“Well, you don’t need to shout, Ward,” came Wash’s voice, surprisingly close.
Ward whirled to his left, his hand automatically going to his gun. But it never even left the holster, for into the firelight stepped Wash Keogh, himself, leading his horse and looking beat to a dried-out husk. He said, “You promised coffee.”
“Sure, Wash, sure!” Ward scrambled to pour him out a cup, which Wash took with trembling hands.
He finished the first cup, then a second, then a third, before he thought of his horse. “Holy Christ!” he yelped as he stood up. “You got any horse water?”
Ward went to his gear and pulled free a canvas bag partially filled with water. He opened it as he walked over to Wash, who took off his hat and held it out, upside down.
Ward knew what he wanted, and poured water directly into the hat. Wash offered it to his grateful horse, who drank it down to the bottom. “You’ll hafta wait a bit for more, ol’ girl,” he said, patting her neck, then returning the hat to his head. A bead of leftover water ran down his face and neck.
Ward grinned. “You’re leakin’ a little bit, Wash.”
“Don’t I know it, and don’t I love it!” Wash replied. He went back and sat beside the campfire. “You say somethin’ about rabbit?”
Ward pointed to it, and Wash inhaled it almost before Ward noticed that he’d picked it up. “You got more?” Wash stared at him, grizzled brows raised.
Ward shook his head. “’Fraid not. Sorry.”
Wash waved a hand. “Don’t be sorry. Not your fault I come draggin’ in here in such a pitiful condition. What brings you out this way, anyhow?”
“You.”
Wash’s face screwed up. “Me? Why?”
“We got a gunfighter in town. Rafe Lynch is his name. Heard of him?”
Wash shook his head.
“Well, he’s wanted for killin’ eight folks over in California. And we got another one gunnin’ for him!”
“Whoever said Fury was a quiet little town sure didn’t live there long. . . .”
“Yeah. Now, Jason didn’t send me out here or anythin’, but I thought of you right off. If ever we needed a man who was good with a gun to back us up, it’s now. You game?”
Wash didn’t hesitate. “I’m game, all right! Just lead me to ’em and point ’em out.”
Ward heaved a sigh of relief, held in too long. Surely, with Wash Keogh on board, they could fight off anybody!
The next morning, Solomon didn’t have to make up a story of sickness to get rid of his houseguest. Baby Sarah truly was ill, and when Sampson woke up, Dr. Morelli was there.
“She’s just not thriving, Solomon,” Morelli was saying. “I’m so sorry, Rachael.” She stood at Solomon’s side, weeping, incapable of speech.
“But what is it?” Solomon demanded tearily. “What’s wrong with her? What does she have that could make her so sick, so fast?”
“She’s been sick since she was born, Solomon. I’m afraid it’s her heart.”
“But how? Why?” He struggled to cope with this news, and part of him blamed it on Sampson Davis, the unwanted houseguest. Could he have slipped something into her? Just a little of some poisonous desert herb, tucked into her mouth. She could have swallowed it. He could have poisoned her! “Was it something she ate? Could someone have done this to our baby?”
But Morelli shook his head. “I’m sorry, Solomon. It’s what we call a ‘birth defect.’ Now, she may surprise us and grow out of it. Sometimes they do. But I thought you ought to be prepared.”
Solomon dipped his head. “Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Morelli.”
“I’m so sorry, Solomon, for both you and Rachael. . . . And I’m sorry to say it, but I think it’s best if no one foreign is around the baby, at least for a few weeks.” He turned and eyed Sampson. “Sorry, sir, but it’s best for the baby.”
Sampson, burly and barrel-chested, stood up, and for a moment Solomon thought he was going to hurt Dr. Morelli. But all he said was, “I can take a hint, Doc,” and began to gather up his possessions and toss them into his saddlebags.
Morelli said, “Thank you, sir. You can find excellent lodgings at Kendall’s boarding house, just a half-block down the street.” He turned toward Solomon and Rachael again. “Don’t despair. There’s always hope.” Then he added, “I’ll be back to check on her later this afternoon, all right?”
Solomon felt himself nod in the affirmative and then heard himself say good-bye to Dr. Morelli. He was vaguely aware of Morelli going down the steps, and then of Sampson, telling them good-bye and grudgingly following along after Morelli.
And then Rachael was in his arms, sobbing, and he forced himself back to reality. “There, there,” he murmured into her hair. “We will ask for God’s help. He will help us. He must.”
And then he, too, broke down in tears, hugging his Rachael and silently praying, and trying to tell himself that if they had not come west, their baby would have been all right, or at least there would have been a heart specialist who could help her. Poor Sarah, his poor little Sarah!
Rachael broke away from him and went to the baby’s crib-side. He watched as she leaned over the tiny child and scooped her up into her arms.
“Don’t listen to what that man said, Sarah,” she said softly. “And don’t you worry, not a tiny bit. You’re going to grow up into a beautiful young lady, my precious angel, and love God . . . and drive all the boys wild.”
Solomon sat down in the closest chair and, silently, he began to pray.
Ezra Welk sat on the west bank of the Colorado River, trying to figure out whether he could safely ford it here or not. He had remembered there being a ferry here. Maybe not. Maybe it had been a few miles upstream or downstream. The only thing he knew for certain was that it sure as hell wasn’t here.
He snorted out air through his nose. Well, crap. He’d try upstream first, he decided, and reining his horse to the left, began to backtrack the current.
Almost a half hour later, just when he was about to give up, he came across it: signs of a wagon train’s crossing. It hadn’t been that long ago, either. A few days or better, according to his take on the bent grasses on the shallow bank. Could be army, could be civilian, but he figured civilian. The wagon tracks were too sloppy for a military caravan, and it looked like they had some livestock with them. A few cattle and pigs, plus the usual horses and oxen.
He couldn’t tell if the water had gone up or down since their fording, although it looked as if it had been windy as hell. A dust storm, most like. He shuddered involuntarily. He hated them almost as much as he hated Apache.
And that was saying quite a bit.
He took a deep breath, crossed himself, and started down the riverbank, headed directly for the Arizona Territory.
9
Outside the walls of Fury, Mrs. Judith Strong, the woman who had sold Megan and Jenny their yard goods, was getting ready for the day. And she made sure to choose an outfit that was soft, yet businesslike: There was work to be done this day.
When at last she felt she was ready, she grabbed her pocketbook from a dresser drawer and climbed down to the ground. She had forgotten how she had hated the journey west with Linus. Well, that had nothing to do with Linus. He made everything acceptable, everything fun. In the two years since his passing, she had at last grown weary of mourning, weary of crying herself to sleep at night and, well, weary of herself. Linus had brought out her sense of humor, and she’d lost that, too.
It seemed that Linus had been her everything. It was time, she’d decided, to learn to be everything to and for herself.
And so she had decided to leave California behind, leave the dirt and grit of the mining camps, and the hopelessness that had finally finished off Linus—even though he hadn’t done badly for himself, it wasn’t what he had pictured, what he had hoped for or dreamt of.