“No!”
“Yes!”
“Dr. McCelland and Beverly Harris?” Anna said, incredulous. “I can’t believe it!”
“Well, believe it,” said Sally Horner, “because it’s the gospel truth.”
The two friends were out in the shaded grape arbor on a blistering Saturday morning. Sally had come to spend the day at The Regent for the first time in weeks. She had just arrived and was full of gossip to share with Anna. The best—and most shocking—being the news that the good doctor and the red-haired widow were the talk of the town.
“But they are so…mismatched,” Anna said, unable to envision the two of them together.
“Apparently they aren’t,” said Sally with a meaningful look. “I know for a fact that every free minute the doctor has is spent at Beverly’s house.”
“Really?” Curious, Anna asked, “Do you suppose they…that is…do you think that the two of them are…?”
“Intimate? That the word you’re looking for? You bet your boots they are,” Sally stated emphatically. “I’ve seen the doctor leaving her place in the wee small hours of the morning. Besides, haven’t you noticed how different he is?”
“Yes,” Anna admitted. “I have. I noticed it this past Monday when I went with him out to the Texas Star. He couldn’t quit smiling and I knew then that something was up.” She sighed, shook her head worriedly. “But Beverly Harris? Poor Dr. McCelland.” Her delicate jaw tightened and she added, “She seduced him, I know she did.”
“So what?” said the practical-minded Sally. “She did him a big favor, if you ask me.”
“You don’t mean that,” Anna said.
“Oh, yes I do,” Sally replied. “I like Dr. McCelland. But he’s always been painfully shy and therefore needs an aggressive woman. If Beverly Harris has made him a happier man, then I’m all for it.”
“I know, Sally, but think how miserable he’ll be when she tires of him.”
“Looks like that isn’t going to happen,” said Sally slyly.
“What do you mean?”
“Word has it that the two of them are unofficially engaged.”
Anna’s lips fell open. “They are going to get married?”
“Yes, indeedy.”
Anna felt a quick rush of excitement at the news. But she tried to sound nonchalant when she said, “But I thought Beverly was—was…” She stopped talking, shrugged slender shoulders.
“Brit’s woman?” Sally finished for her. “Nope. Not since the Fourth of July.”
Anna’s heart kicked against her ribs. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Buck told me that Brit lost interest in Beverly sometime back in June, and that as far as he knows Brit hasn’t been with her—or anyone else—since July 4.” Sally then tilted her head, peered thoughtfully at Anna. “Know anything about that?”
“No,” Anna said, but she was secretly overjoyed to hear that Brit had not been with another woman since he had made love to her.
“I don’t believe you,” Sally said.
“What?” Anna said, distracted, her thoughts on Brit.
“I said I don’t believe you. I think something happened between you and Brit that Fourth of July night when you both disappeared for hours.” Sally paused, waiting for Anna to say something. When she didn’t, Sally added, “I think you are madly in love with Brit Caruth and just won’t admit it.”
Anna was silent for a long moment, then mused aloud, “Any woman would be a fool to love Brit.”
“Not if she’s the right woman,” Sally said, pushing a wayward lock of red hair out of her eyes. A hot wind had blown up from out of the west, rustling the vines covering the grape arbor and irritating Sally. “Dang these west Texas winds,” she complained. “Guess it’s going to blow all day like it did yesterday.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Anna agreed. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
The pair headed to the house as the winds grew stronger, catching their full skirts and blowing them out like bells around them. They squealed as they made a mad dash across the dying lawn, past the wishing well and up onto the back gallery. Inside, they rubbed their watering eyes and smoothed their wind-tossed hair.
Except for a half hour at noon when they joined LaDextra for lunch in the dining room, the two friends spent the day upstairs in Anna’s room, gossiping, listening to music and cursing the rising winds that sighed and moaned and rattled the windowpanes.
At midafternoon, Sally glanced at the clock on the mantel, made a face, quickly levered herself up off the bed and said, “Good Lord, it’s past four o’clock. I have to go. Buck’s coming for dinner tonight.”
Rising, Anna said, “It’s really getting serious between you two, isn’t it?”
“Grave,” Sally quipped, deadpan. Then she laughed heartily and said, “Buck doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to marry me.”
It finally happened.
The telegram that Brit had been anxiously looking forward to receiving arrived later that same windy September afternoon.
Brit had just ridden in from three days down on the border at the Agua Fría division headquarters. Still dirty with trail dust and sweat, he had stopped by his office to check the mail.
He was seated behind his desk when the Western Union messenger arrived. Brit heard the hoofbeats, glanced out the French doors and saw a rider galloping up the long drive. He watched as the rider reached the front gate and he recognized cotton-haired Corky Stewart, a youth that Dub at the Western Union office frequently used to deliver telegrams.
Brit felt his heart slam against his ribs. He licked his dry lips and swallowed with difficulty. His first inclination was to jump up out of his chair and go rushing out to meet Corky. He made himself stay where he was. Nervously he waited as Corky dismounted, came jogging up the front walk and knocked on the door.
Brit heard Connie, LaDextra’s personal maid, say to one of the other servants, “That’s okay. I’ll get it.”
Seconds later Connie knocked on his office door, then entered bearing a small silver tray. She crossed to him and held out the tray. On it lay the telltale yellow envelope. Brit picked it up. Connie continued to stand there looking at him and at the telegram.
“Thank you, Connie,” Brit said, dismissing her. “That will be all.” Clearly curious, she reluctantly turned away. “Please close the door behind you,” he requested, and heard her sniff indignantly.
Alone again, he withdrew a silver letter opener from its holder and neatly sliced the top flap of the envelope. He replaced the opener and took out the folded message. He laid the envelope aside and unfolded the yellow telegram.
He drew a quick, shallow breath and began to read:
Saturday, September 6, 1890
Mr. Brit Caruth,
Your suspicions have been confirmed. The young woman claiming to be Anna Regent Wright is in fact an Arizona woman named Margaret Sue Howard. Miss Howard was captured…
Brit read the entire message from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Then he read it again. He carefully refolded the telegram. He put it inside the breast pocket of his soiled blue chambray shirt. Then he folded his hands atop his desk and stared off into space.
Here, at last was the proof he’d been waiting for. He’d been right all along. This beautiful woman claiming to be Anna was indeed an imposter. Time for celebrating. Or it should have been.
But oddly, he felt no satisfaction.
Brit exhaled heavily and closed his eyes.
His eyes quickly opened and he looked up when Buck Shanahan abruptly burst into the office, saying excitedly, “It’s happened, Brit. Fire on the Tierra Verde!”
The telegram resting against his heart instantly forgotten, Brit shot to his feet.
“Oh, Jesus,” he swore as he strapped on his gun belt and took a sharp-bladed hunting knife from the bottom desk drawer. His mind was racing. The only water left on the ranch was Manzanita Springs and the springs were surrounded by solid rock. The water couldn’t be channeled down to the fire and it was too far away for a bucket brigade. Brit rushed out of the house with Buck close on his heels. Cowhands, interrupting their free Saturday afternoon, were already gathering at the stables, saddling their mounts.
Brit shouted instructions. “Slim, take a dozen men, ride up to the mountain tract. Round up twenty or thirty head and bring them on down.”
“On my way, Brit,” said Slim.
Brit turned his attention to the old silver-haired vaquero, Cheno. “Cheno, you’ll drive the hack with a barrel of water. And load it down with feed sacks, brooms and saddle blankets. Get three or four men to help you. See to it that every feed sack and blanket on the place is wetted down and ready for the firefighters!”
“Sí, Patrón,” said Cheno, already turning away to do Brit’s bidding.
Brit quickly pivoted, addressed a tall, bowlegged cowboy with a cigarette dangling from his lips, one of the best horsemen in the desert southwest. “Jake, I’m depending on you to corral the remuda once we’ve reached the fire. Keep the horses out of harm’s way and have fresh mounts ready when we need them.”
“Count on it, Boss.”
“Jaurez,” Brit shouted, “you and your brother, Juan, take some of the boys and get a back fire going to protect the house.”
“Sí, Patrón.”
Already climbing into the saddle, Brit shouted, “The rest of you men, mount up and follow me.”
Anna and LaDextra had heard the commotion and had come out onto the front gallery. They saw the thick black smoke far to the south and bright orange flames shooting skyward.
“Dear Lord in heaven,” exclaimed a horrified LaDextra, “it’s heading this way. If they can’t put the fire out, the house will go up.”
Anna squeezed the older woman’s hand reassuringly. “Surely they’ll be able to put it out quickly.”
LaDextra said, “You’re forgetting, child, they have no water. How can you fight that kind of blaze without water?”
Anna had no answer.
The two women watched as Brit and the men galloped away, heading directly toward the growing inferno. LaDextra wondered what had happened. Had a careless cowhand flicked a cigarette away despite all Brit’s warnings? No, none of the men were that foolish. Most likely a bolt of heat lightning had struck the Tierra Verde pasture. The dead, dry grass had quickly caught and the flames, pushed by the dry, hot wind from out of the west, were now rapidly roaring northward.
Straight toward the house.