“He already has once — and I’ve survived. But you heard what Miss Bennett told us last night. Between my testimony and hers, Cameron will lose his judgeship — and probably his freedom.”
Lucy pressed a palm against her forehead. She felt dizzy with the implications. “I still can’t believe I married such a man. I’ll need to send a telegram to Father as soon as possible.”
“How do you think he’ll react?”
“He’ll say Cameron was a fool for ‘getting himself caught.’ And I daresay he’ll somehow think I’m guilty of ruining both the marriage and the judge. He’ll doubtless arrange for a divorce — perhaps even an annulment, given the circumstances. And he’ll send money enough to bring me home. He wouldn’t want it said he’d stranded me in some territorial outpost surrounded by Mexicans and heathens. At least, that’s how he would put it.”
“And once you go home, then what will he do?”
“By then, he’ll see that I’m with child. My father is a man of legion flaws, but he does know how to count months. He’ll realize immediately whose baby this must be. I’ll be sent away to my aunt’s for my confinement. And then —” Her voice hitched with the thought. “Then he’ll take her away from me, to – to allow some ‘proper family’ to raise her.
Anna’s words flooded back into her consciousness. Loving your daughter, I swear to you, will be your reward – if you can let it.
Placing her palm on the small prominence of her belly, Lucy remembered the fluttering she’d felt inside and the strong surge of hope that had stirred with it. Maybe this country was broadening her expanses, too, changing her future into a form that could be shaped with enough will and courage.
She looked up into Horace’s blue eyes. “I can’t let Father take her from me. I won’t go back home.”
* * *
Horace Singletary, Lucy Cameron, Quinn Ryan, Anna Bennett. They all knew enough to ruin him, thought Cameron. He racked his brain for ideas about what he could do, but the only thought that he could conjure was Cut your losses and get out.
Jesus, he would have to. He thought about the spreading web of others who might be enticed to testify against him. Max Wilson, Hadley, even the three men he’d coerced into burning Singletary’s bunkhouse.
But he knew from experience that retribution in the territory could be slow. Especially with no local lawman to arrest him. If Quinn Ryan never returned to Copper Ridge and if Anna Bennett turned up dead, he might just be able to slide through his claim. Then he could sell it and get out before a trial took place.
Couldn’t he?
His forehead beaded with sweat, despite the protection of a thickening layer of gray clouds. Goddamn it, he would make this work. He was going to have to. He could run — could leave the country. Unlike others, he had not been born with a good name. He had built his, and he could build another one.
In Canada. They’d expect him to head for Mexico, since it was so much closer. But he’d had enough of deserts; he wanted to see green. In Canada, he’d know the language. He could start again there, as long as he had money.
Without it, he might as well ride straight for Yuma. Without it, he might as well be dead.
The rest might all be lost, but he could still have money. As long as Quinn Ryan and Anna Bennett were both dead.
* * *
As the sky dimmed and the light rain increased, Horace wondered where they would stay tonight. Lucy had camped out last night without complaint, though he imagined she’d never before even considered sleeping out of doors on the hard ground, protected only by a borrowed blanket. Another night in the open, in the rain and close to town, seemed out of the question.
At least the weather kept the streets deserted.
But not the livery stable. Stan Roberts fed the horses every evening around this time, and horses’ stomachs didn’t care about the weather. Horace was thankful, for he was eager to part ways with his sullen prisoner. He tied his buckskin mare outside the livery stable and helped Lucy dismount.
While she rubbed at her back, he began untying the rope that bound Max’s ankles together beneath the belly of his horse.
Stan Roberts stepped through the wide double doors, a feed bucket in each huge hand. Stan had always had a way with horses. Horace’s Papa had once said Stan’s secret was his size; the animals knew that if it came down to it, the brawny man could throw a draft horse. Though Stan’s hair had long since grayed, he retained most of his muscle, yet as far as Horace knew, he saved his brawn for tossing bales instead of livestock.
Stan put down the buckets, ignoring the hungry nickers of two horses in their small corrals. Folding his thick arms, he watched the scene at his business’s front door with an expression of concern. The fact that he’d also just lifted Judge Cameron’s wife off of a mule that neither owned merely added to the strangeness of the circumstances.
“Understand you had trouble, but I thought you might still come to sell me that mare of yours today,” he said at length to Horace.
“I got a little busy, Stan. Didn’t get to it,” Horace said by way of explanation. He nodded toward Max, who glared fiercely in response. “The sheriff asked me to have you lock him in a cell. He’ll be back in a few days to take care of the charges.”
“Quinn wants me to lock him up?” he asked, squinting toward Max’s scratched and swollen face. “You sure he didn’t say to fetch the doctor?”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do just that.” Max’s voice had soured during all the sullen hours of their ride. “Ryan’s making one hell of a mistake. No need for you to get sucked in as well.”
“You been hitting the cactus juice again, Max? I warned you it would likely cost your job.” Stan said. “I’ll make you some coffee thick enough to sober you.”
“He tried to kill a woman,” Horace said.
Max raised his voice, as if doing so would drown out the accusation. “Don’t listen to him! How long you think this pissant place will last if you mess with the judge?”
“A woman?” Stan’s expression darkened with disapproval. He glanced quickly at Lucy, then back to Max once more. “You tried to kill a woman, Max?”
“God damn it!” Max roared. “She ain’t no lady! She’s a thief, a criminal, a whore!”
“How dare you say such things!” Lucy interrupted, suddenly indignant. “After all she did to help y—”
But her protests were drowned out as Stan grasped Max by his shirt and lifted him, one-armed, against the stable wall. His head and shoulders thudded against wood, and a quick check showed his booted feet hung several inches from the ground.
“You apologize to the lady right this instant!” Stan Roberts thundered.
“B — but I d—didn’t mean h—her!” Max choked out.
Another thud. This one shook the livery wall. A startled horse inside whinnied in fright.
“I don’t give a —” Again, he glanced at Lucy, then quickly amended his words. “—I don’t care at all. Your Mama taught you better than to talk like that in front of ladies!”
“You stupid son of a —” Max began. He never got the chance to finish.
Bam! This time, Max’s head bounced back, then sagged.
Stan Roberts kept him from falling long enough to check his breathing. Then he hoisted the unconscious man over one broad shoulder.
He tipped his hat to Lucy. “My apologies, ma’am. He wasn’t brought up that way, I assure you. I’ll go lock him up now, and I’ll make sure he’s fed until Quinn gets back to sort this out.”
After Stan walked toward the jail, Lucy turned to Horace. “Those men are related, aren’t they?”
Horace nodded. “Stan’s his stepfather. Married Maggie Wilson a few years after Max’s father passed away. He treasured the woman.”
“She’s gone?”
“She died a few months before I left for college.”
“Sheriff Ryan trusted him to lock up his own stepson?”
Horace nodded. “You see the kind of ma
n he is. Quinn’s spent enough time with him to know that Stan would do the same thing even if Max were his natural son.”
“Because doing it was right . . .” She lapsed into quiet thoughtfulness.
Horace gestured toward the stable. “Come in out of the rain.”
She followed him inside the wide double doorway, where they waited until Stan returned.
He removed his hat as he spoke to Lucy. “There’s been talk around town about what’s become of you, ma’am. Manuel Santiago’s been looking high and low.”
“I . . . I see,” Lucy said, her voice brimming with caution.
“So what’s the talk?” Horace asked.
“Manuel claims Elena went clean of her mind. There’s a dead woman out at The Pines that needs explaining, and Manuel was afraid that maybe his cousin did something to you. But when the old man’s mule turned up missing, he thought maybe you’d run off.”
Lucy bobbed her head. “I had to. I — I’m a stranger here. I didn’t know if anyone would believe me. And I knew Manuel and Elena were related.”
“Manuel is as honest as they come. He wouldn’t have liked it any better than I liked locking up my stepson, but he would have seen to it that she faced justice all the same.”
“Would have?” Lucy echoed. “What does that mean?”
Horace stepped closer, noticing how pale her face had gone. She looked as if she might faint any moment.
“Elena Santiago won’t be buried inside the fence there in the churchyard. The padre is a stickler about allowing suicides on hallowed ground.”
Horace heard the sharp intake of Lucy’s breath, and he prepared to catch her. But she did not waver.
“Elena . . . Elena killed herself?”
“Slit her own throat with a kitchen knife.” He shuddered, as if the image elicited a chill. “But it might as well have been a murder, too, is what folks think. I’m sorry to say this of your husband, but Ward Cameron broke that girl’s heart — and her mind, too.”
Lucy’s drew herself to her full height, which couldn’t have been more than five feet. “Forgive me if I sound uncharitable, but I can’t much sympathize with her. She poisoned the woman who helped raise me, and she meant to take my life as well. As for my husband, I hope when he takes his place with her in hell, she’s saved him a warm spot.”
Stan looked stunned for a moment, but he quickly scraped together his manners once again. “Perfectly understandable, ma’am. More and more folks are starting to share your opinion on the judge. No offense, I hope.”
“None taken,” she said crisply.
Horace thought it might be wise to change the subject. “Whose mule did you say Lucy borrowed? We’ll need to take it back.”
“I’ve trimmed that animal’s hooves a time or two. It’s Tío Viejo’s — at least that’s what the Mexicans call him. Means Old Uncle, I think. Never heard him called by any other name. He does some fair doctoring for a blind man, I’ve heard tell, but not the kind you’d get Back East.”
“Then we’ll go see him.” Horace stuck his hand out. “Thanks for being here.”
Stan took his hand — and held it. Their size difference was much too great to fight, so Horace waited, knowing that the stable owner had something more to say.
“There’s talk about you, too, Horace. Town’s a-buzzin’ like a nest of stirred up rattlers. Might be best if you stay out of sight. The gossip’s turned against ‘His Honor,’ but he’s still got plenty on his payroll, if you take my meaning.”
“You know about my house?”
“I know.”
“And they don’t think I died there?”
Roberts shook his head. “I helped search through the rubble myself, and I was happy not to find you. What with both you and Mrs. Cameron disappearing so close, there’s those that think you might have run off together. If they see the two of you, the wags’ll likely pop their eyes out.”
“I thank you for your concern, but I’m past worrying about my reputation,” Lucy told him.
“Maybe you care more about his life,” Stan added bluntly. “That sort of talk could get him killed.”
Lucy’s gaze swung toward Horace. “Of course. I’m sorry. I was thinking only of myself. Maybe we should separate.”
Horace took her hand. “Is that what you want, Lucy?”
She hesitated for a moment, and in that narrow span, he felt his heart stop beating. Then she shook her head emphatically.
Until then, he hadn’t realized how completely some part of him had claimed her, even though she was married to his greatest enemy.
Lucy’s gaze flicked toward Roberts and then returned to him. “You said you would help me. I’m not going to let you get away so easily.” Her voice dropped then so he could barely hear it. “And it sounds as if you could use a friend yourself.”
But her dark eyes bespoke an offer more than friendship, an offer nothing in the world could convince him to refuse.
* * *
Often, fires smolder for days after they have burned. Though the blaze that had burned Anna’s cabin may have been set hours ago or perhaps even the night they left the canyon, the breeze yet lifted puffs of smoke, and the charred smell still burned his nostrils.
Quinn shuddered, reminded briefly of the carbonized dead trappers that he and Max had found, then more strongly of the burned-out Navajo hogan. He could almost see Ned Hamby grinning, those small, blood-clumped scalps still swinging in his fist.
Once I pick the nits off, scrape the hair, and stretch ‘em, might make a decent pair of winter moccasins, I ‘magine.
A wave of nausea nearly choked him, and icy prickles climbed his back and neck. Thinking of the sick mementos he’d found stuffed in the saddlebag, his own scalp tingled. Despite the gunshot he had suffered, he felt fortunate to still have it on his head.
Anna dismounted the bay and dropped the reins without even bothering to tie her horse. Quinn slid down from his mare and wrapped both animals’ reins around small trees upwind from the drifting puffs of gray.
Afterwards, he circled the entire cabin in search of prints that might help him determine which way the outlaws had gone when they left. The hoof prints that he found disturbed him. How had Hamby’s men been resupplied with mounts so soon? At first, he thought his earlier suspicion about the presence of other members of the band in the area had been correct. But he found only two distinct sets of tracks, both equine, leading away, toward the canyon entrance. Either the men had doubled up to ride together, or —
His gaze fell to the blackened timbers. Had someone else come to see Anna? Had those bastards killed again, then burned the proof?
The smoking remnants remained too hot to search for answers. And most recent pile of horse manure he found wasn’t fresh enough to suggest that Hamby — and the answers — remained close enough to either pose a threat or overtake tonight.
Putting those chores behind him, he watched the stiff way that Anna stood before the smoldering wreckage of her belongings. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her for what she’d lost, but somehow, interrupting her felt wrong. Once more, as he looked on, he felt a prickling sensation. His skin erupted into gooseflesh, though waves of heat still rolled off the coals. But instead of horror, the impression this time felt eerily consoling. Moments later, his hesitation lifted, and he began walking toward Anna, yet he could not honestly say his own mind moved his feet.
If Anna heard his steps, she ignored them, though he stood so close to her that he could hear her breaths. A few minutes before, the sun had slid beneath the layer of the clouds beyond the western red rock wall. Its absence gave over this part of canyon to the early evening gloom. He thought of all the years that she had spent here, cast into the premature dusk of this shadowed land, burying herself within this deep rock tomb. For that, more than her burned cabin, he wanted to hold her, to weep with her for all their wasted time.
Yet nothing in her posture indicated she was grieving. Light enough remained to see that her shoulders did n
ot tremble, her body did not shake. The sounds of her breathing, although rapid, betrayed no quiet sobbing. Perhaps, he thought, she was too shocked to cry.
Notion snuffed frantically, trotting from one heap to another, as if he wondered where his home had gone.
A spattering of raindrops fell. Despite the quiet sounds of the creek’s flow and the breezes playing among treetops, Quinn heard the water hiss against the still-hot coals.
He reached out for Anna, but before his hand met her shoulder, she turned to face him. Her smoky, blue-gray eyes were glimmering with unshed tears, but they were bright, so bright.
“She’s still here,” Anna told him, her voice betraying no surprise that he’d moved so close. “Can’t you feel her?”This time, instead of fighting the idea, he let the chill ripple over him, into him. He felt no fear, though nothing in his Catholic upbringing had prepared him for such a possibility.
“I do feel something,” he admitted, “and I believe you when you say it’s her. Rosalinda.”
The name tasted of honey, reminding him of her mother’s voice. Reaching out, he pulled Anna against him. Their mouths moved together; their lips touched in the most delicate of kisses.
Only then did Anna shudder, as if that kiss unlocked some gate. In a moment, he felt her tears against his face — or perhaps it was only the increasing rain. She pulled back enough to whisper in his ear. “They couldn’t take her from me this time, so they took everything else.”
And they had. The small outbuildings, too, had been burned, even the timbers of the corral now smoldered, and no trace of Anna’s goats and chickens remained. Except for what she carried, she had nothing left.
She pulled down the brim of her hat, which had been knocked askew as they had kissed. She used the back of her hand to swipe away the dampness on her cheek.
Relief surged through Quinn’s system. Nothing now remained to tie her to this place.
“I want to marry you,” he told her. His words were followed quickly by a forewarning of disaster. Instead of coming out the way he meant it, his offer sounded selfish, like a boy who wouldn’t mind the thought of winning by default.
Canyon Song Page 27