Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) (6 page)

Riding the Territory, Gabriel had encountered odder in his time; he let the shift go without comment.

“You are, no doubt, wondering why your presence has been requested.”

“No doubt.”

The devil leaned back in his chair and tilted his head, studying Gabriel. “You spoke with Izzy last night while at the card table.”

“I did.” Gabriel knew when he was being studied—and judged. He waited, his hat in his lap, boots on the floor, conscious again of the knife in its sheath, and how utterly useless it would be if the judgment went against him.

“She’s a comely girl, serving drinks; most would flirt, perhaps tease her, or try for something more. But you spoke to her seriously; you took her seriously, despite her youth and gender. And then you left. Before your turn at my table came around. You did not feel the need to play against me.”

“No.”

Gabriel had been born to the Territory, but he had trained back East to face judges and juries with men’s liberty on the line. He wasn’t afraid of silence, nor the moment before the storm. And if his stomach muscles tensed or his shoulders drew back, his lead hand kept still against his thigh, neither of them remarked on it.

Those eyes brightened to pure gold, the skin tone darkening from native bronze to near black, the cheekbones sharpening. Gabriel waited, his gaze steady, his hands resting on his knees, his hat on his lap.

“You’re an advocate, not a cardsharp.”

“A man mightn’t pursue two distinct interests in his time?” He hadn’t meant for it to sound so much like a question.

“I have an offer to make you,” the devil said, as casual as he might deal out a new hand, all friends around the table, no cards up his sleeve. “Or perhaps I am accepting your offer. Either way, I think it may be of interest, and of worth, for you to accept.”

He had made no offer to the devil, only Isobel, but Gabriel was not fool enough to argue the point. A cautious man thought out his plan, and his price, before he went to the devil. If the devil came to you . . .

Gabriel raised a hand to indicate that he was listening, but he would not speak again, not until he’d heard the offer out.

Izzy felt lost. She stood on the wooden steps of the saloon, the door closing firmly behind her, and was filled with an unfamiliar, unwanted sensation of having nowhere to go, nothing to do. She had no place in the daily routine anymore, her old chores would have already been reassigned, and despite her meeting with the boss, she had no idea of what her new status, her new role might be.

The uncertainty made her uncomfortable. The boss had told her to enjoy herself. . . . But her mind went blank at the thought. She didn’t want to go back inside, waiting in her room like a scolded child anticipating her punishment, as though she had done something wrong.

She took a deep breath, letting the dry air fill her lungs. The sky was blue overhead, the breeze a cool counterpoint to the sun rising bright and warm. A walk along the river would take her away from questions she could not answer, and perhaps clear her head a little.

Resolved, she stepped along the planked sidewalk, walking toward the edge of town. Flood, for all its importance, was not large, and there were few people out and about this early, save an older man heading toward her, down the middle of the street. A small wagon trundled behind him, piled high with burlap bags, the wooden wheels making a
rattleclack
noise as they turned. “Good morning, Miz Izzy,” he said, tipping the brim of his hat to her.

“Morning, Mister Dash.” He and his son, Samuel, grew enough on their farmstead a few miles out of town to support themselves, and contracted to sell what remained. Molly said that outside the Territory, a black man couldn’t enter into a contract, nor a native, nor a woman of any race, in most places. The boss didn’t seem to care so much about that, so long as they stuck to their terms and didn’t cause troubles.

She had no contract, no agreement, no terms sealed and signed. The thought made Izzy’s skin itch. Not that there weren’t folk who
did just fine without them, she supposed, here and elsewhere. It just felt strange. Uncertain.

The planked sidewalk ended just before the smithy, and Izzy stepped down onto the road, puffs of dirt rising around her ankles. It hadn’t rained in nearly a week; that wasn’t good. The smithy’s door was open, but there was no steady
clank-clank-clank
of the hammer, just the slow breath of the fire, waiting.

Past the smithy, there was only the icehouse, a low-slung building built into the rise, and then the grasslands that led down to the river’s edge. The low ridge of hills to the west was only a faint purple smudge in the far distance. The river itself was as high as it’d ever be, and old Duarte’s boys would be bringing his cattle through soon enough, heading for summer pasture. The saloon was always busy then, with Duarte’s oldest son paying a visit to the boss, the hired hands spilling their cash on the tables, although few of them sat at the boss’s table.

She had never been allowed to work the cattle drive; the boss thought the hired men were too unpredictable and prone to abusing their drink, so the younger girls never worked those days. She’d spent the last year’s drive in the kitchen, sneaking peeks when there was a lull, before Ree slapped the flat of a wooden spoon on her backside, herding her back to chores.

“He’ll have to let me work out front this year, won’t he?” Marie did, but the boss had said that the left hand was different from the right, hadn’t he? She tried to remember exactly what he had said, but the words were blurred in her memory now. Something about having the last word?

Despite herself, Izzy laughed. Nobody ever got the last word with the boss. Even if he let you speak last, he always had the final say.

Birds chirped overhead, and a pair of rabbits disappeared into the tall grass as she approached the river, but otherwise she might have been the only living thing for miles, the town quiet and invisible behind her. Suddenly, Izzy wasn’t so sure that this walk had been a
good idea. She paused, then licked her lips and forced herself to continue. She was perfectly safe here, so long as she didn’t try to cross the river, and she had no intention of doing anything so foolish.

Izzy paused when she reached the edge of the river, listening to the water flowing over rocks, a pleasant, steady gurgling sound. She felt too restless still to sit quietly, so she kept walking along the riverbank, letting the morning sun gentle her skin and the sound of the water ease her worries, until she came to a section of the bank that was too steep, the footing too uncertain. She dug the toe of her boot into the dirt and considered working her way around it, then shook her head and turned around. She had gone far enough; there was no need to tempt fate.

Despite that soothing of the creek and sun, the unease that weighed on Izzy’s shoulders remained. How long could papers take to write up? Should she go back now, or would the boss think she was hovering, that she didn’t have the patience to do the job? Might he change his mind? The worries chased each other until she determined that going back would be no worse than staying here and fretting herself into a state.

The path seemed longer going in than walking out, and she paused when she reached the border of town, feeling the ground rumble faintly through the soles of her boots, part warning, part welcome.

“It’s me, Izzy,” she said quietly. It wasn’t necessary: the town knew her, had known her since she was knee-high. But this was the first time she’d crossed the border without
belonging
. Better to be cautious.

There was no indication anything changed, her feet still feeling an odd tingling, but she stepped forward anyway. Nothing struck her down, or set off an alarm, or whatever the boundary was supposed to do if someone came with ill intent. It never had done anything, not in all the years she’d lived there, but then, no one had ever come with mean intent, either. Not that they made it into town, at least.

Aaron ran down the street to meet her, the afternoon sun lighting him from behind and making him look like a dusty angel.

“You’re to come, Izzy,” he said, jigging with enthusiasm, as though finding her had been the best part of his day. “Boss wants you. Now!”

The boss was in his office, along with Judge Lenn. They both stubbed out their cigars when she walked in, and the judge stood, taking her hand and bowing over it like they’d never met before. His short-trimmed mustache tickled the back of her hand. “Miz Isobel. May I wish you belated but heartfelt felicitations on your birthday?”

Izzy fell into the moment, dipping a curtsey like she had seen Marie do when she was being formal, and smiled up at the older man. “I thank you, sir.”

He squeezed her fingers gently and then released her, his face falling into the more familiar serious lines. “The old man here asked me to witness your signatures. You do understand what you’re doing? This is more than an indenture. This isn’t only a contract; it’s a Bargain. There’s no leaving his service once you sign, save death, and I’m not so certain even that can break this.”

“I understand,” Izzy said, because the judge seemed to be waiting for a response.

“And this is of your own free will, with no coercion.”

Izzy nodded. “Yes, sir.” She wasn’t quite sure what that last word meant, but she’d made the decision, nobody else.

The judge looked at the papers again, then nodded once. “All right, then. I can’t say as I think this is a wise choice—no offense, sir,” he said in an aside, and
none taken
, the boss responded, smiling, “but it’s your choice and none of us are as wise as we think we are at your age.”

The judge was the only one who talked like that, and the only one who not only sassed the boss but went toe to toe with him on a regular basis. But he spoke for the Law in Flood, and the boss said Law was useful to have on your side, so he looked over every contract and witnessed its signing.

Izzy reached for the pen, but the boss held out a hand, stopping her. “Read them first, Isobel. Never sign a thing you have not read first.”

“Yessir.” She picked up the paper and looked over the terms, resisting the urge to skim them quickly.

“To bear faithful service,” she read silently, forming the words only with her lips. “To obey in word and in deed the trust given.” In return, she was promised five full coin a month, plus all supplies and training needed for her to carry out those responsibilities.

Izzy came to the end of the page, then leaned forward and picked up the pen. It was heavier than she’d expected, the barrel cool and smooth under her fingers. The prick against her fingertip was a sharp pinch, the nib cold as it drank its fill, and then she was signing her name on the creamy paper next to the
X
, all her penmanship lessons coming back to her, leaving a smooth line of text when she was done.

The boss took the pen next, pricked his own finger, and scratched his name on the next line. The blood glistened, then sank into the paper, turning darker as it dried.
“Maleh mishpat,”
he said quietly. “Isobel, thou art bound to me.”

It was done. Izzy had expected . . . more, somehow. She had expected to feel different.

“Congratulations, my dear,” the judge said, and she took the hand he offered, smiling up at him when he shook it this time, the way he might another man. “You will give credit to your Bargain, I am certain.” There was something in his eyes, a flicker of something deep and troubled, and then it was gone, even as he turned to offer his hand to the boss as well.

Izzy, left alone, looked down at her hands, and . . .

She did feel different. The uncertainty she’d been hauling was gone, and . . . She tilted her head, listening to something running under the two men’s voices. She could tell every movement within the saloon, the hum of voices, the move of bodies, the
flickerthwack
of cards and clink of glassware, the swallow of throats and the beating of hearts. It pressed against her, squeezing everything out of her until
she began to panic, fingers splayed as though to push back against empty air.

“Isobel.”

The boss stood in front of her, his hair tousled as though he’d just run a hand through it, disturbing its earlier stylings, and the sense of pressure faded.