“Avery,” I said under my breath, my tone sharper than I would have liked.
Finally he looked at me, caught off-guard. He blinked a few times. “Pardon?”
“I said, I think that Martha will be fine.”
“Oh, good,” he said. If the sun’s glare hadn’t washed out his face just so, he might have been blushing.
I really wanted to say something, something that put him on the spot, just to witness his reaction. But besides being unladylike, I wouldn’t have been a very good friend. I took in a deep breath, rubbed at the knot that was forming in my shoulder, and decided to ignore it all. It was quite ridiculous, at any rate, that I would ever have a chance at Avery courting me. To just be friends with a half-breed was already scandalous enough.
We both went back to working in a silence that was strangely awkward, making the hot air seem thicker than it was, a soup of sweat and dust. It was only by the time we’d started moving around some hay bales up in the loft to make room for the meager harvest at the end of the month, that he asked if I wanted to go over some of the French he’d been teaching me.
With Avery’s help over the last few years, I had learned everything there was to know about history, not just in America, but worldwide; I’d learned proper grammar and penmanship; I’d improved on my mathematic skills and even learned a bit about science. The last thing there really was to learn (at least from Avery) was French. Avery only knew the rudimentary basics, having learned it from his Louisiana grandmother when he was young. I figured French wouldn’t help me here in Washoe or the Utah Territory, but there wouldn’t be harm in it, either.
Twenty minutes later, the hay had been restacked, and Avery and I were sitting on top of a scratchy bale and enjoying the late afternoon breeze while going over nouns. I loved that his full attention was on me as I grappled with pronunciation, even though I sounded quite stupid half the time. Perhaps I was nervous because his eyes were often centered on my lips, which naturally made me think about kissing him, to wonder what it would be like. I didn’t even have anything to compare it to.
“Believe me, you’re a natural at this,” he said to me as I messed up a few more times. “It’s a right shame that your father never taught you your native language before he died.”
I looked down at my hands and brushed the hay from my plain brown dress. Pa had taught me some things, but it seemed the moment he left, everything I knew and understood was whisked away with him.
“I’m sorry, Eve,” Avery said quickly. “I meant before he disappeared. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s okay.” I forced a smile and met his clear blue eyes. “What’s past is past. The language would be no use to me now that he’s gone. I’m quite content with English.”
“Et Français, aussi,” he said.
“Oui.”
He patted me on the hand and a delectable current brushed up my arm, making my heart swell. Oh, he had to know the effect he had on me. As inappropriate as it was, I wondered what it would be like if I kissed him. I feared I was bull-headed enough to do it.
But before I could dwell on it any further, my thoughts were broken up by the rhythmic thump of hoofbeats outside the hayloft, maybe four or five of them traveling in a group. I closed my eyes and concentrated, breathing in deep. I could smell the horses and the smell of steel and leather and sweat. There was something almost foreign about the smell, making me think that the horses and their riders weren’t from around here. After all, the River Bend settlement only had about thirty townsfolk, even with the California gold rush still drawing in pioneers and prospectors.
Avery heard it too, and we got up, edging over to the open side. From up here we could see the road clearly, and a group of five men on horseback, heavily loaded, with packs and guns strapped to their mounts. Their hats were drawn down over their eyes, casting them in shadows and they rode like they owned the ground in front of them.
One of the men was plump like a pregnant sow, another skinny as a birch tree. One was an elderly man with a long grey beard, another was scar-faced and suspicious with a wicked glint to his mouth. The fifth man at the back of the party was built like an ox, with broad shoulders that were rivaled only by the massive brown steed he was riding on. While all the men were looking around with interest, the man at the back faced forward, his posture strong and straight. Then, as if he sensed us, he looked up and over his shoulder, straight at me and Avery.
I gasped and instinctively hid myself back into the shadows of the barn. Even then, the man’s dark eyes were still on mine, locked in like an eagle on a mouse. I quickly appraised his face: black arched brows and sharp cheekbones, slim nose, broad, masculine jaw, and a trimmed beard. If you asked someone to tell you what a “man” was, I was certain he’d be their description.
That was until his lip curled up in a snarl, directed right at me.
“Who the blazes are those men?” Avery asked, seemingly oblivious to the bearded man. Sometimes I forgot that my vision was better than most people’s. The man turned his attention back to the road, so all I could see was the back of his neck and the black handkerchief knotted behind it.
I carefully crept out into the light, and we watched as the men kept riding. Beyond Uncle Pat’s and the Millers’ farm on the opposite side of the road, there wasn’t much more to this end of River Bend.
I breathed out a queer sigh of relief, believing them to be on their way. “I guess they’re just passing through,” I said to Avery. “Looks like they’re well packed, they’re most likely heading across the pass to Sacramento.”
“Looks like,” he agreed. “They better hurry if they want to beat the snow.” But as soon as he said that, the skinny man at the front of the group slowed his horse and raised his hand. They all came to a stop in the middle of the road.
“What are they doing?” Avery asked.
I shushed him, not caring if it was rude, and tried to listen.
“Well, I reckon this here be the end of the road,” the skinny man said. I tried to place his accent. Sounded like just another man from Missouri.
He nodded at Uncle Pat’s and at the Miller’s small farmhouse. “And I reckon one of these here houses oughta be the one we’re looking for.” He looked to Mr. Scar Face and Mr. Grey Beard. “Hank, Tim, you take this one here.” He shrugged in the direction of Uncle Pat’s. “Rest of us, we’ll take this purdy house over there.”
“I’d like to take this one,” the snarly man said, his head tilted ever so slightly toward Uncle Pat’s. I sucked in my breath, so certain that he was going to turn around and look at me again.
The thin man shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The party split into two groups, with this Hank, Tim, and Snarly heading right toward Uncle Pat’s—my—front door.
Avery quickly turned around, trying to look calm and in control, but I could see the tension in his temples and hear the quiver in his voice as he said, “I better go see what these men want. I certainly don’t want any trouble, and your uncle’s still out with Ned. You wait here and stay safe.”
Any other girl would have done as they were told. But besides the fact that I wasn’t like any other girl, I wanted to make sure Rose and my aunt June were okay, as well as my mother, who, thanks to her condition, rarely left her small room upstairs. If these men were up to no good, Avery couldn’t handle himself and protect the women at the same time. He was strong and a good shot, but he’d never been truly tested before.
Avery climbed halfway down the ladder and jumped the rest of the way, running stealthily through the pigs and dairy cows before going in through the pantry’s screen door. I followed behind, hiking up my dress so my boots wouldn’t trip on it, and moved quickly. I got to the screen door just as I heard June and Rose from inside, asking Avery what was wrong, their voices bewildered.