by DiAnn Mills
Could the killer have been angry because Grandfather had foreclosed on his property? Hmm… From the way he didn’t appear personally involved, I thought the man was a hired killer, which made it all so much more frightening.
The truth be known, my responsibility now rested in hiding until Mr. Murdock deemed it safe for me to return home. He’d made arrangements in New Mexico. All I needed to do was ride this train to Albuquerque and wait for instructions. New Mexico. I’d never been there, but I knew it was hot, dry, and desolate. As uninviting as that sounded, I vowed to make the best of it. Above all, a woman with Bennington and Fortier blood flowing through her veins was resilient and courageous, which is what my father wrote to me on the day I was born. Perhaps he’d held a crystal ball to see my future possessed more dire circumstances than fortunate ones.
This day had started like so many before it—orderly, ordinary. And yet I’d witnessed a murder and a miracle. My life had been spared from a killer’s bullet. Grandfather, with all his gruffness and lack of feeling, always stated that a person was in charge of his own destiny. If so, then I had to become strong, because I was heading into the unknown with a killer on my heels.
I rode the Santa Fe Railroad on to Albuquerque, surprising myself that I could actually sleep in the comfort of my Pullman suite. Succumbing to the lure of rest eased my mind from the tremendous burden weighing on my shoulders. The train rolled to a screeching halt, hissing and billowing smoke on Silver Avenue. I left the security of my suite, afraid of the future but more afraid of the past. I took the porter’s hand and stepped down from the train. My anxious gaze swept the long area, peering about for someone who might be waiting for me. A sign would have been nice, but if the killer had gotten there ahead of me, I’d have made a perfect target.
Strange how my thoughts focused on self-preservation.
When no one approached me, I carried my suitcase to a bench and sat down. The view allowed me to scrutinize those still disembarking from the train and those standing around the station. Everyone appeared to be preoccupied with their own business.
An old man wrapped his arm around a white-haired woman and together they waved to a young man fast approaching them. When he shouted, “Grandpa. Grandma,” I nearly broke down into an emotional display that would have embarrassed Grandfather.
A woman embraced a man who clutched a satchel.
A child cried.
A whistle blew. The slow clunk clunk of the train captured my attention, for it sounded like an axe splitting wood.
But no one seemed to be looking for me. Granted, I was a bit wrinkled, but so was everyone else. A shiver of alarm rippled up my spine, and I stiffened to ward off the misgivings—and incredible angst.
I despised my ignorance of the world and my dire situation when I wanted to be independent. Drawing a deep breath like I’d seen Victoria do when she obviously needed to take a stand, I wrapped my fingers around my suitcase handle and walked into the train station to contact Mr. Murdock.
Inside the station, I found a uniformed man, who wore a heavy mustache that looped over his lips. I smiled and requested the use of the telephone.
“Where to, miss?” He smiled back at me, and for a moment I forgot that I was alone in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with a killer on my heels.
“Syracuse, New York. I know the number.”
He tugged on his right ear. “That’s quite a ways. Do you have money for the call?”
“Yes sir.” I wanted to break down and tell him my whole plight, but I’d been brought up not to tell others about hardships. Instead I pulled a few dollars from my bag and wrote down Mr. Murdock’s telephone number.
He eyed me kindly and cranked up the telephone. Once he reached the operator, he handed me the receiver. Perhaps his congeniality came from the fact I’d paid him handsomely.
I waited for the call to go through, and the sound of a familiar voice warmed me. “Mrs. Wellsby, this is Eva Fortier. May I speak to Mr. Murdock?”
“Oh, my dear, he’s attending your grandfather’s funeral.”
I hadn’t considered the funeral. My selfishness and concern for myself grieved my heart. I should have been there. “I look forward to hearing about the services. When do you expect him to return?”
“I have no idea. He mentioned having a meeting with Miss Victoria afterward.”
I was glad I wouldn’t be privy to that conversation. However, I was curious. “When he returns, would you have him call me at this number?” I spoke distinctly into the phone with the railroad station’s number.
“Isn’t someone there to greet you?”
“No ma’am.”
“Mr. Murdock made the arrangements. You’re to be picked up and taken to Ghost Ranch.”
Ghost Ranch? I nearly dropped the telephone. “Where?”
“It’s a ranch about one hundred thirty miles north of where you are. You’ll be safe there. He wanted you in Albuquerque instead of Santa Fe to give him time to reach those who will be taking care of you. I’m sure you’ll be met soon. Just relax. In the meantime, I’ll do my best to contact Mr. Murdock.”
The words “Ghost Ranch” echoed in my ears. I wanted to take an eraser and obliterate the implication of what they could mean. Was Mr. Murdock one of them? Why else would he send me, without Victoria, to a remote part of the country?
I must be wrong. He had to be protecting me from the killer. I stiffened my resolve to grow strong and unafraid, if for no other reason than to honor Grandfather’s memory.
CHAPTER 3
Tahoma massaged his throbbing neck muscles and rubbed his fingers over the sand and sweat clinging to his flesh. Too little sleep and too many patients had left him surly…anxious about many things. His last shipment of medicine hadn’t arrived in Santa Fe, and his patients needed relief. They called him a medicine man. He didn’t care what title they bestowed upon him as long as they brought their sick and hurting. For three years he’d worked to convince those in his community—all relatives—to accept the white man’s medicine. He’d chosen to weave his medical knowledge with his people’s culture.
He stood outside his flat-roofed dwelling that served as a clinic and watched Yanaba walk toward her home, his heart heavy for what he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Yanaba’s baby didn’t have a heartbeat. She’d birthed three stillborn children in the last three years, and the thought of one more death to the childless couple scraped his insides raw. During Yanaba’s pregnancy, her mother had used many ceremonies to ensure her daughter achieved balance and harmony for a healthy birth. The young woman’s name meant brave, and she’d need all the strength she could muster very soon. If only he could do more, and he prayed he was wrong.
Some of the people blamed him when Yanaba’s children were stillborn. They said his years of medical school among the whites had brought evil into her life, and their lives too. None of them seemed to remember she’d have bled to death if he hadn’t been there.
And now he had a message to deliver to his father from James Murdock in Syracuse, New York. Years had passed since the lawyer had contacted them, since Andrew Fortier had died. Before that, it was news of Penelope Fortier’s passing. Curiosity lured Tahoma to read the message enclosed in the sealed envelope, but respect for his father stopped him. The phone call had been relayed to his father’s trusted friend in Santa Fe with an important message for Nascha Benally, Tahoma’s father.
He approached his father’s hogan, where the older man sat outside in the sun. Having his mother nearby would have helped console his father if the news was bad. But Tahoma didn’t see her, so the responsibility was left for him to help soothe any misfortune.
They’d been fortunate that the October days had warmed in the afternoons, and Tahoma was glad his father had chosen to soak up the last reminders of pleasant temperatures, easing his bones and allowing him reprieve from the cold nights. He paused to reflect on his father’s failing health. His heart beat far too fast—and was wearing out far too soon.
&nb
sp; “I have a message for you from James Murdock. It was left two days ago.”
Weary eyes met his gaze. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from him.” He breathed in deeply as though remembering their last correspondence. “I hope nothing has happened to Andrew’s daughter.”
Tahoma nodded. Father’s vow to Andrew Fortier had never been tested. At times that promise seemed to be the only reason his father clung to life. But if the Fortier family had ceased to exist, then Father’s days were short. “Mother is not here?”
“Not until sunset.”
Tahoma didn’t ask where she’d gone. The crucial matter at hand lay in the contents of the telephone message. He handed the missive to his father. For a moment, Tahoma caught a glimpse of the back of the older man’s veined hand and parchment-thin flesh. He studied his father’s face, not expecting one line to shift or muscle to twitch that would indicate the message’s contents. Nascha Bennally remained true to his Diné heritage. He’d never lower himself to be called a Navajo, as the white man called them. Tahoma waited as the moments ticked by slowly. He envied his father’s stoic resolve, although it irritated him.
Once his father finished reading, he carefully folded the paper before capturing Tahoma’s gaze. “My time has come.”
“Why is that, Father?”
“Richard Bennington is dead…murdered. Eva Fortier has been sent to Ghost Ranch until the killer is found.”
“Mr. Murdock must believe she is in danger too.”
“He has no idea who is behind the murder, but he cannot risk her life. She is sole heir to both family fortunes. Motive for a greedy man.”
A spoiled, rich, white girl. “Your health is at risk.”
His father smiled. “I am the wind. I go where the spirit leads me, and my heart will carry me through to the end.”
Frustration rushed through Tahoma’s veins. “We both have much to be grateful for, but Mr. Fortier would not want you to give your life for a vow.” He knew the moment the words left his mouth that they were wrong. He’d spoken selfishly in an effort to lengthen his father’s life. “I’m sorry. You gave your word.”
Father rose slowly to his feet and gestured around them, toward the rocks and sandy dirt beneath their feet and the high desert mountains around them. “You have a purpose here to heal the bodies of our people, the people. Nothing stops you. I will protect Eva Fortier for as long as I’m needed.”
“What about the sheep?”
“I’ll find someone to tend to them.”
“Mother and I need you.”
“Without Andrew Fortier, your mother would have raised you alone.”
The matter was settled, and Tahoma had realized the outcome from the moment his father revealed the contents of the message. But he had to try. “I owe the man much too.” No matter that Andrew Fortier was white, and Tahoma detested what the leaders of the country had done to his people. “I’ll help you.”
“No. This is my destiny. Your days and nights are stolen by the cries of the sick.”
“But—”
Father raised his hand. “Do not stand in the way of what I must do.” He paused, and Tahoma knew he was remembering the friendship of a man he could not forget. “I will speak with Charlotte before sunset. She already knows of this. My son, I need your promise about this matter.”
Tahoma nodded while his heart shouted otherwise.
“If something happens to me, you will complete the vow. You know our way of life—the songs, dances, prayers—all the ceremonies.”
Tahoma had no choice.
“The young woman knows nothing about her father’s and my relationship.”
“Why?”
“Andrew died when she was young, and her grandfather did not want her to know. Perhaps he feared she might be generous with our people as Andrew demonstrated.”
Tahoma gritted his teeth. He could only imagine the temperament of a young woman who’d never gone hungry or wanted for anything.
CHAPTER 4
I sat outside the train station and waited for whoever had been sent to meet me. My stomach rumbled, but I must not leave my perch. Mr. Murdock could return my call, or the person assigned to transport me to Ghost Ranch could arrive. I refused to cause additional grief or concern. Enough had been done to keep me safe.
Mr. Murdock had given me precious few instructions, but I believed he had little to tell me on such short notice. How would I learn the answers to my questions? More important was how would I know whom to trust? I remembered earlier recollections about Grandfather telling me I was a good judge of character. That was the key to my survival: filtering every word and person through the hours of lectures Grandfather had delivered to me. “Integrity,” he’d said, “is what will be written on your tombstone. Live it now.” And I would.
As the afternoon dragged on, I found myself thinking about my parents. I was six years old when my mother died and barely eight when Papa passed on. I remembered how they loved each other—and the laughter. Always the laughter. I’d not known such happiness since. Victoria did her best, and I knew she loved me as I loved her. Grandfather was a hard man, and he never said he loved me. I’d never said I loved him either. But I did. And the longer I thought about him, I came to realize that he did care, or he wouldn’t have spent so many hours instructing me…lecturing me.
I swiped at a tear with fierceness. Oh, the unfairness of life and to be so utterly alone. Don’t give in to despair, Eva Fortier. I turned my attention to a tabby cat playing on the railroad tracks. Then she stretched out as though readying for a nap. Not exactly a safe spot. Neither was my perch on a bench with a killer stalking me. I hurried to my feet and chased away the cat, giving her stern instructions to be mindful of where she slept.
“Miss Fortier?”
I turned to the gravelly voice of a woman. “Yes ma’am.”
The woman was about Victoria’s age, but oh so different. She was tanned and weathered, as though she’d been birthed in this harsh land. Obviously, fashion sense had no meaning here. She walked toward me with an outstretched hand, much like a man. And I soon grasped it.
“I’m Charlotte Arnold, owner of Ghost Ranch. Sorry to keep you waiting. A courier had to bring Mr. Murdock’s message from Santa Fe.” She tilted her head. “Seems odd that he had you come by way of Albuquerque. But we’re together now, and we’ll make the best of it.”
I was so glad to see her that I wanted to embrace her and cry like a child. Instead, I let my gratefulness shine through my eyes and my smile. “I’m very pleased to meet you. The wait has been no problem at all.”
Her eyes clouded for just a moment, long enough for me to understand she knew the truth.
“I am…” My voice broke, and I swallowed a lump as big as the rocky peaks in the distance. “I’m anxious to see Ghost Ranch.”
“You brave girl.” She fairly beamed. “It’s the most beautiful place in all this country. Wild and desolate. A haven for you to find peace until this is settled.”
The word desolate fell with a dull thud in my mind. I’d always been used to modern conveniences, but Grandfather believed that dire circumstances built character. He would have looked at this situation as an opportunity to deepen my knowledge of the world. He was always right, which infuriated me most of the time—and his wisdom always made Victoria angry.
Odd, how the man from whom I’d craved a declaration of love had given me so much more. Even though he was gone, I felt his strength helping me hold onto life. Perhaps the most authentic measure of love after all.
I walked back to the bench and picked up my bags. “Let’s go see this Ghost Ranch of yours.”
Over five hours later, long past sundown and over dirt and rutted roads, the car slowed to a stop, and Miss Arnold turned off the engine. I couldn’t see a thing, which was a bit disconcerting. Up to this point, we’d chatted, and although I’d teared up a few times, I’d done remarkably well. The darkness smothered me like a heavy blanket in winter, and I shivered. Was
it me, or did something sinister await me outside the confines of the car?
“It’s cooler here than in Albuquerque,” she said. “Winter snows will be here all too soon. Sometimes as early as late October. So enjoy the weather while you can.” She opened the car door and disappeared. A few feet away, a lantern came to life.
I opened my door, as fearful as I’d been when Grandfather lay still on the ground. Blackness did that to me. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the night.
“You can stay in one of the guest cabins and take your meals with the ranch hands. One of them has built a fire for you tonight. You’ll be safe. Tomorrow we’ll talk through the coming days.”
“Did you and Mr. Murdock decide on my future?” I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. “That came out very wrong.”
“In your shoes, I’d be fightin’ mad.” She laughed, and my uneasiness subsided—for a moment. “A family here needs a governess. Ever done any teaching?”
“I will now.”
“Three boys under the age of thirteen.”
“I’m not married and have never had a suitor. This may be my only opportunity.”
She chuckled again. I wondered where all my bravado had come from. Whatever the origin, I intended to keep it nestled close to my heart before I melted into a pool of self-pity and raw fright.
CHAPTER 5
Early the following morning, as the sun streaked across the sky in radiant fingers of burnt orange and yellow, Tahoma watched his father ride north toward Ghost Ranch. He rode arrow-straight without a saddle, atop a red and gold blanket. His cliff-gray hair fell to his shoulders and was tied with a headband of twisted cloth. Magnificent. A proud statue of a man. He held the embodiment of hundreds of years of Diné tradition. During the entire time Tahoma had been in Chicago attending college and then medical school, he’d not seen a single sight as impressive as the Navajo in regal display. Unfortunately, Nascha Benally’s generation was fading into the twentieth century. The Navajo would have to fight to keep the outside world away from their culture.
