Love and War

A lot of good that would do her for the next two or three months. It would take at least that much time to supply the Bahamian bankers with evidence of Huntoon's death and proof of her right to the money. Could the funds be sent to her in Santa Fe? She couldn't answer all the questions arising from this newest, cruel turn.

But she knew one thing. She would live on that Bahamian money for as long as it took to locate the gully containing what was left of the wagons. The trader and his son hadn't investigated the wreckage, probably because it would never occur to any ordinary person that the ashes might conceal gold ingots.

What if the savages had carried the ingots away? It was a disturbing possibility, but not one that would alter her course. A fortune in gold that would double her personal worth could be waiting in that gully to the west, unknown to anyone except herself. The prospect helped soften her sadness about Powell. And the more she thought of the treasure, the faster her grief dwindled.

Concerning James, she could summon no grief at all. He had always been spineless, only marginally a man. Thinking of him did jog her memory. She dug in the bottom of her reticule for the sealed letter. Presuming it to be filled with sentimental twaddle, she had put it away in St. Louis and hadn't thought of it until this moment.

The letter was anything but sentimental. After a brusque salutation — just her name, followed by a dash — and a short paragraph of unflattering preamble, it said:

I joined Mr. Powell's adventure not only out of loyalty to the founding principles of the first Confederacy and the hope of reestablishing them as the keystones of a second one, but also to regain your respect and those favors which were always mine by right as your legal husband.

You have continually and cruelly refused me those rights, Ashton. You have repeatedly humiliated me despite my great love for you, and ruined me, both professionally and as a man. I admire Mr. Powell's view of Southern rights and ideals, though I here confess that I have come to despise him personally because of what I suspect about him and you. Although I lack evidentiary proof, I am sure the two of you are, and have been for some time, lovers.

So in case some untimely fate should befall me, the least I can do is make certain you are not rewarded for harlotry. To this end, before leaving Richmond, I directed a duly witnessed letter to my old partner at the firm of Thomas & Huntoon, Charleston. In Detroit I received word of its arrival and confirmation of its legality as a will replacing my earlier one drawn in your favor. Now your ill-gotten Water Witch money, wholly mine under existing marital law, will be disbursed in the event of my death to such cousins and other distant relatives of mine as can be located. The balance will go to charitable causes. You will not have a pennyworth of it.

This is my small retribution for the many wrongs you have done me.

James

Ashton staggered up, crushing the letter between her clammy palms. 'Not true,' she whispered.

She seized her reticule and flung it against the slats of the shutters. 'Not true.' She overturned the bed. Hurled the chair against the wall. The landlady ran upstairs and pounded on the door, which was secured on the inside by a metal hook and eye.

'Señora, qué pasa ahí adentro?'

The chair broke. She smashed the clay wash bowl — pieces flew like shrapnel — and the drinking gourd, then dashed the scrap of mirror on top of them, screaming now.

'Not true — not true — not true!'

'Señora, está enferma? Conteste o tumbaré la puerta!'

The last words went whirling into a windy void as Ashton's eyes rolled up in her head and she fainted.

The landlady pushed until the hook broke away from the door. She shook and slapped Ashton awake. Gasping, Ashton explained her behavior in terms of a vaguely described seizure. She promised to pay for all the damages — a lie — if just the woman would help her into bed; she was ill. Muttering, the landlady did so.

Wearing only her chemise, Ashton lay rigid throughout the afternoon and into the hot hours of the night. Her brain was a cauldron of fear, anxiety, speculation. Finally, toward early morning, the air began to cool. She fell asleep and woke shortly before noon. The mariachi, which seemed to inhabit the cantina on a permanent basis, had resumed its dolorous violin and guitar music.

She sat up and held her head. There wasn't a dollar to be had from Nassau. But there was gold out here. She was not defeated. Far from it. She rummaged in her luggage until she found the lacquered Japanese box, which hadn't been opened since she deposited her memento from Powell. She lifted the lid slowly, gazed at the happily copulating couple and studied the assortment of buttons. After nearly four years, it was time to resume her collecting. And not merely for pleasure. She lowered the lid, confident that survival lay in what her box represented.

She put on her best cool dress, mauve lawn. It was in sorry condition after so much traveling, but a tiny triangle of mirror retrieved from the floor showed her that it would pass, especially with her bosom made prominent by her corset. In this heat the stays felt like implements of torture, but no matter. The effect was everything.

She left the room, descended the squeaky stairs with a regal air, and walked the short distance to the cantina entrance. She had been told the landlord was a Yankee, a former fur trapper who had left Kit Carson's company for a more settled existence.

When she pushed the doors back and entered the cool blue place, the mariachi men stopped in mid-squeak and mid-twang. Their mustaches went up as their jaws went down. Some elderly customers, Mexicans or Spaniards or whatever they were, clearly disapproved of her presence, but she didn't give a damn. Neither did the fellow in the apron behind the bar. He was a burly, strong-looking sort, with plenty of white in his blond hair.

Ashton smiled at him. 'You are an American, I understand?'

'That's right.'

'So am I.' She worked to minimize her accent. 'Unexpectedly stranded here by circumstance.'

'I noticed you on the street. Wondered about your situation —'

'Might I ask you a question? In confidence?'

'Sure.' She didn't miss the way his eyes touched her breast a moment.

'I would like to know the names of the two or three wealthiest men in the area.'

'The two or three —?'

'Wealthiest.'

'I thought I heard right.' Amused, he added, 'Hitched or single?'

Damn him. He thinks I'm nothing but a feather-headed female, to be made sport of. He'll find out. I'll come through this, survive this, the way I've survived everything else. And when I do, I'll have every man in this part of the country groveling for two minutes of my time.

'Ma'am? Hitched or single?'

Ashton's smile was dazzling.

'That really doesn't matter.'

139

In the calm, starry hour after sunset, Andy and Jane walked along the Ashley, talking quietly and searching for their answer to a question Madeline had posed.

Of Cicero's future, there was no doubt. He was too old, too lacking in skills to do anything except stay on. He actually seemed displeased with the outcome of the war, complaining that the liberty Father Abraham had bestowed on him was unwanted, because it upset the routine of his life. Jane had started to reprove him on one occasion, but held back. Cicero was past seventy; she understood that any change was a threat.

Not so with her or with Andy. So they talked, their arms around each other's waist. The conversation was occasionally interrupted by some kissing and affectionate touching. After an hour, holding hands, they returned to the pine house where the lamps gleamed.