In his eagerness to get home, Bobby Lester traveled through the night with the now empty stock wagon. He was hungry, but he did not even stop to eat. His only desire was to be back in the small town of Point Blank.
"Stay awake," he told himself. "Just a few more miles, and you'll be home."
He rubbed his tired eyes with a strong hand. His body rocked with the bumps of the dirt road. He listened to the creaking of the wheels. That sound reminded him of his father. His pa had made wagons for a living. As a child, Bobby would go with his father to take the vehicles on their very first test drive. The wheels always creaked on the first ride, he thought. Then, when we got back to the shop, Pa would grease 'em just right 'til they didn't squeak no more. He was a real talented man.
If only we hadn't come west. His mother and father had decided to move west to find land, expand their horizons, pursue new opportunities. All their dreams came to an abrupt stop when their wagon caught fire one night on the trail. His father had sacrificed himself to save Bobby and his mother. His pa died before help arrived. His ma was burnt pretty badly, and she died a few days later when infection invaded the sores on her skin.
Bobby was raised by a local farmer who more than willingly took him in. The man had had no children of his own, and his Cherokee wife had been taken by a bullet from the gun of a white man. The farmer taught Bobby about plants, animals, and the ways of the red man. Bobby became friends with the local Indians, and he fell in love with a young squaw. However, the girl was promised to the chief's son. He knew he could challenge the young man, and the winner would be given the girl. But Running Deer was his friend, and he could not challenge his friend. Instead, he left home and headed further west. He thought that maybe he could finish the dream his parents had started.
Bobby nodded off, but woke quickly with the jolting of the wagon. He yawned and focused his attention back on the dark road. Some time in the wee hours of the morning, he directed the horses toward the O'Brien's barn. He unhitched the team, leaving the wagon in its proper place, and then saddled his own horse. He rubbed at his sore shoulder muscles.
Inside his room of the boardinghouse, Bobby sat down in the chair to remove his boots. The soft cushions were so much more comfortable than the hard bench of the wagon. He relaxed momentarily. Slowly his eyes closed, and he fell asleep sitting up—with his boots on.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. Coffee? Who was making coffee? And how? There was no stove in his small boardinghouse room. He slowly opened his eyes. He expected to see the brown dresser that held his clothes. He expected to see the water bowl and pitcher. He expected to see his cowboy hat hanging on the coat tree. His eyes scanned his surroundings. They were not there. No, that was not it. He was not there. He was not in his room. Where was he? The decorative walls looked familiar. The large mahogany table looked familiar. The china cabinet filled with expensive dishes looked familiar.
A voice hummed and sang somewhere in another room. Bobby listened intently. He knew that voice. He knew that song.
"LeAnna?" he whispered. He stood and walked softly through the doorway. "LeAnna!"
A petite young lady turned from the stove. "Yes, Robert, what is it?"
Bobby stared at her and then glanced about the kitchen. "I… you… I don't…" He breathed in deeply. "Where am I?"
LeAnna chuckled and returned to cooking. "What do you mean—where are you? You're in the kitchen. Did you have a good nap?"
He nodded slowly.
"Would you like some coffee?"
He nodded again and sat down at the table. LeAnna poured him a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. Then she gave him two madeline cookies.
"After your snack," she said, "go upstairs and wash up. Father will be home from town soon, and I want you to be presentable. It just wouldn't do for you to be all sleepy-eyed and your hair all a mess." She clapped her hands together. "Oh, I can't wait for you two to finally meet. I'm so tired of going behind Father's back. If I had thought for one moment he would be civil toward you before now, I would have had you over for dinner weeks ago."
She sat down next to him. "I just couldn't believe my ears when he told me last night that it didn't matter if I married into society. I surely hope it wasn't just the liquor talking."
Bobby looked up from his coffee and ran a hand over his face.
LeAnna held up her hand. "Not that there's anything wrong with you not being a socialite. It's just that Daddy never took too kindly to cowmen." She sighed. "Are you finished with your snack? Go on upstairs and freshen up."
He dragged himself up the tall staircase. His head throbbed, and he was slightly dizzy. He splashed some water on his face. It was ice cold. He poured water from the pitcher into his hand to drink, and lifted his fingers to his lips. It burned his throat. He coughed and swallowed hard. He sat down on the canopied bed. He was exhausted, but he could not remember what he had done that day. He could not remember why he was so tired.
He thought about LeAnna. She was so sweet. Well, usually, anyway. She could be a little pushy at times, but Bobby chalked that up to her more than comfortable way of life. She was used to getting her way. And she used her intelligence to get her way. She could talk anyone into anything. Bobby figured she could connive a turtle into giving her its shell.
And she was so beautiful, more beautiful than any girl he had met before. He pictured her blond hair shimmering in the sunlight as they picnicked by the pond. He wondered why she wasn't married. He knew men looked after her with adoration. He'd seen it in their eyes. Any man would be more than lucky to have her. He was surprised someone hadn't asked for her hand long ago. She was nineteen, five years younger than himself, but really an old maid by area standards. Most girls around town were married by sixteen, just as soon as they finished their schooling, or earlier if they or their pas thought it necessary.
"Robert!" he heard LeAnna call. "Robert, Daddy is coming down the walk. Come on down here."
Bobby wiped his face on his sleeve and headed back down the steps. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
LeAnna was talking to her father. "I gave Samson and Callie the day off, and I cooked dinner for you. I made that soup you like—the Mexican one, um, tortilla soup—and also those cookies you like so much. And I thought we could use Momma's good china. It's so pretty, and we haven't used it since she passed away. It reminds me of her—the beautiful roses, the creamy white finish."
Her father grunted his reply.
"We have a dinner guest this evening, too. I hope you don't mind." She motioned toward Bobby. "Robert, come and join us."
Bobby shuffled toward them. He seemed so tired. He could hardly move his feet. He raised his head and glanced toward Mr. Bledsoe. Both he and LeAnna watched her father's face intently. How would he react to Bobby's presence?
"G-good evenin', Mr. Bledsoe," Bobby all but whispered.
LeAnna's father looked at him coldly and then sat down at the large dining table. "You sellin' somethin'?" His deep voice pierced the air.
"N-no, sir," the young man replied.
"Lookin' for work?" Mr. Bledsoe growled.
"No, sir."
Mr. Bledsoe cursed and jerked up his head. "Then why are you here?"
"Daddy," LeAnna said softly. "Robert has come to ask your permission to call on me."
He tore apart his bread and darted his daughter a firey look. "Can't he speak for himself?'
"Mr. Bledsoe," Bobby began. "Sir, I would like to ask fer yer blessin' on me courtin' LeAnna."
"And what makes you think you're special enough to court my little girl?"
"W-well, I'm a hard worker," Bobby said, "and I believe I would make her a good husband." He looked at LeAnna, and she smiled at him.
"You believe that, do you?" Mr. Bledsoe loosened his necktie. "And what exactly is it that you work so hard at? You help with your family's plantation? Do the books? What?"
"Um, no, sir. I have no family. I'm a cattleman. I'm currently workin' for Senor Jesus de la Pena just east of town."
"You got money?"
"I have a little. But if you mean, am I wealthy—no I'm not wealthy."
"Well, then, Robert, I don't really see you being able to make my little girl as good of a husband as you think."
"But, Daddy," LeAnna whined, "last night you said…"
Mr. Bleddsoe's voice boomed. "Last night I was drunk."
"I plan to buy my own piece of land real soon," Bobby explained. "Ranchers are doin' quite well 'round here these days. Why, Thomas Jackson's boy is thinkin' of buyin' him a couple dozen head and leavin' the cotton to the old timers."
LeAnna gasped.
"No, offense, sir," Bobby mumbled.
"Old timers, eh?" Mr. Bledsoe repeated. "Son, I think you need to get yourself some manners and respect for your elders. And for your information, no daughter of mine will ever be trusted to the likes of you."
"But, Daddy!" LeAnna cried.
Her father shook his finger at Bobby. "Get out of my house this instant."
The young man stood and backed toward the door.
"Don't go, Robert," the girl pleaded. "We can work this out. Please don't go."
"Get out!" Mr. Bledsoe shouted again.
Bobby scrambled to the front porch. He could hear LeAnna sobbing as he rushed down the steps, but he did not stop running until he reached the road. He had left his horse at the ranch so that Mr. Bledsoe would not see it upon arriving home. Now, it would be a long, lonely walk back to the ranch. Yes, he would go home now, he decided. He would let Mr. Bledsoe cool off. Perhaps tomorrow LeAnna's father would be a little more amicable.
He stopped to smell of a rose on the stone fence. It was LeAnna's flower. LeAnna Rose Bledsoe—such a beautiful name. He ran his hand over his face and sighed. Then he resumed his trek homeward. He walked to the end of the lane and kicked at a pebble with the toe of his boot.
Suddenly he heard the pounding of horse hooves behind him. He turned toward the clatter. LeAnna brought her palomino to a halt next to him.
"Get on!" she shouted.
Bobby stared at her in disbelief.
"Get on!" she ordered again. She pushed herself forward in the saddle. He reached for the horn and shoved his foot in the stirrup. "Hurry," she gasped. "Hurry."
A gunshot sliced through the darkening evening air. LeAnna cried out and then slumped back against Bobby's shoulder. "Robert," she whispered. "Robert, help me. Please."
He lowered himself back to the ground. He slowly pulled LeAnna from the horse. She'd been shot in the back. He pushed his hand firmly against the wound.
Mr. Bledsoe ran down the walkway waving a rifle.
"We need a doctor," Bobby screamed.
Mr. Bledsoe stopped mid-stride and stared wide-eyed at his daughter's crumpled form.
"A doctor!" Bobby shouted again.
One of the servants had heard the shot and ran toward the house. "I'll run for Doc Oldham," the black man called.
Mr. Bledsoe stepped to the young couple's side. "My baby, I shot my baby girl." He crouched down. "LeAnna? LeAnna, are you okay?" No response. "LeAnna Rose, answer me." He touched her arm. She moved slightly, revealing a small stream of blood on her bottom lip. Mr. Bledsoe shook the girl's shoulder. "Wake up!"
LeAnna mumbled a few words, groaned, and coughed. Then silence.
"Do something!" the father growled.
Bobby used his free hand to tenderly push the hair away from her face. He shut his eyes and pressed his ear against her chest. He raised his head slowly. "She's gone," he told Mr. Bledsoe.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?"
Bobby sucked in air. "She's dead."
"No, you're lyin'! She's not dead! I wasn't even shootin' at her. I meant to hit you. I couldn't let her run away with you." He stood to his full height. "This is your fault! You did this!"
"What do you mean? You shot her, not me." Bobby felt tears stinging his eyes.
"You killed my little girl!" the older man shrieked. "You killed her!'
Bobby was on his feet now. "I didn't! I didn't do it!" He turned and ran as fast as he could.
As he ran, he could hear Mr. Bledsoe shouting over and over, "You killed my Rose! You killed my Rose!"
He did not stop running until he reached the ranch. He rubbed at his neck. His throat burned. After he caught his breath, he quickly saddled his horse. He talked to the stable hand as he worked. "Tell Senor de la Pena I had to leave. I can't stay. They think I killed her."
The stable hand shook his head. "No comprendo, Senor."
Bobby sighed and pulled a piece of brown paper from his saddlebag. He scribbled a note to his boss. "Give this to Senor de la Pena." He handed the note to the servant. "Senor de la Pena," he said again. The little man nodded his understanding.
Bobby pushed his horse harder than he dared. The stallion wouldn't be able to keep the pace for long, but he needed to put as much distance between him and town as quickly as possible. He would travel through the night. Surely they wouldn't pursue him until morning. He rubbed his neck again. His throat still burned. And his head ached almost unbearably.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
His eyes darted around the surrounding night distance. What was that?
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Indian drums? No, there were no longer violent Indians in the area. He listened closer. Silence. And then he heard it again.
Suddenly someone had him by the shoulders. He could not see his enemy in the thick darkness. "I didn't kill her!" he shouted. "It wasn't me!"
"Bobby," a voice said.
"I didn't do it," he said again.
His assailant shook him once more. "Bobby, wake up."
He opened his eyes. Red stood over him. Bobby looked around. He was in his boardinghouse room once again. Sunlight poured through the open window.
"What? I didn't…" He rubbed his eyes.
Red stepped backwards. "Are you okay?"
Bobby squinted and sat up. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm alright."
"I knocked several times," Red said. "You didn't answer, so I let myself in. I noticed the stock wagon in the barn an' knew you were back from the city. When you didn't show up at the farm this mornin', I got worried."
"I'm sorry," Bobby mumbled. "I got home in the middle of the night. I'm pretty tired."
"No problem," Red assured him. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Seems Birdie's got scarlet fever, an' you were exposed the other day. How are ya feelin'?"
"Like I said—I'm real tired. An' I don't feel real good, but I can't complain."
"Ya strong enough to work a little while? Got that yearling that needs breakin'. An' I gotta git as much done this mornin' as I can so that I can take my turn doctorin' Bridie this evenin'."
"She gonna be okay?" Bobby asked.
"Hope so," Red said. "She's broke out real good-like. Red all over. Doc said that the fever shouldn't last but a week or so, an' if she gets through that alright, she should do fine."
"Where'd she get it from?" Bobby wondered aloud.
"That we know of, Betty Hoffines' boy is the only one in town who's had it so far. Think he got it in the city when he went there with his uncle couple weeks back."
"Uh, that's not a good thing," Bobby said.
"What?"
"When I was at Betty's house puttin' in her kitchen cabinets, Chad was tellin' his momma that he didn't feel good. I guess that's when he had the scarlet fever?"
Red breathed in deeply. "Prob'ly so. Maybe you oughta stay home an' rest today, then."
Bobby shook his head. "Naw, I'll be alright. Give me few minutes to get some breakfast, an' I'll be right over.