The Winter Pearl. Molly Bull Noble
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working at the saloon. When the bartender wasn’t looking, he snatched a few drinks. During his supper break, he printed a sign on a piece of wood with some black paint he found in the storeroom.
He kept a close eye on Mitch. When Lucas saw the bartender escort a rowdy drunk outside, Lucas took a hammer, nails and the wooden sign, and sneaked to the pine wall at the front of the saloon where other signs were posted, looking for an available spot. A vacant square of discolored wall was right in front of the door.
Lucas nailed his sign to the wall with one whack of the hammer. Then he crept back to the kitchen and started washing dishes.
When the saloon closed for the night, Lucas stepped up to the bar to get his pay. Mitch handed him a few small coins.
“Is that all I get?” Lucas asked.
“Sorry, Scythe. I saw you steal drinks when you thought I wasn’t lookin’.”
“Have a heart, Mitch, and give me a whole bottle. I reckon I’ll do anything to get it,” Lucas wheedled. “Why, I’ll promise to come in early tomorrow and work until closing time again if you’ll give me a bottle of whiskey. Is that a deal?”
“You think you know how to get what you want, don’t ya.” Mitch shook his head like someone who didn’t want to believe what he’d just seen and heard. “All right, I guess I could give you one bottle. But you better be here tomorrow. Early.”
“You can count on me.”
Lucas rode home, chugging down whiskey as he went. He finished the bottle before falling into bed. With nothing in his belly but liquor, he fell asleep immediately.
Honor opened her eyes and sat up. She was in a bed in a clean room, but had no idea how she’d gotten there. A sharp pain in her head and a wave of nausea caused her to consider lying back down, but she didn’t want to give in to the discomfort.
Rose-print curtains framed the windows, and a cool breeze came into the small bedroom. A cast-iron stove stood in one corner, with a stack of wood nearby, but no warming fire blazed in it to take the chill from the air.
Glancing around, Honor noted a carved, wooden headboard, and a rose-cushioned chair with oak arms, placed beside the bed as if a guest was expected. A middle-aged woman of average build suddenly appeared in the doorway. She had salt-and-pepper hair and wore a white apron over a dark blue dress.
“Good morning,” she said in a welcoming tone. “I’m Regina Peters, the reverend’s mother.”
Honor blinked. “Is it still morning?”
“It’s morning, all right,” came the cheerful reply, with a sunny smile. “But you arrived yesterday around noon.”
“Yesterday?” Honor pressed a hand against her forehead and felt some sort of bandage. She wanted answers—explanations, though she barely felt able to ask questions.
“What happened to me?” She lay back against the soft pillow.
“You were on the stagecoach coming from Falling Rock when the stage was robbed,” the woman said. “Afterward, they brought you to Hearten, to my boardinghouse to rest up, and I dressed you in one of my nightgowns.”
Although she’d never seen Mrs. Peters before, there was something about her that reminded Honor of Aunt Harriet. Maybe it was the warmth in her gray eyes and the way the edges of her mouth lifted when she smiled. There was kindness in the woman’s face—just as there had been in Aunt Harriet’s—and Honor felt drawn to her.
At the thought of her late aunt, a wave of sadness swept over Honor. Her beloved only relative had died, and Honor had run away from…
Lucas. She sat up in bed again, her heart pounding.
Mrs. Peters came to the bedside and pressed her hand gently on Honor’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Nothing,” Honor answered quickly. “Has anyone been asking for me?”
“No. But if you’re upset, I can’t blame you. Bumps on the head are no fun. Being robbed isn’t, either.”
“Robbed?” Honor’s hands began to shake. “Was I robbed?”
Mrs. Peters nodded.
Honor remembered getting out of the stagecoach, but nothing after that. She’d planned to mail whatever money she had left back to the church in Falling Rock, but now she had nothing and no way to begin to repay what she’d stolen.
“I know you must have a lot of questions,” Mrs. Peters said softly. “And I’m sure my son will answer every one of them just as soon as he gets back to the house.”
“Where is Reverend Peters?”
“He went over to our church to check on things. A preacher’s work is never done. But he’ll be back before you know it. The church is just down the road.” Mrs. Peters patted Honor’s shoulder again. “Why don’t you lie down and try to rest until he gets here? Or would you like something to eat? I have warm chicken soup in the kitchen. Would you like some?”
Honor shook her head. “Maybe later. But thank you for asking.”
“You know,” Mrs. Peters said, “according to my son, you’re a very nice person.”
“Me?” Honor put her hand to her chest.
Mrs. Peters nodded. “My son is a pretty good judge of character, and I just know he’s right about you.”
What would Mrs. Peters say if she knew Honor had robbed the collection plate from a church? The preacher might think he was a good judge of people, but he wasn’t. Nobody knew that better than Honor.
Chapter Four
Honor woke the second time that day to the scent of roses. A white vase filled with flowers sat on a table at the end of her bed. She guessed that Mrs. Peters had brought in the arrangement while she slept. When she heard a noise in the hallway she turned her gaze to the doorway.
Jeth Peters entered the room. “So, how are you feeling?” he asked warmly.
“Fine.” Honor tried to return his smile, but all she could think about was how stiff he looked. With his hands behind his back and his legs planted apart, he reminded her of a toy soldier—one of the tin men she played with as a child.
She liked the look of his dark curly hair and his blue eyes, but he seemed so self-conscious and uncomfortable in her presence. Could it be that all preachers turned into toy soldiers when alone in a room with a woman? Honor pulled the covers higher on her neck lest he become even more embarrassed.
“You took a big whack on the head,” Jeth said. “We’ve been worried about you.”
We? Who did he mean? Could Lucas have come here while she was sleeping? A chill ran down her back. “Who’s ‘we’?” she asked.
“Me, my mother, Mr. and Mrs. Carr, the stagecoach driver, and almost everybody else in Hearten.” He moved to the table at the end of her bed and pulled a pink rose from the arrangement. “Mama sure likes flowers. In the spring and summer her garden is full of them.” Jeth offered her the rose.
Honor waved a hand, refusing his gift. Lucas had given her aunt flowers whenever he’d wanted something in return. Honor had nothing to give.
As Jeth continued to hold out the pink flower, she saw that it was made of silk. So the scent she’d noted was rosewater. How had she not realized such an obvious fact immediately?
Honor looked back at Jeth. “Would you mind telling me exactly what happened? I still don’t remember much.”
Jeth returned the flower to the vase. Facing her, he again stuck his hands behind his back. “When you got off the stage, one of the outlaws caught you trying to hide your money and hit you over the head with the butt of his gun. Our entire congregation is praying for you.”
“Was