A Bride For The Asking -- (on hold)

Chapter 23--A ticket for The Jackal

 Piney Creek, Georgia

June 2, 1868

“I hope the Pinkerton’s are not expecting me to pay for anything,” Silas Farthingham whined; looking covertly down at the steamboat ticket tucked the band of the hat that sat on his knee.

“I doubt that very seriously.  It was pretty decent of Pinkerton’s to notify us of Agent Rosenthal’s injuries.”  Alfred studied the telegram on his desk as if it was the oracle of Delphi.  “They have offered to send another agent, if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary, Alfred,” said Silas coldly, a sudden gleam coming into his eye. How fitting, thought Silas, reading the name of the boat printed on the ticket. The Jackal.

“You mean you’re going to let it go, Silas?”

“Hell no!” Silas snorted, lifting his head. “I’m going to do what I should have done weeks ago.”

“And, that is…?”

“If you want anything done right, Alfred,” Silas quoted the old adage. “You do it yourself,” Silas glared at the other man defiantly, as if daring him to disagree. His eyes slid down to the ticket again.

“You’re joshing me, Silas.” Alfred blinked owlishly, trying to comprehend his client.

Silas glanced up and watched the range of emotions crossing the solicitor’s face. Silas dabbed his forehead with a pristine handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. Uncomfortable all of a sudden, he began fiddling with the hat balanced on the knob of his folded knee.

When the silence continued to lengthen, Silas plopped the hat on his head and stood, slipping the ticket into his pocket for safekeeping, and popped the hat on his head.

“I need no man’s approval for how I conduct my affairs.”

“Of course not,” Alfred agreed, rising stiffly to his feet. “However, you do need a good attorney.  I recommend you find one at your earliest convenience.”

“What? Y-you can’t do this!”

“Is that so?” Alfred said, pulling on his coat, clearly showing his intention of departing the room. “Watch me. I’ve regretted taking you on as a client since very early in our dealings.”

“You regretted having me as a client, Alfred?” It was Silas’s turn to be stupefied. “You regret ME! How dare you! I’ve a good mind to call you out!”

Alfred’s grin looked more like a death’s head mask. “Just name the date and time.”

Silas hesitated, barely recognizing the mild-mannered solicitor in the proud Southerner before him.  Even Alfred’s southern accent had become more pronounced. He was not backing down from Silas’s idle threat one whit.

Silas suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I would be more than happy to give you satisfaction, except I am leaving tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Alfred choked out, surprise clouding his features.

“I intend to make her pay for what she’s done, if I have to follow her clear to hell,” Silas spat, spraying little drops of salvia out over Alfred’s desk in his agitation.

Alfred stared at Silas in amazement. “Only two emotions, love and hate, can elicit such a response, Silas,” Alfred pronounced grimly, the light of understanding dawning in the attorney’s eyes.

“What are you jabbering about,” Silas tugged at his shirt collar and twisted around towards the door.  “I don’t have time for your little guessing games,” he said starting towards the haven of the hallway.

“Dear God! You’re in love with Rose!” Alfred stared, horrified, at Silas’s back.

Silas froze for a second, his back ramrod straight. “What utter rubbish,” Silas sniffed carelessly over his shoulder finally, and started walking again.

“I give you fair warning, Silas Farthingham. If you drag Rose McGregor back here, and make her stand trial; I will represent her against you with the greatest of pleasure.” Alfred leaned aggressively across the desk towards Silas Farthingham. “I’m sure you don’t mind showing yourself out.”

Silas stomped out of his former solicitor’s house with Alfred’s words still ringing in his ears. He slammed the door, but felt no relief from doing so.

How dare that man accuse him of loving that bitch, he thought self-righteously. He shoved his boot into the stirrup and heaved himself up onto his horse still fuming under his breath. Wrapping his hands tightly around the reigns as if it was Alfred’s neck, he cracked his whip against the unsuspecting horse’s rump.

The horse took off like a shot towards the edge of town. Maybe a good long run would get those ice-green eyes haunting him out of his mind, Silas thought. He leaned forward over the saddle and slapped his whip against the horse’s flank and hindquarters again and again; urging the beast to go faster. If he went fast enough, just maybe he could outrun Rose McGregor’s memory.

After a while, sanity began to seep through the haze of anger. Silas didn’t feel his usual satisfaction in beating the poor dumb beast. Damn Rose McGregor and her tantalizing eyes.

Letting out a curse, Silas hurled the whip away from him into the edge of the woods he was riding through. He pulled the reigns of the wildly galloping horse.

He could feel the deep ragged breaths of the horse beneath his legs as the beast struggled to pull in great gulps of air. The horse stumbled to a halt; trembling. Silas idly noticed his britches were covered in flecks of bloody foam.

“Damn you, Rose McGregor,” Silas shouted to the moss-laden tree limbs above him. “I am not in love with you!” He screamed, startling the horse which took off, nearly unseating him.

Silas pulled tight on the reigns and brought the beast to a halt once more. Then Silas threw himself forward across the sweaty neck of his horse and then did something he hadn’t done since he was twelve years old and got his last real beating from his drunken father. 

He wept.