“There. Make a pig of yourself like your master and leave everyone else alone.”
He flicks his ears to her, already chomping away, jerking his muzzle against his rope as he chews, eyes toward Luck.
Ivy turns Chapo in with Elsewhere and the two chestnuts, glad to see the four horses ignore each other. Elsewhere looks at ease in his stance, his leg unbound. Only pink flesh remains to show gashes from flood debris.
Brushing red fuzz from her dress and hair, she starts for the doctor’s toward the south end of town. Men, women, and children, glance her way as she passes. She is not such a sight now, halfway respectable in her horsey teal dress, plus a sunhat from Winter, but still they watch her.
Past El Rio and Harris’s, she reaches the doctor’s, yet hesitates. She should not care. Or she should care, but does not. No ... she does care. But does not want to.
Ivy closes her eyes and knocks.
Mrs. Hintzen answers and, after a moment of explanation, the German lady shows her to a door off the front hall.
She knocks. “Mr. L’Heureux, your cousin to see you.” Then opens the door and leaves them.
Ivy sees Melchior’s small bed in the center of the room, headboard against the house’s front wall, square window beside. Yet bed, sunny room, and Melchior all vanish to her. Sam sits in a chair beside the invalid, his arm, now in a real sling, is bound in gypsum plaster, though Ivy is startled Dr. Hintzen is so well stocked.
Her back feels like an oak as Sam leaps to his feet at sight of her. He offers his chair, moving it toward her with his free hand. “Good morning—afternoon, Ivy.”
She does not look at him. Melchior’s face and hair are clean, gauze wrapped about his head. Remaining in the doorway, she says to him, “I only wanted to check that Dr. Hintzen put you up. You appear to be improving.”
“Dandy,” Melchior mutters. “Just hankering to get back up to be shot.”
“I’m sure Grip can deal with the ABC gang,” Ivy says cooly. “I can speak to them myself if I see them. Rosalía says they—”
“Aiming to fight them then? Fastest draw in the East now?”
Ivy narrows her eyes, muscles stiffer than ever. “That is not what I said. None of us will fight them. I only meant I could tell them neither of you were fit to—”
“Kill us once we’re fit then? Won’t pass the buck ’cause we’re laid up.”
“You boast of your martial skills every other minute. Surely you can best them.”
“Feel different once you’ve seen them.”
“Excuse me?”
Melchior gives a half shrug against the pillow propping him up. “Wouldn’t want any of us shooting them if you’d met.”
“What does that mean? This whole matter is asinine—it won’t bring back their brother. Knowing the men hardly makes a difference as to rights or wrongs of murdering them. And I’m already clear on them being notorious outlaws.”
“Not what I’m speaking on. Only meet them and say it don’t make no difference to you.”
“I had to move your horse. Íñigo scarcely found them space with Mr. Quiles. They are overflowing; Chucklehead penned with two others he terrorized, so I tied him in.”
“Quiles can manage them—”
“He was not doing a good job of it. I just thought you should know where they are. Not that you are going anywhere.”
“Should tie mares in, not him. That chestnut was coming onto season and he ought to have them separated.”
So that is why Chucklehead was even more obnoxious than usual. Nice of Melchior to feel the mares were the ones who should be punished for this transgression.
By the time Ivy departs, Sam has not said a word besides his greeting and Melchior is looking almost as surly and frustrated as Ivy feels.
She marches out, breath rapid. About to turn onto Bridge Street, she pauses. Being rude. She cannot take advantage of Winter for everything. And she does have a few coins. Better get lunch or dinner on her own, then visit the boarding house about a room. If she returns to Winter’s today it will be to help Winter with work, not receive more aid herself.
The streets have quieted with afternoon siesta approaching. Three horses doze on their feet at the hitching post before El Rio. A rooster struts across the street. Little boys trade penny candy on the step in front of Harris’s. Two old Mexican men play a silent game of checkers on the next porch down.
Ivy shuts her eyes as she climbs the two steps to saloon doors. By the time she has blindly pushed the doors inward to enter, she can see in the dim interior. As quickly as Sam drew her attention in the sick room, she spots Grip sitting at a table not far from the door, with two gentleman in frock coats and black Homburgs.
Eyes shift in her direction from all over the saloon and, feeling a shiver at the workings of fate, Ivy acknowledges Grip’s jerk of the head as invitation.
When she steps toward their table, the two young men stand, removing their hats. “Miss.” Gazes flick to Grip and he elaborates.
“Miss Jerinson: one of our riders that day. Miss Jerinson, may I introduce Adair and Boyd Gordon, brothers to the late Clay Gordon.” He does not stand or remove his hat, but throws back the shot in front of himself as he finishes introductions.
Adair, the older, though still a young man in his twenties, takes her fingers lightly in a long, clean hand. “A pleasure, Miss Jerinson.” He kisses her knuckles as Ivy stares, wishing she was not dusted all over in horsehair.
“How do you do,” she says as Boyd gives her a bow.
The brothers are tall without being imposing, slender without being painfully thin as are many cowpunchers. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, bizarrely clean in their neat dress and immaculate fingernails, not even sunburnt. Their garments glitter with makers’ trinkets, both with sungoggles on their hats. A golden spyglass with a rotating lever, golden watch chain, and gold-plated revolver of no make Ivy has seen gleam from Adair’s waistcoat and belt. Silver chains, silver handguns and knife, and a silver hourglass amulet shine off Boyd. Necklace chains are also just visible below their collars.
Yet it is not the dashing attire which so completely catches her eye. Rather the faces. With their high cheekbones, arching brows, straight noses, Adair with a neat mustache and Boyd clean-shaven, the two men appear elfin in features and manners.
“We beg your company, miss,” Adair says, pulling out a chair for her. “If not too great an imposition of your time. Your whim is our pleasure. Will you take a drink? Lunch? The moon? The stars?”
Ivy glances to Grip, opposite her, before sitting. He gives no sign. She feels certain he would look irritated at the very least if he did not wish her butting in. She takes the seat with thanks and tells Adair a meal would be welcome.
Boyd departs, returning in seconds with Marian as Adair sits to Ivy’s left. After Marian rattles off the day’s menu, distracted by many glances between the brothers, Ivy places her order, they ask for more drinks, and Boyd, prior to sitting, produces a napkin from nowhere that he shakes out and hands her.
“For you, miss.”
Ivy has not seen a quality linen napkin in over a year.
“This is ... a luxury, gentlemen.” She strokes the fabric across her lap, staring for a moment at the monogramed ABC in white silk.
“A gift,” Boyd says. “It is not every day we have the privilege of a lady’s company at table.”
“Please think of yourself as our guest,” Adair says.
“Of course....” Slow, uneasy, though the brothers do not stare or lean in close to her. They sit up, smiling politely, not even returning their hats to their heads, as if seated at any society table and only waiting for the butler to serve.
Grip turns his glass, looks out the window, leaned back in his chair as if unaware anyone occupies the same table.
“Thank you.” She smiles at Adair, returned in earnest—perfect teeth.
How are they possible? She has never seen two such stunning human beings in close proximity in her life.
&
nbsp; “Miss Jerinson, Grip was telling us about the unfortunate difficulties encountered by your party this past week,” Adair says, his expression growing grave. Boyd nods as he speaks, a sympathetic crease at his brows. “Our condolences for your troubles. Please know we wish you all speedy recoveries.”
“Why?”
“Pardon me?”
“Why, Mr. Gordon, would you wish us well?”
“How can any man gaze upon a beautiful lady and not wish her, her kin, her comrades, her distant associates all the best? Please do not suppose we put on airs, miss. When my brother and I say it is a pleasure to meet you, we mean just that. Any life in the saddle is a lonely one, while cowtown company runs so vulgar one soon wishes oneself returned to solitude.” Easy smile, looking into her eyes.
Ivy opens her mouth, closes it, glances again to Grip, who turns from window-gazing as the saloon girl returns with a dusty bottle of wine and equally dusty glasses.
Ivy tries to catch Grip’s eye as Adair thanks Marian and Boyd takes the corkscrew and bottle from her.
Marian returns with fried tortillas, pickles, and salsa.
Adair stops her in his gentle way before she leaves them. “May we please have plates and cutlery, miss?”
“Certainly, Mr. Gordon.” Flushed, she vanishes behind the bar.
Many darting glances seek them as Boyd opens the bottle and Adair pours, though the saloon is not even a quarter full and strangely quiet.
Adair offers Ivy the first glass of red after polishing out the glass on what looks for all the world like a clean, white handkerchief.
“Miss?” A raised eyebrow, an inclination of the head.
Bemused, Ivy swirls the glass and inhales. “Thank you.”
Both smile as if receiving high praise.
Grip has gone back to watching out the window, chair turned sideways to the table, seeming ready to rise when someone he expects comes through the door.
Adair half fills their glasses, lifts the bottle toward Grip, who twitches his head in a hardly recognizable denying gesture, then turns back to Ivy. “To good company.”
Ivy nods uneasily, but drinks. The wine is bitter and sweet at the same time, acidic on her tongue, smooth and fruity at the back of her throat. Only a small label in Spanish on the bottle.
“Mr. Gordon, if you enjoy polite company and decent manners, why did you try to shoot a lady in the back on a lonely trail?”
Adair’s face takes on a look of sorrow as he shakes his head. “We must beg your pardon a thousand times for that misunderstanding. Our brother was responsible for the outburst. We pray you forgive the matter without further explanation, though you have a right to demand it. You see, Mr. Gordon and I follow the practice of never speaking ill of the deceased. If a man performs a vacuous deed, yet perishes in the doing, it is not for the living to criticize. Can you excuse us?”
Ivy blinks, trying not to look at Grip again. What is going on here? Why will he not give her a clue? Or ... is he?
She smiles, relaxing her shoulders as she looks at Adair. “It is I who should beg your pardon, Mr. Gordon. May I also express my condolences? I am terribly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, miss.” He bows his head. “It means a deal to us.”
They talk of the city—inflow of people following the outflow a couple months back, new constructions—while they eat and wait for the main course of beef tips in a mild chile sauce, served over sweet corn with onions and thick sour cream. Ivy has never seen a luxury like sour cream in El Rio before.
Grip does not eat with them. He rolls a cigarette, lifts a spider off the edge of the table in thumb and forefinger to toss aside, squints out the window, watches Marian and various patrons as they move about, or studies the rough wood boards of the ceiling.
Before Marian returns to clear their empty plates and inquire about more drinks, siesta is over and men are drifting into the saloon—all skirting their table at great distance, some turning back at the door when they catch sight of the Gordons.
At last, Adair sits back and sighs. “Well, Boyd, what do you reckon?”
Boyd purses his lips, glancing out the window as Grip has done so often. “Tell us, miss, do you know the condition of your friends from the freighter party?”
“Their ... condition?”
For the first time since she entered the saloon, Grip’s gaze darts to her, the tiniest shift of his head, again, as if a shake. As if a no.
“Grip tells us he hasn’t seen them since you returned to town from your troubles of the past weeks,” Adair says. “But they were in regrettable shape when he did.”
“Oh.” Ivy still feels dazed. Should she have skipped the wine? It should not have much effect, yet she normally consumes no alcohol and her tolerance.... “Indeed, he’s quite right. One has a broken arm and the other cannot stand nor see straight after injury to the head.”
“Shooting arm?”
“It ... makes little difference. He could scarcely shoot to begin with.”
Adair glances to Boyd, back to Ivy. “Miss, are you saying you rode with men who could not protect themselves? I understand your part was information. What did they contribute if not firepower? Someone shot at us that day.”
“Of course, Mr. Gordon, and we beg your pardon, but the man in question was not along for mercenary prowess. The other is my cousin and a fair marksman, yet he lost his revolver in the flood which detained us and is himself now in bed and near to a coma.”
Grip lowers his chin, then looks toward the ceiling. Did he nod at her?
“I ... see,” Adair says slowly, sounding as if he does not. “In that case ... we can return later. Grip, may we buy you another drink?”
“The bar grows cramped, gentlemen. Shall we step out?”
The brothers incline their heads, then stand, lifting hats to clean hair. Adair pulls Ivy’s chair out and offers his arm. No one here has ever done that besides Sam.
“Where do you come from originally, Mr. Gordon?” Ivy asks, taking his elbow. She could have sworn the saloon floor was level when she entered. Now a gradient almost throws her off balance. What were they thinking to build a floor so uneven? This one of wood, not the dirt and stone handiwork in Silver City.
“New York City, miss. Like your friend here.” He nods to Grip as he leads her not to the front saloon doors, but to a back door, past the busy faro table.
Ivy smiles. Grip from New York? She knows his original family were Irish. Now from New York as well?
“However,” Adair goes on as they step into late afternoon sunlight, “our family came West a good many years ago. Like others from the States, this is our home now. Boyd was not ten years of age when we left the city.”
Boyd removes his hat and bows to Ivy. “A great pleasure, miss. Hoping we shall meet again.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Ivy swallows, her mouth feeling ... thick. Like she tried to chew cold molasses.
Adair steps to her front, her fingers in his as if by magic. Sweeping away his hat with a flourish, he bows to kiss her hand. “Thank you, Miss Jerinson. For the most lovely afternoon we have spent in some time. You cannot know how it does the souls of lonely men good to keep such delightful company—even for an hour or two.”
Ivy opens her mouth to tell him she will be glad to see him again, arrange a time, but she grows distracted by his face—that ridiculous face which Michelangelo could not have sculpted—and her own unsteadiness. Without his arm, she feels as if her center of gravity has shifted to the right, leaving her needing to lean away, yet forcing herself to remain upright and proper.
She closes her mouth. Boyd also bids her goodbye and Ivy steps back carefully, as if on ice. She nods. “Thank you for lunch, gentleman.”
Their smiles are so ... beautiful.
Then there’s Grip, standing to the side and a bit behind them. Watching her. Why watching her? Not like Meriwether Kiedrid, with his predatory stare on the trail, like a wolf to a deer. But as if he cannot fathom her behavior, or wants to
see what might happen next: a man watching an exotic creature in a cage.
They told her goodbye so ... she must be expected to go ... where? She cannot recall. Perhaps getting back to the Plaza would help. The back street is quiet and very, very bright. Then ... Winter? The boarding house. She must check for a room.
Taking great care, she walks away. Winter. No, boarding house first. She just thought that.
“Do you object to my brother officiating?” Adair’s voice behind her.
Speaking to her? To Grip.
“Not at all, Mr. Gordon,” Grip answers. “North to south so the sun is to neither’s advantage?”
“Certainly. Good luck to you.”
“And you.”
Ivy looks uneasily around. She has reached the corner she should turn down, but leans against the edge of the building instead. Everything is so hot and bright and tippy.
Back down the dusty road, Adair Gordon and Grip are shaking hands as if parting. Yet ... something ... odd.
She closes her eyes. Why does she feel strange? Not the wine. One glass of wine could not make her feel like this. She must—ah, she remembers: boarding house.
“Ready?” Boyd’s voice, steely. “Twenty paces.”
Ivy peeks again around the corner of the saloon. The few people about hurry away, some dragging children.
Adair and Grip stand with their backs together. Close, shoulder to shoulder. Then, with Boyd counting, the two men walk apart with measured strides.
Forty-Third
Aftereffect
A thrill of horror races through Ivy. She opens her mouth to shout, clutching the wood side of the building. Numbers, Boyd counting, Ivy’s breath caught in her throat, sunlight crushing her.
“¡Dispara!” A ringing shout from the younger Gordon.
Crackcrackcrack! Blasts so rapid, they merge in a single, ear-shattering explosion of gunpowder.
Lightfall Three: Luck, Lost, Lady (Lightfall, Book 3) Page 8
