A Gown of Spanish Lace (16 page)
“You mean, the hankie has my ma’s—what’d ya say—initials on it?”
“If it was truly your mother’s hankie—then, yes,” said Ariana.
“So her name was like thet. LAL?”
“That would be my guess,” responded Ariana.
He stood suddenly. “Thet’s right interestin’,” he said as he picked up his hat with one hand, the empty plate with the other. “Want me to clean this off in the snow?” he asked her as he looked down at the plate and cup he held.
“No, no—I’ll take care of it,” she quickly answered.
He handed it to her. “Mighty obliged, miss,” he said as he placed his hat back on his head. “Been a long time since I had something other than beans.”
“I—would you—I mean, I could make a little extra tomorrow if…”
He smiled again and with his finger pushed back his hat. “Well, now,” he said, “I’d like thet jest fine—but I’m not sure I’d be too smart—me comin’ here to et. ’Course iffen I could come up with some plate, might be I could sneak a little out.”
Ariana let her gaze travel to the room’s one window.
“I’ll see what I can do to free it up tomorrow,” he said, reading her thoughts.
She nodded.
He left then. She heard the beam fall across the door, which meant she was again locked in. Then his voice reached her through the heavy timber. “Don’t fergit to lock yer door.”
Ariana reached up and slipped the hook quietly into the eye.
Another week passed slowly by. Ariana continued to make stews and potpies. She practiced with the reflector in various positions, and her biscuits improved each time she made a batch. Laramie consumed them with unbelievable ease.
He had surreptitiously removed the nails from the window frame and replaced them with hooks so it now locked on both the inside and the outside. Each night he brought his plate around to the window and held it while Ariana filled it. Then he took it, along with biscuits and coffee, and hastened off toward his own tumbledown cabin.
He had been giving full attention to his mother’s Bible. He didn’t pretend to understand much of it, but the little notations in the margins often shed some light on what he was reading. Still, he had so many questions and he had no one to ask.
He had also found a name that matched the initials. LAL. Lavina Ann Lawrence. Was that his mother? Laramie wanted to believe it was. Somehow it gave him a strange connection with the woman in the picture, an identity he previously had not had. He looked at the picture night after night until he felt—something—for the unknown woman. Something he had never felt before.
“Seems ya don’t eat much anymore,” observed Will as Laramie stepped inside the communal cabin. “Ya been dippin’ in someone else’s pot?”
The words brought loud guffaws from the men lounging about the room. By now everyone knew the prisoner was doing her own cooking. At times the fragrant smells coming from her cabin made stomachs growl in protest.
Laramie made no answer.
“Maybe he don’t need to eat,” snarled Skidder. “Maybe he lives on love.”
More loud laughter.
“Ya ain’t been round much a’tall lately,” Will went on.
Laramie got the strange feeling his father was trying to start something.
“Been in my own cabin,” he said offhandedly.
“Alone?” asked McDuff, and the whole group of men hooted in response.
“I sure know I wouldn’t be iffen…” said Skidder with a knowing look, leaving his comment dangling.
There were more nods and hoots in general agreement.
Laramie felt the back of his neck crawl. He didn’t like the talk. Didn’t like the crude insinuations. “Anybody want a game of cards?” he asked, hoping to turn the attention of the cabin to other things.
His invitation was quickly accepted, and a group of the men pulled their log stools close to the rough-hewed table.
Laramie shuffled the cards, let Shadow cut, then began to deal.
“What say we up the ante,” said Skidder with a leer. “Winner gits to guard the prisoner.”
All eyes turned toward Laramie to catch his reaction. He never flinched. Never moved a muscle except for the ones needed to distribute the cards. Even his deep eyes did not betray him.
He nodded slowly. “ ’Bout time someone else took a turn—but assignments are up to the boss. He decides who does what,” he answered easily.
“Ya wanna gamble the girl—thet’s yer doin’,” responded Will in his gravelly voice, “long as she stays in camp.”
Laramie nodded his consent without giving his true feelings away. He studied the cards in his hand. He wished he hadn’t gotten himself cornered. Now he was in deep, for sure. What would happen if—? No, he wouldn’t even think about it. This was one card game he had no intention of losing—the stakes were too high.
“Ya really think this is gonna work?” asked Sam after the cabin had cleared of all but him and his boss.
Will’s chuckle was not a pleasant sound. “Ya saw ’im,” he snorted. “He acted like he couldn’ta cared less—but I’m thinkin’ thet if someone else had won thet card game, there’da been gunplay.”
Sam was surprised. “An’ you’d—you’d welcome thet?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“It wouldn’ta been the Kid we’d carried out,” said Will simply.
“No—but it mighta been a good man. An’ we got a little trip to make ’afore long, to my recollection.”
The boss nodded.
“I want this here thing settled before we make the next raid,” he said, scowling. “It’s drug on far too long already.”
Sam nodded. “The boys have been more patient then I woulda expected,” he agreed.
“Mighta worked out a lot sooner iffen he didn’t keep her hidden away in thet cabin,” growled the big man. “No one even gits to see what she looks like.”
“Tell ’im. Tell ’im. Yer the boss.”
“Yeah, but what do I tell ’im? I told ’im to take care of her. The weather’s been mean as a rattlesnake. What reason could I dream up for ’im to make her come out in the cold?”
“Well, the weather should be on the upturn anytime now. Been winter far too long,” observed Sam.
“Hope so,” exclaimed the boss. “I’m sick an’ tired of these here beans.”
Sam stopped chewing on his plug of tobacco long enough to give that some thought. “Ya reckon he eats with the girl?” he asked at last.
“I’ve watched him comin’ an’ goin’. He don’t hang around there long enough to eat,” growled Will. “He’s in an’ out like he was plumb scared of her or somethin’.”
“Well—he don’t seem to be losin’ no weight,” observed Sam. “Funny, ain’t it?”
“I’ve got to get her out of there,” Laramie told White Eagle.
His tone of voice and eyes gave away his intense feelings, even though he worked to keep his face expressionless.
“Something wrong?” asked the young brave.
“Yeah…yeah, things are…are…I don’t know. I can jest feel the tension mountin’. I…I can’t keep her safe…there anymore. Even the lock…”
He began to pace again.
It wasn’t just the banter of the boys. Something had been happening since Laramie had been spending his days and nights reading his mother’s Bible. Something he didn’t understand. It was just there—deep within him. He was beginning to see that this life of his—this way of living was all wrong. And bringing her to the camp and keeping her there against her will—that was about as far wrong as they could get.
“How?” asked White Eagle, his simple question forcing Laramie back to the present.
He stopped his pacing. “I’ll need yer help,” he said, looking straight into the eyes of his friend.
“White Brother have my help,” promised the Indian solemnly.
“Look, White Eagle. This will be dangerous. I know that. You must know that. My pa—he’d shoot to kill. He said so. In front of the whole gang. He’d not hesitate—”
White Eagle nodded. “You have gun,” he interjected.
Laramie was shocked. “But I couldn’t use it—couldn’t shoot my own pa,” he said quickly.
White Eagle looked thoughtful. Then he nodded again. “You more Indian than White,” he told Laramie. “Have honor.”
But Laramie brushed aside the words. He was deeply sorry about the fact that White Eagle felt as he did about the white race, but perhaps some of the animosity had been deserved. He wished things had been different.
He took a deep breath. “I’m not asking you to risk your life,” he continued.
“I owe White Brother,” replied the brave.
“No. No,” responded Laramie. “You don’t owe me. Sure I helped you out—”
“You save my life.”
“Okay—I saved yer life—but thet doesn’t mean—”
“White Eagle owe,” the brave said firmly.
Laramie thought on his words, then accepted them with a silent nod. He had to allow White Eagle his Indian ways. Had to give him an opportunity to repay whatever debt he felt he owed.
“I won’t pretend I’m not grateful,” he responded. “I don’t think I could manage it alone.”
White Eagle made no comment, but the expression in his eyes as they met Laramie’s was as good as a covenant signed in blood.
Laramie was in a race against time. He could sense that whenever he entered the main cabin with its quarrelsome occupants. There was a tension in the air—a feeling of agitation. Perhaps it could be chalked up to the length of the winter and the fact that the men had been virtually prisoners together for such a long period of time. Tempers flared. Patience had run out. Intolerance was evident. Snarls and complaints filled the air along with dark curses. Something was about to happen. Someone was going to snap.
But Laramie said nothing of his forebodings. Not even to Ariana. Nor did he tell her of his plans to remove her from the premises before the “explosion” took place.
He was sure White Eagle was working on his part in the escape plan. The hidden cave would be prepared for Ariana by the time she needed its safety. When Laramie gave Ariana her instructions, he wanted every detail to be in place.
It was a fairly simple plot. White Eagle would wait just beyond the cabin for Ariana. Laramie would ease her out of the cabin’s window and send her through the darkness to the young brave. White Eagle, with his Indian cunning, would spirit Ariana to the hidden cave and leave her, protected and sequestered, until such time as Laramie was able to come for her.
In the meantime, Laramie was to lay a false trail. Riding his buckskin and leading his big bay and the little roan, he would take off through the valley, following the banks of the frozen river. He would travel dangerously close to the Indian encampment, a fact that would cause the gang some concern. It would pose no threat to Laramie. White Eagle had enlisted the help of his father, Chief Half Moon, and the braves were told to ignore the lone white man. Those orders had not been extended to any men who might follow.
