Braying out an involuntary laugh, Gus pounded his cane on the floor with delight. “Ha! Good t’ see somebody else bein’ targeted for once, insteada always me. How’s it feel, boys?”
Boys. Exactly like boys, called out over some mischief by a gimlet-eyed maternal figure. In this case, Sonsee-array. They traded sheepish glances and shuffled feet that had suddenly grown four sizes too big.
“So,” she said with satisfaction. “It is settled, then. You men vamoose away, as men always do, and your wives and children will remain safely here with us. We have plenty of room in this house for extras, as long as necessary. It will be good to have so much of family around.”
“Except me,” Elizabeth reminded her cheerfully. A quick kiss on her cheek, and a warm hug. “I’m going to vamoose, too.”
Sonsee turned slightly, with a wistful, poignant expression that spoke of her love for this girl, to cup Elizabeth’s exquisite face in both her work-worn hands. “I know you are, child. Just come back to me soon. Both you and Thunder will come back as soon as this is finished, yes?”
Not easily moved, now Elizabeth’s vision clouded with tears. “You know we will, Mother,” she said quietly. “You and Pa are the Condor Ranch. You’re our home.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Next morning’s leave-taking, shortly after dawn and a very early breakfast, encompassed excitement, satisfaction, worry, apprehension, and tears of regret and tears of sadness.
While Star and Cecelia would miss their husbands with the bone-jarring ache caused by prolonged separation, both were mightily relieved to remain behind with their children. Here they could abide for however long a time necessary, swaddled in comfort and care under the watchful eye of a relation-in-law instead of trekking off on another journey.
As for James, deliberately excluded on several accounts, he stood quietly watching the departure with his own newly-wedded wife, Molly, close to his heart. The horrific ordeal of James’ War experiences had left him unseeking of any more adventure, unthirsting of travel to far places. He craved only the peace and contentment of his own California Condor Ranch, as does any man pushed to the brink of defeat. Soon he and Molly would be packing up and returning to that haven, filled with sunlight and roses, sweet grapes of wine, and the air scented by sanity and reason.
Kisses and hugs and waves, farewell cries, a jaunty brandishing of hats, and the San Juan party was off. Thomas, having drawn the short straw, was seated atop the loaded buckboard to drive the team with the ranch buckskin, Charlie trailing along behind; Elizabeth was riding her favorite mare, Caramel, and Cochinay the Appaloosa named Doolé that he preferred. That left John, Matthew, and Travis to be mounted on sturdy quarter horses of varying colors and temperaments.
The first few hours of this expedition passed smoothly and uneventfully. Still heading west, and angled slightly to the north, even if no clacking locomotive wheels repeated the refrain. Their route followed a natural trail across the scrub flatlands and timbered foothills around Chico, skirting the McDowell Mountains to the north, leaving the Superstition Mountains far behind. Edging into the desert area came encounters with agave and blue paloverde, mesquite, prickly pear and cholla cacti, and, of course, the iconic giant saguaro.
It was a grand and glorious November day, as witnessed by a cloudless sky the hue of Thomas’ blue eyes and a slow, leisurely circling overhead of several hawks in search of prey.
“Got a river comin’ up ahead,” Travis, in the lead, paused to inform his party. “Good place to stop for a bit.”
Elizabeth shifted her shoulders and stretched her arms, an action designed to draw her husband’s admiring and lustful attention. “I’ll be ready by then to get out of this saddle. No complaints, mind you, Travis. But it’s been a steady pace all along.”
“Steady gets it done. You’re right, though, Liz; we’re all ready to get outa these here saddles.
And maybe Coch would like t’ take over drivin’ the wagon.”
“Sure enough.” The young Apache circled his Appaloosa back to respond agreeably. “Nothin’ I like more than bein’ pounded up and down by a rough road atop a wooden seat. Didn’t think t’ bring me a pillow, neither, more’s the pity.”
Under a scattering of thirty-foot ironwood trees, they took their nooning. Several hours’ break from the trail would allow plenty of time to unhitch, unload, and rest the horses; build up a campfire to cook dinner; and grab some shuteye. It wasn’t necessary to assign chores: everyone simply pitched in to do whatever was necessary. Like the instrumentalists of a well-tuned orchestra, each knowing his place and taking charge accordingly.
While Thomas gathered wood and helped Elizabeth with putting together a meal, Travis stood guard over the camp. Eventually, food and relaxation achieved, his vigil was relieved by John. No danger to be seen; no warning signs of human or critter interloper. Thanks to training and experience, however, every Yancey knew, right down to his bones, that being prepared for any contingency is the hallmark of survival.
“Mmmm. I’m so glad Sonsee sent along these leftover breakfast biscuits,” Elizabeth murmured drowsily. Lounging alongside her husband, using their saddles as backrest, she was half-asleep from fresh air and full belly, and about ready to be all the way into dreamland.
“And a jar of her groundcherry jelly,” added Cochinay, licking his sticky fingers.
“You done all right fixin’ the coffee, darlin’.” Thomas settled his arm more comfortably under her, curving her sideways to rest her head upon his chest, pulling a blanket up over her shoulders.
“And fryin’ up the steak and eggs.”
“And you…washing up everything afterward…just like…at the cabin…” Yawning, she scrunched herself into the sweet warmth of his welcoming body and closed her eyes. “Good…at kitchen stuff. M’h’m…”
Early afternoon saw the camp broken up and returned to its pristine condition, with every item repacked and replaced for its next use. A sleepy-eyed Elizabeth was content to ride in silence beside her husband, only sharing significant looks and smiles with him now and then, dreamily contemplating night-time and their tent’s privacy. Having discovered the joys of the marriage bed, she wasn’t about to give them up just because of a little week-long expedition through the wilderness.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Five days later, the San Juan party arrived at the rambling 130,000-acre Waring spread known as Rancho Riata, without serious incident. Dust-covered and travel-worn, to be sure, and more than ready to first sit down in front of an actual table and later to soak away the aches of stiffened muscles and saddle-sprung rumps in a nice big tub of hot water.
Unserious incidents along the trail included Matthew’s unexpected encounter with an angry javelina, which came hurtling out of the brush to barely miss raking a sharp yellowed tusk up his leg (worse luck for the pig, ending up as supper); a bruised hand for John, during his quest for firewood and subsequent breaking-up of a branch larger and tougher than expected; several painful bee stings when Elizabeth, during a return one afternoon from her outdoor facilities, walked straight into a swarm. Other than these minor misfortunes, the buckboard and all its contents had survived intact, as had every horse, both mounted and driven.
They had wended their way through and around Arizona Territory’s Maricopa Mountains, past the Yuma Desert, and across the Colorado River into southern California. From there a slight jog north along the sand dunes, up and down yet one more mountain range—the Santa Rosas—then west, nearly to the ocean.
Even here, a salty tang of Pacific air carried inland with the delicious breath of Poseidon, himself. Elizabeth, delighted, drew in deeply at an essence worlds removed from the hot dry environs of little Chico and her own Condor Ranch.
Travis, in the lead, paused beneath the tall overhead signpost of the Rancho, with its branding-iron designation of a looped and coiled cowboy’s lasso.
“You’re lookin’ good there, son,” approved his twin, not far behind. “L
ike you belong right in that very spot.”
“Dunno about that. Well, boys—and, pardon me, Liz—ready t’ go in and see what’s facin’ us?”
“Helluva place,” observed Matthew with reverence and appreciation. Clucking his tongue at Gus Drayton’s matched team of two sorrel draft horses, he urged the wagon forward down a smooth dirt road, bordered by its recently whitewashed wooden fence.
Knolls and rolling hills of grassy pasture folded over and upon themselves like wide bands of lime-green ribbon, careened away through bigleaf maple and sycamore to the roughened blue-gray ridges beyond. Even in November, even from a distance, the picture presented was one of prosperity, attention to detail, and an owner’s meticulous care.
Even more so, once the party halted at the roundabout in front of Rancho Riata’s Victorian mansion. Three imposing stories tall, decorated by a square bell tower and numerous columns helping to support its wrap porch, the brick walls had been painted a soft buttercream, and the shutters, doors, and trim all matched in warm reddish-brown.
“Impressive,” murmured Elizabeth. Comparing this abode with her own comfortable, if sprawling, ranch house, she was suddenly, surprisingly, struck by a twinge of homesickness.
“So I was told,” Travis responded, climbing down. “Y’all wanna wait here a minute, till I find out if Mrs. Waring is at home?”
She was. At least, according to the maid who answered his knock at that spiffy front door, Mrs. Waring was in the morning room with her attorney.
“Ahuh. Well, my name is Travis Yancey, and me and some associates are here at the request of the president. Wouldja mind askin’ Mrs. Waring if she can spare me a few minutes?”
“Yes, sir. Wait here, please.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and hastened away.
Matthew, who had assumed the position of second-in-command, joined his brother on the porch. “Expectin’ any problems with takin’ over from the widow?”
A shrug. “Hard t’ tell. Reckon we’ll just—”
“Mr. Yancey?”
He turned to confront the most beautiful blonde lady he had ever set eyes on. Tall, regal, elegant, with the bearing of a queen and the appearance of a goddess, and not much older in years than he himself. Surely this couldn’t be the Widow Waring!
Matthew’s purposeful elbow nudged into his ribs got his dry tongue unstuck enough for speech. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Travis Yancey, I believe? I’m Martha Waring.”
That resolved one question. Another surfaced when she extended her lovely soft hand to him. Did she expect him to kiss, or shake? Refusing to be cowed, he chose the latter, then introduced his brother. “And I’ve got the rest of my crowd out there in the yard. You received notice from President Johnson that I’d be along, I’m thinkin’?”
“Indeed we have, young man,” harrumphed a dignitary just emerging from the house. “Richard Hotchkiss, sir, attorney for the Waring family.” No handshake here, no friendly manner; just an antagonistic up-and-down look, as if Travis were a raggedy old rug that Hotchkiss didn’t want to walk upon, for fear of dirtying his high-gloss black boots. “But we needn’t conduct business out here, in the open. Martha, surely we may return inside, mayn’t we?”
“Of course, Richard. But these gentlemen and their—their retainers?—well, we must get everyone settled and comfortable before we can—”
“Accordin’ to the president, ma’am,” cut in Travis as politely as possible, “I’m t’ have use of the overseer’s house. We’ll all stay there, if you’ll but give me directions.”
“Oh. Well.” Mrs. Waring essayed a small smile. Gorgeous but—perhaps just a bit dim? Or was her remoteness due to grief, and the mantle of responsibility she’d been forced to assume, like the black widow’s weeds she was wearing? “But I see you have a young lady with you as well.”
Almost the Marshal let out a chortle: That’s no young lady, that’s my sister-in-law. Better judgment took control over his perverse sense of humor, and he swallowed whatever he’d been about to spout forth. “My brother’s wife, ma’am. Along with two other brothers and a friend. Matt here will get everybody squared away, Mrs. Waring, whilst you and I work out the details of my employment. If that’s all right with you.”
Hotchkiss, apparently man of the hour, was doing his best to take command of the situation, with a, “You’re assuming too much on—” only to be interrupted and halted by Martha Waring’s upraised hand and gentle voice.
“Certainly, Mr. Yancey. Mary,” she turned aside, with a smile for the uniformed maid waiting for instructions, “would you be so kind as to show this gentlemen and his group to the overseer’s cottage. I’ll be over soon to make sure they have everything they need.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Another curtsy, and the girl was off. Matthew, with a raised brow in his brother’s direction, followed along right behind her.
“Now, then, Mr. Yancey—”
“Marshal.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a U.S. Marshal, Mrs. Waring.”
“Oh. To be sure.” A vague response, a vague glance. Pull yourself together, lady, Travis wanted to warn. Get back into real life, from whatever fog you’re livin’ in. “Do come in, Marshal. Join us in the drawing room and we’ll talk this over. Richard?”
Every minute detail of the mansion’s interior bespoke wealth and elegance and a knowing hand that combined the two. A good many black walnut trees had given up their lives to become paneling and posts for this house, Travis considered, striding cat-footed behind his hostess.
Thick, rich carpet in cream and reddish-brown, to complement the exterior, flowed from above stairs down into the grand foyer and through the spacious hallway. Paintings and family photographs, elaborately hand-carved chairs, sconces to hold sweet-scented candles all filled this area, and more.
Established comfortably in another dark-walled, heavy-curtained chamber, Martha Waring pulled a tapestried bell rope for service. “You haven’t really had a chance to rest and clean up yet, Marshal,” she murmured, as another shy uniformed maid, twin to the first, slipped into the room for orders. “But I have no doubt you’re at least ready for some refreshment. And you, too, Richard, since you’d only just arrived.”
“Mrs. Waring’s husband died a mere few weeks ago,” said Hotchkiss pompously, from his damask chair. He was a little piggy man, with little piggy eyes and a little piggy turned-up nose that looked ready to oink at any time. Not unlike that ferocious doomed Arizona peccary. “How is it that President Johnson himself is taking such an interest in the man’s death, to the point of interference?”
Like I’d really tell you the whole truth o’ what I know, thought Travis, liking the presence of lawyers no more than politicians. His hackles had risen at the very first words out of the man’s smarmy mouth and hadn’t smoothed down yet. Instinct told him this was someone to beware of and to be watchful for.
He took a small sip of tea—lukewarm, insipid stuff, compared to the robust coffee of preference—before answering. “I reckon the president has his own reasons for doin’ whatever he does. As you are probably aware, Mr. Hotchkiss, as a U.S. Marshal, I am obliged to follow his wishes. When he asked me to come here and oversee Mr. Waring’s estate, I came.”
“Indeed.” Hotchkiss leaned back and, without even a by-your-leave to the lady of the house, pulled a cigar from his inside pocket and set a match to it. Puffing pleasurably away, he proceeded with the next attack. “And your—uh—crew?”
“Again, approved—no, recommended, actually—by the president. All staunch, law-abiding, law-making public servants. And relatives, at that.”
In an effort to seem congenial, the lawyer chuckled and blew out a smoke ring. “You have relatives in whom you are confident? Not me, Yancey. I wouldn’t allow a single damned one of mine anywhere near any of my dealings.”
“No?” Travis smiled politely, a mere baring of the teeth. “Then that’s where we differ, sir. I’d trust any member of my family with my life. And have d
one so.”
“How reassuring, Marshal,” Mrs. Waring spoke up in that distant, breathy voice. “All of us need family members whom we can trust.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s always good t’ know that someone has your back. My brothers are capable, intelligent men, used to workin’ with finances, used t’ workin’ as a team. We do well together, and the president is well aware of that.”
“Well, I’ve been handling Mrs. Waring’s affairs ever since Henry passed on, and doing a damn fine job of it, too, if I do say so myself,” pointed out the lawyer without a shred of modesty. “At least, Martha hasn’t offered any complaints.”
“Hasn’t she? Then I appreciate your leavin’ everything in order for me, sir. It’ll be that much easier to go through the books and see what’s goin’ on.”
Around the cigar in his mouth, Hotchkiss pulled an ugly grimace. “There’s nothing going on, young man. Other than the necessary business of the day.”
Richard, huh? Dick you are and Dick you always will be. “I’m sure that’s true, sir. Mrs. Waring, before I head on over t’ the overseer’s quarters, I wonder if I might speak t’ you about another matter.”
Blinking as if to refocus, she sat up a little straighter and smoothed her black silk skirts. “Certainly, Marshal. What is it you’d like to talk about?”
“Well…” Travis put on a hangdog, sheepish expression. “My brother’s wife…she—well, now, Mrs. Waring, I wonder if we could make this private?”
“Of course. Richard, I’m sure you’ll excuse us.” Martha rose easily and elegantly, extending one hand in farewell. “Thank you for coming out from town to consult with me. I’ll let you know any decisions that are made. Eames?”
“Oh, you needn’t be calling on your butler now, Martha,” protested Hotchkiss, rising in turn. “I can see myself out. I appreciate your time today, but I’ll come back out in a few days, check on how things are going. Marshal.” A small bow, a flick of the thinning hair, and Hotchkiss, after retrieving his bowler from the corner hat rack, made his departure.
A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5) Page 3