by Cora Brent
Maddox closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw a framed picture on the wood paneled wall of the living room. It had been hanging on the same wall for a good eighteen years. He’d been ten years old and Jensen was twelve. Priest McLeod was still healthy and robust. Each of his large hands rested on the shoulders of his wife, Tildy McLeod, who was still alive then.
“So how is he?” Maddox asked quietly.
Jensen grimaced. “He’s bad. Could be days, could be less.”
“I see,” whispered Maddox, suddenly overcome with emotion. Priest McLeod couldn’t die. But Priest McLeod was dying. He could smell it now in the house; it was the sweet stench of slow decay, unlike the sharp coppery smell of a quick death.
“That your car in the driveway?” Maddox asked, changing the subject.
Jensen seemed disconcerted. “No. Gaby’s been here every day; she took a walk into town for latex gloves or some shit. The old man loves her, you know. Plus she’s a physician’s assistant so she helps with the medical stuff.” Jensen paused. “And then there’s Miguel. He adores his grandfather. This has been tough on him.”
Maddox didn’t say anything. He didn’t retreat when his brother took a step closer. The look on Jensen’s face was grimly earnest.
“Mad, I was sorry then. I can’t say it anymore. I know that for you all that shit is still immediate but for the rest of us it’s over. I’m married now. There’s nothing between me and Gabriela except love for our son.” He coughed. “Can you let it go, Maddox?”
Maddox looked at the man who was his strongest living genetic link. There had been another brother, Colt. He’d been the firstborn and had died in his crib when he was six months old. Maddox knew neither of his parents had ever recovered from that shot to the chest. The older he grew, the more Priest would talk about the son he’d lost, wondering aloud if his survival would have made a difference, how he might have balanced the scales between his perpetually warring younger brothers.
“Yeah,” Maddox looked Jensen in the eye. His voice was as deadly cool as he could force it to be. “I’ll let it go. Now beg your fucking pardon, brother. I’m going to see my father.”
He stalked past Jensen and headed for his father’s room. It had been his parents’ bedroom. Tildy McLeod’s sudden death had been another thing Priest had never recovered from. He’d sought solace at the bottom of a bottle. And this painful march toward death was his reward.
“Hey, Pop,” Maddox said softly as he entered the room.
His father lay under a clean white sheet. His skin had lost its natural glow and there was only a graying husk. Priest opened his muddy eyes and smiled at his youngest son.
“Mad,” he croaked, trying to reach out.
Maddox went quickly to his side and knelt beside the bed. A packaged syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid sat on the small table beside him. Maddox supposed it was for the pain. It couldn’t be for anything else. One look at his father spoke the truth; the man was indeed dying. Maddox clutched his father’s frail hand and cried like a baby, like a woman, like a sad boy who only realized what mattered most when it was lost to him.
At some point Jensen entered the room and kneeled miserably on the other side of the bed. Maddox tried to think of things to say but really there was nothing good to talk about. He had no woman, no children. He did have a motley collection of men out there in the desert outside Quartzsite but he couldn’t even think of anything to say about them.
He sat there with his father and his brother, the remains of his original family, until Priest fell asleep with a smile on his skeletal face. Maddox watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest worriedly for a few moments and then kissed his father on the forehead. Jensen followed him out.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping around Maddox carefully.
Maddox stared dully at the wall. “No. I’m not okay. Shit, this is terrible.”
“Yeah,” Jensen’s voice suddenly gained an edge. “It’s been terrible for a while. You just weren’t here to watch it.”
Maddox glared. “Fuck you. Thought you said you didn’t want to fight.”
“I don’t, Mad. I shouldn’t have said that. Look, I got to get down to the station for a while. Casey wants to meet you so we’ll be by this evening. You’re planning on staying here at the house, right?”
“Casey,” Maddox frowned. “Who the hell is Casey?”
Jensen was annoyed. “My wife, Maddox.”
“Oh,” Maddox nodded. “Right.” All these new names attached to people he didn’t know. Casey. Miguel.
Jensen removed his keys from his pocket. He opened the flimsy blinds in the living room and peered out the window. “Gaby’ll be back soon. She’d never say so, but she’s scared as hell to see you. So don’t be a dick to her, all right?”
Maddox raised his eyebrows in mock innocence. “I’m never a dick.”
Jensen laughed but it wasn’t a laugh of humor. “Look,” he said frankly, “I won’t say thanks for coming because I know you’re here in spite of me, but I’m damn glad you’re here anyway.”
“Okay,” said Maddox rather flatly. It was the best response he had to give at the moment. Jensen waited for a moment to see if Mad would say anything else, then he exited with a sigh.
Maddox settled on the musty couch which had witnessed more years than he had. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do when Gabriela de Campo walked through the door. He didn’t have to wait long.
CHAPTER SIX
Contention City, Arizona Territory
1888
Annika Larson was determined. She had to push him out of her mind and that was all. She would go mad otherwise. She knew that if he touched her again the moral pieces of her soul would be consumed in a hell of lust.
Mercer.
No. She had come all this way to serve a purpose. She wouldn’t fail.
James Dolan soon proved invaluable, both as a friend and an ally. Though he had no children, he was among the four members of the school board and he assured Annika he would see to the furnishing of the school. He had correctly surmised that the parents of Contention City would be eager to enroll their children immediately. By the afternoon of Annika’s first complete day in the Territory she had enrolled twenty six pupils. About half of the new students came from the more prosperous families; shop owners and businessmen seeking to capitalize on the boom town. The rest were the children of the mining camp. They had a rougher look about them, as if they were accustomed to running wild and wouldn’t take kindly to the taming influence of school. The parents were all sorts; from the haughty, well-heeled women who presided over the few fine homes in town to the worn camp wives who were accustomed to making do with what life tossed at them.
Mrs. Swilling was the wife of the chief foreman of the Scorpion Mining Company. James had informed Annika that the Swillings had accrued a fortune in Colorado before moving on to Arizona. Mrs. Swilling drove a proper wagon outfitted with a pair of lovely chestnut mares and most of her conversation involved complaining alternately of the heat and dust of the Territory. Her only child was an impish red-haired girl named Harriet whose education had been sorely neglected as a result of her parents’ frequent moves.
Nonetheless, when Mrs. Swilling invited Annika to dine that very evening, she was glad. It had been a long day. Though she was enormously pleased by the turnout for the school, she rubbed her neck, acknowledging that she was weary and keen for a decent meal.
The day had brought no trace of Mercer Dolan and Annika began to wonder if their improper encounter was a case of travel delirium on her part. But as she dressed for an evening at the Swillings’, she blushed as her mind kept returning to the feel of his mouth on her breasts. No fantasy could have produced that heady ache of want. Though the temperature was quite warm, Annika shivered as her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress. She could only hope they would not meet again.
When James drove up in his wagon she was surprised. She had been intending on walking the sh
ort distance to town. He told Annika he would be dining with the Swillings as well and grinned at her in a way which caught her heart. James resembled his brother so closely. Annika climbed into his buckboard, thinking of Mercer and flushing guiltily over it.
James didn’t appear to notice. She observed the clean look of his trousers and realized he had gone to some trouble in presenting himself for the occasion. They chatted pleasantly on the short drive.
“So, Miss Larson,” James said with a spark in his eye. “How are you finding your new surroundings?”
Again her mind betrayed her, flashing to that passionate interlude with Mercer Dolan. Annika clenched her fists, allowing her fingernails to cut into the palms, trying to dispel the overpowering wave of desire.
“I like it fine,” she said carefully. Annika pointed toward the Scorpion Mountains. She already knew the mine entrance lay at the foothills of the small range just outside town, however she had not seen it. The fortunate among the mine’s employees found quarters in town. Most, however, lived in a tent camp close to the mine. “How many people make their homes out there now?”
James considered for a moment before speaking. “About four hundred, give or take. Folks drift in and out all the time. Most are single men but there are some families as well. It’s a rough place, Annika. Lot of riff raff. I would not recommend venturing there yourself. You likely didn’t hear of it yet, but we had a hanging in Contention a few weeks back.”
She was appalled. “A hanging? For what crime?”
James’s mouth was set in a grim line as he stared ahead at the narrow road into town. “It was a miner. He thought he was being wise in squirreling away pieces of the golden veins he’d hacked out of the earth. But he got caught. And justice is swift in these parts.”
“Justice,” Annika spat impulsively. “You call it justice to hang a man for stealing a few rocks?”
James looked startled. Then he smiled slowly. “No,” he said, appraising her with clear respect. “I don’t. But in a gold town there’s not much worse you can do, excepting murder.”
Whenever James spoke Annika glanced at his profile. Predictably, he was reminiscent of Mercer. The biggest difference was in his manner. James was thoughtful, sincere. Mercer was a wildcat. She was at ease being alone with James. When Mercer had advanced on her in the dim cabin, she knew he was not to be trusted. Moreover, she knew she could not trust herself with him.
As they drew closer to town Annika heard giggling close behind the wagon and turned around. A group of children were knotted together and following closely behind. They were black-haired and dark skinned. The girls wore brightly colored dresses. Charmed, Annika waved to them. They squealed and scurried away, leaving one lone boy lingering their wake. He appeared to be about eight years old and he waved back, smiling.
James paused the horses and addressed the child. “Desi,” he said, “I meant to call on your father today. You can tell him to expect me tomorrow.”
Desi held out a friendly hand to one of the mares, waiting patiently as she caught his scent and stood still, accepting his touch. “Papa will be happy to hear that, Mr. Dolan.”
James coughed a few times into a handkerchief and then recovered himself. “Miss Annika Larson, I’d like to introduce you to Desi de Campo. His father, Carlos, runs the water wagon between town and the mine. Desi, Miss Larson is the new schoolteacher.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Desi. I’ve never heard that name before.”
The boy peered at her merrily from beneath a cap of shiny black hair. “My full name is Desiderio. You don’t look like a teacher.”
“I don’t?”
“No,” he said honestly. “You’re too pretty.”
Annika blushed and James chuckled. “Well I thank you for the compliment. And I hope your parents will soon enroll you at the school. We can discuss where you are in your studies when the time comes.”
Desi frowned and looked at James with obvious uncertainty.
James cleared his throat uncomfortably. “We’d best be getting on our way. Mrs. Swilling won’t take kindly to holding supper on account of our lateness.”
After bidding the de Campo boy a pleasant evening, they drove for a few moments in silence.
Annika thought about the expression on the child’s face when she mentioned his education. “Why won’t Desi be attending the school?”
James shifted in his seat, looking uneasy. “Carlos de Campo and Alvi Garcia have been seeing about land for the building of the Mexican school. For Desi and the other children.”
“Mexican school?” she exclaimed. “The child spoke perfect English.”
James nodded, focusing on the road. “He does. He was, after all, born in the Territory.”
“Are you telling me that boy will not be permitted to sit in my classroom?”
James Dolan turned to her then with a frank expression. “Is it so different back east, Annika?”
She recalled the stories of her parents, who had been among the earliest of the waves of Scandinavian immigrants. They had faced their share of hardships and prejudices. Even after her father had bled for Union blue there were still those in Crawford who referred to him as ‘that damn Swede’. But as far the Larson children went, they were Americans. They were never forbidden from participating in the usual activities of life. Annika was not foolish; she knew what the difference was. Over two decades after her country had torn itself to pieces in large part to settle the question of who had rights and who didn’t, there was still this divide over the color of people. Perhaps there always would be.
She sighed and settled into the buckboard, not caring if her posture was incorrect. James gave her a sympathetic look but chose to leave the subject alone.
Autumn was far different in the desert. Instead of the smoky descent of a colorful season, the land remained rugged and largely brown. Shadows of the approaching evening fell across their path as bawdy laughter punctuated by furious shouting rang from the saloons on Contention Way.
They passed an establishment which appeared even more crowded and raucous than the rest of them. The crudely drawn words ‘The Rose Room’ hung above the door which swung outward as they passed, discharging two dusty men with pistols hanging unabashedly from their hips.
A flutter of fabric caught Annika’s eye and she looked up, realizing that the building was unique in that the second floor was not a façade. A flimsy staircase spiraled up the side and a shallow balcony extended across the length. It looked to be unfit for human occupation but the three women who stood on it were unperturbed, cooing and calling ribald words into the street as they flaunted their indecent attire.
“Bordello,” James explained softly, seeming embarrassed.
“Yes,” she answered with a trace of wonder in her voice. “I assumed so.” After all, she was twenty two and not completely unworldly. She had realized such places existed. Furthermore, she knew they were popular with men, even those who had wives at home keeping their beds warm.
A few seconds later James responded to Annika with alarm, reigning the horses in and reaching for her elbow. She had gasped out loud, a common response when confronted with the unexpected. There, lounging casually in the shadow of the bordello, stood Mercer Dolan. He tipped his hat and offered her a grin, visibly entertained at the sight of her riding beside his brother.
James noticed Mercer and nodded in his direction. The two men regarded one another silently for a long moment. Annika had four brothers of her own. Occasionally they fought and carried on with irritable childishness, even in adulthood. But there was an intensity between the Dolan men she had never seen among her own siblings. Perhaps it came from being orphaned and alone so young. Or perhaps their temperaments were hopelessly contrary, leaving them to fight silent battles which saw no winner.
James Dolan broke the gaze first and urged the horses ahead. As they left the bordello behind Annika chanced a look back at Mercer. He was standing rigidly in the same position, one leg crossed over the o
ther, hat perched jauntily, pistol hanging dangerously on his hip. One of the soiled doves of the establishment, a painted brunette, emerged and addressed him in a petulant voice. He ignored her, holding Annika’s eye until she turned away, shaken, and faced straight ahead with James driving by her side.
The Swilling home was indeed fine, especially for these parts. Mrs. Swilling must have spent a pretty penny on the lavish crystal and gloriously detailed wall hangings which cluttered the interior of the two story Victorian. The stately home occupied a large piece of property just beyond the dust of Contention Way.
The Swillings employed a housekeeper, a pretty redhead who spoke with the musical accent of Ireland. Annika learned her name was Mollie from the way Mrs. Swilling barked the word every thirty seconds. As she watched Mollie serve food and scramble to meet Mrs. Swilling’s expectations, Annika was grateful to have a more independent livelihood. One which required less of others’ bidding.
Mr. Swilling was round and piggish looking. He didn’t respond to anything his wife said and ignored Contention City’s new schoolteacher completely, conversing solely with the men. Harriet Swilling delighted in exasperating her mother with her bad manners but Annika could not help but smile back into her mischievous freckled face.
Annika was introduced to the mayor, Mr. Albert Townsend and his mousy wife, Abigail. Mr. Townsend greeted her politely but there was a grim coldness in his eyes which was unsettling. The quiet conversation of the men centered around the mine and local politics. Annika tried to listen discreetly but Mrs. Swilling kept interrupting with some silliness or another.
As Mollie quietly bustled around throughout the course of the meal Annika tried not to observe how even in the wealthiest home in town, the water still contained a layer of brown silt which sank to the bottom of the glass. It would take some getting used to.
Harriet clapped her hands when Mollie brought a towering angel cake into the dining room. Annika accepted a piece, feeling mildly guilty when she reflected how the poor mining families who had stopped by the schoolhouse would be enjoying no such luxury.