The Listening Sky (9 page)

In spite of her irritation, Jane had to smile.

“About Polly, Sunday. Will you look after her?”

“’Course, I will. But I wish ya’d change yore mind. Some of them biddies out there ain’t got the sense they was born with.
This town needs the likes of you, Jane. Ya know, I’ve been thinkin’ I’m not so sure anymore that I want a man. Not any I’ve
seen here anyway. I might open a business?”

“What kind of business?”

“It won’t be sewin’ shirts and makin’ hats, I’ll tell ya that. Anyhow… well, looky at Miss Snooty-puss! She’s all decked out
like she was goin’ to a ball.”

Patrice Guzman Cabeza emerged from behind the curtain that was stretched across the corner of the room and sailed past them,
her nose in the air, looking neither left nor right, the aroma of expensive perfume wafting in her wake. Around her shoulders
was a white fringed shawl, elaborately embroidered in silk thread, a perfect background for her dark hair and olive skin.
Large gold hoops hung from her earlobes. The two-inch heels of her shoes made tapping sounds on the board floor. She went
out the door and shut it firmly behind her.

T.C. sat at a table with Colin and Bill. The cookhouse was empty except for the three of them and the bull cook, who was washing
pots and dishes and scrubbing the work tables.

“We got buildings to fit up. Crew is coming in tomorrow, Bill. That’ll mean a half-hundred more men to feed.”

“I got a steer cookin’ in the pit. Texas style.”

“Meat holdin’ out?”

“Colin can fetch us in a couple a deer.” Bill grinned. “Ya ain’t lost yore touch have ya, boy?”

“I saw a herd on the way in. I could get you one by noon tomorrow if I had to.”

“If it rains it’ll slow things down. I wanted to raise up a building and repair three more in the next couple of weeks.”

“It’ll take more than that to make this place a town. I hope one of them buildin’s is a tonsorial parlor.” Colin ran his fingers
through his overly long hair.

“One is.” T.C. grinned.

“Ya got a barber?”

“Yeah.”

“I could sure use a bath and a haircut.”

“We got a washtub over at the house. You can ask the lady to cut your hair out on the porch.”

“Lady?” Colin asked.

“Holy hell!” Bill exclaimed. “A lady barber. I ain’t never heard of a such.”

“You have now and you’ll see one—as soon as we get the building up. We’ve got a barber chair, shaving mugs and a tin bathtub
coming in on the freight wagons.”

“Is… she here a’ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat! Which one?”

“You’d never guess.” T.C. was enjoying the game he was playing with Bill.

“Ah… don’t tell me it’s that sweet little Miss Love!”

“Miss Love? Sweet?”

“Yeah, sweet. Well, now, ain’t that somethin’? A lady barber. She looks like she ort to be a schoolteacher or a preacher’s
wife. I wonder if she could make me one of them pointed beards.” Bill fingered the straggly hair hanging from his chin. “I’ve
seen ‘em on tobaccy cans.”

“Ask her.” T.C. passed his hand over his face to hide his grin.

All three men turned when the door opened. Patrice stood in the doorway, her eyes on Colin. She paused for a moment before
crossing the room with her hands outstretched.

“Colin! One of the women said a tall, handsome man was here with T.C. I knew it had to be you!” Ignoring both T.C. and Bill,
she went straight to Colin.

He got to his feet. T.C. pushed the bench back from the table and stood politely. Bill remained seated and scowled down at
his coffee mug.

“Hello, Patrice. T.C. told me you were here.” Colin took one of her hands and held it briefly.

“It’s good to see you, Colin.”

“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly.

“Can we talk, Colin? I’ve so much to tell you.” Her dark eyes seemed to devour his face.

“Sure. Sit down.”

Patrice glanced at T.C. and Bill, then back to Colin.

“Not here. Can’t we… go someplace?”

“Where do you want to go? The saloon, the women’s quarters or the store. I don’t imagine you want to go to the men’s barracks.”

“Let’s go over to T.C.’s.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Patrice, you’re a married lady,” Colin said patiently. “It’s not fittin’.”

“I just want to talk to you. We’re old friends… aren’t we?”

“Sure. Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Hell and be dammed!” Patrice swore, her temper taking over. “I don’t care what these yokels think! I just want a private
conversation, not go to bed with you.”

“Well, talk.”

“At least come out on the porch.” She lifted her chin and her dark eyes flashed angrily. “You can leave the door open and
yell for T.C. if you’re afraid I’ll rape you.”

“Oh, well, in that case…” Colin winked at T.C., causing Patrice to stamp her foot.

“This is no damn joke, Colin. Ramon tried to kill me!” She turned on her heel and went out onto the porch. Colin reluctantly
followed.

“She’s hell-bent on gettin’ her claws in ‘im,” Bill said, as soon as Colin passed through the doorway.

“’Fraid so.”

“I ain’t doubtin’ Ramon tried to kill ‘er. She’s enough ta make a preacher cuss.”

“She wanted his fancy house and someone to wait on her, the clothes and the importance of being the wife of one of the richest
men in New Mexico. He gave her everything she wanted. She owes the man.”

“Ya think he tried to kill ‘er?”

“He’s got pride. It would depend on what she did to rile him. If she embarrassed him in front of his family or his friends,
he might have.”

“What ya reckon happened?”

“Patrice’s got a roving eye. Ramon is hot-blooded and jealous. I can about imagine what happened.”

“Do ya think he’ll come here?”

“There’s no think about it. He’ll be here as soon as he finds out where she is.”

Out on the porch, Colin was telling Patrice the same thing.

“Ramon will not sit and wait for you to come back. He’ll be here as soon as he finds out where you are.”

“He tried to kill me, Colin.”

“Now, Patrice. Ramon wouldn’t destroy his beautiful possession. What would people think?”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Ramon is a puffed-up, cocky little rooster. He likes to strut and he likes to show off his beautiful wife. Why would he want
to kill his pride and joy?”

“He choked me almost to death!”

“You must have really riled him. Good Lord, Patrice, you’re as big as he is. Taller, in fact. What were you doing all that
time?”

“I was in bed.”

“Alone?”

“You’re insulting. You’ve spent so much time with T.C. Kilkenny you’re getting to be as crude as he is.”

“Don’t start that again. I’ve known T.C. a hell of a lot longer than I’ve known you.” Anger was evident in Colin’s voice.
“He may not have Ramon’s fancy manners, but he’s as loyal and decent as any man I’ve met so far.”

“He’s living in the only decent house in town. He could have given me a room, but he’s never liked me. Both of us know that.”

“T.C. didn’t invite you here. Why should he inconvenience himself by giving up his room?”

“It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.” She lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “You don’t know how awful
it is to be in with so many… sleep with them—”

“You should have thought of that before you came here. T.C. said he gave you a job, the same as he did the others.”

“He was insulting! But that was to be expected from one of his background.”

“What, may I ask, is wrong with T.C.’s background?” Colin’s voice was angry, and he backed away from her.

“I’m sorry.” Patrice moved close to him and put her hand on his arm. “I’m scared, Colin.”

“Why did you come here?” he asked bluntly.

“Because I knew that sooner or later you’d be here.”

“It’s over, Patrice. I admit I fell hard for you… once. But I soon realized we aren’t suited and I got over it. You’re the
wife of a man who used to be my friend.”

“Your ma and John Tallman had a hand in turning you against me, didn’t they?” she asked bitterly.

“I’m a grown man. My parents had nothing to do with it. Why are you dragging this up?”

“I want to stay here.” she said, ignoring the question. “Ask T.C. to let me have one of the cabins.”

“There is nothing in them—”

“Freighters are coming in. I can buy what I need. I’ve got money, plenty of it.”

“This is crazy. Are you going to build your own fires, carry water, cook? How long has it been since you’ve cooked a meal?
Winters are long and cold here,” he continued, without giving her a chance to answer.

“Please, Colin. Please. Just ask him. I can’t stand being cooped up with those women another day. They’re crude and vulgar—”

“You don’t fit in here, Patrice.”

“You loved me once. Please help me—” Her voice broke. She leaned against his arm and dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed
scrap of fine lawn cloth.

“I think you’d better go on back.”

“I… still love you, Colin. I’ve been so miserable. I’d never have married Ramon if not for Papa—”

“That’s all in the past. Go to bed.”

“All right, Colin. I’m so glad you’re here. I feel so much… safer.”

Her lips touched his cheek briefly before she stepped off the porch.

Colin watched her until she entered the building. He had been a callow youth when he had first met Patrice. Grandpa Rain had
put up with his moping around until one day he had said:

“You’re itchin’ to get burnt, son. So trot on after that hot little filly and get it out of your system.”

He did. She gave him a merry chase. She lifted him to heaven and dropped him to hell. It took a year for him finally to come
to his senses. And when he did, he was utterly ashamed of having been such a fool.

T
HE
night dragged by slowly, and dawn found Jane wide awake. She was glad to see the darkness end. She was a day person, a lark
rather than an owl. She recalled the long dark nights when she had huddled on her cot at the orphanage, her imaginative mind
living once again the frightening experience of being awakened in the night and carried from her bed by a big, black-bearded
man with cold gray eyes. Time had erased that fear from her mind, but it had only recently been replaced by another fear.

Jane slipped from her pallet on the long plank shelf, gathered her clothes and moved behind the curtain to dress in the dark.
She needed to go to the privy. Last night’s rain had discouraged her from making a before-bedtime trip and her bladder was
painfully full. After dressing, she sat down on the bench to put on her stockings and shoes.

When she slid her foot into her shoe she felt paper where there should be none. Immediately she knew that it was another note
from her unknown enemy. A prickle of uneasiness ran down her spine. She drew in a deep shuddering breath, reached down and
drew out a square of folded paper and hurriedly shoved it into her pocket. For a long moment she sat in the darkness no more
confusing than her thoughts and tried to think through the fear that clouded her mind. She swallowed repeatedly and fought
the fear. Breathing as if she had run for miles, she deliberately took her time putting on her shoes, laced them and tied
the strings about her ankles.

Even though she could hear the snores of a dozen women, Jane felt as if every eye was on her as she flung her shawl over her
shoulders and tiptoed to the back door. She had no fear of stepping out into the semi-dark morning because she was leaving
behind the one who hated her—an enemy who had been sleeping on the same communal bed. Until now she had not been sure the
note writer was still among those who had come to town, and she had not even considered that her harrasser might be one of
the women who had ridden on the train with her, or whom she had met at the station. She had been sure her adversary was a
man.

In the small dark cubicle of the privy Jane reviewed in her mind the face of each of the women. Polly was ruled out as the
one who sent her the notes, as were Sunday and Mrs. Guzman Cabeza. She dismissed as possibilities the women with children.
The red-haired woman had already moved to a room above the saloon. Her enemy, she reasoned, was one of the five women left.

Was it that whiner, Paralee Jenkins? She was envious enough. According to her, the mattress she slept on was not as thick
as that of the other women and her blanket was thinner. She was sure that everyone was against her and continually complained
about the food, the privy, the weather, the preferential treatment given the other women. But the first note had come before
Paralee had reason for envy.

Minnie Perkins, a short, big-breasted girl, had boarded the train at the first stop after Laramie. She liked to talk and seemed
to think it was an accomplishment that since she was tall enough to reach a washtub, she had been a laundress in a mining
camp. Jane doubted that she could ever read, let alone write a note.

Bessie Miller was as young as Polly but not as pretty. She seemed too interested in how she looked to the male population
of the town to be so determined a hater. A practiced flirt, she was constantly dabbing toilet water behind her ears and pinching
her cheeks to make them rosy.

Bertha Phillips was the oldest of the group. She had a stern, sour expression and kept to herself. She spoke seldom, offering
each word as if it was were a gold nugget she was reluctant to part with. She resented being addressed by her first name and
insisted on being called Mrs. Phillips. She was distant but never nasty.

Could it be Grace Schwab? She was a large woman with broad shoulders and a loud voice, quick to express her opinion on any
subject. She had been one of those most vocal when Kilkenny asked Jane to see to it that the new arrivals settled in. She
seemed too open to harbor a secret hate, though.

Still after thinking it over carefully, Jane came to the conclusion it might be Bessie or Grace. But why would they be so
vindictive after all these years and why would either of them want to hurt her?
Damn!
Why couldn’t people live and let live?