by Jane Peart
But behind that steadfast gaze Addie thought she saw some reproach, disappointment. In her? Why? It was he who had failed to pursue what had seemed to begin that day of the picnic. She still did not understand what could have happened to change things. But her pride prohibited the question for which her heart begged an answer. Imprisoned by convention, her smile became fixed.
An eternity seemed to pass in the space of a few moments.
He removed his hat, "Good afternoon, Miss Pride."
"Mr. Lyon." Her voice sounded unnaturally hoarse over the tightness of her throat.
She stood there in anxious uncertainty until he spoke again. "Maybe, you'd be interested to know ..." He hesitated, then went on, "Since I saw you, my friends, the Bairds, have had some misfortune. Nan, Mrs. Baird, and the boy, Lowell, both developed diphtheria. I had to help Rob move them down from the hills, find them a place to stay in town where they could have medical attention and recuperate."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Addie's natural sympathy for the Bairds was countered by her questioning of Rex's motives. Was he telling her this just an excuse? Sick friends or not, if he had wanted to, he could have come by or at least sent a note of explanation. But her years of drilling in social graces compelled her to say, "I hope—are they—how are they getting along now?"
"Yes, much better, steadily improving. In fact, they will be leaving at the end of next week to go to San Francisco and then back east to take a ship to Scotland. Rob wants his family to meet Nan and Lowell."
Addie managed to say something she hoped was suitable. Standing here was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "If you'll excuse me . . . " She moved to go past him. "I must get to the teller before the bank closes; we are leaving tomorrow on a trip to the geysers, and Mrs. Amberly needs cash."
"Of course." He immediately stepped aside.
In spite of herself, Addie hesitated a few seconds, to see if—hoping that Rex might say something more. But he simply stood there waiting for her to go into the bank. In a surge of wounded pride, Addie swept past him. As she did she heard him say in a low tone of voice, "I wish you every happiness ..."
At the cashier's cage, heart racing, his words suddenly came back to her, before she actually heard what he had said. What did he mean? "I wish you every happiness?" That was the cliche people used when congratulating someone on an upcoming felicitous event—like an engagement or marriage. Involuntarily Addie turned her head to see if Rex was still there. But he was gone.
"May I help you?" came the cashier's impatient voice.
"Oh, yes." Addie turned back, flustered. Tugging her gloves off hands clammy with nervous perspiration, she quickly thrust Mrs. Amberly's cheque through the window for cashing. Distracted by Rex's puzzling remark, she stepped away from the counter. "Miss! Your money!" The clerk's sharp voice bolted her back from her trance.
Addie gathered up the stack of bills and left the bank still baffled by the upsetting encounter with Rex and his enigmatic words.
The next morning was overcast. After breakfast the Silver Springs contingent going to Lakeport assembled outside the main building to wait for Henessey's Stage Line's big six-horse passenger wagon. There was much good-natured complaining about the fog drifting grayly around the verandah posts. Joking remarks about hoping the driver could see his way out of the fog up to the sunnier hills were greeted with laughter.
Addie tried to join the merriment that surrounded her. But her heart was still heavy from yesterday's jolting meeting with Rex. She had relived the incident a dozen times. Accusing herself of stupidity, over and over she thought of things she could have said, how she might have handled it better. But finally she had to admit she had been too much in shock.
She vacillated from frustration to indignation. It was his fault it had been so awkward. He was the one who should have apologized, made some excuse, given some explanation for not contacting her. Oh, the shame of it! Every time she thought of it she died of humiliation all over again.
In spite of everything that had happened, in her secret heart Addie blamed herself. She had allowed herself to believe that what had taken place between them was special. If it was anyone's fault, it was hers for being such a fool.
Forget it! Forget him! But the old adage was true: Easier said than done. She had let her heart rule her head. She did not know how long it would take her to get over it.
As she was giving herself all this advice, to her surprise she saw Louis's phaeton, drawn by his high-stepping horse, come through the gate. After parking the vehicle he jumped out and came over to her.
"I've come to see you off," he told her jauntily, then handed her a small basket of grapes nestled in glossy leaves. "Compliments of Estelle."
Addie doubted the gift was his sister's idea, and she had to credit Louis himself for the thoughtful gesture. Still feeling she must, she forced an appropriate response. Addie replied, "How kind of her. Please give her my thanks."
A murmur of approval came from the ladies gathered on the porch observing the little tableau. "What a gentleman," "How nice," "She should be flattered."
Louis did not miss the consensus of approval, and smiled benignly.
"I hope you have a delightful time but I shall miss you, Addie," he said, looking at her significantly.
Addie was aware that Louis always did the right thing, the socially correct thing. It was as inborn as the Boston accent. Maybe there were worse things than being a "proper gentleman." She could not help, though, thinking of Rex's spontaneity, his openness, his "California" naturalness. That seemed a great deal more sincere.
Before her thoughts could slip further along this dangerous line, someone shouted, "Here it comes!"
They all turned to see the big, brightly painted red and yellow stage pulled by three matched pairs of powerfully built horses come through the Silver Springs gate and pull up in front. Buck Henessey, the driver, well-known for his expertise on the mountain roads, climbed down. He was a large, barrel-chested man, with a ruddy complexion, bright blue eyes, and a bushy mustard-colored mustache, which twirled up at either end giving him the look of a roguish pirate. He lifted his pearl-gray Stetson to the group and greeted them jovially, "Good morning, folks! You all are in for the time of your life! So, now, if you'll jest git on board, we'll git goin'."
Since the stage was open, everyone had donned canvas dusters and swathed themselves in protective veiling. To all the many questions asked him, from queries as to the weather, the roads, the accommodations when they reached the geysers, Mr. Henessey gave the same hearty assurance, "Finest kind!"
Because she was the youngest of the travelers and because it seemed proper, Addie volunteered to sit up front beside the driver. It suited her fine since seated up there she would not have to sit by Mrs. Amberly on the twenty-mile trip. As she settled herself Henessey assured her that in that seat she'd get the "finest kind" of view.
Shortly after they left town the day began to clear. They started up the torturous mountain roads. Some of the curves were so short that the lead horses were out of sight on one side as the stage was rounding the other. The sharper the curves the louder the gasps and small cries coming from those in the seats behind. Addie realized they were probably suppressing screams and clutching each other as they swerved around the serpentine road.
Addie too might have been really terrified if Brook had not sung the praises of Henessey. He was the best stage driver around, he had assured her. Sitting beside him on the high driver's seat, Addie was impressed by his dexterity. Even so Addie gripped the hand bars several times and held her breath.
But Buck was a master at what he did; the reins were firm in his grip, his shouts sometimes punctuated by an occasional twirl of his whip, which echoed through the mountain pass like the crack of a pistol shot.
The view of the valley was breathtaking from this height as they ascended the steep grade, and Addie was kept amused by Buck's commentary as they made their way up the narrow road. At one point, he pointed with his w
hip to an immense, conelike peak that rose sharply up against the now cloud free sky. "That there's Lover's Leap," he told her. "Legend tells that a young Indian couple fell in love with each other but were from different tribes, and their folks wouldn't agree to them marrying, so they come up here—on a moonlit night so the story goes—" here Buck gave her a broad wink, "—and took a flying leap off'n that rock." He chuckled. "That's the valley's own kinda Romeo and Juliet tale, ain't it?" and he roared with laughter.
By noon they reached Lakeport where they were to stay at the inn for two full days. Henessey was to return for them on his way back to Calistoga from Santa Rosa. After the long trip, everyone was eager to try the famous geyser soda springs. The air was crystal clear and dry, the weather mild and delightful.
Addie knew the change of scene should lift her spirits, and scolded herself because it didn't. The memory of the embarrassing incident with Rex in front of the bank blunted her enjoyment. She kept mentally kicking herself for her awkward handling of the situation.
By the second day she did succeed in taking advantage of the exhilirating air and the mild weather. She was also allowed unusual freedom from Mrs. Amberly's carping. Her employer seemed to have found nothing to complain about and was socializing with the new people she met at the Lakeport Inn. Left on her own, Addie tried to enjoy her delightful surroundings and forget Rex Lyon. She managed the first but found the second impossible. He seemed to have lodged himself permanently in her mind—and heart. The question of his changed attitude toward her remained a mystery.
The two days passed pleasantly enough and many of the Silver Springs exiles were loath to leave the high, dry climate for the valley, where the damp, foggy weather possibly persisted. Buck Henessey paced, smoking one of his long cigars, waiting while his erstwhile passengers caused countless delays. By the time all the baskets, boxes, and valises had been stowed and lashed securely, it was late when they got started down the mountain.
Since on the return trip Henessey had a helper sitting beside him on the front seat, Addie had taken a seat with the others in the coach. The sight of the man with a shotgun had momentarily alarmed her until Henessey explained the man was an employee of Union Express in Santa Rosa who required it because they were carrying a cash box containing the miners' payroll, a standard precaution, he told her calmly.
All the passengers seemed quieter on the return trip than they had on the way up to the geysers. Two days of the hot spring treatments, long walks, hearty food, and nightly square dances had taken their toll. Heads were nodding and conversation faded away after they were on the road a few miles.
Mrs. Amberly had soon fallen asleep, and Addie stared at the scenery. Lulled by the rocking motion of the stage, she was in a half-dreamy state. She still couldn't seem to keep her thoughts from wandering back to Rex Lyon. Why did something nag at her, keep her from accepting the obvious fact he did not want to continue their relationship? It was just that it didn't make sense. He had told her she was discerning, hadn't he? Well, there was something strange about his sudden turnaround. Something had happened. What, she couldn't guess. Why hadn't she been bold enough to ask him if she had done anything to offend him? Of course, that would have been out of the question. Yet—there had been something—even that day, in the awkwardness of that meeting—something in his eyes, his expression that made her wonder—and that strange thing he had said—"I wish you every happiness." What had that meant? It was as if he never expected to see her again. Bewildered, Addie shook her head.
As they came up the other side of the mountain, Lovers Leap came into view. It brought the legend Buck had told her about to Addie's mind. Would lovers really do anything to be together, no matter how misguided? Or were stories like Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, and all the romantic classics just that—figments of the imagination of some author or dramatist?
Then she thought of Rob and Nan Baird. They were certainly a real love story. Thinking of the Bairds, of course, made her think about Rex again. What was it Freda said about him? That he was the most honest person she had ever known. If that were true, how could he have said all the things he had said to her and mean them, and suddenly not call or send a message, a note of explanation for his silence?
Addie remembered what else Freda had said: "Love is always a risk. You open yourself up to hurt, betrayal, and loss." Freda had known her husband had a history of tuberculosis when she married him, that he might die young. She had taken a chance that with her love and care he would recover. He didn't. But perhaps he was given a few years more of life because of her love. Freda said it had all been worth it. Those few perfect, happy years together had been worth what came after—the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness.
Nan Baird felt the same way about Rob. Love was worth the cost, that when you really love someone, you gave yourself, relinquished that inner you, it was worth it. Addie thought of the legend of Lover's Leap. When you put your life and happiness into the hands of someone else—it was a kind of jumping into the unknown. Maybe, some things in life are worth risking everything for and maybe love was one of those.
Or was that just romantic dreaming? Maybe it only made sense when the person you love, loved you in return. She hadn't asked for this heartache. She hadn't wanted to fall in love. It had just happened.
The stage slowed as they started up a steep incline, a precipitous section, steep cliffs and only manzanita and brush to hide the drop to the river far below on one side and on the other side the dense woods. Outside, the day seemed to darken. Addie leaned back, steadying herself against the lurching vehicle as they moved steadily up the mountain.
Then quite suddenly they jolted to a stop. Addie heard shouts, the whinnying of the horses. She sat up straight, clutching the seat handles. The stage rocked precariously, as if the horses were rearing and backing up. Mrs. Amberly, aroused from her slumber and struggling to sit upright, bonnet askew, narrow eyes wide open, grumbled sleepily, "What's happened, what's going on?"
"I don't know. Perhaps a fallen tree's blocked the way."
But before the words were out of Addie's mouth, there was the sharp report of gunshots. She started up from her seat, leaned out, and saw something that turned her blood to ice. A group of three or four masked men on horseback had blocked the stage; their upraised shotguns were pointed directly at Buck.
Addie's heart froze. Every nerve in her body tingled. Even as her conscious mind registered what was happening, another part of her refused to absorb its reality. The cries of the other passengers pierced the air. A loud voice declaring, "This is a holdup, folks!" brought it all to immediate understanding. A stagecoach robbery! The kind she had read and heard about in stories about the "Wild West" was happening right here before her eyes! Her stomach dropped sickeningly, then knotted. She tried to speak but her throat tightened as though she were being strangled. She could neither swallow nor speak. She could hardly breathe.
"All right, Buck, don't try any funny business. Get down, nice and easy—hands above your head, that's right. Nobody'll get hurt if you just do what we say."
The way the man was talking so familiarly to Henessey was almost as if he knew him. Had he known Buck would be driving this stage? Had he and his men been lying in wait at this point to ambush the stagecoach?
This man was on the horse in front. He was evidently the leader. He was wearing a long buff-colored canvas duster, which covered him from neck to the tops of his boots. His face was masked by a triangular blue bandanna, the brim of his wide-brimmed, brown slouch hat shadowed his eyes.
He pulled a long-handled pistol from his belt, and waving it toward the man beside Buck, he ordered one of his men, "Relieve that gentleman of his shotgun." To Henessey he said, "Now, Buck, I don't mean you no harm, so if you'll just hand over the cash box, everything will be just dandy and you all can go on your way." The man had a pronounced drawl, almost as though he were imitating a Southerner or a Texan.
"This is foolishness," growled Henessey. "You're taking' a
n awful risk. This here fellow is deputized a U.S. Marshal from over Santa Rosa, you'll be in big trouble if you—"
"Don't want to argue, Buck. Don't you worry about us; just do as we say and there won't be no trouble."
In a few minutes, one of the men had climbed up and unbuckled the steel cash box from under the driver's seat and carried it down.
"What about the passengers, Boss?" one of the masked men asked him.
"What about them?"
"Cash, jewelry?"
The man nodded almost indifferently, turned in his saddle, then motioning with his gun ordered, "Get them out and line 'em up."
Until now, the passengers had been too frightened to say anything. But as the man, waving his shotgun as though it were a palmetto fan, ordered them out, there were whimperings, moans, and mutterings as one by one people climbed down from the high wagon and stood huddled together against the side of the coach.
"Keep your eye on these two," the leader said sharply to the men still on their horses, indicating Henessey and the deputy. Then he dismounted and sauntered over to where the passengers stood trembling.
"Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, to inconvenience you like this—if you ladies'll just hand over all that pretty jewelry and the gentlemen their wallets and watches, and if you've got a tie pin, that'll be fine. Then we'll be on our way and no one the worse for it."
He gave one of the men a chamois drawstring bag and gestured for him to take it around to each passenger to fill with their valuables.
"This is an outrage!" spluttered Mrs. Amberly who had gone ashen. But as the bag was thrust at her by the man pointing the gun, her fat fingers fumbled at the diamond brooch at the neck of her blouse.
One of the men passengers started to protest, but when the man's gun waved in his direction, he subsided into a terrified silence, unhooked his gold watch chain, and handed it over without another word.
"Those rings too, Madam, if you please," the man continued. "And the earrings as well."