Echoes (42 page)

Late afternoon found the wagons circled in their customary corral and the livestock milling around inside. Their lowing mingled with the snatches of conversations that filtered through the slanted rays of sunshine. Word of the wealth that the band of Indians brought had spread as far as the company that followed them. With the day's end came three young men from that party to join the wagering.

The women had gathered at a vantage point on the skirts of camp. Mrs. Imogene sent Molly to join them. "I'm done in, Miss Molly, but you go on without me. I'd rather stay here with our little man than watch the big ones act foolish."

From where she stood with the other women she had a clear vision of Adam and the men on one side of the fire. On the other were an ancient Indian and half a dozen young warriors who squatted, listening intently to the rise and fall of the elder's voice. In the background, two squaws in pale buckskin dresses spoke quietly while they made their meal preparations. A naked little boy of Arlie's age played nearby.

Whiskey jugs were passed freely between the surrounding men, Indian and white alike, and the spicy scent of excitement mingled with the aroma of burning buffalo chips and roasting meat.

Buffalo
skins towered behind the Indians alongside other soft furs, rugs, cradleboards, baskets, hatchets and saddles. Molly heard much speculation on how many of the saddles and firearms were contraband, pilfered from other emigrants met along the way. They'd all heard stories of Indians trading horses for goods, and the unlucky emigrant who thought he'd made a good deal only to find out that the horses were stolen from a company either ahead or behind. Molly had to admire their audacity if not their morals.

The emigrants had amassed their own stores of fortune to be wagered. Copper cooking pots and heavy skillets, hammers, bright bolts of fabric that had been wrangled away from their women, whiskey and sugar waited in neat segregation for the contest.

Molly stood beside Mrs. Carlisle who told her that she'd already missed much of the competition. Adam had won his round with a stern-faced Indian who had eyes of coal and skin that glowed like bronze. The Captain had not been so lucky and had lost to a brash young man who, according to Mrs. Carlisle, had been a poor sport about it. A few items of the wagered goods had exchanged hands, but the majority was left to ride on the race. The next competitors were about to take their places and all eyes were on them.

The last of sunset slipped beneath the desert landscape and only the campfires kept the night aglow. The women huddled together, watching as the tension became thick as the hissing smoke from the campfires. Molly looked for Adam, but couldn't find him in the tight cluster of men. Quietly she slipped away from Mrs. Carlisle's side and went to the place where Storm waited beside the Indian's horses, hoping to find him there. The darkness cloaked her and the ground muffled her footsteps as she moved behind the spectators. Everyone was focused on the competition and no one even noticed her.

As she drew near the tethered horses, she saw a shadow moving between them. Adam, she thought, with mixed emotions. The very thought of him filled her with happiness, but the burden of Brodie's treachery overwhelmed her. The horses whinnied nervously as he went about his business.

"Adam?" she said softly.

He was bent low between Storm and another horse, so intent on whatever he was doing that he didn't hear her. She moved closer and tried again.

"Adam?"

He jumped straight up with a low shout that spooked both horses. His gelding danced to the side and the other horse let loose a snort of alarm and pulled away.

"Whoa," he said. "Settle down, you stupid horses."

It wasn't Adam. No sooner had the realization dawned when another shape parted from the cluster of applauding men and crossed to join the first.

"Everything alright, Brodie?" Adam asked. "The race is next."

"Damn Indian horses are scaring Storm. Had to calm him down."

The shouting became deafening cries as in the distance the victor triumphed over his contender. Brodie took Storm by the halter and led him forward. Molly held her breath, watching as he passed unknowingly in front of her. She moved not a muscle but as he drew even with her, he paused. Slowly he turned his head and looked right into her face.

There was promise in his eyes, hatred in the hard set of his jaw, violence in the thin line of his lips.

"Come on, Brodie," Adam said sharply. "They're ready to start."

As if to confirm his statement, one of the Indian men materialized beside them, took his own horse by the halter and led it into the circle.

Knowing that whatever advantage she might have gained by waiting to find Adam alone had been destroyed by her slip, Molly quickly moved from the shadowy concealment. "Adam, I must speak with you," she said.

Brodie's pale features flickered like bone in the moonlight as Adam turned with surprise. He frowned at her, obviously wondering where she'd come from before he noticed the anxiety that must surely be written in bold lines across her face. "What's wrong?" he asked with deep concern. He handed Brodie Storm's reins and stepped to her side.

"They're waiting on us," Brodie snapped.

Lowering his head closer to Molly, Adam looked deeply in her eyes. "What is it, Molly?"

"Weston, you coming?" the Captain demanded from the edge of the clearing.

Adam glanced over his shoulder with impatience. "Go on," he said to Brodie.

"The Captain wants you out there," Brodie said.

"Weston!" The Captain shouted again.

"Molly, I—"

Panic swelled up inside her. She'd shown her cards before she could play her hand. "I know. You must go. But Adam, as soon as the race is over, we must talk. It's urgent."

He nodded, looking as if he might say to hell with the race. For a moment, she thought he would. But then footsteps pounded the earth and one of the men in their party appeared. "Captain's shoutin' for you, Adam."

"I'll find you when it's over," he told her.

She nodded and let him go. Dry-mouthed, she watched the circle part and then close ranks as he and Brodie made their way to the center. Just before he moved out of sight, Brodie looked back at her.

Vanessa thought she’d use me against Adam. But, I couldn’t let her do that.

He wouldn't let Molly do it either. In that look she'd seen determination. She'd seen desperation. She'd seen vengeance.

She felt sick when she rejoined the women. She tried to reassure herself that Adam would find her and she would make things right. What could Brodie do in the meantime? Nothing. But a part of her didn't believe it. She watched Brodie as he stood at Adam's side, the harnessed gelding still in his grasp as Walter O'Keefe stepped forth to meet his opponent. The Indian he would ride against was a small, nimble man that looked quick enough to win the race on foot. By comparison, Walter seemed a giant.

The Indian took a running jump and leapt on bareback, reaching carelessly for the strap of harness. Walter swung into the saddle with equal grace. An expectant hush fell over the crowd.

The old Indian she'd seen earlier moved to a designated place where two poles had been hammered into the ground and a thin twine tethered between them. A weaving, erratic course had been set and marked with poles and flags. The riders would navigate the markers at top speed and the first to break the twine barrier was the winner.

She willed Adam to turn around, to see her but his attention was riveted on Walter who sat firm in Adam's saddle. Beside him the Indian looked like an extension of the sleek animal he sat astride. The men of both sides shouted encouragements as the horses pranced with nervous excitement. Feeding on the nervous energy that snapped with the sparks from the fire, the animals tossed their heads and pawed the ground at the start line. Molly wanted to shriek for it all to be over.

The old Indian raised a red handkerchief. A collective breath was caught and held. The handkerchief came down. The horses bolted forward, rounding bends and corners at breakneck speed before opening up to gallop the stretches. The shadows chased and taunted them across the moonlight vista. At the end of the stretch they made hairpin turns and started back to the crowd. Walter was holding his own with the Indian and the cheers rose and echoed in the night.

Mrs. Carlisle reached out and grabbed Molly's hand in her own as she chanted, "Go, Walter, go."

As if hearing her, Storm darted forward, stretching its strides with a valiant effort. They were neck and neck. And then something went wrong.

The Indian's horse seemed to falter, the stride broken in mid-step. Riding without harness or saddle, the Indian lurched to the side while urging the horse to move. The horse tossed her head back at him and reared up on her back legs, off balance and panicked. The rider launched himself off as the horse propelled itself over onto its back. The sound it made turned Molly's blood cold.

As if time had been stilled to a crawl, Molly watched Walter and Storm sail across the tethered finish line.

A deathly silence hushed the Indians as wild whoops and calls echoed through the emigrants. The Indian's horse struggled to its feet and limped to a stop a few feet away. Stunned, the Indians moved to the animal and the unseated rider. Peering through the dark, Molly watched as Adam shouldered his way to where they stood.

"What happened?" Molly asked Mrs. Carlisle.

"I don't quite know. Something made that horse balk."

A rumble rose from the tight circle of Indians and foreign sounding words flew like hail.

Molly saw the old Indian who'd waved the flag push through to the horse. Following the wild gesticulations, he bent and lifted its front hoof and inspected it. For one moment, the Indians were silent.

And then suddenly the shouts rose again, this time there was no mistaking the words for anything but accusations, hurled like rocks at the band of emigrants. Too far away to see it all, too close not to understand the consequences, the women drew in together.

Adam and the Captain were speaking to the elder and the enraged rider, trying to reason with them about whatever had happened. But swift as a bullet, the first Indian broke free, with a cry of rage and ran into the pack of whites like a wild animal.

It happened so quickly that some of the emigrants were still parading with furs draped on their shoulders and whiskey jugs in their hands, laughing and clowning for the others. With horror, Molly realized that weapons had been drawn. The first gunshot split the air with a resounding crack and then a war cry pierced the din.

Chapter Forty-Six

"Tess? What's wrong with you? Tess?"

Craig's voice cut through the thundering pandemonium, hauling her back from the past as she fought to remain. "Oh my God," she whispered, still seeing the bloodlust on the faces surrounding Molly. What was happening now? What next? Where was Arlie? What would—

"Here, drink this."

A glass of water was thrust into her hand as Craig helped her back to the chair at the table. She didn't know when she'd stood up. She couldn't remember what had happened before—

Her gaze settled on the papers and memory rushed at her. Grant, Smith, Lydia all in partnership to— Lydia, murdered and Grant... what had Craig said? That the sheriff was at his house right now, looking for Tori's body? But Tori was buried back in Ohio and—

No, Vanessa was buried in
Ohio. Tori was still missing. Tess swiveled around to see Caitlin who sat on the couch, TV jabbering incessantly in front of her. But she was watching Tess with widened eyes. She was trying to sort out fact from fantasy, past from present, meaning from message.

Again and again Tess had wracked her brain, trying to understand why, why Molly's life was playing like a loop tape over in Tess's head. It all hinged on Tori and Vanessa...didn't it? Wasn't that the only reasonable explanation?

Reasonable. Ridiculous.

And yet the answer she sought was just at the edge of her thoughts, the tip of her fingers...ungraspable and evasive, yet there. Just out of reach.

"Tess, I'm sorry," Craig was saying. "I shouldn't have sprung that on you. I was so upset when I saw these papers. I can't let him get away with this. I don't care if he is my brother, he's gone too far. I let it go before and I've spent my life paying the price. I can't live with myself if I do it again."

"Let what go before? What are you talking about, Craig?"

He looked at her with torment. The pain she saw in his eyes was like a cavern that sank so deep no light could ever penetrate it. "You remember at the cemetery? You remember what I told you about the church fire?"

"Of course. You lost your mother in that fire."

"I didn't lose her, Tess. She was taken away from me and from my father. That morning she'd caught Grant doing drugs behind the barn. He's been an abuser since he was a teenager. If he wasn't drunk he was high or tripping. He'd have never made it through high school without Lydia doing all his homework for him. When Mom caught him, she threatened to send him to a camp. You know, the tough love places? Only back then, they didn't even pretend that love was involved. She wanted to send him to this place that a member of her church had sent her son. That kid came back a changed boy."