Under A Prairie Moon (2 page)

Kathy woke with a sigh. A glance at the clock on the window sill showed it was after nine. She jackknifed into a sitting position, thinking she had overslept, frowning because she hadn’t made breakfast for Wayne or kissed him goodbye, and then she remembered that Wayne was gone. She wasn’t in their cozy Chicago apartment, she was in the wilds of Montana.

She sat there for a long moment, fighting the urge to cry and then, with a strangled sob, she huddled under the covers and let the tears flow. How long would it take, she wondered, how long until she didn’t think of him every minute of every day, until the hurt and the emptiness went away? He had been gone for almost a year. Everyone she knew had assured her that, in time, the pain would grow less, but no one had said just how much time it would take.

She cried until her throat ached and then she sat up and gave herself a good scolding.

“You’re not the only woman to have lost her husband, you know. You had six wonderful years with a wonderful man. A lot of women never have that. You have a place to live, a comfortable bank account, your health…”

And she would have given it all up to spend one more day with Wayne, to tell him she loved him one more time. Love…she was never going to love anyone again. It was too painful.

She dressed quickly, then went into the kitchen where she rummaged around in the cupboards for something to eat.

Deciding on a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, she grabbed a bowl, a spoon, the milk and the juice, then sat down at the kitchen table, wishing again that they’d had children. The fact that they didn’t was all her fault. Wayne had wanted to have kids right away, but she had wanted to wait. She had just got a promotion at work. His computer business was just getting off the ground, and she had wanted to wait until it was solid, until they had a sizeable nest egg, before she quit her job to become Susie Homemaker. She hadn’t been keen on the idea of having kids, but, when they did, she intended to stay home to raise them. Her mother had worked, and she had hated it.

Now Wayne was gone, and she was alone. Well, not really alone. Wayne’s mother and younger sister were there if she needed them. Her parents lived in Northern California, but they were still only a phone call away. She had three brothers and a sister and a half-dozen nieces and nephews and yet, for all the family she had scattered over the country, she still felt alone.

“Good grief, Katherine Marie Conley,” she muttered irritably, “snap out of it!”

She hated this side of herself. She had always prided herself on being a strong independent woman; had always been so sure she could handle whatever trials came her way. She didn’t cry at movies, didn’t melt at the sight of big-eyed babies or furry kittens, had always considered herself a sensible woman, but Wayne’s death had turned her life and everything she believed in upside down.

Wayne. He had been a wonderful man, caring, supportive, sensitive. He had been the one who cried at sad movies and went ga-ga over babies and kittens.

She finished her cereal, rinsed the bowl and put it in the dishwasher, along with her glass and spoon.

It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and get to work. The living room wouldn’t paint itself.

* * * * *

Later that night, after a quick dinner and a leisurely bath, Kathy sat cross-legged on a quilt on the floor in the middle of the living room, a cup of hot tea cradled in her hands. A fire blazed in the fireplace, the flames throwing shadows on the freshly painted cream-colored walls. Country music played on the radio.

The dark-blue carpet she had picked out would look wonderful in here, she thought. She would hang vertical blinds at the windows. Use lots of plants. Buy a new mantel for the fireplace, something in light oak. Days ago, she had called the Salvation Army to come and pick up the furniture that had been left in the house, deciding she would start from scratch. The only things she had kept were the bed she was sleeping in, the table and chairs in the kitchen and a well-preserved four-drawer oak dresser with an oval mirror that she had found in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

Without carpets, drapes or furniture, sounds echoed off the walls. It was sort of eerie, living in a house with practically no furniture. Maybe she should keep it that way, she mused as she looked around. There was nothing to dust, nothing to vacuum.

She blew out a sigh, wondering why all the country songs seemed so sad, wondering if she would ever smile again.

Feeling melancholy, she stared out the front window. Tomorrow, she would find some sheets and cover the windows. Staring at the glass with the darkness behind it gave her the creeps. It was like looking into black empty eyes.

Her new carpet was coming the next day. While the men laid the rug, she would paint the kitchen. She had picked out a nice cheerful yellow, not too bright…she went suddenly still, her breath catching in her throat, as something moved out in the shadows, something that looked like the silhouette of a tall man. Scrambling to her feet, she ran to make sure the front door was locked, then ran into the kitchen to check the back door. Heart pounding as if she had just done ten miles on her treadmill, she hurried down the hall to the bedroom. Delving in her suitcase, she grabbed the gun she had bought before leaving Chicago.

“Don’t panic.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t panic.” She knew how to use the gun; she had taken lessons at the firing range back home.

Taking slow, deep breaths, she stood with her back to the wall, the gun aimed at the floor. When she was calm again, she walked through the house, then went into the living room, flipped on the porch light and looked out the front window.

There was no one there.

“Of course there’s no one there. It was just your imagination.” She laughed, a soft shaky laugh. Of course, that was all it was.

But that night she slept with all the lights on, and the gun beneath her pillow.

* * * * *

He stood beside the old brass bed, staring down at her. She had seen him, he was sure of it. There was no other explanation for the way she had behaved. In one hundred and twenty-five years, no one had ever been able to see him. No one. Everyone who had stayed in the house had sensed his presence. He had made sure of that. For the last quarter of a century or so, it had been his only amusement, scaring the hell out of the people who came here. He had enjoyed it immensely. After all, if he was going to be a ghost, he figured he might as well act like one.

But she had seen him.

It made him feel whole again, alive again.

* * * * *

Kathy finished washing the pale-yellow paint from the roller, covered the pan and roller with a dish towel, then stretched the kinks out of her back. Casting a critical eye over what she had just done, she nodded with satisfaction. Grabbing a soda out of the fridge, she kicked off her shoes and walked through the house, enjoying the feel of the new carpet beneath her bare feet. There was just nothing like new carpeting, she mused. It turned the old house into a home.

Pleased with the way it looked, she went outside and sat down on the back steps, gazing out over the land. Her land, as far as the eye could see. She had always thought it was silly for people to fight over a particular stretch of ground. Dirt was dirt. But there was something about this place that called to her, that gave her a sense of peace, of belonging. It was a good feeling. Maybe it wasn’t the land at all that people fought and died for, but that sense of belonging.

After a few minutes, she got up and walked around the house. She would have to hire someone to paint the outside and repair the roof, or maybe she would give it a try herself. How hard could it be? She would definitely have to get someone to repair the barn, though, but that could wait until later.

Tossing the empty can on the back porch, she walked down the path to the stream. She wanted to refinish the cupboards in the kitchen, too, and replace all the doors in the house. The kitchen and bathrooms could use some new linoleum, and maybe new faucets. She needed to buy some grass seed, and flowers, and maybe some fruit trees…the list seemed endless.

When she reached the stream, she waded into the shallow water. It felt wonderfully cool. Impulsively, she sat down in the middle of the stream and closed her eyes. If only Wayne could see me now, she thought. Wayne…

She had so many regrets… She wished she had told Wayne she loved him more often, that they’d had children, that she had spent more time doing things with Wayne and less time worrying about her job.

She had always heard that the road to hell was paved with regrets. Now she believed it.

Opening her eyes, she stared up at the hanging tree. She wondered how many men had breathed their last dangling from the end of a rope on that very tree. No doubt they’d had regrets aplenty…

She gasped as an image wavered before her eyes. It wasn’t a shadow this time, she was sure of it. But if it wasn’t a trick of the light, what had it been? A chill ran down her spine. For a moment there, she thought she had seen a body dangling from a rope. That was impossible, of course, and yet she had seen it so clearly…a tall man with jet-black hair long enough to brush his shoulders. His skin had been dark too, his left cheek bisected by a thin white scar. He had worn a pair of black pants, a black shirt and boots. But it was his eyes that had held her attention. Black eyes filled with hate and rage.

Shaken by what she had seen, or thought she had seen, she stood up. Stepping out of the water, she sat down on the grass and let the sun bake her dry.

And then she felt it again, that draft of cool air she had felt twice before.

Feeling foolish for being frightened by a chill, and yet unable to stay there a moment longer, she scrambled to her feet and ran up to the house, yelping when she stepped on a sticker.

With an aggravated sigh, she stopped running and plucked the burr from her foot. What on earth was the matter with her? Running like the devil himself was at her heels. Of course the air was growing cool. The sun was setting.

Chiding herself for letting her imagination run away with her, she walked the rest of the way to the house, proud of herself because she didn’t look back once.

Kathy glanced around the kitchen. Someone had been there. She was sure of it. She had left a box of cereal on the kitchen table this morning with the top securely closed. Now it was on the sink. Open.

Filled with trepidation, she tiptoed through the rest of the downstairs. Except for the kitchen table and chairs and the bed, there was no furniture in the house, nothing for an intruder to hide behind.

She peered into the bathroom, then made her way to the bedroom. Nothing. Grabbing her gun from beneath the pillow, she went to the staircase. She put one hand on the banister, took a deep breath and slowly climbed the steps, grimacing as the old wood creaked beneath her feet.

All the bedrooms were empty. She was about to go back downstairs when she felt it again, that brush of cool air against her skin. Maybe the place really was haunted. This wasn’t the first time she had put something down only to come back and find it wasn’t where it should be. She had left her hair brush in the bathroom last night, only to find it on the kitchen table this morning.

She shivered as another breath of cold air whispered over her skin. Very slowly, her heart pounding, she turned around and then blew out a sigh of relief. Ghosts, indeed! The draft had come through the broken window in the bedroom across the hall.

With a sigh of relief, she went downstairs to fix dinner.

He stalked the dark shadows of the land, remembering, always remembering, the life that had been stolen from him. Rage and the need for vengeance rode him with whip and spurs; the fact that he was helpless to exact the revenge he desired filled him with bitter frustration.

His hand brushed his thigh, reaching for a gun that was no longer there. He craved the taste of a cigarette, yearned for the smooth warmth of a shot of whiskey. He missed the acrid stink of smoky saloons, the throaty laughter of his favorite soiled dove, the smell of cheap perfume that had clung to her dusky skin.

He loosed a vile string of obscenities as he walked down to the stream. No matter how he tried to stay away from this one place, of all places, he was inevitably drawn back here.

Blowing out a sigh, he rested one shoulder against the rough bark of the hanging tree. How many times had he relived that last night? A hundred times? A thousand? Even now, he could vividly remember the bitter taste of fear in his mouth as Whitey Blair dropped the noose around his neck. Mounted on a skittish bay gelding, hands tightly tied behind his back, Dalton had stared down at the men gathered nearby, his stomach churning, his teeth clenched.

Dirty Injun.

You’ll never rape another white woman.

Rape! That was a laugh. She’d been used more often than a two-bit whore. But no one had believed him. He’d been a stranger, a half-breed gunfighter who sold his iron to the highest bidder.

He had stared at Lydia, waiting, praying that she would find the courage to tell her husband the truth. She had stared back at him, her eyes wide and scared, and then she had turned and ran into the house, taking his last hope with her.

The Triple Bar C cowhands had stepped back, torches held high, as Russell Conley strode forward.

“Got any last words?”

Dalton shook his head.

Conley grunted. “If you know any prayers, now’s the time to say ’em.”

“You’re hanging an innocent man.”

“And you’re wasting our time.”

Dalton thought of arguing further, of demanding that Conley ask Lydia outright just what had happened in the barn, and how they got there in the first place, but he knew it would be a waste of breath. Conley would never believe him, never accept the word of a half-breed hired gun over that of his own wife.

“Go on then, get it over with, Conley. But you’d better bury me deep because I swear to you, I won’t rest until I’ve proven my innocence. My ghost will haunt you until the day you die, and my blood will curse this ground.”

“You through?” Conley held a quirt in his hands. He tapped it lightly against his palm.

Knowing he was seconds away from death, Dalton stared out over the heads of the cowboys, gazing at the distant mountains. He’d lived a hard, fast life, and most of the things that were said of him were true, and maybe he deserved to go hell, but he didn’t deserve to die like this, hanged for something he didn’t do.

“
Wakan Tanka, unshimalam ye oyate
…” Great Spirit, have mercy on me…

From the corner of his eye, he saw Conley raise the quirt, heard the cowhands draw a collective breath as the quirt came whistling down on the bay’s hindquarters…

Dalton shuddered at the memory. He could still remember the almost lightheaded feeling of fear that had taken hold of him, still hear the sharp crack of the leather smacking against the bay’s rump, the gasp of the Triple Bar C cowhands as the horse bolted, leaving him dangling in the air, gasping for breath…

Dalton swore a vile oath. Damn, but hanging had been a bad way to go.

* * * * *

The dishes were done, she had taken her nightly bubble bath and locked up the house.

Wrapped in a warm robe, Kathy went into the living room and sat down in front of the fireplace, staring at the flames. A country ballad played on the radio, but it was still too quiet. There had always been noise in Chicago. Car alarms, sirens, the sound of traffic on the street, the hum of the air conditioner in the summer. Maybe tomorrow, instead of painting the library, she would go shopping for a tv and a stereo and see what the town had to offer in the way of furniture.

Feeling bored and restless, she went upstairs. Wandering from room to room, she visualized how each one would look when it was painted and decorated. She ran her hand over the top of the dresser in the largest bedroom. She loved the look and feel of the old wood and decided to do the whole upstairs, and maybe the downstairs as well, in antique oak.

The dresser was on casters and she moved it across the floor, deciding it would look better on the far wall. It was rolling pretty well when one of the wheels suddenly stopped turning. The dresser came to a sudden halt. Kathy yelped in surprise as the bottom drawer fell out, landing with a thump on the floor. It was then that she noticed the small notebook jammed in a crack in the back of the drawer between the bottom and the side.

Curious, she pried it free. The leather cover was stiff, brittle with age. Opening it carefully, she scanned the first page.

The words
My Diary, The Year of Our Lord, 1873
were written in faded, flowing script, and below that she read the name Lydia Camille Winston Conley.

Kathy stared at the words, her heart suddenly beating fast as she sat down and turned the page. Lydia wrote sporadically. The first few entries were about how much Lydia hated living on the ranch, how she longed to go back to Philadelphia, how she wished she’d had the nerve to defy her father and marry the man she loved instead of the man who had dragged her away from her friends and family to “this dismal uncivilized wilderness inhabited by smelly cows and coarse men”.

Kathy turned the page, but the next one, and the next, were blank. Frowning, she flipped through the pages, wondering why Lydia had stopped writing, and then she came to an entry dated February 20th.

A day I will never forget. It was cold and gray, with the promise of rain. Went to town with Russell. It would have been an unremarkable trip except it was the first time I saw him. He was standing on the boardwalk as we drove by. A man, clad all in black. He stared at me as we passed by, and I knew, at that moment, that he was going to change my life.

March 5th.

Carmen and Whitey were going to town today to pick up the mail, and I went with them. As I had hoped, he was there. He was sitting on the boardwalk in front of one of those smelly saloons, his black hat pulled low over his eyes, one booted foot resting on the rail. He is the most frightening, handsome man I have ever seen. His name is Dalton Crowkiller. Rowdy said he is half Sioux Indian.

He tilted his hat back and looked up at me for a long moment before he removed his foot from the railing. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said.

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. His voice was low and soft and deep. But it was his eyes that left me speechless. Black eyes, the blackest I have ever seen. They looked at me as if he knew everything I was thinking. It was most disconcerting. And exciting.

March 22nd.

Asked Russell to take me into town this morning. Rarely have I seen him look so surprised. Of course, since I have never before asked him to take me anywhere except back to Philadelphia, I guess his reaction was to be expected. It was just after noon when we arrived in town, if a place as dirty and dismal as Saul’s Crossing can indeed be called a town. Told Russell I wished to look for dress goods at the mercantile and did not want him hovering over me. He looked disappointed, but went off to the livery to do whatever it is the men do there.

He was sitting on the boardwalk in front of the saloon next to the mercantile. My heart was pounding as I slowly crossed the street. Thought I would faint when he looked up at me through those dark mysterious eyes. And then he smiled at me.

There are no words to describe the effect that look had upon me…

Kathy sat back, grinning. It was like reading a wild west soap opera. She had seen a photograph of Lydia Conley once, taken before the woman went insane. She had looked every inch a lady, from the top of her well-coiffed head to the tips of her high-button shoes. No one, looking at that innocent, heart-shaped face, would ever have suspected her of cheating on her husband.

“Proves you just never know,” she murmured, and turned the page.

April 1st.

There was a dance at the schoolhouse tonight. Dressed with care in the new silk and lace gown I ordered from New York. Russell said I was beautiful, but I did not need him to tell me that.

Everyone in town seemed to be at the dance. It is not surprising, since there are so few entertainments in this forsaken place. Knew the moment I stepped into the building that the one man I wanted to see was not there.

Because it was expected, I danced with every man who asked me, from fat old Horace Miller to pimple-faced Billy Watkins. Russell beamed, pleased that I was the belle of the ball, such as it was. The town ladies glowered at me. It is obvious they are jealous, the old cats, as if I cared.

It was about ten o’clock when Rufus Overfeld came striding toward me. He is short and fat, with bushy white whiskers that reach to his chest. Not caring that it was quite rude, I turned and fled. It was wonderfully cool outside after the stuffy heat of the schoolhouse and I walked into the shadows, anxious to be alone and more disappointed than I cared to admit that he was not there.

And then I heard a voice, a voice I knew was his. “Don’t you know better than to go off alone?”

Could hardly speak, hardly think, as he materialized out of the darkness.

“It’s not safe out here,” he said. “All kinds of wild critters roam the darkness.”

“Are you one of them?” The words were supposed to sound teasing, coy, but I only sounded frightened. He is like no other man I have ever met.

“The wildest of the bunch.” His voice was low, dangerous, exciting. He was dressed all in black again, from his hat to his boots. His eyes glittered like polished ebony in the moonlight. “What are you doing out here?”

Some of my self-confidence reasserted itself. He was just a man, after all, and I knew how to handle men. “What do you think?”

He laughed softly. “I think you’re trouble.”

“Are you afraid of trouble?”

He laughed again, the sound soft and husky. “Honey, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Prove it.”

“Oh I aim to,” he drawled. And before I could think to say ah, yes, or no, he drew me up against him and kissed me and I knew in that moment that I’d been looking for this man my whole life.

Felt lightheaded and dizzy when he let me go.

“You’d better get back before you’re missed,” he said, his voice husky.

“When will I see you again?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Wants got nothing to do with it. You’re a married woman, and I’ve never been one to ride in another man’s saddle.”

His words angered me. No man had ever refused me before, yet this man, this half-breed, had turned me down. It was a humiliation unlike any I had ever known and I vowed that somehow, someday, I would find a way to get even.

Kathy shook her head. Lydia Conley had certainly been full of herself. Rich and spoiled, she had probably never been denied anything she wanted. It must have been quite a shock, having a man tell her no.

April 5th.

Something is troubling Russell, something to do with water rights. Overheard him talking to the foreman, telling them to double the night guards. Jack said he had heard that Burkhart was bringing in a hired gun, and Russell laughed and said maybe he had better hire Crowkiller to even things out. Jack laughed then and said he’d heard that Crowkiller could…I am quoting him here…draw quicker than you could spit and holler howdy. Cowboys are nothing if not colorful in their descriptions.

Dalton Crowkiller is a gunfighter! I could not believe my ears. And yet I should not have been surprised. One has only to look into those black eyes to know he is capable of anything, even murder…And to think I flirted with him…

April 17th.

Impossible as it seems, Russell has hired that man! When I asked why, he told me not to worry my pretty little head about it. Men! Sometimes they are so aggravating. As if I cannot figure it out for myself. Some of our cattle have been poisoned. Two of our cowboys have been shot at. Crowkiller is obviously here to put a stop to such goings-on. The thought makes my skin crawl.

April 18th.

He has invaded my home. He takes his meals with us, rather than with the hired hands. He sleeps in the downstairs bedroom. Every time I look at him, I feel the sting of his rejection. And always, in the back of my mind, is the knowledge that I offered myself to him, and he refused. He watches me constantly, his eyes hot. I should hate him. I do hate him, and yet I have never known anyone like him. He scares me, and yet I think of him constantly.

May 1st

His eyes follow me whenever I am in the room. His very presence is a constant torment. I wonder that no one else is aware of the vibrant attraction between us. The very air seems to hum when we are in the same room. His image haunts my every waking thought, I dream of him every night, dreams that leave me feeling weak and helpless and yearning for his touch.