Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  Priscilla struggled to hold back tears. She was a woman now; she’d known that since the first time she saw Will Radnor. And she was happy about it—or she would be, once their trouble with the Haskels was over. Will had showed her that being a woman, a lady, wasn’t contradictory to her nature. She loved him; he loved her. Their love was strong; it supported her even now, through Pa’s arrest and Mama’s strange behavior.

  “Whatever it is, Mama, I don’t need to know. I’ll take your word. I don’t expect you to tell me everything about your life. Or Pa, either…” Her words drifted on the soft evening breeze, for Priscilla realized suddenly that she did expect that. No matter how dreadful—but how could anything in Mama’s life have been dreadful?—she needed to know. It was her life, too. In a sense, what happened to her parents, happened to her.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to make it difficult. I’m listening.”

  When Kate spoke again, it was painstakingly, as though each word was more difficult to speak than the last. “Bart Ellisor’s father married my mother. I was fifteen. Bart was eighteen. One day…” Suddenly Mama was crying. Priscilla heard it in her voice. She turned to see moonlight glisten off the wet streaks that streamed down her face.

  Slipping from her chair, Priscilla knelt beside her mother and buried her face in her lap. Kate stroked Priscilla’s hair with trembling hands. Finally, she reached in her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, darling. I’d never told this story to anyone except your papa until they took him away the other day and Jessie and I were here alone. She’d told us Bart was coming, and I…I panicked.”

  Priscilla lifted her face. Sitting back on her heels, she took her mother’s hands. “Well, you don’t have to tell it again.”

  “I must. Truthfully, I want to. My mother would never allow me to talk about it. It wasn’t mentioned in our house, not once in ten long years. If my mother had been able to talk with me, to share with me, even to cry with me, maybe…maybe…” Kate sniffled, squared her shoulders, and continued. “One day while our parents were in town, Bart…Bart raped me.”

  A dizzying sickness washed over Priscilla. For a moment the darkness seemed alight with thousands of twinkling stars, then she realized she was squeezing her eyelids closed. She reached for her mother, drew her near. “How dreadful.”

  When Kate tried to continue, Priscilla stopped her. “No. Not another word. You don’t have to talk about this.”

  Kate struggled free. She clasped Priscilla’s face in both hands. “I want to, darling. You need to know. As things turned out, I should have told you long ago.”

  The horror of Mama’s disclosure began to sink in. No wonder she’d reacted to seeing Bart with such vehemence. Tears rolled unchecked down Priscilla’s face. “I brought him here, a living reminder—”

  “I’ve recovered from the assault, darling. As much as anyone ever recovers from such a horror.” Kate’s voice trembled. Priscilla heard her draw a deep, determined breath. “That’s the reason I fell to pieces, seeing the two of you together. Knowing you’d been in the mountains with him for days.”

  “Nothing happened,” Priscilla assured her. “Bart was…he was a perfect gentleman.”

  “I’m sure. He’s never stopped trying to make up to me for…what he did.” Kate sighed. “That’s what drove him to the outlaw trail. I know it. He wasn’t a bad person; he was well liked in town. He made one mistake—one terrible mistake.”

  Priscilla couldn’t stop crying. “How can you say that? After he…after he…”

  “It’s true. Now all he wants is my forgiveness. I’ve never been able to forgive him.”

  “That’s what Pa meant. A long time ago I heard him talking about Bart—I didn’t even know his last name. Pa said he was an outlaw who had pledged to come to your aid anytime, anywhere.”

  Kate nodded.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. We haven’t time for that.”

  “But what…what will we do with him?”

  “Do with him?”

  “I mean, he’s coming back, bringing Pa. He’ll be here anytime. By morning, Will said. What should we do?”

  “We’ll do nothing, Priscilla. He came to help. We needed his help. We’ll thank him for it.”

  “But…I mean, you can’t stand to…to see him.”

  “Nonsense, darling. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Bart since…” Regrouping, Kate continued, “I saw him in California once, before you were born.” She smiled at Priscilla. “I wished him well. That wasn’t what he wanted. Like I said, he wanted, I’m sure he still wants, my forgiveness.” Kate stared into the distance with pursed lips. “I don’t know…I just don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to forgive him, Mama. Not ever. How could you?”

  “Priscilla, darling, life isn’t that simple. You liked Bart a lot, until now. He’s personable, like you said, a gentleman. He wrecked his whole life with one terrible mistake when he was young.”

  “And yours. He wrecked your life, too.”

  “Some of mine, yes. But I was the lucky one. I found your papa.”

  Priscilla squinched her lids against another rush of tears. “Pa.”

  Kate drew Priscilla close, squeezed her a minute, then turned her loose. Priscilla felt her stiffen. When she turned, she saw them, too, standing in the darkened barn door.

  Priscilla grabbed her rifle. Kate placed a hand on her arm. The shadows took form.

  “Pa.” And behind him, Joaquín and Bart. When she jumped up, Kate stopped her.

  “Wait here, darling.”

  While Priscilla watched, Kate left the veranda and ran to the arms of her husband. The door slammed; Jessie came up beside Priscilla; she paused, then hurried down the steps. Priscilla watched, stunned, as Jessie headed straight for Bart Ellisor. She didn’t throw herself in his arms, but stopped in front of him, reached to place her hand on his shoulders and stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips.

  Priscilla recalled the day she herself had kissed Bart on the cheek. After what her mother told her, revulsion stirred in her stomach. But it was quickly squashed by reality—her mother’s pragmatic recitation of the vile act that had taken place so long ago. Mama claimed that was what drove Bart to the outlaw trail.

  Priscilla had wondered—given the opportunity, she knew she would probably have asked him—what had happened to lead him astray.

  The vile deed could never be excused. But Mama had recovered. Now Priscilla had to decide how she felt about it and how she would treat Bart.

  While she watched from the veranda, Mama and Pa drew apart. Mama turned to Joaquín, took both his hands. Then she turned to Bart and took his hands, too.

  Priscilla cringed inside, wondering whether she could have reacted so graciously and why her mother felt it necessary. Then she thought of Will Radnor, of what he meant to her. And she knew she would shake the hands of the devil himself if he helped protect Will from harm.

  Lost in thought, Priscilla didn’t realize Joaquín had moved until he stood on the step below her.

  “Your white-eyes lawyer got off to Chimayo, Jake.”

  “I wish we were with him.”

  “He’ll make it. He’s not as green as you think.”

  “I know.” Priscilla heard her voice tremble and knew it was as much from Joaquín’s attempt to reassure her, as from worry over Will. “Thank you.”

  He stood stock-still, his head tipped toward her. His face, what she could see of it in the waning hours of night, was expressionless. When she lifted her hand to touch him, he turned away.

  “Joaquín.”

  He turned. Although she knew he couldn’t see her any more clearly than she could see him, she somehow felt bound to him.

  “I’m glad you have the canyon.”

  He shrugged.

  “I…I always thought you were my brother.” Again, she reached toward him. Her hand remained suspended, upturned, in the void between them. “I wish you were.”

&n
bsp; He merely grunted in response, but somehow—perhaps because she wanted to believe it—he didn’t sound as cynical. When he finally spoke, it was in a subdued tone. “Even if it meant sharing Charlie McCain?”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Even if it meant sharing everything.”

  Will found Judge Anson as agreeable as Kate had suggested. After examining the document Charlie had signed and the affidavits from Kate and Crockett stating that Charlie McCain never left the ranch on the night Joaquín broke out of jail, the judge signed papers by which the charges on both Charlie and Joaquín were dropped.

  Then Will went in search of Doc Sloan, where he found Charlie’s old range cook, Ol’ Soggy Bottoms, recovered enough to ride back to the ranch. Using Charlie’s name, Ol’ Sog purchased a horse at the Chimayo livery and the two set out for Spanish Creek.

  Will soon discovered the old biscuit cutter to be a talkative soul, whose favorite topic was Jake McCain.

  “She’s like a daughter to Crockett an’ me, both. We helped raise her. An’ I’d say we done a right fine job.”

  Will agreed, although he would rather not have discussed Priscilla’s attributes for two solid days. He was on his way to destroy her world, and he didn’t need anyone to make him feel more guilty than he already did.

  “Best danged horsewoman in the territory. Likely the best horseman, too.”

  Will agreed.

  “Best danged shot in the territory, man or woman.”

  Will agreed. He could have related the incident on the stagecoach to Ol’ Sog, but he didn’t. He could have offered the night he helped Charlie defend Spanish Creek as proof of his own marksmanship, but he didn’t.

  “Purtiest girl in the territory.”

  Will agreed.

  “You ain’t got much to say, Radnor. What’s matter, cat got your tongue?”

  Will shrugged.

  “Or has that little gal got you tongue-tied? Seems to me it’s time for her to be findin’ a feller, and from what you’ve told me about helpin’ Charlie an’ Joaquín out of their fixes…well, it’s my guess there’s more to it than offerin’ a neighborly hand to a man in a twister.”

  “Joaquín is my client,” Will argued. “As for the rest, let’s just say I don’t like to see officers of the court playing by their own rules.”

  Ol’ Sog spat a stream of tobacco off to the side. “Sure, son. Anything you wanna call it’s fine by me.”

  What Will wanted to call it and what it was, were horses of two different colors. But wasn’t he doing the very thing he accused the Haskels of—playing by his own rules? Sure, he’d convinced himself that when he faced Charlie, it would be by the book. But like Charlie himself had said, the statute of limitations ran out long ago. Anything Will did would have to be done with Charlie’s cooperation or outside the law.

  On the other hand, didn’t a pledge made to his mother take precedence over everything else? For a long time now, it had. For twenty-three years, every night when he went to bed instead of saying his prayers, he recited his vow of vengeance. On his mother’s grave, he had pledged again to fulfill that long-ago boyhood promise.

  Then he arrived in New Mexico and met Priscilla.

  By the time they slipped down the back side of the hill and approached the Spanish Creek outbuildings, Will was feeling about as low as a rattler with his belly dragging the ground.

  Charlie was the first to see them. At his call the others came running. Jessie. Bart. Kate. Joaquín. Will’s heart stopped. Where was she? He heard commotion from the barn. Running footsteps. Spurs. Priscilla’s. He didn’t look. He couldn’t look. One look and he’d be lost.

  Sog dismounted. Will dismounted.

  “Sog!” Kate rushed past Charlie in her attempt to welcome the old cook back to the range. Charlie hobbled after. He wasn’t using his walking stick. Must have thrown the thing away, Will thought, like he was always threatening. Or else left it at the jail.

  The two stove-up cattlemen approached each other, clapped shoulders, then hugged in a jerky, self-conscious sort of way. Titus Crockett arrived and joined in the celebration.

  Priscilla stopped beside Will. So close he could smell her familiar scent—clean air and horse sweat and the stable.

  “Will?”

  He glanced down at her briefly, then away. If he looked too closely, he knew he would be unable to keep his hands off her.

  Charlie glared at him, as if waiting for the ax to fall. Kate, too, stared hard. Behind her, Jessie and Bart stood together, holding hands and likely their breaths, Will thought.

  Priscilla embraced Sog. “Uncle Sog, we’ve sure missed you.”

  “I don’t doubt it, missy. You never could get pie dough to cook up worth a darn.”

  Priscilla laughed. She grabbed Will’s arm. “Look what your broken leg got us, Uncle Sog. I found him on that stagecoach you insisted I take.”

  Suddenly Will knew, if he never did another decent thing in his life, the time had come to set the record straight. Freeing himself from Priscilla, he searched his saddlebags and pulled out the signed documents. He handed them to Charlie.

  “It’s all here. Judge Anson signed them and recorded the deed for Joaquín. He notified Judge Sanders that he’s calling in Federal agents until the Haskels draw in their hired guns and start operating by the law.”

  Charlie took the papers, responded with a dry, “Much obliged.”

  That finished, Will grabbed Priscilla by a wrist. More curtly than he intended, he addressed her mother. “Mrs. McCain, I’d appreciate time alone with your daughter.”

  Without waiting for permission, he dragged Priscilla off toward the barn, not daring to so much as look her in the face. A heavy inner silence surrounded him, shutting out all external sounds except the jangling of their spurs, which provided a perverse cadence for his march toward destruction.

  Priscilla skipped to keep up with Will. His behavior might be strange, but it could only mean one thing—he was as anxious to see her as she was to see him. To see, to touch, to hold. She felt downright giddy with it all.

  “You did it, Will. I never doubted you could, but oh it’s so nice to have Pa home. And Joaquín cleared. You even brought Uncle Sog back.”

  They’d reached the opposite end of the barn by this time. Will came to a sudden halt. But instead of turning toward her, he just stood there, gripping her wrist and looking out at the valley and the mountains beyond.

  “You even got the Haskels off our back.”

  “Priscilla.”

  Pulling free, she threw her arms around his neck. “Most important, Will, you’re back, safe and sound.”

  “Priscilla…” Reaching up, he pried her hands loose.

  “Now, Mama and Pa won’t have any reason—”

  “Damnation, Priscilla. Just shut up and listen.”

  Her heart jumped to her throat, where it lodged. She stared at Will, at his eyes, until he looked away. Something was wrong. She knew that now. She felt it. Smelled it in the air.

  “I should have told you this…a long time ago…” Dropping her hands he moved away. She watched him stuff his hands in his back pockets, like a native, she thought. She moved behind him and took his arm.

  “Whatever it is, Will, we can work it out.”

  “No.” He shook free, avoiding her eyes.

  Fear stirred her ire. “Then tell me. Go on, get it over with.”

  He drew a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice lacked vitality, spirit. “Remember I told you my father was dead?”

  “He isn’t? Why would you tell me…”

  “He’s dead, Priscilla. That isn’t the point. The point is, he was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” In an instant Priscilla’s ire turned to pity. “When, Will? How?”

  “When I was ten.” Will turned toward her. His face stiff, a mask. “I found his body and…”

  “Will, don’t. You don’t have to talk about it. I don’t need to…” She felt a repeat of several nights earlier when Mama made her devastat
ing confession. What was happening? Had she suddenly turned into Mother Confessor? They should be rejoicing, not—

  “Please, Priscilla, just listen. Let me finish before I lose my nerve.”

  “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

  “My father was a lawyer in Philadelphia. One night when he was working late, my mother sent me into his office building to get him.” Will inhaled, gazed off toward the horizon. Priscilla could only imagine what horrors he was seeing. But when she reached a sympathetic hand to touch him, he jerked away.

  “He was dead. Lying on the floor of his office, a bullet hole in his chest.”

  “Oh, Will—”

  “He had a gun in his hand.” Will glanced at her again. “Remember that day down by the river in Santa Fé, the day I caught you shooting at that sunflower blossom?”

  “After you’d ignored me in town?”

  He grinned, a wry, unhappy sort of recognition. “Remember the pistol I used that day?”

  “Of course.”

  “That pistol was clutched in my father’s hand.”

  “Oh, Will. Maybe you shouldn’t have kept it. I mean the memories are so painful—”

  “The police took it. They said it would help them find the killer.”

  “Did it?”

  “No. They never found him. A few years ago, they returned the pistol to me. But it didn’t really belong to me. Or to my father. It belonged to my father’s law partner. It was one of a matched pair.”

  Priscilla was at a loss for words. She wanted to console him, but he had shied away three times now. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t healthy to carry around so much hurt for such a long—

  “That night, the night I found my father’s body, I made a promise to my mother. I vowed that if the police didn’t find my father’s murderer, I would.”

  Priscilla’s eyebrows shot up. For some reason the hair on her neck stood on end. She held her breath, waiting.

  “That’s why I’ve come to New Mexico Territory.”

  Priscilla’s mouth went dry. “Revenge? Revenge will ruin your life, Will. Revenge—”

  “Tell me about it.” His tone was bitter. “But damnit, Priscilla, I promised my mother. I owe it to my father’s memory. And there’s the law. My father’s partner shot him in cold blood and he’s gotten away with murder all these years. That’s what will ruin a person’s life.”