Chasing the Sun

by Kaki Warner

  “Gracias, amiga.”

  Molly stood, offering assistance as Elena pushed awkwardly to her feet, trying to keep her weight off her damaged hip. Once upright, she paused to pass around a wide smile. “I am so happy to see all of you again. Thank you for your kind welcome.” After giving her goodnights to the brothers, she went with Jessica and Molly upstairs.

  When their footfalls faded, Brady turned to Hank. “My office or yours?”

  “Mine. Bob stinks too much.”

  The house had a rectangular design with a three-story center and two-story wings on either side. The entry, which also held the stairwell, was bisected by open hallways leading to the east and west wings. Across from the double-entry doors was the huge main room, the back wall of which held a twenty-foot-tall rock fireplace and bank of windows overlooking the hilltop cemetery and mountains beyond. At one end of the room was a reading area—Jessica called it a library—and at the other end was a dining area that led into a large kitchen in the west wing. Brady had stocked the kitchen well with the biggest cookstove he could buy and an abundance of cabinets and countertops. There was also a long family dining table in the middle of the room and access to a cool-room that held the boiler Hank had built to pipe hot water throughout the house. So far, it hadn’t exploded.

  Above the entry was a U-shaped mezzanine that overlooked the main room, with hallways leading off the arms of the U into his brothers’ bedroom wings. Brady’s section was over the entry in the center of the U. Hank had the east wing over the library and offices, while Jack’s rooms were over the dining room and kitchen—if he ever got his ass home to use them. After Abigail was born, Jessica converted the third-floor attic into a nursery for the kids and their keepers. The rambling house might seem a bit crowded sometimes, with six children and double that number of adults moving in and out of it, but Brady liked having his family close by so he could watch over them.

  Spanning the front of the house was a covered porch with a steep roof. The back porch was uncovered, with hanging balconies off his brothers’ bedrooms. Twelve bedrooms and six water closets, not counting the nursery. A strong, masculine house made of two-foot-diameter logs and weathered rock taken from their own land. Brady was proud of it.

  Of course, Jessica had tried to soften it by removing most of the taxidermy and adding ruffled pillows and lace doilies and tiny claw-footed tables that could barely hold a coffee mug. That English upbringing again. But it was still a fine house, and Brady figured if Hank didn’t blow it up with one of his innovations, it would last a century at least.

  His and Hank’s offices were on the main floor behind the library, which was where Brady was headed now. After gathering up the cut-glass decanter of Scotch whiskey and two crystal tumblers, he went next door to Hank’s office.

  The offices were mirror images of one another, each with its own fireplace flanked by bookcases, windows, and a door onto the back porch, and each furnished with two oversized leather chairs set before a broad desk. But Brady’s had the added touches of crystal and cut glass, Spanish leather desk accessories, and oil paintings depicting that ridiculous English sport of chasing after foxes—a waste of time if there ever was one. Jessica again, bless her heart.

  He had subtly countered those feminine touches by installing Bob, a ten-foot-tall stuffed grizzly with a ferocious demeanor that Jessica had banished from the main room for various reasons. Mostly the smell. Admittedly it was rank, reminding Brady of a Mexican saddle that had been cured with manure and piss then left in the rain too long. But he put up with it because in addition to serving as a fine coatrack, Bob was an excellent kid repellant.

  In contrast, Hank’s office was a disordered mess of parts, tools, projects-in-progress, and the dismantled remains of items his brother had liberated from other rooms in the house when Jessica wasn’t looking. A tinkerer’s idea of heaven.

  When Brady entered, he was hard at work on something that looked a lot like a smaller version of the boiler in the basement, God help them.

  “What’s that?” Brady asked as he searched out a clear space on the cluttered desk for the decanter and glasses.

  Hank didn’t look up. “A pop valve for a steam-powered windmill.”

  “I thought windmills were powered by wind. Hence, the name.”

  “They are, except when there’s no wind.”

  “So why isn’t it called a steam mill?”

  Hank muttered something under his breath.

  Undaunted, Brady pressed on. “And if the purpose of a wind—or steam—mill is to pump water out of the ground, where does the water come from to make the steam in the first place?”

  “Just shut up and pour the whiskey.”

  Brady poured, picked up his crystal tumbler, and settled into one of the chairs across from the desk. “It’s a righteous question.”

  Hank continued working on his whatever. Brady stared idly out the window and wondered how to ask about Molly. He didn’t like it when his family was suffering, since as head of the family, it was his job to see that they didn’t.

  He decided to jump right in. “Glad to see Molly’s feeling better.”

  That brought Hank’s head up. “What’re you talking about? Molly’s fine.”

  Brady shrugged. “Seemed upset a few days ago. Heard her crying.”

  “It happens.” Hank bent to his task again.

  “It does,” Brady agreed. “Fairly frequently, it seems.” When his brother didn’t respond, he pressed harder. “Is she mad at you?”

  “You’re nosier than a preacher’s wife, aren’t you?”

  “Jessica’s worried,” Brady defended. “We both are. We care about her.”

  With a sigh, Hank put down his tools and reached for his glass. He took a deep swallow, coughed a bit, then said, “She’s upset there’s no baby. That’s all. Now tend your own knitting and leave us alone.”

  Brady was taken aback. It wasn’t the answer he had expected. He’d thought it might be something he could fix. Like money or ... something. But this, well, this was personal. “Oh,” he said lamely. “Keep at it, then. It’ll all work out.”

  “Keep at it.” Hank shot him a look of disgust. “Hell, why didn’t I think of that?” Leaning back in his chair, he propped his heels on a clean corner of his desk. “You go through the mail?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Like we thought, Grant signed the Coinage Bill a month ago. All gold, no silver. As of February twelfth, our silver mines are virtually worthless.”

  “Hell.”

  “I know. It’s got the banks scared too. They’re shutting down loan money, which means farmers and cattlemen who operate on credit will go down first.”

  “Not us.”

  “Not us. Not yet anyway. We still have the Army beef contract.”

  They drank in silence for a time. Brady comforted himself with the fact that the mines were about played out anyway, although they still produced enough to keep the workers paid and the machinery running. Now he’d have to shut them both down and let the miners go. Damn that Grant.

  “Anything new on the horse flu?” Hank asked.

  Brady snorted. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Epizootic.’ Sounds like a damn carnival act.” Leaning forward, he picked up the decanter, topped off his glass, and returned the decanter to the desk.

  “They say it started in Toronto,” he went on after he took a sip. “And from there headed south, then west. A real mess. Even the Army is on foot. Without horses, Indians don’t get fought, locomotives don’t get coal, ships don’t get unloaded, and fire wagons don’t get pulled. Boston near burned to the ground.”

  “What about the horses?”

  As usual, Hank was more worried about the animals than the humans. Not that Brady blamed him. With the mines no longer supplying income and the cattle market in jeopardy, the ranch’s future might rest solely on their slow-growing but highly regarded breeding program of mustang-and-Thoroughbred-crossbred horses. Which was
why RosaRoja was under quarantine; they could ill afford an outbreak of horse flu, especially now.

  “It’s bad,” Brady said. “At least twenty-five percent dead overall. Close to eighty percent in some places.”

  “Hell.”

  “I know. But the Chronicle said it had spread as far west as Prescott as of last week, so maybe it’s passed us by. We’ll give it another week then see.”

  Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes and moaning through the gap under the porch door like some poor lost soul begging to come in.

  Hank took a deep swallow then sucked air against his teeth. “And Blake?”

  Brady didn’t want to think about Franklin Blake right then. Or how the bastard had convinced the bank to sell him the loan papers they’d been holding on the smelter Brady and several other mine owners had built as a cooperative enterprise.

  Blake had been after RosaRoja’s highly profitable mines for a while now. They had never considered selling to him, mainly because they didn’t need the money, but also because Blake had a reputation for dodgy deals. But now Brady wished they had sold, especially since the mines were now damn near worthless. He had to wonder if Blake would try to come after the ranch next.

  “How you figure to pay him?” Hank asked.

  “I’m thinking on it.”

  “Better think fast. He’ll be calling in the note soon.”

  “I know.”

  Silence again. The fire had died down to embers, but neither of them bothered to add wood. The moon started a slow slide down the western sky, and coyotes added their voices to the wind serenade.

  “I guess we could use Jack’s share of the mine profits,” Brady said after a while.

  “We could,” his brother allowed. “If it was ours to use.”

  “Don’t go moral on me.”

  Hank looked at him over the rim of his glass.

  “It’s not like he did anything to earn it,” Brady persisted. “Hell, he doesn’t even know it’s there.”

  Hank continued to watch him.

  Brady hated that. Hated how Hank played him like a trout with those watchful silences. “Jesus. You’re one hardheaded sonofabitch, you know that?”

  Still no response.

  It wore Brady down. With a sigh of defeat, he thunked his empty glass onto the desktop and rose. “Okay. We’ll wait until Jack comes. He said he’d be home in a year and it’s been almost that long. Then we’ll ask him. Meanwhile, I’ll try to come up with another plan to raise the money.”

  “Whatever you think best, Ma,” Hank said.

  “Go to hell.”

  His brother just smiled.

  If he wasn’t so damn big, Brady would have hit him.

  San Francisco

  “HOW LONG DO I HAVE?” DAISY ASKED FROM THE DOORWAY of the stage office the next morning.

  Markham looked up from a stack of papers. “For what?”

  “To make a decision about the tour.”

  “The troupe leaves New Orleans the end of May. Two months. Why?”

  Daisy stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “I’ve got an idea, a way to come up with enough money for Kate.” She had lain awake most of the night on her narrow cot in the storage room at Saint Michael’s, reliving Johnson’s death and thinking about Lucy’s suggestion. And the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. It wasn’t really coercion. Just a friendly request for a little money. She truly had no choice. Now that Johnson was dead—she shuddered, remembering that ghastly scene—they had to leave. And since she had no family of her own to run to, where else could she go but to Jack’s?

  Markham took the stub from his mouth, removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue, flicked it away, then replaced the stub. “And do what, missy? Leave her in the wings while you’re on stage? What kind of life is that for a kid?”

  “I’m thinking to bring someone along to watch her,” Daisy said, refusing to be discouraged by his lack of enthusiasm. “A nanny.”

  “A nanny. And how you going to pay for all that?”

  “Her pa.”

  The stub dipped. His eyes widened. “I thought he was in Australia.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But his family is in New Mexico.”

  “New Mexico.” His chair creaked as he tilted it back on two legs, hand planted on the armrest, elbow pointing out at a sharp angle. With his other hand, he took the stub out of his mouth, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, then studied the unlit end as if he saw something there of great importance.

  He had an entire routine going with that cigar butt, Daisy thought, watching him in amusement. He ought to take it on tour with them.

  “Do you even know where New Mexico is, missy?”

  The pastor had shown her a map. “It’s between here and New Orleans. And since I’m headed that way anyway, I thought I’d stop off and say hello.” And beg for help. The idea was distasteful, but again, what choice did she have? “I take a train to Santa Fe, then a coach to Val Rosa, and a buggy from there. It’ll take about a week.” And almost every penny of her meager savings. Still, she had to try.

  “That’s Indian country, you know.”

  “I heard.”

  “Dangerous place for a woman on her own. Especially one with a kid.”

  Daisy felt a tug in her heart. Mr. Markham really was a kind man, despite his touchy ways. Mentally she added his name to her list of guardian angels. “You worried about me, Mr. Markham?” she asked with a smile.

  His gaze slid away. He leaned forward and the chair thumped back to the floor. “I quit worrying about fools a long time ago,” he muttered, the cigar back in place as he riffled through the papers on his desk. “Go on if you’re leaving. I got work to do.”

  Daisy studied the dusty bowler hat that hid his face from her. A sad, regretful feeling moved through her, and she realized this good-bye would be almost as painful as the one to Lucy. This man had been kind to her. He had given her a chance when no one else would, and for a few moments had made her believe in the impossible. In herself. Even if she never made it onto the stage again, she owed him for his kindness.

  “You’ve been real good to me, Mr. Markham,” she told the crown of his hat. “I thank you for that. And for letting me audition.”

  Without looking up, he shrugged. “It was my job. Nothing more.”

  “Of course it was.”

  South of San Francisco

  “GONE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GONE?”

  Jack Wilkins glared at the ancient nun guarding the gate of the Catholic Abbey perched like a boil on a hilltop above the shimmering Pacific. He was tired, his foot hurt, his stomach still hadn’t found its land legs, and after months at sea the last thing he wanted to hear was that he’d come back too late. “Gone where?”

  The nun blinked up at him like a startled bird. “New Mexico Territory.”

  He almost fell off his crutch. “New Mexico?” Had she given up this crazy nun-thing? Was she back at the ranch, waiting for him to come home? “She’s not a nun anymore?” he asked, daring to hope.

  “Novitiate,” the old woman corrected. “Sister Maria Elena hasn’t yet taken her final vows.”

  If she hadn’t taken final vows, he still had a chance. “What’s she doing in New Mexico?”

  “She has gone to say good-bye to her temporal family before beginning her ministry in ... hmm, now where was it?” She frowned, tapping a gnarly forefinger against her wrinkled cheek as if to roust a memory loose. “It’s an island, I believe. Yes!” She showed toothless gums in a pink smile. “An island in the Kingdom of Hawaii.”

  Hope faded. Jack had been to the islands of Hawaii. In his desperation to put meaning back into his life after Elena had deserted him for the convent, he had spent months—years—traveling all over the South Pacific, from Samoa to Tahiti to New Zealand and Australia and back again. He knew of only one reason a nun would travel such a distance to take a ministry.

  “The Island of Molokai?” he asked, his voice so strain
ed he could hardly get the words out.

  “That’s it! Yes, Molokai. There’s a small town ... on the coast, I think.”

  The muscles in his chest clenched. “Kalawao?” Please, not Kalawao.

  “Yes! The settlement of Kalawao.” The nun crossed herself. “May God bless her.”

  For a moment Jack couldn’t catch his breath. He felt shaky and light-headed. Not his beautiful Elena in Kalawao. It was obscene. Unacceptable. Wrong.

  Perhaps sensing his turmoil, the little nun reached through the ironwork of the closed gate to touch his shoulder. “Are you all right, my son?”

  Jack stared bleakly at her, silently willing her to say she was mistaken, that she had the wrong nun, the wrong settlement, on the wrong island.

  But her face remained serene and her faded eyes showed nothing but pity.

  It made him want to yell at her, hit something, bellow his rage at God for this new insult. “How long?” he ground out.

  The old woman patted his shoulder and smiled. “Why, forever, my son.”

  “No, before she leaves! How long before she leaves?”

  He must have shouted it. With a skittish look, the nun snatched her hand back and scuttled out of reach. Eyeing him from a safe distance, she spoke so quickly all the words ran together. “May, but she must prepare for her vows, so she will return in mid-April.”

  A month. He had a month to convince her.

  Resolved, Jack turned, his crutch banging on the stone steps as he limped to his horse.

  “Go with God, my son,” the old nun called.

  Not likely, Jack thought. He and God had parted company three years ago. Now they were bitter enemies. And Jack would fight Him, the Devil, and all the hounds of hell before he’d let Elena live the rest of her life in a leper colony.

  Four