Mountain Rose (3 page)

Hanks's living quarters, he right behind her.

"Hi there, Donlin," he called, unashamedly buttoning up his twill trousers. "You been here long?" He gave the skinny whore a light swat on the rear and laughed. "Ole Nellie here was slow gettin' the job done today. I don't think she likes her work anymore."

"That bein' the case, then, I'll take one who does." Chase grinned at Hank as the heavy-set man came around behind the long bar. "Which one is rested up, do you think?"

"Rosie, I reckon. She's been in her room all day." Hank poured them each a glass of whiskey. "The snow gone and all, ain't you gonna be visitin' the widow?"

"I just come from her place," Chase said after taking a long swallow from his glass. "She had company."

"Calvin Long, 111 wager." Hank looked at Chase for confirmation.

Chase looked up in surprise. "Why do you say that?"

"Joe Smith's trapline runs back of the widow's cabin. He's seen Long visitin' her all winter." After a pause, he added, "He's seen that Indian wife of his follerin' him too. Ole Liza had better be careful. One of two things could happen to her— maybe both."

"What are you talkin' about, Hank?"

"Well, that squaw of Long's could put a knife in her back, or he could put a baby in her belly. He puts one in his wife every winter. I'd say he's very careless with his seed."

Chase nodded agreement thoughtfully. What

Hank said was true. Liza could very well end up with a belly full, then claim the child was his. "I think I've made my last visit to Widow Jenkins," he said.

He drained his glass and turned from the bar. "I think I'll go wake Rosie up now."

Chase climbed the rickety stairs, the steps worn smooth from the countless feet that had trod them. He stopped in front of the first door leading off the narrow hallway and pushed it open.

Five minutes later he was back downstairs, throughly disgusted. Rosie had complained that she wasn't feeling well enough to bed him, and he believed her. She wasn't the sort to turn away a customer otherwise.

He was debating having another whiskey when a single mournful wolf howl drifted in from the hills. Night was not too far off, and Chase wanted to get home before dark overtook him. Those varmints up there were hungry, and Sampson would look very tasty to them.

Chase stepped through the door that separated the two businesses and was greeted with a warm smile. Mabel West stood behind the rough plank counter, a youngster riding her hip. She was a pleasant woman, one who had lost most of her attractiveness from birthing a baby every year. She was a good woman and a hard worker, well liked by everyone.

"What can I do for you today, Chase?" She continued to smile as she hoisted the child further up on her hip.

Chase ruffled her clinging son's hair. He liked children, and the only thing he regretted in not having a wife was that he would never have a son. Pa had always been onto him that if he didn't produce a son, the Donlin name would die with him.

He pushed the thought away and turned his attention back to Mabel. "I ran out of flour this mornin'," he said, "and you'd better throw in some lard and salt pork."

Mabel placed the child on the floor and quickly gathered up the items and shoved them into a fustian sack. As she totted up the bill, the little boy whined and dragged at her skirt.

"He's cuttin' a new tooth," Mabel explained her son's behavior as she took Chase's money. "Usually he's the best behaved of all my youngins'. Takes after his Pa, I guess." She smiled fondly at the mention of her husband.

Chase kept his opinion of her husband to himself. Although a decent man, Jake West was as lazy as Calvin Long. As he picked up the bag of supplies, he noted that Mabel was expecting again. Ole Jake wasn't lazy in bed, he thought with amusement.

He wished Mabel good-day and turned to leave. "Wait a minute," she exclaimed, "I almost forgot. A stranger passin' by today dropped off a letter for you."

Surprise widened Chase's eyes. "I can't think of anyone who would be writin' to me."

"Well, it has your name on it. Chase Donlin, Big Pine, Oregon." Mabel handed him the envelope.

Chase recognized the handwriting at once, and his hard features softened with pleasure. "It's from my sister, Anne," he said huskily. While

Mabel waited expectingly, he turned and hurried from the store. He swung onto Sampson's back and sent him racing along the two-mile trail to his cabin. As he pressed the mount on, eager to get home and read what Anne had to say after so many years, his mind went back to the days of their youth.

Ever since he could remember, he had loved and adored his big sister, He would gladly have laid down his life for her had it ever been necessary. He only vaguely remembered the years before Anne and her mother had come to live with him and Pa. It was as though his existence had begun with their arrival. His little bare feet had followed his new sister everywhere as they explored the forests, climbed hills looking for wildflowers, and played with the Indian children from the same tribe he had almost visited this afternoon.

Then Anne had grown into a young lady, sweet and gentle like her mother. She was lovely, with her long black hair and warm brown eyes. The family was always tripping over some young trapper come to court her.

But he hadn't tripped over anyone, he remembered humorously. He had been off somewhere pouting.

None of the callers had impressed Anne until one day William O'Keefe stopped by the cabin to water his horse. He was a big, stocky man with dark red hair and laughing green eyes. He was heading northwest, he'd said, going to make his fortune looking for gold.

Chase had seen the immediate attraction between his sister and the stranger and he had been hit with a frightful thought. Was this the man she would choose? The man who would take her away from him?

His fear became reality. Two weeks later, against their parents' wishes, and despite his own angry attack on William O'Keefe, Anne married the big, friendly Irishman. As the newly-weds had ridden off, Anne, her face glowing with happiness, had called back that she would write as soon as they were settled somewhere.

The first couple of years she had written, always from a different town. But even though O'Keefe couldn't seem to settle down in one spot, Anne's happiness came through in her letters.

But finally messages from her had stopped, and the family hadn't known all these years whether she was dead or alive. They had questioned every stranger who came through from Idaho, but no one had ever heard of William O'Keefe. They fought the idea that she and her husband had fallen prey to Indians, but couldn't think of any other reason that would keep Anne from writing to them.

Chase sighed softly. In the interim, his mother Molly had died one winter from pneumonia, and two years ago Pa had been caught in a blizzard, lost his way home, and frozen to death before he was found. How sad this news would make Anne. For the first time, there was a return address on her letter. He would be able to write her, even go visit her.

Sampson lunged up a small knoll, and his own cabin and outbuildings stood before Chase. He paid no attention to the sturdy, but weather-beaten with the years buildings. They had been there since he could remember and he took them for granted, as he did the green hills and valleys he trapped and hunted. Besides, right now nothing could distract his mind from the letter in his shirt pocket.

He rode past the long, rambling cabin and on to the barn, where he dismounted. He opened a large, heavy door and led the stallion inside. He unsaddled him, then climbed to the loft and pitched down fragrant hay for the animal to eat.

Back down on the barn floor again, he picked up his supplies and hurried to the cabin. It was damp inside, so he took ten minutes to build a fire, and another five minutes to start a pot of coffee to brewing. The sun dropped behind the treeline, throwing the cabin into darkness. He struck a sulpher stick on the underneath of the table, swearing under his breath that he had forgotten to buy kerosene for the lamps.

Pulling a chair up to where he took his meals, he shoved aside a dirty plate and cup and sat down. He took the envelope from his pocket and opened it. He pulled the candle closer, then spread his sister's letter on the cleared spot.

Minersville, Idaho March 16

Dear brother Chase, How long it's been since I've written to

you. I am so ashamed for worrying you

and Mama and Papa Donlin. But the years pass by, William and I always on the move. I guess I became too embarrassed to let you know of our gyspy-like life.

But I want you to know right off, Chase, that I'm not complaining. I have always been happy with William. Happy until two years ago, when he was shot and killed by two men trying to take his digs away from him. I didn't think I could bear it the day we laid him in the ground. But for my little girl's sake, I knew I had to carry on.

It is because of her, Chase, that I write you this letter. I am dying of lung fever and cannot rest for worrying about leaving her alone in this rough mining town. I beg of you to please come and get her and take her to our parents. Her name is Raegan, and she is sweet and lovely. I know you will love her as you did me.

Your loving sister, Anne

Chase crushed the single sheet of paper in his fist. His Anne was dying. He stared unseeing at the disorder of the kitchen—mud tracked on the floor, ashes spilling out of the fireplace onto the hearth. There were rusty traps and broken pieces of bridles and reins tossed into one corner, a pile of soiled clothes in another. His wet eyes didn't see the cobwebs in the rafters that had been gathering there since Molly had passed away. He saw only the beautiful young girl riding off

with her new husband, happy and in love.

And what had that love brought her! Chase jerked to his feet and braced his hands on the mantel, staring down into the leaping flames of the fire. Nothing! It had brought her nothing but slow deterioration of her health and the birth of a little girl—a little girl that he must raise now. It hadn't entered his mind that he would not do so.

"I must start for this mining town as soon as possible," he said to the empty room. "As soon as I have a bite to eat."

As Chase gathered his gear and enough food for at least two days, a full moon rose, lighting the cabin almost as if it as if it were day.
Good,
he thought.
I can get in at least three hours traveling before the moon sets.

Within half an hour Chase had eaten and was closing the cabin door behind him. He hurried to the barn to saddle Sampson.

Although Anne O'Keefe tried desperately to hang onto life, to see her brother once more, to know that her daughter would be taken care of, she was declining rapidly. Raegan and Mahalla spooned cough syrup and different broths between her pale lips, but she only coughed more often, spit up more blood.

The day the wildflowers burst into bloom, and the day Chase Donlin received his letter, Anne Donlin quietly stopped breathing. With a low cry, Raegan, who had not left her mother's side for two days, hugged the emaciated body to her breast and felt a cold hollowness in the area of her heart.

"Oh, Mama." Tears slid down her cheeks. "You didn't get to see the wildflowers bloom."

In a haze of unreality, Raegan felt Mahalla take her mother from her and lay the thin body back on the pillows. Then, putting one foot in front of the other, as though in a dream, she allowed the old woman to lead her into the main room. Mahalla gently pushed her into a rocker, then went back to her mother.

Mama hadn't gotten to see Uncle Chase either, Raegan remembered as she rocked slowly. It had been two weeks since she dropped the letter off at the post. Had he received it yet? Had he received it and didn't care to come see his sister? Didn't he want to be bothered with her daughter?

There came the sound of sloshing water as Mahalla bathed her mother's body, preparing it for burial. Raegan clapped her hands over her ears to shut out the sound and didn't remove them until the old Indian joined her in front of the fire.

"It is done," she said gently, "Come and see how peaceful Anne look."

And it was true, Raegan saw when she gazed down on the pale, serene face, "She is happy now," Mahalla said beside her, "with your father. Do not grieve for her, Raegan."

"I know I shouldn't, Mahalla," Raegan whispered brokenly, "but I don't know how I can bear it without her."

"You will." The old woman took her arm and led her away. "You are strong. Your mother will always be in your heart, but in time she will become a beautiful memory."

Raegan had just sat back down in the rocker when the miners began to arrive. They stood on the small stoop, unshaven but with faces scrubbed clean and misshappen hats clutched in red, chapped hands. The roughest men among them had a deep respect for O'Keefe's gentle widow and they had come to pay their last respects.

Mahalla opened the door and motioned them in. They trooped into the bedroom, single file, to view the laid-out deceased. In a few minutes they were coming out, some of the older men patting Raegan on the head or gently squeezing her shoulder in silent sympathy. But the younger miners, too aware of her beauty and too shy to speak, quietly walked past her with quick sidelong looks.

Big, burly Tim O'Shannon, the last to leave, squatted down beside Raegan's chair. "Lass," he said gently, "the men are makin' a fine pine box for your mother, and some of the others are preparing her a place beside your father. We have a newcomer at the digs called Skinny Ike. He was once a preacher and he'd be pleased to hold services for Anne Donlin."

Raegan nodded her head when the big man added, "William told me once that your mother never took his Catholic religion."

O'Shannon stood up and Raegan grabbed his hand. "Thank you for everything, Tim, and tell the others how much I appreciate their thoughtfulness—all the things they've done for me and Mama since Papa died. I don't know what we'd have done without the help of you all."