“I’ve been corresponding with Price McDaniel,” she said as matter-of-factly as she could. “He chose to stay out West after the war to raise cattle. And he’s cordially invited me to visit his ranch.”
Haley took one hand from the reins in order to scratch his head. “McDaniel. McDaniel. That doesn’t strike any particular bell.”
“Well, he’s been gone for quite some time. He had no sisters or brothers, and his parents passed away several years ago. They lived in that big white house on Solomon Street.”
“Oh, those McDaniels.” Haley slapped his knee. “I remember them, all right. Why, I even helped tote all that furniture they shipped to Texas.”
“Yes. I remember, too.”
What Emily remembered was slipping an envelope into a drawer of an enormous walnut desk, and then a month later being surprised by a thoughtful reply, written in a bold and quite masculine hand. The tone of the letter had been serious and almost poetic, which surprised her even more, because her memory of Price had been that of a laughing and rather cavalier young man, given more to pranks than poetry.
How the war had changed him, she had thought at the time, and then with each successive letter, she found herself increasingly glad that the callow youth she recalled had been forged into such a strong yet gentle man.
Then, month by month, letter by letter, Emily had fallen in love. It had been her distinct impression, even her devout belief, that Price’s feelings for her were of an equal depth and weight. Dear Miss Russell had long ago been replaced by Dear, then Dearest Emily. The second to the last letter—the one to which she had responded with such candor and passion—had begun My Dearest Emmy.
That one—the one with half its inked words dripping down the pages from her happy tears—was now wrapped in a lace hanky and tucked deep inside the reticule on her lap. Price’s other letters, tied with silk ribbons, a different color for every year, were secure in her leather valise. And although she had packed most of her clothes and other belongings for the trip to Texas, nothing really mattered but the letters that had come to be her most valuable possessions, indeed her only priceless worldly goods.
“All that furniture,” Haley murmured, shaking his head. “I sure do remember now that you mention it, Miss Emily. Wonder if all them dressers and desks and whatnots made it to Texas all right. Did you ever hear?”
Emily smiled wistfully. “The desk arrived, Haley. That’s all I know for sure.”
The levee in Vicksburg was crowded when they arrived later that afternoon. Haley’s mule-drawn wagon wasn’t the worst-looking vehicle at the steamboat landing, but it didn’t rank far above most of the produce wagons parked there. For one bleak moment, Emily felt that she had come down a peg or two in the world until she reminded herself of her fallen status and decided she was lucky indeed to even be able to afford a wagon ride, not to mention the passage she had booked on the Memphis Zephyr, whose smokestacks were already billowing with steam.
“I must hurry, Haley,” she said, clambering down from the wagon seat before he could come to her aid, then reaching for the valise that held her precious letters. “If you’ll carry my other bags to the gangplank, I’d be most appreciative.”
Emily hurried across the cobblestones to show her ticket to the captain.
He squinted at her from beneath the polished brim of his cap. “You traveling alone, Miss Russell?”
After she nodded, the man handed her ticket back, then lightly touched her arm. “I’ll keep a special eye out for you. Fine family, those people of yours. I’ve met your uncle, the legislator, on one or two occasions.”
“How nice,” she replied while thinking that her uncle Randolph would likely be the first to disown her in light of her condition.
“You give him my regards when next you see him, will you?”
“Indeed I will, Captain.”
“Is that your man with your luggage?” he asked, angling his head toward Haley, who was just then waging a losing battle with a small steamer trunk, a suitcase, and two carpetbags.
The captain gestured to one of his crewmen, a muscular man. “See that Miss Russell’s luggage makes it to her stateroom, will you?”
Then, after the captain turned to greet other passengers, Emily walked back to bid farewell to Haley.
He stood, gazing forlornly at the ground, the worn toe of one boot lodged between two cobblestones.
“Well, I guess it’s time for you to get on board,” he said. Then he looked up and gave her a wide but toothless grin. “I kinda wish I was going with you, Miss Emily. Out West, you know. Where things is all brand-new.”
“Brand-new,” she echoed, despite the lump in her throat, suddenly feeling far sorrier for Haley than she did for herself. “Well, come along then,” she said, surprising herself by how much she meant it. “Come west with me where things are indeed all brand-new.”
Haley toed the cobblestones again. “It’s tempting, Miss Emily. But there’s my ma back in Russell County, you know. She’s doing poorly, and I think she’d just plain up and die if I left her.”
Emily was so touched by the man’s loyalty to his mother that her eyes brimmed with tears. You’re a lucky woman, Sally Gates, she thought, and your bastard boy turned out to be your blessing, didn’t he? I hope I’m just as fortunate.
“Haley, I know I was only supposed to pay you six bits for the ride.” Emily dug in her reticule as she spoke. “But, here. I want you to take this.” She pressed a five-dollar gold piece in his hand.
“Aw, Miss Emily. That’s too much.”
The Memphis Zephyr’s steam whistle gave three long, shrieking blasts, nearly deafening Emily.
“I said that’s way too much,” Haley shouted.
“I must run or I’ll miss my boat.” She bunched up her skirts and began to hasten toward the gangplank, then called back over her shoulder. “You keep that, Haley. Buy something nice for your mama.”
“That’s awful nice of you, Miss Emily. You have a safe trip now and you enjoy all them brand-new things out West, you hear? When you come home, I hope you’ll tell me all about ’em.”
“I’ll do that, Haley,” she lied, trying to smile through her tears and waving from the deck while the steamboat’s gangplank rose as if it, too, were waving a long and last goodbye to Mississippi and everyone in it.
Chapter Two
John Bandera was tired to the marrow of his bones. He was just back from Abilene after a hellacious late spring drive that had lost him two good men and at least two hundred head of cattle. The longhorns that had managed to survive the trip had jittered themselves to skin and bones, so instead of collecting the usual fifty bucks a head at the end of the trail, John had considered himself damned lucky to get thirty. He’d paid his men their wages, then seen to their bail when necessary, and finally settled up the considerable damages they’d wrought at four different saloons before setting out on his own, solitary, hard ride back to south Texas.
It was good to be home, he thought, as he lifted a worn and dusty boot up onto the porch rail and angled his chair onto its back legs. Dios. It was pure heaven to be home. Maybe he’d rename the ranch. Pure Heaven, maybe. Or simply Home.
He’d hated it six years ago when Price had insisted they name their newly acquired property The Crippled B. John had still been hobbling around on crutches then after breaking his leg in Arizona. He remembered his partner’s mysterious and drunken grin when he’d slurred, “It’s the perfect name, amigo. Don’t you see? It’ll keep them guessing which one of us it means.”
“B for Bandera,” John had muttered.