In Need of a Good Wife (26 page)

On the third day of Clara’s fever, George got the doctor. He had waited because he hadn’t known how they would pay for the visit, but soon he didn’t care what he had to do. Clara needed help. She had no memory of this day. It was gone from her mind like a page ripped out of a book. George had told her later that the doctor urged her to feed the baby—
urged
was the word he used and it seemed so carefully chosen that Clara imagined the doctor shouting, red in the face, something like,
If you don’t feed your baby, he will die
. She couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t been able to understand what it was she should do. What kind of a mother gives in to sickness and lets her baby starve? Where was her instinct? Where was her strength? But the fever had been so severe, she was making very little milk. She couldn’t sit up, couldn’t hold him without her arms going slack and the infant in his swaddling rolling down her lap, dangerously close to the edge of the bed, to falling on the floor. So George got the minister, who baptized the child while Clara slept.

It was only after he died, after her fever broke, that her body became the body of a mother. She was alert to the sound of a cry that never came. It seemed she was suddenly producing enough milk for three babies. The weight of her coarse cotton gown on her engorged breasts made tears stream from her eyes. George sat with her, trying to think of something to say. Clara, too, wanted to tell him what she was feeling and wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but there were no words for this kind of regret. It was a bottomless, limitless, worldflooding sorrow that rendered both of them mute.

And then she learned that the cure, or, at least, the thing that might get her through another day, was motion. It didn’t matter what kind. Motion was what got her out of that bed. Motion was what kept her from despair when George, undone by grief, drank himself silly and ran off with that Lucia.

Clara was a little bit better now, a little bit further from the precipice because she never allowed herself to think of the baby and his name and because if she was in constant motion, the memories never could catch her.

And so today, for the three-hundred-sixtieth time, Clara chose to get up and go to work.

She was in the tavern kitchen boiling rags and washing glasses when she heard the door open and somebody come inside and walk over to the bar. He sighed a few times before calling, “Hello? Anyone here?”

“Yes, sir,” Clara called back. “Just a moment and I’ll be out.” She wiped her hands on a towel and peeked out through a crack in the kitchen door. The man was about eight inches shorter than Clara and wore a bowler hat one size too large for his head. He had not removed it when he came inside. His thin mustache was like a smudge on his upper lip but by the way he ran his finger absently over it while he waited, she could tell it was a source of pride.

“Good afternoon,” Clara said as she stepped out of the kitchen.

He nodded, using the mustache-smoothing finger to poke his hat up off his head for a brief second. “Would you be Mrs. Clara Bixby?”

“Yes, I would,” she said, with more than a little regret.

“Well, ma’am, I am Sheriff Brooks, sheriff of all of Dodge County, and it’s my duty to tell you that you are the subject of an official investigation.”

It was hard to take him seriously. He was so small, like a boy playing dress-up. Any minute, Clara expected him to pull his lapel back to reveal a star-shaped toy badge on his waistcoat.

She must have grinned a little because his lip curled and he barked at her. “This is a serious matter, ma’am. In fact, there’s an argument to be made that it is a
federal
matter, as you crossed state lines while committing these crimes. You should thank your lucky stars that we don’t make it a habit to call in outsiders to handle our business. You’ve been accused of fraud by several respected men from this county. A lot of people are willing to vouch for them, but as far as I can tell, nobody around here can speak to
your
character.”

This weasel thinks I’m afraid of him!
Clara felt like laughing. When the worst thing you can possibly imagine has actually happened to you, it certainly cures you of carefully tiptoeing around your life. Her debt to the men in Destination couldn’t feel like a true threat on her dead son’s birthday. Everything that once seemed frightening now seemed a farce. What the world could do to her, it had already done, and Clara felt punch-drunk on fearlessness, in the mood to taunt the fates. What did she have left to lose? “I can vouch that they spend plenty of time sitting on their brains in this tavern. And plenty of money on the painted ladies down at the end of the road.”

The sheriff’s eyebrows jumped slightly in the shadow of his brim. He set his jaw. “You know, folks have written a lot of stories about what it’s like out here, published them in your eastern newspapers and such. People have gotten the idea that this is some kind of lawless territory, where everything is settled with gunfire. I can tell you, ma’am, that in my three years as sheriff, I’ve never once fired my gun. Do you know why that is?”

“Because you don’t know how to use it?”

His nose twitched. “
Because
, the folks in this county respect the law. There’s a lot of misconceptions. It’s honest people out here just trying to get by, to work their parcels and earn the deeds to their land. I don’t like it one bit when somebody comes out here with her head full of ideas about scheming—and trust me, you’re not the first to try and
fail
—who thinks she can do as she pleases and make a dollar by breaking the law. I simply do not stand for it, Mrs. Bixby.”

Having any more fun at this man’s expense was not going to help her situation. “Respectfully, Sheriff, I am sympathetic to all the things you’re saying. I don’t think it’s right either for someone to take advantage of the fine people in this town. I myself never set out to do that. I only wanted to find brides for these lonely men, and in turn, help some of the widows and spinsters of New York find a place too. I only ever intended for it to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. And I’m deeply sorry that some of these matches went awry. But I mean to pay those men back as soon as I can, I hope by the end of the summer. You have my word.”

“As Bill Albright had your word, you mean? As Mr. Drake had it? A lot of good it did
them
.”

“Sheriff,” she said, leaning toward him, “I’d have to be the world’s least competent swindler if the result of my efforts had me working in a tavern, don’t you think? I have in no way profited from the money those men lost on their intended brides.”

“Well, we have reason to believe you
do
have money, which you are hiding.”

“If I intended to steal from them, wouldn’t I have left town? Don’t you think? I mean, I’m not any more familiar with criminal activity than the next person, but it stands to reason …”

“A witness has come forward, Mrs. Bixby. This witness has testified to conversations in which you stated that you never intended to provide brides for these men, but intended to take their money all the same. That you intended to deceive them. The law calls that fraud.”

Clara’s amusement with the situation vanished. There was only one person she could think of who would manufacture these untruths without so much as a ripple of guilt, and that person was as dangerous as the devil. Clara had seen the way men hung on the siren’s every word as if they were in a trance. What chaos could be wrought by a pretty face! What evil!

“The end of the summer won’t do, Mrs. Bixby,” the sheriff said. “You have until the Fourth of July to repay these men, or I am going to take the case before the county judge. We cannot have this matter going unresolved, lest we encourage more of your ilk to travel west. Good day.” The sheriff poked his hat once more and strode out of the tavern, using both hands to push open the heavy door.

Clara went back through to the kitchen and stood for a long moment in the middle of the room, just staring. She put her hands on the small of her back, then sat down on the flour bin and wiped her palm over her face. It was going to be her word against Rowena Moore Gibson’s. There was no question about whom they would believe.

She had not stolen from these men. She had not committed fraud. The truth would come out in the end, wouldn’t it? Somehow, everything would get sorted out, she would pay the men back, and then she could finally move on. The little white cottage seemed to be receding further from her each time she thought of it, but there was still hope of finding it, and at least now she had George’s help.
The
truth
will come out
, Clara reassured herself, though in all honesty, she put very little stock in divine justice, having seen so little of it in her own life or the lives of the people she knew.

Around seven the men began to file into the tavern, hot, dusty, and tired. Daniel Gibson and Nit LeBlanc sat with Stuart Moran, Deborah’s “deviant” of a husband. Clara pressed her lips together to hold back a smile when she thought of the girl’s horrified expression as she told Clara what Stuart had asked her to do. Clara thought she might see her own husband come in for an ale but he didn’t show. She hoped it meant he was working late, earning them another dollar or two.

Just when each man had a full glass and Clara and Mrs. Healy had a moment to step back behind the bar and take a breath, Jeremiah Drake and Bill Albright walked in and took the table under the window. Clara felt her fists tighten in her apron pockets. Outside the light was fading, and she looked at Mrs. Healy.

“You stay right here,” her employer said. “You know they only want to scare you, the fools.”

Clara nodded, then busied herself with the broom while Mrs. Healy walked over to the table with two glasses of beer. The next time Clara looked up, Mr. Drake was waving her over, his big jack-o’-lantern grin a sure sign that he’d already had his share of whiskey before coming into the tavern. Clara leaned her broom up against the bar and walked slowly over to them.

“We heard you had a visitor today,” Mr. Drake said.

Clara watched him carefully.

“You boys gossip worse than any woman I’ve ever met,” Mrs. Healy said.

Drake drained his glass and handed it to her. “I’ll take another. You know I don’t like waiting.”

“And you know I don’t like serving you, but nobody seems to care what
I
like.” Mrs. Healy sighed. She looked at Clara, her eyes full of apology.

“Gentlemen,” Clara said in the sweetest voice she could muster. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your drinks.”

But Drake grabbed her wrist before she could walk away. “The Fourth of July is just around the corner, Bill. Isn’t it? What do you think we’ll do to mark the occasion?”

Clara snatched her arm away from him, clutching the skin where he had touched her. She prayed that the floor would open and swallow her whole, or, better yet, swallow these men right down into hell. She tried to will George to walk through the door and come to her rescue, but the hinges didn’t move.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bill said, his balding scalp gleaming in the lamplight. “Seems like now that this town’s grown a little bigger, we should organize some kind of picnic.”

Jeremiah nodded. “That’s a fine idea. What do you think, Miss Bixby? We could roast a pig. Bill here will set off some firecrackers.”

Clara shook her head, her tongue frozen her in mouth.

“Course,” Bill said, shrugging his shoulders, “we’re forgetting that she might be on her way to Fremont that day. I doubt they hold many pig roasts up at the jail.”

Clara heard heavy bootsteps behind her then, too heavy to belong to George, but she felt she would happily take any man’s help at the moment. A cold canine nose brushed the back of her hand and she glanced down. Her eyes welled with tears.

“Evening,” Mayor Cartwright’s soft voice rumbled. He lifted his hat. “Mrs. Bixby.”

“Good evening,” she whispered.

“Do you see that this woman has work to do?” Cartwright said to the men. “Why don’t you leave her be.”

“Happy to,” Jeremiah said, swaying a bit in his chair. “I am just trying to help Miss Bixby with her financial predicament.”

Mrs. Healy returned with Jeremiah’s ale then and set it down in front of him. “That will be the last one you get tonight. You’ve had enough, Mr. Drake.”

Drake ignored her and she walked away. Cartwright cleared his throat. “Drake, this woman is a Mrs., and you know that very well. You’ll show her a little respect.”

Jeremiah scowled at the mayor and swiped his hand through the air, as if he were brushing a mosquito away from his ear. He leaned on one elbow and turned to Clara. “
Mrs.
Bixby,” he said, his voice full of false deference. “It may be that you’re going about this all wrong. Have you thought about another line of work? Something that might pay a little more?”

Clara held up her hands. “I’m doing the only thing I can think to do, Mr. Drake.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “You
must
see that.”

“Why don’t you just let her be?” Cartwright said.

Jeremiah shrugged and looked over at Bill. “You know, you’re a little old for it, but they’re always looking to hire another girl out at the log house.”

Before the words could make their way from Clara’s ears to her brain, the table tipped forward and glasses crashed to the floor, ale splashing on Bill’s boots. The mayor clutched the left side of Jeremiah’s collar in his enormous hand, pulling the red-faced man up onto the toes of his boots. The talking at the other tables stopped and Sergeant lowered his head and began to growl. Cartwright tightened his grip and Jeremiah’s face turned a deeper shade of red, his eyes bulging.

“I said you’ll show her a little respect,” the mayor said, his voice even, his shoulder barely straining to hold the entire weight of the man up with one arm. He wrenched Jeremiah’s body toward the door and the man’s boots dragged across the floor. Mayor Cartwright cast him out the open door onto the front porch. As the door swung closed they heard Jeremiah coughing, gasping for breath.