Ivy pulls Melchior, who is watching Boyd go, up two flights to her room.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks in a whisper.
“Reckon I’ve heard that line from you before.”
“You had a ready-made, honest, excuse. You were going to have supper with us. You could have put him off.”
He pulls his arm from her hold. “Ivy—”
“They’ll kill you.”
“Not tonight. Dark out, raining toads and eels.”
“How do you know?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs. “Wouldn’t suppose they would. Couldn’t tell him no.”
She opens her mouth, shakes her head, turns away. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
By the time Ivy returns to the dining room, heart still beating fast, she finds not only Rosalía but also Grip at a table with iced cactus juice and whiskey: her talking about the magnificent ovens they apparently have in the kitchens, him looking sullen, back tense.
Melchior is just reaching the table ahead of her but does not pause about sitting down or pulling out a chair. Nor does Grip bother standing for her arrival.
Does not matter. Even Melchior thinks she is a good shot and stopped correcting her riding technique. What difference does it make if they are rude? Does this not show they think of her as one of them? Not a lady to be pampered but someone who can pull out her own chair? She cannot have it both ways—ridiculous even to notice.
Yet.... Ivy is positive Sam does not look down on her. Still, miraculously, he manages to be polite.
“We just ran into Boyd Gordon,” Ivy says as they look up. “And he knows who Melchior is.”
Rosalía’s eyes widen.
Grip’s expression does not change. He pushes his full shot across the table to Melchior.
“After everything,” Rosalía says, looking from Ivy to Melchior. “Now what?”
Melchior downs the shot.
“He is going to meet them for dinner,” Ivy says, pulling out a chair. “Which is absurd, of course.”
Melchior shakes his head. “Nothing else to do.”
“They may not intend to shoot him tonight,” Grip says. “Set something up. And they desired Clay’s necklace back.”
“He mentioned it,” Ivy says, facing Grip. “Thank you for telling them Melchior took it.”
“They asked about the copper specifically, Miss Jerinson. Mighty concerned by it. I could not tell them I had it.”
“You could have said you did not know what—”
“Yet that would be dishonest: a tactic best used sparingly, lest one develop the reputation your cousin enjoys across any card table in New Mexico.”
“Should be off,” Melchior says, but Ivy notices the words lack conviction.
“You don’t have to go.” She sits on the edge of her chair. “We’ll leave the city if we must. How will this help anything? And what about Sam? After you, they will still come for him.”
“I do not believe they will,” Grip says softly.
They all look at him.
“If they shoot your cousin they will likely be satisfied. They think I beat Adair. Now Boyd will face Mr. L’Heureux. With him dead, they will consider the matter resolved. Mr. Samuelson’s life is likely only endangered by the ABCs as long as they feel they’ve met no justice at all. They would rather never face him since, speaking on honesty”—to Ivy—“you informed them Mr. Samuelson was an incompetent shot.”
“Did I?” Ivy frowns. How are these people remembering words she said which she has little or no recollection of?
“You did.” Grip sits back. “You have the choice of veal or venison tonight.”
He does not mention throwing up and skipping supper as an option.
Melchior stands and starts away.
Rosalía glares at Grip. “Why didn’t you tell him it would land English in peril if he faced them?”
“More falsehoods?” Grip raises an eyebrow.
Ivy gets to her feet.
“Leave him,” Grip says. “There has been too much interference in this matter already.”
She hesitates, but sits back, mind racing.
Rosalía shifts to the chair beside her, pushing juice toward Ivy. “Drink something. We don’t know, Ivy. He may be—” She stops and Ivy glances around.
Sam is walking to their table, shaking his hat gingerly up and down to avoid splashing other diners as he passes. His hat and shoulders are soaked, even from his short walk from the livery to the hotel’s back door.
He looks up, at once noticing Ivy’s face and the absence of Melchior. “What happened?”
“Melchior has gone to meet the ABCs,” Ivy says, her voice flat.
“What? After all—when?”
“Just now. You missed him by a second.”
“Gone for a talk,” Grip says. “Might be—”
“Talk with those men? They want to murder us.”
Grip frowns. “Him over ‘us,’ I would say.”
“We don’t know yet,” Rosalía says, looking even more alarmed as she watches Sam’s hands tremble. “They could arrange a duel for tomorrow. They could even come to terms if Mr. L’Heureux can—”
“Or kill him.” Staring around at them. “You did not stop him?”
“This is his fight, Mr. Samuelson,” Grip says. “He does not mean it to become yours. And he is correct. Your friend has nearly no chance against the Gordons. But he is a resourceful man. You would have none at—”
Dropping his wet hat, Sam runs out.
“Sam!” Ivy leaps up.
“Don’t.” This from Grip, but she is sick of taking orders from him.
She grabs Sam’s black hat and follows.
Sixty-Eighth
Lovesick
Rain gleams silver and gold by street lamps. Across the road and left, the radiant maker’s shop glitters brightest of all. Ivy shivers as she starts down the steps of The Copper Key.
From the board sidewalk, she looks to the right, the direction of Les Canyons. Can she see her breath steam, or is it only a trick of electric lights? No one across or down the street. She drops Sam’s hat on her wet hair and turns right. Past a few buildings, she pauses at a corner. Although lights glow as far as the restaurant, no one walks that way. Only heavy rain.
Ivy’s breath comes shallow. She glances down the alley on her right, dimly aglow with dancing rain reflecting bright windows. Melchior and Sam stand there, between a flanking saloon and liquor shop, not ten feet from her.
Melchior’s hands rest on Sam’s hips, Sam’s hands on Melchior’s face and back of his neck, their lips together in an open-mouthed kiss. Not friendly. Not like men greeting each other in France. Their heads are turned, Melchior’s hat pushed back, their mouths moving together, pulling one another close, eyes closed in shrouding rain.
Sam slides his fingers up Melchior’s neck, into hair beneath the hat, breaking contact between their mouths to kiss Melchior’s jaw, saying something.
Melchior bows his head, breathing inaudible words into Sam’s ear. He kisses Sam’s neck before withdrawing his face with further shapes of words, slow, a breath. They rest their foreheads together, noses brushing, Melchior looking at Sam as he talks, voice concealed by falling rain and pounding pulse. Sam’s eyes are closed. He nods against Melchior, who again turns his head to kiss him: this time gentle, mouths closed, lips connected for several seconds.
Melchior steps back as Sam opens his eyes.
Smiling, Melchior pulls down his hat. Ivy can finally hear as he says, “Be seeing you directly.”
Sam nods again, silent, watching Melchior while rain pours over him.
Melchior tips the hat to him, then walks away, opposite where Ivy stands.
Sam remains motionless, staring at the place he disappeared around the corner, into rain and darkness.
Ivy turns, her legs wooden, to walk clumsily back to the hotel porch. She remains there, dripping, shivering, for a long time, staring at a fountain of rain. Her eyes a
t last come into focus on a lone figure, face downturned, approaching along the sidewalk.
Ivy goes to her room, first shaking off his hat and hanging it on the doorknob of his and Melchior’s room.
She peels away her dripping duster to lie on top of her little bed, a single candle lit, staring at the ceiling, seeing only the two men in the alley, rain, glowing windows, lips moving in silent words. Silent, but visible whispers as Melchior withdrew his face and they rested their heads together, slow motion of soft speech: one letter and two words in a complete sentence.
She must be detached. Must not think about them. She knew it since the time she found them after the flood. Knew it with a will, a conviction, since she gave Sam a tin of the most expensive tea in the world. The only way to be, to work together, is to not think. Block out what she cannot understand or alter. Now, it feels as if so much not thinking, so much ignoring, pretending no elephant sits at the breakfast table, has built up until she is going to pieces.
Because she knows what that sentence was and knows it’s not possible. If it is possible, the world as she knows it needs adjusting. And where does it end? So the only way to live is to not think. While the only way to survive is to think.
He told her not to believe everything. Yet not to question everything. Here, she chose a belief and chose to refrain from questioning.
He never told her what to do if the elephant put its foot through the table.
Ivy does not remember until Rosalía comes in for bed—telling her everything could still be all right—that she is supposed to be traumatized over Melchior being killed tonight.
By the time they are both in bed, candle and electric lights out, rain drumming the roof one story up, Ivy finally opens her mouth. She closes it. Swallows.
No one. She has no one to talk to. No one learned, no one who studies the human condition and illness of the mind. Her father even spent time among lunatic asylums during his education. Dr. Friedrich, a friend and peer, has researched unusual behavioral matters. And Dr. Friedrich ... is from Berlin.
But they are not here. Only one other person is here tonight. One person who has never studied books, never seen a library, never been to any school of any type. Ever. One person who better understands human behavior and emotions than anyone Ivy has ever known.
Ivy closes her eyes in the dark. “Do they love one another? Is that possible?”
“All kinds of love are possible.” Rosalía does not sound either confused by the abrupt question or troubled by it.
“Do you think they are going to Hell?”
“That is not our affair.”
Ivy opens her eyes to stare at dark rain through a dark window. Five words and she said everything Grip did that night outside Silver City.
“Are they sick?” Ivy asks. “Have you known others with the condition?”
“There were two ranchers at the T River down along the Rio between Santa Fé and Albuquerque. They made a success of a rough piece of ground over the years. But folks started snubbing them after a time. Next thing I heard, they were dead, murdered in such a gruesome manner, everyone said Indians did it. But Indians don’t carry chains and new model shotguns.
“I suspect they knew it could be coming. Knew how men in both cities felt about them. They weren’t stupid, either. Mr. Banner was an experienced stockman and businessman. Mr. Mikkelsen was an educated naturalist. Danish, I think. I saw him several times in Santa Fé. That man could render stunning likenesses of birds and animals in the region with nothing but a bit of parchment and charcoal. Raúl bought a drawing of a mustang herd off him and you can almost hear their hoofbeats.
“A shrewd man and an observant man are not caught unawares by such an attack, yet they stayed at the place they cherished. And they stayed together. Is that sickness or love?”
Rosalía shifts in her bed. Ivy looks across the gap at her. In light filtering from the street below, she can see Rosalía watching her, facing Ivy on her side.
“I have been in love,” Rosalía whispers. “And I can tell you they feel one and the same.”
“And you can compare such loves?”
“Romantic love is vivid. You see it in the eyes of someone you don’t know, feel it in the air standing between two people in love. Of all types—maternal, brotherly, friendly—there is none more impossible to mistake. Perdóname, Ivy, but if you close your eyes and cover your ears and hum, do not tell me you cannot see or hear.”
Ivy gazes again at the ceiling for a long time. At last, “It doesn’t bother you?”
Rosalía hesitates and Ivy looks toward her once more. She seems to be frowning at the ceiling, though Ivy is not certain of her expression.
A minute passes before Rosalía says, “‘There is only one lawgiver and judge, He who is able to save and to destroy. But who are you to judge your neighbor? Let us love one another.... The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love.’”
They lie still, listening to rain for a long time before Ivy hears the clink of spurs coming up the stairs.
She leaps from bed, looking down in the dark to see her own underclothes. After a glance around, she snatches her wet duster off a hook on the wall. Rosalía must have hung it up. A door just down the hall opens and a second pair of muffled footsteps can be heard.
“Ivy....”
Ivy looks around.
Rosalía sits up in bed, shaking her head.
Ivy takes a breath, her hands trembling. She hears soft voices in the hall at the top of the stairs, then muted spurs and footfalls past and a door closing. She hangs the duster back on the hook.
“He’s all right,” Rosalía says. “We’ll find out in the morning.”
Ivy lies back, trying to inhale deeply. “Rose, why is it every time it rains something catastrophic happens?”
Rosalía chuckles, though Ivy can think of nothing amusing in the question. “Go to sleep. It doesn’t rain for long in the desert.”
When she does sleep, Ivy’s dreams are alive with flood waters, screams of weeping children, and a chestnut horse lying in mud as lightning flashes like angry white snakes in the sky. Sam and Melchior stand in rain which turns to blood as it strikes them. Streams of this blood twists into steel chains which wrap their bodies until they are crushed. A shotgun blasts in her ears.
Ivy sits up, soaked in sweat, panting.
Gray light filters through the window. All is quiet.
“What happened? What was that noise?” She looks around to Rosalía, only to see she is still asleep.
“Hmm?” Rosalía rubs her face.
“That ... did you hear anything?”
“I hear you talking at me. Like Íñigo kicking me out of bed to see a new litter of piglets which would look more appealing on a breakfast plate than a heap of straw.” She stretches her arms.
“I beg your pardon,” Ivy says, shivering as she sits back against her headboard. “It was ... only a dream.” Why do they never grow less vivid? Why can she not dream about getting home and finding her father?
Ivy slides from sweat-soaked sheets to gaze out the window. It must be before six, the sky just lightening to a hazy lavender. No one is about in the street, though a rooster crows across town.
Ivy runs a cool bath and lights a candle on the dressing table beside it.
It is well over an hour before the two of them venture downstairs for breakfast. Several other guests are up by now, men drinking coffee and complaining about mud in the streets, wondering if the mines flooded. Ivy has seen no mines in the area, but they must be referring to Tierra Roja.
To her surprise, Grip soon joins them in silence. Not having brought his old morning coat with him, he looks in the hotel much as he does on the trail, though he has cleaned up marginally and shaved. Niceties like scrubbing fingernails do not seem to occur to him as they do Sam and even Melchior when in town.
Grip sits with his back against a wall, as is his custom indoors. He glares around the room while they are brought coffee and toast. Ro
salía asks him how El Cohete is holding up. Ivy looks for a milk pitcher.
By the time breakfast is over, Sam and Melchior have still not appeared. Ivy looks uneasily around at the empty breakfast room and waiters clearing up. Grip appears surlier than ever, though he has still hardly said a word.
Finally, Rosalía stands. “I’ll go knock on their door. I expect English was pacing the floor all night.”
Ivy and Grip sit in silence for several minutes when she leaves. Ivy’s pulse feels too fast. Her throat too dry.
“Do you think he could have ... avoided a duel?” she asks at last.
“No.”
“He’s a good gambler. He could have—”
“No.”
Ivy glances around the room. “What’s wrong?”
Grip watches the door. “I believe I saw someone I recognized in town yesterday. Although I could not be certain and could not find out where he’d gone by the time I reached the spot.”
“Oh. What about your dog? Rosalía says all he’s good for is tracking people. Didn’t you find him?”
Grip looks at her, his eye narrowed, then away. “I have still not seen the animal since we arrived.”
Ivy nods. This is not unusual. So why does Grip seem just as upset about Yap-Rat as the possible acquaintance?
“Someone who would wish us trouble, I presume?”
“Indeed.”
“How long would it take to—?”
“Do not start.”
“Start what?”
He meets her gaze. “You wish to ride to San Francisco.”
“How did you know that?”
“Why do you perpetually believe I am deaf and blind, Miss Jerinson? You all informed me about the article. I am acquainted with yourself. What more must be known to realize that is your next scheme?”
She looks away, frowning.
Rosalía reappears, crossing the room to sit with them.
“What held?” Grip asks.
“Took Cabeza Hueca ages to get the door. I didn’t want to leave without an answer. Thought they weren’t even—”
Grip’s scowl deepens. “Él estaba ocupado. Estaba de rodillas. Con la boca llena.”
Rosalía faces him. “You cannot keep a civil tongue in your mouth even in public?” Her voice is an angry hiss, her expression mortified. “Eso es asqueroso. What would Mamá think?”
Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4) Page 12