Not the Marrying Kind

  Not the Marrying Kind

  By

  Kathleen Y’Barbo

  “And he said unto them, "How is it that ye sought me? Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?"

  Luke 2:51

  Chapter One

  Christmas Day, 1851

  San Antonio, Texas

  Texas Ranger Captain Ebenezer “Eb” Wilson swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and knelt at Carolina’s bedside. On the other side of the closed door, his firstborn, Rafael Ebenezer Wilson wailed in the capable arms of his grandmother. His wife had given him a strong, fine son, a lad with his mama’s dark hair and his papa’s talent for howling at full volume.

  If only he’d been there when . . .

  “Eb, promise me. . .”

  Jerking his attention back to the tiny form beneath the blankets, Eb felt the tears threaten again. His beautiful fiery wife, the delicate counterpoint to his big clumsy self, lay so still and pale that he barely recognized her. The very life seemed to flow from her as the clock on the bedside ticked.

  She reached for his hand but her fingers fell limp on the quilt just shy of their mark. Eb grasped her tiny hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “Anything, Lina. Anything.”

  For moment, fire flashed in Carolina’s eyes, a reminder of the saucy senorita he’d met and married in a whirlwind courtship barely one year ago. “Don’t let my mama take our Rafael to raise. Get him another mama, someone young and strong who’ll love him like me.”

  “No.” The sharpness of his tone startled him but it seemed to have no effect on Carolina. “I’ll never marry again. I . . . I couldn’t.”

  Her fingers slid from his grasp to wipe a tear off his cheek. “Then I will only pray you will consider it.”

  “I’ll try but you’ll be everywhere I look. How’s a man going to find a new wife like that?” His poor attempt at humor fell flat but Carolina, bless her soul, chuckled anyway

  “Leave San Antonio then,” she said softly. “The city is no place to raise a child.”

  “Maybe I will, Lina,” he said, although he had no idea how he, a Ranger captain, would ever settle somewhere and raise a baby. His life and his command were here. So was the extended family that would help him care for his son. People like Nellie Chamberlain and Abigail, his wife’s best friends, would never let him leave.

  Right now, however, he would have promised her the moon and all the stars in the sky if she asked. Setting up housekeeping somewhere quiet and raising a baby seemed minor in comparison. “It might take me some time,” he amended. “A man has to plan these things.”

  “You and your plans. Do you think I don’t hear you and your friends when you speak of the things you will do when you are no longer rangers?” She caught his gaze and her eyes narrowed. “Find some land. Start up a little settlement up north where the weather’s cooler. Put down roots someplace nice and safe from the banditos. Did you and those three compadres of your not say this?”

  “Well now, we might have mentioned it a time or two.”

  Indeed he and fellow Rangers Creed, Swede, and Sully had jawed about doing just that for awhile now. They even had a name for their little town. Cut Creek, Texas. Of course, that was just fool talk, part jest and part wishful thinking. He hadn’t actually thought about the reality of it, and he doubted if the other three had either.

  “Then make your Cut Creek a reality, mi amour. Promise me.”

  “I promise.” He paused to add a dash of reason to the statement. “Just as soon as we’re done Rangering, me and the boys’ll see there’s a Cut Creek on the map someday.”

  Carolina nodded and her satisfied look made him wish he believed the promise would come true as much as she seemed to. As far as he was concerned, however, he’d be a Texas Ranger until the day he died, and he knew the others felt the same way. Cut Creek would most likely stay a dream, but he would never admit this to Carolina.

  “Second, make Christmas special for our Rafael. He and our Savior share a birthday and I want you to make a grand celebration of the day, you hear?”

  “Of course.”

  Now that he could do. He’d always been big on celebrating the Lord’s birth. The only wrinkle in that plan would be figuring out how to get through the day without missing his Carolina. Eb shifted positions to lie beside her. If only he could stop the clock, take away time’s ability to move forward.

  “Lina,” he said as he buried his face in her dark hair. “I love you.”

  His wife sighed. “No better husband ever drew a breath than you, Eb Wilson. I do not ask this last thing of you out of spite but rather out of love. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he managed.

  “Mi amour,” she said as she peered at him, “our son must never ever be a Texas Ranger.”

  The hardest words Eb Wilson ever said were, “I promise.”

  * * *

  Christmas Day, 1871

  Cut Creek, Texas

  “Sure feels good to finally keep my promise, even if it did take nigh on twenty years. Guess it goes to show you can’t rush the Lord. It all happens in His time, don’t it?”

  Eb Wilson sat atop his favorite horse and stared at the beginnings of the town called Cut Creek. None of them could remember which of the four former Rangers came up with the name but they all agreed it fit the little spot on the north Texas prairie to a T.

  Now, with a light dusting of snow, Main Street and its collection of finished and partially finished buildings looked prettier than ever. From the train station to the little church where they would worship this morning, signs of progress abounded.

  Tomorrow the work would continue but this day, the Savior’s birthday, was reserved for celebration. After church they would celebrate Rafe’s birthday too, just as he had done every year as he promised Carolina he would.

  Carolina.

  Eb swallowed hard and cast a glance skyward. I miss you, mi amour. I only hope Rafe and I have made you proud.

  “Ja,” Lars “Swede” Almgren said under his breath. “Cut Creek. Can you believe we it is finally real?”

  Eb cast a glance over his shoulder at his nephew blacksmith Wyatt Wilson who drove the buckboard filled with gifts for the town’s few children. Beside him, Rafe wore a grin.

  The two of them were quite a pair, cousins and friends, but raised like brothers. More often than not they were partners in crime as well, although their adult years, and the fact that Rafe had agreed to act as sheriff of Cut Creek in the coming year had slowed their antics a bit.

  “It’s not done yet,” Rafe said as he climbed out of the buckboard and helped his cousin secure the horse. “Won’t be for a long time.”

  “That’s the truth, son. We still have a long way to go,” Eb said, “but with hard work and prayer it’s going to be done before we know it. Then all we’ll have to do is ask the Lord and our new sheriff to keep it safe.”

  Inside the little church building a chorus of voices rose. Eb checked his watch. Straight up eleven and time for services to begin. The new preacher sure was prompt.

  “Onward then,” Charles P. “Sully” Sullivan said as his boots hit the ground. “We have a church service to attend. I’d hate to think the four distinguished gentlemen who had the vision to found this town would be late to its first Christmas morning service.”

  “Are we late already?” Clive “Creed” Creedwith asked. “My watch must be slow.”

  “No, we’re right on time,” Eb said, being sure to speak into his slightly hard-of-hearing friend’s good ear.

  He let the young men walk ahead of the group, allowing them to disappear into the church building before he spoke. “Gentlemen, I’d like to thank you all.” The lump in his throat almost kept him from
finishing what he had to say. Almost but not quite. “There’s not a one of us who can take more credit than the other for getting this town started up, but I feel like I’m the one you all did a favor for.”

  “How so?” Creed asked.

  “Well, if it weren’t for my Carolina, rest her soul, I’d probably have been content to dream about this place until the Lord took me home.”

  Sully clapped a hand on Eb’s back. “Sometimes a man needs a nudge to get going on what the Lord intends him to do. For you, your wife’s passing was that nudge.” He paused to look at the others before turning his attention back to Eb. “For the three of us it was a friend and fellow Ranger’s promise.”

  “Ja, that’s right,” Swede said. “When you think of if, we are all fulfilling a promise to serve the Lord and the state of Texas.”

  “That we are,” Creed said. “I say we dedicate this town to Him right here and now. What say you, fellow Rangers?”

  “I’m in on that.” Eb held his hand out and the others clasped theirs atop it. The four former Rangers, comrades on the trail and friends in retirement, huddled together.

  Rafe appeared in the church door. “Preacher’s waiting,” he said. “You can’t miss the first Christmas service.”

  “Indeed. Shall we reconvene this meeting of the founding fathers at a later hour, say after lunch tomorrow over dominoes?”

  “Who are you now, the mayor?” Swede asked with a grin.

  “Actually I hadn’t considered the office but if you’re offering it, then I’ll heartily accept.”

  “After you, Creed, Swede, Mr. Mayor,” Eb said with a sweep of his hat. “Save me a spot down front.”

  As the last of his fellow Rangers filed past, Eb paused to once again look toward the sky. “Thank You, Lord,” he said softly. “I do indeed dedicate this town and all that takes place here to Your glory. Keep those who live here safe from harm. And if you think about it, could you tell my wife Carolina that I love her and I sure do miss her?”

  Chapter Two

  Christmas Eve, 1876

  “It was Christmas Eve, and when I opened my mouth to sing, a hymn came out. Mama sent me to my room so the gentlemen callers wouldn’t hear. No doubt the Lord wasn’t as welcome as the other menfolk in Mama’s parlor.”

  Peony Primrose Periwinkle Potter shifted positions and dabbed at the perspiration on brow with her mama’s best silk handkerchief, no doubt a gift from some hapless fool bent on taking Mama away from a life she had no intention of leaving. Despite the chilly winter temperatures outside, the tight confines of the rail car made the room feel like it was more like summer.

  The train’s horn sounded and Peony sighed. “No trifling with men for me. I plan to open a dress store, you know. A nice establishment with lace curtains and a pretty mirror for the ladies to see themselves in. I’ve been collecting scrap fabric ever since I was a little girl for just that purpose.”

  Peony peered over at her traveling companion, unsure as to why she’d just rattled on about the intimate details of her life as a New Orleans bawdy house owner’s daughter with a stranger. Perhaps it was because the sweet old man was Creed cold deaf and fast asleep.

  Mr. Connor snored softly, his head gently bobbing with the rhythm of the train as it headed west. Peony smiled to think of how the Lord had arranged it so that she went out to fetch water at just the right time to overhear one of Mama’s customers lament at having to take his valuable time to escort his elderly father out west.

  “So I volunteered to see you safely to your destination, Mr. Connor. Mama didn’t dare go against her best customer.” Peony shrugged. “The way I see it, the Lord heard my prayer and the rest is history.”

  She squared her shoulders and closed her eyes. As bad as her days with Mama had been, things could have turned out much worse. Thank You, Lord, that Mama never wanted me to be one of her “girls.” Still, after seeing what she’d seen and living as she’d lived, Peony knew she might never be considered fit for decent folk.

  All the more reason to start over somewhere new.

  Visions of silks and satins danced across her mind, chased by silver thimbles and golden threads. Finally her skill at hemming the dresses of Mama’s girls and adding ruffles and flourishes to their lacy under things would come in handy.

  To think it all seemed so far from her grasp mere days ago. Next Christmas she’d celebrate her Savior’s birthday in style, or at least in safety. Back home in New Orleans, Christmas had been just another day in Mama’s busy social calendar. When Papa lived with then it had been a day to gamble and play the cards, just like any other day.

  For a moment she allowed her thoughts to wander toward memories of her beloved Papa. She had vague recollections of a dark-haired man with a tickly beard who could lift her over his shoulders and toss her into the air with ease.

  Later she knew this same man as a down-on-his-luck shadow of his former self, a man so broken by the weight of his habit that she could scarce recognize him. Finally, somewhere around her fourth or fifth year, he’d disappeared entirely. That’s when Mama began using the big house on Royal Street for something other than a home.

  How she despised gambling in any form.

  She settled back and watched the Texas landscape roll by until she could no longer hold her eyelids open. Somewhere between the purple fingers of dawn and the bright noonday sun, the train shuddered to a stop. Peony blinked hard and shook away the grogginess.

  Placing a gloved hand atop her charge’s blue-veined one, she stifled a yawn. Someday soon she’d be sleeping in a real bed, one with a door she didn’t have to bar with a kitchen chair to keep Mama’s clientele from “accidentally” trying to climb beneath her covers.

  She shuddered with the memory then purposefully turned her thoughts back to the elderly gentleman beside her. “The sign at the depot says we’re in Dallas, Texas. It’s a lovely day. Shall we take this opportunity to step outside, Mr. Connor?”

  No response. Of course. He was fast asleep and couldn’t hear her.

  She shook his hand. “Mr. Connor?”

  Nothing. Trying again, she got the same result. Despite her best efforts, the old man continued to sit head down, his chin resting on his narrow upper body.

  Peony leaned closer and touched her palm to his chest. No response.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Mr. Connor, you’re dead.”

  Muffled voices drew near then passed by, oblivious to Peony’s plight. Once again she dabbed at her temples, her gaze darting from the open door to the open window. Which one offered the safer means of escape? The door beckoned, but offered the added chanced she might be spotted by someone while traversing the passageway. To slip out the open window seemed her only option.

  Gathering her things, Peony prepared to make good on her escape. She swung her traveling bag onto her shoulder and put one foot on the bench. Using the window’s frame for balance, she climbed up and prepared to slip out the window. The tracks were deserted in either direction, and the fall seemed to be one that she could survive. She’d walk away bruised, but at least she would walk away.

  There would be nothing to connect her to the dead man. Nothing to hinder her from creating a new and respectable life.

  The conductor called “All aboard” off in the distance as Peony leaned over the window’s wooden frame and prepared to drop her bag onto the tracks. A pang of conscience hit her hard. What would happen to Mr. Connor?

  One last look over her shoulder and Peony knew she couldn’t just slip away and leave the kind old man to an unmarked grave on some Texas version of Boot Hill. She let the bag fall at her feet and climbed off the bench to retrieve a pen and writing paper from her reticule. Hurriedly scribbling a note for the conductor to find, she identified Mr. Connor’s son by name and address then wrote simply, “He died of natural causes, I promise.”

  “There, Mr. Connor,” she whispered as she placed the note in his lapel pocket. “Now I’ll know you’re going to be taken care of.”


  She smoothed the fabric back into place then paused. What was that? Reaching deeper into his pocket, past the note she’d just placed there, she found quite a surprise. Money. A fat wad of it, folded in half and secured with a red ribbon.

  Peony counted the stack then stifled a gasp. “Seven hundred dollars.”

  Carefully replacing the bills in the old man’s pocket, she fell back against the hard, wooden bench and closed her eyes. “Think,” she whispered. “What do I do?”

  The urge to run still bore hard on her. She tamped down on her panic and allowed logic to take over. By the time the conductor arrived at the door, she had a plan – and seven hundred dollars hidden the waistband of her skirt.

  It took her all of ten minutes to convince the authorities of her grief, scarcely longer than that to be driven to the undertaker in the sheriff’s buggy to purchase a suitable casket and a plot in a nice cemetery atop a green hill near town. Declining the undertaker’s offer to find lodging beneath his roof, Peony settled for a small room at a boarding house near the station. As darkness began to gather in the corners of the little room, Peony spread her remaining funds on the threadbare bedspread.

  Just over hundred dollars remained after the day’s carefully budgeted expenses. A fortune to her – nothing, she was certain, to the younger Mr. Connor.

  Exhaustion tugged at her senses, and it was all Peony could do to slip the money back into her waistband and rise to head outside once more. She reached her destination in a modicum of steps, the telegraph office being the only building standing between the rooming house and the train station.

  Obviously used to discretion, the Western Union clerk barely blinked when Peony handed over three hundred and seventeen dollars and forty-three cents along with a note addressed to Robert Walker Livingston Connor, III of New Orleans. She’d labored over the words, ultimately telling the younger Mr. Connor where he could find his father and why. She gave a full accounting of the monies she spent for buying a proper casket and burial plot. Finally she added a note of condolence and a receipt for payment of three hundred dollars, exactly half the monies she’d agreed to.