Remember Me (Defiant MC) (19 page)

Mad waited for the traffic light to change as he watched the residents of Contention City hurrying around with their sandbags and their worry.  It made him think of Gabriela.  She lived in the lowest part of the valley.  If there was a real risk of flood, she had reason to worry.  

He rode down the long stretch of the town’s main street and veered off onto a dirt road.  It was several inches deep in muddy water, but nothing he couldn’t handle.  Nonetheless, he exercised a little more caution than usual.   This was the road to the old Scorpion mine.  Once it would have been teeming with the traffic of miners and wagons.  Since the Scorpion had closed before the turn of the twentieth century the road was never modernized.  The only folks who traveled this way were curiosity seekers or those looking for a few private moments; to screw or to shoot up or to do whatever the hell needed to be done away from prying eyes.  As he paused on the old bridge he peered down into the river.  When he was a boy this section had either been dry or calmly half filled with recent rain.  But the steady pour of the last twelve hours had done some work.  Mad didn’t consider himself terribly perceptive or intuitive but a general sense of unease was building in his gut.  The frothing water beneath his feet seemed to climb several inches just in the short time he watched.  Maddox turned his bike around and headed back to town. 

Old Man Townsend used to own the Scorpion Grill on the corner of Baseline and Contention Way.  Mad wasn’t sure who ran it now, but he figured Stuart Townsend, who had been at least eighty years old in Mad’s youth, had likely passed on.  He was part of a generational line of
Townsends who had occupied Contention since the boom days.  There were a handful of landmarks, including the elementary school, which bore the Townsend name.  As Maddox entered the dim restaurant, a knot of patrons were clustered around the bar.   The noise which pierced the air was high-pitched and jarring. It took Maddox a moment to recognize what it was; the alert from the Emergency Broadcast System.  He stopped cold and listened to the words. 

“Hassayampa River Valley flooding…conditions to worsen…residents in the low valley urged to seek high ground…”

“Shit,” Maddox swore, more loudly than he had intended.  The face which turned sharply in his direction was not one he particularly cared for. 

The man, Bryce
Sanders, made his way over.  Mad didn’t care for the arrogant appraisal in his eyes.  He’d been an asshole in youth and was, by the haughty look of him, an asshole in adulthood.  Mad refused to offer the first greeting as he watched Bryce approach. 

“McLeod,” the mayor said, offering a dry handshake, his eyes darting around as if he regretted this necessary interruption to his day.  “Jensen mentioned you were around.  Sorry about your old man.  Damn, you’re looking rough as ever.  Listen, I’d love to stick around and catch up but I’ve got a mountain of shit to shovel wi
th this storm and all.”   Bryce headed for the door. 

“Hey, Sanders,” Maddox called.  He jerked his head toward the falling rain.  “I’ve been out at the bridge.  Water’s close to topping off. This seems bad.” 

Bryce stopped.  He scowled out the window at the slowly moving Contention Way traffic.  “It is going to make a hell of a mess,” he muttered, and then hurried away. 

The rest of the patrons didn’t take any notice of Maddox.  They were too busy chattering like nervous chickens.  That was fine with him.  When he climbed on his bike again a small tidal wave from the wake of a truck hit him in the face.  He cursed irritably and rubbed his eyes. 

“Maddox!”  It was Jensen’s voice.  Mad looked up and it was his brother’s head hanging out of the window of the red pickup.  He could see Miguel seated in the passenger seat.  Another car honked as Jensen idled by the curb.  “I’m around the corner.  Follow me.”  Jensen drove away without awaiting an answer.  Maddox grumbled irritably but followed anyway. 

Jensen lived in one of the old, expensive Victorian restorations on Poston Road.  The eyelet curtains on the front window twitched and Casey’s sour face peered out at them.  As Maddox
pulled his bike right behind the pickup, Miguel jumped out and ran for him.  The kid’s eyes were wide. 

“Mad, they closed school for today.  They don’t know if it’s going to be open tomorrow.”  He bounced around in the rain with excited energy. 

Jensen limped out of the truck and looked at the sky.  “I bet Gaby’s still down there trying to sandbag.  If Sanders had his shit together he would have already coordinated for a residential evacuation of those low lots.” 

Mad’s unease grew.  Priest’s house was on high enough ground and it would be unlikely to flood. But he was aware of the location of Gabriela’s house.  He saw the concern in Jensen’s face and knew it was justified.  “I’ll get her,” he said, pushing Miguel toward his father. 

He started to climb on his bike again but Jensen stopped him, tossing his keys over.  “Take my truck.  I’ll keep the bike in the garage.” 

Maddox hesitated.  He didn’t feel like accepting a favor from Jensen but he knew it wasn’t for him.  If the low valley had already flooded, it would be easier to get through the mud in a four wheel drive vehicle.

He drove as quickly as he dared.  With each passing second he was more desperate to get to her. 

Contention City, Arizona Territory

1890

“Will you be home for supper tonight?”  Annika asked, already suspecting the answer. 

James coughed and shook his head.  He didn’t look at her.

Annika watched her husband drain the last of his coffee from the tin cup.  He rose from the table, coughing again.  “Where’s the tonic?” he gasped out. 

If he noticed the scowl on Annika’s face he ignored it.

“Where is it?” he demanded again. 

“I poured it into the sand,” she told him honestly.   

James looked at her in disbelief.  “Why the hell did you do that?”

“Because it’s worthless trash hawked by a con man.” 

James’s face darkened with anger.  “It helped with the cough you foolish woman.” 

Annika picked up the tin cup and threw it savagely on the floor.  It bounced on the wooden boards and then clattered to silence.  The ‘tonic’ James was searching for had been purchased from a traveling peddler some weeks back.  Annika was wise to these tricks.  The peddler, a slimy tenderfoot in a rickety wagon, was one of the charlatans who traveled the Territory preying on desperate people with serious and incurable health afflictions.  People like James.  His brief career in the mines had done permanent damage to his lungs and he had aged considerably in the two years since their impulsive marriage.  Annika knew her husband would not live to be an old man.  

“It helped get you drunk,” she shouted.  “Nothing more!”

James coughed again and Annika was suddenly sorry she had shouted.  Sorry she had disposed of the thing which gave him hope, however false it was. 

“James,” she said softly, reaching for him. 

But he faced away, refusing to accept affection from her.  Annika withdrew her hand.  She and James had not shared a bed in nearly a year.  He preferred to sleep sitting up on a pallet close to the hearth.  She had tried, especially at first, to be a decent wife.  However, as James’s health declined, the distance between them grew.  He knew, without her saying a word, what stood between them, though Mercer hadn’t been seen in Contention City in the two years since her tumultuous wedding night. Perhaps, Annika mused, if she and James been able to conceive a child they could have been at least a little happy together.

Annika tried not to mind these things, just as she tried not to mind the whispers around town about James’s rumored visits to The Rose Room.  She knew how often James gambled the night away with two men she loathed; Mr. Swilling and Mayor Townsend.  Haughty, imperious and dishonest, Annika often considered how ill suite they were to the positions of power they had schemed their way into. 

James still wouldn’t look at her.  In a moment he would leave and then she likely wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow.  Maybe not even then. Despite their marital woes, she always hated when things were sour between them. 

“I’m going to see Lizzie today,” she said softly.  At that, he turned around.  Lizzie Post, the woman who had assumed the care of the orphaned Dolan boys many years ago, was dying.  The doctor from Phoenix had said it was tumor and that it nearly filled her abdomen.  It had reached frightening proportions, giving her slight frame a distended appearance.

James’s expression had softened at the mention of Lizzie.  “Tell her I’ll be by tomorrow,” he said.   He picked up his hat from the rack by the door.  “Annika,” he said, pausing as if he had something of significance to say.  Then he sighed and shook his head.   

She wi
shed she knew how to talk to him.  She did love him, in a way.  But Annika feared that no matter how many years passed or how long she was faithfully wedded, there would always be Mercer. 

Her husband said nothing more as he closed the door behind him and left her alone.  The name of his brother was never spoken between them.  Annika would hungrily scour the newspapers for mention of The Dane Gang.  Occasionally
, names would jump out at her, names which she knew had once been associated with Mercer and might yet be.  The Tanner Brothers.  Cutter Dane.  But of Mercer there was nothing. 

Annika quickly readied herself for the visit to Lizzie Post’s tiny ranch on the outskirts of town.  It was Saturday, a day with no school and no church.  She had, of course, lost her position in the Contention City schoolhouse upon her marriage.  The current teacher was a fresh-faced English girl named Violet Hardwick.  However, for reasons political and otherwise, the children of Contention C
ity who were of Mexican descent were not permitted to attend the main schoolhouse.  These were Annika’s children now.  She taught them five days a week in an old shack down by the banks of the Hassayampa.   She would not accept any pay for this work and, to his credit, James had never objected. 

  The small barn James had built housed their two horses, a cow and two goats.  Annika spoke soothi
ngly to the sweet bay named Misty.  Once she fixed the saddle on the gentle mare, Annika was eager to be on her way. 

She took the horse on a slow walk around the perimeter of Contention City.   As she crossed the Scorpion Road she heard the whistle of the mine.  There was meaning behind the whistles, she knew.  Shift changes, injuries.  Each sound had its own definition.  She shuddered, glad she did not know what that whistle signified.  There was too much evil there, greed.  It twisted men’s hearts and moved them to violence. 

Carlos de Campo was driving his wagon back to the mining camp.  She could see the water barrels in the wide bed, lashed together to keep them from jostling.  When Desi de Campo’s head popped up in the back Annika smiled, waving.  The boy had a quick mind and was a leader in the curious world of children.  He was her favorite student. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Dolan,” he called.  “I finished
The Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Wonderful,” she answered.  She often lent her beloved books to the young man.  He finished them quickly and treated them with supreme care.  “Would you be willing to summarize for the class on Monday morning?” 

“Sure,” Desi shrugged, looking down, but Annika could tell he was pleased.

Annika nodded to Carlos.  “James tells me the rail line is nearly here.” 

Carlos de Campo nodded with a frown.  “Yes,” he said.  He and James were once quite friendly.  However, Annika could tell by the way Carlos shifted his eyes at the mention of her husband’s name that this was no longer the case.  She uneasily wondered if the reason was the Rodriguez man.  Six months earlier Emilio Rodriguez, a small time rancher, had turned to the mines to feed his family when a drought caused the loss of most of his flock.  When he was accused and arrested for gold theft, a lynch mob removed him from the jail under James’s watch.  The mob, rumored to be composed of Contention’s most prominent citizens, hung him from a cottonwood tree on Contention Way.  Annika knew there were those who were displeased that the city marshal had not done more to protect his prisoner.  They blamed him.  Annika herself had been horrified.  She could not fault Emilio’s friends for their outrage. 

Carlos de Campo tipped his wide-brimmed hat.  “Good day, Mrs. Dolan.”

“Good day, Mr. de Campo.  Desi, I will see you Monday morning.”   

Annika watched at the wagon proceeded down the dusty road to town.  She sighed and urged the horse forward.  She would continue along this road to the bridge juncture and then cut through the brush to Lizzie’s place.  A lone miner passed her on foot.  He was unkempt and filthy with a harsh cough which reminded her of James.  The sudden rage which bubbled in her breast was not unfamiliar and it was directed towards the mine.  Sending men into the bowels of the earth was unnatural.  The conditions were nothing short of horrendous as they labored relentlessly underground amid the choking dust with only a pair of small tallow candles for company.  Many suffered vision loss as a result of bei
ng abruptly thrust into the harsh desert sun after so many hours in the dark.  Even more of them would see their lives shortened by the damage to their lungs. 

As she paused on the bridge she looked down at where the shallow river intersected.  Following the river east would lead to the lower valley and eventually to the shack were she taught school.  The few families who lived in the area were farmers who sought the fertile soil.  The Hassayampa was scarcely a trickle at this time.  Rain was sorely ne
eded.  The Orange Grove dam, eight miles upriver, held back a significant wall of water in good times.   Once she had heard James irritably comment on the lack of care taken to tend the dam.  If the rain swelled the river and the dam broke it would flood the lower valley entirely, taking property and lives in its fury.  After he’d spoken he had noticed her look of alarm and quickly assured her there was no danger to worry over.