Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (38 page)

“Probably, but I made a promise to myself last night that I’d never tell you another lie or be dishonest with you. Ever.”

“I could look the other way when it comes to things like describing my snoring.”
 

Thinking about honesty and deceit made her want to roll over and pull the covers over her head. The enormity of revealed secrets weighed on her shoulders like a thousand-pound cloak.
 

Hughes sipped the coffee and handed her the cup. “Being honest with you means being honest with myself, too.”
 

He stood and walked to the other side of the room, drew back the curtain, and cracked open the window, allowing the fresh, cool air to seep in. He turned and looked at Barleigh with a puzzled expression. “How can you wake up looking so beautiful, and these yahoos not look at you and see that you’re a woman? You’ve gotten away with being
Bar
Flanders longer than I would’ve bet.”

She felt a blush rising and looked away. “I better get dressed so we can go and check on Stoney’s arrangements.”

“Before we do, there’re two more things I need to tell you,” he said, walking over to the chair.

“More?” What else could there be, after all he’d said last night? She stiffened, bracing for hurtful words sure to follow.
 

“First, if something happens, your mother’s will leaves you a tidy sum of money along with some New Orleans real estate. When I wrote to Leighselle to let her know I’d found your trail, I filled her in on the details. Since I was heading to Saint Joseph anyway on business, I’d continue looking for you. A wire waiting for me there said that she’d taken care of the taxes on your ranch, and put money in your account to more than cover next year’s, too.”

“I don’t understand. Why is she unwilling to meet me—get to know me—to tell me these things in person—” Barleigh flung herself back against the pillows, pulling the duvet up over her head.

“It’s not that she’s unwilling. She didn’t want to interrupt your life. She felt that you knowing about her would disrupt what she’d hoped was a happy life. Leighselle carries an enormous sense of guilt that somehow she was responsible for Grandfather Flanders taking you away from her. A lifetime of guilt, even if it’s unearned, can color the way a person sees reality, even a good person who means well, like your mother. Like you.”

“That’s a lot to think about,” said Barleigh, her words muffled coming from under the covers.
 

“You said you grew to wish you weren’t your grandfather’s kin. You have more in common with your mother, a woman whom you’ve never known, than with your grandfather who raised you.” Hughes smiled, his eyes lighting up.

“Really?” She peeped out from under the covers, then sat up, leaning forward. “Do I remind you of my mother?”
 

“Yes. Besides your beauty, you’ve got your mother’s gumption—her fearless determination to set things right. Leighselle passed on to you her love of animals, her kindness, her ability to bluff at poker, and her fondness for the color yellow. I’ve noticed you always wear that yellow bandana around your neck.”
 

“I’ve always been drawn to the color.” The thought of common traits warmed her, like the yellow rays of the sun. “You said there were two things you had to tell me. What’s the second?” She reached for the coffee, taking the last drop.

“This is the part where I’m being honest with myself.” He leaned back in the chair, then sat forward. “The night before Leighselle came to San Antonio, I’d been on my way to Fort Worth to pick up a prisoner to escort him to Austin for trial. Partway there, the horse I was riding gave out and died, and I set off walking back to San Antonio.”

“Go on.” She noticed the anxiety grow more evident on Hughes’s face. His eyes darkened, he clenched and unclenched his jaw, his brow furrowed into deep lines.

“I knew I was being followed, and before I could think, I had three lassoes on me. It was Quanah Parker and his warriors.” Hughes swallowed, his mouth dry, and he reached for the coffee before remembering it was empty. He smiled at Barleigh as she shrugged and mouthed “sorry.”

He told her the story of how he had to think fast and figure out a way to keep his scalp, how he’d talked Quanah into a fight for bragging rights, in order to save his life. Quanah had killed one of his own men—it would have been nothing for him to kill Hughes, too.

“Thankfully, they have a fearful respect for wolves, and the spirit of the wolf,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Waya Agatoli is the shortened version of the name the Comanche had given me. Man Who Sees With Wolf Eyes. I used their superstitions to my advantage.”
 

“Ah—I see.” She thought of her reoccurring dream of the wolf with the amber-colored eyes, the way he would watch over her while she slept, keeping the nightmares at bay. She wondered if the Comanche didn’t have it right—and there was nothing superstitious about it.

“I should have killed him right there. But I knew if I did, his warriors would have filled me with arrows before Quanah’s heart quit beating. Quanah honored our agreement. He let me go free, and made his warriors honor it, too.”

“And this was during the time of the Comanche moon?” she asked.

“Yes. After that, it’s possible Quanah headed north for the Llano Estacado, one of his band’s hunting grounds. That would put him passing through Palo Pinto around the night of your family’s tragedy.” Hughes leaned the chair back onto two legs and sucked in a deep breath, easing the chair down as he exhaled.

“If you’d—” Barleigh started.

“If I’d killed Quanah when I’d had the chance, you’d still have your father and Birdie, Winnie would have Jack.” He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. “I could have prevented it.” He pounded his fists onto his knees. “Goddammit.”

Barleigh slid out of bed, walking around to his chair. She lay her hand on the back of his head for a moment, not knowing what to say or do, what to feel or to think. Footsteps in the hallway drew her attention to the door, the knob turning causing her to hurry away from Hughes. She went to the armoire and pulled out clean clothes and began to dress for the day.

Mario stuck his head in the door. “Bar, I was hoping you’d be awake. The undertaker has a place for Stoney up by the chapel close to the trail. He says he can bury him this afternoon at one o’clock if that’s agreeable.”

Barleigh looked up from pulling on her boots. “One o’clock. Thanks, Mario. You going back to the barn? I need to come talk to you about my job.”

“I’ll be there. Mr. Lévesque, see you at one?”

“Yes. Thank you,” he said as Mario nodded and closed the door. Hughes stood and took the empty coffee cup. “I need some more—with a little fortification. You want some?” He pulled out his flask and splashed some amber liquid into the waiting cup.

“Sure. I’ll come down with you.”
 

“Bar,” said Hughes, standing in the doorway. “I know less about the future than you do about the past, but I do know this. No more secrets, no more lies, not between us. You’ve made it clear you don’t want anything to do with me. I understand. I’m leaving for California tomorrow. I don’t know when I’m coming back. Can we at least part as friends?”
 

“That’s the first time you’ve called me ‘Bar’ in a private conversation.” She removed Stoney’s sombrero off the rack, looped the bolo around her neck, letting the yellow Mexican hat hang loose across the back of her shoulders as she closed the door.
 

*****

The undertaker and his wife, a petite redhead who sang in the church for free but hired herself out for social gatherings and funerals, were waiting when they arrived at the small graveside chapel. Stoney’s funeral had a few attendees: Barleigh, Hughes, Mario, the two new riders—Liam and his brother Lars—Big Brody and his brother Yates, the hotel cook, and a string of rangy Pony Express horses tied to the hitching posts. Off to one side, hiding in the shadows of a large pine tree, was a doe-eyed blonde-headed girl who made fine chocolate cream pies.

The undertaker chose to read a fiery passage from the Book of Revelation about pale horses and hell and death and destruction, after which his wife sang a popular love song,
When the Corn Is Waving, Annie Dear
. Barleigh didn’t know which was more inappropriate, but both left her speechless and lightheaded. Or maybe the lightheadedness was due to the earlier consumption of fortified coffee on an empty stomach. Either way, all she wanted was to be alone, on a horse, and riding far away from there.
 

The others departed after the singing, with Mario leading the string of ponies, one of them riderless and draped in a black blanket. Hughes leaned against his horse, arms crossed, eyes dark and watchful as Barleigh placed a wreath of Christmas holly on Stoney’s grave.
 

She sat down next to the fresh mound of dirt and thought of all the things she wished she’d said to Stoney, all the things she wished she’d asked him. Did his mama ever stick up for him when his daddy beat him with his fists, or did Stoney have to defend her, too? Did he have any happy Christmas memories from his childhood? Did he ever get what he wished for? Was there room in his small corner of the world for wishes?

The sky darkened with threatening clouds moving in from the west. The feel and smell of the air altered in the way it does before a storm settles over the valley, the kind of storm that declares it’s here to stay a while.
 

“I know this has been hard for you,” said Hughes, walking over to the grave. “Stoney was more than a friend. You haven’t uttered a word to anyone since we got here. Are you speaking to me?”

She nodded her head, her best effort.

“Will you tell me that you’re speaking to me? Please.”

“I’m speaking to you. I just don’t know what to say.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible even to herself.

“What did you tell Mario about your job? Did you decide to keep riding, or to go back to Texas?” Hughes knelt down by the grave, next to Barleigh, his shoulder against hers.

“I told him I hadn’t made up my mind yet. I needed to sleep on it. Liam and Lars are riding with the regulars, Eagan and Haslan. They’re learning the trail, so Mario said he’s in good shape with riders for now.”

“What’s your plan between now and in the morning?”
 

She felt Hughes studying her face, trying to read her. She kept her profile to him, keeping her eyes to herself. He was always trying to read her—an impossible mission. With the walls she had built, she was finding it difficult even to read herself.
 

“Take a long ride. Think. Clear my head.” She stood, looking over her shoulder at the line of the Wasatch Mountains against the charcoal sky.

“Don’t ride far. The weather’s turning. I worry about you.” His amber eyes seemed to deepen in hue, with flecks of dark golden brown and russet, like the first sparks of a fire strengthening and catching hold.
 

“You’re not very good at worrying. Anyway, I’m not yours to worry about.” Barleigh turned and swung herself into the saddle.
 
Never looking back, she cantered away.

*****

Hughes sat by Stoney’s grave and watched her ride toward the foothills, watched for a long while until her form became a small speck on the horizon. An icy wind began to blow, snapping his attention back to the present. The clouds had thickened, the first flakes of snow dusting the ground.
 

His gut tightened like it did every time he watched her ride away by herself. She was right—he wasn’t good at worrying. Swinging himself up into the saddle, he rode in the opposite direction into town. He had unfinished business before he left for California.

*****

George Archer had received word of his brother’s death and the death of the ten Shoshone Indians they’d employed in their scheme to steal the Pony Express mail. That the mochila was rescued and sent through on its eastbound route infuriated him. Those letters from California’s governor to the president of the United States should have been stopped. He was standing at the bar of the Salt Lake House speaking to two other men when Hughes returned to the hotel from Stoney’s funeral.

Spying Archer along with the others in the bar, Hughes formulated a plan and put it to quick action. He pulled his flask from his vest and stumbled up to the bartender, waving the flask in the air, speaking in a loud, slurred voice.
 

“Bartender, my whiskey’s run dry. Gimme your best bottle.” Turning to Archer, Hughes leaned close. “Don’t you hate an empty flask? I do.” He belched, for effect.

“What I hate is a rude, loud drunk. Back off and mind your own business,” said Archer, his voice gruff and threatening.

Hughes nodded and stumbled backward a few steps. “Yes’sir, boss.”
 

Turning to his two companions, Archer continued his conversation, lowering his voice. “Anyway, the one they say found the mochila, sent it on its way, then brought the dead boy’s body back was the kid named Bar. I know which one he is—the little shit. I’ll be watching their room again tonight. I guarantee he won’t make it out alive. You two just do your part. Wait until dark, then go to the Pony Express stables, take out what’s his name—Mario, the manager—then run off all them horses. Got it?”

The two men nodded, all three slung back one last shot of whiskey, and then all departed on their separate missions.

Hughes watched as Archer went upstairs and into his room. Then, hurrying outside, he looked to see which way the two conspirators went. Snow covered the sidewalk, their boot-prints easy evidence. Hughes bent into the wind, following the two as they made their way down Main, past Whiskey Street, and into the alley behind Marcum’s Apothecary Shoppe.
 

Sprinting up the sidewalk, Hughes rounded the corner, coming out the backside of the row of buildings at the other end of the alley, now walking toward the two. They both looked up just in time to see fists being planted squarely on each of their noses, the punch knocking both men to their knees. Following up with kicks to the sides and fists to the backs of their heads, both men were out cold before they knew what happened.