Mail Order Bride: Fall (Bride For All Seasons 3)

“Ahuh. And how long will you be staying?”

“Not sure yet. That a problem?”

“No, sir, not at all, Mr.—uh—Mr.—” The signature on a fresh page of the Drinkwater register gave no clue as to identity, being not only scrawled but finished off with a large ink blot.

“Then, for now, let’s say a week, and I’ll let you know if my plans change.” He bent forward, favoring his left side just a bit, to retrieve the bag on the floor. “You got a bath house anywhere abouts?”

Lancelot beamed. “Sure do. Right next door. They provide you all the soap and towels and hot water you might want, plus shavin’ gear if you need it. All for just twenty-five cents.”

“Sounds reasonable. And a stable for my horse?”

“Absolutely. A few blocks south, then turn right. Norton Livery. Double the fee, I’m afraid, but Abel takes good care of any animal in his province.”

“Much obliged.” Picking up a room key placed on the counter, the newcomer made his way to the stairs and began ascending.

He had barely made it to the landing, and a turn thence to the next floor up, than Pete Buttinsky (not his real name, Lord knew, but fitting) swung inside the open front door to demand, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Stranger in town, Lancelot,” said Pete in slow, labored tones, as someone explaining the facts of life to another someone not quite right in the head. “You did notice, yeah? Who is he?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” sniffed the clerk, turning away.

“Huh.” Without further ado, Pete reached to reverse the hotel ledger in an attempt to decipher the scribble. He frowned. “What the dad blame is this kinda stuff? Can’t read it for nothin’.”

“Nor should you. Good day, Pete. You’re trespassing.”

“G’wan with you! This’s public property. For all you know, I’m gonna march right over into that there dinin’ room for a meal.”

“And for all I know, you and your cronies will take a flying leap right over the next full moon. Scram, Pete. Plenty of rumors out on the street for you to pass along.”

Definitely disgruntled, the old man was forced to concede defeat and return to his confederates, where he promptly filled them full of imaginary facts. Meanwhile, the stranger dropped his carpet bag in the room to which he had been assigned, then made his careful way back downstairs to tend his horse.

Renting a stall from Abel Norton took the work of a few minutes; removing saddle and tack and all accompanying bits and harness took a little longer. As did the gentle currying and combing—even a soft crooning of, “There y’ go, Stargirl. Yeah, feels good, don’t it?”—as her owner worked on the neglected coat, checked the hooves, gave a friendly pat here and there. It wasn’t until after he had turned her out into the grassy, shaded pasture that he betook himself to the bath house for some long-delayed cleanup of his own neglected frame.

All of which mightily impressed Abel.

“A man who takes care of his hoss first is a man t’ be reckoned with, in my book,” he reported later over supper at the Sarsaparilla.

There was general agreement to this around the table, amongst his several comrades.

“What’s his handle?” asked one of the ranchers, ready to head out for home after loading his buckboard with supplies.

“Dunno. Listed everything under the filly’s name. Star.”

“Traveled far, y’ figure?”

“And light. Not much extra to his bedroll or saddle bags. Come t’ think of it, not much extra to him, neither. He ain’t carryin’ a lotta weight.”

After a leisurely assignation in the tub with some pine-scented bar soap, and a satisfying shave, the stranger, glimpsed by just a few, had taken a slow stroll through Turnabout’s evening streets before disappearing into the Drinkwater. And somehow, all during that first day in town, he had quietly gone about his business without divulging a single fact about himself to curious onlooker

s.

“Huh. On the run, most likely,” offered Pete the next morning. Having enjoyed a leisurely serving of ham, scrambled eggs, and flapjacks at the Sittin’ Eat Hash House, he had joined his fellow sitters at their regular job.

“Been layin’ low, that’s a fact,” chimed in Oliver Rutledge. “Who knows what he’s hidin’ out from? Anybody seen him around and about yet t’day?”

Charlie Gamble aimed a stream of tobacco at the nearby spittoon and almost hit his target. “Heard he had an early breakfast here at the hotel. Then he went and vanished again, like a puff of smoke.”