Laurel, p.3
Laurel, page 3
"They haven't talked about much else at the livery stable since he arrived."
"What's wrong with Brimstone?"
"Nothing, if you like being trampled to death."
Hen chuckled. "He is a mite ornery."
"That isn't what Jesse says."
Hen paused with a piece of beef halfway to his mouth. "What does Jesse say?"
"I couldn't repeat most of it without Mama skinning me."
"The part you can repeat."
Hope grinned. "He says you must be kin to the Devil because nobody but a devil could ride that horse. Jesse's always talking about devils and spooks. He says he can see them."
Hen smiled. If everybody was like Hope, stopping here might not be so bad. "Does Jesse really think I'm the Devil?"
"No, but he's sure you're his henchman." Hope's laughter filled the room. "I told him the Devil has sure got some handsome help."
"You can't expect him to lure people into evil with ugly bait."
"I hadn't thought about it like that. I guess that's why you never see an ugly soiled dove."
Hen's expression of amusement was only skin deep. He thought of his own father. Handsome bait indeed. Never had so much beauty clothed such profound evil. He started to take a bite of his pie but didn't feel hungry any more. Thinking of his pa did that. He threw down his napkin and got up to pour himself some more coffee. "Give your ma my compliments, but I'm too full to eat the pie. Next time bring about half as much."
"I think I ate more than you." Hope looked self-conscious.
"You'd never know. You're thin as a rail."
"I know," Hope said, not pleased with the compliment. "And nothing I do seems to make me any bigger." She started to place the dishes on the tray.
It took Hen a second to realized she was talking about her breasts. Or rather her lack of them.
"I wouldn't let that worry you. People develop quite suddenly at your age."
"I know. One minute Mary Parker looked like a boy. Then next thing you know every boy in town was following her around with his tongue hanging out."
"You wait. In a couple years, they'll be following you around."
"I don't want them to. I'm not interested in boys. They're too immature."
Hen had the sudden feeling he was being stalked by a fourteen year old dying to be in heat. "Maybe," he said, keeping his distance, "but you could get them back for all the times they didn't notice you."
He could tell the idea appealed to Hope.
"By the way, I took your mother's suggestion and took my laundry to the Widow Blackthorne this morning. Rather a strange lady. What's she like?" Anything to keep from talking about Hope's lack of breasts.
"I don't know. She doesn't come to town very often."
"A woman who doesn't like coming to town?"
Hope grinned. "It's probably because of the way the men look at her."
"How's that?"
"She's very beautiful."
"And?"
"She has a little boy."
"So?"
"She doesn't have a husband."
"Being a widow isn't going to hurt her chances of finding another husband."
"She never had a husband."
Hen leveled an inquiring glance.
"She says she was married to Carlin Blackthorne, but his family denies it."
"What does Mr. Blackthorne have to say about it?"
"He's dead."
"Maybe I'd better ask somebody else to do my shirts."
"She needs the money."
Hen looked up.
"She's poor as can be. She lives up there in that canyon all by herself."
"I'll think about it. Now you'd better get this tray back to the restaurant. I bet your ma expected you back long ago."
"She won't mind," Hope said. "She says it's a shame any decent woman has to be in the same room with half the men in this town. Is it okay if I bring your dinner at six?"
"You really don't have to."
"I want to. Besides, it gets me out of work. It's hotter than hell in that kitchen." Hope stopped, and her hand flew to her mouth. "You won't tell, will you?"
"Tell what?"
"What I said?"
"What did you say? Oh that." Hen smiled. "No. I'll wait until you've been particularly loathsome."
"I knew you'd be ever so nice. I told everybody, but they kept going on about how you went around frowning and not talking and looking like you smelled something bad. I told them it was just your way."
Hen couldn't understand why this girl didn't see him the way everyone else did. He had to admit he was glad.
* * * * *
Laurel wrung out the last shirt and sank back exhausted. She had washed all Hen Randolph's shirts. She couldn't iron more than a few tonight, but she'd do some each day until she got them all done.
Her head ached fearfully. Her face throbbed with pain so intense it made her dizzy. Her hand instinctively went to her cheek only to encounter the cheese cloth that kept the cactus fruit pressed to her wounds. She couldn't help but smile. She must look like a mad woman. If anybody saw her, they would certainly think so. And she had done this because a stranger told her to. For all she knew, the cactus fruit would make her face worse.
But she believed Hen. He didn't seem to care enough about people to lie. Odd she should be attracted to a man who seemed devoid of passion.
Maybe he wasn't without feeling. Maybe he just kept them under tight control. But that shouldn't appeal to her. She had married Carlin because of his unbridled emotions. Now she felt drawn to Hen Randolph because he was just the opposite. Had she become so fearful of emotion she had given up on finding a man who could give her the warm, protective love she wanted so desperately?
No. But neither did she believe Hen was as cold as he seemed. A warm core lay somewhere deep within him, deeper even than the hardness she'd sensed earlier. She had felt it when he cared for her. It only needed someone who cared enough to bring it out. She dared not think she might be the one to do that.
Chapter Three
Hen got to his feet and walked to his office window. The street was nearly empty, the way it had been every afternoon since he got here. The hot, September sun kept everyone indoors between noon and sundown. The horses in the corral, seeking relief from the heat and insects, stood end to end under the willows, their heads down, swishing tails keeping flies at bay. The silence was only occasionally broken by the sound of a rider or wagon coming into town.
Sycamores and oaks hung listlessly in the heat. Even the noisy cottonwoods down by the wash were silent. Buildings of unpainted, grey-weathered wood formed a stark contrast to the yellow and red of the surrounding rocks. It was a poor town, one without pride in itself, one that gave the passerby the feeling it was merely a temporary stopping place.
Hen turned away from the window, his thoughts on Laurel. He wondered if she had taken his advice and lain down. Probably not. She didn't act like the kind of woman to take advice from anyone. Maybe he shouldn't have left his clothes. He could have taken them back another day.
He opened his desk and tossed some wanted posters on top. He'd go through them, maybe even memorize the pictures. It ought to come in handy someday. As he threw some old papers into the stove, he heard the sound of a muffled shot. It sounded like it came from the other side of the street. Maybe in the wash behind town. It couldn't be the Blackthornes. He hadn't told anybody about Damian's arrest. He couldn't imagine why anybody else would be shooting that close to town, but he had learned there was somebody fool enough to do just about anything.
Just then he heard second and third shots and knew it wasn't anybody in the wash. He picked up his gun belt and strapped it on, took his hat from the peg and settled it on his head. He practically collided with Hope Worthy coming through the door.
"Finn Peterson's shooting up Elgin's Saloon," she managed to say then stopped to gasp for breath. "He's crazy drunk." She grabbed a second breath. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know yet."
"He'll kill you."
"I don't think so " Hen said, starting toward the saloon. "Most men don't take a chance on getting killed unless it's over something important."
But Hope wasn't in a philosophical mood. "Are you going to have a shootout in the street?"
"I can't say. Now you get back to the restaurant and keep your head inside the door."
"But I want to see." Hope seemed to be working up her courage to stand her ground, but just then another volley of shots erupted from the saloon, followed by two men throwing themselves through the door head first.
"Now!" Hen shouted, his order so curt and sharp Hope jumped. "And keep your head down."
Hope threw Hen a hurt look, turned, and fled.
Hen headed for the saloon.
The street had cleared, as if by magic. Nothing moved. Even the horses seemed to have stilled for fear of drawing attention. Shots came at regular intervals now. Scott Elgin would have to get a new roof before winter. There ought to be enough holes in it by now for the customers to tell time by the stars.
As Hen drew closer to the saloon, he realized he had no desire to shoot this man. The people had a right to expect him to defend their property and the peace of their town, as well as their lives, but that didn't mean it had to cost some harmless drunk his life. Hen paused on the porch of the saloon to let his eyes recover from the glare of the sun before he pushed inside.
It wasn't a big place, narrow and deep, with tables jammed close together. A bar, barely a dozen feet in length, ran across the back of the room. Hen couldn't tell how many customers were still in the saloon. They were all under the tables. The gunman was pouring himself another drink. He had his back to the door and didn't notice Hen.
"I think you've had enough," Hen said.
Finn Peterson turned so fast he lost his balance and had to steady himself against the bar. Hen felt disgusted. He didn't draw on sloppy drunks. He didn't even talk to them if he could help it.
"I can have as many drinks as I want," Finn said, waving his gun at the extremely nervous bartender. His words were slurred, but it was clear he knew what he was saying.
"Maybe some other time. Now why don't you put that gun away and ride back where you belong. It's not fair to leave your riding partner with all the work."
"The goddamned son-of-a-bitch!" Finn exploded. He pulled himself around until he faced Hen. "He's left me by myself often enough. Let him see how he likes it."
A drunk shooting up the town because he was mad at his riding partner! Hen was too disgusted with the situation to talk any longer. He started forward.
Finn fired. The bullet went wide, shattering a window.
"You'd better come sleep it off in the jail," Hen said, unfazed by the bullet. "Your aim is rotten."
Hen realized he wasn't handling this well. He ought to be talking softly, soothingly, trying to pacify Finn until he could disarm him. He was too impatient. He just wanted to get him out of the saloon and be done with him.
"Draw, dammit," Finn shouted, moving more quickly than Hen would have thought possible.
"Not in here. You might hurt somebody."
"Draw!" Finn shouted again, apparently furious Hen didn't take his threat seriously.
"You've done enough damage to Mr. Elgin's saloon." He half turned toward the door hoping Fen would follow.
"You can't walk away from me."
"I don't draw on drunk men."
"I'm not drunk." Finn leaned up against the wall and leveled his gun at Hen.
Hen's temper snapped. He drew and fired.
"Yeeoooow!" Finn's gun crashed to the floor; he shook his hand frantically.
"Stop yelling," Hen said, dispassionately, as he holstered his own gun. "You're not hurt." He took Finn by the shoulder and shoved him through the door onto the boardwalk and then into the sunlit street.
"You shot my hand," Finn said, incredulous. "You shot my gunhand."
"I just shot your gun," Hen said, pushing the stunned man ahead of him. "The bullet didn't touch your hand."
"I can't move my fingers!"
"They'll be fine in a couple of hours. You'll be able to handle a rope as good as ever."
Finn started at his hand in amazement. "Damian Blackthorne's my riding partner," he said. "When he finds out what you did, he'll ride in here and kill you where you stand."
"Thanks for the warning."
People started appearing in doorways, at windows, from alleys between buildings. Hope suddenly materialized at Hen's side.
"Why didn't you kill him?" she asked.
"I don't kill drunks," Hen said, guiding Finn toward the jail. "Besides, shooting up a saloon isn't much of an offense."
Hope looked disappointed. Hen wondered if the townspeople felt the same. They kept their distance as he pushed Finn along the street toward the jail.
"Get me the key out of the desk," Hen said to Hope as he pushed Finn through the front door. He propelled him through the office and the second door into the iron cage next to Damian.
"What the hell is Finn doing here?" Damian demanded.
"What are you doing here?" Finn demanded in return.
"You'll both have plenty of time to explain," Hen said, as he pushed Finn into the empty cell.
"I'll kill you," Damian shouted.
"You already said that." Hen locked the door into the office cutting off the rest of Damian's threats.
"Is that Damian Blackthorne?" Hope asked. Her voice sank into a whisper, as though she didn't want Damian to hear her question.
"So he says."
"What did he do?"
"Tried to take Adam away from his mother. He hit her, too."
"What are you going to do with him?" Hope asked. Her eyes were bright with excitement.
"I'm not sure. Keep him here until I am."
Clearly Hope didn't find that exciting enough.
"What about his brothers?"
"What about them?"
"They'll come after you."
"I doubt it."
"They're terrible men," Hope told him, her eyes glistening with excitement. "They steal and kill and do awful things to women."
"I'm not a woman."
"You insulted one of them. They won't forget that. They'll ride in here from every direction, shooting down any man who tries to stop them. There'll be bodies everywhere, blood on the streets, widows and orphans crying into the night--"
Hen tried not to laugh at Hope's obvious hope for a general bloodbath. "If Damian is any example of his kin, I doubt they'll even care he's gone."
"They will," Hope assured him, eagerly. "They'll come at a gallop."
"Well, you wake me up. I think I'll take a nap."
Hope looked stunned, apparently unable to believe Hen wasn't petrified of the Blackthorne clan and its thirst for vengeance.
"What about Mrs. Blackthorne and Adam? They'll be after her, too. They already did it once. Nobody stops a Blackthorne when they want something."
Hen might not take the threat to himself seriously, but he did believe the Blackthornes would try again to kidnap Adam. That angered him. It angered him even more that they would bother Laurel. She was a woman of courage and determination, but Hen knew she couldn't stand off several Blackthornes. She might hold them off for a while, but they would get the kid in the end.
It was up to him to do something about it. But what? She wouldn't welcome help. She had made it clear she didn't want any from him. "I guess I'll have to send somebody to tell her. She ought to move into town where she'll be safe."
"She won't listen to anybody."
Hen had been afraid of that. "Well she won't listen to me. Why don't you go? She'd probably--"
The door opened and Grace Worthy stepped into the office. "Here you are, Hope Worthy," she said, clearly out of patience with her daughter. "I should have known you'd be around trouble like a bee around a flower. Have you forgotten we start serving dinner in little more than an hour?"
Hope's excitement wilted before her mother's anger.
"I had to tell the sheriff about the Blackthornes," Hope explained. "He wouldn't know there are hundreds of them, all mean and ready to shoot anything that moves."
"I doubt they're eager to shoot honest citizens," Mrs. Worthy said, "but they are a thoroughly unsatisfactory family. You can be certain you haven't heard the last of them."
"See, I told you," Hope said.
"I'm more worried about Laurel Blackthorne," Hen said. "Damian says they'll keep trying until they get that boy."
"He's probably right."
"I need you or one of the other ladies to go up there and talk her into moving into town."
Mrs. Worthy didn't answer right away. Hope started to speak, but her mother silenced her with a single glance.
"I'd be happy to try, but I doubt she'll listen to me or anybody else."
"Why?"
"There's a good bit of hard feelings between her and the town. Unfortunately the fault lies somewhat on both sides. She's a difficult young woman in a very difficult situation. Maybe you're the best person to speak to her."
"Why? She doesn't even know me."
"For that very reason."
"I'll go," Hope volunteered.
"You, young lady, are going back to work. And if you leave again without permission, you'll spend every night this week in your room."
That threat effectively cowed Hope, and she headed out the door ahead of her mother. Mrs. Worthy turned back.
"When Laurel first came here, some of our ladies condescended to offer her charity. Unfortunately they didn't offer to believe she was married or allow her little boy to play with their own children. Laurel made it plain she won't allow anyone to look down on her or her son. I'm afraid she has very little faith in the goodness of human nature. Maybe you can change that."
Hen stared after Mrs. Worthy. The woman might as well have broken his legs and left him to die. He had never been able to talk anybody into anything without using his gun. Why in hell did she think he could change Laurel Blackthorne's mind about anything? She didn't even like him.
He threw the keys in the desk drawer and slammed it shut, but the sharp noise did nothing to relieve the irritation that caused the muscle along his shoulder to bunch and knot. He didn't want to get involved with that woman. He would protect her, but he preferred to do it by having her move away from danger rather than him becoming directly involved.
