“I’m curious,” he said. “What are those Indians doing at the foot of the hill?”
Samantha briefly told him. “The whole family followed us home. Apparently I bought their livelihood as well as their sheep. I didn’t mean to. I knew he was drunk. I suppose I should give back the sheep.”
“If I know Indians, Silver Fish is too proud to take charity. He knows he did wrong, and he’s lost face. The only thing he can do now is work off his shame.” Steve had known other men like Silver Fish, who possessed a strong mixture of pride and cunning. He would wager that the Indian would steal from anyone except the person who employed him.
“I’ve decided to hire Silver Fish.” Bush’s duplicity had confused her, made her question her own judgment. If she could hire a man like Bush, what else might she be doing wrong?
“May I ask you a question?” she asked, hardly knowing what was about to come out of her mouth.
“Anything.”
“I’ve long thought it might be a good idea to sell all of my stock,” she said hesitantly. “I’m basing my opinion on the fact that we’re still being targeted by rustlers. But I’m also afraid that this drought is going to get worse.” She paused and glanced quickly at him. “You may already know this, but we haven’t discussed it. El—Tristera told me she was her tribe’s rainmaker. She says it may not rain at all this year. I don’t really believe in people being able to predict the future or make rain, but just in case, I wanted to know what you think about selling the cattle.”
Her nearness mesmerized Steve. “I’m not a cattleman, but I think you’re right. If I were you I would sell as many cattle as I could. In a drought you could lose every head you keep.”
Samantha nodded and turned to look at the dust Bush was kicking up as he rode away, presenting Steve with her lovely profile. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your advice. I’ve thought that was the right thing all along, but Mr. Bush said the drought didn’t matter. He advised me to buy cattle to hedge against losses. I thought that was wrong. It felt wrong, but I dared not go against him. He had prickly pride.”
“Bush was a crook. He was helping steal your cattle.”
Samantha thrilled at the anger she sensed in him when he mentioned Bush’s stealing from her. Knowing Steve agreed with her, relieved the anxiety.
She smiled at him. “Will you stay for dinner?”
He hesitated. He should be on his way, but he’d long ago missed the noon train at Camp Pinal. Besides, he wanted to stay, and there would be another train…
“Yes, thank you.” He had the urge to tell her he’d like that very much, but part of him wasn’t willing to admit that out loud. “I might have a better chance of catching a train here anyway,” he said ruefully, his eyes intent on her face.
Samantha laughed, pleased and suddenly breathless. “I’ll tell the plate, so she can set another Juana.”
Steve frowned. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll tell…” Samantha realized her misstatement and stopped. “I’ll tell Juana,” she said, flushing but unable to look away. She was supposed to leave, but her feet didn’t respond. The way his eyes softened when he smiled held her there. It was a look she’d longed to see in Lance’s eyes. It reminded her of the dream—and evoked an odd little tingle of excitement and fear and longing.
“I’ll take care of Calico…”
“Yes…”
Steve turned and sauntered toward the barn. Samantha’s feet barely touched the floor on the way to the kitchen. She told herself it was because she loved entertaining. This amazing new energy and aliveness she felt was normal for her at the prospect of a dinner guest. She loved company. It was nothing more than that.
While the women in the house prepared the evening meal, Steve walked up the mountainside toward an overhanging rock he wanted to inspect. The climb was steeper and rougher than he’d expected. By the time he reached the plateau, he was panting and glad of an opportunity to rest and admire the view—desert blending into hills and rough, wooded country.
At close range, the rock that jutted out over the ranch house was higher and more precarious than he’d thought. It was taller than it was deep, and it sat on a collection of other big rocks. It probably wasn’t going anywhere. Still, it wouldn’t take much to send it rolling down the mountain. And Samantha’s house sat smack in its path.
Fortunately the rock was stable—as long as nothing happened to shake the mountain. The Arizona Territory had experienced a few earthquakes, but they generally weren’t much. Samantha Forrester’s Boston House might last as long as she did.
He walked down the mountain to wash up.
Samantha met Seth Boswell as he rode up to the house.
“Thank you for coming, Seth. I can have Sender carried outside if you don’t want to come into the house.”
“Naw, that’s nonsense. I’ve been in this house too many times to start worrying about it now.”
“He’s in here,” she said, leading the way to the parlor.
Boswell checked Sender’s wound and smiled. “I couldn’t have done better myself. The bullet went clean through. The only thing to do now is keep him down until he gets his strength back. It’ll heal or not, depending on him.”
Boswell left some of Lydia’s gunshot tonic with Samantha. “Give him this morning, noon, and night. It’ll perk him up.”
When Boswell left, Samantha had two men move Sender into the bedroom across from Juana’s.
Samantha bathed, and for the first time in months, she put on a formal evening gown for dinner at home. She had bought it in Paris on her honeymoon—a royal blue velvet with a lace collar at its jewel neckline. She enjoyed dressing up when there was someone around to appreciate her efforts. An expensive, pretty gown made her feel pampered and young and pretty. And it might make Steve Sheridan squirm. She hoped so. Teach him a lesson for kissing her and riding away.
Samantha asked Tristera to join them, but she declined. The girl was deeply grieving. Samantha wanted to comfort her, but she knew from her own experiences that only time would heal grief.
Juana set the table in the dining room for three. Nicholas appeared, freshly washed and eager for company. He had awakened from his nap rested, his cough gone. Samantha felt such pride and love at the sight of him. He didn’t chatter like other children she had known. Being with him was almost like being with another adult. Although he lacked experience and education, his mind was as good or better than hers.
Steve walked in from the front porch and smiled at them. He had shaved; a fresh cut adorned his strong chin. His hair was wet, recently combed. The look in his dark, silky eyes told her he always cleaned himself up for dinner, that she wasn’t to make more of it than it deserved.
“Would you like a tour of the house?” she asked lightly. “So you can see the grinding poverty to which you are about to abandon us?”
Steve smiled. “Sure.”
The house was big and rectangular. Sand sifted into it at will. “I can’t believe a reputable carpenter built this here,” Steve said, gazing around him. “It would have been just a little harder to go up onto the mountain, but there you’d have had the benefit of tall trees and cooler weather.”
“It was my fault. I brought my builder with me from New York, because I didn’t know if I’d be able to find someone here who knew how to build a house. He didn’t know anything about this land. He advised against going up on the mountain. Said we wouldn’t be able to find water!”
“Or he didn’t want to go to the extra trouble. He was going to get paid no matter where he built.”
“Maybe. That’s the outhouse,” she said, pointing out the back door at a structure a hundred yards from the house.
“You should have asked him to build you a brothel.”
Samantha was surprised and delighted at his boldness. “Why?”
“Because I built one not too long ago in San Francisco. They insisted on a bathroom for every bedroom, with nothing but the mos
t deluxe accommodations.”
Samantha laughed. “I guess I should have.”
“What’s that?” Steve asked, pointing to the shed.
“That’s where I work with clay. I’ll show it to you after dinner if you like.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
Steve sat at the head of the table. Samantha had expected him to be embarrassed or discomfited. Most single Western men would have been. They’d had little contact with what they called “drawing room ladies,” but Steve seemed at peace with himself and with her. He began the dinner conversation with questions about Nicholas and his schooling.
Tonight Nicholas was in an observant mood. Samantha realized it was just as well Steve Sheridan wouldn’t be staying. The boy wanted a father. Steve looked like a man who kept moving.
As Juana served dessert, Nicholas opened up to Steve. “I found a prairie falcon,” he said. “Mama needs models to sculpt, but she’s not as good at finding them as I am.”
“Near here?”
“On the mountainside.”
Steve sipped his coffee.
“We’ve been watching it for a month now. Since we’ve been watching, the parents have brought in two mourning doves, eight burrowing owls, three horned larks, nine jays, fifteen…or maybe it was fourteen meadowlarks,” he said, glancing at his fingers, where he was keeping track. “Three blackbirds, two shrikes, one rock wren, one chicken, one pocket gopher.” He ran out of fingers and started over, “And eight ground squirrels.”
“That’s a lot. How many in the brood?”
“Four.”
“How old are the falconets?”
“About four weeks.”
“Around five weeks they’ll leave the nest.”
Nicholas frowned. “They might fall or something. They’re about fifty yards up on the side of the mountain.”
“How’d you find it?”
“Easy to spot a prairie falcon nest once you know what to look for,” Samantha said, “isn’t it, Nicholas?”
“Bones,” Nicholas said, grinning at Steve.
“Bones?”
Samantha smiled at Nicholas. “Of mourning doves, owls, larks, jays, meadowlarks, wrens, chickens—”
“Pocket gophers,” Nicholas interjected. Then he seemed to remember something unpleasant. “Have you ever seen a prairie falcon spit up bones?” he asked.
“No, I don’t believe I have.”
“I did,” Nicholas said proudly. “I thought there was something wrong with that bird. It drew its feathers down flat, stood up as tall as it could, then started sticking its neck out funny. Then it kinda squatted down, stretched up, and bobbed its neck up and down until a lump slid up its throat and plopped out its mouth. Yuck.”
“I wouldn’t want to be a mama or papa falcon,” Samantha said. “Feeding time gets a little frantic. A couple of times one of the falconets took a bite out of the parent feeding it.”
Steve rose and smiled at the boy. “I’ll say good-bye now, because I plan to leave early in the morning.”
Nicholas scowled. “Will you ever be back?”
“Maybe, in a year or so.”
“Will you stop by to see us?”
“Sure, if your mother doesn’t mind.”
Juana led Nicholas away, and Samantha turned to Steve. “Well, it looks like you’ve made a conquest there.”
“He’s a fine boy.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Does he look like his father?”
She hesitated briefly. “Yes.”
“Any chance you might leave Arizona, go back to wherever you came from?” he asked.
Samantha thought about that. She loved Arizona. Lance was less than a hundred miles away. The climate agreed with Nicholas, who was better now than he had been in years.
“No. No, I guess not.” If you stayed…she thought, looking into his eyes. Samantha realized that despite her deep love and unwavering loyalty to Lance, she felt an undeniable attraction to Steve Sheridan.
“Well, it’s my bedtime,” he said abruptly.
She averted her gaze, nodding. “I’ll show you to your bedroom.”
“No, thank you. I prefer to sleep out on the desert.”
“On the desert?” she repeated in disbelief. “There are scorpions, tarantulas, fleas, Gila monsters…”
Steve laughed. “Rattlesnakes, coral snakes, centipedes, ticks, chinch bugs…”
“Then why?” she asked.
“I was raised by a Papago Indian woman named Uncheedah, who told me that nothing will ever happen to me unless the Great Mystery permits it for my spiritual growth. You wouldn’t want me to avoid my destiny, would you? There may be a chinch bug out there who’s been waiting for me all week.” His eyes sparkled with amusement.
“You grew up near here?”
“About fifteen or twenty miles away, yeah.”
“I never saw you…”
“I’ve been gone from here since I was sixteen.”
“And do you really believe that philosophy?” she asked.
Steve thought about it for a moment. “Pretty much.”
“Is that because you haven’t been bit much?”
“Probably,” he conceded.
“Well, if you change your mind…”
Steve grinned. “Thanks.”
The gold filling in his right canine tooth gleamed. Samantha suddenly recalled the sensation of his kiss. How his mouth had tasted like sweet figs and the stubble on his chin had felt like sandpaper. “Well,” she said, turning away in confusion, “I guess you’ll need a blanket.”
“Thanks, but I have blankets.”
“You’re very self-reliant, Mr. Sheridan.”
“I’ve had to be. Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me how to get to the nearest train station…”
“Just follow the tracks south. They’ll bring you to a water tank. The passenger train stops there at eight in the morning.”
“Thanks for a wonderful dinner and charming company.”
Samantha laughed. “Not taking any chances on missing that train, are you?”
“A man can’t be too careful.” Smiling, he turned toward the door.
“Good-bye,” she said softly.
“Good-bye.” He closed the door behind him.
Disappointed, Samantha turned out all the lamps except one, which she carried up the stairs to her room. She wrote a letter to Lance, asking him to help her find a buyer for her cattle, then undressed, put on her nightgown, and climbed into her feather bed.
Usually going to bed triggered thoughts of her beloved. This was the time of day when she imagined herself on the porch swing with his arm around her shoulders, feeling loved and protected and treasured. She tried to summon up the image, but it didn’t come.
Instead she heard Steve Sheridan’s voice, asking about family pictures. That innocent question had reopened an old wound. And reminded her Steve was not alone in his puzzlement. Everyone in the Kincaid family—except Lance—thought it odd that Samantha didn’t revere her parents. But they hadn’t been the ones abandoned.
Anger and sorrow battled just below the surface as Samantha firmly closed the door on those memories and turned her attention outward.
Her room was cool and dark. Night winds sighed around the eaves of her second-story bedroom. Something tickled her face. She reached up and felt sand on her cheek. Sighing in frustration, she sat up and brushed off her pillow, which was already gritty with it. Then she shook off her counterpane. How she hated this house!
Steve Sheridan wouldn’t stay, but she could hire someone else to build her another house. She should have thought of that sooner.
Relieved, she settled down to sleep. It was the right thing to do, but somehow it didn’t please her as much.
Chapter Seven
Steve walked out about two hundred feet from the house, spread his blanket, and sat on it. He loved the desert at night. Some people thought it frightening, but he never had.
The stars were big and bri
ght, the sky gray at the horizon, darker overhead. A dog barked. Horses whinnied, and crickets made their ceaseless creee, creee, creee sounds.
Minutes passed. He thought about lying down, but then he caught sight of a female form walking toward him. His body reacted as if it were Samantha Forrester coming to him, but he saw it was only Elunami—Tristera, he corrected himself.
Steve waited in silence, torn between a desire to let her know he was there and the desire to let her pass by without seeing him.
She walked right up to his blanket and stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “I did not see you come out here.”
“S’all right,” Steve assured her.
Tristera had left the house to escape people and the necessity to speak with them. Finding Steve Sheridan here confused her, because she had a need to thank him for his many kindnesses, but she had no energy for words. They felt stuck inside her, unmovable. She would have to force them out, as she had done at the school so many times.
“Thank you for your help yesterday.”
“I was glad to do it.” Steve scooted to the far end of the blanket and gestured with his hand toward the other end.
Tristera sat down, not touching him. She listened to the sounds of crickets and an occasional barking dog. Then, in the distance came the sweet sound of Samantha Forrester’s voice lifting above the other noises. Tristera didn’t recognize the song, but it sounded joyful and lilting. She imagined the boy cuddled against the woman’s side; the distrust she usually felt for white women softened.
“Señora Forrester is young and beautiful. She needs a new house. Why do you refuse to build it for her?”
“You don’t miss much, do you? Well, you’ve pretty well summed it up. She’s young and beautiful and determined to have her own way,” he said, remembering the aplomb with which Samantha had invited herself to dinner and paid for it. “I’m a lonely man who’d just fall in love with her. I’ve got buildings to build, a reputation to make for myself. If I stay here, a determined woman like her would either make me miserable by ignoring me, or more miserable by paying attention to me and turning me into her lap pet. Then none of my buildings would get built, and it would be your fault for talking me into it.”
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