Plain Trouble (2 page)

He stopped short then lifted his hat to offer a courtly bow. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss, but Mr. Jones wanted to know if you’re taking the buggy or walking to town.”

Suppressing a groan, Bess squared her shoulders and picked up her pace. In her haste to show her father just how irritated she’d been, she’d forgotten all about the horse and buggy waiting for her.
 

Now she’d be walking five miles each way, all for pride’s sake. There was probably a lesson in that fact, but she’d have to learn it later once her temper cooled.

“It’s a nice day,” she said as she stormed ahead, praying the Lord would see fit to send someone with a buggy to fetch her home before the rain soured her plan. “Is that all?”

“No ma’am,” the fellow said, his voice cracking slightly. “He sent me with a message.”

Bess continued walking though she reluctantly gestured for him to join her. So Pa was too busy to come speak to her himself.
Figures.

“What might that be? Perhaps to fetch more sweet treats for our neighbor?” she asked when he’d caught up to her. “I understand Mrs. Klein was quite taken with the basket of food he delivered last time.”

A stain of red spread over his freckled cheeks. “I don’t know about all that,” he said, “but he did mention that you might want to fetch back some of those…” He seemed to struggle with the word. “Those sausage things.”

“
Kolaches
?” she offered as she shifted the egg basket to her other arm.

“Reckon so,” he managed before shrugging.
 

Several responses occurred but the poor fellow deserved none of them. “Tell him I’d be glad to.”

A look of relief all but erased the fellow’s worried expression. “I’ll let him know.”

“You do that,” she said, picking up her pace. “And let him know he can make his own lunch, too.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a concern,” the hired man called.
 

Bess sidestepped a puddle then glanced over her shoulder. “No?”
 

“No, ma’am. I’m on my way over to Mrs. Klein’s place next to tell her we’ll accept her offer of fetching us a noon meal after all.”
 

Well that did it.
 

Bess might have responded, but in the words of the pastor, the comment wouldn’t have been edifying. Instead she marched toward town, being careful not to jostle the eggs, a difficult premise considering the length of the march and how very much she wanted to throw the basket and watch its contents splatter and break.
 

Only a fool would’ve given in to the urge, however, and Bess Jones was no fool. The paltry amount she made on these twice-weekly trips had grown into a tidy sum over the years. Enough, in fact, to buy her a train ticket to a place where she might be appreciated.

The only trouble was, Bess couldn’t for the life of her figure out where that place was. Even as her sisters each married up and left home, she’d given no thought to leaving Bitter Springs.
 

Why would she when Pa needed her so?

But now? Far as she could tell she was about as needed as screen door in the wintertime.

Bess let out a long breath then put on a smile as she stepped into Hertzog Mercantile to make the first of her deliveries, her feet aching. By the time she reached the sheriff’s office on Post Oak Road, her basket was nearly empty.
 

“A half-dozen’s all I’ve got left,” she told Miriam, the sheriff’s stout Irish housekeeper who tended both the sheriff’s quarters and the jailhouse. “But if you’d like to lay claim to a larger share than usual, I can fetch them to you day after tomorrow.”

 
“’Tis a pity,” she said as she removed the eggs and set them gently into the pockets of her apron. “While the jail’s blessedly empty this week, the sheriff’s expecting someone important. A Ranger out of San Antone,” she said as if announcing some sort of royal visit.

“Is that right?”
 

Bess counted the coins and dropped them into the drawstring bag she used as a money pouch. Her next trip would be to the bank.

“It’s right indeed.” She leaned close. “I know you can keep a secret, Bess Jones. You’ve always been the reliable Jones girl.”

The reliable Jones girl.
 

Sadly, that was her in a nutshell. Not pretty or talented or even interesting. Not a crack shot or handy with a horse. Not even pretty.

Reliable.
 

Bessie Mae, plain as day.

Bess tucked the pouch back into her pocket then noticed Miriam seemed to be waiting for some sort of answer. “Yes, of course.”

Miriam cast a glance over her shoulder where the sheriff sat hunched over what appeared to be a pile of paperwork, his chin resting on his palms. Upon closer inspection, Bess could see his eyes were closed.

The housekeeper grasped the handle of the empty basket. “It’s Josef Mueller who’s coming to catch that Pale Indian fellow.
 
Sheriff Arrington sent a telegram saying he was on the way.”
 

She glanced over her shoulder at the still-napping lawman then back at Bess. “You remember Josef Mueller, don’t you? Fine looking fellow, that one, best I recall, and now he’s one of those Texas Rangers. Likely he’ll catch this Pale Indian fellow.”

Miriam prattled on, but Bess’s mind had stuck on two words: Josef Mueller.
 

Indeed she remembered him. Fine looking or not, he was the one responsible for the awful schoolyard rhyme that still intruded on her thoughts.

Bessie Mae, plain as day.

Of all the days to be reminded of that. And of him.
 

Oh, yes, she knew Josef Mueller. Pale Indian, however, she’d never heard of. Bess was about to ask when the sheriff roused to sit up straight.
 

“Miriam,” he called. “Either we’ve got company needing to be invited in or a door that begs to be shut. Which is it?”

“It’s just Bess,” Miriam called. “Come to bring the eggs.”

“Yes,” Bess added with a sigh. “
Just
Bess.”

“Well inside or on with you,” he called with a chuckle. “The breeze going to blow away my paperwork.”

“More likely you’ll lose it to sleeping on it, Sheriff Bauer,” Miriam called as she gave Bess a wink then closed the door.

As she stepped away, Bess could hear the good-natured banter between the pair even as she cast about for the familiar face of someone who might offer her a ride back home to the ranch. Then the door flew open and the sheriff appeared.
 

“A word with you, Miss Jones,” Bauer said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d not say anything about what Miriam’s gone and jabbered about.”

“What might that be?” Bess shrugged. “Oh, about Josef. Of course.”

His strained expression relaxed. “Wouldn’t want to let this Injun fellow know we’re on to him.”

She spied the pastor coming out of the mercantile and waved in the hopes she’d caught him beginning his round of visits to parishioners instead of completing them. Perhaps she’d not have to walk home after all.

“Miss Jones?” the sheriff said.

“Oh, yes. He’ll never hear it from me,” Bess said with the appropriate amount of sarcasm. It took a moment to realize the lawman was serious. “I was teasing, of course,” she added. “I don’t even know who this Pink Indian is.”

“That’s Pale Indian.”

“Right.” Bess shrugged as she watched the pastor turn toward the church. So much for begging a ride from him. With a sigh, she returned her attention to the lawman. “As I said, I’ve no idea who this fellow is.”

“’Course you don’t.” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed as he studied her from below the brim of his hat. “See that you’re careful ‘till we catch him.”

“Careful. Certainly.”
 

Bess turned away with a grin. The biggest trouble she’d likely find today was sore feet.
 

After all, nothing ever happened in Bitter Springs, Texas.

CHAPTER 2

Joe stepped out into the late-morning sunshine, his belly full of Ida Klein’s pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Likely she’d clean up the breakfast dishes then start on lunch, after which would come supper.
 

He’d noticed a lack of repairs on the old place but hadn’t found a way to ask why Tommy hadn’t been doing his duties to care for his mama. Maybe the railroad job that kept him too busy to find a wife also blinded him to the obvious.
 

Familiarity tended to do that, though figuring out the why of it didn’t get anything done.

Thus, his trip to town had been delayed while he allowed Mrs. Klein to show him to the hammer and nails so he could take on the more pressing of the repairs. He’d finished the items on her list in short order and gone one to a few more he’d found before the clock over the now-mended mantel sent him scurrying for his gun belt.

Of course, before he could head to town, Joe was called back into the kitchen to taste fresh
springerle
just out of the oven. As the cookies were his favorite, the job wasn’t an unpleasant one, but it did cost him another half-hour of valuable daylight.
 

When he finally got out the door, Joe was carrying two more
springerle
and a towel-wrapped mason jar of coffee in his hands. His host was just a few steps behind him.

“A week here and I’d be unfit to ride,” he said as he settled onto the saddle. “If Tommy eats like this, he’s likely round as a barrel.”
 

Hopefully, Tommy would pay his mama a visit before Joe caught up to Pale Indian and dispatched the criminal back to San Antonio.
 

The mare picked its way across the rocky pasture then broke into a trot once she reached the road to town. Mrs. Klein’s substantial fare kept him from having to stop for the biscuit and bacon she insisted he bring, though he did pause long enough to water the mare at the edge of the Guadalupe.
 

Soon enough, Joe caught his first glance at the growing town of Bitter Springs. That slight slowed him down considerably and sent a fresh set of memories coursing through him. It had been far too long.

Where once just a few sad buildings leaned against one another now stood freshly whitewashed dwellings and the smart spire of the church. Up ahead where the surprisingly busy road ran into Main Street, Joe spied the saloon – his second planned stop of the day.

First, however, he had to check in with the sheriff. Giving a passing glance to the Hertzog Mercantile, which had been considerably smaller last time he saw it, Joe turned the corner onto Post Oak Road.
 

At least the sheriff’s office still looked the same. There had obviously been no need to expand this place or the jail when it likely sat empty except for the occasional over-celebrated cowpoke.

And Joe intended to keep it that way. If Pale Indian was hiding out in these parts, it wouldn’t be for long.
 

Nudging past a pair of matrons comparing notes on the price of calico, Joe reached for the door of the sheriff’s office only to find it fly open of its own accord.
 

“Come on in here,” a cheerful woman demanded. “The sheriff’s been waiting for you, and I’ve got lunch on the stove.
Rinderrouladen
, it is, and the best you’ll find in Bitter Springs, that’s for sure.”

At the mention of the familiar German beef dish, Joe opened his mouth to protest but the woman’s hasty exit prevented it. Instead, he found himself shaking hands with a much-older-than-he-remembered Sheriff Bauer.
 

“I’m not one for wasting time,” Bauer said. “That’s why I had you hauled down here.”

Joe shrugged. “But the sheriff over in-“

“About that, son,” he said slowly. “It was me who told Arrington to get you heading this way.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to have to ask you to explain yourself, sir.”

Bauer chuckled. “Spoken like a true Ranger. You don’t sound anything like that kid who hung around the alley behind the jail and shot cans off the fence with his slingshot.”

“I suppose not,” he said. “But I’d still be obliged if you’d-”
 

“Explain myself. Right, well, what with the size of this town, do you think I’d be able to keep the fact that I know who this Injun feller is quiet if I marched down to the telegraph office and sent for you?”
 

He did have a point. “All right then, I’ll ask the obvious. Why me?”
 

Bauer shrugged as he pointed to the wall where a poster of Pale Indian had been pinned. “’You were the only man for the job, what with you being his best friend and all.”

“Best friend?” Joe shook his head even as the blood froze in his veins. “Not…”

“Tommy Klein?” the sheriff nodded. “It appears so, Josef.”
 

“You’re wrong,” Joe blurted out. “If it were him, I’d have suspected. I saw Pale Indian not two weeks ago. It couldn’t be…”
 

But as he said the words, he realized he
hadn’t
seen Pale Indian clear enough to identify his face. Not with his hat hiding what the crying child didn’t.
 

Joe stormed around the desk and yanked the topmost poster off the jumble of pages tacked to the wall. “You can see for yourself. That man isn’t any more Tommy Klein than you and I are.”

Yet as he tried not to stare, he had to admit there was something familiar around the eyes. And there was the scar just south of the man’s left eye that looked a bit like the one Tommy got when Joe dared him to try and catch his mama’s banty rooster barehanded.

Still, it couldn’t be Tommy.
 

Joe let the poster drop onto the desk and turned his gaze to the sheriff. “How can a man whose father was shot in cold blood turn around and go the way of a killer?”
 

Sheriff Bauer remained silent. As wearers of the badge, they both knew tragedy could just as likely turn a man to good as to evil, especially when the tragedy came as a result of a crime that had never been solved.

Finally the older man shrugged. “Maybe it ain’t. Maybe Tom’s just working a lot of hours at the railroad and not able to care for his mama like he used to.”