When the Splendor Falls (65 page)

Curling up beneath the warmth of the blanket and coverlet, Leigh stared through the window at the mountains, which never failed to beckon her, then back to Jolie’s figure. There was something comforting about Jolie with her warm coppery skin, which was faintly scented with an aromatic mixture of her favorite herb oils. Although Jolie claimed it wasn’t her place to smell fancy, Leigh was always tantalized by a hint of something sweet rising from her flesh, as if she’d blended a drop or two of fragrant rose oil into the lotion. Sometimes…Jolie and Travers Hill—they just seemed inseparable. To think of one brought memories of the other. And there was nothing more familiar to Leigh than the printed calico gowns Jolie wore with the starched and pressed collars and cuffs, and tied around her narrow waist an enveloping apron of snowy white linen, which had been very handy for drying away a tear or wiping fingers stickied from the sweets she had tucked into one of the voluminous pockets; and there always had been a treasure or two hidden deep inside when Leigh had been growing up.

Jolie drew a deep breath. “Now what would your mama think if she could see me perched on this bed like I was gentry? Shame on you, missy,” she scolded, but one of her hands tugged on a long strand of Leigh’s chestnut hair affectionately. “You’ve been talkin’ to Steban? That ol’ man doesn’t ever believe me till it’s almost too late, then he moves those old bones of his fast enough to set them rattlin’ up a storm. An’ even he says he’s never heard thunder so loud in his life, ’course, it’s made him deaf, since he doesn’t listen to me,
if
he ever did, an’ it’s goin’ to take some cracklin’ lightnin’ strikin’ him dead before he does,” Jolie said, placing the tray over Leigh’s lap and clucking her tongue as she ran her bony finger along the top of the table, leaving a winding trail through the fine red dust.

“Hmmmph! Jus’ wiped this clean yesterday. Miss Beatrice Amelia would be fit to be tied with all this dust. Wouldn’t stand for her house not bein’ tidy. Your mama was that proud. Never know who’s comin’ callin’, she always said. What’re you doin’ up so early anyways?” she repeated softly, eyeing Leigh closely as she poured her a cup of the thick chocolate. “Isn’t that fancy fella comin’ ’round, is it? I don’t care for him none,” she said, pronouncing harsh sentence on the unfortunate gentleman in question.

“Luis? No. Gil and I are going to ride up to the north slopes,” Leigh confided, her voice full of anticipation. “The snows are melting and one of the shepherds is out of food. He can’t leave his flock, so we’re taking the supplies to him. I haven’t been that far up the slopes yet…not into the high country,” Leigh said, her gaze drawn again to the mountains.

“I don’t like it. It’s not safe with them savages sneakin’ ’round. Reckon that lil’ Luis will be mighty upset if he thinks he’s goin’ to find you here. But he’s not the one I was thinkin’ ’bout. Was thinkin’ ’bout that no-good Mister Boyce. Don’t care for the look in his eye none at all. Shifty, that’s what it is. Like a coon that’s been treed by hounds an’ is tryin’ to get himself outa a tight spot without losin’ any of his striped tail. Reckon he hasn’t seen all those stub-tailed coons I have, or he’d watch his step real careful like. Never seen a body strut like that Mister Boyce. You’d think he thought he had somethin’ other men don’t, an’ it’s not proper wearin’ breeches as tight as he does. ’Spite them airs he tries to put on, trash is trash, you can’t hide it, same as them Canbys. Well, he’s no gentleman, an’ I’ll tell you this, he’s no Coast aristocrat neither, even if he
says
he’s from Charleston. Only way he come to Charleston was by sneakin’ off a ship like a rat. Reckon he’s kinfolk to that no-good Creole fella your Gran’pappy Leigh shot in that duel? Hasn’t fooled me none with his honey-tongued ways, an’ if he calls me mammy one more time, I’m goin’ to forget I’ve a Christian soul an’ let him have a dose of one of my potions like you did the good reverend that day.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, Jolie,” Leigh reminded her…although, now that she thought about it…

“Hmmmph! Figure that’ll keep Mister Fancy Pants busy mindin’ his own business so he’ll stay outa ours. So you just keep away from him, y’hear me now, Miss Leigh.”

Leigh nodded obediently, thinking no one had ever fooled Jolie. She’d always been as keen-eyed in sizing up a person as Sweet John had a horse. “It’s trying to keep a proper distance from his hands that is the problem,” Leigh said, remembering the way Courtney Boyce’s hands always lingered a little too long when grasping her hand in greeting, or when placing her shawl across her shoulders, his fingertips just managing to touch bare skin.

“He’s been takin’ liberties with you, honey? You remind him you’re married, an’ even if you weren’t, he wouldn’t be good enough for you. I declare, thinkin’ he could put his hands on a Travers! Wouldn’t even let him set foot on Travers property. Your papa would’ve shown that vermin off his land fast enough, an’ with his whip crackin’ close behind. But if he keeps troublin’ you, honey, you tell me or Mister Nathaniel.”

Leigh hid her smile, wondering which of the two Courtney Boyce would prefer having to face, and she suspected it was not Jolie. “I think our Mr. Boyce is more interested in
Señora
Alvarado. She seemed flushed when they came in from the courtyard the other night. He can’t seem to keep his eyes, or his hands, off her.”

“Hmmmph! I don’t think she’s been slappin’ them away none either. I saw her straightenin’ that bodice of hers.”

“He seems harmless enough, if a bit annoying,” Leigh said, and somewhat generously, for she was almost thankful Courtney Boyce was around to interest Diosa. “He reminds me of some of Guy’s old friends, they used to flirt as easily and as frequently as they emptied their juleps. Courtney Boyce is no different, he thinks every woman expects such attentions from him. It’s just his way,” Leigh said of the South Carolinian gentleman who was staying at Alfonso Jacobs’s ranch, having arrived in New Mexico less than a year ago. Claiming that a debilitating wound suffered in battle kept him from the fighting, he had left the South and gone into partnership with Alfonso Jacobs, whom he’d met during the war. There were times when they saw very little of him, for he often traveled into Texas and Mexico on business. Odd, however, that he never seemed to suffer from the wound; his riding and shooting, dancing and swaggering unhindered by it.

“Hmmmph. Hate to see that sweet Miss Camilla taken in by the likes of him, but s’pose he reminds her of Charleston, an’ her still grievin’ for Mister Justin she needs to laugh, an’ Mister Nathaniel, good man that he is, isn’t one for small talk. Not like your papa was. An’ you should see the way that lil’ Miss Lys Helene takes to her heels when that Mister Boyce comes into the room. An’ he won’t have nothing to do with me, missy. Figure he deserves that fancy woman, an’ all the trouble that’s goin’ to come with her,” Jolie declared. “Steban says she’s always watchin’ him real strange like. First time she set eyes on him I thought she was goin’ to up an’ faint. Makes him uneasy, it sure does, ’specially her knowin’ Steban’s name before anybody ever said it, an’ sayin’ it in that funny way of talkin’ that she has. Steban’s scared that she’s put the evil eye on him. But when she turns those eyes on me, I jus’ stare her down like a fox after a chicken, an’ it shames her, it does, into actin’ proper. Though, how a woman who smokes like a gentleman can be considered proper, I don’t know. I’ve never heard of such a thing ’cept in places where ladies an’ decent folk don’t go, an’ I heard rumors ’bout them places, but never been myself,” she added quickly, still scandalized by the scene of
Señora
Alvarado sitting so ladylike in the parlor while she deftly rolled the
cigarrillo
she was fond of smoking, holding the cigarette to her lips with a delicate pair of golden pincers so she wouldn’t get tobacco stains on her pale hands.

“Reckon ol’ Jolie knows what’s goin’ on behind those dark eyes of hers. Can’t fool me. She’s a bad one. Now, Mister Gil, he sure is a nice young man. Real polite. Miss Camilla’s done a fine job raisin’ that boy of hers. Doesn’t remind me any of that brother of his,”she said with a sniff.

No, Gil was nothing like his brother, Leigh agreed. Gilbert Rene Braedon; Gil to anyone who wished to remain friends with the lanky sixteen-year-old who was determined to prove himself a man in as short a time as possible.

“What’s this?” Leigh asked, picking up a sprig of pine, its pungent scent drawing her attention to where it lay beside her napkin.

“Ever…green, missy. It’ll bring you a long, healthy life, so you wear it. Tuck it in yer waistband,” Jolie said matter-of-factly, as if it were something most people did everyday without question. “S’pose though, that brother of his isn’t all that bad, after all, he did help us get out here,” she added, but somewhat grudgingly. “An’ these folks of his be real good people, even if they’re not from Travers Hill. Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re here, Miss Leigh, wherever here is,” Jolie muttered, avoiding glancing out the window as she walked to the dressing chest and began to sort through Leigh’s underclothing.

“I’ll show you the map in Nathaniel Braedon’s study so you’ll know exactly where we are and how far we traveled from Virginia,” Leigh offered, and not for the first time.

But Jolie, as she usually did, just shook her head, and vehemently. “Don’t want to see any map! Don’t want to know how far we’ve come,” Jolie said over her shoulder as she pulled out a fresh chemise. “Sure you couldn’t have found a better dressing chest than this thing? Not near as fine as that furniture in Miss Althea’s room,” she complained, throwing a pair of pantalettes over her arm.

Leigh glanced around the bedchamber, pleased with what met her eye. She was very comfortable in here, and it offered the best view of the mountains rising in the distance, and at least Neil had never shared this room with his first wife. Althea and her children were sleeping in Serena’s room—the room next to this one—and the room Serena had slept in alone. It was a larger room, and Camilla had thought Althea and her children would be more comfortable in there than in one of the smaller rooms. She’d graciously offered to move some of the finer furnishings into this room, but Leigh had politely declined, wanting nothing that had belonged to Serena. Camilla had sighed, glancing around the room, then shrugged her shoulders in despair and declared that Neil had never been particular about the room, having spent so much time at Riovado.

“An’ I need to talk to that girl who does the washin’, ’cause she’s not getting’ it clean enough to suit me,” Jolie grumbled, searching through the linen underclothing stacked neatly in the drawer.

Leigh sipped the steaming chocolate with its spicy aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. Sometimes, she silently echoed Jolie’s earlier thought as she leaned back against the pillows, it felt as if they’d always lived here, so settled into the household routine had they become. But they hadn’t, and the long journey it had taken to reach Royal Rivers would always be vivid in her memory.

Reaching St. Louis, they’d continued to travel by train to Jefferson City, where they caught a riverboat up the Missouri, their pilot and crew keeping a watchful eye for guerrillas lying in wait along the banks, their rifles trained on any traffic moving on the river. Without incident they made it to Independence, but had not tarried long, taking another boat upstream to Westport, a bustling town on the border between Missouri and Kansas, and leaving behind the familiar and comforting sight of the steepled courthouse and tree-lined square of Independence. Once, the town had been the last outpost before crossing the plains and the dangers that awaited toward sundown, but as the settlements followed the river, moving ever westward, the town was left behind to face a more dangerous threat that had arisen from the east, where Border Ruffians and Free Staters had fought in bloody skirmishes across the territory ten years earlier over the question of slavery. The violence had been only a prelude to the lawlessness that followed as bushwhackers, led by Quantrill, spread terror across the plains as they raided, burned, and looted the towns and isolated farms, while the battles fought between the Union and the Confederacy scarred the lands of Missouri and Kansas as each side sought control of the Mississippi.

They had remained in Westport several days, resting from their journey across the heartland of the Union. They expected to travel next to Council Grove, where they were to have been met by Nathaniel Braedon, but he had surprised them and was already waiting for them in Westport.

Leigh would never forget her first sight of Nathaniel Braedon. She had needed no introduction to the man to know the stranger was her husband’s father. He was a tall, sinewy man with thick silvery hair, his narrowed eyes only a slightly warmer shade of greenish-brown-flecked gray, the fine lines deeply etched and fanning out around them telling their own tale of a man whose gaze continually searched the horizon. But it had been when he’d turned his sun-bronzed face that she’d seen the true resemblance between father and son, for both possessed the same hawkish profiles. She’d had the distinct impression that he’d watched them for some time before walking over to introduce himself, and she wondered what his impression of them had been. A taciturn man, he’d said little after speaking his name, but she’d felt his piercing gaze resting on her more than once. Nettled by it, she sought his, holding his stare with a slightly defiant glance for a long moment before he looked away—but she would have sworn she saw a glint of amusement lurking in his cold gray eyes.

Nathaniel Braedon had wasted little time in his preparations for their trek across the plains. He had many friends and business acquaintances in Missouri and Kansas, and despite the shortages that war had brought, and that it was spring, when so many wagon trains set out to beat the prairie blizzards and the early snows that would close the mountain passes come fall, he had little difficulty in purchasing the wagons and supplies they would need. Too often for them to discount it as just talk, they’d heard from the townspeople how lucky they were to have Nathaniel Braedon guiding them. He was an old hand at making the trip, they were assured time and again, having first come to the territories from his adventuring in Texas in the twenties, and trapping and hunting high in the Rockies, then trading and fighting with the Indians and Spanish along the border, before finally settling in his newfound land.