All or Nothing

by Ashley Elizabeth Ludwig

  Silently listening to the stories told, they met each other’s eyes as only twins can. Unspoken, with looks of fear and trepidation for what they both knew to be true, they abandoned the thought of a morning bath and returned to the darkness of home.

  ****

  Hours later, RuthAnne bid goodbye to Dolly, Katie, and Whit at the stables. Alex handed her the reins of an Appaloosa gelding he promised had an easy way about him.

  “Don’t have much call for sidesaddles. This’ll have to do.”

  “This is fine.” She set a booted foot into the stirrup, swinging her leg over the polished military saddle. Alex deftly adjusted her stirrup lengths to fit her legs.

  “Why, you’re about as tall as a regular soldier, anyway, aren’t you?” he teased.

  She blushed furiously, ever self-conscious of her height. This brought Captain Shepherd to mind yet again, the only man who had even come close to making her feel dainty.

  “This Appaloosa’s as calm as can be, but he can be a mite stubborn,” Alex said. “Don’t give him his head too much.”

  RuthAnne deftly wrapped the reins around her hands, adjusting her skirts underneath her as ladylike as she could muster, which wasn’t easy when riding like a man. She sat confidently in the saddle to keep the large animal knowing who was boss.

  “Just cross the creek at the edge of the mesquites and head toward that low spot to the southeast. You’ll make it sure as Sunday.” He gave RuthAnne a wink and the horse a slap.

  “Well, just so you know, if I’m not home by Sunday, someone better come looking for me.” She laughed and slowly guided the horse toward the gate with a gentle lead.

  Alex seemed a bit put out about finding a pony that would suit the young Katie, who was all but jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Maybe she could sit in front of me...” Whit said, and much to Katie’s dismay, her mother agreed. It was the first time RuthAnne had seen Dolly looking so relaxed; so happy, as if they were just going to the park to feed the ducks instead of riding off into the desert in search of seven waterfalls.

  “But I don’t want to share!” Katie wailed, flipping her long braids over her shoulders. She was a piteous mess in the white cotton dress tied with a yellow bow at the waist.

  RuthAnne overheard Whit bribing Katie with sugared cookies he’d swiped from the store. Katie’s eyes lit up; she was soothed. RuthAnne laughed. Following the path set out before her, she headed off to find Mara.

  Chapter 22

  The large, black boots made pillows of dust as Post Commander Edgar Carington traipsed across the well-marched-upon parade ground. The fort was quiet. After “Reveille,” the soldiers not on duty had scattered. The others tended their tasks quietly, dreaming of time away from here. Away from the blistering heat, scalded sky, and hours of scouring the desert for nothing in particular. Gone were the exciting days of fighting Indians. Now, they were more of a police force and not much looked upon, at that.

  He had heard it too many times, from his wife, from his children. Why not accept a commission and go further west? Somewhere civilized, at least. San Francisco or even San Diego, for all of its beaches and wide expanses. At least it was cool. The wilds of the west were all but tamed. What was there left to do here?

  There was an itching in his palms to see the girl from the night before. He’d seen the look in her eye from just a bit of compassion. Tenderness. She was starving for it, and he was just the man to see to it that she got the attention she needed.

  Head high, he entered the laundresses’ quarters. What he saw was a fair share different than what he expected. Abigail Stevens; her husband Lawrence, the blacksmith; and their daughter, Moira, were sitting around the room, having a good laugh. It was an intimate family scene, as if these quarters were their home and he was an intruder. They startled at his entrance and quickly busied themselves.

  Abigail grabbed a basket of mending and shoved it at her daughter; Moira hustled out of the room with but a nod to the post commander. Lawrence ran a stained and work-worn hand through his thinning silver hair. Abigail narrowed her blue-eyed, anvil gaze heavily upon him.

  “She ain’t here, Edgar.” Her words were heavy, peppered with sparks of anger.

  The commander held his hands up in defense. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Abigail choked back a guffaw, though Lawrence shot her a dangerous look and wrung his callused hands.

  It was almost too easy for Carington to come up with the excuse that leapt to his lips. “I came for Lawrence. Heard you were dawdling over here. I have a horse in need of shoeing.”

  “I’m at your disposal, sir.” Standing with a tired salute, he bent to kiss the waiting cheek of his wife.

  A flash of conscience raced through Carington’s mind. Lawrence Stevens had been out with the patrols for weeks and his family was obviously happy to have him home. Then conscience turned to annoyance. This was not the type of reception he had enjoyed from his own family, ever. He set his jaw. “I’ll meet you at the stables.”

  He trekked out into the late August day, growing angrier with each step. If she wasn’t there, where was she? Where did she possibly have to go? He thought on her in the blue dress, pale skin, long neck, so ripe for the picking. It would only be a matter of time. He had a way of getting what he wanted.

  He found himself walking by the complex lattice adobe wall that Alex McDole had insisted upon, building himself a coop in the middle of the stable yard; ventilation, he’d said. For the chickens. Chickens! True, as he wandered back to the tack room in search of the stable master, there did seem to be a cooling draft blowing into the interior courtyard the man had built.

  White and black speckled hens pecked and picked up seed corn. A brown rooster eyed him warily and then ran off squawking as Carington kicked at him. The flapping of wings got McDole’s attention, sure enough.

  “What the...? Oh! Sorry, sir. What can I do for you?” Alex McDole stood at abrupt and sloppy attention, saluting as if it was the first time in a long time he’d attempted such a formality.

  More lax behavior from this sorry lot, Carington thought angrily. They’ve forgotten how to soldier in all of this peace. He never thought he’d find himself missing being at war.

  “You look a few horses shy, Sergeant. A few saddles, too.” He nodded to the empty stands in the tack room.

  McDole was sweating from more than heat. That was good. Carington was just setting in to lay into the stable master when a shadow fell across the tack room entrance.

  He frowned, seeing Charley, the nearly seven-foot Yavapai scout, stride into the stable in all of his native glory. Charley’s richly toned, angular face could have been chiseled from stone as he walked right past the post commander into the yard without even a glance. No respect for authority, Carington grumbled. The heathen was practically naked, wearing nothing but a leather cloth front and back, tied with rawhide cord, and a worn military jacket exposing his mahogany skin and well-muscled torso.

  A shiver of resentment rolled down Carington’s spine. Charley might have indebted himself in the military’s service during the hunt for Geronimo and Cochise, but now he was a holdover. An Indian not quite accepted at his home, wherever that was out in the desert, or here at the fort. Edgar Carington certainly hadn’t encouraged him to stick around, but he wasn’t sure at all how to roust him out.

  Charley nodded at McDole in a wordless greeting. He walked with moccasined feet to a white and brown paint horse that nickered in greeting. Carington watched as Charley inspected the horse’s eyes, mane, ears, and neck. He placed a large hand across its velvety muzzle and looked deep into its eyes. Without word, request, or saddle, he slung himself over the horse’s back and galloped out of the stable leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in his wake.

  “Just what kind of establishment are we running here, Sergeant?” Carington spat in distaste. McDole just shrugged.

  “It’s his horse, Colonel. He just was checking to see if I’d kept him w
ell. He’s been on a spirit walk.” McDole was obviously uncomfortable, but during Carington’s absence things quite well had fallen apart.

  “You’ve been handing military horses out to civilians...I need to know where they went.”

  McDole’s lip twitched. “I believe two ladies went with Baker up to see the Seven Falls. In the canyon.”

  “Two ladies?” Who would have gone with her and why? She left the dance with that stout little charlatan who’d purchased the post store and...? Carington found himself standing openmouthed, staring dumbly toward the Seven Falls of Sabino Canyon.

  Lawrence Stevens appeared, breaking the spell. He struck up his fire, using the bellows to blow air deep into the stoked coals. He donned the heavy blacksmith’s apron, and grabbed his hammer.

  “Now, don’t this beat all? I’m supposed to be all by my lonesome, and now you’re going to be blowing smoke and ashes everywhere?” McDole laughed aloud.

  “I was told there was a horse in need of shoeing. An urgent matter, right, Commander?” Stevens’ and McDole’s gazes turned toward him, heavy and amused.

  This was all going wrong. Anger welled in Carington’s breast.

  Just then, Major Kendrick appeared bearing a messenger pouch marked Prescott. “Colonel Carington, I’ve got a message for you and the missus. Marcus has accepted his new commission. He’s arriving from Fort Apache in Prescott.”

  His son. Marcus was coming back to take on the duty as quartermaster of Fort Lowell, at last. Clara would be happy to have him back under her watchful eye. One less argument they’d have to face. Well, that made things better, if not right. Carington set aside his annoyance. His boy was coming home. “Well. That’s fine then. Thank you, Kendrick.”

  ****

  The three men watched the commander walk away. Alex McDole smiled to himself, looking east toward the large dome of the Rincon Mountain range. Lawrence Stevens set about his task, taking the tongs to remove the old shoe nails. He cursed under his breath, sitting squarely on his stool as he inspected the Colonel’s steed. Kendrick fidgeted with the messenger pouch the commander had neglected to take with him.

  Alex wondered a bit about that himself. He could have sworn he saw Marcus Carington just yesterday, darkening the corner of the dance hall. But there had been a lot of folks, a lot of dust kicked up. If Marcus had been there, he hadn’t stabled his horse, so Alex must have been seeing things.

  “Just think. Now, there’ll be two of ’em in charge of our well-being around here,” Kendrick grumbled, glanced up quickly, and straightened his shirt.

  Alex caught Stevens’ eye. “I can’t remember the last time the commander took that animal out for a joyride.”

  Stevens grunted in reply and rubbed a work-worn hand over the horse’s back hoof and newly nailed shoe, inspecting the underside for mud before setting it back down. “I’m not re-shoeing this animal; I don’t care who asked me to.”

  “Go back to your’uns, Stevens,” Alex said. “He don’t know which end is up on a pony.”

  Lawrence Stevens’ face flushed with annoyance as he stood. He gave a brief nod to Major Kendrick, folded up his heavy apron, and stomped out of the stables.

  Alex narrowed his gaze at the major, who frowned while picking his thumbnail. “The commander didn’t come here to have no horse shoed. He’s searching for the Newcomb woman.” Alex ignored Kendrick’s stuttering answer. He grabbed a saddle and his heavy needle and rawhide and lumbered off to repair where the leather was separating.

  Kendrick followed, clearing his throat. “You wouldn’t know anything about where the Newcomb woman went off to...would you?”

  “I told him what I know. I sent three up the canyon this morning. They had a picnic with them...”

  It didn’t matter that the three included Dolly’s young daughter, Katie. Kendrick seemed satisfied with the answer. As for RuthAnne, she should be nearing the chapel any time now. Thinking what a bonus it was to send the post commander and his lackey into such frenzy, Alex went back to his chores, whistling as he worked.

  Chapter 23

  Mariposa waved a hand in greeting as RuthAnne rode into the courtyard. The native woman had braided her salt-and-pepper hair into a rope that slid down her back. She wore a yellow tiered skirt, and her embroidered blouse looked cool in the noonday sun as RuthAnne dismounted and secured her horse to the post.

  “How is she?” RuthAnne didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Mariposa’s face melted into a smile.

  “Awake.”

  RuthAnne all but flew to her sister’s room only to find it empty. Mariposa was on her heels, laughing. “Your sister’s under the ramada. Taking in the view. Resting.”

  RuthAnne followed the direction this kind woman pointed. The mountains rose up majestically behind the chapel. Rocky cliffs and crags caught the sun, reflecting in shades of brown, red, gold, and tan. It was amazing how the landscape she had once viewed as brown and forbidding now seemed scattered with deep emeralds, light jade, and bottle green. Cactus, sharp and dangerous, caught the sunlight in their needles, enshrouding them in a gilded glow.

  A scattering of mesquite and the green-trunked palo verde ringed the courtyard where she found her sister, pale and pensive, sitting on a bent willow chaise, a quilt wrapped around her despite the heat.

  “Mara...?”

  Her sister turned, and their gazes locked. RuthAnne fell at her feet, unable to stop the tears she had held back for a week.

  “They said you’d come. That you weren’t killed...I wasn’t sure they were telling me the truth...” Mara’s voice was weak, thin, as was her countenance. Her wrists looked so fragile. Her skin was nearly translucent. Her lustrous black hair was freshly washed and pulled into a loose knot at the back of her neck. “I’ve been praying for you...”

  “As I have for you, dear sweet sister.”

  “What happened, Ruthie?”

  “You don’t remember?” It was a blessing, truly, if she didn’t.

  “I remember the stagecoach. The noise we heard...I remember being so scared. We went over the side...”

  A fist-sized lump filled RuthAnne’s throat. All she could do was nod as Mara searched her memory for fragments of events.

  Mara held up her hands in question. “Then, nothing. It’s a blur.”

  “It was not our best day...” RuthAnne choked out between sobs.

  They held each other, weathering the storm of tears together. After awhile, she helped Mara back to bed. The girl had lost so much blood; she was weak, but she had survived. It wasn’t like with Evan, she thought, lowering Mara gently to her soft bed. Mara’s clear blue eyes held her own, and RuthAnne realized her sister was thinking the same thing. The girl’s eyes closed as peaceful sleep finally found her.

  RuthAnne quietly exited the room and took Mara’s place on the chaise. A breeze blew through the rough-hewn, mesquite-post ramada. The shade cooled her arms and neck. A cactus wren cackled from a wide-paddled prickly pear near his nest of sticks. All around, the desert sounds soothed, making her feel not so alone. She closed her eyes, and prayed in silent thanks. Thank You, God, it wasn’t like what happened to Evan...

  In her mind’s eye, she relived that dreadful day in Kansas City. The day Evan died. They were supposed to meet an hour before. The ever-prompt Evan was late coming home.

  RuthAnne prayed through the annoyance and then the anger that wormed its way into her belly. When another hour passed, anger bloomed into worry as she waited for him to return. She’d wiped her worn and weary hands on her apron. A seamstress’ hands, she mused. Sewing was something she used to enjoy, before she’d been treated like a workhorse. At first, Evan’s manner was light and his way was easy. He made the work fun, even though he pushed her to the limit on a regular basis. It wasn’t like he knew a treadle from a needle anyway. He simply had the connections and the dream. She was his way to get there—a means to his own end. It was something she had grown to resent, it shamed her to realize.

  They worked so
hard to fill the ridiculous order he had made with the U.S. Army. Who were they to supply a whole regiment of soldiers with their wardrobe? Hundreds of pairs of trousers? Shirts and jackets, too? It made her grimace at the enthusiasm she’d shown for his gift of a White sewing machine with the buttonholer. She was only one seamstress, and Mara thankfully was there to assist.

  They had spent every dime of her dowry money to buy materials. Rolls of fabric piled high against the walls and seemed to be enough to clothe every soldier in the outer reaches of the army frontier. Sky-blue wool kersey, bright yellows for trim. Dark blue wool serviced for the jackets. She’d cut patterns until they were memorized. And now, he was off to some meeting while she worked her fingers to the bone? He treated her more as a slave than his business partner.

  “That does it. I’m going out after him. There is no way we’ll be done by Tuesday. It’s beyond ridiculous.”

  She’d left Mara working, dusted threads and cuttings from her skirts, and hightailed it out the door. She hustled past storefronts and warehouses, crossing streets thick with carriages and passersby, the brick buildings and the littered city sidewalks. Night and day from the open spaces, plantation houses, and weeping oaks of Somerville, she knew she’d always remain a stranger in this big city.

  RuthAnne regretted her bitter words that had followed Evan out the door. Still, he was the one who had turned what could have been a passionate marriage into a sweatshop. That wasn’t her doing. As she had neared the train station, fear for Evan shot to her heart.

  She remembered the gathering crowd. People were waving their arms and talking animatedly. Someone lay in the middle of the circle, collapsed on the ground. A darkening crimson stain grew beneath him.

  She recognized the jacket immediately, as she’d tailored it for his last birthday. She pushed her way through the crowd, kneeling to cradle Evan’s head in her hands. She screamed his name, barely registering the conversations around her.