Only His

by Lowell, Elizabeth

  “Did you have any trouble coming West?” Rose asked, turning expectantly toward the younger woman, obviously eager for conversation.

  “It was quite an adventure,” Willow admitted with a rueful smile. “Matt’s letters mentioned the Mississippi, but until I stood on its banks at sunset and saw it burning like a great golden sea, I never realized how big the river really was, or how powerful. When we crossed the next day, it was like riding an unruly horse.”

  Rose shuddered. “I recollect it. Scared me near to death when I crossed it years ago, and my husband waited until low water. If you crossed in May, that devil river must have been brawling along.”

  “It was. Trees bigger than wagons were being tossed around like jackstraws. When one battered old oak crashed into the ferry, some horses were knocked overboard, but we were close enough to the far shore that they swam to safety.”

  Silently Caleb remembered his own crossing of that great, roiling barrier called the Mississippi. He had been only five, but the size of the river had thrilled him more than it had frightened him. Echoes of his own exhilaration came to him both from his memories and from Willow’s husky voice telling him that she, too, had gone eagerly into the river’s wild embrace.

  “How was the stage ride?” Rose asked. “I been thinking of going East, but I swore I’d never walk it again and I’spect I’ll be dead before a railroad makes it this far West.”

  Willow hesitated, then admitted, “The coach bucked and lurched, the driver cracked his whip and swore constantly, and the noise of the wheels was enough to wake the dead. In fact, after a few days on the stage I began to wonder if Hell wasn’t served by the Holladay Overland Mail & Express Line.”

  Rose smiled. “It must have seemed strange to a gently raised girl.”

  “Not as strange as all that land and no trees,” Willow said. “Not one tree. The stage stations were dug into hillsides and roofed with sod. Matt had told me about it, but I thought he was exaggerating.”

  Eddy laughed even as he looked at Willow and shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mrs. Moran.”

  “Oh, you did,” Willow agreed. “When I found your name in my father’s, er, father-in-law’s correspondence and wrote you about finding Matt, you were most discouraging.”

  “Must be every bit of six hundred miles from St.Joseph, ” Eddy said. “That’s a long, hard trip for a young woman alone.”

  “It’s a long ride for anyone, but I had my horses. My Stallion Ishmael is more comfortable than any stage seat. When it wasn’t raining, I rode. Some of the passengers had it much worse than I did. They had no horse to ride and no money to pay for extra overnight stops to rest from the ride. I met several poor souls who were making the trip in half the time I took.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for your man to come and get you?” Rose asked. Then she half-laughed, half-smiled, and flushed. “Lord, listen to me! I’m sorry, Mrs. Moran. I’m so hungry for news of anything east of Denver I forget my manners. Lots of folks that come here don’t want to talk about what they left behind, or why, or even what their name was back home.”

  Before Willow could answer, Caleb said coolly, “Don’t fret about pretty manners, Rose. Mrs. Moran is such a fancy southern lady that she doesn’t expect much in the way of polish from people out here.”

  “Caleb Black!” Rose said, astonished. “What’s got into you? You’re not the kind to care which side a man fought on, long as he had grit enough to fight. And your manners are better than any man’s—East, South, or North! Leastways, they used to be good.” She turned toward Willow and patted the younger woman’s hand. “Don’t mind Cal. He’s just funning you. He don’t hate southerners. My goodness, Eddy is from Texas!”

  “Wouldn’t matter if Cal did hate southerners,” Eddy said. “Mrs. Moran’s a Yankee gal. West Virginia, the part that declared for the North.”

  Caleb gave Willow a narrow-eyed look. “Then why did you tell me you lost the war?”

  Willow told herself that she shouldn’t answer, but it was too late. She was already talking, her words as clipped and cold as Caleb’s had been.

  “Our farms were in the border area,” Willow said. “When Johnny Reb came calling, we were called Yankees and everything that could be eaten or carried off was. When Yankees came calling, we were called Johnny Rebs and everything that could be eaten or carried off was. During the war my father was killed and my mother died of a broken heart. All but five of our horses were stolen or ‘requisitioned’ by one side or the other. Our crops were burned and our trees were cut down. We lost our farms one by one until nothing was left, not even a kitchen garden. Tell me, Mr. Black—in what way was I on the winning side of that glorious war?”

  “So that’s why you come West,” the widow said quickly, trying to interrupt the fierce currents of emotion she sensed between the tired young lady and Caleb Black. “You’ll feel right at home in Denver, dear. Lots of folks out here just walked away and left it all behind them like a snake shedding old skin. That’s what the West is for, starting over when everything else goes wrong. Are you and your husband going to take up ranching?”

  Willow dragged her glance away from Caleb’s bleak, whiskey-colored eyes and focused on Rose. She would like to have told the amiable widow the whole truth, but Matt’s letter had been quite blunt about not trusting anyone with the map he had sent. Most people were decent and honest in their day-to-day lives, but a gold strike tested even the best friendships. That was why Matt had written home in the hope of finding one or more of his brothers to help him dig gold. When the letter arrived, the Moran brothers had been scattered from London to Australia.

  Willow, however, had been available.

  “Whatever Matt does,” she said finally, hating to lie even by omission, “I hope to raise horses. Ishmael is a fine stallion. My four mares have been bred with equal care.”

  “Where will you settle?” Rose asked.

  “I haven’t decided. The homestead laws allow a woman to—”

  “Homesteading!” Eddy interrupted. “Mrs. Moran, you can’t be thinking of homesteading. You’re much too fine a lady to ruin your hands working this stubborn western land. You let your man take care of you.”

  “You’re very kind,” Willow said, “but I’d rather depend on myself. Men are so easily distracted. Wave a flag in front of them, or whisper about gold or adventure, and off they go, leaving their women to fend for themselves and the children the men were so eager to create in the first place.”

  Rose gave Willow a startled look, then laughed aloud. “Ain’t it just the God’s honest truth! My Joe was as good a man as they come, but when a neighbor set off into those devil mountains four years ago, sure he would find gold, Joe went along and never mind the four little ones hanging on my skirts and the one waiting to be birthed. The neighbor come back coughing blood. My Joe never come back at all.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sorenson,” Willow said, her voice low. “It was hard enough for me with just Mother to take care of. I can’t imagine what I would have done with four children and a babe, too.”

  “Oh, ’tain’t all bad, dear. Men are notional creatures, but charming all the same. Life without them would be a poor thing to live,” the widow said, smiling at Eddy. “No one to hold the yarn while I wind it into balls. No one to fix a stubborn pump so I can wash my hair. No one to walk out with when the moon is full and the air smells of lilac. No one to smile when I come into a room.” Rose laughed softly. “And no one to run to when thunder comes and scares the living daylights out of me.”

  An odd yearning went through Willow as she saw the way that Rose and Eddy looked at each other. It had been a long time since Willow had dreamed of sharing her life with anyone. Even then, she had been to young to understand what such sharing truly meant. At sixteen, a girl knew little of life except an impatience to get on with living it.

  But the war had come, Steven had been killed, and Willow had learned that life was an endurance contest with no winners, just
survivors.

  “You’ll get over the war,” Rose continued, patting Willow’s hand. “Your man will get you with child and you’ll forget this foolishness about homesteading and taking care of yourself. The good Lord knew what He was doing when He made woman for man.”

  Caleb leaned back in his chair. “Save your sympathy for someone who needs it. All Mrs. Moran needs is a guide to get her to Matthew Moran.”

  “Will you do it?” Eddy asked.

  “Might as well,” Caleb said with an appearance of indifference. “I’m heading for the San Juan country anyway.”

  “Good,” Eddy said, relieved. “I would do it myself, but that damned stud…” He looked Caleb in the eye. “I’m glad word caught up with you. I wasn’t sure whether you were down to Yuma or up to Wyoming Territory.”

  “The emptier the land, the faster gossip travels,” Caleb said. “I was hunting with Wolfe Lonetree when a tinker came to camp and said you needed me to guide Mrs. Matthew Moran to her husband.”

  “Lonetree, huh?” Eddy grunted. “No wonder word got to you so fast. If a bug crawls anywhere in the territory, that halfbreed knows it.” Eddy pulled out his watch and squinted at it. “Rose, if we don’t get to the dining room, some young fiddlefoot will take our table.” As he pocketed the watch once more, he looked at Willow with shrewd, dark eyes. “Now that you’ve met Cal, are you satisfied with the arrangement, Mrs. Moran?”

  After a barely perceptible hesitation, Willow nodded, for she didn’t trust herself to speak. Her unhappiness would have been clear in her voice. Yet it wasn’t Caleb’s competence as a guide she doubted, nor was it his innate honesty. It was his effect on her that made her hesitate. He made her intensely aware of herself as a woman, yet at the same time he made no attempt to conceal his dislike of her. The combination was disconcerting.

  I’m just tired, Willow reassured herself silently. A warm bath and a night of sleep will make all the difference in the world. I’ve come too far to turn back because of a rough stranger who makes me feel like a clumsy girl. Besides, there’s nothing to go back to. Mama was right. The dreams she and Papa had died with the land. I can’t go home again. I can only try to find a new home and build a new dream.

  “Mrs. Moran,” Eddy said, rising slowly, “I leave you in good hands.”

  “Thank you. If I can ever repay your kindness—”

  “Nonsense,” Eddy interrupted firmly. “Your husband’s father sold me the best horse I ever owned. Saved my life more than once. If I can help his kin, I’m happy to do it.”

  Eddy adjusted his coat over the pistol he wore and bowed over Willow’s hand before turning to Caleb. “I’d tell you to be careful of the little lady, but if I didn’t think you would be I’d never have mentioned your name to her. And if I hear anything about a drifter called Reno, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Caleb shot a sideways glance at Willow. She didn’t react to the nickname, which meant that she was a fine actress or she knew her “husband” only as Matthew Moran.

  “You do that, Eddy.” Caleb turned to Rose, bowed over her hand, and said, “Take care of him, Rose. And keep him off that damned yellow stud.”

  Silently Willow and Caleb watched the couple leave. Despite Eddy’s effort to conceal his stiffness, it was apparent that he was in pain.

  “Will he be all right?” Willow asked softly.

  “As long as his old enemies don’t find him until he heals up, he’ll be fine.”

  “Enemies?”

  “Eddy wore a lawman’s badge in some bad places. A man who does that makes enemies.” Caleb turned his bleak, golden glance on Willow. “Where are your horses?”

  “At the livery stable down the street.”

  “Leave them there. I’ll provide you with a horse that won’t quit the first time the going gets hard.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but—”

  “I’m not a kind man,” Caleb interrupted roughly, “I’m a practical one. Where we’re going, a delicate, nervous, over-bred horse will be a hell of a lot more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “My Arabians are well-bred, not over-bred, and I’ll put them up against anything you own for stamina.”

  Caleb said something harsh under his breath. “Where in the San Juan country do you want to go?”

  “The part with mountains.”

  “Ma’am,” Caleb said dryly, “there’s no part of the San Juan country that doesn’t have mountains. Which peak did you have in mind?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  “Southern lady, if we take your fancy horses, we won’t ever get there at all.”

  2

  B EFORE Willow could respond, there was a commotion from the direction of the dining room. In the spreading silence of the lobby, a man’s voice boomed out.

  “You and your second-hand woman can just wait for the next table, old man. In fact, you can damn well wait until me and my friends are finished eating. I don’t want that slut sitting in the same room with me.”

  Appalled, Willow turned and looked toward the dining room. An instant later she realized that Eddy and Rose were being confronted by four young men, all of whom wore pistols. A murmur went through the crowd as people backed away from the confrontation. Willow sorted out a few of the muttered words, something about gunmen and Rose refusing to let Slater’s kid brother stay at her boarding house.

  Caleb heard the mutterings, too, but he already knew what was going on. He had known since the back of his neck had tightened in an age-old warning of danger and he had spun around to see trouble closing in on his friends. If Eddy had been well, Caleb simply would have walked over to act as an unofficial referee, ensuring that the kid’s friends didn’t interfere with whatever happened between the old lawman and the young outlaw.

  But Eddy wasn’t well. He was injured and Johnny Slater knew it. Eddy knew it, too. He had a choice—he could let Rose be insulted or he could try to draw his pistol with his injured right hand. He might attempt a lefthanded draw, even though the gun butt was facing the wrong way. No matter which hand, he quite likely would die before the gun barrel cleared the holster.

  “No!” Rose said urgently. She stepped in front of Eddy, turning her back on the young tough who had insulted her. “You can’t even hold a fork, much less a gun!”

  Before Rose finished speaking, Caleb’s big hand closed on Johnny Slater’s shoulder, spinning him around.

  “You’ve got a bad mouth, kid. Folks around Denver are tired of listening to it. Now you can apologize to Mrs. Sorenson and drag your freight out of town or you can go for one of those fancy guns you’re wearing.”

  Surprise turned to dismay when Johnny measured the dark promise in Caleb’s eyes. It was one thing to yell across twenty feet of crowded room at an injured man who could barely draw a gun. It was another to face a man belt buckle to belt buckle, a man who was neither injured nor afraid, a man who didn’t give a damn about Kid Slater’s reputation as a gunman with a fast draw and a vicious older brother to back him up.

  Johnny Slater began sweating. He looked quickly to his friends, only to discover they were watching him with arms folded, clearly expecting him to take care of the interruption himself.

  “Make up your mind, kid,” Caleb said.

  The cool impatience in Caleb’s voice made Johnny flinch slightly. His hand crept closer to his pistol, hesitated, crept again. He looked into Caleb’s eyes again and froze.

  Caleb made a sound of disgust. “Your older brother may be a real curly wolf, but you’re pure coyote. Apologize to the lady, Kid Coyote.”

  “I’m damned if I’m going to apologize to a—”

  Caleb slapped Johnny before he could finish the sentence. The open-handed blow was so quick it was almost invisible. It rocked Johnny’s head on his shoulders, sending his fine hat flying. Before Johnny realized what had happened, it was too late. Caleb was slapping him with slow, measured motions, blows that humiliated as much as they hurt; but it was the contemptuous words that
hurt most of all.

  “Kid Coyote, sneaking around,” Caleb said. “This is for every man you ever shot in the back.” Slap. “For every woman you ever insulted.” Slap. “For every baby you ever stole candy from.” Slap. “Now take off your guns, Kid Coyote.”

  “What?” Johnny asked, shaking his head, unable to believe what was happening to him.

  “Take off your gunbelts and drop them on the floor.”

  Johnny reached for his first gunbelt with hands made clumsy by a combination of rage and fear. “You’re a dead man, whoever you are! My brother will kill you for this!”

  The first gunbelt hit the floor.

  “Any time Slater feels lucky,” Caleb said calmly, “you tell him to ask for Caleb Black.”

  The second gunbelt hit the floor.

  “If people don’t know that name,” Caleb continued “tell your brother to ask for the Man from Yuma. As for you, Kid Coyote, you’d be smart never to wear a gun again. Those who live by the sword die by the sword. And you’ll die, kid. If I see you wearing iron anywhere, anytime, I’ll draw down on you and kill you where you stand. Hear me?”

  Sullenly, Johnny nodded.

  “It’s the only warning you’ll get and one more than you deserve.” Caleb turned away and faced Johnny’s friends. He looked at each one for a long moment, memorizing the faces of his new enemies. Caleb recognized one of them, a bounty hunter and claim jumper from the San Juan mountains. “Shuck those irons, boys.”

  More gunbelts thudded to the floor.

  “You’re running in bad company, but it’s a free country. Don’t know how you stand the smell, though.” Caleb tilted his head toward the street. “Get out.”

  Radiating frustrated anger, Johnny and his friends left. Not until the door closed behind the last gunman did a ripple of excited talk run through the crowd, speculations and surmises spoken back and forth, another incident added to the growing legend of the Man from Yuma.

  Willow made no sound at all. She simply let out her breath and withdrew her hand from the leather-lined pocket of her silk dress where the derringer had lain cold against her palm.