Behind His Blue Eyes (20 page)

“Miss Pearsall, if I might have a word?”

“Of course.” Ignoring Ethan's glare, she rose. “If you'll excuse me,” she murmured, then followed Mr. Bonet out of hearing range of the others.

“I find I have a pressing matter back at the office, Miss Pearsall,” he said tersely. “And I will be unable to write my column on the social. Can I count on you to pen something for the next edition?”

“Certainly. When shall I have it on your desk?”

“Tomorrow morning, if you please.”

Tomorrow?
The paper only came out once a week and wasn't due for another five days. Now she would have to leave early, or stay up half the night putting the column together.

“Any questions, Miss Pearsall?”

“No, Mr. Bonet.”

“Then I leave you to your friends.”

As soon as he walked away, Ethan approached. “What did he want?” he asked, his gaze pinned on the back of the man hurrying toward town.

“To remind me I'm here to work, not have fun. He wants an article about the social on his desk in the morning.”

A look of impatience crossed Ethan's face. But before he could speak, Audra rested a hand on his arm. “It's fine, Ethan. It's why he hired me.”

“You know he's only doing this because he lost the bid.”

“Perhaps. But I wouldn't be able to stay much longer anyway. Father is tiring.”

“Have Curtis and Winnie take him home.”

His petulance was both amusing and flattering. “I don't want to ruin their good time, too. But I shan't leave until I've heard you play. And seen our overgrown sheriff dance with his wife.” Smiling at the notion, she slipped her arm through his and pointed him toward the church where the musicians were setting up their instruments. “Come along. Let's not waste what time we have.”

Twenty

E
than was a more than credible musician. He made the fiddle sing through the lively dances, and sigh through the mournful ballads. Onlookers clapped the tempo and tapped their toes while dancers whirled and dipped, dust flying. And when he began a polka, and Edwina dragged her husband into the middle of the dance area, Audra saw the sheriff truly did lope around in a circle, yet she had never seen Edwina so happy.

“Aren't they adorable?” Lucinda whispered, her eyes suspiciously bright. “I love watching them together. He holds her like she's the most precious thing in the world and he's afraid he'll drop her.”

It was true, Audra thought, watching them go around and around, laughing. It was like seeing love in motion. “Why aren't you dancing?”

“Tait went to have a word with that Irishman.”

Audra looked past her to see Tait Rylander speaking earnestly to Gallagher. A moment later, the Irishman turned and stalked toward town, his shoulders stiff with anger. She was relieved. Ever since the music had started, he had been watching her with that sneer on his face. But now with him gone, she could allow herself to relax.

The polka ended, and a spirited rendition of “O Green Grow the Rashes” began, with the choir ladies harmonizing on the choruses. The Rylanders danced that one, and despite Tait's slight limp, they did so with the graceful precision of people so finely tuned to each other there were no missteps, and no need to take their eyes off each other through the spins and dips.

When that song ended, dancers moved toward the punch tables for refreshments. Audra hoped Ethan would come join her, but saw that he and the man with a homemade flute continued to play, seemingly lost in their music. It wasn't until she saw Father walking toward them that she realized the song they played was one of her childhood favorites—“The Water is Wide”
—
and as sweetly done as she had ever heard
.
Fearing Father would disturb them, she hurried over.

He stopped in front of the two musicians, his chin quivering with emotion and tears glistening in his faded eyes. “Mary used to sing that,” he said in a shaky voice when she stopped at his side. “Do you remember?”

“Yes,” she said, her own voice unsteady.

Ethan saw Father's distress, but she signaled it was all right and for him to continue. These were happy memories. Not sad ones. And even if they helped Father reconnect with the past only for a moment, she didn't want to interfere.

Ethan continued to play, the soulful melody rising and falling in harmony with the soft, clear notes of the flute.

“She used to sing that to you every night. Do you remember, Audie?”

Audie.
How long it had been since she had heard him call her by that name.

She felt something give inside.
He remembers me.
Warmth spread through her, and she smiled at Ethan through a haze of tears.
He knows me.

As if he'd heard her thought, Ethan nodded and smiled back.

“Now, now, dearest,” Father said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “We mustn't cry. Mary wouldn't like that, you know.”

“I know.” Pressing her damp cheek against his frail chest, she heard the flutter of his heart beneath her ear and for just a moment let herself drift back into that safe, happy time when Father was the center of her world and she thought he would go on forever.

After a while, he said softly, “She's gone, isn't she, Audie?”

“Yes, Father. I'm afraid she is.”

There was a long silence. Then Winnie came up behind them and he took his arm from her shoulders. “I want to go home now. Cleo will be hungry.”

Audra started to follow him, but Winnie put out a hand. “Me and Curtis take Mr. Percy back in the buggy. You stay and enjoy yourself, child.”

“I can't. I have a column due tomorrow.”

“Give us a minute, Winnie,” Ethan said. Only then did Audra realize the music had stopped. Taking her hand, he led her away from the others and toward the late-afternoon gloom of the trees along the creek. “I told you,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “In his heart, he remembers you.”

“For a while, anyway. And I'm grateful for it.” Fearing another bout of tears, she put on a smile. “You're very talented, Ethan. I'm so glad the burns weren't severe enough to keep you from playing.”

“Me, too.” Smiling, he leaned against an aspen trunk, her hand still laced through his. “I had forgotten how much music means to me.”

“I'm sure if he knew of your gift, Pastor Rickman would be begging you to play at the services.”

“Some gifts aren't for sharing.”

He must have seen her confusion. “My music is a private thing. More of a solace than a gift.”

“Why would you need solace?”

He didn't answer.

She could feel him drifting away again, and didn't know how to stop it. Or if she should even try. Being with Ethan was like dancing a quadrille. One step forward, two steps back. It kept her off balance, not knowing when to move or what the next step would be.

Overhead, the budding aspens were not yet full enough to make that watery sound when the breeze blew through the leaves. But the creek was overflowing with snowmelt from the high slopes, and the rush of water over the rocks drowned out everything but the distant sound of music and Ethan's breathing beside her.

She should leave. The Abrahams and Father were waiting. But she didn't want to go without voicing the thoughts that had troubled her for the last several days. Troubled her now. “Ethan, what are we doing?”

He looked at her.

“You and me. I know I'm inexperienced in these matters. Normally a mother advises a daughter about these things, or girlfriends . . . but . . . I only want to know where I stand. What I'm supposed to do. You keep me so off balance.” Pulling free of his grip, she made a broad gesture and was surprised to see her hand was shaking. Where had this surge of emotion come from? She had only meant to broach the subject, but now words were bursting out of her before she could stop them. “You kiss me, then disappear for days. A week later, you show up with food for my table and act as if we're simply friendly acquaintances. Today, you've said things that make me think you're pursuing me, but I have a feeling by tomorrow, you'll fade away again. Why?”

He smiled. “Are you asking what my intentions are, Miss Pearsall?”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “See? You're doing it now. Holding my hand one minute, retreating into humor the next.” She felt she was begging for something he couldn't give. But this day—her father, Ethan, Gallagher's sneers, and Bonet's innuendoes—it was all too much. “I just want you to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Everything. California.”

His posture stiffened. “Who told you about California?”

“Mr. Bonet.”

“That figures.” Shoving away from the tree, he went to stand at the edge of the creek.

“But I'd rather hear it from you,” she said to his back. “Will you tell me?”

He faced her, his expression bleak. “It's complicated, Audra. There are things . . . things I did . . . that aren't easy to talk about.”

“Even to me?”

“Maybe later. The musicians are waiting.”

The fight went out of her. Already he seemed miles away, hidden behind an unbreachable wall. Defeated, she turned away. “Good night, Ethan.”

He didn't try to stop her, which told her more than any of his words had. He didn't trust her. Or feel the connection she did.

How sad. A dalliance, that's all this was to him. And being the proverbial wallflower bluestocking, she had seen in it more than was there. But at least now she knew if he ever came around again, she would need to guard herself more carefully.

And maybe after a while, this hurt would go away.

Within minutes of leaving the church, Father's brief return to reality ended in a sudden, shocking tumble into confusion and rage. He became as fractious as a spoiled child, convinced the buggy ride home was an attempt to kidnap him, that Winnie was trying to keep him from Mary, and Audra was stealing his papers. His tantrum continued even after they reached the house, when he slammed around his room, shouting and throwing his chamber pot. It upset Phe. But when she tried to help by licking his hand, Father pushed her away, too.

They reasoned, they cajoled, they bribed with toast and marmalade, but in the end they had to bully him into his nightclothes. Only after Winnie administered the last of the cough syrup with the sleeping draught was he able to calm down enough to sleep.

It was heartbreaking for Audra. What had begun as a day full of promise ended with her scrubbing urine off the floor and jam off the walls. She tried not to think of the harder times yet to come. Or the empty relief she would feel when Father was finally at peace. Or the aching loss of Ethan that even now clogged her throat with unshed tears. She had a home now. She had more friends than she had ever had in Baltimore. She was writing again. This heartache would pass.

It was well after dark when she went back downstairs. The Abrahams were already abed. Phe was tucked into her crate. Pulling paper, ink, and a pen from the hutch drawer, she set them on the kitchen table, turned up the oil lamp, put on her spectacles, and took a seat.

But words wouldn't come, and the longer she stared into the flickering flame of the lamp, the less inspired she felt. How was she to wax eloquent over a church social when her father was dying, a brute blamed her for losing his position, and the man she cared for wouldn't talk to her?

Finally, the silence and her own dismal thoughts proved too much. Tossing her spectacles onto the table, she grabbed her shawl and fled to the porch. Settling into her rocker, she tipped her head back and let the pain come.

When had her orderly life gotten so out of control?

* * *

Tim Gallagher was halfway through his fourth drink when the newspaper man who had bid against him and Hardesty at the social—Bonet, his name was—sidled up to the bar beside him.
Bastard.

“It wasn't you I was bidding against,” Bonet said. “I just didn't want Hardesty to win.”

Gallagher didn't respond.

Bonet motioned the bartender over. “And to show there are no hard feelings, I'd like to buy you a drink.”

Gallagher was surprised. It had been a bad few weeks—losing his job, that earlier humiliation at the coolie camp, then the one today at the church social—and he was running low on coin. Hell, he didn't even have enough for an hour with one of the coolie whores who had arrived today from San Francisco. So with a shrug, he emptied his glass and shoved it toward the barkeep. “Fill it.”

The bartender poured, then moved down the bar to where three gold-seekers were commiserating over the poor diggings in the area.

“Fancy whip.” Bonet looked down at his belt. “Mexican?”

Gallagher didn't answer.

“I heard you used it on a coolie and it cost you your job.”

“You looking for a taste of it?”

Bonet ignored the threat. “These railroads think they own the world. Especially Ethan Hardesty. He's got his nerve after what happened in California.”

That caught Gallagher's attention. “What happened in California?”

“He killed three people. Bet if his employers knew that, he'd be out of a job, too. Another drink?”

Gallagher studied him, wondering what he was up to with his loose talk and free liquor. “Man starts buying me drinks, makes me curious why.”

Bonet smiled. “It's simple, Mr. Gallagher. I plan to expose the railroads for the corrupt institutions they are—how they treat their workers—the way they run roughshod over property owners, Indian tribes, or anyone who gets in their way—their total disregard of those killed doing their work. They think they're above the law. I intend to show they're not. And I could use your help.”

“Doing what?”

“I want to start with Ethan Hardesty. You worked for him. We can show the kind of man he is, how he puts foreigners above his own race. Maybe he set the fire to clear the way for his railroad. Anything you can tell me might help.”

Gallagher tried to concentrate. The alcohol was starting to muddle his thinking, but he seemed to remember something about Hardesty being at the cabin where the fire started. Maybe he did set it. Maybe he really was a killer like Bonet said. Maybe if he played his cards right, he could bring down Ethan Hardesty and get his job back, all at the same time. Worth a try. “It'll cost you, so it will.”

“Here's a start.” Bonet set a half eagle on the bar. “Finish your drink, then come to the newspaper office.” He saw that the miners were watching and lowered his voice. “I'll show you what I already have on Hardesty, then we can talk.”

“Tonight?”

“No time like the present. I'll be waiting.”

* * *

Ethan sat on Renny and studied the house. No light showed upstairs. The downstairs was dark except for a faint glow from the kitchen. Probably a fire in the hearth. He knew he hadn't a single good reason why he should be here, and a dozen why he shouldn't.

He should let it go. His work in Heartbreak Creek was nearly finished—he could leave and never look back. A woman like Audra deserved more than a broken man with blood on his hands. It would be best for both of them if he just rode on.

Instead, he dismounted, tied Renny to the post out front, and walked toward the house. His legs felt shaky. His hands were sweating and his mouth was so dry he could hardly swallow. Stepping up onto the porch, he lifted a hand to knock, then drew back, startled, when he saw her sitting in the rocker.

She was asleep, her head tipped back, her lips parted. She looked so small, curled tight and wrapped in her shawl. Too small to cause such a ruckus in his life.