Dust and shadow, p.15
Dust and Shadow, page 15
Without hesitation, I lift my shotgun, aim it at him, and resolve to stand my ground, forcing my fear deep down to my toes, curled and smarting with tension. They have no guns that I can see, but they have bows and arrows aplenty.
The man’s open expression sets in a granite mask, and I feel the burn of two sets of eyes fixed on me as they gauge their danger. The man stares at my shotgun, examining it, so I pump the barrel and step a bit deeper into the side of the canyon. The woman could reach the bow and quiver beside her in an instant.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I state loudly over the sound of the water, forceful but clear, in case they can’t fully understand me.
My voice carries loudly in the canyon, and the man slowly raises his hands defensively, his eyes never leaving mine. “No trouble,” he says calmly in broken English. “We were resting.”
I eye them more closely as it dawns on me that I don’t even know how many other drifters might be with them. “Are there others?”
The man and woman shake their heads.
“Why are you here?”
“Water,” the man says, his hands lowering.
I grip my shotgun tighter and reposition my aim, giving him pause.
“Please,” the woman says, “we only wanted water and rest. We don’t know so much sun.”
By the look of all of their furs, I believe that. “And how’s that? Do you live under a rock or something?” My arms begin to tremble under the weight of the shotgun, but I keep it aimed at them lest they get any ideas.
The woman points past the sandstone, to the mountain peaks that I stare at from my bedroom window every morning.
“You live in the mountains, where the storms come from,” I realize aloud.
She nods.
I open my mouth to ask another question but decide against it. Between their clothes and smaller horses with shaggier coats, built more like oxen than ponies, I can tell they aren’t like any outsiders I’ve seen the marshal’s men bring in, either. I decide to believe them and slowly lower my gun.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I repeat. “They will kill you if they see you. There are many of them.”
The woman nods and looks at her companion, whose eyes haven’t left me. “Come, Cole,” she says, pulling at his shoulder. She grabs her fur coat, bow, and quiver, then hurries to her horse. Cole stares at me a few breaths longer before he slowly retreats to his horse, leaving their deerskin pouches at the edge of the water. I lift the shotgun again, a silent warning should they change their minds and reach for any weapons, but they don’t look back as they gather their horses’ ropes into their hands.
Another question bursts from between my lips before I can stop it. “Why’d you come down from your mountain?” How could you possibly live up there? What lies between my home and yours? I force myself to bite back the rest as I wait impatiently for their reply.
A gloom darkens both of their features. “Our village was attacked,” the man says curtly, and his confession surprises me. “Our people are dead.” The man’s expression hardens on me, as if it was my doing.
“I’m sorry,” I tell them, before a rush of fear washes over me again, and I glance around furtively, praying they didn’t lead the villains right toward Sagebrush. “The drifters, did you lead them here—did they follow you?”
The woman’s brow furrows in confusion, but she shakes her head as she climbs up onto her horse.
Cole climbs up onto his horse as well and they mutter between themselves, inaudible to my ears.
“You must go, quickly. You can’t come back—they will kill you if they see you here. They’ll think you’re dangerous.”
Both of them glance at me again, and the woman nods in understanding. I see the fear in her eyes that reflects my own, and I know we have an understanding.
Together, they kick their shaggy horses into a trot, then disappear through a forest of ironwoods and pinyon pines until I can’t hear their horses’ footsteps any longer.
I watch the dust and dirt settle in their wake and wonder why they don’t seem to care that they’ve left their deerskins full of water behind.
A few moments pass before I allow myself to loosen my grip on the shotgun, my heart pounding at the realization that an encounter with two drifters could have ended much differently. I let out a much-needed breath, wondering what would happen if I were to ride out into the Dead Lands with them.
I shake my head, knowing it would likely be suicide, and peer back at Duke, who is oblivious to the close call we just had. Oblivious to what I’ve just learned.
Gun in hand, I splash through the water to the other side of the stream to retrieve one of their deerskins, my only proof I have that they were real.
THIRTEEN
JO
Later that afternoon, when I return home, my clothes are already dry from the heat and my mind is preoccupied with the drifters from the stream. As I unsaddle Duke, I try to fit the pieces together, but I can’t—there’s a chink in the marshal’s story about them, and I’m almost certain it’s another fabrication, a cattle prod so we’ll all bend in the direction he wills.
I take stock of his men closing up the greenhouses; there are dozens of them every day. No matter what power the marshal has over us—fear, water, painful memories—it’s reassuring to know that he desperately depends on us. Enough to have his men working our land, knowing this town would starve without us.
Brushing out Duke, I glance around for my father, surprised he’s absent from his work shed by the pasture. And I don’t see him coming in from the greenhouses with the rest of the men either as they head back up to the barn to catch their ride home.
“—until it’s finished!” Mr. Ashford shouts to the men in the cattle pasture. He carries a metal post over his shoulder, the sleeves of his shirt wet with sweat and bunched up around his elbows. When he notices me watching him, he straightens. “We’re fixing that fence for you, Miss Mason,” he explains.
I nod at him, waving slightly in gratitude despite myself. It’s their job, after all.
Most of the marshal’s men nod politely as they walk past the stable, and I realize they’re like cattle themselves, most of them loyal members of the herd that does all the marshal’s bidding. Like Mr. Ashford, their shirts are drenched in sweat, some in long sleeves to protect themselves from the sun, others in short sleeves with skin like tanned leather. I wish I knew how many of them are murderers themselves, and how many of them know what the marshal really is.
I lead Duke into his stable for oats, then bid him goodnight and head toward the house. I brace myself for Scarlet’s scolding, whether it’s because I’m a complete wreck or because I disappeared all day. But I hear Scarlet’s easy laugh when I step inside the house, and all seems as it should be. I revel in the cooler air trapped inside by the drawn drapes and shut the door behind me.
“Oh!” I hear her chirp, followed by the pitter-patter of her light footsteps in the hallway. “There you are!” Scarlet rushes toward me, her eyes wide and more anxious than I expect. “Where have you been?” She wraps her arms around me, the scent of honey and lemon wafting off her.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, tightening my arms around her. I yearn to confide in her and tell her what I’ve discovered—to plot a way out of all of this. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I hadn’t meant to be gone for so long, but . . .” I lean away from her and lower my voice, peering into her emerald eyes. “I’ve had the most—”
“We’ve been waiting for you,” my father says quietly from the hallway. “Are you all right?”
I peer up and find him in his dinner clothes.
“Really, Jo,” Scarlet takes a step back to assess me, “you look as if you’ve been drowned and hung out to dry.”
“Surely I’m not that bad—”
I hear footsteps and Clayton steps out of the sitting room and stops beside my father. He bows his head a little in greeting. “Miss Mason.”
“What is he doing here?” I rasp without thinking, unable to take my eyes off him. He’s in a pressed linen shirt and fitted pants, and looks presentable—clean-shaven even—and so very, very out of place in my home.
Clayton straightens under my scrutiny, and his mouth pulls up in a half smile. “I’ve come to call on you, Miss Mason. It seemed appropriate given the circumstances.”
“Jo,” Scarlet says, her voice willing me to look at her. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and we can sit down for an early supper since we have a guest tonight?”
I tear my gaze away from Clayton and stare at my sister.
“Jo?” she hedges.
I blink at her. Only now do I realize she’s in her evening dress. Her hair is pulled up, exposing her elegant neck, which is adorned with a gemstone necklace I’ve never seen before. My face reddens and I try to control my swirling thoughts and shaking hands.
“Get cleaned up,” my father says, his voice taut. It’s clear he’s not happy, but his expression is lost behind bruises that splotch the skin beneath his eyes and around his temple—a reminder of last night. Whether he’s unhappy because of me or our guest, I can’t tell.
Am I supposed to act as if I’m happy to see Clayton? I scowl at him for the briefest of moments before the red in my vision subsides long enough to remember there are consequences to my actions. His eyes don’t leave mine, either.
“Come,” Scarlet says, leading me toward the staircase. “Jane!” she calls, and the mousy-haired housekeeper comes in from the kitchen. “Can you please help my sister bathe and change? I’ll ask Nathan to take over in the kitchen for a bit.”
Jane nods, though I doubt she appreciates allowing her father, wonderful as he is, to meddle with her dinner.
Scarlet hurries into the kitchen and Jane stops in front of me. “Shall we, miss?”
Remembering myself, I nod, swallow, and trail her up the stairs, grateful when I hear Scarlet’s footsteps on the steps behind me.
“We’ll be back momentarily,” she calls downstairs, and I follow Jane without a word into the washroom. Scarlet shuts the door behind us and begins to unbutton my top. “I’m fully capable of undressing myself,” I rush out, waving her away.
“Sorry,” Scarlet says and clasps her hands together. “I’ve been so worried—and then Mr. Cunningham showed up . . . Papa gave him a tour of the ranch and I invited him to stay for dinner because he’s been waiting around for you. I wasn’t sure what else to do. Papa requested an early supper and we’ll send him home as soon as possible.”
The invisible weight on my chest seems to lighten a little. “Really?”
“Of course—after what the marshal pulled last night, how could Papa not be distrusting of him?” She shakes her head. “None of that matters right now. We’ve got to get you down there.”
“If no one wants Mr. Cunningham here—”
“Jo, really. Don’t you dare. You know it’s not that simple.”
“It was just a thought,” I grumble.
A tiny hint of a smile parts her lips and warms my heart. Though it’s no laughing matter, Scarlet’s ease puts my nerves to rest, at least for the moment. Jane pumps the water a few more times, filling the basin at least halfway.
With a grimace, Scarlet holds out my shirt. “This is bad, Jo, even for you.” She bats off a few burrs. “Did you fall asleep again?”
“Among other things,” I say wryly, but I don’t try to explain what else I encountered as I plop down on the bench against the wall to untie my boots. A rock falls onto the white tile floor as I tug them off.
“Oh my word, I can’t even,” she says, exasperated, and Scarlet drapes my dirty blouse across the bench. I stand, pulling my trousers off at my feet as she hurriedly unbraids my hair and Jane strips off the remaining remnants of the day.
“I feel like a child,” I tell them, but Scarlet ignores me. She motions for me to get into the tub as Jane pumps the water one last time. It’s cool against my skin but refreshing in the heat of the upper level.
“Jane, can you bring in her robe, please?” Scarlet asks, and I watch as the maid disappears from the washroom, tugging the door shut behind her.
My sister runs her fingers through my hair, then kneels down to meet my eyes. Her gaze is piercing. And as quickly as it was buried, the weight of all that’s happened resurfaces again.
“Are you all right?” she asks, rubbing my arm. “Truly, Jo, when I didn’t see you this morning, I questioned whether or not to come find you. Mr. Ashford talked me out of it. He thought you might need time to yourself.”
“Mr. Ashford?” I can’t help my surprise. “Why would he care?”
Scarlet eyes me carefully. “Are you angry with him? For not warning us, I mean?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But also no. Why would he? He works for the marshal. His alliance isn’t with us.” Though it’s true, I don’t say it to hurt her. “Even if I wish it were, for your sake.”
Her thoughts are distant for a moment, and she peers down at the water dripping from her hands. “At least Clayton has been pleasant,” she tells me. “Quite the gentleman, in fact.”
“Yes, well, charm is something he does not fall short of.”
Scarlet tilts her head and her eyes fill with sympathy. “I want you to know that I don’t encourage this marriage, Jo, but if we can’t figure a way out of this, at least he’s not a horrible man, like his father. I don’t think you need to fear him.”
I nod in agreement because she expects it of me. “That’s true. But he’s clearly his father’s puppet.” I clear my throat as Jane stumbles back into the room, my robe draped over her shoulder and a stack of clean towels in her arms.
“Now,” I say, “let me finish in peace. I’ll hurry, I promise.”
Scarlet eyes me for a heartbeat before I shoo her away. “Jane can help me finish. Go relieve Father. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
Scarlet turns and heads for the door. “I’ll lay out your violet dress and a hairpiece. It looks the best on you.”
“I have no one to impress,” I remind her. “If I were smart I would’ve stayed in my soiled clothes.”
Scarlet ignores me and blows me a genteel kiss before she shuts Jane and me inside.
By the time I get downstairs, the sun is setting behind the mountains. I can hear Scarlet and Clayton chatting in the sitting room, if a bit stiltedly, followed by the sounds of another log being thrown onto the fire. Nathan must be preparing the house for nightfall, but I dread the thought of Clayton being here much longer than that.
Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for a couple of hours of forced pleasantries before I step into the doorway. I’m surprised to find it’s Clayton crouched in front of the fire, tending to it. Scarlet is sitting on the love seat, smiling at something Clayton must’ve said as she sews a burgundy ribbon onto a bonnet. My father stands at the window, gazing out at the cloudy orange haze of the sunset. I groan internally. Timing couldn’t be worse for a storm and I silently plea that it will shift another direction.
“Miss Mason,” Clayton says, rising to his feet. His eyes linger on me for the smallest of moments before he bows his head.
My lips may curve in a slight smile, but I can’t bring myself to do much more than that. I clench my hands at my sides and step into the room. “Mr. Cunningham,” I say and offer him a small curtsy. I never think much about traditions and customs, until I’m around the marshal, and now Clayton. I decide I hate them.
My father turns around, his eyes meeting mine before Scarlet pats the love seat for me to sit beside her. She hands me the bonnet. “What do you think of it now, Jo?” she asks. “I took off the yellow, like you recommended. I think Mrs. Northman will like it this way.”
I nod, though I can only think of Clayton’s eyes on me as I sit down. “Yes, much better.” When I meet his gaze, there is a sharpness in his eyes that startles me, and I quickly look away.
“So, what did I miss?” I ask, smoothing out my dress. I can hardly bear the idea of sitting in silence. “Sorry it took me so long . . . I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I wasn’t planning on it myself, Miss Mason,” Clayton says with amusement. “But I owe you an apology for last night, so I knew I must come.”
I glower at him before I can stop myself. “An apology?” I clarify. “For which part?” I don’t bother listing the possibilities, though I would desperately like to.
He glances from me to my sister, then to my father, before he clears his throat. I doubt he was planning on an audience for this conversation, and I inwardly revel in his discomfort. “I know my father’s announcement came as quite a shock to you—to me as well, actually, but I was hoping we might be able to find some common ground in all of this.”
Scarlet gets up and walks over to my father, both of them busying themselves on the other side of the room to give us more privacy, though I will her to come back and sit beside me.
“Common ground? I see . . . so, you disagree with the marriage then?” I ask, hopeful.
Clayton glances at my father. “At first, perhaps,” he says.
My heart sinks to my stomach as he stalls, searching for his next words. “But?”
“But, I believe it would be prudent, for both of our families, if we were to marry.” Clayton watches me, measuring me too closely for comfort, and I have to look away from him or risk him seeing too much. Your family’s lives rest in the balance, I remind myself, knowing it is the only truth that could keep hateful words from my lips.
“Miss Mason,” he starts again, “I’m aware we know little of one another, and I promise you that I would have gone about all of this much differently had I had any clue of it last night, but I didn’t, and here we are. I would like to start over, if that’s at all possible.”
The softness of his voice surprises me, but the future seems to blare more loudly than any kindness in his voice. “So, we are still to be married.” I stare into the bourgeoning fire. “And I have no choice.” The words are barely a breath as I imagine myself standing beside Clayton in the church, the marshal looming closely behind.
