Felicia Andrews

by Moonwitch

  "By the way," she said, "a man came in a little while ago. He was asking about land for sale. I told him to look you up. "

  "Thanks, " he said, but she was gone, leaving behind her only the white glare that bleached the street outside the office. He glanced down at his meal, scratching his chest idly, and considered riding out to Four Aces again to see if Amanda was still thinking about selling those parcels. Not that she would tell him personally. One of her men would do it for her. A messenger boy for the sheriff.

  He scowled, grunted, and slapped a palm hard against the desk top.

  "Damn you," he whispered. Though he wasn't exactly sure which of them he meant.

  The main house was fashioned of logs and brick in an open-backed rectangle. Across the front was a deep porch that faced the rising sun, and the road-nearly one hundred yards away-that marked the division between Four Aces and the Circle B, snaking out of Goreville and making its laborious way into the mountains and the adjacent valley. Inside on the left was a large dining room dominated by a huge fieldstone fireplace and a fifteen-foot table of polished burled walnut. In the center the living room with its step-in fireplace, low massive beams, and dark heavy furniture centered around the hearth. On the right wall was a single door that was kept locked most of the time. It had been Guy's study; it was now Amanda's office and the place where she kept, reluctantly, all the household armory.

  A slightly arched doorway on either side of the fireplace led to the southern wing where Amanda and her children had their room, and the northern wing where Fae and Bert lived.

  Though the building was only a single story, it seemed much higher; its deliberate sprawl, broad windows and wide shutters, the peak of the roof and the open mouths of the chimneys, all gave it the illusion of a size that did not really exist. It was impressive, but not forbidding, and to anyone riding past, it was quite clearly a home and not simply a showcase for the largest spread in this part of the territory.

  Amanda rode out of the western reach of woodland, past the barns, the small frame house that belonged to Abe and Grace Burns--blacksmith-farrier and Amanda's housekeeper -set beneath a pair of hulking willows, and up to the stables where she swung off Wind's back and led him gently through the gate. At the corral's far corner waited a gleaming black stallion that snorted when he spotted her and raced over to nuzzle her arm for a piece of sugar.

  "Storm," she said, "you're terrible." She laughed quietly and stroked the animal's neck, slapped him once, and sent him on his way.

  "That wasn't nice, Mother."

  She turned quickly, startled, then opened her arms to accept her son. Alex was a head taller than she now, his chest beginning to fill out, his face taking on the sharp planes of his people. His Indian name was Little Cat, but she had given him Alexander for the simple reason of making it easier for him to walk through the white man's world. She'd hoped he would be interested in law or medicine, and was finding it difficult to adjust to the idea that he would much rather work on the ranch. He was good, as Doug had told her. He was very good. Yet she could not help a twinge of regret.

  She pushed him back gently, scanning his face until he looked away. He did not like her reading him like that, especially when, more often than not, she knew what he was thinking.

  "Have you seen Hope?"

  His lips twitched in as much of a smile as he would allow himself. He nodded.

  "Will she be coming over for dinner?"

  He shrugged.

  She slapped his chest, hard. "For God's sake, Alex, talk to me! It's like trying to get something from a tree the way you stand there looking so damned noble. "

  He did laugh then, and hugged her impulsively, and they walked slowly back to the house with arms about each other's waists. He told her what he was planning for the rest of the day, then wondered aloud if she would mind his staying with the Petersons for the night. She did not. She had no idea if he were taking Hope to his bed, and she really did not care. It was a virtual certainty that as soon as the girl reached her majority in September, she would sell the Circle B, and it would not be long after that when she would be looking forward to having a daughter-in-law.

  What bothered her was Olivia. Since their return from San Francisco--Harley deciding there was no profit in staying with William, especially since Amanda's informant from the alley had never contacted her-she had hidden herself away on the other ranch. Harley, who had run into Amanda and Alex in Coreville on a shopping Saturday, hinted that his wife thought Amanda's son not only courted Hope but also served as a spy for his mother. She did not bother to deny it because she knew Harley did not believe it; nevertheless she knew too that something had to be done before Olivia's obsessions got the best of all of them.

  "Mother, are you all right?"

  They were standing outside the kitchen door. She looked up at the boy-man, she corrected herself quickly, though she knew she would never really believe it-and smiled brightly at him.

  "Just thinking," she said.

  "About Mr. Eagleton?"

  "About a lot of things, Alex." She reached up and brushed trail dust from the boy's shoulders as he grinned at her tolerantly. "I've been thinking mainly about those parcels and the cattle."

  "You've changed your mind?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I really don't know. "

  "A lot of people in town going to be very unhappy if you don't sell."

  "I know," she said. And she was about to try to give voice to her doubts when a rider pelted around the side of the house, dust settling like a cloud over his mount as he leaped from the saddle and ran up to her.

  "Bob," she said, "what in hell-"

  "It's Carl, missus," the stocky man blurted. "You'd best come with me. Now!"

  ELEVEN

  It took them over twenty minutes of hard riding to reach a small overhang by a broad, shallow stream. The water was clear, cold, and was used to power the wheel at the mill where much of their own flour was made. The trees grew hard to the banks, turning the air a faint mint with their thick, cool foliage, and silver darts of tiny fish splashed in the shallows over the water-smoothed rocks.

  Downstream a few hundred yards was the mill; upstream, beyond a low falls the water split a large open range in half, and it was here that most of the beef cattle grazed until the temperatures grew too oppressive and they were moved upland to the slopes and comfortable shade.

  Carl Davis, the ranch's manager since Peterson had left to work the Circle B, was a short, slight man, his hair salt-and pepper, his face grizzled from not taking the time to shave. He was, at the best of times, a nervous man who Amanda thought carried more weapons on him than a cavalryman in full battle gear. But this time all the guns and knives in the world were unable to stop him from being wounded.

  He had been ambushed as he'd knelt on the bank and reached down for a palmful of water. One of the millhands had heard the shots, had thought at first it was someone hunting for supper. But a few minutes later he saw a battered, crown-tom black hat floating downstream, and he knew immediately that Carl never hunted anything more strenuous than field mice. The shots he had heard had come from a rifle.

  Luckily Bob Booth had been at the mill. He was one of the survivors of the ranch's battles with Howard Longstreet, having nearly been killed by a knife wound in the throat; and whenever he had the opportunity, he would make his way away from the herd and comer one of the new workers. Though his story grew more elaborate with each telling, his brush with death more dramatic, no one minded. They all knew he was a good man to have on their side in a fight, and as long as the missus didn't complain, neither would they.

  When he'd seen the hat, then, he ordered the millhand to roust the others for a search, had waded into the stream and made his way north until he found Davis, lying facedown in the reeds, blood seeping through his plaid shirt near his left shoulder. It was then that he'd grabbed a horse from the mill and ridden for Amanda.

  When they arrived, Davis was lying in front of the stone buildi
ng, a sack of ground wheat propping up his head. His shirt had been carefully cut away, and she could see with some relief the gaping wounds where both shells had exited. The man was pale, his lips dry, but when she knelt beside him, his eyes fluttered and opened partway.

  "Did you see them?" she asked softly.

  It was an effort, but he shook his head.

  She looked at the men standing around them, questioning without speaking, but there were no answers. A half dozen of them had immediately plunged into the thick underbrush to search for the sniper, but there was no sign at all of him. Too much time had passed, and whoever it had been had gotten away without leaving a trace.

  Davis coughed. Booth knelt by his head and held a canteen to his lips.

  "You'll be fine, pal," the blond-haired man said huskily. "Ain't no one goin' to do you in like that."

  Amanda turned away quickly. She had sent Alex into Coreville for Doc Manley, but from the amount of blood she saw on the cloth pressed and tied to the wounds, she did not think Carl would last the wait. She watched for a moment longer, until the manager slipped into an unconscious, almost sleeping state, then poked Booth's shoulder and led him to one side. They stood on the landing which stretched over the rushing water, leaned against the railing and watched the wind across the mill pool toss the leaves and grass.

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Don't know, missus," he said.

  "Is he . . . Has he been to the Palace or the Dollar lately? A gambling hand or something like that?"

  Booth rubbed his face hard. Despite the broken veins in his bulbous nose that attested to his drinking, his skin was pale and dripping perspiration. "He don't have nothin' to do with cards, missus. Got burned real bad once, back in '68, and he don't do nothin' but watch. "

  "The women, then."

  Booth could not meet her gaze.

  "Come on, Bob," she said impatiently. "You can't keep jumping into the river every time you get the itch. Did Carl have a favorite? Did he . . . did he owe her, or Sophie?''

  "Not so's Sophie's told me," he said at last, his embarrassment almost comical. "I got to know her pretty good, you understand, since she bought out the Dollar last winter. Purely business arrangement, you might say, and she does now and then let me have a word when one of the boys is behind in his dues. So to speak. Not Carl, though. And he don't have no favorites. If he goes there once a month, I'd be surprised. "

  She nodded and scratched helplessly at the back of her neck.

  It didn't make any sense, then. And worse, it seemed that Davis could have been killed had the attacker wanted him dead. But he hadn't. He only wanted him wounded, and badly enough to keep him on his back for . . . . it would be several weeks, she knew, before he would be able to ride again. He was too old to take such a battering and snap back as though it were only an insect bite.

  A deliberate wounding, then. It had to be.

  Booth hawked and spat into the water below. "You want riders out, missus?"

  The question was asked softly, almost fearfully, and she knew he was remembering how it had been when the renegade Quill had swept through the land: patrols night and day, all the hands armed and firing at shadows, nerves taut and tempers flaring. She was tempted to say yes in spite of the memory, but she knew that it would do no good now. And when she told him, she nearly laughed at his relief.

  "Listen," she told him, "you stay here with Carl until Manley gets out. Make him as comfortable as you can, but for God's sake keep that blood in him, you understand? Cold water should help. He'll buck a little. Ask one of the men for some whiskey; I know one of them has to keep a flask out here.

  He nodded sharply and took a pace away-stopped, turned and stared at her. "Missus?"

  She did not turn around; she kept her eyes on the water.

  "Are we doin' it again?"

  "I don't know what you mean . "

  "Have . . . have we got Quill again?"

  "No, " she said, facing him finally. "No, Bob, we don't. Quill and Walking Two Suns are dead. The Indians still fighting are a hundred miles .,from here. And as far as I know, there isn't anyone around who hates us that much . "

  "As far as you know, " he muttered.

  She stopped him with a hand firmly on his shoulder. "Now what are you talking about?"

  "Them men," he said reluctantly.

  "What men?"

  "The ones what want to buy what you're sellin'. Land and all that. Hear in town they gettin' might anxious to give you some gold. M'be they want to scare you into it. "

  She almost thought it plausible, caught herself before she nodded. "No, " she said again. "If they're in town, then they've heard about us, and they know we won't be bullied into selling before we're ready. " She sniffed and tucked her hands into her pockets. "Someone's got it in for Carl, Bob. It's as simple, and stupid, as that. "

  Booth hitched his belt over his burgeoning stomach and nodded agreement, though she could see he was still not entirely convinced. Then he turned away and walked into the mill to tend to Carl. She remained outside, thinking she should get back to the house or perhaps ride to the herd and let the others know what had happened. But she hesitated, listening to the constant creak of the great wooden wheel as the water turned it slowly, listening to the cries of jays and hawks overhead and deep in the surrounding woodland. This would not be part of the package she would get rid of did she finally decide to make a move; nevertheless it seemed as much a portion of her selling as those few thousand acres she was contemplating. All of it, from the range to the mill to the silver mine in Devil' s Breath, was perhaps too much a part of her to lop off like so much dead wood.

  It was like Wilcox and his warehouse. There was pain at the destruction or the selling of what one worked for and the further pains of struggling to rebuild.

  It might be, and most probably was, a wise business decision. But she could not . . .

  A loud groan from inside the mill sent a shiver along her spine.

  She looked up at the sun fractured by the foliage, at the islands of golden light floating on the agitated water beneath her. And she wondered.

  It was dusk as she stood on the front porch and listened to a mockingbird in the trees that were closely spaced down by the gate. She was waiting patiently for Doc Manley to check on a burn Fae had received while cooking the last meal, and when he joined her, a slim cigar in his mouth, his white mane cast elegantly back to his collar, she said nothing.

  "Minor," he said, watching white smoke curl upward from gray ash. "She could have taken care of it herself. "

  "She worries a lot."

  Manley chuckled deep in his throat. "Carl, though, that isn't so minor, Amanda."

  "I know that. Tell me what I can do about it. "

  "Nothing at all, really. " He walked to the railing stiffly, calling out once and softly to the lathered mare hitched to his wagon. Alex and Bess, her dark hair braided and her dress whipping about her legs in the wind, were brushing the animal down with handfuls of straw. She giggled constantly, ducking out of the way of the mare's kicking hooves, and Amanda thought that the older the child grew, the more she looked as though she and Little Cat were blood kin from the same womb.

  "Well, I have to do something," she snapped when the burly man seemed disinclined to continue. "I just can't let him lie there. "

  "You'll have to, Amanda. Th e wounds were clean-your men did a fine job of staunching, I'll say that much-and all he can do now is rest, eat as well as he's able, and rebuild his strength. "

  "It'll drive him crazy."

  Manley shrugged; there was nothing else he could do.

  "All right, " _she sighed loudly. "All right. I'll do whatever you want. But-"

  Suddenly Bess squealed loudly in delight and raced away from the doctor's horse. Amanda squinted into the dim, hazy light . . . and stiffened.

  It was Doug Mitchell, and when Bess reached him, laughing and clapping her hands, he reached down from the saddle and with one powerful sweep brought her to sit
in front of him.

  "Nice," the doctor said.

  "She thinks he's beautiful, " Amanda said sourly and ignored the surprised glance Manley gave her.

  "Mother!" Bess shouted. "Mother, look!"

  "Hush!" she told her sternly. "You want to wake the dead?"

  The reprimand had no effect; the girl squirmed in the sheriffs arms delightedly and groaned her disappointment when he finally swung her back to the ground again. He nodded to Alex, who only nodded back, and pulled the pinto to a halt in front of the steps.

  "Doc," he said. "Amanda. " He tipped his hat perfunctorily.

  "Well," she said coldly, "you sure as hell took your time getting out here . "