by Linda Devlin
Sullivan
The Rock Creek Six
Book 2
by
Linda Devlin
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Thank You.
The Rock Creek Six Series
(in series order)
now available in eBook format
Reese
Sullivan
Rico
Jed
Nate
Cash
Chapter 1
1871
"Aunt Eden, why are they hitting that man?"
Eden frowned as she pulled on the reins and halted the buckboard. "I don't know, but it doesn't seem fair at all," she said. "Six against one." Millie slid across the seat, closing the short distance that separated them. The little girl was clearly afraid, her eyes wide as she watched the scene unfolding in the middle of the street.
To Eden's way of thinking, such fear in a child wasn't right. Millie was only six years old, and yet she'd seen more than her share of injustice. It wasn't the child's fault that her mother had had the poor sense to become pregnant without benefit of marriage, or that the unfortunate woman had died so young. The little girl really should be in the care of a loving family, with a mother and a father and perhaps even brothers and sisters, but as not one of the families of Spring Hill, Georgia, had come forward to offer such an arrangement, Millie had become Eden's traveling companion. Goodness, she couldn't possibly have left the child behind.
Eden placed an arm around Millie and pulled her close. Millie's pale, curling head rested against Eden's side, and the little girl looked down so she wouldn't have to watch the melee that blocked their progress through the crossroads called, according to the weathered sign Eden had seen at the edge of town, Webberville. She hadn't even planned to stop here. They really should pass straight through the little town and travel for several more hours before setting up camp.
But in front of her eyes there unfolded an annoying complication to her simple plans. Six ruffians pounded on some poor man who could barely stand. One of the thugs would hold their victim up while another hammered his face and then his midsection. Then they would practically throw the beaten man across an open space and into the arms of an impatient hooligan who would start the nasty process all over again.
The man being thrashed no longer fought back. Eden had seen him attempt to throw a punch, just once, as she brought the buckboard to a halt, but since then he hadn't so much as lifted his arms. She suspected he was incapable of defending himself at this point. Goodness only knew how long this had been going on.
Quite a while, apparently. Long dark hair covered much of the underdog's face, but what little she could see was cut and covered with blood, as if this beating had been going on for some time.
"Teddy." Eden turned to the child who rode in the back of the buckboard only to find the boy as terrified as Millie, who continued to cling to Eden's side. Teddy Cannon was a few years older than Millie, nine years old, the exasperated sheriff who had handed him over had informed her. He hadn't said a single word since his uncle had died several months before, according to the same sheriff. Teddy's parents had both passed away two years back, and after the uncle's death there had been no more family to turn to. The poor boy had apparently resisted the alternative living arrangements that had been offered, running away from the blacksmith who'd agreed to provide room and board in exchange for help around his place. The sheriff and the blacksmith had both seemed relieved to be rid of the child.
Teddy's gaze was riveted on the beaten man, and his dark brown eyes shone with unshed tears.
"Teddy," Eden called again, and this time the child turned his fragile face to her. "Would you please sit up front with Millie for a moment and hold the reins?"
He scrambled over and took the reins she offered. Eden closed her hands over his, wrapping her gloved fingers around his small, trembling hands. "Don't be afraid."
He refused to look directly at her, as he often did. Wondering what had happened to Teddy drove her to distraction and made her so angry she tried not to dwell on the possibilities. Something had made him silent and more horribly frightened than any child should ever be. Children should never be afraid.
"I'll take care of it," she assured him.
With that, she climbed down from the wagon, unhurried in her movements, determination in her mind. No one would scare these children, not while they were in her care.
Eden brushed some of the trail dust from her blue calico skirt as she advanced toward the thugs. A hand to her hair confirmed her suspicion that it behaved as expected, as it had since she'd begun this rough leg of the trip, which meant her fair hair fell in disarray from the bun she'd attempted to fashion this morning.
She stopped several feet from the brawl, straightened her spine, and waited for a moment. When it became obvious that the ruffians either did not notice her or intended to ignore her presence, she cleared her throat. And then again.
Finally, they stopped pounding the poor man who was now slumped, practically unconscious, between two thugs who held him upright by the arms. Even if he had been physically able to defend himself, his arms were immobilized. "Excuse me, gentlemen," Eden said with a smile. "Your fracas is blocking the roadway and I must pass."
They all breathed with great effort and perspired profusely, flexing bloody fists as she finally claimed their attention. Was it such hard work for six men to beat up one poor soul? Apparently so. It looked as if the outnumbered man had gotten in a few licks of his own, in the beginning. The six men who were able to stand without assistance sported their own battle scars: a couple of swollen lips, a seeping cut just beneath an ear, a freely bleeding gash. One fellow favored his left leg and held his side with one hand. Breathing was obviously an effort for the man, but she couldn't feel sorry for him. They all looked at her like she was daft and said nothing in response to her request.
A potbellied balding tough badly in need of a bath turned away from her, balled his fist, drew his arm back, and hit the victim in the stomach. The beaten man didn't even make much of a sound. He just expelled a whoosh of air as he fell forward and then was yanked back up again.
"What did he do to deserve such a beating?" she asked calmly.
The man with the paunch turned to her, exasperation on his red, fleshy face as he quickly looked her up and down. He was definitely no gentleman! No man of good breeding would look at any woman that way. "Lady, this is none of your business."
"I'm sure that's true," E
den said quickly. And then she waited for a response.
"This damn breed kissed my woman," the same man seethed.
Eden cocked her head to the side and dipped down slightly, trying to get a better look at the battered face. She couldn't see much, with long strands of dark brown hair and drying and fresh blood obscuring her view.
"Well, it doesn't look as if he'll be kissing anyone anytime soon," she said lightly. "Don't you think he's had enough? The punishment does seem rather severe, when you consider that his crime was nothing more than to kiss the wrong woman." The thugs lost some of their steam, as she had hoped they would, and took a good look at the man who had to be propped up to stay on his feet.
"Drop him," the potbellied man ordered tiredly.
Those who held the so-called breed did just that; they loosened their hold and allowed the fellow to fall to the ground. He crumpled and landed face first on the dirt road.
The ruffians who had beaten him so badly turned away and headed into the saloon, the very place where the fight had no doubt begun. They studied their battle scars and wiped away streaks of blood and patted one another on the back.
Eden returned to the wagon, flashing a smile for the children. The fear had faded, though she could still see remnants of terror on their faces. Faces so young should be innocent and bright, not afraid and wary.
"You made them stop," Millie said.
"Yes, well"—Teddy clambered into the bed of the wagon to sit with her trunk and their supplies, and Eden climbed into the driver's seat—"it needed to be done."
She set the horses in motion and they progressed slowly, passing by the prone, motionless, beaten body in the street.
Millie's wide, clear eyes stayed on the man, and she bit her lower lip in consternation. "Will he be all right, do you think?" she asked in a small voice.
Eden reluctantly brought the buckboard to a halt in the middle of the street, sighing softly and refusing to look down. It was one thing to take responsibility for two children who had fallen on hard times. But a full-grown man? She knew nothing about him, but that he had the poor sense to kiss another man's woman.
She turned to Teddy and found that the boy studied the beaten man as intently as Millie did. Mercy.
"Hold these very firmly," she instructed, handing the reins to Millie. "Teddy, I'll need your help."
When she stood over the fallen man she had another gut-wrenching flash of doubt. He was huge. Bigger than she'd realized. He remained facedown in the street, and she had a chance to study broad shoulders beneath a once-white shirt that was now covered with dust and dirt and smudges that could only be blood. His own, and perhaps that of others, as well. His legs were incredibly long, and they were covered in worn denim that had been tucked into large black boots.
She'd lived all her life among large men, overly protective males who'd sheltered and adored her and called her Little Bit or Shorty. Most of the big men she'd known had big hearts, but it was impossible to tell about this one.
She lifted her head to find Teddy standing very close beside her. He stared at her with wide dark eyes, waiting for her to proceed. Those thugs had called the man on the ground a breed. One look at Teddy was enough to confirm that he was of mixed blood himself; she would've known even if the sheriff hadn't revealed that his late mother's name was Rosario. With deep brown eyes, long black hair, and beautifully warm brown skin, Teddy was a lovely child. And he looked up at her as if he expected her to do something.
"Well"—she sighed—"we can't just leave him here."
* * *
He was dead. The air on his face felt cool, the surface beneath his back soft. To his ears there was only blessed silence all around. And so Sinclair Sullivan knew he must be dead.
But as he woke the pain in his face and his midsection grew. Sharp pain and dull, constant and fleeting, deep and superficial. On some part of his body, he felt it all. Surely a dead man wouldn't feel such pain.
He managed to open one eye just slightly. The other refused to cooperate. Night had fallen. All was dark, but for a hint of pale light to his right. The glow of a small campfire, perhaps. To his left there sat a very large chest surrounded by a few smaller pieces of baggage.
It took a moment, but Sullivan finally realized that he was lying in the back of a wagon. The softness beneath his back was a layer of blankets. The coolness on his face was the night breeze. He moved his hands and feet, just enough to make sure he wasn't bound. The only restriction to his movements came from the pain in his arms and hands. And then the silence was broken by a gentle, caressing voice.
"You're awake."
He tried to lift his head and found, to his frustration, that he couldn't.
"Be still," the soft voice urged, and the wagon moved just slightly, dipping with the addition of weight near his feet. He could feel the woman behind the voice moving cautiously past him until her face hovered over his. "We were so worried."
From what little he could see she was still worried. The soft light of the fire illuminated one half of her face and a dismayed, forced smile.
"Who are you?" he asked, but the words were garbled. The lady who bent over him leaned a little closer, and for a moment he had a clear view of her face and a halo of silky, pale hair. He wanted to watch her, to study her, but found he couldn't keep that one eye open.
So he closed his one functioning eye and took a deep breath. She smelled so good. Clean and sweet, but not perfumed. Not like that saloon girl who'd draped herself all over his arm and shoulder and then kissed him just as an ardent suitor walked into the saloon. He felt like he'd been set up, but it could just be his suspicious nature that made him feel that way. The calico might've simply been trying to make her lover jealous.
"Is he awake?" a child's voice whispered. The soft question came from nearby—from the driver's seat of the wagon, most likely. He might've turned to look, if he'd been able.
"He was for a moment," the woman who remained with him answered in a whisper. "Don't worry, Millie. He'll be fine. We'll take good care of him."
Why? He wanted to ask, but neither his lips nor his brain would cooperate. Why would they take good care of him? And where was her husband, the little girl's father? What kind of fool was he to allow a woman to get so close to an injured stranger? Maybe the husband was standing nearby, his weapon ready. Just in case.
The woman stayed beside him and lightly brushed a cool cloth over his battered face. If there was a man standing guard nearby, he remained silent throughout. The tender ministrations felt good, until she touched the corner of his mouth. He jerked his head to the side, away from the cloth.
"Sorry," she whispered.
He wanted to answer her, to ask her a hundred questions, to get a better look at her face. But he contented himself with a deep breath of her comforting smell, and then he drifted away.
* * *
Eden placed the gown across the ground and poised above it with a sharp pair of shears. She hesitated for just a moment before she cut the full skirt from the bodice. Pink muslin and lace slipped beneath her fingers, and once she'd begun she didn't have another doubt. Millie needed a new and proper dress, something pretty, and Eden had several suitable gowns in her trunk. More than she needed.
The bodice of this particular dress had been stained with bacon grease. She'd tried to remove the stain, but had found it impossible. There was more than enough fabric in the skirt of this dress to fashion a nice shift for Millie. If she'd had more time, she would've bought a few ready-made dresses and some new fabric in Spring Hill. But traveling to Texas had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and bringing Millie along had been a last-minute impulse. She'd so wanted to find Millie a proper home before leaving on her journey. She'd been unable to do so, however, and now Millie was her responsibility.
They should be on the road, she knew. Every moment wasted was a moment she wasn't closer to Rock Creek. She was days from her destination, and she didn't want to waste a single minute, much less hours. But this morn
ing she wasn't entirely sure what to do about the man she'd collected in Webberville. He probably lived nearby, and wouldn't want to come to and find himself miles down the road. Besides, she was having doubts about her impulsive decision to put the man in the back of her wagon. It would be best if they parted ways before she went much farther down the road.
But oh, she was anxious to get to Rock Creek! Before she'd packed up and left home, it had been several weeks since she'd heard from Jedidiah. More than two months, in fact. It wasn't that he'd been the best of correspondents in the ten years since he'd left home, but she could usually count on a short missive from him at least once a month. They came from all over, from small towns and large, and rarely from the same town twice. He liked to keep on the move, Jedidiah did.
He'd found trouble again, she was certain. She could feel it; she'd been having dreams of her brother lately. Just like she'd had during the war, when he'd been hurt or in danger and she'd felt it, sensed his troubles in her sleep and her quiet moments.
A familiar and insistent tapping began at her shoulder. Teddy might not speak, but he was learning to assert himself in other ways.
"Just a moment, Teddy."
The tapping didn't stop, but increased in speed and in strength until she was sure he would put a hole in that one spot.
Eden dropped the scissors and lifted her face to Teddy. "What is it? Is something wrong?"
He pointed to the wagon, and Eden turned her head.
The man she'd rescued stood in the back of the wagon watching her, and not for the first time since she'd driven the buckboard away from that awful little town, she wondered if she hadn't made a terrible mistake.
Huge and angry and frightful, he stared at her. His beaten face did nothing to alter the menacing image she had of him; it only enhanced the notion. Which wasn't fair, she knew.
