by Abigail Roux
“They do look cold,” Flynn agreed as he turned to the fire. He could feel Wash’s eyes on him, and he tilted his head sideways at the man. Wash stared at him with one eyebrow raised. Even behind the cloth he had over the lower part of his face, it was obvious Wash was smirking at him.
“Yeah, all right.” Flynn grunted as he tossed the piece of tall grass he had been playing with into the fire and pushed himself up.
He stomped over to their horses and fished two extra bedrolls out of his and Wash’s saddlebags, then walked to the wagon. Hudson raised his head eagerly, already anticipating the warmth of the wool blanket without giving so much as a promise of good behavior in return first. Flynn made certain to extract such a promise from the man before handing him the blanket, though he didn’t really expect Hudson to honor the agreement.
He then stepped over to the other two with the second blanket in hand. They both looked up at him with the sort of exhaustion that stemmed from the cold and a long day of travel. They were lucky that he and Wash weren’t making them walk behind the wagon.
“I only got one,” Flynn told them. “You’re going to have to share or fight it out.”
Rose nodded, and Cage peered up at him as he sat hunched with his hands tucked up under his arms, his back to Rose’s. Flynn got the feeling that this tattered Army scout was accustomed to getting the short end of the stick without complaining about it. He reminded Flynn of an abused horse, always keeping his head down and hoping not to get a spur.
He handed Rose the blanket and was slightly surprised when the man wrapped it around Cage’s shoulders before tending to himself. He pulled the blanket tight and scooted, putting their shoulders together and getting closer for the warmth. They both lowered their heads again, bowing against the cold prairie night, leaning against the wagon wheel behind them.
Flynn stepped away. They curled together with little regard for the derogatory comments Hudson was offering about their behavior. Hudson, Flynn assumed, had never been out on the plains alone. He didn’t know what cold was yet. Flynn had cuddled his horse before for the warmth. He saw nothing wrong with what the two men were doing.
He turned and headed back to the fire before he could admit to himself that he was a might jealous of them as well. Just the thought of touching another man in front of someone else in any way other than a friendly handshake made Flynn blush furiously. Oh, he would do it and had done it if it meant staying warm at night. But he would still be embarrassed about it, worrying if he enjoyed it too much.
How had Gabriel Rose become so comfortable with his reputation for favoring men? Some of the things Hudson had said to the Englishman had made even Flynn want to hit him, just on principle, but Rose had yet to be ruffled. At least not outwardly. Was any of it even true? Or did Rose just play into the reputation to give himself that added touch of mystery or derring-do. He did have an oddly gentle manner with Cage, and the silent man had responded in a way that made Flynn wonder if they had become friendlier while in jail than they were letting on.
He glanced over at the huddle of blankets again. The two men had figured out how to turn their chains so they could lay under the wagon and were now doing so, away from the bite of the wind. Flynn could see nothing but the tops of their heads sticking out from under the wagon. They were curled together under the blanket, apparently sound asleep as Hudson huddled alone and shivered in the cold.
“Kind of cute, ain’t they?” Wash said to him.
Flynn examined him in the light of the fire, meeting his eyes with a shiver. He had a sudden urge to blurt out the question he had wanted to ask for ages. It was a perfect opportunity to broach the subject. Over the years, Flynn had built up a sneaking suspicion that Wash wasn’t interested in women, but he couldn’t even form the question correctly in his mind, much less speak it to Wash.
He pushed it back and merely nodded, looking away and sighing.
“You okay, friend?” Wash asked quietly, his tone somehow soothing.
Flynn glanced up at him and his upper body twitched with nerves as he gave another nod.
“Something happen in Stillwater you need to talk about?” Wash prodded.
“Naw,” Flynn answered, unnervingly hoarse. “It’s just . . .” He blew a stream of air out that formed a cloud in the cold and then shook his head. He gave Rose and Cage a glance, hoping to throw Wash off the scent. “I don’t quite know how to take that one. Either of ’em.”
“Why?” Again, Flynn heard the warning in Wash’s tone that betrayed the fact that Wash might be offended, or at least wary of the subject. It was obviously one to be careful of.
“Don’t rightly know,” Flynn said, his voice gruff. He accompanied it with a shrug, quickly veering away from the topic once more. Wash obviously didn’t appreciate discussing such business no matter which way he was inclined.
Flynn settled back into his own bedroll and pulled his hat low over his eyes, signifying the end of the conversation. He crossed his arms over his chest, wrapping his duster tight around himself to ward off the chill of the night.
He could feel Wash’s eyes on him, but he sat motionless, willing himself to sleep and praying that his mind would find a new rail to run on by morning.
It was midday of their second day of travel when Flynn noticed that they were being followed over the grassy plains. After roughly ten minutes, he halted his horse and stood in the stirrups, peering behind them into the distance.
“How many?” Wash asked as he continued to drive the mule along the trail without slowing or turning to look. His shotgun sat in his lap.
“One,” Flynn called back. He settled back into his saddle. “Four-legged,” he added in bemusement. He urged the horse into a canter that caught him up to the front of the wagon.
“Rider?” Wash asked with a confused frown as Flynn came abreast of him.
Flynn smirked. “I think it’s a dog.”
Rose spoke up for the first time in hours. “He would appreciate it if you left some scraps along the way.”
Flynn turned and saw that the man was watching their back trail avidly.
“He’s probably thirsty too,” Rose said, sounding worried for perhaps the only time Flynn had noticed.
“What?” Flynn asked with a sigh, almost hating to ask but curious despite himself.
“That’s my dog, Marshal.”
Flynn had found that he was beginning to hate the way Rose said the word “marshal.” He didn’t even know why it rubbed him the wrong way. He thought maybe anything Rose did put a burr under his saddle. Just on principle now if for no real reason.
He grumbled and shook his head. “His dog, he says,” he muttered to Wash.
“Like it says in the dime novel?” Wash glanced over his shoulder at Rose, who tore his eyes away from the trotting dog in the distance to meet his eyes.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said coldly.
Flynn’s head snapped up. Rose had seemed the type to bask in the limelight of fame, not scorn it. He was becoming increasingly puzzling the more Flynn was exposed to him. It was grating.
“Well, here’s the papers,” Hudson said as he held up the crumpled dime novel Flynn had tossed into the back of the wagon several days before. He flapped the worn papers around. “See for yourself.”
Rose narrowed his eyes at the man as the wagon hit a rut and jostled them all. He didn’t seem surprised to see the dime novel magically produced. In fact, Rose didn’t seem to be surprised by much of anything.
Flynn found that grating too.
When Rose answered, his voice was quiet and calm, as smooth as honey. “Why don’t you read it and find out.”
Flynn knew the chances of Hudson being able to read or write even his own name were slim to none. He looked away and rolled his eyes before he could see Hudson’s response. He heard it, though, and chose to ignore the rest of the sniping.
“Are you going to feel guilty if that dog starves back there?” Wash asked him.
“Puppy, really,” Rose ca
lled, overhearing the question. “He’s just a puppy.”
“Shut up,” Flynn snapped at him without looking back. He gave Wash a once-over, only to find the man smirking at him. He sighed dejectedly and closed his eyes as he dropped his head. “Yeah, probably.”
Wash pulled the mule to a stop, and Flynn slowed his horse.
“It’ll give us a chance to water the horses, anyhow,” Wash reasoned with a grin he tried to hide. He set his shotgun on the rickety footboard and tied the reins to the wagon brake.
Flynn dismounted with a sullen mutter. “Call your blamed dog, Rose.”
Rose put two fingers to his mouth, the irons pulling his other hand up to his chin along with them, and he let out a ringing whistle that carried impressively across the flat land.
In the distance, a delighted yip could barely be heard, and Flynn squinted and watched the lone figure of the dog race toward them. Wash laughed beside him, and Flynn turned away before the prisoners could see his own lips quirk in amusement.
The dog ended up being a medium-sized, run of the mill, long-haired mutt. He appeared to be intelligent. Rose insisted that he could not, as the dime novels claimed, steal a man’s gun from his holster, lead a horse with the reins in his mouth, or do anything more than offer companionship and keep him warm at night.
Flynn wasn’t sure he believed him.
“And he can stare at you pitifully until you give him your last bit of food,” Rose offered as he rested his hand irons on the back of the mutt’s neck and rubbed his ears with both hands. The dog’s tail banged against the wooden slats of the wagon in agreement. “But I’m afraid he’s capable of little else.”
“If we start starving, he’s the first thing we eat, got it?” Flynn warned in all seriousness.
Rose nodded and gave the dog’s rump a pat. The dog leaped from the side of the wagon and trotted over to Flynn, sitting down in front of him and looking up expectantly, tail wagging.
Flynn groaned and turned away. The dog was just as annoyingly charming as his master.
Wash laughed. “He got a name?”
“Koda,” Rose answered. The dog whipped its head around when he heard his name and stared at Rose as if waiting for a command. “Hello, darling,” Rose murmured to the dog fondly. The dog’s long, fluffy tail began to whap the dusty ground at Flynn’s feet, stirring up a minor storm.
Flynn took off his hat and waved it at the bits of dust and straw floating toward him. He cocked his head at Rose and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You spent time with the Sioux?”
“Why do you ask that, Marshal?” Rose asked. He sounded genuinely interested.
“That’s a Sioux word, ain’t it? Koda? I’ve heard it a few times.”
Rose gave him a pleased smile. “It is, indeed. I spent some time with the Santee, up near Flandreau,” he answered with a touch of wistfulness. “Even the law won’t follow you there.” The mischievous addition completely ruined any admiration the information may have kindled in Flynn.
“Really,” Flynn said.
“That was where I found him. Koda means ‘friend’ in their fine language.”
“Fascinating,” Flynn muttered as he finished saddling a fresh horse.
“What were you doing venturing all the way up to Flandreau?” Wash asked.
“This and that.”
“How long were you there?”
“Many moons,” Rose intoned dramatically. He smirked at Wash. “I find the savages can teach a man quite a lot that’s useful in this country.”
It was difficult for Flynn to tell when he was being sarcastic and when he was just being English. He suspected Rose was simply dissembling, waiting until they tired of the subject so he wouldn’t have to answer honestly. He’d made it very clear previously that he didn’t approve of the way the Indians were treated out here, and he obviously didn’t think of them as savages, as he’d just called them.
Flynn didn’t have much opinion on the matter anymore. He’d seen the aftermath of settlers who’d been massacred by marauding tribes, and he’d seen what a band of soldiers could do to a camp of defenseless Indian women and children. There was never just one side to any story. Wash had taught him that.
Rose continued to talk about the Sioux, his voice losing its teasing tone as he told Wash about the variety of interesting legends and histories he’d learned from them while he was their guest. “During the time I was there, there was quite a lot of talk of something they called tetlteotl,” Rose was telling Wash as Flynn began paying attention once more.
“That ain’t a Sioux word, is it?” Flynn asked.
“No, it’s not, Marshal,” Rose answered with a serious shake of his head. “I don’t know what language it is. Neither did they. Or if they did, they wouldn’t clarify it. But from what I gathered, it meant something like ‘the wonderful stone.’ Or ‘the terrible stone,’ I wasn’t sure. It was very important to them; something they’d lost. They spoke of searching for it in land held by the white man’s army. They seemed to think I could help and so they kept me around for a while, trying to determine if I was trustworthy.” As he spoke, he seemed to be gauging their reactions for something Flynn couldn’t fathom. He almost appeared to be judging whether he could trust them, but Flynn couldn’t imagine why.
“Did you help them?” Wash asked. Flynn couldn’t tell if he was really interested or just making conversation as they waited for the horses to drink.
“I daresay I could now if I ever went back. But I never earned enough trust to try,” Rose admitted with what seemed sincere regret.
“Why don’t that surprise me?” Flynn muttered under his breath.
Rose merely narrowed his eyes at Flynn and turned around again, no longer willing to talk. Flynn smiled to himself. He’d finally found a way to shut the man up.
They continued on until the sun began to set, the dog happily trotting along beside Flynn’s horse. The cool began to settle once more as they pitched camp, and Hudson began to protest loudly about hunger, thirst, cold, soreness, and every other misery he could think up. Interestingly, he didn’t complain about being dirty.
Flynn and Wash ignored the man. Rose made several caustic remarks in response to the complaints, but when it became apparent that he was playing above his audience, he tired of the effort. He quieted and leaned against Cage, who was becoming Flynn’s favorite prisoner simply because he didn’t speak. Rose pulled his hat down over his eyes and Cage settled against him. The dog hopped up onto the wagon, laid itself over their laps, and promptly fell asleep.
Flynn sat awake watching the wagon for a long time, his face set in a frown. He could hear Rose murmuring to Cage, but he didn’t strain his ears to listen. The way Rose and Cage behaved toward one another made Flynn’s more intimate thoughts turn to Wash, and Flynn was trying his best to avoid that at all costs. He didn’t need the heartache caused by lingering over it.
When he finally forced himself to try to sleep, he found himself wondering what the “terrible stone” was, and why it had been important enough for the Santee to keep a man like Gabriel Rose around.
The night was not as cold as the previous one had been, but it was not by any stretch of the imagination a comfortable one, either. Cage lay on his side beneath the wagon, an arm chained to the wagon wheel and his body almost covered by the blanket the marshals had given them. His arm ached, but he’d had worse accommodations.
Gabriel Rose lay next to him, facing him as they shared the thick blanket. The wool smelled of horse and wood smoke, but it was warm against the chill and that was all Cage cared about. Gabriel was warm too, and that was a fact that Cage was beginning to notice more and more.
He was also a talker. Cage found himself smiling despite the discomfort of their situation as Gabriel murmured to him in the darkness.
“Were you born unable to speak?” Gabriel asked him. His breath was warm on Cage’s face, which was so close that when Cage answered with a nod, Gabriel was probably able to feel it rather than needing to
see it.
Cage had never been asked questions like these. He supposed people had always been too afraid to ask them, or just hadn’t cared enough to be curious.
“I bet you find it works to your advantage, sometimes,” Gabriel mused. “It took me far too long to learn that keeping my mouth shut was advantageous.”
Cage snorted. He wasn’t sure Gabriel had learned that lesson in its entirety yet. He raised his hand, placing it on Gabriel’s chest carefully. He jabbed a finger against Gabriel’s chest and then patted him again. No, Gabriel had definitely not learned the value of keeping quiet.
“Yes, I know,” Gabriel murmured in amusement.
Cage nodded, still amazed that Gabriel continued to be able to decipher his attempts at communicating with him. He supposed that was one reason he felt drawn to the man. His hand remained where it had been, resting between their bodies against Gabriel’s chest.
“Well I suppose some never do, hmm?” Gabriel whispered.
The silence fell around them for a moment, and Cage soaked in the warmth of Gabriel’s body next to his. It had been a long time since he’d shared a bed with another man, even if that bed was on the hard ground beneath a creaky wagon. He was determined to let himself enjoy it.
Gabriel shifted next to him, edging just that much closer as he brought his hand up to cover Cage’s. Cage’s breath caught and his heart beat faster as Gabriel’s fingertips caressed his.
“This is an unexpected consequence of my latest indiscretion.” Gabriel’s whispered words were barely audible.
Cage swallowed with difficulty, not quite understanding. He recognized the tone of Gabriel’s voice though, low and intimate. It hit him hard, stirring a confusing mixture of emotions. On one hand he was thrilled. But they only had until St. Louis to enjoy each other’s company, and even that short amount of time was to be had in irons, chained to a wagon under armed guard. But pleasures in life were fleeting. Cage knew that all too well.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Gabriel said.
Cage shook his head.
“You’re thinking, ‘Why couldn’t I have met this charming Englishman before I got myself arrested?’”
