Her hands were cool, quick-moving, no longer lingering over his exposed flesh. She was letting him decide, she was stepping away even as she sat beside him on the sagging bed and ministered to his physical need.
Burn let his eyelids draw back enough to filter what he needed to see. Her skin was pearl white, her body tight against her dress, so close to him he could taste her pulse. He had no business dreaming, wishing for the weight of her hand on his wounded skin. He enjoyed his pain for it brought her close to him. Indecent, using suffering as a reason for love. There could be no illusions. She would give herself from pity, and hate herself for the act, hate him for accepting it. He closed his eyes and held still.
Davey couldn’t settle down. He ached and his gut was empty. He could see those hands rest on the mustanger’s hide. Her kissing him. He went to the stable and made up a poultice, wrapped it on the grullo’s hoof with an old gunny sack, anything to keep him from thinking about Miss Katherine in there with the mesteñero. But he couldn’t stand it; he couldn’t let him touch her.
He stormed back to the kitchen, making lots of noise at the door, sending a chair against the wall. The gesture didn’t matter. English was at the small corner table, wearing another one of those flapping shirts. Miss Katherine stood near him, her hands on his back, up near his neck. Hands that rested gently, too kindly, hurting Davey even more.
He forced himself to go to the cook stove to pour out cold coffee, refusing to look when Miss Katherine did not step away from English’s chair. He heard a deep groan that echoed inside him. Davey drained the cup clean of the stale coffee and stared at his opponent over the rim, unable to look at Katherine. He attacked, with words for once, never having done that before. “No man worth his salt’ll take a good woman’s reputation so light, mesteñero! ”
White with effort, English rose from the table. Katherine’s hands went to her face. English placed both hands on the wood table. The raised, damaged knuckles shimmered against the mesquite grain.
“You got a bad mind, Hildahl. To think this woman’d do anything wrong.” Then he pushed away from the table’s support. Miss Katherine stepped back in anticipation. English’s voice was harsh. “I can’t fight you, Hildahl. Not now. But I can hold you to a settlement, come a month or so. You’re mean wrong.”
Katherine Donald started forward, hands raised as if to soothe over the conflict, but English shrugged to stop her and Davey witnessed what the simple gesture took from him, saw a long spasm cross the bony face and settle deeply in the mouth’s drawn corners. It took a strong will, but English managed to reach the hall doorway
English’s voice was soft, pleading. “Ma’am, it’s not what you been doing out of pure kindness. It’s his thinking.” English steadied himself against the door frame a moment before he disappeared into the dark house.
Davey was left to face Miss Katherine’s anger.
In the morning, when the crew came for breakfast, Red announced that the boss’s favorite traveling horse was gone from the pens and asked whether Meiklejon had gone out this early. Miss Katherine put down the wooden spoon she was holding and said very quietly that Burn English was also gone.
Souter took a drink of coffee. Davey’s face was red.
Katherine looked clearly at him while talking to Souter. “He left a note. Said he took the grullo as it was easy riding, and that he would leave the animal at Quitano’s as soon as he could. Said he’d been here long enough.”
Jack Holden
Chapter Sixteen
He slowed the quick-stepping dark bay and held himself quietly, listening, cocking his head to question a sound, drawing in quick gasps of air to check what else he could learn. He’d ridden the cañon often before. Its walls were high and narrow so that even in the hot summer heat the sun barely greened the few trees and scrub bushes. It was not a safe place for any man to be caught, even more dangerous for a man with a warrant on his head.
Jack Holden released his hold on the dark bay. The horse bolted, spooked by the walls that hung in on either side. Laughing, head thrown back, body rocking with the frantic horse’s stride, Jack let the handsome bronco run.
The cañon widened abruptly, spread out to a small valley covered with sparse grasses and low juniper. Finally in agreement, horse and rider stood, motionless, both sweating, winded, skin and hide black with soaked dust. It had felt good to run, good to risk everything on a turned rock, an unseen coyote den.
Jack guided the bay to a pool of water glistening in the afternoon sun, its surface rippled by invisible life. He let the bay drink sparingly, then got down and hobbled the animal, slipped its bit,and turned it loose for some graze. He shucked off his clothes, hung them on a bush, and shivered as he put one foot into the water. Holden was tall, lean, battered, yet well-formed and handsome. His dark curly hair touched the back of his neck; he felt its weight and knew he was in need of a shearing. Ranchers didn’t treat a man with long hair well—could be hiding the sign of a notched ear, the badge of a known horse thief.
Jack laughed as he stepped deeper into the pool and felt his groin and belly shrink back from the cold. Caught out now by an irate rancher, he would be mocked and ridiculed, and hung naked for a horse thief, cattle rustler, lover. All titles belonging to his sins, any of which would lead to his inevitable early death.
He wanted only to breathe the clean hot air and feel the pool’s cold water cleanse him. It didn’t matter that the bay gelding, now grazing peacefully, wore the familiar brand of Son Liddell. The old bastard hated everyone. Jack knew he’d never hang for stealing that particular man’s horses. Most likely it would be an irate husband quick to fire as Jack climbed out of a bedroom window.
He’d changed his habits lately, out of laziness. It was easier to take cattle locally than to make an effort of riding west, or north, to find contributions to his way of life. He didn’t take many; these locals couldn’t complain of his excessive thieving. He needed only enough cattle to buy necessities. Women didn’t cost much in actual coin. They wanted him, not money.
He rolled over in the water, let his long body float in the shallow pool. He looked down his chest and belly, hollowed out by being too long on the fugitive trail, and saw his genitals floating on the water’s surface. Beyond them were the two white columns of his thighs, the bony protrusions of his knees, and his feet sticking up in the air, white and pale, toes shaped by the narrow boots he wore.
Men weren’t much to look at naked, Jack decided again. Now a woman had her curves and softness, a pleasurable sweep to her buttocks, a loving roundness to unburdened breasts. But a man was angles and planes, thickened muscle too easily led by the passions of weak flesh.
He laughed while forgetting he lay on a fragile surface, and immediately half sank, took in water, and, choking, rolled over, struck out with his hands, kicked with his feet and legs, and scraped his hip on a submerged rock. Once he extricated himself from the churned water, he lay gratefully on the rocky ground, still laughing and choking from the immersion, spitting out sand and mud. After he stood and gathered his clothing, he saw the bay was far down the valley, hopping valiantly on tied legs, desperate to get away from the monster that had emerged from the once safe watering hole.
Jack dressed quickly, caught the bay that seemed grateful to come to Jack once it recognized its master. Jack unhobbled the animal, led it back to the pool. Then he kneeled down, leaned out, and studied his reflection in the moving shadows. The face was long, with flat cheek bones and a straight nose. The eyes were a bright blue, blue enough to shine in the water’s mirror. The curly dark hair fanned out in back of the flat ears. The mouth was too wide, the lips full, the teethwhite and strong. A handsome face, Jack was often told.
He grinned at his wavering reflection and stood up. The bay side-stepped quickly, shook its head, then its whole body, dust spinning in a fleeting cloud. Saddle strings popped, stirrups banged, and the bay jumped from the noise, broke wind, and jumped again. Jack laughed, and mounted. He sure wasn’t much
of a horse thief if this bay was the best he could steal.
He was to meet a man to discuss the sale of someone’s twenty head of longhorn cattle. Jack’s hand rode close to his pistol, but he didn’t touch the weapon, nor did he pay much attention to any side noises—leaves rustling, birds suddenly flying up from nesting trees. His mind catalogued these sounds and knew their meaning. The bay walked quickly, carrying Jack’s weight easily.
Motion in a stand of piñon spooked the bay. Jack patted the horse’s neck and let the animal whinny. If it was his man, he’d soon know. If another, they would fight or pass pleasantries. He pushed back his hat, wiped his damp forehead, and remembered with great clarity the taste and feel of the cool water, the force of its current over his flesh, and he smiled to himself.
Jack spoke toward the piñon. “It is funny for you, señor? To startle a man seeking shelter from the miserable sun?” Jack settled the hat, shifted in the saddle. No telling what the bay gelding would do next, and Jack had an aversion to being thrown on rocky ground studded with cactus. “Come here, señor …to where we may speak and see each other’s faces.” Jack’s Spanish was passable, but he still heard a chuckle from the brush as he spoke.
“That, señor, is a most reasonable idea.” The voice spoke English in a deep, unruffled voice.
A horse split the bush, a light roan with a long Roman head, and a quick, pacing gait. Jack shook his head as the man rode in, and his gesture was understood, accepted.
His new partner had a brand of humor. “Ah, señor, I have heard of your fondness for t hese fine animals. That one, he is a beauty, but look, he is trembling and afraid. Is that the mount for a professional thief?”
Jack responded in kind. “Well, señor, I see you choose your mounts by their ugliness. Does this make you a better thief? The one you ride…it must be of the very finest, for I have rarely seen an uglier bronc’.”
The dark-skinned man frowned, then leaned back and patted the roan on its rump. The horse twitched its tail, as if spanking a nuisance fly, then returned to its interrupted nap. “Yes, señor, it is an ugly animal, but it does not waste time and effort on jumping from that which will not hurt it.”
The man’s English was definitely superior to Jack’s Spanish, so they agreed, with a shrug, to continue in that unmusical tongue.
The two rode a half mile off the trail, into one of the many narrow cañons that crossed through the mountains. As they rode, Jack was conscious of towering over the man and his pacing roan, and often had to check his bay’s nervous trot. But when they found the most suitable place and dismounted to discuss their future together, Jack saw that it was the horse’s size that was deceptive, for the man was almost as tall as Jack, and much wider in the belly and shoulders, much stronger through the span of his hands.
The Mex spoke: “You are Jack Holden. I am Refugio.”
Jack could hear the doubt in those few words, and nodded casually as he extended his hand and the Mex responded. Refugio looked to be in his thirties, with the usual dark hair and eyes of his breed. A scar across his face—from his right eye to the corner of his mouth—marked the journey he had taken to manhood. Jack watched Refugio’s eyes, saw their black reflection as they traveled up and down Jack’s own frame, taking a similar inventory. When the man’s face opened in a dazzling grin, Jack found he could not keep himself from the same gesture. Never mind their opposing colors, they were matched where it counted.
Refugio began: “It was whispered to me in Springerville that you know to speak with those who would buy cattle branded, but with no bill of sale. I have a small herd, gathered slowly through this long winter. Many cows, several steers, even two bulls that I know will bring much money. But I cannot trail them, or sell them to the gringos who have the money. This is why I come to y ou.”
It was hard reading Refugio’s face. The dark eyes smiled, but no pleasure framed the mouth, the head was half turned. He did not know his man, so Jack squatted, leaned his back against a convenient rock, and stared out at nothing, leaving room for Refugio to do his own thinking. The man watched the sky a bit, then looked down at his own hands, spread them wide and low, squatted next to Jack. In no hurry, confident, the Mex waited a few moments, then brought his hands together, rubbed them dry.
“I know, señor, that I am but a man not always right, wanting only to do his work and get by. More than that, to be a judge of who lives or dies…I do not wish such things for myself.”
Jack spoke. “Have you changed any of the brands?”
“No, señor, I was waiting.”
Jack shrugged. “Well, let’s get it done.”
They rose together. Refugio nodded. He laughed a few moments later when Jack got on the bay and the horse jumped sideways, scraped the side of Jack’s boot before he could settle in the saddle.
“You ride a better horse for work, yes?”
Jack nodded. “Whenever I can.”
It was a lie, but Refugio laughed. “Then I have taken the right partner, señor.”
They parted company at a narrow fork. There was no dust, no sign of the man’s visit. Jack sighed and slapped the bay, felt the explosion of air from the horse’s gut. “Amigo, we are both great fools.” Then it came to him. He’d angle over to Gutierrezville and pick up whatever mail might have accumulated for him over the past month or so.
There was one letter for him at the Gutierrezville post office, written in a hand he did not immediately recognize. It was obviously that of a lady, which he knew through long familiarity with such letters. The envelope was frayed and stained, and held no scent, although it could have started its long journey sprinkled with lilac or rose water.
Dear Jack, the letter began, and he smiled as he read the most ordinary greeting, still not knowing the scribe’s identity. We have not seen each other in many years, but I am asking this favor of you as the only member of our family in which I may place my trust. These words stopped him cold, froze the smile on his face, and seethed in his heart. He had no family. He had ridden away from them more than thirteen years ago, when he was only fourteen.
My son, John, named after you and our father, is proving himself to be a young man in need of guidance. Through inquiries I have determined that you often reside in the southwest New Mexico Territory, which is well known even here for its wildness and the severity and hardship of its life.
Jack reinspected the letter wrapping, which bore any number of faint markings across its front. It had been a long trip from Kansas, detouring in Chihuahua and San Antonio before finding Silver City and then Gutierrezville. He pondered briefly on the whys of such misdirection, as the printed address boldly stated Jack Holden, New Mexico Territory.
John is much like you, dear Brother, in wanting to see the world and in caring little about the feelings of those who love him. Jack paused here to retaste the hurt and anger that had driven him from the home he had once shared with a sister, a tired mother, and a hated father. His “feelings” had been bruised by his final departure; he had left carrying the distinct and bleeding marks of his father’s rage and anger across his young back. There had been no one to ask about young Jack Holden’s “feelings”. The pity inside him, quick to find a raw opening, swelled up and out, and Jack felt the rising pain, fought to crush and stamp it down, where it must lie dormant and banked, let out only upon rare occasion.
I would ask you to take the boy, start him with the knowledge you have won through these separated years. He is not a bad child, not in the way his grandfather speaks of him. But he is wild and ready, and will not stand for such treatment as is often meted out. Jack fought a heavy breath that choked in his throat and wanted to strangle him. I know you too fought this same battle. Therefore, I am sending John Thackery to you, with a few dollars to be used to purchase the clothing and gear necessary for his new life. He has signed on with a herd of cattle being driven to Springerville in Arizona, which I hope is close enough to where this letter finds you. I do not wish him to be a burden for you, dear Broth
er, but I am no longer capable of standing between my son and my father.
I wish you all my love, and hope that your life is what you had sought it to be so many years ago. Thank you before you even know what is to be asked of you. Thank you for taking in your kin to shape his young life.
It was signed yours truly, and with her name. The same last name that Jack no longer used.
Chapter Seventeen
The unexpected request forced a shiver through Jack. She did not expect her child’s return. The boy was on his way, and Jack must take what arrived and not disavow the obligation that a barely remembered woman placed on him. Nephew—the word he needed to accept. Blood relation—a boy from a sister’s passion. No mention of a father, no married name. By his calculations she would have been carrying the child when he left. That galled him, to have left her to face their parents’ violence.
Springerville wasn’t much of a town. The hurry-up of its founding showed in the shacks nailed together with gaping holes below the roof, signs posted advertising lumber, general mercantile, bank, even lawyers. But there was no doubt on Springerville’s heart. It wanted money and it offered goods and services in alarming variety to insure that little cash made its way through town without changing hands at least once. It was Jack’s kind of town. He had made money here as well as spent it. Cattle a man didn’t have to raise and fret over sold real quickly at a bargain price, and that same money bought what passed for pretty women and all the good friends found in a whiskey bottle. There wasn’t much more Jack Holden wanted.
The child who came flying out of the office near the shipping pens was not part of Jack’s expectations. The boy had Jack’s sister’s bright red hair that came from some long-departed ancestor. The boy stopped at the office door, a knife appearing in the boy’s hand that he used to clean his nails. A pretty child, Jack thought. When the boy finally moved, perhaps because of noises from the office interior, Jack saw it in the boy’s direct stare and knew he was trouble. Pale gold eyes flecked with darker color and set deeply in the skull, and shaded by thin lashes so pale they held no color. Jack’s father all over again.
The English Horses Page 14