The Tree and the Shadow

By JanissaB

©2005 

No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations. (Louis L’Amour)

Chapter One

"Heath, you planning to exit this train, or maybe just ride it on back to Stockton?"

The man in question gave him a wandering look, and then blinked. "We’re already there?"

Jarrod grinned and nodded. Patting Heath on the shoulder, he reached under the seat for his briefcase. "Just pulling into the station. You were a thousand miles away, weren’t you?"

"Guess so." Heath rubbed an eye.

"Well, grab your gear. It’s liable to be a bit crowded at the station."

"A bit" turned out to be an understatement; as accustomed as he was to San Francisco’s big-city bustle, Jarrod himself found the press of flesh trying. At his side and a step behind, Heath’s features had settled into dogged lines as he dodged the relentless stream of people.

Outside the station, hansom cabs stood in a ragged line, and Jarrod headed for the first. Only when the door had shut behind Heath did it seem as if he could breathe again.

"It’s more crowded every time I make that trip." Jarrod removed his hat and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "You all right?"

Heath gave a curt nod. "Guess I forgot what it was like."

"That’s right, you said you’d been to Frisco before. When was that?"

Heath’s blue eyes met his briefly, and then flickered to the left, focusing out the window. "Few years back. Stayed here a while."

Jarrod let a silent moment drift by, and then prodded, "And?"

"Nothin’, don’t guess. Moved on."

"I meant, what did you do while you were here?"

"Worked. Got tired of all the people, I reckon, wasn’t used to that." His tense posture said he still wasn’t used to it.

"What kind of work did you do?"

Heath gave him a silent, oddly forbidding look, and Jarrod shook his head quickly. "I don’t mean to pry," he said, aware that it was at least partly a lie. "Just curious."

The suspicion stayed in Heath’s gaze, although he gave a quick, loose shrug. "Did whatever I could find," he replied after a moment. "Didn’t stay that long."

Nodding, Jarrod let it go, turning his own attention to the city passing by the windows. Truth be known, he was surprised that Heath had agreed to go at all. Only a few months had passed since the boy’s – man’s, he corrected with a slight frown – arrival at the Barkley estate, with his questionable story and faintly morose demeanor. Oh, not that he hadn’t earned the trust and respect of everyone there, after a time. That and more. But this trip, now – it wasn’t a requirement, and Jarrod had expected some objection.

He himself was more than ready for a return to the city. After years of shooing back and forth between small town and large, he found San Francisco refreshing, for the relative anonymity its size provided. Here, most didn’t recognize his name, much less his face. The Barkley reputation served him well in courtroom and club, but there was a kind of relief in being able to mingle in a crowd and not have that tiny allotment of space, that small envelope he always felt in Stockton. Respect, yes, and nothing wrong with it, but also formality, a kind of class awareness that at times stuck in his craw. Certainly he was at home with the money his family had acquired, and he liked it. But there were times when being simply another face in the crowd had its benefits.

He envied his younger brother that, in a way. Heath, for all his avowed country ways, would blend into a world of immigrants, domestic and foreign. His painfully young face was no different from that of a thousand young men, making their way to California, seeking gold and a fortune most would never see. He could disappear in a place Jarrod never quite could, and now, glancing back at his brother’s expressionless face, Jarrod wished idly for the same obscurity.

"What do you plan to do while we’re here?" he asked, stirring when they hit an especially big rut in the road. "Anything specific?"

"Got a passel of errands. Seems everybody wanted something from Frisco. Reckon that oughta keep me busy a day or two."

"I’m glad you came along. It’s good to have company for a change." He paused. "We hadn’t spoken about accommodations. I keep a house here, and I have a guest room. You’re more than welcome to stay; in fact I’d assumed you would. Will that be all right?"

"Hadn’t given it much thought myself." Heath shrugged again. "Sounds all right to me."

"Good. It’s not much farther."

The house was silent and cool, smelling of cedar, and he slung his bag and briefcase on the entryway floor before giving Heath a smile. "Well, this is it. Hardly the palatial Barkley manor, but it’ll do."

"Looks fine to me." Heath didn’t set down his bag. "Real pretty."

Looking around, Jarrod nodded. "I bought it several years ago from a lawyer acquaintance of mine. I’m afraid there’s no regular domestic service; I have a woman who’ll come once a week when I’m in town, but I didn’t have time to notify her this trip."

"I can clean up after myself."

Jarrod gave a short laugh. "Yes, I’ve noticed that about you. Let me show you your room."

He led the way down the short hallway, into the second bedroom. "This is yours. The kitchen is behind here, but I normally take my meals out. If you want to cook, though, it’s fully equipped."

"I’ll be fine." Heath set his case by the door, looking uneasy.

"Anything wrong?"

"No. No, just thinkin’. Must be something else to have more than one home."

Jarrod smiled. "Got tired of hotels. When I opened my San Francisco practice it seemed like a logical choice."

With a nod Heath said, "When you put it that way, suppose it does."

"Are you hungry? There’s a place I know, not far from here, good food."

"Thought you had to work."

"I do, but I’d like to see us settled first."

"Sounds all right to me."

~~~~~~~~~

An hour later they were sitting at a window table at Finnegan’s, and Jarrod took a deep draft of his ale. Heath still looked a bit wall-eyed, but not as out of place in his nicer city clothes as Jarrod had anticipated. After they’d ordered their food, Jarrod leaned his elbows on the table. "Now that we’re away from the ranch," he said slowly, "how do you feel?"

"Me?" Heath produced another ubiquitous shrug. "Still getting used to it, I expect. Better question might be how you feel."

Jarrod considered. "I feel fine, brother Heath," he replied expansively, gesturing. "Good beer and good company. What’s not to like?"

Heath’s smile was faint but genuine. "Reckon so." He took a judicious sip of his own brew, whose dark color had put him off at first. "Not too bad."

"So any old friends you feel like looking up while you’re here? I can help with that, if you want. The city changes every day, it seems."

"Don’t suppose so." Heath’s smile withered and disappeared. "Don’t reckon any of ‘em’d still be here after all this time."

"Still. I’d be happy to check. No charge," he added with a slanted grin.

Heath didn’t reply to that.

The steaks were tender and enormous, and he and Heath both finished their portions. It wasn’t until the coffee arrived that Jarrod felt his easy bonhomie jostled.

Later – much later – he recognized Heath’s tension for what it was. Not the understandable nervousness of a country boy, crowded into the city. No, this was something else, and he had the leisure some time later to castigate himself for not realizing all along how much Heath had not said. Would it have changed things, had he known? If he’d pushed Heath instead of letting him keep that brooding silence? If he’d found out before?

He never had an answer to that, of course. And later, he thought in all likelihood nothing would have altered the course of events. That had been put into motion long before he knew of Heath’s very existence.

"Jarrod Barkley, Esquire." The low voice was filled with humor. "As I live and breathe."

Looking up, Jarrod felt an answering grin on his own lips. "Aaron," he said with real pleasure, standing up and extending his hand. "My God, it’s been years. Good to see you."

"Likewise."

"Heath, this is an old friend of mine from Harvard. Aaron Hayslip. Aaron, my brother Heath."

For a long, odd second Heath sat motionless, gazing up at Aaron’s bearded visage without any expression at all. And then an awkward, company smile curved his mouth, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He stood and shook Aaron’s hand briefly. "Mr. Hayslip."

"Mr. Barkley." A short moment of scrutiny, and then Aaron’s gaze returned to Jarrod. "You’re looking well, my friend," he added jovially.

"Join us, why don’t you?" Jarrod gestured at the empty chairs.

"Only for a moment, I’m afraid, but I’d be honored." He watched Aaron settle into a chair, body gone bulkier than Jarrod remembered.

"It’s been what? Five years? Six?" Jarrod shook his head. "You look as if you’re doing well. Don’t tell me you’re in San Francisco now?"

"No, still in Boston. This is just a short trip. One of my clients has interests out West, and I thought I’d better have a look."

"Business, then, not pleasure."

"Bit of both." Aaron’s eyes flickered in Heath’s direction again. "Heath, was it? Jarrod, you never mentioned this brother to me."

"That’s because I didn’t know about him then. Heath’s a recent addition to our family. My father’s son."

"Ah." Nodding slowly, Aaron kept his eyes trained on Heath. "Were you ever back east, Mr. Barkley? Boston, Philadelphia? New York City?"

"Nossir. Furthest east I been is Alabama."

"Funny. You look familiar to me."

After a long, odd moment Heath said, "I get that sometimes." His tone was flat, inviting no rejoinders. Aaron ignored it.

"And San Francisco? I lived here myself for some time a few years ago."

"Lots of people did."

With a blink, Aaron shook his head. "I apologize, I’m afraid I tend to interrogate rather than converse at times. You do have a familiar look, but that does happen, doesn’t it?"

Heath didn’t nod. Awkwardly, Jarrod said, "How’s your family? Last I heard from you, Eileen was two years old? Or was it three?"

"She’s got a brother now. Daniel." Aaron’s smile was much more familiar, as warm as Jarrod remembered. "You should visit us in Boston. Come back to civilization for a time."

"I’d like that."

"And with that I really have to be on my way. They’re expecting me at the plant."

"How long are you here? Free for dinner tomorrow?"

"I am at that."

Jarrod nodded. "Meet me at the house, we’ll catch up. Say, eight o’clock?"

"Wouldn’t miss it." Aaron’s hand was warm and firm in his own. "Damn good to see you, Jarrod. And good to meet you, Mr. Barkley." Their handshake was briefer.

"Pleasure."

Watching Aaron walk away, Jarrod shook his head slowly. "I’ll tell you this, Heath. One difference between Stockton and San Francisco? You’re not likely to run into a man of his stature there."

"Who is he?"

"An attorney. The smartest one you’re likely ever to meet."

"Smarter than you?"

Jarrod snorted. "By far."

"I doubt that."

"You’re biased."

"Not that much."

Jarrod’s smile wavered, hearing the honesty in Heath’s voice. No, he probably wasn’t, all things considered. Not yet, at any rate. "Well, if you ever need legal assistance and I’m not around, you could do far, far worse than to consult with Aaron."

"Ain’t plannin’ on movin’ to Boston. Least not anytime soon."

"Be that as it may. Interesting that he thought he recognized you. Suppose your paths have crossed?"

A flicker of discomfort traveled fast across Heath’s stolid features, gone before Jarrod was entirely sure he’d seen it. "I don’t forget faces," he said bluntly, "and I don’t remember his."

Eyes narrowing slightly, Jarrod nodded. "Stranger things have happened," he said mildly.

"True. Well, I best get started on some of these errands. Only got a couple of days."

"Why? You can stay as long as you want. You’re always welcome, Heath."

"Nope, promised Nick I’d be back before Monday. Branding, remember?"

"That’s right. Well, then. I’ll see you tonight, I hope." He patted his pocket. "I gave you a key, didn’t I?"

"Yep."

"Heath?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

The blue eyes regarded him obliquely. "Do my best."

Watching him walk out of the restaurant, fidgeting in his suit, Jarrod felt a cold needle of foreboding. Keep your secrets as long as you feel you must, Heath, he thought tiredly. I wouldn’t blame you. Just don’t keep them so long you can’t tell them when you need to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The noise outside hit him all over again, voices and streetcars and the dozens of wagons and carts, horses’ hooves and snorts and whinnies. The smell, too: so many odors his nose couldn’t take them all in, make sense of them.

With a scowl Heath sidestepped a pile of fresh manure and sighed. Some things never did change, looked like that was true, and what hadn’t changed for sure was his dislike of the city. Man wasn’t meant to live so close together, rubbing elbows every step of the way. Just wasn’t natural.

Wasn’t unnatural for you, not so long ago, a part of his brain reminded him. That internal voice that sounded a whole lot like his mama, God rest her soul, with her same blend of warmth and implacable logic. Wasn’t so long ago, you stopped noticing these crowds at all.

Long enough, Mama.

And what about Jarrod’s friend? What are the odds of someone recognizing you not two hours after you got back? And how do you plan to keep from seeing anyone else who might know who you are? What you are? Just how did you ever think you could get away with that?

Jarrod suspected. Not that he knew, nope, he didn’t know anything yet. But the man was fiendishly smart, and just as curious. Maybe still thinking he’d find out more about the new baby brother. Something more than birth.

Clamping down on the ready anxiety, he forced himself to stop, take a look around. This was the part of San Francisco he’d only seen a few times before. The nice part, the class part. Not the area he knew, or had at one time.

Aaron Hayslip. Hadn’t ever known that one’s name before. He remembered other things, though. Things he sort of thought Jarrod might not like at all. Might just curl his hair, when you came right down to it.

Things like

It’s cold and foggy tonight, and he’s glad for the fire. The room is toasty-warm, and for once he is, too. Seems like he’s always been cold since he came here. The damp, maybe, or the fact that too often he hasn’t had enough to eat or anything warm to wear. He’s grateful for the heat. Sometimes he thinks he’d have done this just to get the cold ache out of his bones.

Then he thinks what his mama would say to that, and closes his eyes, because he’s pretty sure she’d rather he froze to death than lower himself this far.

What do you know, Mama? You ain’t in my shoes. Hell, I ain’t even had shoes since I come here, till now.

Just thinking about it makes him feel tired, tireder than what he’s done tonight already. He sighs and leans his cheek on his forearm, warm from the fire, and the man reaches out and touches his bottom.

It ain’t so bad. Don’t hurt no more, not like it used to. He’s just biding his time, that’s all. Got sixteen dollars saved in the box beneath the floorboard. Near as he’s figured, he needs twenty-five, and then he’s leaving this cold damp city for good, gonna buy a decent horse and hit the road again, back to places that don’t feel so alien. He craves the wide-open spaces again, and that’s a fact. Maybe get himself a spot working one of the big ranches to the east of here, or on into Nevada, maybe even Texas. And all this here, all this mess he’s gotten himself into in the city, will be done with.

He fancies he can smell the sage and mesquite already. So he doesn’t mind it when the man touches him, fondles him. Costing him a whole dollar, and Heath’s gonna get two bits from that, another coin to add to the box under the floorboard. Way he figures it, he’ll have enough come summer. There’s talk of a war brewing, a war between the northern and southern states, and if he can’t find nothing then, nobody to hire a kid like him, why he just might sign on. See a bit of the world. He’s handy with a rifle.

"Such a pretty boy," the man croons. "Where does Sloan find you boys? Always got the prettiest. Turn over, honey."

He rolls over, drowsy in the fire’s warmth, and lets the man touch him other places. Ain’t no harm in touching, after all. Feels all right. The man’s got a dressing gown on, all velvet and rich colors, and his plump face is soft in the golden glow. He ain’t mean like some of ‘em. Some of ‘em ain’t soft even here in this nice warm bedroom, nope, some is mean as alley dogs, and with them two bits don’t seem like nearly enough. But this ain’t hard. Just work, that’s all, and he keeps that in his mind while the man’s hand gropes between his legs, sweaty and eager.

"Come on up here."

He crawls up on the man’s broad lap and the man kisses his neck a little, and then the dressing gown is gone and they’re back on the bed again. Like he always does, he goes away a bit while they do it, enough of him still there to get the job done but most of him wandering, a long way from San Francisco. He’s ready to see the Sierras again, wide-open countryside, smell dust and rain and he wouldn’t even mind cattle, just a bunch of money on the hoof, maybe get himself a job on a drive to Abilene or other places. Get him some duds and a good horse, a bay like John Farmer’s, prettiest horse in all of Strawberry. And never eat fish again, and drink cold spring water instead of weak bitter beer.

He makes the kinds of noises these men like to hear, moves in the right ways, and in the midst of it all he feels cold, because Sloan isn’t gonna want to let him go. He owes Sloan, and it don’t matter that Heath’s been saving his wages, putting away for a rainy day, because Sloan’s all smiles and nice words and generous when he wants to be, but there’s a cold hard center to the man, nothing friendly in those flint-gray eyes, and Heath is pretty, pretty to a fault, more’n one person’s said so since even before he lit out for parts unknown just a day or two past his thirteenth birthday. Mama said he was too young, but couldn’t stay another minute in that dying mine town, working for a lot less money under the sneering eyes of all them solid townsfolk. Leah Thomson’s pretty blond bastard boy, anyone could see he wasn’t no good from the day he was born, and didn’t matter how hard he worked since then, some things was in the blood, like the mark on the small of his back, mark of Cain his mama had called it and never spoke of it again, and you couldn’t never get away from that.

Sloan took him in and fed him and gave him clothes and a warm place to stay, and then two nights later he spread Heath’s legs and told him what it was all gonna be like, and Heath didn’t cry then when it hurt, hurt bad, like a red-hot poker up inside him, and he hadn’t cried since, neither. Just lay there when it was done and Sloan let him be, lay there and tried not to care about the hurting, the shame, and rolled that gleaming two-bit piece between his fingers.

"Lots more of that if you stay," Sloan had told him, voice hard and careless like it hadn’t been two days before. No, then Sloan’s words had been kind and warm and concerned, and Heath had been too cold and starved and scared to see the truth behind them.

On top of him, the man grunts and sweats and finally rolls off him, breathing hard and smelling like the cigars he likes. Heath stares at the dark ceiling, and mentally adds another silver piece to the store under his bed. It ain’t so bad. And even if it is, well, ain’t nothing for it but to make the best of a bad patch, store up his money and when it’s time, yessir, head back out that door, the one he first went through less than a year ago. If Sloan didn’t like it, that was just too damn bad, wasn’t it? Heath might be a lot of things, and one of them was a whore, but he wasn’t no slave. Pretty soon rumor had it wasn’t gonna be no slaves at all in the U.S., and long before that time he aimed to put as many miles between himself and Frisco as he could. And never come back. Never.

 

And here he was. Heath flinched when a whip cracked through the air, a red-faced man yelling at his team of lazy horses, and made himself walk on. Said he’d never be back, but here he was anyway. Only this time he wasn’t a penniless, terrified thirteen-year-old boy. This time he had a new name and more money than he knew what to do with. One thing he’d learned the hard way, all those years ago: money was power. As long as you had money, you had everything you needed. And people like Sloan Martin couldn’t make you do a thing you didn’t want to do.

No, with money people like Sloan Martin did what YOU wanted them to do.

Heath stepped over a muddy patch in the street and straightened his back. Seeing Hayslip back there had been a fluke, that was all. A one-in-a-million chance. It had been ten years since Heath lived here last, and lots happened in that amount of time. Look at him. Now things were completely different.

With an impatient sigh he drew out his painstakingly lettered list. Didn’t watch it, he’d spend all his time lollygagging over things past and forget all about the errands he was here to do. Might have money now, but Audra’d been real precise in what she wanted him to bring back, and a mountain of money wouldn’t make her happy if he came back empty-handed.

~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later, burdened with packages, he used Jarrod’s key to open the door of the house and made his way inside. It was quiet, empty, and he felt a flicker of relief. Probably wouldn’t see much of Jarrod again, and he found he didn’t much mind that idea. Jarrod was a good man, no question, a really fine man and one Heath was glad to call brother, but there had been an inquisitive look on his face at lunch, and well, best to stay out of harm’s way.

He put the packages in his room. Really there wasn’t so much more to get. He could be finished in the morning, take the afternoon train if he wanted. Miss out on that supper invite Jarrod had given that Hayslip fellow. Not that Heath was afraid of him; nossir, wasn’t much of a chance Hayslip was gonna remember exactly where he and Heath had met before, and not for the first time Heath was glad he’d gone by a bunch of different names back then. So many sometimes he’d wondered which was his real one, in fact.

Well, time would tell. Right now he thought he’d like a drink – some of the fine whiskey Jarrod favored, that Heath was sure he’d find in the sideboard – and then maybe, once the sun was down and the crowds thinned a little, maybe he’d take another walk. See what other parts of the city had become. Maybe take himself to a show of some kind.

The whiskey was where he’d imagined it would be, and one taste showed it was the same fine blend Jarrod bought for home, too. He sipped, and wandered over to sit in one of the chairs by the window. Looking at the room, the expensive furnishings, the paintings on the walls. Real nice stuff, Jarrod had. Was a time when Heath would have looked around with envy, a bitter taste on his tongue that not even the best liquor would wash away. Now he didn’t have to envy all this. Now, if he wanted it for himself he could have it. Maybe no good excuse for a fine house in the big city, like Jarrod, but he could build his own place, in Stockton or thereabouts, fill it with fine things.

He sighed and faced back out the window. Was that what he wanted to do? Felt odd, having choices, and that was a fact. Never had many in his life, nothing beyond the ordinary right-from-wrong types of choices everyone had, and even there he’d had times when he’d chosen the wrong thing, more than once, out of necessity. Done his best to right ‘em, too, when he’d had the chance. That was the way his mama had raised him, wasn’t it? Do the right thing, honor the golden rule.

But outside these windows, out there in this half-lawless city, he knew about things. Things that weren’t right, things that shouldn’t happen and did, every single day and twice on Sunday. Seen plenty of ‘em firsthand, and lucky to live to tell about some of ‘em. Seen more than one man murdered in cold blood, one so near his hot blood had splashed on Heath’s skin. Man who’d done it hadn’t even bothered threatening to do the same to Heath. Knew a boy like him wasn’t about to make trouble. And Heath hadn’t; he’d washed up and when Sloan’s Irish help had taken the body away it had been Heath who washed the blood off the floorboards, and a couple of days later cleaned up where it had dripped down into his hoard underneath. Blood money now, sure as shooting, and even at fourteen the irony hadn’t escaped him.

He took a big swallow of whiskey and glared out the window. Boys like him probably doing the very same thing tonight. Maybe for Sloan Martin. Always figured Sloan’d make his exit by the business end of a six-shooter, but never heard whether he had yet or not. If he hadn’t, well, his boys’d be working tonight, just like every night. Pretty boys, Sloan had, and not a one of ‘em Sloan hadn’t broken in himself. A few girls, too, but the bulk of Sloan’s business had been the boys, Irish and China-boys and a bunch of boys just like Heath, too pretty for their own good and too young to know what it all meant, beforehand. Boys from Fresno and Los Angeles and parts much further, Nevada and Kansas and Texas and Mississippi, all gone west because wasn’t nothing for ‘em east, and fallen into that same honeyed trap Sloan had set for him all them years ago.

Well, now he had his own money. And a set of pearl-handled six-shooters all his own. He set the glass on the table at his elbow and found a hard smile on his face. Might be time to see if Sloan Martin was still plying his trade in boy-flesh. And if he was, why, him and Heath might just have to palaver. About the names Heath knew, the ones most everybody would recognize. Maybe a little about how Sloan oughta let some of them new boys go, or else the newspapers got some real interesting stories.

And if Sloan didn’t like it, maybe one of those fancy guns Heath carried might get a little workout. Wouldn’t be no one crying at Sloan Martin’s funeral. All them boys grown up too soon, might just be doing one of those Irish jigs on the man’s grave.

Heath thought he wouldn’t mind leading that particular dance.