McCrory's Lady
Page 14
A huge, burly miner with a wild yellow beard and bushy eyebrows glared murderously at Wolf Blake. Dressed in rough denims and a plaid flannel shirt, the man was half a head taller than his opponent, with shoulders broader than the handle of the pickax tied to his overloaded mule. The large reddish cur that cowered between them was whimpering piteously. Blood ran from one side of its mouth.
“Damn yew, yew red-skinned son of a bitch! It's my critter 'n I'll treat ‘em any which way I want. Filthy Apach eat dawgs—ya fixin ta steal ‘em fer yore cook pot, huh, breed?”
“I'm fixing to keep you from beating the poor animal to death, and I don't give a damn if he's your dog or the territorial governor's,” Wolf replied in a low voice gone deadly with anger. His black eyes shot sparks of killing rage.
“He wants that fool miner to draw his gun,” Eden said, amazed that the cool, deliberate Wolf Blake would intervene to save a dog.
“Maybe he identifies with the mongrel—it's an outcast without a pedigree just like he is,” Maggie replied, eyeing the miner. “The only problem for Wolf is that the miner isn't carrying a gun.” Before she could think of a way to defuse the confrontation, Eden rushed into the street and knelt between the men, cradling the injured animal's head on her lap and stroking it gently.
“There, there, it's all right.” She daubed at the bloody mouth. Several teeth were loosened, and a nasty gash, no doubt caused by the miner's heavy boot, split the side of his muzzle clear down to the gum line.
“You takin' up with this here breed, Miz McCrory?” the miner asked, leering nastily at her.
“Leave the lady out of this. Just take your mule and head out before there's trouble.” Wolf edged himself carefully between Eden and the irate giant.
“Aw, there's already trouble, yew murderin' Apach bastard.” The miner took a powerful swing at Blake but only grazed his cheek as the faster, slimmer man dodged the clumsy blow.
By this time Maggie had helped Eden drag the injured dog away from the fight as a crowd gathered and the usual bets were exchanged.
“I’ll put twenty on Willis.”
“Done. I think the breed kin take him.”
Blake landed several hard, fast jabs to the bigger man's face. The crowd warmed to the fight, most cheering for the miner, a few for the dog's rescuer, even if he was part Apache. For such a lithe, slim man, the half-breed was a wickedly effective street fighter who used speed and cool nerve to offset brute strength.
The contest was going in his favor until the miner staggered back against his pack mule and seized the long-handled pickax from his pack. At once Blake stopped closing and backed off a step as the bearded giant grinned evilly, revealing a mouthful of straight yellowed teeth.
“Now I got ya.” He swung the ax, and its gleaming point missed Blake by a scant inch.
Eden seized Maggie's arm in a viselike grip. “My God, we can't let him kill Wolf! Shoot him, Wolf!”
Maggie wished desperately that she had not decided to leave the .32 caliber Colt she usually carried back at the hotel. As the two men fought, her eyes darted to Eden. I think she cares for Blake even if she doesn't know it yet.
Wolf knew that if a man with Apache blood killed a white man over a mutt in Arizona Territory, he was as good as hanged for murder—even if the dead man was swinging a pickax as if he'd just struck the mother lode. He let the bruiser take another swipe at him, then dodged in beneath the deadly arc of steel and tackled the miner to the ground.
After landing hard on top of the bigger man, Wolf seized the miners brawny wrist and wrested the pickax from his hand. He thrust the sturdy oak handle firmly down on his foe's windpipe and pressed hard, throwing his whole body weight atop the larger man to hold him as he choked and thrashed.
It was over in moments. The miner's face mottled pinkish red, then turned to a deep plum shade before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Wolf sent the ax sliding across the dusty street and stood up. He turned toward the two women as he picked up his hat, which had fallen into the street during the fight. “I always seem to be brawling around you, Miss Eden.” There was regret in his voice but no apology.
She met those fathomless black eyes and somehow could not look away until the dog emitted another low whimper. “It was very kind of you to stop him from abusing this poor fellow any further,” she said, resting one small soft hand on the shaggy fur soothingly. “He's badly hurt. Do you think we could carry him to the veterinarian's office? It's only a couple of blocks away.”
“I reckon I can manage him,” Wolf said, kneeling beside Eden. How small and fragile she was, as silvery and delicate as a moonbeam. He reached out to pick up the dog, and Eden gasped and took his dark hand in her pale one.
“You're hurt, too.” His hands were finely made with long, tapering fingers. They could be the hands of a gentleman if not for his Indian coloring. When she touched him, a frisson of heat leaped between them, shocking her with its raw sexual potency. “Just look at your knuckles,” she whispered breathlessly. Then their eyes met again.
“Always happens when you jab at a fellow twice your size,” Wolf said, trying to break the spell of her nearness. He wanted to feel the silk of her skin so badly he ached.
Maggie's voice interrupted them, wry with amusement. “Let Wolf carry the dog, Eden. You show him the way to that vet's. He's new to Prescott, just like me. If you two can manage, I think I'll retire to my room and let Lucille Guessler's petit fours digest for a bit. Wolf, you will see Eden safely back to the hotel, I trust?”
“I'll try to stay out of any more fights,” he replied as the two of them exchanged a look of understanding.
Flushing a delicate pink, Eden released Wolf's hand and stood up, dusting off her skirts, which were quite filthy from kneeling in the street. The crowd had trickled away by now and the two of them were left alone. “The vet's place is down the street and around the next corner. I hope Doc Watkins isn't off with some foaling mare.”
“Not at Crown Verde,” Wolf replied, carrying the dog as carefully as he could. “Colin sent me to escort you and Mrs. McCrory home in the morning.”
“And you just happened to stop to rescue this poor critter,” Eden said, a shy smile dimpling her cheeks. “I wouldn't have thought you the kind of man to be so soft-hearted.”
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Because I'm an Apache?”
“Maybe because you're just so prickly and mean-tempered,” she replied tartly, stung at his sudden inexplicable mood shift. What did you expect of a gunman? Then, she saw the gentle way he carried the heavy animal, careful of his injured leg. “But perhaps you're only mean to people...and kind to animals.”
“Animals return kindness for kindness. In my experience, Miss Eden, people usually don't,” he replied in a voice that hinted of long-buried pain.
Chapter Nine
“l want McCrory dead.” Win Barker's voice was controlled, the ice cold tone masking his fury. “How many men do I have to hire before someone succeeds?” He turned his heavy swivel chair away from the man standing in front of his desk and stared out the window. “Dammit, here in Apache country it isn't as if that man doesn't have enough enemies.”
“Hell, he'd make 'em on his own even if he wasn't a dirty Injun lover,” the gunman replied. “And now he's got that breed working for him, too,” he said, rubbing his whiskered jaw.
“Are you afraid of Blake?” Barker asked contemptuously. “You're pretty lucky to be alive, from all I've heard.”
“I'm not afraid of neither one of ‘em. I'll handle McCrory—and that damn breed, too.”
“See that you do. Jeb Settler has a couple of men who can back you. You know how to contact him.”
“Yeah, boss. This time nothing will go wrong. You'll see.”
“It'd better not. I want McCrory's meddling over and done with before that special investigator from Washington arrives in Prescott.” Barker made a dismissive gesture to the gunman. “Don't come back for your money until it's finished.”
The elegantly dressed man slipped from behind the door and paced across the office, noting the clutter with distaste. “Are you certain you can trust that bungler?”
Barker snorted as he poured two glasses of excellent whiskey from a decanter. “Why the hell should you worry? You never let any of them see your face.”
His companion flushed angrily. “You know that my involvement, were it to become known, would ruin everything for you as well as me.”
Barker smiled genially. “Don't get your back up. Here, have a drink.” He handed the glass to his cohort, then raised his own in a toast. “To Colin McCrory's imminent demise.”
* * * *
Maggie stood by the front window in her big bedroom watching Colin and Wolf ride out. Fuchsia and gold rent the gray velvet darkness of the eastern sky as the horsemen disappeared down the long, curving trail. She scanned the magnificent view of the Verde River Basin spread around her, remembering the first time she had seen Colin's home.
Colin’s home. But this magnificent ranch house would never be hers. How splendid it was, sitting in the center of the valley, all lush with spring grass and wildflowers. A huge porch surrounded all four sides of the frame edifice constructed in the Southern raised cottage style made popular by Anglo ranchers in the northern parts of the territory. The “cottage's” first floor was elevated six feet above the storage basements. There were eight rooms on the main floor. The dormer-windowed second story had six commodious bedrooms, including Colin's huge suite and her spacious adjoining quarters.
She stared at the door between the two rooms, a door that had never opened since they took up residence here ten days ago. What a splendidly beautiful prison she had wrought for herself. Rubbing her temples to forestall the pounding headache she knew was coming, Maggie chided herself, knowing it was not entirely fair or true. She did have a far more meaningful life here with Eden than she had with Bart in Sonora.
But the ranch house, of which she was the supposed mistress, ran like a precision-made clock without her help. Not that Eileen O'Banyon had not been most hospitable, welcoming Colin's unexpected bride and keeping her astonishment well concealed. However, after nearly twenty years of running the household, Eileen was used to making all the decisions. The housekeeper ordered the supplies, oversaw the growing, harvesting and preserving of food and the slaughter of steers, pigs and chickens for their table.
A small army of servants kept the house and grounds immaculate under Eileen's watchful eye. Maggie had learned their names and befriended them. Being fluent in Spanish was useful since most of them were of Mexican ancestry. She conversed with them in their native language, something neither the housekeeper nor Colin's foreman Riefe Cates could do. Even if the people at Crown Verde were a bit puzzled and in awe of her, everyone seemed willing enough to accept the new Mrs. McCrory—everyone except Mr. McCrory.
“Don't think of Colin,” she murmured to herself as she turned from the window and began her morning toilette. He and Wolf were riding east toward the reservation where Colin's lumber mill sat in the foothills. They were not expected to return for several days. The way her husband avoided her, she would scarcely be able to tell the difference.
Eden was an altogether different matter, but equally as troubling. If Colin wanted nothing to do with his wife, his daughter drew closer to her with every passing day. Maggie had bargained her way into this marriage because Eden needed her, and she had grown to love the young woman like her own daughter. But such dependence was not good for a lovely and bright girl whose body had been defiled by Lazlo's trickery and whose spirit was being demolished by the cruelty of her peers.
Sophie Stanley and Mariah Whittaker had spread Mrs. Simpson's tale of Eden's illicit elopement across the territory faster than a telegraph wire. Eden was “ruined.” All the town women snubbed her, and even the men at Crown Verde leered knowingly at her, with the exception of the kindly old foreman and a few of the longtime cowhands.
And Wolf Blake.
Maggie felt certain Blake was in love with Eden. There had been a spark of attraction since the first time he had seen the girl. The mutual fascination between them had grown ever since. But Eden viewed Wolf in the same light as she had Lazlo. So would her father if he had any inkling of Blake's interest in his daughter. A half-breed drifter who lived by his guns was scarcely the sort of husband a man of Colin McCrory's stature envisioned for his only child. Neither was Maggie Worthington the sort of woman he would have chosen as his wife, but she refused to dwell on that bitter fact.
As she walked down the long flight of stairs and smelled the yeasty aroma of fresh baked bread, Maggie considered the wisdom of playing matchmaker between Eden and Wolf. Best to go slow there and further take the man's measure. He was a loner, a man whom life had treated harshly. Often such men made less than ideal husband material.
“Sure and ye're lookin' glum, Miz Maggie,” Eileen said as her shrewd gaze swept over Colin's bride. “Missin’ him already and himself not two miles from the ranch house yet.” She wiped her flour-coated hands on her apron, then poured a cup of inky rich coffee and handed it to Maggie.
“Thank you, Eileen,” Maggie replied, trying to divert the scrutiny of the well-meaning older woman to a safer area. “I thought Eden and I might ride down to the spring roundup camp on the Verde this morning.”
A troubled look came over Eileen's plump, kindly face. “I don't know about her riding today. She got up early to see her pa off, then wouldn't eat breakfast. Said she was feelin' that bad. I coaxed a cup of warm milk down her and it was back to sleep she went. Not an hour ago.”
Maggie sighed. “Best to let her sleep then. Is there anything I could help you do today—besides the cooking?” she asked ruefully.
“I had been intendin' to start the upstairs spring cleaning before Miz Eden's troubles. If ye'd like to help with that, it's grateful I'd be.”
After Maggie ate a light breakfast, the two women started upstairs, with Eileen, loquacious as ever, leading the way. “I always like to do the deep cleanin' meself. The maids, they do as I tell them but it's not the same, I'm thinkin’.”
Armed with dusters and brooms, mops and buckets, they made their way down the long hallway. “Best to begin with the mister's room while he's away,” the housekeeper said, noticing that Maggie hesitated a second before following her into Colin's quarters.
Maggie looked at the rough-hewn pine furniture, so heavy and masculine, so like the man himself. “This certainly is different from the furnishings in the rest of the house,” she said as her eyes deliberately skimmed past the bed.
“Ye've niver been in here before, have ye?” Eileen asked gently.
Maggie felt the heat steal into her face as she formed an angry retort. Then, seeing the sympathetic light in the housekeeper's eyes, she bit back the words. “No, no I haven't. As I'm sure you know, Colin and I don't have a real marriage. He only married me for Eden's sake.”
“And what of yerself? Don't be tellin' me it was only for Eden's sake, no matter that ye do love her like she was yer own.”
Maggie picked up a feather duster and began to run it along the low open beams of the ceiling. “No, it wasn't only for Eden. I wanted to escape my past. Colin provided me with a way to do that.”
“Why is it I'm thinkin' Colin McCrory's a whole lot more than just a way of escapin' yer past to ye?” Her round, guileless face was openly curious now.
“I had quite a past to escape.” Maggie measured Eileen, then decided to gamble on honesty. “When Colin met me in Sonora I was half owner of a saloon and bordello.” She raised her chin a notch, waiting for the Irishwoman's reaction.
Eileen digested the startling information for a moment, then said, “Do ye expect me to be shocked right down to me bone marrow? I'm not. But ye sure don't look or act the likes of them scarlet poppies in
town. It's good stock yer from. And, after what's happened to me little girl...her bein' led astray by that oily-tongued serpent. Well, I can only be grateful she was rescued from what ye must've suffered.”
“Thank you, Eileen,” Maggie replied quietly.
When Maggie volunteered no more, the housekeeper patted her arm in a motherly fashion and said, “If ever ye want to talk about it, it's a willin' ear I have.”
“There are certain similarities between mistakes I made and those Eden made. That's why Eden was able to convince her father that he should marry me and bring me here.”
“And of course ye came like a martyr, not wantin' to wed with the mister atall,” Eileen replied with a wry chuckle, noting the heightened color in Maggie's cheeks and the way her eyes could not keep from studying her husband's inner sanctum. In time, she might fathom the mystery of their relationship and help the two young fools to work it out.
Eileen O’Banyon was a patient woman. Changing the subject abruptly, she said, “Yer right about this furniture not fittin' with the rest of the household. Miz Elizabeth bought everything for the big house when the mister finished buildin' it for her. After she died in this room, he couldn't bear to sleep in the bed. He had a cabinetmaker in Prescott make this set for him. The dainty French furniture the missus favored is stored in the attic, along with the rest of her things.”
“He must've loved her very much,” Maggie said, feeling that now familiar tight ache forming in her chest as she picked up an old photograph of Colin as a younger man, standing beside a small, beautiful woman.
“Miz Elizabeth was tiny, a real fragile thing, all pale blonde. Miz Eden takes after her coloring and fine bones, but it's her pa's toughness that's seen her through lots of scrapes—even before this last one.”
They stripped the curtains and bed linens for the maids to wash, rolled the braided rug for beating, then removed everything from the tops of the chest of drawers and tables and began to polish the wood with lemon oil.