Chasing the Sun (7 page)

“I did.”

“And?”

“Like we thought, Grant signed the Coinage Bill a month ago. All gold, no silver. As of February twelfth, our silver mines are virtually worthless.”

“Hell.”

“I know. It’s got the banks scared too. They’re shutting down loan money, which means farmers and cattlemen who operate on credit will go down first.”

“Not us.”

“Not us. Not yet anyway. We still have the Army beef contract.”

They drank in silence for a time. Brady comforted himself with the fact that the mines were about played out anyway, although they still produced enough to keep the workers paid and the machinery running. Now he’d have to shut them both down and let the miners go.
Damn that Grant
.

“Anything new on the horse flu?” Hank asked.

Brady snorted. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Epizootic.’ Sounds like a damn carnival act.” Leaning forward, he picked up the decanter, topped off his glass, and returned the decanter to the desk.

“They say it started in Toronto,” he went on after he took a sip. “And from there headed south, then west. A real mess. Even the Army is on foot. Without horses, Indians don’t get fought, locomotives don’t get coal, ships don’t get unloaded, and fire wagons don’t get pulled. Boston near burned to the ground.”

“What about the horses?”

As usual, Hank was more worried about the animals than the humans. Not that Brady blamed him. With the mines no longer supplying income and the cattle market in jeopardy, the ranch’s future might rest solely on their slow-growing but highly regarded breeding program of mustang-and-Thoroughbred-crossbred horses. Which was why RosaRoja was under quarantine; they could ill afford an outbreak of horse flu, especially now.

“It’s bad,” Brady said. “At least twenty-five percent dead overall. Close to eighty percent in some places.”

“Hell.”

“I know. But the
Chronicle
said it had spread as far west as Prescott as of last week, so maybe it’s passed us by. We’ll give it another week then see.”

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes and moaning through the gap under the porch door like some poor lost soul begging to come in.

Hank took a deep swallow then sucked air against his teeth. “And Blake?”

Brady didn’t want to think about Franklin Blake right then. Or how the bastard had convinced the bank to sell him the loan papers they’d been holding on the smelter Brady and several other mine owners had built as a cooperative enterprise.

Blake had been after RosaRoja’s highly profitable mines for a while now. They had never considered selling to him, mainly because they didn’t need the money, but also because Blake had a reputation for dodgy deals. But now Brady wished they had sold, especially since the mines were now damn near worthless. He had to wonder if Blake would try to come after the ranch next.

“How you figure to pay him?” Hank asked.

“I’m thinking on it.”

“Better think fast. He’ll be calling in the note soon.”

“I know.”

Silence again. The fire had died down to embers, but neither of them bothered to add wood. The moon started a slow slide down the western sky, and coyotes added their voices to the wind serenade.

“I guess we could use Jack’s share of the mine profits,” Brady said after a while.

“We could,” his brother allowed. “If it was ours to use.”

“Don’t go moral on me.”

Hank looked at him over the rim of his glass.

“It’s not like he did anything to earn it,” Brady persisted. “Hell, he doesn’t even know it’s there.”

Hank continued to watch him.

Brady hated that. Hated how Hank played him like a trout with those watchful silences. “Jesus. You’re one hardheaded sonofabitch, you know that?”

Still no response.

It wore Brady down. With a sigh of defeat, he thunked his empty glass onto the desktop and rose. “Okay. We’ll wait until Jack comes. He said he’d be home in a year and it’s been almost that long. Then we’ll ask him. Meanwhile, I’ll try to come up with another plan to raise the money.”

“Whatever you think best, Ma,” Hank said.

“Go to hell.”

His brother just smiled.

If he wasn’t so damn big, Brady would have hit him.

San Francisco

“HOW LONG DO I HAVE?” DAISY ASKED FROM THE DOORWAY of the stage office the next morning.

Markham looked up from a stack of papers. “For what?”

“To make a decision about the tour.”

“The troupe leaves New Orleans the end of May. Two months. Why?”

Daisy stepped inside and shut the door behind her. “I’ve got an idea, a way to come up with enough money for Kate.” She had lain awake most of the night on her narrow cot in the storage room at Saint Michael’s, reliving Johnson’s death and thinking about Lucy’s suggestion. And the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. It wasn’t really coercion. Just a friendly request for a little money. She truly had no choice. Now that Johnson was dead—she shuddered, remembering that ghastly scene—they had to leave. And since she had no family of her own to run to, where else could she go but to Jack’s?

Markham took the stub from his mouth, removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue, flicked it away, then replaced the stub. “And do what, missy? Leave her in the wings while you’re on stage? What kind of life is that for a kid?”

“I’m thinking to bring someone along to watch her,” Daisy said, refusing to be discouraged by his lack of enthusiasm. “A nanny.”

“A nanny. And how you going to pay for all that?”

“Her pa.”

The stub dipped. His eyes widened. “I thought he was in Australia.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But his family is in New Mexico.”

“New Mexico.” His chair creaked as he tilted it back on two legs, hand planted on the armrest, elbow pointing out at a sharp angle. With his other hand, he took the stub out of his mouth, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, then studied the unlit end as if he saw something there of great importance.

He had an entire routine going with that cigar butt, Daisy thought, watching him in amusement. He ought to take it on tour with them.

“Do you even know where New Mexico is, missy?”

The pastor had shown her a map. “It’s between here and New Orleans. And since I’m headed that way anyway, I thought I’d stop off and say hello.”
And beg for help.
The idea was distasteful, but again, what choice did she have? “I take a train to Santa Fe, then a coach to Val Rosa, and a buggy from there. It’ll take about a week.” And almost every penny of her meager savings. Still, she had to try.

“That’s Indian country, you know.”

“I heard.”

“Dangerous place for a woman on her own. Especially one with a kid.”

Daisy felt a tug in her heart. Mr. Markham really was a kind man, despite his touchy ways. Mentally she added his name to her list of guardian angels. “You worried about me, Mr. Markham?” she asked with a smile.

His gaze slid away. He leaned forward and the chair thumped back to the floor. “I quit worrying about fools a long time ago,” he muttered, the cigar back in place as he riffled through the papers on his desk. “Go on if you’re leaving. I got work to do.”

Daisy studied the dusty bowler hat that hid his face from her. A sad, regretful feeling moved through her, and she realized this good-bye would be almost as painful as the one to Lucy. This man had been kind to her. He had given her a chance when no one else would, and for a few moments had made her believe in the impossible. In herself. Even if she never made it onto the stage again, she owed him for his kindness.

“You’ve been real good to me, Mr. Markham,” she told the crown of his hat. “I thank you for that. And for letting me audition.”

Without looking up, he shrugged. “It was my job. Nothing more.”

“Of course it was.”

South of San Francisco

“GONE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GONE?”

Jack Wilkins glared at the ancient nun guarding the gate of the Catholic Abbey perched like a boil on a hilltop above the shimmering Pacific. He was tired, his foot hurt, his stomach still hadn’t found its land legs, and after months at sea the last thing he wanted to hear was that he’d come back too late. “Gone where?”

The nun blinked up at him like a startled bird. “New Mexico Territory.”

He almost fell off his crutch. “New Mexico?” Had she given up this crazy nun-thing? Was she back at the ranch, waiting for him to come home? “She’s not a nun anymore?” he asked, daring to hope.

“Novitiate,” the old woman corrected. “Sister Maria Elena hasn’t yet taken her final vows.”

If she hadn’t taken final vows, he still had a chance. “What’s she doing in New Mexico?”

“She has gone to say good-bye to her temporal family before beginning her ministry in ... hmm, now where was it?” She frowned, tapping a gnarly forefinger against her wrinkled cheek as if to roust a memory loose. “It’s an island, I believe. Yes!” She showed toothless gums in a pink smile. “An island in the Kingdom of Hawaii.”

Hope faded. Jack had been to the islands of Hawaii. In his desperation to put meaning back into his life after Elena had deserted him for the convent, he had spent months—years—traveling all over the South Pacific, from Samoa to Tahiti to New Zealand and Australia and back again. He knew of only one reason a nun would travel such a distance to take a ministry.

“The Island of Molokai?” he asked, his voice so strained he could hardly get the words out.

“That’s it! Yes, Molokai. There’s a small town ... on the coast, I think.”

The muscles in his chest clenched. “Kalawao?”
Please, not Kalawao
.

“Yes! The settlement of Kalawao.” The nun crossed herself. “May God bless her.”

For a moment Jack couldn’t catch his breath. He felt shaky and light-headed. Not his beautiful Elena in Kalawao. It was obscene. Unacceptable. Wrong.

Perhaps sensing his turmoil, the little nun reached through the ironwork of the closed gate to touch his shoulder. “Are you all right, my son?”

Jack stared bleakly at her, silently willing her to say she was mistaken, that she had the wrong nun, the wrong settlement, on the wrong island.

But her face remained serene and her faded eyes showed nothing but pity.

It made him want to yell at her, hit something, bellow his rage at God for this new insult. “How long?” he ground out.

The old woman patted his shoulder and smiled. “Why, forever, my son.”

“No, before she leaves! How long before she leaves?”

He must have shouted it. With a skittish look, the nun snatched her hand back and scuttled out of reach. Eyeing him from a safe distance, she spoke so quickly all the words ran together. “May, but she must prepare for her vows, so she will return in mid-April.”

A month. He had a month to convince her.

Resolved, Jack turned, his crutch banging on the stone steps as he limped to his horse.

“Go with God, my son,” the old nun called.

Not likely
, Jack thought. He and God had parted company three years ago. Now they were bitter enemies. And Jack would fight Him, the Devil, and all the hounds of hell before he’d let Elena live the rest of her life in a leper colony.

Four

INTENT ON GETTING TO THE RANCH AND ELENA AS FAST as he could, Jack arranged with his ship’s captain to have his trunk sent to the ranch as soon as the harbor agent cleared the cargo, picked up some cash from his San Francisco bank, then hurried to the train depot. Figuring it would be better for his broken foot to sit rather than ride over twelve hundred miles by horseback, he sold his horse and tack to a disembarking passenger, then went inside to buy a ticket.

He wasn’t sure how close to the ranch he could get before having to either take a coach or buy another horse. When he’d left New Mexico three years ago, the southern route of the transcontinental wasn’t even finished. Now, as he studied the giant railroad map painted across the back wall of the depot, he could see that dozens of intersecting lines and spurs and branches had sprung up in his absence. Even more surprising was the notation above a twenty-mile stretch of track that snaked down from the main line southeast of Santa Fe to a small town named Redemption. The notation read, “Wilkins Cattle and Mining.”

Mining?
When had they gotten into mining? And mining what?

His second shock came a moment later when upon closer examination of the map he saw that Redemption was located well within the northwest corner of Wilkins land.

Mines, a rail spur, and their own town too?

We must be rich,
Jack thought with a grin. Apparently his brothers had been busy in his absence.

After purchasing a ticket on the eastbound departing that afternoon—which actually followed the coast south for four hundred miles before turning east—he hobbled over to a small cantina behind the depot, where he ordered a celebratory drink and a plate of frijoles.

Wilkins Cattle and Mining.
He liked the sound of that. The previous name—RosaRoja Rancho—was past history, too reminiscent of the feud between his family and Elena’s and all the lives that had been lost because of it. Besides, the roses it had been named for were gone. After Elena’s brother, Sancho, set the ranch afire, most of the roses their mother had planted around the foundation of the house in honor of his birth had been charred to cinders along with everything else.