Rocky Mountain Man (Historical)

by Jillian Hart

  “Sure you have. Your family’s still wearing black, huh?”

  “No, but Joshua said… He said…”

  “What did he say?” Duncan wished to hell he could keep the hate from his voice. The hatred and anger and disillusionment that no matter where he lived, no matter what he did, human beings were the scourge of the earth, how God could ever have given them life was a real puzzle.

  It was not simply the matter of the settlers and the natives, the Union and the Confederates, the right and the wrong. Where there was no reason and no sense, some folks went right ahead and did as they pleased. Destroying others and taking pleasure that they’d gotten away with it.

  “I bet your brother managed to shed a tear of pity after lying about what a Good Samaritan he was to pay for a good coffin for my worthless hide to rot in.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t lie.”

  “Is that what he told you? Am I right?” Yeah, it was about what he’d figured. “Well, I’m alive, right? So obviously he lied. What do you think I did? Come back to life, break out of a coffin and dig my way to the surface?”

  Her eyes rounded, mortified and shocked. Her bottom lip began to tremble and shock and disbelief rolled off of her like radiant heat from a potbellied stove and he refused to feel pity for her. He refused to soften the vile truth of what her loved ones, so good and honest on the outside, had so easily done.

  “Your grandmother and your brother both threatened to ruin my life if I ever showed up in town alive, so that you would find out.” He was driven by an old rage that had less to do with that vicious but understandably protective old woman and more to do with bitterness that was obliterating him from the inside out. A bitterness that wanted to deny the honest shock as Betsy Hunter turned and walked out of his life.

  Yeah, keep on walking, he thought, letting the acid within him take over. Drained, his knees gave out and he slid onto the edge of the mattress. Too feeble to manage his boots, he simply lay back and let his legs dangle.

  His head cracked like thunder resounding through his skull. His guts knotted, making him taste bile. The bed began to rotate, or that’s how it seemed. Even when he closed his eyes, the spinning remained, and he was whirling faster and faster as the darkness took him.

  She was gone, good riddance. So what if he hadn’t spotted a speck of an apology on her face? It didn’t matter to him one whit if she didn’t believe him. Sure, she’d walked away. It was exactly what he’d expected. He’d saved her, and she was just like any woman he’d ever met, except for the rare few, who were out for their own gain. Careless and self-concerned, all those skirts wanted was a man to fulfill their shallow whims. Why would Betsy be any different?

  Blackness surged upward like a tide washing away the places within him he could still feel until it was only a dark, drowning hatred no different than the years after he’d returned from prison. The injured muscles in his neck, shoulders, arm and chest thrummed from overuse.

  Hell, I hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to acknowledge the twitching pain, sharp like a blade and as crackling like lightning as the nerves vibrated up and down the length of his injuries.

  What he needed was a few hours’ rest. Then he’d be strong enough to break open a can of beans and stumble back to bed. If only he could get the pain to stop, the nerve endings from snapping, the beat inside his head to cease.

  He didn’t hear her as much as he sensed her. Felt her from the length of the cabin away. Even though she moved with hardly more than a whisper-soft pad of her shoes on the puncheon floors and the leaves-in-wind sound of her skirts, he perceived her nearness like the softest of touches.

  As she hesitated at the foot of the bed, towering over him, her breathing in time with his own, he wondered what she’d come to say. If she was gathering her nerve to tell him to go to hell, to condemn him for lying about her loved ones. Then, he wagered, she’d proceed to tell him how worthless of a man he was. No job, no impressive house, no high-stepping horses. He was just a half-breed, more garbage than man.

  Yeah, he’d heard it all before and worse. So much worse.

  He heard the rustle of fabric, the hush as she laid something on the bed beside him and the scrape of her heel as she spun. The swish of her startched petticoats as she walked away, leaving him, shutting the door firmly behind her as she went.

  His head screamed with pain, but he opened his eyes anyway. Waited until they’d adjusted to the after-midnight darkness in the room.

  She’d laid three roses on his bed.

  Flowers she must have brought for his grave.

  The grave that didn’t exist.

  Chapter Nine

  “Betsy! Hell, I’ve been worried about you.”

  Joshua was sitting on her front steps, his hat in his hands, looking not the least bit guilty. And after how he’d behaved! “I do not need a babysitter, thank you.”

  “Aren’t you in a snit.”

  “Actually, I feel downright uncivil.”

  “You? You’re never uncivil. You always are and always have been my own sweet Bets.”

  His nickname for her, when he was three and she an infant had amused their parents greatly, and the nickname had stuck. It was an endearment she’d known all her life, one that expressed affection between her and Joshua; they’d always had a strong bond. But she stared at her big, bold, powerful brother and saw a man who looked invincible, not in the same way as Duncan did, but Joshua was every inch a capable man.

  She’d always been so proud he was her brother, as she was of all her younger siblings.

  Surely the Joshua Gable I know and love would not have deceived me. She hopped down from the buggy, refusing his hand to help her and led Morris by the bridle’s cheek strap through the side gate to the stable out back.

  Clearly, Joshua had deceived her. Calmly, so he would not suspect, she tossed the question over her shoulder. “I was delivering out near the Rocky Mountain Front, you know—my new client down at the base of the Big Bear Range?”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Smoothly, as if there was nothing amiss, at least not in his world, he bounded ahead to haul open the heavy double doors and began releasing the harness buckles the instant Morris stopped moving.

  “It reminded me of that poor mountain man. He was always gruff, but he tipped so well. I miss the income.” And she waited.

  Perfectly timed, as if he’d counted to five, Joshua released the traces and rose, working easily with the leather harness. The honest and salt-of-the-earth man he appeared to be.

  “Are you hurting, Bets? I can always lend you money. Better yet, you should come live with Mother. She’s lonely and you know she’d love having you.”

  “Lonely? How can she be with every one of us but me and James living with her?”

  “We’re a big family. She’s used to all of us.”

  Hmm. Interesting. She knew he would turn the conversation to his advantage, always gently pushing her to give up her independence. This home that was hers alone. “It’s been—what?—a month, since the poor man died. I had never asked if you’d seen to a headstone for his grave.”

  “I had not thought of it, since he has no relatives.”

  “My friend Katelyn’s husband’s surname is Hennessey. I wonder if they are related.”

  “I doubt it. If that recluse would have had family, surely he would not have lived alone in the wild.”

  He is not himself, she realized as he led Morris to the corner stall, so nice and boxy and filled with fresh straw. The dried stalks rustled and whispered as the gelding ambled to the feed trough and began crunching on his oats. Morris’s ears were swiveling and alert, and he kept a good close eye on Joshua.

  See? Morris sensed it, too. Joshua was tense beneath the smooth motions as he shook out the thick leather harness and hung it to air with the ease of a rancher who had done the same act several times a day for the last decade.

  Joshua was not making eye contact. That was it. That was what seemed differ
ent as he hefted the shoulder collar and lifted it onto the storage frame.

  “Still,” she persisted, “I would rest easier knowing the man had at least a properly marked grave. Would you see to it?”

  “Yes, but why all this curiosity?”

  There was suspicion in his eyes as jeweled as her own. Well, he ought to be suspicious! He was lying to her. Duncan Hennessey had been one-hundred-percent correct. How could this man have the same blood flowing in his veins and act as if he were not being duplicitous?

  Joshua waited, the stable work done, his rugged hands fisted on his hips. He looked like a general in command of his troops, and she burned with anger, as hot and bright and cruel as the midday sun during a two-month-long drought.

  He was bossy and he’d always been that way. His heart was in the right place, she knew, but she thought about how difficult it must have been for Duncan. “I’m not curious. I’m simply thankful. I don’t want to forget or take for granted what he—”

  “For God’s sake, the mountain man was an outcast from society. I don’t know why we all didn’t put a stop to this foolishness of yours before this. Mama is worried about you. Granny is worried about you. I have enough responsibilities without having to be half-sick with fear that something is going to happen to you.”

  “Like washing a mountain man’s shirts?”

  “He was dangerous. What if he’d decided to hurt you? You could never have defended yourself against his advances, even with that old rifle of Charlie’s. Hell, he fought a black bear and lived long enough to tell about it. With that kind of savagery, how could you ever be safe?”

  “Because he hates people, Joshua. He never got close enough to me. He wasn’t interested in me. I believe he harbored great distrust for women. I’d always wondered if a woman had broken his heart badly.”

  “See? There you go! This is the reason I’m here come to check on you instead of putting up my feet and relaxing after working in the fields until sunup.”

  Thank goodness the Indian summer had been long enough for Joshua to get a rare fourth cutting of the grasses for hay. It had necessitated his stay on the family property so she could return to driving alone. “Nothing has happened yet. Nothing will happen.”

  “Not now.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you drive out there? Is that why you’re late?”

  “I’m late because I stopped by Mariah’s on the way home. She’d invited me out to discuss a few things for the next fund-raiser. You know we’re both in charge of the next lending library supper.”

  “Oh.” He visibly relaxed.

  Liar, she wanted to rail at him, and whack him hard alongside his head so that maybe whatever rock was loose in there would jar back into place and he wouldn’t be a jackass. “You’ll see about the headstone?”

  “I promise.” In a big-brother way, he cupped her chin. “We all love our dear sister so much. Stop making us worry.”

  “As much as I love you right back, you can’t control my life, Joshua.”

  “I’m not trying to control you, Bets. Just protect. You could always remarry. You’ve been without Charlie for a long time. There are so many good men in this county, solid, working men. You could get married.”

  “I will when I want to.”

  She shoved bags of dirty laundry into his powerful arms. She might as well take advantage of having him here, since he was giving her a royal headache. But at least she knew why. He’d done such a terrible thing. Out of a misplaced sense of love. And a man had suffered because of it.

  Oh, it made her furious as she filled her arms, juggling the bags so she could see her way to the door. Furious and frustrated. How lucky she was to be so loved by so many people.

  So many overprotective, overbearing, impossible liars!

  “When you want to? What kind of arbitrary attitude is that?” He hurried to catch up with her, but she was in a good steam, marching so fast he had to work to keep up. “Bets, I’m making you mad, I can see it.”

  “Mad? No, I wouldn’t call this mad. Outraged. Furious. Ready to cover you in hot honey, stake you in the middle of the plains and let the ants and bees and bears do what they will with you.”

  “Whoa, you really are mad.”

  Men were brilliant, truly. She smacked open the side gate and stomped along the stones and up the steps and into her very own house.

  “You,” she announced in a voice that even he could comprehend. “You are not welcome here.”

  Genuine hurt washed over his face. He wasn’t bad; he was just a man.

  The rage dribbled out of her, becoming smaller as she shut the door instead of slamming it, realizing she’d dropped the six bags she’d juggled at her feet and had a hard time stepping over them.

  Joshua was still out there, she could see him through the kitchen window, holding the stuffed pillowcases and rucksacks full of other people’s laundry.

  He looked confused, continuing to stare at the door as if he’d either imagined her tirade or expected her to feel bad, which was what she was doing, and open the door. To apologize and invite him in so he could railroad her and boss her and interfere. He meant well, but he didn’t understand. This was her life. Hers alone.

  She wasn’t about to let him in and apologize, which is exactly what she always did every time she lost her patience with anyone in her family. They loved her, she knew, because she loved them. But she was a grown woman and what she wanted wasn’t simple. Did he think she treasured listening to her movements echo in the evenings when the shadows lengthened? When she’d used to spend lovely evenings like this with Charlie.

  After the supper dishes were done, she and Charlie, exhausted from work and dealing with problems and crises and debts, would enjoy cool tea on the back porch side by side, stealing those few minutes, sometimes as much as two whole hours, just basking in one another’s company.

  Listening to the beauty around them, the birds on their last-chance hunt for bugs and worms before nightfall. The cat curled up on the cool shade. Charlie’s hand warm and reassuring around hers. Knowing that whether they read or talked or simply sat in silence, they were content to be together.

  And come bedtime they would go upstairs together in their little house on the high plains north of town and make love, the sweetest way to end a day spent in paradise—because what else could it be to have the privilege of spending a day with the one you loved?

  She’d do anything to bring those days back, to have one more evening and one more night in Charlie’s arms. It was a sad fact of life that a person couldn’t go back, only forward.

  Did Joshua or anyone in her family really want her to marry someone like Ray Hopps? Someone who seemed hard-working and pleasant enough, except for the secret brothel habit, but he was not a man she would want to sit next to every evening in the long shadows and soft golden and often rosy glow of twilight. Fulfilled and happy and so much in love, it hurt.

  No, she wasn’t about to try to imagine a man like Ray Hopps on her back porch, sitting at his side, holding his hand as night fell. She wasn’t about to settle for almost good, when she’d had the best love life had to offer.

  She might be alone, she might be washing other people’s worn clothing, but she wasn’t beside a man she’d wished would fulfill her simply by meeting her gaze across the room.

  Simply by holding her hand.

  She surveyed the laundry bags she’d dumped on the floor. She grabbed up the Landers’s laundry. Pulled out a small garbage pail and began sorting. Whites, colors, intimates, sheets. She checked every pocket and found a nickel, which she would return taped to the weekly bill, a wadded-up handkerchief, which she held by the corner and tossed into the white pile, and a familiar match tin from the Red Curtain. It was apparently the brothel of choice among many of the county’s male citizens.

  “Betsy?”

  Goodness, was he still out there? She leaned across the table, straining to see if he was still standing where she’d left him

  Yep. He even still held the laund
ry bags.

  “I’m not apologizing to you,” she said after she’d opened the window to let in the cooler twilight air. “Go home and think about what you’ve done.”

  “What did I do? Wait, is this about the talk I had with Ray Hopps?”

  “What talk?”

  “I just assumed you might be sweet on him, since you bought that furniture you couldn’t afford—”

  “Stop assuming.” Suddenly the pieces fell into place to make a whole realization that made her even madder. “You want me to marry Ray.”

  “He’d be a good husband, no doubt about it. He’s very successful with that store of his.”

  “It’s his father’s store.”

  “Well, he’s a good partner, then. C’mon, Bets, let me in.”

  “No.”

  “Can I at least put down these bags?”

  “Sure. Leave ’em against the door. ’Bye.” She shut the window, her hands shaking, trying to keep from losing her temper. Yelling at him wasn’t going to mend the wrong he’d done.

  He’d done it for the right reasons, she knew, but he’d left a wounded man to fend for himself. And Granny, too. Why?

  Because they, of the marriage-minded, didn’t think Duncan Hennessey, loner and terse mountain man, was in any way good enough for their little Bets.

  When in truth, she thought he was the only one.

  Duncan awoke to sunlight. Bright blocks of it angling into the room as if Rembrandt had painted it, bold and vibrant and holy. He couldn’t remember if he’d left the shades up to let in the cooler night air. He couldn’t remember much of anything.

  Except for her.

  The new depth of bitterness he’d achieved had drained all his strength. He was still on his back, with his boots on and his feet in them, on the floor. The only stroke of luck was that she’d closed the front door behind her, as if to say she wasn’t coming back.

  Of course she wasn’t. She didn’t believe what he’d said, and as for the old woman and the jackass brother of hers, he was surprised they hadn’t come with the dawn, with a lynch mob and a coil of rope.