Freedom in the Mountain Wind

by Misty M. Beller

  He was a warrior, no doubt, but he used his strength for protection. His ever-present nearness was a way he showed respect—maybe even care—for those he called friends.

  And as she watched him helping Joel, she couldn’t stop a longing to be one of those friends. Someone who meant more to him than just a female he felt obliged to protect.

  She wanted him to see more in her. To like what he saw.

  But she had a feeling that with Beaver Tail, that would be no easy feat.

  Beaver Tail regretted every unkind thought he’d harbored about Susanna’s presence in their group.

  She seemed to know exactly what to do for Joel, and she didn’t hesitate to take charge of his care. A relief that all of them were thankful for, if the other men felt the way he did. And their expressions said they did.

  Now, as he sat in their camp in the faint light the next morning’s dawn, he let himself watch her. Susanna’s face had turned fragile in her sleep, like the clear surface of still water. Dark shadows marred the pretty skin beneath her eyes, probably from the several times she’d been up tending Joel in the night.

  The man hadn’t slept well, shifting and mumbling through many of the dark hours. Pain would cause that, especially the deep agony of a belly shot.

  Beaver shifted his focus to his friend. Joel’s coloring seemed to have paled some, but that might only be the dusky filter of early morning. Surely the wound wasn’t fatal.

  Fear nipped in Beaver’s chest, but he pushed it back. He’d seen several men creased by a bullet in the side who’d healed quickly with no ill effect. Joel’s wound was nearer his middle than a crease, but surely not so much that it’d struck something important.

  The man shifted again, rolling his head with a moan. Clearly in pain.

  Susanna stirred, probably awakened by Joel’s activity. She sat upright, her hair rumpled in a way that made him want to stroke his fingers through its softness. When she looked around, her gaze landed on him, hooded with sleep and so pretty his insides stirred. This woman affected him in every way possible.

  He nodded toward Joel, a topic that would surely take his mind off her allure. “How’s he doing?”

  She snapped to attention, turning her focus to her patient as she crawled to his side. When she pressed her hand to his forehead, her own brow puckered. “He’s been warm through the night, but he’s even more feverish now.”

  Beaver’s chest tightened. He needed to do something to help. Rising to his knees, he reached for the pot. “I’ll get some water. Is there anything else you need?”

  Her gaze flicked to the fire he’d already kindled, then she shook her head. “Maybe once he drinks and eats, he’ll be better. I’ll make a tea to help with the pain.”

  He pushed to his feet, grabbed up the pot, and started for the river. He should have already gone for water so it was ready when she awoke, but he’d been too caught up in watching her sleep.

  Maybe if he chose to think of Susanna like he did the others, he could ignore the effect she had on him. She was no man, that was for certain, but she could be a friend. He’d like her to be a friend. More than he wanted to admit.

  When he brought the water back to her, he placed the pot to warm by the fire, then dropped to his knees by Joel’s feet. “How can I help?”

  She sent him a quick glance, and it looked as if she was trying to summon a smile. But the look didn’t reach her weary eyes. “I need cold water, too. I’ll make tea and corn gruel with what’s heating, but I need some to cool him off with. His temperature’s definitely rising.”

  Joel’s eyelids lifted then, but only partway as his gaze caught on Beaver Tail. “I’m fine. We need to get saddled.”

  Beaver almost chuckled at the words. The way Joel had been pushing, he might actually try to ride today if they let him. “We’ll stay put for today. Don’t give the lady any trouble.” He sent Joel a pointed look, and the man must have realized the futility of the effort.

  His eyelids drifted shut on a long sigh.

  Beaver grabbed the oilskin pail and headed back to the river. Susanna would have a gentler hand with Joel, so he’d start on the food. Together, they’d see their patient through the effects of his injury.

  Just like any good friends would do.

  Chapter 13

  She couldn’t let him die.

  Susanna squeezed water over Joel’s front bullet wound, biting back a cringe at the mangled flesh rimmed in bright red. Why did men think it necessary to be so cruel to each other? Lucas may not have intended to shoot Joel, but if he’d not had his gun loaded and ready to fire, his finger on the trigger, this never would have happened.

  She’d not expected Joel’s fever to rise so high, nor the skin around the wound to look so inflamed. True, she’d not seen many bullet wounds. When she’d helped her mother all those years ago, she’d probably been shielded from the worst of the injuries and illnesses.

  Was this normal? Maybe for a gunshot at such a close range. But did that mean he would heal once his body worked through the fever? Her instincts said something was wrong. Or maybe that was only her fears.

  “What can I do now?” Beaver Tail’s quiet words drifted from where he knelt on the other side of Joel.

  Fear welled in her chest, rising into her throat so she had to swallow before she could speak. “I don’t know.”

  His silence weighed heavier as she did her best not to look at him. She couldn’t handle the worry or censure in his eyes. Surely he was thinking how none of this would have happened if she and her father hadn’t been there. Or maybe if she hadn’t been a woman. Lucas wouldn’t have spared her a second glance if she’d been a man, and they both knew it.

  “This isn’t your fault, you know.” His voice was low, gentle. And it nearly undid her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. Against the pain of her guilt. She wouldn’t cry in this man’s presence. Not in front of any of them.

  With deep, steady breaths, she pulled herself back under control. He didn’t speak, and she could imagine what he was thinking. Or really, she couldn’t imagine. Had he seen the near collapse of her emotions? Or did he simply think she didn’t know how to respond to his kindness?

  She dared a glance up at his face—and her gaze collided with his intense focus. His eyes held her, called to her, drew her in. And as she sank deeper, weight pulled off her shoulders, the ache lifted from her chest. She could breathe again.

  It was as though she’d taken shelter in his gaze.

  She inhaled deeply and let herself relax. One corner of his mouth pulled up, and his eyes softened. He so rarely smiled, seeing the gentle look now sent a warmth through her like warm honey down an aching throat.

  She couldn’t let herself become used to this, though. Couldn’t let his charm affect her into thinking she meant more to him than any fellow traveler would. Besides, she had a great deal more important things to worry over, like Pa’s health—and now Joel.

  Susanna pulled her gaze from Beaver Tail’s and tried to concentrate on his injured friend. She forced her muddled mind to refocus on what needed to be done next. Joel’s wound needed to be re-wrapped.

  Her ministrations had started the blood flowing again, so she sprinkled more dried pepper, then studied the gash. What else could she put on it? Most of the medicinals she’d brought were for the lungs and other internal troubles. She hadn’t thought to bring something to heal a gunshot wound. Although, knowing the wild land they were coming to, she should have considered it.

  She couldn’t do anything about the lack now, though.

  “Can you turn him on his side so I can clean the back wound?” She didn’t dare look up at Beaver Tail, just prepared a clean bandage for when she’d be ready to re-wrap him.

  “You awake, Joel?” Beaver Tail’s large hand settled on his friend’s arm.

  “Mmm.” Joel didn’t open his eyes, but the reaction was good. At least his high temperature hadn’t rendered him delirious. Not yet, anyway.

 
; After Beaver Tail shifted him onto his side, she worked at cleaning the wound. This one hadn’t reddened as much, maybe because all the gunpowder had been wiped from the ball when it had struck the front.

  The sound of heavy feet stomping through grass came from her left, and she glanced up to see Caleb and French, back from whatever they’d been doing with the horses. Something with their hooves, the men had said, although none of the animals were shod.

  Caleb swiped a sleeve across his brow as he marched into camp, then plopped onto a branch they’d been using as a chair. “How’s he doing?”

  She worked for a smile but couldn’t summon one. “I’m doing everything I know for him.” She motioned for Beaver Tail to lay Joel down on his back again.

  Caleb leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not gonna die on us, are you, Joel? ’Cause that’s not allowed. We gotta find your brother first.”

  A slight pull of one corner of Joel’s mouth was the only sign he’d heard. Then his lips parted—chapped, swollen, and bright red as they were. “Not gonna die.” His words came out in a rough croak, as if they’d been lying in the sun until parched and shriveled.

  “Let’s have a drink.” She reached for the cup of water and held it to his lips, using her other hand to raise his head a little. He sipped, then took a second sip without her prodding. That was an improvement.

  When she laid his head down, a long breath leaked out of him. “Wish it were stronger.”

  Caleb snorted. “Must be feeling better.” Then he pushed up to his feet. “Where’s your pa, Susanna. Reckon he’d like to play a game of cards?”

  She nodded toward the river. “Reading by the water. I’m sure he’d love to play. Watch him, though. He plays a mean hand of five card draw.” The words raised a host of happy memories that eased her worry. They’d spent so many contented hours playing the game, especially in the winter evenings when his eyes needed a break from the strain of his exacting work.

  The big man raised his chin, surprised respect shining in his eyes. “Oh, ho. I appreciate the warning.” He glanced at French, who’d been unusually quiet. “You playin’ too, Frenchie?”

  The man looked up, blinking as though coming back from another world in his mind. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

  Caleb shrugged and sauntered toward the river.

  She reached into the medical pack and pulled out a lard mixture to put on Joel’s chapped lips. After applying it, she placed the tin back in the satchel.

  It was then that the silence sank into her awareness. She glanced up at the two men. They were watching her. Beaver Tail still knelt across from her on Joel’s other side. French sat on a log. Both wore such sober expressions, it was as if they were already mourning the loss of their friend.

  God, please don’t let me fail them. Tears pricked her eyes, and she looked away, fumbling through the pack, pretending she was looking for something while she regained control of her emotions.

  She needed something to distract them all. Something to get the men talking. She had plenty of questions, so that shouldn’t be hard. “French, can I ask what your real name is?” She sent a glance his way to make sure the question didn’t offend him.

  He tipped his head, his familiar grin finally quirking his mouth. “I am Jean Jacques Baptiste, after the great violinist. Alas, there were two others named Jean Jacques in our boating party when I met these compatriots. I am honored to have stood out enough to be given such a singular nickname.”

  She couldn’t help a chuckle. “Singular, indeed. Would you prefer to be called Jean or Jean Jacques? Or even…” It was easier to produce a smile this time. “…Monsieur Baptiste?”

  He bobbed his chin like a royal acknowledging one of lesser rank. “The latter of course, mademoiselle.” But the twinkle in his eye belied his words.

  “Monsieur Baptiste it is.”

  He rose, seeming to push away his deep thoughts from moments before. With his arms overhead, he heaved a mighty stretch with a groan. “Guess I’ll get in on the card game before it’s too late.”

  As he sauntered away, she looked to Beaver Tail, and his gaze nearly drew her in again. She looked away quickly. “And what of you? Is Beaver Tail your given name?”

  Silence was her answer at first for a few beats, and she worried she’d offended him. Then, he said, “My mother named me Ishtaay. But my father called me the English version, Beaver Tail.”

  She couldn’t help but look up at him. “Your father spoke English?” That would explain why Beaver Tail spoke without much accent. Had he been exposed to white men before Beaver Tail’s birth?

  He met her gaze solidly. “My father was English. He moved from England with his parents, from near a place called Newgate, when he was coming of age. His family died on the voyage, so when he landed in the United States, he started west. He didn’t stop riding that direction until he met my uncle. And then my mother.”

  His voice dipped quieter with those last words, but his face didn’t betray any emotion, not through his entire speech, for it had been a speech—the most she’d ever heard from him at one time.

  As his words absorbed into her mind, the picture she’d formed of him shifted, but not as much as she would have expected. She sent him a little smile. “I see now why you speak English with such minor accent.”

  He nodded. “My father left when I was five, but my uncle continued to speak the language with us.”

  So many questions she wanted to ask. His father left? What did that mean? And what of his uncle? He’d never mentioned the man before. But he hadn’t mentioned other family either. She honed in on that last bit. “Us?”

  “My mother, my three sisters, and me. The youngest not yet born.” Was that a trace of bitterness creeping into his tone? It was hard to tell with the stoic expression on his face. That mask of indifference.

  But of course he must be bitter if his father deserted them. Prying into that pain didn’t feel right, but surely he wouldn’t mind speaking of his sisters.

  She tried to soften her own expression, to share a smile that would lighten his heaviness even a little. “I always wanted a sister. Or even a brother. What was it like to have three?”

  Now his face took on some life, at least more than before. His mouth turned down. “Trouble. Every one of them.” But his eyes held a glimmer that could only be love.

  She raised her brows. “They were younger than you?”

  He lifted his own brows, a silent question in them.

  A grin tugged at her lips. “I can tell by the way you speak of them. Your tone.”

  He cocked his head, his brows lowering. There was no doubt the question forefront in his mind.

  She had to fight back a chuckle. “You’re accustomed to being in charge, I can tell. You could only harbor such affection for them if they were younger than you and listened to your every word.”

  His lips pursed. Was he holding in a laugh of his own? Not this man, surely. “You think they listen to my every word? You’ve not met my sisters, then. They listen to naught but themselves.”

  Something in his words rang with more emotion than he’d probably meant to show. She’d have to inspect his meaning later when she was alone.

  For now, she wanted to keep him talking. “I’ve known a few women like that.” Most women, actually. “How old are your sisters?”

  “The youngest is not yet ten and seven summers.” If she wasn’t born yet when their father left, and Beaver Tail had been five, that would put him around two-and-twenty years old. His smooth tawny face possessed a timeless strength, like he could be anywhere from twenty to five-and-thirty. It was a wonder he was so dark, being only half Indian. But spending all his time in the hot sun might account for some of that pigment.

  Beaver Tail didn’t look uncomfortable with her questions, at least not those about his sisters, so she pushed on. “Are any of them married or intended?” Did Indians become engaged and marry? She wasn’t sure what their usual process was. Maybe each tribe was differ
ent.

  “My oldest, Fox Running, is the squaw of a brave named He Who Sings. She will birth a child before I return.” His brow furrowed. “Probably has already.” That furrowed brow didn’t leave, evidence of his worry, no doubt.

  “Your mother’s there to help her?” She couldn’t imagine going through such an ordeal without a mother. Just one of the reasons she didn’t plan to have children of her own. Or a husband. There was simply no need.

  He nodded. “There are many women in the camp who will see to her.”

  She wanted to reach out to him. To place her hand on his arm, somehow communicate that she understood the pain, the longing he was trying to hide. But with Joel between them, she had to settle for letting her eyes speak to him. “I can imagine none would take the place of being able to present her child to her elder brother, the one she’s always looked to for guidance and protection.”

  He looked away, the muscles in his jaw flexing. Now, even more, she wanted to reach out to him, to wrap her arms around him and comfort. Why did she think he needed comfort? One wouldn’t suspect it from looking at him. Yet there was something. A deep part of her sensed it.

  A cough sounded from the direction of the river, breaking through her thoughts. Shattering her focus like a bullet through thin glass.

  She darted a look in that direction, although the underbrush concealed Pa and the others from view. The cough sounded again, this time continuing as the spell consumed him. With each thick, racking shudder, her muscles pulled tighter and tighter. How much pain he must be in.

  Finally the outburst ended in a last, mucousy cough. He would be wiping his mouth with a handkerchief now, one so stained it had turned a spotted rusty brown, no matter how many times she’d scrubbed it. He’d try to hide the fresh crimson from the other men. And knowing Caleb and French, they’d look away to give him privacy.