My Heart Belongs in the Superstition Mountains

by Susan Page Davis

  Benny frowned but obeyed. He was one of the younger deputies, and Duffield probably figured he had the stamina and coordination to pull off a raid riding bareback.

  Holden moaned as Freeland and Benny hoisted him into the saddle a few minutes later. Duffield had issued him a ration of whiskey, but he clutched his side and slumped low over the pommel of the saddle. Freeland was afraid he would tumble off to the side before they’d gone half the distance, but somehow the thin man stayed on horseback.

  “Stop here,” he said weakly after a couple of miles.

  “Marshal,” Freeland called to Duffield, who rode several yards in the lead.

  Duffield turned his horse and rode back to them. Holden hugged his wound and breathed heavily.

  “What is it?” the marshal asked.

  “It’s not far,” Holden squeezed out between his teeth. “Go past those rocks yonder, and you’ll be able to see a boulder where they keep a lookout. The hideout’s just a bit beyond, backed up to a cliff. They’ve got a corral to the side.”

  “How many men are there?” Duffield asked.

  “There were four after the holdup, but another man joined them.” Holden glanced at Freeland. “That Dix you had on the stagecoach.”

  Freeland stared at him. “Dix is with the gang now?”

  Holden nodded and moaned. “Came in yesterday on a stolen horse. He’s none too happy with you, Deputy. I heard him say he’d go after you when he had a chance.”

  Carmela went to the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon. Mrs. Finney had returned from church at noon, served them all dinner, cleaned up with the help of Carmela and a miner who was behind on his bill, and then retired to her chamber for a nap. Now she was back at work.

  The older woman still looked tired. She stood by the drain board, peeling parsnips. Carmela paused in the doorway.

  “May I help you with supper, Mrs. Finney?”

  “I won’t say no.” She turned the vegetable peeling over to Carmela and started measuring out ingredients for an Indian pudding. They worked in silence for a while, and then she said, “I’ve heard something from one of my boarders.”

  “Oh?” Carmela looked up eagerly, but Mrs. Finney’s grave face quelled her anticipation. The landlady was not about to tell her an amusing anecdote.

  “One of the gents says he heard you speak your piece once. Not here. In Albuquerque.”

  Carmela’s heart sank. Buck Chard came to mind, and his words with her that morning. But if he’d seen her before, surely he would have said so, and he’d asked about her captivity. He must not have heard her presentation, or he would have known more about her past.

  “What did they say?” She concentrated on the parsnip she was peeling. She was glad to have something to occupy her during the conversation, but she wouldn’t want to scrape the skin off a knuckle.

  “Said he saw you with your uncle, only he thought you looked different. Like maybe your tribal tattoos were more noticeable.”

  “They might have been,” Carmela said without looking at her. “They seem to have faded some over time.”

  “This was a month ago.”

  She swallowed hard. Uncle Silas had booked her for three nights in Albuquerque last month, and they had done well. Several hundred people had heard her talk.

  “I expect he did hear me, then.” Carmela stopped peeling and looked over at her hostess. “Mrs. Finney, I want to quit speaking, but I don’t know how I’d make my living if I did.”

  The dour landlady tipped her head to one side. “Well, you’re a right enough hand in the kitchen. Maybe you could hire out at a hotel … or a boardinghouse.”

  Carmela eyed her in surprise. Was Mrs. Finney offering her a job? She cleared her throat. “Are—are you saying I might work here for wages?”

  Mrs. Finney stirred her batter. “I’m not as young as I used to be. I could use some help and a bit of female company. I’d give you the room and your board if you worked … say, three hours a day? One day off a week.”

  “That seems fair.” Carmela smiled. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Finney shot her a glance and nodded. “Right. You work with me until supper and help do the dishes tonight, and we’ll call it square through tonight’s room, eh?”

  “That sounds wonderful. Then the marshal won’t have to pay my bill.”

  “Yes, and we can go on that way until Mr. McKay or the marshal comes back to settle up if you want. We can wait and see if they find your uncle, and if they do, whether he has any funds or if those robbers took every penny.”

  Carmela sighed and picked up the vegetable peeler. “I expect they did. I’m not supposing they’ve treated Uncle Silas very well either.” Tears filled her eyes, despite their history together. “He was bleeding profusely. I do hope they helped him and didn’t just let him …”

  “There, child. Take it to the heavenly Father, and leave it at His feet.”

  “Yes. I have been praying,” Carmela admitted. No matter how Uncle Silas had abused her in the past, she wouldn’t wish him to bleed to death, alone in a desolate country.

  “And what does your uncle say about quitting, then?” Mrs. Finney asked.

  “I haven’t asked him, but I don’t think he’d want me to.”

  “You bring in too much money for him to want that?”

  Carmela let out a shaky sigh. “Maybe. But I’d like to be done with it. I want to live a normal life, not travel all the time and stand up before crowds and—and—give speeches.” Tell lies, she wanted to say, but she didn’t. Mrs. Finney most certainly would not want to hire her if she knew Carmela regularly and deliberately defrauded people.

  “I’ll add that to my list of prayers.”

  One tear spilled over and trickled down Carmela’s cheek. She quickly wiped it away with her sleeve. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Finney had a good heart. But would she be as kind if she knew all? Carmela doubted it very much. Mrs. Finney didn’t seem the type who would put up with liars.

  “Please, Marshal, leave me here so I can rest.” Silas Holden’s face was tight and grayish, and beads of sweat had formed on his brow.

  Duffield considered that for a moment. Counting himself and Freeland, they had ten able-bodied men. Freeland figured the injured man would only be in the way when they confronted the outlaws.

  “I’d have to leave one of my men here with you, and I need every gun when we go up against that bunch.”

  “I don’t think I can ride anymore.”

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” Duffield turned away.

  “You’re going to get my money back, right?” Silas yelled after him. “I want every cent they took off me.” When Duffield didn’t respond, he looked to Freeland. “Tell him, McKay. I had the proceeds from our last several shows in the money belt they took off me. I’m entitled to that money.”

  “We need to get on,” Freeland said. “You can discuss that later.”

  “I want assurance that I’ll get back my property,” Holden insisted.

  “Holden, shut up and get ready to ride,” the marshal called from where he was checking his saddle cinch. “We’re wasting time.”

  “I want you to promise—”

  Duffield strode over to him and glared at him. “You shut your trap or I’ll have you bound and gagged.” He looked around at the deputies. “I mean it. Gag him if he doesn’t stop talking.”

  On Monday morning, after the breakfast dishes were done, Mrs. Finney and Carmela sat down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea to talk about the dinner and supper menus. Only two boarders were expected to join them for the noon meal—John Ralley, who worked at the mercantile on Montezuma Street, and Clark Shifton, a freighter who would lay over another day while the cargo for his next run was being assembled and loaded.

  “So dinner will be light,” Mrs. Finney told Carmela. “We’ll heat up the leftover ham from yesterday and fry up some potatoes.” She frowned. “Though I’m low on potatoes. Maybe I should save them for the stew for supper. I guess
we can make do with cornbread and turnip at noon, and dried apple pie.”

  “That sounds like plenty for the midday meal,” Carmela said. She wasn’t used to a large meal in the middle of the day.

  They went on to discuss the dishes they would prepare for supper. A loud knocking on the front door drew Mrs. Finney up from her chair. “Just check on how much cocoa powder is left, would you, dear? I’m thinking we’ll make a chocolate cake for this evening.”

  Carmela timidly opened several crocks on the shelf of baking supplies before she found the dark brown powder. She didn’t think a cake would take more than a cupful, so there should be plenty. She heard a man’s voice in the other room but paid little attention. Mrs. Finney’s establishment seemed well known and attracted plenty of people who came in and out of town for business reasons. If they wanted a quiet place to sleep and could stay sober—Mrs. Finney insisted no boarders come in drunk—then this was the perfect place for lodging. From their earlier conversation, Carmela had gathered that she seldom had vacancies.

  Footsteps came to the kitchen doorway, and she looked up.

  “There’s a gentleman here who’d like to speak to you,” Mrs. Finney said.

  Carmela’s heart raced. Surely it couldn’t be Uncle Silas. It was too soon for either him or Freeland McKay to be here.

  “I’ll bring coffee into the dining room.” Mrs. Finney moved past her to the stove.

  Carmela hastily removed her apron and smoothed back her hair. She walked quickly to the doorway and peeked into the next room. A bearded man she didn’t know sat at the table, his chair pushed out away from it. His round head was nearly bald, and he turned a worn felt hat around and around in his hands as he waited.

  When he saw her, he jumped up. “Miss Wade?”

  “Yes sir. May I help you?”

  “I hope so. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  “I suppose so.” Carmela sat down across the table from him and glanced toward the kitchen. To her relief, Mrs. Finney approached with an enameled coffeepot in one hand and two mugs in the other.

  “There we go,” she said cheerfully, setting down the thick, white mugs. She poured out coffee for them both.

  “Thanks.” The man reached for the nearest sugar bowl of the three Mrs. Finney kept evenly spaced along the length of the table. “This is Mr. Roote,” Mrs. Finney told her. “He goes to my church.” Carmela supposed that was some sort of recommendation, or assurance that the man stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee wasn’t out to harm her.

  “How do you do?” she said.

  “Not well.” Mr. Roote frowned as he raised the cup to his lips. After a small sip, he took a bigger one then set his coffee down. Mrs. Finney had retreated to the kitchen. “It’s about my daughter. Lucy.”

  Carmela blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  Mr. Roote sighed. “She was taken last year by the Apache. My ranch is three miles out of town. I thought we were close enough to be safe, but I was wrong. She was out by herself one day, hoeing in the cornfield. Not far from the house, but far enough.”

  Carmela’s heart ached fiercely at the pain in the rancher’s eyes.

  “They only had her six months,” he went on. “Soldiers from Fort Whipple brought her back. But … she’s not the same.”

  A dozen questions leaped to Carmela’s mind. She opened her lips then closed them, unsure what he wanted of her.

  “I thought maybe …” He picked up his mug and took a swallow.

  Carmela also sipped her coffee, though she didn’t really like the bitter taste. When she lowered her cup, Mr. Roote was staring at her.

  “Could you talk to her, miss?”

  “Me?” Carmela squeaked.

  He nodded. “You know what she’s been through. It’s been real hard for us.”

  Carmela cleared her throat. “I’m not sure—”

  “Please! We don’t know what to do. She’s all the time running off by herself, and she says she wishes they hadn’t brought her back. My wife is at her wit’s end, miss. Can’t you just talk to her?”

  “Wh–what would I say?” Carmela felt as though a great chasm opened before her. This man wanted her, because she was an “expert” at life as an Indian captive—to tell his daughter how to make peace with her re-assimilation into the whites’ world. He assumed she had done it, had come to terms with her past and her present, had fit back in with what was left of her family. If Carmela Wade could do it and turn out such a poised, genteel young lady, so could his daughter, provided the right person talked to her and spoke the right words. But Carmela had no idea what those words would be, or if any words at all would help.

  “Just tell her she’s not the only one,” Mr. Roote said. “Tell her you was with ’em a long time, but you’re all right now. I don’t know. How did you deal with it when you were returned?”

  She sighed and stared down into her coffee. She wanted more than anything to tell the truth, but if she did, she would shatter his hopes that his daughter could recover—could be normal again.

  “How old is she?”

  “Fourteen. Lucy is fourteen. How old were you when you were taken?”

  “Twelve,” Carmela whispered. “My parents died when I was twelve,” she hastily amended. He had asked when she was taken, and after all, she was “taken” then—taken by Uncle Silas. “You say Lucy wasn’t with them long?”

  “Only six months, but she thinks she’s one of them now. Won’t do the chores her mother sets her. Won’t eat pork.”

  “Why not?”

  “She says the Apache don’t eat it.”

  This was news to Carmela, but it made sense in a way. They would prefer wild game—or beef. Stolen beef, much of it.

  “It confounds me how she can be so loyal to them savages. They kidnapped her. They took her away from us, who loves her. They took away her clothes, every stitch, and made her wear what they wear and eat what they eat. I’m guessing she cried plenty those first few weeks.”

  “They wouldn’t let her cry,” Carmela said, and immediately closed her lips. That was something she had learned from the couple who had cared for her at Fort Yuma. The Indians taught their babies not to cry by leaving them outside the camp when they wailed. They were only brought into the loving family when they were quiet. She had wondered when she heard it how many were snatched by wolves when they lay outside the camp, crying their little hearts out.

  Mr. Roote eyed her keenly. “See? You’ve been through it. Please, please talk to her, Miss Wade.”

  Carmela’s stomach roiled. She didn’t want to go on pretending. But if she refused this distraught man, she would look cold and unkind. No sounds came from the kitchen, and she was certain Mrs. Finney was listening.

  “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can be any comfort to her.”

  His face cleared and he pushed back his chair. “Thank you, Miss Wade. I’ll bring her this afternoon.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Carmela went back to the kitchen. Mrs. Finney was kneading her bread dough.

  “I thought that might be what he wanted.” She gave the lump of dough an extra punch.

  “I don’t know what good I can do.” Carmela reached for her apron.

  “That poor child. It might help her just to have someone to talk to who has an idea of what she experienced.”

  “That’s what Mr. Roote said, but I’m not sure my experience was at all like Lucy’s.” Carmela felt her cheeks flush as she spoke. In fact, her experience was nothing at all like Lucy’s, but she couldn’t say that now.

  “Just let her talk, if she will,” Mrs. Finney said. “Her mother said sometimes she doesn’t speak for days on end. She might open up to you.”

  “Maybe. Shall I start the cake?”

  “If you would. I left the recipe on the table there.”

  Working with Mrs. Finney would have been pure joy if Carmela hadn’t been so nervous about Lucy’s impending visit. Whatever would she say to
the girl? Her thoughts circled round and round in her mind, always coming back to the fear that she would be lying a great deal this afternoon. It would be like her speaking engagements but with an audience of one. Lucy, of all people, might realize that she was a fraud.

  At last she turned to the heavenly Father, embarrassed to come before Him but desperate for a confidant of her own.

  Lord, please show me what to say. If I can help Lucy, then I’ll be glad to, but I don’t want to lie to her or her parents. If there’s a way I can be of some comfort without lying, then please, please show it to me.

  She felt a little better then and worked steadily for the next two hours. When John Ralley and Clark Shifton drifted in for their dinner at noon, the ladies were well prepared.

  Mrs. Finney sent Carmela to freshen up after the boarders had gone back to work. She brushed her hair and repinned it and made sure her hands and face were free of flour and smudges. She gazed into the mirror. Her face was still red-tinged, and her sunburn was beginning to peel. No way to hide that. Mostly she looked exhausted, with dark patches clouding the skin beneath her over-large brown eyes.

  If she were going on stage, Uncle Silas would be glad. He never instructed her to wear makeup, but preferred to have her look natural, as though she had just ridden in from the Indian village. He liked it on days when she looked ill or emaciated, and he frequently admonished her to eat sparingly so that she didn’t appear too well fed. The desert’s damage to her complexion fit right in with her story.

  When she emerged from her room, Mrs. Finney was just heading down the hallway toward her.

  “Oh, good, you’re ready. Mr. and Mrs. Roote have brought Lucy. They’re waiting in the parlor.”

  Carmela followed her to the parlor door. She had only entered the room once before, on the previous evening, when a few of the boarders had gathered after supper. The room held Mrs. Finney’s best furniture and decorations, but even so, it had a sparse feeling compared to the crammed parlors she had visited in New England. A small horsehair settee, a rocking chair, and four straight chairs comprised the seating. A wall shelf held Mrs. Finney’s Bible and two other books—her entire library. Two oil lamps were perched on small side tables, and an amateur painting of the Chino Valley graced the board wall over the settee. A rock fireplace took up most of one wall, and two small windows let in some light.