Beyond the Broken Road, page 1
Beyond the Broken Road
Winds of Change, Volume 1
Rain Trueax
Published by Seven Oaks, 2023.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BEYOND THE BROKEN ROAD
First edition. November 21, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Rain Trueax.
ISBN: 978-1943537723
Written by Rain Trueax.
BEYOND THE BROKEN ROAD
WINDS OF CHANGE
BOOK ONE
RAIN TRUEAX
CHAPTER 1
Tucson, Arizona Territory-- June 1883
Dust devils, kicked up by a faint breeze, whirled up the street, as Abigail leaned against the wooden door frame, arms crossed over her chest. The sun blazed onto the land with an intensity that attempted to suck the life from all living things. Her gaze shifted to the distant mountains, a hazy purple, their outlines jagged against the intense blue of the sky. Somewhere up there, some claimed it was cool. She’d have to take their word for it as her world allowed no such escapes.
In the office behind her, the uneven clicking of Martin Matthew’s typewriter indicated he was struggling with the report for her father. Loud voices carried up the street from one of the string of saloons that began at the corner of Congress and Meyer Streets. Apparently, she thought with a cross between amusement and disapproval, there were a few activities that weren't affected by heat.
A woman's voice rang out with joy—most likely coming from one of the bawdy establishments north of Congress, the Tenderloin, which no genteel woman was supposed to know existed. As to why it was called by such an odd name she could only speculate because she could never ask anyone apt to know.
Farther away she heard the steady beat of a blacksmith's hammer, a horse's nicker. A heavily loaded wagon lumbered past, accompanied by the clip-clop of hooves, muffled curses of the driver, and creak of the shifting load. The heat put man and beast in a foul mood… well, except for those in the Tenderloin.
"Abigail, I could use help on this." Martin's whine didn't improve her mood. She moved farther onto the boardwalk. Holding her dress away from her skin, she wished for the hundredth time since April that she could wear the loose cotton blouses and skirts of the Mexican women. At this time of day, they would be down along the Santa Cruz. Their colorful laundry stretched across bushes while they chattered and enjoyed the shade of big, overhanging cottonwoods.
Changing one's station in life, however, was not an option. She sighed. A woman was born where she was; and from that time on, important decisions were taken from her control. She washed clothing along a river bank, or she wore clothing ill-suited to the climate. Little of it mattered what the woman wanted.
Martin’s complaints penetrated her thoughts. Why on god’s green earth, not that there was much of that in this land, was it a threat to his manhood for her to go outside for a few moments?
She heard his chair squeak as he rose from it. She waited. “What are you doing out here?” he protested as he squinted at her against the glare of the sun.
"Nothing, Martin. Absolutely nothing."
"You should come inside."
“It’s not cooler.”
“Abigail, ladies do not stand on boardwalks.”
“How do you know?”
When he had no answer for her, his irritation grew and turned his face pinker. It wasn’t as though she should blame him for what he was. He was doing what was laid out for him also. She wondered if he thought he was going to be able to grow a full beard and mustache. The scanty fuzz on his face seemed rather sad. Was he fond of his starched shirts and tidy ties. Perhaps he was as trapped as she. Did he even think of such things?
Despite what she knew had to be a mutual lack of attraction between them, she had begun to believe he was the man her father hoped she would marry-- whenever he, instead of hinting, became more direct. Of course, she would be expected to approve the convenient arrangement.
She was not a pretty woman. Beyond marriageable age, she had no prospects to change that. The fact that she wanted no prospects was beside the point. She had spent twenty-five years obeying her father's dictates; and with such an opportune marriage, she could continue to take care of him, merely adding a husband and any children that might be immaculately conceived.
Most of her life was controlled, but that marriage would not happen-- not to Martin Matthews, nor any demanding, unappreciative male creature. She didn't know how she would escape the trap that had sprung closed on her long-deceased mother and, so far as she could tell, the spirits of all women; but she would find a way.
Martin’s eyes reflected nervousness as he glanced down the street and back at her. "I must insist you come into the office.”
"No."
"No?"
She smiled, raising her eyebrows. "No."
He glared. "I cannot accept that, Abigail."
"I don’t see what you can do… other than tell on me."
He opened his mouth like a fish; then shut it. She expected more arguments, but he swung on his heels and headed into the office. The footsteps did not stop at the front desk but headed straight for her father's inner sanctum. She resisted the laugh. He was going to do it. He was going to tell on her.
She turned her gaze to the street where she noticed men coming out of the Pedrales Bar. They were roughly garbed, laughing, their boisterous voices and crude words carried on the heavy air.
If she hadn't known that to go into the office now would make Martin believe he had won, she might have ducked inside when she saw several of the men mount their horses and wheel them up the street, a route that would take them past her.
A tall man, garbed in black, strode from the cantina, cast a laughing comment behind him, and gave a quick running leap to vault into his saddle. The whole movement had been like that of a big cat. She found her attention held by the grace of the man's seat on a large black horse that showed its spirit by rearing up, then settling down under a sure hand on the reins.
In seconds the man had wheeled his horse and was heading up the street at a fast canter. Abigail pressed herself against the wall. She could not explain the mix of emotions-- repulsion and fascination-- in equal parts. She didn’t turn her gaze away even when she saw his head turn toward her. He wouldn't see her, wouldn't notice a mousy woman like her even if he had, but she felt a surprising apprehension.
A heavy gun belt hung low on his hip. That gun identified him as clearly as her stiff dress and bound hair would identify her. He was a gunman; she was a spinster.
Startled, she saw him wheel his horse to an abrupt halt in front of her. Good Lord. His black shirt was open almost to his waist, and she saw through the opening a bare chest. She should look away, but she couldn't tear her eyes from him. He took his hat from his head, ran a muscular forearm across his forehead as he turned and looked straight at her. No gentleman would have done such a thing; he would've pretended not to see her. Not that she had any reason to suppose such a man would be a gentleman.
Their gazes met and then to her shock, he looked her up and down, giving her a clear view of an angular face. Beneath his bold stroke of a mustache and heavy beard, she could not tell if he was smiling. She sensed for one wild moment that he was considering coming toward her, saying something, but he settled his hat onto his head and kicked his horse into a gallop, leaving a cloud of dust and hundreds of tiny dust devils in his wake.
In moments, he was at the head of the other men. Like the pack of wolves they resembled, they raced, yelping for the outskirts of town-- woe unto the human or beast in their way. She watched until the desert haze swallowed every sign that they had passed. Only then did she go into the office.
"It's about time," Martin snapped, his expression disapproving. "Don't you ever consider the consequences of your actions? Didn't it occur to you men such as those could kidnap a woman, carry her off into the desert, and she'd never be seen or heard from again?"
Abigail laughed with genuine amusement. "I think they could do better than me if that was their intent.”
He ignored her logic. “Who would have to save you if you were kidnapped?”
She realized then that he must have seen the men coming from the bar, and it explained his quick retreat.
She sighed. “Martin, are you reading dime novels again?"
"Tucson is a dangerous place. There was another killing last night, and I don't read dime novels.”
She smiled and walked to his desk, pulled out a side drawer, and revealed his hidden stash. "Let's see what do we have here? Bat Masterson in Dodge, Sam Bass Races Destiny."
Martin, his face flushed, slammed the drawer before she could read more. "You are no lady," he snapped.
"Oh, I definitely am a lady, Martin," she retorted still smoldering over the limitations that placed on her life. When she saw his hurt expression, she regretted ridiculing him. The poor little man was also caught in his limited world. His books were probably his escape. "I'm sorry, Martin. I shouldn't have made fun of your choice of reading material."
"You're sorry?"
"It was unkind of me."
"I shouldn't have demanded you come inside either. It was officious." His tone told her he had decided to be magnanimous. She wasn’t at all certain that she didn’t prefer him overbearing. For a moment Abigail considered finding something else for which to apologize. It was too hot for such games. Better to leave it that he'd bested her as she turned to her ledgers.
Foolishly she wondered what he had seen when he watched her for those few seconds. Had he seen her? Had he really considered coming toward her as she had sensed?
Ridiculous thinking. She knew what she was-- a plain woman, one who would be old before her time, would never have lived. She knew her lack of beauty all too well. Her face was a pleasing enough oval if it had been softer of line, but instead, she had prominent cheekbones, a stubborn chin, none of the roundness that was so favored in the great beauties of her time.
Her eyes were brown, not a clear blue or unusual violet, and worst of all was her nose. She sighed. Her nose was not that delicate button that graced her friend Priscilla’s face. Nor did she possess her friend’s delicate, finely tinted porcelain skin.
If she had one characteristic that might be considered beautiful, something a reckless gunfighter might even notice, it would be long, dark hair. She was proud of its thickness, the auburn highlights in the brown, but its very virtues were also its untidy sins. The thick unruliness forced her to wear it pulled into a bun where only intense efforts kept it in a semblance of order.
Abigail had never cared that she had no physical beauty. After all, what difference did it make to be comely when a woman didn’t desire a husband? She had never cared until that gunman had looked at her. Foolishly, for one stupid moment, she’d wished a man had seen her as beautiful.
She drummed her fingers on the desk. What was wrong with her? She had always taken pride in her strength. Although tall for a woman, another mark on the debit side of the ledger, she could work longer and harder than women trained to be decorations. In one area Abigail had fought against the rules of her culture. She had ordered a special leather skirt enabling her to ride her mare, Belle, astride.
Not for her were the ridiculous skirts with weights sewn into their hems to keep skirts down when riding sidesaddle. Oh, she could do it. What would be the point when it was so much more pleasurable to feel the horse between her knees? She kept her hours of riding to evenings and early mornings to avoid criticism reaching her father. Those hours of riding had yielded a strong body, long, lean legs, well-muscled arms.
She had a good mind, capable of doing the accounting for her father's Wells Fargo office, leave at five to go home, manage his household, and still help in the evening with a church bazaar. She had all the skills desired in a woman of her station. What did any of them mean?
Interrupting her personal inventory, she realized Martin was talking to her. "What is disturbing you so much?" he asked, obviously not for the first time. He left his desk to hover over hers.
"It's hot."
"Always wickedly hot in June." Martin sat in the chair in front of her desk. "Why don't you go home early?"
She looked up at him-- surprise, mingled with suspicion. "I have work to finish."
"It will wait for tomorrow, Abigail."
She managed a faint smile. "You're right."
Now it was his turn to show surprise. He recovered and gave her a grin. "Would you consider going with me to Carrillo's Gardens tonight? I think the coolness of the lake might be refreshing. Perhaps the amusements would take your mind off the heat."
What was this about? Martin had never asked her to go anywhere. Although she had guessed her father's intentions regarding him, she'd never been certain as to Martin's own. One invitation didn't give her that answer, but it did mean she had best tread carefully.
"Thank you for the thought," she said with a smile, "but I feel you are right. The heat is bothering me. I don’t feel up to going anywhere tonight."
"Did your father mention I will be there tonight for the repast?"
She remembered. Not difficult to do since Martin dined with them most evenings. She gathered the files she’d been working on and placed them in a stack to deal with in the morning. "I'll see what Serafina has planned."
"Something special, I hope?"
"I wouldn't count on that. You know Serafina."
"Perhaps you might suggest--"
Abigail shook her head. She would never consider finding fault with whatever Serafina prepared even if it was frijoles every night. She could heat water for tea and had little interest in doing more. If she offended Serafina, she didn't know where she'd find such a congenial cook. Besides they were finally overcoming the language barrier. Between her smattering of Spanish and Serafina’s slowly growing English vocabulary, they might someday manage a real conversation.
Martin shrugged as he grimaced. "She does fix delicious enchiladas."
Outside in the heat, Abigail took long, quick steps, grateful the house she shared with her father was a few blocks from the center of town. Although not by any means one of the mansions of Main Street, nor constructed of the more recently fashionable brick or lumber, the Spenser house was spacious, well-appointed, and situated in a prosperous neighborhood. Large cottonwood trees shaded the dirt-covered front yard and part of the modified Victorian facade.
Walking in the gate, she sighed at her flower bed. As it had in the four summers they'd lived in Tucson, it was shriveling, making the yard more pathetic than if she'd stuck to the bare soil her father preferred. Only the roses and zinnias were still attempting to bloom. Oh, the zinnias love the heat, except what was that bug putting holes in the leaves?
Jacob Spenser thought it foolishness to put money into anything that didn't have the potential of making money. Abigail hadn't minded not having a grassy yard, few attempted such a foolish thing in the desert, but she had insisted, despite her lack of a green thumb, on a little, flower bed, something she remembered her poor mother always planting. Neither the elements nor her father had been able to dissuade her, but every summer the hot Tucson summer tried again.
Walking into the foyer, Abigail took off her bonnet and put it over the mahogany hall tree. It took the usual moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior. She glanced around the parlor, assuring herself that Serafina had indeed dusted as she'd promised. The room was furnished with quality, somewhat ostentatious, furniture from the East. A circular Victorian sofa took up one wall. A marble-topped table stood in front of it, flanked by two Hepplewhite chairs that had been her grandmother's, upholstered in deep blue velvet. Flocked wallpaper adorned the walls. Although everything was very proper, probably beautiful to some, it represented more of her ordered life.
Serafina, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, came out from the kitchen, a smile on her round face. "Buenos Dias, señorita. You home soon."
Abigail smiled. "I wasn't getting much done this afternoon."
"Qué necesita?” Abigail could see her search for the words in English then smile as she shrugged. “You want?"
Abigail smiled as she decided what her cook had asked. Then came her struggle for the right Spanish words to respond. "Nada. Está bien. I will wash now. Do you need help with our meal?"
Serafina shook her head, as Abigail had known she would. Nothing caused more friction between the two women than Abigail in the kitchen.
"Bueno," Serafina said, heading for her kitchen. "I bring… agua."
"Gracias." Abigail walked up the narrow stairs to her room, grateful for the thick adobe walls that made the house almost pleasant even on a day where the outside temperature had to be well over one hundred. If they had lived in a wood-framed home, she would have been sweltering with the heat and humidity. The adobe, with its thick walls, was made of this land and for it. Her father might have ordered the addition of the Victorian trims to give the home more prestige, but the comfort came from the earth.
In her bedroom, Abigail wrestled with buttons and fabric, which adhered to her sweaty skin, as she pushed her dress up and over her head. She tugged loose petticoat ties and stepped from all three. When she was down to her chemise and drawers, she stood in front of her floor mirror and stared at her reflection.
