Posts tagged ‘author of Oregon historical romance’

G chap 13 and 14


Traveling north and west, the storm followed them, the mules fighting for every inch of ground covered. The sun, low in the western sky, sank behind a barricade of slate gray clouds, as Wren, with Telt driving her wagons, neared Deadman Pass.

Far from being a desolate, lonely spot, Deadman Pass promised miniature meadows of lush grass and shelter beneath the stands of stately Ponderosa pine. Tired and sore from being pitched and bounced over the mountain road, with the wind constantly in her face, it didn’t matter how the place had acquired its name, it looked like heaven to Wren. Her shoulders tense from hanging on to the hard board seat, legs cramping, toes aching from clutching the insides of her boots, it took her a moment or two to find her land-legs when Telt helped her to the ground.

Between the two of them, they made short work of settling the mules in the corral. Telt’s horse remained tethered to the rear of the last wagon while they set up camp, which consisted of a tarp stretched between the two wagons for shelter. The storm, with one last, startling streak of lightning and crash of rolling thunder, made a grand exit, dumping a load of pea-sized hail that covered the ground before moving off to the northeast.

They huddled together beneath the tarp, with the dogs at their feet beneath a one of the wagons, to wait out the downpour. Wrapped in Telt’s arms, her lips close to his ear, she said, “I think you saved my life today.”

Her eyes burned…scratched and raw from the dust. Tears trickled down her cheeks, making a trail through the dirt of the day. Wren squeezed her eyes closed and wiped away the tears with the hem of her blue denim skirt. “I admit I couldn’t have held on much longer. I should’ve turned back. I know that,” she confessed.

* * * *

Telt appreciated her confession. He couldn’t call her a ‘damned fool’, but he had to get her to see reason. Mustering up extreme restraint, he took a stab at it. “It isn’t going to be easy for you, I know. But damn it all, woman.” he growled, just before he gave her a good shake, “You’ve got to come to grips with the fact that you just aren’t built to handle some things.” Sorry to be so rough, he looked down into her dirty face and her wonderful eyes. Her eyes reminded him of the big brown eyes of his retriever. They were full of trust and adoration. The kiss he gave her came as a surprise to him. It must have surprised her too; she mewed and latched on to him tight.

Raising his head, unlocking his lips from hers, he held her away to add, while he could still think straight, a confession of his own to soften his chastisement. “I had the devil of a time keeping that team from running off. I don’t know how you managed to hold’em as long as you did. I thought my arms were gonna get pulled right out of their sockets. Hell, I bet they’re a good two inches longer than they were yesterday. I haven’t worked like that for a good long while. And I was scared—as—hell.”

* * * *

Wren snuggled closer, her head resting on his solid chest, comforted by the sound of his voice, rich and mellow, vibrating in her ear. She wanted to feel his skin on her cheek. Held within his embrace, she felt at home, she’d found a safe haven. She had never experienced this before.

She didn’t know how long it would last. Every man she’d ever come across (her father included) couldn’t be counted on for the long haul. She told herself Telt wouldn’t be any different from all the other men in her life: her father, her uncle Stanley, her cousins. She’d learned long ago to be self-reliant, depend on no one. She warned herself not to get used to this. She knew better than to believe she had what it took to keep a man, especially a man like Telt.

The clouds parted and the last of a watered-down sun slipped out of sight beyond the crest of the Cascade Mountains to the west. “You stay here,” he ordered, setting his hat on his head, preparing to go out to take care of the mules and see to Roonie.

Wren shook her head, “No, I’ll make us a fire and start the coffee.” To her way of thinking, they should stay on an equal footing. “I need to get up and stretch my legs. I’ll do my part. Seems the least I can do. You’ve gone to a great deal of bother today on my account. I’ve got feed for the animals in a storage bin inside the wagon. You’ll find a bucket or two for the feed and some pails for water.”

Marbles of hail covered the ground. When he stomped off, Wren heard him grumble to himself something about obstinate, mulish women. “Should’a known you’d have it all planned out, right down to the last detail. Didn’t plan on a storm though. Didn’t plan on gettin’ yourself near killed in a electrical storm or lost in the dust, or knocked in the head by a God damn tree. Can’t plan for that. Have to get some sense, woman.”

* * * *

As he worked, Telt worried that seducing Miss O’Bannon (Miss Independence, Miss Mule-headed take-on-more-than-you-can-chew) might not be as simple as he’d first thought. The woman thought and worked like a man. In the last two days, he’d stood by and watched her barter and wrangle to get what she wanted. She was damned good at it, too. That frightened him. He would have to get used to that.

He reckoned Wren O’Bannon felt compelled to prove she didn’t need anyone, that she could do whatever came up all by herself. As angry as that made him, to think of her as a little girl, as a young woman, battling her way through life on her own with no one to take her side, opened the door for speculation, for a glimmer of hope. Her ambitious nature might just work in his favor. ‘Cause she wanted him. She hadn’t pulled away when he’d kissed her. No, sir, she wanted more. He could feel it. Oh, yeah.

* * * *

The wind, Wren noticed, had died down to a soft, cool breeze. Maybe they could sleep without worrying about the mules or the wind blowing the tarp off from over their heads. She poured out a splash of warm water from the coffee pot into a shallow pan before she added the coffee grounds, and ducked back under the tarp. With a warm, moist towel, she wiped her face, neck and arms, then changed her damp chambray shirt for a shirt of soft, brown flannel. She had just buttoned the last button on her shirt when Telt, on his hands and knees, crawled in to join her.

“I think the storm’s passed,” he said as he took off his hat and made himself comfortable beside her, stretching out his legs. “Looks like the dogs are done for the day,” he commented, looking down past his feet at the two sleeping dogs lying side by side beneath the wagon on Mac’s rug.

“I gave them some of our corn bread and bacon and a little water before they retired,” she said, of a sudden nervous.

Telt Longtree filled up the space. No, he overpowered it. He brought with him the smell of the earth, the rain, the pines, and the heat of his strong, male body. Wren shivered with the realization that they were alone out here, she was alone with this…this big, grinning bear of a man and she had to sleep here, under this tarp beside the man. The prospect created an interesting and titillating dilemma; this brought on a nervous giggle, which she stifled by clamping her lips tightly shut.

He started to remove his duster, his elbows getting in her face. They rolled it up to use as a pillow at their heads. She’d laid out her duster beneath the tarp they were lying on as a barrier against the wet ground. They would use her bedroll and quilt to keep warm. With their heads very close together as they settled in, Telt leaned in to put his lips to hers. This kiss felt experimental, tentative and butterfly tender.

She sighed as they parted and relaxed, eager to give in to her womanly instincts, but unsure as to how to go about it. He’d settled back on his haunches, his blue eyes searching her face expectantly. Without thinking, she dipped the towel into the warm water and boldly began to wipe the dirt from his face and neck. Daring him to stop her, she moved her hand down to his chest, her gaze never leaving his.

He grasped her wrist. She halfheartedly tried to pull away, but he tugged her closer and brought her lips to his. With one hand, he removed the combs from her hair. He ran his fingers through it as it cascaded down her back. His arms folded around her as she gave herself to his kisses.

Her body throbbed, all thoughts of consequences lost as the kiss deepened. Wren felt his hand, surprisingly warm, move up under her shirt. Her skin broke out with gooseflesh as his rough fingers played with her nipple and cupped her breast. She arched her back as his head went down and his lips and tongue began to lick and tease. To accommodate him, she unbuttoned her shirt and pulled back the fabric.

Her fingers went to his hair. She sang a pagan whimper of desire as one hot hand snaked up her cool thigh and his fingers slithered into the folds of her womanhood. She jerked, startled by the resonating response of her body to move against his fingers. Instinct told her she must go with the swirling eddy of lust to find what she so desperately needed. Yet she feared the unknown, the untried, and held herself back, fearing the consequences of going over the edge.

* * * *

Telt took himself off to Pendleton three, four times a year to slake his needs. But dance-hall girls were more for fun than passion.

Holding Wren, kissing Wren, touching, exploring Wren… this was heady stuff. He’d never had a woman respond quite so greedily to his touch. He flicked his tongue over her nipple. She bucked against his hand. The heat of her melting core made his fingers slick as he worked the bud of her passion. Her arousal fascinated him to the point that he ignored his own need for release.

With her eyes closed and head thrown back, she had started shaking her head, unwilling to let go. She’d never done this before, he could understand that. This woman needed control. She wanted control of everything she did, everything she tried. But she’d gone too far; he didn’t think she could control this, not her body’s response to his touch, not her desire to achieve the ultimate pleasure.

His fingers moved in and out and around her mound, and his lips pulled on her nipple. He felt the muscles inside her woman’s canal spasm, caressing him, rippling around his fingers. He looked to her face as she broke over to the other side, into that weightless realm where pain becomes pleasure and the aching throb becomes bliss. She writhed against his arm.

He felt the sting of tears at the back of his throat, knowing he’d brought her safely and satisfyingly to her first ultimate release. Aware of the privilege and the responsibility to be Wren O’Bannon’s first lover, he vowed he would be the only lover she would ever need.

Wren moved her hands to his chest and began to unbutton his shirt. Her eyes told him…she needed more. Sliding her hand down his chest, to his stomach then beyond, she found his proud erection straining to get free of its confines. It was his turn to buck.

She couldn’t know what she was doing to him…or could she? She rolled him onto his back, loosened his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and brought her face down to his chest to plant small, warm kisses upon his abdomen. Her fingers stroked his manhood. He groaned and told himself he’d better put a stop to this or else…he didn’t get a chance to finish the thought as she ran her tongue up the length of his erection.

That did it; taking back control, he rolled on top of her, his hands on her shoulders, pushing her down. His knee forced her legs apart to give him entry. Her eyes opened wide with fear, then her lips spread into a sassy smile, and he groaned with real trepidation.

With one hand, he pushed his trousers down below his knees, then pulled up her skirt to her waist. “Are you sure, Wren? I won’t like it, but I can stop here and now,” whispering even though there was no one to overhear.

Taking shallow breaths, her body still and stiff beneath him, their gazes locked. First her hands splayed across his chest, then slid around to his ribcage and down to grip his bare hips. Without flinching or looking away, saying not a word, she pulled his body down, her eyes giving him permission to meld his body with hers.

* * * *

Wren closed her eyes and filled her lungs with the scent of him. She would never be satisfied with herself if she didn’t follow through with what she’d started. She had to know. If only for tonight, she had to have all he had to give her. She’d known her mortality to be a fragile thing today. Now, tonight, she wanted to feel alive.

Her eyes opened as he pushed into her slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. When he slid past her barrier, she flinched and her eyes fluttered closed. He waited. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and moved her hips against him, her hands, hot and perspiring, kneaded his backside. He moved deeper into her core.

* * * *

Telt wondered how he’d gotten to be almost thirty years old and never experienced this before. Why Wren O’Bannon? What made this coupling mean so much more than simple self-gratification? He could feel her pulse, her every shudder and quiver beneath him. An unseen force sent a spectrum of delightful sensations through his body, which had them fused together, working toward one single goal. They hit their rhythm, coming into it naturally, fitting together perfectly; at last, two bodies made whole.

This time he knew she would not fight against her need. She held on, her fingers digging deep into the muscles of his butt, anticipating the ride, ready to go wherever he took her, reaching for it, expecting that it would be a ride like no other.

Telt fought back his urge to howl like a wolf when the explosion came. They writhed as one, each cresting and rolling with the beauty of complete and utter pleasure. When the waves of desire began to ebb, they lay together in awe of their accomplishment. Then they began to laugh and cry, both realizing they’d just made history together.

Telt was the first to move. He struggled to pull up his trousers and not crush her. He sniffed back a tear or two as he rolled back onto his side to help her rearrange her skirt. She was so beautiful. All rumpled. Her cheeks rosy and eyes bright, he had to kiss her, hold her.

Breathless, she put up a hand to stop him. He nodded, understanding she wanted privacy to repair. “Maybe I should go out and get us some coffee,” he said, taking the hint.

* * * *

After he left, Wren took the damp towel and attempted to tidy herself, but found it no use. She rolled her eyes at the sight of her own blood on the cloth. Now at the point of no return, she bit the side of her cheek, and reminded herself that she’d wanted it, she’d provoked it. She told herself she was glad she no longer had to protect her virginity…glad she’d allowed Telt Longtree to help her take that last step into womanhood.

Her stomach growled, grinding on empty. With her hand on her stomach, she lay back and closed her eyes, a cat-like smile on her lips. She stretched, reaching for the quilt, pulling it up under her chin, just for a second, she told herself. She would rest just for a second.

* * * *

On his knees, Telt crawled back in under the tarp without spilling the cups of coffee he had in each hand. He rocked back on his haunches when he saw Wren had dropped off to sleep. “Well, damn.”

Making himself comfortable he planted himself next to her and downed one cup of coffee, then reached for the corn bread and bacon she’d placed up on the edge of the wagon bed. While he ate, he sipped at his coffee and noted that it was good coffee. Sure as hell better than the stuff he brewed up.

Watching her sleep, her lips pursed, ready, inviting his kiss, he began to plan tomorrow night. They needed a bed, a bed with clean sheets. A bathtub would be good, yeah, a big bathtub with room for two.

His hand dived into his pants pocket. He pulled out six bits. That might get them a couple of beers and a beefsteak. Damn. He had a double eagle. Yeah, but he’d left it in the coffee can back at the cabin. He’d been in a hurry when he’d left this morning, hadn’t given a thought about money. Hadn’t given a thought to much of anything except catching up with Wren. This morning, this morning he never would have dreamed, not in a million years, that Wren O’Bannon would give herself, no, offer herself whole-heartedly and with enthusiasm. No, he wouldn’t have believed it then and he couldn’t quite believe it now.

This morning….that seemed like a lifetime ago…this morning. Up until now, he’d been breathing in and out, living in limbo, waiting for something indefinable to happen that would change everything. The waiting was over. Now his blood was pumping, and he looked forward to tomorrow and all the tomorrows to come.

“Holly hell,” he hissed when his memory struck pay-dirt. “I think I have a twenty dollar gold piece. I think I squirreled that away, sewed it into the strap of my saddlebag last New Year’s Eve. Howard gave me a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. I got mad at Howard, I don’t recall why, that was some mighty fine bourbon. At the time, I had plans to get the hell out of Laura Creek. Well, forget about runnin’. I have a double-eagle saved back for a very special circumstance. And this is definitely a special circumstance.”

He fished for the saddlebag under his head beneath his duster. Being careful not to disturb Wren, he pulled the bag around just enough to get a hold of the strap. He felt of the thick, worn leather and saw that his crude horsehair stitches had held. His fingers found the outline of the heavy coin through the soft leather. Grinning, he extracted the coin, gave it a flip, then tucked it in his trouser pocket. After sliding the saddlebag back under his duster, he hoisted his cup to give up a toast to Miss Wren O’Bannon and the promise of tomorrow night, another night spent in sublime exploration.

He polished off a couple more slices of her corn bread and a couple strips of bacon, saving back some for her breakfast. He blew out the lantern and lay down beside her, his arm going out to pull her closer to his side. She mewed and snuggled in as he wrapped them in the quilt.

Before he closed his eyes, he wondered if she’d given any thought to the consequences of their union, probably not. It was clear to him Wren O’Bannon had never been with a man. Although, she’d a very healthy need to learn how they could give each other pleasure. He had to be grateful for that. The result of lovemaking, without precautions, was the issue of children. He doubted she’d thought of that.

He hadn’t either, he had to confess…at least not until this second. The deed was done—too late now to worry about it. And, he intended to repeat the deed as often as she would allow.

In the dark, he smiled to himself, picturing in his mind’s eye the child they might produce. Perhaps a stubborn, bright-eyed son for him to take fishing, or maybe a sweet, chubby-faced little girl with soft brown ringlets who would wrap his heart around her little finger. He went to sleep with a smile on his face.


Howard stood watching from the back steps of the bank while Meirs and Claussen sawed boards and took them inside the storeroom addition to the mercantile. Yesterday and today, they were busier than bees over there. He needed to put a stop to it. He had to stop them, Percy and Punk, the Tatom boys, all of them.

Miss O’Bannon’s note, left in the message box at the telegraph office, had done much to allay everyone’s doubts. All except Howard’s, that is. To his way of thinking, she’d run as soon as she realized she couldn’t deliver on her promise to open as agreed to in the contract. He’d felt duty-bound to make sure everyone knew the real reason she’d left. She’d come to her senses, he’d declared, realized a woman wasn’t up to the task of setting up a mercantile. The town needed a man to run their mercantile. A man could build, expand as he grew his business; a woman, a woman had to have help. And Howard wanted to make damn sure she didn’t get any—he didn’t say that out loud, of course. But to Howard if the new owner, in this case a woman, couldn’t get the job done on her own, then they had no business taking on the job.

As for the sheriff taking out after her, well, he approved. It wouldn’t be right to let a female go off, maybe get herself killed, and not try to make the attempt to take her to safety. Pendleton would be a good place for Miss O’Bannon. Maybe send her packing back to Oregon City, or wherever the hell she’d come from.

Howard thought the sheriff a good man, most folks in and around Laura Creek would agree with him. That storm had raised all kinds of hell yesterday, with shingles torn away, tree limbs down. No real damage, no forest fires, but a good windstorm all the same. No telling what kind of trouble a traveler could run up against in weather like that. When Howard found out Punk Baker was taking bets on the odds of the sheriff returning with the mules, wagons and goods, Howard did all he could to expound on the doubts the smithy raised.

Percy, his own brother-in-law, was a problem, acting as deputy in Telt’s absence. Howard didn’t like the way folks listened to him when he assured them Miss O’Bannon would return, probably tomorrow. Percy insisted she’d return with a couple wagonloads of merchandise, merchandise she’d promised to deliver in her note.

* * * *

Between Howard and Punk, folks were beginning to have doubts the mercantile would ever open. Percy wasn’t sure what else he could do. He took his oath as deputy seriously; in Telt’s absence, he represented law and order. The mantle of authority wasn’t a comfortable fit, but Percy wouldn’t shirk his duty. There was nothing to do but wait, wait for Telt to bring Miss O’Bannon back safely with the goods. He had to believe he was right. Meanwhile he intended to keep working on the mercantile. One thing for sure, Howard had a lot to answer for. And so far pretty much everyone that he’d spoken to, agreed with him. The store was nowhere near ready to open. Percy had to wonder what would have happened if a man had bought the place. He thought probably Howard would’ve gotten his nose rearranged.

Punk was good help, although too pessimistic for Percy. Between the two of them, they’d installed a lot of shelves this afternoon. Percy just wished Punk would stop with his doom and gloom. Refusing for the third time, “I’m not going to bet, Punk. A mule is a different animal, they aren’t like a horse. A horse will shy and go all wild-eyed in a storm, where a mule will just stop and put down his head with his tail between his legs. I’m pretty sure Telt and Miss O’Bannon will return safe and sound before Saturday. I think by Saturday, if we keep going, this mercantile will be ready for stock on the shelves.”

Jack and Archie Tatom gave out a second to Percy’s prediction from the back of the store. Mr. Claussen and Mr. Meirs abstained, unwilling or too busy to be bothered to voice an opinion one way or another.

With all six of them inside working today, two men sawing and fitting, and four men hammering, all on different parts of a job, it was easy to get in each other’s way. With all the racket, no one noticed when Howard enter the store.

“You men!” Howard shouted above the din of hammers and saws. Percy raised his eyes heavenward to offer a prayer. By the stern set of Howard’s jaw, Percy didn’t think Howard had come in to cheer them on. “Stop your work, all of you.” Howard ordered, his feet spread apart and hands on his hips.

Punk, in his usual blacksmith attire, a sleeveless shirt and leather pants, kept right on nailing in a cleat that would secure a shelf. Percy, up on a ladder with the level, jerked Punk’s pant leg and Punk stopped pounding. Howard walked by them to make his way to the back of the store.

Mr. Meirs and Mr. Claussen, who were the professional carpenters, were measuring planks for the floor. Mr. Claussen did the sawing and Mr. Meirs did the trimming and fitting. Both men were getting on in years, a little bent over from doing the labor they loved, building anything and everything: outhouses, homes, barns, and yes, a mercantile. The Tatom boys, both dressed in faded flannel shirts and dungarees, continued to nail in the last of the floor planks. The pounding of their hammers drowned out Howard’s big voice.

Percy came down off the ladder to follow Howard through the new storeroom entrance. Standing back, he waited as Howard scanned the scene. With a scowl on his face, Howard cleared his throat and shouted, “I order you to stop this, right now.”

Percy saw Mr. Claussen look up from the long board he had laid out across his sawhorse. Mr. Meirs, who had been fitting the trim around the back door, replaced the pencil behind his ear and got to his feet.

“I’m going to call in your loans if you do not desist in this, this…construction immediately.” The pounding continued and Howard strode cross the room and tapped Jack Tatom on the shoulder. “Stop that infernal racket.” Archie, the younger of the two boys, quit pounding when his brother elbowed him in the ribs.

Percy found himself shoved aside as Punk, with blood in his eyes, his hammer raised, aimed for Howard’s hard head.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Punk roared.

Percy leapt forward, scrambling to grab the hammer out of Punk’s hand before he put a hole in the back of his brother-in-law’s skull.

Percy, one hand clasped around Punk’s raised wrist and one hand on his shoulder, stepped in front of him, and stared the man down. No one moved. Percy, tall and skinny, stood between the giant, Punk Baker, and his brother-in-law’s imminent demise.

Howard spun around. Percy couldn’t see his face, but he hoped Howard had sense enough to know he shouldn’t push it, he better back off. Percy felt the muscle in Punk’s shoulder relax a little and he let go of Punk’s wrist and removed the hammer from his hand.

Percy turned then to try to reason with Howard. “You can’t foreclose. Howard. You have to give notice…have a reason to foreclose…you can’t just decide to do it on a whim.”

Percy still hoped for a reasonable solution out of this. Surely, Howard wouldn’t foreclose simply because they were making a few shelves. That didn’t make sense. Percy felt certain Howard wanted this mercantile as much as, maybe more than, anyone in the whole damn town.

“I’ve already spoken to Jim Brandtmeyer,” Howard announced, grinding out the words between clenched teeth and pushing Percy out of his way. He stood there like a stone column, his eyes hard and glinting with determination, meeting the incredulous gaze of each man in the room. “There will be no-more-lumber. Mr. Brandtmeyer saw sense when I explained it to him. I expect you men to see reason as well.”

Howard looked smug and confident, perspiration visible on his brow, and Percy had a terrible urge to kick him in the butt when he turned his attention to the Tatom boys. “You boys,” Howard said, to address Jack and Archie Tatom, “you are two days in arrears on your monthly payment of twenty five dollars. You have a balance due of two-hundred ninety-two dollars and twenty-five cents,” the figure flowing out of his mouth as easy as spit. “If you stop this…this unnecessary construction, go home right now, you’ll have until Monday to make your usual monthly payment with no penalty. If you don’t, I’ll call in your loan…in full. I will take your cattle, and seize the proceeds from your hay and grain crop.”

Percy could only stand by and watch as the blood drained from Jack and Archie’s faces. They looked like two dried up cornstalks, arms dangling at their sides and shoulders slumped, in shock.

Punk snatched the hammer out of Percy’s hand. He stepped around Percy with one shove of his big hand. “Let me hit him, the weasel, the lily-livered, God-damn parsimonious fart.”

Punk had Howard by his suit lapels, pulling him up almost off his feet before Percy leapt in, as did Jack Tatom, both responding strictly on adrenaline, Percy was certain. Between the two of them, they could barely hold the smithy back from committing murder. Percy hung like a monkey from Punk’s thick-as-a-tree-limb bicep, and made a plea to the smithy for sanity, “No! Punk…just a minute…wait.” Percy didn’t let go until Punk lowered his weapon of choice. With feet on the floor, he addressed Jack and Archie Tatom, having to look around Punk’s boulder-sized body. “Jack, you signed a loan contract?”

The boys weren’t allowed to reply. Howard, free of Punk’s vise-like grip, once again able to breathe, straightened his clothes and said with all arrogance, completely oblivious to the fact that his violent death remained a very real possibility, “We’re like family here in Laura Creek. We make all of our agreements in good faith with a handshake at the Laura Creek People’s Bank. You should know that, Percy.”

“Yah, he’s right,” echoed Mr. Claussen, shaking his head, his thick thumbs looped into his coverall straps. “To dah bank I apply for dah loan to pay Robbie’s first year at university. Dah quarry vas doing vell, but not so vell I could pay for education. Dah banker he vas all smiles den, when he takes my house as collateral. A handshake sealed dah agreement.”

“Fools, all of us,” grumbled Mr. Meirs, his dark eyes downcast. Percy knew Mr. Meirs to be a freedman who’d moved his family west at the end of the Civil War. He’d told Percy that Mr. Claussen offered him a partnership in the quarry after he’d helped Mr. Claussen lay a foundation for his barn. By trade, Otto Meirs was a stonemason. Percy, at that moment, felt deeply ashamed he had to claim Howard as a relative, even though it was by marriage.

Otto spoke, his voice quiet, head down out of habit, “I put up fifty acres of forested land as collateral for the loan to rebuild my home after the fire.” He brought his dark head up and looked around the room to say, “Mr. Buttrum, you was reluctant to make the deal. You knew my farm wasn’t worth much without the farmland to go with it. But you finally shook hands on the deal. You were the one who said we didn’t need no paper.”

Punk took a step and got in the banker’s face. Percy grabbed his arm to hold him back. Howard pulled in his chin and Punk leaned in, his bronzed, sweating face less than an inch from Howard’s nose. “Someday, you’re gonna get yours, Howard T. Buttrum.” Punk snarled.

Percy saw Howard blink. He wrinkled his nose. Percy realized Punk’s breath was sour with the smell of tobacco juice, he’d noticed it himself. Punk had a tendency to spit with every word.

“You’ve pulled some mighty fancy deals around here.” Punk snarled. “No one’s complained…yet. But you’ve never been blind mean before now. I don’t know what you got against Miss O’Bannon. I don’t need to know. But you get this,” Punk’s brown spittle flew in Howard’s eye as he poked Howard in the chest with one of his pile-driving fingers and told him what was what. “I don’t owe nothin’ to nobody. You don’t own any part of me. As of right now, get your God damned nags out of my stable. And…I want twenty dollars, cash, for feed and curry. I’ll just hold your fancy buggy as co-llat-er-al!”

Howard rocked back on his heels. Percy saw a line of perspiration trickle down the sides of his jowl and into his high, starched collar. Percy suspected Howard pulled a hand down over his face as much to wipe away the sweat as to wipe away the spit.

The room had gone pregnant with silence as Punk turned his back and went back to work.

Percy couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be happening. He stood there a minute trying to figure out what to do.

“I guess I quit,” he said, his eyes wide open, unblinking and looking Howard in the eye. “I’ll not send or receive anymore telegraphs in or out of town. You own the telegraph office building, but you don’t own my home, me, or my son, Howard. I won’t be holding any more sermons in your church, either. And I won’t be delivering any more mail,” he said, then walked away to help Punk.

Mr. Meirs and Mr. Claussen picked up their tools. “You’re a bitter man, I tink, Howard Buttrum. I go home,” Mr. Claussen told him, “but I don’t got to like it. No, sir, I don’t.”

Percy stopped to watch as the Tatom boys followed the carpenters out the back door. He knew the boys had counted on this work to buy their grandmother her new mattress. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t right at all.

Howard left in a huff, not saying a word to Punk or Percy. Percy saw him standing out there on the street for a few moments, his hands on his hips. A man alone.

* * * *

Howard didn’t know what to do with himself now. He couldn’t go to the bank; no one there would talk to him. And he couldn’t go home for the same reason. He wandered next door to the sheriff’s office and sat down behind the desk.

Ungrateful, that’s what they are. That ‘O’Bannon woman’s to blame for all of this. If I could get out of this deal with her, I could find another buyer—a man, someone reliable. These people have to open their eyes, understand that a woman can never run a business. Why, women change their minds like they change their hair ribbons. They marry, get pregnant; a woman’s place is in the home with her children, seeing to the needs of her husband. To prove my point, that O’Bannon woman’s already taken off. In town for two whole days and now she’s gone. Women are fickle, unpredictable, unreliable creatures at best.

Howard wouldn’t hire a women to work in his bank. He had two employees, a teller and a manager, both men with families. He dismissed entirely the fact his employees, men, were not speaking to him. His manager and his teller had explained to him their wives would make them quit if for any reason the opening of the mercantile was delayed because of bank interference.

Howard assured his employees he wanted the mercantile. He wanted it open and running as soon as possible. He just wanted the owner of the mercantile to be right for the town. Miss O’Bannon was not the right owner.

He had to put a stop to the construction in order to put her in default of their agreement. He’d hoped she would be discouraged and pull out of the deal. She would’ve taken a big loss, but women were foolish when it came to business. She never should’ve taken on the property in the first place. He blamed Crookshank for not explaining that to her at the outset. Crookshank should have known better, should’ve known Laura Creek needed a man with a family to run the mercantile.

He didn’t say it out loud to his employees, but Howard didn’t want some short, snoot-faced female running his mercantile. No, by God, he just wouldn’t have it.

It had been two days and still no reply to his telegram to the O’Bannon Brothers in Oregon City. He wondered why. He regretted that Percy had quit before Howard had an opportunity to discover if he’d received a reply. Ah, well, some things couldn’t be helped. He could go over to the telegraph office and take a look, see if there were any messages for him. He had a key to the telegraph office. He had no idea how to receive messages or send them, but that wouldn’t stop him from looking through those messages that had already been translated. As mayor, he had executive privileges under certain circumstances.

As he sat there in the sheriff’s chair, Howard let his fingers play with the unopened envelopes on the sheriff’s desk while he mulled over the events of the day. The addresses on the envelopes didn’t interest him. A good sized package wrapped in butcher paper and string took up a corner of the desk, probably flyers, he decided. Lost in thought, he took out his pocketknife and cut the string that held the package together. Nothing but wanted posters, legal notices and public flyers, just as he’d thought. With little else to do, he began to flip through them.

He flipped over one with a woman’s face on it, he found that interesting. It was upside down. He turned it around, and there was Miss O’Bannon’s face looking right at him. It was her, all right, big eyes, all that hair. “WANTED: WREN O’BANNON, FOR QUESTIONING IN REGARDS TO THE POSSIBLE THEFT AND ILLEGAL PROCUREMENT OF SIX MULES, TWO FREIGHT WAGONS PLUS MERCHANDISE, BELONGING TO O’BANNON BROTHERS ENTERPRISES. A REWARD OF $200 IS OFFERED FOR INFORMATION REGARDING HER LOCATION. Below, in fine print, Howard found the name and address for a Stanley O’Bannon, O’Bannon Brothers Enterprises, Oregon City, Oregon, as contact person.

Howard couldn’t believe his eyes. He reread the notice then jumped to his feet, holding the notice up in front of his face. “I’ll be gone to hell in a royal hand-basket,” he mumbled as a satisfied, triumphant smile entrenched itself on his round and ruddy face.

A plan began to formulate in his mind. When he stepped outside, the sun was setting. He could hear hammering next door at the mercantile. That didn’t matter anymore.

He heard a holler and a commotion coming from the direction of the stable and turned to see two horses, his horses, coming at a hard gallop towards him. Punk whistled, hollered an obscenity and waved his hat encouraging the steeds to mow him down. Howard heard Punk’s maniacal laughter behind him as he took off at a run with his fancy carriage horses breathing down his neck.

* * * *

Her uncle Howard had left before supper on horseback, headed east for La Grande. He wouldn’t tell Lottie or Aunt Eula why, only that he expected to be back late tomorrow afternoon. For all the trouble he was in with his employees, with Percy and Aunt Eula, Uncle Howard had appeared a man pleased with himself.

Aunt Eula wasn’t speaking to him. She’d found out what he’d done, threatening to recall the loans of hard working, God-fearing folks. In general, Howard had made a jackass of himself, Aunt Eula had proclaimed, giving Percy, her own brother, a reason to quit his job. What would the people do without a minister for their church, she’d asked?

“You’re a tyrant.” That’s how Aunt Eula had put it to him. Lottie couldn’t help but overhear, her Aunt Eula had screamed, and Aunt Eula never raised her voice, never. Under normal circumstances her aunt’s remarks would’ve sent Uncle Howard through the roof, but not tonight. He just smiled and patted Aunt Eula on the cheek before he mounted his horse and rode off.

As much as Lottie wanted that store to open, and wanted to see her creations in the window of the mercantile, she also wanted to ruin Miss O’Bannon. She wanted that almost as badly as did her uncle.

The night was warm and pitch-black as Lottie emerged from her uncle’s cellar. Her dark cloak hid the heavy picnic basket she carried as she made her way over to the mercantile. There were stacks of lumber behind the building. Lottie picked her way around them to enter through the newly framed storeroom. The back door to the mercantile creaked open and Lottie took a few steps into the dark room. She stumbled and cracked her shin on a nail-keg. The big window at the front of the store offered a bit of reflective light and she moved toward it. A display stage was in place, built up a foot above the floor, at the front of the store.

Aunt Eula had spoken to her about the possibility of making up some of her dresses, bonnets, and bags for the new mercantile. Her gowns would show nicely here, Lottie thought, and sighed with regret. She set her basket down and began to empty the contents upon the stage for all who passed to see. She found a wooden shipping crate behind her and scooted it next to the twelve bottles of rye whiskey she’d stolen from her uncle’s cellar. She stood for a moment to consider her actions. Her decision made, she left the store the way she’d entered, her basket empty.

click here to go chapters 15 and 16

Poem by DABell, “A Pimp to Prose”


My words, each a pearl, perfect and pure I expose

For examination, only to have the brightest stripped,

Disemboweled by the hard-hearted,

Laser-eye of The Pimp of Prose.

I wonder what am I doing.

Why do I spend my days seeking,

striving to draw the attention of the unseen face,

The Pimp of Prose?

So eager am I to please this peddler of the soul,

I fret and stew to dress and redress my meager offering,

hoping to one day delight the demi-God,

The Pimp of Prose.

Keeping the lure of gold in his mind’s eye,

I know he will choose, not mine, but the prominent name.

My heart shrivels with each rejection.

I weep, my shame exposed.

Over, and over I crawl on bended knee,

 Place my words written with my blood,

Before that elusive, mocking crown.

I serve every syllable, bright and shiny, upon the alter.

I endure the snorts of disdain:

Not good enough.

The wrong shape.

The wrong color.

Don’t need another one of these.

And I wonder what makes me think I could ever please


By Dorothy A. Bell

Free read Laura Creek chaps 11 and 12

Laura Creek Mercantile

Post Jan 20, 2013


Wren put her lead mules, Bonnie and Bob, to harness and drove one empty wagon over to the well behind the mercantile. While Mr. Meirs and Mr. Claussen, busy picking up their tools and scraps of lumber, she filled her drinking-water barrel and the barrel she used for bathing and watering the animals.  Her hope, to get the chore done without being caught.

She expected Telt to arrive at her camp soon; he said he’d come by. She didn’t want him to question why she needed water, since she now had access to a well and the creek. She feared if he questioned her, she’d have to think of a lie, and for sure he’d call her on it. It would be a long haul to Pendleton, steep and rough; she and her mules would need water.

By the time the sun had gone down behind the trees, she had her water barrels full and her mules back on their tether line where they could graze on the meadow grass downstream from her fire-pit. She had cornbread cooking in the Dutch oven over a bed of red-hot coals and a pot of beans bubbling away off to the side of the fire. As she laid bacon in a cast-iron fry pan, Queenie loped into camp. The retriever pranced by her, wading into the creek to join Mac.

Telt came up beside her. “Good evenin’,” he said with a grin on face his. Nodding, he shifted his gaze to the dogs, who had started to jump over and around each other, cavorting, riling up the water at the edge of the creek. “Aren’t they something, though?”

“Good evening,” she said in turn, her hands going to her hips, “I can’t get over it. I’ve never seen Mac act so silly. He’s always been a serious kind of fella, even as a pup. He’s my bodyguard. He’s not supposed to behave like a…a…big goof.”

Telt shook his head. “I handpicked Queenie ‘cause she was the quietest and most docile pup of the litter. I wouldn’t know what to do with a dog that constantly pestered for attention.”

Wren looked down at the heavy iron skillet and the uncooked bacon and knew she should put it back on the fire, but she didn’t want to move, didn’t want to end this moment. The top of her head came right to his shoulder. It would be so easy to lean against him. She wondered what he’d do? Would he put his arm around her, would he pull her closer…? He looked nice, his hair combed, wearing a clean blue shirt. Her nose nearly touching his shirtsleeve, she inhaled his scent. He smelled fresh, like the air after a rain.

She should’ve done more to fix herself up a bit. Her hair, it hung loose, falling forward when she leaned over the campfire. Next to him, she felt dowdy and squat. Instead of fetching water, she should’ve at least brushed her hair and put it up in combs. At least she’d changed her dirty white blouse for a clean shirt. It didn’t fit; it had belonged to her father.

Impatient with herself, and her feelings of inadequacy, she pulled away from him. What did she care how she looked. Her appearance had never mattered to her before. Besides, she didn’t want to get involved with Telt Longtree. Maybe someday, after she’d opened her mercantile, after she’d settled in, it might be fun to pursue a flirtation with the man. Going back to work, she stirred the beans and finished laying bacon in the fry pan.

He didn’t move, she felt him there—behind her—could feel his eyes on her. She hoped if she ignored him, he’d go away. It stood to reason, a good looking, virile man like the sheriff would have something more entertaining to do than standing around watching a grubby old maid lay bacon in a pan. She waited to hear his hasty excuse to leave, and prepared to dismiss him with a smile and a wave.

When she heard him mutter aloud, “You’re something too,” she discounted the comment as he’d said something similar about the dogs. She glanced up, expecting to see a teasing grin on his face, instead met a dead serious, intense—could it be lascivious—steady gaze.

Nervous, she deliberately chose to shunt aside both his innuendo and his gaze, full of unspoken meaning. “Oh, well, yes, you don’t have to say it; I know I look a fright. I can’t remember the last time I combed my hair or looked in the mirror. I haven’t had time. We made real progress today, though.” Looking up at him through her lashes, expecting to find the gleam in his eyes nothing more than a figment of her imagination, she met that same, unmistakeable, appreciative gaze and stammered, “I hope you’re hungry. It’s not much, just bacon and beans. I did manage some cornbread in the Dutch oven.”

“It smells good,” he said, moving in on her. Uneasy with his nearness, she stepped to the side, and wondered what in the world he was doing? It sure wasn’t her beauty that drew him; that was for damn sure. A woman on her own, maybe he thought her easy prey. She needed to understand what he saw in her. It occurred to her that his fascination with her could be simple curiosity, or more likely, a pathetic attempt to scare the heck out of her.

She’d had a lot of time this afternoon to think about Telt Longtree. She really didn’t know him at all. If this thing between them should happen, and she knew it would, because she couldn’t stop thinking about him and melting every time she looked into his eyes—then they should get to know one another a little better. They’d become too intimate too fast. She went around him to get the tin plates off the log where she’d laid out a blanket to make a place for them to sit.

“Please, sit down,” she pleaded, finding him right beside her as she turned back to the fire. She made the mistake of looking up to his face and meeting that penetrating gaze of his, and couldn’t look away.

He held her with his eyes. She didn’t understand what she saw, the intensity of his gaze made him appear wistful, needy. His eyes begged her for something, something she didn’t know how to give. She’d never had a man interested in her before, not like this. She didn’t know what to do…how to act…what to say. His hand reached out, and he took the plates from her, his fingers brushing her own. She blinked and broke the spell. He took a deep shuddering breath, dropped his hands to his sides and sat down on the log.

Feeling out of her element and self-conscious, Wren stopped short of telling him to go home, leave her alone. She couldn’t do this, she wasn’t any good at it, she didn’t want to waste his time.

“Your name, Sheriff, Telt, that’s an unusual name,” she heard herself say. With fumbling fingers, she dished out some beans onto a plate and scooped up some of the cornbread from the Dutch-oven, only to lose it in the fire. Trying again, she managed to get a good-sized chunk on the plate. Carefully, she picked out a couple pieces of the bacon and laid them across the beans. Holding the plate with both hands, her knees quaking, feeling like she had a belly full of grasshoppers, she passed him his supper.

While she made a plate of food for herself, she hardened her fluttering heart and decided if he wanted to stay around then what better time than the present to find out a little more about this man—the man she couldn’t resist. The man destined to be her ruin, if she wasn’t careful.

Being polite, he waited for her to come and sit down beside him, which added to her feelings of inferiority. She didn’t think she would ever get used to this, having a man, a good looking man, wanting to spend time with her. There had to be something wrong with him, there just had to be another reason, other than attraction, why he’d come to see her this evening, why he would spend time with her.

Telton was my mother’s maiden name. Telt for short,” he told her as he held out his hand, taking her plate so that she could settle herself next to him. His fingers, warm and rough, gliding across hers startled her, rattled her so much that she didn’t remember asking him about his name. And for a second, she didn’t understand his answer. Goodness, she had to get her nerves under control.

With her cheeks burning, she sat close to him, her hip touching his. He didn’t move away. When he handed her back her plate, he winked at her; and she giggled like a silly ninny. Tucking in her chin, she told herself to behave and squared her shoulders, vowing to act her age, not like a thirteen-year old school-girl. “Is your mother still living?” she asked, proud to have regained her composure.

She had to wait for his reply as he sunk his teeth into a forkful of hot cornbread. Butter dripped off his strong, suntanned fingers. He closed his eyes and ran his tongue over his lips, and she thought she would swoon. He shook his head and swallowed, and she swallowed too, her mouth dry as dust.

“Didn’t know my mother or my father,” he told her. “The folks who took me in, the Newbergs, they told me my folks drowned crossing the Snake River near Fort Boise on their way to the Willamette Valley back in ‘52. They knew my folks. Mrs. Newberg knew my mother before she married. I was just a sprout of four months when my folks drowned. I lived with the Newbergs until I got old enough to fend for myself.”

Fascinated, she forgot to be nervous and asked an impertinent question, “Were you happy?” He shrugged his shoulders and, for a moment, thought he would withhold his answer. Then he put down his fork and turned his head to look her in the eye.

“They made me feel wanted, if that’s what you’re asking. The Newbergs didn’t have much, but they always kept me fed and clothed. They had five of their own kids, me, and two other children who’d lost their folks on the way west for one reason or another. I don’t suppose it was easy for them. Walt and Mother Sharon liked kids, I guess.”

“Do you ever see them, visit them?”

“No,” he said as he scooped up forkful of beans and bacon. “Walt and Mother Sharon picked up, lock, stock, and barrel, and moved down to the Sacramento area about five years ago to be closer to their youngest daughter and to get away from the Indian trouble. I never kept in touch with any of the kids. We all scattered once we were old enough to leave the nest. I joined the army. I get a letter from Mother Sharon now and then. I let her know where I finally settled. I’ve written to her a couple of times.”

Wren, with the soothing sounds of the gurgling creek nearby to sooth her, finally relaxed enough to eat. The smell of the earth surrounded them. Beneath the shade of the cottonwoods, the air felt deliciously cool, wonderful, after the hot day. The dogs lay in the grass behind them nearer the meadow, dozing, and another question popped into her mind. “You said you came to Laura Creek about four years ago. What brought you here, of all places?”

He chuckled, his mouth full of cornbread. “I’d been in the army ten years, stationed at Fort Walla Walla fighting Indians. I’d had a bellyful. I’d made it to Lieutenant without getting killed, and my hitch was up. The time had come to move on.”

He paused for a second, his head cocked to one side, a lopsided grin on his face. “I rode into Laura Creek looking for a cool beer. I recall Howard had a big crowd gathered around right in front of the bank. He was up on the step pontificating, so I pulled up and sat there on my horse waiting to hear a speech. He pointed at me and I remember what he said. He said, That’s the kind of man we need. We need a soldier, a man of discipline and courage. A man who will wear this badge…and Howard held up the tin star and waved in front of everyone. I sat there on my horse like a fool, unsuspecting, entertained listening to the blowhard on the steps spout. Then before the cat could lick his whiskers, I had that badge on my chest. Howard had me swearing on a stack of bibles to uphold the law and folks were cheering. Looking back I see my mistake, I hadn’t bothered to change out of my uniform. I didn’t have any civilian clothes, the army had dressed and fed me for ten years. Once Howard set his sights on me and found out I’d just mustered out of the military, he had me as good as roped and tied. I became the prime candidate for the town’s first sheriff.”

The way he told the story had Wren laughing and gasping for breath, her eyes watering as he did his imitation of Howard T. Buttrum. Wren had no idea she could laugh so hard. It felt good, delicious and carefree. She didn’t know why she’d been so nervous, this was easy; this felt natural…right.

* * * *

She was so danged beautiful and she didn’t even know it. Sitting here, talking with her, Telt began to suspect that this woman, for all of her ambition and spunk, didn’t think much of herself. She really didn’t know the power she had over him. When he’d come around that wagon and saw her standing there, her hair pulled over one shoulder, laying down across her chest to her waist, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright, she’d taken his breath away. She looked like a gypsy. She didn’t look real, she was a vision right out of his dreams.

He had to tell himself to take it easy, hold back. For a little while there, when she’d stood there next to him, he’d thought to hell with food. I don’t care if I ever eat again. I bet if I laid you down here, on the grass, you wouldn’t care if you ever ate again. I’m thinkin’ you wouldn’t mind one bit if I kiss you.

The way she’d laughed just now, all out, unembarrassed, not simpering or shy, had him wondering if Wren O’Bannon did everything all out. Feeling the blood begin to pool down low in his belly, he licked his lips in anticipation. The time wasn’t right, not yet, but soon. He didn’t think he could wait much longer. What he really found interesting, if he read the vibrations he’d been getting, he didn’t think she could wait much longer, either.

* * * *

Lottie Bledsoe lived in a little cottage beside the church. The echo of laughter coming from the direction of the creek had caught her attention as she removed her petticoats from her clothesline. Standing on her back porch with tears staining her pale cheeks, she watched the breeze blow the dark clouds up from the southeast. She could smell the smoke and see the small dot of orange from the flames of Miss O’Bannon’s campfire. Although she couldn’t make out the people, she recognized the sheriff’s sweet, brown-as-molasses laughter. She heard it in her dreams. Now she would also hear Miss O’Bannon’s lilting, rich giggle in her nightmares.

* * * *

It had been hard, the temptation great, but Wren had said not one word to the sheriff about leaving before dawn for Pendleton. She’d considered telling him and wondered what he would say. She asked herself what she would do if he insisted on coming with her. She told herself she didn’t want that. She had to go to Pendleton. She needed to get away from him for a couple of days to slow down this overwhelming need to feel his arms around her.

Before she turned down her lantern, she tore out a page from her black book and wrote out a note letting Telt, and everyone, know where she was going and why. With Mac at her side, she crossed the meadow and slipped the note into the message box at the telegraph office. Mr. Terrel would find it. Yes, that would be the best.

She slept fitfully, her dreams full of lust and rejection. When she awoke to the sound of the wind blowing in the grass an hour or so before dawn, she decided to get up and get the mules harnessed. They’d had a good rest and their bellies were full of fresh hay. They were cooperative and eager to step into the traces.

Proceeding as quietly as possible, Wren urged her team out of town, with Mac looping ahead of the leaders, Bonnie and Bob. With the meadow grass muffling the sounds of the wagon wheels, she drove the wagons behind Miss Bledsoe’s house. After going around the church, she swung to the right and onto the road that led out of town.

* * * *

“Sheriff…Sheriff.” Telt heard Shorty yell from the other side of his cabin door and he instinctively sprang to his feet. The boy banged on the door a couple more times and yelled again. “You got to get up. She’s gone.”

Telt jerked the door open and stood there in his doorway, half-asleep, bleary-eyed, looking right and left, then up to the swaying treetops. A stiff, warm breeze washed over him and he folded his arms across his bare chest. “Damn, Shorty, it’s still dark. And there’s a storm comin’, feel that wind. Everybody in town is still asleep. I don’t smell smoke, so there ain’t a fire. Go home, Shorty. Go back to bed.”

Instead of turning around and going home, Shorty gave him a little shove. “You gotta wake up, Sheriff.”

His eyes gritty and full of sleep, his brain still in a fog of lust-filled dreams, Telt growled, “Why?”

“She’s gone, Sheriff. Miss O’Bannon, sSir, her wagons are gone. Pa said to come get you.”

“Well hell, why didn’t you say so.” Telt scrubbed his full head of hair with both hands, hoping to bring back some circulation and some clearer thinking. “What time is it?” he yelled over his shoulder on his way to his trousers, shirt and boots.

“Must be almost 6:30,” Shorty offered. “I done what you said, Sheriff, I went out there to the meadow to check on the wagons and the stuff in the lean-to. I was expectin’ that dog of hers to eat me. Then I seen the wagons was gone. All the stuff is still in the lean-to. She didn’t take anything out. It’s all there.”

Telt nodded while he pulled his socks on. “What are you doin’ up so early?”

“Pa got up to tie down the tarp we have over the wood box ‘cause he heard the wind a howlin’. I heard him cussin’. Pa says we’re in for some thunder and lightning.”

“Yep, I reckon he’s right,” Telt said as he grabbed his hat and his duster. Leaning down, he pulled an old saddlebag out from under his bed, then stuffed a set of extra clothes into it. After that, he went to his larder to grab some cheese and half a loaf of bread to put in the other side of the saddlebag. Next, he got his rifle and some cartridges.

“You goin’ after her, Sheriff?” Shorty asked as they headed out the door.

“Yep,” Telt said, closing the cabin door behind him. Queenie and Peanut had left them, racing headed, their ears pulled back and tongues hanging out.

Telt found Punk in the stable, pitching hay into Roonie’s stall and the stalls of a couple of Percherons, which were there to get shod. “Punk, I’m taking Roonie out of retirement.”

“Oh, yeah?” Punk hollered back, over the whistle of the wind in the rafters. “I reckon he could use a little exercise.” Punk stopped what he was doing, pitchfork at rest. “Where you off to?”

“Don’t know exactly,” Telt said as he started to set the saddle on Roonie’s mottled, rusty-red and gray back. The horse sidled. Telt patted his neck. “Whoa, there, boy, been too long since you had a saddle on your back. We’re both a little soft, I’m thinkin’.”

* * * *

As Telt rode out of the stable-yard, heading down the street with Queenie keeping up alongside, Punk asked Shorty, “You know where he’s goin’?”

“That O’Bannon woman lit out. She took the wagons and lit out sometime, probably before dawn. He’s goin’ after her,” Shorty said, his hands stuffed down deep into his pockets.

Punk whistled a low whistle, his bushy eyebrows raised in speculation. “I’d give a monkey to be there when he catches up with that mule-drivin’ little gal. I surely would. All I got to say is, he better be careful. That Miss O’Bannon is a tough little nut. Sweet, but tough,” he muttered, shaking his head, the wind beginning to rattle the shingles on his roof.


The storm came from the southwest, although the wind blew from all directions, swirling, tossing, and snapping whatever happened to be loose, fragile, or bendable. Wren almost lost her hat a couple of times, but retrieved it before it took flight. Now using her bandana, she had it tied on, the knot snug under her chin.

A spike of lightning rent the dark, bruised clouds to the east, the Grande Ronde Valley its target. A clap of thunder followed. The threat of a forest fire had her stomach clenched in a cold knot of fear.

Heat lightning hurried the mules up the mountain and over the summit. Unable to see exactly where the sun was in the sky, she wondered at the time, and guessed it to be nine or ten, still morning. The air whipped around her, thick with gray and brown dust. Indulging in a bit of wishful thinking, she prayed she’d find better weather on the west side of the crest, even though she’d heard about the fierce dust storms out on the rolling plains in and around Pendleton.

Rain, she’d been told, was not your friend in a dust storm. Rain and dust made mud. If she could keep the mules from running away with her and the wagons, she hoped to find grass, water, and some shelter in between the folds of the mountains at Deadman Pass, where she could wait out the storm and hope for better weather tomorrow.

The warehouseman she’d hired to keep an eye on her warehouse in Pendleton told her about the campsite when she’d laid over on her way to Laura Creek. She’d thought that traveling to Deadman Pass from Laura Creek under blue skies an easy day. Right now, she wasn’t so sure she could make it that far. In her gut, Wren knew she should’ve turned back at the first rumble of thunder, but the thought of the people of Laura Creek counting on her had kept her moving forward.

She thought of Telt and wished she’d given herself to him last night. What did it matter what anyone thought? She was up here all alone, and at any moment the wagons could tip over, or her team of six could take off through the mountains. A person could be struck by lightning, or find themselves in the midst of a forest fire. Any one of these occurrences would surely leave her dead, or very close to it, with no hope of rescue. Maybe if she’d allowed herself to be held, to trust someone, she might have broken down and told him she needed to get to her warehouse. Maybe he would be here beside her. Maybe she might have a chance in hell of living through this.

Her entire body burned with fatigue. Her shoulders, back and thighs trembled with the tension and strain of maintaining control of her team. Mac had stayed in front of the mules, barking, turning, shifting back and forth, forcing Bonnie and Bob to keep their minds on the road, not the lightning, not the wind, not the dust.

Half standing, one foot braced against the footboard, she called out encouragement to the team and to Mac, “Easy, Bonnie, easy, Bob. Atta boy, Mac.” Each time she opened her mouth a good peppering of grit coated her teeth, mixing with her saliva.

To her right, a dark figure on a red roan came alongside the wagon at an easy gait, like a ghostly apparition. She hadn’t heard him. The wind and thunder overrode the sounds of a horse’s hoof-beats. Wren saw him out of the corner of her eye, and at first thought it to be the shadow of a tree or just a very dark cloud. There couldn’t be anyone up here today except her. She was the only one dumb enough, ignorant enough, to try.

With eyes smarting with dust and tears flowing unchecked down her cheeks, she shifted her concentration from her team and the road ahead to the dark form drifting alongside the wagon. It was a man, a very large man, not her imagination.

Dressed in a black duster, his brown hat pulled low over his face, a face she couldn’t see because of the dusty bandana that covered his nose and mouth, his red rimmed, almost opaque-eyed gaze turned on her. A scream came into her throat. The wind blew dust down her gullet, putting her in a stranglehold, smothering the sound.

The rider took advantage of her condition and shifted his body from his horse to the wagon seat, making it look as easy as sliding into bed. His gloved hands snatched the reins from her and his elbow dug into her side, forcing her to give up the fight. Before Wren could regain her breath, he pulled the wagons to a standstill and set the brake.

Her body shaking, Wren instinctively went for the revolver in her duster pocket. She pulled back the hammer without withdrawing it and jammed the deadly barrel into the ribcage of her abductor.

* * * *

It had been a long time since Telt had known the feeling that death was only a hair-trigger away. He thought it a good thing he’d set the brake, he instinctively jerked on the reins and stiffened. The leaders of the team reared off their front legs, but the wagon hardly moved an inch. “Well hell,” he hissed and cursed himself for a fool. He’d completely forgotten about her damned arsenal.

Without thinking, he put up his hands. Holding the reins in one hand, slowly lowering the other, he pulled the bandana down from his nose and mouth. He turned his head to meet her wide-open, bloodthirsty gaze. He saw fear there in her big brown eyes. But more importantly, he saw her desperation. Her face was brown with dust. Muddy streaks trailed down her pale cheeks from the tears brought on by the sting of the wind and grit. His need to protect her, to win her trust, became more than just a challenge. Now, he made it a quest.

He didn’t dare move his hands. He could see by the expression on her face that shock kept her from comprehending his identity. “If you would let the hammer down, nice and easy, on that revolver of yours, Wren, I’d put my hands down,” he said, keeping his voice low and even, feeling his grin spread across his big face, his skin cracking, caked with dust.

“Telt!” His name came with a huge release of air. She slumped forward, squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and blinked.

He couldn’t blame her, he probably did look pretty sinister in his long black duster and his face covered with a bandana. He thought she might cry. He allowed himself to breathe again when she withdrew her revolver from his ribs, pointed it out over the side of the wagon, and carefully lowered the hammer. He made note that she put it back in her duster pocket and gave it a pat to assure it’s nearness.

He lowered his arms, not taking his eyes off her face, and asked, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

She pulled back and blinked like a little kid who’d been caught playing hooky. Then she turned mutinous; he could see it on her face: her jaw clenched and her chin went up.

A rumble of thunder rolled over from the west. She ducked and burrowed her head into his chest. Yeah, she was scared spitless. He gave her a good shake. “Talk to me, Wren. Where are you going?”

* * * *

“Let me go,” she ordered, her dignity overriding her fear. With a shake of her shoulders, she tried to free herself of his hands, but he didn’t let go.

“Not until you answer my question,” he snarled. “I should’a guessed you were up to something. I sat there at your fire last night, answering your questions, and all the while you were plotting in that pretty little head of yours, how you were going to sneak out of town come morning. Well, the joke is on me. I should’a been the one asking the questions, I guess.”

Wren didn’t like his tone. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I do not plot, nor do I have to sneak, Sheriff. This is a necessary trip,” she said, using her authoritative voice, knowing herself for a bald-faced liar.

By the hard look in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw, she assumed he was neither impressed, nor did he believe her. Exasperated, she explained, “I am on my way to Pendleton, to my warehouse. I’ve bargained for a lot of merchandise in trade for labor and materials.”

* * * *

He had her by the shoulders, torn between smothering her against his chest and choking her. Telt couldn’t decide, so he thrust her away, afraid he’d kill her either way. The wind blew a cloud of dust from behind. It swirled around, then danced back into their faces. He spit over the side of the wagon. He was beginning to understand how Miss O’Bannon’s mind worked; that frightened him too. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me last night what you had in mind?” he asked her, his eyes down to the rumps of the wheelers.

* * * *

She knew this would happen. He hated her now; she recognized the signs of disgust. He also looked wounded, that she couldn’t understand. Well, she didn’t have to waste answering stupid questions. She huffed impatiently and, in her defense, explained, “I left word with Mr. Terrel. I put a note for you, for…everyone, explaining my disappearance, in the message box at the telegraph office last evening.”

His head came up, and he shifted his weight, the better to look her in the eye, “Well, ain’t that sweet,” he said, before he flapped his arms in despair.

“You sit right there.” he commanded her, his finger a fraction of an inch from her nose. His words and the look he gave her dared her to defy his order. She folded her arms across her chest and inwardly she railed against his authority—treating her as if she were a runaway child—the nerve of the man. She assumed he’d gone to tie his horse to the back of the wagon. She told herself she should take off, right now, and leave him and his horse in the dust.

* * * *

After tying Roonie to the empty wagon, Telt picked Queenie up and put her in the back. She was exhausted, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Mac stood beside him, appearing to approve of the arrangement, then followed him back to the front of the wagon, where he left him to take his place up front with the leaders. Telt no sooner got up on the board seat than Wren jumped to the ground.

“You get back here!” he yelled.

“I’m getting your dog some water.” she yelled back and went to the side of wagon to dip out some water into a pan for the dogs.

Telt wanted to order her back onto the seat, but damn it, she was right. Queenie needed a drink and badly. Impatiently, he waited while Queenie and Mac refreshed themselves.

He waited for her to tie the lid to her water barrel back down. Completely ignoring his outstretched hand, she climbed back up onto the wagon under her own steam.

“I suppose you’re headed for Deadman Pass for the night?” he asked as he released the brake and set the team into motion.

“I believe it to be a good place to stop over, with a corral and grass,” she said, the challenge in her voice daring him to disagree.

“Oh, no argument here,” he nodded. “You know how it got the name, Deadman Pass?”

Wren shook her head. Telt grinned. She looked stubborn as a mule. He flicked the reins and shouted to the team.

They started out, the storm gathering up all around them. After a good rumble of thunder to the east, he spoke. “Four or five years back a band of Bannock Indians went on a rampage and attacked four freight haulers who were making a run with four wagons from La Grande to Pendleton. Slaughtered ‘em, right there in that little dip in the ground just as you head down into the plains above Pendleton.”

She had her eyes on the trail and her jaw set. He didn’t really expect her to give him the satisfaction of a response, so he continued his tale. “Before that, back when the settlers started movin’ in, the Indians warned the white man they didn’t want him using this trail. Of course, being the arrogant sons-a-bitches that we are, we didn’t pay any mind to that. We were going to use any damn trail we wanted, and no Indian could stop us. Besides, this trail across the Blues is the shortest route into the Columbia Basin. The Indians put up a ‘keep-out sign’, so to speak, to discourage travelers. They found themselves a poor old fur trapper and tied the poor old bugger up over the trail, stretching him out between two trees and left him there to dry in the sun. That’s when it became known as Deadman pass. But that didn’t stop us either, ‘cause here we are…here you are, just as arrogant as all those other folks that went before us.”

He knew that got her. She flashed those eyes at him. Her hands gripped the seat and she turned to face him before she let him have it. “Arrogant I may be, but I am not ignorant of the dangers or easily frightened, Sheriff Longtree. The Umatilla Indians helped to round up those renegades that slaughtered those freight haulers, I believe. And for their trouble a large portion of their lands were confiscated. They have been peacefully residing on what is left of their reservation for quite a while now.

“Which is neither here nor there—as you are aware, I am prepared, at all times, to protect myself—I am perfectly capable of driving these wagons by myself. I drove them all by myself from Oregon City to Laura Creek. I most certainly can make it to Pendleton and back to Laura Creek without your help. I don’t need you or anyone else. As I have told you before, I can take care of myself!” she shouted over the sounds of the storm, working very hard, he reckoned, not to cry.

* * * *

He had that look, that wounded confused look that she didn’t understand, nor did she believe. He looked hurt. Whatever it meant, that look made her heart pound and sent tingling sensations down deep into her nether regions.

Above the sounds of the wind and thunder and jangle and clunk of the wagons, she heard him say, “You don’t have to,” his voice full of tenderness. His eyes held concern…concern for her. She didn’t know if she could believe him. And she certainly didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t used to concern; it made her uneasy.

He looked away, his eyes to the trail. She sat beside him, studying his profile, trying to see into his head. Was it an illusion or did this man really care what happened to her?

He answered her unspoken question when he turned back and looked her straight in the eye, deadly serious, to say, “Not anymore, you’re not alone. That’s what I’m trying to say here. It isn’t just you, anymore, Wren. Now it’s you…and me.”

He flicked the reins and called out to the mules to get-up. Mac barked out his recommendations as Bonnie, Bob, and the rest of the team put their backs into it, heading up the next incline.

“You’ve got me, now!” Telt hollered over the wind and thunder. “It’s us. You hear me.” he asked, turning to look into her dirty upturned face. “It’s us, you and me,” he repeated to dispel her disbelief.

Disarmed and deflated from fatigue, she sagged in surrender, ready to accept what he was telling her. She wasn’t sure if he meant that for today he was with her, or if he meant he would stay with her for just this trip. Whatever he meant, she was grateful to him. A knot of tears came into her throat. She started to cry. She couldn’t stop herself. She began to sob. Years and years worth of loneliness came pouring up and out of her like a gusher. He put one arm around her shaking shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Well hell,” she heard him grumble down to the top of her head. “I think I’m beginning to understand why your daddy drank.” And they both burst out laughing.


Free Read Laura Creek chaps 9-10


Mac set up the alarm, barking and growling. Behind her wagon, Wren fumbled with the buttons on her dirty, old, chambray shirt and tucked it into her waistband. She heard the sheriff calling Mac off and hoped her dog would respect the sheriff’s authority.

“You’re a stupid, silly, undisciplined piece of free-market-ware, my girl,” she spit out between her tight lips, her voice barely a whisper. “One kiss and you forget where you are, and who you are. God help you, if anyone saw what you were doing out there, you’ll never be able to look any of these people in the eye, ever again.”

Starting to wind her hair up into a knot on top of her head, Wren realized she’d lost her hat…and her hair-combs. Having to hold her hair in place while she searched for some hairpins, she cursed her trembling fingers. Furious, she kept up her scold. “You’ve opened Pandora’s box, that’s what you’ve done. That man’s going to be after you. There was nothing honorable about that kiss. Ohhh, no, he’ll be looking for a quick tumble now. Remember your cousins, how they talked about girls who gave away their kisses. That’s you, now. You’re one of…those…girls. You gave the sheriff the impression you’re more than ready. You’re prime for the picking, my girl. Ripe, overripe.” Sputtering and fuming, she moaned with shame while her body trembled, ached for more.

Discovering two hair-combs behind her jar of bag balm, she stuck them into the coil of hair on the crown of her head. The combs dug into her scalp. It hurt. Wren considered the self-inflicted pain her punishment for her scandalous lack of discretion and self-control. Rechecking the buttons on her blouse to be sure she hadn’t missed one, or worse, buttoned herself up incorrectly, she then tugged at her skirt and smoothed it down over her hips. Squaring her shoulders, she put up her chin, prepared to face the good people of Laura Creek, and…the sheriff.


Telt waved to the seven men as they approached the freight wagons. “Jack, Archie, surprised to see you in town. Sorry to hear Grandma Tatom isn’t well,” he said after calling Mac off and ordering him to sit with Queenie under the wagon.

The Tatom boys lived on a big ranch about two miles outside of Laura Creek in a narrow little valley where they raised cattle and hay. Jack, the elder, maybe nineteen, and Archie, a couple of years younger, were the sole providers for their aging grandmother, their mother and little sister. Telt didn’t think they were the sharpest knives in the drawer, but they worked hard.

“Grandma told us to go to church and pray, so we did,” Jack said as he spread his thin lips into a wide smile, revealing a blank space where two front teeth should be. The two boys had on their Sunday best: boiled white shirts, gray wool suit coats, and trousers, both boys sweating profusely. As they approached, the smell of hot bodies encased in dusty wet wool hung heavy in the air.

“Hey, Sheriff,” said Jim Brandtmeyer, “we came out to talk to that O’Bannon woman about work. My missus said I’d better get over here. She wants a new cook-stove. I tried to tell her we can’t afford it, but she thought it’d be worth a try to work something out.”

The Tatom boys piped in, “Archie and me, we’d like to see if we could get Grandma a new mattress. We’ve been stuffin’ her old one with moss, but it’s all hard and it stinks. We both think she’d be better in no time if she could get some real sleep on a down mattress. We could work a week to pay for it, before we have to get in the second crop of hay.”

Telt nodded his understanding. Jim Brandtmeyer came forward with his hat in hand. He was middle-aged with six kids to feed. Jim owned the lumber and shake mill a few miles east of town. He had with him his two oldest boys. Both took after their father, built short, square and sturdy. Telt didn’t know any of the kids by name, ; Jim Brandtmeyer had too many offspring, even Jim had trouble remembering all their names. The two boys stood behind their father with unenthusiastic, blank expressions on their pimply faces.

Telt nodded to Percy and Punk, who’d filed in behind Jim. Punk spoke for them all, “Well, where is she? We ain’t got all day.”

Telt shook his head and laughed, but before he could respond, Miss O’Bannon came out from behind her wagon. “Gentleman,” she said, ignoring Telt and pushing past him under full sail. He winked and grinned at her.

They had changed their course back there, during that kiss. Telt knew they couldn’t turn back and they couldn’t ignore it. She could try to pretend nothing happened, but he wasn’t about to allow that.

“Gentlemen, I assume you’re here because of my announcement in church this morning,” she said, shading her eyes from the noonday sun with her little black book and lead pencil. Telt tapped her on the shoulder and passed her hat to her. He noticed her hair combs were stuck in the felt fabric inside the brim. He watched her face turn bright pink, and winked at her again. She slapped the hat on her head, winced, then groaned. Those damn combs. He could feel her pain. Her big brown eyes flew open, filling to the brim with unshed tears.

Looking to the faces of the men, Telt didn’t think any of them had noticed anything amiss. Stepping back, he leaned his hips against one of the wagons, folded his arms and crossed his ankles, ready to be entertained. Miss O’Bannon took her cue, now that he had moved out of her way.

She bartered with Jim Brandtmeyer for lumber for shelves and posts for a fence around her acreage. Punk offered to install a stove for her; that is, if she could get her hands on a stove. In addition, he’d keep her mules until she could get her pasture ready, all for some harness and a new anvil. Percy offered his and Shorty’s time to unload her wagons and stock her shelves, when they were installed, for new shoes and clothing.

“You’ll be wantin’ to talk to Lyle Claussen and Otto Meirs. They built the store. Otto’s a crackerjack carpenter and stone mason,” Jack told her. “I know they didn’t get to finish the job the way they wanted.”

“That’s true,” Jim said. “They put out cash money for lumber. Buttrum went all tight-fisted when they got the roof up. Buttrum told’em, ‘Good enough’.”

Telt saw her write everything down, her pencil moving, filling the pages in her black book. When she looked up, her eyes narrowed and her jaw set before she asked Jim, “I’ll want to speak to them. Are they in town today?”

“No, Ma’am, but I could send one of my boys out to let them know you want to speak to them. They’d like to break even on the lumber, I know.”

“Oh, I think they can do better than just break even. In time, I’m sure of it,” she said and gave all of them, with the exception of Telt, the benefit of her smile.

Feeling jealous as hell, he wondered, what did she mean…? They can do better than break even? And what the hell did she mean by “in time”? Feeling unsettled and edgy, Telt realized he hadn’t had a dull moment since Miss Wren O’Bannon pulled into town. She sure had a way of making things happen. Miss O’Bannon had marched into town and taken over like a general carrying out a campaign. No wonder Howard felt threatened.

Yes, sir, that kiss, that too felt like a threat, an exciting threat, but a threat no less. He had to grin. Just thinking about it gave his manhood a lift. Once the woman started something, she wasn’t one to quit; that he’d learned. A man better watch his step, or he could end up in over his head. Telt figured he better be sure he wanted to start something, before he…started something.


By the end of the day, Wren had laid out all of the repairs and storage problems before the good people of Laura Creek. Her store now buzzed and hummed with folks planning and plotting the possibilities. Even those who hadn’t attended church knew, via the grapevine, they could find opportunity for employment and gain at the new mercantile. All kinds of folks were in and out of the store all afternoon, everyone except the one person Wren wanted to see the most, the one person she dreaded and longed to see, Sheriff Telt Longtree.

One problem arose. She didn’t mention it to anyone, but as she began to tally up all of the merchandise she had promised to deliver, it became clear she would need to make a trip to her warehouse in Pendleton. If she could get away the day after tomorrow, with any luck she would be back by the end of the week. By then she might have shelves. If she had a storeroom, she could stock the shelves and prepare to open for business. And by then, surely, she would be over this fever for the sheriff that had taken over her mind and body.

She smiled a sly smile. She would open her store, possibly before the deadline. She didn’t think Mr. Buttrum would be pleased; on the contrary, he counted on her to fail. However, he obviously had not reckoned on the good souls of his community.

With her pencil suspended over a blank page in her little black book, her thoughts took her back in time to a day she would never forget.


While cleaning her father’s room, changing his bedding she discovered her father’s will hidden beneath his mattress. Curious, she slipped away to her room to read it and discovered he’d written her completely out of his will. She would have nothing, no home, no place in the family business, everything went to her Uncle Stanley.

She couldn’t believe it—she assumed that because of her father’s illness, his incapacity, and that she single-handedly ran her father’s half of O’Bannon Brother’s Enterprises, she was by all rights a full partner. She consulted with her father to keep him apprised of her progress, successes, and problems. Her father knew how much she loved her work—it was her entire life. The cold reality of his will struck her hard, pierced her heart like a knife.

Once the shock of betrayal began to subside, she made the decision to strike out on her own and cashed out a modest bank account, which she had received as an inheritance from her maternal grandfather. Hurt and angry, believing she had no one who would care, she proceeded to incorporate herself into the Big O’ Corporation.

The lawyer that helped her form her corporation helped her find a warehouse far away from Oregon City and the prying eyes of her Uncle Stanley. The lawyer wasn’t the family lawyer; she knew better than to trust the family lawyer to keep her dealings confidential. To add to that, the family lawyer would ask too many questions—where had she found the money—why form a corporation—why a warehouse in Pendleton, of all places?

At the time, she chose the Pendleton location, believing it far enough away from the eyes and ears of her uncle and cousins that she could keep her activities a secret. As it turned out, the location made sense. The cargo vessels working the Columbia River could carry her inventory directly from the port of Portland up the Columbia to Umatilla Station, and from there, overland to Pendleton. Wren had no plan of how to proceed or where she would go, she just started buying and storing merchandise for her warehouse in Pendleton under the name of The Big O’ Corporation.

She searched for bargains, bid on inventory from businesses that were moving or going under. She became obsessed with the challenge of getting the best deal.

One day while searching The Oregonian for the next bargain, she spotted an intriguing ad. “Come join our friendly, growing community. Newly built mercantile for sale in Laura Creek, Oregon, ready and waiting for the right owner”.

After speaking to Judge Crookshank, and finding out that he knew the mayor of the town, she decided to make the purchase. It seemed serendipitous at the time.


Retreat, Telt had once read, was the better part of valor, or something like that. It felt more like cowardice. With no excuse, other than to spy on her, he didn’t feel like hanging around the mercantile like some useless clod. She was right over there, just a few steps from his door. If he got close enough to her to look into her eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her. He burned to get her in his arms again. Wren O’Bannon wasn’t more than a spit in the wind; short and firm, warm and supple, a woman who didn’t wear corsets, bustles or stays… damn, she was all woman.

Besides, he needed to fix his chair. It would keep his mind occupied for the afternoon.

All afternoon there came a stream of high traffic up and down Main Street, folks in wagons and folks on foot heading for the mercantile. Telt didn’t need to be right there in the doorway watching her every move. Wren O’Bannon had set forth a movement towards getting that store up and running, and he had to let her do it. In his mind, he could see her, with that black book and her pencil in hand, bargaining and dealing like an auctioneer on sale day—in her element.

With the new leg for his chair blocked and nailed to the underside of the seat, he discovered the darn thing rocked and wobbled from side to side. He’d tried sanding all the legs down without much success. While scratching his head thinking about what to try next, the door to his office opened and Miss Bledsoe, carrying a dinner plate beneath a linen napkin, entered.

Seeing the hopeful gleam of adoration shining in her cornflower-blue eyes, and the sweet smile on her lips, he felt guilty as hell. The woman would not easily give up her pursuit. Two days ago, that had seemed to be an okay deal. But today, Telt figured he better try to discourage Miss Bledsoe from her infatuation. Even if he wasn’t sure in which direction his heart would take him, he now knew that no woman would erase from his memory Miss O’Bannon’s unbridled passion in his arms.

Furthermore, he wasn’t interested in anything less than all-out heat when it came to kisses. Lottie Bledsoe didn’t have it in her. He compared the situation to his experience with some of the horses and dogs he’d met and had owned over the years—some had spark and others didn’t. Funny, but two days ago he hadn’t known what it was that was missing in his relationship with Miss Beldsoe. He shook his head. Because of one kiss, he’d become as fickle as his dog.

“I’m pleased to find you in your office,” Lottie said, a sweet smile on her thin lips. “Uncle Howard said you were probably at the mercantile, but I told him you wouldn’t want to be over there. It’s so crowded. Whatever can that woman be doing?” Lottie set the plate on his desk and pulled the napkin off to reveal fried chicken, potatoes covered with chicken gravy, and green beans, all still hot.

When Telt took his eyes off the plate of savory food and looked up into Miss Bledsoe’s limpid pools of blue, he thought of Miss O’Bannon. He would bet his best pair of boots she hadn’t eaten all day.


During the afternoon Wren bargained with Mr. Baker for a sign for the mercantile. She wanted a sign much like the one he had over his stable entry. While standing there in the doorway of the mercantile, Wren glimpsed Lottie Bledsoe entering the sheriff’s office, balancing a plate of goodies between her lace-gloved hands. The harder Wren tried to focus on Mr. Baker and his ideas for her sign, the more distracted she became.

Thinking of Lottie Bledsoe soured her stomach, and try as she might, Wren couldn’t get the woman out of her mind. The fact of the matter, she was jealous of the girl’s pretty clothes, her willowy body, her fair complexion, her blue eyes, and in general, the way she exuded frail femininity. Jealousy came as a new and unwelcome emotion to Wren.

For the rest of the afternoon she could hardly think straight. She scolded herself, telling herself she had no time for such foolishness. The desire to march over to the sheriff’s office and strangle the woman threatened to override her good sense. At the very least, she wanted to squish Miss Bledsoe’s homey offering of food down her scrawny neck. Then, in a futile attempt to be reasonable, she reminded herself that she didn’t want the sheriff—Miss Bledsoe could have him.

Besides, he hadn’t bothered to set eyes on her all afternoon—so much for her kisses meaning anything to the man.

That kiss was a tease, a wicked experiment. Men!

Disgusted with herself for being disappointed that the flirtatious sheriff had not flashed his winking blue eyes or his big white-toothed, teasing grin at her all afternoon, she marched her sorry-self out across the meadow to her lonely wagons.

The sheriff could go straight to perdition; she did not care one way or the other if she ever set eyes on him again…ever. She was glad he hadn’t shown his face all afternoon. Very, very glad.

The sun, low in the sky, slipping over the side of the mountains, provided a splendid show of coral, violet and silver hues. She had a headache, no doubt caused by the lack of food, finding no time to return to her wagon for lunch. With her throat raw from talking all afternoon, and feeling hot and sticky, she wondered what she could fix for herself that would be satisfying and quick for her evening meal.

A soft, warm breeze ruffled her skirt as she crossed the meadow. She removed her hat and the combs from her hair. Instantly her headache receded to a dull throb at her temples, as opposed to the battering-ram that had been slamming at her forehead just a few moments ago. Closing her eyes, she rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath; and congratulated herself on a very productive afternoon. She had hope. She might be able to do all that she had promised.

As she drew closer to her campsite, she saw the sheriff’s dog lying there under the wagon with Mac. This would never do. The sheriff had to take responsibility for his own dratted dog.

In the twilight, she could see the glow of a lantern shining between and coming from beneath her wagons. She had company. She knew of only one person who might think he could just come into her camp and make himself at home—just one person who might think he would be welcome. Oh, how she wished she had her pistol with her. She would give him a welcome, all right. Maybe a rock? Yes, she would knock him in the head with a big rock. Probably wouldn’t even put a dent in that thick skull of his.

“Good evening, Miss O’Bannon,” greeted the sheriff with a congenial grin on his big face as he stepped in front of her, coming from between her wagons and affording her no time to find her weapon of choice.

“Eeek!” she squealed, in the foolish way that women often responded when taken by surprise, which she found exceedingly irksome. He’d managed to scare her even though she knew of his presence. She could just cry. Of all the nerve, the gall, and now to get all goosish and fluttery…even thrilled to see him…it didn’t seem fair, not fair at all.

“I made a pot of my venison stew,” he said, his big blue eyes full of uncertainty, looking like a big silly, sorrowful hound. She could almost imagine his tail going between his legs. “I figured you hadn’t bothered or had time to eat today.”

Wren stood there a second, hat in hand, her headache pulling her brows together over her nose, preparing in her head the set-down he had coming. The offer of food never entered her mind; she’d assumed he’d come for something else entirely…just one thing…her surrender…and maybe he had, but he had food. He’d thought of her. He’d stayed away, but he’d thought of her. Oh, dear, she could feel her resolve melting away.

“You’re hungry, you gotta be hungry?” he probed, looking confused and endearing, his eyes full of hope and nothing but good intentions.

Wren expelled her breath and with it went all of her fight. Oh, hell, she couldn’t resist. “You know darn-good and well I’m starving.” Her half-hearted acceptance brought his grin back. She flopped down on the warm grass, and he handed her a plate full of stew, a big slice of bread with butter, and a tin cup of cool water. Oh, she despised him for leading her into temptation. And she despised herself for not bashing him over the head with a rock like she wanted: maybe then he’d go away and leave her alone.


At the cabin, lying in his bed, Telt couldn’t get Wren O’Bannon out of his mind. Beside the fact that he wanted desperately to explore every inch of her luscious little body, it worried him that he’d had to leave her out there alone in the meadow, vulnerable to the elements and predators. He couldn’t forget that she’d told him she wasn’t used to anyone looking out for her.

How had it come about that a bright, attractive, strong woman had no one to care where she slept or how she lived—if she had food?

Well, Telt mused, old Howard wasn’t the only one who thought it strange Wren O’Bannon didn’t appear to have any strings attached. She answered to only one person, herself. If she were a man, he wouldn’t find that strange at all, but somebody should be looking out for that young woman.


Wren, lying with Mac stretched out beside her, threw her arm across his furry chest, watching the dark clouds gather overhead, catching now and then a glimpse of the stars. A tear rolled down her cheek. She’d lost the battle, she couldn’t fight the attraction she felt for Telt Longtree. She couldn’t resist a man who cooked for her. As she suspected, he had intelligence, ethics, a strong sense of humor, all in all a good man. Somehow, he’d gotten her to talk about her plans, whom she’d bargained with, and for what.

She wanted him. She’d had crushes before, and she’d made a fool of herself a time or two, but Wren had never gone so far as to give herself, body and soul, to any man. Telt Longtree, if she let him, would take all she had to give; she knew it. By nature, she gave her all to everything she tried or wanted. Passion, she didn’t suppose, would be any different. She suspected that’s why she’d kept her virginity all these years. She knew once she made up her mind to give in to desire, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Finding someone who could accept that kind of dedication for the long term, she knew, wasn’t likely.

He didn’t push for her all-out surrender tonight. That gave her pause. Lying here, looking back over the evening, replaying their conversation, she could see that he had wooed her, coaxed her into relaxing, gentled her with his presence as he would a horse he wanted to bring to harness. She wanted to laugh, admitting to herself that it hadn’t bothered her at all; she’d found his way of talking and joking endearing, and of all things, sensitive.

Groaning in despair and shame, she whispered in the dark, “Telt Longtree, sensitive. Oh, my God. No man is sensitive. Calculating, yes. Don’t be an idiot. Sensitive. That man wants something. Of course he didn’t rush you tonight. He worked on you, broke down your defenses. He’s got you mooning after him, lying here in the dark talking to yourself.” She rolled her head back and forth, then took a deep breath. “Oh, you would’ve given in tonight. You wanted to, you even hoped he’d try, but he didn’t, he didn’t have to, he knows it’s just a matter of time.

“Hell, Telt Longtree might be the only offer I’ll ever get. Uncle Stanley says I’m destined to be an old maid. Do I want to be an old maid who’s never been kissed? That is the question.”

A conversation she had with her uncle right after her father’s funeral came to mind. Gloating that he’d inherited all of O’Bannon Brother’s Enterprises, which included all the properties, warehouses as well as the house she’d lived in her whole life, her uncle had made her a half-hearted offer to keep a roof over her spinster’s-head if she would agree to running the house, cooking and cleaning up after her uncle and his sons.

No, Wren told herself, at age twenty-six, if Telt Longtree offered her the opportunity to experience the pleasures of the flesh, she wouldn’t refuse on the grounds that she needed to preserve her virginity. After all, getting a little long in the tooth, with no prospects, no hope of finding a mate, a partner, a lover, keeping her virtue didn’t seem very important. Most men found her too strong-minded, determined and, some added, cold and pushy to the list of faults. So why should she save herself? She knew better than to think a prince would come to her rescue. No, she didn’t believe in fairytales.

Enough of that, she scolded, tugging the quilt up around her ears. Tomorrow couldn’t’ come soon enough. She closed her eyes to pray the coming day would pass quickly. She had a lot to do, a lot to keep her mind from going astray. Work would keep her from fantasizing about Telt Longtree and his broad shoulders, black wavy hair, and his blue, blue eyes, eyes that made her knees go weak when they smiled at her.

“I need to get out of town,” she said to Mac, who resented her restlessness and jerked his hind leg in protest. “I know, we just got here, but we need to get out of town. We’ll go to Pendleton to the warehouse. The sooner I put some distance between temptation and myself the better. This thing I’ve got for the sheriff came on way too sudden. It’s like a bad cold. I need time away from the source of my affliction, maybe build up some immunity. If nothing else, I’ll slow down the inevitable.”

Wren, unable to drift off to sleep, sighed, remembering the way his eyes lit up when he smiled. How he’d taken his handkerchief and tidied her up after she’d dribbled stew down the front of her blouse, cleaning her up as if she were a two-year-old. She couldn’t remember anyone ever doing such a thing for her. With a sense of doom, she considered they could very well become friends once their lust had cooled.

Of course there would be consequences if she followed through, had an affair with the sheriff. Everyone in town would know. Branded a harlot, she would suffer for the foolishness of her actions. The sheriff, she knew, wouldn’t suffer at all. She doubted it would do much damage to her business. Laura Creek needed her mercantile. She wouldn’t have a social life, of course. Mrs. Buttrum and the other ladies of the town might shun her. She wouldn’t be invited to teas and socials.

Well, she wasn’t a social climber anyway, but…she had hoped her life would be different here. She wanted to belong, be part of the community. Her whole life she’d lived alone, with no real, true friends, certainly no women friends. Once she started working in her father’s business, she’d no time for friends. She liked working. She never really thought much about what she’d missed, that is until now. The welcome she received upon her arrival in Laura Creek gave her a glimpse of what could be. With these disturbing thoughts on her mind, Wren drifted off into a deep sleep.

When she awoke, before she crawled out of her bedroll, she ordered herself to stop fantasizing about Telt Longtree. Feeling in control and resolute, she vowed to stick to business today, and dressed accordingly; first came black thigh-high stockings held in place by plain black garters. Her pantaloons and chemise of course, three white under-slips, adding a modest bustle tied at her waist with a satin ribbon. Over it all, she donned a plain black skirt and tucked in her highly starched white blouse into the waistband, then fastened a black satin stomacher at her waist for good measure. She wore her sensible black walking shoes, freshly polished, naturally. With her hair pulled up all neat and tidy, held in place by her tortoiseshell combs beneath her straw hat and wearing white gloves, she put up her chin and headed off across the meadow to the telegraph office to send a wire to Judge Crookshank.

She composed her wire, keeping it brief and to the point. Arrived safe: stop No loss of life or supplies: stop People accommodating: stop.

She omitted most of the details, of course. Now wasn’t the time to complain that her mercantile, the mercantile she’d purchased sight unseen, needed a lot of work or that it had been left, deliberately, unfinished. Or that the judge’s friend, Mr. Buttrum, insisted on giving her grief. The store would be ready to open on time. Mr. Buttrum, eventually, would have to account for his actions, and the judge, she knew, would see to it that he paid for his deceptions, all in good time.

Out of the corner of her eye, Wren sensed a shadow pass before the office window. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed her sense of foreboding. Her nemesis, Mr. Buttrum, had run her to ground. He stood watching through the window, waiting for her to leave, no doubt to take this opportunity to intimidate her.

Mr. Terrel became very nervous, asking her if she needed a reply, would she like a receipt, and so forth. Wren gave him a reassuring smile, a thank you, and started for the door, to find Mr. Buttrum had moved. She could still see him. Oh, not all of him, just his shoulder; he had positioned himself to the side of the door, waiting to ambush her. Wren squared her shoulders, prepared herself for a confrontation, determined to make it as brief and painless as possible.

She deliberately lowered her eyes, seemingly fiddling with her reticule while opening the door. Accidently on purpose, she slammed into Mr. Buttrum’s chest, giving him a shove with her hands. Thrown off balance, he stumbled back, his hand flying out to grasp her forearm, his fingers digging into her flesh.

“My goodness, Miss O’Bannon, what is your hurry?” he said with a nasty sneer on his lips, not bothering to tip his hat to her as any other gentleman would most certainly do. “You’re about early. Always busy, aren’t you? Always up to something. Most women have a home, but not you. At this hour most young women your age are busy seeing to their families, taking care of their men.”

With her head held high, Wren met his sarcastic sneer and, with a cool smile on her lips, said, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Buttrum. I didn’t see you lurking in the doorway; don’t you have a bank to run?”

After looking up and down the almost deserted street, she turned her gaze back to Mr. Buttrum and said to his face, “Yes, I am very busy. I have a lot to do, thanks to you and your unethical business practices. As to what I am up to, I am trying to meet my promises, unlike you, Mr. Buttrum. Yes, I am a busy woman, too busy to loiter about in front of the telegraph office, as some are wont to do. Good day,” she said, and stepped around him without saying another word. Fuming, with her back to him, she crossed the street to the mercantile, declaring the mayor the rudest man she’d ever met.

From inside the mercantile she watched Mr. Buttrum enter the telegraph office and shivered as a sense of dread and impending disaster washed over her. The mayor’s disapproval went farther than mere prejudice against women owning a business. The man had become obsessed with her downfall. He could learn nothing from the telegram she’d sent to the judge—could he? She didn’t doubt for a moment that he would do all in his power to keep her from opening the mercantile. The why of it didn’t make any sense to her, but she knew the man wouldn’t give up until he’d pulled every dirty, underhanded trick in the book.

When Mr. Claussen and Mr. Meirs, the builders, arrived shortly after her confrontation with Mr. Buttrum, bringing with them a wagonload of lumber, Wren forget all about the mayor and his wicked machinations.

Both Mr. Meirs and Mr. Claussen were well past fifty, and yet they juggled lumber and hammers, and went up and down ladders, as agile as men half their age. It wasn’t even close to noon, and she felt confident everything would get done, her storeroom, the shelves, everything, because of these two very experienced and energetic carpenters.

Punk Baker showed up shortly after Mr. Meirs and Mr. Claussen to install her woodstove in the back corner of the store. She’d hauled the wood stove in her second wagon, along with the farm implements. Using it now in the mercantile made one less thing she had to worry about storing in the lean-to in the pasture. She’d brought the stove for an example of what she had in her warehouse. She also had small replicas of the different styles and sizes of stoves, pie-safes, wardrobes, furniture of all kinds, and farm implements for her customers to choose from.

When Queenie came prancing through the open door of the mercantile, she knew the sheriff couldn’t be far behind. Mac got up from his blanket in the back of the store to greet them both.

Telt Longtree sauntered into the empty store, filling it up with his broad shoulders and big smile. Looking around, he said, “Good morning. This town hasn’t seen such a flurry of activity since, well, since I came to town a little over four years ago.” He picked his hat off his head with two fingers at the point, nodded in her direction and put his hat to his chest. “I thought I caused quite a stir, but nothing like this.”

Just hearing his voice made her feel warm all over. She fought the urge to walk over to him and plant a kiss on his big jaw. With a mischievous smile on her lips, she volleyed her response, “But I’ve got something you, no doubt, didn’t have, Sheriff.”

He grinned back, “Oh, I am of aware several things you’ve got that I didn’t have. But do tell, what is it, do you think, that draws people in?”

“Why, merchandise, of course,” she said.

“Oh, uh, I was thinking along another line altogether,” he said with a silly smirk on his face.

“Yes, I’m sure you were.” Feeling particularly bold, she put her head to one side to say in all seriousness, “The citizens of Laura Creek are anxious to spend their money, and they’re willing to put in some time and effort to make it happen. I don’t think anyone is going to complain about a little flurry of activity if the gain is to the good of the community.”

He nodded and agreed, “No, I don’t suppose we’ll hear any complaints. Maybe Buttrum will spout a few. But in this case, I think almost everyone will agree to ignore him.” The hammering up on the side of the building made it almost impossible to hold a conversation.

He chuckled, a throaty rumbling sound that gave her goose-bumps. “Yup, you’ve got everybody jumping around. You like that, don’t you?”

Wren giggled. Oh, yes, she liked it. She liked stirring up the whole town. She liked stirring him up too. Grinning at her like that, she knew he was enjoying himself too. They were standing there smiling at one another when Eula Buttrum crossed over the threshold.

Sashaying around the sheriff with a swish of her skirt, Wren greeted the mayor’s wife, “Good morning, Mrs. Buttrum.” Having to raise her voice to be heard over the sounds of construction, she felt her cheeks grow very hot. “I’ve been hoping you would come by. I want to talk to you about your pies.” Taking the woman by the elbow, she guided her to the back of the store where it wasn’t quite so noisy, and managed to slow the pace of her racing heart. “You make delicious pies. Your huckleberry is heavenly. Would you be able to bake some to sell here at the store? I thought a half-dozen to start. We could work out a trade, say, fabric, lace, a bonnet or gloves, perhaps?”

Eula put her gloved hand to the lace at her throat, appearing surprised by the offer.

If she had to guess, Wren would say Mrs. Buttrum had come over to look her over, and look over the mercantile. Her expressive gray eyes kept sliding toward the sheriff, then back to Wren.

Wren did understand. Lottie was Mrs. Buttrum’s niece, of course she would be watching, wondering, looking for signs that the sheriff had wiggled off Lottie’s hook. Wren watched the play of emotions flicker across the woman’s face, but held fast to her composure. If she meant to accept the inevitable, then she had to start now to set the tone for herself and her relationship with Telt Longtree. All would be revealed, her dirty laundry, her low morals, her lack of decorum, soon enough the whole town would have a lot to talk about.

“That’s a lovely dress you have on this morning,” she noted, her voice sincere, but counting on the subject to distract Eula from her speculations.

The dress, an unusual shade of smoky lavender, complimented Eula’s fair complexion. A delicate row of pale cream lace enhanced Eula’s swan-like neck, with the same lace trimming the cuffs and sleeves of the dress. “Do you sew?” Wren probed, before Eula could catch her breath from the first proposal.

“No, oh, no,” laughed Mrs. Buttrum. “Lottie is the seamstress.”

“Wonderful,” exclaimed Wren, and clapped her hands with real joy, “perhaps I could work out something with Miss Bledsoe also.”

This opened the conversation to current fashions, interests and dislikes. In no time, Eula assured her she would give the proposition of supplying the mercantile with her pies careful thought. And she thought her niece would jump at the opportunity to work up some dresses, blouses, and maybe some bonnets as well, in the fine fabrics Wren had in her inventory. It would give the dear girl some extra pin money, Eula had declared with enthusiasm.

As soon as Eula walked out the door, Wren turned to Telt, a self-satisfied smile firmly in place, feeling decidedly triumphant. As she flounced past him, where he’d been propped up against her back wall, she told him, “I’ve made sandwiches for lunch. I thought you might come by, so I made an extra one for you. I’ve got a couple of apples, too. We could go out back. There’s a bench next to the building…it’s in the shade.”

He grinned and obediently followed her out the back door. The dogs, Mac and Queenie, shouldered their way around them to get outside. The rough wooden bench sat at the back of the mercantile, in the shade. They had the bench and the shade to themselves. The pounding had stopped. Wren assumed Mr. Claussen and Mr. Meirs were enjoying their lunch in the shade of their wagon to the side of the mercantile.

After a short silence between them, Telt nodded his head and made the comment, “Looks like everything is going to work out for you here.”

“It certainly looks that way,” she said. “Everyone is very friendly.” She sat down on the bench and, when she looked up, he was smirking. Blushing, it took her a minute to regain her composure, then, feeling saucy, she added, “Some more friendly than others.”

He burst out laughing. She held her skirt aside, making room for him to sit beside her on the bench.

“I wish you didn’t have to sleep out there on the ground,” he said, taking his seat, his face losing its smile.

She turned to look into his eyes. They were warm with concern. She shrugged, uncomfortable to think he cared. “I’ll put my bedroll in the wagon as soon as I’ve unloaded the goods,” she said offhandedly, making it sound like a vast improvement in her situation. “It will only be for another week or so.”

“Still, I don’t like it,” he grumbled while she made a lot of work out of unwrapping his sandwich from its brown paper and handing it to him.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she said, then took a bite of her ham sandwich to keep herself from saying more. He sat there staring at her. Growing more uncomfortable by the minute, Wren found it hard to swallow. “If I stay in the wagon I can keep an eye on the goods in the lean-to, which to me, is a matter of common sense.”

“I can keep an eye on that lean-to for you.” She watched him open his mouth, and in two bites, he had his sandwich half eaten. “I suppose you have a close inventory of what’s out there?” he asked, his eyes going out to the meadow and her lean-to.

“I certainly do, Sheriff.”

He smiled and nodded before he bit into his apple. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” For a moment, he chewed as she polished her apple on her skirt to avoid looking into his eyes. “You know Laura Creek is a dry town, no liquor, Miss O’Bannon?”

She set her apple aside and turned her body towards him to meet his gaze. “Yes, I do know. Judge Crookshank informed me, and it was one of the conditions of the sale. To tell you the truth, it had a lot to do with my decision to buy the store and settle here. My father drank, Sheriff. I should say, my father, my uncle, my cousins were…are fond of their whiskey. It did nothing for their dispositions or for their health. I am happy to be far away from them.”

“I see,” he mumbled after he took his time to swallow. “Some folks get mean when full of drink.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked to the mountains and the peaceful meadow. She sat there a moment, trying to decide if she should take a chance and reveal something of her former life. She took a deep breath before she spoke, “My father wasn’t mean,” shuddering, she looked down to her hands, “He was just sad, very, very sad.”

Telt studied her, she didn’t dare look up, or she would burst into tears. Drawing herself up, she took a deep breath, set her spine and pulled herself together. “My uncle, he’s a mean drunk. I didn’t have much to do with him; maybe twice a year he would impose his presence upon us. He owned the mercantiles in Salem and Corvallis. He lived in Salem most of the time. That is, he did, until he inherited my father’s half of the business; now he lives in my old home in Oregon City, and he owns all of O’Bannon Brother’s Enterprises. He does travel a good deal up and down the Willamette Valley. As for my cousins, they like to fool around. Unfortunately, I’ve always been their prime target and often the butt of their tomfoolery. In my opinion they’re simply ignorant pawns of their father.”

He nodded, but Wren sensed he still had a lot of questions. She didn’t want him to pry any deeper. “I have to get back to work, Sheriff,” she said, and pushed up off the bench.

“Yeah, I have things to do, too.” Taking her hand and looking into her eyes, he said, “Maybe I’ll drop by your wagon later?” His fingers traced the calluses on her palms. She tried to pull her hand away, her cheeks growing hot under his gaze.

His dark brows drew together. The look he gave her made her cringe. She didn’t need his pity. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm, his eyes holding her gaze. In that second, Wren knew she wouldn’t say no to him, and she knew he wasn’t going to leave her alone until he got what he wanted.


Free read Laura Creek chaps 7-8


Coming in late, heads turned when Telt entered the church. He wouldn’t have been late, but he’d gone home to change his clothes because his one and only white shirt was covered with grime, and he’d torn his good trousers. Now he had on a pair of work dungarees and a clean, blue plaid shirt. It didn’t feel right wearing-work day clothes to church. Damn-it-all, anyway.

The consequences of getting involved in Miss O’Bannon’s struggles were expensive; he needed to keep that in mind. When he came within an arm’s length of the woman, he noticed, he had a tendency to lose perspective. It was a physical thing. She stirred his blood—he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But the roof of the mercantile was done, now leak-proof. With Percy’s help, the three of them had made short work of the job. Wren O’Bannon did her share and then some, and without a peep of complaint.

As his eyes adjusted from the bright morning sunlight to the softer light inside the little church, he noticed a lot of people were in attendance today. He didn’t think for one minute they were here to listen to Percy give one of his mind-numbing sermons. No, indeed, they were here to get a look at the new owner of the mercantile and to observe, first-hand, the ongoing feud between Miss O’Bannon and the mayor Howard Buttrum. Telt muttered a curse on the man, then felt ashamed of himself for cursing on the Sabbath.

He searched the congregation and found Miss O’Bannon seated on the aisle, three rows down. She’d changed into that frilly, cream-colored blouse. He liked how it accentuated her nice full bosom. But he didn’t much care for that straw hat she had on her head, it hid all that glorious hair. She turned around for a quick glance as he took his place at the back of the room. She looked down right away, avoiding eye contact.

Telt spotted the back of Howards’s square head and the back of Eula’s best bonnet in the pew at the front of the church, and Lottie sitting next to Eula.

Lottie. No woman had bonnets like the ones Lottie wore. She made them herself. They were one of a kind frippery things, all lace, ribbons and bows. She sneaked a peek over her shoulder to the back of the room and gave him a shy, dimpled smile and a nod before turning back to rise to her feet for the opening hymn.


     Mr. Terrel’s commanding presence before his congregation impressed Wren. To her, Mr. Terrel, Percy, gave the impression of being shy, tongue-tied, but up in his pulpit he appeared confident, almost eloquent, when he spoke. She smiled up at him when he looked out over his flock, his tenor voice raised in song. His complexion turned bright pink by her doing so, and she almost giggled.

He cleared his throat at the end of the song, announcing, “We would like to take this time to welcome to our community Miss Wren O’Bannon, the new owner of the Laura Creek Mercantile.” As he looked in her direction, Wren suspected him of looking at her hat to avoid her eyes…that tickled her.

Everyone turned in her direction. She nodded and smiled. He went on with a few other announcements: a new birth, and a coming potluck after the Wednesday night choir practice. He led the congregation in a prayer for Grandma Tatom, too ill to attend church services today. He also led the congregation in a prayer for four-year old Pauly Brandtmeyer, who had stayed home with the mumps.

While up on the roof this morning, she’d gleaned from Percy some interesting information regarding Mr. Buttrum, his wife, and their relationship with Judge Crookshank. Once Percy opened up, she didn’t have to do much prodding. He told her Howard Buttrum, born and raised in Chicago, attended Harvard with the then Mr. Francis Crookshank, now Judge Crookshank. Good friends then, and good friends now. He told her all about himself, about his wife leaving him and Shorty. The man simply unloaded a raft of history without her even asking.

Wren thought about trying to get the sheriff to cough up some information about himself, but didn’t even try. Working together up on the roof without speaking, anticipating each other’s moves and needs, felt very intimate…a bonding took place. She found it disconcerting to work in tandem with someone. She’d always worked alone, expecting no one to help her, or work with her. It was a lovely feeling, a heart-warming feeling. She shouldn’t be feeling anything—there was no future in it.


     Telt couldn’t take his eyes off her. Even the back of her head kept his attention. He sure would like to know what she was thinking. If he could see into her eyes, maybe he could read her mind. This morning, up there on that roof working with her, they’d done just that, read each other’s minds. He’d never been able to do that with anyone before. No words spoken, no words needed, they worked in harness together…a team.

“Before I deliver our sermon for the day, are there any announcements anyone would like to make?” Percy asked to bring everyone’s attention to the business portion of the service.

A silence came over the room. Telt blinked and watched her come to her feet. Instantly a knot of dread formed in his gut. The pew creaked as she rose, the sound reverberating throughout the room. She stood there with a hymnal clutched to her waist, one hand on the back of the pew in front of her.

He pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against, alert now. Who could guess what the woman was up to? He figured Miss O’Bannon had a purpose to every move she made. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she instigated a riot. Telt shifted his gaze to where Howard sat. He saw the man lurch forward, shift his body to glare at the woman. Telt hoped he wouldn’t have to intervene; he’d left his pistol at the office.

Miss O’Bannon turned Telt’s way and looked right at him, then ducked her head. In that brief second of eye contact, she’d revealed her vulnerability, but only to him. He wanted very much to go to her, stand at her side, give her his support, but he held himself back, stayed rooted to his post at the back of the church.

“Miss O’Bannon,” Percy said, by way of acknowledging her, “do you have something you wish to say?”

To Telt it looked like she hesitated, maybe having second thoughts. When she dipped down, he thought she would sit down, but she laid the hymnal on the seat behind her. As her eyes scanned the congregation, he caught the tentative smile on her lips before she pulled herself up, preparing to speak.

She no sooner cleared her throat than Howard shot to his feet, no doubt intending to stop her. Telt held back the urge to holler at him to sit down and shut up. However, Eula knew how to control her husband. She grabbed the man by the seat of his pants and pulled him back down onto the hard bench. As a result, a loud thud echoed throughout the church. There ensued a moment or two of snickers and whispers as every eye followed the byplay. Heads swiveled back and forth, to Miss O’Bannon, to Howard, then back to settle on Miss O’Bannon. Under normal circumstances, Telt would’ve thought it funny too, but he didn’t like the tension in the room.

“I would like to thank you all for the warm welcome,” Miss O’Bannon said. Telt thought she sounded a little nervous, shaky. He saw her grip the pew in front of her, probably to steady herself.


     Wren had a complicated proposal to make, although she’d broken it down and put it in the form of a simple request. Her idea had to work. It could very well be the only way she would get done what needed to be done. She took a deep breath to steady herself and screw up her courage before saying, “There are several things that need to be done at the mercantile before I can open for business, most of them well beyond my capabilities. I have a list. What I would like to do is offer merchandise in exchange for skilled labor…or building materials.

“If any of you would be interested in an exchange, I will be at the store this afternoon, and we can discuss, in detail, the possibilities. In the coming weeks I hope I’ll have an opportunity to meet all of you. I look forward to our becoming good friends and neighbors.” She smiled her best smile and reclaimed her seat. The buzz of excitement that ensued pleased her, but she had to sit down, her legs felt as if they were made of jelly.

As the sermon followed her announcement, the little church grew stuffy with the noonday sun. With more singing than sermon, the service was blessedly brief. Wren stood outside the church afterward, visiting with a group of ladies who bombarded her with questions about what kinds of wares she intended to stock in her store.

As they stood there talking, she tried to memorize their names.  There was Mary Brandtmeyer, a very plain but sturdy woman, who had a toddler attached to her hip. Mary’s husband owned the sawmill. The husbands of Mrs. Edna Claussen and Mrs. Meirs owned the rock quarry.  Wren could remember Mrs. Claussen because she spoke with a thick German accent and Mrs. Meirs was the only colored woman among Laura Creek’s population. The widow Margret Tatom, she discovered to be the daughter-in-law of the absent Grandma Tatom for whom they had prayed. Susan Hobart didn’t have any front teeth, and her husband Ned worked at the mill. An elderly lady by the name of LuLu Olhouser, ninety if she was a day and almost deaf, lived in town with her daughter Pammy Deeds, who translated for her in a combination of inventive sign language and short-speak. Pammy’s husband, George, worked at the mill.

Wren received several invitations for Sunday dinner, including one from Eula Buttrum, but she turned them all down. Truly, she had a lot to do. She didn’t have time to socialize.

She could feel the sheriff watching her. She wanted to deny herself the pleasure of looking into his all-too-penetrating gaze. But couldn’t resist. Everything about Telt Longtree pleasured her: the way he worked, moved, talked. Common sense warned her if she allowed her heart to have its way, her life would become very complicated and very painful very quickly.

Lottie Bledsoe had the sheriff by the arm. Miss Bledsoe wore a sunny yellow dress of gauze over a white satin underdress. She’d artistically woven sky-blue ribbons into the puffy sleeves and around the lace at her throat. She had upon her hair of gold a straw bonnet, tied with a blue ribbon beneath her almost-chin. The couple stood in Wren’s peripheral view, Lottie doing most of the talking. Wren could hear Miss Bledsoe clearly and suspected the woman spoke every word for her benefit.

“We’re going to have fried chicken for our Sunday dinner, your favorite,” Lottie said to the sheriff, who, Wren noticed, stood as stiff as a wooden post, his shoulders back and chin tucked in. “Aunt Eula has baked your favorite lemon pie. I thought, after we eat, we could take a walk along the creek. It would be lovely and cool. Maybe we could take a blanket and sit awhile. I have a new book of sonnets.  We could read aloud to one another.”

Wren didn’t wait to hear the sheriff’s response to all of Miss Bledsoe’s plans. It simply was none of her business. Besides, she had to get away, or she would explode into a giggling fit.

Setting off towards her camp, she muttered to herself, “Sonnets, indeed.” To her mind, the sheriff wasn’t the sort who would appreciate sonnets, but then you just never knew; but Wren couldn’t picture it.

She told herself she must fight against the urge to save him from Miss Lottie’s clutches; she should let him suffer, the big oaf. If he couldn’t see Miss Lottie was all wrong for him, then she certainly didn’t want him.

No, she had to stay out of it. He was spoken for or as good as.  More to the point, he presented a complication she didn’t need. She had to live here. She had to work here and make her way. There could never be anything between them. Lottie, Wren was certain, would see to that.


     Telt followed Miss O’Bannon’s retreat with his eyes, no longer listening to Lottie plan his day. If Miss O’Bannon thought she could glide away without explaining herself, she had another think coming. That woman was plotting some kind of retribution…keeping notes in a little black book. Not only that, she’d stopped arguing with Howard; had just let him blow. That wasn’t right.

Women, it had been Telt’s experience, loved to argue, especially if they were right. Miss O’Bannon had something up her sleeve.

As for Lottie Bledsoe, Telt didn’t like her planning his every minute. He sure as hell didn’t intend to sit in the shade and read sonnets to her. Never. She’d been getting awfully pushy lately. Miss Bledsoe made it sound like it was a done deal, she had him all hobbled and hog-tied.

While Telt mulled over his predicament, the banker and his wife joined them.

“That woman is up to something,” Howard said, echoing Telt’s thoughts exactly, but for different reasons. They both watched Miss O’Bannon pick her way across the meadow with her skirts held up as she waded through the tall, dry grass, headed toward her wagons. “After our Sunday dinner, you get down to that store and keep an eye on her.”

“We were going for a walk after dinner down by the creek, Uncle Howard,” complained Lottie, her mouth forming a pout. She looked like a pouting child, a child who was about to stomp her foot in protest. It came as something of a surprise to Telt to know the woman could express that much disappointment.

“The sheriff won’t have time for that kind of falderal today. A sheriff is on duty seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, Lottie.  Better get used to that right now,” said Howard.

For a moment there, Telt thought Lottie might stick her tongue out at her uncle. To her credit, she didn’t. She prudently looked down at her feet and bit back whatever she wanted to say in rebuttal.

Telt didn’t care much for the sound of any of this. Damn, they did: Buttrum, Mrs. Buttrum, Lottie, probably the whole damned town, had him all wrapped up. This situation reminded him of the day they’d stuck him with the damn job of being sheriff in this one-horse town.  He’d been labeled the prize package then, and now they’d tagged him as the chump to wed the schoolmarm. Well, damn. Everybody, the whole damn town, had another think comin’ if they thought he’d stand around and let them serve him up like…like a Christmas ham.

“It’s Sunday, Howard, such a lovely day. Surely the sheriff and Lottie can have the afternoon to enjoy themselves,” she said with a sweet smile directed to Lottie and a smile and a wink to Telt.

Telt could see by the unreceptive curl of his lips that Howard wanted to put his wife in her place, but Telt forestalled him. He had to take back his life, and right now. “Well, Ma’am, your husband is right,” he said to Mrs. Buttrum, which caused Howard to nod with satisfaction and Eula to purse her pretty lips in forbearance.

“I am on duty every day,” he confirmed, turning to face Lottie, hoping to discourage her desire to form a union. “I’m on duty twenty-four hours a day. Sunday’s are no different from any other day, so I’ll have to give a pass on that fried chicken, Miss Lottie. You sure do make a good fried chicken. Nobody can argue that. But I’ve got some things I need to take care of right away.”

To get Howard off his back he said, “I’ll be sure to drop in at the mercantile this afternoon.” With that said, he tipped his hat to the ladies, backed up, then spun around, and taking big strides, he started after Miss O’Bannon.

Muttering to himself, he started out across the meadow, “I’ll keep my eye on the O’Bannon woman, all right.” He hadn’t seen Queenie since this morning when he spied her from up there on the roof of the mercantile, cavorting with Miss O’Bannon’s mutt. He suspected he’d find her out in the meadow with that damned mongrel. “And…I’m gonna get my darn dog back,” he vowed.


     “Uncle Howard, why did you send him away?” Lottie whined with tears of frustration trickling down her pale cheeks. “Now he’s not even going to have dinner with us. He’s going after that…that woman.”

Lottie couldn’t believe it, it was happening again. She knew it, another suitor slipping through her fingers; she could see it happening all over again. She wanted to lie down on the ground, tear her hair out and pitch a fit. No one cared about her needs, her dreams they came as a distant second to everyone else’s agenda.

Two years ago, living in Chicago with her parents, she’d fallen madly in love with a young man by the name of Wesley Potter. Before she and Wesley could set a wedding date, her parents shipped her off to the wilds of Oregon to live with her aunt and uncle. With no regard for her feelings in the matter, they arranged for her to make use of her college education to become Laura Creek’s new schoolteacher.  Everyone assumed she would forget Wesley Potter. And she had, almost, because of her interest in Telt Longtree. Miserable, she began to sob with despair.

“Now see what you’ve done, Howard?” her Aunt Eula hissed.  “You’ve upset Lottie. Honestly, Howard, sometimes you can be so thick-headed.” Her aunt wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Surely the sheriff could have one day? Sunday, Howard. Surely the sheriff could have Sunday to devote to courting our dear Lottie?”

Lottie clasped her lace handkerchief to her bosom, her voice swamped with tears. “You’ve as good as pushed him into that woman’s arms, I just know it. He watches her, Uncle Howard.”

Her uncle waved away Lottie’s fear as if he waved away a pesky gnat. His callousness reminded Lottie of her father; he hadn’t sympathized with her dilemma either. Her Uncle Howard would never understand.

As proof, he declared, “Hogwash! I say to the both of you. Of course he’s watching the woman. The whole town thinks she’s a nuisance. She broke the peace and quiet of the Sabbath this morning up on that roof pounding away, showing her limbs to God and the world.  Then she made a spectacle of herself…pleading for help in church, of all places. And besides, she’s a fraud. I hope the good people of this town have enough sense not to be drawn into her brazen, shifty dealings.” Her uncle went on to expand on his theme as if she and her aunt were dull-witted. “Longtree’s got better sense than to get tangled up with a conniving, she-devil like the O’Bannon female. A woman like that is nothing but trouble from the get-go. No, sir, the sheriff is watching her because he knows what I know. She isn’t what she says she is.”

Lottie could only stare at him; apparently he too thought Miss O’Bannon a calculating, crafty little witch. Uncle Howard didn’t like being made a fool. And Miss O’Bannon had managed to do that by purchasing the mercantile without him knowing she was a female. All he had to do was swallow his pride, accept the fact that he’d been outsmarted by a woman.

His whole life wasn’t on the line. He wasn’t the one whose heart would get crushed by a conniving, ambitious, intrepid baggage.

Howard took Lottie by the arm, put his other arm around his wife and led them away from church, headed toward home. As they passed between the bank and the mercantile, he said, “There’s something fishy about Miss O’Bannon. There’s something fishy about this whole thing. A woman on her own like that, it isn’t right. How is it she has enough money to set herself up in a mercantile? Tomorrow I’m going to start investigating. I want to talk to her family.”

Lottie sniveled and dabbed at her eyes with her lace kerchief, her lower lip trembling. She caught her aunt Eula’s eye. They exchanged glances. Tight lipped, Eula appeared angry and upset. Uncle Howard didn’t help the situation by reminding them both that he expected his Sunday dinner on the table in half an hour.

Lottie suspected her uncle knew very well how unhappy they were with the situation. He quickly changed his tone, offering Lottie a few well-chosen, condescending words meant to salve her disappointment.  “We have to let the sheriff do his job, sweetheart. Don’t you fret, Lottie dear,” he said and pinched her cheek. “The sheriff is yours for the taking. I’ll have a little talk with Longtree. Once he sees the advantages of latching on to a fine little woman like you, why, he’ll want to get you to the altar before the-cat-can-lick-his-whiskers.”


“Sheriff Longtree, I haven’t time to chat just now,” Wren said, exasperated with herself for being unable to control her racing pulse after turning and finding the sheriff to be only a few paces behind her.

Mac and Queenie lay together in the shade beneath the first wagon. At the sound of her voice, Mac crawled out to bid her welcome with some investigative sniffing of her skirt. Queenie followed and butt-wagged over to lick the sheriff’s hand. Wren watched, and forgot to be impatient as the man gently loved-up his dog. She caught herself just before she started to sigh.

“Hello, there, Old Girl,” the sheriff said to his dog, kneeling down to give her a good rub. “Ever since that big lug came to town, you’re kind of fickle, you know,” he said, shaking her head and ruffling her ears.

Silently assuring herself she had herself in complete control of her emotions—and the situation—Wren stated, in her best no-nonsense tone, “I have work to do, Sheriff,” then removed her hat. “I need to change my clothes.”

“You go ahead, I can wait,” he said, still kneeling and petting his dog.

Wren narrowed her eyes and gave him a withering glance meant to send him about-face. He needed to leave and leave now. She put her hands on her hips and huffed, before reasoning, “Surely whatever we have to discuss can wait until later. I’ll be at the store in an hour or so.” She started to go around the side of her wagon to change her clothes.

“I’ll leave as soon as you tell me why you’re making entries in that little black book of yours.” When she turned to look into his eyes, she could see he was pleased to have stopped her in her tracks.

She purposefully retraced her steps, coming within a few feet of him, eyes direct and chin up. “Nothing illegal, Sheriff, I assure you.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t nod, didn’t look at all convinced. “You don’t seem like the type of female to play games,” he said, his eyes looking deep into her own. “But I’ve had enough experience to know some folks like to bend the truth to suit their own agenda. That can be kinda cute in a female, but sometimes it’s just plain infuriatin’.”

She almost snickered. She tried very hard not to give any tells. This was a poker game with high stakes. She had to play it close to the vest. “I don’t play games, Sheriff. I don’t have time. Recordkeeping is part of being in business.”

“In that case you won’t mind telling me what it’s all about. Why are you keeping track of my time and Percy’s time and your time? What are you up to, Miss O’Bannon?”

She took a moment to ask herself why all the questions? Then it occurred to her—his line of questioning had the smell of Howard T. Buttrum all over it.

“Oh, I see,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes, zeroing in on him. “Mr. Buttrum wants to know, doesn’t he? He sent you out here to sniff around, didn’t he? He wants to know about the little black book. Well, you tell Mr. Buttrum he’ll have to wait until the end of September, when the judge returns to Laura Creek, to find out what I’m about.”

She could see she’d hit a sore spot. He winced. “I’m not a sneaky spy,” he growled, on the defensive. “What the hell? Why does everybody assume I’m Howard Buttrum’s tool? I’m my own man, damn it! Buttrum doesn’t know anything about your little black book, and he won’t, because I have no intention of telling him,” he said, his jaw working and his blue eyes snapping with outrage.

She let her shoulders relax and unclenched her fists as she weighed his words, trying to decide if he was lying. No, she thought he was telling the truth. She’d personally witnessed the man go toe-to-toe with Mr. Buttrum. The sheriff didn’t impress her as a boot-licker. A man with eyes as clear blue as a mountain pool couldn’t…wouldn’t be a good liar.

She had to relent, at least a little. “Don’t worry about my black book, Sheriff,” she said over her shoulder as she started around the end of her wagon again, then stopped to add, “Believe me when I say it’s necessary, and no one will be hurt by it. As a matter of fact, it may well turn out to be a very good thing. But none of that matters at the moment.

“I have a lot to do before I can get to the store today. So you really must go,” she told him, “I have to change into my work clothes.”

“Like I said, go ahead. I’ve seen you in your underclothes. I didn’t mind a bit,” he said, a playful gleam in his eyes that did little to settle her nerves. “I won’t soon forget, either. You’re a very handsome woman, Miss O’Bannon.”

Now why is he resorting to false flattery? Wren felt her cheeks flame with outrage. Why is he deliberately provoking me, baiting me?  Well, she would not go down that road. No, sir.

Gathering all of her dignity about her, she took a stab at his pride. “Shouldn’t you be attending Miss Bledsoe? I thought I heard her say something about you and she going down to the creek to read sonnets or something.” The second the words came out of her mouth she knew her mistake. Yes, she’d been eavesdropping on their conversation. But the sheriff’s initial response was satisfying, nonetheless. He physically blanched, blinked several times, and his jaw clenched up.


Telt stood there, impotent, grinding his teeth. Women! They had bigger ears than a jackrabbit. Oh, she looked pleased with herself, her lips turned up in a cute little smirk. She’d made a direct hit, all right. It took a second or two longer than he would have liked, but he finally untied his tongue. “Don’t much care for poetry, Ma’am. I’m more of a hands-on kind of man,” he said, and moved in on her. Now it was her turn to squirm. “Besides, I’d rather be here with you,” he added for good measure, his voice smooth and compelling.

She shook her head at him, but he kept moving in on her.

“I…I expect you to be a gentleman,” she stammered. “You…need to leave me to change my clothes…in private,” she said, her voice trembling. She was probably hoping to discourage him by turning her back on him.

Telt grinned at her dismissal. Oh, this lady had a lot to learn if she thought he could be gotten rid of that easily.

“It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon,” he said, turning his face to the crystal-clear, blue sky. “You worked hard this morning. What work do you have to do that’s so urgent you have to get it done on a Sunday afternoon? Surely, whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.”

She hustled around the end of her wagon, and he burst out laughing.


 Drat the man, he was laughing at her…again…giving her that grin. She couldn’t look at him for more than a second without melting, and he knew it, the devil. She scolded herself as she slipped behind her wagon, well out of his view.

Her work clothes were hanging on a nail on the side of her wagon.  As she slipped out of her russet skirt and blouse and donned her work clothes, Wren wondered why he’d singled her out. She was nothing out of the common way. No man had ever taken the least bit of interest in her. There had to be some way of making herself impervious to his slow way of breaking down her defenses.

Her fingers went to work in a flutter of precision as she wound her hair up into a bun on top of her head and stuck a couple of combs in it to hold her curls in place. She found her old felt hat up on the wagon seat and smashed it on her head, knowing full-well it was awful and made her look like an old hag.

Speaking up so that he could hear, she told him, “Nothing to do? On the contrary, Sheriff, I have a lot to do. I’ve no time to while away the afternoon in your company or the company of anyone,” she said, coming around the wagon to face him.

She forced herself to look him squarely in the eye. “I have a considerable number of very urgent matters that need to be taken care of right away. I need to get them done before I go over to the store. You have to leave, Sheriff, now,” she ordered.

“Not until you tell me what’s so all-fired urgent you haven’t got time to talk a minute,” he said, moving in on her like a wolf for the kill, his tone suddenly impatient and deadly serious.

Wren took a step back and found the wagon pressed against her shoulders. She couldn’t look away. He had her pinned. Of a sudden she found it hard to breathe. There wasn’t enough air. This wasn’t fear; this was something else. His eyes were devouring her. Wren had never swooned in her life, but she could respect those ladies who had done so. Now she understood.

“I…I need to unload my wagons,” she said, her voice failing her, coming out in more of a squeak than a steady, confident tone. She moved to duck under his arm. He stopped her with a light touch of his hand on her shoulder. His head tilted just slightly, the better to maintain eye contact.

Wren attempted to pull herself together. She felt ridiculous. It was exactly as she had feared. She had become a simpering ninny just by his proximity. She had to stop it, and stop it right now.

She squared her shoulders and tipped her face up to meet his eyes and hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. “I only have so much time to figure out how I’m going to store everything. I have to unload these wagons, Sheriff,” she said, her hands flying out in all directions as her frustration level mounted, eroding her control.

“I’d thought to have a store where I could put all the goods I brought with me. I thought I had a store with a storeroom. Now I shall have to put some things in the old lean-to out here in the meadow. I really don’t want to do that, because anyone who cares to can come along and help themselves. The dry-goods and perishables, I’ll have to put upstairs in what was to be my living quarters, because there are no shelves on which to display them. That means I will be living out here until display shelves can be found.”

Wren felt the tears well up into her throat. She cursed her vulnerability. It was unfair she lose control in front of this man, unfair he could make her feel so weak-minded and vulnerable. Why did she have to break down now, in front of this man, of all people?


Telt looked into her eyes. The bravado, the façade, was but a thin veil, a disguise to hide her uncertainty. He realized it for an act of self-preservation. Miss O’Bannon presented herself in such a way that gave people the impression she knew exactly what she was doing at all times. But her eyes gave her away; she was just going at it one thing at a time and hoping it would all work out. Telt couldn’t help himself; he had to touch her, try to sooth away her fears and all the uncertainty.

He ran his finger along her stubborn little chin and let it roam up the side of her jaw to her cheek. He couldn’t stop; those big, brown eyes and dark lashes, moist with unshed tears, drew him in like a moth to a flame. Before he knew it, his lips were on hers. At first, the kiss was light.

He gave her a minute to decide if she liked it or not. He figured the slap would be coming any minute if she decided the latter.

With his eyes open, braced for the smack, he watched as her eyelids fluttered closed, her dark, moist lashes brushing her soft cheek. Her hat fell off the back of her head, and the combs that were holding her luxurious hair went with it. Her curls, set free, cascaded down around her face and down her back. Instead of a slap in the face, he heard her sigh in surrender. Her hands slid up his chest to his neck, then to the sides of his face to pull him down. Her body begged him to deepen the kiss and gave him permission to explore at will. Telt gathered her in closer. She came willingly.

Her lips parted, accepting his tongue. His body responded to her whimper of need. With one hand on her waist, he used the other hand to fondle and tease one of her firm, round breasts through the fabric of her blouse. He felt her buck with shock at his intimate touch.

Then her tongue was taking over his mouth. He slid his hand down to grasp one rounded half of her beautiful backside and pressed her hips closer against his. His desire was apparent. Of her own volition, she moved her hips over his, grinding against his straining erection.

Telt found himself in the position of being the one to hold on to a shred of control. He pulled back. She was on her tiptoes, her eyes still closed, her lips parted; every inch of her begging for more.

They were standing out in the open meadow in plain view of the whole town. Telt glanced over his shoulder toward the church and saw a small herd of men starting out across the meadow, coming in their direction. His voice hoarse with desire, he said to her upturned face, “You got company comin’.”

He knew she didn’t understand why he’d stopped.

“What?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

“You got company comin’,” he said, finding his voice, and moved aside so she could see for herself.

“Oh, good heavens! I need a minute,” she cried, eyes flying open.  One hand going to her throat and the other to her tumbling hair, she fled behind the wagon. Telt took a deep breath. At some point, he’d lost his hat. He spotted it there under the wagon. By the time he retrieved it and had it in place on his head, once again the blood flowed, no longer pooling in his groin.


Free read Laura Creek chapters 5 and 6


     It was lovely, cool and peaceful along the creek. Wren returned to camp, washed her hair and gave herself a thorough, all-over wash. Angry, she had to wash away all the grim and grit, then try to find a way through this predicament.

Weary, worn down, depressed and defeated, she blessed Mrs. Buttrum’s timely interruption. The woman had saved her from having to attempt a rebuttal to the mayor’s challenge. Being prejudiced, it didn’t matter the circumstances that had brought her to Laura Creek; Mr. Buttrum, she knew, would never accept her or her motives.

With her wagons end-to-end, her bedroll laid out between and her back to the end of a wagon, she had an excellent view of town to the east. Dressed in a clean chemise and a pair of clean drawers, she’d thought to feel better; but instead, the old feelings of loneliness, frustration and betrayal overshadowed any good that she could find at the end of this long, hard day.

The emptiness she felt gave room for the memories of all that had gone on in the months before she left Oregon City. They settled around her heart and mind like a dark shroud. Never would she believe her father had meant to write her out of his will…entirely, but he had. Everything belonged to her Uncle Stanley now. It was wrong.

She’d poured her heart into her father’s half of the O’Bannon Brothers Enterprises. She’d dedicated her life to building it up, nearly singlehandedly, into a thriving, profitable business.

Of course, after her mother’s death, when the depression began to overpower her father’s will and mind, she naturally assumed more and more of the mantle of the business. He’d allowed her to do so; encouraged her to do so.

He had no justification, none whatsoever, for writing her completely out of his will. Every time she thought about it, examined the final outcome, bitter resentment gnawed at her gut and squeezed her heart until she thought she might die of the pain.

Plumping the feather pillows behind her head, she stretched out on the quilt she’d laid down over the bedroll and tried to convince herself that she’d done the right thing—taken the only option she’d been given. She’d struck out on her own to make her own way. The offer she’d received from her uncle to work for him as clerk in the Oregon City Mercantile, stripped her of all authority. Magnanimously, he’d said she could keep her room in the house she’d lived in all her life. But her uncle cautioned that he and her cousins would be moving in immediately to take possession. Making it sound like a joke, he’d hinted that perhaps she’d get a better night’s sleep if she found her own accommodations rather than live under the same roof with a house full of randy bachelors.

Swiping away the hot salty tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, she shook her head; she’d made the right decision by purchasing her own mercantile. There was no life for her in Oregon City. It was the right thing to do, coming to Laura Creek—the only thing she could do. But, this new venture wasn’t going to be easy, thanks to Mr. Buttrum.

Wide awake, gazing up at the stars, she weighed her problems against her blessings. The warm welcome she’d received, that was a blessing. Although gratifying, it had delayed the inspection of her property. With the prospect of a mercantile in their near future Mrs. Buttrum and the other ladies hadn’t bothered to contain their curiosity or their enthusiasm. That was the good news for the day. But the sun had gone down behind the hill before she’d seen the inside of her store.

The delay in taking possession of her property suited Mr. Buttrum. She had not missed the sly gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as she surveyed her property. The mercantile, the building, was a sore disappointment; small, devoid of any kind of storage, no shelves and no counters. Above the store, in what would be her living space, conditions were rough, stark, uninhabitable. She could see daylight coming through the roof along the peak. There wasn’t a proper floor in the attic, and no staircase, just bare beams, boards, and a pull-down ladder. In a few short weeks fall would come, and her store would be as cold as an icehouse. She wasn’t so green that she didn’t realize, in the mountains, fall and winter could come on quickly with bitter cold.

Of course she’d pointed out these shortcomings to Mr. Buttrum.  She’d told him, with no bark on it, he’d failed to meet the promises made in their sales contract. She’d demanded he make repairs immediately.

It was futile to expect satisfaction or fairness from the Howard T. Buttrums and the Uncle Stanleys of this world. Mr. Buttrum rebutted true to form with the standard ‘if you were a man you’d see this as a challenge, an opportunity to make it your own’.

Little did he realize she was accustomed to this form of reasoning. Mr. Buttrum thought to discourage her. He would soon learn Wren O’Bannon would not surrender—she would get what she wanted. It would require extra labor, planning, and a good deal of patience, but she intended to win. She didn’t have a choice; she’d burnt all her bridges, and there was no going back.

Mr. Buttrum, unfortunately, had inadvertently touched upon her Achilles heel. Her family, what was left of it, had no idea where she was or what she was up to. With any luck, it would be a very long, long time before they found her, not that her uncle was looking for her or would miss her. Why should he, he had it all now. Hopefully the mayor would be distracted from making inquires as she pushed forward to take possession of her mercantile, with or without his cooperation.

However, along with the problem of what to do about her store, there was the problem of her attraction to the sheriff. A blind woman could see that the wispy little schoolmarm had him as good as hooked and reeled in. The poor man didn’t even realize the danger. Wren didn’t either, at first, but she quickly saw past Lottie Bledsoe’s simpering demeanor. Beneath her fluttery, breathless act lurked an expert angler with a determined mind. Wren was the target of her “I wish you’d drop dead” glares all afternoon.

And who could blame the woman, Telt Longtree was a lot of man. He was clean-shaven, something Wren found particularly attractive in this day and age of mustaches and beards. He had a dazzling smile that took her breath away. His laughter came from deep down, a full, a rich baritone. He liked to laugh and visit with people.

He loved his dog. The retriever didn’t leave his side the whole afternoon. However, the man was probably as poor as a church mouse, he fit in with everyone else in town.

The mayor, and owner of the bank, Howard Buttrum, however, had plenty of money to spread around. He’d built the church, lavishly furnished it with a stained glass window, gilding on the altar, even Roman pedestals for flower arrangements. All of this, Wren had learned from a woman by the name of Margret Tatom and her mother-in-law known to everyone as Grandma Tatom. The two ladies had nothing but good things to say about Mr. Buttrum and his largess.

Over the course of the afternoon, Wren learned a rock quarry and sawmill provided incomes for many of the residents, but they were seasonal industries.

If and when she actually managed to open her mercantile, these people might not always have cash money. The mercantile would have to accommodate a large portion of business that came in the form of trade. This would require some careful planning. She would have to revise her bookkeeping somewhat, tighten her belt.

“Ah, Mac,” she sighed as she braided her still-damp hair in the soft gloaming of the summer eve, “we’ve got our work cut out for us here.”

Taking up a little black book and a stubby little pencil, she started to make notes. First things first, “number one”, she said aloud to the dog as she continued to write in her book, “We need a place to sleep other than the hard ground.

“I haven’t complained, and I know you don’t mind, but it would be nice to get away from the flies and mosquitoes. Tomorrow we’ll take a look at that roof on our new mercantile and see what can be done. I think I saw some shakes behind the store.” Mac lay next to her; he grumbled and shifted his weight onto his hindquarters. She rubbed his chest, “I know, sounds like hard labor, doesn’t it, old boy.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled the fresh warm air, listening to the crickets chirp and the frogs croak. She turned on her side, opened her eyes and watched as a flock of swallows flew low over the meadow, dipping and diving, gathering bugs. A slight haze of dust had settled over the tall grass, lending an air of ethereal beauty to the landscape, making her think of fairies. She sighed and congratulated herself on her accomplishment, to have arrived safe and sound.

The mules were content, asleep on their feet, tethered along the creek. She’d made a deal with Punk Baker, the tobacco-spitting, barrel-bellied man with a complexion the color of tanned leather. He owned the stable and ran the town smithy. She’d traded him a pound of hard candy and three pouches of chewing tobacco for six bales of his hay. Therefore, her mules were well fed and fine right where they were, for now.

It was time to get practical, no more stargazing or feeling sorry for herself. To start with, her mules would need a fence or some kind of enclosure in the not too distant future. Jotting down the details, she wrote: number two, a fence for the mules, number 3, shelves for the store; but first a place warm and dry to sleep

As she made her list, it became clear her problems were beyond her talents, time consuming and labor intensive. She’d not anticipated these difficulties. They definitely upset her agenda.

Giving her feather pillow a good punch and fluff, she consoled herself with the fact that she didn’t have to rise before dawn and harness up the team to start out over some rutted, boulder-infested road in the morning. When she started out from Oregon City, she’d had her doubts about driving a team of mules, period. Let alone haul freight through unfamiliar territory. So now, she reasoned, she would learn how to fix a roof, make shelves and survive a winter with no source of heat. Simply a matter of new and different challenges, that’s all.

“Tomorrow we get started on our store and our new home,” she told Mac, tucking her black book and pencil under her pillow. She stretched and yawned, thinking she might be able to sleep now.

Mac came to attention, his all-seeing eyes drawn to the meadow that lying between their campsite and the town. Wren made out a few orange glowing lights shining in the windows of the houses between the buildings of the town. Twilight was fading to indigo, and it was hard to make out any definite shapes or human figures.

She didn’t mind the deer and elk, they were expected company in a meadow like this. Varmints, such as mountain lion and bear, were not welcome. Along the way, she’d had her share of camp invasions of porcupine and skunk. Then there were the skunks of the human kind, and those Wren feared the most. So when Mac put up his ears and growled his serious growl, she paid attention.

She hadn’t bothered with a campfire. She didn’t need to cook; she was full as a tick from having eaten well of the spread the ladies had laid out. And she certainly wasn’t cold. Besides, the grass in the meadow was tinder dry. A fire would be unwise. She had her camp lantern hung above her head on the rear gate of the forward wagon. The freight wagon at her back gave her some protection from the night air.

She had personal protection with Mac serving as her bodyguard. For backup, she had a carbine in her wagon, a small derringer she kept beneath her pillow at night, and a revolver tucked away in her duster pocket.

Mac came to his feet, his head down, shoulders hunched, lips pulled back to reveal his sharp canine teeth. Alarmed, Wren pulled out the derringer from under her pillow. She got to her feet, eyes and ears open for movement. She didn’t cock the pistol. She prayed she wouldn’t have to. The derringer wasn’t much of a weapon. If she could get the varmint into her circle of light, at close range, the derringer could sure-as-hell shatter a kneecap, buying her time to make a better defense.

Mac’s growl lowered to a snarl, becoming more intense. He lunged out beyond the lamp light. Wren cried out, “Mac! Come back here.”

Staying close to the forward wagon, she moved toward the front to peer around it into the darkness. With her little derringer in one hand, she stepped up on the tongue of the wagon, her hand going up and over the edge of the dashboard, searching for her loaded carbine. To the dog’s credit, Mac returned to her side, his head down and ears pulled back.


 Telt heard the dog growl. Halfway across the meadow, he remembered the dog. He’d just come from walking Lottie to her cottage. She’d offered to make him a cup of coffee. Somehow the invitation, accompanied by a sweet, coiling smile and a warm touch of her hand on his sleeve, made him think of an invitation from a spider to a fly.

She’d been as sticky as pine tar all afternoon, and wide-eyed and twittery. She’d clung to him like a Virginia creeper…he’d never seen her like that before. She’d made him nervous, giving him cause to reconsider settling down with her.

After making good his escape, he felt the need to walk awhile. Thoughts of a certain brown-haired female filled his mind. He’d walked around, checking doorways and looking between buildings, for what…he wasn’t sure. All he’d come across were some cats who were either sparking or about to tear one another apart; it was hard to tell. Without thinking; he turned and started across the meadow, his reason being, he, as sheriff, should check in on the newest resident of the community.

That mongrel was still snarling. He could hear him. He sure hoped Miss O’Bannon really could control the beast. Coming to a standstill, he quietly called his retriever, Queenie, to heel.

“Miss…Miss O’Bannon? It’s Sheriff Longtree,” he announced to the camp. He spotted the bedroll on the ground laid out between the wagons, and the lantern hanging from the tailgate, but he couldn’t see anyone about. He figured if the dog was here, and hadn’t come at his throat yet, then the woman was nearby.

The air crackled with anticipation; he felt decidedly exposed. He wouldn’t put it past the feisty little woman to have a gun aimed right at his heart.

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. He told himself he was a damn fool to come out here. He had no business out here accosting a woman on her own.

He shook his head. Well…accosting, no, he wasn’t going to accost her. He revised his thinking. He just wanted to see for himself that she was all right out here, see if she needed anything.

No. That was a bald-faced lie! Oh, hell and damn it! He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her face, and that hair, and to see if she was as fascinating as he thought. He wanted to talk with her alone. He wanted to look into her warm, brown eyes and hear her soft, lilting voice. He wanted her all to himself. That’s what he really wanted.


At the sound of the sheriff’s voice Mac gave out a series of barks. His ears straight up and tail wagging, the bark was a warning, not a threat. Wren allowed herself to relax…somewhat. She moved her hand away from the carbine on the storage box.

She stepped out, staying close to the shadow of her wagon, to where her duster hung by a hook to the side of her bedroll. She felt better knowing her revolver was close at hand.

Mac loped away just as it occurred to her she was darn near naked. Her duster stank, but she was clean and the thought of putting it on was abhorrent. Completely forgetting she had a quilt on the ground behind her, she went for the blankets that were somewhere in the wagon beside her.


The big dog bounded right up to him and began sniffing his pant leg, then his crotch. Telt scratched the brute behind his ears.

Queenie, to Telt’s amazement, circled around, and the two dogs began to sniff each other, getting to know each other as only dogs can.

Telt moved into the lantern’s light and spotted her. Scantily dressed in her white chemise and pantaloons, she had her head stuck under the tarp of her wagon. With a blanket in her hand, she sprang off the wagon tongue and quickly wrapped it around her bare shoulders. Wispy curls fanned around her forehead and neck. She looked deliciously disheveled.

He sympathized, but he couldn’t help but grin. This idea of his to come out here, was turning out to be one of his better notions. In the glow of the lantern’s light she looked like a young girl. Her hair, done up in a loose braid, hung down over one creamy-white shoulder, almost to her waist. Her lips were plump, the color of ripe strawberries. Her round, high cheeks pink with embarrassment, or more likely, outrage gave her an elfin quality. Her big, brown eyes glistened with wary intelligence. Her skin glowed soft and golden in the lantern light, giving the impression of warmth and suppleness. All in all he found her utterly irresistible.

He knew she was cold, standing there in her thin chemise and drawers. He could see each round breast, nipples raised and hard, begging to be fondled and warmed by a masculine hand. A cool breeze always blew across the meadow, especially in the evenings and early morning.

He blessed the meadow breeze.

He could plainly see she was a curvaceous little thing. Her hips were round, her bottom firm, and her arms, almost plump. He suspected what he was seeing was muscle. She would have to have muscles to handle a team of six. There was nothing fragile-looking about her. She looked strong and extremely feminine at once. It was an irresistible combination.

Out of respect for her predicament, he stopped short of her bedroll and half-turned his back. “I’m…sorry, ma’am,” he stammered. “I just came out to make sure all was well,” he said, but not before getting an eyeful.

Mac and Queenie had decided to lie down on the bedroll together.  Telt envied them their ease with one another. Miss O’Bannon was looking at the dogs too, glaring at them in fact.

He could understand if she found her dog’s lack of concern a mite traitorous. There she stood defenseless, half undressed, and there her dog was, lollygagging with a blonde retriever bitch.

He saw what he thought might be a derringer in her hand as she arranged the army blanket around her shoulders.

“I guess they’ve taken a shine to one another,” he said, only to have that glare pointed in his direction. “I can’t say I’m sorry to find that animal of yours in a forgiving mood. For a second back there, I thought I’d have to defend myself, at the very least sacrifice an arm bone. You sure do have some dog there, ma’am.”

He caught the sneer on her pretty mouth when she gave her dog a disgusted glance. She huffed and tugged the blanket up as if it were a shield against his intrusion and a prop to her dignity. “Well, yes,” he heard her say. “At least, I always thought he was my champion.” He saw her little chin lift slightly, and her lips purse in disapproval. “I see now he does have his weaknesses. I’ve never seen him act like that before.” Queenie licked the brute’s ear. Telt couldn’t miss the disdain written on Miss O’Bannon’s face. He had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.

“I can only give as his excuse…he’s tired, I guess,” she said with a shake of her head that sent ripples along her thick braid, the length of it moving over a bared shoulder to come to rest between her breasts.

“You must be pretty tired yourself,” he managed to remark, having to swallow hard before he spoke. Without thinking, he moved into the light of her lantern.

Backing away, her brown eyes widened when she came up against her wagon. Her voice unsteady, “You needn’t have bothered to come out here to check on us, Sheriff.” She swept her arm out and he spotted the derringer. She quickly pulled her arm in. He didn’t know if it was because she didn’t have much on, or if she didn’t want him to see she had a gun.

Her nose went up. She rearranged the blanket about her and made a haughty little sniff before assuring him, “As you can see, Mac and I are quite comfortable and accustomed to camp life.”

To hide his grin Telt looked around, then up at the night sky to the multitude of stars. “Yup, it can be romantic,” he said with a smirk on his face. “But,” sobering, his eyes once again locking with her gaze, “I reckon you’re anxious to get settled into your new home. “I see you have one of those little peashooters.”

Her eyes went wide, the blanket dropped down to her waist, and she stood there looking at her hand, the hand holding the shiny little weapon. She looked like she’d forgotten she had it. Her cheeks grew crimson and her eyes shut tight.

The problem was, now the snub-nosed barrel was pointing right at his crotch.

“Is it loaded, ma’am?” he inquired, half reaching out to take it from her.

“Good heavens,” she hissed, her eyes flying open, realizing her target.

He wanted to laugh aloud, but pulled his lips to the side to hide his grin. Fascinated, he watched her take the weapon between her thumb and forefinger, bend over and place it beneath her pillow, the blanket falling off her body and slipping to the ground. Hell, he could see her skin, glowing pink right there on her rump beneath the fabric of her drawers.

She huffed, gathering up the blanket as she straightened. “Of course it’s loaded,” she vollied, “it wouldn’t do me much good without bullets. It wasn’t cocked. I don’t shoot what I can’t see, Sheriff.”

He knew he was cocked; damn if he wasn’t randy as hell. He knew he was smirking, but couldn’t help it. He saw the sparks leap into her eyes and knew he’d pissed her off. She proceeded to give him an earful. He reckoned he had it coming.

“After all, a pistol is just a chunk of metal without bullets,” she explained. He was glad she’d put the gun down, or she might have taken a shot at him or maybe chucked it at his head.

She waved her arm out to the expanse of the wide-open meadow, once again forgetting about her state of undress, and the blanket slid down to her waist…again. Impatient, she jerked it back up around one shoulder.

“I’ve been out here for almost a month on my own,” she told him, her jaw tight, clearly on the defensive. “There have been vermin of all kinds lurking about,” she told him, her eyes swimming in unshed tears, her chin quivering. He could see she was fighting against her weakness as she squared her shoulders and sniffed back the tears. “I also have a military carbine and a Colt revolver,” she informed him, her head high and chin out in a challenge.

He took that as a serious warning, but he was still enjoying himself. She was a sight when she was in a snit, her cheeks flushed, her bosom heaving, taking short little breaths.

“My little…’peashooter’ as you so disparagingly called it, is for close range. My cousins taught me how to shoot. My derringer won’t kill, but it sure-as-hell will maim and give me time to get one of my other weapons. It would be foolish of me not to have a revolver handy. And before you say another word, yes, I know how to use the derringer, despite my stupidity of just a moment ago.”

Torn, he wanted to laugh at her outburst, but more than that, he wanted to fold her into his arms and assure her he would allow no harm to ever come to her.

Danged if she wasn’t prickly. But at the same time she was hard to resist.

He stood there, feeling like a dumb-ass, shifting from one foot to the other for a few seconds before coming up with something to say.  “Well, good,” he finally muttered. “I’m relieved to hear it,” he said, his voice holding a little more authority.

He saw her nod, as if to say ‘so, there, you big chuckle-head’ and knew his grin was back. She had him dancing around, all unsure of himself, all tongue-tied. Just a little bit of a thing, a woman, and yet he she’d kept him off balance.

“You need anything out here tonight, you fire a shot from one of them weapons you got in that arsenal of yours,” he said, struggling to maintain a straight face. “I’ll hear it, or Queenie will, and we’ll be out here on the run,” he assured her, hoping to sound powerful and manly. He tipped his hat and said, “Good night, ma’am. We’ll get out of here and let you get some shut-eye.”

“Come on, Queenie. Say good-night,” he told the dog. Reluctantly, Queenie got up from the bedroll, leaving her newfound companion, to take her place at Telt’s side.

Behind him, he heard Miss O’Bannon call to him, “Sheriff. Thank you for looking in on me. I…I’m not used to someone…to anyone…thinking I might need looking after.”

He glanced over his shoulder, tipped his hat, then winked at her, his grin in place. She’d just given away a secret. He put it in a safe place in his mind to take out and study later. He had to wonder…who in the hell was the real Wren O’Bannon? She might not be what she pretended to be, at least not altogether.


That wink and that grin said it all; he was laughing at her again. And why not. She’d almost cried, for heaven’s sake. She’d allowed him to get her on the defensive, a strategic mistake in any confrontation. Wren wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Why hadn’t she?  She’d shown him her weak underbelly…figuratively speaking. She blushed. Oh, Lord, he’d caught her in her underclothes. Little wonder she’d gone all defensive, a sure sign of insecurity, she knew.

“Just doing my job,” she heard him say before he disappeared into the darkness. With the blanket pulled closer about her, she shivered, feeling like a lost child instead of a self-reliant woman of property.

Mac, the traitor, followed the retriever out into the pasture. Wren went out to the edge of the lantern’s light to call him. He ambled back to her side. They stood on the rim of light as the night absorbed the sheriff and his dog.

The dark, lonely night closed in around them, leaving her bereft and abandoned. Mac shuddered and let out a whimpering sigh, at odds with his powerful body.

She put her hand on his big head and whispered, “I know,” and swallowed down the hard lump of tears that threatened to overwhelm her. “We both must be very tired,” she said by way of giving them both an excuse to indulge in such cold, lonesome melancholy.


Wren awoke with the potent smell of game in her nostrils. Elk and deer, she’d learned after being on the trail awhile, had a particularly musky scent about them. They smelled like a combination of urine with a dash of skunk.

Still dark, a sliver of gray lined the rim of the mountains to the east. The stars were still out and the air crisp but still. Mac groaned and hunkered down, curling into a tight ball. She was grateful that he knew better than to go chasing a herd of big, antlered elk.

Wren thought there were maybe fifty head of elk in the meadow, all snorting and snuffling as they foraged the meadow grass. They pawed around close to the wagons as they made their way to the creek for a drink of water.

She lay on her stomach for a while, watching them until the dawn began to change from charcoal gray to pink. A new day, her melancholy of the evening before had distilled down into a concentrated sense of stubborn perseverance. Not Mr. Buttrum, not her unfinished store nor living quarters would stop her from taking hold of her enterprise and opening on time.

When the elk moved away from the wagon, she dressed quickly and gave herself a breakfast of cold chicken saved from the feast yesterday and a piece of Eula’s delicious huckleberry pie. She washed her meal down with a cup of cool water from her water barrel, then pulled her tool-caddy out from the back of the wagon. She intended to get to that roof before the heat of the day beat down on her full-bore.


     Telt awoke from the throes of an erotic dream. Naked in the dream, he rolled in tall, fragrant meadow grass with an equally naked, sloe-eyed vixen with long, curly brown hair, their bodies writhing, enjoying wild, aggressive sex. Not making love, they were engaged in sex. He lay breathing hard, sorry the dream had come to an unsatisfactory end. Someone was pounding on something. It echoed all around the meadow and the mountains.

He figured it was Punk at the stable. It wasn’t like Punk to be up this early on a Sunday morning and going hard at it. Like almost everyone in Laura Creek, Punk took the Lord’s Day seriously. Unlike almost everyone else, Punk didn’t attend church, but he sure took the day of rest.

Queenie scratched at the door to get out. Telt reluctantly got up from his warm bunk and padded barefoot, wearing nothing but his under-drawers, to open the door for her.

His cabin was a ways up a dirt trail that took off from behind the stable. He’d cleared off a flat spot and erected his home on the side of the hill across the creek. From his front porch, he could look through the pines and see right down Main Street of Laura Creek.

He’d lived at the jail for the first year, a dismal year. He couldn’t say why he’d stayed, but something about Laura Creek and the people made it feel like home. Once he’d decided to stay, he wanted a place of his own.

Instead of going to Buttrum and taking out a loan at his bank to buy a chunk of land, he’d gone to Punk. After some tough negotiating, he’d acquired ten acres in the timber above the stable. He negotiated not with cash but with his brawn, working as Punk’s slave. For a year he constructed outside corrals, inside cribs, and an extra lean-to for hay storage at the stable.

Every blister and gouge of flesh was worth it. He earned enough to build himself a two-room cabin. The rooms were big. A mammoth fireplace took up one end of the room to keep him warm throughout the winter. During the winter months, over the past few years, he added furniture to his home, making a table, a couple of benches, a settle which he’d placed before the fire, and counters in the kitchen area with a hand-pump at the freestanding sink.

He’d thought about adding a loft to accommodate a wife and maybe a couple of kids. He couldn’t picture Lottie Bledsoe being comfortable here. She liked her cottage, with its curtains, china-hutch, and mullioned windows. Telt didn’t figure his cabin would be frilly enough to suit her, and he sure as hell wouldn’t stand for that kind of decoration in his cabin.

Then he wondered, what would Miss O’Bannon think of his home?

He dressed, taking extra care to brush his hair and shave. He found a freshly laundered white shirt and a pair of hardly-worn dark trousers in his military trunk. He made time to put a little shine on his well-worn boots; not that today was any different from any other Sunday, of course.

He poured himself a second cup of coffee and shoveled in some scrambled eggs as he dressed. The hammering hadn’t stopped, not completely. It stopped now and then, only to resume with a steady, even rhythm. Curiosity had him wondering what Punk was up to, and why it needed to be done on a Sunday morning.

Queenie hadn’t come back yet from her morning rounds. He did wonder about that. She was pretty regular about getting her breakfast.  About to call her in, there came a knock on his door.

“Hey, Shorty,” Telt said, greeting the boy who stood on his porch. Shorty, in his Sunday-best, gray tweed trousers, which were too short, and white shirt, frayed at the collar and cuffs, looked excited, red in the face, a little sweaty.

“We got another sit-chee-a-shion,” Shorty said, no panic in his voice, just a big grin on his freckled face.

Telt squatted down to give Peanut a good rub behind the ears. As he rose he took a guess, “Our mayor again?”

“Uh, huh, and that mule-drivin’ lady,” said Shorty as he stood aside to let the sheriff pass before him out the door.


Telt came down the hill from his cabin, to see the mayor standing in the middle of the street in front of the mercantile. Drawing closer, it looked like Howard had dressed in a hurry. With his thinning hair all rumpled, white and blue pajamas poking out beneath his suit coat and pant legs, Howard looked like an unmade bed. The sight was nearly Telt’s undoing. Then he heard Howard shouting to someone on the roof, and any amusement Telt might have enjoyed drained from his mind like sand between the fingers.

“Miss O’Bannon!” Howard shouted to the person scaling the roof of the mercantile. The person was all business, hammer in hand; equipped with a tool-belt slung low on the hips. “We observe the Lord’s Day in Laura Creek. We do not labor on the Lord’s Day. You will desist in that racket immediately.”

In reply, the person slapped down a cedar shake from the pile of shakes on the roof, then proceeded to pound down three nails with an accuracy Telt would have thought only a professional could accomplish.

“Come down from there right now, Miss O’Bannon! I’ve sent for the sheriff, Miss O’Bannon.”

The roofer hammered in a couple more shakes before removing the nails from between her lips to shout down to him. “If you’d seen to it that this roof was properly shingled in the first place, I wouldn’t be up here on the Lord’s Day doing the job myself, Mr. Buttrum. I intend to be open for business in less than two weeks. Unlike you, Mr. Buttrum, I keep my promises,” the roofer yelled in a voice that Telt had come to know well—he’d heard it in his dreams.

His heart in his throat, he saw her, Wren O’Bannon, wearing a man’s blue work shirt and a denim skirt pulled up between her legs and tucked into her waist like a Turk, straddling the peak of the roof. She had her glorious hair pulled up under an old sweaty hat. Telt couldn’t see her face, but, he took note, her ankles and calves were exposed, although unattractively encased in brown stockings. The shapeliness of her ankles and calves, however, he could not dismiss.

The peak of the roof was at least twenty feet from the ground and the pitch was steep. He had to hand it to her; she knew enough to attach a couple of two-by-fours the length of the roof as a cleat for a toehold.

He closed his eyes and a horrible vision arose in his mind’s eye.  There lay beautiful Miss O’Bannon on the ground, her pretty neck broken, her body shattered and that hair of hers all bloody from her cracked skull. He shuddered to erase the image.

How the hell she’d managed to get those bundles of shakes up there on that roof, on her own, he didn’t want to know.

The banker’s shouts weren’t helping matters. He was just causing a dangerous distraction. Damn the man. Telt felt utterly helpless standing there with his mouth open, watching her expertly lay shakes on the roof of the mercantile. It would’ve been more fascinating if she weren’t in imminent peril of falling and breaking her pig-headed, fool neck.

Howard, red in the face as usual, swung around and flew in his face. “Good, you’re here. I want that woman to stop that racket. Order her off that roof. Arrest her, Sheriff. Damn female woke me up out of a sound sleep. Woke the whole damn town up with her banging. I left my bed, came down here half-dressed, and what do I find? A mad-woman up on a roof doing God only knows what. There must be an ordinance against causing a disturbance on the Sabbath. The woman is a menace. She’s godless, and I want her stopped. I’ll break the contract. By God I will. I’ll see her, and that damned Judge, Crooked Crookshank, behind bars for defrauding me…and all the good people of Laura Creek.”

Telt held back the overwhelming urge to put his fist down the mayor’s throat and managed to say in a controlled voice, “Howard…”.  Howard ignored him, and threw a few more useless threats up to the rooftop.

Telt barked, “Howard!” to get the man’s attention. “Shut the hell up, Howard.” That did the trick. “If I’m going to arrest anyone for disturbing the peace, it’ll be you. Now go home.”

Howard puffed out his cheeks, the veins on his forehead and in his neck ready to pop. Telt braced for the explosion, standing like a mountain against Howard’s furry. “You…you have the audacity to threaten…me…with arrest? You, who have arrested not more than a half dozen miscreants in all of your four years of office. Ha! You’re fired, Longtree. Turn in your badge.”


     Wren stopped her work and shuffled her feet along the peak of the roof to get closer to the edge, where she had a better view of the sheriff and Mr. Buttrum. Perfectly able to hear every word, she waited to see how the sheriff would take Howard Buttrum’s latest punch.

To her everlasting delight, the sheriff actually chuckled. She couldn’t see his face, but he laid a big hand on the mayor’s shoulder. She saw him lean down and put his big face within inches of the mayor’s red nose.

The sound of the sheriff’s deep voice rose up to her ears. “The people elected me to this thankless job, Howard. At least I think they did. I remember standing there, minding my own business, then you were there pinning this badge on me, remember? Two months ago, I got reelected. If you recall, you nominated me. I have two years to serve. Now, if you, and the good folks of this town, want to take a vote and recall me, I’ll go. Until then I’m the keeper of law and order. You, Howard, are creating a disturbance.”

She watched him poke the mayor repeatedly in the chest. “Go home or go to jail,” Wren heard him say before he gave the banker one more push with that finger of his, just enough of a push to throw the mayor off balance.

She wanted to cheer and crow from the rooftop, her estimation of the sheriff now elevated to the moon and beyond.


     Telt heard Howard release the pent-up head of steam he’d been storing in his chest. He sounded like a steam locomotive hissing and blowing, idling at the station.

Consequently, what Howard said next didn’t have much potency behind it. “You get her to stop that infernal pounding. I don’t care how you do it.”

Telt didn’t move as Howard fished out his pocket watch from his trousers. He flipped it open, read the hour, then snapped it shut. “You have, by my watch, two and a half hours before church begins. Take care of it, Sheriff. I’m filing a verbal complaint, as a citizen of this community, and I will have satisfaction.”

“Like I said, go home,” Telt repeated, working hard to keep his mounting impatience under control. He looked up to the peak of the roof, over the entrance of the store, and saw her, squatted down, probably listening to every word. She tipped her hat to him and nodded, then went back to work. Oh, he was right, the very first time he’d set eyes on her, he knew this woman had brass, a lot of brass.

Muttering to himself, Howard left the field and headed toward home. Squaring his shoulders, and with a groan of resignation, Telt set his hat more firmly on his head. “Shorty,” he called, knowing Shorty Terrel was close by, an interested bystander.

“Yes, sir,” Shorty replied, Peanut at his side, coming out from the shadows of the bank next door.

“Go see if your pa can come help us get this roof fixed.” Shorty didn’t waste time with words; he took off for home with his dog at his heels.

“Sheriff,” Telt heard Miss O’Bannon call down to him, “If you plan on coming up here to lend a hand, would you please mark the time and sign your name in my black book. You’ll find it there in my tool-caddy, just under the ladder. There’s a pencil inside the binding.”

The woman has a damned tool-caddy. Telt muttered to himself. All I got is a bucket for my tools. I do fine. Continuing to grumble, he rifled through the tools in the box and found a hammer and the black book. Curiosity overcame him. He flipped through the pages. It was a diary of her journey. He wished he had more time to read it. In the last couple of pages, she’d written notes in regard to the condition of her newly acquired property.

He heard her up there pounding away and knew he didn’t have time to waste. He guessed the hour to be about half-past seven. He saw she’d started at half-past six. Her first step, she’d written, Roofing manual suggests: ‘set toe-cleat on either side of the ridge of the roof to safely make repairs’. Found a stack of two-by-fours in the lean-to. The roof is weak at the ridge point. Found plenty of shakes behind the store. Question? Why were they not affixed to the roof? After these notations, she’d signed her name with a flourish and dated it.

“Sheriff,” she called down, “would you, in your own words, make a brief note of your confrontation with Mr. Buttrum, and sign and date it?”

He wanted to ask why? After a second of hesitation, Telt decided…why not? and shrugged away his doubts.

He was surprised how easily his thoughts translated into script. He didn’t write much, and thought maybe he should do it more often; he was good at it. “Howard Buttrum demanded I remove Miss O’Bannon and incarcerate her for disturbing the peace. Request denied. I asked him to go home. Threats were made, a verbal citizens complaint. Mr. Buttrum continues hostility toward Miss O’Bannon. Cause unknown and not understood.” Telt nodded with satisfaction.

He hoped Miss O’Bannon had a good reason for making these notes. He wasn’t used to clever people. He knew he wasn’t a clever man, but he knew enough to guess she wasn’t doing all of this recordkeeping for the pure folly of it. With her stubby little pencil, he signed and dated his statement.

He picked up a hammer from the tool-caddy. He was just starting up the ladder when Percy showed his freckled face around the corner of the building. “There’s a black book there and a pencil, Percy. Sign your name and put in the date and time under my notes. Then take up a hammer and follow me.”

As he started up the ladder, Telt glanced down. He could see that Percy was uncertain as to why he needed to sign in. “Shake a leg, Percy.” He yelled down, “We need to get this done before church starts.”

Telt tumbled a bundle of shakes up the steep roof end-over-end toward the peak. Three rows of roofing were single layer only. Miss O’Bannon was right. The roof would leak like a sieve if not repaired.

Off toward the meadow he heard Queenie barking. He crouched on the edge of the roof to watch Mac and his dog chase and jump around in the tall meadow grass like a pair of pups.

“They’ve been out there for over an hour,” she told him as she passed him the nail bucket.

“That mutt of yours,” Telt grumbled, his eyes still on the cavorting dogs, “Uh…he hasn’t been castrated, I s’pose?”

“No, he hasn’t, Sheriff,” she replied, not meeting his eyes as she set to pounding in shakes.

“Uh, huh.” He mumbled, “That’s what I need…a litter of ugly, mongrel pups.” He set a shake and pounded it down. “That’ll be just dandy. That’s all I need is a batch of ugly pups.”


Free read, Laura Creek chaps 3 and 4 by Dorothy A. Bell

Chapter 3

Wren let the mules take their head as they crossed the meadow, going straight for the creek. Twenty acres of this meadow went with the purchase of the mercantile. She took note of the meadow grass. It was tall and brittle dry, not worth much as forage, at least in late August. But along the creek, under the shade of the cottonwoods, it still grew green and lush.

Staking out a line between the trees near the creek, she followed the routine she’d set for herself and her mules, removing harness and unfastening traces before tethering her team of six to a line of rope.

Now off duty, Mac waded into the creek. Stretched out on his belly, he began to lap up the cool mountain water. After tying off the last mule, she stood for a moment with her hands on her hips to watch. She envied him.

After seeing to her ablutions, she downed some bacon on a day-old biscuit dripping with honey, followed by two large cups of water. At last it was time to remove a couple layers of trail dust from her face, neck and arms.

She shed her trail duster, chambray shirt, and denim skirt, closed her eyes and went about scrubbing the vision of the sheriff’s big, tan, open face—such a nice face—out of her head. Everyone stood back for him, not out of fear, she didn’t think, but out of respect. He was an imposing presence—he would be in any crowd. She stood there in her shift and petticoat, water dripping down her face, and sighed, remembering his clear blue eyes.

“Foolish woman!” she chided, and splashed cold water in her eyes.  The water dripped off her chin to fall between her bosoms. “What the hell’s gotten into me?”

A fresh wave of humiliation washed over her. With a shudder, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. That smile on his face wasn’t a smile of admiration. She was entertainment, an oddity. And who could blame him…who could blame any of them? Was it any wonder Mr. Buttrum hadn’t take me seriously? I believe it was dear Uncle Stanley who pointed out my lack of basic womanly instincts. He’d predicted I was doomed to a life of spinsterhood. Not that I care…right? 

Marriage wasn’t anything she’d ever dreamed of or longed for.  Marriage meant being under the thumb of some man…a man like her uncle Stanley or a man like one of her drunken, whoring cousins. No, Wren didn’t mind the thought of being a spinster. She could do as she pleased, eat when she wanted to, sleep in a bed she had all to herself and be in charge of her own life. Children, well, she did sort of regret that she would never have any, but they would just get in the way of her ambitions. If she kept busy she wouldn’t miss them at all.

I believe my dear uncle also pronounced me plain. No, he categorized me as…a…‘hermaphrodite, a freak of nature, neither man nor woman’. Yes, I believe those were his exact words.

She did feel that having lost her mother when she was a young girl of twelve had a great deal to do with her lack of interest in the finer points of her gender. By the age of twelve she was already working in her father’s mercantile. At that age her appearance didn’t matter; she and her father were in mourning and, for the next fourteen years, she wore black. It became her uniform, her armor against unwanted advances, her official badge of authority.

With a shake of her head, Wren pushed her evil critic down a dark hole in her mind, way down in with all the rest of her unhappy thoughts.

Having to sniff back a couple of tears, she could admit she hadn’t made a very good first impression today. She had to wonder—why it never entered her mind to clean up before coming into town?

The answer came quickly; all she had in mind was her property, and that was as it should be.

If she were a man, she reasoned, no one would have thought anything about the dirt, grime, or the sweat. No, they would’ve congratulated that man for bringing supplies to their remote little outpost. They would’ve welcomed him as the new proprietor of the mercantile with open arms.

It wasn’t fair, but that was the way of the world.

And on top of it all, she’d allowed the sheriff to throw her off her stride. Who would have thought there’d be a man up here in this remote backwoods, or anywhere for that matter, who would catch her fancy like that and run away with her good sense? One look at him and she’d forgotten all about everything. Even with Mr. Buttrum growling in her face.

Occupied for a few minutes, having to rifle around in her traveling trunk behind the wagon seat, she dug out her good russet-brown skirt and her good cream-colored blouse with the lace ruffles down the front. Seated upon the wagon bench, she slipped into her skirt, still shaking her head for losing sight of her goal.

She had miscalculated, that was unlike her. She should’ve given more care to her appearance. Although she didn’t put much stock in that sort of nonsense, she needed to pay more attention, now that she was out from under the protective umbrella of her late father’s and her uncle’s family business.

It was imperative to get herself under control. She’d allowed a man to distract her, although just for a few brief moments. She couldn’t afford to waver from her purpose, not if she wanted this venture to succeed; there was far too much at stake, and too much work to do. And certainly, she couldn’t spare a second to indulge in silly fantasies.

Truthfully, she didn’t see why being a female would be a problem. Oh, Wren knew there was bound to be skepticism and prejudice, she was used to that. To her mind, her qualifications and experience overruled the fact of her gender. Mr. Buttrum didn’t worry her in the least, she could handle him. He wasn’t nearly as vile as her uncle; the proof of that lay with his lovely wife. If Wren was any judge, she would guess that the mayor was controllable—his lovely wife knew how to handle him. With persistence and determination, Wren could win this battle—although maybe not the war.

“You will steer clear of the sheriff, my girl,” she told herself as she buttoned her blouse. “He brings out the worst in you. You know very well men muddle the brain.” 

He made her feel giddy, and she told herself she didn’t like feeling giddy. But it was a very small town, and she was bound to run into the man. She would not go all weak in the knees if he spoke to her or glanced in her direction. She would not! Besides, she didn’t have time for it. A man like the sheriff was bound to tangle up the female mind faster than a spool of barbed wire.

Barbed wire could be very painful.

Maybe he was married to that fragile little bird-like woman beside him. Yes, she hoped that was the case. Then, she could enjoy the fluttery feeling she got in the pit of her stomach by just thinking about him, but keep her heart under lock and key.

Giving herself a mental shake and climbing down from her wagon, she put aside her frivolous, flighty thoughts about the sheriff.

To sober herself, she brought forth the image of the banker and his magenta face. Yes, the banker…now, there was a big bag-of-wind if ever she’d seen one, and she knew what she had to do. She had just the needle to prick his balloon and she was going to take great pleasure in deflating the pompous windbag.

Critically, she examined her reflection in the dirty little mirror she had hanging on a nail on the side of her wagon. The bag-balm she’d used on her blistered, calloused hands was added to her poor, cracked lips. To rub it in, she pressed her lips together and rolled her lips between her front teeth. With a nod of approval and an encouraging little smile, she decided she looked almost respectable.  With efficient, ruthless strokes, she brushed the dust from her hair and drew the sides up with a pair of tortoiseshell combs, thinking to control her abundant locks in her usual bun on top of her head. But, after a little consideration, she opted to allow her coffee-brown tresses to fall in waves down her back. No use letting her best feature go to waste, she reasoned. She tried to convince herself that it was a strategic maneuver to gain sympathy and power, but she knew she wanted the sheriff to see her hair. Men were partial to long hair, and she had long hair, lots of it, always had. It might be to her advantage to make use of all her assets, even if the effort was a little late in coming. From here on out she vowed to try harder to put forth the proper image.

Face scrubbed clean, cheeks pink and glowing beneath her tanned complexion, satisfied she no longer looked like a scruffy vagabond—she smelled a heck of a lot better. Her eyes, even though bloodshot from the dust and sun, were bright with anticipation of the forthcoming battle.

Tucking her blouse into the waistband of her skirt, she was pleased to note the waist wasn’t as tight as it had been a week ago.  Prone to plumpness, she wanted to do a little dance of glee, for it would seem she’d melted off a pound or two over the miles. She slipped on the brown silk weskit over her blouse and fussed a moment or two with the lace to get it to lay just right at her throat and across her ample bosom. She cast aside her work boots, replacing them with a pair of black, high-button shoes. After slipping her calloused hands into a pair of cream-colored kid gloves, she fixed her best straw hat on her dark-brown hair with a long, ebony hatpin as the final touch.

Having done all she could with her appearance, it was time to get to the business at hand. Grabbing hold of the side of the wagon, she hoisted herself up with one foot going to the wheel axle. On the inside of the wagon, beneath the dash, was an enclosed wooden box. She lifted the wooden lid to retrieve her father’s old satchel. With her satchel in hand, she jumped down, adjusted the black reticule on her wrist, then squared her shoulders.

She was ready.

“Mac, guard the camp,” she ordered, and was satisfied when Mac responded with a bark of obedience, plunking himself down next to the wagon, head up and alert.


Telt looked out his office doorway as Eula Buttrum directed her troops. She had the women of the town scurrying about like ants on an anthill, dragging in sawhorses and old doors to construct makeshift tables. It would appear the ladies had decided to welcome the potential owner of the mercantile even if the mayor had yet to put his stamp of approval on the deal. To Telt, women were strange creatures. Anytime more than a couple of them gathered in, there had to be food and drink. Lottie Bledsoe was out there placing bowls of food on the table, filling cups with cider. She was hustling around like all the rest. He watched her until she started to squeal and hop around, swatting at the yellow jackets with her lace hanky. He had to look away, afraid he was going to burst out laughing.

The kids had started a game of tag, dust billowing up from their running feet, forming a cloud that sifted over the town. Telt heard Shorty shout, “You’re it!” Peanut, and about a half-dozen other mutts, chased after the kids, barking and yipping, creating as much chaos as possible and loving it.

So Shorty was back from his mission, whatever that was. He’d bet a nickel Shorty was responsible for spreading the word to the men at the quarry and the mill. They’d started to trickle into town about a half-an-hour ago, settling in out front of his office to swap stories, once in a while breaking out into all-out laughter. The sour smell of tobacco smoke from their pipes and stogies drifted into the office. Even Percy was there in the middle of them, putting in his two cents worth. Telt hoped the smoke would help to discourage the spiral of flies circling inside the doorway.

From his vantage point, it would appear everyone in town had dropped what they were doing. Howard had closed the bank. Percy had abandoned the telegraph. Everyone waited on Miss Whoever-she-was to find out what, exactly, was the ‘sit-chee-a-shion’.

“Howard,” Telt grumbled for about the twelfth time, turning around with a cup of fresh cider in his hand, unsure as to how it had gotten there, “I don’t see how I can arrest the woman. She hasn’t broken any laws that I know of. Maybe if you could give me something to go on, other than her mules were shittin’ in the street, I could help. Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on here?”

Slumped down in Telt’s chair, Howard sat hunched forward, his head in his hands. They’d been here almost an hour, and Howard had yet to say anything…well, anything coherent. All he could do was grumble a lot of drivel about females posing as muleskinners, lookin’ like boys.

Leaning back, Howard twisted the ends of his handlebar mustache with thumb and forefinger. The rickety old office chair squawked in protest. Howard was not a small man. Telt wanted to warn him to watch it—the chair might give out—but then it might be kind of amusing to see Howard on his butt, and maybe Telt might get a new chair out of it.

“What is going on here?” Howard barked, “What is going on here is a God-damned travesty! That’s what’s going on here!” he shouted, pounding his fist down on the beat-up old desktop. Telt saw it shudder on its splintered old legs. With raised eyebrows, he considered there might be a new desk in this too, if Howard kept abusing his office furniture.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific, Howard. How is it a…a…what-you-call-it, ‘travesty’?”

Howard Buttrum was the man who had pressed him into becoming sheriff of Laura Creek in the first place. Telt would never have taken the job willingly, but once Howard recognized him as a retired lieutenant the man wouldn’t take no for an answer. Once in a while Howard did seem to seek out his advice, not that he ever took it. Telt hoped this circumstance would be the exception. “I’d like to help, but first I have to know what the problem is, Howard. So you got to open up and open up right now.”

Telt sat down on the edge of his desk and put his cup down, then crossed his arms. Leaning forward slightly, he got in Howard’s face. “Who is that woman? What does she want here in Laura Creek? And why the hell are you so all-fired worked up about it?”

He pulled back when Howard thrust himself out of the chair and began to fight his way out of his suit coat like a boxer, snorting mad, huffing and puffing. The man’s back was wet with sweat, his white shirt sticking to his skin.

Queenie, as if disgusted, tired of all the fuss, got up from her corner blanket. She ambled down the hall, her big, reddish-blonde fan-tail between her legs, heading off to the jail cell where it was quiet and cool.

Patiently, Telt kept silent as Howard wiped his sweaty face with his monogrammed white handkerchief and combed his fingers through the thinning remains of his hair.

Finally, after a few deep, deep breaths, Howard spoke, “The problem is I don’t believe it! I don’t believe a word that woman says. I don’t believe she drove those wagons from Oregon City up here all by herself, and I don’t believe she’s any relation to the O’Bannons. No female could handle a team of six by herself—it stands to reason. On the other hand, if it turns out she is who she says, then I’ve gone and sold the mercantile to a Woman!” This pronouncement came in the form of a confession that Howard T. Buttrum had blundered…horribly. And the result of his horrific blunder now had the potential to destroy the viability of the entire town.

Telt shook his head, thinking he must have missed something. It wasn’t impossible for a woman to drive a couple of wagons with a team of six mules. Women were tough. Telt had seen women, Indians mostly, take on a man’s chores, do’em without complaint, and get’em done. Selling the mercantile to a woman didn’t seem to be that bad of a ‘sit-chee-a-shion’. And there certainly wasn’t any law against a woman owning a mercantile, at least he didn’t think there was.

With arms flapping in frustration, Howard brought his point home, bellowing, “She-is-a-charlatan! I know it! I’ve been hoodwinked!” He added, looking for all the world like a pouting baby, “Yes, sir, I’ve been hoodwinked good and proper by that female! Oh, oh, she had help!” he shouted, shaking his big head, setting his jowls into motion.

Telt didn’t think the man should get so worked up all the time; it couldn’t be good for his heart.

“That cheap, chiseling judge, Crookshank…he’s behind this.  He’s laughing his bony butt off! You can take my word on that!”

With his brows knit together, Telt remained skeptical as Howard raised his fist and his voice to the almighty, “I demand credentials! I want solid proof of this corporation! I won’t settle for less. I will not hand over the keys to that store to a…woman! I’ll be damned if I will!”

The room fell silent for a moment. Telt listened to the sounds coming from the street: the barking dogs, the shouting children, and the droning buzz of the flies. He took back his desk chair, resting his elbows on the oak-top.

He asked, “You are talking about Judge Crookshank…the same Judge Crookshank who circles by here every now and then? Nice old fella, with a long beard, usually a good story to tell?”

Howard nodded vigorously. “He’s finally gotten back at me!”

“Gotten back at you? You aren’t making sense, Howard. You say the woman is lying, and the judge is in cahoots with her. As far as I know the judge doesn’t lie, it kind of goes with his job. I’m confused. I didn’t know you and the judge had a grudge going. I thought he was a friend of yours.”

Sputtering and spitting, Howard shook his head. “Oh, he’s a friend…a good friend!” In a deflated voice he added, “He introduced me to Eula.”

Telt posed the question in his mind (not out loud, that would be foolhardy), Well then, what’s the problem? 

Howard answered his unspoken thought by explaining, “Seven years ago come September I asked Eula to a concert. Francis thought he was courting Eula at the time. Eula and I started seeing one another and Francis was out. Eula was mine. It’s an old scab for the judge. He thought he was actually a contender for her hand. I knew he would never win her. Eula is a beautiful woman. She would never settle for an old goat like Francis Crookshank.”

“I still don’t see how he tricked you into selling the mercantile to someone you didn’t want to sell to. You had to know who your buyer was. Well, what I mean to say is, you must’ve had some hint that it was a…a female. Surely her name would have given you a hint. Didn’t it, Howard?”

Howard came to the desk, palms down, arms stiff, and a snarl on his face, shaking his head, “I would have if the judge had been up front with me and told me it was a woman buyer! Damn it…women don’t buy properties! Men buy properties. Women buy ribbons, fripperies and bon-bons! That brings up the question—where is her man? By God, if she’s a single female, then that makes it all the more unsuitable!”

In Howard’s mind, this might be obvious and reasonable, but Telt wasn’t sure he was of the same mind. Actually, he’d never given the matter much thought.

Howard went on to expound, “No woman, single or married,should be allowed to have enough cash on her to buy more than a new bonnet. It never entered my mind a woman would buy property, let alone buy property up here. Most women want to be in a bigger town, not stuck out in the backend of nowhere, especially a single female. I don’t like this; I don’t like it one little bit!”

Howard straightened. He shook his head, his sweaty face a study in misery. “Crookshank handled the sale. I trusted that man!”

Telt cringed; Howard looked like he was about to cry, for Christ’s sake! He thought it prudent to remain calm and quiet as Howard went on to explain.

“The contract for the sale of the mercantile was with the Big O’ Corporation, signed Wren O’Bannon. Wren could be a man’s name…I thought it was a man’s name. The judge didn’t say a word. Hell, he didn’t have too. It just stood to reason the buyer was a man. I assumed it was a man. I’d heard good things about O’Bannon Brothers Enterprises. I just assumed Wren O’Bannon was one of that outfit…a man!

“You know, of course, they own more than one mercantile over in the valley. They have their own warehouses and they haul freight, too. I had no reason to be cautious. I trusted the judge, ‘my old friend’, to get me a good deal. And it is a good deal.

“Hell, I was overjoyed the O’Bannons were interested in our little, no-account mercantile. I figured it must be the railroad was coming soon, and the O’Bannons wanted to be here, all set up, when that first train came blowing through. There was no reason to question the gender of the purchaser. Hell, I was paid top dollar for that store and property,” Howard bemoaned, then growled with frustration and punched the desktop.

Scrubbing his balding head with the palms of both hands, Howard wailed, “Property! Twenty good acres…sold to a woman! What’s a single female going to do with twenty acres of meadow? Shit! God a-mighty!”

Telt, leaning back in his chair, biding his time as Howard paced the room, ignored the chair’s groan of protest. With his hands behind his head, he muttered to himself, “Well, at least I ain’t bored anymore.”

The banker came to a halt before the open door. He jerked, eyes flying open, at last awake to all the activity going on outside. Telt saw the man’s jaw drop, and figured Howard had just crashed back down to earth.

Eula came up to him, her bonnet blown back off of her head, her thick mane of blonde curls loose from the chignon at the nape of her lovely, white neck, and handed her husband a cup of cool cider. Telt recognized the sweet mischievous smile on her lips. He heard Howard sigh.

Howard looked down into his cup of cider, then at his wife. He looked up and down the street. Telt could see he was taking in the tables, the food, the children, the dogs, and the men gathered in around the front of the office. Howard took a deep breath, his chest expanded, then he bellowed like a bull moose in rut, “Eula! Eula Irene Buttrum!”

Startled, Telt lurched forward. His old office chair gave out from under him and he flew backward. The result…he knocked his head on the wall behind the desk. After a lot of cussing and clatter, he found himself sitting on his ass on the floor, his once four-legged chair now a three-legged chair. “Damn you, Howard, you blow-hard!” he growled, rubbing the back of his head, nursing his wounded pride.

Meanwhile Howard demanded, “Eula Irene Buttrum, what in the tar-nation is going on out here? What’s all this?”


The sounds of children playing echoed in the hills above town.  The sounds inspired Wren to quicken her pace and, with renewed purpose and determination, she set out to take possession of her property.  Keeping to the shade along the creek, she emerged from beneath the trees onto the main street near the north corner of the sheriff’s office. Out in the street there were a dozen or more children, and their dogs, playing. In front of the sheriff’s office a group of ladies hovered over a couple of makeshift tables weighted down with bowls and pots full of food.

It was her intent to slide by without bringing attention to herself. It was obvious the town was preparing for some sort of celebration, but the sooner she straightened out Mr. Buttrum, the sooner she could see her property and decide her next move.

Mrs. Buttrum and the wispy little blonde Wren had seen clinging to the sheriff’s shirttails stood handing out cups of what looked to be cider to the men and children. The smell of real, home-cooked food nearly made her swoon. She’d been living on a diet of beans and biscuits for better than three weeks, with a rabbit now and then. She almost drooled when her nose picked up the smell of fried chicken and freshly baked bread. More food was coming; several of the ladies continued to fuss around making room for it all.

Suddenly feeling a little weak, Wren stumbled but caught herself. Looking to her right, her eyes met those of a redheaded man. She’d noticed him earlier, shortly after Mr. Buttrum began shouting at her. He’d come from the direction of the telegraph office and had tried to help. She nodded and smiled at him; he blushed and nodded. There were other men with him, some squatting and others leaning against the sheriff’s office. They stopped their conversation when they spotted her.

Wren steadied herself as all activity came to a standstill. The children stopped running, even the dogs plunked down on their collective haunches as all eyes turned her direction—so much for sliding by unnoticed. Pasting a valiant smile on her lips, taking a firmer grip on her satchel, she prepared to run the gauntlet of onlookers. Moving forward, with shoulders back and head high, she found the friendly face of the woman she’d assigned as the banker’s wife, Mrs. Buttrum.

Nervous, she wanted to lick her lips, but didn’t dare, as she needed to leave them alone and allow the salve she had applied to moisten the cracks. Her mouth felt dry, and she desperately wanted to clear her throat, but that was a sure sign of insecurity. Feeling the need to say something, she prayed her voice wouldn’t fail her, and screwed up her nerve to make conversation. “My, this looks festive,” she managed to say, working very hard to meet the eyes of several of the ladies gathered. To her relief she found nothing more than curiosity written on their cheerful faces. “I do hope this business won’t delay your celebration,” she said directly to the banker’s wife. Mrs. Buttrum flashed her a beautiful smile and nodded as if in approval.

Wren hoped she’d erased any traces of the grimy muleskinner from her person and transformed herself back into the businesswoman that she was. However, she was not fool enough to believe changing into some acceptable female garb would alter one whit Mr. Buttrum’s opinion of her.

From out of the corner of her eye, she spied Mr. Buttrum. He filled the doorway to the sheriff’s office. Large and imposing, he glared at her, his eyes hard and full of malice. No, Mr. Buttrum definitely was not impressed with her improved appearance or anything else. Not one little bit.

Putting her nose in the air, she dismissed Mr. Buttrum and his surly attitude to accept his wife’s outstretched hand, allowing Mrs. Buttrum to draw her into the circle of ladies that had gathered about the tables. “Pish-tosh, the welcome is for you,” the woman declared, her gray eyes shining brightly with warmth and good will.

It took Wren a moment to digest this. Taking quick survey of those gathered about her, the children, the men and women, it appeared the whole town had stopped doing business for the day. There were at least twenty or more adults, and at least a dozen children. The tension eased out of her shoulders, and her throat constricted with tears of relief.

Could it be that things weren’t as bad as she’d feared? 

She could feel his eyes on her, a formidable aspect looming in the doorway of the sheriff’s office, daring her to look him in the eye. He stood there, the obstacle to her goal. Instantly, Wren sobered beneath Mr. Buttrum’s icy glare. She pulled back her silly tears, chanting an affirmation to herself, I am confident. Stay calm and be prepared to do battle. 

With renewed resolve, she turned her gaze back to the ladies, who were far less hostile.

With a smile and a nod of her head, Mrs. Buttrum immediately began the introductions, “I’m Eula Buttrum. My husband is Howard Buttrum, our mayor whom, you’ve already met,” she offered almost apologetically.

Wren couldn’t help it, she glanced back at the man. When their eyes met, she nodded and smiled at him, hoping to needle him just a bit. She would not allow him to ruin this warm welcome with his sour aspect.

Turning to Mrs. Buttrum, she said with a big smile, “I…I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Buttrum, my name is Wren O’Bannon. Please call me Wren,” she said, holding out her hand to the beautiful Eula.

Eula’s hand was warm and gentle. She smiled and told her, “Wren, you must call me Eula. We’re very excited at the prospect of having a fully stocked mercantile. All of the ladies here have been waiting for this day a very long time. I know you’re going to like it here, I just know it!”

This was encouraging! Eula’s excitement was contagious. Wren wanted very much to believe the woman. “Eula,” Wren repeated, “this…” she stammered, indicating the tables of bounty set out before her, “this is quite unexpected. However did you manage it in such short order?”

Eula shrugged off the question and drew forward the fragile little bird-like woman. “Miss O’Bannon? It is Miss, isn’t it?” Eula asked and waited for Wren’s nod, then went on with the introduction, “this is Miss Lottie Bledsoe, Howard’s niece. She teaches school here. She’s from Chicago.” Said as if this were important somehow and definitely meant to impress. Wren shook hands with the pale, waif-like woman and wasn’t surprised to find her hand limp and cool.

Not the sheriff’s wife; oh, dear! Wren made note of that and bemoaned to herself, Oh, that’s too bad, he’s fair game! It was hard to ignore the rush this tidbit caused. Already, she felt the heat bloom down low in her belly, and her heart rate picked up in tempo. This was not the time to dwell on the possibilities. She told herself she didn’t want to, anyway.

She swallowed back a giggle when Eula elbowed to attention the tall, gawky, red-haired man who’d come to her aid earlier. All the while she’d been exchanging pleasantries with Mrs. Buttrum, he’d been staring at her. But so had all the other men that were gathered.

“Miss Wren O’Bannon, this is Percy Terrel, my brother,” Eula said with a good deal of pride in her voice.

Wren didn’t see the resemblance. Eula Buttrum had wonderfully thick, blonde hair, expressive gray eyes and a flawless complexion, whereas freckles covered her brother’s face. Upon closer examination, Wren did find a few freckles there on the bridge of Eula’s nose. She guessed the sunbonnet was doing its job.

Wren gave Eula her undivided attention as the woman went on to say, “Percy runs the post office, and he’s the telegrapher. He’s our minister and sometimes a deputy for the sheriff. Percy and his son, Shorty, moved here from Woodburn a few years back.” Wren smiled and made certain she expressed the proper degree of respect to a man who wore so many different hats.

As she shook Mr. Terrel’s freckled hand, he managed a garbled, “Good-to-meet-you”, but not without his face turning beet-red and breaking into a sweat. She had to wonder how such a shy man came to be a minister.

With a sweep of her arm, Eula told her, “There are lots of other folks here, but you’ll meet them by and by. You’ll want to get your business out of the way. You go ahead,” Eula said, giving her a little push toward the open doorway, still blocked by the banker.

Yes, it was time to set Mr. Buttrum straight, the sooner the better. Wren charged herself to ignore his forbidding demeanor and, with head high, put her hand on the doorframe, making her intent clear. Without saying a word, she met his nasty glare and let him know she was going in, even if she had to push him aside to do it.

He took one step back, about two seconds before she would’ve shoved him.

Inside, the sheriff’s office was like a mineshaft. It was dark, cool, filled with dust-motes, and smelled of old wood and tobacco smoke. She sensed the people of the town closing in around the front window and the door. The folks outside, their faces pressed to the glass window, sucked up the light in the room.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom and settled on a potbellied woodstove in the corner, with three barrels drawn close around it.  She could visualize the men gathering here in the wintertime to have a smoke and pass the long winter days. There was a hallway a couple of feet from the side of the stove. She assumed it led back to a jail cell and tried not to think about it.

On the other side of the room sat the sheriff’s scarred and battered oak desk. A man was on the floor on his hands and knees, his head and broad shoulders under the desk, with his backside in plain view; she presumed it was the sheriff.

She heard him swear an oath as he dragged a crippled chair out from under the desk and propped it against the wall. He fished around under the desk and, coming to his knees, tossed a broken chair leg behind him toward the woodstove without a backward glance.

Anticipating the direction the chunk of wood would take, she dodged the projectile with a nimble hop to the side. Far from being dismayed, she couldn’t help but laugh out loud.


The musical sound of feminine laughter behind him gave Telt a start, and he cracked his head on the underside of the kneehole of his desk. His hand going to the goose egg on his pate, he peered over the top of the desk.

A woman stood there! A woman he’d never seen before.

The first thing that took his notice was the woman had the most luxurious, curly dark hair he’d ever seen. With it draped about her shoulders, he could only imagine it cascading down… shoot…probably all the way down her back. Damn! He licked his lips—must be to her waist.

His eyes traveled downward to come level with her waist, and his fingers itched to put his hands around her. Without his permission, his line of sight naturally traveled back up a fraction to come to rest on all those creamy ruffles that covered her well-endowed bosom, and he started to fantasize about all the hidden flesh lying beneath those ruffles. He preferred full-bosomed women. This woman, he could imagine, was firm, warm, and smooth to the touch.

Like a man in a desert seeing a mirage, he subconsciously licked his lips again.

Pulling his eyes away from the woman’s bosom, he cleared his throat and pushed himself up to get into a full kneeling position. This brought his line of sight to the woman’s smiling, laughing eyes, which disconcerted him as much as looking at her ample bosom.

Her eyes were dark brown, full of mischievous golden sparks. Her cheeks were round and glowing pink. With her lips parted, he could see her white teeth and her little, ruby-red tongue….

Hell! And Fire! Alarm bells went off in his head! He didn’t know if he could stand. Must be the blow he’d taken to his head, he told himself. It was that muleskinner gal, danged if it wasn’t. How in hell had she gotten herself up to look like…look like a…lady?

He gave himself a mental shake to snap out of it and, with the aid of the wall and the corner of his desk, rose to his feet, all the while his eyes locked with hers.

Howard cleared his throat, which reminded Telt to pull himself together. After all, he was the sheriff; he needed to maintain a certain degree of dignity. He represented law and order, and so far he’d seen very little order in this town today. “Sheriff Telt Longtree, Ma’am,” he said to her with as much authority as possible.

She held out her gloved hand to him. He hesitated, then took it, and just held it. With that touch, he forgot to breathe, and his ears started to sizzle. He heard her say in that lilting way of hers, “I’m pleased to meet you.”


Wren went all gooey inside the second their hands touched. Even with her gloves on, there was heat. “I do hope you won’t have to put me in your jail, Sheriff,” she heard herself say, and couldn’t believe it—she was flirting. She even giggled. The man was compelling, with thick, dark wavy hair and eyes of light blue, almost opaque, making a delicious contrast against his tanned complexion.

Everything about the man was substantial, his face, his shoulders, his chest, even the size of his hands. Her poor love-starved body experienced a series of tingling shock waves, the waves seeking out the womanly places where no man had ever gone before, where even she’d never dared to explore.

Giving herself a mental shake, she cleared her mind, determined to regain her senses. She detested simpering, silly females. She was supposed to be a self-assured businesswoman, not a fluffy-headed goose.

Really, the man had the most infuriating effect on her.

“I am Wren O’Bannon of the Big O’ Corporation,” she managed to say, sounding self-confident and composed, even though she felt light-headed and jittery. “I’ve purchased the mercantile from the city of Laura Creek and I would like to take possession immediately.”

Her words brought about the immediate release of her hand. The sheriff visibly pulled back. Cast adrift, she was once again alone in a sea of hostility.

With the lingering feeling of his fingers through her gloves, warm and strong, Wren denied herself the pleasure of drawing her hand to her breast to savor the sensation. She knew she didn’t dare look into those blue eyes—she’d be lost—so instead, she turned to the banker. Surely that would put the starch back in her. God only knew she could use a splash of sobriety at the moment—her heart was bouncing off her ribs.

“I believe, Mr. Buttrum, you represented the people of Laura Creek in the sale, correct?” She hated it that she sounded breathless, but it pleased her to see Mr. Buttrum blanch slightly, taken off his guard by her sudden shift of attention.

Before he could speak, she had her satchel open on the sheriff’s desk and said, “I have copies of our contract, Mr. Buttrum, should you care to look it over again, although you have the same contract as I.  I also have an affidavit from Louis B. Clarkston, of Clarkston, Meyer, and Rugh, my attorney, who handles the corporation’s legal matters.”

She looked up through her eyelashes to see how the sheriff was responding to her presentation. He had that fish-out-of-water look on his face again. As he picked up the papers she’d laid out and began to look them over, she tucked a smile back and pressed her lips together.

She then turned to Mr. Buttrum, giving him her undivided attention, passing him a long white envelope, “This is a letter for you from Judge Crookshank. He said you and he were old friends.”

Mr. Buttrum turned that funny shade of purple again. She ignored his ire, collectively addressing Mr. Buttrum and the sheriff. “The judge is a long time friend of my late father,” she said with a nod and a brief smile to the sheriff. “I found the judge to be very helpful with the negotiations of the purchase,” she said with her eyes steady and directed toward Mr. Buttrum.


“I just bet you did,” grumbled Howard as he stepped back to scan the letter before he handed it off to Telt, who took his time, actually absorbing the contents, which listed, in detail, Miss O’Bannon’s many talents and vast experience. Telt also read the personal part of the letter, “Give my regards to your lovely wife. My mouth waters just thinking of her huckleberry pie.”

Over his shoulder, Howard groused, “The dirty son-of-a bitch, thinking of my wife’s pie. The old letch.” Snatching the letter out of Telt’s hand, Howard wadded up the missive, his jaw tight and teeth clenched. He opened the potbellied stove and tossed the letter into the ashes, then slammed the door shut with a satisfying clank.


From Mr. Buttrum’s response, Wren gathered he was not pleased.  She glanced at the sheriff and found no clue in his open face. He did sort of smile at her; she wasn’t sure what that meant, perhaps he meant to reassure her. She wondered what in the world the judge could have said in that letter to further enrage the man. There was something very wrong here. The judge said he and Mr. Buttrum were good friends. She was sorry she hadn’t read that letter while it was in her possession.

Whatever he’d said, it wasn’t helping her case.

Mr. Buttrum turned the full force of his wrath on her, “You’d better be prepared to open your doors for business by the first of September, Miss O’Bannon! That’s less than two weeks. It’s in the contract.”

More threats; the man was impossible. She’d taken about all she could stand. It was time to let him know with whom he was dealing. Drawing herself up to all of her five-foot-two inches, she told him in a voice cold and hard, “Oh, I shall be open for business, Mr. Buttrum.  That is, provided, as stated inour contract of sale under provisions, covenants and considerations, the building is sound and in a ready-to-move-in condition with shelves, storage, and a living space.”

She noted a flicker of, could it be deceit, pass across the banker’s hostile countenance. He’d looked away from her, just a fraction of a second, and it gave her an uneasy feeling. She looked to the sheriff, but as soon as her gaze turned to him, he looked away toward the window. She was in for some challenges, all right. The banker stood there looking belligerent.

Taking advantage of the momentary silence in the room, she decided to make a little threat of her own, “I understand Judge Crookshank will be this way again in a month or two. He gave me the impression he looked forward to seeing the community of Laura Creek with an up-and-running mercantile. Let us hope that any disputes that may arise between us will be taken care of long before he arrives,” she said with a knowing smile on her lips.

“Is that a threat! How dare you threaten me, you runty little Banty hen! I’m the mayor of this town! Damn it! What do you know of provisions, covenants, and considerations anyway? That’s legal jargon!”

Wren took note of the sweat that had begun to soak his starched white collar. Bluster and bluff. It was best not to respond, but it took all of her will to remain impervious.

“Damned suffragettes. No, sir! You need to get down off your high horse, young woman! This is a man’s world up here. This isn’t the big city. You’ll soon find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew and I’ll have my store back. I’ll see to it that it gets a proper owner, not some sawed off little snippet of a female who thinks she can pull the wool over my eyes with her grandstand play of fancy talk and pieces of worthless paper. You need a man to bring you back in line, young woman. Which begs the question: does your family know what you’re up to?”

Unfortunately, Wren flinched.

“Ha!” the banker bellowed, shaking his finger in her nose, “I’ll wager they do not!”


A chaps 1 and 2 by Dorothy A. Bell

November 8, 2012

Laura Creek Mercantile

By Dorothy A. Bell

Chapter 1

Blue Mountains, Northeastern Oregon, 1881

Wren O’Bannon urged her team of six mules up the far bank to negotiate the turn down into Laura Creek, her final destination. Her two freight wagons careened, listing on two axles, rocking back, tongues twisting, perilously close to tipping over. With one foot braced against the dash to keep from going overboard, or worse pulled down between the traces, she hollered, “Haw!” then flicked the reins as hard as she could.

The mules, with their heads bowed, headed for the inviting shade of the tall timber. A cloud of powder-fine dust rose up just as she opened her mouth to shout out a correction. Now the dust sifted in her eyes, down her throat and up her nose. Cursing, she strained for control, drawing back the lines, sweat mingling with the dust down her neck.

So close! If she lost control now it would all go for naught—all her hardship, sacrifice, sweat, perseverance—everything—all in vain.

“Hup! Hup there!” she yelled above the thud, rattle and jangle of her wagons. No time to be dainty, she choked, hacked up a wad of muddy saliva and spit to the side. Providence took a hand, and as her team worked their way up and across the bank, the wagons righted themselves and rolled onto the narrow track. Holding back the hysterical tears of gratitude, she set her jaw, and pushed herself and her team toward their new home.

Soon the forest parted and in a small dell lay the town of Laura Creek. She’d dreamt how the town would look, and the dream had kept her going, moving eastward over the miles of torturous trail, across the barren landscape that followed the Columbia River, then up into the beautiful Blue Mountains of northeastern Oregon.

With a flick of the reins she gave out a jubilant, “Yee-haw!”

Rolling into town in a cloud of dust, she pulled back on the reins, rumbling to a stop before the vacant mercantile.

She had to swallow back the urge to crow. She’d done it…all on her own! She’d arrived without killing herself or her mules and without any loss of merchandise. Excitement and relief brought forth a rush of emotions. Victory, of course, but there was disappointment, too. There was no one with whom to share her moment of triumph. It was a circumstance she was accustomed to, just one more painful reminder that she was on her own, no one was going to pat her on the back or make this easy.

Bone weary, thirsty and hungry, and she had to pee, her need to get her hands on the keys to her new home became an imperative. There was a lot of work to do before nightfall. Swiping at her tears of self-pity, she sucked in a big breath of fresh air, then pulled herself back in line.

Unrealistically, she wanted to unload the wagons first—get settled in. Then see her property, the twenty acres of meadow behind the store that went with the purchase. But she was getting ahead of herself. Before she could appraise the layout of the mercantile, she needed to find a Mr. Buttrum, with whom she’d made the purchase. According to Judge Crookshank, Buttrum owned most of the town; he was the mayor and owner of the bank.

With the wagons stopped, and the noise and jostle stilled, a sense of peace and quiet settled over her. A cloud of dust swirled down the street. The ringing sounds of a blacksmith pounding his anvil, sounds of civilization, came from the stable at the far end of town—the sound provoked a smile to form on her chapped and cracked lips. The upward lift of her lips caused her to wince. When she squeezed her eyes shut the burning sensation caused tears to seep out of the corners of her wind-scorched eyes. Rocking her head from one side to the other, she made herself relax her shoulders and loosen her grip on the reins. Once the stinging stopped, she opened her eyes to look around. The question was, could she have a real life here? A life where she wouldn’t have to deal with her lying, cheating, conniving, domineering Uncle Stanley.

Massaging the back of her neck, she wished she could rub all the hurtful memories of heartache and betrayal from her mind, or at least make them fade into the background. A shout from the bank steps behind her startled her, claiming her attention.

“You there! Move your wagons! Are you blind? You can see the stable down at the end there. Your mules are fouling our street!” informed a robust, dapper-looking gent.

With her luck, this would be the banker. Why was it they all had that same look, a look that branded them a pompous ass!  She shook her head, rolled her eyes when he withdrew from his vest-pocket a gold watch on a fob, as if he meant to put a time limit on said removal of the offensive wagons and mules.

Like it or not—she knew it in her gut—here was the man she sought. Anxious to get this meeting over and done with, she climbed down from the wagon seat. Shaky and dizzy, it took a few seconds for the ground beneath her feet to stop rolling. To ready herself for the confrontation with the gentleman on the steps, she wiped the sweat from her face with the sleeve of her canvas duster and pasted a friendly smile on her lips.

“Remove these wagons at once!” the gentleman ordered, coming down the bank steps, glaring at her, his chest thrown out, all bluster and bully, all of which she guessed was meant to intimidate her. Well, Wren knew a thing or two about intimidation—she’d learned from a master.

Mac, her canine traveling companion, took exception to the gentleman’s tone and charged forward, teeth bared. The black wooly fur on his shoulders stood straight up. Wren lunged forward, grabbed him by his collar, hauled him back, and commanded, “Sit!”

With a tight grip on Mac’s collar, she put her smile back in place and held out her hand to the man, “Good day. Wren O’Bannon of the Big O’ Corporation. I’ve come to take possession of my mercantile. I’m betting you’re Mr. Buttrum. Your friend Judge Crookshank described you to me when he informed me that you were looking for a buyer for the mercantile. I understand you’re the owner of the bank and the mayor of Laura Creek as well. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Not surprisingly, the man stood cold and rigid as a stone block, ignoring her outstretched hand. With a great intake of air through his nose, he puffed out his chest like a rooster pheasant and assured her, all in one breath, “Indeed, I am the owner of this bank, and I am the mayor of Laura Creek. It is neither here nor there to me who you are. Get these wagons off the street and away from my bank!”

Being a woman in business, Wren had run up against male opposition before. Still, she didn’t think she would ever become immune to the unreasonable hostility or incivility she often encountered. She’d learned a few things over the years: never back down, never show fear, and never lose your temper.

The latter was the hard one. She had a flash-fire temper and right now she wanted very badly to give this popinjay a piece of her mind and a lesson in manners.

Always pragmatic, she also knew that the sooner she could get past this ridiculous confrontation the better. Besides, she didn’t have the energy or the patience to argue with the blowhard—right now.

Gathering up her composure, putting her temper in check, she suggested, “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Let’s start over.” Once again she offered her hand for him to shake. “How do you do, Mr. Buttrum, I am Wren O’Bannon, of the Big O’ Corporation. I am the new proprietor of the Laura Creek Mercantile and I wish to take possession of my property as soon as possible. Once I have the keys in hand, I will remove my wagons.”

He still wouldn’t take her hand. Actually, he looked ready to explode, the way the veins on his forehead popped out and his eyes snapped with indignation. All in all, it seemed an odd, if not downright hostile, response to her introduction, certainly not an auspicious beginning for her new enterprise.

Chapter 2

Seated at his desk, going through a stack of wanted-posters and fliers, Sheriff Telt Longtree bemoaned the fact he couldn’t find anything better to do than this. With the heat of the day, and the quiet, he kept nodding off.

As the days of summer marched by in a slow, dull procession, it occurred to him he was squandering the best years of his life sitting here behind this desk twiddling his thumbs.

The last memorable event he could recall took place late last April when a skinny, wild-eyed mountain lion came down the middle of the street, bold as brass, headed for the stable and Punk Baker’s chickens. That day, as every man in town took a shot at that poor old cat, it seemed to him the critter had as good as committed suicide.

He might have to wait for Billy Camalitta to come down the draw with his sheep before he’d get any relief from his inertia.  Billy wouldn’t arrive until sometime around the first of October, on his way to the Grande Ronde Valley grass for the winter. There were always a lot of complaints about Billy’s sheep. A flock of over five hundred wandered all around the town, getting in people’s houses and barns. That should keep things interesting for him, at least for a few weeks.

“Sheriff!” Shorty shouted, bursting through the slatted office door.

Half asleep, Telt came up out of his chair, the papers on his desk sent flying every which way. The rickety door banged against the wall, snapped back, and hit the kid in the forehead.  Shorty’s yelp set Queenie, Telt’s retriever, off to barking like to bring the roof down. Shorty’s pup, Peanut, took off like a wind-up toy. The dogs started to circle his desk around and around, yapping, and barking loud enough to split his eardrums. He reached out to grab a dog, any dog, or a kid, but found nothing but air. Pandemonium reigned.

Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he gave out a loud whistle. “Queenie, sit! Peanut, sit! And for God’s sake, Shorty, shut the hell up! You ain’t bleedin’!” Grabbing the kid by his ear, Telt yanked the boy’s head around to assess the damage. “You’re gonna have a goose-egg, but the skin ain’t even broken!”

Shorty rubbed his head, then brought his fingers down before his eyes, checking for blood. Telt suppressed a chuckle as the kid frowned in disappointment. At six-foot-two, he towered over the boy.

Shorty shut his yap, brown eyes wide tipped his freckled up and sniffed back his hurt. The dogs plopped down on their haunches at the boy’s feet. Telt nodded, satisfied to have order restored. “Now, where’s the fire, boy?”

The boy stopped his sniveling, drew himself up and caught his breath, “No fire, sir.”

Telt folded his arms across his chest and growled, “There better be a fire. You come through that door like you had a firecracker up your butt.”

Shorty vigorously nodded his head, “Yes, sir, I did, sir.  Sorry, sir. Uncle Howard sent me, said be quick!”

“Bank robbers?” A rush of adrenaline surged through Telt as he removed his army Colt and holster from his desk drawer, gave the well-oiled cylinder a spin to be sure it was loaded, and settled the gun belt on his hip. Months had passed since he’d used his gun. The weight of it, the feel of it on his hip, felt good…felt right.

When he’d first come to town four years ago and found himself with a sheriff’s badge pinned on his chest, he hadn’t really minded the dull pace of the town after ten long years in the army chasing Indians. But lately, the quiet and the routine had begun to wear on him, making him feel restless and rusty.  Maybe it was time to head down to Pendleton for a few days…play a couple of hands of poker and put his arms around a willing female.

Headed for the door, Shorty tripped over the dogs, nearly falling on his nose when he leapt in front of Telt to hold him back. “No robbers, sir! Uncle Howard said we got a ‘sit-chee-a-shion’. He said, ‘Get the sheriff! We got a sit-chee-a-shion.’ What’s a sit-chee-a-shion, sir?”

This brought Telt up short. Out of habit, he combed his fingers through his hair before he set his Stetson down low over his forehead. Looking out the window, then back at the boy, he shrugged his shoulders and muttered, “Damned if I know.”


Shorty’s ‘sit-chee-a-shion’ seemed to consist of six mules, two freight wagons, one pint-sized muleskinner, and one very big, very agitated, monster of a mongrel dog. At least, that’s what Telt could make out as he stepped out of his office and onto the street. Whatever else there might be, it afforded Buttrum the opportunity to stretch his vocal cords.

“Oh, Sheriff Longtree! Thank goodness!” Lottie Bledsoe exclaimed, skipping towards him, the skirt of her yellow and white gingham dress daintily held up by one small hand, revealing her pristine white petticoats. “I was on my way to the bank,” she managed to report, breathless and noticeably excited.  “I heard Uncle Howard shouting. There’s a person over there…and…” Lottie exclaimed as she tried to match her stride with his, “…and a huge ugly beast! The animal is going to attack Uncle Howard! And I don’t think that…person…can stop him!”

Miss Lottie Bledsoe, the town’s schoolmarm, had the uncanny knack of timing her sojourns about town to coincide with his rounds. Telt no longer found it strange when she popped out of nowhere. She was about the only single woman of marriageable age for a fifteen-mile radius. Shortly after her arrival in Laura Creek almost two years ago she’d set her cap for him. And with persistence she might just wear him down.

The long winters did have Telt considering matrimony as an antidote to his loneliness…his boredom. He asked himself: could he take Lottie night and day, “until death do us part”?  The axiom “marry in haste, repent at leisure” came to mind. He figured he wasn’t that bored, not yet.

A small crowd had gathered in the street in front of the bank. It was Saturday, and a lot of the men from town were at work in the quarry or the mill, but the womenfolk had come out to witness this event. Huddled together like a flock of clucking hens, nervous, they wisely kept their distance from the vicious dog on the wagon seat. Unlike their fearless, or was he foolhardy, mayor, Howard T. Buttrum.

Telt approached and spotted Mrs. Buttrum behind her man, peering around his substantial shoulder as her husband confronted a kid dressed in an oversized coat and dirty hat.  Buttrum, was all lathered up, red in the face, and sweaty. From the looks of things the kid, with his legs braced apart, feet planted, shoulders back against the wagon, and the dog above him on the seat, was holding his ground. Telt shook his head; you had to admire gumption, even if it was misspent and futile.

Shorty skipped around in front of him, trotting backwards, sadistic glee shining in his brown-button eyes, “Do yah think that dog’s gonna kill Uncle Howard, Sheriff? I bet he could!”

Telt advised, “Get hold of Peanut. I’d say that dog eats rats bigger than her for breakfast!”

Shorty’s pa, Percy Terrel, Telt’s deputy of sorts, had a hold of Buttrum’s coat-sleeve. Percy must’ve heard his son’s excited voice, he looked up and met Telt’s eyes. In two long strides, Percy had Shorty by the scruff of the neck, yanking him against his side.

Telt nodded and gave Percy a grin. He understood. The man had his hands full with Shorty. Percy stepped aside for him as Telt moved into the crowd to evaluate the sit-chee-a-shion, as Shorty would say. And sure enough Shorty was right; Buttrum needed to shut up and back off, or that dog would kill him, and that very real possibility made this a very definite situation.

Percy spoke over his shoulder. “The kid got the dog up on the wagon seat. A good thing too, or Howard would be wearin’ that dog for a bowtie.”

Telt just had to chuckle. He’d like to see that. He looked around for the person responsible for this kid—and the dog. No one stepped forward, and he didn’t see any strangers among the familiar faces. Buttrum and that mongrel had everybody on edge.

The kid didn’t look scared or even intimidated, he appeared obstinate, jaw set, gloved hands clenched at his side. He was sun scorched, soaked in sweat, and covered in trail dirt.

Telt put his head up, shading his eyes with his hand against the mid-day sun, and thought it must be near ninety degrees. The kid had to be roasting under that coat. He looked into the kid’s big, almond-shaped brown eyes—stubborn eyes—that said I’ve been around some, and I know what I’m doing. Telt sure as hell hoped he did, ‘cause that snarling, growling dog needed a firm hand.

It was his job as sheriff to stay calm in this kind of situation, although Telt thought it more comical than dire. What happened next confirmed his assessment.

The kid glanced over his shoulder, looked up to the dog, and said, “Hush, Mac, yah beasty!”

The voice didn’t match. The soft, lilting voice sounded playful in its cadence, with a hint of an accent—maybe Irish. Stranger still, the dog stopped snarling, went down on his belly, and laid his big, dark head on his enormous black paws just like a sweet little puppy. Impressed, several of the ladies gasped in awe. But those eyes, those blue-white, ghostly, fiendish canine eyes stayed alert. Wary, Telt hoped no one would make any sudden moves. No tellin’ what an animal like that would do.

The kid—no, he corrected himself, the female—drewherself up. Telt reckoned she was trying to gain some elevation. No matter what she did, she was still gonna be too short.

Displaying a foolish amount of confidence, she brazenly met Buttrum’s menacing countenance with chin up. With nary a waver nor a flinch in her tone or attitude, she declared loud enough for all to hear, “I’ll not stand here and be harangued by you in this public manner, Mr. Buttrum!”

This woman had balls. Everyone knew Howard T. Buttrum wasn’t a man to tolerate insolence, especially from a female. This woman, however, didn’t seem to realize to whom she was speaking, and pressed on.

“We have business to discuss, and business should be conducted in an orderly, civilized manner. As a businessman I’m sure you concur,” she pointed out as if speaking to an inexperienced rube, a cool smile on her cracked lips. Her eyes as hard and as dark as a walnut tree. And there was a challenge there, too, as if she knew full well no one told Howard T. Buttrum what to do or how to do it. But her eyes said it was about time someone did, and she was just that someone, by God.

If Telt read her right, she was mad as hell, a smoldering little pot of molten metal, and Buttrum just kept stirring.

She looked coarse, tough, covered in dust, her appearance at odds with her melodious voice and her refined manner. Telt decided she looked like something out of an old army duffle bag, dressed from neck to toe in an oversized canvas duster and a sweat-stained felt hat, covered in dust. Her demeanor was confusing and at odds with her appearance. The same went for her voice and her refined manner—she was imperious, regal in the way she delivered her set-down. Telt had the distinct feeling this diminutive, intrepid woman was used to getting her way. The problem was, so was Buttrum; but she couldn’t know that, or could she? Telt had a hard time holding back the urge to burst out laughing. Could it be Buttrum had finally met his match?


Wren was decidedly uncomfortable with everyone standing about, watching and listening, while Mr. Buttrum continued to humiliate her. Well, she’d not traveled nearly three hundred miles all on her own, over dusty, rutted, boulder-infested roads, driving six mules pulling two freight wagons, to have a posturing blowhard tell her she had no right to her new mercantile just because she was a female! At least, as far as she could make out, that was Mr. Buttrum’s soul objection.

Which was ridiculous, of course. Why, these days, women were doctors and lawyers, soon they would vote. Men like Mr. Buttrum would have to stand back and accept it.

She was about to point out to Mr. Buttrum that, male or female, she was the legal owner of the mercantile, and he must stand aside; she meant to take possession immediately.

But at precisely that moment, a tall, thick-chested man shouldered his way through the crowd. She couldn’t miss the shiny star on his chest, it was at eye level. Looking at him, she forgot what she was about to say; as a matter of fact, she forgot everything. Her mind went blank as she stared up into his big face, a nice face. Her mistake was looking into his eyes. They were clear blue, like the sky. She pressed her lips together to keep from ooohing…and making a fool of herself—but my, those eyes were pretty.

Then she saw the fluttery little blonde hanging on his arm and shook her head—what utter nonsense. She wanted to tsk, tsk!  Pretty he may be, but he obviously lacked sense; the blonde was all wrong for him.

Mr. Buttrum was still ranting, she knew, but the sheriff had her attention. She wished she’d stopped outside of town to clean up. She looked like hell, but five minutes ago that hadn’t mattered. It did now. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man with the blue eyes.

When he half smiled at her, there was definitely a twinkle in his blue eyes, and she wondered—what was he smiling about?  Then it dawned on her…he was laughing at her.

With the butterflies batting their wings against the walls of her hollow belly, and beads of perspiration forming on her upper lip, she instinctively decided to teach him a lesson, invite him to join her in this farce by addressing him directly.

“I believe you’ll agree with me, Sheriff. We shouldn’t stand about in public creating a nuisance on such a fine, peaceful day. You must have an office where we could sort this matter out in a more civilized fashion. What say you, Sheriff?  What would you recommend?”

Wren found his reaction quite satisfactory. It certainly wiped the smile off his lips, and when he blinked, his eyes darting around to those gathered, there was a hint of panic in those blue eyes.

Now, let him see how it feels to be the main attraction—like a cornered animal.

Well, he looked like a big ol’ fish, gulping for air, his face red as all eyes turned away from her and trained on him. Giddy with triumph, she had to press her lips together to keep from smirking.

It flashed across her mind that she didn’t think she’d ever felt giddy before, at least not since she’d left puberty.


Damn if his tongue hadn’t doubled up to twice its size—stuck to the roof of his mouth—and his brain turned to mush. Shit, he couldn’t even swallow. Worse yet, Telt suspected the grimy little dab of a female had put him on the spot, knowing full well the effect it would have on him, just to show off. That galled him.

“Well” he stammered, his eyes going around to those gathered, coming to rest on the mayor’s sanguine countenance. Uh…I don’t know all the particulars, but…sure, we could take this down to my office.”

Buttrum, a scowl on his sweaty, florid face, brows knit together, eyes blinking, looked to be as confused as everyone else. Telt didn’t think he’d ever see the day when Howard T. Buttrum would be brought to a standstill, completely bumfuzzled, and certainly not by a sawed-off female! Howard T. Buttrum at a loss for words? Unheard of! 

As his eyes traveled around the expectant faces of those gathered, Telt happened to glance down at Lottie, who had taken up her place at his side. She had her lace hanky pressed firmly to her little nose; all he could see was her big blue eyes. It was then he became aware that they were standing downwind of six sweaty mules, one dusty, riled-up dog, and one hard-assed muleskinner woman. The smell was a bit ripe.

But before he had a chance to say anything, Howard found his voice, “I’ll have no business with the likes of you!” he roared, bringing his big face down and coming nose-to-nose with the muleskinner gal, which set her dog off.

Buttrum’s big voice carried to the next county. Telt watched the gal correct her dog with a wave of her hand, and to his relief and amazement the beast settled down.

But Buttrum was just getting started, “You’re nothing but a filthy little beggar!” he charged, his finger wagging in the little muleskinner’s face. “You’ve got a lot of brass, young woman, coming in here feeding me a pack of lies! Trying to pass yourself of as an O’Bannon, claiming an association with an outfit like the Big O’ Corporation! Ha! You’re a joke!” When her lips twitched, curving up into a slight smirk, Howard raised his fist. He huffed in disgust when the little gal didn’t even back away or bat her eyes.

Telt did note her flared nostrils and her narrowed eyes, but she quickly wiped that smart-ass smirk of her lips, which he thought was deceptive…and dangerous. He had recognized that smirk for what it was; she was controlling herself, but with a herculean effort.

Telt put his hand on Buttrum’s shoulder to hold him down, knowing how the muleskinner gal’s lack of response provoked rather than defused the man’s outrage.

Buttrum swiped Telt’s hand off his shoulder and snarled, “I don’t know where you got all that…that contraband you’ve got there in those wagons, and I don’t need to know! You stole it, no doubt!” he shouted.

With a sweep of his arm, he dismissed her, saying “We’ve nothing to discuss, young woman! I’ve been duped! The whole town has been duped!” Swinging around, Howard ordered, “Arrest this…this…person, Sheriff, for fraud, and thievery, and God knows what else!”


Dealing with her Uncle Stanley had served Wren well. She could almost thank him for his volatility. Because of him, she’d become immune to irrational theatrics and, as a consequence, to Mr. Buttrum’s of this world and their bombastic attitude. From experience, she knew better than to exchange barbs and accusations with a man who was righteous and in his pulpit. As long as Mr. Buttrum had an audience, she could never hope to win an argument with him.

Stay calm, she told herself. He has no grounds to stand on.  You have right on your side.  

Which was easier said than done. She had to fight against the urge to giggle, she always giggled when she was nervous or afraid. It was a terrible habit. If only she could get away from the man. Her full bladder was becoming painful. She needed food…and water…both would help to refresh her. Water…she needed a drink of water in the worst way!

A lovely woman, handsome, fair-haired with fine gray eyes, came out from behind Mr. Buttrum. Her clothes were stylish, and Wren could see the other ladies looked to her for leadership. Wren assumed this was Mrs. Buttrum. Possibly it was foolish to assume, but Wren, a consummate people-watcher, enjoyed the game, and she was rarely wrong.


Telt stood there, seriously considering tossing Buttrum into the nearest water-trough to cool him down. The man was turning purple and looked about to have a stroke. But Eula Buttrum, usually a quiet shadow next to her husband, stepped forward and put a halt to her husband’s tirade. With her sky-blue bonnet bobbing up and down, she reasoned, “Howard, she’s right, you know,” with a nod and a gentle smile toward the muleskinner gal.

Dumbfounded, the folks gathered went quiet. Howard, his mouth agape and eyes bulging, gave her a look that said he thought she’d lost her mind.

“The middle of the street is no place to be discussing business,” she said to her husband’s face. Her gray eyes scanned the crowd and came to rest on Telt. She offered him a timid, sweet smile, then returned her gaze to her husband. Fanning herself with her lace hanky, she said, “It’s very hot here in the sun. Couldn’t we go down to the sheriff’s office and sort out this matter where it’s cooler?”

Telt thought he saw a glimmer of sympathy in Eula’s eyes as they turned to the muleskinner gal, and then to her dog. Eula nodded and smiled at the gal.

Yup, Mrs. Buttrum, for whatever perverse reason, had taken up the gal’s side of things. Now this was interesting. Telt held his breath, as did they all, to see how Buttrum would handle this turn of events.

Telt stood by as Mrs. Buttrum, God bless her, remained stalwart, her beautiful eyes steady in her perfectly oval face in spite of her husband’s obvious wrath. She stood her ground, her lace-gloved hands folded into the trim little waist of her calico-print dress, in a determined, no-nonsense fashion.

Buttrum, once again, appeared bereft of speech. Mrs. Buttrum’s reasonable demeanor left her husband with nothing more to do than sputter a bit before he flapped his arms in surrender. Telt pressed his lips together and looked away—the big man was in check—at least for the moment.

Sweat rolling down the sides of his face and neck, Buttrum tugged at the lapels of his brown suit coat and ran a finger around the edge of his highly starched collar before saying, “Very well. The sheriff’s office it is, where there’s a brand new, hardly-ever-used jail cell just waiting for you,” he said, shaking one big fat finger in the dirty little female’s face.

This seemed to be the end of the interview, so Telt signaled to Mr. and Mrs. Buttrum, Lottie, Percy and Shorty, and the townspeople, and of course the dogs, Queenie and Peanut, to adjourn to his office.

His signal moved everyone, everyone but the muleskinner gal.

She harkened them back by clearing her throat loud enough for all to hear. Smiling sweetly, her eyes going to one and all she announced, “I’ll be along very shortly, after I’ve watered my animals and made myself more presentable.”

Telt, everyone, stood there watching as she hiked up her long duster coat, revealing several inches of trim, stocking-encased leg, to hoist herself up onto the hub of the wheel, without any assistance, and climb over the side of the wagon to the wagon seat. Before sitting down and taking up the reins, she shoved the big black mongrel over, murmuring endearments to the beast as if he were the dearest, most gentle of pets, then yelled out a sharp “Yah!” that set her team into motion, turning them to go behind the mercantile to the open meadow out back.

“Well, don’t that take the prize,” Telt grumbled, removing his hat and slapping it against his thigh while dust from the retreating wagons blew in his eyes, and the eyes of all gathered. The woman definitely thought of herself as royalty, and everyone could await her presence. Somehow, it tickled his senses. Buttrum wasn’t going to be amused. That held its own appeal.



“An Exercise in One-syllable Words” a fairy tale




 (An exercise in one-syllable words)

A cloak of dark

hid the boy with hair of fire.

To make a torch of the wood,

he flew close to the land!

His eye to the rise,

and the first ray of sun,

he saw the crone in her black cart.

He heard her caw!  Caw!

Her call to lead him back to the croft!

“Dark will stay to hold the night!”

The crone did chant.

“Sun be gone!

Fire burn!

Lift the cloud to chase the day!”

A pure, blonde babe woke—he lay in his wee bed.

A far off voice he did hear.

He saw the wood.

The flame lit sky!

Where was the sun?

Day was here,

but all was dark!

Not a star did he spy.

Fire was in his nose and hair!

Fire was in the wood!

A shrill caw, caw… put ice in his pure heart!

A blue cat did step to his side,

a soft paw she put on his cheek.

A tear fell, warm with salt, on the nose of the cat.

“Purr, purr” said the cat.

“Chert and stone!

Pearl and bone!”

sang the cat to the babe.

The babe did sniff to dry his eyes.

He gave an ear,

his lips did part,

a smile broke,

and with a wink,

he sang,

“Chert and stone!

Pearl and bone!

sun, the birth of fire,

warm the new day!

Evil gone; good will out!

Stay the clouds of gray.

Rain down where sweet grass will grow!”

“Chert and stone!

Pearl and bone!

Caw! Caw!  Be gone the crone!”

sang the babe and the cat.

The crone did lie in her black cart to wail and pitch!

And in her wake, a slick of oil!

The boy with hair of fire

was but a spit of rain

to douse the flame

on the land.

Birds flew on high!

Bugs leapt to taste the dew!

As he sat on the floor,

the cat at his side,

a beam of gold from the sun to warm his blonde head,

“Chert and stone!

Pearl and bone!”

sang the babe.

“Purr, purr,”

said the blue cat.

The End