“But a woman, not a girl.” Dolly winked. “Bella, you’ll be the belle of the ball!” They hugged.
“Now, hold still.” RuthAnne took final notes and affixed the hemline with pins once Bella stopped her twirling on the apple box.
Bella reluctantly returned the dress and slipped back into her green gingham walking dress. She pressed some coins into RuthAnne’s hand. “It isn’t much, I’m afraid. But it would never be enough. You’ve given me quite a gift today, Miss Newcomb. I’m powerful grateful.”
They watched her leave with a spring in her step. “Now, if that don’t beat all!” Dolly laughed, counting the money and tucking it into the top drawer of RuthAnne’s bureau along with the other coins and bills neatly collected from their clients’ purses. “I don’t know why you don’t just run to town and shop up a storm.”
“That’s not how you run a business, Dolly. You scrimp. Save. And put all of your earnings into your future. That is, if you’re going to do it right.”
RuthAnne flexed her hands and stretched, walking to the door and looking out toward the rise of the Rincon Mountains in the east. She saw no sign of dust clouds; heard no trumpeting of arriving soldiers. A warm breeze stirred up a dust devil across the compound, blowing dirt, dust, and stray papers up into the air in a whirl before it vanished out of sight.
“No sign?” Dolly’s hand was warm on her shoulder.
RuthAnne gave a weak smile. “I’m terribly obvious, aren’t I?”
“You’re a woman waiting for her man now. That takes some getting used to.”
They set back to their chores, and RuthAnne mulled that over. Was Bowen her man? Did the kiss they had shared truly bind them together as she imagined that it had? Did he feel the same? Her heart yearned, like it would pour out of her chest and into a puddle on the floor.
Dolly collected trimmings, threads, and pins off the threadbare rug and paused. “You know, Bella was our last customer. There’s nothing more to do this week. It’s only Thursday, but why don’t you head out? Go and check on your patient. Ross and Josie would be glad to see you. I’ll hold down the fort, so to speak.”
“Do you think I could make it by sundown?”
“Honey, it’s August. You could make it there and back again before the sun goes down. Go see Alex for a horse. He’ll be pleased to chat with you; anything that keeps a man from working in all of this heat is a welcome excuse. Especially if it’s a pretty girl.”
With a quick hug, RuthAnne headed for the stables. She found Alex McDole mucking out the stalls, his hair wet with sweat, shirt soaked through from exertion. He swore a blue streak under his breath, ranting something about the way things should be, would be, when he had his own ranch. RuthAnne worked her fingers in her riding gloves, waiting for him to notice her, and finally cleared her throat to let him know he had an audience. Alex looked up with a start.
He straightened to his full height, sweeping a long-fingered hand through his shock of blonde hair. The sun on his face had aged him, making him appear older than his twenty-something years. His clear blue eyes went wide, caught in the act of complaining, but softened as they settled on RuthAnne.
She stood primly, straightening her dark brown split skirt and adjusting the waist of her billowy white shirt.
“Why, Miss Newcomb. Ain’t you a picture. What brings you by on this blistering hot day?”
“I’m afraid I’ve come for a favor.” She smiled, she hoped winsomely. “Would it be possible for you spare a horse for a day or two?”
“You running away, Miss Newcomb?” Alex leaned his wooden pitchfork against the dirt-brown adobe wall and winked at her.
She noticed how blue his eyes were. How if he put on a pound or two, he would actually be a fine specimen of masculinity. As it was, he was so tall and lanky that he gave one the impression of a walking skeleton with a shock of blonde hair.
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Alex. I just...would like to pay a call to a friend.”
Alex cast a look over to the corral. “This one’s a mite more spirited than the last, I’m afraid. Are you up to it? The pickings are slim around here with everyone out.” They walked to inspect the white and brown paint mustang just finishing his dinner. The horse eyed Alex warily, giving a stomp of one hoof and a low whinny. “His name’s Broomtail. Not the prettiest of the lot, but he’s sturdy. Knows his way back home, if’n you lose yours.”
RuthAnne stood at Broomtail’s head, stroking his white muzzle and inspecting his mane, neck, and shoulders. She coughed at the dust that rose from his back when she gave him a good pat. The horse shook his withers at the base of his long neck with a hint of appreciation.
“He’ll do. I’ll help you get him ready.” She followed Alex into the tack room as he gathered saddle, blanket, and bridle.
She rounded up a currycomb, brush, and hoof pick. In tandem, they got the horse saddled up and set to ride.
Stepping into the stirrup Alex had adjusted for her, RuthAnne squeezed his hand. “Thank you. If anyone asks...”
“I ain’t seen you, but if’n I had, you probably were headed into town.” He winked, hand to the bridle, holding just tight enough to keep her from leaving. Their eyes met and held a long moment. An uncomfortable feeling washed over her at the unsettling look he leveled upon her. “Just between you and me, RuthAnne, what was it like?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean...” She set her boots solidly into the stirrups, wrapping her hands around the leather reins.
“Coming face to face with that big, bad Mexican. El Tejano. Was he as scary as folks say?”
RuthAnne’s mouth went dry at the mention of the bandit. Why was Alex pressing her for information?
He looked hopeful for a response, and made it clear he’d listen to whatever grim detail she’d give him, as he stepped closer. Could Alex be the bandit with the mask that wreaked terror upon all who had seen him and lived to tell the tale? That was ridiculous. Alex McDole was the wrong size; the wrong shape, entirely. Where Alex was lean and lanky, El Tejano had been well built, of average height and weight. Strong, overpowering while not looming. No. Alex was just a boy with a powerful imagination. He wasn’t the man who haunted her dreams. The man Bowen had made it quite clear he would bring to justice come hell or high water.
She adjusted her seat in the saddle. Her knees rested tight against the horse’s sides. She could feel the large animal breathing deeply beneath her. She heard the hollow clicking of the bridle as he worked it against his teeth. Broomtail was ready to go, and so was she. “Thanks again, Alex. I hope I’m not putting you out...”
“They said he took you to his hideout. Is that true?” Alex hazarded a glance her way, and she caught a glint in his eye. As if he knew something. Something more.
Her words seized in her throat, forcing her to swallow through it and smile to hide her concern. “Now, Alex. Don’t go getting romantic on me. There was a storm that night, don’t you remember?”
“How could I forget? You all came in like drowned rats.” He shook his head at the memory.
“And I’m a stranger here. I need a horse that knows its way home or I’d be wandering in the desert for an age! You told me so yourself.”
“Aw, RuthAnne, can’t you tell me something? I just love a good mystery. Don’t you?”
His eyes were full of adventure, and at once she realized his plan. Alex had a mind to go up into the mountains himself. He wanted to find El Tejano’s treasure without a thought to the risk.
“Truthfully, I’d rather not be part of this particular one. But I’ll tell you this, my friend. He was terrifying. And intimidating...and doing what he does, or chasing after him, is no way to earn a fortune, Alex. If you have faith, and are smart with your savings, you’ll get your ranch when it’s time—and a wife to share it with.” She squeezed his bony hand.
He nodded slowly, eyes sweeping the ground before meeting her gaze. His wistful look showed the stable master’s mind was filled with thoughts of adventure
beyond the stable gates. He gave the horse a smack on the rump, sending them on their way. She sent him a wave over her shoulder as she rode out of the compound.
Chapter 33
Clara Carington dried her long fingers on her apron towel. It was infernally hot with the desert sun streaming through the open window. She had forgotten how she hated this place. So far from town, surrounded by soldiers and women who were so far beneath her socially they weren’t even worth having over for tea. Chewing her lip, she thought of the dark brown, glass bottle in the drawer of her trunk. Just a thin line of laudanum remained at the bottom. Not enough to ease her mind. There was never enough. She’d have to venture into town if she wanted a physician to prescribe more. She had sent Amanda over to the post hospital in search, but the medicines were already ransacked and in need of replenishment. Laudanum, it seemed, was a rare commodity in these parts.
Sniffing, she remembered how easy it was to get what she wanted in San Francisco. Even San Diego. The cool ocean breezes were remedy enough, in her mind. She missed the warm wind; the dense fog that drifted in over the shoreline in the evening, shrouding the landscape in its feathery tendrils. The blaze of sunset as it dipped into the vast blue and beyond. It was something her husband had never appreciated. He only wanted recognition, as he had enjoyed during the War Between the States. Something she knew he’d never have again, especially now that his tastes had him frequenting brothels at The Wedge in town; places where wide-eyed young girls would coo and giggle in wonderment of his stories as they expounded on his virtues.
Girls like that RuthAnne Newcomb. Clara knew a no good, no-account female when she saw one, no matter what Amanda said. Silly girl with stars and bars in her eyes. She wanted herself an officer. Married or not. Clara’s glare narrowed as she looked out the window, seeing RuthAnne riding off on a painted horse and looking young and full of energy. She had been that way once. When her Edgar had fallen for her, once upon an age ago. The young Clara had been a dreamer, a hopeful spirit with dreams of conquering the west with her handsome warrior husband at her side. But he had simply dragged her to posts from the frigid north of Wyoming, to as far south as Houston. Heaven only knew where else Edgar had left her while off on his Indian campaigns for the army. More often than not, he’d left her to fend for herself, except when the need for her flesh suited him.
She had borne her son alone, with the help of a Mexican maid, during the howling winds of a hurricane. Edgar had been off somewhere, like always. Such a solitary existence, until her Marcus arrived; with him at her side, she finally had control of her own destiny.
As her eyes followed RuthAnne, she watched a figure step out of the shadow of a ramada. Marcus was also watching the girl ride away with far-from-veiled interest. His eyes were all but glued to the vanishing form of the young woman on horseback.
Clara’s heart quickened in her breast. That wasn’t possible. What would people say? Poor Clara Carington...husband and son, taken with the same woman while she drowns her sorrows in drugged tea. Swallowing hard against her thirst, she left the bottle in its drawer and headed to have a word with her son.
****
Marcus frowned as he turned to go back indoors. Where was RuthAnne going? Things were rapidly getting out of hand. He had plans for her that didn’t include her gallivanting off into the desert without him as an escort. It was time to take some action. Just as he reached for the satchel hanging from a peg on his office wall, he heard his mother’s scolding voice.
“You can’t tell me you have designs on that girl.”
He turned to his mother and couldn’t hide his disdain. She looked weary. Worn. Her face, once round and smooth, now streaked with lines from the sun. The crinkle of age had set in around her eyes and mouth, which these days seemed eternally set into a scowl.
“Mother! What in heaven’s name are you doing spying on me?”
“Looking out for your best interests, as always. That girl isn’t it. I know her kind.” Clara reached to brush dust off of his shoulder in a way that made him cringe.
He knew that in her mind’s eye he’d eternally be a seven-year-old boy with a cowlick of hair on his head and skinned up knees. “I don’t need your supervision or your blessings on what I find of interest. I’m quartermaster of Fort Lowell now. That means something.”
“Now, don’t pout. It means you have a father who’s the commander of this fort, and a mother who knows people in high places. It’s our connections that make us who we are, Marcus. That is all that means anything in this godforsaken place.”
“So, you don’t think I could have done this, achieved this of my own accord?” His temper simmered as he listened to her expound on her dealings. How she wheeled and manipulated him into a position where she could keep an eye on him.
“I thought you wanted me to become a newspaper magnate in San Francisco.”
“Well, you love the army. So, plans can change. You need me, Marcus. We need each other. I have high hopes for your career, for your future, and that girl isn’t part of it. She is a strumpet. A ghost with no past and no future, and not a suitable wife for a future general.”
Marcus’ mouth became a thin line. Yes, he knew all about his mother’s plans for him. He had known about them his whole life as she attempted to dominate him. Cow him into following the path she had so clearly defined for him. If she only knew what she had created...He exhaled, hanging his satchel back on its hook.
He would deal with RuthAnne on his own terms later. With a softening look toward his mother, he sighed and walked across to his desk, still covered with ledgers, papers, and messages that were yet to be opened. He opened a file drawer beside his desk, unearthing a brown glass bottle. Gaze flicking to his mother’s, he saw her wet her lips with the need of her addiction.
“Let me walk you home, Mother. You need some rest.”
“Yes. Rest. I am powerful tired. It’s so hot here. So hard to sleep. We really must get back to California.”
He nodded, closing the bottle in her waiting hand. She cradled the laudanum like a child as he turned her and directed her out the door and into the afternoon sun. Arm around her shoulders, he guided her back to her quarters.
Now was not the time. But soon enough, it would be. Very soon.
Chapter 34
Clouds covered the sun, casting a shadow across the landscape, for which RuthAnne was powerfully grateful. She followed the directions to the letter and now neared the MacEvoy ranch.
She could see the white house with the tin roof perched on top of a hill, like a beacon. Smiling, she remembered the stories she had heard of how Ross had built it for his waiting, would-be wife. How she had cajoled and teased him into adding rooms, buying her an enameled cook stove, putting the porch around the entire perimeter so they could see the view from every side. It was exactly as RuthAnne had heard it described: a dream home like none she’d seen out west, built by the hands of a man in love.
Josie stood at the pump, drawing water into a wood bucket. Her black hair had been swept up off of her neck but was falling down loose into her face, sticking with sweat. From the side, her round belly arced out. RuthAnne smiled, thinking Josie had the look of a little girl playing dress-up. As if she’d placed a small pillow under her dress.
RuthAnne slipped from the saddle, walking Broomtail the rest of the way up the hill and quickly tying him to a rail. “Josie! Let me help you with that!”
“RuthAnne! What in the blazes are you doing out this way?” Josie all but sighed with relief as she was unburdened of the sloshing bucket. She put her hands to her lower back and breathed deep. “Come to check on your patient?”
“How is he?” She saw the peace in Josie’s eyes. No sign of the worry that had plagued her days before.
“Ornery as ever. He’s on the mend, praise God. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep him here before he goes trotting off after Bowen again. They’re up to something out there in the mountains, but Ross won’t tell me what. I’m so mad at him t
oday I could spit.”
“Well, I don’t want to intrude...” RuthAnne was flushed with heat. She pushed her straw hat off her head, so it hung down her back, tied around her neck.
“Don’t be silly. We could use someone to talk to besides each other. Before long, this one will be running around and giving us a much needed distraction.” Her hands absently cradled her belly, stroking in wide circles. RuthAnne bit her lip against a pang of envy. What must it be like to know you were about to have a child? What did that do to a woman but give her peace and hope for the future?
“When are you and Bowen going to hitch up, anyhow?” Josie said.
RuthAnne looked up as if she’d had water poured over her head. “Oh, we’re not. I mean, I don’t...I’m not. We haven’t discussed it.”
Josie just laughed and hooked arms with her. “Not yet, maybe, my dear. But soon. I’ve got a sense for this thing. Wait and see. Let’s go find Ross.”
He sat in a wood rocker, scowling at his long-barreled rifle; he wiped it down with an oil cloth, inspecting the hollow tube before running a wad through it with a long stick. He clicked it back together with a snap, holding up the sights. The bandages removed, RuthAnne could see the red line of his injury had scabbed up and bruised. Where it still remained, his freshly washed blonde hair dried in curls over his shoulder. His mouth widened in a toothy smile as the women approached.
“Why, if it isn’t the light of my life and my own personal physician.” He struggled to rise, but both women shouted at him to stay seated. He shooed them away and stood in spite of them. “I’m not an invalid! I’ve got to move around if I’m to get back to work tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” RuthAnne gasped.
Josie just shook her head. “He thinks he’s going back into the mountains with that man of yours. They’re looking for ghosts. Thieves. Or some such things.” Ross began to protest, but she waggled a finger at him. “Don’t lie to me, mister. I know you inside and out. I haven’t cared for your broken head so you could patronize me.”
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