Something More (12 page)

Again he found himself wondering whether they'd been able to identify the remains. Was that what kept gnawing at him? Had he gotten a glimpse into his own future?

It was certain that one of these days, this ancient body of his was going to give out. The way he felt, that time wasn't far off either. Truth to tell, he hadn't figured he would make it through this past winter. But he had.

“I don't know if I'm glad or sorry about that.” Talking to himself had become a habit over the years, a way to satisfy that inner need to have a human voice touch his ears. “Yup, me and death are gettin' closer and closer. One of these times, I'll just keel over—with no one ever bein' the wiser.”

Was that what he feared? Dying alone? Without a proper marker on his grave like that body on the hillside?

“No marker?” He snorted a laugh. “There wouldn't even be a burial. This tough ole flesh of mine would be food for the carrion eaters, my bones dragged from here t' kingdom come.”

A grimness gripped him; then he shook it off with a sigh, his eyes opening to mere slits. “They gotta eat somethin'. Might as well be me. It's for sure I'll be past carin'. An' I don't imagine there's anybody still livin' who would shed a tear over my passin' anyways. I expect they wrote me off for dead years ago.”

He stared at the sky and watched the parade of faces in his mind, their images as sharp and fresh as if he'd seen them only yesterday. Age had withered his body and grayed his hair, but not the people Saddlebags remembered. The intervening years had left no mark on them. It was one of his mind's cruelties, to fool him into believing he was still young, too.

“Sure'd be nice to die clutchin' that gold in my hands,” he murmured wistfully.

The unlikelihood of that settled over him with all the crushing heaviness of the granite boulder at his back. In those long ago years of his youth, he had been convinced that his search would ultimately end in success. Now he was only convinced of the futility of it.

But he refused to quit looking. Giving up now meant admitting that his entire life had been wasted on the search. No, the time for quitting had run out decades ago.

A tear slipped down his cheek when Saddlebags considered all the things that might have been. He left it to dry on his skin, not wanting to expend the energy it would take to wipe it away.

“It's a shame I ain't as crazy as everybody thinks I am,” he murmured, then cackled at the thought.

But there was no getting around the truth: his mind was just as sharp as ever. So was his hearing; his ears picked up the steady drum of hoofbeats, the sound gradually increasing in volume as the horses neared him.

“Must be that McCallister boy and that other person.”

Inactivity had stiffened him. Saddlebags had to make two attempts before he finally made it to his feet and peeked around the boulder to verify his guess. Years of staying out of sight to keep others from knowing his search areas had become too deeply ingrained. Even now, when there was no need to be secretive, he remained behind the boulder.

His keen eyes recognized McCallister the instant the two riders cantered into view. He switched his focus to the second one.

“Wonder who the redhead is?” he murmured, untroubled that he didn't recognize her. Unless she lived at one of the neighboring ranches, he wouldn't know her from Solomon's pet donkey. “She seems kinda pleased about something,” he observed and shifted his gaze to McCallister. “Takin' her out for a Sunday ride to show her around the place, are you?”

The pair slowed their horses to descend the slope. This time they didn't stop at the former grave site, although they both glanced in its direction as they rode by.

“Kind of a morbid thing to show a girl when you're courtin' her anyway,” Saddlebags stated, then grinned. “Course, it could always spook her an' give a fella a chance t' put his arms around her.” He chortled at the thought, his false teeth clicking together.

Another possibility struck him with all the suddenness of a lightning strike.

“She could have known the guy that was buried there.” The instant the words were out of his mouth, Saddlebags remembered the soberness of her expression, the tinge of sadness when she had scooped a handful of the soil and held it. And he remembered, too, the way McCallister had stood back and watched, not joining her until she said something to him.

“They identified the guy.” A tightness seized his chest. Immediately he argued with himself, “You don't know that, you crazy fool.” He thought about that, then answered, “No, I don't know it for a fact, but there's one person who would.” Pushing away from the boulder, he turned. “Stay out of it, you old coot. It's got nothin' to do with you.” He nodded and picked his way among the rocks with care. “Maybe. Maybe.”

 

 

The canter blew away some of the cobwebs, leaving Angie feeling refreshed and vaguely exhilarated, her resolve strengthened. Her face glowed with it when they pulled up at the ranch's massive barn. Shifting her weight to the left stirrup, she started to swing out of the saddle and felt the warning twinge from her thigh muscles. She turned the instinctive groan into a laugh.

“Something tells me I'm going to be stiff and sore in the morning.” Hanging on to the saddlehorn, she lowered herself to the ground, stretching muscles that didn't want to be stretched. “I'd forgotten how long it's been since I was in the saddle. That's what I get for giving you such a hard time about your hangover.”

“That ought to teach you.” Luke led his horse to the corral fence and looped the reins in a half hitch around the top rail.

“It should.” Angie copied his movements, then hooked the stirrup on the saddlehorn and went to work loosening the cinch. “Holding your head isn't nearly as embarrassing as holding your backside.”

Something moved in the deep shadows just inside the open barn door, catching Angie's eye. Dulcie sidled into view, dressed in a pair of cutoffs and a faded red T-shirt, her sockless feet shoved into dirty, frayed sneakers.

“Hi, Dulcie.” Angie smiled at the girl. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled and toed at the ground, both hands clasped behind her back.

“Is Tobe in there?” Luke nodded, indicating the barn. “Tell him to come out and give a hand with these horses.”

“He's gone.”

“Gone. Gone where?” He stopped with the saddle pulled halfway off the horse's back. Snorting, the bay gelding swung its body out from under it.

Dulcie shook her head, indicating she didn't know, then offered, “He said he wouldn't be gone long.” She darted an apologetic glance at Angie. “He didn't think you'd get back so soon.”

“Obviously,” Luke muttered dryly and carried the saddle and its heavy pad over to the corral, then hefted it onto the top rail. He walked back to his mount, his glance running to search the area around the trailer. “Are you here by yourself? I don't see Fargo's truck.”

“He was out of tobacco. After we got through with the dishes, he went into town to get some.”

Luke stepped to the gray when Angie started to drag the saddle from its back. “I'll get that for you.”

“I can manage,” she refused, with a smile. “I may be out of shape but I'm not weak.”

He watched as she toted it to the corral and lifted it onto the fence. Turning, he reached for the saddle blanket and started wiping the sweat from the bay's back, then glanced curiously at Dulcie, suspicion forming in his mind.

“What were you doing in the barn, Dulcie?”

She ducked her head and chewed at her lower lip, trying to avoid answering his question.

“Dulcie,” Luke repeated with a note of warning.

“Playing.”

“You were playing with those wild kittens again, weren't you?” he guessed, then noticed the tight way her arms were pressed behind her. “One of them finally scratched you this time, I'll bet.”

Nodding, she dropped her chin even lower. “Just a little scratch.”

Angie darted a look of concern at Luke, then moved toward the girl. “You'd better let me take a look at your arm, Dulcie. Even a little scratch can become a bad one if it becomes infected.”

With great reluctance, Dulcie drew both arms from behind her back and presented the injured one to Angie for inspection. Blood seeped and smeared from the scoring marks left by tiny, razor-sharp claws, making it difficult to judge the depth of the cuts.

“I'll bet it hurts, doesn't it?” Angie ventured and received a small nod from Dulcie. Placing a hand on the girl's shoulder, she gently turned her toward the mobile home. “Come on. We'll go to the trailer and get you cleaned up.”

“There's a first-aid kit on the pantry shelf in the kitchen,” Luke told her. “Dulcie can show you. I'll see to the horses.”

“Would you bring my purse when you come?”

“Sure.”

Dulcie stood on a chair pulled up to the kitchen sink while Angie gently washed her arm with soap and water. The first-aid kit lay open on the counter next to the sink, a can of antiseptic spray sitting beside it.

“It stings, doesn't it?” Angie guessed when Dulcie sucked in a hissing breath.

“A little,” she admitted.

“That should do it.” Angie turned on the faucet, letting the water run and adjusting the temperature of it. “If there are any germs left, the spray should take care of it.”

Once the soap was rinsed from Dulcie's arm, Angie tore off a couple sheets of paper towels and dried it, carefully blotting the scratched area.

“How big are the kittens?”

“Not very big.” There was a long pause before Dulcie offered an unsolicited explanation. “The yellow one doesn't mind if I pet her. But she got scared when I picked her up. That's when she scratched me.”

“She was probably afraid you were going to take her away from her momma and her brothers and sisters.” Angie sprayed a generous coating of antiseptic over the scratches. Several of the deeper ones continued to ooze blood.

“I would
never
have taken her away from her momma.” Dulcie looked stricken at the suggestion.

“I know you wouldn't. But the kitten didn't know that.”

“I guess not.”

Angie dabbed at the gathering droplets of blood. “We'll need to put a Band-Aid on a couple of these so you don't get blood on your clothes.”

“Okay.” Dulcie watched while Angie rummaged through the first-aid kit for some medium-sized Band-Aids. Her eyes were drawn to the rich russet red of Angie's long wavy hair. “I wish my hair was the color of yours.”

There was a rueful twist to the smile Angie briefly directed Dulcie's way. “When I was your age, I absolutely hated it.”

“But it's beautiful,” Dulcie protested, aghast.

“You don't know how the other kids used to tease me—and call me things like Carrot-top and Cherry Head. The worst of all was Red Rooster, because they'd flap their arms like a chicken and crow.” She peeled off the protective strips on one bandage, exposing the adhesive side.

“I'll bet it was mostly boys who did that.”

“Mostly.”

“Sometimes they call me Whitey,” Dulcie admitted when Angie placed the Band-Aid over a scratch and smoothed the adhesive ends firmly onto her skin.

Their heads close, Angie glanced at Dulcie, her eyes atwinkle. “That's as bad as Carrot-top.” The wideness of her grin invited laughter, and Dulcie giggled, finding humor in a situation where before there had been only hurt. “Believe me,” Angie said with a wink, “there are women who would pay lots of money to have pale blond hair the color of yours.”

Unconvinced, Dulcie made a face. “It's ugly.”

“It's beautiful. The color of moonbeams.”

“Moonbeams.” The description caught her interest.

“Moonbeams,” Angie repeated with emphasis and smoothed the last bandage in place. “And just think—God made your hair that color on purpose. He wants everyone to know how very special you are to Him.”

The desire to believe that was in her eyes, but doubt held her back. “How do you know that?”

“My grandmother told me,” Angie replied as Luke entered through the trailer's rear door.

He paused at the sight of the two heads bent close together, one pale and fair, the other dark and vivid. There was something sweetly innocent and intimate about the scene that made him catch hold of the door, stopping it from swinging shut and revealing his presence.

“And when I got older I learned she was absolutely right,” Angie continued. “The color of your hair is beautiful; the color of my hair is beautiful. But they're different, and that's good.”

A perplexed frown knitted Dulcie's forehead. “But what did you do to make the kids stop calling you names?”

A smile deepened the corners of Angie's mouth. “You mean, instead of socking them in the nose?” Dulcie clamped a hand over her mouth, smothering a giggle at Angie's response. “My mom suggested that I make a point of finding something nice to say about their hair every time they called me a name. It took a while—quite a while, in fact—but eventually they did stop teasing me. I think it becomes hard to be mean to someone who's nice to you.”

Dulcie thought about that for all of two seconds, then released an exaggerated sigh and declared, “That wouldn't work with Tommy Foster. He's mean to
everybody.
”

“That might indicate he needs it the most.”

“Tommy?!” she said with wide incredulity, showing more animation than Luke had ever seen before.