Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (33 page)

“I was wrong to judge. The idea of you giving me money that was earned off the backs of slaves set me off. Please forgive me.”

“Forgiven and forgotten. But boy, you sure can go from a friendship truce to firing with both barrels in the flash of an eye.”

“My father said my fiery temper was a gift from my mother. I wouldn’t know, firsthand. She died when I was born.” Barleigh shrugged her shoulders.
 

“I’m sorry.” Hughes drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

“Besides the taxes, there’s also the matter of rebuilding the house, the barn. Animals to replace. . . .” Barleigh shuddered, started to say something more, and then looked away.

Laying on the picnic blanket watching her, Hughes tried to follow her gaze but it led to nowhere in particular that he could discern. Hearing her speak those words, saying that her mother died in childbirth, made him sick to his stomach. His jaw clinched, his eyes darkened, but he wouldn’t allow her to see his reaction—he was well versed in the art of secrecy.
 

He waited in patient silence for her to gather her thoughts, hoping she would let down a little of the wall she’d built between them—the barrier she’d fashioned between her and the rest of the world.
 

She looked back at him, her brow furrowed, and said in such a soft voice that he had to sit up and lean forward to hear. “A midnight Indian raid. . . . The night of the Comanche moon. Birdie, Papa, and Uncle Jack, all were killed. Aunt Winnie and I hid in the goat shed down in the cellar with my new baby sister, Starling. That night, the moon was so big—so bright. Beautiful, yet terrifying. It spotlighted a swarm of Comanche up on the Brazos River ridge. I saw them just as clearly as I knew they saw us.”

Hughes put his hands on her arms, turning her more to face him. “That night, what else do you remember?”

“I remember Papa being worried about the worsening skirmishes between the Reservation Indians and the settlers in the area. But Papa said it wasn’t the Reservation Indians doing the attacking.” Barleigh’s voice quivered.

“Who did he say it was?” asked Hughes.
 

“He said it was either white men doing it and blaming it on the Reservation Indians, or it was Quanah Parker’s band of Comanche. There had been reports of Quanah raiding in the area, according to Papa’s friend, Captain Goodnight. You might know Charlie Goodnight. He’s a Texas Ranger, too.”

“He’s a friend.” Cold sweat beaded on Hughes’s forehead and his gut tightened. He sat his plate on the blanket and stood, taking off his hat, running his hands through his hair.
 

But Quanah Parker was in San Antonio. Could he have traveled that far in a day or two? A Comanche on horseback riding hard can cover 250 miles or more in twenty-four hours, stealing fresh mounts along the way. It was possible. . . .

“What are you thinking? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Barleigh said.

“I’m trying to figure out if Quanah Parker could have been in—” Hughes stopped himself, trying to remember if Barleigh had shared with him where she was from, or if he was remembering it from his tracking her down.

“Been in what?”
 

“When, exactly, was the raid on your ranch? The date? And, did you tell me where in Texas you lived?”
 

“The raid happened Friday, September the twenty-seventh. Just after midnight. And, no, I haven’t told you where I’m from. My land is in Palo Pinto, a half day’s ride west of Fort Worth on the Brazos River.”

“When you saw the mounted warriors on the ridge, could you make them out clearly? Could you see if there seemed to be a leader, or chief, and if so, what color was his horse?” Hughes drilled his questions, his words coming rapid-fire.

“There were so many, well over a hundred. I’m certain there was a leader who gave the signal to attack. I don’t recall the color of his horse. White, maybe?”

Hughes paced back and forth, then walked to where the horses stood tied. He rested his forehead against his mare’s neck, breathing in the woodsy, familiar smell of a sweaty horse. That smell always took him back to his first memory. It was the smell of his childhood and the hours he spent racing his pony through the mossy woods of his home.
 

“Damn it to hell,” he said, his booming voice and his fists pounding against the saddle, causing his horse to nicker and shy away.
 

The words of the obese blackjack dealer in San Antonio, Jerry Allsup, rang in his head: “
Mark my words, but you’ll regret not killing that son of a bitch while you had the chance
.”And he was right. Hughes regretted not having killed Quanah Parker, even if his warriors would have filled him with their arrows.

“Hughes?”

He turned and saw her looking at him with fear and concern in her cat-like eyes that looked like Leighselle’s, except Barleigh’s were blue, not green. The tilt of her head, the slope of her nose, the point of her chin, her fine cheekbones, her gracefulness even while dressed like a boy, gripped his heart.
 

“You look so much like . . .” He ran a hand down his face, shutting off the thought.

“I look so much like what?” she asked, standing, moving cautiously closer.

“Nothing, Barleigh. You remind me of someone I know. End of story. We better go. I have a long ride tomorrow.”
 

He began rolling the plates and glasses together in the blanket, tossing the food aside, throwing out the rest of the champagne. One of the crystal glasses banged against a plate and splintered into a spider’s web of cracks.
 

“Goddamnit.” He threw the broken glass against a rock. Then, picking up the other glass, he threw it, too, sending shards of fine, leaded German crystal flying into the air.

Barleigh placed a gentling hand on his arm. “Hey. Hey. Easy. Let me help you with putting these things away. What’s wrong?”

Hughes shrugged off her hand. “No. Don’t. Just. . . . Please get on your horse. I’m in a hurry.”
 

There was a letter to write. He would beg Leighselle to stop this damned lie—he couldn’t do it anymore. If Barleigh knew that she had a mother—that her mother had paid the taxes on her land—Barleigh would go home and would stop this foolish, dangerous masquerade she was playing.

“Hughes, what have I done? What’s wrong?” Barleigh followed him as he slung his saddlebag over the cantle, tying it in place with the leather latigo. “Look at me. What have I done?” She stood close behind him, waiting for an answer.

Turning around, Hughes looked down and into her eyes, which were the color of the sky. He reached out his hand, stroked her cheek, rubbing his thumb across a smudge of dirt. Then, lifting her bangs, he checked on her cut forehead, tracing around the bandage with his finger.
 

“I don’t know how in the world you have everyone fooled into thinking you’re a boy. You’re so pretty. So very pretty,” he said, a sad tone to his voice.

“People believe what they want to believe, or what they’re told to believe. What have I done to anger you? Something’s changed.”

“You’ve done nothing. I’ve just come to the conclusion that you’ve been right all along. I should’ve never kissed you. I don’t have the time or the luxury to worry about you,” he said, a firm set to his jaw.

“The luxury? I didn’t ask you to worry about me. You appointed yourself to that role. You don’t have to speak to me in such a rude fashion. You don’t have to speak to me at all, as far as I’m concerned. What I’m trying to accomplish would have far fewer risks if you and I never crossed paths again.” She crossed her arms against her chest.
 

“Be careful what you ask for.” He turned and swung into the saddle, guiding his mare up the steep grade and away from the cave.

The ride back into town was even more silent than the ride out. Hughes rode ahead of Barleigh, keeping his mare at a fast trot. Each time she caught up with him, he would speed up just enough to make it obvious that he didn’t want to ride side by side.

*****

Barleigh reined her gelding to a stop at the end of the road and watched as Hughes led his mare into the barn, he not once looking back to see if she was behind. She had wanted him to leave her alone. She had pushed him away—told him to never kiss her again, to never speak to her again. So why did she feel like her heart was shattering like the crystal glasses he’d smashed against the boulders?
 

Minutes later, she watched as he left carrying his saddlebags in one hand, something clutched in the other, and headed for the Salt Lake House across the street. Barleigh squeezed her heels and clucked, “Come on, boy, walk on.” The gelding complied, responding to the gentle cue.

“Mr. Lévesque was sure in a foul mood,” said Big Brody as he swept the center aisle of the barn. “Didn’t say nothing to me. He scribbled a quick message for the Carson City mail, asked Mario to have Carson City telegraph it to San Antonio, then he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and left.”

So that’s what he was carrying
.

“I can’t say. We rode together for a while, then he took off on his own. Said something about a big job tomorrow.” Barleigh finished currying the gelding and put him in his stall with a fresh pail of water and scoop of oats. “Stoney already gone?”

“He rode out a few seconds ago. That’s his dust hanging on the wind.” Big Brody nodded over his shoulder toward the wide, double doors that were slid open, allowing fresh air into the barn.

Barleigh peered down the road but Stoney was out of sight. “A bit late leaving, wasn’t he?”

“Mail was late coming in. Some problem back down the line, don’t know what for sure. Say, just so you know. . . .” Big Brody lowered his voice. “Mario ordered me to take that Mexican sombrero of his and burn it. Today. You might want to hide it someplace.”
 

“Mario can go to hell,” said Barleigh, giving Brody a thank you nod. A good spit on the ground was called for.

“I’ve been to hell,” said Mario, walking in the door, slapping Barleigh on the back. “Hell’s living for eighty-seven days in the steerage of a cargo ship and fighting over who gets the fattest rat for your one meal of the day. It’s seeing your mother and father’s bodies tossed overboard along with the rest of the stinking trash. Hell’s being ten years old and alone in New York City, someone stealing your shoes off your feet while you slept, waking up hungry, picking through horse shit with your bare hands, searching for the undigested oats. That’s my version of hell.”

Big Brody rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, and then went back to sweeping.
 

“I didn’t mean that, Mario,” said Barleigh. “Yes, sir, that sounds like hell to me, too.”

“Don’t mind me.” Mario gave a dismissing wave of his hands. “My toes are cold. So, what’d you do, Bar? Lévesque came back sullen and looking for a good drunk.”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, a little too defensively she thought.

“Maybe he’s lonely for his lady friend in San Antonio that he’s writing to,” said Mario with a mischievous grin. “Maybe his toes and other body parts need warmed.” Mario laughed.
 

“Maybe it’s because I told him he couldn’t have Dorthea, that I wanted her all for myself.” Barleigh spat on the ground and left the barn, the sounds of laughter from Mario and Big Brody following her out the door.

Barleigh crossed the wide street as she made her way toward the hotel, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed, crawl under the covers, pull the sheet over her head, and hibernate for the rest of the day. She missed Aunt Winnie—missed Starling. She missed Texas. She wanted to go home, even if home was just a burned piece of land
.

“Hey, watch where you’re walking,” said a gruff voice, reeling from the surprise impact of two people colliding. The speech was slurred, the clothes reeking with alcohol, dirt, sweat, and urine.
 

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” said Barleigh. “I guess my feet didn’t know where to be.”

“In a holy place of worship is where you should be,” said the old man, straightening his sour-smelling coat. “It’s Sunday morning.”

“And where should you be then?” asked Barleigh.

“That’s none of your business. But if you could spare a few coins to cover my breakfast, I’ll forget about your rude behavior.” The stinking suit held out his hand.

Barleigh fished around in her pockets and came out with some spare change, handing it over to the old man. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’ll forget about your rude behavior, too.”

“Thank you, miss. God bless you.”

Barleigh stopped in her tracks and stared into the old man’s watery, bloodshot eyes. “What did you say?”
 

“I said thank you, miss, and God bless you. That was all. You ain’t going to make trouble for me, are you?”

“No. No trouble. Blessings, or whatever, to you too.” Barleigh tossed him another coin and went into the hotel.
 

Thank you, Miss? Miss? What the hell am I doing here?

The room was dark, quiet, the four bunk beds that Big Brody and Yates shared along with the new stock handlers, Lars and Liam, were empty. The two single beds, hers and Stoney’s, were empty as well. With everyone gone, she had the room to herself for a change. No having to lay here listening to farting and belching—no disgusting, raunchy humor about women’s genitalia, and then pretending to laugh
.

Barleigh lay across her bead, stretching out over the top of the covers, enjoying the quiet. She kicked off her boots, loosened the cord on her shirt, and untucked the ends, getting comfortable.

She turned her head and looked at the wall between her and Hughes’s room, trying to envision what he was doing. Would he be lying on his bed with his boots kicked off? With his shirt off? Would he be sitting by the window, sipping his whiskey? Why would he need whiskey this early in the day? Why was he kind one minute, then rude and sullen the next? Was he missing someone—his lady-love in San Antonio?
 

Why do I care about any of this?

Barleigh slid out of bed and tiptoed over to the wall, pressing her ear against it, trying to make out the muffled sounds she was hearing coming from the other side. She heard voices and wondered who he was speaking to. Was he talking to himself? Did he talk in his sleep? She wondered what it would be like to sleep in his bed, to feel his naked body against hers if she woke up during the night
.
She pressed harder against the wall, imagining it was Hughes’s body she was feeling pressing against hers in return, like the last kiss from last night in the alley.