Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy) (5 page)

“I know how it goes when you’re one of the few games in town,” Nic said with a small smile. He didn’t begrudge the man his good fortune, but he suddenly wished he had won the deed to the St. Elmo Merc—even if he had sworn off retail work forever and ever, amen—rather than falling into a mine claim. Outfitting the mine would cost a fair fortune up here. Not that he had much choice. A trip to Gunnison would take the week he’d promised Everett. “I need sacks of flour, sugar, coffee, baking powder, soda, and salt,” he said.

Claude came around the corner and began fetching the items, then stacking them on the counter. “What else?”

“Oil, wicking cloth, a new pick, shovel, and this here triple-priced pail.” He moved to one of the display bins as the proprietor gathered the rest of his list. To the pile, Nic added a jar of preserves, four jars of applesauce, a cured ham covered in netting, a tin of sardines, two tins of biscuits, a box of shotgun bullets, and after a moment’s consideration, peppercorns. His time in South America had left him with a taste for heat in his food. “Do you have any eggs?”

“Came in this morning,” Claude said. “Old man Grover brings them to me every other day or so.”

Nic perused the eggs, nestled in dried prairie grass. “I’ll take four. Haven’t had eggs in … some time.”

“Got a pan up there to fry them in?”

“Think so,” Nic said, remembering the inside of the spare cabin. He looked over at Everett, and the boy nodded. “I’ll take another blanket too.” He ran his hands over the thick wool of a Hudson’s Bay striped blanket and then over a less expensive one next to it. “I don’t know how Everett and Peter have made it so long with what they have,” he said, handing the more expensive one to the merchant. Even in summer, these mountains could be cold. Snow often fell atop the highest peaks, given a good storm.

“Dad bought a couple more, down in Gunnison,” Everett defended.

Nic considered him, and nodded. He’d have to watch himself. Not say anything disparaging about the boy’s dad.

“That’ll do it?” Claude asked.

“Better stop there, or I’ll owe you my horse too, and I need her to get all this stuff up to the claim.”

Claude smiled and began ringing up the purchase on his cast-brass register. Nic leaned over and studied the keys. “Didn’t have anything so fancy when I ran a shop a few years ago.”

“Ah, so you were a merchant once, eh?”

“For a short time. Didn’t suit me.”

“What sort of store? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“A book shop. My father was a publisher.”

“Oh? Which one? We carry some books in back—”

“St. Clair Press. It was sold a few years ago.”

“I remember St. Clair Press. Fine operation, fine publications.”

Nic nodded, not really caring to get into a lengthy conversation about the place. It had been his father’s business, not his.

“So a publisher’s son, once a merchant, now a miner?”

“And a few things in between,” Nic said with a small smile. “What do I owe you?” he asked, cutting off Claude’s next question.

“Thirty-nine dollars and twenty-five cents,” he said, looking at his register.

Nic coughed. Thirty-nine dollars. He was worried about arriving at Odessa’s with nothing in his pockets. But he was about to spend most of what he had left.

Claude, seeming to note his hesitation, said, “You know, I do a good deal of grubstaking around here. In exchange for a portion of the mine’s profits, you can take all this out of here now, without paying me a cent.”

Nic glanced at Everett. The boy gave him a tiny shake of the head. Claude was making an offer because he knew it was a reasonable risk.

Nic shrugged. “We’d better be pulling gold out of your dad’s mine soon if we care to eat anything but venison, eh?”
Or earn back enough money to pay me back.

Claude raised a brow as he collected Nic’s carefully counted cash. “And most of the deer and elk are pretty well hunted out ’round here. Don’t go counting on those. Rabbits, squirrel, we still have a fair number of those.” He studied him a moment. “But you won’t be hunting much, with a mine to dig.”

“Probably right,” Nic said. He gathered an armful of goods, went to put them on the horse, and stood back. “We’ll have to lead her up,” he said to Everett. “No room for us.” He glanced at the sky, filling with dark gray billowing thunderheads. “We’d better hurry if we want to beat that. I’ll be right back.”

Claude handed the egg basket to Nic, but he held onto one handle when Nic reached for it. “Nic, these hills have given a fair number of boys some serious trouble. You watch yourself now, you hear me?”

Nic gave him a smile, and he finally released the egg basket. “Hopefully I’m up for the task.”

Claude shook his head and began wiping the counter again. “You just watch yourself. I can’t afford to lose a good new customer like you.” He smiled then, but his eyes were on Everett, who waited on the front porch. The smile quickly faded. “That boy out there’s counting on you, now.”

Nic stifled a sigh. “I’ll watch myself,” he said gruffly. He turned and left the mercantile then, a shroud of worry covering him. It felt heavier than a wet blanket in a rainstorm. Which, he thought grimly, staring at the sky and then his new Hudson’s Bay, he might soon be wearing.

The claim was a good hour’s hike up the narrow, serpentine trail that wove in and out of low-lying scrub oak and groves of aspen and fir—what the locals referred to as the Gulch. In about an hour they reached the creek, Nic ever conscious of the rumbling thunder that drew nearer and nearer. He looked over his shoulder once and saw a fierce bolt of lightning cascade down from the sky. It was followed by a crack of thunder that rumbled in his chest. Had anyone been struck by lightning up here?

The wind came up then, huge gusts that threatened to push them to their knees. The lightning and thunder increased, and then fat raindrops came down, splattering the dry forest and Nic and Everett too. Nic ignored the rain, knowing he could change when he reached the cabin. And his hat kept his head and face dry for the most part. He pulled the brim lower, aware that the wind threatened to send it down the mountainside, and concentrated on each footfall. Already, the path was becoming slick in places.

Soaked through, Everett slipped and fell to his knees. Nic reached down to help him up, but the boy shook off his hand. He was crying again.

Nic glanced back at Daisy, who had her head down, as if she disliked the rain. She was a good mount; nothing pretty to look at, but strong and sure. She easily picked her way forward, finding rocks and flats that Nic wished he had seen himself. He gave her more lead, giving her freedom to take the time she needed.

A bolt of lightning struck then, so close it made his hair stand on end. He felt the jolt of its power from his toes to his scalp, and he instinctively ducked into a ball, right before a second bolt stabbed downward. He let out a gasp as Daisy yanked the reins from his hand, rearing in fear, and then dashed into the creek bed and up ahead of him. She crossed the stream and ran into the trees. He ran through the stream and after her. But she disappeared among the trees, the fading light of afternoon growing dim now. Nic took off his hat, swore, and hit his thigh with it. “Thirty-nine dollars of supplies and she’s run off?” he cried.

He remembered Everett then, and glanced over at the boy. He had crossed the stream too, and stared at him, his eyes round with fear.

Nic shook his head and looked up the streambed again, searching for any sign of his horse. He moved upward alongside the stream, glad at least that the lightning seemed to be moving on, the thunder growing more distant.

He hoped Daisy would stop at the clearing by the mine, but it wasn’t likely. Nic sighed; he was sure he’d be tracking her come sunup. He fell then, his boots filling with the rushing water. He swore and picked up a rock to throw with fury at the trees. “C’mon!” he cried at no one in particular. Or maybe at God. Only God could be this mean and spiteful.

“Get away from the water,” called a man’s voice.

Nic glanced up in surprise and saw the Indian, Sabine’s Indian, across the stream from him. He scoffed and picked up his drenched boots. “What’s it to you if I choose to soak my boots in the stream?” he said with a humorless laugh. “What’s it to me?” he added, throwing his hands up.

Everett began clambering over boulders, immediately obeying Sinopa, which made Nic unaccountably irritated. The Indian hadn’t signed on for temporary custody—he had.

“Get away from the stream!” Sinopa said to him again, gesturing.

“Do as he says!” Everett shouted.

“Now,” the man said.

Nic frowned. “I’m not in the stream! I’m beside it.” He was a free man, no longer a sailor under a captain’s command. And this man’s tone was entirely too close to the captain’s.… “Leave me be,” he said, staring at the tall brave.

The man straightened and stared back, his mouth in a grim line. Everett was panting, looking between them in confusion.

Nic heard it then. The rumble of what sounded like a cascade. The crack of breaking tree branches, tumbling rocks. He looked up and saw a white mass of water rushing down the creek bed.
Flash flood.
He stood, turned, scrambled for a handhold, missed. The water hit him, and he tumbled feet over head, over twice before hitting a boulder. His breath left him in a whoosh, and he turned to his side, gasping for breath that would not come. White flashing pain threatened to make him pass out.

He was slipping, giving into the torrent of water that pounded against his chest. He tried to gain purchase with his boots, but they only slid off the slick rock beneath him.

Then Sinopa was there beside him. He reached out a hand. “Come out of the stream,” he said for the third time.

And this time, Nic reached out.

o

Moira breathed a sigh of relief when she found him in the stables, mucking stalls. She hadn’t seen him at breakfast and was afraid to ask after him, afraid for so many reasons.… But it was time to be brave. Time to try to trust. She couldn’t let him leave. Not the way it stood between them, at least.

She wrinkled her nose and then pushed herself forward. Gradually she was becoming more accustomed to the odors that were a part of life on the Circle M—musky sweat, freshly cut hay, overturned earth, and manure were all somehow washed clean by the wind that whistled down the mountains or the mossy scent of the creek. When had that happened, exactly? she wondered. She had been so absorbed with healing from her burns, and Daniel’s attentions, and learning to live alongside Odessa again, that she’d barely noticed.

He rose up and regarded her, one hand perched on the top of the pitchfork, the other raised to wipe his forehead of sweat.

She reached out and held on to the nearest post, suddenly tongue-tied.

Still, he waited, his lips parted, panting slightly from exertion. His brown eyes studied her, shifting back and forth as if he hoped to read her thoughts.

“You haven’t left yet,” she said finally, lamely, wishing she were braver.

“No, I haven’t.” Was that a touch of tenderness at the corners of his eyes? “Can’t seem to make myself go. But they’re waiting on me, Moira. I’ve given them my yes.”

Moira swallowed hard. “Daniel, I, uh …” She forced her eyes up again to meet his gaze. “I don’t want you to. Go, I mean.”

He stilled and remained silent for a couple of breaths. “Why not, Moira?”

“Because … because of … whatever
this
is, between you and me.”

There. That was hope that sparked in his eyes, just for a moment.

He sighed and then stepped forward. “Can you live with the questions?” he asked softly.

“That depends,” she said, shifting nervously. “Are you going to answer them?”

Slowly, he reached up a hand to her face. She tried to step away, realizing he meant to lift her scarf, see her wounds. He reached out and grabbed her arm—not in a rough way, only with a touch that said
stay
.

“Don’t. Don’t, Daniel.”

He dropped his hand. “Perhaps a break would be good for us both, Moira. For me to put my demons to rest. For you to do the same.” He stepped closer to her, not touching her, but caressing her with his eyes.

She took a step back, unable to withstand the mounting intense pressure of his gaze. To say nothing of his words. He was going away. He’d made his decision. Why would he not just speak plainly? And who was he to judge her?

“I won’t wait for you,” she said with a small shake of her head, taking another step away.

He frowned. “Moira—”

“I might go away myself. Leave this place.” He needn’t know she spoke of a visit only, not a move. She wanted to slash at him, hurt him as he was hurting her.

“You can’t leave,” he said, stepping forward as she continued to back away. “Not with the baby coming. You need to be here, with Odessa. And Bryce.”

With Odessa. Bryce.

But not you.

“Good-bye, Daniel.” With that, she turned on her heel and fled the stables.

CHAPTER SIX

In the rain Nic followed the man to the door of Sabine’s cabin, wincing with each step. He’d bruised his ankle in the creek, but his shoulder hurt far worse than even his leg. It screamed in agony, though he did his best not to let the pain show on his face.

The storm let up, and Nic realized there was still a fair amount of evening left. Outside, ten paces from the cabin, Daisy was tied to a tree. Nic glanced with relief from the horse to his guide. “You found her?”

“Sabine found her,” he replied. Nic studied him for a moment. The man, about his age, had the faintest of accents. He might’ve been born in Philadelphia as much as the Montana Territory. “She sent me to find you.”

“Good thing you did.” They shared a long look. Nic hoped it conveyed his appreciation. No telling what would’ve happened to him if the Indian hadn’t come along.… He shifted slightly, noting that even the weight of his clothing hurt his shoulder.

Sabine opened the door then, but didn’t invite them in. She came outside, closing the door behind her, before moving to Everett and pulling him into her arms. The boy allowed it. After a moment, she pulled away and cradled the child’s face in her small hands. “Sinopa found your father’s body,” she said slowly, soberly. “I’ve tended to him. He’s inside. We need to bury him, Everett. But first, you need to go in and say good-bye.”

Tears flowed down the boy’s cheeks, and she pulled him to her again, her face a mask of anguish as he sobbed. They stood there for a couple of long minutes, and Nic had to turn away. Perhaps Everett was right … Sabine might take him in. He studied her, how her hair fell in slight waves over her shoulder, the fine line of her straight nose, the curve of her bottom lip. And then he saw Sinopa staring at him.

He was not looking at Nic as a jealous lover, but more as a protective guardian.
Tread very, very carefully
, his black eyes said.

When he glanced back to Sabine, she was striding toward him. He fought the urge to take a step back, so swiftly did she move. Now that she wasn’t standing above him on a hillside, wielding a shotgun, he noted she was short, a few inches shorter than he. She reached up toward his shoulder and this time he did take a step back.

Her hand hovered in the air where his shoulder had been, and her eyes shifted to meet his. “Let me see it,” she said, lifting her chin as if calling the shoulder back beneath her hand. “I think it’s dislocated.”

He realized she was right. It had happened a couple times before to him, in the ring.

“We can reset it,” she said, looking over to Sinopa. Behind her, Everett was slowly entering the cabin door, hovering there, peering inside. She followed his glance. “In back, so the boy doesn’t hear you cry out.”

Nic looked from her to the Indian. Was it a trap? The means to lay claim to the mine? “No,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.” He strode over to the corner of the porch and before he could think better of it, positioned himself, then made a practiced move, twisting the upper arm just so until it corkscrewed back into the socket. He staggered backward, wondering for a moment if he was about to pass out. But then his vision cleared. The pain was still there—but lessened now.

Sabine studied him for a long moment, nonplussed. “I could’ve done that and caused you far less pain.”

“Or you could have put a bullet in my head.”

“Is that what you think of us? That we’re murderers, ready to pounce on Peter’s mine?” she asked, amusement suddenly in her wide brown eyes. She smiled over at Sinopa. “Did he not just save you from a flash flood?”

Nic sighed and looked up into the darkening sky. He glanced back to her. “I don’t know what to think. In the space of twenty-four hours I’ve learned that my partner in a mine, a mine I’ve yet to
enter
, is
dead
, leaving me a
boy
with no kin behind; that the mine is promising enough for O’Connor to offer to grubstake me; that my
neighbor
is a handsome woman who’s more likely to
shoot
me than offer me supper; that a wise man doesn’t hover about in the ravine during a rainstorm. Oh, and that I seem to have walked into a whole mess of expectation when I asked for
none
of it.” He waved his hand across the air in a cutting motion. “None of it,” he repeated.

She studied him a moment longer. “I don’t want your mine, St. Clair. My only interest in you is that you might be of help to the child. He needs you to help him get that ore out, give him a start in life, with his father gone.”

Nic let out a breathless laugh. “Why me?” He pointed to the cabin over her shoulder. “I didn’t even know that child until a week ago!”

“Keep your voice down,” she said tightly. Sinopa took a step forward and she lifted a hand up, as if sensing his approach from behind her.

Was she afraid? Of Nic? Nic frowned in confusion. No woman had ever been afraid of him. He thought back. She’d been married to—

“Everett is at an age,” she said in her smooth, low tone, “that he needs a man to show him how to be a man. I would do him little good.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, forcing his own voice an octave lower, calmer. “That child has never had a mother, as far as I understand it. And why can’t Sinopa—”

“Sinopa is soon off again. He’s a trapper, and these mountains have long been trapped out.” She shook her head and clenched her lips. “It is best the boy remains with you. He will be missing his father. When school begins in a month, I’ll take him to town with me.”

“You–you’re the schoolmarm?” He barely contained his laugh.

“I am.” She moved slightly, a vague, subtle change. Defensiveness. Nic had spent enough time in the ring to know it anywhere. He tried to recover his composure.

“Well … well,” he sputtered, trying to figure out a way to explain his response, “you’re … a long way from town.” There. That covered his tracks.

She studied him a moment longer, and Nic shifted uneasily. “I live here through the fall, then head down come the first real snows.”

Nic hesitated. He didn’t know if he’d like being up here in the Gulch, all by himself all winter. He’d seen the schoolhouse. It was across the creek from the main portion of town, in a tall white building. “So … you just give up on your mine come winter? I thought the most stalwart miners worked all winter long.”

It was her turn to cover a wry smile. “I’m not a miner. I am here for this.…” She paused, gestured behind him, as if the mountains beyond told him what she wanted to say, then turned and walked into the cabin, Sinopa right behind her.

Nic glanced over his shoulder. It was getting darker by the minute, a few of the brightest stars now visible, the silhouette of the mountains appearing black against the sky’s purple. She stayed here because of the view?

He took a few steps, looking back toward the cabin, and then saw Sabine through the open doorway with her arm draped around Everett’s shoulders, staring downward alongside him. Probably at Peter’s forever-still body, stretched out on the floor.

Nic tried to cut short his shiver.

Who were these people to him? Why not walk away? Why did he feel this strange pull of responsibility, kinship, connection? If he left now, he could get down to town and spend the night, then head out in the morning. He’d be to Odessa’s by tomorrow night, or the next day for sure.

He turned and took a few steps toward Daisy, who was still tied to a post out in front of the cabin. If he left now, before Everett or even Sabine was depending on him, it would be better for all of them. Who was he to take on a kid? A mine? All he’d been looking for was work with a promising glimpse of a coming payout. Without Peter, there was no way, no way he could do it. He’d get to town, find a boxing match. Take on a few rounds, win, and at least have some money in his pocket when he left town.

He reached for Daisy’s reins and glanced up, to see if his neighbors were watching him out the window. But they weren’t. Sinopa stood by the fireplace, staring at the flames. Everett was in Sabine’s arms sobbing—he could see the scene now, through the thick panes of glass—as she stroked his small back and held him tight.

Nic stilled, transfixed. There was something about her anguished look, the child’s grief that kept him from moving. He remembered crying like that, once. When was the last time?

When his father came to him and told him that his mother was gone. Dead in childbirth.

Father had died himself that day, in a way. It was too much—too much for all of them. But for his father, after four other St. Clair children had been taken by the White Death, it was as if he was just one nail short of a finished coffin. Ever after, his eyes were weary, his last real action to send his remaining children West to chase the cure for Odessa. That action had thrown all three of them on a radically different course than what might have been taken if they had stayed home in Philadelphia. A course that had led Nic to Europe and back, down to the islands and South America, all the way here, back to Colorado. Here, to this mining town. Here. To the Gulch.

He looked down at the toes of his boots, catching the light of the cabin’s lamps, and then back inside. Everett pulled away, looked up into Sabine’s face and nodded to whatever she had said. He used the back of his hand to rub his dripping nose and then brushed away the tears.

Nic swallowed hard. He couldn’t leave them. Not yet. He’d give the mine a week, to see if it was as promising as Peter had made it sound—and fulfill his promise to Everett. He’d find Everett a good home. Surely here, or in neighboring Alpine, there would be someone to take the boy. If need be, Buena Vista was only a few hours away. Then he could move on and find out where this course would take him next.

o

Daniel was eating breakfast at the table with the men—the only meal served in the main house other than Sunday dinner—when he heard horses riding hard down the lane. From the rumble, there had to be four or more. He glanced at Bryce, then Moira, who was standing by the stove. He rose, wiping his mouth on a napkin. He and Bryce walked down the hallway and through the parlor to the front porch, with several of the other men behind them. Outside in the back, the sunrise was just turning the Sangre de Cristos a deep pink.

It was Mr. Weaver, from Westcliffe, along with several young men. All had gun belts on.

“Is there a problem, Weaver?” Bryce asked.

The men stayed in their saddles.

“Bank was robbed last night,” Mr. Weaver said. “These here are three deputies we’ve hired.” He turned his face toward Daniel. “I know I told you that you could wait a week. But we need you in town now, Daniel. The people won’t wait any longer.”

Bryce, Odessa, and Moira looked at Daniel. He had said nothing, merely reached out a hand to Bryce. “I’ve thought long and hard on this, Bryce, I appreciate the work here, but as you said, I’d be good at this.”

Bryce took his hand and shook it, but his eyes flitted to Moira. She took a step forward.

The others, sensing the tension between them, moved back into the house. The deputies and Mr. Weaver moved off a few respectful paces.

Daniel took Moira’s arm and tugged her around the corner of the porch.

She pulled out of his grip. “Stop it. Don’t touch me.”

“Moira, I have to do this.”

“You don’t have to do anything. You are choosing to do this. Choosing to leave me. Choosing to put yourself in danger.”

He clamped his lips shut and slowly placed his hat on his head. “I’m sorry this hurts you. It wasn’t my intention to ever hurt you.”

He regretted not finding the right time, the right way to tell her why he must do this. But deep down, he knew she would have objected to him taking the sheriff’s job regardless of when she found out. He needed to see this through, resolve the pain that had filled his heart for years.

And the only way to do that was to track down his wife’s remaining killer.