Weeping Angel (46 page)

Frank approached the screen door. He could see Amelia. Her back was to him, the fullness of her skirt blocking his view of whoever she was speaking to. All he could see were the arms of the green wicker lawn chair, not the occupant.

She held a comb and scissors; her hand was steady as she moved sideways to trim the brown locks from above an ear.

Frank put his nose close to the screen. He still couldn't see a face. He searched his mind, trying to place the shade of hair. Nothing matched up. Frank struggled with the uncertainty, swearing in his head.

“I'm almost finished,” Amelia said. “When I'm done, I'll let you look in the mirror. Oh, don't nod. I don't want this side to be uneven.” She clipped some more, brushing the flyaway strands off the man's broad shoulders with her fingertips.

Frank clamped his jaw together so tight, his teeth hurt.
Who the hell was he?
Jesus, she was touching him.
Touching him!
Resentment burned in his belly worse than One-Eye Otis's red bean pie.

The
snip-snip
of the scissors carved notches in Frank's pulse. He was just about to go outside when Amelia exclaimed, “There! I didn't do too bad.” She leaned over to grab a mirror from the rattan table.
Holding her arm out, she let the man take the handle so he could view his face. “I can't believe it,” she beamed with joy, clasping her hands together. “Why, you look so handsome, you take my breath away.”

Frank's eyes narrowed to slits. “Amelia,
sweetheart,”
he ground between his teeth. “I'm home.” He shoved the screen door open with both hands; the frame bounced off the back wall.

“Frank?” she gasped, turning abruptly.

Frank shot his gaze past Amelia, staring hard at the man who'd stood from the chair. He had eyes the color of a pond, and a complexion browned by the sun everywhere but the lower half of his face. He looked vaguely familiar, but he was outfitted in Cobb Weatherwax's buckskin pants. “Who are you? What the hell are you doing wearing Cobb's clothes?”

“I am Cobb.”

The voice was Cobb's, but Frank was still doubtful. He took a hard look, sizing up the man's features, most notably the eyes and the wind-weathered crow's-feet at the corners. It was the craggy brows that betrayed him. “Jesus, Cobb. You don't look like you.”

Cobb smiled, and for the first time, Frank could see the outline of his lips and all his front teeth. “No, I reckon I don't.” He held the mirror up to his face. “I surely don't recognize myself.”

“What are you doing here?” Frank asked.

“I took your advice.”

“What advice?”

“To talk to someone who knew about love.”

Frank darted his gaze to Amelia.

“I think,” Amelia said, not acknowledging Frank, “Emmaline would be a fool not to encourage your company, Cobb. Why, you're a very smart man. You know more about beavers than anyone I've ever met.” She lithely put her hand on Cobb's shoulder, a show Frank didn't need a ticket to see. “And,” her voice went sugary sweet, “you're very handsome. If I
weren't married, I would certainly be proud to have you as my escort to the Chuckwagon for supper.”

“But you are married,” Frank observed, his tone gritty.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

Cobb's fingers grazed his bald chin; he was oblivious to the dissension around him. “I'm liable to wake up tonight and wonder who the stranger is in my bedroll. I think I'm going to have to sleep with a beaver pelt so's I can feel like I still have hair.”

Frank sent Amelia a private message that said he wanted to speak to her, but she didn't reply. The aloofness in her eyes told him everything she felt.

“Too bad you have to be leaving, Cobb,” Frank said, nudging Cobb away from Amelia's hand. “You better go try out your new face on Em before she closes the laundry.”

A faint thread of panic laced Cobb's voice. “Is it almost five?” Then he immediately cast his gaze toward the sun with a belated frown. “No, it ain't.”

“Close enough,” Frank insisted.

Cobb shrugged. “I'll just get my hat and be on my way.”

“I'll show you to the door,” Amelia offered.

Frank put his arm around her waist to prevent her from leaving. “Cobb knows what a door looks like. I think he can figure out how it works. Right, Cobb?”

“Ah . . . yes, sir.”

“Good. See you around, Cobb. Stop on by the Moon Rock tonight and let me know how it all went.”

Cobb put his hand on the screen handle. “Thank you, ma'am. I'll be beholden to you if this works. I guess if it don't . . . I can always grow everything back.”

“I'm sure you'll make some progress, Cobb. You may keep me informed if you like.”

Cobb nodded, then opened the door and let himself
into the house. As soon as he was gone, Amelia shrugged away from Frank.

“Really,” she chided. “You might as well have given him a kick in the behind with your boot. You were as obvious as a newspaper headline.” She moved to the table and began gathering her haircut implements.

Frank stood over her, feeling general resentment over Cobb's visit. “Do you like Cobb?”

“Of course I like him.”

“How much?”

“A lot.” She turned to face him, her brows furrowed. “Are you implying something?”

Frank gazed into her eyes, trying to read them; he couldn't make out a thing. “Pap told me Cobb thought of you as more than a friend. I didn't believe him. But now I'm not so sure. Maybe Cobb's trying to impress you instead of Emmaline.”

Amelia had the gall to laugh at him. “Well, I like that! You are so wrong. I
was
helping him spruce himself up to catch the eye of another.” Her gaze grew accusing. “Does it bother you he's interested in Emmaline Shelby?”

“No,” he shot back. “I hope Emmaline finds someone. It's not her that I'm worried about. I saw the way you were around Cobb.”

“The way I was?” she parroted.

“Yeah, real friendly like.”

“I'm always friendly to Cobb. I like him. My goodness, Frank. You sound as if you're . . .” Her brown eyes widened, and she didn't finish her thought. Walking around him, she entered the kitchen.

He followed her, intent on making her see that their marriage was no sham on his part. But as soon as he saw her, he kept quiet. Her hands were gripping the edge of the sink counter, her profile pensive and fragile. “What did Pap mean when he accused you of
marrying me right out from under him?” She looked at him, her expression somber.

“Pap thinks he's in love with you.”

She didn't act surprised. “It dawned on me sometime around three o'clock in the morning that he felt that way. I don't know why I didn't see it before. You tried to tell me.”

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

She stared out the window. For a long moment, neither one said a word.

“How come you came back?” she asked softly.

“I couldn't stay away.”

Turning her head, she gazed at him.

“I want things to be the way they were on our wedding night, Amelia. I want you in my arms again.”

Her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks when she looked down. “Did you reconsider and send those girls away?”

Her question burned him at the stake. “No.”

She raised her eyes. “Then how can we talk about anything?”

“We can, and we will.” He moved toward her. “Right now.”

I
wanted to talk the afternoon you proposed,” Amelia said, “but you coaxed me into making a decision right then and there. Well I did. And you married me. Now I can't figure out the real reason why you did. There seem to be several possible ones, none of which I would have ever based a lifelong commitment on.”

Frank stopped shy of the sink. “If I hadn't been sure I was the right man for you, I wouldn't have stood before the Rev and spoken those vows,” he remarked in a low, composed tone. “I can't deny I was there in haste because of what the gossips were going to say. If I had told you about the boys spying on us and running to their mothers, would you have become my wife?”

She struck hard and immediately turned the tables on him. “If the boys hadn't found us, would
you
have made
me
your wife?”

“I wouldn't have rushed to get to the altar, no. But I wouldn't have ruled out the possibility in the future.”

Amelia's eyes came up to study his face, but she said nothing.

Sighing, he said, “I care very deeply for you, Amelia. I thought I showed you on our wedding night and the morning after.”

Her voice grew wistful. “I've told you I loved you, but you . . .” Her words trailed, but he knew what she was getting at.

“Saying three words can't express what's in my heart. It's not that easy.”

“It's easy for me to say them.”

A flat silence rang through the kitchen. Amelia stayed by the window, and Frank remained where he was. She bit her lip, then asked, “What were you thinking by bringing those girls to town?”

“All I wanted to do was improve my business.”

“But what about my business?”

Frank's response held a note of disbelief. “I thought you'd have a piano in your house by the time they arrived. I didn't know your New American would be wrecked in a train pileup. Things have happened that I can't control. But we are married now, and I think that's the most important issue.”

“Of course it is. I didn't take my vows lightly either.” She fought the tears in her eyes and rapidly blinked. “So what do we do now?”

“You said yourself, we have each other. I'll take care of you, Amelia.” He covered her hand with his. “Let me be your husband. You don't need to give lessons anymore, for fun or otherwise. I make a good living at the Moon Rock and with the addition of the—”

She slipped away from him, and met his eyes. “I thought you knew about Jonas Pray . . . about everything. You said Pap told you.”

“Pap told me Pray ran off with Silver Starlight.”

“Then you should understand,” she said quietly.

“I fail to see the connection here. I'm not going to run off with anyone.”

Anxiousness clouded her expression. “I didn't
think Jonas would run off either, but a spitfire dancing girl is a temptation obviously too strong for some men. Especially when their other choice is a prude like me.”

“Oh, Christ, Amelia, don't talk about yourself that way.”

“Well, it's obviously true, or else you wouldn't be surrounding yourself with four attractive women who are more footloose and fancy free than I.” She pushed away from the counter. “I asked you to let them go.”

“And I explained I can't do that.”

“Then it would seem,” her voice wavered, “this discussion has come to a stalemate, too.”

*  *  *

Frank slept in the house that night.

Amelia heard him come in some time after two; the boudoir clock's hands were difficult to pinpoint in the gray shadows. Creaks on the stair treads as Frank climbed them had awoken her. She clutched the bedsheets to her breasts, her mind fluttering in mixed anxiety over which room he'd go to. By no accident, she'd chosen to retire in her aunt's apartment. Nothing had been resolved between them. The exchange they'd had in the kitchen had ended with him saying he'd return home after closing the Moon Rock Saloon.

Sounds and flickering candlelight flooded in from the hallway. A door squeaked open. Then silence. She imagined him standing in the doorway to her room, expecting to find her, but confronting an empty bed instead.

The clock on the cheval dresser by her head ticked off agonizing seconds. Finally, the door shut. Amelia closed her eyes, her fitful breathing echoing in her ears. Motionless, she listened for noises. The bed-springs grated. Boots hitting the floor landed with a thud. Minutes later, a still quiet enveloped the darkness.

Amelia tried to fall back asleep, but she couldn't. Once again, she played out their argument in her head looking for an obvious solution, but there was none. The complexity of the situation was like woolly twine, wrapping around them and seemingly ever-tightening. Always when she'd imagined having a husband, she'd wanted to marry for love. And she had. But she wasn't sure Frank had. Caring for someone deeply and being in love with them were two different things. The imbalance of mutual feelings fueled their dissension, making it impossible for the other to yield. She could see why a saloon owner would want hurdy girls to lure in customers in a city such as Boise, but Weeping Angel was a small town with house and hearth qualities. The scandal of such women entertaining at Frank's showplace would sweeten the tea of the citizens, and there would be no peace in their marriage until something was resolved. She'd already been a part of the brew, and it was a bitter drink to swallow.