The Rustler. Linda Lael Miller
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than anything, except maybe a pony,” Owen answered.
“Do you like school?” A thousand other questions still pounded in Sarah’s mind, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask them.
“It’s lonesome,” Owen said. “Especially at Christmas.”
Sarah stomach clenched, but she allowed none of what she felt to show in her face. “You stay at school over Christmas?”
“My mother doesn’t like me very much,” Owen confided. “And Grandmama always goes to stay with friends in the south of France when the weather starts getting cold.”
“Surely your mother loves you,” Sarah managed.
“No,” Owen insisted, shaking his head. “She says I’m a bastard.”
Sarah closed her eyes briefly, struggling with a tangle of emotions—anger, frustration, sorrow, and the most poignant yearning. So Marjory Langstreet did blame Owen for her husband’s indiscretions, as she’d always feared she might.
“My brothers aren’t bastards,” Owen went on, taking no apparent notice of Sarah’s reaction.
“Do you get along with them?” she asked, after biting her lower lip for a few moments, lest she say straight out what she thought of Marjory and all the rest of the Langstreets. “Your brothers, I mean?”
“They’re old,” Owen replied. “Probably as old as you.”
Sarah chuckled. “My goodness,” she said. “They must be doddering.”
“What’s doddering?”
Just then, her father appeared on the rear stairway leading down into the kitchen, clad in a smoking jacket and the military trousers Sarah had hidden earlier. His feet were bare, and his white hair stood out all around his head. He’d forgotten his spectacles, and he peered at Owen.
“Doddering,” he said, “is what I am. An old fool who can’t get around without somebody to hold him up.”
“Papa,” Sarah said, rising, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“Balderdash,” Ephriam snapped. “It’s still light out. Who’s the lad?”
“My name is Owen Langstreet, sir,” Owen said, standing respectfully in the presence of an elder. “Who are you?”
Don’t, Papa, Sarah pleaded silently. “This is my father, Ephriam Tamlin,” she said aloud.
“Those pants,” Owen observed, “are peculiar. How come they have yellow stripes down the side?”
“I wore these trousers in the great war,” Ephriam blustered. Then he saluted briskly. “You’re a mite small for a soldier. Reckon you must be a drummer boy.”
“Papa,” Sarah pleaded. “Please.”
“I smell supper cooking,” Ephriam told her. She’d fried chicken earlier; it was on a platter in the warming oven. “I’m hungry.”
“I’ll bring you a plate,” Sarah promised. “Just go back to bed.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Owen said.
A rap sounded at the back door, and Doc Venable let himself in. Spotting Ephriam standing there on the stairs, he tossed Sarah a sympathetic glance, let his eyes rest briefly on Owen, then went to usher his old friend to his room.
“How come Ephriam can’t eat with us?” Owen asked Sarah, when they’d gone. He looked so genuinely concerned that it was all Sarah could do not to reach out and ruffle his neatly brushed hair.
“He’s sick,” Sarah said.
“Why did he call me a drummer boy? I don’t have a drum.”
“Figure of speech,” Sarah answered.
At that instant, for good or ill, someone turned the bell knob at the front door, indicating the arrival of another supper guest.
“I’ll answer the door!” Owen said, and rushed off through the dining room.
Sarah gripped the back of a chair, swayed. She should have told Charles, when he invited himself to supper, that it wasn’t a good time for her to entertain. Her father was indisposed, and she was frantic with worry over the situation at the bank. But she’d wanted so to pass an evening in Owen’s company.
“It’s the deputy!” Owen shouted from the entry hall. “Should I let him in?”
Sarah laughed, though her eyes stung with tears. She hurried out of the kitchen and through the dining room.
Wyatt Yarbro stood smiling and spruced up just over the threshold. He wore a clean white shirt, black trousers, and polished boots, and the holster on his hip was empty. He’d dusted off his black hat, which he held politely in his hands, and his dark eyes danced with a sort of somber amusement.
“Do come in, Mr. Yarbro,” Sarah said. “This is my—nephew. Owen Langstreet.”
“We’ve met,” Mr. Yarbro said, stepping past the boy, who stared up at him in fascination.
“He’s not Wyatt Earp,” Owen said.
“I’m aware of that, Owen,” Sarah replied, gesturing toward the coat tree, with its many brass hooks. “Hang up your hat, Mr. Yarbro.”
Wyatt did as she’d asked.
An awkward silence fell.
“Let’s have a seat in the parlor,” Sarah said, flustered, leading the way.
Owen followed, and so did Wyatt.
“Nice place,” Wyatt said.
“She lives here with her papa,” Owen informed him, gravitating toward Sarah’s piano, which was her most prized possession. “He wears blue pants with yellow stripes on them and thinks I’m a drummer boy.”
“Is that so?” Wyatt asked affably, and when Sarah dared to look back over her shoulder, she saw that he was watching her, not the child.
“Sit down,” Sarah said. “Please. I’ll get some coffee.”
“No need,” Wyatt said, waiting until Sarah sank into her mother’s threadbare slipper chair before taking a seat on the settee. He was leanly built, but the house seemed smaller somehow, with him in it, and warmer.
Much warmer.
Owen perched on the piano stool. “May I spin?” he asked.
Wyatt chuckled.
“Spin all you want,” Sarah said, smiling a wobbly smile.
Owen moved the stool a few more inches from the piano, sat, gripped it with both hands, and used one foot to propel himself into blurry revolutions.
Sarah felt dizzy and had to look away, but her gaze went straight to Wyatt Yarbro, and that made her even dizzier. He’d shaved, and his cologne had a woodsy scent. His white shirt was open at the throat, and it was not only pressed, but starched, too.
Wyatt glanced curiously around the well-appointed, seldom-used room. “Where’s Mr. Langstreet?” he asked.
“He’s been delayed,” Sarah said.
Owen used his foot to stop the piano stool. He looked happily flushed, more like the little boy he was than the miniature man who blithely referred to himself as a “bastard.” “He got a telegram,” Owen said importantly.
“Imagine that,” Wyatt said, though not unkindly.
“In Philadelphia, we have a telephone,” Owen added.
“Don’t hold with telephones myself,” Wyatt replied, mischief sparking in his dark eyes. “I figure if folks have something to say to each other, they ought to write it in a letter or meet up, face-to-face.”