The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition, Page 2

  Aaron frowned. "No, I hadn't heard."

  "Movers make me nervous," Flo confessed. "I was here that day they attacked. Marshal Townsend saved my life. She killed a man who wanted to stick me with his sword, and then I killed a woman with my cleaver." Her voice lowered. "I never killed nobody before. I should have nightmares about it, but the truth is I'm glad I killed her." Flo's haunted eyes saw something distant, and her voice died out. "Bun helped me get through it."

  Shaking herself, she forced a smile. "Sorry. This hanging thing got me. How's business been?"

  Mistress Halfax obviously needed a change of subject. Shrugging away her question, Aaron watched her, noting the uncomfortable way she moved. "Do you still take aspirin for your back?"

  Dramatically rubbing her back, Flo chuckled. "Ha! Do I ever. Aches day and night."

  "I might be able to help you some, but I'll have to talk frankly on some very personal matters."

  "Honey," Flo said archly, "I'll give you a minute by minute account of how I gave birth to my three dead boys and a second by second account of how I came by them if you can help me take the ache out of this thing."

  "Well--uh." Feeling warm and prickly, Aaron suddenly wondered if this was a good idea. "I--uh--I noticed that you are somewhat more--well, more blessed than most women. Quite a bit more blessed."

  She laughed again, drawing eyes and making Aaron even warmer. "Love, everyone has noticed my blessings. It's hard to miss that I got the biggest dugs around. Been times I thought these babies put bruises on my knees." She looked fondly down at herself. "Still, these old ladies made me first wife to two different husbands, an' ain't many gals who can claim that."

  "Uh--right," Aaron said, wondering who was embarrassing whom with frank talk. His face felt hot. "I have some apparel in the store that might help your back some. At least that's what the ads say. It's supposed to hold your--umm--hold you--and distribute the weight so you are not being pulled forward all the time. I'll give you a free sample. It might help, and if it works you can tell your friends. If I don't sell any we will just call the garment payment for all the meals you served me."

  "As if you haven't paid for them and more. I'll try it though. Mind you," she said, gazing once more at her front. "I won't have you putting this thing on me, not unless you got intentions for something more."

  "Never--I mean I wouldn't presume."

  She patted Aaron's cheek with a heavy hand. "You're fun to play with dear, but I like you too much to get serious. Bun and me, we're done with all that now. Spent thirty years as co-wives and are happy just being friends. Besides, if you tumble me you have to take her too, and honey, old as we are, the two of us would kill you."

  Aaron released a sigh when she left. The people watching them turned their eyes away and continued with their conversations.

  She brought him pancakes, lightly buttered, with strawberry jam. Two eggs rested on a separate plate and warm milk filled a pewter cup. Along with breakfast came a two copper dreadful he had worked on for the last week. Only halfway through the book, he was sure the gardener was the culprit, but the peddler seemed to show up at suspicious times, and there was a mysterious stranger hanging around town.

  Aaron devoted only half his attention to reading. As always, this was his chance to observe normal people living normal lives, something he'd had little personal experience with until he'd left Field's Militia in Jefferson and arrived in Last Chance.

  The customers in the inn reflected the surrounding population. More than three quarters of its patrons were female. The low birth and high mortality rate of male children made women the more numerous sex. Even with the custom of multiple wives, barely more than two out of three women ever got married. The other women either found female pair-mates or lived alone.

  Warmth and friendliness permeated the environs, reflecting the general good cheer throughout the entire town. Even after living in Last Chance for more than a year, Aaron found himself slightly bemused by the whole thing. Normal everyday life was a mystery. People confused him.

  He mentioned the Wagon Master's need for smoked hams to two farmers. Three people asked if he was going to the dance and smiled when he answered with a shrug. When they left he turned to the neighboring table and spoke to Mister Townsend, the miller and the Marshal's father. Besides ordering another five hundred weight of flour and two hundred of meal, he learned that he had been drafted into the home militia. Since he owned one of only five swords in the town, Sarah Townsend would give him lessons in its use every other day for the next few months. She had spent two years on the New Madrid border so she had more personal experience with swords and combat than anyone else in town.

  The miller winked at Aaron when he gave Aaron the news. "Should be interesting for you. My daughter's a fine looking woman."

  "An almost married woman," Aaron replied. "I heard Steven Knight has been hanging around her of late."

  "Mister Knight can hang around all he likes," Mister Townsend said firmly. "He better not be thinking of any more than that. I won't have a hotheaded wastrel like him in the family. I doubt Sarah would accept him anyway. No, I'm afraid she's going to be one of those gals who stay single their entire lives. The Lord and Lady knows she ain't exactly young anymore. The gal is right near thirty as it is."

  "If it weren't for irritable fellows like you," Flo said as she passed by, "half the people out there wouldn't want to be single. Now Aaron here, a man like Aaron could make an old widow swoon. A couple winks from his liquid brown eyes would make me feel young again. Just you wait. Once Sarah gets used to seeing them she won't see nothing else."

  "Irritable," Mister Townsend said, his voice disbelieving.

  "Irritable I said, and irritable I mean," Flo reiterated, but her eyes were laughing, and the hand she chucked his chin with was gentle.

  Smiling, the miller left. Others stopped by to chat far more frequently than even good manners could account for. The attention made Aaron nervous. Although he had studied how to be openly friendly, he had little experience with having people seek him out. Three women passed his table in a group. Pausing briefly, they looked at him speculatively and moved on. The questions behind their looks made him even more nervous. His job was to make these people like him. He did not want to like them back.

  The end of breakfast was almost a relief. Murder at the Manor was only ten pages closer to being finished. He gave the book back to Flo to keep for him. Being an incessant reader, a book in the store would not last Aaron a day. Reading for his own pleasure was a recently gained experience, and he did not want anything to rush his enjoyment. The town possessed very few books, so he needed to preserve the ones he owned and draw them out to a slow conclusion. Maybe he should buy a few more and stock them in the store. They might not sell for full price, but he could always read them before he set them out.

  The three Bayne children were anxiously waiting when he got back to the store. At fifteen, Cathy was the most useful. A hard worker, she made sure eleven-year-old Missy and seven–year-old Doyle stayed out of Aaron's way while she worked. An hour's labor dusting shelves, sweeping and arranging earned them six coppers seven bits, just short of the ten coppers needed for a half gold.

  Cathy seemed unusually nervous. Looking at him out of the corner of her dark brown eyes, she dusted for half an hour, voice tense as she admonished Missy to be sure to straighten all the jars and Doyle please stay off the shelves. "Take the broom and sweep please."

  Aaron watched her performance until his nerves could not take it anymore.

  "Miss Bayne," he finally said, "could you come here please?"

  "Yes sir."

  Eyes twitching, fingers trembling slightly, she hurried over to him. Aaron noticed for the first time that she wore pressed clothes. Her long brown hair was braided, and she smelled strongly of lye soap. Nervous hands patted and brushed at the new creases in her faded pants and blouse, pushing material back in place, accentuating her almost painfully thin body and rather impressive breast
s.

  "Miss Bayne, you seem nervous."

  "Oh." She bit her lower lip, smearing cheap lipstick. "It's just…well…I hear Mistress Townsend starts training you tomorrow afternoon, and you will work with the militia too."

  Aaron shook his head. "News travels fast. You don't have to worry. I'll still pay you to do your chores."

  "Yes sir. I know. I mean that's what I want to talk to you about. About work." She stamped her foot in frustration. "Ohhh. I am doing this all wrong. I'm sorry, Mister Turner. I won't bother you. Doyle! Keep the dirt outside the store."

  Aaron sighed. "Come out with it Miss Bayne. I promise I won't be angry. Is it money? Do you want more?"

  She turned back to him, her motions quick and jerky. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened once again.

  "Yes," she finally said, "or no. I mean you pay us twice what you should, and we really thank you, and Mistress Halfax said I should do more only you haven't let us, and I feel bad, and your store needs to be open to sell so--" Pausing, she drew in a deep breath.

  Aaron fought down an impulse to grab her shoulders and give her a shake. He succeeded, remembering he had to observe the proprieties.

  "Go on."

  "Well," she began again, "if you can't be in the store, I wondered if I could. Run it I mean. While you are gone--and I can be here when you breakfast too. I know what you charge for almost everything, and I can be trusted. Please?"

  She bounced on her toes, mouth pursed hopefully. Missy and Doyle were suddenly quiet.

  Sometimes, Aaron realized, changes happen very quickly in Last Chance. Unfortunately, some of those changes required him to make a decision. How would it look to the town if he accepted? What would they think if he refused? What about the Militia's plans?

  "I'd like to think about this for a bit. Just give me a few minutes, and I'll let you know."

  "Oh yes sir. Of course. Thank you."

  Thank you? Almost as if he had already accepted her offer. Did his saying he would think about it imply acceptance?

  "Hello Storeman." Haarod Beech entered through the doorway and approached Aaron. "Got my orders in, and thank you for all your help. Looked at the goods you sold me. Everything looks fine."

  Forcing a smile, Aaron nodded. "Service is the motto here at the Last Chance General Store."

  "Sure it is, and I'd like another look at that knife."

  Wordlessly, Aaron unlocked the case and retrieved the knife. Handing it over, he stepped back.

  Beech studied it intently, turning it around and once cutting his finger on its edge. Pulling a stick from his back pocket, he carved free a few slivers of wood. Then he pulled a rock from his right trouser pocket and tapped the blade.

  Beech cocked his head, listening, tapped the blade twice more and paused to let the stone rest against the metal.

  "A very curious thing," he said, handing the knife back. "Perhaps I could see a couple of the others."

  "Certainly." Aaron put the knife back in the case and reached for another just as Cathy released a small cry and fell onto the milk urn.

  Instantly abandoning his task, Aaron jumped forward to catch her, changed his mind and grabbed for the tipping urn. He missed, banging it with the back of his wrist, furthering the speed of its fall. It hit with a sharp thud, splattering milk across the floor, drenching Beech's legs from thigh to ankle.

  "Hey," Aaron exclaimed. "Miss Bayne! Sir. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--."

  Hand held close to her side, Cathy huddled in on herself. "I'm a clumsy fool. Sir--I'm sorry about your pants. I can--I can clean them or--"

  "Never mind! I've seen what I need to see." Scowling, the Master stamped out the door, drops of milk shaking free with each heavy step.

  "Miss Bayne, are you injured?"

  "No, Mister Turner." Cathy straightened. Her face showed satisfaction and a touch of gloating, but anger narrowed her eyes. "I'm not hurt. I just--I had to get rid of that man. He's bad, sir. Real bad. He had a Talent Stone."

  "Stone?" Aaron shook milk off his sodden feet, only now noticing the small figures of Missy and Doyle hiding in a corner. "What about the stone?"

  "A man with a Talent Stone killed my daddy."

  What the hell is a Talent Stone? Aaron wondered.

  Sweat beaded faintly on Cathy's forehead. Her bottom lip quivered and her fingers trembled. "I'll clean up the mess, sir, and pay for it."

  "No." The girl was the next thing to broke. "Clean it up, and I'll cover the cost. You start tomorrow. Come early, and I'll show you what to do. Two and a half gold a day."

  Talent Stones? Obviously, this was something General Field needed to know about. How much other information was Aaron missing? He needed an oblivious information source, and by the looks of it, Cathy Bayne would do. An employee could answer questions and not be suspicious. A young employee too afraid to question the ignorance of her boss was perfect.

  Relief shinning from her eyes, Cathy flashed him a bright smile. Aaron smiled weakly back. The thought of using her to help promote Field's plan made him feel like shit, but that was the lot of an inept military spy.

  Chapter 3

  "Peterson! You shoot like that in a fight, and you'll be nothing but dead. Pull the damn thing over to the bull and settle down."

  Peterson squeezed off another shot.

  "I told you to settle down."

  Looking up from his prone position, Peterson glared at Johnston. "I didn't miss by that much. It would have killed a man."

  Smiling grimly, Johnston nodded. "Yeah, it would have hit a man in a fight--if you had pointed that thing straight and not flinched any more than you did just now. Do you think you can hold still when the savages are closing in, when crossbow bolts and arrows are pouring around you, when some savage wants to shove a sword into your gut? Can you remain steady when you're sweating and shaking and your bowels want to blow? Do you think you can trust yourself right now, knowing that your life, and the lives of your buddies, depends on your ability to hit a target hard on the first shot?"

  "I won't freeze," Peterson insisted, but there was sweat on his brow.

  "I've seen it happen, boy. I've counted the bodies. I've seen where one weak man got an entire squad killed."

  The boy glared defiance. "I have it. When the time comes, you'll see that I have it!"

  Johnston glanced at the other recruits. "What do you think?"

  They looked at each other uneasily. Paxton shrugged and smiled insolently. "He'll have it. We all will. We already have it."

  "Do you have it?" he demanded of Peterson again.

  "Yes sir, Sergeant."

  "You think so?" Johnston smiled wickedly. "Are you willing to put your faith to the test? I'm telling you right now that you better not. I think you won't cut it. I think you're a coward."

  Peterson glared, but Johnston saw his fingers twitch and his face pale. "Just try me."

  "There'll be no backing out. I won't allow it."

  Peterson spat. The other recruits gave him the eye, reevaluating him. Johnston could almost see Peterson's thoughts. If he backed down now, he would be forever on the bottom of the Militia's testosterone hierarchy.

  "I can take anything you hand out," Peterson said with firm determination.

  A paternal smile crossed Johnston's face. "So be it. Stay here. The rest of you wait by the mess hall. You'll see everything from there. Go on."

  "Sir?" Paxton asked.

  "Just do it."

  Appearing uneasy, they looked at one another, nodded, and made their way to the mess. Johnston noted that two of them refused to lay down their weapons when they moved away. Showed promise, those two. Most of the lads showed promise, unlike Peterson. That lad lacked nerve and the ability to listen.

  "Stand up. Wait there," he ordered Peterson. Peering up at the sun, he judged its angle and walked directly in its direction. Since there was no breeze the air felt still against his skin. The temperature was cool, the way he liked it during these moments, still and quiet, with a chill snap and
a sharp tang that made his nerves sharp.

  After walking thirty yards he turned to look at Peterson. "All right lad. Here's the time to show your nerve. Prove yourself a man."

  "Sir," Even from this distance, Johnston could see Peterson's sweat. The man shook, shading his eyes with one hand so he could make Johnston out in the sun's glare. The sight made Johnston want to puke. Peterson was the worst of this lot, a dreamer driven by ideals instead of pragmatic self-interest. Of course, that was why Johnston had chosen him. Different instructors used their own methods to get across the point that Field's Militia was serious business. Johnston had decided long ago that he preferred this method. It was, he thought, the most effective one of all. It had the added benefit of making his blood flow faster, of making the day just a little bit brighter.

  "Prove yourself," Johnston called out. "You get two free shots, and then I'm going to kill you."

  "Sir!"

  "I'm serious. Start shooting."

  Predictably, Peterson did not shoot. Ashen faced and goggle-eyed, his rifle dangled at the end of his arms as if the thing were nothing more than a useless stick. Johnston wasn't surprised. By design, all his victims were people who froze in a crisis. The last thing he wanted was to kill off one of the good ones. Peterson was not good. Hell, the kid probably thought inaction would win him a reprieve. Most of them thought that.

  Think again.

  Causally pulling his pistol, Johnston leveled it, waited a moment, and then shot the kid in his leg. Yelping, Peterson leaped and cursed, and then he dropped his rifle and stood, staring with hypnotic fascination at the bore of Johnston's pistol. The kid seemed mesmerized. No survival instincts at all. None.

  Disgusted, Johnston tucked his pistol away. Peterson was a waste. That bullet had done no more than cut a little groove along the side of his leg, but it had been enough to make the kid's mind freeze.

  "The next one goes straight through your brain," Johnston called across the distance. "I advise you to pick up your rifle and take your free shots." He made sure to raise his voice loud enough so the recruits standing by the mess could hear.