by Patty Devlin
Her eyes rose to his, where he stood, watching her with deep concern. “Please Clint,” she urged, “the soap.” Her voice was gruff and harsh with emotion. She was hanging on to her sanity by a fragile thread. He nodded and turned toward the bank.
Chapter Six
The horse’s rhythmic motion was soothing. If she weren’t so afraid to close her eyes and see the horrific images of that terrible scene, she would have napped. As it was, she rested her temple against Clint’s broad chest. As she rode in front of him, she watched as they passed yet another cornfield. She feared moving, lest she see the horse that followed on leader reins behind them.
“Are you still with me, sweetheart?”
He’d asked this every thirty minutes or so. She was sure she was scaring him with her silence, but she didn’t know what to say. She’d never had someone shot and fall bleeding on top of her. It was like something out of one of her gothic novels, the ones both her father and Clint had frowned upon her reading. They would be happy to know that as of today, her penchant for such sensational fiction had passed. She’d experienced enough drama and gore in the past few days to last a lifetime.
“Emmalee?”
She nodded, having forgotten he’d asked a question.
“I’d like you to talk to me, sweetheart, rather than nodding your head.”
“The bitch must have broken something with all that screaming and sassing she did at me ‘afore. If I didn’t hate ya so much, I’d pity you havin’ to listen ta that yer whole life.”
“Another word and I’ll gag you.” Clint’s words were spoken calmly but the steel behind them couldn’t be mistaken.
Em wondered whether the idiot would take heed. When they rode for several minutes in silence, she realized that he at least had the basic instinct for self-preservation.
“Em, look.”
She raised her head and looked where he indicated with a lift of his chin. Having reached the peak of a small rise, she saw a town sprawled out before them in the distance. As the sun set behind the rows of homes and businesses, it glinted off one building in particular, glistening in flashes of black, red and green. It was as if a beacon was leading them toward the most beautiful sight her eyes had ever seen—a train depot. They had arrived at Council Bluffs.
“Poor Daisy would never have made it.”
“True, but she’s found a good home now. That farmer said she was perfect for his daughter.”
Looking at the sun setting over Council Bluffs, she wanted to be there already. “Go faster, Clint, please,” she urged.
“With pleasure, baby.” He kicked his horse into a fast canter.
As the horse tethered behind them followed, Homer grunted in pain. Em’s lips curled into a sadistic smile. That he suffered bothered her not one little bit. Clint had bandaged his shoulder—a simple flesh wound, he’d said, nothing life threatening—and tied him securely over his saddle. He’d whined and complained the first few miles about how each step the horse took jarred his shoulder and that he was in severe pain. Out of patience, Clint had stopped and, without a word, retied Homer, this time leaving him face down over the saddle. Of course, Homer had protested this indignity, at the top of his lungs.
Finally, Clint had enough, telling him this was his only other option and that if he wasn’t comfortable this way, he didn’t “give a fuck.” However, he added, if Homer continued to “yap about it” he would gag him with his own dirty socks. Emmalee had gaped at her husband; his use of that particular word shocked her to her toes. They were breaking new ground with each hour that passed, so she shouldn’t have been surprised, not in the least.
Although Em would have rather left him behind, Clint had reasoned that they couldn’t leave an injured man tied up and vulnerable in the middle of nowhere. The plan was to deliver him to the sheriff in town and explain the events of the day, whereupon Homer would be arrested. Clint had assured her that with Homer’s other charges pending in Stanton, there was no doubt that he’d be locked up for a good long while. After that business was seen to, they’d find a place to stay for the night, have supper, a hot bath and crawl into a soft bed… in that exact order.
In the morning, they would have time to buy Emmalee some decent clothes to replace what had been ruined by Homer’s blood. Clint would then sell the horses and tack, wire Stanton to check on both Mr. Hampton and Mr. Harrison (at Em’s insistence), and to re-route their original tickets for the rest of their trip.
He still hadn’t told her what his personal business was in Omaha. She would work on that when they got to their room, wherever that might be. She couldn’t think beyond a long soak in a hot tub.
***
Loads of luxurious bubbles surrounded her as she floated, seeming weightless in the deep tub of hot water. The scent of lavender rose with the steam and encompassed the room, tickling her nose with its light floral scent. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs before letting it out in a long, perfectly contented sigh.
His chuckle teased her ears, but she was too relaxed to turn her head or even open her eyes. “Happy, baby?”
She barely had the energy to smile. “I’m either dreaming or have gone to heaven.”
“Heaven is a hot bubble bath to you?”
The disbelief in his question made her wrinkle her nose. “Today it is.”
Emmalee slid lower, sinking down until the soapy water covered her chin all the way to her lower lip. When his fingertip slid down her wet nose, she looked up at him.
“I’m going out for a bit. Stay in our room with the door locked.”
“Where are you going?”
“To take care of the personal business I spoke of.”
“I’ll get dressed and come with you.”
“No, Emmalee, I won’t be gone long. Promise you’ll stay here with the door locked.”
It was an order, not a question, and she frowned. What didn’t he want her to find out?
“Honey, remember when you told me to decide what kind of marriage I wanted? And I said one of honesty, trust and mutual respect?”
“I know where you’re heading with that, Em, but this business is something I need to do on my own. That is where trust comes in. You need to trust me on this.”
Her frown deepened, her brows gathering in lines of frustration. He’d turned the tables on her, demanding her trust before she could ask for his honesty. While she tried to figure out how to turn it back to her advantage, he kissed her brow and stood to leave.
“I’ll lock the door behind me. Do not open it again until I return. Do you hear?”
“Yes, husband, I hear you.”
Her grumbled response had him shaking his head, but it satisfied him, evidently, because the next instant he was gone, tossing, “I won’t be gone long,” over his shoulder.
She scrambled from the tub. Dripping wet, she wrapped the large bath linen around her and stepped out of the private bathroom. Looking around their bedroom, she saw it was empty. The next moment she was at the window, peering through the curtains onto the main street below. It was early still, approaching eight o’clock she would guess, and the citizens were still out enjoying the evening as dusk fell over the bustling town.
Seemingly, the town had sprung up out of nowhere, breaking up the miles upon miles of monotonous farm land. It was like an oasis in a desert for a weary traveler, the proprietor had explained as he seated them earlier at supper. A few years earlier, the Chicago railroad, which Em and Clint should have safely arrived on, had finished its tracks in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Just a day before, the Union Pacific Railroad had finished up in nearby Omaha. This put Council Bluffs on the map, becoming a major travel hub from coast to coast. The only problem: the two towns and railroads were still separated by the Missouri River.
The proprietor, Mr. Patterson, had continued his explanation.
“Folks had to ferry across, which slowed down their travels considerably. Now, with the opening of the first ever Union Pacific Bridge across the Missouri, we have bec
ome part of the transcontinental railroad. Folks don’t even have to stop any longer,” he’d said. “They can just zip right on through connecting east and west. It boggles the mind.”
“Isn’t that bad for business, Mr. Patterson, if folks can just zip on past your fine town?” Emmalee had asked.
“One would assume so, but the trains stop here for passengers. You see, we have other railroads connecting here. Folks have to get off and wait for their connecting train, which means they have hours and in some cases, days. To pass the time, they venture into town to partake of our fine restaurants, hotels and shops, which is quite good for business, I assure you, ma’am.”
“Your business is good because your accommodations are excellent, sir,” Clint had praised. “The rooms are well-appointed, and it is quite rare, even on the east coast, to have a private bath.”
“Ah yes, you are in one of our premium suites, Mr. Ryan. Not all of our guests can afford to partake of such luxury.” His eyes had fallen to Emmalee. She felt him studying her face. As red with sunburn as she was from two days in the saddle, she was sure her blush wouldn’t be noticed. She was wrong, as Clint chuckled and the hotel manager smiled. “Your juniper bride deserves nothing less after her long journey.”
That was the third time someone had called her a juniper bride. It was on her tongue to ask for an explanation, but more patrons arrived for supper. He’d excused himself to see to them, assuring Clint that their meals would be out shortly. The question had slipped from her mind when their food arrived as promised only minutes later. After two days of salty ham and apples, the roast beef and potatoes on her plate were all that was important.
Peeking through the curtains at the busy street below, she sighed. By this time, following a fine meal and emerging clean and warm from her bath, she thought she’d be cuddled up in the very tempting wide bed, enjoying the excellent accommodations with her husband. Instead, she stood waiting and wondering, and as was becoming common place for her, she did it alone. The habit he had of leaving her behind was getting tiresome.
At that precise moment, she spotted Clint as he emerged from the hotel and strode across the street. Despite wearing a dark hat, like scores of other men on the street, Clint stuck out in the crowd. Standing taller than most other men, he moved easily through the crowd, his bearing and easy stride exuding self-assurance. He moved gracefully for a big man, drawing curious and admiring glances. Heads turned, both male and female, as he passed.
Her own admiring gaze followed him until he stopped and entered a building a few doors down. Light poured out of its large front windows, enough for Emmalee to make out the sign above the door: Council Café. What was he doing at a café? They had just eaten. In fact, after eating his huge portion of roast beef, he’d easily gobbled up what she’d left on her plate, unable to finish. The man could eat, but he couldn’t possibly be hungry after all that. He was conducting his personal business there, she was certain.
A quarter hour later, dressed in her new skirt and blouse, her still damp hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck, Emmalee stood on the street outside the café. People filed around her, casting her inquiring glances, but she ignored them, unable to focus on anything other than the scene inside the café. Clint’s personal business was with a woman, a very beautiful woman at that. Her dark, almost black hair was artfully piled atop her head and glimmered in the lamp light. With pink, dewy lips that looked natural without cosmetics and skin flawlessly smooth and fair, she appeared beautifully exotic, the contrast of dark and light a truly exquisite combination. Emmalee felt drab and dull by comparison. Fair hair, light eyes, pale skin—her hands rose to her flaming cheeks—what used to be pale skin, she corrected. How could she compete with such a striking, colorful woman?
Suddenly, the woman turned her head toward the window where Emmalee stood gawking. She took a step back, but too late. She knew what she would find when she shifted her eyes to her husband. She hesitated, delaying the inevitable, then finally looked at him. Sure enough, his glittering blue eyes were aimed directly at her and he looked none too pleased. She watched as his lips moved, saying something to the woman, before he rose and strode quickly toward the door.
She was frozen. Once again he’d caught her, blatantly going against his orders, and in a moment, she was going to hear about it. Looking back at the black-haired woman, she met her eyes once again. For the first time, she noticed they were blue, a familiar deep blue. She frowned. The woman’s eyes shifted slightly and widened.
Emmalee turned and looked up at her irate husband. Well, she was angry, too. He was justified in his ire because she’d once again disregarded his orders. But she also had a right to be angry. What married man snuck off in the evening to meet a woman? Deliberately being evasive and hiding things from his wife was not a way to instill trust. She pre-empted his angry lecture with one of her own.
“Don’t you dare fuss at me, Clinton Ryan, not when I find you with some strange woman! You’ve had this assignation planned all along. No wonder you didn’t want me tagging along and interfering in your little tryst. I certainly put a kink in your plans, didn’t I? And now that you’ve had to marry me, how inconvenient. I guess your little hussy won’t take that at all well. What is she to you? How did you meet? Is she your paramour? Or did you intend to cry off and take her for your bride? Did she know you had a fiancée when you made these plans? I have a good mind to go in there and tell her off. That woman is a nothing but a home-wrecking floozy and a… a…”
“Sister. My twin sister to be exact.”
“What?” Her head swung around and she stared at Clint, then she shifted back to the black-haired beauty. Those eyes—lapis blue—that’s why they were familiar. Oh dear heavens! She’d called his sister a floozy.
“Are you done making a spectacle of yourself now, Emmalee? Here on the sidewalk, screaming like a harridan, you have drawn quite a crowd.”
Looking around, she saw it was true. Curious gazes, some smiling, others affronted and blatantly judgmental, were upon her. She would have liked to vanish there on the spot, she was so embarrassed by her behavior.
“I’m so sorry, Clint,” she whispered softly. She was, truly. His sister!
“Not half as sorry as you’re gonna be later when I get you back to our hotel room. Where, I remind you, you promised to stay.” His fingers had wrapped around her upper arms, and he’d pulled her into his chest, dipping his mouth to her ear so the crowd wouldn’t hear. “You lied to me, Emmalee, yet again.”
“Not this time. I didn’t promise.”
His eyes were hard as he looked down at her. “You did.”
“No, I said I heard you, not that I’d stay in our room.”
“I’ll not argue semantics. You know what I meant and you went against my wishes anyway. You are headstrong and reckless. Each time you’ve disobeyed, disaster has struck.”
“That is so unfair.”
“No, that is the honest truth, but we’ll deal with this later. It’s rude of me to leave my sister alone at our table much longer. Now that you know, you might as well join us.”
***
“I don’t want to know about him, Clint. I’m 28 years old. He had almost three decades to reach out to me and now he does it from the grave. I’m supposed to drop everything and rush to Denver so he can have a dramatic final moment with his unwanted progeny. I think not!”
As if realizing her voice was rising, she took a deep breath, and continued softly. “I’m sorry. I had a harsh childhood until the Hennesseys adopted me at thirteen. Since then, they are my parents. Charles Hennessey is the only father I have ever known, the only one I want to know. Frances is my mother now; surely you see that.”
“I do, honey.” Clint’s voice was full of gentleness and understanding. “Believe me. What you’re saying and experiencing are exactly what I went through a week ago. I feel the same as you do about my own adoptive family. John Hastings is no father to me. If not for our four brothers who are on their wa
y to Denver as we speak, I would have said good riddance to bad rubbish and forgotten the man ever existed. I want to know these men, meet them, even if it’s only this one time, just like I wanted to meet you, Delia.”
“It is such an unbelievable tale. It’s hard for me to even comprehend.” She looked away as if embarrassed before adding, “That’s not my real name, you know.”
Emmalee reached out a hand to where Delia’s lay on the table and gave her a quick squeeze of reassurance. She could understand her confusion about all of this. Em was dumbfounded by the tale.
“What is your real name, honey?” Clint asked, as he enfolded her other hand, his dwarfing her much smaller, paler one.
“Hastings. My real name is Cordelia Hastings, and I went by it for the first thirteen years of my life. It changed to Hennessey upon my adoption and soon will be Carver, when I marry Steven.” She looked at Clint with tears in her eyes. “When we were born, our mother wanted to keep us both, Clint. She told me that many, many times before she got sick. But she couldn’t. John Hastings left her destitute and pregnant with twins. She was lost. Her people didn’t want her and the white community shunned her.”
“Her people?”
“Yes, but they are our people too, Clint. You see, Mama was a half-breed.” Her blue eyes filled with pain as she looked at Clint and said, “This is a sad tale. Are you sure you want to hear it, or Emmalee? It is not for the faint of heart.”
“I came a long way to find answers, Delia. Please go on.”
Nodding, she took a deep breath and began. “Sho-sha-an-e, our grandmother, was of the Osage tribe from Oklahoma. We get our straight black hair and our height from her. Mama said all the Osage men were tall, most well over six feet. Our eyes, however, come from John Hastings. Of course, our grandfather, Andrew Morgan, also had blue eyes so Mama liked to believe they came from him, but it wasn’t true. She told me that she saw John every time she looked into my eyes.”