Esmerelda had assumed the Darling boys had gotten their height from their father. She had been wrong. Billys mother was a giantess, standing at least six feet tall in her bare feet. The massive arms she folded over her chest were roped with muscle, giving Esmerelda the impression that she was no less sturdy or immovable than the trunk of the dead oak in the yard. She half expected to see roots twining from the womans scalp instead of an uncombed tangle of hair. Both her hair and the shapeless burlap dress she wore were faded to the same butternut hue as her sunbaked skin. Her face was nearly as broad as the rest of her, its blunt features carved by some clumsy whittler with a dull blade. It was impossible to imagine them having ever been wreathed in a smile or crumpled by grief.
You can bring him in, she said. But youll have to tend to him yourself. "The pipe flared orange, illuminating a stern jaw and a rueful mouth that was a shade too familiar for Esmereldas comfort. I aint patchin him up just so he can run off and get his fool self shot all to hell again.
A sudden rustling in the grass distracted them both.
Billy had vanished. A gurgling sound floated to their ears.
Esmerelda shot his mother a look of pure outrage. Now see what youve done, you spiteful old hag! You waited too long and now hes dying!
Gathering her skirts, she raced to where Billy had collapsed and flung herself to her knees in the grass. She couldnt bear to have come so far only to lose him now.
He lay on his back, one hand pressed to his bandage, the other clutching his side. His handsome features were contorted in agony.
Esmerelda cupped his face in her hands. Breathe, Billy! Oh, please! Youve got to try!
He opened his eyes and sucked in a wheezing breath. That was when Esmerelda realized he wasnt dying. He was laughing. Laughing so hard that tears were coursing from the corners of his eyes and rolling into his ears. Laughing although every hitch and shudder of his battered body must have been pure torment.
Esmerelda snatched her hands away from his face, embarrassed by her zeal and furious at him for frightening her so badly.
As he gazed up at her, his eyes glowing silver in the moonlight, his laughter faded to a soft chuckle. I was just thinkinghe lifted a hand to her cheek, his touch strangely tenderthat youre just the kind of girl I always wanted to bring home to meet my ma.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jaws dropped and eyes bulged as the private coach rolled into Calamity on a hazy Saturday afternoon.
Donley Ezell emerged from the cool shadows of his stable to gaze longingly at the six matched grays drawing the coach while old Granny Shively eyed the coachman in his scarlet livery and white powdered wig. Her wistful smile shaved ten years off her age, making her look a girlish ninety-seven.
Why, he looks just like a beau who courted me when I was fifteen! she exclaimed to her friend Maude.
Look, Ma, shouted a little girl, tugging her mothers arm so hard she nearly dropped the bolt of calico she was carrying. The child pointed at the Wyndham coat of arms discreetly emblazoned in gold on the black lacquered door. It must be the king of New Mexico!
Inside the carriage, Anne let the curtain fall and slumped back in her seat, unable to decide which was more oppressivethe dust, the gloom, or the heat. I do hope youre satisfied, Reginald. We couldnt have attracted any more attention had we arrived in a giant pumpkin drawn by six white mice.
Her brother had long ago collapsed against the plush velvet squabs opposite her, his ivory linen shirt and fawn waistcoat wilted by the heat. Anne might have pitied him had he not been growing increasingly more petulant with every mile that separated him from the mist and meadows of his beloved England.
He mopped at his florid face and shiny pate with a monogrammed handkerchief, gasping for air like a beached cod. Its intolerable enough that no one in this uncivilized wilderness serves afternoon tea. You cant expect me to sacrifice all of my creature comforts.
Anne snapped open her fan, selfishly hoarding the breeze it generated. Weve lost precious hours loading this infernal coach onto the steamer, then the train. Hours that could have been better spent searching for Esmerelda.
Reginald roused from his lethargy long enough to bang the brass tip of his cane on the floor of the coach. I have no intention of transporting my only granddaughter back to England in some mule skinners wagon.
Their gazes clashed, then they both looked away, neither of them willing to face the terrible fear that hung unspoken between them. What if they were too late? What if Esmerelda had already confronted the man she had described in her letter? The man who may very well have murdered her brother. Anne shuddered to imagine what such a cold-blooded villain might do to an innocent like her niece.
Unable to sit idle a moment longer, she wrestled Reginalds cane out of his grip and tapped on the ceiling of the coach. Before the vehicle could creak to a halt, she had gathered her reticule and parasol and flung open the door.
Where the devil are you going? Reginald demanded, clutching at her sleeve with all the querulous urgency of a frightened child.
Moved by the pity that had eluded her earlier, she gently patted his hand. While you secure our accommodations, I shall make inquiries of the local constable. Perhaps he has news of our Esmerelda.
Anne? he called after her as the coachman appeared to help her down from the coach.
She turned, affecting an air of aristocratic hauteur to shield her from the impolite stares directed her way. Youll find her, wont you?
Anne simply touched two fingers to her lips, unwilling to make a promise she might not be able to keep.
Anne had been banging on the locked door of the sheriffs office for nearly five minutes when a grizzled old man sidled up next to her.
Wont do you no good, he said. The sheriff aint there.
Anne wasnt sure whether she should be more appalled by the mans familiarity, his grammar, or the rank cloud of body odor surrounding him. She drew a scented handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her nose, hoping he wouldnt take offense at her own rudeness.
Then where might I find him?
He pointed across the dusty street. Over yonder at the saloon.
The man was looking her up and down in a most curious manner. A manner that made her want to glance down and make sure the tiny row of mother-of-pearl buttons holding her camel-hair bodice closed over her breasts was still intact.
She started to brush past him, but he lurched directly into her path. That there fancy stagecoach you climbed out of belong to you?
Anne rolled her eyes, wondering just how long she was going to have to endure his abysmal manners. It belongs to the duke of Wyndham.
That Mr. Wyndham must be a mighty rich feller.
Annes sigh was a breath of frost. Wyndham is his title, not his name. The proper form of address for my brother would be Lord Wyndham or His Grace.
You mean to say His Graciousness aint yer husband?
I should say not. Im unmarried.
A radiant smile brightened the mans dour face. Before Anne could question his odd behavior, he went scampering down the sidewalk, a definite hop in his step. Elmer! Hey, Elmer! Yere not gonna believe this, but we got us another one!
Although she was somewhat dismayed to find herself the lone woman in a seedy tavern, Anne marched boldly up to the only occupied table. Pardon me, sirs. I am seeking the town constable.
The two men dressed nearly identically in broad-brimmed hats, plaid shirts, and denim trousers, shot each other a nervous look over the dusty bandannas knotted around their necks.