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

by Taylor, Jordan

  Sam mounts—like a normal person—as Ivy gathers her own reins. He glances at her. “Is that true? It feels solid and does not hurt anymore.”

  “Bones begin healing almost as soon as they have broken.” Ivy waits for him to turn Elsewhere and ride beside her. “That’s why setting as quickly as possible is so important. But ... for a man in his twenties with a poor diet and inadequate rest.... I would not have taken the plaster off if it was me. And you really should avoid bearing weight on it for as long as you can. Another month. A second break in the same place would be dangerous. The bones may not fuse at all.”

  He nods apathetically at his horse’s mane. After a pause, he says, “I am sorry.... I should have asked you about it before.”

  Ivy looks ahead. Does he mean when she was not speaking to him and the doctor presumably advised it well enough to remove all wrapping?

  “You ... don’t need to apologize to me for anything.”

  They ride on in silence, odor of decay fading behind them.

  They have still said little to one another since the day Ivy met the miner. After her encounter with Melchior she sat alone in her room until almost sunset. Not stitching or reading or looking through dated catalogues. Just sitting with her knees drawn up, as she did when she woke from nightmares of screams and shots and fires which morphed into leaping sprays of blood, tiny arms of naked children reaching through the fountain, begging her for help.

  At last, she went downstairs to ring the bell until she got the English matron’s attention. Mrs. Acker was not impressed by being disturbed in the evening.

  “Is there a fire, girl?”

  “Do you have English tea?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Any tea leaves? Anything from England?”

  “Now I know you paid up, but I’m not serving tea. You can all have coffee and eat the local fare—all things in demand and—”

  “Do you have any tea, Mrs. Acker? Please.”

  The woman glanced left and right. “A touch. No more coming. I told you, I’m—”

  “I would like to buy some. I’ll give you a dollar for just a few ounces.”

  “Haven’t got much more than a few ounces. Been kind of ... saving it ... you know. Finest quality breakfast tea. Best you can get—”

  “All the better. Will you take a dollar for half of what you have?”

  “I really—”

  “Two?”

  The woman looked pained. “I can’t get more, girl. It’s not about the money. It’s not for sale.”

  Breathless, Ivy pulled a tiny gold nugget from her bag and pressed it into the woman’s hand. “Please.”

  Mrs. Acker stared at the gold in her palm. Then Ivy. The gold. She swallowed. “Where do you get these, girl?”

  “I work. Hard.”

  With the tiny bag of tea in a linen pouch which, in turn, was closed in a tin, Ivy ran to the hotel while it was still light out. She found men getting up from dinner and a crowded bar, far more subdued and cleaner than El Rio, but no Sam. She asked about him and the woman behind the bar, after an appraising glance, told her he went out two hours ago. Ivy bought a horchata and waited at a table by the door where she could watch everyone in and out. And waited.

  Sunset came past ten o’clock and the sky had been dark an hour at least before Ivy finally stood, empty glass on the table, tea tin in hand, and left with the glares of the barmaid and proprietor following her. She stepped through a real doorway, not saloon doors, and pulled the latch shut, turning to find a man in frock coat walking up the stairs onto the porch, head bowed below a black hat.

  “Sam?”

  He looked up sharply, both of them shadows with the lamplight through windows—blackout was no longer enforced with the wall done.

  “Ivy? Are you all right? What can I do for you?” He sounded as if he suspected something dreadful had happened to send her.

  “Fine. Would you ... sit down with me for a moment? I....” She looked around the vacant, dark porch. “I just wanted to talk. Can we remain out here?”

  He was reaching to open the door for her, but followed her to the edge of the porch, where they both sat on boards, feet on the dirt road.

  Clutching the tea tin with sweating hands, Ivy swallowed, glancing at him in the dark, then across the street to a light flickering at the livery.

  “Sam ... I ... ran into Melchior earlier today. There’s a miner in town looking for assistance returning to his claim up north. I asked Melchior if you and he would be interested. He said you never see each other anymore. I’m sorry. Not only for that. For ... I am sorry for how I behaved. If I did not have you out here, I don’t—you are the only person who made life bearable when I came to this city.”

  “Ivy, you did not—”

  “Don’t defend me.”

  “You are justified.”

  “No, I don’t think I am. And I’m sorry.”

  “I do not blame you for being distressed. Anyone would be to learn one of their only acquaintances is an abomination.”

  Ivy bit her cheek, eyes squeezed shut as he went on.

  “You have every right to despise both of us. I am the one who owes you an apology. I have already experienced ... difficulties with society in my life. I did not expect to meet someone like you in the West. I wanted to be your friend for selfish reasons.”

  “I do not believe that,” Ivy whispered.

  “I knew you would be hurt, would hate me, if you knew. I sought your company anyway. Because I enjoy your company. I am not so adept at shunning friendship as Grip or the isolated rancher on the thousand acre plot. So I place others at risk for my interests. What is more self-serving?”

  “It is we who should not be so easily hurt. Not you who should avoid friendship to spare others’ feelings.” Ivy looked down at the tea tin in the dark, glad he could not see tears in her eyes.

  She still did not understand, but knew something now she previously could only speculate over: he did not wish to be this way. He felt he had no choice, perhaps even sought treatment in the Old World. But Melchior said he was happy. All right ... happier than when I met him ... had something here: us. Then it was not the condition itself which made him wretched. Put it to use on his own skull.

  “Sam, don’t you want to reconcile with Melchior? He is worried about you. He....” Again she bit her cheek, eyes closed.

  She did not know this. Did not get this. But she would not allow herself to turn the conversation into the most trying matter she had faced out here. She could go on instinct.

  “He cares about you a great deal. More than I realized. We both wish you would return to the boarding house. The rooms are paid.”

  He sat motionless, head bowed as if his hat weighed him down. Though his posture was generally impeccable—Melchior the one to slouch on doorways or corners or trees—his shoulders were hunched.

  After a pause, she stood on the road, resting the tin gently beside him on the porch. “This is for you. I’m sorry, Sam. We miss you. I am so sorry. Goodnight.”

  He never spoke as she walked away down Washington Avenue.

  Early the following morning, she found Grip at the farrier’s, feeding his horse. He crossed his arms on the top of the loose box door, looking out at her as she explained about the miner. She wondered again what ailed his right arm. He seemed to have full control over the elbow, but not the fingers. Muscular? Nerve damage?

  “I am still unsure whether Melchior and Sam are interested in going,” she finished. “Either way, would you go?”

  “No.” He straightened up and stepped out of the box, latching the door behind him. “Not either way. You and I hardly constitute a guard regime, Miss Jerinson. Your cousin is a good shot and Mr. Samuelson has the rifle, with which he is far more proficient than a six-shooter. Without him we haven’t even a distance weapon.”

  “Oh.” Ivy watched him cut twine on a hay bale to pull loose a flake. It had not crossed her mind that he cared who came. If he wanted to go, he would. If h
e didn’t, he wouldn’t. “I ... hope they will go. I must get out of this city. It’s choking me.”

  “I as well.” He glanced toward the visible timber wall and threw the flake over the stall door, into the manger. “I should not be here, yet this country grows more and more burdensome to ride through.”

  “I did not think Sam knew how to use that rifle at all when I met him,” Ivy said, watching the buckskin eat. “He had never fired it, did not even know how many rounds it held.”

  “It was given him last winter by a dying Confederate soldier with whom he traveled.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Grip shrugged, leaning back against the box wall with his ankles crossed, also looking at his horse. “Told me about him. A mighty odd stick. He’s met strange folks since being in this country. Should not matter he’d never used the Henry though. He began shooting rifles and shotguns when he was a boy. Said hunting was the only way he ever saw his father—a fellow apparently only interested in the oldest, inheriting, brothers. That the kind of set you’re from, Miss Jerinson?” He looked at her. “Dressed by nursemaids like a doll, only seeing your rightful folks on formal occasions?”

  “No. We had one cook and one housemaid. I had tutors, but Mother ran the house. We did everything together. How do you know all this?”

  He lifted an eyebrow, seeming to ask how she did not, or why was she asking, then bent for a waiting pail to refill El Cohete’s water.

  “How far is Taos?”

  “Sixty-odd miles. Two days.”

  “Do you know it?”

  He gave a jerk of his head as if irritated by the question.

  It seemed the conversation was over.

  “I will ... let you know. Perhaps we’ll leave in the morning?”

  He nodded.

  Ivy started away, returned to the box as he hung up the empty pail. “Grip, when you’ve been through.... When you have seen something you did not want to see ... something terrible—I’m sorry.” She started off again as he stood, staring at her.

  She paused near the end of the row, took a breath, faced him. “When do the nightmares stop?”

  He watched her a long time, expression unchanged. She was about to depart when he said, “Never.”

  Ivy nodded, swallowed, nodded again, then walked away to find Melchior.

  This, however, proved fruitless. She could locate neither Melchior nor Sam. By lunchtime she had to meet Highless Wriyn alone at Shannon’s and ask him to wait another day for an answer. The miner seemed put out, telling her he would give her one more day, then must know. He could always find another hired gun in New Mexico.

  She longed to tell him to forget it and go find a “hired gun,” but he walked out without giving her a chance to answer.

  She ate lunch with Winter, then helped her with her work for a few hours when Ivy saw rows of bowls and platters. One of her bake days. Men stopped by the open door all day, removing their hats to stand in the shade as they asked what she had, then paid for chicken salad sandwiches on homemade bread or slices of pie with a touch of fresh cream. Not one would ever step inside, even if invited. Winter left a few chairs out front, where they could often find shade. They asked after her mother, kept their hats off on the premises, and always thanked her, shocking Ivy.

  Winter, although scarcely able to hear any praise without going to pieces, seemed to take their manners for granted. Ivy understood by then it was not stupidity which kept Winter from realizing one and all lived in dread of running into her potential affianced. But as Winter’s rose-tinted glasses kept Grip on a pedestal, so they made the bachelors of Santa Fé inherently gracious.

  It was dinnertime when Ivy, hands raw with scrubbing, pushing wet hair from her face, dragged back to the saloon. Melchior and Sam were at a table by the window.

  Ivy hesitated, despite Sam standing as soon as he saw her. He always did that, whether she was ignoring him or not. Melchior watched her without moving or change of expression. There were patrons around the bar. More starting a darts game. A few at tables. Sam pulled a third chair over to offer her.

  Ivy sat on the edge, knowing before she did that she would not stay: Melchior crossed his arms, leaning back to rock his chair on two legs as he studied the candle on the table.

  After she drew affirmatives—reluctantly, she felt—from both regarding the trip, she excused herself to find Rosalía before it got too late. At her parents’ home, she also asked Rosalía along.

  Rosalía smiled but shook her head. “You seem to be under the impression I often do this kind of thing.”

  “You went to Raton Pass.”

  “For charity. The city needs aid and someone had to get Grip to go. I expect the four of you can look after one uncivil miner. As to the horse, you should speak to my brother.”

  “I still have not apologized to him for missing the dance at the interrupted fandango.”

  “Promise one later and ask for the horse all at once. He won’t let you take her without collateral anyway.”

  “What about the goodness of his heart?”

  “Íñigo’s heart is that of a puppy: wave a scrap and he performs, show nothing and he wanders away for someone more appealing. Want to stay? I’m just getting a plate out of the oven.”

  A “plate” meant a dutch oven with enchiladas or corn and pepper stew with flour tortillas she had fixed for herself and her elderly parents. Ivy had met them briefly several times. Her mother’s broken English and her father being blind with cataracts, perpetually complaining that something had been moved for him to trip over—Rosalía laughed and told him to be more careful—made conversation impractical.

  Ivy once more excused herself.

  By the time she found Íñigo at Mateo’s attached house and secured the horse—battling her way through a circular conversation involving horses and dancing, plus compliments about her eyes, her dress, her gracefulness, all while small children raced through the background—she still needed the sidesaddle and to buy provisions and pack for the trip.

  It was early on the morning after that when the group finally did get underway.

  Ivy discovered at once the ride would not be a comfortable one. Besides the physical pain of the old, slick saddle, she had to listen to Highless Wriyn talk about rocks and minerals and depths and soil conditions until she wanted to gag the man. Grip was silent as ever. Melchior still clearly upset with Ivy, though he said nothing to her. She expected him to be a bit more solicitous toward Sam, but the two kept their distance from one another as well.

  All and all, a tense trip. They ran into risers from their first day and continue today. Face to face encounters were averted only by quick and remote sightings. They even saw one bunch sunning themselves on a patch of red boulders. Gray figures stretched like lizards across sun-bleached rock while the company passed less than one hundred yards away. Ivy suspected they had been feasting on deer.

  Later, the horses alerted, followed by Yap-Rat, stopping on the trail with his hackles up, then slinking away. Not one animal would continue down the wooded trail. They turned back, costing half a day. By the time the small group tried to attack them on the overhead trail, baffled by the earth wall, tempers were running high.

  Grip and Melchior are not so restrained in Wriyn’s company as with Kiedrid. Even Ivy cannot help snapping back a few times. Wriyn scowls when looking upon any of them now, particularly put out if Ivy is the one to reprimand his volume. No more “Miss Jerinson” from him. Nameless to her face, “the girl” when speaking of her.

  As much as she had wanted out of the city, Ivy regrets taking the job. She could have stayed in her room and been miserable all by herself without others to assist.

  Sam thanked her for the tea, yet remains uncomfortable talking to her. Ivy also does not know what to say to him, while saying anything at all is complicated by their employer’s flapping mouth and watchful glare.

  Wriyn makes her so uneasy she digs her nails into her palms around reins, trying to force her mind to othe
r things. Yet her mind has nowhere to go that is not even darker.

  As much as her own misgivings and frustrations nibble, Grip’s behavior bothers Ivy even more. He ignored Kiedrid, keeping as great a distance as possible. Kiedrid, it seemed, was only a means to an end. But he remains close to Wriyn on the trail, perpetually watching him or his horses. Since the man talks so much, Grip can appear to be listening and not irritate him by staring. But Ivy recalls what Rosalía told her and feels Grip’s attention to the miner is comparable to having a watchful dog single out an individual to follow with bared teeth.

  By the time they set their second camp of the trail, still many miles from Taos, Ivy feels exhausted by arguing and tension from riser sightings and her own terrible saddle. Wishing for Luck, as well as her fox, Ivy drags the saddle from the black mare, then pulls bacon and pintos from her bags to take Melchior. He and Sam are overseeing the fire for the evening.

  She is walking back to Correcaminos, noting how pleasant it is to have a horse who waits for you when you step away, when Wriyn says, “Mighty obliging bunch: menfolk doing the cooking for womenfolk. Course, as long as a fellow don’t worry they’ll get spoiled and good for nothing, suppose there’s no harm.”

  “There’s going to be harm if you don’t—” Melchior turns to face the miner, Sam cutting him off.

  “We share and rotate responsibilities, Mr. Wriyn. As we have told you.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. Don’t mind.” Wriyn leans against one of many rocks littering the bank at their backs. “’Spect that’s how some folks do things these days.” He chews a lump of tobacco he stored in his cheek all day for periodic use.

  Their camp is perched on a slight slope, a greater one starting to the west where Wriyn leans, lifting through rocks and stunted trees until a ragged peak forty yards up. The horses stand scattered in hobbles along the lowest, smoothest ground, Grip and Ivy distributing their corn and bran on top of hay from the pack horses.

  Before dinner, Grip climbs the slope to study surrounding countryside. Wriyn calls after him, asking if he sees more Plague-sick and do they need ballet slippers to protect themselves from attack? Chuckling at his own wit, the miner spits and stretches his arms behind his head.