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  Snowfall

  Tales from Hawk's Folly Farm, #3

  by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Copyright 2012, J. Kathleen Cheney

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes:

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  Table of Contents:

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7

  Epilog

  About the Author

  Snowfall

  Part 1

  September 4, 1909

  He was the most striking man at the auction. Lourdes found her eyes drawn to that unknown man on the far side of the paddock--a gentleman judging by the fine cut of his beige suit and darker waistcoat. She'd stolen more than one surreptitious glance. It was impolite to stare, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

  Underneath his bowler hat, his hair was white. That was what made him so notable. It wasn't the pale yellow some northerners had or the gray her father's hair had gone before his death. It was the white of cream, yet his eyebrows were still dark. The combination was surprising on a man surely not far into his thirties. He likely hated that. Men tended to be vain about their hair.

  A woman had one daintily gloved hand wrapped possessively about his forearm. Hair the color of sumac in late summer massed atop her head, crowning an ivory-skinned face. Her dark green walking suit showed off a tall, slender figure, the sort that always made Lourdes regretful that she was short and rounded. Her own suit of charcoal gray wool couldn't hide that. The woman watched the proceedings with a superior air, as if all about her was made to amuse and serve her.

  The man's head turned in Lourdes' direction. She looked away quickly, eyeing the newest horse going up for auction. The mare wasn't the one she'd come for, but Lourdes kept her eyes fixed on her anyway. The horse danced nervously in the corral. Calm, Lourdes thought at the creature. Safe.

  The mare's nervous steps stopped and she stood still, her ears pricking backwards as if listening for further support. Lourdes offered a few more words, simple reassurances the horse could understand.

  The bidding for the mare climbed quickly. Lourdes caught her lower lip between her teeth. These northerners paid a great deal for their horses. For the first time she began to think she was going to fail. At least this wasn't the fancy auction house where racing thoroughbreds were sold for thousands of dollars each. This auction was being held in a holding yard instead, showing mostly quarter horses and mustangs, animals brought in for riding or harness work. The young mare sold at a good price, which increased the likelihood that her new owner would treat her well. At least Lourdes hoped so.

  "Lot Number 23," the auctioneer called then.

  That was Nevada's lot. They led a dozen horses into the ring, and Lourdes stood on her toes to see. She caught a glimpse of Nevada's white coat, but then a man with wide shoulders leaned closer to the rail, blocking her view. He wasn't tall, but she wasn't either. Lourdes tapped at his shoulder. "Please, sir, excuse me. I need to see."

  He glanced at her and then eased back to make room. He was handsome in a careless way, as if he'd forgotten where he kept his hairbrush. And while his garb suggested he might be a stable hand, he nodded to her politely enough. "My apologies, ma'am."

  He had an accent, but Lourdes couldn't place it. Scottish? Irish? She moved up to the rail, grateful for his kindness. "Thank you, sir."

  She could see her mare Nevada clearly now, and thought reassurances at her much as she had the mare in the previous lot. To the annoyance of the handler, Nevada tried to move toward the fence where Lourdes stood, wanting to return to her herd. Be still, Lourdes thought at her, and the white mare settled.

  "Are you meaning to bid on this lot?" the man next to her asked, his voice lilting. His face wore a look of speculation, brows drawn together.

  Lourdes wasn't certain what she'd done to earn that perplexed expression, but didn't have time to worry about it. She wanted Nevada back. "Yes, I am."

  The auctioneer began to call, his words coming faster than her mind followed. Hands shot up, and he pointed at one and another in turn, awarding temporary custody of the lot. Lourdes raised her hand, relieved that the price was still low, but the man ignored her.

  "Want me to bid for you?" the man next to her asked. "Morgan won't take bids from a woman."

  Since she'd been allowed into the auction, she'd assumed they would let her bid. "Why not?"

  "He's a fool," the man lilted with a shrug.

  The price went higher. The man with white hair raised his hand then, a casual gesture, and the auctioneer immediately responded to him. Lourdes looked up at the man next to her. She didn't need the other horses, but she should be able to find a buyer for them later. Surely in this horse-mad town she could find someone to purchase them. "Please?"

  Grinning, he leaned over the paddock rail and slapped his hand on it a couple of times to get the auctioneer's attention. The man pointed at him, accepting his bid, and rattled on, extolling the virtues of the mares in the lot and raising the price again.

  "How high are you willing to go?" the man next to her asked.

  "Five thousand." She hadn't spent much in the last three years, so she had saved a decent sum. But five thousand was the absolute limit for her. She wouldn't be able to keep a horse in feed if she went beyond that. They were close already. "It's all I can afford."

  As the man with white hair raised his bid, the man next to her turned back to her. "Why? Why these horses?"

  "The white mare," she said. "She was a wedding gift from my husband's family in Spain."

  Her companion turned his gaze toward Nevada, looking more interested now. The man with the white hair raised the bid again, and Lourdes realized that he and her collaborator were now the only ones bidding on the lot.

  "Five thousand," the auctioneer said, motioning toward the white-haired man.

  Lourdes felt her heart sink. She had promised herself she wouldn't go over. She'd have to live with letting Nevada go. She would have to pray her new owner wouldn't mistreat a mare past her prime.

  "Five, one," the auctioneer called, pointing in her companion's direction again.

  "I can't afford that," she whispered.

  "I'll pay the extra." He grinned widely. "Worth it to vex Finn."

  Finn must be the white-haired man. He raised the price again and a few seconds later, her companion did as well. "I can't pay you, sir," Lourdes said. "I can't afford to go higher."

  "You'll not get her back any other way, ma'am. Finn's stubborn."

  He apparently knew the other man well. "I would let him have her, but she's fifteen years old," Lourdes admitted. "He won't want her when he realizes that. Will he send her to the slaughter house?"

  Her companion had been about to raise his hand but waved the auctioneer off instead. He leaned on the rail to gaze at her, his brown eyes serious. "There's no need to worry, ma'am. Finn would never send a horse to slaughter. I promise that."

  Hearing the conviction in his tone, Lourdes gripped the rail. Her knees had gone weak. She felt lightheaded with relief.

  Safe, she thought at Nevada. The mare's ears flicked in her direction. Go with them. See me later.

  It was a false promise, Lourdes knew. Nevada was intelligent for a horse, but still couldn't grasp more complicated sentiments. Nevada would wait faithfully until 'later' came.

  In the background she heard the auctioneer awarding the lot to the white-haired gentleman. The woman with the red hair cast a scornful look at Lourdes' companion, and then her eyes skimmed over Lourdes herself. One perfect red brow lifted
and the woman turned away, laughing.

  Lourdes felt a flush warming her cheeks. In this place she was the oddity, a brown-skinned woman, her black braid wrapped about her head like a coronet. Her woolen suit, while acceptable in Texas, fell short of that first stare of fashion required in New York. She had received any number of disdainful glances since coming to this place, but that woman excelled at contempt.

  The woman tugged on the arm of the white-haired man--Finn--as if ready to leave. He capitulated and they began to walk away, but as he went he cast one last look in Lourdes' direction. She didn't see derision on his face, merely curiosity. Then he left, the woman on his arm. Something in his carriage suggested he was keeping the woman at as great a distance as he could.

  "Are you visiting here, ma'am?" the man next to Lourdes asked blithely.

  Wrapped up in her study of the departing couple, Lourdes had almost forgotten her companion. "Forgive me, yes, I am visiting, sir."

  He held out one hand and, after a second, she recalled that she should shake it. "Mr. O'Donnell," he said. "And you are?"

  It wasn't proper to introduce herself in this way, but since he'd bid for her, she didn't mind the lack of formality. "Mrs. Medina," she told him. "I am very grateful for your help, sir."

  "Did you and your husband come in for the meet, Mrs. Medina?"

  A race meet was held in the town of Saratoga Springs every August, but that hadn't been the impetus behind her long train ride from Texas. She'd followed Nevada. "No," she answered. "I only arrived yesterday. My husband has passed on, Mr. O'Donnell. I am here alone, I'm afraid."

  "I am sorry to hear about your husband, ma'am. If you're staying in town a few more days, I know my wife would love to meet you." The bidding had started on another lot of horses, and she realized Mr. O'Donnell must want to bid on that group; he seemed to have only one eye on her now. "Would you be free for dinner...ah, tomorrow?"

  Lourdes held in a laugh. His poor wife. Mr. O'Donnell apparently didn't believe in formality. Then again, Lourdes didn't know anyone in this town. She might settle in this place, and it wouldn't hurt to make a friend or two. "Perhaps if your wife wishes, she could leave a message for me at the United States Hotel?"

  His lips twisted and his eyes laughed. "I have no manners. I let Ginny do all the proper things." He took off his tweed cap, baring his chestnut hair. "Now, it was a pleasure tweaking Finn's tail on your behalf, Mrs. Medina, but don't worry about that mare of yours. He won't harm a hair on her head."

  Judging that he needed his attention back on the auction, Lourdes thanked Mr. O'Donnell again and left. The white-haired man and his companion were long gone.

  ***

  The United States Hotel was elegant, but more expensive than Lourdes liked.

  The five-thousand she hadn't spent today would make things easier, thankfully. Her husband had died three years before, leaving her with enough money to support herself, but not with any style. Her father had passed two years later, leaving his wealth to her brother, trusting that Chuy would take care of everything, including her. Her father had always believed Chuy would settle down and take care of the hacienda, the house, and the land. But her father had been ill for the last few years, and she hadn't had the heart to tell him Chuy hadn't done any of those things. That had come back to haunt her after her father's death.

  And as a result, here she sat in a hotel she couldn't afford. She'd wanted to be taken seriously as a buyer at the auction, and therefore had chosen one of the finer hotels. At least there had been a room for her. As the racing meet was over now the hotel wasn't full. There were a few patrons in the town for a floral festival, like the one held in San Antonio each spring. Preparations were being made for upcoming political conventions, and some visitors had come for the gambling--illegal, but men always found a way.

  She sat alone at the table in the long dining room and contemplated the people who passed by. They cast startled glances her way but then politely averted their eyes. Her gown, although sober, was fashionable enough, a gray silk chiffon overlaying black silk, with beaded flowers in black. Perhaps they looked away because she was in mourning, but she suspected it was more than that. Here the help were dark skinned, not the patrons.

  She'd experienced very mixed reactions in this town. Back in Texas, most people would recognize that she was Spanish, from one of the old aristocratic families who'd fought for independence from Mexico. Here that meant nothing. She watched the passing patrons discreetly, knowing they were watching her in turn. She wasn't certain if they thought her exotic, or inferior.

  She spotted the white-haired man entering the long dining hall then and quickly lowered her eyes to her tablecloth. He strolled along the aisle between the circular tables, stopping to talk to one patron or another. Everyone appeared to like him--save for Mr. O'Donnell, who had wanted to vex him.

  Lourdes got a better look at the man's face while he stood no more than ten feet away talking to another gentleman. He was more handsome than she remembered, dressed now for evening in a cut-away coat and trousers in stark black.

  He left off his conversation and came in the direction of her table. Lourdes lowered her eyes again. She had nothing to say to him, not after having driven up the price of a lot of horses he'd wanted. His patent leather shoes stopped, though, right by her table. "Are you going to invite me to sit down, Mrs. Medina?"

  The first thing she noted was that his voice had the same lilt as Mr. O'Donnell's. Then she realized he'd said her name. How had he learned that?

  He didn't wait for her answer. Instead he waved imperiously at one of the black-garbed waiters, who came running over with another plate and napkin. The waiter set the plate across from hers without a word to her. "What are you doing?" she asked the young man.

  Her unexpected companion held up one hand to silence the waiter she'd addressed. "I'm joining you for dinner. I should think that was obvious." He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat, flipping out the tails of his coat as he did so.

  Lourdes didn't order the flustered-looking waiter to take away the plate. She was accustomed to high-handed men. Perhaps this one expected her to protest, or stand up and demand that he leave at once. But she'd lived around men like this most of her life, men who thought they knew better than any woman. She'd learned that patience was useful in this sort of situation.

  His eyes met hers then. "Now, Mrs. Medina, I am curious to learn how you know…"

  The name he said didn't sound familiar. There was an r in the middle of it that almost sounded Spanish, but it definitely wasn't a Spanish name. Had he said Gori? Perhaps it was Gorey? She shook out her napkin and laid it in her lap. "I don't know of whom you're speaking, sir."

  He leaned closer to be heard over the myriad voices in the room. "I saw you with O'Donnell at the auction. His wife's….a relative of mine. I thought I knew all his friends."

  Ah, Mr. O'Donnell, whose unfortunate wife would find herself hosting a complete stranger tomorrow night. His given name must be Gorey, which seemed to fit with the foreign lilt in his voice. "I don't know the gentleman, sir. I first met him at that auction, where he was kind enough to bid for me since the auctioneer seemed not to see me."

  He chuckled, a sound that warmed her unexpectedly. It wasn't derisive. Instead he seemed to include her in his amusement. "Mr. Morgan has old-fashioned ideas about women getting out of their place, Mrs. Medina," he said. "I like your accent."

  She kept forgetting that to these people, she had an accent. "Thank you. May I ask your name, sir? If I'm to share the table with you, it would be easier if I knew how to address you."

  He smiled, recognizing her capitulation for what it was. "Not going to fight me?"

  She fingered the silver and jet necklace that hung at her throat. "Why should I, Mr.…?"

  "Finnegan," he said. "Although my friends call me Finn."

  The waiter had returned with a glass of wine for the intruding gentleman, as well as his silver. The young man laid it out neatly, and Mr. Fin
negan held one gloved hand over the flatware as if he could divine its value through the air. Evidently appeased, he nodded the young man away and turned back to Lourdes. "Have you ordered yet?"

  "Not yet," she admitted. "I'd just been seated."

  "Then I'll order for both of us. You'll find they have excellent Roast Spring Chicken au Jus here, but one should stay away from the Saddle of Mutton."

  He meant to order her meal? His behavior could almost be considered comical if she didn't believe he was in earnest. "And if I don't care for Roast Chicken?"

  "You will after you've had it here," he answered without pause. "Now, as to the bidding this afternoon, why were you so set on that bunch of mares?"

  There it was. She had expected him to ask that at some point. "One of them used to belong to me. I was concerned for her welfare."

  One dark brow rose. "But you ceased bidding when you ran out of funds?"

  "No. When Mr. O'Donnell assured me that you would never mistreat a horse," she said. Mr. Finnegan smiled, a tight smile that seemed to turn on some inner irony. Lourdes suspected his relationship with Mr. O'Donnell had rough edges. "You're surprised he said that?"

  "Very astute, Mrs. Medina," Mr. Finnegan said, raising his wine glass in a salute. "He and I have not always gotten along. We do so now predominantly for the sake of my…his wife."

  She'd heard that hesitation in his choice of titles regarding O'Donnell's wife before. It seemed to rankle him. What was the true relationship between them? "I see," she said as the waiter approached them again.

  Before she even had a chance to open her mouth, Mr. Finnegan had ordered for both of them. Once the waiter had left the table, he turned back to her. "Where are you from, my dear?"

  The 'my dear' was overly familiar, but again she saw no point in fighting it. She had learned to be selective about her arguments. "My family had a hacienda outside Del Rio. A ranch, you might say. In Texas."

  "Are all the women there as compliant as you?"

  Now that had to be intended as an insult, an implication of spinelessness. Lourdes didn't even blink. "I came downstairs to eat dinner, Mr. Finnegan. Neither your presence here at my table nor your selection of my meal have caused me to deviate from that plan. As I don't enjoy eating alone, I see no reason to fuss about it."