Before We Leave (Chronicles of the Maca Book 3)

by Mari Collier

  Lorenz and Christina were on her horse. “I'll send Ernest back with the horses. With luck we're out of here before anyone from the Triple E shows up. We need to head further north to where there's a bend in the river.” He used his knees to start the horse.

  He had no particular desire to watch a hanging, and wanted to prevent Kendall and Ernest from seeing it, but knew it was futile. Trying to stop the hanging was more futile. Martin was angry and Marty had that same dangerous, cold look of his grandfather. Even if he could convince Martin to hand Ortega over to the law for kidnapping, Ortega would still hang on the general premise that he was a Mexican with a white woman.

  By the time Ernest brought up the horses, Ortega was being supported by Jake and Marty. The man continued to bleed and was sobbing. Between breaths he was pleading with his captors.

  “Please, seniors, patron, please.”

  “Better stick him on his horse.”

  Once they were mounted, Martin turned to Jake.

  “We thank y'all for the help. I want y'all to ride back to my ranch and tell Mrs. Rolfe that Christina is safe and we'll be riding in right behind y'all.”

  Jake nodded and hit the trail back. He was disappointed. A man stuck out on a ranch miles from the county seat didn't get to see many hangings. Of course, this way he couldn't testify against them either. He considered following, but gave it up. This country was too open and MacDonald had a reputation he didn't want to test.

  They rode cross-country, fast and hard to avoid any travelers. Christina sobbing against Lorenz's chest calling on him and God to save Ortega.

  Marty lashed his horse on ahead to make sure no one would be at the old campsite Lorenz had designated. It was spring and there were men out on the range stringing the hated barbwire, knowing it was the only way to contain the upgraded beef stock, cursing the man that invented it and the times that made it necessary. Some of the hands carried their own branding iron. Who cared what happened to a few strays? Maybe, with luck, they could acquire enough for a drive south to Mexico or north to Montana or Wyoming. Martin wanted to avoid them.

  Marty reappeared and waved his hat as an all clear.

  “Let's go.” Martin's face was set, the words barking through equally set lips.

  “Let me stay back here with Christina.”

  Martin swung in the saddle to face Lorenz. “Why? She needs to see what happens.”

  “She doesn't need to hate y'all to the end of her life. She already knows what happens.”

  Christina's sobs and hiccups were audible. Some inkling of the fact that her papa would not be dissuaded from his actions must have penetrated. Her blue eyes were tear filled, and she seemed unable to focus them on anyone.

  “Uncle's right, Papa.” Ernest rode between them. “It isn't any place for a woman. Mama wouldn't like it.” Ernest wasn't sure he wanted to see this through, but knew his older brothers would never let him live it down if he backed away from avenging his sister. He'd seen Marty's face at the line shack and something was wrong: awfully wrong.

  Martin nodded at Lorenz and led the rest to the riverbank and down among the willows and cottonwood trees. Ortega slumped across the horse's neck, his body was wracked from pain and weary from blood loss.

  “Papa, that one has a good sturdy limb. I'll climb up and secure the rope.” Marty pointed at the cottonwood tree branch that shaded part of the bank.

  Martin loosened the lariat he used for roping and tossed it to Marty. In his mind, it was regrettable to lose such a fine rope, but the task needed a rope that was supple and strong. He'd have another one made.

  They watched as Marty rode his horse over to the tree and swung his own rope up and over. Then he dismounted, slipped the rolled up lariat his father had tossed him over his shoulder, tied one end his rope to the tree trunk, and used the dangling portion to pull himself up. Once seated on the branch, he proceeded to tie off his father's prized rope.

  “Let me know when the length is right. Bring Ortega over so I can adjust it.”

  Ortega looked desperately around and found the men were hard faced, the MacDonald boy wide-eyed, and Ernest unable to meet his eyes. He knew appeal would be useless and closed his eyes as though by not seeing, nothing would happen.

  Martin led Ortega's horse beneath the branch and dropped the noose around Ortega's neck, making sure the knot rested under the right ear. “A little tighter make it,” he yelled up at his son.

  Marty finished tying off the rope and slid down the tree using his own rope as a guideline. Once on the ground he pulled his rope down, untied it before re-coiling it, and mounted. He moved his horse over to the group.

  Martin backed his horse several steps, used his hat to slap the Mexican's horse on the rump, and yelled, “Hi ya yi,” the ya yi ending in a sharp, almost yodeling yell.

  The startled horse broke into a run. Ortega tried using his knees to retain a grip on the horse, but the pain in his testicles was too much and he slid off the back. He ended up dangling vertically from the rope, his body revolving in circles, while body fluids cascaded down through his trousers to hit the ground in a rush.

  They stayed just long enough for Martin to make sure the man was dead. They left him hanging there with his pants split open.

  “Let 'em see what happens to a Mexican when he messes with a white girl.”

  Chapter 21: The Telegram

  Martin's last words as they parted to ride for their individual ranches haunted Lorenz.

  “Who's going to want her now that a Mexican's had his way? What do I do if there's a baby? What did we do wrong in bringing her up?” He had expected no answer and had almost ridden off before Lorenz answered him.

  “Y'all and Brigetta didn't do anything wrong. I'm sure our wives will know what do to if Christina does have a child.”

  The more he thought about it, the less he thought his answer to Martin was right. What if there was a baby? The world would consider it a half-breed and scorn them both. He knew he had to tell Antoinette the details and hoped she could provide some sort of solution. Right now he wanted coffee, food, cleaned up, and his wife. It was as though somehow she could pull him into her and cleanse him of all that was wrong in this world that didn't recognize him as a half-breed. To his biological father's people he would be classified as a mutant, an equivalent to half-breed or mulatto in their rarified world. Here in this world, his parentage didn't show in his skin color and no one could see his two hearts or realize what he could and did do with his mind.

  Toni met them at the door with a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. “I've ordered your bath and your favorite dinner. Y'all can tell me all about it when y'all are bathing.”

  “Honey, I don't think I need that.”

  “Yes, y'all do. Kendall, y'all need to bathe before dinner too. They're heating water in the washhouse for y'all and your clean clothes are out there.” She stood on her tiptoes for her son to kiss her cheek. “Now scoot.”

  She led Lorenz into the bedroom. “Y'all look rode-hard, darling.” She closed the door before continuing. “Was Christina violated?”

  Lorenz looked down at her. “I reckon it depends on what y'all mean by violated. Of course, she was. Damn it, woman, y'all know she went with him on purpose.”

  “We won't talk about that just now. Did you all hang him?”

  Lorenz set his gear on the floor and his butt on the bed. “Yes, he's dead.”

  “Good! I was afraid y'all would try to convince Martin to take him to the sheriff.” It never occurred to Toni's that Christina would not have been found.

  “Poor Brigetta would never have lived down the shame of that.”

  Lorenz looked up at her in disbelief. “Poor Brigetta?” he repeated stupidly. After almost twenty years of marriage she could still baffle him.

  “What about Christina, or the whole family for that matter? And what about the man that died because Christina chose to ignore every one of the social taboos of where she lived?”

  “Well, what good would
it have done to turn him over to the law? They would have just hung him after airing everything in public.”

  Both of them heard the women approaching with the warm water to pour in the tub in the adjoining room. Talking ceased and Toni smiled at him. Then she went to the wardrobe to pull out his clean clothes.

  “While they fill the tub, I'll bring the telegram to read to y'all. We can discuss what y'all are going to do. I've already packed your bag.”

  “What telegram?” He was talking to a closing door. What the hell had happened while he'd been gone for a few days? Telegrams were for emergencies, for deaths, or for some other dire event. Rarely did they contain good news. He stripped off his boots and socks and then the rest of his clothes. Toni, holding the telegram, came back into the room as the maid on the other side knocked on the door.

  “We're through, senor.” They heard the other bathroom door close as the maid exited.

  “Really, darling, y'all do need a bath first.”

  Lorenz didn't care. He pulled her close and hugged. She was his refuge, his safety, and she held him securely in her arms.

  After a minute, Toni pushed him away. “Now y'all take your bath and I'll read this.”

  “Read it now.”

  “I will not. Y'all need that bath and y'all are not going to rush out of here until tomorrow.”

  “I could just take it.”

  “Of course, y'all could, but then it spoils everything.”

  Which he admitted to himself was true. He strode into the bathroom and settled into the tub. “Once we remake what we lost this winter, I'm putting running water in here and make it a real bathroom.”

  “And we would still have to heat the water in the kitchen.”

  He grimaced and used the soap to work up a lather in his hair, and then Toni poured water over his head from a pitcher to rinse it out. Years of training his hair to lie in waves couldn't stop the wet hair from going into short curls all over his head. Toni claimed it gave the sardonic expression on his face a cherubic quality.

  “I still don't see why y'all won't let me do the same when y'all wash your hair, Toni.”

  “Because Conchita does it ever so much better, and y'all never get out all of the soap.”

  “Maybe I should have Conchita do mine.”

  “Hmph!” She dumped a second, much cooler pitcher of water over him.

  “Hey!”

  “Serves y'all right.” She turned away and opened the cabinet to withdraw a bottle to freshen his drink for him. Then she drew up a chair. “Now y'all can finish bathing while I read this from a Mr. Jethro Collins.”

  Her words stopped his hand. “What? Why is he writing?”

  ”Well, if y'all will be silent, I'll read it.” She peered over the telegram before reading. “This is to inform you that your sister, Margareatha Buckley, has lost her husband and children to smallpox. She was trapped by the snow for months and unable to bury them. The events have deranged her. She is now a danger to the town and herself. Cannot stop the authorities from committing her. Come as soon as possible. Jethro Collins.”

  Lorenz was standing in the tub ready to step out.

  “Darling, do finish your bath. Y'all cannot do anything until y'all get to the train station and a telegraph office, and y'all are having dinner here with your family tonight.”

  “She saved my life twice over and didn't hesitate one minute.”

  “Y'all are not hesitating. Y'all are being sensible; besides, I don't really believe she'll let them commit her. Didn't y'all say she could use her mind to stop people?”

  Lorenz had grabbed the towel and was drying himself. “Yes, but only one at a time. She can't stop a whole town or two or three deputies. She'll kill someone in the melee if she's truly deranged. I'll take the Scout and figure out someway to hide it once I'm there.”

  Toni looked at him as though he were the deranged one. “And how are y'all going to hide that thing? Someone might find it. And do y'all just intend to walk into town like a bum?”

  “I'll sneak in at night if I have to.” He was pulling on his fresh clothes while Antoinette looked at him helplessly. Usually he succumbed to her every whim, but this time she knew it was futile.

  “What if someone discovers that, that flying thing, whatever y'all call it?”

  “I'll take their memory.” He walked into the bedroom and pulled on his boots.

  “Well, are y'all at least going to take the trunk I've packed for y'all?”

  “No, a small bag will suffice. Also some jerky and biscuits, if there are any.”

  Chapter 22: Mad Maggie

  Margareatha woke to a mountain spring day spewing sunlight through the cracks in the shack's dingy, crowded interior. She focused sleep-bleary eyes on the opposite wall six feet away and sat up thinking about how much she wanted to sleep and how little she was able to sleep. When had she gone to bed? Dawn was starting to break when she stumbled in here. Jethro Collins didn't really want her sleeping in the storage shack, but screw Collins. He owed her for all the time she once spent on his inept attempt at keeping records for Red. Then she remembered why she couldn't sleep and doubled over clutching at her middle and groaning, “Why, God? Why them?”

  The hurt inside was like it had been for months: a red hot iron claw raking up and down with a burning that never subsided.

  With effort she threw her legs over the side of the cot, stared at the floor, and tried to pray. It did no good. All she could see was the cold, dead eyes of her little twin boys. Gone was the mischief in those blue eyes; gone, gone like the spark of adoration in Brent's blue eyes whenever he looked at her. Then she remembered the three of them laid out on her marriage bed staring upward at the ceiling.

  She closed her eyes and pulled on her shoes, not bothering to tie them, and knocked away the crate she'd set in front of the door before opening it. For a moment she opened her eyes and rapidly snapped them shut against the brilliance of the afternoon sun. She didn't want to see beauty. She wanted…Dear God, she wanted her boys, her man, and they were dead.

  Margareatha choked back a sob and marched towards the outhouse. She hated her body. Nature continually demanded she do the most mundane functions: eat and shit. She couldn't stop the process. She had considered suicide alone in that cabin with no way to bury her husband and her children; no way to walk or ride through the snow for help, but the instilled abhorrence of disobeying God's law and her own wicked desire to live thwarted any action. She opened the privy door and the stench was almost overwhelming. In a way, shitting was a punishment for her neglect. It was her fault. She knew it. She admitted it. Her arrogance in believing her children would have her immunity killed them. She should have had them vaccinated against small pox. Why had she been so blind? Dear God, forgive me. I cannot forgive myself.

  Once she finished, her hunger drove her outward, but today she would not let herself eat. Today she would walk and walk and collapse. Then maybe she could die without the outright act of killing herself, the nuances of such an argument eluding her.

  The fine dust of Carson City's early years mingled with the smell of sawdust hanging in the air was gone, but the stamp mills slamming down on ore to crush the rocks could still be heard day and night. None of these buildings were new. She practically ran through the town, through the poor quarters where women either jeered at her or made the sign of the cross for protection.

  Margareatha did not know how far she walked. She could not have told anyone what the scenery was like except from memory. She avoided the roads and any place a rider, wagon, or lone prospector might be. She nearly stumbled over the pebbles by a small creek and realized she was thirsty, but this was not drinkable. The water was fouled with debris from a miner's sluice farther upstream.

  She sank down on the red-orange ground and considered. Right now her body screamed for water. Margareatha could recognize the fact that her cells were trying to renew and repair the damage she inflicted on her body by her erratic eating, too little sleep, and too much br
andy. She struggled back to her feet and for a moment reality hit her. She was too close to town. She had started too late. Here someone would find her, force water down her throat, and take her to the doctor. Then the secret of her two hearts would be out. Would they burn her at the stake or try to make an exhibit out of her? Either was a possibility. It would be best to return to town and prepare to walk or ride far enough away to hide from any passerby tomorrow. Right now she needed food and water. She swung back towards the town where the sounds from the stamp, stamp, stamp of the iron blows hitting the ore matched the pounding in her head.

  She kept to the back streets as the quickest way to Red's saloon. Jethro Collins still ran it, but not the brothels. It wasn't that Red didn't trust Jethro. He felt Jethro was too soft hearted where the women were concerned. The back street also meant she avoided the stares or shouts from drivers of wagons for her to get out of the way, or the stray, truant child from running after her and chanting.

  “Mad Maggie, Mad Maggie, feeds on maggots, mad, Mad Maggie.”

  Margareatha slammed the backdoor as she entered the back of the building, effectively waking the supposed guard Jethro had hired. What an incredible waste of money. Her mind held his as she stalked through the hall and walked to the bar.

  “Where are the peanuts or the hard boiled eggs?” She snarled the question at the bulky bartender while ignoring every man and woman in the place. She also ignored the man wrinkling his nose at the smell of her.

  “Sorry, Missus, but it's too early in the day.” It was a lie. This was her regular time and he'd taken the edibles to the back. His boss was hoping she'd go elsewhere to eat.

  “Bring me a brandy and send someone after a plate from Harvey's.” She blazed the command at him with her voice and her mind, and she continued to use her mind to command him as she returned stare for stare.