the bartender said with a confidential air of one doing a great good service, “I’d hold off that stuff if I was you. Wait until you’re a mite older. And stay out of Big Nose Kate’s!” He laughed uproariously at his “joke” and slapped the counter so hard that Tally’s empty glass bounced.
A shadow fell over Tally and the bartender. The newcomer seemed very tall in comparison to the stout barkeep—lean and taut with muscle, dressed in the wool pants and coat of a cowman rather than the duds of a miner. His black hat shaded his face, but something in his manner, the way he cocked a hip against the bar and dominated the space around him, alerted Tally’s instinct for danger. She paid for her drink and turned to go.
“Hey,” the bartender said, grabbing her shirtsleeve. “What name should I give if your brother comes looking for you?”
“Tal,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Tal Bernard.”
“Good luck.”
Tally tipped her hat, but he was already serving the tall newcomer. The skin between Tally’s shoulder blades quivered. She walked quickly to the gambling tables and searched out the faro dealer. He looked like a panther about to pounce as she approached, but he was pleasant enough when she explained her mission. A few of the gamblers took pity on the boy and speculated among themselves as the dealer laid the cards on the table.
“I think I seen him,” a miner offered. “About so high, curly yeller hair? Saw him at the roulette wheel over at the Crystal Palace, oh, near ten days ago. You say he’s your brother?”
Tally nodded, her heart sinking to the soles of her boots.
“Don’t think he did too good. Lost a heap o’money. Heard him talk about buying gear and heading into the Chiricahuas to make his fortune.” The miner chuckled. “Poor feller. Looked like he might know something about beeves, but mining…” He shook his head. “I’d ask over at the harness shops and livery stables. He’d’a needed a couple good mules, at the very least.”
Tally thanked the miner and trudged out of the saloon. André must have gone crazy. He knew that money had to go for cattle or the ranch could fail. And he knew less about mining than she did. If he really had gone to the mountains, it was probably because he was too ashamed to face her and had thought up some cockeyed scheme to recoup his losses.
No, André wasn’t crazy, just rash and sometimes thoughtless. She had hoped this time he would prove responsible. She had needed to trust him with the money she’d saved from her marriage, needed him to show that he cared as much about Cold Creek as she did.
She’d expected too much.
Still, reckless or not, André was her brother. He knew what she’d been, and he hadn’t turned his back. He was the only family she had left. Even if all the money was gone, she had to find him and bring him home.
Tally began the wearisome rounds of Tombstone’s numerous corrals, stables and supply stores. By late afternoon she knew that André had indeed bought a pair of mules and all the appropriate gear, and had set off from Tombstone over a week ago. His likely path would take him east, toward the Chiricahuas, but well north of Cold Creek’s little side valley.
Tally muttered a curse she saved for only the worst situations and returned to the stable where she had left the wagon and horses. Miriam and Federico were waiting for her in the shade of the building. Federico looked as though he’d eaten a sour lemon, and Miriam was furiously knitting the shawl she’d begun on the ride to Tombstone. She stopped when she saw Tally.
“Bad news?” she asked softly.
“Bad enough. André gambled the money before he bought any cattle and went back to the mountains with mining gear.”
“Madre de Dios,” Federico muttered.
“Elijah?” Miriam said.
The worry in her voice revealed far more than her dispassionate face. Tally knew how much she cared for Elijah, and he for her. God help the man if he ever made Miriam cry.
“I can’t find any evidence that Elijah was ever in Tombstone,” Tally said.
“He’s been gone a week,” Miriam said, crumpling the shawl between her graceful hands.
“He may be looking for André in the Valley. It’s a big area to cover.” Tally pushed back her hat and blotted the perspiration from her forehead. “We can’t afford a hotel tonight. We’ll sleep in the wagon and decide what to do in the morning—if you don’t mind bedding with the horses, Rico.”
The Mexican shrugged. “What will we do tomorrow, señorita?”
“I can find him for you.”
Tally whirled to face the man from Hafford’s—the one who had made the uncharacteristic shiver race down her spine. His back was to the sun, so she still couldn’t make out his features. But his height was a dead giveaway, and his voice, deep and rough, made her think of dark alleys and smoking guns. He was what the girls at La Belle Hélène used to call a “long, tall drink of water.” Tally’s mouth had suddenly gone very dry indeed.
She held her ground, staring up into the shadows of his eyes under the black hat’s brim. “Who are you?”
“Someone who has what you need.” He angled his head so she could see that the slitted eyes were the palest gray tinted with green, nestled in a web of wrinkles carved by sun and wind. His hair was a brown so dark as to be almost black. No single element of his face could be called handsome, yet the overall effect was one of compelling strength and inner power. Few women would fail to look at him twice.
“You followed me here,” Tally said.
“I heard you was looking for your brother,” he said, glancing over her shoulder at her companions. Federico took a step forward, compelled against his mild nature to assume the role of gallant protector. “Call your man off. I mean you no harm.”
“It’s all right, Rico,” she said, never taking her gaze from the stranger’s. “Why do you think you can help us?”
The man drew closer, crowding Tally up against the wall of the livery. She dodged neatly, keeping her distance. He smelled of perspiration, as everyone did in the desert, but it was not an unpleasant odor. In fact, he smelled different from any man she’d met. He moved easily, smoothly, like a puma or a fox. But he didn’t offer a threat, and if he wore a gun, it was well hidden under his coat.
“My name’s Sim Kavanagh,” the man said. “I heard your brother ran off to the mountains after losing big at the Crystal Palace. They say he’s a tenderfoot who wouldn’t know a pickax from a shovel, so I figured—”
“André’s no tenderfoot. We have a ranch on the other side of Sulphur Spring Valley. He—” She wasn’t about to confess André’s irresponsibility to this man. “He has dreams, sometimes,” she finished awkwardly.
Kavanagh narrowed his eyes. “He’s your older brother? Sounds like you look after him. He gamble away all your money?”
Tally bristled. “What is your interest in my brother, Mr. Kavanagh?”
“I was a scout for the army. I know all the ranges—the Dragoons, Chiricahuas, the Mules. Tracking’s what I do. And right now I need a job.”
His
