Henson smiled cruelly at Morgan. His eyes glinted with malevolence. "There will be when my men get through doing their reports."
Frank got it then. Viv's father was paying detectives to write false reports. He was speechless.
"Leave," Henson urged. "Leave on your own, and I won't use those reports against you. I give you my word on that. Just saddle up and ride away."
"Leave? Vivian is my wife. I love her."
"Love!" Henson's word was filled with scorn. "You don't know the meaning of the word. You're a damned rake! That's all you've ever been. I'll destroy your marriage, Morgan. I will make it my life's work. I promise you that."
Frank started to speak, and Henson held up his hand. "Don't bother begging, you trash. It won't do you a bit of good. Leave. Get out. Get out of my office, get out of my daughter's life, and get out of town." He smiled. "Before my detectives return and I have the sheriff place you under arrest."
"I'll tell Viv about this," Frank managed to say.
"Go right ahead. I'll just tell her I knew all about it and was trying to protect her. See who she will believe. Me, naturally."
"I can beat the charges."
"No, you can't. I'll see you tried, convicted, and carried away in chains, just like the wild animal you are. My detectives have found, ah, shall we call them 'ladies,' who will testify against you. And they will be believed."
Frank was boxed, and knew it. Henson had wealth and power and position, and could very easily destroy him. He sighed and said, "All right. But I have to know Vivian will be taken care of."
"Of course she will be. I'll see to that personally. She'll never want for anything. You're making a very wise decision, Morgan. Do you need money? A sum within reason, of course."
"I wouldn't take a goddamn dime from you, you sorry-assed, mealymouthed, self-righteous, sanctimonious son of a bitch!"
"Get out!" Henson flared. "Get out of town right now. Don't go home. Don't see Vivian. Just get on your horse and ride out of here. For Vivian's sake, if not for your own."
Frank almost lost it. He balled his big hard hands into fists, and came very close to tearing his father-in-law's head off his shoulders. Henson saw what was about to happen, and paled in fright. But at the last possible second Frank backed off.
Frank turned and walked out of the office.
Henson looked down at his trembling hands, willing them to cease their shaking. After a moment, he rose from his chair and got his hat. He just had time to go get his daughter and escort her to the doctor's office. Vivian Morgan was pregnant.
* * * *
"Come on," Frank muttered as he rode north. "Put the memories away and close that old door."
But that was not an easy thing to do. Even though it had been some twenty years since he had pulled out of Denver, twenty years since he had last seen Vivian, the memories were still very strong, and the image of her face was forever burned into his brain.
Frank had heard little bits of gossip about Henson: the man had become a millionaire through land deals in and around Denver, and a powerful voice in his church. He had sent his daughter, Vivian, back east to live with family. She had gotten married there (somehow her father had had her marriage to Frank annulled). She had a child by her second husband.
She and her husband had returned to Denver to take over her father's business when Henson's health began to fail. By that time, Frank had learned, the boy was in college somewhere back east.
Occasionally Frank ran across a weeks- or months-old Denver newspaper and read it. Sometimes there was something in there about Vivian Browning, and Frank would wonder what she looked like now, and for a time he would be lost in "what ifs?"
"Crap!" Frank muttered as he made camp for the evening in the timber of the Sangre de Cristos, east and a little north of Santa Fe. "Put it out of your mind, Morgan. Put her out of your mind. She hasn't thought about you in years."
But as many times as Frank thought that, he always wondered if it was true.
He certainly had never forgotten her.
Frank filled the coffeepot with water and set it on the fire to boil. He settled back with a book. Frank always made camp with an least an hour of daylight left him, so he could read. He was a well-read and self-educated man. There were always a couple of books in his saddlebags -- history, government, sometimes poetry.
On this day he dug out a book by John Milton. He had bought the book weeks back from a traveling salesman. And while he would be the first to admit that sometimes he didn't know what the hell Milton was talking about; he nevertheless enjoyed his writings. Frank read for a time from something titled _Paradise Lost_. But he was not so engrossed that he did not know what was happening around him: the birds that had been singing so gaily had stopped, and the squirrels that had been chattering were silent. Frank put his hand on the stock of his rifle and pulled it close to him. Whenever he made camp for the night, he levered a round into the chamber of his rifle. All he had to do was ear back the hammer and let 'er bang.
"Easy, friend." The voice came out of the timber. "I don't mean no harm."
"Then why are you trying to slip up on me?"
"'cause I know who you are, and how quick you are on the shoot -- that's why."
Frank smiled. "Fair enough. Come on into the camp."
"Let me get my horses -- all right?"
"Bring them in."
The man looked to be in his sixties. He carried a rifle and wore a pistol at his side. He carefully propped his rifle against a tree and then saw to his animals. He joined Frank by the small campfire.
"If you ain't got no coffee, I got some in my gear."
"I have coffee. Waiting for the water to boil. What's on your mind?"
"Company for the evenin', that's all. If you don't mind."
"Not at all. I'm Frank Morgan."
"Jess McCready. I know who you are."
The water was boiling and Frank dumped in the coffee. "Be ready in a minute, Jess. What are you doing out here in the big lonesome?"
"Gettin' away from people, mostly." The older man sniffed at the heady aroma of coffee brewing and smiled. "I do like my coffee, Mr. Morgan."
"Frank. Just Frank."
"Thankee. Frank it is."
"Getting a little bit crowded for you, Jess?"
"A little bit?" The older man snorted derisively. "The territory is fillin' up. Towns sproutin' up ever'where you look. It's disgustin'."
Frank smiled and dumped in some cold water to settle the grounds. "I have noticed a few more people, for a fact." He got up and dug another cup out of his pack, then rummaged around and found the bacon and flour. "Stay for bacon and pan bread, Jess?"
"Oh, you betcha, I will. I got some taters we can fry up, and a couple cans of peaches in my gear. I'll fetch them, and we'll have us a regular feast."
"Sounds good to me."
Frank watched the man out of the corner of his eye as he got the peaches and potatoes. He made no suspicious moves and sat back down and started peeling the potatoes.
Jess grinned and held up an onion. "We'll slice this up and stick it with the taters. Gives 'em a good flavor."
"Sure does. I forgot to get me some onions when I provisioned up last stop."
"Frank, I ain't tryin' to meddle in your business. Believe me, I ain't. But are you by any chance headin' up toward Barnwell's Crossin'?"