by Jo Goodman
“No, I don’t think we are likely to meet the Barbers. Not now, not so long after the incident.”
“Well, then?”
“All right. I intended we should go up there when we started out, but when you didn’t recall anything here, it didn’t seem as important.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. “It is important, though, isn’t it? Not about going up there. About me remembering.”
She exhaled quietly. “I think so, yes. Don’t you?”
He nodded. “What you said today in the barn, about me wanting to be beholden because it makes it easy to stay, well, I figure not remembering is about the same.”
“And what you said about being an indentured servant,” she said. “Maybe there’s a bit of truth in it. You should have choices, and at the moment you don’t. Not really. You’re safe here, but you were on your way to somewhere, and maybe it’s better if you know where you were going than if you don’t.”
Israel did not correct her impression that he did not know his destination. He had always known that. What he did not know was how he got off course, and he had to acknowledge, at least to himself, that his failure to remember might very well be intentional. How could he be sure unless he tried?
He wondered if the stirring in his gut was fear.
They rode in tandem, Willa and Felicity leading the way, the mare picking her way daintily among the rocks. Galahad was as surefooted, though not as particular about the route. Israel felt the strain in his thighs as he tried to keep his seat.
Willa took them past an outcropping of rock and stopped when they reached a clearing. “This is where Cutter found the first evidence that you had come through here. The grass was trampled flat. He could tell there was a lot of movement. I saw the same the following morning.”
Israel was quiet, trying to imagine it. He swung down from the saddle and handed Gal’s reins to Willa. “I just want to walk around. Do you mind?”
“No. Do whatever you like. We’ll wait over there.” She used her chin to direct him to a copse of scrub and stunted pines.
Israel made a slow spiral, not so much examining the ground as examining his mind. He had never been one for introspection. That was his brother. Quill was the thoughtful one, the one who had changed paths over the years but never his purpose. Israel supposed it could be said of himself that he had kept to a single path, although no one, least of all he, would have described it as a straight and narrow one. The less he reflected on what had been his life’s purpose, the better off he and everyone around him would be.
He stopped walking and stood very still. He closed his eyes and listened. He heard water trickling over stones and the snuffling of the horses. A breeze soughed through the pines. The branches stirred; needles fell. It astonished him that he could actually hear the needles as they brushed the ground. The peace of this place was overwhelming; everything about it at odds with what he knew had happened here.
A shadow of what might have been a memory flitted through his mind. Two men, not three, on horseback closing ranks, blocking him on either side, and his horse stamping the ground, rising up. A third man arriving, shouting, and then nothing . . .
He tried to fix the image in his mind’s eye, but it had already disappeared and he could not call it back. It might not have been a true memory anyway, only one born of suggestion. There had been considerable speculation about what had taken place, and he had visualized it all as the others spoke. It was possible that was what he was recalling, nothing else.
Israel opened his eyes. He lifted his hat, raked fingers through his thick hair, and set the hat back in place. Shaking his head, he started walking toward Willa.
“I’m sorry,” she said when he was back in the saddle. “You stood there for so long, I thought that perhaps something was coming to you.”
“Something did.” He told her what happened.
“Let’s go on,” she said. “Not far. I don’t want to get too close to the fence line. I’m not concerned about Mal and Eli, but we could see one of their hands. There is no point taking a chance that you might be known to one of them.”
Israel agreed.
They rode for another half hour before Willa announced they should probably head back. Israel could not think of a reason to argue except that he wanted to stay out longer. The wild beauty of the land was a draw, but then so was Willa.
There had been no woman for him in a long time. But even for a man of his dubious character, it was not a good enough reason to seduce Willa, and that was supposing she could be seduced. He had his doubts.
“Happy wants to see you married,” Israel said. “Did you know that?”
Willa blinked. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I wondered.”
“What do you do to inspire people to give you their confidences?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, it hasn’t worked on you.”
She pointed to herself. “Suspicious, remember?”
“I do.” He was aware that she’d done something to increase Felicity’s pace, although whether it was deliberate or unconscious, he didn’t know. He urged Galahad to match it. “Happy told me that you’ve had proposals.”
“Yes. More than I care to remember.”
“And that you turned them all down.”
“That’s right.”
Israel darted a sideways look at her. She was still staring straight ahead, stoic as a Spartan warrior, her profile as cleanly defined as if it had been cut in marble. It was only the pink flush under her skin that gave her warmth, and he doubted she was happy about that. Still, she hadn’t shied away from anything he had said.
“Any particular reason?”
“For what?”
“For turning them down.”
“Besides not wanting to get married?”
“Besides that.”
“I didn’t love any of them. A few of them I didn’t even like.”
“You figure liking a man is a criterion for marriage?”
“It’s a good starting place.” She put up a hand. “I want to hear what prompted this conversation with my father.”
“I have no idea. Happy started it. I just followed along.”
“I’m not sure you ‘just’ do anything.” Her nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. “Tell me what he said.”
“I’ve already given you the gist of it.”
“All right. When did this conversation take place?”
“The day after Annalea found me. It was in the afternoon. You came in just as Happy was getting ready to leave. Do you remember that he said we were talking about you?”
“That’s the conversation you were having?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but Happy was doing all the talking. I was listening.”
“I’ll just bet you were. What else did he say?”
“I recall the words ‘old maid’ were used at least once.” He thought she might take offense to that, but what she did was laugh. “You are a hard woman to figure out.”
“I am a hard woman,” she said. “End the sentence there. There’s no satisfaction for you in trying to figure me out.”
“There might be.”
She grunted softly. “Anything else?”
“Was one of the proposals you turned down really Eli Barber?”
Willa’s head snapped around. “Goddamn it. Was he drinking when he told you that?”
“No. He might have been hung over from the day before, but he was sober when he visited. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
Israel realized he would have to find a way to make up for his lie to Happy. He had played a hunch, something he was good at, and he had surprised the truth out of her. She would probably have it out with her father, and Happy would deny saying it, and eventually it all woul
d come back on him. This was likely his only opportunity to learn more.
“Was Eli one of the men you didn’t like?”
“What do you think?”
“I imagine so. Did he know?”
“I thought he did. I gave him enough clues.”
“Why do you suppose he proposed?”
“There’s no supposing about it. Not now. He wants the land, same as all the others.”
“All of them?”
“Danny McKenney, that’s Old Man McKenney’s son, might have only wanted to bed me, but that just proves he’s got rocks for brains. It’s the land that’s the prize . . .”
Israel waited, expecting to hear more. When she added nothing, he merely said, “Huh.”
“Does my plain speaking offend you?”
He supposed she was referring to Danny McKenney wanting to bed her. In Israel’s lexicon that hardly amounted to plain speaking. “No, I was thinking about the last thing you said. It sounded to me as if you meant to say more.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He repeated her words. “‘It’s the land that’s the prize.’ Seemed as if you might be implying that you’re not.”
“Well, I’m not, but I don’t know that I needed to hear it out loud.”
“That’s the thing,” he said. “From where I’m sitting, not saying the words was the same as shouting them.”
“You have an interesting way of looking at things. Hearing them, too.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“I didn’t mean it to be.”
That made him grin.
She caught his quicksilver smile and flattened her own lips as she shook her head. “And a ridiculous sense of humor.”
His smile deepened, carving a crescent dimple at the corner of his lips. He knew it was there because she was staring at his mouth. It was something she did from time to time, and he finally decided it was the dimple that drew her attention. Other women had commented on it. Willa didn’t. She simply stared.
“So why do you think you’re not a prize?” he asked, sobering.
“That’s what you want to talk about?”
“Unless you’d rather not.”
She shrugged. “I’m set in my ways, stubborn to a fault, and suspicious. You know I am. You’ve said as much.”
“I wasn’t arguing.” That made her slant him a droll smile, and he asked, “Is there more?”
“I tend to have a serious nature, some might say humorless.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Hmm.”
He chuckled. “Anything else?”
“You tell me.”
He thought about it for a while. “You work hard, harder sometimes than any two men, and I suppose there’d be those who would find it intimidating.”
“But not you.”
“Lord, no. Shiftless suits me just fine.” He went on, enjoying himself. “You’re fair, but that could be a fault if you’re always sitting in judgment.”
“I see,” she said.
“Then there’s that responsible aspect of your character. You take on everything. That’s practically selfish, is what that is.” He added quickly, innocently, “Not that I mind.”
“No,” she said under her breath. “Not that you’d mind.”
Israel pretended he didn’t hear. “You’re whip smart. So smart, in fact, that a reasonably intelligent man can feel downright stupid around you.”
Willa blinked.
“Finally, you’re easy to look at. Real easy, I’d guess you’d say.”
“I wouldn’t say it.”
“That’s all right. I’m saying it. Even when your eyes go narrow and cool the way they’re doing now, it’s not in me to look away. Not anymore. My mother called what you do staring daggers. I guess she knew what she was talking about.”
Willa slowed Felicity to a walk. She said nothing for a time, then, “Let me see if I have this right: I’m intimidating, judgmental, selfish, and I make people feel stupid.”
“Is that what you heard?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Then I guess that’s what it is, although you left out the part about being easy to look at.”
“That does not deserve comment, except I appreciate your mother’s observation about staring daggers.”
“You wouldn’t if you’d been standing where I was when she said it. She tried to slap that look right off my face.”
“Oh, I thought . . .”
“I know. You thought she was staring daggers at me.”
“Then I don’t imagine slapping you effected any change.”
“No. More or less fixed that look permanently.”
“Not permanently,” said Willa. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Unless my mother shows up, you probably won’t.”
“Ah. Is that why you’ve never asked any of us to send word to your family? You don’t favor them?”
“I don’t favor communicating with them. You haven’t, have you?”
She shook her head. “You gave me your parents’ address in the event you did not survive your injuries. Do you remember that?”
“I remember you badgering me for it.”
“Well, you survived so I figured what you wanted to tell them was up to you.”
“Good. They’re used to not hearing from me.” But he had promised he would write to them when he reached Temptation. They probably knew by now that he had never arrived. They would be disappointed, resigned, but not surprised.
“But you lived right there in Chicago,” she said. “You said Herring wasn’t far.”
“It’s been a lot of years since I lived in their pockets. I was eighteen when I left. That was fifteen years ago, and I don’t make a habit of looking back. I will say, though, as rebellious as I got, I never once thought of calling my mother ‘Pearl’ or my father ‘James.’ Happy is considerably more tolerant than the good Reverend McKenna could ever be.”
Whatever Willa might have said to that, Israel did not know. They had finally reached the ranch. She dismounted first and gave him Felicity’s reins when he swung down. Without a word or a backward glance, she walked off to the house, leaving him to care for the horses.
Chapter Seven
Eli Barber eased back in his chair and unfolded his legs under the table. His arms were extended in front of him, and he hugged a heavy mug of beer in his palms. It was the fifth time he had been served a beer in just under two hours. The boneless slouch he affected was as much a necessity as a preference, and his heavy-lidded green eyes were vaguely unfocused.
He did not count himself as drunk past repair. If his father walked in, he could still snap to attention.
He regarded his companions and judged it was the same for them. Buster Rawlins sat on his right, thick and compact, tightly wound for all that he was matching Eli drink for drink. On Eli’s left was Jesse Snow, considerably taller than Buster and loose-limbed with a wiry, flexible frame.
The three of them sat in one corner of the Liberty Saloon in the shadow of the staircase. Buster had already been upstairs, and Jesse swore he was contemplating the same, although he continued to stare at his beer with more interest than he showed for either of the girls flitting between the tables. For Eli’s part, he did not want anything to do with them that did not involve getting a beer. His father told him a long time ago that a man didn’t drink where he pissed. Or something like that. When Eli wanted a poke, he went upstream, or in this case, to Denver.
“I think you should ask her,” Buster said suddenly, picking up the thread of a conversation that had died several beers earlier. His rheumy gaze slid sideways to settle on Eli. “That’s what I think.”
Eli screwed his mouth to one side. “Hmm.”
“It’s been, what? Seven, eight months since the last time?
”
“About that.” Eli knew the answer to the exact date, the precise hour, but he did not offer that information. “Maybe you should ask her.”
Buster gave a shout of laughter. His hand jerked and a wave of beer slipped over the lip of his mug and dribbled onto his fingers. He licked them clean before he drank. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he asked. “What the hell would I do if she said yes?”
Jesse continued to study his beer. His normally fair complexion was ruddy with the effect of drink, and his heavy eyelids sheltered unfocused brown eyes. With considerable effort, he managed to raise an eyebrow. “Fuck her,” he said. “Then fuck her over.”
Eli stopped hugging his beer and reached for Jesse’s. He calmly poured it in the ranch hand’s lap. “You’re done.”
Jesse did a fair imitation of a jack-in-the-box as he jumped up from his chair. Stupid from drink and with no coordination to speak of, Jesse’s arms flung sideways and his knees buckled as soon as he got his legs under him. He stumbled backward, collapsed again, and worked his hands like windmills over the blossoming wet spot on his trousers.
“What the hell, Eli?” he said, still fanning the wet. “It looks like I pissed myself, and I’ll have to ride back to Big Bar like this. It’ll shrink my balls.”
Eli was unmoved by Jesse’s argument, but Buster said, “How will you know?”
Jesse ignored Buster and looked up from his lap to face Eli. “What? What did I say?”
Buster swiveled his gaze to Eli. “He really might not know.” He grabbed his beer to keep it safe and said, “And I’m not repeating it.”
“Leave it,” said Eli. “We have time. You can still go upstairs and dry your pants while you take stock of the state of your balls. And they would probably thank you if you took Louisa or Mary Edith with you.” Without giving Jesse an opportunity to argue, Eli raised one arm and waved Mary Edith over to the table. “Can you take this boy upstairs and dry him out? See to his trousers, too.” He reached in his pocket, produced a handful of coins, and carelessly dropped them in her open palm without counting. “My treat.”
