At the edge of the woods she stopped. Rowe motioned for the dog to stay and moved up closer. She had set the buckets on the ground beside a bush of yellow flowers. Her light head was bent over them, her nose buried in the blossoms.

  “Ouch!” The small muffled cry escaped her when she reached down to snap off a stem, and her fingers were pierced by the thorns. She stuck her finger in her mouth for a moment, then picked up the buckets and walked on.

  Rowe and Modo stood beneath an aspen across the road from the funerary and watched her until she disappeared inside.

  Nightrose. The word dropped into his mind. Was it a name or a place?

  “Nightrose.” He said the word aloud. It rolled off his tongue as if he were saying “darling” or “sweetheart” to a lover. Once again he had the eerie feeling of having said the word before in connection with this woman.

  Rowe believed that when a person died, his soul wandered until it came back to earth in another body. He had discussed this theory with a professor at Harvard University and again with his mother’s old friend, Victor Hugo, during a visit to Paris last year. The dramatist, poet, and novelist was a firm believer in reincarnation, and they had spent several enjoyable evenings together while Victor’s still-beautiful mistress of forty years, Juliette, was away visiting relatives.

  Had Rowe known Katy in another life? Had her name been Nightrose? Were he and this woman destined to live out their days together? An indescribable feeling of elation came over him. He shook his wet head; water from his hair trickled down the side of his face. Here, in the darkness of this vast wilderness, he was experiencing the feeling of coming home.

  Modo moved up beside him and nuzzled his leg, bringing him back to reality. He turned back down the path only to pause when he came to the wild rosebush. He stood for a moment, then drew his knife and cut a cluster of blossoms from the bush. With a few quick strokes of the blade he removed the thorns from the stem and held the flowers to his face. As if drawn by an unseen hand, he crossed the road to the funerary and placed the sprig of roses beside the door, and then moved silently away.

  “You’ll never guess what,” Katy said, as she came in the side door carrying the bucket of fresh milk.

  “Shhh . . . Theresa’s still sleeping. What? What’s happened to get you so excited this morning?” Mary’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the cookstove.

  “There’s a tub of water out there for Mable.”

  Mary slid a pan of biscuits onto the top of the iron range before she spoke. “Well, I do declare! He must have put it there.”

  “It was either Bushy-face or the fairies, and I never did believe in fairies or goblins or ‘haints,’ as Posie used to call them.” Katy set the bucket of milk on the floor and draped a cloth over it to keep out the flies.

  “That was really sweet of him. Do you think we should offer him some milk? We have more than we can use.”

  “Give Bushy-face milk? He’d laugh in your face, Mary. He probably went right from his mother’s breast to the whiskey barrel.”

  “Oh, maybe not. You can’t always judge people by the way they look.”

  “If we did, he’d win the prize. Wheee! It’s going to be hot today. Let’s go down to the creek and do some washing. Bushy-face has done us two good turns. I don’t think he has murder or fornicating on his mind, or he’d have tried it by now. But I’ll take the rifle along just the same.”

  “The cookstove heats this place like an oven. I hope it’ll do the same if we’re still here this winter. That cabin we lived in last winter was almost like living out of doors.”

  “This winter! Heaven forbid, Mary. We’ve got to get out of here, and back to civilization. I don’t think we’re going to get any help from old what’s-his-face.” Katy’s spontaneous laughter rang out as it did at the most unexpected times. “He acts as if we have the cholera or smallpox.”

  Theresa sat up in her makeshift bed. “Who’s Bushy-face, Aunt Katy?”

  “Well, look who’s awake and listening to every word.” Katy lifted the child from the box. “Do you need to use the chamber?”

  “I . . . already did—” Theresa’s lips began to quiver and she held her wet gown away from her legs.

  Katy flipped the gown up over the child’s head. “Don’t worry about it, honey. We’re going to wash today. You’ve not wet the bed in a long time.” She slipped the child’s arms into one of her shirts and buttoned it down the front.

  Mary opened the front door and a cool breeze swept through the building.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake.” She picked up the branch of yellow rose blooms. “Look at what the wind blew up onto the porch, Katy.”

  “Wind, my hind foot. There wasn’t a breath of wind stirring last night.” Katy, remembering her thorn prick the night before, saw at a glance that the tips of the thorns had been sliced off. She began to smile. “Why, Mary, I do believe you’ve got a suitor. Bushy-face is courting you.”

  Mary’s eyes became large and questioning. “Tarnation! What in the world are you talking about?”

  “He left them at the door. Look at the stem. It’s been dethorned.” Katy began to laugh when Mary’s face turned a fiery red.

  “But . . . but—” she sputtered. “I’m a married woman.”

  “He doesn’t know that. Didn’t you say he gave you a long hard look when he rode in?”

  “Well, yes, but—oh, Katy, you’re the darndest tease!”

  Katy watched the soft line of her sister’s mouth curve into a smile. With the color in her cheeks she was pretty, really pretty, and she was wasting her life waiting for a good-for-nothing like Roy Stanton.

  “Maybe we should invite him to supper.” Katy’s blue eyes danced with pure mischief. “But maybe not. He may not be able to find his mouth beneath all that brush.”

  “We should do something for him. I think I’ll leave a pan of hot biscuits on the porch. He saved you from the cougar and put water out for the cow.”

  “The cougar might have been after Mable, not me,” Katy said stubbornly. She was still angry with herself for not taking the rifle when she went out to pull grass for the cow.

  Mary slid half of the pan of biscuits onto a plate and went to the porch, her back straight and defiant, as if she expected Katy to call her back.

  “Mister!” she called toward the stone building. “Oh, Mister!”

  “Call him Bushy-face,” Katy prompted. “He might think you’re calling someone else.”

  “Oh, hush, Katy,” Mary chided, then called again. “Thank you for killing the lion, or whatever it was. And thank you for the water for the cow. Here’s fresh biscuits if you would care for them. I’ll leave them here on the porch.”

  Mary went back inside, pushing Katy and Theresa ahead of her, and then closed the door.

  “There! At least we’ve tried to pay him back a little. Stay away from the window, Katy, or he’ll not come to get them. He may have been in the mountains for so long that he’s shy around white women.”

  “He needn’t be. I can’t think of a single white woman who would give him a second look with all that hair on his face, unless it would be Winnie Fennel back home. Remember her, Mary? She’d have taken anything walking on two legs. She did everything in her power to attract our brothers, and they were a good ten years younger than she was. Finally she got old Dan Brower, but he was desperate for someone to care for seven younguns. He up and died on her after six months. His oldest boy said she just plumb wore his pa out.” Katy went into gales of laughter.

  “Oh, you! Sit down and I’ll pour the tea.” Mary washed her daughter’s hands with a wet cloth and lifted her up onto a stool. “Eat your breakfast, honey. Then we’ve got to do something about that hair of yours.”

  “I’d give a nickel for a slice of ham,” Katy said. “Remember when Posie cooked ham and made red-eye gravy?”

  “What I remember most is peach pie and strawberry tarts.”

  “I remember roast turkey and dressing.”

  “Chicken and dumplings with suet pudding and raisin sauce—”

  “Laced with rum. Remember?”

  “I remember that you ate nothing but the sauce.” Mary dipped milk from a gray crock and set it in front of Theresa’s plate.

  “Drink your milk, ladybug. It’ll put hair on your chest.” Katy gazed fondly at the child.

  “I don’t want hair on my chest, Aunt Katy!”

  “She’s teasing, as usual,” Mary said patiently. “Only men have hair on their chest.”

  The sound of something clanking on the porch brought Katy to her feet. She rushed to the window, looked out, and burst into laughter.

  “His dog has eaten his biscuits.” She opened the door and rushed out onto the porch. “Here, dog! Leave the plate.”

  “Well, I never!” Mary crowded out the door behind her. The dog was going down the road. The empty plate had fallen into the weeds beside the porch. Katy stepped down and picked it up.

  “I can just hear that dog saying, ‘Those were the best goldurned biscuits I ever et!’ ”

  Musical laughter floated down the empty street. Coming down from the old mine, Rowe paused to listen. He didn’t understand his attraction for this woman. Her features were clearly etched in his mind. He knew her and the realization was purely instinctive that she had the power to make his life heaven or . . . hell.

  Determined to get his mind off the crazy notion that she was important to him, he went into the saloon and spread his maps out on the bar to study them once again. His partner and friend, Anton Hooker, had been right. Anton had taken a sample from the mine months ago, had it assayed, and decided the mine was worth opening. Running through the heavy iron deposits was a vein of silver. It would be a hard job getting at it. At first, the ore would have to be hauled in heavy freight-wagons to the smelter in Bay Horse where the pure silver would be extracted. Later, if the vein proved to be long-lasting, they would continue to operate the mine along with their other project.

  The former mine owners had only been interested in quick riches. When the gold petered out, they were ready to cut their losses and move on. As a matter of fact, Rowe mused, he might have purchased the mine and the several hundred thousand acres of land adjoining it for a mere fraction of its eventual worth. He had, however, given the owners their asking price.

  Rowe scanned the map, noting every mountain, stream, and trail in the area. His eyes lingered the longest on the spot that lay to the north, along the Madison River. This was his land. He would make his home there and start a ranch someday. He had no reason now to go back to Paris. His mother was gone. And it would please him greatly if he never set eyes on his only living kin, his half brother Justin, again. The same went for the Rowe mansion on the Hudson River and all it entailed; it could drop into hell for all he cared.

  Everything in its own time, Rowe thought. He rolled up the maps and tied them with a string. This afternoon, he would ride south and see if there was any sign of Hank and the wagons.

  At noon Rowe chewed on a strip of jerky and ate a can of peaches, dreaming about lobster tails dipped in melted butter and tender, thin pancakes filled with raspberry jam and sprinkled with sugar. God! He hoped Hank had found someone who could cook something more than corn bread, beans and grits.

  Rowe had stayed on the far side of the town while the women were at the creek. They were getting braver, he decided. After he had killed the cougar and put water out for the cow, they must have decided he wasn’t going to attack them. How little they knew of men. If he’d had that on his mind, he would have done just what he’d done—try to win their confidence and when they let down their guard, pounce. He walked down to the edge of the stream. He chuckled to see the array of women’s garments spread on the bushes to dry. The unmentionables had been hung in such a manner as to disguise their purpose, should he happen upon them. But drawers were drawers, and during his travels he supposed he’d seen every kind imaginable.

  It was a quiet afternoon except for a whippoorwill, which swooped down over the swiftly running water, and the blue-jays, which scolded from the upper branches of the cottonwood tree. A robin, perched on a swaying limb of the willow, sang as if it didn’t have a care in the world. One of the bluejays, attracted by the shiny buttons on a pair of drawers, flew down. As Rowe watched, his mouth twitched in amusement. The bird pecked at the button and pulled in vain. Finally, frustrated, it rose into the air with an angry screech, circled the bushes, then swooped and dropped his calling card on a pair of drawers trimmed with lace and blue ribbon. Unable to stop himself, Rowe laughed aloud.

  “Mr. Jay, you’ve been eating berries and Katy isn’t going to like what you just did one little bit.”

  Rowe wished he could be around when Katy discovered the bird droppings on her clean drawers. Although his face wore its usual somber look, he was still laughing inside as he saddled his horse and rode out of town. Since Apollo was anxious to run, Rowe let him race three miles before he drew up in a small cluster of cottonwoods, where water seeping from the rocky cliff had made a tiny pool. He allowed the horse a little water, then remounted and headed south again. The air was clear and bright, the sky almost cloudless. He saw no Indians, although there were plenty of tracks. He traveled slowly to keep down the dust, staying off the trail when possible. He came to a shelf that jutted out over the valley. Keeping to the trees, he walked the horse to a spot that had a clear view for at least five miles.

  No train of wagons appeared on the trail below, but there were four riders. Rowe dismounted, pulled his horse back out of sight, and tied him to a bush. He motioned for Modo to stay with the horse and took the spyglass from his saddlebag. Walking hunched so that he wouldn’t be outlined against the sky, he crept to the edge of the shelf and dropped down on his belly. His first thought was that the men were a detail of soldiers because of their uniforms. He studied them, then changed his mind when he saw the way they slumped in the saddles. Also, any detail this far from the fort would have had a packhorse to carry supplies.

  Suddenly, the two riders ahead stopped, spun their horses around, and faced the two men riding behind. One of these drew apart leaving his fellow rider to face the other two. He was gesturing with his arm. Although Rowe couldn’t hear what they were saying, it was evident to him they were having an argument. The lone man turned his horse as if to leave.

  The sound of the shot was no more than a pop by the time it reached Rowe. Hit in the back, the man fell from his saddle and his horse danced away. The man who had fired the gun shoved it into his holster and dismounted. He kicked at the man on the ground with his booted foot, then stripped him of his holster, gun, and the contents of his pockets. One of his companions caught the dead man’s frightened horse, and they proceeded up the trail toward Trinity.

  “The bastards didn’t even bury the man,” Rowe murmured.

  He closed the spyglass and hurried back to his horse. The men were deserters, or they had killed for the army uniforms. Rowe figured that he would get to town fifteen or twenty minutes before the trio. After what he had seen, he had no doubt about the kind of men they were. Any decent human would have buried the man he killed, regardless of the reason for killing him. To leave a man’s body for the buzzards and wolves and calmly ride away was the act of the morally depraved.

  Rowe put his heels to the big black horse. The Arabian loved to run, and where the trail was smooth, he let him. If Rowe had only himself to consider, there wouldn’t be the urgency to get back. He could hole up in the stone building until the trio left town unless they decided to set fire to the buildings, in which case he would have to stop them.

  The women and the child were his concern. They would be totally helpless against such men. Rage at the thought of a man forcing himself on Katy or the child’s mother knifed through him. Rage made him reckless, and he found himself letting Apollo run full speed over a rocky, twisting course. He pulled up on the reins and slowed the horse down. Now was not the time to take unnecessary chances. He was all that stood between the women and that trio riding into town.

  CHAPTER

  Three

  The sound of a horse running hard caused Katy to snap shut the book she had been reading and hurry to the door. A big black horse was coming up through the center of town at full speed. She reached for the rifle and checked the load before stepping out onto the porch.

  “Who is it?” Mary, with Theresa in her arms, stuck her head out the doorway so that she could see.

  “Stay inside.” Katy backed into the building and prepared to slam the door.

  The rider came directly to their door and jumped from the saddle.

  “Stay back!” Katy shouted. “Put one foot on this porch and I’ll blow it off.”

  “Put the gun down, Katy. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

  Katy’s mouth dropped open when the man said her name. There was something familiar about the buckskins, the wide shoulders, the flat-crowned leather hat, and the way the gun belt clung to his narrow hips.

  “Who . . . are you?” The thought hovered in the back of her mind that the man’s battle-scarred face was that of an ancient warrior.

  “Garrick Rowe. I shot the cougar.” The big brown dog came and lay at Rowe’s feet, his tongue hanging out. “I’ve been here damn near a week. You’ve seen me—”

  “The man who shot the cougar had a beard.”

  “Good Lord! I shaved!”

  The eyes that looked into Katy’s were as black as midnight. The hair that curled down over his forehead, his eyebrows and mustache were as black as his eyes. Hard cheekbones, a wide firm mouth, an arrogant nose, a square chin, and stubborn jaw completed his face. He stood still, looking at her in the same intense way she was looking at him.

  “If you’re Bushy-face, why’ve you been sneaking around?” Katy snarled, and lowered the rifle. “Why didn’t you come tell us who you were and what you’re doing here?” Her eyes clung to the dark craggy face of the man who towered over her.

 

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