Prairie Fire (18 page)
“If you run into my man, tell him Bill Hermann’s lookin’ for him.”
“I’ll do that.” Through the window beside the mailboxes, Caitrin spotted Jack Cornwall dusting off his hands and starting for the mercantile.
“See, back around the end of the war, our bunch ran into a little unfortunate trouble,” Hermann continued. “Messy business.”
“What sort of trouble?” Caitrin asked, praying that Jack would change his mind and turn around.
“There was a lynchin’. Easton was the feller’s name. After that, the bunch split up for a while. Cornwall went back to his family, and we ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”
“Does … does the bunch want him back?” Caitrin’s heart slammed against her chest. Jack stopped to pat Stubby on the head as Chipper scampered up.
Go with Chipper,
she pleaded silently.
Go with your nephew.
Jack knelt to talk to the boy. Chipper pulled something out of his pocket and the two bent to examine it.
“Yeah, the bunch wants his help,” Hermann said. “See, most of ’em wound up in jail after the Easton troubles, but if Cornwall would testify that he was at the cabin that night and that none of the bunch was involved in the lynchin’, the fellers might get off scot-free. ’Course Cornwall doesn’t want to swear he was there for fear of gettin’ his own hide strung up on the hangin’ tree, and he’s been runnin’ ever since the trouble. Folks told me the Cornwall family had moved south, around Cape Girardeau. All I found out down there was that he’d gone to Kansas chasin’ some kid. I rode across the state line lookin’ for him, and folks said he’d come right here. To this town.”
Caitrin could hardly breathe. “Is that right? I’m a newcomer myself. Not long of County Cork, in Ireland.”
“You musta missed him. I hear he caused quite a ruckus—typical of Cornwall.” He laughed again. “And then he headed back to Missouri. I spent most of the winter searchin’ for him. But when I tracked him to the house where he kept his mama and his lunatic sister, the folks livin’ around the place told me he’d up and took ’em off to Kansas.”
Caitrin gulped as Jack stood and looked toward the mercantile door. “You’re very dedicated to your purpose.”
Bill Hermann stretched and twisted his bull neck, causing a series of crackling pops to echo through the mercantile. “I got motivation, ma’am,” he said, giving his knuckles a similar bone-crunching flex. “Cornwall’s testimony is the only thing that can get the bunch off the hook. The trial’s scheduled for a couple of months from now, and I gotta get Cornwall back to Missouri in time.”
He handed her a card. “This here’s the place to write if you hear of Jack Cornwall. You’ll let me know, won’t you, ma’am?”
“‘Bill Hermann,’” she read from the card.
“That’s me. Well, I hear the Manhattan coach pullin’ up. Gotta go.”
He started for the door just as Jack turned toward the smithy, putting his back to his former comrade. With the crazy notion that she could somehow protect Jack, Caitrin followed Bill Hermann out of the mercantile.
Dear God, don’t let the men see each other!
she pleaded.
Please, don’t let them see each other.
When she stepped into the frigid February air, she realized she had broken a sweat. Mr. Bridger, the mail carrier, heaved a sack of letters onto his coach as his passengers climbed aboard. The driver of the stage bound for Manhattan was just stepping down from his seat.
“I’m sorry, Miss Murphy, I won’t have time to stop today,” he called out to her. “I know you always want customers, but I’m runnin’ late.”
“That’s quite all right,” she said. “Bring me twice as many the next time, will you?”
She squeezed her hands together as Bill Hermann followed a couple of other passengers into the coach. The driver latched the door behind them. When the horses began to pull away again, Caitrin waved and gave the driver her brightest smile. Inwardly groaning, she brushed a tendril of damp hair from her forehead. If Hermann had seen Jack … remembering the man himself, she swung around toward the smithy. Chipper had just darted away with a wave of farewell.
Jack Cornwall straightened, caught sight of her, and grinned. “Well, well,” he said. “This day just got a lot brighter.”
Caitrin bit her lip to keep from bursting out with all the suppressed tension of the past few minutes. “Hello, Jack.”
“Looks like Chipper found the first tadpole of the year.”
“Bill Hermann was here,” she blurted, rushing toward him. “Oh, Jack, ’twas Bill Hermann himself, the man who’s been tracking you! He just rode away on the Manhattan stage. He knows you were in Hope last autumn. He’ll be back, I’m sure of it. And he says you were part of … part of a lynching.”
Jack crossed his arms over his vast chest. “Bill Hermann is lying.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Do I need to?”
“Hermann says you can testify on behalf of your bunch.”
“I’m not going to testify. I don’t have anything to tell a judge, because I wasn’t around at the time of the Easton troubles. I don’t know a thing about that lynching.”
“Why does Mr. Hermann believe you were there if you weren’t?”
“It was night. Dark.”
Caitrin looked away. “And you
were
one of his bunch?”
“Yep.” He took her shoulders and forced her to face him. “But I wasn’t there that night, Caitrin. I swear it.”
“Sure, you don’t need to swear such a thing to me. All I ask is that your words be true.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I had gone to Sedalia that day. You can ask Lucy. We were together the whole time.”
“Then Lucy can testify for you!”
“No.” Jack shook his head. “She can’t. She won’t.”
“But why not? Aye, the judge must listen to her words.”
“I’d never ask Lucy to stand up for me.” Jack raked a hand through his brown hair. “Look, let me handle this, would you, Caitrin? It’s my problem. I can take care of Bill Hermann and the old bunch. I’ve put my past behind me, and I’m facing the future. I’m not afraid.”
“You may have put your past behind you, but obviously your cronies haven’t. Many of them are biding time in jail until their trial. They’ll have plenty of good reasons to toss the past straight into your face … and Bill Hermann is their ringleader.”
“Let it go, Caitrin. You’ll never fix this one.”
“What am I to do then?” She could hear the intensity in her voice, the edge of frustration knifing through her words. “Yesterday, you risked your position here in Hope by kissing me in full view … and it was all I could do to fall asleep last night for thinking of that kiss. Am I to be swept off by you, then, Mr. Cornwall? Is my heart to be placed in your hands? Is my very soul to be meshed with yours—only to have you ripped away by some demon from your past? And you ask me to stand by and do nothing! You promise you won’t abandon me—yet I can almost see them coming now to drag you away. Am I to sit idly and watch?”
Jack enunciated each word slowly, “You
can’t
fix this one, Caitrin. Leave it alone.”
“Then you must fix it. You must help Lucy to write a letter to the authorities in Missouri.”
“Never.”
“Why not? She would do it for you.”
The muscle in Jack’s jaw flickered. “I won’t ask her, Caitrin. Neither will you, and I’m counting on you to abide by my request.
Do you understand?”
Caitrin lifted her chin. “Then do not expect me to allow you any further liberties with my affections, Mr. Cornwall. If you refuse to defend yourself and you will not permit me to help you, then I want nothing to do with you.”
“Aw, Caitrin.” Jack took her arm and pulled her close. “Get off your high horse, woman.”
She trembled as his hand slid down her arm. “Jack, I cannot bear this. ’Tis bad enough that I must listen to the people here drag your family’s reputation through the mud. I can’t imagine you will ever win their hearts. But the thought that this man from your bunch—”
“It happened a long time ago, Caitrin. Almost a year. I’ve changed.”
“Have you?” She rested her cheek against his chest. “I fear I’m a terrible weakling, Jack, unable to bear the pain of another loss. If you are genuinely innocent, prove it. Rid yourself of this millstone around your neck.”
“When the time comes, Cait, I’ll do that.” He kissed her forehead. “But I have to walk this new life step-by-step. I can’t alter the past. I can’t fix up the whole world. And neither can you. I know I’m precious to God, remember? If I put this in his hands—”
“Caitrin Murphy!” Sheena squawked, racing toward the couple. “By all the goats in Kerry, Sister, what are you doing? Get away from her, Cornish devil!”
“Oh no, it’s the deadly basket again,” Jack cried out, raising his arms in mock defense against Sheena’s swinging workbasket.
“Get away from my sister!” The puffing woman clobbered him across the chest. “See to the children, Caitie!”
Caitrin gaped as Erinn and Colleen came to a stop just behind Sheena. At the sight of their mother whapping the brawny man, Colleen popped her thumb into her mouth, and Erinn blinked in shock. Crouching beside the girls, Caitrin threw her arms around them.
“Is that Mr. Cornwall?” Erinn asked.
“Aye, and you mustn’t be afraid of him. He’s a very nice man, so he is. A good man.”
“Then why is Mama hitting him?”
“Because he’s … he’s Cornish.”
At that moment another stage rolled across the bridge and came to a stop in front of the mercantile. A fresh load of customers clambered out of their tight quarters. Caitrin sucked down a breath and turned to greet them. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she called over the hubbub of her sister’s drubbing. “Welcome to Hope. Won’t you go inside and have a look around the mercantile?”
Dumbfounded at the sight before them, the visitors clustered together, wives clutching their husbands’ arms. Caitrin turned to Sheena and attempted to grab the flailing basket. “Please, Sheena!” she hissed. “Please stop!”
“He’s a villain, a very demon!” Sheena stood back, panting for breath. “A kidnapper!”
The crowd in front of the store broke into murmurs of surprise.
“This man is an attempted murderer!” Sheena cried in triumph, presenting her enemy to the gasping bystanders. “And now I have caught him in the very act of seducing my sister!”
“Listen here, feller!” The stagecoach driver pulled a pistol from the holster at his waist. “I don’t know what you done to upset Miss Murphy’s sister, but you better put your hands in the air and walk over here nice and slow.”
“This is ridiculous,” Caitrin said, stepping in front of the gun. “Mr. Cornwall is an upstanding citizen of Hope.”
“I’ll defend myself, Miss Murphy.” Jack edged her to the side, his hands held well away from his body. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m the town blacksmith. Mrs. O’Toole and her people have a little running feud with my kinfolk back in the old country, but you have no need to be alarmed. If you’ll just step into the mercantile, I’ll head over to the smithy and get back to my work.”
The stagecoach driver glanced at Caitrin, then at Sheena. “Shall I let him go?”
“No,” Sheena said.
“Aye,” Caitrin overruled. “Of course, you must let him go. Good day, Mr. Cornwall.”
“He was here to woo you, wasn’t he, Caitie?” Sheena queried as Jack stood his ground. “Ooh, to think that my own sister … my beloved little Caitrin would—”
“I’ve done
nothing
wrong, Sheena.” Caitrin didn’t know whether to rush to her sister’s comfort, try to ease her customers’ trepidations, or run away with Jack Cornwall and never look back.
“Sheena, please—ladies and gentlemen, do go inside and look around. We’ve plenty of freshly baked bread, and I received a parcel of bright new fabrics just yesterday.”
“I hear Mrs. O’Toole’s pickles are the pride and joy of Hope,”
Jack said, addressing the nearest woman. “Fact is, folks come from miles around just to taste them.”
“Indeed,” Caitrin said, encouraged by the flush of pink in her sister’s cheeks. “Only moments ago, the Topeka mail-coach driver bought three whole pickles. Two for his family and one to eat on the way home. He’s predicting a rush of orders from the city.”
“Pickles?” A thin man took off his hat and stepped forward. “Dill pickles?” The stagecoach driver lowered his pistol. At that moment Felicity Cornwall raced up from the camp beside the Bluestem. Waving her arms over her head, she gave a wild shriek and headed for Jack. Women gasped. Men grabbed for their children. The driver accidentally discharged a shot into the ground.
“Jack, come quickly!” Felicity cried. “It’s Lucy. She’s drowning in the creek!”
L
ET’S GET out of this town,” a customer called as Jack pushed through the crowd and sprinted toward the creek with Felicity following right behind. “These folks is crazy!”
“No, wait!” Caitrin held out her arms, but it was too late. Even the driver fled toward the stagecoach without a backward look. Swinging around, she grabbed Sheena’s arm. “I must go with them to Lucy!”
“Caitie, this is not your business,” Sheena insisted, clutching at her sister’s hands. “Stay here and mind the mercantile. Let the Cornwalls tend to their own.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Caitrin pulled back in disbelief. “Would you have the poor woman drown?”
“I would have you know your place, Sister!” Sheena’s green eyes crackled. “Sure, you must choose between them and us, Caitie. You know we’ll never permit that Cornish devil to become one of us. If you keep on championing him, letting yourself be duped by his charms, stumbling into his traps, we’ll have no choice but to disown you. Please, Caitie, come into the mercantile with us now. Help Erinn and Colleen choose peppermint sticks and lemon drops to take to the boys.”
Caitrin glanced at the little girls whose bright eyes stared in confusion. “Erinn, Colleen,” she said softly, “Jesus commanded us to serve those less fortunate, did he not? Poor Miss Lucy, who cannot seem to find any joy in life, is certainly less fortunate than we. And that is why I must go to the creek and try to be of some service to her.” She caught both her sister’s hands. “You must understand, Sheena. Please, understand.”
Without waiting for a response, Caitrin raced past the smithy toward Bluestem Creek. Lucy was nowhere in sight.
