The Texan's Reward (10 page)

She found everyone crowded around the kitchen table, eating Marla’s breakfast rolls out of the pan. Nell smiled.

She’d never have one of those proper families where people ate every meal at the dining table like she’d been

taught in school. Thank God.

Gypsy made room for her as everyone told Nell their new theories as to what might have happened. As always,

Marla was quiet but turned red when Mr. Harrison bragged on her cooking.

Gypsy decided the shooting might have been meant for her. After al , she’d lived in the house longer than

anyone else, and when she was here alone, she used to take naps in a chair upstairs by that very window.

“Maybe some fel ow’s got it in for me,” she speculated with her mouth ful . “I ain’t spent much of my life trying

to make friends. I got more jilted lovers than dogs got fleas.”

The sheriff pointed his finger as if giving a lecture. “No one’s trying to kill you, Gypsy. You’re pretty much doing

that job all by yourself. Drinking the cheap, rotgut whiskey sold out the back door of the saloon will eat you from

inside out.”

“Well, Parker, if that stuff is poison, I’m racing you to the grave.” Gypsy laughed. “My people live a long time

unless a bullet gets them. How long you figure sheriffs live?”

Parker twisted up his mouth. “I aim to stay alive long enough to let the whiskey pickle me so when they dig me

up in a hundred years, there I’l be, same as the day I died.”

Gypsy made a face. “Yeah, old and ugly.”

Everyone laughed as Marla brought out another pan of rolls from the oven.

Nell was thankful the sheriff didn’t tell the bookkeeper Marla’s nickname. It had haunted her long enough.

When Nell first returned, after the accident, the sheriff had shown up on her doorstep with Marla in tow. He’d

whispered that no one in town would hire her, and she wouldn’t leave Clarendon. Just the thought of going to

apply for a job frightened her near to death, Parker explained. She’d never find the nerve to travel to a town

where she didn’t know anyone, so Parker helped by asking around, and this was the last house.

Nell welcomed her in, figuring she couldn’t be as bad a cook as Gypsy. Marla, though four years older than Nell,

had always been nice when they were children. She’d even whispered a hello when Nell saw her on the streets

the few times Nell had come home from school, which was more than most people did. Knowing how shy Marla

was made the greeting mean more to Nell. If Marla was down on her luck, the sheriff was right in guessing that

Nell would be willing to help.

“Thanks,” Nell said as memory faded and the worries of today returned. Marla passed her a plate with a roll

made of bread and meat. “I love these. I truly do.”

“I know,” Marla whispered back. “That’s why I make them so often.”

“We all love them, deary.” Gypsy reached for another. “You’re a better cook than I ever was a hooker.”

Marla turned away but didn’t lower her head as she used to do when Gypsy talked of her former occupation.

Nell remembered what the sheriff had said that first morning he’d brought Marla over. “She can cook like a

dream, but she’s had a run of bad luck. I hired her to cook for the jail, and the last four men she fed got the

death penalty. They call her Last Meal Marla. She also cooked for Old Ralph over at the hotel. He died three days

after she went to work for him, but it was more his heart than her food, I figure.”

The sheriff didn’t have to say more. As in most small towns, it only took a few times before folks made up their

mind about people. If Marla cooked for fifty years in this town there would be some who wouldn’t take a bite.

Nell hired her on the spot and offered her room and board with a fair salary. Within days, she joined the family.

While everyone talked, Nell rol ed a few feet backward and checked the baking soda tin where Marla kept the

grocery money. Despite her bank account and the property she owned, the grocer stil wouldn’t al ow her to buy

on credit. He also wouldn’t deliver, so Marla made at least two trips a week to the store for supplies.

“I’ve already checked,” Marla whispered from just behind Nell. “We’ve enough to make it another week and still

feed extra mouths.”

Nel nodded. “My stash upstairs is also almost gone.”

When she ran completely out of household money, she’d have to go into town. Nel knew she would be the

freak everyone watched. Last time Mary Ruth had lifted her from the buggy to her wheelchair when they’d

stopped at the bank. Several people had commented at the sight of a woman carrying another woman even if

Mary Ruth was a nurse. One had even hinted that maybe a man hid beneath the uniform, for Nel Smith, at over

five feet seven, would be no light load.

The only other time she’d gone to town, her friends Carter and Bailee had come from Cedar Point by train to

help. Carter had carried her to a bed made in the wagon because she couldn’t stand the pain long enough to sit

in a buggy. He’d lifted her out careful y when they’d gone to the bank and carried her down the street to first

the lawyer, then the doctor. Everyone cal ed her Poor Child as if she’d stopped being an adult when she lost the

ability to walk.

She couldn’t ask her friends to come again. They had children and a ranch. Nel looked back at the table. Except

for Mr. Harrison, no one could lift her, and she couldn’t ask him to pick her up. She’d just have to hope the

money lasted until Jacob returned. He’d carry her with ease while she did her business in town and she’d be

wil ing to bet no one would talk behind his back.

Each time, she was torn between drawing more money out, or leaving it where it was safe. If she took too much

home, she knew she would just be asking to be robbed. If she took too little, she’d have to make the

embarrassing trip more often.

“I’ve got most of my salary stashed under my bed,” Marla whispered. “You’re welcome to use it.”

“Thanks,” Nell answered. “We’l make it.”

They returned to the others. Now that everyone had finished breakfast, they huddled like generals preparing for

battle. Nell tried to convince them that the shooting might have been just a one-time thing that would never

happen again, but no one listened. They planned to be ready.

The sheriff left to check in at his office and returned two hours later to say that he’d ordered the glass for the

window, but the hardware store owner said he had no one who could deliver it or put it in. Parker quoted the

bothersome owner as saying that most folks had men around who could do such things. Then the sheriff looked

guilty that he’d relayed such a hurtful message.

Gypsy swore and stomped. Mr. Harrison simply stood up from the desk where he’d been working and said, “I’l

go, if you have no objection, Miss Nell. It’s time I took some air anyway. I’ll prepare a note stating that I’m your

bookkeeper. If you’ll sign it, that should be all the hardware store owner needs.”

Nel nodded, surprised he’d offer. “Marla wil give you our cash funds. I don’t know how much you’l need, but

I’m sure it wil be enough.” She didn’t want to start worrying about money for food yet, but the glass was cutting

into what cash they had on hand.

A minute later, Harrison handed her a neatly written note and a pen. “I’ll be back before the sheriff finishes

lunch.”

To Nell’s total surprise, Marla grabbed her bonnet. “May I go with you? I need a few supplies.”

Harrison headed for the door. “I’ll have the wagon ready in five minutes. I want to stuff it with straw to protect

the glass.”

“I’ll be ready,” Marla whispered.

The sheriff filled his plate from the pots left warming on the stove and joined Nell in the great room. While he

ate, he talked about the time he’d been shot and Fat Alice had patched him up in the very spot where he now

was having lunch. “She had a rule.” He laughed. “A man got a free drink for every slug dug out of him.”

Nell tried to listen, but her thoughts followed Marla and Mr. Harrison. If she wasn’t safe in her own house,

would they be safe in town or on the road? In a wagon the trip didn’t take long. Nel had a feeling she’d count

the minutes until they returned.

She was relieved when the sheriff suggested they sit on the porch while he smoked his cigar and they waited.

She guessed he also worried, though that didn’t seem to slow his talking. While she sat in her wheelchair with a

blanket over her legs, Parker paced back and forth. He told her it would be spring before long, and she needed

to think about stocking the ranches with cattle and men. The sheriff talked as if he’d ranched for years and not

spent his life behind a badge.

“There’s trouble festering in town. Too many men out of work. Too many looking for a quick way to get rich.

You’ll need to be real careful who you hire.”

“I will,” she said, only half listening.

Most of the land she’d inherited had been either abandoned or neglected before it came her way. Nel had

heard a few old hands stil lived off some of the land, running a few head of their own but not working the

ranch. If the men who’d offered to marry her knew what bad shape the ranches were in, al would have

probably run faster than they did.

Harrison would know soon enough of her troubles; then he’d probably be on the next train out.

Remembering former suitors, she asked, “Has Walter Farrow left yet?”

The sheriff shook his head. “He’s hanging out talking to whoever wil listen. He checked out of the hotel this

morning and moved into that old house that used to be his uncle’s. Everyone in town knows Henry lost it in a

poker game, but evidently the paperwork was never filed, so there’s no one to tell Farrow he can’t live there.”

An hour passed, and final y the sheriff stopped talking and stared down the road. He’d asked Nell ten times if

she was cold, and each time she’d lied and said no. She couldn’t go inside when Marla and Mr. Harrison were

still gone.

Gypsy banged her way through the door with the afternoon tray of drinks and cookies. Nel took a cup to keep

her hands warm. The sheriff didn’t even answer when she offered him a cup.

“You can ride on in,” Nell said. “We’ll be all right here. You could be back in a matter of minutes.”

Parker didn’t answer.

“It could be a hundred things holding them up. Maybe the glass wasn’t ready like the hardware store owner

said. Some folks will say anything to make a sale.” Nell stared at the sheriff ’s back. “Or maybe Marla took longer

picking up supplies than we thought she would. You know her; she won’t ask a question with anyone else in the

store. She probably walked up and down the aisles waiting for her chance.”

She went over every reason she could think of for her own sanity. “Maybe the wagon lost a wheel. That road is

terrible. Or maybe the horse threw a shoe. Mr. Harrison might have taken him over to the blacksmith shop and

had to wait in line. You know Saturday’s always busy in town.”

Gypsy shook her head. “Or maybe somethin’ happened to them.”

Her words hung in the air. No one said a word. Nell refused to consider Gypsy’s possibility. It made less sense

than shooting at a woman in a wheelchair.

In the silence, Nel thought she heard the jingle of a bridle. She leaned forward a few inches and slipped her

right hand into the pocket of her jacket. “Let it be Marla,” she whispered to herself. But just in case, she’d be

ready.

The sheriff also shifted, resting his hand on his sidearm and leaning back into the shadow of the porch so that

whoever neared wouldn’t see him right away.

The jingle came again.

Nel didn’t breathe.

Then she heard something she’d never heard before.

She heard Marla laugh.

JACOB DALTON TRACKED THE MAN WHO’D SHOT AT Nell for five hours before the trail disappeared. He didn’t

think the stranger had any idea he was being fol owed, but luck was with the shooter. The ground grew rocky,

and the rider switched directions. Though the horse’s tracks should have been easy to fol ow with the ground

still damp from rain, herds of deer or cattle had wiped them in places.

By nightfal , Jacob wasn’t sure he stil fol owed the shooter. There had been a dozen places the man could have

turned off on rocks or into shallow streams. When it finally grew too dark to track, Jacob made camp between a

stand of trees and a formation of rocks. Here, he’d be out of the wind, and smoke from a small fire wouldn’t be

noticed in the shadow of the trees. He hadn’t seen any sign of a ranch since early that morning, so he doubted

anyone would pass close during the night.

He took care of his horse, then ate half the food Marla packed for him and saved the other half for breakfast.

Rolling in his bedroll, he leaned against his saddle and relaxed for the first time. A weapon lay within inches of

either hand.

Al day he’d tried to concentrate on tracking and on trying to find a reason anyone would want Nel dead. The

shot hadn’t been at the house. He’d bet his career as a ranger that the man aimed at the outline of the

wheelchair in the window. The chair where Nell always sat.

But who? Surely someone didn’t stil think the place was a whorehouse. As far as he knew, though people

objected to a young woman inheriting, no one else fought for the old madam’s money. No one would benefit

from Nell’s death. He’d heard Nell say once that she’d filed a will asking for all her property to be sold and the

money passed to her friends if something happened to her. None of her friends would ever do her harm, and no