Canyon Song

by Gwyneth Atlee

  “Please, come with me,” he whispered, surprised to realize just how much he meant it.

  She shook her head, but barely, and her smile faded. “I had a friend once, Maggie, back when I was singing out near San Miguel. She was a harlot, but she was a sweet-natured red-haired girl, looked like she belonged in the angel section of some church’s Christmas pageant. A man named Cullen Rayburn, who owned the general store, fell in love with her. He came around to see her as often as he could afford it. Then he finally proposed, and unlike most, he meant it. The day he married Maggie, she became his wife. A real wife, Ryan, not a woman who’d once made her living by taking strangers to her bed. She couldn’t associate with any of us after that, but we were all proud of her, especially the upstairs girls.”

  Anna paused, and to Quinn, the blue-gray of her eyes grew darker, as if thick storm clouds gathered in her memory.

  After a few moments, she continued. “At first, we’d hear about Maggie dressing proper and keeping her house just like something out of Godey’s Lady’s Book. I remember how we envied her. Then, after a bit, we heard how the other women, the ones who called themselves ‘real ladies,’ didn’t like her, how they wouldn’t even walk on the same side of the street when she was shopping. How they got up and left the church one Sunday when her husband brought her in.”

  “Hypocritical biddies,” Ryan interjected. “I’m not much on religion, but isn’t forgiveness what church is all about?”

  “They must have missed that sermon, I suppose. Anyway, they refused to shop in Maggie’s husband’s store. Not everyone in town went along with it, and Pete stood by his wife, but even so, his business began to fail. I don’t know whether it was the guilt or the isolation, but a few months later Maggie Rayburn decided that she’d had enough of living. She cut her wrists while her husband was at work one day. They say she sat inside the washtub so she wouldn’t leave a mess on the braid rug. Cullen found her lying in a tub of her own blood.”

  “Poor girl.” Quinn gently took her hand. “But Anna, you were no soiled dove.”

  “I might as well have been, working in the places where I did. Most of the men assumed it anyway, and no woman would believe I never sold my body.”

  “I could take you somewhere, where no one would know your past. I I could go with you.”

  “You have a job here. What else would you do? Go back to gambling, to ruining men by using marked cards and shaved dice?” Anger tinged her words, though he could not guess why.

  “I’m no more a gambler now than you’re a thief. I’m a lawman. A real one, since this happened.” He gestured toward his shoulder. “There has to be some town that needs my services, somewhere.”

  Anna stepped back, away from him. “I thought Copper Ridge needed your services right now.”

  He nodded once. “Only ‘til I’ve gotten rid of Hamby. Then they’re on their own. I’m finished taking orders from Ward Cameron. He used me, too, Anna, and I won’t be used again.”

  “So stop him.”

  “He could have me hung. Cameron dispenses the law in these parts. When he can’t do that, he makes it up. I can’t fight that. He’s got a hand that I can’t beat.”

  A cool wind stirred the wisps of her hair, where they’d escaped her thick, blond braid.

  “You have said you aren’t a gambler any longer.” She touched his temple with the barest pressure of her fingertips. “So the only cards that Cameron holds are inside here.”

  Her fingertips slid down his neck, leaving his chilled skin warm and tingling in their wake. Her hand stopped above his heart. The palm flattened there before she continued. “What you have that can defeat him is in here.”

  Before he could respond, she dropped her hand, then began to turn away. “Do what you must, Quinn Ryan, just as I will.”

  He might have called after her, insisted she come with him, but an image rose up before him like a filmy barrier. An image of a scrap of worn, cream lace. His mother had rescued it from someone’s ashcan, had laundered it and hung it in the window of the room she shared with her daughters in the tenement. ‘Just a spot of cheer,’ she’d said, ‘to show us where we’re going.’

  Going . . . going . . .

  He had gone ─ away from Mother and her forlorn scrap of lace, from Uncle Ferris and his Irish-tainted Shakespeare, from his chattering sisters, Molly and Nell. Away from poverty and toward a future twinkling with a thin veneer of gold dust and ambition.

  He had gone and stayed away too long. And whether that had been his own fault or Anna’s he could not say. He only knew it had been easier to hate her. What he felt now was too complicated to sort quickly, too important to rush through.

  And so for the present, he decided, he would let her go back to her querencia, back to that small cabin where she’d decided she belonged.

  * * *

  “Notion, ven,” Anna called, but the big dog ignored her just as he had when she’d asked him to come in English. Ever since she had turned back, Notion kept lagging behind, looking, she guessed, for Ryan, even whining in the direction where they had left the gambler.

  Disloyal animal couldn’t remember who it was that fed him.

  She turned toward home and started walking once again, remembering from the first how Notion had taken to Quinn. Maybe the dog’s previous owner had been male.

  Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Quinn had always had a winning way about him. Perhaps the man’s charisma affected animals as well as people. She shook her head, thinking of how hard she’d had to work to charm men, how carefully rehearsed her songs and jokes had been. But for Ryan, making people smile had seemed so effortless, so natural. She imagined he’d cashed in on that ability a hundred times in his gambling career to beggar weak men like her father, perhaps to orphan other girls and leave them to the future she’d endured.

  “Don’t be so gullible,” she told the dog, which now had fallen far behind her. “It’s just his way. He can’t help it. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  None of it did. Not Quinn’s charm or his caresses, his smiles or his pretty words.

  I think you should come with me to Copper Ridge.

  How easy it would have been to fall for his offer, to ignore the doubt that she’d heard in his words. He might truly believe her about Rosalinda, but he didn’t yet believe in her, at least not fully. And he never would. How could he, after what she’d done? It wasn’t the kind of crime a man could be expected to forget. Even after six years. Even after the long kiss that had passed between them in her cabin, the one that reminded her so painfully of making love with him.

  She closed her eyes against the memory of the taste of him, the strength of their attraction. She reminded herself she had been right to let him go. She’d found a place here and a calling, and though both were lonely, she knew that there were many worse things in this world. Besides, it was only in the wake of Quinn’s departure that she saw solitude as hardship. Wasn’t that what she loved best about her quiet canyon home?

  As she drew nearer to the creek, she heard the music of flowing water thrumming through its rocks. She approached the bare-limbed willows that grew near it and could see how it had swollen with the melting snow. Soon spring would come into the canyon: deer would bear their fawns, coyotes their pups; tough canyon shrubs would unfurl fresh green shoots. More of her patients would be able to travel to her for treatments of both the body and the spirit. Like the cold, clear water, she’d move on past Quinn.

  The echo of an old cry warned her first, the thin wails of her dying infant long ago.

  A few moments later, a man’s voice startled her in the clearing near her cabin. Her patients had come earlier than she’d expected. Normally, she’d be eager to see an old acquaintance, visit about the homely details of the canyon winter. But something was amiss. She could hear pain in the voice and worse yet, raw terror.

  “¡Por favor, no! ¡Socorro!” the man screamed.

  Responding to his cry for help, Anna broke into a run and rushed
headlong into the clearing. And came upon a sight that tore away her breath.

  Ned Hamby had Señor Delgado on his knees before him. The seventy-year-old shepherd sometimes came to see her for a salve to treat his rheumatism. The outlaw held a fistful of the old man’s silver hair in one hand, a long knife in the other. A knife that Anna recognized at once, for she had felt its bite six years before.

  Nightmare visions of that day detonated in her memory. All the awful flashes that woke her screaming at least twice a month now rushed back with blinding intensity, like the white-hot face of the summer sun. But the images were not the worst. Worst were broken songs that now crashed down like mammoth waves from a hell-spawned storm. Every song she’d ever heard or sung, every note and every lyric, coalesced into an incredible crescendo.

  Amazing grace, how sweet the . . . As I walked out in the streets of Laredo . . . that saved a wretch like me . . . Got shot in the breast and I am dying today . . .

  With a cry of pain and horror, she clapped her hands to her ears, barely feeling the old rifle strike her bad knee as it dropped from her grasp.

  When we are called to part . . . with proudly waving starry flags and hearts that knew no fear . . .it gives us inward pain . . . he came to fight for freedom’s rights . . . and hope to meet again . . . a Union volunteer . . .

  A hand clamped down hard on her shoulder, shattering the spell. Hamby used his leg to sweep her feet out from under her. Anna grunted as her fall forced the air out of her lungs.

  He straddled her in no time, screaming, “Son of a bitch! It’s my goddamned lucky day!”

  His left eye stared vacantly across the clearing, but in the right she saw his hellish glee.

  Dear God, he had her, even though she’d had a gun! He had her once again!

  The echo of her own words accused her, I’ll kill them before I let them lay a hand on me again. She’d made that promise to Quinn Ryan; she had made it to herself. Yet now, shock drained the strength from her limbs, and terror stole away her screams like a hurricane force wind. Last, errant snatches of old lyrics skittered through her consciousness like hungry mice.

  Met her on the mountain . . . stabbed her with my knife . . . hang down your head, Tom Dooley . . .

  Remembered pain tore at her belly. She retched with it, flooding her mouth with bitter bile.

  Hamby’s breath reeked of alcohol and something more unpleasant, like decaying meat. “Scare you, don’t I?” he asked.

  As if he couldn’t feel her shaking. As if he couldn’t imagine what the sight of the knife in his right hand brought back.

  “You got plenty to be scared of . . . little bitch.” His words hissed through his clenched and crooked teeth.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Señor Delgado crumpled on the ground. His blood stained a patch of snow that remained in the cooler shadow of her cabin. She turned her head, trying to see if he might still be alive. The old man was motionless as clay.

  Hamby’s fingers ground into her shoulder.

  “You think I don’t recognize you, don’t you?” Hamby roared. “But I do.”

  She said nothing but only trembled as his fingers moved to slide along a lock of blond that had escaped her braid to hang beside her cheek. She heard the sharp, almost sexual intake of his breath.

  “Take a lot for me to forget a head a hair like yours. That’ll look real good in my collection. Coulda been enjoyin’ it all along, if I hadn’t been in such a goddamn hurry.” He shook his head, as if disgusted by his lack of care. “Sloppy work on my part, lettin’ you out here all this time like some kind of medicine squaw. You been livin’ on some borrowed years, girl. But don’t you worry. I’ll do you right this time. Judge Cameron still wants you dead. But I’ll do you for my own reasons, slow and easy like, once we have our fun.”

  She tried to tell him it wasn’t going to be like that, that she would fight him off, that she wouldn’t let him hurt her. But the paralysis that had let him catch her hadn’t eased, not even enough to let her speak. Self-disgust rode over her. If she would let him do this, she did not deserve to live.

  “Seems to me that cabin would be a mite more comf’table.” Hamby began to yank her to her feet, but her body’s limpness worked against him. He swore and stuck his knife into his belt.

  The moment the blade disappeared from sight, Anna felt a jolt of strength course through her veins. Harnessing her panic, she screamed and jerked away.

  Hamby fumbled for his holstered gun, and Anna thought, almost gratefully, that he would have to shoot her now, a quicker death than he’d intended.

  Before he could raise the revolver, however, Notion burst out of the woods, snarling and barking. The dog exploded toward the outlaw and leapt on him, clearly intent on tearing out the man’s throat.

  But Hamby had unholstered the gun, and Anna heard another man’s shout in the distance.

  “Ned? What the”

  Like a morning fog, her inertia had burned off and coordination had returned. Anna raced toward the spot where a chestnut mare stood tied to the thick branch of a live oak tree. The horse pranced nervously with the commotion and rolled its eyes. Anna slowed her approach and spoke soothing words. The animal sidestepped away and threw back its head, obviously unnerved by Notion’s growls and Hamby’s screams.

  “Come away from this, girl,” Anna repeated. “I’ll take you where it’s quiet.”

  The horse’s dark gaze shifted to Anna’s face, and finally grew still enough for Anna to untie and mount. The familiar star Anna had glimpsed on the mare’s forehead convinced her this was Quinn’s horse, the same one she had taken from him back in Mud Wasp years ago.

  Anna scrambled aboard the animal’s back and hoped like hell this would work out better than the last time she had stolen Ryan’s mare.

  She dug her heels into the horse’s side, just before she heard the gunfire erupting in her wake.

  * * *

  Although the judge had seen to it the parlor was tastefully decorated with delicate dried flowers, the ceremony’s witnesses looked anything but festive.

  Lucy cut her eyes toward the little Spanish señorita that had so long attended the judge’s needs. Lucy had no doubts about what sorts of needs the hussy had attended. Why, even if Lucy had been the innocent the judge imagined, she would have noticed how Elena’s nostrils flared each time the black-haired beauty glared at her. Repeatedly, the housekeeper fisted her small hands, wadding a lace handkerchief into a ball no larger than a dove’s egg.

  Miss Rathbone stood in attendance beside Elena. The older woman wore her usual dour countenance, along with her stodgiest gray dress and bonnet, in honor of the occasion. Lucy imagined Miss Rathbone didn’t know whether to be relieved about her upcoming departure or horrified at her charge’s utter lack of scruples.

  Judge Clancy’s baritone voice rumbled like an ancient waterfall over the sacred words. The words that would soon wed Lucy to Ward Cameron. The words that would give Lucy’s bastard child his name.

  A haze of nausea swirled around her, weakening her knees. What would Cameron do once he found out? By her reckoning, she was nearly four months pregnant. Even Lucifer’s accountants couldn’t explain a September child out of their April wedding date. Damn all the delays! She’d be lucky if he didn’t realize she was pregnant right away. With her petite frame, she couldn’t hide much in the way of baby, especially not stripped of her clothing.

  Words surfaced in the stream of Clancy’s droning. “. . . Do you, Lucille Maddox Worthington, take this man . . .”

  Did she? Ward Cameron seemed prosperous enough, solicitous enough, respectful enough of her family background to serve as a solution to her problems, but did she truly take him? Could she take him across from her at breakfast every morning, beside her in bed every night? And most importantly, could she take him inside her, knowing that it was handsome David’s child that grew within her womb?

  “Lucy? Lucy?” Her attention focused on Judge Clancy’s fleshy face, now touched with a
kind smile.

  It must be time to answer now. Time to step off this dreadful precipice. Lucy glanced around the small room, first at Ward, who looked uncomfortable and slightly nervous, then toward Miss Rathbone, who nodded stiffly, once, and lastly toward Elena, who raised her chin and smiled victoriously. The two women must think she would back out now. Miss Rathbone’s nod confused Lucy, but the housekeeper’s Spanish haughtiness made anger burn inside her chest. Drawing herself to her full height, a mere five feet, Lucy enunciated firmly, “Yes, I do.”

  She let Judge Clancy’s words blend back together, let them go from drone to roar, let them merge into that other roaring in her head. Within moments, the roaring darkened into blackness, and she passed out, not knowing if Judge Clancy had yet pronounced her and Ward Cameron man and wife.

  * * *

  “Manos arriba!” the man screamed hoarsely.

  Quinn jerked his hands into the air, not certain he’d correctly understood the orders, but positive about the gesture the man made with his gun. One thing for damned sure, he must be dead tired to let the Mexican catch him unawares like this.

  The short, dark-haired man rattled off another stream of staccato Spanish, but this time Quinn couldn’t guess his meaning. Behind the man stood a dappled gray horse he was leading. On its back, an olive-skinned woman and her child huddled together, their brown eyes huge with fear. All three of the Mexicans were dressed in coarsely woven brown wool. In addition, the woman had a worn blue and dove serape wrapped around her buxom figure.

  Quinn swore to himself. He’d let the whole clan sneak up on him. He’d never imagined that a few hours’ walk could have deafened him.

  Even as he thought it, he knew that wasn’t right. He’d been thinking about Anna, the way her voice had sounded, the way that she’d felt in his arms, when the Mexican appeared as if from nowhere.

  “I don’t understand!” he shouted at his captor. “No comprende.”

  He hoped like hell that worked. He’d just about exhausted his entire store of Spanish with those two words.

  The woman helped the boy down and then slid off the horse. Pushing her child behind her, she stepped forward, then said something to the man Ryan took to be her husband. She gestured toward Quinn and shook her head, fanning out her long black hair. The Mexican man peered at Quinn more closely, then slowly lowered the barrel of his rifle.