“No doubt.”
“I want your promise that you will not just find whoever did this terrible thing, but that you will kill that person, or persons. Even if you have to take off your badge to do it.”
“You have my word.” He was looking at her now, though her eyes were aimed straight ahead. “Your father’s murderer will pay the ultimate price. Not a rope. But my gun.”
Now she looked at him.
She squeezed his hand very hard. Then she kissed him the same way. The fire at their backs was hot, but not that hot.
Swallowing for breath, York placed a finger on her ripe lips. “You must promise me something now.”
“Anything.”
“You must follow your heart and your mind in this matter. You have people all around you jockeying to ‘help’ you, all with their own self-interests at the root. You will have all the city fathers, from the mayor on down, trying to manipulate you. Even those who mean well, like Whit and your uncle Burt, see things from their own perch. This railroad agent, Prescott, will wave money in your face that would tempt a saint. But hold fast to whatever you think is best.”
Now she was looking at him, while he stared straight ahead.
She said, “You told me you agree that selling the right of passage makes sense.”
He nodded. “That’s my opinion. My self-interest is that I’ll get a raise and a house out of it, and I’ll have a town growing around me that will enhance my financial position. My position, period. Any credence you give to my views, keep that in mind.”
Her sigh was punctuated by crackling flames. “Until somebody killed Daddy over it, I intended to sell. Now... I find myself wanting to respect his views.”
“No.”
“No?”
“He’s gone. And when he was here, he was of another time, almost of another place. The future’s upon us, and there’s no escaping it. You must make this decision yourself. All this advice will be whirling around your head, but it all boils down to selling a right-of-way to the railroad or, frankly, selling the Bar-O entirely.”
“Two simple courses of action.”
“Two simple courses of action... Getting a little warm, don’t you think?”
They shared grins and stood up, the backs of their clothing hot enough to smoke.
Facing the fire now, Willa at his side, York said, “You could use a portrait of your papa over the mantel here. I know a good artist in Dodge City. Are there any photographs of the old boy he might work from?”
She nodded. “Yes. And I’d love that.”
“Round me your favorite tintypes of your papa, and I’ll take care of it. My treat.” His eyes moved to either side of the mantel. “Those rifles are something to see.”
On the left was a 50–70 Gov’t Sharps rifle, and on the right a Winchester Model 1866, each cradled in mortar-mounted, upturned deer-hoof gun racks.
She said, “Papa came west with a horse and that Sharps rifle. Buffalo hunting laid the groundwork for what became the Bar-O. Our distinguished guest from Denver was at his side through all of it.”
Raymond Parker had hidden depths.
“Are they loaded?” York asked.
“Oh, my, yes. To me and everybody else, they were decoration. For Papa, they were protection. You never knew when another Indian uprising was on the horizon.”
They both laughed a little at that; then she walked him out, hand in hand until they reached the porch, when her fingers slipped away. Apparently, she wasn’t ready to advertise her feelings for him, with O’Malley on the porch and the cook staff and cowboys cleaning up the tables and disassembling them to be stacked in a buckboard for return to Missionary Baptist.
She did walk him to the dappled gelding at a hitch post near the barn.
He was about to get up onto the saddle when she said, very softly, “Do you think I’m terrible?”
He thought she was wonderful.
“No,” he said.
“I mean... asking you to kill somebody in cold blood.”
“There’ll be nothing cold about it.” He swung up onto the horse, then looked down at her with the faintest of smiles. “And it won’t be murder, exactly. The one I kill will have his fair chance. He’ll go for his gun before I do mine. I’ll arrange that.”
That much he had in common with the Preacherman.
He waved as he rode out, and she waved back and smiled. Still no sign of tears.
Chapter Twelve
When Caleb York got to the café just before eight the next morning, it took him a couple of blinks to recognize Raymond Parker.
The distinguished city clothes were gone, and in their stead were a dark gray sateen shirt with arm garters and a cowhide vest, a yellow knotted bandana at the throat and, resting on the table beside him, an uncreased broad-brimmed hat, which took the place of the cemetery’s white stovepipe.
Suddenly York could see the frontiersman who lived within the big-city businessman, the onetime partner of George Cullen who’d helped carve out the Bar-O. Parker had mentioned that he’d bought a horse at Brentwood Junction and ridden into Trinidad... and the man wouldn’t have done that dressed in a newmarket coat, a double-breasted waistcoat, and fancy trousers.
A smile blossomed under the well-trimmed white mustache, and the tall figure at the small table by the window in the unpretentious café got to his feet and offered his hand. Again, the sheriff clasped hands with the visitor, and confident firmness sent its message to both.
York, in his usual black, removed his hat and hung it on a hook by the door nearby. He sat across from the businessman, a white enamel coffeepot and two matching cups already waiting. The café, as usual, was bustling. They served a good breakfast at about half the price of the hotel, and as long as you didn’t prefer linen to checkered tablecloths, this was your place.
“How clear is your morning, Sheriff York?” Parker’s voice was a husky mid-range growl as firm and confident as that handshake.
“Clear enough,” York said with a shrug.
“Good. There’s some business we need to attend to later.”
Business again. What business does a man with holdings in Denver and Kansas City have in Trinidad, New Mexico?
A waiter in an apron came over and got their order — griddle cakes for Parker, eggs and bacon and grits for York.
As they waited, Parker offered York a tailor-made cigarette from a silver case, a hint that the Denverite was no longer a man who spent much time in the saddle. York refused with a smile, and Parker lit up.
“We met on a buffalo hunt, George Cullen and I,” Parker said, sighing smoke, as if he were answering a question York hadn’t asked. “It was the start of both our fortunes, but looking back, I sometimes wonder. Was it our original sin?”
“Not many buffalo left,” York said as he poured himself coffee. Parker already had some.
“Less than a hundred of the animals, I hear. We hunted them for their skins and left the rest of the beasts behind to rot.” He shook his head. “Such easy pickings — kill one of the animals and the rest would gather around. Kill one, kill a whole herd.”
“Why was the meat left to waste?”
Parker let out more smoke, shrugged, his expression somber. “The government was paying us. They wanted to get rid of the food source for those poor damn Indians. That was something we didn’t think about at the time. And by the time it ever did occur to us, we’d kind of built up a grudge against the red man. Encounter a few hostiles and you aren’t filled with much sympathy. Anyway, we were young bucks and sought adventure and profit, and I won’t lie to you and say I’ve spent much time feeling guilty about it. Men get caught up in a life and they live it, and then, one day, it’s over. As it was for George Cullen.”