Chapter 7 #4
Max folded his cards and tapped a tattoo against the table with one corner of the stack. “About the same for me. None of us talked about it until yesterday. Guess since Jem isn’t here, we can blame him. He brought it up.”
“Jem,” Morgan said flatly. “Jem brought it up.”
“More or less. He said something about Mrs. Longstreet bein’ just about the quietest woman he knew. I guess that’s when we realized she hadn’t always been that way. Only natural that words would come to be exchanged about you.”
“Only natural.”
“Well, it does seem as if she should know,” Jessop said.
“If you think we have notions rattlin’ around in our heads, what kind of things do you suppose she has rattlin’ around in hers?
They’re rustlers, boss. Cut the fence, take a few head of cattle, hightail it off your land, and come around again when they think it’s safe to take a couple more. ”
“And what if they’re not rustlers?” Morgan asked quietly. No one said a word. An ember popped in the stove and Max jerked, but other than that they were still. “What if they’re not only rustlers?”
Jake asked, “What do you mean?”
“How often do rustlers make off with just a few head of cattle? And how often do they come back in so short a time?”
Max said, “We’d have caught up with them already if they’d run off with more cattle.”
“Maybe. I hope so. But again, if not getting caught is that important, why return?”
“Hunger,” said Jessop. “Could be they’re rustling for food, not profit. Feeding a group, say. Squatters.”
Jake shook his head. “No squatters on this land.”
“Of course they ain’t squatting here,” Jessop said. “But there’s plenty of unclaimed land north of here and only four of us that can ride out.”
“Not homesteaders,” Max said thoughtfully. “The whole point of homesteading is to put down roots. Same with squatters. These thieves are movin’ around. Hiding out, I reckon you could say.”
“Outlaws?” Jake sat up straight. “Is that what you’re gettin’ at?”
“Rustlers are outlaws,” said Jessop.
“I know that. Max knows what I mean, and I was talkin’ to him anyway.”
“You should be talkin’ to the boss,” said Max. “I reckon it’s his thinkin’ that matters.”
Jake looked at Morgan. “You think it’s outlaws?”
Morgan knuckled the stubble on his jaw. “It’s better to entertain the possibility than pretend it can’t exist.”
“You mighta entertained it with us. I can see why you don’t want Mrs. Longstreet fretting about a thing like that, but the rest of us should be prepared.”
“And what would you be doing that you aren’t already? You ride out every day armed and alert. You know what I know. More, probably, since you’ve been out there. I just have another thought about it, is all, and it’s the kind of thought that I want to keep from my wife. So now you know.”
Jessop laid his cards down and pushed them toward the pot. “You have some suspicion about who the gang might be? Cassidy, maybe?”
“He and Sundance are up at Hole-in-the-Wall,” said Jake. “Everyone knows that.”
“Well, everyone ain’t found them yet, have they?”
Jake flicked a card at his brother. It struck Jessop in the chest. Jessop started to come out of his chair, but Morgan threw out a restraining arm before there were blows and blood.
Morgan waited for the air to become less agitated.
For a moment there Jake and Jessop were putting out more heat than the stove.
“Done?” he asked them, looking at each of them in turn.
“So help me God, if I see one or both of you sporting shiners in the morning, I’ll keep Jem on and exchange the pair of you for Rabbit and Finn Collins. ”
Neither brother had anything to say to that, although they did exchange squinty looks.
Morgan said, “I don’t have any suspicions about a particular gang, so let’s just leave it.”
“What about saying something to the marshal?” asked Max. “I’ve seen his Wanted Wall. I reckon he has a notice of just about every miscreant in three states tacked up there. Maybe we should let him know what’s been happening out here.”
“Bridger’s jurisdiction is Bitter Springs, not the county. The last marshal that came out here on town business got himself killed for his trouble. I’m not going to risk that happening again.”
Max leaned back in his chair and poked the brim of his hat with a fingertip, causing it to lift a fraction so that it no longer shaded his eyes. “There’s still the sheriff.”
“I don’t want the law. We’ll handle it ourselves. We are the law at Morning Star.”
Max nodded. “That’s what I thought you’d say, but I thought I should hear you say it.”
Morgan stood, spun his chair around so that it once more faced the table.
“Good night. If Jem isn’t back in an hour, someone come up to the house to let me know.
” He picked up his winnings, which elicited a collective groan.
“What? You thought I would leave this behind? I have a wife, gentlemen, and she has set her sights on bankrupting me.”
In truth, Jane had not asked him for a thing.
Morgan was not even sure why he said what he did.
The men chuckled in that way men did when they believed they’d happened upon a universal truth about women.
The real universal truth was that men didn’t know a damn thing about them.
Morgan knew himself to be part of that great collective.
He found Jane in the front room sitting in one of the large armchairs beside the fireplace.
She was wearing her nightdress and robe and had her dark hair neatly plaited in a braid that fell over her right shoulder.
He could not tell if she was wearing slippers.
Her slim legs were curled to one side and her feet were hidden under the hem of her robe.
She had one of his shirts in her lap and a small red enameled sewing box on top of that.
The lid was open, and she was staring into the case, poking at its contents with the thimble that was on her middle finger.
There was a small vertical crease between her eyebrows, and her concentration was so focused that Morgan did not believe she knew he was in the room.
He stood there, watching her, wondering how to make his presence known without scaring her, but then her head lifted and she stared directly into his eyes.
“Did you win?” she asked.
Morgan regarded Jane without hearing her.
Jane’s smile faltered. “Did you win?” she asked again. “You were playing cards in the bunkhouse, weren’t you?”
“Why have you never asked me for anything?”
Every trace of Jane’s smile vanished. “Pardon?”
Morgan repeated his question. He pointed to the enameled case in her lap. “Where did you get that?”
Jane glanced at the sewing box and then looked back at Morgan. “This? Max purchased it from the milliner for me. At least I think it was Max. It was whomever you sent to town after Jem went.”
“Max,” he said flatly. “Max bought that.”
“Yes. I asked him to. I packed an etui, but it holds only the most basic needs. Scissors. Needles. Tweezers. Very small items. To hem my gowns, I needed matching threads.” She pointed to the blue chambray shirt. “And I could find nothing here to properly mend this.”
“I don’t recall seeing a receipt for that box.”
“I did not give it to you.”
“Max paid for it?”
“I did.”
“With what?”
“With money, of course. My own.”
Morgan took off his hat and slapped it against this thigh.
He saw Jane start at the violence in the gesture, but she did not cower.
She sat perfectly still, her eyes as sharply cut as the emeralds they resembled.
He sighed heavily, tossed his hat on the empty chair, and sat down at the end of the sofa that was closest to her.
He said, “Why would you buy threads or a box to keep them in or any other damn thing you need with your own money?”
“Do not swear at me,” Jane said with quiet dignity.
“I wasn’t swearing at you. I was swearing at any other damn thing.”
When she spoke again, she was even quieter than before. “Are you done? Because it felt as if you were swearing at me.”
Morgan collapsed against the back of the sofa, pushed his legs out in front of him, and plowed one hand through his hair. He stared up at the ceiling and was confronted with the absence of smoke stains. That was Jane’s doing.
“Sorry,” he said.
Jane made no reply.
He turned his head and looked at her. “I am sorry.”
She nodded. “I believe you.”
Morgan looked at her for a long time before he slowly released the breath he had been holding. There was resignation in the long exhalation. “Tell me about the box,” he said. “Please.”
“I didn’t ask you for it because the case is a luxury. Any little box would have done to hold threads. When we walked through town that first morning, I saw this one in the milliner’s window, and I remembered it later when I realized I needed something like it. Or something exactly like it.”
“You could have asked me.”
“And feel small and foolish for wanting something pretty when I could have something practical?”
Morgan turned his head and looked up. This time he did not stare at the ceiling. This time he closed his eyes. “What a goddamn mess.” He heard himself. “Sorry, damn it. I mean, oh hell, you know what I mean.”
“I do,” said Jane. “It’s the damnedest thing, but I do.”
Morgan’s lips twitched, but he was quiet.
“Would you like a drink? I can pour you a whiskey.”
“Yes, I’d like one. Don’t move. I’ll get it myself.” He stayed precisely where he was, head back, eyes closed, slouched against the sofa. “In a minute.”
Jane let him be. She found the spool she wanted and threaded her needle. It was difficult. Her hands had a slight tremor that only the precise coordination required for threading a needle could reveal. She began mending the rent in Morgan’s shirt with an occasional glance in his direction.
“What are we going to do, Jane?”
Jane almost pricked herself with the needle. “I thought you had fallen asleep.”
“No. Sometimes I just think real quiet.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“I want you to ask me for things,” he said. “Fancy things, if you are of a mind to have them. I noticed you kept that Wanamaker liniment bottle. It looks real nice sitting on the sill. Come spring, maybe you’ll want to put flowers in it.”
“I was thinking I would.”
Morgan laid a forearm across his eyes. “I could show you some patches around here where they grow wild. Pinks and blues and yellows. Lavender.”
“I’d like to see that.” Jane’s vision blurred. She dashed away a tear. Another followed, and this one landed on Morgan’s shirt cuff. Instead of trying to rub it out, Jane used the cuff to quickly dry her eyes before Morgan lifted his forearm and looked in her direction.
“So you’ll be here in the spring.”
Jane heard the smallest inflection at the end of his sentence that made it seem more question than statement, but if he expected a response he didn’t prompt again for it. Jane was glad for that. Tears were still clogging her throat.
“I noticed you finished your courses,” Morgan said.
That non sequitur dried her eyes, dissolved the lump in her throat, and drove an invisible fist into her diaphragm. Jane hiccupped.
Morgan’s arm fell away as he sat up. “Maybe we could both use a whiskey?”
This time it was clear he was asking a question. Jane nodded. Her breath hitched again and she hiccupped. Her eyes were wide above the hand she clapped over her mouth.
“Yes,” he said. “Definitely whiskey.”
Morgan got up and went to the drinks cabinet, retrieved two cut glass tumblers and a bottle that was three-fourths full. He poured two fingers for himself then looked over his shoulder at Jane for direction. She held up one finger. He gave her that and a splash.
Jane slipped her needle into the shirt cuff where she could find it easily and accepted the tumbler that Morgan handed her. Her thimble clinked against the glass. Smiling a bit self-consciously, she removed it and dropped it in her sewing box. She moved the box to the table beside her.
“Drink up.”
Jane looked up at him. He was still standing in front of her. When she hesitated, he tapped the bottom of her glass with his forefinger, giving it just a nudge to move it toward her mouth.
“There you go.”
She thought he sounded, if not quite pleased, then at least satisfied. As soon as she took her first sip, he moved back to the sofa. This time he sat in the far corner so that one of his legs could rest on the cushions while the other angled out to the floor.
“Is it going to distress you to talk about your courses?”
Jane hiccupped. Her fingertips tightened on the tumbler until the tips were white.
“I reckon so.” He lifted his glass and knocked back half of his drink. “I only ever had a conversation like this with a woman once before, and she was the one who began it.”
“Was she a…” Jane took a sip, hiccupped, and tried again. “Was she a whore?”
“A whore? No, not so anyone ever had to pay her, but that’s probably a fine distinction. I came around to thinking she was.”
“Oh.” Jane understood enough to know she did not want to hear more.
“Whether she was or wasn’t doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that she told me that the goings-on in a woman’s body shouldn’t be a mystery, and to make sure it isn’t a mystery, it needs to be talked about now and again.”
“The goings-on?” asked Jane.
“Too plain? How about the mechanics?”
“Why don’t we simply say the biology?”
“All right. So I’ve been noticing your biology.”
Jane wished she had asked for more whiskey. Would hiding her face in Morgan’s shirt make her distress more or less obvious? “What about it?” she asked, carefully enunciating the t at the end of every word.
“I already said I’m aware that you’re done bleeding.”
“Oh, God,” Jane said. “You did not say that.” She knocked back what remained of her drink, threw off the shirt, and stood.
Morgan held out his nearly empty tumbler as she passed, and Jane smoothly took it on her way to the liquor cabinet.
She gave him another generous finger and after eyeing it, poured herself the same.
When she went to hand the glass back to him, he caught her wrist and gave it a tug.
“Sit,” he said. “Here.” He patted the space beside him.
Jane looked at her captured wrist, then at Morgan. She realized suddenly that her hiccups were gone. That decided her. She supposed that she had made choices in her life that were influenced by flimsier logic, but she could not recall one of them now.
Her hiccups had disappeared. She sat.