Chapter Nine #2
The evenings were long and quiet enough. He just needed the right inspiration.
They toured the saloon, which was also the bank exchange and house of moderately-bad-behavior repute, since Benny refused to endorse shenanigans, even though he’d grudgingly acknowledged that they’d existed.
The bathhouse and beauty salon were exactly what one would expect, although the public outhouse behind them was somewhat more modern.
The toilets flushed and there was soap and cold running water for handwashing.
“There are some things about the Wild West that should not be re-created,” Belle said. “Unsanitary conditions are one.”
The mercantile was true to the period. Burlap bags of sugar and flour, and jars of candies and colorful homemade preserves, filled the shelves, and an assortment of tools and farming equipment cluttered the space at the rear.
A wood stove occupied center stage. Several people sat around it, even though it had no fire going.
Belle bought a large bag of peppermints with a handful of pennies, and she shared them with him as they walked.
Their final stop was the school.
The two-room schoolhouse was a bit of a trek down a narrow path lacing between aspen and pine on the outskirts of town.
One room was a classroom. The other was used as a community hall for visiting lecturers and a traveling theater troupe—all staged by the locals.
A book club met here on Sundays. A vestibule served as a buffer against winter weather.
Tilly Wynn was the town’s schoolteacher. Her sister Loretta ran the creamery and bakery. She said they’d come west in search of husbands, and he couldn’t figure out if that was the backstory for their roles or a genuine goal. Could be both.
According to Tilly, the school year ran from mid-August to the end of June for its sixteen students. The older kids came and went, depending on the seasonal chores they were needed to help with at home.
Tilly was a huge fan of Diss Cord. No, much more than a fan.
A tiny, curly-headed blond dynamo whose rapid-fire speech would have done an auctioneer proud, she was in a class all her own.
She was curious about everything to do with it—from costume design to sound and lighting, to hours spent in rehearsal and who picked their music.
The questions kept coming, too fast for him to answer, to the point he wasn’t sure when she drew breath.
He could hold a single note for nineteen seconds, but she had him beat.
“Is it true that you and Sarah Lark didn’t get along or was that just for the show?” she asked.
It was true, although he couldn’t say that—not because of the show’s NDA, but because it was hard to explain to a fan that no one on the hit show had got on very well.
They’d been engaged in a real competition, and it was hard to be nice when people were trash-talking each other.
Sarah had been an especially enthusiastic contestant.
Beau hadn’t cared when she came after him, but there’d been a few young singers whose skins weren’t as thick as they’d thought.
“The show’s name is Diss Cord,” he said, dodging the question, which didn’t matter, because Tilly had plenty more in reserve. By the time Belle suggested they should move on, his brain had been thoroughly picked.
“You’ll meet the rest of the town after church in the morning,” Belle said on their walk home. “There’s a picnic lunch. Everyone attends.”
Beau couldn’t recall when he’d last been in a church.
Maybe never. He and Jen had married in a civil ceremony in his mother’s backyard.
He thought his mom might be agnostic, but she’d never brought up the subject of religion so he couldn’t swear to it.
He hoped the building didn’t burn down when he walked in.
He had to admit he was curious, though. Benny was a cult leader and conspiracy theorist for sure, but so far, no one Beau had met gave off vibes that they’d been drinking his Kool-Aid. If anything, they all seemed quite tolerant of the old guy.
*
Beau
The service the next morning confirmed it.
Benny covered everything from the second coming of Jesus to aliens masquerading as government tax collectors.
The entire congregation of thirty-six people—thirty-seven if Beau counted himself—had turned to look at Beau when the organist played the opening notes of the first hymn on an organ that desperately needed to be tuned.
Beau could read music just fine, but he was not about to become the town’s new lead gospel soloist—the country detour was bad enough—so he didn’t step forward as was clearly expected and, for once, kept his mouth shut.
The church was a roughly hewn log cabin with an altar at one end and a cross above the altar. The pew was a hard wooden bench that reminisced with his backside about its recent close encounter with Buttercup. By the end of the service his legs had gone as numb as his brain.
He stopped Belle afterward, on their way out the door.
“What kind of sermon was that?” he whispered into her ear.
“Shh,” she whispered back. Louder, she said, “Let me introduce you to Huck Hanson, Jayce’s father.”
Jayce and an older man were chatting with Benny and Adam a few paces away, and they looked over when they heard Belle invoke their names.
Jayce must’ve taken after his mother because he looked nothing like his dad.
Huck Hanson was an inch or so below average height, but his brick-solid girth made up for any overall discrepancies in size.
Not handsome, but not homely, either, he had the smiling confidence of a popular rural politician on the campaign trail.
Beau suspected he’d be kissing babies if there were any around, but Pearl Lovett’s delivery date was a few months off yet, and Linda, the next closest in age, didn’t give the impression that she’d take to it kindly.
Belle made the introductions.
Huck pumped Beau’s hand with the enthusiasm of a chronic gambler working a slot machine at a casino in Vegas. “Welcome to Burning Scrub. I hear Adam and Jayce are going to make a cowboy out of you.”
“They’ve been giving it their best shot,” Beau replied.
“Hard to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” Adam said, “but I’ve tackled far bigger problems.” Then he smiled.
And that smile curdled Beau’s blood.
Talk reverted to their original topic, which was the script for the upcoming client.
“Ruby already sent him his backstory,” Benny said to Huck.
“Originally a swordsman, he killed a man in a duel in France over the other man’s wife and was forced to flee.
He left France and sailed to Nova Scotia, then made his way west along the seacoast. He was headed for the gold rush in California, then heard of the gold strikes in Montana and changed direction.
He’s sworn off strong whiskey and fine women.
” Benny paused and looked thoughtful. “Or was that fine whiskey and strong women? Anyway,” he continued, “Belle’s out gathering berries and is carried off by a raiding party of Hunkpapa Sioux led by Thundering Buffalo.
The sheriff is going to lead a rescue party to recover her. ”
Beau had to give the town credit. That did sound like fun.
Mavis, micromanaging a small pocket of women who were setting up tables and laying out food, beckoned for Belle to join them.
“I’ll be right back,” Belle said to Beau.
She sounded almost apologetic about leaving him, which waved all kinds of red flags. Abandoned with Benny, Adam, Jayce, and Jayce’s father. How bad could it be?
Admiring her form as she walked away gave Beau a much-needed distraction, because right now he felt like the new kid on the first day of school, and the school bullies were about to shake him down and take his lunch money away.
Belle’s Sunday dress was much prettier than the one she wore for every day. It looked especially good on her, too, although he couldn’t figure out how a woman could look so appealing in a dress that covered her head to toe with enough fabric to clothe a small village.
Women’s fashion in the 1800s had been heavily influenced by the country the immigrant women originally came from, or so she’d informed him, and Pearl, their costume designer, had decided that Belle’s family were English aristocrats.
The light-blue long-sleeved blouse tapered to a tight-fitted waist and was belted with a navy sash.
The full hooped skirt, pin-striped in shades of light blue and navy, swayed when she walked.
She’d pinned a wide-brimmed navy hat to her loosely knotted hair.
A fine gold chain embraced her slender throat.
Then he noticed the other men staring at him staring at her in a way that didn’t feel friendly.
And Beau being Beau, he had to respond in a way that was guaranteed to get him killed. “You’d think living with a woman would make her less attractive after a while, but nope. Not Belle. How lucky am I?”
Fine lines hardened and deepened around Adam’s eyes. Jayce’s expression lost its normal good humor. Huck looked at a loss. Meanwhile Benny acted as if he hadn’t heard what Beau said, which was likely the case.
“Jayce is a gambler who runs the saloon and the brothel. He’ll keep an eye on the women.
No hanky-panky between them and the philandering sheriff,” Benny said, continuing to relate the client’s script, and glaring at Jayce for good measure.
As far as cult leaders went, he was no David Berg. “The brothel’s for show only.”
“So, you’re going to be the town pimp?” Beau said to Jayce.
“The storyline gets better,” Adam said before Jayce could get riled.
“We’re skipping the gunfight this year. It doesn’t give the sheriff enough of a part.
Jayce is going to cheat you at cards and you’re going to shoot him.
Since he’s unarmed and you’re a known hothead, the sheriff’s going to order you hanged.
Hangings were quite the party in the Wild West, and yours is going to be one the town will never forget. ”
A hanging. That didn’t sound like as much fun. Not with Adam smiling that way.
Huck must have seen Beau’s opinion expressed on his face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Adam tracked down a stunt harness.”
Beau tried to look on the bright side. If they wanted him to sing, they still needed him alive.
On the flip side, however, if he didn’t agree to perform, he could see how that hanging might go horribly wrong.
He wondered if that was the message Adam intended to send him.
“Too bad, Sheriff. Looks like your concert will have to be cancelled. You just hanged our country star.”
“I hear you’re going to be giving us a concert,” Huck said, proving either he had a politician’s knack for reading an audience or was clairvoyant.
“It’s under discussion,” Beau replied, because his sense of self-preservation ran low, which earned him another one Adam’s bone-chilling smiles.
That phantom noose twisted and tightened and dug into his skin. It wasn’t a new sensation to him, however. He’d had a similar one chafing him for the past year, thanks to Leon, Diss Cord, and country music.
He had two months to do something about those expectations.