Explaining Herself Read online

  She put the papers onto a table by the cabinets and gestured to a stool. "Certainly. But you'll ask for assistance if you need further help, won't you?"

  He considered that, considered the girl with the smudged cheek. "What are friends for?"

  She blushed.

  Laramie liked how the pink tones warmed her lively face. He liked standing this close to her, feeling tight and prickly. He liked that she'd recognized him, liked her saying his name. Then he remembered how dangerous liking anybody and anything could be.

  Better the hardness, the anger that he'd carried in him since well before the train came to Sheridan. That anger was his friend. It kept him alive. It reminded him of his promise—and that meant not letting Miss Victoria Garrison or anybody else know who he was. So he turned away from her and sat at the table, looked at the first paper, then looked up. She hadn't left.

  "May I ask you something, Mr. Laramie?"

  He knew it might be trouble, but he nodded.

  "What connection is there between the railroad and whatever you're doing for my father?"

  Of course, this had nothing to do with the job he'd been hired for. But all Laramie said was, "It's secret."

  The way her eyes brightened at the word "secret" told him his mistake. But it was too late.

  "Well, enjoy your reading," she said. Then she went back to her counter, by the monstrosity of a printing press, and picked up what looked like a small wooden box. The blond girl, after some hesitation, began handing her bits of metal and Miss Garrison, with one last smile for him, began sliding them into the box.

  Friends'?

  Laramie felt the tightness in his cheek again. Then he looked at the table in front of him and knew how little he wanted to read about the railroad coming through Sheridan.

  Still, if he was anything, it was patient.

  He waited almost half an hour before he stood, went back to the drawers, and put away the papers Miss Garrison had retrieved for him. Then, hoping his body would block his choice from prying eyes, he tried another drawer, then another, and found the dates he wanted.

  The ones he sought, anyway.

  Nobody would want to be reminded of November 1888.

  Chapter Three

  If Ross's father had not been clever, they never would have reached the West. So many immigrants from old-world villages had set out for the Land of Opportunity that Americans had coined a derogatory word for them—Bohunks, short for Bohemian-Hungarians. It didn't matter that many were from neither Bohemia nor Hungary. Not to the Americans, who figured that one Eastern European peasant was the same as another. Not to the immigrants, many of whom started new lives by forgetting old ones. And not to the factory representatives who met them at the docks, speaking their language and offering jobs and places to live.

  Most of the newcomers, overwhelmed by the confusion that was New York City, clung to such familiarity and generosity. Ross's poppa did not.

  Ross's poppa, Josip Lauranovic, had educated himself. He spoke some English, and he could do math. He insisted on understanding American money and law before signing his family into such wondrous employment. From what Ross had since learned about the factory slums in New York and Chicago, that wariness had very likely saved all their lives.

  Extended them, anyway.

  Instead of slaving in a slaughterhouse or mill for inhuman hours at cruel wages, the Lauranovic family found enough employment to save pennies and educate the children as Americans—Filip, Julije, and Drazen became Philip, Julie, and Ross. By 1884, the family called themselves "Laurence," leaving off the telltale "itch" sound at the end. Joseph Laurence filed for a homestead in what was then part of Johnson County, near the new town of Sheridan. And like most people in Wyoming, they'd tried raising cattle.

  They'd started small, although Poppa had the usual dreams of profiting from the beef bonanza. He'd recognized the signs of a bad winter the year of the Big Die-Up. Because of his foresight, the Laurence family's losses were slight and the next year saw them on their way to real success.

  The kind of success that won them enemies.

  Blinking out of his memories, Laramie stared down at the paper in front of him. RUSTLERS LYNCHED! proclaimed the headline, and he did not want to read it. At that moment, he wanted to do almost anything else—take another bullet, dance in public, kiss Victoria Garrison in front of her threatening father— except read that newspaper article.

  At that last unexpected thought, Laramie slid his gaze toward the lady. She was still working with the wooden frame and the metal bits, dwarfed by her canvas apron. Sunlight through the plate-glass window reflected off motes of dust, surrounding her in golden sparkles. Her curling brown hair reflected the sunlight

  back in twists of copper. He was starting to think he'd never seen so pretty a girl.

  And she'd held his hand!

  But she lived in that sweet, white-with-blue-shutters ranch house—in a whole other world from Laramie's. If she went to the sheriff complaining of a crime against her family, people would believe her. If she were discovered doing something that looked illegal...

  Damn it, he might as well read about that night. He could never forget it—and yet he still wasn't sure who, in the end, was most to blame. This article might offer names or information that Laramie—having been young, confused, and imprisoned at the time—could not have known. And if not. . .

  He did not know what to do if this didn't work, but he would think of something. He'd thought of this.

  Pained by more than his still-healing bullet wounds, Laramie began to read:

  RUSTLERS LYNCHED!

  The foothills outside of town became a place of death Thursday night when rustlers who have been terrorizing the open range for several years were captured and brought to vigilante justice. According to Sheriff Howe, he received information about the outlaws from a leading member of the community who asked to remain anonymous; and a posse, largely composed of ranchers, including Boris and Bram Ward, Hayden Nelson, Jacob Garrison, Colonel and Alden Wright, rode into the perilous foothills to see justice done. The men split into two forces to better cover ground. The group including the Wrights, the Wards, Nelson, and Deputy Butler got the drop on the stock thieves in a small box-canyon before the desperadoes could escape.

  To the surprise of all, the rustlers were themselves local ranchers—the so-called "Joseph Laurence" and his sons. The immigrant family, whose real name is Lauranovic, had earlier brought unfounded complaints of rustling to the sheriff. Now, with proof of the Lauranovics' crime surrounding them—including running irons and stolen cattle, many from the Wards' Lost Pines ranch—the enraged posse took the law into its own hands, lynching first the father and then the older brother. The younger boy might have met the same fate but, instead, the night saw further tragedy. During the lynching of his seventeen-year-old brother, Phil, the youngest Lauranovic grabbed a rifle, shot Boris Ward, and held the group at bay before the rest of the posse arrived and negotiated his safe passage to jail. The Big Horn Mountains would see no more vigilante justice that night.

  The twelve-year-old outlaw, formerly known as Ross, is actually named Drazen Lauranovic. He is being held in the town jail for cattle rustling and attempted murder. The head rustler, Mr. Lauranovic, is also survived by a widow and one daughter.

  Boris Ward, whose only crime was protecting his livelihood, is not expected to live through the week. There will be a prayer service for him at the church tonight as the town unites in its support of this well-respected member of the community.

  Laramie wasn't sure at what point he stopped reading the article and instead began to stare across the room. He was remembering that little box-canyon in the pale light of a full moon, the hiding place for all that stolen stock. He was seeing the Lost Pines brand on the hip of a rangy longhorn in front of him, smelling acrid, burning hair as he used a wet piece of wool blanket to blot the changed brand back to his family's own Double Mountain mark. He'd felt angry that night, at the Wards' blatant the
ft of his family's cattle and at Sheriff Howe for doing nothing about it. And he'd been uneasy because his older sister had wheedled him into describing their hideout. Julie had been acting oddly for some time, confiding to him that she was in love with a man who would, she said, put them in a big house, buy her pretty clothes, "make everything better."

  As if Ross had cared about love and such. He'd cared only about getting their cattle back. But it had been important to her.

  He heard a rock skitter down the arroyo wall, heard Deputy Butler demanding that Ross drop the hot iron and step away from the steer. Then he'd felt afraid.

  Ross hadn't known what to do until his poppa gently repeated the deputy's request. "Do what they tell you, Drazen," Poppa had murmured, calm and clever even yet. "This is America. The truth will come out at our trial. Look at all our proof."

  So Ross had obeyed. He'd dropped the running iron and backed away from the fire until a large man grabbed him and twisted his arms behind his back. When he'd cried out, his older brother had tried to lunge to his rescue, but two more men grabbed him. More of them aimed guns at Poppa as they stepped nearer, pawing him. As if Ross's poppa would hide weapons!

  It was Boris Ward, the rancher who'd been stealing their cattle all along, who said, "Stupid Bohunks. What makes you think you deserve a trial?"

  Only then did Ross notice the rope being slung over a tree branch. At that moment it seemed as if not just a handful of men but all of Sheridan, all of Wyoming, all of the United States of America, had turned against them.

  * * *

  Laramie blinked, startled from his memories by... a woman? Victoria Garrison was watching him from across the room, her head cocked in concern.

  How long had she been doing that without him knowing it? Would he have returned to himself if she'd approached, or were the memories destroying even his long-developed survival instincts?

  As his eyes focused on her and the present once more, she mouthed, Are you all right?

  It was the second time she'd asked that. How long had it been since anyone cared if he was "all right"? Not since he'd watched his life destroyed. And now, if he had to—

  No, he would not imagine destroying her happy world while remembering the end of his. Instead he blinked, then nodded at her. He did not try to smile.

  She looked unconvinced, but turned back to her work.

  Laramie cupped his jaw with a hand, leaned on his good elbow, and knew he hadn't been all right in years. He'd watched his father and brother bound, watched them pushed up onto horses, watched the nooses draped over their heads, first Poppa, then Phil. He'd screamed and screamed, sometimes words, sometimes sheer anguish, but the posse had not stopped. He'd watched the horses bolt and the bodies drop; watched his father and brother dangling and kicking and soiling themselves. And he'd heard laughter.

  Later, people had said the Lauranovic boy did it to keep from hanging. But at that moment, Ross could not have cared less whether he lived or died. What he'd wanted, needed with every beat of his wounded heart, was to save his family. Part of him already knew it was too late, but that part was no longer in control. He'd squirmed loose of hard, gripping fingers and he'd grabbed Deputy Buder's shotgun—not a rifle, as reported, but a double-barreled shotgun—and he'd made them slowly, finally stop laughing.

  At that moment, a shotgun held in his shaking young hands against half a dozen armed killers, Ross had found a power he would never, never forget.

  "Cut them down," he'd said, and when the men just stared at him, he'd raised his voice. "Cut them down!"

  And at that, old man Ward—Boris, not his bully of a son—said, "Sonny boy, they's already dead and in hell, where they belong." And he'd laughed again.

  So Ross shot him.

  He'd set the shotgun against his shoulder, and he'd pointed it, and he'd squeezed the first barrel's trigger slow and gentle, just like Phil had taught him. It spat out a dreadful explosion, and kicked something awful, but Ward stopped laughing. The rancher's chest darkened wetly, and he crumpled onto the rock-strewn ground in the moonlight and the firelight.

  And it had felt good.

  That's when Ross guessed he really became a killer, because although he should have regretted taking another man's life, that moment freed him. It wouldn't save his poppa or his brother. It might not even save him. But he hadn't been scared anymore after that.

  At that moment he'd wanted to kill all of them. He longed to shoot them, one after another. He knew it would feel good, better than anything he'd ever known.

  If only he'd had more than one round left.

  God only knew what he might have done if he'd gotten hold of a thirteen-round carbine instead of a shotgun.

  He'd aimed at Bram Ward, who'd dropped to his knees beside his gunshot father, his face crumpling in horror. Then he saw that the man was crying.

  The full-grown bully was crying because Ross had shot his father, and all Ross could do was point that shotgun and want to kill them all—not looking at the bodies still swinging from the tree branch—until he'd heard horses approaching and knew he was losing his chance.

  The rest of the posse arrived then. Later, people would say that Ross surrendered to Sheriff Howe because Howe had promised him a fair trial. He had not. Ross had surrendered to Jacob Garrison, because Garrison—looking over the carnage in the box canyon— had done two things right.

  First, he'd shaken his head at the sight of the two hanging bodies.

  Then he'd looked at Ross and said, "You don't want to do this." Somehow, as the moment passed, the rancher had been right. Ross might be a killer—but it had been a momentary bloodlust.

  Even back then, Garrison was considered a stand-up man. So Ross had given him a small, frightened nod. The rancher had crossed the canyon to where the boy stood, walking right into the line of fire. And when he'd held out a leather-gloved hand, Ross had given him the shotgun.

  The rest of the posse had started to surge in on them then, but Garrison had spun, the shotgun upraised. "Promised a trial," he'd drawled firmly.

  Some of the others had protested, especially Bram Ward. "He killed my pa!" the bully screamed, pointing his own rifle at both Ross and the cattle baron.

  But Garrison didn't flinch. He merely said, "An' you kilt his. Built the jail and courthouse for a reason."

  Ross had ended up with his hands tied, mounted on the horse that had helped hang Phil, taken to jail to await trial. He hadn't cared what happened to him after that.

  A whole lot of other people had, though.

  Of course, he'd been locked up, alone, for three days before he learned that he hadn't been deserted—the sheriff just wasn't letting his momma in. He'd found out when Garrison's wife marched into the jail and said: "Mrs. Lauranovic says you won't allow her to visit her son, but I assured her that our sheriff could not be so unjust and irrational. Do not tell me I was wrong."

  So Momma was allowed in. She'd reached through the bars of the cell to hold him, kiss him, cry onto him. Poor boy. Why had his poppa done this to them? Had Philip died quickly? Julia would not come from her room since hearing the news. Someone had thrown stones through their windows.

  Momma was so frightened, she hadn't even asked if he was all right. Few people had since, either, until. . .

  Laramie shook his head, sneaked a glance toward Victoria Garrison, and thought, She resembles her mother. Then he made himself go back to the newspapers.

  He could torment himself with mere memories anytime.

  Boy Held for Trial, announced one article. It only gave what the ranchers said was the truth.

  Sheridan Mourns Boris Ward, read another, and in smaller print, Drazen Lauranovic Charged with Murder.

  He remembered. People had quickly forgotten that his family was American. They wanted the villains to be foreign. Ross—despite having no accent and few memories before his family's arrival on American shores—had not corrected them. Clearly, his family wasn't American. Not American enough for justice, anyway.

&nbs
p; All he had to do was look at the papers to be reminded.

  Mob Demands Lauranovic Boy, reported another headline. Laramie remembered little of that frightening night, the shouts, the stones. The sheriff facing down the angry crowd.

  Four pages in from that he found State Prisons Unfit for Children, an editorial by Mrs. Elizabeth Garrison, which seemed to have prompted later letters of outrage that she would call a murderer a child. Then came another editorial—Self Defense Isn't Murder—resulting in even more fury and, to Ross's surprise, a few lonesome letters agreeing with her.

  It made sense. The only reason he'd finally gotten justice was Mrs. Garrison. The cattle baron's wife, despite carrying another baby under her apron, had for some reason adopted his cause and hired him an excellent young lawyer, all the way from Chicago. Ross had overheard the sheriff and the deputy talking, so he knew it wasn't the cattle baron himself who'd done all that. "Says she has her own money," Howe had snorted. "Can't say as I'd let my wife have her own money. Even if she did, I wouldn't let her make a fool of me and the town with it."

  At the time, Ross had seen the woman as a goddess, an avenging angel. He'd been too young to question motives. Now he had to wonder.

  Not here, he told himself, glancing across the room.

  The headlines told the story. Trial Starts Today. Then, Witnesses Admit to Lynching. And later, Darrow Argues Self Defense for Drazen.

  But then had come the worst blow of all.

  He'd woken in jail to someone brokenly calling his name from the alley outside his high window. To see out, he'd had to draw himself up by the bars—and there in the night shadows stood his sister Julie.

  He hadn't seen her since his arrest, not at the jail, not at the trial. Now he barely recognized her. Her dark hair was a tangle. Her dress hung loose and wrinkled on her, and smelled sour. Meager light reflected off her wet, swollen cheeks.

  "Ross." Her voice sounded worn. "Ross, I'm sorry."