Canyon Song (13 page)

Ned Hamby’s revolver cleared leather before either of his men could strike the other. “Stick to fists — and outside,” he warned
. “I ain’t scrapin’ either of your guts off my boot leather.”

Black Eagle and Hop glared at each other, still furious over their escalating war of words, which had begun over Hop’s unwillingness to take more than two steps out the cabin door to relieve himself
. Tired of fighting with each other, both then turned resentful gazes toward their leader. Really, they ought to thank him, Ned thought. If he hadn’t insisted on keeping their guns in his possession, they’d both be dead by now, killed by the endless days they’d spent holed up inside this miner’s shack. Way he figured it, those two owed him their sorry lives.

“Today’s the day, boys,” Ned announced
. If he had to stay here one more hour, he’d likely give in to temptation and shoot both of them himself.

They blinked at him sullenly, angry that only he could give the word to move, yet too eager to escape this hell-hole to argue.

“We’re gonna go find us that woman and take care of our business so I can go home.”

Black Eagle glowered at the crusted-over bean pot
. “Maybe she’s got good food.”

“And whiskey,” Ned added.

“And an appreciation for male companionship,” Hop said.

For the first time in many days, the three men shared a smile, a smile that darkened into laughter that would chill the marrow of an honest man.

*     *     *

Anna tried to chase the melodies from her mind, the same as she’d once chased a pair of swallows from the cabin after they flew down the chimney
. Dolorous as tears, the Mexican
corridos
sang of longing, of the sweet pain of good-byes.

She added yet another handful of dried pinto beans to the sack and wished that she had more to spare
. But the food from last year’s disappointing harvest must last until next season, and Quinn’s unexpected presence had already strained her stores.

She watched him as he brought in another armload of firewood
. He moved like a strong and sound beast now. He’d even found the energy to sharpen an old razor to shave his sandy beard. Yet new seams in his mended clothing bore testimony to his hidden wound. Even so, it was difficult to imagine how close to death he’d been when he was left here.

Just as you were
, a voice inside her sang, then shifted into Spanish to continue its dark hymn of desolation.

Clearly, Ryan’s presence had awakened something in her, something she almost wished to banish to the half-remembered territory of her dreams
. The music licked like spicy flame around her memories from the canyon: the old woman who had found her, cured her stubbornly despite her wish to die. The songs Señora Valdez sang as Anna healed, foreign songs that dissolved the false dreams of the cantina ballads Anna had once sung. The music whose strands once trapped her in a web of silken snares.

Amid the
corridos
she heard them, the faint echoes of a nightmare far too real to be a dream.

“Sing somethin’ pretty, Annie Faith,” Ned Hamby demanded as he kicked her stomach
. “Sing for us, you stinkin’ bitch!”

Then coarse laughter . . . they’d laughed at her because she’d told them . . . that she could not remember any words
. She suddenly recalled clearly lying there, curled up against their onslaughts, wiping at the blood that trickled from her mouth like crimson notes. She remembered seeing for the first time the sparkling blade in Hamby’s fist and realizing that he meant to plunge it into her in some deadly parody of sex.

Anna moaned and realized that what she’d told them yet held true
. Even after all these years, her mind could not recall a single English song. Dried beans bounced off the tabletop and landed on the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Quinn asked
. “You look as if you’re rubbing elbows with your granny’s ghost.”

“Not her ghost . . . one of mine.”

He looked at her strangely, as he often had since that night when he had warmed her body close to his. She imagined he was still trying to reconcile her with the woman she’d once been, the woman who had wounded him so deeply. She wanted to laugh at how he tried to make sense of her, as if she were a puzzle to be solved, but one with razor edges that could hurt him if he tried too hard. Since that evening ─ since their sweet and stillborn kiss ─ he’d kept his distance, both physically and in conversation. She wondered if he knew how happy that made her.

And yet . . . this morning, as she was packing supplies for his departure, she almost wished that they had better spent their time
. Instead of skittering around the edges of this tiny cabin, perhaps together at its center, they might have trod closer to forgiveness, or maybe something sweeter still. Perhaps she should have even told him about the little grave. The one beside the resting-place of Señora Valdez. The one that might mean something to him, too.

Quickly, she dismissed the ridiculous idea
. The tale was too personal, too sacred to share with anyone. Not now, six years later. Even if he cared, it would never stop him from returning to his own life now that he was feeling better.

Reina del cielo
!
Is that what this was about? Was she such a fool that she’d already grown accustomed to his presence? Had isolation dimmed her senses so she didn’t realize he could never fill the void that death and music had left inside her heart ─ a void she’d never fully realized before Quinn’s reappearance?

Cursing her stupidity, she began to wrap the cornmeal tortillas she had made
. She’d never make a wise old
curandera
if she didn’t drive the silly girl out of her soul.

Only a few feet away, he rolled an extra blanket she had given him for his long walk
. His voice, when he spoke, took her by surprise. “I saw something the day you lost your horse, when you were naked and you gave me back the blanket.”

Despite her mood, she couldn’t stop amusement  from quirking up the corners of her mouth
. “
Santa Maria
, Ryan. You mean to tell me you’ve been so long without a woman you don’t even recognize it anymore?”

“Not
that
. The scar. That long one on your belly. I was wondering about it.”

Just like that, her gush of playfulness froze over
. Slowly, as though great age had stiffened all her joints, she turned away from him.

“Anna, tell me what they did to you, and I
will
pay them back.”  His voice had lost the strictly-business tone he’d kept these past two weeks, betraying what sounded strangely like affection.

“Pay back your own wounds, not mine
. I don’t want anybody’s blood. I just want to be left alone here,
en mi querencia
where I can heal.”

“Your
what
? Either quit speaking Spanish to me, or tell me what you mean. I want to understand you for a change.”

“My
querencia
─ the place where I belong, this canyon.”

“Have you ever thought it’s not a
place
where you belong, but with a person?”

But I
am
with her here
. The canyon and the grave were inseparable within her mind, and Anna knew that she was bound to both.

He laid his hand on her shoulder
. She enjoyed the solid warmth of it and wondered, once he left, when anyone would touch her next. Oh, there would be times when she would lay her hands on others, in an attempt to comfort or to heal them. But who would ever lay his hands on her?

“You’re not suggesting that I belong with
you
? After what happened between us, after what you know I was?”  Despite the absurdity of what she asked, she hoped he wouldn’t move his hand again, not yet. His touch would have to last her for a long, long time.

“Of course not
. But a beautiful young woman isn’t meant to be out here alone. For one thing, it’s not safe.”  He turned her toward him and drew her close. “I think you learned that six years back, when they gave you that scar. It’s from a knife wound, isn’t it?”

She wanted to pull away from his intrusions, but his strong arms held her tight
. With a sigh, she nodded her chin against his shoulder for an answer.

“Anna,” he continued, “there are plenty of men in these parts who came west looking for a second chance
. Men who don’t want anyone to ask too many questions about who they were or what they did before. They’d be so grateful for a sweet-faced woman like you, they wouldn’t want to know about your past. Why, I have a deputy, Max Wilson, who’d sell his soul for a chance at meeting you.”

“Your
deputy
?” She freed herself from his embrace, anger underscoring each word. “You must not like him very much.”

He hesitated, as if he’d realized that he’d trod on dangerous ground
. “I didn’t mean him personally. I was thinking somewhere farther, where we wouldn’t have to see each other. At least not very often.”

She felt ridiculous for imagining he might want her for himself
─ her, a woman he had bought with gifts once, a woman who’d repaid his kindness with an act of utter selfishness. She should have known even a former card cheat wouldn’t want a traitorous thief.

“I don’t want to worry that those voices you heard were some
thing more than hallucinations from the cold. I don’t want to lie awake nights thinking of what might happen if they come back here after you.”  He reached out to touch her thick braid, as if he wished to stroke it.

She flipped aside the length of golden hair
. “They’ll be dead. That’s what will happen. They won’t get close enough to hurt me again. Not ever.”

“You don’t even have a horse to get away
. Come with me instead. We’ll walk out of here together."

“So you can fix me up with some nice man?” She breathed the words into his ear, intoxicated by the closeness of him, the strong, safe feeling of his arms around her.

He turned his head toward hers, until their mouths were so close she could almost taste his words. “I think I have one in mind right now.”

*     *     *

The closer they drew, the more helpless Quinn became. And feeling helpless with her left him angry. But not so angry that he couldn’t smell the scent of her, clean and fragrant as spring wildflowers.

The blond siren had
had
to bathe last night, as if she knew how difficult it had been these past two weeks to keep his thoughts ─ and hands ─ off of her. As if she guessed how wanting her was turning his soul inside out. Perhaps she
did
know, and behind that makeshift curtain she’d set up before the fire, she was laughing at the way her vixen’s tricks tormented him. Surely, she must realize the effect of her shapely silhouette as the fire’s glow cast it on the cloth.

“I can’t wait anymore
. I’m starting to smell worse than the dog,” she’d called over the flimsy barrier between them. He heard the water splashing inside the washtub she’d dragged near the hearth and laboriously filled with heated snow-water.

“I can’t wait much longer either,” he had muttered, imagining her naked a few short steps away
. When he got back to Copper Ridge, he would have to find relief.

Wrinkling his nose, he thought of Liliana and Carmen, the harlots who lived in the rooms over the Blue Streak Saloon
. He’d never succumbed to either of their charms, but even at a distance, it was apparent neither one was too particular about her hygiene. Come to think of it, hadn’t Max complained of coming back from Carmen’s bed with so many crabs he was reminded of his lost youth at the seashore?

With a shudder of revulsion, Quinn had decided he
could
wait.

But not now, not with Anna’s bow-shaped lips only a fraction of an inch from his
. Not with the scent of whatever herbs she’d dropped into her bath water making him want to drink her in.

Now he leaned in close to taste that lovely mouth of hers once more
. It tasted golden, with a hint of the rare treat of honey she’d allowed them for this morning’s griddlecakes.

He felt the wiry tightness of her lithe body relax into his arms
. His lust accelerated like a fractious horse taking the bit into its teeth. With every moment, it thrummed faster, harder, wanting her . . . wanting . . .

He traced the angle of her jaw with his thumb, then used his tongue to separate her lips
. Sweet Lord, she felt as good as he remembered, as right as he had hoped. She kissed him back, caressed his neck with her palm, not with the reluctance with which one might discharge an old debt, but with the tender eagerness of an innocent toward her first lover.

Quinn couldn’t wait another moment
. He had to reach under her shirt, to find those small breasts with his fingers. No iron-staved layers of female undergarments formed a stockade against trespass. Beneath the cotton fabric, there was only soft, smooth flesh. His hand brushed past the warm silver of her necklace, on its way to finding someplace warmer still. Anna rocked back on her heels and gasped out her pleasure as he touched her hardening nipples.