When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  Nathaniel glanced down into the young, beautiful face staring up at him in such condemnation, and although her eyes were a dark shade of blue, they suddenly reminded him of other eyes. He couldn’t bear to see such a look of loathing in them when they met his, and he found himself telling her what he’d never told another living soul.

  “Hate Neil?” he repeated the words slowly, as if hard to comprehend. “No, I don’t hate him. When I first saw him I knew such fierce pride, such love for this son of mine. No, I don’t hate Neil. What I hate is myself and the curse I live with. Every time I look at Neil, at the son I loved, I see my own face staring back at me. Neil wasn’t created in God’s image, but in my image, in the image of a man who thought he was a god. Neil was to become a constant reminder to me of my arrogance. I was young and defiant, and contemptuous of everything but my own strength and will to hold on to what I had created, what was mine,” he said, his voice sounding like it must have years ago, bold with self-assurance.

  “Riovado was mine. I defended it against all who dared to challenge me. This land I’d conquered was my kingdom.

  “Fionnuala was mine. I loved her as I have loved no other, and Fionnuala loved me as a man dreams to be loved by a woman. And we were blessed.

  “Shannon was the symbol of our love, of our divine existence. But we were too close to the heavens at Riovado.

  “I nearly lost Fionnuala when she gave birth to Shannon. We hoped it was just the difficulties of a first birth, but later we knew it would be dangerous for her to have any more children. She was never completely well after that. But our love was not to be denied, and I worshipped Fionnuala with my heart and my body. And I wanted a son. A son in my image. I was all powerful, and I challenged anyone to take Fionnuala from me, especially after she told me she was with child. I’d never seen her looking so breathtakingly beautiful. She laughed and sang, and sewed clothes for her son—because she always gave me what I wanted. You cannot have a dynasty without a son to inherit, to carry on the noble family name,” he said with a bitter twist to his lips.

  Nathaniel glanced up at the portrait. “She died in my arms, hemorrhaging away her life’s blood. But my son lived, and every day he grew stronger and healthier, and his hair was golden like mine, and his eyes a pale grayish-green, and when he raised his little fist into the air, shaking it in defiance, as if at the gods above, as his father had before him, I knew then they were mocking me. They had granted me my wish, given me my son, but at what price?” he asked, glancing back up at the portrait. “Are you familiar with mythology?”

  Leigh nodded, unable to speak.

  “As a boy, I was always fascinated by the stories of the gods. In this land, despite one’s Christian beliefs, it is easy to believe in those ancient myths. The Indians sense the power around them, they recognize the forces that influence their lives, and they are ruled by the beliefs that have been nurtured by what they cannot comprehend—what is beyond their reach, what they cannot change. Drought. Famine. Flood. Death. One comes to suspect that the gods sit up there on top of the mountains watching and waiting with infinite patience for some foolish mortal to challenge them, to change what has been proclaimed by them in their ancient wisdom. The myths are full of such tales, and of the gods’ jealousy and anger, and retribution, against a mere mortal who would aspire to such Olympian heights and try to steal their power. There was a man who dared. And why shouldn’t he? He was almost a god. There was nothing beyond his reach—except a son. And the gods smiled behind their hands, nodding to one another, then held them out, palms open, as if acquiescing.

  “But nothing is given freely in this life, and you will learn that to your sorrow one day,” Nathaniel said strangely, staring down into Leigh’s widened eyes. “The gods gave the man a son. A golden son—gift of the gods. And they said they would watch over him, protect him throughout his life. But they had deceived the man. Every time they intervened, and saved the son’s life, they sacrificed another in his stead.

  “Both father and son were damned. For those who died were wife and mother; daughter and sister; and son and brother,” Nathaniel spoke softly, his light gray eyes shadowed and sunken, his mouth, which once must have curled up at the corners when he smiled, like Neil’s, was hardened into a thin line by the guilt that years of suffering in silence had caused.

  But Leigh felt no pity for him, and she pulled her arm away, meeting his gaze angrily as she said in a low voice, “You haven’t changed, Nathaniel Braedon. You’re still an arrogant man. You’ve been so full of bitterness and self-pity you kept the love you could have shared with your son, and with others, to yourself. Hoarding it like a miser. How could you have truly loved Fionnuala that you could turn away from her only son? He is of her flesh. She died so he could live. Neil was her gift to you, the man she loved. How do you think she would feel to know how you had received it, how you had treated her son?” Leigh demanded, angrier than she’d ever been as she thought of how Neil must have suffered all of these years and how another man, a far better man, Adam, had loved the child whose life might have caused his beloved Blythe’s death.

  “My sister died shortly after giving birth to her only child, but did Adam turn away from that child? No, he loved his daughter more than his own life. He cherished the child born of the love he had for Blythe. To have turned against that child, for whatever reason, would have been a betrayal of that love. You may hate yourself for wanting that son, but Fionnuala gave her life so he could live. If you cannot see that, then she died for nothing,” Leigh said quietly, turning away from him.

  She’d almost gotten to the door, when his harsh voice stopped her.

  “You forgot this.”

  Leigh took a shaky breath and turned around. Nathaniel was holding the rolled-up piece of vellum. Forcing herself to walk back toward him, her knees shaking, Leigh held out her hand.

  Her eyes met his for a brief moment, while each held on to the roll of paper, then Nathaniel released his grip on the paper and turned away. He walked over to stand behind his desk, a lonely man with his back to the room as he stared out the window at his kingdom.

  Leigh almost ran down the corridor to her bedchamber. Slamming the door behind her, she leaned against it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Pushing herself away from the door, she went to her desk, opening the lid and searching through one of the small drawers for the small brass key to unlock the bottom drawer in the lower chest. For a moment, Leigh stood deep in thought, the rolled-up sketch balanced across her outspread palms, as if she were weighing its value.

  The key clicked softly in the lock, and Leigh opened the drawer, carefully placing the drawing on top of Blythe’s muslin shawl, next to the brisé fan and neatly tied stack of letters, the drawer holding all of Blythe’s prized possessions—to be kept in trust for the daughter she would never know.

  Leigh shut the drawer firmly, locking it. Placing the key back in the small drawer, she was about to close the lid of the desk, when her eye caught the gleam of the ornate silver frame that held the wedding portrait of Blythe and Adam. Leigh picked it up, her fingertip lightly tracing the curving line of the cold frame.

  Blythe’s smiling face stared back at her. She had been a beautiful bride in white satin and lace, a chaplet of orange blossoms, for chastity and fertility, adorning the dainty, shoulder-length veil, her bridal bouquet fragrant with flowers from the gardens of Travers Hill, the blushing pink rose buds, drops of dew still clinging to the petals, lovingly selected by their mother the morning of the wedding. The toe of Blythe’s white satin slipper just peeked from beneath the lacy skirts of her gown, as if tapping with impatience for their images to be caught forever as the camera snapped. Leigh could still remember how long the photographer had taken in setting up his equipment, juggling thin metal plates, trays, and chemicals, his bald head popping up and down beneath the black cloth behind the tripod camera box, until finally there had been a bright flash that had sent Guy’s hounds howling from the great hall, the flustered photogra
pher nearly falling in his haste as he tripped over the stragglers as he rushed to his wagon, where he’d set up his dark tent for developing the plates before they dried. The photographer had known his craft, however, for Adam appeared the perfect bridegroom, standing somewhat stiffly in his somber black tailcoat and trousers, his elegantly figured silver waistcoat, white shirt, tie, and gloves impeccable. His blond hair was neatly brushed, side whiskers trimmed close, but the devilish grin on his handsome face was anything but appropriate for the occasion, nor was the white satin drawstring purse over his arm proper dress for a gentleman on his wedding day, but then since Blythe held his top hat in her small gloved hand, Leigh supposed it did not seem unusual, and knowing both her sister and brother-in-law too well to have asked how the exchange had taken place, it still remained a mystery.

  Leigh was placing the photograph back on her desk when she heard a gurgling noise behind her and went to the cradle.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” she murmured, bending over and lifting the baby into her arms. “My, you’re growing into a big girl,” she said, kissing Lucinda’s chubby cheek and receiving a tug on her ear in response.

  “Ouch, don’t pull on Mama’s earring,” Leigh said naturally, not even aware of what she had called herself as she gently pried the strong little fingers loose from the dangling earring of lavender jade, then pressed a kiss into the tiny pink hand.

  Big gray eyes, but a darker shade than Adam’s, and fringed with dark brown lashes, stared up at her trustingly, and Leigh hugged her close to her breast, vowing this child would always know love. “Your father loved you so,” Leigh said huskily, thinking of Neil, and the love he’d been denied because of the untimely death of a mother and the bitterness of a grieving father.

  But what of Shannon? Leigh found herself wondering as she sat down in the rocking chair and began to rock Lucinda back and forth gently, softly singing a lullaby well remembered from childhood.

  What had been the true fate of Neil’s sister?

  What had happened to Shannon Malveen?

  * * *

  A lone rider approached a cabin in a clearing beneath tall pines. No welcoming smoke rose from the stone chimney, and the small windows were shuttered against the light. The corral was empty. Weeds grew tall before the big double doors of the ramshackle barn and a heavy tree limb had fallen from high overhead, crashing through the roof of one of the weathered outbuildings.

  Densely forested slopes swept down low to the valley floor, where a broad sweep of plateau stretched to the low hills rolling toward the snowcapped peaks to the east.

  A small mountain river with cool, clear waters meandered through the waving grasses of the meadow before tumbling into a ravine that narrowed into a rocky canyon. Cañon del Malhadado fell away to the south, the steep gorge descending through the cottonwoods and sagebrush to the desert floor far below.

  The only place to ford the river was where it crossed the grassy plateau, where cattle, sheep, and horses could graze, and the mountains rose protectively around the valley.

  Riovado. Vado del Rio. The ford of the river.

  Neil Braedon had come home.

  He dismounted, standing for a moment as he stared at his birthplace. Slowly, he walked toward the cabin, the big bay following a step behind.

  Finding the rawhide strap, Neil pulled the latchstring, the bar on the inside of the door lifting. Pushing against the heavy crossbeamed door, Neil was momentarily surprised, for the door opened easier than he thought it would, even though the hinges creaked with age and disuse. His hand came to rest on his holster, the butt of his pistol comfortably against his palm as he stepped inside the cabin. He moved easily through the shadowy room to the window, lifting the bar across the shutters and letting the sunshine filter through the dirty panes of glass, and he wondered now why he’d bothered to replace the animal skins five years ago.

  Neil glanced around.

  Deer antlers hung above the door and held an old flintlock rifle and powder horn his father had carried with him from Virginia. The great stone fireplace almost filled one wall. A bear skin stretched before the hearth, where a black iron pot and a baking kettle swung from a long chimney bar, and a tin coffeepot sat on a trivet in the cold ashes. Other blackened long-handled pans and cooking utensils dangled from hooks nearby, and the long pine mantel held candles, lanterns, and an assortment of jugs and bowls. In the corner, a pole extending from the wall and held up with a notched log on the outer edge, then crossed with poles to the wall, held a soft mattress stuffed with leaves, sweet grass, and moss. A comforter and quilt had been folded across the foot, and feather pillows piled at the head. Next to the bed was a cradle. Across the room, a row of peg-like steps in the wall led to the loft above. A rough-hewn pine table and four chairs sat comfortably close to the hearth, as did a high-backed settle, while a corner cupboard held pewter dishes and cutlery. A long bench, a butter churn, and a spinning wheel had been placed next to it, and close enough to the window for light.

  Nothing had changed during the last four years, Neil thought.

  Nothing ever changed at Riovado. Walking closer to the hearth, Neil stared up at the painting above the mantel. It was a portrait of his mother, painted the year of her marriage. She could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen at the time. She had posed for the portrait dressed in a riding habit of dark blue cloth with a small ruff of lace around her throat and pinned with a cameo brooch. A black hat trimmed with a long ostrich feather and a blue veil was angled to expose the delicate line of neck and the luxuriant black curls that fell to her shoulder.

  Neil stood staring at the graceful figure in the portrait for a long moment, meeting the brilliant blue of eyes the artist’s palette had managed to capture, the expression full of warmth and good humor, the slant of the eyes alluding to a touch of impishness in the young woman’s demeanor. “Mother,” he said softly before turning away.

  Neil pulled the shutters tight, unwilling for nocturnal visitors to make a shambles of his home during his absence. With a last glance around the silent room, he closed the door shut behind him, hearing the heavy bar slide back into place.

  For a moment he watched the grasses as the breeze gently stirred them, the sound of the river drifting melodically to him across the distance. “Come on, boy,” Neil said, patting the big bay as he walked by him toward a small copse of pine and spruce, the springtime air heavy with the sweetness of meadow grasses. Bending down, Neil picked up a pine bough studded with tiny cones, the spicy pungency of the pale sap sticking to his fingers.

  Neil was about to stand, when he suddenly noticed the tracks; the hoof marks of unshod ponies. A number had been through here not more than a day ago, for the prints were still clearly marked, and had not been disturbed by even a pine needle floating down into the imprint.

  But the tracks had not come from a herd of wild horses. These hoof marks followed in single file, and they were too deep for riderless ponies. Slowly, Neil stood up. Unhurriedly his narrowed eyes scanned the horizon.

  Comanche rode unshod ponies. So did Apache.

  Neil glanced back at the cabin, remembering the ease with which the door had opened. He reached automatically to touch the leather pouch at his throat, then dropped his hand halfway, remembering that it was still in Leigh’s possession. His hand settled instead on his hip, close above the smooth butt of his pistol, and at his shoulder, Thunder Dancer walked beside him, the rifle within his grasp.

  Reaching the shady copse of trees, Neil quickly searched the shadows for any that moved, listening for a distinct call to sound through the stillness.

  But there was only the soughing of the wind through the trees.

  Walking into the glade, Neil’s soundless steps carried him to the small cross over his mother’s grave.

  FIONNUALA ELISSA BRAEDON

  BELOVED OF NATHANIEL

  B. 1805

  D. 1829

  This was the special person Fionnuala Elissa Braedon’s son had wished to see. It had been
four years since last he’d been at Riovado. Someone should stand by her grave, Neil thought, for his father, after burying his beloved, had vowed never to come to Riovado again. And he had kept his promise. Nathaniel Braedon had never again set foot on the mountain.

  Gradually, Neil became aware of the footprints, softly implanted in the earth, as if others had stood beside his mother’s grave. Neil’s glance roamed over the area, finding the footprints that trailed away into the trees toward the meadow. Partly out of anger that anyone should trespass, and partly out of curiosity as to why, Neil followed the footprints into the deep shade of a stately pine close by, its boughs stretching to the heavens above.

  Neil stilled.

  At the base of the tree, overlooking the peaceful meadow below, the river a silver ribbon woven through the green grasses, was a cross. Neil didn’t have to move closer to know who was buried there, for the softly spoken words came whispering back to him now, and he remembered his sister’s words…

  There was a beautiful white dove that flew in a sky so blue it had no end, the sun glinting on her outspread wings. She flew above a green field of wild flowers. She flew higher and higher and one day she flew too far. She flew through the sun, and was captured by the sky. Thunder surrounded her, and the white dove of the sky was frightened. The winds blew, and the world became dark, and the dove fell to earth, her proud wing broken. That was when she met the wolf, who stalked alone through the night. He protected the dove, healing her broken wing. But when the light came again, when the dove would have flown away, back to the green meadows, she discovered that the wolf was blinded by the light of day, and she could not leave him, for he had saved her when she had been lost. They roamed the lands together. She flew high into the skies during the day, guiding them, and he protected her at night. And they searched for the land where they would live together, where there was no light and darkness. But the land always eluded them, and their children flew through the skies during the day, and hunted at night, and knowing no other life, the children of the dove and the wolf, rejoiced in their freedom.