Be My Texas Valentine (19 page)

“Humm,” Stubby guffawed. “You sure as hell have a strange way of showing it by the way you look at her. You might be able to fool some of ’um around here, but not me.”

“Her aunt and uncle sent her off to some floozy school back East after her parents died and before Paw passed, and I haven’t heard hide nor hair from her since, not that I care,” he half-lied.

Stubby pushed his chair back and pulled to his full five-foot-height by five-foot-width stature. “Gotta get busy. Got a lot goin’ on this afternoon with this blasted meetin’, plus your mama gave me Cal as a backup and you know how patient he is.” He headed toward the bar, but before he got out of earshot, he spouted, “Maybe with your luck, you’ll run into Miss Laurel.”

“Don’t bet your best redheaded heifer on that.”

Hellfire and brimstone, bring on the matches ... why had Stubby mentioned Laurel Dean Womack? Hunter hadn’t seen her in years.

One thing for sure, since he had beaten her uncle in the mayoral race, Hunter doubted she’d even bother to say hello if they did run into one another. When she left town, whatever they had in the way of a friendship disappeared about as fast as raindrops on a hot afternoon. She was there one day and gone the next, without even a good-bye to any of her friends.

Thinking of her brought back memories of his youth.

When Hunter began to notice girls, he was taken with Laurel. She was a pretty little thing, but not like some of the other girls who took two days to get ready for a barn dance. Although most of the boys saw her as plain and quiet, Hunter didn’t. He saw her as refreshing as the first wildflower of spring.

Back in those days, no matter how many shenanigans he pulled trying to catch her eye, she never paid him any mind. He just blended in with the other tall, lanky cowboys around.

Even today he could still recall feeling that maybe she ignored him because he was too poor for her liking ... or more not to the liking of her aunt and uncle because he was unfit for their niece’s station in life.

By now, the gossipmongers, led by Laurel’s cousin, had made sure she knew that he’d become a successful gambler, even owning his own establishment catawampus from the Sundance, where he’d spend most evenings with a pretty woman on his lap, a cigar between his teeth, and a bottle of whiskey within reach.

The truth ... he considered gambling little more than a hobby and had always kept his focus unyielding and clear on what was important to him—cattle and ranching, a lifestyle he had cut his teeth on.

But right now, Hunter Campbell had to be the town’s leader and get the men packed into the Sundance Saloon to commit to raising the money needed to gravel the dusty, muddy streets. It had to be accomplished before the women in the community convinced their men that any funds raised could be better spent building a library.

And his only true supporter was none other than Gideon Duncan, the man Hunter had beat in the mayoral race ... Laurel Dean Womack’s uncle.

Chapter 2

Hunter checked the time again, took a hefty swig of whiskey, and sorted his thoughts. If he wanted a positive outcome, he needed to present his ideas in a cohesive way.

As he watched the gathering crowd, from both sides he was engulfed in lace and feathers hanging off two of the saloon’s working girls, each carrying a shot of whiskey. Miss Marla spoke softly, “Darling, if you need anything else, just give me a nod.” She set down her glass, smiled, and didn’t make a move until the other woman presented him with another drink. She pushed back his Stetson a bit and ran her fingers through his sandy-colored hair before she reset his hat and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Together the women flounced off, whispering to one another.

It was time to convene the meeting, make a decision, and hopefully, in short order he’d be back at his own saloon taking care of business.

Hunter removed his Colt and tapped the table with the butt to quiet the crowd. “As president of the Farley Springs Men’s Club, I call this meeting to order—”

Andy Baker, the robust stubble-bearded blacksmith, interrupted, “Where in the hell did we get such a sissified name anyway?”

“If we are gonna be taken seriously, we need an official name, so that’s what I came up with.” Hunter clinched his jaw, anticipating nobody else would question his choice. The afternoon was going to be a whole lot more challenging than he’d expected. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t mind, we have grave business that needs attention, so the Sundance will be closed for an hour to tend to it.”

“We ain’t havin’ one of them there secretfied meetin’s where we have to promise never to tell anything we talk about, are we?” Andy hollered from the corner table. Not waiting for a reply, he continued, “Get them gals outta here. We cain’t have no spies goin’back and blabbing to them womenfolk what our plans are.”

A concerto of voices agreed.

Talking over everyone else, Duncan said, “I agree. The women have no say-so and have no business here, so get ’um out.”

Hunter nodded to the piano player, who stopped playing, leaving a noticeable void in the air.

Adjusting one then the other of the cuffs on his tailored white shirt, Hunter touched his gold cuff links to make sure they were secure. As if his gestures were an order, the working girls gathered their belongings and headed upstairs, followed by more than one man, whom Hunter presumed were among the soiled doves’ belongings for the time being.

Chairs creaked, spurs jingled, and glasses clanged together as the men moved closer to where Hunter stood.

“Make this short, Campbell,” snorted a bone-thin man with a few sprigs of hair on the crown of his head. “I’ve got my own dealings to take care of, plus it shouldn’t take no hour to hear what you and Gideon say we’re gonna do anyhow.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hell yeah, Campbell, quit beatin’ the devil around the stump, we know what we’ve got to do,” spouted Cal the bartender. “You can save us a lot of time by callin’ for a vote. No way in hell are we givin’ our hard-earned money to the women for any library we don’t even need. Your mama won’t like us losin’ so much business, so get to it.”

Before Hunter could answer, Gideon Duncan pulled his tall, potbellied frame to his feet and faced the crowd. “If you all will hold your horses, we can get this over with and be on our way in short order.” Duncan, who looked like a buffalo stuffed into a suit and tie, rubbed his beard. “Cal, you’re right, we’ve beaten this horse to death, so we need to come to an understanding.”

Hunter tolerantly waited for Duncan to speak his mind. The mayor felt it was important that each man have his say, and as a longtime businessman, Gideon Duncan had plenty to say on the subject.

Duncan continued, without even giving Hunter a glance, “Once the streets are paved, the supply wagons can move easier and quicker, stirring up a lot less dust. We’ll use soil and stones from the riverbed and the canyons nearby, and when it rains, there’ll be better drainage and less mud to deal with. Plus, it’ll keep down any loose dust from coming into all of the shops. We don’t want Farley Springs bypassed by the railroad and left to wither and die, do we?”

Voices bounced off every wall, mostly in agreement.

Duncan turned to Hunter. “Mr. Campbell and I share the same views. Right?”

“We certainly do.” Hunter took over. “If we plan to make certain the railroad comes through Farley Springs, we’ve got to entice the merchants to realize our town is a place they want to conduct business; otherwise, they’ll move on down the line.”

“So we gotta make sure the womenfolk see that the money we collect will be best spent on paving the streets, not building any dern library,” Stubby said. “Besides, not many of us can even cipher books. The womenfolk are already throwing a conniption fit about us even thinkin’ about graveling Main Street.”

“And I’ve already got my woman’s back up by trying to tell her how paved streets will benefit her ’cause it’ll keep the mud off her pretty little shoes and the hem of her dresses when it rains,” said the man with three hairs on his head. “I’m gonna get my plow cleaned for sure and be roostin’ with the chickens if I keep it up.”

Hunter patiently listened to every man who had something to say, but he couldn’t afford for them to give in to the female persuasion that he feared was building.

Possibly feeling the same way, Duncan said, “We have an obligation to make the women see the benefits our town will receive from the railroad. The men are here to do what is best for Farley Springs. We leave the cookin’ and housekeepin’ to the women, so they need to let us do our job. There’s a place for them and it’s at home tending the children.” Gideon Duncan spouted off as if nothing of what he said was thought through.

His tirade set off a full-fledged prairie fire.

Dozens of voices chimed in, giving their own opinions. Some agreed. Some did not. Some straddled the fence.

Hunter felt ill at ease with the man’s personal rant. He’d known the banker forever and didn’t always agree with his approach, especially about the place of women in society. If Duncan’s support for the railroad wasn’t needed so badly, Hunter would do the town a favor and kick the pompous ass to Georgia and back.

By inserting his personal belief, Duncan had succeeded in complicating the issue at hand.

Now Hunter had to try to calm the situation. He couldn’t afford to have the men lose their objectiveness; but the thought of any woman being browbeaten into accepting the opinions of her husband simply because she was his wife was unacceptable to him.

“Gentlemen, that’s one person’s opinion. I’d like to hear others before we put this to a vote,” Hunter said.

Joseph Dobson took the floor and rambled on about how the men could reason with their little women and compromise, thus doing both projects, making everyone happy.

While the owner of the hotel tossed around his ideas on how to accomplish the deal, none of which were of any real value, Hunter kept a watchful eye on the crowd.

Hunter didn’t recognize the guy unloading whiskey behind the bar. He observed Cal lifting the heavy crates to the counter for the young man, which was odd behavior for the bigheaded bartender. The kid couldn’t be much over fourteen by his size and lack of a muscle larger than the one under his cheekbone. Hunter guessed that his mama felt sorry for the lad and gave him a job.

Another strange new face caught Hunter’s eye. A man dressed as if he’d stolen his odd assortment of clothes off various clotheslines while nobody was looking squatted near the end of the bar. Hunter wasn’t sure whether the person was dressed as a cowboy or a drummer, but an aura of bizarreness surrounded him.

As the gentlemen hashed and rehashed their options about how to raise money for their project, Hunter couldn’t keep his eyes off this strange assortment of new faces working in the saloon.

Although he was part owner, his mother never bothered him with the day-to-day operations. She managed just fine without his advice. But one thing for sure, his mama never allowed the cuspidors to be cleaned or whiskey stocked in the middle of the afternoon. Those tasks were reserved for early morning while business was at its slowest.

Hunter wasn’t sure what instructions the spittoon cleaner had been given, but he was pretty sure it didn’t include taking the rags hanging from the brass rails beneath the bar and turning them into makeshift gloves. Even with the cloths on his hands, he held the brass receptacles as far away from him as possible, as if they were something he was unfamiliar with. At that rate, he’d never get all of the spittoons cleaned by daybreak.

Movement outside the swinging doors to the saloon reflected off the mirror above the bar and caught Hunter’s eye.

At first he thought a late arrival was about to enter, but he never did. The good thing about the half doors was simply to be able to see whether friend or foe was approaching. Anyone inside could generally tell whether trouble was about to visit by a man’s boots and hat; however, this guy had a unique and very strange appearance.

Shorter than the average man, he wore a brand spankin’ new dove gray Stetson that must have cost at least two months’ wages even without the ornate hat band, complete with some type of feather Hunter couldn’t even begin to identify. It didn’t come from a pheasant or turkey, but some strange bird with blue and purple in it. No working cowboy or even an outlaw would be caught dead in the contraption.

Whoever was there spent a lot of time squatting down and then rising on his tiptoes, which only added to the mystery. The man’s boots were fancy, shiny with little wear on them, no spurs, and were probably bought back East. Like the hat, no man in this neck of the woods would wear such girlie-lookin’ footwear.

With a punch in the gut much like being gored by a bull, Hunter realized what was happening.

Spies! Probably sent in by his own mama.

Now he was smack dab in the middle of a predicament—whether to feed them information, be it half-truths or total falsehoods.

Over the years, Hunter had faced bigger challenges, and compared to some, this should be a cakewalk. He shuddered at the thought of having to resort to a frilly event to raise money, but it gave him an idea.

Hunter addressed the crowd of men, who were spending more time drinking than anything else. “Gentlemen, we have to come to a final decision. Since I’m the town’s mayor and have been given the authority to decide if we don’t have a general consensus, and it’s obvious that we don’t, I know exactly how we will handle the whole situation.” As he spoke, he walked toward the doorway.

Raising his voice, he continued, “In order to raise money to gravel the streets, we will challenge the women and whoever gets the most money by—let’s say Valentine’s Day—gets their project done.”

Gasps came from every corner.

“The little women are pretty damn good at doing bazaars and such to raise money, so how do you plan to outdo the womenfolk?” Stubby seemed to play along with Hunter’s game.

Hunter surveyed the room before answering. The lad stocking liquor stopped in his tracks, as did the spittoon washer. The visitor standing outside the saloon doors stood on tiptoes, probably to be able to hear above the noise.