A Gown of Spanish Lace (5 page)

“Oh, but I love teaching,” Ariana interrupted.

She felt his hand move to press her fingers that rested on his arm. “Of that I am convinced,” he said, smiling down at her easily. “But perhaps it is time for you to discover a…a few other loves.”

Ariana was puzzled and had no idea what he might mean by such a remark.

They reached the walk leading to the door of the parsonage. He stopped and Ariana was forced to pause beside him since he still held her hand firmly.

“Will you—would you like to come in?” she asked, though she felt uncertain about her offer.

“Not tonight. It’s late—and you must be very tired. But I will be in touch. Soon.”

He emphasized the last word. Ariana’s breath caught in her throat again. He released her hand and tipped his hat.

“Good-night, Miss Benson,” he said, very properly.

“Good-night…Mr. Dikerson,” replied Ariana.

As she mounted the steps of the front porch, she felt the whole world spinning at a delightful pace.

“When?” asked Sam as he sat with his boss at the wooden table.

“Next big snowstorm,” came the gruff reply.

“Storm? You outta yer mind? Ain’t a body in his right mind thet’d ride out in a snowstorm. Ya know what storms can be like in these parts.”

“I do. An’ thet’s why we’re choosin’ one. No way we’re gonna be tracked nowhere in a snowstorm.”

“Well, thet all depends. A light snow an’ they can track ya right on in here like ya laid it out fer ’em.”

“We won’t pick a light snow.”

“An’ how ya gonna know ’head o’ time whether it’s gonna be heavy or light?” snorted Sam. But he knew it was almost uncanny how the boss could read storms.

“I kin tell.”

Sam snorted again. “Sounds risky to me. Body can freeze to death in them storms.”

“We’ve been in storms before and we ain’t freezed yet.”

“What ya mean, we? I ain’t goin’ out in no winter storm, I tell ya. Not me. Not fer—nobody.”

The flickering light from the open fire cast eerie shadows across the dark face of the bigger man, making the scowl more pronounced, the dark eyes more menacing. “If I say ya ride—ya ride,” he growled. “Nobody made you boss—yet.”

Curses followed as each man expressed his anger in dark words.

“Who’s goin’?” Sam finally asked, conceding the fact that he would ride if the boss said ride.

“Jest you and me.”

“Jest…. Thet’s plumb foolhardy. Two ain’t enough to even—we’ll die in the storm fer sure. Not to mention the girl. She’ll never make it—an’ she’ll keep us from makin’ it, too.”

“Quit yer squawkin’,” the big man barked. “You ain’t gonna die before yer time. Iffen yer number’s up—then it’s up.”

“But I sure don’t plan on helpin’ it out in a snowstorm,” Sam argued once more.

“Better than a shot in the back.”

“Maybe not. Least a shot in the back would be faster.”

Sam moved to throw another log on the fire, sending sparks flying up the smokey chimney.

“Next storm,” Will repeated. “You be ready to ride tomorrow. We’re gonna move in closer and take thet ole trapper’s cabin down by the river. We’ll work out from there.”

“Thet’s Injun country,” interjected Sam.

Will placed his whiskey bottle on the table while he spit and swore at the mention of the tribe that made their home in the valley. Then he took another long draught of the fiery liquid.

“Be ready to ride tomorrow,” he barked. “I got it all worked out. Yer sure about the girl?”

Sam nodded. “She’ll be there,” he answered slowly.

Will lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips again. But when he discovered it was already empty, he flung the bottle angrily into the corner, scattering shards of broken glass about the cabin.

Chapter Four

The Snowstorm

Will turned to his son. “Not certain jest when we’ll be back,” the big man said to the tall young man before him.

Laramie made sure his face betrayed no emotion, but he was not pleased with the fact that his father and Sam were riding off with a winter storm imminent.

“Any orders?” he asked quietly. He would not openly question his father’s decision, even though he felt it was downright foolhardy. He had a strong feeling Sam agreed with that assessment, though the man had not expressed such to him. Still, Sam stomped and cursed and looked particularly menacing as he saddled his own mount. The packs had been tied securely on the backs of the two other animals.

“No orders,” said Will curtly. “You know the ropes.”

The young man nodded. This was his father’s way of saying that he was in charge.

His eyes turned back to the waiting horses. His father’s horse pawed at the ground and blew, his nostrils flaring. He too seemed reluctant to leave the shelter of the buildings but was impatient to be off if a trip had to be made. Sam’s horse stood head down, eyes nearly closed against the cold wind. He was getting old, but Sam refused to give him up in place of a younger mount.

The two pack animals crowded in against each other as though seeking warmth. The young man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the two animals. Why two? The packs weren’t that cumbersome. One horse could have easily carried the load. And there was something very odd about the one. A blanket covered the entire pack—as if something was being concealed. But hidden from whom? He was puzzled, but he knew better than to ask.

“Ya sure this rope is—” he began nonchalantly and stepped forward to check the rope that reached across the pack. He let his hand run over the contents beneath the blanket. Again his face gave nothing away, but he had discovered the mystery of the blanket. There was a saddle underneath it, camouflaged by small packs that rested on it. And it sure wasn’t a pack saddle. It was a riding saddle. Why did his father need a third horse for a rider?

He stepped back and nodded to Sam, his way of casually acknowledging that the rope was secure. Sam cursed softly.

“Ya think I’m fergittin’ how to pack a horse?” he grumbled.

The young man did not answer. He knew that none was expected. The rule of the gang was to keep quiet unless talk was required. He had already broken one of the rules. He had questioned a superior. Anyone but Sam would have been more than upset by the interference.

There were no goodbyes. No calls of “Safe trip,” or “Be seein’ you.” The two men mounted their horses in silence; each picked up a lead for a pack horse and moved out onto the trail that wound away from the crude buildings. The few men left behind did not stand and watch them go or even wave a hand to send them on their way. They turned back to whatever their own activities had been, which in most cases was simply to be in where the fire would warm the frigid air.

“Skidder—best git up there and spell off Rawley,” said the young man as they entered the cabin.

“He ain’t been up there any four hours,” protested the man called Skidder.

Laramie stopped. He looked straight into the eyes of the man a few feet across the cabin. Something changed about the young man’s stance. Not that his face—or even his body—gave much away, except that he was ready. Ready for whatever he might face.

They both knew there was some bad blood between them. The entire gang knew it. Had always felt it, though no one was quite sure what had started it. Now the whole cabin tensed.

“I don’t think I asked how long he’s been out there,” Laramie said, and his words were coolly controlled. “I jest said thet it’s time he was relieved.”

He stopped and his eyes sent their own message. The others in the cabin shifted slightly. The young man appeared loose and easy—yet coiled like a snake about to strike. Everyone knew that the few words of question from Skidder had challenged the younger man’s right of leadership.

Laramie spoke again, suggesting that he was not anxious to start a row—but he was in charge. “It’s cold out there. We’ll take shorter shifts,” he said in explanation. He hesitated, and then drawled slowly, but with meaning, “Unless, of course, yer anxious to have yerself one extry long shift.”

Skidder shuffled nervously but seemed to feel some relief. Had it been Will he had questioned, his dead body likely would have been cooling off out behind some barn by now. Will, as boss, had never been known to give a gang member a second chance. And Will never stopped to explain an order. “Only one boss in this here outfit,” he said coldly to any new member that might be taken in. “An’ you ain’t it.” The meaning was always clearly understood.

Skidder, who had been around gunmen for most of his life, had already figured out that the Kid, as all the camp called Laramie, would not shoot to kill. Still, he had no desire to have his shooting arm all messed up.

Without another look toward Laramie, Skidder reached for his heavy mackinaw and his rifle. The room stirred again. It seemed that bloodshed had been avoided. Shadow pulled out a deck of cards, and James pulled a log stool up to the table to let the man know that he wanted to be dealt in.

Laramie moved toward the fire and reached for another piece of wood. This one was over—but he’d have to watch his back even more closely in the future.

In another cabin some distance away, Sam threw another log on the fire and shivered visibly in spite of sparks that shot upward.

“This here cabin’s got enough cracks to run a bear through,” he grumbled.

Will paid no attention to his complaining. He sat with a bottle of whiskey at his elbow and every now and then stopped to take a long, bored draught of the liquor.

“Fella gotta wear his hat to keep his ears from freezin’,” Sam went on. He rubbed his hands together to keep the circulation going.

“Why don’t ya sit down and quit yer grousin’?” Will said sourly.

“Gotta go git us some more firewood, thet’s why,” Sam threw back at him. “How many days we gotta keep this fire goin’ anyway?”

“ ’Til it storms.”

“An’ when ya bringin’ in this here storm of yers?” Sam’s sarcasm was more felt than heard.

Will scowled and shifted. Sam wondered if he had pushed too far and was relieved when Will’s right hand reached for the whiskey bottle. The man couldn’t hold a bottle and a gun in the same hand.

“Soon now,” he answered, almost civil. “I can feel it. It’ll be soon.”

Sam said no more but picked up the hatchet and went out to look for more firewood.

Ariana sighed and stacked the day’s marked assignments into a neat little pile on the corner of her desk. She was glad to have the grading completed so she could get home. The sky had darkened and the temperature had dropped. Even though she had recently added more wood to the potbellied cast-iron stove, it was unable to keep the room warm. Her feet cold, she stomped them on the floor once more as she sat at her desk.

She had some assignments to get ready for the next day and a Scripture passage to choose for the morning reading, and then she could bank the fire and be off home. She pulled her sweater a bit closer about her body.

The heavy door creaked open and Ariana raised her head. Along with a few flakes of snow, two men in long, heavy buffalo coats and black hats pulled down over bearded faces stepped through the opening. Ariana knew she had not seen them before.

“Hello,” she said pleasantly, thinking them to have lost their way. “Can I help you?”