Dust and shadow, p.31
Dust and Shadow, page 31
The heat is humid today, strangely so, and I fan myself with one of the stacked books. “I don’t care to talk about any of them, if it’s all the same to you, Ms. Rinehurst. Thinking too much gets me into trouble.”
Dotty nods, though there is something guarded in her expression. She shifts her focus to the books on the counter, looking at the bindings before she places them in their appropriate stack.
“What is it?” I ask her. “Why were you looking at me funny?”
She smiles. “Ainsley was in here yesterday. He mentioned you tried to befriend Miss Cunningham.”
My lips purse as I try to understand. “What do you mean?”
“Something about painting? I don’t know.” She brushes the explanation away. “I should’ve liked to see her face, though. She is always so bitter and angry, but then again, perhaps that’s what happens with loneliness. She’s always been the outsider.”
“What do you mean?”
Dotty presses one stack of books against her chest and walks over to one of the bookshelves. “Well,” she starts. “She has no mother, a father who neglects her, and a brother with questionable lineage who will receive everything when the marshal dies, leaving her with nothing. Isabel is the only thing that connects them all. A saving grace for her, I think.”
Dotty studies one of the book covers, then slides the volume into the shelf next to its partner. “A perfect fit,” she mutters. She moves down to another row, oblivious to my confusion.
I follow her, leaning against the shelf as she peruses it. “I don’t understand—she has no mother? Is Kitty adopted?”
Dotty looks at me funny, then bends down and slides another book in. Scarlet and Toby laugh down the hall, but I tune them out. Kitty does seem a bit out of place in her family, though I figured it was out of jealousy.
Dotty straightens, her hand holding her lower back as she winces. “No, miss. Clayton is adopted—well, by the marshal, at least. Kitty’s mother died during childbirth, leaving the marshal a widower and without an heir. When Mrs. Cunningham’s husband died a year or two after Clayton was born, the marshal took her and the child in.”
“What?” My mind begins to spin as it always seems to do when it comes to Clayton Cunningham. “Does he know?”
Dotty lifts a shoulder, finally registering my utter surprise. “This isn’t a secret, miss.”
“I—I didn’t realize.”
“It happened so long ago I’m not sure anyone thinks about it much. I guess that’s one of the perks of being an old lady—you’ve been around for a while and know a little bit about everything.”
“Kitty’s mother is the one the marshal was forced to marry—the one his father chose over my mother,” I realize. “And Clayton? What happened to his father?”
“What happened to whose father?” Scarlet asks. “What’s wrong, Jo? Your cheeks are rosy.”
“That’s because I feel so foolish,” I say, everything starting to make a bit more sense. “Clayton is not the marshal’s real son.”
“They say the marshal killed Clay’s dad so he would have a son.” I glance down at Toby, wearing fresh clothes and a face, arms, and probably ears that are scrubbed clean as a whistle.
“Tobias, those are rumors,” Dotty warns. “Don’t go spreading lies like the rest of them.”
He shrugs and makes his way for the door.
“We’ll make sure he gets home safe tonight,” Scarlet says and follows Toby to the door. “Come, let’s grab a few things at the grocer’s to take home for dinner.”
I follow absently, my mind fuzzy with too many thoughts, and I’m suddenly anxious for Clayton.
“Forgive my forwardness, Miss Mason, but . . .” Dotty rests her hand on my arm.
I pause in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Well, I’m here, miss, if you need to talk.”
“Thank you, Dotty. That’s very comforting. Perhaps when I get my thoughts sorted out I can bring over some lunch.”
She nods, hesitates, then finally says, “And I think your mother would want you to be happy, no matter what.” She nods to herself, as if she’s certain.
Realizing Dotty’s the closest thing I have to a friend and a mother, I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Thank you,” I whisper, this time more earnestly. The heat of the day beats on the back of my dress as we stand in the doorway, and her silky skin is soft against my cheek. “How have you been feeling?” I ask, though it seems like a lifetime ago since she’d fallen ill.
She blinks slowly, and a small, grateful smile parts her lips as she straightens. “Good as new, thanks to you.”
“Good, and thank you for the bit about the marshal,” I say, still surprised and embarrassed I hadn’t known he’d adopted Clayton. Or killed his father. I’m not sure if my time away from town these past years has been more hurtful than good. “We’ll bring Toby home before it gets too late.”
Dotty nods, and as I pull the door shut behind me, I’m greeted by a red-faced Doyle and one of his slimy men, both sets of eyes fixed on me.
His stare is a sharp, scheming one, and with a lecherous smile, he begins to whistle and continues walking down the sidewalk. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s not worse than the horrible Marshal Cunningham himself.
THIRTY-TWO
JO
“Look at that one, over there, to the right . . .” I point up into the stars, shimmering against the clear darkness.
Scarlet peers through the telescope, her mouth falling open. “Oh, I see it! Do you think it’s a planet, or perhaps a meteor?”
“It could be an extraterrestrial.” I smile.
“Not possible,” Scarlet says. “No being in their right mind would want to come to this desolate place.” She snickers and tosses a few sunflower seeds into her mouth. It’s nice to be outdoors after being shut inside for the past two days during the sandstorm.
We stare up at the twinkling stars and the vastness of space leaves me feeling small and more curious than ever. I watch the North Star blink, then a few others surrounding it, but a twinkling one catches my eyes as it starts to move. “What’s that?” I ask, peering through the telescope.
“What’s what?”
“Whatever it is, it’s moving . . .” I finally find it through the lens and though it’s closer, it’s still too small and dark to make out.
“A shooting star?” Scarlet asks, but it’s moving too slowly for that.
“It appears to be floating.”
“What, like a balloon?” Scarlet laughs and nudges me aside. “Let me see,” she says, and I step out of the way.
“I think it is a balloon.”
“That’s not possible, Jo. Don’t be silly.”
“Says who,” I ask, “the marshal?”
“Hmm.” Scarlet straightens and peers up at the sky, pursing her lips. “No, says history.”
“Where did it go . . .” I search the stars for it again, some of them stagnant, some of them blinking, but none of them floating or moving. “It’s gone,” I say regretfully. I squint one eye, peering through the lens again but finding nothing. I imagine how different everything could possibly be—a different world that lies to the north, up in the mountains that we’re told are too treacherous and desolate for even the deputies to explore. Where people wear fur cloaks to keep themselves warm.
Scarlet and I stare up at the sky, though my sister’s thoughts are likely less daring than mine. It’s been three days in a row that Toby’s come to dinner—the sandstorm playing a large part in that, but it’s also been three days that Mr. Ashford has stayed to dine with us as well. I know it’s only a matter of time before Scarlet will be gone and I will be left to my own devices again, tending the farm with Father. Tinkering. Thinking. Wondering.
“Do you know what I think?” I ask Scarlet and sit up on the creaky railing.
“A lot of things,” she says and leans against me. We both stare up at the vastness surrounding us, the screech of owls and cricket songs punctuating the silence. “I think I should like to leave this place.”
Scarlet laughs. “Oh, really? And where will you go? There’s a reason drifters flock here; there is nothing out there, nothing worth living for, at least. Otherwise we would’ve left a long time ago.”
It used to be their land. Though I know it’s true, our history offers a watered-down version of it, but I don’t say that. No one ever does. We’re supposed to hate them, but . . . “I think it’s a lie,” I tell her. “I think that there is a whole other world—many, perhaps—and I want to know them.”
Scarlet finally looks at me, her eyes black in the darkness. “Careful, sister. I’m starting to think you are serious.”
“That’s because I am.”
She turns to face me fully, her hip resting against the railing, her arms crossed over her chest as she tightens her shawl around her. “Is this my punishment for marrying Jonathan?”
“Oh, stop it.” I shove her shoulder and shake my head.
“I’m serious.” She clasps my hand. “You would never consider that if I were staying at the ranch.”
“You can, you know?”
She looks sheepish a moment and nods. “I know, but I’m not like you and Father. I can’t lose myself to this place for days on end. I like town. I want to be close to the shops and my customers, for a little while, at least. When Papa . . . well, when Papa passes, we could come back. I know Jonathan likes the farm.”
I rub her arm and kiss her cheek. “I know you want a break from this place, Scarlet. I don’t blame you. I’m only reminding you that you’ll always have a place here. I can already picture you settled into your townhouse with your husband and adopted child—I don’t have to worry about you anymore,” I say easily. “You’ll have your husband for that.”
“And you—if you leave, who will protect you? Where will you go?”
The disquiet in her voice echoes my own. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess I’ll have to learn to protect myself.” I peer up at the stars, wishing I might be suspended up there with them, away from everything that’s complicated in the darkness down here. “But I feel that if I stay here, I will lose my mind.”
Scarlet leans her head against my shoulder and shushes me. “No, no, no, Jo. I’ll still need you. I am happy to marry Jonathan, but I am nervous, too. I don’t know how to be a wife or a mother.” Her fretful tone gives me pause. “What would I do if you left? Who would I talk to?”
The desire to leave dissipates as I imagine Scarlet bearing a child I would never see. “All right, you’ve convinced me,” I tell her. “My adventure can wait. I would never leave you, anyway, Scarlet. Not to mention there would be no one left to look after Father.” I reach for the blanket on the rocking chair behind me and wrap it around us.
“It’s been nice, hasn’t it, Jo, having Toby here the past couple days?”
I nod. “Very much. I think Father enjoys his presence most of all.”
Scarlet laughs softly. “Papa’s always said he’d never regret not having a son because he has you,” she jests, “but I can imagine what it would’ve been like for him to have a Toby.”
“Me too. I’m sure Toby’s soaking up all the attention. And,” I say, elbowing her, “I think you won him over with your honey corn cakes.”
Scarlet lets out a lazy sigh. “They are quite delicious.”
“Have you decided on a wedding date? I know you want it to be small and only a few of us, but I need to speak with my dressmaker about a dress.”
Scarlet elbows me. “Oh, she’ll make you the perfect dress.” She stares up at the stars for a few moments, then I feel her move and she turns to face me. “I was considering having the wedding on Mama’s birthday next month. What do you think?”
Though I’m surprised, I remind myself that Scarlet doesn’t know what I do about our mother and the marshal, and like Father, I want to keep it that way. I rest my head on her shoulder, shut my eyes, and inhale the faint scent of dried heather floating in the air. “It would be nice to have something to celebrate in September, instead of something we all commiserate,” I tell her, feeling an unexpected lightness.
We gaze into the endless sky, the stars speckling it as far as the eye can see, and I wish I knew how far it reached.
“Jo?” Scarlet whispers.
“Hmm?”
“I know this is a girls’ night and we’re supposed to be having fun, but . . . what did you decide to do about Clayton? Will you tell him what you learned?”
“About his real father?”
She nods and brushes a wayward strand of hair from my face.
“Well,” I start, having wondered the same question over and over myself. “He already knows about his lineage; he’s eluded to it a few times in regard to his sister. And I don’t think it’s my place to tell him about the rumors—if he hasn’t heard them already.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
“But you and I both know what the marshal is capable of. What if they’re not rumors?”
“The last thing I told Clayton was that he and his family ruined my life. I can’t very well keep inserting myself in his, risking the same, no matter how much I might want to help him. Especially if it’s just speculation.”
“Like he thought he was helping you,” she muses quietly.
“Yes . . .”
“Not to mention you would be pitting yourself against the marshal, again, and we’re still awaiting the repercussions from you both breaking the engagement.”
I heave out a sigh that seems to carry every wistful thought I’ve had of Clayton in the past week or so. “I’m not worried about that,” I say for the first time aloud. I know Clayton would never let his father punish me for it, especially when he called it off himself. Knowing he did, though, makes me miss him more.
Shutting my eyes, I let the cool breeze of the night caress my skin.
“If I didn’t know better,” Scarlet whispers, “one might think you miss your Clayton.”
Her teasing puts a sad smile on my face. “As if you didn’t already know that. That is the reason you suggested having us time, is it not? To get my mind off things?”
She chuckles and walks over to the telescope to dismantle it. “Not very subtle, huh?”
“As subtle as a bag of rocks dropped into a stream.”
Scarlet shrugs. “Actually, speaking of the stream, I still haven’t seen it. Will you take me tomorrow?”
“If you wish.” I remove the scope from its tripod. “Though you’ll have to get dirty and I know how you feel about—”
Scarlet punches my arm and points north. “Did you see that, Jo? A shooting star!”
“Bony knuckles,” I grunt, peering up at the sky. I smile as the tail end of it fades to nothing. “We should make a wish—”
The sound of hurried horse hooves fill the calm night and Scarlet and I glance at one another with unease. “Someone’s coming this late?” Scarlet muses.
“Father!” I call as we walk to the road, quickly filling with alarm. Mr. Ashford’s horse rides into view.
“Why’s he come at such an hour?” Scarlet murmurs, and both of us stiffen.
“Something’s wrong,” I say, as I realize Mr. Ashford is not the one atop his horse. The gray’s head jerks and flails and fights against the rider.
“Toby!” Scarlet shouts, running toward the road. “What on earth . . .” We rush over to him, Scarlet reaching for the horse’s reins as I help the crying boy climb down. “What’s happened?” Scarlet bleats beside me. “Where’s Jonathan?”
I reach for Scarlet’s hand and squeeze it to calm her. “Toby,” I say calmly, and I slowly pull his trembling body into me. He shivers and shakes, and he stares right through me as Scarlet shouts for our father.
“I was supposed to protect her,” he wails, and my heart stops when I see the red on his clothes.
“Toby,” I breathe. “Whose blood is that?”
THIRTY-THREE
CLAYTON
“What are you doing in here so late?” My father walks into the kitchen, voice gruff as if, like me, he’s been alone and awake for hours. “It’s nearly morning.”
I peer up from the ledgers, at the candles that are burned so low one of the wicks is nearly down to the holder, before I dip my quill in an almost-dry inkwell. “Trying to figure out how many of your men are stealing from you.” I stare back down at the numbers that date five years back. “And for how long.”
“By working in near dark in the kitchen?”
“I was hungry,” I grumble and peer up at the wall clock. “Four hours ago, it would seem.”
My father stops beside me and peers down at the papers strewn about, absent of any plates or discarded food. “Hmm.” He steps over to the bread box and pulls out a quarter loaf of Smitty’s famous French bread.
“What’s hmm?”
He ignores me and steps into the cool pantry and opens the cellar door. When he comes back, it’s with a wedge of cheese and a stick of butter.
“You’re going to kill yourself if you keep eating like that,” I tell him.
A strange expression crumples his face, but he doesn’t look at me. “So, you’re talking to me again?” he muses, and a broad, unexpected smile lights his face. “I guarantee you, son, something else will kill me before this does.” He cuts off a piece of cheese and plops it in his mouth.
“Happy thoughts,” I mutter. He disappears into the pantry again and returns with a pitcher of milk, pours a little into a glass, and takes a sip. White cream colors his mustache and I watch him, thoroughly amused. “There’s a sight I haven’t seen in . . . ten years.”
He spreads a bit of butter onto a chunk of bread. “That’s because you are generally stumbling through the door drunk right about now, or passed out in one of Hannah’s rooms.”
I sicken at the picture he paints. “Ah, the prodigal son.”
