Violent Sunday Read online

  “Well?” Victoria said. “Cat got your tongue, Tyler?”

  She was playing with him, he told himself. She knew good and well what all his hemming and hawing had been leading up to. But she had a mischievous streak in her, and she was enjoying his discomfort.

  It was a beautiful Texas summer night, warm without being too oppressively humid. A honeysuckle bush grew at the end of the porch, and its sweet fragrance filled the air. A couple of night birds sang in the oak trees in the yard. You could look for a year and not find a more perfect evening for what Beaumont had in mind.

  So why couldn’t he just go ahead and spit it out before the damned ring burned a hole in his pocket?

  “Really, Tyler,” Victoria said as the smile disappeared from her face and was replaced by a solemn expression, “if you have something to say to me, you should just go ahead and say it. It’s all right, really.”

  Beaumont took a deep breath and blurted out, “Victoria, will you marry me?” Then, before she could reply, he went on. “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry. I did it all wrong, didn’t I? I’m so blamed stupid—” He slipped off the swing and went to one knee in front of her. As he caught hold of her hands, he hurried on. “Victoria, will you do me the honor—I’d be the luckiest man in the world if you said—I mean—” He gulped. He couldn’t help it. Trying again, he said, “Victoria, will you make me the happiest man in the world by doing me the honor of becoming my wife?” The words all came out of him in a rush.

  She smiled down at him, squeezed his hands, and said softly, “Tyler, I would have said yes if you’d stopped after asking me the first time.”

  His eyes widened and he started to let out a whoop of joy, but then he stopped suddenly as something occurred to him. “You said you would have said yes. Does that mean you won’t say yes now?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “By that, do you mean—”

  She slipped her hands out of his and laid them gently on either side of his face as she leaned down toward him. “I mean yes, I’ll marry you,” she whispered, and then she kissed him.

  It was a good thing his mouth was occupied right then and for a while afterward, or else he probably would have whooped and disturbed some of the neighbors. Some folks hereabouts still went to bed with the chickens.

  * * *

  Later, after he had put the ring on her finger and they had admired it for a while as they sat on the swing, Victoria said, “Have you asked my father’s permission yet?”

  Beaumont scratched his head. “Well, no, now that you mention it, I haven’t. I reckon I probably should have done that first.”

  “Yes, he’s rather an old-fashioned man. Go talk to him now, and he won’t have to know you’ve already asked me.”

  “Lordy, what if he says no?” Beaumont asked, his eyes widening in horror at the thought.

  Victoria laughed softly. “He won’t. I can practically guarantee it.”

  “Practically?”

  She gave him a little shove on the arm. “Go on. You can do it. He won’t bite you.”

  Beaumont wasn’t so sure about that. Judge Isaiah Monfore had a pretty fearsome reputation. That reputation had grown even more when he had survived being kidnapped and tortured by some of his political enemies.

  Still, there was no point in postponing the confrontation. Beaumont put his hands on his knees and heaved himself off the swing.

  He was short, no denying that. Some might even call him sawed-off, because he barely reached five and a half feet in stature. But his shoulders were broad and muscular, and he knew how to handle himself in times of trouble. It was said of the Texas Rangers that they could ride like Comanches, shoot like Tennesseans, and fight like the very devil. Tyler Beaumont met all three of those qualifications.

  He paused at the front door and looked back at Victoria. She nodded encouragement to him. Beaumont drew another deep breath, opened the door, and went inside.

  In life, he supposed, the challenges just kept on a-comin’.

  He found Victoria’s parents in the parlor. Both Judge Monfore and Mercy were reading as they sat in wing chairs. Mercy looked up at Beaumont and smiled. She had the same jet-black hair as her daughter, although it had a white streak in it, and she was nearly as beautiful as Victoria.

  “Hello, Tyler,” she greeted him warmly.

  Beaumont stood there awkwardly turning his hat in his hands. “Miz Monfore,” he said with a nod. “Judge.”

  The white-bearded jurist gravely returned the young Texas Ranger’s nod. “Beaumont,” he said. “How are you this evening?”

  “I’m fine, sir.” Better than fine, he thought, but only if you say it’s all right for me to marry your daughter.

  For a second, the thought that Victoria wasn’t really the judge’s daughter flitted through Beaumont’s mind. He knew there was a possibility Frank Morgan had fathered Victoria. But Isaiah Monfore had raised her, and while blood mattered, so did that.

  Beaumont pushed those musings away. They had nothing to do with what was going on here and now.

  “Is Victoria still on the porch?” Mercy asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. I, uh, I wanted to talk to the judge.”

  Mercy laid her book aside and stood up gracefully. “I believe I’ll step out for a breath of air. It’s a perfectly lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “Yes’m. Perfectly.”

  She smiled at Beaumont and left the room. She was a sharp lady and had to know what was going on, Beaumont thought. And judging by her attitude, she approved.

  Judge Monfore laid a ribbon marker in the thick, leather-bound volume he was reading and closed the book. “What is it you wish to speak to me about, young man?”

  “Well, sir . . . I reckon you know how I feel about your daughter—”

  “No,” Monfore broke in. “You tell me.”

  Beaumont wasn’t expecting that, but he didn’t know what to do except tell the truth and plunge right ahead. “I love her to pieces, sir,” he said. “I want to marry her and love her and take care of her for the rest of our lives.” He paused as the judge regarded him intently. “I’m asking for your permission, sir, and for your blessing.”

  For a long moment, Monfore didn’t say anything. When he finally spoke, there was a sharp edge to his voice. “You don’t expect me to approve of this union because of what you and Frank Morgan did for me and my family, do you?”

  “No, sir,” Beaumont said forthrightly. “I want you to approve of it because I love Victoria, and she loves me.”

  The stern expression on Monfore’s bearded face softened slightly. “She does, does she?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s no doubt of that in my mind.”

  “Nor in my wife’s mind. We’ve discussed the matter, and she has spoken to Victoria. We know your feelings are genuine.”

  Beaumont sensed there was a “but” coming. “That’s all that matters, isn’t it, sir?”

  “No, it’s not,” Monfore snapped. “You’re a lawman. You have a dangerous profession. If my daughter marries you, she runs the risk of becoming a widow.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Your Honor, but it seems to me that every woman who gets married runs that risk sooner or later.”

  “Don’t call me Your Honor. We’re not in court.” Monfore sat forward in his chair. “You know precisely what I mean, Beaumont. Don’t bandy words. What if I say to you that if you want to marry Victoria, you’ll have to give up being a Ranger?”

  Beaumont’s hands tightened on his hat, crumpling the brim. He hadn’t expected that from the judge at all. Give up being a Ranger? His pa had been a Ranger, and the proudest day in Beaumont’s life had been the day he first pinned on that star-in-a-circle. The only thing that could possibly make him prouder was marrying Victoria. And yet, could he trade one for the other? Could he just walk away from the life he had chosen for himself?

  “Well, sir, I’d just say that was mighty damned unfair of you.”

  He didn’t know where he got the courage for th
at blunt statement, but there it was. The words were out. He couldn’t call them back.

  The judge’s voice lashed at him. “You won’t turn in your badge?”

  “No, sir. Hell, no.”

  Their eyes dueled fiercely for a moment, and then Monfore grunted. “Good,” he said as he sat back again. “I won’t have my little girl marrying a man who doesn’t know how to stick by his guns.”

  Beaumont blinked, not quite sure he understood. “Sir? Are you saying—”

  “I’m saying that while I might wish Victoria had chosen a young man in a less hazardous line of work . . . she didn’t.” Monfore shook his head and smiled for the first time since Beaumont had come into the room. “I won’t stand in your way, son. You have my permission, and my blessing.”

  Beaumont tried not to babble. “Thank you, sir. And Mrs. Monfore—”

  The judge waved a hand. “You don’t have to worry about Mercy. She and Victoria are probably out there on the porch planning the wedding right now. You’d better get back out there if you want to have any say in what’s going to happen.” Monfore chuckled. “Not that you will, anyway. Might as well learn that right now if you’re going to get married.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Beaumont backed toward the door.

  “Go on, get to it!”

  Beaumont practically ran out of the room.

  He found Victoria and her mother sitting on the swing. Mercy stood up and said, “I believe you must have something to ask my daughter, Tyler.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “I’ll leave you two alone, then.” As she passed Beaumont, she whispered, “And I won’t say anything to the judge about what went on out here earlier.”

  Beaumont’s face was hot from blushing as he sat down beside Victoria. “You told her I already asked you?” he said to her.

  “I didn’t have to. All she did was take one look at me, and she knew. But she’s not upset. You set everything right, Tyler.” She snuggled against him and laid her head on his shoulder so that the maddeningly sweet scent of her hair filled his senses. “Everything.”

  Beaumont put his arm around her shoulders and held her and wondered how a man could ever be more content than he was right now.

  But as so often happened, even in moments of pure happiness, a worry reared its head. Beaumont frowned and said, “I reckon we’ll invite a lot of people to the wedding, won’t we?”

  “Of course. I’m so happy I want to share it with all my friends and family.”

  “What about Frank?”

  He felt her stiffen at the question. She hesitated and then said, “We all owe Mr. Morgan a great deal. It . . . it wouldn’t be right not to invite him.”

  “You don’t think it would make you . . . uncomfortable. . . for him to be there?”

  “He’s your best friend.” The conviction in her voice grew stronger. “Of course you have to invite him. Do you know how to get in touch with him?”

  “He was going to wire me and let me know where he was, but he never did. Reckon he’s been drifting so much he never got around to it. Maybe he just hasn’t lit anywhere yet. I can put out the word, though. I know the general direction he was headed when he left here. It shouldn’t take long for a message to catch up to him. A couple of weeks, maybe less. I hope.”

  “Then you see, you don’t have to worry. It’ll take at least a month to plan the wedding. There’ll be plenty of time to find Mr. Morgan and for him to get here.”

  “And you don’t think it’ll bother your folks—”

  “You let me worry about them. But I don’t believe it will be a problem, Tyler. I really don’t.”

  He drew her tighter against him and sighed in relief. “Good.”

  And yet, the possibility of the judge or Mrs. Monfore being uncomfortable about having Morgan at the wedding wasn’t the only worry, Beaumont thought. Like it or not, Frank Morgan had a certain reputation. Sometimes that notoriety caused trouble. Beaumont had witnessed it himself on numerous occasions.

  But not this one, he told himself. Fate meant for him and Victoria to be together, and their union would be a joyous occasion. Nothing would interfere with it.

  He intended to keep on telling himself that very thing until maybe sooner or later he believed it.

  3

  The settlement was just a wide place in the road, and if it had a name, Chas Ferguson had never heard it. He didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that there was a saloon here, and he could get a drink.

  There wasn’t much more than the saloon, which also doubled as a general store. A blacksmith shop was the only other business. Across the road were two churches, a Baptist and a Methodist, dunkers and sprinklers. A handful of houses completed the community.

  At the moment, Ferguson was the only customer in the bar. He sat at a table, idly turning over cards in a solitaire hand. From time to time he emptied the whiskey glass at his elbow and then refilled it.

  He was young, somewhere in his twenties, and had long fair hair that curled from under his hat and fell almost to his shoulders. He wore a black shirt with silver snaps and gray trousers tucked into high-topped black boots. His hat was white, almost snowy. No matter what his surroundings, Ferguson came off as something of a dandy. He looked even more like one in the rather squalid little saloon.

  A pearl-handled Colt rode in a low-slung holster on his right hip. Chas Ferguson could hook and draw that Colt with blinding speed, and his accuracy was good, too. But he had learned, much to his shame, that speed and accuracy weren’t all there was to being a gunfighter. It took not just eye and hand, but also heart. It took courage to stand up to a man knowing that he was also fast on the draw and would be doing his damnedest to kill you, just like you were trying to kill him.

  It had been Frank Morgan who taught that hard lesson to Ferguson . . . and Ferguson hated him for it.

  But the days when Ferguson might have backed down were now in the past. He was ready to face Frank Morgan, and he had been ready for a while. Problem was that Morgan had up and ridden out of Weatherford, and Ferguson didn’t know where the hell he was. Texas was a big place; Ferguson couldn’t just ride around hoping to run into Morgan.

  That was why he had hit upon another plan instead. Morgan was friends with that young Ranger, Tyler Beaumont, and Beaumont was still in these parts. Ferguson figured that if he kept an eye on Beaumont, sooner or later the Ranger would lead him to Morgan. Either that, or Morgan would come back for a visit. Ferguson didn’t care how it came about; all that mattered to him was that he get another chance to face up to Frank Morgan and put a bullet in the son of a bitch.

  Ferguson didn’t want to spend all his time hanging around Weatherford, though. That was why he had engaged the services of a young fella to watch Beaumont for him. The youngster, who seemed to idolize Ferguson, called himself Cherokee Bob. He didn’t look Indian to Ferguson, but the gunfighter didn’t really care one way or the other whether Bob was really part Cherokee, as long as the pipsqueak did his job. That allowed Ferguson to retreat to this tiny settlement northwest of Weatherford.

  Frowning down at the cards, Ferguson realized that the hand was blocked. He couldn’t win at it. With a grimace, he swept the cards together into an untidy pile. He picked up the glass and tossed off the whiskey in it. When he tried to refill it from the bottle, only a few drops trickled out.

  “I’m empty here, damn it!” he shouted at the bartender, who was the only other person in the place.

  “Hold your horses,” the apron said. He was a chunky, freckled man in late middle age with a short, rusty beard. He got another bottle from a shelf behind the bar and started to waddle around to bring it to Ferguson.

  Bored, the Coltman slipped his revolver from its holster. “I can hurry you up a mite if you’d like,” he drawled. The barrel of the gun pointed toward the bartender’s feet.

  The man moved a little faster. “Sorry,” he grunted as he thumped the full bottle down on the table in front of Ferguson and picked up the emp
ty one. “You want to keep runnin’ a tab?”

  “Sure.”

  The bartender nodded and turned to start back to the bar. Ferguson let him get halfway there before the boredom got to be too much. Holding the Colt loosely on his thigh, he shifted the barrel a little and fired.

  The bullet shattered the empty bottle dangling from the bartender’s hand. He yelped more in surprise than pain and jumped higher than a fat man ought to have been able to jump. When he came down he still had the busted neck of the bottle clutched in his hand.

  He swung around toward the table, breathing heavily as he did so. His eyes were still wide with fear. But something else lurked there, too.

  Anger.

  He was furious, and his normally florid face flushed even more as rage spread through him. “Think that was funny, do you?” he demanded of Ferguson.

  The gunfighter chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I do. You hopped like a toad. Bet you never moved like that before in your life.”

  “I thought for a second you’d killed me!”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Ferguson snapped, tiring of this game as quickly as he tired of everything else. “You ain’t hurt, so leave me alone and let me get back to my drinkin’.”

  “Not here.”

  Ferguson had already looked down at the cards again, dismissing the man from his mind. The flat, angry words made him glance up.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you ain’t drinkin’ here. What did you think, that you could just waltz into a man’s place of business and humiliate him and that he wouldn’t care? Well, by God, you can’t. Not here.”

  “You’re bootin’ me out of this flea-ridden pus hole of a saloon?” Ferguson said in disbelief that anyone would so blatantly challenge him.

  “Damn right I am. This place may not be much, but it’s mine, damn it. I won’t be humiliated in it.”

  Ferguson’s mocking laughter filled the room and visibly stung the bartender. “You were humiliated just by bein’ born, mister. And think how your ma must’ve felt when an ugly lump like you popped out of her.”

  “That’s it,” the bartender growled. He started to stalk toward the table, shifting his grip on the jaggedly broken bottle as he did so in order to use it as a weapon.