Behind His Blue Eyes Read Free Page A

away earlier in her hand. “How about here?”
    â€œHeartbreak Creek?”
    â€œWhy not? You say your daddy inherited a cabin there. Dismal-sounding town like that be a fine place to hide. I bet nobody there care that you wrote your daddy’s papers for him.” She tossed the letter on the desk. “Jail, marriage to Mr. Villars, or Heartbreak Creek. You pick. Though after thirty years married to that no-talking Curtis, I had the choice, I’d pick jail or that dismal place. Be livelier, that for sure.”
    Audra pulled the society’s letter from her pocket and unfolded it. Richard had said something about a grant. If it was enough—
    She gasped when she saw the amount. With that much money, they could cover a lot of miles—assuming Father was strong enough to make the trip, and the cabin was even habitable, and she was willing to leave everything she’d ever known.
    A ghastly prospect, but what other option did she have?
    Pulling out her pen and a fresh sheet of paper, she began to write.
    Dear Richard,
    I know this comes as a surprise, but Father has asked us to join him in New Mexico. By the time this reaches you, we will already be gone, and I doubt we’ll return in the near future . . .

Two
    MARCH 1871, COLORADO TERRITORY
    H e should offer assistance. That would be the neighborly thing to do.
    Instead, Ethan Hardesty crossed his arms and outstretched legs and settled back on the bench outside the Boot Creek Depot. The woman was clearly out of her depth. Yet she kept at it. He’d give her high marks for that, at least.
    A gust of wind flipped up the hem of her skirt, giving him a fine view of narrow feet encased in delicate low-top shoes. City people. They never understood that in hard country like this, sturdy footwear was second only to a good jacket, no matter the season.
    Hearing a ruckus toward the end of the idling train, he glanced back to see a drover lead a fractious bay down the ramp and hand the lead to an elderly African man who was obviously frightened of the animal. Sawing on the lead and stepping lively to keep his feet from beneath the prancing hooves, the man wrestled the horse over to where the woman was supervising the unloading of a closed, four-wheel, single-horse buggy in the Amish style.
    It wasn’t going well.
    In addition to getting in the way of the freight handlers, she was busy trying to calm the horse and the old man holding him, attend questions and complaints from a cantankerous Negro woman she called Winnie, keep an eye on a mumbling old man—probably her father—and hang on to a thrashing badger-sized dog that barked continuously.
    It was like watching a circus. A poorly run circus.
    Ethan couldn’t remember the last time he had been so entertained.
    The man he assumed was her father made a shuffling escape, heading purposefully down the track toward the outskirts of town. Ethan knew there was nothing out that way but rough mountain country, so he kept him in sight, waiting for the woman to do something.
    She continued to harass the freight handlers.
    Twenty yards. Sixty. Was anyone watching the old fellow?
    Hell.
With a sigh, he rose and walked toward the woman. On the way, he stopped beside the dancing horse. Grabbing the lead close to the halter ring, he gave a hard yank to get the animal’s attention then looked him hard in the eye. “Whoa.”
    The horse tossed its head.
    Ethan yanked again, this time keeping pressure on the lead. “Whoa.”
    The horse blinked at him, nostrils flared. After a brief staring match, the animal slowly let his head drop enough to ease the pull on the halter.
    Ethan gave his neck a friendly pat and turned to the surprised Negro. “And your name would be . . . ?”
    â€œCurtis Abraham. How you do that?”
    â€œHold him closer to the halter ring, Curtis.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the barking of the dog. “Every time