They could see Tommy’s lips moving but his words were lost in the wind. At the doors to the livery, Tommy shoved his son inside. Alec went sprawling against a stall, then fell in a heap in the straw.
The street behind them filled with the curious, and Carolyn ran up to grab Owen by the arm. “Oh, Owen, you won't believe what he’s done! He’s been drinking all day.”
“Tommy?”
“No, Alec. He’s been in the saloon since last night—he broke in! He was there when they opened the bar at noon. Oh, Owen...”
“Carolyn, tell me what happened.”
“He’s told everyone Russell Travers killed his mother.”
“Oh, dear God, no!” Annie cried. “Who was there—tell me quickly! Who was there?”
“Only Sam at first. He opened up and found him there. But then some of Benson’s cowboys came in. One of them told Taylor, and now Sarah’s spreading it all over town.”
Annie turned back to the livery. How did he find out? Only Daniel knew. Who could have told him?
Rushing to the stables, Annie heard Tommy shouting, “Don't you know what you done? Don't you realize, don't you see the harm you done?”
Alec must have answered, for Tommy shouted again. “Dan’l? What’s Dan’l got to do with it? He can beat th’ hell outa you for all I care! Dan’l can take care of ’imself!”
As Alec staggered to his feet, Annie saw his lips move, but still she didn’t hear. Though the crowd had pressed closer, none dared come too near the raging smith.
“How can you say you don't know what you done? Don't you know she’s been sick? Whaddya think this is gonna do—make ’er well again?”
With every question he roared, Tommy pushed his son backward until the youth was staggering into the corner of the stall. Then with a fierce grip that split the back of the velveteen shirt, he pulled Alec close, thrust his face into his son’s and snarled, “I’ll tell you what you done to her. I’ll show you what you done!”
He let go and Alec slumped to the floor. As the youth struggled to his feet, using the stall as a crutch, Tommy reached for a buggy whip and advanced upon him with deadly intent.
Annie gasped and struck her mouth with her fist. Before another instant passed, she stood between the smith and his son.
“Annie!” Owen cried.
She put a hand up to stop her father. Stand still, stay there! The smith was looking over her head, fixated on the stall behind her.
“Get outa my way.” His voice was fierce.
“No.”
“I’ll kill ’im.”
“No, Tommy.”
“Get outa my way!”
“No.”
“He deserves it.”
She didn’t argue, but reached out for the whip. He looked down at her. Her head came barely to his shoulder; she was slender and delicately built. She knew he would not, could not hurt her.
“Annie. Get outa the way.”
“Give it to me, Tommy.” He rocked on the balls of his feet as she repeated, “Give it to me.”
He was a big man, a man of immense physical strength and the confidence that comes with it. Yet the whip fell from his hand and his head drooped.
Annie motioned again to her father, who clenched the blacksmith’s arm and led him away.
SILENT AND BROODING, Tommy let Owen lead him home. But when his door opened, the first thing he saw was the old chair by the fireplace. It was there that he’d held Jesse, soothed her battered spirit after his wife had soothed her bruises. He’d promised her protection there, and realized his love for her. He fell to his knees.
“My son.” He buried his face in his hands. “My own son...”
As Owen stepped closer, Tommy stretched himself out facedown on the floor and reached for the chair. His words were little more than a moan.
“Oh, Jesse, Jesse... please. I’m sorry."
Chapter 30
Owen stood absolutely still. In his friend’s voice, he’d heard more than the anguish of a neighbor or friend. Of a father. In his friend’s voice, he’d heard the torment of a lover. And he didn’t want to hear more.
As he looked down at the blacksmith, he knew it would be impossible to move him. He knew that, if he spoke, Tommy was beyond coherent response. Owen didn’t consider himself a coward—if Annie hadn’t been so quick, he’d have tried to protect Alec himself. He knew Tommy could have shaken him off like a fly, that he’d have to protect Alec with his own body. And he knew he would have done it.
Still, he wanted no more knowledge of the smith’s love for Jesse. The rumors he’d heard, he’d discounted. He wouldn’t speculate, wouldn’t wonder. And he’d certainly never admit to anyone that he knew Tommy loved her.
We all love her, he consoled himself as he closed the cottage door and started back to the stable. We are all upset by her illness. If some of us feel it a little more deeply, it is only natural. John Patrick is upset. His hands were shaking even today. Daniel is affected, though he has looked at no woman but my Annie.
And no one needs to know if one of us is more upset than he is expected to be.
In the street, constable Ray Benson had been sending the crowds about their own business; at the livery, Owen found that Annie and Carolyn had covered Alec with blankets. The youth was blubbering in drunken, disconnected phrases, punctuated by pitiful moans. His daughter was white and shaking, and Owen hurried to her side.
He was less than an inch taller than she was, barrel-chested and solid of body and limb, though age had given him a tendency toward stoutness. Annie held onto him tightly, her head on his shoulder. Carolyn closed the doors so the dispersing crowds had nothing to see.
As Annie composed herself and stepped away from him, Owen saw the narrowing of her eyes that told him she was in pain. She froze for a moment, took a deep breath and held it. After another moment, she gave him a strained smile.
“You need some rest,” he said.
“I can’t leave him alone.”
“I’ll stay with him. You go on home. Carolyn will go with you. I’ll send word when he comes to. Oh, and Carolyn, do you think you could bring me back some coffee? And maybe a blanket or two?”
“Of course. I’ll be about ten minutes.” She bustled off, coaxing Annie along with her. Once in the cottage, she took Annie’s cloak and noticing the girl’s movements were slow and jerky, climbed with her to the loft and helped her into bed. Annie’s eyes were closed before Carolyn had finished covering her.
“Do you want your laudanum?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”
“You rest now, dear. We’ll let you know when he comes around.”
“It’s very important.” Annie’s voice was fading.
“I know, dear. Rest now. I promise to come get you as soon as you can talk to him.”
“Thank you.”
Carolyn descended to the kitchen and began to make coffee and a sandwich to take to the barn. She knew where to find everything she needed in this cottage, for she and Owen had been keeping company for some years. They’d arrived in White’s Station almost at the same time, and a few years later, Carolyn’s husband had run off with a dance-hall girl from Prescott, leaving her destitute but not despondent—she’d recognized his faithlessness early in their marriage.
Were it not for the Donovans and Owen, she’d have been hard-pressed to keep body and soul together. The inheritance she’d had from her mother was gone—gambled away. It was John Patrick who suggested that she turn her large home into a boardinghouse, and Owen who’d taught her to manage her money. She’d taken on a Mexican couple as chambermaid and cook; at first she gave them only room and board, but as things got better, she paid them as well. Now Maria helped her embroider linen sheets and napkins, and her husband José had recently opened Joe’s Café with their son Antonio.
She sliced ham and slathered the bread with Annie’s home-made mustard, waiting for the coffee to boil so she could pour it into a Mason jar. As she worked, Carolyn rumin
ated on the citizens of White’s Station. We are a community of immigrants. For we’ve come from Wales and Ireland, Texas and Pennsylvania. From Sweden, Mexico, Kentucky, China and Louisiana. Only some of the children were born here and have a first-hand claim to the land. Only our few children. And Tommy.
The community had accepted him and his wife as they accepted all decent, hard-working men and their families. There was too much danger in this wilderness for logical men to draw invisible boundaries between them. There were those who’d tried—newcomers who hadn’t lasted long. For the real power in the community was vested in those men like Donovan, Benson, Griffiths and Twelve Trees—men who had the intelligence to realize that neighbors must live together. Or die together.
Russell Travers was an anomaly in this town. His drunkenness and thievery were tolerated because of his father’s crippled condition. He wouldn’t listen to Ray Benson’s advice, and one of the Donovan boys—I don’t remember which, perhaps Brian?—beat him almost senseless for crippling a horse. But Russell never learned and he finally went too far, and he paid for his wildness with his life.
It’s too bad that all of his evil deeds didn't die with him.
Chapter 31
When Carolyn knocked on the door of the livery, Owen removed the bar to let her in. He took the blankets from her and she set the coffee and sandwich on Tommy’s workbench.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She should be asleep by now. She said she’d be fine, didn’t want her medicine.”
Owen let out a long breath as the youth on the floor snorted and mumbled, deep in a drunken stupor.
“Poor thing,” Carolyn said.
Owen put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek. When she blushed, he thought her quite the prettiest woman he knew.
“Stop that!” she protested, but she didn’t move away.
“How did he get so wet?”
Carolyn let out one small giggle. “I shouldn’t laugh. But they were a sight. Ray Benson came to get Tommy when Alec started breaking things up in the saloon. Tommy got there in time to hear... Anyway, Tommy grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him out to the street and dunked his head in the horse-trough. For a minute, I didn’t think he’d let him up again. And then... but you saw the rest.” She was serious again. “I wonder what will happen between them now?”
Owen had no answer as he escorted her to the stable doors. He’d been careful to let her stay for only a few minutes; the sodden youth in the stall wouldn’t pass muster as a chaperon. But he did kiss her cheek again as she left, and when she’d gone back to his daughter, he settled himself into the one chair available, glad for the warmth of the blankets and coffee, wondering how long his vigil might be.
He woke with a start, feeling another presence. The gray light of day had faded; it was just bright enough in the stable to let him see Tommy leaning over the stall and looking down at his son. I must not have barred the door when Carolyn left. I wonder how long he’s been here.
The chair creaked as he got up to stand next to the smith. Tommy’s bronze face was haggard and lined with pain.
“Don't worry, Owen. I won't hurt ’im now.”
The bootmaker put a hand on his friend’s arm and they stood quietly for a minute.
“How did he find out?” Owen asked.
Tommy shrugged. “Dan’l knew, but I don't think he woulda told ’im.” After another moment’s silence, the smith continued, “It’s the only logical answer. Only one man ’round here would’ve ever hurt a woman. An’ Dan’l told us he was gone, didn't he? So we knew it wasn’t some stranger. An’ nobody left town ’round that time, so it musta been someone who died.
“Who died after Elena was killed? Jim Callendar fell offa thet ladder an’ hung on for a coupla days. But he was a li’l, timid guy, an’ Elena—she’d’a chewed him up an’ spit him out. Then ol’ man Travers died, but he hadn't been outa that cabin in three years ’r more. So who’s left? Jus’ Russell. You’d think everybody woulda figgered it out long ago.” Tommy let out a long breath. “Not that it woulda hurt her less then, than it will now. I jus’ hope...”
“So do I, Tommy.”
Once more, silence descended between them. Then Owen realized the blacksmith was speaking to him again.
“You wanna go get some supper?”
“I told Annie I’d stay with him ’til he comes to.”
“Won't be for quite a while, if he’s anythin’ like his ol’ man.” Tommy turned around to lean against the stall. “I got good an’ drunk once m’self, when the school fired Elena. I figgered she’d be goin’ back home t’ her daddy an’ there’d never be another chance for me. Didn’t come ’round for close t’ two days. An’ when I did—boy, I wisht I hadn’t.
“Was she mad—madder’n a hornet that got swatted! Lambasted me up one side an’ down t’other. Said I shoulda known better. Said I oughta learn what love really means. Didn't lose much time teachin’ me, either, if you get my drift!” The smith became serious again. “She’d know what t’ tell ’im, Owen. But he don't listen t’ me. That’s the hell of it. I don't unnerstan’ him, an’ he don’ unnerstan’ me. We jus’ sit an’ jaw at each other, an’ neither one o’ us gets anywhere.
“We’re jus’ so differnt. We look differnt, we act differnt. We even talk differnt. Sometimes I think he swallowed a book as a kid, way he talks.”
The bootmaker essayed a small joke. “You walk the same, though. Nobody ever hears either one of you coming.”
“Guess thet’s somethin’.”
“But I know what you mean. I went through it with Lowell. Came a time when he thought he knew everything. Wouldn’t listen to a word. But he got over it, and Alec will, too.
“We’re old men to them, Tommy. Old and foolish. But I remember when I thought my father was a fool, too. Surprised me how quick he learned everything after that.”
“Las’ time I saw my father, I was five years ol’. I remember thinkin’ he knew everythin’. He was a healer—what you folk call the medicine man. An’ what he couldn't cure couldn't be cured. There was always folks comin’ round t’ see him, bringin’ him presents. He was the biggest man I knew, any way you wanna measure it. That’s what I wanna be for ’im. But somehow it always comes out wrong.”
Owen didn’t know how to respond. After a moment Tommy spoke again.
“Cold in here, ain’t it? Lemme light a fire in the forge. There’s more coal over there in the bin for later.” After the fire was roaring, he added, “I’m goin’ down t’ Joe’s. Want me t’ bring you somethin’?”
“Sounds good. Make it those hot tamales, and about a pound of cornbread.” Owen held out money but the smith ignored it.
“Nope, it’s on me. Can’t let you folks take care of everythin’!”
Chapter 32
Early the next morning, Annie returned to the livery with no trace of the headache. She looked down at her father, a smile playing on her lips. Owen was sleeping in the chair, his chin resting against his chest, the top of his bald head looking out at the world like an expressionless face. She shook his arm gently.
“Papa,” she murmured. “Papa, I brought you some coffee.”
“Uh... hmmm?”
“I brought you some coffee.”
“Hmm. Good girl.” He stood, stretched and groaned, held out a hand for the cup. The fire in the forge had died down to embers and it was cold again. But the north wind seemed to have blown itself out and the day was calm and still. Owen replenished the fire. “By the way, Tommy came in last night after dark. He wasn’t mad any more—just hurt, I think. And confused.”
“Oh, I’m glad. I hope we can help them sort this out.”
In his half-sleeping state, Alec heard the voices discussing his father, but his mind couldn’t grasp the content of their speech. He moaned and rolled over onto his back. He lay motionless, his breathing irregular and punctuated with little sounds of pain. His tongue was thick, his lips cracked and dry, and his head pounded to the
rhythm of their words. Why do I feel so lousy? Where the hell am I?
He forced his eyes open. Peering out through slits, he realized that he was in the livery stable, lying on the floor in the hay. What’s happened? Where’s my father?
Like a clap of thunder, memories exploded in his brain. Daniel’s insult was overlaid with his father’s threats, in turn drowned out by the realization of what he’d done. He’d betrayed his friend, shamed his father. And caused such anguish for a girl who’d been his only close companion as a boy. He writhed in agony.
I am worthless. He heard his father’s muttered words again. How could you do this? Your mother would be ashamed of you. Then his mother’s voice. A man does not take actions which will cause his friends to be hurt.
I am worthless. Groaning with pain, he raised himself up enough to reach the long knife in his boot. I do not deserve to live.
His hands were weak and shaking and the knife was taken from him. He moaned again. “Let me die.”
“No.” The voice was sweet and low, and stirred an older memory.
“I deserve to die.”
“No. You have only made a mistake.” He lay back helplessly in the hay, closing his eyes as a gentle hand touched his cheek.
“Mama,” he whispered brokenly. “Mama.” And the dam he’d created, that had held the tears for so long, crumbled into bits and he lay sobbing on the cold, hard floor.
Through the hand that caressed his hair, Annie heard the torment in his heart.
No one understands.
I understand. My mother has also gone.
Were you there? Did you see it?
Yes. And I could do nothing.
Nothing! So much pain. And I could do nothing.
Yes. I know.
It was my fault.
No.
I should have been there.
You could not know.
The Woodsman's Rose Page 14
