Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  Again she said, “Thank you,” and hoped he couldn’t detect the way her hands shook. She dropped her arms to her sides.

  “Your supplies are in. If you want, you can set up another field camp tomorrow.”

  He was so curt, so businesslike that it seemed he intended to keep his word. She drew herself up, willing to remain as distant. “I’ll have to set Myra to the task of choosing a new name for our next camp.”

  Just then Barney Tinsley appeared in the hall. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, his hands riding the thick belt at his even thicker waist. His vest revealed a shirtfront that strained at the buttons around his belly.

  “What is it?” Rory said, his tone holding a trace of annoyance at the interruption.

  “Everybody’s waitin’ for you to come say a few words before we get started.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Rory explained, “My father always started out the rodeo with a prayer.”

  “Ah.” She wished he would go.

  He didn’t. Instead he seemed to be memorizing every nuance of her appearance. His eyes swept over her, assessing, watching. She wished she had changed, that she wasn’t wearing his mother’s old blue calico dress. Somehow, wearing the soft, faded fabric made her feel more vulnerable than her own clothing. He held out the bundle wrapped in brown paper tied with twine.

  “This is for you, too. I bought it when I was in Durango. I know you better than to think you’d change your mind about coming out today, but”—he reached around her to toss the bundle over to the bed—“I have nothing else to do with it.”

  Without another word, he turned around and left her staring into the empty hallway. The letter was heavy in her hand. She closed the door and then, alone in her self-imposed exile, Jessica stared at the bundle on the bed. It claimed her attention and her curiosity while the letter only gave her a sense of dread. She carried the letter over to the bed and set it down, deciding it could wait. When she lifted the package, she held it against her for a moment, wishing she could turn back time so that she and Rory would be as they were before his trip to Durango. Things had been much simpler then. Whitey was still alive and she was still innocent of what Rory’s touch, his kiss, his very nearness could do to her.

  Shouts of children playing near the open window filtered in with the sounds of revelry at the corral. Curiosity compelled her to open the package and see what Rory had purchased for her. She carefully removed the string and then unwrapped the paper. A glimpse of creamy yellow silk caught her eye, but before she unfolded the fabric, she let her fingers feel the delicious texture of it. A heavy lump was beginning to swell in her throat. She lifted the fabric and shook it out to its full length to reveal the most beautiful, most feminine gown she’d ever owned. She held it up in front of her and walked to the mirror over the washstand. The gown looked to be a perfect fit. How had he managed?

  Jess tried to imagine Rory in Durango, a dusty, suntanned cowboy who had taken the time to stop and purchase the gown for her. Had he been as embarrassed as she surely would have been buying such a personal gift for him?

  When she realized she was tenderly cradling the gown against her breast, Jess immediately held it away. The India silk whispered as she shook it out and spread it across the star quilt on the bed.

  Trying to ignore a swell of cheers and laughter outside, Jess picked up the letter and walked over to the small secretary desk in the corner. The letter from Ramsey was dated June 20 and read:

  Dear Miss Stanbridge,

  Since no communication from you has yet arrived, I am writing to convey my sincere hope that you and Mr. Stoutenburg are meeting with some success in Colorado. It would behoove you to write as soon as possible as our esteemed benefactor, Mr. Beckworth, has been in contact with me as frequently as twice a week to inquire as to your progress.

  As you know, time is of the utmost importance, as further funding will not be made available unless you are fortunate enough to discover a find of considerable size and scope before winter sets in and conditions become all but impossible for further search.

  May I once again emphasize the need for frequent communication? I realize you are far afield, but I am afraid that given the situation, Beckworth is determined to be kept notified of your progress, if any.

  Awaiting further word from you, I remain,

  Gerald Ramsey, Director,

  Harvard Museum of Natural History.

  “Your progress, if any—”

  Angered by the terse wording and the unwritten hint—“given the situation”—meaning that since she was a woman, Beckworth wanted to be informed of her every move, Jess crumpled the letter into a wad and threw it against the open secretary.

  Damn him. She chewed on her thumbnail and stared at the desktop. What had Ramsey meant when he said he hoped that she and Stoutenburg were making good progress? She frowned and then retrieved the balled-up page. After carefully smoothing open the page, she examined the words again. Stoutenburg should have been back in Boston by the time the letter was penned—unless he had been far more ill than she and Myra ever suspected—

  Loud whistles and cheers erupted outside. The image of Rory Burnett flying through the air and landing beneath the sharp, pounding hooves of any number of four-legged creatures chilled her to the bone.

  She stared down at the letter again, knowing full well the one she just sent after the flood could not have reached Boston yet. Finding it impossible to concentrate with the riotous goings-on outside, Jessica gave up working on her maps and notes. Impatient with herself and her situation, she wished Rory had had the time to take her to the mesa before the conflict arose between them.

  She glanced around the empty room. Since everyone was so preoccupied with the events of the day, they would not miss her. Why not ride up to the mesa and have a look around? She would have the early afternoon and evening to explore and be back before dark.

  Her mind made up, Jessica hastily changed into her shirtwaist and skirt, then pulled her knapsack off the back of the chair and slipped the strap over her shoulder. Myra had brought her the gloves and the sun bonnet Rory had returned, so she put them in the knapsack with her notebook and pens.

  The house was deserted as she slipped out the backdoor. Keeping to the back of the crowd, she skirted the corral and casually nodded to two women standing near the trestle tables by the big barn. One woman’s words caught her attention. “There goes Rory Burnett getting up on that same critter that nearly killed him last year.”

  Her companion sighed and glanced back over her shoulder. “You’d think he’d learn, but he’s no different than my Pete. When a man’s crazy enough to be set on bull ridin’, there ain’t nothin’ a woman can do.”

  Jess halted abruptly and looked around. The barn appeared deserted for the moment, the door wide open. Men and women had climbed on the corral rails to watch, while some of the older folks sat on low benches set up near the rails. She saw the flash of a red plaid shirt high atop the far rail and couldn’t keep from turning in the direction of the corral. Jess sidled up to the back of the crowd, looking for an opening—praying that there would not be one—and then a cheer went up. There was a shifting surge and her opportunity came. She quickly slipped in beside two broad-shouldered farmers in overalls and stood on tiptoe.

  One of the men glanced down when he noticed her wedged between him and his companion. He shifted until Jess stood in front of him. Protected by the man’s wide girth, she was just in time to see a gate on the far side of the corral open and Rory come flying out of a narrow chute clinging to the back of the biggest live slab of beef she’d ever seen.

  Certain the great horned beast must weigh as much as a freight car, Jess covered her mouth with both hands to keep from crying out. Not that Rory would have heard her—the crowd was hooting and clapping, some were even whistling at a deafening pitch. The bull heaved and twisted,
bucked and sometimes jumped with all four feet off the ground as it tried to rid itself of Rory in a far more agile way than she would ever have thought possible. Rory flailed around atop the furious animal like a rag doll. The only thing that kept him seated was a thick rope around the bull’s middle, beneath which he had slipped one hand.

  All too aware that the human spine contained twenty-five vertebrae, Jess wondered how many of Rory’s would sustain permanent damage from the brutal pounding.

  At one point the angry bull came kicking and bucking near the rail where Jessica stood. She could see the whites of the animal’s eyes as the huge, sweating beast lunged and went charging past. Rory’s hat flew off. It was quickly trampled, ground into the dirt beneath the bull’s hooves.

  Nauseated, she wanted to look away but couldn’t. Seconds passed like hours. Finally Wheelbarrow began to beat two pans together and the crowd roared. Rory let go and flew off, hit the ground, and rolled away from the deadly hooves.

  “He beat the time!” the man beside her shouted as he pounded the other farmer beside him on the back. “Beat the longest ride ever.”

  “Thought that damn Arthur was gonna kill ’im,” the second man said.

  While they shouted back and forth over her head, Jess watched as two men rushed out and supported Rory while a man waving a red rag darted across the corral and captured the animal’s attention until the others could lead him safely away. Not until Rory slipped between the rails did Jessica take a deep breath and let the tension ease out of her shoulders.

  Her legs shook as she pushed away from the rail and said, “Excuse me,” to the men who had let her through. They moved aside and she escaped to the shade of the barn, where she leaned against the door frame and tried to collect herself.

  Somehow, knowing Rory was safe made leaving that much easier. At least she wouldn’t be imagining the worst all afternoon when she needed her wits about her. Just as she was about to step into the shadowed interior of the barn, she recognized the Ute named Piah. He came walking toward her. She looked around, wondering where he had come from. He seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

  There was a cold, hard look in his eye, much like the one she had seen the day he visited the dig at the dry creek. He watched her for a moment without saying a word, glanced into the open barn, then back at her. Did he know what she had planned? Could he read her mind?

  The man didn’t nod or acknowledge her with anything more than a penetrating stare before he moved on. When she was certain he was no longer watching, she looked up toward the mesa. Thunderheads were gathering over the red-stained bluffs. If Piah’s glance had not been warning enough, the clouds dampened her enthusiasm to steal away to the mesa. If she had learned nothing else, she knew what deadly power the storm clouds held.

  Shifting the strap on her shoulder, she headed across the yard toward the house, careful to avoid Rory Burnett.

  RORY DUSTED HIMSELF off, hooked his hand around the back of his neck, and began to roll his head from side to side. Nothing hurt as bad as he thought it would after the backbreaking ride on Arthur—which was something he had sworn to make himself face after last year’s near-tragic accident. His penchant for bull riding was something he never quite understood, especially when most of the men who rode bulls were the wild sort who also liked to shoot up the town on Saturday nights.

  But now he’d looked his fear in the face and had held on long enough to break the last time set at the Silver Sage. Part of him wished Jess had been there to witness his triumph, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite imagine her enjoying a rodeo, which made him wonder once more why he ever proposed to her in the first place.

  Punching the dents out of his muddied black hat, he thought about the question Myra had asked him two days ago. Did he love Jessica enough to give up the ranch? Then again, what did it matter how he felt? The way Jessica was acting toward him, he reckoned he’d never be forced to choose.

  Rory slipped his battered hat on his head and was just dipping himself a drink of water out of a barrel at the corner of the barn when Piah stepped out of the shadows and headed toward him. He hadn’t really expected the man to show up at the festivities. Nor did he look forward to conversing with the sullen Ute again, but there seemed no easy way out of a conversation.

  “Piah.” Rory nodded a greeting.

  “I told you to keep the bone hunters away from the mesa.”

  Rory frowned. “I have kept them here on the ranch. The women haven’t been to the mesa to look for bones at all.”

  “The spirits are still disturbed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Slipping a bandanna out of his back pocket, Rory dipped it into the water barrel, wrung it out, and then wiped the back of his neck with it. He glanced around to see if anyone was near enough to overhear. “Let’s face it. You’re the one who’s still disturbed. Why?”

  The silver conchos on Piah’s hatband reflected the sunlight. His eyes were shaded by the wide hat brim; still, Rory could see the hate reflected there. “I told you to keep them away, but it is of no matter now, for the end is almost here.”

  He’d heard about religious fanatics who led their people to do whatever they commanded in the name of God. Was Piah about to lead a revolt, or was all this just superstitious talk meant to keep the cave from discovery and desecration like the Mesa Verde dwellings?

  “I have done as you asked. I have kept the women away, but I’ll tell you right now that one of them wants to go up there and I intend to take her to have a look around. That way I can make sure she won’t find the cave.”

  Rory had the feeling that Piah almost smiled. Almost.

  “When?”

  “Soon,” Rory replied. “I’m not sure.”

  “It is your decision,” Piah said carefully.

  “You’re right, it is.” Rory shifted his stance and glanced over to the corral where two men were team-roping a calf.

  Piah walked away without another warning, unable to blend into the crowd because of his height and the tall black hat he wore.

  Rory tied the damp bandanna around his neck and looked toward the house. At least Piah wouldn’t be held responsible for ruining his day—Jessica had already managed to do just that. He hoped she was good and lonesome sitting inside all by herself.

  As he rounded the corner of the barn, intending to watch the rest of the rodeo competition, he spied a khaki umbrella above the crowd. In a few more steps he found Jess wasn’t beneath it, but Myra, and none other than Scratchy Livermore was holding the umbrella over her head. Beside him. Woody Barrows stood twitching his mustache and looking disgusted with the whole situation.

  Rory shook his head. Nothing like a couple of skirts around to make us all go plumb loco, he thought.

  WITH HER WORK at a standstill for the time being, Jessica decided to find something to read that might take her mind off of Rory Burnett, Piah’s threatening presence, and Gerald Ramsey’s letter. She wandered through the house, looked over a dusty row of books on a small bookshelf beside the parlor fireplace, and then wandered down the hall. Rory had offered Myra use of any of his books one evening and told her there were a few newer editions in his small office.

  As she entered the compact space at the end of the hall, she felt as if she were trespassing in Rory’s private sanctuary. A huge, hand-painted map was tacked to the wall above a rough-hewn desk that took up one side of the room. She leaned over the desk to study the map and recognized Cortez, the Sleeping Ute Mountain, and the Silver Sage borders.

  Ledgers were stacked up to one side of the desk; silver-tipped pens, ink bottles, and a blotter had been shoved to the other side. In the center of the desk lay a composition book that appeared to be well traveled. The corners were bent and beginning to fray. There was nothing written on the front to indicate what had been recorded inside, but something about the well
-worn condition of the book led her to believe it was much cherished.

  She couldn’t imagine Rory Burnett keeping a diary or journal. Perhaps the notebook only contained notes and observations having to do with running a big ranch. Her fingers itched to touch it. Jessica glanced over her shoulder. The door to the hallway was open, she could hear anyone who might approach. How could one little peek hurt? Besides, she reasoned, if Rory Burnett ever wanted to look through her notebooks, he was more than welcome to do so.

  Her conscience eased somewhat, she reached out as if touching a hot rock and flipped open the cover of the composition book.

  The first page was blank. It rustled as she turned it over and stared down at a page of poetry written in a clear, bold hand. There is nothing more personal than staring down at someone’s handwriting. It seemed as though Rory were right there in the room.

  She sat down on the swivel chair by the desk and was soon lost in Rory’s poems. Most of his work concerned life on the ranch, the land, rusty pistols, wranglers, horses, and cow punching. The poems were eloquent in their simplicity. He wrote of blankets of wildflowers, winter’s cold embrace, spring’s soft rain. She could feel the bitter cold he experienced as he searched for cattle marooned in deep snow. The work spoke of life and death and seasons. The lines were clear and the images strong.

  Not until she reached the last few entries did she notice a change in style, as if Rory had reached into his very soul for the words he’d penned. One particular title, “Blue Eyes,” caught her attention.

  Blue eyes under blue skies,

  Though your lips won’t call my name,

  When you leave you’ll take my heart

  And things will never be the same.

  Blue eyes under blue skies,

  Hair golden in the sunset.

  I’ve only kissed you once and yet

  I never will forget.

  Blue eyes under blue skies,

  As I ride beneath the sun,

  I tell myself, “Forget her,”