Nowhere Before Dark by KrisA

Word Count 9,219

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With thanks to my fantastic beta, Raian!

WHN: Blue Skies for Willie Sharp

Chapter One

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Scott Lancer turned at the sound of footsteps behind him. He looked down, expecting to see young Willie Sharpe again, possibly seeking him out one last time before grandfather and grandson departed for Oregon. Instead, he gazed upon a petite middle-aged woman with squinting eyes and a downturned mouth. This was a face much different than the one he remembered on the jovial woman serving coffee and pie at the restaurant that was nearly his residence while he worked to sober up Kansas Bill Sharpe. The woman stood with hands on hips, her steady eyes focused on Scott. “Mrs. Lawson? Is something wrong?”

“Mr. Lancer.  If I may be so bold, may I inquire as to where you’re going?”

The unexpected tone left him wary, but he replied as a gentleman would. “Of course. I’m going to get my horse and head home. I’m sorry I didn’t come –”

She nodded and cut him off. “And just where is your horse, Mr. Lancer?” Apparently, this confrontation, if it was a confrontation, was about more than exiting the town of Onyx without a farewell.

Scott pointed ahead at the patient animal that had carried both him and Willie to town that morning. “I left him outside the livery. He’s right there. Why do you ask?”

“Is this the same horse that you recently retrieved a rifle from to stand with Kansas Bill?”

Furrowed lines formed across Scott’s brow. What a strange interrogation. Had he done something wrong? “I really don’t understand what you’re getting at, Mrs. Lawson.”

Exhaling slowly, she placed a hand on Scott’s arm. She spoke now with the softness he had come to know. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Mr. Lancer. That you don’t understand. Either you’re planning on leaving town with another man’s horse or another man’s rifle. I don’t take you for a horse thief so may I suggest we walk together to the mount carrying a now empty scabbard and replace the weapon before the rightful owner comes out of the saloon?”

Scott pulled his arm away as she tried to gently lead him. He looked down at the rifle in his hand and then looked away, searching for an answer in the street that lay before him. “That can’t… that can’t be.”

She stepped back, as if not to corner the confused man, and softened her voice even more. “Please indulge me, Mr. Lancer. I do believe you’ll find what I say to be true.”

“But this must be mine. Follow me to my horse and you’ll see for yourself that my rifle isn’t there. I’m carrying it.”

“Please take a closer look at what’s in your hand, Mr. Lancer.”

Scott’s eyes widened as he examined the rifle. He shook his head and looked back at her.  

Mrs. Lawson tilted her head and gave her shoulders a half shrug. “Let’s save ourselves a trip to your horse, shall we?”

Scott rubbed his chin as they walked the short distance to the horse in question. The animal skittered sideways at the approach of the two strangers, but a calming voice and gentle touch allowed Scott to maneuver around to see the object in question. The scabbard was indeed empty. He began to return the weapon but hesitated, turning it over and running his hand along its length.

“Go ahead, Mr. Lancer. This is where it belongs.”

Scott gave a curt nod and finished what he had started. Looking around for the owner in order to apologize, he let out a contained breath when no one took notice.

Mrs. Lawson motioned for Scott to follow. Wanting nothing more than to retreat to gather his thoughts, he surprised himself by joining her on a bench outside the restaurant she operated with her husband. He sat with elbows on knees and hands clasped, silently staring down at the dirty wooden planks below his feet. He toed a boot through the dust made thick by the ongoing drought, wishing the dust on the street had been thick enough to cushion the blows that jolted him as he was dragged behind the galloping horse. There was no use worrying about that now. It was over and he was fine.

The two sat quietly together, neither glancing at the other. Mrs. Lawson sat with hands in lap, flashing smiles to curious passersby. After a few minutes Scott haltingly broke the silence. “I have no recollection of removing the rifle. Did you see me take it?”

A calming voice answered. “I did. And I was glad to see that you were finally able to move from your relatively still position on the ground. You took quite a beating and, to be honest, Mr. Lancer, it’s not the purloined rifle that has me concerned. Even the strongest and most competent among us can get rattled. That madman Andrews had his men drag you behind a horse through main street. Your actions after that rather traumatic episode have me concerned for your health.”

“My health? I’m just fine, ma’am.”

“Well, maybe you are. But you said yourself that your memory’s a bit off. Would it hurt to humor me and engage in a friendly chat over a cup of coffee and a piece of pie before you go?”

Scott tipped his head back as he considered the offered ceasefire. He slowly stood and ran his hands down his soiled shirt in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the dust. Nothing to be done about that. Throwing the gun and holster he had purchased for Bill over his shoulder he turned to his unlikely companion. “No, I imagine no harm could come from that. Far be it from me to turn down your pie. Lead on, Mrs. Lawson. But then I really must be on my way.”

They entered the restaurant where Scott had plied Kansas Bill with coffee and encouragement. The old man’s grandson had waited in a cabin just outside of town until Scott felt that Bill was sober enough to meet the young boy who spoke so highly of the grandfather he had never met. Scott was adamant that Willie would meet a man worthy of the boy’s expectations, not the consistently inebriated man bullied at every turn by Colonel Andrews, Onyx’s so-called mayor. To Scott’s chagrin, Willie met both.

A few patrons turned as the pair made their way through the restaurant to the back staircase leading to the living quarters above. Scott heard the murmurs as whispered conversations commenced. He was too tired to care about the content.

Escorted to a seat at the Lawson’s table, Scott laid Bill’s purposefully discarded rig on the chair beside him. Gazing at the weapon Scott was struck with a thought of the humiliation the aging gunman must have felt as he lay drunk and nearly incapacitated in clear view of his grandson. If shame was what it took to turn Bill around, would it be enough to keep him on the straight and narrow? Scott tried to look at the abandoned gun as a sign that the whiskey serving as Bill’s only comfort for so long could also be left behind, but he suddenly wasn’t so sure. There was nothing to do now but hope that guilt and remorse could be supplanted by a grandfather’s love for his grandson.

As he took in the smells of food cooking below, Scott was quickly reminded that it had been some time since he had eaten anything. A quick piece of pie would be quite welcome. Soon Mrs. Lawson arrived with a large pot of coffee and two cups. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, Mr. Lancer. I wonder if you could wait for that piece of pie. Some lunch might be in order first. Give me just a minute and I’ll run downstairs to the kitchen. Please, pour yourself a cup of coffee and relax.”  

She was off before Scott could voice a response that mirrored his surprise. There was still half a day of light left. That meant half a day closer to home. But then again, his growling stomach reminded him that a slightly longer stay might make the half day’s ride a little more comfortable.

Alone for the first time since the events of the morning, Scott started to notice the familiar aches and pains that follow adust-up. Deliberate inventory of his limbs and torso found nothing that he hadn’t endured before. A quick check of his head revealed a bump that he assessed as hardly worthy of worry.  He would have a little lunch, allay any of Mrs. Lawson’s fears, and be on his way.

His eyes again went to the gun beside him. Instinctively he reached for his own weapon, knowing his hand would return empty. He was likely disarmed during the struggle in the livery. It would be a shame to leave town without his Colt. He’d have to make inquiries. As he waited, he removed the bullets from Bill’s gun and placed them in the empty belt loops. A loaded weapon in Mrs. Lawson’s dining room somehow seemed disrespectful. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have left the weapon downstairs. He was surprised she didn’t require it.

A nearly breathless Mrs. Lawson emerged through the door. “Sorry to make you wait, Mr. Lancer. The finishing touches were just being attended to as I arrived in the kitchen. I hope you like chicken and dumplings. They’re one of my husband’s specialties.”

Scott’s mouth watered as two large plates were placed on the table. A slightly longer delay could prove beneficial if he was fortified by a lunch such as this. “Oh, yes, I do. One of my favorites. My thanks to you and your husband. And since we’ll be enjoying this delicious lunch together, I hope that you’ll call me Scott.”

“Of course, Scott. And since we’re beyond formalities, please call me Margaret.”

“My pleasure. May I pour you some coffee, Margaret?”

“Yes, you surely may. Thank you.” Scott’s hands stayed steady as he poured the coffee into the cup. She smiled and gave a quick nod.

They ate silently for a few minutes: Scott’s attention on the food and Margaret’s attention on Scott. Feeling the scrutiny, he looked up. Her eyes quickly shifted away as if caught in the act.

Scott corrected his uncharacteristic slouch before speaking. “I’m fine. I really am. I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure you have. I’m sorry to be so intrusive.” A smile accentuated her laugh lines as she continued, “Let’s just enjoy each other’s company and get to know each other a bit. Let’s see, what would be a good topic of conversation over lunch? How about this? You have a charming accent that intrigues me. How did you acquire it?”

Scott took a quick bite to ponder his response. How much did he want to share? A quick bite turned into a prolonged chew.

“Too personal still, Scott? I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, no. You’re not prying. It’s just that I could give you the long version or the short version. The short version is I grew up in Boston.”

“And the long version?”

“I grew up in Boston with my grandfather.”

The light in Margaret’s eyes danced as she laughed. “Ah, yes. That was quite lengthy! Surely you must be exhausted from the telling! Any other tidbits you wish to convey on the subject?”

“I believe that will do.” No need to prolong his departure.

“Well, then. Polite conversation protocol dictates that you ask me a question.”

Still anxious to begin his trip home Scott chose a question he was certain would elicit a brief response. “How long have you and your husband operated the restaurant?”

Margaret’s eyes shifted to the left as she pursed her lips. “Oh, goodness. Well, after my mother, husband and two sons died in the cholera epidemic in St. Louis in 1849 my father decided to heed the call to go west.”

Scott lifted an eyebrow as his hope for a quick answer vanished, yet he kindly offered, “My sincere condolences, Margaret. I’m sure that was a difficult time for you and your father.”

“It was, Scott. Neither of us coped very well, I’m afraid. We were suddenly a family of only two. Father felt that leaving St. Louis would be best for both of us and I agreed. He’d known a merchant named John Marsh in Independence who made his way to California in the 1830’swhere he became a rather wealthy rancher. Marsh had put out a call to newspapers across the country for Americans to follow, in hopes California would eventually end up in the hands of the United States instead of Russia, France or England. Father read his entreaty in the Daily Missouri Republican and felt his brief acquaintance with Marsh was sufficient to foster trust, I imagine. Then, when the catastrophic fire destroyed so much of St. Louis that same year, we knew our decision was well founded and we struck out on our adventure. With the Gold Rush burgeoning, Father’s plan was to act as a physician to the miners.”

Margaret paused and pulled a handkerchief from a dress pocket. The pause continued as she dabbed at her eyes and took several deep breaths.

By this time Scott had resigned himself to the social obligation of the long version. Yet, he was determined to move the story along. “You say your father was a physician?”

“He still is. As Onyx’s doctor he’s most likely bandaging Colonel Andrews as we speak. I must admit to being not one bit sorry for the damage Bill’s bullet did to that tyrant’s hand. But fool that Andrews is my father would never deny medical care. He’s elderly now yet still perfectly capable.”

With barely a breath between sentences Margaret continued, “Well, I met Henry in 1851 in a mining camp and we married. We followed Father here to Onyx when he heard the town was looking for a doctor.”

Scott put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “So, you came to Onyx -”

“Oh, dear. Here I’ve been going on and on and haven’t paid attention. Let me go get that pie I promised. Give me a minute to run downstairs.”

Alone again, Scott’s mind wandered to the ramblings of Lancer’s resident storyteller, Jelly Hoskins. A Jelly story never rose to the standard Scott had learned at Harvard: know your audience. Had he not been clear that he was anxious to be on his way home? It occurred to him that perhaps Margaret had a reason to keep him occupied. She had expressed concerns about his actions after the incident. How many stories had Scott endured as Jelly tried to keep him awake after a concussion? It then became clear. Margaret was worried that Scott was concussed. He felt the bump on his head again and remained unconcerned. His eyes were sharp, and he was not experiencing nausea. It was true he had no memory of grabbing the rifle, but he had needed to act quickly. Who could blame him for that? He would inquire as to her concerns over pie.

“Here you are, Scott. Apple pie right out of the oven. Would you like some cream? I’ll go back down and get some. Just give me a moment.”

A quick response brought her back to the table. “No, no thank you, Margaret. But I was wondering…”

“You were wondering why I haven’t answered your question yet. Let’s see. Where was I?”

Scott sighed inwardly. There was nothing to do but eat his pie and listen.

“Although he’s a country doctor now, Father had a lucrative medical practice in St. Louis. He left it behind to follow Mr. Marsh’s invitation west. You see, Father had contacted Mr. Marsh, or should I say Dr. Marsh. Apparently, Mr. Marsh had convinced the Mexican officials in California that he was a physician even though he had never quite completed his studies at Harvard. They were fooled by a less than substantive proffered document written in Latin that I imagine the officials could barely comprehend. Nevertheless, they took him at his word, and he was officially allowed to practice medicine in California. You can see why I refuse to refer to him as a doctor.”

Scott nodded his agreement. Although a fascinating story he would hold his questions in the interest of time.

Time did not appear to be an obstacle to Margaret as she continued. “As a matter of fact, it turns out Mr. Marsh had been engaged in several less than reputable dealings prior to coming to California. Of course, Father knew nothing of those. He, too, believed that Marsh was a physician even though, oddly, he had known him as a businessman in Missouri. But I digress. Father had contacted Mr. Marsh who then offered a special invitation to come to his ranch upon our arrival.”

Margaret, apparently interpreting Scott’s polite eye contact as interest, continued. “Our trip west was dismal. Cholera was a constant companion. By the time we reached the California Trail we had witnessed too many burials to count. Unfortunately, Father could offer little help, which broke his heart. His spirits lifted when he finally met who he considered to be Dr. Marsh. To our delight, he was able to get Father’s medical credentials affirmed by Mexican officials. Father then began working as an itinerant doctor, offering his services in mining camps. He taught me enough to serve as his nurse. And, of course, I already told you that I met and married Henry at one of those camps. Henry had succumbed to gold fever while a well-respected chef in Chicago. Not finding his treasure he began to serve as cook in various camps. After we married, he traveled with Father and me, continuing to cook meals for miners. The three of us would return periodically to visit Mr. Marsh on his ranch, although I never personally took to the man.”

A surprise pause gave Scott an opportunity. “So, you and Henry followed your father to Onyx and started your restaurant when?”

“Well, it was after Mr. Marsh was murdered.”

Scott had to smile. Margaret was certainly well practiced at the art of the pivot.

“Mr. Marsh was known as a harsh employer who didn’t pay well. He was ambushed and killed by three vaqueros who disputed their treatment and pay. I believe that was in 1856. Now, I don’t know this for certain, but I have been told that Mr. Marsh’s son, whom Marsh had abandoned during his travels west, had journeyed to California seeking his father soon before the murder. The two reconciled and when his father was killed, the son was responsible for bringing one of those vaqueros to justice. But that’s another story. I’m sure you’re not interested in that.”

On the contrary. Of everything Scott had heard thus far, that was the one topic he was most definitely interested in pursuing. To pursue, however, meant a further delay. Scott declined the offer of a second piece of pie and attempted yet again to hurry the end of the story. “So, if you came to Onyx after the murder in 1856 and started your restaurant soon thereafter, you’ve been in business for approximately fifteen years?”

Margaret took a slow sip of coffee, carefully placed the cup on the table and raised her hands up as if in surrender. “I see that you have recognized my ploy.”

Scott leaned forward in his chair, nodding slowly as a half grin appeared. “Yes, Margaret. I believe I have. Although I have thoroughly enjoyed our chat, I have come to believe that you’re embellishing your answer to provide enough time to properly assess my fitness for travel.”

“And you would be right, Scott. I’ve been around the medical profession long enough to recognize the signs.”

“And you see those signs in me.”

“Yes, some.”

“And what would those signs be?”

“As I said before, you have no memory of retrieving the rifle.”

“But you weren’t aware of that until after the incident. Certainly, there is more that you would like to say. You mentioned that I displayed certain behaviors that worried you. Again, I ask. What would those signs be?”

“You’re trying very hard to pretend that you weren’t physically hurt today. When you first sat down at this table, you slumped in a way I never witnessed when you made visits to the restaurant. I saw you make a conscious effort to sit up straight. I don’t believe that’s in your nature. To have to think about your posture, I mean. Please understand, I had to make sure that you weren’t going to ride away and fall off your horse a few miles down the road.”

“I appreciate your concern, I really do. But you’re dancing around something, Margaret. Please, tell me exactly what’s on your mind.”

Margaret looked down at her coffee, as if the dark liquid held the proper words to convey her thoughts. “What do you remember after being dragged?”

A deep sigh proceeded the terse answer. “Someone untied me. I jumped up, grabbed a rifle, not my own as has been submitted as evidence, and moved to cover Bill.”

Margaret winced but regained a calm demeanor as she persisted. “Who untied you?”

“Does it really matter?”

Margaret suddenly rose from her chair and stood with hands on the table, leaning over Scott. “Yes, it matters! It was Willie. He then bent over you and held on to you. Scott, he was using his little body to cover you and keep you from further harm. When you finally stood, you took his hand and moved closer to Bill, but to the side. Willie held on to you with both hands. At first, I thought he was scared and was holding onto you for dear life. But I don’t think that anymore. I think he was propping you up. You weren’t standing as tall and straight as when you backed Bill against the cowboy the first time he was called out. It looked like you could topple over at any moment.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed as he looked up at Margaret, recognizing her stance as the diminutive woman’s attempt to command his attention. “Do you have a habit of attending gunfights, Margaret?”

“You had to notice the townspeople lining the streets. Yes, I was among them.”

He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, not sure he was ready to hear what she had to say. “All right, you were there. Go on.”

Margaret resumed her seat, eyes focused on him. “You’re a strong, brave man. But even you are susceptible to pain… and fear.”

“Fear! You think I was afraid to face a bully? It’s not the first time and I’m certain it won’t be the last.”

Margaret’s eyes widened as if startled by the raised voice. She pushed away from the table and walked to the window overlooking the street below. After a moment she turned and continued softly, “Scott, you might have been killed today. Don’t tell me that didn’t cross your mind because I know you’d be lying.”

Scott lowered his head. Death had most definitely crossed his mind today. But that was nothing new to him. Death could have come for him any day during the war. Threats of death were not uncommon since coming west. What made her think today was different? Was today different?

“I concede your point. It was a rough day, but I’ve had them before. More times than you would care to hear about, or I would care to tell.”

Margaret looked closely at him, her eyes glistening. Scott worked hard not to roll his eyes as he looked away. As much as he appreciated her regard for his well- being he now felt uncomfortable with the trajectory of this conversation. He was fine. End of story.

Apparently, Margaret did not agree. “You know you’ve had more than one young lady swoon over you since your arrival in Onyx.”

“Now, Margaret. I don’t –”

“Let me finish. When the incident on the street finally resolved itself, you walked over to Willie and Bill. Oh, you should have seen yourself standing there. Straight and tall and, if I may say, a bit… puffed out.”

Scott winced at her description. He was simply conversing with Bill and Willie. He’d had no reason to put on a show.

“The rifle was prominently displayed on your shoulders, then swung around with the apparent ease of an accomplished soldier. Oh, yes. There was swooning on the street. You looked the part of a warrior returning from battle and ready for the next. You looked the part, Scott, but I daresay I believe you were not feeling it.”

A speechless Scott could only grunt. Then Margaret had the audacity to laugh. She had gone too far. He was no strutting peacock!

“Now Scott, before you get yourself up in a snit –”

Scott stared straight ahead. “It’s a bit too late for that, Margaret.”

“As I said, before you get yourself up in a snit, please consider this. One of the things we women find so charming about men is their ability to appear stronger than they may be at any given moment. But Scott, we also like to take care of you. We’re more perceptive than you might imagine. When you give in to our ministrations it makes us love you all the more. That really isn’t such a bad thing, is it?”

Oh, she was a smooth one. His surrender was imminent. Scott had never met a woman such as Margaret. He admired anyone who challenged him and challenge him she did. And she was right, of course. More than one rib had protested at his recent grunt. While not broken, there was likely some bruising. And perhaps the bump on his head was a little more than nothing. It wouldn’t hurt to rest a bit before sitting a horse for a long trip home. 

He rose and walked toward Margaret, using his smile as a white flag. Putting his hands softly on her shoulders he whispered, “Thank you, Margaret.”

She knew the answer but asked anyway. “For what?”

“For calling me out.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Your actions today provide evidence for one of the many reasons God created women. We men may not always understand your tactics, but we’re very glad you’re here.”

“And I’m glad for your presence at my table, Scott Lancer. Now before I need to reach for my handkerchief again let me get these dishes cleared.”

Scott began to help with the chore, but she quickly motioned him away. “Oh, no. You’re my guest. Your job is simply to sit, relax, and listen to my ideas about what I think should happen next.”

This time Scott did not bother concealing rolled eyes as a mild discomfort returned. He plopped into his chair awaiting the inevitable.

“Oh, now. I recognize your autonomy, young man. You’re free to do as you please, but maybe there’s something in what I’m about to offer that may please you.”

His body relaxed back into the chair. He could listen and then decide his next move. Truth be told, he was no longer as anxious to hit the trail as he had been earlier.  

“Shall I proceed?”

“Of course.”

“Mind you, I haven’t thought this out completely but here’s my idea. Get your horse stabled and comfortable. He’ll have as long a journey as you and will be doing most of the work. While you’re at the livery, inquire about your gun and hat. I have a strong feeling you’ll find both there. Be sure to collect your saddlebags from your horse before leaving. Do you have clean clothes?”

“No, just what I have on my back. I wasn’t expecting a few days away when we left to go fishing.”

With an exaggerated sniff Margaret ordered, “Don’t argue. You need clean clothes. Write your sizes on this piece of paper and I’ll find something suitable for you while you soak in a hot tub at the barber shop down the street.”

After a sniff of his own Scott had to agree. He was not in pristine condition. With a salute he ventured, “Yes, Ma’am! And your further orders, Ma’am?”

A dishrag suddenly hit his chest, accompanied by a guffaw. “Yes, there are further orders, young man. Now, may I continue?”

Scott chuckled as much as spoke, “Oh, yes, Ma’am. I’m all ears!”

Margaret’s guffaw became a full laugh. “You are a charmer, Mr. Lancer!”

“I try my best, Mrs. Lawson. Please continue.”

“The barber will take your soiled pants and shirt and whatever else you need cleaned to Mrs. Danvers who will wash them and bring them back to me. I’ll deliver the new clothes to you at the barber shop. You’ll dress and return here where you’ll rest in our guest room while I go downstairs to make sure that Henry and the two young women we asked to help us today are ready for our dinner customers. At that time, you’ll have a decision to make. We can go downstairs to the restaurant for dinner, or we can quietly dine up here again. You can then sleep in a comfortable bed and get an early start in the morning.”

Scott tipped his head. “I think you’ve been formulating this plan for most of the time we’ve been talking over lunch.”

“And you would be right. What do you think?” 

“Mrs. Lawson, I think they’re all fine ideas, but I don’t want to put anyone out. I can make my own way.”

“You can. However, let me tell you something. The whole town is talking about you. You were instrumental in knocking Colonel Andrews down a peg or two and most people in Onyx would do anything for you. Why, I’m surprised there hasn’t been a parade in your honor! Let us help, Scott. It would mean so much.”

“Well, then. If it’s for the greater good, I have no choice but to accept. Thank you, Margaret.” He nodded his appreciation.

Margaret clasped her hands together. “Excellent! We have a plan!” With the slightest hesitation Margaret added, “Just one more thing.”

Scott leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling. It seemed there was always one more thing. “Go on.”

“The young women helping us today most likely volunteered in the hopes of catching your eye in the restaurant. I perfectly understand if you are not up to that level of attention this evening and want to dine at this table.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Margaret. But tonight, I think I will only have eyes for you.”

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Chapter Two

Scott gingerly climbed the stairs to the rooms above the restaurant. Even if chased by a rabid skunk, his legs could move no faster. He would gladly accept his fate of an agonizing, odiferous death over pushing his body any harder. Although refreshed by the hot bath and clean clothes, he now felt weary right down to his bones. As a good soldier, he had checked off Margaret’s orders one by one. His sights were now set on the next: the guest bed and a welcomed sleep.

As he reached the guest room, his thoughts turned to Willie and Bill. Were they on their way to Oregon? Bill seemed anxious to leave, saying that they ‘wouldn’t get nowhere before it got dark.’ Wherever they were, Scott was sure they wouldn’t be sleeping on nice soft beds. He was suddenly glad that he himself had gone nowhere before dark. As much as he hated to accept it, both his body and his mind needed rest.

Wanting to keep things as tidy as in his own bedroom at home, Scott took off his new clothes and laid them neatly on the dresser next to his retrieved hat. His boots were placed next to the bed. He hung his gun belt, now complete with its Colt companion, over a bedpost. Having no need for it himself, Scott had left Bill’s gun with the livery owner as a thank you for watching over his belongings. Easing his body down into the lavender-scentedsheets, he thought of home. He had missed his own bed these last few days as sleep had not come easy. The worry he had for Willie and Bill had not subsided entirely, but he let it go enough to drift into a dream-filled sleep. Mirroring his last thoughts those dreams were of home and a family that would welcome him, anxious to hear about his adventure with Willie. Perhaps they would never know the whole story.

He awakened when footsteps came up the back stairs from the restaurant. Margaret was humming a tune he couldn’t quite discern, yet it was pleasing to his ears. The sound of plates hitting the table captured his attention. Even after a hearty lunch his stomach was ready for more of Henry’s offerings. Paying attention to his tender ribs, he slowly poured himself out of bed and dressed, leaving his gun on the bedpost. The light coming through the sides of the curtains indicated a sun much lower than the one hanging high in the sky as he left the barber shop. No wonder he was hungry again. He made his way to Margaret’s table.

“There you are, my dear. I didn’t want to wake you, but I’m glad you’re here while the food is still hot. Are you hungry?”

“I can most definitely eat. Your hospitality is beyond measure. Thank you, Margaret.”

“It’s my pleasure, Scott. And that of Henry. You are always welcome here.”

Scott waited for Margaret to sit and join him for dinner. When she had taken her first bite, he dug into the roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans that amply covered his plate. Eagerly accepting her offer of warm bread and butter, he noticed another plate on the table. He recognized the gherkins and pickled crabapples, but there was something else there that baffled him. Curious, he used the small fork on the plate to spear a sample for closer inspection.

“Those are watermelon pickles, Scott. We pickle the rinds in a sweet cinnamon brine. Try one. I think they’re wonderful.”

His eyes lit up with the first bite. If asked to describe the taste he would be at a loss for words. He only knew they were delicious, and they paired beautifully with the roast beef. Even if he held back a few details of this trip, his family would hear about the watermelon pickles.

Margaret seemed pleased at Scott’s reaction. “As you’re enjoying your newfound pleasure I’m wondering if it might be my turn to ask a question.”

“I lost track a long time ago, Margaret. Let’s just say it is indeed your turn. After a good rest at your direction, I think I can give an appropriate answer.”

Margaret took a bite, chewed and swallowed, and then looked up directly into Scott’s eyes. “In our prior meetings at the restaurant you told me how you met Willie. I myself witnessed your quest to bring Bill to sobriety. So, tell me. What inspired you to help Willie and Bill? You had to know there could be trouble and there was. Why was it so important to you?”

What might have earlier precipitated an exasperating moment now left Scott oddly comforted. He had lost his grandmother at a very early age and, although there were household servants in his grandfather’s employ the young Scott perceived as mother figures, he had never had such a feeling as he had now with Margaret. Is this what having a mother feels like? He was sure he could tell Margaret anything without being judged. Pushed and prodded perhaps, but not judged.

Scott held her eyes for several seconds. He remembered back to his first glimpse of Willie standing in front of him, barefoot and holding a fish. Scott’s fish. The sight had summoned a childhood memory made vivid by Willie’s apparent situation. As the memory enveloped him, he witnessed Margaret’s shoulders slump as if in defeat. Was she once again thinking that she was digging too deep? He gave her what he hoped was a comforting smile and began his answer.

“When I was oh, I guess eleven or so, some friends and I used to go down to the docks of Boston’s Charles River where the day fisherman would bring their catches. It was quite some distance from our homes, and we didn’t exactly have permission from our parents, or in my case my grandfather, to go. We called it our forbidden adventure. We didn’t do much but watch and run around a little bit.”

Margaret tilted her head and smirked.

“You’re right. Looking back, I imagine that we were considered a nuisance to the hard-working fishermen.”

“Of course I’m right. Go on.”

“One day we saw a young boy about Willie’s age. He was dressed in dirty, tattered clothing. His shoes were almost worn off his feet. He followed us at a distance, which didn’t really bother us. We were having too much fun to notice him much. We did notice, however, as he took advantage of a moment when my friends and I caught the attention of a boat crew.”

Scott stopped and smiled as Margaret slowly shook an index finger at him. She had been the mother of boys. Surely she had witnessed impish behavior more than a few times. “As we were being chased off for our mischief the boy took the opportunity to grab a large fish from the boat’s catch and stuff it in a burlap sack. It didn’t take long for one of the men to call out and start chasing him. Even one fish was worth money to the crew, and they all took off after him. The boy jumped in the river and started to swim away. The bag with the fish was left floating on the surface long enough for one of the men to jump in and retrieve it. The boy kept swimming but started to struggle in the current. The men looked at him, but then went back to the boat to off-load their fish and get paid.”

Margaret let out a small gasp. “Oh, no. Did he drown?”

Scott shrugged and shook his head. “I quickly realized that there would be no help from the men. I threw my shirt and shoes off and ran toward the water. My friends tried to stop me, but I jumped in and started to swim after him. Before I knew it, a large hand reached down, grabbed me, and drug me back to the riverbank. I kicked, trying hard to get away but I was no match for the huge man attached to the hand. He told me the kid wasn’t worth drowning for.”

Scott hesitated, the memory suddenly overwhelming. He continued when his voice came back to him.

“He carried me up the bank to where my friends were. As soon as he released me, I tried to run back to the river. Of course, he caught me again. He then waited until I dressed and rejoined my friends before he took his eyes off me. When I looked out at the river, I couldn’t see the boy anymore. None of my friends had seen what became of him.”

Tears trickled down Margaret’s cheek as she once again pulled out her handkerchief to dab her eyes with her right hand. With her left she reached across and took Scott’s hand. He was surprised how natural the gesture felt. “I’m listening, Scott. Please continue.”

“For the next week I snuck into my grandfather’s study to peruse the newspaper for any story about a drowned boy. I never found one. At the time I thought perhaps that was good news. I know now that there never would have been a printed story about a boy like that.”

Margaret squeezed Scott’s hand. “Willie clearly reminds you of that boy.”

“I couldn’t help that boy. I could help Willie, so I did. I had the luxury of going home to a nice house with a grandfather who loved me and saw to my every need. I want that for Willie. I hope that comes to pass.”

“Only time will tell, Scott.”

Scott turned to hide his own tears. “I wish I could have done more for the boy at the dock. I know I was just a kid but maybe I could have persuaded the adults to help him. Why was I worth saving but he was not?”

“I have no answer, Scott. I’m just grateful that you’re here with me today. You likely would have drowned yourself. And I think you know that those men wouldn’t have listened to you. You did all you could. Please tell me you understand that.”

“You’re right again Margaret. I guess I still carry the bravado of the boy that I was.”

“Oh, that bravado is still in you, young man! Nothing wrong with that.” She winked and patted his hand before removing her own.

Scott smiled, but the expression soon left his face. “Did I do enough for Willie, Margaret? I can’t let go of my concern for him. Will he be all right?”

Margaret’s hand quickly reached across the table again.  “Oh, Scott! You did more than enough. There’s another adult to take care of him now. You made that happen. From now on, it’s up to Bill. I have faith in him. And I have faith in Willie. He’s a brave and determined little boy.”

Scott chuckled. “He’s nothing if not determined. If anyone can keep Bill on the straight and narrow path, I predict it’s Willie. I’ll try to have your faith.”

“It seems, my dear boy, that you have been the helping sort from a young age. That need will be in you until the day you die. But remember, you do what you can and then you must let people go to live their lives. You would want nothing less for yourself.”

Scott sat silent for a few moments, thoughts of Emerson running through his head. Margaret’s words were not quite as elegant as those of the poet and philosopher, but they were the words he needed to hear right now. What an unexpected treasure was Margaret Lawson.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Are you still with me? You look a million miles away.”

“Oh, I’m here. And happily so. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me today.”

“Scott, even after our brief acquaintance I’ve gotten to know your heart. You care deeply for others. So much so that you would listen to an old lady’s stories without the appearance of the boredom you must have felt.”

Scott started to speak, but she waved him off. “I know you’re anxious to get back home, back to your family. You’re very kind to sit with me and let me blather on. But you understand I had concerns and had to keep you here until I knew you were safe to go on your way.”

Scott stood and waved his hands down the length of his body. “And do I pass inspection?”

Margaret looked him up and down and then put a finger on her lips. “Ask me that question again after you’ve had a good night’s sleep. Now sit down and finish your dinner.”

Scott happily complied. “I know I just asked a question, but since it went unanswered, may I ask another?”

“You know you can.”

“Why are you helping me? You could’ve let me ride out of town and gone about your business. Instead, you’ve given up your whole day and evening to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. Just curious.”

Out came the handkerchief once again.

“I’m sorry, Margaret. I didn’t mean to –”

“No, Scott. There’s no need to be sorry. Like you, I saw someone who needed help and I could give it. But the tears still come after all these years. My oldest son would’ve been about your age if he’d lived. Many years have passed, but I still miss my boys terribly. You never stop being a mother, I guess. I hope that doesn’t put you off.”

Scott laid his fork on his plate. Standing, he gestured for Margaret to do the same. When she did, he opened his arms. The two embraced each other as long-lost souls.

Margaret was first to let go. She touched Scott’s face and gave him a second quick hug. “Enough of these tears. Wait here.”

After a few minutes, Margaret came back with a pie in one hand and bottle of whiskey in the other.

Scott’s eyebrows and hairline became nearly indistinguishable. “Why, Margaret. What do you have there?”

“Don’t look so surprised, Scott Lancer. I told you I lived in mining camps. Let’s have a few drinks and I’ll tell you some stories.”

This time her stories were told to a most attentive audience.

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Chapter Three

At his request, Margaret woke Scott before dawn, taking the opportunity to deliver his newly laundered clothing. Happy to have his favorite blue shirt back in his possession he slipped it on along with the pants recently purchased for him. He neatly packed his saddlebags, pulled on his boots, secured his gun belt, grabbed his hat and opened the guest room door.

Henry was just making his way down the stairs to start cooking for the breakfast customers. Margaret, Scott supposed, would be close behind as soon as goodbyes were said.

It had been a joyous night. Margaret’s stories, accompanied by pie and plenty of whiskey, left them both laughing until they cried. Henry had joined them after the dinner crowd disappeared, bringing with him news of the great disappointment that accompanied Scott’s absence from the restaurant that evening. The young women had volunteered again for breakfast duties in hopes of securing a more preferred outcome; hence Scott’s decision to leave before daylight.

As he prepared to leave, Margaret handed Scott a bag filled with enough food to last the duration of the trip home. After expressing his gratitude for everything Margaret had done for him, he placed the bag on the floor and put his arms around her. The hug was reciprocated with gusto.

“Scott, if you want your shirt to stay clean, I’m going to need to get to my handkerchief.”

“Of course, Margaret. Just let me look at you one last time before I go.” He held her at arms-length and sighed. He would sorely miss this woman.

Invitations were extended for return trips to Onyx and a visit to Lancer. Then Margaret stood on her tiptoes to kiss Scott on the cheek, holding her hankie to her face as he walked away. He looked back once and then walked on.

The ride home offered the time Scott needed to gather his unusually jumbled thoughts. Normally he was a man who succeeded using reason to make sense of things. He was, after all, a Harvard graduate and a former cavalry officer. Reason had gotten him through situations that, on face value, seemed inextricable. Now he found himself confounded by the emotions that flowed through him. Though not a stranger to strong feelings, he found them much easier to understand when they arrived one at a time. That was not the current case. The more he tried to compartmentalize his thoughts, the more tangled they became.

After some time, he concluded that perhaps he was thinking too much. Was that a reasoned response to his mental confusion? He chuckled as he realized that it most likely didn’t matter. Maybe emotions, especially the kind that lifted spirits, didn’t need to be analyzed. Maybe they just need to be accepted and enjoyed. This conclusion made sense. He let his mind wander to less philosophical topics as he and his horse made their way to Lancer.

One night sleeping on the ground and he would be home. Scott settled his horse, built a fire, and put on water for coffee. Digging through the bag of food so generously provided by the Lawsons, he put together a feast of fried chicken, biscuits, and apple pie. He ate slowly, listening as daytime sounds morphed into cricket chirps, frog croaks, and the far-off calls of coyotes. A few bats made an appearance, furiously flapping wings propelling the small creatures in pursuit of nocturnal nourishment. And the stars! If he didn’t know better, he would think that every star in the universe had moved west with him. He leaned back against his saddle, his mind settling as he inhaled the calming scent of pine mingled with campfire smoke. When his eyes started to close he rose reluctantly, tidied the camp, laid out his bedroll, and stretched out. He was asleep before his ribs could complain about the hard ground.

Scott’s eyes opened to the fading stars that had shown so brightly the night before. A thin stroke of faint pink light on the eastern horizon gradually thickened as he lay contemplating all that had happened since catching the fish that introduced him to Willie Sharpe. So profoundly affected by his encounters, it felt like he had lived a lifetime in just a few days. He marveled at the joy with which the young boy who adored his struggling grandfather and the still grieving mother of two boys lived their lives. Maybe Murdoch was right. What we have is here and now. Scott had to admit his present was so much better than he ever dreamed it could be. He would try harder to let go of the past.

Pink turned to orange as the first sliver of sun made its appearance over the horizon. Soft whinnies and shifting feet sounded equine reveille. Trained to care for his mount before himself, the horse was greeted, watered, and fed before Scott busied himself preparing for the long day’s ride. With a stomach full of good food and coffee he mounted and started for Lancer.

“Well, my friend. It’s just you and me for the day, but we’ll be home before you know it.” A gentle pat to the neck brought a nicker.

Scattered fluffy white cumulus clouds floated above, momentarily obscuring the sun as they passed the ascending orb. Scott pushed his hat back on his head and, looking up, scanned the sky for signs of trouble. Satisfied that all observed indicated fair weather he took his hat off and settled it straight on his head, pulling it down to shade his eyes.

Horse and rider slipped into a comfortable rhythm as they traversed the trail, allowing Scott’s mind to wander. He tried to picture Willie and Bill and hoped they were well. Thoughts of Margaret soon followed, bringing with them the strong feelings he had developed for her. She knew when to challenge and she knew when to soothe, much like the mother he had so often imagined. He hoped to be in her company again.

It was time for a break when Scott spotted a small creek lined with a few shade trees. He filled his canteens with the sweet water while allowing his horse to drink downstream. As the gelding grazed, Scott fixed a quick lunch and stood leaning against a tree. Closing his eyes for a short respite, he listened to the water trickle through the narrow channel. His eyes opened suddenly as a most unexpected thought entered his mind. Shaking his head, he let his body slowly slide down the tree trunk until his backside landed on the soft soil. This would require some deep thought.

Back in the saddle, Scott couldn’t believe what he was contemplating. Of course, he wouldn’t need to act now or even soon. There was still much to consider. He rode on, studying the various angles of the issue.

Feeling the need to stop, he pulled back on the reins. He sat for a moment, looking out over the vast landscape. Almost at the Lancer boundary he recognized the vast tree-dotted grasslands that spread toward the mountains. He loved this land. His legacy was here. He was happy here. But did he need something else? Sure that their advice would be tinged with bias, Scott wasn’t yet prepared to discuss his thoughts with his brother or father. Yet vocalizing might bring clarity. He could only think of one living being who would listen without feeling the need to express an opinion on the matter.

Exiting the saddle with a little less grace than usual, he walked forward and began stroking his horse’s neck. He was soon looking into the patient eyes of his faithful steed. A scratch behind the ears got the horse’s attention. A deep, quiet voice kept that attention as Scott prepared to bare his soul.

“You’ve stood witness to times when I have not been at my best, and I thank you for your discretion. Now I’m asking you to swear not to tell Johnny what I’m about to say. And you know that if Barranca gets wind of it, the secret will be out.” A slight blush crept onto Scott’s face. He was not a man who made a habit of conversing with his horse, while sober at least. This uncharacteristic foray into new territory had Scott feeling slightly embarrassed.

Always one to finish what he started, however, he continued. “Well, what I want to say is that I think it might be time to start looking for the right woman and settle down.” Scott held up his hand when the horse turned away. “Now, hear me out. You’re right. I do well with the ladies, but I mean finding a woman who will challenge me like Margaret did. That would make life interesting, don’t you think? And this is the part you can never share with Murdoch. If the woman who agrees to be my wife is anything like Margaret, she will be a mother every child would be thankful for.”

Nothing more needed to be said. All was right with his world. Scott retrieved a carrot from the food bag and offered it to his confidant who accepted it greedily. Looking once more over the land he loved, he climbed back in the saddle to begin the last leg of his journey.

The End
May 2022

Notes:

1. John Marsh was a real larger-than-life physician, rancher, and linguist who immigrated to Contra Costa County, California in 1836. There are several primary documents on his Wikipedia page offered as references that make for very interesting reading. Given his time frame and location in California, it’s possible that Murdoch could have known him or known of him.
2. St. Louis suffered from two catastrophes in 1849. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch reported that a cholera epidemic eventually killed approximately 4,300 people. A fire, which started in a mattress on the steamboat White Cloud, quickly spread by heavy winds to adjoining boats and finally to land. The Great Fire destroyed 23 steamboats, 418 buildings on 15 blocks, and tons of freight.

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