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Owen stood absolutely still. In his friend’s voice, he’d heard more than the anguish of a neighbor or friend. Of a father. In his friend’s voice, he’d heard the torment of a lover. And he didn’t want to hear more.
As he looked down at the blacksmith, he knew it would be impossible to move him. He knew that, if he spoke, Tommy was beyond coherent response. Owen didn’t consider himself a coward—if Annie hadn’t been so quick, he’d have tried to protect Alec himself. He knew Tommy could have shaken him off like a fly, that he’d have to protect Alec with his own body. And he knew he would have done it.
Still, he wanted no more knowledge of the smith’s love for Jesse. The rumors he’d heard, he’d discounted. He wouldn’t speculate, wouldn’t wonder. And he’d certainly never admit to anyone that he knew Tommy loved her.
We all love her, he consoled himself as he closed the cottage door and started back to the stable. We are all upset by her illness. If some of us feel it a little more deeply, it is only natural. John Patrick is upset. His hands were shaking even today. Daniel is affected, though he has looked at no woman but my Annie.
And no one needs to know if one of us is more upset than he is expected to be.
In the street, constable Ray Benson had been sending the crowds about their own business; at the livery, Owen found that Annie and Carolyn had covered Alec with blankets. The youth was blubbering in drunken, disconnected phrases, punctuated by pitiful moans. His daughter was white and shaking, and Owen hurried to her side.
He was less than an inch taller than she was, barrel-chested and solid of body and limb, though age had given him a tendency toward stoutness. Annie held onto him tightly, her head on his shoulder. Carolyn closed the doors so the dispersing crowds had nothing to see.
As Annie composed herself and stepped away from him, Owen saw the narrowing of her eyes that told him she was in pain. She froze for a moment, took a deep breath and held it. After another moment, she gave him a strained smile.
“You need some rest,” he said.
“I can’t leave him alone.”
“I’ll stay with him. You go on home. Carolyn will go with you. I’ll send word when he comes to. Oh, and Carolyn, do you think you could bring me back some coffee? And maybe a blanket or two?”
“Of course. I’ll be about ten minutes.” She bustled off, coaxing Annie along with her. Once in the cottage, she took Annie’s cloak and noticing the girl’s movements were slow and jerky, climbed with her to the loft and helped her into bed. Annie’s eyes were closed before Carolyn had finished covering her.
“Do you want your laudanum?” she asked.
“No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”
“You rest now, dear. We’ll let you know when he comes around.”
“It’s very important.” Annie’s voice was fading.
“I know, dear. Rest now. I promise to come get you as soon as you can talk to him.”
“Thank you.”
Carolyn descended to the kitchen and began to make coffee and a sandwich to take to the barn. She knew where to find everything she needed in this cottage, for she and Owen had been keeping company for some years. They’d arrived in White’s Station almost at the same time, and a few years later, Carolyn’s husband had run off with a dance-hall girl from Prescott, leaving her destitute but not despondent—she’d recognized his faithlessness early in their marriage.
Were it not for the Donovans and Owen, she’d have been hard-pressed to keep body and soul together. The inheritance she’d had from her mother was gone—gambled away. It was John Patrick who suggested that she turn her large home into a boardinghouse, and Owen who’d taught her to manage her money. She’d taken on a Mexican couple as chambermaid and cook; at first she gave them only room and board, but as things got better, she paid them as well. Now Maria helped her embroider linen sheets and napkins, and her husband José had recently opened Joe’s Café with their son Antonio.
She sliced ham and slathered the bread with Annie’s home-made mustard, waiting for the coffee to boil so she could pour it into a Mason jar. As she worked, Carolyn ruminated on the citizens of White’s Station. We are a community of immigrants. For we’ve come from Wales and Ireland, Texas and Pennsylvania. From Sweden, Mexico, Kentucky, China and Louisiana. Only some of the children were born here and have a first-hand claim to the land. Only our few children. And Tommy.
The community had accepted him and his wife as they accepted all decent, hard-working men and their families. There was too much danger in this wilderness for logical men to draw invisible boundaries between them. There were those who’d tried—newcomers who hadn’t lasted long. For the real power in the community was vested in those men like Donovan, Benson, Griffiths and Twelve Trees—men who had the intelligence to realize that neighbors must live together. Or die together.
Russell Travers was an anomaly in this town. His drunkenness and thievery were tolerated because of his father’s crippled condition. He wouldn’t listen to Ray Benson’s advice, and one of the Donovan boys—I don’t remember which, perhaps Brian?—beat him almost senseless for crippling a horse. But Russell never learned and he finally went too far, and he paid for his wildness with his life.
It’s too bad that all of his evil deeds didn't die with him.