had any whore in town. There’s a mite a difference ‘tween a whore and a lady, Paralee. But guess you’d not be knowin’ about that.”

  “And you would?”

  “I know yo’re no lady.”

  Paralee’s mouth tightened and her eyes sparkled with anger. She would like nothing more than to jump on the blond bitch and scratch her eyes out. But there was no need for that. She had another weapon.

  “Ya think yo’re so all-fired smart! Ever’body in town knows ya’ve set yore sights on Colin Tallman. I’m here to tell ya that ya’ve got ‘bout as much chance a gettin’ him as ya’ve gota gettin’ Abe Lincoln.”

  Sunday laughed. “Lincoln’s dead! Ya dummy. Didn’t ya know that?”

  “He… is?”

  Bessie laughed.

  Minnie snickered.

  Paralee’s face reddened as her blood rose to the boiling point.

  “Patrice’s been pukin’ her guts out ever’ mornin’ since she come here. Go ask her whose kid she’s carryin’.”

  “Now why’d it matter to me whose kid Miss Snooty-puss is carryin’?”

  “Oh, it’d matter when she tells ya why she come lookin’ for Colin Tallman and why she’s so scared her husband’s goin’ to find her.”

  “Me and Miss Snooty-puss ain’t been to no tea parties together… lately. And ain’t had no chance to share confidences.”

  “Ain’t ya sharin’ the same man?”

  “Are ya diggin’ for dirt to spread?”

  “I don’t have to dig. Patrice come right out and told me. She’s scared her Ramon’ll fly off the handle and kill her when she tells him it… ain’t… his… kid!” Paralee finished with a smirk on her face.

  “So it ain’t his kid. It’s no business of mine, or yores, whose kid it is.”

  “It’ll be Colin Tallman’s business unless he’s got ‘em sprinkled about like raindrops and one more ain’t going to make no never mind.” Paralee waved her arms.

  Sunday’s desire to slap the girl was so strong that she clenched her fists and buried them in the pockets of her skirt. She would have died before she would let the jealous bitches know that just the hint that Patrice’s child was Colin’s had cut her to the quick. So she laughed… again.

  “Got to hand it to ya. That tongue a yores is hooked in the middle so it can wag at both ends. But I didn’t come to listen to yore gossip. Mr. Kilkenny sent me to tell ya three bright, upstanding ladies to pack up and get yore butts out of here.” Sunday knew how to use her voice in an insulting way. She did that now.

  “Why’s he sendin’ word by you? Why didn’t he come hisself?” This came from Bessie, who usually let Paralee do the talking.

  “He’s busy… with his new wife.”

  “Doin’ what? Cuddlin’ up with that prissy old maid’d be like lovin’ up to a sack a turnips that’s been in the cellar all winter. And”—she cast a knowing glance at Paralee—”a man that’s needin’ lovin’ ain’t wantin’ no sack a turnips. I can tell ya that.” Both girls giggled.

  “I ain’t doubtin’ that. Ya’ve hugged up to ever’ horny lumberjack within a mile of ya. Now let me tell ya somethin’. If I hear of ya dirtyin’ Jane’s name, I’ll find ya and I’ll beat the tar out of both of ya!” By the time Sunday had finished she was shouting. Her patience was stretched almost to the limit.

  The threat sobered both girls. Sunday continued in a calmer voice.

  “Mr. Kilkenny said for you to move into the room behind the kitchen at the hotel today. You can work there, earnin’ yore keep. He’s goin’ to turn this place into a bunkhouse for men who can’t afford the hotel. Maybe he’ll rent you the corner behind the curtain and ya can earn ya a nickel or two lyin’ flat on yore back. It ain’t smart to give it away even if it ain’t worth much,” she added the insults calmly.

  Sunday was so hurt and angry that she hardly knew what she was saying. She glanced at the dark-haired Minnie, who had worked as a laundress at the army camp. Minnie never took part in Bessie’s and Paralee’s jealous attacks on Jane. She had lowered her head and appeared to be embarrassed.

  “Minnie, I didn’t mean any of that for you, but you keep trailin’ with these two and ya’ll be painted with the same brush they are.”

  “Ya want to explain that?” Paralee asked.

  “Wouldn’t do no good. The two of ya ain’t got the sense God gave one of them turnips yo’re so fond of.”

  Sunday left the henhouse feeling as if she had been kicked in the gut by a mule. Was Paralee trying to get her goat, or was what she said true? Last night she had been sure Colin liked her as much as she liked him.

  Not one to dally around and stew over a bit of news tossed out by the likes of Paralee and Bessie, Sunday headed down the street, scarcely noticing the people she passed. If Colin Tallman was the kind of man to take another man’s wife to bed, she had to know it now, and the only way to find out was straight from the horse’s mouth.

  She reached the hotel and walked quickly up the steps and onto the porch. The man sent to run the hotel was short, bald, and very businesslike. Sunday had met him the day he arrived. He was in the lobby rolling out a small piece of carpet when Sunday entered:

  “What room is Mrs. Cabeza in?”

  “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “That’s easy. We only have four guests at the present time. She’s in room three. Top of the stairs on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sunday went up the stairs. Three weeks of work on the building had put it in good shape. The work was continuing. She’d heard Jeb say that eight of the ten rooms were ready for guests. It was grand, Sunday thought, what money could do, but she’d not heard of it fixin’ broken dreams.

  She rapped on the door of room three, rapped again and waited.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sunday Polinski. Open the door.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  Sunday heard the key in the lock and the door opened a crack. She pushed it open and came into the room. Patrice was wearing a dressing gown. Her hair was down about her shoulders. Her face was pale and she had dark circles under her eyes. The chamber pot was by the bed and the room smelled of vomit.

  “What do you want?”

  “You been pukin’?”

  “I doubt you came to inquire about my health, so say what you came to say and get out.” Patrice sank down on the edge of the bed.

  “Who’s kid ya carryin’?” Sunday demanded.

  Startled, Patrice looked up. Her large dark eyes took in the misery on Sunday’s usually cheerful face. She began to smile and brushed the heavy black hair back from her face.

  “The little farm filly is not quite as stupid as I thought she was. But I guess the situation has to be made plain to her.” Patrice stood and adjusted the belt on her dressing gown so that the folds fell open to partially reveal the globes of her swollen breasts.

  “Why do you think I left a home where I was waited on hand and foot to come to this godforsaken place? Even you should have been able to figure it out. I came to find Colin Tallman, my one and only love.”

  “Is the kid his?”

  “We were together a couple of months ago. Do you think he could have resisted the temptation?”

  “Yore husband ain’t carin’ that ya get in another man’s bed?”

  “I’ve not slept with Ramon for months and months. Anyway, he’s worthless as far as fatherhood is concerned or he’d have brats scattered all over New Mexico. He’ll know it isn’t his.”

  “Then why’er ya scared he’l
l find out?”

  “Pride. He’ll be duty-bound to try to kill Colin. I’m not in the least worried about that. Colin can take care of himself.”

  “Is Colin the pa?”

  “Who else? Certainly not T.C. Kilkenny!” Patrice lifted her brows and smiled.

  It was all Sunday needed to know. Her dreams died a sudden death. Her heart felt empty. It was as if she had lost some part of herself. Misery was eating her alive! She had to get out fast before she made more of a fool of herself. In her anxiety to leave, she never even noticed the satisfied smirk on Patrice’s face.

  When she left the room, she slammed the door and walked quickly down the stairs and out onto the boardwalk. Her eyes were bright and dry. Singlemindely heading for the rooming house and the privacy of her room, she never heard Colin call her name. He had come out of the store and was crossing the street to intercept her.

  “Sunday… wait—”

  She heard him when he called the second time, and she slammed to a halt and turned. At the sight of his smiling face, she took a deep breath. When she released it, anger boiled up.

  “Where ya goin’? Mrs. Henderson’s makin’ a weddin’ cake. I’m gettin’ the stuff from the store.”

  “I’m surprised ya got time.”

  “I am in sort of a yank.”

  “In too big a yank to go get yore rocks hauled by that Mexican whore up at the hotel?”

  At first Colin thought she was teasing, but these were pretty raw words. Then the look on her face told him that she was not teasing. She was angry, very angry. She glared at him with deep-rooted dislike on her face. It was a face he had not seen before. It was one without a smile.

  “What put a bee in yore bonnet?”

  Sunday took another deep breath to steady herself and spoke in a low, controlled voice, as she balled her fist and prepared to hit him if he came an inch closer.

  “What put a bee in my bonnet, Mr. Colin Tallman, was you makin’ up to me last night when ya been playin’ around in Mrs. Cabeza’s drawers.”

  “What?” Colin was stunned into silence for a second. “What in holy blazes are you talkin’ about?” He reached for her arm, but she drew back and made another fist. He stepped back, sure she meant to strike him.

  “Touch me and I’ll… bust you in the mouth! Get the hell away from me and stay away, or I swear I’ll shoot yore blamed head off and save her husband the trouble.”

  With head up, back ramrod-straight, Sunday marched on down the street, leaving Colin shocked and perplexed. He stood for a moment, then went back across the street to the store.

  Upstairs in the hotel, Patrice stood beside the window where she could look down on the street. She saw Colin come out of the store and cross the street to where Sunday waited. She watched them talk and saw Sunday, clearly angry, go down the boardwalk leaving Colin looking after her. Patrice wasn’t sure, but she thought he glanced up at her hotel room.

  With a satisfied smirk she began to pretty herself up in case a visitor might be on his way.

  It was not the best day for some people in Timbertown. Both Colin and Sunday believed it was the worst day of their lives. Jane spent most of the day sleeping and was unaware of all that was going on. Maude and Polly tiptoed into the room now and then, worried that she was sleeping too much.

  To the single women who had secretly hoped T.C. would notice them, his marriage to Jane was a disappointment. Much of the conversation centered on how she had landed the prize. Paralee and Bessie fabricated a version that took root since there was no other explanation. They claimed Jane had crawled into T.C.’s bed and that the two of them had been caught by Maude Henderson, who had shamed T.C. Kilkenny into marrying the strumpet.

  To the women who had received nothing but kindness from Jane when they took their children to the surgery, however, the news meant that she would be staying on. They liked her and wished her happiness.

  On this day of all days, T.C. had to deal with three more freight wagons that arrived. He posted Herb at the house and told him not to let anyone in who had not been there the night before. Colin checked in the freight, even though his mood was far from pleasant.

  T.C. attempted to settle a squabble between the hotel cook and the hotel manager. The cook was not pleased with anything in the kitchen, nor was he pleased with the help that had been provided.

  “It isn’t Delmonico’s, for God’s sake!” T.C. shouted in frustration. By the time both parties had calmed down, T.C. was tempted to fork the cook on a horse and run him out of town.

  On the other end of the scale, Mrs. Brackey had worked companionably alongside the men setting up the equipment in her tonsorial parlor, and her place of business was due to open the next day.

  The courier returned from the train stop with the mail pouch, and in it was the news that the first stage would arrive in a week’s time. Notices had been sent to be posted in all public places. A small building next to the hotel would serve as the station.

  A letter from Garrick Rowe, sent from Laramie, said that within the next week or so the new doctor would make the trip to Timbertown on his new stage line. He was asking about the accommodations at the hotel.

  At noon Tennihill rode in, dropped his horse off at the livery and, after stopping to chat a minute with a disgruntled Colin, went in search of T.C. He found him at a cluttered desk, cursing at the stack of bills of lading given him by the freighters.

  “Howdy.” Tennihill strolled in leisurely. T.C. wondered if the man was ever in a hurry.

  “Have a seat, Tennihill.”

  “Heard ya got married this mornin’. Hell of a way to spend yore weddin’ day.” He took the makings of a cigarette from his pocket and rolled a smoke.

  “I agree. What’s on your mind?”

  “Ya know, I been a watching the feller that calls hisself Milo Callahan.”

  “Calls himself? I thought you were sure who he was.”

  Tennihill grinned. “Feller ort never be sure of anythin’ but dyin.”

  “I wondered why a man like you would be hanging around in a town like this.”

  “Ya’d be surprised at the places I’ve hung out in when somebody’s payin’ the tab. Back to Callahan. He got run out of the Bitterroot country over around Spencer a year ago. It was not proved but was believed he hired a couple a timber scum to kidnap a young girl and ruin her.”

  T.C.’s head came up. “Did they?”

  “No, and they got a dose a lead for tryin’. Callahan had got hisself drunk and passed out in the bunkhouse so he’d not be blamed, but the ones that done it was his boot-lickers. He’s not welcome in any timber camp in the Bitterroot.” Tennihill struck a match on the bottom of his boot and lit his cigarette before he continued.

  “To shorten the story, Callahan’s got some money comin’ from his step-pa. If this feller was the right one, I was to send him back to Coeur d’Alene.”

  “Is he the right one?”

  “I ain’t one hundred percent sure.” Tennihi11 grinned again.

  T.C. snorted an obscenity.

  “I took notice a Bob Fresno right off,” Tennihill said in his slow drawl. “Heard about him up around Great Falls. Heard a feller named Fresno took a widder woman for ever’ cent she had, then beat the tar outta her. He’s a mean one, but a smooth-type feller. I don’t doubt there’s a wanted poster out on him. I just don’t happen to have one.”

  “I could send word to Laramie and find out.”

  “Might not be a bad idey. Got to thinkin’ he’d be interested in the happenin’ this mornin’, knowin’ he didn’t take his eyes off Miss Jane, er… Mrs. Kilkenny, at the buryin’ and got him a chance to rub up against her at the table. I saddled my horse and rode over to where they was workin’ on that old shack him and Callahan was figurin’ on winterin’ in.”

  “I couldn’t stop them from staying there,” T.C. put in.” “But Jeb and I already ruled them out of any work for Rowe Lumber Company. Fresno knows next to nothing about logging, and Callahan’s too reck
less and too much of a hothead for dangerous work.”

  “Figured it. Makin’ out as I was stoppin’ to pass the day, I handed them the news of the weddin’ kind a casual-like. Fresno didn’t say nothin’ right at the start. Just stood and stared at me. Then lightnin’-quick he threw the hammer right through the wall of that old shack.”

  “Callahan have nothin’ to say?” T.C. asked.

  “He kind a hee-hawed Fresno. Crowed, ‘cause he’s been diddlin’ with the girl, Bessie, and Fresno don’t have no woman. He’d been braggin’ that he was gettin’ Miss Jane.”

  “I’ll see him in hell first!”

  “Knowed ya’d feel that way. Callahan kept crowin’ Fresno, and ‘bout got hisself gut-shot. Man’s a pretty fair hand with a gun. Drawed it, an’ Callahan ‘bout wet his drawers.”

  “Pity it wasn’t the other way around.”

  “I moseyed on off but doubled back and stayed out of sight. They packed up all their gear and rode south. I followed for about ten miles. I ain’t sure when they’ll be back, but I got a feelin’ ya’ve not seen the last of them.”

  “Where we goin’, Fresno?”

  “Place I know.”

  Aware that Bob was in a black mood, Milo had been riding alongside him for miles without asking the question.

  “Never did know why ya wanted to sign on to work here,” Milo grumbled. “Hell, they ain’t got nothin’ compared to Callahan Lumber.”

  “If they got so damn much, why aren’t ya there?”

  “I got my reasons.”

  “Yeah? Run ya off, didn’t they?”

  Milo bristled. “What’d ya mean by that?”

  Bob didn’t answer. He had too much on his mind to waste time explaining to a dumbhead. He and Milo had been at the stage station trying to decide if they wanted to sign up to work for Rowe Lumber when Jane had arrived.

  One look at her, haughty and cold, and Bob’s decision has been made. She was poor as Job’s turkey. He had noticed the worn shawl and shoes. But she had class, and that was what he was interested in. If she was alone and down on her luck, and she’d had to be to come to a one-horse, rundown town, she’d appreciate what they could do together, once she got to know him.