Second Helping Read online

  Chapter 2

  Bitterness choking him, he nodded. Getting cut in half for helping seemed a rightful end, seeing nothing but the black hole ready to end his equally dark life.

  “Well, ma’am” Essex started, struggling for words, “how I come to be here is all about hunger, hoping to swap work needed for a meal, hunting being lean with the season so dry.”

  Licking his lips, he thought furiously, unwilling to tell his story knowing it sounded so much like hers to be unbelievable. Never easy with talk anyway and troubled by women folk for having little time spent around any, the added urgency of her shotgun brought sweat to his brow.

  “As for stepping in, there’s not much to say but that fella rankled me some, his attitude not to my liking and being raised to respect folks, well, mostly I just found myself doing without so much of any thinking.” he finished, a hot breeze kicking up over dry prairie making his discomfort more acute.

  A small smile crossed the woman’s face as she lowered the gun a mite. “Not in me to deny any a meal” she offered, “particular one doing for me as you did. My name is Rachel Loftin. You have one?”

  Essex exhaled abruptly, feeling tension flow from him while he fought to answer her question. In no way could he give his born name tied as it still was to an open charge of murder for killing the Judge’s crony with a shot meant for McDermitt himself. Frowning to himself, he knew also none of a dozen used after were suitable, many of them yet posted on sheriff wanted lists in towns between here and there for reasons proper or not.

  Matching Rachel’s stare, he tried to smile, finding he’d mostly forgotten how to do that and said “Seeing as my being here just as Lambertson showed with his trouble was all chance, why don’t you just call me Chance and leave it at that.”

  Mrs. Loftin gave him a dry look. “Very well, Mr. Chance.” she responded, “There’s graze an’ water behind the barn if you’ve a mind to put your horse up an’ a wash basin behind the house to use for yourself. I was just putting supper on when they arrived so will prepare for us while you do.”

  Agreeing, Essex turned, taking his horse’s reins and walking the animal to the stable, reminding himself now to listen for his newest name, an old habit needing little practice for one wearing as many monikers as he had. Stripping his gear and stacking it in a corner, he took down a curry comb to brush out the dun, liking the horse most for it being the first handy to grab when the prospector he’d been paid to run off rounded up more friends than Essex could believe. After one of them downed his own, the only good option was to find the nearest and ride with no concern for whose it was.

  Caring for the animal was one of few pleasures he knew, always feeling kindly toward animals of all kinds, as he looked around finding himself admiring the place for good work done in building. All he saw of the barn and house, even the small smokehouse, were constructed to last using native stone and a fair amount of timber likely cut in nearby mountains and hauled down through sheer hard work. Still, much showed need of a man’s hand, loose hinges on a door catching his eye and a half-open window in the cabin’s back wall setting crooked.

  Releasing the horse to pasture, he set his gaze to the countryside, modestly concerned for many places in the ridgeline he’d come down where riflemen could lay in wait. To the east, flat and dry prairie stretched near to Dakota while mountain peaks reared far to the west, the land between broken crags, bunched trees and gulches offering ample cover. A ways off, he saw water reflecting afternoon sun, his eyes narrowing. Two winters of little snow followed by springs of less rain left most of Wyoming parched but this place showing water flowing west and east might explain much of Lambertson’s interest.

  Returning through the barn, he poked about some, finding tools well placed beginning a list of doings to swap for meals while working out how to extricate himself from this ruckus, his every intent being to do just that. Whatever poor judgment caused him to dive into the mess between Mrs. Loftin and Lambertson required reversal quick and sure as he could make happen. Crossing her yard, a dozen chickens clucking after feed scattered, he shook off a pang of wishfulness, the place seeming to match much of what he once wanted but knew could never be.

  From her kitchen window, Rachel watched him, ignoring a spark deep in her as he walked with easy grace. A tall man, well over six foot, he seemed lean but she suspected was less so than appeared, his manner giving the idea of a sinewy strength hidden by clothes fitting poorly. Half a mind attending to peeled potatoes in a fry pan, the only fresh eating she had but for eggs, wild onions sliced and stirred in for flavor and a small ham remaining from her smokehouse, she pondered what nature of a man would arrive from nowhere to jump into a fight with no cause or reason.

  Frowning, she brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. What kind of man, indeed, she wondered, recalling the cold, sharp eyes she’d seen from the porch. A sudden sense of unease rose, prompting her to place the carved wooden spoon down and pivot, walking quickly to her room. Sliding open a chest drawer, she withdrew her husband’s belt knife, untied a leather strap holding it in place and slipped it into her apron pocket. Feeling better, the keen four inch blade comforting her against trouble with this man, she returned to the kitchen as he knocked lightly.

  “No need for knocking, Mr. Chance.” she called with an amused smile at unexpected politeness. Eyeing him as he entered, hat in hand, she nodded toward the small table. “Please, sit and have coffee. Supper will be ready shortly.”

  Placing a steaming cup in front of him, Rachel gave a short, appraising glance. Gaunt with cheeks sunken under several days of stubble with dark circles below darker eyes peering out from under shaggy brows, he looked to be a man neither eating nor sleeping well. Receiving his thanks with only a nod, she noted his careful rifle placement within easy reach as she stepped back to the cook stove and resumed stirring when a thought occurred.

  “You a smoking man, Mr. Chance?” she asked over her shoulder. “If so, there’s a tin here left by my husband if you’d care to.”

  Essex tossed her a look, taking in the worn dress and apron doing little to conceal her womanly form. “Perhaps after eating, ma’am.” he responded, “For now, enjoying coffee and setting a moment is most I would ask.”

  Not a large place, he saw, but well kept. The dining table where he sat and kitchen were all one area joined to a main room off his right with three curtained doorways leading out. A massive stone fireplace was inset with a wooden mantle carved from some dark wood, several candlesticks setting on top showing frequent use as did a cushioned rocker nearby. Two stuffed, leather covered chairs seemed to have had little sitting and a long, slender couch under wide windows facing south showed even less. Centered with care in the room was a woven circular rug of uncertain age, wear marks suggesting more years than the cabin itself.

  Wordlessly, Rachel ladled a large helping of potatoes alongside three eggs and a small piece of meat to a plate and set it before him, laying utensils alongside before dishing up a light helping of each for herself. With her meal in hand and a half-loaf of bread on a cutting board, she sat across from him, smiling dryly seeing him wait for her to sit before beginning to eat despite, she was sure, a belly long empty. Beginning to comment on his appetite, she paused, suddenly aware this man would likely take poorly any suggestion he wasn’t capable of feeding himself well so clamped her mouth shut.

  “Regretting the portions are less than I would like.” she offered instead, “Have been unwilling to ride into town an’ leave the place empty should Lambertson or his men come by. Several friends of our church we attended had been bringing provisions until recently but I’m guessing they been scared off, too, as none have in more’n a few weeks.”

  Nodding, face toward his plate, Essex replied, “What’s done with here is most satisfying, Mrs. Loftin, and grateful for it.”

  A small smile crossed her face as she began to respond, deciding instead to concentrate on the meal despite having little desire. A tinge of
color rose to her cheeks when he asked, “Was going to say, ma’am?” realizing his gaze never rose but still he saw.

  Embarrassed, Rachel forked a bite before replying, “Was thinking, Mr. Chance, if using our first names might be acceptable an’ if you favor using one.”

  Several large swipes at his meal passed before Essex looked up, seeming to focus on the bread. Using a slab to soak up juice from his plate, he worked furiously for an answer, her mention of church folks bringing to mind a pastor Pa had befriended years earlier.

  “Deacon, ma’am.” he answered through his chewing. “Reckon if you’re comfortable, we can be using that name.”

  Sensing that was no more his than Chance had been before today, she bobbed agreeably.

  “Would be if you can call me Rachel.” she suggested, expecting a reply but received none so speared the last piece of meat. Raised with two brothers who never stopped chattering during meals, Rachel never got used to men, like her husband and this one, who ate without talk, but watching knew for the first time what it was to see a truly hungry man eat, how that was different than appetites born of a day’s work.

  Finishing her meal, she peered across. His long, thick hair, black and showing only touches of grey, would look rather nice, she decided, if washed and combed proper, blushing at knowing her own was untidy. Not much care had been given to her appearance these last few months, a fact abruptly and surprisingly regretted. Pleased to see him take a last bite, she stood with her plate and took his, offering more coffee before setting the dishes in a wash basin and taking down a tin of tobacco.

  Refilling their cups, she placed the fist sized can near him. “Evening sun is fine to watch from the porch, Deacon, if you’d care to smoke there.”

  Waggling his head, he rose, thanking her again for supper then startling her by opening the door and holding it politely while she passed through. With a small swish of her skirt, she moved by him a tad closer than needed before sitting on a bench beneath the front window, inviting him with a wave to sit alongside. Watching curiously as deft fingers filled a paper and rolled the cigarette, she felt again longing stirring beneath her dress as he struck a match and lit it, his eyes searching the countryside ceaselessly. Wanting to speak while unable to find words suitable, she sat, loving the view that brought her some peace even in these difficult times.

  Exhaling, Essex eyed the ashes, careful to flick them past the porch boards to the ground before giving in to a need for common views between them. With a side-long glance at her, he spoke quietly.

  “Understand your thinking, ma’am, but a knife in your apron isn’t needed. Never once have I bothered a woman in a way she’s not wishing for.”

  Reddening, not expecting him to have noticed, Rachel fingered the weapon concealed beneath folds of cloth. Unsure how to respond, she looked out over shadows drawn darkly on the landscape.

  “Recall we agreed to using first names, Deacon.” she replied, deciding to keep the blade handy until knowing more while admitting to herself his way of noticing without seeming to appealed greatly.

  Essex bobbed his head, irked with himself for the carelessness over names, an unrealized desire stirring to create no unneeded distance between them. After a time watching a hawk circle high above, he offered, “It’s not my business, Rachel, but heard enough to have interest in what’s going on here.”

  Leaning back, her gaze following a brown desert spider working its way up the corner post, she held a moment, fearing her words might drive him away and that they might not. Finally, choosing only the truth, she shook her head.

  “We came here just over five years ago.” she began, keeping her face forward, “My husband an’ I grew up in the same town back in Indiana. We wished to be wed then but Pa disagreed, said Augie – my husband’s name proper was August – needed to go out in the world first. He signed for duty with the Army an’ served two years with cavalry fighting Indians, finding this place while doing. When discharged, he came back home telling of the opportunity for ranching. We convinced Pa to let us marry an’ sold off what we had there, putting in claim papers on this land, Pa taking near the west arm of the stream an’ Augie the east.”

  Wistfully, she looked toward the water. “Pa called it Adrienne Creek, that being Ma’s name, an’ as none seemed to care, it’s been that since. As we proved up in time allowed under the Homestead Act, we have ownership now.”

  Essex nodded, leaning elbows on knees while looking only at the floorboards, schooled little in how such matters worked and tweaked by feeling he should know better. Crushing the cigarette out between his fingers, he dipped again into the plain metal canister then rolled a second, enjoying his first smoke in months.

  “Was two years ago an’ some that Tresh Lambertson arrived, claiming the section south of here along our stream. He seemed alright, mostly, a mite pushy an’ throwing money ‘round, acting big but causing no trouble. We ignored him as a rule, neither Pa nor Augie caring much for his type. Then this winter, a small earthquake shook loose a bunch of rock an’ blocked the creek so Lambertson’s land got no water.”

  He followed her hand pointing to the southeast. “Below that little rise” she explained, “stream got turned back so moves now west, crossing our land before dumping to a wash that runs away south of town. Lambertson accused Pa of causing the slide to get more water on our land, wouldn’t believe we would do no such thing.”

  She leaned back, voice dropping low. “A couple months of hard times between us went on, his men razing our cattle an’ once picking a fight with Augie in town. Finally, after some town folk got tired of the fuss, Lambertson sent a man up, asked to meet Pa an’ Augie down at Red Rock to talk it out.”

  Puzzled, he raised a brow. “Red Rock?” he asked.

  Shrugging, Rachel nodded south. “Big boulder sitting out by itself between the two claims, called for its color an’ being the biggest thing around, I reckon. Told them not to go, Mr. Chance, as I trusted Lambertson none but Augie wanted an end to the trouble an’ Pa, I guess, did as well. We’re not folks” she added, peering at him defiantly, “for having difficulty with neighbors. Just not our way.”

  Meeting her gaze, discomforted by moist eyes and taut face, Essex glanced off, tension gripping every inch of him already sure how the tale would end.

  “Wasn’t but an hour later both horses come back empty. Pa’s saddle had blood on it.” she said, facing hands clasped in her lap.

  He stared down, a familiar meanness taking hold, fury choking him. After a time, he cleared his throat, crushing the cigarette that now tasted less pleasant.

  “You ever go looking for them?”

  Rachel nodded slightly. “Once. One of his men was about, chased me back an’ telling me not to come again.”

  Essex stood, taking a step to lean forward against the pillar, looking out toward Red Rock.

  “By your leave, ma’am, I’ll ride down tomorrow and see if I can find anything.” he offered, all resolve for departing evaporated.

  “They’re likely watching, Deacon.” she objected, “Aren’t you fearing that?”

  A chilling laugh rose then disappeared without escaping. Pivoting toward the woman, he replied, “Man with nothing to lose fears nothing.” looking back south before adding, “And I’m thinking there’s others here with more to fear than they know.”