Dance Hall Road Page 3

  A man’s promises, she’d learned, couldn’t be trusted; promises often preceded pain and betrayal. Looking where his mouth should be, the man’s beard quivered and shook. She couldn’t read the words on his hidden lips. He held up one finger, then both hands.

  She understood. He wanted her to wait. With his hands out to his sides, he moved around her, careful to maintain his distance.

  Filled with uncertainty, she stood at the top of the landing, staring after him as he took the stairs in three short leaps to the room below. Moving quickly, she entered her room, then laid Gabriel down in his bed. Resolute, she turned back to the opened door to face…she didn’t know what. Whatever happened, she intended to go down fighting, her knife unsheathed, hidden in Gabriel’s sling.

  Taking her by surprise, even though she knew he would reappear, the giant rushed back into her room with two slate boards, one in each hand. His beard parted, revealing a wide, white-toothed, crazed grin. When he thrust one of the slates toward her, along with a piece of chalk, she instinctively backed away. In this room, she had nowhere to go but into the corner.

  Before her eyes, his demeanor changed from angry jailer to Father Christmas. She didn’t know which persona to believe. A bubble of a nervous giggle formed in her throat, teeth chattering. When he took a step toward the bed, arms outstretched, bending down to where Gabriel lay peaceful and quiet, the familiar vibrations of terror rushed through her body like a tidal wave.

  Shaking her head, scurrying out from her corner, Petra put her body between the giant and her son. If she screamed, she didn’t know, but in her head she pleaded, No. Not Gabriel, you can’t have him.

  Soon, Petra hoped, she’d awaken from this nightmare that alternated between terror and pure insanity, and find herself home in Missoula, safe and warm in her bed.

  The man stopped, just slightly more than an arm’s-length from her. His hand over his heart, he motioned toward Gabriel’s bed, asking for something. Motioning again, he tilted his head, his gaze asking for something—her trust?

  Impossible. She couldn’t afford to trust anyone, ever again.

  Uncertain of what would happen next, she looked down to her son, relieved he’d fallen asleep. Keeping her eyes on the giant, she moved around the end of the bed. In a futile attempt to insulate her son from the ugliness of their situation, she bent down and tucked his blanket more tightly around his little body.

  Gathering her courage, she turned to face the giant and caught him frowning. He’d looked disappointed. Straightening his sagging shoulders, he hid his wounded expression behind his beard.

  Putting up her chin, Petra kept up her guard. Although he’d rescued her and her son, she couldn’t trust his motives.

  Unexpectedly, he reached out and put his hand on her arm. It startled her. When she jerked away, she found herself back in the corner. Her eyes darted to Gabriel, who squirmed but didn’t waken. The man waved his hand in front of her and tapped the chalk on the slate board, then quickly wrote something and turned it toward her to read.

  Name?

  Confused, it took a second for Petra to deliberate with herself, ask herself if she should give him her real name, or lie. If Kurt was after her, then lying might be the kindest thing she could do for this man, and the safest thing she could do for herself and her son. On the other hand, because of the giant’s kindness and generosity, she felt obliged to stay as close to the truth as possible.

  She took her chalk and wrote, Petra Yurvasi.

  Buck Hoyt, he wrote back.

  If he meant to be civil, then she would relent, but cautiously. She offered him a tentative smile, nodding as he scribbled another message.

  Husband?

  Without thinking, she shook her head.

  Family?

  Again she shook her head.

  Virgin Mary?

  Her nerves on edge, Petra caught herself smiling, and felt the tickling itch in the back of her throat, perhaps the beginnings of a giggle.

  She used to giggle a lot. Back then, a foolish, ignorant, careless girl, back then, only a few months, and yet, a lifetime. No, she couldn’t afford to let her guard down; she must never forget the lessons she’d learned.

  Shaking her head Petra wrote, Fool.

  Unable to hear him, she watched the man’s mouth open wide, his deep-set, silver-gray eyes crinkling up at the corners, giving him a kindly, less threatening aspect. Then he sobered, his bushy brows drawing together over the sharp planes of his crooked nose, writing out his next question. Born deaf?

  She shook her head, and scribbled, mine explosion.

  Explosion? Your fault?

  She shook her head vigorously.

  Running, why?

  Fool.

  Obviously dissatisfied with her excuse, he shook his head at her.

  Frustrated with her inability to communicate, finding her situation impossible to explain in small words, impossible to explain period, Petra tossed the slate board on the bed.

  Day in and day out, all night long, she now lived with what sounded like a turbulent waterfall pounding away inside her head, the sound drowning out her own voice. Taking care of the baby, doing chores, she could keep her mind off it, but at night, in the dark, the sound wouldn’t let her sleep and threatened to send her over the edge of reason. Today she felt a squeezing pressure, a pain that wouldn’t let up, right behind her eyes, and her throat felt dry and raw.

  She wanted to speak, say the words, explain—she had to try. After taking a deep breath, she balled her fists, closed her eyes, imagining her voice, the words she needed to say, forming them without thinking, without hearing them.

  A nagging ache vibrated behind her ears and shivered down her neck. She rolled her head from side to side to shake it off and formed her first word, then the next. “Fool. Gave money to man I thought loved me, marry me. Didn’t want me, wanted money.”

  Panting, breathless, perspiration forming on her upper lip, she swallowed down what felt like a cupful of glass. Squeezing her eyes shut against the sharp edges, she shivered, then opened her eyes to gauge the man’s response, wondering if she’d made any noise at all. Meeting his scowl, she sighed, closed her eyes again and tried to remember to breathe. “Man wants my baby to hold as hostage for money. He will take him, keep him; steal his soul.”

  Her heart racing, thudding against her ribcage, she tried to block the sounds of the slosh and sizzle inside her head. Without thinking about how to form the words, she added, “Kurt will kill me. Or he might keep me alive to watch him destroy my child.”

  Petra hadn’t thought of her future in words until this moment, and it sickened her—the future, what little she had to look forward to, sounded like hell.

  Mr. Hoyt’s penetrating eyes narrowed and he held her gaze for a long second, his jaw sawing, his beard switching back and forth before he quickly wrote, Coming after you?

  She shrugged, her neck cramping, and a heavy, cold pain settled over her eyebrows, making her think if she tried to say one more word her head might explode. “Might be dead,” she managed to mouth. Impatient, wanting the giant to go away and leave her alone, lips moving, air rushing over her tongue, the voice in her head shouted, “I don’ know. Didn’t stay to find out.”

  Eyes open, Mr. Hoyt’s mouth moved; if she had to guess what he’d said, she would say he’d uttered a swear word. With a shake of his head, he quickly scrawled the question, Where were you going?

  Pressing her lips together, Petra felt them tingle before she opened her mouth. “Mmmissoula. Mmmy home, could live there.”

  This man, he’ll follow?

  Nodding vigorously set off an unexpected explosion of pain at the base of her skull. Pulling in a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders back before attempting to speak further. “If alive, yes, hunt me down. I…I know his secrets. He is monster, he is evil.”

  His gaze leaving her face, Mr. Hoyt glanced out the window before writing on the slate, snowing.

  At first Petra didn’t understand, then
she followed his gaze. “How long?” she asked, watching the cascading flakes flutter by the window.

  Till April, he wrote, looking as dismayed as she felt.

  “Have to go, have to.”

  Won’t make it, he wrote.

  “Pay. Have money. Mmmissoula, have money. Pay you.”

  He shook his head at her.

  Too late. He erased.

  You stay here. Erase.

  Safe here. Erase.

  With a shake of her head, her throat burning, Petra closed her eyes, causing them to water. Tears blurring her vision, she put all her effort behind her plea. “Don’t want us here. Wwwould have died…son would have died. Sure of it. Thank you. But can’t stay. Ready. Strong. Travel. Son healthy—strong, too.”

  One word, in big letters, NO, that’s all Mr. Hoyt wrote before holding up the slate for her to see.

  By the stubborn set of his jaw, and the piercing look in his eyes, Petra knew she would not budge Mr. Hoyt on this issue. She would keep trying. Of course she could follow through with her plan to steal a horse and light out as soon as he left the house.

  His gaze went beyond her to the bed. Don’t dog-ear pages, he wrote and pointed to the books.

  Embarrassed and flustered, Petra quickly picked up a book and tried to smooth out the corners. The word sorry formed in her mind, but she didn’t know if she’d spoken the apology aloud or not.

  Curious, she gave a sideways glance and hoped her thoughts came out in the form of recognizable words, “You have a lot of books. Should have asked to borrow. Sorry.”

  He nodded, then moved around her, going over to look down into Gabriel’s bed. Name? Mr. Hoyt wrote on the slate and showed it to her.

  With her fingers, cool upon her burning lips, Petra formed the word, “Gabriel,” as a tear slid down her cheek. She came to stand beside the giant, positioning herself to protect her son if needed.

  Watching Gabriel breathe in and out, so peaceful, so sweet and serene, Petra vowed to do everything in her power to give her son a chance. One way or another she had to find a way.

  Gabriel, the messenger, Mr. Hoyt wrote on the slate before reaching down to stroke her son’s forehead.

  “Yes,” Petra hoped she said. Nodding, nervous to have him touch her baby, she tried valiantly to stay calm, even though she couldn’t help but mistrust this man’s kindness.

  Her lips moving, she thought the words and imagined the sound of her voice. “He has message for me.”

  Mr. Hoyt nodded and smiled, one of his big fingers trailing along her son’s pink cheek. Gabriel’s lips moved in a sucking motion, then he squirmed and squeezed his eyes tight.

  Petra put out her hand to stop Mr. Hoyt from any further contact, but quickly withdrew it.

  Mr. Hoyt stepped back, withdrawing his hand, reverting to his usual sullen and surly self before he scribbled on his slate, My stove. Erase. No one touches.

  Petra nodded with understanding, feeling the same way about her son, and her chin went up defensively.

  Mr. Hoyt had a lot of rules. He reminded her of her Aunt Jean. Living here could well turn out to be as bad as dealing with that old fusspot.

  Petra’s mother had wanted things, which the petulant, spoiled young Petra had understood. To get them, her mother married a rich white man who’d given her a fancy house, carriages, gowns, fine china and jewels, everything her mother thought she deserved.

  Petra’s Aunt Jean, also stubborn, but ignorant, to Petra’s way of thinking, had stayed on the Kootenai reservation, doing things the old way. After her mother’s death, Aunt Jean had stepped in, living in the fine house Petra’s father had built, working as housekeeper, becoming a surrogate mother and teacher to Petra, the then thirteen-year-old girl. Strict and wise, Aunt Jean had surreptitiously instructed Petra in the ways of the Kootenai. If not for the teachings of her Aunt Jean, Petra realized, she might not be here, and certainly her son wouldn’t be here.

  Petra found it amazing how much she’d remembered, so many things her aunt had shown her, and every one of them had served her well, kept her alive, given her the instinct to survive.

  Her father had spoiled her, given her anything and everything she asked for, except his love and attention. Aunt Jean’s way, the Kootenai way, seemed the hard way, the primitive way. But it hadn’t stopped her aunt from teaching and insisting Petra know something of her mother’s people and how they lived.

  Bringing Petra out of her reverie, the man held up his slate to her, tapping it. Good pie, he wrote. You cook, you clean, were his next words. Shiny clean, he added with a nod.

  Having to purse her lips together or giggle, inexplicably delighted he’d liked her pie, she hazarded a guess he’d liked her stew, and her biscuits too, or he wouldn’t let her near his stove.

  “Like to cook. Something I’m good at. Will take good care of stove. Promise. Want to help. Need to earn keep. Stay busy.”

  He started for the door, stopped, and wrote, Bad Weather. Erase.

  Can’t leave. Erase.

  Safe here. Erase.

  Stay. Rest. Erase.

  Writing on both sides of the slate, Steal my horse. You’ll wish you had died.

  Standing in the doorway, giving her time to absorb what he’d written, he nodded, looking pleased with himself, then he turned and left her standing there staring after him.

  Petra shivered. She didn’t think she’d said anything aloud about stealing his horse. She couldn’t be sure, but surely she hadn’t spoken the thought. Maybe he could read minds. It wasn’t possible. He had to be guessing. Which brought up her original question, was she a guest or a prisoner in this strange place?

  Chapter Four

  The way Buck saw things right now, at this moment, to save his sanity he had to get the woman out of his house. Getting up close to her, he’d felt something, a craving, a longing. When he’d held her, to keep her from falling down the stairs, he didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to hold her, soothe her, gentle her down, but even more, he wanted her to cling to him, need him.

  Recalling how she’d felt in his arms, warm and soft, how she’d smelled of soap and woman, his senses ratcheted up on high, and it scared the hell out of him. Rationalizing, he assured himself he could keep his hands off her; keep her safe if she stayed.

  Then the voice inside his head whispered the taunt that because he’d found her, by rights, he should get to have her.

  To which his conscience cried, bullshit, he knew better.

  At the end of this conversation with himself, one thing became very clear, protecting Petra from his own advances could well prove to be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

  The foul weather would keep her from leaving any time soon, and on the face of it, he thought that a good thing.

  Then doing an about face, he cursed the weather for keeping her here under his roof to torture and tempt him.

  Hell, and damn, she had him all confused, discombobulated.

  One thing Buck could be grateful for—unlike Petra, he didn’t have to hide or run anymore. This Kurt fella had her scared to death. Even if Buck didn’t know the details, he had a lively imagination. He believed her when she’d called the man a devil.

  Buck knew how it felt to be scared all the time, looking over your shoulder, waiting for the ax to fall across your neck. He’d hidden his face behind his hair, letting it grow long and shaggy, growing a beard and mustache. He’d changed his name, built a life for himself out here on the backside of nowhere. But over the past three or four years, he’d stopped looking over his shoulder for a posse.

  He kept in touch with a few of his old friends from San Francisco, and they’d let him know he could breathe easy. The law had caught three members of the old gang he’d run with and hung’em for cattle rustling. According to his sources, the law appeared satisfied they’d eradicated the desperados. Buck didn’t think he should take the chance and show his face in California again.

  But the woman upstairs, Petra, her circumstances w
ere far worse than his had ever been. He’d been twenty-four, with no one depending on him, slowing him down, and a man. A woman on the run, especially a good lookin’ woman with a kid, would get noticed, no matter where she went.

  Yeah, she could be lying about her name, about the cause of her deafness, about the fiend hunting her. Women shaved the truth all the time—most of the time, in Buck’s experience. They liked to dress up the truth a bit, make it more exciting. Could be this Kurt fella had a claim on her. He could be her husband. Could be she had a lot of folks scouring the countryside, looking for her.

  Buck hadn’t asked her to explain how she’d come to be half-starved, running around in the freezing cold barely clothed, no shoes, pregnant, and about to give birth. He had a lot of questions. Such as where had she learned how to do what she’d done with the umbilical cord? An Indian would know how to do it. She did look part Indian, but those blue eyes weren’t Indian eyes.

  He’d noticed it wasn’t easy for her to talk. He’d bet his best frying pan she had a lot of pain up there right between her eyes. She had a strong voice, not a whisper, as he would’ve expected. Buck promised himself he’d get answers to his questions, no matter if it did cause her pain to talk.

  Right now he thought, to take his mind off the woman, he’d go through the tabloid materials he’d brought back with him from Baker City. He needed to find a market for his stories. Dime novels were popular now. He had better tales to tell than any of the ones he’d read so far. He’d worked in his mother’s brothel as a flunky until he turned fifteen. Shoot, the stories from his fifteenth year alone could fill a volume the size of a bible.

  Stopping in front of his looking glass, Buck gave himself a careful study. He would be thirty come Christmas, but he looked older with all the whiskers. He hadn’t seen his face, except for his eyes, since the age of twenty-four, a kid, all rawboned and gaunt, on the run. He did have his hair professionally trimmed twice a year when he went into town. His hair had been down past his shoulders last week. Now he could almost see his earlobes.

  Looking at himself, trying to see himself through a woman’s eyes, Buck had to admit he looked a mite wild and wooly, like an old mountain goat. Unexpectedly, he grinned, which didn’t improve the image. If anything, his grin added a demented aspect. In his defense, he kept himself clean. He wasn’t an animal. He bathed once a week in the hot spring and washed his clothes. He didn’t stink, at least he didn’t think he did. Lifting one arm experimentally, he took a whiff. Nope, he didn’t stink.