Truly His Type (Cowboys and Angels Book 25)

by Jo Noelle

  “Yes, it’s positively primitive,” Benita said as she fanned herself.

  “Keep some ginger tea on hand. It helps,” Hannah mentioned, laying her hand on her own rounding belly.

  “Eliza dear, you are definitely too large to ride down the mountain, but I’m so glad to see you here. How are you feeling?” Seffi asked.

  “I know I told everyone that I probably wouldn’t come any more, but I can’t seem to stay away. And I’m feeling very well. The sled is a smoother ride than on horseback or in a wagon, so it’s no bother at all. I don’t want to miss the Thanksgiving party coming up. This little one won’t keep me down.”

  The women had already discussed and decided that she was having a boy because she carried so high.

  “Soon we’ll have a dozen more women in town,” Vivian said. “Where will we put everyone for Tea?”

  “Last time, I suggested that we also have it on Thursday. Of course, I’ll need to come to both to offer friendship,” Celeste said.

  Ariadne sat beside Rhona and said, “Wendell and I greatly enjoyed your story in the newspaper on Saturday. It’s no small thing to share your writing, and I wanted you to know how much I appreciate it. Men have long claimed to be the owners of authorship—as if mere women lack the intelligence for the craft. It’s nice to see a woman taking her place as an authoress.”

  Ariadne’s smile warmed Rhona. She reveled in the new-found confidence that climbed up her spine, and she straightened her shoulders. She felt an immense pleasure to think that they had truly enjoyed it.

  Although Millie had been there for the conversation Sunday night and heard how the story had been stolen, she added, “A few months ago, we walked for women’s suffrage to have a voice in our community. Your voice in narrative is as important as our voice on the ballot. Men and women need to hear women’s ideas.”

  “And how they interpret the world,” Celeste added.

  Rhona sat mutely as the women discussed her story. They were animated and excited. It seemed as though they really liked it.

  Mariah’s voice rose. “I think I held my breath through all the paragraphs that it took for Miss Luella to save that little lamb from being washed down the river. Then I only got one gulp of air before Clinton West had to go into the raging Rio Grande and save her.”

  “Did they both live? And does the lamb live?” Marta asked. “I really can’t wait until Saturday to find out.”

  “No,” Beth said, raising her hand and her voice. “Don’t spoil the next installment for me. I’m so looking forward to reading it.”

  “And it was obvious to me that he was interested in the twin sister with the red hair before we knew it was Luella,” Vivian said. “Will we get to know more about her?”

  “I don’t think he liked her,” Julianne said. “He helped her, but he didn’t even get her name at first. He’s interested in the one with black hair. What was her name?”

  “Angela,” Beatrice said.

  Rhona was completely flabbergasted. They’d honestly enjoyed reading it. She never would have imagined it. A chill washed down her spine—she realized that they would never get the answers to their questions. They would be disappointed on Saturday when the next part of the story wasn’t printed. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t want to reward Mark’s deception, but she was torn. She also didn’t want to disappoint the readers.

  Oh, my gosh! I have readers.

  Chapter 9

  Mark

  Carriages and horses clogged the streets and fields near Hearth and Home. Several couples left their stock with Otto at the livery and walked over. It would be a crowd. He’d questioned himself several times whether or not he needed to go to the town party. Every time, the answer was the same—no. So, why was he there with a cobbler in hand? Rhona. She hadn’t talked to him for five days. She hadn’t answered the written requests he’d left with her brother and sisters.

  He patted his coat pocket and heard the faint rustle of paper. He’d done the only thing he could—he’d written her an apology, or maybe it was more of a plea. When he was leaving for the night, he would ask Edwin to deliver it to her.

  He entered to the happy chatter of his friends and neighbors. “Welcome,” Eileen said. “Come in and get yourself a treat.” She steered him into an open area and quickly said, “I believe Rhona is being silly about this whole misunderstanding, but until she’s ready to give up on a thing, she doesn’t.” Eileen looked meaningfully into his eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I do. I don’t have any intention of forcing my company on her tonight.”

  Eileen nodded and left him at a table laden with enough food to justify calling the party a Thanksgiving feast.

  He added his cobbler to the table, then selected a sandwich and a small caramel apple, the last one on a plate, and began visiting with friends. Although his back was to her, he knew the moment she said hello to someone at the party. It sounded like she was close, and though it pained him deeply, he didn’t turn around.

  When she crossed his path, he simply nodded and smiled and waited until she’d moved across the room to continue on his way. It was torture.

  Dancing started, and Mark stood near the door. It was time for him to leave. He couldn’t hold the one woman he loved, and he chose not to hold another. He justified that he had to get up early since there was a lot to do without an assistant. He’d stay just long enough to eat his apple. He hadn’t enjoyed one of these in years. He bit into the sweet caramel coating and the crunch beneath it. Soon the acidic taste overwhelmed the sugar. He chewed quickly as his eyes began to fill with tears. In a quick moment of discovery, he realized that it had been an onion and not an apple. He reluctantly swallowed. The strong taste was still on his tongue and cheeks. Just as well. It’s a fitting ending to my night.

  He retrieved his coat and remembered the paper inside. He removed it as he approached Isla. “For Rhona,” was all he said, passing it to her before he left.

  The bitter taste in his mouth subsided as he entered his shop and gathered the tack he’d need to saddle his horse. Finally on his way home, he saw a man staggering down Main Street near the city office. It wasn’t uncommon to see drunken men at night, but this one moaned and clutched his stomach in pain.

  Mark dismounted and approached the man. “Do you need help? Do you need a doctor?” Mark wondered if he were witnessing another man’s death.

  The man cried out in pain and couldn’t answer.

  Mark picked him up and shoved him up over the saddle. He knew that wasn’t the best for someone with stomach pains, but he couldn’t carry him all the way back. Then he turned his horse around and ran with him back to Hearth and Home. Doctor JT was there. There might be something he could do.

  When he reached the door, several men were standing outside on the boardwalk. “Meet me at the back,” he yelled toward the men. “Get the doctor. Bring KC too.” A couple of men went inside, and three more followed Mark, helping him get the man down and then laying him on the kitchen floor.

  The doctor, marshal, and Rhona came in. “Bring him into the laundry room. We have a table long enough to lay him on,” she said.

  A dying man at the city celebration was the last thing Mark wanted Rhona to see. He had hoped that she could enjoy the evening, but she hurried around the room bringing a pillow and blankets, quickly throwing them on top of the table. Then she brought gas lanterns to brighten the area.

  Dr. Thomas had begun his examination. “Do you have syrup of ipecac?” he asked Rhona.

  She hurried away, pulled a bottle from the pantry, and returned, handing it to the doctor. Then she went back and returned with a metal bucket.

  Two men propped the man up, causing him to flail and curse. Mark wondered about the other man he’d come upon, who had died in the street and all the others as well. Were these the symptoms they’d had before passing? At least this man wasn’t dead. He had a chance. KC and Mark held his legs still, and the doctor laid the man’s head bac
k and forced the syrup down his throat. Almost immediately he sat him up again.

  “Get a chair for him,” he said to Mark.

  When Mark returned, they put the man in the chair and held him up. Doctor JT took the bucket. “Thanks for your help, Rhona. We’ll take it from here.”

  Mark could see in her eyes that she wanted to help if she could, but she left anyway.

  “Can you get this on your own?” KC asked the doctor and the two men still helping.

  “Yes. Stay close, though,” JT answered.

  KC nodded at Mark, then said to the doctor, “We’ll be in the kitchen.” Mark was just three steps behind him when KC whirled around. “What happened?” he asked.

  Mark told him about leaving early and finding the man a few blocks up the street. “I brought him here. That’s really all I know.” KC was quiet for a few moments, and Mark asked, “Do you think he’s like the others?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe. Hope he lives. Was anyone else around?”

  “Didn’t see anyone.”

  KC nodded again.

  In the laundry room, Mark heard the man violently throwing up. One of the men who had been helping JT came running through the kitchen, covering his mouth. He went straight out the back door and threw up himself. Mark moved closer to the laundry room to be available in case they needed his help.

  The music in the other room stopped. The party must have ended. Soon, Rhona came in with another bucket and took it into the laundry room, then went back out. Minutes passed as the man inside continued to heave despite having nothing to expel.

  The next time Rhona entered, her arms were full of new blankets. Edwin and Hugh were with her, carrying a mattress. They entered the laundry room. Hugh and Rhona began making a bed for the sick man. Edwin left again.

  The door to the dining room eased open, and Isla walked through the kitchen. She looked at Mark. “Are you all right?” Her eyes seemed worried. “Someone said you were in the kitchen, and someone else said there was a sick man in the kitchen. It isn’t you, is it?”

  The man in the laundry room began retching again. Mark shook his head and pointed through the doorway to the laundry room.

  Isla looked that way. “I’m glad you’re fine. I guess I have a confession to make.” She twisted her hands in front of her. “I’ve been . . . well, I’ve always been somewhat of a prankster—hiding coins under plates and covering a table with paper among other things.”

  “The onion!” Mark glared at her.

  She looked down at her feet. “Yes. I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “It’s fine, Isla. I was surprised.”

  Edwin hurried back into the laundry room, his arms full of clean clothes. Dr. Thomas joined the men in the kitchen, and Isla excused herself.

  “Is he going to live?” KC asked at the same time Mark asked, “What was wrong with him?”

  “The next few hours will tell us. At first, I thought it was too much alcohol, but with all the jostling, he didn’t throw up on his own. I think he was poisoned.”

  “Someone tried to kill him?” KC asked.

  “Not intentionally. I think he’s been drinking rotgut somewhere. That seems likely of the other deaths, too. It’s hard to tell the difference between that and alcohol poisoning.”

  “I’d like to know where he got that,” KC said.

  “Before anyone else dies,” JT added. “Hopefully he can talk to us in the morning. I think you got him here in time.” JT clamped Mark on the shoulder and gave a quick nod.

  Edwin, Rhona, and Hugh entered the kitchen, and the men turned their way “He’s resting,” Edwin said. “We’ll take turns sitting up with him.”

  Mark followed KC to the back door. “There’s something you need to know. I’ve seen a suspicious wagon in town a couple of times. It might be the source of this problem.” He related what he’d seen and also what he’d learned from von Hemberg about the way rotgut was transported.

  “The question is, does Ab Helm know it’s poison?” KC looked Mark in the eye. “Freedom of the press aside—I want to keep this information out of tomorrow’s paper. If I’m going to make an arrest, I can’t have the culprit skipping town. The saloon is closed now, and if that man in there tells me that’s where he was drinking, I’ll shut down the Frog Knees tomorrow before they uncork the first bottle. Deal?”

  “Deal. I’ll be watching, though, and I’ll print a special edition with the facts as I know them after you make your move. I’d like a little more information from you to include in the article. Deal?”

  KC extended his hand. “Deal.”

  After the marshal left, Mark faced Rhona, who stood beside the doorway to the dining room.

  “I want to talk with you when it will be more private than this, but I wanted to tell you that you can print the rest of my book.” She started toward the laundry room and then stopped. “And thank you, Mark.”

  His heart leaped in his chest just to hear her voice and again when she said his name. He nodded. “Goodnight, Rhona.”

  Very early Saturday morning, Mark went to the print shop. He had typeset three of the chapters to begin with and had used just one. He would only have to print the chapter as an insert to the already finished papers. He printed four at a time and worked for several hours to have them all ready. Then, when the boys who delivered the papers showed up, he put them to work stuffing the chapter inside. The paper got out a little late that day, but it was worth it to include the next episode of Rhona’s story.

  Chapter 10

  Rhona

  Rhona looked at the note pinched between her fingers. It simply said, “I’m sorry.” How had it gotten in her room? Since her manuscript had mysteriously appeared at the print shop, Rhona had been extra careful to lock her room each day when she left. When she returned from the supper service just now, the note had been sitting in the middle of her made bed.

  She checked in her trunk along the wall. Nothing was missing. Who had left it? She sat on the bed.

  “I’m sorry, little midge.”

  It was the nickname her mother had called her. Rhona stood and whirled around. She knew that voice. It sounded so close, but she couldn’t see anyone. Had she imagined it? An outline began to form in the filtered light of the gas lamp. Shock coursed through her, and she inhaled a sharp gasp. Each second, it become clearer and more defined. How could this happen? She watched, knowing that it was her mother’s outline. Her heart hammered in her chest. It was her mother shoulders, her mother’s head, and her mother’s height.

  Rhona stared in astonishment. Her breath was shallow, and her sight blurred. She dropped to the mattress.

  “I’m sorry about your story,” Mam said. “I didn’t mean to cause a problem. I was worried that you’d never get it printed. You have such talent, and the world would never know it.” She walked closer to Rhona and sat next to her on the bed. “Maybe all mothers feel that way. But I knew it was different with you.”

  Rhona stood and lifted her hand to her mother’s cheek, feeling the warmth beneath her palm. “Is this really you?” she asked. She stood there amazed and shaken.

  “Aye, ’tis me. And I’m the one who made the mistake of taking your story to Mr. Carroll. I’m truly sorry.”

  Rhona held her mother’s hand between both of her own. “I would forgive you anything, Mama to be able to see you one more time.” Tears raced down her cheeks.

  “Well then, ’tis lucky for me.”

  “You’re right, Mama. I didn’t want that story published. It isn’t ready. I have so much left to do on it.”

  Mama smiled, and Rhona’s heart leaped into her throat. She loved those eyes and the crinkles at the edges when Mama smiled.

  “If you waited for your story to be perfect, little midge, no one would ever read it.” Mama M nodded, and Rhona knew she had to agree. “I know I should have asked, but I was sure you’d say no. You refused Mr. Carroll twice.”

  “I’ll admit that I didn’t like how it came about, but I’m happy
to see people enjoying my story.” She held her mother’s hand tightly. “Thank you, Mama.” She threw her arms around her shoulders. “Does Mark know?”

  “Well . . . no. That is still a problem. Perhaps you could tell him for me?”

  The idea startled Rhona. How do you tell someone that you talked with your long-deceased mother and not have him think you’re daft or addled? And Rhona found she desperately wanted Mark’s good opinion, if she hadn’t lost it completely.

  “It won’t surprise him,” Mama added. “He thinks I’m a bit of a pest.”

  “You’ve talked with Mark?” Rhona felt the surprise of that from her head to her toes.

  “A few times. It’s my assignment and my pleasure to meddle in your life and his.” Mama M returned Rhona’s tight squeeze and then began to fade. “I’ll likely stay around a mite longer. There’s one more thing I have to see to afore I’m gone. But don’t you worry—I’ll look in from time to time on you and your brother and your sisters and that wee little one that sweet Millie is carrying. Our family is growing, and I don’t want to miss out on it.” Her image was completely gone by the last sentence.

  It was Sunday morning, and Rhona had only seen Mark once in the last week—on Friday night when he’d brought in the man who was sick. Even then, she’d only talked to him for a moment about printing her book. He hadn’t come in for breakfast on Saturday morning or any of the other meals. She sat on the pew at church as if she were a cat on a hot tin roof. Each time the door creaked, she spun to see if it were him.

  “Is it him?” Isla asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The door creaked, and Rhona fought herself to not look this time.

  “Oh, you know. I’m wondering if you’ll admit it to yourself. You’re keenly taken with the man.”

  Rhona deflated. Isla didn’t know the half of it. If she wouldn’t be with Mark in the future, her life would be set on the wrong path. Could he forgive her? Could this be fixed? Her heart hammered in her ears, heightening her inner turmoil. She prayed it could be.