Remember Texas
By Laura Conner Kestner
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Moccasin Rock, Texas
July 1891
Chapter One
Abigail Horton sighed as her younger brother Robby eased the sleeve of his best shirt up over his wrist and deliberately scratched at a scabbed-over chigger bite until it bled.
“That’s not going to help you at all,” she whispered.
He glanced at her, shrugged, then let his arm drop and waited for the blood to run down onto his hand.
Abby understood her brother’s frustration. She wasn’t desperate enough to start clawing at her own skin yet, but she was more than ready to go home. They’d been sitting in this tabernacle for almost two hours now, and Reverend Wainright was still going strong.
Robby gave her a smug little grin when the trickle of blood finally touched his fingers. He replaced the grin with a frown, then reached around Abby and tugged their mother’s arm.
Mama, who’d started the evening freshly starched, was now wilting in the heat and not in the best of humor. She glanced his way, narrowed her eyes, and returned her attention to the pulpit.
Abby bit back a smile, then withdrew a linen handkerchief from the pocket of her calico dress and passed it to her brother. His shoulders sagged and his lower lip thrust out in a pout as he made a half-hearted swipe at his hand. Even though Abby was twenty-two and Robby only eleven, he resented her attempts at mothering. But Mama had more than enough to deal with. Abby tried to help as much as she could, whether her brother liked it or not.
Robby offered her the hanky when done. Abby waved it away. He shoved it into his own pocket and laid his head back against the pew with a sigh loud enough to earn him a sharp look of rebuke from Mama. No one else in the congregation seemed to notice. All eyes were on Hamilton Wainright, the legendary traveling evangelist.
Reverend Wainright was shouting now, punctuating each word with a thud of his fist on the pulpit. His thick, white eyebrows were drawn together over deep-set eyes and a nose that resembled an eagle’s beak.
The man had dashed back and forth across the Bible several times tonight—from Genesis to Revelation, from New Jerusalem back to the Garden of Eden—and should have been tired.
Strangely, he seemed to grow stronger with each word. His deep voice reverberated now throughout the open-air structure.
A baby, one of several stretched out on a pallet next to the tabernacle, began to fuss. The child’s older sister scooped her up and carried her to one of the many wagons nearby. Folks had come from miles around for this service; no one wanted to miss the last night of a week-long revival.
The pews were packed with people of all ages and all denominations—some nodding or shaking their heads, others murmuring “amen” or “Lord knows.” Most were waving cardboard fans supplied by the Moccasin Rock Funeral Parlor, and the faster the evangelist spoke, the faster the fans moved.
Abby closed her eyes. She was trying to pay attention, but it was a losing battle. She’d been up at dawn to help Mama prepare breakfast for their boarders and was exhausted through and through. There couldn’t possibly be a potato left in the whole state of Texas. Surely she’d peeled them all by now.
Reverend Wainright’s voice started to slow and soften. He was beseeching the brethren; it would be invitation time soon. The fast-paced whir of the fans slowed. The entire congregation quieted. The chirp of crickets and the hiss of lanterns were the prominent sounds now.
The splash of a dipper dropping into the water barrel drew her attention. The barrel was set up just beyond the seating area and Robby had already slipped out once tonight for a drink. She opened her eyes, ready to silently scold him. Her brother hadn’t moved.
It was Henry Barnett at the barrel. He was wearing his best clothes, too—white cotton shirt, black trousers and new black suspenders. She couldn’t see them, but she suspected his shoes were polished to a high shine. As usual, he’d not been able to completely tame his wavy blond hair, though it appeared as if he’d tried.
Henry looked directly at her as he took a drink, and then wiped his mouth with a swipe of a hand. He deftly hooked the dipper back onto the side of the barrel without breaking eye contact, his expression unreadable.
Abby had hurt his feelings earlier, but she hadn’t been able to avoid it. How dare he say they’d be married by Christmas. He hadn’t asked her this time, he’d marched right up and told her so. They were friends. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?
She glared at him now. He smiled and winked before turning away. Infuriating man.
Reverend Wainright’s voice had taken on a rhythmic cadence and a persuasive tone. “None of us know when we’ll be called from this world,” he said. “You could leave here tonight and step out to meet eternity. Is your soul prepared? If not, He’s waiting.”
With a wave of his hand, the reverend motioned for all to rise.
Miss Hattie moved forward to the piano and began to play the hymn Softly and Tenderly. The melody was one of the prettiest Abby had ever heard, and the lyrics went hand-in-hand with Reverend Wainright’s sermon. Had they planned that in advance?
“Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
Calling for you and for me;
See, on the portals He’s waiting and watching,
Watching for you and for me.”
Miss Hattie continued to play as several people stood and made their way to the front. Abby had reached out to pull Robby to his feet when Hattie hit a faltering note and then crashed to a stop.
The elderly pianist now stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at the back of the tabernacle. Others began to turn, so Abby glanced behind her. Two men stood in the aisle.
One was dressed in black from his hat to his boots. He had dark hair, and a steely expression. He was breathtakingly handsome.
Abby was so spellbound that it took her a moment to notice the stranger was wearing a badge and a gun—and was handcuffed to her father.
Daddy? How could he be standing here when he’d died months ago? The blood rushed to her head and the ground tipped beneath her feet as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.
She reached out for her mother in an attempt to steady herself, but Mama had dropped to the pew, and faced the opposite direction. “Mama, Daddy’s here.” How? She glanced at her mother, still sitting there as if in a trance, then turned her attention back to the men. Her gaze connected with her father’s. He looked sad, sick…and scared.
***
Caleb Calhoun glanced around the big kitchen that spanned the back of the Horton Boarding House. A huge wooden harvest table stood in the center of the room, lined by simple ladder-back, cane-bottomed chairs. One whole wall was anchored by pine shelves, a dry sink and an iron cook stove. There were four windows—two on each side—with white cotton fabric draped across the bottom half. The smell of fresh-baked bread wafted through the room.
The place had a simple, scrubbed-clean look that appealed to him, but he was more interested in the fact that there were only two doors. The one he and his prisoner had passed through from the hallway of the long shotgun style structure, and the outer door on the back wall. A sheriff’s deputy was posted outside so he wasn’t worried about his prisoner escaping. But getting the layout of a place as soon as he entered had become second nature.
Caleb leveled a hard look at the man standing next to him. “Don’t try anything,” he said as he unlocked and removed the handcuffs from Bob Horton’s wrist. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes to take you to the jail.”
Caleb pocketed the cuffs and key, and then turned and pinned Mrs. Horton with a stern stare. “I’d appreciate your cooperation, too, ma’am. I’m giving you a few minutes of privacy. Don’t make me regret my decision.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Bob said before his wife could respond. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the strength to run.” Caleb knew Bob Horton was only in his early fifties, yet as the man slowly sank into one of the kitchen chairs he seemed downright old.
Bob motioned for his wife to take the seat next to him. “Come on, Irene. We’ve got a lot to talk about, and only a little time to get it all said.”
Mrs. Horton glared at him, her lips a thin line, brows drawn together over faded blue eyes. She didn’t move. Caleb suspected she’d once been a beautiful woman. Now she looked washed out, weary and mad as all get-out.
She stopped glaring at her husband long enough to address Caleb. “Please forgive my poor manners, Ranger. May I get you something to eat?”
Caleb shook his head, surprised by her friendliness. “No thank you, ma’am.”
“How about a piece of chocolate cake when you return?”
He smiled at that. “Sounds too tempting to pass up. Much obliged.”
Mrs. Horton still stood, arms folded, when Caleb left the kitchen. From the looks of it, Bob wasn’t in for the happy reunion he’d been hoping for. Irene Horton wasn’t merely unhappy, though—at the church she’d acted as if he had shown up with a ghost instead of a prisoner.
Caleb wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was really none of his concern. He’d paid for a room for the night, and was eager to check out his sleeping quarters. Thanks to the local sheriff, his prisoner would be spending the night in the Moccasin Rock jail, and Caleb would have a good night’s rest for the first time in a long time.
The hall leading to the front of the house was long, with two doors on each side, all closed as he passed through. Mrs. Horton had told him earlier that his room was upstairs.
As he entered the parlor and headed for the stairs, Bob’s daughter, Abigail, approached. Caleb’s steps slowed. The girl had been the first to reach them at the tabernacle, throwing herself at her father and crying softly as she wrapped her arms around him. Bob had tried to return the hug with his free arm, but it had been an awkward, unwieldy embrace.
Caleb wasn’t comfortable with a crying female, and even less comfortable in a church setting, so he’d turned his head and tried to establish some semblance of distance. That was impossible when he was shackled to one of the two emotional relatives.
When others had begun to rush toward them, Abigail Horton had stepped back and rubbed her fingers over her face to dry her tears. She’d then turned her attention to Caleb and smiled. Her expression had sent a shiver up his spine. She was looking at him as if it was Christmas morning and she’d spied a gift with her name on it under the tree.
Caleb had made a point of ignoring her as he escorted Bob the few blocks to the boarding house. There was no escape now.
Normally, he wouldn’t have minded at all. She was a beautiful young woman, tall and slender with reddish-brown hair. She’d had it pulled back with a ribbon at the revival. Now it was loose and tumbled down in waves around her shoulders. He was willing to bet it was every bit as soft as it looked, though he didn’t plan on being around long enough to find out.
“May I talk to my father?” she asked as he neared.
“That’s up to him and your mother,” Caleb said. “They’re in the kitchen.”
She nodded, a smile curving her full lips. “I hope you find the room to your liking. I’ve made sure the bed linens are clean. You’ll be in number five. I’ve filled the water pitcher, and I’ll bring you a towel as soon as I gather them in from the line. I meant to bring them in before the revival service, but time slipped away from me.”
She seemed breathless, eager to please, and was staring at him with that look again. Caleb decided to put a stop to it before she showed up in his room later with the towel. He was travel-weary, pressed for time and duty-bound to get her father to the jail in Austin. Abigail Horton was young, probably as innocent as she seemed, and a complication he didn’t need.
“Look, darlin’, although I appreciate your thoughtfulness, I want to make one thing clear. I’m not interested.”
Her brow furrowed as she peered up at him with big blue eyes. “You’re not interested in a clean towel?”
“I’m not interested in you,” Caleb said softly. He cringed as her face lost all color. But better this way than for her to take a serious liking to a man like him.
He turned toward the stairs and had cleared the first couple of steps when he heard somebody snicker. Abigail must have heard it, too, because when he glanced back, her face had regained the lost color…and then some. He spotted the culprit, a young man lounging in a chair tucked away in the darkest corner of the room.
Caleb was impressed by the girl’s reaction. She didn’t run, or cry. She lifted her chin and spoke calmly when she faced the man. “I didn’t hear you come in, Henry. How long have you been sitting there?”
The young man stood and sauntered closer to her. Though he wasn’t laughing now, there was a smirk on his face. “Long enough.”
Abigail lowered her head, and Caleb suspected she was hanging on to her pride by a thread. He couldn’t stand it. Telling himself it was a mistake even as he did it, he stepped back down the stairs, strode across the room, took her by the shoulders and kissed her.
She stared up at him, blinking rapidly, and swayed a little on her feet. Caleb steadied her, while his mind raced. He couldn’t tell her he’d done it because he felt sorry for her. So he told her the partial truth.
“My apologies,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t have done that, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
He turned toward the stairs, aware of the young man glaring at him—looking fit-to-kill—and the girl’s wide-eyed amazement. It wasn’t their reactions to the kiss that concerned him, though. It was his. As kisses went, it was brief, chaste and most certainly ill-advised…and it had rattled him clear down to his boots.
Caleb forced that thought away as he reached the top of the stairs and started down the hallway in search of room number five. A couple of wall lanterns with tin reflectors created a warm glow against the faded rose-patterned wallpaper. The wide plank flooring—worn from time and traffic—was spotless. He found his room at the far end of the hall, directly over the kitchen. It was as simple and clean as the rooms downstairs, with an iron bedstead, a single chair, a small chest of drawers and a rag rug beside the bed. A pitcher and bowl, again nothing fancy, sat atop the chest.
After living in a house filled with lace, tapestries, costly rugs, and furnishings that were more artwork than furniture, this room appealed to him. The whole place smelled like soap and wood polish. He longed to fall into the bed, draw the cotton sheet up over his eyes and sleep for hours, but there’d be time enough for that later.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Bob and Irene’s time was almost up. Voices drifted up to him as he started down. Abigail and the man she’d called Henry, he supposed. He couldn’t really hear what they were saying. And then he did.
“I don’t want to marry you, Henry.”
“I suppose you’ve had your head turned by that ranger…”
No! What had he done? Caleb took the rest of the stairs at a brisker pace, and passed through the parlor even faster. He didn’t even glance in the couple’s direction. He was getting out now, and wouldn’t return until everyone else was in bed. He’d be gone for good at first light. Hopefully the young woman would forget all about him.
Pushing open the kitchen door, he skidded to a stop. Irene Horton sat at the table, tears on her face. Bob Horton was nowhere to be seen.
Caleb slammed his hand down on the table. “Where is he?”
Mrs. Horton flinched. “At the jail, I suppose.” She gestured toward the back door. “I thought it was your doing.”
He bolted outside. There was no one in the alley. He returned to the kitchen. Would he be forced to arrest Mrs. Horton, too? “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Right after you left a man knocked at the back door, showed us his badge and said he was supposed to move Bob to the jail. I thought you’d changed your mind about letting us visit.”
Caleb groaned. “Did you recognize the man?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“I certainly hope it was somebody from the local jail, Mrs. Horton. If not, it doesn’t bode well for your husband at all.”
She was wringing her hands now. “Why?”
“Because there are a lot of people looking for him—people who aim to do a lot worse to him than put him in prison.”
“Why, what did he do?”
Caleb shook his head in amazement. Did she not know? “Your husband is one of the most notorious outlaws in all of Texas, ma’am. He’s made a lot of enemies…bankers, railroad companies, lawmen, even members of his own gang. He’s going on trial in Austin. He’ll probably be sentenced to life in prison.” Unless one of the people he’s wronged lynches him first.
“Gang?” Mrs. Horton’s voice was barely a whisper.
The word was repeated in a strangled cry from somewhere behind him. He turned to see Abigail Horton standing there, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. She crumpled to the floor.