Ralph Compton Tucker's Reckoning (9781101607770)

by Compton, Ralph; Mayo, Matthew P.

  Emma leaned against the side of the nearest building, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets, her hat pulled down low. Up until this morning, she’d assumed she had at least Louisa and Arliss to count on, but one by one everyone she thought she could trust was going away. Marshal Hart, now Louisa. Would Arliss be next?

  She pushed off the side of the house and headed with purpose down the street toward the hotel. Along the way she was greeted by more people than ever before. Usually folks took little notice of her, treated her like a child or at least someone not to be taken seriously.

  As if dressing like a man was cause enough to make her all that different from the rest of them. Maybe she was different? Maybe she didn’t care? She never had cared before—why was now any different? Before she knew it, Emma found herself in front of the hotel.

  “Okay, then,” she said, reaching for the knob on the front door. And noticed most of the folks around her on the sidewalk—and a few who probably didn’t need to be there—had paused and had their eyes fixed on her. Taggart had stopped sweeping the already spotless boardwalk in front of his store. Two women whom Emma knew only by sight were stopped in the street, hands on their hats, looking at her hopefully. To her left, a pair of skinny cowpokes looked at her from around the doorway of the Ringing Belle Saloon. And across the street, she saw the red-and-white-checked curtains of Mae’s Diner parted, faces peering out.

  She groaned and opened the door. Just inside, she paused, took a deep breath, and went to the front desk. Halley smiled at her, nodded as if he were agreeing to something she’d said, even before she got to the desk.

  “Hi, Mr. Halley, I need to see—”

  “Lord Tarleton, yes, of course you do. He said to send you right on up when you got here.”

  “But he didn’t know when I’d be here.”

  “No, but he said you’d be in town soon and to make sure you were escorted on up to his suite.”

  She looked up at the open stairway leading to the open balcony of the second floor, the dark wood gleaming richly in the dull glow of the lamplight and what little afternoon light slanted in through the low front windows. The lobby smelled, as it always had the handful of times she’d been in it in her life, of leather and dust, as if the carpets had never been thrashed out back on the line.

  Halley appeared beside her from around the counter. “I’d imagine it’s a big day in your life, Miss Emma. I would like to be the very first one to congratulate you on . . . that is to say, I wish you all the happiness a fellow like me can muster.”

  Emma ground her teeth together until her jaw ached and stared at him until he looked away.

  His face reddened and he tried to hold her elbow and guide her to the stairs. “This way, please, Miss Farraday.”

  She jerked her arm away. “I think I can find the third floor, Mr. Halley.”

  “But he said to be sure I escort you upstairs.”

  “Well, now, you’re both just going to have to live with the disappointment, aren’t you?”

  She took the stairs two at a time, her boots thumping lightly on the carpeted runners. She paused only long enough in front of the door to the rooms she’d been in the other day to pull in a deep breath. That cursed Halley was right—this was an important day in her life and she didn’t want to stand around dithering about it any longer than she had to.

  She tugged the leather glove off her hand, catching the faint scent of Cinda, of all the days of her life she’d spent riding free and easy through the meadows and forests along the river valley and into the hills, searching for strays or telling herself that’s what she was doing, but not really doing much of anything other than enjoying the countryside. All that countryside that was going to be gone from her, taken from her and everyone else around her because she was selfish enough to think with her heart and not her head?

  Before she could think any more snaky, twisting thoughts, the clock in the foyer chimed one, two, three . . . three o’clock in the afternoon. Where had the day gone? She had raised her hand to rap on the big wooden slab of a door when she heard a loud voice inside. It was Tarleton’s voice. She tried the knob. It turned, so she pushed it hard and it swung inward.

  Across the room, turned to her, were the backs of his two men in black, blocking out the tall, slim form of Lord Tarleton. He was the one berating them. She stood in the open doorway, his voice reaching her, and what she heard made her sick to her stomach.

  “Reginald and Shepler, you are perhaps the most incompetent men I have ever had the displeasure to meet. Those two men, the fat one and his filthy little cohort, we need to make sure they don’t live past the end of the day. Of course, that would necessitate finding them first, and that apparently is not something you wish to indulge in, hmm?”

  Tarleton must have noticed over their shoulders that the door had opened, because he stopped talking and parted through the men as if they were curtains blocking entrance to another room.

  “Ah, my sweet Miss Farraday,” said Tarleton, sweeping toward her. “But I told Halley to escort you up the stairs, and to knock hard before entering. Explicit instructions, you see.” There was a hard glint of anger in his eye. And now she regretted making Halley feel small down in the lobby. She would apologize to him later, try to make sure that Tarleton didn’t grow angry with him.

  Just as quickly as it appeared, his frown faded. He motioned with his head toward the two men in black. They crossed the room and stood by the door.

  “You must forgive whatever it was you think you overheard when you barged in on us like that. I am a rather theatrical man, prone to histrionics. Those in my employ, as you will come to know, choose wisely to take my comments with a grain of salt.”

  She looked him up and down, this man who had proposed marriage to her. He wore a suit the likes of which she’d never before seen on a man. His trousers were of a fawn color, the jacket a darker mousy hue, and it all fit him perfectly. The coat, cut short, with tails behind, the vest a gold-and-black diamond pattern over a white shirt with ruffled collar and cuffs, and a gold watch chain swinging left and right with each move he made. His chin beard and mustache were waxed and sculpted just so, and there was a curl waxed to his forehead.

  “You look like you’ve been spending some time in front of a looking glass,” she said, wondering even as she said it if she were being too forward.

  “And the opposite could be said of you, my dear sweet cowgirl.”

  “I’m not your dear, not your sweet, and not your cowgirl.”

  “Ah, I apologize if I have offended you, my . . . uh, Miss Farraday. It was practically a figure of speech. Especially out here on the frontier, one begins to doubt one’s speech, as colloquial ways tend to crowd out even the best schooling in a short period of time. A shame, really, that it has to be that way. But we humans are fickle creatures.”

  “Lord Tarleton,” said Emma. “I am sorry if I’ve interrupted you, but I have something I need to say to you.”

  “Yes, my dear. I expect you do. Would you care to do this over a drink, or perhaps sitting on the divan?”

  “No. What I have to say won’t take long. I appreciate your kind offer, and the fact that you are richer than God and all the apostles.”

  The man tilted his head to the side and smiled.

  “But I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be right. You . . . you’re not coming at this in the right way at all, Lord Tarleton. You see, when you go to castrate a calf, you don’t hit it in the head with a post maul and hope it will get up and roam again one day.”

  His brows narrowed and his smile slumped. “I believe you are trying to make an analogy between my proposal and your . . . reaction to it? Am I correct in that assumption, Emma?”

  “I guess, something like that. Look, you don’t want to marry me, really. You just want to buy me like you’re buying all the other things you think y
ou want. But I’m a person. I have a life here, and friends. And we were all happy until that worthless buzzard Grissom came to town and started to poison our well, if you know what I mean. The town hasn’t been the same since.”

  She folded her arms and sighed. “You’re just the latest in a long line of things that Klinkhorn and the Farradays shouldn’t have to put up with. It’s not fair, but there you are—that’s the truth as I see it. I promised to give it some serious thought and I have done that for two days now. And as I said, I am most appreciative, and I consider it a fine compliment, the highest I expect a person can receive, but it’s not anything I’m interested in. But I would like to talk with you about making sure we find that signed receipt that shows my uncle Payton paid off that loan from Grissom.”

  “Oh, you are delightful! Simply delightful, my dear!” Smiling, he spread his arms wide.

  “What do you mean? Don’t you understand what I just said? I’m sorry, but I’m turning you down. I love someone, not you, and there’s nothing that can change that.”

  “That’s why you are the epitome of what I have been looking for. You are completely guileless in every way. And your wants don’t matter a jot.”

  “What?” She backed toward the door, suddenly feeling as if the air in the room had changed.

  Tarleton’s smile became a forced thing, his eyes lost their previous mirth, and he looked past her toward the men standing by the doorway. They walked forward, grabbed her by the arms, one hand on her elbows, one hand on her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” She struggled, kicked backward, and landed a couple of good contacts with her bootheels, but if the men felt any pain, they made no sound. They just stood there holding her in place. The more she thrashed and squirmed, the tighter they squeezed her.

  “I half expected the situation to come to this,” said Tarleton. “That is why I have taken the precaution of arranging to sequester you here until you come around to the correct way of thinking, that is, my way of thinking. But I’m not really bothered if you never do. For we will be wed. The biggest difference is that should you have accepted my offer graciously, this town would be a very different place within a few short weeks. And while that will still happen, I can guarantee you that anyone thinking they will be able to reside here is sorely mistaken. Oh, I’ll need a few locals, I imagine, for the more menial tasks, but the rest will succumb to my relocation program. That is to say, I will tell them when I want them gone, and if they don’t comply, I will probably have to have them shot.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. As if this rough treatment weren’t bad enough, now he was talking about shooting her friends? This couldn’t be real.

  Tarleton stared at her a moment more, then broke down laughing. “I’m terribly sorry, but my little joke doesn’t have the impact I expected it would. I’ve forever been called a man who has no sense of humor that other men might recognize.”

  Once again his smile slumped as he addressed the two men. “Take her to the back bedroom.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. You are quite safe here.” He looked her up and down, as if appraising a horse for possible purchase. “I will have a bathtub sent up, hot water too. And I believe you will find the wardrobe has been filled with all manner of frocks for your enjoyment. Please clean yourself and dress appropriately. I have planned on having a fine meal here tonight, and you will not alter that plan one iota. Is that understood?”

  She thrashed and bucked, but the men held firm.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Especially considering you have no other choice.”

  He motioned toward a door set in the back wall, behind the desk. “Oh, one more thing . . .” He raised a halting hand. The two men in black kept a tight grip on her arms and shoulders, despite the continued thrashing and kicking she gave in return.

  “Gentlemen, I have a little something for you to do. You two are familiar with the Farraday spread, and in particular the dwellings and outbuildings—the common, old robust structures that will be of little use to me very soon, except perhaps as a nuisance because I suspect squatters will want the place all to themselves. And this we cannot have. Am I right, gentlemen?”

  They both responded, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, then you know what to do.” He turned back to the front window, a drink in his hand. “Burn it.”

  “What? What in the heck did you just say? You can’t burn my home, my ranch! It was left to me and Arliss. And . . . you can’t— you just can’t do it!”

  “My dear,” said Tarleton, turning back to her, once again wearing that foul grin, as if he’d just licked clean a bowl of tasty gravy and wanted more. “You forget that I can do whatever I want. I own the entire Farraday acreage, as I own most of this town. And the rest will follow suit very soon. Oh, and I own you. Now run along and clean yourself. You smell like a stable.”

  Emma screamed blue murder all the way to the bedroom, and when the two men flung her on her back on the bed and turned to leave, she rushed them. They must have been expecting it, for they spun, grabbed her roughly, not really caring where they touched her, and threw her back on the bed, then slammed the door and locked it from the outside. She ran to the room’s one window and clawed back the curtains. It had been boarded from the inside. She scrabbled at the edges of the lumber but couldn’t get a purchase.

  She bolted for the door, howling in her rage, and slammed her shoulder into it. It rattled in its frame but didn’t budge. She ran at it again and again. Then finding no change in the door’s temperament, she lunged at the walls. Her boots drove deep into the plaster and laths, wedging now and again, but ultimately finding success in punching through the red flower-specked wallpaper, plaster spraying wider with each driving kick.

  “You buzzard! Don’t you burn my home! Help! Help!”

  She ran back to the boarded-up window, dragged the end of the bed closer to it, used it to brace against. Then she kicked against the boarded-up window. The planks vibrated but didn’t splinter. It was long minutes before she flopped back on the bed, breathing hard and clenching and unclenching her fists. There had to be a way out of the room, had to be. She looked around—up through the ceiling? No. The floor? Doubtful. The plaster wall had given way a bit, but that might take a while. Maybe she could hit the door hard enough with something from the room.

  And then the door rattled; something turned in the lock. Emma jumped up from the bed, made it halfway across the floor when the door swung open and there stood Lord Tarleton. The two men in black were nowhere to be seen, but the dandy had a nickel-plated bone-handled derringer, cocked and aimed at her.

  “You, my dear, are a lovely wildcat. So lovely.” And he sounded so genuine.

  She lunged at him and he pulled the trigger.

  Gun smoke wafting low and drifting, curling all about them, was the only thing moving in the few seconds after the unexpected blast. It seemed to take him as much by surprise as it did her.

  Emma’s ears rang like screaming bells, and as a second, then two passed, she wondered if she’d been shot. But she felt no pain, other than watering eyes and ringing ears. She recovered, lunged at him again, but he sidestepped, and she felt a sharp stinging pain in her side. She pulled away from him and saw something silver glinting in his hand, the hand that didn’t hold the gun.

  “What is that? What did you do?”

  “Morphine, you perfect cowgirl. You will love me for it.”

  “What is that?” she said, not feeling well in the least, gripping her side and reaching out with her other hand toward the bed. He had just stabbed her with something, tried to shoot her, only to kill her with the morphine? Was that what he said it was? With a needle? She’d seen one once in the doctor’s office. This couldn’t be happening.

  She fell to her side, forced herself to look around; then she saw him, smiling down at her. He held the pistol in one hand, gun smoke clo
uding low, the silver thing in the other hand. His beard, his eyes, that fancy suit . . . She felt as if she were swimming at the beach at the far corner of the Rogue where it bent sharp around the lower fields. . . .

  She never made it to the bed, felt herself slump to the floor. The last thing she saw was the waxed mustache of Lord Tarleton grinning at her.

  The last thing she thought of was Samuel Tucker and how she wished it had all turned out different, so very different.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “You should know better than to ask that.” The man speaking didn’t bother looking at the man riding beside him, but he did shake his head slowly.

  “Reginald, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, no, I mean it.” Shepler reined up, his black horse dancing.

  His partner sighed. “Okay, all right. You want to get into this? Fine. What I meant was at this point you shouldn’t wonder if Tarleton says what he means, you know?”

  Shepler stared at him, head tilted as if he were trying to decide whether to follow up a steak dinner with pie, coffee, or both. Finally he said, “He’s not a god, you know.”

  “What sort of a thing is that to say?”

  “Just that. He’s only a man. A man with a heck of a wad of money, but he doesn’t own me or you, you know.”

  It was the other man’s turn to stare in curiosity. “You getting cold feet on this burning deal, Shep?”

  “Nah, I reckon not.” He booted his horse back into a walk. “Just that sometimes I like to remind myself I’m my own man. Still got a head of my own and a brain in it, you know?”