Chapter 21
Being Neighborly
Harold Owens, the previous owner of the cabin, had been visiting the saloon every few weeks for years.
Her unexpected appearance at his barn left him speechless.
But not for long. While mucking out stalls in his barn, he wasn’t the laid-back, happy-go-lucky customer she remembered from the Red Eye.
From the smell of horse manure emanating from the shovel he held, she didn’t blame him.
When she explained the purpose of her visit, he couldn’t have been more surprised.
“I haven’t thought about my uncle Jeb’s cabin in years. I’m surprised it’s still standing.”
She pulled out the handwritten deed he’d signed over to Fenton four years earlier. “Then you won’t mind signing it over to me. As Mr. Sneed’s partner.”
Bringing up the man he had lost the cabin to turned out to be a mistake, as his expression quickly soured. “I always suspected Sneed of shady dealings. I can offer you the cabin, but it won’t be for free. The price is $5000.”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief at hearing the outrageous amount. “But, Mr. Owens, the land is overgrown, and the cabin is in terrible condition. When was the last time you visited? There’s an enormous hole in the roof!”
His eyes moved slowly over her. “I might consider reducing it by $25 if you’re nice to me. Really nice,” he insinuated, his wandering gaze now locked on her chest.
She tensed and responded firmly, “Just like at the Red Eye, I am not for sale. I’ll give you $1800 for the cabin and land, which is worth half of that. That’s the most I’m willing to offer.”
He snatched the paper from her hand. “Then I’ll take my deed back. No one is going to question my word against a—”
His mother must have taught him some manners as a child, because he stopped short of calling her a whore to her face. But he was right. No one would take the word of a woman in an unsavory profession over that of a local landowner and businessman.
She snatched it back and in a voice trembling with frustration, made a counteroffer, “$2000,” all that she had.
“I’m thinking $5000, firm,” he reiterated.
“Fine. We’ll let the judge decide, which means you could potentially end up with nothing.”
“What’s this? What judge?”
“Next week, I’m scheduled for a probate hearing. Fenton left everything to me. Once he reviews the documents and declares them in order, I get everything.” She held up the paper. “Including property. But I guess that’s a risk you’re willing to take.”
She turned to go, gambling on him calling her back.
“Wait. I’ll take $4000.”
“$1500,” she replied.
“Hey!” He scowled. “You said $2000 a minute ago.”
“That was a limited-time offer. I’m liking my chances with the judge, so it’s decreasing, as is my interest, the more you argue.”
“All right—$1500,” he grumbled.
“Done!” she exclaimed, her grin triumphant, like she’d just won the biggest poker hand ever.
“Might as well sell,” he muttered, justifying giving in so quickly. “I thought that run-down old shack was gone a long time ago. Where’s my money?”
She made another request, ensuring everything would be legal this time. “We will need witnesses to the signing of the deed.”
He nodded. “I got two men working out back who can do it.”
On a whim, she also mentioned, “And a slice of that delicious apple pie I smelled cooling back at the house.”
Her stomach growled loudly, as she hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. Instead of leering, he gazed at her, perhaps harboring a small shred of sympathy, and agreed to that as well.
When she left Harold Owens’ place minutes later, it was with the entire pie, licking the sticky, cinnamon-apple filling from her lips.
She also left as a landowner, but with few other assets—only $500, Fen’s ring and pocket watch, of uncertain value.
On the other hand, her needs were many: the boots she had already ordered, a horse (because walking everywhere was getting tiresome), and costly repairs to the cabin, more than she could count.
She was halfway to her place, which meant over a mile to go, when a wagon filled with supplies pulled up alongside her.
“Miss Charlotte? What on earth are you doing walking the Rawlins road?”
She looked up at Jenny Jackson and shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I bet I would,” the redhead replied as she scooted over and patted the bench seat. “Climb on up, and you can tell me all about it while Sam and I take you back to town.”
Her driver nodded and tipped his hat.
“I don’t live in town anymore. I bought a place up the road a bit.”
“You’ve left the Red Eye for good?” she asked, surprised.
“For now, at least,” Charlotte answered vaguely, not up to going into it now.
“Then we’ll take you to your new home, and you can tell me why you’re walking alone and terribly sunburned.”
Charlotte raised her hands to her cheeks.
The two hats she owned were fashionable, not functional, and did nothing to keep the sun off her face.
She’d left them behind when she headed out that morning.
Before Jenny mentioned it, she hadn’t noticed that her skin stung and felt tight.
The sun wasn’t kind to redheads, and she must be the color of a ripe tomato by now.
She climbed up, waving off Sam’s help. When she settled beside Jenny, she noticed, like Janelle, she was expecting.
“The Jackson family is expanding, I see.”
The younger woman moved her hand to her rounded belly. “Yes. Micah will enjoy having cousins to grow up with.”
“I’m happy for you all,” Charlotte said, the words sincere, yet a familiar ache pulsed in her chest, envy and regret for the family she should have had.
She cleared her throat before speaking. “My turnoff is on the left up ahead, but you’ll have to drop me off on the road.
I’m afraid the lane is impassable for the wagon. ”
“It must be difficult getting supplies from town.” Jenny glanced at her, a frown tugging at her lips. “How do you bring in your supplies? You have a horse, don’t you?”
“I, uh, just moved in, and there’s a lot of work to be done,” she admitted without answering her question. As the wagon wheel hit a particularly deep rut, Charlotte exclaimed, “Stop here, please!”
Jenny and her driver looked around, appalled and puzzled respectively. “You live here?” she asked.
“No,” she replied as she climbed down and rushed to the side of the road. Moving aside brush and limbs, she found her chest where she’d left it. She turned and asked Jack, “Could I trouble you to carry it for me? The handle broke yesterday, and I had to leave it.”
The strapping young man had no trouble lifting it and carrying it to the wagon. With it safely stowed in the back, they started off again.
Charlotte didn’t miss Jenny’s confused and concerned expression, but she didn’t address it either.
They rode along in silence until Charlotte spotted the landmark for her turnoff—the fallen tree she’d rested upon. “The lane is up there by that stand of willows.”
“Those are white aspen,” Jenny muttered. “Our family farm is near here. I know this area well. That road, such as it is, leads to the old Owens’ place.” She laid her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “That cabin was ramshackle when I was a child. Please tell me you didn’t actually buy it.”
“Fine. I won’t tell you,” she quipped, gathering her skirts to hop down when Sam stopped the team. “Thank you so much for the ride,” Charlotte called as she hurried away without looking back, too embarrassed that she had to live this way and now without the funds to do anything about it.
Scratched by briars and slapping at mosquitoes, she arrived at the cabin, which was overgrown but nowhere near as bad as the lane. Her head fell back, and she said with a groan, “I forgot my trunk.”
“Sam will bring it.”
She spun at the voice. “Jenny—”
Her gaze was on her weather-battered, ramshackle cabin. “Oh, Charlotte. It’s worse than I remembered,” she whispered. “I can’t let you stay here. You must come home with me.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “Your husband wouldn’t approve. He told me not to darken your doorstep again, remember?”
“He didn’t say that—not exactly. Besides, that was ages ago.”
“Not so long,” she corrected her. “And our circumstances and society’s views on them haven’t changed.”
When Jenny worked for her, she disappeared one day and didn’t return.
Since she felt responsible for employing the innocent young girl in desperate straits, she’d ventured off Sixth Street to find her.
Her search had led to a cabin on Silverbend—the Jacksons’ vast cattle ranch.
She’d taken pains to disguise her identity in widow’s weeds, but Heath Jackson told her never to visit again.
He wasn’t being cruel; he was protecting his wife’s reputation.
“You can’t live in that cabin as it is,” Jenny insisted. “There’s a gaping hole in the roof.”
“I found tools in a storage closet. I thought to use the rain barrel to climb up and see if I could fix it.”
“Don’t you dare!” Jenny ordered, worlds away from the shy, quiet girl she’d first met. “I know someone who can help. If you promise not to do anything crazy, like climbing up on that precarious-looking roof, I’ll go fetch him.”
“Your husband won’t be happy with the company you’re keeping.”
“Probably not, but I don’t care. We Jacksons help our neighbors. Besides, the help I have in mind isn’t Heath.”
“Who, then?”
“Do I have your word?” Jenny insisted without elaborating.
“I won’t climb on the roof,” she agreed, not relishing the idea anyway.
“I’ll be right back,” Jenny assured her before hurrying down the lane, moving fast for a woman at least seven months along. It was probably her sturdy walking boots, which she could see beneath her hiked-up skirt, as she navigated wild saplings, scrub, and waist-high weeds.
Once she was out of sight, Charlotte turned toward her new home. Aside from the roof, she had a list of other things to tackle before the place was livable, mainly cleaning.