And meanwhile, as the trite phrase says, life goes on.
In local news, the town council had finally decided to approve the construction of two new horse troughs, at each end of Main Street, to replace the wobbly, saggy, leaky receptacles installed at the beginning of time. Hoorahs were appended.
The owner of the Sarsaparilla Café, Wilber Knaack, was interviewed for an article in the Turnabout newspaper. In it, he announced that he had purchased an adjoining property and was looking to expand his business soon. Oh, and, by the way, he was running a special all this month on beef stew and corn bread for only fifteen cents (thus shrewdly inserting a bit of free publicity, as well).
Now that temperatures had cooled off, a new roof was being installed atop the three story mercantile. Laborers of every kind were free to apply; anyone afraid of heights was not.
During the day, while Reese was working at the store, Letty continued her studies with Doc Havers. She also occasionally provided company and ran errands for Camellia, who, once daily chores were finished and dinner on the stove, found herself alternating between the privy (to empty her stomach) and the settee (to rest her feet).
Since Hannah had put many of her flower and vegetable gardens to bed, her inexhaustible energy needed an outlet. She sought out the Turnabout Gazette’s editor, pleaded her case, and walked out the door with a gleam in her eyes and a secretive smile on her lips. Not an hour earlier, Sam Cooley had quit in a huff over “misuse of his talents,” according to the last hurled insult as he slammed away. Hannah Burton was now officially a reporter.
As for Molly, her current function was as decorative object, and that was just fine with Paul. Serving as sheriff not just of Turnabout, but of the surrounding county, he had been called away to investigate a cattle rustling ring and would be absent for at least several days, if not more. Much as he had hated to depart, he had had no choice. This was business. For the duration, Austin Blakely had been given charge of the jail and its duties, with Colton Bridges as backup.
Whatever could be done to Paul’s bungalow of painting and papering and preparing its premises for the occupation of a female householder had been done. All under Molly’s close supervision, of course. Her personal belongings and a few bits and pieces of furniture had been settled in chosen spots; the house was as ready as could be for her to move in.
So Molly, left now to her own devices, and with every detail well in hand for the November Fifth date, felt well justified in occupying Mrs. McKnight’s spacious verandah and simply look beautiful. Which she did very well.
A week later, about mid-October, a new arrival came into Turnabout. He made his way to the Firewater, this man with skin like old cowhide; and, as was customary, wet his whistle while he turned his back on the bar to survey the room’s dim and musty interior and its occupants.
Strangers passed through town on a regular basis. Bachelors, heading southwest to Dallas; families, leaving straitened circumstances behind to seek a more advantageous environment; a veiled damsel, that rarity, alighting from the stage to rent a room at the hotel before visiting one of several saloons in search of employment. A few visitors stayed; most moved on. The dusty road along Main Street led to a number of established towns, in a number of directions, any one of which might prove to be more financially appealing.
Still, there was something about this individual just a tad disquieting.
Or so said Abel Norton, who had stopped over during his dinner hour for a snort and a chat with whichever boon companions happened to be around. Maybe it had something to do with the watchful look around the visitor’s eyes. Or the whipcord lean strength of his frame.
Whatever it was, Firewater’s patrons drew a sigh of relief when the man paid for his drink, nodded to the barkeep, and ambled quietly out the door. A later report would find him at the Sittin’ Eat, consuming a late dinner; later yet, it was said, he had taken a tour through town, then he had watered his horse and ridden out of town with as little fanfare as he had entered.
Certainly he had initiated no friendly overtures, nor had he received any. And he was, besides, apparently anonymous. Just one more nameless outsider, here and gone. Making hardly a ripple in the big pond that was Turnabout.
Chapter Eighteen
ALMOST BEFORE THEY knew it, November Fifth was upon them.
Molly had had no need to cross off dates on a calendar page; the countdown seemed to be indelibly stamped in her brain. Fourteen days left; thirteen days, twelve, and so on.
And here it was.
Dawn stole softly in from east to west, brightening the night sky with luminescence, highlighting the tangled grasses wet with dew, stealing across the back yard to shorten and shrink the leftover shadows. Molly awakened early, in the boarding house room the Burton sisters shared, to the most perfect weather—cool and crisp, with just a hint of autumn in the air that combined such scents as apple cider and some crunchy colored leaves and a slight mist wafting in from Juniper Creek.
For a few minutes she simply lay in her bed, arms stretched out overhead, face turned toward the fragrance of line-dried pillow slip, smiling as she luxuriated in the silence and the sweetness. The smile reflected utter happiness; in fact, she could barely contain her joy at what this afternoon—and its aftermath—would bring.
Molly’s first wedding had been hole-and-corner, almost as if both parties were ashamed to be participating.
Today’s wedding would be a glorious affair.
A bird suddenly burst into a wild, frenzied warble from the giant oak tree outside. Her smile broadening, because it could not be contained, Molly slowly pulled herself upright and glanced toward the window.
There stood, to peer down with interest, a nightgowned and barefoot Hannah, who immediately asked softly (out of respect for a still slumbering Letitia) why she was awake so early.
“Oh, I can’t sleep, Hen. This time is so different from before—so incredibly much better!”
Hannah’s smile matched her own. “I’m not surprised you feel that way. Happy the bride the sun shines on, Molly, dear. You have so much to look forward to.”
From there, the hours flocked together, gathered up wings, and sped on.
Ben, taking pity on his pregnant (and, in his own opinion, overworked) wife, dispatched Reese to the Sarsaparilla (of slightly higher quality cuisine than the Sittin’ Eat) for whatever ready-cooked meal he could bring back for dinner. He also insisted that he and his brother would clean up afterward so the ladies could make themselves beautiful for this grand event.
r /> “Of course I can wash the goldarned dishes clean,” he returned Camellia’s protest somewhat snippily. “Reckon I was a bachelor long enough to get some experience. And it’s about time Cole—Reese—learns his way around the kitchen.”