by C. M. Curtis
When Anne re-entered the house, Audrey was waiting. “For a girl who’s engaged to be married, you spent an awfully long time out in the dark with another man.”
Without glancing at her mother, Anne moved through the room and down the hallway to her bedroom. Audrey followed and listened at the door for a few minutes. Knowing her mother was there, Anne stood on the other side, waiting until she heard the rustle of skirts and the creaking of floorboards that told her she was alone. Slowly she crumbled. Her stony expression melted into grief, her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees. Her shoulders shook with racking sobs, but no sound escaped her lips. She inclined forward until her forehead rested on the floor and torrents of pain flowed from her eyes.
Jeff’s reunion with his grandfather and Amado was as he had expected it to be. There was handshaking and back slapping with much care taken not to say too much or show too much emotion. Jeff noted his grandfather looked older, but Amado appeared unchanged. Half Yaqui Indian, the old Mexican had been John Havens’ right hand man and closest friend since before Jeff was born, and the nearest thing Jeff had had to a father since early childhood when his own parents had died.
They ate supper and sat long into the night, talking and reminiscing. The night had cooled a little. The sounds and smells of this place caressed Jeff’s senses and filled him with remembrance. The three men sat on the porch, sometimes talking, sometimes maintaining silence, listening to the mind-soothing night sounds. During these silent stretches, Jeff sat deep in thought and experienced the familiar yet unaccustomed ambiance of home. It was all as he remembered, but he could not be happy.
He spoke little of the war and they did not question him, knowing he would tell them what he wished to tell them when he wished to tell it. The subject of Anne came up only once. It was toward the end of the evening, and it was Jeff who brought it up, knowing they would already know about her engagement to Milt Carr. “I stopped by the Hammond’s place on the way in.”
Old John looked away but Amado looked at Jeff, his eyes searching, penetrating; and to those eyes Jeff unwillingly revealed everything. Then, Jeff dropped his gaze and turned away.
Amado loved Anne too, loved her like a daughter as he loved Jeff like a son. The three of them had many times ridden out together and shared the wild beauty of the desert., and in times of difficulty, Anne had often come to Amado for advice, trusting him, as did Jeff, with her secrets and her sorrows. Amado was that kind of man.
Presently, John stood up stiffly and said, “Well, think I’ll get some shut-eye.”
When John had gone into the house Amado spoke without looking at Jeff. “Will you stay?”
“No.”
“Don’t be gone too long; he’s not young.”
“No, but he doesn’t need me.”
“No, but . . .” Amado paused, “No.”
A cool breeze billowed the curtains that hung before the window of the bedroom and the morning light danced patterns along the wall. Anne stirred from her position on the floor where she had spent an anguished night until finally in the early morning, sleep had overcome her exhausted mind. Her hair was tangled and still damp from the perspiration of the hot night. Her eyes were hollow and her features were drawn and lifeless. She lifted herself from the floor, slumped onto the bed and absently reached out and touched a small plant in a clay pot on the windowsill. It would need watering today, but she didn’t care.
She shared the room with her sister, but because of the heat, Alice had slept on the porch with the rest of the family, mercifully leaving Anne to herself.
There was a small sound at the other side of the door. She knew it was her mother, who would listen for a while, then turn the knob. Finding it locked, she would give a resentful knock. The turn of the knob and the knock were longer than usual in coming this morning, but they came, though Anne dreaded the sound of them. The voice: hard, demanding, void of tenderness said, “Anne, it’s time to get up. We’ve things to do today.”
Anne said nothing, and a louder knock ensued.
“Anne, wake up,” the voice commanded.
Still silence. Then, the sound of the key Audrey had brought with her. The door opened.
“So you’re up. Why didn’t you answer me?” Audrey waited a moment for an answer that was not forthcoming, and raised her voice further. “Now you listen to me: we have a wedding to prepare for and it’s your wedding, not mine. You know your father and I can’t afford this, but we’re doing it anyway. The least you could do is act grateful. If you behave like a child, Milt might decide he’s not getting such a good deal after all.
Anne fingered the plant and said dully, “So it’s a deal, is it mother? Who signs the contract, you or me? And I suppose the ceremony will take place at the bank.”
Audrey strode forward and stood over her daughter, scowling. “Just because you’re getting married and leaving this house, does not give you the right to be disrespectful. I will not tolerate it. I want you ready to leave in half an hour.”
Anne sat still on the bed, gazing out the window. Audrey stepped back and leaned against the wall. “Anne,” she said, her tone softening to that of the unappreciated martyr, “I just want what’s best for you.” Anne did not speak or look at her. Audrey tried another tack, “This is the chance of a lifetime. You will never have another opportunity like this.”
Anne turned to look at her mother. “Opportunity like what, mother?”
To marry a man as well off as Milt Carr. Why, every unmarried girl in the valley would like to have him court her.”
“I wish he would.”
Audrey’s eyes widened, “Don’t even say that, Anne. What are you trying to do, ruin this for us?”
“For us? I thought this was my marriage.”
“All right then, think of yourself. You’ll have money, clothes, a nice house, and a good position in the community. People will respect you.”
“Is that a good reason to marry? Would you do it?”
In a heartbeat Audrey Hammond shot her answer back. “Yes,” she hissed.
“What about love?”
“Love? You can learn to love anyone if you try. Milt Carr shouldn’t be a hard man to love; he’s good looking and rich. You loved Jeff Havens, and did you take a good look at him last night? Hah! He’s not much.”
Anne’s eyes flashed and she opened her mouth, but then closed it abruptly and turned her face back to the window.
Audrey’s voice metamorphosed into the patronizing tone Anne despised most of all. “You must promise me one thing, dear. You must always tell Milt you love him. Never let on that you don’t.”
“I already told him I don’t love him.”
Still looking out the window, she heard the sharp intake of air and pictured the expression on Audrey’s face. Audrey had worked hard and long to bring to fruition her dream of Anne marrying into the Carr family and she had had to apply enormous pressure on Anne to make it happen. “You did what?” she gasped.
“He knows I don’t love him. Did you think I would marry under false pretenses? If he wants me that way, I guess he can have me, but I won’t lie to him.”
“You’re crazy. I can’t believe you did such a thing. What did he say?”
Anne’s voice became low, almost inaudible. “He said he’s sure I will grow to love him.”
Audrey relaxed and drew in a deep breath. “Good! That’s a fair deal. Now, try to see his qualities and you’ll start to feel love, I’m sure of it. Then you must tell him you love him. Promise me you’ll do that, Anne.”
Anne looked at her mother pityingly. “Don’t worry mother, I’ll try not to spoil the deal.”
Chapter 2
September 1870
Seven years later
Tom Stewart crossed the dusty main street and walked from boardwalk to boardwalk, stamping his feet on reaching the far side to shake the dust off his freshly polished boots. Appearance was important. He checked the time on his gold pocket watch. It read a quarter past nine, but a
lready the heat of the desert sun was making him feel uncomfortable inside his black serge suit. He debated again in his mind whether or not to shed the coat. Should he try to be like one of them, someone with whom they could identify and whom they would accept readily into their fellowship, or should he convey a more formal image—an image of a man who was likable but somehow above them; wealthy, respectable, even a little intimidating? He considered the two options for a moment, stamped his boots one more time and strode resolutely down the boardwalk. The coat stayed on.
As he walked he smiled, lifting his hat to women passersby and speaking to everyone he met. Although Stewart was a relative newcomer to the town, it was a rare event for him to encounter someone with whom he was not acquainted. As he walked along Main Street now, affable and outgoing, smiling and greeting everyone in sight, he took careful note of people’s reactions to him. He had learned long ago, without understanding the reasons, that most people either liked him or disliked him almost immediately. He had also learned to use this knowledge to his advantage. When people liked him, he found it was always a simple matter to use and manipulate them for his ends. Those who disliked him were catalogued in his mind, and plans were made to neutralize them should they ever attempt to get in his way.
Stewart was pleased with what he had accomplished so far. He could tell that most people here liked him. And why not? He was a tall handsome man, polite and well-spoken with the ladies, witty and charismatic, with a manner about him of education and distinction that was not too polished for these rough westerners. It was rumored he was a member of a fine Eastern family, and had decided to take part of his share of the family fortune and come out West and try his hand at ranching. Stewart himself had started that rumor, but had never been called upon to confirm or deny its truth. Out west a man’s business was his own, and people generally didn’t ask questions unless circumstances required it.
This fact made little difference to Stewart, because his greatest and most frequently exercised talent was lying. The truth would have quickly put him at the end of a rope, but at the present, he had little fear of that. The evil deeds he had done—and they were many—were far behind him now. There was no one here who knew of him or his past sins or even his real name. He was so certain of this that even the sight of Sheriff Lloyd Jennings, watching from the doorway of his office, evoked only the briefest twinge of alarm in Stewart’s brain.
Jennings did pose a problem however, in that he was one of those whose name appeared on the list, in Stewart’s mind, of people who did not like him. This was something that needed to be changed, he thought, as he flashed a smile to Jennings, who curtly nodded back. He didn’t think the sheriff could be bought; it would be folly to try. Jennings was young and in his first term of office. Because of his youth and his need to prove himself, he would tend to be idealistic. Fear would not be the solution either; Lloyd Jennings didn’t seem like a man who would back down. But Stewart, possessing a confidence based on past successes, was certain he would find a way to deal with Sheriff Jennings. The opportunities here were far too numerous for him to allow one man to hinder him in his purposes.
It was five years now since the war had ended and during those years a multitude of changes had occurred. The soldiers had returned to provide protection from the Indians, making it safer and more attractive for people to venture west. And this they began doing in droves, particularly after the railroad was completed. Most of them came west bent on building a better life for themselves through their own industry. They were people who asked nothing more than to be given a chance to wield their strengths and apply their skills to the building of homes, farms, businesses, families, towns, territories, and states. But wherever these tillers of the soil and workers of the trades and builders of nations went, they were followed by another kind of people: a predacious sort, who built nothing, gave nothing and produced only grief and loss, and then moved on, not even possessing the decency to remain and witness the results of their colossal selfishness. Tom Stewart was one of these.
He arrived at the bank and paused at the front door to adjust his tie and his smile, then stepped confidently inside. This was not a large town and the bank was not a large bank, but the town was beginning to prosper and Willard Deering, the bank manager, was a far-sighted man. He had foreseen this prosperity and built the foundation of his own future on that vision. In his mind he was a good man, religious and active in the community, a man whose integrity no one, not even he himself, doubted. Tom Stewart was laying plans to show Deering another side of his nature.
Five years previously, at the age of thirty-one, Willard Deering had finally taken a wife; a small, timid girl, eleven years his junior. Shortly afterward, Willard was offered the banking job he now held and they left the small Kansas town where Millie had grown up and moved west. Soon Willard had maneuvered himself into a position of high standing in their new community, while Millie, timid and introverted, was still a stranger to most of the locals. She was seldom in attendance at any of the women’s gatherings, and left the confines of her own home infrequently and usually in the presence of her husband who dominated every conversation. Some people believed Millie lived this life of seclusion by her own choosing, while others believed she did so out of obedience to Willard who ran his household with the same sterile efficiency with which he managed the bank. Some felt that Willard had chosen Millie for her dimness of personality, in order that his own might glow the brighter by contrast.
The couple had remained childless during their five years of marriage—a fact that did not seem to matter to Willard, and no one in town was intimate enough with Millie to discuss such matters.
Tom Stewart wore his most winning smile as he stepped into the bank, and Deering did the same immediately upon recognizing Stewart. Neither smile was sincere.
“How are you this morning my friend?” asked Stewart, extending his hand.
Deering grasped the hand firmly with both hands. “Just fine, just fine and how are you Tom?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
A casual observer would have thought this to be a meeting between two close friends, but each man was playing the same game. Each saw in the other someone who could help him achieve his own ends. The difference between the two was that Stewart knew Deering was playing a game, while Deering was ignorant of Stewart’s insincerity. This knowledge gave Stewart a decided advantage and he knew it. “How’s the banking business?” he asked.
“Very good, Tom,” replied Deering, replacing his smile with an earnest expression. “This town is growing like a weed. I anticipate we’ll double our deposits in the next twelve months.”
“That’s good news, Willard.” Stewart paused for a moment and his face assumed the expression of a man on the verge of making a decision. His brow was deeply furrowed and he stroked his chin pensively.
Deering did not know what this was about, but he sensed it could be important to him, and for a moment he stood frozen, intently watching Stewart’s face, hands on hips, body bent a little at the waist until he realized how he must look.
He straightened his body and said, “Would you like to come back to my office Tom?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Stewart was pleased. He had never been invited into Deering’s private office, and he noted with satisfaction Deering’s obsequious manner.
The office was what he had expected: small, unattractive and perfectly ordered.
Deering offered him a chair opposite the desk, sat in his own behind the desk and waited for Stewart to speak first. He could tell by Stewart’s expression that the man had not resolved the issue with which he was struggling in his mind.
“Probably wants a loan,” thought Deering. He had seen people go through this sort of indecision and apprehensiveness about asking to borrow money. He began formulating a reply in his mind. Collateral would certainly be a requirement—Stewart had not been in town long enough to be trusted merely on the basis of his own signature, nor had he made any large deposits
in the bank. True, he had purchased the Havens ranch which was the largest ranch in the area, but that transaction had taken place back east, and Stewart had dealt directly with John William’s grandson, Jeff, after the old man had died.
Stewart finally spoke. “Willard, I need your assistance in a financial matter.”
Deering’s smile was benevolent, “Well, I will certainly try to help you. Of course, you know my first obligation is to protect . . .”
“I’m considering depositing a large sum of money in this bank,” interrupted Stewart.
There was a marked change in Deering’s demeanor, and Stewart suppressed a smile.
“Why of course, how much, ah, when . . . when would you like to make this deposit?”
“Well, as I said, I’m considering it. There are some questions I need to resolve, which is why I need your advice. The lawyers I’ve placed in charge of my holdings in the East have certain . . . reservations.” He paused, flicked a non-existent speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat, and looked up again, acting a little uncomfortable. “Please don’t be offended Willard, it’s just that it’s a very large sum of money and they’re concerned about security.”
“Security?”
“How safe the bank is against failure or robbery. As a banker, I’m sure you can appreciate the need for caution when dealing with large amounts of money. Still, I couldn’t place all my money in this bank at first, in fact only a small portion of it, say seventy thousand dollars.”
If there was any doubt in Tom Stewart’s mind of his ability to control Willard Deering, it was dispelled by the look he saw in the banker’s eyes at the mention of seventy thousand dollars.
Stewart continued. “I like the thought of having a certain amount of money close at hand. The East is so far away, and frankly, Willard, while I trust the men who are handling my affairs, I feel it is a poor practice to leave others completely in charge of one’s business. Eventually, I would like to liquidate all of my Eastern holdings, with the exception of a few concerns that have been in the family for generations and which, for sentimental reasons . . . well, you understand.”
