What Once We Loved (19 page)

“Isn't that a marvel?”

“With those snowshoes, we could make our way to trees, saw down branches and get into places where the snow wasn't crusted enough to hold the horses. We dragged the ones with the moss on them back to MacDonalds' for the rest of the herd. Fed all that moss to the cows and horses,” he said. “Must have something in it good because the animals lived off it. All started with Puff, that little filly.” He sat thoughtful. “My grandpa used to tell me when I wanted something that I thought I needed real bad, to “be patient and have a little faith.' He told me once there would always be a way if a man kept his head and if what he was doing was part of Gods plan. I never forgot that. When I saw that horse eating the moss I almost blubbered like a baby. ‘Til then, I thought if we lived I'd be telling you about your losses. Then the snow melted.”

“And the floods came. It's always something.”

“They said that was unusual too.” He laughed. “I think that's the word for southern Oregon,
unusual.
That Rogue boiled out of its banks, ran like the Columbia does year-round, a river everyone should see once in their lives, by the way.”

“How'd you happen to see it?” Ruth asked.

“Oh, I made a side trip of a couple hundred miles.” He grinned. “Not a shortcut either. Joe and me decided one of us should go there and find you or a letter or something to know where you and Ma were. I got picked. Pretty country. Mountains and ridges with grass so high, Sailor here didn't need to lower his head to eat his fill.”

“Will Jacksonville have grazing like that?”

“No ma'am. It's got more settlement and a little more rain from what I figure, with timbered ridges that slope to meadows and creeks. And like I said, good, rich soil. Once we're over these Siskiyou Mountains, we'll be in Oregon, Ruth.” He pointed ahead. “North of Mount Shasta, I think you'll find just what you've been seeking.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Kossuth, I truly am,” Nehemiah told his wife. “But I brought you something special, truly special this time. Cashmere. Pink. It's difficult to get and so soft. Feel it.”

She brushed it aside. “You promised. You said we could take the ship to San Francisco, and now you say we can't. It'll be too late to buy up things for Christmas and send them if we don't go soon. And why do you get to buy things but I can't?”

“The backers came here,” he said. “So there's no need to go south right now. They'll leave tomorrow, and instead of our going on the ship, I can take another shipment into gold country. It's very profitable, Mrs. Kossuth. And we need to concentrate on profit…and making sure people have what they need before winter sets in.”

“Your backers. Let them back you up when you come home to a cold fire,” she said. I lpton.

“Mrs. Kossuth to you,” she snapped.

She could see the hurt in his eyes beneath those bushy red eyebrows,
and still she couldn't stop herself. She felt as though angry cats had taken refuge in her head, and she couldn't get them out no matter how much Nehemiah tried to calm with his words.

“My head hurts.” She rubbed at her temples.

“Shall I fetch the doctor? Here, take the cashmere. It's warm. So soft. Please.”

“I just need to rest. To go to bed.” She shrugged the cashmere from her shoulders.

“I'll fix you tea,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“No!” She hated it when he was nice to her when she was being wretched to him. Worse, when he apologized and didn't know why he apologized. He didn't intend to never do this again; he just wanted her to not be angry. And he'd say anything to make that happen. She hated that about him…about men. Tyrell used to do that too, at times. Just try to find a way to appease her without ever really knowing why she was upset. What was worse, she often didn't know why she was upset either. Like now.

A pale light broke through the shutters. Tipton turned over. Her husband was already up and gone. But she knew he'd come back for a final good-bye before he left for his pack trip. She hated it when he left her all alone. Well, fine. She would go out too. For a long ocean walk. If she made it back before he left, so be it. If not, he would know how it felt to be counting on something and then find himself disappointed.

She grabbed the cashmere shawl he'd given her, ran it across her face, then threw it on the bed. She didn't feel any better. Those cats were still in there, having their way.

Even though the sun had barely risen, she could see well enough to stride out fast along the rocky beach. And the long walk with the wind at her face did soothe. Maybe she was just being petulant. Nehemiah did have his work to consume him. She supposed that was part of
what troubled her; she had nothing that engaging. Even her painting had never sparked her interests the way Nehemiah was fired by finance and shipping and supply routes and even the detail of which mules worked best with which handler.

And then he had his plans to run for the county commissioner from the region. He could be famous someday, a man with a head for business who was also compassionate and kind. He said she could help him, knowing Spanish or Mexican enough to converse. It seemed to her there were lots more Chinese and Indians around than Mexicans. But they couldn't vote, she guessed. The others could.

“You can be my eyes and ears when I'm not here,” Nehemiah had told her once. “It will legitimize gossip for you,” he'd said, smiling.

She'd looked that word up—
legitimize
—and been surprised that he thought there was anything that would warrant telling secrets about others. It must not have been what he meant.

She had told him about talk at the mercantile of men who called themselves the Crescent City Militia. They'd said the men had ambushed a group of Tolowa Indians and made wild threats about bounties for their scalps and burning their babies. She'd shivered. Nehemiah had said it was probably just out-of-work miners bragging themselves up, then told her not to walk the beach when he wasn't with her.

She tugged on her old shawl, wishing she'd brought the new cashmere one with her. Once when she'd been outraged over something as insignificant as dandelion fluff on a Newfoundland dog, Nehemiah had actually walked across the room, put his arms around her even though she batted her hands at him, and he held her. She had been screaming and crying and shouting all at once, and he had just wrapped her into him, let her sob and sink into his arms. He hadn't told her it would be all right, hadn't said he was sorry. He had just held her, made sure she knew she wasn't alone. She had never felt more loved. Even by Tyrell.

She inhaled a deep breath. Marriage must demand that kind of love. She didn't know if she was capable of that, reaching out to wrap
her arms around someone pushing her away. But he'd seen through her, that was it. Seen what she needed even when she didn't know it. She wasn't that kind of a wife, would probably never be.

A sea gull chattered on the shore before her. She stepped to avoid stringers of kelp curled on the sand. Nehemiah was a good man, a husband she didn't deserve. Truth be known, he didn't deserve the likes of her either. Truth be known, she thought. She was sounding just like her mother.

Zane hated the look of it, the thin thigh. A narrow knee. Haifa leg ending at a rounded nub like a knurled tree root cut off. It throbbed less now, and he could actually bear weight with the odd contraption of leather and wood that attached around his waist with a strap, gave his leg length. He couldn't wear it for long though. The stump ached, burned almost, whenever the contraption was strapped on, and he would have to take it off again.

Sometimes he could actually feel his lower leg and foot even though he knew it wasn't there. He wondered if that could be possible or if he was… no. He was of sound mind, he was sure ofthat. He wanted to scratch there though, or rub where it ached, where the child had jammed his foot with the stone, where the horse had stepped on it and scraped him in the creek. But it wasn't there! His leg was gone.

It could have healed. A decent doctor could have healed it—unless he needed practice amputating legs. If Zane could feel the hurt, that Hollis should never have severed the limb. The man had experimented on his leg! Zane snorted. It was a poor physician who would amputate a limb with blood still flowing to it, blood and feeling that stayed, even after the limb was severed.

And then the snake of a medicine man had run out on him, had left an ignorant immigrant to tend him.

Maybe it wasn't healing right. Maybe Zane had gone overboard when he lost control and grabbed at them. Sent the man away with his mousy nurse when he still needed a doctor s care. He must not lose control. People refused to listen to him; that was all it was. And they underestimated him. Ruth, too.

At least the crutch helped. Zane hated leaning on the man. The big Irishman had some ulterior motive, he must have. Tired of mining in the narrow gulch. Too stupid to make it on his own so he hired out, providing a way for the doctors escape.

He had asked that a carriage be brought around. “A man does not need both legs to drive a wagon or a buggy,” Zane told the Irishman.

“A driver would be the better way.”

“I do not need a driver,” Zane growled, though he had the resources to pay.

That, too, was an oddity. A stranger had found him beside the stream, his foot festering, his mind drifting with fury and pain. If Zane had encountered such a person, he'd have ridden a wide berth around them. But this stranger had brought him here. Hadn't even taken his purse! The fool. He could have been rich beyond measure, but apparently he had emptied Zane s bag only enough to replace what he'd purchased in food for him. Hollis, the doctor, had taken little more, leaving Zanes fortune intact. Admirable, these people. And stupid; O'Malley among them.

If only they had listened to his cries to simply leave him be, leave him whole. He wasn't sure he could live as just half.

But, for now, he had a plan. He'd told the Irishman what he wanted, and the following day O'Malley had brought the two-wheeled open carriage with a folding hood to the front of the house. It was painted as purple as a week-old bruise. It was perfect.

What he wanted next was to take a trip out to Ruth's. She lived just down the way in Shasta. Where she'd been, taunting him out in the open, acting as though she didn't care whether he found her or not.
That would change. He'd been foolish to become distracted by the Wintu woman, even his own child that day he took them. He'd lost his way, his focus, as dear Suzanne would put it. Ruth was at the center of all his trials, all his pain. She needed to atone for her sins. Yes. Knowing Ruth would suffer must remain his reason for living.

He thump-hopped to the door with the crutch, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he did. He cringed. He ambled like an ape. He'd seen a big ape caged at a circus back in Missouri. The primate lunged at him, and Zane had laughed, sneered at the lack of control the ape had over his own movements, junk that looked like tears stuck in the beasts eyes. Tears. Now here he was, almost as caged, almost as pathetic.

But not quite. He had no tears.

Zane squinted into the sunlight, feeling lightheaded and weak with the effort. He needed to build up his strength. He'd start today, by driving the shay to Ruth's. The horse stomped impatiently at the hitching rail as Zane gasped for breath in the doorway.