A Grave for Lassiter (12 page)

He thought it best to make no comment. Already once tonight he had put his foot in it.

“I want to get rolling by dawn, so I better head for my blankets.”

He got up as she removed her apron, threw it over a chair, and went across the room, her heels rapping on the bare floor. She opened the door to her sleeping quarters. There she stood, waiting, hands at her sides, head tilted.

Although she presented an appealing figure, he didn't pick up her obvious invitation.

“If I don't see you in the morning,” he said lightly, “say a prayer for us.”

He walked over and thanked her for the supper, then kissed the tip of her nose. But as he started to turn away, she clutched at his arms. As her fingers tightened, one part of his mind said, “Why not?” And he actually lifted his hands to her shoulders.

“I've got to go,” he said suddenly.

“Can't you . . . stay?”

Pretending he hadn't heard, he hurried to the door, gave her a wave of the hand, and stepped out into the moon-swept darkness.

It was not quite daylight when Lassiter and the men ate breakfast. But they were ready to roll when the eastern lid of the horizon lifted just enough to let out a thick gray streak of light.

Melody hurried from the office, tightening a shawl across her shoulders. All the men eyed her appreciatively as she came closer to the wagons.

“Lassiter, be careful,” she said, panting from her run.

“We'll be back before you know it,” he said confidently.

From the saddle of his black horse he blew her a kiss, which she threw back to him. He was reflecting on how pretty she looked in a bright yellow dress, her hair pinned up. She'd make a good wife for some man. Too bad she had allowed herself to be hoodwinked by Vanderson.

He hadn't slept well. His mind had been on Melody.

And on Roma with her flashing eyes, the strong white teeth that could so playfully nip his flesh, the rounded limbs that at times were so lively.

Cool off, Lassiter, he warned himself, then gave a short laugh as he rode to the lead wagon. “Vamonos! Let's go!” he shouted at the men and as the wagons began creaking into motion, he added a second command, so familiar in the freighting business. “Stretch 'em out!”

Chapter Twelve

On the morning Lassiter left for Montclair, Vance Vanderson was at High Pass, twenty miles west. He was on his way south and intended to bypass Bluegate and most certainly Aspen City. He wanted nothing to remind him of his brief but hectic association with Melody. She had turned out to be a nosy bitch with her litany of “Where are you going? What time will you be home, or what day, rather . . . Isn't that more money than you intended spending? . . . We're not rich, you know . . . Did you
have
to get in a poker game? You know Farrell's a cheat. You told me so yourself.”

That last remark produced their worst quarrel, mainly because he feared it would get back to Farrell. He had been fairly drunk the night he told her about sitting next to Farrell in several games and surreptitiously slipping extra cards into his boot top.

To have someone spread the word that Farrell was a cheat would enrage the man. No, he'd give Bluegate a wide berth. And he certainly had no wish to see his unresponsive wife.

That was why he intended keeping to the mountains, even though it was longer, rather than chance running into her or others who might ask embarrassing questions.

He'd stop by Rimrock and see his ailing stepfather. Recently he'd heard Herm was still there. But he had become stricken with the same disease that had taken his brother Josh. Herm couldn't stay away from a bottle when things went wrong. Losing his leg had been a mortal blow to his pride, so the doctor had written Vance in Denver. He knew Herm would be good for a few dollars if he stopped in while passing through Rim-rock. And when Herm finally took off, which seemed inevitable, the way he was drinking, what he had left would go to his loyal stepson, Vance. Just thinking of it brought a hard smile to his lips. He certainly had more right to the estate, whatever remained, than Melody, who was only a niece.

One thing he regretted was Herm's investing eleven thousand dollars in the sorry freight line. Vanderson would have made much better use of the money by taking a flyer in mining stocks. In Denver he'd been caught up in the excitement of buying and selling, but lacked the necessary capital. To make a killing would take thousands, not the hundreds that seemed to be about the extent of his poke at any given time.

He was eating breakfast in the combination saloon and general store where he'd played poker the night before. Long after midnight he was the big winner. At the start it had been a low-stakes game, but as the evening progressed the ante was gradually raised. By three in the morning he had cleaned out all the other players. Most of them were drifters or miners, plus a few cowhands who worked the mountain ranches.

He had gone out back and locked himself in the privy and counted his money by the light of matches. His heart soared. He was over five hundred dollars to the good—his luck was changing. His handsome face was lighted by a wide grin. There'd been too many long dry months for comfort. His good luck here in High Pass left no doubt that he was going to have a prosperous year.

As he was finishing his breakfast at the end of the bar, some men came in. They had the look of the mountains about them, bearded and roughly dressed. He thought of suggesting a game, then decided against it. There were six of them and if he was caught padding his hand from extra cards it could be disastrous. Last night a shotgun guard had been on duty, but this morning there was only a gray-haired bartender who shuffled rather than walked.

Apparently the men had just met up with each other outside town, for they talked as if they hadn't been together for a spell. Vanderson was just sopping up the last of his egg with a cold biscuit when he heard Melody's name mentioned.

Holding his breath, he listened, head cocked. According to a large man with a full red beard, Melody had hired a new crew and was said to be prospering. Kane Farrell even seemed to accept the new status, so stated the bearded man. She had bought extra wagons and seemed on the verge of obtaining some big contracts. The man mentioned that one bit of business was to haul much needed equipment to the Bitterroot Mine, one of the largest in the mountains.

Vanderson was excited. By God, his luck
was
changing. Hearing Melody's good fortune was indeed pleasing to his ears. But then in looking back, he always did have a rather warm association with Lady Luck. His luck came unexpectedly and in strange ways.

Instead of pushing over the mountains and heading south as he intended, he went east from High Pass straight to Aspen City. He would make up for the quarrel with Melody, using his considerable experience in crushing female hearts and, if in the mood, putting them back together again. There was no reason why he shouldn't share in his wife's good fortune, he thought with a short laugh.

The following day Melody was washing the dishes used in the noon meal she had shared with Dad Horn-beck, in the headquarters building. His wound was healing and these days he always carried a rifle. She knew he thought he was protecting her, something she didn't need. She could take care of herself. But it did give the old man something to think about.

Being around Lassiter had taught her self-reliance. She had never understood the meaning of love as she did now. There had been times in her short but turbulent marriage when she had vowed she would fall in love with her husband if it killed her.

But Lassiter was a different story. Closing her eyes, she pictured him, tall and lean with the ink-black hair, his face darkened from exposure. And the startling blue eyes, his most arresting feature. She felt her heart lurch pleasantly.

“Melody, my darling! I'm
home!”

She was so entranced that the male voice fairly sang through her mind, because for one glorious moment she thought it might be Lassiter, come back early for one reason or other.

But in the next breath she realized the voice wasn't Lassiter's. She had been standing in a bar of warm sunlight coming through a side window, holding a tin plate she had been about to wipe and put away. Standing on the other side of the table stood Vance Vanderson, wearing the boyish smile he once told her was guaranteed to set female hearts racing. The conceited fool, she recalled thinking at the time.

At first she was plainly surprised to see him again. She had considered him out of her life for good. He continued to smile at her, as if he had just been down to Bluegate for the day instead of having been gone for weeks up to Denver and the Lord only knew where else.

Her surprise was turning to anger when he skirted the table and caught her by an elbow, so that she dropped the plate. It went banging across the floor. He pulled her close and planted his lips on hers. His tongue moved inside her mouth. She was powerless to resist because he was gripping her shoulders.

Although the kiss had left her completely chilled, he seemed impressed by his accomplishment. She thought of wiping a hand across her lips, then decided not to go that far. He did have a violent temper and could change in a flash from gentleman to demon. He had never struck her, although it had been threatened.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “What a welcome you gave me!”

She stared. My God, he actually seemed to believe it.

She backed up so he couldn't grab her again. It was time to settle a few things, she told herself. Among them was the fact that she didn't love him and that so far as she was concerned he could get right back in the saddle and ride out of her life, as he had done before.

But before she could open her mouth, he was dumping gold coins among the papers on her desk. One of them rolled to the floor, which caused him to give a cheerful cry as he snatched it up. Something like a little kid who has found a bright shiny penny, she thought.

As she watched him with a puzzled frown, he stacked the gold coins and added some silver dollars and even a ten dollar bill. They seldom saw paper money in the mountains.

He made a dramatic gesture at the money. “There represents hours of toil, my love.”

“You mean you
worked
for it?”

“Every nickel. You seem surprised.”

“Frankly . . .”

“I've turned over a new leaf,” he interrupted. “Marriage to you has given me a new sense of responsibility.”

She smoothed the green dress that he had twisted in his violent embrace. “Oh, I find that hard to believe.”

“True, so help me God.” He stood, fairly tall, wide through the shoulders, with light brown hair showing under his tipped back hat. The matching mustache was thick and hooked down past the corners of his mouth. Sincerity swam in his hazel eyes. “I worked for a time in a gambling hall and then one night I met this preacher.”

“Don't tell me you got religion!” she started to scoff.

“The Reverend Collins. I talked to him about you. And above all, he stressed the sanctity of marriage and he told me to come back to you just as quick as I could.”

“I can't imagine you being influenced by a preacher.”

“I vowed that I wouldn't return to you without money. So I got a job with a freight line. It took a lot of dangerous hauls into the Rockies to earn that money. I got so I could handle mules real good. Some are stubborn as hell, though. 'Scuse the cuss word, Melody.”

“Oh, I'm used to worse than that.”

She had been slowly backing away from him, but he suddenly closed the gap and slipped a long arm around her waist.

“Let's,” he whispered, and started to push her toward the bedroom door.

All she could think of to say was, “Somebody might come in.”

He looked thoughtful. “Well, if you think it best we wait for tonight, maybe we should. Won't be anybody to interrupt us then. Got any coffee?”

Somehow she had to get rid of him before Lassiter returned. Perhaps he would move on of his own accord.

Many times that day he mentioned the long hours he had put in to earn the money. “Just to give it to you, Melody.”

She had locked the money in the safe. Perhaps fifty dollars of it was due to his benevolence. But the rest of it had come out of the company weeks ago. Loans, some of it. Or sums he had taken from the cash drawer. Many times she had caught him helping himself. But he always had a plausible explanation: one of the wagons needing a new tongue or anything he might name that would cost money.

When Dad Hornbeck came in for his supper there was a definite strain. Hornbeck didn't offer to shake hands. “So you come back,” he grunted, a sour look on his seamed face.

The lamb was overdone, the parsnips from the root cellar blackened globs of vegetable.

Melody apologized to Hornbeck for the meal. He said, “Reckon I'll be takin' my meals at the cookshack till the boys git back.”

After Hornbeck had gone and Vance was drying the dishes she had washed, he said, “I figure we oughta get rid of Old Hornbeck.”

Melody's head came up.
We
, Vance had said. It made her stiffen with anger. Just because she had married him in a moment of despair and self-pity didn't mean she was obligated to let him share in the company. But each time she tried to make her point, he deftly danced away like an experienced swordsman in a duel. And he would invariably start talking about his great new friend, the Reverend Collins.

“I can remember the times the reverend would say that a wife's duty was to please a husband. It's God's law, Melody. Over and over he would say it.”

“Vance, I think you and I should have a serious talk.”

Vanderson slumped in a chair, fingers locked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. She supposed that many women would consider themselves fortunate to have such a boyishly handsome man for a husband.

“Go ahead, talk, Melody. But let me tell you the reverend used to say that if a wife turned her back on her husband, she'd end up in perdition, sure as hell.” He laughed. “Hell being the same as perdition.”