Behind His Blue Eyes Page 11

  “When an Indian takes hair, he takes scalp with it. The Chinaman only lost his pigtail.”

  Only? Apparently Doc didn’t know that a Chinaman’s queue, or pigtail, was a symbol of his national identity. To have it cut off was an affront that could easily lead to bloodshed. “So who do you think killed him?”

  Doc shrugged. “Maybe the same man who set the fire. Maybe another Chinaman. Hell if I know.”

  The Chinese had their own rules and ways of doing things. It wasn’t unheard of for rivalries between families to explode in violence. Last thing Ethan needed was a blood feud. “How are the others taking it?”

  “Not well.” Doc tied off the last strip of gauze and began repacking the box he’d brought his torture supplies in. “They’re demanding Sheriff Brodie find the man who took the pigtail so they can return it to the dead fellow’s family. Seem more concerned about losing the hair than losing the man. Strange folks.”

  “The man who killed him took it?”

  “Appears so.”

  “Then a Chinaman didn’t do it.” When one Chinaman cut off another Chinaman’s queue, it was about the insult, not about the hair. He would have no reason to keep the pigtail.

  So if it wasn’t an Indian or a Chinaman, then who was the killer?

  That evening, Ethan was staring at the ceiling, listening to his stomach beg for something other than a cup of unflavored soup—no wonder Doc stayed so lean—when Tait Rylander walked in, a bundle of clothing under one arm.

  Delighted for the company, Ethan grinned in welcome. “Bring any food?”

  “They’re not feeding you?”

  “Not enough. Those my clothes?” he asked when Tait dumped the bundle on a chair by the window.

  “Doc asked me to bring them. Said your others were ruined.”

  “Thanks. I heard about the Chinaman.”

  Tait dropped his hat on the foot of the bed, then leaned forward, arms straight, hands braced on the foot rail. His scarred knuckles rose like fresh bee stings. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

  Ethan knew him well enough now not to take that probing stare personally. The man was damned intense. “There’s news?”

  “There’s talk. Some think the killer might be one of the Chinese railroad workers. I’ve worked more with the Irish on the Eastern lines, so I’m not as familiar with the habits of the Chinese. Do you think one of them did it?”

  “No, I don’t.” Ethan gave his reasons, adding, “I think the killer is more likely someone who resents the Chinese, and when he caught one alone, saw it as his chance to rid the world of another yellow devil. Sad to say, it happens.”

  “Someone local?”

  “Seen any strangers around lately?”

  Tait shook his head. “Nor have I noticed any problems between the whites and Chinese. They usually stay out of each other’s way. And anyway, it’s not like they’re taking away jobs from the townspeople. Every able-bodied local who wants to work is already on the sluice.”

  “Then what about another railroad?” Ethan suggested. “If this bridge line gets built, it will bring in a fortune over time.”

  Pushing off the foot rail, Tait walked over to the window, nudged aside the curtain, and looked out. After a moment, he let the curtain drop, and turned. “You could be right. Brodie said a local prospector named Weems saw a surveyor with the Southern Utah and Atlantic near the other end of the canyon last month.”

  “You think a competitor did it, hoping to scare off our Chinese laborers?”

  “It worked near San Francisco last year.”

  Ethan remembered. What had started as sabotage had ended in a bloody railroad war, the Chinese getting the worst of it. “How are our workers taking it?”

  “There’s definitely some unrest. Nothing overt yet.”

  “Then we’d best get them busy laying tracks.”

  Tait looked surprised. “You’ve gotten Miss Pearsall’s signature?”

  “Not yet. But we don’t need it.” Ethan explained how they could avoid her property by looping to the other side of the ravine. “It’ll cost more, and we’ll have to make sure the curves aren’t too sharp. But it’s doable.” Although now that the cabin was gone, why would Audra not want to sell the right-of-way?

  “By the way,” he added casually, “have you seen her since the fire?”

  “Miss Pearsall? Several times. She and Lucinda and Edwina handled the evacuation to the church. They’re still there, even though folks are starting to straggle back to town now that it looks like the fire is burning itself out.”

  “She say anything?”

  Tait raised his brows in innocence. “About the right-of-way?” Then seeing Ethan’s expression, he laughed. It sounded odd, coming from a man so reserved. “She was worried. We all were. If I had known you were injured, I would have sent you back earlier.”

  “Sent me? You’re in charge of me, now, Pa?” Even though Tait was probably no more than seven or eight years older than Ethan’s twenty-seven, Ethan owed him for tweaking him about Audra.

  Tait let it ride. “Doc says you can leave tomorrow. If you do, find me in the dining room at the hotel. We can discuss that alternate route.”

  “Maybe Brodie can join us. I’d like to hear more about that prospector, Weems, and the surveyor he saw.”

  Eleven

  That night, sleep didn’t come.

  But Eunice did. Drifting in and out of his thoughts, filling him with longing and horror and that vague sense of shame he had often felt when he was around her.

  He had been at the hospital at Salty Point less than a month when he made love to her for the first time. It was late. All the workers had left and he was standing in the dark in the new addition. The glass wasn’t in place yet. Only a skeletal timber framework stood between him and the sea. Wind tore at his hair, his shirt. A bright moon left a silvery slash across the heaving swells a hundred feet below and the muffled sound of waves breaking against the rocks was as steady as his own heartbeat.

  “Ethan.”

  Startled, he turned to see her standing a foot behind him. She wore nightclothes. Her untied robe whipped in the wind, billowing out behind her like unfurled wings, and the thin fabric of her gown clung to her lush form. She was even more beautiful than the woman who had haunted his dreams since the day he’d seen her on the bluff.

  He drew in air, smelled her perfume, felt the hot rush of blood through his body. “What are you doing out here?”

  Reaching out, she laid her palm on his chest.

  He wondered if she could feel the drumming of his heart.

  By her smile, she did. “Looking for you.”

  It was all the invitation he needed. Pulling her closer, he lowered his head.

  She slapped him. Playfully. But there was still sting in it.

  Surprised, he lifted his head.

  Now her hand soothed, fingertips circling his cheek. “No kissing on the lips. That’s how disease is spread.”

  He chuckled. “Then the world is doomed.” He brought his head down again.

  She slapped him. Harder. “I said no kissing, Ethan.”

  Confused, he released her. “Don’t do that.”

  “Did I hurt you?” She smiled. “Relax. You’ll get used to it.” As she spoke, she raked her pointed nails down his chest. Gently. Turning the sting into a shiver of desire. “Take off your shirt. I want to see you. Touch you.”

  He looked around. “But—”

  “Now, Ethan.” Her nails dug in so hard he flinched. “I want to feel you inside me. Take off your shirt.”

  He took off his shirt.

  That’s how it began. She was cold passion and a fire in his belly. She found that forbidden place in every man’s mind that hovered below thought, where pain and ecstasy dissolved into exquisite sensation and obsession corrupted the soul.
/>
  He never got used to it. But he allowed it. Because he sensed her need to be in control of them—of him—and because he had convinced himself that he loved her.

  * * *

  When he awoke the next morning, it was to the distant sound of a rooster crowing, a ravenous appetite, and the welcome sight of Miss Audra Pearsall sitting on the chair beside his bed, reading. He took a deep breath and let it out, releasing the tormented memories with it. “Spectacles,” he said, yawning. “I knew it.”

  She startled, turned her head and looked at him.

  Today her eyes seemed more brown than green—no doubt because of the drab brown dress she wore—and they looked even bigger through the lenses. Every dark lash stood out like a fine pen stroke. Beneath the lingering scent of wood smoke, he caught a drift of scented soap. Something flowery. Roses, maybe. He could tell by the smudges beneath her eyes and the weary slope of her shoulders that she was tired.

  Still, she might have dredged up a smile.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Better.”

  And a bit embarrassed to be caught wearing only his small clothes beneath the sheet, especially when she looked as prim as a preacher’s daughter. “You’re up early.” By the slant of light coming through the window, he figured it couldn’t be much past dawn.

  “Mr. Rylander said Doctor Boyce was releasing you today. I wanted to speak to you before you returned to the hotel.” After a moment of awkward silence, she added, “I’m very pleased to see you so much improved.”

  She didn’t look pleased. In fact, she looked like she would rather be anywhere but here with him. “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “A while. I came in the back so I wouldn’t disturb the doctor and his wife.”

  Another awkward silence. He wondered what had driven her back behind her shield of reserve. Only a few evenings ago, they had chatted amicably. She had even laughed with him. Now she was as distant as she had ever been. “You needed to speak to me?” he prodded.

  “Yes. I have a question.”

  He watched her carefully close the book and set it on the night table, remove her spectacles and place them atop the book. She turned toward him, and in doing so, her foot tipped over the waste bin between the chair and the bed. She righted it, then hesitated. “What’s that?” she asked, bending to peer intently at the torn strips of soot-stained cloth. “Is that my . . . chemise?”

  Hearing the word spoken in her voice sent images flashing through his mind. Arousing images. More arousing than those that had plagued him through the night. “I doubt Winnie could fit into it.”

  She snapped upright. “What are you doing with it?”

  “I used it to wrap my hands. I’ll buy you another. Something green to match your eyes.”

  She jumped to her feet and began to pace at the foot of the bed.

  A strong reaction to a torn chemise. Yet she hadn’t corrected him about the color of her eyes, or chastised him for his boldness.

  Something was wrong. He could see it in the tight line of her mouth and the stiffness of her back. He was beginning to know all her signals, what each tiny mannerism and expression meant. Odd, how quickly that had happened. And what he was reading now was that she was angry. With him, it seemed. He had no idea why, so he tossed out a line. “You’re upset.”

  She shot him one of those sarcastic eye rolls that women do so well, made two more loops, then stopped beside the window, gripping her hands tightly at her waist. “As I said, I have a question. Your answer is of utmost importance, so please do not prevaricate.”

  Prevaricate? About what? “Okay,” he said warily.

  “I abhor confrontation,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “And I’ve fretted endlessly about how to put this. I think it best to simply come out with it.” She took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Did you set fire to my cabin?”

  The words were slow to penetrate. When they did, he still couldn’t accept that she’d said them, or that he had heard them correctly. “What did you ask me?”

  “Did you set fire to my cabin?”

  Emotion slammed through him—astonishment, outrage, disbelief. It was a moment before he could regain his balance. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Curtis told me you were already at the cabin when he arrived. Why?”

  “I was checking on it, as I told you I would.”

  She began pacing again. “He also said someone had doused the mattresses with lamp oil before setting them on fire.”

  “They had.”

  “And yet you were still able to remove our belongings from the bedroom despite two burning mattresses. How did you manage that?”

  “With difficulty.” Every word out of her mouth sent his outrage soaring higher. Did she actually believe what she was saying? What had he done to warrant such distrust? “But do ask Curtis,” he ground out. “Apparently I’m already condemned in your eyes. Perhaps you’ll believe him.”

  She seemed to falter, then collected herself. Moving to the foot of the bed, she stared intently into his eyes. “And if the fire was deliberately set, and I was the target, who would gain most if I was forced to move elsewhere?”

  “I would. Assuming you were the target and gain was the motive. Hell, Audra! Look out there!” He waved a bandaged hand toward the window. “Do you actually think all that destruction is because of some piddling right-of-way?”

  “No—yes.” Her rigid composure cracked. “Just tell me you didn’t do it, Ethan. That’s all I need to know.”

  Anger boiled over. “Why would I set fire to your home, Audra? To what purpose? Just to injure myself trying to put it out? Does that make sense to you?”

  Her face twisted. He saw her chin quiver and knew what was coming. “No! Don’t you dare cry. You can’t come in here with these wild accusations and think tears will absolve you. You’ll tell me why you think me capable of such an act. Especially against you!”

  “I didn’t want to believe it. But what other explanation—”

  The door flew open. Curtis stood in the opening, his face frantic. “Miss Audra, you gotta come! Mistuh Percy run off and we can’t find him.”

  * * *

  Ethan was sitting on the edge of the bed tearing at the wrappings with his teeth when Doc rushed in, wearing a nightshirt, his white hair in wild disarray. “What was all the yelling about?”

  “Miss Pearsall thinks I started the fire.”

  “Did you?”

  “Hell, no.” He held up his bandaged hands. “Can you help me here? I need the splints off so I can dress.”

  Grumbling, Doc grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer. “First good night’s sleep I’ve had in three days. Who was that running through the house?”

  “The African who works for her. Said her father had wandered off.”

  “Man can’t take a stroll without permission?”

  “He’s suffering dementia.”

  Doc considered that as he cut through the wrappings. “How long?”

  “Long enough. But she won’t put him in an institution.”

  “Good for her.”

  As soon as Doc removed the splints, Ethan shoved past him to get the clean clothing Tait had left on the chair by the window. “If you see an elderly fellow with gray hair and a bald spot on top, and a little dog that barks all the time, send word to the hotel.” He was able to pull on the shirt and trousers, but couldn’t manage the buttons. Frustrated, he turned again to the doctor for help.

  “You keep those bandages clean.” Doc finished buttoning, then helped him into the jacket Tait had brought. “Wear gloves if you have them. Drink lots of water and come by tomorrow so I can check those blisters. You’ll find your boots on the porch. I don’t think you had a hat.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Ethan rushed into the hall. “I’ll settle my charges later.”r />
  “Cash. I’ve got enough chickens.”

  Ethan went straight to the paddock and shed behind the infirmary. Renny greeted him with a nicker—probably hungry, too—but Ethan didn’t have time to stop. Opening the shed door, he saw his tack, and went inside.

  Not knowing where his search would take him, and figuring Audra’s father couldn’t have gotten far, he decided not to take the time to saddle Renny, even if he could have managed it with his bandaged hands. But he did want his canteen. After retrieving his gun belt, pistol, the canteen, and a pair of gloves from his saddlebag, he gave Renny a pat, and set out on foot.

  It felt good to be up and moving again, even though he was aware of a faint, lingering weakness. Probably lack of real food. The smoke was gone, although the smell of it lingered in the air, and other than a puffy cloud bank hanging over the peaks to the west, the sky was clear.

  It was still early enough that there wasn’t a lot of activity along Main, except for shop owners sweeping the boardwalks in front of their stores and scrubbing soot and ash from their doors and windows. At the end of the street, scorched trees stood over what remained of the small Chinese camp, and higher in the canyon, wisps of smoke curled lazily into the morning sky.

  He stopped at the hotel to fill up his canteen and see if they had found Mr. Pearsall. Yancey said no, and that the dog was missing, too. “Miss Audra and Curtis are checking in town. Sheriff went up toward the mine, and Tait and Miss Lucinda took her buggy out toward Mulberry Creek.”

  “Then I’ll head up the left fork into the burned area.”

  At the mouth of the canyon many of the pines were green on top, even though their trunks were burned black. Still usable if they were harvested before rot set in. He’d seen lumber milled from scorched wood, and a lot of it showed dark streaks in the grain that gave it a faint blue tint. Not unattractive. He wouldn’t mind having it in his own house someday.

  The deeper into the ruined forest he hiked, the worse the devastation became. A stark, ash-powdered landscape, dotted with tall, skeletal trees. He stopped often to drink from the canteen and look around, but heard nothing and saw no movement other than swirls of ash when the breeze swept by. Footprints crisscrossed the track. Too many to count. Probably left by the men fighting the fire. Occasionally, he saw the charred carcass of some poor woodland creature that had perished in the flames.