by Jo Goodman
Kellen expected some small perfunctory protest from the brothers for being summarily dismissed. None came. When they were out of the room, Kellen opened his notebook and pulled out his pencil. “I don’t pretend that I can do justice to your profile, but I’d like to make a sketch if you’ll permit it.”
Uriah gestured his approval. “I hope you can ask a question because I feel like a damn fool right now.”
Kellen smiled. “Of course. Clay told me how you drove cattle up from Texas to start your ranch, but I don’t know how your influence made Bitter Springs a station for the Union Pacific, or how you managed to build a town around it. It is your town, isn’t it?”
“I have heard folks say it is. I don’t suppose I’ve ever said differently.”
Kellen continued to sketch while Uriah talked. He warmed to the subject when Kellen finished drawing and began to take notes, and he filled in the blanks left by Eli and Clay during the tour. He talked at length about the movement afoot to fold Wyoming into the Union and shared his doubts that anything good would come of trading territory status for statehood. He made his disdain for politicians clear, but saw the necessity of owning a few.
Kellen wrote furiously. When he pulled out a penknife to shave a sharper tip on his pencil, Uriah called out to Eli to bring some fresh pencils from the desk.
“You can keep them,” Uriah said. “Seems a man who scribbles as much as you should carry some extras.”
Kellen thanked him and got down to asking him about water rights. Dinner interrupted them, but Kellen was able to broach the subject of the survey over coffee.
“I imagine you are aware that Congress has authorized a comprehensive survey of the arid regions. That will include a good portion of the Wyoming Territory.”
“I knew it was a possibility. So it passed?”
“Yes.”
Uriah looked at his sons. “You boys knew about this?”
Eli and Clay exchanged glances, shrugged, and shook their heads.
“The Department of the Interior has already sent some surveyors out,” said Kellen. “There’s one in Bitter Springs now. He doesn’t have his men yet, but they’ll start arriving once he sends word back to Washington that he’s ready to start.”
“A surveyor in Bitter Springs,” Uriah said quietly. “Well, that’s something worth knowing. I ordered some new surveying equipment myself a while back. Eli and Clay took delivery of it almost a month ago.”
Kellen recalled the evening that it had been delivered. It was the same night that Jones injured himself during his walk and had to be helped to his room while Rabbit and Finn created a ruckus in his wake.
“Then you’re doing your own survey?” Kellen asked.
“Haven’t started yet, but that’s my intent. I know how the government will want to work this. They’ll try to keep out the speculators and take control of the land first so they can run things themselves. It didn’t work real well with the railroads, but I suspect they’ve learned a thing or two since then. I settled this land, fought for it, and I’m not giving it over so the government can parcel out water to all the folks who can’t get it for themselves.”
“The farmers, you mean.”
“Them, too. I’ve got my eye on some land with a good wellspring. I’m not saying where, mind you, but I won’t have any trouble making a claim for it at the land office.”
“That’s Harry and Charles Sample that work there, is that right?”
“That’s right. Cousins. Charles is the dependable one. We don’t think as highly of Harry anymore.”
Kellen knew that Harry Sample had been on the jury, but he asked the question as a matter of form. “What’s Harry done?”
“The man forgot who gave him a leg up,” Uriah said. “I don’t hold with forgetting the ones who helped you.” Uriah finished his coffee and pushed the cup and saucer away. “Are you going to tell me who this surveyor is, or do I find out some other way?”
“His name is Jones,” said Kellen. “John Paul Jones from the United States Geological Survey.”
“Jones?” Clay asked, getting up to pour himself something stronger than coffee. “That man staying at the Pennyroyal? The one that is hobbling around every time I see him?”
“That’s Jones.”
Clay curled his lip and shook his head. “I was talking to him last night. He never said a word about being a surveyor.”
“May I speak frankly?” asked Kellen. Uriah nodded grudgingly. “I believe Mr. Jones is afraid of you and your sons. He’s been warned to tread very carefully where the Burdicks are concerned.”
“I guess someone told him about how my boys’ mother took off with one of his kind.”
“I think that was the gist of it, yes. He would like to meet with you.”
Uriah chuckled deeply. “So you’re the messenger. I had it figured that your wife put you up to this, but I didn’t factor in the government’s interest in me.”
“I’m here for my story. I don’t care whether or not you meet with Mr. Jones, but after what you’ve told me about water rights and the survey, it occurs to me that the advantages of listening to Mr. Jones are all on your side.”
Uriah split his glance between his sons. “He’s a clever one. You should have said more about that. You know I don’t enjoy surprises.”
“Eli spent more time with him than I did,” said Clay. “He seemed regular smart to me.”
“You want a good story, don’t you, Pa?” asked Eli.
“I didn’t say I minded clever. I said I like to know about it.” He turned back to Kellen. “You tell Mr. Jones I’ll consider his request, but if we’re meeting, it won’t be out here. My boys and I will talk to him in town. Eli. Clay. How about you escort Mr. Coltrane off our property so he doesn’t wander and get himself lost? I think he can manage the last five miles on his own if you point his horse in the right direction.”
Raine was working in the business ledgers in her office when she heard Kellen’s familiar light tread on the stairs. She leaned back in her chair so she could see the door. The key was in the lock, but she knew she had forgotten to turn it. It was certain to be the first thing he mentioned.
Kellen knocked on the door, and when Raine didn’t answer, he tried the knob. It turned under his hand. He saw her sitting at her desk in a pool of lamplight, two ledgers spread out in front of her and scraps of paper in a loose pyramid off to the side.
“You didn’t lock the door.”
She smiled. Predictability was not entirely boring. “I forgot. I was juggling the ledgers, a couple of newspapers, and some catalogs. Oh, and a cup of hot cocoa.”
He took off his coat, hat, and gloves on his way to the bedroom. “That’s why you put things down and then lock the door.”
Lectures, though, were completely boring. She allowed him to reach the bedroom before she said, “You forgot to lock the door.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“Enormously.” She thought she saw him grinning as he disappeared into the bedroom. She heard the wardrobe open and close when he put away his coat, and then the sound of running water as he washed off the grit that clung to his face and neck. When he returned and brushed her proffered cheek with a kiss, he still smelled like man, horse, and leather but with a hint of peppermint in the fragrant mix.
Kellen retrieved a Windsor chair from the table in the sitting room and placed it near Raine’s desk. He slouched against the spindle back and barely made contact with the saddle seat as he stretched his legs toward her.
She gave him a knowing look. “You’re not used to so much time on horseback.”
“God, no.”
“You should soak in the tub. Make the water as hot as you can stand it, and I’ll bring you some salts.”
“In a little while.”
“Did they keep you out most of the day?”
He nodded. “I saw about as much as a man can see in a single day.” He flexed his right hand. “My h
and’s cramped. I wasn’t expecting that.” He got out his notebook and gave it to her. “I made sketches and took notes. I doubt you can read the latter, but my drawings aren’t too badly done.”
Raine opened up the book and began fingering through it. Her eyebrows rose as she turned over page after page of notes. She paused over the sketches. “I confess I am surprised at the detail. It didn’t occur to me that you would take this part so seriously. I suppose I imagined you would scribble a few things, but this?” She closed the notebook and held it up. “This could become a real story.”
Kellen’s laugh mocked the idea. “I don’t see it appearing in the New York World.”
“Maybe not, but it would be something, wouldn’t it?”
“I told Uriah that if he gave me enough information, Pulitzer might stretch the story for a week. He appeared to like the idea.”
“You flattered him.”
“He takes to it as well as any other man.”
“I didn’t realize.” She set the notebook on the corner of her desk. “He killed my brother. His sons all had a part in my sister’s death. It’s difficult for me to think of him as any kind of man at all. He’s something more than that, and something less, but he’s not a man.”
“Does it help you to believe that?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Then I won’t try to change your mind.” He lifted his boot heels to rest on a rung of her chair. “Was Scott Pennway buried today?”
“Yes. There was a service in Annie’s home and then the burial before dusk. The Ransoms didn’t attend, but it seemed as if the rest of the town was there. Rabbit and Finn stood with Annie’s son. I don’t think they’ve ever been so quiet or so solemn. It was very sad to see them like that.”
“I’m sorry, Raine.”
She dashed impatiently at a tear. Her brief smile trembled. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything.”
“That’s right. I didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know, but I’m right. I couldn’t save Scott Pennway. I couldn’t prevent Emily Ransom’s death. Nothing connects Emily to the Burdicks except perhaps her friendship with your sister. I can’t see how it fits. George Weyman hasn’t been found, and Dan Sugar appears to be satisfied that Weyman murdered Emily. The talk I hear is that most people agree. As a guest in the Pennyroyal, Weyman had the opportunity to take one of my cuff links and leave it behind with Emily’s body. So instead of being able to assist in finding out who really killed Emily, I’ve had to enlist your cooperation to create an alibi that helps the deputy point a finger at an innocent man. An innocent dead man.”
Kellen let his head fall backward. The muscles in his throat were stretched taut. He closed his eyes. “And I still don’t know who gutted Nat Church on the train.”
Not wanting to be patronizing, Raine resisted the urge to reach out to put a hand on his knee. “You can’t be certain that Mr. Weyman isn’t Emily’s killer any more than Dan Sugar can be certain he is. As for Scott Pennway and Nat Church, that’s the Burdicks.”
Kellen sat up again. “I can’t prove it.”
“Yet. You can’t prove it yet.”
He nodded slowly. “I think I’ll see about that hot bath.”
Raine poked her head in the bathing room half an hour later when she did not hear Kellen stirring. He was slouched in the tub much as he had been earlier in the chair. One foot rested under the hot water tap, positioned so that with a little manipulation he could turn the faucet on and off. Raine couldn’t see the other foot, but she suspected it was resting by the drain plug, perhaps with the chain cleverly wrapped around his toe. His neck rested against the curved rim of the tub, and his eyes were closed. His hair was wet, slicked back but already starting to curl at the ends, and there was soapy evidence just below his ear that he had washed it.
He had not shaved. The stubble on his jaw was the same shade of chestnut brown as his hair. She touched her cheek where he had kissed her and could easily recall the texture of that kiss as his face brushed hers.
His chest rose and fell evenly, but there was a moment when his mouth twitched that made her think that not only wasn’t he sleeping but that he knew she was staring at him. Feeling rather foolish, as though she had been caught talking to herself or dancing without a partner, Raine backed out and closed the door.
By the time she was ready for bed, she heard splashing and then more water being added to the tub. This time she knocked on the door to announce her intention to enter. Kellen was sitting up and leaning forward, trying to reach his back with a soapy sponge. Raine thought that his halfhearted attempt was more in the way of an invitation than an example of self-sufficiency.
Smile firmly in check, she asked, “Would you like some assistance?”
He straightened, held out the sponge as though he were offering a gift, and smiled sheepishly. “Please?”
“Pathetic.” Raine dropped a couple of towels on the floor beside the tub and knelt. She took the sponge, wrung it out over his back, and then applied it with some vigor between his shoulder blades. “You need a shave.”
Kellen rubbed the back of one hand against his jaw. “So I do.”
Raine did not hear any enthusiasm for it. Because she considered that ultimately it was in her interest to have him clean shaven, she made the offer to do it for him. His response was a skeptical, sidelong glance. “I used to shave Adam,” she told him. “Sometimes he was feeling too poorly to do much for himself. He never complained, and I never cut him. He said I was at least as good as Mr. Stillwell and an improvement over Dave Rogers.”
“I suppose if I can’t trust you with a razor in your hand, I shouldn’t be sleeping in your bed.”
Raine’s laughter was low and husky and ever so slightly wicked. “I had not considered that, but it’s an excellent point. A pillow over your face would work as well.”
“Precisely.”
“Why are you sleeping in my bed?”
“I like it there.”
“Convenience?”
He shook his head. “Comfortable.”
“You mean the bed.”
“No, actually I mean you.”
Raine stopped making circles on his back. Her fingers tightened on the sponge and rivulets of water raced down his spine. “I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly comfortable person to be around.”
“Well, you probably shouldn’t rush to embrace another opinion. I was only talking about how comfortable you are to be with when you’re sleeping.”
She slapped him on the back of his head with the sponge.
“See?” he said, unperturbed. “You have a thorny kind of charm when you’re awake.”
Raine soaked the sponge and thwacked him with it again. “Finish your back,” she said, starting to rise. “I’m getting the razor.”
Kellen lay in bed on his side with Raine curled to fit the sharper angles of his frame. She was comfortable. Awake, she was indeed challenging, and at some point he discovered not only that he had come to admire that quality, but also that she made him better for it. She was stubborn, but then so was he. Faulting her for it left him exposed to the same accusation. She could stand up for herself, and she could also slip sideways out of a confrontation when it served her.
And then there were those qualities of character that kept her in conflict with herself. She understood that her desire for justice was compromised by the insidious nature of revenge. The vulnerability that she would not admit to chipped at her strength. She was humbled that she had to ask for help but not so prideful that she didn’t know she needed it. She had concern and consideration for others yet would deny that she was deserving of the same.
He could think of only a few occasions when she had acted with seemingly no regard for the consequences, and he was not merely a witness to them but the beneficiary as well.
She came to him without reserve or expectation. He had suspected the existence of a deep well o
f passion in her, but he wondered if he had been right or fair to reveal it to her. She had responded to him the first time he kissed her, not tentatively, but fully, ardently, hungrily. Had he tapped her passion or her profound sense of aloneness?
He acknowledged the selfishness of the question that pricked at him so often he expected to find blood: Had circumstance conspired to make him a convenience?
When he stepped off the train, he had been a curious but reluctant visitor to Bitter Springs. It had to be acknowledged that curiosity, while it still existed, no longer exerted the same magnetic pull, and that when he left Bitter Springs, his departure would be infinitely more reluctant than his arrival.
The Widder Berry accounted for the difference. Kellen did not need to look elsewhere for an explanation. The Widder Berry. The thought of how unsuited she was to that sobriquet and how convincingly she had embraced it made his wry smile turn a shade rueful. She deserved so much better.
It didn’t follow that he was the better that she deserved. Thus far, his contributions had been lying to her and lying with her. It remained to be seen which she regarded as worse, but she would be within her rights to want to see him, in the vernacular of the locals, decorating a cottonwood for it. He preferred the more grisly euphemisms for hanging such as gurgling on a rope and strangulation jig, but they all worked, and Raine had a fine, feminine grace about her, so if she suggested that he look up at the sky through cottonwood leaves, he would be honor bound to fetch the rope.
Under the blankets, Kellen ran his palm from Raine’s shoulder to her elbow. His touch was light, tender. He did not want to wake her; he wanted the reassurance that she was there. He could not recall that he had ever known that need before.
He liked her. Liked her a lot. Whether or not he loved her, was in love with her, or wanted her so much that what he had was love’s equivalent of fool’s gold, Kellen didn’t know.
He needed to be sure. He’d never convince her if he had a single doubt of his own.
