Lady Lavender. Lynna Banning
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No…no. Just can’t stop remembering.”
The sun-blackened half-Comanche furrowed his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Let’s get away from this headache powwow and have a drink. Saloon’s just across the street.”
Rooney was usually thirsty for some Red Eye about this time of day. Wash usually wasn’t. But today it was the other way around.
He waved his thanks at the bandleader and the two men marched through the crowd across the main street of hard-packed dirt. The hot afternoon breeze rustled the leaves of maple and poplar trees, already turning gold even though it was only August.
The buildings were sparse but well-kept. Livery stable, sheriff’s office, mercantile and two saloons. “Damn small town for a railway station,” Rooney muttered.
“It’ll grow,” Wash said with conviction. “When the railroad comes through it’ll be the biggest town in Jefferson County.”
Rooney shot him a look and spat tobacco juice from one side of his mouth. “Railroad ain’t comin’ if you don’t get the surveyin’ done and get yer clearing crews out here.”
Wash didn’t answer. He had plenty of time. Grant Sykes of the Oregon Central Railroad wouldn’t expect a route plotted for another week; that gave him four days to inspect the area and get the survey crew started.
He resettled his Stetson and gestured at the rickety-looking two-story building with a fancy gold-lettered sign out front. “Golden Partridge. Jupiter! Oregon settlers sure have a knack for fancied-up names.”
“Name don’t mean nothin’,” Rooney said in a dry tone. “It’s the whiskey that counts.”
Wash gritted his teeth. “Names always mean something. Just look at George Washington Halliday here and tell me you don’t see the gold braid and spit-polished boots Pop thought went with the name.”
Rooney grunted. “Get over it, Wash. Your pa named you, but it was you went off to be a big hero in the War. You said your momma like to die when she seen you all bony and crippled up after Gettysburg. Anyway, that was back then, and the Golden Partridge is in the sweet here and now.”
Wash tramped up the board sidewalk, glanced at the horse he’d tied up at the hitching rail and pushed through the double doors of the saloon. Rooney puffed through the entrance behind him.
“Howdy, gents,” the grinning barkeep called. “Beer?”
Wash planted both elbows on the polished wood bar. “Whiskey.”
The place smelled of sour chicken mash and off in a dim corner a black man was playing a twangy-sounding piano. “Oh, Suzanna.” Rooney, already humming the tune, held up two fingers and the barkeep nodded.
“Welcome home, Colonel,” the barkeep murmured while the whiskey gurgled out of the bottle. “War kept you busy, I hear. Sorry about your leg.”
Wash swallowed hard. That wasn’t the worst of it, getting his hip half shot off with a minié ball. The worst was that Laura had gone off and married someone else before he’d even left for the War. His chest had ached for weeks. The years after Laura had been pretty damn dark. Still were, he acknowledged.
The barkeep, short and round with a swatch of red hair and a mustache to match, swiped a rag across the counter. “What’ll you do now?”
“Now I’m working for the railroad.”
“Heard it was coming. Good thing, too. Where you plan to route it?”
“My boss had a choice between Scarecrow Hill and Green Valley. He’s choosing the valley.”
“Not this valley he won’t.” The barkeep recorked the whiskey and set the bottle at his elbow.
Wash’s gut tightened. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“The widow Nicolet, that’s why. She owns land in the valley. Small farm, but you can’t get into town without running an eyelash away from her place.”
“So?”
“Hell’s haystacks, Colonel, a narrow trail alongside her fields is one thing, but a railroad right-of-way? That’s a different breed of bull.”
Wash set his empty shot glass on the bar and caught the man’s eyes. “The railroad owns the land, not the lady.”
“Maybe. But Miz Nicolet thinks it’s hers.” He pronounced the name with a long a at the end. Nicolay.
“You know that for a sure thing?”
The barkeep shrugged. “She hasn’t given in on one single thing in the four years since she settled here. Real stubborn woman. Frenchie, you know. Worst kinda female on the face of the planet.”
Wash quirked an eyebrow. “Why’s that? Because she’s French?”
“Because she’s female. A woman don’t belong out here, farmin’ on her own. Plus that woman don’t allow nothin’ anywhere near her place, not even Fourth of July picnics.”
Wash shifted, hooking his boot onto the bar rail. “That’s a railroad right-of-way her farm’s sitting on. Railroad wants to use it.”
“Huh!” the barkeep spluttered. “Railroad got a few hundred soldiers to back you up?”
“Nope. They got something better—me. I’m a lawyer, and I’m overseeing the railroad crews.”
The red-haired man again swiped his cloth over the bar. “No fancy law-spoutin’ Back-East lawyer’s gonna make a dent in that woman’s spine.”
“I’m not a fancy Back-East lawyer,” Wash said quietly. “And it’s not her spine that interests me. It’s her fence posts.”
All Wash knew about France was that Napoleon was a big overgrown bully and the wine had bubbles in it. Didn’t seem to him that a woman, even if she was French, could be too big an obstacle. If she was halfway intelligent he’d simply point out the advantages the rail line would bring to Smoke River.
And if she wasn’t intelligent, well, then he’d have to maneuver her into relinquishing the land the railroad owned. At his left, Rooney downed a second shot and when he could draw breath, smacked his lips. “Damn good stuff, Wash. Thanks.”
“Don’t know how you could tell, it went down so fast.” He rolled three two-bit pieces down the shiny wood bar and together the two men stepped out into the fading sunlight.
Wash grabbed the reins of the black gelding and swung up into the saddle. “Gonna ride out and take a look at the narrow end of the valley.”
Rooney chortled. “You mean take a look at the lady farmer at the narrow end of the valley.”
“Just reconnoitering the enemy. You coming?”
The stocky man turned back toward the saloon. “Nope. Rather stir up a poker game ’stead of a hornet’s nest. That’s your department.”
Yeah. Hornet’s nests were his specialty. That’s what he’d dealt with in the War and later with the Sioux at Fort Kearney. And that’s what Grant Sykes paid him for now. He reined away from the hitching rail and headed the horse past the whispering maple trees toward Green Valley.
When he got to the overhanging cliff, Wash reined in. Below him stretched an undulating sea of lavender, washing up the surrounding hills like a purple tide. The little farmhouse nestled at the neck of the valley, a long, slim island of green surrounded by hills as brown and dry as old tea leaves. A peaceful place.
He guessed few travelers passed by and those who did kept their horses on the narrow pathway to avoid trampling the purple-topped bushes next to the lane. Wash had to chuckle. Patches of bright green mint grew along the edge, so if a horse strayed off the path, the sharp minty scent alerted the rider. Miz Nicolet must be one canny farmer.
He wondered for the twentieth time why Sykes’s