Nevada Nights
Page 1
Nevada Nights
Ruth Ryan Langan
First published in paperback, 1985.
Electronic Edition Copyright 2012 Ruth Ryan Langan
Cover art by Tammy Seidick
www.TammySeidickDesign.com
To my parents,
John Edward Ryan and Beatrice Curley Ryan,
with love
Author’s Note
My childhood visits to my father’s birthplace, Allumette Island, sparked a youthful imagination and a fascination for islands which continue even today. Although the characters in this novel are completely fictional, in my mind the gentle man I called Father will always be the adventurer, Michael Gray. And my beautiful, convent-bred mother, the fiery Cameron McCormick.
Prologue
December 12, 1856
Diary, from the moment I first saw him, so handsome and proud, I was lost. When finally I learned who he was, it was too late. I had crossed the line of reason into a passion so intense it consumed me with its fire. I leave this world with but one regret. Never again will I feel the warmth of his strong embrace. The child born of our love will grow to be doubly strong, brave, proud—for the blood of two headstrong fools flows through her veins. The glow from the fire flamed to a burnished copper the head bent over the diary. As the hauntingly beautiful young woman closed the leather-bound book and handed it to the servant, her eyes burned feverishly, two hot coals a glittering contrast to the fine, porcelain skin. Dark circles rimmed the green eyes. Weakly she leaned back against the soft feather mattress and stared at the newborn babe lying soundlessly in the cradle.
The servant removed a brick from the wall near the fireplace and shoved the diary inside. Then the brick was carefully replaced.
By the time the horse’s hooves signaled the arrival of the man, the beautiful young woman lay near death, her breathing labored. With a tremendous effort, she roused herself for one last glimpse of the strongly chiseled features of his beloved face.
They clung wordlessly to each other until he felt the life feebly ebb from her slender body.
With tears coursing down his cheeks, he handed the tiny bundle to the servant and quickly wrote a note of instruction.
Long after the servant woman had left the tiny cottage to begin the first steps of the journey that would take her to a foreign shore, he sat huddled on the edge of the bed, cradling the lifeless form in his arms, his body racked with silent sobs.
Chapter One
1873
The clear, crystal call of a bell announced the dawn.
Cameron McCormick awoke that perfect summer morning with no idea that, before the day ended, her life would be forever altered.
She stretched, yawned, then lay a moment listening to the familiar morning sounds. A dove cooed outside her window. The soft rustling of coarse, homespun skirts and petticoats indicated that one of the sisters was gliding along the dim, tiled hallway outside her room.
Cameron had lived her entire seventeen years at the Convent of the Sisters of Divine Charity. It was the only home she had ever known. The convent was located on Allumette Island, a tiny, crescent-shaped sliver of land only thirteen miles long and seven miles wide, in the Ottawa River in Quebec, Canada.
She scurried across the bare wood floor and washed herself quickly in a round porcelain basin of water on her dressing table. Her mass of thick, red hair was brushed and deftly drawn into a neat knot at the nape of her neck. Pulling a prim cotton gown over her head, she tied the waist with a pale blue sash, smoothed the long skirts down about her ankles, picked up her missal, and headed downstairs toward the chapel.
At the door to the chapel, she stared in dismay. Old Father Edward was already at the altar, murmuring in Latin the opening prayers of the Mass. Without seeming to pause for a breath, he continued, "Mea culpa, mea culpa . . ."
"Through my fault, through my fault . . ." She sighed and lifted her pale blue veil over her head. As she expected, Mother Superior fixed her with a piercing look when she took her place beside the row of young women in long, coarse brown habits, each with head humbly bowed. Cameron bowed her head, then turned to wink at little Sister Adele. The corner of Sister Adele’s mouth twitched, but she continued her concentration on the Mass.
Cameron glanced at old Father Edward. Each morning he arose at four o’clock, hitched his horse to his ancient rig, and rode across the island to say mass at the convent at five o’clock. On the ride back, the horse would pick his way over the familiar path while the old priest ate the breakfast prepared by Sister St. Francis de Sales. In her seventeen years, Cameron had never known Father Edward to be late. The only time he had ever failed to say Mass, he had been in bed for two weeks with pneumonia. Poor Father Edward. The bishop considered Allumette Island too small and insignificant to spare a younger cleric to assist the old priest with the endless tasks of ministering to his flock.
After Mass, Cameron ate a quick breakfast, then laughed and chatted her way through chores and classes, all the while savoring the knowledge that the late afternoon hours would spell freedom. Since she was in the unique position of being neither novice nor sister, but simply boarding here, the afternoon hours which the novices and postulants spent studying theology and attending prayer sessions were Cameron’s hours to spend as she chose, within limits, of course.
Reverend Mother Mary Claudius, Mother Superior, believed that it was her duty to broaden her young charge’s horizons, despite the fact that Cameron lived within the convent walls. She knew she had to prepare Cameron for a life outside the convent. Therefore, the young woman was permitted to ride the horses, as long as she willingly helped the stable hands muck out the stalls. She was encouraged to assist at the birth of a foal or calf, since Reverend Mother believed that such experiences taught her about life. And once, Cameron was even allowed to work alongside the other residents of the island, helping with the harvest of a nearby wheat field when rains threatened to ruin the entire crop of a bedridden farmer.
Cameron relished any chance to escape the convent walls. Though she dearly loved the sisters, for they were the only family she had ever known, there was something in her which yearned for freedom.
She stood silently in Reverend Mother’s tiny, cramped office, watching a beam of light send rainbow prisms through a crystal paperweight on the corner of the desk.
"You wish to ride, do you, Cameron?"
"Yes, Reverend Mother."
The nun’s sharp eyes scanned the sky outside her window, then slid over the slim girl before her. A mass of autumn hair spilled about her face. The green eyes danced with barely concealed energy.
"Well, it is a beautiful day." She studied the girl. "And I suppose when you’re seventeen it’s only natural to want to tear around the countryside on a spirited horse."
"Yes, Reverend Mother." She allowed the barest hint of a smile.
The Mother Superior pulled a list from her desk. "You can’t ride alone. That wouldn’t be proper. Let me see who is available." Her finger traced halfway down the list and stopped. "Sister Leona. She has the afternoon free." She glanced up at the girl. "You may ask her if she will accompany you."
Cameron was smiling broadly now. "Thank you, Reverend Mother."
"And Cameron . . ."
The girl paused in the doorway, anticipating the nun’s next remark.
"Not too far," Mother Mary Claudius cautioned.
"Yes, Reverend Mother," she called over her shoulder. She pirouetted away before the nun had time to think of anything more.
Mother Superior stood smiling at the little whirlwind who had billowed off in pursuit of her pleasure. That child was such a joy. It was impossible to be in low spirits in her company. Just watching her made the older woman feel young and carefree again.
Sister Leona was a tall, sturdy woman who had entered the convent late in life. She had spent half her life on her father’s farm raising twelve younger brothers and sisters after their mother had died.
It seemed to Cameron that there was nothing Sister Leona couldn’t do. It was she who had taught Cameron the value of being able to care for the horses, to raise her own crops, and who stressed the importance of being able to care for all her own needs.
As she suspected, Sister Leona was in the barn, lulling the cows in her softly accented French as she poured water in their trough.
"Reverend Mother said I may ride this afternoon, if you’ll go with me," Cameron called.
Sister turned and smiled at the eager girl. Hanging the empty bucket on a peg, she rubbed her shoulder tenderly.
"Ah, ma petite Cammy. You know how I love riding with you. But my rheumatism is acting up today. Maybe tomorrow would be better."
"Oh, Sister Leona. It’s so beautiful today. Please," she wheedled. "We’ll ride very slowly. And the sun will be good for your stiff shoulder." That last had been added as a clever afterthought.
Sister Leona shook her head and smiled fondly. "You know you’re going to win me over. You always do." She paused for a second. "All right. Change your clothes and I’ll meet you at the stables in a few minutes."
"Oh, I knew you would! Thank you, Sister." Cameron’s face was wreathed in smiles.
Sister Leona sighed in mock despair. "I didn’t want to just sit around and baby myself anyway. Go on now, and change your clothes before I change my mind."
A short time later they left the convent walls and headed toward the green hills which ringed the island. They rarely rode near the small settlement, choosing instead to ride in the less populated area.
What an outrageous sight they presented to the occasional islander who came upon them.
Sister Leona refused to ride sidesaddle. She drew her voluminous skirt and petticoats up between her legs and cinched them with a cord, turning her drab habit into a kind of wide-legged pantaloon. Her stiffly starched wimple, framing her face, would often be soaked with perspiration by the time their ride ended, but true to tradition, Sister steadfastly refused to remove any vestige of her religious habit.
Cameron’s entire wardrobe was supplied by a lawyer in the United States and arrived each year in a huge box on the ferry from the mainland. It consisted of simple wool and cotton dresses with matching pinafores. For special occasions there was always one elegant dress with matching coat and bonnet. The fact that everything always fit perfectly made her suspect that Reverend Mother kept the lawyer informed of her size.
Because of her limited wardrobe, Cameron had, out of necessity, rigged up a riding costume of sorts. From a discarded old wool dress stitched up the center of the skirt, Cameron produced a pair of ill-fitting britches. A thick, long-sleeved shirt made of rough homespun kept the sun from burning her pale skin, although the sun’s rays still managed to filter through the fabric enough to turn her arms a soft bronze. Cameron traded her favorite book, Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet to a stable hand for his faded peaked cap, into which she stuffed her long, tangled curls to keep her hair from blowing about her face as she rode. The front brim kept the sun from her face. She tucked her britches into the tall, cracked, leather boots she wore to muck out the stalls. This then was how she dressed whenever she rode.
As ridiculous as the two of them must have appeared to others, Sister Leona and Cameron rode about the countryside unselfconsciously, thoroughly enjoying their precious hours of freedom.
They had been out about an hour when Cameron gave her horse its head. He began cantering. As she crested a hill, she drew up short. Sister Leona wasn’t following. Cameron retraced her trail and found Sister at the bottom of the hill.
"Sister Leona," she called breathlessly as she drew nearer. "What’s wrong?"
Sister’s face looked pale in the late afternoon sun, and tiny beads of moisture glistened on her upper lip.
"Nothing, Cameron, dear. Just my rheumatism. I believe I’ll go up there." She pointed to a stand of maples to their right. "I’ll rest in the shade while you get in a good run. Go on now," she urged as the girl hesitated.
Cameron watched as Sister turned her horse toward the shade. When the horse stopped, she wearily dropped the reins and waved the girl on. Cameron wheeled her horse, dug in her heels, and took off at a fast clip. Horse and rider crossed a flat stretch of meadow at a run. How good it was to feel the wind whipping her face. She loved the sense of freedom as she fairly flew across the field. She felt as if she could race a bird in flight. Tall grass parted beneath the pounding hooves of the chestnut gelding. Leaning forward in the saddle, Cameron flattened herself over the horse’s neck, urging him even faster. When she felt his gait begin to falter, she eased up, sitting straighter in the saddle. The gelding instinctively slowed his pace, blowing and snorting after such powerful exertion.
Gradually her enthusiasm for the ride dimmed. This was no good. She knew she was being selfish. Sister Leona was hot and tired, and obviously hurting. It was time to go back. Cameron couldn’t enjoy her pleasure at another’s expense. Reluctantly, she turned her horse and cantered toward the cluster of trees.
What happened next came so suddenly there was no time to think, only to react. There was a flicker of movement in the tall grass by Sister’s horse. The horse reared in panic, and Sister Leona was thrown roughly against the sharp tree branches. Cameron watched in horror as Sister clutched at her shoulder. Her hand came away dripping with blood. The horse reared again, crushing her against the tree trunk. When he dropped, Sister dazedly leaned far down over his neck in an attempt to reach the reins. They dangled tantalizingly just out of her reach. He reared again, then bolted. Sister Leona buried her hands in his mane and held on.
Cameron’s horse, already tired from their run, was wheeling instinctively in their direction. She dug her heels in and urged the horse on.
Sister Leona was a very strong woman, but she had been badly stunned. How long, Cameron wondered, could she hold on? Also, the dangling reins could at any moment catch under the horse’s hooves and trip him, breaking both the horse’s and rider’s necks.
Cameron had never ridden so hard or so fast in her life. She had to catch them, and quickly.
Miraculously, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure at the top of the hill. Assessing the situation, he was riding at an angle, hoping to intercept the runaway. Sister’s horse, spooked by the stranger, veered sharply and sped on. Doggedly, Sister Leona hung on, although the pain in her shoulder by that time must have been unbearable.
Their paths converged, and the stranger came up alongside Cameron. For a few minutes, they rode even. Slowly, his horse, a huge black stallion, began to inch ahead.
Catching sight of her terrified eyes, he called, "Ride boy! Don’t quit. Ride like the wind!" He urged his horse on even faster.
They raced through a thicket, the branches tearing the cap from Cameron’s head and ripping away the sleeve of her shirt. Abruptly, they entered a clearing and saw, just ahead of them, Sister Leona’s horse. He reared up his forelegs once again. Sister dropped to the ground, and the horse, now free of its burden, ran off.
The stranger dropped beside her and began fumbling with the stiff wimple, which had twisted sideways, nearly obscuring Sister’s face. With a great ripping sound, he tore away the headdress, revealing short, gray hair matted with sweat. Next he began to rip the blood-stained fabric at her shoulder.
In a fit of outrage, Cameron leaped from her horse and attacked him, throwing all her weight against him, to force him away from the helpless form of Sister Leona. Caught by surprise, he twisted and rolled away from her flailing fists. With his massive size and strength he should have easily pin
ned her to the ground, but she was fighting like a wildcat, and he found himself breathless by the time he managed to restrain her. With the weight of his body pressing hers tightly to the ground and his hands securely holding her fists above her head, the only thing she could move was her head.
Wide-eyed, she faced him. Rage glittered in her eyes like hard emerald chips. To the stranger, she looked like some sort of wild creature, with her tangled hair spilling about her face and shoulders, her torn sleeve, still tightly fastened at the wrist, flapping loosely from wrist to shoulder and gaping open along one side.
"You keep your filthy hands off her! Don’t you touch her again!" Cameron shrieked.
He stared at her in astonishment. "Are you crazy? She’s bleeding! Can’t you see? I’ve got to help her."
"You won’t touch her! Don’t put your hands on her. I’ll take care of Sister," Cameron hissed.
He stared at her a moment longer, then loosened his grip on her wrists and rolled aside. Instantly she turned her back on him and knelt at Sister’s side.
The front of Sister Leona’s habit and the entire sleeve were soaked with blood. Her face was white from the pain. Gently, Cameron tore away the rest of her bodice and gasped at the huge purple welt which ran the length of her shoulder and arm. The jagged cut was deep and bleeding profusely. A sudden wave of sickness washed over Cameron.
The stranger walked up and knelt beside them. He was naked to the waist. He handed Cameron his shirt, and she realized he had soaked it in a nearby stream.
"Here," he said, more gently now. "Cleanse the wound the best way you can."
"Thank you."
He watched in silence, admiring the way the girl handled herself. He had noticed the pallor when she first caught sight of the wound. But she had control of herself now. She would be able to do what she had to. He understood her need to protect the nun’s sense of modesty. If it weren’t so serious, it would be laughable.