The Accidental Lawman (14 page)

“So, you do have a love life?”

“I most certainly do not.”

“I’m sure there must be something about love and marriage in that Bible of yours, Miss Hawthorne. Why, even a heathen like me knows that marriage is a sacred covenant between a man and a woman. Preachers marry. Reverend McCormick was married. He’s got the children to prove he—”

“Of
course
I don’t believe love is a sin. I just don’t think I’ve ever been
in
love.” She thought she’d been in love once, but what she’d felt for a traveling drummer had been nothing more than admiration compared to the feelings Hank inspired in her.

And to think that all he’d done was close his eyes, tip his head back and let her plug his bloody nose!

“So you’ve never had a beau?”

“If nothing else, you’re persistent.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I had a beau once. A stranger passing through town. He came calling a few times. He talked about settling down, but then one day he left without so much as a by-your-leave.” She shrugged, stared into the mug. He didn’t need to know all the details. “I guess he wasn’t the settling-down kind. Better I found out before it was too late.”

“I’ve been sitting out here staring at that star up there, debating about just how honest I should be, Amelia.”

She loved the sound of her given name on his tongue, the way he drew out the sound with a mid-western twang, almost as if loath to let it go.

“Honesty is the best policy.” She had no idea where the conversation was going until she remembered Evan. “You know something about Evan, don’t you. Is he all right?”

“I don’t know any more about your brother than I did before.”

“Then what is it that you have to be honest about?”

She heard him take a deep breath, let it out. He set his empty cup down beside his hat.

“After I lost Tricia and the baby, I shut myself off from the world. I turned to my work, spent nearly all hours of the day and night writing. Finally, when I couldn’t abide life in Saint Joe anymore, I bought the printing press, packed up and left, intent upon starting over. I chose to be alone. I chose to wall myself off from the rest of the world. I didn’t want to feel anything. I didn’t want to come close to falling in love again.”

Falling in love again.

With her? Surely not.

He’d walled himself in and now he needed someone to talk to, that was all. She understood him completely. She’d felt the same way when her father died. She couldn’t count on Evan for companionship. She’d been alone and had embraced that loneliness rather than let it defeat her.

“Friends told me it wasn’t right, it wasn’t healthy to shut out the world, but I didn’t listen,” he continued. “Tonight I realized they were right. Tonight, when you took my hand so that I could pull you to your feet, I felt a connection that shocked me, that awakened something inside me. Something I thought I’d lost and would never recover.”

What did he mean? What was he really saying? She found herself staring into his eyes, searching his face for answers.

“Did you feel anything, Amelia?”

Did she
feel
anything? She’d been afraid to let herself think about her feelings for him. Afraid they were too overwhelming. Afraid of what might happen if she let herself go.

“I…” What in the world could she say?

“Tell me, Amelia. What do you feel when you’re with me?”

“I can’t say—”

“Because of Charity? Are you afraid to hurt her?”

Charity seemed genuinely fine around Hank at the masquerade. Apparently, she harbored no hard feelings toward him.

“No, I…” Never at a loss for words, she felt like a moron.

He reached for her tea mug, took it in his hands and set it down beside his. Then he took her hands in his and held them gently.

“I never thought I’d care for anyone again. I still have no idea how much of my heart I can give. Perhaps you hold no tender feelings for me, but if you do have any inkling—I guess what I’m asking is for your understanding and patience. But there is something here—”

Without any idea she was about to do it, she leaned close and kissed him much the way he had kissed her—without forethought, without finesse. She kissed him quick—cutting him off in mid-sentence. She had no idea what she was doing. It was fast, it was chaste—and it was still wonderful.

When she drew back she wanted to die of embarrassment.

“I don’t know what just came over me,” she said, pulling her hands out of his and jumping to her feet.

“Believe me, I completely understand.” He stood a little too quickly and wavered on his feet.

She reached for his arm. “Are you all right?”

“That kiss made me light-headed.”

“I think more likely it was the blow to your nose.”

She glanced up and down the street. There was no one around. A few blocks away, light spilled out of the church hall. The distant sound of fiddle music danced on the air. Folks were still enjoying themselves on the warm summer’s eve.

She bent down, grabbed his hat and shoved it at him.

“You’d best be going, Hank.”

“I’ll consider it progress that you didn’t just call me Mr. Larson.”

“Please go,” she whispered, mortified at her behavior.

He didn’t budge. Instead, he captured her hands in his again. She could have pulled them away, but she didn’t want to. His hands were large and warm and covered hers completely.

“Will you think about what I’ve said, Amelia? I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, I want you to believe that. All I ask is that you’ll at least consider letting me call on you formally.”

Hank wasn’t promising love, he wasn’t asking for her hand. He was merely asking to call on her. Asking her to be patient with him while he sorted out his feelings.

“I’ll think about what you said,” she promised.

“Good.” He nodded, then centered his dented hat on his head. “Great. Thank you, Amelia.” He tugged on his hat brim. “I’ll see you soon.”

T
he next morning, Amelia woke before dawn.

The still, close air and cloudless sky marked the beginning of what was sure to be a stifling day when she started filling water buckets from the hand pump near the back step. Carrying water was backbreaking, but her garden was precious to her apothecary work, so letting the plants die was unthinkable.

Each time she emptied a bucket and straightened to stretch her back, she was tempted to look down the street to see if Hank might be on his way over. She reminded herself he was a busy man, that he had people to interview and advertisements to solicit.

What do you feel when you’re with me?

She blushed just thinking of the things he had said last night.

I still have no idea how much of my heart I can give.

I guess what I’m asking is for your understanding and your patience.

If there was one thing she had in abundance, it was patience. She could sit for hours beside a feverish child,
watching, waiting for any small sign that marked a turn toward recovery. Her life revolved around methodically having to wait and watch over her medicinal garden, to cut, trim, hang and dry the plants, to store the seeds and leaves, pulverize small amounts to mix into potions and elixirs, categorize and organize them.

She knew without a doubt that she could wait for Hank to sort out his feelings. She could wait for love to grow between them, just as she waited for her garden to produce lifesaving medicinals.

The same God that nourishes my garden will nourish our love if it is meant to be.

Someone finally arrived at her gate near noontime, but it wasn’t Hank. It was a hired hand who worked for Lemuel Harroway, son of the town’s founding father, Emmert Harroway.

She was on the porch, drying her hands, fingering a strand of hair back into her braid as Isaac Brown drove up in the fancy black Harroway rig and then walked up the path through the front garden.

“Howdy, Miss Amelia.” The moonfaced hired man was in his late sixties. He smiled and tipped the brim of his hat. “I reckon you know why I’m here.”

“Fanny?”

He nodded. “She’s havin’ a real bad spell. Been going on since yesterday. Miz Harroway needs you to come soon as you can.”

Amelia knew that it wasn’t a request. “As soon as you can” meant immediately. Among some of the wealthiest ranchers in Texas, the Harroways were used to people jumping when they said jump. They paid their help well, but that wasn’t what sent Amelia flying to gather her medical bag and the compounds she would need.

Fanny Harroway, Emmert’s only daughter, was prone to fits of hysteria and was in the care of her brother, Lemuel, and his wife, Sophronia. Most of the time Sophronia and the nurse assigned to watch over Fanny had no trouble tending to the young woman, but whenever Fanny had a particularly bad spell, Amelia was called in to help them.

Minutes later, Amelia climbed into the buggy and they left Glory behind in no time. Eight miles out, they crossed Cottonwood Creek. The day was heating up faster than Amelia imagined it would. Close heat, dry as if it rolled out of an oven, shimmered about them in waves by the time they finally reached the ranch.

Harroway House was, by anyone’s standards, a grand mansion. The elder Harroways, with money and slaves in tow, left their cotton plantation in Louisiana a good ten years before the start of The Great Unpleasantness, as they called the War Between the States. They founded the town of Glory, bringing commerce and faith to the frontier.

Lemuel, the second generation Harroway, continued to prosper—though he had abandoned his father’s faith. Neither Lemuel or Sophronia ever came into town, not even to attend church. Amelia saw them only in times of crisis.

Amelia’s gaze drifted up the long columns that fronted the mansion. Her knock was answered by Sigrid, a recent immigrant from Sweden. The tall, strapping young woman had bright blue button eyes, fair skin and yellow hair. She nodded at Amelia and said something that sounded like, “Da missus say go up.”

“Thank you, Sigrid. Would you bring up a cup of hot water, some cream, sugar and teacups?”

Sigrid had been in the Harroways’ employ for nearly two years. She didn’t hesitate to do as Amelia requested.

“De vater is already boiling.” She bobbed what passed for a curtsy.

Bag in hand, Amelia stepped into an entry hall nearly as big as her entire house. A wide staircase cut the hall in half. She started up the stairs without having to be told where to find Fanny and Sophronia. Lemuel’s sister’s suite was isolated from the rest of the household at the far end of the hall on the second floor. On bad days, Sophronia kept her sister-in-law locked in. On good days, Fanny was allowed to roam the house in Sigrid’s care.

From the high-pitched sounds of women’s voices raised in anger on the second floor, this was definitely
not
one of Fanny’s good days.

Amelia paused in the hallway outside Fanny’s door. A loud crash punctuated the sound of breaking glass and Sophronia shouted, “Keep away from me, Fanny, or I swear I’ll shoot!”

Amelia whispered a fervent prayer. “Lord, help me, guide me, keep me safe. Protect these poor women from themselves and each other. Help me to do the right thing, to choose the right course of healing. I trust in You, Lord, and Your love and grace.” Amelia said amen and tried the doorknob.

When she discovered it was locked, she banged on the wooden panels and the voices inside fell silent.

“Sophronia, let me in. It’s Amelia.”

She waited, held her breath until she heard hurried footsteps. The lock clicked. The door opened and Sophronia stood on the other side. She had a Colt trained on her sister-in-law. Fanny was crouched on the other side of the room with a long shard of glass in her hand. The remnants of a shattered light globe lay at her feet.

The room was large and yet crowded with books, clothes and furniture. There were bars on every window.

“Thank heavens!” Sophronia cried when she saw Amelia. “Do something with her, would you?”

Her usually flawless hair had escaped its coils and pins. Half of her long black tresses drooped over her shoulder while the rest rode high on the crown of her head.

A swift glance assured Amelia that Sophronia was unharmed. The woman, somewhere in her late thirties, stepped close to Amelia and whispered, “I’m at the end of my rope.”

Hattie Ellenberg always said, “When you get to the end of your rope, tie another knot and hang on.” But Amelia had the feeling Sophronia wasn’t in the mood for a dose of Hattie’s wisdom just now.

She slipped silently into the room and heard the lock fall into place behind her.

Six months ago Fanny Harroway had turned thirty. She was prone to hysterics and a nervous disorder of the brain that led her to believe she heard voices. Voices that she could not silence of her own accord.

Amelia’s father had treated Fanny before he died, so Amelia was not afraid of her. Doc Hawthorne had held the opinion that Fanny should not be locked away to live out her days in an asylum, so Lemuel Harroway refused to have his younger sister confined in a madhouse—much to his wife’s chagrin.

As Sophronia hovered near the door with the Colt still trained on Fanny, Amelia set her medical bag down and began to inch forward, one cautious step at a time.

“Put the broken glass down, Fanny. You could hurt yourself. You don’t want that, do you?” Amelia paused to observe. The young woman was crouched against the
wall beneath the window, her hand wrapped so tightly around a long shard of glass that blood dripped out of her fist onto the highly polished floor.

Sophronia, tired of hearing Sigrid complain about having to comb the knots out of Fanny’s tangled hair, had it cut off months ago. Now, Fanny’s shorn brown locks stuck out all over her head. Despite the uneven crow’s nest of hair, Fanny was beautiful. Her eyes were deep and soulful. Violet shadows smudged the hollows beneath them. Her skin was pale as milk, her arms painfully thin. There was a haunted, ethereal quality about the woman who, because of circumstance, was as innocent as a child.

Fanny stared up at Amelia, her head cocked to one side, distracted, as if listening to something in the distance.

“Amelia?”

“That’s right. Fanny, put the glass down. You’ve hurt yourself and I’m here to help you.”

“Are you going to make me drink the tincture?” Fanny was shaking, whispering hoarsely. She hated the taste of the valerian nerve tincture Amelia left for Sophronia to administer.

From the other side of the room, Sophronia informed Amelia, “We ran out of medicine a couple weeks ago. I should have sent for some but—”

It wasn’t the first time Sophronia had let Fanny go without her nerve medicine. Thankfully Amelia had an extra bottle on hand.

“I brought you something new to try, as well,” Amelia began.

“Does it taste good?”

“I’ve tasted it myself.” Amelia sampled every concoction she mixed. “It’s not half-bad.”

“Is it
delightful?
” Fanny tipped her head the other way, suddenly focusing on Amelia.

Amelia smiled. “I wouldn’t say it’s delightful, but it won’t make you wince. It tastes a bit like tea and is taken the same way.” She inched forward again. “Will you give me that piece of glass and let me wrap that cut on your palm before we try some?”

At Amelia’s words, Fanny stared down at her palm, saw the blood on her skirt and the floor and dropped the shard. She held her open palm out in front of her and watched the blood leak out.

“It’s about time,” Sophronia said behind them.

Seeing to Fanny’s welfare was a task not many women would be up to. As a woman possessed of a cool, demanding temperament, Sophronia did the best she could and, thankfully, she had her husband’s fortune at her disposal.

“Come over here, Fanny,” Amelia instructed as she walked over to a wing chair near the window. There was a reading table beside it. She set her bag down, opened it, and waited for Fanny to rise and cross the room.

The young woman did as she asked, moving as if in a trance, appearing to listen, always listen, to something otherworldly.

If only she heard the voice of the Lord.

Fanny stood beside Amelia and stared out the barred window. From her room, Fanny had a view of miles and miles of open ranch land.

“He isn’t here now,” Fanny whispered.

Amelia took her arm and encouraged her to sit in the wing chair. It was a moment before the young woman could tear her gaze away from the window.

“Who, Fanny?”

“The shadow man.”

A chill ran down Amelia’s spine. What darkness had Fanny’s mind conjured up now?

“Look at this cut, Fanny. You really should be more careful with your things, you know. Glass can be very dangerous.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Now you do.” Amelia realized that on some level, Fanny knew glass was indeed dangerous, for she’d used the shard to keep Sophronia at bay. Amelia swabbed the cut with a piece of linen and then pulled the edges together. She applied strips cut from a stick of adhesive plaster she’d made of white resin, beeswax and mutton tallow to close the wound.

Fanny watched her closely. “Why, Amelia! You are sticking me back together,” she said, amazed.

“You mustn’t touch this after I bandage it. Your skin will grow back together nicely if you leave it alone.”

There was movement behind them as Sigrid slipped into the room carrying a tray with a small pot of hot water, cream, sugar and three cups. She set it down near Amelia’s medical bag.

“Thank you, Sigrid,” Amelia said.

“Thank you, Sigrid,” Fanny mimicked.

The maid curtsied. “Vill that be all, Doctor?” Though Amelia always protested, Sigrid never addressed Amelia as anything but doctor.

“Thank you, yes.” Amelia turned to Fanny. “I have a new compound for you, Fanny. I think you’re going to like it. I know you like tea.”

“What did you say?” Fanny asked.

“I said I know you like tea.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Amelia. I was talking to
them
.”

Amelia paused. No matter how many times she saw
Fanny, no matter how many times they’d had this conversation, the idea that Fanny heard imaginary voices she couldn’t silence or ignore greatly disturbed Amelia.

“They don’t trust him anymore, but I do,” Fanny said.

“They?”

“My voices.”

Amelia knew Sophronia was dead set against encouraging Fanny to discuss her hallucinations. Sophronia hovered across the room, listening, watching.

Fanny appeared so very sincere, so intent, that Amelia could not ignore her.

“Who don’t they trust?”

“The shadow man. He doesn’t want anyone to see him.”

“Why not?”

Fanny leaned close to Amelia and whispered, “No one must know about his visits.”

“Where does he come from?”

“He lives here.”

“He lives here? In the house?” Amelia thought of the many ranch hands in Lemuel’s employ. It wasn’t impossible that one of them might have found a way to get to Fanny. She was as innocent as a lamb.

“Shh. I can’t say anything else.” Fanny looked around furtively. “He made me promise not to tell.”

“Tell what?”

“He’s talking to me
right now,
” Fanny smiled with a far-off look. “I can still hear him.”

Amelia relaxed a bit. The “shadow man” was another figment of Fanny’s imagination. She drew a small cobalt bottle of pulverized skullcap, valerian, catnip, cayenne and coriander seeds from her bag and carefully measured out a teaspoonful and placed it in the bottom of a teacup. She poured in a dash of hot
water, dissolved the powder and then added more water, cream and sugar.

She handed the cup to Fanny.

“You drink some,” Fanny said, accepting the cup but lowering it to her lap.

Sophronia moved up beside Amelia and hovered at her shoulder. “What is that you’re giving her? It will work better than the tincture, I hope.”

“It tranquilizes irritable nerves without debilitating.”

“Are you actually going to have some?” Sophronia watched Amelia measure out a half teaspoon more and drop it into an empty cup.