NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 40 & Epilogue

A Note about Spanish Terms: This novel is set in northern New Mexico and reflects as much as possible the local dialect at that time. Even today, Northern New Mexico Spanish is a unique combination of late 1500s Spanish, indigenous words from the First Peoples of the region and of Mexico, and terms that filtered in with the French and American trappers and traders. I’ve tried to represent the resulting mixture as faithfully as possible. My primary source of information was Rubén Cobos’ excellent work, A Dictionary of New Mexico and Southern Colorado Spanish (University of New Mexico Press, 2003). Any errors in spelling, usage, or definition are solely my responsibility.

CHAPTER 40

Suzanna scowls sleepily at the lopped-off branches that brace the hillside lean-to. She burrows deeper into the bedding. At least there’s a bear skin to add some warmth. It’s early May in Taos. Everything’s blooming there. Here, it’s icy cold. If that man thinks she’s going to actually live permanently in this God-forsaken place, he isn’t thinking clearly.

“Wife?” Gerald asks from the open side of the lean-to.

She burrows deeper, covering her head.

Gerald chuckles and comes to kneel beside her. “I have a fire going,” he says. “I’ve toasted some of the bread Encarnación sent with us and am heating water for tea.”

Suzanna sighs and reluctantly uncovers her head. “All right,” she says.

“There’s a herd of elk on the other side of the valley,” he says. “I thought I’d try for one after breakfast. We could use the meat. Do you want to come with me?”

“I’m not staying here by myself.” She sits up. “Not until you’ve built me a cabin.”

He leans in to kiss her forehead. “I love you,” he says.

“And I you.” She shakes her head. “Though I still think you’re soft in the head. This valley is so isolated and cold. How does anything grow up here?”

He grins, stands, and goes out. “The water’s hot!” he calls from the fireside.

Suzanna grimaces and pulls the bear skin around her shoulders as she leaves the blanket. The shaggy skin drags the ground around her feet as she steps outside. The fire is crackling with warmth and the sky overhead is a luminous blue. She takes a deep breath of the clear mountain air.

The marsh where the Cimarron heads is at the base of the hill she’s standing on. On the other side of the marsh is yet another hill. Ramón moves among a half-dozen downed and debranched trees. Two mules browse on the grassy slope below, waiting to pull the logs to the cabin site.

Suzanna shakes her head and looks at Gerald, who is carefully pouring steaming water into a tin mug. “You do know that you’re both crazy, don’t you?”

He hands her the mug of steeping tea, then turns and waves his arm toward the valley below. “Just look at it,” he says.

She follows his gaze. The morning sun touches the long grasses on the valley floor and the tiny silver streams that weave through the spring green. A coyote trots purposefully along the base of the hill, where a cluster of elk browses peacefully. Nearer at hand, a red-wing blackbird trills in the marsh.

“There’s plenty of water,” Suzanna acknowledges. “And that vega grass should make excellent hay. I wonder what other plants lurk in it. Wild onions, I would imagine. And garlic.” She purses her lips. “There’s likely to be mint along the stream banks.”

Gerald chuckles. She narrows her eyes at him, then grins.

He moves to stand beside her. His arm slips around her waist. “Hmmm,” Suzanna says. She tilts her head and lets it rest in the hollow of his shoulder. “I still think moving here is a crazy idea.” She shivers a little. “It’s much cooler here than in Taos. I suppose that’ll be nice in June and July, but right now it seems a bit chilly.”

Gerald nods noncommittally but doesn’t answer. They gaze at the long valley before them, the black-green of the pines on the slopes of the snow-topped mountains opposite, the brighter green of the grassland below.

Suddenly, Suzanna twists out of Gerald’s arms and leans forward to peer at the flat piece of land between the hill they’re on and the marsh. “I wonder if I can get corn to grow up here,” she says. “Certainly potatoes.”

Gerald grins triumphantly, then wipes his face smooth as she turns back to him.

Her eyes narrow. “If you think I’ll be satisfied that easily, you’d better think again, Mr. Locke,” she says severely. Then she laughs. “That cabin had better have glass windows!”

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Locke,” he says, his eyes dancing as she leans in to be kissed.

EPILOGUE

“Well, that young Gerald Locke has gone and got himself set himself up in conjugal bliss.” Old Bill turns the bent beaver trap in the firelight. He can’t righteously plan on it holding together until they get back to Taos. He sure hopes Jerry Smith has showed up by then. This needs the touch of an expert.

“Yeah?” Milton Sublette asks. “Who to?”

“Señorita Suzanna Peabody, no less.”

“Well, I’ll be.” Sublette frowns. “Does her daddy know about Locke? What he is?”

“Oh yeah. He knows Locke’s Daddy. Trapped with him back when they both first come out here. Him and Locke and that Ramón Chavez. They were quite a team.”

“And?”

“The girl says she don’t righteously care what Locke is or where he comes from. He’s the man for her.”

“Does she actually know? Did they tell her?”

Old Bill shrugs. “Now that I don’t truly know, but I wouldn’t think so. Not unless she wanted to know. And if she doesn’t, I’m sure not going to be the one to inform her. Our Suzanna’s a strong-willed piece, but she’s ours and I don’t aim to spoil her pleasure for her, if knowing who her man’s Daddy is would spoil it. Besides, Locke’s a good man and that’s all that righteously matters.”

“Yeah, it don’t matter. And the only man stupid enough to care and bastard enough to tell her is dead and gone.”

“And by the hand of her man.”

“Fair fight and a man who deserved to die, if ever there was one.” Sublette stirs, easing his leg and grunting a little at its stiffness. “Well, I wish young Locke luck,” he says. “With that gal’s opinions, they could be in for quite a ride.”

Old Bill chuckles. “That they righteously could be.”

THE END

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 39

“I have not asked you many personal questions,” the tall thin man in the black coat says. His eyes sharpen on the younger man’s face. “My daughter says they aren’t important. I disagree, but she insists.”

Gerald steadies himself and looks into Jeremiah Peabody’s face. “If you ask it of me, I will tell you everything,” he says.

Peabody’s face darkens. “I have determined not to pry,” he says stiffly. Then his lips twitch and he waves his hand in the air. “It is between you and Suzanna,” he says. “You will answer to her, anyway.”

A great wave of relief unbinds Gerald’s chest. He tries not to smile too giddily. “Suzanna has spirit as well as brains,” he acknowledges.

“And that is what I wish to speak to you about,” her father says. “Your history is a matter between you and my daughter. But your treatment of her is a matter between you and myself.”

Surely it can’t be this easy. Gerald opens his mouth, but Peabody raises a hand to silence him. “As you know, I have not raised Suzanna to be a common household drudge,” he says. “She has been carefully educated. If she wished, she could make her way in the world alone. She does not wish it, and she will be a fine helpmate to any man she chooses. She has chosen you. She was raised to choose, not to be chosen.”

Jeremiah Peabody smiles ruefully, his eyes a little sad. “She has a will, and where her will and her heart are engaged, she will be a strong support. She was not trained to cookery and such. I think you know that she has no aptitude in that direction. She will need assistance. I trust you will be able to provide her that aid.”

All the obstacles are gone now. Gerald tries to keep the gladness from brimming over too far. He works to keep his voice steady. “Suzanna has been clear with me on that point,” he says. “Ramón Chavez has been kind enough to agree to assist with the kitchen work for the time being.”

Jeremiah Peabody raises an eyebrow. “You will employ him?”

“We are to be partners. He will provide me with much needed expertise, and I will contribute what cash I have.” Gerald sobers as he looks into Peabody’s face. “He hopes to make a home for Encarnación and himself alongside us. In the meantime, he will be of great assistance to both Suzanna and me.”

“And this home? It will be in your black valley?”

Gerald smiles. “A portion of the valley I have spoken of, yes. With Suzanna’s agreement.”

Jeremiah Peabody permits himself a small smile as Gerald continues. “It’s a fine country,” the younger man says eagerly. “I believe we can prosper there. And with Ramón accompanying us, I’ll feel more secure in taking her to such a remote location.” He pauses and looks firmly into Jeremiah Peabody’s eyes. “I treasure and respect your daughter, sir. I know I am only a man, but I will do all I can do to make her content.”

The older man’s lips twitches. “She tells me you are not just any man and I’m not sure contentment is something she wishes to find,” he says drily. Then he moves forward and takes Gerald’s hands in his. “But I am relieved to hear that you have considered her safety and her happiness,” he says. “I believe you are sincere, sir, and Suzanna loves you dearly. I give you my blessing.”

They smile into each other’s eyes. “I aim to make you glad that you gave it, sir,” Gerald says.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 38

It’s a long two days. Gerald and Ramón try to busy themselves with organizing the campsite, cleaning their equipment, and caring for the mules. Ramón snares a couple rabbits and cooks them, then scrapes the skins and begins the initial tanning process while Gerald chops enough firewood to last them a month.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, a small boy with black hair hanging in his eyes shows up. He carries three small white envelopes, one for Gerald and two for Ramón. When Gerald opens his, he reads:

Mr. Locke,

It would be my pleasure to speak with you tomorrow morning on a matter which I believe to be of some interest to you and my daughter. It is my understanding that what I have to say will be to your mutual benefit.

Yours,

Jeremiah Peabody, Esquire

Gerald’s forehead wrinkles, then he grins. What a formal man. What a generous man. What a good man. If all goes well, this man will be his father-in-law.

Gerald takes a deep breath and swings toward his gear, pushing away the anxiety in his chest. Peabody has the right now to know about his ancestry. Suzanna may say she doesn’t care, but surely her father will.

But first things first. He needs to brush his coat and clean his boots. And perhaps a haircut—

But his planning stops instantly when he sees Ramón’s face. The other man stares blankly at the mountains beyond, shaking his head.

“What is it?” Gerald asks.

Ramón lifts a white square of paper. “She has decided that we must wait two years.” He looks at Gerald, his lips twisting. “I told her I was willing to wait for her. I thought perhaps six months.”

“Perhaps she will change her mind.”

Ramón gives a little snort. “Once that woman decides a thing, that is an end to it.” He lifts the letter helplessly. “That fact was once a comfort to me.”

“Why so long?”

“She will not leave el señor. Not just yet.” He glances at the note. “She says that with la señorita marrying, it is important that she stay. She must find a suitable replacement for herself and train that person to care for him properly.”

“Yet Suzanna will go.”

“She says it is her wedding gift to la señorita, that she may go freely, without worry for her papá.”

“She is a good woman.”

Ramón nods glumly. “She is.”

“So you have time to prepare a home for her.”

The other man nods. “That is true.” He nods to the other envelope. “This is from el señor, asking me to come and speak to him on the day after tomorrow.” He grins ruefully. “It is doubtless to ask about my plans.”

“And what are your plans?” Gerald stops. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just —”

Ramón lifts a hand, waving Gerald’s apology aside. “I will provide for her as would any other man. By the sweat of my brow. A little trapping, a little labor in the fields.”

“I know I have no right to ask,” Gerald says. “But would you consider throwing in with me? Going with me to make homes for our wives in the black valley?”

Ramón raises an eyebrow. “Will la señorita go with you?”

It’s not the only question about his future that remains unanswered. He doesn’t yet have Jeremiah Peabody’s approval of his suit. But Gerald steels himself against his anxiety about his appointment with Suzanna’s father, and nods. “I think so. But it’s not a thing for one man to do alone. It would be good to have your assistance. Your partnership.”

“I can bring little silver.”

“But much experience and knowledge of the land. I’d want us to be true partners. You can give Encarnación a home with your portion. And one near Suzanna, which I think they would both like.”

“After two years,” Ramón says glumly.

“Who knows? She might decide to make it shorter. A woman is always free to change her mind.”

Ramón chuckles. “If el diós grants me a miracle.” He holds out his hand. “Partners,” he says. “Gracias, amigo. And I can provide the cooking until Chonita joins us. When she does come, I’m sure she will be delighted to have more than one person for whom to cook.”

“Thank you,” Gerald says, taking his hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

They grin at each other, delight in their eyes.

“They said ‘yes,’” Gerald says wonderingly. For a moment, the anxiety lifts and he breaks away, swinging his hat in the air. “They said ‘yes’!”

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 37

“He sees me, papá,” Suzanna says. As she settles onto the stool beside his chair, the firelight casts a glow on her creamy-brown face and dark eyes. “He sees me in a way that no other man has ever done. In a way that not even you can.”

“You are my daughter.”

She smiles. “Yes. And I’ll always be a part of you, as you will be a part of me. But you can’t help but see me as your daughter, as part of yourself.” She shakes her head wonderingly at the fire. “He sees me as me.”

“Not as an extension of himself?”

“No.” She twists around to look up at him. “That’s what’s so unusual about him.” She turns back to the fire. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“There are many men you have not yet met,” Jeremiah observes mildly.

Suzanna snorts. “I’ve met enough. Including some I wish I never had.”

Jeremiah grimaces, then glances at the book in his hands. “I thought Carlos Beaubien might be interested in you, and you him.”

Suzanna makes a face. “Monsieur Beaubien is only interested in short young Spanish señoritas with a flirtatious air. Also, he wants a Catholic girl. His religion is important to him.” She grins. “I hear Paulita Lovato is interested in him, even if she isn’t quite fourteen. She wants a wealthy man. He comes from aristocracy and money, and I suspect will be wealthy in his own right. She’s young, but she knows what she wants.”

“And you, at not quite sixteen, are so much older than she,” Suzanna’s father says dryly.

She moves to the window and leans toward it to peer through the milky-white panes.

“And Ceran St. Vrain?” he asks.

She sighs in exasperation and turns back to him. “Now, why would I be interested in a man who chases every skirt he encounters? He’s already had a child by at least one of the local women.”

Her father chuckles. “St. Vrain does seem to have a roving eye,” he admits. He turns and puts his book on the small table beside his chair. “Though he would undoubtedly settle down if the right girl encouraged him to do so.”

“I doubt that very much,” Suzanna says tartly. She shrugs. “Besides, he’s also a devout Catholic. If he ever does marry, he’ll want a Catholic girl.”

“And what is Mr. Locke’s view on religion?”

She shakes her head. “We haven’t even spoken of it. It seems to have no weight with him.” She grins at her father. “I’ve noticed that, in all the time he’s spent in this parlor, he’s never expressed an opinion on the matter.”

Her father chuckles. “You mean that he has never contradicted my somewhat Protestant bias.” Then he sobers. “But it is something to consider.”

“Yes.” She gazes out the window again. “I will ask him,” she says absently.

“And what of this young man who came last Sunday with Matthew Kinkaid? This Christopher Carson?”

“He seems nice enough,” Suzanna says carelessly. “Though he’s very young.”

“He is just about your age.”

“Men take much longer to mature.” She gives him a stern look. “You’ve said so yourself.”

He raises his hands in a helpless gesture. “You have an answer for my every argument.”

She chuckles. “I am my father’s daughter.” Then she sobers. “I love him, papá. And we share a love for plants and the land that I’ve never seen in another man.”

“What of his people?”

“What of them?”

“Has he spoken of them? What are they like? After all—”

“I’m a half-breed,” she says. She sighs. “Well, a quarter breed. Although I’m sure there are some men who would consider the French part of my ancestry to also be a cause for concern.” She shakes her head. “No, we haven’t spoken of it. But he isn’t interested in going back to the States. As long as we stay here in nuevomexico, my ancestry won’t be a problem.”

There’s a long pause, then Jeremiah says, “I was thinking of his ancestry, not yours. He has told us of his Irish mother, who is no longer living. What of his father?”

“He hasn’t spoken of him, except in a general sense.” She leans forward. “But I don’t think his father will object to my background. A man of Gerald Locke’s caliber and kindness can only come from parents of the same quality.” Then she straightens and grins at him. “Besides, in this matter, it’s my father who has the final say, not his.”

He grimaces at the fire and her unwillingness to catch his meaning, but then she crosses the room to him, and resettles herself on the stool at his feet. She looks up at him, then into the fire. “I hope you will be glad for me.”

“I will be glad if you are glad.” He says it so stiffly that she turns her head in surprise.

His face is averted, staring at the door to the hallway, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His lips are pressed together, as if he’s afraid to open them. She looks into his face, then leans her head against his black-trousered leg. “I will always be your daughter,” she says gently. “But I believe that Gerald Locke will make me happy. And if he’s willing to take me as I am then I am willing to take him as he is, with no questions about ancestry or anything else.”

Jeremiah Peabody sighs. His hand caresses her hair. “I agree that Mr. Locke seems to love you very much and that you have much in common,” he says. There’s a long silence, then he says, “And you will do as you see fit.” He leans forward to peer into her face, his blue eyes sharp. “But your happiness must come from within you, not from anyone else. He cannot give you everything. He is only a man.”

She smiles slightly. “He’s not just any man. He’s Gerald Locke Jr., the kindest man I know, besides my father. And he’s the man that I love.” She shakes her head slightly. “I feel a connection to him that I can’t quite express.” Then she tilts her head and looks into her father’s face. “But I take all this to mean that you approve.”

“‘Approve’ may be too strong a word.” His smile is bittersweet. “I cannot happily approve a thing that will deprive me of you. But I acknowledge your right to live your life and Gerald Locke does seem a good man, that we know so little about his background.” He looks again into the fire. “And so yes, I suppose I approve.”

She stands then and kisses his averted face. “Thank you, papá,” she whispers, and slips toward the door.

“And what of Encarnación?” he asks from behind her.

She turns and looks at him sympathetically. “You must ask her that yourself,” she says.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 36

Jeremiah Peabody is well enough the following week to sit in his parlor chair and receive visitors. Gerald takes the opportunity to repeat all he’s told Suzanna about the winter’s hunt. The older man listens quietly, his illness making him less likely to interrupt with questions, more likely to watch the younger man’s eyes stray to Suzanna. She sits in the window, demurely stitching a new shirt for her father when she isn’t glancing at Gerald.

Peabody’s eyes close, then open again when Gerald stops speaking. “Go on,” he says. “About the valley?”

“I’m tiring you,” Gerald says apologetically.

“No, no.” Jeremiah’s hand waves toward the window. “The light is a little bright today.”

Suzanna’s eyes lift from her work. “Shall I adjust your chair?”

“No, no.” He smiles. “I like to watch you sitting there. It reminds me of my mother.”

She smiles and looks down at the cotton fabric ruefully. “I don’t sew as well as she did.”

He chuckles. “No, but your knowledge of plants and herbs is far superior to hers.” He turns to Gerald. “The early willow she found saved my life.”

“Oh papá, you exaggerate,” Suzanna says. “You weren’t in any real danger.”

“It felt as if I was.” He takes a deep breath. “It is good to feel my chest expand fully again.”

She looks at him affectionately and turns back to her work. “This thread has knotted yet again,” she grumbles. “How I wish clothes could make themselves as plants do!”

The men look at each other and chuckle. “So, tell me more of this valley,” her father says.

Gerald could sit in the Peabody parlor forever, feeling the calm of its adobe walls and mica-paned windows, talking quietly with Jeremiah Peabody, watching Suzanna stitch her father’s shirts. But she grows restless in the half-light of the parlor and the temporary February thaw.

“I know it isn’t time yet to plant,” she tells the men one afternoon. “But I’d like to at least check on my potato plot. I left some plants in the ground, to test if they would overwinter in place.” She turns to Gerald. “Would you accompany me? I’m hoping to return with enough for a few meals, and the basket will be heavy.”

Jeremiah Peabody raises his eyebrows at the sight of his daughter playing the weak female, but Gerald feels only the sweetness of being asked to help. He’s instantly on his feet.

“You may need an additional wrap,” her father tells her. “I suspect it is cooler out there than it appears.”

As she goes to retrieve her cloak, Gerald turns to him. “I suspect it’s the exercise that she’s truly after. But I’ll make sure she stays warm, sir.”

Peabody smiles at him. “I know you will. I believe you care for her welfare almost as much as I do.”

Gerald’s chest tightens and looks away, his face red. “I do care for her very much, sir.” He forces his eyes up. “I know I am not worthy of her, sir.”

Now Peabody looks away. “No one is worthy of her,” he murmurs. He glances at Gerald, then turns his gaze to the window. He chuckles. “Not until she decides they are, at any rate.”

Gerald waits, his breath suspended, anxiety threading through him. Should he speak now? Should he tell the man the truth about himself? But then Suzanna appears in the doorway, wrapped in a knee-length gray-and-red-striped woolen cloak, a large wicker basket on her arm.

Her father’s head swings toward her. “Do you think that basket will be large enough for a only few meals worth of potatoes?” he teases.

She chuckles. “I’d rather take too large a basket than one that’s too small!” She turns to Gerald. “Are you ready?” She lifts a short spade from the bottom of the basket and waves it at him. “I hope you’re prepared to dig!”

Gerald moves toward her, his heart light.

But as they walk through the village’s adobe-walled streets, Suzanna becomes uncharacteristically silent. Gerald’s heart sinks. Has she heard about Jones? Does she suspect the truth about his race? He slides a look sideways. There’s no longer a smile in her eyes. In fact, she seems to be looking everywhere but in his direction. As if he’s a stranger she’s trying to avoid, not a friend walking beside her.

He tries to think of something to say, but everything that comes to him seems either too innocuous or too intimate. He studies his feet as they move out of the village and onto the network of paths that lead to the acequia and the potato patch.

The only sound is the tramp of their feet on the path and the chatter of an occasional bird in the narrow leaf cottonwoods overhead. Suddenly Suzanna stops and clutches Gerald’s arm.

“Look!” she gasps. She nods at the path ahead, where it curves around the corner of a field. She turns to him, her eyes shining. “Did you see it?”

He shakes his head and tears his eyes away from hers. The path bends to the right, following the line of the irrigation ditch.

Suzanna frowns. “I’m sure I saw a wild turkey. A hen, I think. It went into the field.”

“If we’re quiet, it may still be there,” he whispers.

She nods and they move cautiously ahead. Just before the bend, they step off the path and toward the field, holding their breaths. On the far side of the rows of corn stubble, a lone turkey hen pecks at the debris. Her dark brown feathers gleam in the sunlight.

Suzanna looks at Gerald in delight and he smiles into her eyes, all discomfort gone. She turns back to the field. The turkey, apparently unaware of their presence, moves slowly but steadily toward the row of bushes that divides the field from its neighbor beyond. Gerald and Suzanna look at each other, then the path. If they follow it around the corner of the field, they’ll be closer to the bird.

They move cautiously back to the path and then slowly along it, eyes glued to the bird. As they round the corner, the turkey hen begins to move along the bushes at the edge of the field, and away from the path. Head down, pecking at the grass, it seems to be unaware of the humans. But it still moves steadily away as they approach.

Gerald chuckles. “They’re intelligent creatures,” he murmurs.

Suzanna grins. “You’d think it knows that we’re here,” she says. As she speaks, the turkey slips through the bushes and disappears into the opposite field. Suzanna shakes her head. “They’re so beautiful,” she says. “And so shy.”

“Old Bill and I saw whole flocks of them in the canyon of the Cimarron,” Gerald says. “I suspect they also spend time in the valley above during the summer months.”

“You certainly seem enamored of that valley,” Suzanna teases. Then her face flushes and she looks away, up at the sky and the sun. “It’s getting late.” She turns and strides away from him down the path. “We need to get those potatoes and get home— Get back before dark falls.” She looks up again and laughs awkwardly. “The days are still short, even if it does feel like spring.”

Gerald hurries after her. She seemed so sweet, so normal, just a moment ago and now the curtain has come down again on her face. Despair overcomes him.

Suddenly, Suzanna’s foot twists against a rock in the path and she lurches to one side. Gerald reaches for her elbow, but she pulls away with a little jerk and hurries on.

He feels a sudden surge of anger. He should just turn back, let her gather her potatoes herself. Clearly, she doesn’t want him here. Her attitude toward him has definitely changed over the winter. But he hasn’t done anything to precipitate such a change. Has he? He tries to think back, to what was said in the parlor, to her father’s expression of good will.

Or does she know something her father doesn’t? Has she heard about Enoch Jones or, worse still, learned who Gerald’s father is? His jaw tightens. He should just leave her to her opinions, whatever they are. Yet he finds himself following her down the dusty acequia path. The cheerful early-spring green that dots the bushes and trees seems to mock his discomfort. Yet he follows her.

By the time they reach the potato patch, Suzanna seems to have walked off her irritation, if that’s what it was. She wades eagerly into the middle of her plants and bends over the half dozen hills she’s left to overwinter.

Gerald follows her through the fence and watches her use her hand spade to push aside the slimy, freeze-blackened potato leaves. She shoves the blade into the ground and looks up at Gerald in surprise. “The soil is still quite soft!”

He kneels beside the hill, oblivious to the plant matter under his knees, and begins sifting dirt through his fingers, feeling for knobs of potato. When he finds one, he presses his thumb against its resisting skin. “They’re very firm,” he says. “They seem to have survived nicely.”

Suzanna crouches beside him. “They’re beautiful!” She leans closer, her face inches from his.

He smiles into her eyes. “Beautiful as a turkey?” he teases.

She laughs. “In their own way!” As she reaches for the tuber, her fingers brush his palms.

“Beautiful as you,” he says softly.

She glances up, startled, and he holds her gaze. Then he turns his head and sifts his fingers through the cold and damp earth. “I have no right to speak,” he mutters.

But she’s still looking at him, the potato in her hand. “You have every right,” she says softly. She tilts forward, as if drawn to him by an invisible string.

He lifts a hand, whether to keep her from falling or pull her closer, he doesn’t know. Then he sees the dirt on his fingers and grimaces. “My hands are soiled,” he says.

“We are all soiled, one way or another,” she murmurs. Then her head is on his shoulder and they’re crouched in the middle of the potato patch, his arms around her, kissing her gently.

She moves closer in response and he loses his balance and falls backward into the dirt. Suzanna laughs helplessly. She stands up, drops the potato in her basket, and gives him her hand. “I didn’t mean to topple you!”

He pulls himself up and faces her. His stomach clenches. If he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

Her smile fades. “I—”

“I need to tell you—” He breaks off and looks away. Then he gathers his courage and faces her, his hands clenched. “I killed a man,” he blurts.

She tilts her head enquiringly.

“I stabbed him. In the wilderness.” He turns his head and studies the cottonwoods on the other side of the acequia, not daring to watch her expression change.

“There was cause,” she says gently.

He turns back to her. “You know?”

She nods, watching his face. “Gregorio told his mother.” She smiles slightly. “I don’t believe he told her everything, but enough that she understood that Jones was attacking him when you came upon them. He says you saved his life.”

Gerald shakes his head. “It wasn’t his life Jones was after.”

“I know,” she says simply. “Although I don’t believe Antonia does. There are some things a boy can’t tell even his mother.” Her lips twist. “If Jones had achieved his goal, Gregorio would have been deeply ashamed. There’s no telling what he might have done.” She shudders. “Jones was a beast and much bigger than Gregorio. He—” She turns away, looks at the trees, and takes a deep breath. “I know it’s wrong to be glad for a man’s death, but I can’t help it.” She faces him, her eyes anxious. “I’m glad you did what you did. Does that make you think ill of me?”

Gerald shakes his head. “Given the threat he was to you, I can understand how you feel.”

“But he was no threat to you,” she says. “You acted to protect others, not yourself.”

He absently brushes his hand against his leg, bracing himself to tell her that Jones was indeed a threat to him, that he’d guessed Gerald’s most important secret, but before he can speak she begins to laugh. She points at the the dirt his hands have streaked across his trousers.

“You’re just making it worse!” she says.

He stops brushing and reaches for her, dirty hands and all. “If it makes you laugh, then it doesn’t matter.”

She leans into him again, hiding her face in the curve of his shoulder as his arms slip around her waist. “If you will only do this, nothing else matters,” she murmurs.

He pulls back, holding her at arm’s length, looking into her face. “There is something else I need to tell you. Something about me—”

She shakes her head and puts her fingers to his lips. “I know everything about you that I need to know,” she says firmly. She leans forward, into his chest. “Nothing else matters. Only this is important.”

A wild, unbelieving joy fills his heart as he pulls her still closer against him.

~ ~ ~ ~

They’re a long time returning to the Peabody casa, neither wanting to break the spell that holds them beside Suzanna’s patch of potatoes. Finally, the late afternoon chill drives them back to the village.

When the gate comes in sight, their steps slow.

“I will speak to your father now,” Gerald says. “Though I’m not sure just what to say.” He looks sideways at her and smiles. “You haven’t actually said that you’ll marry me.”

She laughs. “You haven’t actually asked me.”

He chuckles and releases her hand. Then he takes off his hat with a flourish and kneels before her in the dirt street. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Encarnación at the gate, her hand to her mouth, her eyes gleeful.

Gerald focuses on Suzanna’s face, which is suddenly still. “Señorita Suzanna Peabody, will you do me the immense honor of being my bride?” he asks solemnly.

Suzanna nods wordlessly and Gerald raises an eyebrow. “You have no words?” he teases.

“You have left me speechless,” she says, smiling at him. Then she reaches for his hand. “Yes,” she says simply. “Most certainly, yes.”

He rises and they lean into each other, his lips on her cheek.

At the gate, Encarnación wipes a tear from her face and slips back into the courtyard. Ramón is sitting on a stool near the kitchen door, cleaning out a gourd as a first step to making her a new dipper. She crosses the yard and smiles down at him. “It is as you said.” She gestures toward the gate. “They are just there. He has spoken to her.”

He looks up. “And she has answered?”

Encarnación smiles. “She has answered.”

“And you, sweet Chonita?” Ramón asks. He places the gourd and his knife on the ground and stands, reaching for her hand. “Will you give me the same answer?”

She smiles affectionately. “Ah, Jesús Ramón Chavez. My dearest amigo.”

His face darkens. “Only amigo?”

She closes her eyes. “I swore to myself that you would be merely my friend.” She bites her lip and nods toward the house door. “He needs me. Now more than ever, with Suzanna to marry.” She gives Ramón an anguished look. “When he took me in, I made a vow to stay as long as he needs me. You know that.”

Her suitor nods, remembering the troubled teen who refused ten years before to marry the man her parents had chosen for her, the shelter Jeremiah Peabody gave her in exchange for help with his small daughter and the household work. Peabody never attempted to expand on that exchange and this fact only deepened the girl’s loyalty to him, especially after her parents died.

“Surely your debt to him has been paid,” Ramón says. Then he pauses and reaches gently to turn her chin toward him. “Surely he would not begrudge you this thing.” His eyes look into hers. “You have my heart. Are you ready now to swear another vow? To give me yours?”

She moves, half turning toward the door, but he reaches for her arm and the slight pressure is enough to stop her. “Por favor,” he says gently. “I think you will not deny me.”

Her eyes fill with tears and she gives him a little nod. “Si,” she whispers.

His hands move to her shoulders and she bends her head. He kisses her hair, inhaling the warm fragrance of her skin, mixed slightly with the dust of corn flour and the faint sweet scent of caramelized onion. “But I cannot leave him,” she says into his shoulder. “Not just yet.”

He nods. “There will be time,” he says soothingly. “I must prepare a home for us. And speak to Señor Peabody and the Padre. There will be time.”

She nods and turns her head to smile up at him. “You are a good man, Jesús Ramón Chavez.”

He shakes his head and smiles at her. “I am only a man. And I have waited this long. A little longer will be of no importance.”

As his arms tighten around her again and she lifts his face to his lips, there’s a slight rustle at the gate. They turn, his arm around her waist, to see Gerald and Suzanna, linked in the same way. The two women look at each other and laugh in delight.

Suzanna slips from Gerald’s grasp and crosses the courtyard. She reaches for Encarnación’s hand. “Shall we tell him together?” she asks. She turns to the men and makes a shooing motion. “Go on!” she says, smiling. “We’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.”

Gerald and Ramón look at each other and shrug ruefully. Ramón gives the two women a small bow. “As you wish,” he says.

“We await your summons,” Gerald says from the gateway, and Suzanna flashes him a dazzling smile as she and Encarnación turn to disappear into the house.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 35

After the meat is jerked and divided between them, the Utes and trappers go their separate ways. Gerald and Ramón move east into the small valley Old Bill and Gerald had trapped two years before, then south toward Coyote Creek, gathering beaver pelts as they go. Gerald revels in the shadows of sun and cloud chasing each other across the green-black peaks, the exhilaration of the clear mountain air. In spite of Stands Alone’s cautions, he finds himself continuing to ponder the possibility of a spread at this altitude. He can’t seem to let go of the idea.

They make a good catch. Two ninety-pound compressed packs of furs weigh down the mules. More streams beckon in the mountains and valleys between them and Taos, but as the weather lightens in early February, the two men begin to contemplate a return to Taos.

“We’ll get there before most of the big parties return and we’ll be able to set our own price,” Gerald says hopefully as he warms his hands at the campfire one night.

“The arrival we can control, I think,” Ramón answers. “The price is up to el dios.”

“The price for quality pelts was good last spring,” Gerald points out.

“That was last spring,” Ramón says. “Who knows what will happen this year? But I agree it is time to return. I am hungry for Encarnación’s raised biscuits.” He smiles at the trees beyond their camp site, then at Gerald. “She has said perhaps I may ask for her hand, if we return well.”

Gerald smiles at the hopefulness in his friend’s voice, though a pang of jealousy touches him at the same time. What he would give for such a ‘perhaps’.

“And you will be glad to see Señorita Peabody, I think,” Ramón says.

Gerald nods and looks away. Will she be glad to see him? He shakes his head at himself. Each time he goes away, he hopes she’ll greet him especially joyfully at his return, give him some sign that he means more to her than the other men who visit her father’s parlor.

He reminds himself that she did seem especially pleased to see him when he arrived in the spring. Then he remembers the admiring looks she gave James Pattie’s horse. He grimaces. Maybe that’s not a good comparison. The problem is, the longer he’s away, the more his doubts creep in, the more he realizes the audacity of daring to tell her how he feels. And then there’s the matter of Jones.

And his own race. Jones’ death is a small issue compared to this thing about himself that he hasn’t confessed. Despite Ramón’s opinion that Suzanna has the right to decide which truths she wants to hear, telling her this fact seems fraught with danger. And there’s also the fact that it seems audacious to simply blurt it out as if he has the right to think she ought to know everything about him. If she doesn’t love him, then why should she or her father care about his race? He has about as much right to tell Suzanna Peabody the truth about himself as he does to ask for her hand.

Which is no right at all. He crosses to his mule and checks the straps around its pack of furs for the third time. This, at least, is something he can control. “Shall we plan to head out tomorrow then?” he asks over his shoulder. “To get you back to Encarnación in good time?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Neither man’s predictions about the price of beaver furs is quite met: they are neither as high as Gerald hoped or as low as Ramón feared.

Because his expectations were lower, Ramón has an extra bounce to his step as he and Gerald leave Beaubien’s mercantile. “Shall we go now to the Peabody casa?” he suggests.

Gerald grins at him. “I think you should wait at least a week before you press your suit,” he teases. “After all, it isn’t good for a woman to know you’re too eager.”

Ramón flashes him a smile. “I have waited long for this day,” he says. “And I owe it to you, my friend.”

Gerald shakes his head. “It’s I who owe you,” he says. “Your mountain skill and your trapping.” He grins. “And your cooking.”

Ramón chuckles. “My cooking is as nothing compared—” He stops, embarrassment shading his face. “But perhaps I speak of her too often.”

“Is it possible to speak too often of a woman you admire?” Gerald asks.

“But you do not speak of la señorita.”

Gerald tilts his head in acknowledgement. “I should have said, ‘of a woman you admire and of whom you have reason to hope,’” he says.

Ramón shoots him a glance and turns his eyes back to the dusty street in front of them. “You do not believe you have reason to hope?”

“I don’t have her father’s status and resources,” Gerald says simply. “I have no right to such hopes. And there are things I haven’t told him. Things he has a right to know.”

Ramón smiles. “I do not think it is her father’s ideas or opinions that should concern you,” he says. “La señorita’s mind and opinions are her own.”

Gerald chuckles. “That is true.” Then he sobers. “But I don’t know her mind on this matter.”

Ramón shrugs. “There will be time to discover that, now that we have returned.”

They reach the Peabody casa’s wooden gate, which stands slightly ajar. Ramón puts his hand on the heavy wooden bar which serves as a handle. “Are you ready?” he asks as he swings the gate open and steps forward.

They stand just inside the courtyard. It’s bright in the early February sun. Bits of green poke through the soil in the neatly dug garden beds. Yet there’s an unusual silence and no sign of activity. The heavy wooden kitchen shutters are closed. Gerald and Ramón exchange an apprehensive glance.

Then the house door opens and Encarnación appears and turns to the kitchen shutters without glancing toward the gate.

As she lifts the wooden bar that holds them shut, Ramón moves forward. “With your permission,” he says.

Encarnación whirls, her hand reaching for her skirt pocket. Then she realizes it’s Ramón and her face relaxes. “Oh, Ramón!” she says. “Such a time we have had.”

“Is there sickness?” Gerald asks from the gate, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.

She looks toward him. “La señorita is well,” she says, answering his unasked question. She shakes her head. “The señor has been taken by an ague and has fever.” She looks toward the gate disapprovingly. “Suzanna seems to have gone in search of herbs.”

Ramón raises his eyebrows. “En febrero?”

Encarnación shrugs. “There are places where the grasses have begun to green, where herbs can be found.” She gestures toward the courtyard’s southern wall, where the tendrils of plants are taller than anywhere else in the bright space. “As you see.” She shakes her head. “We have dried forms of what she needs and a few leaves here are already producing. But la señorita believes the wild plants are stronger in value.”

“El señor, he is quite ill?”

Encarnación nods, her face troubled. Then there’s a movement at the gate and her lips tighten. “You left no word!” she says.

The men turn to see Suzanna, her skirts damp and carrying a small basket half full of reddish-brown twigs and sprigs of green.

Suzanna gives Gerald a glad look, then turns to shut the gate. He hurries forward to help her. She turns toward Encarnación as he lifts the bar that latches it into place. “I left you a note,” she says mildly.

The other woman humphs and turns back to the kitchen shutters. “With these shutters closed, who can see?”

Ramón leaps to her side and swings the wooden squares away from the window. As he latches them out of the way, Encarnación turns and goes into the house. Ramón looks at Suzanna and raises his eyebrows. Suzanna chuckles and gestures for him to enter the house. He shakes his head and waves her ahead of him.

Suzanna and Gerald grin at each other and move across the courtyard toward the door. “I hope your father is not as unwell as Encarnación indicated,” he says gravely.

She turns her head, her dark eyes anxious. “She’s right to be concerned,” she says. “He’s suffered a great deal from the cold this winter and nothing I gave him truly eased his discomfort.” She nods at the plants in her basket. “I did find some willow that was already producing new growth. Its spring bark will be more efficacious than what I dried last fall.” She sighs. “I hope it will help.”

Then she brightens. “And I also found poleo, which is very rare this early in the year. I don’t know that it’s of any value for what ails him, but he loves the taste of it, especially with a little black tea added.” She chuckles. “It will also help to stretch the black tea, which is his only beverage of choice at the moment.”

“It’s good to know that he has the energy to make choices,” Gerald says.

She laughs. “Yes. As long as he’s asking for black tea and Encarnación’s natillas, I think we have a reasonable hope of recovery.”

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 34

In the morning, the men and mules move down the ravine, following the half-frozen water that trickles through it. The gulch runs straight south for a long while, then swings north until Gerald begins to wonder if they’re wise to follow it. After all, the valley lies to the south.

But they’re still headed downhill and the snow is still falling on the slopes behind them, so he doesn’t voice his concern. Though he does breath more easily when the stream turns again, twisting northeast and then south.

They camp that night at what appears to be the fullest part of a deep curve that bends north and east. The ravine has widened a little and its slopes are more broadly angled and lower than they’ve been.

Snow still threatens and there’s no sign of huntable wildlife. Even the birds are stilled by the heavy clouds. The two men are reduced to eating flour and water mashed into a paste, then spiraled around green sticks and cooked over the smoky fire.

At least there’s water. In the morning, Gerald breaks ice from the edge of the tiny stream and gingerly fills his canteen. With luck, the liquid will warm a little before his thirst compels him to try it. At the moment, it’s bound to be toothbreakingly cold.

When he returns to the fire, Ramón has his rifle in his lap, checking the load. “It may be that the elk have all moved into the valley,” he says. “Perhaps there will be meat to eat with our bread tonight.”

Gerald grins. “Oh, is that what you call what we’ve been eating?”

Ramón’s smile flashes. “It is not the bread of Encarnación,” he says. “But for that we must return to Don Fernando de Taos.”

Gerald looks at the pack on his mule’s back, ready for the day. “There aren’t enough furs in that pack to warrant a return just yet,” he says. “More’s the pity.”

Ramón grins. “But how delicioso that bread will be when we taste it again,” he says. “After my poor attempts.”

“I wasn’t criticizing your bread,” Gerald says apologetically. “I’d just like some meat to go with it.”

Ramón chuckles. “I also am weary of my so-called bread,” he says. “And I too wish for meat.” He turns his head and tilts it to look at the just-visible mountain peaks to the west. “Let us hope those clouds stay behind us and do not descend with us down the ravine.”

They kill the fire and head out, still following the stream, which is starting to actually look like it means to become a creek at some point. Gerald shakes his head ruefully. Back in Missouri, this trickle of moisture wouldn’t be given the honor of a name. But he’s willing to bet there’s a map somewhere where it’s drawn clearly and given a label. He chuckles. If its water runs all year, it’ll even be designated a river.

The sun is doing its best to make itself seen through the bank of clouds in the east. It isn’t producing much light or much warmth, but it seems to promise an end to the grayness and snow.

There’s a break in the trees ahead and Gerald’s heart lifts. The valley, at last. But when they reach the open space, he sees that the stream is merely curving south through a frozen meadow toward yet another mountain. Snow-bound grassy slopes block the view on either side.

Gerald suppresses a groan of frustration. The grass is a hopeful sign, but the mountain ahead is discouraging. Yet, the mules’ heads are up and Ramón is nodding in satisfaction. As they swing south alongside the rivulet of water, frozen grass crunching beneath their feet, Gerald sees why.

The narrow stretch of grass between them and the mountain ahead curves around its base and stretches beyond to form a peninsula of grass that reaches into the larger valley below. As Gerald pauses to take it in, the sun breaks through the clouds. The white snow gleams joyfully back at him.

He jiggles his mule’s lead rope and follows Ramón along the stream. The ground is slightly mushy underfoot now and the snow is already melting from the grass. The mules snatch mouthfuls as they pass, and the men slow a little to allow them to forage and to adjust their own eyes to the brightness.

Ahead of him, Ramón suddenly raises his arm and waves it toward the base of the mountain that had seemed so ominous. Gerald turns, narrowing his eyes against the glare. Elk scatter the lower slopes, browsing contentedly, apparently oblivious to the men and their mules. Ramón’s arm moves again, to the south, and Gerald sees another hillside with yet another herd. Ramón turns toward Gerald and grins. “Meat for our bread,” he calls.

Gerald chuckles and nods. What a valley it is. A snowy Garden of Eden. Water, browse, meat. What more could a man want? Suzanna Peabody’s bemused eyes rise before him. Well, that also. If that’s possible. But, for now, the meat and the beauty seems almost enough. He lifts his voice toward Ramón. “Shall we find a place to camp and then go hunting, or shoot first and camp later?”

~ ~ ~ ~

But of course, no section of real estate is truly a Garden of Eden unmarked by human activity. The report of Ramón and Gerald’s rifles and the subsequent elk stampede down the valley is bound to be noticed by other meat seekers.

Gerald and Ramón are hunkered over an afternoon fire at the base of one of the half-dozen long low rises that bisect the valley when the mules nicker anxiously. Immediately, the men are on their feet, rifles in hand, the fire between them as they stand back to back, eyes scanning the snow-spotted slopes.

An Indian man, in the long braids and beaded buckskins of the Utes, rises from the grass twenty yards out, palms up to show he comes without weapons. Ramón says “Heh!” and Gerald turns his head slightly.

“How many?” Gerald asks.

“Just one, I think. No, there’s another.”

Gerald nods, his eyes sweeping the grasses within his gaze. “I think— No, there’s another.” He frowns. “A youngsters,” he says in a relieved tone.

“Ute youngsters can also shoot.”

Gerald chuckles. “Very true.” He swings his head. “Just the three, then. All with hands open. Shall we call them in?”

Ramón shrugs. “If we don’t, they may shoot. If we do, they may shoot.”

Gerald laughs and raises his arm to beckon the Utes forward. As they come closer, he squints. “I think I may know the tall one.”

Ramón nods. “As do I. It is Stands Alone.” He looks carefully at the boy. “And his son Little Squirrel. They come to Taos sometimes, to trade. It is three years since I have seen them.” He lifts a hand in greeting as the tallest of the men reaches the campfire.

“My friend,” Stands Alone responds. He nods to Gerald. “You I have met before. With the Lone Elk of the red hair. Did you find the beaver you sought?”

Gerald nods. “You directed us well. We made a good catch.”

“And now you have returned.” It isn’t a question, but somehow it requires an answer.

“Yes.” Gerald turns. His eyes sweep the valley, then move to the Ute. “It is a good place.”

“It is.” Stands Alone turns and nods toward his companions. “This is my friend Many Eagles and my son Little Squirrel.” The men and boy nod to each other. “I see you have found meat,” Stands Alone says.

“But not beaver just yet, so we were forced to shoot elk,” Gerald says, remembering their previous conversation.

A smile glimmers across the Ute’s face. “So you have no fat.” He turns to his son and says something in Ute. The boy pulls a section of beaver tail from the pouch at his waist. “It is now we who have fat.”

“Perhaps we should combine them,” Ramón says. He turns to the boy. “Yours and mine together will make a fine meal. And we have flour for bread.”

~ ~ ~ ~

They eat until they are satiated, then Ramón places thin strips of the remaining meat on the rocks that fringe the fire. “The jerked meat will be good for your travels,” he tells Stands Alone.

“It is good,” the Ute says. “No waste.”

“It would be a shame to waste anything of this valley,” Gerald says. He looks out over the broad sweep of it. The snow is melting in earnest now. Elk and deer graze the hillsides, although well out of gunshot range. A business-like coyote trots across a boggy area below, nose straight before him. “The grasses indicate that the soil here is rich.”

Stands Alone looks at him. “The grass is good feed for the elk and deer. And sometimes the antelope and buffalo.”

Gerald adds a small piece of wood to the fire. “And would also do well for beef cattle.”

Stands Alone grimaces. “Sharp hoofed and stupid. Bad for the stream banks.” Then he grins mischievously. “But good for the wolves and the catamount.”

“If a man lived here and watched over them, cattle might do well.”

On the other side of the fire, Many Eagles moves impatiently.

“If a man lives here, the eagles might leave,” Stands Alone says.

“If a man who respects the eagles lives here, he will not encroach on their nests and they will not wish to leave.”

“The big eagles, the ones you call the golden, will eat small calves.”

Gerald shrugs. “If most of the calves survive, the ones that are taken will not be missed.”

“Rich man,” Stands Alone observes.

Gerald shakes his head. “No, not a rich man. Just a realistic one. We must all pay for what we use. A calf now and then to the eagles or the wolves is a fair trade for use of the land.”

Ramón glances at Stands Alone. “And to those who have used it before you?” he asks.

Gerald spreads his hands. “Surely there is room for all.”

“One American comes and others follow,” Many Eagles says grimly.

Ramón grins. “But not to last through a winter.”

Stands Alone chuckles. His eyes slide to Gerald, then back to Ramón. “The winter winds here will push them away,” he says. He and Ramón chuckle companionably.

Gerald raises an eyebrow. “I have encountered these winds,” he says mildly. “I was here last winter with Old Bill.”

“You would be without a woman.” Stands Alone grins at Many Eagles and says something in Ute. Many Eagles chuckles and shakes his head. “Women do not like the winters here,” Stands Alone says to Gerald. He gestures toward the Cimarron. “They stay below in the warm valley, the one of the Utes.”

“I don’t have a woman,” Gerald says.

“You never know what might transpire,” Ramón says.

Gerald glances at him, then returns his focus to Stands Alone. “A man who lives here will be rich enough to share with his friends,” he says. He glances at Many Eagles. “And their friends.”

Stands Alone nods, then shrugs. “It is not for me to say. Many bands of differing tribes travel these mountains to hunt and trade.”

Gerald nods. He looks up and his eyes touch the grassy swales, the marshy area where the Cimarron River heads, and the green-black mountain slopes on the valley’s eastern edge. “It’s only an idea,” he says. “Something to think on.” He glances at the other men. “There’s also the matter of money and cattle, which I don’t possess.” He shakes his head. “I may never have the means to do what I wish.”

“You never know what might transpire,” Ramón says again.

“The meat, it jerks?” Little Squirrel asks his father, and the men turn to teasing the boy about his two hollow legs.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 33

Gerald finds to his surprise that, in the company of Ramón Chavez, some of the pleasure of trapping returns. The man is quiet, but certainly not taciturn or sullen. He is simply who he is, with no axe to grind, nothing to prove. Unlike the querulous and opinionated Old Bill Williams, Chavez rarely speaks. But when he does, what he says is sensible and without rancor, even when he talks of the Indians.

After William’s loquacity and the casual violence and deceptiveness of the men in Ewing Young’s trapping party, Ramón’s temperament and attitudes are a welcome change. His deep affection for the Peabody’s, which is apparent in any reference to them, also goes a long way toward fueling Gerald’s respect for the older man.

They take the same route into the mountains that Gerald and Williams had used. Ramón has trapped the Red River before and can give advice on side streams that might be of value, especially in the upper forks. While Gerald’s instinct that there will once again be beaver where he and Old Bill trapped proves valid, Ramón’s knowledge adds even further to their take. They work their way steadily to the river’s headwaters.

Two days after they reach the mountain lakes, the first snow hits. There isn’t much, perhaps two inches. But Ramón looks at their icy blankets and the lead-gray sky and shakes his head. “There will be more today and then tomorrow,” he predicts. “It is time to head downward.” He turns to Gerald. “We can move back down the river, or we can work south through the mountains toward Mora, or move east to the dark valley.”

“The dark valley?”

“The one they call the Moreno.” Ramón shrugs. “The pines, they are very dark on the mountainsides there.”

“I have seen that valley twice now,” Gerald says noncommittally. “There are streams from it that hold beaver. But there are no beaver in the valley itself.”

“But the valley itself is a thing to be seen,” Ramón says. “I have not been there in many years and would view it again.”

Gerald gives him a surprised look. Is this man drawn to those slopes the way he is?

“I have been told there is gold in the streams that flow through the valley,” Ramón continues. “Not much, but a little.” He looks up at the gloomy clouds overhead. “Though this is not the season for searching for such things.”

“Perhaps in the summer,” Gerald agrees. “The valley grass is long and green in the summer. The water there seems to run year round.”

“It is very cold in the winter though,” Ramón says.

Gerald looks up at the snow-heavy clouds moving steadily down the mountain toward them. “It’s still a thing worth seeing.”

Ramón grins. “Then let us see it,” he says.

Moving directly east requires them to flounder up a rocky bank that seems almost vertical in places. The mules snort disapprovingly as the men lead them over the slippery rocks. Finally, the slope levels out and they stand at one end of a rock-covered saddle between two boulder-strewn slopes. The mountain peaks behind them are shrouded in clouds.

The storm has begun in earnest now and the ground is slick underfoot. A cold wetness swirls into their faces and seeps into their clothing. They move forward slowly, glad for the saddle’s relatively flat terrain but wary of its broken slabs of sandstone and shale. The mules twitch their ears and snort irritably but keep moving, picking their way across the field of rock.

Ramón and Gerald pause at the point where the saddle widens and begins to slope downward. They exchange grim looks through the haze of white flakes. The spaces between the rocks underfoot are filling rapidly with snow, making the surface look deceptively smooth. One false step will twist a man’s ankle for him. With this downward slant, the resulting fall would be nasty and long.

“I think perhaps the mules should lead us,” Ramón says. “They will feel a footing where we cannot see.”

Gerald nods, too cold to argue. Ramón pats his mule’s shoulder, speaks a few words into its ear, then moves backward, playing out the lead rope as he goes. When he reaches the animal’s rump, he snaps it with the rope. The mule turns its head and gives him a reproachful look. Ramón snaps the rope again. The animal snorts in annoyance and starts down the slope, the man well behind, letting the mule take the lead, careful to hang onto the rope but not to put any pressure on it. Gerald follows numbly beside his own animal, keeping to the track Ramón and his mule are creating, fighting for traction on the slick snow.

It’s two frozen hours before they drop into a narrow ravine, out of the worst of the storm. Because the walls of the gulch block the wind, the snow is thinner here. Gerald’s very knees are numb with cold. He hears Ramón speaking to his mule and realizes the other man is once again level with his animal’s head. Gerald moves forward stiffly.

Ramón grins. “He did well, did he not?”

“He did.” Gerald looks around. “Do you think we’re far enough down to safely shelter for the night?”

Ramón shakes his head. “It is hard to say.” He looks around. Two massive sandstone slabs twice a man’s height jut from the slope to their right. The big rocks are perhaps eight feet apart, but lean into each other and form a sheltered space between them. Ramón moves toward it and peers in, then turns, his eyes amused. “There is strong evidence this will provide the shelter we seek,” he says. “Someone has been here before us.”

Gerald moves up beside him and peers into the space. There’s a circle of stones on one side and a small collection of broken deadfall tucked under a cleft in the far rock. With a little crowding, there’s enough space for two men and their mules. The surface of the boulders are marked with figures and symbols scratched deep into the sandstone surface, some of them partly obscured with lichen. “Indians?” he asks.

“So it would seem.”

He frowns. “Is it wise for us to use it?”

“No one else is here,” Ramón points out. “And we need shelter.”

Gerald nods and clucks at his mule.

There’s something about an enclosed space and a warm fire that brings out reminiscences and confidences in the most reserved of men. Ramón speaks of his childhood, the simple poverty that seemed a kind of wealth, and an uncle who killed a man but didn’t suffer any consequences, because his vecinos considered the death justified.

Gerald stares into the fire. “I also have killed,” he says. He grimaces. “Or I believe that I have.” He glances up. Ramón watches him impassively. Gerald turns his head away. “Last season. With Ewing Young’s expedition.”

“Enoch Jones did not return,” Ramón says.

Gerald looks up in surprise, but now the other man’s head is turned away. It’s somehow easier to say the words to the back of his head. “I stabbed him,” Gerald says. “He was threatening harm and I stabbed him.” His hand twitches, feeling the blade sinking inexorably between Jones’ ribs. His breath catches, but he forces himself to finally say it. “I stabbed him in the chest. Hard. Not enough to simply stop him, but also to cut open the flesh between his ribs.” He swallows. “He ran into the woods and there was no sign of him after that.” He shakes his head. “But no man could live with that kind of wound and no doctoring.”

“Jones is the man who followed la señorita,” Ramón says. “And also Chonita.”

Gerald looks up. “He was bothering her also? Even after that time in the plaza? What a bastard!”

“A good man to be killed.”

There’s a long silence as both men stare into the darkness. Then Gerald says, “I haven’t told the Peabody’s.”

“And will you?”

“I should. I must, if I am to—”

“Ask for her hand?” Ramón sounds a little amused.

Gerald studies the fire. “I have no right,” he says. “And certainly no resources. And she’s given me no encouragement.”

“Hmm.”

“And there’s the matter of Jones’ death.”

“Por que?”

“Because a man should tell a woman everything about himself.”

There’s a long silence. “Por que?” Ramón asks again.

Gerald glances at him in surprise. “Because— Well, because it’s right, I suppose. It’s a matter of conscience, of being honest and truthful.”

Ramón stirs and stands, stretching his legs. “I have learned much since you americanos have come to my country,” he says. “One of the things I have learned is that truth is not always what it seems and to be honest is sometimes to lose more than the honesty is worth.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow.

Ramón shrugs and lifts his hands, palms up. “But to each of us a different thing is important,” he says. “To Suzanna Peabody the death of Jones may come as a welcome piece of news. She may find what you have done a cause for rejoicing.” He frowns and tilts his head. “That is perhaps too strong a word. I cannot imagine that she would rejoice at the death of any man. But surely it is for her to decide what secrets must be told and which truths are necessary.” He shrugs and moves away to lay out his blankets and prepare for bed.

Gerald stares into the flames for a long while before he follows the other man’s example and composes himself to sleep as the mules send their breath into the space over his head.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

Ewing Young disposes of his furs, damaged as they are, and Gerald receives his pay—a little over $300. It’s now mid-August and the fur brigades for the coming season are starting to form, but Gerald’s aversion to the entire process hasn’t receded. Or maybe it’s just Ewing Young who no longer feels honest to him.

Not that Young has asked Gerald to participate in another hunt. The older man is staying in Taos this winter. He claims to be recuperating from his Santa Fe imprisonment, but Jeremiah Peabody seems to think Young is simply lying low.

Gerald has to admit that there are some things he does like about trapping. The wilderness has a definite appeal, and he enjoyed his time with Old Bill Williams, even if the man did have an opinion about just about everything. There are men like Ewing Young in any walk of life. Certainly, there are bound to be men like Enoch Jones in any given group of Americans. Staying away from trapping is no guarantee that he won’t meet someone else with Jones’ attitudes. But Gerald’s mind veers away from that topic, which still hasn’t come up in the Peabody parlor.

His discomfort with trapping really began with the ugliness that erupted on the Gila and again outside the Mojave villages. The killing there, and then the unremitting butchering when beaver was plentiful. There was just so much blood. He grimaces. And then the blood from Enoch Jones’ chest. His hands twitch, remembering the feel of the blade, the way is sank so easily—

He pushes the thought away and focuses on the recent events in Santa Fe. That whole episode was also slippery and uncomfortable. The kind of transaction that seem to be central to the life Ewing Young and the other trappers seem to glory in.

Is he being too squeamish? He doesn’t think so. But he needs to do something. As he walks the dusty Taos streets, Gerald ponders his options. There are other trapping groups forming, in spite of the government prohibition against American trappers. Word has filtered north from the copper mines that James Pattie and his father are recruiting men for another trip into the Gila. Rumor has it that they plan to push west from there, into California.

Here in Taos, Sylvester Pratte is putting together a group of thirty men for a venture north into the Rockies. Old Bill has signed up with them. Gerald chuckles. Williams working with a large group of trappers. Given the man’s strong opinions and his antipathy toward trapping with others, that should be interesting for all involved.

Gerald stops in mid-stride. Pratte’s group is heading to North Park and the Platte River. Which means Old Bill will be far north of the mountains east of Taos, the long valley and the streams that flow from it and the peaks around it—Red River, the Cimarron, Coyote Creek. Is there enough beaver there to justify a trapping excursion of his own? Would such a venture net enough that he could return to Taos with enough funds for land and a cabin?

Suzanna Peabody’s dark eyes flash into his mind. Gerald forces the thought to one side. Land and a cabin are enough to hope for. He shouldn’t set his sights too high. She may very well prefer to set up housekeeping with someone else.

And she doesn’t know what he’s done. What he’s capable of doing. Who he really is, on several levels. His courage shrinks when he thinks about telling her. Yet how can he not? He who disdains the dishonesty, the slipperiness of others, still hasn’t been forthcoming about his own failures. Regardless of how she might feel about his ancestry, there’s always the death of Enoch Jones.

He wants to forget it all, to push Jones and the events in the Gila wilderness into a dark hole in his memory. But the man haunts him even when he doesn’t haunt him. The dreams are mostly gone now, but still there’s the constant dread that someone will tell the Peabody’s about what happened. Suzanna will be puzzled and hurt that he hasn’t told her, and yet he somehow can’t find the right time or the words.

But the story of Jones’ death is a small thing compared to the issue of his own heritage, of who his father is. He’s going to have to tell her. But here too, Gerald finds himself putting it off. She has a right to know. At least, he hopes that she has a right to know. Yet his stomach twists when he considers how she may react. Will she despise him for something he can’t help but be? Or will she feel only contempt for a man who hasn’t been truthful with her from the beginning? Or will she not care, because she doesn’t really care about him, one way or another? He can’t bear to think about how she might react, yet he knows delay is only going to make the discussion more difficult when—if—it comes.

He turns his thoughts to the streams that surround the long valley to the east. It’s dangerous to venture into the mountains alone, yet the beaver would be all his, the rewards higher. Gerald grimaces. And then there’s the moral dilemma. Americans are forbidden to trap in nuevomexico. All of Mexico, for that matter. But there’s little else he can do to earn money, unless he hires on with one of the outgoing Santa Fe trains and returns to Missouri.

But there’s nothing for him in Missouri but repression and insults. Besides, Suzanna Peabody—although so far out of reach to him—is here in nuevomexico. He can’t bring himself to truly consider leaving.

He sets himself to considering his options, instead. If the beaver have returned to the Red River, the Cimarron, and Coyote Creek, the trapping is simple enough. Smuggling the plews into Taos that will be the problem.

Not that it would be very difficult. It’s just that it’s against the law. Is he really willing to take part in the subterfuge men like Young engage in? Yet it might be necessary to accomplish his goal. He’s mentioned the idea to Suzanna, the idea of going east into the Sangres to trap. She seemed less than enthusiastic. The illegality of it seemed to concern her.

There’s another option. A citizen can trap legally, no matter where he’s originally from. Some of the American and French-Canadian trappers are turning Catholic and becoming Mexican citizens in order to have free access to Mexico’s hunting grounds.

But even if he was willing to become Mexican, there isn’t time to complete the naturalization process before the season begins. It takes a good year or more. And, given Governor Armijo’s attitude toward Americans, he’s unlikely to support an application for citizenship that isn’t accompanied by considerable financial incentives. Gerald suspects that even all he has wouldn’t be enough.

He’s still frowning over his lack of options when he turns into the Peabody gate. Suzanna is bending over her pepper plants, which are planted along the courtyard’s south wall. She’s pouring water from a small wooden bucket into the ground at their roots. A short wiry Mexican man who looks vaguely familiar is at the well on the other end of the courtyard, transferring water into a larger bucket.

Suzanna looks up as Gerald comes through the gateway. “Hola!” she says cheerfully. She turns to the Mexican man with a smile. “Ramón, this is the gentleman we were speaking of earlier.” She nods to Gerald. “This is Ramón Chavez, a cousin—” She looks at Ramón, who grins at her. Suzanna chuckles. “A relation,” she corrects herself. “A relation of both our Chonita and her cousin Antonia.”

Gerald and the shorter man nod politely at each other. Ramón hefts the bucket toward Suzanna and gives her a questioning look. “Oh, yes!” she says. She puts her container on the ground and the Mexican man crosses the courtyard and begins filling it from the larger one.

Suzanna looks at Gerald. “Ramón has been helping me water the plants and giving me advice on the best way to keep everything from wilting in this heat.” She glances at the sky. “The monsoon rains should have started by now, but they haven’t been cooperating.”

Ramón chuckles. “They are testing your faith, señorita,” he says.

“My faith in the monsoons, at any rate!” she laughs. She turns, empties the small bucket around the pepper plants, sets it down, and turns to Gerald. “Will you come in? My father will be pleased to see you.”

It’s her standard formula, which usually fills him with pleasure, but there’s something about the way she says it today, a kind of tentativeness to her look, that sends a unexpected chill down his spine. Will only her father be pleased to see him? What about herself? Has someone told her about Jones? His race?

But he can’t bring himself to ask any of these questions, especially in front of a stranger. Especially one who looks at Suzanna as this Ramón Chavez does. There’s no deference in the man. The affection in his glance says he’s confident of the girl’s good opinion. Almost as if there’s an understanding between them. Gerald follows Suzanna numbly into the house.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see!” Jeremiah Peabody says as they enter the parlor. He stands and crosses the room, reaching for Gerald’s hand. “I have a proposition for you that might benefit us both.”

“Papa, you’re beginning to sound as hasty as you claim that I am,” Suzanna says with amusement. “At the very least, let Mr. Locke take off his hat and sit down.”

Peabody laughs and gestures to a chair. “That was rather precipitous of me!” he says ruefully. “Please forgive me. How are you today, Mr. Locke? Have you decided what you will do with your time, this coming season?”

Gerald shakes his head, his fear lifting as he takes his seat. “I’m still undecided,” he says. “Somehow another expedition like last fall’s doesn’t appeal to me.”

“I’m going to see about the tea things,” Suzanna says. She crosses the room and goes out.

The men watch her go, Gerald trying not to let his eyes linger.

“Was Ramón Chavez still here when you arrived?” her father asks.

Gerald’s chest tightens. He forces himself to nod calmly.

“I’ve known Ramón many years,” Peabody says. “He and I trapped together my first season here.” He smiles ruefully. “He trapped, at any rate. I discovered that such a life is not truly my calling.” He smiles a little. “As I think you have also.” He pauses, and Gerald gives him a rueful smile. Peabody nods. “Ramón’s a good man, and a valuable one,” he says. “He seems to know or be related to everyone in nuevomexico, which is a valuable thing in an associate here.”

Suzanna returns, carrying the tea tray, and Gerald leaps to take it from her and place it on the table. As she begins to pour the tea, she glances at her father. “Have you told him about Ramón?”

Gerald’s chest tightens again at the tone in her voice. He looks at her father.

“I was just about to explain his relationship to us,” Peabody answers. “It might be easier if you did so.”

Suzanna chuckles and hands Gerald his cup. She tilts her head. “Let’s see. Ramón Chavez is the brother-in-law of Chonita’s sister’s husband and the son of Antonia Garcia’s uncle by his second wife.”

She frowns. “I think that’s correct.” She frowns, considering. “I’m not sure what that makes Ramón and Chonita to each other.” She shrugs. “At any rate, he’s also a dear friend of my father’s and is my godfather, although I wasn’t technically baptized, since we aren’t Catholic.” She glances at her father. “Although Ramón was hardly more than a child himself when I was born, he agreed to provide for me if something should happen to papá before I was of age, God forbid.”

Gerald feels the clutch of discomfort in his stomach easing. “He seems a nice man,” he concedes.

“Ramón has been in and out of Taos the past eighteen months, and his presence never seems to have coincided with your own,” Jeremiah says. “That’s why you haven’t met him.” He shifts in his chair. “But now he’s decided that he’d like to find a way to make a substantial sum and is searching for a way to do that.” He gives Gerald a small nod. “He feels as you do about the trapping business, especially about how the American trappers manipulate the government officials to achieve their ends.”

Gerald looks at him, wondering where this is going. Jeremiah turns to Suzanna. “Could I trouble you for another cup of tea, my dear?”

Suzanna nods and crosses the room to take his empty cup. Gerald feels his eyes following her, then wrenches them back to her father.

“It seems to me that you might do worse,” he is saying.

“Worse?” Gerald asks.

“I think that Ramón might be of assistance to you,” Jeremiah Peabody says, apparently repeating something he’s already said. “It’s never wise for a man to go alone into the mountains, but he has a particular desire to trap this next season. Regardless of the business’s less savory aspects, it still has the potential to bring a high return. If the two of you partner as free trappers, there would be a mutual benefit. Also, since he is Mexican, the legality of your activity would not be questioned.”

“And Ramón is an excellent and enthusiastic cook,” Suzanna says. “I suspect he’d be more than happy to take on that responsibility.”

Jeremiah Peabody flashes a smile. “That would certainly be a consideration if you were going with them,” he teases. “Given your lack of enthusiasm for cookery.”

She chuckles. “And lack of skill,” she says ruefully. She turns to Gerald. “I hope you’ll consider partnering with him,” she says. “You mentioned going back into the Sangres. It would be a comfort—” She stops, her face flushing. She looks down and smooths the fabric of her dress across her lap. “That is, I would be glad to know he had someone with him in the wilderness. The mountains are not safe for a man alone.”

So it’s Chavez’s safety she’s concerned about. Gerald turns to Jeremiah Peabody. “I would need to speak with him,” he says stiffly.

Peabody’s eyes drift from his daughter’s face to Gerald’s. A smile twitches his lips. “Let me see if he is still in the house,” he says as he rises. “I suspect he will be in the kitchen with Encarnación.”

As he leaves the room, Suzanna lifts her gaze from her skirts. She gives Gerald a conspiratorial smile. “When he’s in Taos, Ramón spends as much time as he can in Chonita’s kitchen,” she says. “Since he can cook and bake as well as she can, we believe that the attraction is not truly the food.”

Gerald raises an eyebrow, trying to keep the hope from his face.

“He doesn’t quite have the financial resources he believes he needs in order to offer her a home.” Suzanna turns her dark eyes on him, the pleading plain. “He is very dear to us, and it would be a gift to my father and to me if you would agree to partner with him.” She smiles mischievously. “And to Chonita, as well.”

The knot in Gerald’s chest smooths itself out. “It seems a good plan,” he says. “But of course I’ll need to talk with him myself. He may not be agreeable to the idea.”

She gives him a glowing smile as her father ushers Ramón Chavez into the room.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 31

When Gerald repeats this observation a week later in the cozy Taos parlor, Jeremiah Peabody chuckles and Suzanna laughs out loud. “I’ve never thought of the fur business as ephemeral,” she says as she pours Gerald’s tea. “Those plews certainly seem solid enough, although lightweight.”

“The trade certainly has become complicated.” Her father turns to Gerald. “While you were in Santa Fe, Thomas Smith and Maurice LeDuc hid their furs in a cave somewhere near La Cienega and then came into Taos to make sure the coast was clear before they brought them in. They’d apparently had a run-in with someone in authority northwest of Santa Fe.” He nods at Gerald. “I hear they also exchanged money and goods before a resolution was found. Deception and half-truths seem to be very popular these days.”

“The truth certainly doesn’t seem to be very popular,” Suzanna says. “Ignacio Sandoval’s father was assaulted by an American trapper because Ignacio reported Ewing Young to the authorities. Fortunately, the alcalde was nearby and intervened.” She shakes her head. “I hate to think what might have happened to Señor Sandoval simply because he believes people should obey the law.”

“There aren’t many like him, either Spanish or American,” Gerald says glumly. “Too many people either change the rules or don’t want to live by them. Personally, I’d prefer to make a living doing something less subject to interpretation.”

Jeremiah Peabody hefts the Latin tome he’s been holding. “This is why I prefer books and teaching,” he says. “Ultimately, my interpretation is mine alone.” He places the book on the small table beside him and grins at Suzanna. “Is there tea in that pot for me, my dear, or is Mr. Locke the only recipient of your largesse this afternoon?”

“You were busy with your book,” Suzanna teases. She fills a cup and hands it to him, then turns to Gerald. “Would you like more bread and butter?”

“No, thank you,” he says. He hesitates. “Did James Pattie send word that he had gone to Santa Rita?”

Suzanna shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She turns to her father. “Did he have reason to inform you of his whereabouts, papá?”

Her father shakes his head and lifts his cup to his lips. Suzanna turns back to Gerald. “The plot that you found for my potatoes has produced beautifully!” she says eagerly. “Ramón helped me plant seed potatoes from last year’s crop and they seem to be doing nicely!” She glances at her father. “There were differences of opinion about how best to store them, so I tried three different methods, and both the straw and sand seemed to work equally well—”

Ramón? The name is familiar, but Suzanna’s eyes are on his. Gerald pushes the question aside and leans toward her, absorbed by both her words and her enthusiasm. Jeremiah Peabody returns to his book, a small smile on his lips.

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Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico

LorettaMilesTollefson.com

Tag: american west historical fiction

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 40 & Epilogue

CHAPTER 40

EPILOGUE

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 39

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 38

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 37

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 36

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 35

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 34

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 33

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 31

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LorettaMilesTollefson.com

CHAPTER 40

EPILOGUE

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CHAPTER 39

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CHAPTER 38

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CHAPTER 35

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CHAPTER 34

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CHAPTER 32

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