Chapter 2: Time will tell
The tin bell jingled behind him as the saloon doors swung shut, and Joseph stepped back into the furnace of the afternoon sun.
The heat hit him square in the chest, a physical weight that pressed against his lungs and made him grateful for the whiskey warming his belly. He paused on the boardwalk for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the blinding brightness, and scanned the street out of habit.
Old instincts died hard, and newer ones kept him alive. Nothing moved except a tumbleweed rolling lazily across the road and a mangy dog sniffing at the hitching posts outside the general store.
His horse nickered softly as he approached, ears pricking forward with recognition. Joseph reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bruised apple he'd been carrying since Braithwaite—a small mercy he'd picked up from a farmer's market stall three towns back. The horse took it gently from his palm, lips soft against his skin, and crunched it with obvious satisfaction.
"You're spoiled, you know that?" he murmured, scratching behind her ears. "Most horses get by on hay and patience. You get apples and conversation."
The horse snorted, nuzzling at his chest for another treat, and Joseph was about to reach for his saddlebag when he heard the creak of the saloon doors behind him.
She walked toward him when she reached the edge of the boardwalk, she stopped, one boot resting on the lip as she looked down at him with those sharp blue eyes.
"How long are you planning to stay in town?"
The question was casual enough, but he caught the weight beneath it. Not a challenge—not quite. More like a fishing line cast into still water, waiting to see what bit.
Joseph scratched his horse's jaw, letting the moment stretch. The truth was, he didn't know. He had a job to do, a man to find, and if Colm Bell was here in Rhodes, Joseph would be here just as long as it took to finish things. A day. A week. However long the hunt demanded.
"Time will tell," he said, and he offered her a small, easy smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm in no particular hurry."
She smiled at that, a real one that crinkled the corners of her eyes, and Joseph felt something shift in his chest—a sensation he knew better than to name. She began to turn away, dismissing him with that easy grace, and the moment stretched between them like taffy.
"Sorry, ma'am," he called out, surprising himself.
She stopped, turning back with a raised eyebrow.
Joseph felt his ears warm slightly—a ridiculous, boyish reaction that he hadn't experienced in years. "Do you happen to know where the closest hotel is?"
A flicker of amusement crossed her face. "Only one in Rhodes. It's called the Rhodes Parlour House." She pointed down the street, past the bank and the barber shop, to where a two-story building rose against the pale sky. "It's next to the ranch supply store. You can't miss it. Sign's got a painted horse on it that looks more like a mule."
Joseph swung up into the saddle with practiced ease, settling into the worn leather that had molded to his body over months of riding. He patted his horse's neck, feeling the warmth of her flank beneath his palm, then looked down at Isabella.
He tilted his hat with two fingers, a small gesture of thanks. "Good evening, Sheriff."
"Mr. Black," she replied, and there was something in her voice—a warmth beneath the official distance—that made him want to stay.
He didn't. He nudged his horse forward, setting a slow pace down the main street of Rhodes, feeling her gaze on his back like a brand.
The Rhodes Parlour House was exactly as Isabella had described—a faded sign depicting a horse that did look disconcertingly like a mule, hanging above a porch lined with empty rocking chairs.
The building itself was modest but well-kept, with fresh paint on the window frames and flower boxes that someone had actually bothered to water. Geraniums, red and pink, spilling over the edges in a defiant splash of color against all that brown and dust.
Joseph dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post, giving her one last pat before he climbed the porch steps. His boots echoed on the wooden planks.
The door swung open before he could knock, revealing a wiry woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair pinned in a bun and an expression that suggested she'd seen everything and judged most of it lacking.
"You the new fella?" she asked, not unkindly. "Heard you rode in this morning. Word travels fast in a town this size."
Joseph nodded. "Joseph Black. I'm looking for a room."
She looked him up and down with the practiced eye of someone who'd run a boarding house long enough to spot trouble at twenty paces. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because she stepped aside and gestured him in.
"Name's Martha. Martha Higgins. I run this establishment, such as it is." She led him into a modest lobby with a worn rug and a desk that had seen better decades. "Two dollars a night, three if you want a bath drawn and a hot meal. Breakfast is included, but you'll eat what I serve and you'll like it."
Joseph pulled out his coin purse. "A bath sounds like heaven. I'll take the full package."
Martha's eyes crinkled with something approaching approval. "You're a sensible man. That's rarer than you'd think." She slid a key across the desk, brass and tarnished, with a number stamped into the surface. "Room four. Top of the stairs, end of the hall. I'll have my boy bring up the bathwater."
Joseph took the key, feeling its weight in his palm. "Thank you, ma'am."
Martha waved a hand dismissively. "No need for all that ma'am business. Martha'll do just fine." She paused, studying him with a curiosity that was more kind than nosy. "You headed somewhere, or you running from something?"
The question caught him off guard, and he must have shown it, because Martha let out a low chuckle.
"Don't worry, son. I don't pry into folks' business. I just like to know who I'm feeding breakfast to." She gestured toward the stairs. "Go on, get settled. Supper's at six, and I don't serve late."
Joseph climbed the stairs, finding his way to room four at the end of the hall. The door swung open onto a modest space—a bed with a quilt that looked hand-stitched, a washstand with a chipped porcelain basin, and a window that overlooked the alley behind the building. It was clean and simple, and after three nights sleeping under the stars, it felt like luxury.
He set his saddlebag on the floor and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, feeling the springs creak beneath his weight. The mattress was softer than he was used to, and he found himself sinking into it, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.
His Colt revolver pressed against his hip, a familiar weight that reminded him of why he was here.
Colm Bell.
The name surfaced in his mind like a stone rising from murky water. Joseph reached into his vest and pulled out the worn photograph he carried everywhere—a creased, faded image of a woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile.
Eight years since Colm Bell had walked into his home. Eight years since Bell had taken everything Joseph had loved and left him with nothing but ash and the burning need for vengeance.
He'd tracked Bell across three states, following whispers and rumours and the occasional glimpse of a man who moved through the world like a ghost.