Gaffney, Patricia (24 page)

"I know that, Cady. I was there."

"So—did you—what did you—"

"I
said
I took care of it."

"How?"

"It doesn't concern you."

She thought about that for a few seconds. She'd covered herself
with the blanket; now she threw it back and got off the bed on the other side.
"I guess I don't agree. Is there some reason you won't talk to me about
this?"

"I told you. I'm—"

"Beat." She moved around until he had no choice, he had
to look at her. "You didn't do anything, did you?"

"I
talked to him."

"You talked to him." She went to the bedside table and
lit the lamp. When she backed away from the light, Jesse got up and moved to
the window. To the shadows. "So now he's shaking in his boots, is that
right?" she said in a quiet voice. "Did he promise never to do it
again?"

"Cady."

"Did he say Ham was the last little boy he'll ever try to
murder?"

"He didn't mean to hurt Ham."

Her skin prickled; she felt ill. "Oh, that's right, it was me
he was trying to murder. Then it's okay. No harm done."

"Shit."

She hated this revelation. She couldn't stop shaking her head.
"What kind of a man are you?"

"Cady, damn it, it's a job for the law."

"A—" She stared at him in disbelief, almost speechless.
"A job for the
law?
Did I hear you right? Did you say it's—"

He cursed again and spun around, smacking his hands on the
windowsill. The long, handsome back, the lean hips, the hard arms she'd wanted
around her a few minutes ago—they only looked obstinate to her now. Obstinate
and mean.

She tried again. "I'm not saying you should kill him."
She kept talking over his mirthless bark of laughter. "I don't even
want
you to kill him. If Ham had died, then I might. No," she admitted,
"then I
would.
But, Jesse—how can you just do
nothing?
How
can you let him get away with it? And what's next? What will he—" He
interrupted, said something she couldn't hear. "What?"

"This is not my fight."

She blinked at his dark outline, bent motionless over the brighter
square of the window, and tried not to believe he'd said that. Seconds ticked
past, until the silence between them grew intolerable. She said, "I
see," and for some reason, maybe her hollow tone, that made him turn
around and face her.

"Cady, listen."

"Nobody's offered you money. I see. You'll shoot a man down
in cold blood if the price is right. Then it's your fight."

"That's not—"

"Let me tell you something. I wouldn't give you ten cents if
Merle Wylie had a razor at my throat. Keep away," she warned when he
started toward her. "Oh, God, you make me feel ashamed." If she said
why—for loving him, for lying with him—she would start to cry. "Is that
it, then? You won't do anything?"

"Cady—"

"Yes or no. Just tell me yes or no."

"I told you. I already—"

"Talked to him." She waited until she could speak
clearly, no quavering and no crying. "I want you out of my place
tonight." She stuck her arm straight out, warding him off again as she
backed toward the door. "Not tomorrow morning. Pack up and get out
tonight, you hear me?"

She waited, but he didn't answer. She couldn't see his face
clearly. His hands at his sides looked clumsy, helpless, clenching and
unclenching. "Get out of my place," she said again. Still he didn't
move or speak, so she jerked the door open and left him standing there.

****

He didn't leave. He'd be damned if he'd leave. What was she going
to do, throw him out? He wished she'd try. He felt like getting into a
wrestling match with Cady. He felt like pinning her to the ground, rolling
around, making her holler. Maybe it didn't make sense, but he was as mad at her
as she was at him.

A day of the silent treatment went by, though, and his anger
started to break up, lose ground. He could see her side of it too well. Since
she couldn't see any of his side of it—that was the whole point; he'd fixed it
that way on purpose—how could he blame her for hating him? But oh, it hurt. He
went around with a hole in his chest that ached, like heartburn or something.
He could hardly stand it. He shouldn't care so much—when had this started?—but
he couldn't get over it. He couldn't stop hearing her say, "God, you make
me feel ashamed." He knew exactly what she was ashamed of: taking a chance
on him in the most personal, the most important way a woman knew. Women were
like that about sex; unless they were whores, it meant the world to them. Cady
felt like she'd cheapened herself with him, and he could hardly stand it.

He didn't pack up and get out, though, and she didn't do anything
about it. At first he thought that was a good sign, that maybe she was
relenting. But then he figured it was more likely she just didn't want to talk
to him. And she had a pure genius for avoiding him. He could plant himself in
front of her and start talking, and she'd put on that poker face she wore when
she dealt blackjack, look straight through him, and walk away. It happened
twice, and it took so much of the heart out of him, he couldn't do it again. He
left her alone.

He paid a visit to Ham. He and Levi lived in a little two-room
place behind Wayman's boardinghouse. It used to be a horse barn, but now it was
a little house, painted blue and white by Levi, neat as a pin. Jesse had seen
Lia Chang, the laundryman's daughter Levi was so crazy about, but he'd never
spoken to her. The door to the house was open, so he knocked once and walked
in. Before she jumped up, Lia was sitting on the edge of Ham's pallet-bed,
spooning some funny-smelling concoction into his mouth. She made a low bow, and
the long black pigtail down her back slid over one shoulder. Jesse bowed back.
She barely came up to his breastbone; she must hit Levi around the navel. She
had a sweet face, and when she smiled, it was like looking at an angel. As soon
as he saw that smile, Jesse wanted her for Levi.

"Mr. Gault! Hey!" Ham struggled up on his elbows, trying
to lift himself higher on the pillow.

"Oh, sorry. I got the wrong house—I heard there was a sick
kid here. Be seeing you."

"Wait, that's me!" Ham said, laughing. "I'm
sick!"

"You are?" He peered at him, scratched his head.
"Well, if you say so. Is this your nurse?"

"This is Lia," Ham said, and Jesse heard the fondness
and affection in his voice.

He said, "Hi," Lia Chang said, "Much honor,"
and they did the bowing thing again. "You visit," she said in a soft
voice, and bowed herself out of the room.

Jesse sat down on the bed. "What's this stuff?" He
picked up the bowl she'd left on the table, sniffing it.

"Soup. Lia, she make it herself. She call it a tonic for
vital energy. It ease the mind an' soothe the nerves."

"What's it taste like?"

"Horse manure."

They shared a laugh, and it was good to see Ham so lighthearted,
because he didn't look too healthy. He looked weak, and his skin, usually a
handsome milk-chocolate color, was pasty gray. "So, pardner, how're you
feeling?" Jesse asked, giving him a gentle cuff on the cheek.

"Okay. Can't do nothing yet, but Doc say I be stronger in a
few days."

"That's good. You had us pretty scared there for a
while."

"I know it. I'm sorry."

"Wasn't your fault."

"Poppy say it is," he mumbled, playing with a button on
his nightshirt. " 'Cause I snuck in Cady's backhouse 'stead o' the other
one."

"Why did you?"

" 'Cause it smell better an' the paper be softer."

He chuckled. "Pretty good reasons."

They talked for a little longer, but Jesse didn't want to tire him
out. He got up to go, wishing he'd brought Ham something. He ended up giving
him a bullet from his gunbelt, and that turned out to be inspired. Ham loved
it—except for one of his six-shooters, Jesse couldn't have picked a better
gift.

Levi arrived home just as he was leaving. They said,
"Hey," and talked about how Ham was doing, passed the time of day for
a few minutes. Covertly, Jesse studied him, but he couldn't detect, now or at
any time in the past two days, the slightest hint of hostility in Levi's
manner. Not even disappointment.

So. It was only Cady who hated him. Well, that was something. Not
much, though. Because Cady was the main one, the main person in the world he
didn't want to hate him.

When had this happened?

He decided to get drunk. Where, though? Paradise only had two
saloons, and he sure as hell wasn't going to get drunk at Wylie's. He'd barely
gotten out alive when he'd gone over there after the snake incident, attempting
to bluff Wylie one more time. "Try something like that again and I'll make
you pay," he'd threatened creepily. "I'll start with your gun hand,
Merle, and then I'll shoot your knees off. Feet next, or maybe elbows. Then
your gut, and that's when I'll walk away. Know how long it takes to bleed to
death when you're gut-shot?"

But this time it didn't work. Wylie smiled right back at him and
said, "I don't think so. I don't think you'll do shit." Jesse had
sneered, said something brilliant like, "We'll see," and walked out,
pretending he wasn't terrified. But the truth was staring him in the face:
Wylie had his number.

So. Where would he get drunk? Cady's face when she looked at him
would sober him up, so the Rogue was out. Alone in his room would be too
depressing. His balcony? Nah; he might fall off. He might be sad, but he wasn't
suicidal. Yet.

"Evening, Mr. Gault." Tom Leaver tipped his white hat
and flashed a smile. He was leaning against a post in front of his office, arms
crossed, shiny boots crossed, watching the sun go down behind the Mercantile.

"Howdy." Jesse stopped, arrested by something in the
sheriff's lonely stance and shy smile. They struck a chord. "Say,
Tom."

"Sir?"

"You got anything to drink?"

"How's that?"

"Stashed away in a drawer. A bottle of something."

"Oh. Well, yeah, I have some whiskey. For medicinal purposes,
of course," he said with another bashful grin. "And the occasional
celebration."

"Hot damn. How're you feeling?"

A hopeful light gleamed in the sheriff's mild blue eyes.
"Kinda poorly, now that you mention it."

"Good. Let's celebrate."

****

"The trouble with women," Jesse pronounced, squirming
his shoulders into a more comfortable pocket in the jailhouse pillow, "is
they don't know what they want."

"One
trouble," Sheriff Tom corrected,
trying to blow a smoke ring with one of Jesse's little black cigarettes. The
effort made him look like a guppy with a goatee.

"One thing," Jesse agreed. "They—"

"Another is, they don't know a good thing when they see
it."

"Hear, hear." They saluted each other through the bars
from their respective bunks, with their respective whiskey bottles. Half an
hour ago they'd polished off the sheriff's half bottle of bourbon; now they
were starting on two new ones, easily acquired by sending a passing kid—Ardelle
Sheets's boy, Arnold—to the Rogue with four dollars and a twenty-five-cent tip.

"Take Glendoline Shavers."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jesse quipped, and they broke
into loud guffaws. The sheriff was a cheap drunk; just about anything Jesse
said cracked him up.

"No, seriously," Tommy wheezed, stretching out flat on
his bare mattress and addressing himself to the ceiling. "Take Glen. Now,
there's somebody the right man could make a happy woman out of."

"Not to mention honest," Jesse threw in. Since they were
being straight with each other. Tommy didn't answer for the longest time,
though, and he started to think he'd stepped over the line.

But finally he said, "Yeah, honest," in a melancholy
voice. "Wanna know something, Mr. Gault?"

"You gotta start calling me Jesse." He'd told him that
ten times already.

"Wanna know something, Jesse?"

"What."

"I asked Glen to marry me. And she turned me down flat. Said
she likes me well enough, but she'd rather be friends. Friends." He threw
his lit cigarette at the spittoon. It missed. Jesse knew he was drunk when he
didn't get up and drop it neatly into the receptacle. This was the tidiest jailhouse
he'd ever been in, and Sheriff Tom was the cleanest man he'd ever met.

"Well, then she's dumber than she looks and she doesn't
deserve you," he said stoutly.

"Glen's not dumb." He swung off the bunk and stood up,
swaying. "Take that back."

"Okay."

He staggered out of his cell and into Jesse's. "You take that
back."

"I said I took it back."

"Oh." He collapsed on the bunk; Jesse had to jerk his
legs out of the way fast or he'd have sat on them. "Okay, then. 'Cause
Glen's not dumb, she's just young. Doesn't know what she wants."