Lightfall Two: Fox, Flight, Fire (Lightfall, Book 2)

by Jordan Taylor

  She heard there were riser sightings in their absence, the city now bustling with families flowing in to seek shelter. Do they have a chance? Or too little, too late? At least she has not heard so much as rumors about more sightings of hordes like the one which fell on the ranch. Packs and stragglers can, perhaps, be kept at bay.

  Final rays from the top of the sun disappear. Ivy stands, snatches up Es Feroz, and hugs her with her left arm, kissing the top of her head—despite the vixen being disinclined toward squeezing in human arms.

  Starting back down the hill to the city, she half expects to be shot at, attacked by a riser, charged by a horse, even bitten by an anonymous dog. Not for any particular reason. Only because ... that seems to be her lifestyle these days. Being attacked and cursed. And useless.

  She looks back once to see Es Feroz stalking a rodent at the timberline and smiles. Not sentimental. Perhaps one can be friendly, even loving, without sentiment. Or perhaps that is a gift beyond human beings.

  She sees no one when she returns to the boarding house, creeping into bed, thinking of her parents and what makes home.

  She wakes late, finding herself unable to hurry through a scant breakfast and slip away before having to see anyone else. Instead, she waits in bed a long while, listening to heavy footsteps of several male guests coming and going, a great clatter and rumble of voices below, then quiet settling over the house.

  She washes up with the bedside basin, dresses in the yellow thing, laces up her boots with one hand and painstaking slowness, then, gingerly stretches her black and blue arm, she tiptoes downstairs. She can practice her new Spanish on Señorita and perhaps learn some nouns if the girl will point out objects like table and chairs and window. If she is going to live here until they are all eaten, she must make an effort with the language.

  Ivy pulls up short from these musings as she reaches the dining room doorway. Sam and Melchior sit at the table, side by side, facing a few empty plates and settings from guests who must have departed a moment ago. Melchior is saying something. Sam eats egg and tomato, avoiding the tamale on his plate. Melchior’s plate is already clear.

  Ivy is about to slip past when Señorita appears through the doorway on the back wall into the kitchen and catches sight of her. Gathering up dirty plates, she calls a greeting and good morning, then jabbers away with something else very fast before vanishing.

  Melchior and Sam look up. Sam jumps from their bench to pull out a chair for her. For a long moment, she does not move. One cannot have it both ways. One must be who one can be in given circumstances. How can she commit herself to Santa Fé if he behaves so Boston?

  He waits, watching her, his right hand resting lightly on the back of the chair, his left wrist bandaged. She is fairly sure he said something to her.

  She nods to acknowledge whatever it might have been, then thanks him as she sits. Her stomach writhes, yet she feels not at all hungry anymore.

  As Sam walks back to his spot, Melchior turns on the wood bench and holds up his left ankle. For a moment she thinks he is going to plunk the booted foot on the table—yes, that would be Santa Fé—but he only smirks at it.

  “See that? Repaired. Seven dollars. Still the best pair of boots around here.”

  “Oh,” Ivy says. “I’m ... glad for you.”

  “Xochitl took it in for me while we were away. Brought it back just now. Whopping extra seam, stitching down the rib, but feels like normal.”

  Ivy looks up. “The girl of all work? Is that her name?”

  “Hmm?” He regards his own boot, turning it in the sun.

  “How do you pronounce it?”

  He glances at her. “Xochitl? That’s the girl.”

  “Say it again.”

  He repeats the name a few times with exaggerated patience and Ivy murmurs it to herself.

  “How do you feel?” Sam asks. He looks anxious, as if concerned she feels as bad as she looks.

  Gazing again at the table, she suspects that is impossible without being dead.

  “How is Rosalía?” She looks at Sam. “Did Dr. Hintzen remove the bullet?”

  “Yes.” Sam pushes his plate, still with the tamale, at Melchior and reaches for his coffee mug. “As you said: through the trapezius, not striking any bones. She is on bed rest now and he says there is no sign of infection. He was delighted with the arrival of the freighters. In fact, he waived any fee and says he owes anyone in our party several more doctor’s calls.”

  “That’s decent of him. And your arm?”

  “Quite all right. He expects it to leave a scar, but that seems a meager price to pay.”

  Señorita—Xochitl—returns with a clay mug of hot water and a breakfast plate for Ivy. Ivy thanks the girl in Spanish, then gazes dazedly at her own plate.

  Melchior starts on the tamale. Where does he put it? He is thinner than Sam. He lifts a leather pouch off the bench and tosses it on the table beside Ivy. She jumps when it cracks down as if filled with lead.

  “Here,” Melchior says. “From Sender. Thought you’d want to give that to Oliver.”

  “Oh,” Ivy says again. “I thought Mr. Sender was not paying us. What about Grip and Rosalía?”

  “Already gave Grip a chunk.” He goes on eating, this plate also almost clean now.

  Sam watches him, smiling slightly, half-amused and half-incredulous. How dismal, Ivy thinks as she also glances at him inhaling his food, that of everyone she has met in New Mexico, her own cousin is the most devastatingly unacceptable to appear in polite society. She would rather dine with her horse at the table.

  With fork only, she awkwardly eats the white of the greasy egg on tomato left-handed. She cannot bring herself to tackle the sticky, dripping yolk.

  Melchior pushes both plates away, drains his mug, then Sam’s after Sam also pushes that toward him, and turns off the bench.

  “Must talk to that Thurman hard case. Heard last night from Shannon he was looking for us.”

  Ivy resists saying, “Oh,” once more and only goes on eating.

  Sam watches her as Melchior stands, stretching his ankle a moment before putting weight on it.

  “Ivy?”

  She does not look at him.

  Melchior walks to the door without a limp, but glances back for Sam. “Shinning?”

  “One moment.”

  Melchior thumps outside, spurs jingling as ever, pulling his hat down.

  “Go on,” Ivy says.

  “How is your arm? Should it not be starting to improve by now?”

  “It is improving.”

  He waits, still watching her. When she does not look at him, he finally stands, lifting his black hat off the bench. As he walks past, pulling the hat on, he lightly touches her shoulder before he is gone.

  Not a tolerable gesture in society. Not like pulling out chairs. Touching a lady. Perhaps Sam, like Rosalía, imagines one can have things both ways; change to suit what one wishes at the time.

  Yet she did not like the pulling out of the chair. She did not want him standing when she entered the room. And she wants his hand back on her shoulder. Wants his arms around her. They may try to walk that line, but she feels sure now she cannot. Society is gone in this place which must pretend to be her home—which she must pretend is her home. She must be someone else to be accommodated rather than expecting the place to become something else to accommodate her.

  She pushes back her chair and starts upstairs, only returning for the bag of gold after she is nearly to her room. With so much, perhaps she can find a way to send a letter or telegram to her father, even if she never will be able to send herself.

  Thirtieth

  Request for an Expert

  Ivy stands on the board sidewalk against Mr. Harris’s general store, watching as the harnessed team of four bays champs. Arm still sore, she is back to regular movement at least. The bruising has turned violet, green, and yellow rather than almost solid black. Far better off than Rosalía, who has not taken invalidism well. She is not supposed
to be using her right arm, which rests in a sling. Rosalía stands motionless, her rebozo draped about her, concealing her injuries. Winter Night stands between them, wringing her hands, shaking her head, pale cheeks flushed.

  Ivy has finally met the young woman who interested her. Now looking forward to spending some time together while the men are away, she casts a sideways glance at Winter.

  A joyous smile on meeting, two days before at her little adobe home on Agua Frio Street, facing the river. Wide-eyed as she asked Rosalía how she was—worried almost to tears by the idea of her friend being shot—then hugging Ivy, saying how sorry she felt that Ivy had to “rough it in this country,” leaving Ivy baffled. As if they were fast friends. She gave Ivy a beautiful wedge of warm peach pie—canned peaches of course—and a bit of buttery cream over the top with brown sugar melted into the crust, golden juice oozing between. Then Ivy was close to crying herself. She wanted to climb inside that clay bowl. Winter hugged her again, said she was too kind, blushing, unable to look Ivy in the eye for minutes after Ivy’s complements, fidgeting like a little girl praised to the moon over her first try cooking. Didn’t this woman bake for others each day? Had she never heard such things before?

  More hugs and cheek kisses preceded almost pleading requests that Ivy must call on her if she needed anything or any help: nothing was too small or too large, nothing too personal or too much to ask. She, Winter, was always here for her. Ivy had never heard such an emphatic, almost weepy, assertion of friendship from anyone in her life.

  By the time she and Rosalía left the little house, Ivy’s head spun.

  Rosalía glanced sadly at Ivy as they started toward Bridge Street. “She’s all emotion. A bundle of nerves, as the Anglo women say. We smile and nod. But Winter ... goes to pieces. Some folks are not kind about her. Say she’s loco, dropped on her head. But she’s a precious person. I don’t know if there’s something wrong in there or not. Maybe something wrong with the rest of us. She just ... feels so much. Many would say too much.”

  Now, on the sidewalk with Ivy, Winter twists her fingers together, tears starting to flow, gazing after the last trunk strapped to the refurbished stagecoach before them.

  Ivy, after glancing uneasily at her a couple of times, squeezes Winter’s shoulder. Winter has just wiped her eyes with a handkerchief when Ivy spots Sam, Melchior, and Grip walking up the street toward them, leading their horses. Too much for Winter. Final proof that Grip is once more leaving her for a dangerous mission after only a few days back. She covers her face with cotton as Ivy tries to pat her back with the aching right arm.

  “I know it’s the way things are.” Winter sobs softly. “I know. But I cannot bear it. How do you?”

  “Oh....” Ivy shifts in place. She looks at Rosalía, who only gives her a sad smile.

  It hardly seems right to tell Winter that she herself is looking forward to the men leaving. Even Sam, right now. And cannot imagine weeping over Grip: a good man to have about, at least twice saving her life, and she has certainly grown to respect him. But holding onto his shirttails?

  “It has to be done, right?” Ivy asks. “You must admit, Grip can take care of himself. I should try not to think about it, Winter. Think of how glad you will be to welcome him back.”

  Winter nods with another little choked sob. “You are so kind, Ivy. I know you are right. I know I’m being foolish. You’re such a good friend.”

  More nonplussed than ever, Ivy pats her shoulder, looking at damp streets. It clouded up and rained the day before. A downpour all evening. Now back to desert sun. Locals said there might be flooding on lower ground, but Ivy suspects if these mountains flood it will mean building an ark and has not worried.

  Before the rain, Ivy finally sent, she hopes, a telegraph through to Boston—though the operator charged twenty cents a word and would not guarantee a successful transmission.

  Sam leads the three up to a gentleman in red suit and gray shirt, supervising the final adjustments of the stagecoach. Sam introduces his companions, then himself, and shakes the man’s hand.

  “Meriwether Kiedrid. A pleasure, Mr. Samuelson.” The voice is velvety, the accent Southeastern. “So these are our guards. I trust you know what you’re about? Sheriff Thurman says your outfit have brought down parts of two notorious outlaw bands in the region and destroyed many a Plague-sick as well. All in the last month. That correct?”

  “It is, sir.” Sam tips his hat. “From La Manada de Lobos and ABC.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Kiedrid allows his steely gaze to wander about the little group and their horses, Chucklehead and El Cohete stamping and laying their ears at each other. “And where is the expert?”

  Ivy feels her back stiffen.

  “Pardon me?” Sam also appears tense.

  “The girl. Isn’t there a little girl—rides with you, knows everything there is known about the Plague?”

  “Ah....” Sam does not glance in her direction, not giving her away, though Ivy knows all three saw her here. Only Melchior’s eyes dart fleetingly to hers.

  All he must say is they know enough, say she is unavailable, busy, dead. She doesn’t care.

  “Yes, sir,” Sam says.

  Ivy closes her eyes.

  “Only,” Sam goes on, “she is not coming on this trip. This is purely a security situation—”

  “Against what? Against those devil people turned by Plague. I hired your outfit because you’ve got the expert. Am I right or wrong?”

  Sam swallows.

  Not available. She is not available. The man is paying so well, they all agreed to hire on after Thurman informed them about Mr. Kiedrid’s plans of a profitable trip to Silver City. And Ivy made it clear she was done. No more.

  “You are right, sir,” Sam says after a pause in which even the horses are silent, watching. “Of course you are.”

  “Then where is she? This girl is the reason for your hire, gentlemen. I can handle ‘outlaws’ myself.”

  “Could be slight delay,” Melchior says. “Got more business in Santa Fé, Mr. Kiedrid?”

  “I can spare a bit.” Kiedrid pulls a gold pocket watch from his gray waistcoat and squints at it against the glare of sunlight. “I should not like to take more than another half of the hour to be on the trail. The sun is well up already.”

  “Be with you directly, sir,” Melchior says.

  Ivy has already started walking. Disengaged as gently as possible from Winter, she blazes down the board sidewalk in front of Harris’s. She is across the street, around the corner, passing El Rio before Melchior catches her left arm.

  She spins to face him, stepping back, but he holds on.

  “Ivy, we’ll lose this if you don’t—”

  “Get your hand off me.” She shakes as she tries to pull free.

  “Don’t have to do anything. Just ride with us—”

  “I told you—”

  “Melchior.” Sam, coming after them.

  Ivy is so startled by the tone in his voice, she looks up, forgetting the hand. It is a second before she realizes she has never before heard Sam sound angry.

  Melchior releases her, stepping away, knocking into Chucklehead’s black face, as Sam walks up.

  Sam pushes Elsewhere’s reins into Melchior’s hands, going on past him. “I am sorry—”

  “Stop it,” she says, fresh anger flaring. “I’m sick of you apologizing for him. He can talk for himself.”

  She walks on, still fast, eyes fixed ahead. Sam walks with her, keeping a small space between them.

  “May I have a word?”

  “Clearly.”

  She waits but he says nothing as they walk.

  Finally, “Sit down with me at the boarding house?”

  A question, not an order.

  Ivy nods.

  They walk across a quarter of the city to the house. Sam opens the door for her, then arranges cushions into proper places on the out of order sofa before stepping back for her to sit. He pulls off his hat, sitting on the edge o
f a sagging upholstered chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees more like a cowpuncher than a gentleman. He has dark circles under his eyes and a few lines about his face not suited to a twenty-four-year-old.

  Ivy sits still, knees and ankles together, hands folded in her lap, back straight, as if in any Boston parlor.

  “What has happened?” he asks after a long moment.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I told you I would not be riding any more of these excursions. I cannot say why I ever thought I could. Grip was quite right about me in the first place.”

  “I do not believe that. And I hardly think you do either, Ivy.” He sounds irritated again. “What happened recently? We returned from Raton Pass and you have not been the same. You have hardly spoken to Mel or myself. You have scarcely left your room besides visiting Rosalía and Miss Night and looking for your fox. You did not even call on Oliver. I spoke with him yesterday when he came in the saloon with Isaiah. They say they have seen nothing of you and received nothing more. What has happened?”

  Ivy sits motionless, jaw tight so her chin will not quiver. “I should have thought that would be obvious.” Each word an effort as she keeps her voice under control. “You heard Mr. Thorp at the pass. I imagined the speed and versatility of a steamcoach could take me home. I was deluding myself. I cannot go by stage, by horse, by foot, by rail or river or maker’s device. I am here. For my life or until rails are reopened. Every time I set foot out of this city, I place others’ lives at risk. If a substantial steel shipment does come, it is needed for the fortification of Santa Fé. I, too, shall be a more useful person remaining here and offering assistance with defenses, should it be asked.”