Beyond the Broken Road, page 3
When Priscilla rose, she met Abigail’s skeptical expression with a benign expression of her own. “What can it hurt?”
Abigail made a dramatic shudder. “Perhaps wishes are dangerous.”
Priscilla laughed. “I will risk it.”
“What we wish for sometimes has another thing connected. Something we may not have considered.”
"Maybe I would want the other thing too." Priscilla laughed even though she received another stern look from the old lady. They walked down toward the Santa Cruz, finding a place in the shade of the cottonwood and willow trees where the water ran almost a foot deep, and the grass was thick. Upriver they could hear the soft strumming of a guitar, perhaps a lover courting his intended. Farther away children laughed. They spread their blanket and sat looking at the reflections on the water.
"Martin asked me to marry him," Abigail said when she could resist telling Priscilla no longer.
Priscilla was silent for a moment. "When?" Her voice was small.
"Friday night."
"What did you tell him?"
"I didn't." She looked over at Priscilla and frowned. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Don't tell me that. We've been friends almost four years now. I know better."
"Let's eat." Priscilla opened the basket, poked around and pulled out a drumstick.
Abigail realized she'd been blind. "Was it Martin? Is he what you wished for?" She should have realized it sooner. Every time Martin was around, Priscilla grew shy and quiet, laughing at his jokes but never saying a word. God, did Cilla have any idea how shallow he was?
"You already said the wishing shrine was foolishness. Anyway, it doesn't matter."
Evidently, she did not. Abigail considered if trying to tell her would help. "Whatever the case, I won’t be a factor in it. I only waited to turn him down to spare his feelings."
"Why would you do that? He’s a handsome man. He’d make an acceptable husband for any woman."
"Acceptable, Cilla,” she laughed. “What a word for deciding on a yes when a man asks you to marry you. I not only do not love Martin. I… well to be honest, barely can stand him.”
“But if he loves you…”
Abigail laughed. “Love. Martin didn’t bring up the word. I am not sure he’s capable of loving anyone but himself, but if he is, it’s not me.” She pulled out a hard crusted dinner roll.
"Your yes or no won’t change anything. He doesn’t see me."
"And why do you think that?”
"I'm fat."
Abigail looked at her critically. Priscilla’s figure was full breasted with rounded hips but nothing fat about it. "Don’t be ridiculous. You are voluptuous, not fat."
"I am, and I especially am compared to you." She grimaced. "Look at you. You can eat anything you want, and you stay wasp-waisted. I watch everything I eat and..." She laughed then. "Actually, I guess I watch it the most just before I eat it."
"Cilla, you're the beautiful one."
"You are jesting."
"Not at all."
"You are so slender. I’d give anything to have your exotic features.”
Abigail felt shocked. “I’m not even pretty.”
“Not pretty, but beautiful. Are you telling me you don’t know it?”
“My nose is too large.”
Priscilla snorted. “Its shape is fine and delicate. I saw a drawing of a woman like it in a book about the ancient Romans.”
“You can’t say you see me as beautiful.”
"Everyone does. Your figure is perfect. Not an ounce of fat. Unlike mine." She looked down with disgust.
“I admire you, and you're telling me you admire me?" Abigail shook her head as she finally got it. "We're trained from girlhood to want and admire what we don't have."
"Oh my. I hope that's not why I admire Martin."
"That's a dangerous thought," Abigail smiled, considering her own forbidden fruit.
"I think I did read an article in Harper's Bazaar that said that was exactly what women do. Do you want to read it?".
"Not a chance. I've read too many articles telling me what I ought to look like, think like, and be like. I'm swearing off all such magazines—well I might still read Father’s Good Health."
Priscilla laughed, her eyes gleaming with humor. “For heaven’s sake. That’s the worst. I thought I was dying for a whole week after reading one of those articles." She dug for a roll in the basket. “The description of the symptoms, everything fit until I forgot about it, and the symptoms went away.”
Abigail laughed. "Father does seem to have a constant litany of physical complaints."
"None of this solves my unrequited desire for Martin. I wish..."
"You must think about this a bit longer, Cilla. Perhaps get to know him better before you. Well, whatever the case, Monday I'll tell him no." She shook her head. "You know, it was the most unromantic proposal you ever heard anyway. He made it sound more like a merger than a marriage. Martin has no interest in me as a woman."
“How do you know that?”
Abigail wasn’t sure, what it meant, how she even knew the truth of her words. Most likely she’d never understand what a man could feel for a woman, the things he could make her feel. She had felt something in the fleeting stare of the man in black, except that had been only a fantasy.
She wished for that moment that she had dared to make a wish as Priscilla had done. Did she have the courage to bare the secrets of her heart to even herself? But wishes were for children, for foolish women, for those who still dared to dream. She was not such a woman.
CHAPTER 3
Abigail had planned the words to tell Martin she would not marry him and was about to open the conversation when the outer door slammed open and Silas Jensen burst through. "Where's he at," he wheezed. He looked then at Jacob Spenser emerging from his office. "Spenser, today’s stage from Nogales was held up."
Jacob Spenser stared at him. "Held up?”
“Jesus H. Christ, you goin’ simple on me, Jacob?”
“Just we haven’t had such a thing happen for over a year.”
“Like that means we cain’t never have it happen again?” The old man wheezed.
“It makes no sense. There was no reason. No gold aboard."
"You figure I got the answer to that. Damnation, I don’t know what the...” He stopped and looked uneasily at Abigail suddenly remembering the presence of a lady. “Who the blazes knows what they was after.”
"Surely they didn’t touch the mails.”
Silas shook his head. "You ain’t listenin’ to me. They robbed the stage, took it all. Donnor was killed, guard bad wounded, they don’t figure he’ll make it." Silas sunk into the chair in front of Abigail’s desk. "They took the horses too, just left the stage there with the dead and dyin’. Wounded shrieking for mercy most likely.” Silas did have a flair for the dramatic.
“Then how did…”
Silas interrupted. “Tarnation, you going to let me finish tellin’ this? Frank Smith was heading into town. Come on it after it only a bit after it happened.”
“He saw the miscreants then?”
“Nope, saw nothing or so he claimed anyways. You know how folks are. Don’t want to know nothin’.”
"This is horrible." Jacob stared at his hands, then at Silas. “Everything gone?"
“Thought I jest told ya that."
"The mail? The Wells Fargo shipments?" Jacob asked, his voice failing. “And the sheriff is…”
“That drunk. He’s doing nothin’. It’s as usual Marshal O’Brian what rode out.”
“This... this is horrible.” Her father sank into a chair, his face white.
Abigail went to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure the marshal will find the bandits, recover everything.”
"Not likely," Silas retorted. "Remember that rainstorm south of town? Well, it woulda wiped out any tracks. Not gonna find nothin'."
"I should go down there,” her father said, heading for the door. Then he was gone, Martin trailing behind. An hour later they were back. Their disappointed faces told the story before their words could.
"It is unfortunate, Father,” Abigail said as the two men sank into chairs, “but we’ve had robberies before. It is tragic that the driver was murdered, but that happens too sometimes.”
“Not like this."
"The guard didn’t make it,” Martin said.
"No one to identify the bandits. There were no passengers," her father moaned. "The guard said, before he died, that there had been two, masked, of course. They'll never find them. Tracks will be wiped out by that storm. Silas was right. Men like that fade into the hills until they sneak out like the jackals they are."
"Logically they'll drop the mail when they realize there's nothing of value in the bags."
Jacob shook his head. "Maybe. Or maybe they already dumped it somewhere.” He groaned again. "Or maybe this is related to something else.”
“Like what?” Abigail asked.
“I personally insured part of that shipment. Maybe they are actually attempting to defraud me."
"Personally? Defrauding?"
"The shipment that was lost was more important than it might seem on the surface--land deeds, old grants for a big estancia south of us. They were being readied for a court case. Their owners were extremely concerned for their safety." He groaned. "Maybe someone wanted them stolen. Perhaps the insurance was a way to get money from me. Lord, I don't know." He sunk his head into his hands.
"I am confused. Why would you personally insure anything?” she repeated shaking her head. “Isn’t that Wells Fargo’s responsibility?”
"I thought I could make some extra money from it. Offer a better rate. At the time, it seemed a safe way to multiply my funds.”
“You didn’t mention that to me,” Martin remonstrated.
"I didn't see a reason to... I have been having a little trouble making ends meet with the railroad taking some of our business. I didn't want to concern you two. I just hoped we could use this to expand our shipping line." He looked up. "Do you know what this means?"
She shook her head.
"I insured it for ten thousand dollars."
"Father!"
"The potential reward was great. The penalty now is greater. We don't have ten thousand dollars." He moaned. "I never thought it would be a risk. It didn't seem like a risk. After all, no gold was scheduled to go out. Shipments come through all the time. Why this one?" He put his hand over his chest. "Lord have mercy, I think I'm having a heart attack."
Abigail had her doubts about that, but she sent Martin for Dr. Hadley who confirmed her diagnosis of emotional stress.
"Go to bed, Jacob. It will seem better in the morning," then he added in a more ominous tone, "and quit fretting, you'll give yourself apoplexy."
Abigail's father groaned and glared at the doctor, then at Abigail. "I am ruined. They’re going to sue me, you know."
The doctor put his hand on his shoulder. "Jacob go home and to bed."
Jacob groaned but agreed, heading for home and leaving Abigail to drum her fingers on her desk. "We have to do something," she said to Martin.
"The marshal is going to do all that can be done. What can we do to add to it? Leave it to professionals, Abigail.”
She had thought her day was bad enough that she was supposed to let her one and only suitor down gently, that her one and only real friend was waiting to hear the words she hadn’t yet said; now she was needed to figure out a way to get her father out of his dilemma. Instead of having less bindings and tightness in her life, her borders were narrowing.
“This is not good but not as bad as your father fears right now.” Martin’s tone was probably meant to be soothing but instead annoyed her with its pious sound. “It will all seem better tomorrow.”
"We have to do something, Martin. I don't know what. From the sounds of things, the professionals do not have options to do anything. Nor does Marshal O'Brian have a reason to care as much as we do."
“It’s his job.”
"But he won't lose it over it. We need to give the thieves a reason to return the mails."
“Highly unlikely.”
“That would be true as things stand. But what if we can give them a reason?” She rose to pace the room. Her heels the only sound as she turned over her idea in her mind.
“Nobility of spirit?” His voice reeked of cynicism.
“I was thinking something more practical. We offer a reward.”
"Are you crazy, Abigail?" he sputtered. "There is already money lost. This would toss more after it."
“The reward must be of sufficient value to tempt someone to claim it but not so great that they will question the mails true value to us and ask for more."
“How much?”
She considered that. “Suppose we leave that vague and just say—handsome reward?”
Martin laughed. “I might not be a detective, my dear lady, but I can see a flaw in your logic.”
“What?”
“How does this man bring in the mails without also facing the law? Only the robbers are going to know where that shipment is.”
She thought a moment. “We could ask for information on the recovery. No questions asked for information which leads to recovery.”
“Hmmmmm.” He smiled and rose to walk to her side, taking her hand before she'd realized his intent. "It’s possible it could work, I suppose."
She pulled away and sat again behind her desk. “It has to work, Martin because if it doesn’t, I think Father is right, we’re not only ruined in this town but with Wells Fargo. I don’t think they’ll like his taking on a separate insurance that way. Could you go down to the printers and have say... fifty posters made up."
"Of course, uh... I know this isn't the time to ask for an answer to my proposal, but it might reassure Jacob if he knew we had formed our alliance."
There was no easy way to say it. "No."
"No?" Martin frowned. "What do you mean no? If you think this is a bad time to ask you--"
"That's not it. I can't marry you, Martin."
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, you can."
Whatever she might have hoped, it was obvious now that love her or not, he was not going to take this well. This was about male ego. She tried anyway. "I'm not the right woman for you. I'm stubborn, can be truculent, as you well know. I don't have the feminine skills. We wouldn't suit."
He stroked his mustache, his gaze not leaving her eyes. "I shouldn’t have asked you again now. We can discuss this when things are calmer.” He managed a laugh. “First, I propose in a kitchen and now after a robbery. What can I be thinking?”
"My answer isn't going to change," Abigail said. "I hope we can be friends."
The expression on Martin's face hardened. "You know, Abigail, your chances, for making a more fitting alliance, are non-existent. You're not getting any younger and..."
She laughed. There was no way to restrain it. "I know, Martin. I know everything you're going to say, but don't you see that the wrong alliance would be worse than none."
He stared at her; then he stomped toward the door, anger in the tilt of his head. "I'll take care of the reward notices."
Abigail said nothing to stop him as she supposed he'd hoped. When he had gone, she remained sitting in the chair, not thinking of him or his proposal but instead of the plan she had set in motion. It might never work. He was doubtless right, but they had to do something.
The morning dawned with the hint of the heat to come in the intense redness of the desert sun. Abigail, wearing a simple white blouse and dark blue skirt, poured herself a cup of coffee as Serafina retrieved the milk from the pail on the back porch where it had been refilled by the milkman on his nightly rounds.
"Señorita es no uh good," Serafina observed, beating up a batter for pancakes.
"I didn't sleep well."
"Ah, me neither. Juanita, she sick. Mucho crying."
"How old is Juanita now?"
"Almost a year."
Even knowing that Serafina had her mother living with her to look after her children, Abigail considered how hard it must be for her to leave every day to work at the Spenser home, especially when her baby was not well.
"I don't know much about babies, but it seemed to me my mother dosed me with cod liver oil for just about everything. You must hate leaving your children."
Serafina shrugged her ample shoulders as she put a dab of lard into the hot pan. "It is the way."
"The way again." Abigail sighed, then looked at what Serafina was doing. "Don't fix me anything this morning."
"You must eat, señorita."
Abigail shook her head as she refilled her coffee cup. "Are you happy, Serafina?" She tried to remember the correct words in Spanish. “Feliz. Eres feliz?”
Serafina smiled at her effort and made one of her own. “Yes.”
"Life can be so complicated.” She had no idea what the word would be in Spanish and knew Serafina couldn’t possibly understand what she was trying to say.
"Señorita not happy?"
“I don’t know.” Abigail walked to the window. The birds were noisy and colorful as they seemed to be everywhere in the big tree that shaded the house. They chittered and jumped from branch to branch. They seemed happy, but was that an illusion like so much of life?
Abigail's father walked into the kitchen, slumping into a chair at the long table. He sipped the coffee that Serafina placed before him, not even bothering to grunt a thank you.
"How are you feeling, Father?"
"How do you think I'd feel? I'm a ruined man." He stared at his hands on the table. "Have you read the Star's version of this yet?"
"Well, they will write about it, of course. It’s news, but they won’t know about the complication for us.”
He shook his head. “I am simply put-- ruined."
To distract him from his pointless lamenting, Abigail said, "Martin is going to make reward posters. We will have them posted throughout southern Arizona. If the posse doesn’t find the mails, perhaps the posters will bring someone around with information."
