“What is it?” Apphia asked.
“Hurry. Her cabin’s flat.”
The horse trotted into what should have been the dooryard, but the only welcome they received was the view of a charred heap of ruins where the Pearts’ modest home had stood for more than twenty years.
Apphia held the reins while Gert climbed down from the wagon and walked over to the burned-out cabin. Tears filled her eyes and choked her. How could she not have realized something was horribly wrong?
She stumbled back to the wagon and looked up at Apphia through stinging tears. “This isn’t new. It’s been awhile.”
“But … where has she been living?”
“I don’t know. Let’s tie the horse and look around.”
They walked slowly about the site of the cabin.
“She’s started a little garden,” Apphia said, stooping to pull a clump of grass from a crooked row of peas.
Gert spotted the root cellar, but it was empty. She turned slowly, looking over the valley. Apphia walked back to the ruins, shouting, “Milzie!”
“The mine,” Gert called. Apphia turned toward her with her lovely dark eyebrows arched. “Up there.” Gert pointed to the cave opening a short way along the hillside. Apphia walked quickly to join her.
“Do you think she could be in there?”
“Maybe. We should check. Franklin tried to mine it, but there wasn’t much in these hills. I think he took a little gold out of the creek—that’s what they lived on—but not the hillside.”
They toiled up the path to the dark cave entrance.
“This would be a difficult walk for Milzie.” Apphia turned to look back. “When she comes into town, does she walk all that way?”
“I expect so, unless she catches a ride with the Robinsons.”
“It would take her a couple of hours to walk that far.”
Gert nodded. “She shouldn’t be out here alone. Especially with no house. I wonder when that happened.”
When they’d approached to within two yards of the cave entrance, she stopped.
“Milzie? Are you in there?”
The wind ruffled her hair, but no one answered.
Gert stepped forward, her heart racing. “I hope there aren’t any critters in there.” She and Apphia stood in the opening, squinting into the darkness. “Look.” Gert stepped into the cave and pointed to a heap of cloth on the floor.
“Is that a blanket?” Apphia asked.
“I think it’s Franklin’s old wool coat she wears in the winter.” Gert looked around, spotting a few other items. “There’s a lantern.” She took it down and checked the reservoir. “No oil.”
“Here’s a candle stub.” Apphia picked it up from a rude shelf between two framing members against the rock wall.
“I don’t see any matches.” Gert looked closely at the shelf. “If we come calling again, we’d best bring some, and some lamp oil or a few more candles.”
“Do you really think she’s living in this cave, poor soul?” Apphia’s face softened as she took in the meagerness of Milzie’s existence.
“She must be.” Gert fingered the small items on the shelf. “I wonder if she’d let us move her into town. She’s so independent.”
“But she’s been accepting small gestures from the club members.” Apphia opened her crocheted handbag. “I don’t suppose we should be in here without her permission. I’ll leave the gingerbread I brought for her.” She took out a small parcel wrapped in a napkin and laid it on top of the coat.
“I hope animals don’t get it before Milzie does.” Gert spotted a covered crock on the floor and dragged it to the opening, where she could see its contents. She lifted the lid and sniffed the mass inside.
“What is that?” Apphia leaned closer.
“She’s fixed a batch of camas root. Not much of that grows around here. She must have found a patch down by the river.” Gert put the lid back and replaced the crock. “It’s good nourishment, I guess. The Indians set a lot of store by it. That may be helping Milzie keep from starving.”
“Poor thing. The town ought to do something. Do you suppose she would let us move her?”
Gert stared at her. “Well, ma’am, I don’t know. And I can’t think where you’d put her. You don’t really have room in your little house, and …” She let her words trail off but couldn’t repress a shudder. “I do feel sorry for her.”
“Maybe the Robinsons could tell us when the cabin burned.” Apphia pulled her shawl around her.
Gert took a last look around. “At least we know she’s not in here now. But where is she?”
Milzie took her time Saturday morning, leaning on her stick as she walked across country toward town before the sun got hot. She stopped by the Higginses’ cabin. Nealy and Clem weren’t around, so she took a drink from their well and poked around the yard a little. They wouldn’t miss the egg she took when they had at least three more that she left untouched in the chicken pen.
At the Landrys’, she gathered the courage to knock at the back door. Emmaline opened it and promptly greeted her.
“Well, good morning, Milzie. Would you like a slice of corn cake? We’ve some left from breakfast.”
Would she! After thanking the donor and devouring the food, Milzie ambled on until she was less than a mile from town. By then, her old legs didn’t want to go any farther. She found a thicket to curl up in where she wouldn’t be readily seen if anyone passed by. A good nap used up several hours. She awoke when a horse fly landed on her nose. The sun was high overhead, and she felt lazy. But she needed to get her stiff bones moving if she wanted to complete a foray into town and get home before dark.
Milzie knew every dump in Fergus. The trash heaps on the outskirts of town rewarded her.
At the pile belonging to the Spur & Saddle, she picked a large tin can to aid in her cooking and put it in her sack. A china cup with the handle broken clean off. Next, she found a good-sized shard of a broken looking glass. One of Bitsy’s girls must be in for some bad luck. She frowned as she looked at her partial reflection. With a shrug, she wrapped the glass in a sheet of newspaper and stuck it into her bag.
She made her way down the back side of Main Street and paused behind the Dooleys’ house. The gunsmith puttered about the place, but she saw no sign of Gert. Too bad. Milzie liked Gert, and she had a light touch with biscuits.
At the emporium, she had better fortune. Miz Adams greeted her with a smile.
“Well, Milzie, how are you? We missed you on Thursday.”
“Had the grippe.”
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you’re over it now.”
“Middlin’.” The truth was, clouds had rolled in on Thursday, and Milzie hadn’t wanted to risk being caught several miles from home in a downpour. But that wouldn’t sound like a very good reason to miss the shooting club.
Another customer entered the store. “Excuse me, won’t you?” Libby asked. “Make sure you see me before you leave. I’ve got a little something for you.”
Milzie wandered about the store for a good twenty minutes. Miz Adams had gotten in enough new bolts of cloth to cover a tabletop. Milzie surreptitiously ran her hand over them. The soft nap of the corduroy pleased her. Franklin liked corduroy pants in cold weather. They didn’t itch like wool. It was too hot for summer, but wouldn’t she love a skirt from that brown bolt for fall? Likely women didn’t make skirts from corduroy though.
The flannels were even softer. She wanted to put her face right down and brush her cheek against the fabric.
“May I help you, Mrs. Peart?” Florence Nash, the red-haired girl, stood right next to her.
“You jumped me,” Milzie said.
“I’m sorry.”
Milzie looked toward the counter. Libby was handing a wrapped parcel to Oscar Runnels. No one else waited for her to tot up an order. Milzie ignored Florence and shuffled toward her.
“Oh, Milzie, I haven’t forgotten you.” Libby smiled again. She sure had a pretty smile. Her te
eth were just as white as the bleached muslin bolts. She ducked down behind the counter for a minute then stood again. “I’ve been saving these for you.” She placed a pair of knit stockings on the counter. “They came in mismatched. Can you imagine? See how one’s a little larger than the other? I can’t sell them like that. Could you use them by any chance?”
“Surely.” Milzie reached out a shaky hand. Soft, whole stockings. “Thankee, ma’am.”
Libby hesitated and looked about the store. “You know, it’s time when I like to sit down for a minute. There aren’t many customers, and Florence can look after things for a bit. Would you like to have a little refreshment with me in the back room?”
Milzie could scarcely believe it. Since joining the shooting club, she’d received invitations from the cleanest, nicest women in town—not to say the richest, necessarily, though Libby Adams probably qualified there—but some of the best. Tea with the minister’s wife on Monday had nearly been enough to lure her into church. Hot tea with sugar and cream, little quarter sandwiches, boiled eggs, and cookies so small it took four to make a mouthful. Her mouth watered just thinking about it.
In the storage room, Libby let Milzie sit in the big chair by her desk. She took a cut glass bottle and two tumblers from a cupboard and poured each glass half full of red liquid. Milzie stared at the lovely swirling beverage.
“This is raspberry shrub.” Libby smiled again. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I try to get enough berries every summer to make a good batch.”
“It won’t be long before the berries come on,” Milzie said with what she hoped passed for a sage nod.
“That’s right. This is my last bottle from last year.” Libby sat down on a stool nearby and raised her glass to her lips.
Milzie lifted hers and smelled the liquid. It surely did smell of fresh raspberries. Her stomach clutched. Emmaline’s corn cake was long gone. She took a sip. The sharp juice, sweetened, but not too much, slid down slicker than a greased eel. No fermentation. Miz Adams wouldn’t offer anything like that, of course. Milzie gulped the rest and lowered her glass with a sigh. Libby’s glass was still nearly as full as when she’d started.
“That’s mighty pleasin’. Thankee.”
Libby kept smiling but didn’t offer more. “So you’re feeling well now?”
“I am. You can expect to see me on Monday.”
“Good.” Libby stood in a swirl of challis skirts and rustling cotton petticoats. “Now, Milzie, I’ve put aside a few more things. Don’t take them if you don’t want to, but if you can use them …” She opened the cupboard again, put the ornate bottle away, and brought out a couple of tins. “A can of oysters and one of pears. Can you use those?”
“Oh yes, ma’am.” Milzie opened her capacious sack, and the cans disappeared inside. “I do thank you.”
Libby nodded. “You’re welcome. I need to get back to the store now, but we’ve had a good visit today.”
“Yes, yes.” Clearly the hostess expected her to precede her back into the emporium, so Milzie went.
“Good day, Milzie,” Libby said when they reached the store.
“Good day to you.” Mrs. Walker was looking over the housewares, and she watched critically. Milzie made a deep bow to Libby. “I shall see you on Monday.” She turned, chuckling, and walked as steadily as her tired old bones would allow toward the front door. Mrs. Walker’s horrified expression was worth the aching feet she’d have tonight.
She made her way down the boardwalk, uncertain where to go next. Should she head for home? Her sack would grow heavy, and she might need to rest along the way. Maybe she would take a rest right now. She slid between weathered buildings and found a spot behind the smithy where she could lean against the back wall. Inside, the blacksmith was working at his forge. She liked to hear the whoosh of the bellows and the cling-cling of the hammer. She leaned back and closed her eyes. So far, she’d had a good day.
Sometime later, she awoke. The blacksmith had stopped working. A horse nickered, and she looked toward the back of the livery. The big, bearded man came out of the barn, leading a solid chestnut horse. He opened a gate and released the horse into a paddock with three others. The stagecoach must have come in.
She looked up at the sky. The sun would set soon. She’d best get going. Already she doubted she’d be home before dark, but that didn’t worry her much. The moon would be near full tonight, and the air would be cooler once the sun was down. She picked up her sack and headed back to Main Street.
As she passed one building, an open door drew her. It was an office. She looked up at the sign. Of course. Wells Fargo. This must be where Cyrus Fennel conducted his business. The coach was nowhere in sight. She peeked inside. A desk, shelves and cupboards, and a man crouched behind the desk, as though taking something from a low drawer.
She didn’t care for Fennel, but he was rich. Maybe he would give her something out of respect for Frank, God rest his soul. Everyone else had been kind today. Why not see if the richest man in town felt generous?
She stepped forward. “Evening, Mr.—”
He looked up suddenly. Cold, angry eyes glittered in the dimness. The face beneath the hat brim wasn’t right. Who was he? He stood, and she thought she knew, though why he should be in here … Maybe he worked for Fennel now.
“You!” He stepped around the desk toward her.
His harsh voice frightened her, and she backed toward the door. She fetched up against a wall instead, beside a small box stove.
Suddenly the silhouette of his hat and something about his nose sparked a memory. “You came out of the jailhouse the night Bert Thalen was killed.”
His eyes narrowed, and he advanced toward her, his lips curled in a snarl. “You meddling old woman!” He reached for her.
Milzie tried to duck past him, but she was too slow, and he had her cornered between the stove and the wall. She dropped her sack of plunder and held her stout walking stick with both hands. Why was he angry with her?
He snatched the stick and tossed it aside as thought it were a twig. As his hands closed about her throat, she groped for something else—anything.
She grasped a poker and swung it up. He grabbed it and wrestled her for it. She stared into his eyes as they both stood clutching the sooty poker. He gritted his teeth.
“You should have stayed home, old woman.”
He yanked the poker from her. Milzie shrank back against the wall and raised her hands before her face.
CHAPTER 24
Cyrus polished off his second whiskey and shook his head as Ted Hire raised the bottle to refill his glass.
“Not tonight, Ted. I’d better get on home, or Isabel will be beating the bushes for me.” The Nugget was filling up anyway, and he didn’t like to stay there on a Saturday evening. The noise at the saloon always mounted steadily after the sun went down. He’d rather go home and settle down in his comfortable chair before the fireplace. “I’ll take a bottle of that good whiskey with me though.”
As Ted bent to retrieve a fresh bottle, Cyrus pulled out his wallet. He settled his account and picked up the bottle—not as good as the stuff Bitsy kept. He’d have to speak to Jamin about that. He turned toward the door just as Ethan Chapman stepped through it. The noise level immediately fell.
“Evening, sheriff,” said Nick Telford, the stagecoach driver. He had settled in early at a corner table and was playing poker for pennies with a few friends. An inveterate gambler, Nick had been known to lose his entire month’s pay a penny at a time. Cyrus figured that was his business. Nick would win one week, and Bill Stout the next, and then Parnell Oxley. At least the currency circulated in the local economy.
“Howdy, boys.” Ethan’s gaze swept over the poker players, skipped quickly past the saloon girl carrying drinks to two cow hands, and landed on Cyrus. “Mr. Fennel.”
Cyrus gave him a curt nod. He wished he’d have gotten away before Ethan walked in to see him carrying his bottle.
Jamin Morrell entered from the b
ack room and called out cheerfully, “Well, Sheriff! How’s life in the fair town of Fergus tonight?”
“Quiet so far. Doesn’t look like you’re having any trouble in here.”
“Not a bit,” Morrell assured him, though he hadn’t been in the saloon at all for the last half hour. Of course, Ted probably would have fetched him in a hurry from out back or wherever he’d been if someone had started tearing up the place.
“Well, excuse me, gentlemen.” Cyrus held the bottle down at his side, away from the sheriff, and walked toward the door. “Have a pleasant evening.”
He went out into the cooler evening air. The sun was low, and his long shadow stretched before him as he crossed the street diagonally. He continued up the boardwalk to the stagecoach office. Time to lock up and head for the ranch. He left his horse at the livery during the day, but lately his relationship with Griffin had seen some strain. He’d either have to confront the blacksmith or find someone else to house the stagecoach teams and his personal mount. That didn’t seem practical. He reached the office and pushed the door open with a sigh. Griffin worked hard, but he had a stubborn streak. Too bad. It would be so much easier if he’d just go along with—
Cyrus stood still, staring at the dark heap on the floor beside the stove. What on earth?
Ethan left the Nugget and walked slowly up the boardwalk toward the jail. What now? He could relax for an hour or so then check the two saloons again. Drop in on Hi and Trudy? Didn’t want to wear out his welcome. His discussion with Hiram last night had crossed his mind many times throughout the day. Had the time come to face up to the past and let go of it? That would mean thinking about the future, and he usually shied away from that.
Across the street and up half a block, Cy Fennel lurched out of his office, still holding the bottle of whiskey he’d carried at the Nugget. He must be drunker than Ethan had realized. He staggered to the edge of the boardwalk and retched.
Ethan paused, wondering what to do. Should he go get Cyrus and walk him over to the jail, where he could sleep it off? He’d leave the cell door unlocked, of course. But if he did that, Cy would be furious later. Maybe he should go to the livery, get Cy’s horse, put him on it, and head him toward home. No, he might fall off halfway there and break his neck.
The Bride's Prerogative Page 19