“That so?” the younger man allowed. “Truth is, I just took on the name because I didn’t care for the one I was born with.” He turned his attention to Rafe. “We found some dead steers up there in the ravine, the one overlooking the springs. Looked like wolves got them.”
Rafe swore.“How many?” he asked.
Angus could barely keep his mind on the conversation. There was an odd thrumming inside him, like a far-off drumbeat rising from an enemy camp. He hoped he wasn’t about to keel over in some kind of codger fit and make a damn fool of himself. “You put me in mind of somebody,” he said, thinking out loud.
“That so?” said Cavanagh, real breezy-like. He didn’t ask whom he reminded Angus of, and that was fine, because Angus couldn’t have answered with any certainty anyhow.
“You planning on staying around awhile, or are you just passing through?”
By then, Rafe was studying Angus as though he feared he’d lost his mind, and little wonder. Any other time, those dead cattle would have been the only subject he cared to talk about. He’d have gone out looking for the thieving scavengers himself, with a loaded rifle and plenty of spare bullets.
Cavanagh looked at Angus for a long moment. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Sometimes I get the yen to put down roots someplace.” He paused and grinned.“Other times, I just want to see what’s on the other side of the next rise.”
Angus nodded. He’d been like that, too, when he was younger. He’d thought he’d be in Texas forever, when he got married the first time. Raise a whole flock of children there, build a ranch. But then his young wife had passed on, trying to give him a son, and he’d been wild with sorrow for a long time after that, unable to light anywhere, always moving. He followed the herds for a long while, before settling in the Arizona Territory, sending a bank draft for the boy’s keep whenever he could scrape the money together.
It saddened him to think of that child, for he’d missed him sorely, more so after the other boys came along, rather than less, like he might have expected. He still did, sometimes.
“What do you want to do about those dead cattle?” Cavanagh asked, turning to Rafe, when the silence lengthened.
“We’d better bury them,” Rafe said, with an exasperated sigh. “Let’s hitch up a wagon and load some picks and shovels. After that, I mean to see if I can track that wolf pack.”
Cavanagh nodded and led his horse to the barn.
Angus watched him, still shaken.
Becky almost collided with Marshal John Lewis on her way out ty ndian Rock’s one and only bank that fine sunny morning. She had already visited the telegraph office and sent the necessary wires to Kansas City, and her mind was busy with staffing decisions. She meant to keep the cook, but that Clive fellow would have to go; he was about as cordial as a rattlesnake sealed up in a lard can, and it took diplomacy to work in a hotel. She had to hire at least one maid and one waiter, as soon as possible, though she could handle the registration desk and the ledger books herself.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” said the marshal, tipping his hat. His hair was thinning, and his face was long, and a little gaunt. For all that, Becky thought, he was an attractive man, if you liked the rough and rugged type.
She smiled winningly. “Why, good mornin’ to you, Marshal,” she said. She wasn’t flirting, she told herself silently. If she was going to conduct business in this town, she had to be on cordial terms with the locals, that was all.
Lewis smiled. “I hear you’ve bought the Territorial Hotel from Angus McKettrick,” he said, falling into step beside her as she proceeded along the uneven wooden sidewalk, a ruffled parasol shading her delicate skin from the sun.
“That’s true,” she said. His eyes were watchful and a little shrewd, even though he kept on smiling, and for one terrible moment, Becky wondered if he knew who she really was, and how she’d earned her living in Kansas City.“I mean to change the name, and spruce the place up a bit.”
The lawman grinned. “Angus never took much of an interest in the hotel business, far as I could tell,” he said. “Picked up the whole shootin’ match for a song when it went for taxes a few years back. I don’t believe that man’s ever passed up a bargain if he could help it.”
Becky decided she was being fanciful, worrying that somebody would recognize her. Kansas City was a long way from Indian Rock, and even if the marshal had been there, it didn’t mean he’d ever frequented the boardinghouse. She brightened her smile and twirled her parasol once, for effect. “He must be an astute businessman,” she allowed. “From what I’ve seen, Mr. McKettrick has done very well for himself.”
“That he has,” Lewis allowed, unruffled. His expression turned serious. “You want to be careful, ma’am. You being a woman alone and all. Indian Rock is a real nice town, and all, but we get our share of drifters and gunslingers.”
“I assure you, Marshal,” Becky said, “I can take care of myself.”
“Be that as it may,” said the lawman, undaunted, his strides lengthening a bit as Becky picked up her pace. “You’ll want to have a care.” She didn’t mind his company, but she had a great deal of work to do if she was going to make a success of the hotel, and she wanted to get started. “You have any trouble, don’t hesitate to send Clive for me. Any hour of the day or night.”
She stopped, there on the sidewalk, and looked up into his craggy face, squinting a little in the band of sunlight that found its way under the fringe of her parasol. “I promise you that I will not hesitate to summon you if the need arises, Marshal,” she said. “I intend to discharge Clive, however. He has a poor disposition for working with the public.”
Lewis grinned. “I wouldn’t be too hasty, ma’am,” he advised, taking her arm. Just like that, they were strolling again.“About showing Clive the road, I mean. He’s a mite ty sometimes, it’s true, but that’s only because nobody’s ever taught him how to deal with folks. He’s a bright kid, real good with numbers, and he and his mama depend on what he earns.”
“I will reconsider, then,” Becky said, after weighing the marshal’s words for a few moments. They had reached the front door of the hotel, and stood there looking at each other.
Lewis tugged at his hat brim again. His gaze was steady, his eyes clear. He needed a shave, but on him, a scruffy countenance was oddly attractive. “I’d like to buy your supper tonight, Mrs. Fairmont,” he said. He grinned a slanted, outlaw’s grin. “Course, your dining room is the only place I could take you.”
She was charmed, and that troubled her not a little. For a long time, she’d seen men as hardly more than varying combinations of suits, cigars, and fancy hats, opponents to be outwitted and, whenever possible, relieved of excess funds. Now, after all this time, here was Marshal John Lewis, wanting to take her out to supper.
He chuckled, evidently amused that she’d been struck speechless. “If you’re inclined to refuse,” he said, “that’s fine. No hard feelings. But you look surprised, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so, and that puzzles me some. A beautiful woman like you must get a lot of social invites.”
Becky opened her mouth, closed it again. Narrowed her eyes.“Have you ever been to Kansas City?” she asked.
He shook his head.“No, ma’am. Got as far as Independence one time, though. Why?”
She took out her fan, popped it open, and waved it under her chin.“No reason,” she said.“I was just wondering.”
He waited, cleared his throat. Smiled.“About supper?”
“What about supper?” Becky snapped, wondering when she’d turned so short-tempered.
He leaned in a little, lowered his voice. “Are we taking supper together tonight, or not?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, knowing all the while that she should have said no. Turning, she marched into the Territorial Hotel. Clive was behind the desk, fussing and fretting.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” Becky asked, her tone admittedly peevish.
“The stage will be in any minute now,” Clive said.
“Sometimes, there are people on it.”
“Yes,” Becky said, with an effort at patience. “That is the point of running a passenger service, I believe.”
“I don’t like talking to people. They give me nerves.”
Becky gazed heavenward for a few moments—as if she could expect any special dispensation from that quarter. “If you are going to work in a hotel, it stands to reason that you must expect to deal with the general public.”
“I get hives,” Clive said, and indeed, he did appear to be breaking out in a rash along the length of his throat. “See?” he cried, tugging at his collar to indicate his infirmity.
A great racket arose on the main road, which was less than a block away. The stage was coming in. “Get a hold of yourself,” Becky ordered, but not unkindly, going over a mental checklist even as she spoke. All the beds were clean, she’d taken care of that task herself, and she’d given her cook a suggested menu and a list of items to buy on account at the mercantile. They were ready for guests. “These are ordinary travelers, not marauding outlaws. Just take their money and give them keys and try not to insult them.”
Clive looked miserable. He brought a dime novel out from under the counter and showed it to Becky, turning to a page showing a rather sensational drawing of a dangerous desperado shooting down a bartender in cold blood.“Just look at what can happen,” he said.
Becky made a clucking sound as she inspected the illustration and the first few lines of the story. Trash, that was all it was, yellow journalism calculated to fill people’s heads with nonsense. “I would imagine,” she mused, at some length, “that the poor man asked for meatloaf, and was told, in rather rude tones, that it wasn’t available.”
Clive’s eyes widened, and he went pale behind his hives. Becky shook her head, swatting at him over the counter with the soft-covered book.
“I will be right here,” she said. “I promise, if anyone tries to shoot you, I’ll stop them immediately.” Unless, of course, she thought wryly, that “anyone” is me. “Do leave off pulling at your collar that way. You’ll only make the eruptions worse.”
Poor Clive looked as though he might break down and weep with agitation, and he stayed close to Becky when the first customers straggled in, dusty and tired from their long trip on the stagecoach. There wouldn’t be a departing coach until the next afternoon.
Two spinster sisters started the rush, bony, angular women with long, thin necks, sparse brown hair, and beaklike noses. They signed in as Hester and Esther Milldown, and said they meant to settle near Crippled Cow Springs, on a ranch that had belonged to their dear, departed brother. Becky welcomed them, trying, as she did so, to demonstrate to Clive how customers should be greeted, and showed them to the most spacious room, apart from number 8, of course, which she’d kept for herself.
She’d just returned from room 5, having helped the Milldown sisters with their bags, when the nun came in. She wore a black habit much the worse for wear, and her face seemed very small inside her wimple. The poor thing must have been sweltering under all that heavy material.
It was her eyes that really caught Becky’s attention, though: they were enormous, the color of aquamarine, and full of fear. She’d seen that look often enough, back in Kansas City. This child, nun or not, was running from something, and she was terrified.
“I don’t have much money,” she said in a very small voice, addressing herself to Becky. “Perhaps I could work for my keep? I wouldn’t need much—just a cot someplace—and I can get by on one meal a day.”
The kid was sincere, at least where wanting work was concerned; Becky would have spotted a con game right off. “You plan on staying around Indian Rock for a while, I presume?” she asked quietly. “I have need of a maid.”
The quick eagerness in that worried little face touched Becky, and that was no mean accomplishment. She’d seen just about everything in her time, and she was not easily swayed by sentiment. The girl nodded.“I can do any work that needs doing,” she said. “You’ll never regret it if you take me on.”
Clive’s skin condition was subsiding, since no gunman had up wanting meatloaf, and now he came up with the courage to speak.“Don’t you have to live in some convent or something?” he asked. It was a reasonable question, Becky thought, if a little roundabout.
The newcomer smiled shyly and ducked her head a little. “I’ll be teaching at a mission school, outside of Tucson,” she said. “But it might be some time before Father Meyers can spare anyone to come for me. I—I had money to travel the rest of the way but we—we were robbed a few days ago by road agents, and I lost all but what I had hidden in my—what I had hidden.”
“Well, you poor thing,” Becky said, rounding the desk and putting her arm around the waif. “You’re among friends now, and you’re welcome here at the hotel for as long as you need to stay. We’ll telegraph Father Meyers, to let him know you’re safe.”
“Oh,” the girl said, just a shade too quickly, “please don’t trouble yourself. I’ll send a letter myself.”
Becky smiled warmly. She knew a secret when she met one; she’d kept a few herself.“I’m Mrs. Fairmont, and this is Clive,” she said.“What shall we call you?”
“Mandy,” said the nun, and flushed a little. “Sister Mandy, I mean.”
“Sister Mandy,”Becky repeated.“Well, well, well. Are you required to wear that habit all the time, Sister? I have a couple of spare dresses we could take in. They’d be more comfortable, I’m sure, when the hot weather comes.”
The longing in that girl’s face was something to see, but in the end, she shook her head.“I’d best wear my nun clothes,” she said.“That’s what they told me to do.”
Becky was fairly certain that the “they” in question wasn’t the Holy Roman Catholic Church; she could tell a nun from a scared kid playing dress-up.“Let’s get you settled in,” she said. “There’s a nice little room just back of the kitchen. All we have to do is move a few boxes and bring in a bed.”
The wolves were elusive. After three days spent hunting them, Rafe called the search to a halt and set his mind on getting the house built. Emmeline was still fractious over the burning of the Pelton place, and they weren’t talking much. He hoped this would appease her a little.
Coming back to the hilltop without her had a lonely feel to it, Rafe thought, even though he’d been there by himself a thousand times before she’d come to the TripleM. He glanced at the circle of stones where their fire had burned, and at the place in the grass where they’d made love, ducking his head a little so that his hat brim hid his face. If he let anything show, he’d be in for another round of joshing from Kade and Jeb, and he just wasn’t up to that.
He swung down from the saddle to stretch his legs, as did his father and the other riders. The supply wagon, necessarily slower than their horses, was still laboring up the track with the crosscut saws, various tools, kegs of nails, and an assortment of other things they’d need to start building. Rafe felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of coming home to this place after a day’s work, or, more specifically, of coming home to Emmeline. Eventually, he hoped, there would be a passel of kids hurrying out to greet him.
Kade elbowed him. “What are you grinning about, Big Brother?” he asked, but it was plain that he’d already guessed. There was a look of friendly ausement in his eyes. “You’re a lucky son of a gun, you know that?” he added.
“Yeah,” Rafe said, a bit hoarsely.“I know.”
There was a pause. Then Kade rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get to work,” he said, for Rafe’s benefit and that of the other men.“You got the rooms marked off?”
The lines of the house weren’t staked, except in Rafe’s head. In his mind, he could have gone through the place blindfolded, pointing out every nook and cranny.
Eager to get started, he paced off the outside walls while they waited for the wagon, and he and Kade set rocks at all the corners. In the meantime, Jeb and Cavanagh and a few of the others set up a camp
, of sorts, building a fire to keep the coffee flowing, while others tended to the horses. The animals were relieved of their saddles and bridles and left to graze in the knee-deep grass.
Angus seemed bent on helping out, though he was obviously a little distracted, as if he were gnawing on something way at the back of his mind. Rafe had seen that look in his pa’s eyes often enough to know that it didn’t necessarily bode well, and he hoped the old man wasn’t fixing to say the house ought to face in the other direction or something. There was likely to be an argument if he did.
The wagon arrived, finally, and the sun was up, making the dew sparkle in the grass and the leaves of the oak trees shimmer. Angus kept glancing at that Cavanagh fellow, like he thought he ought to know him from someplace, but he didn’t commence telling everybody what to do, and for Rafe that was enough.
By midmorning, the first logs were set into the ground and chinked with mortar, top and bottom, and by noon, the structure was waist high, with the openings for the doors and windows cut away. The men drove themselves hard, shirtless and sweating, working the crosscut saw, using the wagon mules and lengths of heavy chain to hoist each log into place.
While they ate the grub Red had packed at the bunkhouse, and drank some of the worst coffee Rafe had ever tasted, Angus stood beside him, admiring the beginnings of the house.
“That’s going to be a fine home,” Angus said. “Makes me feel old, seeing one of my boys take a wife and put up walls and a roof of his own.”
Angus was rarely sentimental, and his present mood worried Rafe a little. He slapped his father on the back. “You’ll be up here visiting all the time, Pa,” he said, “bouncing those grandchildren on your knee.”
A light of anticipation gleamed in the old man’s eyes. “Reckon I will at that,” he said. About that time, there was a shout, followed by a thundering roar, and Angus and Rafe turned to look just as one of the largest piles of logs gave way, shaking the very ground itself as they rolled.
High Country Bride Page 18
