She shook her head no.
“Sometimes it helps to put bad times into words, ’specially when you see a man get his lamp blowed out before his time.”
Jess balled her hands together in her lap. “He wasn’t a man, just a boy,” she whispered, fighting back tears she didn’t know she had left.
“These things happen. God’s will and all.” The words made him seem uncaring, cold.
“It was my fault.”
Scratchy straightened, her boots in his hands, and shuffled to the backdoor. His muddy tracks mingled with hers. He stepped out onto the porch, put her boots by the door, used a bootjack shaped like an iron cockroach to slip out of his own, and then came back inside. The door banged again.
He picked the lamp up off the table and waited in the doorway. “You ready to go to your room?”
When Jessica stood, every muscle in her body ached in protest. She followed the old man through the darkened hall. The lamplight threw a creased halo over the walls and ceiling. The house was cool; moonlight streaming through the windows created hulking shadows of the furniture. They passed a large room that appeared to be a parlor, a closed door, and then the hall made a sharp turn. The adobe house had been built in an L shape, the bedroom wing obviously added on a room or two at a time. He stopped beside the first door, a rough, unfinished set of planks that somehow fit the mood of the house. Scratchy reached around her to open it.
Jessica stepped into a room that smelled musty from neglect. The old man set the lamp on a side table near the door and began opening windows. The night air was still cool, but not cold. Within seconds, the room lost its stuffiness. Shadowed faces of Martha Burnett’s relations stared at her from behind oval frames. There was a dust ruffle on the high bed, along with a faded, hand-pieced quilt covered with multicolored stars.
She waited in the middle of the room clutching her knapsack until Scratchy lit the lamp on a bedside table. The light further illuminated the neatly arranged room. A rustic chest of drawers made of pine stood against the wall. A rectangular mirror hung above it. Draped over the corner of the mirror was a string of beads.
“There’s some clothes in here, night things, whatever you need.” He opened the closet doors. “They’ll all be too big. B’fore she died, Miz Burnett carried a bit of pork on her hocks, but they’ll cover you till you get somethin’ more fittin’. Use anything you like.”
A riot of calico, dark wools, white nightgowns, and a midnight-black silk were all crowded into the small closet. “Thank you.”
“I’ll go back and heat up some water for you. There’s a bathin’ room at the end of the hall, no fancy plumbin’ yet, but there’s a tub and fresh towels set out. I’ll knock when it’s ready an’ you can go on in.”
After the door closed behind him, Jessica walked over to the window and stared out into the night. The barnyard was deserted. Across the way she could see the small building where the cowhands slept. The door was still open. There was a clatter down the hall, wood bumping against wood. Someone was setting up the planks where Whitey would be laid out.
Jessica sighed and turned away from the window. Outside, hoofbeats mingled with muffled shouts. The sounds faded. A low armless rocker sat on a braided rag rug near the window. It beckoned her. Familiar now with the interior of the room, she turned down the wick on the lamp and walked back to the chair. Jessica sat rocking in the darkness until Scratchy knocked to let her know her bath was ready.
Chapter Ten
SEATED CROSS-LEGGED on the old rocker in a nightgown four sizes too big, Jessica bunched the long flounce at the bottom of the white cotton gown around her legs and brushed her hair with a brush she found in the washstand. She sat in the dark remembering Whitey, his eagerness to help, his boyish, impulsive kiss, the puppy love in his eyes whenever he looked at her. He had been willing to do anything for her. I’ll protect you with my life, he had said. In the end, he didn’t have to give his life; she had taken it with her ignorance.
Although she could hardly bear to think that Myra was lost, too, Jessica couldn’t help but remember how excited her friend had been and her enthusiasm in christening the camps Zanzibar and Marrakech. Now she was gone. Myra’s beloved books had been scattered across the high desert floor on the muddy wave of water. The pages would soon be blown by the winds across endless miles of sagebrush and sand.
To think of the fossils she had lost seemed callous and unfeeling. Each time an unbidden reminder surfaced, Jessica tried to shove it away. If it would only bring Myra and Whitey back, she would give up paleontology forever.
As much as she fought it, sleep soon crept up on her. More than once she came awake with a start when her head lolled and her chin dipped to her chest. Finally, admitting exhaustion, Jessica walked over to the bed, lay down in the center, and forgoing covers, wrapped the borrowed gown around her feet. She was sound asleep in moments.
A feather-light touch upon her cheek startled her awake sometime after dawn. She awoke to find Rory Burnett drawing his hand away from her face as if he’d been singed. His dark eyes were ringed, the lower half of his face covered with blue-black stubble. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all, and if he had, it had been in the same clothes he’d worn the night before.
All too conscious that she was only wearing the cotton nightgown, Jessica glanced down and found it still tucked about her feet. “I must have fallen asleep,” she said, pulling herself to a sitting position.
“You need it.”
“You look like you could use some sleep yourself,” she told him, glancing out the window. “What time is it?”
“After nine.”
She shoved her hair back off her face and swung her legs over the sides of the bed. Leveling an accusing stare at him, Jess said, “You said you’d send your men out for Myra at dawn. Did you? Did they find her?”
He stared at her a moment too long without answering.
“Well?” She shifted uncomfortably.
“Come with me.”
She followed, praying he wasn’t taking her to see Myra’s lifeless body stretched out beside Whitey’s. Somehow, though, she knew instinctively that Rory would never intentionally be that cruel.
They stopped at the room beside hers. “There’s somebody in here who wants to see you,” he said as he pushed the door open.
“Myra!” Jessica paused on the threshold, too relieved to move, barely able to believe her eyes.
Myra Thornton was propped against a bank of pillows in a wide bed, primly outfitted in what appeared to be a man’s huge nightshirt, a coverlet pulled up under her arms. Woody Barrows and Fred Hench, who both stood the minute they saw Jessica in the doorway, had been seated on chairs on either side of the bed.
With her bandaged foot and ankle sticking out of the covers and resting on a pillow, Myra waved her in. “Oh, Jessica, dear! I’ve been so worried about you. Are you all right?”
Unaccustomed to having her hair unbound, Jessica tossed it over her shoulders and hurried into the room.
The two seasoned cowhands ducked their heads and, red-faced with embarrassment, bid her a quick good-bye. It was a moment before she realized her own immodest state had caused their discomfort. Jess rushed to Myra’s bedside as the men filed out of the room. She sat on the edge of the bed and threw her arms about her friend, unable to hold back tears of relief and joy.
Myra gave her a bear hug. “Why, Jessica, I’ve never seen you this way. Surely you didn’t think anything had happened to me?”
Jessica sat up and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the oversized gown. The door closed behind them. “I didn’t know any such thing.” She looked down as if speaking to the coverlet. “Did they tell you about . . . Whitey?”
Myra’s smile faded. “Yes, they did. I’m still trying to wrestle with the reasons why.”
“That’s no secret.” Jessica s
tood up and noticed for the first time that Rory had left them alone. She paced over to the window. Outside, three of the men were working in the corral. “Whitey’s dead because of me—because I was too pigheaded to listen to him when he suggested we move away from the creek bed.”
“Now, Jessica—”
“I wasn’t raised like you, Myra. I haven’t studied the Transcendentalists or Eastern philosophies like you have. I can’t just tell myself that it was Whitey’s time to die, that his death was all part of some great cosmic plan. All I can do is blame myself.”
“We all deal with grief in different ways, but taking the blame upon your own shoulders won’t change things,” Myra said softly.
“Rory hates me,” Jess whispered.
Myra folded her arms across her ample breasts. “Oh, posh.”
“He does. Because it is my fault. And then last night, when I insisted we search for you before we brought Whitey back, well, that was the last straw.” Jessica ran her fingertip around the lip of the washbowl on a marble-topped washstand beside the window. “I know it was unfeeling not to want to get Whitey back as soon as possible, but he was already gone and you . . . I couldn’t imagine leaving you out there to face the elements alone all night.”
“I was back long before dawn. I was soaking in a hot bath when the sun came up.”
Jessica whirled around. “How?”
“Rory and his men rode out after me as soon as he left you. I could hear them calling and shouting my name. They found me almost two miles from Marrakech. I had become completely disoriented in the storm.”
“Then that means Rory—”
“Brought the men back to look for me immediately. They had a spare horse with them, but I was afraid to manage on my own, so he was kind enough to let me ride behind him.” She turned bright red, something Jessica had never witnessed before.
“Myra, are you blushing?”
“I had to hang on to Mr. Burnett all the way back. It was quite a thrilling experience. A real-life adventure, and one I’ll never forget, to be sure.”
Jessica tried to hide a smile. “Tell me about your leg. And the storm.”
Myra wriggled her toes, all that was visible of her foot beneath the bandages. “I tripped, that’s all. You know me, my body on earth and my head in the clouds. My shoe hit a rock and I turned my ankle and went down. When I was finally able to try to hobble, the storm hit. It must have put out the fire, because I lost sight of Marrakech entirely.”
“But the rain, and the coyotes—”
“What’s a little water? I had my umbrella. As for coyotes, I saw nary a one, although I had gathered a few nearby rocks and was determined to drive them off. There is only one thing I regret—”
“You never found Methuselah?”
“Oh, no. I found him.”
Jessica was amazed. “You didn’t!”
“Of course I did. He’s under the bed. Mr. Barrows was kind enough to carry him all the way back for me. No, what I regret was that I wasn’t there to help you.”
The seconds before the flood flashed through Jessica’s mind. Scrambling to load the wagon with Whitey. The roar of the water as it rumbled toward them. The screaming mules. Thunder. The splintering of the wooden wagon as it was ripped apart by the force of the water.
Her own ragged breath in her ears as she fought her way to safety.
“I’m glad you weren’t there, Myra.” Jess picked up the older woman’s freckled hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m so very, very thankful you weren’t there.”
A quick knock on the door was all the warning they had before Rory came in again. His dark gaze never left Jessica. “Are you hungry?”
Gathering the surplus nightgown material across her breasts, she hugged it protectively. She knew now why his eyes were shadowed and he looked so exhausted. He and his men had combed the darkness until they found Myra. Jessica knew she owed him an apology, not to mention her friend’s life.
Myra lay in silent repose, watching them closely. Finally Jess answered him. “No, I’m not hungry.”
“At least have some coffee,” he urged.
“I’m getting very tired, Jessica.” Myra feigned a yawn. “Perhaps you two should leave me alone for a while.” Snuggling down amid the pillows, she pulled the coverlet up to her chin, wriggled her toes, and closed her eyes.
Jess had no alternative but to follow Rory out of the room. The hallway was dim; the night’s coolness lingered along the floorboards and in the darkened corners. Jessica chose the coward’s way out rather than exchange words with him.
“I would really prefer to go back to my room.”
She saw him halt abruptly. He turned around and put a hand out on the wall, a nonthreatening but powerful move meant to keep her from retreating into his mother’s room.
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“It can’t wait?”
“I don’t think so.” His eyes were obsidian shards in the darkness. They dared her to refuse.
“You want me to walk around like this?” She held out the sides of her nightgown as if she were about to curtsy.
Why was it always a contest of wills?
Rory stared down at her in the shadowed hallway. She was right. He couldn’t take her into the kitchen in her nightgown. After a moment’s thought and a longer stretch of silence, he opened the door to his mother’s room, stepped inside, grabbed the quilt off of the bed, and was back in the hall in seconds.
The quilt flared like a matador’s cape as he swung it up and over her. It settled across her shoulders. He wadded the excess into his hands and jerked it closed across her breasts.
“There.” He waited until she took over the task of holding the thing closed.
She had to gather up the bottom with one hand in order to walk. Afraid if he hesitated she would refuse to follow him, Rory headed down the hall and didn’t look back.
When they neared the parlor door, he heard her footsteps falter. Whitey was laid out inside, pale and vulnerable. Thankfully the door was closed and Jessica was spared the sight.
Rory walked through the house toward the kitchen, where Scratchy was scraping the breakfast pans. He stopped when they entered and looked over at Jessica. In one quick gaze he took in the quilt, her tousled hair, her bare feet.
“There’s coffee on the stove. I’m goin’ out to slop the pigs.” He picked up a scrap pail by the door and headed out.
Rory walked over to the table, pulled out a chair for Jessica, and then went to get them some coffee. Sitting there bundled in the pieced quilt his mother called Rolling Star, Jessica reminded him of a lost child. Somehow it was a far different perception of Miss Jessica Stanbridge than he had ever contemplated before. Her blue eyes were haunted, her thoughts far from the sun-streaked, planked floorboards she was concentrating on.
Coffee sloshed out of the mug he set on the table beside her. He didn’t offer milk or sugar, but gave it to her the way he took his—hot and black.
After a careful sip he said, “We’ll bury Whitey this afternoon, around four. By then most of the work will be done . . . and Fred and Woody will have had time to make him a box.”
She kept her eyes lowered and ignored the steaming coffee as he went on. “I know the clothes in Ma’s closet are all too big, but there’s a sewing box in the bottom drawer, maybe you can fix something up for the burial. There’s a black—”
“I won’t be there.” Her voice was a croak. She looked up at him, her eyes pleading for understanding. “I’m sorry.”
He hated the way she was trembling, quaking so hard the chair creaked. Would she accept the sort of comfort he had tried to give her last night?
“It’s up to you,” he said, unwilling to cause her any more pain. “The men will all be there. Maybe it is best you stay
with Myra.”
“I’m sure I’m the last person they’d want to see.”
Blowing on the hot coffee, he looked at her over the rim of the cup. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I’ve never killed anyone before.”
His mug hit the table with a loud thud. “You didn’t kill Whitey.” Leaning back, he rested a booted foot on his knee and spun the rowel of his spur. “If anyone is responsible, it’s me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I left a green kid out there to do a man’s job. Any of the others would have known better than to set up camp in the creek bed in the first place.”
“I talked him into moving into the dry creek. I wanted to be close to the excavation. He wanted to move as soon as there was any hint of storm.”
‘‘An older man would have stood up to you.” Rory stared at the colorful stars draped around her shoulders. “He probably had stars in his eyes.”
A crease appeared between her brows. “What makes you say a thing like that?”
He knew he guessed correctly when he saw her blush. “Whether or not you want to admit it, Jess, you’re a beautiful woman. You could get a boy like Whitey to do most anything.”
Guiltily she thought of the way the young man had followed her about the camp, had answered to her beck and call, worked all those long, hot hours on the dig.
The way he tried to kiss her.
Jessica ducked her head again.
Rory hated the jealousy that snaked through his gut. His opinion of himself lowered when he realized he was jealous of a mere boy, and a dead one at that. So far, Jessica Stanbridge had done nothing but twist him inside out since the day she walked into the general store in Cortez. He didn’t know where she planned to go or what she intended to do now that she had lost everything, but one tiling was for certain—the thought of never seeing her again did mighty terrible things to his insides.
He looked up and caught her staring at him intently.
“Is that all you wanted?” she asked.
He wished he could see into her mind, wished he could absolve her, but doubted he would have any more luck than he was having with his own guilt “That’s all. Unless you want some breakfast I can fix you something.”
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