Wayward Wind, page 20
Lorna saw anger, yet pleading, in his face. Somehow he looked both vulnerable and strong. But it had been so long—so many years had passed since they’d said this many words to each other at one time.
“If you didn’t go with them, where did you go when you were gone for a week at a time?” Lorna persisted. It had gone this far; she had to know all of it.
“I dinna ask ye where ye go,” he snapped, and his jaw set stubbornly. “But I’ll tell ye. This be a lonely place with only the likes of Brice an’ his kind to while away the time. Ye canna say I dinna do me work about the place, so ’tis no business of yers, lass, if’n I take meself to town to blow the cobwebs from me brain, an’ ease me achin’ some. Me Nora knows how ’tis—” Suddenly, huge tears filled his eyes, but he held his head erect and refused to look away from her.
Lorna looked at him as if she had never seen him before. Somehow she couldn’t equate this big, proud man with tears rolling down his cheeks with the moody, surly man he had become the last few years. Her granny had thought him lacking, and although she had never said as much, her attitude of cold silence toward him had spoken for her. Lorna had known from an early age that she tolerated him because her daughter had loved him and married him.
Why, he’d been lonely, she thought. All those years when she had Granny he didn’t have anyone. He’d lived here silently and somberly, never letting her get to know him.
“Pa… I’m sorry!” She spoke over the lump that rose in her throat. Tears blinded her, but she got to her feet and made her way around the table to him. “I’m sorry, Pa. I’m truly sorry.” She moved into his embrace, circled him with her arms, and put her head on his shoulder.
Chapter
Thirteen
It had been difficult at first for Lorna to talk to her father. She carefully kept the conversation on safe topics and he followed suit. She said nothing more about his association with Brice Fulton, and he didn’t mention Cooper or his abrupt departure. Instead he told her about a cougar he’d shot after it had brought down one of their cows, and that he had caught the scent of a wolverine in the shed a few days ago. He told her he planned to put a new roof on the smokehouse and that if she planned to keep all the pumpkins from the garden they’d have to either dry some of them or dig out more space in the cellar.
Lorna asked her father if there were more green beans in the garden to string and dry, and if he’d spotted a honey tree. She offered to help bring timber down from the hills to cut for firewood. She told him about Bonnie and how she had suffered giving birth, and saw his eyes go dark with pain as he remembered her mother dying during childbirth. Finally Lorna told him about the mare she had found running loose, about Cooper and Griffin coming to look for it and their part in helping Bonnie.
“Cooper has a horse ranch near Junction City and he and Griffin are thinking of filing on land down on the Blue and starting another one.”
“’Tis for certain he be a mon who knows horse flesh, if what he be ridin’ be an example. I ne’er seen a finer animal fer strong hindquarters.” Frank seemed younger, more relaxed, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He even smiled occasionally.
“Have you seen anything of Volney? He said he’d find a place for Bonnie and come back for her. He didn’t come. It isn’t like him.”
“Aye, lass. ’Tis sorry I am to be tellin’ ye, but I think the oold mon was sorely used by Brice. Mind ye, I just know what was let slip by Billy. ’Twas said a rock fell on the oold mon, but I be thinkin’ they broke his legs when he would’na tell where ye took the wee cripple lassie.”
“Oh! Damn that Brice! He’d better not have hurt Volney. Where is he? Did you look for him?”
“Aye. He not be on the mountain. ’Tis sure I am of that.”
“Moose or Woody might have seen him,” Lorna said hopefully.
“Aye. They be comin’ soon to make ready fer winter.” Frank filled his pipe and looked at her over the light he held to the bowl. “Ye be watchin’ yerself, lass. Ye braced up to Hollis, and ye scored a mark agin’ Brice. They be not forgettin’.”
“I’m not afraid of them. They know White Bull will kill them if they harm me.”
“Aye. ’Tis glad I am the Indian is fond of ye.”
“He and his people will be coming back through soon,” she said wistfully, suddenly longing to see her old friend.
“Aye.” Frank got to his feet. “I be taking meself down to the corn patch to see if the blasted coons have been in it again.”
Lorna watched him walk down the hill toward the low land where he had planted the corn. She couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever heard him say where he was going or give a reason for going there. This new closeness between them was comforting and fragile and… precious.
Evening came early. The shadow of the mountain crept down over the ranch buildings and the air became cooler. Lorna sat on the porch working a churn dasher. The kitchen was spotlessly clean; the trestle table, workbench, and washstand had been scrubbed vigorously with a stiff brush, dried, and oiled. The seasoned old wood gleamed after being polished with a soft cloth. The wood ashes had been hauled out and saved for making soap, the floor scrubbed, the glass chimneys washed.
She had worked hard, hoping to keep her thoughts at bay and ease the ache in her heart, but all she could think of was Cooper and the complete, unforgiving disgust she had seen on his face when he left her. She relived the moments they had spent together, even the ones when she had been angry with him. Now, the thought of his arms, his kisses, the sweet smell of his breath and his soft voice in her ear brought a wave of sickness rocking the pit of her stomach. Her heart ached for her lost love, but her pride was wounded as well. She had been so sure her love had been returned.
Lorna was jarred from her reverie by the dogs, Ruth and Naomi. They shot out from beneath the porch and raced toward the edge of the clearing. A rider came out of the timber and Lorna’s heart fluttered hopefully until she realized that it wasn’t Cooper returning. Cursing the dogs, the rider bore down on the house. Lorna stepped to the edge of the porch, her whistle at once bringing them back to her.
Dust boiled thickly beneath the horse’s hooves as Brice Fulton jerked on the reins. The horse stopped a dozen feet away, but danced nervously as the cruel bit cut into its mouth. Below the brim of his battered hat Brice’s eyes blazed with hostility. He studied her with a cold, impersonal intensity. Her incredible self-possession was a thing he had never before encountered in a woman. To him she appeared to look down on everything and everyone. She had an untouchable air about her that had irritated him since the first day he’d set eyes on her. It was as if she were a queen and he a lowly peasant. She had the power to make him feel inferior, and when she looked at him as if he were a nothing, it was like pouring salt on an open wound. By God, he’d shake the bitch, he vowed. Someday she’d come crawling to him and lick his hand!
Lorna said nothing. She had learned that to say nothing was more unnerving to a man like Brice than to curse him or hurl accusations. Her intense hatred of him was like a festering boil, but the emotion rioting through her was wholly concealed behind the noncommittal expression on her face.
“Have ya got my woman here?”
Lorna’s violet, thick-lashed eyes flicked over him contemptuously. “No.”
“No,” he mimicked. “Then where the hell’s she at?”
“Where you’ll never find her. You’re not fit to live with a hog, much less a sweet, gentle girl like Bonnie.” Her voice was coldly wicked and cut Brice with the clean precision of a finely honed knife. She turned and walked into the house.
“Gawddamn ya for a fuckin’ bitch!” he shouted. Anger boiled up out of him causing him to lose all reason. “Don’t turn yore back on me. I want that whore back, by Gawd, ’n I’ll get ’er if I have to tear down this gawddamn place ya set such a store by.”
Lorna took a coiled whip from the peg just inside the door. Holding it behind her she stepped back out onto the porch.
“A whore gets money for what she does. I didn’t know you paid Bonnie.”
For an endless moment Brice stared at the cold-eyed girl, so embroiled in his anger and resentment he didn’t notice the look of lethal hatred on her face. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Ya’d better tell me where she’s at, by Gawd, or I’ll kill ever’ blasted thing on this place that’s walkin’ on four legs.”
“You’re all talk, Brice. You won’t do anything,” she contradicated him calmly. “You’re too much of a coward, beside being a back-shooting, cattle-rustling woman beater,” she told him with a chill smile.
“If ya was a man… I’d kill ya—”
“No,” she contradicated again. “If I was a man you’d not have the guts to face me.”
It clearly required all Brice’s self-restraint to refrain from leaping from his horse and knocking her down. His face turned crimson and his mouth worked as he spat out silent oaths. He took his frustration out on his luckless horse and jerked on the reins, causing the animal to rear and spin on its hind legs, stirring up a cloud of dust. He dropped his hat and cursed loudly. Excited by the commotion, the dogs came bounding out from under the porch, leaping and frolicking and yipping happily. Ruth grabbed Brice’s hat between her huge jaws and shook it playfully.
Without warning, Brice pulled his horse around in a smooth pivot. In the same instant his right hand lifted as swiftly as a striking snake, the gun in it glinting dully. The crashing report of the two shots fired from the heavy Navy pistol echoed back and forth through the hills before falling finally into a complete silence.
A look of pure shock settled over Lorna’s face as she stared wordlessly down at Ruth and Naomi. Ruth’s wiry body had toppled and lay still; she had been shot through the head. Naomi, making pitiful whining sounds, blood pouring from her lower body, crawled on her belly, trying to reach her dead sister.
Brice shoved the gun back into its holster and got off the horse to retrieve his hat. “That’s a start,” he said in a tight, thin voice.
“That’s a mistake,” Lorna said flatly.
Moving slowly but decisively, Lorna stepped out into the yard, the uncoiled whip dragging through the dust behind her. She faced him squarely. With the ease of long practice she willed herself to keep loose and to not allow her temper to force her to make a foolish move.
“I done told ya—”
“I owed you for what you did to Bonnie, and now for Ruth and Naomi.” The words were spoken as casually as if she were speaking about the weather.
His eyes dropped to the whip. “Ya get a thought of usin’ that whip on me ’n I’ll treat ya like I’d treat a man.”
“Don’t you mean like you’d treat a woman?” she drawled with heavy sarcasm, and lifted her straight black brows in a way that infuriated him even more.
Brice had scarcely time to blink his eyes before she acted. She took a step back and cast the fourteen foot strip of leather with a flick of her wrist. The tip of the bullwhip caught him on the chest. He let out a yelp and backed up rapidly. The reins slipped from his hand and the horse shied away.
“Ya… bitch!” His voice was a strangled scream.
“Mule’s ass! Filthy hog! Son of a mangy… polecat! I’ll take your flea-bitten hide off, inch by inch!” she shouted. Half-mad with fury now, she crouched; feet spread and firmly planted, her small, slim body poised for action. She watched his every move with eyes made brilliant by her anger.
Brice realized the danger confronting him. She was like a small, striking rattlesnake. He grabbed for his gun, but he was a second late. The end of the lash bit into his wrist and the gun flew but of his hand. For an instant he stared at the gash cut to the bone, unable to believe that she would dare to do this. When he regained his senses, he lunged toward her.
Lorna understood what he intended to do—get close, which was the only defense against a bullwhip. She backed away. A good whipcracker had to strike with the tip only for maximum damage. As soon as it wrapped around a man’s arm or body, the whip could then be seized and taken away.
A muleskinner had spent a winter on Light’s Mountain recovering from a near scalping. He had taught Lorna to handle the whip, and being one who had to furnish her own amusement she had spent many hours practicing with it, as she had with the knife, until she could balance a potato on a stump and cut it in half.
Lorna shagged the whip backward.
“Ya gawddammed slut!” Brice lunged forward again, his face white with rage. “Ya shit eatin’— Yeeow!”
This time she caught him on the hairline. Hair and blood flew and he staggered backward, bellowing his rage, blood streaming down his face from where the forked tip had taken away the skin. She snapped the whip again, catching him across the shoulders. He yelped and spun around. She ripped open the seat of his trousers, drawing a bloody line across his bared buttocks. He let out a helpless bleat of rage and tried to run. She hooked him around the ankle, tripping him, and stripped him twice across the back as he scrambled to his feet and flailed his hands to catch the whip, but he might as well have been trying to snare a striking snake.
She was careful not to use too much force. With the fourteen foot whip she could easily break his leg and she didn’t want to do that—just yet. And she used care not to let the whip end wrap more than twice because she had to free it before he could grab it.
“Ach, lassie! Have ye lost yer mind?”
Lorna was vaguely aware that her father had come running into the yard and was calling to her. She paid him no mind and went after Brice with a vengeance, remembering the whip and burn marks on Bonnie’s body, and the dogs lying dead in the yard, and the possibility he had injured an old man. Each time he tried to break away and run, she tripped him. And as he struggled to get to his feet she lashed his back, buttocks and thighs, now wet with blood.
He could hear the sibilant rush of the whip as it came down across his back like a white flame, and yelled under its searing pain. He was like a wild man, raging and frothing at the mouth, his eyes glazed. She laid the whip on him until she had cut the shirt off his back and his trousers sagged down around his ankles. Each time he reached for them she lashed his buttocks until they were enveloped in a sheet of white hot agony that brought his voice tearing up from deep inside him.
“This is for Bonnie,” Lorna yelled. A wildness filled her and she opened a deep gash on his cheek. “This one’s for Ruth, who only wanted to play.” The whip snaked out and took the upper part of his ear. Bellowing like a wounded bear, Brice clamped his hand to the side of his head. “This is for Naomi,” she shouted and laid the bloody tip of the whip across his bare belly. “And this is for Volney.” Anger gave strength to her arm. The breathy hiss of the whip sliced through the air again. The tip struck precisely where she intended it to strike, and flicked the hair from his lower belly.
With a sharp scream, Brice bent double, hands clasped over his dangling private parts, sure that they would be next. The pain was almost unbearable; he lacked the power to stand and his legs gave way. He fell on his face in the dirt and lay there sobbing like a baby.
Lorna went to him, coiling the whip as she walked. She looked down on the bloodied flesh and spat contemptuously.
“You deserve more than this, you mangy cur. Much more.” She hooked him beneath the chin with the toe of her moccasins, forcing his head up. “You’re rotten, like a sore eating away at what’s decent on this mountain. We don’t need your kind here. Get off Light’s Mountain! Because if you don’t, I’ll kill you, or White Bull will. And if he does it, you’ll be a long time dying!” She spoke in a calm, unyielding voice.
Brice peered up through a curtain of pain. The figure standing over him was a she-devil from a horrible dream. A mass of tumbled black hair framed a white face as hard as stone. Her red mouth sneered at him; violet eyes bored into him like a hot poker. She was a witch that had set him on fire! He cringed. The movement sent rivulets of pain streaming all through him, and he whimpered before this over-washing torture that threatened to fling him headlong into feared darkness.
Her exertions had left her shaken and drenched with sweat. Lorna turned to her father who stood beside the dogs, his face slack with disbelief.
“Are they dead?” Her eyes held his, then dropped to the bloodied knife in his hand, and then to Naomi who lay in a pool of blood.
“Aye. I could’na let her suffer.”
Lorna nodded numbly. In a backlash of emotion, her face suddenly crumbled, tears filling her eyes and streaming down her cheeks.
“They thought he was funning and wanted to… play—” Her voice was husky with tears and grief. She knelt down and patted the still, warm bodies. “Bye, Naomi. Bye, Ruth. You were good dogs and minded when told to behave. I’m sorry I didn’t see what he was up to till it was too late.”
A chill touched her and held her motionless. Intuitively, she knew when her enemy moved. She jerked erect and turned. Brice, holding his britches up with one hand, had gotten to his feet and was staggering toward his horse.
“No!” she shouted, and sprang forward, striking the horse on the rump with the coiled whip. The squealing, frightened animal bolted out of the yard. Without breaking stride and stumbling blindly, Brice turned and followed, cursing and sobbing with pain.
“Ye’ve done it now, lass. ’Tis a fact Brice can’na take that ’n ever hold up his head again.”
“What other way was there for me? I didn’t want to kill him and I couldn’t let him go.” She tipped her head forward so he’d not see the tears that again welled in her eyes. “I thought of killing him. I could’ve put my knife in his heart before he reached his gun, but I’ve not killed a man, Pa.”
“Aye, lass. ’Twas my place to handle this.” He went to her and stood hesitantly, wanting to comfort her, but not knowing if she could accept it. “’Tis sorry I be I let it come to this.”
