Summer Breeze (3 page)

Impatient to be going, Joseph shifted his weight from one boot to the other. "Is there anything I can do to help you get ready, Doc?"

"You can hook my horse up to the buggy. He's around back. "

"It'll be quicker if you ride double with me. "

"Never ride astride. Bad case of lumbago. "

"But Darby's in a real bad way. Every minute counts. "

"If you got the bleeding stopped and the slug hit nothing vital, he'll hang on until we reach him. If not—" Doc sighed and rummaged through another collection of vials until he located one that held something blackish-red. "Well, suffice it to say I'm no miracle worker. Last time I walked on water was when I got drunk in Dodge City and pissed my pants. "

Joseph was in no mood for jokes. "I was hoping—" He broke off, not entirely sure now what he'd been hoping. He only knew that arguing about Doc's choice of transportation would waste precious time. "I'll go hook up your buggy and bring it around front, then. "

"Fine, " Doc muttered as he pawed through his bag. "Just fine. I'll meet you on the boardwalk. "

Confident that he could overtake Doc's buggy in no time, Joseph loped up the street to the marshal's office before leaving town. He found his brother, David, kicked back in his chair, his dusty calfskin boots crossed at the ankle and propped on the edge of his desk, his brown Stetson tipped forward over his eyes.

Joseph slammed the door closed with a sharp report that shook the wall. With lazy nonchalance, David nudged up the brim of his hat to pin Joseph with an alert, sky blue gaze.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked. "I thought you'd given up Friday night gaming until calving seasons ends. "

"You see any cards in my hand?" Joseph crossed the bare plank floor. A wanted poster lay faceup on the desk blotter, sporting the sketch of a bearded, craggy-faced stagecoach robber. "I've got a situation out at my place. Darby McClintoch has been shot in the back. "

David sighed. "Well, that puts an end to my nap, I reckon. "

He flexed his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck as he dropped his feet to the floor and sat forward on the chair. His starched blue shirt fit snugly over his well-muscled shoulders, crisp creases marking the fold of each sleeve clear to the cuff. The shine of his freshly shaven jaw rivaled that of the badge pinned to his left breast pocket.

"How bad is the old fellow hurt?"

"It's bad, " Joseph replied. "Doc's on his way out there now. I thought you might like to be there, just in case Darby comes around again. Maybe he can shed more light on what happened. Might be that he took a stray bullet. Some folks are running low on meat at this time of year, and a few men may be out hunting. "

David slipped into his lined sheepskin jacket and then stepped over to lift his Henry from the rifle rack. "Did Darby tell you anything?"

Joseph quickly related what the old foreman had said. "It doesn't seem likely to me that the Hollister killer would wait five years before trying to finish what he started, but Darby seems convinced of it. "

A thoughtful frown pleated David's forehead.

"Give me five minutes to saddle my horse. We can ride out there together. "

"Make it three minutes, " Joseph countered. "I want to beat Doc there. He'll be needing boiled water and an extra pair of hands during surgery. "

Joseph just hoped old Darby wasn't dead when they got there.

Icy gusts of wind buffeted the two-story house. With every creak and groan of the weather-beaten structure, Rachel Hollister's nerves leaped just a little. If she allowed her imagination to get the better of her, it was easy to believe that she'd heard a stealthy footstep or a floorboard giving under someone's weight. To distract herself and hold the collywobbles at bay, she hummed

"Oh! Susannah, " reminding herself between refrains that no one could enter her living area without first tearing away the barricade over the archway that had once opened into the dining room.

Long, golden hair still slightly damp from her bath and curling in wild abandon around her face, she sat in her mother's reed rocker near the stone fireplace, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders, the toes of her embroidered carpet slippers propped on the edge of the hearth. The hem of her muslin Mother Hubbard nightdress rode high on her shins, allowing the heat of the flames to warm her bare legs.

Hissing softly on a marble-topped table beside her,

an ornate metal parlor lamp with a hand-painted glass dome provided light for her to crochet, one of her favorite pastimes when she didn't have her nose in a book. She was presently working on an Irish lace collar, a delicate creation she planned to give away. Though she could no longer attend Sunday worship services, her elderly ranch foreman, Darby, sometimes did. According to him, Hannibal St. John, the new pastor at No Name's only church, always welcomed donations for the poor. Since Rachel had little else to do, it made her feel useful to address that need in whatever way she could. Keeping her hands busy also saved her sanity.

Over the winter, she had made countless pieces, little pretties to adorn tabletops and garments, along with several pairs of wool stockings for women and children. Indeed, her output had been so considerable that Darby had been teasing her of late about opening a shop and selling her work for a profit.

Rachel frowned slightly, wishing that were possible. She routinely made butter and cheese, which Darby had no trouble selling at Gilpatrick's general store, and the chickens brought in a little egg money as well, but those small infusions of cash weren't nearly enough to offset the lost income of the Bar H. With her father and all the wranglers five years gone, Darby was hard-pressed to handle all the ranch work by himself. Out of necessity, he had cut back the cattle herd to only a few head, and the beef profits had diminished accordingly.

For a time, Rachel had tried to bring in extra money by hiring out as a seamstress, but she'd been in direct

competition with Clarissa Denny, who owned the dress shop in town. Later, Rachel had turned to crochet, needlepoint, and embroidery, hoping to sell her creations on consignment at a few of the shops on Main Street, but eventually the items had been sent back to her, via Darby, yellowed and dusty from sitting untouched on a shelf. Nowadays, people who could afford fancywork preferred store-bought items.

Or so Rachel told herself. The only other explanation for her abysmal failure to sell her work—that being reluctance among the townsfolk to purchase things made by a crazy woman—was wholly depressing and better ignored. She couldn't change the attitudes of others, after all, and fretting about it only upset her. As if she
chose
to live this way? As deeply as she yearned to feel sunlight and a soft breeze on her face again, she couldn't breathe and eventually lost consciousness if she went outdoors. Two deadlocks and a thick bar on the front door were all that made her feel safe.

Looking on the bright side, the wolves weren't scratching to get in yet. The ranch made enough to cover expenses and see to her needs, with a little left over for extras. Except for yarn, thread, an occasional bit of fabric, and a weekly dime novel or two, Rachel was careful about her spending.

The only other luxuries she allowed herself were scented soap, some extra flour and sugar each month for baked goods and candy, and additional lamp fuel because she detested living like a mole. Light, and lots of it, was her only respite from the darkness, a substitute of sorts for the sunlight she so sorely missed,

With a sigh, she set her crocheting in the basket at her feet and got up to stir the beef stew simmering on the Windsor range. Darby would be along shortly, expecting his supper to be set out for him in the wood safe. She should stoke the cooking fire and get the cornbread in the oven.

The old foreman was nothing if not punctual when it came to mealtimes.

Keeping to Darby's schedule was difficult for Rachel sometimes. With her windows boarded over, inside and out, she couldn't tell daylight from darkness, and it was easy for her to lose track of time. Sometimes, if she strained her ears, she could hear the rooster crowing to herald the dawn, and at other times, if she concentrated, she could discern the difference between a morning and afternoon breeze buffeting the house, But overall, she existed in a limbo, the only structure to her days imposed by Darby's growling stomach.

The thought made Rachel smile as she added wood to the firebox and adjusted the stove damper.

Her arrangement with Darby was more than fair, preparing his meals her only contribution. In return for tasty cooking and a middling wage, he worked the ranch and saw to her every need.

Thanks to him, she never wanted for anything—unless, of course, she counted conversation.

Darby turned loose words like a poor man did hard-earned pennies.

Rachel guessed that Darby's quietness resulted from the solitude of his occupation, riding the hills with only cattle for company his whole life long. He occasionally mumbled a short sentence to her through the door or wood safe, but that was the extent of it.

Consequently, her yearning for conversation was only satisfied when she dreamed of her family, her mind recreating life as it had once been, with her parents and siblings talking and laughing over a meal or shouting to each other from different parts of the house.

Her thoughts drifting, Rachel set to work on the cornbread. It always cheered her to bake. She suspected it was partly due to the colorful bags and containers that peppered the counter. A man in a dark suit and top hat, wheeling a barrel, was imprinted on the Gold Medal flour sack. The Royal Baking Powder crock provided a lovely splash of crimson. Her speckled enamel saltshaker added a touch of blue, one of her favorite hues. The cornmeal sack, emblazoned with a cornstalk laden with partially shucked ears of field corn, lent green and yellow to the spectrum, along with GARNER MILLS scrolled across the top in bright red.

But it wasn't only the colors that made her enjoy baking. She loved the delicious smells that filled the room. They reminded her of days gone by when her family had still been alive. Oh, how she missed those times—with her fourteen-year-old brother, Daniel, forever up to mischief, her five-year-old sister, Tansy, running from room to room, and their mother always scolding. Rachel's dog, Denver, had contributed to the confusion as well, his brown eyes alight with affection, his tail wagging. Her pa had complained about the animal being allowed inside the house, but in truth, Henry Hollister had been as guilty of spoiling Denver as everyone else in the family.

As Rachel clipped sugar from the cone into a mix-

ing bowl and crunched it into fine granules, she drew the memories close, a warm cloak around her heart. Life could be tragic. She would be the last to argue the point. But it could also be wonderfully rich. One had to hold tight to the good things and try not to focus on the bad.

When she had whisked the dry ingredients together, she fetched milk and eggs from the icebox, melted some lard, and soon had a batch of bread in the oven. That done, she decided a hot peach cobbler for dessert would be lovely on such a windy March day. Darby had a sweet tooth, and regrettably, so did she, a weakness evidenced by her ever-increasing waistline. Her reflection in the water closet mirror told her that she wasn't actually fat yet, but in another few years she would be. The long walks and horseback rides that had once kept her trim were no longer possible, and the relentless boredom of her existence fueled her appetite. Homemade chocolate drops had recently become her favorite treat.

After collecting the lamp from the table and lifting the bar on the cellar door, Rachel descended the four wooden steps to collect a Mason jar of last year's peaches. Minutes later, she was back upstairs, sipping the extra juice she'd drained off the home-canned fruit while she mixed the cobbler batter. Darby would show up soon. By the time he finished his supper and brought his dishes back from the bunkhouse, the dessert would be cool enough to eat.

The cornbread was done to a turn by the time the cobbler was ready for the oven. While the dessert baked, she sat at the dining table to resume reading

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,
a fascinating novel that was, in her opinion, every bit as good as
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,
heretofore her favorite— except, of course, for
Jane
Eyre
and
Little Women.

Dimpling her cheek with a forefinger, Rachel searched for her place on the marked page, and within seconds she was transported to the damp banks of the Mississippi, the blackness of night closing around her with only the light from Jim's lantern to penetrate the darkness.

Some minutes later, the smell of the cobbler jerked Rachel back to the present. "Consternation!"

She leaped up and ran to the stove, praying with every breath that she hadn't burned the dessert.

Grabbing a cloth to protect her hand, she hurriedly drew the pan from the oven and sighed with relief when she saw that it hadn't scorched.

"Praise the Lord, " she said. "When will I learn not to read while I'm baking?"

After adjusting the stove damper, she dusted her hands. En route back to the table, she glanced at the wall clock.
Five after six.
It wasn't like Darby to be late. She wondered if Poncho, his old buckskin gelding, had gone lame again. Rachel hoped not. Darby fussed over that horse as if it were a child.

Resuming her seat, Rachel found her place in the book, wishing as she started to read that she were actually there on the island with Jim and Huck. The thought no sooner took hold than she scoffed at herself. If she couldn't step out onto her own porch without succumbing to mindless fright, how could she

belfry. But this went beyond crazy. The woman lived in a hidey-hole, cut off from the world.

Studying the modified rear exterior of the house, Joseph heard rather than saw David coming abreast of him. The back door looked to be four inches thick, constructed of oak planks that only a battering ram might penetrate. To the left of the door, next to a boarded~up window, a large iron wood box had been set into the wall. Joseph had a similar setup at his place, a wood safe that could be filled from the outside and opened from inside the kitchen. He guessed that Darby normally kept the box stocked so Miss Hollis-ter never had to venture outdoors for firewood.