Canyon Song

by Gwyneth Atlee

  Anna’s expression, shadowed by the wide brim of her leather hat, was difficult to read. But there was no mistaking the anger in her words. “Damn you, Ryan! Do you think I want your pity? Just because I love you doesn’t mean that I don’t want my life back! Can’t you feel it? Rosalinda needs me here!”

  It was the only time he could remember her swearing, at least in English. He felt fairly certain she had cursed him in Spanish many times.

  She had pulled away, so he stepped closer. Close enough to touch her — but he didn’t. Mad as she was, he didn’t want to end up looking like his deputy.

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn offered. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to sound. I . . . I love you so much, Anna. I have this awful sense of how many years we wasted, how much grief we both went through alone. I don’t want that anymore. I want you . . . but only if you want me, too. If you don’t want to marry me, I’ll help you get started elsewhere. Somewhere you’ll never have to see my face again.”

  He stared at her and prayed for all he was worth that she wouldn’t call his bluff.

  She shook her head, flinging raindrops from her hat’s brim into his face. “You’re still a gambler, aren’t you, Ryan?”

  He tried to look wounded, in the hope that she’d have mercy. It didn’t help a bit.

  “Come on,” she said, flipping the brim of his hat with her thumb. “This rain is setting in, and we’ll get soaked. I know a place where we can hole up for the night.”

  * * *

  “Bienvenidos,” said the old man who bade them into the shack. “I have been expecting both of you.”

  Even in the dim light, Lucy saw the clouding of his ancient eyes, but even so, she would swear he really knew her.

  “Come inside, Señora Cameron,” Tío Viejo said, confirming her suspicion. “And bring your friend as well.”

  If not for Horace’s presence, she didn’t think she could have forced herself to go inside the shabby dwelling. As it was, she hesitated.

  “Go in,” Horace told her quietly, “before someone sees us from the street.”

  Horace offered his hand to the old man and introduced himself and Lucy, despite the fact that the old man behaved as if he already knew them both.

  Apparently not seeing the outstretched hand, Tío Viejo groped for several cowhide-covered stools.

  “Please sit down,” he offered, then took his own advice. “I knew you would come here. I told Manuel already you were safe somewhere and hiding. A frightful thing, what happened with Elena. Who can blame you for borrowing an old man’s mule?”

  “I’m sorry, all the same,” Lucy apologized as she sank carefully onto a seat. “I was afraid you would think that he’d been stolen.”

  Tío Viejo waved off her words. “Bah! You are no mule thief. Only a frightened girl. I tell you what. For my part in this, I give you Paquito.”

  “For your part?” Lucy echoed, confused on several counts.

  The old man nodded, then sighed heavily. “Elena stole the poison from my home. She confess to me she use it in her baking. Many things I cannot see, but I know others. But Dios did not see fit to warn me just how troubled that lost child had become. Or maybe I just close my eyes and hope. For that, forgive me, por favor.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Lucy insisted. “But what do you mean, you give me — what did you call it? — Paquito. What is that?”

  Tío Viejo laugh was thin and brittle — and ended in a spasmodic coughing. Recovering, he said, “Paquito is my mule. So no one can ever say you stole it, I make him un regalo, a gift.”

  “Oh! Thank you, but I can’t accept such a gener —”

  “— Bah!” he interrupted with that same wave of dismissal. “I am far too old to ride about on such an animal. He is too much to care for for a dying man.”

  “Surely you aren’t dying!” She didn’t know why the thought should so upset her. She had only just met him. And besides, he was a Mexican, a man who lived in a cramped shack filled with drying roots and branches, a man who smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in a long while. She was shocked to realize that none of that mattered any longer. All that mattered were his generous spirit and the kindness in his wrinkled face.

  He smiled, as if he knew the ways that she had changed. “I welcome this long night, my daughter. The day has been so tiring. Just take good care of Paquito.”

  She didn’t quite know what to say. She sensed that despite its willful ugliness, that mule was the finest gift she’d ever received.

  “Thank you.” Not the right words, exactly, but they seemed to suffice.

  “Now you can ride him home,” the old man said.

  “Home? But home is too far. It’s in . . .” Where was her home? She’d meant to say Connecticut. Now she wasn’t sure.

  This time, Tío Viejo found Horace’s hand. With his other hand, he reached for Lucy’s. She let the old man join her hand with Horace’s, and once again, she felt something powerful pass between them, something she hadn’t fully recognized before.

  “You both will know it when you reach it,” said the old man, “but only by journeying together can you find your place.”

  Horace squeezed her hand and stared at her intently. “I think you’re wrong,” he told the old man. “When I look at her I see it. It’s reflected in her eyes.”

  He moved so much closer, he shared the vision with her in a kiss so sweet it sealed their future.

  * * *

  Though the day’s warmth had ebbed as the sun met the horizon, Ward Cameron once more mopped sweat from his forehead. Rain pattered off his hat brim, adding to his damp discomfort. Glancing at the low clouds, he wondered if there was anywhere he might spend the night to shelter from the rain.

  He had to admit that riding alone after Quinn and Anna Bennett had been a mistake, the result of panic and not clear-headed logic. He’d easily followed their horses’ tracks as far as the canyon’s entrance, but afterward, the trail faded and then vanished onto windswept rock.

  He had ridden for hours more, believing this to be the same canyon he meant to claim and then mine for its silver. But nowhere did he find a trace of Quinn and Anna or any other person. Too frustrated to continue, he yanked his horse’s reins and swore in the fading echo of its footsteps.

  Mammoth walls towered above him, their jagged ridges unmoved by his fiercest oaths, their smooth red planes indifferent to influence. Not far away, a small stream tumbled cheerily over round, gray rocks.

  His stallion pricked its ears eagerly toward the gurgling water. Cameron rode the palomino closer, then dismounted, reasoning that both horse and rider could profit from a drink. And in his case, time to think as well, about what he would do now, since he had lost the pair he’d trailed.

  Doubt crept up Cameron’s arms, colder even than the water he drank from his cupped hands. Again, he considered simply riding out of here and heading north for Canada and a new beginning. But going now meant that he would start with nothing, less than nothing since he would no longer be able to resort to practicing the law.

  At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of riders in the distance. Keeping very still, so as to attract no notice, Cameron watched them. He could make out two, but at this distance, he couldn’t tell for certain whether it was the sheriff with a woman or someone else.

  He cautioned himself that out here, he might even come upon Ned Hamby. The thought caused more sweat to bead on his upper lip and forehead. Hamby in his office, in his territory, was one matter, but this place was the outlaw’s own domain, where a judge might be robbed and murdered just as easily as an Indian squaw. No, it wouldn’t do to meet Hamby here alone.

  So with that in mind, Cameron decided he would follow carefully to try to identify the riders and if they proved to be his quarry, to find a place to ambush them without risking his own hide.

  Cañon del Sangre de Cristo

  April 13, 1884

  Easter Sunday

  Anna held her infant daughter
against her shoulder and gently stroked her tiny back. “Shhh . . .” she urged, “Don’t cry now,” though the child had been still for hours.

  In the bright October moonlight, she walked beside the stream with Rosalinda, where dried leaves whispered with her passage and the music of the water offered up its soothing sound. Anna wished that she could sing, too, wished she could remember the words to any lullaby, to any song at all. She thought that she recalled a snatch of melody, but when she tried to hum it, the notes spun apart like leaves carried downstream by the swift but shallow flow.

  She’d risen from the chair where she’d held vigil to come here, risen in the darkness so she would not have to face Señora Valdez, with her sad and knowing gaze. Risen so she could walk with Rosalinda’s tiny, cooling form pressed close against her aching bosom, so she could be a mother for a little while more.

  Then it occurred to her, she could be. She could hold on for as long as it was needed. Not by Rosalinda, who needed nothing further. But as long as Anna needed, as long as she stayed here.

  She kissed the little forehead, then tucked her daughter’s lamb’s wool blanket more snugly about her. If she blurred her eyes just so, Anna could pretend her daughter was still sleeping . . . for a little while more.

  Yet even within dreams, the seasons change too swiftly. This time, her arms were empty as she walked along the stream while it was frozen, in the bright glare of winter sun upon the drifted snow. Her feet punched holes into the icy crust, and the deep chill radiated up both of her legs. Yet Anna felt warmed by something, a breath of a mild October breeze, remembered moonlight from a solemn autumn night. It enshrouded her like lamb’s wool, made her feel protected as a babe herself.

  As Anna began to rouse, the dream began to ebb. Still, within those last few fleeting moments, she longed to walk again beside that stream, even though, since the coming of Quinn Ryan, the lonely canyon bottom had at last been touched by spring.

  Anna’s eyes slid open, and for just a moment the light fooled her into thinking day had dawned. Instead, the three-quarter moon’s illumination had flooded the shallow cave where she and Quinn lay sleeping. Still tired from a long day in the saddle, she wiped away the tears left over from her dream. Then she pulled her bedroll closer to Quinn’s and spooned her body against his before sinking back to sleep.

  * * *

  Ned nudged Hop with his foot. “You hear them horses? They sound restless.”

  Hop mumbled something inaudible in reply.

  Ned kicked harder. “You oughta go check on ‘em.” He didn’t like the thought of climbing down to where they’d tied the animals.

  Instead of waking, Hop just curled away from him and snored.

  “God damn it! Can’t count on you boys for a thing.” He’d forgotten for a moment that Hop was his last man.

  He heard another nicker and the stamp of hooves. The horses didn’t sound alarmed, but something had disturbed them.

  Ned moved cautiously to the cave’s opening. Though the moon had dipped low, its bluish light yet illuminated the craggy bowl of canyon bottom. But clumps of brush and shadow hid the horses. He wished like hell that he could see them. He hadn’t killed two men just to have some thieving Indians steal them or some hungry predator run them off.

  After pulling on his boots, Ned buckled on his gun holster and checked his Navy Colt to be certain each chamber held a bullet. Last of all, he tucked his sheathed knife into his belt. With or without Hop’s assistance, he intended to make whatever was down there pay the price for his interrupted sleep.

  * * *

  “My only love sprung from my only hate . . .”

  Anna barely recognized her own voice as it talked her out of sleep.

  “Whaaa?” Quinn, lying nearby on the cave floor, stirred, but barely, before drifting off again.

  She leaned forward to brush her lips across his stubbled cheek.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered softly. And it was, for Shakespeare’s line was followed by more words. Lyrics slid out of the darkness, a thousand luminous snatches, each one caught and woven on a loom of melody.

  Her mind brimmed with her lost music. She could again sing, if she but chose to, any song she wished. Each one in English and to its final verse. And all the joy rushed back to her, that first pure joy of singing, not of being heard.

  But the only notes that filled the night were those of the nocturnal insects and a solitary howl not far away. Anna’s songs slashed along the crimson ribbon of her scar, filling her with emotions too raw to give voice. Not only ecstasy, but deep grief, for she felt utterly certain that with the restoration of her music, there had come an awful void.

  No longer could she hear her daughter’s weak cries, no matter how she strained her memory. Though she still recalled that moonlit walk beside the autumn stream, she could not place herself there, to feel the bare weight of the cooling body, to see the rounded outline of her baby’s pallid cheek.

  For better or for worse, Rosalinda’s time was done here. And Anna felt just as bereft as if she’d lost her child again.

  Too bereft for tears. She moved to the cave’s entrance and sat inside an oval of silvery light cast by the setting moon. Miserable, she barely noticed that the sky was growing lighter to the east.

  As if he sensed her mood, Notion rose from the corner he’d been warming and stretched stiffly. He joined her and then lay with his broad head on her knee.

  As she rubbed the loose skin behind his neck, something large stirred on the hill below her. She heard the horses mutter nervously.

  The dog’s ears perked in the direction of the noises.

  Thinking of the howl she’d heard before, Anna whispered, “What do you think, Notion? Coyotes?”

  At the mention of coyotes, Notion growled and bounded down the hill. Anna decided she should go and check as well.

  She glanced toward Quinn and decided there was no need to disturb him. She and Notion had chased a lot of coyotes in their endless, futile quest to save her chickens. Besides, she reasoned, she’d take Max Wilson’s revolver with her. It would more than likely take just one shot to run off the hairy villains.

  Then she could return to Quinn and devise a more pleasant method to end his night’s rest.

  * * *

  Before Anna, Quinn had never proposed marriage to a woman. As his mind replayed the way he’d bungled this attempt, he decided his inexperience definitely showed. Or maybe that wasn’t the problem. He imagined men with better timing only had to suffer through it once.

  And it was a form of suffering, wondering if she’d ever have him. Wondering how he’d go back to living on his own if she did not. Would he ever be able to move past Anna? Would he someday find another woman to fill the empty years?

  He turned restlessly, knowing even in his sleep that he wanted no one else. Knowing that somehow he had to make Anna see . . .

  He sat up. To hell with sleeping, if he had to worry in his dreams. He had to talk to Anna, to convince her that even if he had to stay with her in this canyon, no one else would ever do for him.

  Looking through the cave’s mouth, he saw that the sinking moon was dimming in the lightening predawn sky. His heart thudded painfully as he realized Anna was no longer with him. She had left during the night. Left him without even a goodbye. His hands searched the still-dark corners so swiftly that his fingers stubbed against cold stone. But he felt no more than he saw, except —

  He breathed again when he realized her blanket remained here, as well as her canteen and saddle pack. Little as she had now, she would never leave those necessities.

  But then where had she gone? Even if she’d simply left to check the horses or attend the needs of nature, she should have let him know. Predators roamed this canyon, perhaps human ones as well. Although they’d seen no signs along the rocky trail, it was possible that Hamby and his boys remained nearby.

  At least she’d taken Notion. He did a quick search and determined she had Max’s gun as well. Instead of g
oing after her and maybe getting shot, he’d sit here and wait for a few moments, and she would come right back.

  Except the moments stacked up on each other like a deck of playing cards. And none of them brought Anna back where he could hold her safe and close.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ned damned near jumped out of his skin when loud barking erupted. He leapt atop a rock and jerked his head, all the time expecting the blond bitch’s cur to finish tearing him to shreds.

  Something streaked past, swift and silvery. Then another one appeared. Coyotes, he realized. But he scarcely had time to feel relief before the huge gold dog, too, raced by him.

  He drew his gun, but too late. Though he peered intently, the animals seemed to disappear in the poor light. Within seconds, the dog’s deep-throated barks, too, faded.

  Ned’s heart felt like it would explode inside his chest, and for half a minute, he crouched atop the rock in an attempt to slow his breathing.

  And then he saw the woman trotting in the same direction that her dog had run.

  “Notion?” she called, but not too loudly, as if she feared that someone else might hear.

  She was so intent on the fading barks that she never saw him slide behind her, never heard him until he leapt and brought her down. She slammed into the ground beneath his weight. Slammed so hard she did not scream.

  “You shoulda left here, you stupid slut. Shoulda left and never come on back,” Ned hissed. But she did not respond, and her body’s utter limpness convinced him he had somehow knocked her unconscious, maybe even broke her neck and killed her.

  “God damn it!” he swore. He didn’t want her dead, at least not yet. Now she couldn’t scream or fight him, couldn’t do a thing to make him hard.

  “Bitch!” Yanking back her head, he screamed frustration in her ear, wanting her so badly, yet unable to perform.

  At least he had his knife. Drawing it, he slashed at her forehead — just before he heard an outraged shout.