Born of Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 2) (35 page)

Jeremiah seized Alyssa’s hand to drag her through the front door into the house.

“Toodles; see you at lunch,” Amethyst called after them.

“You’re wretched.” Clark traced the swell of her breasts above her vest. She’d stopped wearing corsets in case they damaged the baby.

“I know.” She tossed her head and leaned back to give him a better view of her bosom.

Georgette swept from the house with her valise in hand, her gaze toward the stable as if she knew she’d see something indecent. Clark stiffened, so Amethyst rested her head against his shoulder to keep him calm.

“Leaving, Mother?”

Georgette paused, one hand on the railing. “My place is with your father. Now that he’s the senator, we’ll be in court more.”

As if she didn’t know that. “Seriously, Mother? I’m not stupid.”

Georgette smiled at Clark. “I’m glad you’re with us, Clark. If you need anything, let us know. Be safe. Both of you.” Her smile faltered as she shifted her gaze back to Amethyst. “You gave your uncle a beautiful funeral, Amethyst. He would appreciate that. I don’t mind if you return to the east or stay here in the west. Just… let us know. Please.”

“We will.” Clark lifted his hand and Georgette waved back before she swept down the stairs in her traveling skirt.

Zachariah stood near the stable by the steamcoach, prepared to take Georgette to the train station, and Mable stood near him, her lips flapping as she spoke. The girl was a tad annoying, but she seemed to bring Zachariah further out of his shell with her nonsense and poor grammar, which he corrected until she bopped his arm.

Amethyst frowned. Two people approached from the road, walking hand in hand, a man in a suit and a woman in a bright dress.

“Clark, come on.” She bounded off his lap and grabbed his hand to drag him off the chair. “We have to hurry.”

Clark savored the softness of her hand, the tantalizing prick of her fingernail against his palm, as she pummeled him off the porch, a mixture of pulling and pushing.

“Hurry up,” she shrilled. “Don’t miss them!”

“Miss who?” He chuckled, slinging one arm around her shoulders, and his gaze fell on the couple strolling toward them. Who would walk for miles without a steamcycle or a horse?

He stilled and his mouth dried. The man… his father… and the woman… It couldn’t be her. He hadn’t seen her in years. She hadn’t even appeared to him in death.

“Surprise,” Amethyst screamed.

“Hello, Clark,” the woman said. “I’ve missed you.”

“Mother?” Clark stumbled, and she fell into his arms, clinging to him, and he felt the tears and her, and felt her rocking him, just as she’d always done. Into his ear, she started to sing.

“The day the sun dies,

“Radiance lost to the reaches of space.

“Water boiling,

“Bubbles of blood.

“No power to surpass,

“No power left to shine.

This is why we live,

And this is why we die.”

lark extended his hand for a shake, but the manager of Arvay Ranch shook his head. Not a good sign, that. Clark pulled off his glove, the leather worn almost clear through in the knuckles, and stretched out again, but the manager rocked back on his boot heels.

“You’re an honest looking kid. I like that about you.” The manager turned his head to spit tobacco juice into the dirt. “We’re just mighty filled up here for the time being.”

“I’m willing to do any job, sir. I can wrangle and rope. Work the fields. I know my way with a saw.” Brass glass, he’d be eager to muck out the outhouse if it came to that. His pockets didn’t jingle with coins as loudly as they used to. He’d had to leave his last job at a ranch further south—a good position where he looked after horses, when the army sniffed too close, and he hadn’t dared stop until now. “I can do housework too. I’ve trained with butlers.” He’d seen them, in the fancy ranch houses. That sort of work seemed to mean politeness and servitude, and not much else.

The manager jammed his hands into the pockets of his denim slacks and narrowed his gaze at the Arvay Ranch. The Bromi woman who’d fetched him from the “Big House,” as she’d called it, stood by a fence with her head bowed.

“Good lookin’ ranch,” Clark said. “Smaller than some I’ve seen, but hearty. A fellow can tell you folk love the land here.” Managers didn’t appreciate sugar-coating. If a man told it like it was, he got further with those who loved work, and Arvay Ranch shone with crisp paint and clean yards. “Place looks run well. Looks like your crop is peaches?”

The manager nodded, tugging at the red bandana at his throat. “We are pretty booked here. Don’t really hire a lot of outside folk. You know what, though. My brother’s the doctor in town and I’m certain he could use help.”

The image of a physician’s saw biting through a man’s gangrene-ridden leg pierced Clark’s mind and he forced his lips to remain in a line. He’d done worse in life. Brass glass, he’d helped the midwife back in Tangled Wire for spare pennies. Maybe he’d be able to use his ability to save a few lives.

“I’d be grateful, sir. I can’t stay forever, just passing through, but I’d appreciate the job for the time being.”

“I’ll write you a letter and some directions. Feel free to get yourself a drink at the well.”

Clark pulled his glove back on and headed toward the pump near the shed. Sunlight beat against his neck, the skin bared by his ponytail, as he worked the brass handle. Water flowed out in clear spurts into a bucket on the grass. He used the hanging ladle to scoop out the liquid, frigid from the earth, and sighed. Nothing beat fresh water from a pump, not canteens or streams. Streams were good, but the water had a grittiness to it that stuck in his teeth.

When his stomach felt thick with water, he sidled back toward his steamcycle, wiping the back of his mouth on the sleeve of his leather jacket. The Bromi woman stared at him while she plucked at the stained apron tied over her calico dress.

Clark lifted his hand in a wave. If he spoke to her in her tongue and the manager returned, he might not be so willing to get him the job.

“I know who you are,” she said.

Talking in her tongue might not be so devastating then. Some ranches treated their Bromi with humanity. “I’m looking for work—”

“Those who die live again for you.”

She meant it in that way then. Ice crept over Clark’s skin and he folded his arms to appear nonchalant as he glanced at the ranch house. A dog barked in the distant fields. “That’s something that’s not talked about.”

“A new Bromi is here. He knew you from the desert. He spoke of you to us. You saved his father from the dark sleep.”

Clark kept his facial muscles slack to avoid looking suspicious. “Glad I could help him, but there are people who don’t like that part of me.”

She nodded so hard her bonnet slipped down her broad forehead. “We never harm our own and you are one of us now. Be careful with Mr. Parker’s brother.”

“How’s that?” Clark leaned his back against the fence beside her, drooping his arms over the top and hooking one of his boot heels into the wood. If anyone looked over, the individual might not realize they carried on a conversation.

“Manager Parker has a brother who’s crazy. Doctor is crazy.” The woman wiggled her fingers in a jagged pattern in front of her face, the Bromi sign for mentally unsafe.

“What’s he do?” The doctors could be cruel to Bromis; not many would treat the natives.

“You smell it on him,” she hissed.

The Bromi relied on spirits and herbs; the woman might be uncomfortable around modern medicine. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Not even you, who befriends the dead, can protect against crazy.”

The brick house’s side door slammed and the manager swaggered across the lawn with a paper in his hand. “You can read, can’t you, kid? You seem like a bright one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you know your sums, point that out too.” Mr. Parker slapped the note into Clark’s palm and at last shook his hand.

Clark parked his steamcycle along the dirt road through town. The doctor’s house, a three-story white clapboard with a veranda and four chimneys, had to be the nicest place for miles, at least the nicest place he’d seen all day. Trimmed bushes lined the porch and walkway, and a wrought-iron gate blocked off the property. The doctors Clark had known in the past kept shacks; they didn’t have time to build up a fancy life.

He slung his leg off the ride and hung his helmet off the handlebars. A buggy rattled by in the road and two little boys stood across the street outside the general store. When he looked at them, they darted behind a rain barrel. He’d been like that once, Clark and Mabel, pretending the world was out to get them and hiding in near plain sight would save them.

The world was after them and hiding didn’t help a lost soul.

Clark tested the gate and it swung open—hallelujah for that, he wouldn’t have to try to call for attention from the road—so he shut it behind him and headed to the front door. A brass plaque read: Doctor of Ailments, Lionel Parker. Clark whistled; what other kind of doctor existed?

He lifted the brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head—how fitting with the name Lionel—and let it smack the mahogany door. Clark stepped back and wiped his hands on his denim pants.

No gloves. He pulled them off and stuck them into his jacket pockets. His hair would have to do with a quick brushing of his fingers through the shoulder-length yellow strands.