The Cowboy and the Quaker Read online

  Thank goodness she was fully clothed. No-one came to find out what had happened. Surely the flames could be seen by nearby residents, even if they were a couple of hundred yards away. They must have all been warned to expect trouble and stayed away. It was the only explanation. George was more powerful than she had realized. His poisonous tentacles seemed to reach out in all directions. His manservant had been right to warn her about the danger she was in.

  She sneaked out into the back garden, and using her small gardening shovel, unearthed the small tin containing a few family papers and her life savings, ninety-eight dollars. Stuffing everything into her reticule she dashed over to the school privy and hid, nervously straining to hear if anything moved around in the darkness.

  At first light she would high tail it out of here. She could expect no help from anyone. It was dreadful to be so alone. Where would she go? She had no real friends, well at least no-one who would want to know her once her condition became noticeable. No relatives.

  Uncle Joe! She suddenly remembered her mother’s brother lived in Deadwood. Without fail he always sent her a card for her birthday. She couldn’t recall ever having seen him, but he must have remembered her. He had been a wastrel and a drifter according to her grandparents, but they had been pious people.

  If she went there she could pretend to be widowed. She shivered in the chill night air. Pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she sat on the wooden seat trying to ignore the obnoxious smell.

  If her situation hadn’t been so dire, it would be laughable.

  Chapter Two

  Benjamin Lonigan strode into the Attorney’s office and threw a bunch of papers on the desk. “Sonofabitch, Bernstein. What’s going on here?”

  “You’ve read the codicil to your uncle’s last Will and Testament?”

  “Of course I damn well did. What in tarnation do you think I’m doing here? Can’t I contest it?”

  “No, it’s all legal. You need to get married within six months of the date on which this codicil was signed.

  “I don’t want to get hitched.”

  “If you don’t do as stipulated in the Will, the ranch goes to your nearest living relative.”

  “John Smithwick in New York,” Ben snarled. “Damn it, he’s my second cousin. He’s never even been to the ranch.” Ben shook with rage and indignation. “I worked my guts out for that ungrateful old…”

  “Be quiet. Your uncle had your best interests at heart.”

  “By forcing me to do something I’m dead set against. Uncle Samuel promised he would leave me the ranch.”

  “Look, son. I know you had a rough time in the war.”

  Rough time, Ben thought bitterly, that was an understatement. Incarcerated in a hell-hole Confederate prison for two years. His brother dying there because Susannah, the women who vowed undying love to him, had betrayed them for Confederate gold. Hate twisted his gut.

  He prowled the office, gritting his teeth, trying to get himself under control. He was mad enough to swallow a horn toad backward.

  The Attorney mumbled something he barely heard.

  “What!” He swung around.

  “I said, you’ve got four weeks left to get a wife, and she has to live at the ranch with you for a year.”

  “And that’s another thing. I only got these papers yesterday.”

  “It’s not my fault you left the ranch straight after the funeral.”

  “I had business to attend to.” He never would have left had he known about the codicil; he’d naturally assumed the ranch was his like Uncle Samuel had promised. Sneaky, conniving old man must have been loco when he changed his Will.

  “He knew I never wanted to get hitched.” Ben slumped in the chair and ran trembling hands through his hair. “He knew how I despised women. Treacherous, lying…”

  “Enough.” Bernstein slammed his hand on the desk. “Samuel was a friend of mine as well as a client. He never married, and he always regretted it. He didn’t want you to end up like him.”

  “I like being a bachelor. He had no right trying to interfere with my life. I…I thought he was fond of me.”

  “He was, that’s why he did it. He wanted you to be happy.”

  “Happy!” Ben leapt from the chair. “Hitched to a woman I don’t want. It will be purgatory. Sonofabitch, how am I going to find a woman in four weeks?”

  “Stop cussing in my office.”

  Cussing? He wanted to do more than cuss. Wanted to… He didn’t know what he wanted to do, but it was violent.

  “Do you know any suitable women?” Ben growled. He wanted the ranch, it was his lifeline to sanity. His refuge from the world. He would do anything to keep it. Even get hitched. A marriage in name only. Once the year was up the marriage could be annulled. He would pay the woman to get out of his life and stay out of it. The knowledge was calming, well almost. It certainly dampened down his rage.

  “I can’t think of anyone,” Bernstein said. “What about a Mail Order Bride?”

  “There isn’t time now.” Ben gritted his teeth. His temper was on the boil again.

  “What about Lottie and Glen, they might know…”

  “One of the soiled doves from their saloon?” Ben couldn’t believe that staid old Bernstein would suggest such a thing.

  The women at the saloon were pretty and obliging, but only because they were paid well for their services. They were making good money, why on earth would they want to come to an isolated ranch? The thought of getting one of the whores working the cribs at Gizelle’s filthy bit house was repugnant. He would rather lose the ranch than sink that low. No sensible man, even in the worst state of intoxication, would venture there. He shuddered with distaste.

  What was he going to do?

  “I’ll ask around,” Bernstein said. “My wife might know of some desperate spinster who’s been left on the shelf.”

  Ben didn’t know whether to be grateful or insulted by the offer. Cursing under his breath he stomped out of the office.

  ***

  After days of train and coach travel, Rachael finally arrived in Deadwood. She was trembling with exhaustion, fear and nausea as she alighted at the stage depot. Hunger gnawed at the pit of her stomach. To conserve her meager supply of money, she had rationed herself to eating only in the mornings and the evenings. At some of the places where she had to stay for the night, breakfast was included, but at several of them it was not.

  Late afternoon in Deadwood and the street was crowded with horses, wagons and buckboards. There were a few women, but mostly rough looking miners, and cowboys with gun belts slung low on their hips.

  She had to get somewhere to stay before she fainted. She spied the sheriff or maybe it was one of his deputies, he wore a star so she assumed he had to be one or the other.

  “Excuse me, would you know of somewhere respectable and cheap where I could stay for a day or two?”

  The man pushed back his hat and peered into her face. “Mrs. Gleeson’s boarding house, Ma’am. It would probably suit you.”

  “Thank you, I’ll try it.”

  “It’s off the main street, turn right at the bakery, greyish brown shutters on the windows, you can’t miss it.”

  Rachael hurried along as fast as her exhausted state would allow. Her head throbbed, and she had never before felt so dirty and disheveled. She found the place easily. The paintwork on the shutters was faded with paint peeling off in places. Unless it was putrid, she would stay the night. If she could have a few hours uninterrupted sleep in a comfortable bed she could start searching for Uncle Joe.

  The front door was propped open with a brick. She stepped inside. Facing her was a long gloomy hallway with closed doors on either side. The bare floor boards had no adornment whatsoever. The place was shabby but clean enough, and hopefully not too expensive.

  “I’m Mrs. Gleeson. A tall, bean-stalk of a woman minced up to her. “Looking for a room?”

  “Yes please.”

  “One night?”

>   “I’m not sure. I’ve just arrived in Deadwood.”

  “Are you unwell?” The woman’s eyes were close set, sly looking. Her long, thin face was rock hard. Rachael didn’t want to stay here, but desperation overrode her trepidation.

  “No, exhausted. I’ve come from Boston.”

  “Boston!”

  “Yes, I know it’s a long way but I…I’ve recently been widowed and my Uncle Joe who lives here, is my closest living relative.” She blinked back tears. If she didn’t lie down soon her head would explode.

  The woman led her over to a small desk and opened a dog-eared book. “Sign here. A dollar a night includes breakfast.”

  Rachael signed her name, took the money out of her reticule and handed it over. She didn’t know whether it was cheap or expensive, but was too exhausted to care.

  “Lucky you didn’t come on the weekend, the place is usually crowded with cowboys and miners itching to have a good time.”

  They walked down the hallway and stopped at a door near the end. “Quieter down here for you, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where’s your luggage? My son can bring it in for you.”

  “I…I haven’t got any. My house was burnt down and I was virtually left with only the clothes on my back.” Mrs. Gleeson sniffed slightly, as if she didn’t believe her. Rachael didn’t really blame the woman, the story did sound far-fetched. Truth is stranger than fiction, the phrase jumped into her mind.

  “Breakfast is served between 7 o’clock and 9 o’clock. The dining room is the last door on the left.”

  “Thank you. Do you know my uncle? Joe Dalton.”

  “Joe Dalton!” The woman’s demeanor changed. The strangest expression momentarily crossed her face. “I’m sorry, but he’s dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “Yes, gunned down by some drifter about a year ago.”

  Tears filled Rachael’s eyes. Uncle Joe dead? She slumped against the wall.

  Mrs. Gleeson peered at her, a speculative gleam in her eyes. “Your uncle lived in a shack next to the graveyard. It’s a couple of miles east of town. You can’t miss it. Rumor has it he struck it rich in the Black Hills, supposed to have hidden his gold somewhere.”

  “Oh?” Rachael didn’t care whether he had gold or not. Her sole relative murdered. What would she do now? She was too tired to dwell on the consequences. She would think about her dire position tomorrow. Entering the small shabby bedroom, she spied a single bed neatly made up, and a china jug with a chipped basin resting on the dresser.

  Chapter Three

  Next morning Rachael forced herself not to dwell on the tragedy that had befallen her. The perilous position she was in. After a breakfast of bacon, eggs, flap-jacks, and two cups of coffee, her brain started to function. Thank heavens the nausea seemed to have gone.

  She would go out to Uncle Joe’s place and take a look at where he lived. Pay her respects at the graveyard if she could find his grave. A walk would do her good after travelling for so long in cramped conditions. Maybe she could stay here for a couple of days and see if she could find herself a job. But, who is going to give someone in my condition, a job?

  She wouldn’t be fortunate enough to obtain a teaching position, not with lady luck turned against her. God’s punishment for her sins – sharing a bed with a man who wasn’t her husband.

  George had been persuasive. Of course he would be. He was an Attorney, stock in trade for a man in his position, and she had fallen for his smooth talk and empty promise of a wedding ring.

  What a fool you were. He’d had no intention of marrying her, was probably already betrothed at the time. Did Uncle Joe really strike it rich prospecting? Would he have left a Will? She hated herself for being so mercenary, but her situation was desperate. Poor Uncle Joe, how sad for him dying all alone out there.

  Mrs. Gleeson minced up. “Would you like another cup of coffee? More flap-jacks?” She smiled, but it added no warmth to her cold eyes. Rachael couldn’t take to the woman. A chilling aura seemed to hover over the place, and that was why she hadn’t booked another night here. Now she was rested, she would try to find somewhere else to stay.

  “Are you going to your uncle’s place?”

  “Yes, probably. I’d like to see where he lived, and pay my respects at the graveyard. Do you think there would be any of his belongings left?”

  Mrs. Gleeson’s eyes became speculative, or at least Rachael thought they did. For an instant, a calculating meanness passed over her face.

  “It’s worth a trip out there to see where he spent his last days. Rumor has it, he buried gold out there. Probably what got him killed.”

  Rachael couldn’t suppress a shudder. How evil men were. She would never again allow herself to be caught up in that foolish notion of falling in love. Men were self-centered liars and cheats. She would bring her baby up alone. She didn’t need a man now she was passing herself off as a widow. As long as she could obtain employment she would survive. A live-in position would be ideal.

  “Sorry, what did you say, Mrs. Gleeson?”

  “I said, that going out to your uncle’s place now would be a nice walk for you. I’m sure you would like to stretch your legs after all the travelling you’ve done.”

  “Yes, you’re right, I’m as stiff as a poker. Is there an Attorney here?”

  “Yes, Abe Bernstein on the main street, opposite the barber.”

  “Thank you, I thought I might check to see if Uncle Joe left a Will.” Rachael pulled herself up. Foolish telling this woman any of this, particularly when she couldn’t bring herself to trust her.

  She didn’t have a change of clothes, but had sponged a few spots off her gown and hung it up to get the creases out, so it now looked a little more presentable.

  The main street was busy even at this early hour. She waited until the Attorney’s office opened. Fortunately, he agreed to see her without an appointment. Disappointment surged through her when she found out that Uncle Joe had never attended here.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fairchild. I read about his murder. A shocking tragedy. No-one was ever caught for it. As I’m the only Attorney here in town, I doubt if your uncle left a Will. You’ll probably find that he didn’t own the parcel of land where he lived, either. It’s next to the graveyard, so it would belong to them.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, I appreciate it.”

  She left feeling depressed and sad. How awful, someone murdering an elderly man for the gold they thought he might have. Would she go there? She debated about it as she stood in the street. Why not see where he lived? It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. Paying her respects, if she could find his grave, was the least she could do.

  With her mind made up she set off at a leisurely pace. The spring sun shone warmly, the blue sky was cloudless, lifting her spirits somewhat. If she could find somewhere else to stay that was cheap and respectable, she would. Mrs. Gleeson gave her an uncomfortable feeling. There was something about the woman, a predatory hardness in her eyes, mostly disguised, but every now and again it surfaced.

  Stop being so obsessed with thoughts that the woman is something she probably isn’t. The feeling of unease wouldn’t abate though.

  Once her money was gone she would sell the ring George had given her. Hopefully by then she might have obtained a position. Easier to get something while her condition wasn’t noticeable. There again, a grieving widow carrying a child, would certainly arouse the sympathy of God-fearing folk.

  She passed the Flaming Star saloon, ignoring the stares of a couple of young cowboys lounging against the hitching rail. Loud female laughter and several ribald comments assaulted her ears. Drunken revelry at this time of morning disgusted her. Surely the law could put a stop to these kinds of goings on.

  Don’t be so pious, she scolded herself, suddenly wondering about the soiled doves who worked here. What would drive them to this kind of work? Desperation? A cold draught of fear passed through her. If she became desper
ate enough, would she do it? Please God, I know I’ve sinned, but I don’t deserve that kind of punishment.

  She kept on walking until the graveyard came into view, lonely and uncared for. A few of the graves were neatly tended, most were not, people just buried and forgotten. She searched for a headstone for Uncle Joe, but there was none to be found. He had obviously been buried in an unmarked grave.

  A tumbledown shack about fifty yards across an empty paddock was the only structure she could see. Poor Uncle Joe, living out here all alone.

  Sadness overwhelmed her as she picked her way through a garden choked with weeds and vines. A few pink and yellow flowers nodded their heads in the slight breeze. The place had a pronounced list, the porch boards were broken, the windows glassless and covered in creepers. It didn’t look to be in danger of collapsing right at this minute, so she stepped inside.

  On entering, she found one room with a fireplace down at the end. A rusty old bedhead was propped against the wall. By the smell of the place, animals now lived here. She picked her way carefully over to the fireplace. A china cup with a broken handle lay next to a rusting tin plate. She ran her fingers along the dust coated mantel.

  A sudden chill invaded her body. An old man dying all alone, murdered for gold that may or may not have been hidden here. She stood in silent contemplation. What was that? Snapping twigs alerted her she was no longer alone.

  She swung around. A masked man grabbed her by the arm, and twisted it up her back. “Where’s the gold?” he growled.

  “G…gold? I don’t know what you’re talking …”

  She yelped with pain when he exerted more pressure on her arm, and she feared it would snap.

  “Tell me, or I’ll kill ya.”

  She kicked out at him. He cursed when her foot made contact with his shin.

  “I know old Joe stashed his gold out here somewhere.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  A punch in the face felled her. She screamed. Blood flowed down her face as she struggled to get up. The man grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright.