Five Magic Spindles: A Collection of Sleeping Beauty Stories Page 2

  “You and your sheep! I swear sometimes you think they’re human.”

  “Sometimes I like them better than humans.” Victor could hold back his smile no longer. “Did you speak to the man?”

  “Not myself, no.”

  “Could be he was just looking for work.” He started to close the door then paused. “What kind of horse did he have?”

  “The man at the livery stable told me it was a big buckskin.”

  Behind me, Rosalind asked, “You mean you didn’t see him yourself?”

  “No.”

  Victor nodded toward the open door. “You’re about to get the chance.”

  Rosalind and I moved closer to him so we could see out too. Down the bluff drove Mrs. Mortimer in her fancy buggy, and beside her came the stranger on his pale, dark-maned horse.

  Chapter 2

  “VICTOR,” I SAID, “NOW would be a good time to get your rifle.”

  “You really think I’ll have need of it?”

  I drew myself up to my full height of five feet and one inch. “Victor Owens! You don’t mean to say you’re going to face that man unarmed!”

  “If you shoot an unarmed man, it’s murder,” he said calmly.

  Beside him, Rosalind touched his arm. “She wouldn’t dare. Would she?”

  “Think of Rosalind! And me! What if that man holds one of us hostage?” I glared at the approaching gunman, but then it occurred to me that if he was of a mind to take a hostage, I might not feel especially averse to his picking me. He had reached the picket fence, where I could get a nice look at him. Strong jaw, straight nose, and a cleft chin. Hair even blacker than the black shirt and trousers he wore, the same color and shine as his gloves. He wore a splendid blue vest too, glossy like satin. A man who did well for himself, clearly, which meant he knew his business.

  Which meant he was good at shooting people.

  Victor told his daughter, “Go on in my room and shut the door.”

  Rosalind shook her head. “No, Pa. I won’t leave you to that woman.” I was pleased that beneath her docility Rosalind had a mind of her own yet.

  “I’ll be fine. You do as I say.” He snapped his fingers at his dog. “You there, Blue!” Obediently, the dog trotted inside. I’ve always wondered why they named that dog Blue. For his eyes, maybe.

  “Stay in my room until I say it’s safe,” Victor ordered. When Rosalind started to protest, Victor told his dog, “Take her in,” and pointed to his room.

  Blue took Rosalind’s skirt in his mouth and tugged. Rosalind said, “Pa, I think it’s awful foolish of you not to get your rifle as Miss Emma said.” All the while she was speaking, that dog was firmly tugging her into her father’s room. Once she was inside, she shut the door as Victor had told her to.

  The Owens cabin had only the two rooms. The main one held the spinning wheel, with a good-sized window behind it so you could see the trees down by the stream and the small kitchen garden behind the house. There was also a fireplace with Juliet’s rocker by it, a small table and chairs, and a few crates stacked up to hold dishes and other kitchen sundries. Rosalind’s cot was there against the front wall under a smaller window, not far from the hearth. The other was Victor’s bedroom, where I’d spent two days tending Juliet while she slipped away. Since we have no doctor for hundreds of miles around, I have learned all I can about treating wounds and illnesses so that I can care for more people than expectant mothers only. Too often, though, I can do no more than hold their hand while we wait for the end.

  Once Rosalind and the dog were safe inside, Victor stepped out to face this oncoming trouble. Before Mrs. Mortimer could descend from her buggy, he demanded, “What is it now?” I followed him, hoping the presence of a witness would discourage mischief.

  While Victor spoke, the gunman dismounted and proceeded to tie his horse and Mrs. Mortimer’s to the fence not far from where I’d hitched my own mare. Such nerve! As if he were an invited guest.

  Mrs. Mortimer smiled, baring her teeth. I don’t know that I have ever seen that woman smile with actual joy. “I think you know.”

  Adelaide Mortimer had passed her prime, but you had to get close up to realize as much. After her husband died, a scant two years back, she’d worn black just long enough to satisfy the demands of propriety. Now she wore a dove-grey riding habit that fit her like a snake’s new skin. We all knew that she had set her cap for Victor Owens, which surprised many in these parts. Not that Victor wouldn’t be an attractive prospect for a husband; he had more sense than God gave most men, and a kind heart. But I did not suspect Mrs. Mortimer of valuing such qualities. I figured she thought he would look decorative at the dining table, and his land would make a fine addition to her holdings, adjoining her ranch the way it did.

  Victor said, “My answer is still no.”

  She smiled again. “Won’t you ask me in?”

  “Inside or out, I won’t change my mind.”

  Mrs. Mortimer looked at her companion long enough that we were forced to acknowledge his presence. “This is Mr. Palmer. Surely you wouldn’t leave a stranger out in the hot sun?”

  The gunman, Palmer, didn’t smile any fake smiles, which I felt was a point in his favor. He helped Mrs. Mortimer step down from her buggy like an attentive chaperone. I wondered why she didn’t give up on Victor and try to interest this Palmer in matrimony instead. I may have long ago dispensed with all expectations of marriage myself, but I can still admire a fine-looking man when one passes. I’m sure polite society would never countenance a gunman for a husband, but out here in the wilds of Nebraska we tend to overlook a person’s past if they’re willing to behave themselves in the present. Besides, Palmer would look far more ornamental on Mrs. Mortimer’s arm than Victor.

  “Ride on, Adelaide.” Victor crossed his arms.

  “But I have a business proposition for you.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Be reasonable.”

  Victor glanced back at the cabin, doubtless thinking of Rosalind waiting inside, listening through the log walls. “What is it now?”

  “Your ranch abuts mine. I need more land if I’m to expand the stockyards near town and still have enough grazing for my own herds. I want to buy your ranch. With what I’ll pay, you can find twice as much land somewhere else.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Mrs. Mortimer pouted as prettily as a schoolgirl. “Why don’t we go inside while you think it over.” She opened the gate and walked inside its enclosure.

  Victor moved to block her, so she pretended to notice me for the first time. “Good afternoon, Emma. I trust I’m not interrupting anything important?”

  “It so happens, you are,” I retorted.

  “Oh, I do apologize. This really shouldn’t take but a minute. Wouldn’t you like to go on in the house, away from the stink of all these sheep?”

  I pinched my lips together disapprovingly. While I found the smell of those sheep unpleasant myself, I had the manners not to make such a bold-faced comment about it.

  Palmer took his place beside her. His right hand rested lightly on his pistol, making his wordless threat obvious. I suddenly realized that my presence could be less help than I’d thought. Victor might not mind a bit of peril himself, but it appeared he was reluctant to have me shot on his account, for he allowed Mrs. Mortimer and her gunman to push past him and enter his house.

  I glared at them both as I trailed them all inside. Victor headed for the fireplace where he kept his hunting rifle, but Palmer stepped into his way.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Mortimer, taking a folded paper from her pocket, “I’ve had this bill of sale drawn up.”

  “I’m still not interested.”

  “After you sign this, we’ll go to the bank before it closes to transfer the money. I’ll give you a full week to pack up and move on.” She gestured at her gunman. “If you don’t want to, I’m sure Mr. Palmer can . . . persuade you.”

  I didn’t see Palmer pull his pistol from its holster—it sim
ply appeared in his hand. He pointed it nowhere in particular. Yet.

  I put in, “Aren’t you forgetting there’s a witness here?”

  “Ah yes,” Mrs. Mortimer said, “I’m so glad you’re here, Emma. It’s always comforting to have someone near who is skilled at binding up wounds.”

  I’d never been sure that Mrs. Mortimer didn’t hold me responsible for the loss of her three babies, though each clearly had perished some time before it entered the world. I bridled at her tone but made no reply. There are times, I have learned, when swallowing one’s words before they’re spoken is far less bitter than having to eat them after.

  Victor said, “Shoot me then. I still won’t sign it. I won’t marry you, I won’t sell my land, and I won’t move on. You can’t have everything, Adelaide Mortimer.”

  “Is that so?” She began to say something else but was interrupted by Rosalind’s flinging open the bedroom door. The girl rushed out to stand in front of her father, arms spread wide.

  “Please don’t shoot my pa!” Rosalind looked that gunman in the eye, and for a moment everyone fell silent. She lifted her chin, and her eyes, so hollow for so long, seemed to fill with life while I watched.

  If the situation had not been so dire, I would have applauded.

  “Please, you don’t even know us.” She kept her gaze on Palmer’s face, her eyes continuing to plead with him long after she stopped speaking. Mrs. Mortimer, she ignored, the way we’d all like to most of the time.

  Victor’s faithful dog stayed close beside her, teeth bared. I had long respected that dog for its good sense. Like most of its kind, it seemed to know the difference between a good person and a bad one. The way it watched Mrs. Mortimer only confirmed my opinion of its worth.

  Palmer’s black eyebrows drew together in a rather pleasing way, and he looked from Rosalind to Mrs. Mortimer. “You said he’d be alone.” He had a deep, smooth voice that suited his comely features. If I were a young maiden so inclined, I might have swooned.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Mortimer shrugged. “How was I to know he wouldn’t be?”

  While Mrs. Mortimer bickered with Palmer, Victor put a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder to move her out of harm’s way. Although Palmer had kept his gun pointed more or less at the floor, when he saw Victor’s hand come up, he tensed and raised it. I thought for a moment that we were all finished—he would shoot Victor purely from reflex and then have to kill Rosalind and me because we’d seen him do it. I could see us, all three, tossed into some shallow grave or left out on the prairie to feed the coyotes.

  But Palmer fired no hasty shots. I felt my knees tremble from relief. Instead, he said, “Mr. Owens, step back against that wall, please.” He gestured with his head to the wall that separated Victor’s room from the main one. “A little farther. Keep your hands away from your sides.”

  Victor moved slowly across the room until his back was against the wall. Beside Rosalind, the dog growled. Victor said, “Down.” Blue whined and sank to the floor between Rosalind and me. I wished Victor would have trained his dog to attack gunmen on command. How convenient that would have been!

  Rosalind begged, “We don’t have much land. You don’t need it!” She stood between Victor and me, her back to the spinning wheel, her hands half raised in supplication.

  “Don’t I?” Mrs. Mortimer shook her head. “Little Miss Rosalind, how would you know what I do and don’t need?”

  “I know you don’t need our land. You have so much. What difference would our bit of range make? Is it my pa? Are you still after him?”

  That must have struck a little too close to the bullseye for Mrs. Mortimer. Her reply cracked like a whip in the hands of a good cowhand. “This isn’t about him.”

  “You only wanted him because everyone knows he’s the best man anywhere around, and you think you always have to have the best.” Rosalind turned to the gunman. “I’ll bet she hired you because she heard you were the best. Same as she ordered that fancy buggy from St. Louis.” She looked at Mrs. Mortimer with disdain. With her braid wound around her head like a crown, for a moment she looked positively regal. “You think having better things than the rest of us makes you better than us. But everyone knows that’s not so.”

  I glanced at Victor and saw that he was watching his daughter with something like hope in his eyes. So he too had noticed the change in her.

  “Enough!” Mrs. Mortimer gestured to her hired gunman. “Mr. Palmer, shoot her instead.”

  He had the decency to look startled. Another point in his favor. “Excuse me?” he said.

  “Shoot the girl! In the leg or the arm, for now. Maybe that will shut her up.” She looked at Victor. “Or are you ready to sign?”

  Though Victor opened his mouth, Rosalind didn’t give him a chance to speak. “No!” Her expression became fierce. “He will never sign your filthy paper!”

  I wondered if I could distract Palmer somehow, perhaps fake a fainting fit. If I’d been close enough to ensure he’d catch me, I might have tried it.

  Mrs. Mortimer swore a most unladylike oath. She threw the bill of sale down on the floor. “Must I do everything myself?” Grabbing the pistol from Palmer, she aimed it at Rosalind. “Will this convince you to sign? Or do you need even more encouragement?”

  “You don’t need to do this,” Victor pleaded. He took a step toward her. I knew he meant to rush her and take his chances with the pistol rather than let her harm his daughter.

  I sprang forward, hoping to put myself between Rosalind and that gun and to keep Victor from doing the same. But I had forgotten about the dog lying obediently on the floor between me and Rosalind. I am forced to admit that I tripped over him. Instead of shielding Rosalind, I fell against her.

  At the same moment, Mrs. Mortimer fired, the noise from that pistol sounding like a cannon’s roar in the small room.

  Chapter 3

  THOUGH THE ACRID SCENT of gunsmoke filled my nose and made me cough, I’d seen chips of wood fly out from the wall beyond and knew the bullet had not hit anyone.

  For the moment I thought Rosalind was safe.

  Rosalind stumbled backward, turning toward the spinning wheel, falling, hands groping for something to hold onto. I looked up from where I’d landed on the floor just in time to see her left hand, flailing as she fell, slam against the sharp wooden spindle. Rosalind cried out, a childlike noise of shock and fear, as the spindle pierced her palm so deeply its tip protruded from the back of her hand. She fell to her knees, her skewered hand above her.

  Victor leaped at Mrs. Mortimer. He wrestled the gun away, shoved her back against the wooden wall, and pointed that pistol squarely at her face. His dog barked savagely beside him, obviously waiting for a signal or command to help in any way.

  I may be nearing fifty, but I remain spry. I hoisted myself up off the floor and hurried to Rosalind’s side. I told her, “Don’t you pull on that, young lady. Hold your hand still.” I feared she could damage the muscles and tendons in her hand if she moved it.

  Rosalind looked at her bloody hand then at me, her eyes too wide. “Miss Emma,” she said, her voice wavering. “Oh, Miss Emma.”

  “Don’t you worry,” I told her. “You’re going to be fine. Don’t look at it, look at me.”

  “Mr. Palmer!” Mrs. Mortimer howled. “Defend me!”

  I prayed that God would strike that gunman dead with a lightning bolt before he could so much as twitch in her defense. Who knew how many more firearms he had concealed about his person?

  The good Lord tends to answer my prayers in the most peculiar ways. Palmer had not moved from where he’d stood when Mrs. Mortimer snatched his weapon. I’d wondered at that—did he not know what to do without a gun in his hand? Why did he just stand there, not even trying to get his pistol back?

  Now he said, “I’ve seen how much protecting you need.” Instead of reaching for a weapon, he crossed his arms, hands remaining where we could see them.

  Victor trembled with rage. I knew that at any moment he would do
something foolish. Much as I would have enjoyed seeing Mrs. Mortimer punished for such vile behavior, I’d come to that house to save my friend, not watch him commit a hanging offense. “Victor,” I said, hoping to divert his attention, “do you keep any sort of bandages in this house?”

  “What?”

  “Bandages. For Rosalind.”

  “There’s some in the barn.”

  “That’s too far. I’ve got plenty in my bag, but I can’t fetch them myself. I don’t want to leave Rosalind.” I did not want her trying to pull her hand from that spindle before I was ready to stanch the bleeding.

  Victor didn’t move. Possibly he was afraid of what Mrs. Mortimer might do if he released her. I know I was.

  She glared at him past the pistol he still held pointed at her face. She had more nerve than a Confederate whistling “Dixie” on the courthouse lawn, I will give her that. “All you have to do is sign the papers, Victor. Sign them, and you’ll never see me again. You can help your daughter then. I won’t interfere.”

  “Shut your mouth.” Victor put more vehemence into those three words than most folks pour into an entire tirade.

  Rosalind whimpered, her face squeezed up like a crumpled rag. The pistol in Victor’s hand shook ever so slightly.

  I steeled myself for another gunshot. “Don’t,” I pleaded. “Victor, no.”

  Palmer earned another point when he spoke up. “Where is your bag?” he asked me, his own voice steady.

  “In my buggy, under the seat.”

  He went out and returned with my black leather satchel. “Are you a nurse?” he asked.

  “No.” I didn’t bother explaining what I was since there’s no real quick way to say “I’m a midwife who knows a goodly number of remedies and has more experience binding up wounds than she ever expected to get.”

  Instead, I took a roll of white bandages I’d rolled myself and a pair of scissors from my bag, and I cut off two sizeable lengths. I folded those two pieces into thick pads. All the while, I talked soothingly to Rosalind. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. Hand wounds don’t bleed all that much. Now, if you’d whacked your head on this thing instead, why, we’d be swimming by now. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”