Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) (10 page)

They entered Patch Junction proper as the last sunlight was streaking the clouds overhead with pale orange light. Izzy tried not to feel intimidated as they rode down past storefronts that rose two stories high, brightly whitewashed, with painted shutters and flowers set in window boxes, tidy enough to say that folk with some wealth lived here. She’d known Flood was plain, but she’d never thought it dowdy before.

She firmed her chin and pulled her shoulders back, as though daring anyone to point at her as a poor relation. Flood was the boss’s town; it didn’t need to prettify for strangers.

The town was half again the size of Flood and three times as
crowded, from what she could see, the main street angling off the road away into the plain, two smaller streets crooked off of that, like a preacher cactus. She caught a glimpse of single-story buildings and garden plots down those streets before they rode on, past the saloon where Izzy had thought they’d stop, and the mercantile to their left.

The saloon had a handful of men lingering outside the door, while there was a wagon being loaded in front of the mercantile, two men working while a third talked to the shopkeeper in his apron, both intent on their discussion. An old man in a dark suit leaned against the front of the barber’s, while two women walked along the raised sidewalk across the street, heads bent together in gossip, and a gang of small children played in one of the side streets, tagging each other and whooping as they ran. Gabriel kept riding and Izzy followed, all the way down to the far end, to where a small one-story clapboard building was set noticeably apart. Nobody looked twice when they swung down out of the saddle and hitched reins to the post out front.

Gabriel tilted his head back and studied the small building, his eyes squinting under the brim of his hat, looking up at the tree-and-world sigil carved and painted dark red on the door.

“You check in every badgehouse you come to?” she asked, more tartly than she’d intended, wishing that her thighs would stop shaking so badly.

“No,” he said. “But you will.”

Izzy pressed her hands against her skirt, the back of it buttoned up again, and paused just before the half-open door. The sigil seemed to taunt her, asking her what she was hesitant about, what made her heart stutter. It wasn’t fear; there was nothing to be afraid of here. She was the Devil’s Left Hand, duly contracted and sworn, and the marshal stationed inside should answer to her, not the other way around.

Except she knew better. The marshals answered to Territory law, not the boss, for all that they gave him due respect. And she might be
his Left Hand by contract and Bargain, but she hadn’t proven herself, hadn’t done anything except ride a day’s length from her home, under someone else’s protection.

Izzy felt the childish urge to stomp her feet against the doorstep. She didn’t even know what she was
supposed
to do, since the boss hadn’t seen fit to tell her anything except she had to leave. She didn’t want to go in there and deal with a stranger. She was tired and sore; she wanted a bath and a hot meal and a full night in a warm bed, and something familiar to cling to, an unbroken routine. . . .

Izzy flushed with shame, aware that she was behaving like a baby. She had asked for this. She had
demanded
it. That thought alone forced her feet to move, carrying her over the doorstep and into the marshal’s domain.

The inside of the badgehouse matched the outside: plain walls and bare wooden floor, handbills and notices tacked to a board behind the long desk. She noted the iron bars of a cell toward the back, the cot inside currently empty.

“Ma’am.” The marshal behind the desk was old, not ancient but too creaky and worn to ride the roads any longer. What was left of his hair was white, and his hands were withered and sun-darkened, but the eyes that lifted to hers were a clear, bright hazel, and his teeth were surprisingly white and strong. “How can I help you?”

Izzy took a deep breath, brushing her fingers against her side more gently this time, trying to calm her heart. “Just checking in,” she said, aiming for casual and missing it by a mile. “Isobel née Lacoyo Távora of Flood. The Devil’s Hand.”

It was the first time she had said it out loud, and the words felt awkward on her tongue and lips; she was too aware of the effort it took to shape them.
Silent, unseen,
she heard the boss say. But Gabriel said the marshals were to be told.

She had hoped that those words would be enough, that the marshal would know who she was, what she was supposed to be doing. Instead, he merely pushed back in his chair and looked her up and
down once. Judging, but not offensive; more like how Marie looked at someone who swore their silver was good, no need to test it, like you might be telling the truth but shouldn’t take her for such a fool to assume it. “Are you, now. And I’m presuming you have the papers to prove it?”

She bit the inside of her mouth and handed him the oilskin packet she had taken from her saddlebag. “I do.” What had she thought, that she would walk in and they would somehow know, would see it in her? She wasn’t the boss, so full of his own power, it spilled from him. She wasn’t even Marie, who’d soaked up enough of his easy ways that she could reflect it right back at you until you couldn’t imagine questioning her. She was . . . green to the road, Gabriel had said. Unproven. If this man had taken her at her word, he’d be a fool and unfit to carry the marshal’s badge and sigil.

He looked over the papers, careful, not just skimming the ink, then finally, after what seemed forever, held one up to the lamp to check the watermark. “New to the road, are you, then?”

“New to the road, but not the Territory,” she said, trying to pitch her voice like Marie’s, just sharp enough to deflect the teasing but not sound as though she were taking offense. He shuffled the papers back into the packet and stood. He was taller than she, and while his plain brown tab-collar shirt bore no insignia, she thought she would have known him for a marshal nonetheless.

“Welcome to the Junction, ma’am,” he said, handing her back the packet. “Any aid we can offer, please don’t you hesitate to request.”

He waited, and she nodded once, holding the packet under her arm, and turned and left the office.

The light had changed while she was inside, shifting from afternoon to dusk. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen, but the gelding’s sideways sidle, as though he were moving away from something, led her around to find her mentor cleaning the gelding’s back hoof with a pick. Gabriel finished, letting the leg down gently and patting the horse’s side as though to say it was done for now.

She expected him to say something, ask for a report, but he merely glanced at her, then looked up at the sky and shook his head. “Took longer than I thought to get here. We’ll restock tomorrow. Come on.”

Their next stop was a stable, where Gabriel handed over the reins and the mule’s lead line to a man who grunted instead of speaking, then he led her down one of the branch streets to where he said they’d be spending the night. It didn’t look like much from the front, just a one-story structure wider than it was deep, but it was clean, and the beds were separated by tall wooden screens, giving an illusion of privacy that Izzy hadn’t known she would need until she dropped her pack on the cot and realized that she was, effectively, alone. With the Junction being the last civilized stop for most folk heading west, there were two others staying there that night, but she couldn’t see or hear anyone moving behind their screens. And Gabriel had taken a space a bit away from hers, near enough at need but not right up close. It was foolish—they’d be sleeping in trail sites much after this, and she knew you stayed close in those circumstances, but this first night . . .

She would not turn down some privacy, and a real bed, and—

“They have a tub out back with a pump,” Gabriel said, making her jump. She hadn’t realized he’d come around her screen. He’d taken off his hat, holding it in front of him in both hands, and his hair was sweat-soaked underneath, pressed against his forehead. “You could probably use a decent soak, ease out your bones. Although I’d suggest waiting until later.” He cast a look down the hall, significantly, and Izzy nodded. So, that was where the others had gone to.

“Dinner first?” she asked, and his eyes crinkled in that way that meant he was smiling, even though he wasn’t.

“You’re learning the second rule of the road: eat when you can, especially if someone else is cooking.”

She availed herself of the basin and jug of water by her bed to freshen up, washing her face and hands in the tepid water, then repinning her braid, and then met Gabriel by the door. He had cleaned his face as
well, and changed his shirt, too, leaving Izzy all too aware of the faint smell of sweat and horse that were likely embedded in her skirt, now. But he merely indicated that she should precede him out the door, without comment.

They walked into the saloon, swinging doors separating the dining area from the gambling, drinking, and music on the other side. Despite the flash of longing that shook her from shoulders to soles, Izzy held back the urge to pass through that door, lose herself in the familiar chatter, instead following Gabriel to an empty table. It wouldn’t
be
familiar on the other side of those doors. It wasn’t home.

A serving girl came over quickly, but despite their pleasing smell, the first taste of buttermilk chicken and biscuits turned to dust in her mouth. Izzy took a sip of tea to wash it all down and ease the sudden lump in her throat. Distraction. She needed a distraction. Her gaze flicked to Gabriel seated across the table, tucking into his meal like he hadn’t eaten in days.

She didn’t want to speak of the men they’d met in the road, not sure if such a thing was considered polite table conversation, but she didn’t want to talk about home either, not with the push of regret and fear still in her throat. And she had no stories to tell, nor any idea what stories to ask him for. . . .

“You done this often? Mentored, I mean.” She’d wondered but been afraid that might be prying. Now the words fell out of her mouth without preparation, and she wished, after the fact, she could take ’em back. Like a devil’s Bargain, you never asked another man what he’d done unless he offered first. Not even your mentor. Wasn’t polite, and it wasn’t safe.

Although she didn’t think he’d hurt her for asking. Not the once, anyhow.

He was still busy tucking into his own plate, and she thought at first he wasn’t going to answer. Then he pushed back a little, wiped his hands on his napkin, and pursed his lips. His hair had dried sticking up in places, his face rough with stubble, making him look like a man she
wouldn’t want to cross, but his eyes were soft and thoughtful, and he didn’t seem to have taken offense.

“A time or three,” he said. “Depends on how you’re counting.”

She frowned at him. Surely he knew how many times he’d done a thing. Was he teasing? No, she thought maybe he was testing her. Not the way he did on the road but the way the boss did, checking to see if she’d thought something through, looked at all the angles.

“Counting by times . . . or people? You mentored two at the same time.” It wasn’t a question; she was certain she had the answer right.

“Near enough. Chimera.”

Izzy did not choke on her tea. It took some doing, though, and she could feel the near miss of heat floating too near her lungs. “You mentored a chimera?”

“Not intentionally, I assure you.” His faint, mocking drawl was back, and she’d swear he was pulling her leg, except that wasn’t the sort of thing one joked about. Chimera were
dangerous
. Not so much as demon but harder to find, at least until they revealed themselves. Ghost-ridden, some folk called ’em. But the boss said they weren’t so much ridden as dancing, twining themselves around, half living and half dead, until you couldn’t much tell the difference between.

The problem was, sometimes the half-dead part wasn’t all there anymore and pretty much always drove the half-living part crazy, too.

She tried to think of something to say. “I guess I seemed like a lot less trouble after that.”

Gabriel gave her a look, one she couldn’t quite read. “Not sure I’d say that.”

She felt her forehead scrunch in confusion. “You thought I’d be trouble? Then why offer?”

He shook his head, laughing a little, although she didn’t know what she’d said that was so amusing. “You don’t offer to mentor someone because it’ll be easy, Isobel.”

“Then why did you?” Whatever agreement he’d made with the boss—and he had made an agreement, she knew it: a low thrumming
in her veins when she thought about it, the knowledge where once she wondered—it had come after he’d made his offer to her. She’d been no one to him then, just a girl taking away his drink, a saloon girl he didn’t even think was pretty.

“I was born here,” he said. Izzy had no idea what that had to do with anything, but she’d learned to listen in the saloon and not interrupt, to let people get to their point in their own time. “Grew up in a little town just south of Fort Victoria.”

Fort Victoria was outside the Territory, only just, where the local tribe allied with the French and skirmished against the British and Americans alike. She tried to remember the last time the fighting had crossed over into the Territory: four years, maybe closer to five. There had been riders coming into Flood on a regular basis with reports, and finally the boss had saddled up and ridden out, then come home weeks later, tired and mean, but the trouble stopped.