Eliza lowered her gaze. “I don’t know him. I went to play with the kitten he’s got.”
The stout woman shuddered with disapproval. “That strange spinster, Pandora Flanders, saved a litter from being drowned and accosted everyone to take one. She even got that half-breed Apache, Colt Riverside, to take a pair of kittens. I expect by now he’ll have fried them for his supper. Those savage Indians will eat anything.”
Eliza swallowed. She felt as if she were drowning beneath the tirade of ill will that flowed from the widow like a river in spring flood. “I’ve seen Miss Flanders around,” Eliza commented. “Lars Sorensen says she is a scientist, just like her father.”
“Education is wasted on women.” The widow gave a dismissive snort. “At eighteen, you’re still young and fresh, and if we work hard, we’ll find you a husband.” Her calculating eyes raked up and down Eliza’s thin frame. “Your father says the lease on your rented property is up, and you must move into my house. The place is too small. Children are a blessing I’ve been grateful to do without, and I have no wish for the situation to change. I want you out of my house before the summer is over.”
Eliza felt as if the air had been robbed out of her lungs. For a moment, she’d gloried in the prospect of friendship, of motherly concern and domestic harmony. What a fool she’d been. The widow didn’t want to be kind. The woman just wanted to make her presentable, so she could snare a husband and stop cluttering up her house.
“I’m sure you and my father will be very happy together.” The bitter remark rose from her aching heart. “In fact, I think you’re perfectly matched.”
The widow’s heavy chin wobbled as she nodded. “Rhett Bartlett is a highly eligible young man,” she continued her sermon. “I don’t really care what kind of man you’ll marry, as long as he’s not colored or Indian. I’ll not have those in the family. The Irish drink. The Germans beat their wives. Mexicans are arrogant, Italians are spineless, and the Nordic races cling to their pagan religions. Most men visit the saloon and have foul personal habits. It’s up to you to find one that you can tolerate.”
Gritting her teeth to hold back a sob, Eliza nodded. No one wanted her. She was a burden, and because there were no employment opportunities for women in this isolated country, she was trapped in her miserable life, forced to obey her father.
Feeling crushed by the weight of despair, she turned and set off toward home.
“By the end of the summer!” The woman’s cold voice chased after her.
Eliza tried to shut the encounter out of her mind. She attempted to reach back to the scene behind the livery stable with Joaquin Pereira. She didn’t know why he’d kissed her, but for the first time in her life, she’d felt cherished. In the safety of his arms, the fear that ate at her day and night had receded. Now it was back, pounding through her temples, crawling upon her skin.
Always afraid. Was terror really all that life had in store for her?
Back to Contents
Chapter Three
For the third night that week, a drunken cow puncher tried to start a brawl at The Watering Hole. Joaquin was too agitated to go easy on the man. Although no more than medium height, he possessed a wiry strength that others underestimated. All week long, he’d used his fists to talk. He had to do something to release the tension. Otherwise, the memory of how he’d kissed Eliza Hargreaves would drive him mad.
Joaquin had won the cantina on the turn of a card. Tired of making his living as a gambler, he’d inspected the building, which had once housed the stage coach depot. Pink adobe walls kept the interior dark and cool. The restaurant had gone out of business when the previous owner took to drink after the death of his wife, but all equipment remained. In the main room, he’d found four sets sturdy chairs and solid oak tables, and the big cooking stove in the kitchen had worked fine after he’d scraped off the thick layer of grease.
He’d decided to stay. While he was sweeping out the dead mice and tossing the rotten supplies onto a bonfire at the back, a sharp-tongued Mexican woman had walked over from the Mockingbird Saloon to see what he was up to. Getting too old to earn her living on her back, she’d bluntly told him that her name was Alvira, and she was his new cook.
Joaquin had shrugged his shoulders in acceptance. A cook seemed a good idea.
Now, fifteen months later, The Watering Hole served the best food between El Paso and Yuma. Everyone was welcome, provided they had money to pay and showed respect to the small altar Joaquin had set up in the corner by the door. Every evening, he lit a candle in front of the small painting of the Madonna and the collection of postcards of the saints, and knelt on the square flagstone he’d embedded into the earth floor.
He prayed for the souls of the dead, and forgiveness for his own.
Tonight, after he’d kicked the yelling and cussing cowboy into the darkness of the courtyard, Joaquin returned inside. Belligerent, he stood with his feet braced apart, fists raised. “Who’s next?” he growled. “Anyone else want to insult my parents by calling me a bastard or my country by calling me a Mexican bastard or my religion by calling me a Catholic bastard?”
“How about your prices by calling you a mean bastard?” an amiable voice called out from the doorway. “Since when did a shot of whiskey cost more than two bits?”
Joaquin whirled to see Peter Sorensen standing at the entrance. The owner of the mercantile was a broad shouldered man who looked too young to have two strapping sons in their twenties. Joaquin lowered his fists. Of all the people in Lone Gulch, Peter Sorensen had made him feel the most welcome when he’d decided to stay.
“Since I started to order my liquor from you,” Joaquin muttered. “I was better off hauling it myself from the railroad. I have a good mind to start doing that again.”
“So, you don’t see any problem in closing the place for a week to take a trip?”
Joaquin frowned. “What’s this about?”
By the serving counter, Alvira banged a spoon against a whiskey bottle. When Joaquin turned to look, she raised an eyebrow and angled her head toward a pair of rowdy cowboys at the nearest table. Joaquin held up his index finger. One drink, then no more. They’d never agreed the code. It had just developed between them.
Joaquin knew that Alvira had a daughter with two small children in Bisbee. That’s about the extent of personal information they had shared, despite the fact that Joaquin slept on the floor in the cantina and Alvira occupied a cot in the store room.
“Do you value this town?” Sorensen asked.
Joaquin glared at the man through narrowed eyes. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Because this town values you,” Sorensen continued, ignoring his bristling temper. “In fact, we value you so much that we’re appointing you our new part-time sheriff.”
“The hell you are.”
“Give it some thought.” Sorensen lowered his voice. “You’ve chosen to stay in Lone Gulch. When you first arrived, people were afraid you’d turn this place into a gambling den. Now they know better. They respect you. If you do this for the town, you’ll be accepted by everyone. You’ll be able to court decent girls, go to church if it pleases you. If you fix up the back part of the building, the town will have a hotel once more. You’ll belong.”
Joaquin shook his head. Sorensen didn’t know nada.
Joaquin wasn’t a drifter looking for a place to set down roots. He’d belonged before, and he didn’t want that pull again, didn’t want the ties that went with it. And they both knew there were less than ten decent girls in town.
He chose to keep away from the Mexican families, for the fear that someone might recognize him and plague him with condolences over past misfortunes he preferred to forget. Of the three unmarried Anglo girls, Pandora Flanders had got herself kidnapped two weeks ago by a half-breed Apache and was most likely raped and scalped and dead by now. Missy Pendrake was fourteen and had the biggest set of beaver teeth God had even given to a woman. And Eliza Hargreaves…his body tensed as echoes of the
heat created by their kiss washed over him.
Damn, the woman had gotten beneath his skin without even trying.
“Why do you need to employ a sheriff?” Joaquin grudgingly asked Sorensen. “No one’s ever thought it worth the expense before.”
“Colt Riverside brought Pandora Flanders back a few hours ago. Bold as brass, he rode in with her. I have him tied up at the back of the mercantile. That stranger from East who’s been saying that Riverside took the girl in order to rape her wants to see him hang. Abe and Orville Tucker are pressing hard for it too.”
“And the rest of you?” Joaquin demanded.
“None of us wants to see a hanging in this town. Not even the girl’s father. And we don’t think it’s a good idea to send someone to the county sheriff’s office and wait for the law to arrive. We want Riverside taken to Tucson as soon as possible. The judge there will hear the case. If Riverside will hang, he’ll hang all neat and legal.” Sorensen’s rigid shoulders relaxed as he sighed. “It’s a nasty business for everyone. Riverside will say nothing in his defense. The girl’s been crying since they rode into town. Says he didn’t rape her, but she acts like something terrible has happened.”
Joaquin nodded as his mind shifted through the news. “I’ll need deputies.”
“You’ll have my boys. Lars and Knut want to ride out with you. It’ll do them good. Teach them to watch each other’s back. They’ve started to bicker. Not enough girls in this town, so they risk getting into a fight over one.”
“If you have your boys, why do you need me?”
“Abe and Orville Tucker and the newcomer from the East have offered to take Riverside to Tucson. I expect they plan to string him up as soon as they’re outside town. I want the same number of men upholding the law. My boys can make sure there’s no killing. But you can kill, should it become necessary.”
Joaquin directed a steady gaze at the man. “I’m not a gun for hire.”
Sorensen’s brows went up. “But you’ve lived by your guns?”
Reluctantly, Joaquin nodded. Sorensen stood in silence while Joaquin considered the proposal. The first time he’d spoken to Colt Riverside had been two weeks ago, just before the English spinster Pandora Flanders went missing. The half-breed had stopped at The Watering Hole for a drink. He’d been pleasant, even polite. Joaquin couldn’t see the man as someone who’d rape a woman. A small tug of empathy pulled inside him. It was harder for an outsider to convince people of his innocence. He doubted anyone would have believed him if there’d been trouble, and he’d claimed that Eliza Hargreaves had welcomed his kiss.
“All right,” he said after a long pause. “I’ll do it. Alvira wants time off to visit her daughter in Bisbee anyway. I’ll close for two weeks, but I want you to deliver my next order at cost. I’ll lose two weeks’ profits while I’m gone.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Sorensen said. “I’ll talk to the others. Maybe we can rustle up enough donations to pay you a wage.”
“Forget it.” Joaquin raked a hand through his hair. “You pay me, people start thinking I’m their sheriff all the time. Next thing I know, they’ll flock in here, demanding that I settle their domestic squabbles.”
Sorensen smiled. “Now, would that be such a bad thing?”
Joaquin only grimaced in reply.
They went on to discuss the arrangements, and agreed that the prisoner and the six man escort would set off at dawn the next day. As Joaquin threw out the last drinkers and secured the doors of the cantina, a sense of ease flowed through him. He tried to think of the reason. Maybe it was because he might get himself killed on the trip. A little drastic perhaps, but it was a surefire way to get Eliza Hargreaves out of his mind.
****
Kneeling on the floor, Eliza ran a damp rag around the stone hearth in the parlor. It was three days since her father and the widow Redwood had said their vows after the Sunday service, and it felt as if she’d been cleaning without pause ever since. Her hands bled raw, and the ache in her arms and shoulders kept her from sleeping at night. She would have minded less, if the cluttered house and its ornate furnishings hadn’t been spotless to start with.
“Eliza!” a sharp call echoed from the kitchen.
Eliza dropped the rag and got to her feet. As she crossed the threshold, she found the widow—still dressed in black—doubled over, clutching her belly with both hands.
“That turkey Lottie Sorensen sold you must have been bad,” the widow complained. Sweat beaded in the gray pallor of her skin. “I have terrible stomach cramps.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hargreaves.” Eliza kept her eyes downcast. The widow had given her several more lectures on appropriate behavior, including the proper form to address her elders. A young lady had to show respect and humility, and be useful around the house.
The matter of dresses in a chest up in the attic had not been mentioned again.
Eliza tried to swallow the fear that threatened to suffocate her. Should she say something, tell the widow that it had always started with stomach cramps? Terror mixed with guilt inside her. She’d never truly believed her father capable of murder. She’d blamed the rapid deaths of her two other stepmothers on illness. But why did the decline always start after her father insisted on showing his appreciation to his bride by inviting her to sit down in the dining room, while he filled her plate with the choicest of morsels in the kitchen and carried the food through to the table?
“Perhaps you should be careful with what you eat,” Eliza suggested.
The widow gave her a withering look. “Perhaps you should be more careful with how you inspect and cook the food.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hargreaves.”
The front door slammed. Boots rang in determined steps over the floorboards.
The widow’s mouth curved in dismay. “Your father is back from the mercantile.” Worry flickered in her brown eyes before the usual cool calculation took over. “I’ll greet him in the parlor.” She turned to Eliza. “Did you finish cleaning?”
“I have a little bit of the floor left around the hearth.”
“Then hurry to finish it.” With an ushering motion, the widow chased her out.
Eliza followed orders, returning into the parlor. The widow came in after her and stood like a short fat sentry in the middle of the room. A tiny ray of resentful malice pierced Eliza’s fear. So, the marriage had already deteriorated into an unhappy one. She’d known it would happen. Her father never bothered to keep up the pretence beyond the wedding night. Squashing her ugly thoughts, Eliza picked up the rag and started to wipe the small coal scuttle and the heavy iron poker.
Her father burst into the room. Rage distorted his narrow face. “What’s this about a mortgage?” He flapped a piece of paper in the air.
The widow’s throat moved above the black lace collar as she swallowed. “The house is mortgaged. Did I forget to mention that fact to you?”
“And you owe the mercantile?” Another piece of paper rose in the air.
The widow nodded. “Peter Sorensen has been good enough to let me have credit after my husband died. However, he was only willing to do it up to the value of the house after the mortgage has been deducted. I exceeded the limit two weeks ago.”
Her father’s face turned purple. “You have nothing. No money, no savings, and more debts than the house is worth?”
“Why do you think I consented to marry you?” the widow countered. “I needed a man’s protection. When Benedict Flanders got too ill with fever, you were the only possibility left.” A look of hesitation crossed her face. She took a step toward her husband and laid a hand on his arm. “We can make a life together. I’m sorry that I misled you, but I had no choice. A woman without a man is destitute in this rough country.”
Eliza watched. She couldn’t help feeling admiration, even a twinge of pity. The widow had acted with determination and cunning, and now faced the repercussions of her actions with courage. Suddenly, a wave of relief washed over Eliza. No more need to try and intercept fu
rtively spiced meals, no more need to worry about stomach cramps that might be caused by poison. No more need to panic because unwittingly she might have become an accessory to murder. With nothing to inherit, it would not worth the risk for her father to kill the woman.
In that instant, Eliza forgave the widow Redwood all the slights and petty cruelties. She wanted to jump to her feet, throw her arms around the woman and praise the Lord for having ended her plight of living in terror.
“You…you scheming whore. You fat cow.” Her father’s eyes bulged in his head. Veins stood out on his forehead. “I’m penniless. Don’t you understand? Your money was meant to save me from ruin, from hunger and deprivation.”
The widow clung to his arm and started to speak, but he shook free of her hold. Pulling back his arm, he delivered a hard blow to the side of her head. She teetered but remained standing. Frozen in horror, Eliza stared as her father wrapped his bony hands around the widow’s neck and began to squeeze. The widow emitted frantic gurgling sounds. Her arms flapped. She tried to kick out, but the folds of her skirts and petticoats tangled around her feet.
The icy fear that always held Eliza in its grip shattered. “Stop it,” she screamed. “You’ll kill her.” She leapt closer and seized her father by the arm, trying to pull him back, trying to make him cease the relentless pressure that was turning the face of the widow into a grotesque purple mask, so much like his own.
He ignored her, intent on his gruesome task. A steady stream of vile curses flowed from his mouth. Spatters of saliva coated his shiny lips, and from the look of him, Eliza knew the horror of the truth.
Her father had crossed the line into madness.
Frantic now, she raked her gaze around the room. Her eyes fell on the heavy poker she’d been polishing a moment ago. Eliza leaned down and curled her fingers around the stem. Brandishing the poker like a club, she slammed it into the back her father’s head with all her might. The blow cracked against his skull with a sickening thud. Blood burst forth, droplets raining on the floor, on her dress, on her face.
Saints and Sinners Page 2