Rain Shadow (Dutch Country Brides)

by Cheryl St. John

  Anton shifted his weight, and the stool squeaked beneath him. “I don’t care if she’s drop-dead beautiful. Just so she’s mild-mannered and...domestic. She has to cook and sew and be a mother to Nikolaus.”

  “And a wife to you.”

  Anton shrugged. “That too, I reckon. Nikolaus needs two parents. A family.” The rest wasn’t important. He didn’t have to love this wife. He didn’t want to love her. Not after Emily. He’d messed things up good there.

  Never again would he allow himself to be vulnerable or stick his neck out begging for hurt. He wanted a woman like Annette or Lydia, his brothers’ wives. Sissy Clanton wasn’t so bad, in fact, he was seeing her again tonight. All week long he’d tried to picture the three of them—himself, Nikky and Sissy—living in a house together as a family. He would work the farm with his father and brothers, as always. Winters he’d fix watches and clocks for extra money, and Sissy would take care of the house and cook for them. Nikky would go to school.

  He’d thought he loved Emily, but maybe he hadn’t loved her enough. Maybe he was incapable of pleasing a woman. Thinking about Emily still left him feeling confused and empty. She’d been discontented...had held back from everything and everyone and he hadn’t known how to reach her, how to please her. There had always been something missing, and he hadn’t known how to correct it. He took the blame for making a hasty choice and expecting too much.

  Nothing he’d imagined about his marriage had come to pass. He blamed himself for not recognizing her unhappiness sooner, for not knowing how to fix things. Ignoring a problem didn’t make it go away. But this time he wasn’t going to delude himself or Sissy into believing the impossible. Some marriages were for practicality, and both people had to accept the fact. If Sissy couldn’t accept a friendly arrangement, he wouldn’t pursue the idea.

  But he did visualize a clean house, tasty dinners, evenings around the fireplace, playing checkers with his boy while his wife sewed. Those details focused as clear as a bell in his mind. What dealt him trouble was imagining taking Sissy to his bed. How could he—

  The door burst open, the bell clanging in protest. “Anton! Jake!” panted Tom Simms, a local farmer. “A train derailed down by Ed Jackson’s place! People and animals are hurt bad. Livestock—and buffalo—are running wild. They need help!”

  Anton peeled his spectacles from his ears and shouted after Tom, already out the door, Jakob on his heels. “I’ll take Nikolaus to Mrs. Parkhurst’s.” He sprinted to the doorway. “Buffalo?”

  “Yeah,” Tom hollered over his shoulder, running toward the next store. “This ain’t just any ole train. This here’s Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Congress of Rough Riders!”

  * * *

  The scene Anton came upon a short time later was one he’d tell his grandchildren about. A small herd of elk huddled beneath the dappled shade of an elm, cropping grass like cattle. He drew his horse up and gestured for Jakob to look. They watched in puzzlement for a moment until three brown and white spotted ponies thundered past, and the elk loped off toward a stream.

  Sounds reached them before they comprehended the scope of devastation. Animals shrieked in pain and terror. Men shouted, and echoing gunshots rang out.

  An endless string of black railroad cars lay twisted haphazardly across the gently sloping ground like a child’s forgotten toy. Mortally wounded horses and longhorn steer writhed on the ground, and two Indians dressed like cowboys fired bullets into the animals’ heads, ending their misery.

  Able passengers led the wounded to a designated area well away from the teetering cars. Occasionally, an animal or person escaped an overturned railcar unaided.

  Overwhelmed, Anton slid from his horse. Behind him someone moaned in pain.

  “We need more help.” Doc, a beefy Norwegian, dragged his bag across the grass to the next patient. “I sent the Von Goethe boy for another doctor, but it’ll be dark before he can get here.”

  “Neubauer! Over here!”

  Collecting himself, Anton loped to where the townspeople had formed a team and joined them. Dividing, they methodically checked each car for trapped survivors.

  The afternoon passed, and three men were discovered dead—two whites and an Indian. Those in need of a doctor had grown to an alarming number. Toward the rear of the train, a metallic sound caught Anton’s attention. He followed the noise to one of the overturned stock cars and climbed the bottom of the car, heedless of the grime already covering him. Squatting at the opening, he peered down.

  A young red pony lay dying. Its exhausted body jerked reflexively, one hoof occasionally striking a tin bucket. A cage of chickens had spilled open, feathers and strutting chickens everywhere. Anton paused, blinked the sting of perspiration from his eyes and wiped sweat from his temple with his shirt-sleeve.

  Another sound came from below.

  Human.

  Feet first, he lowered himself inside the car, swung suspended for a moment, and then dropped to the metal side with a loud clash of his boots. Squawking chickens disbanded in a dozen directions. He climbed a mountain of feed bags, many burst or split, and discovered tumbled crates, scattered harnesses, snaffle rings and bridle bits. Beneath the rubble, he spotted a hand. Anxiety sparked a cold shiver through his overheated frame.

  It was a small, dark hand.

  A sleeve.

  Shoving aside a saddle, he made out an Indian boy, his leg pinned beneath a trunk. The boy laid unconscious, dark fingers of blood tracing his brow. Anton lifted the trunk, and the boy groaned. Immediately, something inside him locked in on the boy’s pain, and he touched the narrow face tenderly. Just a little boy...a boy like his own.

  Running his hands over the child, he checked for wounds, finding none save the cut on his head. The boy’s leg, however, twisted at an unnatural angle.

  Out of crates he built a passable stairway and kicked open the car’s trapdoor. The child was longer than Nikolaus, but surprisingly lighter. Both arms occupied, Anton scaled the shaky pile and crouched in the opening, taking great care not to move the injured leg more than he had to.

  Anton reached the doctor’s makeshift quarters, and the boy awoke, pain contorting his face. He grimaced and fought tears, then fell back and shuddered.

  “Doc!” Anton yelled. He squeezed the child’s thin shoulder through his buckskin shirt. “The doc’ll fix you up. It’ll be all right. Hold on. Doc!” Gently, he lowered the boy to the grass.

  “Hang onto your britches, Neubauer. What’ve you got here?” Doc gave a cursory examination. “Leg’s broke. We’ll hafta set it.”

  Anton jerked his head up. We?

  The doctor took a vial and a syringe from his bag. “What’s your name, boy?”

  The child’s black eyes widened, and his dark skin paled. He stared at the needle and swallowed. “S-Slade. What’re ya gonna do with that?”

  “Make you sleep so we can fix your leg.”

  Admiring the boy’s composure, Anton took Slade’s chin firmly in one large hand and turned the boy’s face away from the needle. He was barely older than his own son. Nikolaus would likely be screaming his head off in pain and fear about now. Slade met his gaze and held it. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he jerked as the needle pricked his skin.

  Sleepy lids drooped over black, black eyes. “Grandfather will be proud,” he muttered before losing consciousness.

  Anton nodded. He’d be proud if this were his boy.

  * * *

  Annette pulled a coverlet up under Slade’s chin and turned to Anton, her tawny eyes filled with sympathetic tears. “I wonder where his parents are. Did he ask for them?”

  In the lantern light, Anton studied the dark-skinned boy, so small and alone, asleep in his bed. “He mentioned his grandfather.”

  “His grandfather could be one of the injured or...” His sister-in-law’s voice trailed off. Tendrils of russet-colored hair had come loose from the love knot she always wore, and curled prettily around her face. She had prepared rooms, freshened linens and
assisted the men in bedding down their unexpected houseguests.

  A motherly lady with a shoulder injury occupied one bedroom. Two Pawnee Indians, one with a head wound, the other with his foot stitched up, rested in another.

  When Anton had offered to bring the boy home, it had seemed only right to bring a few others, too. Butler residents and neighboring farmers had taken home as many Wild West passengers as they could. The huge old farmhouse he rambled around in with his father and son held extra beds, and could easily accommodate three more people.

  In the morning he and his brothers would head back to help bury and burn the dead livestock, a staggering prospect. “Tomorrow I’ll ask around for his grandfather.”

  Annette nodded. She knelt over the pallet on the floor and ran her fingers through Nikolaus’ pale blond hair, her sweet face reflecting her love. She had helped Anton care for Nikolaus since Emily’s death when he was barely a year old. “Didn’t take your little Deutschmann long to fall asleep after all. He’s fascinated by Slade.”

  “Pretty exciting having an Indian sleeping in your pa’s bed,” Anton said, grinning.

  “You’d better get some rest, too, Anton.” She smiled and stretched on tiptoe.

  Anton leaned forward, accepting her sisterly kiss on the cheek. She smelled of lilac water, as always. “What about you? Your family will be up early.”

  “I’ll head home as soon as I clean up the kitchen.” The door’s soft click behind her roused Slade, and he sat up quickly, wincing.

  “Whoa, pardner.” Anton touched his shoulder. “It’s all right. Lay back down and rest.” The boy’s fathomless, obsidian eyes revealed a combination of pain and fear. “Remember me?” Anton asked in hopes of soothing him. “I brought you home. Doc left some medicine to help you sleep tonight.”

  He fed Slade a spoonful and patted the child’s hand comfortingly. Practically the same age as Nikolaus, and yet so different. He was dark and slender where Nikolaus was fair and robust. He had prominent cheekbones and full, bow-shaped lips. Though opposite in every way, he was as handsome a child as Nikolaus.

  Anton pictured the two side by side, Slade half a head taller. What would they say to one another? Would Slade take an interest in Nikolaus’ carved horses? How would they entertain him while his leg healed? Anton touched the boy’s narrow hand and a deeper concern filled his thoughts. How would he comfort him if he couldn’t find his family?

  The little guy had obviously had a traumatic scare when the train derailed. Anton couldn’t help wondering about those long, terrifying minutes. Had he been knocked out, or had he lain in pain until he passed out? He imagined Nikolaus seriously hurt and separated from family—from him. His son would be frightened, just as this boy was, even though he’d probably try his best to conceal it. Anton’s chest tightened.

  “Mister?”

  He met the drowsy gaze. “I’m Anton.”

  “How’s my pony?”

  Anton studied the tiny cut above Slade’s eyebrow, avoiding direct eye contact. What could he say? A hard knot of sorrow lumped in the pit of his stomach, and he met the waiting gaze. “Your horse died, son.”

  The drug Doc had administered seemed to have dulled the pain in the boy’s eyes. “Thanks.”

  Thanks? Wordlessly, Anton nodded.

  Slade’s black-lashed eyes closed. His narrow chest rose and fell rhythmically. What kind of boy was this? What kind of family did he come from? Anton couldn’t begin to imagine a life in the Wild West Show. How was Slade schooled? Was he learning the same things as Nikolaus? Anton gave a brief prayer of thanks that the boy had not been killed, and prayed, too, that his grandfather or whatever family he had was still alive.

  Slade slept.

  Anton rifled through a stack of dime novels, selected one with Buffalo Bill on the cover and settled into the chair. The book was an exciting story of an Indian attack, but one he’d read before. Minutes later, his weary eyes closed.

  * * *

  An undefinable whisper of fabric or soft leather against the floorboards woke Anton. He sat up with a start, the book falling to the floor.

  An Indian—right out of the pages of the dime novel―hesitated just inside the doorway. Black hair parted in the center and braided in one thick rope lay against the front of a fawn-colored deerskin tunic. The Indian wore pants of the same soft skin. Moccasins had made the faint sound. The garb could have been worn by either male or female.

  The wearer was definitely female.

  She was probably a little over five feet tall, softly curved and strikingly lovely.

  Anton stood.

  Her hesitation was nearly imperceptible. She took a deep breath, the graceful swells of her breasts lifting beneath the soft material, the braid rising and falling. She stepped closer and looked up.

  Anton stood a foot taller. Her almond-shaped eyes were deep violet in color, dark-lashed and liquid-velvet soft. Stepping closer, he took sleepy stock of her gentle, tanned features, the ebony arch of her brows and the perfect bow of her upper lip beneath a slim nose.

  She wasn’t an Indian.

  Caught by surprise, he tried to clear his brain. “Ma’am?”

  “I’m looking for my son.” She glanced toward the sleeping children. “Your wife let me in.”

  “Slade?” he asked, ignoring her mistake. The boy had a family.

  “Yes.” Relief flashed across her features. “He’s here?”

  “In the bed.”

  In an instant she was at the boy’s side. The bed barely sagged beneath her weight. She peeled the coverlet back and sought his injuries, touching Slade everywhere. Alarm suffused her expression.

  Sensing her panic at the boy’s stillness, Anton reassured her. “It’s only his leg. He’s sleeping sound because of the medicine Doc gave ’im.” Anton stood at the end of the bed and spoke softly. “Bone’s broken. We set it, and he should be good as new when it mends.”

  She said something softly in a language he couldn’t understand and pressed her lips to Slade’s forehead. Touched his face. Buried her nose in his hair.

  Her maternal caress roused some bred-in-the-bone instinct in Anton before he’d had a chance to dull it. A long-buried fragment of hurt erupted, and he looked away.

  In the dead-of-night silence, he detected her ragged breath. She didn’t appear old enough to be Slade’s mother. Older sister, maybe. Aunt. But not mother. Her pitiable fear and tender reunion, however, gave away their relationship. Anton swallowed and dared to peer back.

  She stood and faced him.

  “Anton Neubauer, ma’am.” He stepped forward and offered his hand.

  Without hesitation, she placed her small palm in his. “Rain Shadow.”

  His callused hand engulfed hers.

  Rain Shadow willed her fingers not to tremble, the way she did when she took aim at a target and squeezed the trigger. His handshake was warm and gentle. She caught her breath. He smiled, and his features changed from intense to friendly in an instant. The apricot glow of the lantern revealed entrancing smile lines in the lean cheek nearest the light. His thick hair reflected golden highlights, and his eyes... were they blue? She shook herself. “I’m afraid I scared a few years off the poor doctor’s life.”

  “You?”

  “He’d just gone to bed, and I nearly pounded his door down. I tried all evening to find my son. No one—” her voice faltered over the words “—remembered seeing him.” Never in her life had she been so frightened. Slade was her flesh and blood, her world, her everything. Losing him was unthinkable. Rain Shadow prided herself on her competence, on her ability to remain undismayed under pressure. The near panic she’d experienced at Slade’s disappearance was unsettling.

  Anton nodded sympathetically. “There was so much confusion, it’s not surprising.”

  A soft rap sounded at the half open door. The woman who’d introduced herself as Annette poked her head inside. “Have you eaten, miss...?”

  “Rain Shadow. No, but thank you. Don’t go to any bothe
r.”

  “It’s no bother. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

  “No—”

  Annette vanished into the hallway.

  Anton shrugged and gestured to the chair. “Sit down?”

  “No. Your wife is very kind, but—”

  “My sister-in-law.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Oh.” Anton regarded her with surprise.

  She surveyed the unfamiliar room, studied her son sleeping in this white man’s bed and was consumed with an urgent need to take Slade far away as quickly as she could. They didn’t belong here. “I’m grateful you took care of Slade, but I’m here now.”

  “Well, sure...” He folded his arms over his broad chest and leaned against the edge of a chest of drawers. “You’re here now. You can take care of him.”

  “No, we can’t stay. We have to leave.”

  He dropped his arms. “Why?”

  She couldn’t explain the panic in her soul. She just knew she had to get both of them away from this man and his disarming concern. “Slade is my son. I’m responsible for him, and I will care for him. You’ve been troubled enough.”

  “Look, ma’am.” He shoved his weight away from the chest of drawers and touched her upper arm. “Sit down.”

  Against her will, Rain Shadow backed up to the chair, and her knees buckled. Through her deerskin tunic, her skin tingled where he’d touched her.

  “I don’t mean to be rude or nosy, but where would you go even if you could? That's a nasty break, and Doc said not to move him for a couple weeks, at least. After that, he still can’t walk. I don’t think you want to take a chance on doing something that could damage his leg for good.”

  A trapped, claustrophobic sensation twined inside her chest, and for one wild instant she wanted to snatch her son from this man’s bed and run. She didn’t want to be dependent on him, or on anyone. She owed her life to one person—Two Feathers. At least she’d given him something in return. She’d been the daughter he had lost. He’d taken her into his lodge and cared for her. And as the years had gone by, the roles had reversed. She’d become the provider, the caretaker. It was as it should be.