“Five hundred dollars.”
“For how many sheep?”
“Two hundred or more. I saw the herd.”
That was a good price. Sheep were selling for eight fifty now. Wool was going for about seventy-five cents a pound, and it was almost time to shear. There didn’t appear to be any way she could lose money on the deal.
“Is there something wrong with the herd?” she asked.
“I didn’t see a thing wrong with any of ’em.”
“All right. Tell him to meet me at the bank.”
Twenty minutes later she and Bush waited for Silver Fish inside the bank. Even though Samantha had a large account there, Eugene England, the banker, a small man with a big mustache, could not hide his discomfort at seeing her. He was not a man she particularly liked, however, so she didn’t mind when he pretended to be too busy for their usual chat.
“That’s him,” Bush said, pointing.
Samantha glanced out the window at a tall, slightly bow-legged Indian dressed in a black frock coat and black trousers. He wore shiny knee-high black army boots and a black top hat. He could have passed for a businessman, except for a dozen or so necklaces of beads, claws, and animal teeth around his strong neck. The redness of his face appeared to come from an excess of alcohol rather than heritage. She had come to recognize that unnatural flush. The man staggered through the door and approached them, weaving slightly from side to side.
“This is Mrs. Forrester,” Bush said when Silver Fish stopped in front of her.
Silver Fish nodded. He had such opaque black eyes that she had no way of knowing if they even registered her presence. Looking into them, she felt as if she disappeared entirely.
Mr. England rushed over with the bill of sale form and filled it out. Silver Fish made his mark, and England witnessed it. Samantha signed, then England processed her withdrawal. Samantha passed the money to Silver Fish. Through the entire proceeding, he hadn’t said one word.
Samantha watched him lurch away. “I hope you know what to do with a herd of sheep.”
Bush grunted. “We’ve got Ramon. He was a sheepherder before he was a vaquero.”
At ten o’clock, Samantha saw Steve ride east out of Picket Post, probably to intercept the noon train at Camp Pinal. The knowledge that he had not, in the end, changed his mind disturbed her more than she would admit.
She strolled over to Seth and Lydia Boswell’s to check on Lars, who was resting comfortably in a feather bed in the extra bedroom. His color and his spirits were good. Samantha said good-bye, confident he’d be well taken care of. Lydia Boswell was a good cook.
Outside again, Samantha walked quickly toward the general store. The sky had darkened with thunderheads, and a cold breeze whipped through the town, lifting the dust and swirling it around.
It felt good to get out of the cold wind. The general store smelled of garlic, dill pickles, new fabric, and bakery goods. Samantha bought a riding skirt for herself, coats for Elunami, herself, and Nicholas. She couldn’t find a warm enough coat to fit Elunami and finally settled for a blanket she could wear over the lightweight coat. Samantha considered buying an entire wardrobe for the girl but feared that might alert someone to the fact that her new governess had arrived without clothing of her own.
At the hotel, Bush waited for her, looking irritable. “You’re late,” he said impatiently. “Ramon has the herd of sheep on the move. I got six riders waiting.”
“We’ll be ready in a few moments,” she said.
“You’re not bringing that Mexican girl, are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The pink in his face darkened to red at her tone. “I hired a cook,” he said, unwilling to back down. “We don’t need another Mexican cook.”
“She’s not a cook, Mr. Bush. She’s a governess.”
He snorted his dislike.
Samantha decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Bush was originally from Illinois. Perhaps Mexican cooking didn’t agree with his Illinois, corn-fed stomach.
Two miles out of town they were stopped by the largest herd of antelope Samantha had ever seen—a tawny, white-tailed flood of them, galloping flank-to-flank. As the antelope pounded straight toward them, Samantha took the reins to Nicholas’s horse and held tight. Bush pulled his gun and aimed it at one of the leaders.
“Don’t shoot them,” Samantha cried.
“You want to be trampled into dust or have your brand-new herd of sheep scattered from here to Nogales?”
Miraculously, even as Bush spoke the leaders turned and the entire herd changed direction as one. One moment they were aimed at Samantha’s small party, the next they swerved to the left. As they clattered past, about fifty yards away, hundreds of white cottony rumps caught the sunlight; sharp little hooves cut the grass into dust.
“Damned nuisances!” Bush cursed, coughing.
“They’re beautiful,” Samantha said. She had never seen so many antelope in one herd before.
“They may be beautiful, but they eat the grass your cattle and sheep need.”
Samantha laughed. “Well, it’s good of you to be concerned about my interests, but I don’t begrudge them food to live.”
“Well, you will, if the rains don’t come this year. They’ll be drinking the water you’ll want for your own cattle.”
Samantha wasn’t that worried. She had formed a canal company and hired an overseer, an engineer, and a full company of laborers to dig canals from the Salt River to the ranch, where a natural basin waited for water.
“That reminds me,” she said, turning to face Bush. “We need to round up a herd to sell.”
“Now?”
“As soon as possible.”
Bush scowled. “I thought I was the ramrod of this outfit.”
“I can’t see how my needing to sell stock can be construed as undermining your authority, Mr. Bush. If I go broke, there won’t be any need for your services…or anyone else’s.”
“You just bought stock.”
“A tiny herd of sheep? I have thousands of cattle, and they sell for a great deal more.”
He backed down, but the look in his eyes told her he resented it—and probably her as well. “How many do you want to sell?” he asked, his tone gruff.
“A thousand head or so.”
“That’s a lot.”
“I have a payroll to meet on the first.” He didn’t know that she could always transfer funds from her New York account, and she wasn’t about to tell him.
Bush nodded his agreement and galloped ahead.
As they rode along, Elunami turned in her saddle occasionally to look back at the terrain behind them. The third time she did, Samantha rode close to her. “What are you looking for?” she asked.
“You are followed.”
Samantha turned in her saddle. At first she didn’t see anything, then she saw a group of riders in the distance, so tiny she was amazed Elunami had seen them at all.
“They’re probably just men from one of the other ranches going home after the weekend.”
Elunami shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Samantha asked Bush to send a man back to check. He returned in a few minutes. “Well?” she asked.
“They’re Indians, Papago, I think. Led by a big warrior by the name of Silver Fish.” Bush’s messenger squinted at the overhung sky as if embarrassed. “Says he sold you his herd and then was robbed of the money. Says he has been shamed, and the only way he can save face is if he comes and works for you until he earns that herd back. You want us to run them off?”
“Yep, they’ll just be trouble,” Bush interjected.
“No. Let him come,” Samantha said firmly. “We may need their help with the herd. And, if he’s working for me he might not steal it.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Bush growled, obvious displeasure in his eyes.
A short time later, clouds covered the sun—and an unaccustomed chill added a sting to the wind now coming from the north. With
in minutes the wind picked up speed and began lifting the sand and flinging it into their faces. Samantha stopped and unpacked the coats she’d bought. She tied Nicholas’s cravat over his nose and mouth. Elunami draped the blanket around her shoulders. Bush’s riders put on their jackets and pulled their bandannas up over their noses.
Steve Sheridan was somewhere to the east. At least she and Nicholas and her riders knew where they were going. Steve had probably never seen the railroad station at Camp Pinal. Even in good weather, it was hard to spot.
“Are we almost—” Nicholas broke off, coughing so hard he could not continue. Samantha looked anxiously at the darkening sky. A wind storm was especially bad for his lungs.
“Ride faster,” she urged. She had to get her son out of this storm. That need drove everything else from her mind.
Chapter Six
By noon Steve decided he was lost. Somehow, in the blowing sand, he had missed Camp Pinal, or else it was farther from Picket Post than he’d thought.
An hour later the wind stopped as abruptly as it had started. The sand sifted down, and the air became clear enough to see through. Steve found that he was in a shallow canyon at the juncture of two nearly dry creeks. High limestone cliffs soared upward in a smooth sweep. A grazing mule deer raised its head, looked at Steve, and bounded away, its big ears lifted high. If his memory served him right, he’d once traveled through here with a band of braves on a hunting expedition. This was one of the most beautiful places in the territory.
He stopped and dismounted to let Calico drink from the shallow creek. The sun was high overhead. He couldn’t tell which direction he was going.
Calico raised his head and cocked his ears. Having learned to trust his horse’s instincts, Steve listened intently, but all he heard was running water. He walked away from the stream and listened. Finally it came again—the distant sound of a horse whinnying. Unsheathing his gun, Steve walked toward the sound, rounded a boulder, and saw a dun gelding about a hundred yards away, its reins tied to a manzanita bush.
He squatted and watched the small clearing for a time. When he was sure the horse was alone, that no one shared the canyon with him, he walked forward. “Where’s your rider?” he murmured, stroking the horse’s nose.
The horse snickered and stamped as if happy to see him. On a chance, Steve untied the horse and let him go. The animal hesitated, looked back at Steve, then walked into the brush. Steve followed, wishing he’d taken the time to get Calico. Just when he felt sure the horse was going to run away, it stopped and hung its head. At first Steve didn’t see anything. Then, walking over, he saw a hand protruding from beneath the thick brush of a recently fallen limb; he lifted the limb away. On the ground lay a young man, no more than seventeen years old by the scant stubble on his face. His shirt was bloodied.
Steve knelt down and felt his neck for a pulse. The boy’s skin was warm, his pulse a little thready. He’d been shot in the shoulder, high up enough, so it might have missed his lung.
“Reckon you’re gonna live,” he muttered.
Steve filled his canteen, mounted Calico at the creek, and returned to find the boy hadn’t moved. He swabbed the boy’s face with his wet bandanna. After a bit, the young man opened his eyes.
“Am I daid?”
“Does this look like hell?”
“I might a been going to heaven.”
“Sorry. I thought you were a cowboy.”
The boy tried to sit up, groaned, and eased himself back onto the ground. “Ow! That hurts like a two-forty trot.”
“What happened?”
“You got any water? Mine ran out sometime last night, I think. I cain’t remember when.”
Steve held him while he drank a few swallows of water from the canteen.
“Thanks. Come onto a pack of running iron specialists Friday afternoon late. They shot me, but I managed to git outta sight before they came riding past. They never seen me or I’d be daider than I am. Name’s Sender Thompson.”
Steve had hoped to get clear of this country before he met everyone who lived here. “Steve Sheridan,” he said finally.
Even wounded, Sender Thompson was quick. “Jones, huh? That’s a good name. I’ve used it myself a few times.”
Steve laughed. He couldn’t imagine one so young having done much of anything for more than a few minutes. “Think you can make it home by yourself?”
“Always been able to before.” He struggled to his feet and collapsed in a dead faint. Steve caught him in middrop, eased him down, and waited. When Thompson came to, Steve helped him onto his horse.
“Which way’s home?”
Sender puzzled over this for a moment, then looked around to get his bearings. “Where the hell did that creek go?”
Steve pointed at the creek.
“Once we get back to the Gila you can see the Forrester spread—Boston House Mountain—from there,” the boy told him.
A thrill of dread and anticipation shot through Steve. Samantha Forrester’s house! So, he was fated to see her again.
Steve rode along in a daze, barely noticing the cactus-strewn country through which they passed. A small tingle of excitement had started in his belly at the mention of Samantha Forrester. A warning probably that he had no business running into her again. Something in him yearned for contact with her. He felt it now, straining toward her. He was no better than a schoolboy with his first crush. She seemed so determined to entice him into staying, what might she do if he showed up at her door?
The thought caused a heavy tingle of fear and excitement to course through him. At that moment, if he could have pointed the wounded boy at the Forrester spread and let him go, Steve would have taken off in the opposite direction at top speed. But Sender Thompson was too shaky to make it to the ranch alone. The sky was growing dark again, threatening another windstorm. The boy could get lost, fall off his horse, and die before anyone found him.
Samantha saw the white facade of her two-story house with relief. She moved aside the sheltering blanket and peered into its folds at her son, whom she had set on her own horse, so she could protect him from the desert winds. She’d traded her coat for Elunami’s blanket.
“Hang on, sweetheart. We’re almost there.”
Nicholas coughed, then nodded to reassure her.
“We’re almost there,” she repeated, glancing up to gauge how much farther they had to go.
The two-story house, which sat on the north side of the mountain behind it, was about a quarter of a mile away. Although the frame house was totally out of place in the desert, it still called to her. She loved it as home even as she resented it as inadequate living quarters. Sand seeped through every crack. In the winter, wind whipped through the almost nonexistent walls.
As they rode up the long, gentle slope to the house, Juana ran out to greet them. Almost as broad as she was tall, the Mexican cook had a sweet round face and smiling eyes. She doted on Nicholas, whom she called by a hundred pet names.
“Buenos días, niño mio! Buenos días, señora! I’m so glad to see you, pequeño!” she said, lifting Nicholas down and hugging him against her ample bosom.
“Are you hungry, dumpling?”
“I ate a big breakfast,” Nicholas said. Juana led Nicholas, who was talking nonstop about the sheep and the storm, straight to the warm, fragrant kitchen. Samantha followed them. Elunami hung back.
“Juana, this is Tristera. I’ve hired her as a governess for Nicholas.”
Juana smiled at the girl and put an arm around her shoulders. “Are you hungry? Come, eat something.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Come sit with us anyway,” said Samantha. “No one can resist Juana’s chili. Eat just a bit. You’re too thin.”
The kitchen smelled of fresh-brewed coffee. Tristera ate a few bites of chili and drank two glasses of cool, sweet milk. Samantha ate a little of everything—chili, corn bread, apple pie, milk, coffee. Nicholas picked at his food, but Juana coaxed him into eating severa
l spoonfuls of everything.
When he closed his mouth, refusing to take another bite, Samantha put him down for his nap. For once he didn’t fight her, he just closed his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly. Samantha stood by his bed anxiously. It was always a little frightening when Nicholas went to sleep too easily.
“How is he?” Tristera asked as Samantha returned to the kitchen. She and Juana were already washing and drying the dishes; the room smelled faintly of Juana’s strong lye soap.
“I think he’ll be all right. Let me show you to your room.”
“I can sleep outside.”
“No. I’d prefer you to be in the house, if you don’t mind.”
Tristera shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
The house had six bedrooms on the second story, three on each side of a long hall. Juana slept in the one nearest the stairs. Nicholas had the middle bedroom; the one next to his was empty. Samantha put Tristera in the one across from her own room. Both of them opened onto the sleeping porch, where everyone slept on really hot nights.
Tristera frowned at the sight of the room. “Is something wrong?” Samantha asked.
“Is this all for me?”
“Yes, it is.”
“At the school, I slept in a dormitory with twenty other girls.”
“Then I guess it’s my job to spoil you. Once you adjust you’ll never be able to share a room again. I couldn’t survive without a room of my own.” She glanced at the girl’s borrowed clothes. “I have some clothes we can take in for you. Do you sew?”
“Yes. It was required.”
“Your sheets are clean. We boiled them just before I left for Phoenix. But everything sifts into this house, so I’d check for spiders and maybe shake out the sheets before I got into bed. Rest for a while or do whatever you want. I’ll look through my clothes.”
Samantha went outside to check her greenhouse, which stood on the shady east side of the barn, so it would receive direct sun only in the morning. Twenty-by-ten feet, it sported a double roof and side walls—lattice on the outside to keep out some of the sun, glass on the inside to hold in moisture. With diligent care and persistent watering, Samantha had kept alive a number of flowers that wouldn’t otherwise have lived in this climate—roses, mums, daisies, zinnias, a few houseplants, and some orchids she’d brought from the East.
Adobe Palace Page 14
