Читать книгу The Rustler - Linda Lael Miller - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

OWEN’S FACE WAS SCRUBBED, and someone, probably Charles, had slicked down his hair. Standing on the front porch, gazing earnestly up at Sarah, he held out a bouquet of flowers and bravely announced, “Papa said to tell you he’ll be along as soon as he can. He got a telegram at the hotel, and he’s got to answer it.”

“C-come in,” Sarah said, stricken by the sight, the presence, of this boy. Accepting the flowers with murmured thanks, she stepped back to admit him.

Owen moved solemnly over the threshold, a little gentleman in a woolen suit, taking in the entryway, the long-case clock, the mahogany coat tree. Sarah wondered if he ever wore regular clothes and played in the dirt, like other children his age.

And she wondered a thousand other things, too.

“Let’s put these flowers in water,” she said, and started for the kitchen.

“You have gaslights and everything,” Owen marveled, walking behind her. “I thought you’d live in a log cabin, and there’d be Indians around.”

Sarah smiled to herself. “There are a few Indians,” she said. “But you don’t have to worry about them. They’re friendly.”

“Good,” Owen said, with evident relief, as they passed the dining room table—she’d set it for five, since her father was snoring away in his room—and the plates, glasses and silverware sparkled. “I wouldn’t want to get scalped or anything.”

“Nobody’s going to scalp you,” Sarah said, with certainty.

Owen pulled back a chair at the kitchen table and sat while she found a vase for the wild orange poppies he’d apparently picked for her. “Papa says this is the frontier,” he announced.

Sarah’s spine tightened briefly at the mention of Charles. She hoped Doc Venable would be back from his evening rounds before he or Wyatt Yarbro arrived. “We’re quite civilized, actually,” she said, pumping water into a vase at the sink, dunking the stems of the poppies, and setting the whole shooting match in the center of the table.

“Do you live in this great big house all by yourself?” Owen wanted to know. He was small for his age, Sarah noticed, trying her best not to devour the child with her eyes. His feet swung inches above the floor, but he sat up very straight.

“No,” Sarah said, taking a chair herself. “My father and I live here together. Isn’t your house much bigger than this one?”

Owen allowed that it was, then added, “But I’m not there very much. If I’m not at school, I mostly stay with Grandmama. She’s got all sorts of money, but she lives in a town house. That way, she doesn’t need so many servants.”

“Do you like staying at your grandmama’s town house?” Sarah asked carefully.

“Not much,” Owen said. “You can’t run or make noise or have a dog, because dogs have fleas and they chew things up and make messes.”

Sarah didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Would you like to have a dog?”

“More than anything, except maybe a pony,” Owen answered.

“Do you like school?” A thousand other questions still pounded in Sarah’s mind, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask them.

“It’s lonesome,” Owen said. “Especially at Christmas.”

Sarah stomach clenched, but she allowed none of what she felt to show in her face. “You stay at school over Christmas?”

“My mother doesn’t like me very much,” Owen confided. “And Grandmama always goes to stay with friends in the south of France when the weather starts getting cold.”

“Surely your mother loves you,” Sarah managed.

“No,” Owen insisted, shaking his head. “She says I’m a bastard.”

Sarah closed her eyes briefly, struggling with a tangle of emotions—anger, frustration, sorrow, and the most poignant yearning. So Marjory Langstreet did blame Owen for her husband’s indiscretions, as she’d always feared she might.

“My brothers aren’t bastards,” Owen went on, taking no apparent notice of Sarah’s reaction.

“Do you get along with them?” she asked, after biting her lower lip for a few moments, lest she say straight out what she thought of Marjory and all the rest of the Langstreets. “Your brothers, I mean?”

“They’re old,” Owen replied. “Probably as old as you.”

Sarah chuckled. “My goodness,” she said. “They must be doddering.”

“What’s doddering?”

Just then, her father appeared on the rear stairway leading down into the kitchen, clad in a smoking jacket and the military trousers Sarah had hidden earlier. His feet were bare, and his white hair stood out all around his head. He’d forgotten his spectacles, and he peered at Owen.

“Doddering,” he said, “is what I am. An old fool who can’t get around without somebody to hold him up.”

“Papa,” Sarah said, rising, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Balderdash,” Ephriam snapped. “It’s still light out. Who’s the lad?”

“My name is Owen Langstreet, sir,” Owen said, standing respectfully in the presence of an elder. “Who are you?”

Don’t, Papa, Sarah pleaded silently. “This is my father, Ephriam Tamlin,” she said aloud.

“Those pants,” Owen observed, “are peculiar. How come they have yellow stripes down the side?”

“I wore these trousers in the great war,” Ephriam blustered. Then he saluted briskly. “You’re a mite small for a soldier. Reckon you must be a drummer boy.”

“Papa,” Sarah pleaded. “Please.”

“I smell supper cooking,” Ephriam told her. She’d fried chicken earlier; it was on a platter in the warming oven. “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll bring you a plate,” Sarah promised. “Just go back to bed.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Owen said.

A rap sounded at the back door, and Doc Venable let himself in. Spotting Ephriam standing there on the stairs, he tossed Sarah a sympathetic glance, let his eyes rest briefly on Owen, then went to usher his old friend to his room.

“How come Ephriam can’t eat with us?” Owen asked Sarah, when they’d gone. He looked so genuinely concerned that it was all Sarah could do not to reach out and ruffle his neatly brushed hair.

“He’s sick,” Sarah said.

“Why did he call me a drummer boy? I don’t have a drum.”

“Figure of speech,” Sarah answered.

At that instant, for good or ill, someone turned the bell knob at the front door, indicating the arrival of another supper guest.

“I’ll answer the door!” Owen said, and rushed off through the dining room.

Sarah gripped the back of a chair, swayed. She should have told Charles, when he invited himself to supper, that it wasn’t a good time for her to entertain. Her father was indisposed, and she was frantic with worry over the situation at the bank. But she’d wanted so to pass an evening in Owen’s company.

“It’s the deputy!” Owen shouted from the entry hall. “Should I let him in?”

Sarah laughed, though her eyes stung with tears. She hurried out of the kitchen and through the dining room.

Wyatt Yarbro stood smiling and spruced up just over the threshold. He wore a clean white shirt, black trousers, and polished boots, and the holster on his hip was empty. He’d dusted off his black hat, which he held politely in his hands, and his dark eyes danced with a sort of somber amusement.

“Do come in, Mr. Yarbro,” Sarah said. “This is my—nephew. Owen Langstreet.”

“We’ve met,” Mr. Yarbro said, stepping past the boy, who stared up at him in fascination.

“He’s not Wyatt Earp,” Owen said.

“I’m aware of that, Owen,” Sarah replied, gesturing toward the coat tree, with its many brass hooks. “Hang up your hat, Mr. Yarbro.”

Wyatt did as she’d asked.

An awkward silence fell.

“Let’s have a seat in the parlor,” Sarah said, flustered, leading the way.

Owen followed, and so did Wyatt.

“Nice place,” Wyatt said.

“She lives here with her papa,” Owen informed him, gravitating toward Sarah’s piano, which was her most prized possession. “He wears blue pants with yellow stripes on them and thinks I’m a drummer boy.”

“Is that so?” Wyatt asked affably, and when Sarah dared to look back over her shoulder, she saw that he was watching her, not the child.

“Sit down,” Sarah said. “Please. I’ll get some coffee.”

“No need,” Wyatt said, waiting until Sarah sank into her mother’s threadbare slipper chair before taking a seat on the settee. He was leanly built, but the house seemed smaller somehow, with him in it, and warmer.

Much warmer.

Owen perched on the piano stool. “May I spin?” he asked.

Wyatt chuckled.

“Spin all you want,” Sarah said, smiling a wobbly smile.

Owen moved the stool a few more inches from the piano, sat, gripped it with both hands, and used one foot to propel himself into blurry revolutions.

Sarah felt dizzy and had to look away, but her gaze went straight to Wyatt Yarbro, and that made her even dizzier. He’d shaved, and his cologne had a woodsy scent. His white shirt was open at the throat, and it was not only pressed, but starched, too.

Wyatt glanced curiously around the well-appointed, seldom-used room. “Where’s Mr. Langstreet?” he asked.

“He’s been delayed,” Sarah said.

Owen used his foot to stop the piano stool. He looked happily flushed, more like the little boy he was than the miniature man who blithely referred to himself as a “bastard.” “He got a telegram,” Owen said importantly.

“Imagine that,” Wyatt said, though not unkindly.

“In Philadelphia, we have a telephone,” Owen added.

“Don’t hold with telephones myself,” Wyatt replied, mischief sparking in his dark eyes. “I figure if folks have something to say to each other, they ought to write it in a letter or meet up, face-to-face.”

“Papa says someday everybody will have a telephone.”

“Does he, now?” Wyatt asked easily.

As though to speak of the devil was to conjure him, Charles chose that moment to ring the doorbell. Sarah excused herself to answer, and Wyatt stood when she rose from her chair.

He might have been an outlaw, but someone had taught him manners.

Sarah was a little flushed when she opened the front door to Charles.

“Good evening, Sarah,” he said, stepping past her when she hesitated to move out of the way. “I apologize for being late. Business. One can never escape it.”

Doc Venable descended the front stairs, rolling down his shirtsleeves. His hands and forearms still glistened with moisture from the sink upstairs, where he must have washed up for supper.

Sarah made introductions all around, out of deference to the doctor. Wyatt and Charles had already met; Wyatt’s expression thoughtful, Charles’s elegantly aloof.

Charles looked down on Wyatt, Sarah realized, as a ruffian, and she felt a swift sting of fury. Her cheeks throbbed with it.

Supper seemed interminable. Sarah was afraid, every moment, that her father would appear, oddly dressed and confounded.

“I thought you said you couldn’t cook,” Wyatt teased, helping himself to another piece of fried chicken and then adding gravy to his mashed potatoes. “Tastes fine to me.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, inordinately pleased and not a little embarrassed. By some miracle, she’d managed not to burn the chicken, and the mashed potatoes were thicker than the gravy, as they were supposed to be.

Charles maintained a chilly silence; he clearly resented Wyatt’s presence, tossing a disdainful glance his way every now and then. Finally, he took a sip from his water goblet and condescended to remark, “Very nice.”

“Is Aunt Sarah your sister, Papa?” Owen asked.

“Eat your supper,” Charles told him.

“Is she?”

“No,” Charles snapped.

“Then she must be Mother’s sister. They don’t look anything alike.”

Sarah stiffened in her chair. Wyatt saw the motion, and stared diplomatically down at his plate.

“In Sarah’s case,” Charles said, plainly irritated and red at the jawline, “the title of ‘aunt’ is honorary. She’s—a family friend.”

“Oh,” Owen said, looking dejected. He laid his fork down. He’d been sawing away at a drumstick for the last twenty minutes; Sarah had wanted to tell him it was all right to eat chicken with his fingers, but refrained. “I was thinking maybe I could visit her at Christmas, but if she’s not really my aunt—”

“You may visit me whenever you want,” Sarah told him, aware that she was overstepping, and not caring. When she got Charles alone, she’d have a word with him about this “bastard” business, and leaving a ten-year-old boy at boarding school over the holidays.

Owen’s face brightened, causing his freckles to stand out. “Really?”

“Enough,” Charles said coldly. “Philadelphia is a long way from Stone Creek. Have you forgotten that we just spent a week on a train?”

Owen subsided as suddenly as if he’d been slapped.

Doc Venable cleared his throat and turned the conversation in a new direction. “I understand you’re keeping the peace around town while your brother is away, Mr. Yarbro,” he said.

Wyatt shifted in his chair, oddly uncomfortable with the remark. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And I’d appreciate it if you called me Wyatt.” His gaze moved to Sarah. “You, too, Miss Tamlin.”

Sarah blushed.

“My, but we are a friendly bunch, aren’t we?” Charles asked drily. His nostrils were slightly flared, and the skin around his mouth looked tight.

“I reckon most of us are, anyhow,” Wyatt said quietly.

“Can I call you Wyatt, too?” Owen wanted to know.

“Sure,” Wyatt said. “Long as I don’t have to call you ‘Mr. Langstreet.’”

Charles reddened.

Owen giggled with delight. “Nobody calls me ‘Mr. Langstreet,’” he said. “I’m only ten.”

Wyatt’s lips twitched. “You could have fooled me,” he replied. “Like I said this afternoon, I’d have said you were forty if you were a day. Just a mite short for your age.”

Charles favored Sarah with a pained look. Again, she wondered why he’d brought Owen to Stone Creek, when he seemed, at least at the moment, barely able to tolerate the child’s presence.

“You ever seen a man as short as Owen here, Doc?” Wyatt asked, well aware that he’d gotten under Charles’s skin and clearly enjoying the fact.

“Can’t say as I have,” Doc said, regarding Owen thoughtfully.

Owen beamed.

“Is everyone ready for dessert?” Sarah asked brightly.

She served strawberry preserves on shortbread, and poured coffee for the adults. Earlier, she’d longed for the evening to end. Now, she realized that Charles was the only unwelcome guest. Doc, Wyatt and Owen had lifted her spirits with their banter.

Charles was the first to lay his table napkin aside, push back his chair, and stand. “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow in Flagstaff,” he said. “It came up unexpectedly. Sarah, I wonder if I might speak to you in private.”

Sarah felt a prickle of dread, but she welcomed the chance to talk to him about Owen, out of the boy’s earshot. “Certainly,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Owen remained in his chair, his eyes fixed on his plate. He seemed to have shrunk a full size, and his head was bent at an angle that made Sarah’s heart hurt.

She proceeded to the front door, Charles following.

“I can’t leave the boy alone at the hotel,” Charles said, before she had a chance to speak. “Will you keep him while I’m away?”

Sarah nodded, surprised. She’d expected some kind of harangue.

“I might be gone for several days,” Charles warned.

“I’ll look after him,” she promised. “Charles, I—”

Something ominous flickered in Charles’s eyes.

Sarah straightened her spine. “He refers to himself as a bastard. Owen, I mean.”

“He’s precocious,” Charles said, taking out his pocket watch and checking it with a frown. “And he lies constantly.”

“Is he lying about Christmas? Having to stay at school alone while everyone else goes home for the holiday season?”

Charles’s mouth took on a grim tension. “It isn’t always convenient to have a ten-year-old underfoot,” he said. “Marjory’s nerves are—delicate.”

“Convenient? Charles, he’s ten. A child.”

“Marjory—”

“Damn Marjory!” Sarah whispered furiously. She was in no position to anger Charles, given the shares he held in the bank, but her concern for Owen—her son—pushed everything else aside. “What do I care for the state of your wife’s nerves?”

“They’ll hear you,” Charles said anxiously, inclining his head toward the dining room. “Do you want the cowboy to know you gave birth to an illegitimate child when everyone in Stone Creek thought you were getting an education?”

“Oh, I got an education, all right,” Sarah said bitterly.

Charles consulted his watch again. “I have to go,” he said. “I have paperwork to do, before tomorrow’s meeting.”

Good riddance, Sarah thought. She’d gotten a reprieve, as far as the bank was concerned, but another part of her was alarmed. Was this “meeting” with the other shareholders? Several of them lived in Flagstaff, a relatively short train ride from Stone Creek. Suppose Charles had asked around town, heard about some of her father’s recent escapades, and made the decision to take over control? Alone, he couldn’t do it. With the help of the other shareholders, though, he could be sitting behind her father’s desk the morning after next.

With the first smile he’d offered all evening, Charles ran his knuckles lightly down the side of Sarah’s face. “I’ll be back in a few days,” he said, as though he thought she was pining over his departure. “A week at the outside.”

A week with Owen. A week to cover her tracks at the bank.

She tried to look sad. Might even have said, “I’ll miss you,” as he seemed to expect her to do, but since she would have choked on the words, she swallowed them.

He bent his head, kissed her lightly, briefly on the mouth.

She stepped back, secretly furious.

“Still the coquette,” Charles remarked smoothly. “You’re not fooling me, Sarah. I remember how much you liked going to bed with me.”

Sarah’s cheeks pulsed with heat so sudden and so intense that it was actually painful. She would surely have slapped Charles Langstreet the Third across the face if she hadn’t known the crack of flesh meeting flesh would carry into the nearby dining room.

“Good night, Mr. Langstreet,” she said.

He grinned, turned, and strolled, whistling merrily, down the porch steps, along the walk, through the gate.

Sarah watched him until he was out of sight, then turned and nearly collided with Wyatt, who was standing directly behind her.

Her heart fluttered painfully. How much had he heard? Had he seen Charles kiss her?

She could tell nothing by his expression.

“I’d best be leaving, too,” he said. “I’ve got to count horses in front of saloons.”

“What?” Sarah asked, confused.

He chuckled. “Rowdy’s way of watching out for trouble,” he said, taking his hat from the coat tree. “Thank you, Miss Tamlin, for a fine evening and the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

Something tightened in Sarah’s throat. “If I’m to call you Wyatt,” she heard herself say, “then you must call me Sarah.”

His smile was as dazzling as the starched shirt he’d put on to come to supper. “Sarah, then,” he said. The smile faded. “That Langstreet fella,” he began. “Is he...? Do you—?”

“He’s a business associate,” Sarah said. It was a partial truth, and she wondered if she ought to record it in her book of lies.

“That’s good,” Wyatt said. His dark eyes were almost liquid, there in the dim light of the entryway. “Because if I stay on in Stone Creek, I mean to set about courting you in earnest.”

“If you stay?” She’d known he was a drifter, an outlaw, that he’d be moving on at some point. So why did she feel as though a deep, dark precipice had just opened at her feet?

“Reckon I’ll be deciding on that further along,” he said. “Good night, Sarah.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, just as Charles had—his face was so very close to hers—but he didn’t. And she was stunned by the depths of her disappointment.

She watched until he passed through the front gate, turned toward the main part of town, moving in and out of the lamplight. Then she closed the door quietly and went back to the dining room.

Doc and Owen were busy clearing the table.

“Is Papa leaving me here?” Owen asked hopefully.

“Yes,” Sarah said, taken aback, exchanging quick glances with Doc, who’d paused in his plate-gathering like a man listening for some sound in the distance. “But only for a few days. I thought you’d be—well—surprised—”

“Papa’s always leaving me places,” Owen said. His manner was nonchalant, though there was a slight stoop to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

Doc shook his head, though the boy didn’t see.

Sarah contrived to smile and moved to help with the work. “What sort of places?” she asked, in a tone meant to sound cheerful, as though abandoning a child with people who were virtual strangers to him was a common occurrence, and wholly acceptable.

“Once, I lived at a hotel all by myself for a whole week,” Owen told her. “It was scary at night, but I got to have whatever I wanted to eat, and Papa gave me lots of spending money.”

Sarah could not look at him. He might see what she was thinking. “Why did he do that?” she asked lightly, when she could trust herself to speak. Again, her gaze met Doc’s, but this time, the look held.

“He had meetings with a lady. She wore a big hat with pink feathers on it and rode in a carriage with six white horses pulling it.”

Sarah drew back a chair and sank into it, breathless.

“Are you sick, Aunt Sarah?” Owen asked, clearly frightened.

“I’m f-fine,” Sarah muttered. She wouldn’t have to write that lie in the book to remember it.

“Let’s wash up these dishes,” Doc told the boy, his voice a little too hearty. “Since your aunt Sarah went to all the trouble to cook it and all.”

Owen nodded, but his eyes were still on Sarah. “I’ll be quiet,” he said. “If you have a headache—”

Sarah longed to gather the child in her arms, but she didn’t dare. She’d weep if she did, and never let go of him again. “You don’t have to be quiet,” she told him softly.

Doc put a hand on Owen’s shoulder and steered him in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll wash and you dry,” he said.