Ivy jumps, gasps. Silence.
Grip stands with his back to her at the south end of the street. Far beyond, up the road and on the north side of the saloon’s back door, Adair Gordon lies in dust, fingers already bloody as he clutches his formerly immaculate trouser leg. As Boyd runs to him, Grip whirls, staring behind, then left and right. His gaze skates over Ivy at the corner. Searching for ... what? Far from looking triumphant, Ivy feels his face has gone pale under the suntan and dust and stubble.
“How—?” Boyd casts glances over his shoulder to Grip as he reaches his brother. “How by God’s bones did he do that? Do you carry a maker’s gun, Grip?” Calling back now.
He holds up his Merwin, Hulbert, & Co. revolver with the carved pearl grip. “You know what I carry, Mr. Gordon.”
Boyd stares at him, Adair also apparently shocked. Another, “How in hell’d he get two shots like that?” which Ivy can hardly hear, then Boyd is fumbling for handkerchiefs to cover the wound. The brothers seem strangely unprepared for injury.
Grip slides his revolver back in its tasseled holster, watching the young men, still not having stepped from his spot in the middle of the road. “May we consider the matter closed, gentlemen?”
“Until your comrades are on their feet,” Boyd snaps, not looking around.
What happened? Ivy, too, feels certain she heard three shots. Not two. Or ... did she? All so fast. So fast.
Grip rapidly approaches her corner. She opens her mouth, shaking violently, rough timber and fine linen napkin from Boyd still in her hands. Grip does not pause or look at her. He sweeps past, eye scanning the neighboring buildings and streets.
Ivy follows, having to heave herself from the stabilizing wall as if pushing off from the ground. Only had one glass. And only wine. Yet....
Grip breaks into a run. She cannot match him, but goes on at a fast walk. One hand lifting her skirt, the other shielding her eyes with the napkin. Past the next corner, between Harris’s general store and the oft-closed newspaper office, Grip catches someone by the arm.
Ivy looks up, squinting, and quickens her stride when she sees Rosalía try to twist away, speaking angrily in Spanish. Grip says not a word, glancing over his shoulder to the now distant spot where he left the ABC brothers as he drags her to an alley of deserted stagecoaches at the side of the journal office. He shoves her against the high wheel of a coach, releasing her, almost throwing her at it. Ivy pauses, clutching a mounting step at the driver’s box, panting in the heat, her knees shaking.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Grip’s voice is a snarl, fist clenched as he towers over Rosalía. “Is this amusing to you? A game?”
“They would have killed you!” She pushes herself off the wheel, a thread of her skirt catching and tearing on a splinter, so she can face him without her back pinned to the coach. “Do you think this is a game?”
“Of course they would! That’s why they—”
“So what? So you let them? You’d rather die in the street like a dog than compromise your principles because those are second only to the word of God—if not superior.” Though she shouts back, Ivy can see her hands tremble, one clutching a battered Winchester revolver.
“And you would rather turn us both into a spectacle? Me a coward, a bootlicker, you a machona—”
“I just saved your life—”
“Which is not your goddamn affair! You do whatever the sard you like while the rest of us can go to blazes. Do you know what they would do if they glimpsed you? If they savvied what happened? That it is not credible to loose two rounds in one revolver at the same time?”
Ivy has seen them yelling at one another several times. It seems a common method of communication between the two. But never like this: rage as palpable in the air as storm clouds. She fears Grip will strike Rosalía, who apparently feels the same because she backs along the side of the coach, still facing her adopted brother.
“How is it better to die for the sake of saving face?” Rosalía demands. “How is a sham honor worth more than a life? It’s ridiculous! You were part of a group in which someone killed their brother after they attacked us. Then they execute you because that’s the law of the land? And you accept, not because it’s right or justified, but because you were called out and you would be cobarde to decline. Tell me that makes sense!”
“It’s the way things are. No man draws faster than Adair Gordon. That doesn’t mean you turn him—”
“Because you’re too proud and sanctimonious to—”
“What are you? You interfere with everything as long as it’s none of your concern. If you’re prepared to contend who is holier-than-thou—”
“You cannot tell me you wanted to die back there. At least admit you’re most disturbed by me helping—not by what happened. Shame comes in being saved by a woman, not being saved.”
“If you disregard the shame of suckering the challenger after agreement—”
“They don’t even know! They never will. If I’d been Mateo, or Íñigo, or Darío—” She stops abruptly as Grip’s stance goes rigid, jaw set. Rosalía leans farther away, for the first time seeming to cower as her dark eyes fill with tears. “Grip....” A whisper. “I’m sorry—”
He brushes past her, away along the adobe wall and stagecoaches.
“Grip, please—”
“¡Vete al diablo!” He keeps going, around the corner, out of sight down the road.
Rosalía stands motionless, breathing hard, expression stricken, blinking as tears streak her cheeks. Her hands shake worse than ever as she clutches the old revolver. Then, without glancing once at Ivy, only yards from her, she hurries away, face downturned.
Although the rest of her afternoon blurs and puddles together like paint dropped from a height, Ivy wakes the following morning with the image of the confrontation still fixed in her mind. Her heart races. An inferno blazes against her eyelids. Her temples pound with pistons beating the inside of her skull. Her mouth feels coated in acidic glue. Her neck and back ache from a contorted sleeping position on something hard: cowhide sofa.
“Ivy?” Cool cloth against her brow. “You have a fever.”
Why is someone shouting at her? Voice like trumpets in aching ears.
Ivy squints, reaching to cover her eyes with her hands and peer uneasily into a blinding open space. Someone’s sitting room. Sofa. Voice.
“Winter?” Ivy coughs, her own tongue filling her mouth like a loaf of bread. “What happened to Rosalía?”
“What do you mean?” Winter appears alarmed, from what Ivy can see of her glowing face. “Ivy, I’m going to fetch the doctor.”
Ivy nods, but it sends fresh pain racing through her head and neck. “Grip was horrible to her. Not sure....”
Winter looks even more alarmed. “Yesterday? You didn’t say anything about it when you came in.”
She cannot remember coming in. She remembers Rosalía’s face when Grip shouted his parting words in the alley. She tries to swallow.
Winter holds a mug of dandelion tea up for her. Ivy manages to shift upward enough to sip without choking.
“I’ll be right back, Ivy.”
Ivy says nothing, hands over her eyes as Winter walks away with booming steps. She tries to look at Winter, just making out a green and white dress she had not seen Winter in before—more formal, from Chicago unless Winter made it herself. Yet she cannot look long, the light hurts her eyes too much. She covers her face once more. Too much light. Too much sound. And her head. Her awful head....
Ivy gasps. “Winter, don’t go for the doctor. I’m fine. I am—I think I ate something bad at the saloon. Do you have coffee?”
“Of course, but, Ivy—”
“Please, if you could put some on for me. I’ll be fine. There’s no need.”
“Are you certain? You’re burning up. You do not look well.”
“Perfectly certain.” Ivy forces her hand away from her own face in an effort to give Winter a smile. “What time is it?”
&nb
sp; “Nearly nine. I ... I must be off for church ... if you are truly sure.”
“Yes. Go. I can get the coffee. Is it Sunday already?” Ivy is not clear on church schedules here. There seems to be Mass each morning, though Sunday is still a particular worship day.
“I’ll just ... put the kettle on?”
“Thank you. Then go on, please.”
Winter watches her another moment, then turns for the kettle. Sunday shoes already on. That’s why she makes such a racket. Ivy resists covering eyes and ears once more, trying to sit up. She cannot pull off a smile, but manages to lean against the sofa back.
After more dithering, Winter is off, rushing out the door with her soft deerskin handbag as church bells toll.
Ivy drags herself from the sofa to wash her face and rinse her mouth in the washroom. She pours herself coffee, moving gingerly as she fears each step could jar her eyeballs from their sockets, then returns to the sofa. It takes her another hour to feel motivated enough to dress. Her head still pounds and light looks unnaturally bright, though she no longer feels she is coming to bits.
Dressed, boots on, she is just struggling to finish her lace and settle her hair when Winter returns. Winter does not seem relaxed from worship service or by the sight of Ivy looking better.
“Ivy, what happened yesterday? Neither Rosalía nor Grip were there this morning. Sarita says she has seen neither all day.”
“Oh.” Ivy fiddles with a hair clasp longer than needed. “I ... it’s probably nothing.”
“You asked about her when you woke up.”
“Did I?” Ivy works on another clasp.
“Do you feel any better?” Even more concern.
“Much better. Thank you, Winter. You are most kind.”
“I must speak to Rosalía at the luncheon.”
“The—pardon me?”
“The Ruiz family has a potluck luncheon every Sunday. Many local families gather after church to share a meal.”
Ruiz? Is that Rosalía’s surname? How bizarre, now that she stops to think of it, that Ivy does not know even as much about her fellows as their family names. In Grip’s case, not even his given name.
“Are you well enough to come?” Winter asks, brows creased. “Are you sure you don’t need the doctor?”
She has previously seen gatherings in town on Sundays, though she thought nothing of them, never having been invited and seldom being around on a Sunday. Surely the locals do not call it luncheon, many here saying “dinner” for lunch, besides “supper” for dinner.
“I....” Ivy hesitates. How does one win with Winter? If she says she is not well enough to go, she will be ill and must see the doctor and be caretaken. Winter herself may forgo the meal just to handhold. Yet, if she is well enough to go, she must ... go.
Ivy takes a slow breath, wishing herself back on the silent trail. “Yes, Winter. Thank you. I would love to accompany you.”
Winter smiles. “We’ll find Rosalía.”
“Of course.”
It turns out the gathering is not so large, or loud, as to send Ivy rushing for cover. Yet, outdoors as it is in the street around Rosalía’s parents’ home, the sun makes her pull Winter’s loaned hat low, wishing for her sungoggles.
Ivy knows many of those in attendance by sight. Not only the family but a mix of neighbors and visitors. Ivy hears Spanish, English, German, and something she cannot identify which may be a Pueblo dialect. They range in ages from babes in arms to one old lady in a woven chair, shoulders hunched, skeletal hands rubbing folds of her skirt together as if washing.
At the center stand tables heaped with sizzling cast iron skillets and taco plates, rice, beans, corn, pickled peppers and onions, fresh and fried tortillas, salsa, hot churros coated in cinnamon and dusted with sugar, golden flans, and Winter’s huge clay bowl of sliced cabbage tossed with honey and vinegar.
Ivy notices two things at once to put her at ease: since such a mix of people flow in and out, many not seeming to know others, her presence is unremarkable; also, Spanish predominates, so she feels no need to come up with anything polite to say.
Íñigo bounds up to them, whipping off his sombrero to kiss Winter’s hand and take the heavy bowl from her. “¡Bienvenido! ¡Dos señoritas hermosas cómo ustedes hacen cualquier ocasión agradable!”
“Thank you, Íñigo.” Winter flushes. “You already know Miss Jerinson, I believe?”
“A joy.” He bows to Ivy, holding bowl and hat off to each side. “You look alive today.”
Ivy once more wonders if he misspoke, but perhaps he means what he says. Why does everyone talk so loud?
She smiles weakly. “I do feel better than when last we met.” Marginally.
“Did you hear about the duel?” He asks Winter. “It’s all over town: Grip beat Adair Gordon. Who imaginado anyone could draw faster than Mr. Gordon?”
Why, why, why would he say something like that to Winter? Does he not recognize to whom he speaks?
Winter gasps. “He what? Is he hurt? I must see—what happened, Íñigo?”
Íñigo smiles. “No se alarme.” Balancing the bottom of the large bowl on one hand, he rests his other on Winter’s shoulder while she looks in all directions, apparently for Grip. “Settle in and he’ll be along. Know how Íñigo knows?”
She looks at him, green eyes liquid and distraught.
“Íñigo saw Grip after Mass, putting his horse up. Out all morning. Now he will drift in here like a pulga for your excellent cooking, hoping no one notices.”
Winter swallows. “You are certain he’s all right?”
“Oh, yes. Está bien.”
“Rosalía said he wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?” Íñigo cocks his head, spinning the great bowl on his fingers.
“Wouldn’t fight those dreadful Gordons. They should never be allowed in the city.”
“Íñigo?” Ivy interrupts before Íñigo can answer. “What about Rosalía? She was upset last night. Is she well?”
“Ella está hablando con su caballo.” Grinning.
“I’m sorry ... ah ... no hablo español.”
Íñigo laughs. “¿Así que usted dice? She went to talk to her horse half an hour ago. Ella dijo she had enough of a sermon yesterday regarding her unacceptable behaviors to skip Mass today.”
He leads them to the tables and tells them to help themselves. Winter will not eat but keeps looking up and down the road for Grip until distracted by a child needing assistance to reach plates.
Ivy gathers cabbage, grilled chicken, and a churro, then retreats to a bench along the outside of the adobe house—some of the only seating and home to a few barefoot children on one corner of it already. The sight of them eating churros with their fingers reminds Ivy she did not get a fork. Where are they?
She starts around and almost walks into Sam. Startled, she takes a step back. In black frock coat and hat, he holds a filled plate in his left hand with the sling on it. In his right, he holds a carved wood fork out to her.
“Oh.” Ivy looks at him, the fork, the plaster around his arm, left sleeve of his coat hanging empty. “Thank you.” She takes the utensil.
He nods, expression tense and drawn, then steps away without a word.
Ivy watches him go, opening her mouth, closing it. She starts after, stops, swallows. She turns to the lonely bench. Grip sits there, hat pulled down.
After another catch of her breath, Ivy lets it out, exasperated. “How do you people just appear? Did you bring him?” Glancing over her shoulder to where Sam disappeared through the gathering.
Grip does not look at her, his eye scanning the tables where people mill. “Found him on his way to Shannon’s, hunting a meal. Told him to fill a plate for Mr. L’Heureux, then return for himself.”
Ivy sits down in the center of the bench, keeping herself as far from him and from chattering, eating children as possible.
“Rosalía is with her horse,” Ivy says as she settles her plate on her skirt. “Wherever that is.”
/>
Grip glances at her. “Yes?”
“I thought you were looking for her. To apologize.”
“For what?”
Ivy looks at him, then her plate, glaring at chicken and slaw.
He goes back to scrutinizing the crowd. Ivy cannot see Winter anymore. Tending small children, or perhaps Íñigo, seems to have distracted her. Speaking of small children, they migrate across the bench to view Ivy, staring at her attire and hair with big, dark eyes. She has to smile when they whisper to each other. As if she could understand more than a stray word even if they shouted.
Something about them must annoy Grip because he looks around. “¿Saben sus madres que son groseros?”
A hostile tone. Something about their mothers.
To Ivy’s surprise, the little girl wrinkles her nose and skips away, eating the last of her churro. The two boys grin, then one turns to dash after the girl, calling out to her.
The other faces Grip, his tiny, cinnamon-coated hands on his hips. He is perhaps four at the oldest. “¿Sabe tu madre que grosero eres tu?”
Grip glances at him under his hat. “¿Qué he hecho?”
“No estabas en misa.”
Grip shrugs. “Estaba ocupado.”
The little boy’s eyes light up. He grasps his filthy hands together as if aiming a handgun, talking fast. Ivy catches “ABCs” in the flow.
Grip studies him as he aims his tiny forefingers at Grip, at Ivy, at the gathering.
He rambles on about his mother and ... churros, perhaps food in general, as he clambers onto the bench beside Grip, pulling himself up on Grip’s arm.
Grip scowls at cinnamon handprints he leaves behind, apparently reprimanding the boy, though he goes on smiling and talking. He finally interrupts himself, standing up on the bench and pointing as an Anglo man walks past with a plate of churros.
“¡Ladrón! ¡Se lleva mis churros!” It sounds like an accusation.
Grip seizes the pointing arm and swings the boy, laughing, off the bench. “Cállate, Buen.”
The man pauses, apparently wondering if he has been addressed. He smiles awkwardly, another newcomer by his uncertain manner, as he glances from the giggling child to the sullen man.
Lightfall Three: Luck, Lost, Lady (Lightfall, Book 3) Page 9
