It had remained cold and brown though. As they said in the Highlands, Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd - Christmas without snow is poor fare. And today was no fairer, but even more dreary with the grayness the morning frost brought to the scenery. As much as it hadn’t snowed, he sure felt it in the air, the way he could sense impending doom—it vibrated in his bones, mostly his ribs, making him feel as though his heart rattled.
Something about this trip made his heart rattle more than usual. Didn’t know what that was about and wanted to spend some time thinking upon it. But he needed the money the town offered more.
Like most mining settlements in western territories, Plateau looked as transitory as all the others. Dotting the valley village were tents with chimneys, white smoke puffing away like old men gossiping on a porch. A short wide street lay bare the gray-brown frozen earth and was home to five buildings. A tiny jailhouse, freshly bricked into place with new whitewash already peeling from being applied when it was too damned cold. A general store next to a stagecoach stop, complete with hotel and restaurant, and, Jake guessed, the seeming requisite tavern. And a church. Always at the end of the street. This one was decorated with homemade paper ribbons of red and green, torn down and swaying limply from a frigid breeze.
He didn’t know what it was about churches being at the end of the road. Wondered if the builders of the steepled structure engineered it to be that way. As if asking the folks without any faith to come to the end of the line for answers.
Jake knew the answers though.
There weren’t any.
Stopping at the tavern, his legs protested any kind of movement. Sure, he’d taken breaks during the ride, stretched, but he was exhausted, and his body nearly crumbled when his booted foot met the cold ground. He held onto Moses, his bay gelding, for support. The old horse cocked one eye his direction, summoning an I-told-you-not-to-push-it look. Jake almost chuckled at the horse. Almost.
Tilting his head side to side, then bending his knees, he got his bearings. It was like sea legs, it was. After a long ride, one had to take the time to resettle to the surface, to the soil, to become grounded. He’d hated sailing but had often wondered if the steamboats of this age might be more comfortable. Then again, the reason he’d hated sailing was because he’d been a prisoner of war. It had been 1651. He’d never ventured far from his Highland MacKay country, but he and his brothers had been pressed into service for Laird Reay. Cromwell and the New Order Army were unstoppable, but if he and his brothers deserted the royalist army, they’d’ve had a sword through their bellies. Fight or die. Die or fight. Too fast, he’d found himself in England, Worcester, battling for his life. After his brother, Douglas, lay mangled, bloody, and dead, he’d surrendered to the English, hoping for reprieve from the fighting, from further death. Striped from his lands, his brother’s demise laying heavily on his shoulders as did the cold manacles around his wrists and ankles, and the sailors above deck ridiculed his accent as often as they’d flung the dead overboard. Aye, he hadn’t been fond of sailing.
Jake shook his head, reminding himself of the time, of his tongue. Not saying a word was usually best for passing as an American. However, he knew he’d have to talk today. After all, this was an interview to become the new sheriff of Plateau. So he’d practiced on the ride, hence the reason for riding at night when no one could hear him. He’d talked all night, perfecting his American accent. He sounded pretty good to his own ears, if he did say so himself. But then again, he also sounded raw and in need of...
“Coffee?” A friendly woman’s voice rang out.
A smiling black woman held open the door to the stagecoach stop across the street from the tavern. Jake suddenly noticed a small sign above the woman, probably an old white torn sheet with the word “Stop” on it. Must be the simple name of the stagecoach stop. The woman had a pink shawl wrapped tightly around her thin shoulders, and her forest green skirts pillowed around her legs.
“You must be Mr. Cameron.”
“Yes’m.”
Her smile grew, like the sun rising and warming the land. “You have excellent timing. I’m Laura Casper. Tom Casper’s wife, the man you telegraphed for the position.”
She was Tom Casper’s wife? Tom Casper owned Plateau, all the land, the coal, all the buildings, hell, everything here.
Before he had time to ponder further, she beckoned with a wave of a hand. “Get in here, Mr. Cameron. It’s too cold to keep the door open.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He raced toward her, his long legs still angry with him, but he made them work somehow.
She laughed, her chuckle as amiable as her smile and seemed to chortle even more as he passed her into the hot antechamber. Lord, it was a bit of heaven to walk into. That warmth. He hadn’t noticed how cold he was until now. The other benefit to walking into the Stop was the strong scent of coffee, always a good omen.
The stagecoach stop was a long cabin. Inside to his right was a telegraph and desk with papers and ledgers strewn about. In front of him was a staircase to the rooms, one of which would be his, he hoped. To the left was the restaurant with an eight-foot pine, without one decoration. Must have gotten to cleaning the Christmas mess early. In front of the dining room was a small pub. It had the look of something back home in Scotland—quaint tables squished together, mismatched chairs, and a bar for serving the ale or whisky. Children and their parents would sit together, the parents with their tankards, while the bairns...Lord, what had he done when his da had been drinking? More than likely, trying to run away from the bastard.
“Now, may I get you that coffee, Mr. Cameron?”
“Yes, please.” He turned toward Mrs. Casper, trying to give her his own grin. It had been a while since he’d been in need of one, and his face felt too tight when he tried to curl his lips up.
Mrs. Casper didn’t seem to notice but smiled and hummed as she strode toward a carafe on the huge desk. Placing a thick brown cup from a shelf down on the desk, she poured black brew into it, turning Jake’s smile more genuine every second.
Ah, coffee. The elixir of the gods.
“Cream, sugar?”
He wanted to say yes to both, being a bit of a sweet tooth, and he loved the richness of cream. But he wanted to make a good impression and thought, for whatever reason, if he said no it would be for the better. While shaking his head, Mrs. Casper arched a lovely dark brow.
“Sure?”
Damnation, he hated his longings.
“Actually, ma’am, may I have both?”
She giggled. Actually giggled like a chit. “Oh, I like you already. Of course, you may have both. You’re our new sheriff.”
“I haven’t hired him yet,” A gruff voice sounded from the pub.
Jake turned to see a bear of a man rumbling toward him. A white bear of a man, who stared at Jake’s hat. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he’d had his Stetson on this whole time.
In a flurry Jake whisked off his hat as Mrs. Casper handed him the dark rich coffee.
“That’s my husband, Tom Casper. Honey, this is Mr. Cameron. You are going to hire him. He has manners.”
Mr. Casper extended a meaty red hand as Jake caught it. The shake was firm and with enough exuberance it jangled Jake’s head. Casper wasn’t as tall as Jake, but he had a lot of flesh to make up for it. “They say manners can hide all sorts of defects.”
Mrs. Casper sidled up to her husband, slapping him playfully against his thick shoulder. “Stop teasing. He doesn’t know you well enough to know you jest.”
“Am I, Laura? Am I?”
She giggled and swatted the big man again.
Jake could only swallow. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen a mixed couple. After he’d become a prisoner of war, he’d been shipped off with his brothers and hundreds of other Highlanders to America to become an indentured servant. When he and his brothers had escaped their servitude, they’d found sanctuary in a Yamasee village, where other slaves and servants had also run away. One of the first people to welcom
e him into the tribe was an African man with an Irish wife. But Jake hadn’t seen such a thing in over two-hundred years. Didn’t know people would be that brave anymore. And something about it made his heart trip. In such a damned good way.
Since he’d landed in this time, he kept trying to figure out a way to go back. The man with the pale blue eyes had stolen him then moved him from one era to the next in a tornado-like blur of memories. Jake just wanted to return to his brothers, safe. Well, safety was relative speaking. No matter what age he found himself.
Maybe this town, this job, wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could pass time here, until he could figure out a way back to his brothers.
Mr. Casper finally released Jake’s hand and nodded. “Well, Mr. Cameron, nice to meet you at last.”
“Likewise.”
“Your resume hasn’t arrived yet.”
Jake nodded. “Scared I’d beat it, but it’s coming.”
Mr. Casper narrowed his eyes slightly. “You in a rush to become a lawman?”
“In a rush to make money, sir.”
Mr. Casper cracked a wide smile at that. “Like honesty, I do. I hope you like honest money too? It ain’t as much as the other kind, but it’s reliable.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Casper leaned closer. “Call me Tom, if I can call you Jacob.”
“Jake.”
Another smile from Mr. Capser, and Jake felt as if he’d won real money already. “Jake, it is then.” The large man sighed and looked at his wife. “Ah, hell, I like him too.” He studied Jake once more. “I should be interviewing you proper, should wait for your resume.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, he’s got that face, though, honey,” Mrs. Casper said as she wrapped two hands around Tom’s massive forearm. It sounded sweet what Mrs. Casper had said, but any comment about his face...Jake immediately looked down to the floor.
It had been a year now living with this disgusting pox-marked visage, but sometimes he could forget how grotesque he was. Then a child would point, a woman would whisper, or a man would say something about the monster, and he would remember all over again his deformity. His ugliness.
Jake hardly heeded that Mrs. Casper continued talking. “...look at those eyes. Those are honest eyes.”
“Yes, they are.” Mr. Casper rocked back on his heels, then clapped Jake on his shoulder. “Ah, hell, you’re hired. You’re our new sheriff. You do have an honest face, honest eyes.”
Jake blinked, not sure how to handle the compliment. He’d inspected his image yesterday in a brass-backed mantle. In the metallic background, his face had morphed and smeared. Those were handsome features the brass had created for him. But there too were the marks on his face like that of a cannonade fired on a hill. It reeked of war. His personal war had been smallpox, almost forgotten in this time thanks to variolation and inoculation.
So he just shook Mr. and Mrs. Casper’s hands, trying with everything in him to force the ends of his lips up, make himself appear jovial, normal. Human.
He was human, but feeling so disfigured, so out of his own time, he often wondered if he was more demon than man.
“You packed some arms, Jake?”
“Yes, sir. Have more being shipped.”
“You were a lawman for a railway, right?”
“That I was.”
“Now you want to work for my mining town?”
Jake gritted his teeth after he’d sipped some of the delicious coffee. He hated talking about being a lawman for the railways. He’d been paid muscle, that’s all. There was little law involved. And he’d had a hell of a row about justice with his employers, leaving him scraping for any job, hoping, even going as far as praying, he’d never be asked to do the things they’d wanted him to do for the railway.
“I’d like a chance at being a lawman for your town, yes, sir.”
Tom smiled once more. This time the grin was slow and measured. “It’s a small town still, but I get more men asking for work everyday. I have now close to five hundred miners. I’ve got now mostly Slavs and Fins, and they don’t get along. Don’t know why not. They’re good boys most of the time, but yesterday—”
“Lord, yesterday was a mess,” Mrs. Casper interrupted. “Like I said, Jake, you have excellent timing, as if you were sent by angels.”
Mr. Casper nodded. “Hell, yes, good timing.”
“Honey,” Laura gently smacked her husband for his oath.
He smiled but continued. “Yesterday all hell broke loose.”
“What am I to do with all those swear words coming out of you?”
Tom silently chuckled, wagging his bushy brows at his wife a couple times. Then he glanced back at Jake, cleared his throat, and regained his serious composure. “Yesterday was Christmas. And both the factions have their separate traditions, and the Slavic people have one that has something to do with a man chasing children around with a hatchet—”
“Oh, it’s just playacting, Jake,” Mrs. Casper informed.
“But the Fins took it real bad,” Mr. Casper persisted in telling the story. “So there was a huge fight in the middle of the street. That’s why almost none of the Christmas decorations are still up. They tore ‘em down in their idiotic fighting.”
Jake nodded, taking in all he was told. “They going to continue the fighting today?”
Mr. Casper shrugged. “Sure as hell hope not, but don’t know.”
Mrs. Casper growled, but Jake noticed she was smiling through it all. Then she laughed and leaned more into her husband, glancing at Jake. “Yes, it certainly is good to have a lawman here, Mr. Cameron, especially one as nice as you.”
“Jake, Mrs. Casper, ifnye please, call me Jake.”
Mrs. Casper bobbed her head. “Laura, please call me Laura, Jake.”
“Are you flirting with the new sheriff, wife?” Tom wrapped a meaty arm around Laura.
“Trying, but you’re rather in the way, husband.”
“I have a mind to take you over my shoulder, walk you back to our room, and spank you.”
“Promises, promises.” Laura giggled.
Jake’s heart stuttered. The scene before him was unbearably beautiful and filled with love. He’d thought he had been in love once. One of the lasses from the Yamasee village. He’d looked at her and was smitten with her contagious smile. But she’d chosen another. It had happened two hundred years ago, so long ago it sounded more like an foolish fairy tale than anything else.
“Sorry, Jake, my husband’s barbarian ways, for whatever reason, always bring out the flirt in me. Would you care to join us for breakfast?”
Actually, he didn’t want to. The couple in front of him made him ache, his ribs felt too big in his chest, crushing his breastbone. He wanted to curry Moses, find a place to sleep for two days, and forget he lived in this hellish time. Despite hating this era, Laura and Tom reminded him that there was something pretty, no matter the age. There could be beauty. But he didn’t know if he could shoulder through being around something so lovely.
Still, he had a job now. Money. And he was famished, truth be told.
He swallowed his bitterness and nodded. “I’d be honored to join y’all for breakfast.”
*
Fried eggs, sausages, and hashed potatoes filled Jake’s plate, and he easily smiled at the food.
“When’s the last time you ate, son?” Tom asked, blue eyes wide, probably amazed Jake had already eaten a plate before this one.
Jake kept grinning, hoping he wasn’t making a pig of himself, but the food was damned good.
“Let him eat, Tom.” Laura sipped from a flowery teacup, yet her eyes were just as wide, watching him shovel in the grub.
Jake swallowed. “Sorry.”
Laura smiled. “I’ll take it as a compliment. My cook is wonderful, isn’t he?”
Jake nodded enthusiastically, while forking in another bite.
Laura looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Wan, won’t you come out here and meet the new sheriff?”
>
“I’m baking biscuits.” A discarnate voice rang through the large dining room and pub, where one lone man rested his head on the bar.
Actually, the sleeping man, Mr. Matlock, was obviously slumbering through his crapulence from too much booze. However, Laura had said if Mr. Matlock didn’t wake before the lunch rush, he could be Jake’s first arrest. She’d said it with a pinch of sympathy turned into excitement that Jake could make an arrest on his first day.
Jake had nearly laughed at that, but he couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the loud voice without a body that surely belonged to the cook.
“Mr. Wan, you might be making a bad impression upon our new, young sheriff. Come out and meet him.”
There was a laudable sigh, then, “Nǚrén!”
“What did he just say?” Tom asked, his profuse brows diving down.
Laura smiled. “He’s calling me a woman.” She turned back to Jake. “Mr. Wan is Chinese. His whole family cooks for me, and every Friday he makes these special dumplings with pork, you will gorge on, I’m sure. I do. He’s the best cook—”
“Not as good as my Laura, but he’s decent.”
“Decent?” Suddenly, a man with a long black braid appeared beside the table, as if he were an apparition, manifesting his human form when it suited him. Clad in a white tunic, he folded his arms over his chest. “I’m only a decent cook?”
“Best I’ve had.” Jake said quickly and quietly, but loud enough for the simmering cook to hear and to immediately cool down.
Mr. Wan briefly smiled at him, then looked to Laura. “He’s a good sheriff.”
“I know.” She smiled at Jake.
“He has good taste,” Mr. Wan continued.
Laura nodded.
“Unlike some other men at this table.” Mr. Wan openly glared at Tom, who scowled back.
Cowboy of Mine Page 2