Maggie's Strength

by Kimberly Grist

  When they finally reached the bank, Zeke turned Junior over to one of the men, then flopped onto his back. He couldn’t remember the last time breathing felt so good. He’d never take it for granted again. He turned his head to see Junior sprint to the ferry where passengers disembarked.

  With a grunt, Zeke pushed to his knees and accepted the help of two men who grabbed his arms. “Thank you, men. Didn’t think we’d make it for a minute there.”

  “You’ve got guts, that’s for sure.” One man handed Zeke his hat and boots, then clapped him on the shoulder, before jogging to his wagon.

  Guts? Maybe. Zeke hopped on one foot then the other as he tugged on his boots, being careful of the splinter in his hand. He hadn’t thought twice when he heard the screams. What else could a God-fearing man do? He’d want the same done for him.

  By the time Zeke made it back to the wagons, his nieces and nephews crowded around, chattering like a flock of chickens. Zeke glanced over their heads, looking for Ezra, and laid eyes on the prettiest gal he’d ever seen. She was also the one he’d pulled out of the horse’s trough earlier.

  The sun shone off hair the color of a corn silk. Eyes as stormy as rain clouds, and filled with a world of pain, stared back. Zeke tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

  “Seems you’re a rescuer twice today. Thank you.” She paled and stepped forward. “Are you Ezekiel Williams?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He studied her face, noting a scattering of freckles across otherwise blemish free skin. “What are you doing with my brother’s children? Where’s Ezra?”

  “She’s our ma, Uncle Zeke.” Dorcas slipped her hand into the woman’s. “Pa’s dead.”

  Dead? The blood drained to Zeke’s feet, leaving him colder than the dunk in the river. His gaze flicked back to the woman who blinked back tears. “How? When?”

  “Two days ago. Shot for cheating at cards earlier in the week. He took a fever and died.” The woman picked up baby Sarah from where the child sat on the grass. “I’m sorry. I’m Delicious Williams, your brother’s widow. Seems we’ve met. And again, I owe you my thanks. If you hadn’t jumped into the river after Junior …”

  Zeke rubbed his hands up and down his face. Widow? Heaven help him. When did Ezra get hitched? Must’ve been recent. He hadn’t seen him in over a year. He eyed the hand cart and mule. “Where you headed?”

  The corners of her mouth tilted upward. “Why, to Oregon of course.”

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  THE MARSHAL’S LADY by Patty Smith Hall

  1

  Stoney Creek, Wyoming

  1872

  Cynthia Gowan was no fool.

  At least, she didn’t think she was, though some back home in York might disagree given she’d abandoned her ancestral home for the wilds of the American west. Naive, yes and maybe a bit too hopeful, but what would the world be without hope?

  And at this moment, hope was all she had. Cindy stared out over the freshly set tables of her newly opened tearoom. Please, Lord, bless my work that it may provide me with a modest living. It’s the only way I can survive on my own. Amen.

  The door swung open, and a man, his clothes dusty and thread bare, walked in. His boots scuffed against her waxed floors, the stench of livestock and sweat reaching her before he did.

  He may be her first customer but it might be best to keep her distance until she knew his intentions. “May I help you?”

  The man glanced around, then turned steely gray eyes on her. “Isn’t this Smithy’s?”

  Oh, dear. She knew she should have put an advertisement in the local newspapers about the change of ownership but honestly, who drank spirits at this time of the morning? Cindy glanced at him in the aristocratic way her mother had taught her since she’d been in leading strings. “Mr. Smith is no longer the owner of this establishment, sir. I am.”

  “You bought Smithy out.” His voice came out rough, like jagged rocks tumbling against the bottom of a wooden barrel. “He always said he was tired of the crowds moving into town. Guess he finally had enough.”

  Crowds? Stoney Creek felt like it had been built on the very edge of civilization to Cindy. Still, it offered her exactly what she needed.

  An escape.

  Still, she needed a way of supporting herself, and this man wanted a cup of tea and a blueberry scone, she would be more than happy to serve him. “So, how may I help you?”

  The man’s eyes roamed over her, hesitating on her hips and beasts before lifting his gaze to meet hers. “What are you offering, little lady?”

  Her hand shook as she laid it against her pounding heart. One look, and she felt propelled back to the gardens, rough hands grasping at her skirt, his hot breath scorching her cheek. Her brother’s sudden appearance, pistols exploding around her. And the blood, Dear God, the blood.

  This isn’t your fault. Roger’s last words to her. Cindy slid her hand into her apron pocket and grasped the pistol her brother had given her, the cool iron comforting in some small way. She drew in a deep breath, then let it go, retrieving her pencil and small pad of paper instead. “I have some lovely scones I just made this morning. And of course, a hot cup of tea.”

  The man took off his hat and hit it against his leg, a cloud of dust rising up around him. “Why don’t I just have my usual.”

  Had Mr. Smith offered his patrons breakfast? Cindy hadn’t even met the man, much less had the chance to ask him about his menu. “The usual?”

  The man gave her a snagged tooth smile. “Whisky.”

  “At nine o’clock in the morning?” The question slipped out before Cindy could stop herself. The first time she ever saw her mother drink was the morning her brother had died, and she had clung to the bottle ever since.

  The loud bang of the man’s hand against the table startled Cindy. “What are you waiting on, girly? Go get my drink!”

  Her back stiffened. “I’m sorry, sir, but my establishment doesn’t serve hard spirits. If you’d like a cup of tea. . .”

  “But this is a saloon!” The man roared.

  “Not anymore.” Cindy steadied herself. She’d known there might be issues with the previous owner’s customers, but not during her first hour in business. And certainly not this early in the day. “Now, if you’d like a pot of one of the lovely teas from around the world, I’ll be happy to serve you. If not. . .” She met his unflinching gaze. “You can kindly remove yourself from my business.”

  With a snarl, the man pushed back from the table, his chair crashing to the ground as he lunged at her.

  She backed up a step then stopped. Her mother might have felt that Cindy could catch more flies with honey but living with her brother had taught her otherwise. Some men only understood violence. She might not have taken lessons at Gillian’s like Roger, but she had picked up a thing or two sparing with him at home. Cindy bounced slightly on her toes, her fists clenching and unclenching. One good punch to the nose, that’s all it took.

  A gunshot rang out. Cindy slammed her eyes shut, waiting for the bullet to pierce her body. Probably no less than what she deserved after the role she’d played in poor Roger’s death. But shouldn’t there be pain? Surely she’d feel something.

  “Back away from the woman, Barrett.” The male voice from the back of the room made Cindy’s eyes fly open. He was no less scraggly-looking, his clothes rumpled, a heavy layer of dirt on his boots. But there was a solidness about him, a determination in the line of his jaw that made her feel protected.

  “This ain’t no business of yours, Reed.” The man took a step toward her. “Just a little argument between me and my lady friend.”

  Another shot rang out. Cindy’s eyes flew open, bile rising in her throat as she realized how close the man was to her. Then her gaze shifted lower to the small bullet hole in his shirt. Gasping, the man flung himself at her, and she crumbed with him to the floor, the circle of blood around his wound spreading from his shoulder down to his chest. Without thinking, Cindy grabbed one of her brand new napkins from a nearb
y table and pressed it against the wound.

  He turned to her, his eyes glazed over with pain. “I wasn’t going to hurt you, just scare you a bit.”

  Cindy didn’t answer, just pressed harder against his shoulder until he yelped. Adan hadn’t planned to hurt her either or at least, that’s what he’d told her when he’d thrown her to the garden floor. Yet, the pain of that day and its horrible consequences still haunted her. No, this man was just afraid he’d been caught.

  Before she could say so, the shooter spoke again. “Is that what you told Mrs. Williamson right before you put a bullet in her?”

  His voice was closer now. Cindy jerked her head up. Mere steps away stood the man, his shoulders so wide, she could barely see sunlight peeking in around him. He turned, called out to crowd at the door to round up the doctor, then walked closer, light glittering off of the silver star pinned to his chest.

  “Sheriff?” Cindy croaked.

  He bent the brim of his hat to her. “U.S. Marshall Reed Chaffee, ma’am, and you are?”

  “Cynthia Gowan.” Thoughts tumbled around in her head. “Did this man really shoot that woman?”

  Marshall Chaffee nodded. “He left her for dead.”

  “I did no such thing, Marshall.” The man grunted. “I was going to get the doctor.”

  The Marshall kneeled down, then taking the napkin from Cindy, he pushed down hard on the bullet wound. Barrett groaned. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  And in the process, possibly shot her. Red hot anger replaced the fear pulsing through her veins. Just a few inches more and the doctor would have two patients. Cindy pushed the Marshall’s hand away and pressed a clean napkin to the wound. “Do you always come into a person’s business, guns a blazing?”

  His blue eyes turned cold as he glanced at her “Only when need be.”

  Cindy shook her head. Men! Always this need for violence to settle things. “I had everything under control, Marshall.”

  “It didn’t look like it from where I was standing.”

  Was that laughter she heard in his voice? She spoke through gritted teeth. “I know how to break a man’s nose. I could demonstrate on you if you’d like.”

  “I appreciate the offer but I’ll just take your word on it.” The Marshall’s lips twitched as he reached into the man’s jacket pocket and drew out a small pistol very similar to her own. “It doesn’t look like much but it can still put a nice size hole in a person.”

  One of the reasons her brother had purchased it for her. “I’m aware of that fact.”

  His dark brows lifted in surprise. “And how would you know that?”

  She pressed her lips together. Answering his question would lead to why she’d needed a pistol in the first place, and she wasn’t ready to talk about it, not yet. But she refused to lie either. “My brother, of course.”

  Her response seemed to appease him for the moment. “Of course.”

  Her supposed attacker groaned. Where was the doctor? Though she hated the thought of any living creature in pain, she wished for the sake of her business that this one would suffer somewhere else. Which wouldn’t have happened if the Marshall had let her handle this in the first place.

  Cindy glanced over at him to find him watching her. “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t come into my business with guns drawn next time.”

  “You think there’s going to be a next time?”

  “No, I. . .” she sputtered. Were all Americans this obtuse? Or was it just this man? “You know what I mean.”

  “So you’d rather I let him shoot you just now.”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. But if I’d been standing an inch or two to Mr. Barrett’s left, I’d be nursing a bullet wound now too.”

  His gray eyes turned stormy, and his mouth tensed. “I took that into consideration, Miss Gowan.”

  “Or you were very lucky.”

  For a moment, she thought he’d respond. Instead, he turned his focus on Mr. Barrett. “It doesn’t look too bad, Jonah. Doctor will have you up and back in jail in no time.”

  “I’d rather die than go back to that rat hole.”

  “I’m sure Judge Satterfield can arrange that for you.” The Marshall picked up another clean napkin and handed it to Cindy. “What were you doing bothering this pretty lady in the first place?”

  Cindy threw the blood soaked cloth to the side. “He was looking for the saloon.”

  The Marshall glanced around as if seeing the place for the first time. “This doesn’t look like Smithy’s.”

  Cindy sighed. Why hadn’t she take out an ad in the newspaper to inform everyone in Stoney Creek of the change in ownership? “Mr. Smith sold it to me.”

  “You?” From the shock on his face, Cindy gathered the Marshall hadn’t known about the sale of the saloon either. Back home, news of this magnitude would have spread around the village before the end of the day.

  “If Smithy had still owned this place, you never would have gotten a round off, Marshall,” Barrett taunted.

  “No, but Smithy would have put a bullet between your eyes rather than put up with you.”

  The man opened his mouth to respond when the door flew open, and a man holding a doctor’s bag barreled inside. “Good to see you, Reed.” He glanced from her to the Marshall, then sat his bag on a nearby table and opened it. “Who have we got here?”

  “Vince Barrett. He’s the scoundrel who shot Mrs. Williamson.”

  The doctor glared at the man as he rolled up his sleeves, then turned his attention to Cindy. “And the woman?”

  “Cynthia Gowan,” Marshall Chaffee replied. “She says she’s the new owner and proprietor of this saloon.”

  “It’s not a saloon anymore,” Cindy corrected him.

  The doctor collected his tools then knelled next to his patient. “Ernie said something about a tea room opening up here. I just never thought Smithy would give up the saloon.”

  Marshall Chaffee turned and studied her for so long, Cindy itched to move. “I’ll feel better when I see the paperwork on the sale. But for now, I’ll have to take your word, Miss Gowan.”

  Cindy stomped her foot under her skirts. “First, you come in here and shoot up my place of business, then you infer that I’m lying about owning the place. Do you always treat newcomers with such charm, or did you reserve that wit of yours just for me?”

  The doctor snorted out a chuckle as he bent over the man’s wound. “She’s got you there, Reed.”

  “Shut up, Doc,” the Marshall growled.

  Which just made the doctor chuckle more. He turned to Cindy. “Would you happen to have anything bigger than these napkins, maybe something I could wrap around his shoulders until I can get him back to my surgery?”

  Before she could answer, the Marshall tugged a tablecloth from a nearby table, sending her grandma’s expense bone china crashing to the floor. “Here you go, Doc.”

  Tears burned Cindy’s eyes as she looked out over the broken pieces of cups, plates and saucers her grandmama had given her. Despite all the rumors that had floated around after Roger’s death, the Countess of Sheffield had stood up for her. But then Grandmama had always encouraged and loved her no matter what she had done. A bullet would have been less painful than losing her china.

  Cindy carefully picked up the broken shards and cradled them in the skirt of her apron. “You could have asked me for a tablecloth instead of destroying my dishes.”

  “No time to ask for permission when a man’s dying.”

  “Dying?” Barrett moaned, frantic eyes turned to the doctor.

  “Best get you moved over to my office,” the doctor said as he stood and waved to two men standing at the door. “The sooner I get you patched up, the sooner I can give you back to the Marshall.” The doctor waved to a group of men standing just outside the swinging doors. “Boys, if we could get a little help.”

  Boots against the wood floor sounded like a herd of cattle as the men hurried inside, picked up Mr. Barre
tt and headed outside, the doctor following close behind. At the door, Doc turned and tipped his hat at her. “Miss Gowan.”

  Cindy sank into a heap on the floor, surveying the damage. Bloody clothes laid piled near the foot of one chair along with splintered glass from her dishes. Tiny red drops stained several of the white table clothes near where the shooting took place. Mud caked the newly polished floor.

  She wiped her hand across her eyes. No one would come to her tea room after this disaster. But this business was all she had left. Either she made it work or. . .she wasn’t quite sure what would happen. Going back to home was out of the question. Her presence there would only remind her mother of all she had lost. No, Cindy would make her own way with God’s help.

  Or die trying.

  “Miss Gowan?”

  “Yes,” she answered absentmindedly, her thoughts muddled.

  When she lifted her head, she found Marshall Chaffee staring at her, his mouth set in an unrelenting line that made her stomach tumbled. “I’d like to see your deed for this place.”

  “The deed?” She almost choked on the word.

  “Yes, Miss Gowan.” He stood in front of her, the reflection of his tin star glaring in her eyes. “Or I’m going to shut this place down.”

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