Prairie Song (10 page)

As she talked, she moved closer until now they were only a hand’s width apart. His rust-colored eyes turned a deep brown as passion replaced anger. Instinctively, she wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. His head turned slightly to follow her touch.

“I did what I had to do,” she whispered as the longing for his arms became a great ache within her. Her instinct about him had been right. He wasn’t evil. He’d stood with Hank to fight for what was right. She’d never wanted to hold anyone in her life as much as she wanted to hold Brant Coulter right now.

But he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. When his words finally came they were slow and filled with agony. “Don’t you see? They’ve seen you. You’ve signed your own death warrant.”

Dawn broke without any peace at Hattie’s Parlor. The children had been taking turns crying as if conspiring to keep the adults up all night. Hattie was yelling for her pain medicine. Azile, half-drunk, swore she’d seen a raven fly by her window before breakfast. Although she wasn’t sure what it meant, she was sure it was something bad. Stacked on top of everything was Margaret’s growing panic that Cherish was missing.

Grayson had his own theories, but he remained silent as she stormed and worried through the hours of darkness. If the girl hadn’t taken his horse he might have left Maggie with the children and tried to follow Cherish.

By noon Maggie could stand the wait no longer. She had to see if she could find her niece. She dressed in her most proper clothes and went to the sheriff’s office with Grayson following a step behind.

The deputy was the only one in the office when they arrived. He was a nervous man in his mid-thirties. He proved to be of no help, and foolishly suggested that young girls sometimes run away with their fellows. He was quickly and sharply corrected by Margaret, who assured him that Cherish would do no such thing without talking it over with her. Finally, more out of self-defense than interest, the deputy promised to file a full report, but Margaret doubted he could sharpen his own pencil, much less use it.

A sheriff, looking like he’d been in a bar fight, wandered in while they were talking and slumped into his chair. After he listened to Margaret’s description, he raised one eyebrow, paid close attention, and even asked a few questions about Cherish.

Margaret glanced in his direction. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

The sheriff shook his head vigorously, then cradled it as though deeply regretting the action. Finally he answered. “I saw her once at the back door of Holliday’s saloon.”

The deputy quickly agreed and offered to go over to Holliday’s and ask a few questions.

Margaret badgered the sheriff for several more minutes but gained no more information. She refused to believe that any possibility existed that Cherish might have visited a saloon.

As they marched back home, Grayson debated whether to tell her about Cherish leaving or not. She was guessing all kinds of things that could have happened to Cherish, but Grayson knew one fact. The girl left of her own free will and there wasn’t much the law or Margaret could do about that.

All evening Margaret paced. She searched the house completely just in case Cherish had fallen somewhere and was lying unconscious. As evening veiled the day, Father Daniel came to call. He looked tired and Grayson didn’t miss the bandage on his hand or the bruise along his hairline. The priest explained them both away as a spill from his spirited horse, but Grayson somehow doubted his story.

The clergyman did have a calming effect on Margaret, however. He listened intently to her story and patted her hand gently as he told her he’d do whatever he could to help. His pale gray eyes held a world of sorrow in their depths and somehow Margaret felt better at having laid her problems at his door. When he finally left, he gave her a brotherly hug and told her he’d pray for Cherish’s safe return.

Grayson watched him walk away and wondered if Father Daniel was any closer to God’s ear than anyone else. Somehow he doubted it. Something about the priest made Grayson nervous. He couldn’t put his finger on what didn’t fit together, but he always had the feeling that he needed to wash his hands after touching the man. Grayson felt that somewhere beneath the layers of concern and love was a kind of filth so deep that no amount of lye soap would ever wash it away. He’d spent ten years bringing in murderers, thieves, and traitors, but none gave him the bad taste in his mouth that the priest did. It was no more than a hunch, but Grayson had stayed alive because of his hunches.

Hours later, when Margaret called him, he felt like he’d only just closed his eyes. She was dressed and proper as ever, except for the lines of sleeplessness around her eyes. “We’re going to talk to this woman named Holliday. I have nowhere else to turn.”

While he dressed, she stepped into Cherish’s room and checked on the babies, then rattled off instructions for Azile and Bar. Azile was only half-listening, but Bar nodded his understanding. When she returned, Grayson noticed she’d slipped her derringer into her pocket instead of putting it in the strap holster on her leg.

Margaret was all starch and vinegar as she marched down the street to the core of the area known as Hell’s Half-Acre. She didn’t seem to see the stares or hear the whispers as she continued until she reached the saloon owned by the woman named Holliday.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door aside and stepped into the filthy establishment. The initial stench that met Margaret and Grayson was almost overwhelming. Margaret stood for a minute at the entrance to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Grayson’s senses went on immediate alert. He had seen too many of these places not to know that trouble was just waiting for an excuse to explode. The walls of the saloon were a dull gray and black from a mixture of smoke and whiskey, and the floor was so dirty that straw had been thrown down to absorb some of the spilled liquor and spit. Grayson had heard it said once that if a man died in a bar like this, it might be two days before anyone would pick him up off the floor. Not till his body finally outsmelled the grime did they lift him up and toss him into the street.

“I wish to speak to a woman named Holliday,” Margaret said to a sleepy-eyed bartender after getting her bearings and determining that no one was going to ask her if she needed help.

Grayson carefully watched the few people left in the bar from the night before. They were long into their liquor and posed no threat.

“I’m Holliday.” A huge woman stepped through a side door from where voices were coming. “I’m a little busy right now with this big poker game going on. Could you come back later, lady?”

Margaret turned her full attention to the almost topless woman. For a moment Margaret’s mouth dropped open slightly at the size of the big-breasted woman whose blouse had slipped to the point that nipples the blood red color of her lipstick were showing just above the worn lace.

“I’m Margaret Alexander.” Margaret extended her hand. She might be a proud woman full of her own sense of right and wrong, but she was not fast to judge people, no matter how they dressed or where they came from.

Holliday’s smile showed her approval. There wasn’t one lady in a hundred who would look her in the eye, much less shake her hand. This thin widow had just made a friend without doing a thing besides offering her hand. As she took Margaret’s hand and pumped it, Margaret introduced her to Grayson.

One painted eyebrow bounced up. “Your man?”

Margaret straightened. “No. My employee.”

Holliday wasted no time moving the few feet to Grayson. “Hi ya, honey. How come I ain’t never seen you in here before? A body could use a strong man like you.” She heaved her huge breasts against his arm as she added, “I’ll bet you’d give a girl a hell of a ride.”

Grayson tried to keep from laughing, not at Holliday, for she was plying her trade quite well, but at Margaret’s reaction. His lady was about to scratch this whore’s eyes out and he loved seeing the fire in Margaret’s face. He crossed his arms, only giving the overpainted woman more arm to rub against.

She moved her body back and forth across his forearms and licked her scarlet lips. “Don’t forget to come a-looking for me, darling,” she whispered. “My door’s always open to a fine strapping man like yourself.”

Margaret found her tongue. “He doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”

Holliday laughed and stepped away. As she did so, she heaved her chest once more, pulling the material even lower for Grayson’s benefit. “Oh, he understands. There ain’t a man alive who doesn’t understand me.”

Her wink was bold and inviting. Some other time Grayson might have enjoyed a night with such a woman, but lately all he’d been hungry for was Margaret, and he knew no other woman would satisfy him.

Holliday walked back to Margaret and put one fist on her wide hip. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“I’m looking for my niece, Cherish Wyatt. Have you seen her?”

Holliday motioned for the bartender to pour her one, and studied Margaret carefully while he made the drink of half-whiskey and half-rye. Finally, with drink in hand, she answered. “I may be a lot of things, Mrs. Alexander, but a liar ain’t one of them. I don’t think I’d be doing no one any harm by telling you your niece came to my door once. She doctored a man staying upstairs and left.” Holliday’s eyes narrowed as she read Margaret’s expression. “There weren’t no harm that come to her that night, you have my word.”

“And the man’s name?” Margaret asked, knowing that the woman spoke the truth. Cherish would go anywhere, even into a place like this, if she thought someone was suffering.

Holliday’s eyes narrowed. “I make a habit of forgetting names as soon as they pay. All you need to know is that she left here without coming to any harm.”

Margaret nodded, knowing she’d get no more information out of this woman. “Thank you for your help.”

Holliday lifted a tray of beer and headed to the back room. “I better get this refreshment to those fools who’ve been playing all night before they break the place down.”

As she opened the door wide to accommodate both herself and the tray, Margaret looked into the smoke-filled room.

Grayson had already turned and was halfway to the door when he realized Margaret wasn’t at his side. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her face drain of all blood. Before he could stop her, she moved to the door Holliday had left open and whispered, “Westley?”

Her one word was like a death toll on the entire room. Every man froze and turned toward her as she stood in the doorway. “Westley,” she whispered again as if confronting a ghost.

A tall, heavyset man stood up behind the table. His chest and stomach were wide with years of drink and his shoulders permanently rounded from playing a lifetime of poker. His hair was pulled back from a hawklike nose and his face was saloon pale.

“Margaret!” He looked at her directly with eyes the color of well water. “I always knew someday you’d find me. You were too stubborn to allow me to remain a dead hero.”

Margaret’s world was shattering. “But, Westley, you died.”

The huge man laughed, inspiring the laughter of his comrades. “Gentlemen”—he made a wide sweep with his hand—”my wife. I’ve been dead more than four years and she still mourns me.”

“But”—Margaret ignored the comments of the others—”you didn’t come home.”

“To what?” Westley’s drunken mind resented her. “To a farm where I’d die a slower death than in battle? To you, my barren wife, who was so cold in bed I’d rather sleep with whores. At least they are warm for my money.”

Margaret’s hand began to shake and she moved it inside her pocket. “You’re nothing but a lying traitor, both to me and to your country.”

“Better a traitor than your husband. How many times do you think I’d allow you to turn me away? I should have whipped you senseless that last night when you wouldn’t let me touch you again. You should have taken my seed until you swelled. I wanted to leave with my brat growing in your belly so you’d soften and not be the hard woman you’ve become.”

“Stop!” Margaret shouted.

“Why, Maggie, you know it’s the truth.” He turned to his friends. “Look at her, gentlemen. A man would freeze to death in her bed. Would you believe my last night before I left for battle she tried to lock me out of our bedroom.”

“Stop!”

Westley didn’t listen. “Why? I knew the South’s cause was hopeless early on and got out. Our marriage was just a convenience. Everyone was getting married before they left. It took me a few months to have my fill of army life, but it only took me one night to have all I wanted of you, woman.”

“I said stop!” Margaret raised the gun from her pocket and fired. “I’ll make myself a true widow.”

All the men at the table hit the floor in a heartbeat. Grayson could hear them cussing as they wallowed in the tobacco they’d been spitting all night. Westley darted for the door, but Margaret fired again. He stumbled. Her third bullet hit him in the leg.

Margaret’s world was falling apart. Her hands were shaking badly, but she closed her eyes and fired again, sending splinters from the door Westley had just limped through.

Grayson didn’t know how to stop her. In a moment, she would have a half-dozen men firing at her. He leaned and grabbed her around the waist. His sudden jerk made her drop the gun. Before she could bend to reach it, he threw her over his shoulder and ran from the saloon with her screaming and kicking like a wounded mountain lion.

Folks on the Acre were used to all kinds of wild happenings, but they stopped and stared, open-mouthed, as Grayson stormed down the street with Margaret over his shoulder.

When he reached the house, he carried her up the stairs past Azile, who didn’t act as if anything was out of the ordinary. When he was finally in her room, he slammed the door and set her on her feet.

As he’d expected, she came at him like a madwoman, kicking, hitting, and screaming. For a while, he let her pound against his chest, knowing that her pain hurt her far more than her fists could ever hurt him. He watched in silence as her hair tumbled around her face and wondered how even a fool such as Westley could be so blind.