by Mimi Milan
“Thank you for the help mister… Hey, you know, I never did catch your name. What was it?”
“The name’s Elymas. My friends call me Ely, though. At least, they would if I had the gumption or time to make any.”
Miguel stuck his hand out in way to thank the man as Araceli and Jimbo walked around to join them. “Well, thank you, Ely. You and your friend there really helped us out of a fix. I’d like to repay you for your kindness.”
“That’s right kind of ya.”
The man’s ready acceptance took Miguel aback for a split second.
“Well, I’ve got some dried meat and a small basket of fruit we can share with you.”
The man sniggered. “Them be boons for a wee child, my lad, and we be grown men. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
Miguel blustered at the man’s demand. He had been taught that offering to help someone should be done simply as a good act, unless a different agreement had been arranged to begin with. However, to expect payment was something else entirely. He offered to help his neighbors all the time without asking anything in return. Sure, they would offer a meal now and then—which his wife would graciously accept and then bring over a pie or other in her customary way. What on earth more could this man expect for five minutes of his time?
“I’m afraid we don’t have much else to offer,” Miguel protested.
“Well, now, that is a problem. You see, I do believe in a man paying his debt when the debt is owed.”
“Debt?” Araceli scoffed. “All you did was help pull a wagon for a few minutes. We don’t owe you anything for that.”
“Ah, but that be where yer wrong, missy. Ya owe us yer gratitude. Otherwise, ye still be stuck in that there hole.”
“We wouldn’t have still been stuck,” Miguel growled. “I had it under control and refused the help to begin with. Yer the one who insisted on sticking around.”
“That may be,” Ely said and pulled out a pistol from his waist. He pointed it at Miguel, “But I’m not the one looking at the end of the boom stick.”
Araceli threw her arms around her husband. “Just give him whatever he wants, Miguel!”
Her husband gritted his teeth, grounding out his words as he glared at the gun. “I’ve done told ya we ain’t got much to give.”
“How about that necklace?” Jimbo finally spoke up. However, using his voice must have irritated his throat. He fell into a fit of coughs.
“Yes, we’ll just be taking that little bauble off ya.” He wagged the gun at Araceli.
“Don’t do it,” Miguel warned her. “You remember what the appraiser said.”
The appraiser back at the art show back in San Francisco had noted that the red gem was a very rare ruby—possibly worth more money than either of them would ever see in a lifetime. He had offered to buy it for twenty thousand dollars. The price had made Araceli swoon and Miguel’s eyes bulge. However, they had turned the man down in the end. If an appraiser in the west was willing to offer that kind of money for the necklace, how much more would one from back east offer? Surely, those were the men with the real money. Now, both husband and wife worried that their greed had gotten the better of them.
Miguel took a step forward, ready to fight and Ely raised his gun.
“No!” Araceli rushed up to her husband, her body a shield between the two men. She looked up at her husband through teary eyes. “Better to be poor and have a long life with you than rich and die alone.”
“The rarest gem of all—a loyal wife,” Ely said. “Perhaps there’s a greater prize here than the necklace.”
The suggestion made Miguel’s fists clench and bile rise in Araceli’s throat. She quickly reached up to unclasp the necklace. “You can have it.”
“Which ‘it’ be we talking about?” the old man winked.
“Enough,” Jimbo growled. “Finish the job.”
“The job?” Miguel’s brows drew together. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
Ely glared at the young man beside him. “You don’t know when to shut yer trap, do ya?”
“Careful how you address me, old man. You forget who I am.” Jimbo’s eyes flashed danger and something else—something that neither Miguel nor Araceli could explain, nor did they want to try. The only thing either of them wanted was to get away from these highway robbers. Their plight was far from over, though. Jimbo reached towards Araceli, his hand clasping around her necklace. A strange, otherworldly snarl sounded in his throat. “Give it to me!”
He yanked hard on the necklace, but only succeeded in pulling Araceli forward when the chain refused to break. Then he let go with a hiss. He held his hand—the one that had made a grab for the necklace—as if it had been burned or something. Still, he lunged forward again.
All the action must have gotten to him, though. He stopped, a new round of coughs violently erupting and spittle sprayed Araceli. She stepped back as the man fell to the ground.
“James!” His companion called the man by his proper name and raced forward. “Let’s finish this and you’ll be feeling aright once again.”
He tugged the man to his feet with one arm, the other still holding the pistol. However, it was no longer trained on Miguel and that was all the motivation the cowboy needed. He swiftly plucked up the shovel he had been using earlier and swung hard, knocking the gun out of the man’s hand. It fell to the ground. Ely let go of his sickly friend—no longer caring much that the man fell to the ground, and more concerned with reclaiming his weapon. Miguel gave it a quick kick and the gun rolled out of reach, landing at Araceli’s feet. She hurriedly snatched it up, her big belly nearly causing her to stumble forward as she did. However, she quickly found her footing and bolted back up.
“Don’t make me use this,” she threatened and aimed the gun at Ely.
The old man cackled. “I doubt ya would know how, miss.”
“First off,” Araceli gruffed, “that’s ‘missus’ to you. Second—”
She aimed the gun at Ely’s hat and allowed her shooting to do the rest of the talking.
Pop!
The hat flew off the man’s head. He looked aghast and slowly backed away, picking up the hat as he did so. He shook it free of dust and slapped it back on his head. Then he sidestepped towards his friend, never taking his eyes off Araceli. He reached down to help the man up. When the man was once again standing, Ely pointed at her. “You’ll be sorry, ya daft woman. Sickness and misery comes for you.”
The words sent a shiver down Araceli’s spine.
“You best just git,” Miguel roared. He dug his boot into the ground and kicked up a cloud of dirt in their direction. “Git on out of here before I finish the job she started.”
The two men rushed back to their horses, mounted and headed back the direction from which they had come—thankfully in the opposite direction of Blessings.
Miguel made his way back to his wife, sliding the pistol out of her hand. “Are you alright, darling?”
Araceli gazed up at him, his words slowly registering. She shook a little. “Miguel, if I didn’t know any better, I would think that man just cursed me!”
Miguel smiled sadly. “Aw, darling, that ain’t nothing but nerves. It’s what happens the first time ya faceoff another man—not saying that you should ever have to do that, nor that you ever will again.”
His words did little to soothe her, though. She had seen danger before—faced down a huntress in the forest only earlier in the year when she and Miguel first met. This felt far different.
“I don’t know. I still don’t feel quite like myself.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the baby,” Miguel said. His forehead creased with worry. “Let’s hurry on home. I want you to see the doctor—make sure all this excitement didn’t do any harm.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.” She allowed him to help her back up into the wagon then, her hand once again protectively resting on her belly.
The other clutched the gem at her throat.
Blessings, California
Seven Days Later
There was nothing more Jonathan Edwards enjoyed than climbing up onto his horse and riding back home, the crisp forest air at his back, wind ruffling his sandy brown hair as he thought about what he accomplished—which was a new adventure nearly every day. He didn’t remember climbing up onto the horse this time, feeling as if he had floated there instead. It made no matter, though. This was the reason he had come out west—the reason he knew Blessings was the town for him. Never would he have been able to see—nor cure—the ailments that plagued the patients back east. Not like the ones he had seen numerous California settlers endure. Back east, there was no such thing as Indian arrowheads and scalped caps, accidental explosions and more. Men were hardly brought in, barely breathing from some terrible cave in or gunshot wound back in Yonkers, New York. Oh, there were certainly pistols and shootings. However, those were usually attributed to the rare burglary or police chase—events that remained far removed from the polite society he and his family lived in. The shootings here were different, though. While Blessings itself was safe, he lived in the between place of Blessings and Caldera—a town where wild draws and high noon hangings were regular occurrences. So, there was always something going on—something more than little old ladies with fake heart ailments who were really looking for laudanum and numbing powders to mix in their afternoon tea (or whatever stronger drink they secretly sipped in their fine china). There was more than the gentleman complaining of other ailments, too—the ones that wouldn’t have existed at all had infidelity not been the order of some pretend business meeting.
Yes, the west was full of wondrous new ways for him to practice medicine… and he loved it.
Regina, not so much.
The thought of her suddenly had him flying again, and though still astride his horse, he recognized the path as being the one he took home in the evenings. Only one more curve in the bend and he would ride up to see his children playing in the yard; Regina would be sitting in the shade with a tall, cold glass of lemonade, her red hair piled high on her head in an attempt to keep it from sticking to the back of her neck.
The idea that redheads were fiery creatures was something of a fallacy. Regina was a rather fragile one—physically speaking. Long, sweltering days of hot sun and dry air created headaches that not even his best medicines could cure. The only suggestions he had for her was to stay in the shade, open all the windows and doors to their house and to remember that this was California—not New York. There was no need for petticoats and such out here. Of course, she hated it all. That was where she did prove fiery. No one would ever be able to tell how weak her poor body was considering her temper. She could hold a grudge with the best of women—which he had plenty of experience with, having been raised in a household of six sisters, a mother, a maid, and a cook, too. The only other male blood in the house had been his father, and to say he had been in the house was not entirely accurate anyway. Always working in his clinic or making one house call after another, the man had hardly been present. Then came the day when he would be absent altogether—never to return again. His indiscretions having caught up to him (as they had so many of Jonathan’s own clients) cost him his family, as well as his practice. The other board members pushed him out, and Mrs. Edwards made—and won—the demand that he never return again due to infidelity. It was the one sin that Jonathan swore to never commit after seeing what had become of his father. Being out west made that even easier, because while more women were settling in the area with each passing day, there remained absolutely no temptation—not that it was in his personality to be tempted to begin with. He made sure of that. Still, it didn’t hurt that none of them could hold a candle to his wife.
Wife.
The word had him soaring through time and he was no longer on the horse, musing about the day and his family and life in general. The horse, along with his medical bag, had been abandoned somewhere behind him and he was running—running towards the house as smoke billowed out of it. There were flames that hardly registered. Everything was a blur as he stumbled into the house, his legs like lead. They stuck to the floor, refusing to move. He yelled out into the flames, screaming for his children… screaming for his wife.
Screaming...
It was his children’s screams and shrill laughter that finally awoke him—some childish game or another from the enclosed courtyard he had built behind their new home, which also served as a convenient clinic since he was now in the center of town.
That was the only thing that was centered, though.
Jonathan dragged his heavy head up from his desk, feeling like the world spun off its axis. His eyes fixed on the book he had fallen asleep while reading the evening before—Shakespeare’s Macbeth. It laid on its pages, opened to some torment or other. He flipped the book over, knocking over an empty bottle of whiskey in the process. The glass shattered in protest, but he ignored it, returning his attention to the novel instead and reading aloud.
“My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight. I think but dare not speak,” Jonathan sighed and tossed the book onto the desk, his head rolling back to stare at the ceiling as he recited the rest of the passage from memory. “The gentlewoman bid the good doctor ‘good night.’”
It had been too long since he had experienced a “good night,” though. Ever since that evening two years prior, when he had returned home to find Regina in a pool of her own blood, an arrow launched into her bosom, and the children hiding beneath the bed upstairs as fire raged all around them. It was a sight he would never forget—nor forgive.
“Enough,” Jonathan growled and pushed himself away from the desk. He could have done better—listened to Regina and never drag his family to a western wasteland.
Oh, who was he fooling? Blessings was anything but a wasteland, and he loved the town as it continued to grow.
He loved the natives surrounding them a lot less. He tried to reserve judgment for the divine, but it was difficult to take the high road considering the circumstances. Of course, it was as the town’s mayor, Atherton, had told him before. They couldn’t really blame anyone for what had happened since no one knew the reasons why or who the culprit had been. There was no way of knowing which warrior from the various surrounding tribes had committed the sin. For as displaced as they had become, it could have even been one passing through from a territory in another state. The only thing he really had to go on was the arrow itself. Still, that was enough to be certain one of theirs was the one to blame for his wife’s death—not him.
So, stop beating yourself up. The suggestion had become a daily one. So, it went largely unnoticed. What didn’t go unnoticed was the loud crack from outside his office window. Jonathan jumped up and raced towards the sound, peering out of the glass panes in time to witness his son, Owen, scramble away from the rope swing and the splintered branch it hung from. The Mayfield boys were right behind him, all four of them rolling to the ground with peals of laughter as a cloud of dust engulfed them. He rapped on the window hard. Startled, they all looked up, their rascally behavior masked with contrite looks. He wagged a finger at them, indicating his displeasure with their wild ways. He had told them before that the branch was not strong enough to carry the weight of so many, and that they were to swing one at a time. Now they would have to do without.
He walked away from the window with a sigh. There were other things to worry about than rambunctious boys. A good example laid on the floor beside his desk, a wicked mess of shattered glass. He had better clean it up before Ms. Potts happened upon it. The maid (who also served as cook and nanny) wasn’t much older than he, but she managed to carry herself as if a matron far beyond her years.
A familiar knock on the door informed him he was too late.
“Are you awake yet, sir?”
The Southern drawl customary of many who had worked the fields sounded through the door. It held a peculiar touch of hospitable and helpful, while ret
aining a firm suggestion beneath it. In other words, he had better be presentable if he didn’t want to suffer the wrath of one Emily Potts.
“Uh, just a moment.” The doctor kicked what glass he could under the desk.
Crunch!
He frowned with the sounds coming from beneath his foot, sure that she had heard them through the thin wood door.
“Doctor Edwards—”
“Yes, yes. I’m awake, Ms. Potts.” He rushed over to the door and pulled it open. Her strong, but sinewy body brushed past him with the usual breakfast tray of four-minute eggs, scones with jam and hot tea.
He scowled. “Where’s the cream?”
“Don’t got any today. You didn’t put any funds in the piggy.”
The piggy was a wooden model his grandfather had carved out of pine. It was rumored that wedded couples from his village in Essex would pretend nice so that the church would award them a side of flitch for their anniversaries. Whether or not the origins of the idiom were true left plenty of doubt, but it was no matter. The old man had gotten a real quick out of creating the miniature cash box, giving him the chance to bring to life the old English tale. Jonathan had found the wooden pig a safe place to store money for small household finances. That way he didn’t have to ask for credit from any of the stores in town, nor run the risk of falling into debt.
“Ms. Potts,” he began with irritation, “you are the one in charge of the small finances. Why did you not tell me they had been depleted?”
The maid dropped the tray onto the desk and spun around, her shoe stepping onto a piece of glass Jonathan had obviously forgotten. A single brow raised sharply in her dark face as she eyed the long shard. Then she tilted her head to spy the remaining glass under the desk. She immediately planted two firm fists on her small hips. Her brow raised even further. “I did tell you, Doctor Edwards, last night right after I had put Olivia to bed. Perhaps you don’t recall because you were imbibing again.”