Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  Rory stared at the column of numbers and decided that with some budgeting here and there, he could pay one, maybe two more men, and if he was lucky, the help he needed just might arrive in the form of a drifter riding the grub line.

  As he closed the book he suddenly remembered Miss Jessica Stanbridge. He wondered if she was still crawling around on the slab of rock measuring the fossil tracks, and smiled. He couldn’t recall anyone ever looking at him the way she had when they finally reached that rock. What would it be like to have a woman look up at him like that every time she saw him? What would it be like to have Miss Jessica Stanbridge look at him that way again?

  Regrettably he didn’t have time to find out. Since he didn’t dare leave her alone for long, she would cost him valuable help if he couldn’t talk her into leaving the area in the next few days.

  He leaned back and shouted, “Scratchy!” through the open doorway. Right now, as much as he didn’t want to spare a man, he had to send someone out to watch over her.

  Immediately on the heels of Rory’s outburst, the old man ambled through the door with a tray in his hands and said, “Don’t have to yell out my eardrums.” He set down the painted tin tray that contained a slab of beef on two thick slices of bread, a cup of coffee, and a pickle.

  Rory picked up the sandwich, gingerly peeked between the layers of stale bread, and then took a bite. He washed down the dry mouthful with coffee before he said, “Thanks. You seen Whitey?”

  “Not since breakfast, but he ought to be in soon. I sent him out to repair that fence you wanted mended down by the far pasture.”

  “Send him in as soon as he gets back.” Rory took another bite and stared at Scratchy, who was content to stand and watch him chew.

  “I’ll send him right along,” Scratchy promised.

  Rory glanced up from lowered brows. “You dust the sitting room?”

  The cook scratched his head of short, sparse hair and shrugged. “Don’t know what come over me.”

  “Yeah, me either. Any more surprises up your sleeve?”

  “Nope. Guess that’s about it.” Scratchy rocked forward on his toes and then back again.

  “Any drifters come along looking for work, have them wait around until I can talk to them. We’ll be running fifty head up to Durango and I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “Will do. Anythin’ else?”

  Rory shook his head. “No. That’s about it. Just don’t forget I need to see Whitey, pronto.”

  “Right.” Hefting his beltless trousers around the middle, Scratchy left the room.

  As he ate the last bite of his sandwich, Rory couldn’t help but notice that Scratchy, like the rest of the men, never called him boss, the way they had Wilner. It wasn’t surprising, considering he didn’t feel any different than he had when he rode the range and followed his father’s orders right along with them. He wondered how long it would be before he would earn the respect and trust they had always given Wilner Burnett.

  As he swirled the lukewarm coffee in the mug and then swallowed it down, he closed the ledger, set it aside, and pulled his composition book out of his top desk drawer. Setting the mug aside, he found the first blank page in the composition book and smoothed it open. The inkwell stood ready. He shook it, pulled the cork, and then took up his pen. Dipping it, once, twice, and then carefully wiping off the excess droplets of black ink, he wrote:

  Some women give comfort,

  Some just give pain,

  Some are—

  Overwhelmed by the image of Jessica Stanbridge racing toward the slab of sandstone to see the ancient tracks, Rory paused and smiled. All things aside, she was some kind of woman. Exactly what kind, he wasn’t quite sure. Intelligent? Highly. Lovely? To be sure. Prickly as a cactus? No doubt about it. But there was something hidden beneath her standoffishness, something that he suspected was both vulnerable and exciting. He’d seen a glimpse of it when she saw the saurian tracks. That glimpse was enough to make him curious enough to find out all there was to know about her.

  If he could only find the time.

  “You want me, Mr. Burnett?”

  Whitey Higgins stood in the doorway, hat in hand, shifting from foot to foot, ill at ease in a body that was still growing faster than he could handle. Whitey reminded Rory of himself at sixteen, with his black hair, eyes, and olive skin tanned to a deep copper. His nickname was the exact opposite of his looks and had been given him by the other men when he first signed on. Much to the boy’s delight, his given name of Buford was soon forgotten.

  “Sit down, Whitey.” Rory nodded toward a deep, overstuffed chair covered in rawhide in the corner.

  Dressed in a faded denim shirt, Levi’s, and chaps, Whitey glanced at the chair and nervously declined. He straightened the knot in the red bandanna looped around his throat. “Am I in trouble?”

  Rory frowned. “Should you be?”

  With an emphatic shake of his head, Whitey said, “Nope.” His brow knit. “Leastwise I don’t think so.”

  Rory smiled to put him at ease. “You’re not in trouble. In fact, I’ve got a job for you. Something special I think you can handle better than any of the rest.”

  The worried look on the youth’s face relaxed. He drew himself up straighter. “Yeah?” As a wrangler, he was low man around the place. Any job would be better.

  Rory nodded. “There’s a couple of women camped out near Dry Creek.”

  Whitey swallowed visibly. “Women?”

  “Women. They’re out there searching for old bones for a museum back east. What I want you to do is get your camp rig and ride out there, keep an eye on them until I can see my way clear to get back out and convince them to move on. It shouldn’t be more than a day or so, just until I get the men busy rounding up enough head for a drive into Durango.”

  At the news of the drive Whitey snapped to attention. His dark eyes were both hungry and hopeful. “A drive to Durango? Will I be goin’ with y’all?”

  “I’m afraid that right now I need someone to keep an eye on these women.”

  Whitey looked disappointed. “All I’m ’sposed to do is watch them?”

  Rory thought of all the crates and boxes of paraphernalia the women had brought along and the exhaustion mirrored on Jessica’s face yesterday. “Do any heavy work that needs done.” He glanced out the window and stared across the flatland toward the mesa in the distance. “Keep them at that site until I get there, and above all don’t let Miss Stanbridge talk you into moving them back up on the mesa. Don’t tell her I want her away from it, either.”

  “Why don’t you want her up there?”

  “Because one of the Utes asked me not to let her go snooping around on Indian land for bones that belong to their grave sites. You ought to leave as soon as you can, because I told them you’d be there before nightfall.”

  “Then I’d best be on my way.” Whitey tapped his sweat-stained hat against his leather chaps and smiled, his teeth flashing white against his dark complexion. He hovered in the doorway as if working up the courage, then finally said, “Thanks, Mr. Burnett.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, boy. You haven’t met ’em.”

  THE PLASTER CASTS were ready to be moved, but Jessica was in no mood to try to lift them just yet. She lay flat on her back, comfortably stretched out across the warm surface of the sandstone rock watching towers of white clouds drift across the indelible blue sky. Her stomach growled in protest of its emptiness, but she paid it no mind. Instead Jessica closed her eyes and let the sun caress her face as its warmth seeped into her bones.

  While she spent the morning working alone against the empty landscape, she had become increasingly aware of the land and sky, even of the very air around her. Unlike Boston, alive with the constant clatter of carriages and the incessant hum of humanity, this raw, open land surprised her with
a pulsing life of its own. As she lay in silent repose Jessica was content to listen to the electric buzz of insects in the sage, a constant thrum that kept time to her heartbeat. Feeling free as a pagan, she spread her arms wide, pressed her open palms against the ancient rock, and let the warmth of its rough, heated surface seep into her skin.

  Above the insects’ song she detected a second steady, rhythmic beat. This one was not of her heart. Startled, she sat up and blinked against the glare of the sun then shaded her eyes with her hand. A man on horseback rode toward her, silhouetted against the azure sky.

  It irritated her to realize how her heartbeat had accelerated involuntarily when she wondered if the approaching rider might be Rory Burnett. Scrambling to gather her things, she found her glasses and carefully fit the curved stems over her ears. Quickly Jessica tried to slip the wayward strands of hair back into the tight knot at the nape of her neck and then smoothed the front of her blouse. Tugging on the hem of her fitted jacket, she looked up again to mark the man’s progress and drew a sharp breath of alarm.

  The rider was definitely not Rory Burnett.

  As the distance closed between them she could see that this man, although dark, was not as broad-shouldered or as tall in the saddle. Nor was he riding the distinctive black-and-white horse Burnett had ridden earlier.

  Jessica jumped off the rock and hurried over to the wagon where she’d left the gun tucked in her knapsack. Unwilling to be caught unaware, she slipped the gun from the bag, dropped her arm to her side, and hid the weapon behind the folds of her skirt.

  The man was almost upon her.

  She remained silent and watchful as he reined in his horse and then rested a forearm on his pommel. Dressed like a cowhand, he was young and lean, all arms and legs and openly curious black eyes.

  Tugging the brim of his hat, he said, “Howdy, ma’am. You Miss Stanbridge?”

  Jessica relaxed somewhat at these words, but she didn’t loosen her grip on the pistol. She nodded. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Whitey Higgins. Mr. Burnett sent me to help you. Said he’ll be back tomorrow, or if not, by the day after.”

  He was far younger than she had first realized and he was staring at her with unabashed admiration. She colored at his obvious smile, which, she noted, was a far cry from Rory Burnett’s cool, unreadable assessment.

  “I hope you’ll pardon me, Mr. Higgins”—she withdrew the hand that held the gun and turned to slip it back into the knapsack—“but I wasn’t sure if you were friend or foe.”

  He dismounted with a laugh. “I’m definitely friendly, ma’am, especially to a pretty woman like yourself.” When she colored, he pretended not to notice and glanced over at the slab of sandstone where she had spread out her notebook and other items. “What can I do to help?”

  Jessica forgave his flirting because he was so young. “I was just getting ready to head back to camp,” she said, stretching the truth some, “so I suppose we should begin by loading those plaster casts I’ve made of the tracks embedded in the rock.”

  Whitey tied his horse to the back of the buckboard wagon. She led him to the rock and gently tapped along the edge of the imprint with a curved-headed hammer until she had loosened the plaster. Then she and Whitey lifted the burlap edge that overlapped the depression. The first of the prints came away from its rocky bed. They cradled the cumbersome, yard-long object between them and carried it to the wagon bed, where Jessica wrapped it in more burlap to protect it as they traveled back to camp. With his help, the five huge prints were soon loaded, and in no time at all they were both back at the camp, where Myra wasted no time introducing herself to Whitey Higgins and getting him to erect a canvas tarp for a sun shield. Carried away with high spirits, Myra stood on a chair and tied a paisley scarf to the top of one of the support poles.

  “What do you think of Zanzibar, Jessica?”

  Seated at the table beneath the new shade, Jessica set out pen and ink and said offhandedly, “I’ve never been there, Myra. You know that.”

  Myra shook her head and let Whitey help her down. Puffing from the exertion, she plopped down and clarified, “I mean, how would you like Zanzibar as a name for the camp?”

  Jessica glanced up. “You’re naming the camp?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed. Zanzibar sounds fine.”

  Whitey listened to the exchange in silence.

  Gaining a second wind, Myra shot to her feet. “Then Zanzibar it is! Let’s celebrate with tea. Will you have some, Mister Higgins?”

  He lowered himself into a chair and rested his brown hat on his knee. “I’ll try one, ma’am, if it please you.”

  “An afternoon shouldn’t pass without a cup of tea,” Myra told him. “That and a good book.”

  Jessica laid her pen aside and studied Whitey. “How did you come by your nickname, Mr. Higgins?”

  He adjusted the bandanna around his neck and swallowed. “Ma’am, I wish you’d both call me Whitey. I don’t much take to Mr. Higgins.”

  Hiding her smile, Jessica nodded. After all, this wasn’t Rory Burnett. “About the nickname?”

  “The boys gave it to me, on account of my hair’s so dark and all.”

  Myra set out the cups and saucers and then carried over a pot of steeping tea and a book. She put the pot in the center of the table and drew up her own chair, shifted until it was comfortable, and then settled back. Jessica was bent over her notebook again, busily trying to describe the land and the rock formation where the tracks were located.

  She heard Myra say, “Tell us about Mr. Burnett, Whitey. Are you related? How long have you worked for him?”

  Jessica shot her a furious glance over the rim of her glasses.

  Myra ignored her. Whitey’s chest visibly expanded with his newfound importance.

  “Naw, I’m not blood kin to Burnett, not that I know of, leastwise. I been here nigh onto nine months. His pa, Wilner Burnett, hired me on, but he up and died about five months back. Ever since then Rory’s been in charge.” He leaned back and rested his foot on his knee. “He’s never said so, o’course, but sometimes I get the feelin’ runnin’ the Silver Sage is a lot tougher than he ever knew.”

  Jessica’s pen stopped scratching. Head down, she hesitated to let Myra see her interest, but she found herself listening intently to Whitey as he talked about Rory Burnett.

  “Is the ranch a large one, then?” Myra inquired.

  Whitey nodded. “So to speak. Plenty of places to run the herd. Trouble is, the danged—pardon me, ladies—the cattle ain’t too choosy about where they wander off to. We have to round ’em up outta some of the most unlikely places. There was the time—”

  “I suppose Mr. Burnett doesn’t have much time to socialize?” Myra interrupted as she poured herself another cup of tea and motioned to Whitey for him to taste his. “Sugar, Whitey?” she asked.

  He reached for the sugar bowl and spooned in three heaping spoonfuls. “Nope. Rory Burnett’s all business anymore. Back ’fore his pa died, he used to ride with us, worked shoulder to shoulder like he was one of us, always willin’ to do a hard day’s work and still play cards and jaw in the bunkhouse at night. Every once in a while he’d even have time to ride into Durango to the wh—to take in the nightlife. But now, seems like he has to put in the same long hours on the range and then burn the midnight oil in his office after supper. Kinda makes a man glad he ain’t got the responsibility of a spread of his own.” He finished the tea with a smack of his lips and nestled the cup back onto the saucer.

  Jessica looked up to find him staring at her appraisingly.

  “Does Mr. Burnett have a fiancée, or anyone he’s partial to?” Myra pried.

  Jessica slammed her notebook shut. “Myra, really,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Just curious, dear.” Her face wreathed in an inno
cent smile, Myra turned expectantly to Whitey.

  “So far he ain’t had time for a fie-on-say,” Whitey informed her. “No other kin, neither. He was adopted by the Burnetts when he was a boy. They never had any children of their own.” He jiggled the booted foot that rested on his knee and spun the rowel of his spur. “Some of the men speculate on whether or not he’s got some Indian blood, but hell—oops, pardon me again, ladies—I’m as dark as he is an’ I’m pure Texican through and through.”

  Myra laughed.

  Jessica shook her head. “You’re quite a font of information, Whitey.”

  “I don’t know about that, ma’am. But I do like to talk.”

  “A most rewarding attribute, especially in a man,” Myra said as she gave him a pat on the sleeve.

  From the look of pride on the young man’s face as he accepted the compliment, Jessica knew she would be sitting through many more hours of Myra’s intense investigation into Rory Burnett’s background. But in an odd way she found herself looking forward to it.

  Whitey suddenly slapped his forehead and uncrossed his legs. “Mr. Burnett told me you were out here lookin’ for old bones, so I brought you one. Forgot all about it till now.” He stood up and hurried over to his horse, where he untied his bedroll and rummaged through his blanket until he pulled out the bleached white, lower jawbone of a cow, complete with three teeth still anchored in it.

  He carried it back to Jessica and handed it to her. “Is that old enough?”

  Myra took one look at the cow jaw and opened her novel.

  Jessica turned the bone over and over, then carefully set it aside. “It’s very old indeed, Whitey, for a cow. But I’m seeking something even older.”