Texas Twilight (7 page)

John glanced at the letter again, looking for
the little one’s name. Holly Lace McCutcheon. Pretty. But before
Holly there was Rachel’s and Matt’s little Faith, named after
Luke’s wife, and Mark and Amy’s Cinder. He was having a hard time
keeping all the names straight. And who could forget baby Dawn, the
little filly Luke had actually delivered? His nephews were
seriously outnumbered; although Amy and Rachel were expecting again
and perhaps they’d give the boy’s team one up. There was a lot
going on at the ranch these days.

Skimming the pages, Charity reminded him that
she was ready for a visit. Now that he was out of school she wanted
to come and stay for a few months. He knew she was going to be
upset seeing his face. Knowing her as he did, he knew she’d take it
hard.

No. He wasn’t quite ready to have Charity see
it. He’d write and postpone, at least for a few months. By then, it
was conceivable the bright crimson two-inch line would fade a
little and be easier for her to take.

He read further. She thought Brandon was
going to propose to her soon. She wasn’t sure what she’d say. John
looked up at the ceiling, perplexed. Why couldn’t she see how much
he loved her? More importantly, why couldn’t she feel it? They were
a perfect match. Brandon was totally devoted to her. And Charity,
even if she didn’t recognize it, set the sun by him.

The last paragraph was a complaint about how
their ma and pa still wanted to send her to a finishing school for
three months in Denver. She couldn’t fathom why their parents kept
saying that in this day and age a woman needed to know more than
shooting and riding. Someday Charity might be put in a position of
power and would need some “social skills”. She didn’t want anything
to do with it. A vague comment about running away finished the
letter. John knew his dramatic little sis would never go as far as
that, but it was her way of getting attention. They’d work it out,
and hopefully while they did it would take the pressure off him for
a while.

He laid the letter on the quilt and slung his
arm over his eyes. He needed to send a telegram to Emmeline and
tell her he’d arrived safely. Regret pinched his insides as he
thought of the others who’d been killed. He’d meant to send a
message first thing yesterday when they arrived into Rio Wells and
had forgotten in the aftermath of the attack.

Emmeline had been persistent about announcing
their plans to marry. He would have preferred to keep their plans
to themselves for a while longer, at least until he was settled and
had some money coming in. Unfortunately Emmeline wouldn’t listen to
reason. His lips turned up remembering the night she’d practically
begged him to let her tell her parents. He’d felt uneasy since
they’d not been courting for long.

Rolling over, he reached for his book on the
bedside table and withdrew the picture he’d put there for
safekeeping. He held it above his head, just looking. She was
beautiful, without a doubt. He did worry a little about her age.
Eighteen was usually a perfect age to marry, but she was immature.
He’d noticed right away, but he’d been charmed. When the day came
for her to join him in Rio Wells, how would she handle leaving her
family? Her friends? Her social life? How would a rough cattle town
like Rio Wells compare to Boston? A sharp rapping on his door made
him jump.

“D
r.
McCutcheon,” a voice called, “you there?”

John rolled from the bed and hurried to the
door. Opening it, he found a sandy-haired boy, perhaps fifteen or
sixteen years old.

“Doc Bixby sent me to find you. He wants you
to come over to the office right quick. He told me to tell you it’s
urgent.”

“Absolutely, just let me pull on my boots.”
That done he followed the boy down the stairs and out the front
door of the Union Hotel. They turned left into an alley, between
the hotel and the saloon, where piano music pounded.

“It’s faster this way,” the lad called over
his shoulder. It was only then that John noticed that the cuff of
the boy’s left shirt sleeve hung empty, dangling loosely where his
hand should have been.

After emerging from between the two
buildings, they turned right and hurried past the back of the
sheriff’s office where two horses hitched to a post dozed in the
warm sun. They took the steps into the back door of Dr. Bixby’s two
at a time.

“Doc, we’re here,” the boy called loudly.

John followed through the messy kitchen where
he’d been earlier this morning. Turning into a door he hadn’t seen
before he stopped short at the bright and clean examining room. The
countertops were neat and tidy, and it looked completely organized.
A frightened young girl was lying on the examination table, and her
teary-eyed mother held her hand with a tight grip.

“Ohoo,” the girl cried between loud gasps of
breath. Her blue calico dress hung over each side of the
examination table and her worn brown boots protruded from beneath
her hem, each toe pointing to an opposite wall. Her other hand was
pressed on the lower right side of her abdomen.

Dr. Bixby looked up. “Glad you found him,
boy.”

John came forward and put his hand on the
girl’s forehead. She was hot. He cautiously palpated her torso not
wanting to cause more discomfort. Every time he came even remotely
close to her midsection, she’d scream out in pain and double
forward. It looked like a classic case of appendicitis. He’d done
the surgery in Boston, but always assisted by his teacher.
“Appendix?”

“That’s my guess.”

Does Bixby want me to assist – or to do the actual
surgery?
John couldn’t
tell by the look in the old-timer’s eyes.

The boy hustled into the room carrying a deep
basin of water clutched with his one hand and pressed to his body.
Bixby took a smaller bowl and scooped some of the steaming water
out and started scrubbing his hands. “Get her undressed, Martha,
but leave her in her petticoat.”

The girl was now crying uncontrollably.

“It’s gunna be okay, honey.” Dr. Bixby said
as he prepared the operation room. “Tucker’ll put you to sleep and
you won’t feel a thing.”

The patient began begging her mother to take
her home, saying it didn’t hurt anymore at all. The poor woman’s
face was white as a sheet. “Go on, do as I said, Martha.” Bixby set
out a canister of ether and a scalpel onto a clean piece of white
cotton.

John took a newly laundered apron and looped
it over his head. He rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt, then
went to the water, and with a bar of lye soap, scrubbed his arms
and hands vigorously.

The boy picked up the canister and shook a
little of its contents onto a cotton handkerchief and waited for a
signal from Dr. Bixby.

***

Lily tapped on John’s door for the third time
and pressed her ear against the varnished wood to see if she could
hear him moving around inside. Still nothing. Only the piano music
from the saloon next door. She’d tried ten minutes before with the
same results and knew she couldn’t wait any longer. When they’d
returned from the bank this morning, and after he’d gotten a room,
John insisted on going back to the bank with her at two o’clock. At
one thirty Lily had freshened up, put the lease agreement into her
satchel, then snuck out without waking Tante Harriett. She’d found
his room as empty then as it was now.

She’d have to handle this matter on her own.
Setting her resolve, she hurried downstairs and stepped out into
the harsh afternoon sun, looking down the two blocks to the bank.
She needed to hurry. It was almost two o’clock and she didn’t want
to start off on the wrong foot by being tardy. She picked up the
hem of her dress and crossed the dusty street.

She arrived with four minutes to spare. When
she approached the counter, the same teller who’d been there before
met her with a smile now that John was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re back.”

“For my two o’clock appointment with Mr.
Shellston.”

His forehead crinkled. “That’s right.
Actually, he’s not back from lunch yet. Do you want to check back
in say, half hour?”

Lily felt her face heat. In Germany people
were respectful of appointment times. “He is expecting me?” she
asked, trying to keep her annoyance from showing. She wasn’t going
to leave and come back. She needed to get this resolved. Tante
Harriett was worried sick. “I’ll wait, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” The teller went back to his
desk.

Lily seated herself and tried to be patient.
Twenty minutes passed without

Mr. Shellston or anyone else coming in. She
withdrew her handkerchief from her bag and pressed it to her damp
brow, reminding herself that they needed Mr. Shellston’s
cooperation. He held ownership of the property they’d leased. She
must remain level-headed. Looking down she noticed a centipede
moving quickly across the dusty wooden planks in her direction. Its
legs moved like a wave as the creepy insect sped directly toward
her.

She stood
and went to the door and looked out.
Where is he?

On the opposite side of the street two men
stood in front of the Land Office, talking. Soon they parted ways
and a tall thin man started for the bank. He walked through the
common area without looking her way and continued down the hall to
his office. The teller got up and followed him. When he came back,
he motioned Lily forward. “Mr. Shellston will see you now. Follow
me.”

All her indignant feelings evaporated and
Lily was instantly filled with resolve. What if he wouldn’t hold to
the bargain Mr. Bartlett had made with her aunt? What would they do
to support themselves? All they knew was sewing. They needed this
shop.

The teller closed the door behind him,
leaving Lily conspicuously standing. Mr. Shellston was seated
behind his desk, shuffling through some papers. He’d put on a pair
of spectacles and it seemed he’d forgotten already that he had a
visitor.

Lily cleared her throat.

“Oh, please, take a seat.” He put away the
papers and looked up. “Miss…”

“Anthony,” she said, settling herself in one
of the two chairs in front of his desk.

“Now, Miss Anthony, what can I do for you
today?”

Now that she had his full attention, her
heart thumped against her chest and her mouth felt as if it was
full of sand. She pulled the paper from her bag and handed it over
the large desk to his waiting hand. “This,” she was able to get
past her thickened tongue, “is an agreement, a lease, Mr. Bartlett
made with my aunt. We’ve traveled far — from Boston—to find that he
no longer owns the building in question. You do.”

Mr. Shellston opened the rumpled paper and
pushed his spectacles up closer to his eyes. Lily assumed he was
reading it because he held it before his face while making little
sounds. She was conscious of the ticking of his clock.

Mr. Shellston folded it and handed the lease
back to her without a comment. She didn’t know what to make of
it.

“What do you want of me?” he finally
said.

His face was expressionless and warning bells
went off in Lily’s mind. “We want you to honor it. Let us in so we
can set up our shop.”

“That’s impossible, Miss Anthony.”

Lily wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
He’d taken his spectacles off and was now squeezing the bridge of
his nose as if he was dealing with an impetuous child.

“Why? You own the building. You can do with
it as you please. Can’t you?”

He sat back and stared at her, making her
feel uncomfortable. “In a sense, yes. And no.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is mine to do as I please, you’re correct
when you say that. But, I’ve already leased it to someone else.
He’s to move in next week.”

Lily sat forward so fast she nearly fell out
of her chair. Embarrassed, she righted herself but not before
seeing his lips curl in amusement. Was he playing with her?
Bringing her along like a trout after a fly? Most assuredly he was.
And enjoying it immensely as he wielded the power over her head
like a blade ready to fall.

“Mr. Shellston,” she said in a clear,
confident tone. “You could honor it if you were so inclined.”

“And your point is, Miss Anthony? I’m a
businessman. I didn’t get to be president of The First National
Bank of Texas by sitting on my hands. I’ve worked hard every day to
make the right decisions. And the right decision now is to lease 33
Spring Street to Arlin Ames because he’s paying me twice what Mr.
Bartlett leased it for to you.

Lily stood. She knew his decision was made
and she’d not change it. “Very well. I expect to be refunded all
the money my aunt sent to Mr. Bartlett. Every last dime.”

“You make the mistake of thinking Mr.
Bartlett gave that money to me. He did not. I’m certainly not going
to give you money I never received. Now, I’m a busy man, Miss
Anthony. If that is all.” He stood, signaling for her to leave.

“That is not all. I will take this up with
the mayor. I am sure he will not side with you treating the
citizens of Rio Wells this way.”

“Oh, you mean my brother-in-law, Fred
Billingsworth?”

He was so smug standing there. His pinched
face and wide set eyes reminded her of the dreadful bug in the
lobby. Turning, she flounced out of his office and then out of the
bank. She stopped when the door closed behind her. She breathed
deeply, trying to calm down. Now what? She couldn’t tell her aunt
what had transpired. It would not only break her heart but might
even make her sick, or worse. She needed to get Mr. Heartless
Banker to change his mind. Or else, find another building and come
up with the money to rent it. Both ideas, she knew, were about as
farfetched as a trip to the moon.