Explaining Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  "What?" He said that a lot.

  "I'm just trying to understand the Laurences, and what happened to them," she explained. "And if I refuse to look at the bad parts, aren't I somehow, well, demeaning them?"

  He shook his head. "What do you mean?"

  Ross, she thought, would have understood. "People's lives have both good parts and bad parts, don't they?"

  "Not everyone's lives."

  She remembered her horror at seeing Kitty crumpled in the stallion's corral. "Perhaps everyone's lives do," she suggested again carefully. "It's important to focus on the good, of course—like with my little sister Elise, to encourage how bright and bold and lively she can be. But if we loved her without even seeing that she can also be a brat, would we really love her, or just the person we want her to be?"

  Ross had wanted her despite her chatter and questions and nosiness. She loved him even though he'd

  262

  Explaining Herself

  rustled cattle, had even killed people—as long as he'd reformed, of course.

  And if he hasn't?

  She disliked her relief that she need not yet decide whether to trust him with what she'd learned.

  "I hardly see what little Elise has to do with lynchings."

  "I won't feel as if I understand everything," she insisted, "unless I understand everything. Even the bad parts. I can't explain it better than that. Won't you please take me as far as you can?"

  He frowned—no, pouted.

  But he was also weak-willed.

  "She's what?" Laramie had to force the question out through a closing throat. Surely he'd misheard.

  Mrs. MacCallum cast her husband another concerned look, as she'd been doing throughout breakfast. "She told me she's not serious," she assured Laramie quickly. "But they've been keeping company for several weeks now. Some people have expectations. I believe this is the day they'd planned for their picnic."

  Only moments before, Laramie had been admiring the kitchen of Stuart and Mariah MacCallum's new stone house. And pretty Mrs. MacCallum's resemblance to her darker-haired sister. And their baby boy. Their world fed him far more than did the oatmeal Mrs. MacCallum put in front of him, despite his long ride. But now ...

  Victoria was seeing the heir to the Triple-Bar Ranch?

  What little money Laramie had saved felt embarrassing, in contrast. He'd been foolish to dream his hopeful, romantic dreams, to even pretend he could ever live in the world of the Garrisons and the Pembrokes and the MacCallums—the world where things sometimes went right for a fellow. Except. . .

  Almost against his will, he looked back toward the MacCallums. Mariah had put a hand on her husband's stocky shoulder, and Stuart met her gaze with some shared, silent affirmation. MacCallum hadn't had an easy life either. But he'd worked his way out of the sheep wagon where he'd first brought his bride and into this handsome, stone ranch house. Now he had a healthy son in his arms, gurgling and waving his chubby hands, while his blond wife—her apron suspiciously round—oversaw breakfast for their unexpected guest.

  He never broke laws, he reminded himself. But the man was a sheep farmer. That was almost as bad.

  Seeing the satisfaction Victoria's oldest sister had brought to her husband, Laramie couldn't discount the possibility that sometimes good things did still happen. Especially where Garrison women were concerned.

  At least, he thought, if Victoria's seeing Wright, she's not getting into trouble. Which is when he figured it out. Maybe. It was more hope than even instinct, but. ..

  "Is it possible—"

  Baby Garry squealed, and his poppa touched a thick, gentle finger to his cheek to silence him, waiting.

  Laramie tried again. "Could Victoria be up to something?"

  He almost winced, in expectation of their pity. Instead, MacCallum sent another of those unspoken messages toward his wife—this time with dry amusement—and Mariah laughed. "Well, you certainly have gotten to know Victoria, Mr. Laramie. That's what we're hoping. It would be better than her going sweet on a Wright!"

  She didn't deny it. Victoria's own sister didn't deny it!

  He tried another bite of oatmeal, and actually managed to swallow it. 'You don't like the Wrights."

  "They're the ones who hired that awful range detect—" Eyes widening, Mariah clamped her mouth shut too late.

  "I've been worse than a range detective, Mrs. MacCallum."

  "Well, I trust my sister's instincts," she told him firmly, lifting her son from her husband's lap and into her arms. "When it comes to people, that is. The way she takes chances, she needs a guard, not a dog. You don't suppose she's got Alden Wright helping her track down rustlers, do you?"

  It surprised Laramie to realize that she wasn't just asking her husband. She was looking at him!

  "I don't know Alden Wright," Laramie admitted. "And God only knows what your sister will do."

  It unsettled him, how the MacCallums' shared smile now included him. Somehow either he or Victoria had misled them about his true nature.

  But he savored that sense of being part of diem, even undeserving. Then he asked, "Where were they going to picnic?"

  If Victoria were pursuing Sheriff Ward, she needed help.

  Even if he did risk interrupting her Saturday picnic.

  Alden really did take Victoria only as far as he was comfortable, in the foothills about half a mile from the box canyon where the lynchings had taken place. Then he drew his horse to a stop. "I'm sorry, Miss Garrison. That place..."

  She supposed it would be difficult to face one's greatest failure. "It's all right. Just tell me how to get die rest of the way."

  Then she left him comfortably settled under a tree and rode on by herself. It bothered her that Alden might still come between her and Ross, not because she had any feelings for Alden, but because of Julie. No; more than that. She still hadn't decided whether to tell Ross about Alden and Julie, true, but how could she trust him with her own life, if she couldn't trust him with someone else's?

  She and her sorrel gelding, Huck, rode comfortably together, picking their way around rocks and trees in the direction of the little canyon Alden had described. She tried to imagine what other people had ridden this direction. The Laurences, including young Ross, moving their stolen livestock back home. The lynch mob, with Boris and Bram Ward, the Colonel and Alden Wright. Papa, following the sound of gunshots to interrupt their fate.

  She could imagine the ugliness of it all too well, so well she could almost smell the stench of burning hair from a branding iron on the shifting wind.

  Then, suddenly, she was almost on top of it! The stench hit her full in the face, along with a cow's distressed lowing, the chink of spurs, and a voice that sounded far too close saying, "We've got to be gone by this afternoon, savvy?"

  Startled beyond breath, she reined Huck back, lifted her leg from behind the curved horn of the sidesaddle, and slid quickly to the ground where she could better hide. Huck, tossing his head at the acrid smell, backed away some, and Victoria leaned against the trunk of a large pine and made herself think—all the more confusing a prospect when the wind changed and the noise and stench vanished with it.

  Fall roundups were over. For a confused moment, she could almost believe that she'd ridden back in time, and was about to witness past horrors. Then sanity returned. So, along with another whiff of burning hair and the nearby bellow of an upset cow, did a clutch of fear. Rustlers. The wind shift had allowed her to ride almost on top of them. And now she had to creep away from here without any of them seeing her.

  Whoever they were.

  That question stilled her, even as she extended one hand to begin crawling back toward her horse. Someone very important, powerful enough to help a man escape jail, was stealing cattle not only from her father but all the local ranchers. This wasn't merely a case of a hungry family butchering a "slow elk," as Papa called the occasional loss of livestock to settlers—a loss most ranchers, himself included, bore without too much ill will. No, to a
ccount for the losses indicated by the recent roundup, this was practically a syndicate! And by accident, she found herself within crawling distance of seeing who was committing these crimes.

  And she had a camera.

  Victoria knew exactly what Papa, Thaddeas, Mama, Mr. Day, even Ross—pretty much anyone she could imagine—would counsel her. Run home and bring help! And yet over that fear, with every beat of her panicked heart, beckoned treacherous opportunity.

  If they're in a box canyon, she thought, they would have to look up to see me. Who looks up?

  The posse was able to ambush the Laurences because it was so easy to see them without being seen, she thought.

  They 're leaving this afternoon, she reminded herself. If I go for help, there may be nobody left to capture.

  And, most damning, If I leave now, without finding out, how will I feel later?

  Papa, Thad, even Ross would say, You'll feel alive. You'll feel safe.

  But she also knew she would feel like a coward. The one thing that had ever mattered to her, beyond her family, her friends, and Ross Laurence, was knowing things. Who better to take a few careful pictures of the rustlers before riding back for help? Who better to make sure that the truth about this came out?

  If she did not do this, she could never compare herself to Nellie Bly again.

  Before she could lose her nerve, Victoria peeked out from around the tree, then crept in the direction from which she'd heard the noise. She saw the rock ledge well before she reached it, saw the orange of firelight playing across the other wall of the small canyon despite the daylight. Her hands felt clumsy as she retrieved her leather-bound camera from around her neck, extended the lens on its brass fittings, advanced the film. All she needed were a few shots.

  I am a lunatic, she thought mournfully.

  Then she thought, I'm only four feet from getting it done. So she crawled the last four feet and very carefully peeped over the edge.

  It was a small operation, only three men. They'd tied a bull calf's legs and two were going about the ugly process of branding him with what looked more like a bent poker than a branding iron. A running iron, Victoria realized; in some counties, men could be hanged for even owning them. It must take longer than a regular branding, which made it cruder. Suddenly, she felt wholly justified in her reckless choice. She lifted the camera and started to quietly snap pictures.

  Two men she did not recognize, and the back of a third. A bunch of other cattle held against the back wall of the box canyon, some of them wearing a brand she'd never seen. Horses, hitched near the arroyo's mouth.

  And when he turned to pick up a coil of rope, Sheriff Ward himself.

  Victoria's sense of satisfaction, as she snapped that picture, ranked among the best feelings in her life— even kissing Ross! Learning something this important felt like the first gulp of water on a dusty day, the relief of a feather bed after hard work—the fit of a puzzle piece sliding into place. She'd discovered the truth.

  Her.

  And now everyone would know.

  Despite the temptation to finish off her film on this, the need to get to safety was stronger. Quickly, she folded the camera back into itself and crawled backward, careful to dislodge no stones, to make no noise. When she reached the cover of the trees, she breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief—and started to smile.

  Nellie would be so proud!

  She crept to where Huck waited, walked him a ways off until she found a fallen log, hooked her camera strap on the curved saddle horn, and mounted.

  Then she reined Huck in the direction of where she'd left Alden—and found herself staring into both barrels of a double-barreled shotgun.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  This, thought Victoria nervously, as she rode ahead of Deputy Franklin and his double-barreled friend, is why I should only take outings with men I trust.

  Not that Alden Wright had gotten her captured; he wasn't even there! Which was maybe the problem. Ross wouldn't be resting under a tree right now. Then again, Ross might have shot Deputy Franklin, which seemed a drastic solution. And he probably would have protested her taking the photographs. Which reminded her—

  She subtly unhooked the leather carrying strap of her Kodak from over the saddle horn and used her fingers to inch the camera itself up into her grasp, all within the cover of her overfull riding skirts. Then, twisting around to see Deputy Franklin, she shrank with a frightened cry from a nearby pine tree.

  Just as she'd hoped, Franklin fell for the distraction and aimed his shotgun at the tree for a moment.

  Victoria used the time to toss her camera into some brush, well off the path, near a rock formation she hoped she would recognize later. Assuming nothing stepped on it. Assuming it wasn't broken in the fall. Assuming she ever got back.

  But she had to.

  Franklin quickly pointed the shotgun back at her. "Don't you go thinkin' you can make a run for it, Miss Garrison."

  "Make a run for what?" she demanded. "Deputy, I have no idea why you're behaving so rudely, but I don't like it. I was out riding, is all. Is it—am I trespassing?" She assumed one of her innocent looks. She didn't have to feign concern; her mouth was dry with it! "I thought this was Colonel Wright's land, but if it isn't, I promise you I didn't know I was doing anything wrong."

  He looked uncertain. He isn't sure that I saw anything, she decided, relieved. Then he told her to "Hold up," and whistled loudly, through his teeth.

  Victoria reined Huck back and waited with him, her mouth drier with each passing moment. Overhead, a hawk screamed. Then she heard footsteps.

  Sheriff Ward appeared around some rocks—pistol drawn.

  Victoria let her shoulders sink dramatically. "Sheriff! Thank goodness you're here. I was out riding, and the deputy pointed his shotgun at me, and I don't know what to do!"

  The sheriff looked from her to Franklin and back, clearly annoyed. "Well, hell," he said, catching his thumbs in his suspenders.

  "She was comin' from the canyon," protested Franklin.

  Victoria decided against asking, What canyon} Too obvious. Instead, she bit her lower lip and made certain to look confused and frightened and girlish.

  Only the confusion was a lie.

  "Well, hell," said Ward again. "Miss Garrison, I'm afraid you've ridden yourself into a bit of trouble."

  "Trouble?"

  "See," continued the sheriff, "you might be tellin' the truth, in which case we could've just sent you on your way. But I'm thinkin' you're here on account of you've heard tell what this arroyo gets used for. I'm thinkin' it has somethin' to do with how you've been spendin' so much time with them Bohunk graves down at Mount Hope."

  Darned gossips, anyway.

  "So," said Ward with a sigh, cocking his pistol and aiming it at her, "why don't you get down off your horse, nice and slow, and let us make you comfortable until we figure this out?"

  For once, obeying seemed the better choice, what with two weapons pointing at her. She might still escape this, after all. Alden was bound to realize she'd gone missing, sooner or later. Once he did, he would either come looking for her or fetch her father and brother, wouldn't he?

  She rather hoped the second. Alden was too benign to rescue her himself. Of the two evils, she preferred Ross's type. With every gun pointed at her, she preferred Ross's type even more.

  "Why should you do anything about me?" she asked warily, going where the sheriff pointed, toward what she now recognized as the entrance to the box canyon. Scrub trees and an old rock slide naturally camouflaged it.

  Rounding the bluff, she could see the whole operation—the horses, the two remaining rustlers, the fire, the rope corral holding the cattle. Were she still up-top the rock wall, she would be in her own photograph.

  She also noted a large tree with high, heavy branches, and felt a shudder in her chest. She could imagine it too easily—the night, the ropes over the tree limbs. It had really happened, and Ross had been forced to endure it. Why wouldn't he want vengeance?
That he had any compassion at all was a miracle.

  "I'm not being kidnapped, am I?" she asked, since kidnapping would be preferable to anybody getting killed. "Just because my parents have a great deal of money doesn't mean they'll take kindly to any ransom demands."

  She felt hope when Franklin said, "You know, the Garrisons would pay an awful lot to get her back."

  "Her and everythin' she's seen today," countered the sheriff, pushing her toward a large stone when she took too long looking around her. "You jest sit there and be quiet, Miss Garrison. Like a good girl."

  A good girl? She glanced over her shoulder, at the mouth of the box canyon. If she picked up her skirts and ran very fast—

  The muzzle of the sheriff's pistol appeared, just in front of her nose, to catch her attention. "If you try to get away, I will shoot you," said Ward. "And if we have to resort to that, your folks won't even get your body back. An accident would be kinder to them, now, don't you think?"

  It didn't much sound like he meant to ask for ransom.

  Victoria had to try more than once just to swallow. It was the fear. But imagining how her family would suffer if she died, she also knew building anger. How dare he!

  Was this what it felt like to want someone dead? She sat stiffly on the rock Sheriff Ward indicated, and she understood Ross better than ever.

  Ward smiled an ugly smile as the other men, clearly more nervous, went back to their branding. " 'Course, that might not be so bad a thing at that, honey girl," he drawled. "If they won't find your body, then it won't matter what we do to. it before we kill you. Them high-and-mighty cattle barons been riding my tail long enough, it'd be mighty sweet to get some of my own back."

  He meant to molest her? Now she couldn't swallow at all. She definitely wished him very dead—and she wondered whether she could, if given the chance, do it herself. A lightning strike or a stampede would be neater. Or Ross . . .