Crazy Woman Creek (2 page)

“Sheriff Morris,” she said finally to break the impasse, “It’s not like James to run off and leave me for two days.”

“Oh? How long is he usually gone for?”

Lenora blanched. “Sir, you misunderstand—
”

“No, Mrs. Rose. I understand real well. James got himself worked into a pother over God-knows-what you did or said and took off on his horse.”

Lenora fingered her handkerchief trying to find a dry spot to wipe her eyes. She felt attacked. She felt naked, utterly stripped of the cloak that concealed her private thoughts. How could Sheriff Morris so keenly assess the situation she had brought to his door? She felt as if this evil man had peered into the darkest part of her mind; worse, he had put his finger inside and touched her there. She wanted nothing more than to finish this dreadful questioning business, obtain a promise of a search party, and run out of his office to the safety and privacy of the ranch.

“Or else,” continued the sheriff, in a wicked tone befitting this twisted seek-and-find, “he’s found more comfort at Lydia’s place than at home.”

Sheriff Morris’ reference to the brothel above the Buffalo Belles Saloon was outrageous to be sure, but it confirmed to Lenora that she had lost control of this interrogation; it was useless to spar.

“I’m worried something unfortunate has befallen him.” Speaking aloud her fear made it spring to life. Lenora could no longer hold back the sobs. She covered her face with her handkerchief and gulped for air. “Perhaps,” she said, gasping for breath, “most husbands withhold parts of their lives from their wives, but my James does not. I trust him, and he trusts me.”

Sheriff Morris snorted.

How dare
he! Something in Lenora’s heart shifted. She must fight for James. He was missing, possibly injured or dead, and this, this infuriating man wasn’t taking her seriously. In short order the tears stopped as anger fed by humiliation trumped fear. Rage began to bubble quietly from her core, like a hot spring deep within the earth. If she didn’t get away from this vile man soon she would burst forth with a steaming geyser of scalding retorts. She must not let that happen. James’ life was at stake. This was about him not her.

“What did you do, Mrs. Rose, to make your husband run off and abandon you?”

Before Lenora could form a response, the deputy moved suddenly in his chair, as if he were about to stand up, thought better of it, and sat down again. She avoided looking in his direction. She felt less visible if she didn’t make eye contact. No doubt the deputy was too enthralled with her salacious drama to do anything but listen. Just think of the gossip that would spice up every supper table around Buffalo this evening. The delicious story of James and Lenora Rose would be spooned up just after the onion soup but before the tea and custard. Yes, she was certain that the scandal of her life would be the main dish in every dining room in town. Well, she didn’t care. If that’s what she must suffer in order to find her missing husband and bring him home again, so be it.

Through the thin office walls the clatter of a team of horses pulling a loaded wagon over frozen mud interrupted the interrogation. “Whoa!” shouted the driver, then the muffled thump of a man jumping to the ground and the snorting and pawing of large animals.

Lenora used the brief interruption to compose herself. “My husband did not run off and leave me,” she said, “I didn’t do anything.” That was true. “It was after supper.” Also true. Then what? How to say it? “After we had finished eating, instead of going out to the porch with his pipe, as he always does, he got up and left. That’s all. He left and hasn’t returned.” Lenora had said enough, and though not a fully developed picture of the events of that night, it was all true. She fervently hoped that Sheriff Morris would see she was telling the truth, end his stupid questions, and immediately form a search party.

“Mrs. Rose,” the sheriff finally said, standing up, signaling an end to their meeting, “Your husband is a solid citizen, a churchgoing man, and a smart rancher.”

Lenora nodded, grateful for the softened tone in the sheriff’s voice, though she was guarded. She did not know how to read this man, which badly upset her apple wagon.

“Everyone in this town will speak of his honesty and trustworthiness in business and whatever else he’s involved in. James Rose is a good man.”

Lenora nodded again and stood up as well. Surely his words of praise meant something positive. Off to the side she heard the deputy politely stand up in anticipation of her exit.

“James Rose,” the sheriff continued, leaning forward on the desk with both hands so that Lenora got a better look at his tobacco-stained whiskers, “is also the biggest hothead in all of Wyoming Territory.”

Lenora gaped. James had a temper. But that didn’t mean he was hateful enough to abandon in a moment of passion his wife, his ranch, and the herd they’d worked so hard to build. James loved her. Even with his hot temper, he was a faithful husband who took care of his wife. His love was stronger than his anger was hot.

Wasn’t it?

“I’d wager a week’s pay that your husband is off somewhere, waiting it out, hoping to put the fear of the Almighty in you. Probably thinks you’ve learned your lesson. Probably headed toward your place right now.”

What an outrageous excuse for a sheriff!

“Nevertheless,” he said, standing straight again, “if it makes you feel better, I’ll get some volunteers together and have them search the area around your ranch.”

If it makes me feel better?
This man was impossible.

“Thank you again, Sheriff Morris,” said Lenora, extending her hand and smiling demurely.

“I’ll send one of the men to your ranch if we have any news.”

She thanked him again and somehow managed to add, “Good day.” She had gotten what she had come for, but ooh she was mad. Now she must flee this upsetting office, she must get outside into the brisk, head-clearing spring air, away from these arrogant lawmen while her eyes were still dry and while she still h
eld the reins on her tongue. She turned to say something polite to the deputy but was so close to tears that all she could manage was a brief nod. Then she turned abruptly toward the street, and with a fetching swish of her voluminous petticoats, was out the door.

#

“Silly woman,” muttered the sheriff as the door clicked shut. Having taken no notes for the investigation, he sat down again and returned the paper and fountain pen to the drawer. When he looked up, he saw his deputy, who was still standing motionless behind his desk as he had been when Lenora made her brisk adieu.

Deputy Davies stared, eyes transfixed either by his own imaginings or by whatever captivated his attention on the other side of the windows that flanked the office door—or both.

“Whatcha looking at? I was polite,” said the sheriff, his tone brittle with mock defense.

Deputy Davies broke from his concentration then and turned to Sheriff Morris, who was reaching into his shirt pocket for his tobacco pouch.

“Polite?”

“For the lady,” said the sheriff, pulling on the pouch string. “It was the nicest thing I could think to say about that
struttin’ rooster she married. Crowing all the time.”

“James Rose is dead,” said the deputy. He looked back to the window, choosing to ignore the sheriff’s rant. Only two days sharing office quarters with the veteran lawman, and already Luke knew that it was best not to blow more air on the fire when Cyrus got to pumping his bellows.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Not sure, just figuring.”

“How’s that?”

“No man in his right mind goes off and leaves a woman who looks like that all alone to fend for herself. James Rose is dead.”

“If you insist,” said the sheriff, fingering a few shreds of tobacco.

“If he isn’t dead, he’s addle brained beyond redemption or blind. Of the three, I say—dead.”

“You haven’t seen James Rose blow his mouth to kingdom come when he’s convinced some fella from one of the big ranches has rustled one of his steers.” Sheriff Morris stuffed a wad of the fragrant chewing tobacco in his cheek, pulled the drawstring closed, and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Don’t need to,” drawled Deputy Davies in his thoughtful Tennessean way while reaching for his hat and overcoat and starting for the door. “I’ve seen Mrs. Rose.”

“Where ya headed?” said the sheriff.

“Out," said Deputy Davies as he ducked his head to keep from banging his noggin on the door frame. "I have more questions for Mrs. Rose.”

Luke swept his eyes up and down Main Street, searching for the lovely Mrs. Rose while he pulled his gloves from his pocket. Spring ignored the calendar this year, choosing to come on its own schedule. Consequently everyone in Buffalo had rolled into town to purchase necessities before the next blizzard shuttered businesses and scattered shoppers to their isolated ranches. The air glistened as rays of icy sunshine made the day brilliant but still bitterly cold. The heavens overhead were cloudless, endless, and sparkling blue, surveyed only by the Big Horn Mountains to the South.

A cloudless sky, Luke knew, meant the temperature would drop cruelly when the sun started to set; Mrs. Rose would not dawdle in town. She would hurry to finish her other business, if she had any, and rush back to her ranch before sundown. And as sure as he was born and raised a
ranching man, Luke knew also that, dolled up as she was in such frippery, Mrs. Rose had not come to town on horseback.

Not finding Lenora on the street, Luke turned right to walk the two blocks to Olathe’s Feed and Livery Stable, the logical destination for a visitor who arrived in town by any kind of horse-pulled rig. As his boots clunked along the boardwalk in a southerly direction, his mind worked methodically, sorting Mrs. Rose’s responses to Cyrus’ rude inquiries.

Cyrus was a bully, but his bullying had gotten the information he wanted from Mrs. Rose. Cyrus was first and foremost a lawman, always rough, aggressively thorough, and even crude at times, but a lawman with a reputation for bringing ‘em in.

And a woman’s tears didn’t always stem from sorrow. Mrs. Rose could be a first-rate actress. It wouldn’t be the first time a lawman had been bamboozled by a pretty face. Yet it irked him that Cyrus had been so hard on her. She was so young. Clearly she was upset over her husband’s disappearance, and in his gut, Luke doubted that her worry was feigned. But why did she wait two days to come to town with her report? She was hiding something for sure. But what?

Luke's musings over Mrs. Rose were not solely the result of a trained analytical mind unwinding the threads of a tightly wound story. Her hair. His thoughts kept returning to that thick bundle, the color of rich coffee, pulled into a perfect bun at the nape of her neck and festooned, feminine-like, with a gossamer net of crocheted silk under that fashionable, velvety hat. In all his twenty-six years, Luke had never seen a woman dressed so elegantly, except in Ma's Godey’s Ladies Book, but that was so long ago his memory of those gauzy fashion plates had dimmed, rendering them more angelic than mortal.

That was Mrs. Rose. A living, breathing illustration stepped out of the pages of Godey’s, as foreign to the rough environment of the Territory as an angel. How long was her hair? Surely to her waist or longer. No woman in Buffalo or Fort Laramie dressed or carried herself with the grace of the alluring Mrs. Rose. She was pretty, but Buffalo had its share of pretty women. Mrs. Rose had something more.

He would ponder what that more was later.

#

The air inside Olathe’s livery stable was musty with barn odors. Clouds of grain dust swirled lazily where shafts of sunlight sliced through the few high windows and near the wide, double-door entrance. Horses munched noisily in their stalls, oblivious to their visitor. Luke paused inside the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Olathe was talking to someone at the far end of the stable.

“Deputy Davies,” Olathe called out. “Morning. What can I do for you today?” Olathe stood up from where he had been squatting on the barn floor,
partially underneath Mrs. Rose’s one horse, checking to see if the quarter strap was secure.

Lenora was seated in the buckboard, draped in the emerald-green cloak she had stored in the wagon, her back to Luke. When she heard the deputy’s name, she turned around in her seat. Her eyes widened with surprise. What’s he doing here?

Luke tipped his hat to Lenora as he approached the wagon, shook hands with Olathe, and inquired about his health. The men exchanged the usual pleasantries. “I’m here to see Mrs. Rose,” said Luke, not bothering to look at Lenora. “I’m going to accompany her home.”

  Lenora's mouth fell open in a mix of surprise and alarm, but realizing that Olathe would overhear if she responded, she closed her mouth, pulled her cloak a little more tightly around her shoulders, turned herself to the front of the buckboard, and stiffened her shoulders in a prim, determined way.

“I see," said Olathe. He glanced between Luke and Lenora as if he hoped for an explanation to this odd arrangement. But Luke wasn't volunteering information and Lenora let her obstinate posture do her talking. The elfish little man, who had to stand on a milking stool to groom his four-footed clients, must have decided to leave well enough alone. "I’m almost done here," he said. "You want me to hitch your horse to the wagon?”