Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  The clerk responded with a perfect double take when he turned the book and glanced at the signature. But Carolyn gave him no chance for a verbal response. She paid him an extra dollar for a much needed bath and asked, “Where’s my room?”

  “Uh…up the stairs, down the hall, and third door to the right.”

  The room held only a rusted iron-rail bed and lumpy horsehair mattress, a wobbly wooden chair, a washbasin with a stand, and a bureau with one of its drawers missing. She shrugged all this off in her hurry to get a bath. She might not be here very long, anyway.

  She deposited her two carpetbags, then took out a change of clothes. She was grateful Yolanda had made her take a towel and soap, for none was provided at the hotel. With these items, she headed directly for the room down the hall where the clerk had told her the bathing facilities were.

  Taking a bath, however, proved no easy matter. Though there was a pump for water in the bathing room, Carolyn had to heat it over the stove, which in turn required her to first build a fire. It was a long time before she finally slipped her tired body into a bathtub only half filled with tepid water. But it was water, and it did feel good. Besides, with the heat from the stove and the summer heat outside, she was glad the water was no warmer.

  She used the time spent preparing the bath and soaking in the tub to meditate on her plan of action now that she was in Stoner’s Crossing. Should she send a message out to the ranch, telling Caleb Stoner she was here and invite him to the hotel to meet her? Griff always said it was best to meet an adversary on your own territory, not his. But was Caleb Stoner an adversary? Her mother was obviously afraid of the man, and Griff hated him. Yet shouldn’t she make her own appraisal of the man, draw her own conclusions? If he truly believed her mother killed his son, then naturally he’d have no love for Deborah, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was always a hateful, spiteful man.

  It might be better if she went to the ranch to meet him, to set him at ease, to show her good faith. She must avoid presenting herself as hostile. If it meant a little deception, despite her mother’s advice, then so be it. But why should she be deceptive? She wasn’t hostile. Or was she?

  It was still as confusing as ever!

  She felt as if she were in the middle of a feud. She loved her mother and desperately wanted to see her vindicated and freed. Yet now she had a new family she wanted just as desperately to perceive in a positive light. And this new family apparently was committed to insuring that her mother remained where she was, at least until she could be executed. Suddenly everything in Carolyn’s life was at odds with everything else. The only thing she was sure about was that no matter what happened, someone would lose—and she was going to lose, regardless of who won.

  Carolyn stepped out of the tub, toweled herself dry, and dressed. She wore a split skirt, a red flannel shirt, boots, and her old plainsman wide-brimmed hat. Even as she cinched the leather belt at her waist, she realized she was readying herself for riding. Perhaps she had made her decision, then. She would meet Caleb Stoner on his ground and hopefully prove to him that she had only the best of intentions.

  Carolyn gathered her belongings, exited the bathing room, and walked down the hall to her room. She put her key in the lock and was about to turn it when she heard the sound of heavy boots climbing the stairs.

  Three men strode toward her, one clearly the leader of the group. He was dressed in an expensive black broadcloth suit, with fine leather boots and a black sombrero that hung by a cord at his back. On each hip was a gleaming pearl-handled Colt, in exquisite holsters. Except for a fine layer of recent dust clinging to his clothes, he was meticulously groomed. In his mid-thirties, he still had jet black hair and moustache with no trace of gray. His swarthy skin indicated he was of Mexican or Indian blood—probably Mexican, judging by his clothes. His face was arranged in what seemed to be a perpetual scowl. His lips, thin and nearly obscured by the moustache, were twisted in either irony or ire, Carolyn could not quite tell which.

  The two other men were cowboys. They also were armed with six-guns and looked as if they’d have no qualms about using them.

  “What is your name?” the first man asked in an abrupt, demanding tone.

  “Carolyn…Stoner.”

  “You hesitate. Why?”

  Carolyn put a hand on her hip and faced him squarely. She wasn’t armed, but she confronted these strangers with challenge. “Who are you, and why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I am Laban Stoner, and I have no relative by your name.”

  “Who says I’m your relative?”

  Laban’s twisted lips twitched in a momentary affectation of a smile. He paused for a moment as if pondering a distant memory.

  “You come into a place called Stoner’s Crossing,” he said at last, “and sign your name as Carolyn Stoner, and you expect us to believe this is just a coincidence? And this just weeks after a woman from the past, whose name was also once Stoner, was arrested. Tell me this is mere chance.”

  “I didn’t say it was a coincidence. I just questioned that I’m your relative. I am a relative of someone named Caleb Stoner. I happen to be his granddaughter. I never heard of anyone named Laban.”

  Laban’s scowl deepened and darkened at hearing this, as if it were a worse affront to be overlooked entirely. Carolyn decided she didn’t like the looks of this man at all. She liked his next words even less.

  “You will come with us.”

  “What?”

  “Come.”

  “I will not! Do you think I’m crazy to go off with a bunch of strangers who are armed to their yellow teeth? Forget it.”

  “In this town when a Stoner gives an order, it is obeyed!” If Laban Stoner could possibly look darker, he did so at that moment.

  Carolyn found herself trembling a bit, but she didn’t flinch.

  “Well, my name’s Stoner, too, mister! And I say I ain’t going unless I feel like it!”

  The two cowboys exchanged shocked and slightly amused looks at her impudence—looks which were immediately dampened by a rabid glance from Laban.

  Laban’s next words were even, measured, suppressing his rising anger. “You do not wish to see Caleb Stoner, whose granddaughter you claim to be?”

  “Well, you didn’t say you were taking me to see him. I reckon I’ll go, in that case.”

  And so it was that before her first day in Stoner’s Crossing had drawn to a close, Carolyn was riding out to the place where her mother had once lived and where her father had been murdered.

  19

  Laban Stoner seemed as reluctant to enter the ranch house as Carolyn. He had even knocked on the door first. She had belatedly realized this must be one of the half-Mexican sons of Caleb Stoner that her mother had briefly mentioned in her account of her years with the Stoners. But Deborah had not mentioned their names, and Carolyn had not given them another thought until, riding out to the ranch with this Laban and the two cowboys, she wondered who this unpleasant man was and how he was related to Stoner. He had informed her that he was Caleb’s son, yet for a son, she thought his behavior at the house was unusual.

  But hadn’t Carolyn’s mother mentioned something about the mistreatment of the younger sons? Carolyn wished she had asked her mother more questions, probed deeper into the history of this enigmatic family. Her family.

  Carolyn was led into the parlor by an elderly Mexican woman, while Laban—her uncle?—went to find Caleb.

  On the ride out, Laban had said little, but Carolyn had managed to learn that he had been visiting the cantina in town when she checked into the hotel. The clerk, not wanting to be derelict in his duty to the town father, thought the Stoners ought to be informed immediately of the arrival of another Stoner so soon after the other woman. He had gone to the saloons hoping to find someone from the ranch who could carry a message back. It was pure luck that Laban himself happened to be there. He chose to act immediately on the information rather than go back to the ranch. Thus, Caleb was only this minut
e learning that someone claiming to be his granddaughter was sitting in his parlor.

  What would he think? Deborah said he had known nothing of her pregnancy. Would he be furious? Incredulous? Perhaps both.

  In an attempt to still her growing nervousness, Carolyn strolled around the room. If she had hoped to discover more about Caleb Stoner and his family from the contents of the parlor, she was disappointed. Perhaps its very sparse and impersonal appearance was a statement in itself. There were furnishings of rather good quality, if somewhat old and worn, and two or three original paintings that must have been of some value. But the room was void of any family photographs, books, or even an odd bit of nick-a-brick that might be of sentimental value. Perhaps the male domination of this household explained that. Perhaps—

  The opening of the door startled her, and she jerked around with less poise than she would have liked.

  The man who stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, seemed not in the least concerned that his entry had disturbed her. He made no attempt to apologize, gave no welcoming words of greeting. He studied her with an intensity that made Carolyn squirm in spite of herself. She stood silent, her mouth ajar, her eyes wide.

  The man was probably in his early seventies, tall and lean and gray. His dark eyes were clear and penetrating but set deeply in dark sockets; his mouth, a nearly exact duplicate of Laban’s—except that, since his moustache was thinner, the twisted quality of ire mixed with mockery was more pronounced. His features were sharp, astute, and most definitely intimidating, but as Carolyn looked more closely, she could see that the years had greatly marked him. Besides a slight stoop in his shoulders, his lean face was deeply creased with lines, his skin discolored with freckles and spidery blood vessels. Yet he carried himself as straight as his bent shoulders could and appeared to be openly fighting the ravages of time.

  “I am not in the habit of entertaining women who dress like men,” he said, his voice breaking the brittle silence like a hammer shattering against an anvil.

  Carolyn opened her mouth, then quickly clamped it shut again, the ready reply on her lips having been intended for a different greeting. But Carolyn was no innocent Southern Belle. She was well used to the rough and sometimes insensitive world of men and had learned early to hold her own in that world.

  “Well,” she rejoined as smoothly as she could under the circumstances, “you ain’t entertained me yet! Nor have you properly introduced yourself, but I assume you are Mr. Caleb Stoner. I’m Carolyn, as you probably already know.”

  Only a flicker of surprise at this young woman’s boldness flashed across his well-controlled countenance.

  “Carolyn Stoner, I believe you said,” Caleb replied.

  “Yes.”

  “You know I had three sons, all of whom could have sired a child of about your age.”

  “My mother is Deborah, and my father was Leonard.”

  “You are certain of this?”

  “That is what my mother told me, and her word is as good as gospel.”

  Caleb grimaced at this, making it clear that he was of a different opinion on that subject.

  “I reckon the real question, Mr. Stoner, isn’t my certainty, but yours. I know this is coming at you unexpectedly. It hit me between the eyes, too, when I found out.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just after my mother was arrested a few weeks ago.”

  “You were never told before that?”

  “No.” Carolyn purposefully left her reply ambiguous, leaving open the possibility of gaining Caleb’s sympathy by implying dissatisfaction in never having been told about her father.

  “Why are you here now?”

  “I don’t really know. I guess when I found out about you, I just had to see you for myself. If my mother hangs, you will be the only family I have left.”

  “You know I have been supportive of her arrest?” When Carolyn nodded, he continued. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “It does, it truly does. I gotta admit I don’t understand it. I wish there could be peace between you, and maybe I hope I can be something like a bridge that can bring you together.”

  “She killed my son.”

  “I don’t think she did.”

  He met her words with another silent appraisal. She immediately regretted so quickly refuting him. But deception did not come easily to Carolyn.

  “Of course. She is your mother; what else would you think?” His tone was still not gentle, and far from kindly, but Carolyn sensed he was allowing her some latitude. If he had some ulterior motive for this, Carolyn could not see it. He went on. “But returning to your previous question, that is, regarding my acceptance of your story. It supersedes any further discussion about your mother’s guilt or innocence.”

  “Maybe we won’t have to discuss that part of it at all. I mean, deciding a person’s innocence is really up to a court of law, ain’t it?”

  “A court of law already decided that nineteen years ago.”

  That statement stung at Carolyn’s heart as much as any words yet spoken. In essence Caleb was right.

  “But we digress again,” said Stoner. If he noticed the discomfiture that had suddenly shaken Carolyn, he said nothing. “Can you prove your identity?”

  “What would happen if I could? Would I be among friends or enemies?”

  He made no immediate reply. Instead, he strode to a small window in the room and gazed out at the blue sky and the dirt yard that surrounded the house. In his obvious reluctance to answer the question, Carolyn felt an odd connection with this man. As she was torn between her mother and grandfather, he, too, was in a quandary. Carolyn might well be the daughter of the son he loved, the son in whom Caleb had placed his hopes for the future. But she was also the daughter of the woman he believed murdered that son. He would want to love her and spurn her all at the same time.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” Carolyn said quietly, full of empathy. “I think I have felt the same way. You are my grandfather—I’ve never had a grandfather before—and I want so much for us to care about each other. Yet I know how you must hate my mother. I just don’t know how to feel about you. Couldn’t we just put aside the past? I never hated my father. I never wanted him to die. I—” But Carolyn stopped abruptly as unexpected tears rose to her eyes. She tried to blink them away, hating herself for this silly show of emotion. She already sensed that this man had a low enough opinion of women, considering them helpless, mindless creatures. She did not wish him to think that of her. She desperately wanted his respect. And obviously, Caleb Stoner only respected strength.

  “So, what do you want of me, Miss Stoner?” asked Caleb stonily, turning to face her. “Do you wish to win my sympathy in order to gain your mother’s freedom? Or is there something else you want?”

  “I told you, I don’t want anything except to know you. I was hoping you’d want the same. But maybe—”

  “What I want is proof.”

  Without another word, Carolyn slipped off her buckskin jacket and rolled up the right sleeve of her flannel shirt. Still silent, she turned her bare arm so he could see the birthmark on the back of her upper arm. Caleb studied it for a long time. Because Carolyn was turned away from him, she could not see his expression.

  He finally said, “It is not what I’d call conclusive evidence.”

  “No, it ain’t,” said Carolyn. “But why would I lie about this?”

  “Come now, Miss Stoner, don’t tell me you have given no thought to the kind of inheritance that could be yours as my grandchild?”

  If her words did not convince him, then her stunned expression should have. Carolyn had, in fact, given this no thought at all. Now, of course, she saw there was more reason than mere vengeance for Caleb to reject her, and she suddenly felt very helpless. If he thought she was some kind of fortune hunter, then her motives would always be in question. How could she ever convince him otherwise?

  But apparently Caleb was no fool when it came to reading others. H
e turned to face Carolyn squarely. His countenance was hard, so terribly, terribly hard. Yet there was just barely discernible a small fissure in the man’s granite expression. Perhaps in spite of himself, he did indeed see in her a resemblance to his eldest son, the son he had loved. Carolyn chose to read that revelation as a kind of reluctant tenderness. No matter who her mother was, he could not reject that part of Carolyn that was his dear son’s.

  “Until we get all this sorted out,” Caleb said, his cool voice indicating none of the emotion Carolyn thought she observed, “I think you ought to stay at the ranch…as my guest.” He added this last, Carolyn guessed, as a response to her earlier question about being a friend or enemy.

  Carolyn knew this didn’t answer her question entirely, but she figured she had better take what concessions she could get from Caleb Stoner. He was not a man to give away anything readily, especially in regard to his emotions.

  Carolyn was at least glad to be able to write a note to her mother that evening, reassuring her that the meeting with Caleb was progressing well.

  20

  Laban could not believe what his father was saying. The man was actually accepting this girl into his home and, by all appearances, accepting her story that she was his granddaughter. Laban would never have taken his father for such a sentimental old fool.

  But even Laban had no choice but to admit—though he’d never do so to his father—that the girl did bear an uncanny resemblance to both Leonard and Deborah. He had seen it the moment he set eyes upon her in the hotel, that arrogant glint he had known so well in Leonard. Still, it galled Laban to see his father accept her so readily and on such congenial terms.

  Will I never escape the insidious ghost of my brother, Leonard? Laban thought bitterly.

  He wondered again if his hopes would always be dashed under the white heels of his so-called betters. He seemed doomed to be nothing more than the half-caste son. Caleb would do almost anything to keep him from inheriting his fortune, but to go so far as to accept the child of his son’s murderer?