by Ward, Marsha
Ned.
She had told Ned she would marry him.
Ned’s hand came down on her shoulder. His grip felt like a trap snapping on her flesh.
“James,” she said, her voice shaking, pitched low. Ned’s hand on her shoulder must have weighed a hundred pounds. “James,” she started again. “Do you remember Ned Heizer?”
James nodded his head one time. “Heizer.” Once more, his voice had no inflection.
“My family is traveling to join my brother Max in New Mexico Territory.” She hesitated, then took a steadying breath and said, “I have agreed to marry Mr. Heizer when we get to Albuquerque.”
~~~
James flung his “war bag” satchel onto his shoulder. “I reckon manners say I should stop and chat, but I need to catch up on my sleep. Y’all will excuse me?” He started across the street, feeling Heizer’s eyes boring holes in his back.
Jessie Bingham. She was the last person he’d expected to see in Trinidad. She’d said her family was here too. That meant he had to talk to folks from his past, folks he’d left behind like ghosts. He wondered if Mr. Bingham was strong enough to horsewhip him for the shameful way he’d gone off and left Jessie behind in Virginia. Maybe a whipping would get rid of the agony that was consuming his soul.
“Amparo!” he whispered. Grief overcame him, and he stumbled a bit as he walked between the first and second wagons of the three parked in front of the hotel, and gained the wooden sidewalk. Planks of wood crisscrossed the gap where a glass window had been broken out of the frame.
A woman stood in the hotel doorway, peering out into the street. Her face lit up and she called out, “Jessie, Mr. Heizer, there you are. Come inside.” She stepped back as James approached. Then her face changed and she gasped, “Oh my! You’re James Owen! What has happened to you? You look wrung out.”
“Hello, Miz Bingham,” he mumbled. “I been on the trail without much sleep for most of a week.”
“You poor thing! Come inside and find a seat. I’ll send for a nice cup of tea to revive you.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am, I only require sleep. Excuse me.” James pushed past Mrs. Bingham and strode into the room filled with mercantile goods, his legs quivering like jelly.
“Philo,” James greeted the proprietor standing behind the counter. “I’ll take a room today.” He put his rifle on the planks and set his war bag on the floor.
“My boy!” The balding man looked startled. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Welcome, welcome.”
James grimaced. Philo meant well, but this place would never hold a welcome for James Owen. He wanted to finish his business and get out of town, back to the clean air of the trail … to somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just so it wasn’t Trinidad.
James touched his rifle barrel. The cold steel seemed to burn his fingers, and he pulled them back and made a fist instead. Maybe that would help him keep a rein on his feelings for a few moments more.
“I brought them four escapees back to the sheriff,” he said at last. He shook his head. “I don’t know which one of those jackals shot Amparo. Maybe a jury can figure it out.” He put both hands flat on the counter and leaned on them, his arms shaking. “I know I swore an oath of vengeance against them all, but in the end, I couldn’t kill ‘em.”
Philo nodded. “You did right, my boy.”
“I know.” James’s voice was no more than a whisper. “She approved.”
Philo raised an eyebrow. “She did?”
James tapped his chest over his heart. “Yes. I can feel it here.”
Philo stood in silence for a moment, then said, “Take the last room on the right, end of the corridor.” He clapped James on the shoulder. “I already filled up the front two rooms with those folks.” He gestured toward Mrs. Bingham.
“Thank you, Philo. I’m falling-down weary.”
“You look it, my boy.” Philo leaned across the counter separating them and whispered in James’s ear. “The room is yours as long as you need it. My compliments.”
“Thank you.” James tapped his rifle. “Will you mind this for me?”
“Of course, my boy.”
James started toward the corridor, then looked back at Jessie. She was talking to her mother. Heizer was nowhere in sight.
Ned Heizer, he thought bitterly. The turncoat. He shook his head, wondering why it mattered to him who Jessie Bingham married.
~~~
Jessie watched James cross the street. His gait reminded her of an old man, struggling for each step. Her thoughts whirled. She could feel Ned’s breath on the back of her head, stirring her hair. I’m going to marry Ned, she reminded herself. James means no more to me than a rock on the trail. She swallowed, wondering why her mouth was so dry. We’ll be gone tomorrow, and James will go … wherever he’s bound.
Ned’s grip on her shoulder hurt, and she turned to look at him. His face was set, jaws clamped so tightly that corded veins stood out in his neck. His breath rasped in his throat. She touched his clawed hand. “Ned?”
He expelled his breath in a short “Hah!” then loosened his fingers and dropped his hand. After a moment, he said in a hard voice, “I reckon I didn’t figure to see him again.”
I didn’t either, Jessie thought. I didn’t want to. Now here he is, disturbing my peace. She frowned. He shouldn’t be able to do that. I’ve settled on Ned. I’m going to marry him. James can go take his ragged grief and … And what? Did she wish him ill? No. No. That’s mean spirited of me.
Despite her disgust at letting her encounter with James turn her emotions inside out, Jessie knew her peace was disturbed. Am I angry? Yes! Feeling betrayed? Yes. Agreeing to marry Ned should have put an end to this way of thinking. But it hadn’t. Hearing about James had been a misery. Seeing him had tilted her world off beam.
Jessie heard her mother calling them, and looked toward the hotel. “Ma wants us,” she said. She turned back to Ned. “If you don’t want to see … Maybe you should stay here.”
Ned’s face went grim. “I won’t let the likes of James Owen keep me from goin’ about my business.”
Jessie’s body recoiled at the vehemence in Ned’s voice. She jerked up her chin and started across the road. She heard Ned coming along behind her, his limping walk accentuated by the quickness of his step. When she stopped at her mother’s side, Ned passed her and entered the hotel. She gave her attention to her mother.
“Jessie,” Mrs. Bingham said, clutching Jessie’s arm. “Did you see him? It’s James Owen!” She looked over her shoulder. “My, he looks done in. What do you reckon happened to him?”
Jessie’s face burned. She licked her lips. What could she say to her mother? “James Owen survived losing me, but looks like he’s at death’s door because he lost his wife?” Anger stirred in her. She wasn’t sure she could speak, but she finally found her voice and a few words. “His wife died.”
Mrs. Bingham’s eyes widened. “What?”
Jessie shrugged her shoulders. “You heard me, Ma. She died. The Mexican girl he married.”
“Oh my! Oh my!” Mrs. Bingham seemed incapable of saying anything else. She squeezed her eyes shut and said, “So many people dyin’!”
“Ma!”
“How did it happen?”
“He didn’t tell me. I heard him say to the sheriff that he’d brought back an escaped prisoner and men from a shootout here at the hotel.” She gestured at the wood covering the window. “That must be why the glass is gone.”
“That sounds real bad.” Mrs. Bingham crossed her arms as though she were hugging herself. “Real bad.” She rocked backward and forward for a while, and then said, “They weren’t married long.”
“Long enough that he mourns her.”
“Jessica!”
The reprimand in her mother’s voice snapped Jessie to attention, her back stiff.
Mrs. Bingham took a few quick breaths, her nostrils flaring. “I know you was hurt when James left. I reckon he was hurt too. That old reprobate R
od Owen had a lot to do with that, and James was just a boy. He’s been a lone man out here, never thinking to see you again. Don’t begrudge him a bit of happiness because it didn’t include you.”
Jessie didn’t reply. Ma had had the last word, and Jessie felt sick at her own ill will. What’s wrong with me? she asked. Can’t I leave it be? She wished she could, and suddenly knew that the thing she wanted most to do in the world was to go and take James Owen into her arms and comfort him.
~~~
Robert came out of the hallway, passing a young bearded man on his way down the corridor. He seemed familiar, but his face bore such a look of anguish that Robert didn’t stop him to strike up a conversation. Instead, he approached the proprietor. “Nice rooms,” he said. “They’ll do us fine.”
“I’m glad you like them,” the owner said.
“Say, that man.” Robert hitched his head toward the hall. “I think I might be acquainted with him. Do you know his name?”
“That’s my young friend, James Owen.”
Robert nodded and smiled.
“Ah, I see the name rings a bell with you. From your manner of speaking, I believe you come from the same part of the country.”
“Yes, we do. The Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. I’m a bit older than James, but we associated a fair amount.”
“I knew it! I just knew it.” Philo slapped his hand on the counter with a thud. An answering thud echoed from the hall, and he swung his head toward the sound. “I thought I heard something drop. Hold on. I’m coming back for some talk. I like to get to know my customers.”
Robert nodded once more and looked around the room as Philo moved toward the corridor. Mrs. Bingham and Miss Jessie stood near the door, their conversation animated. Luke came out of the hall and went through the outside door. George followed a moment later. Philo came back, shaking his head.
“Your friend,” he said. “He’s had some real troublesome times of late. He and his new little bride was coming back from Santa Fe, intent on going home to his pa’s place. We had a ruckus hereabouts, and the consequence of it all was the girl died of a gunshot. He’s sure tore up about it. Wouldn’t even use the cemetery to bury her.” Philo expelled a gust of air and shook his head again. “I don’t know if you saw them killers he tracked down and brought back to the sheriff. Bad hombres. That word, hombres, means ‘men,’ you know.”
“I didn’t.” Robert felt his mouth quirk. Now he knew why James looked so bad. Losing his wife? He’d almost lost Hannah. Maybe tomorrow he could say a comforting word to James, give his condolences.
“He and I had conversation during the ruckus. He has mighty strong feelings for that girl. It’s so sad to see him in this state.”
“Why did you use that word, hombres?” Robert asked.
“Half our town is Mexican, including the sheriff, and I reckon I picked up a bit of their lingo in the natural course of life. You’ll encounter a lot of Mexicans in this country. They owned it before we won the war with Mexico in ‘48. That was my war.” Philo shrugged and wiped his nose with a knuckle. “But I forget myself. Is there anything I can do for you? Some comfort I’ve forgotten?”
Robert waved his hand negatively as he pushed himself off from where he’d been leaning against the counter. “No. I wanted to see if it truly was James Owen. Thank you for enlightening me.”
Philo spread his hands. “No charge.” He craned his neck toward the hallway. “I hope he’ll get some sleep.”
~~~
Jessie stood not far from the counter, her cheeks burning. She shivered as though she had a fever. If the dark-skinned sheriff was Mexican, that meant James’s Mexican wife had been dark skinned too.
~~~
The memories that welled up as James walked down the corridor toward his room clogged his throat with nausea. Only a week past he had come to consciousness in the storeroom of this very hotel, finding himself bound and gagged.
Was that faint brown spot on the floor of the hallway the remnant of Amparo’s blood? She had lain there with a grievous wound, the crimson life force staining her white blouse. No! his heart cried, riven with pain. Not my Amparo!
James stepped across the spot, stumbled, and fell to one knee, dropping his war bag. He gripped the nearest doorjamb and scrabbled his way to his feet.
Oh dear God in Heaven! This doorway led to the room where he had found his wife tied up, huddling on the bed in the dark. She was terror stricken and in pain from a beating she’d received at the hands of Frank Blue, whose cronies had invaded the hotel after they broke Frank out of the town’s makeshift jail.
James untied Amparo, comforted her, and led her from the room into the dark hallway. They came so close to escaping from the dreadful experience of the sheriff’s siege in which they’d been caught.
We only stopped in Trinidad to buy supplies, he thought. If only them four men hadn’t picked that same time to make their break for freedom!
Memory crowded upon memory. Men hustling down the corridor toward the back door. The sound of the errant pistol shot that still rang in his ears. Amparo going limp in his arms. The lamp Philo had brought at his call. The wrenching sight of his wife’s blood. Her final, whispered version of his name as she died: “Che-mes.”
James covered his face with his hands and fled down the hall, bouncing against the wall in his blind flight. He bumped against the back door before he uncovered his face, found and turned the doorknob of the last room, and entered it: a room of which he had no memories to harrow up his soul.
James flung off his hat, unslung his revolver, sank onto a cot, and wrenched off his dusty boots. Philo knocked on the door, calling, “Here’s your bag, my boy.”
James said, “I’m obliged. Please leave it outside the door.” He couldn’t bear to see the man’s face.
“Do you want a candle?” the proprietor asked through the door.
“No. I want rest.” His voice sounded gritty in his ears, but he repented of his brusqueness and went to the door to acknowledge Philo’s kindness.
With the bag in the room, James shucked his clothes and left them in a heap. He turned down the blankets and lay on a bed for the first time in many weeks.
He could not sleep. His arms were empty. His body yearned for the gentle young woman who had been his wife in the last bed he had occupied, at the Inn of La Fonda in Santa Fe. That was the site of their Noche de Bodas, the real wedding night he had proclaimed once he acknowledged his love for Amparo.
“Oh my sweet girl,” he groaned, his mind in torment. “I can’t love you less because you died.”
Thinking the cot was too soft since he’d become accustomed to sleeping on the hard ground, he tried pulling the blankets from the bed and wrapping them around himself on the wooden floor. Then the makeshift bedroll reminded him of the blankets and quilts he had shared with Amparo as they journeyed on the trail back toward his father’s home. James shook with fatigue, but his mind would not let his body rest.
At length, he sat up, came to his knees against the side frame of the bed, bowed his head, and cried to heaven, “Oh God! Oh God, my ma says you love all your children. If you love me, let me have peace. Let me have rest!” He sobbed against his arms folded on the bed. “Dear God, I love her. She is my own soul. God in Heaven, when I die, let me be with my Amparo again.”
His sobs gradually quieted, and he crawled onto the bed again, his body shaking with exhaustion.
Chapter 20
After the Bingham party ate dinner, Heppie kissed George good night and retired to the women’s room with her mother and sisters. Giddy happiness surrounded her. Tonight she would sleep in a bed! She had to share it, but wonder of wonders, the room contained two beds, so she and Hannah would share the one shoved under the window, and Ma and Jessie would take the one by the door.
I wish it could be George instead of Hannah, she thought. Even in St. Louis, they hadn’t shared a bed. They had lain together only on the trail, in blankets spread on top of rocks, small plants, and o
ther discomfiting items on the cold, hard ground. The wide open sky had been their roof and the far horizons their walls.
Even though their privacy had been scant, George had not stinted in his matrimonial duties. Heppie wondered if a bedstead and four walls would make any difference in their lovemaking. If I had my own house, I could yell all I wanted. She smiled, unbuttoning her blouse. Being with George was almost always pleasurable, and that included wanting to yell out when he— Well, not tonight, she told herself. She asked aloud, “Hannah, which side of the bed do you want?”
“I think I need the outside,” Hannah said. “This babe is taking up a lot of room, and I’m likely to use the chamber pot. You don’t want me climbing over you to get to it.”
Heppie laughed. “No, I surely do not.”
Hannah patted her stomach, then winced.
“What ails you?”
“The child kicked me.”
Heppie finished undressing and put on her nightgown. “Does it do that often?”
“Kick? Often enough. Hard too.” She pressed her lips together and clasped her stomach. “I might have a bruise later. The little one is active tonight.”
Heppie got under the covers and slid over to the wall side of the bed.
Hannah dropped her skirt and petticoats, revealing the extent of her stomach. It jutted out from her body, stretching against the fabric of her pantaloons.
“Oh my,” Heppie said as Hannah’s abdomen seemed to change shape. A knob stuck out, then receded. “What on earth?”
“That was probably a foot. Or maybe an elbow,” Hannah said, grunting as she lay down. “I may not sleep well tonight.”
“Will you let me feel your belly?” Heppie whispered.
Hannah sighed. After a moment, she said, “I reckon you won’t quit asking until I let you. Give me your hand.”
Heppie stuck it out and Hannah guided it to an area of activity. The baby rolled and flung out its appendages under Heppie’s palm. “It’s alive inside you.”
Hannah sounded irritated as she answered, “Of course it is. Get some sense, Heppie.”
“I never dreamed a baby would feel like that.”
