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He doubled up the pillow behind his head, sighing at the notion that, bone tired as he was, sleep wasn’t within easy reach tonight.
Up till now, he’d adjusted pretty well. The shotgun wasn’t the total embarrassment it used to be. He’d had the occasional comfort of Ria, and he’d even managed to save a little cash. Not enough yet to buy in with the Earps in all their financial schemes in Tombstone, but enough to at least keep that particular dream alive.
Things hadn’t been perfect. Hell, far from it. But Delaney’s life had been on a fairly even keel these last few months. Now he felt off center again, detoured if not downright derailed.
Hannah.
He shouldn’t have walked her home tonight. He should have just stood there, out of sight, and watched to make sure she got to her door safe and sound. But something always drew him to her like a magnet, like a dizzy moth to a dancing flame. Whatever it was, Delaney didn’t care for it one bit.
It was time to start thinking about leaving town. So what if he couldn’t grip a pistol anymore? Doc Holliday did well enough with his sawed-off shotgun and nobody thought any less of him. So what if Delaney couldn’t buy into a silver mine or a saloon right away? He could save money in Tombstone just as readily as here. Maybe more, for all he knew.
It was June. There were six months left on his sheriffing contract. He courted sleep by counting the dollars and cents he planned to save before that contract expired.
Chapter Three
It wasn’t like Hannah to take to her bed, but that was exactly what she did for the next three days. Right after Ezra’s burial, she had joined her little trio of boarders for supper in the dining room, but she hadn’t even made it past the soup before she was dabbing her linen napkin at her eyes.
First, Ezra’s place at the head of the table—the empty chair and blank stretch of tablecloth—kept drawing Hannah’s gaze, again and again. Then Miss Green’s continual expressions of sympathy made any other topic of conversation quite impossible. Henry Allen’s mournful glances didn’t help a bit, and neither did Abel Fairfax’s understanding nods or his encouraging smiles.
Hannah had excused herself from the table, rushed upstairs, and hadn’t come back down since. The only person she had allowed in her room was Nancy, the hired girl who helped with household chores. Bigboned, raw-knuckled Nancy never spoke more than a word or two and kept her eyes downcast as she came and went with tea and toast or rice pudding. Her silence suited Hannah fine.
She needed that silence and solitude to deal with Ezra’s passing, to find her balance now and learn how to be alone after sharing her life with him for fourteen years. Had it really been that long? she wondered. So often it seemed like just yesterday that the big, barrel-chested man in the gray frock coat had come storming into her narrow little crib in Memphis. He’d had a graying beard and mustache back then, but Hannah could’ve sworn it was gray smoke issuing from his nostrils and mouth.
“Get dressed,” he’d ordered her. “I’m taking you out of this foul place.”
Hannah had just sat there on the worn mattress, gaping at the huge stranger.
“Come along now. You needn’t fear me. Put your dress on and let’s go.”
When she told him she didn’t have a dress, but only the underclothes she wore, he raised his fists toward the ceiling and bellowed like some wounded thing. Then he took off his fine gray coat and wrapped it carefully around her shoulders.
How warm that coat had been. How safe it had felt, shielding her from her chin down past her knees. It had smelled like Ezra, too. Even after all these years Hannah could still remember the pleasant shock of that unique blend of fragrances. One minute she’d been wearing cotton rags, then suddenly she was cloaked in yards of finely tailored wool, in the scents of cherry pipe smoke and rye whiskey and oatmeal shaving soap.
She’d been with Ezra ever since that night in Memphis. There had been at least half a dozen girls her age or younger—all as destitute as they were pretty, most of them orphaned by the war—all of them trading their bodies for a roof over their heads and a pittance of food in their stomachs. Why Ezra had rescued her in particular, Hannah never knew. Somehow she’d never had the courage to ask, perhaps because she was afraid it was all a dream and, if examined too closely, it might simply disappear.
Now, fourteen years later, it was Ezra who had disappeared and Hannah felt more alone than ever before in her life. Part of her wanted to pull the bedcovers over her head and never get up again, but the sensible, strong part of her knew that was a coward’s way out. She had a house to run and boarders to tend to. Ezra hadn’t brought her to Newton and built this grand mansion just to have them both—Hannah and the house—fall to wrack and ruin after his demise.
Tomorrow, she vowed, she’d rise early, then after her bath she’d don her widow’s weeds once more and begin living the rest of her life.
Tomorrow.
She promised.
Just for tonight, though, Hannah pulled the covers over her head once more and wept into her pillow.
The next morning, when Hannah brought the coffeepot into the dining room, she wasn’t surprised to see Abel Fairfax sitting alone at the table.
“I meant to get up earlier,” she said as she refilled his cup. “I’m sorry, Abel.”
“Nobody minded, Hannah. Henry’s gone off to the bank and Florence is down at Galt’s Emporium, most likely aggravating the devil out of poor Ted Galt while she hems and haws over stationery and ink.” He took a sip of his fresh coffee, eying her over the rim. “You’re looking better, Hannah.”
She had taken her customary seat at the foot of the table by then and poured her own coffee cup to the brim. “Do you think so, Abel? I feel as if I’ve aged five years in the past five days.”
“It’s that black frock. You ought to go back to wearing your regular clothes. Put some color on, my dear. Ezra would be the very first one to tell you that. I’m certain.”
Hannah smiled. “He would, wouldn’t he? Ezra never much cared for me in black. He was partial to greens and blues.”
While Hannah sipped her coffee, Abel finished his oatmeal. Then he dabbed his napkin at his thick gray mustache, folded it carefully, and returned it to its silver napkin ring, which was engraved with an ornate D for Dancer.
He leaned back in his chair and flattened his palms on the table. “Hannah,” he said. “Ezra left a will.”
She blinked, surprised as much by his serious, rather official tone of voice as she was by his statement.
“I wanted to let you get your bearings before I mentioned it,” he added.
“Thank you, Abel. I’m grateful.” Hannah wasn’t all that sure she had her bearings, but at least it was encouraging that Abel thought so.
She’d always admired him. A widower who’d never had children, he’d come to Newton about the same time Hannah and Ezra had, hoping to start a newspaper in this up-and-coming cattle town. Unfortunately, though, it was the cattle that upped and went after a single wild and newsworthy year. Instead of publishing his own paper then, Abel Fairfax spent most of his time writing letters to the editors of other papers and composing long-winded articles for eastern magazines.
“I studied law back in Ohio,” Abel said now. “I don’t know if you’re aware of that or not.”
“You’ve mentioned it, I’m sure.” Hannah noticed now that Abel’s brow was even more wrinkled than usual and his lips were pursed thoughtfully, worrisomely, beneath his shaggy mustache. “Is there something wrong, Abel? Something about Ezra’s will?”
He didn’t answer her directly, but instead said, “Ezra named me his executor. I’d like to read you the will in my office, Hannah. As soon as possible. Not here, though. Do you feel up to walking downtown around three this afternoon?”
Now Hannah frowned. Did she feel up to it? She honestly didn’t know. But then she supposed the sooner she attended to legal issues regarding the house—which was, after all, in Ezra’s name—the sooner she could get on with her life. Not that it would be all that different from her past, she mused. She’d have the house. She’d have her boarders. Only Ezra’s absence would make a difference.
“Three o’clock will be fine, Abel.”
“Good.” He stood up and headed toward the front door. “I’ll see you then.” Halfway out the door, he paused. “And don’t worry, Hannah. Don’t you worry for a single minute.”
The screen door closed behind him.
Worry? Hannah thought. Worry? Why, it hadn’t even occurred to her.
By three o’clock that afternoon the big June sun had beaten down on Newton for eight straight hours and raised the temperature to ninety-two degrees in the shade. Since they hadn’t had rain in several weeks, the unpaved street was dustier than usual.
It was so dusty that Hannah felt like a black broom sweeping toward town in her mourning garb. She wondered how long it would be before the planked sidewalks stretched past the dry goods store, making her walks into town more pleasant not to mention cleaner.
When she lifted her skirt to step onto the sidewalk, several gentlemen tipped their hats and murmured their condolences. Hulda Staub, the wife of the mayor, was exiting the dry goods store just as Hannah passed, and the monumental matron immediately dropped her packages and wound her arms around Hannah, drawing her into a surprisingly tight embrace.
“My dear Mrs. Dancer. How I admire your courage in the face of your loss. How brave of you to be out and about so soon. Lord knows if my Herman passed, I’d barely be able to leave the confines of my bed much less my house.”
Caught in Hulda Staub’s flesh embrace, Hannah wasn’t exactly sure whether she was being praised or censored. She didn’t have time to decide, however, before the heavy-set woman continued.
“Well, now, you must come to our Ladies’ Sewing Circle, my dear, on alternate Wednesdays. I insist. We ladies mean to see that you’re not lonely.”
Hannah had lived in Newton for nine years without ever being invited into this exclusive little group. She had always assumed the ladies disapproved of her because she was so much younger than Ezra and also because, in those early years, she so obviously lacked some of the social polish she had later acquired. Deep in her heart, though, Hannah had a suspicion that these so-called ladies of Newton saw right through her and took her for the working girl she once had been.
She didn’t know how to respond to Hulda Staub’s invitation. And, to add to her dilemma, Hannah despised sewing and couldn’t imagine a worse way of spending her time than convening with a group of matrons, all poking needles through linen while rolling their eyes and wagging their tongues and making soft little tsk-ing sounds.
“Thank you, Mrs. Staub,” she said. “It’s very kind of you. Perhaps once I’m feeling a bit stronger...”
“Time, my dear,” the woman said, seeming to prefer her own voice and opinions to Hannah’s. “Time heals all. Shall we expect you next Wednesday?”
“Well, I...”
“Splendid!” Hulda Staub gathered up her packages. “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. Mr. Galt just received a lovely bolt of black moire at the emporium. You really must take a look at it.”
“Well, I...”
“Good day, my dear.”
Before Hannah could reply, the mayor’s wife was already bustling away. On her way, Hannah thought, to accost some other unsuspecting citizen. Then she immediately chastised herself for even entertaining such an uncharitable notion. No doubt Mrs. Staub meant well.
But, in the hope of avoiding any other well-meaning, solicitous folk, Hannah surveyed both sides of Main Street. The few people she saw were minding their own business while doing their best to keep to the shady portion of the sidewalk. Then, although she hadn’t planned it, her gaze came to rest on the empty chair in front of the sheriff’s office, and her heart promptly fluttered at the sight.
“Oh, Hannah,” she muttered under her breath. It wasn’t right, that feathery feeling inside her. It hadn’t been right when Ezra was alive. It was worse now that he was barely in his grave. It was downright wrong. Perhaps even sinful. Probably so. She ripped her gaze away from that beguiling chair just in time to see Henry Allen bound off the sidewalk in front of the bank.
“Mrs. Dancer,” he said breathlessly after sprinting across the street, kicking up dust in his wake. “You shouldn’t be out in this infernal heat. Why, you’ll melt away for certain.”
“I hardly think so, Henry. Unless, of course, you believe I’m made of snow or ice.”
His smooth-shaven cheeks flushed. “Oh, no. That would be an insult to one as sweet as you.” He crooked his arm in invitation. “May I escort you to Mrs. Tyndall’s for a lemonade?”
Instead of feeling flattered by his offer, Hannah was irritated. The silly young man. Why didn’t he aim those Cupid’s darts and sunbeams at someone who’d truly appreciate them? Florence Green, for example. But Henry appeared to regard the spinster schoolteacher—if he regarded her at all—as little more than a fixture in the house, a piece of furniture, a hall clock in the shape of a woman or a table draped in feminine attire.
“Thank you, Henry. That’s very kind, but I have an appointment at three o’clock.”
It suddenly occurred to Hannah that between Mrs. Staub’s aggressive attentions and now Henry’s puppyish devotions, she was probably late for her appointment with Abel. Very late.
“Oh, dear. What time is it, Henry?”
He yanked his watch from his vest pocket. “Ten past three,” he said.
“Oh, dear.” Gathering up her black skirt, Hannah started down the sidewalk toward Abel’s office. “If you’ll excuse me, Henry, I’m very, very late.”
“May I see you to your destination?” he called.
Almost sprinting now herself, Hannah just waved her hand in what she hoped was a polite but firm gesture of refusal.
Being late for the reading of Ezra’s will was hardly an auspicious beginning of her new life of independence and responsibility. On the other hand, it struck her as a mere formality. What difference did it make? There was no one else in Ezra’s life except her. His parents were long dead, and since he’d been an only child there were no brothers or sisters to be remembered in his will. No long-lost cousins or uncles or aunts. Nary a niece or nephew. As far as Hannah knew, for the past fourteen years, there had been no one in his life but her.
Abel’s office was located on the second floor above Hub Watson’s saddlery and leather goods. Hannah dragged her heavy black skirts up the outside stairs, all the while dreading being met by deep frown lines on Abel’s brow and a disapproving droop to his mustache. She stood on the landing a moment to catch her breath and to steel herself for a possible reprimand for her tardiness, then she knocked on the door, just below the brass plaque that proclaimed “A. Fairfax, Attorney-at-Law, Journalist, Scribe.”
“Come in, Hannah.” Abel’s voice came through the closed door, and she was relieved that he didn’t sound unreasonably perturbed or even slightly impatient.
She opened the door and stepped into what could only be described as a dim, dusty maze of books and journals. All four walls were lined with bookcases. More bookcases stood in front of the windows, all but blotting out the light of day. Dozens of bookcases. Crammed bookcases. There were books atop the bookcases, and towers of books on the floor. A veritable librarian’s nightmare. What little sunlight that managed somehow to filter through the windows was riddled with motes of dust.
Hannah’s skirt brushed against one literary tower and set it to swaying precariously. She was leery of taking one more step for fear of starting a domino effect that would scuttle Abel’s entire office in mere moments, so she stood still just inside the door, breathing the musty air and letting her eyes become accustomed to the dim interior.
And that was when she noticed, quite suddenly, that, in addition to all the books, there was a shotgun leaning against a bookcase and, on the far side of the office, someone—Delaney!—was leaning against a window frame.
Abel rose from behind his cluttered desk. “That’s all right, Hannah. It’s an office, not a china shop. There’s nothing that’ll break. Here.” He chuckled softly as he swept a newspaper off a chair and gestured for her to be seated.
Hannah hesitated. Her heart was in her throat now, getting in the way of speech. “Shall I... Would you prefer if I waited outside until you’ve finished your business with the sheriff?” she asked.
“No. That won’t be necessary. Sit. Come on. Sit right here.” Abel glanced over his shoulder. “Sheriff, why don’t you take that other chair. Just shove those pamphlets onto the floor.”
Delaney’s spurs made a soft music when he crossed the room. Then, when he took the chair beside hers, she could have sworn the temperature in Abel’s office went up several significant degrees. Out of the corner of her eye, she was intensely aware of Delaney’s long legs, even the ropy veins on the backs of his hands and the tanned cords of muscle below his rolled-up sleeves. Before she realized it, she had reached out to grasp a pamphlet on Abel’s desk and had begun fanning herself with it.
“I’ll make this as quick as I can, Hannah. I know it’s uncomfortable in here,” Abel said.
Uncomfortable, yes. But it wasn’t just the heat, Hannah thought. Why was it she could never breathe properly when Delaney was around? Her chest felt constricted, as if her corset had shrunk a size or two.
“Thank you, Abel.” She glanced to her left, tried to mount a tiny smile, then asked, “I suppose the sheriff is here as a witness?”
“Well, no. Not exactly, Hannah. Ezra’s will was witnessed a month ago by me and Mayor Staub. Not that Herman knows what’s in it. He just signed and certified that Ezra was competent and in his right mind.” Abel’s gaze moved slowly and deliberately from Hannah to Delaney and back. “Which he was, I think you’ll agree, in spite of his pain. Competent, I mean, and in his right mind.”
“Of course he was,” she said with more than a little starchiness. “Ezra was the sanest man I’ve ever known.”
Delaney merely shrugged.
“All right then.” Abel picked up a single folded sheet of paper. “I’ll just read this in Ezra’s own words. It’s pretty simple. No wherefore’s or furthermore’s or other legal mumbo jumbo. Just his final wishes.”
Read it! Hannah wanted to scream. Let this be done so I can go home. Home where it’s cool and I can breathe again.
After unfolding the paper, Abel stared at it a moment and then began to read. “These are my worldly goods. A house located on the corner of Main and Madison Streets in Newton, Kansas, and all the contents therein. There aren’t any secret bank accounts or railroad certificates hidden in drawers or books. There’s a thousand dollars in gold, Hannah, and you know where that is. It’s yours now.”
Abel peered over the will at Hannah. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask if she understood. Hannah nodded in reply. She knew where the gold was. Over the years Ezra had a habit of stashing coins in the pair of French porcelain ewers on the mantel in the front parlor. Since she was the one who dusted there and had to move the heavy vases, it didn’t surprise her a bit that the total came to a thousand dollars.
Abel cleared his throat and continued. “As for the furniture and all the other contents of the house, they’re yours, too, Hannah.”
She nodded again, unsurprised, for she had chosen nearly every stick of furniture and every rug, plate, picture and pillowcase there. “Fill up our house, honey,” Ezra had said. And so she had.
To her left now, Hannah was aware of Delaney shifting restlessly in his chair. He seemed as eager to leave as she was.
“About the house,” Abel read. “I’ve given this considerable thought. Delaney, you saved my life last January when my feet went out from under me in front of the bank and the McCarthy boys’ wagon just about backed over me. Maybe you don’t even recollect what you did.”
Abel glanced toward the sheriff. “You remember that?” he asked.
“Sorta.”
Hannah had a vague memory of a bruise on Ezra’s arm sometime last winter. It might have been January. “It’s nothing,” he’d told her. “Slipped on the confounded ice.” But he hadn’t said a word about any peril or apparent rescue.
Abel read on. “You said it was nothing then, yanking me out of harm’s way like that. But it wasn’t nothing to me. I was dying anyway, but at least you kept me from dying a cripple or an amputee. I’m grateful to you, Delaney. And so I’m leaving you my house.”
Hannah stopped fanning herself. “The house? What was that about the house, Abel?” Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. Surely Ezra hadn’t meant...
