The Irish Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  The lady in question sidled farther away from the Easterner’s voice and Morgan quickly crooned to her.

  “Perhaps she’d calm down if she were stabled with other horses, such as in my barn. I can give you forty dollars for her.”

  “She’s worth a great deal more,” Lennox protested halfheartedly.

  “In gold, here and now.”

  Lennox stroked his muttonchops but wasn’t fool enough to demand a larger sum. “Very well,” he agreed finally. “After all, the gelding does match the other buggy so neatly.”

  Humming an Irish jig, Viola adjusted the laundry basket on her hip, now full of washing from three clients, and considered the treats tucked inside it. Perhaps the sugary cinnamon bread would divert Maggie’s attention for a few minutes. They were one of Armistead the baker’s better efforts, although not as good as Lily Mae’s scones.

  That thought brought her back to considering Mrs. Smith’s house and how William Donovan carried on with the girls there. He was a fine figure of a man, which could account for some of their pleasure. His teamster’s strength should give him stamina.

  As for more intimate equipment, well, what made for excellence? The first time she’d seen naked men was when she was fifteen years old and hunting mushrooms in the woods. She’d happened on a handful of teenage boys enjoying a swimming hole’s coolness on that hot day. She’d spied on them for a few minutes before running home ahead of a thunderstorm. Their privates had looked remarkably small and pasty white, hardly capable of causing trouble let alone bringing delight.

  Edward had always insisted on proper decorum and respect in the marriage bed. Their marital encounters had been conducted in the dark, under the covers, and discreetly screened by both nightshirt and nightgown. The only time she’d seen him unclothed was when she’d laid him out for burial.

  “Mrs. Ross, Mrs. Ross!” Little Jenny’s piping voice reached Viola as she neared the cluster of shanties. “Come see, quick! We tried to stop ’em, honest we did. But they took everything!”

  “Now, Jenny, calm down. I’m sure it can’t be as bad as all that,” Viola soothed automatically even as her skin prickled.

  “Ma sent Eli for Pa but he couldn’t do nothin’, not with Mr. Lennox’s men there. He tried talkin’ to ’em but…”

  All sound faded as Viola stared at Maggie’s deserted hut, the song dead on her lips. No washtubs, no washboards beside the stream. No goat for the milk that Maggie claimed made coffee bearable.

  The Golconda’s stamping machines, usually strong enough to shake the fragile dwelling, now seemed distant and unimportant.

  She broke into a run but stopped dead at the hut’s threshold. It was completely empty, showing every inch of the dirt floor and papered-over mud-brick walls. Edward’s photograph had vanished. In the far corner, Viola could clearly see an empty hole where her cashbox had been, containing her few funds and the mourning brooch for Grandfather Lindsay. Her heart stopped beating.

  That piece of jewelry was the one item she’d kept from her childhood. She’d sold most of her jewelry and all of her good clothes early in her marriage to satisfy Edward’s creditors. But somehow she had held onto the gold brooch, with its engraved frigate under full sail and her grandfather’s lock of hair inside. Hal, like all of the Commodore’s grandsons, had a matching watch. The brooch had more sentimental value than monetary, but now it, too, was gone.

  Only a whisky bottle remained. It stood between the frayed curtains in the single window, filled with sprays of yellow roses from Edward’s grave and weighted with sand to keep it steady. An envelope rested beside it like a communication from the dead. Viola dropped the basket on the floor and went unsteadily toward the missive.

  “Come, Jenny. Let’s leave Mrs. Ross alone for now.” Jenny’s mother’s voice came from a great distance and Viola didn’t look back. She managed to pick up the envelope with only slightly shaking hands. The paper was crumpled but the address was clear enough: Mrs. Edward Ross. She hesitated for a moment then ripped it open. After all, bad news never improved with age.

  My dearest, dearest Viola,

  I do not know how to break the news to you gracefully so I shall be quick about it instead. I have sold the house and all its contents to Mr. Paul Lennox. He was kind enough to pay an amount sufficient to remove Mr. Watson’s debts and see Mr. Jones and me well started on our marriage.

  Please understand the necessity of my doing this. I simply cannot abide remaining in this barren waste for another day, especially when my beloved Mr. Jones is overdue to return to his mountain home.

  I am certain that you will manage well without my guidance. In fact, I know that all your possessions will swiftly rejoin you when you marry Mr. Lennox today. My only regret is that Mr. Jones and I cannot dance at your nuptials.

  Pray give Mabel an extra pat and some alfalfa for me.

  Ever your most loyal friend,

  Maggie

  Viola read the letter once and then twice without improving its meaning. Maggie had sold everything so she could run away. Then justified herself by saying that Viola would marry again, this time to a man heartily despised by most. Including Maggie, at least before she wrote this nonsense.

  Viola balled the letter and hurled it against the wall. Dammit, Maggie was as weak as Edward had warned when she’d comforted the woman after her child’s death.

  When would she ever learn that people always chose money and power, never honor? First Mother, then Edward, and now Maggie. Would there ever be a man she could trust completely, someone to ride the river with, as the old saying went?

  Somehow she had to rebuild her life without depending on anyone else.

  She turned to stare out the window at the desert beyond and tried to think of something, anything, she could do to make a living with just the clothes on her back and a handful of change.

  Restart the business? She laughed mirthlessly at that. She hadn’t the means and no one here would loan it to her against Lennox’s will. He owned the silver mine that kept this town alive and made sure that every man, woman, and child knew exactly whose money put food on their plates, clothes on their backs, and a roof over their heads.

  Write her family? That was an even worse option. As he’d promised when she married Edward, her father had refused every letter she had sent thereafter. Even a telegram begging for forgiveness hadn’t breached his legendary stubbornness.

  As for remarriage…No! Even if there was a man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, she had no offers to accept since Lennox had scared them off.

  Unbidden, she remembered Lily Mae’s purr as she spoke of Mr. Donovan, and snorted. As if a man like that would have anything to do with someone as scrawny as her.

  “Your laughter falls on the air like rain in a desert, Mrs. Ross.” A clipped New York accent broke into her thoughts.

  Viola choked and whirled around, her hand automatically steadying her against the windowsill. Lennox, of course, dressed for a walk down Fifth Avenue and smirking like Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire Cat as he stroked his muttonchops. He was a very impressive figure of a man, if you didn’t look too closely into his eyes or catch the reek of his pomade. At least he wasn’t wearing his gunbelt.

  He’d been back in town for almost a month; he’d proposed and been rejected twice. What did he want now? “Mr. Lennox. You startled me.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Ross.” He tipped his hat with a flourish. “May I come in?”

  “As you will.”

  “My dear lady, you look magnificent in that dress.” He swept his hat off to bow over her hand. She retrieved it as soon as possible, her skin prickling at his flattery. “You are a vision of civilization, a reminder of a better world.”

  “You are very kind, Mr. Lennox,” Viola murmured politely, and wished she hadn’t seen him in a barbarian’s bloodstained clothing.

  “Kind, Mrs. Ross? You are my dearest wish, the pinnacle of everything I plan to gain from this barren desert.”

  Why d
id that particular statement ring true?

  “Soon I will be the governor of New York and you will be the envy of the world as my wife. We’ll give parties for society’s elite at my new mansion, next door to Roosevelt’s estate. They will dine and dance with us all night long above the Hudson, free from the stench of those Vanderbilt parvenus.”

  Ballrooms have pianos. Dear heaven, to play a piano again…

  “I shall be elegantly outfitted by London’s best tailors, while Paris will send its finest gowns to adorn you.”

  A Paris wardrobe again? For that and a piano, a woman could consider marrying Lennox. Lost in the vision, Viola barely noticed how close he now stood.

  “Do you remember when we first met, in New York during the recent unpleasantness? You were an enchanting young lady from one of the finest families, while your mother was the very picture of American beauty. Such a charming woman,” he mused. “She could shop from sunrise to sundown then sparkle brighter than the Northern Lights over dinner.”

  Viola stiffened. Wasn’t that trip when Mother had bought the rifles?

  “Marry me, Mrs. Ross,” he continued, heedless of her silence, “and the world’s merchants will be your devoted servants, as they were for your mother.”

  “No.” The word was little more than a croak, uttered by a mouth dry with the ashes of lost dreams. “No, no, no,” Viola said more strongly as her throat muscles worked to repudiate the nightmare. She would not, could not, be blackmailed into another marriage.

  Lennox blinked, then cocked his head and crossed his hands on his walking stick, the image of a man who fully appreciated his own superiority. “My very dear Mrs. Ross, I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you. You must comprehend the advantages we bring each other.”

  She gathered herself together to speak in terms he might understand. “I’m afraid you misunderstand my circumstances, Mr. Lennox. Captain Lindsay disinherited me when I married Edward, so I can offer you neither grand associations nor a rich dowry.”

  His smile deepened as he wagged a finger at her. “My dear lady, Ross also objected to any rapprochement with your family. But I am convinced that when you arrive on Captain Lindsay’s doorstep, properly contrite and with a well-bred husband at your side, forgiveness and riches will flow like the Niagara.”

  Roses brushed her arm as a phrase caught Viola’s attention. “When did you speak to Mr. Ross about my father? He never mentioned such a conversation to me.”

  “At the Oriental Saloon, my dear. I happened to catch him just as he was departing.”

  Lightning flashed again in Viola’s memory. “My husband visited the Oriental only once in his life,” she said slowly, feeling her way through the implications.

  “Indeed? He must have forgotten to mention it.”

  Edward’s roses nudged her again. “Did you speak to him for long?” Instinctively, her hand crept toward the bottle.

  She had to deal with this herself. Sheriff Lloyd would be of no use in any confrontation with Lennox. He was far more interested in pouring whisky down his throat than saying no to the man who paid his salary.

  “I’m afraid so; he was a very stubborn man at times.” Lennox came closer. “Come, my dear, we can discuss this later.”

  “Did you argue with him, Mr. Lennox?” She had to learn the truth.

  “Gentlemen don’t have arguments. We merely spoke with some emotion,” he corrected.

  “Did the discussion become heated? So hot you had to take action?”

  “Mrs. Ross,” he began, guilt creeping into his eyes.

  “You killed him with your sword stick, the one you had to scrub. I saw you wash up at the livery stable’s water trough.” Edward’s death wound had been too deep and narrow for a Bowie knife and Lennox had the only sword in town that night.

  He fumbled for words. “He was inebriated, Mrs. Ross. We had words and he attacked me. I had to defend myself.”

  “You, who served four years in the Union cavalry, could do no better with your sword than kill a drunk in an alley?” Enraged at the murder and his lies, Viola took a half step toward him but kept her hand near the bottle. “Your actions speak of the gutter, sir, and render your offer unacceptable.”

  His eyes blazed at the insult and he tightened his grip on the sword stick’s shaft. “I suggest you reconsider, Mrs. Ross.”

  “You can say nothing that would make me accept you.”

  “Consider your position, Mrs. Ross,” Lennox snarled at her. “Where will you live? I can evict you from this hovel in five minutes.”

  Viola gritted her teeth and repeated stonily, “I will not marry you, Mr. Lennox.”

  He took a deep breath, visibly trying to collect himself. “Come, come, my offer needs more thought than that. You can have a glass of Riesling at my house and some biscuits while you reconsider. Perhaps you’d enjoy a matched string of pearls as your wedding present.” He grabbed her elbow.

  “No!” Viola yanked away from him. “No, no, no!”

  Lennox glared at her and swept the sword stick up toward the canvas roof, ready to strike her.

  Viola smashed the bottle against the windowsill and brought her newly formed weapon into position before her, business end toward her enemy as Edward had taught her on the long road west. A single spray of roses caught her cuff like reassurance and sunlight. “I think not, sir,” she announced coldly, and swallowed hard.

  He stared at the razor-sharp edge pointed at his privates. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Completely so, sir,” Viola said brusquely, her pulse steady now as she faced him.

  He brought the heavy cane down in a whistling arc aimed at simply knocking the bottle aside; Edward had always said most men discounted women in a fight. She countered as she’d been taught, aiming for Lennox’s hand to disarm him. The broken bottle sliced through skin and muscle, setting off a gush of crimson.

  He yelped as the cane fell to the floor. “Why, you vicious bitch!”

  Viola waited, keeping her weapon ready to resume the fight. If she thought about what she’d done, she might faint. God must be smiling on her, to succeed with that move.

  Blood ran down his hand. He wrapped a handkerchief around his wound, cursing continuously. “Devil take you, you’ll pay for that.”

  He clenched his good hand but she quickly brought the bottle up to block him again. He bent down slowly and picked up the sword stick, watching her constantly.

  “You’re standing on my property, Mrs. Ross.” Venom lanced his voice. “You have an hour to compose yourself after the day’s shocks. Then I’ll return to escort you to my house, the only place you’ll find shelter in this town.”

  “Get out.” Her stomach felt like a rattlesnake’s den, all twisting coils hidden from the light, but she held her ground.

  He gripped his slim cane, started to rotate it, but stopped with a brief hiss of pain.

  She turned the bottle so light glinted on the jagged glass as she stepped forward.

  He backed up slowly, his eyes cold with fury, until he came to his old buggy. What on earth had happened to the new horse and buggy that he’d been showing off around town yesterday? The big gelding tossed its head at the unusual approach but steadied quickly as Lennox took the reins from Jenny’s brother Eli.

  “You have one hour to decide: starve or accept my offer. You’ll marry me in the end, Viola Ross, so make it easy on yourself and come with me now.” He swept their audience with a long glare, sending them back into their shelters like mice hiding from a rattler.

  Viola kept her chin up, unwilling to let him see how his words affected her. Give him an hour and no one would dare offer her more than a drink of water. “I’d rather be an Apache’s squaw,” she said, and knew it for the truth.

  “Don’t be foolish, my dear. You know you’re meant for me. We will meet again at noon.” He had the audacity to bow, albeit mockingly, before he drove away.

  Viola shivered and retreated back into the mud-brick hut, pushing aside the basket of dirt
y laundry just inside. She leaned against the wall, sliding slowly down to the dirt floor. She couldn’t have taken another step if she tried, given how her legs were shaking. Her skin was cold as ice and her stomach wanted to rush up her throat.

  What in heaven’s name was she going to do now?

  Chapter Three

  Viola walked slowly back up the hill toward town, still trying to think of alternatives. Beg sanctuary from Padre Francisco? Lennox would torch the little church within hours; he’d bragged before of how he’d kept “Papist temples” away from his better properties in New York.

  Send a telegram to her brother Hal? Even if she knew where he was currently piloting a riverboat, his objections to Edward had been louder than the Captain’s. And her sister Juliet would never risk scandal by countering their father.

  She could go to the Apaches if she could reach them before Lennox came after her. Cochise’s band was known to watch Rio Piedras and attack any lonely travelers, a success rate unhindered by the new Army post. If she took the old road out of town, past the German’s mine and up the canyon into the mountains, surely they’d find her quickly. After that, she would simply have to do her best to convince them she’d be a good, docile squaw.

  Viola shuddered and came to a stop. Then she forced herself to start walking again. Starvation sounded better, although Apaches might be worth it. Especially if she could somehow see Lennox’s face when he realized she truly did prefer becoming a squaw.

  She was still smiling at that image when she opened Mrs. Smith’s gate and fed Jake the bread she’d bought less than an hour ago. Just this one last bit of business to tidy up and then she could leave.

  A quick knock brought Lily Mae to the door, her forehead creased in surprise. “Why, Mrs. Ross, I didn’t ’spect to see you back here so soon!”

  “I didn’t anticipate it either,” Viola agreed, balancing the laundry basket on her hip. “May I speak to Mrs. Smith?”

  Lily Mae’s frown deepened, but mercifully she didn’t ask for an explanation. “If you’ll come this way, ma’am, I’ll see if she’s in. Just put that down over here.”