by Alex Jane
Jonathon only shrugged. "Still says Jackson's above the door. We run the place the same as it's always been. Pa figures if it was good enough for your granddaddy and your pa has no objections, we'll keep doing so. And when it's yours," he said, looking up from whatever he'd been writing. "I have no doubt we'll go on the same. Or am I wrong?"
Emmanuel hadn't really thought about how bound to the town he was. Sometimes the Fletcher side of the family eclipsed the fact that his paternal grandfather had been one of the people who'd really made Lastford what it was. The Feed and Seed shouldn't have been the only building with his name over the door, but never being one to take credit, his influence was there more in spirit than painted on a plaque.
"I would have thought Pa would pass the deeds to Harry, being he's the namesake," Emmanuel said as he looked at his feet.
"Harry's not here though, is he? And as much as I love your brother, I can't see him really taking much of an interest in counting bags of maize and sexing chickens."
That made Emmanuel chuckle. "And I will?"
Jonathon shrugged. "We'll see."
"You two done chin-wagging?" Ephraim walked up, catching hold of Jonathon's shoulder in greeting and getting a beaming smile in return.
"Just about. What can I get you?"
"Just want to go over the seed order with your pa if he's about."
Jonathon shook his head. "He's not back from Plum Creek yet. But I can go over it with you, if I can help?"
Ephraim nodded. "That'ud be fine, Jon."
"In that case." Emmanuel slipped on his hat. "I'll leave you to it and drop by the mercantile if that's all right." At least that was his intention, after he'd headed to the sheriff's office.
Ephraim nodded. "Go on, then, and I'll see you back in a while."
With Jonathon smiling his goodbye, Emmanuel headed out into the sunlight and started towards Main Street.
The packed dirt road led him east, running parallel to the narrow stretch of river that had given the town its name. It was hidden mostly behind the low scrubby trees and tall grass that grew long at that time of year, although in the winter you could see the gray ribbon of water from horseback at least. Farther along the bank was the saw mill, the steam-powered saws roaring away as men bustled about loading cut timber onto the back of a wagon and would end up in one of the homesteads surrounding the town, no doubt.
Beyond, the road forked and the less industrial part of town began. Main Street was hardly a bustling metropolis but certainly busier than when he used to ride in on the wagon as a small boy sandwiched between his Alpha grandparents.
Leyland's Mercantile was still there, still with the same two chairs sat out front, permanently filled with a couple of old-timers smoking their pipes and passing the time, although the building had expanded to include an additional store next to the old place to accommodate the rising population. His uncles swore up-and-down that Leyland Jr.—who owned the place—was almost indistinguishable from his father in looks, although Mr. Leyland Sr. had never cracked a smile in his life whereas his son was jolly and personable. Given the way the subject was discussed with such enjoyment and regularity, Emmanuel had very little doubt they were telling the truth.
The same couldn't be said for some of the tales they would tell about the old saloon and its dubious former proprietor. The old building had burned down three years earlier, not long before the owner had passed away, which had become a tall tale in itself. If Seth was to be believed—which he generally wasn't—the old man who'd founded the place was a Confederate soldier hiding out after the war. After he had gone, he'd left the place to his partner who had run the saloon until he'd gotten sick. Then one night, when it happened to be empty, a fire had started up in one of the rooms upstairs and had engulfed the whole building before anything could be done about it. Now, in its place, was a neat brick building, a hotel, with a bar on the first floor and the only nod to the old establishment was a portrait drawn by Emmanuel's grandfather of the original owners hanging above the fireplace.
As Emmanuel walked on he could see that there were a few newer buildings but mostly the street looked the same. The presence of a few motorcars parked up next to where horses and wagons were hitched seemed noticeable since he was last there. There was an unfamiliar squat building that looked to be the bank, and next to the old church another handsome, if smaller, construction that served as a town hall and the schoolhouse. The teashop was still there, and what looked to be a pharmacy or barbershop next to it. And, of course, the sheriff's office on the corner, looking unchanged, with its red brick and whitewashed steps leading up to the front door. The doctor who had occupied the rooms on the second floor had moved out some time ago and Malcolm had repurposed them as a jailhouse of sorts. But otherwise the place looked the same from the outside.
Once Emmanuel made his way inside, up the white steps, through the main door and then one to his left, it seemed the interior had hardly changed either. The room had the same old woodstove with coffee warming, wanted posters on the walls, and John Conway's vast mahogany desk taking up a large part of the room. In the chair that went with it sat a fair-haired young man who didn't look much older than Jonathon, and at best couldn't have been much over twenty-five. He was pretty in his own way and smartly dressed, even if the clothes rather hung from his frame a somewhat loosely. Even the weight of the sheriff's star, bright and clearly new, dragged the fabric down, making the pocket sag. It didn't help that he seemed to be currently taking instruction from an older man in a tan suit. Wide-eyed and nodding compliantly, the sheriff looked like a schoolboy being taken to task on his algebra rather than a lawman commanding respect. When the two men noticed the interruption, it was the older man who said in a gruff, irritated tone, "Can I help you?" as he straightened up and pushed his shoulders back.
There was something about him that immediately put Emmanuel's teeth on edge. It could have been the condescending expression, or the way he was dressed—given the circumstances in which he'd grown up, Emmanuel knew expensive fabric when he saw it, but he also knew money couldn't buy taste and this man was surely lacking—but more it was the way he seemed to dismiss the sheriff, trying to take control of the conversation in the man's own workplace. Emmanuel could have been wrong, but he was pretty sure he had met his type before and had no wish to be associated with anyone like him again.
Ignoring the man and his petulant expression, Emmanuel directed himself to the sheriff, extending the hand that wasn't holding his hat as he walked toward the desk. "My apologies for interrupting, Sheriff. I'm Emmanuel Jackson, I just moved into the old Fletcher homestead, wanted to introduce myself."
The sheriff looked oddly perplexed at being addressed before his associate, but stood with a friendly smile, taking Emmanuel's hand and shaking it. His grip was pleasingly firm, and once he was up and moving he looked less like a schoolboy and more like one of the wiry ranch hands his uncles used to hire. "Michael Daniels," he said. "Otis told me you'd be coming sometime this week. I was intending to ride out and check in."
"Well, glad I could save you the bother," Emmanuel said with a smile at the man's friendly tone. "Although, feel free to come by. I think it'll take me a while to get settled in, but I should have coffee to offer you at least by the end of the day." Normally, he wouldn't have been so free with his invitation, but seeing how the sheriff appeared to be a friend of Otis, it felt as if it was the right thing to do.
The sheriff opened his mouth as if to speak, but was cut off when the other man cleared his throat in a pointed manner that made Emmanuel want to roll his eyes.
The sheriff's smile fell away as he gestured to him, starting to say, "This is—"
"Walter Baskin. First Provincial." Emmanuel assumed he meant the bank and extended his hand to meet Baskin's, although he regretted it when the man squeezed his fingers so hard he thought he might lose a finger or two. "Heard a lot about you, son. Glad to make your acquaintance."
Emmanuel nodded politely. "If any of that
information came from Seth Mason, don't believe a word of it."
Baskin laughed as if the off-hand remark was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, a deep booming noise that seemed to come from the depths of his barrel chest. "You've got a sense of humor, I like that. As if you can't believe a word that comes out of the man's mouth about pretty much anything." The comment made Emmanuel frown, but he didn't stop Baskin as he plowed on. "I heard you were out in Europe lately, getting in on the scrap. Looks like you boys had a pretty good time out there."
It wasn't anything Emmanuel hadn't heard before, but all the same the attitude made him nauseated and want to reach out and take hold of the back of the chair closest to him to steady himself. "I wouldn't put it quite like that."
"Come now. You must have some pretty good stories to tell. You should come by sometime, have a brandy. I know of a few gentlemen around who'd love to hear about a killing, and it sounds as if they were lining up for it over there, am I right?"
"Wrong as usual, Wally," a voice said from the doorway. Emmanuel's heart leaped into his throat, not even having to turn around to know who was speaking even though he hadn’t heard that particular voice in a long, long time. The timbre of it still put the fear of god into him after all these years, especially when he heard footsteps coming up behind him. "Manny here was a war correspondent, not a mercenary. I'm sure he does have a good story or two but you'll have to pay for them like everyone else. If you can read that is?"
The footsteps stopped when the owner of the voice came to stand next to him. Emmanuel only chanced a glance over and, yup, it was Asher Franklin all right. Those same piercing blue eyes set under his dark brows and his dark hair swept back as if it had been under his hat all day. The square jaw and broad frame had only become more defined in the years since Emmanuel had seen him but this was undoubtedly the same man. And Emmanuel hated the fact he still found him so beautiful.
Asher nodded slightly in greeting and Emmanuel did the same, mumbling, "Alpha," under his breath and tipping his chin away a fraction to give the merest glimpse of his throat possible. The formality was simply habit and years of having good manners drummed into him rather than any real respect, but he couldn't help himself. There was something gratifying about the fact Asher appeared to swallow hard at the sight of his pulse point, his eyes lingering there too long before he turned his attention back to Baskin.
Baskin had barely noticed the exchange, it seemed, being that his face was beet red and he looked about to blow a gasket. He managed to grind out, "Marshal," through his gritted teeth, which impressed Emmanuel and made Asher's wide smile stretch out even farther. But then Asher had always gone out of his way to take great pleasure in making other people uncomfortable. "The sheriff and I—"
"Had just concluded our business," Sheriff Daniels piped up, looking like he was hoping to defuse whatever situation he imagined this exchange would escalate into. "Thanks for dropping by, sir. I'll look into the matter, don't worry."
If Baskin looked anything, it was not worried. He snatched his hat from the desk so violently he pulled down a couple of pieces of paper that drifted in his wake as Baskin slammed the door behind him so hard Emmanuel was astonished the glass didn't shatter.
"What's shaking his hive today?" Asher murmured as he bent down to retrieve the papers, putting them back on the desk before placing his hand on the sheriff's shoulder and absently giving him a reassuring squeeze as he passed by to get to the coffee pot. The gesture rather startled Emmanuel, as he'd seen his Uncle Thaddeus do the same thing to members of their pack. He knew intellectually that Asher was an Alpha and he should have his own pack by now, but having known him only as a bully taking pleasure from tormenting others, such a kind action didn't quite sit right in his head.
The sheriff sighed and rearranged things as he took his seat again. "The Jenkins boys."
"Of course it is," Asher muttered before draining a cup and then holding it up to Emmanuel. "Join us for a beverage?" Emmanuel couldn't find it in him to speak so only shook his head. Asher didn't appear to care, only shrugging and pouring another for himself and one for the sheriff. "Suit yourself. So. The prodigal grandson returns, huh? I'd say you look well, Manny, but I've seen horses go to the slaughterhouse with more meat on them. That French food not agree with you?"
"Something like that." Emmanuel's throat was dry all of a sudden but he forced himself to look down at the sheriff and say, "I'll be getting along. Leave you to it."
"Hold up," Asher said, disgruntled and frowning, before Emmanuel could even turn away. "You just got here. Pull up a chair. It's been, what? Five years since I've seen you."
Emmanuel closed his eyes for a second, fighting off the memory of Asher trying to speak to him at his grandfathers' funeral before Henry managed to whisk him away. "Four. Sorry, I have things to do. Sheriff." He nodded goodbye as he put on his hat, getting out as quickly as he could without running. The walls hadn't exactly started closing in on him, but the tension was rising in his chest, and he didn't want to start gulping for air like a fish out of water in front of Asher Franklin of all people.
Thankfully, there were few townsfolk around to see his embarrassment once he got outside into the dusty street. He couldn't believe he was still allowing Asher to get to him after all this time, and worse, he couldn't believe how insanely attracted he was to the man.
The fact he had grown into the compellingly handsome man that he'd threatened to become as a child, hadn't been lost on Emmanuel the last time they had seen each other. There had been something different about Asher this time, not only the silver star on his chest or the shadow of stubble that framed his square jaw perfectly, but something about him seemed more relaxed and confident if such a thing were really possible. The fact Emmanuel's eyes had drifted down to the curve of Asher’s behind had left him disappointed in his own poor taste The only comfort was that he had on occasion been attracted to more objectionable people than Asher Franklin. Not many, but enough.
Trying his best to act as if nothing was wrong, Emmanuel brushed himself down and started to walk back toward the mercantile. He tried not to let his mind linger on whether he had made a complete fool of himself in front of the sheriff, and put his mind toward more pleasant thoughts of how he was going to stock his pantry and wouldn't have to come back to town for the foreseeable future. He didn't dislike Lastford, but he'd come back for the homestead, definitely not to be anywhere he might bump into people he didn't really want to speak with.
As he stepped up from the street to the creaky porch where the two old men were occupying the rocking chairs and performing their civic duty by keeping an eye on all the comings and goings, he nodded politely with a tip of his hat.
"You Joe Jackson's boy?" one of the old codgers asked.
"You mean Martha Fletcher's boy," the other interrupted before Emmanuel got a chance to reply.
"Well, don't be an idiot," the first said with a roll of his eyes, "that would be the same boy, wouldn't it?"
"Unless you're talking about Henry Jr." Emmanuel smiled at their confusion. He didn’t have that many siblings to get mixed up with.
"We know which one you are, son. Although I can tell you, it's a little confusing when your brother looks so much like your ma, and you are the spit of old Henry when he was a young'un."
Emmanuel blushed a little at that. "Well, I shall take that as a compliment. Especially given the way my grandma talks about him."
"How is Maggie? She ever coming back from the big city?" one of the old men asked with an affectionate smile.
"She's well, sir."
Emmanuel spent some time chatting with the two of them, passing on news of the family and skirting around his own adventures or plans for the week, let alone the year. He didn't really want to talk about the past, and having no firm plans for the future, it was difficult to give a straight answer to some of the questions. Eventually, they seemed satisfied and let him go so he could get on with the shopping in peace.
The mercant
ile was much the same, fully stocked with almost everything you could possibly want or need, at least in a small town in the backwaters of Nebraska. It was hardly Bloomingdale's but it would do. There was a skinny boy in an apron wiping down one of the shelves with a cloth before replacing the glass jars that were sitting on a stool he was using to hold a few at a time. The boy gave him a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye as he walked in, but went right back to his work when Leyland appeared behind the counter. They hadn't exactly known each other very well, but still, the shopkeeper gave him a wide smile and extended his hand across to him in welcome.
"I heard a rumor there was a Fletcher back on the old homestead."
"I'm not quite sure how Uncle Ephraim would feel about being excluded from that equation."
Leyland laughed and slapped his bony hand against the countertop. "Oh, there'll always be a Fletcher in town, I have no doubt, but that land has been empty too long. I for one am glad you're back home."
"Can't see you ever being sad about having a new customer," Emmanuel said, trying to cover up his embarrassment by ducking his head so he could pull his list out of his pocket. "I'm not sure what I'll be needing regularly but I thought this would start me off." He didn't want to add that this was the first time he'd lived alone and somehow didn't know exactly how much of anything he was going to require, but Leyland nodded as if he understood completely.
He slid the list over the counter. Leyland took it, smoothing the paper out with his bony fingers and humming as he read down the items, occasionally tapping one finger against the countertop. "Y'know, you could have sent Ephraim to get this stuff last week so it would have been waiting for you?"
"I know," Emmanuel said, awkwardly fingering the brim of his hat. "I didn't want to be any bother."
"You're no bother," Leyland said, shaking his head and smiling gently. He flicked the paper with his finger, making it snap. "Should take me a few minutes to get this together. You want to wait around here with the kid or…"