“You be careful, Russell Overton.” Gabe enunciated each word very clearly. “Be very careful what you say about her.”
“Gabe, for God’s sake, listen. Remember that claim in the hills? And the boy? The Browne boy?”
What does that have to do with the price of tea leaves on a Chinoise whore’s boat? “Russ, for God’s sake—”
“Robert Barrowe-Browne. That’s how he signed the register at Ma Haines’s boardinghouse. Barrowe. And the other day, when I took her to the schoolhouse? Blood, Gabe. She’s his blood.” Russ drew in a deep breath, and his paleness was more marked. “I divined all goddamn night after riding the goddamn circuit, trying to find the connection. She’s his sister.”
The world spun out from underneath him. That was the familiarity—she had the same way of tossing her head, and the same high cheekbones. In her eyes, too—big dark eyes, similar to Robbie Browne’s and thickly lashed. Why hadn’t he seen the resemblance?
You weren’t looking for it.
“It don’t make sense,” he found himself saying. “What the hell…”
“Maybe he wrote home that he had a sweet claim and then disappeared. We just assumed he had no kin; Ma Hainey never heard him speak of none and neither did any of the whores, right? And Browne ain’t a name you would remember. He just slid by, and probably what he woke up helped with that. So here comes sister dear, looking for him.”
He thought it over, alcohol and sleeplessness fogging him. “But she’s from money, Russ. Why wouldn’t they just hire someone? One of the Pinks, or a Federal Marshal?”
“Who knows? I just know she’s his blood. And she’s here under that name—Barrowe. What if she knows where that goddamn claim is, Gabe? What if he wrote to her? What if he was supposed to meet her here?” Russ threw his hat on the bar and scrubbed his hands over his scalp again. “What are we gonna do?”
Gabe stared at the bottle on the counter. He’d taken down far too much amber alcohol masquerading as whiskey to be entirely sure of his own ability to deal with what the chartermage was telling him.
“Do?” He sounded strange even to himself. “You’re sure, Russ? You’d better be damn sure of what you’re telling me.”
“We have time, right?” The chartermage actually looked anxious. “She ain’t been out to that claim yet, has she? Has she?”
“She ain’t had a chance.” I’d stake my life on it. Funny, but he would, and he was about to. “Things in town been keeping her busy. Russ, you’re sure? They’re blood, that boy and my Catherine?” He didn’t even care if he was showing too many cards; it slipped out. My Catherine.
Even if she hated him.
“I went back to Salt’s and looked in that cabinet in back. There was the boy’s charing-charm, looks just like hers; I put it in my pocket, Gabe. Figured it was safest, what with you riding out to check the claim.” For some reason, Russ turned even paler—some trick, with someone of his ancestry. “It lit up like a goddamn Yule tree. When I had enough time to concentrate, and handed her down from the wagon, mind.”
That had better be all you handed down, Overton. “I see.” He stared at the bottle. The liquid inside was trembling, for some reason. Little circles on its surface. “The claim was open. I sealed it up again, but…”
Russ swore, vilely, and Jack heartily agreed. He scrubbed at his face, stubble and dust scraping under callused skin, and the thought of just crawling under the bar and getting real good and drunk was tempting.
“All right.” He dropped his hands. “All right. Let’s go have a talk with her. May be time to tell her just what happened to her brother.”
“You mean, that you killed him?” The chartermage’s hands wrung together. He was probably completely unaware of the motion.
Jack took a firm hold on his temper. “He was dead the minute he set foot in that claim, Russ.” But I don’t think she’ll understand that.
Maybe it’s best if she doesn’t, Jack. You ever think about that? Maybe it’s better if she hates the very sight of you. At least then, you won’t be putting her somewhere she can end up dead.
He took his foot off the brass rail and wished he hadn’t sucked down quite so much almost-whiskey. The world reeled again, but he held on, grimly, and settled his hat further on his aching head. “Let’s go. The circuit can wait.”
He should have known it would be too late.
The schoolmarm wasn’t at home. Li Ang merely shrugged when asked where she’d gone, and they lost precious time riding out to the schoolhouse, only to find it empty for the day. Back to Damnation, then; Capran at the dry goods store had seen her dressed in a blue velvet riding-habit, walking past with her head held high. Didn’t even say hello, he’d grumbled, and Gabe had only restrained himself from swearing by sheer force of will.
A riding-habit meant a horse, and the closest of the two liveries in town was Arnold Hayrim’s, the one that didn’t send rotgut whiskey out with the stage. Arnold was out at Brubeck’s farm looking over a few prospective hacks, but his son Joe—big lumbering dolt that he was—rummaged around in his memory for a while before saying that yes, the marm had engaged a horse for the day. She had money, and she knew how to ride, so Joe had saddled a bay mare for her and she had leapt into the saddle neat as you please. No sidesaddle, that miss, Joe said, his blue eyes gleaming. Right pretty seat she has, too.
When asked which way she went, Joe spat and shook his head. He had horses to care for and the stagecoach was due in later today. He didn’t give a damn where she went as long as she brought the mare back before dark.
The whiskey had burned off. Jack’s head throbbed, and there was a deeper ache in his chest. Russ took his hat off, eyeing the boiling dark clouds over the hills. Thunder rumbled, growing closer. The betting on just when the rains would come would be in full swing by now.
Russ scrubbed at his forehead with his fingertips. “Today of all days,” he moaned. “Do you think maybe…she couldn’t know I’ve got her brother’s charing. I was careful.”
Gabe blinked. “A letter.” Curse me for a lackwit. “She got a letter today. From Boston, the postmistress said. Goddamn.”
“Maybe it…dear God.” Russ looked sick, leaning against the livery’s splintery wall. The morning light had taken on the eerie greenish-yellow cast that meant the storm was coming sooner rather than later. “What kind of brother would tell his sister where that claim is? Or…do you think he did? Maybe she’s got some way of knowing. She’s got some mancy.”
“Enough to have a Practicality.” He wished his skull would cease squeezing itself to pieces. “Let a man think, Russ. Just shut your hole for a minute or two.”
“We may not have a minute,” the chartermage worried. “If she breaks open that claim again, she might get infected. And you know what that means.”
Gabe clapped a lid on his temper. “I sealed it up, she ain’t gonna break it.” Except where there’s a will, there’s a way, and she’s got no shortage of will. “Now just shut up and let me goddamn think.”