A sheriff. If the law was looking for her, what better protection could she have than being married to a sheriff? Lark wasn’t interested, of course, but she took the paper back to the shop with her, thinking about the ad. A sheriff. In west Texas, far, far from here. In fact, west Texas was far, far from everything. She commented on the ad to Pierre.
He sat in a chair with Miss Mew Mew in his lap and now he got the slightly pained expression of one with a headache. “A bumpkin? A sheriff? Surely you jest, my dear Lacey?”
“Of course.” She shrugged and began to empty boxes of new merchandise. “Although, sooner or later, I would like to return to Texas.”
“Texas!” Pierre sniffed. “What was it General Sherman said? ‘If I owned both hell and Texas, I’d live in hell and rent out Texas.’”
“But true Texans are never really happy anyplace else.” She blinked back tears.
Pierre took the paper from her hand as he stroked Miss Mew Mew’s fur. “Hmm. Any rich widows in here?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.” She began dusting display cabinets. “You know, a sheriff’s home would be the safest place in the world for me.”
“Hmm,” Pierre sighed. “And he’s young, perhaps handsome. You’re pretty, my dear, I suppose you should marry.”
“I can’t cook or keep house. Why would any man want me?”
“Mademoiselle, you are so naive, you give me a headache. Are you going to correspond with this hayseed of a lawman?”
She shook her head. “I reckon not. It was just a thought, after all.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides,” he smiled, “he might have a rich old lady in the family.”
“I doubt that. Lawmen are usually poor. Of course, that doesn’t matter if you’re in love.”
“My dear, you are more naive than I thought.”
“I’ll admit it.” She paused and looked out the window, her thoughts dreamy. “I want a big, handsome Texan who will sweep me off my feet and we’ll live happily ever after.”
Pierre made a moue. “Even if he’s a poor sheriff?”
She shrugged. “Forget the sheriff. I already have.”
Lark forgot about the conversation until a few days later, when Pierre brought her a letter from the post office. “Look here, my dear, he’s answered. Open it so we can see what he says.”
“What are you talking about?” Lark took the envelope, puzzled. She certainly wasn’t expecting any mail. Besides, it was addressed to her sister. She almost said so and then she remembered that she was passing herself off as Lacey Van Schuyler.
Pierre stroked his tiny mustache, looked very pleased with himself. “I was trying to help you get back to Texas, yes?”
She had a sudden feeling of disaster. “What have you done?”
“Written a sweet letter to the young Texas hayseed who is looking for a mail-order bride. Now open it, my dear, and see what he’s got to say.”
Lark gasped in horror. “You sent my name to that sheriff without even telling me about it?”
“Well, why not?” he defended himself. “I believe in amour, in love. Besides, he might have a rich old lady in the family.”
“How could you?” For a moment, Lark had visions of the law coming to arrest her for using her sister’s name or tracking her down as an accessory to a bank robbery.
Pierre smiled. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Now let’s see if the sheriff liked what I wrote.”
“You have a lot of nerve. And I have no intention of getting myself mixed up in a mail-order marriage.”
“Suppose,” Pierre said, “he is the man of your dreams, the big Texan of romantic novels?”
“I think I ought to throw it away,” Lark said.
“Ah, and disappoint that nice young sheriff?”
“How do you know he’s either nice or young?” Lark demanded. “He’s probably some old geezer, old enough to be my father.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He stroked the sleepy cat.
Lark shrugged and opened the envelope. The handwriting was big and awkward, as if the author was not good with the written word. “‘Dear Miss Van Schuyler: I am glad you answered my advertisement and might be looking for a husband.’”
“Me? How dare he think I would do that?” She was outraged. “I could certainly get a husband if I wanted one.”
Pierre shrugged and took the letter from her hand, then read aloud. “‘I am tall and dark-haired.’ Ah, very good. I told him you were tall and pretty.”
“I’m not interested.” At that point, Lark tore the letter in two, marched to the trash, and threw it away.
“You’re not even going to see if he’s old?” Pierre looked crestfallen.
“I don’t care how old he is.” Lark began applying a veil to a new spring straw hat.
“I hate to think I wasted my time, oui?” Pierre retrieved the letter from the trash and pieced it together, reading aloud. “‘My name is Lawrence Witherspoon. I have a good job as the new sheriff of Rusty Spur here in west Texas.’”
“Lawrence Witherspoon? Sounds prissy. Besides, I’ve heard of Rusty Spur,” Lark snorted. “Wildest, most lawless town—and so remote, they almost have to ship daylight to it.”
Pierre shrugged and read some more. “‘I am considered good-looking by the ladies…’”
“Oh, what a vain man.”
The Frenchman’s gaze swept over the page. “Hmm, he’s almost thirty. He says he hopes to save enough to buy a ranch someday. That sounds like your kind of man, my dear.”
She wouldn’t admit it, but it did. Lark sighed. A ranch sounded good to her. She was suddenly very homesick for Texas and the cowboy life she loved.
“At least you’re not older than he is. In the West, you might be getting a little long in the tooth.”
“I beg your pardon, I am only twenty-five,” Lark said.
“Way past marrying age in Texas.”
“I am very picky.”
“If you’re looking for the perfect man, he doesn’t exist, my dear. You just find one you love and marry him, warts and all.”
“Humph. Men,” she snorted. “They’re only looking for someone to clean, cook, and pick up after them. Our lovesick sheriff can just find himself another girl.”
“Well, all right.” Pierre patted his cat. “I’m becoming an old meddler.”
Lark patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all right, no harm done.” For the second time, she tossed the letter in the trash.
However, late that night, lying sleepless in her little room at the back of the shop, Lark kept thinking about the letter. She pictured some earnest young sheriff checking the post office every day for the letter that was never going to come. Lark had a tender heart. The least she could do was answer and explain that she hadn’t written in the first place and had no interest in matrimony.
She got out of bed and lit the lamp. Then she dug the letter out of the trash, reread it, and sat at the little desk to pen a reply.
Dear Mr. Witherspoon:
I received your letter and enjoyed reading it.
Now she paused. It would be humiliating to him to say that she wasn’t interested and that her employer had sent the letter without Lark’s knowledge. Maybe he would think something he had said in his letter would have changed her mind.
To be honest, I don’t think you would be interested in me. My womanly skills aren’t too good. I’d rather ride horses and go hunting than clean house. I’m a terrible cook but I can handle a rope better than most cowboys. Now that you know this, you probably won’t want to write me anymore, and I’ll understand. However, I am a Texan too, and really love the Lone Star State. Remember the Alamo!
Most sincerely,
Lacey Van Schuyler.
She addressed the envelope to Sheriff Lawrence Witherspoon, General Delivery, Rusty Spur, Texas, and the next morning, put it in the mail. There, that took care of it. She would lose her correspondent without hurting his feelings. She returned to work in the millinery shop
and for the next several days, thought nothing more about it. After all, with the business doing as well as it was, she was busy—and she had that bank robbery accomplice thing hanging over her head to worry about.
Then one day, Pierre rushed in, all excited, waving an envelope. “Look, dear, you’ve heard from your sheriff again.”
“He is not my sheriff,” Lark reminded him. “And it’s probably a note thanking me for answering and saying he hopes I’ll understand if he looks elsewhere.”
The Frenchman’s eyes lit up. “You answered his letter?”
Lark hated to admit it. “I wrote him and told him what a bad housekeeper and cook I was. You know, that’s what most men are looking for.”
He winked at her. “Obviously, my dear, you are naive.”
“Pierre!” Lark was almost speechless.
“Well, open it and let’s see what he says,” Pierre suggested.
Lark took the letter from his hand and opened it. “‘Dear Miss Van Schuyler,’” she read. “‘You are being very modest about your assets. Every woman is born knowing how to cook and clean.’”
“That’s what he thinks,” Lark said, outraged. “I can see he is one of those who think women should shut up and stay obedient and in the kitchen.” She read some more of the large, painful handwriting. “‘I do like a woman who likes horses and ranch life. Did you say you were pretty?’”
Lark snorted, and Pierre nodded. “That’s number one with most men. And you are pretty, child.”
“I don’t think so,” Lark countered. “I’m too tall for a girl, and I’ve got some Cheyenne blood. Some Texans wouldn’t be interested in a woman who is part Indian.”
“Well, maybe the sheriff’s different.”
“I’m not going to answer this letter,” Lark said. “I can’t imagine being stuck with some hick sheriff who’s looking for a pretty girl who’s a perfect housewife.”
“He didn’t say that’s what he wanted,” Pierre defended him.
“How do you know? You never met him,” Lark snorted.
“He just sounds like a nice man, that’s all. Lawmen are usually upstanding citizens.”
And it would be a safe haven for a girl on the run from the law, Lark thought. She tried to imagine Lawrence Witherspoon. He might be tall and red-faced with buck teeth. He might be short and balding and burp a lot.
“I just think this has gone far enough,” she said. “I regret the impulse to write him. I won’t write again.”
“Oh, by the way, I got a letter too.” Pierre waved the envelope. “A rich old lady I’ve corresponded with in the past has invited me to come to New York.”
Lark felt her mood fall. “I never thought you’d be going away. I’m so fond of you.”
“And me you, and so is Miss Mew Mew, aren’t you, kitty?”
The black-and-white cat blinked and swished her tail.
“Anyway,” Pierre said, “life moves on. I’ve already found a buyer for the shop since you aren’t interested. Perhaps the new owner will keep you on, although she has two daughters.”
Lark went to the window and looked out. Dusty Plains was a very small town. Although business had increased, it wouldn’t support four women and she knew it. “I’d been thinking about moving on anyway.”
Pierre stroked his mustache. “Ah, to go meet that young sheriff?”
“Land’s sake, no. You’re an incurable romantic. Suppose I went clear out there and hated him on sight.
Suppose he was disappointed that I really can’t cook and I’m not a clingy little blond doll?”
“You have to take a chance on love or you’ll never have it. And believe me, dear, love is worth the gamble, if it’s the real thing.” He sighed as if remembering.
“I’ll be moving on as soon as I make some decisions.” With that, she put up the “closed” sign and began dusting the display cases.
That night, she lay awake for a long time. What was she to do? She might get along fine with the new owner, but Lark’s heart wasn’t in the millinery shop anyway. She longed for the sunny plains of Texas, but she couldn’t go home until she’d made a success of her life. After all, Lacey was probably doing very well now with a picture-perfect life, and Lark had surely annoyed Uncle Trace by running away from that fancy finishing school.
What happened the next morning helped make her decision. Lark had been to pick up the mail and passed the sheriff’s office. The early May weather was warm, and the door was open. A pile of wanted posters lay in disarray on the floor by the desk, and on the top was a fair likeness of Lark with the caption: $500.00 reward. Accessory in Buck Shot bank robbery.
She grabbed up the posters. Underneath was another with a sketch of Snake and Larado. $1000.00 Reward. Bank robbers and killers. Teller shot in the back. Contact Buck Shot law enforcement.
Oh my God. She hadn’t thought Larado would shoot a man in the back. Since there was a poster out on her, it wouldn’t be but a little while before someone around here recognized her. Very quietly, she clutched the posters, glancing around. She could hear the elderly sheriff talking to an inmate in a cell in the back. So far, so good. Lark went out the door, made sure no one saw her, and tore the posters to shreds. She was too close to the town of Buck Shot and she sure didn’t want to end up in prison. Damn that Larado for getting her into this mess. She’d like to slap that handsome, grinning face into next week.
Late that afternoon, she told Pierre she would be leaving the next morning.
“So soon? But Miss Mew Mew and I don’t want you to go until we’re ready to leave town.”
“I’ll miss you, but I’ve got some prospects.”
“Ah, the young sheriff?”
“Who?” Lark hadn’t given another thought to Lawrence Witherspoon since she’d mailed the letter a few days ago.
“You wrote him again, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think it was meant to be.”
“I’m sure you two will be very happy.”
Lark laughed. “You’re getting ahead of the story.”
“I started the correspondence, so I’m responsible for this love match.”
“I may not even go to Rusty Spur. West Texas is tough country, even for Texans. Now I’ve got some packing to do. You ought to be gathering up things too, if you’re leaving for New York.”
They ate supper together one last time. Afterwards Pierre tried to give Lark a little extra money, which she refused. The next morning, with much tears and hugs, Lark caught a stage. Except she really didn’t know where to go from here. She’d at least try to get farther away from the scene of the bank robbery. Later, she took a train and rode that farther south. When she crossed the Red River, she knew she was back in Texas, God’s country. She was homesick for her uncle’s ranch and too pigheaded stubborn to go home defeated. She decided she couldn’t face “I told you so.” But in the meantime, what to do? Where to go?
Rusty Spur. The words popped into her head. She’d heard it was an isolated, tiny town way out in west Texas. West Texas was a vast, empty, flat prairie. The chances that anyone would find her there were pretty small. She wouldn’t have to marry the sheriff—she’d go out there, get herself a job, and make her decision later. If she didn’t like the town, she could always leave and go someplace else. “Everyone says that’s the trouble with you, Lark,” she muttered. “You never face up to anything. When the going gets tough, you run.”
This was the most loco thing she’d done in her life—except for running away and then getting mixed up with Larado, that drunken saddle tramp.
In Dallas, she sent a wire to the sheriff in Rusty Spur:
Dear Sheriff Witherspoon. Stop. Coming to visit your town. Stop. You are not obligated in any way. Stop. I intend to get a job and just need a friend. Stop. Most sincerely, Lacey Van Schuyler.
After she’d sent the wire and gotten back on another train headed west, she had grave misgivings. Land’s sake, what kind of fool thing had she done? Well, she needed a place to hide out until this
whole thing blew over and no more wanted posters got sent out. The Territory might not send posters to Texas anyway. The farther away she got from the scene of the crime, the better off she was.
The train only went within ten miles of the town, although it was building that direction, the conductor told her. Then she had to take another stagecoach. She almost lost her nerve and got back on the train. After all, running away when faced with trouble was the thing she did best. Just as she was making that decision, the train slowed to a stop, and the conductor put her valise out on the crossroads. There was nothing visible for miles.
“You’ll like the town,” the conductor assured her. “Tough new sheriff turned it from a wild, wide-open place to a quiet place to live.”
“Oh?” She was intrigued. Lawrence Witherspoon didn’t sound like a gun-totin’, two-fisted lawman. But how could she tell? “I—I’m not sure I want to go—”
“But of course you do, ma’am.” The conductor took her elbow and helped her off the train even as she was protesting. “Town needs strong young women to make it grow. You got folks there?”
“Uh, no, thinking of opening a business.”
“A woman running a business?” His craggy face was nothing short of incredulous. “No wonder you’re hesitating, lady. Women wasn’t meant to run businesses.”
That was like waving a red flag at a bull.
“I beg your pardon, I’m a very good businesswoman.” She marched off the train and stood there with her valise as the train switched to another track and pulled out.
What had she done? She stared after the departing train, wishing she were on it. There was no place on earth as flat and desolate as west Texas. In the distance, she saw a cloud of dust on the horizon, and then a stagecoach loomed into view. After a few minutes, it pulled up near her in a rattle of harness and a cloud of dust.
“You for the stage, ma’am?” A lanky young boy stared at her with open curiosity. “We don’t get many people on the weekly stage, especially not purty women.”
She decided to ignore that remark as he hopped down, threw her valise up on top, and helped her into the stage. There was nobody else aboard.
Good, Rusty Spur really was a sleepy town with only a weekly stage. Chances were her wanted posters might not be arriving out there. She knew enough to open her own millinery shop…if she could get financing from the local bank. That would buy her some time, and then she could decide what to do next. Maybe when she had her own successful store, she’d be willing to let her family know where she was.
Georgina Gentry - To Tease a Texan Page 5