Chasing the Sun (17 page)

Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and looked directly into her eyes. “What can I do now, Daisy? Tell me what you need and you’ve got it.”

“Money. That’s all I need.” Her gaze didn’t waver, but the flush on her cheeks told him it had bothered her to ask.

It wasn’t the answer he had expected. Women had been trying to drop a rope on him since he’d groped his first breast. But Daisy, the only woman with a sure chance of success, didn’t even try. It was disconcerting. “Money for what?”

“For Kate.” She made an offhand gesture. “And for me. I want to get out of the saloon. Find a better way to support us. A better place to live. But I’ll need money to do that.”

He’d forgotten she was a saloon singer. In his mind he saw her standing by the piano, staring at the back wall, singing over the noise of the gamblers and drinkers and lechers, as if the filth and degradation couldn’t reach her. And somehow it didn’t. Even in that skimpy dress the saloon owner made her wear, and despite the paint on her face and the smoke and whistles and leering grins, she stood unblemished and untarnished. Proud. He didn’t recall much about her voice, but he did remember the look on her face when she sang. She loved it.

“Do you still sing?” he asked.

Her gaze slid away. “At the moment, no. But I hope to again.”

That evasive look confused him. Why would she lie about singing? Pushing that thought aside, he said, “Maybe I can help. Whatever you need.” He had money in San Francisco, earned over the years by investing in the cargoes of the various ships on which he’d sailed. He had thought to offer it to his brothers to pay off the smelter loan, but now realized it should go to Daisy and Kate first. What they didn’t need, he could always add to the ranch coffers.

“Thank you.” Her flush deepened. Her lips pressed into a tight line.

He could tell this was as awkward for her as it was for him. She didn’t like asking for his help. Or even being around him. Yet the pull was there. It pulsed in the air like a lightning charge. He wondered if it was just because of Kate, or their past history, or something else. Daisy was a beautiful woman, not as beautiful as Elena, but there was something in her face, a liveliness that was absent from Elena’s serene expression. It drew him.

He remembered they had laughed a lot. And fought—mostly about his drinking. And had made love with an eagerness that had left his body drained and his head spinning. Or maybe that was the whiskey.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

Jack blinked the memories away, a bit addled to be caught trying to conjure up an image of Daisy’s naked body. He sat back. “When does Kate wake up?”

She checked the clock on the mantel. “Soon. She’s been down an hour and a half already.”

“Has she ever ridden a horse?”

“She’s twenty-two months old,” she reminded him with a roll of her eyes.

“Then it’s time.”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU ASK HIM FOR THE MONEY?” HANK SAID over Brady’s shoulder as they stood at a window in the hallway across from his office, watching Jack and Daisy and Kate in one of the paddocks off the barn.

Instead of answering, Brady nodded toward Jack, who was leading their ancient kid pony with the improbable name of Greased Lightning in a slow circle while Kate clung to the saddle, kicking her stubby legs and laughing like a loon. Daisy, standing outside the fence, seemed to be clinging just as hard to the top rail, but she wasn’t laughing. “They look like a family, don’t they?”

Hank sighed. “You’re interfering again.”

“Interfering how? I’m just standing here.”

Shaking his head, Hank went down the hall to his own office.

A moment later, Brady appeared in the doorway. “They deserve a chance.”

Ignoring him, Hank settled in his chair behind the desk and began rummaging through a box of parts, hoping his brother would take the hint.

“If we take his money,” Brady went on, “it’ll tie him to the ranch and you know he doesn’t want that.”

Finding the spring he wanted, Hank checked it carefully for cracks, set it aside, and started rummaging again.

Crossing to the chair in front of the desk, Brady plopped down with a long exhale. “Besides, Jessica says Daisy needs money. For Kate.”

Hank gave up his search and sat back. “Speaking of money, any chance you would go to Jessica for the money to pay Blake?”

“None whatsoever. She knows nothing about it. Didn’t want to worry her.”

Hank expected no other answer. Jessica had a small but profitable estate in England. Her sister, Annie, and her family lived there and kept an eye on the coal companies that were mining a rich deposit that ran under her land. The estate, Bickersham Hall, had been in Jessica’s family for hundreds of years, passing down through the eldest daughter of each generation. Someday it would belong to Brady’s daughter, Abigail. Hank didn’t know what the financial situation was, but guessed Brady would rather cut off a foot than go to his wife for money or tell her anything that might cause her distress. Short-sighted, but understandable.

“If the horses aren’t enough, we’ll sell off some cattle,” Brady said. “The mines, if necessary.”

Hank didn’t point out that the price of cattle was down and the mines were near played out, even if the silver market rallied. He knew it wasn’t just the money that bothered Brady. Part of it was as he said—concern for Jack and Daisy. But another part was his reluctance to ask for help, mostly out of pride. Brady had an abundance of that. And since he had always been more of a father than a brother to Jack, having to turn to his little brother for money would be intolerable to him.

And Jack, well, with his volatile nature, restless spirit, and seeming lack of commitment to the ranch, he was the exact opposite of Brady. As the eldest, Brady had been born and bred to run RosaRoja, and because of it felt more than he should the weight of all the lives that had been lost to hold it. And part of the burden of that responsibility had been to keep Jack on the straight and narrow, which was no small chore.

It brought out the worst in both of them so that over the years, what had once been a normal brotherly relationship had become a fierce rivalry, at least on Jack’s part. Hank suspected Elena was at the heart of it, since at one time Jack had thought Brady wanted Elena. Maybe Jack still had doubts. And maybe Brady suspected he did, which was another reason he wanted to keep the way clear for Jack and Daisy. It was a mess, sure enough.

Pushing the box of parts aside, Hank sat forward, folded his hands on the desktop, and looked hard at his brother. “You’re risking the ranch, you know.”

“I’d risk it for you. Does Jack deserve less?”

“It’s not about that, and you know it. I could make it without the ranch. Jack too. But not you. It would kill you to lose it.”

“It’s just dirt.”

Hank snorted. “You sound like Jessica.”

“She has a point.” Brady’s gaze swung toward the window and the graveyard hilltop beyond, and Hank knew by the sadness etched on his brother’s face that Brady was thinking about Sam—the lost brother. Sam’s death haunted Brady still, and made him so fearful of losing another brother or of letting any of them down, he watched over the family with a stifling vigilance, holding the reins of their futures in an iron grip.

“Maybe I’m tired of it, Hank. Maybe I’d like to go chasing after bare-chested women on some coconut island like Jack.”

“I’ll tell Jessica.”

“I mean it. Jack won’t stay. And I know you and Molly have been hinting that you might go up to Santa Fe. What’s it all for if there’s no one left?”

“You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“Bastard.” Brady made a crude gesture, then let his hand drop back to the armrest. “The point is I can’t do it alone. Maybe it’s time to let it all go.”

“To Blake. Just hand it over.” Hank sat back with a sigh. “Helluva plan.”

Brady thought about it for a moment then shook his head. “You’re right. I’d have to burn it first and I wouldn’t like that. Let’s sell off some horses and cattle instead.”

Hank knew selling his herd of crossbreeds would be hard on Brady, but if he wouldn’t ask Jack or Jessica for the money, they had little choice. “I’ll send a rider to the fort. Heard they lost a lot of horses to the epizootic and were desperate for remounts.”

“Send riders to all the nearby forts. And see if they need any beef to tide them over.” Brady rose. He looked down at Hank, the momentary sadness over Sam replaced by a look of fierce determination. “We’ll weather this, Hank. We won’t lose the ranch to Franklin Blake.”

“I know.” Hank tried to sound convinced.

Abruptly Brady flashed that startling grin that was part devilment, part humor. The one that always made Hank wary. “And hell, if all else fails, little brother, we’ll just shoot the sonofabitch.”

FRANKLIN BLAKE WAS RUNNING OUT OF TIME. STANLEY Ashford, the advance man for the El Paso & Pacific Railroad, was due today and expecting results that weren’t there. Now Blake would have to tell him every plan to take over RosaRoja had failed.

He’d tried to pressure the other smelter owners into selling. They’d sold their shares to Wilkins instead. He’d tried to infect Wilkins livestock by driving a sick horse through their quarantine. And had ended up walking halfway back to Val Rosa on foot. And now they’d found a buyer for their locomotive and ore gondolas, and were angling to sell their herd of fancy crossbred horses to the Army. Hell, he’d never get a hold on them.

Christ
. Trying to manage the Wilkins brothers was like pissing into the wind. Every time he tried, it all came back at him tenfold.

Overwhelmed by the unfairness of it, Blake kicked the woman lying next to him. “Get up, you stupid sow. You’re bleeding on the sheets.”

With a whimper, the whore rolled out and hobbled toward the door, her thighs smeared with blood, the dozen bruises and lacerations on her nude body making it look like she’d been splattered with purple and red paint.

“And don’t come back,” he yelled after her, “until you learn how to satisfy a man. Stinking pig.”

After the door closed behind her, he sat up, wrinkling his nose in disgust. The room stank of sweat and whiskey and vomit. The goddamn woman couldn’t even clean up after herself. He’d have to ask the hotel to give him a different room in case Ashford came up here. For all his cold-bloodedness, the little dandy was as fastidious as a maiden aunt.

When Blake went downstairs a half hour later, Stanley Ashford was already sitting in the hotel lobby in his fine suit, one leg crossed over the other, a thin cheroot clamped between his teeth. Oily pomade that smelled like a whore’s perfume plastered every sparse golden hair against his bony skull. Pockmarks cratered his cheeks, and his dark brown eyes held all the warmth and welcome of a skunk hole.

“Evening, Ashford,” Blake said, striving for a robust tone. “Didn’t know you’d arrived. Been waiting long?”

Ashford didn’t answer. Taking the cheroot from his mouth, he stubbed it out in a potted plant beside his chair, then looked at Blake. And continued looking until Blake felt sweat begin to bead on his top lip. “Do you have it?” he finally asked in his cultured voice.

“The deed? Not yet.” Nervously pushing back the lapels of his jacket, Blake hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “But soon.”

“How soon?”

“Hard to say.” Rocking on his heels, Blake frowned at the far wall in the pose of a man making mental calculations.

In truth, he had no idea how much longer it would take to bring the Wilkins brothers to heel. He’d tried everything he could think of to push them off their land, short of an out-and-out range war. The railroad already had enough trouble wresting water rights from other landowners along their route, and he doubted they’d want to take on such formidable foes as the Wilkins clan. Besides, that would take men and money, neither of which he had.

“With the end of the silver standard,” he said, “banks are failing, and the silver and cattle markets are falling fast. It shouldn’t be long. The note on the smelter is due in a few weeks, and they’ve got no way to pay it.”

“A few weeks.” Ashford pursed his thin lips and tapped a long, manicured finger on the armrest. “We can’t wait that long. We need their water now.” He sighed. “Since it’s obvious you’re incompetent, I guess I’ll have to try.”

Blake bit back a sharp retort, wondering how this prissy man intended to convince the hardheaded Wilkins brothers to do something they didn’t want to do. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the notice he’d pulled off the board outside the sheriff’s office when he’d returned from RosaRoja last week. “Maybe this’ll help.” He handed it to Ashford.

The railroader took it in two long, slender fingers as if afraid it might dirty his fine hands. “What’s this?”

“A wanted poster for a woman with a kid I took out to the Wilkins ranch a while back. Far as I know, she’s still out there.”

Ashford studied the drawing. “Desiree Etheridge. You’re sure it’s the same woman?”

“Don’t remember the name. But if it’s not her, it’s her twin.”

Ashford continued reading. “Says she’s wanted for questioning in the murder of Bill Johnson of San Francisco. Interesting.” He looked up. “Did you tell the sheriff about her?”

Blake shook his head. “What are you going to do?”

Ashford slipped the paper into his pocket. “Perhaps I’ll go for a visit.”

“To the ranch?” Blake laughed. “I doubt they’d see you.”

“Oh, I think they will.” Ashford’s varmint-hole eyes narrowed. “We’re old friends, you see. I know where all the skeletons are buried. And now, from where—and for whom—the arrest warrants have been issued.”

Blake had no idea what he was talking about. Nor did he care. Stifling a yawn, he watched Ashford pick a speck of lint from his sleeve and awaited further orders. When none came, impatience finally got the better of him. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked.

Ashford looked up with an expression of mild surprise, as if he’d forgotten Blake was still there. He appeared to think for a moment, then shrugged the overly padded shoulders of his fine custom-tailored suit. “I suppose you could kill yourself and save me the expense of a bullet. But even that might be beyond your meager talents. So continue to pressure them about the loan. You can handle that little chore, can’t you, Blake?”