Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

by Bergren, Lisa T.

  Bryce, Odessa, and Moira looked at Daniel. He had said nothing, merely reached out a hand to Bryce. “I’ve thought long and hard on this, Bryce, I appreciate the work here, but as you said, I’d be good at this.”

  Bryce took his hand and shook it, but his eyes flitted to Moira. She took a step forward.

  The others, sensing the tension between them, moved back into the house. The deputies and Mr. Weaver moved off a few respectful paces.

  Daniel took Moira’s arm and tugged her around the corner of the porch.

  She pulled out of his grip. “Stop it. Don’t touch me.”

  “Moira, I have to do this.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. You are choosing to do this. Choosing to leave me. Choosing to put yourself in danger.”

  He clamped his lips shut and slowly placed his hat on his head. “I’m sorry this hurts you. It wasn’t my intention to ever hurt you.”

  He regretted not finding the right time, the right way to tell her why he must do this. But deep down, he knew she would have objected to him taking the sheriff’s job regardless of when she found out. He needed to see this through, resolve the pain that had filled his heart for years.

  And the only way to do that was to track down his wife’s remaining killer.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Daniel and his deputies tracked the bank robbers to the mountains of New Mexico, but the outlaws made it onto a train there, or so eyewitnesses said, bound for the border. All they could do was telegraph ahead to U.S. Marshals near the Mexico line, but they held out little hope. Lawmen were fewer and farther between, the farther one traveled south.

  They began the slow trek back over the Raton Pass, aware that both their mounts and they were weary. In the bustling town of Trinidad they ate a hearty dinner, checked into the hotel, and fell into their beds. The next morning they headed out, hoping to make it to Walsenburg by nightfall. The road was dry, and a hot wind off the mountains to the west blew dust and grit against them, coating one side of their horses. Five stagecoaches passed them during the course of the morning—two headed south, three north—but there was not another soul on the road.

  At lunchtime, they paused beside the Apishapa River, little more than the muddy, caked remains common to lesser Colorado waterways in August, and ate venison jerky, bread, and dried fruit. Daniel shook his canteen. “Careful with your water rations, boys,” he said. “The next river might not be even this wet,” he said, gesturing down to the riverbed.

  He looked about at the deputies, all former miners, weary of the drudgery in the Silver Cliff mine, all young enough to consider the job of deputy glamorous. He knew they would vie to be in his position in a heartbeat. There was a redheaded man, Cleveland, sturdy and broad shouldered. Bret had sandy brown hair and a lisp when he spoke, which wasn’t often, but he had a wicked draw and better aim. Glen had darker brown hair and steady eyes, taking in everything they passed, always able to recall details that left the others in awe. They’d made a game of it, trying to trick him to pass the time. Never did they stump him.

  “So, Sheriff,” Glen said, eying Daniel carefully. “What made you leave that pretty girl on the ranch and come out for this?” He waved about.

  “Had something I needed to do.” Daniel took a bite of jerky and chewed slowly.

  “Care to share it?”

  “Not yet.” He clamped his lips shut.

  “Must be important, if you were willing to leave that pretty Miss St. Clair behind you for it.”

  Daniel met his dark eyes for a moment, letting him know he’d crossed the line. “It is.”

  Glen pursed his lips and nodded, fiddling with a dried apricot in his dust-encrusted fingers. “Is she your sweetheart?”

  Daniel cocked his head and started at him. “Is there something you want to say?”

  Glen cocked his head too and winced, as if what he had to say pained him. “Only that if I had a sweetheart on the Circle M, I’d keep a close eye on her.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Plenty of men out there to take my place, for one,” he said. “And then there’s the small matter of the St. Clair’s conquistador gold. Everyone knows how that little town is getting built. And that’s only a small portion of their wealth.”

  “What of it?”

  Glen pursed his lips again and raised his eyebrows. “These mountains are full of greedy men. And plenty more than willing to glean the fields after the harvest.”

  Slowly, carefully, Daniel rose to his feet, his fists clenched. “Are you threatening the St. Clairs?”

  Glen raised his hands, fingers splayed, and tucked his chin to his chest in submission. “Not me, boss. Not me. I have a job and I’m becoming partial to it. I’m talking about the bad guys.”

  Daniel drew in a long breath through his nostrils and let it out. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers. “Bryce is a good man. A wise man. He has a guard ’round the clock out there. He won’t be taken by surprise again.”

  Bret chewed his apricot and then put in, “It only takes a moment to grab someone. Plenty of people know about the gold. And they might think it easier to kidnap a person and demand a ransom, once hidden, rather than rob a bank in the center of town and be chased all the way to Mexico. We’ll need to keep an eye out toward the Circle M.”

  Daniel bit the inside of his cheek, remembering Odessa and Moira, riding out to Conquistador. They’d been on ranch property the whole time. Probably within sight of ranch hands most of the way. But Bret was right. It’d only take a moment. And they were all becoming a bit more lax.

  No. These were just the idle thoughts of lawmen too long on a dry, dusty road. And he was willing to entertain them because of what had happened to Mary.

  “Come on, mount up,” Daniel said, turning on his heel. “I want to make Walsenburg before sundown. Maybe even Farisita.”

  o

  Nic placed the shovelful of dirt in the bucket of the wheelbarrow and straightened, wincing in pain. He rubbed his shoulder; even after all these days, it was still sore. “This reminds me of shoveling coal in the steam engine of a ship,” he grumbled to Everett.

  Everett glanced back at him. There were two lamps that lit his face, one on either side of him, and he was chiseling out rock on either side of a section about the size of Nic’s fist, riddled with gold dust. “You were on a ship?”

  “Yes, one bound from South America.”

  “South America? That’s a long way from home.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He went back to tapping away rock, picking each piece up to examine it before putting it in either a slough or keep pile. “What were you doing down there?”

  “Running from home.”

  Everett leaned against the rock face, so he could see Nic. “Why’d you want to do that?”

  Nic sighed and turned away, digging into the pile of dirt again with the front end of his shovel. “I don’t rightly know.” He dumped a load into the wheelbarrow and sliced into the rocky heap again. “I suppose I was like a candlewick half bent on burning up—” he paused to dump his load and look to the boy—“and half bent on not burning up.”

  “It’s hard to do both,” Everett said.

  Nic smiled. “You’re right about that.” He moved over to the boy and offered him a hand up.

  “Where’d you live?” Everett asked, brushing off his trousers. It was futile. The mine coated everything in dirt just as clearly as the steam room on the ship had left Nic covered in soot. Every night they heated water from the stream and bathed.

  “Buenos Aires,” he said.

  “Buenos, where?”

  “Buenos Aires, in Brazil,” he said.

  “What were you doing there?”

  Nic looked up the shaft to see how much daylight they had left. Fifty feet up, there was an oval opening, and streaks of peach lined high, thin clouds. “Let’s call it a day. Get cleaned up. Make some grub.”

  Everett set aside his pick, blew out the lamps, and followed him to the roug
h ladder. They began climbing. “What were you doing in Brazil?” the boy asked him again.

  “Fighting.”

  “Fighting? Who? Why?”

  Nic sighed and reached for the next rung and then the next before he answered. “I was fighting in the ring. For money.”

  The boy was silent as they climbed the rest of the way up. Who was he to show a child how to grow up into a man? It was untenable, this situation. Yesterday, he’d just about decided to drop Everett at Sabine’s and head toward Westcliffe, when they took in the first bag of gold dust down to Claude’s. Turned out, they had pulled more than a hundred dollars worth of ore out in the last five days. Everett had grinned so widely at him, the first smile he’d seen from the child since his dad passed; Nic hadn’t the heart to follow through on his plans. Not to mention that he was curious to see just how long this vein would run.

  He felt better, clearer headed, the higher he climbed. Being down in that hole was the worst. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have been Peter, in the middle of a cave-in, hurt, wondering where his boy was, if he was okay. Nic knew he was going overboard with the braces, slowing down the rate they could be pulling ore, but there was no way he’d die down in that hole. Not if he could help it anyway.

  Nic reached the top and turned to give the boy a hand over the edge. He had no doubt that once Everett headed off to school, he’d miss the child down below. He didn’t know if he could do it—force himself below ground, alone. He turned around, dusting off his pant legs and gazing outward, then frowned. “Everett, did you throw a log in the fireplace after noon dinner?”

  “Did I—?” The child’s eyes followed his, to the small cabin. Smoke was billowing from the chimney. He shook his head.

  “Stay here,” Nic said, reaching for the rifle. He was walking down the hill to the cabin when she opened the door and smiled tentatively. Sabine. He breathed a sigh of relief and looked over his shoulder at Everett.

  But the boy was already running down the hill, a grin on his face. “Sabine!”

  Nic looked around, into the grove of trees that lined the creek bed, up above, along the cliff face. There was no sign of Sinopa. He could smell the food the closer they got. He tried to peer over her shoulder, but she put up her hands. “No, no, no,” she said, with that lovely accent that gave the word a positive meaning in his mind. Her lush lips were like a flower bud.…

  “You are not coming in here,” she said, lifting a pail of steaming water, “until you clean yourself up with this.” She turned aside and then handed Everett a second pail. Then again she turned and handed Nic a stack of clean clothes.

  “Dinner and a bath?” Nic said. “Did I step into a dream?”

  “I thought you could use a toothsome meal and a woman’s touch in the cabin. Peter was always very fastidious. I see that you are not,” she said, gesturing behind her.

  He lifted his free hand, feeling a bit defensive. “It’s not for want of trying. After digging in the dirt all day long, it’s a tad hard to keep the white fingernails of a gambler.”

  “Better to work hard and get your fingernails dirty than go that route,” she returned. “But a man can try.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Nic said, not wishing to argue. The longer they wrangled, the longer it’d take to eat. And his mouth was already watering. “We’ll be back, quick-like, because whatever you have cooking in there smells like something I’d do anything to get my hands on.”

  She shooed them off, hiding a smile, he was sure of it. They hurried down the path to the creek. There, Peter had fashioned a washtub by digging out a long, shallow hole, and lining it with pebbles from the streambed. He’d made a wooden wall for the creek side, with two sluices—one that allowed cold fresh creek water in, then sealed it off—and another to let it flow out. They filled the natural pool with water, then added their buckets of boiled water, which made it lukewarm.

  Someday Nic wanted a hot bath, all the way to his chin again, taken indoors, like a civilized man. But for now, it felt good to simply clean off the grime of the day. He and Everett dipped their heads in, lathered up from top to toe, rinsed, then rinsed again—the lye was stubborn, wanting to stick—and then quickly they dried themselves. In the cool of the mountain evening, their skin was covered in gooseflesh. They rubbed harder, and then threw the clean shirts over their heads and quickly pulled on clean underwear and trousers.

  Nic tucked his shirt into his waistband, but Everett left his hanging out, making him appear younger, innocent. Nic tried to comb his hair with his fingers, but he needed a proper comb. Then he did the same with the boy. They moved toward the cabin, feeling lighter and looking forward to the evening. Most nights were fairly dismal—opening a can of beans, staring at the fire in a weary stupor, feeling too tired to move. The boy often went to sleep and woke them both up crying. Tonight Nic hoped it might be different.

  They reached the door, and Nic fought the urge to knock. Shaking his head in irritation, he lifted the latch and entered. Sabine turned from the stove and wiped her hands on her apron, watching his reaction. “I could not leave it alone,” she said.

  She meant the cabin. It appeared that she had cleaned it all. Outside on the line were his clothes and Everett’s. Inside, every inch of the place had been touched. It felt oddly … intimate.

  Everett rushed over to the fireplace and stirred the pot that bubbled above it. Nic covered Sabine in a warm gaze of thanks.

  “I did it for the child,” she hissed to him, brushing past him to shut the door.

  He swallowed a teasing retort. Perhaps the odd sensation of intimacy had struck her too, and she felt caught, exposed. “Thank you,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It was kind of you.”

  She lifted her chin and gave her head a little shake, as if to dismiss the thanks, and moved back to the stove. She grabbed a thick cloth, bent, and opened the grate, pulling out a roasted chicken.

  “Chicken!” Everett screeched, rushing over to gawk at it.

  Nic had seen the chickens around Sabine’s yard. It was generous of her to share one with them. She put a hand on Everett’s shoulder. “I thought if Mr. St. Clair could help you build a coop, I might bring some chicks over next week. Then you’d have your own fresh poultry.” She turned her gaze upon him in tandem with Everett.

  Nic nodded. “Sounds like a wise idea to me,” he said. Could he stick around long enough to see chicks mature to slaughter? That remained to be seen.

  His eyes shifted to the desk in the corner. In one slot was a letter, addressed to an old friend in Kansas City, Missouri, the biggest city in the state. It was a long shot, but he was going to try—try to see if he could find any of Everett’s kin. That was who the boy belonged with. Not some stranger he’d known less than a couple of weeks. Had Sabine seen the letter as she bustled around the tiny cabin, changing bedding, cleaning floors and windowsills, scrubbing the glass? And why did he care if she did? Neither of them should consider this anything more than a temporary situation. He’d promised Everett a week. That week ended tomorrow.

  He sat down in a chair by the table, watching as Sabine showed the boy how to carve the chicken. She tore off a hunk of sourdough bread, placed a thick slice of chicken beside it, and then went over to the fireplace. She ladled a thick brown sauce over the chicken, full of carrots and potatoes and what smelled like apples. Then she fixed two more plates and joined Nic and Everett at the table. The child sat, transfixed, staring at the plate. It was obviously taking everything in him not to dive in immediately.

  Sabine folded her hands and looked over at Nic expectantly. He glanced from her to the child and saw that Everett had his hands folded and eyes closed. They were waiting for grace. Grace. How long had it been since he had asked a blessing over food? He thought back. Months. More likely years, he thought, bowing his head. He grasped for some memory of how one properly did this and came up with little. “God, I uh … umm … thanks for Sabine’s kindness and this food. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Sabine
said softly.

  “Amen!” said Everett. He immediately stabbed a big potato and thrust it into his mouth. His eyes rounded. “Hot,” he mumbled, his mouth full of food.

  Nic laughed under his breath and pointed to the boy’s tin cup of water. The boy took it and quickly took a sip. He swallowed and took a bite of chicken next. “Slow down, slow down,” Nic said, smiling.

  He looked over at Sabine and saw that she was smiling too, a warm look in her eyes. There was something about the child that brought out her softer side. Perhaps that was why she was a schoolmarm.

  When she caught him looking at her, her smile faded and she looked down at her food. No, she was an undeniably handsome woman, but she was as far out of his bounds as she was out of town. This was a woman who did not want a man. She was sealed off. Injured, somehow.

  Nic dug into his own food and chewed, relishing the tastes of delicate seasoning and flavors he had not experienced in months. Not since Buenos Aires had he had such a fine meal. He dared to glance at Sabine and then at Everett, then back to his food. They all ate in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

  He didn’t know what tomorrow would hold. He was too tired to decide tonight. After a good sleep, that would be when he’d know.

  o

  Nic awakened to find Everett sitting up, elbows on knees, chin in hands, staring at him again.

  “Ugh, Everett, please don’t do that,” Nic said, rolling over so his back was to the boy. But he could still feel the child’s eyes boring into his back.

  “Are you goin’ to leave?”

  “Not today,” Nic said with a groan.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The next day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He was silent for a time; then, “Why would you leave? The mine’s producing. Where would you go? For what?”

  Nic turned onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, then over at the boy. His hair was rumpled, standing up in all directions. His face still held the indentations of his pillow’s seam. But his eyes were clear, bright, focused. “Look, Everett. I told you before, mining’s not my game.”