The Trouble with Patience (2 page)

She took a seat in the chair in front of the desk, adjusted her skirts, and waited. He had an uncomfortable look on his face, momentarily staring at her with his mouth open as though to speak. Instead he took his mug over to the potbellied stove, poured it full from the coffeepot, and returned to plunk it down on the desk. He went back, grabbed another mug from the shelf above, slopped coffee into it, and stalked over to her with it. She nodded her thanks as she accepted it. He went around his desk and sat down.

How dare he
look me over as if—as if I were stock
to be evaluated for purchase!
If she never had to set eyes on him again, it'd be too soon.

“Marshal,” she began once more, “you are not aware of this, but I'm writing a collection of devotionals to help people. I have always faithfully read the Scripture and take its heeding to heart, and . . . and, well, I want to extend grace wherever it is needed.” She stopped for a deep breath. “In fact, the one I wrote just this morning deals with regret, and remembering how the soldier felt after gambling for Jesus's robe, how he was looking for grace. Perhaps you have a few regrets . . .”

His eyes glazed over and she wasn't even sure he was listening. He drank coffee, shuffled papers, finally stood and went over to the stove, refilled his mug, and returned to the desk. “Well,
Miss Patience Cavanaugh
, I don't know about grace, but there's one virtue you clearly forget to extol—humility.” As he set his down, the two mugs banged together, nearly spilling the coffee into her lap.

Shocked, she sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. She took a sip, and it made her cough and sputter. She put the cup down on the desk and pushed it away, then covered her mouth with her handkerchief to keep from choking. The coffee was the worst-tasting brew she'd ever drunk.
Who knows how long that'
s been sitting on the stove?
she thought with a grimace.

“I take it you don't want a coffee refill,” he said with a grin. She shook her head and glared at him above her handkerchief.

Far worse than the coffee was the attitude of this man. She was not going to sit here and listen to his belittling comments.

She pushed her chair back, rose, and moved slowly toward the front door with her head held high.

Shorty's voice followed her. “You seem mighty humble to me, lady.”

Patience went straight to her kitchen and began peeling and chopping potatoes and carrots with far more vigor than necessary. She was angry at that cocky marshal and his even cockier prisoner. They had no right to mock her, when all she was trying to do was . . . what? She truly did want to help people—that's why she was attempting to make this broken-down old boardinghouse into something thriving once more, why she put her best into cooking lunches for the town's residents, why she was diligently doing her devotional writing . . . Wasn't it?

Her granny had told her once that people should take the specks out of their own eyes before accusing others of faults. Patience put down her chopping knife with a sigh. Today she'd probably wound up only embarrassing herself, alienating the marshal, and providing some humor for that poor Shorty.

She picked up the knife with another sigh to finish the stew for lunch. She'd totally forgotten she'd been planning to go to the post office when she'd heard the confrontation.
But
, she reminded herself,
I only just
opened the boardinghouse a short time ago
. Perhaps when word got out about it being available again, newcomers would inquire for a room. She prayed it would be so.
And,
Lord,
I do want to show grace and humility. Teach
me, please.

Jedediah propped his feet up on his desk, leaned back in the worn leather chair he'd inherited from his predecessor, and took another swallow of the thick black liquid the lady had ungraciously complained about. Well, she hadn't
actually said anything, but she didn't have to, what with all her choking and sputtering. He couldn't help but grin as he put his mug down and looked over at his prisoner, finally quiet and asleep on the cell's cot. He'd hold Shorty till the end of the week when the circuit judge made his rounds and pronounced a sentence.

Jedediah shook his head with another grin. What a lamebrained thing to do in broad daylight—in the middle of town, no less—and right across from the marshal's office. But he knew folks like Shorty liked taking risks. In fact, he probably thrived on it. What amused him most was this Miss Patience trying to interfere. Maybe she was simply being impulsive, but somehow she didn't strike him as being that kind of woman. And he sure would like to know how she came to take him up on the offer of coffee. But he was one up on her since she'd nearly choked on it. He took another sip and grinned once more.

Actually, she had really pretty green eyes, though her expression had been accusing and dour looking. When she'd walked out, he couldn't help but notice, in spite of her simple calico dress and apron, her clothing did not hide her feminine curves.

He sighed. No need to even give her a second thought. She spelled trouble, and he wasn't looking for any. He was new in town, new on the job, and didn't need anything she had to offer. But he couldn't deny he had been hankering after one of those fresh, hot biscuits Monty bragged about. His own cooking left something to be desired, so he ate most of his meals at the Longhorn Café. Maybe he'd give Creekside Inn a try
. . .
maybe get her ire up again. Another grin.

But then he closed his eyes, and another face, this one
smiling, floated behind his eyelids. Emily worked at the Longhorn. Now there's a woman he'd like to get to know better, but that would mean eventually opening up about some things he didn't care to reveal. He sighed and turned back to the stack of papers he'd probably never get through at this rate.

Not
even
a
slight
breeze
had
moved
through
the
trees
until
a
clap
of
thunder
broke
the
heavy
,
eerie
atmosphere
.
Jedediah
remained
motionless
on
his
horse
in
the
clearing
,
his
shirt
soaked
with
perspiration
and
stuck
to
his
back
.
Two
other
men
on
horseback
flanked
him
,
staring
up
into
the
huge
elm
tree
.
He
felt
the
bile
creep
up
into
his
throat
as
he
watched
a
man
hanging
above
them
in
the
hot
air
.
The
victim
had
been
caught
stealing
cattle
,
and
by
law
Jedediah
and
his
vigilantes
had
every
right
to
string
him
up
.
One
of
the
men
,
Cash
,
chewed
on
his
cigar
,
then
turned
to
Jedediah
with
an
unspoken
question
.
On
the
other
side
,
Ned
moved
uncomfortably
in
his
saddle
.
Jedediah
finally
snapped
open
his
pocket
watch
and
nodded
to
Ned
. “
Cut
him
down
and
haul
the
body
over
to
the
two
docs
in
town
—
they
use
'
em
in
their
anatomy
lessons
.”

Ned walked his
horse forward, standing up in the stirrups to reach the
rope, just as another bolt of lightning split the clouds
and struck the elm tree with a loud crack, once
more breaking the stillness of the hot summer—

The clatter of Shorty's metal water cup against the cell bars jerked Jedediah from his nap. “Cut that out!” he barked as his feet slammed down from the desk to the floor.
Blasted fool
. The dream had taken him by surprise, and reliving it brought up the scene he'd just as soon repress. While it was legal to string up a horse or cattle thief, those memories haunted him still. With each incident, he had tried to justify it to himself. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not.

“I wuz jes wantin' some cold water,” Shorty whined. “When's dinner in this fancy hole-in-the-wall you put me up in? Hope it's fried chicken.” He gave a snort that said far more than his words.

Irritated, Jedediah walked over to the cell, grabbed Shorty's cup, and filled it from a pitcher behind his desk. “Supper is when I say and what I say it is.” He shoved the cup back to his prisoner through the bars.

Shorty gulped the water down. “How long you gonna keep me in here?” he grumbled, wiping an arm across his mouth.

“Until the circuit judge shows up. If you're lucky—and I am too—it could be Friday.”

“Guess I'll have to make do watching you and that nice lady argue.”

Jedediah did his own version of a snort. “Don't plan on that happening again.”

Shorty grinned, exposing an unhealthy row of teeth. “Don't bet on it. A lady like her ain't givin' up, I wager. Could make ya a good partner. Sorta smooth the edges off.”

Jedediah shook his head and growled, “And just how would you know the first thing about me and what I need?” He turned away before Shorty could reply and stalked out the front door.

By midweek, Patience was delighted to have two boarders. A man and his wife from back east were planning on moving to Montana. They were stopping here in Nevada City while they determined just where they would settle, Mrs. Burton explained.

Patience was so excited to have paying customers that she took extra care to make the room as appealing as possible. She even found some pretty grasses to display in a jar on the dresser. When the two came down for supper, they raved over her fried chicken and blueberry cobbler.

“How did you learn to make such a wonderful meal, Miss Cavanaugh?” Mr. Burton asked. He touched his moustache with his napkin and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression.

“Yes, I'd like to be able to cook like this,” Mrs. Burton nodded, her diamond earrings catching the light from candles.

Patience felt her face flush, and she murmured, “Thank you. I had a lot of practice growing up. My mother had a weak heart but was very particular about everything, so I had to learn to do it right at an early age.”

Mrs. Burton set her fork down. “That must've been very hard on you as a young girl. Do you have any siblings?”

“No, though I would have liked one. The doctor told my mother she should never have had me in the first place. After I was born, she never fully recovered.”

“Very sorry to hear that, but we are the recipients of your culinary talents, thanks to your mother.” Mr. Burton smiled his approval.

Patience took a deep breath to get her nerve up. “I hope you
don't mind if I tell you I'd appreciate it if you could spread the word about my establishment when you can.”

“We'd be happy to. Our room is nice and clean, and the whole place looks homey. That's more than I can say for some of the places we've stayed along the way.”

“I still have painting that needs to be done and some repairs, but it will take time for me to get this place back to the way it was before my grandmother died.”

“I'm sure with your natural instinct for perfection, Miss Cavanaugh, you'll get it done.” Mr. Burton beamed and nodded at her. “Thank you for a delicious meal. Now, Liza, how about we take a nice evening stroll and check out the sights?”

Jedediah took his time with his dinner at the café, a surreptitious eye on the cheerful Emily. He was fully aware he had a prisoner to feed sooner or later, but the scoundrel could wait. Emily's flashing brown eyes seemed friendly enough, but he soon realized she wasn't flirting. It was just who she was—nice and friendly to all the Longhorn customers. He wasn't savvy on the ways to court a woman. In truth, it had never mattered that much to him before. But now that he was getting, as Monty would say, “a little long in the tooth,” he needed to keep his eyes open for possibilities. He was in a new town with new options, so just maybe . . .
Oh, forget it.

He watched as she lifted a tray of used dishes, then paused by his table.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Jones?” she asked, balancing the tray against her hip.

“Oh, I've had plenty, but maybe you could wrap up a couple pieces of chicken for my prisoner?”

“I can do that.” One eyebrow cocked upward. “It'll be a few minutes, though.”

“Take your time. There's no rush. That's what he gets for trying to steal a saddle in broad daylight.”

“Yes, then I'll refill your coffee cup while you wait.” She moved to the kitchen with the tray, shoulders stiff and back straight.

He found himself wanting to offer to carry the tray for her. Foolish notion, to be sure. Emily was used to the work, obvious by the way she carried herself with nary a complaint. She'd make a good wife—strong, industrious, and enduring. Not that it mattered to him. She was too young, and he wasn't looking . . . or was he?

The front door of the restaurant banged open against the wall, shaking the upper glass so hard Jedediah wondered that it didn't shatter.

“Marshal,” a man yelled, “you're needed down at Criterion Saloon.” Everyone in the café looked either at Jedediah or the shouting man. “Some dandy and a miner with a bag o' gold got to arguin' over a game of cards. Ya better hurry!” He held the door ajar and waved his arm in the direction of the saloon.

Jedediah saw that the man was his friend Joe and took a deep breath. “Right—I'll follow you.” He shoved back his chair, glad that he'd at least finished his meal before the fracas started. “I'll be back for that chicken, Emily,” he called over to her. He tossed some bills on the table as he quickly donned his hat. An evening brawl was a common event in Nevada City. Normally, he could keep the peace, especially
if it was between miners, but when it came to professional gamblers, it didn't always end so well.

“All right, Jed,” Emily said with another smile, tucking away the bills he'd left as she began clearing his table.

Jedediah followed Joe down the boardwalk. A miner that'd never had a big gold strike, Joe seemed to not let that get him down. He was a familiar face about town, with his shaggy beard and graying hair tucked underneath a floppy leather hat, guiding his donkey piled high with pickaxes and miners' supplies down Wallace Street, the main road through town. Any gold he did find at Alder Gulch was quickly squandered away on alcohol and women. Despite all Joe's laziness, he was decent enough, and Jedediah couldn't help but like the old fella. Occasionally they would sit on the porch outside the jail, chewing the fat as they watched the folks of Nevada City coming and going.

Before they reached the Criterion, the swinging doors flew open and two men stumbled out, yelling at one another. It sounded like the miner was accusing the gambler dandy of cheating him.