A Western Romance: James Yancey - Taking the High Road (Book 3) (Taking the High Road series)

by Morris Fenris

  Move slowly. Carefully. Shift position. Big mistake. His stomach roiled in protest, and he groaned. Don’t get sick. No time. Can’t get sick.

  One arm pressed across his middle, as if to hold the contents in place, he managed to pull himself to a sitting position and regain some sort of consciousness.

  Of where he was, for one thing.

  “The floor,” he muttered. “The library floor.”

  What the bloody hell—?

  And why he was here.

  Backed up against the chair, James squinted, casting about for reality. Nearby lay last night’s burgundy bottle, emptied and overturned, along with two goblets, one also emptied, the other colored by dregs of wine. Good God. Just how much of that stuff had he put away, anyway? No wonder his mouth tasted like the inside of some smoker’s old corncob pipe, and his heart was beating with the frenzy of a freight train, in tempo with the pounding of those imps upon his head.

  All right. That much established. Making progress.

  Strange. Something felt strange.

  He looked down.

  Shirt gone. No shirt? Why no shirt? Naked to the waist. And chilled.

  A further look. Draped by a quilt whose brilliant colors dazzled eyes already afflicted by morning light. And under the quilt—

  Pants gone. Underwear gone. No pants? No underwear? Naked below the waist. Definitely chilled.

  Great holy hanks of hell, what was going on here?

  Still dazed and uncomprehending, his bloodshot gaze circled the room, wall by wall, to the doorway. There stood Molly, the source of his wake-up squall.

  He was able to see that she was wearing a tailored shirtwaist and flowing navy skirt; under the narrow brim of an old straw hat, her rich henna hair was drawn back into a knot, and she was carrying a small drawstring reticule. Neatly dressed—primly dressed—in what had become her uniform.

  But her face. Oh, dear God, her sweet lovely freckly face: white as the granite of a gravesite marker, with shock and disgust written on every feature.

  “Uh. Molly,” James managed to croak. He started to rise, tripped over the hem of the quilt, and thought better of it. Plopping back onto the floor, for safety’s sake, he held out one palm, in supplication. “Molly. You’re up.”

  There was no softening of the stony appearance, or of the rigid tone. “And, apparently,” she shot him a glance that nearly scorched his bare skin, “so are you.”

  Following her glance downward, he blushed to the roots of his hair. “Uh. Molly. Darlin’. We gotta talk.”

  “We have nothing more to talk about, James. I’m packed, the surrey is loaded with my baggage, and Hiram has offered to drive me back to town.”

  “No, Molly, wait a minute,” he pleaded, frantic to make her understand. “Stay, sit down with me. There’re facts you don’t know. Things have changed!”

  Only one slight movement disrupted the inflexible set of her expression: she lifted an eyebrow in absolute disbelief. “They certainly have,” she agreed. “Goodbye, James. I wish I could say I’ve enjoyed this little interlude. Please give my best to Emma. Or to Rosa. It’s such a difficult choice to make among so many women, isn’t it?”

  “Rosa?” His thumping pulses were awash in confusion. “What’s Rosa got t’ do with anything?”

  The tilt of Molly’s head indicated some space in the corner, behind his chair.

  The slam of the door upon her exit sent his pain level into the stratosphere.

  Gathering up the shield of his quilt with both hands, he crawled carefully sideways, like a crab, until he could glimpse the sight that had met Molly’s astounded view. And then he collapsed with another agonizing groan.

  On the wooden floor lay Rosa, curled up naked as a newborn, slumbering softly away.

  IX

  “I think you got yourself into a passel o’ trouble, little brother.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said James, irritated. “How’s that?”

  John, the former Pinkerton man, tipped his chair back against the porch wall, employing the usual male balancing act with two instead of four legs, to enjoy the surrounding scenery that seemed to burst upon the senses.

  Nearby, flower boxes and giant clay urns held a plethora of blooming, sweet-scented annuals: hummingbird sage, yarrow, California lilac, and Matilija poppy. Farther out, mid-morning shadows shortened as the August sun rose into its zenith; turtle doves hushed their cooing, lories and parakeets paused their flitting in the heat of day. In the way-off, a band of blue-green foothills cooled the eye as well as soothed the soul.

  Early this morning, John Yancey had arrived at the Condor, dropped his mare’s reins over the hitching rail, and paraded confidently through the front door, shouting for his brother.

  “Pinkerton man?” an astonished James said, emerging from the kitchen. He was dressed, at least, having arisen, as usual, at dawn to tend to ranch chores. But, with no expectation of visitors, he had neither broken his fast nor shaved his face.

  “H’lo, Jim, boy. Good t’ see you.”

  The two men had eaten together, talking desultorily about unimportant things, then walked around the inlaying part of the property: corrals, barn, stable, gardens. Finished with the tour, they had returned to the front porch for coffee and, according to John, “A confab.”

  “Nice place you got here, Jimbo,” John commented. “If you’re still lookin’ for a partner, I might wanna cut in.”

  “What passel of trouble?”

  “Oh, yes; that. Well, most men would be happy to settle in with one lady. But, no, little brother. Not you. You gotta get yourself three.”

  His temper rising, James slapped his hat against one thigh, several times. “Gol’ dang it, John, it wasn’t that way a’tall. I toldja how things went.”

  “Ahuh. You had this good-lookin’ Mexican girl right b’side you all night, both of you naked as jaybirds, and you never once slipped it to her.” A look of pure skepticism. “Ahuh. Sure. Think I was born yesterday, Jimmy?”

  James slammed down his chair and, fists clenched, surged to his feet like a rocket blasting off. “I don’t give a rat’s ass when you were born. I took you down many a time when we were kids, and I can damn well take you down again! Right now, by God. Stand up and give an account of yourself!”

  Chuckling, John held up both hands, palms flat in surrender. “Keep your shirt on, little brother. At least for t’day.”

  “John, goddammit—!”

  “See, that was always your problem—you got a hot head on you. Calm down and deal with the fact that you’re gonna get a shitload of teasin’ about this whole thing.” His chair came down, flat to the floor, with a soft thump, and the detective leaned forward, elbows splayed across both knees, in a listening pose. “Okay, Jimbo. Get serious, now. Tell me again how this went.”

  With the heave of a long-suffering sigh, James propped his backside onto the porch railing and unraveled the chain of events once more: the ride to explore Condor ranch holdings, the unanticipated storm blowing in, the burgeoning relationship of affinity and warmth, the arousing dalliance that he had somehow stopped just short of going over the top.

  “That’s mighty willpower, brother,” John said with admiration. “Dunno that I coulda done it. She must be some kinda woman, this Molly of yours.”

  “She ain’t mine. And not likely t’ ever be, neither.”

  “Aw, have some faith in yourself, son. Hell, even if you ain’t got looks, you got money.” Another chuckle, which produced only a sickly smile in response. “Ahuh. So then what?”

  Then came the return trip, hurried, rushed, and marked by icy silence.

  “First time atop a hawse, John, and she kept on a’goin’ like a fire-eater.” James shook his head, partly in approval, partly in disbelief. “Dunno how bad her whole body musta been hurtin’, so I didn’t bother her after she went straight t’ bed.”

  “This note from Emma—”

  “Yeah, that’s another head-scratcher. No idea anything like that might come about
. I didn’t wanna disturb Molly with the news, thought I’d wait till next day and we’d celebrate. ’Cept Rosa suggested I start celebratin’ early.”

  “Rosa. Hmmph. Like t’ have a talk with that girl,” said the former Pinkerton man, considering. “She still around?”

  “Reckon so. Kinda runnin’ the household staff.”

  John nodded in a knowing kind of way. “Not surprisin’. So she gave you some wine, you had a glass t’ drink, and you don’t remember anything else that happened after that till next mawnin’.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  A quick upward look, bright and curious as a falcon’s. “And she claims you—uh—took advantage of her.”

  Embarrassment washed up over his unshaven face in a flood of color. “Well, not s’ much. I mean, after Molly took off, and I cleaned up and got dressed, I tried talkin’ with Rosa. She just cried and wouldn’t tell me much.”

  “Smooth tactics. The proverbial victim.”

  Frowning, James straightened against the railing. “Whaddya mean, tactics?”

  The elder brother gave the younger a pitying look. “Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy. Emma Palmer ain’t the only one in this mix-up too naïve t’ get along. Didja offer to make an honest woman outa Rosa?”

  “Well, no…not yet, but—” James scrubbed at his beard with one restless hand. “Jesus, John, is that really the next step? D’ you think that—”

  “Leave it for right now, okay? Lemme gather some facts. Meanwhile, what’re you gonna do about Molly?”

  Shambling to his feet, James took a few paces away, paused, and wrapped an arm around the porch pillar. “When I get things straightened out here, I hope to go talk with her. See if—see if there might still be hope for us…or if she’s done with me forever.”

  “A word of advice, little brother?”

  “Sure.”

  “When there’s trouble brewin’,” said John sagely, “the longer you leave a woman alone, the longer she’ll stew over it and make matters worse. You gotta nip it in the bud.”

  A sidelong, bitter look. “What’re you, the voice of experience?”

  “Damn sight more’n you are, Jimmy boy. I’ve been married a few years, remember? As soon as Molly took off, you shoulda hopped up on your fastest horse and high-tailed it right after her. Big mistake, lettin’ her go off like that, thinkin’ you don’t care. Makes you look like a cold-hearted bastard.”

  “Huh. Well, I ain’t,” retorted James. “Whadja come out here for anyway, Pinkerton man, just t’ give me hell?”

  After a minute, John rose and crossed the porch to sling one arm around his brother’s shoulders. “No, Jim. I came out t’ give you support. And t’ help you fix this mess.”

  Dark brown eyes gazed intently into dark brown, thoughtful, speculative, in an unspoken communion shared by the whole Yancey clan on a whole different wave of intelligence.

  “Where is she, John?” James asked softly. “I been worried sick about her. Where’s she go, and how’s she doin’?”

  The detective could sympathize. He’d been in a few scrapes over a woman himself, at times.

  “Physically, she’s fine. With Star bein’ so far along, and cranky t’ boot, and our house bein’ full of twins, Molly went back t’ the Goddard place. Settled in there till she decides what’s next, I guess. Otherwise, from what I’ve found out, she’s mad as a hornet and, at the same time, all torn up over you and this ranch.”

  Suddenly it seemed that a fist shoved itself directly inside James’ breast to squeeze his heart like an orange, and he wheezed out a helpless breath. The force of reaction almost bent him over. “Oh, God,” he whispered miserably.

  His brother’s arm strengthened and tightened around his shoulders.

  “Buck up, Jimmy. It’ll all work out. Now, c’mon. We got things t’ do, places t’ go, people t’ see.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The first order of business, insisted James, was to travel south.

  “South? Son, your woman is north. What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Emma, Pinkerton man. I sent for her, all the way across the country. She’s my responsibility, and I won’t rest easy till I know she’s okay.”

  “You are the most stubborn, hard-headed, single-minded—all right, little brother. We’ll head south. Got any idea where Emma ended up?”

  “Soledad,” said James, tightening the cinch around Amigo’s belly. “The Alfaro Ranch, near Soledad.”

  The saddle creaked under his weight as John climbed aboard his patient mare. “A long trip, then. Maybe six, seven hours.”

  “Yep.” James glanced over at his brother with a smile. “That’s why I got Sinbad to pack up some food for us t’ take along. Liable to get mighty hungry, come nightfall.”

  Laughing, John turned away from the hacienda. “Why, Jimmy, good thinkin’. We’ll have us a picnic. And Rosa?”

  “Just told her I had some business t’ take care of, not where I was headin’. And I stalled her off by sayin’ we had somethin’ important to talk about when I get back. Our future.”

  Pinkerton man beamed as if a child of his had just said or done something extraordinarily intelligent. “I like the way your mind works, Jimbo. Let’s ride.”

  The road led south, veering slightly to the east, in a series of dusty brown paths or wagon tracks or single-file trails. During the next few hours, varying in gait from gallop to trot to walk, they passed along a few small ponds and creeks; through grassy flatland and wooded slopes; across barren brown hills that looked folded upon themselves, like corduroy fabric; into rocky terrain dominated by greasewood and Manzanita, cougar and coyote and condor.

  As a military man, James took the lead, and decreed a stop in mid-afternoon to rest the horses and investigate Sinbad’s food packet. Then it was back in the saddle for a few more hours’ ride.

  Halting briefly at a small gathering of buildings that would, in the near future, become known as Gonzales, the Yancey brothers paid for a quick meal at the only saloon and pinned down the location of the Alfaro ranch.

  Their arrival, just as late afternoon was edging into early twilight, was greeted by several happily barking dogs and a flock of dusty chickens that scattered past the entrance and beyond.

  “Place appears decent enough,” was John’s opinion, as they reined in, dismounted, and tied the horses at a convenient water trough.

  “Yeah, more’n decent. Well set-up. I’m just hopin’ that—”

  “Jim!”

  In the doorway stood Emma, with her vibrant blonde hair hanging full and loose down over her shoulders, wearing a very incongruous Mexican peasant outfit: gauzy off-the-shoulder blouse and flowing skirt of, like Joseph’s coat, many colors. Somehow it suited her.

  “What in the world are you doin’ here?”

  “Well, now, Emma, I got your note—” James began, proceeding toward her, his once-upon-a-time young bride.

  “Señores!” This time it was Benito who appeared, grinning ear to ear under his thin black mustache. “You have come to call upon us at the Alfaro hacienda. Welcome, Señores, welcome!” He slipped one arm around Emma’s waist and beckoned their visitors forward.

  The brothers exchanged a dubious glance. Better smiles than rifles or knives.

  Señora Alfaro waddled out about then to see what was going on. An enormously overweight woman, she was trailed by several small children, a couple of teenagers, a cat or two, and three mongrel dogs who promptly sprawled onto the tile floor and began to scratch.

  “Hola,” she said, radiating warmth and good humor like a beacon.

  “Mi madre,” explained Benito. Immediately a conversation ensued between the two in rapid Spanish, then he turned back to the guests with a smile. “Please to come inside, Señores. One of my men will take care of your horses. Meanwhile, you may wash off the dust of the trail and join us at the supper table.”

  James, who felt he had arrived somewhat under false pretenses, tried to demur. “Well, now, Mr. Al
faro, that’s mighty nice of you all, but John and me, we—”

  “You may as well not try arguin’, Jim,” Emma interrupted, giggling. “Mama Alfaro has invited you, and her word is law. She rules the roost here, gentlemen.”

  “Ah. Well, then.” Another exchange of glances. John shrugged. If hospitality demanded they stay, then by God they would stay.

  The evening meal proved to be loud, boisterous, and quite filling, with platters being passed around of tacos, some sort of avocado paste, enchiladas, refried beans, and chunks of roast beef. At last count James noted seven unmarried Alfaro sons around the huge trestle table, three unmarried daughters, two married couples, and a passel of grandchildren running hither and yon. Señor Alfaro, a tall, handsome man who smiled much and spoke little, had come in from the fields shortly before and now sat at the head of the table, directing traffic.

  The place was a madhouse.

  And he found himself enjoying it.

  “So what are you doin’ here, James?” asked Emma, who had been seated next to him. “No, no es mi prometido,” she diverged to shout at Mama Alfaro, fifteen feet away at the foot of the table. “Es muy amigo.” Serenely she returned her attention to her dinner partner. “Well?”

  “Damn,” said James, incredulous.

  “That’s true, Jim, darlin’ but you mustn’t let Mama hear you. She don’t like swearin’. Well?”

  He looked at her, straight on. “I was worried about you. I wanted t’ make sure everything was all right, that you were happy.”

  Putting down her glass of wine, Emma glowed. “Well, isn’t that nice of you! And after I treated you all so badly, and ran off like I did.”

  “I think we both come to realize that we weren’t a fit match, Emma. But—are you sure this is what you want?”

  She sat back in her chair to cast a contented glance around the bright, riotous, overheated, garish room. “Yes, Jim. This is exactly what I want. Funny, ain’t it, after the way I took on so? But Benito and I simply can’t get enough of each other, and we plan on gettin’ married in a couple months. I’m learnin’ Spanish, I’m fittin’ in here. It’s where I was meant t’ be, Jim.”