The Rustler (22 page)

“Fiona,” she said, putting out a gloved hand to him.

“Fiona,” he repeated, to lodge the name in his mind, in case he ever needed it. He glanced at the hanky clasped desperately in her left hand while he shook the right one, being careful not to tighten his grip. “Is something the matter?”

“My poor aunt Lavinia,” she said. “She's been ailing for months, and now she's taken a turn for the worse.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Wyatt said.

“It's not widely known,” Fiona confided, leaning in close to Wyatt, “but I've tendered my resignation and I won't be teaching at Stone Creek School when the new term starts next week. I've been sure right along that I'd need to go back to Chicago and take care of dear Aunt Lavinia, but it's still a
terrible
wrench to leave.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Wyatt said, at a loss.

“I have so many friends here,” Fiona said.

“I reckon you probably do.” Did Sarah have lunch on the table? Was she wondering what was keeping him?

“And it's only out of pure friendship that I'd say this—”

Wyatt braced himself, knowing there would be no escape. Waited.

“I'm convinced,” Fiona told him, “that Sarah Tamlin hasn't
saved herself.
”

For a moment, Wyatt was adrift. Sarah played the organ at revivals and in church. It seemed probable that she would have gotten around to getting saved at some point, not that Wyatt required salvation of a wife. Just fidelity, the truth, and a willingness to bear his children.

Then he realized what Fiona was really saying. “Those,” he said, “are not the words of a friend.” He started around Fiona, not bothering to tip his hat a second time.

She chased after him, caught at his arm. “She got into some kind of trouble when she was in college,” she sputtered, “and some folks are even saying that boy she's keeping for Mr. Langstreet is
her son.
”

Wyatt felt as though he'd been kicked by a mule, square in the center of his stomach. The breath went out of him. So
that
was why she looked at Owen the way she did, why she reached out to muss his hair and then quickly withdrew her hand.

“And,”
Fiona went mercilessly on, “Sarah's mother's maiden name was
Owen.
”

Wyatt was annoyed—with himself, for not guessing at something so obvious, with Fiona for talking behind Sarah's back. Once he'd gotten over the initial shock, though, he felt the same nervous jubilation he had signing the papers to buy fifty acres and a shack.

Sarah's secrets were unraveling, one after the other.

Before long, he'd know all about her.

S
ARAH HAD BEEN ENJOYING
a run of good luck with her cooking, but that day, the tide turned. She'd put a pot of potato soup on the stove to simmer, before going with Owen to the mercantile, and when she and the boy came through the kitchen door, the room was full of scorched-smelling smoke. Lonesome, confined to the spare room during their absence lest he chew a table leg or gnaw on the piano stool cushion, barked frantically.

Sarah rushed to take the pan off the stove, dumping it into the sink. She flung up the kitchen window and surveyed the room, looking for flames.

Fortunately, there were none.

Owen hurried to set Lonesome free.

The dog hobbled out of confinement and gazed at a coughing Sarah in baleful curiosity.

Now
what was she going to do for food? Wyatt and her father would be along at any minute, probably ravenous, and she would have nothing to give them.

Owen ducked back into his room, followed by Lonesome, and when he came back, he was wearing his stiff new dungarees and the flour-sack shirt, blue with tiny white dots in the pattern. “Me and Lonesome,” he said solemnly, “could go back to the mercantile and get some bologna.”

“Good idea,” Sarah said, fanning the room with a dish towel in a fruitless effort to disperse the smoke. She paused in her efforts long enough to take a coin from her handbag. “Buy a loaf of bread, too. If Mabel asks why I haven't done my baking, tell her I've been too busy.”

Owen accepted the coin.

“Maybe Lonesome ought to stay here with me,” Sarah suggested, eyeing the dog worriedly.

“He'll pine,” Owen objected. “Anyhow, Wyatt told me Lonesome should move around as much as he can.”

“Very well,” Sarah allowed, distracted, “but if he gets too tired, bring him back home immediately.”

Owen nodded and left the house, Lonesome padding stoically along behind him.

Sarah went back to fluttering her dish towel.

Several minutes had passed, she supposed, when she heard Wyatt's chuckle and turned to see him standing, hat in hand, in the open doorway leading into the side yard.

She flushed, oddly mortified. “I've burned the soup,” she said.

He set his hat aside on the old chest beside the door, and entered the room. Crossed to the sink and peered into the kettle still smoldering there.

“I think that pan's seen its last,” he said. “What kind of soup was it?”

It was unlike Sarah to fuss, especially over food. To her, it was just something one had to consume to keep going, like coal shoveled into a boiler in a locomotive.
“Potato!”
she wailed, and then burst into tears.

Wyatt turned from the sink, came to her, pulled her into his arms. “There, now,” he said, holding her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. “It was only soup.”

Sarah sniffled, making a mighty effort to pull herself together. What was it about this man that turned her into a person who cried over
soup?

They were still standing like that when Lonesome joined them.

“I met up with Owen and the dog at the corner,” Wyatt explained. “Lonesome was getting tuckered, so I brought him home.”

Glad of something to do, besides stand there in Wyatt's embrace weeping like the heroine of some silly road-show melodrama, Sarah went to fill the dog's bowl with fresh water and shut the door. Most of the smoke was gone, but the flies were getting in.

That was life for you, she reflected. You dealt with one problem, only to find that, by doing so, you'd opened the way for another.

When she glanced over one shoulder at Wyatt's face, alerted by some new tension in the air, she saw that he was watching her, his eyes somber, and a shade or two darker than usual.

“I met Fiona, coming out of the telegraph office,” he said, as though this were a thing of portent, and not an ordinary occurrence.

Sarah wondered at his sudden solemnity; he'd seemed amused over the potato-soup debacle. “She'll be leaving us soon,” she said mildly, taking butter from the icebox. Due to flies, she didn't take the lid off the dish, as she normally would have, but set it on the table. Doc said flies carried disease, and she believed him.

Wyatt started to speak, stopped himself. Clearly, he was in the grip of some dilemma.

Sarah stopped fidgeting with kitchen things, alarmed now. “Wyatt,” she said quietly, “what's the matter?”

“I can't work out whether it's right to say what's on my mind or keep it to myself,” he answered, looking pained.

Sarah donned an apron, tied it briskly at the small of her back, smoothed it with anxious, damp-palmed hands. “Tell me,” she said.

“There's talk, Sarah,” Wyatt said, and he looked miserable.

“This is a small town,” she said, though her nerves were jittery now. “There's
always
talk. Did Fiona find out I took a bath at Rowdy's place the other night, after we washed down those poor men for burying?”

Wyatt shook his head. Swallowed. Glanced toward the still-closed door before looking Sarah in the eye again. “According to Fiona, folks are saying that Owen is your boy.”

The silverware in Sarah's hands clattered to the floor, and she felt the blood drain out of her face.
“What?”

“Is it true, Sarah?” She could tell nothing of his feelings by his expression, nor did she try. She hauled back a chair at the table and fell into it, windless.

Wyatt simply waited.

Sarah's eyes filled with a fresh wash of tears. She didn't mind the scandal for herself so much, but she minded for Owen. For her father. And even for Wyatt Yarbro, who would know if she lied, and walk away if she told the truth.

“Yes,” she said brokenly. “Yes, it's true.”

Wyatt did not walk away. He came over, pulled back the chair next to hers, and sat down, turning himself and the chair with him to look into her face. “And the boy doesn't know?”

Sarah shook her head.

Wyatt handed her a table napkin, and she swabbed at her eyes. Owen would be back at any moment with the bread and bologna for their lunch, and he mustn't see her like this.

“Langstreet?” Wyatt asked.

Sarah nodded. “I was such a fool,” she said. “Young and far from home—”

Wyatt took her hand. Squeezed it lightly. “By my reckoning,” he answered, “
Langstreet's
the fool. Why didn't he marry you?”

Sarah heard the side gate open, creaking on its hinges. Either Ephriam or Owen would come inside in a moment or so. She hastened to the sink, pumped cold water onto the table napkin, and pressed it to her burning eyes.

“Sarah?”

She turned. Footsteps sounded on the porch.

“Not now,” she said.

Wyatt nodded, and Owen burst in, carrying a package, Ephriam directly behind him. For a while, Sarah was blessedly busy slicing bread and bologna for sandwiches, though at one point Ephriam asked if she'd been crying.

Owen had spared her from answering by announcing, his little face radiant with delight over the adventure, “She made soup and it caught fire!”

“It did not catch fire,” Sarah protested.

“Almost,” Owen avowed.

“There'll be no saving the kettle,” Wyatt added.

Ephriam laughed, but the look of sadness in his eyes troubled Sarah. Silently, she scolded herself for not noticing earlier.

“Is everything all right at the bank, Papa?” she asked.

“Things are fine at the bank,” Ephriam replied.

She had been bustling around the kitchen, too unnerved over her earlier conversation with Wyatt to eat. Now, she went to stand beside her father's chair, laid a hand on his shoulder, then checked his forehead for fever. His skin felt cool, taking the very warm weather into consideration.

“You don't look well,” she murmured. “Perhaps you should lie down.”

“Sarah, don't fuss,” Ephriam said, pushing away his plate. He usually had a good appetite, but today he'd eaten less than half of his sandwich. Lonesome waited politely for the leftovers, sitting on the quilt over by the stove.

“I'll go over to the bank and finish out the day for you,” Sarah said. “Maybe have Doc stop by and look you over.”

“I'm
fine,
Sarah!” her father barked.

It was so unusual for him to raise his voice that Sarah started a little.

Owen looked on with wide eyes, and Wyatt was clearly wishing he'd gone somewhere else to have his lunch.

Ephriam gave a great sigh. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Maybe I am a little tired. There was a lot of excitement last night, what with the fire—”

“If Ephriam takes a nap,” Owen said, “do I have to, too?”

Sarah smiled, ruffled the boy's hair with one hand. Over his head, her gaze collided with Wyatt's.

Is it true, Sarah?

“No,” she said. “You can stay and look after Lonesome, or come to the bank with me.”

Owen, apparently concerned about Ephriam, since his eyes kept straying in the old man's direction, elected to stay.

Wyatt helped Sarah clear the table.

Ephriam wandered off to his study, on the other side of the house, and when Sarah looked in on him, he was asleep with a newspaper lying across his chest. She bent next to his chair and planted a soft kiss on the top of his head.

After that, she and Wyatt left the house together, walking slowly along the tree-shaded street.

“Why didn't Langstreet marry you?” Wyatt asked again, once he was sure no one would overhear.

“He was already married,” Sarah said, straightening her spine, forcing herself to look up into Wyatt's face. “I didn't know that—until it was too late.”

She saw one of his fists clench, but he showed no other reaction. Did he believe her? she wondered. And why was it so important that he did?

“Wyatt?”

“You needn't explain anything to me, Sarah,” he said. “Your past is your own business.”

“I don't want Owen to find out,” she told him. “He won't understand. He's too young—”

“He'll find out, Sarah,” Wyatt interrupted. “Most likely, from another kid in the school yard.”

Sarah's stomach jumped at the notion. If Fiona had guessed the truth, so had everyone else in town. It was only a matter if days, if not hours, before Owen knew, too. “You think I should tell him—before that happens?”

“That's up to you.”

“Charles—”

“Damn Charles,” Wyatt broke in. “He took advantage of you, Sarah. He brought that boy all the way out here from Pennsylvania and left him with strangers. What kind of man does a thing like that?”

Sarah pondered, a little stung. Wyatt had been calm before, in the kitchen, even gentle. Now, she knew he was angry. Now, or one day soon, he
would
walk away. Sure, he'd bought the Henson place, and like as not he'd settle down at Stone Creek. In six months or a year, he'd take a wife—some woman with no book of lies in her pocket—and given the size of the community, Sarah wouldn't be able to avoid seeing them together. Seeing the woman's belly swelling with Wyatt's child. They'd join the church, too, because married folks always did, and every single Sunday for the rest of her natural life, she'd be up there playing the organ while Wyatt and the missus sat close together in a pew, each holding the other's hand.

It was unbearable even to contemplate. How much harder would it be to endure the incessant reality?

“If I tell Owen I'm his mother,” Sarah reasoned tonelessly, like someone talking in her sleep, “Charles will be furious. He'll never let me see my son again.”

“Then you ought to get a lawyer.”

“That would be a waste of time and money. I'm not on any official record as Owen's mother. Marjory Langstreet is.”

“The one who calls him a bastard?” Wyatt asked tightly.

Sarah felt sick. What other abuses and humiliation had Owen suffered at that woman's hand? And how could Sarah bear sending him back to such a creature? It was small comfort that he'd be shuffled off to some new boarding school as soon as one could be found. He'd been expelled several times, apparently, but Charles would have no real trouble bribing some other headmaster, in some other town.

“What would you suggest I do, Wyatt?” she inquired, angry herself now, though not with Wyatt. No, she was furious with Charles and Marjory and all the bullies and coldhearted headmasters Owen had already encountered in his short life, and would again, if she didn't do something.

“Get married. Go before a judge and tell him the truth. With a husband, you might be able to keep Owen.”