A Run for Love (17 page)

“How can you say that with Rachel and. . .”

Jesse raised his hand to stop him. “All sorts of arrangements can be made. And none of them would require you to throw away the opportunity of a lifetime. Let me do the worrying, okay? I won’t let Tori sacrifice her happiness for anyone else.”

“Do you really think so?” Michael smiled, the line of his brows cleared.

“As a matter of fact, I bought some land outside town in Logan County to build a house. And I’ll make sure it’s big enough for everyone.”

“But what about all the work you have Tori doing on your house now?”

Jesse chuckled. “A way to keep her busy, and not dwelling on her problems. I’ll rent those rooms out eventually.” He gripped Michael’s shoulder. “So you see, I have it all under control.”

They finished their sodas, left the store, and walked side by side the rest of the way home, with Michael chatting the whole time about college.

“So you’re telling me the whole
I no longer want to go to college
was about you and me?” Tori wiped flour covered hands on her apron.

“That’s right, darlin’. Seems your nephew knows we belong together, and he feared it would never happen if he went off to college.”

“I don’t understand. What has one got to do with the other?”

Jesse walked to her, floured apron and all, put his arms around her waist, and tucked her head to his chest. “He worried you wouldn’t leave Rachel, Ellie, and Hunter alone to move back with me.”

“He’s right, you know.” Tori leaned back and met his eyes. “I can’t leave them alone. To leave them with Michael scared me enough, but if he’s not there. . .”

“We can work it out.”

“I don’t see how.” She bristled.

“Trust me.” He kissed her forehead.

Tori settled her head back on his chest, the thumping of his heart loud and strong. Steady, like him. Peace and contentment surrounded her when in his arms. How unfair of her aunt to poison her mind against men. Jesse, a warm, loving, and helpful man who would never use his strength against her. And with all the opportunities he had to turn to another woman, he remained faithful.

Oh, if only she hadn’t been so stubborn and given into Jesse’s requests that she work less and see the doctor. If she had, she wouldn’t have lost their baby. She fought back tears at the thought of the small life snuffed out.

She gulped and swallowed her tears. Strong fingers lifted her chin until she met Jesse’s face. Two tears ran down her cheeks. He wiped them away with the pad of his thumb, and pulled her against him again.

“I’m here, Tori,” he whispered. “And I always will be.”

The bright sun bathed over the uneasy women gathered in small groups in front of the church at the end of town. So far, nineteen women assembled there for the Ladies League for Decency march.

Mrs. Boswell, face flushed and eyes sparkling with the glory of battle, shouted orders to everyone, getting her minions in the mood for the march to begin the Decency Campaign. Most of the women wore pinched expressions. Tori speculated that, like her, they’d been bullied into participating by their ringleader.

More than a little nervous, Tori stayed quiet and observed, biting her thumb nail between her front teeth. Her sensible nature warned this was a bad idea. Earlier, she’d winced at Mrs. Boswell’s pronouncement that the women would carry signs denouncing the saloons and march down Main Street, past the three most popular taverns.

“Ah, Mrs. Boswell, do we have a permit to march?” Tori pulled the woman aside, wishing she were invisible.

“Oh, not to worry, dear. The mayor’s wife is marching with us.”

Tori raised her eyebrows at her rationale.

She cleared her throat. “But Jesse said groups that march in public need to have a permit from the town.”

“Such a handsome husband you have, my dear. But if I were you missy,” she continued, glancing around and lowering her voice, “I wouldn’t be leaving his bed untended, if you know what I mean.” She tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows.

Tori felt heat rise all the way to her hairline.
Why
does the
entire town care about my husband’s bed?

“I thought Mr. Cochran would be joining us in the Decency march today.” Mrs. Boswell sniffed.

“Oh, sorry, Jesse asked me to tell you he had too much work backed up.”

The older woman frowned and huffed at having one of her flock defect. Then their fearsome leader sailed off to talk to some of the new women who’d joined the group. Tori breathed a sigh of relief. Although she wasn’t generally intimidated, Mrs. Boswell’s resemblance to Aunt Martha beat Tori down every time.

She rolled her shoulders and glanced around. The other women also appeared as uncomfortable as she. As a former public school teacher and the wife of a prominent attorney, she shouldn’t march with a group of women trying to force tax-paying businesses to close.

The saloons didn’t affect her life in any way. The short time she and Jesse were married—well, actually they were still married—he rarely frequented the places. He didn’t drink much, having the occasional brandy at night. As far as she knew, he never did gamble, and if she caught him going upstairs with one of the
girls,
she would take her shotgun to him.

But her inner voice cautioned several other men in town were willing to jeopardize their families’ welfare by drinking and gambling, and doing whatnot with the girls upstairs.

Aunt Martha’s voice filled her head.
Men only want one thing, don’t forget that, little girl. To have a good time, spend all their time and money on whiskey and whores. You tie yourself up with one of them, you’ll have misery your whole life.

Tori shook her head. No, not Jesse. Her fear of his charm slowly receded as he continued his campaign to win her back. He was no James, ready to take off when the going got rough. And she doubted, like her father, he would dump his child off with relatives because parenthood became inconvenient.

So why in heaven’s name are you living in another house?
She pushed that thought to the back of her mind, filed under things to ponder.

When it appeared all the women who were going to join in the march had arrived, Mrs. Boswell handed out the signs made at the last planning meeting. Placards with
Close the Saloons; We Want Decency Now; Think of Our Children;
and the leader’s favorite,
Shame On You!,
which Tori made a concerted effort to avoid having to carry.

Tori aligned herself between Jane Wilton, the pastor’s wife, and Mayor Clement’s wife, Sarah. The women formed a somewhat line, four across, and, amid nervous giggles, marched forward. Mrs. Boswell led the troops into battle. Poor old Edwin Barker had been coerced from his favorite chair in front of the barber shop, to march with them. He eagerly banged on his drum, his aged eyes dancing with mirth.

In the first few blocks, they got very little notice. Most of the store owners peered out the doors at them and, shaking their heads, returned to business. A few “go home and cook dinner” remarks came from a man or two passing by, but for the most part they were ignored. Mrs. Boswell did not take this lack of attention well.

“Ladies, we must make our voices heard,” her voice bellowed over the group, causing several ladies to roll their eyes or shrink back. “We will now sing a rousing chorus of
Amazing Grace.
”

The group started off wobbly, but soon the women got into the spirit, and the singing reverberated off the stores and buildings they passed on their way to the saloons. Tori kept her voice low and the sign squarely in front of her face, hoping nobody would recognize her.

If only Mrs. Boswell didn’t remind her so much of Aunt Martha. Maybe their hair color, the way they stood, or the tone of their voices, but Tori couldn't tell Mrs. Bowell “no” anymore than she could tell her aunt. A formidable woman, Aunt Martha had terrorized Tori throughout her childhood and did not accept the word 'no.' Even as a teacher, making her own living, Tori was subjected to Aunt Martha's regular visits to inspect her house, and a monthly audit of her bank account. The summons from Michael after his father died provided her with the excuse to escape. But now she was under another bully’s thumb. And for some reason, this woman put a deeper fear into her.

The voices got stronger and the marching thunderous. Soon they picked up some stragglers. Women not part of the original League, children who should have been in school, barking dogs, and men who had nothing better to do but join the merriment.

They approached The Bottomless Bucket, owned by Caleb Johnson. The saloon was best known for having the sharpest gambling tables and most skilled soiled doves in town. Despite the way he earned his living, she found Caleb to be a friendly, pleasant man. He treated his employees well, and even made sure his girls were seen by a doctor on a regular basis. Jesse told her Caleb made generous donations to the church—anonymously, of course—and to the Widow’s and Orphan’s Fund. Additionally, he paid his fines for having prostitutes and liquor on the premises on the first of every month. It helped the town meet its payroll obligations.

And Mrs. Boswell expected her to charge down the street, demanding he close his business? Tori’s stomach clenched as she searched for an alley or doorway she could disappear into.

Mrs. Boswell raised her hand to stop the group right in front of The Bottomless Bucket. At first the ladies and hangers-on continued to sing
Amazing Grace
as Edwin banged his drum. Tori moved from one foot to another, hoping they would soon move along.

Mrs. Boswell strode to the saloon doors and, turning to her troops, puffed herself up and raised her arm. “We will not stand for gambling, drinking, and whoring in our fair city. And we will not be ignored. For the betterment of the community, and the very souls of our children, we will enter this house of ill repute, and demand Mr. Johnson close this business.”

The women all eyed each other, some of them blushing and clearing their throats at this turn of events. Tori began to shuffle away from the group when Mrs. Boswell spotted her and grabbed her by the arm. Yanked to the front, Tori grimaced when Mrs. Boswell raised their joined arms in the air and bellowed.

“Ladies, let us march forward for decency.”

The woman dragged Tori along as she charged through the batwing doors and into the saloon. Several scantily dressed young women lounging on sofas jumped up screaming, and ran for the stairs. The bartender, in the process of polishing glasses, dropped his jaw in disbelief as the town’s most respectable ladies decked out in hats, gloves, and signs swarmed in.

“We demand to see the owner!” Mrs. Boswell shouted over the screaming of the girls and the banging of the drum. The Ladies League for Decency continued to sing “Amazing Grace.” Tori attempted to pull away from Mrs. Boswell, but the woman’s grip was ironclad.

Mrs. Boswell approached the immobile bartender, dragging Tori along. “Young man! We demand to see your owner.”

The bartender snapped to attention. “The boss ain’t here.”

“What do you mean, not here? Is he hiding from us? This is outrageous. We won’t be deterred.”

The bartender gulped a few times, his eyes searching the room as if hoping for an escape.

“Ladies,”—Mrs. Boswell turned to face her troops—“We will search the premises and find Mr. Johnson.”

The blood drained from Tori’s face. She would surely faint dead away right this minute. Mrs. Bowell wanted these women, who were the pillars of society, to search a saloon and brothel?

Some of the women, however, must have seen an opportunity to view what decent ladies of society always wondered about. Within minutes, the most daring of them raced into the back room, while others sprinted up the stairs.

Before Mrs. Boswell, still dragging Tori, got more than three steps up the stairs, a group of women in negligees, corsets, and heavy makeup, came down the steps shouting, then pushed the ladies back. Mrs. Boswell took her sign and smacked the oldest-looking woman, with bright yellow hair and black kohl around her eyes, right over the head. The woman shoved Mrs. Boswell backwards and she tumbled, taking Tori with her. Within minutes, women were pushing and shoving and swinging signs at each other.

Someone smacked Tori in the back of the head, causing her spectacles to go flying off her face. In self-defense, she swung out and whacked her sign alongside the head of a hefty black- haired saloon girl. A short redhead in a corset pulled Tori’s hair, jerking her off her feet. Hairpins flew in all directions. Tori got back up, dusted off her backside, and shoved the girl. She fell into two other ladies. The three of them landed on a card table, scattering cards and chips everywhere before it collapsed under their weight. Through all this, Edwin continued to chew his tobacco and bang on his drum. The few men having a quiet afternoon drink had moved their chairs to the wall and enjoyed the spectacle from there with wide smiles, grins, and smirks on their faces.

Tori tripped over a chubby blond whore and Jane, both rolling on the floor, pulling each other’s hair. A green bottle shattered as the blonde hit the pastor’s wife over the head with it. One of the Decency women repeatedly smacked an older dark-haired saloon girl with the blunt heel of her shoe.

A young girl in a red corset and black stockings raced down the stairs waving a gun. She slipped on the bottom step and the gun went off, the bullet hitting the chandelier in the middle of the room. It swayed precariously before collapsing in a heap in the middle of the floor.

“What in the hell is going on in here?”

The sheriff and two of his deputies stood in the doorway of the saloon. The sheriff put his thumb and pinky in his mouth and whistled three or four times, until the women stopped pushing and shoving, and turned toward the door.

“I said, what the
hell
is going on in here?”

The saloon women and ladies all climbed to their feet, smoothing and shaking out dresses, and attempting to re-arrange hairdos. They peeked awkwardly around the room. The saloon sat in shambles. More than one table was smashed, as well as numerous chairs. Blood ran down several women’s faces from various scratches and cuts.

Jane Wilton lay passed out on the floor, blood matting her hair, her hat askew, and her skirts tucked around her knees. Two women with torn dresses were kneeling over her waving their handkerchiefs. Mrs. Boswell’s shirtwaist gaped at the shoulder, blood trickled down her face, and she puffed like a locomotive. Tori backed out from her position under a table where she’d retrieved her smashed spectacles.

“I don’t goddamn believe this,” the sheriff said, walking into the room and shaking his head, not even acknowledging his language. The generous belly hanging over his belt quivered as he kicked smashed bottles and decency signs from under his feet. One deputy covered his smile by straightening his mustache, the other one bit his lip, their eyes bright with mirth. The sheriff scowled at the mess.

Red-faced and sputtering, he placed his hands on his hips and shouted, “All right. Everyone down to the jailhouse.”

“Sheriff, you cannot arrest us!” Mrs. Boswell shifted to her full height and attempted to re-arrange her hanging chignon. “We are the pillars of the community.”

“Mrs. Boswell,” the sheriff said, glowering at her, “I can, and I will. Now I’m telling y’all, git yourselves down to the jail! Even you, Barker.” He growled in the old drummer’s direction. “Quit banging on that drum, and wipe the stupid grin off your face, you old fool!”

The deputies, eyes watering from holding in laughter, herded the crowd of women out the door and down the street to the jail. Storeowners and shoppers gawked at the parade of whores and respectable women in various stages of dress and undress. Hats hung off heads, hair tumbled around shoulders. Several women attempted to hold together torn clothes. Most sported the beginnings of black eyes, bruises, and battered faces. They all marched down the street with the sheriff leading the group and two thoroughly entertained deputies bringing up the rear.

Mortified, Tori limped toward the jail. She’d broken one heel of her shoe and her eye hurt like the devil. What would the children say when they found she’d been arrested?

Arrested! Would she have some type of a permanent record? Spend time in the territory prison? She groaned at the thought of Jesse, a highly regarded lawyer, discovering his wife had landed herself in jail because of a bar brawl.

A bar brawl.

Forty or so sorry looking women crowded into the jailhouse. The sheriff divided the group and locked them all into the three cells. He faced the women, shifting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Ladies, I have no idea what the devil happened back there, but I’ll tell you this. None of y’all ain’t going nowhere till your husbands git here.”

“Sheriff, honey,” whimpered the redheaded saloon girl, “y’all know we don’t have husbands. Caleb is out of town, so who’s going to bail us out?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Once I get these
pillars of the community
,”—he glared in Mrs. Boswell’s direction—“out of here, I’ll deal with you and your girls. For now, everybody stay put ‘til I git ahold of your husbands.” He turned and stalked straight out the front door. From her position in the cell, Tori saw him glower at his two deputies, now doubled over with laughter.