Mary Connealy (16 page)

He could have stood all of that, if it hadn’t been for the crying.

It terrified him and left him feeling helpless and brutish, even if he had nothing to do with their tears. He’d tried everything he could think of to get them to stop. Yelling was the way he related to his pa if there was ever an upset. That didn’t work with the girls. It only made it worse. He’d bought a little cheerfulness one night with a handful of coins, and another night he’d come up with a sack of candy that he’d picked up in town and saved for just this occasion.

Sophie was horrified when she found out about it and put a stop to the bribery.

Too bad. It had worked pretty well.

If he ran, which he did from time to time, they all thought he was going to quit loving them and leave. And there were more tears.

Once Sally had asked him between broken sobs, “Do you want us to go back to the thicket and leave you alone, Pa?”

It would have made him crazy except he also got to eat Sophie’s good cooking. And he got hugged by every soft, sweet one of them when they headed off to bed. He liked the smell of Sally’s hair after Sophie had washed it. He sat in the cleanest, prettiest house he’d ever lived in, full of shining surfaces and Texas wildflowers picked fresh every day. He wore clean clothes that had nary a button missing nor the littlest tear left unmended. And he was told, “I love you,” ten times a day.

His pa had spoken those words to him two or three times in his life, and Clay had said them back as often, or maybe grunted an agreement. Pa loved him, and Clay figured if that ever changed, Pa would have mentioned it. He’d always figured that was enough said. Clay was surprised to know he liked hearing it more often. And he said it back to all of them. If he didn’t, they’d get all teary eyed and scared.

He said it back to all of them except Sophie, who also never said it to him. He’d caught himself lately wishing she would say it.

After all, the girls loved him.

What was she waiting for?

C
lay had claimed the brand C B
AR
for his own, by right of marriage to Cliff’s widow. He’d claimed the cattle along with the brand. When he’d bought Cliff’s old place, Clay had also used the healthy account in Denver, where Pa had banked gold, to buy up some surrounding property. So he’d expanded his holding considerably.

Clay rounded up over two hundred head of cattle that first week. Most of them were old, branded to the C
BAR,
the brand registered to Cliff.

Anything younger was branded M
SLASH
M. No one seemed to know what had happened to the Mead brothers, who had registered that brand. Clay knew the code of the West, as it pertained to an abandoned herd: If you caught ’em, you could keep ’em. But Clay was a careful man. He knew local peace officers could be almighty prickly, and Clay didn’t want to antagonize Mosqueros’s sheriff.

He headed for town Saturday morning to consult with the law. Sheriff Everett was just entering his office, covered with trail dust, and looking like he’d been ridden hard and put up wet.

Clay tipped his hat to the burly man. “You look like you’ve been over the trail, Josiah. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, if you’ve got the time.”

With a heavy sigh, the sheriff said, “A cup of coffee would go down mighty good right now, McClellen. I’ve been delivering a bandit to the territorial prison, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week. I’d thought to ride out and say howdy one day soon.”

The sheriff went inside the jailhouse as he talked and locked his Winchester into a gun rack behind his desk. “Esther has the best coffee in town, because she has the only coffee in town. She starts out in the morning making it black as coal dust, and she keeps it boiling all the day long. We’re lucky it’s still fairly early. By the end of the day it gets mean enough to fight back when you try an’ drink it.”

“Just the way I like it.” Clay’s boots rang hollow, his spurs adding a sharp metallic ring, as the two men walked down the creaking board sidewalks of Mosqueros.

The sheriff pushed the diner’s door open, and the smell of burnt coffee nearly took the skin off the inside of Clay’s nose.

“Just coffee, Esther.” A small puff of dirt rose up around the sheriff as he lowered himself onto a bench.

The dirt had a better scent than the food, to Clay’s way of thinking.

Esther brought them both a cup of coffee. “I’ve got huckleberry pie.”

“That sounds—”

“Not today, Esther,” the sheriff cut Clay off. “We’re in a hurry.”

Esther harrumphed at them, as if it were a personal insult, and stalked away from the table.

The sheriff chuckled softly. “You’ll be wanting to thank me later for saving you from Esther’s huckleberry pie.”

“I’ve never had a bad piece of pie,” Clay protested.

“The woman doesn’t believe in a heavy hand with the sugar.”

“I’ll eat a tart pie over none, any day.” Clay wrapped his hands around the lightweight tin coffee cup, enjoying the warmth, even though the day was already heating up.

“And whatever berries she’s using are none too ripe, undercooked, and I’ll be surprised if they’re even huckleberries.” The sheriff shuddered. “I’ve yet to see a huckleberry bush out here.”

“Still, now she’s offended.” Clay regretted that.

“I’ve never been able to figure out how she can leave the berries raw and burn the piecrust at the same time.” The sheriff looked up from his coffee with an obviously mystified expression. “It just don’t stand to reason. I once broke a tooth on her piecrust.”

“It was probably a pit. A pit can get in any pie. These things happen to even the most careful cook….”

“It wasn’t a pit. It was a button.”

“A button?”

“Off her shoe,” the sheriff added darkly. “When I complained, she came and acted as close to happy as Esther ever gets, thanked me, took the button, then sat down. She pulled off an almighty bad-smellin’ boot and sat beside me whilst she sewed it back on.”

Clay lapsed into silence. He finally said quietly, “I’ll just go ahead and thank you now.”

The sheriff nodded. “Now, what did you want to see me about?”

“I’ve been finding strays from the Mead brothers’ herd mixed in with Cliff’s brand. I wondered if you have any idea how to reach them.”

The sheriff took a long drink of coffee, and Clay saw him shudder all the way to his toes. “No one seems to know why they took off. I’m suspicious for a living, and the only thing that makes sense is that something happened to them.”

“A lot of ways to get yourself lost in the West,” Clay observed.

“I know that. And the Meads weren’t neither one of ’em a ball of fire, if ya know what I mean. They weren’t the hardest workers, and they weren’t the smartest managers I’ve come across.”

Clay thought of the deterioration he saw in the buildings and knew the truth of what the sheriff said.

“Still, they were getting by. Keeping their land payments up, if only by the skin of their teeth.”

“You think they ran into outlaws or renegade Indians?” Clay speculated.

“I reckon it’s something like that. Truth to tell, I’ve been assuming they’re both dead almost from the first. But no bodies have turned up. They were a two-man outfit, so no cowhands were out there with them to come and report them missing. We only decided they’d taken off when Royce Badje reported their payment didn’t come into the bank. They could’ve been gone a month before we noticed ’em missing.”

“Do they have any family?” Clay sipped at the vile excuse for coffee in front of him. “Those cattle I’m rounding up should go to their heirs.”

Sheriff Everett swallowed the last of his coffee and chewed on the dregs thoughtfully before he said, “How many head?”

Clay fished something solid out of his cup and wiped it on his pants. He didn’t look close. He didn’t want to know what it was. “Forty-five last count. We’re not done shagging ’em out of the hills.”

Clay watched Sheriff Everett swish his cup around to liquefy the solid black goo separating at the bottom, then take a healthy swig while holding his breath. “They had a sight more’n that. Maybe a couple hundred head. They were so scattered when I went out to look around, I couldn’t be sure if any had been stolen or not, but it sounds like they have been.”

“To some people one hundred and fifty head of cattle are worth killing for.” Clay strained the coffee grounds out with his teeth.

The sheriff nodded. “I talked to the Meads time and again since they bought the place two years ago. Neither of ’em mentioned any family. Just keep track of how many you find.”

“I’ll fatten ’em up a bit and cut out the older stuff. When I market the herd, I’ll be mindful of what should be the Meads’.”

Clay watched the sheriff signal to Esther for more coffee.

“I’m impressed, Josiah. I didn’t know if you were man enough for another cup.”

The sheriff narrowed his eyes at Clay. “Watch it, McClellen, or I’ll order you a piece of pie.”

Clay started laughing, and he and the sheriff were still chuckling when Esther poured their coffee. Then Sheriff Everett introduced Clay to Esther and proceeded to sweet-talk her out of her mad.

The three of them talked awhile longer, as other citizens of Mosqueros came in and met Clay. With everything settled, Clay invited the sheriff to drop in after church for Sunday dinner. Then he headed home.

“Where is that man?” Sophie muttered as she combed the few snarls out of Laura’s white curls.

Sally stood at the window, staring out. Suddenly she whirled around. “He’s coming. He’s got the wagon hitched up.”

“Oh, good. We can all go to church together then.” Sophie smiled at her tidy little family.

“Is Parson Roscoe gonna yell at us again?” Beth’s eyes got as wide as saucers.

“That’s his job, honey.” Sophie brushed the wisps of hair off Beth’s forehead. “He’s trying to point out the error of our ways.”

Beth stared at the floor for a long second. “I reckon he can’t do a fearful thing like that if he’s speaking softly.”

Mandy buttoned up the back of Sally’s dress. “Still, we get in trouble when we yell too much. Why is it okay for him?”

Sophie didn’t have an answer for that, so she was glad Clay chose that moment to come inside. He glanced at them all standing, ready and waiting. Sophie saw him heave a sigh of relief. She couldn’t imagine what he was relieved about, unless he thought they wouldn’t be ready on time.

“Let’s hit the trail.”

The girls ran past him for the wagon, in a swirl of calico and braids.

Sally called out, “I get the front seat between Ma and Pa!”

“You don’t get to sit up there! We need to take turns, and since I’m the oldest…” Mandy’s voice faded as the girls raced away.

Sophie heard Clay sigh again, so deeply she thought it stirred a breeze in the room.

“What’s the matter?”

“They’re fighting again.”

Sophie cocked her head a bit to listen to the squabbling that distance had nearly erased. “You call that little spat fighting?”

“What do you call it?” he asked impatiently.

Sophie shrugged. “There isn’t room for any of the girls on that seat, and they all know it, so they’re just making noise. I didn’t pay it any mind.” She walked up to him and patted him on the arm. “That’s just how little girls are. You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

Clay nodded silently for a while, then turned to go to the wagon. As he walked out Sophie heard him mutter, “I’ll get used to it or go deaf. In the end, I reckon that’s the same thing.”

Sophie smiled all the way to town.

This Sunday wasn’t such a shock for Sophie. She was prepared to be greeted politely, and she wasn’t disappointed. She leaned over to Clay as he guided the wagon toward the church. “How did you get all these people to like us so quickly? They’ve never been anything but awful to me.”

“The war is fading from people’s minds.” Clay pushed his hat back on his head with one gloved thumb and looked at her. “The country is healing. It’s time for them to forgive and forget. They’d’ve been kind, even if I hadn’t come, if you’d’ve given ’em a chance.”

“Except for them all trying to marry me, of course.”

“Well, that was another lil’ thing that got in the way of you living peaceably around here.” Clay smiled down at her.

She couldn’t quite help smiling back. “I guess marrying you solved that.”

Clay pulled back on the reins to halt the horses. “Indeed it did, Sophie darlin’. Indeed it did.”

They mingled with the other worshiping citizens of Mosqueros.

Miss Calhoun came up and said a prim, “Good morning.”

Sophie smiled and returned the greeting, careful not to forget to call her “Miss Calhoun.” She studied the young woman. Miss Calhoun was a first-year teacher, most likely still in her teens, but she carried herself as if she had a steel rod in place of a spine—a steel rod so long it tilted her neck up. Either that or Miss Calhoun kept her nose in the air on purpose.

Sophie put aside her misgivings about the young woman’s acutely “proper” behavior. There was kindness in Miss Calhoun’s eyes, and Sophie had heard good things about how the school was run.

“I have my appointment book with me today, Mrs. McClellen. I’d like to schedule a time when I can come out and see you.”