Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (37 page)

“How much further to Salt Lake?” She walked to where the horses were tied, shaking her head, both arms extended, her palms pressing outward against this foreign world closing in on her.
 

She waited for Hughes to follow, and she couldn’t speak. Words that formed in her head crumbled to dust before escaping her mouth. Hughes let her have her silence. When he was in the saddle, she mounted the horse behind him, with the lead rope that connected them to Stoney’s horse dallied around their saddle horn.
 

Barleigh’s mind was tangled with distressed thoughts and images. Her entire life had been a lie. Did Papa know that her mother didn’t die in childbirth? Did it not matter because he had grown to love Birdie? And Grandfather—Grandfather lied and manipulated the totality of her existence. Was Birdie complicit in the charade, or did she, a slave, not have a choice? A mother, alive all that time—all that guilt—that with every birthday Barleigh enjoyed, it was an anniversary of her mother’s death.
 

And Hughes—hired to track her down—and on finding her, knowing who she was, yet pretending not to. The telegraphs to her mother in San Antonio, giving her updates. Letting Barleigh think that he was falling for her with his kisses and his false worry. And Barleigh, falling for him.
 

The silent words banged around in her head until she couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t breathe. A roiling panic began swelling from deep within. Cold, prickly sweat beaded on her skin as waves of nausea washed over her.
 

“Please, stop the horse,” she said, but before she could finish the words, her stomach betrayed her, retching the sourdough biscuits and reheated coffee. Leaning away, she tried to throw up so that it didn’t foul the horse or Hughes.
 

Hughes reined to a stop and lowered her to the ground, retrieving a canteen of water from his bag. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right? Am
I
? How can
I
be all right when
I
don’t know who
I am
?”

“You’re still you.
You
have not changed. Only your story’s changed. You look pale,” he said, dismounting and taking her by the shoulders.

“I feel pale.”

“Barleigh, please understand. I was doing what I thought was right. I couldn’t betray the promise I’d sworn to your mother. I have, and I hope she’ll forgive me. But damn it—it was the right thing to do.”

“Honoring that promise to her, then selectively choosing which secrets to keep or which lies or half-truths to uphold with me? I don’t understand you or your code of ethics. I don’t want to understand. When we get back to the city, I don’t want to ever see you again.”
 

She shrugged away from his grip on her shoulders and knelt down, scooping snow into her hands, washing her face and her mouth. She pressed her icy fingers against her cheeks, wanting to feel the biting cold on her skin, and she breathed the frigid air deep into her lungs until they burned and she coughed. Still, everything felt unreal, as if she were disconnected from each of her senses. Even the beauty of the rugged landscape, the smell of the pine trees, and the crunching sound her boots made in the snow seemed like forgeries.

“Since I’ve known you,” said Hughes, “you keep your emotions in check, buried deep inside. Your world’s been ripped to pieces today. I wish you could let it out somehow. Scream. Cry. Throw a fit. Throw a punch or two. Release a bit of emotional steam.”

“I did release emotion. I spewed it all over the back of your coat.”

Hughes forced a grin. “I’m serious.”

“I am, too. Your coat’s a mess. Sorry.”

He took his coat off and looked at the stain. “I’ve seen worse.” Then, rubbing a handful of snow on it, washing away what he could, he put the coat back on. “There. That should do the trick.”
 

Back in the saddle, he held out his hand for Barleigh to remount behind him. “Ready to ride?”

“Yes,” she replied with a nod. “We’ve a long way to go.”
 

She put her foot in the stirrup to climb up behind him, but a wave of dizziness caused her to totter backward. Regrouping, she tried again. Before she could manage a third attempt, Hughes leaned down from the saddle, lifting her, sitting her in front of him sidesaddle. He cradled her against him with his arms encircling her as he held the reins in each hand, guiding the horse home.

With no strength to protest, Barleigh lay her head against his chest, but her eyes remained alert and watchful as the trail wound its way down into the valley. The bright, full moon overhead cast silvery shadows of their procession onto the hard-packed, frozen ground.

*****

It was midnight when they rode into the Pony Express stables. Barleigh had moved behind Hughes, not wanting to give cause for any questions or raised eyebrows. The streets were quiet, a few lights burned in windows, cats prowled in corners, and snow crunched under the weight of the horses’ hooves.
 

The tranquil scene made Barleigh want to scream.
 

They were met by Mario, who took the horse carrying Stoney’s body. “My God, my God. He was a fine young man. My God—” Mario didn’t try to hide his tears. “I’ll make arrangements to send him back to Arkansas and to his family. A boy should be buried where his folks can tend the grave.”

“He wouldn’t want that,” Barleigh said, giving Mario’s arm a squeeze. “He never wanted to go home again. He’d want to be buried here along the Pony Express trail.”

“That’s what we’ll do, then,” said Mario. “I’ll tend to his grave. Get some rest now. I’ll take care of things here.”
 

“Stoney saved the mochila. We left it with Colonel Hill at Head of Canyon Station so it could continue on to Saint Joe. Stoney died saving the mail. Someone ought to be told about that. It was heroic, what he did.” She gave Mario a brief description of events, Hughes filling in the gaps of her information.

“Everyone will hear of Stoney’s story. It don’t take long for something like that to make the rounds. But I’ll send word to Carson City and have them telegraph headquarters to make sure the right people know, too.” Mario removed the sombrero from the saddle horn, handing it to Barleigh, and then led Stoney’s horse away.

Hughes and Barleigh walked to the Salt Lake House, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and said goodnight, she turning to her room, he to his.

“Are you going to be all right?” Hughes asked, turning back around.

“I wish you’d quit asking that.”

“Are all the riders away? Do you have anyone to bunk with tonight?” Hughes looked at her, concern wrinkling his brow.

“Are you worried about me?”

“Yes, damn it, I’m worried about you, all right?”

“I thought you didn’t have time to worry about me.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, but turned and opened the door to the bunk room. “It appears I have the room to myself tonight. Brody must be on Stoney’s . . . on the eastbound run. I guess the new guy, Lars, is on mine.”

“Give me a minute, please. I’ll be back.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

“It’s not necessary, Hughes. Besides, what if I want to be alone.”

“I’ll be quiet. You can pretend to be alone. Why do you always have to argue?”

“Why do you always assume you know what’s best?”

“It’s not an assumption.” He turned and walked away.

A quick sponge bath from the basin vessel, a brushing of her teeth, a comb through her hair, and a change into clean long johns made her feel almost human again. She was in bed by the time Hughes returned. Though half asleep, she noticed he’d put on clean clothes, too.
 

“I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.” Bending over the bed, he kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be on the bottom bunk, if you need anything. I hope you sleep well.”

But she didn’t. She tossed and turned, fits and starts of dreams tormenting her sleep. Disembodied faces floated in and out, chasing, yelling, hovering. Grandfather’s face, laughing. Papa and Birdie clutched in a skeletal embrace. Barleigh falling. Stoney trying to catch her but his hands were bloody and slippery and they couldn’t hold on. He let go. Then he was tumbling down, down, down a mountain that never ended, but it was her bloody, slippery hands that let him fall. A wolf howled. Her dream wolf. He was shaking her. Wake up. You’re all right. It’s all right.

“I’m right here, Barleigh. It’s all right.” Hughes sat on the side of the bed, holding her hand, stroking her face. “Shhh. Everything’s all right. I’m right here.”

Barleigh bolted upright in bed, jerking away from his touch, drawing her knees into a protective shield. “I don’t want you here. Leave. Leave me alone.”

“You were having a nightmare,” Hughes said, offering her a glass of water.

She pushed the glass and his hand away. “I’m living a nightmare.”

Feeling buried under all the lies she’d been told all her life, now Hughes’s lies, how he’d traded the truth for her affection, she began to hyperventilate—a cold panic rising, swelling, suffocating her. Kicking the covers away, she lashed out at Hughes, tried to push him off the bed with both of her feet, kicking and clawing at anything that was him.
 

“I said to leave!” she cried out, half whimpering, half shouting.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice calm and measured.

Shoving, kicking, thrashing the covers, she knocked the water glass off the nightstand as she tried to push Hughes away. With her foot, she shoved the wooden bedside stand, sending it scooting, the water basin tottering, falling, and shattering to pieces as it hit the floor.

Hughes pulled Barleigh against his chest, encircling her in his arms, holding her tighter as she continued to kick and lash out. “Get it all out, but I’m not letting go until you’re done.”
 

“Don’t you understand? All the lies. Everything’s been a lie or a secret—Grandfather, Papa, my mother. Your lies. Look at me—I’m living my own lie.” She broke down, the sobs coming in waves. “I don’t know what truth is. All I know is that I want you to leave,” she said, the final words spoken in a whisper, her breath feeling like needles in her lungs.

“Nope. I’m not. But I’ll turn you loose if you’re ready to quit clawing at me like a tiger,” he said, sounding somewhat hopeful.

“Why did you tell me?” Barleigh put up a halfhearted attempt at a struggle to free herself from his clutch. “My life was fine—the memories I had of what my life was, without knowing about all this . . . this craziness.”
 

“You were in a very dark place, Barleigh,” he said, his words whispered against her ear. “A dark place, spiraling into a dangerous void of unjustified guilt.”

“You’ve shown me that my life has been nothing but a farce. You’ve effectively erased my history, my memories. For that, I hate you.”
 

“You can hate me all you want for telling you,” said Hughes, cradling her against his chest. “But I told you to give you something to live for. You have a mother who loves you.”
 

Moments passed. When Barleigh’s breathing returned to a shaky version of normal, he relaxed his grip, and she pulled away. Then, gathering the covers onto the bed that she’d kicked to the floor, she turned to face the wall, pulling them over her head, burying herself under the mound of blankets.

“Sleep, Barleigh,” said Hughes, watching her cocoon herself in the downy duvet. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

*****

Hughes pulled a chair next to Barleigh’s bed, sleep a far thought from his mind. He watched the shape under the covers move with each breath, at first panting and still enraged, then more evenly, then calm and measured. He moved the blanket away from her face, making sure not to waken her.
 

He wanted nothing more than to crawl into that bed and hold her. To take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be all right, to lay with her all night with her head on his chest.
 

He wanted to assure her that his affections for her were real—and he knew that hers were real, too. Or, that they were.
 

He wished he knew that everything would be all right, but he didn’t.
 

So, he’d just sit there. He wasn’t going anywhere. And he’d be there when she woke up in the morning, just like he said he would.
 

Then, he’d leave.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

N
OVEMBER
29, 1860

Sunlight filtered through the dark velvet drapes, puddling on the floor in big, uneven spots. From the angle of the shadows, morning was melting into noon. Barleigh blinked hard, rubbed fists over her eyes, yawned, stretched, and bolted upright, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

“Uh . . . ,” She drew in a sharp breath. “What are you doing here?”
 

Hughes sat in the chair, watching as Barleigh woke up. His bloodshot eyes gave evidence of his all-night vigil. “Don’t you remember? When we got back last night, I tried to leave and go to my own room, but you begged me to stay—said you didn’t want me to leave you alone.”

“That’s not how I remember it, now that it’s coming back to me. Is that coffee?” she snapped. As she reached for the cup, the notion of their fingers touching caused her stomach to pitch. She now dreaded the physical contact that she once found pleasurable.

“Yes.” He handed it over. “I promised you that I’d be here when you woke up and I didn’t want to break that promise—have you wake up to see me gone. But you were snoring so loudly I figured you were in a deep enough sleep I could chance a run to the kitchen.”

“I don’t snore. Do I snore? Really?” She sipped the coffee and handed him back the cup.

“Yes. Really. But in a cute, girlish sort of way. Actually, that’s not quite precise. It’s more like a grizzly bear defending her cubs.”

“You could have left it at cute and girlish,” she said, embarrassed.