Canyon Song

by Gwyneth Atlee

  Black Eagle spat in disgust at how he’d cried and screamed then, just like his mama must have the day she’d been attacked. With those eerie, almost human screeches like a rabbit in a snare.

  He wondered if this woman would scream much when he caught her. He imagined her terror, her weakness, his own rising hate and strength.

  He wasn’t going to let the rabbit get away. As he made camp near the woman’s only avenue of escape, he wondered how long it would be ‘til she came down. He wished he could build a fire, for a chill had settled in the canyon. Might as well put it from his mind. If the prey sensed his presence, she’d never come down on her own. If Hop and Hamby didn’t show up and make their white man’s racket, he could just wait here real quiet ‘til she tripped over him on her way to find her horse.

  * * *

  Quinn peered down a trail silvered by the full moon’s glow, but at this pace, he relied mainly on the vision of his borrowed mount. Perhaps because it galloped in the direction of its familiar corral, the animal moved with surprising surety and speed. But even his stolen mare, Titania, would not have been quick enough.

  Too late. He heard the two words in the hoof strikes on the ground beneath him, in the creaking of the saddle and the snorted exhalations of the gray. He would be too late for Anna, as he had been too late for his own family before.

  Despite the coolness of the evening, heat rose from his collar as if it were a leather chimney. He trembled as one fevered within a layer of chill sweat.

  Sweet Lord, he’d been too late for her already, hadn’t he? Six years too late to piece together all the clues, and two weeks too late to come to know her as the woman she now was. A woman who had both betrayed and saved him, a woman who had glimpsed redemption in the ruins of a man.

  Her walls, like his, had long since crumbled. Her rooms, like his, yet echoed with the whispers of old ghosts. For him, his family’s. For her, their babe’s. And if he had at least the memories of the past to make up for the lost future, she had only possibilities, which had been stamped out as cruelly as smoking cinders on a hearthrug.

  She’d been so long living a life without those possibilities that she’d been unable to accept his offer to take her from this place. She might truly love her canyon home, but that wasn’t the real reason she’d denied him. Something in her eyes convinced him it was fear instead. Fear he hadn’t meant it. Fear of the long, slow burn against her heart of hope snuffed out.

  He knew — or imagined he knew — because he’d felt that same way all those empty years while Cameron held his leash. He knew because a part of him was still afraid to think of what he’d do with Anna if she were still alive.

  * * *

  Black Eagle swore, wishing that he had another blanket. All the warmth of afternoon had been sucked out into the blackness of an inky sky. He got up and paced awhile, then stripped the saddle from his mustang. Damn woman must’ve died up there — or worse yet, spotted him. She plainly wasn’t coming down tonight.

  He robbed the dark bay gelding of its saddle blanket, then lay it atop the quilt he always used. Mama’s quilt, the only thing that he had left of her – except the nightmares.

  Black Eagle shifted restlessly and thought back to his mama. He’d never meant to hurt her, even if he did despise her weakness. But she had heard his eerie cry and come running to the woodshed, and that was where she’d caught him settling accounts with his grandpa – with an eight-inch Bowie knife.

  He didn’t like to think about what he’d done next. Not to Mama, who’d at least taught him to read books. Who at least had held him on her lap and hugged him, even if she was too ashamed to take him with her into town.

  Not to Mama . . .

  But she’d screamed then, harder, higher, with that almost human cry. And his knife leapt in his hand just like a live thing, plunging, jabbing, until her screaming stopped.

  He didn’t like to think on it at all.

  But every killing since then blunted the horror of that recollection. Every woman he stabbed put that one time a little further back.

  So he hoped like hell the slut climbed back down here soon. Because he couldn’t wait to use his knife to dim the bloody images his mama’s memory revived.

  * * *

  Anna glanced down at the dog, now far below her feet. Blue-tinted with the moonlight, Notion shifted his front paws and whined. His tail had wagged frantically when he’d found her, even as she’d bound his front right leg with a kerchief to stop the bleeding. But he obviously wasn’t happy to be left behind. The way that he was wriggling, he’d surely lose his makeshift bandage.

  “Shhh, quiet, boy,” Anna said, her own voice soft against the possibility of listeners. She prayed that no one had heard the single bark before; she prayed that none of Hamby’s gang remained close enough to hear.

  Again, the dog whined, this time slightly louder. He’d been content enough limping after her on the steep trail. But now that she had nearly reached the top, she would have to use both hands and feet to climb a nearly vertical span of cliff face for about twenty feet. A deeper sound low in his throat convinced her he was going to bark again.

  “Hush! I’ll only be a little while.” The whispered words bounced off stone, sounding louder than she had intended.

  Though she felt guilty at her plan, Anna pulled a fist-sized rock from the cliff. She knew Notion had saved her by leaping at Ned Hamby, but she had no choice now except to drive him off.

  She tossed the rock toward his hindquarters and was almost relieved when she heard it strike the path beside him instead. Reaching out, she grabbed a second, smaller stone. This one found its mark. Notion yipped in surprise, tucked his tail between his legs, and slunk beneath a fringe of cliffrose. Anna doubted he would go far, but he at least might think twice about crying after her for a few minutes.

  She didn’t think she’d need much longer. Turning her attention to the rocks above her, she felt about for handholds. Slowly, she pulled herself farther up the steep face. She’d considered herself fit, but her muscles strained with the unaccustomed task. She thought uncomfortably of falling. Though a drop from this height probably wouldn’t kill her, if she broke a bone, the end result might well be the same.

  She slipped when stony soil crumbled, but her handholds kept her safe. With a grunt, she clambered to the top and panted for several minutes until she caught her breath.

  Once her breaths grew more even, a wave of fatigue engulfed her. Madre de Dios, but she could sleep forever. She’d risen early, then walked a long way before Hamby’s attack. Yet even if she’d lain abed all day, her conversations with Quinn and the mere sight of the man who’d nearly killed her were enough to leave her feeling spent.

  But she could not afford to rest for long. Not with the night air cooling rapidly, not with the possibility of Hamby’s men about. Brushing the dirt off her elbows, Anna stood and faced the vast emptiness that yawned before her.

  The canyon, washed in moonlight, had lost its bloody hue. In its place, the rock, the tops of juniper appeared a ghostly gray. Where the cool light could not follow lay deep pools of blackness, places where a single rider or an army might lie invisible in wait.

  She stared in the direction of her cabin, spotted the silvery reflection of the swollen creek. By tracing her gaze along its course, she found the correct location. Neither flames nor thick smoke drew her eye, but after staring long and hard, she made out a narrow column that hazed the stars behind it.

  Smoke rising from her chimney. They were staying in her house, probably roasting a goat or her chickens by this time. Eating her food and infesting her pallet with their vermin.

  Anna’s teeth ground in her anger. She’d like to ride there, nail the door shut, and set fire to the whole lot, even though she would lose everything she owned. It would be well worth it to make them pay for all the harm that they had done. It would be worth it not to fear them anymore.

  But her desire to kill them was but a shadow of the terror Hamby’s attack still i
nspired. Again, she cringed at the thought of how the memories had unhinged her, memories and the clashing of a hundred vanquished songs. Crushed beneath their weight, she’d waited like a lamb for him to come and get her. Blinded by old pain, she’d even dropped the rifle that she could have used to kill the demon.

  Hugging her arms against the cold, she realized she would have to climb down from the outcropping to escape this nightmare. Climb down and mount Quinn’s mare, then ride far from this place. With a tired sigh, she let her gaze sweep across the moonlit canyon. She wished that she could stay here long enough for the dawn to bring its gift of color to this land she loved. She wished she could have time to say goodbye to Rosalinda. Goodbye but for a little while, she swore to herself.

  Mi querencia. The words made her eyes tear, and a lump of sorrow filled her throat. The place where I belong.

  Feeling as if she’d just surrendered, she crouched on hands and knees to begin her downward climb. Downward into what? she wondered. Downward into where?

  Below her, the chestnut mare remained tied. Though Anna was no expert on horseflesh, she knew the animal was something special. Special enough to buy her a fresh start, once sold? Special enough to pay her way to San Francisco?

  As she grasped her first handhold, her mind screamed its outrage. It was just temptation, nothing but a lost dream calling her.

  Your music’s coming back.

  Sangre de Cristo, how could she even think such thoughts? She was going to find Quinn, to take the horse to him. She was no longer the kind of woman who would consider larceny.

  The voices whispered softly, sweetly. Quinn might have wanted her body when he made his offer, but she knew he never really wanted her. He was nothing but a smooth talker like her father, a man who’d only let her down. She’d be better off without him, maybe even singing.

  You’re still young enough to have it all.

  The old fantasy beseeched her, and with it came a sound. An infant’s cries, so thin and weak she knew that it was doomed. Dios mio, Rosalinda!

  With the realization came a choking nausea. So wretched that Anna missed her foothold, so painful that she failed to recover the misstep. Her hands clawed desperately in an attempt to slow her fall. Though her nails tore against rock, she plunged down the face and struck the trail below.

  Her knees buckled with the impact, and the left side of her head slammed against a rock near the cliff’s base. Pain exploded, and streaks of light slashed across her vision. Before she had a chance to wonder how badly she’d been hurt, the lights dissolved into the blackest night she’d ever known.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The tapping at the door was far gentler than the hammering inside Lucy’s chest. Judge Cameron had returned — or she supposed that she must call him Ward now, since they were man and wife.

  Wife . . . she was his wife, so what else could she do except allow him into his bedroom? Their bedroom, God help her, where he’d expect to touch her in a few short minutes, just beneath the pristine, lace-trimmed sheets. He’d expect a bloodstain on those sheets come morning. A bloodstain from a wife he had deflowered.

  Dear God, she’d have to tell him, before he found out on his own.

  She called to him, but her voice, so arrogant before, refused to rise above a frightened squeak. Thank goodness he could not have heard it, she thought as she rose from the bed.

  She smoothed her snow-white nightgown and fussed with it in the hope it wouldn’t cling to the small prominence of her growing belly. With a sigh, she trudged across the room with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner marching to the noose.

  Her bridegroom tapped once more. She thought she heard impatience in the rhythm. After turning the key, she cracked the door and peered at him.

  He smiled warmly, no doubt mistaking her reluctance for mere shyness.

  “Come now, Lucy. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Slowly, he pushed the door until the gap was wide enough for him to step inside. He wore a robe of scarlet in deference to her request that they not undress in the same room not yet.

  Dizziness weakened her knees once more as Ward Cameron turned the key to lock them in — together. She tottered toward a delicate, cane-bottom chair and lowered herself onto it.

  Cameron knelt beside her, instantly solicitous. “You look so pale, Mrs. Cameron.”

  She stared at him, heart racing, knowing her charade was at its end.

  He took her hand, so gently, then kissed her trembling fingers. “Shall I have Elena draw a bath for you?”

  Lucy stared into his face, almost too shocked for speech. “E—Elena? But — But I asked her to leave —”

  “I assumed that with the wedding, your emotions might be running somewhat high. I thought that perhaps you might reconsider. Of course, I regard it as a household matter, so the final decision will be yours. But I will miss her cuernitos.”

  Lucy simmered at the thought of what he’d really miss. Did he think her blind, to miss the surreptitious looks that passed between him and his housekeeper? Or perhaps it wasn’t that at all. Perhaps Lucy’s own experience — her guilt — with David had heightened her awareness of forbidden looks and furtive touches.

  When she swallowed, she felt as if she were choking down a pint of gravel. She took a deep breath, trying to steel herself for what she must say next.

  But Cameron, apparently convinced she’d acquiesce, had gone back to kissing her fingers. As her thoughts roamed back to David, her stomach churned in protest. Almost involuntarily, she pulled her hand away.

  “My dear,” the judge said, “please don’t be frightened. I will be as careful, as gentle as I can.”

  Ah, but that’s the shame of it, thought Lucy, for with David there had been no gentleness at all. Only pent-up longing, which flared brighter every time they’d been alone. Brighter, hotter, until it burned them both.

  Despite her vow to put him from her mind, she wondered where was David now, on her wedding night? She’d heard a rumor that he had run off to join the Navy, or perhaps the crew of a merchant vessel. She hoped it was true, that he was off in distant lands leading foreign girls astray. That he’d run far enough to escape her father’s retribution.

  She couldn’t help wondering how he’d feel about what she was doing, how he’d react to the idea of Judge Cameron playing papa to his bastard. Probably with gratitude and perhaps a smug grin at pulling off such a coup against one of her father’s cronies.

  It wasn’t as if David would have married her, even if she would have settled for someone of his station. She told herself it didn’t matter, that the only thing that mattered was the brief memory of flame. A memory to warm her while she lay awake nights beside the judge in his cold bed.

  Ward reached for her once more, forcing her to focus on the present. She stood, her hands writhing like twin serpents to avoid his. Time enough later to endure his touch, if he’d still have her. Now it was time to learn if her gambit had succeeded. Or if he’d cast her out, or even worse.

  She lifted her chin and shrugged on her pride as if it were a coat of armor, or a shroud to hide her fear. “I am touched by your concern, Ward, but I must speak with you first.”

  He sat down on the bed’s edge without inviting her to do the same. It was just as well. She didn’t want to sit now, particularly not on the bed with him. If she needed to run, she wanted some distance between them at the outset. It was not out of the question that he might strike her. Worthington or not, she was his wife, and they were in wild territory. No one would likely question his right to discipline her.

  Her gaze flicked to the lock, the key still in it. She doubted she would be quick enough to turn it to escape him.

  “Tell me what is it?” he asked.

  Cameron leveled his sternest gaze on her, one Lucy suspected he normally reserved for ruffians and horse thieves.

  Would he truly hurt her? She hesitated, so frightened she could scarcely breathe.

  He shook his head and frowned. “I’ve been waiting sin
ce our engagement for the other shoe to drop. Tell me, please, what is it with you? Do you have fits or asthma? An uncontrollable desire to drink little bottles of some expensive patent cure?”

  Her jaw dropped in surprise, though she knew how foolish she must look. It had never occurred to her that he’d suspected. But of course, now that she thought of it, their rapid engagement and her eagerness to come here must have made him wary. It could only have been his desire for her father’s favor that kept him to the course.

  “No, no,” she stammered. “No abnormality, I assure you. It’s only thatI’m I’m pregnant.”

  He stared at her for several long, long moments, his expression so blank that she could not decide whether bluster or a running start would be most beneficial. Finally, he did the last thing, the very last thing, she expected.

  He laughed. A deep roar of a laugh, as if he’d just heard a splendid jest. “Only pregnant? Only pregnant? How could I have been so stupid not to think of that? Your father he truly took me for a fool.”

  She shook her head emphatically and chose words meant to minimize her guilt. “My father doesn’t know. He knows how the assistant coachmanabused his trust but he has no idea what came of the — the seduction.”

  She saw the rage snuff out whatever trace of humor she’d detected in his eyes. God help her now.

  “You little slut,” he hissed between clenched jaws. “So you spread your legs for a mere servant? I’d thought you more intelligent than that.”

  A fierce blush heated her face, but anger flooded past it. She refused to let him speak to her this way. “I may have married you, but I’m a Worthington and always will be. My father will be gratefulvery grateful to his son-in-law. The Worthington name will open doors to you, doors forever closed without his blessing. Surely, you must have known there’d be a price.”

  He stood, towering over her so there was no chance of escape. With every word, his index finger poked her shoulder painfully. “I should drag you right back to your fatherin the Capitol with a big, red bow around your neck. I should tell him exactly what you’ve done, you scheming little tramp.”