Grace of a Hawk Read online

Jean Luc appeared to be listening intently. He leaned forward over the table. “When did you last eat? May I offer you and your brother a meal?” Perceiving my immediate resistance, he hurried to say, “It is no trouble. I insist,” and at last I nodded, so far beyond weary I felt I may collapse over the shot glass and bust a tooth. But I could not relent to exhaustion, no matter how the booze smelted my bones. Malcolm needed food.

  Jean Luc turned to beckon to a woman two tables away, ordering in rapid French, “Isobel, chercher quelque repas pour ces hommes, tout de suite!”

  The woman nodded, expertly disengaging herself from the man who’d hooked an arm about her hips. Her curious gaze roamed over both Malcolm and me, but she disappeared without asking questions through a wide arch, trailed by complaints from the men at the table. The red-garter woman finished her dance, ending by throwing several kisses to the room. There was raucous applause and foot-stamping, and many pleas for her to stay even as she took her exit, but the man at the piano kept right on pounding the keys and the lively mood did not diminish. I realized suddenly that the lighting in the room was distorted because the lanterns’ inset glass panels were tinted with a strange mix of colors, from the deep green of pine boughs to a rich maple-gold. Nearer our table, there were two lanterns set with rippled vermilion glass, casting us in fire. If I let my imagination have free reign – and how many times had I scoffed and poked fun at Sawyer’s vivid imagination – I could almost believe Malcolm and I had stumbled into hell.

  This odd thought caught hold of me and I felt a distinct stab of misgiving. Kristian Hagebak’s pronouncement about ill luck had troubled me greatly as the boy and I continued our journey, and sitting in this saloon, far removed from everyone I loved save Malcolm, I was uneasy to the point of discomfort. My gut ached with anxiety and the scarlet-tinted glow only exaggerated this bad feeling. My eyes felt grainy. Jean Luc, whose bearded face flickered in odd patterns of light and shadow, seemed at once an image from the Carter family bible that Mama had kept tucked in a drawer and which noted all the family births, marriages, and deaths – the one lost in a fire during my absence in the War. It had contained elaborate illustration plates, one of which portrayed the devil. The Frenchman sitting across from me bore no small resemblance.

  Jesus Christ, I thought, with a cold shiver. You’s got better sense than that. He’s offered a meal, which Malcolm needs. Stop actin’ like a superstitious old woman. You’s as bad as Granny Rose, God rest her dear soul.

  Malcolm leaned nearer to me and muttered desperately, “Boyd, I gotta make water.”

  This matter-of-fact statement blessedly restored my senses. I nodded, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. “C’mon, I seen a necessary on the way.” To Jean Luc, I added, “We’ll be back directly.”

  When the boy and I returned, two plates had been set for us, each containing a slab of sliced beef, calico beans, and a thick square of cornbread, dripping with golden butter. My stomach lurched with a keen, all-consuming urge to tear into that food like a wolverine in snowmelt; Malcolm’s stomach too, from the look of him. Jean Luc leaned on one elbow, still seated at the table and with the woman named Isobel perched on his knee, the two deep in conversation. I was heartened that the strangeness I’d felt only minutes ago, the sense of entering into hell, had faded like a bad dream upon waking.

  At our appearance Isobel stood. “Gentlemen, please make yourselves comfortable.” She also spoke with a French note to her words, not as pronounced as Jean Luc’s. Her eyes were a brown so dark as to appear black; quick and attentive was her expression. Her teeth were small and crooked, her chin pointy as a rake tine. She reminded me of a small critter one would find in a barn, a peculiar little thing that would watch from a distance, missing nothing. Heavy black hair was twisted atop her head; it seemed the weight of it would bow the stalk of her neck.

  “We are indebted. Thank you kindly,” I said again, and my hand trembled as I reached for the fork placed near my plate, I could not quell it; my hunger was potent.

  Malcolm let his hat dangle down his back and proceeded to shovel food directly into his mouth with his fingers until I kicked his ankle beneath the table.

  “It is not often we are visited by a boy so young,” Isobel said, positioning between mine and Malcolm’s chairs, curling her palms around the top curve of each. Her quick-moving eyes came to rest on me as she noted, “You are looking for work, monsieur, Jean Luc has told me.”

  Mouth full, I nodded. She smelled of an oil I could not identify, not unpleasant, but strong. I felt I might sneeze, and pinched the bridge of my nose.

  Jean Luc, who seemed incapable of not smiling, a trait I found repugnant even as I sat shamelessly eating his food, said, “These gentlemen are our guests for the evening, Isobel. I adore, do I not, the unexpected, quelque chose d’interessant?”

  Isobel let her thumb trail lightly along the back of my neck, up and down. “Oui, this is true.” Her caress provoked an unwelcome shudder along my spine but I stilled it, refusing to allow a woman’s touch to upset me; I wasn’t that far gone, for Christ’s sake.

  “Isobel, may I introduce Boyd Carter and his petit frère, Malcolm. And gentlemen, this femme charmante is Isobel Faucon. She will entertain you in my absence. Please eat well, enjoy our many comforts,” and he winked again at Malcolm before rising and addressing those at a nearby table. The Dolly Belle was packed tight as a jam jar with customers, and Jean Luc ingratiated himself amongst them.

  Isobel claimed his abandoned seat, straight into my line of view. Her watchful eyes flickered between us as we ate and I wanted to ask her to stop the nervous drumming of her fingers atop the table, but would not be so impolite. She surprised me by asking, “How did you learn there was work to be had, here at The Belle?”

  I indicated in the general direction of The Steam House. Once I’d swallowed, I explained, “Yonder gal let me know. Said her friend used to work here but had since left.” I did not mention the bastard with the musket-ball scar, the one the skinny girl had called Bill. God and good graces willing, Bill would continue his drinking next door and not set foot in this saloon tonight.

  Isobel studied me without blinking; her pale face was fixed in its lines, as though carved from smooth white wood. I withstood her gaze even as I wondered at it; surely Malcolm and I weren’t so strange. She seemed to be attempting to read my thoughts, or perhaps make sense of her own. Finally she spoke. “I believe I have an answer for you, Monsieur Carter, concerning the matter of work.”

  I looked hard at her, searching for deceit, but sensed she was being straight with me. “How’s that?”

  “Grady Ballard was here only this morning, offering cash money for able-bodied men to accompany him into the Territories,” she said, and her tone grew unmistakably suggestive. “You look to be more than able-bodied, Monsieur Carter.”

  “West?” I repeated, ignoring her saucy gaze. The Territories, she’d said.

  Isobel nodded and dropped the lewd expression, adopting an aloof air. “You would have to speak to Grady yourself, but as he and Virgil frequent The Belle when in town, they may reappear this evening.” I did not believe I was mistaking the sudden note of expectation in her voice; I watched her sharp-eyed gaze pin the swinging doors as she said, “I do not believe they have yet departed but I will ask Mary for you.” She nodded towards a lanky woman a few tables away, and a titch of envy colored her voice as she added, “Grady dotes upon Mary. She will know his whereabouts.”

  Isobel rose and edged through the crowd, while Malcolm asked with outright concern knitting his brows, “West?”

  “Let’s just talk to the man,” I said, the words cash money thundering in my skull.

  Isobel returned with the tall, leggy woman she’d named as Mary trailing a few steps behind her. A third woman, plump and pretty, with an enticing line of cleavage that caused Malcolm’s lips to drop open, earning him a second kick, proceeded to surround our table.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Miss Mary and Miss Cecilia,” Isobe
l said, with ironic formality.

  “Ladies,” I acknowledged, tugging my hat brim.

  Isobel announced, “This is Boyd Carter and his brother, Malcolm.”

  “He is un petit chéri!” cried Cecilia, closing in and ruffling Malcolm’s curls, twirling one about her index finger. I refrained from rolling my eyes, even as my brother could not help but grin and shiver at this unexpected female attention. Cecilia’s knowing gaze next came to rest on me, her eyelids lowering; she angled her breasts in my direction.

  I looked pointedly at Mary. “What do you know of this fella Grady?”

  Mary leaned one thigh against the table and jutted her hips my way, but answered forthrightly. “I’m expecting him this evening. You wish to speak with him?” Her voice was low and curt, no trace of a flowing French accent like the other women. She sounded like a Yankee, but I appreciated the lack of simpering.

  “I do, indeed. I’m looking for work. Would you be so kind as to point him my way, when he arrives?”

  Mary nodded, smoothing both wrists along her corseted waist. “Late as it is in the season, he’s driving cattle west into the Territories. He’s half-crazy.” But she spoke with plain affection. “They need another hand, unless he or Virgil was lucky this day. What experience do you have with cattle, mister?”

  “None,” I admitted. “But I’ve a fine hand with horses.”

  “Well, you’re a sturdy-looking feller, Mr. Carter,” Mary said, and a half-smile unbalanced her wide mouth. “If you can ride a horse, Grady would consider you, I’m certain.”

  Cecilia sidled around the table, her breasts leading the way as would the cutwater of a ship. From behind my chair, she glided her fingernails along my upper arms and murmured, “A fine hand, indeed, non?”

  All three women laughed at this playing. Malcolm, well fed after days without, appeared restored, hiding a giggle behind his cupped hand. His eyes were merry and hardly a crumb remained on his plate. Cecilia, obviously encouraged, continued smoothing her palms over my shoulders, resting her generous bosom against the nape of my neck. I reflected that once I would have felt nothing but the thrill of what was to come – but not tonight.

  “Cook baked a crumble with the last of the gooseberries, just this past afternoon,” Mary said, eyeing Malcolm’s clean plate; the boy lit like a firecracker and she winked at him. “Perhaps there’s a piece left. Izzy, won’t you go and see?”

  Isobel heaved a small sigh, put-upon, but obeyed nonetheless, and Mary produced a deck of playing cards from a silk pocket attached to the waist of her dress, the deck tied neatly with a bit of white ribbon; I’d spent many an hour as a solider losing my pittance pay to fellow recruits with just such a deck of cards, emblazoned with selfsame blue eagle and printed with the manufacturer’s name, L.I. Cohen. Mary dropped to a chair catty-corner to Malcolm, unselfconsciously hiking her skirts to situate herself, crossing her long legs and asking him, “How’s your hand at five-card stud, young feller?”

  Malcolm sat straighter, setting aside his plate. He said, with enthusiasm, “Fair enough!” and Mary grinned, shuffling her deck.

  Cecilia bent and wrapped her arms around my upper body; she smelled of the same oil as had Isobel, strong enough to make my nostrils prickle. She put her mouth to my ear and whispered, “You are lonely, bel homme, are you not?”

  Likely she said the same to all men passing through this place, and likely nine of ten was lonely; it wasn’t exactly a tough bet.

  “I ain’t,” I muttered, but it was an outright lie. I tilted the shot glass in the glow cast by the lanterns, watching the ruby light gleam along the single drop left in the bottom. I studied the sight as though mesmerized.

  Cecilia continued her persistent ministrations, moving her hands down my front side. When she reached my belly, I took her wrists gently into my grip and eased her away with as little fuss as I could manage. She was undeterred, wedging her hips between the tabletop and my lap, claiming a spot there before I could stop her. She latched her wrists about my neck and forced my regard, blocking out all other sights with her generous curves.

  “Let me help you forget your loneliness, monsieur,” she implored, pressing close.

  Desperate to cast aside my longing for Rebecca, I settled my hands about Cecilia’s ample waist. She smiled coyly and murmured, “Oui, this is more like it.”

  “Boyd’s in love with a woman named Mrs. Rebecca,” Malcolm chirped with his usual earnestness, somewhere beyond Cecilia; I could not see past the woman. I gritted my teeth at his willingness to announce his opinion before strangers.

  “Mrs. Rebecca?” repeated Mary, guffawing, and I hated hearing her speak Rebecca’s name in such a mocking tone. She carried on, “Ain’t that a bit of a concern to her husband?”

  Cecilia was angled so that her palm was not visible to the others; she firmly stroked my lap, lowering her lashes. She murmured, “Viens avec moi,” and though I did not understand the words, the meaning was clear enough; my body responded to this touching and her smile grew ever lewd. My refusal would embarrass her, but that could not be helped; I had no intention of accompanying her upstairs and exhaled with relief when a sudden raucous voice lifted above the crowd, a man demanding, “Where’s my sweet Virgin Mary?”

  Cecilia disengaged her immediate attention from me. Mary, cards arrayed in her hands as she leaned on her elbows, directed a welcoming smile at the man approaching through the crowd, a man of height but lean as a strip of jerky, clad in buckskin leggings, much worn. He doffed his low-crowned hat, revealing dirty yellow hair and ragged side-whiskers, a sunbaked face perhaps of an age with myself. That face split with a grin as Mary lazily placed her cards facedown and stood to hook her arms about his neck. Malcolm watched this exchange with wide-eyed fascination.

  The piano music was so loud I could not hear the murmured words between Mary and this yellow-haired man, but Mary turned shortly in my direction and spoke to Cecilia, ordering, “Give Mr. Carter a bit of air. I’d like him to meet Grady.”

  “You’re in need of work?” he asked eagerly, stepping around the table. His brows were furry as autumn caterpillars, yellow and tufted as his hair, above eyes pale enough to resemble water in a glass. He said to Cecilia, “You can soak his willy later, girl, I need to talk business.”

  “I do thank you for the offer, ma’am,” I told Cecilia, who rose with an impatient jerk of her skirts; her cheeks bore an angry red flush as she swept away.

  “Grady Ballard, born in Texas, raised in Kansas,” he said amiably, sliding into a chair. “My Mary tells me you’re handy with horses.”

  “That I am,” I said, feeling as though I’d plunged into the river that flowed only a short descent from The Dolly Belle – plunged and then swept against my will. I cleared the husk from my voice. “Boyd Carter, late of Tennessee.”

  Grady said, “I coulda guessed. I knew I heard that liquid in your voice.”

  Before he could speak another word I wanted to make one thing clear. “I ain’t ashamed of where I was born and brought up, I’ll have you know.”

  Grady’s forehead wrinkled. “Somebody give you guff?”

  “Near had me a run-in with a scarred-up fella in The Steam House,” I admitted. “The girl there called him ‘Bill.’”

  “Bill Little,” Grady confirmed, tipping his chair on its back legs as he nodded. “I know him. He served under Grant. Nowadays he’s paid to skin buffalo.”

  “He a friend of yours?” I kept my tone neutral.

  “He ain’t.” Grady sounded sincere. “I know him for a jackdaw. Him and his brothers roam the Territory to hunt and trap, see, but they’re opportunists. They’re clannish, too. I don’t like accusing a man when I’ve only heard tales and such, but the Littles take money where they can get it, you take my meaning?”

  I nodded that yes, I sure as hell did. I shifted enough to gain a better view of the entrance so that my back was not the first thing a man intending harm would see upon entering The Dolly Belle.

  Grady set
tled his chair to all four legs and said in a different tone, “Well, listen, Tennessee, I’m short a wrangler. I’m headed out at sunrise whether I have a man or not, but I’d rather have him. We got some two hundred head of young heifer and steer in addition to a couple bull calves to drive, which ain’t a big herd, but if I don’t get them to Royal Lawson’s ranch by mid-October, I don’t get paid. We’ve been delayed since the death of Dyer Lawson, my employer’s brother, and it’s a late run to make, but I ain’t worried. I run late before. What do you say? You willing to manage the remuda?”

  “Hold up,” I said. My ears were near to ringing and I was unfamiliar with the last word he’d used. Before he went carrying on again, I told him, “I ain’t bringing the boy through any territory that ain’t safe. I got me my brother to care for.”

  “You want territory that ain’t safe, I’ll march you straight down Texas way. Shee-it. Them Comancheros in the hills are the most vicious bunch you’ll ever meet, I goddamn guar-an-tee.” He drew the word into three distinct parts, reclining comfortably in his chair and accepting a glass of bourbon from Mary, with a grin at her. He patted her backside and continued, “Since the treaty-signing at Fort Laramie this past spring there ain’t been as much trouble in these here parts. The Sioux got their sacred land in the western Dakotas and more land since opened up to white settlers, including my current employer, Royal Lawson. Them trade and stock routes are safe enough, I figure. I’ve never had trouble along them, and I’ve traveled a-plenty.”

  “How long until we’s back this way?” I asked. “What’s the pay?”

  Grady tossed back his shot and swiped his mouth with a thumb. “I can offer you fifteen dollars now, and fifteen upon delivery, plus your grub. We’ll return this way once the cattle are safely delivered to Lawson, putting us back in St. Paul roughly the end of October, unless the snow comes early. In that case, we’ll winter at Lawson’s, but I don’t relish the idea of being in such cramped quarters for them months. The old-timers are saying we got a cold winter ahead, even after the swelter of July in these parts – hottest July on record in Minnesota they say – but my hope is to avoid the snow. Lawson’s spread is a few dozen miles past the Missouri River in southern Dakota Territory, some four hundred and fifty miles from where we sit tonight. Alone, I could ride me the same just shy of ten days. With the herd and the wagon, we make anywhere between fifteen to twenty miles a day, so a solid month, give or take.”