Lightfall Three: Luck, Lost, Lady (Lightfall, Book 3)

by Taylor, Jordan

  “Leave me alone, Íñigo.” She is not flattered. Rosalía told her he is a flirt and to ignore him.

  “Our fandango approaches—”

  She turns. “They know this is a bad idea, don’t they? Surely food will be wasted, a great deal of noise and lights. Trouble will—”

  “With you and I at the center, swinging—”

  “Dance with your sister,” Ivy says and goes on. “Isn’t that what you usually do?”

  “She is a good dancer.” He jogs after her. “But why would I dance with her when I could dance with the most beautiful lady in Santa Fé?”

  “Nice try.”

  “In New Mexico.”

  “There are scarcely any women in New Mexico, Íñigo.”

  He darts ahead to drop on his knees. “I misspoke, señorita. Forgive me. English is not my native tongue—”

  “You speak perfect—”

  “I meant to say, the world.”

  Ivy walks past him and his clasped hands, upraised to her. “Sorry.”

  “Why the disdain, señorita? Your every word is a dagger to Íñigo’s heart.”

  “Then you have a delicate heart.”

  “And you have a sharp tongue.”

  She pauses to face him. “Do you waltz?”

  “Waltz?”

  “If you learn to waltz, I will dance with you.”

  “Then teach me.” Again, he offers his hand.

  She moves on. “Does your sister know you are harassing me?”

  “Harassing? Strong language. She would not understand. She and Grip are short-tempered. You should know the amable brothers in the family.”

  “I don’t think Grip would approve of you following me either.”

  “Grip approves of nothing. Nada. Grip shoots men for using the wrong tone of voice. He shoots men for having the wrong haircut.”

  Ivy has to laugh, though she still looks ahead as she walks.

  Íñigo grins. “Has my sister taught you to understand the words which must be most often directed after you?”

  Ivy gives no answer, mind racing with expressions like, Get out of the way, and, Why should we believe you?

  “Ahí va la más bella señorita en el mundo.” Íñigo extends a hand past his face as if watching someone walk by. “There goes the most beautiful lady in the world. Y inteligente.”

  “I thought men in your culture—not to mention many in my own—do not like intelligent women because they make you feel threatened. That is the impression I get from Rosalía.”

  “You listen to her and not me? You are prejudiced by my sister, señorita. And you have not had one dance with Íñigo.”

  “I never will unless he learns to waltz.”

  “When is the fandango?”

  “In a few nights, according to Brownlow.”

  “At this fandango Íñigo will demonstrate his devotion.” He sweeps off his sombrero and bows over his arm. “You and Íñigo will waltz.”

  “Will we?” She fights a broad smile, pressing her lips together. “I ... look forward to it.”

  “Now, I beg your honesty, señorita, tell Íñigo who in the city knows this dance?”

  “Mr. Samuelson. I am sure Winter knows, though she is—” Ivy stops.

  Íñigo is already racing south. “We shall meet again for the first dance!”

  Smiling, Ivy goes on.

  By the north gate, where a team sets up the last timber panels, she discovers work has stopped as men gather to look through the large opening. Some gesture and shout, others have revolvers in hand.

  Ivy runs forward, startled to hear answering voices.

  Beyond the group of workers, including Isaiah, Jakes, and men Ivy now recognizes from Brownlow’s circle, she sees a straggling group of dark-complexioned men, women, and young children dressed in a mix of smooth hides and woven fabrics. They remind her of the family who rescued her from the flood. At the same time, they look quite different.

  They speak Spanish to the work party, receiving the same answer over and over: “Aquí no. ¡Vayanse!” Not here. Go!

  “There is room,” Isaiah says, turning to Jakes, who has a revolver aimed outside. “Empty buildings. The whole hospital is unfinished. It could be shelter within the wall—”

  “Yapping rot,” Jakes cuts him off. “Not enough here for the people already inside to live on. Now we’re a reservation? Santa Fé’s Pueblo shifted months back—first whiff of trouble. You saw them pack.”

  Ivy stops some distance off, already able to smell the woody, smokey aroma of whiskey on the men: post midday break in El Rio.

  “I’m sure they would hunt for themselves,” Isaiah says. “Keep away from—”

  “Not far enough away. Steal our rations and what about the women? Close a bunch of savages in here with our families? Go live with them yourself if you’re so knit.”

  “We’ll discuss the matter with others,” Isaiah goes on, tone still calm. “Perhaps we can reach a compromise.”

  Jakes shouts out to those on the northern road who hold up skins, a fresh-killed deer, even weapons, apparently prepared to negotiate for entry, “¡Fuera! ¡Nosotros no queremos aquí!” Then laughs at Isaiah. “You’re funning, right? Compromise with dumb animals? Likely infected to boot.” His voice lowers and he rubs his stubbly chin with his free hand, the nails of which are black as the pitch sealing gaps in the wall. “’Spect that’s why they want in....”

  The other men look around uneasily at him, fingers tightening on weapons.

  Jakes nods thoughtfully. “Sure as shooting. Taken sick, bring it in here to the wall. Hated whites and greasers, didn’t they? Now—”

  “That—” Ivy snaps, causing the men to spin around. “Is nonsense. Those families are not ‘infected.’ Do they look dead to you?”

  Isaiah’s eyes widen to see her there, shaking his head.

  Jakes smiles, his own beady eyes narrowing as he glances up and down her old teal dress. “Afternoon, miss expert. To what do we owe the ... honor?”

  “Why would you deny them shelter if they intend to take care of themselves? We need all the watch we can gather for the wall.”

  “Sure do. Like a turn?” Jakes flips his revolver in his hand to offer her the grip, though she remains yards from him.

  The other men snicker, except Isaiah, who still looks alarmed.

  Ivy goes on up the road, men laughing behind her, then shouting rebukes and epithets past the wall in Spanish. By the time she reaches the boarding house, she wants to scream.

  She must spin the Indians into being particularly helpful against risers, take the idea to Brownlow, let him think bringing them inside is his plan; to the town’s advantage. Yet she can hardly stand the sight of the man and the feeling is mutual. How can she manage it without talking to him? Would someone else advocate? Isaiah is voiceless. She cannot speak to Sam or Melchior. Grip ... no. Íñigo? She can ask Rosalía for ideas. Perhaps Zamorano and Mateo would plead the Pueblos’ case.

  She leans back on the corner of the boarding house, eyes shut against sun and dust below another new hat, heart beating unnaturally fast.

  The front door bangs open. Ivy looks around, startled to see Sam walk quickly away into town. His arm is no longer in a sling, but still bound in gypsum. She should ask how it is. Which would require speaking to him. Anyway, he seems in a hurry.

  The door is thrown open again. Melchior stands there, breathing hard, looking after Sam. For a moment, she thinks he will call out. Instead, he kicks an empty milk jug so violently from the porch that the tin, deeply dented, flies across the street to strike an adobe house on the far side.

  He turns to go in, spotting her at the corner. His eyes fix on hers. Muscles work through his jaw as if chewing leather. The look on his face is beyond angry at the sight of her.... Loathing.

  She represses an urge to step away, though they are already twenty feet apart.

  At last, without a word, he slams the door, vanishing inside. Even here she hears his boots thud over floor
boards within.

  Ivy rubs her hands over her sleeved forearms as if cold. What is wrong with him? She is only standing here. Yet she shivers, feeling as if someone screamed curses at her.

  She spends another half hour on the porch before she can bring herself to follow him in, ask Xochitl for dinner in Spanish, then slink upstairs, relieved not to see her cousin or anyone else. The room feels stifling as ever. Ivy removes her outer dress and lies on top of the bedclothes with Winter’s Bible.

  Over the next few days, news of Pueblos trying to barter their way into Santa Fé’s protective wall spreads to the whole populace without Ivy needing to say anything. The committee rallies in record time, Brownlow at their head, to inform the Indians they will not be permitted access and must move on. When this does not shift them, men pass by where they wait outside the north gate throughout the day, insulting them, shooting into the air, throwing garbage. A few men try to sic hunting hounds on them. The Pueblos’ own scrappy dogs rush to their defense and the hounds are rebuffed in a massive dogfight Ivy hears across the river at Winter’s.

  The same day, Ivy kneads bread dough, the fan blowing strands of flyaway hair into sweat and flour all over her face, while Winter gazes anxiously out the window.

  “Why can’t they go away like the others?” Winter asks. “We thought they all went to Taos Pueblo for safety. They should have known they would not be welcomed now. Everyone in town says they are sick and came to spread—”

  “It is not possible, Winter.” Ivy goes on kneading. “I told them. I told Brownlow. He and Jakes will say anything to get everyone else hating them. Not that they have to work at it. What happened? Didn’t hundreds live in Santa Fé?”

  “They began leaving last autumn, long before anyone else.” Winter pulls her gaze from the window. “They must have known trouble was coming. By April, they were all gone. Did you know Eugene Brownlow was a cavalry man before he settled? He spent his youth fighting Indians, I’m sure. Now that they are out of the city, you will have a hard time convincing him, and most others, to bring them back.”

  Especially going about it alone.

  Though Ivy asked her the day before, Rosalía volunteered no recommendations of aid, saying even if trouble befell Taos Pueblo to send them here, they would still be better off in the wilderness than remaining around the wall.

  Ivy stood at the fence while Rosalía fed her own and her brother’s horses, saying if a bunch of white settlers showed up they would be allowed in without delay.

  Rosalía only lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, not looking at her. “Our feelings on the situation are of no consequence.”

  Ivy frowned, as frustrated by the unfamiliar sentiment from her friend as by the rest of the city these days. “What about Grip? He could do something.”

  “He likes the Indians,” Rosalía said. “He stayed among Pueblo some during the years he rode alone. But Grip is not an army. He is one man among another half dozen who sympathize strongly enough to believe they should be allowed in. To make it happen, they would have to take arms against the city. What good would that do anyone? Including the Pueblo?”

  “They’ll die out there.”

  Rosalía paused, stroking Volar. “The reason they should move on, find their own protection. Everyone says they’re sick—”

  “Impossible! I keep telling—”

  “I know, Ivy. It’s only what they say. It helps the case against them.”

  Ivy longed to pound the fence, kick a milk jug, scream. She remained motionless and silent, forearms pressed into the top rail.

  Now she cannot sit still, cannot sew, and kneading bread is little comfort. She longs to be back on the trail, doing something, even fighting for her life. She leaves Winter’s early after the bread, taking her sewing to her own room.

  Soon, she gives up the dress for the Bible, hoping for comfort. She used to find just that in the Good Book, under gentle guidance of her mother. She did not remember the ancient text being so ... gruesome. Feeling guilty—her father might not mind but her mother certainly would—she sets it aside in favor of an 1875 Montgomery Ward catalogue.

  DRESS GOODS.

  We desire to call the attention of the public to our

  BLACK DIAMOND BRAND OF ALPACAS

  believing them to be superior in fabric, luster and shade to any heretofore offered in this market. We are the sole importers of the above named brand.

  This illustrious alpaca sells from fifteen cents a yard for bargain poplin dress goods to well over a dollar a yard for cashmeres, according to the catalogue.

  Ivy flips pages to stationary—only sixty cents for one hundred and twenty sheets of good letter paper—then hats and ladies’ boots to replace her own—custom-made, calf-lace shoes from Chicago, “always reliable,” for less than two dollars.

  Today ... she cannot even enjoy Montgomery Ward for long.

  By Monday the final makeshift gate at the south is completed and everyone seems to have forgotten waiting Indians. Indeed, with the north gate having shut them from sight, Ivy is not sure they remain. Interior platforms for watch and guard to stand have been finished across the north and south sectors. From here, she can see the watch standing or walking about on a two-foot wide timber platform. But no insults are shouted in the direction of the north road.

  Perhaps Rosalía is right. They can move on and find their own shelter. They know about the sickness. They have a chance.

  This final evening of construction is the fandango organized by Brownlow’s men and several of the local women. Ivy has no appetite, but helps Winter with her bread and baking.

  The hog roasts, musicians tune vihuelas and charangos, women spread tables with a mix of foods from pies and cornbread to wild turkey and salsa.

  Once Ivy has done her share of helping, she feels ready to slink away for her room, sure she cannot stomach watching these people eat and laugh after they drove away a village.

  The sun is low, music starting before she tries to sneak. And runs into Íñigo.

  “Is the lady ready to be swept off her feet?” He gives her another dramatic bow.

  Ivy narrows her eyes. “You did not learn to waltz?”

  “Excuse me?” He replaces his hat, eyebrows raised, then holds out his arms to an invisible partner and turns in place.

  “Did you impose on Winter when she already has a million obligations?”

  “Never let it be said Íñigo does not make himself useful.” He mimes putting away dishes while dancing.

  “You are loco.”

  “For doing as promised? Íñigo is here to serve, señorita.” He offers his hand. “The promised dance?”

  “I really wasn’t going to stay.”

  “Íñigo will dance anytime, anywhere.”

  Ivy almost laughs. “You cannot—oh, right. I agreed. But I do not see anyone else dancing yet.”

  “I do not see anyone else.” He looks into her eyes.

  She could ignore the “beautiful” remarks, but this one gets her and she knows she is flushed. “I don’t hear apropos music either.”

  As if in response, someone jingles a triangle. Heads turn toward the center of the gathering. A vast mustache looms there, Brownlow serving as escort.

  Once all eyes face him, Brownlow clears his throat to deliver a speech about the completion of the wall and the dedication of the volunteer labor parties. He does not say one word about Oliver. Or Ivy. Or Indians. Nor does he acknowledge that the wall being complete is a misnomer: thick adobe must be finished and set, besides being a freighter short on iron for reinforcements and gating. The crowd seems satisfied, however, applauding as the big man lifts a dusty bottle.

  Ivy notices Melchior unusually placed at the edge of the crowd. Ignoring Brownlow, he seems to be searching for someone. She has not seen Sam about. In fact ... has she seen him once since the day he hurried from the boarding house? There are other housing establishments in town.

  As Brownlow resumes, many cheering him, Ivy becomes aware of noi
se at greater distance, something behind her. Men calling to one another. She looks uneasily around, part of her mind still wondering what has happened to Sam, another part incensed by the support for Brownlow.

  Íñigo turns. Others look about or glance to one another.

  Brownlow falls quiet as he realizes half the crowd is distracted.

  Crack.

  Ivy flies up the main street, lifting her skirts, wishing she could tear them off and run like young men dashing past her. Some head for the north gate, others turn off, presumably to grab firearms from home. Many already have revolvers ready.

  By the time she nears the gate, Ivy clearly hears screaming, reminded at once not only of Hal Tucker, but dozens before him, a hundred men and women and children in Boston who could not run fast enough as the city fought its own obliteration. Dogs bark, gunpowder blasts, women are screaming, men shouting in three languages. Heart in her throat, Ivy halts twenty feet from the wall, screams pounding her ears.

  “You must open the gate!” she cries to the men holding it. Her voice is lost in a dozen other frantic calls.

  Guards stand on the platforms, shooting over, reloading, calling to one another. More from the gathering climb ladders to the top of the wall, eager, excited, cheering each other as their bullets strike.

  Cries for help in Spanish sound on the other side of the wall, intermixed with a strange Indian tongue Ivy can make no sense of. But she does not need to: begging the townspeople for mercy between cries of pain. Fists batter the timber wall from the outside. Someone must be trying to climb over because a man at the top platform aims straight down over the side to fire.

  “Melchior!” Ivy rounds as she sees him looking up at men on the wall. “Get them ropes, help some in at the very least, even if they won’t open the gates with risers here.”

  He does not look at her. Nor does he approach the ladders. Besides the fire-shooter, which he keeps in his room, he has had no weapon since his Colt was lost in the flood.

  “Please. Someone must do something. They will all be killed.”

  He faces her and his expression is almost as angry as when last he looked her in the eye. “What’d you mean me to do?” He holds up his empty hands.