Nathanial

by J. B. Richard

  Fletcher drew air deep into his lungs, then exhaled just as long. “I watched them, Deloris. I sat in the Crossons’ home, and I knew right then that Nathanial was where he should be. We are not what’s best for him. But as always, I gave in to you, giving you what you wanted. I wish I hadn’t this time. Had we not lost Ashton, I’m positive we wouldn’t be here.” Fletcher spun on his heel. He stared at Nate. “Do not spit at Mrs. Fletcher again, or …”

  Nate grinned. “Or what?” He cleared his nose and was about to spit again when a big hand slapped down on his shoulder.

  “Or I’ll tan your hide.” Dutch scowled at Nate. “The man asked ya not to spit at his wife, so don’t. Your ma and pa would be embarrassed by such behavior. They didn’t teach ya to act like that.”

  “Thank you,” Fletcher said.

  Dutch nodded.

  “According to her,”—Nate pointed at the city bitch—“Nolan and Kate aren’t my parents, so I reckon what I do doesn’t matter.”

  Before Nate even finished the last syllable, Dutch spun him around and smacked his ass once, and Nate was already facing the big man again. Tears stung his eyes, but he wasn’t going to let himself cry in front of the Fletchers.

  “Don’t let me hear you talk like that again.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nate sniffled.

  “There’s a bucket tied under the coach. Get it, then pump some water so if the ladies want to freshen up, they can. After that, see if Harv needs your help with anything.” Dutch nodded for Nate to go on.

  At the pump with the bucket sitting underneath the nozzle, Nate let his tears fall. The handle creaked with each priming, sort of reminding him of old man Pike’s knees when he stood up. He missed all his friends.

  “Nathanial.” He turned to see Fletcher standing behind him.

  “Let me alone.” Nate didn’t want to talk about anything. He turned his back. Water gushed into the bucket.

  Fletcher gently touched Nate’s shoulder. “Please hear me out … I am sorry.”

  Nate looked up. “She won’t ever give me up, will she?”

  Fletcher shook his head. The water stopped.

  Nate picked up the filled bucket, which was heavy. “You’re her husband. Can’t you make her return me? Why don’t you sign me back over to Ma and Pa?”

  Fletcher grinned. “Here, let me take that.” He took the bucket from Nate. “It might be hard for you to understand, but believe me. Deloris, she means well. She loved her sister very much, and our son, and I have no intention of creating an unhappy marriage. So no, I can’t make her. As far as signing our rights away, I wouldn’t do that.”

  Nate abruptly stopped. “What? Why? But you just said I don’t belong in the city.”

  Fletcher squatted in front of Nate so they were eye to eye. “Deloris isn’t able to carry another child. She had trouble throughout the first pregnancy, and the labor almost killed her. You are our only heir.”

  Nate wrinkled his nose. “What does that mean?”

  Fletcher chuckled. Nate wasn’t sure if he was being laughed at or not. “You are a very wealthy little boy is what that means. Money will never be an obstacle that stands in your way.”

  Nate shrugged. “What do I need money for? I had me a good horse. That’s all I ever needed to buy, except candy sometimes.”

  Laughter boomed from Fletcher.

  Those sitting around the fire all turned and stared. When nothing appeared to be wrong, they all turned back to the flames.

  “I can tell you with certainty that I’ve never heard anyone say that.”

  “Lem, could you bring the water please?” Deloris Fetcher beckoned.

  Fletcher straightened with bucket in hand.

  Nate followed slowly, a step or two behind. He was curious and a little confused. This man had him thinking. Fletcher didn’t want to give up his rights to Nate, but he didn’t want to take Nate to New York either. Was there a possibility hiding in all that? If so, Nate wanted it spelled out for him. And the only one who could do that was Fletcher.

  “Nathanial, why don’t you join us?” Deloris’s prissy voice rubbed him the wrong way.

  He rolled his eyes as she gently patted the blanket for him to sit. Hell would freeze over before he tucked in snug next to that woman. He would wait until Lem was alone, then talk to him if the chance arose. Nate didn’t want within ten feet of Deloris or her money. She was only thinking of herself, her losses. Owning him wasn’t the same as getting her sister back, or their son. Lucinda was dead, as was Ashton. How could Deloris not recognize what had been taken from Nate? Fletcher’s eyes had been opened to it, but he was reluctant to stand up against his wife.

  “I want to go home,” Nate said as a matter of fact.

  Everyone hushed. The only thing heard was the crackling fire.

  “Oh dear God, don’t start that again. Your home is in New York.” She waved a hand as if brushing off what he’d said as pure lunacy.

  “The hell it is!” he fired back at her.

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” Deloris hissed.

  Kristy jumped up, grabbing Nate’s arm and dragging him off around to the other side of the stage where they were alone. She opened the stage door, nodding for him to climb in. She stepped inside, took a seat near the window, then pulled him onto her lap. Her arms wrapped around him. She was soft like Ma, and although it wasn’t Ma, that tender touch made him feel better. They stared through the window at the others all sitting quietly around the fire. Stars twinkled overhead.

  Nate’s thoughts focused on Lem Fletcher. What did he mean when he’d said Nate was better off there, at home in Gray Rock with his family, but he would not relinquish his rights to Nate? How was that possible? Maybe it was just wishful thinking on Nate’s part, shared custody. Such a thing probably didn’t exist. Why couldn’t he be the first? He knew the answer. It wasn’t a matter of a judge hearing them out. Judge Prescott was a reasonable man. However, Deloris Fletcher was too much of a bitch to settle for any way but her own.

  Nate turned his face into Kristy’s shoulder and sobbed. She gently smoothed his hair and kissed his head. All of it made his heart ache more for his ma and pa. Being away from his family, missing them so much, was nearly killing him from the inside out, eating at him like a disease.

  Would there come a day when the sun would rise and he would see his loved ones again?

  EPILOGUE

  As soon as Nate was dragged inside by his arm, he was met with lace runners on every table, centered with large vases of long-stemmed red flowers. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and being that the passenger train soon to be headed east—the very steam engine that would carry him and the ever-annoying Fletchers to New York—wasn’t scheduled to depart for twenty-five minutes, lots of people had crowded into the restaurant for a quick bite of lunch.

  Great! He had an audience, a full room, standing space only at the moment and only five minutes to make himself magically disappear. At the top of the hour, the orphan train parked on the rails would leave Fort Sherman. He’d been ripped away from his mother and father and, as badly as he wanted to, couldn’t go back to Gray Rock. The ache in his chest made it hard to breathe. This wasn’t the time for him to lose his nerve. He needed to push away that bawl-baby feeling that took hold of him too often and turned him into a ball of mush, but he missed his family. The Fletchers certainly weren’t his family and never would be. Maybe they’d think twice about keeping him after this stunt.

  The setup couldn’t have been any more perfect. Nate’s lips curled into a shit-eating grin, and a sneaky little giggle slipped out. Lem Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. Dammit. That man could read him too well. Why couldn’t he be as clueless as his dippy wife who was lost in a conversation about a mink stole? There was no hesitating. Nate had to move quick to make this work before Fletcher somehow fouled up his plan.

  “Pa took Jesse and me to a magic show once,” Nate said as he hustled toward the table smack dab in the middle of the place. He was just the
right size to slip by.

  Mr. Fletcher couldn’t squeeze through the narrow aisle zigzagging between all the people seated at the dozen or more tables. His eyes were wide and all on Nate. He’d bet he was sweating too. The missus was too busy chatting with another waiting couple, her hands doing most of the talking, completely unaware of where or what Nate was about to do. What a dummy. She didn’t know when to take good advice. Marshal Huckabee had warned them to keep a close eye.

  At the center table, the family of six—a mother, father, two boys older than Nate by some years, a girl maybe Hattie’s age, and a younger boy maybe a year or two older than him—cocked their heads, staring at him as if asking what he was doing standing next to their table. He’d show them and the Fletchers all right.

  Nate looked over his shoulder at Fletcher as he latched onto two fistfuls of tablecloth. “Daddy, dear.” His voice drooled with sickening sweetness. “Watch this!” His mouth curled into an ornery grin, and with an almighty yank, the lace runner holding plates of steaming food, filled glasses, a pot of coffee forgotten by the waitress, and, of course, the beastly pot of thorny flowers ripped off the table, flying into the air.

  During the magic show he’d seen some months back, the magician had been able to slip the tablecloth out from under all the china without disturbing one utensil. That was not the case here, and that was exactly what Nate wanted.

  All of it, every silver fork, spoon, knife, and morsel of food went flying above the customers’ heads. Something brown, could be gravy, splattered the ceiling. Mrs. Fletcher, Kristy, and most all the other women gasped in unison in one high tone. After that, no one breathed for a few seconds until … Crash!

  Dishes hit the tables, cups on the floor. A fork and spoon landed on an adjacent table, sending spits of their grub in every direction. A sandwich belonging to someone landed in a lady’s lap, and she screamed as if it were a rat. Coffee sprayed the room. People popped out of their chairs, and all the glaring eyes were on the Fletchers for not controlling their child. Nate snickered as their roars began to fill the room. No one was happy, and Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher caught an earful.

  “I’ll pay for the meals and any damages.” Lem Fletcher pled to the mob of hungry travelers surrounding him.

  One man plucked a slice of tomato off his hat, flicking it at Fletcher. Mrs. Fletcher was hysterically crying into her hands. What Nate could see of her face was beet red. He reckoned she’d never been so embarrassed. Hopefully, she regretted taking him away from his family. Kristy was at her side, rubbing across her back sympathetically. If she wanted to work for them, she’d have to do it without Nate.

  The clock dinged one.

  Nate ducked through the crowd and ran out the door, hoofing it toward the orphan car. His past was a bad one. He never seemed to be able to escape it, and he’d tried hard. Why not just embrace it? No longer was he the son of a lawman, and there was but one other way of living that he was familiar with. Besides, his ma and pa would soon have a new baby and probably forget all about him.

  Nate would search near Lee’s Summit, Missouri. Jim Younger had never married that he knew of, but chances were there’d be some kin in that area since his father had been born there. How he’d come to know that and why it stuck in his brain was beyond him. He must have heard it years back when he’d ridden with the gang. Nate hadn’t forgotten how to pull his weight as a Younger, though he might be a tad rusty at robbing stagecoaches and banks.

  Unseen, Nate slipped onto the train, ready to start a whole new life … again.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  J.B. Richard, author of the Western Promises series, resides in the Seven Mountain region of Central Pennsylvania, where her grandparents’ farm is nestled, cultivating inspiration through her wild days-gone-by adventures with her many cousins. She is an avid outdoorsman who enjoys hiking and exploring Civil War battlefields. A highlight of her life was riding horseback on the same road that General Robert E. Lee had ridden into Gettysburg.

  Visit J.B. Richard at www.jbrichard.com or

  on Facebook at J.B. Richard.