Gabriel's Atonement (9 page)

“Perfect timing for us.” Gabe reached into his pocket, pulled out several bills, and handed them to Homer. “This is for you. Good job.” He counted out another hundred dollars. “Give this to Mr. Swanson, and tell him I'll give him the balance of what I owe as soon as I sell the other mounts next week.”

Homer nodded and shoved the bills in the pocket on the bib of his overalls. “You gonna play poker tonight?”

“Nah, don't think so.”

Homer gave him an odd look. “I am, though I've gotta call it an early night. Gotta ticket for a noon train back to Kansas City tomorrow.”

“Good. Timing is critical, so be sure you make that train—and see that you don't gamble with any of my money.” Gabe stared at Homer until he nodded. So far Homer had proven trustworthy, but one hundred dollars would tempt many men. “You know anyone else up there with horses for sale?”

Homer grinned, and his three chins melded into one. “Maybe. I could check with the liveries and ask Travis Martin and Jake Farley.”

Gabe nodded. “Do that, and find me a fast saddle horse that's gentle.”

Homer cast a sideways glance at him. “How come you need another horse?”

“That's my business.” Gabe pinned Homer with a stern stare.

Homer nodded and lumbered out of the depot.

Patting his pocket, Gabe headed toward his hotel room. He tipped his hat to a pair of women he passed on the boardwalk, and then his feet slowed as a man shoved open the doors to the Lucky Chance saloon and nearly collided with him. As the stranger scowled and sidled around Gabe without even an apology, the familiar scents of smoke and booze left in his wake taunted Gabe's senses. He never was a drinker, but that old pull to find a game of chance and double his money lured him just inside the saloon. He surveyed the smoke-filled building, listening to the masculine chatter and laughter. Since coming to Caldwell he hadn't once played cards or gambled. There was something wholesome and exciting about earning money in a legitimate, honest manner—and he liked it.

Yes sir, he enjoyed that good feeling warming his chest. He released the swinging door and continued down the boardwalk, ignoring the lure of the tinny-sounding piano and familiar scents.

The aromas emanating from Myrtle's Café, however, were too much to resist. Gabe entered the small restaurant, his stomach rumbling, and found a table looking out over the street. Every day, more and more people surged into town, hoping to participate in the land rush. As he'd been exercising Tempest, he'd discovered that just outside of Caldwell, for nearly as far as one could see, were tents, wagons, and families filled with hope and glimmering eyes.

All except for Lara Talbot. He watched her cross the street, coming almost straight toward him. Her head hung down, and when she glanced up, her eyes looked sad—desperate—like a man who'd gambled away his whole paycheck and had to go home and tell his wife.

Gabe wanted to call her in and have her eat until she filled out her skin. She was far too thin and seemed to be carrying a burden too heavy for her slight shoulders.

She'd made it clear, though, that she didn't welcome his advances. He watched her until she disappeared down the boardwalk. Why did she tug at his heartstrings so much?

A girl who looked to be fourteen or fifteen set a plate heaping with beef stew and corn bread in front of him. She batted her long lashes, and a coy smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Gabe knew that look. He nodded his thanks and turned his gaze away. Not interested.

The only woman to snag his attention lately was a grieving widow who couldn't care less about him.

As he scooped up a spoonful of steaming stew, he thought about the promise he'd made to his mother on her deathbed. At the time, he'd agreed to find a God-fearing woman to marry, simply to calm his mother. He'd never been a man to give his word lightly, but he couldn't help wondering how a professional gambler was supposed to find a Christian woman willing to marry him. Most churchgoing folks he recognized in KC shunned anybody who made a living in a saloon.

He buttered a thick square of corn bread and took a bite. His thoughts continued to travel back to Lara Talbot.

Why did he think of her when he thought of his promise?

Gabe shook his head. What a crazy idea!

The tantalizing aromas of cooking food made Lara's mouth water as she trudged down the steps of Pearl's Boardinghouse to the street. She hadn't placed much hope in getting rooms but figured it was worth a visit to check, in case Pearl might swap two rooms in exchange for her and Jo cooking and cleaning. But the boardinghouse was so full that extra people were sleeping on pallets in some rooms.

Lara was at her wit's end. Nobody had rooms for rent, no houses were available, and no one had land to lease, either. Their only option was to leave town and try to find something somewhere else. Grandpa should be resting, not worrying about packing up their meager belongs, and Jo would be devastated because all of her friends lived here. Lara had lost touch with her old school buddies because she was always working and didn't have time to attend quilting bees and other social functions. Nobody in Caldwell would miss her, except her mending clients, and even they would find someone to replace her easily enough.

She entered the mercantile and gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer lighting inside the building. The familiar scents of leather, coffee, spices, and the nearby pickle barrel gave the place a homey feel. Passing the counter, she went to the corner where the potbellied stove sat. On cold days, some of the older men in town gathered here to play checkers and gab, but on warm days they tended to congregate outside where the ever-present breeze could cool them. A section of the southern wall of the store was covered in cork, but the cork was concealed by a passel of notices and advertisements.

She quickly scanned the mostly hand-printed and few typeset ads, hoping to find one that offered them the possibility of a place to stay. Nothing. Her hope sagged, like the soddy roof after a heavy rain, but she must keep trying. She wanted to believe, wanted to hope, but with so many bad things coming, one after another, she found it difficult. Grandpa's stalwart faith and her family were the only things keeping her going these days.

“Thanks for bringing in that bucket of milk earlier. I already sold it.” Mary McMann, the store clerk, smiled. “You want cash for it, or do you plan to make purchases today?”

Lara returned the cheery woman's smile. “I'll use the credit now. I need a small bag of cornmeal, a half pound of coffee, and two pounds of flour.” As Mrs. McMann measured out the items, Lara counted the coins she'd made doing mending. She eyed the jars of penny candy on the shelves behind the counter, wishing she could purchase some for Michael and Jo.

“Just let me wash out your bucket, and you'll be all set.” Mary hurried into the back room, and Lara heard the door slam that led outside.

A few minutes later, she gathered the packages, put them in the bucket, and exited the store. For a fleeting moment, she wished she'd brought the wagon. Carrying a bucket of supplies wasn't as awkward as a pail of milk, but it was heavier, and she had to carry them over a mile. At least Jo had helped her lug the milk to town. With them both holding the end of an old broom handle, the bucket had swung gently between them. But Jo and the broom handle were no longer in sight. Her sister needed time with her friends on occasion, and Lara supposed Jo had gone visiting. Unlike Lara, Jo needed to be with other people to feel complete and content.

Lara smiled at the old men sitting in front of the store, not surprised to hear them still jawing on about the land run, then she glanced at the long line at the land office, wondering if all those people were registering. She passed by the chatty crowd and continued down Main Street. It was time to tell Grandpa the news about having to move. She couldn't do it yesterday, but today he was better, thanks to the quinine tablets. When she left for town he'd said that he and Michael were going fishing in hopes of catching something for their lunch.

As she neared the end of town, the sound of music from the church's pump organ drew her. She stopped beside an old oak tree and leaned against it, her eyes closed. The music ministered to her aching spirit as the words ran through her mind.
My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness
.

A sharp pang of guilt stabbed her as if her chest had been pierced by an Indian's arrow. When had she shifted to relying on herself and on Grandpa's faith instead of trusting in the Lord?

The song's refrain wove itself through her mind like the cool spring breeze fingering its way through her hair.
On Christ the solid Rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand
.

No wonder things had been so bad lately. She'd been trying to claw her way through the sinking sand, with each new problem pulling her down, deeper and deeper. Grandpa was right, but she'd been too stubborn, too set on making everything work out, that she'd stopped clinging to God. Her foundation had shifted from the solid Rock to quicksand.

Lara lifted her gaze heavenward, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Father. It's my nature to try to solve everyone's problems, but I can't do it all on my own. I'm so tired, Lord. I need Your help. We desperately need a place to live.”

She closed her eyes again and listened to the music, mixed with the chirps of birds singing and chattering in the branches above her and the distant murmur of countless people. For the first time in a long while she felt peaceful. She didn't have to carry her burden alone.

As the music transitioned into another song, Lara thought of all the work waiting for her at home. Behind her, she heard the thud of feet running on the hard ground.

“Come back here, boy!” a masculine voice shouted. “Stop!”

Her curiosity got the best of her, and she pushed away from the rough tree trunk and turned to her right, holding the heavy bucket in front of her with both hands.

“Look out!”

A lithe body slammed into the bucket, sending it flying out of Lara's hands. Shoved hard, she fell backward, grappling at the trunk as she tried to keep from falling. Her fingernails clawed the uneven bark, but she couldn't gain hold and fell to the ground. Pain radiated from her fingertips to her hip, which had landed hard on a gnarly root. The boy who'd knocked her down raced away without even a glance over his shoulder.

Footsteps hurried toward her, and then a shadow darkened the ground, just before Gabe Coulter stepped into view and knelt beside her. “Are you all right?”

Lara sucked in several deep breaths, trying to push the sharp burning sensation away. Lifting her hand, she stared at her bleeding fingertips. One nail was ripped almost in half, and she dreaded having to pull it off the rest of the way. Numb, she stared at the man who always seemed to appear at her side whenever she came to town.

“Mrs. Talbot, are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

“No, please. No doctor.” She couldn't afford the doctor, even if she may need his services. She had no way to pay for them.

“Here, let me help you up, if you're ready to rise.”

He reached his hand toward hers, and Lara grimaced. She didn't want to stick her dirty, callused palm in his neatly manicured hand, but with one hand injured, she had no other choice. She raised her arm, but he slipped around behind her, placed his hands on her waist, and gently lifted her. Lara held her breath against the pain swirling through her as she stood. She tested her limbs, relieved that other than her hand, she would probably only be bruised, thanks to the bulkiness of her skirt and petticoats, which had padded her fall. Mr. Coulter took her wounded hand by the wrist, and his mouth quirked.

“You need a doctor.”

“I need to get home.” Lara carefully extracted her hand from his, trying not to wince. She glanced on the ground for her bucket. “No—” Closing her mouth, she held back her angst at seeing her packages broken open and spilling onto the ground. Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away. She wouldn't cry in front of this man.

“This is all my fault.” He grabbed the bucket and sifted through her food supplies. With a semi-victorious smile, he held up the still-intact package of coffee. “Be happy for small victories.”

Lara nodded. She could have done without the coffee but not the flour and cornmeal. What would she feed her family all week? She held her injured fingers in front of her, cradling them in her other hand. At least the bucket wouldn't be so heavy now.

Mr. Coulter sorted through the flour and cornmeal then shook his head, his lips pursed. “Sorry, but these are ruined. I'll replace them for you after the doctor tends your hand.”

She shook her head. “That isn't necessary.”

He lifted his palm as if to halt her objections. “I insist. It's partially my fault that you were injured.” He looped the bucket over one arm then gently took hold of her elbow and steered her away from the church. “I was paying the clerk at the store for a purchase. The boy who knocked you down had been standing by the counter, looking as if he wanted to buy something. But the second I laid my money down, the kid grabbed it and tore out of the store at a dead run. So, you see this
is
my fault. If I hadn't chased him, he wouldn't have run into you and knocked you down.”