“Not necessarily.” She clicks her tongue and Correcaminos steps off beside Volar.
“The fire, Ivy—returning for handguns and a bounty—please do not go after that coach.” He moves after them. “Your wounds are not healed. You just returned. You have not thought this through.” He stops as she does not look at him or slow her horse. “You condone this?”
She glances back, seeing Sam face Grip behind them. His horse has not moved. He holds his cigarette in the first two fingers of his left hand while the loose rope to the stallion’s bosal drapes over his thumb.
“Mr. Samuelson, are you under the impression we shall ride into peril for want of attention?”
“That is how it appears.”
Rosalía reins back, half turning Volar to wait. The mare stops of her own volition and looks around after the other two horses.
“And you regard us safer home in our beds while the wall is unfinished, the city unprotected, and the two most notorious outlaw bands in New Mexico Territory are allowed to ride the streets of Santa Fé as ‘lawmen’ shake hands or look away?” Grip asks. “Do you sleep better at night inside town than without? For myself, I should rather face a man with the Plague than one without it. The former never attempts to conceal who he is. Nor arm himself with anything more worrisome than teeth.”
He lifts the cigarette back to his lips and, by invisible signal, the buckskin starts at a walk. “If it makes you more comfortable, Mr. Samuelson, know we shall be gone a short time. And I am already acquainted with the value of lives against gold.”
Sam does not follow as the three move away. When Ivy glances back through dust tossed by hooves, she sees him standing in the middle of the road, watching them go.
Forty-Eighth
Black and White
“Ah, beh, cheh, seh, deh, eh, ef-eh,” Rosalía sings out to a marching rhythm.
“Rose ... could we try some ... words?” They have been through the alphabet dozens of times in the past mile, beginning to make Ivy’s head spin.
“Colores!” Rosalía beams. She waves her hand at the sky. “Azul.” A stunted cactus: “Verde.” The bandana around her neck: “Gris.” She squints around them. “Todo por aquí es café—that’s brown.”
“¿Cuánto tiempo vas a—?” Grip starts from behind them.
“Stop it,” Rosalía snaps.
“Dices que ella debería aprender. Y luego—”
“I can’t hear you.” Rosalía raises her voice. She forbade Grip to speak Spanish on the trail unless he could be instructive and share with Ivy what it meant. He has mostly remained silent, though she tried to get him to participate in lessons.
The women ride far enough ahead for two coaches to travel between. Behind Grip, Yap-Rat trots with his large tongue dripping.
Unlike Luck, always sidling up to the others, then snapping and pinning her ears to make trouble, Correcaminos sets the pace, moving with a steady walk that covers ground quickly on her long legs. They frequently shift at a jog or canter and here, too, she steps with a fluid glide, head up, ears and eyes watchful. She does not start or shy at unexpected sounds or motion, but observes, sniffs, and moves on without break in stride.
“She’s a líder,” Rosalía told Ivy. “A lead mare. See how the others respeto her?”
Volar seems attentive to her every move, following at her side while Rosalía lets her reins dangle across his neck, feet often hanging from her stirrups. Even sullen old El Cohete watches Correcaminos. A turn of her ear is mirrored by him.
Ivy is not sure how she feels about this. Like the black mare’s calm demeanor, she knows she should like it. Yet, Correcaminos is not her horse.
Grip has his own complaint about Correcaminos: “A crime to work black horses out here. Íñigo knows that. Now he means her to be a broodmare.”
Ivy looks down at the two dark horses streaked with sweat below merciless July sun as they travel south along the road toward Albuquerque. El Cohete appears relatively comfortable.
“Íñigo believes a horse’s color is less important than her temperamento.” Rosalía shifts in her saddle to glare back at him. “She’ll throw maravilloso foals.”
“May as well paint targets on their flanks and—”
“Not everyone seeks to camouflage themselves out here!”
“And when you—”
“¡Basta! If you can’t be civil, keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“I do keep my uncivil thoughts to myself.”
Rosalía turns to Ivy. “Basta is ... enough. As in, enough said, stop it.”
Ivy nods. Just when she decided there were such helpful similarities to French....
“If these are the polite ones, keep them all to yourself,” Rosalía calls.
“You want me to start a conversation, then I do and you tell me callarse.”
“You’re saying the wrong things. Be a sport.” She has been in high spirits ever since she woke Ivy several hours earlier. Ivy wonders what Grip finally said to her the night before to repair the rift. It must have been a gracious apology. Or Rosalía has learned to appreciate any crumb of remorse and he was able to dredge up that much.
“Rose—” Grip sounds even more irritated.
“You can tell me how you are. You’ve been gone a fortnight. I’ve scarcely seen you since we returned from Raton Pass.”
“What’s to tell?”
Ivy almost laughs, coughing on dust instead.
Rosalía looks at her, then over her shoulder. “Ivy says you escaped the riada. How did you manage that?”
“Fortune.”
Wait.... Ivy remembers and turns. “You and Sam were gone days between the flood and finding us again by the gorge. What happened? You never said.”
Grip mumbles something.
“Excuse me?” Rosalía leans back in her saddle.
Ivy draws up her long rein a few inches and Correcaminos slows.
“Risers in Smoke Junction,” Grip says. “We ran into all kinds of trouble—”
“And Smoke Junction was three days from us? We were separated at least that long. Why did you go if it took a day and a half each direction?”
“Wasn’t that far.” He is still difficult to hear, though they are now yards apart. “Only took longer than expected.”
“How were you not killed if risers were so thick in the area? I never saw any after we rejoined you. What happened?” Ivy repeats.
Grip says nothing.
After watching him, Rosalía turns in her saddle to Ivy. “English probably got them lost.”
“Sam?”
Rosalía nods sagely. “You shouldn’t have let him wander like that, Grip.”
Ivy looks back. “You became lost?”
The possibility had not occurred to her. When she thinks about it, she has no idea why they are not all constantly lost out here. If she had to navigate this country she would likely perish while still trying to find the road to begin.
“English was lost,” Rosalía corrects her. “Grip is never lost. He’s too cuidadoso, too astuto. Only tontos get lost. Though he should have aided English—all being as it was.”
“¿Te acuerdas que me rogaba que venir en este viaje?” Grip asks.
Rosalía’s expression sobers. “Lo siento.” Ivy knows this to be an apology and wonders what Grip said. Then Rosalía grins. “Did Winter tell you Dinah Brownlow means to collect rainwater?”
“Santa Fé has a river through it. And acequias,” Grip says.
“Which are drying up, if you hadn’t noticed. Even the Acequia Madre.”
“And, when it rains, the river rises,” he goes on, ignoring Rosalía. “Can you tell us a useful Spanish word to summarize rainwater harvesting at that juncture?”
“Grip—”
“How about, sin valor?”
“Fine. Go back to your uncivil thoughts on your own.”
“Gracias.”
Soon Grip is once more trailing and Rosalía has returned to practicing simple phrases and nouns. The day on
the trail passes quickly with her along. It is not until an hour before sunset, when they stop to make camp so they can cook dinner before dark, that Ivy feels something is missing.
Rosalía builds the fire, Grip gives their mounts nosebags, and Ivy is expected to start the meal. But someone else should be feeding the horses. Someone should be offering her a peppermint.
Ivy mixes sticky cornmeal fritters to fry alongside bacon. Grip says it is the time of year they must start taking a pack horse along: nothing left for their horses to eat on the trail and the pack horse can carry for himself and them. Rosalía explains that the rosary she is unwinding from her saddle horn used to be her great-grandmother’s.
Yet, camp still feels lonely.
Plate clear, Grip gazes south as Rosalía smothers the fire with sand. The horses nibble through dry grass. The big cur sits off to the side of camp, staring at their iron pot.
“Where’s your coach?” Grip asks, looking around at Ivy.
Ivy frowns at smoke. “We will find it tomorrow. It will not be far.”
“And if it’s off the road?”
“Why would it be?”
“Attempting to escape attack, seeking shelter, out of control team.”
Ivy flicks ash off her skirt. “We will find tracks leading off if a whole heavy coach and four horses galloped away.”
“Have you watched for tracks off the road today?”
“You think I read tracks? Isn’t that your job?”
Rosalía grins as she lies back on a blanket with her long coat over her. Ivy wishes she had her cloak back, but it was lost to the flood. Grip remains beside coals, just across from them. Ivy has never known him not to distance himself in camp. Now she wishes he would as he lights a cigarette, gazing south in twilit gloom.
“Wake me whenever you want,” Rosalía says, trying to settle her head on her saddle skirts.
Grip gives no sign he heard.
“I can watch too,” Ivy says, though she feels sure her voice does nothing to convey sincerity. She lies back beside Rosalía, seeing silver stars like reflections off a million diamonds above her.
Grip says nothing as they settle their blankets. Ivy finds this saddle much too rigid and slick for her pillow, but uses the dusty cornmeal sack with a fold of wool blanket pulled over it.
“Tell us a story,” Rosalía says.
Ivy glances sideways. Her? But Rosalía gazes into stars and Ivy is not sure whom she addresses.
Grip sighs and blows out smoke.
“You won’t sing or talk or teach,” Rosalía says. “You can tell us a story. Something we don’t know.”
“You already wish me to ride with you, protect you, make camp for you,” Grip says.
“Not a ghost story,” Ivy says, for Melchior tells tales around camp he has heard from other cowpunchers: strange sounds in the night and phantom horses and counting backward from one hundred to ward off demons which walk the Earth at midnight.
“A good one. No risers and no outlaws,” Rosalía adds.
“And no one gets eaten,” Ivy says, thinking of Little Red Riding Hood.
Silence.
Ivy looks again at Rosalía. She smiles heavenward, apparently waiting. This is ridiculous. Grip is not going to tell them a bedtime story. She pulls her blanket up to her chin as night air creeps about her skin. Why is she always too hot or too cold? She closes her eyes, though she feels tense and sore and hungry and missing ... something. Winter’s cooking. Another pot pie. She must try to help Winter with her baking days for the town’s bachelors. She earns her income this way but Ivy is certain whatever she charges is not enough. And she feeds Ivy for free.
“Oisín rode one day through Connemara, hunting along ocean cliffs,” Grip says softly.
Ivy opens her eyes. Rosalía is still stargazing. Grip flicks the end of his cigarette in the ashes.
“Oisín, son of Fionn mac Cumhaill, was Éire’s greatest poet and the Fianna’s greatest warrior. As he rode ahead of his men, he saw a white wave in the distance. Oisín drew rein. He watched as this wave materialized into a beautiful woman mounted on a magnificent white horse which galloped over the ocean.”
Grip lifts paper and a tobacco pouch from his pocket to begin rolling another cigarette.
“The horse leapt to the cliff top while Fianna warriors drew back in awe. The rider introduced herself as Niamh, princess of the island of Tír na nÓg, realm of eternal youth, beauty, and joy. Even upon Tír na nÓg, Oisín’s name was known. Now Niamh visited the Fianna only a short time before she knew the stories of his strength and wisdom to be true. In equally short a time, Oisín found himself as taken with the princess.
“When she left Éire, Oisín rode with her upon the magical horse, Enbarr. He bid his family farewell, assuring them he would see them before long.
“Oisín and Niamh were soon married and raising children. Oisín had never been so lighthearted or content. Three years passed before the poet warrior went to his bride to explain he must visit his family.
“Niamh was frightened, begging him to reconsider, fearing he could not make the journey safely, even with Enbarr. Still, she could see him thinking more of home, longing to see those he missed. She brought him Enbarr, embraced him, and told him he could not for an instant dismount. Only the horse would keep him safe if he returned to Éire.
“Oisín rode to the cliffs of Connemara to find his old hunting trails wild and overgrown, his family gone, no sign of Fianna or their camp despite days of travel upon the white horse. When Oisín came across a hunting party, he asked after the Fianna, naming his father and many others. The men were agape, one at last shaking his head and telling Oisín those names lived only in history: they had been dead nearly three hundred years. So Oisín understood that one year on Tír na nÓg was one hundred for the world of mortal men.
“In despair, he turned Enbarr west but came upon men toiling to build a road and heft great rocks from their path to a cart. Oisín was still a strong warrior and, though he could not dismount, he leaned from the saddle to assist. With the final rock, as Oisín lifted with all his strength, Enbarr’s cinch snapped. Oisín fell to earth and the laborers started back in fear. The moment the young warrior touched ground, his body shriveled and crumbled to dust: no more than the remains of a three-hundred-year-old man.
“Enbarr fled to Tír na nÓg and Niamh. She knew at a glance her beloved would never return and fell, weeping, to her knees.”
Ivy waits, watching stars. Rosalía also gazes upward.
Grip lights his next cigarette.
Rosalía sits up, half removing Ivy’s blanket with the motion. “That’s it?” She sounds upset.
Grip glances at her.
“That was the whole story? That was horrible. That’s the saddest, most—what is the moral?”
“Moral?”
“What is the purpose of the tale?”
“It’s a legend. Not a moral fable. Some say Oisín met Saint Patrick when—”
“So legends don’t need endings?”
“It has an ending.” He also sounds irritated now. “Máthair told it better than I can, but that’s the story. You asked for a story you didn’t know. And no one was eaten.”
“Sort of.”
Ivy tries to pull her blanket to her neck.
Rosalía lies back, muttering, “We should have been more specific.” She rolls to her side, facing Ivy. “I’m sorry I asked him to tell one.”
She sounds honestly apologetic, but Ivy smiles at the navy sky. She is more impressed that he told a story than disturbed by its content. And tired. How exhausting to find you lived hundreds of years on the sleep of only three....
Ivy is wakened seconds later by something heavy smashing into her shin.
“Sorry, Ivy—”
She jumps, pulling her foot away as Rosalía lifts the slab of wrapped bacon off the blanket. She blinks and rubs her face as she takes in dawn’s purple-orange glow.
“It slipped. Are you all right?”
&n
bsp; “What time is it? I thought—you could have woken me for watch.”
“You can do tonight.”
“If we are out another night,” Grip says from his spot across the fire from them. He lies back in his bedroll, head on his saddle, watching the horses forage.
Rosalía already has the fire started and the little iron pot in coals. She cuts strips of bacon with a knife from her belt while Ivy sits up, shivering, wondering what happened to the night.
The horses are saddled shortly after sunrise, outfit packed and fire covered. The dog appears from brush to stretch and wander off.
Ivy watches Rosalía wind beads about her saddle horn as she waits for assistance to mount. Sam was always beside her the moment she was ready to go. What if they forgot she cannot mount backwards onto the sidesaddle on her own?
Rosalía notices her looking at the rosary and smiles. “It’s best to have something personal on the trail. Something meaningful. You can lose yourself out here. Grip carries a crucifix from his Irish mother and the tassel. I carry this. You, your handbag.”
“Tassel? On the holster?” She glances at Grip as he finishes strapping down the last packs behind his saddle.
“From his first horse,” Rosalía says.
Ivy is familiar with the horse hair on the holster, but thought it decoration, the same as fringe on chaps or sleeves before Melchior told her these were for rainwater runoff. Red in color, darker chestnut than Luck. Fuego—that was his red mustang at the time. Does Grip know Rosalía told her a story as well? How would he feel about it?
“Leg up?” Rosalía asks.
“Thank you.” But she needs considerably more than a leg up.
They manage the feat with Ivy pulling at the black mare’s neck and saddle, but Rosalía, who is slightly built and two inches shorter than Ivy, seems put out by the effort.
“You must learn to ride astride.” Panting. “This is beyond unpractical. It’s ridículo.”
“If we do not uncover your coach today, we are turning back,” Grip says, already in the saddle and starting El Cohete south.
Why does he call it that? They all have something to gain from this.
Ivy says nothing, but gives Correcaminos her head.
Lightfall Three: Luck, Lost, Lady (Lightfall, Book 3) Page 14