Chasing the Sun

by Kaki Warner

  “What the hell are you talking about? What account my brother set up?”

  A fine sheen of sweat glistened in the fuzz on Lockley’s top lip. “The, ah, one from the mine profits.” He gave a sickly smile. “He didn’t mention it to you?”

  “No. He didn’t.” Confusion gave way to disgust. Did Brady think he was some good-for-nothing spendthrift who had to be put on an allowance?

  Something in Jack’s expression caused color to fade from Lockley’s face again. “Your brother, Brady, set up accounts for each of you as soon as the mines starting producing. His and Hank’s accounts have been seriously depleted by capital expenditures like equipment purchases, the cost of the spur line, a locomotive, and such like. But yours has remained untouched. In fact, it’s grown quite rapidly over the last couple of years.”

  Jack was so stunned he just sat there, his mind spinning, his anger building with every heartbeat. “How much is in it?”

  The banker didn’t know exactly, but offered to go check.

  “Take a guess,” Jack said through stiff lips.

  Lockley did, and Jack felt as if the floor had bucked beneath his feet. It was a substantial amount. At least as much as the horses would bring in. More than they owed Blake. More than enough to cover any debt they’d ever had.

  So why hadn’t Brady used it to pay off the smelter? And why hadn’t he told Jack about it? Did he think Jack wouldn’t want to help?

  Then realization came, and a sick feeling moved through Jack’s gut. Was Brady really so pig-headed he would rather put the ranch at risk than turn to his little brother for help?

  Goddamn him.

  Jack didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he saw Lockley’s startled expression. It took him a moment to bring his temper under control, then in a voice he barely recognized as his own, he said, “Exactly how much do we owe Blake?”

  “Well, em, actually Blake was acting as agent for another gentleman. A Mr. Stanley Ashford.”

  “So how much do we owe Ashford?”

  “Well, em, that’s the thing.” With a wrinkled kerchief, Lockley mopped his top lip then his damp brow. “Apparently, Ashford stole the money from the railroad account to buy the paper from us. So in effect, you owe the EP&P—the El Paso & Pacific Railroad, that is.”

  “How much?” Jack asked for the third time.

  “W-With interest? I-ah-have to check.”

  “Do it.” Jack realized he was gripping the armrest so tight, his fingers had gone numb. Forcing them to relax, he said as calmly as he could, “Take whatever we owe out of my mine account, and move the rest into the ranch account.”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it. Then close the account my brother set up for me and never open it again. Understand?”

  “Y-Yes, sir.”

  “Then draw up papers marked ‘Paid in Full.’”

  When Lockley just sat there, blinking and sweating, Jack leaned forward and said softly, “Now.”

  The banker shot to his feet. “Y-Yes, sir.” A second later, he was out the door.

  Jack waited, drawing in deep breaths to calm the cyclone of fury and disbelief and disappointment whirling through his mind.

  He was done. This was the final insult. He wouldn’t subject himself to his brother’s highhanded arrogance any longer. Now that he knew with certainty that Brady held him in such low esteem that he’d rather lose the ranch than accept—or even ask—for his help, Jack saw no reason to stay.

  But Jesus, it hurt to realize his brother held him in such contempt.

  He had reached a level of icy calm by the time Lockley returned with the papers and a packet of cash to repay the loan. Jack counted it, made sure the papers were in order, then, moving stiffly, rose from the chair and went back into the lobby, where Billingsly and Langley waited.

  “Change of plans,” he said tersely. “Major, you can have the colts that are ready this year, and first option on those that will be ready next year. But we’re not selling the brood mares or studs, or anything younger than three years.”

  Langley’s mouth fell open.

  When Billingsly started to argue, Jack held up a hand. “Forget my counter. I’ll take your first offer on the colts and discount it ten percent because they’re still green. But it’s not negotiable. Think about it, and if the offer is agreeable to you, have Lockley draw up the bills of sale.”

  He turned to the old cowhand. “Langley, if the major takes the deal, hold the three-year-olds until his men come for them, but send the mares and studs and foals back home as soon as possible.”

  Then without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and walked out of the bank.

  Twenty-five

  “THINK IT’LL WORK?” BRADY ASKED, WATCHING OVER THE side rails as Hank slid the sail-wrapped mast into the back of the wagon.

  “Probably.”

  “Seems small.”

  “It only has to move eight hundred pounds.”

  “Still.”

  Mumbling to himself, Hank tossed in the box of tools and extra parts with more vigor than necessary.

  Brady could see he was still mad. They’d had words earlier, but Brady was convinced it was their brotherly duty to help Jack any way they could. “Maybe you should test it. You know, just to be sure.”

  Hank threw in the ax and his saddlebags, then turned to glare at him. “Have at it then.”

  “It’s your invention.” Seeing the set of Hank’s jaw, he quickly added, “What’s the ax for?”

  “You, if you don’t get away from me.” Backing that up with a surly look, Hank resumed loading items into the wagon bed—a water cask, a basket of food, extra slickers and jackets, his repeater, a pouch of toys, a fluffy blanket with bunnies sewn on it, Daisy’s valise. “Or in case they need to stop quick,” he added as a mumbled afterthought.

  Alarmed, Brady reared back from the rails. “I thought the handcar had a brake.”

  “It does. Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  Hank lifted his head and looked at him.

  Brady recognized the warning and changed the subject. “Our wives are planning something.”

  Hank went back to loading.

  “Jessica asked when Jack would be back from Val Rosa, then she asked how soon he would leave here for Redemption. When I told her, she kissed me, put on a big smile, and asked where my good boots were. Sounds suspicious, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re an idiot. That’s what I think.”

  “Then I saw her whispering to your wife,” Brady went on. “Furtive like. And when they saw me seeing them, they shut up. Something’s not right.”

  “Probably you.”

  “Still.”

  A commotion drew Brady’s attention, and he turned to see his wife step out of the house. Behind her came Daisy, leading Kate by the hand, followed by Molly. They clustered on the porch, talking and hugging and looking overwrought. Daisy looked especially weepy, but after careful study, Brady could see Molly was almost smiling. Furtively.

  Women. They loved their secrets.

  As the ladies started down the steps, the door banged open again and kids stampeded across the porch, trailed by the overworked Ortegas, each with a wiggling twin on her hip. Charlie held back a little, being too mature now for emotional displays, and Abigail just tagged along for the hell of it. But Ben and Penny seemed genuinely concerned that their cousin was leaving.

  “Kate!” Penny shouted, waving a rag doll she must have made herself, judging by the off-kilter eyes and mismatched arms. “You forgot Prissy!”

  While the children gathered around Kate at the foot of the steps, all talking at once and giving pats and shoving toys in her face, Brady watched Jessica and Molly pretend to be sad about Daisy’s departure.

  It was a poor performance. In truth, he suspected they were both happy as larks with his brilliant plan to force Jack and Daisy together in Redemption. He hadn’t wanted to admit his scheme to Jessica, but she’d wormed it out of him, a
nd seemed to think it was a fine idea. Hank was the only one who seemed disturbed by it—insisting Brady was meddling—but then if Hank had his way, there wouldn’t ever be a need for secrets or any kind of interaction, since they would never speak at all.

  Folding his arms along the top wagon rail, Brady studied the women who had brought such change to their lives. Beautiful, intelligent women, with fire in their eyes and courage in their hearts.

  “Look at Daisy.” He kept his voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the ladies. “She’s suffering. You know what that means.”

  Hank dug through the parts box.

  “It means she cares about him. Which means we’re doing the right thing.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s none of our business.”

  Brady frowned, a bit put out by Hank’s ability to remain aloof in the face of such exciting doings. “Don’t you have any brotherly concern? You know she’s right for Jack.”

  “You’re starting to sound like an old lady matchmaker. And if it’s so right, then why all the secrets and lies?”

  “So you think we should just let her leave. Make no effort to keep them from making a mistake that could ruin their lives.” Brady threw up a hand in aggravation. “Hell, you’d probably prefer it if we all rode off in different directions and never saw each other again.”

  Hank looked up and smiled.

  Aggravated that his brother’s righteous attitude was starting to make him feel guilty, Brady allowed meanness to take ahold of him. Striking back with the only weapon he could find, he said, “Besides, you ought to be glad we’re sending them off. Jack said when he was too drugged to fight her off, Molly had her hands all over him.”

  Hank picked up a rusty bolt, studied it, then dropped it back into the box. “She’s a nurse.”

  “So she is. And a fine one, at that. I guess when you were hurt after the derailment, she had her hands all over you too.” Looking over his folded arms, he smirked at his brother. “Nothing like a woman’s soft touch to soothe a man’s troubles, don’t you think?”

  Finally Hank looked up, and the look in his eyes almost made Brady back up a step. “I think you better shut the hell up.”

  Brady sighed, no longer enjoying himself. Much as he wanted to vent his concern over Jack and his frustration over losing the horses, he knew picking a fight with Hank would bring more pain than release. “You want me to drive Daisy and Kate to Redemption?” he offered in an effort to smooth things over.

  Hank snorted. “And have you hook up the sail and make sure everything is running right?”

  “I guess not.” With another sigh, Brady dropped his chin onto his folded arms. He stared into distant clouds as wispy as horses’ tails rising above the mountaintops where the last patches of snow glistened in the late morning sun. Already the balsam blossoms on the hillsides had faded and white-faced daisies were pushing up through the rich, moist earth beneath the aspens. Summer was coming. Same as it did every year. But even though it all seemed business as usual, Brady sensed change lingering just past the horizon and that made him uneasy.

  “We should start gathering the cattle soon,” he said.

  Hank walked to the front of the wagon to check the harness.

  Brady turned to watch him, one arm resting on the top rail. “Looks to be a good crop of calves.” At least with roundup they’d be so busy he wouldn’t have time to fret over the horses. Then the dry season would be on them, and they’d have to patrol the water holes and keep an eye out for wildfires and scarlet locoweed and blackleg and tick fever. Then fall would come and it would be time to bring the cattle down from the mountains and send the culls to market and gather the fattest steers for the reservation bid. And by the time that was done, the first snow would cover the sun-browned hills with a blanket of white and everything would settle in for the winter and the cycle would start all over again.

  Except Elena would be gone to her lepers.

  And Jack and Daisy would be off God-knows-where.

  And no leggy foals would be crowding the paddocks.

  Feeling suddenly as if things were slipping from his grasp, Brady glanced at his brother, regretting some of the things he’d said earlier. He didn’t want to lose Hank too. Besides, Hank couldn’t help being a stiff-necked sonofabitch. He was the family conscience, after all. “Jack didn’t say he actually enjoyed having her put her hands on him,” he admitted by way of apology. “He just said it was disconcerting, her being your wife, and all.”

  “Leave it, Brady.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  DAISY JUST WANTED TO GET ON WITH IT.

  Having made her decision to leave, she was ready to go. Parting from this family was difficult enough without adding to the pain with prolonged good-byes. Besides, with every moment’s delay, the urge to forget about Rome and stay at RosaRoja grew stronger.

  “You’ll let us know when you reach New Orleans,” Jessica said, clutching Daisy’s hand in both of hers.

  “I will.”

  “You have enough money?” ever-practical Molly asked.

  Daisy nodded. “Jack was most generous.” Just saying his name aloud sent tears clogging her throat.

  “Be sure not to wave it about,” Jessica warned. “Put it in a safe place. I always used my corset. Back when I wore one.” Her grip on Daisy’s hand tightened. “Oh, just look at me. I’m getting maudlin and I promised myself I wouldn’t in front of the children.” She smiled, looking anything but maudlin.

  “Well, Daisy,” Brady said, coming up behind her. “Ready to go?”

  No. I’ll never be ready.

  Instead, she forced her trembling lips into a smile and nodded. “All ready.” Taking Kate’s hand, she walked with Brady across the yard. But when they reached the wagon, she paused and put a staying hand on his arm. “Brady, I appreciate all you’ve done. For helping me. For ...” Her voice faltered.

  He waved her thanks away, an uncomfortable expression on his rugged face. He might even have been blushing. “You and Kate are welcome anytime,” he said gruffly. “With or without Jack.”

  Without Jack. Alone. Lonely.

  Such was the dismal future that loomed ahead.

  How will I bear it?

  Before her courage failed her, she pulled the letter she had agonized over from her pocket. “Give this to Jack,” she said, handing it to Brady. “It explains everything. I hope he’ll understand and forgive me.”

  “He will. I’ll make him.” Brady slipped it into his pocket, then in what seemed an afterthought, he bent down and kissed her cheek. “You take care now,” he muttered, and stepped back.

  Then suddenly the good-byes were all said, and she was sitting with Kate in the wagon, and all the faces she had come to love were staring up at her. She wished she were eloquent, and had something profound and moving and elegant to say. But words deserted her. And as their faces blurred behind a sheen of tears, all she could do was wave a shaking hand as the wagon rolled away.

  JACK PAUSED INSIDE THE SWINGING DOORS AT THE PALACE Cantina and looked around. He’d never met Franklin Blake, but none of the men sitting at the tables or the desert rats leaning on the bar matched the description Brady had given him. He approached the bar, which was manned by an unfamiliar fellow, a crooked old man missing his right eye and most of an ear.

  “Where’s Blake?” Jack asked him.

  “Who wants to know?” the barkeep lisped, apparently missing most of his teeth too.

  “Me.” Jack smiled to show friendly intent, although he was still so mad it may have come across more like a snarl.

  “He’s upstairs,” a woman said.

  Jack turned to see a whore sitting at a table in a shadowed corner. He knew she was a whore because he recognized her. Sort of. Her face was so swollen and bruised it was hard to be sure. “Millie?”

  The woman studied him through dark-shadowed, puffy eyes. “I hope you’ve come to kill the bastard.”


  “He do that to you?”

  “You shut your mouth, girl,” the barkeep warned. “I won’t have you spreading tales about a paying customer.”

  Ignoring him, Jack nodded toward the doors lining the open second-story hallway that overlooked the bar area. “Is he up there, Millie?”

  “I don’t want no trouble,” the barkeep cut in, and Jack turned to see he had a length of cordwood in his hands and a challenging look in his one eye.

  “Then quit bothering me, old man. Which room, Millie?”

  Before she could answer, two men came in. They wore suits and round bowler hats and hardly any dust on their shiny city shoes. Behind them came Sheriff Foley. “Blake still alive?” the sheriff asked at large, although Jack had a feeling the question was directed more at him than anyone else.

  “What if he is?” the barkeep bristled.

  Foley sighed wearily. “Just get him, Calvin. I don’t have time for your foolishness.”

  When the muttering barkeep stumped off—seemed he was missing part of a foot too—Foley motioned the other two fellows on toward an empty table, then veered to where Jack stood at the bar.

  “Heard back from San Francisco,” he said without preamble. “Drunk by the name of Edna Tidwell did it, then fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Case closed. Talked to Blake yet?”

  Relieved to be able to put his worries over the poster to rest, Jack shook his head. “No, but I’m hoping to before you arrest him.”

  “Arrest him for what?”

  Jack sent a meaningful glance over the sheriff’s shoulder. “For beating on whores, that’s what.”

  Foley turned and studied the battered woman watching them from the corner. “Blake do that, Millie?” he called out.

  “Do what, Sheriff? I just fell down the stairs, is all.”

  “Damnit, Millie. How can I help you if you won’t talk to me?”

  The whore laughed bitterly, then grimaced and pressed her fingers to a barely healed split on her lip. “Like you helped Rosella? No thanks, Sheriff.”