High Country Bride (18 page)

“Yes,” she said, knowing all the while that she should have said no. Turning, she marched into the Territorial Hotel. Clive was behind the desk, fussing and fretting.

“Whatever is the matter with you?” Becky asked, her tone admittedly peevish.

“The stage will be in any minute now,” Clive said. “Sometimes, there are people on it.”

“Yes,” Becky said, with an effort at patience. “That is the point of running a passenger service, I believe.”

“I don’t like talking to people. They give me nerves.”

Becky gazed heavenward for a few moments—as if she could expect any special dispensation from
that
quarter. “If you are going to work in a hotel, it stands to reason that you must expect to deal with the general public.”

“I get hives,” Clive said, and indeed, he did appear to be breaking out in a rash along the length of his throat. “See?” he cried, tugging at his collar to indicate his infirmity.

A great racket arose on the main road, which was less than a block away. The stage was coming in. “Get a hold of yourself,” Becky ordered, but not unkindly, going over a mental checklist even as she spoke. All the beds were clean, she’d taken care of that task herself, and she’d given her cook a suggested menu and a list of items to buy on account at the mercantile. They were ready for guests. “These are ordinary travelers, not marauding outlaws. Just take their money and give them keys and try not to insult them.”

Clive looked miserable. He brought a dime novel out from under the counter and showed it to Becky, turning to a page showing a rather sensational drawing of a dangerous desperado shooting down a bartender in cold blood.“Just look at what can happen,” he said.

Becky made a clucking sound as she inspected the illustration and the first few lines of the story. Trash, that was all it was, yellow journalism calculated to fill people’s heads with nonsense. “I would imagine,” she mused, at some length, “that the poor man asked for meatloaf, and was told, in rather rude tones, that it wasn’t available.”

Clive’s eyes widened, and he went pale behind his hives. Becky shook her head, swatting at him over the counter with the soft-covered book.

“I will be right here,” she said. “I promise, if anyone tries to shoot you, I’ll stop them immediately.” Unless, of course, she thought wryly, that “anyone” is me. “Do leave off pulling at your collar that way. You’ll only make the eruptions worse.”

Poor Clive looked as though he might break down and weep with agitation, and he stayed close to Becky when the first customers straggled in, dusty and tired from their long trip on the stagecoach. There wouldn’t be a departing coach until the next afternoon.

Two spinster sisters started the rush, bony, angular women with long, thin necks, sparse brown hair, and beaklike noses. They signed in as Hester and Esther Milldown, and said they meant to settle near Crippled Cow Springs, on a ranch that had belonged to their dear, departed brother. Becky welcomed them, trying, as she did so, to demonstrate to Clive how customers should be greeted, and showed them to the most spacious room, apart from number 8, of course, which she’d kept for herself.

She’d just returned from room 5, having helped the Milldown sisters with their bags, when the nun came in. She wore a black habit much the worse for wear, and her face seemed very small inside her wimple. The poor thing must have been sweltering under all that heavy material.

It was her eyes that really caught Becky’s attention, though: they were enormous, the color of aquamarine, and full of fear. She’d seen
that
look often enough, back in Kansas City. This child, nun or not, was running from something, and she was terrified.

“I don’t have much money,” she said in a very small voice, addressing herself to Becky. “Perhaps I could work for my keep? I wouldn’t need much—just a cot someplace—and I can get by on one meal a day.”

The kid was sincere, at least where wanting work was concerned; Becky would have spotted a con game right off. “You plan on staying around Indian Rock for a while, I presume?” she asked quietly. “I have need of a maid.”

The quick eagerness in that worried little face touched Becky, and that was no mean accomplishment. She’d seen just about everything in her time, and she was not easily swayed by sentiment. The girl nodded.“I can do any work that needs doing,” she said. “You’ll never regret it if you take me on.”

Clive’s skin condition was subsiding, since no gunman had up wanting meatloaf, and now he came up with the courage to speak.“Don’t you have to live in some convent or something?” he asked. It was a reasonable question, Becky thought, if a little roundabout.

The newcomer smiled shyly and ducked her head a little. “I’ll be teaching at a mission school, outside of Tucson,” she said. “But it might be some time before Father Meyers can spare anyone to come for me. I—I had money to travel the rest of the way but we—we were robbed a few days ago by road agents, and I lost all but what I had hidden in my—what I had hidden.”

“Well, you poor thing,” Becky said, rounding the desk and putting her arm around the waif. “You’re among friends now, and you’re welcome here at the hotel for as long as you need to stay. We’ll telegraph Father Meyers, to let him know you’re safe.”

“Oh,” the girl said, just a shade too quickly, “please don’t trouble yourself. I’ll send a letter myself.”

Becky smiled warmly. She knew a secret when she met one; she’d kept a few herself.“I’m Mrs. Fairmont, and this is Clive,” she said.“What shall we call you?”

“Mandy,” said the nun, and flushed a little. “Sister Mandy, I mean.”

“Sister Mandy,”Becky repeated.“Well, well, well. Are you required to wear that habit all the time, Sister? I have a couple of spare dresses we could take in. They’d be more comfortable, I’m sure, when the hot weather comes.”

The longing in that girl’s face was something to see, but in the end, she shook her head.“I’d best wear my nun clothes,” she said.“That’s what they told me to do.”

Becky was fairly certain that the “they” in question wasn’t the Holy Roman Catholic Church; she could tell a nun from a scared kid playing dress-up.“Let’s get you settled in,” she said. “There’s a nice little room just back of the kitchen. All we have to do is move a few boxes and bring in a bed.”

The wolves were elusive. After three days spent hunting them, Rafe called the search to a halt and set his mind on getting the house built. Emmeline was still fractious over the burning of the Pelton place, and they weren’t talking much. He hoped this would appease her a little.

Coming back to the hilltop without her had a lonely feel to it, Rafe thought, even though he’d been there by himself a thousand times before she’d come to the TripleM. He glanced at the circle of stones where their fire had burned, and at the place in the grass where they’d made love, ducking his head a little so that his hat brim hid his face. If he let anything show, he’d be in for another round of joshing from Kade and Jeb, and he just wasn’t up to that.

He swung down from the saddle to stretch his legs, as did his father and the other riders. The supply wagon, necessarily slower than their horses, was still laboring up the track with the crosscut saws, various tools, kegs of nails, and an assortment of other things they’d need to start building. Rafe felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of coming home to this place after a day’s work, or, more specifically, of coming home to Emmeline. Eventually, he hoped, there would be a passel of kids hurrying out to greet him.

Kade elbowed him. “What are you grinning about, Big Brother?” he asked, but it was plain that he’d already guessed. There was a look of friendly ausement in his eyes. “You’re a lucky son of a gun, you know that?” he added.

“Yeah,” Rafe said, a bit hoarsely.“I know.”

There was a pause. Then Kade rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get to work,” he said, for Rafe’s benefit and that of the other men.“You got the rooms marked off?”

The lines of the house weren’t staked, except in Rafe’s head. In his mind, he could have gone through the place blindfolded, pointing out every nook and cranny.

Eager to get started, he paced off the outside walls while they waited for the wagon, and he and Kade set rocks at all the corners. In the meantime, Jeb and Cavanagh and a few of the others set up a camp, of sorts, building a fire to keep the coffee flowing, while others tended to the horses. The animals were relieved of their saddles and bridles and left to graze in the knee-deep grass.

Angus seemed bent on helping out, though he was obviously a little distracted, as if he were gnawing on something way at the back of his mind. Rafe had seen that look in his pa’s eyes often enough to know that it didn’t necessarily bode well, and he hoped the old man wasn’t fixing to say the house ought to face in the other direction or something. There was likely to be an argument if he did.

The wagon arrived, finally, and the sun was up, making the dew sparkle in the grass and the leaves of the oak trees shimmer. Angus kept glancing at that Cavanagh fellow, like he thought he ought to know him from someplace, but he didn’t commence telling everybody what to do, and for Rafe that was enough.

By midmorning, the first logs were set into the ground and chinked with mortar, top and bottom, and by noon, the structure was waist high, with the openings for the doors and windows cut away. The men drove themselves hard, shirtless and sweating, working the crosscut saw, using the wagon mules and lengths of heavy chain to hoist each log into place.

While they ate the grub Red had packed at the bunkhouse, and drank some of the worst coffee Rafe had ever tasted, Angus stood beside him, admiring the beginnings of the house.

“That’s going to be a fine home,” Angus said. “Makes me feel old, seeing one of my boys take a wife and put up walls and a roof of his own.”

Angus was rarely sentimental, and his present mood worried Rafe a little. He slapped his father on the back. “You’ll be up here visiting all the time, Pa,” he said, “bouncing those grandchildren on your knee.”

A light of anticipation gleamed in the old man’s eyes. “Reckon I will at that,” he said. About that time, there was a shout, followed by a thundering roar, and Angus and Rafe turned to look just as one of the largest piles of logs gave way, shaking the very ground itself as they rolled.

“Sweet Jesus,” Angus rasped.

Rafe, for his part, was struck dumb, momentarily at least. The whole thing was over in a few seconds, but it was like watching an avalanche, or a dam breaking. He shook off his paralysis and ran toward the site. “Anybody hurt?”

“That Cavanagh fella’s pinned!” one of the men yelled.

Sure enough, there was the Texan, his face as white as bleached linen, his right leg wedged under a log as big around as a man’s middle. There probably weren’t enough men on the whole ranch to move that thing off him—not without doing a lot more damage to Cavanagh’s leg in the process. Worse, if they weren’t careful, and lucky as all hell, they’d set it rolling again, and it would crush the man to death before they could get him clear.

“Bring the mules,” Angus said, crouching beside the fallen man. “You’re going to be all right,” he added. “You need a swallow of whiskey?”

Cavanagh was sweating with pain, and fear, too, if he had any sense, but he turned down the whiskey with a shake of his head. “I could do with some water,” he said, “and a prayer or two.”

Rafe and another man brought the mules, then fastened the chains around the ends of the log, making sure they were secure. Cavanagh took a few sips from Angus’s canteen and raised himself onto his elbows. Kade and Jeb were behind him, ready to take him by the shoulders and drag him out when the time came.

Rafe crouched next to the log and peered beneath it. “You feel any rocks or anything like that under your leg?” he asked Cavanagh.

The Texan shook his head. His hair was wet with perspiration, and his jaw was clenched tight. A lot of good men would have been screaming by then, if they hadn’t passed out, but he hadn’t so much as groaned. “I don’t feel anything but pain,” he said.“There’s a good bit of that.”

Rafe exchanged glances with Angus. Then he waved his arm, and the men driving the mules shouted and slapped down the reins for all they were worth. The chains rattled, clanked, sprang taut. The log didn’t budge at first, then it gave a creaking lurch, and Cavanagh bit clean through his lower lip at the pain, drawing blood. Kade and Jeb yanked him free and dragged him to safety a second before one of the chains snapped like a length of frayed string, sending one end of the log into a long, lethal sweep, leaving a deep gash in the earth to mark its passing. Fortunately, men and beasts were clear of its path, and it finally ground to a stop.

Angus got down on one knee beside Cavanagh and cut away the leg of his pants to reveal the twisted, bloody flesh beneath. The bone was sticking right out, and for a moment Rafe felt light-headed.

“I need a tourniquet,” Angus said, all business. “And a flask.” He looked down at Cavanagh’s contorted face. “This time, you don’t get a choice. You’re going to need whiskey, and plenty of it, to get down that mountain without dying from the pain.”

Rafe squatted down beside his father. “I’ll send a man for the doc,” he said to Angus. Then he turned to Cavanagh and spoke with frankness, which was all he knew to do. “You’ll never stand the ride into Indian Rock—just getting back to the house is going to be rough enough.”