The Legend Of Love
Page 17
His narrowed gray gaze on the flaming red hair bouncing on her shoulderblades, West said to Grady, “Why didn’t my mama buy me one like that?”
Grady shook his white head, stroked his flowing white beard, and replied, “Sonny, ’cause that fiery redhead is likely more woman than you could ever handle.” The feisty mountain man hooted with laughter and poked the giant Indian in the ribs. Taos nodded and laughed.
West laughed too.
“Hell, Grady, maybe you’re right,” admitted West. “Her temper sure matches her red hair.”
Grady asked, “You say her name’s Curtin? The same Mrs. Curtin—”
“She is,” West slapped at his chest pocket, searching for a cigar, his eyes still clinging to Elizabeth’s quickly retreating form. “She’s the wife of the man we’ve been hired to find—our employer, no less.”
Grady immediately frowned. “She ain’t going down the trail with us, is she, Sonny? A woman on the search …” He started shaking his white head.
“Says she is.”
“Thunderation!” Grady muttered. “Looky here, Sonny, all kiddin’ aside, you gotta’ leave her alone.”
“Sure,” said West, who turned, smiled, and gave Grady’s hat brim a playful yank downward. “I will, compadre. I will.”
Irritably shoving his dusty Stetson back up in place, Grady snorted, “It sure didn’t look like you were leavin’ her alone when me and Taos rode into town.”
“As I recall, Grady,” West said calmly, “you’re the one who likes to say that things are not always what they appear.”
“Weston Dale, you a-tellin’ me you wasn’t tryin’ to steal a kiss from that red-haired woman?” Grady looked up at the big Indian. “Did you hear that, Taos? I never heard such a bald-faced lie in all my life, did you?”
The Indian nodded his head, agreeing.
“Jesus, Taos,” West said, “don’t get him started.”
But it was too late.
Grady had already gotten started. He scolded and preached and shook his finger in West’s face. Ignoring him, West drew a cigar from his breast pocket, lit it, and casually walked away.
“… and never did cotton to no man messin’ with another’s wife. So if that’s …” Grady paused, scratched his white head, and hollered, “Where you going, Sonny?”
Not bothering to stop, or even to turn around, West called over his shoulder, “Out to see Jorge Acosta about buying some horses and pack mules.”
Grady looked up at Taos. He grabbed the big man’s shirt sleeve and, dragging him, started after West. “Well, hell, Sonny, don’t you want old Taos and me to help do the pickin’? I’m the one knows good horseflesh when I see it!”
Finally West stopped walking. He took the cigar from his mouth, looked at the approaching pair. “Come along if you like, but not another word about Mrs. Curtin. You understand?”
Grady shot a glance at Taos. “You understand, Taos?” The Indian solemnly nodded his head. “We understand, Sonny,” Grady said, turning back to West.
Over Grady’s head, Taos grinned at West, lifted a big hand, pressed his fingers to his thumb, drew them wide apart, then repeated the gesture several times in imitation of Grady’s constant tongue-wagging. West easily read the message as Taos rolled his black eyes skyward.
“Okay. Now that that’s settled, let’s go,” said West.
“Sure thing, Sonny,” Grady fell into step beside him. “What do you figure we’ll need? Say, a dozen saddle ponies? Now, don’t neither one of you two go lookin’ at no white horses. Them white ones show up too good in the moonlight if there’s any hostiles anywheres about. I never did put much faith in chestnuts, although … Did you have much trouble finding some Mexican hands to go with us on the expedition? They’re all so doggone superstitious, them and the Indians … What’s the Curtin fellow like that’s come out here to hunt his brother? He like the rest of them Easterners, Sonny? Taking for granted all of us Westerners are uncouth illiterates? Damnation, that makes me mad as a hornet, don’t it you? Them silly-dressed tinhorns come out here acting superior like we was … You listenin’ to me, Sonny? Taos, he listenin’ to me?”
21
IN ALL, THEY WERE thirteen.
The search party consisted of the three guides, the eight Mexican helpers, and Edmund and Elizabeth Curtin. Thirteen.
Nobody mentioned aloud that thirteen was an unlucky number, but the thought had occurred to several of them.
Not to Elizabeth, however. Not even momentarily did she consider its possible implication. When she came out of the La Fonda with Edmund at dawn Monday, the seventeenth of May, she felt optimistic and eager to begin what she hoped would prove to be a highly successful journey. A journey that would reconcile her with her missing husband.
The chill of the high desert night still clung to the thin morning air, but Elizabeth didn’t mind. She knew it would soon be gone. Already the tallest peaks of the Jemez and the Sangre de Cristo ranges were tinged a pleasing pink from the rapidly rising sun. Within minutes the peaceful valley would start turning light.
Lined up in the dim, chill dawn at the edge of the hotel’s roofed walk stood the Curtins’ three hired guides, West Quarternight, Grady Downs, and Taos. Walking toward the trio, Elizabeth caught them exchanging quick, almost imperceptible looks. She saw fleeting smiles cross their faces and knew immediately what was responsible for their amusement.
At her side, Edmund was decked out in all the western finery he had purchased at Ruiz Brothers. Compared with their scouts’ comfortable buckskins, her brother-in-law was a trifle overdressed. In his new brown cowboy boots, stiff denim trousers, wide intaglioed belt with heavy silver buckle, red cotton shirt, leather cowboy cuffs, white silk bandanna, fringed suede jacket, and white, high-crowned felt hat, Edmund looked exactly like what he was: a cultured Eastern gentleman eager to play the role of a tough Westerner. Bless his heart, all he’d managed was to look more like a greenhorn than ever.
Elizabeth was glad she had made no effort to appear more western. She felt completely comfortable in the fashionable maroon gabardine traveling suit she’d worn on the trip to Santa Fe. In a lace-trimmed, high-throated blouse of pale pink, fitted, long-sleeved suit jacket, wide-gored skirt, sensible kid slippers, and the flat-crowned hat she had purchased at Ruiz Brothers, Elizabeth was confident she was dressed just right.
Anxiously, she looked at Edmund, afraid her brother-in-law might have caught the guides’ knowing grins and glances.
But Edmund was smiling broadly, totally pleased with himself, so proud of his new western wardrobe he imagined the others were envious. Fond of her good-hearted brother-in-law, Elizabeth was relieved.
Edmund stepped forward to shake West’s hand and speak to him. Having no desire to say so much as “good morning” to West Quarternight, Elizabeth remained where she was, quietly surveying the rest of the ready caravan.
West and Grady Downs stood beside a sturdy buckwagon, its bed covered with a tarp, pots and pans hanging over the side, and a water keg lashed to the tailgate. The giant Indian, Taos, listened to something Grady said, and nodded. Then Grady climbed up onto the wagon seat while Taos turned and walked toward his mount, a huge dun stallion tethered to the hitchpost.
Besides Taos’s dun stallion, Elizabeth counted twenty horses, some saddled, some not, and a dozen pack burros loaded down with supplies.
Standing silently beside their saddled Navajo ponies, eight hired Mexican men waited for the command to get under way. Of the eight, a half dozen were poor peasants, dressed in cotton shirts and baggy pants, men chosen for their strong backs and willingness to work. The other two were small, trim leather-trousered vaqueros, hired to handle the horses on the trail.
Elizabeth’s gaze slowly returned to Edmund and West. More specifically to West. He was lounging negligently against the wagon wheel, a knee bent, a boot heel hooked over a wooden spoke, smoking a cigar.
Her dislike of him was intense; still, she was glad that he and his partners were their escorts on this dang
erous search.
West Quarternight, she mused as she watched him, was a hard, unfeeling man who had no respect for anyone, who seemed not to care about anything. But then, neither was he afraid of anyone or anything. Perhaps the fact that nothing mattered to him was responsible for his fearlessness. The idea had not occurred to her before, but it made a great deal of sense. She had always suspected that those men who were bravest in battle were ofttimes disillusioned, world-weary souls who purposely courted death because they cared so little for life.
“Ready, Elizabeth?” Edmund’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Yes. Yes, I’m ready.” She hurried forward.
Edmund turned to face her, smiled, and lightly clasped her shoulders. He said, “It’s not too late to back out. You can stay on safely right here at the La Fonda until we return.”
Elizabeth was highly conscious of West, still lounging against the wagon wheel—not six feet away. She could feel, rather than see, the slight smirk on his handsome face. West knew, damn him, that she was leery of going and leery of staying. If she went, she’d be in constant danger of his getting her off alone. If she stayed behind, she was in danger of his telling the dirt on her. Either way, he had her, the dirty dark devil!
“Let’s get going, Edmund,” she said to her brother-in-law.
“All right, my dear. Good luck!” He squeezed her shoulders and rushed away. He walked hurriedly toward a saddled chestnut gelding, so excited he forgot to help her up into the wagon.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Curtin.” West lazily pushed away from the wagon wheel and stepped forward. “I’ll give you a hand up.”
“I don’t need your help,” she said, brushing past him.
But she did.
Elizabeth had never in her life attempted climbing up onto a wagon. She had ridden in all manner of fancy carriages, she had ridden horseback, but never had she ridden in a strange-looking tarp-covered buckboard wagon such as this one. The padded seat where Grady Downs waited was so high up off the ground, she had no idea how to go about getting up onto it.
But she’d die before she’d admit it.
Her chin lifting, she flung her flat-crowned hat up onto the wagon, grabbed the whip stock with one hand, the seat with the other, and pulled herself upward, vainly attempting to find something to step onto so that she could hoist herself up into the wagon. But her slippered foot found only air and she hung there, helpless and frustrated.
From the corner of her eye, she caught West shaking his head at Grady, and she knew that the little white-haired man had aimed to reach out and pull her on up. West had stopped him with a look.
Damn him to hot, eternal hell!
Elizabeth put her feet back to the ground and released her hold on the wagon. She yanked the maroon jacket that had ridden up her midriff back down into place, pushed at a wayward lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes, and gave it another try. Struggling, striving futilely to climb up onto the wagon, she became miserably aware that the entire caravan had now mounted and was ready and waiting for her.
Those in the desert expedition were not the only ones witnessing her acute embarrassment. The sidewalks were quickly filling with the curious who had come into town at this early hour to watch the procession ride out of Santa Fe. From the restaurants ringing the plaza, vaqueros and cowboys, having rushed through their breakfasts, hurried outdoors to join in the fun.
Carriages with well-dressed gentlemen inside had parked just across San Francisco Street to get an unobstructed view. There were even several ladies who had turned out for the occasion at this ungodly hour. Elizabeth supposed that the tall, dark guide in buckskins was responsible for their presence.
Knowing every eye was on her, Elizabeth felt her face flush hotly. The heat intensified when she heard West calmly say, “You’re the stubbornest woman I’ve ever met. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”
“I can take care of myself,” she shrieked.
“You’re doing a pretty lousy job of it.”
Elizabeth’s head whipped around. West stood with his arms crossed over his chest, smiling devilishly, just waiting for her to beg for assistance. Well, he would wait until Gabriel blew his horn!
Teeth grinding, fury rising, Elizabeth released her hold on the whip stock and wagon seat. She pushed West out of her way, turned around facing away from the wagon, put her hands behind her atop the wheel, and boosted herself up to sit on it. From there she was able to turn to her right and grab the wagon’s splashboard with both hands, swing her feet up and around to the floorboard, and triumphantly climb up onto the seat beside Grady Downs.
“Good for you, missy!” said Grady approvingly.
Elizabeth’s hot face blazed with fire when she heard applause and whistles coming from the men lining the plaza. Grinding her teeth so forcefully her jaws ached, she stared straight ahead, wishing she could duck out of sight under the canvas covering the buck wagon.
She flinched when West easily stepped up on the wheel hub and leaned across her. Longing to shout at him, knowing she couldn’t, Elizabeth closed her eyes against the too-close sight of his chest and right arm. He leaned so near she felt his body heat, caught his scent, made all the more powerful because her eyes were shut. He smelled of shaving soap and tobacco and that unique, mysterious masculine scent that was his and his alone.
Her eyes flew open when she felt something being pulled tautly across her body. She looked down to see West’s dark hands tightly cinching wide leather straps across her, straps which were attached to the back of the seat on either side of her. The straps had a big buckle, which was now resting directly atop her naval.
Her face turned an even brighter shade of red as West calmly, deftly buckled the wide imprisoning belt. As if that were not enough, he then had the audacity to turn his hand over and hook his little finger up under the wide leather strap.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” she said through clenched teeth, slapping at his intrusive hand, praying no one but Grady could see what was going on.
Not looking at her, West slid his three other fingers under, placed his thumb atop the wide strap, and then yanked firmly.
“There, that ought to hold you,” he said, lifting his dark head, finding her red, angry face scant inches from his own. Proud of his handiwork, satisfied that the safety strap he had rigged up was tight enough, he told her, “Mrs. Curtin, I’m only seeing to it that you don’t get thrown out of the wagon.”
“That’s all it was, missy,” Grady quickly put it. “Sonny’s just thinking of your safety.”
Ignoring Grady, Elizabeth said to West, “Well, if you don’t get down this minute, you are going to get thrown off the wagon!”
“You’re very welcome,” West said. “Think nothing of it.” And he lithely dropped to the ground.
He didn’t immediately move away. He leaned down, lifted the trailing maroon skirts of Elizabeth’s traveling suit, and tucked them neatly in around her feet and beneath the seat.
With blazing blue eyes she glared at him and said beneath her breath, “Get away from here!”
“I’m only making sure,” he said, a thumb and finger toying with her hem, “that you don’t get your skirt caught in the wagon wheel. That could be disastrous.”
“It’s going to be disastrous for you, Quarternight, if you don’t get away from me this minute and stay away!”
“I’m going,” said he, grinned, and slowly backed off.
Fuming, Elizabeth watched as West turned and unhurriedly walked toward a sleek red sorrel. Big and powerful-looking, the beautiful creature was a mare. The frisky mare tossed her head and danced in place, obviously eager to get out and race the wind.
West reached the magnificent animal, looped the long reins over its well-shaped head, and patted its sleek, shiny neck. When he was fully confident that the angry Mrs. Curtin was watching him, West looked straight at Elizabeth, again stroked the gleaming red mare’s throat, and inclined his dark head meaningfully toward her.
With an easy grace, West swung up into the saddle, stuck his booted feet into the stirrups, and wheeled the shimmering red animal away from the hitchrail. Elizabeth tried to withdraw inside herself when she realized West was reining the mare toward the wagon.
What was the vain bastard up to now? Didn’t he know the entire city of Santa Fe was watching?
West urged the big mount alongside the wagon where Elizabeth sat stiffly on the seat. When she turned to wither him with a look, West said, “Notice anything about my chosen mount?”
“Only that the unfortunate creature has a fool astride her.”
Grady chuckled loudly, slapped his thigh, and said, “She got you good that time, Sonny.”
West said to Elizabeth, “Her coat is the exact same color as your hair.” His brown hand again tenderly stroked the mare’s shiny red withers. “I think I’ll call her Lizzie. You like that name?”
Her face as red as the shimmering coat West stroked, Elizabeth said, “I hope Lizzie throws you and you land on your head!”
“Why, missy, that’s the hardest part of him,” said Grady, joining in enjoying the fun.
Looking only at Elizabeth, West said softly, “She won’t. I know just how to handle her.”
Seething, Elizabeth held her tongue as West, showboating grandly, backed the shiny sorrel away, so obviously pleased with himself she longed to smack him a good one. When he was directly in front of the wagon, West reined the sorrel about in a semicircle.
From the saddle horn he took his hat, put it on his head, and pulled the brim low. He then turned in the saddle and looked back at the long procession, at the men and the animals all itching to be off.
He turned back around, raised his long right arm, and brought it down just as he lightly touched his spurred heels to the shiny red sorrel’s belly.
The expedition was officially under way!
Spectators waved and cheered loudly as the long procession moved slowly down San Francisco toward Calisteio, where it would turn south. West, atop the prancing red mare, led the parade. After him came the buck wagon with Grady driving, Elizabeth on the seat beside him.