Wayward Wind, page 12
“Stop playacting and sit down. There’s only one man around here. We passed the other one fixing the fence down at the far end of the valley. And don’t play the ravished virgin with me, Sylvia.” He pulled at his handlebar mustache and eyed her with eyes as blue as her son’s. “You got what you wanted. You were wild for me. You were a little bitch in heat and I serviced you. That’s all there was to it.”
Sylvia’s mouth dropped and color drained from her face. She spun on her heels to go into the house.
“Sylvia!” His commanding voice was like a lash on her back. “You’d better stay and hear what I’ve got to say if you want that farmer who’s courting you to stay in one piece. What’s his name? Arnie Henderson? And doesn’t he come out here on Saturdays and Sundays? It’d be a shame if he fell off his horse and broke his legs in so many places he’d never ride again—a horse that is.” He looked at her over his shoulder to be sure she caught the meaning of his words. Her crimson face told him that she did and he laughed nastily. “Is he as good as I was? You were lousy in bed, Sylvia. You’d never have made it as a whore, but you were all that was available at the time.”
“I don’t know how anyone as rotten as you can live.” Sylvia was beyond anger, beyond tears. His insults had shaken her to the very roots, but she refused to allow him to see the effect of his cruel words.
“I live very well in a house that makes this one look like a pigsty. I’ve got servants who jump when I holler, and money in the bank. I was the first white man to come to this northwest territory. I drove off the stinking redskins and the riff-raff who follow the trailblazers to a new land. The vultures weren’t going to feed off me! I’m a lusty man and take my fucking where I can get it. If that’s being rotten, I’m rotten, but I’m rich rotten!”
Sylvia took a long, slow breath to steady herself. “If Cooper knew you were saying these things to me he’d horsewhip you.”
“He isn’t going to know because you’ll not tell him. I want to talk to you about Cooper and I want to look at you when I talk, so sit down.”
“I’ll not be ordered to sit down in my own home,” she said with quiet dignity.
“Very well,” he said tiredly. “I’ll stand up.” Adam got to his feet, turned to face her and leaned against the porch post. He looked at her for a long moment through half-closed eyes. “You’re a tiresome woman, Sylvia, but not bad looking for your age. However… I don’t care for the loose skin and sagging tits of older women.” His eyes roamed her figure insolently.
She regarded him unflinchingly, refusing to allow him to intimidate her.
“At one time during the last couple of years I entertained the idea of marrying you and bringing you and my son to live at Clayhill Ranch. Then I realized what a drawback you’d be to a man who expects to be governor of this territory.”
“I’d sooner be wed to a rattlesnake.” She spoke quietly with no emotion. “You did me a favor, Adam, when you slunk away in the middle of the night like a yellow belly. It opened my eyes to what you are—a taker, a spoiler. I shudder to think about the influence you’d have had on my son when he was growing up.”
For an endless moment Adam stared at the cold-eyed woman, aware that behind the calm mask was lethal hatred. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders.
“What’s done is done. This is now. I want my son, Sylvia. Cooper is my son. You have only to look at him to know he’s a Clayhill. I want him to come and make his home at Clayhill Ranch and take his proper place in running things.”
“He’ll never do it.”
“You’re going to see that he does.”
“You’re out of your mind. Cooper despises you!”
“You’re goin’ to change that, too. You’re goin’ to persuade him that it’s to his advantage… and yours, that he forget the past and think of his future.”
“He’ll never do it,” she said again with a shake of her head.
“I want that boy—”
“My God! Can’t you get it through your stupid head that he’s not a boy? He’s a twenty-six-year-old man with a mind of his own.”
“When I was twenty-six I had a good foothold on this land. What’s Cooper got but a piddly horse ranch that isn’t worth diddley squat? Where are your brains, woman?” he asked harshly. “Don’t you want anything better for him than… this?” Clayhill’s eyes roamed the house, the corrals and outbuildings with disdain, and his lips, beneath the white mustache, twisted in a sneer.
“He built up this piddly ranch with his own two hands without walking on anybody or hiring killers to run people off their land, which is more than you did with yours.”
He ignored her outburst. His cold, steel blue eyes bored into hers. “I want him as a foreman-manager of Clayhill. He’s a Clayhill through and through. I’ll take him to Denver, introduce him to men of influence, make him a big man in the territory.”
Sylvia shook her head with disbelief. “Why Cooper? Why don’t you try to buy your other son, Adam? Did you know that you have a grandson?”
“Gawddamn you!” His fury burst forth in a strangled shout and his face turned beet-red with anger. “Don’t mention that sonofabitchin’ redskin to me. He’s not a Clayhill! He’s a gawddamned fucking red ass Indian.”
“Logan’s not a Clayhill? How did you manage that, Adam? He’s got the Clayhill crooked finger, and Cooper says your grandson has it, too. By the way, did you know that they named him Henry Grant Horn, after Rosalee’s father and your brother, Henry, who raised Logan like his own son after you deserted him and his mother? Cooper’s very fond of little Henry. He says he’s got black hair like Logan’s and blue eyes like Rosalee’s. Cooper says—”
“Gawdammit!” Adam roared and anger poured out of him. “I don’t give a gawddamn what Cooper says!”
“I thought you did,” Sylvia said sweetly. “I thought you’d want to know that Logan despises you every bit as much as Cooper does, and being an Indian, he’d think no more of putting a knife in your back than he would killing a mad dog if you were a threat to his family. That family includes me and Cooper, now. The two men have become close friends since they discovered they are half brothers.”
Anger unfailingly turned Adam’s face a mottled crimson, and when he was angry, as he was now, he invariably struck out at something. His fist hit the porch post with such force the tin on the roof rumbled.
“That bastard hasn’t got the guts,” he roared. “If he makes a crooked move the army’ll be on him like flies on a pile of fresh cow shit and he knows it.”
Sylvia’s smile had a hint of secrecy to it. “If you say so, Adam.”
He slammed his hat down on his head and pointed his finger at her. “You start working on seeing that Cooper comes to see things my way, or else—”
“Or else what?” Sylvia lifted her apron and folded her arms in it.
“Or else that farmer you’re fucking gets a hole right between his eyes!” Adam jutted his chin out as he spoke and his eyes were like cold steel.
Pride and dignity caused Sylvia to lift her chin a little higher. “When all else fails, you dip down into your dirty mind for a weapon. You’re a poor excuse for a man.”
“What you think means no more to me than a pile of horse shit. I mean to get my way in this… one way or the other. I’ll give you until the end of the month.”
With a murderous look on his face, he mounted his horse and stabbed his luckless mount with his spurs. The gelding’s powerful haunches propelled it forward into a hard run as it sought relief from the punishing jabs. Adam’s men saw him coming and hurried to open the gate. He plunged through it going at full gallop and was soon out of sight.
Sylvia leaned against the wall of the house and watched the men close the gate and ride hard to catch up with Adam. Then she began to tremble, as she always did after each confrontation with him. She’d didn’t understand his obsession with her son. It had to have something to do with his male pride, in the fact he’d sired an offspring as handsome and as well thought of in the territory as Cooper. He’d lost considerable face that day in Junction City when it was made known he had a half-breed son who had bought the government lane Adam had been using, cutting his holding almost in half.
Sylvia wondered if she would have acted as she did that day, if she had known what the outcome would be. Yes, she thought, she would have. What else could she have done with armed Clayhill men lined up against Logan’s armed crew who had just come out from Illinois to help him build Morning Sun Ranch? Adam had been determined to get rid of Logan one way or the other. The whole town heard her tell him Logan was his son. He’d called off his men because his ambition to be governor outweighed his desire to kill the Indian. Of course, in the process, he’d recognized Sylvia as the girl he’d ruined twenty-four years earlier. And Cooper—to her dying day she’d not forget the look on his face when he realized Adam Clayhill was his father. She’d been proud of the way he handled himself that day and during the two years since that time. She’d burdened him with the knowledge that Adam was his father, but she’d also given him a brother he could admire and respect.
Sylvia glanced toward the forested mountain slope and fervently wished that Cooper were home. He should have been back several days ago, she thought with a frown. It wasn’t that she worried about him. He was capable of taking care of himself. She was worried about Adam carrying out his threat to shoot Arnie, and she was worried about Cooper’s old friend who lay out in the bunkhouse with a crushed hand and foot.
There was a lot the old mountain man wasn’t telling about the “accident.” Old Volney Burbank was too trail-wise to let an accident like that happen to him—if it was an accident. A week ago he’d come riding in on that little dun horse of his, barely hanging in the saddle, asking for Cooper. The two ranch hands had lifted him off the horse and carried him to the bunkhouse. She’d done the best she could for his broken hand, but Arnie’d had to work on his injured foot, even taking off three of his toes that were hopelessly mangled.
At noon, Sylvia ladled a thick soup into a bowl and set it on the tray she’d made from a flat baking sheet. The old man had eaten very little, and to tempt his appetite she added biscuits, fresh churned butter, and plum jam.
He appeared to be asleep when she entered the square room with the bunks nailed to the outside walls and the potbellied stove in its center. She tiptoed to the bed and set the tray on the box she had placed there. The part of Volney’s face not covered with straggly gray beard was dark and leathery. His eyes were sunken and now they peered up at her from beneath bushy brows.
“You were playing possum,” she accused.
“I heard three horses ’n jist one come on in. What’d he want?”
Sylvia smiled down at him. “There’s certainly nothing wrong with your ears.”
“I am’t dead ’n I ain’t no half-wit!” he replied tartly. “What’d he want?”
“It was someone to see Cooper.”
“What was he ayellin’ for then?”
“My my, my.” She shook her head dolefully. “You’re sharper than all get out today.” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “If you’d pay as much attention to getting some food in your stomach as you do to what goes on around here, you’d be up and out of here in no time at all.”
He turned his face away from her. “I’m awaitin’ for Cooper. When’s he comin’?”
“You’ve asked me that every day. Now stop being so cantankerous and eat. You’re so skinny now the wind could blow you away. Pretty soon you won’t even make a decent shadow.”
He glared at her. “It ain’t seemly for a woman to speak so of a man’s limbs.”
“I’m not a seemly woman, Volney Burbank. I’d have to be blind not to see that that union suit of Cooper’s would go around you a couple of times.”
“That ain’t seemly neither. Ya ain’t ort a speak of a man’s drawers!” Volney looked pained, but there was the merest twinkle in his eyes.
“I opened a fresh jar of plum jam just for you. I hope it sweetens you up some.”
“When’s that Henderson feller acomin’ back? He’s sweet on ya, ain’t he?”
His remark brought the results he intended and Sylvia’s cheeks turned a bright pink
“You’re a meddlesome, nosy old man. Now, you get to eatin’ or I’ll feed you myself.”
“I asked you a civil question, woman. When’s he acomin’?”
“Probably on Saturday or Sunday. It’s a long ride from Morning Sun.”
“Are ya agoin’ to wed up with ’im?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said with a sassy tilt to her chin. “As long as we’re asking questions, I have a few of my own to ask. How did a trail-wise old coot like you manage to get a hand and a foot smashed at the same time? Why are you so eager to see Cooper? Who is the Lorna you spoke about while you were out of your head? Is she the poor little cripple you were talking about?”
Volney looked pained and then a cold mask dropped over his features. His eyes, staring up at her, were hard and flat and completely unreadable. “What else did I say?”
“Nothing else. You were concerned,” she said gently. “I’m sorry for prying.”
The gaunt old man lay there glaring up at Sylvia. All his life he had studiously avoided close association with all except the Lightbody family. And now, for some reason that he couldn’t readily understand, he was actually beginning to like this kind, pleasantly pretty woman. He’d never given a thought to whether he liked or disliked her son. He’d traded information about wild horse herds to him for a grub bag. But somehow, he trusted him or he’d not have come here when he needed help. He’d never asked a favor of a man in his life, but when Cooper Parnell came back, he was going to.
Sylvia lifted the cloth from the tray and moved the spoon around to the side of the bowl so he could reach it with his good hand. “When I come back that bowl better be empty.”
“And if it ain’t?”
“I’ll do more than talk about men’s drawers and skinny limbs,” she threatened. “I’ll bring out a bottle of castor oil and talk about… bowel movements.”
“Humph!” he snorted.
She waited to see if she could get a smile out of him and when she couldn’t, she moved toward the door and stepped out into the sunlight. For the first time the old man had shown some spirit. It was an encouraging sign.
Sylvia’s eyes automatically went toward the direction from which Cooper would come. Nothing moved on the horizon; but an eagle soared in the sky, glided on the wind currents, and then plunged out of sight behind the hills.
Back at the house she stooped to pull a few weeds growing among the morning glories she’d planted to run up the porch post. She stood there for a long moment, almost dreading going back into the house. Adam’s demands and threats buzzed in her head like hornets. She tried to not think about them, but it was only during the brief visit with the old mountain man that she was able to push the dark warnings to the back of her mind.
Then her thoughts turned to Arnie Henderson. During the war he had fought with the Illinois Regulars. Logan had been his captain. An unbreakable bond of friendship had developed between Logan and some of his men. After the war Arnie had gone home to find his wife dead and his farm taken over by carpetbaggers, so he’d come west with other men who had served with Logan to work for him on Morning Sun.
He was a quiet, home loving type of man, a couple of years younger than Sylvia’s own forty-two years, but he seemed older and she allowed his maturity was due to his experiences during the war. She’d gotten to know him and enjoy his company when he came to the ranch to get the horses Cooper had sold to Logan. Arnie had very little formal education, but he was well-read. They discovered they both had a passion for reading, and soon he was bringing her books and newspapers with regularity.
Sylvia had endured considerable good-natured teasing from Cooper. Her son delighted in making her blush like a silly schoolgirl. Regardless, she eagerly looked forward to Arnie’s visits. He would be out tomorrow or the next day. Should she tell him about Adam’s threat or should she just discourage him from coming out for awhile? Cooper’s hatred for Adam Clayhill was even deeper than her own. He’d sooner die than do as Adam suggested—and it was unthinkable that she would ask him to, even to protect Arnie. So where did that leave things? She had to warn Arnie and she had to tell Cooper. They were levelheaded men and they would know how to handle it.
“I’ve got to believe that,” she murmured aloud. “If I don’t, I’ll lose my mind.”
Adam Clayhill went back to Junction City and spent the night in the small house he used when he was in town. He was in a dark mood. At times like this he needed release from the frustration of dealing with his son. He thought about Cecilia, the Mexican girl he used at the ranch, and he thought about his stepdaughter, the beautiful Della. Despite his bad mood he had to grin when he thought about Della. If he’d had a daughter, he was sure she would have been like Della. There was a woman who knew what she wanted and went about getting it; just like him, he thought.
As far back as fifteen years ago he’d begun planning to be Territorial Governor. He’d gone back East, found a respectable society matron, married her, and brought her ten-year-old Della and her fourteen-year-old son out to the ranch. He and the boy never got along and it was a relief when, after a few years, he struck out on his own. The boy had kept in touch with his mother until she died ten years ago. Nothing had been heard from him since.
Della was another matter. She was beautiful and knew how to use that beauty; a born courtesan with a sexual appetite to go with it. She and Adam had discovered each other several years ago and it had been good… for awhile. She was a hot little piece of tail, Adam mused, too hot to be satisfied with any one man. Her weakness had been her passion for the forbidden. She had been determined to seduce the Indian, Logan Horn, and had failed. When that happened Adam had realized she was far too open in her activities for Junction City and had set her up in a house in Denver. She had opened a gentlemen’s club where the rich and influential could drink, play cards, gamble, and in secret rooms upstairs indulge in all kinds of carnality. Secretly, Adam was kind of proud of her, and since she used her father’s name, her business cast no unfavorable reflection on the Clayhill name.
