“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Camellia, who had gotten her breath back, shifted to add her own voice in support. “Why, Ben, dear, I think that’s a marvelous idea! She has all sorts of experience, she knows what would be good for the town, and what wouldn’t. And just think how progressive we would be considered. Why, new residents would want to move here in droves.”
“Huh. Or move away. And we’d be considered a laughingstock, more like.” His tone was as gloomy as his turned-down mouth. “Hone
y, this wouldn’t work. You ladies just gotta take under advisement that—”
“What, Ben?” Hannah, rising to start clearing scraped dishes with a clatter and a bang, refused to give any quarter on this issue. “That we are inferior in some way?”
Much beset, he was about ready to crawl under the table to escape this hornet’s nest he had unwittingly stirred up. “No, no, o’ course I didn’t mean that. You shouldn’t be takin’ words outa—”
“Then don’t be thinking those words. You have no other candidates for the seat that Mr. Cutter vacated, have you?”
“Uh...not at this very moment,” Ben ventured cautiously. “But I’m sure somebody’ll come forward to put their name into the hat. We just had some hot tempers that night, and—”
“Simply think how a lady’s calming presence will keep those hot tempers at bay,” piped up Camellia from her settee. “And imagine the whole different perspective an intelligent woman will bring to any problems that arise. Hen, this is a brilliant idea. Please let Abby know that I will support her in her campaign, and I’m sure that my sweetheart Ben will, too, once he’s had time to think over the proposition.”
Her sweetheart Ben let out a groan. “If that don’t beat all. You’re gonna have me hornswoggled and henpecked b’fore I’m thirty, I do declare.”
Hannah couldn’t hold back a giggle. Then, relenting, she turned from the sink to lay a comforting, reassuring hand upon her brother-in-law’s hunched shoulder. “Cheer up, Ben. It could be worse. Abigail could consider running for the position of town mayor.”
Chapter Fifteen
AT NEARLY NOON ON FRIDAY, February 17th, a stagecoach for the Southern Belle Line, Inc., driven by Sam Tucker on his weekly run, came thundering into Turnabout as if Old Scratch himself might be following right behind. It was a cavalcade more unusual than most: Sam’s trademark battered Stetson had disappeared, his shotgun partner was nowhere in sight, the coats of all six harnessed horses wore swathes of white froth, and a saddled horse was tied to the rear boot.
“A little help here!” he yelled, sawing on the reins to drag his beleaguered team to a halt in front of Norton’s Livery. “Hey! Who’s around?”
The owner, looking cross, strolled out of the building with one arm stuck in the sleeve of his jacket and one arm trying to work irself free. “Well, I’m around, Sam, as you can see. I could tell you to hold your hosses, but—”
“Not funny, Abel. Hasten your lazy hindquarters over here, we got ourselves men shot.”
“Shot? Whatddya mean?”
“You deaf? C’mon, shake a leg.” Sam was hastily clambering down with a creak of leather, a clatter of boots, and a thump and bang to every wooden fixture he encountered; by the time he reached the ground, Abel was already yanking open the door to peer inside.
Three male bodies lay sprawled haphazardly on both seats and the floor, and blood the color of iron rust seemed to have been splashed everywhere by someone wielding a macabre paintbrush.
“Good golly almighty,” gulped Abel, turning pale. “Are they all dead?”
“Not—quite...yet...” grunted one of the bodies, struggling to a semi-upright position. “Go get—fetch Letty—Barclay. And the sheriff. Hurry—Abel...gotta have—assistance...”
And Abel, recognizing the voice of authority, fled.
“C’mere, Doc,” said Sam, pushing his way forward. “Let’s get you outa this mess.”
Paul Winslow arrived at the way station / livery within a record five minutes, no easy feat for a man running in high-heeled boots meant more for the fit of stirrups. He skidded to a stop in front of the individual half-sitting, half-lying on the uncomfortable but convenient iron bench provided for customers.
“Gabe.” Squatting on his heels, he eyed the mess of gore staining the doctor’s suit coat and shirt front. “How bad?”
Gabriel managed to peel back one eyelid for a squint of recognition. “Reckon I’ll—live,” he panted. “Took one—in the upper chest, somewheres... Can’t tell, mighta hit—a lung... Letty—comin’—?”
“Sent Abel for her, over to your house first. I’m no doc, Gabriel, but it looks like a clean shot. You ain’t spittin’ up bloody froth. Think you can talk?”
“Gimme somea your best—bourbon...and I’ll letcha—know.”
A sideways jerk of Paul’s head indicated the stagecoach, where Sam had already begun to unfasten harness, since a public official was now taking over the nastier business of this day. Each of the exhausted horses—especially that of the gunman’s, trailing behind—needed a good rubdown and some water before release into the rear corral, and Sam was grimly intent upon doing his duty by the overtaxed animals, no matter what the outcome for wounded humans.
“In a minute, Gabe. Anybody else inside?”