Savage Arrow (3 page)

As an only child, Reginald had been spoiled rotten, always getting his way with his parents. His mother and father had said that he would only have to go to Sunday services when he wanted to.

And Reginald had never wanted to.

Jessie thought it odd that the boy she remembered
should have dedicated himself to the church. But perhaps he’d had a change of heart after his great silver find. Perhaps becoming so rich so quickly had brought him close to the Lord. Maybe he felt blessed for having been led into a life of luxury.

Jessie hadn’t set eyes on Reginald for many years, but she recalled that the last time she had seen him, he had turned into a mousy little man.

She had actually dreaded coming to live with him, but she, too, was an only child, and all of her family was dead.

As far as she knew, Reginald was her only living relative, as was she his.

As children, they had ridden horses and played and fussed.

He’d hated it when she got the best of him in everything they did, because of his tiny size.

She was also petite and had never regretted it, but for Reginald, being small had become a curse.

He had to look up at most men from his four-feet-eight-inches height. Even Jessie was taller than he.

And he wore spectacles with such thick lenses, they made his eyes look twice their size. His eyeglasses had often frightened the girls away, while the boys mocked him and called him “four-eyes.”

She was suddenly aware of singing. She turned and looked down the long street. At the far end was a lovely church with a tall bell tower.

The windows were open. The people were singing hymns that Jessie recognized at once, and not just from her childhood churchgoing.

Her dear departed husband had been a preacher.

Living in the wild and woolly city of Kansas City, her husband had died on the streets of the city, shot down by lawless gunmen.

She had had no choice but to come and live with her only living relative in Tombstone, but she had been afraid that this town would not be any tamer than Kansas City. The name itself had sent chills up and down her spine, but she had no place else to go, no one else to turn to.

She knew she ought to be grateful to Reginald, who had invited her to come and live with him. In his telegram, he had bragged about his house, saying it was the finest in town, which was only right since he was the richest person there.

She could not help being proud of her cousin, for he had shown them all that size wasn’t all. He was a small man with a huge fortune!

But even wealth had not gained him everything. He had not remarried since the death of his wife, Sara. Maybe there was only one woman on this earth for a man who was smaller than most.

“Is that the church where Reginald is the preacher?” she asked, turning to gaze questioningly at the men.

That brought low chuckles from them.

The sheriff leaned down into her face. “He ain’t no preacher,” he said smugly. “He just has that nickname since he pretends to be holier than anyone else in this town.”

“Oh?” Jessie said, confused.

“But yonder is the church where you’ll find him,” the man quickly added, pointing to it.

“Thank you for your help,” Jessie said softly. “I appreciate it.” She looked up at the sheriff. “Will you please see that my trunk is taken to Reginald’s house when it is found?”

“I certainly will, ma’am,” the sheriff said, again taking his hat from his head and giving her a half bow. He watched her as she turned and began walking down the long main street of his town, her purse clutched in her hand.

Jessie quickly discovered that she had to watch where she stepped, for the road showed signs of recent rain; wagon wheels had made deep ruts in the dirt.

She lifted the hem of her skirt and walked onward, her eyes misting with tears as she remembered the last time she had been inside a church . . . to attend the funeral services for her husband.

It had been his church, for he had been a Methodist minister in Kansas City, admired by everyone. One stray bullet had claimed his life.

That bullet had left Jessie totally alone. Both her father and mother had been gunned down on the streets of Kansas City a few years earlier.

Before Jessie was born, her father had been a notorious outlaw, called Two Guns Pete. When his wife had announced that she was pregnant, he had hung his holstered pistols on a peg on the wall and had not taken them down again.

The law had never caught up with him. No one recognized
Two Guns Pete in that peace-loving man who came to Kansas City with a pregnant wife.

But all that changed one fateful day when his daughter Jessie had been seventeen. He was spotted by Bulldog Jones, an outlaw he’d double-crossed when they rode together in the same outlaw gang.

This man had apparently searched high and low and finally found his old rival buddy. It had taken only two bullets to take him and Jessie’s mother away from her, leaving her orphaned and penniless.

Although her father had been a loving and doting father, as well as a devoted husband, he had squandered his money away, gambling.

The young Reverend Steven Pilson had taken Jessie under his wing. Eventually he had married her.

She had learned to adore this soft-spoken man, but had never loved him with passion. It was an easy, sweet love.

As she continued walking down the middle of the street, still clutching her beaded purse to her side, Jessie noticed the false-fronted buildings on each side, among them saloons, gambling halls, and whorehouses.

Through the doors of the saloons she could hear the rumble of voices, poker chips rattling, and dealers calling the cards while presiding over games of poker, faro, and monte.

She could smell the strong, offensive odor of whiskey.

It was obvious to her that this was a wicked city, one that did not close down even for God’s special day.

Suddenly Jessie saw a crowd of men in front of a row
of small square buildings. In each one, sparsely clothed young women were standing in the front window.

Among them was a very pretty Chinese girl who seemed no older than fifteen. Her eyes met Jessie’s with a mixture of emotions in them—shame, pleading, sadness . . . fear!

Jessie was stunned to see such a young girl there, for she knew very well what went on inside. Jessie had seen the same shameful buildings in Kansas City.

They were called “cribs,” where prostitutes practiced their trade.

But none had ever been on the main street of the city like these were, in Tombstone. She was beginning to believe that this town was far more wicked than Kansas City had ever been.

She made herself look away from the pretty Chinese girl and focus on what lay ahead of her. Surely her life here would be a decent, comfortable one. Her cousin had found a mountain of silver, as he had described it. He must have all the comforts anyone would ever want.

Finally reaching the lovely church, she slowly climbed the steps, then went inside.

The pews were filled with people.

She smiled as two women scooted over, giving her a place to sit. After getting settled in among the people in the back row, Jessie stared straight ahead, at the man who stood behind the pulpit, then softly gasped.

She couldn’t believe her eyes.

Her cousin was at the pulpit. He was reading verses from the Bible as the Methodist minister stood aside.

Reginald’s reddish brown hair, which at one time had
been so thick, was now thin, yet hung long to his white collar. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and narrow tie.

He seemed even tinier than Jessie remembered. In fact, he seemed almost shrunken, his shoulders slouching, as though they carried a heavy weight.

When Reginald was finished, the minister thanked him. “Reginald, every town should be as lucky as Tombstone to have such a fine citizen as you,” he said, placing a gentle hand on Reginald’s thin shoulder. “You know the Bible well and practice its teachings in your daily life.”

Everyone said, “Amen.”

Jessie watched Reginald go to his seat among the congregation.

She could tell that he was still a man very much caught up in himself. He was obviously pleased by what the preacher had said about him.

She was puzzled that he had shown no sign of recognition as she came in the door. He couldn’t have helped seeing her as he had glanced up from the Bible when she’d entered.

Had she changed that much since they had last seen one another?

She didn’t think she looked so different. The only real change in her was not yet apparent: she was pregnant.

She placed a hand on her stomach. She had only realized that she was with child during the long, tedious journey from Kansas City.

But it wasn’t at all obvious to anyone else. She would not be showing for a while.

Finally the church service was over.

Jessie slipped out of the building before everyone else and stood back. She watched Reginald again as everyone came up and shook his hand; he stood beside the preacher as though he belonged there.

She saw how he peered through his thick eyeglasses as though he had difficulty seeing. Surely that was why he hadn’t recognized her. His eyes must have weakened since the last time they were together.

And he had other signs of physical decay. She could hear him wheezing and wondered if he had some sort of chronic lung problem.

She began to pity him and decided that it would be her job to make this man happy. She would care for him when he was ill. She would make him glad that he had taken pity on his widowed cousin.

When everyone else had gone past Reginald and the preacher, and even the preacher had left the church, Jessie shyly went up to Reginald. She reached out a gloved hand toward him.

“Hi, Cousin,” she murmured, watching for his reaction.

Reginald gazed intently at her through his thick glasses, even adjusted them on his long, thin nose, then smiled and reached his arms out for Jessie. “Jessie,” he said between wheezes. “I’m so glad you made it safely to Tombstone.”

He stepped away from her, still peering at her through his glasses. “I thought you were to be on a later stagecoach,” he said questioningly.

She started to tell him about the ambush, then stopped. She didn’t want to get into it again.

And she still didn’t want to tell anyone about Chief Thunder Horse. Not even her cousin, whom she should trust with anything.

But . . . there was something about Reginald, a strange sort of demeanor, that made her hesitate to tell him much of anything. It was a cold aloofness, which was vastly different from the way he had treated the people of the congregation. He had welcomed them heartily as they walked past him and the preacher for handshakes and embraces.

She wondered now if he truly wanted her there with him. Was she going to interfere in his life?

She would soon find out, for he had walked her to a horse and buggy as fancy and fine as those owned by the wealthiest families in Kansas City.

“Let me help you,” Reginald said, placing a hand at Jessie’s elbow and struggling as he tried to help her board the buggy, when she needed no help at all.

She could tell that he was trying to make a good impression on her. She had always bested him in everything . . . until now.

He was the rich one.

She was as poor as a church mouse.

As Reginald drove them back down the rutted street, Jessie found it hard to make conversation with him. He hadn’t even inquired about her trunk, which was obviously absent.

He didn’t inquire about her journey either, didn’t ask whether it had been comfortable, or safe.

They sat in a strained silence until they arrived at his ranch on the outskirts of town. It was then that Jessie
truly understood the wealth of this man. He lived in a beautiful, sprawling ranch house. His spread reached out across a wide, beautiful valley. A flowing stream bisected it.

Indeed, it was an impressive sight.

She now also saw a corral full of beautiful horses. She could hardly wait to choose one for her personal use.

Out there, in the great open spaces, she could ride and ride and ride.

She might even happen upon Chief Thunder Horse’s village!

That thought was wrenched from her mind when the buggy pulled up in front of the long, low, rambling ranch house of hewn logs. It had shaded galleries and a comfortable-looking veranda running across the front.

The house was connected by an open walkway to a building that she assumed contained the kitchen and dining room, which was so often separated from the main house to minimize the danger of fire.

A garden of flowers stretched out luxuriant in front of the house.

“Jessie, welcome to my humble abode,” Reginald said as he stepped down and came to her side. He reached a hand toward her, helping her down from the buggy.

Reginald gently held her by an elbow as they went up the front steps. Inside, his wealth was even more evident to Jessie.

“My parlor,” Reginald said, leading her into a huge room dominated by a large stone fireplace.

The place was lavishly decorated. Jessie saw carved furniture, red velvet drapes, fine paintings on the walls, and deep, soft rugs covering the floors.

“May I introduce you to my maid, who is also my cook,” Reginald said as a short and plump yet lovely Chinese woman came into the room. She was dressed in clothes other than Chinese—a black dress with a white collar—and her black hair was coiled in a tight bun atop her head. But in her eyes Jessie thought she read some kind of warning.

“Her name is Jade,” Reginald quickly said, without bothering to introduce Jessie to the woman.

Jade bowed gracefully to Jessie.

Jessie returned the bow. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Jessie,” she murmured as the woman straightened her back and looked uneasily at Reginald.

“Go on with you now,” Reginald said to the servant, shooing her away with a flick of a hand.

Jessie watched the woman walk away in short, quick steps; then she turned her eyes back to her cousin, even as her mind turned to someone else. Jade reminded Jessie of the beautiful Chinese girl in the crib. She could not forget the shame on her face as men watched her and said filthy things to her.