Felicia Andrews
Page 34
TWENTY-NINE
Amanda wanted to laugh aloud, and at one point during the ride into town she did. Her voice filled the crisp, glasslike air and suddenly the autumn tapestry became sharper, more vibrant, virtually achieving a life of its own. The green of her eyes had taken on an emerald cast, and the hair that was flung back over her shoulders caught the October breeze in a netting of lacelike black.
She was wearing her white deerskin, and her headband was of silver. She rode without a blanket-deerskin leggings protected her from chafing as well as the cold-and Wind's bridle was once again adorned with the silver medallions that flashed white at the roadside and created music when he strutted.
The night before, once the excitement had calmed down and the tears had been wiped away, she stood on the hearth and told them what she was going to do. Only Fae protested, but weakly and softly. She was afraid that this time Amanda had taken on too much.
"I'll go with you," Abe and Bert said simultaneously, then grinned sheepishly at each other while the others laughed.
Amanda smiled at them but shook her head. "I need you two here, " she told them. "Once I do it, there's no telling how fast people will react. I want you to get Bob and arm the men. Close down the mill and the mine and be sure there are enough guards on the herd to handle a stampede if they have to. Nobody leaves the ranch until I get back. "
Alex, who had not looked at his wife since Amanda walked into the room on her daughter's arm, glanced now at Hope, who could not keep the disbelief out of her eyes.
"Mother, " he said, "this is all very impressive. But you are not well yet. You are not ready. "
"I am," she said simply. "I just hope it's not too late ."
Wind jerked aside his head suddenly as a blur of red darted across the road, and Amanda smiled at him as she had smiled at her son. There had only been a few minutes more talk before she tired and returned to her bed, but she could hear them muttering to themselves long after she'd closed her eyes.
Amanda, she thought, there are some things you're never going to learn.
When she was a child and standing with her father in the pilothouse, he had told her on more than one occasion that if the profession hadn't been one for thieves and fallen women, he would have insisted she learn how to be an actress.
"I'll be damned, " he told her, "but you always seem to know how to come into a room right, or make me feel miserable, or get them men down there to do what you want. It ain't natural sometimes, child. But I suppose you're more your mother's daughter than mine."
Wrong, she told her father's image that morning; Father, I'm more your daughter than you'll ever know . . . wherever you are.
Behind her and to her right Storm struggled to break away from the restraints his bridle put on him. On his back rode Sam, a rifle in its sheath by the stirrups, a revolver tucked into his waistband under his loose, buckskin shirt. He was a compromise, born of another argument at the breakfast table between herself and her son. Alex insisted that he stay behind to coordinate the ranch hands but would not let her out of the house until she promised to bring someone with her, just in case. She picked Sam for his courage, and for his understanding of her; and because she did not think Harley would come if she asked.
They said nothing to each other.
Wind snorted, and Storm answered. Palomino and black, arrogant and proud.
And when the trees swept behind them and she could see the first of the houses and the beginnings of Main Street, she licked nervously at her lips and rubbed a hand across her chest. What she was doing was foolhardy, more dangerous than anyone would admit, but unless she did it now, by the end of the winter all would be lost. She believed that. And she would not let this last chance go by without even a token of a fight.
She had no other plans. How Maitland would react would decide the future for her. And that future did not extend beyond the end of the week. It dared not. Too much could happen, rightly or wrongly, and to allow herself too much hope, too many dreams, could be just as disastrous as any bullet sent her way.
"Sam?"
He eased up alongside her, Storm tossing his head and nipping at Wind's neck.
"Sam, is it right to be frightened?"
"If you were not, then I would be, " he said.
"I wish Doug were here, too. "
"You are here . "
She nodded, took a deep breath. From where she sat, she could see the town had not changed.
It began slowly at first: a faint rumbling, a whispering, a halfhearted call from one man to another.
The rumbling grew louder-boots pounding on the boardwalks, door slamming open, sashes thrown up; horses were ridden quickly out of the way, carriages and wagons darted into alleys or onto the street that led to the station. Within moments of the first sighting, Main Street was empty of all but the slowest traffic.
The whispering grew louder-a head poked out of a shop door and called inside; mutterings in the Silver Palace that were stifled before growing again as men and gowned women stumbled into the sunlight; children held back into the protection of the nearest woman's arms. Within moments of the first sighting, Main Street was silent.
The calls grew louder-heads poked through windows, shouting across the way; runners racing toward the depot with arms waving and hats like banners; there was fear, and surprise, and a faint growing pride. And within moments of the first sighting, Main Street was waiting.
She had expected some sort of stirring, a startled glance or open gaping, a call that was friendly or a jeering of a curse.
She did not expect, however, to see the boardwalks lined three deep with people-watching her, listening to her, freezing in their memories the sight of the moonwitch on her palomino steed, wearing her embroidered white buckskin with the silver band around her hair.
Wind sensed the timing. He picked up his forelegs and struck them hard on the ground. The beat was solemn, and it echoed off the buildings. Storm, by the same token, took up the cadence and was a midnight shadow that dared to mock the sun.
Opposite the Wooden Dollar a small boy broke out of the silent crowd and ran to her side. She could feel more than hear the intake of breath. Wind stopped. She leaned over and touched the boy's cheek.
"Hello," she said.
He grinned, and blushed, and ran back to his mother's skirts.
Ten yards more and the sheriffs door opened.
She did not close her eyes nor inhale sharply. She only nudged Wind to the right side of the street and waited. And when Eagleton stepped out, frowning into the bright sun and shading his eyes with one hand, she waited still longer until his gaze focused and his mouth became a thin line. The lift of his hand to his hat took a monumental, visible effort.
"Glad to see you well, Amanda," he said, his voice not quite hoarse. .
She nodded her thanks, a movement so imperceptible it might have only been the wind.
Eagleton saw then the crowds still on the walks, and his hands came to rest lightly at the top of his belt. "You have business here, Amanda, or are you in a parade?"
Her brief smile sent him pity. "I wasn't aware," she said, "that I had to check in with the law."
"Oh, you don't. Not at all. But I do like things quiet around here." He tried a bright smile. "It makes my job easier. "
"That's nice for you," she said.
Then he took a step toward her and lowered his voice.
"You remember a talk we had, some time ago? About sunlight and moons and clouds and such?"
She nodded.
"The sun is out, Amanda."
Her expression grew hard.
"The sun is out," he repeated.
"So am I, " she said.
He glanced from her face to Sam's, settled back a step, and sniffed. "Well, you enjoy yourself, Amanda. It's good to see you back."
Wind moved away, but Amanda stopped him. She looked at Trevor over her shoulder, and one hand touched her temple.
"Trevor, " she said, "don't lie to me again."
Amanda waited for it, did not hear it, and smiled to herself as she fought at the empty feeling growing deep in her stomach. That, she told herself, was the easiest part; now is when I find out what Hell is all about.
She thought she heard someone call her. She did not turn around. The street was still silent, as though Coreville were dead.
She did not count the minutes she waited in front of the hotel. She faced it squarely, Sam just behind, and she stared at the front doors. She caught a slight movement of curtains in one of the dining-room windows, another in the sitting room, and one on the third floor. Those people who had been standing in front of the porch, between the giant elms, had watched her for a long time before growing uneasy and backing away. Within moments, then, there was a clear path to the steps. She sat right before it. She sat, and she waited.
When the doors finally opened, the street filled with a sigh.
Maitland did not know how she knew he was not out at the ranch; and he scowled when he saw that Eagleton was not with her. He considered stepping back inside and letting her sit there all day, but he knew that the bitch would do just that if he let her, and he would be damned if he was going to give her the upper hand simply by not showing.
He puffed his cheeks, blew slowly, then straightened his bow tie and moved out onto the porch. He felt his legs trembling when he saw for the first time exactly how many were out there . . . and that none of them were smiling.
Murderer. Thief. Destroyer of children . Rapist . Coward. Hell's spawn incarnate .
Father, can you see him? Can you see him from where you are? Can you see his smile? Can you hear him breathing?
Mother. Grandmother. Help me beat this man!
Sam, I can feel you; your hatred is too strong. Don't shoot him! Say nothing! I'll kill you if you do .
I know, now . I know . From that first day in San Francisco you sent him to me; and if I had not gone there, you would have sent him here . Every move I made, he told you; every word I said, he repeated . Y au tore at me one piece at a time . You tore at me through Harley by attacking Will Wilcox, by sending those men to remind me of my rape . Harley and the ranch . Alex and the mine . Doug. Carl . Webber. All of them to get to me.
I know. I know!
Her face was impassive, almost stolidly so, and as he moved down the steps toward her, she could feel his hate strike her like a physical blow. Wind sensed the emotion and tried to back away. Her legs tightened, and he stilled, and Maitland stopped five feet from his head.
"You have some of the showman in you, " Maitland said, his voice croaking.
She said nothing.
"Are you just going to sit there all day in that pretty outfit and stare at me?"
She said nothing.
"Amanda," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "this is foolish! I could have you . . . you could be hurt by some drunk who thinks you're Sitting Bull."
She said . . . nothing.
He spat into the dirt between Wind's forelegs. "I won't be intimidated by you, Amanda. I've waited too long to see you again, to talk with you about old times, and I will not be intimidated. I trust you still understand English. I trust you still understand me?"
"I want you to know something, Simon," she said at last; and her voice seemed as loud as a deep canyon's moaning.
"There isn't much I don't know about you, Amanda, " he said, smiling.
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
She stared, and he waited, his left hand fidgeting toward his pocket, his right pushing the wisps of hair back behind his ears. Though his face was kept toward her, his eyes were darting left to right, picking out expressions puzzled or wary. He knew what she was doing to him, then, but could do nothing about it unless he broke his own rule and at the same time broke the law he was so careful to keep intact. No, he thought; she will not push me. I will not let her. Too long. Too long. Damn her, I've waited too long.
"All right, " he said, shaking his head and barking a short laugh. "All right, Amanda, I'll go along with this . . . this silly charade of yours. You say there's something about you that I don't know? Do you really?" He looked with amusement at the people standing near him. "Really. Well, then, Amanda, why don't you tell me. What, my dear woman, don't I know?"
"I am here."
He waited, laughed again, and again shook his head. " I can see that, Amanda. I'm not blind. I can see that as clearly as I can see all that fine silver you're wearing. "
I am here.
He frowned. "I don't understand, Amanda. We have agreed on that, I thought. You are here. "
"That, " she told him, "is what you don't know."
A gust of wind kicked dust from the street into their faces. Maitland turned away briefly; Amanda did not move.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess that's something too profound fur me.
"Simon," she said. She raised her right arm, then, and pointed at him through another sharp gust. Maitland, with one hand protecting his eyes, shook his head in bewilderment. It could not have been, he told himself, but for a moment, just for a moment, he could have sworn that not one piece of fringe dangling from her sleeve, hanging over her breasts . . .not one piece of fringe moved in the wind.
"Simon," she said, "I am here. I have been here. I always will be here. This is what you do not know. I will always be here .
He could not stand to look at those eyes any longer. That green was too bright, too hard, too much like the midnights he had known in his dreams. And as the silver flashed from her headband, points within his skull began to throb, a leaden weight settled over his chest. He wanted to turn around with a laugh, a high mocking laugh that would be joined by the town . . . but he could not move. Her eyes held him; they locked onto his soul and they would not release him.
For the first time since he had last seen her more than ten years ago; for the first time since he had dreamed of a million horrid revenges; for the first time since he had begun his campaign to bring her to her knees and make her crawl into his shadow . . . he was afraid.
I will always be here!
"No, " he said, and from the look on her face realized that he had spoken aloud.
Her expression was one of infinite sorrow.
"No," he said louder. "There are laws against threatening people in this town. " He poked a finger at the air in front of her. "Just because you think you're someone special, Amanda Franklin, don't think you can run the life of someone like me. I will not be intimidated. "
"Munroe," she said quietly, her voice mirroring her sadness.
"What?"
"That's something else you don't know, Simon. My last name is Munroe. "
He sputtered, but she could not bare to look at him any longer; her legs shifted, and Wind turned around, heading back up the street while Simon, stiff-legged and red, jumped into the street behind her and glared. He said nothing, daring those who watched him to approach him and speak up.
Wind took her, and she rode, her eyes straight ahead, Sam at her back.
And when she had gone, the streets emptied quickly.
Only Maitland was left, staring into the sun.
THIRTY
The sky had shaded from blue to angry slate and had been that way for almost a week. The ground had become hard, and there were thin sheaths of ice clinging to the edges of the water holes and ponds. Weeds lining the streams glittered in the dim light, bending from the weight of the ice that sprayed onto them and held them. The leaves were gone. The geese were gone. The last of the bears had retreated to their dens on the high slopes.
It was a grim sort of beauty, one that would explode into an ethereal fantasy as soon as the sun broke through the clouds; but Amanda knew that first there would be snow. Twi
ce since the end of October the slow-growing storms over the Rockies and the Wind River range had attempted to cover the earth with a breath of white, and twice the snow had melted before the day had ended. Now, however, the ground was hard and the temperature was almost as low as the wind made it feel, and she was sure that before nightfall the grass would be gone, not to be seen again until spring.
She wore a heavy tan coat that hung to her knees and was lined with fleece turned brown with age. Her hat was pulled low over her eyes and her fur-lined winter boots snapped and crunched over the frozen grass. One hundred yards to the slight, tree-topped rise to the north of the house, one hundred more to the dwelling that had once been Harley Peterson's when Guy was alive. And now it was again. Alex and Hope, at Amanda's urging, had moved into the main house for the winter. For Harley, she had told them; he needs to know that something is still his.