“My dear, I never wish to contradict a lady, but I must tell you the contraption is entirely unsuitable—”
Rosalía grins. “The horse is here to make a delivery. That’s all.”
“Yet he needs a new tailor, if you don’t mind me saying so. Could go as low as seven—”
Grip has unbuckled the crate on his horse and the whole thing falls to the ground with him holding one side. The crash makes Oliver jump. Grip pulls the crate inside and jerks his head at Ivy. She limps in after him.
“My goodness.” Oliver takes a step back at the sight of Grip dragging the box toward him. “Grip—and Miss Jerinson—what a ... startling call. What can I—?”
“Get the door,” Grip says, dropping the crate by Volar.
“The...?”
“Close the front door.” Grip tosses a glance to the open wall.
“Yes, yes of course. Your mounts—?”
“Will wait. Just don’t want anyone poking around.”
“On toward siesta time, I should think.” Oliver babbles about how hard everyone has been working in the blazing sun as he cranks down the lever to lower the door.
When it clatters shut, Volar staring as Rosalía talks to him in Spanish, Ivy steps forward. She would let them explain, but Oliver does not seem to know Rosalía unless in passing and Grip’s appearance has made him even more flighty in speech and manner than usual.
Before she can start, he says, “You’ve returned for the meeting?”
Ivy is a bit baffled to realize Oliver addresses her. “I beg pardon?”
“The committee meeting tonight. We’re looking forward to your participation, Miss Jerinson.”
“You ... are?” That was tonight? Wasn’t it supposed to be last night? Why couldn’t the coach have been another day’s ride away? “Yes, of course.”
“I have modified certain of my plans before displaying them to—”
“Oliver, I do not think those plans are a good idea, remember? Not the weapons anyway.”
“Weapons?” Grip looks around from untying ropes on Volar with Rosalía.
Oliver gazes at his table of blueprints. “Only one or two....”
“Perhaps,” Ivy says. “But the ste—wall is priority, right? The defenses have to come first. Then we’ll worry about fighting back.”
Grip steps around a table to reach the one with the plans, looming over the little maker as he glares at papers.
Oliver takes a step back. “Many possibilities.” He smiles ingratiatingly at Grip, once more removing his spectacles for a polish. “These are only examples—”
“What do they do?” Grip’s gaze sweeps the pages, down the row, then back.
“All sorts.” Oliver’s smile broadens as he replaces the spectacles. “Some of fire, some handguns with scatter shells which can penetrate the skulls, this—a chain gun. A chain of cartridges runs along the—”
“Destrúyelos,” Grip snaps.
Oliver recoils. “Excuse me?”
Ivy is not sure if he did not understand the Spanish or is only bewildered by the sentiment.
“Burn them. Burn all of them.” Grip jabs a finger at the plan for the chain gun. “Especially that one.” He rounds on Oliver, dwarfing the man with his height and broad shoulders. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
Rosalía darts forward, seizing Grip’s arm. “Stop it. He didn’t do anything—”
“See that?” Grip points out the gun plan to Rosalía, then to the maker: “Can you even grasp what you propose creating? Have you never opened your eyes since you lived in this place? Are you blind to men riding through in the past two weeks alone? You’re not in Gothenburg anymore.”
“Grip, that’s enough—”
“Burn them,” Grip repeats. “Never mention these plans to Brownlow, to Thurman, anyone. Ever. For Christ’s sake get them out of here—door open at all hours.”
Oliver’s eyes are huge as he leans away, mouth open. “Already told Mr. Brownlow we would provide ideas for better defenses.”
“You have others.”
“I ... I ... well ... yes. I’m sure—” Under Grip’s glare, Oliver begins rolling papers together into a massive scroll. “One possible—there are other ways to assist.”
“We appreciate all assistance,” Rosalía says. “As do the people of Santa Fé. You are rescuing this city with your barricade plans. There are none here not indebted to you, Mr. Kjellstedt.” She rams Grip with her elbow as the maker grabs another sheet.
“Yes,” Grip mumbles.
Oliver does not seem to hear, clearly shaken, talking to himself. “In the wrong hands, of course. Tools, not weapons. One cannot always predict—” He wads the plans into a tight bundle and drops a paperweight in the form of a copper clog on them.
Grip continues to frown at the heap, as if waiting for the maker to strike a match on the spot.
“Refreshment!” Oliver looks up. “I haven’t offered you—”
“No, thank you so much.” Rosalía steps between Oliver and Grip. “We only had something to drop off, Mr. Kjellstedt. We’ll not stay a minute.”
Ivy explains how and why they brought what they have while Rosalía pushes Grip toward Volar. Looking often at rolled plans, Grip helps her remove and stack the three crates beside the one he already dragged in.
Oliver nods in a distracted fashion as she speaks, glancing from her to Grip, shuffling his feet, several times starting to interrupt, then thinking better of it.
“So, you see, you are the logical person to keep the silver. We found it and have no city authority or family to the former owner to turn it over. You are largely responsible for the fate of Santa Fé these days. Some freighters have made it through. Others will come. You may repay your debts and employ additional help and secure what is needed for the protection of the city.”
“Yes, quite.” But Oliver looks at his roll of papers.
Grip drops the last crate on top of the first and produces a blade to remove the lid.
Oliver actually jumps at sight of the silver bars.
“I am not sure what they’re worth,” Ivy says. “But they will cover any expenses for the barricades through completion with a good deal left over.”
Oliver is stammering, “Really don’t—not mine—see how—where did—?”
“Do not let others see them,” Grip stops him. “Conceal the crates and use what you need as it comes up. Do not shift them to a bank. There are no principled bankers left in this city. It is no one else’s concern how much you have or where.”
“I really should not—this is not mine to take.”
“A gift,” Ivy says. “No one is more in charge of Santa Fé than you now, Oliver. And no one has a greater claim to this silver than us. We are giving it to you.”
Oliver swallows.
“Where is your assistant?” Grip asks.
“He’ll be in directly.” Oliver glances down at his many watches, though they all seem to be set to different time zones and one or two tick backward. “I expect the work party is taking an afternoon break by now.”
“He will help you conceal the silver,” Grip says. “If the matter arises with Brownlow or in public, tell the men you were provided a small amount of silver to help in defenses. You need not draw suspicions for abruptly paying your debts in the metal. Mention us if you must, but refrain from elaboration and preface all mention with ‘a small amount’ for your own safety.”
Oliver nods. He has gone even paler than usual.
“I will return tomorrow with an additional payment on the steamcoach, Oliver,” Ivy says. “We won’t take any more of your time.”
Again, Oliver nods, though he makes no move to the wall crank. “I will ... will ... see you tonight at the committee.”
Ivy sighs. “What time?”
“Sunset at El Rio. Are you quite sure—? This is most irregular.”
“Yes. Thank you. Good afternoon, Oliver.”
Grip knocks the crate lid back in place and Oliver, aft
er a long time of staring at the stack, shakes himself and opens the wall for them.
Volar studies the door moving over him, waiting for Rosalía to lead him out. Limping, but able to walk, Ivy leads Correcaminos. She must take the mare back to her own pen. Less time for a bath and dinner than she imagined.
“That man grows stranger every time I see him,” Rosalía says, shaking her head.
“Un milagro he still lives,” Grip says, walking just behind them with the end of El Cohete’s rope in his hand. “The fool.”
“Winter thinks he’s lovely. He was kind to her family.”
“Winter does not know what he created.”
“A drawing is not a device. You can’t just lash out at everyone like that. You terrorized the poor man. Does it occur to you to reason with someone?”
“No one responds to reason.”
“You don’t. Doesn’t hurt to give it a try now and then.” She looks at Ivy beside her. “I can take Correcaminos home. Do you need to try your boarding house?”
Ivy nods, yet can work up no enthusiasm as she hands over the black mare’s reins.
“You’ll want to locate Mr. Samuelson and inform him you’ve returned,” Grip says. “The man frets like an old valetudinarian.”
Rosalía turns to look at him, walking backward as she leads the horses. “A what?”
“An invalid,” Ivy says. “Or someone preoccupied with the poor state of their health. He may be at the boarding house anyway.” In truth, she had not thought to tell Sam she returned. He is not her keeper. She has a dozen other things to concern herself with this afternoon and, apparently, evening.
By the time she limps to the house, Ivy is almost stalking to the door. Not her fault Sam worries. The boarding house will be full anyway. She could have walked to Winter’s by now. Winter would understand. Winter has a much nicer bath.
Ivy pushes open the door and pulls the bell cord, irritably brushing dust from her skirts as she waits. She has her handbag from Correcaminos’s saddlebags, but it did not occur to her to take one of the sacks of gold dust yet. Not that she should be running around town with that. Rosalía will put it up for her. Ivy can remove a handful and give the rest to the maker. Hardly matters if there is a room when she is broke.
Ivy smiles as Xochitl, the girl of all work, comes dashing down the hall. To her surprise, the girl is chipper as she first elaborates on something Ivy can only catch in stray words, then offers a key. It takes a few minutes for Ivy to understand with her very broken Spanish that either Sam or Melchior has secured two rooms, then ask the girl for a bath.
She manages to scrub and finds her side wound still mending, despite the pain. Purple and black bruises have bloomed across her upper leg, while her shoulders and head still ache. She has no change of clothes now and can only beat dust off her chemise and dress before dragging them back on.
There is the gold now. She can purchase something new while in town. Unless there are no store-made dresses still available. Then ... Xochitl sews. Ivy herself sews, of course, but what of time and space and materials?
She limps upstairs to a corner room with two small windows, large bed, wardrobe along with trunk and vanity, plus wash basin. She had not realized Mrs. Acker had such lavish rooms. The bed is only marginally more comfortable, but the room is brighter and feels all together more inviting than the closet spaces she previously occupied here.
Melchior must be well enough to gamble again. Surely this room is more, though Ivy doubts they got it on purpose for her enjoyment. Likely the only one available.
Dinnertime, skipped lunch, hair wet, sore all over, head pounding, scarcely able to walk, and she must start out for a meeting in a few hours with fools whom she is expected to ... address? Educate? What do they want?
Ivy arrives before the meeting to find men streaming into El Rio, setting up chairs in rows, ordering beer and whiskey with joviality that tells her these are not the first drinks of the evening.
She almost turns around, but spots Rosalía sitting on the far end of the saloon’s porch, swinging her legs under her skirt, talking in Spanish to a small group of children standing in a semicircle about her on the board sidewalk. Their eyes are wide. Her hands move as rapidly as her words. Ivy recognizes the little boy who covets churros, but the rest are strangers.
She limps past the swing doors and hubbub to sit beside Rosalía, despite the crowd of barefoot children.
When Rosalía finishes her tale, to gasps and alarmed faces, she waves at them dismissively. “¡Váyase!”
They scatter, chattering, the boys laughing. Shouldn’t they be in bed by now? Children often seem as autonomous as the dogs or chickens out here.
“How do you feel?” Rosalía looks around at her.
“As if I’m in filthy clothes, expected to address tontos, and haven’t had a meal all day.”
“I meant, how were your bruises?” Rosalía smiles. “You used a Spanish word in conversation.”
“I suppose so.”
“There’s the maker.” She tips her head like a boy to indicate Oliver and Isaiah approaching the saloon. “You cannot look worse in front of a crowd than he does.”
Men stagger out of the saloon. Inside, she can hear Brownlow telling people off. “Having a meeting here. Out, if you’re not on the committee and don’t have business—”
“I saw English in there and told him you were back,” Rosalía says.
“Thank you. He wasn’t at the house.”
“And Cabeza Hueca looks better. He’s been buying everyone drinks to defuse trouble.”
“Are you referring to my cousin?” Ivy has not heard Cabeza Hueca before, though she is used to Rosalía calling Sam English. Always Mr. Samuelson and Mr. L’Heureux to their faces. “What did he do?”
“Something in a poker game, perhaps, since Mr. Harris was involved.”
“He does not seem a good person to upset.” Ivy wipes her brow with the linen napkin. Still terribly hot, despite the sun going down. Nearly August. She has not been able to keep proper track of days.
“He was accused of cheating, but Mr. Harris cheats. I expect that’s what makes him suspicious.”
“Or makes him able to spot one.”
“Cabeza Hueca has him soaked. Mr. Harris will forget.” Rosalía points skyward. “¡Mira! Un búho cornudo—the great horned owl.”
Ivy looks to see a massive, dark shape gliding above rooftops through a pink and gold sky.
“They’re silent as they fly,” Rosalía says. “Extraordinary hunters.”
Ivy nods, wishing the mighty bird was a seagull, but saying only, “It’s beautiful.”
“Come along.” Rosalía stands. “We want to hear what they say.”
“What if it makes our ears bleed?”
Rosalía laughs and grabs her hand. “Limping is all right. It makes you look distinguished, like Grip’s eye.”
Just the kind of distinction she could do without. Ivy follows her to the door where new arrivals are fountaining in.
A rancher at the door holds up a hand in front of their faces. “No women. Committee meeting tonight.”
“Very well.” Ivy turns at once.
Rosalía drags her back. “Abre los ojos, imbécil. This is the Plague expert, here by Brownlow’s invitation.”
The man frowns while Ivy feels grateful he appears to speak even less Spanish than herself. “Well ... he said no....”
“The expert?” Mr. Brownlow himself steps to the doorway with them. Large as the man is, he seems reduced by the size of the mustache drooping down his face like twin waterfalls. “Miss Jerinson, I take it?”
“Correct.” Ivy does not offer her hand, remaining stiff beside Rosalía in the doorway while men wait behind them. Beyond the mustache she catches sight of Sam, watching her from a spot pinned to the bar to let men pass, looking both concerned and relieved. Melchior sits with a jolly crowd, still buying drinks, toward the far side. No bandage wraps his head and he does indeed look a great deal improved.
“Many here are interested in what you might know about stopping or repelling these attacks on our city,” Brownlow says.
“I can give you ideas. The maker may have some as well.”
He smiles under the ... thing. More like a muskrat dangling from his face than a waterfall. The kind of smile one directs at a child accepting a penny sweet. “Follow me, miss. The maker has just arrived.”
“I would like my friend to remain as well,” Ivy says.
“Oh, yes.” He looks at Rosalía, the smile gone, brown eyes cold, almost disdainful. “Whatever suits you.”
In her remaining? Or in her friendships? Ivy follows the man, digging her broken nails into her palms, while Rosalía finds an end seat.
The saloon has been arranged so every chair faces a row of tables toward the back. Behind these are Oliver, Isaiah, Zamorano, and Thurman. Several men, including Harris and Jakes, Thurman’s second, encounter difficulties trying to sit down, knocking over chairs before being helped to their seats. No one seems to find this strange. Indeed, the noise level in El Rio is so intense, everyone seeming to feel they must shout to be heard even by men at their side, hardly anyone notices toppling furniture.
Isaiah offers her a chair, but Ivy stands at the edge of a table down from him and Oliver, wondering what she is doing here.
By the time the sun sets, oil lamps and candles are lit. Chairs are upright and full. Sam, Melchior, and, to Ivy’s surprise, Grip, in morning coat and hat, stand at the back by the door. With many of the assembled puffing away, the atmosphere is dense with tobacco smoke. This, mingled with beer fumes above a confined space of dozens of men who still believe direct contact between water and skin may result in life-threatening illness, even in high summer, makes Ivy’s eyes and nose burn.
“Now—” Brownlow wraps the butt of a new, gleaming revolver on the table before him. “We’re here to discuss the fate of this fine city. I must thank you all for coming. You men are the heart and soul of a community in desperate need. We rely on each of you in times like these.”
Most of these men, certainly the Anglos—which are dramatically overrepresented in the crowd anyway—did not live in Santa Fé a few weeks ago. Ivy has seen few of them around. Certainly not familiar faces like the retired vaqueros who play checkers in front of Harris’s every day. Ivy herself has been in the “community” longer than many here.
Lightfall Three: Luck, Lost, Lady (Lightfall, Book 3) Page 16
