A Western Romance: Thomas Yancey Taking the High Road (Book 4) (Taking the High Road series)

by Morris Fenris

  Finished, Travis stretched out against a sun-warmed boulder, tipped his hat forward over his nose, and requested the privilege of some shut-eye, just to make up for last night. If no one minded.

  “Don’t mind a’tall, son,” said his brother. “You got half an hour.”

  Cool, shady, pine-scented air reached them as they plodded upward from hillside to mountain, heralded by the warning cry of bluejays and crows. Much as anyone might appreciate the scenery and the surroundings, this excursion was seeming more and more like a ride into futility.

  “You seein’ any more sign, there, Coch?” Thomas wanted to know.

  Their guide shook his head in disgust. “Not a thing. Nothin’ left by Liz, nothin’ by anybody else passin’ this way. It’s like they fell off the face of the earth.”

  “Where d’you have us goin’, then?” asked Travis sensibly.

  “No place in particular. Slow movin’, I’m afraid—just gotta keep on lookin’.”

  Silence for a few minutes, as they moved on, the hush of deep forest broken only by the scream of a jay and the angry chatter of some displaced squirrel. Three men: two mounted, halted short here and there along the way; one man, walking sure-footed, or kneeling.

  Then that kneeler went dead still, frozen in the fallen leaves, and his Appaloosa mare pricked her ears forward in a listening pose.

  “Da'anzho,” he said suddenly but quietly.

  The Yanceys traded a swift glance. Simultaneously each pulled instantly erect, drew his weapon from its holster, and waited. With one flattened hand reaching backward to urge restraint, Cochinay rose slowly, cautiously, to his feet.

  “Da'anzho,” came the low voice from a shadowy grove of spruce.

  “Shik'isn.”

  “Indaa? Apache.”

  “Chochinay.” Their guide stood quite still, waiting.

  Soundless and self-contained, without even the crackle of a branch or the rustle of a leaf to announce his presence, the newcomer emerged into semi-sunlight. A tall man, neither young nor old, whose wide shoulders strained the fabric of his coat. His skin showed the color of burnished copper, and his black hair, long enough to twist into a braid but today hung loose and flowing, had been streaked by silver.

  He was wearing a mixture of Anglo and native dress: a folded bandanna wrapped around his head, a warrior shirt ending at mid-thigh, breechcloth and trousers, deerskin moccasin boots. Simple understated things, affording quick and easy movement.

  What was neither so simple nor so understated was the loaded gun belt buckled around his waist and the rather battered Winchester clasped by a grip relaxed yet ready.

  “Coch?” Thomas’s voice carried a note of question and of warning.

  Another gesture with the flattened hand. “Palaver now, Tom.”

  “Itza-chu,” said their visitor. Tone as steady and even as the gaze of his watchful black eyes.

  For a few crucial minutes the two men stood there, beneath the soughing pines and the occasional pelt of a falling crumpled-up oak cluster, speaking together in Athabaskan dialect. Occasional sounds reached through the mountain fastness: the far-off bugle of an elk, the cry of a golden eagle circling overhead, the crinkle and crackle of some heavy body passing through underbrush.

  Both Yanceys sat waiting patiently, soundlessly, in their saddles, for a resolution. Experience had taught them the value of self-control in any dicey circumstance, and this one certainly might be considered dicey.

  After a while, the conversation ended and the Apache slipped away as silently as he had appeared, leaving Cochinay to turn back and explain all that had transpired.

  “Says he means us no harm. Been doin’ some trackin’ himself, surprised to run across us.”

  “Ahuh.” Thomas’ keen gaze searched their guide’s expressionless face. “And whatdya make of that?”

  Cochinay had set one foot into Doolé’s stirrup and was swinging up. “Well, I aim t’ keep an open mind, but I ain’t convinced.”

  “Why is that?”

  A cluck of the tongue, a turn of the reins, and he was leading their party onward and upward. “This was Itza-chu, his name means Great Hawk. He’s a member of the tribe under Escavotil. Fighters. Uh. More than fighters. They go lookin’ for trouble.”

  “So you’re thinkin’ he’s got some other reason for bein’ out here all by his own self.”

  “Yep. Just don’t know why yet. Maybe he’s trackin’ us.”

  Following, Thomas cast his accustomed wary glance about, keeping mobile and alert. “Or Carpenter and the girl he’s absconded with.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  The sound of rapping woke her.

  Eyes blinked open, Elizabeth simply lay listening for a moment. Then, placing herself and what was going on, she smiled, stretched, and snuggled back under her blankets. Merely a woodpecker, working away at an oak’s broad trunk somewhere outside the cabin.

  Then came the splash of some woodland creature making its heavy way across the pond. First one, then another.

  A Stellar’s jay screamed out its warning from the very top of a Western Cedar, and a cat bird called back in response.

  Those who might think a forest is a dull, silent space, lackluster and boring, would be quite mistaken. Life teems everywhere, from the skies overhead to the mulch underfoot. To sit quietly and simply observe is to engage in a vast panoply of ever-growing, ever-changing theatre.

  Much as Elizabeth delighted with and participated in the Condor’s outdoor goings-on, she rarely took time to contemplate nature as a whole. Introspective, she was not; running a ranch demanded too much that was physical to include anything cerebral, besides. Each day began at first light and ended at can’t see, with periods of energy and exhaustion filling the hours in between.

  One of the corralled horses snorted and pawed the earth. Ready for some exercise, no doubt. Or, at least in the case of her own mare, Caramel, looking for a treat.

  Yawning, Elizabeth turned onto her back, stacked both hands beneath her head with its weight of tumbled sunlit hair, and began to be introspective. She couldn’t help it; this place, and this time, and this mood, seemed to be conducive to—well, to thinking.

  She wondered how her father was feeling. Probably furious because he himself couldn’t be leading the search for her, probably helpless because his sprained ankle prevented him from doing so. Most of all, probably apoplectic that some fugitive belonging to the past had dared snatch his only daughter, right off his own property, right from under his very nose.

  She wondered if he were missing her, and what he was doing right now. Was he worried? Stressed? Worked up into a froth?

  She wondered if he had sent Cochinay on the trail to find her, and whether such tracking would be successful. At first she had left little bits and pieces of herself along the way, in just that hope. Here, Yellow Thunder, see this; rescue me, and take me home. Later, with the surprising depth of conversation and detail between her captor and herself, she had learned he wasn’t a desperado, after all. Only misunderstood. And wronged. From then on, no more clues.

  Because what would anyone in pursuit do to him, this harmless old man with tragedy in his eyes and soul?

  She wondered if quiet, composed Sonsee, her foster mother, were terribly upset by her disappearance, if she were haunting Gus Drayton to do more than was already being done. With this turmoil set upon the whole ranch, might they now take consolation in each other? And why couldn’t her father just marry the woman he had so obviously loved for so long a time? Surely he was not one to be concerned about public opinion when it came to actually wedding a Tonto Apache?

  She wondered about her half-brother’s state of mind right now. They two had grown up together, as playmates, as siblings, as one ever-loyal to the other. For him to discover that she had been abducted, and by an apparent outlaw at that, would have been a devastating blow. He would be frantic about whether she was being mistreated or abused, roughed up, even assaulted.

  Odd.
A myriad of sounds from outside the cabin perimeter, but none inside. Had Win gone off and left her behind for some reason, and she had heard no noise of his departure?

  Returning to the here and now, Elizabeth sat up on her narrow cot to listen more sharply. Was that the low resonance of a groan?

  Quickly scrambling into her trousers, a heavy flannel shirt, and wool socks, she emerged from the little cubicle designated her bedroom to find an empty room. No fire on the hearth or in the stove, no delectable scent of coffee boiling, no sign of living presence.

  “Win?”

  “In—here, girl…”

  Puzzled, she creaked open his door. The room’s single window was open to light and fresh air and the only clutter consisted of books stacked here and there, clothing draped over the top of a great wooden trunk, and a collection of rocks and stones arranged on a small side table. Elizabeth was surprised to find him still abed, limp and unmoving.

  “What is it, Win? Are you sick?”

  “No, not sick. Just tryin’ to get my bones together to stir out.”

  “Trying to get your bones together?” Worried now, she approached to curve one cool hand along his bewhiskered cheek and over his furrowed brow, checking for fever. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, it’s this damn rheumatiz. Got me all ground up in a corkscrew till I can’t even put one foot on the floor.”

  Well, wasn’t this a twist of fate? Picture the pitiable quivering kidnap victim, at the mercy of her captor, now ministering to the tough cruel desperado who had stolen her away.

  “All right, Win, don’t worry. I’m here. And I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  First things first.

  A quick trip to the necessary at the rear of the cabin; on the way there hopping over a small turtle that had made its ponderous path up from the pond for some unknown reason; on the way back hastily sidestepping to avoid a curious black snake wending from grass hummock to hummock.

  After that, she could set match to kindling and chips on the hearth, then, once the flames had caught hold, add a few modest chunks of wood. With the start of another fire in the cook stove, she could plunk down a coffeepot full of fresh water to heat. Warmth, and warmth, and more warmth: the old cowboy needed warmth, inside and out.

  “Liz? Lizzie, girl!”

  “Yes, Win.” Interrupting her list of mental to-do’s, she returned to his bedroom, checking up on him and whatever his condition might be. “Something in particular you need?”

  His basset hound face, with its morning look of tousled thin hair and untidy gray whiskers, shifted from expectant to sheepish. “Uh. Nothin’, no. Just—uh—wanted t’ make sure you were still around.”

  “Baldwin.” Smiling, she leaned over the edge of his bed to gently pat his stubbly cheek. “For shame, oh untrusting one. You figured I’d run out on you.”

  “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted with some reluctance.

  “Nope. It ain’t gonna happen. You yanked me away from the loving arms of my family, old man, and you’re stuck with me. Now. I’m working on some things to make you feel better. So be patient, Baldy.”

  Wisely, she swept out of the room before he could squawk a feeble protest about her use of his name.

  Beside the pond, Elizabeth had noticed, grew a number of water-loving trees of varying types and heights: tamarisk, Fremont cottonwood, Arizona ash, and black walnut; along with tall swaying grasses and shrubs. A wildlife-seeker’s paradise, in fact.

  Scattered here and there stood several white willows, so named because of the color of each leaf’s underside. A veritable treasure trove, this low-branched tree, and Elizabeth intended to make good use of its beneficial properties.

  “You still ’round here, gal?” the almost plaintive voice of Win Carpenter called out when she returned to the cabin.

  “I’m here, Baldwin,” she reported. “Still putting some stuff together, never fear.”

  “Okay, fine. Just—uh—makin’ sure.”

  He sounded lonely and fretful. In need of more than just physical relief from pain, clear enough. While the chips of willow bark steeped in their pot of boiling water, slowly deepening in color from transparent to red, she stuffed a couple of small towels into a basin of hot water straight from the cook stove’s reservoir. This she carried carefully into the bedroom.

  “Knees to begin with, right?” Briskly she stripped back the blankets, rolled his long underwear up and out of the way and gingerly wrung out the heated towels to lay in place over the afflicted areas. Blankets replaced, and he was momentarily settled.

  With a deep, affecting sigh, Win began visibly to relax. “Hell’s bells, girl, if I was a cat I’d purr. Dunno when I had anybody do anythin’ so nice for me.” His upward gaze was sweetened by gratitude. And something else. Something more. “Getting’ kinda used t’ havin’ you around, Missy,” he confessed, almost shyly.

  “Good thing, because I think I’ll be here for a while. Now, just rest for a few minutes, and let that soak in. I’ll be right back.”

  Her return trip, a few minutes later, was with a big enamelware mug of some steaming liquid.

  “This will start easing the pain pretty soon,” she explained, helping him take his first sip. “And once the pain eases, then you’ll be able to move around a little better, too.”

  “Uh. Hate t’ complain, Lizzie, you bein’ so helpful and all, but this stuff tastes putineer like I’m chewin’ on some ol’ tree branch.”

  Giggling, she dragged a chair forward to sit and chum together for a while. “That’s about what it is, Baldy.” In a few succinct words she described the process of shredding the bark of a white willow to marinate in bubbling water. “I added some honey and a cinnamon stick, for flavor. However, you just wait,” and her eyes gleamed, as if she relished the prospect, “till I fix you some dandelion tea, later on. After you try that, you’ll end up thinking this was nectar of the gods.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

  “Bitter, old man. Very bitter. But it will work for what ails you. Trust me.”

  With his cup already half-emptied, and the towels cooled enough to be replaced for a second go-round, he was beginning to appear more spritely. Either this was fast-acting medicine, indeed, or he was simply appreciating the care and the company. “How’dja learn all this stuff?”

  Elizabeth leaned back in her twig chair to clasp both hands around one upraised knee. “Sonsee.”

  “Ahuh. Your Apache housekeeper.”

  “And my foster mother. She not only looked after me, she taught me a lot of native lore. Like this. Whatever medicinal properties the tree has, it helps anyone suffering from arthritis. Did this just come on suddenly, Win?” she asked with sympathy.

  “Naw. Been workin’ its way along slow and sure, after me sittin’ on my hawse all that time. This mawnin’ it just struck like a house afire. Dunno what I woulda done ’thout you here, Lizzie.”

  “Well, as to that…” Smiling, she gave him a shrug. “If not for hauling me off the ranch at gunpoint, you wouldn’t have been sitting a horse all that time, now, would you?”

  “Reckon not. Wouldja mind fetchin’ me another cuppa that stuff, girl? Seems t’ be workin’ a miracle in my old bones.”

  Eventually, after two more servings of the willow bark tea and one more hot towel treatment, Win was able to inch from the bed and pull on some clothes. With Elizabeth’s willing shoulder for support, he made his way to the outhouse and back, perfectly content now to do nothing more strenuous than relax before the blazing hearth fire. Meanwhile she cut strips off a slab of salted bacon and stirred up flapjack batter for breakfast.

  “Is there anything you can’t do, girl?” he asked with amazement when she served him his meal.

  Seated beside him with her own plate, she stretched both stocking-clad feet toward the heat and sighed with contentment. “Lots of things, Win. I can’t sew a straight stitch when it comes to making a dress. Some women seem to
revel in house-cleaning, but not me. Simple cooking, like this, I can handle. But anything more elaborate, fancy desserts or putting up produce in jars for winter—no, thanks. No interest, no talent.”

  “Any fellers in your life?”

  “Any ladies in yours?” she shot back.

  “No. And not likely t’ be, neither, with the way things are goin’.” He sipped at his coffee and stared at the mesmerizing flames, all orange and red with flickers of blue. “Your maw was the only woman I ever cared for. And once she was gone—well.” A mental shake, and he returned to his subject, like a dog with a bone. “You ain’t got no promisin’ young galoots on that ranch o’ yours, or roundabouts?”

  Finished with her breakfast, Elizabeth set the plate aside to pull rough-and-tumble curls into a clip. “None so far. And chances for that are slim, living where we do. Now, if I were to travel to San Francisco, say, or New Orleans, or maybe even New York…”

  He studied her speculatively. “That whatcha wanna do, girl—see faraway parts?”

  “I wouldn’t turn it down.” A pause, while she considered. “No. Not even that. Quite honestly, Win, I’d adore to tour around. I’d adore leaving the Condor for a while. I’d adore taking passage overseas.” Her eyes gleamed like a lighted-up sapphire, and her voice acquired a little girl’s excited breathlessness. “There’s a whole world to explore, and I know only this tiny little part of it.”

  “Then whyncha go?”

  She shrugged. “Responsibilities. As my father’s heir, I need to be involved, help run the place, oversee what goes on.”

  “Hmmph.” Another few silent, reflective moments. There seemed to be a good many of those in their conversations. “What about this half-brother o’ yours?”

  “Cochinay? What about him?”

  “Well…where’s he standin’ for his future?”

  “As far as the ranch, you mean?” Elizabeth’s fair brows drew together in a frown. “I don’t know, Win. When I got old enough to ask, Dad shut me down. I doubt that Coch knows, either.” A sigh and a regretful shake of the head. “Family entanglements, old man. They’ll do you in, every time. Here, give me your plate, and I’ll start redding up the place. Then I’ll take care of the horses.”