It’s a bold statement, ’specially with Rose, but he shakes me off with a smile, his brows rising almost lazily. “What’s it matter where he’s at, son? Here, have a cigar.”
He passes me one, plus a book of matches.
“I said to bring everyone. Where is he?”
Rose takes a long pull from his glass and sets it down. And then, finally, ever so slowly, he says, “With DeSoto.”
I freeze, a burning match held just inches from the cigar I were aiming to light.
DeSoto. He weren’t with the lot of ’em when I searched ’em out on the plains. At least not nowhere where I could see him. But he were around. He were hiding. He had to be. And when I were too beat to notice, when just holding my head up to see the trail ahead were a struggle, he followed.
He followed, and he saw everything. The way to the Coltons’ hideout and how the path don’t bottleneck and how the house’s just sitting there for the taking. He brought that info back to the gang. DeSoto, who never says a word ’less addressed directly. DeSoto, who always fades into the background, brings up the rear, hangs in the shadows. DeSoto, always quiet and always forgotten.
I forgot ’bout him, too. I got greedy and tried to con the devil, forgetting that the devil can’t be conned ’cus he plays by his own rules and those rules’re always changing. The devil is patient and sly and willing to bide his time till we lay our weakness bare before him.
Rose coulda had them attack that very night I returned with half my blood on my front. He coulda attacked any day since. But he told the boys to pull back and keep their distance. He’s been waiting for this moment right now, when the Coltons are separated and the prize will be easy to take. Luther Rose aims to win two pots in the same hand: one made of revenge, the other of gold.
Flames bite at my fingers, and I shake out the match.
“We’re gonna be very rich men when this is over, Murphy.” Rose thumbs the lip of his whiskey glass, smiling. “I’ll take that cowboy’s life while Diaz and DeSoto take his gold. Everything Jesse Colton took from my brother, I’m winning back.”
I think of Charlotte in the doorway and how I told her I’d return by dusk. I think of Kate and the baby that may or may not be in the world yet. I think of both their guards down and attention elsewhere and how they ain’t gonna see it coming, ain’t gonna stand a chance. I think till the images of the result surface in my mind and I start feeling sick.
“That sounds like something worth celebrating,” I say, numb.
“Don’t it? So let’s get on with it. Where’s the cowboy?”
“Not here.”
“Yer lying.”
The car rattles hard. More whiskey slops over the edge of my untouched glass.
“He were too spooked when I returned beat half to death that day. I couldn’t convince him to get on the train. But he’ll be in Prescott. He had errands to see to, and I’ll walk you to each and every place he planned to visit.”
“Murphy . . .” Rose says, slow.
I fumble for another light.
“Murphy.” This one said sharp, like a warning.
I strike the match.
Rose inches a finger toward his pistol belt. “Son, you better straighten yer story before—”
I flick the match onto the whiskey-drenched table before he can pull, and the surface springs to life with flames.
Chapter Forty-Two
* * *
Charlotte
By midmorning I am tired. I don’t dare complain because Kate works harder.
She seems unaware of the hours that have passed, whereas I am quite aware of my growling belly and bleary eyes. I have a newfound respect for my mother, who has been called to a house and sometimes not returned for nearly forty-eight hours.
Kate’s close at least.
I can feel the baby’s head.
I tell her she’s doing wonderfully, that every wave is bringing the baby closer, that soon she’ll get to meet the little one and it will all have been worthwhile.
I repeat everything I’ve heard my mother say and try not to think on the heartbreaking outcomes that can also occur: babies who arrive in the world stillborn, mothers who bleed inwardly and never finish the birthing.
Kate seems too stubborn for anything like that to happen.
But then again, life is rarely fair.
After an hour of pushing, the babe has still not come.
Kate’s forehead is slick with sweat, her hair sticking to her shoulders.
“You’re close.”
“You been saying that for hours,” she grunts.
“This time I mean it. Just a little more.”
She breathes and waits, and at the next wave she pushes and pushes and pushes. And I’m there waiting at the foot of bed. I’ve got my hands out and ready, and still the baby nearly shoots between my fingers, slick with blood and fluids. I turn the small soul over.
“It’s a boy.”
But he’s not crying.
He’s purple, too.
I think they all look purple at first. I can’t remember. It’s been so long since I assisted my mother.
I give the baby a little tap on the back, and he coughs. Mucus shoots from his nose and mouth, landing on my arms, and I don’t care in the slightest because he’s started crying—a raw, screeching, beautiful sound.
I pass him to Kate, and the instant that baby touches her skin, he quiets. It’s now Kate who’s crying, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she smiles. “Oh my God,” she mutters. “Oh my God.” Then she kisses the baby’s forehead and whispers, “Hello, William.”
“William?” It’s a good name. A strong name.
“After Jesse’s brother. Jesse were so certain it were gonna to be a boy, too. He’s gotta be right ’bout everything.” Her eyes dart around the room. “Where is he? Send him in.”
“He’s gone, Kate. He went with Reece.”
“To the train,” she says, remembering.
“Yeah, but he’ll be back. They both will.”
I take a fresh towel and wipe the baby clean as best I can while he rests on Kate’s chest. After I’ve seen to the cord, I tell Kate she should try feeding him. She nods, stroking the little bit of dark hair on the baby’s crown, almost oblivious to my presence. I excuse myself to fetch some water. The afterbirth will come soon, and then I’ll help Kate move to the second bed so I can go about stripping the first and washing the bloody sheets.
“Hey, Charlotte,” Kate says when I reach the doorway. “Thanks for being here.”
“You could have done it alone.”
“That ain’t the point.”
She looks beat, yet she’s still glowing. I smile back, finally understanding why my mother never gave up her job. Even once Father had secured a comfortable life for us, she didn’t want to miss this. Some days, she’d come home heartbroken. But there were many days like this one with Kate. It’s a miracle, really. A common yet always dazzling miracle.
I grab the bucket from the dry sink and head outside. Mutt follows, nipping at my heels, but in a friendly manner. I think he’s finally starting to approve of me.