Читать книгу The Stranger - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 10

July 1881

On the crest of a long ridge, where the eastern slope of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains fell to high desert, Caleb McCurdy paused to rest his horse. Below him a sea of summer-gold grama grass, dotted with clumps of sage and juniper, rippled over the foothills. Willow and cottonwood formed a winding ribbon of green along the creek that meandered into the valley. If he followed that ribbon, Caleb knew it would lead him to an adobe ranch house with sheds and a corral out front and a springhouse just beyond the back door.

He had never wanted to come here again. But the memory of the place had haunted him for the five years he’d spent in Yuma Territorial Prison. Now that he was free, Caleb knew he had to return and face what had happened here. He had to find out what had become of Laura.

His being arrested had nothing to do with the crime against the Shaftons. It was later that same spring that his brothers had gone into a Tombstone bank and left him outside to watch the horses. By the time Caleb had realized there was a robbery in progress the deputy was already snapping the handcuffs around his wrists. Zeke and Noah had made their getaway out the back of the bank. That was the last he’d seen of them.

Caleb had been tried as an accessory and sentenced to six years behind bars. The torrid Arizona nights had given him plenty of time to ponder his mistakes. Staying with Noah and Zeke had been his worst choice. They were family, he’d rationalized at the time. Besides, it wasn’t as if Noah had killed Mark Shafton in cold blood. Noah had fired to save his brothers. As for Zeke, he couldn’t help being the creature he was. For all his flaws, he, too, was blood kin.

Caleb’s fist tightened around the saddle horn. Lord, what a fool he’d been, tagging along with his brothers like a puppy trotting after a pair of wolves. He should have known his trust would lead him straight down the road to hell.

If the tragedy at the Shafton Ranch had cracked the shell of Caleb’s innocence, the weeks that followed had shattered it. Liquor, gambling, women—he’d sampled them all. He would have done anything to blot out the sight of Laura’s bloodied face and the sound of her screams.

His brothers had roared their approval and declared him a man. Then they’d staked him out like bait in front of that Tombstone bank to draw the lawmen while they got away with the loot.

Good behavior had gotten him out of prison a year early. But the hot hell of Yuma had toughened, aged and embittered him. He was twenty-two years old. He felt fifty.

Nudging the sturdy bay to a walk, he wound his way down the brushy slope. The day he’d walked out of prison, he’d taken work with a road-building crew that hired ex-convicts. Two months of backbreaking labor had earned him enough to buy a horse, a beat-up saddle, a gun and knife, a blanket and a change of clothes. With twenty dollars in his pocket, he’d headed east, toward New Mexico and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Now, on this day of blinding beauty, the long ride was coming to an end.

The afternoon sky was a searing turquoise blue. Where the horse walked, clouds of white butterflies floated out of the grass. A red-tailed hawk circled against the sun.

Caleb’s throat tightened as he watched it. How many days like this had he missed, locked away in that sweltering heap of rock and adobe where the cells were ovens and the earth was hot enough to blister bare skin? How many days without fresh air, clean water and decent human companionship?

Annoyed with himself, he shoved the question aside. Self-pity was a waste. Rotten luck was a fact of life, and he’d long since learned not to whine when he got whipped. Besides, Caleb reminded himself, his time in prison hadn’t all been wasted. He’d made one friend there, a dying man who’d helped him turn his life around. If his beaten soul held a glimmer of hope and truth, he owed it to Ebenezer Stokes.

Maybe that was why he’d come back here. For Ebenezer—and for Laura.

Without willing it, he began to whistle a soulful melody—a song whose words had long since burned themselves into his brain.

Eyes like the morning star, cheeks like the rose.

Laura was a pretty girl, everybody knows.

Weep, oh, you little rains, wail, winds, wail…

Those cursed lyrics hadn’t left him alone in five long years. They had tormented his days and nights, conjuring up the image of Laura as he’d last seen her, slumped over her husband’s body with blood streaming down the side of her face. Maybe after today that image would finally begin to fade.

Stopping at the creek, he watered his horse, splashed his face and slicked back his sweaty hair. The place he’d known as the Shafton Ranch couldn’t be more than a couple of miles downstream, he calculated. What would he find there? Strangers, most likely. Noah had sworn that he’d left Laura alive. But even if that were true, Caleb couldn’t imagine her remaining alone on the ranch. The best he could hope for was that she’d sold out and moved on, and that someone would know where she’d gone.

If the worst had happened, maybe he could at least beg forgiveness at her grave.

The creek was overgrown with brush and willows. Moving back into the open, he followed the tangled border out of the foothills and onto the grassy flatland. His gut clenched as he spotted the ranch in the distance. The memories that swept over him were so black and bitter that he was tempted to turn the horse and gallop off in a different direction. Setting his teeth, he forced himself to keep moving ahead.

He could see the gate now, and the corral where he and his brothers had tied their mounts while they ate the meal Laura had prepared. Mark Shafton’s dam was still intact, as was the springhouse, spared over the years from the danger of flooding. But the whole place had a forlorn look to it. The windmill was missing two slats and the corral gate hung crooked on one broken hinge. Two dun horses and a milk cow drowsed in the corral.

The small adobe house was closed and quiet. The only sign of human life about the place was the batch of washing that fluttered from the clothesline in the side yard. Caleb rode in through the gate, dismounted and looped the bay’s reins over the corral fence. He could see now that the clothes on the line consisted of little shirts and overalls, stockings, underwear and nightgowns. He could see the swing hanging from the limb of the big cottonwood that shaded the springhouse. Caleb didn’t want to think about the springhouse and what had happened there. But the idea of children living here, running and playing in the bright sunlight gave a small lift to his spirits.

Taking a deep breath, he strode up the path, crossed the shaded porch and rapped lightly on the door.

“Go into your bedroom, Robbie,” Laura whispered to her son. “Latch the door. Don’t open it until I knock three times and say the password.”

Robbie, who’d been headed outside to play, obeyed without question. He knew better than to argue with his mother when a stranger came to the house.

Laura waited until she heard the metallic click of the latch. Only then did she take the double-barreled shotgun from its rack above the bookshelf and thumb back both hammers.

The rap on the door came again, more insistently this time. Laura’s heart, already racing, broke into a gallop. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Caleb McCurdy’s the name. I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am. Just wanted to ask a question or two, then, if you want me to leave, I’ll be on my way.”

McCurdy. Laura groped for some memory of the name and came up empty. There was something familiar about the voice that filtered through the heavy wooden door, but without a face to go with it…

Bracing the gun stock against her hip, she opened the door a few cautious inches. “What do you want?” she demanded.

The man who filled the narrow opening was tall and lean, with straight, black hair and a battered face. A closer look revealed jutting cheekbones, obsidian eyes and skin that was burnished to the hue and texture of saddle leather. He was dressed for the trail in unfaded clothes that looked recently bought, but what struck Laura at once was his expression. He was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

His throat moved. Then he closed his mouth tightly, as if he’d thought the better of what he’d been about to say. For an instant his gaze lingered on the ugly scar that zigzagged down the left side of her face. Then he averted his eyes, as most people did when they met her.

Laura jabbed the shotgun’s twin barrels toward him. “Well, then, speak your piece, Mr. McCurdy, or be on your way. Strangers aren’t welcome around here.”

Caleb filled his eyes with her defiant face. Lord, she hadn’t recognized him. Otherwise, by now, he’d have a belly full of buckshot. After what had happened five years ago, he could understand why she greeted callers with a gun. She was likely terrified. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d stayed in a place with so many tragic memories. Surely she had kinfolk back east who would have welcomed her home.

Her large gray eyes studied him cautiously. It made sense, now, that she wouldn’t know him. His real name would mean nothing to her. And he was no longer the bashful teenager who’d adored her across the kitchen table. Five years had put height and muscle on him, and prison had altered his features. A fight with the prison bully had broken his nose. An accident with falling rocks had split his lip and laid a puckered scar across his left eyebrow. Even his eyes had long since lost their look of innocence.

Laura had changed, too. The knife wound on her face had healed badly, leaving a jagged white streak from her temple to the corner of her mouth. Her hair was pulled harshly back and twisted into a tight knot. But it was her dove-colored eyes that struck him to the heart. They were an animal’s eyes, wounded and mistrustful.

They had done this to her, he and his brothers. And Caleb knew that, in his own blundering way, he was as much to blame as Zeke and Noah. He had tried to rescue her and failed. Worse, his interference had opened the way to Mark Shafton’s death.

“I’m waiting,” she said. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want before I blast you off my porch!”

Caleb scrambled for words, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Your corral gate needs mending. I’ll do it in exchange for a meal.”

She hesitated, her eyes coming to rest on the pistol that hung at his hip. Impulsively, he unfastened the gun belt and held it toward her. “Take this for safekeeping if you’re worried about me,” he said. “Believe me, I’d never hurt you or take anything I hadn’t earned.”

She recoiled slightly, more from him than from the pistol, Caleb suspected. “Lay the gun on the porch,” she said. “You’ll find some tools in the shed. When you finish mending the gate, your food and your weapon will be waiting on the front step. You can take them and go.”

Caleb nodded and turned away, aching for her. Even with the scar, Laura was a beautiful woman. With the ranch as a dowry, she could have had dozens of suitors fighting for her hand. But fear, it seemed, had made her a recluse. He could not imagine such a woman letting any man near her.

The fluttering clothes on the line caught his eye again. He remembered now that she’d told Zeke she was pregnant. Her child would be a little more than four years old, a boy, judging from the pint-sized shirts and overalls. Laura would have her hands full, raising a son alone.

Was there any way he could help her? Not likely, Caleb told himself as he walked toward the shed. He’d be a fool to stay within shotgun range for long. A look, a word, anything could trigger Laura’s memory and her finger. Worse, if she recognized him and sent word to the sheriff, he could end up in prison again, this time as an accessory to murder.

And if he did stay, what could he do for her? Tell her lies? Hurt her again? Caleb sighed as he unlatched the door of the toolshed. He had learned all he’d set out to learn. Laura’s life was far from perfect, but she was surviving as best she could. The wisest thing he could do now was ride away and leave her alone. And he would—as soon as he mended the corral gate.

Laura peered past the frame of the window, watching as the man named McCurdy rehung the sagging gate. He moved with a quiet sureness, one shoulder bracing the timbers while he hammered the nail that held the iron hinge in place. She had tried to do the job herself a few weeks ago but had lacked the strength to hold up the heavy gate while she worked with her hands. Caleb McCurdy made the task look easy.

Her fingers brushed the scar that trailed like spilled tallow down the side of her face. Who was Caleb McCurdy, she wondered, and why had he come this way? Laura was curious, but starting a conversation would only encourage him to stay longer. She’d agreed to his offer out of the necessity to get the gate repaired. But all she really wanted was to be left alone.

He was well spoken and decently dressed. But aside from that he was a rough-looking sort with the face of a brawler. There was no telling what a man like that might do to a helpless woman with a child. Until he was out of sight, she would be wise to watch his every move.

“Who’s that man, Mama?” Laura had let Robbie out of his room a few minutes earlier. Now he was standing on tiptoe beside her, peering over the sill.

“Nobody,” she said. “Just a saddle tramp who needs a meal. At least this one’s willing to work for it.”

“Can I go outside and swing now?” the boy asked. “You said I could if I cleaned up my room.”

Laura hesitated, torn, as always, between the need to protect her son and the awareness that even a small boy needed some freedom. Every time Robbie left her sight she was sick with worry. But the last thing she wanted was to raise him to be a timid, fearful man.

“Please,” Robbie begged. “Just for a little while.”

Laura sighed. “All right. But stay close to the swing. Don’t go near the creek, and leave that man alone, do you hear?”

“Yes, Mama.” He skipped across the kitchen and out the back door, letting the screen slam behind him. Laura watched him through the window as he ran toward the swing. Such a beautiful, open, trusting little boy. So like his father.

But her husband had been too trusting, she reminded herself. In the end, Mark’s faith in the goodness of his fellowmen had killed him and very nearly destroyed her.

In those black days after his murder, only the thought of their unborn child had kept her alive and fighting. Now Robbie was her life—her whole life. She would die, or kill, to keep him safe.

The sight of Caleb McCurdy’s gun belt, coiled like a rattlesnake on the seat of the rocking chair, reminded Laura of the bargain she’d made. Slicing off four slabs of brown bread, she made sandwiches, layering them with meat from the grouse she’d shot in the foothills and with lettuce from her garden. When she was finished, she wrapped the sandwiches in a clean piece of flour sack, knotted the corners and left them on the porch next to the gun belt. As an afterthought, she filled a tin cup with cold water from the kitchen pump. He’d been working hard, and the early summer sun was hot.

Locking the front door behind her, she went back to the kitchen window and looked outside. Caleb McCurdy had the hinges in place and was testing the gate, moving it back and forth to make sure it swung smoothly. Soon he’d be returning to the porch for his meal. It was time she got Robbie back into the house.

She hurried through the kitchen, out the screen door and onto the stoop to call him.

Her heart froze.

The swing dangled empty on its long ropes. Her son was nowhere in sight.

Caleb was gathering up the leftover nails when Laura burst around the corner of the house. Her face was white. “Robbie—my boy!” she gasped. “Where is he?”

“He was on the swing the last time I looked over that way. He can’t be far.” Caleb dropped the nails and the hammer next to the gatepost. It was the nature of little boys to run off and explore. They did it all the time. But the expression of stark fear in Laura’s eyes went beyond motherly concern. Did she suspect him of doing something to her child? Was she afraid he’d snatched the boy to lure her outside?

But why brood about it? After what his family had done to her, Laura had every reason to be fearful and suspicious.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you look for him.”

They sprinted back toward the tree, where the boy had last been seen. Laura called her son’s name while Caleb checked the creek, which flowed high with runoff from the melting snow in the mountains. There was no sign of the boy in the water, nor were there any fresh tracks along the bank.

“Have you looked in the springhouse?” he asked her. Laura shook her head. “I always keep it locked. He wouldn’t be able to get in.”

A glance toward the springhouse confirmed her words. The door hasp wore a forbidding steel padlock. Caleb understood Laura’s need to keep her son away from the horror of that place. But there was nothing he could say about it. Even in his silence, he had already begun to lie to her.

The sooner he rode away from here, the better it would be for them both.

While Laura searched the willows, Caleb studied the bare earth around the huge, gnarled cottonwood that supported the swing. His Comanche mother, who’d died when he was twelve, had taught him all there was to know about tracking. But he could see no small, fresh footprints leading away from the base of the tree. Where could a little boy go without leaving a trail?

And then, suddenly, he knew.

Speaking softly, he beckoned to Laura. “Come and stand right here. Wait till I’m out of sight. Then look up into the tree and call to him.”

With wondering eyes, she stepped onto the spot where he’d stood. Caleb moved back under the eave of the springhouse. He wanted to make sure the boy wasn’t too frightened to show himself.

“Robbie?” Laura looked up into the branches above her head. Relief, shadowed with exasperation, swept across her face. “Robert Mark Shafton, what on earth are you doing up there?”

A joyous giggle rang out from ten feet above her head. “I climbed up here, Mama. All by myself!”

Laura’s voice shook. “You had me scared half to death! I’ve been calling and calling. Why on earth didn’t you answer me?”

“I was playing hide-and-seek! You were supposed to find me!”

“Well, pardon me, Master Shafton, I didn’t know this was supposed to be a game.” Laura stood glaring up at her son, her hands on her hips. Caleb watched her from the corner of the springhouse. Five years ago, Laura Shafton had been a shy, enchanting young bride. Tragedy and motherhood had brought out her inner strength. She was magnificent, he thought.

Too bad he couldn’t risk telling her so.

“You get down from there, Robbie,” she said. “Carefully, now, so you won’t fall.”

“Are you going to spank me?” Robbie straddled a sloping limb, clinging to his perch like a treed cat. He was a beautiful child, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s golden coloring.

“No, I’m not going to spank you,” Laura said firmly. “But you’ll be spending some time in your room, young man. We’ll talk about it when you get down.”

The boy inched backward down the limb, but he couldn’t see where he was going. His small feet groped for purchase. He was clearly in trouble.

Laura gasped. “Wait, Robbie! Don’t try to move!” But the child was already slipping off the limb.

Caleb sprinted out from the shelter of the springhouse and started up the tree. “Hang on, I’ll get you!” he shouted, scrambling up the knotted trunk. But he was already too late.

He heard Laura’s scream as Robbie lost his grip and plummeted downward in a shower of twigs and leaves. She sprang for him, trying to break his fall, but as she reached out, she lost her balance and stumbled. The boy fell through her fingertips, struck the ground with a sickening thud and lay still.