Lady Lavender (19 page)

Everything had changed and he had no idea why. Yeah, the town was older and more run-down than the last time he'd ridden through. Mrs. Zwenk was more than crabby. And his survey crew, which was just now stumbling into the saloon, looked like they were already drunk. He recognized three of them; the fourth was even younger than Lacey, the blond kid from Minnesota.

He nodded at the men and felt duty tug at him. He shrugged the feeling away. None of those things—the crabby landlady, the weathered town—had mattered before. Why did they matter now?

He needed his work for the railroad; it kept him steady. It helped him heal from the scars of the War. And Laura. It felt good to fire black powder charges drilled into a hill of rocks instead of cannons aimed at ragged reb soldiers.

The railroad was a clean thing. It was building civilization, not destroying it.

In a strange way it felt like it wasn't enough anymore.

His head spun. He hadn't downed a drop of the whiskey sitting in the glass at the edge of the bartop, but it sure felt like he had. And then a thought blazed into
his mind. The simplicity of it, the clarity, was almost blinding.

There had to be more to life than a job well done. More to life than the railroad.

He was drunk all right, but it wasn't on whiskey. Even his shirt felt different—too tight, as if he'd chosen the wrong size. He pulled the constricting collar away from his neck.

What was wrong?

Nothing is wrong,
a voice inside his head hammered.
This is what life is, some good, a lot bad.

He'd lived through Antietam and Bull Run and more Indian skirmishes than he could count. He'd survived. He was thirty-eight years old and he was whole and strong.

He gazed through the streaked front window at the empty street outside. The door of the mercantile was shut, its front blinds rolled down. Only three horses were tied up in front of Polly's Cage; not even enough men for Rooney's nightly poker game.

Is this what he wanted for the rest of his years on earth? Hotel breakfasts and crabby landladies?

Something tightened inside him, like he was pulling on muscles he hadn't used in a long time. It felt a lot like the growing pains he'd had as a kid. He'd hated the feeling then, and he hated it now.

F
or the next three days Jeanne kept herself so busy she could not stop and let the wrenching emptiness inside consume her. She scrubbed the filthy plank floor of the farmhouse she'd bought; dusted down the bare ceiling beams; scoured the battered old Windsor kitchen range until the nickel trim gleamed; and washed all the windows, upstairs and down, with hot water and vinegar.

Her hands were red and swollen, her back stiff and her neck and shoulders ached, but not one inch of her new farmhouse—right down to the wide front porch—had escaped her broom and brush. This afternoon she'd even dragged an old, rickety ladder she'd found in the barn and teetered on it long enough to mount a swing for Manette in the pepper tree in the front yard. Her daughter spent most of the afternoon dangling her feet on the ground, begging Jeanne to come and push her.

But Jeanne was busy boiling sheets and pillowcases in
the big tin washtub and sewing curtains for the upstairs bedroom windows—yellow gingham for Manette's cozy room, blue gingham for her own. How Wash would have teased her about all that gingham! Her heart constricted as if a claw were closing around it.

Now Manette was collecting bugs from the dry grass in the yard, and Jeanne sat exhausted on the porch steps, her head in her hands, trying hard not to think of Wash Halliday. He cared about her; she knew he did. He'd shown it in a dozen ways, including making it possible for her to purchase this place and move on with her life.

But move on into a life without Wash. Her throat closed. He would have liked this farmhouse. He would tease her about the gingham napkins and her gingham work dresses, about the milk cow she'd bought from Thad MacAllister, about the lopsided swing under the tree.

She must stop imagining him in her life! He would never see her new farm.

She hated the word
never.
She liked words like
forever.
And
always.

Manette climbed the wood porch steps, plopped herself down beside her and patted her hair. “Don't cry,
Maman.
”

She lifted her head to hear her daughter ask a question: “Will Wash come back?”

Jeanne choked on an unexpected sob. “
Non, chou-chou.
I think not.”

Manette rolled her lower lip under her small baby teeth. “Does he not like us anymore?”

Jeanne blinked away the stinging in her eyes. “He does like us, Manette. He likes us very much.”
He likes us too much, and it makes him afraid.

He was a fool. A coward. A heartless man.

Non,
that was not true. Wash had plenty of heart. He had plenty of courage, too. He was neither a fool nor a coward, he was…simply a man. A scarred, wounded man.

Her pulse leaped at the sound of hoofbeats, but it was Rooney who cantered his strawberry roan down the lane from the town road. With a sinking sensation, Jeanne noted the bulging saddlebags behind the saddle. Rooney, too, was moving on.

He dismounted and she stood to greet him, but found she could not speak. He tramped up the two steps to the porch and lifted both her hands in his great paws.

“I'm leavin', Jeanne.” His voice went hoarse. “Sure is hard.”

She could only nod. He folded her against his beefy chest and pressed his lips against her forehead. “Damn,” he said. He released her, blew his nose into a large white handkerchief and bent to pat Manette.

“Well, Little Miss…” It was all he could get out be fore his voice cracked.

Manette flung her arms around his legs and spoke a single word in her decisive child's voice. “No.”

Rooney went down on one knee and wrapped her in his arms. “I have to go, honey.”

“No!” She clung to him, her small arms tight around his neck, her head burrowing between his jaw and his shoulder. He held her without moving for a long,
anguished minute; when he raised his head at last, his lips formed a grim line and his eyes glittered with tears.

Jeanne clamped one hand over her mouth and with the other wrapped her fingers around the medal Wash had left for her.
For Valor.
She wore it on a chain, next to her skin.

Oh, why did valor have to hurt so much!

Rooney cleared his throat. “Well then, how 'bout I adopt you, Little Miss? Would you like me to be yer grandfather?”

Manette clung to his hand. “Forever and ever? You promise?”

“Forever and ever. You have my word.” He blew into his handkerchief again.

Manette's face shone. “Will you teach me how to cook a rattlesnake?”

“I sure will, honey. You got one waitin' to be sliced up for the fryin' pan?”

The girl giggled. “First we have to catch it. You promised to show me how to hunt, remember?”

Rooney blinked and made a show of folding his damp handkerchief and stuffing it into his trouser pocket. “Well, now, Little Miss, huntin' is a real art, 'specially the Comanche way. Takes time to learn, and it takes practice, too. How 'bout we practice huntin' when I come back to visit?”

Manette nodded but her head stayed down in a drooped position. “Would you push me in the swing?” Her voice was almost inaudible and she did not look up.

“You got a swing?”

Jeanne caught his eye and pointed to the pepper tree in the yard.

“Oh, yeah, I see it.” He sent Jeanne a grin. “Mighty fine swing. You ready?”

Manette darted away to the swing. Rooney clumped a few paces behind her, lifted her into the contraption and gave the wooden seat a shove. He'd never in his life pushed a swing.
Jes' goes to show ya, it's never too late to learn somethin' new.

Manette sailed away from him, then swung back and Rooney reached out to push her once more.

“Higher!” she called in her determined voice.

Rooney decided he kinda liked her determined voice. He pushed the swing while the girl yelped in delight. He could have continued for hours, but suddenly he remembered where he had been heading when he'd ridden out and why he'd come in the first place.

To say goodbye.

He lifted Manette out of the swing, strode over to the porch and kissed them both once more. “I'll be back,” he managed over the lump in his throat.

Jeanne watched him mount and ride away down the dusty lane. She knew she and Manette would see Rooney again. Not Wash, maybe, but certainly Rooney. After all, Rooney Cloudman had just adopted a granddaughter!

Jeanne tugged one of Manette's braids. “Do you not think it is time for our afternoon café?” She knew how much her daughter loved their grown-up “teatime talks.” Today they would probably talk about Rooney. Manette did not answer. She was gazing down the lane after Rooney.

Jeanne took her hand. “Come,
chou-chou.
I will race you to the kitchen.”

Rooney looked back to see Jeanne and Little Miss waving from the porch. Abruptly they pivoted, raced for the screen door and clattered into the house. By jingo, he hoped Jeanne had some good whiskey stashed in her pantry so she could “damn the match.”

He twisted in the saddle one more time, and with a long sigh dug out his damp handkerchief again.

 

Inside Polly's Cage, Wash sat hunched over the bar, his elbows resting on the smooth mahogany. A full shot glass perched on the far edge of the bartop. Rooney settled himself into the adjacent space and signaled to the barkeep.

“Congratulate me, Wash.” He grinned and followed with a wink.

“What for, Rooney? You get married?”

Rooney's eyebrows danced up and down. “Now, it's interestin' you thought of gettin' married right off. Isn't it? Huh?”

Wash ignored the innuendo. “Win a big pot in a poker game?”

“Naw. I got somethin' I never had before.”

Wash glanced slantwise at his partner. “New horse? Fancy dress-up suit? Chinese girlfriend?”

“Naw—” He broke off to order a double shot of whiskey from the barkeep. “Ya know there's no women in that Celestial bunkhouse on wheels. Not sure I'd care if there was.”

“Well, what, then?” It wasn't like Rooney to be
secretive—or, come to think of it, to smile like a barn cat with a mouse cowering under its paw.

Rooney gurgled down a swallow of his whiskey and turned his beaming face full on Wash. “Got me a granddaughter!”

Wash knew his jaw dropped open, but for a few seconds he couldn't seem to close his mouth. “Don't you have to have a wife first, and then a daughter who grows up and gives you a—”

“Granddaughter!” Rooney chortled. “Little Miss and me, we adopted each other.” He downed another slug of spirits.

Wash stared at his friend. A happier man he'd rarely seen unless he was drunk or simple-minded. Rooney was neither.

“Before I left Smoke River I rode out to see Jeanne and Little Miss. Nice little town, Smoke River. And Sarah Rose—by Jupiter, that woman's a real prize. Anyway…” He stopped long enough to swallow his remaining whiskey. “So I'm sayin' goodbye an' Little Miss, she—”

Rooney stopped and swallowed hard. “She wouldn't let go of me till I promised I'd be her grandfather. Forever and ever. Now, ya gonna congratulate me or not?” He looked pointedly at Wash's untouched glass of whiskey.

Wash felt an awful jolt inside, as if somebody had fired a shotgun just past his ear. So Rooney had a granddaughter. That was the last word he thought he'd ever hear out of his partner's mouth,
granddaughter.
Things were sure changing.

And what about you?
a voice nagged.

He was glad for Rooney. He grabbed his drink, clinked the shot glass against his partner's. “Damn the match!” he choked out.

The two men laughed, drained their glasses, pounded each other on the back and laughed some more.

“Jeanne, now…” Rooney began.

Instantly Wash sobered. “Yeah? What about Jeanne?”

Rooney gave him a sly look. “Why, she's doin' right fine. Moved out to that farm she wanted to buy—place about a mile outta town and pretty as a painting. She has a milk cow penned up next to the barn and a whole mess of chickens in that coop she nailed together. She's tradin' eggs and lavender wreaths and smelly silk pouches for food and supplies at the mercantile. Real enterprisin' woman.”

He sneaked another glance at Wash. “Kinda surprises ya, don't it?”

Wash waited for the stab of longing in his gut to ease. “Yeah. Enterprising.” Dammit to hell, he didn't want Jeanne to thrive so easily without him! Of course he wanted her to have food and shelter but…

Doesn't she need you at all?
A woman who could do just fine without him sure was a blow to a man's pride.

Rooney finished the last of his whiskey. “You all right? Look kinda gob-smacked.”

“I'm fine.”

Rooney leaned closer. “No, yer not. Don't waste yer
time lyin' to me, son. My Comanche half can read yer mind without even tryin'.”

“I'm fine,” Wash repeated. But he knew he wasn't fine. Wasn't even close. He was barely functioning. Sooner or later he'd have to face up to it.

“Lemme tell you somethin',” Rooney muttered. “It's an old Indian saying. ‘Those who have one foot in the canoe and one foot on the dock will fall into the river.'”

“You don't say,” Wash snapped. He slipped off the bar stool and felt the gnawing ache in his hip. Unconsciously he straightened his leg.

Rooney eyed his friend as he hitched up his belt and strode through the saloon doors. Then he laughed out loud and ordered another whiskey.

“Here's to Wash and Jeanne,” he said to the swinging doors. “One in the canoe and the other one on the dock.”

 

“Survey crew's ready,” Wash announced that evening after supper. “Going to send them out tomorrow morning.”

Beside him on the front porch step of Mrs. Zwenk's boardinghouse, Rooney nodded. “Did Sykes replace Montez? Or do I hafta slog around all day with a measuring rod?”

“Nope. You get to deal with our landlady, Mrs. Zwenk. See if you can get her to lighten up on her fried eggs—they're like sun-dried cow-patties with yolks.”

Rooney spit out the grass stem he was chewing. “Why me?”

Wash clapped his partner on the shoulder. “Because you're so good-looking,” he said with a straight face. “Plus you said yourself you ‘have a way with the ladies.'”

“It's a ‘way' I'm fast growin' out of it,” Rooney muttered.

Wash thought about the phrase “growing out of it” and something in his belly began to unravel. He figured he didn't need to grow
out
of anything. What he needed was to grow
into
something.

He bid Rooney good-night and limped out to the stable. Rooney had found some kind of center for himself, a lodestone that would draw him, anchor him for the rest of his life. A granddaughter.

It stirred the gnawing hunger in Wash's gut. Rooney was connected in a way Wash had never been. Rooney had found a place where he belonged.

He filled General's feedbag, then dug in his vest pocket for the apple he'd spirited away from under Mrs. Zwenk's long nose. He watched the animal crunch the fruit down, thinking about Rooney and canoes and docks…
and falling into the river.

Dammit.

Upstairs in his room an hour later, Wash lifted his head from his hands and composed a letter to Grant Sykes. For fast delivery he would send it by rail from Smoke River all the way to Portland.

Tomorrow he'd get it to the train.