Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  The rain was coming harder. Jess heard more thunder, but this time it had not been preceded by lightning. And this time it sounded low, as if it were tearing across the land instead of the sky. She was almost to the wagon when she felt the ground beneath her feet begin to quake. She glanced over at the mules, at the wagon filled with the supplies and the crate of fossils, the product of a week and a half of backbreaking toil.

  She could reach the wagon in a few seconds if she tried, but the ominous roar from up the creek bed kept her from running in that direction. Instead she hiked up her sodden skirt and ran up the slight tilt of land that had once marked the edges of the bed. Her feet slipped on the muddy ground.

  She pulled herself up and ran on, up and away from the camp. All the way Jess screamed Myra and Whitey’s names as she tried to outrun the wall of water bearing down on her.

  RORY RODE THROUGH the downpour for more than ten minutes. As soon as he found her camp, he was going to haul Miss Jessica Stanbridge’s shapely little butt off his land and onto the first available stage out of Cortez.

  But first he was going to send that no-account Higgins kid packing for listening to her instead of following orders. Water ran off the brim of his hat and down his back. He was hot and sticky before the rain had started and now he was downright miserable. Not to mention hungry. And tired.

  He heard a roar in the distance about the same time he recognized the bloodcurdling scream of an animal. He pushed on through the rain, swearing when Domino lost his footing and almost sent him flying. The roar grew louder. Without ever having witnessed a flash flood, Rory knew what the sound meant. Dear God in heaven, he prayed, keep them all safe.

  It was almost too dark to see through the pouring rain. Afraid he would run straight into the floodwaters, he drew up and listened. The sound was definitely off to the right, somewhere in the direction in which he’d been headed. Another tortured scream rent the air followed by the hysterical braying of a mule. The scream was soon carried away as the roar of water faded into the distance.

  He reached the edge of the creek, dismounted quickly, and almost slipped down the slope into the fast-flowing water. He scrambled back and wiped his muddy hands on his pants. As the lightning and thunder moved on, the rain let up. Rory led Domino back a good distance and tried to get his bearings in the darkness.

  He moved toward the low bank and tripped over what appeared to be a piece of wood. He stooped to pick it up, saw the twisted remains of an iron spring, and recognized it as the seat from a buckboard wagon. He felt as if he’d been gut-shot.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted, “Jess! Jessica!”

  There was no answer, only the sound of the water as it slowed to a crawl now that the fury of the storm had passed.

  He hollered again. “Whitey!”

  Still no answer. Rory walked along the bank, alternately shouting and cursing, watching for some sign of life, half hoping he would stumble over one of them in the darkness, terrified they had all been swept downstream and he’d never see any of them again.

  A quarter of a mile, then a half went by. He kept walking and shouting. He was growing hoarse. The moon gradually appeared from behind the broken clouds to bathe the land in ghostly light. He could see the muddy water slowly churning its way along the wide creek bed. It couldn’t be more than two feet deep now.

  Just ahead a mule started to bray, weakly this time, obviously injured. Rory started to run through the soft, rain-soaked soil. He found the creature on its side, its forelegs bent and twisted, still trapped within the harness. Pieces of broken wagon littered the ground beside it, a splintered wagon wheel protruded from the mud. He drew his gun and neatly put a bullet through the mule’s head.

  The silence that echoed after the hideous scream and sound of the gunshot was deafening.

  In the deathly stillness that followed, Rory heard a slight sound to his left. It was little more than a sob, but it was enough to give him hope. He started running. Slowly at first, carefully picking his way across the littered ground.

  “Jess?”

  He was closer now. The sound was more distinct; someone was sobbing. “Jessica?”

  In two more strides he found her, huddled up on the sandy bank the floodwater had carved out of the land. “Jess.” He went down on his knees, afraid to touch her, afraid that she might suddenly disappear and he’d find out he’d only been dreaming.

  Her face was buried against her knees, her shoulders shuddered with the force of her sobs. Her clothing was a tangled muddy mess. So was her hair. She clutched her knapsack in her hands.

  “Jess, it’s all right.” Still on his knees beside her, he inched forward and then tentatively drew her into his arms. Her sobbing grew more intense. He cupped her cheek with his palm and turned her face until she buried it against his chest. She was mumbling against his shirt, alternately crying, talking, and trying to catch her breath.

  “It’s all right now, Jess. You’re all right.”

  “They’re gone . . . ” she cried into his shirt. “It’s . . . all my f-fault. I didn’t . . . I didn’t think anything . . . w-would happen. He tried to tell me . . . but I . . . ”

  Rory rocked her gently as he smoothed her wet hair back off her face. Never having dealt with a woman’s grief, he dug deep within himself to find the right words. There was a time when he was seven and had to have a broken leg set. Martha Burnett had held him close. He tried to think of the words she might have used. “Shh. Don’t take on so. Things will be all right.”

  Jessica pushed away from him and cried out, “How? How . . . can it ever be all right? I killed them! They’re gone and it’s all my fault. I wouldn’t listen. He wanted me to, but I wouldn’t listen to him—”

  The panic in her eyes was visible in the moonlight. He gave her a quick, determined shake. “Stop it. We’ll find them. Maybe they’re sitting in the mud waiting to be found.”

  She was adamant. “No, they’re gone. Myra was missing before the flood. The last I saw of Whitey he’d gone to get”—her breath caught again—“to get his horse.”

  “Can you stand up? Are you hurt?”

  Still clinging to his shirtfront, she shook her head. “I’m not hurt. I can walk.”

  He stood up and pulled her up with him and could feel her trembling beneath his hands. Afraid she would sink back to a sitting position, still experiencing overwhelming relief because she was alive, he refused to let her go just yet. With a shrill whistle he called Domino. Head high, the horse trotted to his side. Rory grabbed the reins and held the big Appaloosa steady while he told Jess, “Mount up. I’ll lead him along this side of the creek and we’ll walk downstream and look for the others.”

  Jessica stared into his eyes for a moment before she let go of him and turned to grab hold of the saddle. He helped her reach the stirrup and then boosted her up from behind. He handed her the knapsack.

  “You all right?” Without thinking, he put his hand on her thigh, all formality swept away.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m just fine.”

  He ignored her sarcasm and started walking, leading the horse along the bank. The water was nearly gone now, the only sign of its passing the debris along the newly carved banks. He stepped over and around tangled sagebrush, rocks, twisted pieces of pinion from higher ground.

  They passed a broken bentwood chair, one of the three Jessica used at the table. She buried her face in her hands as Rory picked it up, stared at it a moment and tossed it away. “We’ll go on a bit further, then I want to get you back to the ranch house,” he said softly.

  Her head snapped up. “Absolutely not. We have to keep looking. If there’s a chance they’re alive—”

  Rory began walking again and let his gaze sweep both sides of the bank. It wasn’t long before he thought he saw a horse silhouetted against the sky on the opposite side. “
Will you be all right if I leave you for a minute?”

  Jessica looked up quickly. “Why? What is it?”

  “Over there.” He pointed across the creek bed.

  She gasped. “Whitey’s horse?”

  “I’ll go see. Stay put.” He was sliding down the bank before the last words were out. The creek bottom was sandy and soft; his boots sank with every step. Like walking through Scratchy’s damn dumplings. He fought his way over to the other side.

  The bay horse was saddled, its reins trailed to the ground. As he drew nearer, Rory could make out a dark, ominous shape lying jammed up against the tangled roots of a scrub oak. His steps faltered. He made himself move until he was close enough to recognize Whitey’s lifeless body.

  Rory glanced over his shoulder before he knelt beside the boy. Jessica was still mounted, just where he’d left her. He knew she was watching him closely, but as much as he wanted to spare her feelings, he couldn’t ignore the body lying at his feet. He hunkered down and slowly reached out to Whitey, who lay facedown in the mud, felt for a pulse in the boy’s neck, and then rolled him over onto his back. Lifeless eyes stared at the night sky. Without his hat, his soaked clothes clinging to his wiry frame, Whitey appeared broken, defenseless, and vulnerable.

  And I left him in charge.

  Rory couldn’t help but remember how excited the young cowhand had been about the drive to Durango, how he hid his disappointment when he was told to stay behind with the women. If he had only taken Whitey with him and left a more seasoned hand, none of this would have happened. Jessica Stanbridge had blamed herself for Whitey and Myra’s disappearance. Rory blamed himself for Whitey’s death. Wilner Burnett’s boots just grew a size larger. This would never have happened if his father had been alive. He would have known better than to leave a green, untried youth in charge.

  “Rory? What is it?” She was calling out to him from across the stream.

  Rory straightened. He hated to have to tell her, but he couldn’t put it off. He couldn’t leave Whitey lying in the mud exposed to the elements and animals all night. “It’s Whitey,” he called back, fighting to get the words out around the lump in his throat. He didn’t offer more, refused to call out that Whitey was dead, couldn’t send the words out across the creek bed or drifting into the night.

  The boy’s body was far from heavy, but it was still one of the greatest burdens Rory ever had to bear. He hoisted the black-haired youth across the saddle and then unknotted the leather thongs that held a spare bedroll tied behind the saddle. There was not enough blanket to cover the tall frame. Whitey’s favorite boots hung out from beneath the edge of the red wool. Rory stroked the bay’s nose before he led the horse back across the creek.

  Ramrod straight, Jess was still in the saddle. She had a death grip on the pommel. Her tears glistened in the moonlight. She cried silently now, unable to look at the bay or the body strapped across it. Without a word Rory walked to Domino and started leading him again. There was nothing he could say, no words he dare utter before he had time to wrestle with the loss in his own mind.

  His clothes were still wet, his boots sodden. Although the air was still warm, he could see that Jessica had started shivering. She was soaked through.

  “I think we should go back. I’ll ride up with you,” he told her.

  She waited so long to answer that he was certain she had no objections. Then she whispered, “What about Myra?”

  “I’ll send the men out at first light.”

  “No. Keep searching. We aren’t leaving until we find her. I can’t leave her alone in the dark.”

  Fatigue, nerves, and the guilt of an innocent boy’s death rode heavy on his shoulders. He turned to her. “We are turning back now. We could walk for hours searching for her in the dark. I’m taking Whitey back and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. The truth is, Miss Stanbridge, if I don’t get this boy back soon, it’ll be almost impossible to get him off this horse. You’re good with old bones and things that have been dead for centuries, a hell of a lot better than you are dealing with the living, so I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen to Whitey’s body in a while. He’s been through enough. I said I’d send someone out at sunup and I will. Hell, I’ll send ’em all out, but I think you might as well face it. She’s probably dead, too.”

  “How can you be so cruel?” she whispered, her eyes intent on her hands clutching the pommel.

  “I’m not being cruel. I’m being honest.”

  He mounted up behind her, refusing to be swayed by the defeated slump of her shoulders or the tears that continued to stream down her cheeks. How many tears did she have stored up inside? Especially since she had probably kept them locked up like Midas’ gold for a lifetime. Even now she wouldn’t give in to more than tears. She didn’t scream or rend her hair, she merely held herself away from him, sat stiff in the saddle, and stared straight ahead into the darkness. She despised him too much to let herself relax and lean back against him. Even after the sniffling and eye wiping had subsided and he knew she probably wasn’t crying anymore.

  A coyote howled somewhere in the darkness. She began to shiver more violently and her gaze followed the sound. He tried to keep his own mind blank, tried not to think of the curious old woman with a penchant for exotic places and enough frivolity in her soul to tie a paisley pennant to a tent pole. She was out there somewhere, probably as dead as Whitey, lying exposed to the coyotes and night crawlers.

  He knew Jessica was haunted by the same thoughts. Still, he couldn’t quite find it in his heart to reach out to her, not when his heart was so full of its own pain.

  THE RANCH HOUSE was long and low, she could see that much in the darkness, but Jessica’s thoughts were too well occupied with the disastrous events of the evening to care anything about what the place looked like. Weak lamplight filtered out from behind thin curtains in a rear window. When they rode into the barnyard, Burnett gave an ear-piercing whistle that brought two spotted dogs racing out of the barn doors, barking loud enough to carry to the next county. Within seconds, the door to a smaller wooden structure on the far side of the yard opened and men in every state of dress from BVDs to nightshirts spilled out of the dark interior. Somehow they had all managed to pull on their boots. Three even wore gun belts.

  The sleep-drugged voices joined in a mixed chorus.

  “What happened?”

  “Who is it? What’s goin’ on?”

  “Them’s Whitey’s boots,” someone noticed.

  All talking ceased.

  She recognized Woody Barrows and Fred Hench, the men who had come to tea. The others she hadn’t met. They all stared up at Burnett and then their gazes turned on her. She wanted to hide her face in her hands, but instead she simply stared off into the night. They would all hate her now. And with just cause.

  A screen door slammed at the back of the main house. Slow footsteps crossed the porch. Jessica couldn’t bear to see who else had come out to witness her shame and despair, nor their reactions to Whitey’s body draped across the horse; she didn’t bother to look. She felt Burnett tense behind her. Without touching her, he dismounted in a quick, lithe movement for so big a man. It was easier to concentrate on Burnett’s gracefulness than it was to face the horrible truth of the moment.

  Although they were all older than Rory Burnett, there was no doubt as to who was in command of these men when he started issuing orders. “Barrows, get some sawhorses and planks out of the barn and set them in the parlor. Gathers, you and Tinsley get Whitey down and take him inside. We’ll lay him out in the parlor until we can bury him tomorrow. Hench, come morning, you and Wheelbarrow can build the coffin.”

  She remained in the saddle, soaked through, alone and ignored. He hadn’t even offered to help her down. While Barrows hurried off to do his bi
dding, the tallest—a man with a thin, weathered face that looked unused to smiling—took the reins of Whitey’s horse and led it into the barn. The other two walked slowly beside the boy’s body, an honor guard in nightclothes and underwear.

  Jessica sensed Burnett’s gaze upon her. She avoided looking down at him by watching the horse flick its ears. He spoke to the only man left, a grizzled old-timer who openly scratched himself wherever the need arose.

  “Scratchy, take Miss Stanbridge in the house and put her up in Ma’s room. She’ll need a hot bath. Get her anything else she wants.” That said, Rory Burnett followed the others into the barn.

  The old man reached up to help her down and Jessica called upon all of her own strength, afraid that if her legs gave out, she might topple the spindly man right into the muddy yard. She slipped her knapsack over her shoulder and reached out to him.

  “Watch your step there, ma’am, it’s a fur piece down. There you go.” He waited while she clung to the stirrup. Finally Jessica let go. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she turned around, able to follow him at last.

  “It’s wet enough for a canoe out here,” was all he mumbled before he slogged through the mire to the ranch house.

  Head down, carefully picking her way through the slush, Jessica forced herself to move, to forget Burnett’s cold dismissal, to block out the thoughts that plagued her. The old man held the door for her and she shuffled inside, unaware of the mud she was tracking across the kitchen floor.

  “Stop right there, little lady,” Scratchy said. “Let’s get them boots off you.” He whisked a chair away from a long table and set it behind her. When Jessica failed to respond, Scratchy gave her a shove and she sat. He hunkered down and, in the weak glow of a single oil lamp, unlaced her boots and pulled them off.

  “Want to talk about what happened out there tonight?” he offered.