flying around her face and shoulders, holding every male in the room enthralled.
She was singing an old Irish drinking song in a bewitching Southern accent that recalled for the young man from Tennessee balmy nights out on the big veranda at Seven Oaks, a band playing, young men and ladies waltzing and laughing, punch glasses clinking together, the air as intoxicating as blackberry brandy.
There were several other women in the place, James saw—a couple of brunettes, a blonde, and two or three Mexicans, perhaps one with Indian blood. Unable to determine which could be Mustang Mary, he decided to risk inquiring with the man standing to his right.
The man turned toward him, looking slightly annoyed. His dark, drink-bleary eyes raked James up and down, and then he turned his head forward, eyes indicating the singer.
The banjo and the fiddle fell silent as James slid his gaze to the front of the room and found himself gazing into the eyes of the black-haired singer, who was no longer singing but was staring at him across the crowded room. She had gray eyes. James hadn’t seenher eyes before now, and so abrupt and shocking was his recognition that they were like twin sledgehammers slammed against his chest.
The man sitting on an overturned crate behind her stopped banging a wooden spoon against the bottom of the kettle he was holding, and looked curiously up at the girl, who continued to stare across the room at James.
He felt his lower jaw sag. He was glad he wasn’t holding a drink, because he would have dropped it. His heart picked up its rhythm, and his palms grew hot.
By threes and fours, all the men in the room stopped stomping and clapping and yelling. Puzzled murmurs rose. Then all heads began swiveling toward James, until every man and woman in the room had followed the girl’s gaze to the tall, dark-haired stranger, the men regarding him incredulously, angrily.
The man with the long red hair falling down from the silver-trimmed black sombrero glared at James as well, his hawkish face reddening as he said, “What for the love o’ Christ…?”
In the near silence, James heard himself rasp, “
Mustang Mary?
” He must have said it louder than he thought he had, because all at once, the beautiful young belle he’d known as Vienna McAllister turned away from him as though she’d been slapped across the face. Her ivory cheeks were touched with rose. A staircase climbed along the wall to her right. She made for it, grabbed the newel post at the bottom, then swung back around, her suddenly sorrowful gray eyes again seeking James out of the milling crowd.
“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. Even fromhis position at the front of the room, he could see the shine of the tears in her eyes. “No,” she said. “James, no!”
Red Mangham leaped down off the plank bar and closed his hands around the wooden handles of the pistols holstered low on his chest. He said nothing as he pushed through the crowd toward James. The long, slanted eyes set close against his long, hooked nose were shiny with wrath, lips pursed inside his red goatee and mustache.
Continuing to push toward James, he barked, “Mister, you just bought yourself a stretched neck and a wooden overcoat!” His voice was strangely high-pitched, almost girlish.
“Red, no!” Vienna cried.
She bolted away from the stairs and sidestepped through the crowd, pushing men out of her way—bearded, sun-leathered men who stood broad and sturdy as oaks in contrast to her small, pale, supple form. She approached James and looked at Mangham, placing a hand on his arm.
“No, Red, please,” she said, her voice trembling. She slid her eyes almost reluctantly to James. “This…this is my…my brother. I fear…he’s brought news from home.”
James held her frightened gaze. Of course, she knew why he was here. What else but news of Willie’s death could have brought him to her? But she didn’t know it all, and the dread of telling her was more
She was singing an old Irish drinking song in a bewitching Southern accent that recalled for the young man from Tennessee balmy nights out on the big veranda at Seven Oaks, a band playing, young men and ladies waltzing and laughing, punch glasses clinking together, the air as intoxicating as blackberry brandy.
There were several other women in the place, James saw—a couple of brunettes, a blonde, and two or three Mexicans, perhaps one with Indian blood. Unable to determine which could be Mustang Mary, he decided to risk inquiring with the man standing to his right.
The man turned toward him, looking slightly annoyed. His dark, drink-bleary eyes raked James up and down, and then he turned his head forward, eyes indicating the singer.
The banjo and the fiddle fell silent as James slid his gaze to the front of the room and found himself gazing into the eyes of the black-haired singer, who was no longer singing but was staring at him across the crowded room. She had gray eyes. James hadn’t seenher eyes before now, and so abrupt and shocking was his recognition that they were like twin sledgehammers slammed against his chest.
The man sitting on an overturned crate behind her stopped banging a wooden spoon against the bottom of the kettle he was holding, and looked curiously up at the girl, who continued to stare across the room at James.
He felt his lower jaw sag. He was glad he wasn’t holding a drink, because he would have dropped it. His heart picked up its rhythm, and his palms grew hot.
By threes and fours, all the men in the room stopped stomping and clapping and yelling. Puzzled murmurs rose. Then all heads began swiveling toward James, until every man and woman in the room had followed the girl’s gaze to the tall, dark-haired stranger, the men regarding him incredulously, angrily.
The man with the long red hair falling down from the silver-trimmed black sombrero glared at James as well, his hawkish face reddening as he said, “What for the love o’ Christ…?”
In the near silence, James heard himself rasp, “
Mustang Mary?
” He must have said it louder than he thought he had, because all at once, the beautiful young belle he’d known as Vienna McAllister turned away from him as though she’d been slapped across the face. Her ivory cheeks were touched with rose. A staircase climbed along the wall to her right. She made for it, grabbed the newel post at the bottom, then swung back around, her suddenly sorrowful gray eyes again seeking James out of the milling crowd.
“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. Even fromhis position at the front of the room, he could see the shine of the tears in her eyes. “No,” she said. “James, no!”
Red Mangham leaped down off the plank bar and closed his hands around the wooden handles of the pistols holstered low on his chest. He said nothing as he pushed through the crowd toward James. The long, slanted eyes set close against his long, hooked nose were shiny with wrath, lips pursed inside his red goatee and mustache.
Continuing to push toward James, he barked, “Mister, you just bought yourself a stretched neck and a wooden overcoat!” His voice was strangely high-pitched, almost girlish.
“Red, no!” Vienna cried.
She bolted away from the stairs and sidestepped through the crowd, pushing men out of her way—bearded, sun-leathered men who stood broad and sturdy as oaks in contrast to her small, pale, supple form. She approached James and looked at Mangham, placing a hand on his arm.
“No, Red, please,” she said, her voice trembling. She slid her eyes almost reluctantly to James. “This…this is my…my brother. I fear…he’s brought news from home.”
James held her frightened gaze. Of course, she knew why he was here. What else but news of Willie’s death could have brought him to her? But she didn’t know it all, and the dread of telling her was more
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