Fern Page 2

  The afternoon sun was stifling and the air was heavy. She could feel her body heating underneath the cotton dress.

  Row upon row of vegetables and herbs grew in her yard. She knew where everything was and what they were used for. There were many days she’d kept solace within the dirt and the greenery she’d learned to love. It gave her peace, a sense of belonging she hadn’t found within Manchester and with some of the town folk there.

  She sighed. It was just as well. She was different, and she’d not compromise herself for anyone.

  She stopped at the first row and stared at the trampled beets. Jaw clenched, hands fisted, she held back the string of curses she wanted to bellow. Poppy. Her sister was going to be the death of her yet. A bead of sweat slid down her forehead, and she flexed her shoulders to loosen the damp dress that clung to her overheated skin. Letting out an exhausted breath, she ran a hand across her face and knelt down to inspect the damaged leaves.

  Footprints were still visible within the soft soil. Fern growled as she dug into the dirt to pull a flattened beet from the earth. It was split in two. She threw the soil and dug another. It was wrecked as well.

  She headed for the small cabin nestled against a stand of oak and pine trees. Damp tendrils of hair clung to the sides of her face. What she wouldn’t give for a cool breeze right now. Shoulders set, she readied herself to face her abrasive sister. The door to the cabin swung open, and a flash of red hair bolted from the door.

  “How is Sarah?” Poppy asked.

  Her anger dissolved with Poppy’s question. Tears sprang in her eyes, and she blinked them away. “She’s gone.”

  “That rotten son of a bitch.” Her sister stomped her booted foot. The girl hated dresses, and much to Fern’s disapproval wore pants and a cotton shirt instead.

  “Poppy, must you use such words?”

  “I could use others, but you’d not approve of them either.”

  “Try to speak like a young lady and not a cowboy in from the fields.”

  “I ought to go on over to the Fuller place and put a bullet in that yellow-bellied bastard.”

  “That will not solve anything.”

  “Yes it will! He’ll get what he deserves for treating poor Sarah the way he did.”

  She couldn’t argue with her sister; the girl was right. She’d love to see Robby Fuller beaten bloody the way he did to her friend.

  “We have enough trouble with the doc and half of Manchester. We don’t need anymore.”

  The girl shrugged and walked away.

  “Stop,” Fern commanded, remembering her garden and the ruined beets.

  Poppy halted and swiveled to aim angry blue eyes toward her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “If I can’t go knock some sense into that sissy, Robby, I’m headin’ to the hills to check my traps.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until you fix what you’ve done to my garden.”

  The girl stood on her tiptoes and turned toward the garden.

  “All is well. I see nothin’ that needs fixin’.”

  Just like her to try and weasel out of what she’d done. The girl lived in those blasted hills doing goodness knows what half the day.

  “It isn’t. Look again.”

  She blew out a long sigh that tossed the white string of hair from her forehead. Poppy had been born with rich auburn hair most girls would envy. It was the streak of white that when her hair was parted hung to the right an inch wide they didn’t want, and was the brunt of most of their teasing when she was little. Pa had said it was a birthmark that caused the hair to turn snow white, but Fern believed it was a gift. On days when Poppy had been ridiculed at school by the other kids, Fern had comforted her by telling her she was special, different, and to cherish the bold ribbon of hair as a testament to how unique she was. Now, with the girl just past sixteen, she feared it held more meaning and played a vital part in making her sister the brassy hellcat she was today.

  “I looked and saw nothin’ of what you said has been done.”

  “Poppy, you’ve trampled my beets.”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Must you always accuse me of being the culprit when things go wrong?”

  Her statement was true but in Fern’s defense it was always Poppy doing the damage.

  “Who else?”

  “Ivy?”

  Their younger sister could’ve been the one, but she was inside sleeping off the bad headache she’d had the night before.

  “She is sick.”

  Poppy shrugged.

  Fern crossed her arms, determined to make her sister admit to what she’d done.

  “Fix it.”

  “I will not.”

  “Poppy Montgomery, you will mend that row of beets or else.”

  A horse neighed from the bushes behind the cabin. Before Fern could say another word Poppy pulled her Colt from the holster around her waist and pointed the gun at Sheriff Bennett as he came into view.

  He pulled on the reins to stop his horse and relaxed his arms, one over the other, in front of him.

  “State your damn business,” Poppy yelled.

  “Poppy, put down the gun,” Fern said.

  “Not until the bastard states his business.”

  “That bastard is the sheriff,” she whispered between clenched teeth.

  “Let me see your star.”

  “I’m going to need to reach inside my pocket. You’re not going to shoot me are you?”

  “Do I look like a Nancy boy? I ain’t gonna shoot you, just do as you’re told and show me the damn star.”

  “Bossy little thing aren’t you?” He pulled the silver star from his pocket and held it so they could see it. “Satisfied?”

  Poppy holstered her gun.

  He dismounted and walked toward them.

  “Miss Montgomery.” He tipped his head, the brown Stetson shading his eyes from the sun and her view.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, irritated from her fight with Poppy and his unexpected visit.

  “I thought I’d come by to finish our conversation and have a look at what the doc is chirpin’ about back in town.”

  “Pete Miller doesn’t have a lick of sense in his bull head,” Poppy chimed in.

  “And who might you be?” he asked.

  “None of your damn business.”

  “You aimed your Colt on me, I’d say I have a right to know,” he said.

  “Poppy,” Fern warned, before she turned toward him. “My sister.”

  “You allow her to wear pants?”

  “I am my own person, Sheriff. I wear what I want.”

  “I can see that.” He assessed Poppy before training his dark gaze onto her. “Can she shoot that thing, or is it just for show?”

  Poppy pulled her Colt, spun the chamber and fired, knocking two glass bottles from the fence twenty yards away.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  “I can shoot anything.”

  He looked at Fern.

  “It’s true. Poppy’s skills with the weapon are remarkable.”

  “Can you shoot a moving target?” he asked.

  She took his hat from on top of his head, threw it into the air, pulled her Colt and shot a hole right through the Stetson.

  “That’s my bloody hat! You ruined my damn hat.” He stomped toward the Stetson, now lying on the ground, picked it up and put his finger through the hole. “Ah, hell.”

  “You may go now, Poppy,” Fern said, hoping her sister took the hint and skedaddled before Sheriff Bennett lost his temper.

  “I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “You’re not. The proper word is not, Poppy.”

  Her sister rolled her eyes. Fern wanted to crawl back to bed and forget this day ever happened.

  “Is it just the two of you on the homestead?” he asked, scanning the yard around them, his hat crumpled in his hand.

  “We have another sister, Ivy, she’
s twelve,” Fern answered.

  “Is she like that one?” He pointed to Poppy.

  “Bootlicker.”

  Fern grabbed her sister’s arm, having had enough of her antics, and escorted her to the front door of the cabin.

  “Get inside before you get me arrested,” she whispered.

  “Fine, but if you need me just holler.” She leaned around Fern to stick her tongue out at Sheriff Bennett.

  “Damn it, get!” She shoved the wild girl through the door and slammed it shut.

  “There is a nice boarding school just past Cheyenne.”

  “Do not tell me how to raise my sisters, Sheriff.”

  “Was just offering some advice is all.”

  “I don’t need your advice. Now, why have you come?”

  Chapter Three

  Gabe had never met a woman so abrupt, especially one who should be looking for a husband instead of living a spinster’s life. With that kind of attitude she’d never find a man and neither would her foul-mouthed, gun-toting sister.

  “I came to talk to you.”

  “What is it you want to discuss?” She let out the words in a long sigh, and he assessed her appearance for the first time. The skin around her eyes creased, and the lines in her forehead crinkled together as she frowned. He’d bet under different circumstances she’d be a beauty, but the messed braid, worn clothes, and sun-kissed skin placed her in an unnatural element—one he was not comfortable being in. She looked different from all the women he’d come across. Most were demure and dainty; she was none of those things. She was foreign to everything he’d known or had ever seen, and within the blue depths of her eyes…he saw life.

  He scowled.

  He’d come for information, not to get mooneyes over the girl, damn it. He had a job to do. Pete Miller was determined Fern was the one responsible for killing Mrs. Fuller, but Gabe had his doubts. The woman had been beaten, which seemed to be the obvious cause of her demise, not some elixir sold to her by the tiny herb collector.

  It was clear Pete didn’t like his business going to a woman, one without an education or degree no less. Gabe made it his business to find out more about Fern Montgomery and what secrets she had.

  “I’d like to know how often Mrs. Fuller visited you,” he asked.

  She walked toward the porch and leaned against the railing. The shoddy fence bent awkwardly as she placed her weight on it.

  “Sarah and Robby moved here last year from Colorado. She started coming to see me when she couldn’t get pregnant. I gave her some winter cherry to help with her immune system, but we didn’t know if it was her that could not conceive or Robby who couldn’t release his seed.”

  He cleared his throat. She was blunt and to the point, a mannerism he was neither familiar nor comfortable with.

  “The wild cherry didn’t work, so I gave her echinacea root. That did not work either.”

  “It was the husband.”

  She nodded.

  “When did you notice Sarah showing up with bruises?”

  “Almost immediately after I’d gotten to know her. I think she always had them, but hid the marks under long sleeves, shawls and bonnets. Once she got to know me, her trust grew, and she wasn’t afraid to show me. The pain was unbearable sometimes. She knew I could help her with it.”

  “And I assume you did.”

  “Yes. We used all sorts of rubs, teas and smoke.”

  “Smoke?”

  “It is a plant, or root that is burned within a small area. You breathe in the smoke. It is very effective.”

  “But not for Mrs. Fuller.”

  “Her bruises were one on top of the other. They never healed before he’d give her a new one. Three months ago Robby broke her arm.”

  “You mended it?”

  “No, I sent her to Doc Miller.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “One would assume. Instead it raised all sorts of trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  “Pete has had it out for me for a long while. He and Mayor Smith needed a reason to push me out of town and this seemed to be it.”

  “How so?”

  “Robby Fuller came to call.”

  Gabe didn’t like where this was going.

  “I wasn’t expecting him and therefore wasn’t prepared. Thank goodness for Poppy. That girl can wield a gun like an outlaw.”

  “So I’ve seen. What did Robby do?”

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them, he saw determination and resilience—two traits he admired.

  “Trampled most of my garden. Tried to burn down the cabin, but Poppy held him off. I reckon he’ll come by here soon enough to retaliate for Sarah. Pete will put him up to it.”

  Gabe’s hands fisted, and he clenched his jaw. Three females, one a little girl, out here in the middle of nowhere, defenseless to whatever came their way.

  “I’ll speak to the doc.”

  “Won’t do you any good.”

  “I can be persuasive.”

  “You will lose your job. Mayor Smith won’t hold to you taking my side.”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side.”

  She turned from him to gaze at the bountiful garden before them.

  “You’d mentioned your father while we were in town.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was a doctor?”

  She nodded.

  “He served the people of Manchester for three years before he died a few years ago.”

  “What made them turn on you?”

  “Pa always used the plants within his practice. Some patients were deathly against it while others approved. But he was a doctor. I am not.”

  “If you were a doctor they’d accept your way of doing things?”

  “Maybe, but I think the problem lies much deeper than that.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I am a woman.”

  Pete Miller felt threatened by this tiny female? He almost burst out laughing the thought was so absurd. She was smart, he didn’t doubt that. He was fully aware she knew how and what each plant’s medicinal use was, but a threat? Not a chance. Her knowledge of the shrubs placed her in a tricky spot. She could’ve given something to Mrs. Fuller by accident, or on purpose. He didn’t trust her enough to wipe her slate clean just yet. He was determined to get to know her before that happened.

  He’d speak with Pete to see if he’d found out the cause of death yet. He wasn’t sure why he hoped Fern wasn’t involved, but he didn’t like the feeling and brushed the nostalgia away. His job came first before any harebrained emotions his lower half might have.

  Chapter Four

  Gabe grabbed his new Stetson from the desk and planted it firmly on top of his head. He missed his old hat. The felt had been worked in and molded to his head perfectly.

  Both of his cells were occupied, and he hoped to have them emptied when the judge came through. The man was expected any day now. A loud snore echoed from the bunk on the left. Ralph Palmer was sleeping off all of the whiskey he’d consumed last night at the saloon, and would have to face the judge on all the damage he’d caused there.

  Tommy Rainer, a bank robber, was in the other cell, putting Gabe on high alert. Tommy’s gang had a reputation for busting their leader out of jail. The notorious Rainer gang had robbed eight banks in Montana and Wyoming alone. The sooner he got rid of Tommy the less trouble would likely come his way.

  He appointed retired Texas Ranger, Bill Holt, to help out while he continued with the other aspects of the job. Now with the murder of Mrs. Fuller he was thankful he had the other lawman at his side.

  The old man was a quick draw with a keen sense of danger and his surroundings. His abilities and experience were welcome assets as well. When Gabe mentioned he might need help, the old man offered his time without hesitation. He was grateful for the assistance and the company. Some days were unbearable being alone in the jailhouse. Now he had someone to talk to, bounce ideas off of and aid in the capturing of any outlaws.<
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  Bill figured Robby Fuller killed his wife, and Gabe agreed. But the doc had other notions. Pete was forward in his thoughts about Miss Montgomery and that Gabe needed to investigate her. Unfortunately, she was a suspect until the cause of death was found.

  “I’m headed over to the doc’s,” he said to Bill.

  The older man lounged in a chair in the corner with his feet propped on a small table. He tipped his hat up. “Cause of death will be from the beatin’ the poor gal took.”

  “You’re probably right, but I need to be sure.”

  Bill let his hat slip back down over his forehead to rest on his nose. Gabe exited the jailhouse, stepping out into the afternoon sunshine.

  He’d yet to come across Robby to question him. He had a few choice words for the bastard too. A man did not lay his hands on a woman. Poor Mrs. Fuller had felt the abuse many times over according to Fern. The thought sickened him.

  The school bell rang, and he watched as the children burst from the doors as if a wild fire were chasing them. Not much had changed since when he used to attend. He couldn’t wait to escape the four walls—to be free of the lectures and math problems.

  He entered the doctor’s office. The strong scent of iodine filled his nostrils and burned. He ran the side of his hand under his nose to mask the scent and stop himself from sneezing. A small desk sat to his left, polished with neatly stacked papers. Two chairs served as a waiting area, and to the right of that was a closed door.

  He knocked.

  He heard shuffling inside before the door swung open. He stepped aside as the doctor escorted a young, very attractive, Angela Davenport through the office and to the front door.

  “Sheriff,” she said, her cheeks aglow.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Have a lovely day, Miss Davenport,” Pete said.

  The girl nodded, smiling shyly before she left.

  “What can I help you with, Sheriff?” he asked after the door closed.

  He sensed a bit of irritation within the doctor, but ignored it and attended to other pressing matters, like who killed Sarah Fuller.

  “Do you know the cause of Mrs. Fuller’s death?”