unwanted houseguest. Could he have slipped something into her? Just a little of some poisonous desert herb, tucked into her mouth. She could have swallowed it. He could have poisoned her! “Was it something she ate? Could someone have done this to our baby?”
But Morelli shook his head. “I’m sorry, Solomon. It’s what we call a ‘birth defect.’ Now, she may surprise us and grow out of it. Sometimes they do. But I thought you ought to be prepared.”
Solomon dipped his head. “Thank you for your honesty, Dr. Morelli.”
“I’m so sorry, Solomon, for both you and Rachael. . . . And I’m sorry to say it, but I think it’s best if no one foreign is around the baby, at least for a few weeks.” He turned and eyed Sampson. “Sorry, sir, but it’s best for the baby.”
Sampson, burly and barrel-chested, stood up, and for a moment Solomon thought he was going to hurt Dr. Morelli. But all he said was, “I can take a hint, Doc,” and began to gather up his possessions and toss them into his saddlebags.
Morelli said, “Thank you, sir. You can find excellent lodgings at Kendall’s boarding house, just a half-block down the street.” He turned toward Solomon and Rachael again. “Don’t despair. There’s always hope.” Then he added, “I’ll be back to check on her later this afternoon, all right?”
Solomon felt himself nod in the affirmative and then heard himself say good-bye to Dr. Morelli. He was vaguely aware of Morelli going down the steps, and then of Sampson, telling them good-bye and grudgingly following along after Morelli.
And then Rachael was in his arms, sobbing, and he forced himself back to reality. “There, there,” he murmured into her hair. “We will ask for God’s help. He will help us. He must.”
And then he, too, broke down in tears, hugging his Rachael and silently praying, and trying to tell himself that if they had not come west, their baby would have been all right, or at least there would have been a heart specialist who could help her. Poor Sarah, his poor little Sarah!
Rachael broke away from him and went to the baby’s crib-side. He watched as she leaned over the tiny child and scooped her up into her arms.
“Don’t listen to what that man said, Sarah,” she said softly. “And don’t you worry, not a tiny bit. You’re going to grow up into a beautiful young lady, my precious angel, and love God . . . and drive all the boys wild.”
Solomon sat down in the closest chair and, silently, he began to pray.
Ezra Welk sat on the west bank of the Colorado River, trying to figure out whether he could safely ford it here or not. He had remembered there being a ferry here. Maybe not. Maybe it had been a few miles upstream or downstream. The only thing he knew for certain was that it sure as hell wasn’t here.
He snorted out air through his nose. Well, crap. He’d try upstream first, he decided, and reining his horse to the left, began to backtrack the current.
Almost a half hour later, just when he was about to give up, he came across it: signs of a wagon train’s crossing. It hadn’t been that long ago, either. A few days or better, according to his take on the bent grasses on the shallow bank. Could be army, could be civilian, but he figured civilian. The wagon tracks were too sloppy for a military caravan, and it looked like they had some livestock with them. A few cattle and pigs, plus the usual horses and oxen.
He couldn’t tell if the water had gone up or down since their fording, although it looked as if it had been windy as hell. A dust storm, most like. He shuddered involuntarily. He hated them almost as much as he hated Apache.
And that was saying quite a bit.
He took a deep breath, crossed himself, and started down the riverbank, headed directly for the Arizona Territory.
9
Outside the walls of Fury, Mrs. Judith Strong, the woman who had sold Megan and Jenny their yard goods, was getting ready for the day. And she made sure to choose an outfit that was soft, yet businesslike: There was work to be done this day.
When at last she felt she was ready, she grabbed her pocketbook from a dresser drawer and climbed down to the ground. She had forgotten how she had hated the journey west with Linus. Well, that had nothing to do with Linus. He made everything acceptable, everything fun. In the two years since his passing, she had at last grown weary of mourning, weary of crying herself to sleep at night and, well, weary of herself. Linus had brought out her sense of humor, and she’d lost that, too.
It seemed that Linus had been her everything. It was time, she’d decided, to learn to be everything to and for herself.
And so she had decided to leave California behind, leave the dirt and grit of the mining camps, and the hopelessness that had finally finished off Linus—even though he hadn’t done badly for himself, it wasn’t what he had pictured, what he had hoped for or dreamt of.
She walked up the lined wagons, thinking about her husband’s fantasies of wealth and palaces. Such a dreamer he had been! How many times had she been swept up in his enthusiasm for this thing or that, only to end up disappointed—not in Linus, never in him, but in the dream of the moment. Why, she wondered, wasn’t he like other men, who always thought the worst?
Oh, well. It was a puzzlement, and one she might never figure out, let alone have a grand revelation standing in the stockade gates of a dusty little town called Fury. She had considered whom to talk to about the property, and had finally settled on the sheriff. He seemed a nice enough fellow, anyway, even if he was despicably young. But if anybody would know what was what in town, it was him.
She adjusted her light jacket and checked the angle of her hat, pulled up her chin, and proceeded down the street, toward the marshal’s office.
When the knock came at the door (Jason having locked it, just in case, before he went to sleep), it startled him awake, and clear out of his chair and onto the floor. Whoever was out there, he was glad they hadn’t seen that. Rafe was laughing loud enough for two men, as he watched Jason try to get his spur free from one of his desk drawers.
He finally did—after the person at the door knocked two more times—and hissed, “Shut up, Rafe!”
