“And never a word about it! If that isn’t just like you, Reenie. I swear, sometimes I think you’re too good for this wicked old world.”
I hugged her; the questions could wait.
When we descended arm in arm an hour later, we found Bazz pacing back and forth in front of the staircase. Hearing our footsteps, he said, without looking up, “Well, it’s about time—”
His expostulation trailed off into astonished silence as he turned and beheld a pair of silver-haired young women. His eyes darted from one to the other. “Serena? Belle? Which is ... who is ... ?”
I laughed. “I surprised Belle out of her surprise for me, Bazz, but it looks as if you’re more than making up for it!”
Once I had identified ourselves for him, Basil’s eyes immediately sought Belle’s. “Surprised? Yes, I guess you could say I’m surprised,” he said flatly.
Belle fluttered her hands. “Well, Serena being so ladylike and all, I just never figured on her bustin’ in unannounced, so instead of leaving Morning Star as look-alikes, we decided to start now. Course with the hands gone to town there’s only old stone-faced Rita here to see us, and if she’s surprised, how’ll we ever tell?”
Belle turned to Bazz. “You should’ve seen her face when she saw me without the wig! Flummoxed, I’d call it—sorta the way you look now.” She cocked her head at me. “Come to think of it, Reenie, you never did say what brought you barreling into my room like that.” Her tone was offhand, but her blue eyes were alive with curiosity.
I looked from one face to another. “It’s not important right now,” I said, alerted by Basil’s frowning face. “Is something the matter, Bazz?”
“Rita’s gone,” he said.
Belle gaped at him. “Gone?”
“Cleared out. Skedaddled. Vamoosed,” he amplified testily. “Another little surprise for you this morning, Sybelle Garraty.”
Belle quickly recovered. “Not much of a one, Bazz. She was getting broodier and broodier, the way she always does this time of year. Did I tell you I caught her chanting in the dooryard yesterday?” Her lips tightened. “I put a stop to that in a hurry, I can tell you. Superstitious lot, those Injuns; I’m glad we’re rid of her.”
“I can’t help thinking your garden had something to do with Rita’s uneasiness,” I ventured. “Like Bazz said last week, I imagine Indians, who live closer to nature than people like us, might think the growth there ... unnatural.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Reenie! There’s nothing ‘unnatural’ about big, healthy plants. I already told you they’ve always grown faster and larger here than anyplace else. If you ask me, it’s just that my thumb is a heap sight greener than most, Injuns included.”
“Yours and my mama’s,” Bazz murmured.
“Your mama’s, too, of course,” Belle added compliantly, but judging from the proud look on her face it was plain my sister thought she deserved most of the credit.
I forced a smile, then dropped the subject. Everyone needed something to be prideful about, I chided myself; who was I to pass judgment on Belle’s horticultural accomplishments? Besides, hadn’t Cobby praised her herbal salve? Kind words came hard to that wizened little man, and I’d seen for myself how effective it had been when applied to Sharo’s cuts. If Belle was able to distill good from those dreadful plants of hers, her thumb was more than just green; it was downright miraculous.
“Well, with Rita gone, I guess we’ll just have to divide up the chores between us, won’t we? The horses have been turned out to pasture, so at least we don’t have to worry about feeding the stock,” I said briskly. “You have your herbal brews and salves to do. Belle, so I’ll tend to the chickens and kitchen garden and the cooking, and Bazz can finish the packing. I don’t imagine we can take much with us: I saw some half-filled boxes in the old nursery, so we’ll need only a few more and some canvas covers to keep our things dry.”
“If that isn’t just like you, Reenie,” Belle said. “Fussing about details when there’s gold to be found.”
Detecting a sneer in her tone, I could feel the color rise in my cheeks. “We can’t eat gold, Belle, and if we don’t find it, we’ll need your herbal concoctions as a source of income—or so you keep telling us.”
We glared at each other. “My word,” Bazz drawled, “I can see it’s going to become harder and harder to tell you two apart. Obviously neither of you gives a hoot about my opinion.”
Our silver heads whirled toward him, identical frowns on our faces, belligerent words at the ready, only to be disarmed by his amused grin.
Belle laughed and clapped her hands. “Grantin’ due respect to all you said, my dear sister,” she said with elaborate courtesy, “I say let’s make the most of having Morning Star all to ourselves: gold first; food, herbs and packing later! Bazz, you take Quinn’s quarters.”
Basil paled. “Oh, no! He’d kill me if he ever knew I’d been through his things—”
“For pity’s sake, Bazz, it’s the building needs lookin’ at, not Quinn’s things. Before he took it over for himself it was a storehouse, remember? All kinds of hidey-holes, I expect. ‘Sides, he’d never have taken those precious calves of his to be sold if he’d already found the gold, and if he had, can you see him leavin’ it lyin’ around, easy pickings?”
“No, I guess not,” he murmured, somewhat mollified.
“Course not!” She turned to me, all business. “I’ll keep on searchin’ the storm cellar; you do the bunkhouse. That’s the least likely place, actually, ‘cause there’s always so much goin’ on there, but that’s where the hollow doorsill I was told about is, and Ross coulda got at it at night when the hands were sleepin’.” She laughed. “They snore so loud I swear you could run a locomotive by without wakin’ ‘em! And if nothin’ turns up today, tomorrow we can do the barn. Shouldn’t take long, only the foundation is stone.”
Bazz left, as if anxious to get his unwelcome assignment behind him as quickly as possible. I turned, then hesitated. Belle obviously expected me to hasten obediently in his footsteps, but despite the titillation inherent in a hunt for hidden treasure, I simply couldn’t justify taking part in it myself. I used to look the other way when Sybelle pocketed a coin or a trinket found at the orphanage, able then to tolerate the sour note struck in my conscience by her triumphant chant of “finders, keepers,” but this was a whole new dimension of discordancy.
I drew myself up. “I’m sorry, Belle, but I can’t do it. If your benefactor did hide gold on Morning Star, then it rightfully belongs to Quinn. I can understand your loyal impulse to help a dear old friend get what you feel is his due, but for me to help ... well, no matter how shabbily Bazz may have been treated by his father, for me to help would be stealing, plain and simple.”
“Benefactor? Ross Cooper my benefactor?” Belle’s voice rose to a shriek. “I earned everything I ever got here the hardest kind of way! First I was nursemaid to that crazy wife of his, run ragged tending to her fool notions; later, no sooner had my first blood showed than he took me to bed, expecting me to be available whenever it pleased him, day or night.” Belle’s lips trembled. “Lottie was still alive then, Reenie, and sick as she was, she knew.” She laughed hoarsely. “Some kind of benefactor.”
I stared at her, aghast. “I... I can’t find words to express how sorry I am,” I said at last in a low voice. “He had no right to ill-treat you so—and I hope God saw fit to punish him for it.” I reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “But by law the gold belongs to Quinn,” I persisted doggedly, trying not to allow the shock I felt affect the right of the matter as I saw it.
Belle heard me out expressionlessly, but her blue eyes flamed with anger. Before she spoke she took a deep controlling breath. “Ross may have left Morning Star to Quinn; but there was nothing in his will about any gold. Seems to me, once it leaves the ranch it’s no longer part of it. Besides, Bazz says possession is nine-tenths of the law—why should we worry ourselves about Quinn’s measley tenth? If the shoe was on his foot, do you
think he’d waste any time worrying about us?”
“Probably not,” I admitted, “but that’s not the point—”
“Then, I’d sure like to know what in hell is!” Belle broke in heatedly. She threw up her hands to forestall an unwelcome explanation. “I really don’t understand you, Reenie,” she said with a sorrowful shake of her head, “but truth to tell, I never did. You never were much good at looking out for yourself; still aren’t, far as I can tell.” She eyed me speculatively. “Maybe it’s because life’s been easier for you than me.”
“Easier for me?” I stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Who was sent off to the orphanage first? Papa chose you to stay with him. Belle, not me.”
Belle gave a hoot of harsh laughter. “You mean all these years you thought he loved me best? Lord love us, Reenie, the only reason I got ‘chose’ is because you were too sickly to do the cookin’ and cleanin’, and too pale and skinny to keep him warm. Sometimes he even loaned me out to other men’s beds to earn him a night of drinking.” She fixed me with eyes as dark and dead as a prairie sinkhole. “I paid the price for your innocence, Reenie, and don’t you ever forget it.”
I turned away, feeling suddenly sick. My blind ignorance of such monstrous things reproached me.
My priggish qualms about the gold seemed ridiculous in comparison.
Belle stepped up behind me; her hands lightly clasped my shoulders. “I never wanted you to know, Reenie,” she whispered, “but maybe, knowing, you can understand why any feelings of Christian charity I might’ve had left from Mama’s teachings just plum dried up.”
I turned back and entered her embrace, my cheek against hers, her warm breath stirring the silver tendrils of my hair. Bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh. “Oh, Belle ... oh, my dear sister.”
I closed my eyes and drew her closer. How she had suffered! Betrayed first by our father, and then by the man supposed to be her protector. And Quinn was no better, I mused, thinking of his abusive treatment of Spotted Fawn. She, too, was hardly more than a child ... like father, like son.
Why on earth should I think I owed Quinn Cooper fealty? He hadn’t asked me here; he didn’t want me here; I owed him nothing! And Belle was right: it was unlikely ethical considerations ever gave him pause —why should I insist on mincing observances of my own moral niceties?
I stepped back, then reached out and softly laid my palm against my sister’s cheek. “We may not always see eye to eye, Belle, but we’re the only family we’ve got. I’ll see you through this as best I can.”
Chapter Twelve
The absence of the men from the bunkhouse should have made the searching of it an easy task, but I found its stillness profoundly disquieting. The disorder I found there—scattered clothing, unwashed metal cups, empty milk and bean tins—had the stale, fetid odor of abandonment. It was as if a deadly plague had overnight robbed the shabby building of its living inhabitants.
Dust whirled up by the corded edge of my skirt wavered in the air like a filmy curtain as I made a hasty survey of scarred, rough-planked walls studded with hooks and nails, tacked with yellowed poster pictures of scantily clothed women, and bearing the carved initials, some crude, others elaborately curlicued, of a generation of cowhands. Belle was right: a cache of gold could not long have remained here undiscovered.
Eyes watering, I retreated outdoors. Hot as it was, the outside air was at least scoured by wind and sun, and I took a deep, reviving breath of it before turning my attention to the foundation. The large, flat slabs extended no more than a foot above the ground. I could see no seams in the individual stones, and they were too large to move without mechanical help, which couldn’t have been managed without attracting attention. The only remaining possibility was the wide doorstep’s curious boxlike sill that Belle had mentioned. On close inspection, the top of it did indeed seem to have been fitted like a lid, but my fingers proved too tender to pry it off.
Sucking their bruised tips, I set off toward the barn. I had a memory of a tool Sharo used to clean out the horses’ hooves that would suit my purpose well. The corrals were empty, but in the distance I saw a group of horses grazing near a trough whose spillover had encouraged the growth of a wide, encircling swath of greenery. On the near edge of it stood Bingo, her tail swishing contentedly as she munched the tender shoots. I called her name. Her head came up, ears pricked, a succulent curl of grass trailing comically from her mouth. How I missed our prairie excursions! Surely this task could wait. I hesitated on the path. No, I told myself, you gave your promise. I walked resolutely on; Bingo resumed her grazing.
The barn was as still as the bunkhouse, but although the mingled aromas of hay, straw and dried horse manure might never rival the fabled perfumes of Araby, to me they smelled far sweeter. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the interior, I spied the wooden box in which the tool I was looking for should be, and so it was: cleaned, oiled and ready for use at a moment’s notice. No wonder Cobby gave Sharo such high marks. As I turned to leave, I heard mewing peeps issuing from one of the haylofts on either side of the high, wide door opening. Lower than the main loft, they allowed fodder to be easily reached and forked down by a single cowhand.
I mounted the short, stout ladder nailed to the loft’s front and peered over the edge. There, nestled in a hollowed pile of fragrant hay, were four kittens: two blacks, an orange-and-white and a smoke gray, their eyes the chalky blue of the very young. Their mother was nowhere to be seen—off on a hunting trip, no doubt—and three of the kittens, their pink mouths opening wide in hisses of alarm, retreated prudently from my unfamiliar and alarming odor.
The gray, propelled by curiosity, approached me one reeling step at a time. It flattened when I reached out to touch its fuzzy little head, but a gentle stroking coaxed forth a tiny tenor purr. It was a sign of trust unusual for a barn cat, more accustomed to short shrift than affection from humans. “Too young to know better, aren’t you?” I whispered.
I pulled myself up into the loft and settled back into a billow of hay. Once my motion had stilled, the kitten cautiously advanced to explore the edge of my skirt. I lifted it very gently onto my shirtwaisted bosom where, after a single startled mew, it soon curled, paws and tail neatly tucked up. “Hush-you bye, don’t you cry,” I softly crooned, “go to sleepy little baby ...” The warm ball of dozing gray fluff felt as weightless as eiderdown against my breasts, but I found the sense of its closeness ... its aliveness ... uncommonly gratifying.
I wondered if I might adopt it. No, I told myself a second time that morning. We would be leaving soon, and it was too small, barely a handful, to be exposed to the rigors of an uncertain journey with as yet no known end in sight. I could look out for myself, but this little creature still had some growing up to do. I sighed, and gently nudged it back to its litter mates. The other kittens forgot me in the excitement of greeting their returning sibling. I smiled as they tumbled over one another, forgetful in the joy of the moment of the danger I might pose, still needful of their mother’s watchful eye.
A sharp pang of longing pierced me. Would I ever have a baby of my own to watch over? Would I ever have a man of my own to caress me with a loving hand? I shivered, remembering Quinn’s touch. Hardly loving, yet it had made me feel so alive! Those black eyes; that careless, flashing smile. I recalled that muscular thrust of leg as he strode across the yard to dispute my championing of Sharo. A hard man, a man who gave no quarter to anyone who challenged his authority, a man who no doubt thought gentleness a weakness fit only for womenfolk. Like father like son. Why, then, did the thought of Quinn make my heartbeat quicken when Basil, a handsomer man, a better and finer man, did not?
Unthinkingly, I reached out and ran my fingers back against the lay of the gray kitten’s fur. It hissed and swiped me with a paw whose claws left a smarting reminder that its trustfulness should not have been taken for granted. And yet, I knew that if my circumstances were different I still would have chosen to adopt it. I had never much cared for the placid
, smug, domesticated cats I had known in childhood.
I idly continued watching the kittens: one of the blacks was a bully; the other one, bullied, vented its frustration on the orange-and-white; my venturesome gray, in blithe disregard of the litter’s pecking order, took and gave offense in equal measure. Peas of the same pod....
Before our reunion at Morning Star, it had never occurred to me that Belle and I were anything other than peas of the same pod. Oh, she had always been bolder, brasher than I; she hadn’t cared, as I so fiercely had, whether the other children liked her, but still, in the ways that really mattered, hadn’t we been more alike than not? More alike, certainly, than these kittens. Now, however, I sensed a dissembled intimacy in our conversations and a hint of obligation in her embraces.
I thought of what Belle had suffered. My foster parents may not have loved me, but they wouldn’t have tolerated my innocence being traded for anything less than a wedding band. The terror and pain of forced submission to the physical demands of a depraved father, followed by a guardian’s betrayal, was all but unimaginable to me.
My poor sister! Was it any wonder she was wary? Perhaps the twinship I saw as a bond, to be lovingly shared, seemed to Belle a cage whose reentry she now regretted, the more so having invited it herself. She was the venturesome gray of our litter; I had no right to order her priorities to suit my narrow notions of right and wrong, and when I tried, I had no one but myself to blame for her verbal scratches.
I sat up abruptly, scattering kittens in all directions. Good heavens! Here I am, lolling in a hayloft, when I should be attending to the priority I had, for better or worse, agreed to share with Belle.
As the kittens scampered back to their nest, their coats became touched with fleeting bright halos of illumination. I turned my head to find its source, and flinched from the searing brilliance of a narrow beam of light arrowing down through a knothole above, like the searching gaze of some huge pagan god. I descended to the barn floor, bemused by my extravagant metaphor. What did I know—or care—about the ways of pagan gods?
Darkness at Morning Star Page 16