by Jeanne Rose
Nate shook his head. "It's that damnable Comanche blood." When he noticed Frances gazing at him curiously, he explained. "Comanches are just about born on horseback. It's a toss-up whether their warriors or the Sioux are the best light cavalry in the world."
"But I don't even remember any Comanches," Louisa put in. "I was only four when we left Texas."
"Still, it's in your blood." Nate took a sip of brandy.
Frances saw an opening to appease her curiosity. "You didn't know your father, Louisa?"
"He was killed before I was born." Which was all the girl would offer. She turned around in her seat, gesturing to a beckoning mesa outside. "I'd love to be galloping across there with the wind in my hair. There's nothing else like it in the world."
"Really? I've never ridden a horse myself.”
"Don't worry, I'll teach you." Louisa grinned. "And it won't be on any old sidesaddle either." She looked at Nate. "Susie is gentle enough for her, don't you think?"
"Your old paint? I would think so." He explained, "A paint is a pinto, a horse with two colors."
"Oh."
The day before, Nate and Louisa had gotten into a long discussion about horses – claybanks, buckskins, blue roans, Appaloosas, as well as the blooded horses from Nate's childhood home, Kentucky. Thus Frances had learned another tidbit of information about his background.
Nate spoke little about himself, even when they were alone together. It was always Frances who ended up talking about her past and sometimes she worried about that. She didn't want her husband to be a stranger and, for a moment, had allowed herself to wonder if she'd been a rash fool to marry him.
Not that she'd had many options from which to choose, and she truly did care for Nathan Gannon. Frances even fancied she might be in love.
The winds of change had simply blown her out of her usual path, she decided, and she would have to cope with the place where they finally put her down.
Louisa was still staring longingly out the window. "How I've missed you, Sangre de Cristos!"
The Blood of Christ Mountains. Frances had looked that up on a map. Why, they weren't that far from their destination. "How soon will we reach Galisteo Junction?"
Nate took out the heavy gold watch he kept in his vest pocket. "A couple more hours. Then it'll take another hour before the shuttle train gets into Santa Fe."
So their arrival was imminent.
"I have to repack my bag." The one Frances kept beneath her seat with her night things and some new books she'd purchased in Chicago. "And I have to freshen up."
Nate rose and pulled out her chair. "I'll walk you back there, sweetheart."
On the way, he crossed between cars first and offered a gentlemanly hand to help Frances over, the wheels clacking beneath her while the wind tore at her skirts and hair. She didn't know how he'd gotten to be a hotel and restaurant owner in New Mexico, but from his manners and bearing, as well as his tastes for first class hotels and train tickets, she suspected he'd been raised by a family of some means in Kentucky.
Before Frances could start going through her bag, Nate slid an arm about her shoulders. "I want to have a little heart-to-heart talk with you before we get to Santa Fe, Frances."
"To tell me about your background, your family?" Which had been foremost on her mind. "I'd love to hear about it."
"Well, that, too."
She gazed at him curiously.
"I guess I'm kind of used to being mysterious," Nate admitted, his free hand fiddling with his heavy watch fob. "Out West, most everyone has a few secrets to hide. You don't ask too many questions. You take a man or a woman on what they do and say right now."
For a moment, Frances grew concerned. "You have secrets you want to hide?"
He laughed, sounding a bit uncomfortable. "You and I have had very different experiences in life, sweetheart. We need to talk about that."
She couldn't help but feel relieved. "I'm curious about any of your experiences."
"Well, I'm going to tell you all."
Then the woman seated in the back cried out, "Indians! Look at the Indians!"
The woman's male companion leaned over to gaze out the train window and the grandmother and child rose to stare as well. Curious herself, Frances rushed to look, Nate beside her.
Outside, a band of warriors galloped alongside the train on their ponies. "Look," said Frances, awed. "How can they ride without real saddles and bridles?" The Indians had only simple ropes looped through their animals' mouths. "And how colorful they are, even if they aren't wearing warpaint!"
"They're probably some of the bucks off the northern reservation. They're not going to attack us, like the redskins in Ned Buntline's dime novels."
Frances had admitted she'd riffled through one of those in a bookstore.
"They're minding their own business,” he went on. “Seem to be Navajos."
"Navajos? How can you tell?"
"Their looks. Arrogant and lean. And see how their hair is clubbed up in back? You can tell the different tribes apart, once you get used to seeing them."
"Will there be a great many Indians in Santa Fe?"
"From time to time, but they'll mainly be Pueblo." Then he told her, "On first sight, Santa Fe isn't exactly pretty, you know. It's an old city but it's also a frontier town. There's an Army post right off the central plaza and new people always coming and going, some of them the rough sort."
"I'm not expecting Boston." She admitted, "And I'm very excited!"
Nate drew her against him. "I hoped you'd think it so." He kissed her softly, lowering his voice. "And I can't wait to get you all to myself again."
They were pressed so tightly together, Frances could feel his watch chain against her ribs, even through her corset and silk bodice. Little butterflies of excitement danced inside her.
Hearing someone clear her throat, Frances glanced to the side to see that Louisa had joined them. Nate released Frances with a last peck on the cheek and the girl giggled. Everyone got busy then, readying themselves to disembark. Frances herself forgot about the heart-to-heart Nate had promised until they were pulling into Galisteo Junction.
Then she stared out the window at the Western town and buttoned the jacket of the elegant suit her husband had bought her in Chicago. Of plum purple velvet, the skirt was the newest fashion, the sort that hugged a woman's front and ended in a bustle in back. Frances thought the outfit the height of luxury, especially when Nate had insisted she purchase accessories to go with it – purple kid boots, green gloves, green silk hat with veil and small purple feathers.
Louisa, on the other hand, had assumed a completely different style. Glancing at her now, Frances had to admire the girl's bright red shirt worn with a long brown skirt, high leather boots...and no corset. Some people in Boston might think such clothing outlandish, but it fit Louisa's personality. The closer the train had approached New Mexico, the more alive and free Louisa seemed to be.
Nate appeared as dapper and well-groomed as usual. His plaid vest might be a bit bright for Boston but he wasn't a conservative banker. He was a man of the West.
The West. Frances could hardly believe she was here.
Her heart raced as the conductor helped Frances down onto the rough planked railway platform. Though the sight of Galisteo Junction wasn't terribly inspiring. A few dusty brown streets led into the surrounding hilly terrain and a couple of buildings sat near the railroad. They sported false fronts like the saloons of Dodge City. Other structures seemed to be mere shacks.
"Is the shuttle leaving right away?" she asked Nate.
"Not for a few minutes."
"Can we go look at the town?"
"There's not much to see, but if you want, sure." He asked Louisa, "Care to come with us?"
"Thanks, but I've seen it. I'll wait for you here."
The other passengers were also disembarking, Galisteo Junction being the end of the line at this time. Nate and Frances followed a man carrying a red carpet bag as he stepped off the plat
form and into the street.
A few yards away stood a tall, hard-looking man with long black hair and a huge pistol strapped to his thigh. He actually might be considered attractive if he weren't so dirty and scruffy, Frances thought, staring.
A subtle aura surrounded him...an aura of danger...
"It's not a good idea to be looking at that hombre so hard, sweetheart," advised Nate, sounding uneasy. "He's likely a gunslinger."
Unfortunately, that only made Frances stare harder. She watched as the man with the red carpet bag headed directly toward the gunman.
Then, from behind them, came the sound of galloping hooves. Frances glanced over her shoulder to see several mounted men riding down the middle of the street. As she and Nate tried to get out of the way, the scruffy gunslinger straightened and took out his pistol.
"Watch out!" cried Nate. "Gunfight!" And he pushed Frances sideways so hard, she landed on the ground with a whump.
Crack...crack...crack...
Cheek against the dirt, heart beating wildly, Frances heard several more shots exchanged between the mounted men and the gunslinger. She was so afraid, she lay quite still, though from her position, she could see the churning hooves of the horses as the mounted men rode on, one of them slumped over the saddle.
The man with the carpet bag also seemed to be a casualty. He lay on the ground near the scruffy gunman, who still had his weapon drawn. When he groaned, the gunman glanced down at him.
The gunman motioned to an approaching man who was wearing a leather coat. "Take care of him, Martinez."
Was the violence all over?
Concerned for her husband, Frances raised her head as soon as she dared. He lay a few feet away on his back.
"Nate?"
He didn't answer. And he was lying very still.
"Nate!"
Frightened, she struggled to her feet, not an easy task with her heavy skirt. She saw the bloody hole in her husband's chest before she'd even reached him. His eyes were open, staring up at the sky.
"Nate!" she cried yet again, falling to her knees, pulling a lacy handkerchief out of her reticule to staunch the flow of seeping red.
CHAPTER THREE
"EVERYTHING WILL BE all right," Frances told her fallen husband, worried at the blood that soaked the handkerchief and his vest. "I'll get a doctor."
A crowd of men had slowly gathered about her, though all she was aware of were boots and dusty trousers and murmuring voices.
A big gentle hand touched her shoulder. "He don't need a doctor, Ma'am. He's dead."
"Dead? He can't be!" But with sinking horror, Frances realized that Nate wasn't breathing, that his eyes were already clouding over. Her heart froze and she shrieked, "No!" Then tears streamed down her face. "Oh, Nate!"
The same gentle hand again touched her shoulder, though she barely noticed, she was shaking so hard. He brushed Nate's eyes shut. "I know it's hard, Ma'am."
And Louisa suddenly pushed her way through the crowd. The girl caught her breath sharply but she didn't scream. "Oh, no! Uncle Nate!" Eyes full of tears, she ran to Frances.
Frances clung to the girl but was unable to feel comforted. "How could this happen?"
"Someone shot him!" Louisa gazed around at the crowd. "Who?"
"It was an accident." The emotionless voice came from the scruffy gunman. "He was in the line of fire."
Frances gazed up at the tall man through a film of dust and veil and tears. Eyes oddly pale in a bronzed face stared back at her. "You? You killed him?"
The gunman offered, "I'll pay for his funeral and burial."
He was blithely suggesting he give poor Nate a funeral? As if that would make everything better? He had taken a life in an act of terrible violence! Frances was beside herself!
"Murderer!" she screamed, rising to throw herself at the man. "Cold-blooded killer!"
The surrounding crowd parted like water. Thoughtless of her own safety, she pounded her fists against the gunman's chest. Who gave him the right to such power?
"You murdered my husband!"
And snatched away her new life!
The gunslinger took hold of her shoulders, easily keeping her at arm's length. Her fists flailed the air.
"Look, I'm sorry, I really am." Though his voice remained cold and distant-sounding. "But it was an accident. I was defending myself against those men on horseback."
"Murderer!"
"No, it was an accident, not a murder, all right," said an onlooker as the crowd began to mutter louder. "I saw it. And so did Will here. There's no need to have anybody arrested."
"Killer!" shrieked Frances as Louisa pulled her away from the gunman. Sobbing, she gazed about, finally seeing the individuals who'd gathered round, a mixture of Anglo and Spanish men. "No need for anyone to be arrested?" she asked disbelievingly. "What kind of place is this?"
"New Mexico Territory, Ma'am," said the man who'd touched her shoulder and closed Nate's eyes. He had a kind weathered face with a big brown mustache under a dusty wide-brimmed hat. "We don't hang men unless they steal horses or kill somebody
a'purpose."
"That's the truth," Louisa told Frances, her eyes red and sad. "It's the law of the West."
The law of the West.
Emotionally drained, Frances was barely aware of the next half hour as a lawman arrived, papers were signed and Nate's body covered with a blanket before being placed on the shuttle train. The poor man might have been stripped if Louisa hadn't had the wherewithal to remove his valuables. Frances glanced at the items quickly before placing them in her bag – a money-belt, which wasn't heavy, a wallet, the big gold watch with its fob and a small pistol Louisa called a derringer.
Louisa also spoke to Nate's killer when the tall gunman drew the girl off to one side. Frances had no idea what they talked about but she couldn't help hating the man who'd destroyed her life. She hadn't felt so helpless since she'd seen soldiers put Indians in chains and take away their children at the missionary reserve camp.
She stared at the gunman anyway, noting the proud way he held himself in spite of his shabby appearance and stubbled face. He shouldn't be proud; he should be ashamed! And his expression was so hard and emotionless.
Didn't he have a heart?
A conscience?
Finally, she and Louisa climbed aboard a passenger car. Frances glanced down at her suit, now dirty and blood-stained, before Louisa guided her to a seat.
"Ma will be there to meet us," the girl said matter-of-factly. And as the train started, she told Frances, "Uncle Nate was a good man, you know, no matter what mistakes he made or what he did for a living."
Frances had so little energy, she gazed at her companion blankly. "What do you mean?"
"He did tell you about his business, right?"
"The restaurant and the hotel?"
Louisa gazed at her closely. "Uh, oh." Then she sighed. "From the way you acted on the trip, I was afraid of this."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Blue Sky Palace isn't exactly...uh, just a hotel. It's also a casino."
Despite her sorrow, Frances was stunned. "You mean a gambling parlor?"
"Uh, huh." Louisa seemed to be searching for words. "And Uncle Nate was more than the owner of the establishment. He played his own tables from time to time. You know, poker and faro. "
"He was a gambler?" Frances cut in.
Louisa nodded. “It’s how he got his share in the casino.”
Truly shocked, Frances turned to stare out the window. Nate had been shot dead and his hotel was actually a den of iniquity. Her dream was rapidly descending into a nightmare.
ADJUSTING HER PARASOL against the bright sun, Belle Janks checked the little jeweled watch she wore on a chain about her neck and gazed down the tracks again. The shuttle from Galisteo Junction was now an hour late. She hoped nothing was wrong.
While she couldn't wait to see her daughter, she was spittin' mad at Louisa for ruining yet another chance at being educated like a lady.
>
Controlling her exasperation, Belle wondered about Nate's new wife. Probably a charmer to get a bachelor of fifty-three to tie the knot. Belle had been mighty surprised to receive the telegram announcing Nate's marriage.
"Why aren't there separate areas for heathens and decent people?" came a strident female voice some yards away.
Belle watched a middle-aged woman mincing past a seated group of Pueblo Indians wrapped in bright blankets. Wouldn't be bad-looking if she didn't dress so plain and stern. Nose in the air, the woman pressed her skirts tightly to her side as if touching the Indians with her brown hem might dirty her somehow. And when one of the Indians held out a clay pot he obviously wanted to sell, the virago made a terrible pinched face.
"No! I don't want anything! Get away from me!"
Belle frowned, recognizing the woman and her old-fashioned bonnet from an encounter she'd had at an open-air marketplace. The widow of a railroad man, Minna Tucker was a holier-than-thou Bible thumper. She was certain Minna also recognized her when the woman glanced her way in passing and widened her eyes.
She intoned, "God is the punisher of sinners!"
Knowing a woman like Minna Tucker would hate it, Belle smiled directly at her and waved.
The woman looked set to blow a gasket and nearly started into a dead run. "Get thee behind me, Satan!"
And Belle laughed. "Satan? I'd need horns and a forked tail."
She surely would like to know what secrets Minna Tucker had hidden away. In her experience, a person that loudly devout was usually covering up terrible guilt of some kind. Minna was wasting her time trying to make Belle feel guilty, though. Having done what she thought she must to exist, if on the boundaries of proper society, she had little or no shame.
Belle's attitude toward Louisa was completely different, of course. Her dream had always been to see the girl accepted. She knew her daughter's Comanche blood didn't help matters any, but surely education and manners counted for something. Hopefully, a respectable man would marry her.
Damn Louisa for causing trouble again! She'd saved good money to send her daughter to four schools now, only to have the girl be sent home every time. Didn't Louisa realize how hard she'd worked, how much she wanted to see her rise beyond the sordid life she herself had had to lead?
