Mr. Pinkley was still shaking when Charley supported him back to his desk. Then the banker reached into the bottom drawer, and heedless of the bank employees and patrons gaping at him, he uncapped the flask he kept there and drained it.
Staring at the empty flask with watery eyes, Mr. Pinkley said, “Sorry, Wilde. I didn’t save you any.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Pinkley. I think you needed it more than I do.”
The banker lifted his gaze from the flask, looked at Charley, then shut his eyes tight. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”
Charley wished he could offer the banker some kind of comfort, but he didn’t know what to say to a man who’d almost been shot by a crazy sheriff. He felt guilty, though, and knew everybody in town would be much happier when Fermin Small had been de-elected and somebody else held his job. Charley wished it could have been Francis. Francis would make a good sheriff. The thought made Charley want to cry again.
Addie was waiting for him beside the wagon when he left the bank. He’d never been so happy to see anybody in his life. He ran the last several paces to her, only dimly aware of several Rothwellites who smiled at his obvious infatuation with the woman they assumed to be his intended bride.
He felt almost good when they rode back home, managing to dredge up an ounce of energy to pretend with. Addie chatted pleasantly the whole way, and Charley kept looking at her and wishing he deserved her. Or even that he could have her knowing he didn’t deserve her. When he asked her what she’d been bustling around town doing, she just smiled and said “Things.” Charley prodded but got no more out of her.
In the afternoon when the band came to rehearse, though, he got a hint of what Addie had been up to in town. If he hadn’t already been hopelessly in love with her, he would have fallen then. Every single man in his band claimed to have been offered permanent employment after Addie’s visit.
Peachy Gilbert wept unabashedly when he told Charley, “Miss Pinkley’s daddy asked me if I’d like a job as a teller in the bank. Says as to how he’s a-goin’ to begin insurin’ properties hereabouts, and wants a good man for the job when he gets around to it. He called me a good man, Charley!”
Charley patted Peachy on the shoulder. “Mr. Pinkley’s right, Peachy. You were the best insurance underwriter in America City, for sure.” He figured that might well have been true, and he also figured Peachy deserved a stretcher, if a stretcher it was.
Harlan Lewis grinned and whispered, “Reckon we’d best not rob the bank now, Charley. Old Peachy might lose his job.”
The look on Peachy’s face might have been comical if it hadn’t been borne of honest horror. Charley looked from Peachy to Harlan and, for the first time in ages, felt hope bloom in his breast.
His men wanted to stay here. This place seemed to be as important to them, as it was to him. By God, maybe his life wasn’t ruined yet. “Maybe you’re right, Harlan. Maybe—maybe we should all stay in Rothwell and earn our livings honestly.”
Harlan nodded hopefully. “Good idea, Charley.”
His gaze drifting from man to man, praying with all his might for a miracle, Charley ventured, “Do you suppose you can all keep your mouths shut about what happened in Arleta?”
Every man nodded, looking serious and hopeful. Eagerly grabbing onto the only thread of hope he’d been offered in weeks, Charley wanted to believe them. Actually, he kind of did believe them. None of them was voluble by nature. If they remained silent long enough, he wouldn’t be surprised if they eventually forgot all about that black night. Or remembered it as he wanted them to remember it instead of the way it happened; maybe he could convince them, by subterfuge, that he’d been shot at by accident.
“By God,” he murmured again. “Maybe it is possible.”
“That’s what we all wanted to do in the first place, is settle somewheres and stay a band,” George Alden said. “Now we won’t have to go to Albuquerque with stolen money to do it.”
An awful thought hit Charley and made his new-born hopes totter. “But—but what about that lady. What about that lady we tried to rob. She only lives a few miles away, and she’s related to Miss Ivy and Miss Adelaide. What about her?” No matter what he might be able to convince his men of, Charley knew good and well Miss Pansy Blewitt could never be persuaded to believe they hadn’t been intending to rob her.
It was Lester who surprised everybody by saying, “Pshaw.”
Five faces turned to gape at him, including that of Charley Wilde. “What do you mean, Lester?”
Embarrassed at having garnered so much attention unto himself, Lester shrugged and tucked his chin in. “It were dark,” was all he said.
It was dark. Charley looked at Harlan, who looked at Peachy, who looked at George and Frances, who shrugged, too. Then Charley saw a tiny flicker of understanding settle over Harlan’s features.
“O’ course,” Harlan whispered. “It were dark.”
Lester’s chin reappeared, although he still looked embarrassed. Charley saw him nod.
And all of a sudden he understood, too. Of course! It had been dark! It had been dark for at least a couple of hours when they’d tried to rob that mercantile. Although the only candle in the place had been burning at her side, Charley wasn’t sure he’d be able to recognize Pansy Blewitt if she walked through the barn door right this minute. Why should she be able to recognize him?
Oh, my sweet Lord. Ever so slowly, Charley allowed a tiny bubble of optimism to settle and remain unbroken within his breast.
“Maybe—maybe you’re right, Lester.”
Then George told everyone that Mr. Steadlow, the newspaper editor, had asked George to stay in Rothwell and work for him. Mr. Steadlow claimed George was a whiz with the presses.
The band congratulated him. Charley stared at George in awe.
Francis Whatley grinned. “A couple folks asked me what I thought about runnin’ fer sheriff next election. Mr. Steadlow’s writin’ an editorial about it. But he says as to how I can work at the paper until I got me a new job as sheriff.”
Everybody told him what a wonderful idea they thought that was. Ever so slowly, the bubble in Charley’s breast began to grow. He protected it carefully, fearing that if it burst now, it would shatter him, too.
Daring to offer his men a small grin, Charley thought they looked happier today than he’d seen them since they left Georgia. Addie had done this. She’d probably accomplished more good work in one morning with her silver tongue than he’d accomplished all year long, using all his resources combined. Sweet Lord above, he loved her.
He actually uttered a brief prayer of thanks as he gazed past his men, out through the barn door, and into the heavens beyond.
The only thing that would make his life perfect would be if he knew he was safe from possible identification as the thief who’d tried to rob Pansy Blewitt’s mercantile in Arleta. Of course, he’d like it fine if his band could keep on playing and entertaining the citizens of their newly adopted town, too. Oh, Charley knew the men wanted to continue playing, but a band without a venue seemed somehow a pathetic thing.
All at once a grin took him by surprise, and Charley guessed he’d just have to ask Addie about it. He bet she’d have a Rothwell Municipal Brass Band organized and sponsored in a shake.
Chapter 18
The morning of the Rothwell and Arleta Joint Methodist-Episcopal Ladies’ Charity Fair and Bake Sale dawned crystal clear over the Blewitt farmhouse. Puffy clouds rose high in the heavens and contrasted artistically with the deep azure sky.
Addie shooed Charley out of the kitchen while she and her aunt cleaned up the breakfast dishes. Lester trudged stolidly outdoors to tend the animals.
Overnight, optimism seemed to have swelled in Charley’s breast until this morning, he almost dared to believe his troubles were over. He and Addie were going to marry, they were going to live right here in this farmhouse—Charley stamped on the porch to give himself a solid feeling—and they were going to be happy
. Raise a family. Be a family.
While his future wife cleaned up the breakfast dishes, Charley stood on the porch and surveyed his new universe. His tummy full of Addie’s good cooking, his heart full of love, he felt better than he could remember feeling for years and years.
The dusty browns, tans and grays of the desert seemed almost stark against the vivid blue of the sky. The only green anywhere was in the apple orchard, the occasional blade of new grass braving the vast brown of the desert, and the narrow swath of plant life lining Calhoun Creek. Charley looked toward the creek and his bubble grew another fraction of an inch.
Accustomed to the lush, verdant colors of his native Georgia, Charley peered at his new home with appreciative eyes and a brimming heart. He loved his harsh new land; he loved his gentle Addie.
Standing on the front porch and smiling into the fresh, glorious morning, Charley decided he felt truly good today.
The bright sunshine blessed the earth with its warming rays, picking out each new blade of grass, each tender young prickly pear spine, each slender leg on a bright red millipede’s shiny body, with care. A flock of buzzards circled gracefully in the still morning air, and he heard the Duke of Essex utter a bray of contentment from the barn.
Charley loved this place. He loved it almost as much as he loved Addie.
With a small frown, he decided that was impossible.
Still, this landscape moved him as no other ever had. He guessed it was because there was so much of it. Whereas in Georgia, the vista had invariably been interrupted by trees, plant life or the trappings of civilization, out here it just seemed to go on forever.
Yes sirree, this was a great place. And someday the little frontier village of Rothwell would grow up, too, and become a thriving cattle metropolis. Why, Charley bet one day it’d be every bit as popular as San Antonio.
One more glance around brought another frown to Charley’s face. As if God had nudged his conscience, he amended his previous thought. Maybe not San Antonio. Maybe Albuquerque. His finer nature did not disapprove of the latter comparison, so he let it stand. Then his thoughts turned to the day before.
Addie was a saint. He was the luckiest man alive. He’d never expected to have his problems solved as neatly as Addie had solved them, and all because he’d finally trusted her enough to reveal his secret fears. God flicked his conscience again, and Charley’s smile dimmed. He made a bargain with God that he’d tell Addie the full truth, including the part about him trying to rob her aunt Pansy, after they were married.
# # #
While Lester tended the animals and Charley philosophized, Ivy tripped upstairs to fetch a letter she’d received the day before from her sister. “I’ll read it to you while you wash and rinse, Addie. I’ll wipe the dishes after I read you the letter.”
Since Ivy’d left her horn on the kitchen table, Addie didn’t bother to answer.
“Pansy says she’s coming to the fair today, Addie.” Ivy held her sister’s letter up to the morning light streaming through the kitchen window.
“That so? She usually doesn’t bother.” When Addie glanced over her shoulder, she realized her aunt had begun to frown. “What’s the matter, Aunt Ivy?”
“She says here that after today, she allows as to how we won’t be able to laugh at her any longer.”
“What? What does she mean by that, do you suppose? When have we ever laughed at Aunt Pansy?” Since Ivy’d picked up her hearing horn again, Addie didn’t have to holler very loudly.
Ivy gave an inelegant snort. “Oh, who knows what Pansy means by anything, Addie? She’s a mean-hearted old woman, is what she is.”
Addie couldn’t help but smile. “She’s only ten months older than you are, Aunt Ivy.”
“Well, she sure as the dickens acts like a mean-hearted old woman, anyway. And she says she doesn’t fancy hearing any stupid band music, either.”
Addie gasped, offended. “Well, I never! You’re absolutely right, Aunt Ivy. Aunt Pansy is a mean-hearted old woman!”
At ten o’clock, Charley and Lester hitched the Blewitt horse, King Henry, to the farm wagon. Addie and Ivy carried out the baked goods they’d made to sell at the Bake Sale, and Charley packed them tenderly in the bed of the wagon, wrapping tea towels around them to keep them from being sullied during the dusty ride.
Then he very carefully helped Addie into the wagon to sit next to him. Lester showed equal gentility to Ivy, who proudly carried her hearing horn, which Addie had refurbished just the night before.
Charley couldn’t recall ever feeling better in his life than when he asked, “All ready?”
“We’re all ready, Charley,” Addie assured him lovingly.
“Well, then, let’s set out.”
With a big smile for Addie, Charley clicked to the horse, and the wagon began its lurching ride to Rothwell.
# # #
“It’s about damned time.” Garland grabbed his gun, shoved it into his holster, and glared at Fermin Small.
“Quitcher whinin’,” advised Fermin peevishly. “I told you I’d let you out today. And keep yer voice down. Waldo’s still sleepin’.”
“Huh!” Garland turned toward Luther, who was looking blankly at his gun. “Stuff that there gun away, Luther. We’re goin’ now.”
Luther looked up, grinned, and stuffed his gun into his waistband. “All right, Garland.”
Before he and Luther left the office, Garland stabbed Fermin with a skinny finger. “This ain’t fair, Fermin. You should oughta pay us more. You never said we’d have to spend a week in your stinkin’ jail when you hired us.”
“Well, I ain’t got no more money, dammit. I had to pay fer a winder and a mess o’ beans and a barrel stave and a floor board.”
“Well, it ain’t fair. If you wasn’t such a dad-blasted idiot, you’d be able to pay us more. You owe us.”
“Durn it,” muttered Fermin. “Just git the hell out o’ my town.”
“Your town? Hah!”
Grabbing Luther by the arm, Garland jerked him behind him as he stomped outside.
Fermin Small looked at the retreating villains, thinking glumly that if it weren’t for Charley Wilde, his life would be fine right now. Fermin hated Charley Wilde more than he’d ever hated anybody.
“Cornet player, my hind leg.” Turning to go back into his office, Fermin discovered he’d locked himself in the jail cell. He dropped the keys when he tried to unlock himself, and almost wrenched his arm trying to get the keys back again. He blamed Charley Wilde.
# # #
Mr. Topping, an arm around his plump wife’s shoulder, beamed from the door of his rustic church when he spied the Blewitt wagon rumble into town. Both Toppings hurried over to the hitching rail to greet the new arrivals.
“Welcome, welcome! It’s good to see you. The rest of your band is awaiting your arrival in the park, Mr. Wilde.”
Mrs. Topping added, “Such a fine group of gentlemen!”
She and Addie embraced one another warmly. Charley remembered such occasions from his childhood, when his mother and the preacher’s wife would hug just like that. Those occasions made Charley feel happy as a boy, and this one made him feel happy now. There was a homey quality, a rightness in the embrace of two good women which gave him a sense of permanence.
“We’re happy to be here, Mr. Topping,” he told the preacher.
“And, oh, Mr. Wilde, it’s such a pleasure to see you again,” said Eustacia Topping, blushing prettily
Charley nodded politely and shook Mrs. Topping’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Mrs. Topping.”
“I’m so hoping you’ll be able to join us in church on Sundays soon.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I do plan to attend church.”
“Oh, I’m so glad! Why, I just knew you must b184?e a church man, Mr. Wilde.”
“You did?” Charley blinked at her, wondering what had given her that impression.
“Why, certainly, Mr. Wilde. One only needs take a look at your men
to know their leader is a man of fine moral fiber.”
“Really?” Guilt crept up Charley’s spine on little rat feet.
“Why, of course! Mr. Whatley and Mr. Alden have been to church for the past several Sundays, and they’ve even offered to give music lessons to our Sunday School students.”
“That so?” Good for Francis and George.
“And Mr. Lewis repaired a horseshoe for Mr. Topping yesterday afternoon even though it was late, and didn’t even charge him.”
“That sounds like Harlan, all right.”
“And Mr. Gilbert did wonders with the schoolhouse roof. And now I hear he’s going to be working at the bank.”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe he is.” Charley wondered if living in the territory, with so few amenities and such a paucity of female friends turned all women into chatterboxes.
“And Charley here’s giving lessons to Homer Paul and to Sun in His Eyes, too, Eustacia,” Addie said proudly. Charley smiled down at her, but all he could see was her sunbonnet, a party-day blue print calico bedecked with yellow ribbons.
“I’ve heard all about it.”
Mrs. Topping gave Charley a look that made him nervous, as it seemed rather emotional. He hoped not everyone in town had heard about Homer’s one lapse from the straight and narrow. As Mrs. Topping rattled on, Charley shuffled his feet, looked over Mrs. Topping’s shoulder and wished somebody would rescue him.
As usual, Addie did.
“Oh, yes, Charley is a wonderful teacher. But right now, we have to go to the park. I understand Mr. Untermeyer had them build a stage and everything.”
“Yes, he surely did, Addie. Why, I don’t think even the Catholics have ever had a stage before.” Mrs. Topping beamed at Charley as though it were through his specific intervention that the Southern Methodist-Episcopals had a stage and the Catholics didn’t.
As Addie began to walk toward the park, she said darkly to Mrs. Topping, “Well, I wouldn’t bet on their not having one for the Fiesta this year, Eustacia. You know how shifty that Father Bernardo is.”
Addie’s expression caught Charley’s fancy. “Shifty?” he whispered.
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