Chasing the Sun (45 page)

“Kate!” Penny shouted, waving a rag doll she must have made herself, judging by the off-kilter eyes and mismatched arms. “You forgot Prissy!”

While the children gathered around Kate at the foot of the steps, all talking at once and giving pats and shoving toys in her face, Brady watched Jessica and Molly pretend to be sad about Daisy’s departure.

It was a poor performance. In truth, he suspected they were both happy as larks with his brilliant plan to force Jack and Daisy together in Redemption. He hadn’t wanted to admit his scheme to Jessica, but she’d wormed it out of him, and seemed to think it was a fine idea. Hank was the only one who seemed disturbed by it—insisting Brady was meddling—but then if Hank had his way, there wouldn’t ever be a need for secrets or any kind of interaction, since they would never speak at all.

Folding his arms along the top wagon rail, Brady studied the women who had brought such change to their lives. Beautiful, intelligent women, with fire in their eyes and courage in their hearts.

“Look at Daisy.” He kept his voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the ladies. “She’s suffering. You know what that means.”

Hank dug through the parts box.

“It means she cares about him. Which means we’re doing the right thing.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s none of our business.”

Brady frowned, a bit put out by Hank’s ability to remain aloof in the face of such exciting doings. “Don’t you have any brotherly concern? You know she’s right for Jack.”

“You’re starting to sound like an old lady matchmaker. And if it’s so right, then why all the secrets and lies?”

“So you think we should just let her leave. Make no effort to keep them from making a mistake that could ruin their lives.” Brady threw up a hand in aggravation. “Hell, you’d probably prefer it if we all rode off in different directions and never saw each other again.”

Hank looked up and smiled.

Aggravated that his brother’s righteous attitude was starting to make him feel guilty, Brady allowed meanness to take ahold of him. Striking back with the only weapon he could find, he said, “Besides, you ought to be glad we’re sending them off. Jack said when he was too drugged to fight her off, Molly had her hands all over him.”

Hank picked up a rusty bolt, studied it, then dropped it back into the box. “She’s a nurse.”

“So she is. And a fine one, at that. I guess when you were hurt after the derailment, she had her hands all over you too.” Looking over his folded arms, he smirked at his brother. “Nothing like a woman’s soft touch to soothe a man’s troubles, don’t you think?”

Finally Hank looked up, and the look in his eyes almost made Brady back up a step. “I think you better shut the hell up.”

Brady sighed, no longer enjoying himself. Much as he wanted to vent his concern over Jack and his frustration over losing the horses, he knew picking a fight with Hank would bring more pain than release. “You want me to drive Daisy and Kate to Redemption?” he offered in an effort to smooth things over.

Hank snorted. “And have you hook up the sail and make sure everything is running right?”

“I guess not.” With another sigh, Brady dropped his chin onto his folded arms. He stared into distant clouds as wispy as horses’ tails rising above the mountaintops where the last patches of snow glistened in the late morning sun. Already the balsam blossoms on the hillsides had faded and white-faced daisies were pushing up through the rich, moist earth beneath the aspens. Summer was coming. Same as it did every year. But even though it all seemed business as usual, Brady sensed change lingering just past the horizon and that made him uneasy.

“We should start gathering the cattle soon,” he said.

Hank walked to the front of the wagon to check the harness.

Brady turned to watch him, one arm resting on the top rail. “Looks to be a good crop of calves.” At least with roundup they’d be so busy he wouldn’t have time to fret over the horses. Then the dry season would be on them, and they’d have to patrol the water holes and keep an eye out for wildfires and scarlet locoweed and blackleg and tick fever. Then fall would come and it would be time to bring the cattle down from the mountains and send the culls to market and gather the fattest steers for the reservation bid. And by the time that was done, the first snow would cover the sun-browned hills with a blanket of white and everything would settle in for the winter and the cycle would start all over again.

Except Elena would be gone to her lepers.

And Jack and Daisy would be off God-knows-where.

And no leggy foals would be crowding the paddocks.

Feeling suddenly as if things were slipping from his grasp, Brady glanced at his brother, regretting some of the things he’d said earlier. He didn’t want to lose Hank too. Besides, Hank couldn’t help being a stiff-necked sonofabitch. He was the family conscience, after all. “Jack didn’t say he actually
enjoyed
having her put her hands on him,” he admitted by way of apology. “He just said it was disconcerting, her being your wife, and all.”

“Leave it, Brady.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Okay.”

DAISY JUST WANTED TO GET ON WITH IT.

Having made her decision to leave, she was ready to go. Parting from this family was difficult enough without adding to the pain with prolonged good-byes. Besides, with every moment’s delay, the urge to forget about Rome and stay at RosaRoja grew stronger.

“You’ll let us know when you reach New Orleans,” Jessica said, clutching Daisy’s hand in both of hers.

“I will.”

“You have enough money?” ever-practical Molly asked.

Daisy nodded. “Jack was most generous.” Just saying his name aloud sent tears clogging her throat.

“Be sure not to wave it about,” Jessica warned. “Put it in a safe place. I always used my corset. Back when I wore one.” Her grip on Daisy’s hand tightened. “Oh, just look at me. I’m getting maudlin and I promised myself I wouldn’t in front of the children.” She smiled, looking anything but maudlin.

“Well, Daisy,” Brady said, coming up behind her. “Ready to go?”

No. I’ll never be ready.

Instead, she forced her trembling lips into a smile and nodded. “All ready.” Taking Kate’s hand, she walked with Brady across the yard. But when they reached the wagon, she paused and put a staying hand on his arm. “Brady, I appreciate all you’ve done. For helping me. For ...” Her voice faltered.

He waved her thanks away, an uncomfortable expression on his rugged face. He might even have been blushing. “You and Kate are welcome anytime,” he said gruffly. “With or without Jack.”

Without Jack. Alone. Lonely.

Such was the dismal future that loomed ahead.

How will I bear it?

Before her courage failed her, she pulled the letter she had agonized over from her pocket. “Give this to Jack,” she said, handing it to Brady. “It explains everything. I hope he’ll understand and forgive me.”

“He will. I’ll make him.” Brady slipped it into his pocket, then in what seemed an afterthought, he bent down and kissed her cheek. “You take care now,” he muttered, and stepped back.

Then suddenly the good-byes were all said, and she was sitting with Kate in the wagon, and all the faces she had come to love were staring up at her. She wished she were eloquent, and had something profound and moving and elegant to say. But words deserted her. And as their faces blurred behind a sheen of tears, all she could do was wave a shaking hand as the wagon rolled away.

JACK PAUSED INSIDE THE SWINGING DOORS AT THE PALACE Cantina and looked around. He’d never met Franklin Blake, but none of the men sitting at the tables or the desert rats leaning on the bar matched the description Brady had given him. He approached the bar, which was manned by an unfamiliar fellow, a crooked old man missing his right eye and most of an ear.

“Where’s Blake?” Jack asked him.

“Who wants to know?” the barkeep lisped, apparently missing most of his teeth too.

“Me.” Jack smiled to show friendly intent, although he was still so mad it may have come across more like a snarl.

“He’s upstairs,” a woman said.

Jack turned to see a whore sitting at a table in a shadowed corner. He knew she was a whore because he recognized her. Sort of. Her face was so swollen and bruised it was hard to be sure. “Millie?”

The woman studied him through dark-shadowed, puffy eyes. “I hope you’ve come to kill the bastard.”

“He do that to you?”

“You shut your mouth, girl,” the barkeep warned. “I won’t have you spreading tales about a paying customer.”

Ignoring him, Jack nodded toward the doors lining the open second-story hallway that overlooked the bar area. “Is he up there, Millie?”

“I don’t want no trouble,” the barkeep cut in, and Jack turned to see he had a length of cordwood in his hands and a challenging look in his one eye.

“Then quit bothering me, old man. Which room, Millie?”

Before she could answer, two men came in. They wore suits and round bowler hats and hardly any dust on their shiny city shoes. Behind them came Sheriff Foley. “Blake still alive?” the sheriff asked at large, although Jack had a feeling the question was directed more at him than anyone else.

“What if he is?” the barkeep bristled.

Foley sighed wearily. “Just get him, Calvin. I don’t have time for your foolishness.”

When the muttering barkeep stumped off—seemed he was missing part of a foot too—Foley motioned the other two fellows on toward an empty table, then veered to where Jack stood at the bar.

“Heard back from San Francisco,” he said without preamble. “Drunk by the name of Edna Tidwell did it, then fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Case closed. Talked to Blake yet?”

Relieved to be able to put his worries over the poster to rest, Jack shook his head. “No, but I’m hoping to before you arrest him.”

“Arrest him for what?”

Jack sent a meaningful glance over the sheriff’s shoulder. “For beating on whores, that’s what.”

Foley turned and studied the battered woman watching them from the corner. “Blake do that, Millie?” he called out.

“Do what, Sheriff? I just fell down the stairs, is all.”

“Damnit, Millie. How can I help you if you won’t talk to me?”

The whore laughed bitterly, then grimaced and pressed her fingers to a barely healed split on her lip. “Like you helped Rosella? No thanks, Sheriff.”

With a look of disgust, Foley turned back to Jack. “They’re afraid of him. They know I can only hold the bastard so long, and when he gets out, he’ll come for them. So they just take it.”

“What happened to Rosella?” Jack asked.

Foley shrugged. “Dead or gone. No one’s seen her for a month.”

Movement drew Jack’s gaze to the cracked mirror behind the bar. In the reflection he saw a middle-aged man in a tailored suit follow the limping barkeep down the staircase. He didn’t appear to be armed. Jack smiled in anticipation.

Foley noticed and gave another of his big sighs. The man was a helluva sigher. “It wouldn’t be prudent to kill him in front of witnesses. You know that.”

“I have no intention of killing him, Sheriff.” With his size, Blake might have been a physical presence at one time, but easy living had put a belly on him and now his swagger was more show than substance. Jack was a bit disappointed.

“Then what’re you going to do?”

Turning his head toward the sheriff, he shrugged. “Just talk. Share a drink. Maybe arm wrestle a little.”

“Before you get started, you ought to speak to those fellows over there.” Foley nodded to the two city slickers. “They’re auditors for the EP&P Railroad, and are interested in talking to Blake about the missing money.”

“It’s not missing. I got it right here.” Jack patted his coat pocket. “And I’ll be glad to give it to them soon as I finish with Blake.”

“Finish what?” Franklin Blake asked, coming up behind them.

Jack turned with a friendly smile. “Our drinks.” He motioned to the barkeep. “A bottle of your best,” he said. “Three glasses. And make sure the bottle’s really thick.”

Blake blinked at him, clearly surprised by the offer of a drink. “Do I know you?” he asked with a frown.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your life.”

Surprise gave way to a smirk. “That right?” Blake had small eyes, set deep in the soft, puffy face of a heavy drinker. They were hooded and cold like the eyes of a sunning lizard. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“By offering you a choice.”

The barkeep plunked three glasses down on the counter. He started to uncork the bottle, but Jack raised a hand. “I’ll do it,” he said, taking the bottle from the old man’s grip. He smiled at Blake. “You favor your right hand or left?”

“Right,” Blake answered with a confused look. “Why?”

“I’ll show you. Trick I learned in Australia.” Jack nodded toward the bar top. “Put it out there. Palm down would be best.”

Blake hesitated then did as instructed.

In a motion so sudden the other man had no time to react, Jack brought the thick heel of the bottle down on the back of Blake’s hand.

Bones snapped. Blake shrieked. The barkeep whooped. As bar rats scattered in a headlong rush for the door, Blake howled and lurched back, clutching his arm to his chest. “You bastard! You sonofabitch!”

Foley took the bottle from Jack’s hand, uncorked it, and poured two drinks. After shoving one toward Jack, he downed his own, then smacked his lips.

Jack did likewise, then unperturbed by the vile curses coming from the injured man, set his glass back on the bar and calmly looked around.

The men at the tables sat without moving, eyes round in their slack faces. Jack anticipated no trouble from them. The barkeep’s grin told him there would be no trouble there either. And the city slickers wouldn’t have dared. Setting his empty glass down on the counter, Jack motioned to the furious man reeling and cursing behind him. “Come back here, Blake. We’re not finished.”

More curses. And of a variety and ingenuity that would have impressed even the most hardened sailor. “You see what he did, Sheriff?” Blake sputtered, cradling his smashed hand.