Dolly Arnold stood at the corrals behind Arnold’s Store. In small golden shafts, dawn peeked over Turtle Mountain. One of Ben’s Shanghai roosters crowed near the saddle shed. Life continued, regardless of how dead she felt inside. It had been two weeks since she buried Josh. Her eyes still burned from all the tears she had shed, but now they were dried up like an old abandoned well.
The little red earthen grave that held Josh’s small body was etched in her mind, refusing to be dulled with time or pain. At times she had tried to recall the words that Ben had spoken over the grave from his worn family Bible, but even that small comfort was denied her. She had been numbed at the funeral, such as it was. The only sense she possessed was the one that shot pain deep inside her heart. She knew there was grief in Ben’s quiet voice, and she tried to derive comfort from the fact that he shared her loss, but that too was denied her.
Now slowly and inevitably, like the rising sun, her body was coming back to life. The gentle wind and the smell of the horses penetrated through her layer of frozen grief. The rising piñon scent that perfumed the high country surrounded her in the wee hours of morning.
She turned her head slightly and looked toward the silent house that was attached to the back of the store. Ben would still be in bed. A bed she seldom shared with him, and not at all for the past two weeks. She was glad that he wasn’t a demanding man. Perhaps it was due to his advancing age. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for his easygoing, sometimes tender manner. As she stood in the glow of sunrise, she fought a persistent feeling of guilt. She had made
a difficult, but resolute decision, one she would not surrender. In twenty-four hours, she would leave the most peaceful place she had ever experienced in her entire life, until those drunken men shattered that dream forever. Growing up in austere poverty with constant domestic turmoil, her rootless family stayed on the move all the time ahead of the law and bill collectors. After her tumultuous upbringing, she survived the bitterest times in her life, working as a soiled dove for Sophie Maxwell. Five years earlier, she had fled all that with a newborn son and after a long trek, like a miracle, she found Ben and this place. In twenty-four hours, she would be leaving him and the only real home she’d ever known, to set out to find her son’s killers.
The idea was not some ill-conceived notion. She could look back now and admit that at first, her instinct had been to ride immediately after those savages who gunned down her defenseless boy. It didn’t matter that she had no weapons. Her rage was so strong she could have killed them with her bare hands. But now she could think and rationalize. She must control her anger. There would be a way to seek out those two men and avenge Josh. She might have to do things that she hated, things that she had given up long ago, but she would even resort to that, if it became necessary, to punish her son’s murderers.
A fresh breath of pine-scented air blew across her face, disturbing the light brown tendrils around her strained eyes. Dawn’s shadows fell past the objects around her, and the sun gilded the tops of junipers and bushes. Even the uncombed manes of the saddle horses in the corral were bathed in a dusky gold. The rooster bragged again for the benefit of his harem. Life continued.
“Dolly?” Ben had moved quietly behind her. “Did you sleep any?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “A little.”
His weathered face showed new lines of strain, she noted in surprise. His milky blue eyes were red rimmed as though he too had done without much slumber. She watched his drawn mouth when he spoke. “If I’ve asked you once, I’ve
asked you twenty times—can I do anything else?”
“No, Ben. I have to work it out by myself.” She turned and straightened his galluses, which were lying twisted over his undershirt. “I know you tried to find them, Ben. But somehow it seems that the rest is up to me. I think it’s my job now.”
“Your job? Dolly, you wouldn’t stand a chance against that Coyote Kid!”
“Ben, please listen to me and try to understand.” She moistened her dry lips and narrowed her eyes as she stared into his face. “Ben, I’m leaving you tomorrow.” There, she had said it. The decision was final, irrevocable. She tensed, waiting for her man’s response.
He sighed heavily and looked beyond her. “I was afraid of that. Somehow, I’ve known that’s how it would be. When I realized that it was the Coyote Kid and his partner, I looked hard for them. I looked real hard, girl, you’ve got to believe that. I knew if I didn’t find them, I’d lose you.”
She expelled a tiny breath of relief. There had been no need for her to be so anxious to tell him of her decision. He knew her better than she knew herself.
“I wrote the governor,” he continued. “I thought maybe he might have an answer. I was pretty desperate, girl. Just imagine me writing a carpetbagger like Sterling for his help. My old daddy would turn over in his grave to hear that an Arnold had asked a damn Yankee for help. You know I want you to stay here. Me and Rudy need you, Dolly.”
“It wasn’t an easy decision, Ben. You’ve been generous to me, and you were always good to … to Josh.”
“Guess we should have talked more,” he said sadly. His eyes narrowed to slits, hiding whatever he was feeling when she glanced up at him again.
“No. We’ve had a good life together. I’ve got no complaints, Ben. I came here and we made a deal. You gave more than your share.”
“Aw well, sometimes I’m not so sure I …” He trailed off and slapped the rail.
She shook her head and put her hand on his arm. “Come on to the store. I’ll fix some breakfast for you two.”
“Thanks, girl, that would be nice.” He walked beside her and her hand fell away. She expected him to drape his arm around her shoulder as he had done in the past, but he didn’t touch her. Perhaps, she thought sadly, he was already beginning to wean himself of her. They had talked more this morning than they usually did. She felt torn between relief and pain because he had accepted her decision.
Later they ate a silent meal. Ben chewed the fried mush slowly, seeming to digest every forkful. After a while he pointed the fork at Rudy.
“She’s leaving us, boy,” he said flatly.
The youth’s wide brown eyes swung to her in surprise. Then he looked back to Ben, as if he had not understood. “But where will she go?”
Ben avoided his pleading look by lowering his gaze to his food. “She wants to find the shooters.”
“But I will go, Ben,” the boy volunteered quickly. “They killed my brother.”
“No, Rudy. Dolly must do what she has to do. We can’t stand in her way. We only have each other now. You will understand someday.”
“But she is our mother. Why must she leave?”
Ben shook his head slowly. “She’s been like a mother to you, but now it is time for her to …” His voice wound down. She saw his eyes turn to the light coming in the small window. She recognized the signs. Ben was stiffening himself for the pain of the inevitable as he always did when he felt something deeply.
Long ago, she recalled, he had lost his favorite colt to a mountain lion. She had watched him withdraw into himself, closing up like a withering flower. It took him a long time to come out of his silent world. Now he was doing the same, withdrawing into a place where no one else was allowed entrance to see his pain.
Rudy bolted to his feet, and without a word or a glance at either of them, he left the room. He did not have Ben’s
strength. It was strange how close she had grown to the Mexican youth. She was surprised at how strong the urge was to go and comfort him; she had a hard time fighting that maternal instinct. She had taken Rudy for granted. He had helped her haul washwater, sweep up the store, and he did virtually every chore. His words of a moment ago now wrenched at her heart. “She is our mother!” Now, she was no one’s mother.
Ben rose silently and went inside the store. She watched his retreating back, then she began gathering up the breakfast dishes.
A few minutes later she heard someone ride up in the yard. She tensed as she always did of late whenever someone entered the store. A ringing of spurs and a clumping of boots sounded in the small hallway that separated the store from the house.
“Dolly.” Ben came through the doorway and spoke quietly, “This gentleman out here is a territorial marshal. He wants to talk to you.”
Growing rigid at the words, she tried to gather her scattered thoughts. After drying her hands on her apron, she turned and looked up at the stranger who accompanied Ben. A nice-looking man, probably in his mid-thirties. He wore a black suit with a pristine white shirt and black string tie. A black Stetson crowned his ebony hair. He could have passed for a minister, but there was something in his shrewd blue eyes that soon dispelled the illusion.
Feeling her scrutiny, John Wesley took careful note of Mrs. Dolly Arnold. She was much younger than her husband, but her face showed lines of strain. There was a pinched look about her mouth as though she held herself in control only by determination. When he remembered that it had been this woman’s child who was killed, he closed his eyes for a second in sympathy.
“Good day, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat to her. “My name is John Wesley Michaels.”
“Oh.” She swallowed hard, wondering if this territorial marshal was an answer to her prayers. Although she didn’t
remember actually praying, she thought maybe God had read what was in her heart. Her mind raced frantically, causing her movements to become flustered. “How do you do, Marshal. Have a chair. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He removed his hat and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. For a fleeting moment he wondered why his presence had caused her to become agitated, but he surmised she was simply still in a state of nervous shock due to the loss of her son. He lowered himself onto the chair, trying to read the changing expressions that crossed her thin face.
She felt certain that this man, this territorial marshal, had come to track down Josh’s killers. To hide her growing excitement, she turned and busied herself with stoking the stove. “I’m sure you haven’t eaten, Marshal. Why do men say they’ve eaten when they haven’t? I’ll fix you something; it will be just few minutes. In the meantime, you can have a cup of hot coffee.” The smile on her face when she turned felt brittle. She hoped it didn’t look as strained as she imagined it did.
He gratefully accepted the steaming cup that she placed on the table. He noted the slight trembling of her hands, and a flicker of anger stirred inside him. What kind of animals had killed this young woman’s child? To hide his thoughts, he lifted the cup of coffee and blew gently across the rippling surface. “Don’t bother fixing me any food, ma’am. I really don’t need any.”
“Oh, yes you do.” The firm note in her voice caused him to look up at her warily, but she insisted. “You’ll need every meal you can get, Marshal Michaels, if you’re riding out after those killers.”
He remained silent and watchful. The woman was obviously overwrought. She stood before him, her hands clenched around the handle of a black skillet, her head thrown back in what appeared to be defiance. A niggling feeling of uncertainty forced him to frown. He didn’t care for the unspoken words between them, but some instinct told him to keep silent for the moment.
She placed the pan back on the stove, then turned and moved in front of him. She held his direct gaze as she sat down in the chair opposite him. Folding her hands on the tabletop, she gave him a level look. “Marshal Michaels,” she asked in a clear, concise voice, “when are you leaving to track down those men?”
“In the morning.” There was something about the set of this woman’s jaw, and the purposeful manner in which she had asked the question that immediately put him on guard. “Why?” he asked flatly
She drew a deep breath, then plunged in. “Because, Marshal, I intend to go with you.”
Although the suspicion had fleetingly crossed his mind, he had immediately dismissed it as ludicrous. He forced a small smile of amusement and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Mrs. Arnold, I hardly think that’s a fitting thing for a married woman to do.”
She gritted her teeth in irritation. Obviously the man was treating her as a willful child. She drew her shoulders back and jutted out her chin. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, *Marshal. When you ride out of here tomorrow to get those murderers, I’ll be right behind you.”
His mouth pursed into grim lines of disapproval, for he could see that the woman was serious. “Mrs. Arnold—”
With sharp resolve, she shook her head, and spoke quickly. “No, not missus. Ben took Josh and me in, but we’ve never married. He lived up to his part, I lived up to mine. Now, do you see?”
“No.”
She fought down the urge to hit the stone-faced man. He was being deliberately stubborn. She gave up trying to explain her marital status. Placing her palms on the tabletop, she leaned forward and spoke intently. “You can like it or not, Marshal, but I am going with you. You can’t stop me from riding fifty to a hundred feet behind you,” she said triumphantly.
Blowing out a deep breath, he ran a hand over his forehead and prayed for patience. “Now look here, Mrs. Arnold.
All right, you’re not Mrs. Arnold,” he said as she opened her mouth to protest. “You simply don’t understand the situation. I am a lawman. It’s my job to track down these men. I have a job to do and I do it in my own way, which does not include having a woman with me on the trail.”
She closed her eyes and gestured expressively with her hands. “I don’t care what you say. I have a job to do, too.”
He looked up in relief as Ben Arnold came back into the room. “Mr. Arnold, would you please explain to your, er … wife that it simply isn’t right for her to ride with me?”
Ben shook his head. “Dolly’s a good woman, Marshal, but once she’s made up her mind on something, hell won’t stand in her way.”
A sigh escaped her lips. You told him right, she thought. She looked at Ben and smiled. A good thing that she had spoken with him earlier. He understood her need to take part in tracking down her child’s killers. Chancing a quick look at the marshal’s chiseled face, she hid a smile of triumph. Whether the stiff-necked man liked it or not, he would soon find out that she was going to be a burr in his horse’s tail. He would simply have to accept the fact.
John Wesley closed his eyes against her stubborn expression. He was not sure how he should go about asking God to help him, but it was apparent he would need an armful of extra spiritual strength to deal with Dolly Arnold.