Lawman

Cal waited until the merchant had taken his leave before grinning with satisfaction. He’d just settled the first case of lawbreaking since his term as sheriff had begun. Then he began to go through the desk drawers, which were as messy as the old sheriffs room had been. He supposed he was going to have to hire a deputy, too, for times when he had a prisoner to guard and his duties took him elsewhere.

That task completed, he figured it would be a while before dinner would be delivered from the Last Chance Saloon. He had time to explore a little.

He knew the buildings on Main Street already—the bank, the jail, the doctor’s office, the general store, the livery stable, the Baptist church, the saloon, the hotel, the millinery, the bathhouse and barbershop, and at the far end, across from Livy’s house, Gillespie Springs Park.

He strode down the side street between the bank and the hotel and came to South Street, or so the painted sign proclaimed it. He had already learned that South Street was deemed the more desirable of Gillespie Springs’s two residential streets. The prosperous townspeople—the doctor, the owner of the general store, the mayor, the saloonkeeper and their like—lived in modest but well-built stone-and-frame houses there, the lots separated by picket fences, most of them freshly whitewashed.

At the west end of South Street, up on a little rise, stood an antebellum mansion of red brick on a lawn shaded by ancient live oaks. A brass plate on the black, wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grounds proclaimed that Robert Gillespie lived there. Behind the house stood a circle of frame cabins, which probably had been slave quarters before the war.

So this was Robert Gillespie’s place. He apparently hadn’t believed in sharing his wealth with his younger brother, Cal mused, for the house Livy lived in, while comfortable, was nothing like this.

Leaving the Gillespie mansion behind, he crossed behind the Baptist church and came to North Street, which ran parallel, behind the bathhouse-barbershop, saloon and jail. Here, directly behind the saloon, was the ramshackle row of rooms known as the cribs, where a quartet of whores entertained their customers. The rest of the houses were mostly rickety affairs, too, little better than tar-paper shacks with tin roofs.

North Street was where the employees of the hotel and the bank, and Gillespie Springs’s few immigrants lived, and Long had told him almost all of the humble dwellings were rented from Robert Gillespie. Here and there Cal saw chickens scratching among the weeds that grew alongside the houses, and behind one unpainted, straggling picket fence a fat pink sow lolled in the sunshine. Down the street, three boys were kicking a ball back and forth.

South and North Streets might have been in different worlds, Cal thought as he cut back up the side street that ran between the saloon and the jail. He was tempted to go down to check on Livy now, but he resolutely put it off till after dinner.

The sounds of Jovita’s humming drifted up the stairs to the bedroom, and Olivia smiled. God bless Cal for finding her for me, she thought, and after I spoke the way I did to him, too. How would she have ever managed alone? She still felt weak as a newborn colt. She could hear the plump, middle-aged Mexican woman down in the kitchen now, rattling pots as she cleaned and straightened. A delicious smell wafted up the stairs, caused by the simmering chicken broth Jovita had promised “Señora Gillespie” for dinner.

Just as soon as she regained her strength, Livy would have to apologize to Cal for the harsh way she’d spoken to him, and thank him for hiring Jovita for her—and for saving her life, too, of course! Well, since he was now the sheriff, it wouldn’t be too hard to encounter him casually in town.

Olivia supposed most women would be so overcome with embarrassment at the thought of a man other than their husband having seen them in the midst of such an intimate, female crisis that they would be unable to face that man again. But she had never been one for false modesty. To blush and turn away when a man had saved her life would be unforgivable, in Olivia’s estimation, particularly when it was doubtful anyone else would have lifted a finger to help her.

She’d thank him politely, and that would be that. As much as her heart had warmed at the sight of him, she must not let on.

Cal Devlin had suffered enough in this life, she thought, remembering how he’d been listed as missing in action in the middle of the war, and later given up for dead by his family. Then, just recently, she’d overheard the gossip that he’d been found in Abilene, and was returning home.

It had been a shock, discovering that the bruised, beaten man lying unconscious in the dust at her feet in Bryan was none other than Cal Devlin, but while she and his brother transported him home in her buckboard, pulled by the horse she’d rented from the livery, Sam had filled in the gaps in the story. She’d learned about Cal losing his memory along with the sight in his right eye during the war.

Olivia had grieved inwardly, thinking how hard it must be to come home scarred and maimed, and find such hatred and intolerance in the very town where he’d once been so loved and respected.

When Cal had told her in the doctor’s office that he was now the sheriff, Olivia had heard the reborn pride in his voice even through her laudanum-induced fog. And Jovita, who had gone into town early this morning to purchase a few things from the general store, had returned with the full account of what had taken place outside the bank yesterday. The good folk of Gillespie Springs were apparently quite pleased with their new sheriff.

Which was precisely why he must not associate with her. The very last thing the new sheriff needed, if he was to continue to have the support of the townspeople of Gillespie Springs, was a friendship with the infamous Olivia Gillespie, whom everyone knew had driven her husband to suicide by her infidelity.

She was not going to cry about that again, she vowed, staring out the window at the sunshine stealing through her window. It was a warm day for early November, so Jovita had left the window open a couple of inches. Olivia tried to concentrate on the antics of a squirrel cavorting in the branches of the cottonwood tree, clearly visible from where she lay, but it was no good.

“Whore! You took the very last thing I had left to me, didn’t you? You took my pride, and gave it to that greaser when you lay down for him! And now you tell me you’re gonna have a baby, and you expect me to listen to some crazy tale of some man rapin’ you in the barn! I’m no fool, you lyin’ slut! Bob’s been tellin’ me about you and that Luna, an’ how y’all been lookin’ at one ‘nother…”

“But Dan, you have to believe me!” she pleaded. “Francisco didn’t touch me, I swear to you! It was—”

” ‘Francisco’? Well, I guess you would be on a firstname basis with your Mex lover!” Dan roared, and swung his fist, catching her squarely in the side of her head

Everything had gone black, and when she awoke, it was to the news that Dan had killed Francisco Luna and then turned the gun on himself The sheriff’s disgusted face had frightened her—and then he’d read her the note Dan had left, in which Dan had explained that he had killed his wife’s lover, the father of the baby she carried, and intended next to shoot himself.

Her reason for silence—the need to protect Dan from the truth—was gone, but the sheriff hadn’t wanted to hear her side of the story. Neither had anyone else. Her brother-in-law, Robert, had seen to it that the contents of the note had been circulated about town, and before her husband had even been buried, Olivia had found herself an outcast.

Cal was already an outcast in Bryan; it must not happen to him here, too, not when he’d just gained a chance to build a life for himself. But it would happen if he was known to be friendly with Olivia Gillespie. She would be appreciative of the help he’d given her, but that was all; she’d nip in the bud any further attempts at friendship.

But perhaps it was assuming too much on her part to even imagine he’d want to be her friend, especially when he thought she was the one who’d been putting roses on Francisco’s grave…

All at once she heard the sound of footsteps on the porch below and then a firm knock at the door. She heard Jovita’s humming cease, and the creak of the boards as the Mexican woman went to the door. Then, a moment later, Jovita’s voice. “Buenos tardes, Senor Devleen! Yes, the senora ees much better today! Yes, I am sure she would welcome a visitor. Come een! I’ll just go up and see eef she ees awake first!”

It was surprising how fast a woman of Jovita’s plumpness could move when she was excited. “Senora! Eet ees—”

“Yes, I heard,” Olivia interrupted. “Tell him I’m asleep, won’t you? I’m in no condition to receive callers, Jovita,” she protested, her gesture indicating her nightgown, her hair loose on her pillow, the fact that she was in bed.

But Jovita wouldn’t listen. “Nonsense, senora. Thees ees the man who helped you, no? He looks so anxious— just let heem see you are better, yes?” Before Olivia knew what she was about, Jovita had found and draped a lacy shawl about her shoulders, combed her hair and set the room to rights. A minute later, Cal was entering the bedroom.

He was so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. For a moment he just stood there holding his hat in his hands, his presence filling the room as he studied her.

“I—I hope I’m not intrudin’ at a time when you’re not feelin’ very well, Livy,” he began, stroking the brim of his hat self-consciously. “But after yesterday I thought I’d better come see how you were doin’…”

Could he hear the way her heart was pounding? “That was very kind of you, Cal,” she said, being careful to keep her voice coolly polite. “As you can see, I’m much better. Thanks to you.”

He looked down at his boots. “Anyone would have done the same.”

No, they wouldn’t have, she thought, but did not say so.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said. His eyes returned to hers. “You, uh, you have a mite more color in your face than you had yesterday.”

His observation caused even more blood to come rushing up her neck and into her cheeks, heating them. “Yes, I feel better…Still weak, of course, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

He nodded, still gazing at her in his direct way.

What more was there to say?

“I—I like the mustache,” she said at last, idiotically, when the silence seemed to stretch on uncomfortably. “It looks dashing,” she told him, and meant it.

He gazed at her as if he thought she was loco. “Dashing?” he said with a short, disbelieving laugh, and made a gesture that indicated the scarred right side of his face as he shook his head.

“Yes, dashing,” she insisted, her heart twisting as she realized he thought the scars and the patch had made him ugly.

She was ambivalent about asking him to sit down, afraid he would misinterpret it, that he would think she wanted him to stay. But no, he would be right. She did want him to stay—she just couldn’t let him know that.

It seemed rude to keep him standing, though. “Please, won’t you sit down?” she said, motioning toward the chair beyond the small bedside table.

He looked uncertain. “I—I shouldn’t…can’t stay but a minute…” He sat down, nevertheless.

“Jovita tells me you’re quite the town hero,” she said breezily. “They can’t praise you highly enough, after yesterday.”

He smiled, and his face lost a little of its tenseness. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”

“So modest,” she teased. “I never knew you were such an expert marksman.”

His face grew somber again. “I wish I could do it over again, Livy. Two men are dead because of me. I should have just wounded them, so they could have been captured.”

His anguished face caught at her heart. “You mustn’t blame yourself for their deaths, Cal. One of them murdered our sheriff. The other one could have killed you— I hear he shot at you, but missed. You did what you had to do.”