Cloudcastle

by Nan Ryan

  "No, Kane." She was shaking her head. "I thought it was like when I—"

  "Belinda, you have got to get out of here at once. Go back to your room before someone sees you." He rose, urging her up with him. "If this is wrong, Kane, are you going to tell Momma?"

  "No. No, I'm not," said Kane, "not if you promise you will never do such a thing again. Now go."

  "Good night, Kane," she whispered, and kissed his cheek as though nothing had happened. Kane watched her tiptoe down the darkened hall to the stairs before he quietly closed the door.

  He didn't go back to bed. Shakily he rolled and lit a cigarette, fighting desperately to calm his raw nerves. He stood at the window, staring sightlessly out over the darkened valley while he wrestled with his conscience.

  The laudanum had worn off Kane spent the long, painfilled night worrying about Belinda and wondering if he should go, at once, and waken Marge Baker. It would break the poor woman's heart. He was damned if he did; damned if he didn't.

  Kane cringed… Belinda had already been with a man. He knew it. He didn't know when or who or how, but he knew that she had. She was far too knowledgeable. She had played sex games with somebody. She had caressed him as if she were an experienced woman, not an innocent child.

  Kane was still tormented by the dilemma when the first gray light of dawn crept over the eastern ring of mountains. Exhausted, suffering, he lay down across his rumpled bed. He would act this very morning. His last conscious thought was of the abused Belinda.

  Dressed warmly in a heavy woolen coat, Belinda said good-bye to her mother at ten minutes before nine that morning. It was Thursday. Thanksgiving Day. Time to go up the hill to the Blackmore mansion.

  "Lord Blackmore said you could cut the cleaning short since it's Thanksgiving, so I'll expect you home before eleven," said Marge Baker as she fondly tied the long maroon muffler about her daughter's neck.

  "I'll be here, Momma," promised Belinda, and rushed outdoors. Marge went back to her kitchen as the' young girl skipped down the front steps. Hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, Belinda paused on the frozen sidewalk, turned, and looked up at the right front window on the third floor.

  Kane's window.

  She was still peering up when she sidled absently into the street. Someone shouted, but it was too late. Belinda whirled just in time to see the runaway ice wagon bearing down upon her. She screamed as the snorting, wild-eyed beasts thundered over her.

  Her scream jolted Kane wide awake. Heart pounding in his bare chest, he flew down the stairs and out into the cold. Marge had already reached her prostrate daughter. She was on her knees beside the lifeless form, begging Belinda to speak. Kane crouched down, pushed the bloodied maroon muffler away from Belinda's throat, and felt for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Early winter dusk traveled down the snowy slopes of the shimmering San Juan range. A man on horseback, his classic features outlined against the purpling sky, spurred his coal-black mount up into the rugged foothills, disappearing behind an icy ridge of the upland valley.

  Over a high-lying plateau he rode, his long black cloak billowing in the rising night winds, horse's sharp hooves drumming a rhythmic cadence on the solidly frozen ground. It was cold night. A snowy Sunday night. A night to be indoors, not galloping across a lake of ice.

  Jagged white bluffs loomed in the distance. It was to the base of their shimmering spires that the rider headed. In the deep, black shadows of those niddle-like spires, a small, weathered dwelling stood on a small, barren spread of land.

  Lights winked from the windows and a curl of black smoke rose from the rock chimney of the dilapidated building. Sounds came from within; deep masculine laughter carrying on the chill night air.

  The rider reined in his black mount, his eyes as cold as the ice framing the wooden front porch. He dismounted swiftly and strode purposefully up the sagging front steps of the shack. He did not knock. He burst into the room, surprising the two laughing men seated at a wooden eating table.

  "Hello. Come in, come in," said the thin Burl Leatherwood, rising nervously from his chair. "What brings you out tonight?"

  The caller ignored Burl Leatherwood. He walked directly to the hulking Damon Leatherwood, where he sat sopping meat juice from his plate with a large hunk of bread. Damon looked up and grinned; the space where his missing teeth had been gave him a comical appearance.

  "Hi, boss," said Damon, and pushed the soggy piece of bread into his gap-toothed mouth.

  "Stand up," ordered Ashlin Blackmore coldly, his unwavering gaze on the seated man.

  Still chewing, and looking puzzled, Damon rose. Towering over the blond, slender man, Damon spoke past the food in his mouth. "What's up?"

  Ashlin gave no verbal reply. He lifted his gloved right hand and gave the big man's punished mouth a stinging blow with the back of his hand. Damon's jaw went slack. Half-chewed food dribbled down his chin, mixing with bright red blood.

  Burl Leatherwood's light eyes narrowed, but he didn't make a move. Big Damon Leatherwood looked down at Ashlin like a child who was close to tears. Ashlin again slapped him, eliciting a wail of fear and outrage from Leatherwood. Damon's big, bruised hand came up to his face to wipe away the blood as tears stung his shocked eyes.

  "You fool." Ashlin finally spoke, softly, stepping back to work his fingers from the soiled black gloves. "I've told you repeatedly to stay away from Kane Covington."

  "Yeah, but boss, he picked on me and I was only—"

  "Shut your slobbering, ignorant mouth, Damon," said Ashlin Blackmore, shrugging out of his long black cloak and lifting the black fur cap from his shiny blond curls. He strode forward to the fireplace, whirled around dramatically, and said in a low, menacing voice, "I don't give a goddamn if Kane Covington walked up to you on the street and took a piss on your leg. You were not to touch one hair on his head and you knew it."

  Damon's chin drooped petulantly on his massive chest and he made a face. Burl Leatherwood said evenly, "We know, boss."

  "Do your?" Ashlin's eyes were fierce. "Do you understand, Damon, why I've ordered you to stay away from Covington?" Damon muttered unintelligibly. "Answer me!"

  "Y-yes, boss." Damon reluctantly lifted his head. "But I was—"

  Ashlin's gaze swung to Burl. "Burl, I'll say this to you since little brother is too stupid to comprehend. When they find Covington dead, they'll immediately suspect you. It's Damon's fault and I'll not lift a finger to help you. Is that clear?"

  "Don't worry, boss," reasoned Burl Leatherwood. "They might suspect us, but they won't be able to prove a thing. Not a thing."

  Ashlin's brown eyes were on Damon. "You implicate me in any way and I'll—"

  "Never. We'd never do that, boss," Burl was quick to reassure him. "Nobody even knows were acquainted; I swear it."

  "All right, fine," said Ashlin. He stepped away from the fireplace and Damon Leatherwood, eyes darting tensely, stealthily moved closer to his older brother. "Listen to me, both of you," said Ashlin, motioning them to take a seat at the table. Both obeyed and Ashlin purposely came to stand beside Damon, draping his hand on the big man's massive right shoulder.

  "Natalie's nosy Texas uncle is finally leaving town tomorrow. Soon as he's gone, I'll take a trip over to Denver. I'll stay gone a full week… see old friends, be seen by everyone, establish my alibi. And while I'm away"—his long fingers slid along Damon's massive shoulder to the thick neck, tightening on its bulging muscle—"I want that arrogant southern bastard killed." He squeezed rippling flesh with amazing strength and smiled coldly as he did so. "Do you understand, Damon?"

  Damon bobbed his head vigorously. "Yes, sir, boss. I'm gonna kill Covington for you soon as you leave town." Ashlin relaxed his grip. He smiled disarmingly. "Capital. You will be well paid when the job is completed." He went for his long black cloak. "Make a mistake…" He let the words trail away and his brown eyes once more became hard and cold.

  "We won't," assured Burl
Leatherwood. "Covington's as good as dead."

  "In that case," said Ashlin, "I must be going." He swirled the long cape around his shoulders, smiling. "I'm dining with my fiancée and her uncle and I'd hate to keep them waiting."

  He strode to the door, jerked it open, and swept out into the cold night, not bothering to close it. With a flourish, he mounted the big, black steed and galloped away under a canopy of brightly shining stars.

  On Monday, daybreak tinted the winter sky outside Kane's mountain cabin. Stretching lazily beneath warm bedcovers of fur, Kane turned his head to peer out the frosty north window. He gingerly lifted his swollen right hand from under the soft furs and flexed it stiffly, then touched his blackened eye to evaluate the damage. Satisfied it was well on its way to healing, he let his hand trail down to his mouth. His top lip was almost mended, but his bottom lip was still raw and tender. Kane ran his tongue over it and winced.

  He had been awake for an hour and had little hope of falling back to sleep. He sighed. His thoughts kept returning to the tragedy. To Belinda. His naked chest constricted. The poor child. The poor sweet child.

  Kane threw back the covers and sat on the edge of his bed. He rose tiredly and stood scratching his chest, knowing he needed to get away from the cabin—and from his thoughts—for a while. Take a hike in the snow. "Walk off some of his stiffness. Clear his head. "Watch the sunrise over Lone Cave Peak.

  In moments, dressed warmly in fringed buckskins, leather gauntlets, tall brown boots, and black Stetson, Kane stepped outdoors. Colt revolver scabbarded on his hip, sharp hunting knife stuck into the waistband of his buckskin pants, candles and tobacco shoved into his breast pocket, he went forth to meet the rapidly breaking new day.

  Blue eyes squinting toward the flaming eastern horizon, Kane began climbing. He went not to the east, nor to the west. He headed straight up the peak, ascending, as though with definite purpose, steadily toward the summit of his frozen, formidable mountain.

  He could hear his breath as he scaled frozen rocky shelves of the uplands, zigzagging back and forth along narrow, slippery ledges. Higher and higher he climbed over a steep and rocky path that was extremely hazardous in summer, deathly dangerous on a frozen winter's day.

  Perspiration ran down his dark, bruised face and hot pains stabbed at his side, but Kane continued to climb. Winds roared about his ears; duck fog obscured the sun, and his right hand had begun to throb from too much use. An ice ledge gave way beneath his right foot and he groaned aloud as he reached out frantically with his injured hand to grab at a sharp, jutting rock.

  Heart thundering, Kane pressed his battered cheek to the cold, slippery wall and fought for breath. Sun suddenly pierced the thick, shrouding fog and Kane, eyes squinting in the blinding glare, looked about.

  Dizzy, he closed his eyes, then opened them once more. Not six inches from where his right foot rested—a sheer drop of twelve thousand feet straight down. Kane bit his jaw cruelly. He heard the blood pumping in his ears.

  Carefully, he turned his head. And almost reeled with relief A dim, wide corridor, not three feet away, led behind a towering wall of ragged stone. Kane's left hand reached for, and secured, a firm hold near the entrance to that corridor. Lean fingers curling tightly around a thin up thrust of granite, he slid his booted left foot over and gave a shout of victory when he triumphantly stepped into the spacious passageway.

  Patting his breast pocket anxiously for the ever-present tobacco sack, Kane drew a deep breath, rolled himself a cigarette, and felt the calming effects of the tobacco as he pulled the smoke deep down into his lungs.

  Looking curiously about, he blinked, not trusting his eyes. He was standing on the threshold of some kind of strange, deserted community. Intricate, masterfully crafted masonry apartments had doubtlessly been built by a people of superior intelligence. Amazed to find such a place directly above his cabin, Kane realized the towering shelf of shielding rock had completely concealed it from his view. And from anyone else's. Shaking his dark head in awe, he stamped out his smoke and went eagerly forth to investigate.

  He spent the morning exploring the eerily quiet cave dwellings built into the side of the stone mountain. Reaching three stories high, dozens of rooms appeared as though their occupants had left only yesterday. Quarried stone was as finely spalled as if it had been cut by the most talented of sculptors. High roofs were built of log that had undoubtedly been dragged for miles over the sheer granite side of Promontory Point.

  Armed with a flickering candle, lean hand cupped around it, Kane agilely made his way in and out of the dim, deserted living quarters, passing up only the ones whose small, low doorways were sealed with stone and mortar. Room after room was filled with finely molded clay pottery and amazingly beautiful handmade furniture. Kane lifted his candle higher. The walls were covered with paintings and numbers and signs. Entranced, Kane studied the strange artwork, looking for clues to those who had left their messages behind in crimson and umber paint.

  In a large room one story underground, Kane discovered the Great Kiva, a ceremonial chamber for religious services. And in that room, artistically carved coffins lined the twelve-foot-high walls, stacked neatly one on the other, reaching to the stone ceiling. The hair on the back of his neck rising, Kane stood in the silent tomb and envisioned the long-dead people who had lived and loved and died in this mountain palace.

  Feeling like an intruder into a sacred place, Kane quietly made his way back to the one low doorway, the sound of his bootheels ringing on the smooth granite floor. Outside the lava, Kane hurried along the winding corridor, and had gone several yards before he realized he was heading in the wrong direction. The opening leading topside was behind him.

  He turned, and when he did, he saw it.

  Another, narrower corridor led off the one in which he stood. Kane considered it, gave his dark head a dismissive shake, pivoted, and walked away. But he had gone only a few steps when he stopped and turned around.

  He felt almost a physical pull toward that small, dark corridor. Smiling at his foolishness, he nonetheless walked back and seconds later was inside the dark passage. Narrow, and so low-ceilinged that he had to stoop to keep from bumping his head, it wound steadily back into the solid rock of the mountain.

  All at once Kane stepped out into a light, spacious room. And his mouth fell open.

  "Sweet Jesus!" he gasped, and his disbelieving blue eyes took in the dazzling sight before him. Shiny gold bars, stacked like firewood, rose along the rocky walls from the floor to the height of a tall man's head. Heavy chests, filled with gold jewelry—rings and chains and medallions—stood open, their precious contents spilling over the sides.

  Gold plates, gold goblets, gold pitchers, and gold candlesticks and bowls rested on huge, smooth tables of stone. The ragged walls and natural ceiling were brightly dotted with glittering, gleaming yellow specks. And Kane knew it, too, was gold.

  There was gold everywhere he looked. Shiny, shimmering gold. Soft, pure gold. Yellow, glorious gold. Valuable, spendable gold.

  Millions and millions of dollars in gold!

  Kane let out a low whistle that echoed through the goldfilled room. Aloud he murmured in stunned awe, "Beyond the dreams of Cortes in Mexico!"

  Noon neared and Natalie felt a mounting sadness. She waited beside her Uncle Shelby inside the Wells Fargo office, while he secured his place on the stage to Virginia City, Nevada. She inwardly sighed, wondering if it would be three years before she saw him again. And what would be happening in her life in three years.

  Natalie bit her lip. She had told Ashlin that she would see her uncle off on the stagecoach, then come immediately to his mansion for a private, important talk. She knew Ashlin hadn't the faintest clue that she was coming to tell him she could not marry him. How she dreaded it. To hurt a man so kind and good, a man who loved her, who wanted only her happiness.

  "There it is, right on time." Her uncle's deep voice shook her from her painful reveries. "So soon?" she said foolishly, cli
nging to his arm, reluctant to let him go.

  Shelby smiled down at her and guided her outside. "Child, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much. It was a wonderful visit. Perfect." They paused on the ice-covered sidewalk, blinking in the bright winter sunlight.

  Determined to keep this good-bye cheerful, Natalie smiled back at him. "True, but tell me, Uncle Shelby, was I responsible, or was it Noel?"

  Shelby Sutton chuckled good-naturedly. "You both had a hand in my pleasure, darlin'." He winked at her then, and added, "But Noel's departure last week has nothing to do with my leaving, honest."

  "Then stay," said Natalie.

  "Can't. I'm to meet a man about a claim up in Virginia City before Christmas." His smile flashed bright. "Who knows? Your old uncle might end up a rich man."

  "All aboard," called the lanky stage driver, and Natalie again felt a sinking sensation. "That's me, hon," said her uncle, touching her cheek.

  "Uncle Shelby," Natalie murmured, and impulsively threw her arms around his neck. He swept her close. Into his ear she whispered brokenly, "I'm not going to marry Ashlin. I can't." Her fingers clutched at his neck.

  Stunned speechless, Shelby tightened his arms around her narrow waist as he searched for the appropriate thing to say.

  Face pressed to her lustrous red hair, his gray eyes strayed to a tall, lean man lounging against a porch across the street. Kane lifted a gloved hand to touch the brim of his black Stetson in silent salute.

  And Shelby Sutton began to laugh happily. He kissed his niece's fiery hair and said against her ear, "Why, of course you can't, honey, of course you can't."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Natalie stood in the brilliant sun and watched the creaking coach grow smaller. Kane stood on the sidewalk and watched Natalie. Her wistful gaze finally left the departing stage and drifted across the street. She saw him and stiffened visibly. And she promptly turned and hurried away.