Canyon Song

by Gwyneth Atlee

  Quinn noted the rising color in Anna’s face and sighed. Some men seemed bent on self-destruction.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve just come from the trail, and I’ve recently experienced ample evidence of what outlaws can do,” Anna said. “And since this may well be as close as you ever get to a real honeymoon, you may as well enjoy it.”

  Max winced, then his eyes narrowed. “All right, Mrs. Ryan. You just come along, then. I’ll be riding right behind you.”

  * * *

  Elena’s heart thundered in her chest at the sight of Manuel leading the old curandero through the front door.

  “The señora say she have fits. Very bad ones.” Manuel caught Elena’s eye as she stood in the kitchen doorway.

  “Where? Where is Señorita Rathbone?” he demanded.

  Her throat felt too tight to speak. How could he have brought the curandero here? Would the old man guess?

  “Why did you bring him? She will want an American, the doctor,” Elena managed.

  “The doctor ride halfway to Apache County to set a broken leg. But the señora say she need help right away. Now where?”

  Elena gestured toward the dining room, where both her rival and the ugly old woman lay past help. Desperately, she tried to think of some convincing story to tell the curandero. But she could no more think than she could control her shaking.

  Manuel and the old man hurried past her. Tío Viejo knelt beside the body of the mean-faced woman and began to search for signs of life.

  “Where is Señora Worthington?” Manuel asked.

  Alarm shot through Elena’s body as she realized Lucy was not where she had fallen. Could the gringa have revived enough to crawl elsewhere to die? Surely, the dose that killed Señorita Rathbone would be enough to finish such a small, frail woman. Elena pushed past the healer.

  “She was here — I swear it!”

  “Then where is she now?” Manuel demanded. Elena could swear she saw suspicion in his eyes. Manuel was her cousin, the son of Mama’s sister. Working here as he did, he had no doubt reported her behavior to the family. Just as many others had, he’d tried to persuade her that the judge would bring her only grief. How much did he guess now? And would family ties keep him from public accusations?

  The curandero sighed over the body, then bowed his head in prayer. Respectfully, he passed his hand over the staring brown eyes. The motion closed the lids as if by magic. Then he turned his own gaze, just as blind, toward Elena. His clouded pupils might not see her face, but she felt sure they saw to the core of her — and judged her.

  No! He might suspect, but how could he be certain? Once more, she tried to convince herself that Tío Viejo might be as cunning as an old coyote, but his knowledge was sparked by loose talk, not enchantment.

  Still, her heart’s blood crackled with sudden ice when he rose to his feet and pointed directly to her.

  Several moments later, his voice dropped into low, commanding tones, tones she could not imagine disobeying. “You must tell us. What have you done with the other Americana — murderess?”

  * * *

  From the shelter of the carriage house, Lucy peered at the two men entering the house. Urgent snatches of Spanish drifted her way from their conversation.

  Spanish. That meant they were Elena’s people, not hers. Possibly friends or relatives. In any case, it seemed clear the stoop-shouldered old Mexican was no true doctor.

  Wait. Hadn’t the judge called Manuel Elena’s cousin? A cold prickle of dread swept over her scalp. Could it be possible the two of them were in league? Dare she go inside, shrieking accusations?

  Dear God, she had to get away from here, had to find people who wouldn’t talk around her in their foreign tongue, who wouldn’t plot to take her life. The house was too isolated to escape to town on foot. Though her few experiences on horseback had been long ago and using a sidesaddle, Lucy could see she had no other choice except to ride. She peered at the two horses tied carelessly to a hitching post outside the carriage house. Cautiously, she stole forward, wondering which one she should take. Both were blowing and sweating from a gallop, but neither seemed in much distress. On closer examination, she realized the taller animal to her left was not a horse at all. Its long ears and dark gray coloring marked it as a mule. Normally, she would never consider riding such a humble mount, but at least the mule was saddled. Manuel had left too quickly to properly equip the sorrel horse.

  Since she had no idea how to saddle the horse, she untied the mule’s reins and led it a short distance away. But how to get on board? Its back looked so very high, and before when she had ridden, there had always been a coachman — or sweetly leering David — to assist her getting up. Her petticoats, too, would be a hindrance, much more difficult than her stylish equestrian attire at home. In the end, the mule laid back its ears and shuffled backwards in tight circles while she clambered aboard it as if she were a small boy attacking a large tree. But somehow, she ended up facing the correct direction.

  Emboldened by her success and eager to get away, she dug in her heels the way she’d seen a cowboy do during the trip west. The mule brayed loudly and shot off like a bullet — away from Copper Ridge — and help.

  * * *

  The more Ned thought about it, the surer that he felt. Black Eagle must have caught the blond woman and spirited her back to Copper Ridge. Judge Cameron wouldn’t give a good goddamn who brought her. He’d pay — and the conniving half-breed would pocket the whole bounty.

  Ned slammed his fist into the cabin door in frustration. Hop, lounging beside the fire, looked up at him and grinned.

  “What the hell do you think is so funny? It’s your share that half-breed made off with, too, not to mention your horse.” And probably his Ginger, too, which Black Eagle would take from the woman.

  Hop brushed his hair out of his eyes, and Ned watched the younger man’s resentment flicker into life. “Just thinking how you was gonna pop your stitches whacking at that door. But don’t you fret. I aim to settle up accounts with our old partner, too.”

  Ned glanced down toward the uneven row of stitches Hop had sewn into his forearm. Fortunately, the dark thread had held. Luckier still, his wounds looked to be healing. He’d half-expected hydrophobia, the way that dog tore into him. He was stitched in half a dozen places, from jaw to wrist to lower leg.

  Despite his injuries, however, Black Eagle’s treachery rankled him more. If he ever caught up with the half-breed, he’d tear into the bastard with a viciousness that would put the blond slut’s cur to shame.

  Hop pulled a legged skillet of cornbread off the hearth and used a finger to test its doneness. Yanking back his hand, he stuck one finger in his mouth, then blew on it to cool it. Steam rose enticingly from the skillet to mingle with the scent of the young goat they’d roasted.

  “We’ve been in worse fixes. Leastways, we got better food here and a cleaner cabin,” Hop said. “Thought we’d lay up here until you’re feelin’ better.”

  Ned knew Hop was right, knew they’d never catch Black Eagle on foot. He’d even admit that he could use a little healing time. But something about this canyon, in particular this place in the canyon, gave him a premonition of disaster. He wanted badly to be gone.

  He swore under his breath. He’d been so close to leaving this godforsaken territory, he could taste it. So close to collecting Cameron’s money and returning to Texas a success.

  Once again, queasiness rippled in his stomach. Something felt so wrong. Though nothing of the sort had ever troubled him before, he saw a fleeting vision of his mama, slowly dying. Dying without ever seeing him again.

  Christ! He’d waited long enough. With or without Cameron’s money, he’d get to see Mama, one way or another. Even if he had to kill his way back home.

  * * *

  Horace rode a half-mile back from the trio he followed. He’d watched Max Wilson leave town with Quinn Ryan and an attractive blonde wearing dark blue trousers. At the sight of the woman, Horace wondered wh
at had gone wrong with Max’s plan. Surely, this was the same woman he was meant to turn back toward town to kill. Just as surely, she would not be safe here, either, with the ambitious deputy so close at hand.

  He decided just to follow for a time. He wished he could trail the group more closely without being detected. But as they rode out of town, the vegetation thinned in some areas, making it impossible to observe unseen from a lesser distance. Maybe during a meal break or after the group made camp tonight, Max would step away from camp to take care of privy needs. Then Horace could ride in and have a talk with Ryan and the woman.

  Behind him, a scream distracted his attention. Horace turned to see a dark gray blur approaching. The mule bucked and plunged in an obvious attempt to rid itself of the petite woman astride it. Her petticoats flashed white with each kick, but somehow she managed to cling to the beast’s back.

  Before he stopped to consider consequences, Horace urged his mare toward the animal. As soon as he was close enough, he leaned forward to grasp the mule’s headstall and then catch up the dangling reins. Though the leather strained against his bandaged fingers, he held tight.

  Once the beast had settled, he stared in surprise at its rider. Though her long, dark brown tresses had unwound into a disheveled mass and the shoulder of her bodice drooped beneath a split seam, he recognized her immediately. Lucy — Cameron’s wife, and she was clearly in a state, her face unnaturally pallid, her deep brown eyes wide and full of tears.

  Had the judge somehow harmed her? Did this mule, which surely was not one of Cameron’s fine beasts, mean she had tried to run away? Remembering her kindness, he almost hoped so, God forgive him. Such a woman was far too fine to be bound to any man as cruel as Cameron.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked quickly.

  “I — I — no.” She was shaking hard. Even her words trembled. “But — but she tried to kill me. She killed Miss Rathbone — murdered her, I’m sure.”

  “She? Who, Lucy? What are you talking about?”

  Haltingly, with many tears, she recounted what had happened: her suspicions regarding the judge’s beautiful, young housekeeper, the animosity that grew between them, Elena’s new recipes, and the events surrounding the death of Agnes Rathbone, the woman who’d accompanied her from Connecticut.

  Horace believed every word. Rumors of the judge’s improper relationship with the beautiful Mexican woman had long been fodder for town gossip. And clearly, Lucy was far too distraught to be lying.

  He glanced back up the trail, mindful that ahead of him, Max Wilson plotted to kill another woman. But he could not leave Lucy here in such need, either. Then take her, something whispered. Take the judge’s bride.

  Why not? Hadn’t Cameron taken Papa — and so much more as well.

  He looked at Lucy, who was nervously trying to re-pin her fallen hair, and once more he felt the attraction he’d experienced when he’d first met her, almost painful in its intensity. But wanting her did not make stealing her all right.

  He cleared his throat and forced himself to ask the question his conscience demanded. “Do you want me — do you want me to take you to your husband?”

  “No! Mr. Singletary, I hope never to spend another day — or especially a night in the presence of Judge Ward Cameron. Please, can you help me?”

  Relief flooded over him. But he must tell her the truth. “Call me Horace, please. Men came to kill me last night, men I believe were sent by your husband. A woman is a target, too. She’s leaving town right now. I was following her in hopes of warning her when I heard you scream. The sheriff is with her, and I know him to be a good man. You can come with me, or we can try to find someone else to help you.”

  “Someone else might not believe me, or maybe they won’t care what happens to a stranger. Please, just take me far from here. I want to go with you.” Her dark eyes brimmed with more tears. “I need you . . . Horace.”

  * * *

  Fine weather made folks careless, Ned had observed on more than one occasion, and today was the finest he had seen in many months. As the haze of gun smoke lifted, brilliant sunshine warmed an azure sky, and fresh spring leaves nodded in a gentle breeze. From the spreading pool near his feet, the sharp, almost metallic scent of blood burned in his nostrils, making him feel strong and alive.

  Fortunately, the same could not be said of the two men he’d just shot down.

  Judging from their equipment, the pair of them were miners. They’d come knocking at the door, seeking the healing woman who had lived here, probably to tend the balding man’s bandaged knee. Their surprise at finding Ned and Hop instead had been so great that Ned had little trouble plugging both before Hop’s revolver cleared leather.

  He couldn’t help feeling smug that he had been so quick, despite his injuries. He felt even better when he stepped out of the doorway and saw the dead men’s mounts. A pair of tough-looking saddle horses had been turned out in the corral, along with a sway-backed pinto packhorse.

  “That’s what you get for enjoyin’ a fine day too much to be careful,” he told the two dead men.

  “You gonna give these fellas Indian haircuts?” Hop asked.

  Ned considered, and toed the larger corpse. It rolled easily, and the man’s black curls bobbed with the movement. “Maybe just this one. Ain’t got a scalp like this one.”

  “You ain’t got any now,” Hop reminded him. “Not since that woman stole your horse.”

  Ned grimaced at the reminder. His collection had been tucked inside a saddlebag. “I’ll get ‘em back — both my Ginger and my collection, with a couple other scalps besides. I mean to get that blond bitch’s, and Black Eagle’s gonna regret ever teachin’ me his heathen trick. And after we fix them, I’m goin’ home.”

  “You mean to leave today?” Hop asked. “Cause if we’re gonna stay awhile, we’d best drag off these bodies and that old man’s before they get to stinkin’.”

  Ned walked back to near the doorway, where both miners lay, their limbs splayed haphazardly. A string of jet-black beads dropped from the pocket of the man he’d planned to scalp. Stooping carefully on account of his stitches, Ned hooked a finger beneath the beads and pulled them toward him. A rosary carved from onyx felt very warm in his hand, almost too hot to hold. Far too hot to be explained by the dead man’s dissipating heat.

  Ned dropped the rosary and backed up, once more troubled by the sense of wrongness in this place, the feeling that he should leave here right away.

  Hop stepped forward and began searching the bodies for more valuables. When he saw that Ned wasn’t joining in and had not retrieved the beads, he scooped them up and stuffed them into his own trouser pocket. Only the black cross remained visible, jutting upside-down out of the opening.

  “Let’s say we give all these fellas a nice, warm send-off,” Hamby suggested, nodding toward the cabin. “If she had visitors both today and yesterday, there’ll probably be more. We’ve been lucky so far. But it don’t seem likely all of ‘em will be this easy — ‘specially if folks start noticing disappearances.”

  Hop, grinned, glancing at the little cabin. “Always liked a bonfire. We used to have ‘em back home to celebrate. Let’s clean out what we want and drag in these fellas. Then I’ll light her up.”

  “You do that, Hop,” Ned told him. Truth was, the sooner they were shed of this place, the better he would like it.

  * * *

  They might not be really married, but they sure as hell behaved like sweethearts, Max Wilson observed. He watched Quinn trot his mare closer to the bay that Annie Faith rode, watched him lean closer so the two could speak in quiet voices. At the sight, Max’s stomach churned with jealousy.

  She called herself Miranda, called herself a widow. Both claims might be possible. Perhaps she’d shucked the saloon life to marry some rancher with good prospects. Single white women being in such short supply, some men in the territory even married whores.

  Not that this woman was much better. Any female who sang in such places was hardly
virtuous, and this one had proven it with the crimes of robbery and escape. The robbery of Quinn Ryan. Max shook his head, wondering how the man could be fool enough to fall under her spell twice.

  Annie Faith leaned closer to Quinn and laughed, a musical sound that reminded Max once more of her glorious voice. He found himself remembering how beautiful she had looked singing in her brilliant, silk attire, and he grew hard with resurrected want.

  Maybe it wasn’t so surprising that Quinn had succumbed once more to her charms. Even knowing all he did, Max wouldn’t hesitate a moment if fate awarded him a chance to enjoy her.

  He thought once more of the judge’s words. Who knows? She may even offer you her favors in order to secure your silence.

  The thought made him groan with desire. All he had to do was figure a way to lose Quinn for a while. Then he’d treat this Annie Faith to one fine honeymoon before she met her Maker.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ward Cameron’s first reaction to seeing Manuel galloping the sorrel toward him was to swear at the condition of the horse. The gelding’s sides heaved heavily, and foamy sweat lathered its flank.

  “Christ Almighty, you’re ruining an eight hundred-dollar carriage horse!” But even as Cameron shouted, he noticed the horror in the young man’s black eyes, along with the fact that he hadn’t taken time to put a saddle on his mount’s back.

  Roy Hadley, the big, raw-boned rancher who’d been riding with him, held up one hand. “Wait, Ward. Hear him out.”

  Manuel pulled the sorrel to a stop. “You must come back home now, señor! There has been a killing!”

  Max Wilson had acted faster than he’d imagined possible, so Cameron’s expression of surprise was not completely contrived.

  “In Copper Ridge?” he asked, hoping to elicit further details.

  “In your own casa, Señor Cameron.”

  In his own house? That made no sense. Why would Max take Anna to The Pines to kill her? Had the fool no brains at all?

  “Who was murdered?” Hadley asked.