by Yvonne Jocks
But that line was engraved on Julie's tombstone!
As the whistling approached her hiding place, Vic tried to sink even lower, her knees practically pressed to her face. Duchess, still sitting in the open, glanced back at her and cocked her head with canine curiosity. It was probably too late to extend an arm and order her away.
Perhaps if she was very, very quiet?
The whistling faltered into a slow, descending note. "What have we here?" murmured a man's voice. About the flowers?
Then a shadow fell over her. Reluctantly she looked up, into the face she now recognized as Alden Wright's, heir to the Triple-Bar ranch.
"Well, hello," he said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "Aren't you Victoria Garrison?"
It occurred to her that she needn't keep on huddling like this, so she released her armful of skirting and slowly sat up, trying to regain her poise. "Yes, I am. Mr. Wright, isn't it? When did you get back to Sheridan?"
Alden Wright spent a great deal of his time in St. Louis. Even today he was dressed in a fine, single-breasted suit coat of brown worsted, complete with matching trousers, a businesslike watch fob, and fashionable cloth-topped shoes.
He looked older than she remembered him. Certainly older than Ross. Almost as old as Thaddeas.
Instead of answering her question, he glanced at the Lauranovic graves, the newly planted marigolds. "I—pardon my inquisitiveness, Miss Garrison, but are you the one who . . . ?" Then he noticed her dirty work-gloves. "Of course you are. But you're too young to have known Julie Lauranovic."
As if Victoria needed any more proof, he had a big, white chrysanthemum in his hand. Unlike Ross, Alden Wright didn't look at all dangerous. Or even annoyed. He just seemed curious.
That made two of them.
Victoria stood—he caught her hand to help her up, being a gentleman—and she took off her work gloves, just as glad when Duchess trotted to her side to sniff her hand. "Julie," she repeated softly, confused. He'd called her Julie. So she took a chance. "Mr. Wright, if you paid the undertaker to add that quote onto her tombstone, why did you still let her be buried under the name Julije?"
Alden Wright stared at her for a searching moment. Then he took a deep breath, and as he released it, his shoulders sank as if from under the weight of years of secrecy. "Because she matched her father and brother that way," he told her. "And Julije is three syllables."
She cocked her head, not understanding.
Alden smiled, a little sadly. "It fits better in die song, Miss Garrison," he explained evenly. "In place of Clementine."
Until that autumn, Laramie had never cared so he'd never noticed. But in under two months, he discovered why most cowboys "married" only ladies of easy virtue, and merely for a weekend at a time. Even saving every cent from the fall roundups, he had nothing to "write home" about—neither a place to stay nor a stake to start building any kind of a respectable life.
And when the roundups ended, so did all but the most secure cowboy jobs.
'You come back next spring," said the foreman at the Lazy-Z Ranch, down Thermopolis way, when Ross asked him about it. "We'll have work over the summer for a good hand."
His solid handshake implied that Laramie was, in fact, a good hand. It was a fair enough offer. But to dream that he might ever make a place worthy of Victoria Garrison—assuming she even wanted him to try, assuming some other man had not already made her a much better offer—Laramie at least had to dream up year-round employment.
Either that, or something that paid incredibly well on the short term. But he was trying not to think that way.
For the first time, he found himself regretting his flight from the boys' ranch for a reason beyond the parole violation. At least there, folks tried to teach the boys honest professions—carpentry, printing, shoe repair. Jobs that, if he'd begun in his youth, would now be paying enough to support a ...
A family ?
He could not think of it that clearly or he would want it too badly. It was still too unlikely, especially for his world. But such jobs would have paid enough to support a respectable life anyhow, which would be a good starting point. Since he had run off, he was more suited for frontier, bachelor jobs: cowboying, mining, logging, railroading.
Crime.
No, not crime. Victoria may have forgiven him a great deal, but surely she would never forgive him that.
By the time October was near over, Laramie was desperate. And he was back at Hole-in-the-Wall—at least, at Butch Cassidy's cabin on the Blue Creek, still in the red rocks, a few miles south of it—just to have a familiar place to stay.
Of the numerous hideouts on the hoot-owl trail, the best three spread across three states, playing merry hell on lawmen whose jurisdiction stopped at the border. The hardest to reach was Robber's Roost, down in eastern Utah. Then there was Brown's Park in Colorado, close enough to the Utah and Wyoming borders to spit. And finally there was Hole-in-the-Wall, beyond the red rocks in Johnson County—a day's ride, if a long one, from Sheridan. Laramie wouldn't mind running into Cassidy—not for any jobs, just to have company while he kept the snow off his head. Just to talk.
Instead, he rode up to the low, double cabin of logs to see Lonny Logan, slim, dark, and armed.
"Damn, Laramie!" exclaimed Lonny from the doorway of the main cabin. He lowered the rifle he'd been leveling at his intruder. "I'm seein' more of you than I am of Harvey lately. Come on in. I got coffee."
Laramie stared at the doorway, through which his friend vanished into the cabin, and he thought, Bad companions. But Lonny was his friend. He'd helped save Laramie's life, after Harvey had gotten him shot. He'd warned Laramie about that second gun, back in the Red Light Saloon. They were pards.
Which didn't say a lot for Laramie's future.
But it was cold out. So he watered Blackie in the creek that ran behind the cabin, then set him loose in the corral and went inside for coffee.
"Hear the news?" greeted Lonny, handing him a hot cup.
Laramie shook his head. He also found himself fighting a smile. Lonny, he realized, reminded him of Victoria.
No insult to Victoria meant, of course.
"New Mexico gave Elzy Lay a life sentence. Actually, they're still callin' him McGinnis, but no matter his name, he's in the State Penitentiary in Raton for good. Cassidy's sick about it, and he's decided to go straight. He's got that lawyer fellow he likes, Preston, tryin' to get him amnesty—hell, the railroads are even thinkin' of hirin' him to guard the trains, if it keeps him from robbin' them."
Laramie took a sip of coffee during all this, then said, "That's why you haven't hit the Burlington and Missouri?"
Lonny nodded glumly. "That, and Harvey just isn't a planner the way Cassidy is."
Laramie agreed with that. He put down the coffee long enough to shrug off his black duster, take off his hat, and scrub a hand through hair that felt like it needed a wash. He wasn't sure why he was here anymore. It wouldn't get him the life he wanted.
If anything could. It was a big if.
But he sat again, and he asked something that surprised even him. "How's your boy?"
Lonny's head snapped up, and his black, Cherokee eyes widened. Then he ducked his head, scowling at his coffee. "Damn, Laramie. How the hell would I know?"
Folks didn't talk much about Lonny's son, ugly as the whole situation had turned out. From what Laramie had heard, Lonny took up with one of Pike Landusky's stepdaughters up in Montana. Landusky, Montana. Her pa got riled when she bore a natural son and named him Lonny Curry Junior. The bad blood between the families had escalated until first the oldest Logan brother, Johnny, and then Pike Landusky got shot dead.
Rumor was, Harvey's fight with Pike hadn't been a fair one—yet another reason why Harvey "Kid Curry" Logan had never led the outlaw bunch. Yet another reason why this was a dangerous topic to pursue.
Laramie wasn't sure what had gotten into him, unless somehow kissing Victoria Garrison had infected him with wordiness. But he asked anyho
w. "Didn't you ever want to marry her?"
"Elfie?" Lonny shrugged. "I guess I did marry her."
That was news. "Legal married?"
Lonny laughed then—a harsh, not-quite-safe laugh. "Nah, not legal married. Hell, I'm an outlaw, ain't I?"
Oh. It wasn't that outlaws never married legally. Elzy Lay's wife, Maude, was one of those few nice women Laramie had met before his time in Sheridan. They had a baby daughter.
And now Lay was in prison for life.
Laramie put his coffee cup down, certain now. He should not have come here. He didn't know where the hell else to go, with only two months' wages in his pocket, but he had to find someplace that wasn't part of this life.
This world.
'You're thinkin' of that Garrison gal, ain't you?" guessed Lonny. "Hell, pard—you ain't an outlaw. Not of any real standin', anyhow. Go ahead and set up housekeeping if you want."
As if it were that easy. He couldn't forget the expression on her face when he'd asked her to come with him, to marry him.
Panic.
She didn't know him. The only chance he had, and that one slim, was to try to win her slow-like. And that would be nearly impossible without settling near her. He doubted anybody in Sheridan meant to allow a Lauranovic to do that.
He rested his forearms on his knees, hung his head, breathed out a swearword. God, but he was tired.
"She's got a nice enough family," noted Lonny, refilling his coffee—clearly glad the conversation had moved off of him. "That littlest sister's a pistol, ain't she?"
Laramie lifted his head. "How do you know Elise?"
"Mrs. Garrison and Mrs. Pembroke fed me dinner after I stopped by to tell your boss you'd got arrested," explained Lonny with a smirk. "That little blond girl kept askin' the funniest questions."
Laramie stared.
"I guess he got you out all right," continued his friend, "you sittin' here and all. Never can tell, with Ward."
Laramie frowned. "What about Ward?"
"He's crooked, is all. Not in no honest way, neither." Trust an outlaw to distinguish—but Laramie knew just what he meant.
"You mean it's more than fining the whores?"
Lonny snorted. "Hell yes, it's more. Ward runs the biggest rustling operation in northeastern Wyoming."
Laramie stared at him. 'You sound pretty certain."
"Why wouldn't I be? Harve, Johnny and me used to work with him, back before the Invasion." The Invasion was what a lot of the small ranchers called the Johnson County Cattle War, back in '92. "Before we moved up Montana ways."
It really had been Ward, all along?
Lonny shrugged.
Laramie said, a mite angrily, "You couldn't mention that in Sheridan?"
"In Sheridan," said Lonny, "you were a range detective."
Damn, but Laramie felt stupid. All the facts had been there—Ward's past as a rustler, his reputation for graft, Harry Smith's escape. But Laramie had been so shy of his own prejudices, he'd looked right past them, missing the chance to bring in the one man he most despised.
Besides Thaddeas Garrison, he reminded himself. He still hated Victoria's brother. How would that set for any future?
Lonny frowned, leaning forward. 'You aren't thinkin' of goin' after him, are you? 'Cause, one, you ain't no range detective anymore. Two, it's none of your business. Three, it ain't like the cattle barons can't afford to lose some beef now and then. And four, Ward's managed to run his operation just fine. Folks don't get hurt unless they start nosin' around his business, and then you can't blame him."
Nosing around his business. Oh God.
Victoria.
"I've got to go," said Laramie, standing.
"Now? It's almost nightfall!"
"Thanks for the coffee." And the information. But since Lonny hadn't meant it to be used this way, Laramie guessed he'd just keep his gratitude to himself there.
'You're goin' to Sheridan," accused Lonny, starting to look sulky—and dangerous—even so.
'Yep." Shrugging on his duster, Laramie glanced toward his friend. "For the lady, Lonny. The lady noses around everyone's business. Any idea where I can hole up, that the cattlemen won't know I'm there right off?"
"The hell with you," said Lonny. "It had better be the lady. You ever come after me, don't think I won't shoot you dead."
Which at least meant he didn't intend to shoot Laramie dead this afternoon. "I won't," agreed Laramie. But he was already trying to think this through. Someplace the cattlemen wouldn't be watching for him. Preferably with someone who had his own grudge against the sheriff.
He wanted to see Victoria again so badly, the need almost suffocated him. But he could control himself better than that, especially if it was her he was worried about. So Laramie took his time saddling poor Blackie and heading out, north, across the desolate openness that was Johnson County. Riding across country like this, where the reds and oranges of the sunset seemed to mix right into the desert, Laramie thought maybe the frontier would never die. He holed up until the full moon rose, lighting the red-rock country into a silvery blue. With the moon, he could ride all night.
Back to civilization. Back to uncertainty. Back to Victoria's world, where he wouldn't likely be welcome—but he had to try. And the best place to start would be with other unwelcome types.
He rode into Stuart MacCallum's Double-M Sheep Ranch late the following morning.
Chapter Twenty-two
On the one hand, letting the townsfolk—and her dubious family—think Alden Wright was courting her was a sound idea. It provided them privacy to discuss the one thing the two of them really had in common: the Laurence family.
On the other hand, Victoria couldn't quite dismiss the niggling possibility that Ross, when he came back, might want to shoot Alden over Julie alone. Seeing him as a rival suitor might not help matters. She hoped Ross had finished with vengeance, back when he gave up on Thaddeas. But if he hadn't. . .
She had to know all of him, if she hoped to love him at all. It wouldn't do to forget that he was a dangerous man, whether she was the one in danger or not.
Still, she found herself hoping for quite a bit that autumn: a letter from Ross, a good newspaper story, someone to catch the rustlers. As the weeks passed, hope grew increasingly unfulfilling.
At least Alden had immediate answers, whether or not she dared ever share them with Ross.
Alden was Julie Laurence's secret sweetheart, though not so secret that he hadn't taken privileges only a husband deserved. Of course, Victoria did not discuss that part. Sixteen and terrified, he'd sat by while a lynch mob murdered Julie's family. Certain that she hated him, he'd never known his family was keeping her away. He claimed to have never gotten over her.
Victoria found him charming enough, but weak-willed. Even if she were interested in any suitor other than Ross, she would not choose Alden Wright. Still, Alden was as eager to talk about Julie as Victoria was to hear about her.
So he paid calls, and she accepted them.
As long as people thought they were courting, Alden Wright could stroll with her—and Duchess— along leaf-littered streets between their families' in-town houses, recounting what he remembered of the Laurences. As long as people thought they were courting, they could respectably ride out together on a brisk Saturday morning, without even the dog as a chaperone.
Nobody had to know that Alden was taking her on a tour of places important to the Laurence family.
"They had a well here, under these rocks," he told her, kicking some large, flat stones piled in what was now just woods. "We covered it so nobody would fall in, after Father bought the land. The cabin stood over there, where those saplings are."
Victoria opened her latest newfangled gadget, a Folding Pocket Kodak Camera, and snapped a picture of the area he indicated, with the Big Horn Mountains looming in the background. Though a luxury at $10, the camera delighted her. Once she used up the film, she would mail it to Kodak, along with a dollar, and they would send it back with
new film and all her nice, round, black-and-white pictures.
If only she'd learned to use the camera before Ross left, she might have a photograph of him. She closed the camera and thought—hoped—When he comes home, I'll take his picture. Then she went to the cabin site and noted the nearly flat ground beneath mulch and pine needles, all that was left of his childhood home since the logs had been dragged off. She tried to imagine a young Ross, chopping wood or playing with a hoop, but it was difficult to imagine him as anybody but the tall, quiet man she loved. A man with a gun.
Even if he came back, he would still be a man with a gun.
"What happened to Mrs. Laurence?" she asked, unwilling to think about that—and feeling like a coward for it.
"I heard she moved back east." Alden clasped his hands behind his back and gazed past her, a brooding-poet pose. "Over there, that really big spruce—that's where I would hide and wait for Julie to meet me. We would hold hands and run together until we reached a field up that way, full of columbine and goldenrod. Would you like to see it?"
Victoria considered what he and Julie may have done in that field and shook her head. "No, thank you."
"You're right," agreed Alden with a sigh. "There certainly won't be any flowers, not this time of year."
No, there certainly would not.
"So where would you like to go next, Miss Garrison?" he asked, with a flourish of his arm toward the mountain vista, the blue sky. "Your wish is my command."
She took a deep breath, for courage. If she hoped to love Ross at all... "I'd like to see where the lynchings happened."
His charming smile faded. "What?"
"If I'm to understand ... them ... I should see everything."
A new smile stretched across Alden's face, too quickly to be genuine. "That place holds unpleasant memories for me, Miss Garrison. This may be simply a matter of history to you." She'd claimed to be studying Sheridan's history and the role the Wrights had played in it. "But what those men did there .. ."
He still hadn't realized that, in not trying to stop them, he'd been one of those men. "I understand, Mr. Wright," she said. "If you would just take me as far as you feel comfortable, and then tell me how to go the rest of the way ..."