Chasing Charity

by Marcia Gruver

  Hang Daniel ... and Emmy, too. They deserve each other.

  “Excuse me...”

  Charity jumped so violently she nearly took leave of her shoes, and the stack of mail flew in every direction. She whirled to find a stranger in a wide-brimmed hat beaming down from a considerable height. She pressed her empty hands to her heart. “Goodness me! You startled me out of my wits.”

  “I sure did, didn’t I? Such a start this early in the morning can’t be good for a body.”

  Charity struggled to settle her pounding heart. “Sir, I’m now qualified to assure you it isn’t.” She gazed around at the letters and mail-order catalogs scattered over the lobby then scowled up at the man.

  He stepped closer and tipped his hat. “Please forgive me, ma’am.” They were the proper words and gestures, all right, but Charity reckoned he’d seem more contrite if he could straighten his grinning face.

  CHAPTER 2

  The handsome young man laid aside his overstuffed bag and bent to retrieve Charity’s mail. He was tall and lean-muscled, the padded shoulders of his brown jacket making him seem as broad as Shamus Pike’s bull. His long legs sported slim trousers, full at the top and held up by blue suspenders. Fawn-colored hair, longer than she was used to seeing, curled out from under his hat, and except for a scruffy shadow, he had no facial hair. Even inside the dimly lit hotel, she could see that his eyes were green like hers and Mama’s.

  Watching him bob for letters like a child on an Easter hunt, she ducked her head to smile then laughed in spite of herself. He heard and glanced up, so she leaned to help, grateful for something to do until the heat cooled in her cheeks.

  When they stood up together, he still beamed like a roguish boy. Feeling silly about catching his infectious grin, she sobered and cast him a guarded look. “Have you just arrived in town, sir?”

  He took off his broad, stiff-brimmed hat and held it to his chest. “Yes, ma’am, I have. Name’s Buddy Pierce.”

  She offered her hand. “Welcome to Humble, Mr. Pierce.”

  His work-roughened fingers enveloped hers. “Little lady, I won’t mind a bit if you call me Buddy. In fact, I’d prefer it.”

  Charity paused to consider. His earnest face and clear-eyed stare seemed honest, genuine, and not a bit forward. “Very well. Buddy it is. Isn’t that a sobriquet?”

  He released her hand. “Beg your pardon?”

  “Buddy’s a nickname, am I right? What’s the name your mama gave you?”

  He managed to frown and smile at the same time. “Never you mind about that.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s that bad, is it? Well then, welcome to Humble, Buddy. I’m Charity. Charity Bloom.”

  “I know who you are.” He hooked a thumb in Sam’s direction. “The clerk told me all about you.”

  “He did?” She shot a look at Sam, her cheeks warming again. Surely he didn’t mean...

  The little man behind the desk watched her over the top of his glasses while pretending to write in his register. Watched over her might be closer to the truth. Since Papa died, Sam had made a habit of keeping an eye on her and even more diligently since strangers took possession of their streets.

  “Charity’s an unusual name, if you don’t mind my saying. Real nice, though.”

  His deep, rumbling voice pulled her attention to the stranger’s face—and such a nice face. When had he moved so much closer?

  She took a tiny step back. “Thank you. It’s from the Bible.”

  “Is that a fact? Let’s see, how does it go? ‘Charity suffereth long, and is kind.’ Does that describe you, Miss Bloom?”

  She met his mischievous eyes and raised her brow. “Not on most days, if I’m to be honest.”

  His smile revealed deep dimples. “Well, Charity-from-the-Bible, I’m about to test the measure of your kindness. It seems the procurator of this fine establishment can’t accommodate me, so he suggested I speak with you. Is it true your mama lets rooms on occasion?”

  So that’s all Sam told him.

  Relieved, she took the mail from his hands and added it to her pile. “That all depends, Mr. Pierce. Have you come to Humble chasing oil?”

  He cocked his head to one side, his grin widening. “What makes you ask?”

  She waited to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

  “Mister, throw ten stones in the air and nine will land on some money-hungry dreamer come to get rich.”

  He nodded and motioned toward the street. “And all those people are here because of the strike.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but she answered anyway. “Most everyone you see, except for the locals kept here by stubbornness or greed.”

  Buddy laughed, and she liked the sound of it. “Do you fall into one of those categories?”

  His directness put her off balance. As casually as possible, Charity faced a nearby desk and busied herself straightening the letters so they’d fit in her drawstring bag. They were all tucked inside before she glanced over her shoulder and answered him. “I failed to mention the rest—those too poor to get out.” She shrugged. “Besides, where would I go? I’ve lived here all my life.”

  She scolded herself for such boldness with a stranger. What was there about the friendly cowboy that made her tongue clatter like a snake’s rattle?

  He worked an envelope from under the counter with the toe of his boot, picked it up, and placed it on her stack. “To answer your question, Miss Bloom, it seems you’ve got me pegged. I have to say yes, I’ve come here looking for oil.” He held up one finger. “But if it hurts my chances for a room, I’ll deny ever saying it.” He wriggled his brows and grinned. “I could use a hot bath and a meal.”

  “My goodness, of course you could. Listen to me groaning about the boom when that’s what brought you to town. Not to mention holding you here with a hollow stomach and no place to lay your head. I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness.”

  “Nothing to forgive. Besides, I owe you after the fright I gave you.”

  “Yes, you do,” she scolded then smiled up at him. “Have you traveled far?”

  He lifted his chin. “All the way from St. Louis, Missouri.”

  Charity stopped fidgeting with the mail and gaped. “Where they held the World’s Fair?”

  “Ah! The Louisiana Purchase Exposition. Quite a show.”

  “You were there? How wonderful! My dearest friend—that is, a girl here in town—and her mama went. They came home filling our ears. I would love to see such a thing.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Is that so? I got the notion you don’t like crowds.”

  She rolled Mama’s Sears catalog and shoved it into her bag. “It’s not crowds I mind, Mr. Pierce. I just don’t like tripping over people in my own backyard.”

  He laughed. “If I promise to steer clear of your feet, can you find room in your backyard for one more wayward soul?”

  The man had positively no sense for the proper amount of space to allow between them, and somehow his nearness affected her breathing. She shifted her weight away from him then tilted her head to meet his hopeful gaze. “Truthfully, we’re out of the boardinghouse business, but there’s a chance I might be able to help. Mama will have the final say though.” She gathered her courage and blurted her brazen offer. “I have one quick stop to make at the general store; then I’ll be going home. Would you care to follow along and ask her?”

  Buddy dropped his hat on his head and hitched up his bag. “Yes, ma’am, I surely would.”

  She held up her hand. “Just one more thing. I’m afraid Mama don’t take kindly to oilmen. How are you at dodging rotten eggs?”

  His eyes grew wide. “Not too good, I reckon. I make for a sizable target.”

  Charity laughed and made for the door. “Come on. You’ll be safe with me.”

  In front of the general store, Buddy took one look through the window at the jostling mob and said he’d wait for her outside. She left him leaning beside a barrel of brooms, one booted foot braced aga
inst the wall.

  Despite impatient moans and grumbles, the beaming clerk allowed Charity to slip to the front of the line with Mama’s list. She felt bad about it at first then decided there should be some recompense to the locals for the loss of peace and quiet.

  Outside, Charity motioned to Buddy, and he fell into step behind her. She moved deftly through the crowd but had to stop and wait for him a time or two when his large frame and overstuffed bag caused a jam on the teeming boardwalk. She stole a few discreet glances while she waited. Buddy Pierce happened to be easy on the eyes.

  “Nice little town you have here,” he shouted as he drew near.

  “It used to be,” she said and pushed ahead of him again.

  He said something else Charity didn’t hear, so she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders. While they passed in front of the noisy tents, they gave up any attempt at talking.

  Buzzards circled above the towering wall of trees up ahead, and Charity wondered what lay dead or dying on the forest floor. So many harsh, greedy men had come to town she knew it could as likely be a man as an animal, though the thick trees and underbrush would not easily give up the information.

  Farther out away from the tents it grew quieter, and Buddy tried again. “What changed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He came alongside her. “You said it used to be nice. What changed?”

  “Mr. D.R. Beatty hit himself a gusher.” Her mouth twisted like she’d sucked a lemon. Less than pretty, no doubt, but she couldn’t help it. The sound of that man’s name boiled her insides. “The multitude flocked here like Humble was the Promised Land. You’ve never seen the like.”

  “And there went your town.”

  “Yes, there went my town. Now our sons and brothers rub shoulders with men who’d plant a knife in your middle for a fifteen-cent bottle of booze. Two-bit saloons and gambling houses built from spit and sawmill scrap sprang up overnight. Not to mention those other houses set on fleecing our men of their dignity as well as their hard-earned money.”

  She blushed but noticed he did, too. “Forgive my candor, Mr. Pierce, but Humble used to be peaceful, filled with simple, good-hearted folk. A perfect place to live”—she glanced up and their eyes met—“if you like that sort of thing. I suppose you prefer the excitement of the big city.”

  Buddy flashed his teeth and winked. “There’s where you’re wrong. I’m a country boy at heart.”

  She smiled back. “A country boy with a lust for treasure?”

  “Lust? No, ma’am, not me. I wouldn’t turn away a blessing, but the Good Book teaches not to lay up treasure here on earth.”

  “Oh, you read the scriptures?”

  “I try to make it a habit.”

  “Well, it’s a good habit to have. However, I must confess that now I’m confused. Back there you said you were here because of the oil. From what I hear, striking oil brings more than a blessing. It can make a man mighty rich.”

  He nodded. “True enough, but I’m just a working man earning my way. I’m here to represent another fellow. A wealthy operator out of Beaumont. It’s men like him who wind up with all the money.”

  “I see.” She wasn’t sure why the information made her feel better about him. His affairs were certainly none of her business.

  “I’ll be heading up a crew of his men that are due into Humble today.”

  “Today? Won’t they need a place to stay, too?”

  He laughed. “They’re smarter than me. They had the foresight to reserve rooms.”

  Just ahead, Charity’s mama bolted through the yard onto the dirt road, juggling a white chicken. She tripped on the hem of her faded skirt but righted herself before she went down. Long strands of salt-and-pepper hair had worked free from her disheveled bun, streaming out behind her as she ran. Feathers dotted her head and clung to her glowing face, and she was missing a shoe. A dark substance covered both feet and soaked the hem of her skirt. The distressed chicken appeared to have been dipped to the drumsticks in tar.

  “Charity,” she called. “Come a’runnin’, baby. The chickens are loose again.”

  “Blast those infernal coons,” Charity said and then drew up her skirts and ran.

  “Raccoons?” Buddy Pierce had come alongside, his bag bouncing against his legs as he loped. “I thought she said chickens.”

  “The coons have learned to break into the coops ... after the feed. There’s no lock that’ll keep them out.”

  “Really? Clever creatures.”

  “Indeed. Trouble is, they lack the proper manners to close the door behind them when they leave.”

  Charity ran past her mama then stopped and looked back.

  Mama stood staring up at Mr. Pierce, the escaped chickens forgotten. “Well now, who you got here, sugar?”

  Mr. Pierce held out his hand but drew it back after a quick glance at Mama’s black fingers. He nodded instead. “Buddy Pierce, ma’am.”

  She cocked her head. “Bertha Bloom. Nice to meet you, sonny.”

  Charity watched her take a long, slow reckoning of Mr. Pierce. She felt a sudden affinity with whatever unfortunate creature lay in the stand of pines watching the carrion birds circle overhead, drawing nearer with every pass. She braced herself for what was bound to come out of Mama’s mouth.

  “Where’d you turn up this one, Charity? He’s a big ’un. Right pretty, too.”

  Charity groaned. It was worse than she’d expected. “Mama, behave. Allow me to apologize for her, Mr. Pierce. She’s become quite bold, if not brazen, in her old age.”

  “And rightfully so,” Mama said. “Contending with body parts that drape south and wayward facial hair gives me leave to be naughty on occasion. Don’t you think so, Mr. Pierce?”

  Buddy’s mouth worked hard at stifling a grin. “I can see your point, and that’s for sure, Mrs. Bloom.”

  Mama leaned in as close as the chicken and her short stature would allow and presented her top lip to Mr. Pierce. “Look here, I’m sporting a ’stache to rival Teddy Roosevelt’s. Pert near as impressive as the first lady’s.” She threw back her head and cackled in concert with the chicken.

  “Oh, Mama, you’re just plain scandalous. Pay her no mind, Mr. Pierce, or she’ll only get worse. And where on earth is your shoe, Mama? You’ll catch your death.”

  Buddy Pierce was paying little attention now to her mama’s tomfoolery. He had focused on the hen, his hands edging in its direction, as if eager to take hold of it. “Mrs. Bloom, if I could just have a closer look at that chicken...”

  Mama sized him up with a glance then passed him the flustered hen. “Ain’t you never seen a yard bird before?”

  “One or two, but none as interesting as this one. Where did you say you caught it?”

  “Back yonder.” She gave a toss of her head toward the rear of their place. “In the bottom.”

  “The bottom of what?”

  Charity interpreted for him. “Out back of our property, in the low spot.”

  Mama nodded. “Blasted piney-woods rooters got it all dug up out there.”

  “Rooters?”

  “Hogs, mister. Wild hogs. You might be a pleasure to look at, but you sure don’t know much.”

  “Mama!”

  Mr. Pierce continued unperturbed. “Do you own this property, Mrs. Bloom?”

  Mama propped her hands on her hips, pressing gooey impressions of her fingers onto her skirt. “Why, yes, I own it. My man, Thad—God rest him—held it free and clear before we ever married. This place has been mine for nigh on to twenty-eight years.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  She frowned. “Ain’t nothin’ back there ’cept swamp water and Texas gumbo. Mud,” she corrected for Buddy’s benefit. “Black Texas mud.” She pulled back her skirt and thrust out her bare foot as evidence, squeezing her toes together until thick sludge oozed from between them.

  Mr. Pierce examined her foot and nodded. “If it’s where you’ve been chasing this chicken, then I’d sure like t
o see it.”

  She shrugged, her bony shoulders pulling even with her ears. “Young man, I can’t imagine what you find so interesting about a fool chicken and an old woman dim-witted enough to chase it through a bog, but suit yourself. Anyways, you can fetch out my shoe. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  It took Buddy Pierce ten minutes flat to see what he wanted to see down in the bog. Then he’d taken off for town like a branded cat. He was back now, having hauled two flustered men with him. Charity heard them crashing through the yaupon thicket, shouting and laughing as if they’d taken leave of their senses.

  Mama watched from the rickety stoop, hands on her hips, her head bobbing like a demented bird as she followed their movements through the brush.

  Charity crossed the yard to the edge of the porch and gazed up at her. “Where’s your bonnet?”

  Mama groped the top of her head, her eyes still trained on the bushes. “Must be in the bog.”

  A riotous shout gave Charity a start and pulled her gaze back to the thicket. “What will happen, Mama?”

  “Cain’t say, baby. Too soon to tell.”

  “Mr. Pierce said we got oil back there.”

  “That’s what he said, all right.”

  “How can that be?” Charity’s voice took on an edge. “How could oil have been there all along, and we never knew?”

  “Sometimes you cain’t see what you ain’t looking for.” Mama turned startled eyes her way. “Hush now. Here they come.”

  Buddy strode through the cut ahead of the other two men. All three were covered in mud. Of the lot, it would be hard to say who wore the silliest grin. One of the men, every bit as tall as Buddy but gawky and rawboned, carried several bottles of the black muck, each sealed with a cork. When Charity glanced his way, his smile widened, and he nodded a greeting. Up close, despite being awkward and thin, he was every bit as handsome as Buddy, too.

  “Mrs. Bloom, where’s the deed to your property?” This from the stocky, dark-haired man who balanced an odd-looking instrument on his shoulder.