Ben snorted. “As for that, my family tree ain’t nothin’ to brag about. Speakin’ of bad apples, you ever find out any more about any Putnam relatives layin’ out in the weeds?”
“Nary a word. No will made up, no information as to relatives, close or not. Didn’t seem to be nobody a’tall that’s hankerin’ to be a legatee of the brothers’ estate.”
“Legatee? Estate? Y’ mean there was enough to leave some person plannin’ to make a claim?”
The sheriff lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Seems so. The Prairie Lot, for one. I stop by over there, once in a while, just to see how things’re goin’. Ole Clunker is handlin’ the place just fine. No more head-crackin’ or gun-shootin’ than usual.”
“Huh. Well, it’s only been a month since they met their maker and ended up six feet under. Maybe you’ll get some heir croppin’ up outa the woodwork onea these days.”
“Have you boys settled all the world’s problems by now, so that a lone woman might join in your manly discussion?” Camellia’s rich voice, tinged by mirth, came to them from the doorway.
Immediately both contributors to this manly discussion rose to their feet, in deference. Ben reached out a hand to guide his wife through the dusk. “Here, darlin’, you sit right b’side me, here in the swing. We’ll chase Paul away pretty soon, and then you and me can do some spoonin’.”
“Well, I can see when I ain’t wanted.”
As Paul’s fingers closed on his hat brim, Camellia, already seated, instantly demurred. “No, no, I’m not here to drive you away. And, as for Ben—” she gave her spouse an affectionate look, “you know what he’s like.”
“Like a man who’s been a-thirst all his life, and suddenly finds himself an oasis?” guessed the sheriff, with a whimsical smile.
Camellia was delighted. “Why, Paul, what a nice thing to say! Much more of that sweet talk, and I’ll be strolling off into the moonlight with you, instead of my stick-in-the-mud husband here.”
“Huh. You don’t even need to think about that possibility,” her stick-in-the-mud husband flatly declared in a soft growl. “I happen to recall it’s my ring you’re wearin’ on your finger.”
The bantering subsided with a few friendly grins and muffled chortles, leaving the men to return to their bout of serious drinking, and Camellia to sip at her more appropriate choice of lemonade in a cup. It seemed a peaceful night, full of harmony and content, except for the weight that lay heavily on everyone’s heart.
“She’s comin’ back in tomorrow,” Ben, squeezing the hand that wore his ring, reminded Camellia gently. “You can see her then, find out how she’s doin’.”
She managed a soft little flutter of laughter. “Is my mind so easy to read? How did you know I’m still fretting over my little sister?”
“I ain’t no expert in the field, but I’m beginnin’ to find I can figure out what you’re thinkin’ in a number of ways. But your frettin’ don’t help either of you a bit, Cam.”
“Oh, I know, I know. But I can’t help it. She had such a hard beginning...”
He sat up a trifle straighter. “What d’ you mean?”
“Surely I’ve told you how Molly c
ame to be with us. No? Truly? I’m sorry, dear, I’ve been terribly remiss. You should probably hear this, too, Paul, so you understand a little better.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Their guest, already unbending his knees in a move to rise, reseated himself instead.
Another sip of lemonade, tart-sweet and at room temperature, helped Camellia gather her thoughts to begin the story from some fifteen years ago.
Jedediah Burton, younger sibling of Nathaniel, and as different from his brother as day from night, had chosen an entirely different path for his life’s work. Not the secular world, but the spiritual one, which had drawn him from boarding school to private school to seminary and the cloth.
Along the way, he had married a rather plain but dedicated young lady named Temple, and within a short time they became the proud parents of a beautiful little black-haired baby possessed of the most amazing turquoise eyes.
“Our cousin, Molly,” Camellia diverged to explain. As if there might be any disputing the fact.
Against all threats and advice spouted forth by Nathaniel, against all pleas entered by Nathaniel’s wife, Sadie, Jedediah had unwisely taken his family and set off for the New Mexico Territory, in what would become the Arizona Territory within the next few years. There, he planned to minister to the populace of a small town beset both by skirmishes from Mexican raiders, from across the border, and by bands of roving Apache warriors, from throughout the area.
“Huh,” muttered Paul, at this statement. “Must notta had much common sense, this missionary uncle of yours. He couldn’ta picked a much more dangerous place to be, near twenty years ago. Sorry, Camellia, didn’t mean to cast aspersions.”
“Cast away. We felt the same way ourselves, according to my parents.”
For four years, the couple had ministered to the community, contained in a town of adobe houses and the surrounding fifty miles or so.
“We received a few letters, here and there,” said Camellia, still in that detached tone that related events of so long in the past, “detailing progress in their new home, and describing Molly’s growth. They sounded happy, at least according to what Temple told us. But, oh—it must have been a fiercely difficult life. So few amenities, and so cut off from their families. I’m afraid poor little Molly must have suffered.”