Summer Shadows (17 page)
Authors: Gayle Roper
Didn’t she have at least one friend with a light step and a pleasant voice? Just yesterday he was the only person in Seaside that she knew. Where did they all come from anyway?
Well, he wasn’t going to let her or her friends drive him indoors. It was his house, and he’d work outside on his own porch if he wanted to! That was part of the dream, and he’d paid enough money for the privilege.
He opened his laptop and stared over his rail at the dunes and the ocean beyond, waiting for his thoughts to gel. Instead, he heard a high giggle that he fervently hoped didn’t belong to Abby. Then the two boys clambered down the steps with enough noise to wake the proverbial dead, ran next door, reappeared with arms full of toys, and climbed noisily back up.
“We got it, Jess,” Walker called.
“We got some other stuff too,” yelled Jordan. That kid had the lungs of a carnival midway barker.
The high-pitched giggle floated down, and Marsh sighed in relief. It wasn’t Abby.
Abby. He’d been more impressed than he wanted to admit by the way she’d stood up to the madman next door. Not many people could handle a large, irate man screaming in their face, but she had. He felt a strange pride that she’d done so well.
If only she wasn’t such a gregarious person, he’d appreciate her even more.
He turned back to his laptop, gritting his teeth, applying all his formidable concentration to Craig and Marguerite. Once Rick arrived, Marsh’s present book would be temporarily shelved while they concentrated on
Shadows at Noon
, last year’s release, and last year’s characters—Nathan, Dixie, and the dastardly Valdez.
Rick was going to be a great Nathan if the script was anywhere as good as Rick had indicated. Marsh knew it had been good when he finished writing it, but so many fingers got stuck in this particular type of pie before a shooting script emerged that Marsh always worried until the final version of the screenplay was in his hands. His contract called for him to have final approval, but exercising that final approval was one of life’s great challenges, especially when he was on the East Coast and the movie entertainment people, at least the creative community, were on the West Coast. Then there were the on-site changes made during shooting.
“Mrs. Patterson, watch!” a shrill little voice commanded.
There followed a few seconds of silence during which the little demon who belonged to the demanding voice presumably performed. Jordan, he thought. Marsh held his fingers above his keyboard and waited.
“Wonderful, honey!” Abby applauded loudly, whistling between her teeth while her parents could be heard giving more moderate approbation.
Someone ought to tell her that a lady didn’t whistle like a jock. He thought about the tantalizing idea of telling her himself, but only for a couple of minutes. He was smart enough to know a lost cause when he saw one. She’d just tell him about some crazy woman in ancient history who had invented that particularly offensive sound.
“Lunch,” Abby’s mother called.
Amid more thumps and bumps, the herd went inside. Silence
ensued; his ears actually rang with it. Marsh grinned and started typing.
Craig looked at the horse with growing concern. It was Magdalene—Maggie—Marguerite’s mare, as proud in her own way as the woman herself was.
“Magdalene?” he’d scoffed when he first heard the animal’s name. “What kind of a name is that for a horse?”
Marguerite looked at his dappled gray and, just short of sneering, said, “And Smokey is a better name?”
“He’s gray.” Craig had always thought Smokey the perfect name for his noble steed and was dismayed to hear how defensive he sounded.
“I didn’t mean to denigrate the vast expanse of your imagination,” she said, barely concealing a yawn. She eyed him with condescension. “You do know what
denigrate
means, don’t you?”
Only by sheer will did he manage to keep his jaw from dropping to his chest in appalled surprise. Of all the gall! How had a gentleman like Abner Frost produced a snob like her?
She then turned and patted her horse’s neck. When she spoke, her voice was warm with affection. “Magdalene’s name is to remind me that if God can make her namesake into a woman of faith, He can make me into what He wants me to be too.”
If it hadn’t been for the haughty toss of her head, he might have been impressed. As it was, he thought she needed a few lessons from God—or His emissary—on the evils of pride. Craig itched to volunteer for the job, but he had too much respect for God and too little for her to take on a task of that proportion. Thinking he didn’t know what
denigrate
meant. Mocking Smokey’s name. Looking down her beautiful nose every time she saw him.
It was one beautiful nose, he had to admit. In fact, she was enough to make any man’s mouth water, her dark hair catching the sunlight and shining brightly enough to blind anyone foolish enough to glance her way, her movements a symphony of grace and elegance, her glorious eyes casting
spells that entangled all who looked. Too bad she wasn’t as beautiful in character.
As he neared the solitary horse standing just off the road, he realized the mare’s reins were still draped over her neck, neither tied nor trailing. Something was definitely wrong. Marguerite would never leave her horse improperly tethered.
He stopped beside Maggie. She stood unconcerned, nibbling at a patch of scrub grass.
“Marguerite!” Craig stood in his stirrups, scanning the area. “Marguerite! Where are you?”
He saw and heard nothing to disturb him. The silence made his skin prickle.
“Marguerite, you fool woman, where are you?”
Like she’d deign to answer that question. He sniffed.
Deign
, he thought.
I came up with that all by myself
. Too bad she’d never know. As he scanned the area for a third time, he wondered how he could let it drop oh-so-casually that he had a degree in animal husbandry and land management.
Good night! I want to impress her
, he thought, scandalized by his own lack of character.
God, save me from myself
. He meant every word of the prayer with the fervency usually reserved for the care of the beautiful, spare land that surrounded him. A roadrunner streaked by, neck stretched forward like he could arrive at his destination faster if he reached for it. It was debatable who was more startled at the sight of the other, the bird or Smokey, who shied.
“Easy, boy.” As he calmed the horse, he studied the row of cottonwoods off to the south. They lined the creek that was the center of the water dispute between Mr. Frost and Otis Snelling. At least it was the stated cause of the dispute. Craig thought that the War between the States was the greater cause.
Otis Snelling, a Confederate veteran, hated Abner Frost, a former Union army colonel. To Snelling it mattered not that the war was over more than thirty years ago. He had come west after the war, settling in this obscure corner
of New Mexico, only to find his neighbor had stood near Grant when Lee surrendered at Appomattox. Snelling would never forget the shame of that day as he stood in the ranks of defeated Rebels. His hate for his Yankee neighbor festered.
Add to that Frost’s success with his property in contrast to Snelling’s inept and unwise use of his, and the bitterness grew. With Frost’s declining health, Snelling saw his opportunity. He just hadn’t counted on Randall Craig.
Marsh was vaguely aware of a car pulling into the parking area beside the house. He glanced up to see an attractive blond woman walk toward the steps leading up to Abby’s.
Now who?
The woman felt his gaze and looked over. She smiled shyly. “Hi, Marsh.”
Jess and Karlee’s mother. What was her name? He’d met her in church a couple of times. He scrambled mentally. “Hi, Cecelia.” Yes, that was it. He sketched a little wave.
“Celia,” she said and disappeared upstairs. He heard a cry of, “Mom!” as the sliding door opened, then closed. Silence again descended.
Well, he’d been close.
Most of the precious Anasazi Creek flowed through Frost land, but there was a short section where it coursed across Snelling land as it made its way down from the mountains. What gave Snelling an advantage in the water dispute was that the water flowed from his land onto Mr. Frost’s. Snelling’s threat was to dam up the water, to divert it so none flowed onto Frost Spring Ranch—unless an exorbitant fee was paid. The law, such as it was in this rugged area northeast of Albuquerque, spoke clearly about water rights. If you bought them with your land, they were yours. If you failed to, tough.
Abner Frost had bought water rights, but Snelling conveniently overlooked this fact as he saw a way not only to make money but also to control everyone downstream.
“You do as I say, old man,” Snelling threatened Abner
Frost, “or you’ll have no water.” In this dry, barren, eerily beautiful land, water was as essential as oxygen, treasured more than gold.
It was because of these threats that Mr. Frost contacted Randall Craig, son of an old army buddy.
“I need someone young and strong,” the old man said.
Craig, bored with his father’s well-run Pennsylvania farm, took the next train to New Mexico, looking for challenge and adventure. He just hadn’t expected anything like Marguerite to be part of the bargain.
Surely the fool woman knew enough to stay away from the boundary between the properties. Surely she understood the dangers. Snelling’s men were all one step from jail, either coming or going. Craig shivered at the thought of what they might do to someone like her.
Thumps, thuds, and excited voices interrupted him and announced the departure of the upstairs retinue for the beach. They descended from above with arms laden with chairs, towels, and coolers—coolers? They would be less than a hundred steps from their house! They couldn’t walk home for a drink?—and all the other trappings people seemed to think were necessary to sit in the sun. There was even a beach umbrella tucked under Abby’s father’s arm to keep the sun they were going to sit in from shining on them.
Marsh couldn’t help noticing that Abby’s hands were completely empty. Her mother and father, by contrast, looked like pack animals. Even the little girl carried an armful of towels.
I guess you can’t color outside the lines with full arms
.
Abby was wearing her bathing suit with a shirt thrown over it. He couldn’t help but notice the scars that slashed across the top of her right leg. Even looking at them three years after the injury, he cringed. He couldn’t imagine what she had suffered, and he knew physical pain was the least of it.
“Go get your suits on, boys,” Abby said to Walker and Jordan. “That is, if your mom says it’s okay. You’ll see us right down there on the beach.” She pointed to the sand.
She was standing with her back to Marsh, but the two boys
faced him. Not that they noticed him. Their little faces were fixed on Abby, and they nodded earnestly at her instructions. Marsh knew infatuation when he saw it. Somehow those two little boys had become Abby’s slaves.
At least she hadn’t turned them into beasts of burden.
As he watched, Celia came down the stairs. She kissed Jess. “You be good for everyone.”
“I will, Mom.”
“Remember, we expect you to stay for dinner,” Abby said as Celia climbed into her car. “Don’t worry about Karlee. Mom and I’ll take turns watching her. She’ll probably sleep the afternoon away.”
“I’m going to take a turn too, Celia,” said Abby’s father. “Little girls are my specialty.” He slung an arm around Abby’s shoulders and squeezed. Marsh thought he saw Abby stiffen, but it might have been his imagination.
Celia looked close to tears. “I can’t thank you all enough.”
“Then don’t try,” Abby said as she stepped away from her father. “Get yourself back to work before you miss your next appointment.”
Everyone waved good-bye like Celia was leaving for an around-the-world tour and wouldn’t be returning for five years instead of five hours.
“Here, Jess.” Abby’s mom handed a totebag to the girl, whose arms were already full of towels. “My books and crossword puzzles.”
Books plural? How fast could the woman read?
“Call me around two-thirty,” she called over her shoulder to Abby as the entourage, burdened with more paraphernalia than a rock group, moved to the beach.
“I will,” Abby called as she climbed the steps.
Whoops. Apologies, Abby, for thinking you weren’t carrying your share of the load
.
Once again quiet descended. He felt his shoulders relax, and the mists of frustration blew away. He breathed deeply and put the confusion of today’s meeting of the 4311 Central Avenue chapter of the Abby Association from his mind. Except for one loud, “Here we come!” from Jordan, for the rest of the afternoon Marsh lived at Frost Spring Ranch, kept company with Marguerite and Craig, and
plotted to hog-tie Snelling. He picked up his plot where Craig was riding the range searching for Marguerite, who, like the troublesome woman she was, had disappeared.
Craig dismounted and walked to Magdalene. She looked up at him and blew softly out her nostrils. He put his hand on her neck and patted her. She wasn’t the least bit skittish.
Better controlled than your mistress, eh, girl?
He walked around her, looking for some indication of trouble—a loose stirrup, a broken bit—but Maggie and her equipment were fine.
He felt down her legs. Maybe she’d pulled something, and Marguerite had decided it would be damaging even to walk her. Had the woman started back to Frost Spring on foot? No, even she wasn’t that foolish. Not in country laced with wild animals, snakes, and two-legged varmints.
On Maggie’s right leg Craig saw a scratch, not serious but undoubtedly painful when received.
“Did you react to the pain and throw her, girl?” He lifted her leg to look for other injuries. To his surprise, her hoof was covered with dried mud.
The fool woman had gone to Anasazi Creek. Muttering under his breath, he gathered Maggie’s reins and remounted Smokey. He set off for the cottonwoods, Maggie loping behind.
As he rode, he tried to control his imagination, but it was hard. As he neared the cottonwoods, a storm of seed fluffs sailed through the air like late spring/early summer snow. He batted away one that chose his nose as its landing place.
“Marguerite,” he called. “Where are you?”
There was no answer.
He rode up to the edge of the stream, uncertain what he’d find, and stared in disbelief. The water was not flowing. The muddy bed lay revealed, marbled with small fissures where the hot sun beat down and dried the mud, sort of like an elderly woman whose varicose veins were exposed to the world by an unexpected wind.
Snelling! He had diverted Anasazi Creek just as he threatened.
Craig kneed Smokey forward and followed the drying bed upstream. Somewhere he was certain to come across Snelling’s men and the actual diversion of the water. He didn’t even pause when he came to the boundary spike demarcating the end of Frost land and the beginning of Snelling’s property.
Had Marguerite done what he was doing? Had she met and challenged Snelling and his men? Did they have her, hoping to use her as a hostage, a bargaining chip to get control of Frost Spring Ranch?
