Bladestay, p.2
Bladestay, page 2
Fed up, Theo rose to the tips of her toes, her own fingers digging into Patrick’s arm, and hissed something into his ear that would drastically change not only the course of Theo’s day, but of her life. Then she ripped her hand free and began to stalk away.
Blacksmith hadn’t heard what Theo said, and what nobody else heard that day was the very thing that made Patrick publicly snap. He snatched her arm again, yanked her backward, and clawed the green bonnet from her head. Hairpins tore free from the elaborate updo that had taken her mother an hour that morning, her towhead hair tumbling partially free in lopsided curls.
What happened next happened very fast.
Patrick grabbed a thick handful of her nearly white blond hair, yanked a four-inch blade from his belt, and sliced a huge chunk of hair from her head, scraping so close that the knife nicked her scalp.
Blacksmith was yelling something as Elliot leaped from the deck.
Theo shrieked when the blade sliced for her head, which quickly turned to a snarl when she realized what Patrick was doing wasn’t deadly, just cruelty.
Her world rapidly narrowed.
She tried to rip free of his grip, and when she couldn’t, she instead stepped close, angled her body, and kneed Patrick hard between the legs.
Patrick let out a horribly choked cry as the knife tumbled from his hand.
As Patrick fell to his knees, doubled over and holding his crotch, Theo swept the knife from the red clay and plunged it into his shoulder. The first swing of the blade was reflexive; the second one was born of rage.
Theo was shocked at the ease in which the blade slipped deeply through skin and muscle, even more shocked in the aftermath, when she realized she had yanked the blade back out and was about to sink it back in. If it hadn’t been for Elliot grabbing her wrist and twisting the knife from her grip, Theo wasn’t sure how many times she would have watched the blade disappear into his skin. Later, when she would recall the moment, she would be disturbed to find that her memory was largely black and scattered, that adrenaline had erased logic and scrambled memory.
She wouldn’t remember the specifics of Blacksmith intervening, wrapping his arm around her waist and physically dragging her away. She wouldn’t remember how she fought to keep the knife, the curses she was yelling at the boy bleeding in the dirt. She wouldn’t remember the scene she made for the gathering townspeople. But what she would remember is how the encounter she’d been thwarting for so long had finally and categorically derailed her life. But just as every shift in trajectory is not by choice, not all derailments are adverse, for the things disguised as mistakes often set us on the paths we were meant to travel all along.
CHAPTER THREE
Fifty-three miles outside Bladestay, August Gaines approached the town of Clayton Creek. His mare was short-striding with the ache of the weary, tripping over rocks she was usually sure-footed around. With over two hundred miles covered in the past two weeks, both horse and rider yearned for the relief of civilization.
August swung a leg over the silver-plated saddle and slid down, his feet hitting the dirt road with wavering legs. Adjusting himself, August swept a calloused palm down the mare’s neck, once, in a brief, rare expression of affection. He slipped the headstall over the mare’s ears, and she dipped her head in compliance, working her jaw to slide the bit from the corners of her mouth. Hooking the bridle on the saddle horn, August swung the lead line over his shoulder and began walking. As sturdiness returned to the man’s legs, his stride grew hungrier as did the ache in his belly. Already, he could smell the roasting of pig on a spit through the persistent aroma of pine cones and evergreens.
Clayton Creek had boomed into existence at the discovery of gold in the nearby hills, a town that, like so many others in the rush, exploded into establishment, burned brightly, but extinguished quickly, leaving nothing behind but brick bones and silent ghosts. Often, the extinguishment was a self-consummation as the promise of wealth far outreached the reality, but sometimes towns like Clayton Creek were snuffed by the likes of August Gaines.
The entrance to the town welcomed newcomers with a stucco arch that had the name of the town painted in a metallic gilt across the crest.
August paused under the archway, running dirt-grimed fingers across the brailled plaster, considering the craftsmanship like a work of art. He resumed his walk. Knob spurs were silent on oiled boots. Thoroughly broken leather chaps hugged muscular thighs. His calf-length duster cloaked him like an entity. Everything about August Gaines was quiet, contemplative even. He was a silent terror, the kind that slipped through the window without the latch clicking, without the glass breaking, without anybody knowing. He deeply craved grand entrances but appreciated more the power of tacit ones.
The sheriff and his deputy met August and his mare no more than twenty yards past the stucco entrance. No dust rose from the shod hooves of their horses; spring showers kept the paths muted.
The wide brim of August Gaines’s white Staker hat shadowed his sharp features, and the high noon sun obliged.
It was the sheriff who spoke first.
“Welcome to Clayton Creek, partner. You sure look like you could use a hot meal and a warm bed, and why, we have—”
“Take my horse,” August said. It wasn’t his intention to be rude, but he was tired, and something irked him about an officer young enough to be his offspring.
Deputy and sheriff exchanged a glance.
“Excuse me?” the sheriff said.
August noticed the swell in his voice, the apprehension that leaked in as hospitality deflated. Although the sheriff was the older one, he didn’t appear to be the wiser one. It was the deputy whom August focused on. The deputy was a young man, early twenties, but he had a seriousness to him that made August hone. He’d been through enough towns to know which trigger fingers would hesitate and which ones wouldn’t.
“What’s your business here?” the deputy asked.
When August began walking toward them, the deputy’s hand slid conspicuously to the grip at his hip.
“Just passing through,” August said to the deputy as he placed the mare’s lead line into the sheriff’s hand. He reached under his cloak at his breast—making the deputy’s fingers tighten around the revolver at his hip—and pulled out a fistful of gold coins. August littered the coins at the sheriff’s feet and said, “I won’t be repeating myself,” then sliced between them like a light breeze.
August headed for the mercantile, leaving the law of Clayton Creek to make what they would of his arrival.
Later that night, after a hot bath, a clean shave, purchased sex, and a large meal, August strolled down the lamplit alley behind the saloon, listening to the sound of expert fingers tormenting the keys of a finely tuned piano. Some patrons were singing haphazardly, some were laughing, and those who were doing neither were shouting conversations over the others.
August lit his pipe and rounded the corner, heading for the main boulevard. When he reached it, he crossed it, ignoring more propositions from those loitering in the darkness.
The roads were relatively quiet, but up and down the interconnecting streets, oil blazed warmly inside. Even on a mild spring day, Colorado sheds its warmth when the sun disappears, chasing most indoors when night sinks its cold fangs into domesticated flesh.
With six cells, Clayton Creek’s jailhouse was larger than most towns, but not a single one was currently incarcerating. That bothered August for reasons beyond his ability to put into words, which had nothing to do with his preference for saying nothing at all. It made him feel itchy and uncomfortable to know that either the law was lax or that the town simply didn’t have a dark side. He would be willing to make a bet that plenty of people in this town deserved to be locked up. But that was neither here nor there—he wasn’t in the business of recruitment.
The sheriff was across the street in the saloon, fooling around with someone who wasn’t his wife, leaving the deputy alone to chain smoke cigarettes and read weeks-old newspapers.
The deputy’s body was quiet, but his eyes were manic when August entered the jailhouse.
“Evening,” August said as he pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Mind?” But August didn’t wait to see if he did.
The deputy shook his head, rebounded the greeting, and gestured at the chair on the opposite side of the desk as August Gaines sank into it.
August tapped his spent tobacco onto the desk.
The deputy frowned lightly as he made his own tap of his cigarette into the crystal ashtray somewhat theatrically as to demonstrate where the other man should have dumped his.
August began to pack his pipe, intentionally stretching the silence. Patience, August understood, wasn’t a virtue so much as it was a weapon.
But the deputy wasn’t taking the bait.
August puffed, gesturing loosely with it at the jailhouse, smoke swirling. “No evildoers in Clayton Creek, I reckon.”
“I reckon I don’t give a flying flute what you reckon.” The deputy stamped out his cigarette.
When the deputy perpetuated the silence, August nodded as if they had reached some kind of understanding.
He pointed the mouth of his pipe at the deputy and said, “I like you.”
“Can’t say there’s much mutuality to that statement.” The deputy lit another.
August echoed the deputy, reigniting his pipe. “Well now. Nobody cares much for their reckoning.” He lit another match, stoking the embers gently.
“Is that what you are?” The deputy coldly held his gaze. “Some right hand o’ God?” He snorted, smoke shooting from his nostrils. “I’ve seen plenty of your type before. Drifters who loot, drifters who steal, drifters who say they’re the second coming of Christ. Which are you?”
August lazily picked something from his teeth, appreciating the deputy’s condescending tone while delighting over how nervously tense he was.
“I’ve got business with a man who goes by the name of Lucas Haas. He been through these parts?” August asked.
“What kind of business?”
“Propitiation.”
“Well, friend. That business sounds personal.”
August reached back into his coat, making the deputy go for his gun, which August allowed.
Unflinching, August set a canvas-bound book on the table between them. Puffing on his pipe, August gestured loosely to the ledger, said, “Open to the third page.” Then he retrieved a single piece of waxy paper, unfolded it carefully, and smoothed it out next to the book. It was a deed to thirty-thousand acres near Santa Fe.
The deputy’s curiosity seemed to be growing alongside his apprehension, but as curiosity often did, it proved to be a stronger force than preservation. Keeping the barrel of the revolver resting atop the desk yet steady on August, the deputy thumbed to page three of the ledger.
“What am I looking for?” the deputy asked, his eyes scanning the page as they darted sporadically to keep an eye on his guest.
August stoked his pipe with a freshly lit match. “Bottom of the page. Look closely.”
Frowning, the deputy picked up the weathered deed and gave it a closer inspection. Then he put his focus on the bottom of page three from the Clayton Creek Inn guest ledger.
August leaned forward, the chair groaning softly, and pressed a finger above the second-to-last moniker. Tapping it, he said, “What do you see?”
The deputy shrugged. “That an Alabama man by the name of Heath Mansford had a brief soiree in our here great town . . . six years ago.” He emphasized the last part slightly, as to underline its unimportance this matter had on his life.
“Heath Mansford is Lucas Haas. See the way he do his As? And the H? Dollars to buttons, kid.”
“What are you after, Mr. Gaines?”
August regarded the deputy calmly, then said, “I’d like your outfit to find Lucas Haas and secure his neck in a noose.”
“Whatever happened—”
“He took something from me.”
The deputy heaved a sigh as if disappointed at himself for asking, “What’d he take?”
“A diamond”—August held up his fist—“as big as your fist.”
The deputy’s eyes widened, but not in an impressed way, in an unbelieving I’m sure sort of way.
“Be that as it may,” the deputy said as he slid the deed across the desk back toward August, “you’re following a trail so cold it’s grown ice. How do you expect to find a thief that’s been in the wind for this long?”
“Bit young to be so cynical, ain’t you?”
“Bit old to be so entitled, ain’t you?”
August took a slow glance across the jailhouse. “If you won’t provide your services, you will provide fresh horses and as many supplies as I require.”
“That’s between your coin purse and our proprietors,” the deputy said.
“I do believe,” August puffed on his pipe, “you missed the part where this is a holdup, kid.”
The deputy pulled back the hammer. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Understandable.” He stoked his pipe.
The deputy slapped the ledger shut. “How did you even come by this?”
“You ain’t noticed the influx of guests as of late? Nah, I reckon people don’t mind much when money comes into town; it’s when it leaves that it starts to raise alarms. Clayton Creek, deputy? It belongs to me now.”
The deputy stood, leveling the gun at August’s face. “Get out of my town.”
“Yours?” August said.
“I will shoot you.”
August nodded, puffed. “Prudent.”
The gunshot was deafening.
The deputy’s mouth was frozen in an open grimace, his hand clutched over the blooming crimson across his chest. He collapsed back into his chair, his index finger constricting weakly, desperately trying to gather the strength to pull the trigger.
August scooted to his right, the legs of the chair scraping against the sanded wood floorboards.
The deputy’s body slipped, slumping from his chair as if strings tugged him from the floor. His finger worked on the trigger, until finally, he managed to squeeze off one shot.
August was safely out of aim, and the deputy didn’t have any more in him.
His body hit the floorboards with a heavy thump.
From behind the deputy, the door to a floor-to-ceiling armoire swung open with a subtle creak. A short, skinny man with a black patch over his left eye stepped out of it, holstering a revolver.
“I do not need melodrama in my life, Flea,” August said.
“My angle was bad,” Flea said. He glanced down at the body. “Didn’t want to hit ya, now.”
August pocketed his pipe. “Have we found him?”
Flea grinned, showing his collection of gold. “Perchance.”
August didn’t like Flea. He had a flair for drama and a knack for getting under August’s skin. But Flea was valuable. Flea was the best shot this side of the country. Not the quickest draw, no, but easily the best one.
“Okay so earlier I was sidling right close to this plummy honey and she was goin’ on and on bout this tall ’n’ handsome who got all the women hot ’n’ bothered seven-bout years ago and get this, he had this accent she ain’t been able to nail down—”
August held up his hand, closing his eyes. “Just tell me what you found out.”
“Apparently, he went east.”
August frowned. “Central City?”
Flea wagged his head back and forth slowly. “There’s this tiny shantyville that was so little that it didn’t show up on many maps. That is, until a sudden influx of money showed up about—”
“Six years ago.”
“You got it.”
August tapped the ash from his pipe. “Does this shantyville have a name?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Bladestay had a population of approximately three hundred souls, and its account for crime was relatively accurate: those who found themselves incarcerated were generally those who needed to sleep off a heavy night of drinking.
The events that led to the confinement of Theo and Patrick were a fluke the town had never seen in its thirty years of existence. It was all the town had been talking about since the morning, and although the travel of word is highly efficient in small towns, Theo and Patrick didn’t see a familial face until supper.
As Theo sat on the edge of the cot, glaring at Patrick as if her gaze could burn holes through his flesh, she fantasized about how she would feel right now if she’d just had the chance to keep sinking the blade into his skin. She slid her fingers together, slowly rubbing her hands back and forth with fingers interlocked, savoring the feeling of Patrick’s dried blood on her hands.
“Sheriff Macklin,” Patrick said as he dodged Theo’s glare. “I ain’t do nothin’ wrong, I don’t know why—”
Theo said, “You went for my head with a knife, you yellow-bellied, steaming pile of—”
“I did not!” Patrick said.
“Patty—” The sheriff was cut off by a voice who’d been hiding just out of sight beyond the threshold.
“I saw everything!” When Elliot stepped into view, he pointed at Patrick. “So did my dad. We were right there.”
Deputy Briggs made himself a blockade between Elliot and Patrick.
“Are you really going to try and deny it?” Elliot snapped, darting his eyes briefly to Theo, who was watching the interaction with aggravated calm. “Call me a liar? Call my dad a liar?”
Patrick said, “I don’t care what you think you saw, you ain’t hear what that little snake be mutterin’ underneath her breath—”
“God, shut up,” Theo said.
“Why’s she get to talk to me like that, huh?” Patrick said.
As Deputy Briggs placed a hand on Elliot’s chest, pushing him back out the way he came, Sheriff Macklin seconded Theo and Elliot: “Do quit yammerin’, Patty-boy, or I’m gon’ let Theo loose in your cell with your sad ass and sell tickets to the show.”
Deputy Briggs laughed but kept a firm hand on Elliot. “She kicked your butt, you stupid goat. She’d done killed you if it weren’t for this scrawny kid.” Then to Elliot as he directed him back out the door: “What’d I tell you, huh? You can’t be here right now. See how riled you be makin’ things? Git, son.”
