Silver on the Road (The Devil's West Book 1) (34 page)

“Graciendo? I could tell you legends and stories and things I’ve seen and heard myself, and you’d call me a liar. Graciendo is best met personally.”

She scoffed under her breath, then thought about all the people who came to see the boss, to look at him, to play against him at his own table, and decided that maybe she’d wait before she judged. The marshal, ass or not, had seemed impressed by the man, and Gabriel rode weeks to bring him letters. . . .

The guesthouse barely earned the name: it was a quarter the size of the building in Patch Junction, and her first look inside confirmed her suspicious. The front room was dusty and dimly lit, with two doors in the back. The only furniture was two straight-back chairs next to a rickety wooden table, and only the small, cast-iron box stove dimly glowing with coals within indicated that anyone had been there in the past few days. Gabriel cleared his throat and dropped his bags on the floor, which creaked again under the weight. There was noise from somewhere, and the left-hand door opened and a woman came out, wiping her hands on a small towel. She was slight-built, wearing a man’s shirt and trousers, with the black hair and darker skin of a native, but her hair was cut short to her ears and slicked back against her scalp like a man’s. Even in the dim light, Izzy could tell she wasn’t much older than herself, eyes bright and skin unlined.

“One square per night for the two of you covers a bed each but not the bath. Meals are another square.” She had a voice that carried, husky but clear.

“How much for the baths?”

The owner started to say something, then stopped, reaching for Izzy’s hand. Surprised, she let the woman turn her hand over, her thumb brushing over Izzy’s palm, then pulling the fingers back gently, as though to expose her hand to someone.

She heard Gabriel make a noise and tried to curl her fingers around it again, but the other woman had a surprisingly strong hold. Held up like that, the mark was clear, the lines darker than before, the looping circles centered within a larger circle familiar to every soul in the Territory.

The woman closed Izzy’s fingers around the mark gently, then took a step away, dropping contact as though it burned her. “Room’s through there,” she said, and pointed to the right-hand door. “Towels are in the bath, no charge.”

She took the coin Gabriel handed her and disappeared back through the left-hand door, closing it firmly behind her.

“Iz . . .”

A thousand words in that one syllable, and a question hung between them. She braced herself, but Gabriel didn’t say anything more, just picked up his bags and went in through the right-hand door. After a moment, she did the same.

She hadn’t been hiding the mark, not exactly, but it felt, now, as though she had.

The sleeping quarters were as barren as the front room, four beds with no barriers between them for modesty, but there were pillows and blankets, and no obvious draft, and it wasn’t sleeping on the ground. Izzy dropped her pack on the nearest bed, and touched the striped blanket. Wool, harsh to the touch but likely warm as anything she’d slept under back in Flood, maybe even more so. “She said there were meals included? How does a town this small support a restaurant?”

“It doesn’t, exactly,” Gabriel told her. “The miners don’t bother with cooking their own meals. There’s a mess hall, serves up two meals
a day. It’s not fancy, but it will be warm. And it won’t be trail rations.”

“I’d eat rocks rather than more pemmican.”

“I can’t promise they’ll have elk, but I remember their mutton as being excellent.”

Dinner had been everything Gabriel had promised, the square-chested cook who might have been the guesthouse keeper’s older brother serving up warm stew with beans and bacon, and a corn pudding that left her warm and full. But it was the bathhouse—the “something better” Gabriel had promised—that won Izzy’s heart. It had been nothing more than a stone hut over a natural spring, smelling of sulphur and filled with steam, but the warm water had eased the last soreness out of her muscles until she was convinced that she would fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

The mattress was thin and lumpy, and the blanket scratched as expected, but there weren’t any rocks underneath, and the pillow was surprisingly full. And yet, sleep evaded her. At the other end of the room, Gabriel snored lightly, clearly not having the same problem.

She lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, finally letting herself think about what had happened since leaving Flood. A month they’d been on the road. Only a month since she’d sat in front of the devil and said what she wanted . . . and she was more confused now than she’d been then. She’d thought becoming his Hand would mean something, would
make
her something, but . . .

She looked at her hand, the sigil on her palm invisible in the darkness, but she could feel it etched into her skin. His hand, moving hers. Nothing she did was on her own; nothing she accomplished was hers. There was no reason for anyone to respect
her
.

Izzy pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart beat slowly, a thump and a pause, a thump and a pause. Too slow, too loud. Her palm itched, and her heart pulsed, the air in the sleeping chamber suddenly too close to breathe.

As though still asleep, she rose from the bed, reaching for the dress she had worn the day before, slipping it over her chemise, then sitting down and sliding her stockings back on. She could feel the buttons in the back of her skirt press against her legs as she bent over to pick up her boots, carrying them with her as she reached for her jacket, and slipped out to the front room. It was empty; they had not seen the woman who ran the place since she took their coin. She sat down on the chair to button her boots and put her jacket on.

Outside, the surprisingly cold air slipped underneath her clothing instantly, making her shiver. She buttoned her jacket and rubbed her fingers, wishing for the pair of knitted mittens that were in her pack. But if she went back inside for them, she might wake Gabriel, and the thought of trying to explain why she was awake and dressed before sunrise made her willing to bear the cold.

She looked to her right, down the street to where the mine workers lived, but then turned and walked the other direction, away and out of town.

Behind her, the wind picked up and thin white snowflakes began to fall.

Gabriel didn’t think much of it when Isobel’s bed was empty when he woke. He figured she’d gone to use the bath again, or merely wanted some fresh air. The room they’d slept in was tidily built, but without windows or chimney, the air became stale overnight. He stretched, feeling his back crack in ways it never did when he slept on the ground, and pulled his clothing on over his johns, gathering his shaving kit. He didn’t mind a bit of scruff, preferring that to a cold-water shave, but the steam from the bath would soften the bristles nicely for a close shave. Then he could check on the horses and find Isobel and some breakfast, in that order, if she hadn’t already come back.

The outside room was empty and surprisingly chilled, even with the stove still warm from the coals glowing within. When he opened
the main door to step outside, he discovered why: the ground and rooftops were draped with soft white snow. Unusual this late in spring, but not unheard-of in the mountains. There were footprints showing where people had walked, but there were none leading from the doorstep he stood on. If Isobel had come out this way—and she must have—she had done so before the snow began falling.

He frowned at the snow, then looked up at the sky. The thick cover of clouds, still sending down a light shower of snowflakes, gave him no hint as to how long the sun had been up. Still. He chewed at his lower lip, thinking. If it had been falling more thickly earlier, her steps could easily have been filled in by the time she made it to the bathhouse. Or she might have changed her mind and gone to check in with the marshal. There was no cause to worry: Isobel was a sharp girl, and she knew to be alert. He wouldn’t worry. Yet.

The mercantile, as he’d remembered, was much smaller than the one in Patch Junction, with fewer goods and higher prices. But there were the basics they needed and enough more to get them back to more civilized places, and he still had enough coin to cover it all.

“I’m
telling you, there’s something out there.”

Gabriel let his hand rest on the sack of dried beans he’d been about to pick up and listened without turning around. That had the sound of an interesting conversation, one possibly relevant to their situation.

“You’re letting nerves play tricks on you.” A younger voice, also male, and dismissive.

“Mind your manners, Adam,” the first speaker said sharply. “I was working these mines when your mother was changing your napkin, and I know when something’s wrong. There’s bad air down there and above as well, and it’s only getting worse.”

Gabriel turned slowly, making it seem as though he were looking at another sack of beans identical to the first, and studied the newcomers.

The three men were clearly miners: broad-shouldered and stooped.
Two of them were older, their grey hair showing scalp beneath, while the other seemed to have barely started growing facial hair. Gabriel ran his hand over his own freshly shaved chin and admitted that the man might have shaved that morning as well, but he doubted it. The younger man had brash words and a brave face, but he held himself like a man about to bolt; he was the one feeling nerves.

“It’s not the air,” the first speaker said. He was facing Gabriel, his face narrow and long, the skin pale as any Gabriel’d ever seen. The other two men had the square faces and darker coloring of griffe, father and son maybe, but they all had the same wan complexion of men who didn’t see the sun often. The mines were no place to spend your life, in Gabriel’s opinion, no matter how well it paid.

“Don’t start with that again, Will,” the other older man said.

“I’ll say as I well please, and you’d be wise to listen,” Will replied, his words full of heat. “It’s not the air; it’s the very bones beneath. Some demon’s work or worse. It’s watching us, lurking where we sleep. The devil’s work, I say.”

“The devil pays us no mind, so long as we provide,” the younger man, Adam, scoffed. “Haul silver down and hold the stone.”

“Mayhap it’s time the devil does pay us some mind,” Will said, but this time his words were tired, as though he’d said it times before and never been heard. “There’s three gone, up and into nowhere when they should have been working, and left nothing behind. If it were a cat, we’d’ve heard it screaming; if it were a demon, it would have taken more; if it were a bear, it would have mayhap killed the one but no more, not once the berries started to bloom. And you think a bear won’t leave sign? Nothing. But something’s out there, and it’s stalking us. Pretending otherwise never makes it go away.”

Missing men and no explanation why? Gabriel was done listening. Indicating to the merchant waiting behind the counter that he would be back for the items already gathered, he left the mercantile, intent on one thing: finding Isobel.

The snow had stopped, and the chill of that morning was gone,
but the sky was still overcast. Isobel hadn’t returned to the guesthouse, nor was she with the horses or in the dining hall, now empty save for two boys scrubbing down the tables. Gabriel made himself stop and think, refusing to allow his worry to turn to panic. Isobel was no flippit to wander off. She was a practical girl who’d proven herself already, and he needed to trust her sense. Perhaps she had gone to speak with the marshal?