Wendell MacWherter was an important man in Bordertown. Perhaps not as important as he personally believed, but nonetheless, a respected and ambitious member of the community. He had joined the small but growing population years earlier, when the town was known as Pemmican, Montana, to open the town's only bank, serving the local ranchers, farmers, and businessmen with his investing experience. Because business was not active enough in the small community to keep its doors open every day, he had elected to open on Mondays and Thursdays, adequate time for the depositors to conduct their transactions. The rest of the week was devoted to his latest business enterprise, the local livery stable, purchased when the former owner had returned to his ancestral home in Germany. He also sat as chairman on the town council, representing both the American side of town, where the bank was located, and the Canadian side, where the livery stable was located.
Born and raised in the east, Wendell had quickly discovered that Bordertown was an interesting place to live. It was a tightly knit community, despite of the fact that the northern one-third of town was actually in Canada, the southern two-thirds was in the United States. The reassessment of the 49th Parallel had resulted in the name change, and some citizens who had thought they were American had discovered with surprise that they were actually Canadian. Most of them had immigrant roots, be it from other parts of the country or from other parts of the world. They were accustomed to change, and had easily adapted to the uniqueness of their home.
It was the middle of a warm Saturday afternoon in late summer, and Wendell, having just completed a late lunch at the saloon's dining room with his wife, was making his way back to the livery stable to resume his work. It was hard work, too, for Wendell was unaccustomed to the strenuous physical labor required to care for the horses that were entrusted to him. Slight in stature and clean shaven, he was more comfortable in a business suit and bowl hat than he was in work clothes. He had only one employee, a blacksmith, for that was a task to which Wendell was decidedly unsuited, so his daily presence at the stable was required, but he was thriving at his new venture, and went home each evening content with the knowledge that he had done a good day's work.
His walk toward the livery stable took him past the law enforcement office, literally built on the 49th Parallel and shared by a United States Marshal and a Canadian Northwest Mounted Policeman. The door was open, as it was frequently in warm weather to allow the fresh summer breeze to enter the building, and he glanced inside the open door to observe the Mountie busy at his desk, presumably catching up on the paperwork required by the government of Canada.
"Good afternoon, Corporal," he called.
Corporal Clive Bennett looked up from his desk with his typically patient countenance. "Good afternoon, Mr. MacWherter," he responded, pleasantly.
A quick glance revealed that the marshal's desk was empty, indicating that he was still out chasing down the outlaws who had robbed the bank in a neighboring community.
Bank robbers! The very thought sent a shiver down Wendell's spine. As a banker, thieves were especially feared. Fortunately, the presence of two lawmen was an effective deterrent. There had only been a few attempts on his bank, all of them unsuccessful. The stolen cash had been recovered quickly and returned to the possession of the grateful banker..
Pushing the unpleasant thoughts of bank robbers from his mind, Wendell proceeded down the boardwalk.
"Hey, Wendell!"
Wendell turned around, recognizing the unmistakeable gravelly voice of the other lawman.
Marshal Jack Craddock cantered up the street toward him on his favorite horse. Behind him, a prisoner sat glumly on the back of a second horse, his hands bound together by handcuffs.
Jack reined in before the office and dismounted with the grace and confidence of an experienced horseman, something Wendell knew he would never be. He loved horses, and was a good judge of horseflesh, but he lacked the riding skills possessed by other westerners, but especially Jack Craddock, who was the finest horseman in the community.
"Wendell, long as yer headed in that direction, would you mind takin' the horses to the stable? Save me a trip down there."
Wendell's policy was to accommodate the law officers whenever possible. They were the ones who risked their lives to keep the town safe, so leading the horses back to the stable and bedding them down was a small favor to ask. "Certainly, Marshal," he responded, pleasantly, backtracking to take the reins of the two animals.
Moving around the rear of his horse, Jack reached up and with no gentleness whatsoever, he, pulled the prisoner from the saddle. "Get down from there," he told the prisoner, then gave him a shove toward the access steps leading to the boardwalk. "Inside."
Wendell backed away, nervously. Thieves and outlaws made him nervous.
The prisoner stumbled toward the steps, but slipped on the accumulation of mud on the bottom steps and pitched forward onto his face. He managed to block his fall with his arms, but the contact with the wooden steps resulted in a split lip.
Expressing no sympathy for the outlaw's misfortune, Jack seized both hands full of the back of his shirt and hauled him back to his feet. "Pick yer feet up. That's a good way to hurt yerself."
Wendell watched with a disapproving frown, perceiving the marshal's actions as something akin to brutality. As contemptible as outlaws were, they were still human beings, deserving of fair treatment. "Marshal, this could be construed as abuse of a prisoner."
Jack stopped halfway up the steps to glower down at the smaller man. "He ain't being abused Wendell. What're you talkin' about? You saw what happened; he tripped on the step."
"After you pushed him." Wendell was shaking his head, slowly, his brow puckered with concern. "You already had him in custody, Marshal. I see no need to use excessive force."
"Now, hold on, Wendell. He tripped. Anybody can trip; even you."
"I know that, but I really can't excuse this kind of treatment of a prisoner. It's bordering on brutality. After all, a man is presumed innocent until he's proven guilty."
"Wendell, we caught him red-handed with the money! This man robbed the bank in Pine Ridge and shot the banker. As a banker yerself, are you sure you want him treated like some visiting dignitary?"
Wendell sighed and shook his head. "No, I suppose not." Giving up on the disagreement, he took the reins of the two horses and led them up the street toward the livery stable, still unhappy about the encounter, but accepting it.
Jack watched him for a moment, then guided the prisoner toward the door, only to find it blocked by Clive Bennett, who had temporarily abandoned his paperwork to observe the arrival of the prisoner.
"Spreading your usual good cheer, Jack?" Clive asked with a smile as he backed out of the way.
"Wendell seems to think I abuse my prisoners," Jack explained as he entered the building, pushing the prisoner ahead of him. "Now you tell me, where in tarnation would he get some confounded idea like that, huh?"
Clive's smile broadened. He, himself, had been known to give a shove or two to a particularly obnoxious prisoner, and understood that it was sometimes unavoidable. "Can't imagine." His gaze fell upon the prisoner. "Is this the bank robber?"
"In the flesh."
Addressing the prisoner, Clive said, "Word just came in from Pine Ridge about an hour ago. The bank teller you shot is going to survive. He's very anxious to testify against you and your friends."
"Well, that's good news," Jack said.
"Why did you bring him here?" Clive asked.
"Sheriff Haskell only has one cell, and its full with this hombre's accomplices, so he asked if i'd hold 'im for a coupla days." In response to the surprised expression on the prisoner's face, he added, "Yep, he caught all three o' yer buddies while you was hightailin' it outta the area with all the money. They ain't none too happy about that. In fact, you better hope the judge gets holda ya before they do!"
He guided the prisoner to the nearest cell, pushed him inside, and locked the cage door behind him. The keys were tossed haphazardly on his chaotic desk. Shoving papers and tools aside, he started hunting for his coffee cup, presumably buried somewhere in the clutter. Instead, he found a folded piece of paper he had not seen before.
For Jack, who was only recently literate, reading was difficult even with his reading glasses; without them, it was almost impossible. He held the paper out at arm's length to bring the print into focus, concentrating intently on the words.
"Miss Fielding's Finishin' School for Proper Girls," he read aloud, slowly.
Clive looked up, startled, and quickly snatched it from his hands. "That's mine."
"Finishin' school!" Jack repeated.
"It's a boarding school for girls where they ---
"I know what it is." With a grin, he added, "You holdin' out on me there, Clive? Somethin' you think you oughtta tell me?"
Clive bore up to the teasing with a tolerant expression. "I sent for it awhile back. I'd actually forgotten all about it." He lifted his shoulders with a puzzled frown. "I don't know how it got on your desk."
"So, who is it that's goin' to boardin' school?"
"I'm going to give it to Marie. I thought she might want to consider sending Lucy there."
The teasing smile faded from Jack's face, replaced by a disapproving frown.
Clive returned to his desk and sat down, intending to resume his paperwork, but inside, he knew there would be a disput between him and Jack over the issue. He and Jack disagreed on many things, and he knew that this would be one of them.
Giving up on his lost coffee cup, Jack picked up a fresh cup and lifted the coffee pot from the stove, burning his hand on the hot vessel. It was a frequent occurrence, for he habitually forgot to use the potholder. He slammed the pot back down on the stove, shook his hand to cool it, then picked up the folded cloth they kept hanging on a wire to use as a potholder, and poured himself a cup of the steaming hot liquid he was so fond of. "I really don't see no need for that, Clive," he said at last.
"It's nothing personal, Jack," Clive said, apologetically. "I'm fond of her, too. You know that. It's just something I've been considering. It would be a great opportunity for her that few people out here ever get. She'd get to make new friends ---"
"She's got friends here."
"She'll learn what it takes to be a proper lady ---"
"Marie can teach her that."
Clive thumped his pen down on the blotter, irritably. "Would you stop interrupting me?"
"I would if you'd say somethin' worth hearin'! The new school teacher should be here today, if the stage ain't late. I'm sure she'll teach her ev'rything she needs to know. There ain't no need to send her to some fancy school back east."
"This isn't your decision, Craddock."
"It ain't yours neither, Bennett."
"She's a ward of Canada," Clive reminded him.
"Marie is her guardian. Don't she have no say in this?'
"Of course she does, and once I explain my idea to her, I'm sure she'll agree that it's the best thing for her. It's a nice place, and my parents can look in on her from time to time. They'll take good care of her."
"With all due respect to your folks, Clive, Marie's takin' good care of her."
"Yes, she is, but when she agreed to foster Lucy, it was never intended to be a life long commitment."
Jack's mood deepened. "Clive, the love for a child cain't be turned on 'n off again like a that electric light that Wendell tried awhile back. Once you love a child, it lasts forever."
Clive leaned back in his chair and gazed at the marshal for several moments, realizing that Jack was referring to Willie Hadden, a young local boy he had developed a fondness for before the boy had moved to France with his father. "Jack, I think she reminds you of Willie. Maybe you're getting too attached to her."
Jack did not deny the accusation. "I think we remind each other of him," he admitted. "But that don't change the facts. Marie ain't never gonna go along with this."
"Marie and I are going to be married, some day, Jack. She'll do as I say."
Jack felt an annoyed twinge at the suggestion that Clive intended to marry the French woman. The two men had been rivals for her affection for years. Both had proposed marriage, but so far, neither had gotten her to the alter. "She ain't yer puppet, Bennett. She's gotta mind of her own."
"She'll abide by my wishes. Newly married people need some time as a couple before they become a family. It won't be forever. She'll be back."
"Even if by some miracle, you do marry Marie, what's a matter with an instant family?" Jack asked. "I'd be proud to be her pa."
Clive gathered up his paperwork and shoved them inside his desk drawer. It was useless to continue when he was unable to concentrate on his work. "Well, Craddock," he said, flippantly. "Maybe you should adopt her."
To Clive's astonishment, Jack was silent for a moment, pondering the suggestion. Raising his hand to his face, he scratched at the four-day old stubble on his cheek. "S'pose they'd let me?" he asked, his tone of voice indicating that he was serious.
"Not a chance," he promptly responded.
"Then why'd ya bring it up?" Jack raised his voice in frustration.
"I didn't think you'd take me seriously!" Clive retorted. "You've never taken me seriously before! The idea that you would adopt a girl just to keep her out of boarding school is preposterous!""
Jack stared at him, hands on his hips, his eyes accusing.
"Oh, come on, Jack! Don't look at me like that! Improper implications aside, you're an unmarried American man in a dangerous occupation. There is no way the government of Canada would allow you to adopt a girl."
Jack sighed heavily, and sat down on the edge of his desk. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he conceaded. "I ain't exac'ly equipped to bring up a girl. And my cabin ain't exac'ly private, neither."
Clive observed him silently for several moments. Arguments between them were frequent and usualy heated, but he often marveled at how quickly they cooled down and became friendly again. Theirs was a bond strengthened by mutual need. As the law in an otherwise lawless terriory, each one needed the other for support and back-up. Each had saved the other's life on more than one occasion. They did not see eye-to-eye on many things, particularly their vastly different career techniques and their courtship of Marie Dumont, but there was always respect for the other's ability and dependability.
His voice and his expression softened. "Look, Jack, I'm sorry I brought it up. I should have considered your fondness for her."
Jack nodded. "I guess it was foolish o' me to even assume they'd let me. I just don't wanna see her shipped off to boardin' school after ev'rything she's been through, losin' her folks 'n all. It jus' don't seem fair."
"Life is never fair, Jack, but we're made stronger by the hardships."
"Yeah, but the decisions of adults shouldn't add to those hardships. She's doin' jus' fine, here. Leave 'er be."
"Jack, it's going to be nearly a year before she can get enrolled, anyway. It's just something to think about."
His voice was drowned out by the pounding of hooves through the open door and windows. Glancing toward the door, he saw four sturdy gray horses trot past the office pulling the stagecoach behind them.
His attention diverted by the arrival of the coach, Clive abandoned the discussion. "Stage is here. Almost on time, too." He stood up and faced the small mirror on the wall as he tidied his uniform.
Jack sipped his coffee, watching silently while the corporal primped.
"My supervisor wants me to escort the new school teacher to her quarters and help her get settled in," Clive explained. "She's his wife's niece, so it's a vote of confidence that he wants me to see to her needs." He paused, finger-combing his sandy blond hair before the mirror in the absence of a handy brush. "Too bad the school house is on the American side." He shrugged. "Not only that, but her house is on the American side, too."
"Clive, we may not have the manners you city folk have, but we ain't exac'ly heathens," Jack told him.
Clive glanced over his shoulder at his associate and found that Jack was smiling, apparently having taken no offense, so he responded in kind. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he said by way of an apology as he turned his attention back to the reflection in the mirror. "My superiors are a bit picky about protocol. Because she's Canadian, they'll want her quartered in Canada. They're probably going to expect me to personally build her a new house on the Canadian side."
Jack drained the last of the coffee from his cup. "Well, if'n it comes down to that, I'll round up some o' the boys, 'n we'll give you a hand. Should have a decent house whipped out 'n no time."
"Thanks, Jack."
Satisfied with his appearance, Clive squared his shoulders, lifted his head high, and strode out the door, turning toward the stage depot.
Still seated on the edge of the desk, Jack chuckled, softly. He had seen that posture before, and had jokingly referred to it as the strutting of a rooster. Clive was a handsome man, and he always looked and acted his best when anticipating the acquaintance of a lovely lady. Obviously, Clive expected the new teacher to be a beauty.
Thumping his empty coffee cup on his desk, he stood up and followed, curious to witness the first meeting between the corporal and the teacher, and looking forward to seeing the look on Clive's face if she turned out to be a frumpy, overweight, middle-aged matron.
The streets were still muddy from last night's rain showers, and the two teams of horses splattered mud as they skidded to a halt near the hitching rail outside the depot office. All four exhausted horses immediately dropped their heads to their knees, their flanks heaving wearily as two men emerged from the office and began removing the harnesses. Four fresh animals were tethered nearby, waiting to be hitched to the coach before it continued on its way.
The high driver's box was occupied by two men; the driver himself, plus a rifleman to guard the passengers from holdups. The driver jumped down from his post, ignoring the mud that splattered from beneath his boots, and he opened the passenger door, offering his hand to the young woman inside.
She hesitated briefly, reluctant to place her small hand, covered by a clean white glove, in his larger hand, for his tan work gloves were soiled with travel grime. To refuse his offer of assistance would be rude, and she knew the glove could be washed or replaced, so she placed her hand lightly in his and allowed him to help her. To her dismay, he placed the other hand on her arm to steady her, a gesture certain to leave a stain on the sleeve of her clean dress.
"Watch your step, Ma'am," he cautioned her, helpfully. "These streets get pretty sloppy after a rain."
"Oh!" The tiny exclamation escaped her lips as she viewed the mud puddle beneath the coach's foot rung on which she had abruptly stopped. With a feeling of anguish for her new travel dress, she observed that she would have to make a journey of at least four paces through the mud before reaching the access to the boardwalk. She stared wistfully at that bottom step. Across the sea of mud, it might as well have been a mile away, for there was simply no way to cross it without getting mud on her shoes, her dress, and her petticoats.
On the bottom step, a pair of shiny black knee-high boots materialized. Her gaze moved slowly upward, up the length of the blue trousers with its yellow stripe running up each side, to the bright red coat of a Canadian Mounted Policeman with a corporal's chevron on each sleeve. When her eyes finally found his face, she suppressed a diminutive gasp of approval at his striking appearance and charming smile.
"Perhaps I can be of some assistance, Miss Upton," he volunteered. "You are Miss Upton, correct?"
She nodded, unable for a moment to find her voice. When she finally spoke, it did not sound like her own. "Yes, I am." She cleared her throat to strengthen her voice. "You must be Corporal Bennett."
He doffed his hat, politely. "At your service, Ma'am. I can carry you over the mud, if you don't object to my getting a trifle personal."
Indecisively, she gazed at the mud again, weighing her options and wondering what her mother would do. She was discovering that her first venture away from her sheltered family home was wrought with difficult decisions. Her mother would disapprove of her allowing a man she didn't even know to carry her in such a fashion, yet she would also be displeased with her for getting her garments muddy if it could be avoided. What was a proper girl to do?"
The Mountie waited on the step. "It's all well and proper, I assure you," he told her. "These are mitigating circumstances."
He was correct on that point. Finally, she nodded her consent. "I shall gratefully accept your kind offer, Corporal."
Clive stepped into the muddy street, and took her into his arms, cradling her as if she was a child. As soon as they reached the boardwalk, he immediately set her on her feet again, noticing as he did that Jack had followed, and was leaning against a support post, his arms folded across his chest, a broad smile of amusement on his rugged face as he watched the corporal's act of chivalry.
Clive gave him a meaningful glare, warning him to refrain from commenting in front of the lady, then he turned his attention back to the new teacher, very pleased with what he was seeing.
She was very young, no more than twenty-three years of age. Her brilliant red hair ws pinned up fashionably beneath her stylish hat, and a sprinkling of freckles that decorated her small, upturned nose somehow added to her allure. Her new dress, of the latest eastern fashion, was made of green gingham, and enhanced the green of her eyes. In her hair, the green ribbon, made of the same fabric as the dress, completed the ensemble.
"Welcome to Bordertown," Clive said, trying to ignore the fact that she had attracted the admiring attention of every man on the street that day.
"Thank you, Corporal," she replied, watching as the driver mounted the coach again to retrieve the luggage, praying silently that he would not drop one of them in the mud. In a rather distracted fashion, she engaged in the small talk that her mother had stated was so important for a well-bred young lady to do. "I stopped to visit with my uncle in Lethbridge, and he told me that the town was built on the 49th Parallel."
"That is true. The dividing line runs through the town."
"Isn't that rather unusual?"
Clive smiled. "It's very unusual, but rather interesting."
The coach driver rummaged around the luggage compartment on top of the coach, searching for her luggage amid the parcels and packages bound for other towns along the route. Those that were not needed were shoved and tossed aside with no regard for their contents. Grace felt her insides cringe, hoping her personal belongings survived the experience. "Do you patrol both sides?"
"No." He glanced at Jack, motioning him to join them.
Removing his hat, Jack approached them.
"Miss Upton, I'd like you to meet my associate, Marshal Jack Craddock. He looks after the American side."
Her smile faltered slightly, startled by the contrast between the two men. Where Corporal Bennet was clean-shaven and well-groomed with every hair in place, Marshal Craddock had obviously not shaved in nearly a week. His unruly brown hair was in desperate need of washing, and his shirt looked as though he had rubbed his dirty hands on the front of it. Most disturbing of all, his hat displayed a bullet hole in the crown, evidence of at least one close call.
Reluctant to offer her clean hand to yet another unclean man, she instead forced a smile to her attractive face, and said politely, "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Marshal."
Jack nodded his head in an obligatory fashion, the closest thing to a bow that anyone would see from him. "Pleasure's mine, Ma'am."
Dismissing him as if he carried a pestilence that might somehow rub off on her, she shifted her attention to the driver, who was lifting her two carpetbags. "Oh, there's my luggage," she said. To her horrified eyes, he appeared to be considering the notion of tossing them to the boardwalk, an endeavor that would ruin everyting breakable that she had inside them.
"I'll git 'em, Ma'am," Jack said.
Before she could answer, he had stepped into the mud and walked to the coach to retrieve the luggage that the driver lowered down to him. He carried them back to the boardwalk and climbed the steps, stomping the mud from his boots.
With a startled gasp, the young school teacher jumped back to avoid being splattered.
"I'll take those, Jack," Clive said, hastily, reaching for them.
"That's all right, Clive," Jack said, amiably. "I don't mind playin' lackey."
Clive moved closer, a meaningfully piercing gaze in his eyes. "Let me take them, Jack." He lowered his voice. "Procedure."
Jack smiled, and in an equally quiet voice, he teased. "An' here I thought you were doin' all this to impress her not her uncle."
"Jack, please!" Clive's voice was a harsh, desperate whisper. "Her uncle is my supervisor!" he added as a reminder.
Jack relinquished the two bags, deciding that this was not the time to hassle his friend. "All right, Clive. All's ya had to do was ask."
Clive reached for the bags with a desperate frown, warning his friend to keep his distance. Unprepared for the surprising weight of the bags, they nearly slipped from his startled hands. His astonished expression brought a smile to Jack's lips.
"Oh!" Grace cried, fearfully. "Please be careful with those, Corporal!"
Jack leaned close to Clive's ear. "I wasn't aware that lead was breakable!" he said, suppressing the urge to laugh.
"Yeah," Clive agreed. "Me neither." Wiping the shock from his face, he turned to face the young woman, and smiled his most charming smile. "Your house is this way," he said, gesturing toward the south end of town with a nod of his head..
As the corporal and the teacher walked away, the coach driver joined Jack on the boardwalk, and he nudged Jack's ribs, teasingly. "Looks like he beat you to the treasure, Marshal!"
"Aw, she ain't my type, Cedric." As he turned back toward the coach, he observed another passenger who still lingered just inside the coach, as if reluctant to get his boots muddy. "Who's the tenderfoot?"
Cedric glanced at the passenger. "Some British guy. Got on in Lethbridge."
'Looks like he's waitin' fer you to carry him through the mud."
Cedric shook his head, and quipped, "I got a bad back." With a friendly slap on the marshal's arm, he went inside the stage depot.
The stranger from England continued to hesitate inside the door of the coach, as if trying to determine how to reach the boardwalk without getting his shoes muddy. Finally, his eyes settled on the quietly observing Texan, noticing the tin badge that represented authority. Realizing that he had attracted the amused attention of the lawman, he stepped gingerly into the muddy street. Pinching the fabric of his trousers at the thighs between his thumb and forefinger, he lifted the hem of his tailored trousers up out of the mud and tiptoed to the boardwalk.
Jack chuckled, considerably entertained.
Pardon me, Constable," said the Englishman in his lilting British accent as he approached the lawman..
"It's marshal."
"Beg pardon?"
"I'm a U.S. Marshal, not a constable."
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, old chap."
Jack waved away the apology. "What can I do ya for, Amigo?"
The stranger seemed puzzled by the query. "Pardon?"
Jack rearranged his words. "What can I do for ya?"
"Oh, yes. Of course. Would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest hotel?"
"Sure. There's rooms over the saloon, or if that ain't to yer likin', Duffield's Boardin' House is down this here street to the left. Ya cain't miss it."
The Englishman glanced down the street in the direction indicated. "Much abliged, Constable." Ignoring the marshal's offended expression, he hefted the luggage he had kept with him while inside the coach, a single carpetbag and a small black bag that resembled the doctor's bag carried by Marie, and walked down the boardwalk toward the boarding house.
With a bewildered frown, Jack leaned against the support post again and watched as the stranger retreated to the south end of town. Something about the man was not sitting well with his instincts. Bordertown was largely an immigrant community, which saw many different nationalities of origin, all seeking to establish a better life in the new country than the life they had left behind, but that clearly was not the case with the Englishman. He was obviously well heeled, and that small bag, in Jack's estimation, was definitely a doctor's bag.
Recalling a past incident where a physician had come to town intending to drive Marie out of business, Jack decided to follow the man. He was clearly up to something, and Jack was convinced that it was no good.
GO TO CHAPTER TWO