Ashes and Memories (5 page)

Emma watched Reece for any sign of reaction, but there was none. The only sign of emotion on his stony face was the persistent harshness around the mouth.

“Well, I’ll be on my way." The judge placed his hat on his head, closed his black valise and nodded toward the sheriff.

“Good to see you, judge,” the sheriff said.

“Yes, Judge Vale, we are always glad to see you,” Reece drawled, his tone hinting at sarcasm. “Before you head back, I’d like to buy you a drink. It is a long way to the capital.”

 “I’d like to, but --”

“I insist.”

A chill crawled up Emma’s spine at the calm intensity in Reece’s eyes. He literally meant that he insisted. Was it possible that this man could impose his will on a judge?

“Well,” the judge replied, scratching his beard nervously. “Yes, I believe I will have a drink after all.”

Reece’s gaze settled on Emma, and she straightened her spine. She waited for him to speak, not at all sure what she expected him to say.

He said nothing, just followed the judge from the office. She should have said something, asked questions. Where was her head? She was a journalist. In order to report the news, she had to verify facts. But all she could think of was three hundred missing dollars and that black valise of the judge’s.

#####

The saloon was empty, as quiet as a church on Friday night. Reece stood behind the bar, gazing at the shadowed corners. Normally he enjoyed the silence after a day filled with noise and activity, but tonight the serenity he sought eluded him. An empty knot settled in the middle of his chest and resisted his efforts to dislodge it.

He had experienced that bottomless ache before. In those dark, dismal months after the war it had been a constant companion. But now on those rare occasions when it crept back into his barren soul he could ordinarily dispel it by force of will. And if that failed him, there was always alcohol. Alcohol never failed him.

Until tonight.

He loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. Reaching for the bottle on the bar, he poured another glass of whiskey and tossed it back.

He filled one last glass before re-corking the bottle, then placed it on the shelf under the bar. As a young man back in South Carolina, he'd preferred the night, but that was before he’d had reason to fear the shadows.

Midnight ghouls, they’d called them, the guards who prowled the prison camp at night and dragged men from their beds into the bitter cold whenever the whim struck them. Even now he could see their faces, their hate-filled faces.

His grip on the shot glass tightened, and he drove the memories from his mind. Reaching into his vest pocket, he withdrew Mr. Parker’s tarnished war medal. The cold metal burned his fingers and intensified the pain in his soul.

Miss Parker. She was the reason the ghosts had returned to haunt him, she and her dead father.

“My father died a long time ago,” Miss Parker had said. “He just didn’t lie down until today.”

Mr. Parker had distinguished himself on the field of battle, but apparently Mr. Parker had not been able to leave that field behind when he'd gone home.

Reece had known men like that, men who had survived the war physically but had become nothing but empty shells, walking corpses waiting to lie down.

Well, not him, not Reece MacBride. There was too much of his father in him.

Reece tossed the whiskey down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Thomas MacBride had been like a wolf among domesticated dogs. He knew how to act like a gentleman. He had drilled himself in secret, taught himself how to bow, how to speak, how to tip his hat ever so slightly. But there was a certain elegance and gentility that one only acquired through years of breeding that was completely missing in him.

The son of impoverished lower class Scotch-Irish, he had walked out of the mountains one day and wrested fifty square miles of virgin land from the wilderness. Out of nothing he built a palatial house, outbuildings and formal gardens.

After that, the only thing he’d needed was respectability and acceptance into society. He’d gained them by marrying into one of the oldest and most respected families in the state.

All it had taken was a foothold, and soon Thomas MacBride controlled the county. He controlled it because he said he did. No one questioned him; no one dared snub him.

How Reece had despised him at times, how he had resisted his efforts to toughen him up, make a man out of him. His methods had been harsh, even brutal at times, but they had achieved the desired result. They had seen Reece through experiences that would have broken other men -- had broken other men.

Men like Samuel Parker.

Reece reached for the bottle he’d just placed under the bar and removed the cork again, filling his glass and draining it. The whiskey helped him steer his mind away from remembrance. With an effort, he banished thoughts of Samuel Parker, opting instead to think of the man’s daughter.

If assisting a stranded woman on the road was a sign of gallantry, helping her to stay in town when he wanted her to go away was a sign of stupidity. He had even allowed her to talk him into renting her the newspaper office for ten dollars less than he had received from his previous tenant.

She was a woman in dire circumstances, a woman who might not have anywhere else to go, and a southern woman at that. How could he turn his back on her? How could he refuse to help her when she was alone and bereaved over the loss of her father?

Damn her!

He didn’t want her here, printing her newspapers, reminding him of the past. Having her around would be like a voice whispering in his ear, “Remember, remember,” when he wanted more than anything to forget everything connected with the war.

As for her paper, he had meant what he’d said about a newspaper being dangerous in the hands of an opinionated woman, but he doubted he would have any trouble controlling her.

That wasn’t what bothered him.

“All finished, Mr. MacBride.”

In one fluid motion, Reece drew his pistol, cocked it and leveled it at the intruder. Just as quickly, he realized who had spoken and dropped his hand to his side.

“Damn it, Ralphy!" He released a sigh that was half anger, half relief. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that again. I thought you’d already gone.”

“Sorry Mr. MacBride,” Ralphy said. The small boy's his eyes were wide with fear.

“It’s all right." Reece holstered his pistol. He hadn’t meant to frighten the boy, but his heart still pounded as he tried to calm his own reaction.

“Guess I’ll be going." Ralphy crossed the room and opened the front door. There he stopped, gazing into the darkness. “There’s a light over the newspaper office.”

Scowling, Reece resisted the urge to walk to the open door and look out. “That’s our newspaper editor. I rented her the building today -- or yesterday, I suppose.”

Ralphy’s eyes lit up. “Guess she’ll be hiring somebody to deliver them papers.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up. Even with the ridiculous rent she managed to bargain for, she’ll never be able to keep that newspaper solvent.”

“What’s solvent?”

Reece smiled. Ralphy always managed to make him smile. “She’ll go broke and have to close down." Or turn to him for help, Reece added silently. He could step in and offer financial assistance when Miss Parker’s only option would be to accept his help or lose her newspaper.

“Maybe I’ll go see if she’s hiring,” Ralphy said. “I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

“Go ahead. Although I can’t imagine why you would want more money. What do you spend it on? And where are your new clothes?”

Ralphy made a face. “They itch. I like these.”

“Remind me not to waste my money in the future. Go on, get out of here so I can lock up.”

“See you tomorrow night, Mr. MacBride!" Ralphy called as he hurried from the saloon.

Reece closed the door and locked it, smiling at Ralphy’s exuberance, until the darkness swallowed him again and his thoughts returned to Emma Parker.

She was a lovely woman, lovely and spirited. But women like her had no place in his life any longer. His heart was buried with Sarah.

The women in his life served one of two purposes -- to satisfy his needs or his pocketbook. But Emma didn’t fit into either category. He couldn’t treat her like a whore or a charlatan. Underneath her bravado and her masculine attire, she was very much a lady. And unless a man was in the market for a wife, the best way to interact with a lady was from a distance. Which was precisely what he planned to do.

If she insisted on remaining in Providence, she would soon find herself under his control. He imagined he would very much enjoy bending Miss Parker to his will.

But what really bothered him about Miss Parker was the protectiveness he’d felt toward her when he’d come across her on the road. Nothing, no one had touched that indefensible part of him in a very long time -- not since Sarah.

Protecting women, treating them with respect and courtesy, was as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his veins. Whether she chose to wear pants or skirts made no difference.

But if that protectiveness became personal it could jeopardize everything he was working toward. Protectiveness could too easily become sentiment or attachment or even affection. He needed to be able to deal with Miss Parker in the same manner in which he dealt with everyone else in this town. A man whose ambitions were as lofty as his could not afford attachments of any kind. The slightest vulnerability could destroy everything he’d worked toward. And he would never allow that to happen.

All that he had lost he would regain. His father had forged an empire out of wilderness, and so would he. Before he was finished, he would take this raw, barely civilized town and turn it into a city to rival Charleston in its glory.

His mine was the means to that vision, the gold mine he’d won in a game of stud. He’d almost sold the damned thing sight unseen. What the hell did he know about mining? And yet, under his leadership, his crew had already brought up three times as much ore as the mine had produced in the same period of time under the former owner.

Reece smiled into the shadowed bar room. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was lead. The ability to inspire loyalty had been instilled in him before he was even born, a gift from his maternal forebears, and honed by years of training. Leadership came as naturally to him as breathing. Sometimes it seemed destiny had given him no other choice.

“Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,” he said aloud with a self-deprecating laugh.

Bit by bit he had taken over the town. He’d bought the sawmill outright, and he’d won the saloon the same way he’d won the mine. Even those businesses he hadn’t yet purchased were under his control. Every merchant in Providence was expected to contribute a certain amount each month to the Providence Improvement Fund which Reece used to pay salaries and run his own businesses. The real moneymaker was the mine, but before he was done, this town would be owned and controlled by him and him alone.

Unclenching his fists, he drove the tension from his body. Yes, he would achieve his goal, his dream. No one would stand in his way. This time no one would take it from him -- he would die first.

He looked at the medal still clutched in his hand. And no stubborn southern lady who thought so little of her father’s valor that she would leave his decoration to tarnish in the wilderness was going to seduce him away from what he really wanted or cloud his perception.

Stuffing Samuel Parker’s medal back into his vest pocket, he extinguished all but the last lantern, casting the room in semi-darkness. Shadows claimed the room, shadows that flickered and danced in the glow of the lantern as he carried it toward the stairs.

 He did hate the darkness.

#####

Emma glanced up from her work at the sound of the door opening. A boy of about ten stepped into the newspaper office dressed like a street urchin. His clothes were at least three sizes too large and a year too old. The knees of his pants were worn all the way through, his coat mended in several places.

The door closed behind him and he gazed around the room curiously. He removed his woolen cap, revealing a thick mass of unruly brown hair.

“What can I do for you?" Emma asked, forcing a smile past the lump of compassion in her throat.

“Name’s Ralphy,” he said matter-of-factly. “I used to deliver papers for Mr. Weston.”

Emma walked around the counter and leaned back against it, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is that right?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yep." He continued studying the room but didn’t move from the doorway. “You planning on putting out a paper?”

“First issue just rolled off the press,” she said, patting the stack of papers on the counter.

She hadn’t planned to issue a paper so soon, but everything had fallen into place so neatly she’d decided to go ahead. She had a story to tell and she’d found herself in possession of all of Mr. Weston’s supplies -- paper, ink, everything she needed.

“Guess you might be needing somebody to deliver them papers,” he said finally. “Somebody with experience.”

 He was right about that. She did need a delivery boy. How was she supposed to sell advertising space or gather news for another issue if she was out delivering the current one?

“Well, Ralphy, you’re right,” she agreed. “But maybe you should check with your parents first.”

The boy smiled sheepishly. “Ain’t got no parents.”

Pity sliced through Emma’s heart. His words confirmed what she’d already suspected. He was alone in this rough, barely civilized place just like she was.

 “My ma died when I was born. I killed her.”

“Don’t say that!”

Ralphy shrugged. “It’s true. Pa told me about it. I didn’t mean to, but that don’t matter. She’s dead and I’m alive. Pa, he got hisself shot two years ago over at the whore house.”

“What... ? How... ?" Emma closed her mouth to keep from stammering, aware that the little ragamuffin had meant to shock her and unwilling to let him know he’d succeeded. “I do need someone, Ralphy, but --”