She responded in a way he was learning to expect, by changing the subject. “Shall I call you Billy boy?”
“Billy is enough,” he said. “If we’re going to use our given names.”
“My name is Morna, and of course we’re going to use our Christian names.” She gave him a twinkling glance. “There’s no point in being formal … under the circumstances.”
“I guess not.” Gregg felt his cheeks grow warm and he turned away.
“Have you ever delivered a baby before?”
“It isn’t my line of work.”
“Well, don’t worry about it too much,” she said. “I’ll instruct you.”
“Thanks,” Gregg replied gruffly, wondering if he could have been wildly wrong in his guess that his visitor was a woman of high breeding. She had the looks and—now that she was no longer afraid—a certain imperious quality in her manner, but she appeared to have no idea that there were certain things a woman should only discuss with her intimates.
In the afternoon he drove into town, taking a longer route which kept him well clear of the Portfield ranch, and disposed of his eight gallons of pulque at Whalley’s saloon. The heat was intense and perspiration had glued his shirt to his back, but he allowed himself only one glass of beer before going to see Ruth Jefferson in her cousin’s store. He found her alone at the rear of the store, struggling to lift a sack of beans on to a low shelf. She was a sturdy attractive woman in her early forties, still straight-backed and narrow-waisted even though ten years of widowhood and self-sufficiency had scored deep lines at the sides of her mouth.
“Afternoon, Billy,” she said on hearing his footsteps, then looked at him more closely. “What are you up to, Billy Gregg?”
Gregg felt his heart falter—this was precisely the sort of thing that had always made him wary of women. “What do you mean?”
“I mean why are you wearing a necktie on a day like this? And your good hat? And, if I’m not mistaken, your good boots?”
“Let me help you with that sack,” he said, going forward.
“It’s too much for those arms of yours.”
“I can manage.” Gregg stooped, put his chest close to the sack and gripped it between his upper arms. He straightened up, holding the sack awkwardly but securely, and dropped it on to the shelf. “See? What did I tell you?”
“You’ve got dust all over yourself,” she said severely, flicking at his clothing with her handkerchief.
“It doesn’t matter. Don’t fuss.” In spite of his protests, Gregg stood obediently and allowed himself to be dusted off, enjoying the attention. “I need your help, Ruth,” he said, making a decision.
She nooded. “I’ve been telling you that for years.”
“This is for one special thing, and I can’t even tell you about it ’less you promise to keep it secret.”
“I knew it! I knew you were up to something as soon as you walked in here.”
Gregg extracted the promise he wanted, then went on to describe the events of the morning. As he talked the lines at the sides of Ruth’s mouth grew more pronounced and her eyes developed a hard, uncompromising glitter. He was relieved when, just as he had finished speaking, two women came into the store and spent ten minutes buying a length of cloth. By the time Ruth had finished serving them the set look had gone from her face, but he could tell she was still angry with him.
“I don’t understand you, Billy,” she whispered. “I thought you had learned your lesson the last time you went up against the Portfield crowd.”
“There was nothing else I could do,” he said. “I had to help her.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“What does that mean?”
“Billy Gregg, if I ever find out that you got some little saloon girl into trouble and then had the nerve to get me to help with the delivery …”
“Ruth!” Gregg was genuinely shocked by the new idea.
“It’s a more likely story than the one you’ve just told me.”
He sighed and took the slim gold bar from his pocket. “Would she be paying me? With this sort of thing?”
“I suppose not,” Ruth said. “But it’s all so … What kind of a name is Morna?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Well, where is she from?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“You’ve had a shave, as well.” She stared at him in perplexity for a moment. “I guess I’ll just have to go out there and meet the woman who can make Billy Gregg start prettying himself up. I want to see what she’s got that I haven’t.”
“Thanks, Ruth—I feel a lot easier in my mind now.” Gregg looked around the big shady room with its loaded shelves and beams festooned with goods. “What sort of stuff should I be taking back with me?”
“I’ll make up a bundle of everything that’s needed and take it out to you before supper. I can borrow Sam’s gig.”
“That’s great.” Gregg smiled his gratitude. “Make sure you use the west road, though.”
“Get out of here and let me get on with my chores,” Ruth said briskly. “None of Portfield’s saddle tramps are going to bother me.”
“Right—see you later.” Gregg was turning to leave when his attention was caught by the bolts of cloth stacked on the counter. He fingered a piece of silky material and frowned. “Ruth, did you ever hear of cloth which looks silver out of doors and turns blue indoors?”
“No, I never did.”
“I thought not.” Gregg walked to the door, hesitated, then went out into the heat and throbbing brilliance of Copper Cross’s main street. He got on to his buckboard, flicked the reins and drove slowly to the water trough which was in an alley at the side of the livery stables. A young cowboy with a drooping sandy moustache was already watering his horse. Gregg recognized him as Cal Masham, one of the passably honest hands who worked for Josh Portfield, and nodded a greeting.
“Billy.” Masham nodded in return and took his pipe from his mouth. “Heard about your run-in with Wolf Caley this forenoon.”
“News gets around fast.”
Masham glanced up and down the alley. “I think you ought to know, Billy—Wolf’s hurt real bad.”
“Yeah, I heard his leg go when his horse came down on it. I owed him a broken bone or two.” Gregg sniffed appreciatively. “Nice tobacco you’ve got in there.”
“It wasn’t a clean break, Billy. Last I heard his leg was all swole up and turned black. And he’s got a fever.”
In the heat of the afternoon Gregg suddenly felt cool. “Is he likely to die?”
“It looks that way, Billy.” Masham looked around him again. “Don’t tell anybody I told you, but Josh is due back in two or three days. If I was in your shoes I wouldn’t hang around and wait for him to get here.”
“Thanks for the tip, son.” Gregg waited impassively until his horse had finished drinking, then he urged the animal forward. It lowered its head and drew him from the shadow of the stables into the searing arena of the street.
Gregg had left the woman, Morna, sleeping on his bed and still wrapped in the flowing outer garment whose properties were such a mystery to him. On his return he entered the house quietly, hoping to avoid disturbing her rest, and found Morna sitting at the table with a book spread out before her. She had removed her cloak to reveal a simple blue smock with half-length sleeves. The book was one of the dozen which Gregg owned, a well-worn school atlas, and it was open at a double-page spread of North America.
Morna had tied her fair hair into a loose coil and she looked more beautiful than Gregg had remembered, but his attention was drawn to the strange ornament on her wrist. It looked like a circular piece of dark red glass about the size of a dollar, rimmed with gold and held in place by a thin gold band. Its design was unusual enough, but the thing which held Gregg’s gaze was that under the surface of the glass was a sliver of ruby light, equivalent in size and positioning to one hand of a watch, which blinked on and off at intervals of about two seconds.