At Love's Command

by Karen Witemeyer

  “We’ll get there, Matt,” Wallace said, coming alongside them. “In the meantime, she’s in God’s hands. We have to trust that he has things under control.”

  Matt nodded, but the sentiment didn’t soothe as much as it should have. Plenty of good men had been martyred doing the Lord’s work. And plenty of evil men had thrust their will upon the innocent, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. A cavalryman didn’t work long on the frontier without seeing that truth played out. Death. Rape. Mutilation. He’d seen it all.

  Yes, God was capable of protecting Josie, but there was no guarantee that he actually would. And it was that uncertainty that drove Matt step after grueling step.

  He supposed a more faithful man would take comfort in knowing that God’s will would prevail, and whatever happened would be for the best. But Matt believed there was an evil force with a will of its own at work in the world too. A force that inflicted pain for its own sadistic delight. A force that would steal a five-year-old boy’s parents and sister from him and make him bear witness to the atrocities. He didn’t believe their murder was God’s will. A God who spoke commandments against murder wouldn’t condone such an act. Yet this same God had done nothing to stop it.

  His uncle had offered what explanation he could, trying to help a hurting boy who harbored anger toward the Almighty. Sin had consequences, his uncle had said. And God had to allow those consequences to play out even when it meant innocent people got hurt.

  Hatred led a Comanche war party to violence against a family of white settlers. A hatred that had been born from white men stealing their land and attacking their villages. There was plenty of blame and plenty of sin on both sides. But on that day thirty-two years ago, Matt’s parents had been the ones to pay the price.

  If the cavalry had been there, they could have stopped it. That was why Matt had joined. To get in the way of those consequences taking innocent lives. Soldiers were fair game in war. Civilians weren’t. As far as he was concerned, Josie was a civilian in this war with Taggart. Using her for extortion was man’s will, not God’s. Which meant man could change the outcome. If he could get there in time.

  “Road’s up yonder,” Jonah said, pointing to a level area about a hundred yards away.

  Matt’s heart stuttered as hope surged to life in his breast. “Good work, Sergeant.” He set off at a lope, his wounds forgotten. “Let’s go, boys.”

  They’d covered half the distance when the sound of wagon wheels and a jangling harness broke through the stillness of early evening.

  Matt started running in earnest, ignoring the jabs at his feet, intent only on catching the attention of whoever was driving. Despite the pain in his side, he waved his arms above his head like a wild man and shouted.

  “Hey! Over here! Stop the wagon!”

  The other Horsemen joined in the clamor as they raced for the road. The wagon kept rolling, showing no sign of stopping. Either the driver was hard of hearing or he had no intention of pulling over for a bunch of crazed beggars. Matt dropped his hands and sprinted forward. This wagon was not getting away.

  He crossed the plane of the road just behind the wagon and turned to give chase. Thanking God for a sedately paced team of horses, he gained ground. Lungs burning, feet screaming in agony, side cramping, he ran.

  He caught up to the back wheel. Then the side of the wagon. Then, finally, the driver’s bench.

  “Please,” he huffed. “Stop.”

  The driver startled in his seat, then jerked on the reins. “Whoa!”

  Matt doubled over, bracing his hands above his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. Never had thirty-seven felt as old as it did at that moment.

  “Land sakes, fella,” the driver declared as he brought his team to a halt. “You ’bout scared the spit out of me, running into the road like that. Shocks like that take a toll on the old ticker, you know.” He thumped his chest, but then his eyes widened as he took in Matt’s bedraggled condition. “Goodness, son. What happened to you?”

  A clamor behind Matt alerted him to the arrival of the rest of the Horsemen.

  “Heavens to Betsy! You hombres look like you been tossed off a train and left to rot. What’re y’all doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere, and on foot?”

  Matt forced himself to straighten his posture even though his side protested. “Attacked by outlaws.”

  The driver let out a low whistle. “Lord have mercy. They done took your horses?”

  Matt nodded. “Guns too. Even our boots.”

  “Your boots?” He looked more affronted by that indignity than by the stolen horses. He shook his head. “That’s downright despicable.”

  “We sure could use a ride to town, mister.” Matt took a step closer to the wagon. As sympathetic as the driver appeared, they didn’t have time for the long version of the story. “The gang who attacked us took a woman hostage. I gotta get to the depot in Chatfield before the last train departs.”

  “Took a woman? The fiends!” The driver gestured swiftly toward his wagon. “Never let it be said that Paxton Whitaker failed to help a lady in need. Hurry up, now. Climb in. I’ll get ya to Chatfield before the 7:40 leaves the station. On my honor.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Mr. Whitaker. Thank you.” Matt tipped his hat as he scrambled around to the back of the wagon. With swift movements, he climbed the wheel spokes and hoisted himself into the bed. The others followed.

  As soon as the four Horsemen found seats in the back among an assortment of crates and trunks, Whitaker snapped the reins, and his team surged forward.

  “You know, I don’t usually make my trip into Chatfield until Saturday morning,” the driver called over his shoulder in a voice loud enough to be heard over the hooves and wheels, “but something just kept itching under my skin, telling me to leave early. Guess it’s a good thing for you fellas that I decided to scratch it.” He chuckled.

  “That it is,” Matt agreed, deciding Wallace’s angel theory might have some basis in reality after all. It seemed the Lord had one assigned to transportation detail after all. “An answer to prayer.”

  “Oh, I know all about answered prayers,” Whitaker said. “My business wouldn’t still be afloat if it weren’t for the Good Lord opening new doors when old ones closed. Why, just yesterday I had a big sale fall through and was worrying about how I was gonna pay my suppliers. Then you fellows show up.”

  Matt turned to his companions. None of them looked any less puzzled than he felt. Preach shrugged. Jonah shook his head. Wallace, however, verbalized the question on everyone’s minds.

  “How exactly are we helping your business, Mr. Whitaker?”

  The old man turned just enough that Matt caught his wink. “Take a gander in them boxes.”

  Preach was the first to take him up on the offer, unfastening the trunk closest to him. Wallace reached around with his good hand to hold the lid as Preach pulled back a layer of cotton batting. His eyes widened. Then laughter burst from his chest as he wagged his head in disbelief.

  “What is it?” Matt eyed the crate nearest him.

  “Boots.” Preach pulled one from the trunk and held it up for inspection. “‘But my God shall supply all your need.’ Philippians 4:19.”

  Wallace grinned. “Only God could arrange for a bunch of barefooted Horsemen to be rescued by a bootmaker.”

  “Go ahead and help yourselves,” Whitaker called. “If the outlaws done stole your money too, I can write up an IOU when we get to Chatfield. You fellas seem the type to pay your bills.”

  As the men started digging through boxes and trying on boots, Matt’s mind turned back to Josie.

  Thank you for your provision, Father. But please, provide for her too. Watch her back and keep her safe.

  Preach slid on a pair and admired the fit. “I think the Horsemen just found a new bootmaker.”

  Whitaker turned in his seat, his eyes wide. “The Horsemen?”

  Matt thumped the kind old bootmaker on the shoulder. “I’m Matthew Ha
nger. This here’s Jonah Brooks, Luke Davenport, and Mark Wallace.” He nodded to each of his men in turn, and they nodded to Whitaker. “You’ve just rescued Hanger’s Horsemen and earned yourself four customers for life.”

  “Hanger’s Horsemen.” Whitaker started to slump in his seat, but Matt gripped his shoulder tightly in support. The team slowed in response to his inattention, but the bootmaker didn’t seem to notice. “Julia ain’t never gonna believe this,” he mumbled.

  “Whitaker?” Matt tightened his grip. “You all right?”

  Suddenly their driver came back to himself. He shook his head, then sat taller in the seat. “I’m fine, boys. Just fine.” He gripped the reins with renewed purpose. “Paxton Whitaker, Bootmaker to Hanger’s Horsemen.” He glanced back at Matt. “Got an awful nice ring to it.” He chuckled softly. “Think I’ll make it my new business slogan.” Grinning like a kid who’d been gifted the pick of the litter, he snapped the reins and instantly got the flagging horses back up to speed. “Let’s go, lads. The Horsemen got a train to catch.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Must you hover?” Josephine scowled up at the guard whose breath fogged across her nape like a sticky cloud of humidity. Carver answered by leaning even closer.

  Mercy, how she wanted to scrub that discomfiting sensation off her skin, but she’d already sterilized her hands. An outlaw lay sprawled on his belly atop a table someone had pilfered from the farmhouse, his left pant leg rolled up to expose matching entry and exit wounds on his calf.

  It amazed her how many of Taggart’s men had wounds to their lower extremities. Even in a life-or-death battle against a dozen hardened criminals who had no qualms about taking human life, Matthew and the rest of the Horsemen had held fast to their vow of non-lethal force. Such honorable men. So different from the drunken, foul-mouthed horde surrounding her now.

  The men in the barn watched her as if she were the afternoon’s entertainment. To some, she seemed to be a curiosity, unaccustomed as they no doubt were to being in the presence of a proper lady. To others, her gender seemed to inspire only lust and crude gestures. She’d quickly learned not to make eye contact with any of them until medical treatment deemed it necessary. After the first hour, some of the novelty wore off, for most had gone back to their card playing or drinking.

  Josephine contemplated the hairy calf before her. The outlaw attached to it was half-insensate with alcohol, but the pain of the needle was sure to rouse him.

  “Come around the table and hold his ankle down.” Josephine gestured to the guard with a lift of her head. “He’s not going to like it when I start suturing.”

  Carver hadn’t permitted anesthetization, stating he refused to allow her to incapacitate any of the men. Not that they were in any kind of fighting shape in their current form. Most had anesthetized themselves with liquor and were barely coherent. Even after dosing them with soap and hot water, they still reeked of whiskey and gin. Josephine suspected Carver’s real reason for disallowing her use of ether was that he enjoyed watching others suffer. He certainly enjoyed making her life as uncomfortable as possible.

  Case in point—instead of walking around to the far side of the table as she had instructed, he reached an arm around her back and latched onto the ankle in question, bringing his foul breath even closer. His front pressed indecently against her back, sending a shiver of fear-tinged disgust over her skin. She held her ground, though. Well, almost. She did take a tiny step closer to the table as she bent her head to her task.

  “Your head’s blocking my light,” she groused, hoping he’d care enough about his compadre to give her a little space.

  Carver shifted, erasing the miniscule separation she’d managed to preserve. “Make do, Doc.”

  Knowing he took pleasure in her discomfort, Josephine hid it as best she could beneath a stiff spine and a brusque demeanor. The faster she stitched this wound, the faster she could put some space between her and her boorish warden. Closing the edges of the bullet hole with the fingers of her left hand, Josephine jabbed her needle into the hairy calf.

  A holler followed by a string of profanity polluted the air as the recipient reared his head back, bringing the top of his torso off the table. Carver reached around her with his other hand and smacked the fellow’s shoulder back down, throwing her ribs atop her patient’s backside in the process.

  “You know, if you’d moved to the other side of the table like I asked,” she said as she shoved backward in retaliation for his placing her in such an undignified position, “you wouldn’t be impeding my suturing with your ruffian deportment.”

  For once, Carver had no reply. He probably hadn’t understood her insult. Too many ten-dollar words.

  Ten-dollar words. Matthew’s phrase. Josephine’s fingers trembled, and her bottom lip threatened to imitate the motion.

  Oh, Matthew. Are you alive? I pray you are. I pray that God is watching over you, providing for you, healing you when I cannot.

  Josephine bit down on that quivering lip and forced her fingers to settle as she tied off the first suture. Thinking of Matthew brought too many emotions to the surface. Emotions she didn’t have the luxury of indulging, not when any show of weakness would incite the wolves.

  Still, she hated knowing that she could help if she were with him. Hated being outside the realm of control. Both for Matthew’s situation and her own. The only control she wielded was over the hairy leg in front of her and the needle in her hand.

  Matthew’s in your hands, Lord. You know what’s best. Help me to accept whatever your best means, even if it’s not what I want it to be.

  Filling her head with quoted verses about how God worked together for the good of those who loved him, and filling her heart with the optimism to believe the promise would translate into the preservation of Matthew’s life, Josephine snipped off the suture thread and set her needle to flesh once again.

  Inaction was a military man’s worst enemy. Matt had been able to power through the pain while he marched across the countryside, driven by his mission to save Josie. But now that they’d made it onto the train and he could do nothing more productive than sit and plot, the fire in his side ignited with new life and refused to be ignored. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that lessened the agony, but all he got for his trouble was what felt like a dagger slipping between his ribs. A hiss escaped him along with a flinch he no longer had the energy to hide.

  “All right,” Preach grumbled as he twisted on the bench he and Matt shared and leveled a frown at his captain. “Vest open. Shirt up. No argument.”

  Matt scowled. “You fuss worse than an old lady. You know that, right?”

  Preach raised a brow as he crossed his arms. “Old ladies don’t get to be their age by being stupid. If you’re gonna watch my back on the battlefield, I gotta make sure you ain’t gonna faint on me because you were too stubborn to tend a wound properly.”

  “Yeah, well, the person I want tending my wounds got carried off by outlaws, so I’m a little cranky.” But he reached for the buttons on his vest anyway. Might as well take a gander at the damage. Had to pass the time somehow. They still had at least an hour before they reached San Antonio.

  Thankfully they sat at the rear of a passenger car containing fewer than a dozen people. And most of them were busy trying to catch a few winks of shut-eye.

  As he reached for the third button, a hand gripped his shoulder. Matt glanced up at Preach, surprised to find his friend’s bossy bearing traded in for an expression of serious intent. “We’ll get her back, Matt.”

  Matt’s hands stilled on the buttons as his chin dipped in a lackluster nod. “I know. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. I’ll go crazy if I let myself consider any other outcome.”

  “Horsemen never quit,” Luke said, his voice quiet yet ringing with intensity. “We find a way to achieve the mission, and we protect our own. The doc’s one of us now, Cap. The moment you staked your claim, she became family. The
re’s not a one of us who wouldn’t give our life to save her.”

  Moved to an embarrassing degree, Matt dropped his head and resumed fumbling with his buttons.

  “We all like her. In my estimation, any woman who can keep up with a group of hardened cavalry officers on horseback is a woman worth keepin’. Wallace practically worships her, thanks to her saving his life and all. Shoot, even Jonah likes her, and you know how particular he is about folks. Barely tolerates most two-legged creatures.”

  Matt got the vest undone and gingerly stretched it open on the right side where blood had soaked through. He tugged his shirttails free of his trousers. Dried blood glued the cotton to his skin at the wound site just beneath his rib cage. He eased the fabric away as gently as he could manage, but it still stung like the dickens. And oozed. Blood and a clear discharge. Not a terribly appetizing picture.

  “That’s definitely deeper than a crease.” Preach contorted his big frame to examine the wound more closely. His frown knocked away Matt’s last fingerhold on optimism. “I’d be surprised if that bullet didn’t nick a rib. Chasing down Whitaker did you no favors neither. That crevice is twice as wide as any bullet would’ve made. Must’ve aggravated it with all that scrambling about.”

  “Yeah, well, that scrambling about got us a ride to town along with new boots, so I’d say it was worth the price.” Any sacrifice would be worth the cost if it meant getting Josie away from Taggart.

  Preach shrugged. “Prob’ly.” His mouth quirked a grin as he jutted one foot into the aisle to admire his boot. “I am rather fond of my new footwear. Couldn’t believe that fella had a pair in my size. I usually gotta special-order ’em.”