Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (4 page)

After she had led the cow back up the path, he moved out into the stream, sat down on the rocky bottom, leaned back, and let the swiftly moving water rinse the soap from his hair. The women were being cautious and he couldn’t fault them for that. Katy had not taken the cow to the tank behind the livery because she would have to pass the stone building. By cutting across the road above town, she could reach the creek without being seen from the jail. Because of him they had been carrying their water up that steep path.

He was sitting on the grass putting on his moccasins when Modo raised his head and looked toward the path again. Rowe and the dog moved swiftly into the willows. Katy came down the path with a bucket in each hand. He frowned. This time she had not brought the rifle. He watched as she dipped the cool, clear water from the stream, paused to looked around, then headed back up the path. He motioned to the dog, picked up his rifle, and followed closely enough to keep her in sight.

At the edge of the woods she stopped. Rowe motioned for the dog to stay and moved up closer. She had set the buckets on the ground beside a bush of yellow flowers. Her light head was bent over them, her nose buried in the blossoms.

“Ouch!” The small muffled cry escaped her when she reached down to snap off a stem, and her fingers were pierced by the thorns. She stuck her finger in her mouth for a moment, then picked up the buckets and walked on.

Rowe and Modo stood beneath an aspen across the road from the funerary and watched her until she disappeared inside.

Nightrose.
The word dropped into his mind. Was it a name or a place?

“Nightrose.” He said the word aloud. It rolled off his tongue as if he were saying “darling” or “sweetheart” to a lover. Once again he had the eerie feeling of having said the word before in connection with
this
woman.

Rowe believed that when a person died, his soul wandered until it came back to earth in another body. He had discussed this theory with a professor at Harvard University and again with his mother’s old friend, Victor Hugo, during a visit to Paris last year. The dramatist, poet, and novelist was a firm believer in reincarnation, and they had spent several enjoyable evenings together while Victor’s still-beautiful mistress of forty years, Juliette, was away visiting relatives.

Had Rowe known Katy in another life? Had her name been Nightrose? Were he and this woman destined to live out their days together? An indescribable feeling of elation came over him. He shook his wet head; water from his hair trickled down the side of his face. Here, in the darkness of this vast wilderness, he was experiencing the feeling of coming home.

Modo moved up beside him and nuzzled his leg, bringing him back to reality. He turned back down the path only to pause when he came to the wild rosebush. He stood for a moment, then drew his knife and cut a cluster of blossoms from the bush. With a few quick strokes of the blade he removed the thorns from the stem and held the flowers to his face. As if drawn by an unseen hand, he crossed the road to the funerary and placed the sprig of roses beside the door, and then moved silently away.

“You’ll never guess what,” Katy said, as she came in the side door carrying the bucket of fresh milk.

“Shhh . . . Theresa’s still sleeping. What? What’s happened to get you so excited this morning?” Mary’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the cookstove.

“There’s a tub of water out there for Mable.”

Mary slid a pan of biscuits onto the top of the iron range before she spoke. “Well, I do declare!
He
must have put it there.”

“It was either Bushy-face or the fairies, and I never did believe in fairies or goblins or ‘haints,’ as Posie used to call them.” Katy set the bucket of milk on the floor and draped a cloth over it to keep out the flies.

“That was really sweet of him. Do you think we should offer him some milk? We have more than we can use.”

“Give Bushy-face milk? He’d laugh in your face, Mary. He probably went right from his mother’s breast to the whiskey barrel.”

“Oh, maybe not. You can’t always judge people by the way they look.”

“If we did, he’d win the prize. Wheee! It’s going to be hot today. Let’s go down to the creek and do some washing. Bushy-face has done us two good turns. I don’t think he has murder or fornicating on his mind, or he’d have tried it by now. But I’ll take the rifle along just the same.”

“The cookstove heats this place like an oven. I hope it’ll do the same if we’re still here this winter. That cabin we lived in last winter was almost like living out of doors.”

“This
winter
! Heaven forbid, Mary. We’ve got to get out of here, and back to civilization. I don’t think we’re going to get any help from old what’s-his-face.” Katy’s spontaneous laughter rang out as it did at the most unexpected times. “He acts as if we have the cholera or smallpox.”

Theresa sat up in her makeshift bed. “Who’s Bushy-face, Aunt Katy?”

“Well, look who’s awake and listening to every word.” Katy lifted the child from the box. “Do you need to use the chamber?”

“I . . . already did—” Theresa’s lips began to quiver and she held her wet gown away from her legs.

Katy flipped the gown up over the child’s head. “Don’t worry about it, honey. We’re going to wash today. You’ve not wet the bed in a long time.” She slipped the child’s arms into one of her shirts and buttoned it down the front.

Mary opened the front door and a cool breeze swept through the building.

“Well, for goodness’ sake.” She picked up the branch of yellow rose blooms. “Look at what the wind blew up onto the porch, Katy.”

“Wind, my hind foot. There wasn’t a breath of wind stirring last night.” Katy, remembering her thorn prick the night before, saw at a glance that the tips of the thorns had been sliced off. She began to smile. “Why, Mary, I do believe you’ve got a suitor. Bushy-face is courting you.”

Mary’s eyes became large and questioning. “Tarnation! What in the world are you talking about?”

“He left them at the door. Look at the stem. It’s been dethorned.” Katy began to laugh when Mary’s face turned a fiery red.

“But . . . but—” she sputtered. “I’m a married woman.”

“He doesn’t know that. Didn’t you say he gave you a long hard look when he rode in?”

“Well, yes, but—oh, Katy, you’re the darndest tease!”

Katy watched the soft line of her sister’s mouth curve into a smile. With the color in her cheeks she was pretty, really pretty, and she was wasting her life waiting for a good-for-nothing like Roy Stanton.

“Maybe we should invite him to supper.” Katy’s blue eyes danced with pure mischief. “But maybe not. He may not be able to find his mouth beneath all that brush.”

“We should do something for him. I think I’ll leave a pan of hot biscuits on the porch. He saved you from the cougar and put water out for the cow.”

“The cougar might have been after Mable, not me,” Katy said stubbornly. She was still angry with herself for not taking the rifle when she went out to pull grass for the cow.

Mary slid half of the pan of biscuits onto a plate and went to the porch, her back straight and defiant, as if she expected Katy to call her back.

“Mister!” she called toward the stone building. “Oh, Mister!”

“Call him Bushy-face,” Katy prompted. “He might think you’re calling someone else.”

“Oh, hush, Katy,” Mary chided, then called again. “Thank you for killing the lion, or whatever it was. And thank you for the water for the cow. Here’s fresh biscuits if you would care for them. I’ll leave them here on the porch.”

Mary went back inside, pushing Katy and Theresa ahead of her, and then closed the door.

“There! At least we’ve tried to pay him back a little. Stay away from the window, Katy, or he’ll not come to get them. He may have been in the mountains for so long that he’s shy around white women.”

“He needn’t be. I can’t think of a single white woman who would give him a second look with all that hair on his face, unless it would be Winnie Fennel back home. Remember her, Mary? She’d have taken anything walking on two legs. She did everything in her power to attract our brothers, and they were a good ten years younger than she was. Finally she got old Dan Brower, but he was desperate for someone to care for seven younguns. He up and died on her after six months. His oldest boy said she just plumb wore his pa out.” Katy went into gales of laughter.

“Oh, you! Sit down and I’ll pour the tea.” Mary washed her daughter’s hands with a wet cloth and lifted her up onto a stool. “Eat your breakfast, honey. Then we’ve got to do something about that hair of yours.”

“I’d give a nickel for a slice of ham,” Katy said. “Remember when Posie cooked ham and made red-eye gravy?”

“What I remember most is peach pie and strawberry tarts.”

“I remember roast turkey and dressing.”

“Chicken and dumplings with suet pudding and raisin sauce—”

“Laced with rum. Remember?”

“I remember that you ate nothing but the sauce.” Mary dipped milk from a gray crock and set it in front of Theresa’s plate.

“Drink your milk, ladybug. It’ll put hair on your chest.” Katy gazed fondly at the child.

“I don’t want hair on my chest, Aunt Katy!”

“She’s teasing, as usual,” Mary said patiently. “Only men have hair on their chest.”

The sound of something clanking on the porch brought Katy to her feet. She rushed to the window, looked out, and burst into laughter.

“His dog has eaten his biscuits.” She opened the door and rushed out onto the porch. “Here, dog! Leave the plate.”

“Well, I never!” Mary crowded out the door behind her. The dog was going down the road. The empty plate had fallen into the weeds beside the porch. Katy stepped down and picked it up.

“I can just hear that dog saying, ‘Those were the best goldurned biscuits I ever et!’ ”

Musical laughter floated down the empty street. Coming down from the old mine, Rowe paused to listen. He didn’t understand his attraction for this woman. Her features were clearly etched in his mind. He knew her and the realization was purely instinctive that she had the power to make his life heaven or . . . hell.

Determined to get his mind off the crazy notion that she was important to him, he went into the saloon and spread his maps out on the bar to study them once again. His partner and friend, Anton Hooker, had been right. Anton had taken a sample from the mine months ago, had it assayed, and decided the mine was worth opening. Running through the heavy iron deposits was a vein of silver. It would be a hard job getting at it. At first, the ore would have to be hauled in heavy freight-wagons to the smelter in Bay Horse where the pure silver would be extracted. Later, if the vein proved to be long-lasting, they would continue to operate the mine along with their other project.

The former mine owners had only been interested in quick riches. When the gold petered out, they were ready to cut their losses and move on. As a matter of fact, Rowe mused, he might have purchased the mine and the several hundred thousand acres of land adjoining it for a mere fraction of its eventual worth. He had, however, given the owners their asking price.

Rowe scanned the map, noting every mountain, stream, and trail in the area. His eyes lingered the longest on the spot that lay to the north, along the Madison River. This was his land. He would make his home there and start a ranch someday. He had no reason now to go back to Paris. His mother was gone. And it would please him greatly if he never set eyes on his only living kin, his half brother Justin, again. The same went for the Rowe mansion on the Hudson River and all it entailed; it could drop into hell for all he cared.

Everything in its own time, Rowe thought. He rolled up the maps and tied them with a string. This afternoon, he would ride south and see if there was any sign of Hank and the wagons.

At noon Rowe chewed on a strip of jerky and ate a can of peaches, dreaming about lobster tails dipped in melted butter and tender, thin pancakes filled with raspberry jam and sprinkled with sugar. God! He hoped Hank had found someone who could cook something more than corn bread, beans and grits.

Rowe had stayed on the far side of the town while the women were at the creek. They were getting braver, he decided. After he had killed the cougar and put water out for the cow, they must have decided he wasn’t going to attack them. How little they knew of men. If he’d had that on his mind, he would have done just what he’d done—try to win their confidence and when they let down their guard, pounce. He walked down to the edge of the stream. He chuckled to see the array of women’s garments spread on the bushes to dry. The unmentionables had been hung in such a manner as to disguise their purpose, should he happen upon them. But drawers were drawers, and during his travels he supposed he’d seen every kind imaginable.

It was a quiet afternoon except for a whippoorwill, which swooped down over the swiftly running water, and the blue-jays, which scolded from the upper branches of the cottonwood tree. A robin, perched on a swaying limb of the willow, sang as if it didn’t have a care in the world. One of the bluejays, attracted by the shiny buttons on a pair of drawers, flew down. As Rowe watched, his mouth twitched in amusement. The bird pecked at the button and pulled in vain. Finally, frustrated, it rose into the air with an angry screech, circled the bushes, then swooped and dropped his calling card on a pair of drawers trimmed with lace and blue ribbon. Unable to stop himself, Rowe laughed aloud.

“Mr. Jay, you’ve been eating berries and Katy isn’t going to like what you just did one little bit.”

Rowe wished he could be around when Katy discovered the bird droppings on her clean drawers. Although his face wore its usual somber look, he was still laughing inside as he saddled his horse and rode out of town. Since Apollo was anxious to run, Rowe let him race three miles before he drew up in a small cluster of cottonwoods, where water seeping from the rocky cliff had made a tiny pool. He allowed the horse a little water, then remounted and headed south again. The air was clear and bright, the sky almost cloudless. He saw no Indians, although there were plenty of tracks. He traveled slowly to keep down the dust, staying off the trail when possible. He came to a shelf that jutted out over the valley. Keeping to the trees, he walked the horse to a spot that had a clear view for at least five miles.