Much love for Cybrokat and dreamsofhim for their help with this chapter. I, of course, tweaked it - so any mistakes are mine and mine alone. I had a lot of fun writing this one too, and next week's chapter is going to be a hoot. Everyone say "hello" to Nick and Brass, as they've finally made their way into this fic. And thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! Knowing that folks enjoy this story makes my day. See you next Wednesday!
Saturday dawns hot and still. No breeze stirs the dust from the roads; no clouds dot the early morning sky. Annie is at work in the kitchen when I make my way down the stairs. I join her, studying our handiwork from the night before in the process. We made some seriously good-looking pies. That competitive spirit flares in me. Damn. I'll be disappointed if we don't win today!
Breakfast is nothing special, but anticipation lingers between each bite. David is particularly eager to start the day, shoveling in potatoes and eggs as if his life depended on it. Doc is less spirited, but his eyes twinkle in the early morning light. Annie is flitting from task to task; a human bumblebee. Their mood is infectious and I fidget with a linen towel while I wait for Doc to finish his last cup of coffee.
Finally, he is done and I gather up the last remains of the breakfast mess. As I am drying the last plate, Annie scurries off to get dressed. David and Doc are huddled over the wash basin, shaving and studying their chins as if a missed whisker would end the world. I laugh quietly to myself as I pass them on my way upstairs.
I spend more time than I'd like searching through my makeshift wardrobe for a suitable dress. Simple pine boxes are not the best clothing organizers. One box stacked at the bottom of the others contains two dresses, both wrapped in tissue paper. Both are elegant, suitable for fine and luxurious occasions. I am laying them on my bed for better inspection when Annie pounds her way upstairs.
"Hmm…" she says, leaning against my doorway. "I didn't know you had those."
I smile. "I didn't either. Which one?"
"Neither. They're both too dark for being outside in the sun all day. Wear the light sundress with the blue ribbons."
I hadn't seen that one in my search. My silence is enough for Annie to realize I have no idea what she's talking about. She retrieves one of the other boxes and pulls out the sundress. It's a little feminine for my tastes, but at this point in time I'm not inclined to be picky.
My reflection in the full length mirror is not exactly promising. My hair needs serious help. Annie had left me to change in private, but she knocks lightly on the door just at the point where I'm debating whether to cover my head with the largest hat I can find, or just shave myself bald.
"Come in," I say. "I need help."
She chuckles. "Yes, you do… which is why I'm here." She's holding blue ribbons in her hand; ribbons that match my dress.
"No pigtails!" I yelp as she gently moves the fancier dresses sprawled on my bed to the side and sits down. I settle myself next to her, slightly nervous. I really should learn to relax; her ministrations are gentle and somewhat therapeutic. When she's done, we both study her work in the mirror.
I look… well, pretty. Feminine but not overly so. She's woven the ribbons through my hair in a pleated fashion, so that the various sections gather in a loose ponytail at the base of my neck.
"Be careful when you take off your hat," she chides. "You'll pull the whole thing out."
I'm feeling all giddy as I turn slowly to study myself. It hits me then how very considerate Annie has been, and how I haven't exactly been appreciative of her efforts. Annie lost her two sons in the war; she and Al traveled west over ten years ago, right after an unfriendly Union officer delivered the news of their youngest son's death. Despite their extreme dislike of war and all things related to it, they still took me in as a boarder when I arrived in town. To me, that says something.
I remember nothing of my own mother, of my own family. What are they like? Is my mother still alive? What about my father? I look at Annie and realize that although she may not be my own flesh and blood, she and Al and David are as close to a surrogate family as I'm likely to find. The thought warms me completely. They're here for me.
I turn to her. "Thank you," I say. "Thank you so much. For everything." I'm getting all teary and she's getting all teary; we wind up hugging and sobbing in such a girl moment that it makes me want to cry all the more. I doubt that I've ever done such a thing like this before.
We get it together after a while. "I'm sorry if I was well… bitchy," I tell her.
"Oh honey, it's all right." Something in her tone says that it isn't, or wasn't, all that right at all. I'll bet the Sara before me wasn't that polite to Annie and I know I haven't been much better. At least not until our little adventure yesterday.
I decide then that things will change between us. "No, it's not, but it will be. Starting today, okay?"
She grins, one of those kind, motherly-like grins. One full of joy and pride and happiness, making me feel all mushy inside. What is it about special occasions that cause people to get this way?
"Let's go," I say, not giving her a chance to reply. "We've got places to be."
"Right, right," she replies, regaining her composure. We walk down the stairs together, meeting up with a soft-eyed Al and an impatient David, each holding a pie. Annie and I take the last two and we're off to the fair!
Well, festival. Whatever.
oooooooooooo
We arrive at the Silver Pole Saloon in what seems like no time at all. As we make our way through the shutter doors, I scan the interior, checking that my decorative efforts from the day before were not in vain.
"Nice work," Annie murmurs in my left ear.
"Hey," I shrug, grinning. "I try."
Then again, it's tough for your decorations to get messed up when there aren't any people around to destroy them. We walk through the main saloon and head towards the kitchen. A small hand-painted sign points us to the back door. Sand and scuffmarks identify the way a bit better; we are definitely not the first to arrive.
The area behind the saloon is not quite swamped to capacity, but there is a sizable, and noisy, crowd. A couple of makeshift tents are set up along the back wall of the saloon and out to the side, forming an L-shaped area where folks can sit. Many are doing so, chatting and keeping out of the increasing intensity of the mid-morning sun.
Simple twine marks off areas where various games are being held. The clang of horseshoes against metal mixes with the laughter of children participating in a sack race.
I follow Annie over to the far end of the tents where a few tables have been placed for the various entries of the bake-off. David and Al break away from us, heading towards the horseshoes. A quiet young woman is sitting at the far table, looking very diligent as she tracks each submission into each category on her writing tablet. I don't know her name, but she's familiar, and seeing her behind a table logging things into a ledger is also familiar.
She smiles as Annie informs her of our entries, nodding politely in dismissal while making a few marks on her tablet. I can see that our names, plus the names of many others are already written there. That listing, plus the display of pies and cakes on the tables next to me means that we're in for some heavy competition today. I do like how someone thought to keep pies covered with a type of thin cheesecloth to protect them from bugs or whatever else might damage them. Pretty clever.
As we're turning away, two men rise from their seats in the shade and approach me. I smile brightly once I can see them clearly. Finally, people I actually recognize and can name!
"Brass!" I say, a little overeagerly as I step towards them, leaving Annie to fend for herself. That is probably best, as Annie was making her way towards Catherine. Given the soreness of my hands today, Catherine is someone I'm not eager to meet with just yet. "And the infamous Nick Stokes," my voice slightly chiding. "How are you?"
They are full of smiles, although my outburst makes Brass's smile somewhat awkward.
"Ya remember us!" Nick cries. "Does this mean yer recovered?"
"No, not quite," I stammer. The heavy Texas twang he's using throws me a bit, just like Doc Robbins' crutches did. It clashes with my memory harshly, causing a now-familiar stab behind my eyes. Yet the pain fades quickly this time, for which I am grateful. Mr. Grissom's medicines must be working. "But I do remember both of you. I suppose that is a good thing, right?"
"Sheriff Jim Brass and Deputy Stokes, at your service, madame," Brass says to me, his eyes gentle and kind, just as I remember. There is an emphasis on the words "sheriff" and "deputy," making me realize my faux pas. I did not address either of them with their formal titles.
"It is good to see you both," I say. And it is. My head isn't throbbing nearly as hard as it did when I first saw Mr. Grissom. Also, the black hole of nothingness that exists when I meet most other people isn't there for these two. I can only assume that Sara knew these men well. They must all be good friends.
But Greg was…well…is my friend, too, so why didn't I recognize him?
"It is good to see you too," Brass says warmly. "It's nice that you are out among us again. We were both very worried about you." Brass pats Nick on the shoulder in a friendly gesture to include him in the conversation, but Nick is looking the other way at something behind me.
An instant later he is at my side. "Is everything okay, Miss Sara?" His voice is full of twang and concern, but I can't fathom what the concern is for. The pain from before has left me; I actually feel quite fine.
"Yes, I'm okay, Nick," I say. "I'm fine." I shake my head slightly; a futile effort to remove some of the stray cobwebs from my memory. Nothing happens. I feel exactly the same.
"I don't think so," Brass grumbles, his attention not quite focused on me either. "Why don't you come over here and rest yourself for a bit."
I scowl slightly as I succumb to being led by both men, each clasping an elbow as they shuffle me to the far side of the tents. What is all the fuss about? Am I really that out of it again? Dammit, I feel fine!
Once I'm seated, I look back in the direction from where we'd just come. A tall thin man dressed entirely in black is making his way towards a few of the women who had just dropped off their own bake-off entries. He's standing about three feet from where we just were. My first impression of the man makes me think of a weasel, but that can't possibly be right, because I study him again and don't recognize him at all.
Brass is still standing but Nick has settled himself in the chair next to me and is scooting it across the sand to block my view of the Weasel Man. His actions are clumsy and rushed. They are hiding me.
"Okay, what's the deal?" I look first at Brass and then at Nick. Both blink and try not to look sheepish. "I may not have recovered all my faculties just yet, but I'm not blind by any means. Why are you hiding me from that man?"
My voice rises as I point to the weasely man in black and both men fight the urge to grab my hand and shush me quiet. Their expressions are frantic. "Miss Sara," Brash whispers harshly, "it is best if you do not associate with Mr. Ecklie today."
"Trust us," Nick says. "Y'ain't ready to deal with him in yer condition."
"I don't remember him," I say flatly, dropping my head in my now-common amnesia shame. "Who is he?"
Brass moves his head from side to side, a middle-of-the-road type of gesture. "Technically, he's responsible for the Nelson Bank and Trust. A banker. But he comes from a long line of old and powerful money and his name can usually be found in association with a lot of the dealings of the mine."
"He's a liar an' a crook," Nick says sharply. "He manipulates honest folk – steals from their claims an' their homes! He leaves them hangin' high 'n dry, while he just sits back in his makeshift mansion an' lives the good life, puffin' on his fancy-pants cigars and countin' his riches. He's just lucky we haven't collected enough evidence to lock his ass in jail!"
This time Brass's shushing expression is directed at Nick, and it is a lot fiercer than the one I received. Nick glares back and I sense that the law's problems with Mr. Ecklie are long-standing and Nick's outbursts on the man's character are also not uncommon.
"So, he's not a nice guy." My words break the stalemate between the two, just as I'd hoped. "What does that have to do with me?"
Brass grabs another chair and pulls it close to me. Once he's seated, he looks at Nick, who nods in reply. His voice is very low when he faces me directly, "We found footprints in the dirt at the place where you were…injured. We are assuming those footprints belong to both El Vaquero and your attacker. What no one else knows, and you must not tell them, is that we found something else there as well. A small tie-clip, one that matches a clip commonly worn by Mr. Ecklie."
Nick continues, trying to whisper but failing miserably. "This means Mr. Ecklie was there at the scene of yer attack."
"But that doesn't mean he was your attacker," Brass shoots back. "It just places him at the scene."
The thunderstorm is returning to my brain and I'm fighting to keep it at bay. "So… wait. Does that mean that Mr. Ecklie is El Vaquero?"
"Either that or he tried to kill ya!" Nick growls. "Now do ya see why ya need t'stay out of his way?"
"You need to tell her all of it." Brass's face is firm as he turns back to me. "It is possible that they are one and the same."
No. Brass must be wrong. That Weasel Man is the same man who kissed me like no other a few nights before? And that same man tried to kill me? That can't be true. It just can't be. My night ride with El Vaquero might not have been one of my finer moments, but it did prove to me that El Vaquero was not the man who hurt me. He obviously has other ideas in mind for me, the pompous ass.
Brass notices my scowl but misinterprets its meaning. "From our point of view Miss Sara, El Vaquero is no hero. There are a lot of folks who say he raided their claims or harmed their families. Lots of folks report items missing from their homes. It's clear to us that someone broke in at night and stole their valuables. El Vaquero moves like the wind; we can't catch him and believe me, it isn't like we've tried."
"I know ya think he saved you and I'm sure yer grateful for that. But we just want ya to be safe," Nick says as he lays a gentle hand on my arm.
Clearly they aren't aware of my quest to find my brother's killer. It's odd that the Sara before me neglected to tell the local law enforcement about her reasons for being here. Why wouldn't she tell them? Wouldn't that be the first thing she'd do? Solicit their help to catch the ruthless El Vaquero? They seem perfectly decent and capable to me - and she obviously knew them well, because I remember them.
The storms in my mind are still turbulent as I digest what they've said. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Mr. Ecklie bids farewell to the group of ladies he was with. They look disappointed to see him go. He makes his way over to the ring toss arena and then to where the sack races have now turned into relay races. He leaves my line of sight when he walks past the wooden barrel marking the finish line.
He can't be the same man I kissed that night. I need to speak with him, despite Brass and Nick's warnings. I need to know.
I stand and bid the sheriff and his deputy good day. They seem hesitant to let me leave, but I think they realize they can't babysit me forever. I spot Annie deep in conversation with a group of other women, none of whom I recognize. Greg is with David; both are helping set up what looks like a fire pit near the wooden platform of the dance floor. Not the smartest place for a fire, but what do I know? Doc Robbins is nowhere to be seen, I can only assume he's inside with the also-absent Catherine and Warrick.
I walk to the relay races, hoping to pick up on Mr. Ecklie's trail. I've got my gun, hidden beneath my dress of course, as Annie would have freaked if I'd worn it where it could be seen. Still, I have it and I can handle myself, right? Besides, I've dealt with El Vaquero before. If this man is him, I am pretty sure he won't hurt me.
The twittering rumble in the back of my mind is evidence that I'm not quite convinced of my own safety, but I disregard that as I make my way beyond the festival's activities.
I'm walking past an alleyway between the saloon and another building when a flash of black crosses my vision. A strong hand covers my mouth while a stronger arm yanks me into a doorway in the shadows of the saloon.
"Don't move," a painfully familiar voice murmurs into my ear. "Don't move and don't make a sound or you'll get us both killed."