The Man from Stone Creek (29 page)

When she paused at the undertaker's gate, he knew.

Abigail.

“No,” he said, as if by refusing to hear what happened he could turn back the great, crushing tide of truth that was about to crash down over him.

“I'm so sorry, Sam,” Maddie whispered, and there were tears standing in her whiskey-colored eyes as she gazed up at him.

He pushed past her, slammed open the gate, barreled into the house without stopping to knock.

Abigail lay on a long table, in what would have been the parlor in an ordinary home. Her hands lay folded, bluish-white upon her chest, and pennies weighted her eyes.

Sam threw back his head and bellowed in useless protest.

M
ADDIE
,
STILL STANDING
at the undertaker's gate, closed her eyes when she heard Sam's cry of outraged grief. The sound went through her like a cold shock, and reached deep into the ground like roots, reverberating there, leaving her trembling and weak-kneed. When she could move, she turned and walked slowly away.

Back at the store, she tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand—unpacking the dozen crates of merchandise delivered that morning from Tucson by freight wagon, pricing shirts and bullets and tins of ground coffee, entering each individual item in her inventory book. But her thoughts kept straying back to Sam, alone with the terrible fact of Abigail's death. Finally, Maddie gave up, went to the kitchen and brewed herself a pot of strong tea. If she'd owned any whiskey, she probably would have poured a generous portion into her orange pekoe.

Customers came and went, and Maddie saw to their needs, going through the motions of tallying the cost, writing up the receipts, making change. All the while, she kept one eye on the front door, watching for Sam O'Ballivan.

“It's a shame about Charlie Wilcox, isn't it?” asked Mrs. Walter Crosby, after selecting three dime novels. “And that poor Miss Blackstone, too. It seems that tragedy is our lot these days.” She paused. “Do you think it will rain soon?”

Maddie blinked back uncharacteristic tears. The same day Abigail perished, Mr. Wilcox had been found dead in his shack, most likely of heart failure, and his horse was standing in front of the Rattlesnake Saloon at that very moment, patiently awaiting a master who would never return.

No. She did not think it would rain.

“Maddie?” Mrs. Crosby prompted in a kindly tone when Maddie didn't speak right away. “Are you all right?”

Maddie swallowed. “There's been too much death around here lately,” she said softly. “Garrett Donagher and now poor Charlie and Abigail—”

Mrs. Crosby nodded her agreement. “Makes a body want to crawl under her bed and hide there till better times come along.”

The bell over the door jingled and Maddie's heart rushed up into her throat. Sam O'Ballivan stepped over the threshold, looking gaunt and befuddled, as though he was certain he had business at the mercantile but couldn't recall precisely what it was.

Maddie remained behind the counter, though everything in her longed to go to him, put her arms around him, tell him it would be all right.

She had no right to do the first two things, and the third, by her reckoning, would have been a lie, so she stayed put.

Mrs. Crosby dropped her change into her large handbag, along with the books, and hurried out of the store, giving Sam a sympathetic nod as she passed.

He didn't seem to see her, though. He stood still as a pillar in the middle of the store, his gaze fixed on Maddie, bleak and desolate and wholly confounded.

The tick of the big clock intruded on the thick silence, so loud that it seemed to echo off the walls.

“How did it happen?” Sam asked finally.

Maddie explained as simply as she could. Ben had gone to the river before school started for the day and fallen in. Abigail must have heard his cries, or seen him slip off the log—nobody knew for sure. She'd rushed to save the boy and drowned in the process.

“She didn't drown,” Sam said when Maddie had finished. “Abigail was a strong swimmer.”

Maddie offered no comment. She leaned on the counter, braced with both hands, to keep from slipping to her knees.

“It must have been her heart,” Sam went on.

“Her heart?” Maddie repeated.

“She had spells, all her life,” Sam said, like a man talking in his sleep. He, like Maddie, hadn't moved. “Couldn't get her breath sometimes. Other times, she'd swoon, for no reason. Just crumple to the floor.” He paused. “She always came around, though.”

“I'm so sorry,” Maddie said, wondering if he'd hold the tragedy against Ben. Give up on whatever he'd come to Haven to do and head back to Stone Creek, taking Abigail's body with him, for a proper burial on home ground. “What now?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“I've got to send a wire to the major,” Sam replied. “He'll want to come and collect Abigail's remains himself.”

“That's been done,” Maddie said. “I found his name among Abigail's things over at the schoolhouse. I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty.”

Sam smiled oddly and shook his head. “I don't mind,” he said. “Did he send a reply?”

“Not yet,” Maddie answered. Her throat felt painfully dry and she reached for her teacup, then set it down again. She knew she wouldn't be able to swallow the smallest sip.

“The undertaker told me about Charlie Wilcox,” Sam said, and turned his head in the direction of the Rattlesnake Saloon, frowning as if he could see clean through the walls of the mercantile, see that poor horse keeping its hopeless vigil at the hitching rail.

A tear slipped down Maddie's cheek. “They took Dobbin over to the livery stable the first night, the second night, too. Somehow he got out of his stall each time and headed straight for the saloon.”

Sam looked her way again. “Thanks for meeting me with the news about Abigail,” he said gruffly. “I wouldn't have wanted to hear it from anybody else.”

Maddie swallowed once more and followed up with another nod. She couldn't have spoken just then to save her life.

“Well,” Sam said when the silence stretched to the breaking point, “I'd best get on with things.” With that, he turned, crossed to the door, opened it and went out.

Maddie groped for her stool and settled herself on the seat, making no further effort to keep from crying.

 

S
AM CAUGHT HIS HORSE
, left to fend for itself when Maddie met him in the street and he'd dismounted to hear what she had to say. Leading the animal by the reins, he walked to the Rattlesnake Saloon and stepped up beside Dobbin.

The ancient horse nickered a greeting.

“We've both lost a friend,” Sam told Dobbin, stroking his neck. “You come on home with me, now, and we'll ride this out together.”

With that, Sam turned toward the schoolhouse, still leading the gelding he'd rode hard from Mexico, and set out.

Charlie Wilcox's horse plodded along behind him.

Back at the school, Sam groomed the gelding, left both horses to graze and drink from the stream, and forced himself to go inside.

Abigail's things had been put away, packed into her trunk, and Sam was grateful for that. He reckoned Maddie deserved the credit; she'd known the gathering up would be a painful task, and she'd spared him the doing of it. She'd left a note on the table, too.

Neptune is with us, at the store. M.

Sam had forgotten Ben's little dog, and he supposed that was a mercy. He'd have worried about the critter if he'd remembered, and he surely didn't need another problem to gnaw at in his mind.

Now, he stood alone in the room behind the schoolroom, with Abigail's scent faint in the warm, dusty air. He was numb with sorrow and no little guilt. He'd cared so deeply for Abigail that her absence left a carved-out place inside him, but he hadn't loved her. Not in the way she'd wanted, not the man-woman way she'd loved him. She'd known how he felt, of course. Known he'd have gone ahead and married her, because of the understanding between them, because he was a man of his word, even when it went unspoken.

Still, it must have tried her spirit sorely, wanting what he couldn't give.

Sam rubbed his eyes between a thumb and forefinger and wished he hadn't left all the whiskey with Vierra. He felt raw, inside and out, and he surely could have used some numbing.

Because he needed something to do, he brought the copper tub in from the shed, then got a fire going in the stove. He carried in water, put it on to heat and went back to the well for more. The process kept him busy, and when his bath was ready, it was deep, if lukewarm.

He stripped, got into the tub and scrubbed till his skin was raw.

Once out of the bath, and wearing clean clothes, he filled a basin, lathered his prickly beard and shaved. By the time he'd dragged the copper tub to the door and dumped it, he felt almost human.

He wondered if there'd been a telegram from the major yet, or if the old man would just show up on the afternoon stage, or driving a wagon so he could take Abigail home and lay her to rest next to her long-dead mother. Sam would have bet on the latter.

He'd go along, of course. He couldn't let the major make a trip like that by himself.

But there was still the matter of the outlaw gang, and Vierra, lying wounded in that hilltop village in Mexico. There were the schoolkids to think about, too. Violet and the others. He'd come to care about those little rascals, and it didn't set well, the idea of leaving them.

And there was Maddie.

What of Maddie?

She was a strong, independent woman, and she'd gotten by just fine without his help all these years. She'd coped with the loss of her betrothed, raised her brother and run a thriving business. She didn't need him.

Still, when Rex came back to Haven, as he surely would, bent on either killing Mungo with his bare hands or setting him free, all hell was bound to break loose. Maddie and the rest of the townspeople, with no real lawman to protect them, would be vulnerable to Rex and most likely the rest of that murderous bunch, too. Sam was under no delusion that just because he'd only seen five men so far, and knew for a fact that one of them, Landry Donagher, was dead, there weren't more. He'd seen the dust raised by their horses, out where Vierra was shot.

The gang had struck in a lot of places, on both sides of the border. A handful of men couldn't have managed that—the distances were too great. It was a possibility, of course, that he was dealing with more than one outfit, but his gut said different.

He went out to sit on the back step, waiting for something. Or somebody.

He didn't know which.

When Terran bounded around the corner of the schoolhouse with a covered basket in one hand, Sam wasn't surprised.

“Maddie said you must be hungry,” the boy announced, pausing a few feet away and taking Sam's measure with his eyes. “She sent these vittles.”

“I'm obliged,” Sam answered.

Still, Terran kept his distance. “You blamin' Ben for getting Miss Blackstone drowned?”

Sam looked toward the horses, watched them for a few moments, then shifted his gaze back to Terran. “No,” he said. “It wasn't Ben's fault.”

“He shouldn't have been down there by the river,” Terran offered cautiously.

“No,” Sam agreed quietly. “He shouldn't have been. But you tell Ben for me that I've got no hard feelings.”

Terran came close enough to hand over the basket, but he still looked wary, and there was a tension in him that troubled Sam, though he couldn't quite get hold of the reason why. “There's a whole strawberry pie in there,” the boy said. “We were going to have it for supper.”

Sam managed a smile. “I guess I'd best save you a piece, then,” he replied. “You can have it right now if you want to.”

Terran relaxed a little. “Maddie gives stuff away all the time,” he confided.

“Does she?” Sam spoke lightly. He lifted the cover of the basket and glanced inside. A jar of Christmas pears floating in red nectar. Ham in a tin. Half a loaf of bread. And the pie.

“When Violet's mother got sick, Maddie took groceries right off the shelves for them, knowin' they couldn't pay. And she made me take them some of our firewood, too.”

Sam tore off a chunk of the bread and felt an anticipatory clench of hunger in the pit of his stomach. “When folks have trouble, it's good to help them out whatever way you can,” he said.

Terran's jawline hardened. “Nobody ever helped Maddie and me,” he said. “We've had to make it on our own. It's been that way since we left the orphanage.”

Sam moved over on the step to make room for Terran. “Sit down, if you've a mind to talk awhile,” he said. Then, to sweeten the offer, he added, “I'll share the pie.”

Terran hesitated, then perched beside him, but he was ready to bolt. Sam could feel his readiness, coiled inside the boy like a hissing snake stuffed into a matchbox.

The pie had been cut into eight slices and Terran reached inside the basket to help himself to one of them.

“Tell me about the orphanage,” Sam said.

Terran shrugged, already gobbling pie. Between swallows, he answered, “It was like a big school, only you had to stay there all the time. Maddie worked for her keep, so we could be together.”

Sam felt a pinch in his heart, and it had nothing to do with Abigail or the vast new landscape of sorrow her loss must have opened up for the major once the news reached him. “What became of your folks?”

“They got a fever and died. After that, it was just Maddie and me. Maddie was too old to live at the orphanage. They'd have turned her out on the streets if she hadn't begged them for work.”