Epilogue

The Inevitable

It was a warm and sunny afternoon. On A-Street life was busily bustling, and in front of the big window of the Territorial Enterprise bureau three boys were playing a game of tiddly-winks. Joe Goodman sat at his desk, drinking a cup of coffee and lazily watching the boys’ antics. His content smile deepened when his eyes fell on the latest issue of the town’s newspaper. His newspaper. A well-written, expertly edited, and highly respected piece of print. Not in the least thanks to his very wise decision to hire a new writer. Even if said new writer was a woman and an annoying, imperious, smart-alecky nuisance most of the time.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Miss Heatherstone was still working quietly at her desk. She didn’t pay him any attention. Good. Somehow Goodman always had the feeling that Miss Heatherstone could read his every single thought when she looked at him with these intense green eyes. He shook himself, and looked out of the window again.

Goodman’s attention was drawn to the street and to the tall figure of Adam Cartwright, coming from the opposite side of the street where he had hitched his horse to the rail in front of the Silver Dollar saloon. He hadn’t been seen in town for a good week; and everybody in Virginia City knew why. Miss Heatherstone’s series of articles about the burglars who had been raiding ranches the past few months, and who had acquired a second income by re-selling the stolen horses—an idea that had been planted in heir minds by nothing less than Miss Heatherstone’s famous ‘Horse Selling’-article; at least that was what rumours in Virginia City conveyed—and about the pitiable victims of said outlaws had found a thrilling closure in yesterday’s edition of the Enterprise under the headline “Adam Cartwright, Fallen Hero.” Goodman just wondered how the man was able to come into town. Miss Heatherstone’s article had left no doubts about the severity of Cartwright’s injury. And it was plain to see that he heavily favoured his right side. He had a pronounced limp, and the way he clutched his right side even publicly indicated that he was, indeed, in severe pain.

If Goodman saw this right, Cartwright had a death grip on a folded issue of the Territorial Enterprise in his free hand as he limped his way to the bureau, and it came as not too big a surprise when said issue only seconds later landed on Goodman’s desk with a well-remembered thud.

For a moment, Goodman had a sense of déjà vu, and this feeling only deepened when Cartwright roared at the top of his lungs, “Goodman, I demand a retraction!”

It was a warm and sunny afternoon. On A-Street life was busily bustling, and in front of the big window of the Territorial Enterprise bureau three boys were playing a game of tiddly-winks. Joe Goodman sat at his desk, leaning comfortably back in his chair, his hands folded on the table before him.

He smiled maliciously, turned his head and called over his shoulder, “Miss Heatherstone, please. Mr. Cartwright has some issues to discuss with you!”

__________

It’s so easy,
To think about Love,
To Talk about Love,
To wish for Love.
But it’s not always easy,
To recognize Love,
Even when we hold it….
In our hands.
Jaka

 

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