Chapter Text
Canterbury, New Mexico. Dry, hot, with a dusty wind that carried the grit unbidden and undiscriminating into every uncovered orifice, nostrils, eyes, mouths. Not unlike most of the other New Mexico towns they’d visited over the years. And, as long as it had a hotel for their bodies, a livery for their horses and a saloon for everything else, it would do nicely for a couple of days.
The job hauling supplies and equipment to the Faberwood Copper Mine in mid-August had been brutal, heavy work in blistering heat. They’d lived in clothes kept constantly wet from the sweat that streamed off them day and night. But the job put two hundred dollars apiece in Hannibal Heyes’ and Kid Curry’s pockets and that was enough to get them back to Colorado for awhile.
The last time they’d journeyed to Silver Lake, Colorado was in the spring. They’d gone to visit Kate McCullough, the woman who, almost a year ago, had held up and robbed the Kid of a significant piece of his heart. But they’d been forced to cut the visit short. A kidnapping had occurred with Heyes and Curry largely responsible for solving the crime and bringing the perpetrator to justice. Heroes, they were. No doubt. But the pursuit of justice had a tendency to ride tandem with the arrival of sheriffs and judges and lawyers and, in this particular case, this particular sheriff had a history of leading posses after a couple of notorious outlaws named Heyes and Curry. Leaving town before he arrived seemed prudent. In the months that followed, with more lawmen and judges and trials and lots of questions, they’d stayed gone, used the time to find work and put some money in their jeans.
But now a series of telegraphs to and from Kate had given them the good news that everyone wearing a badge had left town and the community of Silver Lake was returning to its peaceful and quiet norm. As soon as the mining job was completed, they’d aimed their horses northeast and not looked back. Canterbury was an unknown town, nothing more than a dot on the map in a good location to give the horses a rest, re-outfit themselves, have a few beers and maybe play a game or two of poker.
From a distance, Canterbury revealed itself as a pretty typical little cow town, sprung up from barren dirt on either side of a worn trail, primarily to feed and supply the cattle drives heading north out of Texas. A few miles out, it shimmered like a mirage in the distance, a cluster of low buildings sitting on a flat stretch of land with little surrounding it other than creosote bushes, sagebrush and cactus. But where there were buildings there were people and that meant food, water…and, since it was a town built for cowboys, at least one saloon was almost a guarantee.
Approaching from the south, they saw the sign welcoming them to Canterbury, population ninety-four. Right beyond it was a nice little white house, neat and clean with a few pots full of scarlet geraniums on the porch. It offered a rather warm welcome, Heyes thought, as he noticed the shingle hanging from a post in the yard. "Quentin Monroe, MD", it proclaimed. The post was painted the same dark blue as the trim and the shutters on the house. There was a good sized barn in back but, other than a small garden at the side of the property, it bore few signs of farm life. There were a few chickens in back near a small coop and two nice looking horses in the corral but no cows or pigs. The doctor, it appeared, was more interested in doctoring than farming. Heyes wondered how much work there could be for a doctor in a town of ninety-four but maybe they were an accident prone lot.
A handsome young woman and a small boy emerged from a side door of the house, the door that bore a sign announcing "Office". The boy, about four, Heyes guessed, was shirtless and one arm sported a large bandage. He looked up at the men with his lower lip drooping and tearstains on his less than pristine face. The woman kept her arm around the boy protectively as the two men rode by. They tipped their hats to her but her expression told them the attention wasn’t well received. Then Heyes looked at his partner and understood why. They hadn’t bathed in a couple of weeks. Their clothes were filthy from the assault of sweat and dust and the last time they’d shaved had been at least a week ago. Water had been scarce. They’d come across a few streams but they were shallow at this time of year. By the time they’d filled their canteens and watered the horses, they were looking more at mud than water and the idea of bathing or shaving in it seemed likely to make their situation worse rather than better. As a result, they appeared highly disreputable and Heyes found himself adding a bathhouse to the touches of civilization he hoped they’d find in Canterbury. If they smelled as bad as they looked, a poker game might be hard to pull together unless the participants were too drunk to notice their stench. And if the players were that drunk, they wouldn’t play well and the fun of taking their money would be severely diminished
"Poor little guy," Curry murmured, casting a glance back at the weeping boy. Then he turned his attention to the street ahead. Not too busy at this time of day but that was to be expected. Late afternoon in August was a good time to stay in the shadows, not in the middle of Main Street.
"Heyes, what’s a Canterbury?"
Heyes cleared his forehead of sweat with the back of his hand and searched his brain. "It’s not a what, Kid. It’s a where."
"So it’s not like a blackberry? Or a mulberry? Or a-"
"It’s not a berry," Heyes told him curtly. "It’s a bury. B-U-R-Y."
Curry turned in his saddle and eyed him suspiciously. "Heyes, that don’t make sense."
"Don’t have to make sense," Heyes said. "It’s just the name of the place."
"But," the Kid went on. "How do you bury a canter? I mean, I canter’s what you do on a horse. You can’t bury it!"
"Not that kind of canter," Heyes said wearily. Lord, how he hated it when the Kid got contemplative.
"What other kind is there?" the Kid demanded.
"Well," Heyes began, reluctant to admit he wasn’t exactly sure. "There’s one that…I think it has something to do with music."
"So this town is named for burying music?"
"We’ve been in towns that were named for odder things than that," Heyes reminded him. "Bishop’s Ghost…where there wasn’t a bishop or a ghost anywhere that I could see. And Fellowship, where they run us out of town because we won fourteen dollars off that crotchety old coot. What kind of fellowship is that?"
"As I recall," Curry contemplated. "The crotchety old coot was the preacher and he was gambling with church money."
"So why didn’t they run HIM out of town?" Heyes wondered. "Just ‘cause they didn’t want a scandal, it was easier to say we cheated him. Never made sense to me. And it sure wasn’t any kind of fellowship I ever heard of."
With silent agreement that town names didn’t make sense, they abandoned the topic and focused, instead, on their destination. The saloon. It was the only establishment in town that bore a sign painted bright red. Heyes figured it needed to be big enough and bright enough for nearsighted cowboys who balked at wearing spectacles, the Saddle Tramp Saloon. Well, he figured, he and the Kid certainly qualified for admission.
Habit. Survey the street, look for faces…familiar ones…or unfamiliar ones bearing all too familiar expressions of alarm. There were a few people about but no one gave them more than a passing glance. The next habit involved checking the local sheriff’s office. Sometimes a town would cooperatively post a sign outside the office announcing the identity of their local lawman. Canterbury was not so inclined, it seemed. But there was no one visible wearing a badge so they decided to risk at least a beer. Continuing to the saloon, Heyes and the Kid tied their horses to a post by the watering trough and entered the welcome shade of the building.
Albert Rafferty’s feet were just inside the haberdasher’s shop. Much of the rest of Albert Rafferty extended through the doorway, his corpulent belly tending to proceed the rest of him by several seconds. At the moment, though, he was not in motion. He was merely watching out the window while Mr. Godfrey fetched his new hat from the back. Albert might have had generous proportions but that did not make him slovenly. He took great pride in his appearance, dressing nattily each morning even now that he was retired. That was why he was here at Mr. Godfrey’s fine establishment on this hot day, dressed in his dark gray suit with his white shirt and black tie. His old fedora had served him well for ten years but, after being caught in last spring’s rainstorm, its best days were past. Most of Mr. Godfrey’s hats, however, were designed for the cowboys who passed through or worked on one of the nearby ranches. The few exceptions were too small for Albert, whose head was also generously sized. So Albert had Mr. Godfrey order him a new one all the way from Boston and, just yesterday, Mr. Godfrey sent word that the hat had arrived.
As Albert stood waiting in the doorway, where he hoped in vain to find a bit of a breeze, he took notice of the two riders coming down the street. Cow pokes, he imagined, though he hadn’t heard of any trail drives due to come though. Could be just drifters, he supposed, judging from the look of them. As clean and neat as Albert was, he was decidedly non-judgemental about the deportment of others. He understood that men on the trail got dirty and smelly and couldn’t shave every day. He didn’t think ill of the two strangers, merely watched them curiously. As they drew closer, probably headed for the saloon, Rafferty could see them more clearly. He’d noticed that his near vision was not what it used to be, found himself stretching back, holding his newspaper out straight in front of him to read. But his distance vision was still sharp and there was something familiar about these boys. Maybe, he thought, they’d been through Canterbury before…on a cattle drive, perhaps. But that didn’t feel right…didn’t seem like the right memory. At 68, Albert had a pile of them to sift through and they took him from Denver to Cheyenne to Albuquerque, mostly working for banks where he had been a teller, a loan officer and, eventually, a manager. He’d had a fine and respectable career in banking before retiring here in Canterbury to be near his daughter and her family. His wife had passed on, God rest her, and family was important. It occurred to him that maybe he knew these men from one of the banks. Maybe they’d been customers, had come to get a loan or cash a payroll check. He watched them dismount, tie up at the saloon. The darker one looked around before going in, checking things out. Familiar, that gesture. And then the fairer one did the same, rested his hand on the butt of his gun for a moment. Albert frowned as he sorted through the memories, from one to the next…searching. There sure was something familiar about them…about both of them. The dark eyes of the one, the blue of the other’s.
In the saloon, Heyes and Curry ordered beers and stood at the bar, their backs to the rest of the clientele, minimal though it was. Aside from the surly bartender, there were only three other men in the place, cowboys, from the looks of them. They sat at the same table drinking from the same half full whiskey bottle but paying no obvious attention to the newcomers or, for that matter, to each other. They all three looked sullen or bored or both and, to Heyes’ dismay, there was no sign of a deck of cards.
The bartender looked at them dubiously when they came in, wrinkled his nose when he brought them their beers, then returned his attention to washing glasses. Heyes and the Kid took a hard look at each other and a cursory smell before silently agreeing that they shouldn’t feel unreasonable about the snub.
The air in the saloon was stagnant, thick with the usual saloon smells…stale cigars, beer and whiskey and traces of other things that tended to erupt or emit when men engage in too much cigars, beer and whiskey. The only thing missing was women but it was early in the day. Some establishments saved the fairer elements for after dark when there was greater clientele and the whiskey was flowing freely. Even the homeliest women took on an air of radiant beauty when viewed through a blissfully intoxicated haze…or, for that matter, a blissfully intoxicated Heyes.
Hot as it was, the odor seemed more noxious than usual. Curry, beer in hand, strolled over to the door hoping for some fresher air and then realized he was taking a fair amount of the stench with him. He watched a very round, elderly gentleman leave Marlbury’s Men’s Shoppe…with that extra "-pe" on it. Was it shop, he wondered, or shop-ee? Heyes would know. And what was it about this town and "bury-ing"? Canterbury. Marlbury. Curry puzzled over possible names of the local cemetery.
Across the street, the round man walked slowly, carrying a small hatbox, and frowned over at Curry. Not angry frowning, Curry thought. More like concentration frowning. The Kid nodded a cordial greeting, touched the brim of his hat. And suddenly, there it was. The look. Hoping wildly he was wrong, Curry observed the man a moment longer, right up until the gentleman abruptly dropped his hat box and went waddling rapidly down the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office exclaiming for all the world to hear.
"Kid Curry! Sheriff!! Sheriff!! It’s Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes!!"
The voice resonated, easily heard through the open door of the saloon, and it immediately attracted the attention of the bartender and the men at the corner table. All four rushed toward the door for a glimpse the famous duo, not realizing they were nearly tripping over the Kid Curry half of team in the process. The shouting also attracted the attention of the dark haired man at the bar who sprayed a mouthful of beer at the sound of his name being bandied about at such a disturbingly high volume. Heyes had taken his hat off when he got his beer and now grabbed it, frantically looking around for the other thing he’d brought into the bar with him…his partner. While Heyes was looking around, Curry was backing quickly away from the door, through the path of oncoming bartender and patrons, heading toward the bar and spinning around just in time to collide with Heyes.
"Let’s get out of here!" Heyes urged with quiet panic, pushing the Kid back toward the door and pulling his hat on, tugging it low over his face.
Curry set his beer on the bar, lowered his own hat and the two of them sauntered casually for at least two steps before breaking into a mad dash for their horses. They mounted up and dug their heels into the animals’ sides leaving nothing more than half-empty beer glasses, dust and lingering pungency as reminders of their visit. Heyes stole a look toward the sheriff’s office in time to see three men come out fast, looking their way and swinging gunbelts into place, yelling at each other and anyone else who would listen about getting men, getting horses, getting guns…and getting Heyes and Curry! After that, the shouting was drowned out by the sounds of Heyes’ bay and Curry’s chestnut pounding the dirt to leave town the same way they’d come in.
Abigail Monroe was walking home from the mercantile, a lace trimmed hanky held over her mouth and nose to protect her from the relentless dust so pervasive in this Godforsaken town. In the other gloved hand, she carried a cloth sack filled with her purchases, coffee and sugar, a tin of cinnamon and three new hankies. She despised Canterbury, hated the feel of the dust and dirt, the smell of the dust and dirt, the taste of the dust and dirt. And she hated the lack of amenities, the lack of culture and refinement. Coming here had been a mistake. She had known it as soon as she stepped off the stagecoach into this alien world her parents had chosen for their retirement. Retirement, indeed.
Quentin Monroe was one of the finest surgeons in the east, certainly THE finest in Massachusetts. He was respected and admired, his knowledge and skills sought out by every university and medical school of substance. He could have had his pick of plush positions. Or, for that matter, he could have truly retired, stopped practicing medicine entirely and enjoyed the rest of his life in leisure. She had attempted to lure them to New York, to be closer to her. But they had chosen instead to come here, to this remote, abysmal, loathsome section of nowhere. They needed doctors, her father had said. There were more and more people moving west and they needed medical care just as much as those in the east. He would have fewer patients, fewer demands. But he would still be useful. And her mother had agreed, had accepted it like a gift, a great adventure. In fact, Abigail suspected that this western migration had been her mother’s idea. Cora Monroe had always been a rather unconventional woman.
Abigail had pointed out that Quentin was sixty years old. Her mother was only two years younger. Certainly pursuing adventures at such an age was…improper. Of course they were in excellent health and would have a number of good years ahead of them, although she questioned that, too, in light of their living conditions. Choosing to live in this horrid purgatory was beyond Abigail’s comprehension. Since her arrival not even a week earlier, there had been two brawls in the local tavern resulting in late night calls on her father, one knife wound, one broken nose. And three times she had been awakened by the sound of gunfire, drunken cowboys shooting at hallucinated rustlers, she supposed, or seeing who could hit the furthest star. These people were drunken barbarians with no sense of morality or decency or proper, civilized behavior. They didn’t need a good doctor. They needed a good jail.
As she walked, Abigail noted the hem of her skirt, a lovely pearl gray linen that she’d purchased especially for the trip, now coated with the sandy dust of the desert, as were her shoes and her stockings, her skin and her hair and EVERYTHING. Her white blouse, clean and starched when she’d buttoned it up to her chin earlier in the day, now looked bedraggled and yellow. Muttering to herself, she heard noise behind her, coming from back near the center of town. First someone yelling and then, a short time later, two riders sped toward her, surrounded by a dust cloud stirred by their galloping horses. More dust! Annoyed, Abigail watched the men, expecting them to slow out of courtesy as they approached her. But they didn’t even look at her. Oblivious to Abigail, they wore intense expressions, their brows furrowed, their hats pulled low, focusing on the trail ahead and glancing back over their shoulders. Once they had passed, Abigail, coughing, waved her hanky in front of her face, trying to clear away of dusty fog. But no sooner had it lessened than a second group of riders came charging past, six or seven men racing after the first two. She recognized the badges of lawmen on several of the riders, and it occurred to her that this discourteous throng was, in fact, a posse. An actual posse.
Unfathomable, she thought. The dust. The dirt. The barroom brawls and fist fights. And now outlaws. Abigail stood there, transfixed, watching the disappearing riders, and noticed other citizens of Canterbury coming out of houses and shops, looking toward the southbound posse. Bits of conversation drifted her way.
"Who was it?" someone asked.
"Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry," someone else said.
"Noooo," someone muttered.
"Really! Ol’ Albert recognized ‘em."
There were other snippets…something about Albert having worked at a bank that was robbed by the Devil’s Hole gang. Someone wondering why Heyes and Curry would be in Canterbury. People questioning where the rest of the gang might be. Abigail stood there smothered in dust, longing to go home, back to New York, back where life was civilized.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It wasn’t the first time they’d ridden like the devil was after them. It had been a while but it wasn’t the first time. And it hadn’t gotten any easier. Heyes took the lead, looking out for anything other than flat, open ground, anything that would give them a place to take shelter, hide long enough to lose their pursuers. The horses were already foaming, breathing hard. They hadn’t had time for much rest or to do more than get a drink from the trough and he wasn’t sure how much longer they’d hold out. Someone back there had even taken a few shots at them although, at this distance and on the run, the chances of hitting anything other than air were pretty slim.
Ahead, Heyes noted a stand of cottonwoods. That meant water. And water might mean an arroyo where there could be some cover. He stole a look back and was relieved to see that they had put more distance between them and the posse. It occurred to him that he and the Kid probably had more experience at this sort of thing than their pursuers. Eyes front, he made for the trees.
Down into the creek bed. During the spring, it would have been more of a river, judging from the depth of the ravine and the high water mark, but now it was probably no more than knee deep. Fast moving, though, and muddy, with tall cottonwoods on both sides that gave them some cover. That was good. In the muddy water, their path would be less visible. They rode fast, down into the water, heading upstream for a time until Heyes spotted a crevice off to the left, probably another streambed feeding into this one. It was narrow and he chanced a glance back. They had rounded a curve in the riverbed and, though he could still hear the posse coming, they were no longer in view, so Heyes guided the bay into the crevice, praying it didn’t narrow down to nothing but a trap. He could hear the Kid behind him, hear the chestnut snorting hard, out of breath but still going. Up the crevice, which, blessedly, widened some rather than narrowing. They kept going, pushing on, the crevice growing more shallow, heading uphill, flattening. Then they were back in the open, back on the flatland and Heyes doubled back, turning them back in the direction from which they’d come, hoping the posse would continue to follow the main streambed. He chanced another look back, seeing no trace of the posse but not willing to stop. Not yet. They kept riding hard until they were further downstream than where they’d first gone into the creek. Heyes cut left, aiming down a shallow section of the bank and back into the water, continuing downstream until he reached an area where the creek widened, slowed. There was a ten foot high cliff running along the bank with an overhang that offered some cover from anyone on the mesa above. Finally slowing, Heyes urged the bay under the overhang, his ears filled with the sound of his own heartbeat, his own rapid breathing and the bay’s puffs and snorts. He rested an arm on the saddlehorn, leaned his head on it, trying to catch his breath, clear his head, listen.
"Heyes?"
The Kid’s voice sounded far away, like he was listening from underwater. "Huh?"
For a moment, there was nothing. Then another very quiet, odd sounding, "Heyes?"
Pulling off his hat, Heyes, wiped a sleeve across his sweat drenched brow, replaced the hat and turned around.
The first thing Heyes noticed was that the Kid was sitting funny, a little slumped in his saddle. And he held his hand palm up in front of him, like he was holding something interesting. His adrenaline raging like a flood, Heyes watched the world slow down in front of him, observed everything begin to move very slowly, aware of minute details…a small, greenish lizard scurrying up the red dirt wall behind the Kid, the sound of the stream gurgling and bubbling over rocks, a soft rustling of leaves as a hot wind hit the cottonwoods, the odd color of the Kid’s shirt…a medium blue on his shoulders but turning dark lower on his chest…like he’d spilled something on it…a glass of wine maybe…a magpie making a racket in the trees on the other side of the stream…the Kid’s hand all red…a different, brighter red than his shirt…darker than the geraniums.
"Jesus!" Heyes swore, swinging his right leg up and over the neck of the bay, sliding off the saddle in a heartbeat and rushing to the Kid. "Jesus, you’re hit!"
His tone was urgent, frantic, but he kept his voice low, not at all sure where the posse was, how close they might be. Curry watched him vacantly, his eyes distant, unfocused. He was still holding out his hand as though making an offering. Heyes seized him by the shirt and half-pulled, half-aided him out of the saddle. The Kid’s feet no more than touched the ground and his legs buckled under him, dropping him hard on his knees on the muddy stream bank. Grabbing him, Heyes eased him on down to the ground, and quickly ripped open the Kid’s shirt. He gulped back fear and bile, the coppery smell of the blood filling his head.
Curry was watching his face and Heyes tried to make it a mask, keep the fear from showing. The wound was below his ribs, a bit to the left of center. And it was bad, a big, black hole pouring blood. The thought flashed through Heyes’ head that the bullets had come from behind them and he gently rolled Curry onto his side so he could see his back, another hole, this one smaller but bloody. The whole world had become bloody. Standing then, Heyes began to dig through the Kid’s saddlebags for anything to use as a bandage, talking as he went, trying to keep it light.
"Good news, Kid," he began. "It went right through. No digging out the bullet!"
"Good," the Kid gasped. "If you…dig for…for bullets…as well as you dig…for gold…I’d be a…a dead man."
Heyes knelt back down next to him with a couple of shirts in hand and began to wrap them around the Kid as makeshift bandages, using the sleeves to tie them in place.
Curry’s breathing was rough, ragged, his eyes glassy. When he spoke, his words were barely audible. "…have…t’use…my shirts?"
Heyes kept working. "Hey," he responded. "It’s your blood. When I get shot, you can use my shirt."
"Nex…nex’ time…you ride…in back." His eyes rolled back and Heyes slapped him lightly on the cheek.
"Hey! Hey, Kid, you stay with me. You hear me? We gotta get you to a doctor."
Curry shook his head, his eyes rolling wildly. "No…’m fine…just…rest ‘while…" He seemed to melt into the mud, limp and heavy.
"No," Heyes said, panicky. "No you don’t. No resting. Come on. There was a doctor back in that town. We’re getting you back there."
He pulled Curry’s blood soaked shirt back onto him, buttoning only a few buttons, and grabbed the hat that had dropped to the ground when he laid the Kid down. He got behind Curry, sitting him up, jamming his hat back on his head and lifting under his arms to get the Kid back on his feet. But in the mix of blood and mud, Heyes felt his own feet slip and, before he could catch his balance, they both went down, the Kid landing mostly on top of him, letting out a "whuff" of air. Heyes landed on his tailbone, seeing stars for a full minute. He inhaled deeply and his nose filled with the fetidness of molded leaves mingled with the bloody, muddy mess below him and he had to fight off a wave of nausea before forcing himself back onto his feet and trying again. Curry tried to help but he was weak and Heyes worried about him sitting a horse without falling off.
"Come on, Kid, give me a hand, here," Heyes pleaded.
"…’m tryin’," Curry said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Behind him, Heyes hugged him in a combination of physical support and kinship. "I know," he said sincerely. "Look, I’m riding with you. So you don’t fall off."
"You worry…’bout stayin’…your horse…" the Kid began, his voice frail.
"Yeah, I know. And you’ll worry about staying on yours. Right. Come on, now. Foot in stirrup."
Heyes lifted Curry’s hand to the pommel and the Kid hung on. Then Heyes lifted his partner’s left foot into the stirrup.
"Ready? On three," Heyes urged. "One…two…three…" He stuck his shoulder under the Kid’s rump and lifted almost dead weight. No…No…bad choice of words. Not dead…not dead…
Finding some reserve of strength, Curry managed to swing his right leg up and over and sit in the saddle, slumped forward, his head lolling, his face pasty. Heyes grabbed the bay’s reins and handed them to the Kid, then handed him the chestnut’s reins as well and mounted up behind him, reaching around to tie the bay’s reins to the saddlehorn and take the chestnut’s in hand. They couldn’t ride fast this way but Heyes feared if they didn’t, his partner would never make it back to Canterbury.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dinner was finished. But the conversation continued as it had throughout the meal, with Abigail trying to reason with her parents, trying to convince them to return to the east.
"Outlaws, mother. Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry! I’ve heard of them even in New York. They’re notorious! Notorious outlaws, right here in Canterbury! They rode right by me!" Abigail was indignant at the whole idea and rolled her eyes. "Canterbury. It sounds so cultured…civilized. One would never guess the sort of place it is."
"It’s a town, dear," Cora Morgan pointed out patiently. She played absently with a few pie crust crumbs on her plate, sweeping them into a neat pile with a finger, pressing her finger into them to bind them together and stick them to her flesh, then happily licking them off. "It’s a town like many others."
Observing her mother’s questionable table manners, Abigail scowled. "It is hardly a town like any I’m accustomed to," Abigail assured her. "It’s lawless and violent and…mother, the dust alone is sufficient to choke me every time I set foot outside."
"Perhaps you should stay in, dear," Cora replied reasonably.
"Abby," Quentin Monroe began patiently. "I understand that you miss having us close. But we like it here. It’s…different. And you have your own life in New York."
Dr. Quentin Monroe was a handsome and vigorous man. Six feet tall, his hair was thick and snowy, his eyes sharp and the same gray-green shade as his daughter’s. His hair had once been the same auburn shade as Abby’s, as well, but those days had long gone. After a lifetime being very trim, he’d noticed an expansion of his waistline in the year since his retirement. More regular meals, he supposed, fewer emergencies interrupting his supper. Cora was an excellent cook, something she’d had little time to prove during their years in the east. She’d worked at his side, worked as hard as he had. Now she could still use her nursing skills on occasion but seemed to be enjoying her role as wife and cook, keeping house as she’d rarely had time to do in years past. She had been his nurse, his companion, his partner in everything since he was nineteen. And, while he missed his daughter, he was honestly enjoying this new life with Cora.
"I do miss you," Abigail told him.
"But, dear," Cora reminded. "You have Stephen. You have Aunt Minnie and all your friends."
She noticed her daughter’s expression and felt a familiar twinge. Friends. Abigail had never been especially good at cultivating friends. Painfully shy as a child, she had been tall and gawky, never quite fitting her features. Her mass of untamable hair and an abundance of freckles had made her ripe for teasing and, to avoid it, she had become something of a mouse, sitting in the corner quietly, her nose in a book, avoiding eye contact and conversation.
In her late teens, she had finally blossomed, had reached her full height of five feet eight, and filled out nicely. Her features, once rather sharp and severe, had softened with age, her narrow face broadening into a gentle oval, her nose strong and straight, eyes no longer seeming too widely spaced. She was quite a lovely woman. But her years of solitude had left her timid and fearful of change, of anything out of the ordinary. And too much time spent with her grandmother and maiden Aunt Minnie, had made her as inflexible in her beliefs as they were. She sat straight in her chair, her corset too tight to allow otherwise, and her posture seemed only to illustrate the rigidity of her disposition. Cora felt responsible. During the war, when she had felt a need to help, to contribute, Cora had left Abby with her own mother. Abby had been young, impressionable, and her grandmother had made it no secret that she vehemently disapproved of Cora’s calling, of her choices. It was hardly ladylike to work in a field hospital, covered in blood, tending to the wounds of strange men, seeing them in horrid states. Ladies were to be clean and well kempt, corseted and gloved and proper at all times. Cora was seldom ladylike. But Cora’s mother and her sister, Minnie had done their best to ensure that Abby did not follow in Cora’s footsteps.
"Of course, I have Stephen," Abigail agreed, glancing cautiously up from under lowered eyelashes at her father.
Quentin "harrumphed". "And have you set a date, yet?" he asked, certain that he already knew the answer.
"Not yet," she admitted.
Neither of her parents spoke.
"His mother is not well," Abigail explained. As soon as the words were out, she heard her father snort.
"Abigail, that woman has not been well, except whenever it suits her, for thirty years," Quentin said, pushing out his chair. "The only thing wrong with Clara is that she doesn’t want anyone to take her son away from her." Shaking his head in irritation, he excused himself. "I have a medical journal to read," he said. He cast a knowing look at his wife as he headed down the short hall to his office space.
"Father used to like Stephen," Abigail said softly.
Cora sighed. "Abigail, you have been engaged for ten years and have not set a date for the wedding. Your father is simply frustrated."
"There have been reasons for the delays," Abby told her. "His schooling. His mother’s illness. His work makes demands on him."
"You are twenty-eight years old," Cora added.
"I am aware of that, Mother."
Cora reached up and smoothed her steely gray hair. It had been neat in the morning when she’d pinned it into the bun at the back of her head but, as usual, by the end of the day, tendrils and wisps had crept from their confinement. She folded her arms on the table in front of her and looked solidly at her daughter.
"Abby, you know I do not believe that all women must be married and be mothers. I have never believed that. But those are things you have always said you wanted."
"I do want them," Abigail admitted. "But the timing is not right and-"
"Do you love Stephen?" Cora asked bluntly.
"Of…of course," Abigail stammered. "Mother, we’ve been engaged for ten years. I should think that it’s evident."
For a moment, Cora regarded her sternly. But Abby’s eyes were downcast and she could not search them for the truth. "Perhaps that’s the problem. It isn’t evident. In all the times I have seen you and Stephen together, I have never felt it was evident." Cora reached a hand over and placed it on her daughter’s, her expression softening. "Stephen is polite. He is courteous. He is respectful. And you are all of those things with him. But I have never seen anything to make me believe that you love each other."
Abigail glanced up but quickly returned her gaze to her hands folded primly in her lap. "And what would it take, Mother? Should he…throw me on the floor and ravage me in front of you?"
The corners of Cora’s mouth turned up slightly. "Well," she said. "He should at least WANT to."
Abigail’s mouth flew open, her eyes wide. "Mother! What a terrible thing to say!"
Cora could not stifle a snicker. "Why is that terrible? Abby, when people truly love each other, there is…passion!"
Abby’s mouth pursed tightly, her cheeks reddening.
Guiltily, Cora patted her daughter’s hand. "I’m sorry, dear. I only meant that… Abby, when your father and I were courting, we were always…proper. We did nothing shameful. But…sometimes…if we were able to steal a moment alone," Cora felt her own cheeks warming. "Well, we might share a kiss that was…not…not something I would have wished my mother to see," she laughed. "We wanted…we wanted to be with each other…in every sense."
"And you think that Stephen and I do not feel that way?" Abigail asked, injured.
"When I see people in love, there is…a spark between them. They look at each other across a room and you’re certain that, for them, everyone else has disappeared. It’s in how they look at each other, it’s in how they touch, how they talk to each other…sometimes without saying a word."
"And you have not seen that in Stephen and me so you assume it isn’t there," Abby finished for her.
Realizing that she’d wounded her daughter, Cora’s guilt deepened. "I am sorry, dear. I suppose that is presumptuous of me. Perhaps you, too, have stolen moments and…and sparks."
"I love him very much," Abby declared woodenly.
Cora sighed, resigned if not persuaded. "Well, then, that’s all that matters."
"And," Abby went on, trying to deflect the topic back to her parents. "It does not change that I believe you and father should move back east. This is a miserable place. Did you see my skirt?" she asked, twisting in her chair so her mother could see the dust covered garment.
"I’m doing the laundry in the morning, dear," her mother told her. "Be sure you put that in the basket tonight."
Her daughter breathed deeply, crossing her arms and pursing her lips more tightly, creating little lines around her mouth. "I believe you’re being deliberately obtuse."
Cora laughed gently. "No, dear. I’m deliberately discounting your opinion on this issue." She stood up and began to clear the table.
Dear Abigail. At twenty-eight, she had grown pinched and sour-looking and, as much as she blamed herself, Cora also blamed Stephen Camden. Everything about her daughter, from the way she wore her hair pulled back into a severe knot at the base of her neck, to the tight corset and gloves on the hottest day of August…all of these were Stephen’s notion of proper female behavior. Stephen was a handsome man. As tall as Quentin, he had hair the color of cornsilk and eyes the color of periwinkles. When he walked into a room, women swooned. But Stephen seemed unaffected by the attention. They had met him initially when he and Abby were fifteen. They had been on a holiday in Connecticut, as had Stephen’s family and the boy had been bookish, like Abby. He had little interest in the rough and tumble games being played by the other boys and his mother had fretted over his fair complexion in too much sunlight. So Stephen and Abby had often been together on the porch, each with a book. At first, they had hardly spoken.
But the families had discovered that they actually lived not far from one another and, after the holiday, they had begun to see each other socially on occasion. At the time, Stephen’s father had been alive, a well-respected attorney in Cambridge just as Quentin was a highly regarded surgeon. The two men had hit it off. Their wives had found less in common. Cora was a nurse, a working woman who had been at her husband’s side during much of the war, tending to the wounded, assisting with amputations and up to her armpits in blood and gore. For much of that time, she had left Abby in the care of her grandmother in New York, as far from harm’s way as possible. Clara Camden, however, could not imagine leaving her son anywhere or, for that matter, her son leaving her. Over the years, that had never changed. But, when Stephen was seventeen, his father had begun to pressure him about following the familial footsteps, pursuing a career in law, and he had begun to encourage his son to find an appropriate wife and helpmate, to create his own family.
Stephen had selected Abby. They were comfortable in one another’s company and, while Stephen’s social skills had improved over time, he was patient with Abby’s own tendency to be a homebody. After a brief courtship, they had become engaged when they were eighteen. Shortly thereafter, Stephen’s father had died suddenly and without warning. Clara, never a well-woman by her own telling, had been devastated, had insisted that the marriage be postponed, and Stephen had complied…as he had continued to do for the next ten years.
As Abby helped deliver dishes into the kitchen, Cora pumped water into the deep sink and rolled up her sleeves.
"Abby," Cora said. "I know you want what’s best for your father and me. And I know that you think that means returning to New York. But we like it here. And, while I appreciate that you don’t share our opinion, I believe you need to respect it."
The lines around Abby’s mouth deepened. "Outlaws, mother. Outlaws."
Cora scoffed. "Do you think there are no thieves in New York? No criminals? No guns?" her mother asked, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth.
"Of course, there are," Abby conceded. "But the audacity of these men. Mother, they were here in broad daylight…to rob the bank. They rode right by me on the street."
"Mrs. Brown said they were in the saloon," Cora advised.
"Planning the robbery, I’m sure," Abby hypothesized. "If they were doing nothing wrong, why did they ride past me like they were in a race?"
"Well, dear, if they really are outlaws, even if they weren’t planning a bank robbery-"
She was interrupted by the sound of a knock on the front door and immediately headed for the parlor, drying her hands on her apron, with Abigail at her heels.
"Who could it be at this hour?" Abby groused, noting that the sun had been down for the better part of an hour.
"Your father’s a physician, dear," Cora pointed out. "There are no wrong hours."
Cora opened the door and was startled by the sight of the two young men, one, dark haired, his eyes frenzied, the other slumped against him, breathing shallow and strained, bleeding badly.
"Ma’am, is the doctor-" before Heyes could finish, the Kid’s eyes rolled back in his head, his legs crumbling under him as the consciousness he’d been clinging to so tenaciously finally slipped from his grasp and he collapsed, taking Heyes along as he dropped slowly, half-in and half-out of the doorway.
From behind her mother, Abigail Monroe gasped. "Oh, my God, Mother, it’s them! It’s the outlaws!"
* * *