Porcelain White (Book 1)

Chapter One

Chapter One

A Note of Regret

A curtain moved aside, and two sad eyes peered through the opening. Isaiah Grant's luck had run dry.

"He's here," whispered Isaiah to no one in particular.

Captain Pichon's buckboard pulled into Calabash, Minnesota, on a sweltering August afternoon in 1876. Dust swirled as strong gusts of wind beat like an unwelcome visitor on the parched buildings of Main Street. As the buckboard clamored to a halt, the veteran debt collector stepped down, covered with dust. He looked neither left nor right but walked into the saloon as Isaiah emerged with his hat in his hands.

"Howdy, Captain Pichon," greeted Grant, offering him a timid smile.

"Bring your money and come with me."

Pichon grabbed him by the elbow and pushed him back into the wooden saloon doors without looking at him. Grant stumbled back into the empty saloon. The bartender stopped polishing glasses and quietly touched his revolver under the bar, just in case.

"Pay up," Pichon snarled at the sixty-three-year-old man."

"Well, it's like this, Captain. I need,"

"Pay up before I get mad."

The officer gave him a shove, and Isaiah Grant bumped into the table, unable to explain himself. Pichon whipped a barrel-shaped chair out of his way as he took several steps closer.

"Maybe, now you will remember what you owe me," Pichon growled under his breath as he followed with a fist of steel. Grant fell back and then scurried in total fear to the corner of the saloon.

"I ain't got the money. I needed food for my family," explained Isaiah, rubbing his face.

"You, drunken sot. You drank up the money. Don't lie to me, you, worthless piece of shit."

"Honest, Captain. Just give me a little more time. I promise I'll get you the

money."

"I'm tired of waiting for you. I ain't running no charity," shouted Captain Pichon.

Isaiah pulled himself to his feet. "Please, Captain. I need more time to get the money."

Even with Pichon's determination to squeeze every dollar out of this homesteader, he knew deep inside that Grant did not have shit for money.

"Say, you just might have something I want," remarked Pichon with a smile. "You got a daughter, don't you? She ought to be worth fifty dollars."

"No, Captain. Not that,"

"Is she a virgin?"

Isaiah became sick to his stomach as he looked at the Captain.

"Where is she?" barked Pichon.

"She's back at the homestead with her ma. It's a good day's ride from here."

"I know where it is at," snarled Pichon as he winced at the memory of Grant's homestead.

"I'll tell you what, Grant. Put her on the train next week to Redwood. That way, she'll arrive like one of those mail-order brides. If she doesn't meet my likin's, I'm sending her back, and the deal is off," he said.

Then, facing the bartender, "Bottle of whiskey and put that on Mr. Grant's tab." Pichon swaggered out of the saloon with a bottle of whiskey and a smile on his