Claudia Dain Read online

  When Anne came home, it started.

  "Anne, did—"

  "I'll talk to her, Nell," Daphne interrupted. "You just sit and keep still awhile."

  Nell closed her mouth and sat back in her chair.

  Anne closed the door softly behind her, wishing she had the grit to run down the street and jump on a train going anywhere. With the gentle click of the door, she closed herself in to face the nearest thing to the wrath of God she'd face this side of heaven.

  "Anne," her grandmother began, "you've disappointed me and brought shame and disgrace to our family by your wanton and unseemly behavior today." It would have been bad enough if she'd stopped there, but she didn't stop. Miss Daphne never stopped.

  "You've been brought up in a fine home, having had the grace to be born into a family of untarnished reputation and you have seen fit, by your unrestrained and ill-considered actions today, to take those gifts, given from God Himself, and throw them down into the dirt."

  Anne pressed back against the door, the feel of the handle a wedge of pain on her spine. She didn't move. She wasn't sure if she even blinked.

  "The Lord has not seen fit to give me an easy life, left alone to support two daughters on my own and you, my only grandchild, but I have not complained. I have not asked God to make my load any lighter, I have taken what God gives and I have not shirked my duty." Daphne's voice rose in volume with every sentence; she spoke with all the divine authority of Moses on the mountain.

  "That you have turned from all that you have been taught and thrown it under the scuffed boots of that killer is self-seeking disobedience of the worst kind. You commit your foul acts and then run home to the family who has loved you and cared for you since your birth like a mockery of the prodigal son. He, at least, was truly repentant. He had known true degradation and isolation. If you are going to wallow with the pigs, Anne, you should at least have the dignity to be truly repentant of your acts. Perhaps it is that you have not known true degradation and isolation. You have a home where you have been shown respect and love and you do not know enough of the world to be truly thankful for these gifts that God, in His mercy, has given you."

  There was silence for a moment. Her mother was pressed against the cushion of the love seat, her hands in her lap, her fingers twined. Her grandmother stood before the hearth, pulled to her full height, chin up; God's anointed one surrounded by the unrepentant and unredeemed. Anne kept her back against the door and her eyes on her grandmother's feet; her left leg was going numb. She didn't dare move away from the door and shift her weight for fear it would be interpreted as a lack of proper contrition to seek her own comfort.

  "What do you think Bill will do when he finds out about your very public display of impropriety?" Daphne continued. "Do you think him the sort of man to turn a blind eye to such an affront? Do you think he will willingly saddle himself with a wife of so little propriety, so little modesty, so little self-control? And do you think that Bill Tucker will be able to ignore the damage to your reputation that your display at the depot has caused? What man will want a wife of such loose morals?"

  The answer seemed obvious. No man would want a wife who displayed the character traits of impropriety, immodesty, licentiousness, and self-indulgence. That had been the idea. Except she hadn't had a thought in her head when Jack had brushed up against her skirts and looked into her eyes. When his mouth had touched her, she had forgotten her own name.

  Bill's kisses were private, cool, and self-controlled. Jack's kiss had been the opposite in every regard. Out of control, hot, pushing her plan to escape Abilene down to the dust beneath her feet. And she had liked it, wanted more of it.

  Not good.

  "Anne? I asked you a question and you will do me the courtesy of answering me in my own home."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," she said softly.

  Miss Daphne looked her over carefully, her eyes slits of concentration. "I hope you are, Anne, because you have certainly made God cry rivers of tears over your rebelliousness. How will you ever enter His kingdom acting this way? Did Jesus not say, 'Be ye therefore perfect even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect'? What you did today is not in line with His perfection and His standards."

  "I don't think one little kiss will get Anne thrown out of heaven, Mama," Sarah said, coming into the room from the back.

  "Don't contradict me, Sarah," Daphne said briskly, not taking her eyes off Anne. "And why didn't you come in the front? My family does not enter the house from the back, like hired help."

  "I tried, but the door wouldn't budge," Sarah said with a little smile for Anne.

  Anne made herself take a step into the room, away from the solid security of the door.

  "Anne, are you truly repentant?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause a fuss and I didn't mean for him to kiss me and I didn't mean to bring shame on you."

  Daphne pursed her lips and tightened her apron strings before saying, "Very well. We'll let it lie. For now."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Come, Nell, help me pick some more greens while Sarah and Anne roll out the crust for dessert."

  Having been given their assignments, each woman went to her task. The weight of Daphne's pronouncements pressed upon the women for a while before time and task eased it off. Anne worked the dough while Sarah mixed up the soft filling that would make up the type of pie Miss Daphne liked best.

  "Well, are you going to tell me how it was?"

  Anne looked up, saw the sparkle in Sarah's eye, and ducked her head as a blush crept up her throat.

  "Does everyone really know about it?"

  "Yes, everyone really knows." Sarah smiled, stirring, the bowl balanced on her left hip.

  "Even Bill?"

  "Especially Bill."

  Anne didn't say anything, thinking that through. If Bill knew, her chances with him had narrowed to wafer thin. Bill Tucker was black-haired, blue-eyed, and handsome. He was successful, personable, and affable. He was good husband material. Jack was lean as jerky, tough as string, and dusty. He was hated, feared, and avoided. He was a bounty hunter and no girl in her right mind tied up with a man who hunted bounty. Would Bill believe he was being thrown over for a bounty hunter? Would anyone believe it? She had to have a reason, if asked, and she had one. Even better, it was a reason rooted in truth.

  She liked Jack better.

  He made her feel things, things that would probably get her scratched out of the Book of Life, things that a God-fearing woman would never allow herself to feel. Things that a smart woman wouldn't let herself feel.

  She still liked Jack better. And she didn't want to stop feeling what he made her feel, even if it didn't last very long. She wasn't going to let herself get tangled up with any man, even if he could kiss the breath out of her. She had more grit than that.

  But did that mean her soul was in peril? Could a kiss be what separated her from heaven?

  "Anne, if you mash that dough any more, it'll be as delicate as hardtack."

  She eased up on her rolling. Maybe she'd better talk with Reverend Holt; he'd know if her soul was secure. He'd know if a kiss could be eternally fatal.

  "Well? I'm waiting to hear about you and Jack."

  Anne looked up at her aunt and said, "I'm going to let him court me. Jack, I mean."

  Sarah grinned widely and picked up the pace with her stirring; Miss Daphne hated lumps.

  "That good, huh?"

  Anne matched her smile and, for once, didn't drop her eyes.

  "That good."

  Chapter 13

  She'd kissed Jack Skull.

  He ran a hand through his hair and looked over to her house. It sat on the edge of town, big and wind-worn, isolated and intimidating. He'd thought of her that way, he realized. A woman he couldn't reach and wouldn't touch. But if a bounty hunter could lay hands on her, then that opened a door for him into her life. She hadn't kicked up a fuss over that kiss. That told him a lot and all of it was sweet.

 
It was better if they didn't fight, at least not until the end.

  She was well surrounded by family. That had always played against his natural desires to have her. That, and she was so close. Maybe too close. He lived in Abilene. It wasn't smart to take a woman, make her your own, in your own town. Too many eyes to see. Too many mouths to talk. That kiss with Skull had proved that, if it needed proving.

  She was too close.

  But he wanted her. He'd always wanted her. There'd been family and the townsfolk. That had held him back. Now there was the bounty hunter. More than one man courting her made it easy. The door swung wider and he eased himself in, feeling the fit.

  She was looking to marry, the whole town knew that. The door swung wide open. He wanted to hear her say the words. To hear her say she'd marry him. To let him touch her, to turn into his kiss, to smile her willingness. That's all he wanted.

  All he had to do was get Anne to look at him. He could do that, easy. She liked him. She always had.

  * * *

  It was more than smoke that billowed out from the roof vents late that afternoon; it was pure flame, orange and alive.

  Neil McShay, who owned the dry goods shop across the street, saw it first and stood in dumb horror for a moment before his lungs took over and he shouted, "Fire! Fire at the Cattlemen's! Everybody out! Out!"

  Isaiah Hill ran out of his boot shop without stopping to look at the fire, shook his head in a daze, and then ran back into his store. He ran back out carrying leather buckets for the water line that had to form quickly, before the winds whipped the fire out of all control.

  The door to the hardware and tinware shop banged open and John Wells ran out carrying metal pails, his long legs flying with urgency. The sun was low in the sky and the wind had been picking up all day. One good stiff wind and all of Abilene would be gone by midnight. Even the railroad wouldn't matter anymore; no trains would stop at a ghost town of charred timbers that smelled of smoke. There would be no chance to relocate with a healthy bankroll or a nice stockpile of goods to sell. All would be gone, house and livelihood at once.

  The fire had to be stopped.

  There were short and breathless bursts of conversation as the town converged.

  "Was it lightning?"

  "Didn't hear no thunder."

  "Don't always hear it."

  The sky was clear; the wind had pushed any clouds to the far reaches of the horizon and was holding them there, having itself a time fanning the flames in Abilene.

  Moses Webster was standing on the boardwalk, watching his hotel being devoured by fire. He didn't say anything. He watched, his mouth soft with shock.

  "Did everybody get out, Mose?"

  Moses turned to look at the speaker, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Nobody in there but me."

  "You sure, Moses? You sure there's no one in there?" Sheriff Lane asked, unbuckling his holster, ready to run in if there was the need.

  "Yeah. I'm sure," he said, looking Charles Lane in the eyes, showing him that he knew what he was saying.

  "Thank God for that," Lane said, his voice low with feeling.

  The lines formed quickly, the men of the volunteer fire brigade falling back on their training and leading the others. There wasn't a man, woman, or child who lived in Abilene who wasn't there in the bucket line, helping bring water to a thirsty fire. Even Joel Walton was there, his nose running unheeded, forgetting even to sniff.

  The wind swirled through the town, down the street, seeming to seek the fire it fed. The people kept their heads bent to their task, not bothering to waste breath on cursing what had fallen upon them so suddenly. Moses Webster had been led across the street and he alone of them all watched and did nothing. It was not expected that he do anything more than what he was—grieving, making a slow and stunned mental catalogue of everything he possessed being eaten by the fire that ran across the peak of the roof and burst forth from the window frames. The fire was a prisoner, destroying all in its escape from the wooden confines of the hotel.

  Jack stood next to Powell, who stood next to Shaughn, who stood next to Charles, who stood next to Neil and on it went, a line unbroken of men and women who ignored the heat and the wild and the blackened air to fight the fire with all they had. It was powerful little, but it was a fight none would turn from. Prairie towns lived in constant fear of prairie fires and the wind that drove them. There was no time now for weakness or tears, anger or fear. There was time only to pass the bucket and pray that God would stop the wind.

  "Lord Almighty, take what you will from us," Reverend Holt said loudly, praying for them all as he stood in the line. He was a powerfully built man, thick with muscle and barrel-chested; he did not shirk in helping his brothers under God. "We give it all to you, we give you Abilene, the hotel, the saloon, the church, and the stores. We know that you test those who love you. We know from the book of Job that Satan prods you to test your servants so that he may gloat when they fail. But, Lord, we will not fail!"

  Amens were whispered up and down the lines. God would do what God would do and they would fight the fire until every ember was cold and black.

  "Take what you will from us, we will not turn from you. We will not doubt and we will not despair, for we know that no one and nothing can snatch those who love you out of your hand. Not fire. Not wind."

  A gust of dusty wind pressed hard against their legs, pressing against their resolve and, weakening, lost.

  "Take this wind from us and give us the strength to fight!"

  "Amen, Reverend!" came a wobbly chorus from throats tight with soot and dust and heat.

  Arms blurred in motion, heads bent in labor, and lips murmuring prayers for safety and strength were there for God to see, if He chose to intercede. The wind ran off out onto the prairie, a weak and listless foe, beaten and humbled. A prayer answered.

  The fire raged.

  But they were beating it. It burned and flared, hot and molten yellow, within the confines of the outer walls of the hotel. It was not spreading.

  By dusk, it was over, though the embers were still alive and red, waiting for a chance wind to give them roaring life. Buckets of dirt, plentiful in Kansas, penned them in, smothering them. But the dirt was quickly hot and they knew the fire only awaited a better time to burst into flickering life again. If they could beat the fire's heat back until tomorrow, then it would be truly over. Second fires burn hotter than the first and were nigh impossible to put out. If the charred remains of the Cattlemen's burned again, it would take the town with it. Powell, Chris Dodd, and Neil McShay would stand watch during the night and no one feared they would sleep away their vigil; it was that important to them all.

  "Does anyone know how it started?" asked Tom Monahan, the owner of the mercantile.

  "Didn't hear no thunder, but I was with the stock," Jim Conner said.

  "It was a hot fire. Never seen a fire burn so hot and so fast," Isaiah Hill from the boot shop said, wiping a sooty hand across a blackened face. One of the Walton kids brought him a cupful of water from a pail he was carrying round; Isaiah drank it down and nodded his thanks.

  "Same here and I saw a scorcher up in Deadwood once. Took out three buildings before it was stopped and it didn't burn near as hot as this one. Them flames was high and strong, not wispy and struggling," said Everett Winslow, owner of the Demorest Restaurant.

  "Did anyone hear any thunder or see lightning strike?" Powell asked, rubbing the bowl of his pipe, too dry in the mouth to want to light it.

  "Nope and I was looking out the window when it happened. I didn't see anything but the flames. No lightning," said Neil McShay.

  Nobody said anything for a bit, chewing that one down. Fires didn't start without some effort.

  "Moses? You sure you were alone in there?" At his distracted nod, McShay asked, "For how long?"

  Moses was starting to pick through the smoking rubble; the love seat that had graced his lobby was in one piece but blackened beyond saving. The stairs to the second floor reache
d up to open sky. There was nothing above the ground floor.

  "Mose?"

  "Huh?" He turned to face McShay.

  "Who was the last one in the hotel, besides you?"

  Moses Webster thought for a moment, a moment that stretched out. Thinking was an effort.

  "Jack Skull."

  "Figures," Isaiah grumbled.

  "What figures?" Lane said, coming up to get a drink from the Walton kid and his bucket.

  "That the last person in the Cattlemen's was Jack Skull," said Powell, shoving his pipe into his shirt pocket with angry energy.

  "Now what's to that?" Lane said before he upended his drink. Water never tasted so good to him.

  "You doubt that he's mean enough to burn a man's business to the ground for the sheer perverse pleasure of it? You didn't see him at my livery. He's probably going to hit me next."

  "Now that's talk that can get a man killed, Powell," Charles said sternly, dropping the cup back in the bucket. "You put a bridle on that tongue of yours before you talk yourself right into a cell."

  "You think he'd come to get me himself? You think I'm in danger?"

  "Nah, I think you'd talk that man into a noose without raising a hair. It's him I'm trying to protect, not you."

  "But that fire started somehow, Sheriff, and there warn't no lightning," Isaiah said.

  "This isn't the first fire to take down a building. It won't be the last. You can't lay them all on the bounty hunter just 'cause you've taken a dislike to him."