Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Hey, Burnett, wait!” Fred Hench was standing with the brown paper bundle in his hands. “You forgot your package.”

  Rory sighed and let go of Dovie’s elbow long enough to take the package from Fred. Dovie turned around to see what was keeping him. Rory looked down at the package, back up at the tall brunette, and then tucked Jess’s new dress under his arm.

  He tipped his head close to the girl’s and whispered, “I’ve changed my mind, Dovie. I won’t be going upstairs with you tonight.”

  “Well, then hell, cowboy.” Dovie glanced down at the package in his hands. “I hope she’s worth it, ’cause I’m one of the best.”

  Rory gave her a wry grin. “I hope she is, too,” he said, taking small consolation from the package he carefully cradled in his arms instead of the best-looking girl in the room. He shook his head and whispered to himself, “I hope she is, too.”

  THE FULL MOON was such an intense, bright silver that Jessica could almost read by it. Far off to the west heavy black clouds obscured the stars, but to the east the moon was still riding high. A warm, barely perceptible breeze flew across the high plateau, carrying with it the smell of dust and rain on dry soil.

  With an oil lamp to add to the moonlight, she sat at the table beneath the awning penning a letter to the museum, pausing occasionally to watch lightning slash the sky in the distance. The electrical display was so far away that the trailing thunder was only a faint rumble. When Whitey warned her of an approaching storm, Jessica told him to be sure that the tent and awning were secure and that the mules and horses were picketed for the night.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, Jessica glanced over her shoulder. Myra, looking disgruntled, hurried across the clearing. “I can’t find Methuselah anywhere. He’s climbed out of the enclosure again.”

  Jessica laughed. “That tortoise has a mind of his own. He doesn’t seem to like it here as much as he did at Camp Zanzibar.” Jess set the lamp atop her letter to keep it from blowing off the table and stood up.

  “Ever since we moved to Marrakech he’s seemed a bit down in the mouth to me.” Myra pushed her rolled sleeves toward her elbows and then planted her hands on her hips. “I don’t like it here much either. It seems grittier. Things are always a mess.”

  “How in the world can you tell when a turtle is down in the mouth, Myra?” Jess said, ignoring the comment about the sandy grit that covered everything here in the dry wash.

  They’d moved from the original campsite three days ago—every book, every box, every piece of china—so that Jessica and Whitey would not have to distance themselves from Myra and the supplies while working on the excavation.

  “He hasn’t been eating any of the brush I’ve collected lately. Maybe he’s gone off to get some on his own.” Jessica turned away. “Maybe he’s just tired of being penned up and is out for a stroll. Maybe he has a family somewhere.”

  “Well, I’m going out to look for him.”

  “Myra, please don’t. It’s dark out there and Whitey’s warned us continually to stay in camp at night. You wouldn’t see a snake until you stepped on it, and look at those clouds. There’s rain in the air.”

  “With that moon, it’s almost as bright as daylight. I’ll just walk around the edges of the camp, and I’ll take my umbrella.”

  Knowing that an argument would get her nowhere, Jessica gave up with a mere warning. “Please, be careful.”

  “I will, dear. You just go on back to whatever it was you were doing.” Head down, already searching for the tortoise, Myra walked past the dining table, the hub of the new campsite she had christened Marrakech.

  Jessica sat back down, penned a few more lines of her letter to museum director Gerald Ramsey, and decided that telling the truth was always best; so far she had found the tracks of what appeared to be a very substantially sized Jurassic-period saurian, and one hundred and thirty-seven bones of all shapes and sizes of various, as-yet-unidentified species. She added that although she had not yet discovered anything that might point to a complete fossil of great proportions, she was confident that given a few more weeks and a trip to the mesas, her intuition and study would lead to a find.

  Knowing that museum benefactor Henry Beckworth would be anxious for word of any discoveries she had made, Jessica was determined to get the letter off to Ramsey by week’s end. She had held off writing before because she had no news. Now she felt more than justified in choosing southern Colorado as her site and was still confident that she had only scratched the surface.

  As soon as Burnett returned, she would insist that he take her into Cortez to replenish much-needed staples and post her letter. In addition, she and Whitey had already carefully packaged a crate of the plaster-wrapped fossils for shipment by rail to the museum and they needed to be put on the stage to be delivered to the railway station at Durango. She wished she could be there to see her coworkers when the box arrived, especially Jerome Stoutenburg. More than once she had blessed the fact that he had come down with influenza and headed back to Cambridge, for she suspected that he had really been sent along to keep the museum informed of her progress.

  She stared up at the silver moon and wondered where Rory Burnett was tonight. Was he was sleeping out under the stars? Were he and his men still in Durango, or headed back to the ranch? Perhaps he had already arrived home and was taking his time coming to check on them, afraid she would hold him to his promise to take her up to the mesa. Each time she thought of Rory lately, her pulse had involuntarily accelerated and a feeling of heightened anticipation carried a rush of color to her cheeks.

  Had it been easy for him to dismiss their kiss? Was she just one of a string of women he rode around kissing? During the past two weeks she had convinced herself that his expertise, especially compared with Whitey’s ineptness, could only mean one thing; Rory Burnett was extremely skilled at kissing and had obviously practiced quite a bit.

  The very thought made her see red, and the fact that she was obviously jealous over a man she would never see again once her time here was over made her even angrier with herself.

  “Miss Jess?”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when Whitey spoke up so near her elbow. “What is it?” she snapped, more out of embarrassment than anger, although she found she’d been more short-tempered than ever as the week dragged on.

  “I think we’re in for a dousing. Those clouds are spreadin’ back this way and the lightnin’s gettin’ closer.” As if to lend support to his words, lightning crackled in twin shards and a peal of thunder followed close behind it.

  “Is everything secured?”

  “Yeah, but I been thinkin’ on it, and maybe it’s not such a good idea to be camped so close to the creek bed.”

  “Nonsense. After all, we’re not smack in the middle of it.” She looked around at the rocks and scrub oak. “There hasn’t been any water along here for years.”

  He shoved his hat back and winced when the thunder crashed again. “Just ’cause it’s dry don’t mean there can’t come a flood through here.”

  “And how likely is that, really?” She looked around, unable to believe the parched earth of the high desert wouldn’t immediately soak up any rainwater that fell.

  He shrugged. “Flash flood could happen anyplace.”

  Jess looked down toward the dry creek bed and followed it along until she could see the distant mounds of dirt they’d tediously excavated at the dig site. “Is there anything we might do to divert the water if it comes?”

  The air was growing still and close as the clouds moved in. The moon was partially blocked now and its light dimmed.

  He looked prepared to argue. “If it comes, it won’t be a trickle, ma’am. It’ll be a gully whomper. I think we ought to get up out of here, find a rise, and wait it out.”

  She smiled to reassure him, anxious to go into the tent, get out of her
sticky clothes, and take a sponge bath. “I’m certain my luck will hold, Whitey. Besides, the tents and horses are out of the center of the stream bed. Everything will be all right.”

  “I hope so, ma’am. Mr. Burnett will have my hide if you’re wrong.”

  “He isn’t around to complain about it, though, is he?”

  SCRATCHY LIVERMORE let the screen door bang and moved out onto the back porch. He reached into the open neck of his red flannel underwear and scratched his shoulder as he called out to Rory Burnett, “Storm comin’ in. You sure you don’t want to wait till mornin’ before you light out for them folks’ camp? You’re actin’ like a fool ‘cause you ain’t et yet.”

  Rory fought the reins to keep Domino from rearing after a particularly loud clap of thunder and then called out over the mounting wind, “Fix something for the men and I’ll have something at the camp.” That said, he turned the big horse and let him run, careful to keep to the well-worn road for as far as they could follow it.

  Rory figured Scratchy was probably right—he was a fool to head off into the night with a storm riding just over his shoulder, but he wanted to make sure Jess, Myra, and Whitey had fared well in his absence and he wanted to be there in case they needed help during the downpour that was sure to come. As far as he could recall, their camp was on high enough ground to be safe from a flash flood, but it would ease his mind just to ride out and be certain.

  Careful not to push his already worn horse past the limit, Rory eased up. It wouldn’t do to run Domino into the ground or chance the big Appaloosa’s stepping into a prairie-dog hole. The distance between ranch and the camp ran across uneven high desert land dotted with sage, so the going was smooth enough. When he came to a gully or wash, he looked upstream and listened for any sound that might mean an onslaught of rushing water. From the looks of the heavy clouds thick with lightning over the mesas, rainwater should already be making its way down onto the plateau of the vast high desert.

  Head close to Domino’s mane, Rory spurred the horse on, taking advantage of a break in the clouds, through which moonlight streamed. Before the sky darkened again, he slowed up, sat up straighter, and strained to get a glimpse of the campground, which he thought was just up ahead.

  The landscape was empty.

  Rory reined in and stared off in all directions in search of a far-off campfire or a trail of smoke beneath the heavy clouds. Nothing.

  He pushed on and soon passed the sandstone, flat-topped boulder with the saurian tracks, knowing for certain the camp couldn’t be more than a half mile ahead. Why had they let the fire go out?

  The black-and-white horse ate up the distance in no time. Again, Rory stopped and stared in confusion then pushed his hat back and wiped off his sweating brow with the back of his gloved hand. He frowned, mad enough to spit. Damn, Whitey, if you let her talk you into moving her up to the mesa—

  He swiveled around and stared toward the ponderous outline of the mesa. Lightning flashed almost overhead followed by an earsplitting crash of thunder and he was forced to fight for control of his horse. The frightened animal pranced and shook its head, fighting the bit.

  Where are they?

  Riding over the deserted campground, he located the fire pit they had used as well as the ring of rocks that had formed the tortoise’s pen. The remains only proved he hadn’t lost his bearings, but he was sure he’d lost his mind. Why else would he be out in the middle of a lightning storm chasing after a damn fool woman after a full day’s ride?

  Domino turned in a full circle, still fighting the reins. Rory tried to remember his last conversation with Jessica, the one, he reminded himself with a wry shake of his head, where she promised to stay put. What was it she had told him? Whitey has led me to an exposed section of petrified bone in a dry creek bed not far from here—

  “Damn it!” he roared, afraid the women and the untried youth had moved the camp closer to their find.

  He knew of only one dry creek that was not far away—a wide, innocent-looking gash in the land that was bounded by a low rise on either side. When it was dry, the creek bed was yards wide. But during a storm it would be the perfect course for a wall of water rushing down from the mesas.

  Chapter Nine

  THE HOT DRY wind whipped her hair into her eyes. Jessica stood on the edge of camp, desperately calling Myra’s name. She cried out into the darkness beyond the camp, but the words not lost on the wind were drowned out by thunder.

  It was one thing to watch a lightning storm from the safety of a second-story flat in the middle of Boston, but quite another to stand beneath an endless stretch of sky about to tear itself apart. Jessica pushed her hair back out of her eyes and ran through the camp in search of Whitey. She found him loading barrels of staples into the wagon.

  “What are you doing?” she called out over the noise of the howling wind, the whipping canvas tent flaps, the batting sides of the awning, and Myra’s rippling paisley flag.

  He shouted back, “I’m doin’ what we should have done hours ago—packin’ up as much as I can and movin’ it up the side of the creek bed. I can’t take any more chances. We’ve got to move. If that cloud over our heads bursts wide open, we’re goners.”

  “What about the dig? My things? And the crate of fossils?”

  Whitey paused long enough to give her a hard stare. “Go get what you can, but do it quick. We should have been out of here at the first sign of a storm.” When he reached down to heft a barrel of apples, she grabbed hold of the rim to help him.

  “I can’t find Myra,” she told him, her voice breaking with concern. “She left thirty minutes ago, looking for that stupid tortoise.”

  “I’ll look for her as soon as I help you load that crate of bones. We worked too hard to lose ’em now.”

  Together they walked to her tent, where the carefully packed and labeled crate stood. Counting “One, two, three . . . ” they lifted it gently and carried it back to the wagon. Whitey slid it across the wagon bed while Jessica ran to call Myra again.

  Whitey was leading his horse when he caught up to her seconds later and shouted, “Which way did she go?”

  Jessica pointed toward the edge of camp where Myra had disappeared and watched him ride out and then veer off to circle the camp. She raced to the table and collected her notebook with her letter to Ramsey tucked inside, her knapsack with the maps and hand-drawn sketches of the area, and what tools she could quickly gather.

  Hurrying to the picket line, she tried to calm the frightened animals straining against the rope while she untied one of the mules. Pulling, shouting, and threatening one of the great stubborn things with a fate worse than death, she managed to drag it to the wagon and harness it After checking the brake and tying the mule to the branch of a scraggly bush, she set out after the other.

  Lightning lit up the sky. A mighty clap of thunder nearly drove her to her knees. Then, without warning, the clouds opened and she was instantly pelted with rain. Minutes before, she would have welcomed the cooling relief, but now, as her skirt became sodden and tangled around her and the wet, sandy ground sucked at her boots, the rain became just one more hindrance.

  With a scream of fear the mare broke free of the picket line and raced off across the desert. Jessica jumped for the line and was barely able to stop the second mule from escaping. Then screaming like a banshee and tugging on the line, she led it to the wagon and struggled to harness it beside the first.

  She paused outside her tent and looked around, hoping to see Whitey ride up with Myra, but all she saw through the pouring rain was the forlornly flapping awning. One of the support poles was broken in two. She ducked inside the tent.

  With the wind sneaking beneath the bottom of the tent and her wet, shaking fingers, it took three tries to light the lamp. She hung it on the center pole and stood staring around the interior, uncertain of what to haul back to the wa
gon. First she grabbed the leather folder containing the government permits to search the reservation lands and the proclamation from the museum that gave her permission to conduct field research on their behalf. She quickly pulled her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt, shoved the folder inside, and covered it with the thin material of her shirtwaist.

  Next she pulled her helmet off of the peg on the center pole, slipped the strap under her chin, and looked around again. Myra’s books lay scattered over the foot of her bed and the bedside crate. Her clothes were in a careless heap in the center of the cot, her boots and shoes on the ground. She wanted to save Myra’s reticule, but didn’t see it close by. Deciding there was no time to search for it, Jessica knelt down to pull out a small trunk containing her own money as well as a photograph of her mother and father from beneath her cot. She was struggling with the lock when Whitey burst into the tent.

  “We gotta go, Miss Jess. Now.”

  The chest forgotten, Jessica leaped to her feet. “Did you find her?”

  In the flickering lamplight, his hat sodden and dripping, his eyes bleak, he looked like nothing more than a very tall child. “I didn’t find her, ma’am. What’ll we do now?”

  The roof of the tent bulged with water in sagging pockets. A slow, steady drip began to fall between them. Outside, the rain was relentless, the lightning and thunder still as loud. The storm had not moved on.

  “We’ll take the wagon and mules to higher ground as you suggested earlier. Go get your horse and tie it to the back of the wagon. The mules are so skittish I don’t think I can handle them myself.”

  She grabbed her knapsack. He stood aside to let her pass then followed. Her heart was pounding with fear, her pulse rushing so fast she feared the metallic taste in her mouth might have been blood. She swallowed and fought down fear so fierce it nearly crippled her.

  Everything will be all right, she told herself. Everything will be fine. The storm will pass and we’ll all be able to get things back in order. Myra’s probably sitting out the storm somewhere under a rock.