Heartland Courtship

Probably high spirits at the saloon. He rolled over. Still, sleep didn’t come. Why would there be a fight at the saloon? That usually happened only when several riverboats moored at the same time for a night.

He rolled away from his pallet. Since he couldn’t stand up in the low attic loft, he crawled to the open window draped with cheesecloth to keep out the mosquitoes. From his high vantage point, he scanned the street. The half-moon radiated little light.

Just as he was about to go back to lie on his pallet, he glimpsed movement down on the street. Three men were creeping around the stores. One had a large, full sack thrown over one shoulder. A man didn’t have to have much imagination to come to a quick conclusion.

Thieves.

The three men were slinking toward the front of Ashford’s. Better to access the store on the side away from where the storekeeper slept.

The uppity face of the owner’s wife came to Brennan’s mind. Her expression a few days ago—as she’d weighed and measured him and pronounced him wanting—had been burned into him. If she’d had the power, she would have caused him to vanish from her prissy sight that day. It rankled. Yet that he cared what she thought of him rankled more.

He watched as the shadowy men paused as if waiting for something.

Their plan unfolded in his mind. These river “rats” were using the saloon’s loud voices to mask the sounds of the thievery. He let out a breath. These little river towns were without any presence of the law and were easy pickings for thieves.

The thought suddenly rolled like thunder in his mind. He didn’t want this little bump on the river to become a target for unlawful types. Not with Miss Rachel living just outside town. The memory of the ruffians who’d come to her place to find him goaded him. The thought of the innocent Miss Rachel being accosted sent icy shivers through him. Never. He had to make sure the reputation of this town stayed strong—for her sake.

He crawled over to his knapsack, retrieved his two Colt 45s and checked to be sure both were loaded and ready. He scooted to the ladder and slipped down to the blacksmith shop. He paused, thinking of who could provide him backup. He crept to the lean-to and roused the blacksmith. Seeing Brennan’s index finger to his lips, Levi swallowed a waking exclamation.

Brennan leaned close to the man’s ear. “Thieves.” He motioned toward the rifle hung on the wall and then for the blacksmith to get up.

Soon, the two men stood side by side in the lean-to. Brennan outlined a plan and the smith nodded. They crept along in the shadows and took their places— Brennan across from the front of the General Store, closest to the river, and the smith slipped along another store behind Ashford’s. The familiar sensations of preparing for battle prickled through Brennan, keenly heightening his awareness of every sound and sight.

Laughter echoed from the saloon and then one of the thieves raised his hand to break the glass next to Ashford’s door.

“Hold!” Brennan roared, hidden in the shadows.

The three men started and glanced around frantically.

“Hold!” Brennan repeated.

The three scampered toward the rear as if to hide themselves.

Brennan let loose a warning shot over their heads. The smith let his rifle roar from the rear. The three men stopped, not knowing which way to run. Two had drawn pistols.

“Drop that bag and empty your pockets!” Brennan ordered.

The three started to run toward the river. One shot toward Brennan, but the bullet went wide. Idiots!

Brennan shot into the dirt in front of them, halting them in the middle of the street. “Drop your guns and that bag, then empty your pockets! Do it! Or this time I’ll shoot one of you!”

The man with the bag put it down and raised his hands. The other two put their pistols on the ground, yanked out their pockets and raised their hands, too.

“All your pockets!” Brennan commanded.

The bagman pulled out his pockets.

“Run!” Brennan bellowed.

The three obeyed, racing toward the river.

Just then Ashford ran out the front door, dressed hastily and holding a rifle. “What’s happening?”

Before Brennan could reply, more men armed with rifles bounded into the street. Brennan wondered if they had any sense. It was crazy to show themselves so plainly before they knew who was shooting whom. Some, he noted, did cling to the shadows, probably veterans like him.

Not wanting to be the center of attention or suffer being thanked, he slipped away, back to the blacksmith shop and up to his loft. Still his heart pounded with the excitement. He listened to the buzz of voices below. Levi explained, loud enough for him to hear, what had happened.

The town men shouted and ran toward the river. Brennan looked out his riverside window and saw a rude boat sliding out into the current. The town men shouted and shot toward the craft, their bullets sizzling as they hit the water. But the night had only half-moon light and soon the craft became invisible, lost in the dark.

Brennan lay down on his blanket, his heart still racing. The thieves had gotten away, which was best. What would the town have done with them if they’d been caught? Pepin didn’t have a jail and somebody might have gotten hurt trying to corral them. Better they escaped. They wouldn’t come back anytime soon. But what about others like them?

This staying in one place was costing him. He lay listening to the men talking, and hoped no one would disturb him. He hadn’t done this for any of them. He’d done it for Miss Rachel, but if he said that, they would think something was going on between them. Better to lay low.

How long would they have to hash over this minor dustup? People here didn’t cotton to him. And he generally didn’t cotton to people so they were even. That suited him. But what else could he do to keep Miss Rachel safe after he left town?

* * *

Just after dawn the next morning, Brennan freshened up down at the river as usual, glad to wash away last night’s sweat. He then set out toward Miss Rachel’s place, his stomach rumbling for the breakfast she’d provide. The heat was already climbing high and not a hint of a cloud showed on the horizon.

As he passed Ashford’s store, the proprietor burst out and ran toward him. Brennan halted. What did the man want?

Mr. Ashford panted. “I just came out to thank you.” The man’s face looked tired from lack of sleep. “For last night. All the storekeepers are grateful. The smithy told us you woke him up and were the one who ran off the thieves.”

Brennan hadn’t expected appreciation. And didn’t want their gratitude. He looked at the man, giving nothing of himself away. “Didn’t do it for your thanks.”

“We owe you.”

Brennan shrugged. “Don’t mention it,” he said with finality and tucked in an edge that promised unpleasantness if the man went on thanking him.

The man’s wife came running out of the store and offered him a folded new shirt and trousers. “Just a token of our thanks.”

Brennan didn’t take the clothing. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m expected at Miss Rachel’s for breakfast.” He hurried on.

* * *

Brennan spent the morning building a chicken coop strong and high enough to outfox any fox or other varmint. To start with, he’d logged the needed wood and dug postholes. This afternoon he’d set posts.

With a rumbling stomach and sharp anticipation of another tasty meal, at noon he sat down at Miss Rachel’s table. When she carried in the steaming crock from the outdoor kitchen, he noted she did not look happy. What was the bee in her Quaker bonnet?

“Mr. Merriday, why didn’t thee tell me what happened last night?” She made it sound like a scold.

He bristled. Why did she sound mad? After all, he’d done it for her. “Because I didn’t think it was worth mentionin’. That’s why,” he replied, eyeing the bowls of stew she was dishing up.

She set the crock on the table and sat down.

He waited quietly for her to finish silently blessing the meal as she always did. When the amen came, he picked up his fork and dug into her stew. The woman could cook as well as she could bake.

“The Ashfords told me all about it. And about thy graceless behavior this morning.” She motioned toward the chair by the cold hearth. The dratted new clothing the storekeeper’s wife had offered him sat there, evidently drying after being washed. This aggravated him but he kept eating.