Chapter Three:
Morton felt that World War III had erupted in Kelly's house when he got home from his orthodontist appointment. He could hear Kelly and her mother yelling at each other. Andy, however, was sitting on the porch swing, reading. Morton walked over and said, "I see war has started. Do they do this a lot?"
Andy didn't look up from his book. "Every time they're together."
Morton sat in a vacant deck chair and asked, "How can you stand it?"
"I've gotten used to it," Andy said. "Kelly and Alison don't have a very good relationship. They've been like this for about 34 years; since she was two and developed a personality of her own that conflicted with her mother's. After so long, you get used to it and learn to love the times your daughter runs from her mother to you... Of course, now instead of her mother sending Kelly away—"
"Get out of my house! Get OUT!!" Kelly yelled from within the house. Her voice was positively dripping with utter loathing. "How dare you say that about him! He has done nothing to you! Nothing!! Get out!!"
Alison stalked outside, slamming the door behind her. When she saw Morton sitting next to Andy, her eyes grew cold and her voice harsh, "You're stealing her from me and I want her back! I don't want you near her ever again! Do you hear me?"
"Alison, be reasonable," Andy said, placing a bookmark in the pages. "The girl's 36 years old. She's not your teenage daughter anymore. She knows what she's doing; let them alone."
Alison groaned and stormed away, taking the rental car with her. From inside the house, the men could hear a CD blaring. Andy returned to his book and Morton entered the house.
"Broadway is dark tonight;
Little bit weaker then you used to be.
Broadway is dark tonight...
See the young man sitting in the old man's bar,
Waiting for his turn to die..."He found Kelly in her study, reading his manuscript. Her brow was furrowed in her concentration and her loose strands of hair falling out of her ponytail framed her face gracefully. She had changed out of her pajamas into her black Capri's and black baby t-shirt with 'PHF' on the front in brilliant green. Her right hand supported her forehead, stopping only to turn the page while she absently petted Bump who was resting happily on the armrest with her left. She didn't look up when he entered, and he didn't feel he had to make his presence known. He quietly took a seat in the other armchair in the room and waited.
After a few minutes, she sighed and said, "Cassidy has a bad relationship with her family—except her father, that is—like me... Did you write this based on me?" She looked up at him, a questioning look in her eyes. Kelly seemed almost scared. "Because if you did, I'd like to know where you got your information."
Morton shook his head. "No, I just wrote it... Where are you?" he said, interested in her progress.
"Wyatt Earp just gave her permission to court Ringo and her mother disowned her..."
I was calmly concentrating on the piano music I had memorized. This particular song I hadn't played for a while and my fingers were stumbling more than usual over the keys. So, I was frustrated already when Fehr walked up behind me and whispered in my ear, "We need to talk."
Those four words tended to chill a woman's heart when spoken by her beau. Not mine, though. I didn't particularly care that Fehr had said then, either, "Not now, I'm busy."
"Like hell you're busy!" he growled, slamming the key cover shut, almost crushing my fingers, which I pulled out of harm's way. The loud noise resonated in the hallow piano, drawing the eyes of every patron in the saloon. "We're gonna talk now, whether you like it or not!"
"Fine," I said, walking over to the bar. "Talk. I'm all ears. Water, Milt. Please." On the edge of my vision, I saw Johnny Ringo stand and walk to place himself in a strategic location. Which, at the time, was behind Wyatt's faro table.
"I know what's happening between you and Ringo, Eilis. I'm not stupid. Don't think I can't see it in your eyes," Fehr said, glaring at me with a very accusing pair of his own. "Every night, you dote on him during your poker games. Your eyes meet more than is natural."
"Ryan, I don't know what you're talking about," I said, sipping my water. I saw Johnny's hand slid to his holstered pistol. For once, I was not happy I had such excellent peripheral vision; for I also noticed we had the attention of every person in the Oriental.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he wiped away the powder concealing the dark circles under my eyes. "Those aren't from being beaten. You've been sneaking out to see him after I take you home!"
"What are you talking about, Fehr? I've been staying up late the past few nights to finish my sister's birthday gift! It's her sixteenth next week!" I said, my voice rising in pitch and volume. That's when Fehr struck me. He backhanded me so hard, I nearly fell to the other side of the counter I was leaning against. Whatever side conversations still happening were silenced.
"Eilis, Xylia Faire wasn't the only Fehr to know the dark arts. I know your thoughts and they contradict your words," Fehr whispered in my ear, while holding onto my hair. "You may as well confess."
"Mr. Fehr, step away from Miss Cassidy," Johnny said, hand on holstered pistol, approaching us.
"Back off, Ringo. It's your fault she and I are having this conversation!" Fehr snarled at the Cowboy.
Fehr had me in a very uncomfortable position. My entire torso was flat against the bar counter, my arms pinned to my sides by either Fehr's chest or his other arm, reaching across my width. He had a tight grip on my curls and was pulling so hard, I was in tears of pain. Unwilling tears to boot. I could taste blood in my mouth and realized when he had hit me, I had bit my tongue almost severing the tip of it.
"Your tears do you no good. They do nothing but dehydrate you, Eilis," Fehr said, mocking my pain.
"No man is worth crying for. The only one who is, will never make me cry," I said evenly. "But, Mr. Fehr, you're correct. You're absolutely correct. I'm—in—love—with—Johnny Ringo."
I heard a chair scrap as gasps filled the saloon. Fehr had let of me and I slide off the counter into the sheltered side of the bar, grabbed a dishcloth and held it to my mouth as I watched, cautiously what was happening on the other side of my refuge.
"Ringo, we have some business to discuss, then," Fehr let fly a punch, but the blow never struck home. Five inches from breaking his nose, Johnny had caught Fehr's hand.
"Don't. Touch. Me," Johnny said, quietly. He let Fehr loose. Fehr glared at him, then left.
I sank to the floor, still chewing on the dishcloth, and leaning against the cupboards, began rubbing my sore scalp. As I sat, I could hear Wyatt and Johnny speaking in low voices while the saloon's usual dull roar resumed.
Fehr had been gone for close to five minutes when Johnny joined me on the floor. My tongue had stopped bleeding, but I could still taste the metallic liquid in my mouth. "Are you alright?" Johnny asked, slipping an arm around my waist.
"Yeah. Just sore," I answered, tossing the dishcloth into the basket Milt keeps his dirty towels in before I wash them. I leaned against Johnny's shoulder and sighed, "What did Wyatt want to talk to you about?"
Johnny raised an eyebrow, "What makes you think he and I spoke to each other?"
"Oh. Come off it, Ringo. The two of you have very distinctive growls!" I teased.
"He wanted to make sure I would be able to take care of you before he let me court you," Johnny said nonchalantly.
"Don't lie to me," I said, "you know I hate it."
"He's not lying. What a horrible thing to say about your beau, Ciara. I'm surprised. I mean, after last night, I'd thought you would be happy I—um—informed Fehr of your actions," I looked up and Wyatt was leaning over the bar and smiling down on us. "Besides, why did you think I convinced your mother to let you move in with me an' Mattie? I hate Ringo, but I hate Fehr more, and I can't bear seeing you unhappy." He tapped me on the head and left.
"He's... not... serious... Is he?" I asked.
Johnny simply nodded, amused by the look of shock on my face.
I threw my arms around him and kissed him happily.
I am convinced there is nothing more frightening than a forty-year-old Irish mother who was extremely angry with you.
"EILIS CIARA CASSIDY!!!"
I was shocked so completely to hear my mother's voice in the Oriental that I hit a few sour notes. Mother never believed in my interest with the saloons I worked in. I had never in my life seen her even near the saloons, excepting the night Papaw died. She usually kept clear of Allen Street, sending Keely or I to run any errands that would send us down there. I pretended I didn't hear her and continued playing. I threw a worried look at Wyatt and Johnny, both of whom were nearby. Wyatt sent me a silent message, telling me not to worry. I finished the piece and closed the piano.
"Don't you dare ignore me, young lady!" my mother shouted, making her way through the crowd that parted for her.
I continued about my usual business of clearing away the piano.
Thankfully, Wyatt came to my rescue. "Mrs. Cassidy, would you like to join us in a bit of poker?" he asked mother, knowing she could never resist a good game of five card draw.
"Not now, Wyatt. I need to speak with my disobedient daughter," she hissed at him, surprising us both.
"What has she done, madam, that was so disobedient? I've seen her do no wrong," Johnny said cautiously.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the woman whip around and aim a cocked pistol at his head. She said in a deadly whisper, "Git away from me, you sonnav a bitch. First you stole my husband from me. You're not gonna steal my daughter." She began to squeeze the trigger.
I realized with a jolt that mother did indeed know how to use a gun and that nobody was going to do anything for Johnny. "Ma, stop!" I ran up behind her and pulled the pistol out of her grasp. "You could hurt someone with this," I scolded her, then realized whose weapon it was, "This is mine! So you've had it all this time?"
Mother turned to look me in the eye. Only then did I noticed how vertically challenged she was compared to me. In a low growl, she said, "Don't lecture me, lass. I'm at the end of my rope with you!"
I bent to look her in the eye and said very sweetly, "Then tie a knot and hold on, mother."
"You are my daughter, and therefore, you will abide by my rules!"
"I don't live in your house, I'll follow the rules Wyatt sets before me," I said, twirling my pistol that she had stolen from me three years ago.
"Wyatt?" she said quietly, glancing at said frontiersman.
While her attention was averted, I walked over to Johnny and took his hand.
"Wyatt, I cannot believe you would do this to my family!" my mother said.
"Wake up, Ailill! The girl's almost twenty-six years old! Let her go," Wyatt said, leaning on the faro table in front of him.
"I've lost one daughter, already, Wyatt. I'm not ready to –"
"You're not ready to let me live my life the way I want? Forgive me, mother, but you don't own me. Never have, never will. I have the right to love whomever I please!" I raised my voice to my mother for the first time in my life.
She turned, shocked, and, seeing my hand clasped firmly in Johnny's, grew angry, "You ungrateful wench! Is this how you honor your father's memory? I swear, if I had that pistol, I'd—"
I shot at the target five times, emptying the weapon, then handed it to her. "You'd what?" I asked, sweetly smiling at her.
She moved to hit me with the butt of the gun. Johnny caught her wrist and Wyatt took the pistol. My mother glared at Johnny, "Listen, buddy, I don't know who you think you are, but that is my daughter and—"
"Ailill, you gave up parental ownership when you let me take her in. Now, go home, have Keely make you a cup of tea, and leave Ciara alone," Wyatt said, leading my mother out of the saloon and down the street.
"You've made a right mess of your family relationships, I'd say, Miss Cassidy."
"She never really cared much about me, Virgil. To her, I'd be the runt of the litter," I answered, wrapping my arms around Johnny's waist.
"That can't be true, Miss Cassidy!"
"It is, Josephine. It's high time you learn that not everything in Tombstone is perfect..."
The front door opened and closed. Assuming it was her father, the writer and his publisher ignored it and continued with their cross-examination of the manuscript. Minutes later, however, an unfamiliar man entered the study, "Mrs. Dryden, Mr. Rainey, my name is Fred Johnston. It is a pleasure to meet you because I'm going to make a ton of money on this case!"
In her surprise, Kelly gave a sudden start, pulling herself out of her sleep. She checked the nearest clock, saw it read about 2:47 am and went downstairs to the kitchen where she found her father's note on the counter:
Dolly—
We're sorry about leaving without saying good-bye, but your mother was livid and she couldn't stand staying next door to Mr. Rainey any longer. We'll be in the hotel across the lake for three more nights, and then go back to Ogden.
Hugs and kisses. Sleep sweet and see you in the morning; I want to take you out for breakfast before you go to work.
Love, Dad
Smiling at his thoughtfulness, Kelly tucked her father's message into a plastic page protector in her desk drawer so she could put it in her unfinished scrapbook, then got a glass of water. As she sipped her water, she thought about her dream. It was so strange and so sudden! It was true she and Morton had been discussing his manuscript, but there had been no lawyer named Fred Johnston or otherwise. He had said he was going to make 'a ton of money on this case...' She worried what that meant. What case? Where they finally going to press murder charges against Morton?
Shuddering, Kelly took her drink and walked into the living room. She screamed and her glass shattered against the floor.
Standing before a roaring fire Kelly could've sworn wasn't there moments before was a man she had never seen before. The man looked about 45-ish. 'He was very thin. His face was calm, almost serene, but carved with deep lines. They moved horizontally across his high brow in regular waves, cut vertically downward from the ends of his thin lips to his jaw line, and radiated outward in tiny sprays from the corners of his eyes. The eyes were bright, unfaded blue. Kelly couldn't tell what colored his hair was; he wore a large black hat with a round crown planted squarely on his head. The underside of the brim touched the tops of his ears. It looked like the sort of hat Quakers wore. He had no sideburns, either, and for all Kelly knew, he might be as bald as Telly Savalas under that round-crowned felt hat.
'He was wearing a blue work-shirt. It was buttoned neatly all the way to the loose, razor-reddened flesh of his neck, although he wore no tie. The bottom of the shirt disappeared into a pair of blue-jeans that looked a little too big for the man wearing them. They ended in cuffs which lay neatly on a pair of yellow work-shoes which looked made for walking in a furrow of played-out earth about thee and a half feet behind a mule's ass.'
"There's no need to be scared, missus," the man said, coming towards her. The firelight glinted off a metal object in his hand. "I ain't gonna hurt you..." His hand twitched and the metal object came into better light: it was a large, sharp knife from her kitchen.
Side-stepping the broken glass, Kelly inched towards the stairs. "Who are you; what do you want?" she demanded, shakily.
He walked towards her. "Little Mormon girl like you got no business with Mr. Rainey, no how," he said, quietly, but menacingly. He shifted his grip on the knife handle. "Little Mormon Girl gotta leave Mr. Rainey be... Or ya might get hurt." He lunged at her, swinging the knife.
Kelly ran up the stairs, hearing the knife dig into the beautiful woodwork of her house's walls. She stole a glance at the man. He pulled the knife out of the wall and came after her. Kelly could think of nowhere to go but Ashley's room. Strangely, it was the only one with locks on the doors.
She dashed inside and locked the door. Then, tripping over things in the dark, she made her way to the other door and locked it. She flipped the light switch and looked around her prison. It was exactly the way Ashley left it, save the items that shifted when Kelly tripped over them.
The door halfway up the stairs rattled and Kelly's heart froze. That particular lock was notorious for breaking. Quickly looking around, Kelly spotted the third door leading to the second flight of exterior stairs. She made a frantic dash across the room to it. The rattling door finally burst open as Kelly flung herself out of the house.
Kelly flew down the wooden steps. Once she was on the firm ground, the only place she could think of to run to was Morton's cabin. So that's where she went. Twenty feet from his porch, she twisted her ankle and fell. She could hear the man running behind her still on her trail. Kelly scrambled to her feet, and, wincing in pain, hobbled to his door. Once there, she pounded on it, screaming, "Morton! Morton, it's Kelly! Please, you have to let me in! PLEASE!!!"
"He's not home. Now inn't that a shame?" the man said, as he calmly walked across the enclosed porch to her. "You've got nowhere to run; nobody to save you now. It's the end of your line, Little Mormon Girl." The man raised the knife over his head and began to bring it down on Kelly.
She screamed shrilly and fell to the ground, landing hard. Her bedroom door opened and Andy stepped inside. "Dolly, are you all right?" he asked her.
Kelly noticed she had had a nightmare and fallen out of bed. She nodded and said, "Yeah. It was just a dream."
"D'you wanna talk about it?"
"No. I'll be down in a minute." She glanced at her alarm clock: 7:59 am. It switched to 8:00 and the alarm went off. Grateful her shift didn't start until 10:30, she turned off the alarm and got dressed. Her father was waiting for her when she walked down the stairs, pausing only to lightly touch Ashley's door at the stairs.
A/n: as you might have noticed, the description of Shooter is much more detailed than I ever get. That's because I borrowed it from the novella, exactly as it was written. I only did this because I hate Shooter with a passion and couldn't bring myself to think of him long enough to describe him. So, if you have issues with that... bite me.