Girl with a Gun Page 13

  Heat rose to Annie’s cheeks. She’d never get used to this adulation. “What’s your name?” she asked the little girl.

  “Rose.”

  “Well, Rose, you look like you could be a cowgirl in the show.” Annie bent down to peer into the girl’s eyes. She didn’t have to go far; the girl stood almost as tall as she. “Do you want to learn how to shoot?”

  “I help my daddy shoot squirrels and rabbits in the forest.” Rose’s smile revealed several missing baby teeth.

  “Well,” Annie said, widening her eyes. “I did the very same thing when I was about your age. Perhaps you could be a sharpshooter for Buffalo Bill when you get a little older.”

  The girl giggled, holding her hand over her missing teeth, reminding Annie of her own siblings, John Henry and Hulda, at home. Annie hadn’t had time to figure out what she would do about the situation at the farm, or about Kimi, or Frank, or Bobby. And now, with Twila threatening her . . .

  The girl’s mother leaned closer to speak to Annie, her voice hushed.

  “I just want you to know, we don’t believe that story printed in the papers. You keep your chin up.”

  “Thank you,” Annie said, pleased at the woman’s sincerity. Someone bumped her from behind. She turned to see an elderly man.

  “Miss Oakley, I sure do love to watch you shoot.” Toothless as the little girl, he offered his hand, and Annie shook it.

  A boy held out a school primer and asked her to sign the inside cover, also handing her a feathered pen. The din of noise and the crush of the crowd—and worrying about Frank and her family—pressed in on Annie, and she gritted her teeth against the panic starting to take hold. Just breathe.

  “Hey, Miss Oakley.” A skinny, scrappy-faced, older teenage boy shouldered his way through the crowd and raised his chin in her direction. “How about a tumble?” He snickered to the men standing near him.

  “Show some respect, boy,” the older man said.

  The teenager snickered again, quickly raising and lowering his eyebrows at Annie. She swallowed hard, wanting to deny the rumors, wanting to explain her innocence, but she held her tongue, not giving the boy the dignity of a response. When he leered again, the older man shoved the boy, jostling a few others standing nearby.

  “Hey!” someone shouted. “Knock it off.”

  The crowd stirred, people started shouting and shoving one another.

  Fists started to fly. An arm slipped around Annie’s waist and pulled her away from the chaos—Bobby. He held his arm out in front of him and pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, finally breaking free when a woman’s shrill scream pierced the air.

  Everyone stopped and turned to see where the horrendous sound originated.

  The scream came from the stands.

  This time, Annie grabbed Bobby’s hand and pulled him toward the shrieking woman, pushing and shoving through the throng of people. They soon spotted her, holding her hands over her face, wailing. The man next to her sat slumped over on the wooden bench, blood streaking down his face and into his open eyes.

  Annie rushed to the trembling woman and with gentle arms, pulled her away from the body, pressing her tightly to her side

  “Oh, good Lord,” Bobby said.

  “What? What is it, Bobby?” Annie strained over the woman’s shoulder to see.

  “It’s the Colonel’s old partner, Dick Carver. He’s dead. He’s been shot in the back of the head, near the neck. Someone either shot from up top in the bleachers or just behind him.”

  Annie patted the woman, trying to calm her violent sobs. She cried so hard that Annie worried she’d throw them both off balance and they’d both tumble down the steps. She coaxed the woman to sit down, and they sank onto the bench together.

  “Bobby, you go get Mr. LeFleur, I’ll stay here with her and the”—she cast a glance at the upright corpse—“Mr. Carver.”

  Bobby steadied the body and stood up, facing the crowd of people who’d come to gawk. “Folks, please stand back. Please, don’t anybody touch him. Everybody, just go on about your business.”

  People stood around, murmuring to each other about what could have happened. Several women sniveled into handkerchiefs, their spouses consoling them.

  “Are you all right here, Miss Oakley?” Bobby cast a glance at Annie.

  “I’m fine, Bobby. Please go get Mr. LeFleur. Hurry.” She peeked down at the woman she held in her arms. The woman’s hat had fallen off, spilling her cottony hair onto her shoulders.

  “Were any of you here with Mr. Carver?” Annie asked those standing around them. “Did anyone see what happened?” The gawkers shook their heads no and began to saunter away.

  “He was sitting right next to me the whole time.” The woman lifted her head. “I didn’t hear anything. Didn’t notice anything, until we got up to go down the stairs after the show. Then he just sort of fell over against me.”

  She started trembling again, so Annie pulled her in tighter.

  “You’re going to be fine. Help is on its way.” Hurry up, Mr. LeFleur.

  Moments later, LeFleur appeared, winded from his climb up the stairs, his face ashen. The Colonel followed, right on LeFleur’s heels.

  “Carver! What the hell was he doing here?”

  Twila and Bobby bounded up the steps, and Twila immediately rushed to the woman in Annie’s arms. She knelt down next to her, holding some green and brown herbs close to the woman’s nose.

  “Here, take a whiff of this. It will restore you.”

  Annie released her hold on the woman so she could breathe in deeply. The woman blinked her eyes several times, then straightened.

  “Yes, yes. I do feel better.” She looked at Twila with gratitude and Twila trained her eyes on Annie.

  “I will take her now.”

  Annie couldn’t imagine that Twila would harm the woman, so released her grip and helped the woman stand. Twila then took the woman’s arm, and they inched their way down the steps.

  “Is someone going to get the sheriff or something?” Bobby asked.

  “We’ll have to.” The Colonel swiped a hand across his forehead. “I’ll have one of the boys ride into town to get him. Meanwhile, I don’t want people gawking at him.” He paused, shook his head. “This is most unfortunate—and very bad publicity, so let’s go ahead and move Mr. Carver into my tent.”

  LeFleur, who would normally jump into action, seemed paralyzed by the sight. Sweat glistened on his pasty forehead. His lips, nearly white, trembled.

  The Colonel leaned over to pull Dick Carver up from the bench and turned to LeFleur. “Derence. A hand here?”

  LeFleur snapped out of his paralysis, and together they lifted the body to standing. The Colonel leaned into Carver’s stomach, hefting him over his shoulder. Annie winced as blood splattered onto the Colonel’s immaculate buckskin tunic and the footboard of the wooden stands.

  Struggling with his load, the Colonel made his way down the stairs, LeFleur trailing behind, his face frozen in fear.

  “Mr. LeFleur, you don’t look well,” Annie said as he passed her.

  “I . . . uh . . . haven’t seen a death like this since the war.”

  Annie knew full well that the men who fought in the Civil War had seen terrible things. Her father would scream in his sleep, often get up from bed and wait for morning, afraid to dream again.

  “You okay, Miss Oakley?” Bobby asked.

  Annie tried to smile. “Yes, Bobby. Thank you. Are you?”

  Bobby’s jaw flexed. The Adam’s apple in his neck bobbed as he swallowed.

  “It just brings back the pain.” He rubbed his forehead. “Nobody in the show died before. Now we’ve had two since we got to St. Louis.” He looked down at his hands and picked at a callus on one of his palms.

  Annie tried to ignore the sinking sensation in her stomach, tried to ignore the feeling that she might be the catalyst that started the downward spiral of the show—starting with Buck’s illness, then Twila’s jealousy, then McCrimmon’s m
ischief, and now possibly two murders. Though not entirely sure that someone murdered Kimi, she knew for absolute certain that somebody wanted Mr. Carver in the ground.

  Her stomach in knots, Annie felt a desperate need to see Buck. If he were well enough, she’d saddle him up and take a twilight ride to clear her head. Buck, nature, and solitude always calmed her down.

  But first she’d try to find Frank to find out what happened with him. She brushed past the remaining onlookers and made her way to his tent.

  “Frank, it’s Annie. Are you in there?” She pressed her sweaty palms together and rubbed them on her skirt, now ruined with blood splatters and smears from the woman’s hands. She heard rustling inside and then he appeared, sticking his head outside the opening.

  His crestfallen expression broke her heart. He looked utterly defeated.

  “Won’t you come in?” he said, his voice flat. He turned and headed back inside.

  Should she go in? Would it be proper? To hell with propriety.

  She stepped into the darkness of his tent—all the window flaps had been closed and a pall hung in the air.

  Frank’s appearance startled her. Usually impeccably attired, one of his shirttails hung over his leather belt, the other still tucked in his pants. His thick hair, normally groomed and tidy, stood up and out at awkward angles as if he’d raked his hands through it in anguish.

  A small lantern glowed dimly upon a table, illuminating an open, half-empty whiskey bottle and a glass full of the amber liquid. Frank made his way over to the table and sat down, flung a leg up onto the tabletop, picked up the glass, and cradled it in his lap.

  “What’s all the commotion out there?” His raised the glass to his lips.

  “There’s been a murder,” Annie said, too traumatized to say more.

  “Murder?” He pulled his head back, his brows furrowed in confusion.

  Annie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable standing, but couldn’t see anywhere to sit except the bed, and that seemed inappropriate. Suddenly exhausted, she raised a hand to her forehead, dizziness making her knees weak.

  “Forgive me.” Frank jumped up. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Please, sit here.”

  Relieved, she made her way over to the chair while Frank quickly neatened up the table, corked the whiskey bottle, and set it in an open trunk.

  “What’s this you said about murder?”

  “Someone shot Dick Carver in the head while he was in the stands, in the stadium. It must have been when all the shooting was going on, because no one seemed to notice until almost everyone had left.”

  Frank plopped down on the bed, the palm of his hand pressed against the right side of his forehead. Annie noticed that his usually bright eyes looked bloodshot and bleary. How much had he had to drink?

  “Dick Carver. Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Do you know that he used to be business partners with the Colonel?” “Yes, a long time ago.”

  “The Colonel said he thought Carver might be behind the story about me. Said he’s been out to get the Colonel for years. I still think the story was Vernon McCrimmon’s handiwork.”

  “McCrimmon wouldn’t have the clout to get someone to print that story. He’s just an old sot. He’d have to have help.” Frank rested one of his elbows on his thigh.

  Annie thought about telling him about Twila talking with McCrimmon earlier that day, but thinking about it made her head hurt—and she couldn’t bear to hear Frank take up for Twila once again. She only wanted to soothe Frank’s wounds.

  “I’m so sorry about today, the performance.”

  “I’m finished.” Frank shook his head and rested both elbows on his knees, training his eyes to the ground. “They only dressed me down this time, but one more day like today and they’ll cut me out of the show for sure. I’ve been skating along, even before I competed against you in that contest in Greenville.”

  “No.” Annie sprang from the chair and rushed to the bed. She sat next to him and placed a gentle hand on his broad shoulders.

  “What is it, Frank? Why did you miss?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He straightened up and locked his eyes on hers. “I don’t want to talk at all.”

  Frank reached for her, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, and pressed his warm, soft lips against hers. Her heart pounded, and she could feel the rhythmic rush of blood pulsating in her ears. She pushed him away, bolted to a standing position, and pressed her hands against her corset, gasping.

  Frank stood and gently placed a hand on each of her arms. “I’m sorry, Annie, I frightened you.”

  “I’m not frightened. You didn’t frighten me.”

  Frank wrapped his arms around her waist and held her so close she felt her body melding into his. She sank against him, not caring about anything else in the world except his body, his breath, his hands.

  He kissed her again.

  Annie knew she was lost—forever.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Local Man Vernon McCrimmon Missing. Last Seen Two Weeks Ago at North Star Mercantile, Owner Mr. Shaw Says McCrimmon Threatened Him with His Life.”

  Greenville Gazette – April 18, 1884

  Annie woke and opened her eyes to see Frank sleeping peacefully beside her. Her stomach plummeted. She’d just shared intimate relations with a man out of wedlock. It flew in the face of everything she’d ever believed in. What had happened to her? She’d let her fame and celebrity overtake her good judgment, making her someone she didn’t know. A fornicator. How could she have betrayed her beliefs?

  She crawled out of the bed, pulling the sheet with her to cover her body.

  “Hey,” Frank said, drowsiness in his voice. “Where are you going?” “I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t have done this.” Annie couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice.

  Lord knew if word got out about this, her reputation would be doomed forever. She thought about the article that had recently been printed about her, and her stomach flipped again, her throat went dry.

  She’d compromised everything. She had given in to her weakness for Frank. What would her mother think of her? Her poor mother, alone, was pining over a man who’d done nothing but cause her heartache. She’d be so ashamed. Susan didn’t raise her daughters to give themselves to the first man who’d made them breathless.

  She knew in her heart she loved Frank, but this was wrong.

  Annie pulled the sheet tighter around her body, embarrassed at her own wantonness. Where were her clothes? Her boots? Panic rose in her chest. She had to get out of here. She hoped and prayed no one would notice her leave, but before she could, she had to be dressed. Perfectly, like before. Where was that blouse?

  “Not yet. Don’t leave.” Frank’s arms slipped around her waist. He tried to pull her back onto the bed.

  Annie wriggled out of his embrace, her heart thudding in her ears and heat crawling up her neck. How could she have done something so careless?

  “Please, Frank. Let me go.”

  “C’mon. Just for a while longer.”

  “No!”

  Frank’s smile fell. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Where is my skirt?” She walked around the bed, her sweating hands gripping harder at the sheet.

  “Annie, why are you upset?”

  She stopped searching and looked him full in the face.

  “This was wrong. We never should have done this. I have people depending on me, I should never . . .”

  Frank sat up, leaning his weight on the palm of his hand.

  “Annie, just because you have people depending on you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be happy.”

  She spied her blouse on the floor at the foot of the bed and swiped it up.

  “I am no better than that article that was printed about me. It’s shameful what I’ve done. I hardly know you. I can’t believe I walked away from Friend Easton. He was ready to spend his life with me—the right way, not taking me to his bed the first
chance he got.”

  “Easton? Who’s Easton?” he asked.

  “Never mind.”

  She fumbled her way into her shift without letting the sheet drop. She grabbed her corset off the floor. Dear God, what a mess. Her shame overwhelmed her like water breaking free from a dam.

  “Annie.” Frank got out of the bed. “I think you are overreacting. I love you. This isn’t wrong.”

  Annie found her petticoats and grasped them to her stomach. He loved her. She couldn’t look up at him but instead stepped into her bloomers, still grasping the sheet. Frank chuckled and she glanced up at him, appalled.

  “What is so funny?” Couldn’t he see she had ruined her life? He’d ruined her life. What if she carried his child?

  “Honey, you’re overreacting.”

  Fury rose in her chest up to her throat, making her choke.

  “Don’t you ‘honey’ me! You don’t understand. This is not me. I have to get out of here. Where is my skirt? Put your pants on, for heaven’s sake.”

  Frank raised his hands in surrender and grabbed the pants that he had carefully hung on the bedpost and pulled them on. How had he been so meticulous in their passion? She couldn’t find anything. She’d never get herself pulled together. Frenzied, she looked under the bed, near the chair, next to the table. Where was that skirt?

  Unable to keep it together any longer, she slumped to the floor, sobbing. How had she made such a mess of things?

  Frank knelt down beside her. His warm, strong hands pulled her up, and he held her close to his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart comforted her as she cried into his shirt.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “I’ll make this right. No one has to know, Annie. We can keep this secret until we can get married. I can wait for you.”

  She pulled back. “You want to marry me?”

  “Yes, I do. Will you?”

  She released herself from his grip. “I—I—”

  “Don’t answer now. We both have enough to manage at the moment. We can worry about it later.”

  She sniffed loudly, remembering that her faith preached that true happiness and joy in marriage depends first on devoted love, a love that is not about just a passing attraction, but that includes real respect for the whole person. Didn’t she and Frank have that?