Carry Me Home

Chapter 8 – San Francisco

Supper was a quiet, low key meal. Neither Bart nor Samantha had much to say, and even Bret ran out of conversation. Sam helped Florita clear the table and then brought the coffee pot and three cups back. She poured two of them and then went to the sideboard and brought back the whiskey bottle. She filled her cup half full and poured coffee in the rest. Bart and Bret exchanged glances and Bret finally asked, "Samantha, when did you start drinking?"

She laughed a dry, cynical laugh. "Start? The first day I stayed here by myself. Any other questions?"

Bret shook his head 'no.' Bart just sat there and watched her drink the concoction. "Did I cause this?" he asked her.

"You mean are you responsible for my whiskey habit? No, I don't think so. You're sitting in the place that's responsible. Most nights all by myself are just too lonely. And I don't have time for anything else." She finished her 'drink' and took the bottle back to the sideboard, then poured herself another cup full of only coffee. "You have no idea what it's been like out here."

Bart looked up from his coffee with a guilty look on his face and told her, "You can sell the ranch if you want to, Sam. It's yours. I don't mind if you do. Go back to St. Louis, or Denver, or anywhere you want to go. You don't have to stay here."

"Yes, I do, Bart. This is the only family I have. This ranch and you."

"Me?" He wasn't quite sure how she meant that.

Samantha tried to keep this amusing. The day had been depressing enough. "Sure. You're the only cousin-in-law I've got. Unless one of the Mavericks would like to marry me." She smiled, first at Bret, then at Bart. Just in case. Bart turned to his brother.

"Your turn."

Bret looked at Bart suspiciously. "For what?"

"To marry a Crawford."

Sam put her cup down and looked at Bart. "Funny boy."

It was the exact wrong thing to say, but Sam had no way of knowing. It was the phrase Rusty Meyers had used when he started pistol-whipping Bart in Montana. The words caused an involuntary reaction and Bart shuddered. "Excuse me." He got up from the table without another word and headed for the door and the porch, taking the same chair he'd fallen asleep in earlier with him.

Sam looked startled at the abrupt departure. "What did I say?" she turned and asked Bret. "Why did he leave?"

"Not your fault, Samantha. That's what Rusty Meyers called him when they started beating him. Those words bring everything back; they put him on edge. It's almost like he's waiting for the pain to start all over again."

"Was it that bad, Bret?"

"Yeah, it was that bad, and Beau and I made it worse. We didn't find him until morning. He laid on the floor and bled all night. If we'd been much later he would've been dead." He let out a huge sigh. "I'm goin' out to check on him. I need a cigar, anyway." He reached over and patted her hand. "He'll be alright."

Bret got up from the table and left Sam sitting there alone. He wandered out to the porch where Bart had taken refuge and leaned against the railing. Bart wasn't smoking, so Bret pulled two cigars out of his coat and offered the first to his brother. Bart took it and Bret lit first Bart's, then his own. He took a long draw on the stogie and blew out a fine trail of smoke. "She feels bad, you know."

"You explained?" Bart queried.

"I did." He looked down at Bart, sitting in the chair smoking and watching the stars. "She still feels bad."

"She's not the only one."

"Are you two alright?" That seemed to be the question of the day as far as Bret was concerned. Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. And it appeared that after only two days in Dry Springs both Bart and Sam felt worse than they had before.

"I don't know, Bret. Somethings off with Sam; I don't think it's been right since I left the last time. She's unhappy with me for 'deserting her' after we lost Caroline. Thought I should have stayed and taught her how to ride herd on the ranch." He smoked while Bret sat on the porch steps. "Maybe I did run out on her." He got up and stretched, then joined his brother on the steps. "Could you have stayed?"

Bret tried to answer as honestly as he could. "I don't know, Bart. Maybe. No. Probably not." He shook his head in complete and utter confusion. "The point is you couldn't. If Sam's mad about that she's got no right to be. She could have sold the ranch and moved on in style, anywhere she wanted to go. She didn't; she stayed here. She made her choice just like you did. Neither one's got a right to criticize the other. Question is, where do you go from here?"

"Good question, Brother Bret. Have you got an answer for me?"

For once Bret was totally serious. "I wish I did, Bart. What do you want? Do you even know?"

Bart laughed at that one. "Yeah, I want to go back to the Bart Maverick that existed before Samantha Crawford got him out of a tight spot and made him promise to do her a favor."

"I'd fix it for you if I could."

"I know you would, Bret, I know you would. But since I can't go back – "

"Yeah?"

"I gotta find a way to go forward. Or at least feel like I'm goin' forward."

"Yeah."

XXXXXXXX

Sam sat at the table for a few minutes after Bret joined Bart outside. She could smell cigars and hear their voices, but not what they were saying. She was so looking forward to their arrival, thinking how nice it would be to have company for a change. Instead her peace had been shattered.

She'd seen the disapproval on both their faces when she poured the whiskey. Let 'em disapprove; she didn't care. She was a woman, living alone, on a ranch she never wanted in a place she didn't want to be. On top of that she was supposed to help a man that she loved get well and heal so that he could leave her the first chance he got. And what did she get out of all this? Steers. Smelly, stinky cattle. And not even a warm body to help defrost her soul. Maybe Bart was right. Maybe she should sell the Double C and go elsewhere. St. Louis? No, it had a river smell all its own. Kansas City? She was trying to get away from steers. New Orleans? She was southern enough, but not Cajun and not French aristocrat. Denver? Too cold in the winters. San Francisco? Now there was a possibility.

She'd only been there once, but she liked it. The air was fresh and clean, no cattle stench. The water was ocean clear, not muddy and dirty. And her heritage didn't matter so much. 'There's an idea I can live with,' she thought. San Francisco. The more she turned it over in her mind the more she liked it. Maybe in a new place, with different sights and smells each day, she could forget about the man who didn't love her.