Inheriting a Bride

Tightening the saddle cinch, Clay tossed another glance over his shoulder, to where the skinny kid, shoulders drooped beneath a filthy black-and-red-plaid shirt that should have been turned into a rag months ago, stood staring at the snuffed-out fire. The ride wouldn’t be pleasant, but the pond wasn’t too far, and if Clay held his breath, he might just make it.

Mornings, no matter what season, were chilly in the Rockies. Most months, apart from July and August, you could see your breath before the sun made her way over the snow-capped peaks to brighten and warm the hills and gulches. The pool would be cold, icy even, but there was no way he could tolerate that stench all the way to Black Hawk.

Sticking a foot in the stirrup, Clay hoisted himself into the saddle and then held out a hand. “Come on, Henry, climb up.”

Arms folded across his chest and head down, the boy gave a negative shake. “I’m thinking I’ll walk.”

“Walk?”

Henry nodded, at least the hat did. Actually, Clay had yet to see the kid’s face, other than a dirt-encrusted chin and neck. He’d found “Henry” last evening, crouched beneath a half-dead ponderosa pine.

It had been obvious someone was following him yesterday, but figuring it was the trapper who’d been asking after Sam, Clay had continued on. Eventually, he had caught up with Sam, who’d informed him the trapper was an old family friend. Clay had told Sam he’d be out to the mine in a day or so, and had doubled back, expecting to come across the trapper and ask him a few questions. Instead he’d found Henry.

Clay shook his head at his own luck lately. Now he had another task, taking the foul-smelling Henry to Clarice. He’d decided that last night, even before persuading the kid to share a pan of beans and the warmth of a fire.

Henry appeared to be at that tough age—thirteen, fourteen maybe, but no older. His voice still had that squeaky pitch that didn’t go away until age fifteen or so. Younger kids, ten and below, were easy to convince how nice Clarice’s society house would be to live in, but older ones often disputed it.

Orphans were a commodity mining towns produced, whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, and Clarice, with a heart bigger than Gregory Gulch, had set her mind to taking care of those ill-gotten children. Every last one of them.

Clay looked around at the trees growing out of the mountainside, at the gleaming snow still clinging to the peaks as if warding off the changing season, at the pastel-blue sky dotted with white balls of fluff—anywhere but at the kid. He could let Henry be, and head back to Nevadaville, where an assortment of other duties waited. But he’d never forgive himself if he left a kid out here. A conscience was a hell of a thing sometimes.

“Well,” he said offhandedly. “I guess that’s your choice.”

The hat nodded.

“You got any grub?” Clay knew the boy didn’t, but wanted him to admit it, let the knowledge solidify in his stubborn little head.

“I—”

The shrillness of the squeaky voice could have sent the birds out of the trees.

It must have bothered Henry, too, because he cleared his throat and, with imitation gruffness, said, “I’ll get by.”

Acting as if he was pondering the day, Clay glanced around again. “That horse I saw last evening, the one I figured was yours, probably didn’t get too far. I could help you catch it this morning. Then you’d at least have your bedroll and such.”

“You—” Henry cleared his throat again. “You will?”

“Sure. Come on, let’s take a gander.” Once more he held out his hand.

The kid hesitated.

Clay gave the boy a moment, letting him think about his options. For all his gruffness, he was scared. The way his shoulders twitched and his feet fidgeted belied his crustiness.

“Suit yourself,” Clay said, when enough time had ticked by. “I don’t have all day.”

The kid shuffled forward, and moments later, after he had stuck a foot in the stirrup, grabbed Clay’s hand and awkwardly swung himself behind the saddle, Clay wished he’d never made the offer. The brief reprieve of being upwind made the stench that much worse.

Breathing into the crook of his arm, and holding his neck muscles tight, lest he start gagging, Clay kneed his mount, heading straight for the pool of water. The horse he’d seen yesterday was back in Black Hawk by now, that was certain, which was where they were headed. Riding double on the mountain trail all the way to Nevadaville would be too dangerous.

Stinking to high heaven or not, by climbing on this horse, Henry had probably saved Clay’s life. If Clarice ever got wind of him coming across a child and not lending aid, she’d kill him. Clay grinned, knowing his sister would do no such thing. But, he acknowledged, she’d sure as heck never let him forget it.

Women were like that, reminding men of blunders, making their lives miserable. He was dually glad he’d sworn off them. Kids, too. His old partner’s will had saddled him with enough youngster worries to last a lifetime, and Clay’s own past mistakes had taught him life’s greatest lesson concerning women. There wasn’t a one in the lot who wouldn’t lie to get what she wanted. The opera house he’d built in Nevadaville was a constant reminder of that.

Even with such heavy thoughts, by the time the pool of sparkling blue came into view, Clay was damned near light-headed. The front of his coat was pulled up over his nose, had been for several miles, but it didn’t help. He could still smell the noxious odor, and his burning lungs desperately needed a breath of fresh air.

“Why we stopping?” Henry asked in that mock rough voice.

“Andrew needs a drink,” Clay answered without breathing.

“Who?”

Leaping to the ground, Clay moved to the front of his mount while sucking air deep into his lungs. “My horse.”

Henry climbed down, in an almost delicate and sissy way. His toes searched for the ground, and he didn’t let go of the saddle until both feet were safely planted. Tugging on the hat brim, as if it wasn’t already as low as it could go, he asked, “Your horse’s name is Andrew?”

“Yep, after Andrew Jackson, the seventh president of the United States.” A man didn’t know how sweet air was until he missed it, and Clay couldn’t seem to get enough. He led the horse closer to the pool, glorying in every deep breath.

“I kno—” Henry cleared his throat again. “I know who Andrew Jackson was.”

“Do you?”

“Y-yes.”

Justification took to wallowing in Clay’s mind. The sun had crested the mountains and was heating the air, but not the water. Even months from now, at the height of summer, it would still be icy cold. It really couldn’t be helped, though. He couldn’t ride for hours without breathing. Walking wouldn’t be any better and would double their travel time. Long ago he’d learned that when something needed to be done, it was best to jump in and get it over with. He’d known Henry for only a short time, but he’d learned a lot about him.

One, he stank, which said he didn’t like baths.

Two, he prickled easily, which meant he’d argue.

Three, he stank.

Clay flinched, thinking about what was to come, but he couldn’t stand here pondering all day. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the back of Andrew, patting the horse’s rump affectionately and trying to look casual.

Henry sidestepped, as if suspicious.

Clay shot out an arm, catching the kid by the collar.

“Hey! Let go!”

“I will in about three steps,” Clay assured him, grabbing the waistband of his britches with his other hand.

“Put me down!”

As promised, three steps later Clay let go, pitching the boy into the pond.

“You—” The resulting splash stifled Henry’s high-pitched protest.

Folding his arms, Clay watched the water swell up to engulf the youngster, hat and all. Henry would be mad enough to spit bullets when he surfaced, but at least he’d smell better.