Open Country (42 page)

“Tails,” Hank said promptly.

Brady hid a smirk. For all his brains, his little brother was pretty predictable. Lifting his hand, he showed the coin to Hank. “Sorry.” Grinning, Brady slipped the two-headed dollar back into the desk drawer before Hank could see it. “I’ll have Molly warm up a sock for you. One of Penny’s to start.”

 

 

HANK WAS THE UNCONTESTED WINNER OF THE ICE-DUNKING event, mainly because when the other contestants saw his expression as he sank into the water, they quickly defaulted. Which had apparently been the plan all along, judging by their hoots of hilarity and the fact that he had been picked to go in first. Sometimes his own stupidity amazed him. Happily, Molly was able to warm him up pretty quickly, and it didn’t involve any socks.

Eighteen seventy-one ended well for Hank—those last days spent enjoying his new family, his nights, his lusty wife. Thank God for second chances.

Eighteen seventy-two came in with an ice storm that turned the eaves of the house into hanging icicle forests and made going outside treacherous at best. Trees along the creek bowed under the weight of ice and snow, limbs snapping off with cracks as loud as gunshots. Then a warming trend turned the icy surface into four inches of mud until another storm covered it all over again with fresh snow.

Slowly the household returned to normal. Christmas decorations were packed away, the children went back to their primers, Hank and Brady spent more time in their offices, tending the endless chores that RosaRoja and the mining operations demanded. By the end of the first week of January, the mines resumed operations, and the first winter tally was completed, showing that, despite the stormy weather, cattle losses were down. It looked to be the start of a prosperous year.

And the days marched by.

Molly’s nightmares increased, but instead of lost patients calling out to her, it was Scarface chasing her through the empty house. Often Hank would awaken to find her sitting by the fire or standing at the French doors, looking out at the night. Other times she would cry out in her sleep, then turn to him in shivering need, as if only through their joining could she find forgetfulness and peace.

Although he tried to put on a brave front for Molly and Jessica and the children, the waiting was getting to him, too, and his brother’s added antics over his wife and her advancing pregnancy kept him on a frayed edge.

Jessica took it all in stride, having suffered through Brady’s incessant worrying during her two previous pregnancies. The example of her equanimity in the face of Brady’s histrionics kept everyone calm and the tension at a survivable level.

But Hank could see Jessica was worried too. Once he found her standing at the windows overlooking the hilltop cemetery behind the house, a wistful yearning in her eyes. Not knowing what else to do, he patted her shoulder and stood quietly at her side, offering silent support or a listening ear, whichever was needed. After a while, she hiked her chin, gave him a quick hug, then threw herself into such a flurry of activity Hank doubted she had energy left for worry or grief.

The other women in the household did what they could, quietly taking on Jessica’s chores and keeping her distracted with less strenuous tasks. Molly encouraged her to take strengthening walks to help her sleep better, and taught Brady how to ease her backaches by massaging the muscles in her neck and shoulders and back. Meanwhile, Hank cautioned his brother repeatedly to find an outlet for his concerns other than terrorizing the household. To his credit, Brady tried, but he was so fearful of losing his wife he bordered on the irrational.

Jessica was wearing herself out, he complained. Jessica wasn’t sleeping well. The babies were moving too much. The babies weren’t moving enough. Doc O’Grady would never get through the pass in time. Molly better know what to do, and she better start doing it now.

It did little good to remind him that the babies weren’t due for another month.

Hank tried to be patient. He was beginning to understand the depth of the bond between Brady and Jessica, because he felt the same about Molly. He’d never known caring about someone could be so worrisome. Life had been a lot easier when he’d held himself apart and kept his emotions under control. But not nearly as much fun.

Thinking to shield the children from the growing tension, and also hoping to curtail the imp’s morning visits, Hank helped Molly move Penny and Charlie up to the children’s nursery on the top floor. To ease the transition, Charlie was allowed to let Buddy sleep on the rug by his bed, and Penny was allowed to sleep with her new doll. Both took to their new quarters with great enthusiasm, which was a relief to Hank, although in weaker moments he missed waking up to Penny’s sticky little face.

Everyone tried to stay busy. Everyone tried to remain cheerful. But it became harder as the days passed. Almost two weeks into the new year, Brady came into Hank’s office with the frantic look of a man who sees disaster looming and his only defense against it is a hopeful smile.

“She bathed Buddy again today,” he said, plopping into the chair across from Hank’s desk. “Poor dog’s scared to death of her.”

Hank didn’t look up from the clockwork toy he was making for Penny. A cat made out of rabbit fur, with a movable head and a tail that wagged. Not as good as the real thing, but hopefully it wouldn’t make her sneeze. He held up the half-finished toy. “What do you think?”

Brady didn’t even glance at it. “Damned dog’s starting to smell like a flower garden. It’s no wonder he rolls in manure every chance he gets.”

Hank studied the cat from all angles. “I think she’ll like it.” “And yesterday I caught her trying to throw out my lucky cutting shirt. Can you imagine?”

“You mean that stinking rag you wear when you’re castrating?” Hank picked up a tiny screwdriver and tightened the set screw on the cat’s neck. “Woman’s out of control.”

“Laugh if you will, but I haven’t been kicked or cut since I started wearing it.”

Hank didn’t bother to respond to a statement so lacking in logic.

“Then this morning,” Brady went on, “I found her throwing out half my socks. What am I going to do?”

“Buy more socks.” Hank wound the key, then thumbed the spring release lever to test the motion of the cat’s head. It tilted to the left, then to the right, then fell off. “Sonofabitch.”

Leaning forward, Brady dropped his voice to a whisper. “What if she comes in here next? You know how she’s always threatening to tidy up our offices.”

Hank looked up in alarm. “Not mine?” His office might look a mess, especially as he sorted through the keg of parts Molly had given him, but in fact, it was a carefully thought-out arrangement of all the nuts and bolts and screws and springs and parts he would ever need. His own personal candy store. The thought of Jessica rooting around in it gave him the shivers.

Brady sat back with a sigh. “We’re none of us safe with a pregnant woman on the prowl.”

Reminding himself to remember to put a lock on the door, Hank picked up the cat head and started unscrewing the springs. “She’s nesting.”

“I know that,” Brady snapped impatiently. “I’ve been through this twice before, you know.”

“Then talk to Molly.” Hank was losing patience. He had other things to think about besides his brother’s worries. Like Scarface showing up any day, and getting this goddamn cat to work.

“I did. She said to quit worrying.” Brady dismissed that foolish notion with a wave of his hand. “The point is it’s too soon. She’s still got three weeks to go.”

The spring popped out of Hank’s fingers and hit somewhere in the bookcases. “Damn.”

Brady chewed on his thumbnail. “Maybe I should send for Doc.”

“And keep him here for the next three weeks?” Hank dug through the parts strewn across the desktop until he found another spring. “We don’t have enough whiskey. Besides you’ve got Molly.”

“Two minds are better than one, they say.”

“Not if one of them is pickled.”

“To hell with you. I’m sending for Doc.”

IN LATE AFTERNOON SEVERAL DAYS LATER, SHERIFF RIKker rode out from Val Rosa, bringing with him Angus Foley, the deputy United States marshal for the area, and another man he introduced as Mr. Jones, from Washington City in the District of Columbia.

“They’ve come about Fletcher, the man you were asking about,” Rikker said, settling into one of the stuffed leather chairs beside the fireplace in the main room. “Seems you were right to be concerned.” Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out the makings and began to roll a smoke.

“Not inside,” Brady warned. “Makes my wife sick.” He motioned to one of the French doors that led onto the porch. “Step out there if you want to smoke.”

Mumbling under his breath, the sheriff went outside.

By the time Hank retrieved five tumblers and a bottle from Brady’s office, the other two men were seated and the sheriff was back in his chair. After pouring an inch of whiskey into each glass, Hank passed them around, then took a seat on one of the couches.

Mr. Jones did the talking. A well-spoken man of middle years with the sound of education in his voice, he had sharp hazel eyes, a banker’s smile, and a haircut that left most of his ears exposed. Hank noted that the one on the left had a chunk missing from the top edge that was the exact shape and size as a bullet hole.

The deputy marshal was more the watchful type, with quiet hands, sideburns that came around to join his bushy mustache, and dark unblinking eyes that took in everything but gave nothing back. Hank didn’t know him but had heard of him—a hard-line lawman with a stone for a heart.

Sheriff Rikker was an old acquaintance, having been the lawman in Val Rosa since the time of the feud between the Wilkins family and Sancho Ramirez. He was another loner who held his thoughts close. Brady called him a “quiet seeker,” but right now the old man sat slumped in his chair, eyes closed, seeking nothing more than a nap.

“We’ve been watching Fletcher for some time now,” Jones began. “He and his associates have been working with a man out of Baltimore who specializes in weaponry.”

“What kind of weapons?” Hank had a keen interest in such things ever since reading about R. J. Gatling’s Battery Gun. He’d even tried a few innovations of his own, but they hadn’t ended well.

“Artillery.”

“Why would that concern the government?” Brady asked, rolling his tumbler between his palms. “He’s not breaking the law, is he?”

Like most Westerners, Brady had a natural distrust of government, preferring to handle legal matters in his own way. Most of the time he was honorable about it. Unless his family was involved.

“Not yet,” Jones said. At Brady’s questioning look, he explained. “You’ve heard of the pockets of unrest that have arisen throughout the South since the war. Despite the terrible toll the Rebellion took on this country, there are those who would see it begin again.” Jones emptied his glass and set it on a side table, waving away Brady’s offer of a refill.

His voice took on a sour note. “Confederates have always felt more aligned with England and France than they have with the North, and the economic pressures of the Reconstruction have only strengthened those sentiments.”

Hank thought of the men in tattered gray uniforms he had occasionally seen wandering through Val Rosa, and Redemption, and El Paso. Some had looked broken and lost, others had stared back at him through a zealot’s eyes, but most seemed true believers that, if given the money, the guns, or whatever, the South could rise again. “There’s no real chance the war could resume, is there?”

“With the right motivation, it might.” Jones propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and studied them over his steepled fingers. “Despite what you might have read, gentlemen, the outcome of the war was a near thing. The North was better fed, better clothed, better armed, and with Northern factories continuing to manufacture the equipage of war, it should have been an easy victory. Instead it took five long years. Why? Because of emotion. The Confederates believed in the fight. And they still do.”

“And Fletcher is one of these believers?” Hank asked. He wondered if that was what Molly’s sister had been trying to warn her about.

Jones nodded. “He and his associates are known Confederate sympathizers, led by a man named Edward Rustin, although they’re driven more by profit than ideology. They have strong ties to foreign manufacturing, and if they can devise a weapon powerful enough to force a Southern secession and establish tariff-free trade with Europe, they stand to make huge profits.”

Brady rose, added more wood to the fire, then stood with his back to the hearth, arms crossed over his chest, feet braced. Hank recognized the belligerent stance. “And how does this affect us?”

Jones nodded toward the deputy marshal. “I’ll have Foley explain.”

Other than murmured greetings when Rikker introduced them, Foley had remained silent throughout. Now as he spoke, Hank heard the gravelly voice of a tobacco user, even though there were no stains on the marshal’s fingers and no telltale bulge in his cheek. Or maybe Foley was just unaccustomed to speaking, and that accounted for the rusty quality. Whatever the cause, the sound of it grated on Hank’s nerves and made him want to clear his throat. “We know Fletcher’s been looking for his sister-in-law, Molly McFarlane.” Foley’s dark gaze fastened on Hank. “The woman you recently married.”