Crazy Woman Creek (7 page)

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said, breathily, his voice low, his forehead creased with concern. “You want to get arrested for threatening an officer of the law?”

“I didn’t threaten anyone,” Lenora fairly hissed in his face. She rubbed her arm where Luke’s fingers had pressed into her flesh.

“Looked that way to me. To Sheriff Morris too.”

“I hate him! He doesn’t listen to me. He had his mind made up from the day I gave my report. He doesn’t know James.”

“You have to be patient with Sheriff Morris,” Luke said, his tone conciliatory. “He’s old school.”

“You mean old fool.”

“Mrs. Rose, you must accept the truth—
”

“Do
you
know the truth? Do
you
know what happened to my husband?” Lenora drew herself up in a defiant stance.

Deputy Davies’ face softened into a look of genuine kindness. “Mrs. Rose, I know this is hard for you, and I’m sorry to upset you like this. I wish it were different. I wish your husband were alive and I could bring him home to you. But ma’am, he drowned.”

“In a pig’s eye.”

Luke squeezed his eyes shut briefly as if to think, or perhaps compose himself. Lenora wasn't sure, though she noted that he never released his grip on her Sharps. When he opened his eyes again they stood staring at one another a few awkward seconds. Lenora looked into his eyes and was surprised to see  ... pity? Compassion? His intense gaze reached to her very soul. She felt exposed.

And then, wordlessly and gently, Luke put his free hand on Lenora’s shoulder. “Mrs. Rose, I want you to think about hiring some help as soon as you can.”

“I’ve already thought about it. I’m not the simpleton you lawmen think I am.” Lenora angrily jerked herself, shaking his hand from her shoulder. She saw a flash of hurt rise in his eyes, which, strangely, made her regret her lack of grace. Deputy Davies, it appeared, had a touch of tenderness in his heart, unlike his spittle-stained windbag of a partner.

“Did Mr. Rose have a will? Did he leave you enough money to get someone out here to help you with the chores?”

“I asked you not to talk about my husband as if he were dead and buried.”

“Fine,” said Luke, with a sigh. He started again. “Mrs. Rose, do you have the means to hire a ranch hand until your husband returns?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“I’m ... I’m ... just looking out for a citizen of Buffalo,” he stumbled. “Mr. Rose, I mean. I’m looking out for Mr. Rose.”

Lenora screwed up her face a little, puzzled.

“Mrs. Rose, if you were my wife, left here all alone on this ranch, and I was missing, I would hope someone would look out for the welfare of what's mine till I returned.”

Lenora did not respond other than to stare.

“Good neighbors do that,” Luke added, as if he needed to clarify himself.

Lenora’s heart softened a little. Perhaps Deputy Davies wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the crusty old coot.

“I don’t mean to belittle your abilities, ma’am. You and your husband have done a fine job of running this ranch. But you can’t take care of this place all by yourself.”

Deputy Davies was right about the urgency to hire a ranch hand. She had been putting off the hiring decision. How difficult it was, how weighed down this decision made her feel. How bizarre to even think of hiring someone to replace her James. Such a notion was sacrilegious. But James’ horse was now in the barn, and her beloved had not returned with it. She could procrastinate no longer. 

But that wasn’t all that bothered Lenora about Deputy Davies’ summary of her situation. The way he framed his explanation, portraying himself as her husband, if only to illustrate his thought, embarrassed her down to the tips of her toes. Deputy Davies was a nice looking man. He had kind eyes, a well-balanced face, and a charming way of speaking that made people trust him. But until he spoke about the two of them, together as man and wife as he had just done, she had not thought of him as anything but the big, slow talking deputy who asked lots of probing questions. But he was an eligible man, an attractive man. So flustered was she at the mental picture his words had created of them together that, for once, she found herself speechless.

Then, before she could untie her tongue, with icy clarity a new thought rose unbidden in her mind: Could it be that men from around the county
would hear of her husband’s “drowning” and consider her ... available?

“I have a little money in the house, but James keeps our accounts. I don't know what we have. I’ll go into town tomorrow and inquire at the bank.”

“Good.”

“Deputy Davies,” said Lenora.

“Ma’am?”

“My Sharps, please.”

“Come in, Mrs. Rose. How lovely you look today.”

Bank Manager Edwin Morehouse stood aside as Lenora stepped into his office and sat down on the closest of two visitors’ chairs. She hoped her awkwardness did not show. Banking was James’ purview. She had never before ventured into a bank, not even shiny new Wells Fargo Bank of Buffalo, a bonus for the West after the merger of the banking and overland mail systems years earlier. James had explained to her the significance of the merger to western ranchers, but she had not thought it important at the time. She arranged her navy blue barracan skirting evenly around the chair as she seated herself. The toes of her red silk, high-button shoes, the ones with the side bows, peeped daintily from underneath her hem.

“I thought you might be in to see me,” said the portly gentleman, seating himself behind a mammoth polished desk. “I asked the window clerk to inform me when you arrived.”

“Thank you,” said Lenora, embarrassed at the attention. She folded her gloved hands—red, to match her shoes—in her lap and sat rigid in the chair. Even though she had requested this meeting, she felt like a little girl again, called into her father’s office for her bad behavior. Mr. Morehouse was old enough to be her father. His perfectly groomed English mustache was entirely white.

“I’m sorry about your husband’s accident, Mrs. Rose. James was a good man. I’ll miss his visits to our establishment.”

So that’s how it was. Why did everyone assume James was dead? With a pang of guilt, Lenora knew why. She had not been exactly forthcoming when she was interrogated by the sheriff and Deputy Davies about the events that occurred immediately before James’ disappearance. James had good reason to leave her. She wondered if the weight of that secret would squeeze her chest with regret the rest of her life. If James decided to stay away forever, how would she survive each day without him?

“I appreciate your concern
, Mr. Morehouse. But my husband is missing, not dead. I see no reason to believe the worst until I have factual evidence to support that morbid conclusion.”

Mr. Morehouse blinked and looked stunned, but quickly recovered. “I understand that Sheriff Morris has a search party underway as we speak,” he said.

“That is true.”

“Then let us hope that Providence intervenes, for your sake.”

“That is how I pray, Mr. Morehouse.”

With the courtesies taken care of, Mr. Morehouse shifted in his chair and reached for a thick black ledger on his desk. Lenora expected him to open it and tell her how much money James had deposited into their savings account, but instead the imposing man leaned forward over the ledger and rested his folded hands on it. Through Mr. Morehouse’s open office door Lenora heard the sound of a newborn crying in the waiting area. Evidently its mother put something in its mouth to soothe it, likely a sugar-teat. The cries stopped with suddenness.

“I imagine, Mrs. Rose, that you came in today to learn about your account here with Wells Fargo.”

“Yes, I did. James normally handles these affairs.”

“Did your husband ever discuss your account with you, Mrs. Rose?”

“No, there has never been a need for that. James takes care of everything.”

“I see.”

Mr. Morehouse leaned back in his black leather chair and toyed with his fountain pen. Lenora
wondered why he was needlessly drawing out this conversation. She just wanted a number, that’s all, so she could make a wise decision about hiring a ranch hand. But Mr. Morehouse was a powerful man in Buffalo settlement and its surroundings, and she was intimidated by his presence. He and his large family lived in the grandest, most beautifully appointed house in town. Lenora had only seen from the street their lavish flower gardens ablaze with prairie hollyhock, wild yellow roses, pink peonies, and peach gaillardia. She had admired also their extra-large horse stable. She had heard that the Morehouses had dedicated an entire room of their home for use as a water closet. Even her family in New York, as comfortable as they were, didn’t enjoy such extravagance, though Lenora knew there were fine city homes nearby that did. Here in the untamed Territory a posh potty was unheard of. As she sat across the desk from this important man, especially without her husband to do the talking, Lenora felt very small indeed.

“Did James ever tell you how much money he deposited in your account?”

“No sir.”

“Have you thought about your future, Mrs. Rose, if the worst comes to pass?”

“I have thought about it.” Why was this man so inquisitive? Lenora was starting to get annoyed. She needed information, and she needed to get back to her ranch. Chores were waiting and the ride was long. She didn’t need a fatherly chat. She needed a number.

“Can your family help you in the interim?”

“They can, yes. But I have no interest in returning East, Mr. Morehouse. Wyoming Territory is my home now.” Unthinkable. Going back to New York without James, leaving their land behind. Abandoning their dream. God forbid.

“What are your plans if your husband does not return?”

“I can’t make plans until I know how much money is in our account, Mr. Morehouse.”

“Of course.” That seemed to wake up the banker. He opened the ledger and flipped through the pages. He ran his finger down a column and then stopped. “Your savings account shows a balance of just over three hundred dollars, Mrs. Rose. Three hundred twenty-two dollars and fifteen cents.”

Lenora’s heart sank. Three hundred twenty-two dollars. She had land. She was not poor. But three hundred dollars wouldn’t last long if she had to pay a ranch hand. Perhaps this is why James was dead set against hiring Sam Wright, the day laborer who was always pestering local ranchers for work. Lenora had asked James, begged him many times to hire someone to help him with the grinding chores of a growing cattle ranch. He resisted every time.

“We have just the one account, Mr. Morehouse?”

“Just the one.” Mr. Morehouse shut the ledger. “Of course, you’re not without options, Mrs. Rose.”

Options? Lenora felt a brief flutter of hope.

The banker stood up and walked around the corner of his desk. He dragged the remaining visitor’s chair closer to Lenora and sat down, easing his generous behind between the two arms, which creaked slightly as he moved. Through his large office window flanked by burgundy velour drapes fastened with gold cord, Lenora saw the twice weekly Wells Fargo stagecoach pull up noisily and stop in front of the bank. Idly she wondered if Mr. Morehouse’s office was situated where it was for that very view.

“Options such as what?”

Mr. Morehouse leaned forward a bit as if he had a secret to share. Lenora picked up the spicy scent of after-shave mingled with stale cigar.

“You can always sell your land. You own it free and clear. Or at least you will in less than two years, when you’ve fulfilled your homestead obligations.”

Lenora nodded sullenly. She may have been hazy about their financial accounts, but she knew very well the details of how they acquired their ranch. Free land had so excited her and James before they left New York, it was all they had talked about during their betrothal. It was all any young, adventurous eastern couple talked about in those long ago, carefree days.

“Your husband was a smart homesteader, Mrs. Rose. He chose one of the best parcels before they got all gobbled up by the big ranches. Having that North-East Creek run across your whole eastern edge—might as well be liquid gold flowing across your property.”

“You are right, Mr. Morehouse. My husband is a smart homesteader,” said Lenora, correcting his tense. “Too smart to sell.”

Mr. Morehouse flinched as if she’d spat on him. “I don’t mean to insult, Mrs. Rose.”

“Of course not.”

“But you will have to make some difficult choices by and by, if your husband does not return.”

Well that was true. But selling their homestead was not one of them.

“All of your wealth is tied up in that land. How else will you manage if you don’t sell?”

I have no idea
. Right now all she could think of was how much more bulbous Mr. Morehouse’s fleshy nose looked now that he was sitting directly across from her instead of behind his desk. And how tired she was of men in this town second-guessing her. And how she needed money to hire a ranch hand.

“We’ll see what the future brings,” she said, unsmiling. She stood up to leave.