by Jane Toombs
“That’s where he’s from.’
“I haven’t met Tunstall,” Mark said.
Billy jerked his head toward the wagon. “Pretty girl. And that Ezra’s a good shot. Picked off one of those Mescaleros before we got there. Not much in the wagon. If that’s all they own, they ain’t got shucks.” He shook his head. “The little boy was scared silly. I’d like to wipe those red devils off the face of the earth.”
Billy snorted. “Only way to civilize any Apache is with this.” He patted the stock of his Winchester.
“That reminds me.” Mark’s voice hardened. “Steer clear of Dolan calves, Billy.”
Billy shrugged. “Hell, if I’d known you were out line-riding, amigo, I’d’ve kept my rope hung on the saddle.”
Mark opened his mouth, but bit the words back. He was glad he hadn’t shot the Kid. Dolan hated Chisum and Tunstall, but that didn’t mean he had to dislike Billy.
As for the brand-blotting, it was common practice. That didn’t make it right, but law in the New Mexico Territory was looser than back home in St. Louis where the Judge’s strict ideas of right and wrong had been passed on to Mark for all time. Here stray calves wound up belonging to the first man who found and branded them. Or re-branded. It wasn’t worth killing a man over.
“I’ll pick you for riding with against the Apaches anytime,” Mark said, giving Billy a reluctant grin.
Glancing up at the sky Mark saw the thin morning clouds were gone and the sun’s warmth cut the chill of the December day. Tessa’s eyes weren’t as bright a blue as the winter sky. They were a softer color—like the gray-blue of early evening.
Tunstall wasn’t married. A wealthy man, Mark had heard. How well did she know him? Was it possible they had an understanding? Mark’s hand tightened on the reins. He forced himself to relax. What was the matter with him? Too much imagination, the Judge had always said. Painting mind pictures of what’s going to happen when you don’t know beans is what makes a man out to be a damn fool.
It would be easy to be a damn fool over Tessa Nesbitt.
* * *
“What’ll happen to us if Mr. Tunstall won’t let us stay?” Ezra asked Tessa.
“I’m certain he will,” she assured him.
She was anything but sure. Papa had rambled on about going to school with John Tunstall’s cousin, about how Englishmen should stick together in a strange land. He’d urged her to make herself a new dress, blind to the fact she’d used up all of her mother’s old gowns and there was no money for new cloth.
“He comes of fine stock, Tessa, this John Henry Tunstall,” Papa had told her. “A monied family. I have to think of your future, child.”
That’s when she realized Papa planned to marry her off to this Englishman none of them had ever met. She’d protested, unhappy with the idea, but there was nothing for it but to go along with the trip to New Mexico Territory. There was nothing else to do.
Their money was gone, their cattle sold or stolen. Even her small stock of canned vegetables had been eaten. Foggy London seemed like Eden compared to Texas.
She glanced right and left at the countryside. This New Mexico valley along the Pecos River was brown with winter, like the bare branches of cottonwoods and willows. A mountain peak to the north was white with snow and the hills in the distance were green with pines. Perhaps everything didn’t turn brown and dusty here as spring gave way to summer, the way it did in Texas.
Where else did she have to go? It was humiliating to ask help from a stranger, but there was no choice but to swallow her pride and do it. She dreaded the moment she’d have to face John Tunstall and beg him to take her and her brothers in.
Tessa didn’t blame Papa for any of it. She blinked back tears, thinking of him lying dead behind her in the wagon, wrapped in one of their old blankets. She couldn’t cry now. Ezra would get upset and frighten poor Jules all over again.
Poor Papa. He’d tried hard, but he wasn’t fit for the life of a Texas rancher. Grandfather had been a minister and Papa ought to have followed in his footsteps. He’d’ve been happy enough in some country parish in England.
Even then, though, they’d have made it through another year and maybe things would have gotten better if it hadn’t been for the range war. Papa didn’t want to be on either side, but when the shooting started he’d had to choose and he chose wrong. There wasn’t much left when the smoke cleared.
Tessa heard Billy laugh and looked over at him, then at Mark Halloran. How handsome Mark was. Was he married? Her face flushed as she realized where her thoughts were leading. If John Tunstall were Mark she wouldn’t mind a bit going to live in his house.
“Do you think Billy was joking when he said people called him Kid?” Ezra asked. I don’t like being called that, even if I am only fourteen. But he’s old enough to be a cowboy, so why would anyone call him Kid?”
“He looks young,” Tessa said, her mind still on Mark.
“Billy’s a keen shot. Do you think he’d mind if I asked him to show me how he does it? Papa tried to teach me, but…” Ezra’s words trailed away and she saw him clench his jaw.
Papa hadn’t been a very good marksman, but what did that matter? He’d always tried to do his best, had always been there to depend on. Now he lay dead, killed by an Apache bullet. They were alone.
Tessa swallowed. She mustn’t let Ezra know how frightened she was. “Billy seems friendly,” she said. “I think he’ll be glad to help you. But, Ezra, there’s more to being a man than shooting. You know Papa wanted you to have schooling and…”“I know how to read and write and do sums. What more do I need?” Ezra shifted the Colt so it rested on one knee. He gazed steadily at the two men riding alongside the wagon.
“I won’t ever call him Kid,” Ezra said.
Chapter 2
Tessa stood on the riverbank in back of John Tunstall’s store. Behind and below her the Rio Bonito was crusted with ice. She wore a black silk gown and a black wool coat borrowed from Susie McSween. The minister’s words swept over her father’s rough-planked coffin and blew past her on a keen north wind. Tessa closed her eyes momentarily as they lowered the coffin.
“Ezra said Papa was inside that box,” Jules cried accusingly. “Don’t let them put Papa in a hole.”
Tessa crouched and put an arm around her little brother. “Papa’s dead,” she told him.
“His soul is in heaven.”
Jules began to cry with his face turned against her breast. Around her she heard sympathetic murmurs from the small group that had gathered to watch this stranger’s burial.
Poor Papa. Laid to rest in a town he’d never seen, so far from the green countryside of his native Kent.
Tessa felt John Tunstall’s hand pat her shoulder and glanced gratefully up at him. He’d taken charge from the moment Mark and Billy had brought her and her brothers into Tunstall’s store and bank.
John’s English speech was like an echo of their dead father and both boys had taken to him right away. Tessa liked him immensely. Though he was slight and fair with a boyish face, his air of authority gave her confidence
He’d immediately taken the Nesbitt’s to the McSween house next door to his store, telling Tessa he feared her reputation would suffer if she came to live at his ranch with no other woman there except his Mexican cook.
Alex and Susie McSween seemed delighted to have Tessa and the boys to stay with them, although the Shield family—father, mother and five children—already lived in the east wing of their large adobe house, along with Elizabeth Shield , Susie’s sister.
Susie was young and attractive with curly red hair. Her nose might be considered a trifle large for true beauty, but her sparkle and vivaciousness made her irresistible.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to talk to an educated woman,” Susie enthused. “It’s true I have Elizabeth, but she’s so busy with the children. There are so few women in the Territory, and almost none of them have had schooling.”
Her lawyer husband, Alex, was somewhat older th
an she, with dark hair and a drooping black mustache. He was as friendly as Susie. Their expensively furnished house seemed like a dream come true. There was even a piano. Tessa hadn’t seen one since she’d left England.
The McSween’s were at the graveside, standing next to John Tunstall. Susie had introduced Tessa to the other men who made up the little group, but she couldn’t remember who they all were—a Southerner named Calvin Rutledge and several men who worked for John. Bill Bonney was the only one she knew.
Clouds slid over the sun and Tessa shivered. She hoped the howling, bone-freezing blue northeaster that swept down from the Arctic to Texas didn’t do the same here in New Mexico.
The day was nothing like the hot and dusty afternoon seven-and-a-half years ago when they buried her mother. She’d scarcely cried then, worried about the tiny baby boy temporarily left in the care of the minister’s wife. Tessa, twelve, would now be responsible for her baby brother and she was terrified.
She took a deep breath, wiped Jules’ face with her handkerchief and stood, holding him against her side. Somehow she’d managed to raise Jules, but now, with Papa gone, she was responsible for both boys. At least they had temporary shelter, thanks to the McSween’s. When she could think straight, she’d find a way to manage again.
Beside her Ezra shook with sobs. Her own eyes were dry, her crying done. Last night, after she’d climbed into the almost forgotten luxury of a featherbed, she’d heard Susie at the piano playing, “Home Sweet Home,” and she’d wept for her father and the loss of all that had meant home to her.
“Dolan’s man,” someone whispered behind her.
Tessa looked up and her breath caught. Mark Halloran walked toward her. I knew he’d come, she told herself. He stopped near the minister and looked across the grave, his compassionate gaze warming her.
She liked and trusted John, but the sight of Mark triggered a quite different emotion. Tingling all over, Tessa lowered her eyes. She’d never felt like this before and it frightened her.
Mark wished he could take John Tunstall’s place beside Tessa. She looked so pale and fragile in her black coat that he longed to put his arm about her, to comfort her.
The minister concluded the prayer and walked around the grave to Tessa and her brothers. Mark hesitated, then finally followed him, ignoring the mutters of Tunstall’s men. He wasn’t looking for trouble, but, damn it, nobody was going to stop him from attending a funeral if he chose.
Mark caught Billy’s eye and they nodded to each other, Billy smiling. His companions glowered, especially a tall man in a black frockcoat and black silk cravat. His trim goatee and mustache made him look like an affluent river-boat gambler. He was new to town and Mark didn’t know him.
Mark passed the men and stopped beside the minister, where he waited for him to finish consoling Tessa.
“Mr. Halloran.”
Mark turned to face John Tunstall.
“Mr. Halloran,” Tunstall said once again. “I didn’t have a chance yesterday to tell you I think you’re a hell of a brave man, rescuing the Nesbitt’s from those Apaches.”
Mark smiled wryly. “A brave man rode beside me. That always helps.”
“Billy Bonney. Yes, Billy’s a good hand. Loyal.” Tunstall smiled. “As a matter of fact, I could use another like him”‘
“I have a job,” Mark said.
Tunstall nodded. “Keep my offer in mind.’’
“Oh, John, is this the man who saved poor Tessa?” Susie McSween advanced on them, holding out her hand to Mark.
Tunstall introduced Mark and Susie clasped Mark’s hand between both of hers, holding it tightly. Looking over her black bonnet, Mark saw the minister move on. Tessa glanced toward him.
Mark tried to withdraw his hand, but Susie held him and continued chattering away.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to a member of the opposition,” she said with a roguish toss of her head.
“I’m not in opposition to you, ma’am,” Mark replied, finally able to ease his hand from hers.
“But you work for that awful Mr. Dolan!” Susie cried.
Alex McSween was talking to Tessa now. The tall man in the black frockcoat had left the other men and was striding toward Mark with an angry frown.
Mark tensed. Except for McSween, who was well known to be a Bible-thumper who never toted iron, every man here was armed.
“I’m sure I don’t know why anyone would want to be associated in any way with Mr. Dolan,” Susie went on. “Do you know he’s been accusing poor Alex of simply unspeakable--?”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Mark interrupted. “I’d like to pay my respects to Miss Nesbitt before I head back to camp.”
Mark took three steps toward Tessa when the goateed man cut across his path and blocked it. When Mark attempted to veer around him, the man shifted to intercept him.
“You’re not welcome here,” he drawled. “I suggest you leave. Now.”
“Get out of my way,” Mark growled. Who the hell did this Southern bastard think he was, ordering him around?
“You heard what I said.” The Southerner didn’t move. “I’m not telling you again. Get out of my way!”
The Southerner sneered.
Mark walked straight at him. The Southerner grabbed at his shirt-front. Mark seized his arm and crouched. With a quick twist he flipped the man into a somersault. He thudded onto his back on the ground .
Would the bastard draw? Instead, the Southerner’s hand slid along the side of his boot.
“What have you done to Mr. Rutledge?”
Mark spun around at the sound of Tessa’s voice. She walked past him to offer a helping hand to Rutledge.
“Are you all right?” she asked Rutledge as he scrambled to his feet.
Mark caught a glimpse of a boot with a specially designed pocket made, he knew, for either knives or derringers. Sneaky bastard.
Rutledge nodded to Tessa. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over me, Miss Nesbitt. I’m fine.” He dusted off his coat.
She turned to Mark. “I’m surprised, Mr. Halloran.” The hurt in her gray-blue eyes fueled his anger at the Rutledge, who’d managed to put Mark in the wrong.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Tessa. How could he explain why he’d become involved in a fight at her father’s funeral?
“You ought to apologize to Mr. Rutledge, not to me.”
“No.”‘
Her eyes widened.
Before Mark could explain, Alex McSween and Tunstall hurried up to flank Tessa.
Rutledge shrugged. “I’m afraid the gentleman misunderstood me and took offense.
Dolan’s hands aren’t noted for courtesy.”
Mark clenched his fists.
McSween raised his hands, palms up. “Now, lads, if we all obeyed the law of God rather than the law of the jungle, life on earth would be a prelude to heaven instead of a preview of hell.
Don’t you agree, Mr. Halloran?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Mark said as evenly as he could.
“If I could persuade every man in Lincoln County to do as I do,” McSween went on, “to put aside their weapons and not bear arms, we’d soon have no need for Sheriff Brady. Nor for the hangman either.”
“I’m afraid that would take some tall persuading, Mr. McSween,” Mark said. “Most men in the Territory are pretty attached to their Colts. But I do regret upsetting Miss Nesbitt.”
Tunstall offered Tessa his arm. Without another look at Mark, she took it, giving Tunstall a little smile. Mark gritted his teeth. A glance at Rutledge gave him the dubious satisfaction of knowing the Southerner didn’t like to see Tessa walking off with Tunstall any better than Mark did.
I can’t let her leave this way, he told himself.
“Miss Nesbitt!” he called. Tessa looked back at him.
“I’ll come by and see you in a week or so,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”
“If you like,” she said coolly, turning away and continuing on with Tunstall and McSween
.
“I suggest you keep away from the young lady,” Rutledge said softly.
“You can go to hell,” Mark told him.
“You’ve been warned,” Rutledge said.
The two men eyed one another.
Mark wanted to walk away, but he didn’t trust the Southerner enough to turn his back on him.
“There you are, Calvin,” Susie McSween called. She waved.
Without another word, Rutledge stalked off to join Susie. As Mark watched her take his arm and smile flirtatiously up into his face, he thought fleetingly that McSween seemed oblivious to his wife’s coquettishness. Maybe not being jealous went along with his peace-on-earth preaching.
Not that Mark wouldn’t like to see Lincoln County a tad more peaceable. But the way he saw it, laying aside weapons would just get the decent men shot first.
* * *
Two weeks before Christmas, Mark rode into town from Dolan’s ranch. A Yule tree stood in the center of the plaza, a pinon pine from the hills. Red ribbons tied to its branches fluttered in the wind and reminded him of festive St. Louis Christmases of years past.
The Judge wouldn’t have allowed a skinny pinon pine inside—and now probably not me either, Mark thought ruefully. That wasn’t today’s problem. What troubled him was whether McSween would let him in his house so that Mark could see Tessa.
When he reached the U-shaped McSween adobe, Mark tied his sorrel to the post and squared his shoulders before walking up die steps to thump the iron knocker against the front door.
He waited for someone to answer the door. He knocked again. At last it opened. Little Jules peered up at him.
“Hello, Jules,” Mark said. “Is your sister at home?”
The boy nodded. Behind him Mark saw the brown face of McSween’s cook. “Quien es?” the woman asked.
“Mark Halloran. To see Senorita Nesbitt.”
“Entrez, Senor.” She pointed to the left and hurried away.
Mark closed the door behind him and stepped around Jules, who tagged after him into the parlor.
Mark perched uneasily on the leather seat of a wooden chair while Jules sat on the piano stool and stared at him. Trying to think of something to say to the boy, Mark came up with “where’s your big brother?”