NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 10

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 10

There are no beaver in the valley itself, so the men and mules move steadily through the ponderosas and occasional cluster of white-barked aspen that close in at the southern end. The land tilts up, then down again, and the trappers are once more in beaver country. Their pace slows as they trap steadily south over the next few weeks, through a rich grassland that contains a cluster of small lakes, then down Coyote Creek to the edge of another, smaller, snow-bright valley. In its center, adobe houses huddle together at the edge of a narrow iced-over river.

“Saint Gertrude’s,” Williams says. “It ain’t worth much. They don’t even have a taberna.” He turns and looks at the pack mules, now loaded with a substantial amount of furs. “No place to sell these furry bank notes, either. Or to resupply. Which is too bad, because that coffee supply is righteously low.”

Gerald nods. He feels an unexpected stab of disappointment. It would be good to see other faces, acknowledge the presence of other beings. He doesn’t consider himself a particularly social person, but he finds himself suddenly wishing for an adobe casa to sit in, a hot drink from the hands of a pleasant girl.

Suzanna Peabody’s face, dark eyes looking directly into his, comes to mind and he flinches away from it. He has no right to such thoughts. He flicks his mule’s lead rope and follows Old Bill as he circles the village and its snow-covered fields.

They head west, following the river Williams calls the Mora upstream into yet more mountains. They work their way north and west, halting wherever a beaver lodge bulks from the snow-covered ice or where clusters of willow have been clipped back by sharp teeth. Then, after a day or two setting traps in bone-chilling water, they move on, heading further into the hills as the snow deepens and the icy cold sharpens further.

As the year turns, Gerald, who had initially welcomed the adventure of it all, the opportunity to learn a new skill, begins to feel the drudgery of trapping. His experience has narrowed to cold water, half-frozen dead beaver, cold air, and cold bedding.

And Old Bill’s continuous string of advice and opinion. But at least Williams has dropped the teasing about Suzanna Peabody. There is that to be grateful for. As Gerald and the mule trudge up yet another gully behind Williams’ pack mule, he tries to talk himself into some kind of positive mood, but at this point all he really wants is to return to Taos and the warmth of the Peabody parlor.

On the slope above, a mountain lion coughs menacingly and Gerald snaps back to his surroundings. Daydreaming is a good way to discover that the wilderness isn’t as boring as it might seem. He clucks at his mule and quickens his step so he’s close enough to Williams’ mule to hear the low monotone of Williams’ running commentary.

~ ~ ~ ~

They camp that night in yet another narrow mountain defile smothered in two feet of early February snow. Heavy gray clouds block the sky and promise more snow in the night. The lower branches of the aspen thickets on the slopes above have been gnawed raw by hungry deer and elk. Strangely, the snow-laden alder and rose bushes beside the iced-over stream don’t appear to have been browsed. The only explanation is the presence of wolves or mountain lion stalking the few clearings near the stream. The browsers feel safer among the trees.

Williams and Gerald pull the packs from their mules, lash them into the protection of a nearby pine, then cut thin aspen branches for the animals and create a feed pile. The mules come eagerly to investigate.

“Anyone passing through’s gonna know we were here,” Old Bill says ruefully. “Not that it’s likely anyone’ll be passin’ through.” He shakes his head. “Only americanos like us are crazy enough to be out in this kind of weather. The Injuns have enough sense to stay in their lodges this time of year. And the mexicanos ain’t no fools, neither.” He looks up at the thick dark-gray clouds in the narrow bit of visible sky. “It don’t matter much what we leave behind us, anyhow. With that snow coming in, by noon tomorrow this feeding pile will be just another white mound of windfall.”

Gerald nods without really listening, moves to add more wood to the fire, then hunkers down beside it and pulls his wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. He’s too cold to care whether anyone knows they’re here. They’ve been wandering the mountains for weeks now and have seen little sign of other humans. The only person they’ve spoken to is Stands Alone, the Ute who thinks the black valley belongs to him. This whole expedition is beginning to seem rather pointless.

Gerald grimaces. He knows he’s being uncharitable, but they haven’t collected any beaver in a week, and the cold and snow is becoming monotonous. But he isn’t the one leading this expedition, so he doesn’t have much say in what they do. Maybe Williams knows something he doesn’t and there’s a reason they’re still wandering these frozen streams.

Old Bill joins him by the fire and huddles into his own blanket. “I sure do wish I had me some coffee,” he says. “Or some Taos lightning. Yes siree, some liquor would feel righteously fine right about now.” He shakes his head and his long red braids, frosted with tiny white flakes, glint in the firelight. “Snow melt water’ll warm you a mite, but something with a kick in it would go a lot farther. As long as there wasn’t enough of it to create a temptation to foolishness.” He chuckles. “I ever tell you about the time me and Old Pete got to drinking up on the Platte and that band of Crow found us?”

Gerald lifts his eyes from the flames. He hasn’t heard the story, but he doesn’t want to. “Yes,” he says.

Williams studies the younger man. His lips twitch, then he glances at the packs strung up in the pine. “I’d say we’ve accumulated a respectable amount of pelts for one season’s worth of work,” he says. “And it’s clear to me that the beaver up here are peterin’ out. We ain’t seen action for going on a week now, and the streams are gettin’ narrower and their ice is growin’ thicker. I’d say it’s about time to cash in our chips.”

Gerald glances up from the flames.

“Yes sir, I’m thinking it’s about time we headed back to the land of the living.” Old Bill glances up at the snow-encrusted slopes on either side of the campsite. “I’ve got a notion that if we head due west and a little north from here, we’ll get ourselves into Taos in pretty short order.” He shakes his head. “I’m getting powerful thirsty for a little inside warmth and some whisky.”

Gerald rouses himself. “Do we have enough furs to make it worthwhile?”

“I calculate we’ve got enough to get you set up real good for the next go-round, with a little something extra to buy a certain girl a trinket or two.” Williams grins at him.

“I’m looking for more than the next go ‘round and a trinket or two,” Gerald says. “I want enough for land and a home.” He glances at the other man, then returns his gaze to the flames. “As much as I appreciate the skills I’ve learned from you, I’m not sure trapping is something I want to do for the rest of my life.”

Williams nods. “Some like it, some don’t,” he says. “But you’ve got to start somewhere.” He shrugs. “And to learn when to pack it home. There’s no point in hangin’ on when the beaver ain’t biting. By my way of thinking it’s time we hightailed it on back to Taos.”

Gerald nods, trying to look disappointed, and rubs his chin. “So it’s time to pack it in?”

“For the time bein’.” Williams lifts a stick from the fire and pushes the ash at its edges closer to the flames, banking their warmth. “We’ll still be getting in before the rest of them, so you’ll have a good chance of getting to know Miz Suzanna a little better before the competition arrives.” He wraps himself more securely in the blanket, lays himself down next to the log he’s been sitting on, and winks at Gerald before he covers his face and goes to sleep.

Gerald grins in spite of himself, then shakes his head, and stares into the fire. Williams seems to think he has a chance with Suzanna Peabody. If only it were true and not the dream he knows it to be. A dream as likely to turn into reality as the smoke from the fire is likely to coalesce once again into sweet smelling pine.

But there’s no time for dreaming the next morning. Gerald wakes to a sharp intake of breath from Williams’ blankets and sits up abruptly. It’s still dark, the heft of it just starting to lighten as dawn filters through the clouds. But it isn’t the light that causes the hair on Gerald’s neck to prickle. There’s something different in the air. A smell? A movement? Something dangerous.

“Act natural,” Old Bill hisses. “But be quick. Something’s circlin’ us. More than one.” He’s out of his blankets now, rolling them efficiently into a tight tube. “Nah, don’t turn your head. Act natural, dammit!” Just beyond the clearing, a mule stomps anxiously and Williams responds with an encouraging cluck.

Gerald reaches for his boots. “What is it?”

“Apache, I reckon.” Williams lifts his pack and moves toward the mules.

Gerald scrambles to gather his gear, trying to move swiftly but nonchalantly in the darkness, as if he and Williams pack at this speed every morning. He glances at the snow-laden trees on the slopes above. He can see nothing, yet there’s a definite menace in the air. As if the shadows have shadows. He carries his pack to the mule, then returns for the food bundle. As he reaches up to unfasten it from the pine, dead wood slaps rock behind him.

Gerald whirls, knife half out of his belt, but it’s only Williams, kicking the fire apart to ensure that the coals from last night’s fire won’t re-ignite. It doesn’t seem likely, given the cold and the snow. But this is a precaution every mountain man takes, no matter the weather conditions. You just never know.

And taking care of the fire is part of the ritual of acting naturally, Gerald reflects ruefully as he slips the food pack from the pine and carries it to the mules.

Old Bill follows him. “Ready?” he asks as he reaches for his mule’s halter rope.

Gerald lifts his rifle from its scabbard. “All set.”

“That thing primed?”

“Ready to go.”

In the time he’s known Old Bill, the man has never used such short sentences, Gerald reflects as they move out, following the stream. Or been so alert: spine straight, head up, eyes scanning the way ahead as he maneuvers through the trees. The slope on the other side of the stream is steep here, almost straight up, and when a dark shape emerges between the pines above them, Williams’ mule rears back and screams in terror.

Williams drops the lead rope and fires, the shot echoing from the canyon walls. Then there’s a rustle behind Gerald and he whirls, dropping his mule’s rope and lifting his gun in one swift motion. As the muzzle roars, another sound rises, a wild scream that pierces Gerald’s ears and sends the mules crashing upstream through the brush. The scream comes again, closer this time, and everything in the forest seems to freeze in response.

Williams is half crouched, his gun ready, making a full, cautious circle.

The early sunlight has pushed through the clouds. It fingers the tops of the pines, confusing the shadows below. Gerald blinks, and stares up the slope.

Though he knows he’s seen at least two shapes, apparently human, and believes Williams’ gun, at least, found its target, there’s no sign of anyone among the trees on either side.

Old Bill straightens and scowls. “Hell and damnation!” he says. “Those Injuns were aiming to scare off the mules, not hit us! The damn scoundrels are after our plews!” He turns to peer upstream. “All we can hope is that those animals are smart enough to keep running and get away from them, whole and all.”

He stalks away, to the edge of the frozen creek, and begins forcing his way through the brush, following the mules’ trail. “Apaches,” he says in disgust. “I should of known it was too good to last,” he grumbles. “I might of known they were hanging around, waitin’ on us to finish up and put together a righteously fat pack or two before they bothered to sweep in and steal everything we had.” He snorts. “Well, we’ll just see about that.”

He stomps on for a full mile, pushing violently through the underbrush, making no effort at silence. Gerald follows close behind, a sharp eye on the slopes overhead.

Then Old Bill stops abruptly at the edge of a break in the bushes and scratches his matted red head.

“Well, what do you want to know about that?” he says softly. His voice rises, all of its anger gone. “Now that’s just something you’ve got to see with your own eyes to righteously believe it done happened.”

Behind him, Gerald frowns. He can see nothing but William’s buckskin-clad back and fuzzy red braids. There are twigs in the braids, where they’ve been snagged by the brush. Then there’s a huffing sound and the click of shod hoof on rock.

Williams moves slowly forward. “Here now, you jennie, you,” he says soothingly. “That’s a good and a right righteous mule. How you doing, now, huh? Did you get a little roughed up there, or did you manage to outrun those damn Apaches and that screaming old catamount, too? That screeching got you in a grand righteous panic, now didn’t it?”

He moves slowly toward the mule, still talking, his hand out. The mule backs away, eyes rolling. “There now, it all ain’t so bad is it?” Old Bill asks. “And you’ve done proved yourself a right clever mule, too. You took off through that brush and left us all to the mountain lion, now didn’t you? And that hellacious old catamount scared those Apache so bad they didn’t follow you after all.” He shakes his head. “There’s somethin’ to be said for Apaches believin’ those lions are devils.” His hand touches the mule’s halter rope and he gently reels her in. “Now let’s just take a look at that there pack and see what kind of shape it’s got in.”

He edges around her. “Not bad, not bad at all.” He nods at Gerald. “It looks like my bedroll’s gone, but the plews are all right.” He pats the mule’s neck encouragingly. “Now all we’ve got to do is find your partner in crime. You were smart enough to both break the same way and I can tell you I truly appreciate that.”

He turns to Gerald. “We’ll head on upstream and see if yours—”

Then the mule’s head lifts toward the stream. The willows rustle and the men brace themselves. Their spent rifles lift, then drop as Gerald’s mule appears.

Her pack hangs to one side, and Gerald’s rifle scabbard dangles precariously under her belly, but everything is still attached and the mule herself is unscratched. She moves into the tiny clearing and nuzzles at Gerald impatiently, as if asking him to straighten her load.

The men chuckle and get to work, checking the loads and tightening straps. They’ve lost a skillet and Williams’ bedroll, and Gerald’s rifle scabbard is badly scratched, but the beaver pelts have come through without damage.

“Now this here’s quite a sight,” Old Bill gloats. “I’d never have thought I’d be so damnably glad to have such a righteously skittish pack animal as this one. Or hear a catamount scream just when that one did. Yes siree, it makes you want to believe in a gracious almighty that takes personal care of you, don’t it?”

Gerald, tightening the straps around the food pack, grins to himself. They are definitely out of danger. Williams has fully regained his loquacity.

~ ~ ~ ~

They stop at the top of the ridge above the hillside road that will take them north to Taos and simply stand there, absorbing the view. On their right, the mountain slopes are black against a monotonously white sky, as if all color has been wiped from the world. But to their left, a broad swath of golden-brown grassland sweeps west and north from the base of the hill. The sky is a clear blue behind the rapidly thinning haze of clouds. Brown cattle, white sheep, and black and white goats dot the fields. There’s no snow in sight.

Gerald’s eyes linger on the animals, then move farther west. He blinks and looks again. He’s seen it before, but not from this angle, and the difference is truly breathtaking. A mile-wide gash bisects the flat Taos plain, north to south. It drops abruptly from the green pastures and plunges straight down, between reddish-brown rock walls. There’s a narrow glint of water far below. Gerald shakes his head at the wonder of it.

“Rio del Norte’s gorge looks diff’rent from this direction, don’t it?” Williams asks. “It’s a righteously grand sight, even if it ain’t got no beaver in it.” He shakes his head. “There ain’t nothing but a few river otter in that there river canyon. There used to be, but not now. This section’s no use for hunting at all, now.” He turns and flicks his mule’s lead. “But we ain’t got time for sightseeing anyhow. The way that sun’s moving, we’re gonna have to make some steady tracks if we want to get to Taos before dark.”

They move down the rocky slope to the road, Old Bill and his mule taking the lead. Then the red-headed trapper stops abruptly. “God damn him to hell and perdition!” he mutters. He raises his hand in a half-hearted greeting.

Gerald cranes his neck. A man with a stiff back and a military-looking hat rides a large black stallion up the hill toward them. Two men on shorter horses hang deferentially behind.

The man in the hat reins to a stop in front of Bill. His shoulder-length auburn hair glints in the afternoon sun and the tip of his long hatchet-sharp nose is red from the cold. “Mr. Williams,” he says formally. “You’ve returned earlier than I expected.” There’s an edge of disapproval in his voice, as if the trapper has failed to live up to some unspoken agreement.

“It appears that I did at that, Señor Sibley,” Williams says. He grins and gestures toward the pack mules. “We got so many plews we done run out of animals to carry ’em!” He chuckles. “But don’t go tellin’ the customs official I said so.”

Sibley nods absently. His eyes sweep over Gerald and turn back to Williams. “I am to Santa Fe to meet with the Governor,” he says. “I will then proceed to Chihuahua to consult with the officials there regarding the road survey.” His stallion sidesteps, away from Williams’ mule, and Sibley reins him in impatiently. “I presume you are to Taos.”

“It would appear so,” Old Bill says drily.

Sibley nods. “I will see you when I return.” It’s more of a command than a polite goodbye and Sibley doesn’t wait for an answer. He spurs his mount forward and his companions follow silently, not making eye contact with Williams or Gerald.

Williams watches them with narrowed eyes. Then he spits into the dirt, turns abruptly, and heads downhill toward Taos. Gerald can hear him muttering angrily to himself, but he doesn’t move close enough to hear the actual words. It isn’t necessary. There’s clearly no love lost between Old Bill and the head of the Santa Fe Trail Survey expedition.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Over the next two weeks, Williams and Gerald trap their way steadily up the Red River. As they move higher, the temperatures drop a little more each night. The cottonwoods and the heart-shaped foliage of the white-barked aspens turn ever more golden.

Then snow falls for the first time. Williams stands by the morning campfire and studies the sides of the canyon. Its sharp rocks are outlined in white. The trapper swings his head toward the stream and the fingers of ice that edge its banks. Then he nods eastward, up the canyon.

“I reckon it’s about time for us to head on to greener pastures,” he says. “We’re not going to spy much more beaver up this creek. From here on, it’s too narrow and steep for them to have much chance at damming it solid. And anything dammable that runs into it is gonna be froze over anyway. We’re high up enough now that the snow’s likely to be nothing but serious from now until March. I reckon we’d better head on across Bobcat before it really sets in.”

“Bobcat?”

Old Bill jerks his head to the southeast. “There’s a pass thataway. It’ll drop us down into the prettiest little valley you ever saw.” He grins. “Well, not so little. But it’s a sight.” He swings toward his mule. “We’d best get to moving though, if we want to get over it before nightfall.”

The trail to Bobcat Pass is a steady climb up a rocky path dominated by snow-dusted ponderosas and other pine that cling improbably to almost perpendicular slopes. Gerald feels the upward incline in his ears. First a dull pressure, than a sharp pain until he sets himself to yawning and swallowing air. How high are they climbing, anyway?

High enough to be above the river, which slices through a steep sided and heavily treed ravine below. The actual pass itself is more grass than trees. The snow is thick, but drifted enough that the dried herbage is still evident. The men pause to let the mules blow and browse for a few minutes. They pull jerky for themselves from their packs, then begin the descent, into the trees again, on a slant almost as steep as the one they’ve just scaled. Elk lift their heads from pocket meadows too small even for beaver as the trappers and their animals move down the mountainside.

They drop into a narrow defile and follow it east and south below slopes dotted with twisted brown scrub oak and green-black pine. The snow hasn’t reached this side of the mountains yet and a small stream, not yet frozen, trickles merrily through narrow meadows thick with willow and drying grass. Just ahead, a flock of perhaps twenty wild turkeys moves silently away from the other side of the stream and weaves uphill through the trees. None of the birds turn their heads toward the men and mules, but they’re clearly moving away from the foreign presence.

Gerald takes a deep breath, breathing in the cold pine-scented air. Though the tree-covered slopes are almost close enough touch, the sky to the east feels more open, somehow. He suddenly realizes how closed in he’s felt in the last few weeks in the Red River’s canyon.

They reach the valley early the next morning, just as the sun is rising behind the massive snow-dusted rock abutment that Williams calls Baldy Mountain. As they move south beside the creek in the valley’s center, Williams gestures to the west. Gerald turns his head. The snow-clad peaks opposite Baldy glow pink, reflecting the sunrise.

Gerald shakes his head, bemused. The sun rises in all directions in this valley. In fact, the way the sunlight glints from the dew on the brown grasses makes it feel as if the light rises from the ground itself. The grass is long and healthy. It sweeps from the bushes scattered along Baldy’s slopes down into the valley floor and then west over the foothills to the edge of the pine-covered and pink-topped mountains. It’s thickest along the creek bank. Gerald’s farmer heart twinges with desire.

Old Bill and his mule drop back to walk beside Gerald. “This little bit of a stream’s called the Moreno River,” he says.

The younger man grins. The strip of water is so narrow he could jump across it, but they call it a river.

“Here in nuevo mexico, if it flows all year, then it’s a river. It don’t rightly matter how much water actually runs in it,” Williams adds.

“Doesn’t Moreno mean black?” Gerald asks. The water isn’t black, but the soil the stream cuts through certainly is. Dark and loamy. Inside his buckskin gloves, his fingers twitch, wanting to know how such a soil might respond to the touch. It looks as healthy as the grasses that weave their roots into its heart. He glances toward Baldy again and blinks. What he’d taken for bushes on the lower slopes have resolved into a scattered herd of feeding elk. Involuntarily, he wonders what Suzanna Peabody would say to such a sight.

But Williams is talking again, his voice high and querulous, a sure sign that he’s about to launch into a story. “First time I saw this valley, there was a foot of snow on the ground and a group of Utes camping just yonder, under that stony outcrop.”

He points to the right, where a mass of stone juts from the side of a flat-topped grassy hill. “I’d just pushed over Bobcat Pass in snow so deep the mules could barely plow through it. I’d been walkin’ three days. I figured if I stopped, I’d just righteously freeze to death.”

Old Bill shakes his head. “I tell you, I was mighty pleased to see that little camp of Utes down there and even gladder when I realized its chief was a friend of mine. They welcomed me well enough, but he wouldn’t tell me a righteous lick about what they were doin’ up here in that kind of weather. They should of been down Cimarron Canyon feeding their families and waitin’ out the winter like sensible men. Instead, they were laying here, waiting on something they probably weren’t supposed to be tanglin’ with. Mexicano soldiers, most likely. I got myself thawed out a little, then I hightailed it outta there with just my rifle, one beaver trap, and the clothes on my back.”

Williams shrugs. “Old Three Hands got two good mules for feeding me a couple of days, but I got out of tanglin’ in a fight that was none of my business. So I reckon it washed clean, although I sure did miss the use of those mules. I just hope they didn’t get turned into stew meat when those damn fools stopped waitin’ for a fight and headed for home.”

He pauses. Gerald knows he’s expected to prod the story forward. “You never got your mules back?” he asks.

“Nope, I never did. And the next time I saw Three Hands, he didn’t recall having seen me at all that whole winter.” Old Bill grins. “It turns out they’d had a bit of a scrap with the Mexican soldiers. He didn’t have much to say about that, neither. Those government troops seem to have got the better of them . Old Three Hands sure didn’t want to put his jaw to talking about anything that happened that season.” Williams chuckles. “The Utes ain’t ones for dwellin’ on their defeats.”

“Like most men.”

Williams snorts in agreement and points ahead, to a cluster of ponderosas in the curve of the stream. “We’ll stop there to noon. That’ll give the mules a chance to feed up. This grass may be brown, but it’s still tasty.” He nods southward. “If you’re thinkin’ this is pretty, wait’ll you see the south part.”

“There’s more?”

“You could say that.” Old Bill chuckles. “You might just be able to say that.”

The mules are reluctant to leave the long grasses, but once the men have eaten, Williams seems eager to push on. They follow the stream through a mile-long passageway that winds between the hills. The ground is thick with grass and spotted with thick-trunked ponderosas. Then the trees end and the land opens before them. Williams halts, grins at Gerald, and waves a proud hand at the view. “Now that’s something, ain’t it?” he says.

They’re standing at the top of a broad slope that angles gently down to a grassy basin that’s perhaps a mile wide and extends south toward haze-covered blue peaks. The valley is bisected by a series of low grass-covered ridges that block his view of the valley floor, but Gerald suspects the grass continues right to the edge of those southern mountains. If it’s anything like the growth at his feet, this is a rich valley indeed.

Elk are scattered across the hillside to his right. At its base, a stream narrower than the Moreno slips from the west and joins the Moreno, then snakes slowly southeast. Gerald’s gaze lifts and moves along the mountains that line the valley, east and west. He squints, puzzled. There’s something familiar about this place.

Williams gestures toward a low point in the peaks to the left, south of Baldy and a flat-topped ridge that bulks beyond it. “Those streams are headin’ there, where the Cimarron starts,” he says. “There’s a crag above the marsh there that the Injuns favor for gatherin’ eagle feathers. There were three big scraggly nests perched up in there the last time I come through. There’s likely more further up the slopes.”

He waves his hand at the grassland. “That there’s prime eagle hunting grounds for keeping their young fed up, what with the smaller birds and le petite chien.”

Gerald lifts an eyebrow. “Prairie dogs? The more the eagles eat, the better. They’d wipe out the grasses with their mounds. And that’s prime hay meadow, from the looks of it.”

Williams chuckles. “Prime elk browse, at any rate. Even the occasional buffalo.” He clucks at his pack mule. “This valley gets a mite windy and cold this time of year. We need to get a move on and get under the lee of one of those ridges before nightfall. I’m lookin’ to scout east along the Cimarron tomorrow and see if there’s any beaver come in since I was here two seasons back.”

Gerald follows the trapper down the broad slope, but his mind isn’t on beaver. The broad grassland and small streams move his thoughts inevitably to cattle and farming. The length and thickness of the grass here tell him there’s water available pretty much year-round.

And there are no people. No farmers, at any rate. The Indians apparently come through to hunt and even camp. Do they stay long? How would they feel about a man who wanted to actually put roots down here, build a house? Put in a garden? Grow a family along with it?

Suzanna Peabody’s straightforward black eyes rise before him and Gerald shakes his head. That’s presuming too much. But wouldn’t it be something if she should decide— He forces his mind back to the more plausible daydream of ranch, house, hay, and cattle.

“Does anybody actually live up here year-round?” he asks that night as he and Williams crouch next to a fire at the base of Eagle’s Nest rock. The canyon wall soars above them, black in the darkness. They’re right up against it, out of the way of the cattail-strewn marsh that absorbs the waters of the Moreno River. Gerald can hear it trickling from the marsh into the intermittent stream that runs through the canyon they’ll enter tomorrow. Cimarron Creek, Williams calls it. “Cimarron” because it’s as wild and unpredictable as the mountain sheep also called “cimarron.” “Creek” because it doesn’t flow year-round.

“This here valley’s too cold for perching in durin’ the winter months,” Williams says. “It’s a righteously beautiful place in the summer, once summer finally makes it this high up. It takes a mite longer than most places to warm up and the cold comes in earlier, too.” He shrugs. “It ain’t good for beaver though. Not enough trees and willow to make it worth their while.”

“I was thinking about how it would be to farm,” Gerald says casually. “But from what you say, it sounds like the growing season’s a bit short.”

Williams snorts. “The growin’ season’s short and the winter season’s long,” he says. “I surely wouldn’t try it. But then I ain’t a farming man.” He points to the rock abutment overhead. “I’d rather be on top of that rock, seein’ what I can see, lookin’ for new trails to blaze. Not cramped up in a cabin with nothin’ to do.” He shrugs. “But if a man was goin’ to venture livin’ up here, he could always run cattle. There’s grass enough. Though you’d have to fight the elk for the range and the wolves and the cougars for the calves.”

“And watch out for prairie dogs,” Gerald says wryly.

Williams nods. “And then you’d have to get those cows down to market.” He pushes back his hat. “I hear tell some of the Taos folk run their goats and sheep up here in the summer. Between them, the Injuns, the elk, and the weather, it’d be a contest who’d wear you out soonest.”

Gerald nods, gazing into the dark toward the marsh, his mind drifting toward the richness of the soil in the valley beyond.

“And you’d have a tough time findin’ a woman who’d be willin’ to live this far from nowhere.” Williams grins mischievously at Gerald. “Even Suzanna Peabody.”

Gerald’s head jerks toward Old Bill in spite of himself.

Williams stretches his legs toward the fire. “You ain’t the only one who’s dreamed that particular notion, you know. We’ve all had that idea, one time or the other.”

Gerald feels a tight fist of disgust in his belly and fights to keep it from showing on his face.

Williams shakes his head at the fire, a rueful smile on his lips. “Not that any of us’d touch her. She’s that fine a lady.” He nods at Gerald companionably. “But she does make you think of what it’d be like to settle with a girl like herself, don’t she now? Educated like that. Smart as a whip. Not takin’ sass off a soul, not even her daddy. But not mean like. It’s just she can talk him so sweet he don’t even know he’s been twisted around her little finger.” He chuckles. “’Course, that might be a reason for some of us to think twice about a gal of her caliber.”

Gerald permits himself a small smile. To think of another man thinking of Suzanna Peabody in that way makes his stomach clench, but he does like that Old Bill admires her qualities, knows what she’s worth.

Not that he himself really knows the girl, Gerald reminds himself. But what Williams says of her fits what Gerald instinctively feels. The true heart of her. The strength. As to her taking no sass off anybody, he knows that isn’t quite true. He’s seen her frightened, though not cowed. And he’s very glad that he happened around the corner of that narrow street where Enoch Jones had her cornered against that adobe wall.

Not that his intervention lays any obligation upon her, he reminds himself later, as he spreads his bedroll on the rocky ground beneath the cliff. Or means she’s special to him in any way. He would do the same for any woman in such a predicament.

Yet, as he dozes off, Gerald’s mind drifts to the image of black eyes looking straight into his, slim brown hands offering him a plate of food.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

The day after the visit to the Peabody’s, Gerald shares yet another whisky with Old Bill in yet another Taos taberna. In the middle of a story about his life among the Osage Indians, Williams interrupts himself. “So how is it you happened to already know our Miz Peabody?” he asks abruptly.

Gerald shrugs. “A man was paying her what seemed to be unwanted attention and I intervened.” He lifts his drink. “Anyone else would’ve done the same thing.”

Old Bill lifts a scraggly red eyebrow. “Would the gentleman who was providing this unwanted attention happen to be named Enoch Jones?”

Gerald sets his drink on the table. “Do you know him?”

Williams’ back straightens and his eyes narrow. “I know him all right. I’ll wring his fat neck for him, the mothersuckin’ balls for brains bastard!”

Gerald frowns. “Has he been after her before this?”

“He’s made eyes,” Old Bill says grimly. “You sure it was him?”

“Oh yes. We were in the same train coming out.”

“He’ll be waitin’ for you t’ turn your back, you know.”

“He already disliked me.” Gerald shrugs. “This will just give him another reason.”

Williams raises an inquiring eyebrow and Gerald briefly describes the incident with the Kiowa boy, then—more fully—Jones’ treatment of the mules.

“He’s a godforsaken bastard, that one,” Old Bill says. “I’ve known a few craven-hearted men in my time, but he’s one of the worst.” His eyes snap. “To think he’d have the gall to put his hands on our Suzanna.”

“It was the way he spoke to her,” Gerald says. “As if she was dirt under his feet.”

“Well, he’s got this mothersuckin’ idea that a white skin makes him better than the rest of the human race,” Williams says. “And Miz Peabody being part Navajo but so well bred and nice mannered must just stick in his craw.”

“She’s part Navajo?”

“Now there’s a story for you.” Old Bill leans forward and lowers his voice. “No one talks about it much, because Jeremiah doesn’t like to be reminded how he was boondoggled.” He tilts his red head. “At least, that’s how he figgers it.” He shrugs. “Any other man would of known what the girl was up to, but he was still green and those New Englanders, they expect everybody else to have their same standards.”

Gerald frowns, confused.

Williams stretches back, fingering his whisky. “See, what happened was, Peabody showed up out here from the East along about 1809. He was still pretty much just a whippersnapper, runnin’ away from some trouble with a gal and another man.” Williams shrugs. “The usual. Anyway, he got out here safe enough and managed to sweet talk the ricos into letting him stay, but then this puta started after him. She was the daughter of a French trapper and a Navajo gal the trapper had bought from the Comanches.”

Williams grins ruefully. “The girl was a righteously pretty little thing and she pretty much got what she wanted. Jeremiah fell in love, or so he thought, and when she told him she was enciento, he hooked up with her. Didn’t marry her, though. He wouldn’t turn Catholic, even for a girl. But he swore he’d take care of her and the child. And he did, even when she started running around with other men.”

Old Bill shakes his head. “Should of turned her out. I would of. But by that time, the little girl was born and they say she was a righteous beauty even then. Her daddy fell in love for real then, that’s for certain sure.”

Williams pauses, looking incongruously bemused. “Babies’ll do that t’ a man if you’re not careful. Tie you down faster’n any woman can.” He shakes a finger at Gerald. “My advice is, don’t stay around long enough to find out if there’s gonna be a kid, and if you do find out, then cut out before the coon actually arrives. If you stay, you’re lost, sure as oil and water don’t mix.”

Gerald grins. “I’ll remember that.”

Williams raises both hands, leans forward, and slaps the rough wooden table with both palms. “So what’re you gonna do with yourself this winter? You decide yet?”

Gerald shakes his head.

“Why don’t you throw in with me?” the trapper asks. “I’ve got nothing to do here except play court to Sibley on his road commission work and I ain’t much good at payin’ court.” He snorts. “Sibley’d tell you that.” He leans back, hands still flat on the table. “I’ll show you the ropes and we’ll split the results. Just you and me, private like. I’m not about to share my hunting grounds with just anyone.”

“Your hunting grounds?”

Old Bill winks. “I know some places up in the hills that they all think are trapped out. But it’s good hunting if you know where to look and there ain’t too many out looking.”

Gerald studies the opinionated mountain man. There’s something about Williams that’s quite appealing. Or maybe it’s just that Old Bill’s loquaciousness means Gerald doesn’t have to talk much when they’re together. There’s certainly little need to explain himself or where he comes from.

Gerald nods thoughtfully, then more firmly, looking into the trapper’s face. “I’d be honored to throw in with you,” he says. “When do you expect to start?”

“Well, there ain’t no time like the present!” Williams scrapes back his chair. “Let’s get a move on.”

Gerald follows him out the taberna door, squelching his desire to make a farewell visit to the Peabody home, aware that he has no right to make such a call, hoping against hope that he might chance across Suzanna before he and Old Bill leave town. Or that Williams will decide he needs one last meal of the Peabody cook’s wheat flour rolls.

But when the old trapper decides to do something, he throws himself into it completely. He and Gerald are busy from dawn to dusk: stocking up on flour, coffee, and salt; purchasing Gerald’s gear, including elk hide moccasins and buckskin trousers and shirt; and locating and bargaining for two sturdy mules for their gear. Gerald keeps an eye out for Suzanna Peabody, but doesn’t catch so much as a glimpse of her in the next three days.

They slip out of Taos in the middle of the night. Williams has mentioned casually to several of the other trappers that he’s heading up the Rio del Norte, and he and Gerald move out in that direction under a star-studded sky.

The next morning, the wheat fields of Taos Valley give way to rolling hills covered with forty-foot juniper and occasional long-needled thick-barked ponderosa pine. But Old Bill is paralleling the Rio del Norte, not heading toward it. He moves due north, then slightly east, to hit what he calls Red River Creek well east of its confluence with the del Norte. They camp beside the creek that night, in the shadow of the mountains it flows from. According to Williams, the stream is called “Colorado” in Spanish, in honor of the reddish sediment that stains it during spring runoff.

The next morning they follow the Red’s narrow canyon east into the Sangre de Cristos. Williams leads the way, the gap between the men too far for any real conversation and Old Bill anxious not to be spotted. Gerald’s not sure if Williams is more concerned about Indians or other trappers.

He takes the opportunity to study the massive granite and sandstone boulders that jut from the canyon walls, dwarfing the men and mules, and the ponderosas that cling precariously in the gaps between them. There’s a brooding beauty in the darkness of the pines. Sunlight breaks around the rocks onto the clear-running river below, then cuts off abruptly as the canyon rim narrows overhead.

Where the canyon is wider, broad grassy areas stretch beside the stream. Even Gerald can spot the old beaver sign in these meadows. Graying tree stumps stick up from the grasses and show themselves among the alder and willows along the river bank. Their tops, gnawed long ago into dull points by beaver incisors, are chipped like poorly sharpened pencils.

The men find no truly marshy areas or ponds with active beaver lodges until well into the second day. Williams is ahead and Gerald’s beginning to wonder when he’ll decide to noon, when the older man raises his reedy voice. “Well now, that’s a beaver dam if ever I saw one!”

A windblown snag straddles the river from bank to bank. Ten- and twelve-foot lengths of two-inch thick branches are jammed hard against the snag at every possible angle. River mud has been smudged between them, whether by beaver or water flow, it’s hard to say.

The dam is massive, perhaps eight feet tall and fifteen long. Grasses dot its top and sides. They’re well rooted in the sediment and enhance the dam’s strength. Water slips around its near end, trickling downstream just enough to keep the pond behind it in check. There are no discernible banks to the pond itself. The impounded water seeps through a swath of cattails, then into a tangle of coyote willow. Beyond the willows, long grasses rise from mucky soil, creating a bog that blocks the canyon floor for a good quarter mile upriver.

Williams pushes his hat back on his head and scratches his scraggly red beard as he studies the dam and the pond. Then he turns to Gerald.

“This is where moccasins are better’n boots,” he says. “We’re about to get damp.” Old Bill’s mule nickers at him and he looks at her impatiently. “Ah hell, let’s noon first.” He pulls off his hat. “Then we’ll start slogging.”

They loose the mules to graze among the water-rich grasses, and munch buffalo jerky while they study the bog. “We could trap it from here,” Williams says. “If we’re careful, the beaver won’t know which direction we come from.” He snorts. “There’s sure enough water around here to wash our stink out.” He glances up at the sheer canyon walls. “But we’d only have one way out if any Utes or Apaches show up.” He clucks his tongue as he shakes his head. “We’re gonna have to get past this. Come at it from upstream.”

“And if Apaches or Utes show up when we’re above this?” Gerald asks. “Won’t this mess block us from moving out of here quickly?”

Williams grins mischievously. “Then we’ll have to head upstream instead.” He glances at Gerald’s feet. “Better put your moccasins on. Those leather boots will take a month of Sundays to dry out good and proper.”

Gerald grimaces. He suspects the elk hide moccasins aren’t going to be much protection against the icy water.

And he’s right. When he steps into the stream, the shock to his feet is truly breathtaking.

Ahead of him, leading a reluctant mule through the water-logged grass, Old Bill looks back over his shoulder and grins. “They’ll numb up soon enough,” he says. “Then you won’t feel a thing.”

Gerald grins wryly and clucks at his mule, who seems more interested in eating than wading. Smart animal, he thinks grimly.

They move upstream and well beyond the pond before Williams finds a camping site to his liking. The next morning, he gathers gear enough for a day’s trapping, hands Gerald a long piece of deadwood sharpened on one end, hoists a pack onto his back, and leads the way back to the beaver dam.

They maneuver downstream perhaps a mile, though it seems longer. Gerald’s feet are blocks of ice before the trapper abruptly halts. “Here it is!” Williams hisses. “Looks different, this direction.”

Gerald wades through the water to stand beside Williams in the eddying stream. A wall of willow lines the river’s banks, marking the edge of the beaver pond. On their left, there’s a narrow muddy incline between the willows. Neatly-clipped willow sticks lie beside it. A small bush has been sheared off to within a foot of the ground, the tip of each stub angled and sharp.

“Beaver feeding?” Gerald asks.

Williams hisses, “Quiet!” Then he nods and jerks a thumb toward the strip of mud. “That there’s their slide,” he whispers. “We’ll be settin’ the trap out from that, a good three feet or so.” He points at a small section of water that’s noticeably darker than the rest, a sign that the pond bottom drops sharply in that location. “Right about there.”

Gerald considers the dark spot and wonders just how deep the pool actually is. But he only nods.

Old Bill wades forward cautiously. He stops, extends his foot, and taps it along the bottom of the pond, then grunts approvingly. He turns and beckons to Gerald. “Come and see.”

Gerald edges closer, staying between Williams and the bank.

Williams moves his foot from side to side. The water swirls, turning brown with silt. “I’m using my foot to move some of this here mud into a little hill,” he explains. “When I’m done, the top of it’ll be about a foot below the surface.”

Gerald nods his understanding, if not his ability to see what the trapper is actually doing.

“I’ve got to make it wide enough to hold the trap and all,” Williams explains, gesturing with his hands, forgetting to whisper. He yanks the bag on his back around to rest against his scrawny belly, then pulls out a trap and begins unwrapping the steel chain that’s wound around it. “You know how to set this beast?”

“Well, I do on solid ground,” Gerald says.

Williams grins. “It ain’t so theoretical now, is it?” He lifts the trap chain to one side, out of the way, then flips the trap itself onto its side and braces it against his thigh. He wraps his hands around the metal clamps at each end and squeezes steadily, forcing them together. As the springs compress, the trap jaws are forced open and into position.

Old Bill gives Gerald a little nod and jerks his chin at the trap. “Just flip that trigger piece into that there dog.”

Gerald gingerly uses his free hand to snap the dangling piece of narrow, angled metal into the notch on the opposite side of the trap. This will keep the trap’s jaws open until an unwary animal ventures too close and bumps the trigger and the metal jaws clamp shut around the animal’s leg or other body part.

Williams lifts the trap carefully, gives a satisfied nod, and grins at Gerald. “That’s the way to do it.”

Gerald grins back at him. “That approach requires some real strength.”

Williams nods complacently. “It’s all in the hands.” He deftly slides the trap under the water and onto the pile of dredged-up mud, then lifts the chain and moves farther into the pond. When he finds the anchorage spot he’s looking for, he motions Gerald to bring him the trap stake.

Gerald wades across and hands Williams the piece of sharpened deadwood, and the trapper slips its blunt end into the final loop of the chain. Then he pulls a leather cord from a pocket, wraps it around the stick twice, then threads it through a loop of the chain, and knots it into place just below the top of the stake. Once the chain is attached, he grabs the stick with both hands and shoves the pointed end firmly downward, driving it into the pond floor. He nods in satisfaction and turns to follow the chain back to the trap site. Gerald wades after him.

“Cold yet?” Old Bill asks over his shoulder.

“Startin’ to feel it,” Gerald says, his lips so stiff he can hardly form the words.

Williams chuckles. “You got sand, I’ll say that for you.” He gestures toward the stake. “All that’s the preliminaries. This next step’s the crucial piece.” He wades to the willow bushes along the bank, pulls out his knife, and slices off a long switch. He scrapes the bark from one end, then reaches into a pocket. “I’m gonna need you to take care of this,” he says. He holds out the corked piece of antelope horn that serves as his bait container.

Gerald has smelled castoreum before, but the choking scent of it is always a shock to his senses. He grimaces as he removes the cork and tilts the contents toward the trapper. Williams grins at him, sticks his gloved forefinger into the goop, and smears it onto the scraped end of the willow switch.

As Gerald recaps the bit of horn, Williams chuckles. “Look at your face!” He shakes his head. “Better get use to it, sonny. That stuff’s what fortunes are made of.”

“It stinks like a lot of necessary things,” Gerald says dryly.

Old Bill laughs and moves to the edge of the pond. He forces the thicker end of the willow stick into the bank at an angle, so that the baited end hangs out over the water and dangles perhaps six inches above the surface and the set trap underneath.

“That should do it,” Williams says. He turns and begins wading upstream. “We need to make tracks up a ways before we can climb out. We don’t want that beaver smellin’ us. These critters can be mighty intelligent when they take a notion to be.”

There’s a good-sized male beaver in the trap when they return the next morning. Gerald carries it back to camp, where Williams proceeds to demonstrate how to skin and butcher the carcass, then how to stretch the skin onto a hoop he constructs from willow branches and thin strips of rawhide. When he hangs the hooped pelt from a ponderosa branch, the sun shines through the skin and gives it a reddish hue.

“You ever eat beaver flesh?” the trapper asks.

Gerald shakes his head.

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” Old Bill says. “Beaver tastes like beef and even has a little fat in it, unlike venison or antelope. They’re so dry you’ve got to add fat to the pot to make them righteously edible.” He squats next to the fire and reaches for the coffee pot. “With all that grease, beaver flesh doesn’t last long, but it’s good the first day, at any rate. And it’s a nice change from deer or elk or those other hoofed creatures.”

“I understand beaver tail is quite tasty.”

Williams grunts disparagingly. “If you’re craving fat, it’ll pass for it,” he says. “It’s too bland for my tongue. Though that cook of Jeremiah Peabody’s knows what to do with it. Someone brought her some last fall and by the time she was done with it, Peabody said it was like ambrosia.” He shakes his head. “That Chonita is a looker, too. It’s beyond my understanding why she’s not married yet. Waiting for the best proposition, I suppose. A female like her can take her time, be righteously choosy.”

Williams pauses, still holding the coffee pot, staring up into the golden narrow leaf cottonwoods between them and the river. “I knew another one like that once. An Osage gal.” He shakes his head and puts the pot back on the stone next to the fire. “Pretty, too.” He looks at Gerald. “Have you met her?”

“Jeremiah Peabody’s cook?” Gerald shakes his head.

Williams grins mischievously. “Well, you met his daughter, so nobody else matters much now, I reckon.”

Gerald looks away. Suzanna Peabody’s name isn’t something to be bandied about around a campfire.

“Ah, come on now,” the trapper says. “It’s not a thing to be ashamed of, that spark between you. And you can’t deny it was there. I saw it.”

Gerald glances at him, then rises. “I’m to bed,” he says.

Old Bill chuckles knowingly and reaches for the coffee pot again. Gerald’s face tightens. Is the man taking liberties because of the color of his skin, or is he just taking liberties? How dare he talk about Suzanna Peabody in that way! He has no right!

Gerald pulls himself together and spreads out his blankets. He has no rights either. No permission to think of the girl with such a combination of sweetness and longing. And no reason to think he’ll ever have such permission. She may smile that way at every new man she meets. She certainly must meet plenty of them in her father’s parlor. He seems to keep open house.

Despite these obvious facts, Suzanna Peabody’s dark eyes still sparkle in Gerald’s memory as he lays down, covers himself, and tries to force his mind elsewhere, away from the look on her face in that first unguarded moment in her father’s small Taos parlor.

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NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

“So how is it that you knew Gerald Locke Jr. yesterday, even though you had not been formally introduced?” Jeremiah Peabody asks Suzanna the next morning as he cuts into his egg-and-corn-tortilla breakfast.

Suzanna reaches for another tortilla. “You know, Encarnación’s tortillas are so delicious, I’m sure our visitors wouldn’t mind having them for tea instead of wheat rolls.”

“The cost of wheat flour may be high, but it means a great deal to these men to have a semblance of home in the shape of wheat bread, tea, and a pretty woman to serve them,” her father says. “And, as you say, Encarnación’s corn tortillas are well made, so it’s no sacrifice to eat them at our other meals. That young woman is quite a cook. I thank the day she appeared at our doorstop.” He looks up at her with a slight frown. “Unless you have grown weary of tortillas, my dear. In which case—”

“Oh no,” Suzanna says. “I could eat Chonita’s tortillas at every meal and never weary of them.” She pops the last bit into her mouth and lifts her cup of milk. “That and this good cow’s milk that Ramón so thoughtfully brings us.”

“Well, we do pay him for it, although Ramón has also been a great friend to us. Although I have reason to believe that we are no longer the primary attraction for him.” He smiles. “He seems to think Encarnación’s acquaintance is worth cultivating.” Then his eyes narrow. “However, if you think you are going to deflect me from my purpose, you are very sadly mistaken. How is it you know this Gerald Locke?”

Suzanna chuckles as she places the milk back on the table. “I couldn’t help but try,” she says. She looks at her plate. “I— I didn’t want to worry you.”

His head lifts sharply. “Should I have not invited him in? Shall I forbid his return?”

“Oh no!” She looks up in alarm. “He’s a good man who saved me from a very uncomfortable encounter. I was glad to meet him properly.”

“An uncomfortable encounter?” Jeremiah’s hands fall away from his plate and flatten on the edge of the table. “I think you had best start at the beginning.”

His knuckles have whitened by the time Suzanna finishes her story and his compressed lips are one thin angry line. “That Enoch Jones is a man who cannot rise above his station and so resents anyone who looks as if they might do so,” he says angrily. “Or anyone who has already surpassed him.” He takes a deep breath, picks up his knife and fork, and gives Suzanna a sharp look before reapplying himself to his food. “And Gerald Locke Jr. has clearly done so.”

She smiles at him radiantly. “I’m so glad you like him, papá.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So, it’s ‘papá’ now, is it?” He smiles and shakes his head. Then his face sobers. “But please be more careful as you traverse the town, my dear. There may not always be a Mr. Locke nearby to save you from men like Enoch Jones.”

Suzanna sobers. “I know it. I’ve thought about my route that day, and decided on a new path for getting safely to and from the plaza.” Her chin lifts. “But I have no intention of allowing the likes of Enoch Jones to keep me from enjoying my life.”

Her father chuckles, tosses his napkin onto the table, and pushes back his chair. “I have no doubt that is the case,” he says. “Not even I am likely to stop you from achieving your wishes. Are you prepared for your Latin lesson this morning?”

“Of course,” Suzanna says. “But before we begin, I need to check on the courtyard plants. I put straw on the greens last night, to protect them from the frost, and they need to be uncovered.”

“Has the frost reached the courtyard?”

“I thought that it might, so I was worried about the lettuce. I want to keep it going as long as I can. There’s enough for at least another salad or two.”

“And did you find a way to protect your seed potatoes until spring?”

Suzanna’s eyes brighten. “I placed them under the straw, as well. This afternoon I’ll find a dry space for them in the root cellar. It may be difficult to keep those tiny eyes from growing too long before it’s time to plant them.”

Jeremiah smiles at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

But her plants aren’t enough to keep Suzanna Peabody from thinking about Gerald Locke at odd times over the next few days. The way he looked into her face, didn’t let his gaze drift lower. The shy but somehow confident smile. The broad forehead above his gray eyes. The tone of his voice as he spoke to her father: low-timbered, respectful, self assured. There’s something about the way the man carries himself, a kind of firm gentleness.

She wonders what he’ll decide to do during the coming trapping season. There are groups going up to the Platte River country. At least that’s what their leaders are telling the government officials. They’re claiming that they’ll head north to trap outside Mexico’s boundaries. But word is they intend to sneak back across the border, then move south, all the way to the Gila’s rich beaver country. Somehow, she doesn’t think Mr. Locke would misrepresent his intentions in that way. He just doesn’t seem the kind of man who would intentionally deceive others.

He seemed interested in her potato project, Suzanna reflects as she picks pieces of straw from between the leaves of loose-leaf lettuce. He had leaned toward her a little, his gray eyes on her face as she explained how she planned to overwinter the pieces Carlos Beaubien gave her. She smiles a little to herself as she reenters the house, thinking again of that broad forehead, that kind-looking mouth. She doesn’t pause to think that she knows virtually nothing about him.

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SLICK

The rain was behind him and gaining fast.

Timothy looked back, down the valley, and kicked at the mule, but it was hot and the mule had been going for a long time. Its pace quickened for a few yards, then dropped back into an easy trot.

The boy groaned and looked back again. His mother had told him to take his slicker, but he’d been in a hurry. “C’mon Boss,” he begged, but the mule just flicked its ears and jogged onward.

Somehow, they made it to the barn before the clouds reached them. Timothy turned the mule into the stall and made a dash for the house. The first raindrops bit into the dust as he reached the steps.

His mother opened the door. “Get wet?” she asked meaningfully.

He grinned at her. “Dry as a bone!” he said.

from Valley of the Eagles

A Piece of No Secret Too Small

Here’s another piece of my new novel No Secret Too Small. This section is set at the plaza del Chimayo in northern New Mexico during the feast of Santiago, the village’s saint.

CHAPTER 18

Finally, the fields are all blessed and the procession has returned to the plaza. The little carved saint is placed back in its chapel, the horses are released into the corrals outside the plaza, and everyone’s voice is louder and more cheerful.

The children and their mother follow Señora Ortega into her cousin’s house, where they’re given a seat at the table. The stew is thick with meat and fresh corn, and hot with green chile. When the señora passes the platter of bread, she says, “And here is some the americano child helped to bake,” and everyone laughs kindly.

As Alma dips a piece into her bowl, Prefect Abreú enters the house. Donaciano Vigil stoops through the door after him.

“Ah, Don Ramón!” the host says. “You are most welcome! And Señor Vigil as well!”

The prefect gives the sergeant a quizzical look. “Señor Vigil? You’ve come up in the world, Donaciano. Or else he’s angry at you. I thought you were his cousin.”

The host flushes. “I was just being polite. In honor of his companion.”

The big soldier puts a hand on the man’s arm. “It’s only me, primo. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.” He looks at Ramón Abreú. “I believe you know everyone here, Excellency?”

The prefect looks around the room, smiling and nodding to those at the table as well as the women who are serving. Then his eyes reach the children and their mother. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of meeting this young woman and her siblings,” he says gallantly.

Donaciano Vigil and Alma’s mother exchange a wry grin. “Suzanna Peabody Locke, may I introduce our prefect, Don Ramón Abreú,” he says formally.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” She touches the children’s shoulders. “These are my children, Alma and Andrew.”

The prefect’s face tightens slightly. “You are of the family which squats in the mountains east of Don Fernando de Taos.”

Her hand is still on Alma’s shoulder. Her fingers tighten into Alma’s cotton dress, but her voice remains calm. “We reside on the border there, guarding the Passes,” she says evenly. “And maintaining friendship with the Utes.”

The prefect breaks into a smile. “Ah, well put! Keeping an eye on things for us, are you?” He spreads his hands. “But you are here, not there watching!”

“My husband and father-in-law are there.”

“They are business partners with Juan Ramón Chavez,” Donaciano Vigil interjects. “Juan Ramón is my cousin on my mother’s uncle’s side.”

Prefect Abreú laughs and slaps his thigh. “You people! I have lived here all my life and still I cannot grasp the way you are all so connected!”

“Live here long enough and you will find it is the same for yourself,” his host says. “But please, be seated and take a bite and talk with us. Perhaps you will find that you’re related to someone here after all.”

“I’m sure the Sergeant will be!” Ramón Abreú says. “But I’m afraid my duties demand that we continue on our way. However, I thank you for the kind invitation.”

As the host walks the two visitors to the door, Señor Vigil turns and grins at Alma’s mother, then gives Alma a wink. She smiles back at him shyly. He’s almost as nice as Gregorio.

“I wonder where Alcalde Esquibel is eating,” someone at the other end of the table says in a low voice.

“Down by the river, I hope,” a man answers. “Where he can escape.”

Alma’s mother sends them a sharp look, then leans toward the woman sitting opposite her. “Can you explain this corrida del gallo to me?”

Andrew stops eating to listen.

The woman glances at him, then says reluctantly, “It is a horse race, but they do not race to see who finishes first. Instead, they chase each other to capture the prize.”

“And the prize is a rooster?”

The other woman nods. She glances at Andrew again before she answers. “The rooster is pegged out on the ground and the initial contest is to see who can get to him first and grab him up while the rider is still on his horse. Then the second part is to try to grab the bird from the rider who has him.”

“How do they decide who wins?” Andrew asks.

The woman moves her spoon through her stew. “I’ve never known for sure.”

Andrew frowns. “There must be rules.”

The woman looks away. “I think it’s when the rooster gives up.”

“Gives up the ghost?” his mother asks quietly.

“Something like that.”

Andrew is looking at his mother, waiting for an explanation.

She grimaces. “When the rooster dies.”

“Oh.” He puts his spoon in his bowl. His hands drop to his lap. Then he pushes back from the table. “May I be excused?”

She nods and he maneuvers around the other diners and out the door.

“Lo siento,” the woman says apologetically.

Alma’s mother shakes her head. “You only spoke the truth, and that as gently as possible. He has an adventurous heart but a tender soul.”

“Pobrecito,” the other woman murmurs.

Andrew has disappeared by the time Alma and her mother return to the plaza. Men on horseback mill in groups up and down the road, Señor Beitia among them. Alma spies Alcalde Esquibel in the middle of a cluster at the eastern end, leaning forward from his saddle to shake someone’s hand.

Then she’s distracted by Gregorio, who appears at her mother’s elbow with Señorita Fajardo on his arm. The girl dimples at Alma, then her mother. Gregorio is opening his mouth to make introductions when silence falls over the plaza.

Prefect Abreú is back on his white horse, once again riding in from the western entrance at the head of his blue-jacketed soldiers. Donaciano Vigil brings up the rear. There’s something about the set of the men’s shoulders that says they’re not here for a rooster race. Gregorio’s breath hisses between his teeth as they pass.

The only sound is the clomp of horses’ hooves on the dirt road, then the prefect pulls up in front of the group that contains Juan José Esquibel. Words are exchanged, too low for Alma to hear. The alcalde’s chin lifts angrily and the prefect turns his head and barks a command at the blue-coated men behind him. The soldiers’ horses move nervously, but not forward.

The prefect scowls. “I said, take him into custody!”

Sergeant Vigil’s horse edges around the soldiers and draws alongside Alcalde Esquibel’s. “Perdóneme, primo,” he says courteously. His voice echoes across the plaza. “We have come to place you in safekeeping until the events of recent months can be investigated and addressed.”

The alcalde’s eyes narrow. He shakes his head. Alma stiffens. Will there be a fight?

But then he smiles. “Ah, amigo,” he says. “You have a rare gift for words. It’s too bad you insist on working for men who know so little of honor.”

The prefect’s head jerks. He scowls at Esquibel, then the sergeant. “I said, arrest him!”

Donaciano Vigil looks at the alcalde and shrugs eloquently. He turns his head, studying the men in the plaza, the women at the house doors, the children. When he turns back to Señor Esquibel, his face is grave. “I believe it would be best if you come with us quietly, amigo.”

The other man glances around the plaza, then nods. He reins his horse past Ramón Abreú without looking at him and heads toward the western exit. As he passes Alma’s little group, he spies Gregorio. He leans from his saddle. “Get word to the Montoyas.”

“Silence from the prisoner!” the prefect shouts. He spurs his horse into a trot and moves past the soldiers and the alcalde. The big white breaks into a canter as it passes the houses and heads down the hill.

In the plaza behind him, voices erupt. “What about the rooster?” someone calls.

“Oh, just let him go,” a man answers. “We have more important races to run now.”

Señor Beitia’s horse trots toward Alma’s mother.The man’s eyes flash with something between anger and excitement, but he speaks calmly enough. “I’m afraid there will be no more festivities today,” he tells her. “The prefect has used the feast for his own ends and spoiled it.” He turns to Gregorio. “But we know what to do in response, do we not?”

Gregorio’s eyes are hooded and his jaw tight. He looks at Alma’s mother, then Gertrudis Fajardo. “It may be best for you to return home. I fear events may take an ugly turn.”

“Or at least the discussion will be ugly.” Señor Beitia’s voice is grim and excited at the same time. “Decisions must be made.”

Gregorio frowns. “I must seek out the Montoyas. I believe they are in the eastern orchards arranging for the race and this evening’s dance.” He looks at the señorita. “Let me return you to your cousins and give them the message.” He turns to Alma’s mother. “Will you go back to Señora Ortega’s house?”

“I will escort las senoras y los chamacos,” Señor Beitia says officiously. He swings off his horse and bows to Alma’s mother.

She gives him a brief smile and nods to Gregorio. “We will be fine. Go safely.” She turns to Gertrudis Fajardo. “I hope we will meet another day.” Then she holds out her hands to Alma and Andrew. “Come along, children.” She glances at the senora. “That is, if you are ready to leave?” Senora Ortega’s face is grim and irritable at the same time. She nods and turns away abruptly to lead them down the hill.

from No Secret Too Small.

Another Excerpt from No Secret Too Small

This is another excerpt from my new Old New Mexico novel, No Secret Too Small.

CHAPTER 8

When the children appear in the doorway to the kitchen, Consuela looks up in surprise.

“Grandfather said we should have tea here,” Andrew tells her.

The cook waves a hand at the table. It’s covered with flour, baking utensils, and a tray that holds a blue-flowered teapot and a plate piled with biscuits. “There is no room.” In the corner fireplace, a big copper kettle begins to burble. She turns toward it. “And I am baking. It is not a good time.”

“We can go into the courtyard,” Alma offers. “We can have our tea there.”

“Two places,” the cook sniffs. She lifts the teakettle from the fire, moves to the table, and begins filling the flowered pot. She glances at the corner cupboard, where there’s another pot, a simple brown one. “Two teas and not one.”

“I can help.” Alma moves to the cupboard, lifts the pot from its shelf, and carries it to the table.

Consuela picks up the flowered pot, pours the water from it into the brown one, then drops tea leaves into the first pot and adds more hot water. She looks up and jerks her chin toward the cupboard. “The tea is in the wood box.”

Alma returns to the corner, lifts down a flat ornately carved container, and carries it to the table. When the cook lifts the lid, the rich scent of black tea fills the air. Alma leans forward to examine the oblong of compressed leaves inside. Three of the squares have been cut out and used already, so the block is no longer rectangular. The piece that juts out has been reduced to perhaps half its original size.

Consuela drains the water from the brown pot, then reaches for a small knife. She carefully slices a sliver of tea off the block, places it in the pot, and pours more hot water in. As she pours, she nods toward the pot on the tray. “You should take that in now. Before it gets bitter.”

Alma looks at her in surprise, then realizes the cook doesn’t know why she and Andrew were sent out of the room. She takes a deep breath and gingerly lifts the tray. When she nears the doorway, Andrew snatches a biscuit from the plate, then retreats into the hall and out the courtyard door. It thuds behind him as she moves carefully toward the parlor.

The tray is heavy and requires both hands. Alma pauses outside the door, uncertain how to hold it and open the door at the same time. She braces the edge of the tray between the adobe wall and her hip and reaches for the door.

Then she stops. Inside the room, her mother’s voice rises in frustration. “Tarnation! You haven’t heard a word of what I’ve just said!”

“I have heard you very well,” Alma’s grandfather answers. “However, I believe you are not being entirely truthful with yourself or with me.”

“Truthful! How dare—” There’s a short silence, then she speaks again. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“Before Gerald asked me for your hand you made it very clear that you saw no need to pry into his background.” His voice drops. Alma has to strain to hear him. “You were in love.”

“I didn’t want you to discover something that would make you refuse him.” Her tone sharpens. “You were convinced I was too young. You would have latched onto anything to make us wait.”

“Hmm.” It’s the voice he uses when he doesn’t want to say what’s really on his mind.

“My age at the time is not relevant to this discussion.” Her mother sounds downright sulky. “He lied to me.”

“He wasn’t completely forthcoming. It’s not quite the same thing.”

A chair squeaks. When she speaks again, it’s clear she’s moved across the room. Her voice has changed. She sounds more puzzled than angry. “Doesn’t this news surprise you, at least? Concern you in any way?”

His tone is carefully neutral. “Why would it?”

“You knew.” There’s a pause, then she says again, “You knew! And you didn’t think I should be told?”

“You said you didn’t want to know anything about him but what you had seen with your own eyes and heard with your own ears. Perhaps not in those words. But that was clearly your intent.”

“Tarnation!” she says again.

There’s another moment of silence. Then suddenly the door to the room flies open. Alma straightens and lifts the tea tray. Her mother glares down at her. “You undoubtedly knew, also!” She stalks into the hall and toward the courtyard door. “Everybody seems to have known but me!”

The next morning, she stays in bed. Old One Eye Pete has gone off to visit friends at the pueblo. The children and their grandfather eat breakfast in silence at the kitchen table, although Alma stirs her porridge more than she eats it. There’s a hard lump in her belly that’s been there since her mother stormed out of the parlor.

Alma watches Andrew gulp down his food. When he eyes her dish, she scoots it across to him. When the bowl scrapes the table top, her grandfather looks up but doesn’t comment. Alma sits with her hands in her lap, waiting dully for whatever is going to happen next. She’s very tired. The night was a long one.

Finally, Grandfather Peabody puts his spoon in his bowl, drains the last of his strawberry leaf tea, and nods to the cook. “Thank you, Consuela. That was a fine repast.”

“I am sorry there were no eggs for you this morning, señor,” she says. “Gregorio is still trying to understand where the snake is entering the coop.”

“I’ll manage without eggs every morning,” he says. “Though I do enjoy them when they’re available.” He turns to Andrew. “I wonder if that dog of yours might help to locate the reptilian entrance point.”

Andrew nods eagerly. “Chaser can find anything!”

Consuela sniffs. “He is so big, he will destroy the nest boxes.”

Alma’s grandfather strokes his chin beard. “He might at that. Perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.” He turns back to Andrew, whose mouth is twisted in disappointment. “But I know he is an excellent companion. Perhaps we should take him to the plaza with us and introduce him to mis vecinos.”

On the way to the center of town, their grandfather explains that the Don Fernando de Taos plaza consists of joined abode buildings constructed around a large hollow square. It has four entrances, each with a big wooden gate that can be barred and locked.

“To keep the Comanches out?” Andrew asks.

He nods. “Comanches or Utes or Navajo. It was constructed many years ago. Nowadays, the only Indians who raid in New Mexico are the Navajo and they’re more interested in the pastures than the towns. They primarily want sheep.”

Alma reaches for his hand. She’s heard the stories. “And boys to herd them and girls to spin and weave the wool.”

He squeezes her fingers in his. “But you have a mastiff to protect you. At any rate, I’m certain you aren’t foolish enough to wander the fields by yourself.”

Alma thinks wistfully of her mountain valley streams and their fat trout, and nods. Chaser Two loops around behind Andrew and her grandfather and nudges at her hand. She smiles at him and pats his big head.

They’re at the northeast corner of the plaza now. It looks like a much larger version of her grandfather’s courtyard, except instead of plants and woodpiles on its edges there are long, covered porches and people sitting or squatting in their shade.

Some of the people have laid out blankets and arranged produce, pots, or other goods on them for sale. Others stand talking or move from vendor to vendor, shopping. The sun beats down from a bright blue sky with a single white cloud in it.

Andrew steps to one side to investigate the contents of a blanket. He picks up a wooden whistle and turns to show it to Alma. “It looks like the one Old Pete made me!”

His grandfather gently takes the whistle from the boy’s hand and returns it to the blanket with an apologetic word to the vendor, a man wrapped in a big red-striped white blanket. “You must not touch something unless you are interested in purchasing it,” he tells the children. “It’s not polite.”

“Oh.” Andrew puts his hands behind his back and turns to the man. “Perdóneme.”

The corner of the man’s eyes crinkle as he smiles at the boy, then his sister. “De nada.”

“Are your grandchildren stealing again?” a deep voice says from behind them.

The children jerk around, but their grandfather only laughs. “Ah, Padre,” he says. “You’ve caught us at last.”

A thick-chested man with a high forehead and wearing a long black robe smiles at Andrew, then Alma, benevolently. There’s a sharpness in his eyes that doesn’t match his expression. Alma offers him a small smile anyway. Andrew studies him wide-eyed.

“Padre, these are my grandchildren, Alma and Andrew Locke,” their grandfather says. “Children, this is Padre Antonio José Martínez.”

Alma gives him a small curtsy, as her mother has taught her, and the priest laughs in delight. Andrew says, “I’ve heard about you!”

The Padre chuckles and gives their grandfather a sideways glance. “Only good things, I hope.”

“You share books with Grandfather Peabody and talk with him about important things,” Alma says before her brother can repeat the gossip Old One Eye Pete and Bill Williams have brought to the cabin. Things about women and money and power that she doesn’t really understand. Padre Martínez smiles at her, then turns back to her grandfather. “She looks remarkably like her father. That square-shaped face and that hair.”

Alma takes her grandfather’s hand and turns her head so the priest can’t see her left cheek. She should have worn her sunbonnet.

But the men aren’t paying attention to her anymore. Another man has joined them, a man taller than Grandfather Peabody. She tilts her head to get a better look. His skin is almost as pale as her New England grandfather’s, and he has dancing brown eyes and wavy black hair. He’s standing still, but it almost feels like he’s moving. Energy seems to radiate from him. He gives her a bright glance, then nods respectfully at something her grandfather is saying. Next to Gregorio, he’s the handsomest man she’s ever seen.

Then Grandfather Peabody turns to her and says her name. “This is Señor Donaciano Vigil.” He gives the man a questioning look. “I believe he’s a relative of Ramón.”

“Juan Ramón Chavez of Don Fernando de Taos?” The man laughs and spreads his hands, palms up. “Isn’t everyone in nuevo mexico related to Ramón?”

“I thought you were in prison for insubordination,” Padre Martínez asks. “Or can they jail presidio soldiers for insubordination when you aren’t being paid?”

Señor Vigil laughs again. “I am in town for only a short time, on an errand for the governor, but I have to report to el calabozo as soon as I return to Santa Fe.”

Padre Martínez looks at Alma’s grandfather. “Surely you’ve heard the story.” He nods toward the newcomer. “This one here didn’t give his superior officer due deference and the credit the officer thought he deserved at Valencia’s mercantile. As a result, the señor here was arrested for insubordination.”

Vigil spreads his hands, palms up. “Because Governor Pérez ran out of money for the troops, I was assisting my cousin in his store, translating and clerking, fetching and carrying.” He grimaces. “Now I’m either sitting in jail or running errands for the governor.” Then he grins. “Actually, working in the store and being in jail are much alike. Both involve a great deal of sitting around, interspersed with activity. Except for the pay and not carrying a weapon, I still have the duties of a soldier.”

“You’re a soldier?” Andrew breaks in. He stares at the tall man in admiration.

Alma’s grandfather frowns. Donaciano Vigil gives him a swift glance, then nods at the boy. “I am. But right now there is no money to pay me, so I do other work. Soldiering is not a good livelihood if one has a family. And it’s often quite boring.”

“Like the Navajo campaign you returned from in March,” Padre Martínez observes.

Señor Vigil grins. “That was both boring and cold.” He turns to Alma’s grandfather. “Although your man Gregorio Garcia comported himself well. I was glad to make his acquaintance.”

“He is not my man,” he answers. “Although he does work for me occasionally. But I will pass your kind words on to his mother, who was not pleased when he joined the militia.”

Padre Martínez frowns. “I will speak to her also. It is a man’s duty to participate in the militia when it is called upon. The Navajo are a constant danger to us and must be repelled at all costs. I and my brothers have lost many sheep and even cattle to them over the years.”

Señor Vigil is looking past Alma’s grandfather to the northeast entrance of the plaza. “Ah, but here is the man himself.”

Alma turns. Gregorio moves toward them, a bundle of linens in each hand. She smiles brightly at him, but he’s focused on her grandfather and the other men. He moves his hands toward his back, making the bundles seem smaller.

“Gregorio Garcia!” the priest says playfully. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you at mass!”

Gregorio nods respectfully to each of the men in turn. “Sargento,” he says to Señor Vigil.

“We were just speaking of you and military service,” Alma’s grandfather says.

Gregorio smiles slightly. “Although the campaign last winter was a cold one and we didn’t see any Navajo, I found I enjoyed it.”

Señor Vigil claps him on the back. “Good man!” He peers at Gregorio’s bundles. “And now, like me, you have returned to town and all the duties pertaining thereto.” He grins conspiratorially. “We do what we must to keep our households fed and warm.”

Gregorio gives him a rueful look. “My mother launders, I deliver.” Then he turns to Alma’s grandfather. “And assist others where I can. I will come this afternoon to search again for that snake.”

“Ah, Consuela will be glad to hear it.” He nods toward Chaser, who’s still standing patiently beside Alma. “Andrew and the mastiff may be of some assistance to you, also.”

“I can help too.” Alma looks into Gregorio’s face. “I’m not the least bit afraid of snakes.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” the priest chuckles.

Alma’s head jerks toward him. She certainly hopes not. She opens her mouth to say so, but his eyes are sharp as a serpent’s, even though his lips are smiling. She looks at Gregorio instead.

He grins back at her. “Of course you can help, nita.” He glances at her grandfather. “If your abuelo agrees.” He nods and gives the children a stern look. “Catching a snake is serious business. You must exercise caution and obey Señor Garcia in whatever he tells you to do.”

from No Secret Too Small

NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE – Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Hell, he edged too close. It ain’t time yet. The man in the bearskin poncho turns away from the wind-driven snow and scowls at the cabin on the slope below. Sneakin’ around that sorry excuse for a barn was plain stupid. What was he after, anyway? Warm smoke from a chimney? Smell of bread bakin’?

He adjusts his filthy gray wool scarf over his mouth and snorts in disgust. He’s gettin’ soft. Livin’ wild long as he has, that chimney smoke comin’ up through the pines smelled good. Sharp-sweet smell. Campfire, but warmer.

He shakes his head at his own foolishness, hefts his rifle, and positions his feet sideways, making it easier to maneuver up the snow-slicked dead grass and into the trees above, where Locke and Chavez have been cutting firewood. What’d he expect? Open door? Wide-arm welcome? From that nigger and his wench? From their hanger-on greaser?

Not that they’re doin’ all that well. He chuckles and shakes his shaggy head. North end of that barn roof’s caved in. That flimsy stretch of canvas over the cut meadow grass they’re usin’ for hay ain’t gonna protect it much from the snow.

He grins and stops to peer down at the mud-and-log barn. Or cow shit. He got a good double handful into the loose hay before the door rattled and he ducked out the other side. Cows eat that, they’ll be sicker’n dogs before spring.

He snorts. They got plenty of time to get sick in. Spring comes late here. And wet. That canvas’ll be no protection at all. April rains’ll pour across it like a funnel, right into that hay. And that’s before it soaks through and damps the whole lot. He grins. Then that shit poison’ll spread even faster. He chuckles, pleased with his work.

When he reaches the top of the hill, he turns again. Smoke rises from the cabin chimney, a plume of white that merges with the falling snow. Not like his own sorry lean-to, fire spitting with random flakes, wind burning the smoke into his eyes.

Then he snorts derisively. Those two tenderfeet’ll be thinkin’ they can turn those beeves out to pasture come early March. Valley grass don’t come in that early. They’ll be lucky to have any stock left by late May. Even without his little gift in their hay pile. He grins and spits at the icy snow at his feet.

Those cows’ll be dry as the Arizona desert and that girl’ll be thinner than she was before she got hitched. His lips twist and he adjusts the gray scarf to cover them. Feed gets scarce enough, she’ll be ripe for a change.

His hands move toward his crotch, then he catches himself and scowls. Too cold for even a little self-pleasuring. Hell of a place. He eyes the western mountains. Another, denser wave of snow is working its way down slope. A steel-gray mass of clouds hides the peaks. Storm’s not slowin’ down anytime soon. The air’s heavy with damp.

And there’s more snow-bound months ahead, damn it all. That tiny valley to the west where he’s stashed his mule and goods is even more apt for snow than down here. But it is out of sight. And on a well-traveled game trail. He can sit at his campfire and kill what he needs with an easy shot. Ease out from the lean-to and bring it in, no work at all. To bad his hut ain’t as snow-tight as the cabin behind him.

Snow-tight and crowded, what with two men, a girl, and a baby. He grins, pale blue eyes icy above the stinking wool scarf. They’ll be hatin’ each other by spring. He’ll make his move then.

He settles his shoulders under the big coat, twitches his poncho straight over his belly, and plods uphill through the snow, visions of next spring keeping him warm.

THIS IS THE END OF THIS SAMPLE OF NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE BY LORETTA MILES TOLLEFSON.

TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS TO SUZANNA AND GERALD, YOU CAN ORDER A COPY FROM YOUR FAVORITE BOOKSTORE OR ONLINE RETAILER, INCLUDING AMAZON, BARNES AND NOBLEe, or BOOKS2READ

NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE – Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

As Suzanna’s time grows closer, Gerald finds excuses to stay in the cabin with her, springing to her side whenever she grimaces in discomfort, looking for reasons to keep her indoors and away from any icy patches on the ground outside.

At first, Suzanna finds all the attention endearing, but then it begins to be aggravating. When Gerald offers to screen off part of the porch so she can use the chamber pot there instead of going to the outhouse, she puts her foot down.

She’s just opened the front door of the cabin when he makes the suggestion. She closes it against the cold and turns back into the room, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “I am perfectly capable of making the short trip out the door and around back to the outhouse.”

“Then tell me when you need to visit it and I’ll go with you.” He moves toward her and lifts his coat from the peg on the wall.

She puts her hands on her hips. “I don’t need an escort. I am not a child.”

“But you’re with child and I don’t want anything to happen.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Gerald—” She gives him a long look, then crosses the room and sinks into her chair, her coat billowing around her. “I know you love me, but this anxiety seems out of proportion to the event.”

He puts his hat on his head. “I think it’s exactly proportionate. You’re going to have a child any day now.”

“Women have children every day of the year,” she says. “It’s not an abnormal occurrence.”

“You don’t.”

“I would hope not. It’s a good deal of work. “ She shifts in her chair and grimaces. “Ouch.” She unbuttons the heavy wool coat and massages the top of her belly.

Gerald frowns anxiously, but Suzanna only chuckles. “Baby just wants to let you know that he’s almost as anxious to get this over with as you are.”

Gerald grins. “She is, is she?”

“I’m not getting into a discussion about whether it’s a boy or a girl.” Suzanna shifts slightly in her seat. “I’ll even put off going to the outhouse to find out why you’re so anxious.” She crosses her hands over her belly. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He turns his head away.

“Gerald?”

“My mother had a rough time.”

“With you?”

“With my brother.”

“I didn’t know you have a—”

“I don’t.” He gives her a bleak look, then turns back to the fire. “They both died.”

She leans forward, her hand reaching for him, but he shakes his head as if the memory is still too fresh for comfort. “She also had no woman to help her,” he says.

“But you were in Missouri.”

“There was no one nearby.” He looks at the bed, then the window. “No one to help an Irish servant girl who’d made decisions of which they didn’t approve.”

She opens her mouth to ask for more details, but there’s something about the set of his shoulders that says he isn’t going to discuss it, no matter how hard she probes.

He turns back to her. “So I worry.” He shakes his head. “Part of me is sure that you and the child will be fine.” Mischief glints in his eyes. “Whatever its gender.” Then he grimaces. “But another part of me is gripped with fear. Especially—” He looks toward the window again. “Especially since the news about Encarnación. Her death reminds me just how fragile life is, how quickly we can lose those we love.” His shoulders tighten. The hat brim shades his eyes. “I couldn’t bear it the way Ramón does. So quietly. I think I’d go mad.”

Suzanna’s hand rubs her belly. “It does make you realize how tenuous life can be.” She takes a deep breath. “I wish Encarnación was here. It would be less daunting to face childbirth with her at my side.” Her voice trembles. “And I miss her so much.” There’s a long silence, then she takes a shaky breath and steadies her voice. “But I have you here. And Ramón is here to help you. And I’m young and strong.”

Gerald nods reluctantly. “My mother was in her late thirties,” he admits. “She was really too old to have a child. And she was worn down with work and—”

Suzanna waits for more, but he’s silent again, staring at the window.

“I am young,” she repeats. “And strong. I don’t anticipate any problems.” She reaches for him again, and this time he leans forward and takes her hand. “You shouldn’t either,” she says gently.

He shifts and nods reluctantly. “I’ll try. But I still think I should accompany you to the outhouse.” His gray eyes brighten. “And I could put ashes on the path to soften the ice.”

She makes a small face. “Well, I suppose you going with me is better than using the chamber pot on the porch,” she says drily. “Though you may be sorry you offered when you realize just how often I need to go outside these days!”

He laughs and squeezes her hand.

“Speaking of whether it’s a boy or a girl—” she says.

“Yes?”

“If it’s a girl, I’d like to name her after my father’s mother, Alma.”

Gerald nods.

Suzanna glances toward the kitchen, where Ramón is rattling dishes, and tugs on Gerald’s hand, to move him closer. He kneels beside her and pushes his hat off his forehead to look into her face. “Yes?”

“And Encarnación,” she says.

“Alma Encarnación Locke.” He smiles as he nods. “It’s a good name.”

“You don’t mind that there will be no name from your family’s side?”

He shakes his head. “We’ll save my family names for the next child,” he says. “Or if it’s a boy. But if it’s a girl, then her name will honor a woman who’s part of our family in spirit, if not in blood.”

Tears well in Suzanna’s eyes. “It’s hard for me to think of her as gone. It seems as if she’s still there in Taos, training someone to run my father’s house. Preparing to join us.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “And yet, when I remember that she is gone, the pain seems unbearable.”

He squeezes her hand and stands up. “I know,” he says. “There are times when I think of my own mother, who I saw on her deathbed, and I still can’t believe that she’s not waiting for me somewhere in Missouri, ready to tell me to wash my hands and wipe the mud off my feet before I step through the door.”

“As Encarnación did me, although she was only a few years older than I.” Suzanna chuckles as she brushes the wetness from her cheeks. She pushes herself out of her seat. “And now I really need to use the outhouse.”

He grins, flattens his hat on his head, and crooks an elbow in her direction. “At your service, madam,” he says.

You’ve just read the twelfth chapter of the forthcoming novel Not My Father’s House by Loretta Miles Tollefson. You can order it now from your favorite bookstore or online retailer, including Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Books2Read.

NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE – Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Suzanna stands in the middle of the field of harvested cornstalks, her hands on her hips, her belly bulging, a machete on the ground at her feet. Although it didn’t yield much in the way of food, the maíz patch contains plenty of dead stalks that now need to be dealt with.

She could leave them standing until spring. The elk and deer would probably find them useful as winter forage. Certainly, the raccoons would enjoy the remnants of the corn that was too small to pick. Not that she wants the pestilential beasts to get any ideas about coming back next season for ripe corn. They don’t need to be encouraged.

She scowls at Dos and Uno, who are chasing each other through the rattling stalks. Perhaps next year they’ll make themselves useful. They certainly didn’t protect anything this season.

She bends awkwardly to pick up the machete and hefts its smooth cottonwood handle in her right hand, then swings it experimentally in a long sideways circle. The long flat metal blade makes a hissing sound in the crisp fall air. If nothing else, chopping stalks will make her feel better. They won’t be visible anymore from the cabin porch, taunting her inability to make them produce or to protect the little they cared to yield. And she needs the exercise.

In Don Fernando, there’s always someone to hire for this type of work. Gregorio Garcia or one of his cousins. But here there are no young men eager for a few coins. And Gerald and Ramón are busy with their own winter-preparation chores: hand-hewing sections of board to partition the cows from the hay in the barn, hauling and splitting more firewood, placing yet more rocks at the base of the chicken run to guard from predators. Raccoons, those furry vexations, love eggs even more than corn.

Suzanna scowls at the thought of the pesky raccoons. Her grip tightens on the machete. The resulting pressure on her still-tender palm reminds her to pinch her thumb and forefinger around the machete handle, the way Ramón showed her. She repositions her hand and flicks her wrist forward and down. The blade swings smoothly. Her raccoon-chopping fantasy may even be plausible.

Suzanna chuckles and sets to work, cutting steadily down the first row of dead stalks. At the end, she turns and nods in satisfaction. Severed stalks scatter the ground, their long dead leaves stabbing in every direction. The half-grown Ute puppies run among them, chasing each other and their own tails.

As she watches them she feels a sudden pressure under her bottom left rib, shoving outward. She takes a slow deep breath, then massages the spot with her left hand. The pressure shifts toward her abdomen. Suzanna grins. This isn’t the first time this had happened. This baby seems to crave activity. Little feet and elbows poke outward the minute Suzanna stops moving.

“You want more action, little one?” she asks. “Shall we cut some more cornstalks?” The brown and black puppy yips as if in answer and Suzanna laughs, then goes back to work.

The baby may like movement, but Suzanna finds that she can’t chop as many stalks as she would like to in any one work session. It takes her almost a week to get to the last row of maíz. She’s moving up the row, her back to the western mountains, when the weather shifts, the air suddenly colder. A haze of damp stings her cheeks. But vigorous movement and her heavy wool coat have made her so warm that the bite of the air merely feels invigorating. She keeps chopping.

Suddenly a voice behind her says, “You may want to wait to finish that.”

Suzanna turns to see Gerald. Beyond him, a mass of gray cloud blocks any view of the western peaks. “I don’t think you have time to cut the rest of the row,” he tells her. He gestures toward the clouds. “This snowstorm’s coming in pretty quickly. “

Suzanna frowns. “It’s too early for snow. Not a heavy snow, anyway. It’s only the middle of October!”

“You’re not in Don Fernando anymore, wife,” he says gently.

“So I’ve been told,” she says. She looks back at her row of cornstalks. “I just want to finish this.”

He glances up the hill toward the barn. “I can get the other machete. We can finish it together.”

“I know you’re busy—”

“The barn is well enough. And the wood can wait.” He steps forward to kiss her forehead. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She watches him head toward the barn with his long easy stride, and smiles. He’s interrupted his own work to help her with something that isn’t essential, but is important to her. He’s a good man and she loves him dearly. Even if he does think this desolate mountain valley is the best possible place to live.

Together they quickly finish leveling the row of dead cornstalks. Then Suzanna heads toward the cabin, the dogs at her heels, while Gerald returns the machetes to the barn. The clouds have dropped into the valley now and the wind is pushing them steadily toward the cabin. The air is bitterly cold.

When she reaches the porch, Suzanna turns to gaze at the approaching storm. She can’t see the western peaks, but she knows they’re there. A patch of blue sky has opened directly above the almost-black clouds that cover them. The blue is a glorious contrast to the ominous billows below. Even in its foreboding iciness, the scene is majestic.

She squints at the foothills farther down, where a gray screen of moisture slants toward the grassy brown slopes. The mist half obscures the hills, but she can see movement at the top of the one on the right. A lone elk?

No. A thick-set man on a black horse. Facing the cabin across the valley. And Suzanna.

There’s something menacing about the stillness of both beast and man. And familiar. Those sloping yet bulky shoulders. The shapeless mass below. Suzanna’s stomach twists. It’s the same figure she saw south of the cabin in July. And it still reminds her of Enoch Jones.

Suzanna shudders, blinks, and shakes her head. Surely she’s imagining it. When she looks again, the gray screen of mist has thickened and dropped. The hilltop is gone. There’s nothing to see. And the screen of snow is moving steadily toward the cabin. She shivers again and the half-grown dogs slink up the porch steps and edge toward her feet.

Gerald crosses the yard and follows Uno and Dos onto the porch. “Aren’t you cold?” he asks. He circles the animals to move behind Suzanna and wrap his arms around her waist. His cold cheek touches hers as he looks past her at the oncoming storm. “I can keep you warmer than the dogs can,” he murmurs. “And we’re all set for winter, so I can do plenty of this.”

She smiles, tilts her head toward his, and nestles back into his arms. Whatever she thought she saw, it isn’t there now. And he is.

You’ve just read the seventh chapter of the forthcoming novel Not My Father’s House by Loretta Miles Tollefson. You can order it now from your favorite bookstore or online retailer, including Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or Books2Read.

Fiction and Fact From Old New Mexico

LorettaMilesTollefson.com

Tag: american west historical fiction

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 10

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 8

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 7

NOT JUST ANY MAN – CHAPTER 6

SLICK

A Piece of No Secret Too Small

CHAPTER 18

Another Excerpt from No Secret Too Small

CHAPTER 8

NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE – Chapter 14

NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE – Chapter 12

NOT MY FATHER’S HOUSE – Chapter 7

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CHAPTER 18

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CHAPTER 8

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