It was always worth waiting until midnight for the brightest stars to come
out. Leaving the confines of the porch, Marston walked over to the stand
of trees at the corner of the house. The deep shade promised greater
privacy. He sat on the bench, drew deeply on his cigar, blew out a cloud
of smoke and stared up into the sky.
He thought about the events of the evening. Up until now his life had been free of beautiful young women who burst into tears in his parlor. He was not sure he welcomed the innovation.
*********************************************
Sam had wept for some time. He sat like a statue, waiting for the storm to subside, trying to think of something to say that would comfort an unknown and grievous affliction. Finally, she swiped her hand across her eyes and sniffed.
"He might as well be dead, sir. He suffered a stroke a few months ago. He just lies in bed, getting weaker..." She faltered, gesturing with her hand to cover the momentary lapse. "He can barely talk. We have to feed him like a baby."
"I'm sorry." He handed her his handkerchief. It seemed as inadequate as his words.
She dabbed her eyes with the cloth. "It was pretty touch and go for a while. The doctor said he had too much fight in him to give up in the first round. But he's getting better."
It seemed important to her that he acknowledge this, so he nodded in an encouraging manner.
"Every day he's a little stronger. The doctor said not but we can see it." The handkerchief was balled up in one clenched fist. "Dad had just finished a job for the bank so we had some money to get by. But the money didn't last. Liam is twelve and old enough to get some work in the livery stables. I did some sewing for ladies and we moved to cheaper rooms. But it wasn't enough."
She rose to her feet and paced the carpet. "That's why your letter was the answer to our prayers. Just out of the blue like that." At the end of the room she turned and stared back anxiously. "Did you really mean it? Thirty gold pieces a month for twelve months?"
"Yes, I meant it." The whiskey decanter on the table sparkled in the firelight and he rose to refill his glass.
The heels of her boots rapped quickly across the floorboards. "I can do it, Mr. Marston. Whatever work you wanted my father to do, I can do it. He taught all of us to shoot. I learned everything from him." She stopped when she reached his side. "Please, Mr. Marston, give me this job. I need it."
The whiskey gurgled into his glass. He replaced the stopper with great care. "It's no kind of work for a woman." Leaving a desperate silence behind him, he walked back to his chair.
*******************************************************
His cigar had gone out. The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel distracted him from his search for a match.
"Evening, Boss." A darker shadow paused in the gloom. "Takin' some air?"
Marston peered into the gloom. "Fred? What are you doing up?"
"Just too tired to sleep, I reckon." The shadow came closer and assumed the shape and features of a worker on a sheep ranch. "That trip gets longer and harder every time I make it."
"You're getting old, Fred. Time I put you out to pasture."
Silence fell between them and joined the night around them. Marston relit his cigar.
"What the hell were you thinking of?" He said finally.
"Boss, weren't no way that woman was stayin' behind in town. She pulled a gun on Jack when we wouldn't take her in the wagon." Fred spat into the darkness. It was a gesture redolent of contempt for women who didn't know their place in life.
"So you brought her here."
"Well, we figured she'd have to take it from you." The sheep worker propped one foot on the bench. "If you tell her she ain't hired, there's nuthin' she kin do about it."
"Mmmm." Marston let the remark pass.
"You told her yet?"
"Oh, several times. But she's stubborn." Marston exhaled a chestful of smoke with a deep sigh. "And desperate."
"What are you gonna do? Beggin' yer pardon, sir." Fred hazarded a quick look, then spat again quickly, lest he be thought to be too interested in the answer.
Marston stood up suddenly and threw his cigar away. "Right now I'm going to turn in. And I'd advise you to do the same." There was a faint hissing sound as it landed in the oxen's water trough.
"Yes, sir." The man's chagrin was apparent even in the dark. "Night, then."
Marston nodded. He walked back to the house and entered the main room through the carved front door. Walking with gentle steps down the main hallway, he stopped halfway and cocked an ear. His precautions were unnecessary; his guest was still awake.
She had not yet succeeded in crying herself to sleep.
He thought about the events of the evening. Up until now his life had been free of beautiful young women who burst into tears in his parlor. He was not sure he welcomed the innovation.
*********************************************
Sam had wept for some time. He sat like a statue, waiting for the storm to subside, trying to think of something to say that would comfort an unknown and grievous affliction. Finally, she swiped her hand across her eyes and sniffed.
"He might as well be dead, sir. He suffered a stroke a few months ago. He just lies in bed, getting weaker..." She faltered, gesturing with her hand to cover the momentary lapse. "He can barely talk. We have to feed him like a baby."
"I'm sorry." He handed her his handkerchief. It seemed as inadequate as his words.
She dabbed her eyes with the cloth. "It was pretty touch and go for a while. The doctor said he had too much fight in him to give up in the first round. But he's getting better."
It seemed important to her that he acknowledge this, so he nodded in an encouraging manner.
"Every day he's a little stronger. The doctor said not but we can see it." The handkerchief was balled up in one clenched fist. "Dad had just finished a job for the bank so we had some money to get by. But the money didn't last. Liam is twelve and old enough to get some work in the livery stables. I did some sewing for ladies and we moved to cheaper rooms. But it wasn't enough."
She rose to her feet and paced the carpet. "That's why your letter was the answer to our prayers. Just out of the blue like that." At the end of the room she turned and stared back anxiously. "Did you really mean it? Thirty gold pieces a month for twelve months?"
"Yes, I meant it." The whiskey decanter on the table sparkled in the firelight and he rose to refill his glass.
The heels of her boots rapped quickly across the floorboards. "I can do it, Mr. Marston. Whatever work you wanted my father to do, I can do it. He taught all of us to shoot. I learned everything from him." She stopped when she reached his side. "Please, Mr. Marston, give me this job. I need it."
The whiskey gurgled into his glass. He replaced the stopper with great care. "It's no kind of work for a woman." Leaving a desperate silence behind him, he walked back to his chair.
*******************************************************
His cigar had gone out. The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel distracted him from his search for a match.
"Evening, Boss." A darker shadow paused in the gloom. "Takin' some air?"
Marston peered into the gloom. "Fred? What are you doing up?"
"Just too tired to sleep, I reckon." The shadow came closer and assumed the shape and features of a worker on a sheep ranch. "That trip gets longer and harder every time I make it."
"You're getting old, Fred. Time I put you out to pasture."
Silence fell between them and joined the night around them. Marston relit his cigar.
"What the hell were you thinking of?" He said finally.
"Boss, weren't no way that woman was stayin' behind in town. She pulled a gun on Jack when we wouldn't take her in the wagon." Fred spat into the darkness. It was a gesture redolent of contempt for women who didn't know their place in life.
"So you brought her here."
"Well, we figured she'd have to take it from you." The sheep worker propped one foot on the bench. "If you tell her she ain't hired, there's nuthin' she kin do about it."
"Mmmm." Marston let the remark pass.
"You told her yet?"
"Oh, several times. But she's stubborn." Marston exhaled a chestful of smoke with a deep sigh. "And desperate."
"What are you gonna do? Beggin' yer pardon, sir." Fred hazarded a quick look, then spat again quickly, lest he be thought to be too interested in the answer.
Marston stood up suddenly and threw his cigar away. "Right now I'm going to turn in. And I'd advise you to do the same." There was a faint hissing sound as it landed in the oxen's water trough.
"Yes, sir." The man's chagrin was apparent even in the dark. "Night, then."
Marston nodded. He walked back to the house and entered the main room through the carved front door. Walking with gentle steps down the main hallway, he stopped halfway and cocked an ear. His precautions were unnecessary; his guest was still awake.
She had not yet succeeded in crying herself to sleep.