“Ivy, if any woman tells you it is possible to change a man, do me a favor and smack her.”
Ivy smiles and reaches to pour herself tea.
“Thank you for the narrative, Arista,” Grip says, his tone cold. “May we—?”
“Don’t say anything you will regret, dove.” Arista smiles at him. “Would you like to see my new pen? I made it myself.” She sets down her glass. “And I’ll finish telling you about the roads and who’s in whose pocket these days and ... who knows? I might be able to tell you what happened this morning.”
As she watches him, Grip forces a relaxed expression on his face. “Yes, thank you.”
“There’s a dear.” She stands to fetch the pen.
Seventy-Second
A Matter of Respect
“What happened to you?” Sam leaps to his feet from the dinner table when he sees them.
“Nothing.” Ivy beams at him. “Sam—”
“We were worried. You are all right?”
We? Melchior has not bothered to stand.
“Only talked to the lady Grip wanted to see.”
“Over four hours?” He looks her up and down as if to make sure she is not injured.
“Were we that long? Sam, look at this.” She holds up a book.
Sam blinks.
“It’s Wordsworth. For you to keep. And this—” Ivy is breathless, hands shaking as she hefts a much thicker volume in purple cloth binding. “The Man Who Laughs.”
“Hugo?” Sam appears dazed.
“Translated by William Young.” Ivy flips it open to the title page.
“I did not realize there was an American edition.”
“For us. A gift.”
“Truly?”
“Snails, Sam.” Still at the table, Melchior sounds annoyed. “Sit down. I’m the one supposed to be faint. What happened?” He looks past them to Grip.
Sam pulls out her chair.
By the time they are all seated, Ivy having noticed both men are in new shirts and, for Sam, a new black waistcoat, she realizes someone is missing. Weightlessness fades as she looks up from the printed pages.
“Where is Rosalía?”
“In your room,” Sam says. “The blood is cleaned up. I do not even think Toulouse is charging for the ruined towels. She visited shops with us and we found the most splendid spearmint drops in little boxes—I have one for you. Then she returned to the room saying she did not want dinner.”
“I should speak to her.” Ivy looks across the table at Grip. “May I say anything on your behalf?”
Grip is looking about as if someone may be waiting to ambush him. “Being wrong is no reason to avoid sustenance?”
“Charming.” Ivy leaves the book of poetry with Sam and hurries upstairs with the novel. She has to knock on the door, finding it locked. “Rose? It’s me.”
Rosalía lets her in without a word, then sits on her bed. Ivy locks the door and drops on her own bed, facing Rosalía, admiring the thick, snugly bound book with its many, many words.
She looks up, smiling, remembers she should not, and rearranges her expression. She rests the book on the end table between the two beds.
The sun is setting, stray, vivid rays washing across this side of the room, striking the wall above headboards. A shaft of sun falls across the end table and book. Ivy sets it upright in the spotlight.
“You found a book?” Rosalía glances her way.
“I’m sorry.” Ivy withdraws her hand from the spine. “How are you? Grip should not have spoken to you like that.”
“Why?”
“Pardon me?”
“Why not? I don’t disagree.” Her tone is flat, emotionless.
“That is not the issue. We’re here. We are all right. I just met a friend of his and she shed light on the situation.”
“She?”
“It’s a ... long story. I don’t blame you for what you did. I would not have wanted to tell him if I knew or suspected. You’re only trying to protect him—”
“By getting us all killed.”
“I don’t know about that. What if we had known? What if you told him when we arrived you suspected they were here? He may have left us to find them, but we still could have been ambushed. He already wondered if we may be attacked. He saw someone. Yet, did he say anything? Will you come to supper?”
“Grip doesn’t want me there. He hasn’t every step of the way. Now he hates me over this—”
“He does not hate you. Come with me.” Ivy stands and holds out her hand. “Please. You will feel better with a hot meal and you must hear our news.”
Rosalía looks up at her. “What happened?”
“I told you—”
“You’re all....” Rosalía frowns, looking up into her face. “Happy.”
“Oh.” Ivy glances unwillingly at her book. “I apologize. It—I ... got to speak with someone—” She bites her lip, sinking back to the edge of the bed. There is no word—not cultured, nor intelligent, civilized, perspicacious—to use which could not be taken ill in light of Ivy’s company of the past months and whom she now addresses.
“I spoke with someone this afternoon whom I greatly enjoyed meeting. She had newspapers and gave me a book and ... I ... am happy.”
Rosalía smiles just a touch. “You’re like English at the tailor’s. Lavishly pre-made garments for ladies and gentlemen. No homespun or canvas. I thought he might weep when Mr. Wilson took his measurements, ‘Like a proper tailor,’ all attention. They spent all the dust your cousin had, including buying me these when I admired them.”
From the bed beside her, Rosalía lifts a pair of exquisite kid gloves in a deep, rich crimson. “Aren’t they beautiful? I never owned anything so nice. I know they’re lady’s gloves, but they’re reinforced in the fingers for riding.”
Ivy wants to hug her, tell her she does not have to justify her possession of fine gloves, which look child-sized to Ivy—doubtful she could get her own hand in one.
“They’re gorgeous, Rose. Won’t you put them on?”
“What did you say to them about me? English was very kind. Even Cabeza Hueca was decent.”
“He is a kind person. And Melchior was probably just feeling off about his own arm, or relieved about his life and subdued. Don’t take it personally. The fit is perfect. I hope you’ll wear them and not ‘save’ them. I have done so with new luxuries when I would have gained much more pleasure by putting them to use. Did you have a mint?”
“Cabeza Hueca and I picked out cinnamon and horehound from the penny jars at the chemist while English found boxes of mints.”
“Won’t you come to supper?”
Rosalía regretfully pulls off her gloves and lies them beside Ivy’s book. They gaze at the objects in the beam of sunlight, then Ivy takes her hand.
Downstairs, Rosalía will not look at her brother, though Grip watches them to the table like a guard. Sam springs up to pull out their chairs. Ivy thinks of Adair Gordon and wishes she could give the outlaw a swift kick. She has seen strange attire on the streets of Monument today. A woman in pants should hardly be as noticeable as a man on a bicycle with a caged bat on his head.
Ivy thanks Sam and starts on the appetizer of ... something. A hot cream dip made with bacon, mashed prickly pear, rosemary, and black pepper in a copper bowl suspended on a stand over a large candle. Around this are plates of toasted and fresh bread, squash sliced thin as parchment, then fried until crispy, and lightly grilled quarters of sweet peppers, all for dipping in the marvelous hot bowl.
The dining room is busy with other guests, waiters, and an array of dinner sights and aromas making Ivy feel she has not seen real food in years. She has downed three small slices of bread and dip and a handful of crisp squash when she realizes most at the table seem to be watching her. Only Grip, morosely chewing a bite of pepper and dip, regards the flame under the copper bowl.
“What happened to you?” Melchior asks. Why does he sound churlish? He is alive. He has a new shirt. He look
s all right to her.
“Nothing. I’m famished. We must tell you what we found out.”
“Please do,” Sam says. He looks ... concerned?
“What’s wrong?” she asks him.
Sam shakes his head.
“She is taking us all to supper—dinner—tomorrow night at Les Canyons.” She beams at Sam. “They have duck and lemons and ice cream and real imported chocolates. Mistress Arista told us about it. She has a theory about the attack this morning. It all makes sense.”
Melchior turns to Grip. “Thought you already knew who those curly wolves were? That La Manada de Lobos gang?”
“Correct,” Grip says. “However, Arista was able to illuminate the matter.”
“Heard they were based in New Mexico. Why’re they stopped here?”
“Perhaps they like the food.” Grip glances at Ivy without moving his head.
“Stop it,” Ivy says, waving a crust of rosemary bread at him. “You cannot pretend food in Monument is comparable to New Mexico.”
“A man can ‘pretend’ almost anything with imagination,” Grip says.
“She had the most wonderful homemade scones. Real honey and tea from San Francisco. You’ll enjoy meeting her, Sam.”
“Where is she?” Sam asks, as if suspecting a hidden mansion in the heart of downtown he overlooked.
“She owns the brothel.”
Sam leans back. “I beg your pardon?”
Melchior frowns. “You were—all afternoon—in a whorehouse?”
Ivy shakes her head. “It’s not like that. It sounds unsavory—”
But Sam isn’t listening to her, facing Grip, his back rigid. “You went to a house of ill repute, taking—”
“Calm yourself, Mr. Samuelson,” Grip cuts him off, his voice lower than Sam’s. “We paid a call to a businesswoman in her own parlor and took tea. I assure you, you would not have been distressed had you been in attendance. Arista is the most powerful woman in Monument. She can help us. She already has.”
“Don’t be angry with him, Sam,” Ivy says, touching Sam’s sleeve, nearest her on the right. “I am so glad I went. It all sounds ... off, telling of it, I realize....” Why did she say where they met?
Sam goes on staring at Grip as if he has never seen him before. Melchior looks at Ivy with much the same face, except ... does he appear impressed?
All too difficult to explain without the tangibility of the elegant lady herself.
“We know why no one helped,” Ivy says, finally getting Sam to look at her. “The sheriff and marshal and makers all knew.”
Silence.
“They knew about the attack because Lobo, Everette, he warned them,” Ivy says after a gulp of cactus juice. “Someone in the band saw Grip. They knew he was here and Everette wants him dead. Since we’re with him, he was playing safe to get us. But he knew that could mean street shootouts and trouble in the city. He told them what he planned: a group of enemies in town, no need for lawman and maker assistance, but their tacit cooperation.”
“This....” Melchior trails off. “Snails and damnation.” He looks from Ivy to Grip. “That true? Lobo’s so fat in this burg, he went to all the law and all the muscle and said, ‘Play dead,’ and they dropped?”
“Correct,” Grip repeats.
“Jesus Christ.” Melchior’s voice is even softer. “Did we ever wake up the wrong passenger. Should’a been lighting a shuck back to Plague country rather than wandering about this camp today. The hell you got against this buck, Grip?”
“He was responsible for the deaths of my former partners.”
Melchior snorts. “So invite him to finish the job? Christ.”
Sam looks around at him. “Mel, please.”
“Sorry,” Melchior says. “Powerful situations call for powerful language.”
“Not at the dinner table and in company.”
“Lucky I’m alive sitting here. Shouldn’t be all critical.” Melchior glares at him.
“Yes, you have noted this several times. We are grateful you are alive. Please do not curse at the table.”
“Ain’t smoking, am I? Hat off. Haven’t been bending an elbow on a morning. Man’s got to be six kinds of right and twelve proper just to get a meal around here.”
“You truly find these small decencies so demanding?” Sam’s gaze is on the copper bowl.
“What’s small when every blessed move a man makes is under wax? Every stroke’s to be run by committee vote for suitability. Where’s the step to running by notions, dreams—?”
“I have no wish to police your actions or your thoughts, Melchior.” Sam’s voice is growing softer, difficult to hear in the crowded dining room. “If keeping your hat on and smoking at the table are so important to you, proceed. It is only my preference you should not. It is hardly my ruling or verdict. You may, of course, do as you wish.”
“Which is bull, ain’t it? Wouldn’t carry on according to Hoyle if you mean a fellow to do what he wishes. Even my mother didn’t fuss so.”
“I presume she gave up.”
“Cause I’m the hard case and everyone else is like a thoroughbred?”
Sam says nothing.
“Mr. L’Heureux,” Grip says. “Are you holding this conference with the intent of public response or, in your own mind, are you secluded?”
Melchior gives him a strange look, then shrugs. “Shoot.”
Sam still stares at the bowl.
“Whose sagacity do you better respect?” Grip asks. “Mr. Samuelson’s or your own?”
Melchior does not answer.
“Let’s put that one to committee vote,” Rosalía says almost inaudibly to Ivy’s left. They are the first words she has spoken since sitting down and Ivy feels sure the rest cannot hear her.
All are quiet as waiters arrive with their entrées: dishes of roast potatoes poured over with boiling fat of some type, pork chops grilled in caramelized onions, roast fish in beds of greens served on cider planks.
Ivy’s mind has wandered back to her book, the smile returning to her face as she absently cuts a bite of fish with knife and fork. Yet Grip is likely not going to fill them in so she must finish the key points.
Arista named names, gave him particulars about who was still within the group and new faces. Ivy has no reason to suspect any of the others will be more interested in this than herself, and she can scarcely remember them anyway. What are the important parts for all of them to know?
A group of famously dangerous men are trying to kill them. Second ... well, that has not been broached yet, either here or in the sitting room.
“Grip?” Ivy looks up from her plate. “Are you abandoning us?”
He glances at her. “Abandoning you?”
“Do you mean to pursue Lobo without us involved?”
“Of course. They are none of your affair.”
“And if he runs? You will follow?”
“You overestimate the fear I strike into the hearts of La Manada de Lobos, Miss Jerinson. They are not running from me. They regard me as a mildly dangerous inconvenience they would all enjoy seeing buried.”
“Aiming for us to lie low while you hunt?” Melchior asks.
Grip shrugs. “You may do whatever you wish as long as you stay away from me. However, you would be safest removing yourselves from town.”
“Reckon we’ll be plugged from roofs even if we’re away from you?”
“They will not repeat the same tactics at once. You would be more likely shot in the face stepping around a corner on a quiet street, Mr. L’Heureux.”
“If you’ve all this fine print from your friend, know where they are?”
“Scattered through the city. Arista does not know where Everette is living, however, he is friendly with makers. He may be in one of their establishments, in a hotel, renting an apartment. He will make himself known when he wishes.”
“Wasn’t in the bunch targeting us,” Melchior says.
“No. He does not consider me important enough to face i
n person unless circumstances suit him.”
“Then you may be underestimating how much he fears you,” Sam says. His attention is on his plate, though he is scarcely eating.
Grip shakes his head. “Avoiding a man looking for a fight in these parts can be as much a sign of disrespect as fear. This one is no coward, nor unintelligent. He is contemptuous. He will take the staff from the Devil when he enters Hell and rule a new domain. Lucifer himself could not meet his eyes without shame for what he saw there.”
“That’s....” Melchior trails off, staring at Grip, who eats without looking at them.
Ivy’s throat feels dry. I should rather save the rope for a man draped in trappings of virulent evil.... She glances at Rosalía, who avoids her gaze. He’s never told me a thing about what happened that day. Not one word.
“That’s ... rough,” Melchior finishes at last, apparently having been unable to come up with a way to express himself more fully without profanity. “How’s about us working on others while you’re looking for Lobo? We’re in tight a need of that reward as we were when we trailed into Santa Fé in the spring. Know where some bunk?” He looks from Grip to Ivy.
“If you wish to risk your life for a hunt which is none of your concern, you may, Mr. L’Heureux,” Grip says. “However, it will not pay.”
“Won’t pay? Those men have powerful prices on their heads.”
“Not in Monument,” Ivy says.
“I told you makers and businessmen ran this city,” Grip says. “Today, I was corrected. As long as La Manada de Lobos remains in town, others have been demoted.”
“There is no one to collect a reward from,” Ivy says. “But Arista does not believe they mean to stay in Monument. She says the band are setting sights westward. Ships still sail from San Francisco and those worried enough by Daray’s disease and wealthy enough to book passage are allowed to leave the country.”
Sam looks up for the first time in minutes.
“They will close,” Ivy says. “She has heard no word of it yet—not in a paper only a month old. But they will. There are risers in San Francisco now. How long before no port country will allow in steamers from America’s West as they did the East?”
Lightfall Four: Risk, Rise, Rebel (Lightfall, Book 4) Page 17