Weeping Angel (36 page)

“Ow!” she complained.

“Sorry.” Pausing, he took in several gulps of air to cool his lungs. “This isn't something I've done before. Why can't you just take it off and work on it?”

“No! If I did that, I'd never be able to get the busks in place.”

“What the hell is a busk?”

“I don't think that's something you need to know. Are you almost done?”

“Yeah.” He gave the string one last yank, and the ends met enough for him to tie them in a reef's knot. “It should hold,” he said. “You can get dressed.”

“Turn around again.”

Frowning, he complied with her wishes, thinking it ridiculous after what just transpired between them. He was tense and miserable; he felt strung just as tight as her corset. He needed a release, and he was aching to hold her.

A minute later, she told him he could face her again. “You're going to have to help me with my shoes, too.”

She put her stockings on, and with no time for modesty, he was given an ample view of her legs as she rolled the black hose up over her thighs. He didn't have an opportunity to let his gaze linger because she flung her skirts over her knees and thrust her shoes at him. “We'd better hurry, Frank.”

He made quick work of the job while she pinned on her hat. When he was finished, he put his boots on, then stood and helped her up. Just the touch of her hand in his almost set him off. They remained standing for a moment, gazing at each other; he thinking of doing so much more than he was, as the sun's radiance all but dimmed and twilight took its place. Time became meaningless. Stars peeped through the heavenly mass of sky; they shined and winked, growing bright, then fading.

“I'm going to be late,” she whispered.

His voice was thick when he spoke. “You already are.”

She gave him a small, intimate smile. “I'm sorry Mr. O'Cleary caught the chicken pox . . . but I'm glad he did. This was the best time I've ever had. Thank you, Frank.”

He nodded. “Yeah, well, I was planning on having a much worse time than this,” he admitted with quiet huskiness, “but you cheated me out of it.”

Her smile widened, and he knew that if he didn't get out of here—
now
—he'd be in trouble. “We'd better go.”

“Yes . . .” she replied, but with the same reluctance as he had.

As they left, Frank knew he would never be able to view his favorite fishing spot without seeing Amelia Marshall sleeping on a blue-and-white gingham cloth with white daisies between her toes.

F
rank poured several fingers' worth of Hennessy cognac into a beer glass, then lit a cheroot. Slumping into one of the Moon Rock Saloon's bow-backed chairs, he kicked his feet up on the table.

The Fourth of July festivities had broken up a short time ago, the hour nearing midnight. Dodge had gotten in a dozen or so sentences of the Declaration of Independence before a string of Red Devils had gone off underneath the gazebo. The mayor had let out a startled wail, and the consequences thereof had every boy in town being yanked upon the ear by his mother. No one would fess up, and since a culprit couldn't be nailed down, the fathers took charge and brushed the matter off as boyish shenanigans.

Frank would have liked to have seen the sisters in the home walk away so easily from disreputable conduct once in awhile. He'd had his fair share of slaps, even for crimes he hadn't committed.

Taking a draw on his cigar, he continued his reflection. Amelia had done her part by playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and having her students sing
along. Afterward, the kids disbanded to light fizzle sticks. As the glow of sparks illuminated their faces, Walter and Warren had looked at him as if they'd swallowed their mother's parakeet. Several of the other boys had gazed at Frank and snickered. Daniel and Jakey had guilt written all over their faces. Frank couldn't figure out what they were up to. Everywhere he turned, the hoodlums were whispering behind their hands. He had a hunch the boys knew something he didn't—probably some kind of prank yet to be played out against him, like firecrackers beneath his chair.

Frank inhaled, thoughtfully deliberating the way the evening had ended. Under a shower of skyrockets, he'd stood by Amelia and watched the show. He hadn't concentrated much on the magnificent colors raining from the dark sky. His mind had been occupied with the woman by his side. When the spectacle was over, he'd walked her home. He hadn't trusted himself to touch her—not even a handshake. Not when he had thoughts of daisies, bare toes, and smooth, sweet-smelling skin. Her expression had been puzzled, but he wasn't about to explain that kissing her wasn't enough anymore.

He'd returned to the Moon Rock and had given the place a hasty inspection. Finding no hidden explosives waiting to be lit when he least expected it, he'd decided to have a drink before bed.

Sitting in the dim solitude of his saloon, with a single chandelier lit, he could think more clearly. And the way he saw things was, he had two problems.

One, what exactly did he want to become of his affections for Amelia? She was held in high esteem amongst her social circle, a woman who had been in town long enough to be embraced in its bosom, despite her mistake with the Bible salesman. He, on the other hand, was popular with the men; but his saloon was not looked upon with much favor by the ladies, despite their curiosity. The novelty of the
Moon Rock was waning. Even Dorothea Beamguard hadn't hinted for him to slide a beer along the counter lately. What would these fair women do if he made it known he wanted their Amelia?

Two, and this hurdle was far taller—though not in a literal sense—was Pap O'Cleary.

Since Pap had confided to Frank he intended to marry Amelia, this posed a considerable obstacle in their friendship, not to mention, their working relationship.

There was a way to handle the issue. Tell Pap how he was feeling about Amelia. Pap wasn't going to like it. He'd goad him into a fist fight, and they'd have to bloody each other's noses. Giving him a bruising would make Pap feel better, but it wouldn't be a remedy. Frank wasn't sure what was.

“Frank? Is that you?”

Frank looked up and saw Cobb peering over the top of the bat-wing doors.

“Yeah, Cobb. Come on in.”

He pushed the doors and slipped inside the saloon. Still outfitted in his best mountain attire, he walked across the floor on soundless moccasins. “Are you serving drinks?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Cobb's expression fell. “Well, you see . . . I was . . . that is, beaver being so scarce you know . . . and this being hard times and . . .”

“Get a glass, Cobb, and help yourself.”

“Don't you want to hyar my hard-luck story, Frank?”

“No.”

“But I've been practicing a good one.”

“You save it for a night when I'm not feeling so generous, Cobb.”

His eyes twinkled. “Thanks, Frank. That's right kind of you.” Cobb went to the bar and came back a short minute later with a shot glass of Jim Beam. He
sat at the table with Frank. “I didn't pour much. I'm not a charity man, you know. I pay for what's mine, but since you did make the offer.” He took a taste. “And remember what you said about free drinks on Friday and Saturday.”

“I remember.” Frank brought his glass to his lips and let the cognac slip warmly down his throat. “What happened between you and Miss Shelby? I saw you during the fireworks, and she wasn't with you.”

“I bought her supper like you said.” Cobb rested his arms on the table, his hands wide and large around the squat shot glass. “She cooks real fine vittles. I et the whole basket.”

“I'll bet that made her happy,” Frank remarked, but Cobb didn't pick up on his sarcasm.

“She said she had no appetite. She's a small woman. I like small women.”

“I wasn't sure you were interested in women.”

“Well, I ain't interested in men, if that's what yore trying to say.”

“No, Cobb, I wasn't.” Frank puffed on his cheroot, the smoke swirling above his head in a slow-moving ribbon. Though he would have never thought to worry about Cobb pining after Amelia, Pap had put just enough doubt in his mind for him to ask, “Do you like Miss Marshall?”

“Yes, sir. I think she's purdy.” Cobb drank a swallow of his whiskey. “She can play the piano good.”

“She says the same about you.” Frank tapped his ash on the floor and considered the best way to phrase his next question without scaring Cobb. There really was no other option other than to come out and ask, “Do you really think about getting married, or were you just trying to pull the wool over Pap's eyes when he asked you?”

“I think about getting married all the time.”

Frank sat straighter. “No shit? Damn, Cobb, but I
didn't figure you thought about anything but beavers.”

“I think about lots of things.” His bushy brows rose into the tangle of hair on his forehead. “But I mostly talk about beavers cause they's what I know best. I can read them better than people. You take that Miz Shelby. I don't know what to make of her. I was polite and even said I thought she smelled better than a beaver.”

Frank repressed a smile.

“She didn't like me saying that. I can't figure it out.”

“Well, Cobb, next time you see her, tell her she smells like heaven.”

Cobb scratched his temple. “I ain't never smelled heaven.”

Frank crushed his cigar and tossed back the remainder of his cognac. “Lie.” He stood, feeling the toll of the day in his tired muscles. “I'm going to bed. Finish off that drink so I can lock up.”

Cobb tipped his head back and drained his glass, then he stood and tapped the top of his stovepipe hat. “I told Miz Shelby this hat was made out of a dead beaver. She doesn't like beavers. And she told me I was hairy as a grizzly bear.”

They walked toward the door and as Cobb exited, Frank put his hand on the jamb. “Well, Cobb, I don't know what to tell you about Miss Shelby. She can be as sweet as any preserves ever put up, but she can also be as sour as a pickle. If you want her to like you, don't give up on her. Take some dirty clothes to her laundry and tell her you like starch.”

“I ain't got no dirty clothes. All mine's broke in. Why would I want 'em washed? They'd lose their shape.”

Frank rested his forearm on the top of the frosted glass in the fancy double doors. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he fingered two quarters. He tossed them at Cobb. “You go on over to the mercantile tomorrow
and buy yourself a cheap shirt. Roll around in the dirt, then take the dirty shirt on over to the laundry to get clean.”

Cobb thought on it a moment, his expression dim as the light behind Frank, then he cracked a smile. “That I will, Frank. Thanks for the ideer.”

“Any time, Cobb.” Frank stepped onto the boardwalk to swing the large doors in place as Cobb mounted his short-legged mule and rode in the dark up Divine Street.

Frank put the tall doors in place, and bolted them to the boardwalk. He strode back to the table and picked up his and Cobb's empty glasses; then he moved to the bar. He dunked the glassware into the bin and, out of habit, began to wipe off the countertop.

His mind was cluttered with the conversation he had had with Cobb and the one he'd have to have with Pap. Both men were seeking a lifetime of companionship. He wondered if they knew what they'd be getting into when they married. Did they understand commitment and devotion? Two big words. Scary as hell words. Matrimony meant loving another person enough to spend the rest of your life with them. Once that ring was on, it was a done deal.

All of a sudden, Frank felt as if he were drowning. He went against his self-imposed rule by getting a fresh glass and pouring a second drink. A hazardous diversion for a man surrounded by liquor.

For a moment, as he swirled the pleasant taste of expensive cognac around his tongue, he tried to picture himself married. It was a hard canvas to paint. There was only one face that came to mind. Amelia's. She was an independent woman who was firm on principle. That self-reliant trait, among her individual mannerisms, was what drew him to her like no other woman ever had. She was sensitive, knew her own mind, and was witty. She could banter with him, make him angry, and have him desiring her all within
a few short minutes. He could live with a woman like Amelia and never get bored.

That thought alone set alarm bells ringing and aroused old fears and uncertainties. He'd never envisioned himself married. Not when he'd had such poor role models in Jack and Charlotte. How would he know what to do to make a marriage work? He'd never been in a happy home. What did it take to create one?

“Dammit . . .” He breathed tightly and tipped his glass back to drain it. “I'm thinking seriously about asking her to marry
me.”