The Major's Daughter

by Regina Jennings

  Everything went dark, and sound was muffled. Her chest tightened like she’d been thrust underwater. Bucky kicked and struggled against her. Then she felt Frisco reaching across her and wrestling with her attacker. He freed her from her bindings, and she watched as an oblong oilcloth disappeared into the night, riding the wind until it buried some other victim.

  “Poor Sophie,” he said. “She’ll need to make a new advertisement.”

  Too bad Caroline hadn’t thought to catch the oilcloth. It would have kept some of the rain off her.

  She didn’t recognize Frisco’s plot but figured the wagon he was leading her to was his friend Patrick’s. So far, the framework of Frisco’s house was still standing, but his tent was nowhere to be found. Frisco reached above his head to rattle on the drawstring of the covered wagon, which had been pulled closed against the rain. The box of the wagon bounced, and Patrick peered out at them.

  Wrapping her arms around Bucky, Caroline tried to make herself small as she waited for entrance. Having grown up on the prairies, she knew what the weather could do, and unless one was hiding underground, a roof over your head might not offer enough protection. A wagon? Well, they’d better pray that God had mercy on them, or lives would be snuffed out. When the clouds came down to touch the earth, they left a red scar of dirt and nothing else.

  “Get in here,” Patrick said through the loosened opening. He reached his hand down. Frisco took the goat from her and stuck it beneath the wagon before taking Caroline by the waist and hoisting her up. The only light was the increasingly frequent lightning that illuminated the family huddled inside. Mrs. Smith held Jonathan on a straw tick that was wedged between two crates and a butter churn. With Patrick helping Frisco inside, Caroline had to move out of the way, but she didn’t see anywhere clear that she could go.

  “Come this way,” Mrs. Smith said. “Follow my voice.”

  “I’m dripping wet,” Caroline replied. “I don’t want to get water on your mattress.”

  “By the time the night is over, we’ll be lucky if anything in this territory is dry,” said Patrick.

  He lifted the butter churn and passed it to Frisco to set outside the wagon before they tied down the opening again. Caroline took her place where the butter churn had been, and Frisco and Patrick joined them.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Frisco said. “My house on the river was becoming my house in the river.”

  “Do you mean Miss Adams’s house?” It was too dark to see Patrick’s grin, but Caroline could hear it in his voice.

  “You’re welcome here,” Mrs. Smith said. “We’re on your property, after all.” Her gracious words were nearly yelled to be heard over the wind, which had intensified since they’d entered the fragile refuge.

  The wagon rocked with each forceful blast. Jonathan cried out despite Mrs. Smith’s attempts to shelter him against the side of the wagon. There wasn’t room for Caroline to stretch out her legs, but the safest thing seemed to be staying huddled together.

  The wind grew stronger and stronger. The frame holding the canvas above them groaned as two wheels left the ground and then dropped back to the earth with a crash.

  “If it gets any worse, it’s going to roll,” Frisco said. He took Caroline’s hand. “We’ll sit against the windward side. Maybe that’ll help.”

  He and Patrick shoved things around to make room on the other side of the wagon. Mrs. Smith tossed a blanket over the crates at them, which Caroline took gratefully. With their backs against the wooden side and their knees to their chests, Caroline and Frisco sat side by side, listening to the howling wind. Caroline tried not to let her shoulders bounce against the wall when the wagon bucked, but then something hit the canvas with enough force to strike her on the head.

  “Ouch.” She leaned away from the side of the wagon and rubbed her scalp. “Something blew against the—”

  But before she could complete her sentence, the roaring of a hundred strikes drowned out her words.

  Hail. Frisco looked above them as the fury outside grew. At the next lightning strike, Caroline could no longer see the top of Patrick’s head over the crates between them, and Frisco must have had the same idea.

  “Get down!”

  He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her down to get her head beneath the side of the wagon. Angling his shoulders across her, he tucked her head into his chest as the onslaught began in earnest.

  Like hammer blows on an anvil, the hailstones pounded the canvas above them. Most bounced off the tightly drawn material, but bigger and bigger stones were hurling down. Near the front of the wagon, a crate splintered. The wind howled through a rip in the canvas. Caroline felt Frisco’s fingers dig into her coat as he braced himself. Mrs. Smith screamed from the other side of the wagon. Caroline moved to help, but Frisco held her firm.

  “Stay down,” he urged. His body was unyielding against hers. “You’re covered here.”

  Covered by him. Through all the chaos and discomfort, Caroline had failed to recognize that Frisco was risking his life for her. She who had taken his dream from him.

  The next strike hit Frisco square in the back. Caroline felt the impact ricochet against her. The sudden puff of breath across her head told her that he’d had the air knocked out of him. It was a few moments before he had enough wind to groan.

  “That’s gonna leave a mark,” he said. He twisted to relieve the pain but stopped and settled in again with a grunt. “Good thing I’ve got a full set of ribs to begin with.”

  But if he was hit in the head . . .

  Caroline reached her arms around his neck and stretched her hands over his head.

  “Get your hands back,” he said. “You don’t want your fingers broken.”

  “I don’t want your head broken,” she said.

  Only in the flashes of lightning could she see the black pools of his eyes. “You’re protecting me?” he asked. “Very few people have ever done that before.” He ducked as another hailstone ripped through the wagon. “If I didn’t think you’d hate me tomorrow, I’d kiss you.” His words, hot on her wet neck, left her shivering.

  Caroline felt as untamed and reckless as the storm. “What if there’s not a tomorrow?” she said. “Would you regret losing your chance?”

  Wincing, he pulled her hands down and tucked them safely against his chest while his gritty smile grew firm. “There’s going to be a tomorrow. We have too many adventures ahead for it to end now.”

  Chapter twenty-one

  It would take more than a chunk of ice thrown from the clouds to knock Frisco out of this contest. The raging front of the storm passed, followed by bands of rain that waxed and waned through the rest of the night. Once the dangerous hail had ceased, Frisco and Patrick did their best to patch the rips in the wagon cover and rearrange the contents of the wagon bed. As much as Frisco would have liked to return to the private alcove he and Caroline had shared, decorum dictated that she join Mrs. Smith and the boy for the rest of the night.

  It was for the best. Yes, Frisco gave a passing thought to what pain Major Adams could inflict on him, but even more terrifying was the agony he was likely to find at the end of any dalliance with Caroline. He admired her. He coveted her admiration. It would crush him to lose her respect, but he knew that an ugly parting was the most likely outcome of any courtship between them.

  In Frisco’s experience, very few things lasted forever, and relationships were the most fragile of all. Once he had time to clear his head, he knew it was better to keep his distance and keep her regard for the long haul. Especially if their paths were likely to cross again.

  The sun lifted off the soggy ground, as did the battered inhabitants of Plainview. Stunned and dripping, they emerged from overturned carriages, wet tarps, and any hollow in the ground big enough to duck beneath.

  Frisco helped Mrs. Smith down from the wagon. Spotting her shattered butter churn, she covered her mouth before falling on her knees and gathering the broken pieces into her skirt.

  C
aroline watched from the wagon, her glorious hair an unruly flash of color that hadn’t been tamed in the storm. “I owe you a new churn,” she said. “You only moved it out of the wagon to make room for me.”

  Mrs. Smith looked at Caroline’s battered and muddied work dress. “I reckon we’re all in this together,” she said and offered Caroline a hand down out of the wagon.

  Caroline went straight for the young goat, huddled next to Jonathan’s dog in the mud against the wagon wheel.

  “They’ll be fine,” Frisco said, “but we need to take an accounting of the town.” He’d leave Patrick to comfort his wife and look after their belongings. After a night of helplessly waiting, Frisco was ready to get out and do something productive.

  He was pleased to see that the framework of his house was still standing. His tent was tangled around a corner post, and his cot had been overturned, but since Patrick had kept Frisco’s traveling case in the wagon, his losses were minimal. On other building sites, splintered posts showed the force of the wind. Had his house been further along, with walls or a roof, they most certainly would have been blown off. Not that the frame offered any protection, but at least he wasn’t out the expense and time to replace it. He wondered how his little dugout on the riverbank had fared.

  “I imagine you’re concerned about your belongings,” he said to Caroline. “If you want me to take you back to the homestead—”

  “No. There are hurting people here. This is where my duty lies.”

  “Your duty?” How did she look so noble covered in dirt? “What obligations are you under?”

  She lifted her chin and wiped her hands against her dingy skirt. “I’m the major’s daughter. These people rely on my family. If there are needs, then who else should be attending to them?”

  There were plenty of needs, that was certain. His lot was littered with debris. Mixed in with the clothing and canvas were pieces of wet paper, their ink running so that they’d never be identifiable. Thank the Lord the wagon had held, or those could have been his papers trod upon.

  Caroline knelt and scraped a pair of trousers out of the mud. She tried to shake the wet red clay out of the creases, then looked around. “I’m sure the owner will be looking for these. All they need is a good washing.”

  “Hang them on that crossbeam.” Frisco pointed to his house frame. “We’ll see if we can match the seekers with the finders.”

  Her faint nod of approval warmed him. “More important than the goods, we need to see if anyone is hurt.” She looked around again. “The higher ground toward the center of town was probably hit the hardest. We’ll survey that area and identify any casualties. If I know my father, the troopers will be here soon with the ambulance wagon. It’ll save time and suffering if we can point them to the area with the most people hurt.”

  It was a pity the army didn’t have officer positions open to the fairer sex. Caroline Adams was born to lead.

  “There’s the Cottons. Let’s check on them.” Frisco motioned her toward the neighbors who were tying together a broken tent pole.

  “We’re fine,” Mr. Cotton said. “We managed to get the straw tick over us, or we’d have some knots on our noggins this morning.”

  “You shouldn’t jest,” his wife reprimanded. “There’ll be some who weren’t so lucky.”

  Frisco twisted his back, trying to work out the soreness. “If you hear of anyone needing assistance, let us know. We’re heading toward the center of town.”

  Caroline righted a milking stool that had blown over before accompanying him to the next plot. It didn’t take long before they’d heard story after story of property damage, missing livestock, and various items that had blown away.

  One tearful woman gathered waterlogged clothing from a busted crate and threw it in a buggy as her husband harnessed one horse to a two-horse harness. “This is the last tear I’m going to cry over this sorry land,” she said. “It’s been nothing but empty promises and hardships. We would’ve been better off staying in Arizona Territory. This weather is too unpredictable.”

  “Don’t know that we can make it back to Arizona,” her husband said. “Not with one horse.”

  Frisco stepped into Caroline’s line of sight so she’d be spared the image of the dead animal behind the buggy. “Did you file a claim for this land?” he asked. “You might be able to put some money in your pocket to aid your trip home.” And Patrick might be able to have a plot of his own.

  But Patrick wasn’t fast enough. Mr. Wilton was making good time despite his bent back. He still had wet maple leaves stuck to his coat from riding out the storm, but that didn’t dim the hope in his eyes. “You’uns leaving? I’ll take this plot from you. Ten dollars cash money, and I’ll see that your dead horse gets looked after.”

  “Ten dollars?” the homesteader said. “Do you know how much we sank into this venture? We already have a well dug—”

  His wife waved a mud-coated rolling pin at him. “Take the money and let’s go. I want to get away from here before the next storm.”

  Her husband dropped his gaze to the muddy puddle he was standing in, then held out his hand. Mr. Wilton pulled a drawstring bag out of his pocket. Holding it in his fist, he squeezed it until a stream of water ran out the end, then fished out some wet bills and counted the coins.

  “Congratulations,” Frisco said. “You and Sophie are now officially citizens of Plainview.”

  Or what was left of it. As the morning went on, word spread that some hadn’t survived the storm. Four souls in all. Two were struck by hailstones, and one child drowned when she was swept away from where her family was sheltering by the river. The fourth man drowned facedown in a puddle, but it was suspected that he’d been drowning his sorrows all night with bootleg liquor.

  Frisco and Caroline directed a man with a broken arm to the center of town and made several trips back to Frisco’s plot with their arms full of goods they’d recovered. Patrick and Millie stayed there, matching people with the goods they’d lost and accepting whatever was found out of place.

  Millie had also been through Frisco’s bag to retrieve clothes that had gotten wet when the wagon’s canvas failed. She’d hung them on a line along with her family’s clothes to dry. Frisco spotted them immediately and felt it to the pit of his stomach.

  “My bag. Did you empty it?” He ran his hand over the buckskin trousers hanging limply over the rope. They weren’t soaked, but it wouldn’t take much water to ruin his records.

  Millie shook her head. “No, just these clothes that were on top, but they stopped the water. Once I touched a dry portfolio beneath, I left everything else as it was.”

  Then Frisco saw a white square of fabric hanging on the line. He pulled it down. “I’m going to put this back in my case. I don’t want it lost.”

  “Oh, Frisco,” Patrick said, “nobody wants that old handkerchief of yours. That monogram doesn’t even match your name.”

  Maybe it did. How would he know? “All the same, it’s liable to blow away without a clothespin. It’ll be safer back where it belongs.”

  “I’m surprised at the civility,” Caroline said, accompanying him. “As desperate as the situation is, you’d think there’d be looting.”

  He refastened his traveling bag with the handkerchief safely inside and felt better about life. “Not everyone needs a company of soldiers to make them behave. Besides, we’re all in the same boat. Once thieving starts, where would it end? No one can lock up their belongings until houses are built. We have to trust each other.”

  But he couldn’t stop the questions that Lacroix had raised. Had they been too trusting? Had the town been settled fairly or not?

  As Caroline had predicted, an ambulatory wagon arrived with troopers before the sun hit its zenith. The fort’s surgeon set bones right there in the street. Not that there was anywhere better. There was no dry, protected spot for the hundreds of people living there. Everything had been exposed. Even the photographer’s work.

  Against the half-bui
lt brick wall of the bank, Frisco found a leather portfolio wrapped in twine. Breaking the twine, he pulled out a stash of photos. Water had soaked through one corner of the portfolio, leaving a wrinkly quarter circle on many of the pictures, but besides that, they were fine. Judging from the fancy dress and the painted backdrop, many of the photos had been taken the night of the dance. What a change from that night to the soaked, tired people who populated the town today. Frisco quickly thumbed through the stack, looking for what he knew must be there.

  Caroline leaned over his arm. “Who do those belong to?” The sun was gaining its May strength. If she didn’t get some shade soon, her fair complexion would suffer.

  “Two of them belong to us,” he said. And there they were. Him with his cravat and pleated shirt front, and Caroline Adams in her heart-stopping glory.

  He couldn’t help but gobble up the beauty on the card and then turn to study her as she assessed the picture. There was no comparison. As rare as her beauty had been that night, today she was more magnificent. Many women knew how to fool a camera to their advantage. Many could look winsome or striking for the lightning blaze of the flash powder, but this woman had a grit to her that wasn’t visible on the surface. Compassionate, yes, but not with a helpless sentimentality. Instead her compassion had a will to it.

  Her lips parted as she took in the handsome couple they made. The sidelong glance she gave him made him feel his sore ribs again. “That seems like so long ago,” she said. “It’s impossible that this is the same place.”

  “We were standing in front of a painted backdrop,” he pointed out. “What you see here was never real.”

  “It was real to me.”

  The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow. He thought of the night before and how close he’d come to kissing her. Somewhere deep in his gut, he knew she was thinking of the same thing. “We’re going to make it real,” he said.