“No. Should I be?”
“I’d guess not,” Cyrus answered. “Your dealings have been more than fair with the farmers.” Cyrus liked Silver McQuade, despite his reputation for quick brutal retaliation against any man who crossed him. “Matt’s out back of the store, if you’re looking for him,” he added, reluctant to mention his notice of Dara’s strange behavior when this man was nearby.
“I’ll see you later, then.”
Cyrus turned away to answer called-out greetings from several of the farmers. Worry about Clay’s determination to fight the incoming tide of miners into Rainly and its surrounding lands soon captured his attention. Aware of Clay’s reasons, Cyrus wanted to caution him that he was not a boy, but a man, and should realize that what he advocated would only end in violence. Cyrus had seen enough bloodshed and violence to last two lifetimes, but he sat forward, returned Clay’s greeting, then listened to his impassioned speech.
“A few of us talked about forming a farm association to help any of us considering selling out to these miners. It’s one solution to protect our farmlands.” Clay used one large hand to brush back the disarray of silky blond hair framing his lean angular face. Expressive dark blue eyes, edged with thick sandy brows and lashes, surveyed the faces around him.
“The other problem we have is to stop the riffraff working for these mining companies from spilling into town. Most of you men are older than me,” he said with a crooked grin that relieved the severe shape of his mouth. “If my father were alive, he’d be saying the same to you. He gave his life to protect our lands from the timber barons intent on destroying good farmland by logging indiscriminately. I won’t stand by and see it happen again without a fight. Vogt and his partner, Teague, sold us out by hiding their find and getting wealthy before they leaked the news of the rich deposits. And we know of the other two vultures that came after them. If we don’t do something to stop them now, there won’t be a shred left of the town we know when they’re done and move on.”
“What’s that you’re plan in’, Clay?” Hank Clare asked, shifting his bulk to a spraddle-legged stance as he waited for an answer from the man young enough to be his son.
“What we talked about, Hank.” Clay stood a shade under six feet tall. His pressed cord pants and shirt set him apart from these men, but his thickly muscled body linked him to the hard physical labor that went into farming.
Encouraged, Hank began, “We’ve all got womenfolk to worry ’bout. There’s vermin crawlin’ into our town, and it’ll git worse. Heah ’bout that Mex fella, Suarez? Saloon of his serves watahed whiskey, runs crooked games, and there’s been shootin’ out at his claims. Now he’s talkin’ ’bout bringin’ in hired guns to pretect what’s his.”
“Don’t be fergettin’ that othah fella, Hank,” someone called out.
“Ah ’spect there’ll be trouble from Silvah McQuade’s kind, too,” Hank added above the rumble of angry voices.
“You sure you ain’t riled ’cause you ain’t made money yet, Hank?”
Cords stood out in Hank’s thick neck as he swung his head to locate the lone dissenter. “Ah might’ve know it was you, Amos. We all be knowin’ you favah these men ’cause you and yore boy scouted land for ’em. To mah way of thinkin’, yore a skinner jus’ like ’em. Jus’ ask,” he stated, gesturing with one ham-sized fist to include the men around him.
Clay stepped in quickly to avoid a fight. “Hank isn’t the only one to express concern about his womenfolk being afraid to come into town without him or his sons. The rumors are thick that the mine owners intend to bring in gangs of convicts to work for them.” He paused to give the men time to reflect on what he said. Though he was younger, too young to remember the times immediately after the Civil War, he’d heard horror stories from his parents and their friends. Most of the aged faces before him had come to manhood during those bloody years, and they were scarred with the memories.
“We need to think about what will happen here if they go ahead, Amos,” Clay added, facing the thin wiry-built man.
“We all gonna jus’ stan’ ’round an’ watch it happen ag’in?” Hank demanded in his surly voice. “We cain’t,” he stressed, glaring at them, “stan’ aside an’ still be callin’ ourselves men.”
“Ah ain’t denyin’ what yore sayin’,” Amos defended. “Or you, eithah, Clay. But yore all fergettin’ the money that’s pourin’ into town. Jus’ look around. The town’s buildin’ up. We got a real land office, public baths, fancy restaurants and shops, and—”
“And we got gamblin’ an’ saloons and rooms upstairs that ain’t a man jack of you would confess to visitin’.” A giant of a man shouldered his way through the crowd toward Clay. Many called out greetings to Flynn Kinnel. “I don’t hold with violence, but my Trevor’s wife, Minna, was near raped last night out by my place. And what I want to know is what you all have in mind to stop it.”
“My brother-in-law, Jake, is doing a good job, but he’s only one man,” Clay replied. “I propose we form a vigilance committee to help him.”
Cyrus didn’t want to hear any more. He saw Jesse at the edge of the crowd and moved down the porch, motioning for him to join him. Regret of what was to come filled Cyrus’s eyes and heart.
Regret melded with anger in the gaze of the man Cyrus passed. Silver McQuade knew where the rumor of bringing in convicts had started. Rainly had a large population of southern men clinging to the ideals of their youth like a worn old whore refusing to see herself for what she was.
Neither Jesse nor Cyrus paid any attention to Silver, but Dara did. She couldn’t stop her eyes from straying toward where he leaned against the open doorway. It reminded her of the first day he had come here, and then, as now, he boldly returned her look. Dara was the first to turn away, giving her attention to Matt, who was standing by his side. It was only for a moment. A request for spices had her turning around even as she was sure they were both still watching her.
Silver met Matt’s inquiring gaze as the crowd of men moved down the street toward the livery. “Go on,” he offered. “I’ll wait until your sister is free to help me.” He looked at Dara. No matter the heat, she managed to look cool and crisp as a Nevada stream and as rigidly starched as the linen collar she’d sold him last week. He thought of her pretended indifference to his most patient stalking, and his grin was more than satisfied. It was predatory.
Matt didn’t notice. He was looking outside, edgy with excitement as the last arguing man walked away. When he did look at Silver, it was with a meld of admiration and hero worship for the calmness the man displayed.
“Didn’t it bother you to hear them talk about you and the other miners?”
“No.”
“But Clay’s got them riled and Hank’s a fighter,” Matt insisted. “I know they don’t like you for being a miner and opening the first saloon, even if your other stores are respectable enough.”
“I didn’t come to Rainly to be liked, Matt. I came to make money.” Silver pushed back the brim of his hat, and his voice took on a note of gritty humor. “My father was fond of telling me that times change and men deteriorate their ideals. Nothing deteriorates a man faster than greed. It gives me an edge over those men out there. They’ll talk about taking action against the miners, but when it comes to counting the money they’re making, my guess is that more than a few will do nothing.” Raising his hand to Matt’s shoulder, he urged him to go if he wanted.
Scuffing the toe of his pebbled-leg short boot, Matt glanced toward his sister. “I can’t go,” he muttered. “Dara won’t like it. She was upset when I left her alone in the store last Saturday.”
“And most likely blamed me for encouraging you,” Silver said. His shrug was careless; he was well aware of Dara’s animosity toward their friendship. “You’re almost a man now, and it’s time for you to find your own path to walk. Your sister should come to terms with that. Your father has. Or are you afraid of her telling him?”
“Dara? Never. That’s not
her way. She won’t yell or snitch to Pa, she just…” Shoving his hands into the stiff pockets of his new pants, Matt hunched his shoulders. “It’s hard to explain. Dara’s just got her own way of letting a person know that they did wrong.”
“Could be she’s just thinking of you getting hurt if you’re prone to take sides, Matt. Don’t blame her. I’ve a feeling she just means to protect you.”
Matt glanced at Dara behind the counter with less resentment. “You hardly know her, but you could be right. I guess,” he said with all the painful shyness of an eighteen-year-old measuring himself against a man whose reputation he envied, “knowing all about women and such is part of growing up. Pa ain’t all that much for talking, and Pierce is too busy with his farm. Bet you could teach me more’n them anyways.”
A brief flash of his own past brought a gleam of amusement to Silver’s eyes, but he buried it quickly in view of Matt’s earnest expression. Silver’s grin, though, was a shade on the devilish side. “I could offer a word or two of advice, if and when you thought you’d need it. But since you’ve got an itch that wants scratching now, go on. And if you’re worried, I’ll keep your sister distracted so she won’t notice you’re gone.”
“Sometimes I don’t understand you. You defend my sister’s ways, and yet you tell me to find my own path. Don’t make sense, but I’m obliged.”
“I respect your sister for having the courage to fight in her own way for what she believes, and then maybe,” he softly intoned, “maybe it’s something m ore.”
Matt had half turned to leave. He reluctantly looked first at his sister, then up at Silver. The man stood half a head taller, was broader shouldered than Matt, but there was a hardness that made most men back away from tangling unnecessarily with him. Matt called this man friend. Silver understood the restless hunger prowling around inside him, a wild dissatisfaction so unlike his father or older brother. But Silver, he knew, wasn’t a settling-down kind of man, and Dara, well, she was a marrying kind of woman. He owed this man his life, even if Silver denied the debt. Yet a strange protective urge for Dara welled inside him. Straightening, the serious turn of his thoughts reflected in the amber-eyed gaze he leveled at Silver.
“Dara’s promised to marry Clay. I’ll be holding on to the thought that you do respect her.”
“I’m aware of that,” Silver replied. “But she isn’t married to him yet.” His voice was calm, removing any hint of threat. “I’m afraid it’s hard to get your sister to accept even respect from me.”
Matt shrugged and left just as Dara stopped totaling a bill and looked up. That man had no right encouraging Matt to leave the store. She knew her anger was wrong. What challenge was there for Matt to unpack crates of button-head bucket bolts or bottles of tooth powder? There was none, and well she knew it. She had to stop hovering over Matt, she thought, and with a sigh wrapped two pint-sized bottles of bay rum for her customer. She couldn’t protect Matt from Silver’s influence, as her father had warned her more than once.
“Your bill comes to one dollar and fifty-five cents, Leah. And do be careful with the eggs. Neither Abner nor Varina can supply me enough, with every cafe and restaurant owner buying from them, too.”
“They should both be thinkin’ on expandin’. Are you cornin’ to the social tonight? Elvira and Suelle worked all day puttin’ up buntin’ in the church hall. Ah do hope that Ah’ll see the Clare girls there. Ah want to hire both of them to help with the sewin’.” She lifted her basket, then added, “Will you have Matt delivah the rest of my ordah?”
“If he comes back early enough,” Dara answered, noticing that Silver was walking toward them.
“Yore brothah is jus’ like mah Julian. He wants to mine. That nice … oh, goodness, heah Ah was jus’ ’bout to tell Dara how you offahed to take on our boy, Mr. McQuade.”
He tipped his hat, ignoring Dara’s frosty look. “I told you it would be my pleasure, ma’am.”
“Mah boy is excited to be workin’ at the Devil’s Own, but Ah fault you with choosin’ sich a name for yore mine.”
“Whatever for, Leah?” Dara interrupted with a sweet smile. “It would seem he couldn’t have picked a more appropriate one.”
Unruffled, Silver explained. “What Miss Owens is referring to is that the young Negro boy who worked for Mr. Vogt first found bones buried in the pit he was digging for drainage. It’s one of the richest deposits assayed, but the boy thought the devil had died and left behind the huge teeth and bones. Not many folks realize fossils are protected by the chalky material some thought to be gypsum at first, but which is really high-grade phosphate.”
Dara glared at him while he shared soft laughter with Mrs. Tucker.
“Oh, by the way, Dara,” Leah asked, “did you know that Early and Suelle are plannin’ on sellin’ that lan’ Early’s brothah left him when he died?”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
Since Dara was determined to ignore him, and Leah was proud to be first with gossip, neither woman noticed the sudden speculative gleam in Silver’s eyes.
“Suelle is heartbroken that Early is thinkin’ on ’ceptin’ Mistah Suarez’s offah for more’n the lan’ is worth.”
Silver didn’t listen to the rest, stepping back and away, for once glad that Dara wasn’t paying him any attention. He could still hear her soft, breathy voice which stroked him when he heard it, but anger began to surface. He had scouted that land Early Yarwood owned, using his twenty-foot steel rod to bring up samples of the rock below in its special pointed slot. Having worked two years at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, analyzing ore and mineral samples sent from all over the country, Silver was sure the land would yield far richer deposits than the claims he now owned. He’d told no one about his find, but somehow word had leaked. Lucio was as greedy now as he’d been in Mexico when they first met and later when they had partnered a silver mine in Nevada. Unconsciously Silver’s left hand caressed the fancy hand-tooled leather gun holster riding low on his hip. He’d begun wearing it this past week after he had a run-in with the men he would swear Lucio had hired. So far they had managed to avoid a direct confrontation, but when Satin Mallory arrived, it might not be possible. Silver smiled, thinking of his own plans for Lucio.
Dara didn’t miss his hand’s caressing motion. Her mouth thinned. She wanted to keep Leah talking, but he once more joined them and interrupted them with his charming smile.
“If you’re finished with Mrs. Tucker, I’d like to have a look at the new Winchester rifles before anyone else comes in, Miss Owens.”
Leah excused herself, and Dara searched for the keys to the gun cases. Debating whether to light the fixtures, for the day was rapidly darkening, she called herself five variations of coward for being afraid to be alone with him. Straightening her shoulders, setting her glasses firmly in place, she marched out from behind the counter, as no soldier facing an enemy ever had, across the aisles into the far comer, where he waited. Her hand trembled slightly when she slotted the key, turned, and opened the door, holding on to its wood frame tightly when he moved right behind her.
“I promise I won’t bite unless asked,” he murmured in that rich, humorous voice.
Dara refused to answer. She gestured to the open case, uncomfortable with the way the shadows seemed deeper back here. “I don’t know which one you wanted to see.”
“The new Winchester.”
“I heard you say that, but I don’t know which one it is. My father or Matt usually handles the buying and selling of firearms.” It was becoming a habit to have her shirtwaist collars become constricting whenever he closed the distance between them. His indrawn breath had her wondering if she’d been too liberal with the splash of lilac-rose toilet water she used to refresh herself nearly an hour ago.
He raised one hand, tempted to touch her as much as he wanted to taste, but he reached inside the case to lift out the rifle from its mounting. He bent his head to examine it, smiling ruefully. She could fidget
and flutter with impatience all she wanted; he wasn’t about to be rushed. He forced himself to study the fine workmanship when he would rather look at the delicate-boned features of Dara’s face. A glint of humor lingered in his eyes, hidden by the thick fall of his lashes. Every agitated breath she drew only called attention to the small span of her waist and the curving fullness of her breasts. He had told her that first night down by the river that he would have thought some man had stolen the promise of her passion long ago. In the past weeks he’d learned more than he wanted to about Dara and Clay. He wouldn’t call Clay Wescott a fool. If anything, the man was shrewd in all his business dealings. Dara’s breathing increased, and he amended his thinking: Clay was indeed a fool.
Foot tapping impatiently, Dara asked in a prim voice if there was something wrong with the rifle.
“Has anyone ever mentioned that you sound downright insulting when you use that tone of voice?”
“No one has criticized me the way you do.”
“Why do I make you nervous, Dara?”
“Miss Owens to you.”
“Answer me, Dara.”
“You do not.”
“Ah, darlin’, and here I thought you never lied. Shame on you. Whenever I come into the store, you skitter—”
“I do not skitter.”
“You skitter,” he insisted with a grin, leaning the rifle against the case. Fully cornered, Dara breathlessly watched as his hands came to rest palm down against the wall on either side of her. Her quick little gasp made his pulse race. “I believe,” he said, lifting one hand, running the back of his fingers lightly down the line of her throat, “it’s too late to think of running.”
There was such certainty in his voice that she looked up, eyes wide, feeling trapped. Drawing a sharp breath, she wanted to deny her awareness of the desire in his eyes and lowered her head. Words of denial perished in her tightened throat. Her eyes were level with the third button of his gray work shirt, and she slid her gaze back and forth. His chest, shoulders, and arms could not be viewed unless she moved her head from side to side. This close, his size overpowered her.
Silver Mist Page 7
