Word of Grandfather’s death reached us just this morning. His lawyer wrote to inform us of his passing, or we would not have known. I should have expected to hear such news from you—had you been anyone else at all.
According to Grandfather’s man-of-law, Megan and I have inherited half of a tract of land he referred to as Primrose Creek, way out in the West somewhere, with the other half going to you and Skye—as well, it would seem, as the farm itself and all of Grandmother’s lovely things.
In any case, having no use for such a distant and desolate expanse, my sister and I would like to sell our share of the property. We have expressed our wishes to Grandfather’s representative in Richmond, but following a long discussion, we came to the decision that it was only honorable to offer our acreage to you before turning to strangers. We would expect a fair price, of course.
Please reply at your earliest convenience. Both Megan and I are eager to make plans.
Sincerely,
Christina McQuarry
Bridget might have crumpled the missive and flung it across the room if it hadn’t been the second or third letter she’d ever received. A muddle of emotions simmered and stewed within her—anger at some of the things Christy had implied, sorrow that her once big family had been so diminished, the very real fear that her cousins would sell the land on the other side of the creek to someone who would cut off the water supply somewhere upstream, or chop down all the trees to sell for timber, or scrape away the topsoil to dig for silver, gold, or copper. . . .
“You got a letter?” The voice was Skye’s.
Bridget looked up, blinked. Her sister was standing in the doorway, and the light came from behind, leaving her face in shadow. “Yes,” she said, a little wearily, and took a cautious sip of Trace’s tea. “Where is Noah?”
“He’s on the roof with Trace,” Skye said. Then, quickly, “And don’t start worrying. Trace tied a rope around his middle.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. Better not to think about that just now. “It’s from Christy,” she said, and held out the letter.
Skye was at her side, snatching the page from her fingers, in a fraction of a moment. “Holy boot grease,” she said.
Bridget let that pass. “They want to sell their share of the land,” she said, unnecessarily, for Skye was probably on her second pass through the letter by then. “Somehow, we’ve got to raise enough money to buy it.”
Skye sank onto her customary crate, just to the left of where Bridget sat. Overhead, the hammer thwacked, and Trace and Noah carried on a running conversation. “How are we going to do that?” she asked.
It was a more than reasonable question. It had taken practically everything Bridget had, everything she could sell or swap, beg or promise, just to get this far. She had no money, none at all, and Grandmother’s silver teapot and jade brooch, the last of their inheritance, had gone for last winter’s room and board at Fort Grant. “I don’t know,” she confessed at some length. “But I’ll find a way.”
Skye watched her intently. “There aren’t many folks willing to live way out here,” she said. “Probably, that land will just stay empty, like it is now.”
It wasn’t entirely empty; there had been an Indian village on that site, long ago, and an ancient lodge still stood on the hillside opposite the cabin, hidden from view by a stand of birches, oaks, and cottonwoods. “It’s fine land, Skye. Someone is going to want it. And what if it’s the wrong someone?”
Skye said nothing. They both knew that certain sorts of neighbors might well represent a danger to them, once Trace had done his self-imposed penance and moved on. And Bridget had no doubt that he would move on, when the old restlessness set in. For that reason, and several others, she must not allow herself to care for him.
Carefully, Bridget folded the page, returned it to its envelope, got the McQuarry Bible out of its square pine box, and tucked the letter inside. When she turned around, she caught Skye watching her with a thoughtful smile.
Bridget pressed her lips together, smoothed the skirts of her calico dress, and went outside to shade her eyes with one hand and look up. Noah was wielding the hammer, his tongue pressed into one cheek, while Trace supervised. It was an ordinary scene, a man and a boy working together, but the sight filled Bridget with a strange, bittersweet poignancy. In one and the same moment, she wished Trace had never come to Primrose Creek and rejoiced that he had.
He looked up, probably expecting her to demand that he bring Noah down from there this instant, and she wanted to do just that, wanted it the way parched ground wants water, but she held her tongue. Made herself go inside.
By suppertime, Trace’s back, chest, arms, and shoulders were painfully red and hot to the touch.
“I warned you,” Bridget fussed, getting out the jug of cider vinegar she kept for flavoring dandelion greens and the like. “Wear your shirt, I said. But you’re so hard-headed, and you just wouldn’t listen—”
He laughed, though it was perfectly obvious that he was suffering. “I figure if I go down and lie in the creek for a while, I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll take a chill, going from one extreme to the other like that,” she said. “Sit down, and let me tend to you.”
He looked at the vinegar and the handkerchief she’d gotten from the trunk she and Skye used in place of a bureau and narrowed his eyes dubiously. “Is that going to hurt?”
“Now is a fine time to ask that,” Bridget responded.
He flinched when she dampened the handkerchief and touched it gently to the broiled flesh on his left shoulder. “You seem to be feeling better,” he said. “Nothing like tormenting me to brighten your day.”
She shook her head but could not maintain her serious expression. She laughed. “I warned you,” she reminded him. “You’re going to be sore for a couple of days, Trace, and you’ll be lucky if you sleep tonight.”
He was looking at her; his eyes were turquoise in the fading light. They’d had supper—fresh trout and greens and some of Skye’s rock-hard biscuits—and the cabin had taken on a cozy aspect, what with the new roof and the lamplight and the lingering aroma of a good dinner. Skye and Noah were sitting together on the high threshold, watching the first stars come out.
“I’ll be going into town again tomorrow,” he said. “I want to speak to Jake Vigil, see if I can swap for some good lumber. Build a corral and some shelter for the horses.”
She nodded; her throat felt thick, for some odd reason, and anything she tried to say would have come out as a croak.
“I was wondering if you wouldn’t like to go along,” he went on. He was not a shy man; Trace had always been the boldest of the three of them, dreaming up all sorts of mischief and then cajoling Mitch and Bridget into going along. And yet there was boyish uncertainty about him now, arousing an unwelcome tenderness in Bridget. “Just for an outing, I mean.”
A refusal sprang to the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. Both Skye and Noah had turned in the doorway to watch her, plainly awaiting her answer, and the truth of it was, Bridget was sick and tired of staying at home. She would assess the growth of Primrose Creek for herself, find out if there was a church yet, and a bank. Most definitely a bank.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”
Trace had gone back to sleeping by the creek, making a bed of the hammock he’d fashioned for Bridget’s convalescence, and he reached for his shirt as soon as Bridget had finished dousing him with vinegar, pulled it on gingerly, leaving the buttons undone. Bridget had been able to avoid looking at his chest throughout the exercise, but now, all of a sudden, it drew her gaze, once, twice, a third time.
She finally had to turn away. “Good night, Trace,” she said.
He was close behind her, so close. She felt his warm breath caress her nape. “Good night,” he answered.
The storm rolled in after midnight, sundering the sky into blackened pieces, shaking the new roof over their heads. Lightning illuminated the landscape with an eerie clarity, and the ho
rses shrieked in terror. Commanding Skye to stay inside with Noah, Bridget pulled on her wrapper, slipped her feet into unlaced shoes, and dashed out. Just across the creek, a giant ponderosa pine exploded into flames, flaring up like a torch.
Bridget turned, stumbled around the house to the corral, where Sis was kept, the stallion being tethered some distance away. The mare was in a frenzy, running back and forth in the small space, flinging her head, screaming and sweat-soaked.
“Easy, girl,” Bridget said. “Easy.”
She could hear the stallion between claps of thunder, but she knew Trace was with him.
Sis, probably recognizing Bridget’s voice, or perhaps her scent, calmed down slightly. Nickered.
“Come here, Sis,” Bridget said, holding out a hand to the frightened animal. “It’s me. See? It’s Bridget. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
Just then, the rain began, falling lightly at first, then with growing force. Trace appeared at Bridget’s side just as she got a halter on Sis and fastened it. He was leading the stallion. “Is there a place we can take them?” he yelled over the roar of the rain.
The animals, overheated just moments before, were soaked.
Bridget thought of the old Indian lodge across the creek and pointed with one hand. “Over there!” she shouted back. The downpour had, at least, extinguished the flaming pine tree. “Back behind those trees. I’ll show you!”
Trace caught her arm. “No,” he told her. “The creek will be running pretty fast. You go inside!”
She shook her head. “These are my horses,” she said stubbornly.
Trace threw up his free hand in a flash of frustration, but he let her lead the way to the creek, where she hiked her nightdress and wrapper up to her knees and tied them into a knot. The stream was indeed swollen, and between bolts of lightning, the surrounding countryside was darker than dark. Twice, while they were crossing, each of them leading a half-panicked horse, blue-gold light danced across the opposite bank.
It would have been a beautiful thing to see, Bridget thought, if it hadn’t come so close to the water. The creek was without question the worst place they could possibly be in such weather, and the trees they were headed toward were the second worst.
The lodge had a hide roof and sturdy walls, though. When she and Skye and Noah had arrived at Primrose Creek in their ox-drawn wagon, she had considered taking the place for their home. In the end, she’d chosen the cabin because it had stone walls and was closer to the creek.
Bridget’s feet and legs were numb by the time they got to the other side, and her shoes were probably ruined. The rain came down in torrents, making a sound on the water that might have been mistaken for the roar of a raging fire. They made their slippery way up the hillside and finally, finally, found the lodge itself.
Trace tied the stallion at one end of the long structure and then secured Sis at the other, while Bridget groped for something they could use to wipe down the horses. Being careful not to think too much about rats and spiders and other creatures that might take refuge in such places, Bridget picked up a length of what felt like leather—no doubt it was part of the roof—and used that to dry the shivering mare as best she could. When she’d finished, she found her way to Trace, gave him the hide, and waited while he attended to the stallion.
Neither Bridget nor Trace spoke at all—they were both too spent to make idle conversation—until they were standing face to face, visible to each other only because of intermittent explosions of lightning. When he put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her close, and lowered his mouth to hers, it seemed perfectly natural.
Bridget was fairly certain her eyes were closed, and yet it seemed to her that the whole world burst into flames in the space of that kiss. A bolt of lightning coursed through her, delving deep into the earth, like roots of fire, shooting out through the top of her head like the tail of a rocket. She was dazed when Trace drew back; she swayed slightly, and he steadied her.
“We’d better get back,” he said.
Bridget couldn’t speak at all. She let him take her hand, though, and lead her out of the lodge, down the bank, across water that blazed with reflected lightning. She stumbled once, in the middle of the creek, went clear under, and came up laughing. She couldn’t get any wetter than she already was.
Lamplight glowed from the cabin doorway; they followed it, Trace setting Bridget over the threshold before stepping inside himself, fastening the door behind him.
“Good thing you got the roof done,” Skye said. Bridget and Trace looked at each other, dripping wet, and laughed like a pair of fools.
“Look at you,” Skye went on, all but shaking her finger. “You’ll be down with pneumonia before morning if we don’t do something.”
Bridget was, all of a sudden, at a loss for what to do. It seemed she’d spent all her wits on getting the horses in out of the storm. Trace appeared to be equally bewildered; his lips—had he truly kissed her?—had turned blue, and his teeth were chattering.
Fortunately, Skye was more than ready to take charge. “Trace, you stay here by the stove, and I’ll get you a blanket to wrap up in. You’ll want to get out of those clothes first, of course.” She took Bridget’s arm. “I’ve laid out a dry nightgown for you and a towel for drying your hair.” Then, sternly, “Trace, you keep your back turned.”
He made a sound that might have been a groan or a raw-throated laugh. “Where’s that whiskey?” he asked.
A few minutes later, when Trace had stripped and wrapped himself in one of several old quilts they’d brought from the farm, and she had gotten into her thickest flannel nightdress, they sat side by side in front of the inadequate little stove, sipping coffee laced with molasses and strong whiskey. Skye was there, alternately brushing and toweling Bridget’s long hair, so neither of them raised the subject of the kiss stolen in the dark ruin across the creek.
Bridget wasn’t sure she could have brought the subject up, anyhow. She felt strangely shy, as though that kiss had been her first ever. As though it had been not just a kiss but an introduction to the fullness of womanhood, complete in itself. Never, not once, had Mitch’s kisses affected her that way—but it was better not to follow such thoughts.
“Are we still going to town tomorrow?” Noah wanted to know.
Trace chuckled. “If the rain lets up,” he said, “I suppose we’ll go ahead.”
Noah turned his hazel eyes to Bridget. “You’ll come, too, won’t you, Mama?” He looked so hopeful. And so like Mitch.
She reached out, laid her hand on his silky hair. “Yes, sweetheart. I’ll go, too. Now, hadn’t you better get back in bed? If you don’t get your rest, you might be too tired to make a trip to town.”
Noah nodded in eager agreement, leaned forward, and gave Bridget a good-night smack on the cheek.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Trace’s crooked smile. “That was pretty sly,” he murmured, when Skye was busy settling Noah down for what remained of the night.
She merely smiled and took another sip of the medicinal coffee.
Trace ran a hand through his hair and gazed at the stove. “I’ll get started on the barn as soon as I can,” he said. “In the meantime, we’ll use the place over there. I’ll nail up the tarp to reinforce that roof.”
She didn’t want him to talk about roofs and barns and canvas tarps. She wanted him to explain how he’d had the audacity to kiss her that way, and why it had changed her forever. She laid a hand on his arm, the one covered by the soft fabric of the old quilt. “Trace?”
He met her gaze, waited.
And Skye came back, clucking like a mother hen trying to herd scattered chicks back to the nest. “Really, Bridget. You have so much hair—it’ll be a week before it’s dry.”
Trace and Bridget were still staring at each other, in stricken silence now, and Bridget was certain her own expression must be as thunderstruck as Trace’s.
Chapter
6
When he finally
stretched out on the pallet of quilts and blankets Skye had made for him in front of the stove, Trace didn’t expect to sleep. His clothes, draped over the edge of the spool table, would surely be dry by morning, and, thanks to the whiskey, the aching chill of wind and rain and creek water had left his flesh. No, it was the memory of the kiss he’d stolen from Bridget that would keep him awake; he could feel the heat of it lingering on his mouth, and the force of the emotions raised by her response still reverberated through his very bones.
He stared up at the underside of the roof he’d finished none too soon, listening to the soft patter of the rain, and wished that Bridget were there beside him, his to hold. He closed his eyes with a sigh, and in the next instant, he was asleep and dreaming. The confounding thing was that he knew he was actually lying on the floor of a cabin in the high country of Nevada, but his mind and spirit had strayed back to an earlier time in his life, and he could do nothing else but follow.
Mitch was up ahead, mounted on the fine black gelding Gideon had given him only a few months before, leading a charge across some swift and nameless river, sword raised and gleaming in the midday sun. Trace had fallen behind, some twenty minutes before, when his own spotted horse, also bred on the McQuarrys’ farm, had picked up a stone and turned up lame.
By the time Trace had removed the stone and caught up with the other troops, Mitch was almost out of sight. Trace stood in the stirrups, just in time to see the gelding catch a sniper’s bullet square in the side of its neck. The animal shrieked in terror and pain and flailed wildly, while Mitch tried in vain to control it. A crimson foam churned atop the water, and more shots were fired.
In the chaos that followed, Mitch somehow lost his seat in the saddle, disappeared under the water. Trace, oblivious to the shower of Rebel bullets pocking the surface of the river, struggled to reach his friend. The spotted mare balked, and there were other men shot, other horses as well, blocking the way.
Bridget Page 8
