Margaret Brownley (6 page)

It was hard to tell by Jenny’s demeanor whether Appleby calmed her fears.

Staring at the cloud of dust in the posse’s wake, Lucy didn’t hold much hope they’d meet with success. The marshal was more than competent, of course, but the gang he’d hastily put together left much to be desired. She kept her thoughts to herself, but if she were a betting woman, she’d place her money on the highwaymen.

The next day was the grand opening of Jenny Armstrong’s new store and Lucy had agreed to photograph the event. Though she’d been in Rocky Creek for less than a year, the marshal’s wife had done much to improve the town’s cultural life. Her husband, however, put his foot down when she suggested converting one of the jail cells into a lending library.

Jenny’s Ladies Emporium was already packed with curious onlookers by the time Lucy lugged her equipment through the narrow aisles. She was amazed what Jenny had done to the place. When the owner of The Gold Coin saloon had closed its doors and retired after his wife joined the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, Jenny got to work. She approached Lee Wong and talked him into taking over one half of the building for his laundry while she took over the other half. It was hard to believe that a very short time ago this was one of Rocky Creek’s wildest saloons.

Lucy set her tripod and camera on a counter and looked around. Never had she seen such finery except among the pages of
Harper’s Bazar
.

Several members of the Rocky Creek Quilting Bee stood in a circle oohing and ahhing at the display of silk camisoles, drawers, corsets, and petticoats.

The preacher’s wife suddenly laughed out loud. Never one to follow conventional fashion, Sarah Wells wore a plain blue dress, old red boots, and a black felt hat. Though the current style called for hair to be pinned back with fringe bangs, Sarah’s bright red hair fell down her back in blatant disregard for fashion and propriety.

“There ain’t no end to what a woman can stuff under her skirts, is there?” Sarah asked, shaking her head. Out of respect for her preacher husband, Sarah tried to watch her grammar, but sometimes her tongue raced ahead of her good intentions.

“Oh, look at this,” Emma Hogg squealed. The usually conservatively dressed spinster pranced in front of the others wearing an outlandish hat and twirling a lace parasol. The other ladies giggled like schoolgirls.

“All you need are these,” Jenny’s sister Mary Lou called out. She tossed a package over the heads of the others and into Emma’s outstretched hand.

It was a package of Zephyr bosom enhancers. Emma blushed and the others roared with laughter.

“That will make Redd notice you,” Mary Lou said. Everyone in town knew that Emma had her sights set on Redd Reeder, the owner of the Rocky Creek Café.

Frowning at her younger sister, Jenny took the offending package away from Emma and hid it behind the counter. “Mary Lou, I swear, you’ll be the death of me yet.”

Lucy laughed. Not even marriage to that handsome mill worker had cured Mary Lou of her scandalous conduct. Nor had her “delicate” condition curbed her preference for low necklines.

Conversation soon turned to the attempted stagecoach robbery.

“Oh, do tell us all about it,” Mrs. Hitchcock pleaded, the feathers on her tall hat bopping up and down. “Do tell, do tell.” The woman had the annoying habit of repeating herself.

Not wanting to put a damper on Jenny’s opening day, Lucy told them about the robbery as quickly as she could, leaving out the part about the rumored wild man.

She was relieved when Jenny clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention away from the robbery. “Ladies, ladies. I want to welcome you all to my new shop. As you can see, I have the latest fashionable accessories.” She held up a pair of silk drawers. “Enjoy your freedom while you can, as I have it on the best authority that bustles are coming back.”

A collective groan followed her announcement.

While Jenny pointed out the wide selection of ladies’ undergarments and accessories, Lucy set up her camera.

Sarah Wells sidled up to her. She had caused quite a bit of controversy a few years back when she married the pastor of the Rocky Creek Church. She still made tongues wag on a regular basis with her unorthodox behavior, but Lucy liked her and considered her a friend.

“Sounds like you gave those outlaws more trouble than a rattler in a bedroll,” Sarah said in a hushed voice.

Lucy smiled. “They gave me a bit of trouble too,” she admitted. She’d hardly slept a wink since her ordeal two days ago.

Sarah’s expression grew still and Lucy could guess what was on her mind.

Sarah’s three brothers were known as the Prescott Gang. Two brothers had gone straight and one brother had even managed to pay back most of the money stolen over the years, but Sarah hadn’t heard from her oldest brother George. Having no knowledge of his whereabouts, Sarah worried that he might have resumed his outlaw ways.

“Did . . . did you get a good look at them?” Sarah asked.

“There were three of them,” Lucy said. “They had kerchiefs over their faces.” She hoped that would be the end of the conversation but Sarah showed no sign of relenting.

“How tall were they?”

“Tall?” Lucy’s mind raced. If Sarah knew that at least two of the robbers were tall enough to be George Prescott as described on his wanted posters, it would only worry her.

“Uh, I don’t think any of them were more than . . . short.”
God, forgive me
. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Next to the wild man, the outlaws could be described as downright, “Scrawny.”

Sarah blinked. “Scrawny?” She closed her eyes with a sigh. “Praise the Lord.”

Lucy patted her on the arm. “You don’t think your brother George is still robbing stages, do you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he can change without God’s help, and he can be stubborn as a cross-eyed mule.” Sarah’s worried expression turned to anger. “George ain’t one to ask for help unless someone’s pointin’ a gun at him.”

“I’m sure God can arrange that,” Lucy said.

Her comment brought a smile to Sarah’s face. “Now you sound like my husband.” She lowered her voice. “Though not nearly as long-winded.” She gave an unladylike wink. Reverend Wells tended to get carried away with some of his sermons.

“I know someone who may disagree with you,” Lucy said, wishing she knew the stranger’s name. Why, oh why hadn’t she thought to ask him?

“Lucy, we’re ready for our picture,” Jenny called from the back of the shop.

“I’m ready too,” Lucy replied, though she had no idea how she would fit everyone into a single photograph.

Sarah hung back. “It don’t much matter if it’s a camera or a gun. I’m not much for standin’ still when someone’s shootin’ at me.”

“I promise you, I’ll make it as painless as possible.” Lucy squeezed Sarah’s arm. “I’ll also keep praying that your brother finds the Lord.”

Sarah squeezed her hand back and then hurried to pose with the others.

Lucy peered through the viewfinder. The light was poor, giving her no choice but to use her magnesium flashlamp. She wasn’t fond of using it in such close quarters as it could cause a fire. “Step back,” she called, and the wall of bodies moved back en masse. “Move closer together . . . that’s better.” Except that Mrs. Hitchcock’s hat hid half of the women’s faces.

“Mrs. Hitchcock, I need you to switch with Brenda.”

She waited while the two women traded places. Now everyone was in the picture, which might not be a good thing. Half the women looked as if they were sitting on a cactus and the other half, a deathbed.

“Relax,” Lucy called. “That’s the only way a camera will do you justice.”

Mrs. Taylor sniffed. “I don’t want the camera to do me justice. I want it to show mercy.”

Mrs. Hitchcock tittered, which made her hat flop down over her brow.

Lucy waited patiently while Mrs. Hitchcock adjusted her hat. By that time, most of their smiles had turned into frowns.

“Say Rocky Creek backward,” Lucy said.

“Yocr Keerk,” Mrs. Taylor said

Mrs. Hitchcock made a sound of disgust. “That’s not how you say it. The creek part has to come first or it’s not backward.” She then gave her interpretation, which immediately brought a clamor of disapproval from the others.

“You both have it wrong,” Miss Hogg announced. “It’s Keekykrock.”

“No, no, no,” Jenny’s sister Brenda said. “It’s not that at all. It’s . . .”

While the women argued among themselves, they completely forgot the camera. Lucy fired the magnesium powder, producing a bright flash of light and much smoke and ash, but she got her photograph. Not a great one by any means, but it would have to do.

No sooner had Lucy declared success than Mrs. Hitchcock knocked against a shelf on the back wall. Boxes filled with hats, gloves, and all manner of female unmentionables toppled to the floor. A mad scramble was accompanied by squeals of laughter, but somehow amid the confusion Emma Hogg ended up sprawled facedown on the floor.

Jenny screeched in horror. “Miss Hogg!”

At the sound of her name, Emma Hogg looked up from beneath a satin chemise and giggled. Turning her head this way and that as if posing for
Harper’s Bazar
, the usually staid spinster showed a side of her personality Lucy had never before witnessed. Emma’s usual pale skin was flushed a pretty rosy color and her eyes sparkled. Everyone laughed and clapped.

Smiling, Lucy quickly inserted a new plate into her camera, fired her flashlamp, and snapped a photograph of Miss Hogg’s beaming face. For a moment no one could see for all the smoke.

Then Mrs. Hitchcock suddenly pointed her finger and screamed, “Fire, fire, pants on fire!”

All heads swiveled toward a display of undergarments that had burst into flames.

Six

Allow yourself to be photographed with politicians, lawyers, or other
scoundrels only under threat of death or other dire emergencies.

—M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

F
ortunately the women were able to put out the flames before too much damage was done, but Lucy felt terrible. She should never have used her flashlamp in such close quarters.

“I’ll pay for the damage,” she said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jenny replied, sweeping up the ashes.

Mary Lou held up a pair of charred bloomers. “Just think. You’re probably the only shop owner who held a fire sale on opening day.”

After all the excitement had died down, Lucy gathered up her equipment and left.

Outside she spotted Doc Myers’s horse and buggy parked in front of Barrel’s barbershop. She carefully placed her camera equipment in the back of her wagon. Then, sidestepping a puddle left by the street sprinkler, she walked past the horses tied to a hitching post. Now was as good a time as any to speak to him about her brother. Maybe that would make up to Caleb for dissuading him from joining the posse.

Lucy liked the doctor, but she was sorely tempted to take him by the shoulders and shake him. Her friend Monica had carried a torch for Doc Myers for as long as Lucy could remember, but nothing had ever come of it. As far as she knew, the good doctor didn’t even know Monica existed. The man was clearly a fool. Years earlier his wife had left him, taking their two children with her. No one knew why she left the kindhearted doctor, though there was speculation about her running off with a tinware peddler.

Over time, the doctor had become a mere shadow of a man. He took care of his patients but otherwise kept to himself. Living alone in a two-story house outside of town, he made his rounds by day and ventured out in the thick of night on occasion to deliver a baby or tend to a medical emergency. He never attended worship, never so much as stepped foot inside the church as far as Lucy knew, though Reverend Justin Wells did everything possible to persuade him to attend.

Why couldn’t the doctor forget his long lost love? Monica, the schoolteacher, had so much to offer him.

Lucy pushed her thoughts away. The doctor’s personal affairs were none of her business. If he wanted to pine over his deserting wife, nothing could be done about it.

Now the doctor walked out of the barbershop wearing tweed trousers with a matching waistcoat and smelling of soap. His hair was brown but his muttonchop sideburns were flecked with gray.