In the Season of the Sun (29 page)

“Coyote wanted to see you as soon as you showed.”

“After I report to Nate,” Tom answered. He noticed another figure in the shadow of the barn and recognized Con Vogel. The musician had been relegated to stable work and it didn't appear to suit him.

“Kilhenny said to check with him first.”

Tom had noticed the change. On the trip upriver from Missouri and during the first few weeks at the Marias landing, Nate Harveson had acted as the sole authority; orders came and went from him, sometimes directly, other times through Coyote.

Yet the farther the stern-wheeler ventured into the wilderness, the more Coyote had begun to undercut those selfsame orders. He'd never openly defied any of Harveson's instructions; he had merely altered a few or made them sound as if they were his own pronouncements.

The half-breed had commandeered a cabin for himself set below the ramparts lining the north wall. Now he'd left orders for men to report to him before they went to Harveson. Soon, Tom figured, he might not need Harveson at all. And what would that portend for Nate?

Or Abby?

Tom glanced up and true to his thoughts spied her watching him from a second-story window. He looked toward Coyote's cabin, then reached a decision. He'd been on the trail three long weeks. Three long weeks without holding Abby in his arms, without her warmth and easy company.

Coyote would just have to wait. He headed for the Harveson house. Con. Vogel watched him go.

“You've seen him then,” Nate Harveson said from the doorway to Abigail's bedroom. His diminutive frame was garbed in a round-necked white shirt and black woolen trousers tucked into calf-high black leather boots. His Roman nose was red and peeling from the sun. His cheeks too showed sunburn as well as the front of his scalp, which he had failed to adequately cover even by combing his hair forward. He held a glass of brandy and took measured even sips of the liquor, taking time to inhale the bouquet.

“I intend to spend the afternoon with Monsieur Napoleon,” he said, holding up a decanter of French brandy. “So you may freely entertain your brash, ill-mannered young pup.”

“More wild tomcat than a pup,” Abigail chuckled and folded her arms across her bosom. The blue gingham dress and apron she wore fit her like a glove, accentuating the curves of her bust and hips before flaring out and hanging to the floor. She wore leather ankle boots that buttoned up the side, a laborious task left for Virginia to perform. “Tell me, brother. This newfound tolerance for Tom Milam puzzles me. What's behind such regards?”

“Nothing untoward.” Nate Harveson raised the snifter to his sister in salute, drained the contents, and felt the liquor burn a path to the pit of his stomach. “Charm him, dear sister. This isn't Missouri now and we may have need of a wildcat in the days to come. I'll interrupt you two in a quarter of an hour, and have his report.”

Abigail started to press him further. The whole wilderness experience was so new and exciting to her she had failed to take note of the strained relationship between Coyote Kilhenny and her brother.

But Nate Harveson had revealed enough for now. He did not want to alarm his sister needlessly. Still, there was something going on with the half-breed—exactly what, Harveson was uncertain.

At least one of the stern-wheelers had remained behind. The ship's captain, Mose Smead, and his crew would back Harveson if trouble erupted. The riverboat was the last link with the civilized world and Harveson had been loath to sever this final bond. Now he was grateful for its presence.

Then again, maybe he was making too much out of Kilhenny's attitude. Kilhenny had certainly driven the men to impressive accomplishments. Fort Promise needed but a little finishing off. There was another barracks to build and the fort needed its own well. With Fort Promise completed, Nate Harveson figured he could rule the vast domain of mountains and game-filled valleys to the west.

“Mine,” he muttered as he entered his own bedroom. “I'll drink to that.” And that's exactly what he did.

Thalia had just lifted a skillet of corn bread from the stone fireplace out in the summer kitchen when Tom Milam rounded the corner of the house and loosed his best imitation of a Kiowa war whoop. Thalia, for all her plumpness, cleared the wood floor by six inches and raised the skillet aloft as if to save it from the howling savage.

Then she recognized Tom Milam, who had become a regular at her table, and regained her composure. On her rounded ebony features was a patina of flour and sweat. The summer kitchen was her domain—four poles, a wood floor, and a peaked roof, a place without walls where a breeze could cool the hardworking cook and carry the aroma of her labors throughout the fort.

But Thalia served the Harvesons. And woe to the hardbitten trapper who tried to sample her wares uninvited. Tom Milam was the exception, though she considered him an impudent and mischievous rascal. Still, Thalia loved Abigail like a daughter and Abby had taken Tom to her heart over Thalia's dire warnings. A wild young man like Tom Milam could only bring trouble, Thalia had warned. He makes me happy, Abby countered.

And Thalia had to admit, he was a roguishly handsome lad, full of the devil. Plus he downright worshiped her cooking. So he couldn't be all bad.

“Tom Milam!”

He laughed and swaggered up to the summer kitchen and perched on the oaken table where he helped himself to a piece of molasses cake Thalia had left to cool.

“Lawd above. You just about gave me the fits,” Thalia said, slamming the skillet down on the table to loosen the bread. She flipped it over and the golden brown corn bread flopped out onto a stoneware plate. “Scared me plumb to the bone.”

“Don't worry, Thalia. A red heathen'd be a fool to lift your hair. More'n likely he'd cart you back to his wickiup to do his cooking.”

“You gettin' sassy with me, boy?” Thalia put her hands on her broad hips. Her huge bosom rose and fell when she sighed.

“As much as I can get away with.”

“Last young buck that sassed me, I took him between the sheets and when I got finished with him, he was so weak he'd break wind and fall down.” She winked and added, “But the smile never left his face.”

“I'll just bet,” Tom said, his voice muffled by a mouthful of cake.

He climbed down from the table and retreated from the cook's domain. Abigail waved to him from the top of the steps at the rear of the house and Tom Milam grabbed at the chance to escape the black woman by the table. If she indeed had her mind on sparking, Tom wasn't about to let himself be the tinder.

He walked up to Abigail Harveson. She retreated into the house. Tom followed her into the winter kitchen, a smaller version of the room outside with a narrow pantry and a smaller hearth, stone cold, its ovens and kettles, pots and skillets, already transferred outside as soon as the temperatures had ameliorated.

“You look as pretty as a meadow of columbine, ma'am.” He grinned and caught her arm as she tried to lead him toward the front parlor. He pulled Abigail to his embrace and covered her mouth with his. Three weeks had been as long for Abigail and she matched the ardor of his kiss.

His buckskins were caked with dust and smelled of horse sweat and wood smoke. Tom's cheek was rough and black with three weeks of beard. Since departing Independence, there had been time for only the briefest of encounters, always clandestine, always interrupted.

Things hadn't changed at the Marias landing. A tremendous amount of work needed to be done, offering little free time for Tom and Abigail to be alone. Then the area itself had to be scouted, possible enemies located. Three weeks on the trail with Abby on his mind, memories of her that night in Independence, had kept him warm in a cold camp.

But he was home now and the feel of her in his arms stirred his blood, revived his tired limbs. He knew he reeked of the trail, but it didn't matter. First things first.

Abigail felt as if the breath were being sucked out of her. A fire blazed in her lower torso, and her legs grew weak. She hadn't been prepared for such ardor, not in him, and especially not in herself. At last she pushed away, at least enough to end the kiss, though his arms imprisoned her.

“A simple handshake ought to do … among friends, that is,” Abigail gently chided.

“We were friends in Independence. You're in the wilderness now. Winds blow. Rains fall.”

“Oh, I see,” Abigail added, her brown hair a mass of ringlets and natural curls framing her pale cream features and mysterious sea-green eyes. “And fires burn?”

“Every chance they get.” Tom's embrace tightened anew, drawing her to his lips.

“Excuse me, Miss Abby,” Hiram said from the doorway to the dining room. The black man's formal attire of close-fitting waistcoat, white shirt, and black trousers seemed wholly out of place in the rustic confines of log walls. “Mr. Harveson will see you in the parlor, sir.”

The interruption had its desired effect. Tom released the woman in his arms. He exited by the hall door and with obvious regret left Abigail in the kitchen.

“Tom?” She called him back. When he turned around, she held a coffee pot and a cup of freshly poured coffee. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

“It's what I'm hungry for that counts,” Tom said. “After I report to your brother and scrub the trail off my hide, maybe I'll eat.”

“Maybe we'll eat together,” Abigail suggested, a knowing smile brightening her expression. Her eyebrows arched in a look of innocence; but her green eyes brimmed with temptation.

34

T
he parlor was a long, spacious room that included the whole front of the house. One corner served as Nate Harveson's study and contained his desk and a number of bookcases. A piano, a divan, and a variety of end tables and padded Queen Anne chairs dominated the remainder of the room.

Tom reached the parlor ahead of Harveson, who appeared moments later on the rather steep stairway leading to the second-floor bedrooms. Harveson quickly descended and waved Hiram to him.

“Where's Virginia? I haven't seen her about,” Harveson said.

“She's in the fort somewhere,” the snowy-haired old servant reported.

“Hell, that's no answer.”

“She said something about catching fish for supper.” Hiram tried to remember when he had seen the girl last.

“Well, have her straighten and clean upstairs,” Harveson ordered. He shook his head, sighed, and continued across the room to his desk. He slumped down in his chair and stared at the crudely drawn map of the area. A great deal of blank space was rapidly being filled in with creeks and draws, ridges and valleys and lakes, adding an intimate detail to the map.

“Yours is the last survey party to return,” Harveson said, folding his hands across his belly. His stubby fingers toyed with the buttons on the vest he had chosen from his choices upstairs. “I hope you kept accurate notes, my young friend.”

Abigail entered the room and sat by the piano. Tom nodded to her and then joined Harveson at the desk. He started to reply when a pounding on the front door cut him off. The front door, unlatched, swung ajar and Coyote Kilhenny filled the doorway.

He looked broad as a buffalo. His muscled shoulders strained the fabric of his plaid woolen shirt. His thick legs resembled tree stumps wrapped in buckskin. He wore a short-handled ax on his belt; his shaggy red hair hung to his shoulders and blended with his bushy beard. His pistol belt was draped, as usual, across his right shoulder and Tom had no doubt the three pistols holstered on the bandolier were loaded and primed.

Kilhenny stepped inside uninvited, spied Tom Milam, and took a seat by the desk. The chair groaned beneath his weight.

“Spence told me you rode in, Tom. Figured you'd stop by and see me, lad,” Kilhenny said. “Being as we're like family and all.”

“All survey parties are to report directly to me on returning to Fort Promise.” Harveson smoothed his silvery hair and kept his voice low and cordial. “After all, you have your responsibilities, Mr. Kilhenny, and I have mine. We made that clear from the outset and shook on it like gentlemen.”

“Civilized agreements always sound better in civilized places.” Kilhenny leaned forward and helped himself to a glass of brandy from a table by the desk and gulped the liquid down. He grimaced at the sugary taste and returned the bottle to the table. “I'd as sooner drink mule piss.”

“I beg your pardon.” Harveson straightened indignantly in his chair. Tom had the image of a gamecock attempting to face down a grizzly. “My sister is present, sir.”

“Oh yes, indeed,” Kilhenny exclaimed, peering over his shoulder at Abigail. “I mean
horse
piss, ma'am.” The half-breed turned his attention once again to the map at hand.

Here on the breaks of the Marias, with the mountains only a good day's ride from the front gates, it was important to know as much as possible about the maze of valleys and snow-patched divides of Ever Shadow. Two of the three riverboats had been sent back to Missouri. Harveson intended to bring up more supplies and an assortment of merchants and tradesmen necessary to transform the outpost into a real community, a permanent settlement supported by the fur trade and later the traffic lured by the mineral riches the mountains surely contained.

By summer's end, Nate Harveson hoped to be able to look out on the beginnings of a real town. Nothing and no one was going to keep him from realizing his dream, especially a troublesome rogue like Kilhenny.

For now, Harveson needed the legendary half-breed. But once those two other boats returned …

“Pike drew the maps,” Tom said, for once trying to defuse the situation so he could get on with the real reason for his visit. He took an oilskin package from inside his buckskin coat and tossed it on the desk top. “Dog Bill helped as well. He has a steady hand and kept his own record.”

“What about Blackfeet? Did you cut any sign of them red devils?” Kilhenny asked.