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Authors: Cheryl St.john
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in that little plot on the hillside.
He wanted to tell her how bad he felt that she hadn't met his
mother, how many regrets he'd experienced these past days. But he didn't.
Amy closed the lid. "Thank you. I'll keep this on my
bureau."
If she touched him, all the pieces of his soul would come together
and he'd feel whole again. If she touched him, he'd know she was doing it out
of duty or pity and not because of any great love she felt for him. If she
touched him and he showed his weakness for her, he'd hate himself later.
But he didn't have to concern himself, because she kept her
distance. He felt so cold, he didn't know how it could be only late September
and not the dead of winter.
"A trunk came yesterday," she told him. "Probably
more of her things. It's in the parlor."
"I'll look through it in a day or so. You can open it if you
like."
She shook her head and reached for the doorknob.
"Good night, Amy."
She left, and what little warmth had remained in his bones seeped
out. Jesse locked up, crossed the kitchen and made his way to the barn.
In the tack room, beneath his saddle, he found the remainder of
his case of whiskey and popped the cork on a fresh bottle.
The burn started at his throat and a path of fire spread to his
belly. After several swigs, his limbs were warm and the cavity in his chest
glowed like a coal furnace. He was damn tired of denying himself. Tired of
disapproval and guilt and helplessness, and if this eased the loss of
everything he'd once held dear and no longer had, well, who the hell could
blame him?
Jesse wrapped the crate in a horse blanket and carried it to his
room at the boardinghouse.
***
The following morning Amy encountered Cay in the hallway on her
way downstairs.
"Morning," she said.
He merely nodded.
"Is your room okay? Do you need anything?"
"Room's fine." He made a point of looking directly at
her and saying, "Thank you" before sliding past her and hurrying down
the stairs.
She watched him go with conflicting emotions. He was young and
would be alone if not for them. But she wasn't going to get her hopes up that
he'd blend right in to their family and way of life. Hope had a way of turning
sour and it was best to be practical.
She'd been in the kitchen only a half hour when a stage driven by
Pearly Higgs pulled into the station. The gray-bearded ribbon-sawer made his
way to the house, hung his hat and holster on a peg and rubbed his hands
together in glee. "I been a-waitin' for a stack o' your flapjacks, Miz
Shelby."
With fanfare he pulled a gold coin from the pocket of his buckskin
shirt and plunked it on the table.
Amy poured him a cup of coffee and set a plate before him.
"It'll be just a few minutes while I get the griddle hot again."
"Watchin' you work only makes the waitin' more
pleasurable," he said with a grin.
Sam entered through the back door, poured himself a cup of coffee
and took a seat across from Pearly. "What's this I hear about a train
derailing?"
"A party of Cheyenne tore down telegraph wire and lashed a
stack of rails to the tracks. Train came along last night." Pearly cracked
a fist into the other palm to demonstrate the collision.
Amy winced.
"Cheyenne are just tryin' to protect their land," Pearly
said with a shrug.
Sam took a sip from his mug. "Yeah, but the Army will see
this as an act of war and reinforce their efforts to round the Indians
up."
"Were many people hurt?" Amy asked.
"Don't rightly know," Pearly replied. "I heard it
from a rider comin' from the south."
Thinking of all those people stranded on the prairie, Amy looked
at her father. "Do you think there's something we can do? Should we go see
if they need doctors and stages?"
Sam scratched his chin. "I s'pose we could take a few wagons
and see if anyone wants to come back to the station with us. They can catch
rides from here."
Amy looked to Mrs. Barnes. "Can you handle things if I go
with my father?"
"You go ahead—we'll do fine," the woman assured her.
"You're
He wanted to tell her how bad he felt that she hadn't met his
mother, how many regrets he'd experienced these past days. But he didn't.
Amy closed the lid. "Thank you. I'll keep this on my
bureau."
If she touched him, all the pieces of his soul would come together
and he'd feel whole again. If she touched him, he'd know she was doing it out
of duty or pity and not because of any great love she felt for him. If she
touched him and he showed his weakness for her, he'd hate himself later.
But he didn't have to concern himself, because she kept her
distance. He felt so cold, he didn't know how it could be only late September
and not the dead of winter.
"A trunk came yesterday," she told him. "Probably
more of her things. It's in the parlor."
"I'll look through it in a day or so. You can open it if you
like."
She shook her head and reached for the doorknob.
"Good night, Amy."
She left, and what little warmth had remained in his bones seeped
out. Jesse locked up, crossed the kitchen and made his way to the barn.
In the tack room, beneath his saddle, he found the remainder of
his case of whiskey and popped the cork on a fresh bottle.
The burn started at his throat and a path of fire spread to his
belly. After several swigs, his limbs were warm and the cavity in his chest
glowed like a coal furnace. He was damn tired of denying himself. Tired of
disapproval and guilt and helplessness, and if this eased the loss of
everything he'd once held dear and no longer had, well, who the hell could
blame him?
Jesse wrapped the crate in a horse blanket and carried it to his
room at the boardinghouse.
***
The following morning Amy encountered Cay in the hallway on her
way downstairs.
"Morning," she said.
He merely nodded.
"Is your room okay? Do you need anything?"
"Room's fine." He made a point of looking directly at
her and saying, "Thank you" before sliding past her and hurrying down
the stairs.
She watched him go with conflicting emotions. He was young and
would be alone if not for them. But she wasn't going to get her hopes up that
he'd blend right in to their family and way of life. Hope had a way of turning
sour and it was best to be practical.
She'd been in the kitchen only a half hour when a stage driven by
Pearly Higgs pulled into the station. The gray-bearded ribbon-sawer made his
way to the house, hung his hat and holster on a peg and rubbed his hands
together in glee. "I been a-waitin' for a stack o' your flapjacks, Miz
Shelby."
With fanfare he pulled a gold coin from the pocket of his buckskin
shirt and plunked it on the table.
Amy poured him a cup of coffee and set a plate before him.
"It'll be just a few minutes while I get the griddle hot again."
"Watchin' you work only makes the waitin' more
pleasurable," he said with a grin.
Sam entered through the back door, poured himself a cup of coffee
and took a seat across from Pearly. "What's this I hear about a train
derailing?"
"A party of Cheyenne tore down telegraph wire and lashed a
stack of rails to the tracks. Train came along last night." Pearly cracked
a fist into the other palm to demonstrate the collision.
Amy winced.
"Cheyenne are just tryin' to protect their land," Pearly
said with a shrug.
Sam took a sip from his mug. "Yeah, but the Army will see
this as an act of war and reinforce their efforts to round the Indians
up."
"Were many people hurt?" Amy asked.
"Don't rightly know," Pearly replied. "I heard it
from a rider comin' from the south."
Thinking of all those people stranded on the prairie, Amy looked
at her father. "Do you think there's something we can do? Should we go see
if they need doctors and stages?"
Sam scratched his chin. "I s'pose we could take a few wagons
and see if anyone wants to come back to the station with us. They can catch
rides from here."
Amy looked to Mrs. Barnes. "Can you handle things if I go
with my father?"
"You go ahead—we'll do fine," the woman assured her.
"You're
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