by Tinnean
“You called me Steve once.”
“Okay, Steve.” He offered Steve that shy smile once again, then trotted the stallion to the end of the street where the pinto stood ground tied, looking the epitome of his name—sorrowful. Then Sharps rode back, all business.
They turned their horses and kicked them into a gallop. Steve took the lead, and they headed for camp.
Yeah, maybe they did have a future, if they could manage to stay alive.
* * * *
Steve was fairly certain any danger would come from behind them, but that didn’t stop him from keeping an eagle eye out for trouble in all directions, and he insisted they move along at a brisk canter.
A glance over his shoulder showed Sharps had taken up the rear and was keeping watch for any men from the town who might follow them. It suddenly occurred to Steve that this was something the young man had never done while he’d served under Steve, and yet he seemed to be utterly comfortable with his action, not to mention capable.
What had gone on in the five years since he’d last seen Sharps Browne?
Chapter 17
They arrived at camp sooner than Steve would have liked, because it meant they were close enough to Willow Crick that it wouldn’t take very long for Weatherford’s men to reach them once they made a decision of how to respond.
Well, the only thing to do was get Fox buried, get the mules harnessed and hitched to the wagons, and get the hell out of there.
“Bart, Frank, we’d better get Fox buried,” Steve called. It had to be now and fast. He circled the area until he found a place that seemed suitable, then returned to the others and swung down off Bella. “Over there.” He pointed out a spot under a grove of trees. It was away from the camp and wasn’t likely to be noticed at first glance. Hopefully not at second or third glance, either.
“Sure thing, Steve.” They left their horses for the kids to cool down and water, picked up a couple of shovels, and paced off the spot for the grave.
“Sharps, would you mind lending a hand?”
Sharps gave a nod, but before he could rein the gray stallion in that direction, Mrs. Fox stepped down from her wagon.
“You’re back.” She looked around. “Where’s Albert?”
Dammit. Steve hadn’t had the time to break the news to her before he’d left camp. The last thing a pregnant woman needed to know was her husband was dead. He knew the instant she spotted her husband’s body.
“Albert!” She shrieked and ran toward the horse that held her husband’s body. “Albert!” She stroked his hair and began weeping uncontrollably.
Sharps swung off the stallion and went to the woman. Steve couldn’t hear what he said to her, but he took his bandana from around his neck and gently dried her cheeks.
“No! No!” She threw her arms around him and continued to weep.
And Steve felt as if he’d been slugged in the gut. He’d been so positive that with Sharps back in his life they would have a future together, one he’d been thinking about since the War ended. Now, though…
He watched as Sharps didn’t take the widow’s arms from around him, didn’t step away from her. In fact, he seemed to be holding on as if he never wanted to let her go, and Steve felt cold. He remembered how good the boy—the young man—had been with children back home in Brooklyn. Even with the little ones from the towns they’d passed during the War, Sharps had been kind and caring. Steve also remembered how fervently Sharps had wanted a family.
It occurred to him he could have misread the glances Sharps had sent his way, that he’d spent the past five years mooning over someone who’d spent those same years searching for a woman who would make him happier than Steve ever could. And if she had children…no matter how fond he might be of Steve, she…they…would be exactly what Sharps was looking for.
Had Steve waited for Sharps to grow up, only to have lost him? He felt cold and sick. Well, wasn’t he the fool?
Steve turned on his heel, about to join Bart and Frank. All he wanted to do was take up a pickaxe and set to work loosening the ground, working out his emotions with violent action.
“Cap?”
Steve stiffened at the sound of Sharps’s voice. What was he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to be comforting the grieving widow? “Yeah?” he growled.
“Is there an extra shovel?” Sharps asked.
“No. Get the mules harnessed, would you?” He stalked off before Sharps could object, shutting out the sounds of Mrs. Fox’s grief. No doubt the kid would comfort her, and he wanted no part of watching their courtship begin.
Sharps could have taken advantage of the opportunity—not that he’d force his attentions on the woman, but she’d be needing a father for those kids. Sharps was young and healthy, and he’d be around to support them for many, many years.
Well, Steve wasn’t going to hang around to watch.
“All right, you two,” he snapped at Bart and Frank. “This grave isn’t going to dig itself. Let’s get hopping.”
“Is Sharps going to help? This’ll get done faster with the four of us working at it.”
“He’s got other things to do,” Steve said shortly. Back in town, he’d been so proud to have them meet the young man he’d spoken of so highly, who’d been so courageous during the War. My God, what a fool I’ve been.
He pretended he didn’t see the glances they exchanged. It was going to take a while for him to get over this—if he ever did—and the last thing he wanted was anyone questioning his sour mood.
* * * *
There were a few hours of daylight left by the time they covered the grave with rocks to keep it safe from wild animals. Georgie hurried over to them. He no longer wore the fancy dress but was now dressed in something plainer, something that would be more suitable for handling a team of mules.
“What is it?”
“Sharps suggests we use some brush to help camouflage the grave.”
Steve wanted to snap they didn’t have the time for such nonsense, but he realized it wasn’t nonsense and they’d better damned well make time for it—the brush would help keep Fox’s grave hidden from two-legged varmints.
“All right.”
“I’ve sent the children out to get whatever they can find.”
“Good thinking.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Georgie cocked his head at Steve. “Right. I’ll let Sharps know you appreciated the thought.”
Steve grunted, and he and Bart and Frank scavenged for brush as well. How did Sharps even know to do something like that?
Minutes later, with the grave carefully disguised, everyone gathered around. Mrs. Fox leaned against Sharps, while her children clustered around them. The perfect little family.
Steve forced himself to concentrate on what he had to do. As the wagon master, this was his responsibility. The men removed their hats, they all bowed their heads, and Steve recited the Twenty-Third Psalm, to Mrs. Fox’s muted sobs.
Her children were confused and wept silently, and Sharps stooped to gather the two little girls in his arms, while the boy clung to his waist. Of course, Steve couldn’t help thinking bitterly. Sharps would make the perfect father, and here was a ready-made family.
Once the service, such as it was, was over, he turned to Sharps and said brusquely, “Drive her wagon, Browne.”
Sharps flinched at his tone, but if Steve had hoped the young man would challenge his order, he was destined to be disappointed.
“Yes, sir.” Sharps’s face lacked all expression as he nodded.
Steve was taken back to those days during the War when the boy he’d known then had cheerfully replied “yes, sir” to his every order. He never thought to think back fondly of that time.
There was no longer any cheerfulness. Sharps helped Mrs. Fox and the children into the wagon, then tied his horses behind and unsaddled them. He put the tack in the hammock under the wagon, along with his saddlebags. He slipped the case that held the banjo from his b
ack and stored it in the jockey box Fox’s wagon had under the footrest—and since when did Sharps play the banjo? And what had he intended to do with it once they’d arrived in front of the jail? Strum Weatherford and his men to death with a series of sour notes? Steve remembered very well trying to teach the boy how to play, and how he’d been all thumbs. Now Steve watched as Sharps climbed onto the seat, his canvas trousers pulling snug across his buttocks, and caught up the reins.
Steve suddenly realized all his attention had been on the young man. Annoyed with himself, he glanced around quickly. They had to be on the road.
Everyone was ready and looked toward him expectantly. Steve removed his hat, waved it in a sweeping circle above his head, and sang out, “Wagons forward, roll!”
Georgie snapped the reins and had his mule team stretch out into a trot.
Steve noticed Sharps look his way—and no, the boy’s expression wasn’t wistful. That was just Steve’s imagination. Anyway, he was too far from Sharps to make out any kind of detail clearly.
Sharps whistled and cracked the whip over his mules’ ears, and they headed out behind Georgie.
Steve stared after him, wondering how he could have lost something he’d so recently found, then put his hat back on his head, touched his heels to Bella’s sides, and cantered to the front of the line.
He was the wagon master, after all.
Chapter 18
Steve had Bart and Frank keeping guard riding along opposite sides of the two wagons, while he scouted on ahead, then checked their back trail to make sure they weren’t being followed.
So far, their luck had held.
They’d driven through the late afternoon and into the night, their way lit by a crescent moon, and they’d covered a lot of ground. The mules had had a couple of days grazing on fresh grass and being grained, and by alternating their gait between a walk, a trot, and a canter, they were easily able to keep going.
Meanwhile, Steve had more time than he wanted to consider every mistake he’d made on this trip.
Letting his friends ride into Willow Crick without him.
Riding hell-for-leather into town after Charlie had told him Albert Fox had been killed, Bart and Frank were in jail, and Georgie and Noelle had been kidnapped.
And then reacting to a taunt from one of Weatherford’s men by taking a swing, hitting the wrong man, and winding up in jail himself.
He knew how to handle himself when it came to bareknuckle fighting, and even though there were three of them, he’d had no doubt he’d be able to tear down their meathouses. That was, until he caught a glimpse of a blade and then heard that shot. Then he figured he was a goner. He’d turned slowly, expecting another shot to tear through his chest, but instead there was Sharps, sitting casually on that big stallion, his knee curled around the horn. Steve’s heart had almost exploded with joy on seeing him again…
And that was his biggest mistake of all.
How could I have been so wrong? He’d been certain—so certain—Sharps cared for him, that like him, the young man had simply been waiting for the right time to confess his feelings, but was that simply wishful thinking on his part? After seeing Sharps with Mrs. Fox, competent and caring in his comforting her, he’d begun to wonder.
After all, it was five years since the last time they’d seen each other. Had Sharps come to realize he enjoyed the softness of a woman’s body rather than the hard plains of a man’s?
Steve recalled the stone-cold look he’d seen in Sharps’s eyes when he’d announced he would shoot not only the three men, but Weatherford as well. What had happened to the boy he’d been during those five years?
Well, there was nothing for it. Once they arrived at Georgie’s valley, Steve would do the honorable thing; he’d step aside and ride away. He wanted Sharps to be happy, but he couldn’t stand by and watch.
No, he didn’t think he could bear knowing it wouldn’t be with him.
* * * *
They covered about twenty-five miles before Steve had them stop to rest the mules as well as themselves. The men stood guard in shifts, and Steve watched as Sharps casually patrolled the outskirts of camp. That had never been his task during the War, but it was obvious the boy knew what he was doing. What had he been up to these past five years?
Steve stretched out in his bedroll, pulled his hat down over his face, and closed his eyes. He had to get some rest or he’d be good for nothing if the men of Willow Crick came after them.
* * * *
They were up before light the next morning and because they didn’t dare light a fire, lest it drew attention to their location, they’d have to make a cold meal of it.
“Breakfast is going to be biscuits and dried fruit,” Steve said briskly.
“No coffee?” Sharps asked, a faint smile on his face.
“No.” Steve frowned at him. “We’ll have to make do with water.”
The smile vanished, and Sharps turned on his heel and strode to the Fox wagon. Steve watched as Sharps made sure Mrs. Fox and the children ate something.
Bart and Georgie stood with the Pettigrew children, Noelle, Charlie, and Thomas. Only Noelle went by a different name—they called her Chris to help throw dust in the eyes of men who might be coming after them. Frank joined the little family.
Steve was the only one who was alone.
“Why are you tormenting yourself?” he muttered.
“You say something?” Bart asked as he sauntered up to Steve and offered him a biscuit.
“Thanks.” He took the biscuit. “No, I didn’t say anything. Let’s get the mules hitched up,” He mumbled around a bite. “We can eat as we go. The farther we get from Willow Crick, the happier I’ll be.”
“All of us will.” Bart gazed around the camp. “Georgie’s already harnessing the mules, and it looks like Sharps has a little help.”
Bert, the oldest Fox child, hovered at Sharps’s side, watching as Sharps harnessed their team. Mrs. Fox stood nearby, the expression on her face going from fond to upset as she must have abruptly recalled her husband’s loss.
Sharps tilted his head to the side and spoke to the boy, pointing out the various pieces of tack. In a way, his actions reminded Steve of the kid Sharps had been at the start of the War, and how he’d follow Steve pretty much everywhere.
And then Mrs. Fox joined them. She lifted a hand as if to caress Sharps’s cheek, and he raised his own hand to grasp hers and drew her against him in a tender movement.
Well. Talk about acting precipitously. It had been less than a day since they’d buried Albert Fox.
Steve fisted his hands and ground his teeth. He crossed the camp. “Everyone. Time’s a-wasting. Get a move on.” He sent a surreptitious glance in the kid’s direction, but Sharps’s attention was on Mrs. Fox and her son. Sharps got them into the wagon. For a second his shoulders slumped, and Steve felt hope nudge at his heart. Could Sharps have realized courting the woman so soon after her husband’s death might not be a good idea?
Steve caught sight of the slight grin that lifted the corner of the kid’s mouth. Dammit, he wished he could see Sharps’s eyes.
Sharps walked to the front of the wagon and climbed up. He gathered the reins of his mule team and released the brake. Steve stared at him intently, hoping for a glance, but Sharps’s gaze was on Georgie’s wagon.
Right. Steve removed his hat and waved it over his head. Once again he sang out, “Wagons forward, roll!”
Chapter 19
After they’d arrived at camp, after Mrs. Fox realized her husband was dead and dissolved into hysterics, after Steve had ordered him curtly to harness the mules, Sharps turned to Mrs. Hall.
“Would you take care of the lady?” Women always dealt better with other women when they wept.
“Sure.”
Only as it turned out, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
“What will I do without him?” Mrs. Fox cried as she wept over her husband’s body. “I’m expecting a baby. How can I raise four children all
alone?”
Her children stared, wide-eyed, the littlest one with her thumb in her mouth, a small puddle of urine between her feet. Their fear and confusion was obvious, and it about broke his heart.
“Try not to worry. We’ll help you.” Mrs. Hall took her arm to help her to her wagon, but the other woman yanked free.
“You’ll help us? You’ll help us?” She slapped Mrs. Hall so hard the other woman’s head rocked back and strands of her hair came loose. “It’s because of you Albert is dead.”
“I understand your distress, Judith,” Mrs. Hall said in a cool voice. The red of the other woman’s palm print bloomed on Mrs. Hall’s cheek. “But it wasn’t our fault that Al was shot.”
The woman burst into a fresh volley of tears, and Sharps took a step toward them. Most men avoided crying women, but he’d often come into contact with them after the War—so many of their men never came home—and he’d learned how to comfort them.
Apparently his help wasn’t needed just then, and he stopped in stunned surprise as Mrs. Hall picked up the other woman and carried her into the Foxes’ wagon.
Sharps blinked, but when he gave it a moment’s thought, he realized he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d seen people do things they normally would never have had the strength to do, both during the War and those years afterward, and that had to be one of them.
Shaking his head, he went to the littlest Fox girl, who was starting to wail. “Bert, why don’t you get some clean clothes for your sister?”
Bert looked down, saw his sister’s accident, and turned scarlet. “Lily, you’re too big—”
“Don’t scold her,” Sharps said softly. “She was scared.” He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Bert gave a jerky nod, climbed into the wagon, and then returned with dry clothes. Within minutes they had the little girl cleaned up and into them. “Now, you three wait here.”
“Where’s Papa?” Lily asked.
Fortunately, it was Bert who answered. “He’s gone to be with Jesus.”
The little girl nodded and stuck her thumb in her mouth again, but Sharps wasn’t so sure she understood.
