A Western Romance: Paul Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 8) (Taking The High Road Series)

by Morris Fenris

  “All right, Weedy,” he said shortly, “Give it up and realize we all gotta work for a livin’. C’mon, stop puffin’ out your belly at me.”

  Colorful blanket, saddle, and a cinch strap that needed to be tightened, and tightened again, thanks to the gelding’s deliberate distention of chest and barrel. Like a kid taking in a deep breath, reflected Paul with an amused shake of the head. He shoved one knee into the horse’s girth, Weedy wheezed out a great gasp, and Paul could begin fastening buckles and straps.

  The afternoon passed. Were it not for the goal waiting at the end, this might have been a pleasure trip—just three friends, off camping somewhere over the ridge of eastern California, enjoying all the great outdoors.

  Still, as much as he was appreciating this experience that so satisfied the soul, Paul never once forget his primary purpose: that of locating the elusive Catamount Clemens, bad man extraordinaire, in his hideaway deep in these very mountains. His brain itched to set interview questions in motion; his fingers itched to take up pencil and paper and write down every fascinating word.

  The campsite that early evening was established next to another small lake—of which there were so many in this area—encircled by the usual Ponderosa and Washoe Pine, some Pacific Yew, and, scattered here and there, Colorado and Silver Fir. With so much woodsy conifer scent in the air, and damp fragrance rising off the sun-dappled waters, no question but that a meal and slumber would be deeply gratifying tonight.

  As he unloaded Bianca’s pack, Paul decided that, once chores were out of the way, he would take fishing rod in hand and see what gill-fitted critters might be lurking under the pristine surface of that sparkly pool.

  But Teddy beat him to the punch.

  “Coffee’s on, gentlemen,” she informed them pleasantly. With a cake of lye soap in one hand and a rather threadbare towel in the other, she presented the air of a general marching off to war. “I’ll fix your supper soon enough. But, for right now, I’m gonna take advantage of all that beautiful clean water and get a bath.”

  “You go right ahead, honey.” Ezra, disreputable pipe in hand, was already ensconced on a chunk of weather-smoothed granite for a survey of his surroundings. “We’ll keep a lookout goin’. You, Paul Yancey, just sit your ass down right here till she comes back.”

  Paul grinned. “Figured maybe on hookin’ us a bass or a catfish for our supper, but, hell! That can wait, I reckon.”

  “Hmmph. All right, then, have at it. But stay this side of the lake, understand?”

  “Oh, surely. Ain’t got no plans to hunt down no mermaids swimmin’ up t’ shore. Not unless I had me a mighty big net.”

  Truth to tell, Paul wouldn’t have minded catching a glimpse or two of a naked, wet, nubile young maiden. He was a normal red-blooded American male, after all, not some eunuch stuck in an Oriental harem.

  On the other hand, he preferred to continue this mountain quest in harmony. And with all his masculine parts intact. He was quite favorably inclined toward those parts, and hoped to keep them in good working order for a long time to come. No reason to set an outraged parent, shotgun in hand, on his tail.

  He could hear her, from the bush-shrouded cove some little distance away, broadcasting shivers as she hesitantly entered the water, then a great deal of splashing. Last came some humming, more splashing, a warble or two. This evolved into “O, don’t you remember Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice, with hair so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, and trembled with fear at your frown…”

  Ezra was right. She did sing a mighty fine tune.

  Pau had hauled in two sizable trout and was angling for another when Teddy emerged from the bushes, as regally and serenely as a duchess exiting her bath. Her hair was still wet, slicked back behind her ears; her face shone from a good scrubbing; and she was dressed in—a dress.

  Poor Ezra nearly fell off his boulder in shock. “But—girl!” he spluttered. “How you gonna do anything ’round here in—that?”

  “Oh, Pa! It’s just somethin’ for tonight. Just somethin’ different. And I’ll handle everything like I usually do.”

  Paul, reeling in the line of his fish pole, sent her an approving glance over his shoulder. “Don’t pay any attention t’ him, Teddy. You look like a million bucks.” Pausing for a good long sniff of the air, he added, “Smell like it, too.”

  Despite the purple shadows being ushered in by twilight, the vivid rush of color to her cheeks was quite visible. The figure that she had hidden so well under well-worn buckskins was shown to great advantage in a flirty white cotton dress sprigged all over with violets. Womanly to the utmost, with breasts that might be begging for exploration, a tiny inswooped waist, and hips wide enough to provide enticing sway.

  Modest, yes, and slightly old-fashioned. Not that either male would notice, having little interest in current female fashions.

  “Hell. Is that somea your ma’s duds?”

  Teddy sighed. “Yeah, sure is.”

  Her father drew in a deep ragged breath and slowly exhaled. “You’re a fetchin’ sight if ever I did see one, Teddy. Puts me in mind of my Dorkas.”

  Paul did him one better. Reaching out for her hand, like the Southern gentleman he was, he asked if he might kindly escort her back to the campfire.

  While Teddy might not have all the fine arts of flirting down pat, nor play the role of trifling siren, she could coquet. And so she did, with a little upward tilt of her chin, and a come-hither glance from her luminous gray eyes, and a swing of the bell-shaped skirts. “I’d be honored, sir,” she drawled.

  The journalist took it upon himself to clean his catch, thus sparing Miss Ferguson the indignity of wearing a festoon of fish scales and fish guts on her pretty outfit. Floured and fried to crispy flavor, the trout disappeared in minutes, along with the inevitable rice, cooked with beans and onion and spices, and a dish of pooch, made with canned tomatoes, sugar, and bread.

  “Ah,” sighed Paul, stretched out on his blanket with fingers laced together across his full belly, “I am replete. Damn, woman, you put t’gether a helluva meal.”

  Teddy, sitting cross-legged by the fire to sip at her coffee, gave a nod. “Part of my job, Mr. Yancey.”

  “Well, you’ve sure done your best t’ give us plentya variety on this trip. Tasty stuff.”

  “Toldja she’s a good cook,” said Ezra, with deep satisfaction. Finishing his coffee, he put aside his pipe for the time being, rose, and stretched wide. “Think I’ll have a little walk around,” he casually told them. “Wear off my supper.”

  A certain tone in his voice caught her attention. “Everything okay, Pa?”

  “Just peachy-keen, girl. Too clear and pretty a night t’ sit here jawin’, though. I need me some exercise, that’s all.”

  Father and daughter exchanged a look. Years of working the guide trails together had given them a talent for unspoken communication; and what Ezra telegraphed, unseen by their client, was possible danger in a possible situation.

  Teddy nodded. “You just have that walk, Pa. We aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

  Camp clean-up had been effected, leaving free time to relax, converse, and half-drowse beside the fire. At the lake, ducks were softly quacking themselves to sleep; the comforting sound mixed in with an occasional plish-plash of various nocturnal foragings and the hoot of an owl, here and there, or the cry of a night bird, circling and wheeling.

  “Nice,” murmured Paul. “Got stuck in an office job, for a while, some years back. I didn’t even know what I was missin’, till I got back out in God’s country.”

  “After you left the plantation?”

  “Oh, yeah, long after. Still tryin’ t’ find out what I was s’posed t’ be doin’ in this life, and I drifted up New Yawk way. That didn’t last long. Then I drifted southwest, down t’ Texas. I got some miles racked up on this frame of mine, b’lieve me.”

  Teddy was seated in a pose of deep interest, cross-legged under her violet sprigs, with elbows on knees and chin r
esting in palms. “Tell me more about when you were a kid,” she entreated. “Your upbringin’ is so different from mine—I like hearin’ your stories.”

  Memories of his childhood, raised in a secure and loving environment—at least, until his mother had died in childbirth—were never far from his heart. He was happy to regale anyone who asked about life with nine rough-and-tumble brothers, his schooling, his experiences near salt marsh and seashore.

  “One time, Matt and John were headin’ up the coast a ways t’ go crabbin’,” he recalled with a reminiscent smile. “I was just a little tyke, but I wanted t’ go along in the worst way. O’ course, them bein’ older, they didn’t wanna take me a’tall. So I threw a fit, in fact, till they couldn’t stand it anymore and finally give in. Slipped me off on the sly, without tellin’ Ma and Paw, b’cause none of us were s’posed t’ be so far from home.”

  “And you all got along just fine?”

  Paul chuckled. With the fullness of his belly eased, he was half-sitting, half-lying against his saddle, watching the cavorting flames and the girl opposite. “Not hardly. B’fore we got halfway there, I fell asleep in the bottom of our old flat-bottomed boat. Them two boys just kept on a-polin’ away, glad I was quiet.”

  “And—?”

  “Huh.” He had picked up a stray twig and was breaking it into ever smaller bits. “When we got t’ where we were goin’, they just left me there, slumberin’ away, and went off t’ troll for their catch. When they come back a little later, t’ check on me, I was gone.”

  The sharp sound of her indrawn breath could be heard even above the soft crackle of fire. “Gone!”

  “Yep. Boat and all. They hadn’t tied the rope tight, and the current from one of them side creeks just started driftin’ me out t’ sea.”

  “Oh, Paul! That’s terrible!” Her gray eyes were rounded with horror. “What happened?”

  “Well, lucky for me—and for them two snarky brothers, as well—we were near a neighborin’ plantation. Matt and John hot-footed it for help, brought a whole slew of people down to the marshes. They found me just when the tide was startin’ t’ turn.”

  “You must have been scared to death,” she sympathized, imagining that scene.

  “Reckon I kinda was. Standin’ up in that flat-bottomed boat, howlin’ like a screecher monkey. I’ll tell you what, Teddy, I was never so glad t’ see my mama in my life.”

  “I believe it. And what happened to your brothers?”

  Another chuckle, heartier this time. “Got their britches tanned, but good. And couldn’t leave Belle Clare for a month. And had t’ do a lot more work around the place. Paw figured, if they could be runnin’ off in mid-day like that, duckin’ responsibilities, they just didn’t have enough chores t’ do.”

  “Do you ever get mad, all over again, when you think about it?”

  “Oh, hell, no. I just hold it like a noose around their necks when I wanna get somethin’ from ’em.” Screwing up his face, he went on in falsetto, “Matthew, dear Matthew, remember that time you almost let me die?”

  She thought that over for a bit. “Well, what can you expect, all boys?”

  “You’re right, there,” Paul agreed without a quibble. “Never had much truck with you gentler creatures, growin’ up. My brother Nate, now, he’s got himself three little girls in the family. Cute as buttons, with this wild hair that looks like a dandelion gone t’ seed, but hell-raisers, every one of ’em.”

  Teddy shifted position with something halfway between a bridle and a simper. “Sounds like they’ll be standin’ on their own two feet, once they grow up. That’s what my Pa taught me. He’s watched out for my well-bein’, all my life, but at the same time he helped me get to be independent, so I don’t have to count on anybody else.”

  Slipping down farther against the saddle, so he was lying on his side to meet her gaze across the fire, Paul wondered aloud if she regretted growing up as an only child.

  Teddy laughed. He savored the sound of her laughter, clear and light and open. “Why, so I could get caught up in some high-jinks like you and your brothers? I think I might’ve been lonely sometimes, but I was always a lot older than my years. So Pa said. We all get through what we have to get through, don’t we?”

  “Ahuh. Listen,” a change of subject, and his eyes gleamed, “you wouldn’t happen t’ know any more songs, wouldja? I used t’ enjoy when some of the people at Belle Clare started in t’ singin’—in church, or at night when things settled down. I liked hearin’ you, a little earlier.”

  “Me? You liked hearin’ me sing?” The pleasure in her tone was palpable. “Well, there’s prob’ly more…if you really—”

  “Oh, yeah, I really,” Paul assured her.

  A pause, while Teddy mentally ran through a repertoire. Then, slowly and quietly, her sweet voice rose in the antebellum lyrics so beloved of a war generation:

  Oh, the years creep slowly by, Lorena,

  The snow is on the ground again.

  The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,

  The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been.

  But the heart beats on as warmly now,

  As when the summer days were nigh.

  Oh, the sun can never dip so low

  A-down affection's cloudless sky.

  A hundred months have passed, Lorena,

  Since last I held that hand in mine,

  And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,

  Though mine beat faster far than thine.

  A hundred months, 'twas flowery May,

  When up the hilly slope we climbed,

  To watch the dying of the day,

  And hear the distant church bells chime.

  We loved each other then, Lorena,

  Far more than we ever dared to tell;

  And what we might have been, Lorena,

  Had but our loving prospered well --

  But then, 'tis past, the years are gone,

  I'll not call up their shadowy forms;

  I'll say to them, "Lost years, sleep on!

  Sleep on! nor heed life's pelting storms."

  The notes rang out over the unruffled lake surface, quivering and echoing in the distance.

  Paul’s silence paid tribute, momentarily, to her spell. Then, shaking his head as if to rouse from that enchantment, he swiped the sleeve of one arm across his eyes. “Damn,” he muttered. “Haven’t heard that one in a long time, nor ever done so well. You do tug at the heartstrings, Teddy, girl.”

  Smiling shyly, she gathered her skirts up in a bunch and rocked back against the saddle. “That’s a compliment. I think.”

  “It was. Sure took me back t’ the past. All durin’ the War B’tween the States, soldiers on both sides would near break down, when somebody sang that tune. Huh. One Confederate officer even claimed that song handed us our defeat.”

  “Your defeat? How?”

  “Oh, accordin’ t’ him, men listenin’ t’ those words got t’ thinkin’ of their wives and sweethearts left b’hind, ’steada what they had t’ do on the battlefield. All their zeal for fightin’ just went right out the window.”

  Stillness lay over the campfire, while Teddy, unaware of the melancholy ballad’s history or far-reaching effect, digested that.

  “You ever take music lessons?” Paul asked, after a few minutes.

  “No. Nobody around to give ’em.” She brightened. “I can play a guitar, though. Learned it by ear.”

  “That’s a real talent you have. I’d like t’ see—”

  The snap of a branch breaking underfoot had Teddy instantly on the defensive, snatching the revolver out from under her skirts to aim into the darkness. “Who’s there?” she challenged.

  “Jist me, honey,” Ezra hailed her, approaching. “Done a circuit of the area, and now I’m about ready for bed. Glad you’re still on alert, in spite of the distractions.” His white mustaches lifted in a grin.

  “Distractions?” She was scowling as she rose to dust off her backside.

  “
Well, yeah. Heardja singin’ clear the other side of the lake. Sounded real purty.”

  “This is quite a daughter you have here, Ezra,” said Paul with admiration, as he reached for his boots. Time for one last trip into the woods.

  “Ahuh. Kinda like her, myself. Teddy, you gonna wear that frilly thing to sleep in?”

  A sigh of resignation, as if things weren’t going quite as she might have hoped. “No, Pa. I brought along my fanciest frilly nightgown to change into.”

  “Fanciest? All I know is, it better be flannel. And cover everything from your nose t’ your toes.”

  VII

  They shared a separate little conclave next morning, father and daughter, while Paul was down at the lake making himself beautiful. In a subdued voice, that for once didn’t carry, Ezra described his last night’s foray, and the faint light of someone’s campfire way down the side of the mountain.

  “Snuck as close as I could get without givin’ myself away,” he reported.

  “Were you able to tell who it was?”

  The guide might be past middle age, but his vision was as sharp and clear as ever. “Yeah, saw him sittin’ near the flames. Vincent Raintree.”

  “Vincent Raintree!” Teddy hissed like an angry goose. “Him!”

  Vincent Raintree, infamous bounty hunter. His career, in his pursuit of wanted men, had spanned more than a quarter of a century and criss-crossed the entire southwestern United States. A high success rate, too.

  Built like a rusty old skip mine car, minus the wheels, Vincent lived for one purpose only: tracking and trapping the bad guys. Or, on rare occasions, the bad girl. And certainly there were a few of those. He wasn’t too much of a nasty sort, himself, just inflexible in his tunnel-minded goals. And, whatever else happened, everyone had better stay out of his way.

  “So he must be huntin’ Catamount, too,” said Teddy, thinking it over. “Dead or alive, huh? Wonder how he happened to be on Clemens’ trail at the same time we are?”

  “Dunno, honey.” Ezra pulled out his pipe, added another layer of whatever detestable stuff he was smoking, and lit up. “Not much we can do about it right now. He’s got as much right t’ be out here in the wilderness as we do. But we’ll keep our eyes peeled. Wanna avoid trouble if we can.”