Without Words (7 page)

The silence stretched out for long seconds before Sally Nichols shrilled, “They stole a purple silk dress from me is what. It was made by a Kansas City modiste, and it cost a fortune.”

Glued to the scene out front, Hassie didn’t move, but Mrs. Tate picked up the purple dress and brought it back to the curtain along with what was left of the stockings. She pushed the clothing through the curtain and held it out at the end of her arm.

Sally Nichols darted forward and grabbed the dress, clutching it to her large chest.

Bret looked like he could stand there all day. The marshal rocked back and forth, as if his feet hurt. Considering his bulk, they probably did.

“You can’t just steal a woman out of Sally’s,” the marshal finally blurted. “Sally paid good money for her.”

“Then arrest Sally for buying and the Restons for selling. In case you forgot, we fought a war a few years ago. Buying and selling people is illegal now.”

At his words, Sally turned and marched right out of the store, taking Zachary with her. Mr. Reston only endured the tense silence a few more seconds before slinking after Sally and Zachary.

Mrs. Reston stayed, still prepared to fight for her lamps and mahogany desk.

“Does Mrs. Reston realize she’s right in the line of fire back there?” Bret said.

Mrs. Reston paled and backed up a step. The deputy looked over his shoulder. “I’ll just—I’ll escort Mrs. Reston to a safe place,” he stammered and hurried out with her.

The marshal ignored them. “I should have known you were a damn Yankee,” he said. “Men been buying and selling women since the beginning of time and will be until the end.”

“If a woman wants to sell herself that’s her business. Mrs. Petty doesn’t want to.”

“She ain’t no virgin.”

Bret didn’t even answer. The two men stared at each other, the air thick with their anger.

“He’s going to win,” Mrs. Tate whispered. “Two of them came in here with scatterguns. That deputy already flickered, and your man is going to back the marshal down.”

Bret Sterling was not hers, thank Heaven, but Hassie had already reached the same conclusion.

The marshal took a hand off his shotgun and pointed a sausage-like finger at Bret. “You finish up here and get the hell out of town. If I see you again, I’ll start shooting, stealing or no stealing.”

Bret still said nothing. He stayed still as a statue until after the marshal lumbered out of the store. When Mr. Tate struggled to get his feet under him, Bret finally moved, held out a hand, and helped the older man up.

Hassie closed her eyes, light-headed with relief. Mrs. Tate patted her on the shoulder. “I don’t know whether to pity you or envy you, but we’d better hurry because if Mr. Sterling ever looks at me the way he did at the marshal, I’ll fall over dead on the spot.”

The new clothes felt strange, not only because Hassie had never had store-bought clothing before but because trousers left her legs and bottom feeling almost as exposed as the purple dress. The coat, which hung down past her hips, helped, but everything still felt stiff, new, and strange.

Her hair felt strange too, braided and hanging down her back instead of pinned up, but at least a little water had almost straightened the burned in curls.

She walked out from behind the curtain, half-expecting Bret to send her right back, want it all exchanged for a dress. He didn’t. He examined her from head to toe.

“And a bandana,” he said. “And a slate. The kind you sell for school children. A slate and a chalk pencil.”

While Bret paid, Hassie tied the bandana around her neck, covering her throat. However much he didn’t want to see the scar, she didn’t want him or anyone else to see it more.

He used the better part of her forty dollars to pay. Hassie pulled her brush and comb out of the carpetbag, waved them around, and set aside the new ones in the pile on the counter. No one remarked on the small savings, and she stuffed the underclothing, flannel cloth, and some of the smaller items in her carpetbag.

“My horses are at the blacksmith’s,” Bret said. “We’ll be back before you close and load this up.”

So that’s why he was still in town. Hassie’s eyes pricked with tears at the thought of what could have happened.

He didn’t hold her arm or shove her along as they left the mercantile, and she walked through town beside him, eyes on the ground. When she first realized who had caught her in the street, joy and relief had stabbed through her more sharply than the pain in her side. Shame had chased those feelings, worry that he would think she had gone to Miss Sally’s on her own once he was gone.

She needn’t have worried. He had understood from the start, and his anger had never been at her. Still, she had never seen a man so angry, never imagined anyone could be like that, like a fire so hot anything nearby would turn to ash. No wonder “mad” was another word for anger.

The clothes and all the other things meant he was going to take her with him, but what else did he intend? Another glance at his set jaw and expressionless face squelched any hope of an explanation.

Her life had just taken a sharp turn on a different path. She didn’t know where it was headed this time, but if the past was any indication, nothing was about to get better.

B
RET KNEW HE
should be ashamed, losing control like that. Should be, but wasn’t particularly, and if he had it to do over, he’d only shoot another lamp or two.

The last time he’d gone off like that was before the war. His arguments with Will and Albert back then had been vicious, sometimes violent, but they’d never done more than bloodied each other’s noses.

Today he hadn’t even done that much. He’d managed not to shoot the Reston woman, or the gorilla who chased Mrs. Petty through the middle of the town, or the marshal whose big belly was one of the most tempting targets a man ever resisted. Hell, all considered, someone should pin a medal on Breton J. Sterling.

Now that it was all over, today’s problem was exactly the same as yesterday’s—what to do with Mrs. Petty. Seeing a preacher or anyone else in this rotten town was out of the question, which was why he’d outfitted her for the trail.

He’d just have to drag her along for a while, at least until he had a chance to visit the Chapmans. Eligible women were scarce in that part of the country. Gabe and Belle could be talked into keeping Mrs. Petty for a while, helping her find a decent husband, and they’d know who could be trusted.

The livery came into sight, and Bret steered Mrs. Petty in that direction. He could put her on the cavalry horse for now, but that would just mean buying something else later. The big bay’s tendency to snap at one end and kick at the other didn’t recommend him as a lady’s horse anyway.

Close to the stables, Mrs. Petty left his side suddenly. Bret had a hand out, reaching to grab her and haul her back, when he realized she was headed for a pen where the toast-colored nag she’d ridden to town stood by itself. She slid through the rails and hugged the miserable thing around the neck.

The dog followed, making a perfect reunion of underfed canine, equine, and human flotsam. He rubbed a hand over his face, refusing to watch, and went looking for the livery stable owner.

“We made a mistake yesterday,” Bret said when he found the man. “Mrs. Petty needs her horse back.”

“Can’t do that. I got a man coming for her. Should be here any time.”

Bret’s hands went to his hips. “You can’t tell me you found someone who wants that nag already.”

The livery owner shrugged. “He keeps hounds. You know.”

“I know Mrs. Petty is fond of that damned horse, and I want it back. There isn’t enough meat on it to feed a dog for a week anyway. The hound man can take his hounds and go hunting.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Did you get those four gallons of whiskey?”

The man licked his lips, his eyes looking everywhere except at Bret. “I sent my boy for it. He found it.”

“Good stuff?”

“Yeah, it is. Old Cyrus always brewed the best.”

“Would you rather let Mrs. Petty have her horse back or pay her for the whiskey?”

“Now look, mister, you said I could have those jugs. I wouldn’t have taken that nag unless....” The man’s voice tapered off. “All right, doggone it, you can have her back.”

“Good. You can make your money selling me a decent saddle and bridle for her.”

The blacksmith had finished with Jasper and was working on Packie when Bret and Hassie arrived. The man took one look at what they were leading and all but leapt out from under Packie’s hind leg.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t care how much you pay. I’m not shoeing that, not today and not tomorrow either.”

“Of course not,” Bret said, “I wouldn’t ask it of you.”

The man relaxed visibly, picked up Packie’s leg again and finished nailing and clinching the last shoe.

When he was done, Bret said, “Just trim the mare up a little. We’re headed for Fort Leavenworth, and I’ll get her shod there, but I don’t want those flares breaking off before then.”

The smith picked up his tools. “I heard there was shooting in town.”

“There was. Nothing serious. Nobody hurt.”

“I heard it was you.”

“It was.”

“Are you going to shoot me if I don’t trim that horse?”

“Don’t make me decide.”

The smith walked over to the mare and threw his tools down by her front feet. “All right, but you have to promise me one thing. There’s another smith on the east side of town. If you ever get back this way, take your business there.”

“It’s a deal.”

B
RET MUST HAVE
spent her forty dollars at least twice over. On top of everything else, the smithy had transformed Brownie’s big platter feet into mere dinner plates.

They rode back to the mercantile, Bret ahead, leading both the packhorse and the cavalry horse. Hassie trailed behind, trying to make Brownie move faster and keep up, scanning each side of the street for signs of the marshal or his deputy. If the marshal shot Bret, it would be her fault. Everything that had happened today was her fault.

The pile of clothing and equipment waiting on the counter at the store looked bigger than ever. Bret packed most of it in the panniers on the packhorse. Some, including the slate, went into her new saddlebags, and he tied her carpetbag behind her saddle too.

Hassie mouthed a thank you at Mrs. Tate as they left, remembering what the woman had said about pity and envy. Envy? Never. Pity? Hassie fervently hoped not, yet she had feared what Rufus would demand in return for leaving her a mere ten dollars. If Bret wanted a husband’s rights in return for all he had bought, what would she do?

Fighting him might make him smile at last—or laugh. His strength dwarfed hers. But could she force herself to simply yield? She could run, and with the help of darkness even get away. After that there were only three possibilities.

She could walk back to Werver and hope she could avoid the Restons, the marshal, Sally Nichols, and Zachary and get help from Reverend Lyons or perhaps the Tates. She could walk home and hope to find a way to avoid starvation. She could walk to the next town and hope the people there were more charitably inclined than those in Werver, for she no longer had a penny to her name and would need charity.

Hope, hope, hope. Her empty stomach churned.

Up ahead, Bret stopped again. Hassie studied his back and the half-profile she could see when he turned his head slightly, waiting for her to catch up. What he would do to a woman would be different than what a sickly, elderly husband had done—the few times Cyrus had abandoned his whiskey long enough to do anything. What had been uncomfortable, unpleasant, and humiliating with Cyrus would be painful, frightening, and humiliating with a man as coldly indifferent and strong as Bret Sterling.

The sun hung low in the western sky by the time they left Werver; the air cooled. Hassie buttoned her new dark gray wool coat all the way up and settled deep in the saddle.

She found a rhythm. Her left leg bumped the horse as one foreleg stepped and her right leg bumped as the other foreleg stepped. Brownie did quicken a little, but not enough. They fell farther and farther behind—even though Hassie was sure Bret was holding the other horses back.

He reined up, waited until she was close, and let his horses start again. If he lost patience and turned that temper on her.... She redoubled her efforts to hurry Brownie.

Gentle hills rolled into the distance as far as the eye could see. This early in the year the groves of oak, hickory, and maple were still bare-branched skeletons, but under the brittle brown and yellow stalks of last year’s grass, new growth sprouted green. To the west a soft pink slowly stained puffy white clouds.

Hassie stopped fretting. Her unhappy stomach settled enough to growl a little, but very little compared to what had become familiar in the last year. The fresh, cold air on her face contrasted pleasantly with the snug warmth of the rest of her inside layers of cotton, flannel, and wool.

The rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves soothed away the day’s troubles, and her spirits rose. So far, Bret Sterling had only made her life better. She didn’t want to contemplate where she’d be right now if he hadn’t decided to come back to Werver to have his horses shod.

After years confined first by Mama’s marriage to Ned Grimes and then by her own to Cyrus, she was following a man unlike any she had known or imagined to places she had never been. And after all, he hadn’t shot anything today except lamps.

Bret stopped his horses for what must be the twentieth time. Before Brownie plodded alongside, he pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Accustomed to gunfire, his horses barely twitched when he fired. Brownie threw her head, snorted, and danced sideways but had no energy for more.

“If your dog was worth his salt, he’d fetch that rabbit, and I wouldn’t have to,” Bret said.

Hassie looked around anxiously. Yellow Dog had disappeared again, which was a good thing. If he got hold of that rabbit, he’d run off with it, not fetch it.