A Blessed Song for Their Love by Olivia Haywood
Chapter Two
Baxton, Kansas. 1870
Present day
Music poured from the Three-Guns Saloon.
Thomas Stratton peered at the other players over his hand of cards as the pianist banged out lively tunes, his honey-brown eyes struggling to focus after too many pints of beer. The atmosphere was lively as patrons laughed and drank their blues away in the smoke-filled room.
“Are you in or out Thomas?” asked a rough-looking man with a cigar hanging from his lips. His wide-brimmed cowboy hat hid the top of his face, leaving only his lips and long grey beard visible underneath.
The other players watched intently from behind their cards.
Thomas hesitated for a second, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m in.” He picked up a pile of ivory gambling chips and threw them into the middle of the table, scattering some of the other chips.
Someone placed a leather-gloved hand on his shoulder. “How about you repay your debts before making more?” a voice rasped from just behind his ear.
Thomas picked up his beer and chugged what was left. He banged the empty mug on the table. “How about you remove your hand before somebody gets hurt,” he cautioned, slurring some of his words.
“There’s no need, Thomas.” One of the gamblers attempted to stop him.
The man behind Thomas tightened his grip.
Thomas pushed himself up from his chair and turned around. He looked straight into the other man’s dark brown eyes and scarred face. “I told you, Jack.” He squared up to him, pushing his snubbed nose right up against the man's overly large one. “You will get your money when you get it. And not a moment before.”
The man known as Jack was a well-known thug around town, serving as a money collector for one of the most notorious usurers. You knew things were serious when Jack came knocking at your door. His grotesque features were scarred, boasting of the many fights he had fought and undoubtedly won.
He grabbed Thomas’ beer-stained lapels and lifted him off his feet.
The other gamblers lay down their cards and quickly backed away from the table, scraping their chairs on the wooden floor.
The music stopped playing with a clatter of keys. Thomas noticed that everyone had stopped what they were doing to observe the scene.
Thomas’s fights had become legendary in the months after his wife had passed. He owed more money to usurers than he could possibly pay, and his fights had become a constant source of entertainment to those who frequented the saloon.
“Go get the sheriff,” a barmaid near the entrance whispered hurriedly to the boot boy who had popped his grubby face over the swinging doors to watch.
The boy nodded and ran for help.
“Now you listen here.” Jack shoved Thomas onto the table, scattering the cards and ivory chips. “I want that money soon, or you and I are going to have an even bigger problem. That pretty ranch of yours ain’t gonna be so pretty when I’m done with it.”
Thomas laughed. “You think that’s gonna scare me scarface?”
Jack shoved him back as he let go of Thomas’s jacket.
“Just get the money.” He turned his bulky frame to leave.
Thomas propped himself up with his elbow and rubbed the back of his head where it had connected with the table, mussing his already messy hair. “I’ll give it back when I feel like it,” he muttered under his breath.
The man whipped around. “What did you say?” He barked.
Thomas smiled and lifted himself off of the table. Stumbling slightly as he hopped to the floor. “I said.” He swayed. “I will give it back...when I feel like it. Scarface.”
The man rushed forward and threw a punch that knocked Thomas back.
Staggering back, Thomas took a minute to regain his footing. Lifting his fists he clumsily staggered forward once more.
“That’s enough!” boomed a voice from the door. Thomas lurched to a stop and turned to look.
Sheriff Ezrah Gideon stood just inside the door, the wide brim of his hat partially shading his face and his hand on the holster of his gun, ready to draw. He was a tall, imposing figure, towering over the saloon’s less impressive patrons.
Thomas lowered his fists and took a step back as his opponent straightened his bowler hat and walked to the door.
“I was just leaving,” he said as he passed the sheriff on his way out.
“Make sure that you do,” Sheriff Gideon calmly replied before looking back at Thomas. “I think you’d better come with me.”
Thomas swayed slightly as he tried to focus on the sheriff. His vision was blurring even worse from the blow he had received, and he could feel a trickle of blood as it dripped from just above his eyebrow.
“I’ll send for the doctor to take a look at you.” He turned to the men who had been gambling with Thomas. “You boys want to lend us a hand here?”
They nodded and walked over to Thomas, throwing his arms over their shoulders.
Thomas hung limply between the men and the world started to fade as everything went black.
***
Thomas opened his eyes and stared at the iron bars of his cell. The cell was cold and drafty, the single window letting the cool air drift in over the small bed.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he knew for sure where he was. Sleeping it off in the jail was fast becoming his normal behavior.
He a door open in the distance and footsteps growing louder as someone strode towards him. His world was still spinning as he tried to focus his eyes.
He blinked a few times and ran his hand over his face, wincing at the sudden pain that shot through his head. Forcing himself up, he dragged his legs over the metal frame of the bed and placed his dirty boots on the floor.
He hung his head in his lap and grasped at the memories that were just beyond his reach.
How had he gotten here? He could remember going to the bank that afternoon and walking out after being denied a loan once again, and then walking across the road to the saloon.” His thoughts were blank beyond that point.
No financial establishment would come anywhere near him. He had accumulated masses of debt over the past few months because of his gambling. There was no hope of repaying it without yet another loan. He’d blown through all the usurers in the space of a few months.
He turned his aching head to check the position of the moon that was partially visible through the tinny barred window. He estimated that he had been out for at least three hours. Once upon a time, he would have called out to God in moments like these. But these days there was just an empty void. Nobody to turn to when nothing made sense.
How could he call upon a God that had taken his mother and wife? His prayers to save them had gone up and bounced straight back down. Unanswered.
“Evening, Thomas.” His thoughts were interrupted by the doctor carrying his brown leather bag. “Shall we take a look at you then?” He fetched the key from the opposite wall and unlocked the door. The squat, bespectacled man stepped into the cell, the buttons on his coat straining against his chest and belly as he looked Thomas over before placing his bag on the floor in front of his too-frequent patient.
Thomas stared at the top of the man’s balding head as he opened his bag to take out some cotton and ointment to clean the wound.
“Looks like a small laceration,” he said to Thomas as he dabbed the wound with a cotton ball.
Thomas winced.
“Three stitches should do it,” he remarked.
“Is that necessary?’ Thomas groaned, not looking forward to the needle.
“If you want the bleeding to stop. Most of the blood is dry, but the second you bump it, it will start bleeding all over again,” he said, retrieving the needle and thread from his bag.
Thomas bit his lip and clenched his fists as the doctor worked at closing his wound.
“There now,” the doctor said after a few minutes of stitching. “That should hold.”
He repacked his bag and left the cell, shutting and locking the door behind him before returning the key to its hook on the wall.
Thomas’s anger grew as the door slammed shut.
He wasn’t a hardened criminal, yet they had him under lock and key like a common thief. Since when was drinking a crime? He reasoned his behavior away as
his jaw clenched at the thought of being locked up. This was not who he was.
How had he ended up here so many times?
His attention was once again drawn to the tiny window as he could hear the sound of horses coming to a stop outside the jail.
“Good evening Arthur,” he heard Sheriff Gideon’s voice boom out. The man could be heard from across a crowded room of screaming babies. There was no mistaking him.
Great, he thought. They had called his father.
“Evening, Sheriff.” His father sounded more tired than usual.
“I’d like a word with you before you go in,” Sherrif Gideon said.
Thomas leaned towards the wall and strained to hear what they were saying. His head was still fuzzy but clear enough to understand.
“Now Arthur, I know you’re all trying your best, but this can’t go on. The doctor had to be called this time.”
There was a pause in the conversation. “Is it bad?” His father's voice was heavy with concern.
“Not this time, just a gash. But what happens next time when I’m not there in time to break up the fight?”
Thomas could hear the break in his father’s voice. “I’ve tried everything Sheriff. Nothing gets through to him anymore. He’s given up on God. He’s given up on himself.”
“Something will have to change, Arthur. I’ve been patient up until now. Next time he disturbs the peace he’ll have to do some time...” His voice trailed off. “That’s assuming I get there in time.”
Their voices disappeared as they walked away from the window. Thomas stood and walked to the bars of the cell. Laying his head against the cool steel, he shut his eyes and waited for them to set him free.
As he waited he replayed the clear disappointment in his father’s voice. He knew he was letting his family down.
He knew things needed to change, but he wasn’t sure what or how. One thing was certain. He wasn’t going to ask God. He could figure this out on his own. He would not be disappointed again.
***
Thomas Stratton winced as the afternoon sun streamed into his room through the open drapes. His head was aching something fierce as he tried to open his eyes.
He lifted his aching body and swung his legs off of the double bed. He was still wearing his muddy boots, but someone had removed the shirt he had been wearing and left him in his stained vest. He scanned the room for any kind of evidence that would suggest what had happened after he left the jail.
Nothing was out of place, everything looked just as it always had.
The floral drapes hung partially open and the hardwood dresser they had received as a wedding gift stood facing the bed. The basin and mirror with a stand for towels stood where it always had beside the door. Nothing was amiss on the stand beside his bed that held the matches and lamp.
This was the room he had shared with his wife. She had chosen the bright yellow wallpaper shortly after they had been married. It used to bring him so much joy waking up here in the mornings. Now it just seemed cold and empty.
He heaved his body off the bed and made his way to the basin. Cupping his hands in the water, he splashed his face a few times before reaching for a folded towel on the stand next to the basin and wiping his tired face. He sucked a breath sharply through his teeth as he rubbed the towel over a tender spot on his forehead. Frowning, he noticed a line of blood on the towel.
Glancing at his reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall above the basin, he noticed the stitches and ran his finger along the line. He had forgotten the doctor had stitched him up. Bits and pieces were starting to come back.
“You got that last night, or should I say early this morning.”
He turned to see his father’s lanky frame leaning against the door jamb, his strong arms folded across his chest. Thomas hadn't even heard him coming. His mother had always said he and his father could have been brothers. Apart from their eyes, it was like looking at an older version of himself. His fathers’ eyes were dark where Thomas had inherited his mother’s honey brown color.
Concern was etched into his face but his greying hair was still swept neatly to the side. “We need to talk Thomas,” he said heavily.
Thomas rolled his eyes. “Not again, Pa.”
“This can’t go on son, I need help with the ranch. Your son needs you.”
“He’s got Buena Gideon.” Thomas flung the dirty towel onto the floor and crossed the room to his dresser. Taking out a clean shirt, he buttoned it over his dirty vest.
“She can’t keep coming all the time. She has a family of her own, a husband to look after.” Arthur regretted his words as soon as he said them.
Pain flickered across Thomas’ face. “At least someone has a wife to look after them,” he said begrudgingly. The loss of his wife was a constant pain he couldn’t escape. It stalked him day after day, never giving him peace.
“I know you’re still hurting,” Arthur attempted to placate him.
“Oh, you do?” Thomas retorted. “You know exactly how I feel? She was the love of my life,” he said bitterly.
“Yes, and in case you have forgotten,” I lost someone as well. And I don’t just mean your mother. You didn’t just lose your wife Thomas, she was like a daughter to me. I loved her just as much as you did. Her presence has left a gaping hole in this family. Robbie will be one in a few weeks, he needs a mother.”
Thomas stopped straightening his collar and looked at his father in disbelief. “Are you seriously suggesting what I think you are suggesting?” His anger was growing by the second.
Arthur straightened and looked his son in the eyes. “We need a woman to take care of the house, not just Robbie. There’s too much work for just the two of us.”
“Or a woman to keep me in check?” Thomas challenged his father.
“I think a godly woman could be exactly what we need.” He ignored his son's remark and attempted once more to get through to him.
Thomas shut down at the mention of God. He closed the wardrobe door and strode across the room. “If you’ll excuse me, Father,” he said in the monotone he’d adopted to hide his feelings since the passing of his wife. “I have work to do on the ranch. As you have so kindly pointed out, there is more than we can handle.”
He left the room without looking back.