And for the past few days, Brake Baldwin’s cows – all the future his family possessed – had been dropping calves, unattended, in this rough country. Some of these animals, the rancher knew, would need his help or they’d die. Therefore, Brake Baldwin had headed for the high pastures, no matter what, and taken his daughter with him so he could keep a protective eye on her.
Mannito had been left at the house to watch over Maggie. In the rancher’s mind, Maggie was safe. Some young cowboy had simply fallen dumbstruck over Lily. The girl certainly had the looks to rattle a man. But Jones didn’t have it figured exactly that way. There was more to it, he felt. He just didn’t know what it was for sure.
From conversations overheard in the barn, he knew that James and Dot would take the wagon and spend the night in the little railhead town. So that afternoon, after watching the gray to make certain she was truly recovering, and leaving the Mexican with Maggie, he had taken a Baldwin horse and trailed the two youngsters well out onto the desert, until he was convinced they were safe. Three times, he rode wide of the wagon’s trail by a mile on either side to see that there were no horse tracks following them. Nothing.
Satisfied, he had returned to the ranch, arriving late in the day, his body shot through with a numbing exhaustion. Chaco barked to announce their arrival from his perch on the horse’s rump. Maggie was sitting on the porch. She didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Mannito was standing hidden in the shadows of the barn, holding the reins of a fresh horse, his ancient shotgun slung across his back. Alice was braying happily.
‘Los niños?’ Mannito asked, mounting the horse he held and pointing toward town. ‘The children?’
Jones nodded.
‘I ride to Señor Brake.’ He stopped and looked hard into Jones’ face and started to say something else, but then seemed to think better of it. Jones could tell he was tense. It was a feeling they shared. Finally, Mannito just smiled and said, ‘Good night, viejo.’
Jones didn’t say anything.
Mannito watched him a moment longer, something obviously on his mind, then he turned the horse and began to kick hard for the hills that were fading in the gathering purple dusk.
Jones would have ridden with him, but he didn’t want to leave Maggie unguarded. Whatever was wrong, might involve her as well. He followed the dark speck of the little Mexican and his galloping horse for a while, trying to figure out what the man had wanted to say to him. He wasn’t sure. But he had definitely wanted to say something.
Jones turned and gazed through the deepening shadows at the darkened house. The moon was rising over the rim of the mountain. Maggie was right: he didn’t belong here. That was why he had never come before. It wasn’t fair to her. Wasn’t fair just to walk back into her life after all these years. If he hadn’t been dying, he wouldn’t have done it. But he was, and he had come to see her one last time. Now he had to move on. Any fool could have guessed how she would feel. He didn’t blame her.
Thinking on it, he figured he might return to the heart of old Chihenne country. The thought tugged at something that was hurt inside him. Yopon and he had been there years before. It was the last time they’d been together and free. He found himself retracing their wanderings in his thoughts a lot. He forced himself to stop.
He stood outside the barn, feeling physical pain like a deep boring inside his chest, and turned in a slow circle, studying the darkening trees, the barn, the pastures and the house. He wanted to remember everything here, everything about her, for as long as he could.
He took a pull on the bottle, then left it on the ground, and walked awkwardly toward her, not knowing where to place his hands. He stopped in front of the porch where she sat. Chaco trailed along behind him. Jones watched her for a moment, her eyes gazing past him, then he leaned forward and set a pure white chunk of quartz on the step beside her.
‘I found it in the hills. Thought you might like it.’
She didn’t say anything or look at the stone.
‘The Mexican went to find them,’ he said quietly. ‘They probably decided to spend the night with the herd, rather than try the hill trails in the dark.’ Jones knew that hadn’t happened. If they were spending the night, it was because something had gone wrong. He had watched them saddling up and saw nothing for making camp; no canvas, no grub sack, no skillets, nothing. He had seen Dot slip the eagle charm into Lily’s saddlebag when her sister had gone into the house. The child had a large heart. But then Lily had found it and tossed it angrily to the ground. Dot had retrieved it.
‘If they aren’t down by morning, I’ll go find them,’ he said, almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘Then I’ll ride on.’ He turned and looked at her, seeming for a moment to soak her up with his eyes. ‘I used to think about you,’ he said quietly. ‘At night mostly. Where you were, and what you were feeling.’
She didn’t say anything for a long time, just continued to gaze past him at the hills. When she finally spoke, he was unable to see her face. ‘I don’t need anything from you any more,’ she said, her voice sounding tired. ‘Just go.’
He walked slowly past her into the house, deciding to sleep near her tonight so that he could keep an eye out, but also wanting to sleep one night in her home. Chaco sat down beside her.
Maggie contemplated the falling darkness, shutting out all thoughts of the man. She had been praying to God about the cat. Nothing had come to her. She was now convinced it was dead – convinced that was her answer from God. Harriet was lost.
She stood and picked up the quartz rock, studying it for a moment, then tossed it with all her might into the darkness. Chaco scrambled off the porch after it, barking as he ran. A few minutes later, the little dog returned with the rock, dropping it at her feet. She began to cry.
Morning light came grudgingly to the valley of the ranch. Baldwin and the others had not yet ridden down. Jones had awakened early in the darkness, unable to sleep, feeling both the searing pain, and something else, something anxious in a place deep inside him. Slowly, he shook it off and crawled stiffly out of his blankets. He had been lying on the floor in the big room of the house, his rifle next to him. Maggie had slept outside on the porch in the rocker. He had listened to the grating sound most of the night. It was silent now. He looked out of the window and saw her asleep in the chair. Chaco was lying beside her. Jones sat and watched her for a long time, listening to a white-winged dove calling.
Finally, he forced himself to stop looking at her and wandered slowly through the empty dwelling, moving from room to room, examining things that he knew or guessed belonged to her, trying to visualize her in these rooms with these objects, sometimes holding them in his hands. He knew he was intruding. But he also knew that the only way he would ever be a part of her life was by this last moment of intrusion. This was his last chance to be alone with her – or at least, alone within her world. That would have to do him. He understood that. She would let him no closer.
It was sitting in the shadows on the dresser in the big bedroom. He studied it, unable to move for a while, adjusting his little glasses on his nose. It was almost a dream to him. He cupped it in his hands, committing it to what he knew was his fading memory. That scared him. He knew that when he left this room, he would never see it again. It was the only time in his life that he had felt the urge to steal. He couldn’t do it. Not from her. He had stolen enough from her life.
He let his eyes move slowly over it: a tintype. Maggie, a teenager, and her mother, Susan. He couldn’t pull his eyes off her face. She had been a good wife and mother; he felt the familiar remorse and forced his gaze and thoughts along.
