“What do you mean, you can’t build a fire?” he had roared to the buckskin-clad man Pelch had hired to guide them through Apache territory.
“Indians,” the laconic guide had replied, as if Mulrooney should already have known that.
Mulrooney started to berate the guide, but the man, who didn’t care who Prometheus Mulrooney was, just rode away from him, leaving him to splutter and flap at the cold night air. Mulrooney took his unrelieved fury out on Pelch.
“What do you suppose he expected, Mr. Ferrett?” poor Pelch asked his friend as the two of them shivered on the cold ground, trying to get through the miserable night without freezing into solid lumps. They had thrown woolen serapes over their shoulders and sat on saddle blankets, but their efforts were not paying particularly warm dividends.
Ferrett shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Pelch.”
Even though they were practically touching, neither man could see the other. The night was black as a raven’s wing.
Pelch peered up into the inky heavens. They didn’t look like any heavens he’d ever seen before. His heavens had always been pocked by the friendly glimmer of gas street lamps and the warm, yellow glow of light streaming from hundreds of cozy windows. These Territorial heavens were alien, black, and very, very cold. And they hid mysterious, frightening things that made strange, terrifying noises.
A coyote yip-yip-yipped and then warbled into a piercing, high-pitched howl in the distance, and Ferrett clutched at Pelch’s arm.
“Oh, my word, Mr. Pelch,” he whispered unsteadily.
Pelch sucked in a shaky breath. “Aren’t there supposed to be stars in the sky, Mr. Ferrett?” he asked uneasily. “Even in New Mexico Territory?”
“I believe so, Mr. Pelch,” Ferrett responded in a frightened whisper.
Both men nearly had heart failure at the chuckle that came to them out of the blackness.
“You fellers will see enough stars pretty soon,” a voice said, following closely on the tail of that chuckle. “It’s just gone on to dark. Pretty soon there will be stars enough.”
The voice proved to be telling the truth. As Ferrett and Pelch sat in silence, both cowed at the thought that unknown persons could hear them speak, the stars began to twinkle on in the firmament. It wasn’t very long before a blanket of sparkling splendor grew overhead until it seemed to reach into infinity.
Ferrett gaped with open-mouthed wonder at the amazing display above his head.
“My goodness, Mr. Pelch, will you just look at that,” he whispered solemnly.
“I’m looking, Mr. Ferrett. I’m looking.” Pelch’s voice held awe.
Their unseen friend chuckled again. “Told you so,” he said. Then he tossed a thick wool blanket over to the two men. “Here. You two city fellers probably need this.”
“Th-thank you,” murmured Ferrett. He was so unused to kindness that he almost cried.
“Sure thing,” said the voice.
All that could be discerned then was the sound of shuffling feet and the slither of blanketed bottoms as Ferrett and Pelch rearranged themselves underneath their benefactor’s largesse.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Pelch said after they had settled down.
“Yes, this is much warmer,” added Ferrett with gratitude.
“No problem, gents,” said the voice.
Silence reigned for a few minutes as Ferrett and Pelch occupied themselves with staring up at that incredible sky. They were both startled into a little jerk when their friend’s voice broke into the blackness once again.
“Purely don’t know how you two fellers tolerate that man you work for.” The voice held genuine puzzlement.
Ferrett and Pelch looked at one another. Each could barely see the other now under the canopy of stars.
Ferrett sighed morosely.
“He’s a devil,” whispered Pelch unhappily.
“Agreed,” said the voice. “Don’t you fellers get sick of his always bellyachin’ and hollerin’?”
“Oh, my yes,” Ferrett mumbled.
“Indeed,” agreed Pelch.
“Why don’t you just up and quit?”
Neither man spoke for a minute. How did one say that one did not resign from service with Prometheus Mulrooney and expect to live past the front door on his way out?
Finally Pelch cleared his throat and said, “It is not considered—uh—healthy to quit.”
That news was greeted by silence.
Finally the voice muttered, “Well, maybe an Apache will stick an arrow in him for you.” The voice did not speak again during the night.
Those cheery words buoyed Ferrett and Pelch’s spirits briefly, even into the following day. Eventually, however, they understood that Mulrooney’s hired guards were much too alert to allow such a quick, pleasant end to their troubles.
It was now the evening of the day after their adventure under the stars. As they watched cinders from Maggie Bright’s farm fly up into the night sky, illuminating the diabolical face of their employer, both men were very depressed.
“It was such a pretty little place, Mr. Pelch,” mourned Ferrett.
“We’re responsible for this, too, Mr. Ferrett,” said Pelch in a beleaguered undertone. “If only we were bolder.”
Ferrett nodded his head miserably. “Yes,” he agreed.
“That poor woman,” Pelch muttered. “All she did was help a fellow human being in distress.”
Ferrett only stared straight ahead into the inferno that had been Maggie’s home, the first place on earth, although he didn’t know it, that she had been loved, the site of her only happiness until now.
Finally he said, not even trying to sound hopeful, “Well, there is still the saw, Mr. Pelch.”
Pelch nodded unhappily. “Yes,” he said. “There is still the saw.”
# # #
Beula had prepared a big, special dinner in honor of Jubal’s return home with the woman who had saved his life, and Maggie felt very spoiled when she wasn’t allowed to help cook it, serve it, or clean up after it.
“I feel useless,” she announced, and Jubal got the distinct impression that she not only meant it, but didn’t like the feeling one bit.
He confiscated her to take a little walk with him after dinner. She agreed somewhat reluctantly, and hoped that he wouldn’t suggest any kind of unsavory alliance. Somehow, he didn’t seem the kind of man who would keep a mistress, but since Maggie didn’t off-hand know what kind of man would keep a mistress, she didn’t know how she’d come to that conclusion.
“I want to show you around the place since it’s going to be your home now. For a while.” He added that because he didn’t know what the future held. It had become very difficult for him to imagine life without Maggie Bright, but he wasn’t ready to admit that to anybody yet.
His offer sounded innocuous enough to her; not at all like the preamble to an illicit offer. “Wait until I get Annie settled, please; then I’ll be happy to walk with you.”
“All right.”
Then he decided to go with her and help. Actually, he didn’t know how to help tuck a child in bed, but he had a sudden, urgent yen to learn. It occurred to him that this fatherly urge of his might be getting out of control. Then it occurred to him that he didn’t care.
Beula had fixed a room up with a bed for Maggie and the Todd babies’ old crib for Annie. Jubal wondered briefly why she had elected to prepare the only other bedroom in the wing where he slept, then decided Dan had probably told her which room to use. Good old Dan. Always figured he knew best. Maybe he did. At any rate, Jubal could hardly stand the wait until he could have Maggie to himself again.
Annie settled down slowly. The last few days had been full of unaccustomed newness for the little girl, and she was reacting now by being uncharacteristically cranky. Maggie hoped she’d calm down and be her usual pleasant self after a couple of days spent in one place. In the mean time, she made sure Annie’s gourd dolly went to bed with her. Then she sang her a couple of lullabies.
Juba
l listened to Maggie’s gentle dealings with her baby and his heart began to ache with a longing so acute that it hurt. He didn’t remember his mother ever being sweet and gentle with him. He didn’t remember ever hearing a lullaby in his life until he’d ended up in Maggie’s bed, shot blamed near to death. He’d always wondered why people spoke so respectfully of their mothers. As far as Jubal was concerned, his own mother hadn’t been worth a plug nickel. But Maggie. . .
He stood in a corner and shook his head with wonder while he watched her and listened to her. Lord above, he could get used to this.
When Maggie thought Annie was settled down enough not to fuss when she left, she tiptoed over to Jubal. He was almost disappointed when they quietly left the room.
“You’re a real good mother, Maggie,” he told her with brusque emotion as he guided her outside into the patio.
Those words came as a complete surprise to Maggie, who wasn’t used to thinking of herself as much good at anything. She looked up at him with a quick, amazed smile and a little blush.
“Oh, do you really think so?”
It was Jubal’s turn to be surprised now. He looked down at her with a slight frown and said, “Of course, I do. Why on earth do you think I’d lie about that?”
Maggie blinked up at him. The man could be so touchy. “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I didn’t mean to say I thought you’d lied to me, Jubal. It’s just that it’s—it’s been so hard, raising Annie alone and all. And there was always so much work to do that I didn’t have as much time with her as I would have liked to have had. That’s all.”
Jubal took her arm and put it through the crook of his elbow. “Well, you won’t have to do that much work here,” he told her firmly.
Maggie looked up at him again. “No, I guess I won’t have to work that hard until I go home again.” Then she looked away quickly, not certain she wanted to see his reaction to those words.
The truth was, Maggie wasn’t sure of her own mind, any more than she was sure of Jubal’s. Her heart was sure. She loved him. But she didn’t know what he felt about her. And she sure didn’t want to give up Kenny’s farm. It had been his dream and had become hers, and she aimed to keep it alive. She didn’t think she even had words enough to explain all of that to Jubal.
It was probably just as well she wasn’t looking at him, because Jubal’s scowl had become positively ferocious.
There she goes, talking about her goddamned home again. Pretty soon she’ll be running on about that damned dead husband of hers. Jubal didn’t know whether he were more angry or hurt.
“Yes, well, you can think about that later, after we’ve taken care of Mulrooney,” he finally said in a growly voice.
That was fine with Maggie. She was too busy looking at the patio to think about anything else at the moment. Two torches lit the big square, casting intriguing shadows over the scruffy, dirty, tiled walkway and the bare dirt middle. Work on a stone fountain had been begun and abandoned in the center of that dirt patch a long time ago. The patio had the makings of a perfectly idyllic place.
“Oh, Jubal, this is lovely.”
Jubal looked around and wondered what Maggie could see here that he couldn’t. “Looks mighty bleak to me,” he said at last, honestly.
“Oh, but just imagine what it could look like,” Maggie whispered. Her voice was hushed with the visions her imagination had already begun to spin for the place.
Jubal grunted. “Yeah. My father had plans for it. Mulrooney and my mother killed them and him before he could do anything about it.”
“Mulrooney and your mother?” Maggie’s voice held shocked surprise.
Jubal led her over to a carved stone bench, one of the few amenities his father had been able to provide before the worries of his life took over and prevented his plans for the patio from reaching completion.
“Sit down, Maggie. As long as you’re involved in all this, you might as well hear the story.” Jubal sounded weary, as though he himself were sick to death of the story.
“Thank you.”
So they sat in Jubal’s father’s patio, the one for which he had had such happy plans, underneath the wide Texas sky, in the flickering light of a torch, and Jubal talked to her. He told her the story of his parents and Prometheus Mulrooney, and how that story had put an end to Jubal’s father’s plans and had followed Jubal’s father’s sons right on down to this day. That story had haunted Jubal’s brother into an early grave and left Jubal alone on his father’s ranch and wondering what, if anything, was worth a bucket of warm spit in this life. He didn’t say that, but Maggie understood he meant it.
Half-way or less through his recitation, Maggie put her other arm through his and hugged him tight. She wanted to cry when he told her about the two little boys who had been born to Benjamin and Marianna Green and then left, bewildered and alone, to fend for themselves because their parents were too distracted to love them. Jubal was a year older than his brother Benny, and Maggie could tell that he’d never forgiven himself for failing to protect Benny from the wrath of Prometheus Mulrooney.
She found out how Dan Blue Gully and Jubal had become friends. She heard about the band of Mescalero who camped on Jubal’s father’s land and about how Jubal’s father had not paid any attention to them because he’d been too preoccupied with Mulrooney and his own failing wife. She learned about how Dan’s father had been wounded and left behind by the Apache band when they ran, and how Dan’s mother had stayed with her husband and welcomed Jubal and Benny into their camp.
At least when Dan’s mother and father had succumbed to the rigors of their own life, Jubal’s father had let Dan live with them. The three boys, Jubal, Dan, and Benny, had grown up together and formed a bond of brotherhood that was stronger than the bond between the Green children and their parents. Dan had become as involved in the Green-Mulrooney feud as either son born of Benjamin Green.
Somewhere along the way—Jubal couldn’t even remember when—Dan brought home a wounded Mescalero child, abandoned in a wild fight between whites and a renegade band. Dan and Jubal had bound up Four Toes Smith’s foot and nursed him until he was healthy again. Jubal said they’d called him Four Toes Smith as a joke, because of the nature of his injuries, and because he’d been too little to tell them his real name.
“I think it was a year or more before my parents even realized they’d adopted another Indian kid,” Jubal said with wry amusement.
Maggie didn’t think it was funny. Surreptitiously, she wiped away a tear. She knew Jubal would frown if he found out she was crying.
At first she felt a vague sympathy for Marianna Green. She envisioned Jubal’s mother as a beautiful, fragile creature, not tough and gritty like her, brought to the rugged West Texas frontier by Jubal’s father. She must have been a weak woman, unprepared for the hard life that awaited her here. Then, when Mulrooney began to torment the couple, her spirit had died completely, leaving her the hysterical, shadowy, wraith-like woman her son now remembered only with scorn and a deep, deep hurt that Maggie could tell he’d never acknowledged. She figured it might be too painful to acknowledge such a hurt, and she wondered if anyone could ever truly recover from a loveless childhood. She herself had only a shimmering, flickering memory of her own mother, but she held that golden memory close to her heart because her mother had loved her. She knew it.
She watched Jubal’s hard face in the wavering torch light and decided, vague sympathetic stirrings aside, she’d never forgive Marianna Green for what she’d done to him. No matter how hard her own life had been, she should have loved her sons. In Maggie’s book, there was never a good excuse for shirking one’s responsibility to one’s children.
She had died a suicide. Maggie flinched when Jubal told her that. She poisoned herself one day after a month-long pout. Then Jubal’s father had been killed a week or so later as he was riding on the vast range. Nobody knew why he went out alone. He knew better.
“So that’s it,” Jubal ended simply, with a bleak gesture that inc
luded his whole life. He stared off into the unfinished middle of the patio fountain as though he were still walking down those long, painful, arid years. His voice sounded tight.
Maggie didn’t know what to say or do. She stared at the fountain with him and hugged his arm to her breast.
She finally said, very softly, “I’m sorry.”
Jubal put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her to his side. He knew better than to think anything as fine and good as Maggie Bright would stay with him now that she knew about him. But he could offer her his protection in the mean time, until she left him again. Anyway, by that time, maybe he’d be over this love problem. He had a depressing feeling that he was indulging in wishful thinking. Maggie Bright might walk out of his life, but he didn’t expect she would leave his heart any time soon.
“May I try to fix up the patio, Jubal?” Maggie whispered.
He looked down at her with real surprise. That offer sounded mighty permanent. Maybe she wouldn’t leave him after all. He decided not to get too optimistic.
“Sure. Dan and Four Toes can help with the fountain. My father had pipes laid from the river. I guess you and Four Toes can plant stuff,” he added vaguely.
Maggie laughed softly. “I guess we can.”
Jubal cleared his throat. “Maggie,” he ventured hoarsely, afraid of her answer, “will you sleep with me tonight?”
Maggie peered at his profile. He was still staring at the unfinished fountain, as if he didn’t want to look at her. She couldn’t swear to it in the dim light, but he looked almost afraid and she wondered why. She didn’t say anything for a good few moments. At least he hadn’t asked her to be his mistress, to pay her way with her body, even if he hadn’t offered anything else.
“I don’t reckon I should,” she said at last, and dropped her gaze quickly.
“Why not?” Jubal finally looked at her. He was surprised at her answer. He’d expected a flat-out no, and maybe even a slap, now that she knew all of his sordid secrets.
“Well, because we’re not married or anything,” she said in such a tiny voice that he could barely hear her.
After the merest hint of hesitation, Jubal said, “Well, we could change that.” Then he swallowed hard and wondered what on earth had come over him to make him completely suppress his better judgment and speak so rashly. And to a woman, of all people. What if she said yes? Worse, what if she said no?
One Bright Morning Page 27
