Unbroken Hearts (3 page)

Sarah stared past Lola's shoulder
,
and she felt herself standing in the corner of that dank, gilded room.

    
For the second time that day she felt bile
rising in her throat.

Chapter 2

The
lone wind gust pushed at something deep inside him. It grazed Cal Easton's
brow, gently lifting his hat. He'd saved the Stetson with his free hand, but
hell, it had come from nowhere, seemingly aimed for him alone.

This
is how I mark my thirtieth year, he thought.

Cal
had started the trip to town well past full sunup, but now -- except for the
one odd blow -- the big sky covered clear and blue and the heat was stifling.
His dark eyes scoured the horizon from his perch atop the supply wagon.

"Dang.
No relief," he muttered to Roy, the impetuous and foolhardy younger
brother seated alongside.

"Yup.
 
She's a scorcher."

Cal hadn't mentioned the significance of
the day. Not that birthdays mattered much, since, in Montana Territory, each
day was an endurance-test that simply followed heel-to-toe to another.

Lanky Roy, a thorn-in-the-side boy stuck
inside a grown man's body, had forgotten the occasion.
Good
, thought Cal. He'd happily skip Roy's
usual prank, always hatched with Bailey, the ranch foreman.

So, it was nothing special, this
turning-thirty-day. He considered birthdays were for children, the giddy tots
who looked forward to growing older as they rode youthful dreams.

These days the man honed by adversity didn't feel young. Cal couldn't make a wish beyond pleasant
weather and good grass for his stock. When did that happen? He supposed it was
when Papa died. Or maybe it had been Grace. He swallowed hard. Heck, he told
himself, folks got older one day at a time, not in one big leap, once a year.
And "whys" and "what if's" were wasted exertions.

As they neared town a sun-baked breeze
billowed from the east. Cal lazily raised his right arm above his head to
stretch. He reached to unbutton his shirt, just enough to feel the fresh air
slide across his broad chest, whilst being careful to keep his injured arm
hanging in the sling at his left side.

Today he was
grateful. The pain had quit him, and the cause of his injury -- the Malger gang
-- wouldn't be coming back. Darn few men were fool enough to go looking for
trouble with Cal and Roy Easton, and those who dared suffered deadly
consequences.

But where did it
get a man to be thirty and still a target for lowlifes? They seemed to cluster
like dark clouds over the territory; barely two weeks had passed since the outlaw
Malger clan had run amok.

Gangs like the
Malgers were part of a new breed of confused drifters – mostly aimless
young men who'd fought for the confederacy during the war. Their soft southern
drawls and fancy manners with the ladies concealed a gnawing bitterness, and
they took their revenge by roaming the prairie, rustling cattle, stealing
horses, and running scams in the boomtowns. A few even robbed banks and stage
lines, and the worst of the lot killed innocent law-abiding people.

Some said the
Malgers were drunk up on the Copper Strike's watered-down liquor that
afternoon. Others speculated they were paid up to do it. The motive
remained unclear, but three members of the bushwhacking clan were hell-bent on
making trouble with the Eastons as they headed out of town that day.

Fortunately for Cal and Roy, the Malgers squandered their surprise advantage.
Roy, riding shotgun behind Cal, read the outlaw's fresh tracks, and out of the
corner of one eye he'd caught the flash of late afternoon sun reflecting off a
shiny spur or rifle barrel. Both men heard them.

The quick nod from Cal had set their guns
to talking. Pete Malger scrambled around the side of a rock not twenty
yards ahead, and he took aim at Roy with his pistol. Cal grabbed his gun so
fast Pete later recounted seeing it as a blur. And Pete was lucky, because the
rock he chose provided good cover. Cal's sharp eye, steady hand, and iron
determination aimed up and fired a shot to the hip, the only exposed part of
Pete's body. The outlaw yelped, and he got off a miss wide just as Cal's bullet
struck.

Cal's gelding pranced restlessly, and he
leaned forward in his saddle to maintain balance. Alvin Malger, hidden in a
clump of scrub pine behind, sighted to cover his brother. He made his shot,
hitting Cal in the left shoulder. But the flash from Alvin's muzzle gave him
away, and Roy took full advantage, leveled his rifle at the bushes, sucked in
his breath, and squeezed the trigger. Alvin fell to the dirt, writhing from a
gut-shot, a surprised expression etched on his face for all eternity.

Within moments, the Eastons spied a third
man running for the shadow of a cottonwood, where he mounted a bay and galloped
off, out and away from the ill conceived and poorly executed ambush.

Cal didn't feel guilt when it came to
shooting at men who foolishly gunned for his life or rustled his cattle. A man
had to be his own lookout. He'd known ranchers who'd hesitated when it came to
shooting, and they ended up dead men. In a lawless territory the quick ending
of conflicts came naturally to a good rancher like Cal Easton. It was just another
-- albeit less desirable -- part of the job.

Cal glanced at his younger brother. Roy
was focused on driving the wagon.

"Right nice of Nettie to stay with
Mama," Cal muttered.

"Yup, fine woman," Roy agreed.
"George is one lucky husband."

The men counted themselves fortunate.
Their ranch neighbor, Nettie Newman, had offered a "friendly turn".
She was caretaking Mama so they could make the supply run to town.

"Yup," added Roy, "it was tough
to lose Dora."

Cal's lips pursed as he thought about the
stout young woman who'd nursed their Mama. He shifted on the seat. "That
gal would chase any gamblin' gold sniffer. Some women'll take a chance on any
fool."

"Ain't it the truth! It's damn hard
to scare up womanly help." Roy moved the reins from right hand to left.

Cal's brown eyes slanted and pierced his
brother. "You still fixin' to go up river to the mining camp
tomorrow?"

"I 'spect so." Roy feebly
attempted to stretch his long legs. "Still got eight mules to sell, and
they're always needin' pack animals up there. Reckon I'll fetch a price."
He tossed a sideways glance at Cal and couldn't help noticing the frown pulling
at the corners of his brother's mouth. Cal did all the worrying for the family,
and that's precisely why Roy didn't. "I never thought I'd go back after
the accident," he added as afterthought.

Cal settled back against the seat and
decided to change the topic.

"You visiting the bank today?"
Roy was eager to get to town, and Cal knew it had darn little to do with
helping to haul supplies home.

"Yup." Roy grinned
 
"Just wouldn't be proper not to
pay Ella a visit, to thank her for the pie she sent out with Bailey."

Cal grunted. "Dang. Tasted like
sawdust to me." The corners of his mouth turned up when he saw Roy's back
stiffen.

"Ella has other fine qualities that
make up for her lackin' in the kitchen, if you catch my meaning," retorted
Roy.

Cal cleared his throat. "That so? As
I recollect you said the same thing about Jane Parsons just last month.
Brother, when you gonna catch a gal who can cook? I could use a holiday from
the chuck wagon."

Roy cursed. "That's a low
pitch." Jane Parsons had run off with Ed Summers, a starchy fast-talking
peddler. Summers plied her with honeyed words and promises of the good life
back east. "Fool woman! She don't count none."

Roy restlessly tugged at his hat.
"Hell Cal, you're the one who prefers home and family. Get your own woman,
and quit waitin' on me." The younger Easton grimaced, regretting these
last words as soon as they slipped past his lips.

"I'm not lucky at getting down that
trail." Cal replied tightly.

The two men fell silent. Roy mulled over
his brother's style when it came to wooing women. Cal wasn't given to a good
dallying. The man downright dove in and took it all serious-like. And whenever
Cal's heart was captured, a streak of bad luck was sure to follow. But that's
all it was, really, thought Roy -- just plain dumb luck.

Cal had been crazy over pretty Grace
Farrel, the blacksmith's sister. And she was over the moon for him too. But not
long after the engagement was announced Grace died in an accident. Cal was
heartbroken, and, although four years had gone by, he never seemed to get past
the tragedy. He withdrew to his work on the ranch, where solace had come in
laboring alongside his father.

Roy had moved to the side and watched his
brother and father bond tighter. He drifted into a devil-may-care
attitude. But now their father was dead too, and lately Roy tried, on occasion,
to get his brother to loosen up on the hard-driving monastic life he wore like
a prison sentence.

    
Two years after Grace
died there was Betsy Simon. A beefy woman, she'd allowed Cal to court her,
and now, in hindsight, Roy was convinced she deliberately played Cal for a
fool. After a good month of squiring her around, Cal went off on a cattle drive.
Barry Hanson, who'd been patiently waiting his turn, asked Betsy to step out.
And the two-faced woman did exactly that -- right out and into Barry's waiting
arms. Why was it that women fawned over a scrub like Hanson? The pair left town
less than a week later, and Roy was the one to break the bad news when Cal
returned. .
 

    
Poor, poor Cal! Stoic to the end, he hid his disappointment well, but the way Roy figured it, the woman as good as stomped on his heart and slung it
onto the prairie, like carrion to rot in the sun.
 

No lady had
captured Cal's attention since, and Roy suspected that his brother's bruised
heart had given up on women altogether.

Oh, he'd concede
that Cal was the fastest draw and steadiest shot in the territory. But Roy knew
with absolute certainty he was smarter than his older brother when it came to
women, never mind that there weren't many around to be smart about.

Chapter 3

Sarah squinted in the bright sunlight as
she departed the dim stable behind Lola's house, seated sidesaddle on a white
pony named Angel.

Lola flitted about her new charge like an
anxious scarlet butterfly, making last-minute adjustments to the yards of fancy
pink sateen fabric. The skirt formed a soft cloud, flowing from Sarah's slight
waist to a graceful sweep a bare foot off the ground. A hand named Ned looked
on with little interest; he clutched the bridle in one calloused hand, and in
the other he held a slate.

As Lola primped and poked and twittered
about she reminded Ned to smile and not to "rush around like a wanton
rooster". The man nodded wearily and replied "Yes, ma'am" to
each bit of hen-pecking.

At last Lola appeared satisfied; she
stepped back, scanned her charge one last time, and declared her perfect. Then
she turned and waddled back up toward the house.

Sarah looked down at the gown. It was
more beautiful than any dress she'd ever owned, yet all she felt was dazed and
tired and confused.

The front door slammed behind Lola. Ned
exhaled audibly and ambled forward, leading them toward the street. A limp
hampered his stride. It gave the man a stooping, awkward gait, causing his
balding head to bob in exaggerated fashion. Ned slowed and shifted his
well-worn hat. Then he jerked the pony's reins, and the bobbing started up
again

Glum Emily, assigned to a station in the
parlor, spied them from a front window and bolted out like a puppy chasing
after a rabbit. Sprinting to where Ned was leading, Emily was smug as a bandit
who'd just busted out of the pokey.

"Emily!," Sarah reprimanded,
"you're 'sposed to stay inside!"

Emily frowned at her gussied-up guardian
and stomped her toe in the dirt. "You can't hitch me inside that perfume
tomb", she spat, "it stinks, and Miss Lola is a scary old witch. I
wanna go home!"

If we had a home
, thought Sarah. She flashed Emily a
stern look. Deciding to ignore her sister's tantrum she bore her eyes into Ned.
"Let's get this done."

Ned grimaced uncomfortably, yanked on the
reins, and they jerked ahead. Emily was silenced for the moment. She ambled
along beside them, lovingly stroking the pony's neck, until they reached the
street, where she coughed to catch Ned's ear.

"Mister, may I ride the pony after
Sarah gets her turn?" Emily's blue eyes pleaded him up in an act to melt
the toughest cowboy. Ned's defenses crumbled. Dealing with grownup women was
one thing. Sweet waif-like girls were quite another.

 
"Emily, don't you sass Mr. Kingman," admonished
Sarah.

"I'll do as I please!" stomped
Emily. "Mr. Kingman is my friend!"

The hired man pulled a bandana from his
around his neck and wiped his brow. "Uh, we have a different pony you can
ride out back. Angel don't cotton to young lasses."

Ned patted Emily on the top of her head
the way one would pet a cherished dog. His grip on Angel's reins loosened, and
he turned and limped back to the brothel. He hauled himself up the front steps,
crossed the porch and creaked open the door.

"December! Git out here!"

Ned walked back to the pony.

A minute passed, and
"December", a young woman whose rose-tinted smile was nearly as wide
as her hips, poured out and down the steps. She ambled lazily, tossing her eyes
heavenward, wearing a what-on-earth-do-you-want-now look. When her big brown eyes
lit on Emily she brightened.

"The little gal needs occupying. Git
Daisy!" Ned waved his hand in the air.

In a blink Emily had sized up December,
and she loosened her tongue from its moorings. "Who's Daisy? And why is
your name a month?"

December laughed at Emily's childish
curiosity, and she slapped a hand playfully to her hip. "Daisy's the best
dern black pony in Wounded Colt," she said in a southern drawl that
spilled over soft lips, sweeter than hot molasses. "An' I'm December,
cause then's the month I come to live here." Then she giggled and spun
like a pretend ballerina. "A new name struck me right for startin' a new
life."

But Emily wasn't listening to December --
she was making a beeline for the stable as soon as she heard 'black pony'. Her
legs churned excitedly; the worn soles of her shoes skidded over dry gravel as
she ran.

December, still in mid-spin when Emily
launched off like a rocket, hitched up her skirts and raced to catch up with
the sprightly girl and her mass of bouncing blond curls.

Sarah watched December chase after Emily,
and her lips curved upward for the first time that day. Ned snorted; the duo
disappeared around the corner of the house, Emily giddy with eager
anticipation, and December breathlessly imploring her to slow down.

Ned yanked on the reins and they started off.

Sarah nervously fingered the pale pink
gown with ornate stitched edging on the bodice and sleeves. Miss Lola had
insisted it was just right. But to Sarah's way of thinking the dress was far
too elegant for wearing on a weekday ride down a dusty main street. The bodice
was cut too low, and Sarah was forced to tug at the top of it every now and
again. What was more, Miss Lola had demanded she wear her hair down. The final
abomination was Miss Lola trying to douse her with the smelly, cheap
perfume. In the end Sarah struck a deal to wear her hair loose if she could
skip on the perfume.

"Where are we headed?" Sarah
had patiently waited until they were out of earshot of Emily and December.

Ned restlessly nudged his hat back on his
head, then tugged it off impulsively and scratched the back of his neck.

Sarah's voice affected him; it was sweet,
almost melodic, and at the same time it sounded lost. He slanted a glance over
his shoulder. He had a strict rule of maintaining a distant but
pleasant demeanor when dealing with Lola's girls.

"Just takin' a stroll around town,
so everybody gets acquainted." This was, without doubt, the most
distasteful part of his job at Lola's. "You's young and riding on the
white, so plenty of men'll be wantin' to meet you'." It wasn't much
consolation, he knew, but it was all he had to offer. At least it was honest,
the sort of blunt observation that gently conveyed her new station in life.

Riding on the white
? The words stabbed. She'd been trapped
in a confused state, but now there was no room for denial; she well knew she
wasn't hired to peel potatoes in Lola's kitchen, the job Sheriff Aiken had
pitched to her when they'd met at the edge of town. Weariness descended, heavy
as the hot summer day, and her sweat dampened the creases of the borrowed
dress.

Ned reached up and fingered a canteen that
hung from the saddle horn.

"Git water when you need,
Miss." He cleared his throat and looked past her, casting about for a
friendly expression.

For the first time
Sarah looked him square in the face. Ned's mouth formed a hesitant smile, and
she was surprised to see the man still had all his teeth. He wasn't poor in
appearance, not when one looked past the limp, but of course there was the
obvious lack of proper schooling.

And just as Sarah
took stock of Ned he also observed her.
 
He'd seen this apprehension in the new ones before. They valiantly tried
to hide emotions behind carefully shuttered expressions. Anger. Fear. Anguish.
Denial. This girl was no exception; she was pretty, and yet, he was aware of
something extraordinary in her manner. She rubbed small shaking hands along her
skirt and shifted her weight in the saddle. But she held her head high, back straight,
and her clear green eyes were pooled with determination.

    
Ned was strict about avoiding conversation, but
instinctively he sensed she was something of a gem-in-the-rough. It tugged at
him. The clear eye and lift of her chin spoke of courage, sensitivity, and
intelligence. Honor graced the pains she'd taken to protect her little sister
from the gritty truth of their circumstance, and in the way she held the little
one blameless. Indeed, it betrayed the selflessness of her purpose, and Ned
decided she deserved better from life. He looked a second time into those eyes,
felt pride and admiration, and recognized the pain, and the unspoken connection
between them:
 
Sarah Anders was a
survivor.
 

    
"Er, yer right
pretty." Ned coughed.
 

     
Sarah bowed her
head and reddened at the compliment.

"I came to work for Lola just after
soldiering," he explained. "Planned on working at ranching, but after
I got out here my leg took to painin' me too much." He waved a hand.
"I was shot at Manassas. I wouldn't have the leg at all but the army was
short of docs. Yah, some of them sawbones cut off everything in sight. I knew
one fella, he complained his back hurt so they cut off his leg. Imagine ya'
that! Thing is, this fella said it worked, said his back stopped hurtin' him
once he was rid of the leg." He guffawed. "Ever heard a
thing so backwards?"

      
Sarah
smiled. She was touched by the gruff old war veteran's darkly amusing story.
Ned Kingman had a heart, and he'd shared the disappointment of his abandoned
dreams. She couldn't remember the last time she'd talked to a straight up kind
of man.

    
She started speaking
slowly, like a heavily laden wagon beginning to roll from a dead stop.
 
"So . . . uh, you were in the war
. . . I had a neighbor in the infantry. He was wounded at Appomattox. He died
later, after he came back home."
 
She thought it best not to mention which side he was on, and she quickly
continued with her story so Ned wouldn't think to ask. "My mama took sick
with the child bed fever, and she died two weeks after Emily was born. Papa
died the next year. My uncle took us in. He was a widower, and he had a farm
and a young son. I did all the cooking and housework and chores and such, and
of course I looked out for the young ones. We were coming out here with other
families, but we got delayed and were behind them, 'cause we had to stop to
repair a busted wheel. The train master said it would be fine to catch up.
There hadn't been any Indian trouble, so we weren't worried. My cousin and
uncle were just finishing the job w-when bandits got them."
 
She paused. "They k-killed
them." She shuddered and gripped the leather of the saddle to hold herself steady. "They ran
off our oxen. Then there was nothing left . . . so Emily and I walked here to
this town," her voice trailed off. After a moment she caught herself,
collected her thoughts, and continued. "We met Sheriff Aiken on the trail
in, and he told us Miss Lola had a job to hire on and a place to stay."
Sarah ended her story, and she reflected on how her life could be summed up in a few short,
emotionless statements. She hadn't mentioned the attack on herself, or that her uncle
drank and gambled or how he often came home in a sotted stupor, ready to beat
anybody in his path.

         
Ned nodded
as he listened to Sarah's tale. So many people pouring into this territory had
hard-luck stories of fortunes made and frittered. Others were orphans of illness or
the war. Indeed, he was one, for he'd arrived in Montana territory with
only seventy-five cents and a pair of worn shoes. Ned knew a body could
never find a way to make things right again.

      
They
turned onto the main street of the bustling town. Ned recounted to Sarah how
the rough-hewn settlement had grown in rapid-fire fashion after copper was
discovered nearby. Merchants and schemers were more than happy to separate the
miners from their money, he said, while providing places for drinking,
gambling, and "cowboy" entertainments.

 
He explained how spoke streets flowed off the main, and, as these were too
narrow to turn a mule team they were dotted with smaller shops and, further on,
larger houses. Ned said the largest and grandest belonged to Jack
Dullen, a man who owned much of the town, and plenty more, including a copper
mine and a ranch.

      
Soon men surrounded them. So many beasts of burden
filled the streets the place smelled like a barnyard. Sarah was glad to be on
the pony instead of dodging horse droppings like Ned. Sounds from a tinny piano
and laughter floated in their direction as they neared the center of the town.