Читать книгу To Tame a Wolf - Susan Krinard - Страница 9

TALLY BRACED HERSELF on the saddle horn like a raw-faced tenderfoot, trying to stay awake. She’d slept miserably last night, and not because of the meal Kavanagh had foisted on her. It wasn’t the first time she’d eaten game roasted over an open fire, and once she’d decided to accept Kavanagh’s “gift,” she’d been glad for the hearty sustenance after a long day’s ride.

It would be more accurate to say that the man himself was the source of her sleeplessness. God knew she hadn’t expected him to go out of his way to feed her…and of course she’d wondered with every bite how much he’d seen when he’d left the plate at her bedside.

She sneaked a glance at him from under the brim of her hat. He hadn’t shown any new awareness last night or this morning. He still treated her with an offhand indifference that sometimes bordered on contempt, just as she would expect a man like him to behave toward someone he clearly regarded as an overeducated, untried boy.

She’d been careful to pin up every stray lock of hair and powder her face with a fresh coating of dust when they broke camp early that morning. Kavanagh, on the other hand, had washed his face and combed out his dark hair, almost as if he’d taken to heart her rude comments about unpleasant odors.

Ever since she’d met him, Tally had been on the defensive. He hadn’t threatened her in any way, but she felt the need to keep proving herself, striking before he struck. And that was absurd, especially when he scarcely bothered with conversation and seemed content to ignore her most of the time. He hadn’t spoken after breakfast except to confirm that André had followed the road running north from Turkey Creek to Castillo Canyon.

Yet she knew he was watching her. Maybe he’d guessed her secret and was only waiting for a chance to expose it. But if he could sneak up on her as easily as he had last night, why wait? Perhaps he was simply not interested in the truth, one way or the other.

Dieu du ciel, she should be down on her knees in gratitude that he was so indifferent.

A meadowlark called from the grassland to the east. Tally cleared her throat. Kavanagh glanced at her and away again, turning his head toward the Chiricahua foothills. The mountains seemed an impenetrable wall from the valley, but Tally knew they were riddled with arroyos and streams that shrank to trickles in the spring, drawing abundant wildlife to the shallow pools left behind. Birds of brilliant plumage flashed like jewels in the darkness of the forest. Wolves and pumas roamed the highlands as once the Apaches had done. Miners might dig and scour the earth for precious metals, but the few settlers who’d made homes in the canyons had so far done little to alter the pristine world the Indians had been forced to abandon.

André wouldn’t notice the beauty of this land. The promise he saw lay only in the profit to be had.

“Petit fou,” she muttered.

“That’s French, ain’t it?”

Tally welcomed the rough sound of his voice even when it drowned the lark’s melodious song. “It is a common enough language in Louisiana.”

“I hear it’s useful for swearing.”

She laughed in spite of herself. He cast her an unreadable look. She wondered if her voice had gone too high and quickly stifled her incongruous amusement.

“Teach me,” he said.

“What?”

“We got another ten miles’ ride to Castillo Creek,” he said. “I figure that ought to be good for a few cuss words.”

“I can’t imagine that a man like you needs that kind of instruction.”

“And what kind of instruction do I need, boy?” He snickered at her silence and flicked the ends of his reins across his muscular thighs. “You know, when we met in Tombstone, I thought maybe you had more experience than your looks suggested. But Ready Mary…like most whores, she has an eye for easy prey. You’ve never been with a woman, have you?”

He didn’t know. Tally swallowed a sigh of relief. “What business is that of yours?”

He shrugged. “Let me give you a bit of advice, hombre. Stay out of saloons and whorehouses. When you find your brother, stick to that little rancho of yours and never trust anyone who offers you a free ride.”

“Is that a warning drawn from personal experience?”

An ominous hush fell about him, like a calm before the storm. “Everything costs. You don’t get nothin’ without paying for it.”

“What makes you dislike women so much, Mr. Kavanagh?”

“I only ever met one female who could be trusted as far as a man can spit, and…” His voice softened almost to a whisper. “She’s more angel than woman.”

“What is her name?”

“Esperanza.”

Tally’s throat tightened at the awe and tenderness in his words. “Is she the one you love?”

He jerked back on the reins, and his stallion snorted in protest. Kavanagh muttered an apology to the horse and glared at Tally. “I don’t talk about her.”

“You just did.”

“Ya basta.”

“As you wish.” She rode a little ahead and felt his stare burn into her back like a red-hot brand. She could hardly believe that a man like Kavanagh could love anyone. But there had been no mistaking the look in his eyes and the sound of his voice. She wondered what kind of paragon could win such devotion…and how an angel could love him in return.

Tally knew there were no angels on earth, male or female. In her two years of marriage to Nathan Meeker, she had met ambitious society ladies who aspired to perfection. They had all fallen prey to their very human weaknesses. No one understood such weaknesses better than Chantal Bernard.

She wondered how long it would take Kavanagh to realize that his angel had feet of clay instead of wings.

They rode on to the wide mouth of Castillo Canyon, where Castillo Creek had carved a wedge out of the hillside and opened up a lovely side valley dotted with oaks. Cattle lifted their heads to note the intruders and returned to their placid grazing. Grama grass gave way to sedges and rushes in the wet meadow near the creek bed and spring. Kavanagh made for the ciénaga, and the two horses picked up their feet in anticipation of sweet fresh water.

The welcome shade of sycamore, ash, walnut and cottonwood spilled over Tally’s shoulders like a balm. Brightly colored birds flitted from tree to tree. Dragonflies skimmed across pools in the rocky bed.

Kavanagh dismounted, filled the canteens with the water bubbling up from the spring and briefly closed his eyes as if he felt the healing spirit of the place as much as Tally did. “Two mules stopped here in the past few days,” he said.

“Then we can’t be too far behind André,” Tally said, joining Sim beside the spring. “The Brysons’ cabin should be a little farther up the canyon.”

Sim tossed Tally her canteen and drank from his own. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “We’ll camp here tonight.”

“We still have hours of daylight left.”

“Better to get a fresh start in the morning. It’s rough country up there, on horseback or afoot.”

Tally gazed up at the wooded peaks of the mountains. They were much more imposing at the northern end of the range than near Cold Creek. “If you’re worried about me, there is no need. I can keep up.”

“Maybe.” Kavanagh wet his neckerchief and scrubbed the sweat from his face. “You gonna take your bath now, or wait to see if these Brysons have a washtub?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Kavanagh. I’ll be sure to stay downwind of you.”

Without any warning, he dipped his hand in the pool, scooped water in his palm and sent it flying at Tally. She fell back on her rump with a cry of surprise, runnels of cool liquid sliding down the back of her collar and making mud of the dust on her face.

“There’s a start,” he said.

She recovered in an instant, ready to return fire. But he moved quick as a fox, jumping up from the bank and putting the pale trunk of a sycamore between him and her watery missiles.

Tally was too astonished to continue. Kavanagh was playing. It simply wasn’t possible. He was laughing at her the way a boy would, treating her like a companion. A friend. And that didn’t fit in any way with the Kavanagh she had begun to know.

As abruptly as he’d begun, Kavanagh ended the game. He stepped out from behind the sycamore, caught Diablo and swung into the saddle just as if the strange interlude had never happened. Tally knew that if she made anything of it, he would stare her down with that icy gaze and act as if she were the crazy one.

They left the magical sanctuary and rode on deeper into the canyon. The grassland oaks were dropping their leaves as they did every spring, conserving life for the hot days ahead. Mesquite trees on the hillsides hung heavy with yellow catkins. Turkey vultures circled lazily in a bright blue sky, portending death.

Tally shivered. André was not dead. She broke Muérdago into a trot and led the way between steeper slopes clothed with pines at their tops. The meadow narrowed, and soon Tally caught sight of a fence through the trees.

The Bryson cabin was small, built of logs hewn from the forest instead of the adobe often seen on the plain or nearer the border. A corral held a few calves, while a shedlike barn stood ready for weary horses. Chickens scratched beside a lopsided coop.

The first sign of human life was a slender girl of fifteen or sixteen hanging laundry to dry on a line. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw the approaching riders, smoothed her calico skirt and raced inside the cabin. A few moments later a much older woman, stout and plain, came out the front door. The girl followed her.

Tally dismounted and led Muérdago the rest of the way, touching the brim of her hat in greeting. “Good afternoon,” she said. “You would be Mrs. Bryson?”

“That I am.” The woman shaded her eyes and looked toward Kavanagh. “Welcome. This is my daughter, Beth. Mr. Bryson is up in the canyon, but if you boys would care to take some refreshment…”

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s most kind.” Tally heard the faint brush of Sim’s steps behind her and stood a little straighter. “My name is Bernard—Tal Bernard. This is Mr. Kavanagh. We’ve come from Tombstone, looking for my brother André. Have you by any chance seen a light-haired young man with two mules passing this way?”

“My goodness,” the woman said, gathering her apron between her hands. “We do see a few miners and lumbermen, though most are on the other side of the mountains. Tombstone, you say? We usually go to Willcox for supplies.”

“I saw him,” Beth said. “Mother was in the barn tending Daisy when he rode by. Father invited him to stay, but he was in a hurry, like someone was chasing him.” She regarded Tally and Sim with bright, curious blue eyes. “Why are you looking for him? Are you really his brother?”

“That’s enough of that,” Mrs. Bryson said. “Go inside, Beth, and make up a fresh pot of coffee. You boys will want to rest a bit and talk to Mr. Bryson. I expect him back any time now.”

Tally glanced at Kavanagh, whose face was devoid of expression. “We’re grateful, ma’am,” she said.

“Then see to your mounts and come on in. If you’ll excuse me, I have a pot on the stove.” She bobbed her head and bustled back through the door.

“It’s a good thing we ain’t outlaws,” Kavanagh muttered, passing Tally with Diablo in tow.

“Hospitality is the custom in the Territory,” Tally said. “Most people welcome visitors.”

“You better hope you don’t get more hospitality than you bargained for.”

He moved ahead before she could ask him what he meant. She followed him into the barn, empty of occupants save for a lone milk cow. Tally stripped Muérdago of his tack and treated him to a measure of oats from her saddlebags. Sim did the same with Diablo.

Beth arrived at the barn door, breathless and flushed. “Mother wanted me to tell you…supper’s almost ready. Father should be here any moment.” Her gaze darted from Tally to Kavanagh. “Mother also wanted…will you be…?” Her flush deepened. “We can heat water if you want to wash up.”

Kavanagh gave a bark of laughter. Tally imagined how nice it would be to have a mule’s hind leg for just long enough to give him a good swift kick in the posterior.

“That’s very generous of you, miss,” Tally said. “But we won’t impose. We’d planned to keep riding until—”

“Mother wouldn’t hear of it,” the girl said with some spirit. “Neither will Father. We have an extra room we keep for my brother, George. He’s in the army.” Her pretty face took on a wistful cast. “Will you tell me about Tombstone, Mr. Bernard?”

Tally’s stomach chose that moment to rumble like a steam engine. “Well, I…”

Beth turned toward the door and looked back expectantly.

Tally saw no way out. The Brysons clearly intended to make the most of their unexpected guests. They wouldn’t only insist on providing a meal and a clean bed, but they would also ask a hundred questions about the doings in Tombstone and throughout the Valley. Tally would have to maintain her disguise under the most trying of circumstances…and then there was the problem of Sim Kavanagh. Beth had mentioned only one extra room.

In her heart, Tally knew she couldn’t keep up the masquerade forever, nor could she continue to hide at Cold Creek, avoiding contact with the other homesteaders. Safety was an illusion. Sooner or later someone would discover that the younger Bernard brother was female. Maybe it was time to drop the pretense.

But not just yet. Not while she rode with Sim Kavanagh.

She followed Beth into the house, half listening for Kavanagh’s panther-soft tread. Her own boot heels clicked on the smooth puncheon floor. The scent of simmering meat and vegetables filled the cabin’s central room, which contained both the kitchen and a parlor with a fireplace. The parlor boasted an overstuffed sofa that must have been brought by train from the East, ruling grandly over the more humble homemade chairs and parlor table. A colorful quilt hung on one wall.

“I hope that venison stew suits you,” Mrs. Bryson said from the stove, pushing damp hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Please, sit down.”

Tally sat in one of the chairs at the dining table between the kitchen and parlor, admiring the braided rag rug that covered much of the floor. Kavanagh stalked in a slow circle like a beast in a cage.

Beth rushed into the room with a pitcher, spilling water on the kitchen floor. “Father’s home,” she announced. Kavanagh paused by the fireplace and lifted his head, nostrils flared.

“He always knows when supper’s ready,” Mrs. Bryson said with an indulgent laugh. She opened the stove’s heavy door and pulled out a pan of biscuits, perfectly browned. “Get the butter, Beth.”

The girl hurried to obey, and a few moments later a big man with salt-and-pepper hair strode into the cabin. His face was damp, and he wore much-patched but clean clothing, as if he’d made some effort to make himself presentable for his guests. Tally got to her feet and took his offered hand.

“Miles Bryson,” he said, nearly crushing her fingers. “Glad to have you, Mr. Bernard.” He looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Kavanagh.”

Sim nodded without moving from his place by the hearth. Tally smiled all the wider. “I hope we aren’t putting you to too much trouble, Mr. Bryson.”

“Not at all.” He released Tally’s aching hand, joined his wife by the stove and gave her a hug about the shoulders. “Mrs. Bryson loves to show off her cooking.”

“Now, Miles.” She feigned affront, but her eyes gleamed with pleasure. Beth arrived with the butter and began to set the table. The plates were china, chipped but lovingly preserved from some former, more genteel home. Soon the table was piled high with a crock of savory stew, a plate of biscuits and a steaming pot of coffee.

Kavanagh still hadn’t moved, and Tally was about to risk calling him when he sat down next to her. Bryson took the head of the table, and once Beth and Mrs. Bryson had finished their serving duties, they sat in two of the three remaining chairs.

Bryson bowed his head, and his family did the same. Sim stared at the ceiling. Tally lowered her eyes to the table’s painstakingly polished surface, reciting the prayer through stiff lips. If Mrs. Bryson had any notion of who was sitting next to her innocent daughter…

“Amen,” Bryson murmured. Without another word he dug into the food, passing bowlfuls of stew to Tally and Kavanagh before serving his family. Mrs. Bryson watched Tally expectantly until she took a bite and made the appropriate noises of satisfaction. Kavanagh ate with single-minded attention and never once looked up from his plate.

Tally found it hard to swallow, though the food was as good as anything Miriam made at home. Beth’s curious glances were more shrewd than those of her parents. Maybe she’d guessed something was not quite right about “Mr.” Bernard. But Kavanagh earned her most fascinated stares, and it was all Tally could do not to shout a warning.

Stay away from men like that, ma bonne fille. Wait and find a boy your own age. Don’t throw away what good fortune has given you….

She pushed her plate aside and patted her stomach. “Ma’am, I don’t think I’ve tasted anything quite so fine in years. If he were more of a talker, I’m sure Mr. Kavanagh would say the same.”

Kavanagh looked up from his cleaned plate. His pale eyes settled first on Tally, then quickly moved to Beth and Mr. Bryson. “Good,” he said.

“Your friend does talk, Mr. Bernard,” Bryson said with generous good humor.

“Tal,” Tally said. Bryson offered her and Kavanagh a pair of pipes, which both declined. The homesteader lit his own and settled in one of the rawhide chairs in the parlor. Tally took the other, while Kavanagh crouched on his boot heels beside the fireplace.

Bryson smiled through his full beard. “Beth has told me something of why you gentleman are in the canyon. I did meet a man fitting the description you gave, Tal, but he was in a hurry to be on his way.” He tamped the tobacco in his pipe. “You’ve been following him from Tombstone?”

Tally saw no harm in telling him at least part of the truth. “Our ranch is in Cold Creek Valley, in the southern Chiricahuas,” she said. “My brother left to buy cattle from some ranchers in the north Valley two weeks ago, but he disappeared, and we learned that he’d come up here…supposedly to look for ore.”

“You must be his younger brother, from the looks of you,” Bryson said. “I’m sorry your kin has given you trouble.”

“I’m worried that André…might have gotten lost up here. That’s why I hired Mr. Kavanagh to track him in the mountains.”

Kavanagh muttered something under his breath. Pans clanged in the kitchen. Bryson puffed on his pipe. “Have you been with the army, Mr. Kavanagh?” he asked.

Kavanagh glanced at Bryson without interest. “From time to time.” Bryson’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Army scouts are notoriously taciturn men, Tal. The best of them hardly ever make a sound, let alone indulge in idle conversation.”

“So I’ve learned.” She felt Kavanagh’s stare and shifted in her seat. “Our foreman went looking for André a week ago,” she said. “He’s a former Buffalo Soldier with the Tenth Cavalry, very tall—”

“I’m afraid I didn’t see such a man. I’ve heard good things about the Tenth, though. Formidable fighters.”

They drifted onto the subjects of army movements, the Apaches and cattle prices. Tally let Bryson do most of the talking, while Kavanagh kept his thoughts to himself. Eventually Mrs. Bryson and Beth joined them, pulling chairs from the dining table.

“Will you tell us about Tombstone, Mr. Bernard?” Beth asked eagerly. “Is it as wicked as they say?”

“Now, Beth,” Mrs. Bryson reproved.

Mr. Bryson chuckled. “You’ll have to excuse our daughter, Tal. She’s heard too many fantastic stories.” He set down his pipe. “Willcox is wild enough for us. I’d like to hear more of your ranch, and how you find the south end of the Valley. There aren’t too many of us here, but more will be coming every day now that the Apaches have cleared out. If not for the rustlers—” He glanced at Beth and thought better of that subject.

Tally asked Mrs. Bryson about the quilt on the wall, which led to an innocuous conversation about fabric and sewing. Tally listened with the polite incomprehension of any typical male. After Beth and Mrs. Bryson retired, Bryson asked Tally for general news of the Valley and its residents.

Tally had little to tell him. She’d spent most of her days deliberately sequestered at Cold Creek, working the cattle and letting André deal with the outside world. If Bryson found her ignorance strange, he didn’t let on. He showed Tally and Kavanagh the plain, neat room they would share for the night.

“You’ve done Ida a heap of good by praising her cooking,” Bryson said. “She gets a little lonely in the canyon with only Beth for company.” He lit a kerosene lamp and set it on a table near the door. “You men are welcome here any time.”

“As you are at Cold Creek,” Tally said, glad that Bryson would have no cause for such a visit. She thanked him again and closed the door to the room, her heart beating unpleasantly fast in the heavy silence.

Kavanagh was sitting on the wood-frame bed, pulling off his boots and stockings. The moment of truth was at hand.

Tally turned and leaned against the door, folding her arms across her chest. “Can I ask you a question?”

Kavanagh arched his back in a bone-popping stretch. “When did you ever need my permission?”

“Why were you so rude to the Brysons? Is it because two of them are female?”

He looked at her with an expression of genuine surprise. “You still expecting pretty manners from me, boy? I thought you’d been disabused of such notions.”

“I hired you to do a job, and I’m prepared to pay the price. The Brysons don’t know us, but they’ve been generous hosts. The least they deserve is the respect due decent people.”

He got up from the bed and strolled toward her with a lazy air of tolerant amusement. “You gonna fire me because I was disrespectful to them decent, proper folk out there?”

She edged away from the door. “Fortunately, I don’t think they’ll hold it against you. They trust instead of judge, and I admire them for it.”

Kavanagh stopped in the middle of the room and cocked his head. “Took a liking to that little filly Beth, did you, boy?”

“Not the way you mean.”

“She’s wild for a little freedom, ain’t she? How well d’you think she’d make out in Tombstone?”

Tally balled her fists. “Her parents take care of her. They love each other. You never had that kind of family, did you, Kavanagh? A sister, a brother to look after, or who looked after you.”

“No.” The denial cracked like a thick oak branch snapped in a storm. “I never had a family like that.”

She met his stony gaze, swallowing the knot in her throat. She could see the pain he tried not to show, pain she saw only because she had become so accustomed to discerning the motives of men.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

He seemed not to hear. “I had a mother and a father and half brothers. We never lived together.”

Mon Dieu. Was he implying that he was a bastard? In the West that was not so terrible a thing as in the cultured East, but it would have marked him. She felt the compulsion to match his confession with one of her own…. Madness, just like the fact that they were here together, alone in this room.

“My father left my family when I was young,” she said.

His gaze returned to hers. “That’s a damned shame, boy,” he said, only half-mocking. “Your ma raise you and André?”

“She worked hard.” Tally stared longingly at the washstand, with its fresh water and clean towels. She was desperate to scrub the dirt from her face, remove her hat and let down her hair. That wouldn’t happen tonight. “You go ahead and get some sleep, Kavanagh. I’m going to check on the horses.”

She started for the door. Kavanagh was there first. “You’re a lousy liar,” he said conversationally. “Why are you so afraid of being in this room with me?”

“I’m not afraid.” He was barely four inches away, nearly touching her chest to chest. “I just like my privacy.”

He leaned closer. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her temples. “I’ll just bet you do.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “You ever been with a man, Tally-boy?”

She jumped straight up and scrambled sideways, clumsy with shock. It wasn’t possible. She would have known. She’d met men like that before—the New Orleans brothels catered to every taste, no matter how eccentric. But Kavanagh had spoken of his angel Esperanza. He had known women. Yet there were all those comments about baths. Perhaps he was equally partial to both….

She didn’t have time to think. She snatched the hat from her hair and pulled at the braids. Her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders.

“I’m not a boy, cochon, so keep your hands to yourself.”