Gaffney, Patricia (32 page)

She sniffed. Thought he could sweet-talk her, did he? For the last
time, she jerked out of the soft hold he had on her arm. "Leave me alone
and quit bothering me," she huffed, flinging away and stalking up the
alley. At the corner, she shot a glance back over her shoulder, but only once.
To make sure he was following.

He was.

"Poppy!
Hey, Cady!"

Beside her on the wagon, Levi waved to his son, grinning and
chuckling deep down in his chest. Cady sympathized. Something about Ham and his
huge, toothy grin, the pure joy in his face when he was happy, the gangly,
endearing way his arms and legs were outgrowing the rest of him—whenever she
saw him, she just felt like laughing.

Levi said, "Whoa, horse," and the little mare trotted to
a sedate halt in front of Rogue's Tavern. He jumped down just as Ham launched
himself into his arms, staggering both of them back against the hitching rail.
"You home," Ham exulted, and Levi hoisted him high up in the air to
celebrate. "Oh, Poppy, you been gone
forever."

"Forever," Levi agreed, hugging him hard before setting
him on his feet. Two nights was all, but as far as Cady knew, Levi and Ham had
never been separated before.

"Welcome home," said a soft voice behind them, and
Levi's face split into a grin as wide and joyful as his son's. Cady watched him
walk toward his wife, wondering if they'd kiss or embrace. If so, it would be
for the first time—in public, that was. She'd never seen them do anything but
touch hands in front of people, not even at their Buddhist wedding last fall.
Lia was strict about things like that, which made her new
occupation—saloonkeeper's wife—an even more interesting turn of events.

Ham leaped up beside Cady on the wagon, and she barely got her
hands up for a shield before he threw his arms around her and squeezed. She
winced—but managed to change a pained grimace into a welcoming grin before he
noticed. She was still sore, but this was nothing compared to yesterday, and by
tomorrow she planned to be good as new.

"What'd you do while we were gone?" she quizzed him. "Did
you mind Lia? How's your grandfather?"

Ham called Mr. Chang Zi, which was Chinese for "Master,"
and the old man called him Zi, too, because the word also meant
"son." The two were thick as thieves. In fact, Cady credited Ham for
softening the old man up, because at first he'd been against his only daughter
marrying a hēirén—Negro. But no longer. Nowadays, although he never set
foot inside the Rogue—it went against his religion—on soft summer nights old
Chang liked to sit in a rocking chair on the red balcony with his new family,
smoking his long clay pipe.

While Ham told Cady everything he'd been doing for the last two
days, Levi unloaded a dozen crates of whiskey from the back of the wagon,
careful not to jar Cady's seedling flats and burlap-wrapped saplings. Her trip
to Grant's Pass had been for two reasons (well, three as it turned out, but the
third one was unplanned): first, to introduce Levi to George Nickerson of
Nickerson & Spann Liquor and Spirits Wholesalers, and to personally vouch
for him so the fact that he was colored wouldn't prejudice Mr. Nickerson; and
second, to pick up her precious hybrid pear specimens from the nursery herself,
not trust them to the mail service. She'd done that once, in March, with a
dozen dwarf apple saplings, and less than half had arrived alive. Never again.

"Please, come in and have tea with us," Lia invited.

"I'd like to, but I told Jesse I'd be home before sunset for
sure. Next time?"

"Yes, next time." Lia smiled and made one of her
graceful bows.

Ham jumped down off the wagon. Levi said to him, "Did you get
Cady's mail like she ask you?"

"Oh, yeah." He stuck his hand in the back pocket of his
dungarees and dug out a letter. "You only got one." He handed it up,
and she smiled when she saw the return address: "M.N., Golden Leaf Farm,
Lexington, Ky." But all she said was, "Thanks, Ham."

"You welcome."

"Well, I guess I better get on." She said it casually,
like she wasn't in much of a hurry. But she and Jesse had never been separated
before, either, and two days really
did
seem like forever.

Levi tipped his hat. "Meant what I said," he told her in
a low mumble. "Don't forget."

"What? What'd you say?" Ham had to know.

"Well, I didn't say it to you, did I?"

"I won't forget," Cady promised, sending him a soft
look. How could she? The sincerity of Levi's gratitude had moved and
embarrassed her. And for what? Things she'd never give a second thought to,
like making sure he got good terms on the sale of the saloon, or going with him
for the first time to meet his liquor and beer and tobacco and glassware
suppliers. Shoot, wasn't that what friends were for?

"Oh! Oh!" Ham started jumping up and down. "Did you
hear who won? Poppy, did you hear?"

"Who won what?"

"The Kentucky Derby! Came through today on the
telegraph!"

"Who won?"

"Horse name Buchanan."

"Uh-huh."

"An' guess who ridin' him. Guess!"

"Ham, how would I—"

"A
Negro
man."

"What? No."

"Yes! He name Isaac Murphy, and he the first colored man ever
to win the Derby."

"Well, I'll swan. That is something, now. Yes,
sir."

Cady agreed, but she and Levi and Lia sent each other wry,
resigned looks over Ham's head. Just when he'd started switching from jockey to
deep-sea fisherman for a life's goal, this had to happen. Now it was back to
jockey for sure.

They all waved and said so long, and Cady set the mare to a trot
down Main Street toward home. Passing the livery stable, she waved at Logan and
he waved back. It had been months now, but it still seemed strange not to see
Nestor out front, mending harness or dozing in the shade. Part of the settling
of a suit against Wylie gave the livery back to Logan, though, along with a
cash payment, the terms of which Cady wasn't privy to. But if it was anywhere
near as generous as
her
cash settlement, Logan must be sitting pretty.

Riding by the sheriff's office, she looked for Glendoline, but for
once she wasn't there. Too bad. Glen liked to sit outside the jail on nice days
and rock the new baby. Cady missed her, but it was probably just as well. She
was in a hurry to get home, and if Glen had been there with the baby she'd have
had to stop. And talk, and hold that baby. She just wouldn't have been able to
help herself.

The houses thinned; the road narrowed. Cady took a deep breath and
wondered if it was her imagination that it not only looked prettier down here,
it smelled better than it did up there around Grant's Pass. Maybe it was just
that she was going home. Yeah. That was probably it.

She passed the Seven Dollar and almost turned in, but at the last
second she let the horse trot on by. Business could wait till tomorrow. Anyway,
Shrimp would've told Jesse if anything interesting had happened while she was
away. She had to smile, remembering her reaction when Jesse suggested Shrimp
might make a good mine captain. Shrimp Malone? That smelly old prospector?
Well, he was still smelly, but it turned out he wasn't that old. And more to the
point, what Shrimp didn't know about gold mining you could write on the head of
a pin. Next to the Gettysburg Address. He'd turned out perfect, and it was all
Jesse's doing.

Ah, Jesse. Married nine months and three weeks, and she could
still get flushed just thinking about him. Maybe she'd never get over that.
Maybe she'd live to ninety and still get giddy whenever her
ninety-three-year-old husband winked at her. Wouldn't that be something? Well,
it wouldn't surprise her. Not one bit.

She sat up straighter, nose high, sniffing the air like a hunting
dog. "Ahh," she said out loud to Nell, the sweet-tempered little mare
Jesse had given her for Christmas. "Smell that? Apple blossoms. Mmm,
smells like money." She cackled at herself; she sounded like Jesse. He'd
say a thing like that and not mean it any more than she did. For one thing, her
orchard probably wouldn't bring in much of anything this year, its first year.
(Although next year, when her hard work started to pay off, all the pruning and
grafting and budding she'd been doing since February, plus all the tilling,
planting, thinning, and spraying she planned to do this summer—well then,
then
you'd see something.) And for another thing, even if she made a million
dollars, money wasn't what that airy apple scent smelled like to Cady. It
smelled like... oh, so many good things. Freedom and independence (which was
odd, seeing as how orchard-keeping was a much riskier business than saloon-keeping).
And home—her place, her very own life's work, which she loved and was getting
good at. And Jesse. Yeah, it smelled like Jesse. Her wildest dream come true.

The old stone gatepost at their turnoff didn't list anymore; Jesse
had straightened it up, and painted it white while he was at it. Steering the
horse around the corner, Cady admired the brand-new sign he'd ordered from a
fancy sign store up in Eugene, LA VALLÉE AUX COQUINS, it read in blue letters
at the top, and rogue valley farm in red at the bottom. And in the middle a
beautiful black horse flew, with glossy wings outstretched, graceful as an
eagle's. It was the spitting image of Pegasus.

The sun had dropped behind the tallest orchard trees, turning
everything in the world mellow-gold and dreamy. Bees still buzzed in the fruit
tree blossoms, and spring peepers were tuning up in the wild-flower meadow,
still boggy from the winter rains. Across a lawn of buttercups and violets, the
house came into view. After a lot of false starts and nervous stops, they'd
finally painted it crocus-yellow—not white!—with lavender shutters and white
pilasters, parapets, and porch railings. That had seemed like a very daring
move, even foolhardy, especially when winter came and everything around their
cheerful pastel mansion died, went to sleep, or turned brown. But then spring
came, vibrant and earthy and bright, and it absolutely vindicated them—made
their choice look inspired.

And Cady had learned a valuable lesson that for some reason had
been eluding her: that she and Jesse didn't have to
duplicate
the old
Russell place, didn't have to restore it to
exactly
what it had looked
like thirty years ago. They could fix it up and make it theirs, and
sometimes—sometimes the changes they decided on would actually
improve
it.
Imagine that. And here she'd always thought it was already perfect. Funny: her
idea of perfection—something you strove for but could never achieve—kept
getting pushed back, expanded. Redefined. She had to keep changing the
definition of it because it seemed to her she kept
achieving
it. Which
was impossible. By definition.

A man coming around the house from the stables looked like Jesse
for a second. Her heart did a familiar little two-step before she realized it
was only Nestor. She waved; he waved. She slowed the wagon and stopped in front
of the house.

"Howdy, Cady." He touched his beat-up hat. All Nestor's
hats were beat-up. He favored straw, and so did the horses he cared for, who
were forever taking bites out of his hats. "Nice trip?"

"Real nice. How's everything?"

"Fine, just fine."

She asked the real question. "Where's Jesse?"

"He's down at the stables. Worrying about where the hell
you've been."

She smiled, pleased.

"So you better get down there. He's waitin' on you. Got a
surprise."

"Oh, Nestor! Is it what I think it is?"

"I ain't talkin'." But he couldn't help winking, and the
tickled look on his whiskery face told her exactly what she wanted to know.
"Better get on," he repeated. "Leave Nell out front, I'll
unhitch 'er in a bit."

"Hot damn." Jiggling the reins, she got the mare going.
"Thank you," she called back, and he tipped his half-eaten hat.

Jesse said the new stable looked like the Taj Mahal. An
exaggeration; it was white with rust-red trim— end of similarity. Still, there
was something pleasingly jewellike in its clean lines, and on the inside it was
definitely roomier and more immaculate than any house Cady had ever lived in.
So far it only had three occupants—four, if Jesse's surprise was what she
thought it was. But that would soon change, because two weeks ago Wylie's
lawyers had finally caved in and settled her lawsuit against their jailbird
client. As soon as she signed a few more papers, she'd be rich.
Really
rich—enough
to pay for all the fruit trees and all the helpers she wanted to make her
orchard flourish; rich enough to finish fencing the paddocks and pastures
Jesse's horses needed to graze and train and roam in; and most of all, rich
enough to start buying the quality stock he wanted, so he could turn Rogue
Valley Farm into the finest equine and stud establishment in the Northwest.

"Whoa, Nell." Cady reined the mare in before the closed
stable doors. "Nestor's coming in a sec," she told her, springing
down from the wagon, shaking out her skirts and fluffing her hair. "Delicious
oats any minute. Promise." She gave her a pat on her velvet nose, then
cracked open the stable doors and slipped inside.

Whoever would guess that Miss Cady McGill, former saloon owner and
blackjack dealer, would grow to love the smell of a horse stable? She had,
though, all of it, the whole musky combination of leather and dust and sweat
and straw and wood and—yes, even manure. It was a lusty, manly smell. It
reminded her of Jesse, so how could she not love it? In its way, it was as
sweet as apple blossoms. At least to her.