Behind His Blue Eyes

by Kaki Warner

  “Good morning, Miss Eckhart,” he called when she paused to reload. He knew better than approach an armed woman without letting her know he was there.

  Resting the rifle barrel against her shoulder, she turned. The sun hit her straight on, highlighting one of the most arresting faces he had ever seen. High cheekbones, deep brown eyes, a sensual mouth that curved up at the corners in an ironic smile, as if she knew things—secrets—of which others could only guess. “You’re the architect in charge of the renovation?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  “Think you know what we need, do you?”

  “Not yet. But with your help, I soon hope to.”

  That seemed to please her. She smiled, further enhancing her beauty.

  He smiled back. “You know you’d hit more birds with a shotgun.”

  “Of course I would. If I wanted to hit birds. I like the noise when I fire and the way they fly off, screeching in alarm. Makes me want to scream with them. Come along and I’ll give you a tour of the saddest place you’ll ever be.”

  That had been the first bright moment of what was to become the darkest period in his life.

  * * *

  It was near noon when Ethan rode back into Heartbreak Creek. The sun was high and intense. With the cool March breeze, what mud was left from the spring thaw had quickly dried, hardening the wagon tracks down Main Street into ruts and ridges. Soon they would be gone, too, breaking down into loamy dust laced with horse manure. Ethan could already smell the beginnings of decay.

  He let Renny pick his way over the rough ground until they reached the sheriff’s office. There, he dismounted, looped the reins around the rail out front, and stepped up onto the boardwalk.

  After that huge breakfast with the Rylanders, he wasn’t hungry, but he figured that unless the sheriff had been called away, he would be eating lunch about now, either at home, in his office, or at the hotel.

  The sheriff was in. As was his wife, who had apparently brought him a plate lunch, which remained covered and untouched on his battered oak desk. Beside it sat a ruffled bonnet and an empty picnic basket.

  The tension in the room could dull a well-honed skinning knife.

  As introductions were made, Ethan studied the couple, thinking they were as mismatched a pair as he had ever seen.

  Sheriff Brodie was a big fellow, taller than Ethan by a couple of inches, and even broader than Deputy Redstone. He had dark brown hair and eyes, a slow smile, and a handshake that left Ethan’s fingers numb.

  But what struck him most about the man was his stillness. Such a lack of vitality might have been mistaken for dullness, if not for the utter confidence in Brodie’s relaxed manner and the intelligence behind his probing gaze.

  On the other hand, Mrs. Edwina Brodie—or Ed, as her husband had introduced her—was opposite in every way. Fair, to his dark coloring. Tall and slender, whereas he was broad as a bull. As gregarious as Brodie was subdued. But the biggest difference was her total lack of guile—or perhaps, restraint—which allowed every emotion that flitted through her mind to show on her pretty face.

  And what Ethan saw now in those wide blue eyes was fear. Or, as Audra had said, the panic of an overwhelmed woman at the end of her rope.

  “How long will you be staying in our little town, Mr. Hardesty?” she asked, in the drawling, up-and-down cadence of the South.

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. But I’m enjoying my stay so far.”

  “That’s wonderful. Isn’t that wonderful, Declan?”

  Declan nodded. Propping a hip on the corner of his desk, he rested his crossed arms on his thigh and watched his wife.

  “Heartbreak Creek isn’t nearly as rough as it looks,” she went on. “Why, we’re even getting a newspaper. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Both men nodded.

  “And as soon as the railroad comes through, we’ll have our own little depot.” She prattled on for a few more minutes, then seemed to lose steam. “Well . . . I can see y’all have business to discuss, so I won’t keep you. But do come by for a visit while you’re here, Mr. Hardesty.”

  “I will, ma’am.”

  “Wonderful. That’s just wonderful. We’ll look forward to it, won’t we, Declan?”

  Declan nodded.

  She pulled on her bonnet, tucked in a loose strand of light brown hair, tied the streamers in a bow by her cheek, undid it, and tied it by the other cheek. Satisfied, she clasped her hands at her waist . . . in a grip so tight Ethan could see the whitening of her knuckles. He supposed if he had a new baby and four stepchildren waiting at home, he might be a little tense, too.

  “Well . . . I should get back.” She said it without enthusiasm, as if hoping one of them would insist she stay. When neither did, she gave a brittle smile and picked up the basket. “The children are probably tearing the house apart even as we speak. I declare, there aren’t enough hours in the day to keep track of them. Especially with a new baby and all.”

  She did look tired. Her eyes looked bruised, her shoulders drooped, and that pinched look around her mouth gave the impression that she was using what strength she had left to hold something in.

  Like angry words. Accusations. Or, God forbid, tears.

  Ethan had grown up with two sisters. He recognized the look and knew what that fine edge in a woman’s voice meant.

  Clouds on the horizon. A storm on the way.

  Hoping to divert it, he said with robust joviality, “A son, I heard. Congratulations. Have you named him yet?”

  She flashed the first unguarded smile he’d seen from her. It changed her face entirely, giving him a glimpse of rare beauty beneath the weariness. Ethan understood then why the sheriff had been smitten with her.

  “Whitney Ladoux Brodie. I know that’s a mouthful, but they’re family names, you see, and it’s only fitting that he should carry names from both of us, don’t you agree?”

  “I do.”

  She looked at her husband.

  He smiled and nodded.

  If Ethan hadn’t heard the sheriff make the introductions earlier, he might have thought the man mute.

  “Well,” Mrs. Brodie said for the third time. “I’ve dallied long enough. You’ll be home by five?” she asked the sheriff.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Because Pru still has packing to do, and won’t be able to stay long. And Brin keeps taking the baby out of his cradle and carting him over to show the neighbors, and no telling what mischief Joe Bill is up to. You have to speak to them, Declan. I can’t—”

  “I’ll talk to them, Ed. I promise.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  In an effort to hurry the parting along, Ethan tugged on the front brim of his hat. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, ma’am. Hope to see you again soon.”

  “I look forward to it, Mr. Hardesty. And Declan,” she added with a hint of steel in her voice. “I’ll see you at five.”

  “Five,” he said.

  “Good. Now eat your lunch, dear. I fixed your favorite.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, the sheriff let out a deep breath. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Talking. Every time I do, I get into trouble.”

  Ethan chuckled. “New mothers can be like that.” He had no idea if that was true, but he’d heard it somewhere and it sounded about right. New mothers, new wives, flighty adolescents, any hardheaded, shortsighted, contentious female—they all defied logic.

  A hundred and fifty dollars. It was unheard of. An outrageous amount of money for a simple right-of-way. He would probably have to pay half of it out of his own pocket, just to save face. Hell.

  Redstone was right. She had played him like a trout.

  Pushing that unsettling thought aside—along with the disturbing realization that he was more amused by the notion than angry—he explained
why he had come to Heartbreak Creek.

  The sheriff nodded. “Tait said the railroad was sending someone.”

  Brodie didn’t sound upset about that, Ethan was pleased to note. A lesser man might have taken it as interference or a lack of faith in his abilities to handle the situation. “Rylander told me about the woodcutter’s death,” Ethan went on, “and the missing watch. Could a raven or pack rat have carried it off? They’re drawn to shiny objects.”

  “Maybe. Or he misplaced it. Or lost it in a poker game and was afraid to tell his wife. I’m more concerned with how a man who knew these woods as well as Hendricks did got clumsy enough to fall off a bluff.”

  Good point. “Has there been any recent damage to the sluice?”

  “A landslide took out a hundred-foot section.”

  Rylander hadn’t mentioned that. “A natural occurrence?”

  Brodie shrugged. “It happens in steep terrain.”

  “Mind if I take a look at it?” Ethan didn’t need permission. But he also didn’t want to overstep. Doing so would only make his task harder, and might put him on the bad side of a man who could do serious damage if he took offense.

  Besides, Ethan liked the sheriff. He admired his easy manner and confident attitude and the patience the fellow had shown toward his high-strung wife.

  “Sure.” Rising, the sheriff plucked a dusty hat from a hook on the wall. “I’d like to talk to some of the workers again myself.”

  “No rush. Go ahead and eat your lunch.”

  Brodie looked down at the covered plate on his desk. With the enthusiasm of a man peeking under a shroud in an undertaker’s parlor, he warily lifted the edge of the cloth, took a look, then let it drop over the plate again.

  “Not your favorite,” Ethan guessed.

  “I was hoping her sister, Prudence, made it. My wife’s not much of a cook.” Then with a broad grin and more animation in his dark eyes than Ethan had seen since arriving, he added, “But she’s got other compensating attributes.”

  “Ah.” Ethan nodded in understanding. For a nice set of female attributes, a man could overlook a lot.

  * * *

  Other than a steep wagon track that ended at the old mine on the hillside, there were two ways into the canyon—one on either side of the creek that had given the town its name. The lower, more gently sloped route on the left was the one the railroad would take. The rougher terrain on the right was where the sluice was being constructed.

  Brodie took him right.

  Eye-searing sunlight gave way to spotty shade as they climbed up through tall stands of fir and pine and spruce. Noise faded. Other than the occasional scolding from a crossbill or jay, the only sound of their progress was the labored breathing of the horses and the muffled thuds of their hooves on the soft ground.

  Ethan relished the solitude and resolved to come back at another time with his fiddle. It had been too long since he’d let music ease his troubles. Might help him sleep better.

  The higher they rode, the lower the temperature dropped. Here and there, patches of snow still clung to shaded crevasses. Tiny rivulets of icy water, seeping from under tangles of hawthorn and mountain maple, pooled in the tracks of horses, deer, elk, and sometimes bear. The smell of pine and juniper hung in the still air.

  They had ridden a couple of miles when Ethan heard the pounding of hammers echo along the canyon walls. A hundred yards farther, they came to a clearing where a group of men worked on what looked like a log flume, only much smaller. An older man, who seemed to be in charge of the workers, waved and came forward when he saw Brodie.

  While the two men conversed, Ethan dismounted and looked around.

  He already knew most of the particulars of the project. The design was a common one and fairly straightforward. Approximately five miles up the canyon, and a mile past the mineral spring, a simple sliding valve would divert a portion of Heartbreak Creek into the mouth of the sluice. From there, the water would flow downhill to town, where it would empty into two water towers—one near the old mine that would service the town, and the other beside the tracks, which would provide clean, mineral-free water to passing locomotives—for a monthly charge. Any excess water would be channeled back into the creek, thereby keeping the flow moving so it wouldn’t freeze in the winter. A good plan.

  And a costly undertaking. But once the sluice was completed and the monthly fee from the railroad started rolling in, the investment would quickly pay off. Especially for the Rylanders, who, as majority stockholders in the Heartbreak Creek Development Company, had financed the project. To their credit, they had also dedicated a substantial amount of company stock to the town, as well as a portion of the water fees. That way, once the initial investment was recouped, everyone would have ownership of the water, and any future maintenance costs on the sluice and water towers would be covered by the fees the railroad paid.

  A generous arrangement, Ethan thought.

  But first, they had to finish the project.

  Leaving Renny tied to a sapling beside Brodie’s big sorrel, Ethan wandered along the sluice—an open trough with two twenty-inch-wide boards nailed in the shape of a V, supported by regularly spaced wooden ribs with crosspieces over the top to keep the sides from spreading. It wouldn’t be watertight, but once the boards swelled with moisture, it would seal well enough. Besides, with a constant water supply, leakage wasn’t an issue.

  He was glad to see they were using fir and cedar. Pine could be knotty and softer woods weren’t as resistant to rot. The supports holding up the trough looked solid, and the cross-bracing seemed substantial enough to eliminate sway once water was running through the sluice. He noted no evidence of shoddy workmanship that would make the structure especially vulnerable in a rock slide.

  Ahead, he saw a middle-aged man and an adolescent, who was probably his son, working beside a stack of logs. Both wore the ragged homespun clothing and tattered slouch hats Ethan had seen on many a prospector. Since the sluice was a town project and not part of the bridge line, most of the labor was local, rather than Chinese, who worked exclusively for the railroad. Another boost to the Heartbreak Creek economy.

  But neither of these workers looked particularly happy.

  “Afternoon,” he said, stopping beside them.

  The older fellow paused in his sawing. The younger continued skinning a thick log with a two-handled bark stripper.

  Introductions were brief and without enthusiasm.

  Keeping his tone friendly, Ethan asked if they knew anything about the recent landslide.

  “Warn’t our fault,” the boy blurted out. “That’s what we know.”

  The man, who had introduced himself as Hopewell—an apt name for a prospector, Ethan thought—doffed his hat and swiped a dirty sleeve over his brow. “Nine sections. A week’s work, tangled up at the bottom of the ravine like a pile of them eating sticks the Chi-nee use.”

  “Do rockfalls happen often?”

  Hopewell put the hat back on his head, and looked Ethan square in the eye. “With help, maybe.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We send crews ahead to check for loose rocks. ’Specially ones big enough to do damage or hurt somebody. Me and the boy walked that ridge ourselves, and we didn’t see nothing that could come down on its own.”

  Ethan digested that. “You think someone intentionally caused the slide?”

  “Maybe.” Anger flashed in the man’s weathered face. “But it warn’t us. That’s all I know.”

  “You tell anyone about this?”

  “No time. Nobody seemed interested, anyway. Too busy pointing fingers.”

  “Well,” Ethan said with a smile, “we’re interested now.”

  Waving an arm to get his attention, Ethan motioned Brodie over. When he arrived, Hopewell told his story again. The sheriff posed a few more questions, then nodded his thanks and let t
he workers get back to their tasks.

  “You think what he says has merit?” Ethan asked as they headed back to where the horses were tied.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Only one way to find out.”

  They rode on up the canyon to the site of the destruction, and dismounting, walked the area. Not much to see—a pile of loose stones and uprooted vegetation shoveled aside so the supports could be reset, and a few broken timbers scattered in the creek running along the bottom of the ravine. All the salvageable lumber had already been hauled out and used in the repairs.

  Hands braced on his hips, Ethan scanned the slope rising above him. He could clearly see the path of the rockfall. But the longer he studied it, the more it seemed that either it had split near the top or there were two points of origin. Two separate falls—in the same area—at the exact same time? Hardly.

  He turned to Brodie, who was also studying the slope. “There were two slides,” he said, and pointed. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “I’m going up for a closer look.”

  “Head right. I’ll go left.”

  Moving through brush on either side of the chute, they struggled up the steep incline. It was rough going. Twice Ethan slipped on loose rocks, and once almost ripped open his hand when he grabbed a thorny shrub by mistake. By the time he reached the top, winded and sweating, he’d developed a new respect for Hopewell and his son. And a deep regret that he hadn’t brought his canteen.

  It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened. The two slides were about thirty yards apart. The starting point for each was a deep depression in the earth near the top. The kind of depression a big boulder might make . . . before it was shoved or pried out of its resting place and sent crashing down the slope, gathering stones and brush along the way, until it finally slammed into the sluice and sent nine sections of it sliding into the ravine.