Читать книгу The Renegade And The Heiress - Judith Duncan - Страница 8

The mellow earth tones of a fading Alberta autumn lay over the rolling hills, the burnt umbers and rusts of prairie grasses like vibrant brush strokes on a canvas. A few brightly colored leaves still clung to wild berry bushes and copses of aspen, the splotches of yellow and red bright against the stark canopy of naked branches. And off on the western horizon, the jagged gray fortresses of the Rocky Mountains rose up, their high peaks now capped with snow, the base skirted with dense coniferous forests. All of it blended together in a palette of color, the distant panorama framed by the bright blue sky.

It had been a long, perfect Indian summer, and even down the streets of Bolton, the speckled colors of fall still lay draped over the trees and shrubs, the remaining leaves clinging tenuously to the branches, waiting for a hard wind to strip them away and send them tumbling to the ground.

Old Joe Jones thought of himself as something of a poet, and as he drove down the narrow tree-lined street, he figured the big old elm trees looked like grand ladies, dressed in their golden finery. And even though it was nearly the end of October, the lawns still showed signs of green, like faded, worn velvet, but a hard frost had turned the flowers into black rotting skeletons.

Fall was a particular favorite time of year for him. He liked the autumn colors, he liked the way the mountains were so sharp and clear on the western horizon, and he liked the way the street was matted with a carpet of gold and orange leaves. And he especially liked the smell of burning leaves that wafted in from somewhere nearby.

That thick carpet of fallen leaves crunched under the tires of his battered pickup truck as he edged over to the sidewalk, taking care not to speed. He got a speeding ticket once forty-five years ago, and he didn’t want another.

Joe passed by the cemetery on the other side of the street, the landscaped grounds surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and a hedge that turned all shades of red this time of year. The hedge was a beauty, but Old Joe figured that building the new senior citizens’ lodge right across the street from the graveyard was not very considered thinking. Although he had to admit it was a mighty pretty spot, that cemetery. All them big trees and evergreens, and those real pretty shrubs, especially in the spring. And flowers. In the summer, it was like a picture out of a magazine, with rows and rows of bright flowers. But the frost had gotten them too, and the caretaker had already dug them out. It was still mighty pretty, though, and it made a man’s heart lighter, looking at all that beauty.

Slowing down even more, he pulled up in front of the senior citizens’ lodge, parking close to the curb. He had to get at just the right spot because he was picking up George Walters. George had one of them three-legged canes that kept getting caught in the cracks, and the old guy was nearly eighty-five. Joe himself was seventy-eight, but even though he was a whole lot younger than George, he didn’t have the strength to get the retired farmer back up if he went down. Mostly because his pal was as round and as solid as one of them big market hogs George used to raise.

Today, he and George were going to the seniors’ drop-in center for the shuffleboard tournament. George hadn’t farmed in these parts, but his daughter lived in Bolton and George had moved into the lodge nearly a year ago. So he and Joe had become pals. And although he might be a bit unsteady on his feet, George could still lick the pants off anybody playing shuffleboard. That was why Joe liked him for a partner—they could clean the clocks of those yappy Campbell sisters without even breaking a sweat.

The other man was already waiting at the curb, leaning on his three-legged cane, a new John Deere cap on his head, his brown jacket zipped right up to the neck. Joe leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Howdy, George. All ready for this here big tournament?”

The other took his time climbing in, his joints stiff with arthritis. “Sure am.”

Joe glanced across the street and saw a familiar vehicle turn into the driveway for the cemetery, then pass between the two stone cairns that supported the wrought-iron gates. George slammed the door, pointing a bony figure at the big black SUV. “See that fella over there at least once a month—big man. Ran into him once when I was out walking. Must stand six-three—black hair and eyes like a hawk. A fine-looking fella—but he has a nasty scar on his face. Solemn type, if you know what I mean.”

His weathered face turning serious, Old Joe grasped the wheel and spoke, his tone almost reverent. “That’s Finn Donovan.”

George’s voice had a wheezy, waspy tone to it. “And who is Finn Donovan?”

Joe gave him a disgusted look. “You’ve lived here nearly a year and you don’t know who Finn Donovan is?”

George looked offended and was about to respond, but Old Joe didn’t give him a chance. He saw himself as something of a storyteller as well as a poet, and he took the opportunity to show his stuff. “Finn Donovan is a legend in these here parts. And that there legend is as tall and as broad as he is.”

Seeing he had George’s full attention, Old Joe put his battered pickup in gear and eased away from the curb. “Although I don’t expect there’s anyone who could say they know him—or would consider him a friend. But if there’s ever any kind of trouble in them mountains or in the backcountry—you know, like a plane crash or some of them hikers go missing, or if someone gets hurt real bad—Finn Donovan is the first person they call in. He has a way with danger.”

George thumped his cane on the floor, his gnarled hand gripping the handle as he glared at Old Joe, sounding cantankerous. “Then how come you know so much about him?”

Feeling smug, Old Joe nodded. “Well, you see, I work for him—do all kinds of odd chores. Treats me real good. He even gave me a place to live—there was a little house on his property he didn’t use no more. He’s one of them outfitters—you know, a big game guide. And I’ll tell you this. He’s the best durned tracker around. And he knows every crack and cranny in that there backcountry. That there terrain is so treacherous only a handful ever venture into it.”

Old Joe checked the intersection, then slowly turned onto the next street, checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one was coming up behind him. These young fools nowadays drove too fast. Repositioning his hands on the wheel, he continued his story. “Some say it’s because he’s one quarter Indian that he can find his way through them gorges and canyons and all that forest. Others who’ve traveled with him swear he’s part shadow and part mountain goat, and has a compass for a brain. Others say he’s so durned good at it because there’s a darkness in him—that he’s afeard of nothing.”

George looked at Joe, interest glinting in his eyes. “Sounds like you know all about him.”

Carefully skirting a pothole, Old Joe shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I do. Figure no one knows a whole lot about Finn, and that’s the way he likes it. I know he grew up in the backcountry. Raised by an uncle who had a string of packhorses—Frank used to hire himself out as a guide to them trophy hunters. But even back then, Finn kept to himself. His teachers said he was as smart as a whip.”

Resting both his hands on the top of his cane, George stared out the window, a frown appearing on his face. “You know. Now that you mention it, I recollect my daughter telling me about this outfitter who ended up in jail. Is that the same fella?”

Joe slowed for the school zone, pressing on the brakes when he reached the posted sign, the bright autumn sunlight splintering through the crack in his windshield. He didn’t want another damned ticket. No siree. His pace slowed to well below the limit, he answered. “Yep. That’s the one. It’s common knowledge that he killed a man—must have been fifteen or sixteen years ago. Some say it was self-defense, others say it was done in a hard, cold rage. Didn’t know him all that well myself back then, but there was common agreement that Roddy Bracken had it coming.”

Old Joe turned onto the street where the drop-in center was located, passed the fire hydrant, then eased into the parallel parking spot under the big old poplar tree. Putting on the emergency brake, he switched off the ignition, watching as the Campbell sisters made their way up the steps of the building. Durned old biddies. Always stirring up trouble.

George spoke up, that same wheezy, waspy tone in his voice. “So are you going to tell me the rest of this here story or not?”

Old Joe looked at him, puffing out his chest. He liked nothing better than telling stories, and he was pretty durned good at it. And although he’d never say so, he liked gossip as well as the next one.

“Well,” he said, leaning back in the seat, “as the story goes, there’d always been bad blood between Finn and Roddy. Even as youngsters they had it in for one another. But as soon as Finn was old enough, he lit out.”

He paused, trying to recollect, drawing on his trusty memory. “Seems to me he ended up working in some kind of construction—some big overseas project where the big money was. Anyhow, every once in a while, he’d turn up here, and he’d do a little guiding for his uncle.” He leaned forward and took the keys out of the ignition and dropped them in his shirt pocket, then looked at his companion. “But it wasn’t until he came back for good, with enough money to buy a place and set himself up as a guide that the bad blood between them two got stirred up again.”

George took a bag of peppermints out of his pocket and offered Old Joe one, then nodded his head, prodding his friend to continue. Old Joe did. “Sally Logan was the kindergarten teacher—one of them sweet girls who had a kind word for everybody. She grew up here in Bolton—only child of Irene and Marvin Logan—and there wasn’t a soul who didn’t like her. Anyhow, Roddy had been after her for years, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Then Finn showed up back in town, and she fell head over heels, and married him instead.”

Old Joe dragged his thumb across his mouth, his expression altering. “Everyone knew that Roddy had started packing a whole new grudge against Finn once that happened, but no one could have figured on the outcome.”

George thumped his cane on the floor. “Now don’t leave me hanging here. What happened?”

Joe sighed, staring out the window, then shook his head, recollecting. “Roddy came from big money, and he was spoilt rotten—had a cocky attitude. But that attitude turned mean and ugly after Sally married Finn. And one weekend…”

Old Joe hesitated, sobered by the awful recollection. It had been bad. Real bad. Knowing his friend was waiting for the rest, he drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “One weekend Finn had taken a group of rich Americans into the mountains on a fishing trip. Roddy got all fueled up on booze and drugs, and he showed up at Finn’s little house in town, and he raped that pretty young wife of his. When Finn got back and found out what had happened, he got Sally settled in the hospital, then he went after Roddy. I hear fury was like a wild thing in him. Some of them that was there testified that Roddy pulled a knife first and slashed Finn’s face. Then after there were some whisperings that Finn landed the first punch.”

Shaking his head, Old Joe rubbed his thumb against the worn spot on the steering wheel, sobered by the recollections. “But as to what really happened, no one ever really said. One thing for sure—Finn killed him. Broke his neck and tossed him halfway across the street afore anyone could stop him.”

Old Joe paused and stared off into space, recalling the dark history. Finally he took a breath and spoke. “It caused a real ruckus in the community. No one had much use for Roddy. And Sally—well, Sally was like one of them angels you see on the top of a Christmas tree—something pure and innocent about her.” Old Joe shook his head, thinking back. “There was general agreement that Roddy had it coming for what he did, but folks were still pretty uneasy around Finn. There was something about him—something what made folks walk soft around him.”

George stuck another peppermint in his mouth, his expression considering, then he spoke. “Well, if it was self-defense, how come he got sent to prison?”

Old Joe gave a small shrug. “Don’t really know. Some said it was the Bracken money that put Finn behind bars—some figured it was because Finn showed no remorse. But whatever the reason, Finn did eight years for manslaughter.”

George nodded. “A terrible thing. Terrible. Did his wife wait for him?”

Feeling a heavy weight in his chest, Joe rubbed his calloused hand around the steering wheel. His voice was very gruff when he spoke. “Well, she did and she didn’t. Finn’s appeal was denied, and he was hauled off to a maximum-security prison. Then about a month after he was put away, that girl was killed when her car went over an embankment. No one really knew if it was an accident, or if she just couldn’t face life without him—or if maybe she blamed herself for what happened to him. But the truth was, she was behind the wheel when it went over the edge, and they said she was going a fair clip.” Old Joe shook his head, recalling the funeral. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen in a place like Bolton. That sort of darkness wasn’t supposed to touch a small town, but it had. And the ripples were felt far and wide—maybe folks still felt the effects.

As much for himself as for George, he felt compelled to finish the story. “Old man Bracken eventually drank himself to death and Sally’s folks moved to the coast. And just when most everyone had put it behind them, Finn got out of jail.” What happened after that, Old Joe had seen with his own eyes, how folks couldn’t quite look Finn Donovan in the eye. Maybe out of shame for what happened. Maybe out of guilt because no one had reined Roddy in before. Or maybe, Old Joe figured, because no one could face the man. But the truth was that folks gave Finn Donovan a wide berth after he came home. Maybe because of the ugly scar across his face or the cold, flat look in his eyes.

Resting his weight on his cane, George spoke. “You have to wonder why he came back here, after all that happened.”

Joe shrugged. “I expect because he had roots here. When he first came back, I used to hear things from his uncle. Like how he’d bought a big chunk of property just off the main road to Kananaskis Country. I heard he was building a log cabin on the place, and then somebody told me he was restoring the old log cabins that were already there. Then the fella at the lumberyard blabbed it around that he had put a new roof on the old log barn.” Joe took off his cap and combed his fingers through his thinning hair, then replaced his cap. “Yep, when he first came back, there were all kinds of rumors going around. There was one that when he was in jail, that he’d invested the money he got from the sale of their little house. Some folks say he made a killing on some gold shares. Then it got out that he bought a string of horses from the McCall brothers and he was back in business. But to be real honest, I don’t think anyone really knew for sure what he was up to. After his uncle died, the talk slowed to a trickle.” He looked out the window, watching a cat stalking something in the long grass beside the drop-in center. “But we’d hear about him from time to time—when something happened in the backcountry, and he’d be brought in to help out.”

He met his old friend’s gaze. “I started working for him about five years ago—must be five years—I know he was thirty-seven when he hired me. And all I can tell you is that Finn Donovan doesn’t show his cards to anyone. Folks still speculate, but the facts are a muddle,” he said. Then drawing on his skill as a poet, he added, “It’s all twisted by time an’ tainted by fiction. But he’s pulled a lot of people out of that backcountry. And his reputation as a tracker is part of that there legend. And it’s kept alive by the retelling.”

But there were some things Old Joe didn’t tell his shuffleboard partner. He didn’t tell him that he had the feeling that Finn Donovan knew he cast a long shadow in the ranching community, and that was one of the reasons he kept to himself. Old Joe knew that sometimes in the winter, when the nights were dark and cold, Finn Donovan would take off for warmer climes. And, Old Joe suspected, warm bodies. He figured that it had taken his boss a lot of years to disconnect from the past. And that he wanted to keep it that way. As Old Joe saw it, Finn Donovan lived from season to season.

The cemetery stretched across a rise of land, opening it up to a view of the mountains, the trees along the drive still golden with the last of the autumn foliage. Finn Donovan settled his black low-crowned Stetson on his head as he got out of his SUV, then reached across and retrieved a spray of perfect pink roses off the passenger seat. Slamming the door behind him, he walked between the rows of headstones, the flowers clutched in one hand, his expression somber as he thought about this pilgrimage. He wondered where the last year had gone.

The scent of autumn hung in the crisp clean air, underscored by the faint smell of burning leaves and the sweet fragrance of the roses. Reaching the small white marble headstone tucked in between two lilac bushes, he crouched down, brushing away the fallen leaves.

Sally Lynn Donovan, beloved wife and daughter.

Experiencing the familiar hollowness in his chest, Finn took off his hat and carefully placed the spray against the white marble. She would have been thirty-seven today. He couldn’t imagine her at thirty-seven. She had been so young when she died—only twenty-two—and she had remained young and full of life in his mind. But after fifteen years, he could no longer recall her image, and that made the empty feeling in his chest expand. His sweet, sweet Sally. It had been so long ago, it was almost as if that part of his life had never happened.

Getting to his feet, he repositioned his hat on his head and stared at the grave for another moment. Then he turned and started back toward his truck, the fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. He looked toward the western horizon, checking to see if there was a weather system moving in against the Rocky Mountains. He wanted good weather. First thing tomorrow, he was heading out into those mountains to restock and repair the line shacks he used as base camps on his most frequently used routes. It was a trip he made every fall. Sometimes he wondered why he did it. Other times, he knew exactly why.