behind the high counter, took his information and handed him a room key and a folded note. “Mr. Furst left this for you. Northern California, you say? Seen any Indian action?”
Tom had, but long ago he had learned to keep things to himself. “Some,” he murmured. Upon reading the message he relaxed slightly. Sam had received his wire and would meet with him later that evening. He had just enough time for a bite to eat after taking care of the Major.
“May I see to your horse?” the clerk asked.
The livery was probably in the same place. And in a town this size, if it wasn’t, he would soon find it. “I’ll take care of him.”
“Suit yourself.”
He slipped the key and the note into his inside vest pocket and headed back outside. The Major snorted at the weeds at the base of his holding post, sending up a small cloud of dust. He stomped one foreleg, the motion jarring his muscles up to his shoulder. He had seen a lot of action over the years. A new place, a sharp sound, and his horse could easily break into an all-out dash down the road and be three miles to the foothills before anyone noticed. For three weeks, Tom had used his saddle as a pillow and slept close by, sensing calmness in the horse when he was near. Wouldn’t happen tonight. He was done in. The lure of a soft, clean bed was more enticing than camping out on stacked hay bales near a skittish horse. Once settled, Tom hoped a full feed bucket and a warm stall would soothe the Major’s disposition.
The livery was the same, inside and out, as it had been when he’d been posted here in the army. The town had changed some—construction had commenced on what looked to become a large building on the outskirts of town. Other than that, some businesses had left—most notably the bank. Couldn’t blame ’em. Nothing much happened in a town this size. Seeing as it was Saturday night, a few regular customers were in the small saloon, but all in all, it was still a quiet, isolated place compared to just about anywhere else on earth but the desert. Heck, if he remembered correctly, even the main road to San Diego washed out on a yearly basis. Nothing like that to keep a town to itself.
He sure hoped Mr. Furst, Sr. hadn’t wired Sam the minute he’d left the main bank in the city. He’d like to say his piece before Sam completely shut him out and refused to listen. During the ride south he had asked himself how he would handle it if neither man would talk to him. Hadn’t come up with any answers. Guess if it came to that, he’d know what to do.
He stabled the Major, gave him an extra helping of oats and headed back to the hotel. He should wash up a bit and shave before meeting Sam. As he neared the building, he could smell the beginnings of supper cooking, the scent of onions and garlic and fish floated on the breeze, intertwined with the briny odor from the harbor. After hours in the saddle, the walking eased the pain in his leg, so instead of going directly into the hotel’s restaurant, he headed down to the water’s edge.
Miniature waves lapped against the pilings of the wharf—the sound relaxing him further.
A light flashed overhead, bouncing off the low clouds. Adrenaline shot through him. Instinctively his hand wrapped around his gun handle. He hesitated...and then exhaled, feeling foolish as he remembered. He’d seen the beam of light before—the lighthouse at the end of the peninsula. Skittish? Heck, he was worse off than the Major.
Across the harbor in Old Town, lamplight flickered, the same as it did in the adobe and wood homes scattered along the roadside and up against the base of the ridge behind him. It seemed peaceful, but peace in his line of work was more often than not an illusion.
He reached in his pocket for paper and tobacco and rolled a cigarette, the motion smooth until he realized his hands shook. Disgusted with himself, he tossed the paper and pinch of tobacco into the shallows. What was he doing here? The military couldn’t use him anymore except behind a desk sorting papers. What made him think he was different than anybody else in his line of work that this had happened to?
Was he getting too slow for this kind of work? He wanted to squash that thought even as it sprang into his head—just as he had the past fifty times he had considered it. He knew plenty of men older than his thirty-one years who still handled fieldwork. To hear them talk they did all right. However, they weren’t crippled. It was his injury that ruined everything and made him a has-been.
But then he remembered Jeff Cranston. His own injury was nothing compared to what had happened to his partner, whose body now rested eternally. He swallowed hard. Leave it. Nothing good comes from digging up the past.
The past... He took a long look at the quiet street, for the first time letting his gaze roam past the small bank building, past the dark jail and the old Mexican custom house, until he came at last to the mercantile. The store windows were dark, as he expected, yet above, on the second floor, a soft glow lit one window. Who lived there now?
Four years ago it had been Miss Elizabeth Morley and her brother. He’d never gotten along with her brother, but he sure remembered her. Prettiest deep brown eyes he’d ever seen along with her rich, coffee-colored hair. She was taller than most women, slender and graceful to a fault. The day he had walked into her store and first laid eyes on her he’d been hard-pressed to find an intelligent word to say. He had fallen under her spell even before they’d shared that kiss, but once that happened he knew she was the only one for him. He thought for sure she felt the same way.
Anyone worth his salt could see she was a catch back then. She could have had her pick of any of a dozen officers in the army. They all thought she was something special, yet they’d all given up the minute that dandy from the city started hanging around her doorstep. He’d been the fool to keep coming around. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t officer material—it took him longer than most men to admit defeat whether it was chasing down criminals or when it came to matters of the heart.
Guess in the end money talked louder than any feelings she had for him because he wasn’t gone four weeks before he heard she had up and married that rich fellow. Remembering the letter he’d posted was an embarrassment now. He had explained why his contingent had had to light out in the gray light of morning, but more than that, he’d gone on for an entire second page about making plans for when they’d see each other again. Likely by the time his letter made it here from Texas she was already set for her wedding. One thing was certain—she sure hadn’t bothered to send a reply.
Even thinking of it now set up a slow burn in his gut. He should listen to that and leave things alone. That chapter of his life had closed a long time ago. Over. Done. It was a frustration that the entire ride south from Sacramento he had been unable to avoid thinking about her. The closer he got to La Playa, the stronger the images of their time together returned. Likely because this was the first time in years he was back in this small town.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since two cold tortillas he’d saved from his breakfast at that cantina along the San Luis Rey River. He turned toward the hotel and then paused, looking once more down the main street of town toward the mercantile.
She wouldn’t be there. He knew that. Why did he feel this compulsion to see for himself? Was it for old times’ sake? Which was a maudlin emotion he should abandon right now. Or was it to torture himself over the fact that she was gone and married off? She was probably living in some big fancy stucco house in San Diego now with a passel of children.
“Aw...hell...”
He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw for himself. She wouldn’t be there...but maybe whoever owned the place now would have word on what had happened to her.
