Cady took three steps sideways before bumping up against the building again. Her brain felt sluggish, dazed, but she wasn't stupid and she wasn't blind. The truth was beginning to seep through the fog, the way a photograph gets clearer the longer it sits in a tub of chemicals.
Jesse still had that peculiar expression, halfway between panic and hilarity. She caught his eye, but only for a second. "Huh. Must've jammed," he mumbled, blinking down at his revolver. "Say, Cady, did you see that? That guy wasn't dead at all! Hey, I wonder if Doc Mobius is in cahoots with him. The sheriff, too, maybe. Now, isn't that a hell of a thing? What do you suppose—"
To shut him up, she snatched the gun out of his hand. "You lying, thieving son of a bitch."
But he wasn't through trying to brazen it out. "Wait, now. What do you mean? You saw the blood, we all saw it. That guy was dead. Dead as a doornail. Now, how do you—"
"Ketchup. You skunk."
"Cady, honey—"
She was ninety-nine percent sure the gun was full of blanks, and furious enough to take a chance on the other percent. Taking dead aim at Jesse's lying heart, she fired.
Bam.
He didn't keel over, but she screamed anyway, from nerves and anger and last-second terror. She felt too weak to fight when he put his arms around her, but as soon as she got her strength back—a minute or two at the most—she shoved him away.
"Snake!" she started up again. With a shaking hand, she pointed up the empty alley. "Who was that man?"
"Now, Cady—"
"Tell me, or I swear I'll get bullets. Who was he?"
"Shh—shh. That was my cousin Marion."
"Your—you mean he's Gault?"
"Shh. Yeah. I told you I wasn't Gault. Can I help it if you didn't believe me?"
Oh, if only she had bullets. "You stole my nest egg! Didn't you!" He tugged on his ear and didn't deny it. "Give it back, you slimy, lying snake in the grass!"
"I can't, I had to give it to Marion so he'd die. He wouldn't do it for nothing."
"Go after him and get it back."
"Can't do that, either. See, he's on his way home, back to Lexington. Says he's going to start a new life."
He reached for her, but she shook him off. "Well, you can go right along with him. Shoot each other all the way from here to Kentucky for all I care." She flounced around and started to walk away, but Jesse caught her arm and made her stop. "Quit. Don't talk to me."
"Aw, Cady, listen. I was going to tell you about the money."
"Sure you were." She twisted away again. "Stop following me," she snapped, twitching his hand off.
"Anyway, I knew you'd be rich as soon as we found out Wylie was stealing from the Seven Dollar."
"Which is probably why you proposed to me in the first place."
He stopped her again. The look on his face almost thawed her. Almost. "You can't believe that. I know you don't."
"Why not? All you ever do is lie to me!"
"Yeah, but not about the main things."
"What main things?"
"Being crazy in love with you."
"Hmpf."
"Wanting to be with you all the time."
"Puh."
"Make babies with you. Get old together while we sit in those rocking chairs on the front porch. Listening to the river."
She sniffed. Thought he could sweet-talk her, did he? For the last time, she jerked out of the soft hold he had on her arm. "Leave me alone and quit bothering me," she huffed, flinging away and stalking up the alley. At the corner, she shot a glance back over her shoulder, but only once. To make sure he was following.
He was.
Fifteen
"Poppy! Hey, Cady!"
Beside her on the wagon, Levi waved to his son, grinning and chuckling deep down in his chest. Cady sympathized. Something about Ham and his huge, toothy grin, the pure joy in his face when he was happy, the gangly, endearing way his arms and legs were outgrowing the rest of him—whenever she saw him, she just felt like laughing.
Levi said, "Whoa, horse," and the little mare trotted to a sedate halt in front of Rogue's Tavern. He jumped down just as Ham launched himself into his arms, staggering both of them back against the hitching rail. "You home," Ham exulted, and Levi hoisted him high up in the air to celebrate. "Oh, Poppy, you been gone forever."
"Forever," Levi agreed, hugging him hard before setting him on his feet. Two nights was all, but as far as Cady knew, Levi and Ham had never been separated before.
"Welcome home," said a soft voice behind them, and Levi's face split into a grin as wide and joyful as his son's. Cady watched him walk toward his wife, wondering if they'd kiss or embrace. If so, it would be for the first time—in public, that was. She'd never seen them do anything but touch hands in front of people, not even at their Buddhist wedding last fall. Lia was strict about things like that, which made her new occupation—saloonkeeper's wife—an even more interesting turn of events.
Ham leaped up beside Cady on the wagon, and she barely got her hands up for a shield before he threw his arms around her and squeezed. She winced—but managed to change a pained grimace into a welcoming grin before he noticed. She was still sore, but this was nothing compared to yesterday, and by tomorrow she planned to be good as new.
"What'd you do while we were gone?" she quizzed him. "Did you mind Lia? How's your grandfather?"
Ham called Mr. Chang Zi, which was Chinese for "Master," and the old man called him Zi, too, because the word also meant "son." The two were thick as thieves. In fact, Cady credited Ham for softening the old man up, because at first he'd been against his only daughter marrying a hēirén—Negro. But no longer. Nowadays, although he never set foot inside the Rogue—it went against his religion—on soft summer nights old Chang liked to sit in a rocking chair on the red balcony with his new family, smoking his long clay pipe.
While Ham told Cady everything he'd been doing for the last two days, Levi unloaded a dozen crates of whiskey from the back of the wagon, careful not to jar Cady's seedling flats and burlap-wrapped saplings. Her trip to Grant's Pass had been for two reasons (well, three as it turned out, but the third one was unplanned): first, to introduce Levi to George Nickerson of Nickerson & Spann Liquor and Spirits Wholesalers, and to personally vouch for him so the fact that he was colored wouldn't prejudice Mr. Nickerson; and second, to pick up her precious hybrid pear specimens from the nursery herself, not trust them to the mail service. She'd done that once, in March, with a dozen dwarf apple saplings, and less than half had arrived alive. Never again.
"Please, come in and have tea with us," Lia invited.
"I'd like to, but I told Jesse I'd be home before sunset for sure. Next time?"
"Yes, next time." Lia smiled and made one of her graceful bows.
Ham jumped down off the wagon. Levi said to him, "Did you get Cady's mail like she ask you?"
"Oh, yeah." He stuck his hand in the back pocket of his dungarees and dug out a letter. "You only got one." He handed it up, and she smiled when she saw the return address: "M.N., Golden Leaf Farm, Lexington, Ky." But all she said was, "Thanks, Ham."
"You welcome."
"Well, I guess I better get on." She said it casually, like she wasn't in much of a hurry. But she and Jesse had never been separated before, either, and two days really did seem like forever.
Levi tipped his hat. "Meant what I said," he told her in a low mumble. "Don't forget."
"What? What'd you say?" Ham had to know.
"Well, I didn't say it to you, did I?"
"I won't forget," Cady promised, sending him a soft look. How could she? The sincerity of Levi's gratitude had moved and embarrassed her. And for what? Things she'd never give a second thought to, like making sure he got good terms on the sale of the saloon, or going with him for the first time to meet his liquor and beer and tobacco and glassware suppliers. Shoot, wasn't that what friends were for?
"Oh! Oh!" Ham started jumping up and down. "Did you hear who won? Poppy, did you hear?"
"The Kentucky Derby! Came through today on the telegraph!"
"Who won?"
"Horse name Buchanan."
"Uh-huh."
"An' guess who ridin' him. Guess!"
"Ham, how would I—"
"A Negro man."
"What? No."
"Yes! He name Isaac Murphy, and he the first colored man ever to win the Derby."
"Well, I'll swan. That is something, now. Yes, sir."
Cady agreed, but she and Levi and Lia sent each other wry, resigned looks over Ham's head. Just when he'd started switching from jockey to deep-sea fisherman for a life's goal, this had to happen. Now it was back to jockey for sure.
They all waved and said so long, and Cady set the mare to a trot down Main Street toward home. Passing the livery stable, she waved at Logan and he waved back. It had been months now, but it still seemed strange not to see Nestor out front, mending harness or dozing in the shade. Part of the settling of a suit against Wylie gave the livery back to Logan, though, along with a cash payment, the terms of which Cady wasn't privy to. But if it was anywhere near as generous as her cash settlement, Logan must be sitting pretty.
Riding by the sheriff's office, she looked for Glendoline, but for once she wasn't there. Too bad. Glen liked to sit outside the jail on nice days and rock the new baby. Cady missed her, but it was probably just as well. She was in a hurry to get home, and if Glen had been there with the baby she'd have had to stop. And talk, and hold that baby. She just wouldn't have been able to help herself.
The houses thinned; the road narrowed. Cady took a deep breath and wondered if it was her imagination that it not only looked prettier down here, it smelled better than it did up there around Grant's Pass. Maybe it was just that she was going home. Yeah. That was probably it.
She passed the Seven Dollar and almost turned in, but at the last second she let the horse trot on by. Business could wait till tomorrow. Anyway, Shrimp would've told Jesse if anything interesting had happened while she was away. She had to smile, remembering her reaction when Jesse suggested Shrimp might make a good mine captain. Shrimp Malone? That smelly old prospector? Well, he was still smelly, but it turned out he wasn't that old. And more to the point, what Shrimp didn't know about gold mining you could write on the head of a pin. Next to the Gettysburg Address. He'd turned out perfect, and it was all Jesse's doing.
Ah, Jesse. Married nine months and three weeks, and she could still get flushed just thinking about him. Maybe she'd never get over that. Maybe she'd live to ninety and still get giddy whenever her ninety-three-year-old husband winked at her. Wouldn't that be something? Well, it wouldn't surprise her. Not one bit.
She sat up straighter, nose high, sniffing the air like a hunting dog. "Ahh," she said out loud to Nell, the sweet-tempered little mare Jesse had given her for Christmas. "Smell that? Apple blossoms. Mmm, smells like money." She cackled at herself; she sounded like Jesse. He'd say a thing like that and not mean it any more than she did. For one thing, her orchard probably wouldn't bring in much of anything this year, its first year. (Although next year, when her hard work started to pay off, all the pruning and grafting and budding she'd been doing since February, plus all the tilling, planting, thinning, and spraying she planned to do this summer—well then, then you'd see something.) And for another thing, even if she made a million dollars, money wasn't what that airy apple scent smelled like to Cady. It smelled like... oh, so many good things. Freedom and independence (which was odd, seeing as how orchard-keeping was a much riskier business than saloon-keeping). And home—her place, her very own life's work, which she loved and was getting good at. And Jesse. Yeah, it smelled like Jesse. Her wildest dream come true.
The old stone gatepost at their turnoff didn't list anymore; Jesse had straightened it up, and painted it white while he was at it. Steering the horse around the corner, Cady admired the brand-new sign he'd ordered from a fancy sign store up in Eugene, LA VALLÉE AUX COQUINS, it read in blue letters at the top, and rogue valley farm in red at the bottom. And in the middle a beautiful black horse flew, with glossy wings outstretched, graceful as an eagle's. It was the spitting image of Pegasus.
The sun had dropped behind the tallest orchard trees, turning everything in the world mellow-gold and dreamy. Bees still buzzed in the fruit tree blossoms, and spring peepers were tuning up in the wild-flower meadow, still boggy from the winter rains. Across a lawn of buttercups and violets, the house came into view. After a lot of false starts and nervous stops, they'd finally painted it crocus-yellow—not white!—with lavender shutters and white pilasters, parapets, and porch railings. That had seemed like a very daring move, even foolhardy, especially when winter came and everything around their cheerful pastel mansion died, went to sleep, or turned brown. But then spring came, vibrant and earthy and bright, and it absolutely vindicated them—made their choice look inspired.
And Cady had learned a valuable lesson that for some reason had been eluding her: that she and Jesse didn't have to duplicate the old Russell place, didn't have to restore it to exactly what it had looked like thirty years ago. They could fix it up and make it theirs, and sometimes—sometimes the changes they decided on would actually improve it. Imagine that. And here she'd always thought it was already perfect. Funny: her idea of perfection—something you strove for but could never achieve—kept getting pushed back, expanded. Redefined. She had to keep changing the definition of it because it seemed to her she kept achieving it. Which was impossible. By definition.
A man coming around the house from the stables looked like Jesse for a second. Her heart did a familiar little two-step before she realized it was only Nestor. She waved; he waved. She slowed the wagon and stopped in front of the house.
"Howdy, Cady." He touched his beat-up hat. All Nestor's hats were beat-up. He favored straw, and so did the horses he cared for, who were forever taking bites out of his hats. "Nice trip?"
"Real nice. How's everything?"
"Fine, just fine."
She asked the real question. "Where's Jesse?"
"He's down at the stables. Worrying about where the hell you've been."
She smiled, pleased.
"So you better get down there. He's waitin' on you. Got a surprise."
"Oh, Nestor! Is it what I think it is?"
"I ain't talkin'." But he couldn't help winking, and the tickled look on his whiskery face told her exactly what she wanted to know. "Better get on," he repeated. "Leave Nell out front, I'll unhitch 'er in a bit."
"Hot damn." Jiggling the reins, she got the mare going. "Thank you," she called back, and he tipped his half-eaten hat.
Jesse said the new stable looked like the Taj Mahal. An exaggeration; it was white with rust-red trim— end of similarity. Still, there was something pleasingly jewellike in its clean lines, and on the inside it was definitely roomier and more immaculate than any house Cady had ever lived in. So far it only had three occupants—four, if Jesse's surprise was what she thought it was. But that would soon change, because two weeks ago Wylie's lawyers had finally caved in and settled her lawsuit against their jailbird client. As soon as she signed a few more papers, she'd be rich. Really rich—enough to pay for all the fruit trees and all the helpers she wanted to make her orchard flourish; rich enough to finish fencing the paddocks and pastures Jesse's horses needed to graze and train and roam in; and most of all, rich enough to start buying the quality stock he wanted, so he could turn Rogue Valley Farm into the finest equine and stud establishment in the Northwest.
"Whoa, Nell." Cady reined the mare in before the closed stable doors. "Nestor's coming in a sec," she told her, springing down from the wagon, shaking out her skirts and fluffing her hair. "Delicious oats any minute. Promise." She gave her a pat on her velvet nose, then cracked open the stable doors and slipped inside.
Whoever would guess that Miss Cady McGill, former saloon owner and blackjack dealer, would grow to love the smell of a horse stable? She had, though, all o
f it, the whole musky combination of leather and dust and sweat and straw and wood and—yes, even manure. It was a lusty, manly smell. It reminded her of Jesse, so how could she not love it? In its way, it was as sweet as apple blossoms. At least to her.
She might be a little prejudiced.
And then his voice came to her, the words inaudible, but that low, husky murmur so thrillingly familiar it made her mouth go dry. He only used that tone for two things: to talk to Pegasus when he thought nobody was listening, and to whisper sexy things in Cady's ear when they were making love.
Blushing, grinning like a fool, she followed the seductive sound, drawn irresistibly down the wide corridor to Peg's stall. Neither horse nor man heard her; they were too much in love with each other. She paused to look at Jesse, slouched over the gate, one of his worn, dusty boots braced on the bottom rail. He had on a pink shirt and a blue paisley tie, with his oldest corduroy work pants. It was a joke; he did it on purpose, wore outrageous colors to tease her, and also to make fun of himself—the former Gault.
"Proud of yourself, aren't you?" she heard him croon to the black stallion. "Think you're just about the toughest stud this side of Kentucky, don't you? I swear your chest got bigger since yesterday. Pretty soon you won't fit through the door. Huh? C'mere, Mr. Swelled Head. There's my boy. There's my beauty."
"I could be jealous."
He did a slow whirl—she'd surprised him, but he was much too smart to make sudden moves around horses, even Peg. "Cady."
Forget jealousy. The gladness in his voice when he said that one word was better than music. He came toward her with his arms spread wide, smiling at her with so much love and welcome, she forgot herself and hugged him hard.
"Ow. Oh, ow, ow—"
"Cady? What's wrong?" He jerked his hands away in alarm. "Did I hurt you?"
"Ha! No, no, it's nothing." She laughed again, anxious to reassure him. "I'm fine, really, just—stiff, you know, from the long drive. Oh, hurry up and kiss me. Jess, I have such a surprise for you."
"Is this it?" He kissed her the way she liked best, gently, soundly. Completely.
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