Chapter 3 #2
He knew exactly who the she was that the sheriff was referring to. But he pretended not to hear and focused on the rifles. Caleb’s relationship with Sheila Burnett was no one’s business. Choosing the rifle he wanted, he laid it aside with a few boxes of cartridges.
“Well?”
“Well what?” he asked sharply, feeling the heat rising up his neck.
“Has she asked you?”
Caleb was not a man who collected friends like a hound collected fleas.
Aside from Henry, there were only a few people in Elkhorn that he had no problem conversing with.
Zeke was one, up to a certain point. Malachi Rogers, a former buffalo soldier who owned a livery stable at the east end of town, was another.
Dr. John Burnett, however, was the first fella he’d struck up a friendship with after coming here.
Before Henry arrived, Caleb and Doc had taken to having dinner and playing chess at the physician's house every week. Doc was good company, and their chess matches had become hard-fought campaigns neither man liked losing.
Lately, though, Caleb found himself looking forward to those evenings for an entirely different reason.
Sheila Burnett.
The thought of her had a way of following him through the day.
Sometimes it arrived out of the blue—a kiss they’d shared, her laugh, a sharp remark she'd made, that clean smell of her, the sight of her standing in a doorway with her arms folded, pretending she wasn't worried about him.
More times than not, that thought of her it settled in quiet like and stayed.
He still carried her handkerchief in his pocket.
More than once, while working alone, he'd caught himself touching it just to reassure himself it was there.
That realization would have embarrassed him if Henry ever discovered it.
The truth was, Sheila was now tangled up in every plan he made for the future. When he looked at the barn rising behind him, or the corrals, or the herd grazing in the valley, he no longer saw only a ranch. He saw a life he wanted to build. One worth staying alive for.
And that shook him more than any gunfight ever had.
But the past had not disappeared simply because he'd survived it.
Sure, Elijah Starr sat in jail, waiting to hang. The man who had murdered Caleb's mother would never hurt anyone again. Still, some scars remained. They always would.
Caleb knew exactly what kind of man he had been.
He'd spent years with a gun in his hand and blood on his conscience. Men like Zeke told stories that made him sound like some frontier hero, but Caleb knew better. He understood how thin the line could be between justice and vengeance. He'd crossed it often enough.
Sheila never looked at him that way, though. Not as a hero and not as a gunslinger. Something else. Something better, maybe. Sometimes he wondered if she saw something in him that simply wasn't there. Or perhaps, hopefully, she saw inside him more clearly than he did.
Either way, he wasn't eager to discuss the subject with Zeke Vernon.
“Has she?” Zeke was like a dog with bone, and he wasn’t giving it up.
“I don’t know what she’d have to ask me. This gala shindy ain’t got nothing to do with me.”
“Miss Sheila is planning to ask you if them ladies can throw the gala out here, away from the miners and other riffraff in town. There’s talk of a giant tent, like the circus has, a wood dance floor, an orchestra from somewheres, even a dang Christmas tree.”
“Hell no!” Caleb replied.
“Hell yes!” Henry countered.
Caleb glowered at him. This was the difference between them. Henry loved music, festivities, drinking, and women. If the Ladies Event Planning Committee could work up some cards and gambling tables, Henry’d be as happy as a bumblebee in a berry patch.
The dark memories of every holiday from his childhood, including Christmas, still haunted Caleb’s nightmares.
His mother, bruised and frightened and trying her best to make a holiday for a boy who knew better.
His father's voice booming through the house.
The sound of breaking furniture. The fear that settled over everything like a winter storm.
Elijah Starr’s favorite saying still echoed in his head. No sinners in heaven; no forgiveness in hell.
“What do you say?” Henry asked. “We can make it a tradition for the Elkhorn ladies to have their Christmas Gala on our ranch every year.”
The only holiday traditions Caleb could recall involved pain and scars. He shook his head.
“Don’t be a wet blanket.” Henry slapped him on the back and turned to Zeke. “I’m a bona fide partner on this here ranch. You just have Miss Burnett talk to me. My answer is—”
“Our answer is no,” Caleb cut in. “Have you lost your mind? We’re talking about December. There’ll probably be a blizzard, and we’ll be stuck with these folks till the Fourth of July.”
Henry snorted. Caleb had the distinct impression even that possibility appealed to his partner.
As they continued to talk about what the sheriff had heard, Caleb stalked off to help the deputies load the dead outlaws onto the horses.
Still, the idea nagged at him.
If anyone could talk half of Elkhorn into hauling a ballroom three miles into the middle of nowhere, it was Sheila Burnett.
He could picture her already standing on his porch with her hands on her hips, explaining why the whole thing was perfectly reasonable and why someone was being difficult.
The image brought the hint of a smile to his face before he caught himself.
Then the smile faded.
The last time Sheila had stood on his land, men had died here. She had watched the aftermath with tears in her eyes. She valued life too much ever to become comfortable with violence...and Caleb admired her for it.
So, how could she possibly look at this place and see dancing and music and Christmas lanterns hanging from the rafters?
When Caleb thought back on the day, he still saw blood in the dirt and ghosts in the shadows.
Sheila, somehow, always seemed to see something more.