Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (11 page)

“Awhile.”

Sam scratched a match against the porch post, cupped his hands about the flame and touched it to the end of the cigarette. He looked at Charlie Rivers over his cupped hands and tried to decide what part of the country he was from. His manner of speaking was not distinctly southern, and yet. . . . His beard was neatly clipped, his hair cut, his clothes of good quality and clean. He wore some type of signet ring on his right hand. Charlie Rivers, Sam decided, was an educated man who had adapted to the pioneer life rather well. Why would such a man come to the wild, untamed land of Wyoming Territory?

“Are ya from Ohio?” Sam asked after a long pause.

“No.”

“I’m from Texas.”

“I thought so.”

“What made ya think I’m a Texan?”

“Tied-down gun, high-crowned hat, boots with a star on the side.”

“You don’t miss much.”

“It didn’t take many brains to figure that out.”

They both turned to watch Miss Rivers come from the side of the house and go to the kettle. She carefully reached for the paddle. Charlie got up, went to the fire, and with his peg kicked the burning sticks beneath the pot. He came back and stood in front of Sam.

“Did they strip Pack?”

“They left him his shirt and pants, but they didn’t amount to much after they dragged him.”

“The bastards!” Charlie swore.

“It took a bunch of them. Gallagher wouldn’t be easy to take down.”

“Cowards travel in packs.” Charlie’s tone was bitter.

“So they do.”

“I’ll get the clothes.” Charlie swung onto the porch by holding the post and went into the house.

Sam sat quietly, finished his smoke, and ground the butt beneath his boot heel. He could hear the thump, thump of the peg on the wooden floor inside the house as Charlie moved about. He watched the woman stirring the soap. She was not completely blind, he decided, when he saw her lift the end of the paddle and bring it up to within a few inches of her eyes and peer at it. And she had found her way to the house and back again to the pot.

He would like to hear the woman sing again, but he instinctively knew that she wouldn’t as long as he was there. He turned his head slightly to look beyond her to the edge of the thick stand of trees where he had come out of the woods. His eyes moved back to her and at that instant a puff of wind blew her dress over the fire. A small ribbon of flame danced along the hem of her skirt and then spiraled upward.

Sam leaped to his feet, his long legs carrying him across the yard. The woman suddenly realized what had happened and screamed. In a state of panic, she began to run.

“Don’t run,” Sam shouted.

He sprinted after her, grabbed her about the waist and threw her to the ground. They both hit hard. The woman screamed again. Sam grabbed at the burning cloth, trying to smother it, trying to beat it out with his bare hands. They rolled. The woman continued to scream. Sam had to contend with her flailing arms and legs as he fought to put out the fire.

The sound of a shot echoed in Sam’s head. Smoke from the burning cloth went up his nostrils. Suddenly the flames were gone. He found himself lying on top the woman, his head even with her knees, hands enfolded in what remained of her skirt.

“Get up you son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you! Goddamn your rotten soul!”

Sam rolled off the thrashing woman and onto his back. He looked up into the barrel of the shotgun and saw Charlie Rivers bending over him. The man jabbed at his chest with the barrel and Sam realized Rivers thought he had attacked his sister!

“Look at her, goddamn you!”

Charlie pushed the barrel harder against Sam’s chest, then glanced at the woman on the ground. He withdrew the gun, dropped it, and squatted down beside her.

“Sister! Oh, my God!” He pulled his sister up into his arms. “Are you all right?”

Emily Rivers clung to her brother. “Yes . . . yes, Charlie. Don’t worry.” She was breathless and spoke between gasps.

Charlie ran his hand down over the burned cloth of her skirt. Charred pieces of cloth came off in his hand. Her legs were only slightly red from the burns.

“Oh God, Emily!” He hugged her to him. “That’s the last time you’ll be around that damn boil pot!”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve got to wash clothes—”

“You’ll wear a pair of my britches, by damn!”

Sam sat up and looked at the palms of his hands. At first he had not felt pain, but now it was making itself known. He was conscious that Charlie Rivers had turned to look at him and he turned his palms down.

“Are you burned?”

“Not much.” Keeping his fingers curled over his throbbing palms, Sam put his forearm on the ground to help himself get to his feet.

Charlie stood and extended a hand to his sister. “I owe you a hell of a lot, mister.”

“Ya don’t owe me a goddamn thin’!” The pain in Sam’s hands caused him to speak sharply.

“You burned your hands!” Charlie grabbed Sam’s wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and turned his palm up. “Good God, man! Blisters are already coming up.”

Sam watched the woman’s head turn toward him. “Oh, my!” Emily gasped. “Are the burns bad, Charlie?” Then she looked at him with her great, light blue eyes for so long that Sam began to think she could see him.

“His palms are blistering.”

“My aloe plant! The juice will take out the sting.”

“What about yoreself, ma’am? Are ya burned?” His eyes roamed her face, and the strange feeling he had felt when he heard her sing stirred in him again.

“My legs are stinging, but it’s not bad. I don’t know how to thank you. I shouldn’t have run. Charlie has always told me that in case of a fire, I should lie down and roll. I was so scared that I didn’t think.”

“I’m glad I was handy.”

“Thank God Mr. Sparks was here. I couldn’t have caught you, Emily, even if I had been here.”

“I know, Brother.” She placed her hand against his face. “Don’t worry. It’s over. I’ll be more careful from now on. Now we’ve got to tend to Mr. Sparks’ hands. Will you lift the kettle away from the fire, please, Charlie? The soap is ready to be poured into the trough and salt added to harden it.” She appeared calm, as if nothing had happened. “I was going to put in some of that honey we didn’t use up last winter. Oh, well, I’ll make another smaller batch of bath soap later on.”

In spite of the pain in his hands, Sam’s eyes couldn’t leave Emily’s face. She was not completely blind, but terribly nearsighted. Her eyes were large and light blue, surrounded by long, curly brown lashes. She was not a tall woman. Her head came to just above his shoulder, but she gave the impression of being tall because she stood so straight, her shoulders back, head up. Sam had seen many women who were more beautiful than this one. But Emily Rivers was beautiful in a completely unaffected way: natural, sweet and caring. When she spoke to her brother who was at least ten years her senior, there was love and respect in her voice.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Sparks, that I misunderstood what was happening,” Charlie said on the way to the house.

“No offense taken.”

“If not for being afraid I would hit Emily, I would have killed you,” he admitted with a tremor in his voice.

“Well now, I’m sure glad ya was afraid of hittin’ your sister. I’m not wantin’ to die for somethin’ I didn’t do.”

The house was one large room with a door opening into a lean-to attached to the side. As they passed, Sam saw a neatly made bed and clothes hanging from pegs in the wall. An open stairway with a hand rail went to the loft. Comfortable chairs sat on either side of the fireplace with an oval braided rug between. The house was homey and well-furnished.

Emily indicated that Sam was to sit down at a round table. She immediately lifted a lid on the black iron cookstove and set the kettle directly over the blaze. The bottom of her skirt had burned and a good six inches of her leg showed above her laced, black leather shoes. Charlie caught Sam’s glance.

“Go change your dress, Emily. I’ll get a pan of cold water and Mr. Sparks can soak his hands. Then you can apply that sticky stuff from the plant.”

The cold water felt soothing to Sam’s palms. He flexed his right hand, looking closely at the blister rising on his forefinger, and hoped he’d not be forced to draw his gun any time soon. Charlie watched him from across the table with eyes a shade darker than his sister’s.

“Are you a gunman, Mr. Sparks?”

For an endless moment Sam stared at the flint-eyed man, then he shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I don’t call myself that. And call me Sam.”

“This little episode doesn’t make us bosom friends, Mr. Sparks.” Charlie’s eyes were as cold as steel.

“If that’s the way ya want it, it’s all right with me,
Mr. Rivers.
”

“Charlie.” Emily had come down from the loft and her chiding voice came from behind the men. “Mr. Sparks is a friend of Pack’s, and now our friend as well. Pack wouldn’t have sent a man here if he didn’t think he was worthy of our friendship.” Sam could tell by the sound of her steps that she had changed into soft moccasins.

“Friendship? We know nothing about him, Sister. How are your burns?”

“Not bad, thanks to our new friend who burned his hands saving me when I was foolish enough to panic and run. I do thank you, Sam.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Rivers. I should’ve noticed when the wind started blowin’ the flame your way.”

“Charlie is used to my blindness; you are not,” she said gently. “Now I must see about your burns.” She placed a stack of white strips of cloth on the table, handed Sam a clean towel to blot his hands and took the pan of water to the work counter.

Emily held his hand up to within a few inches of her face so she could see it clearly and clicked her tongue sorrowfully. Gently she applied the sticky substance from inside the spears of the aloe plant. Aloe grew in Texas, but the Rivers were not Texans. The puzzle of who they were became more complicated. Sam looked above the head bent over his hands. A bookcase on an inner wall held at least a hundred volumes. These were more books than he had ever seen at one time except when he was in the home of General Robert E. Lee shortly before the war ended.

The intense way that Charlie watched while his sister tended to his hands nipped at Sam’s temper. Occasionally, when, with a flick of his lashes, his eyes skimmed over Emily’s suntanned face and slender body, he was aware that Charlie had caught the look. Hell! What did the man expect him to do, shut his eyes?

Emily insisted that Sam stay for the noon meal. Charlie invited him to sit on the porch while she prepared it. Sam smoked and watched Charlie strain the soap in the kettle into a flat wooden box. When Emily called them to dinner, Sam left his hat on the porch and tried to smooth his unruly hair down with his bandaged palms.

They ate freshly baked bread, spring greens and venison steaks on a cloth-covered table set with good china and silver. Charlie bowed his head and prayed aloud before the food was passed. The table manners and the polite way the food was served confirmed Sam’s previous belief that the Rivers were not the usual type of people who pulled up and moved west to settle on new land. Sam ate clumsily with his bandaged hand and prayed he’d not spill anything on the tablecloth.

Both of the Rivers were hungry for conversation once the tension was broken. Emily’s acceptance of Sam seemed to rub off on her brother after awhile. They spoke of their friendship with Pack Gallagher and said that he sometimes left some of his belongings with them when he was going to visit his mother. They seemed to be fond of him, and Sam wondered if there was something more than friendship between Pack and Emily. They talked of Brita McCall and the kindly care given to her by one of her twins. Emily spoke of the winters when they were snowed in and laughed when she said that by spring Charlie was so sick of her company he was ready to pull his hair out. The Rivers wanted news from Laramie and Cheyenne, but they gave out no information about themselves.

When Sam was ready to leave, Charlie hung a bag containing Pack’s clothes and boots over the saddlehorn.

“Tell Pack that gray devil was on his way back here when I run into him. I’ll bring him over in a day or so. He’s a frisky son of a gun, Sparks. I’m not sure you’d be able to hold him with those hands.” Charlie stood beside the horse while Sam mounted. “I want you to know that I’m in your debt for what you did for Emily. It was fast thinking, and I do thank you for it.”

“As I said, ya don’t owe me a thin’,” Sam said gruffly to cover his embarrassment. “I wasn’t there when my sister needed help. I was off fightin’ somebody’s damn war. I’m glad I was around to help yours.”

“I thank you anyway, Sam,” Charlie said. “I’d like to shake hands . . . someday.”

“Consider it done.”

Emily walked up to the horse and held up a spear she had cut from the aloe plant. Sam placed it cut end up in his shirt pocket.

“Split it and rub the sticky juice on the burns,” she instructed.

“Thank ya, Miss Rivers.” Sam didn’t mention that for as long as he could remember his family had used the plant for burns, insect bites, and rashes.

“When you’re this way again, stop by for a meal.” She voiced the invitation with a soft smile on her face.

Sam looked into her eyes and felt as if he were in another world. “I’ll do that, ma’am.” He spoke gruffly in an effort to bring himself back to reality.

Sam tipped his hat and turned the horse toward the trees. For some unknown reason he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to turn and look at the woman standing in the yard beside the man with the peg leg. He couldn’t resist, even knowing her brother might make something of it. He pulled the horse to a stop, spun him around and looked back. She clung to the porch post, the skirt of her blue dress pushed back against her legs by the wind. Sam raised his hand in farewell. Only Charlie lifted his hand in response. Emily wouldn’t know that he had waved unless Charlie told her. Sam rode on, disgusted with himself for being disappointed.

During the ride back to McCall’s, Sam’s mind was troubled. He had spent several pleasant hours with the Rivers. He liked them, liked both of them, and he hoped to hell Charlie Rivers was not the man he was looking for.