Because she could do nothing to repay her debt to Quinn, she would do her best to help him now. He might die anyway, and if he lived, he might try to hurt her or have her arrested, but those possibilities were as far from her control as the seasons or the phases of the moon. She could never make amends; she could only heal now. Anna could almost hear the old woman grunt approval at the thought.
The poultice should be warm now, ready to be put on Quinn’s shoulder. The heat of it might do his lungs good, too. If she could only get him past the smell.
She soaked flannel strips in the reeking liquid and then wrung out the excess moisture. Quinn peered at her, his bloodless face the picture of distrust.
“You’re not putting that on me,” he growled. “I can’t let you do . . . more.”
Now that she regarded him more closely, she saw something else, the vulnerability of one near death. She spoke only to that part of him, for the other was too painful.
“I’m not who you remember, Quinn. I’m not Annie Faith. I’m Anna.” Her words dropped into the calming rhythm of ancient incantation. “I heal you in the name of el Hijo de Dios, the Christ”
“ No! Keep that that mess away. I was helpless last time, but not now. I can’t let you.”
“What do you intend? To crawl out of that door into the snow? You’ll die without my help.”
“I can’t let you. Not this time,” Quinn repeated.
“Fine.” She dropped the steaming poultice back into the iron pot to keep it warm. A flash of anger rolled over her like thunder. Why hadn’t she cooked coffee, instead of wasting time and effort on a man who preyed on those afflicted with her father’s weakness?
She grabbed a rag and wiped her hands. So he wouldn’t let her heal him. She shouldn’t care at all. If he died, he’d never have her imprisoned for taking his gold or, even worse, hung as a horse thief.
She bit back a curse, confused by the strength of her reaction. Why had his refusal prompted fury? Had it been his lack of faith in her or his interference with her plan to buy herself redemption? Did she really believe that God hovered over her with a slate of her sins in one hand and an eraser in the other? She tried to laugh off the idea, but this time, her laughter was a whisper, dried leaves in the wind.
En el nombre de Cristo, te voy a ayudar. In the name of Christ, I will help you.
She’d promised that to him and to herself when she first found him. And she did believe the words the curing woman taught her.
She would have to win him over gradually, just as she the señora had won her. Until that time, she would simply do her work against his will.
* * *
Through his haze of bone-deep weakness, Quinn tried over and over to remind himself of what Annie Faith was, of what she’d done to him.
She repositioned him with strong and gentle hands, then placed the stinking poultice on his shoulder. As dead set as he’d been against it, he felt the warmth of it radiating downward into his chest to ease the deep ache that accompanied his breathing. As she worked, she spoke in flowing Spanish, a prayer of some sort, he imagined, or perhaps some sort of chant.
“Can’t forget,” he told himself, but his whispered words did nothing to ease the suspicion that a stranger now inhabited her body, a woman he had never known before.
Her face and voice might be familiar, but her actions and her words conspired to compel him – him, of all people in the world – to trust.
“De las doce verdades del mundo, decidme nueve,” she intoned as she lit candles arranged atop a wooden chest. “Los nueve meses de María.”
Her voice continued, soft, melodic, as her fingers touched his forehead then massaged his scalp with something cool and wet. Stubbornly, he fought the spell, his mind lurching from the rhythm of her words, carrying him backward to another place and time.
She’d thought him unconscious, then, too, and he’d been equally helpless against whatever she might do. That time, there had been no bullet to rob him of his strength. Then, she must have drugged him before the two of them made love. Unable to move, he’d peered through slitted eyes while she had fumbled hurriedly through his belongings. He’d wanted to throttle her for her betrayal, but instead, he could do no more than watch.
With each item she yanked out of his pockets, she had whispered, “San Francisco,” her voice shaking over the two words like a sinner’s deathbed prayer. First she pulled out a deck of cards and riffled through them, running her fingertips along the edges he had shaved.
He could tell that she’d detected the system he had used to mark the deck, for she turned her head to glare. The hostility that burned in her eyes had made him realize for the first time that she might prove to be a danger and not just a thief.
“You cheating louse,” she’d muttered.
Next she pulled out a pair of loaded dice and an ivory-handled derringer, which she tossed into the corner without comment. The last item from his pockets was a small, leather-bound book, worn from frequent use. Quinn gritted his teeth as he watched her flip through its onion skin pages. He breathed a prayer she would not tear any of them out.
Instead, she glanced at him, her expression perplexed. “Shakespeare. Hunh, Ryan . . . you cheat somebody out of this or what?”
He’d groaned quietly as he watched her push it into her reticule. But still, she wasn’t done.
And the next thing she had stolen had changed his life forever. Or perhaps destroyed it would be the more accurate description.
He’d thought he’d known her in the weeks before she’d robbed him, thought he’d understood the sad sweetness that lay behind her dazzling beauty and her dulcet songs. That time, he’d learned too late that Annie Faith was nothing but a scheming opportunist.
He’d be damned if he let her steal her way into his heart again.
“Can’t forget,” he once more told himself hoarsely.
She leaned close to pull the blanket up to cover him completely and whispered to him, “No one is asking you to do that.”
He felt the warmth of her breath, soft against his ear, and his mind held onto the memories.
Including those most painful, of the last time they’d made love.
* * *
The moment Ned Hamby finished chuckling over the tale of Quinn Ryan’s shooting, the territorial judge erupted in a fury.
“Idiot!” Ward Cameron spat the word as though it were the vilest of profanities. For him, it truly was. He could abide sons of bitches, bastards, perhaps even those who fornicated with their female forebears, but as for idiots, he had no tolerance at all.
Hamby started visibly, and his good eye’s gaze slid dangerously downward. The lazy one, as usual, stared off in some indeterminate direction. He’d be thinking of going for his revolver about now, Ward guessed. Hamby might be the idiot that Ward had named him, he might stink like an old skunk carcass, and he would certainly kill with no more compunction than a rabid dog. But even so, the man still had some crude sense of pride. Ward decided he’d better defuse the lunatic right now. After all, despite his vile nature, Hamby was more useful than one dead sheriff.
“Sit down. Have a drink of something better than that poison you boys swill.” Ward gestured toward a well-padded leather chair in the office of his grand home. His hand glided over his luxuriant brown mustache, smoothing both the whiskers and his lingering misgivings about Ned Hamby’s temper.
Clearly, there was no cause to worry. He’d proven to Hamby long ago that he was the superior man, the one who had risen above base origins instead of sinking to their depths. Cameron’s books, his education, even the cut and cloth of his suit marked his mastery over Hamby’s sort as indelibly as a brand of ownership.
Ward took special pride in the fineness of both this office and his respectable frame home, an anomaly better suited to an elm-lined avenue in Connecticut than a pine-studded hill in northern Arizona. Certainly, his abode was beyond his means as a simple territorial circuit judge. But Ward had no intention of remainin
g stuck in this backwater post much longer. The home he’d built and the trappings of wealth that he’d acquired only served as portents of the future for which he was destined.
His gaze swept across the room, and he tried to imagine how intimidating it would be to filth like Hamby. A stark memory rippled through him like a sick chill. Himself as a young boy, invited into the home of his Connecticut burg’s mayor and his wife, the parents of a schoolmate. The stunning realization that not every house had floorboards gnawed by rats nor walls lined with newspaper advertising. Not every mother reeked of cheap liquor, sour sweat, and vomit. Not every father’s fists swung whenever a son ventured into reach. Even now, though years had passed and he’d come so very far, the old shame rose, a bitter shade.
He vanquished it as always, by surveying the elegant paintings of racehorses that graced his paneled walls. In addition to the expensive chairs, a huge, black walnut desk gleamed, polished to a luster by his housekeeper, Elena. Nearby, a long, matching table held an engraved silver tray. Atop it stood a crystal decanter of smooth Tennessee whiskey and a sextet of crystal glasses.
Ward felt pleased at Hamby’s look of confusion, as if the offer of a rare boon after the insult had thrown him off balance. Ned nodded and dropped into the chair.
Ward smiled as he turned toward the long table. He could almost picture his civilized offer extinguishing Hamby’s anger like a heavy snowfall smothering the flame of a lit fuse.
His outstretched hand had nearly reached the decanter when he heard a sound that froze the breath inside his lungs. The sound of boot heels striking precious wood. He wheeled about and glared at Hamby, whose feet now rested atop the dark river of the desktop. A small, moist clot of horse manure clung to the right sole.
“Were you sired by a boar hog and dammed by a burro, boy? That’s furniture, right there.” God in heaven, he didn’t need to deal with this oaf now, not after the mess he’d unearthed earlier this afternoon. His head was still reeling with the news that his claim had been denied because the land already had an owner.
Something in Hamby’s face tightened. With studied nonchalance, he removed his feet, one at a time. Crumbs of droppings remained atop the desk, but he ignored them. “I didn’t ride out here to be chawed on, Cameron. I come to tell you ‘bout your sheriff. Thought you’d want to know you got to get a new one. Maybe a blind one what won’t stick his nose in where it ain’t wanted. Ever since he took that horse off me in town that time, he’s been forgettin’ what you told him.”
Ward shook his head. “Ryan minded my warnings for five years. Until you provoked him. Jesus wept, man! Did you think he wouldn’t recognize his own horse when you rode it into town?”
“Hell, I didn’t even know the horse was his. I took it off that beanpole blond slut, as I ‘spect you remember.”
“You were lucky I was in town to smooth things over. That’s the second time I saved your neck, as I expect that you’ll remember too.” Every now and then Cameron felt the need to remind his people not to bite the hand that banged the gavel, the hand that stayed the noose.
But Ned only looked resentful, so Ward sighed his exasperation and grumbled, “What’d you boys do this time to provoke him?”
Hamby shrugged. “Just a squaw too dried up to be much entertainment and a couple of Indian brats. Nothin’ special. Just them ones that live too close to our claim, like you said.”
“My claim. Never thought he’d be the type to worry about the Navajo,” Ward said. But maybe after six years on the job, Ryan had fancied himself a real lawman instead of a hard-luck gambler who owed his job to Judge Cameron’s influence. Now the damned fool had gone and gotten himself killed, just when Ward especially needed Copper Ridge’s lawmen to turn their backs. By God, Miss Lucy Worthington would be arriving in a matter of a few days, and he needed to convince her he was the man of substance he had claimed to be.
He thought about the lies he’d told the Senator, her father. Though he’d acquired a number of items extravagant by territorial standards, his efforts would look laughable to a bride from such a prominent family. He had to do more to prove himself an up and comer if he wanted to convince the Senator to recommend him for the position he deserved. His future depended on her letters home.
Hamby licked his lips.
Ward, distracted from his worries, poured each of them three fingers of the whiskey. He sipped his and watched, revolted, while Ned gulped his glassful like the swine he was.
Instead, he took a deep breath. “Have you run them all off yet?”
Hamby shook his head. “Them Injuns? It ain’t that easy, and you know it. ‘Specially since they got nowhere else to go. There’s still a mess of ‘em living around that canyon.”
“Run ‘em off or kill ‘em. Either way.” No one would worry about some missing Navajo.
Hamby shook his head. “They’re watchin’ for us now. Desperate folk’s dangerous, ‘specially Injuns. It ain’t hardly worth the risk to keep goin’ back to that one area.”
Again, Cameron sipped at his whiskey. Hamby stared at him and licked his lips.
“What’s the matter. You boys lose your taste for the killing and the women? You get whatever you can haul off from your raids.”
“Damn Navajo got nothin’. We’re tired of eatin’ goddam mutton and sick of pokin’ Injun snatch. Them white settlers east of there got better . . . not that we would ever”
“ Save your protestations of innocence. If you were in my court, I’d string up your whole lot on hearsay.”
As Hamby turned his cockeyed gaze on Ward, Cameron felt a twinge of apprehension in his gut. A certain coldness in his expression seemed to hunger for the warmth of flowing blood. Cameron wondered how long he could play on promises to keep the beast at bay.
Hamby narrowed his dark and crooked eyes and grimaced, showing teeth no straighter or less brown. Years of frustration and hard living shook his voice. “I want you to know I could add your hair to my collection. I want you to know that I could kill you anytime I want. You’re nothin’ to me, Cameron, nothin’ but a greedy bastard no better than the boys I ride with, leastways if they was to clean up decent. If it wasn’t for my mama, you wouldn’t last a minute in a room with me.”
Only sheer determination prevented the judge from tossing down his whiskey, just as Hamby had before him. He wondered how many of the dark stains on Ned’s filthy clothing were from blood.
A thin trickle of sweat rolled down Cameron’s back, between his shoulder blades. Had he overestimated his hold on Hamby? Would this reeking, ignorant pawn pull out some hidden weapon and cut him down just as he was about to clear the way to a fortune beyond anything the Senator would expect?
Hamby’s lethal expression softened, transforming his face into one that could have belonged to a feed store clerk or a young wrangler. “But that ain’t all I want. I want somethin’ fine like you have, somethin’ I can take back home and show what I’ve done with my life. Maybe I’ll just take that fancy pocket watch you’re wearin’.”
Cameron placed a protective hand over his gold watch. Strange, how Hamby had settled on it, just the way that Cameron had first noticed the mayor’s gold watch long ago. Ward’s watch had been the first thing he had saved for when he’d started making money. Despite his concern about Ned’s threat, he’d be damned if he gave it up. But he understood Hamby’s longing. He understood it well.
“I’ll order you a brand new pocket watch,” he offered.
“A gold one. I want a gold one just like yours.”
“I’ll even have your initials engraved inside the cover.”
“That ain’t all, Judge. I wanta hear that promise one more time.” The threat of violence once more edged Hamby’s voice.
“I’ve given you my word already.” If he showed his fear now, he would lose control. At all costs, he mustn’t lose control.
“Say it, Cameron . . . say it,” said Hamby.
With those final words, the balance shifted, and Ward knew the pre
stige of position and possessions had worked their magic one more time. He smiled his condescension on the younger man. “Certainly. You have my word, Ned, that once my situation becomes stable, you’ll be financially rewarded”
“ The rest. Tell me the rest.”
Cameron nodded and settled himself into the padded chair. His words sounded as magnanimous as if he really meant them. “Patience. As I’ve told you, I’ll arrange your amnesty. You can return to Texas, see your mother. No one will ever come for you. Her slumber will never be disturbed by lawmen pounding on her door or the news that you’ve been gunned down by a bounty hunter. You’ll receive the second chance that you deserve.”
Hamby released a pent-up breath in a sigh that gusted like a cold wind through the treetops. “I’m gonna prove to her I ain’t no no ‘count after all.”
“All you have to do is help me with those Navajo . . . and one more small thing.”
Suspicion hardened Hamby’s features once again. “No tricks. No tricks or I swear I’ll”
Ward’s hand waved dismissively. “ It’s nothing, nothing really. Listen, Ned. I can see you have a fondness for good whiskey. I had this shipped at great expense from Tennessee. How about I send you along with a full bottle? Just for checking to see if there’s a white woman living up in Canyon Sangre de Cristo.”
“And if we find her?”
“Then I’ll send whoever makes her disappear five hundred dollars — and a case of this fine whiskey so you can celebrate in style."
* * *
Hamby secured the bottle of fine whiskey inside his brand new bedroll. New to him, anyway. He’d gotten it, along with the tack and the horse beneath it, off of the late Sheriff Ryan.
Thinking of the way the judge had treated him, he wished he had the dead sheriff’s scalp to drop on top of Cameron’s precious “furniture.” But moments after Hop shot Ryan, Ned had spotted Indians approaching, and the whole gang had gone in pursuit. Never did catch up with those Indians, and he never did bother going back for Ryan’s hair.
Canyon Song Page 3
