Behind His Blue Eyes (4 page)

“Tim Gallagher,” Rylander replied. “I've talked to him. But you might keep an eye on him, too. Hopefully, things will settle down once we start laying track. Meanwhile, we've got another problem. One of the local men cutting lumber for the sluice died in a fall last week.”

“An accident?”

“It looks that way. But his wife insists there was foul play. The man's watch was missing. A family heirloom. She says he's never without it.”

Ethan felt a headache build behind his eyes. What had promised to be a two-week job now seemed much more complicated. “The Denver and Santa Fe has authorized me to compensate for loss of life or limb. If the widow wants to relocate, I can give her free passage anywhere our line goes.” Considering the harsher attitudes of other railroads, it was a generous policy. “Has there been an investigation into the death?”

“Our sheriff and his deputy are checking into it,” Mrs. Rylander said.

“I've met the deputy. An interesting man.”

“A frightening man,” Mrs. Rylander countered, not looking frightened in the least. “Especially if you threaten someone he cares about.”

From the amused glance between the two, Ethan guessed the Rylanders were on the protected list.

“He was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier with Chief Black Kettle's tribe,” Tait Rylander said. “After the chief died in sixty-eight and the rest of the tribe was moved to Oklahoma, he stayed behind.”

“He was allowed to do that?”

“His grandfather was white. When it suits him, Thomas uses that connection. When it doesn't, he's all warrior. I'll never completely understand the man, but I trust him with my life. Right now, he's acting as deputy, so he's white. More or less. But when Brodie comes back, who knows what he'll do.”

“The sheriff is gone?”

“They work in shifts,” Mrs. Rylander explained. “And Declan considers himself only a temporary sheriff. His real love is ranching. But his wife, Edwina, or Ed, as he calls her, was recently delivered of their fourth son—Declan has three others and a daughter by his first marriage—so they've been staying in town until she recovers and the sluice issues are settled.”

Ethan sipped from his glass. The water tasted fine to him. “Is the sluice really necessary?”

Mrs. Rylander smiled. “You've met Yancey, our desk clerk?”

Ethan nodded. Another interesting fellow.

“Then you've seen his teeth—those that remain, that is. If that's what our water does to teeth, you can imagine what it would do to a locomotive.” A look of distaste crossed her face. “It's so thick with minerals you almost have to chew it.”

When Ethan leaned forward to give his glass closer scrutiny, Rylander chuckled. “Don't worry. Once we learned there was a mineral hot spring bleeding into the water table, we started carting in barrels of untainted drinking water from deeper in the canyon. As I said, our problems now aren't due to the sluice design or water quality, but because of theft and vandalism.”

Relieved, Ethan sat back. A little mayhem he could handle. But he didn't want anything to do with architecture or construction ever again.

Rylander pushed his empty plate aside. “But there's still the issue of the rights-of-way.” He went on to explain that most of them had been bought by his wife before they married, and she had offered them to the Denver and Santa Fe on a ninety-nine-year lease in exchange for a seat on the board of the bridge line.

“Most?”

“There's one holdout.” Mrs. Rylander waited for the server to clear the table before continuing. “We've written several times to the owner in Baltimore, but haven't received an answer. Our latest letter came back as undeliverable. Apparently, Mr. Pearsall is no longer at that address.”

Ethan stiffened.
Pearsall?
“Does he have a daughter?”

“I couldn't say. We know little about him. Or if he's ever even been to Heartbreak Creek. The original deed was issued to Cyrus Prendergast over thirty years ago, and the only change to it has been the addition of Pearsall's name.”

Prendergast. Of the old Prendergast place.
Hell.
“Where is the cabin?”

“Two miles up the left side of the canyon. Since the original owner's death in the late fifties, other than the occasional miner or prospector, no one has lived on the property.”

Until now.

With a sigh, Ethan pushed back his chair. “Thank you for breakfast, ma'am. It was delicious.” To Tait, he added, “If you'll excuse my abrupt departure, I think I might be able to take care of one of your problems today. I'll explain more later.”

Four

A
udra was glad she had decided to leave her companions behind when she came to inspect the cabin with Mr. Redstone. They would have been horrified.

As was she.

The two-room structure was little more than a log hovel, with a bird's nest in the chimney, mice in the cupboards, and a large furry creature that scuttled out of the back room when they looked in. Mr. Redstone identified it as a marmot and said it was “good eating.”

Audra repressed a shudder, praying they would never be in such dire straits that they would be forced to eat rodents.

Instead of glass, the windows were covered with warped shutters spiked with rusty nails so that the pointed ends protruded on the outside. Mr. Redstone explained it was to discourage bears from pushing in the shutters and climbing through the window.

That alone would have sent Winnie scurrying back to town.

The floor was so littered with filth she thought it was made of dirt, but then she stumbled over a piece of broken crockery and saw wood showing. It sounded solid when she stomped a foot, but until she swept it, she couldn't be certain.

For furniture, there was a warped table of mismatched planks, a stool with one leg missing, and a rope-strung bed in the marmot's room, minus the rope and the mattress, which, judging by the wealth of droppings, the rodent had eaten.

The main room held a small cookstove, a counter with a rusty pump, two crooked shelves, and an alcove that could be curtained off and used as a bedroom. For decoration, there was an oil lamp with a cracked globe atop the fireplace mantle beside a regurgitated pellet of hair and tiny bones, probably left by an owl.

The whole place stank of droppings, dust, and despair.

“Rough?” Audra rounded on Mr. Redstone, who was poking at a spider's web with a stick. “You call this ‘rough, but still usable'? Are you demented?”

He stopped poking and looked warily at her. “What is demented?”

“Would you live here?”

“No.”

“Yet you expect me to?”

He shrugged. “You asked me to bring you. I brought you. Where you live is for you to decide.”

The fight went out of her. She looked numbly around, unable to take it all in. She had uprooted her family, dragged her sick father thousands of miles, and squandered most of what little money they had getting here . . . and for what?

“I'm such a fool,” she muttered. “Jail would be better.”

“No. It is worse.”

She looked at him in shock. “You've been there?”

Ignoring that, he looked around. “We can fix this.”

“How?”

He banged a fist on one wall. Dust rained down on their heads, but the logs didn't shift. “It is a strong house. When we clean it, you will see.”

“We? You'll help me?” She didn't know whether to hug him, burst into tears, or run, shrieking, back to town.

“Others will help. Even now, one comes.”

“One what?” a deep voice asked.

Startled, Audra turned to see a familiar figure in the doorway. “Mr. Hardesty! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

That set her back. After his abrupt departure the previous night, she hadn't expected to see him again. Yet, here he was—and looking for her. The thought brought a surprising lift to her sagging spirits.

Today, he wore denim trousers, a collarless shirt buttoned at the neck, and a brown woolen vest with a blue thread that perfectly matched his lovely blue eyes. Even dressed in work clothes, the man had presence. Audra felt a momentary regret that she hadn't worn something more fetching than her faded black work dress, then she firmly pushed the thought away. She wasn't here to flirt—even if she knew how—and certainly not with Ethan Hardesty.

The newcomer glanced around, his gaze narrowing when it came to rest on the Cheyenne. “Morning, Redstone. No deputy duties today?”

“Declan Brodie escaped his woman. He is sheriff until tomorrow.” Seeing Audra's confusion, the Indian added, “His wife just birthed a new son. With the other four, she feels . . .” He made a circular motion with his hand, as if trying to conjure the correct word. “Frightened, I think. She cries too much.”

“Five sons?” Audra would be crying, too. “More like overwhelmed, I'd think.”

“Only four are sons. Brin is a girl child, but more trouble than all of her brothers together.” The amused affection in his tone belied the harsh words. Audra guessed the girl held a special place in Thomas Redstone's heart.

Mr. Hardesty wandered the cabin, a look of distaste on his face. “You're not actually going to live here, are you?”

“I have no choice.”

He stopped by the hearth, flicked the owl pellet to the floor, then, propping his right elbow on the mantle, rested a foot on the hearthstone and slipped his left hand into his trouser pocket. “Actually, you do.”

An elegant pose. Lord of the manor. Audra suspected Mr. Hardesty would feel confident and at home no matter where he was. The stance also reminded her of how tall and lean he was . . . taller than Mr. Redstone by several inches, but lacking the Indian's broad sturdiness. Not that Mr. Hardesty wasn't sturdy. She had seen for herself his strength when he'd lifted the end of the buggy so Curtis could position the brace. “And what choice is that, sir?”

Mr. Redstone resumed poking at the cobwebs.

“I've just come from a meeting with the local couple working with the railroad,” Hardesty said. “Mr. and Mrs. Rylander.”

Audra frowned.
Rylander.
Why did that name seem familiar?

“They're ready to move forward, except for one minor detail. The last, unassigned right-of-way.”

Mr. Redstone paused in his excavations. “What is this right-of-way?”

“A document that grants the railroad permission to lay tracks across a property owner's land.”

Suddenly Audra remembered all those letters she had thrown away, unanswered. “Across
this
land.”

“Exactly.”

Redstone tossed the stick aside. “When will you ask permission to cross mine?”

Mr. Hardesty's blue eyes widened. “You own land in the canyon? Where?”

“Everywhere.” The Indian made a sweeping motion with one arm. “From one mountain to the other, this land belongs to the People. It has been so since before Raven dropped down from the sky, or Coyote played his first prank, or you strangers came with your treaties and long guns.” He let his arm fall back to his side. “So I ask you again,
ve'ho'e—
white man. When will you ask permission to cross my land?”

Despite the challenging words, Audra saw more sorrow than anger in the Cheyenne's dark eyes. When it was apparent Mr. Hardesty had no answer for him, he sighed and turned away. “It is as I expected.” Shaking his head, he quietly left the cabin.

In the awkward silence that followed, Audra felt her anger build. High-handed railroads. Even in Baltimore, she had read of their excesses as they had pushed west—the huge tracts of land assigned to them at no cost, the outright theft of private land not covered by those government grants, gunfights over water rights, running roughshod over the Indian tribes or anyone else caught in their path.

Overexpansion, corruption, shady dealings. It was a national disgrace.

Feeling as displaced as Thomas Redstone, she allowed irritation to creep into her voice. “And now you want my land, is that it?”

Mr. Hardesty pushed away from the mantle. “Only your permission to cross a small part of it. That's all.”

“But it's only
a small piece of property. How can a rail line come through without destroying this cabin? My home.”

He snorted. “You don't really intend to bring your ailing father here, do you?”

“For now, it's my only option.” Perhaps later, if she found work, she might . . .

A thought arose. “Did you ask your business associates about available employment?”

“Not yet.”

“Of course not,” she said acidly, suspicions confirmed. “Why bother to act on your offer to help when your intent all along was to cheat me out of my home?”

“Cheat you?” He lifted his hands in frustration. “How am I cheating you? The right-of-way only grants the railroad permission to cross your land. It has nothing to do with your home. Such as it is.”

She clapped her hands on her hips. “It may not look like much to you, you home-stealing scoundrel, but it's all I have!”

“For the love of God!” He spun away, walked a tight circle, then came back to loom over her. He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Now let's be reasonable about this, Miss Pearsall.”

She almost struck him.

“You need money. I need the right-of-way. How about I pay you, say . . . fifty dollars to sign the papers. That's twice the regular fee. Enough to keep you going until you find employment, don't you think?”

“And what if the tracks come within mere feet of my front door?”

“You'll still have this lovely cabin, front door and all.”

“You—you—!” This time, it was she who stalked away, unspoken words clogging her throat. The man was insufferable. As high-handed as his employers.

Whirling, she charged back. “If I were to allow the rail line to pass through my front yard, Mr. Hardesty, how would I keep my father safe, when he wanders off at every opportunity?”

“Install locks?”

“Get out!” Crossing to the door, she flung it open, startling Mr. Redstone, who sat at the top of the porch steps. “Leave now, Mr. Hardesty!”

“Seventy-five, then.” He sauntered toward her, apparently unmoved by her efforts to evict him. “But that's as high as I can go.”

She wavered. Seventy-five dollars was a great deal of money. Enough to keep them for quite a while. If they lived
here
. But if she had to pay to live elsewhere it wouldn't be enough. If she could get him to offer more . . .

An idea burst into her mind. Devious. Unworthy. But workable.

“What's your answer?” he asked, standing over her in a pathetic attempt at intimidation.

She pasted on a smile and pretended sympathy. “Mr. Hardesty, I appreciate the fix you're in. Truly, I do. All that equipment and all those workers sitting idle. It must be costing the railroad a fortune. But I'm in a bit of a fix, as well.” She paused to brush a smear of dirt off her skirt. “Even if I wanted to, it's not my right-of-way to give, is it? The property belongs to my father, and I'm afraid he's unable to sign his name to anything.”

“One hundred.”

“In fact, sometimes I wonder if he even
knows
his name.”

“One twenty-five. And you can sign for him.”

“Forge my father's signature? Wouldn't that be illegal?”

“All right! One fifty! And I swear—”

“Fine. I'll talk to my father, but that's all I can promise.” She motioned toward the door. “Now leave. I have work to do.”

“But—”

“Good day, Mr. Hardesty.”

* * *

As the door slammed behind him, Thomas Redstone laughed.

“What's so funny?” Ethan growled, stomping down the porch steps.

“You.” Still chuckling, the Cheyenne fell in beside him. “If this is what you whites call a negotiation, I think you lost.”

“Cantankerous, hardheaded, shortsighted woman! Someone should beat some sense into her.”

Redstone's demeanor changed from white man to warrior in an instant. Grabbing Ethan's arm, he yanked him around. “You will not harm her.”

Ethan looked at him in surprise, then jerked his arm free. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“You just said—”

“Hell, I didn't mean it! Not literally.”

He continued on to where he'd left Renny tied near Miss Audra's buggy and Redstone's spotted horse, intent on escaping before he said something foolish or acted on the emotions churning inside. “She's just . . . just so . . .”

A sudden image bounced through his head—Miss Audra glaring up at him, eyes flashing fire, her sweet lips curled in challenge and those lovely breasts rising and falling with every agitated breath.

Words failed him. Anger dissolved into grudging admiration.

Magnificent
. That's what she was. Passion and strength and beauty. Everything he had denied himself since Salty Point.

Denied . . . but couldn't stop wanting.

Laughing, he swung up on Renny. He felt invigorated and more alive than he had in three years. “Ever heard of a firecracker, Thomas?” he asked the Indian, who was staring at him like he'd lost his mind. “It's a tiny, short-fused explosive. Small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, but noisy enough to start a stampede. That's what she is. A firecracker.”

He glanced at the house, then leaned down, lowering his voice so it wouldn't carry. “And just so you know, I didn't lose. I would have paid more.” Grinning, he straightened. “
That's
a negotiation.”

“Ho. I think you crow too soon,
ve'ho'e
. The woman still has not put her mark on your paper, has she?”