Wild Rain

by Beverly Jenkins

“It went well until he mentioned wanting freeborn babies.”

  Regan’s humor faded. “Oh dear.”

  “I told him the truth. I don’t want children. He didn’t have much to say after that. The next morning I went up to the ridge before he got up, so I didn’t have to say goodbye. I couldn’t, Regan.”

  “I’m so sorry, Spring.”

  Spring shrugged. “Not happy with this falling-in-love thing. It hurts. Any idea how to make it stop or to stop thinking about him?”

  Regan shook her head. “No. Did he say he wasn’t coming back?”

  “No.” Spring didn’t mention the note. The wording was too personal to share, even with Regan. “I didn’t think there’d be a magic solution but I wanted to check with you just to make sure.”

  “Only time passing will heal things.”

  “While I wait for that, I’m going fishing. Do you want some if I catch any?”

  “Yes, please. That would be wonderful.”

  “Okay.” Spring walked over to the baby jail and reached down to give her nephew an affectionate auntie cheek pinch. “No breaking out, you hear?”

  He giggled and waved his chubby little arms and legs. Spring smiled in response before turning to Regan. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Okay.”

  Spring caught a mess of fish. After stringing them to a line, she thought she’d make a quick climb up the ridge to take a look at her place. As old and broken down as it was it held nothing of value—there wasn’t even a sleeping bag inside, but she hadn’t been up there in a while, and wanted to make sure no vermin or varmints had taken up residence. She took the fish with her because if she left the string on the wagon, the local eagles would treat it as a free meal and fly off with them. She had a barrel to put them in but if any nosy bears came around, they’d see it as a free meal, too. With the fish in tow, she took the narrow trail up the mountain. It was heavily wooded on both sides with a variety of old-growth trees, chest-high shrubs, and tree roots the size of her grandfather’s arms. Maybe when she inherited Ben’s gifts, she’d get someone to build her a real hunting cabin to take the place of her old ramshackle one.

  When she reached the listing place with its partially missing roof, she opened the door and met the smug eyes of Matt Ketchum and the business end of a Colt pointed her way. “Well, well, well. I wondered how long I’d have to wait for you to show up.”

  She immediately threw the string of fish at him, and as he fumbled, she ran outside and slammed the door. Bullets rang out, shattering the old wood. Bent low, she kept moving. If she could make it back down the hill to her wagon, she might stand a chance.

  “Get back here, you bitch!”

  Another bullet cracked loud. Squawking birds took flight while she did her best not to trip over tree roots or lose an eye to the low-hanging branches whipping against her face as she ran. A quick touch to her face showed blood on her fingers. She kept running. He was crashing through the vegetation behind her. All the noise and commotion would draw curious predators; bears, cats, wolves, but the two-legged one was her main concern. Heart pumping, she slid on her butt down the rest of the hill and upon hitting flat ground, increased her speed to get to the wagon. It was a risky move, because he’d have a clear shot now, but if she could reach the wagon and use it for cover she could return fire. She drew her gun out of her holster but before she could turn, her leg exploded. She cried out in pain, clutched the leg just long enough to confirm she’d been shot.

  “Drop the gun or I’ll put a bullet in your other leg.”

  She glanced up to see him closing the distance between them. He was only a few feet away, still coming and grinning.

  “Drop the gun! Now!”

  Tossing her gun aside, she faced him. Her leg was on fire. Putting weight on it only increased the pain.

  He came close and said, “Women like you is only good on her knees, so kneel, bitch.”

  “And men like you are only good for shooting people in the back, fucking coward!”

  Red with fury, he backhanded her. The force knocked her to the ground. Standing over her, he sneered. “I’ve hated you for a long time, and do you know why?”

  She didn’t and didn’t care. She dragged the back of her hand across her bleeding lip.

  “I hated you because my father called you a better man than me. Said your rode better, roped better. Wished his son had half your balls.”

  Smiling, she asked, “Do you know who else is a better man than you? Him.” And she pointed at her grandfather approaching Matt like a stalking grizzly.

  Eyes wide, Matt emptied his Colt’s last few bullets into Ben’s buffalo coat-covered chest, but the old mountain man didn’t slow. Matt turned to run. Ben’s hunting knife flew from his hand and the gleaming blade hit the back of Matt’s thigh like a lightning bolt from the heavens. Matt screamed and fell. Ben reached down, raised him to his feet, and said, “See you in hell.”

  He snapped Matt’s neck and tossed him aside. It happened so quickly, it took her a moment to process what she’d seen. She looked up into Ben’s feral eyes only to watch him slowly drop to his knees. Alarmed and recalling the bullets he’d taken, she crawled to his side. “Are you hurt?”

  He was by then stretched out on the ground. She opened his coat and all the blood covering his chest scared her. “We have to get you to Colt.”

  He pushed her hands away. “I’m going to die, so let me do it here. I’d rather go out this way than by a disease that’ll leave me good for nothing but shitting on myself.”

  “You are not going to die.”

  “Sure I am. Tell Odell to burn me. You take my ashes up to Eagle Point and put me in the wind. That way I can sleep with the mountains.”

  Frantic, she looked around for a way to save him. “Don’t you dare die on me, old man! We have things to settle.”

  “Too late, Little Rain. I did you wrong but look how strong and brave it made you. Tell Colt I said goodbye.”

  And he slipped away.

  “No!” she screamed, and the pain in it echoed across the stillness. Holding and rocking his body against hers, she wept.

  It’s said that in times of great stress the human body is capable of amazing feats. Spring was unable to recall how she got her grandfather’s body into the bed of the wagon, but somehow she did.

  Driving slowly into town, dirty, bleeding, and shot, she pulled back on the reins in front of Colt’s office and a crowd of people ran to her aid.

  Later in Colt’s office, as he removed the bullet from her leg, she distracted herself from the painful process by telling the story of what happened.

  “Where’s Matt’s body?” Whit asked when she was done. Odell was there, too.

  “On the ground where Ben tossed him.”

  He sighed. “I’ll get Lyman Beck and bring his remains back to town.”

  Spring hoped scavenging predators had dragged him into the brush to feast, but she kept that to herself. “I should’ve been able to do something to keep Ben alive until I got him here.”

  Colt shook his head. “There was no way he could’ve survived those wounds. You did your best, Spring. Don’t beat yourself up, please. I’m just glad Matt didn’t hurt you any more than he did.”

  She was, too. Had Ben not shown up . . . She forced her mind away from what might have been. She glanced down at the bandage around her leg. Colt had cut off one side of her denims from the knee down in order to get at the bullet. “Can I go home?”

  “Only if you promise to rest and stay off that leg for the next few days.”

  She looked at him as if that was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard him say, but she said, “Okay.”

  Odell said, “I’ll bring you food from Dovie so you’ll eat and not have to worry about cooking for yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll also drive you home. You ready?”

  She nodded and said to Colt, “Tell Regan I lost all the fish.”

  He smiled. “I will.”


  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for patching me up.”

  “Anytime.”

  He loaned her a pair of crutches and she managed to leave the office and climb onto the bed of Odell’s wagon. The bed of hers needed a good scrubbing to rid it of Ben’s blood. Odell volunteered to take care of that for her, as well.

  When she got home, she and her crutches hobbled slowly into the house. She was exhausted. She sat on the bed and fell back onto the mattress.

  He asked, “You sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”

  “I will. Just come check on me in the morning.”

  “Will do.”

  She sat up again. “I wanted to resolve our problems and now, we never will.”

  “I know, but he gave his life for you. That has to mean something.”

  “True.” And it did. She owed him her life for the rest of her life.

  “I’m going to miss him a lot. We’ve been blood brothers almost sixty years.” There were tears in his eyes. “Going to get drunk, but I’ll be back to see you in the morning. Give me a hug, then you go to sleep.”

  They shared a strong hug and she kissed his whiskered cheek. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” she whispered.

  “So am I.” He wiped his eyes. “I’ll make you some bark tea and head back to town. Do you need anything else?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll probably be asleep by the time the water boils so go on and leave. I can heat water when I wake up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Get some rest.”

  She nodded and was asleep before he drove away.

  When she awakened later it was night. She thought it odd that the lamp on her nightstand was lit because she didn’t remember it being that way when she went to sleep. She then decided she must be dreaming because Garrett was seated in the chair by the fireplace. He set his book aside and asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Confused beyond measure, she countered, “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with your family?”

  “Left the train in Omaha and came back.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell you I love you, and that if you don’t want children I won’t love you less. To hope you’ll overlook me being a ham-handed rube for my backward thinking and forgive me and let me love you until the mountains are no more.”

  Her heart soared. “That’s certainly a long list.”

  “I know. I can probably add more if you need me to.”

  “Maybe later.” She studied him. “You aren’t saying all that hoping I’ll change my mind sometime in the future?”

  “No. I meant every word.” And he added, softly, “I don’t care if we marry or not, but I want to grow old with you, Spring. You and I. Partners.”

  Moved by that, she whispered, “You’re a very special man, Garrett McCray.”

  “And I love a very special woman.”

  “Can you add one more thing to that long list?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you heat some water and make me some bark tea? My leg hurts like hell.”

  He smiled. “Be right back.”

  He walked to the door.

  “Garrett.”

  He turned.

  “I’m glad you’re back. I’ve missed you terribly.”

  He gave her a wink and left the room.

  Alone, Spring wiped at her wet eyes. She’d cried more in the past week than she had in years, but she felt no shame. She now had her land, her horses, and a man who loved her for herself. He even made tea. She was content.

  Author’s Note

  A few years ago, as I traveled around the country in support of Regan’s book, Tempest, many readers pleaded for Spring to have her own book. You were intrigued by Dr. Colton Lee’s sister, Spring Rain, and I must agree, I was, too. I loved writing her story and having her fill in the parts about herself I didn’t know. She’s bold and fierce, and my tribute to those women who prefer to be child free. Garrett McCray was fun to write, too. He doesn’t have a lot of swagger nor the overwhelming personality displayed by some of the men in my previous books. Instead, he’s sweet, kind, and yes, bookish, but loves Spring deeply. In romance, we call a man like Garrett a cinnamon roll. He’s probably the first cinnamon roll hero I’ve written. I hope you enjoyed him as much as Spring did.

  Back when Garrett attended Howard, the U.S. had no real standards for becoming a lawyer. Men and women did what was called read for the law. It was usually a years long study of English law books under the supervision of experienced lawyers. A small number of U.S. jurisdictions still permit this practice today. A budding Black law student like Garrett may have been taken under the wing of Macon Bolling Allen. His firm of Whipper, Elliot and Allen was one of the first Black law firms in the nation.

  When studies are done on the contribution of African Americans to the Civil War, most of the scholarship focuses on the role played by the 179,000 United States Colored Troops (USCT). Less attention has been given to the 19,000 Black sailors of the Union Navy.

  For an in-depth look at these brave men, please check out this outstanding article from the National Archives: www.archives.gov/publications/prologue/2001/fall/black-sailors-1.html.

  Another great resource that delves into the history of Black seamen is Black Jacks: African American Seamen in the Age of Sail by W. Jeffrey Bolster. Also see: The Negro in the Civil War by Benjamin Quarles.

  The history of Black newspapers is not well known outside of academia, but during the years between the 1827 birth of the first Black edited paper, Freedom’s Journal, and the end of the 19th century there were over 500 nationwide. Most were sundown papers like the one owned by Garrett’s father, and others only published for a short while. But they were all dedicated to being true voices for the race, especially during the rise of Jim Crow. For more info on these newspapers and their editors, please see: The Black Press 1827-1890, edited by Martin E. Dann. See also: A History of the Black Press by Armistead S. Pride and Clint C Wilson.

  In closing, let me thank my publisher, Avon Books, my editor, and my agent. My biggest thanks go out to you, dear readers, for your love and support. There will be one more book in the Women Who Dare series. At this point, I have no idea who she will be, but I’m looking forward to meeting her. In the meantime, happy reading. See you next time.

  Sincerely,

  B

  An Excerpt from Tempest

  Did you miss the origin of Regan and Colt’s romance? Then turn the page for a taste of

  TEMPEST

  Available now!

  Chapter One

  Wyoming Territory

  Spring 1885

  Regan Carmichael was tired of riding in the stagecoach. The beauty of the Wyoming countryside with its trees and snow-topped mountains had been thrilling to view at first, but after traveling for three long days in a cramped coach that seemingly had no springs, she longed for the journey to Paradise, Wyoming, to end. Even her excitement at meeting the man she’d come to marry had been dulled by the lengthy trek, and she was certain her bottom would bear bruises for the rest of her days. Her mood was further challenged by having ridden the past day and a half alone. She did enjoy no longer being squashed between the other passengers who’d since departed, but missed the conversations they’d shared. Up top sat the driver, Mr. Denby, and the guard, Mr. Casey, who due to their duties had no time to lighten her boredom with conversation. The wheels hit another rut on the uneven road causing her to bounce, land hard on the thin leather seat, and her poor sore bottom wailed again.

  That it might be months before she saw her family again temporarily took her mind off the uncomfortable ride. She began missing them the moment she boarded the train in Tucson. Her Aunt Eddy and Uncle Rhine. Her dear sister, Portia. The last time she’d been away from home for more than an extended period had been during her studies at Oberlin College, but unlike then Regan wouldn’t be returning home. This would be the start o
f a new life in a place she knew little about other than it was mostly wild and untamed, the two largest cities were Laramie and Cheyenne, cattle raising reigned supreme, and women were given the right to vote in 1869; a national first.

  Suddenly, the coach picked up speed. Mr. Denby could be heard hoarsely urging the horses to run faster. Concerned, she quickly pushed aside the leather window shade and looked out. Three men wearing bandannas over their faces were riding hard in their wake. Mr. Casey began firing his shotgun, and the riders, swiftly closing in on the coach, returned fire. Regan snatched up her own Winchester, tore down the shade, and added her weapon to the fray. Seconds later, she no longer heard the shotgun from above.

  “Mr. Denby! Are you two okay?” she shouted.

  “No! Keep shooting, miss!”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice.

  The outlaws were nearly on them. Even though the careening pitch of the coach played havoc with her aim, she managed to hit the nearest rider, which made him drop the reins, grab his arm, and slump forward in pain. His partner rode past him and positioned himself adjacent to the coach. He took aim at the uncovered window but Regan was already squeezing the trigger on the rapid-fire rifle. The cartridges exploded in his chest and he tumbled backwards off his mount.

  The coach thundered on.

  The third hombre must have realized the odds weren’t in his favor. A grim Regan watched him grab the reins of the riderless horse. He and the slumped man she’d shot in the arm rode back the way they’d come. Whether the one they left behind was dead, she didn’t know.

  Breathing harshly and shaking, she fell back against the seat. Only then did she acknowledge how terrified she’d been. Her roiling stomach made her think she might be sick, but she thanked her recently deceased neighbor, Mr. Blanchard, for his rifle lessons. “Shoot first, puke later!” he’d told the then eleven-year-old Regan and her older sister, Portia. The memory made her smile and she drew in a deep breath that calmed her frayed nerves.