Page 6 of For the Roses (Claybornes' Brides (Rose Hill) 1)

  He was the enemy.

  November 12, 1860

  Dear Mama Rose,

  Yore sun wanted me to show off my writing skil and so I am writing this her letter to you. We all work on gramer and speling afther Mary Rose goes to sleepe. Yore sun is a fine teecher. He dont lauf when we make misteaks and he always has good to say when we dun fore the nite. Since we are brothurs now I gues you belong to me to.

  Yore sun,

  Cole

  2

  Harrison Stanford MacDonald was learning all about the Clayborne family without asking a single question. He was a stranger in town and therefore should have been met with suspicion and mistrust. He had heard all about the wild and rugged, lawless towns dotting the West and read everything he could get his hands on as well. From all of his research, he’d learned that strangers inevitably fell into one of two groups. There were those men who were ignored and left alone because they kept to themselves but looked intimidating, and those men who got themselves killed because they asked too many questions.

  The code of honor that existed in the West perplexed Harrison. He thought it was the most backward set of rules he’d ever heard. The inhabitants usually protected their own against outsiders, yet took it all in stride when one neighbor went after another. Killing each other seemed to be acceptable, providing, of course, that there was a hint of a good reason. On his journey to Blue Belle, Harrison considered the problem he would have finding out what he needed to know and finally came up with what he believed was a suitable course of action. He decided to use the town’s prejudice against strangers to his own advantage by simply turning the tables on them.

  He arrived in Blue Belle around ten o’clock in the morning and became the meanest son-of-a-bitch who ever hit town. He acted outrageously suspicious of everyone who dared to even look his way. He wore his new black hat down low on his brow, turned up the collar of his long, brown trail duster, kept a hard scowl on his face, and sauntered down the middle of the main road the residents called a street, but which was really just a wide dirt path, acting as if he owned the place. He gave the word “sullen” new definition. He wanted to look like a man who would kill anyone who got in his way, and he guessed he’d accomplished his goal when a woman walking with her little boy caught sight of him striding toward her and immediately grabbed hold of her son’s hand and went running in the opposite direction.

  He wanted to smile. He didn’t dare. He’d never find out anything about the Claybornes if he turned friendly. And so he maintained his angry hate-everyone-and-everything attitude.

  They loved him.

  His first stop was the always popular town saloon. Every town had one, and Blue Belle wasn’t any different. He found the drinking establishment at the end of the road, went inside, and ordered a bottle of whiskey and one glass. If the proprietor found the request odd for such an early hour, he didn’t mention it. Harrison took the bottle and the glass to the darkest corner in the saloon, sat down at a round table with his back to the wall, and simply waited for the curious to come and talk to him.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The saloon had been completely empty of customers when he had entered the establishment. Word of the stranger’s arrival spread as fast as a prairie fire, however, and within ten minutes, Harrison counted nine men inside. They sat in clusters around the other tables spread about the saloon, and every single one of them was staring at him.

  He kept his shoulders hunched forward and his gaze on his shot glass. The thought of actually taking a drink this early in the morning made his stomach want to lurch, and he didn’t have any intention of swallowing a single sip, so he swirled the murky amber liquid around and around in his glass and tried to look as if he were brooding about something.

  He heard whispering, then the shuffle of footsteps coming across the wooden floor. Harrison’s hand instinctively went for his gun. He pushed his coat out of the way and rested his hand on the butt of his weapon. He stopped himself from pulling the gun free, then realized that what he’d done instinctively was actually what he should have done if he were going to continue his hostile charade.

  “Mister, you new in town?”

  Harrison slowly lifted his gaze. The man who’d asked the ridiculous question had obviously been sent over by the others. He was unarmed. He was also old, probably around fifty, with leathery, pockmarked skin, and he was about the homeliest individual Harrison had ever come across. Squinty brown eyes the size of marbles were all but lost in his round face, for the only feature anyone was ever going to notice was his gigantic potato-shaped nose. It was, in Harrison’s estimation, a real attention getter.

  “Who wants to know?” he asked, making his voice as surly as possible.

  Potato-nose smiled. “My name’s Dooley,” he announced. “Mind if I sit a spell?”

  Harrison didn’t respond to the question. He simply stared at the man and waited to see what he would do.

  Dooley took his silence as a yes, dragged out a chair, and sat down facing Harrison. “You in town looking for someone?”

  Harrison shook his head. Dooley turned to their audience. “He ain’t looking for anyone,” he shouted. “Billie, fetch me a glass. I could use me a drink, if this stranger is willing to share.”

  He turned back to Harrison. “You a gunfighter?”

  “I don’t like questions,” Harrison replied.

  “Nope, I didn’t think you were a gunfighter,” Dooley said. “If you were, you would have heard Webster left town just yesterday. He was looking for a draw, but no one would oblige him, not even Cole Clayborne, and he’s the only reason Webster really came to town. Cole’s the fastest gun we got around here. He don’t get into gunfights anymore though, especially now that his sister came home from school. She don’t abide with gunfights, and she don’t want Cole getting himself a bad reputation. Adam keeps him on the square,” he added with a knowing nod. “He’s the oldest of the brothers and a real peacemaker, if you ask me. He’s book smart too, and once you get over what he looks like, well, then, you realize he’s the man you should go to if you got a problem. He usually knows what’s to be done. You thinking of maybe settling around here or are you just passing through?”

  Billie, the proprietor of the saloon, strutted over with two glasses in his hands. He put both of them down on the table and then motioned to a man sitting near the door.

  “Henry, get on over here and shut your friend up. He’s making a nuisance of himself asking so many questions. Don’t want to see him killed before lunch. It’s bad for business.”

  Harrison gave only half answers to the questions that followed. Henry joined them, and once he’d taken his seat, the proprietor pulled out a chair, hiked one booted leg up on the seat, and leaned forward with his arm draped across his knee. The three men were obviously fast friends. They liked to gossip and were soon interrupting each other with stories about everyone in town. The threesome reminded Harrison of old-maid aunts who liked to meddle but didn’t mean anyone harm. Harrison filed away every bit of information they gave him, never once asking a question of his own.

  The talk eventually turned to the availability of women in the area.

  “They’re as scarce as diamonds in these here parts, but we got us seven or eight eligible ones. A couple of them are right pretty. There’s Catherine Morrison. Her pa owns the general store. She’s got nice brown hair and all her teeth.”

  “She don’t hold a candle to Mary Rose Clayborne,” Billie interjected.

  Loud grunts of agreement came from across the room. Everyone inside the saloon, it seemed, was listening in on the conversation.

  “She ain’t just pretty,” a gray-haired man called out.

  “She’s a knock-your-breath-out-of-you looker,” Henry agreed. “And as sweet-natured as they come.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Dooley said. “If you’re in need of help, she’ll be there to see you get it.”

  More grunts of agreement followed his statement.

  “I

njuns come from miles around just to get a swatch of her hair. She gets real exasperated, but she always gives them a lock. It’s as pretty as spun gold. The Injuns think it brings them good luck. Ain’t that right?” Henry asked Billie.

  The proprietor nodded. “Once a couple of half-breeds tried to steal her off her ranch. They said they got themselves tranced by her blue eyes. Said they were magical, they did. You remember what happened then, boys?” he asked his friends.

  Dooley let out a hoot of laughter. “I recollect it as sure as if it happened yesterday. Adam weren’t no peacemaker that day, was he, Ghost?”

  A man with stark white hair and a long, scraggly, white beard nodded.

  “No, sir, he weren’t,” he shouted. “As I recall, Adam almost tore one of the half-breeds clear in half. No one’s tried to steal her since.”

  “Miss Mary don’t get herself courted much,” Billie said. “It’s a shame too. She should have two or three babies pulling at her skirts by now.”

  Harrison didn’t have to ask why she wasn’t courted. Dooley was happy to explain. “She’s got herself four brothers none of us is willing to take on. No sirreee. You can’t get to her without going through them. That’s why she ain’t married up yet. You’d best stay clear away from her.”

  “Oh, she won’t have nothing to do with him,” Ghost shouted.

  Dooley nodded. “She only takes to the bumbling ones and the weaklings. Seems to think it’s her duty to look out for them. It’s because she’s so sweet-natured.”

  “I already told him that.” Henry said.

  “She drives her brothers crazy the way she drags home the pitiful ones. Still, they got to put up with it,” Billie said.

  “She likes us, and we ain’t weaklings.” Dooley obviously wanted to set the record straight.

  “No, of course we ain’t,” Henry agreed. “We wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea, mister. Miss Mary likes us because we’ve been around so long. She’s used to us. You can get yourself a gander at her in a couple of hours. We like to line up in front of the store around noon so we can get a good, close look at her. She’s always got something real nice to say to each one of us. I’m hoping her brother Douglas rides shotgun with her today.”

  “Why’s that?” Billie asked.

  “My mare’s acting fussy again. I need the doc to take a look at her.”

  “If you’re in need of a good horse, Douglas has a stable full,” Dooley told Harrison. “He tames the wild ones and sells them every now and then. He’s got to like you though. He’s peculiar about who gets hold of his horses. He ain’t a real doctor, but we like to call him such.”

  “He don’t like it none, Dooley. Says he ain’t a doctor and we shouldn’t be calling him one,” Ghost called out.

  “I know that,” Dooley shouted back. His exasperation was apparent in his tone of voice. “That’s why we never call him Doc to his face. He’s got a special way with animals though, and he’s good with his remedies.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” Billie asked Harrison. “I’m just being neighborly, mister,” he added.

  “Legal work,” Harrison answered.

  “That won’t make you enough money to put food in your belly, at least not on a regular basis. You do anything else?”

  “I hunt.”

  “Then you’re a trapper,” Henry decreed.

  Harrison shook his head. “Not exactly,” he hedged. He was on a hunt now, but he wasn’t about to tell these men he was searching for a stolen child. She would be a fully grown woman by now.

  “You’re either a trapper or you ain’t,” Henry said. “You got any equipment to trap with?”

  “No.”

  “Then you ain’t a trapper,” Henry told him. “What about ranching? You ever try your hand at ranching? You’ve got the build for it. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone as big as you are, or as wide across the shoulders. A couple of the Clayborne brothers come to mind, and Johnny Simpson, of course, but I think you might be a half a head taller than any of them.”

  “You willing to tell us your name?” Henry asked.

  “Harrison,” he answered. “My name’s Harrison MacDonald.”

  “You got a last name for a first name, don’t you?” Dooley remarked. “Will you take offense if I call you Harrison, or do you want to be called MacDonald?”

  “Call me Harrison.”

  “Guess I should if you’re gonna be settling here. You got yourself a real different-sounding twang in there with your words,” he added. He hastily put his hands up. “I don’t mean you no insult. I’m just wondering now where you come from.”

  “California?” Henry guessed.

  “I’m thinking Kentucky,” Ghost called out.

  Harrison shook his head. “I was born in Scotland and raised in England,” he answered. “Across the ocean,” he added in case they didn’t know where those countries were located.

  “The town could use a lawyer,” Billie interjected. “We don’t have any around these parts. If Adam Clayborne doesn’t know the answer, then we got to go all the way to Hammond to get the help we need. Hanging Judge Burns will be happy to have you around. He gets upset when he has to work with . . . what does he call us?” he asked Dooley.

  “Ignorant.”

  “That’s the word. If you ask me, the law’s gotten mighty tricky. There are too many papers to file with the government.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Ghost called out. “Getting a piece of land used to be easy. You just squatted there and it was yours. Now you got to pay money and fill out papers.”

  “So you going to settle here then? I’ll bet Morrison will rent out the storefront across the street from his store. You could put your shingle out and maybe earn a couple of dollars every month.”

  Harrison shrugged. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet. I might settle down here, and then again, I might not. It’s too soon to tell.”

  “You got enough money to hold you over until you decide?” Henry asked.

  Harrison knew better than to admit he was carrying money. “No,” he answered. “I don’t suppose I have enough to last more than a couple of days.”

  “You’ll get along,” Dooley advised. “You’re big and you got muscle. You can always hire out and work to keep food on your table.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Harrison lied.

  “What exactly are you doing in Blue Belle?” Billie asked. “I know it isn’t any of my business, but I’m curious to know. You mind telling us, mister?”

  “Call me Harrison,” he said again. “I don’t mind telling why I’m here. I’m on what I’m pretty certain is a wild-goose chase. At least the man I work for believes my trip will end up running after a dream.”

  “You already got yourself a job?” Dooley asked.

  “I’ve taken a temporary leave.”

  “So you could end up staying here. Is that the way of it?” Henry asked.

  “I suppose I could.”

  “I say you should stay,” Billie announced. “Don’t work for anyone but yourself. That’s our way. You don’t have to answer to anyone.”

  “You mind answering a question about the law?” Ghost asked.

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “I’m thinking hard about stealing a horse,” Ghost announced. He stood up and walked over to the table. “The fella I’m thinking about robbing stole my woman years back, so, the way I see it, I ain’t really doing nothing wrong. The law’s on my side, right?”

  Harrison leaned back in his chair. He stopped himself before he smiled. The question was amusing, but he didn’t want Ghost to think he was laughing at him.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “Pride might be on your side, but the law isn’t.”

  Dooley slapped his hand down on the tabletop and let out another hoot of laughter. “That’s what I told him,” he announced in a near shout. “Pride will get him hung by the vigilantes if he steals Lloyd’s horse.”

  Ghost

didn’t like Harrison’s answer. He walked away from the table muttering to himself. His question opened the door for others, however, and for the next hour, Harrison dispensed free legal advice. Although he’d been educated at Oxford and had done his apprenticeship in England, he also worked for a man who owned two manufacturing plants. Because the company regularly shipped to the American east coast, Harrison had had to familiarize himself with the laws regulating export and import.

  The difference between the way the law was interpreted by the courts in England and in America fascinated him. He tirelessly pored over any material about unusual decisions and cases that he could get his hands on.

  His associates thought it was dry reading indeed, especially the older cases he’d wanted to discuss with them. He was told it was boring material at best, and it reminded them of all the mandatory reading they’d had to suffer through while at university. Harrison didn’t agree. He loved reading the philosophers, especially Plato, and he enjoyed reading the opinions of the scholars who founded his country’s government as well. But most of all, he loved the law. The discipline of the court system appealed to him. He thought it was imperative to keep up with all the latest decisions so that he could eventually become one of the best in his field. Good wasn’t enough for him. Harrison strove for excellence in everything he undertook. Unfinished puzzles drove him crazy. Whatever he started, he finished.

  His passion for the law and his compassion for his fellow man had made him unpopular in many circles. Because he worked for the powerful Lord Elliott, he had never actually been blackballed, although he’d certainly come close on several occasions, and all because he took on unpopular cases. He was rapidly getting a reputation for being a champion of the less fortunate in London’s slums. He hadn’t set out to become anyone’s champion, of course, and if anyone had told him at school that he would eventually become a criminal lawyer, even on a part-time basis, Harrison would have thought he was out of his mind.