Carol Arens – Wed To The Montana Cowboy (страница 5)
“Just leave it here beside the dock.”
“But where do you aim to go?” It made her uncomfortable to see his eyes widen in alarm.
“My grandfather’s ranch near Big Timber.”
“That’s near eighty miles, you’ll need someone to get you there.”
“I’ve been told that men who are out of work often act as guides.”
“You sit tight here. Coulson’s not the place for a lady like you. I’ll pass the word around.”
“Thank you, Tom.” She handed him a quarter. “I appreciate your help.”
“Don’t wander off, now,” he said with a doff of his cap. “I’ll send someone down shortly.”
She watched him saunter away. The afternoon sunshine gave him a long, fluid shadow. Tom entered the first saloon he came to.
“I hope he sends someone out soon,” she said to Screech. His pupils flashed, a certain sign of his intelligence. “Because I’m not leaving our goods unattended.”
To be honest, she didn’t have the kind of goods that a thief might be interested in. Still, they were hers and she needed them. And there was the one item of great value, the one she didn’t even dare display so close to town.
Her grandmother’s violin, wrapped carefully in her spare petticoats and centered in the trunk, was more than polished wood. It was a link to the grandmother she had never known.
No matter how long it took, she would sit on top of the trunk like a bird on her nest, keeping her precious cargo safe.
She only hoped that Tom really was arranging an escort to Moreland Ranch. A young man in a bar with alcohol, and ladies after his quarter... Well, his attention might have wandered from her plight.
“Yummy,” Screech said. “Ummm, yummy.”
“Yes, me, too,” she answered, then settled her derriere onto the lid of the trunk.
* * *
Having finished his business at the bank, Lantree walked the isolated path that wound through the trees behind the main street of town.
The boardwalk in front of the establishments would have been a quicker way to get back to his wagon, but this way was more peaceful, more private.
Unfortunately, this path tended to be a dumping ground for drunks who had been tossed from the saloons. He spotted one now, face down in a mud puddle.
With the inebriated as plentiful as fleas on a hound, no one much cared if one of them never came out of his stupor. Boot Hill was home to a fair share of unfortunate alcoholics.
Lantree crouched down beside the man. His skin was an unhealthy color. He touched the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse.
It was there, sluggish under his fingertips. Turning the fellow over, he sighed. The drunk was more a boy than a man. If he kept up this behavior he wouldn’t live long enough to grow a full beard.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said. Slinging the limp body over his shoulder, he stood up.
The closest thing to a doctor that Coulson could boast was the bartender at the Gilded Cage Saloon. “Doc” Brody had assisted an army doctor for three years so he did what he was able.
Brody would have enough skill to see the kid back to sobriety.
Lantree walked past the
This one straggler made him pivot at the hip, stop and stare. She sat upon a trunk beside the dock, apparently conversing with a large green bird in a dome-shaped cage.
Decent women in Coulson were rare. Perhaps she was a lady of the night, but if that were the case, she would just be starting her career.
Her skin looked fresh...lovely even. Her expression was bright and untroubled.
Evidently, the bird must have done something funny because the woman laughed out loud. She didn’t try to hide her amusement coyly behind her hand, but let it out, lifting her face to the sky, looking joyful.
He wanted to weep for her. Give the girl six months, and she would be visiting Doc Brody with sores that she would never recover from.
Maybe he ought to sit down beside her and warn her of the danger, but he had the boy slung over his shoulder.
At any rate, the young woman would resent his interference and he was in no position to advise or heal anyone.
Still, it was a shame to imagine such beauty fading to despair and illness.
A few moments later, he deposited the boy on a chair inside the Gilded Cage.
He approached the bar and signaled Brody with a wave.
“That one’s no more than a kid,” he explained to the “Doctor” and pushed a five-dollar bill in his direction. “See what you can do to get him sober.”
“You and your strays, Lantree.” The bartender poured him a shot of amber-colored whiskey. “Just a dram to keep you warm on the ride home.”
“Appreciate it, Doc.”
He took a sip, enjoying the smooth heat sliding down his throat, warming his belly.
At the other end of the bar, a young man...a deckhand from the
Lantree slugged down the rest of his drink. Coulson was wearing on his nerves. The sooner he got home to the tranquility of the ranch, the happier he would be.
On his way out the door, he paused to straighten the boy in his chair and check his pulse one more time.
He’d recover this time, but if no one took him in hand he faced a sad, short future.
Outside, June sunshine warmed his face, but come tonight the weather would turn downright cold. It was a lucky thing he’d purchased several heavy blankets and a couple of rain slickers.
“Walker!” came a voice from behind him on the boardwalk. “Hold up a minute.”
He’d hoped to get in and out of town without a confrontation with William Smothers, Coulson’s power-hungry mayor.
He stopped, turned. When he did, he spotted the fresh young woman with the bird. She was standing beside her trunk, stretching. She was tall, very tall, with a lithe, lovely figure. He wished...well, he wished for a lot of things, but it was a shame about the girl.
Smothers gazed up at him, yanking then smoothing the lapels of his fancy suit over his portly belly. “I heard you were in town.”
“Just on my way out.”
“Arrange a meeting for me with your boss.” As usual, Smothers was short and to the point.
The fellow was shifty, all right. Just because he wore a tailored suit and polished boots didn’t make him any less of a snake.
“Mr. Moreland sends his regards and his regrets.”
“See here, Lantree. The railroad is coming. This town is going to grow up overnight. We need lumber. Moreland’s got more trees than he needs.”
“Not interested.”
Smothers might yak all day without Hershal giving up so much as a branch.
He’d refused to sell it to fuel the steamboats. He’d escorted the railroad folks off his land with a shotgun. His boss was as protective of his trees as he might have been with his own kin, if he’d had any.
There was the granddaughter, but her mother’s family had poisoned her opinion of Moreland. The girl would never come here, no matter how much comfort she would be able to give the old man.
“You arrange a meeting, and I’ll make it worth your while. How much do you make as ramrod for Moreland? Not as much as you’d like, I’d be willing to bet.”
“I watch out for Moreland’s interests.”
“Just deliver the message this time.” Smothers’s face began to mottle. A red circle blotched his nose. “Or I’ll find another, not-so-gentle way of delivering it.”
“Is that a threat, Smothers?” Lantree took a step closer, bent down to the mayor’s level and spoke softly. “I reckon you didn’t mean it to be.”
“I want those trees.”
“Get them somewhere else.”