Skye

by Linda Lael Miller

  Poor little fellow. He seemed scared to death.

  Frowning, Skye got to her feet, shook out her hopelessly rumpled homespun skirts, and headed for her cousin’s house, which stood on a rise almost directly across the creek from Bridget and Trace’s place. The Shaws’ home, sporting a new roof and glass windows, not to mention wood floors and four separate and spacious rooms, in an area where rustic log cabins were the rule, was widely admired.

  When she arrived, the front door was ajar, and although Caney wasn’t visible, Skye could hear her inside, singing an old spiritual in that rich, melodic voice of hers. If Caney didn’t marry Malcolm Hicks—which she fully intended to do—she might have made her living performing on a stage, as Megan wanted to do.

  Skye tapped at the door frame and stepped inside. Caney was standing at the cookstove, with its gleaming chrome trim, stirring something savory in a pot. She smiled in greeting.

  “Well, now, Miss Skye, you are a welcome sight.”

  Skye glanced uneasily toward the entrance to Christy and Zachary’s room. “How is she?”

  Caney sighed. “Pinin’ something fierce, that girl, sure that Mr. Zachary won’t be coming back to her, ever. Won’t even name that baby boy.”

  “Where’s Megan?” Skye asked. She was always half afraid, these days, of hearing that her cousin had taken to the road, in search of fame and adventure on the boards.

  Caney flung her hands out wide and let them slap against her sides. “Heaven only knows. That girl’s gonna get herself a reputation if she don’t stop traipsin’ to and fro the way she does. Always dreamin’ and carryin’ on like she’s somebody out of one of them Shakespeare plays. Ophelia, she calls herself, or Lady Macbeth. I declare that chile gets too much sun.”

  Skye smiled. Megan did love to play a part, even if she was the only one in the show.

  “Caney?” came a voice from the main bedroom. “Is that Zachary out there?”

  Skye and Caney exchanged glances.

  “No, miss,” Caney called back. “It’s your cousin Skye, come to sit with you awhile and admire that sweet boy-child of yours.”

  “Oh,” Christy responded, plainly disappointed. Then, with an effort at cheer, she added, “Come in. Perhaps Caney wouldn’t mind brewing us some tea before she goes to town.”

  Caney gestured for Skye to enter her cousin’s room and then reached for the tea kettle.

  Christy was propped up in bed, her dark hair spilling in ribbons and tangles of silk over the pillows at her back and down over her shoulders and breasts. Always fair-skinned, Christy was alarmingly pale now, and there was a look in her gray eyes that made Skye want to ride out and find Zachary Shaw herself, then skin him alive for being gone at a time like this in the first place. The new baby, an impossibly tiny bundle, lay in the curve of her arm, swaddled in a bright yellow blanket that Bridget had knitted during the winter.

  “Let me see,” Skye pleaded goodnaturedly, stepping close to the bed.

  Proudly, Christy turned back a fold of the blanket to reveal a dark-haired infant, contentedly sleeping. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she whispered.

  Skye drew up a chair and sat down. Her nod was a sincere one. “He’s very fine indeed,” she agreed. “Has he a name?” She knew he hadn’t, but she hoped that raising the subject might turn Christy’s thoughts in a more constructive direction.

  Christy’s face clouded, and, very gently, she covered the baby’s head again. “We always argued about that, Zachary and I,” she said, and gazed wistfully toward the window, as though she saw an angel hovering there, waiting to lead her home to heaven. “We’d settled on Elizabeth for a girl. If we had a son instead, I wanted to call him Zachary, of course. But my husband insists a boy ought to have a name all to himself, and not one he has to share with his father—”

  “Christy,” Skye interrupted, reaching out to squeeze her cousin’s slender hand. It felt cool, even chilled. “Zachary’s all right, you know. If anything had happened to him, someone would have come to tell us.”

  Christy sniffled. “I’m behaving like a hysterical fool, aren’t I?”

  Skye smiled. “No. You’ve had a baby, and you want your husband at your side; there’s nothing wrong with that. But you’ll make yourself sick if you worry too much.”

  “I can’t seem to collect myself,” Christy fretted. Then her deep gray eyes searched Skye’s face. “We lost so many loved ones, didn’t we? You and Bridget and Megan and me. Sometimes it seemed that the dying would never stop—” She paused, blinked back tears of panic. “You don’t think fate would be so unkind—?”

  Skye shook her head. “No. I’m sure Zachary will be back any time now. Then the two of you can add a brand-new name to the family Bible. Would you like me to bring it over?” The ancient, much-prized volume was in Bridget’s keeping, but it belonged to the four of them, and Skye knew that every birth and marriage was faithfully inscribed, all the way back to the first owner, a young Irish immigrant named Robert McQuarry, who had fought in the Revolutionary War and subsequently received a land grant from General George Washington himself. So, too, were deaths, of course, although fortunately there had been none of those since the four surviving McQuarrys had reached Primrose Creek.

  Christy’s expression changed slightly at the mention of the McQuarry Bible. She averted her eyes for a moment, then met Skye’s gaze squarely. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, do bring the Bible, please.” She sighed, relaxed a little, then became fretful again, though less so. “I should be up out of this bed. I don’t care what the doctors say—it can’t be good to lie about like an invalid.”

  Skye suspected it was Christy’s worry that was keeping her abed rather than any medical necessity. That indeed it would be the best thing for her cousin to get up, dress, and get some fresh air and sunshine. “I could fetch Bridget if you like,” she said, all innocence. “You know, to look after you—”

  Christy’s color rose encouragingly, and a certain fire snapped in her gray eyes. “Don’t you dare,” she said with quiet ferocity. “I have enough to contend with, without her lecturing me.” The cousins, while no longer the sworn enemies they’d once been, still tended to bristle a bit at any suggestion of one needing the other’s help. Lately, though, it almost seemed as though they were in collusion about something, keeping an uneasy secret.

  “Here, then,” Skye said, hiding a smile as she stood and extended her arms. “Let me hold that second cousin of mine while you get up. Just don’t move too quickly.”

  Christy surrendered the infant, somewhat reluctantly, but when Skye left the room with the baby in her arms, she could hear the other woman walking around in the bedroom.

  “How did you do that?” Caney asked, seeming a little miffed that someone else had succeeded where she’d failed. “I’ve been tryin’ to roust that girl all morning.”

  Skye smiled and sat down in a rocking chair facing the fireplace. Caney had a tray in her hands; she’d been about to serve tea in the bedroom. Now, she set it down on a sturdy little table within Skye’s reach. “I threatened to go and get Bridget,” she whispered in reply.

  Caney laughed, low and soft. “I always maintained you was a clever girl,” she said. “Panning for gold, mind you. Savin’ up your money. Makin’ your plans, bold as a man. I surely never seen the likes of this family.”

  The baby was a warm, sweet-scented parcel, and Skye felt a pang, turning back the blanket and gazing down into that tiny face. For a moment, for just the merest, most fleeting moment, she allowed herself to pretend that she and Jake were married, and the child was her own. Jacob, she’d have him christened, but they’d call him by his middle name, so as not to confuse him with his father …

  “What thoughts are goin’ through that mind of yours just now?” Caney asked with her particular brand of rough tenderness. She was reaching back to untie the laces of her apron, bent on going to town to meet with Mr. Hicks, no doubt. “You got a look in your eye that reminds me of your old granddaddy.”

  Sk
ye must have blushed a little; her face felt warm. She watched as Caney poured her tea, something she wouldn’t ordinarily have done, except that Skye’s hands were full. “I guess I was just making a wish,” she said in a small voice.

  Caney patted her on top of the head, just as she used to do when Skye was little, getting underfoot in the kitchen or the laundry room on the family farm back home. “You’ll have your day, child,” she said. “You’ll have your day. And right soon, I reckon.”

  It was then that Christy came out of the bedroom, clad in a faded-rose morning gown. Her gleaming dark hair trailed down her back, but she had brushed the tresses to a high shine, and there was a spark of spirit in her eyes.

  “Well, look at you!” Caney crowed, pleased to see her charge up and about.

  Christy whisked into the room, took the chair next to Skye’s, and jutted out her chin. “It’s not as if I were Lazarus coming from the grave,” she pointed out.

  Caney took the sleeping baby carefully from Skye’s arms and laid him in the nearby cradle, a sturdy pinewood piece that Trace had made as a gift, to go along with Bridget’s blanket. “I’ll just be gettin’ myself into town,” Caney said. “I done made up a basket lunch for me and Mr. Hicks to share.”

  Christy rolled her beautiful storm-cloud eyes, but a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Miz Caney Blue, you are without shame. Why don’t you just propose to the man and get it over with?”

  Caney and Skye both laughed. Christy was beginning to sound like her old self.

  “ ’Cause I don’t figure on scarin’ him off,” Caney answered a moment later. “You got to be careful, wooin’ a man. Feed him and the like. Get him gentled down a bit, so he’s fit to keep in the house.”

  Christy and Skye looked at each other, smiling.

  “Good luck to you, then,” Christy told their friend cheerfully. “I’ve been trying to ‘gentle down’ my Zachary since I met him. It’s hopeless—he’s as wild as ever.” From the glow in her eyes, she didn’t mind too much.

  Caney gave Skye a pointed look. “Maybe I wasn’t talkin’ to you, Miss Christy,” she said. “Maybe I was tryin’ to plant an idea somewheres else.” She waggled a finger for emphasis. “You want a man, you don’t get him by chasin’ him off your land and tryin’ to hide your real feelin’s, even from yourself. Men are skittish creatures, and a woman’s got to handle ’em just so.”

  Skye averted her eyes. Were her feelings for Jake as painfully obvious as that?

  Christy stepped in, bless her, before Skye was forced to answer. “You’ll stop by the marshal’s office, won’t you? See if there’s been any word from Zachary?”

  Caney nodded. “I’ll do that first thing,” she said, and then she fetched her bonnet and cloak and left the house to start the long walk to town.

  “Her heart’s in the right place,” Christy said, and patted Skye’s hand reassuringly before pouring a cup of tea for herself.

  “Does everybody know?” Skye burst out, chagrined.

  Christy arched one dark, perfect eyebrow and raised the china cup to her lips. There was an unsettling twinkle in her eyes. “That you’re smitten with Jake? Oh, yes, I suppose they do. Primrose Creek isn’t exactly a den of secrets, is it?”

  Skye’s eyes went wide, and she knew she was blushing. “But how could—I wasn’t even sure myself—”

  Christy smiled. “Nevertheless, word’s gotten out.” An expression of sadness moved in her eyes. “Poor Jake. I had no business using him the way I did—”

  “You never loved him at all?”

  Christy shook her head. “No. I thought I could learn to, though. Thought that would be the best thing for Megan and for me, if I married Jake Vigil. Trouble is, I didn’t consider what my plans might do to him.” She looked away, looked back. “He’s a good man, Skye. If you truly care for him, the way I care for Zachary and Bridget cares for Trace, then go after him. Personally, I think you and Jake would make a wonderful couple.”

  “Great Zeus,” Skye murmured, for this was more than Christy had ever said about her brief engagement to Jake, at least to her. She set her own cup aside.

  Christy was quiet for a long moment, rocking, sipping tea, gazing off into the ether. Then she looked at Skye again, and her expression was solemn. “You won’t forget? To bring the Bible over, I mean?”

  Skye was caught off-guard by something in her cousin’s tone, even though she’d been the one to suggest that Christy and Zachary make an entry to record the birth of their first child. “Sure,” she said.

  Christy turned thoughtful again. “Thank you,” she replied in a distracted tone of voice. Finally, she returned from her wanderings. “You haven’t read the inscriptions lately, have you?” she asked. Their granddaddy had always called the list of births the McQuarry Begats, and the deaths and marriages had their monikers, too.

  It was an odd question, even coming from Christy. She frowned. She hadn’t seen the records since Bridget had penned in Granddaddy’s name as one of the departed, and that time her vision had been clouded by tears. “No. Christy, why?”

  Like quicksilver, Christy changed the subject. “Has Jake declared himself?”

  “Declared himself?” Skye scoffed, oddly relieved. Whatever Christy was alluding to concerning the entries in the family Bible, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know it. “He thinks all the McQuarry women are trouble, plain and simple.”

  “You’re trouble, all right, the whole bunch of you,” put in a male voice from the direction of the doorway, “but I wouldn’t call any of you plain, or simple, either.”

  “Zachary!” Christy cried in delight, standing so rapidly that she swayed and had to grasp the back of her chair for support.

  Skye rose and steadied her by taking her elbow, watching as Zachary crossed the room toward his wife. He looked rumpled and unshaven, and devilishly handsome into the bargain. Drawing Christy up in his arms with a gentleness that made Skye’s heart swell, he kissed her smartly. “I hear we have a son,” he said, and his voice was gruff with emotion. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here—”

  By that time, Skye was almost to the threshold. She didn’t bother to say good-bye, for Zachary and Christy Shaw were aware only of each other and the baby boy conceived of their passion.

  Although she was happy for them, glad Zachary was back safe, there was a hollowness in her heart as she made her way down the slope and across the log bridge, headed for home.

  Standing in the street, with the steam saws screaming in the mill behind him, Jake assessed the small boy standing before him with mingled amazement and rage. He was seven, he said, and the note pinned to his shabby coat confirmed that he was called Henry. The ordinary sounds of daily life in a bustling frontier town faded to a dull thrumming in Jake’s ears as he regarded the child, unable—unwilling—to deny the reflection of his own features in that stubborn stance and small, upturned face. Grubby fists were clenched at the boy’s sides, as if he expected to be sent away, and his hazel eyes snapped with obstinate dignity. Judging by the frail and spindly look of the lad, he’d gone a long while between meals more than just once or twice.

  “Your mother sent you here?” It was a rhetorical question, really. The note, brief to the point of terseness, was signed in Amanda’s hand. She’d been pregnant when she left Denver, and she’d never troubled herself to let Jake know. Now, tired of being “tied down,” she was leaving the boy in his father’s care.

  Henry nodded his head. “Yes, sir. She did.”

  Jake folded his arms. “Where is she?”

  “Last I seen her,” Henry answered sturdily, though his voice trembled a little, “she was gettin’ on a stage bound for San Francisco. Said there was a man there, goin’ to marry her.”

  Jake closed his eyes. There weren’t many women who would abandon their children, even in the worst of circumstances, but Amanda was about as motherly as a rabid she-weasel, and just as warmhearted. Typically, she’d chosen the worst possible time to take to her heels.<
br />
  “If you don’t want me,” the boy said stalwartly, “I reckon I can make my own way.”

  Jake dropped to one knee and laid his hands gently on the small shoulders. “You’re my son,” he said, and had to clear his throat before he could go on. “Somehow, we’ll work this through. In the meantime, you need something to eat and maybe a few hours of shut-eye.”

  The child looked so desperately relieved not to be turned away that Jake was forced to look to the side and blink a couple of times. Then he stood again. “Come along, then,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Let’s get you settled.”

  “That your place? Truly?” Henry asked a few minutes later, when they stood at the gate of Jake’s grand and heretofore empty house. At Jake’s nod, he gave a long, low whistle of exclamation through the gap between his front teeth.

  They made their way to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house, and Henry gaped all the way. “This place is bigger’n anything I seen in Virginia City. Fancier, too. You got paintings of naked ladies?”

  “That where you’ve been living? Virginia City?” Jake asked casually. He’d address the question of naked ladies later. Much later.

  “Yup,” the boy answered. “Mandy was servin’ drinks there, at the Bucket of Blood.”

  Jake set his jaw. Serving drinks. He’d just bet. And how like Amanda to train her own child to call her by her first name. She’d probably told all her customers that Henry was her little brother and needed the poor kid’s collaboration to keep up the pretense. “What about you? What did you do in Virginia City?”

  “I went to school, some of the time leastways. Mostly, I just helped out at one of the livery stables. I didn’t get a wage, exactly, but I had my meals with ole Squilly Bates, the blacksmith, and sometimes somebody would give me a nickel for groomin’ a horse. I got a whole two bits once.”