Tyra's Gambler

by Velda Brotherton

  “I knew he couldn’t have done such an awful thing.” Yet, she had almost believed it, in her mind had forgiven him for what evil deeds were carried out that day. She studied Dolores’ features. “What happened to Josh?”

  “Zach never said. We always thought he was so young and scared that he simply rode away when the gunplay started. I think that’s always what Zach believed.”

  “When I first met Zach, he was so very angry, yet the next time we met he seemed changed. I never quite knew why. He said it was because of me, but I never did anything. Hell, I shot him.” She clapped a hand across her mouth. “Sorry.”

  Dolores offered a small grin. “Hell is often spoken of in this house. Perhaps it was you shooting him that turned him in another direction. I do not know. All I know is that while he was here he was a good man. He remained several months. Did you see our church? He helped us build it, did most of the heavy work and taught us how to do the rest. We grew to love him very much.” She patted Tyra’s hand. “Then one morning we arose to find him gone, with only a note on the kitchen table.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It only said ‘Thank You.’ We never expected to see him again, till he came riding in here with you. Tell me, child. Did he say where he was going?”

  “Yes. He said he was going to The Valley of the Gun.”

  Dolores crossed herself, and when she glanced back at Tyra her eyes glistened. “God help him. I was afraid of that. I must go and pray for him.”

  Without another word, she rose and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  The room had grown gloomy while they talked. Tyra wished for a lamp or candle to chase away the dark shadows. Sleeping in this room did not appeal to her at all. It was best if she left this place. Remaining here was not a good idea. It unearthed too many painful memories of the time she’d spent with the nuns at St. Anne’s. Yet what else could she do? If she left and went elsewhere, Zach wouldn’t know where to find her. Maybe she could go to Santa Maria, where his mother lived. But he might not go back there after he finished his business with Geronimo.

  The storm moved on, the clouds parted, and a late afternoon sun splashed a golden glow over the desert. The land glistened from the life-giving rain. She rose, pushed the window open. The sky, like a giant bowl, offered air so sweet she sucked at the breeze washing over her face.

  Long after Dolores left, Tyra sat staring out across the sprawling expanse. It was every bit as beautiful as Zach had said. Several shades of brown and gold and sienna formed stark shapes, their shadows trudging across the glittering sand with the movement of the sun. Cactus in all shapes and sizes, some spread across the ground, others spiked several feet high, were scattered up the incline. That blamed cross would not stop calling to her. Once, twice, three times she looked away, but always her eyes came back to it.

  A soft knocking on the door startled her. “Yes, who is it?”

  “It is Ramona. Dolores asked me to tell you that we have food prepared, if you would care to join us.”

  “Yes, that sounds lovely.” It really didn’t. All she wanted was to fling herself across the bed, cover her eyes and never look at the world again. But Dolores would come to fetch her, and so she rose, spared one last glance at the tall spire topped by the mocking cross, then left the room and followed the young woman down the stairs. No matter what she did, there was no getting around it. She was going inside the church, to that place Dolores called the Altar of the Sun, so she could pray for Zach. The idea made no sense, and she didn’t understand why, a bit frightened at the idea of even the slightest admission that God existed. Still, it was something she had to do. For if she didn’t, and something happened to him, if he didn’t come back, she would never forgive herself.

  ****

  From the first moment when he rode away from the House of Five Angels, Zach kept his gaze pinned on the hills rolling toward the cloudy sky ahead. He paid little attention to the rivulets of water running from the brim of his hat, soaking his legs. All he saw was her standing there beckoning to him to come back. If he didn’t block the thoughts he would have to turn around. Return to her. If he hadn’t been such a fool as to fall in love with her, none of this would’ve happened. How could he have known, though? How many women had he been involved with in all his travels from one small town to another? Month after month, running from one poker table to another in the hopes of escaping the ghosts that trailed him like evil specters. Pointing accusations, shouting curses, dying over and over again, only to rise up the next day and start after him again, so that he never dared to stay in one place long enough to make friends—or, for that matter, enemies. Then he went and fell like some damned fool for a woman who had the guts to shoot him.

  Her bright blue eyes turned him into a simpering fool in no time at all. Well, hell, it was too late to do much about it now but keep riding to where he was sure he’d find Geronimo Lanigan, unless someone had already killed him. If they had, he’d have heard about it somewhere along the way. News like that traveled through the West like wildfire spread through dry juniper brush. Every trader in every post along Marcy’s Trail would have heard and repeated the story.

  Tales of the doings of the wild Lanigan gang were repeated over and over. Everyone but the few lawmen trying to tame the Valley of the Gun knew where the hideout was. None of that mattered, though. Far as he knew, Lanigan was on his trail, herding him just like he was a bangtail steer. If not that, then he awaited in the Valley of the Gun, knew Zach couldn’t help but go there, drawn by a past so dark he had no choice. No matter who walked away, it would soon be over with, for good and all.

  The night after leaving Tyra, she and Josh came to him in a dream so real he could reach out and tousle her red hair. Josh wore that crazy half-grin so familiar from his younger days when he found so many things funny, the expression already long gone when they broke him out of jail to prevent his hanging. What the hell was so laughable now? He was dead, for God’s sake.

  “Why you goin’ after that madman, brother? He’ll bring you nothin’ but more grief.”

  “The only thing that will satisfy you, Zach, is dying at Geronimo’s hands.” Tyra’s western accent, so familiar, so dear.

  “Not true, either of you.” For some reason, in the dream he strode back and forth before the two, feet not touching the ground.

  “Then tell us what’s true.” Words spoken at the same time from both of them.

  He kicked at a rock, but his foot passed through it. “You both blamed well know the truth. He shot you.” He pointed at the wavering visitor. “And he has to pay.”

  “Bullshit,” Josh roared, the words like a high wind that blew Zach backward into a growth of juniper. “Since the day I run off from that massacre, you never cared a whit for me. Never looked for me. Always knew I was a coward for deserting you, not standing up for you when he cut down—”

  “Shut up. You be quiet. That ain’t so.”

  “Zach, honey.”

  He pawed at the air, thinking he could make her disappear. No sense trying to explain a thing even he didn’t understand. And especially not to her.

  Everything wavered, Josh faded into the darkness, and Tyra developed a set of beautiful white wings and flew away.

  He awoke thrashing the blanket and screaming at her to come back. Looking around at nothing but darkness and a few coals glowing in the campfire, he gasped in smoky air and lay back down. The dark enclosed him. He slept no more but greeted the silver of dawn with weary eyes. The air smelled washed clean, the desert showed off in all its glory, but he paid little attention.

  Late that afternoon, he rode into the Valley of the Gun, near the confluence of the Puerco River and the Rio Grande. Cut back into the rough countryside by centuries of water runoff, the valley ended in a box canyon. Along both sides, Geronimo Lanigan had set up guards from the gang he’d rebuilt after Zach decimated it by cutting down most of the old members. No one came in or went out without being spotted. This he’d
learned at some godforsaken trading post on some godforsaken trail. Exactly when, he couldn’t rightly remember.

  He halted soon after approaching from the high eastern side, left his chestnut horse unbridled and unsaddled so he could run free, in case he didn’t come back. Checking his six-gun to make sure it was loaded, he started in on foot through the thick growth of scrub pine, sage, juniper, and scattered boulders. Plenty of places to hide. Once established, he set up watch on his back-trail. No one in sight, but Geronimo would not follow in the open, any more than Zach would approach that way. It would be a game of hide and watch, and who was the most patient. Or who believed the other one was the dumber of the two.

  One thing he wasn’t was so dumb as to take on the entire gang. This was between him and Lanigan, and both knew why. It all went back to that day Zach had killed gang members trying to save the woman and her two sons. True, Lanigan bushwhacking and killing Josh had restarted the feud, for Zach loved Tyra and would’ve let it go at that, taken her to California, had it not been for that reminder from Geronimo Lanigan. Once he killed Josh, all bets were off.

  On the other hand, Lanigan must’ve realized that Zach wasn’t going to come after him, and the damned fool wanted the final showdown. He wanted to do something to get Zach to come to him. His perfect opportunity came when he learned Josh would be hanged. He had to know that Zach wouldn’t let that happen. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him if Lanigan had something to do with the false charges being brought against Josh in the first place. The whole blasted thing was arranged. The fight, the witness, everything about it smelled of Geronimo Lanigan.

  The bastard just made doubly sure Zach would show up by gunning down Josh.

  The sound of a rock tumbling into the deep canyon known as The Valley of the Gun brought Zach on full alert. Someone was coming. And none dared pass this way save Geronimo Lanigan and his kind.

  Chapter Twenty

  Tyra stood in the doorway of the white church. She ran her palm along the satin finish of the frame. Zach’s hands built this before she ever knew he existed, after he’d been nursed back to health by the five angels. They had saved his life, for which she would forever be grateful. But did she want to step across the threshold and face her own fears just because of that gratitude?

  These angels were not the same as those nuns at St. Anne’s. For all she knew, they did not even worship the same God. Not like the one who forced strict obedience to all his torturous laws. Maybe their God was a kinder, gentler God, one who understood the frailties of mankind.

  Bull crap. She was going soft, being here with these women who always smiled, spoke softly, never said a harsh word against her, even when she unleashed her colorful language. What would Calamity Jane do if exposed to these so-called angels? Be damned if she knew. One thing for certain. Calamity would never stop cursing or loving Wild Bill, even though he had been gunned down.

  Despite her pleas, her Zach had ridden off to kill or be killed too. The angels might do all the praying they could for the lovers cut down in that blamed valley so named because of all the gunfights there over the years, but it’d be surprising if praying did one bit of good. Zach nearly had his leg cut off at the hip once in that dreadful place, but he paid that no mind. Men were such stubborn animals. There he went, riding back into that same situation, as if he hadn’t had enough the first time. Made her so danged mad she could spit nails. Facing Geronimo’s brother hadn’t been his first time in that horrid valley, so he must think he had it all figured out. Or else he really didn’t care if he died. Riding with Geronimo Lanigan’s gang maybe softened his brain. What kind of name was Geronimo for a white man anyway? Everyone knew who and what the true Geronimo was. A wild-assed, crazy-mad Apache who declared war on every white man in the territory. So what did that say for this Lanigan guy?

  “Excuse me, Tyra.” A soft voice at her shoulder.

  She jumped and whirled to face the youngest angel, Ramona.

  “I’m so sorry I startled you. Did you wish to go in and pray?”

  Amazed that she remained in the doorway to the church, Tyra stepped back to make room for the young woman to pass. “I—uh, well, no, not really. I just wanted to look at what Zach built. Till you told me, I didn’t know he was a carpenter.”

  The girl beamed. They all beamed when they smiled. Every blasted one of them. Surely no one was as perfect as they appeared. She was tempted to say something so outrageous one of them would have to explode and show her true colors.

  “Our Zach was many things he never showed the world.”

  Our Zach? Our Zach’s foot! Who the hell did she think she was, anyway? Had she and Zach…? Time to stop thinking that way. What difference did it make what Zach had done long before she met him? Just because she was a virgin when they met didn’t mean she should expect the same from him. Speaking of virgins, these five women acted so pure horehound candy wouldn’t melt in their mouths. But who knew what sort of lives they’d led before shutting themselves up here to make up for their sins?

  Ramona slipped past her, knelt so the white robe tented around her, made the sign of the cross, and moved forward to the altar, which she began to dust with a cloth that seemed to appear out of thin air. From high above, sunlight flashed on the gleaming wood. Tyra leaned forward, gazed up. A window in the peak of the roof angled to capture the sun’s rays and aim them onto the altar. This was the fabled Altar of the Sun, where the sisters were said to pray for lost lovers. Lost lovers or dead lovers? Were there ever cloudy days when no miracles happened? Probably not, as perfect as everything around here appeared.

  “If you are looking for something to do, you could sweep out the sanctuary.” When Ramona spoke, she never paused in her dusting. “There’s a broom in the corner closet inside there.” She gestured at a doorway to one side of the altar but kept right on rubbing that cloth around.

  Sweep the damned floor? The request sounded too much like an order the sisters at St. Anne’s might have made, yet the tone was soft. Still, what else could she do? These kind women had opened their home to her without one complaint. That was still no reason to trust them totally. She still expected Dolores to confine her so she couldn’t go to Zach. Well, okay, so she’d fetch the broom and clean the wood floor, beginning opposite where Ramona worked. Didn’t take trust to clean a floor. And Ramona had asked nice-like.

  The silence, broken only by the swish of the straw broom across the shiny wood floor, got on her nerves, and she hummed a tune she’d heard from a pianoforte in one of the saloons where Zach played poker. It was a lively ditty and suited her job well. Made her feel like dancing, and she swirled a few double-steps.

  Ramona chuckled. Tyra had forgotten she wasn’t alone and stopped dead in her tracks. “I hope it’s okay, singing and dancing in your church.”

  “Of course it is okay. The Lord wishes us happiness, and what better way to express it than with song and dance? Would you care to show me that step?”

  Tyra dropped the broom. Stared at Ramona to see if she was mocking her. With genuine sincerity, Ramona draped her dust cloth over the altar rail and stepped down beside her, reached out.

  We would see about this. Tyra grabbed the girl’s hand and showed her a few steps. “Now, you try.”

  Ramona stumbled once, then shuffled her feet and laughed. “I think we need the music.”

  Tyra sang the first few notes and danced through them. Ramona nodded, and together they moved across the church, holding hands, swirled, and started back. Their shoes thudded and slid, echoing from wall to wall. Applause joined that echo, coming from the entry door where someone laughed. Tyra stopped, dragging Ramona to a halt as well. There stood Dolores, face flushed. Shit, now she was in for it for sure.

  “That was wonderful.” Dolores sounded sincere. “You should teach us all how to dance like that. Perhaps this evening after supper we can roll up the rug in the parlor. And singing would be fun, too.”

  “It isn’t a sin?” Too late Tyra covered her mouth to sto
p the words. What an idiot.

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Dolores turned her face toward the sky. “Isn’t it a glorious day? Why don’t we have a picnic midday? Wouldn’t take much to put something together, and we could walk across the field and sit beside the creek. Nothing much more soothing than the song of water.”

  “Oh, yes. Let’s.” Ramona smiled and grabbed up her dust cloth. “I’ll just finish this.”

  “Good. Tyra can complete her little job, and then the two of you can join us in the kitchen to help pack us a picnic hamper.”

  This entire thing was too good to be true. How could women who believed in God have this kind of fun? At least not the God she’d been introduced to. Ornery old bugger who forbade just about everything but praying and suffering. She finished with the tiny pile of dust, brushed it out the door, and put the broom back where she’d found it.

  The three other angels she’d only seen briefly joined her, Dolores, and Ramona in the kitchen. Dolores introduced them to her as Donna, Juanita, and Helena. It seemed everyone was going on this picnic, and she would have a chance to get acquainted with them all. An outing sounded like fun. Earlier she’d considered saddling up and leaving today, heading in the direction Zach had gone. For sure tomorrow. But this day was for having some fun with female company, something she’d missed since leaving Wilda and Rowena and home behind.

  Just as Dolores said, the day was glorious. A pure breeze carried the fragrance of the distant mountains; birds sang and darted from tree to tree. Tyra skipped along surrounded by the five women, laughing when someone stumbled or said something silly, adding to the chatter as easily as if she’d known them forever. It was the first time since coming to the House of the Five Spanish Angels that she hadn’t missed Zach with a pain in her heart. Not that she wished for this life rather than one with him, it was just a relief not to always be wondering who was chasing them or worrying if they would be shot.