CHAPTER ONE
Central Texas, 1885
The man who ran Oslo’s Livery Stable narrowed his eyes and looked Matt Petrov up and down. He jabbed a thumb to point across the road. “That there’s the place.”
Riding in from Austin, Matt had entered the small town of Winton Crossing from the east, but it hadn’t taken long to reach this end and the last businesses on the dusty main street. He looked across the road at the large two-story building that appeared to hover on a hill overlooking the Medina River.
The stableman spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Miz Phifer and her daughter are mighty particular about who they rents rooms to.”
Matt knew he looked trail-dirty, but time counted and he’d ridden hard. He flipped the man the coins to pay for his horse’s care. “Thanks.”
Carrying his rifle and saddlebags, Matt strode quickly toward the house. From this angle, it resembled a giant two-story box with smaller one-story boxes at each end. Late morning sun highlighted the building’s peeling paint. In the shade of the long front porch, a child played with a yellow cat.
On Matt’s ride by he’d missed a small sign hung near the door, Phifer’s Boarding House. He opened the squeaking gate and the boy looked up. The kid appeared to be about five and seeing him tore at old scabs in Matt’s heart.
Cuddling the cat, the lad hopped up. “The boarders what are here are all taking a nap. You gonna rent a room?”
“Maybe.” Matt paused on his way to the door. “You live here?”
“My grandma owns this place. Mama and I live here and help out. This here’s Tiger and my name’s Davey.” The boy stroked the purring animal’s head then looked toward the house and lowered his voice. “You better be careful, mister. Mama and Grandma been spring cleaning and they told me to stay right here out of the way until they said different.”
Matt suppressed his smile. “That so? Thanks for the warning, Davey.”
He opened the screen door and stepped inside. The small foyer led to a large parlor. A counter at the far end blocked off another doorway. The furniture appeared well worn but every wood surface gleamed, which accounted for the smell of beeswax. Vases of freshly cut flowers brightened the room’s drab colors and contributed their own aromas of roses and honeysuckle.
Grunts and groans came from the room behind the counter. Matt set his gear on the floor and leaned against the barrier to peer into the next area, which looked to be an office. Two women wrestled with a small floor safe. The safe appeared to be winning.
He leaned over the counter. “Need some help?”
Both women jumped, but only one turned around.
The frazzled older woman, the one Matt figured owned the place, appeared to be in her fifties. Silver threaded through the brown hair piled on her head. She was dressed in gray with a long white apron smudged with dust. Her brown eyes twinkled when she smiled at him.
“Would you? The men who delivered this thing set it in the wrong place. We decided to move it where it belongs. Land sakes, for all our struggles we’ve not made much progress.” Five feet of scratch marks on the floor showed the trail of their limited success.
