by Jenna Kernan
She blinked the tears from her eyes. “God won’t help me. But you will. Do you understand, Tom? I want my daughter back.”
Chapter Two
Sarah clutched her horse’s reins and followed Thomas to the water trough. Their first meeting had gone badly, even after she had readied herself to see him. She had expected lies, rejection, even pity. Nothing could have prepared her for this.
Could it be that he had not abandoned her?
The possibility rocked her. Her life now seemed a series of misunderstandings and mistakes, heaped one upon the other like torn clothing in her mending basket.
She studied his back as he opened the corral gate. The wiry, eager boy she once loved had matured into this stranger before her. Her gaze roved, freed by his inattention. His broad shoulders stretched the blue cotton of his work shirt as he slid back the two poles.
Her stomach twitched as she pushed back the memories of long ago. They did nothing but tear at her with tiny claws. One night of bliss followed by fourteen years of anguish. Now, after an eternity, just a glimpse of him made her tremble.
He wore no hat, and the sunlight showed that the bright flame of his strawberry hair now lay salted with white. The effect was flattering, making him more handsome than he had been in her memories.
He turned, waiting for her. She tugged at the lead line and her horse, Freckles, followed obediently, anxious for water. As she passed Thomas, she realized that only his blue eyes remained unaltered by time. His look held hers an instant before he returned his attention to securing the gate.
Freckles lowered his head to drink. The Appaloosa gelding slurped noisily for a time. She loosened his girth and waited.
Thomas brought a grain bucket and then dropped a half bale of hay on the dry ground. Sarah drew off her gelding’s bridle and hooked it on the nearest post. For a time, she busied herself grooming Freckles. With that done, the awkwardness between them grew again, broken only by the munching sound of Freckles finishing his first course before turning to the next.
Thomas leaned against a sturdy crossbar of the rail fence. “Sarah, you’re gonna have to tell me what happened out there so I know what’s what.”
She nodded, already dreading the ordeal of the telling. If it were not for her daughter, she would never speak of it to anyone. The memories were too terrible to endure a second time. But for Lucie she would face the devil himself.
Thomas watched her gaze drift upward to the top of the fir trees. He knew she was looking back in time to the nightmares only she could see and he knew that she had more courage than he.
“Three months ago, May 25. That was the day they took her. There were so many trains of wagons on that trail. Why ours?”
He knew about such unanswerable questions. They dug into your soul and festered.
“Emigrants by the score. We could have traveled in larger numbers, but everyone told us there was no danger. We had only four wagons and could make better time, so we went on ahead. The sun was so hot. No breeze. I remember looking forward to the day’s end when we could stop and rest.”
Her hand went to her breastbone.
“They came upon us so swiftly, it liked to stop my heart. Two hundred Ogallala Sioux circling as we struggled to bring the wagons together. The devils. Their leader made signs of friendship. I did not trust them, but Mr. Stanley stepped forward to shake hands. Soon they had our sugar. They came in such numbers. I dared not refuse even when they asked for the flour. They dumped it on the ground and took only the sacks. Pillaging in the guise of trade. They even stole the blue star quilt that Lucie and I had made together.
“When they offered to share dinner with us, I wanted to take Lucie and run, for that is what my heart told me to do. But we followed like lambs to the slaughter. The men perceived the villains’ true intent as they led us to a rocky glen and halted, refusing to go on.
Sarah pressed her palm tightly to her mouth. Her eyes squeezed closed for a moment before continuing. “The chief insisted and when Mr. Stanley refused, he grew insolent. Stanley would not be moved into an ambush and called for camp to be set on the spot. I meant to run from camp, so I took Lucie into the treeline on the premise of gathering wood.
“The Indians waited until the men set aside their weapons to see to the animals. Then they attacked.
“From the brush I saw an arrow pass through Mr. Wheaton’s leg, pinning him to his wagon. The Indians used him as a living target. I held my hand across Lucie’s mouth to keep her from screaming as they hacked at him with tomahawks.”
Sarah swallowed her distaste before continuing. “When they finished their butchery, they came for us, walking fifty across. I stumbled upon a shallow den of some animal and forced Lucie beneath the craggy stone. I told her to stay there until I came back. I meant to lead them away.” Sarah pressed her palms over her eyes. “Why did I leave her?”
Thomas reached for her but hesitated, remembering the reception he had received the last time he tried to comfort her. He made a fist and let his hand drop to his side. Sarah’s grief-stricken expression cut him to the core.
He knew this anguish—had lived with it day by day throughout the years. He tried to focus on her words, but his mind flashed back to Hyatt, hiding in the wagon. Stay in the wagon. Hide. Quiet. Hyatt’s blue eyes staring, looking to Thomas for reassurance as Thomas threw the canvas sacks over him. His burial shroud.
“Thomas?”
He blinked at her, suddenly remembering his surroundings. “What happened next?”
Sarah reached out, but not to him. Blinded by tears, she groped until her hand met with the fence rail and clutched it as a drowning swimmer grasps a log. Her voice trembled as she continued. “I shook the bushes and heard them shout. But they were not distracted from their line.”
Tears streaked Sarah’s face. “When they reached the place where I’d left Lucie and passed by, I thought they had missed her. Then a miracle happened. To my left came a rattle. The Indians paused not five feet before me, afraid of the snake, my savior. They turned back. I was so happy we had escaped. I waited in twilight while the Indians packed what they could carry and burned the rest.”
Thomas gagged as he recalled another wagon ablaze. The smoke had scorched his nostrils as he clawed blindly at the canvas.
He wanted to shout at Sarah to stop. But he didn’t. Instead he stood paralyzed, remembering as Sarah’s voice continued.
“When night came, I crept toward the place where Lucie waited, but in the darkness I could not find it.”
Sarah lifted her tortured gaze and Thomas felt bile rise in his throat.
“I pictured her alone and frightened not ten feet from me, and the Indians just beyond. I couldn’t call out to her.
“They departed by torchlight. Still, I waited in the darkest hours before dawn, fearful some Indians remained to kill any survivors.”
She wept and Thomas extended his handkerchief. Sarah pressed it to the fountain of her tears.
“At dawn, I…empty.”
“They took her.”
She nodded and wrapped her arms about herself as if clutching Lucie, and her voice jumped to a wail that tore at his heart. “I found her shoe.”
Sarah squeezed her hands over her eyes and wept. Thomas ventured to touch her, and this time she did not shake him off. He patted her as he did his horses when quieting them for the blacksmith. Sarah’s shoulders jumped beneath his hand. At last she hiccupped and lifted her head.
Her hair stuck out in all directions and her nose shone pink as a wild rose.
“No one would help me. Not the wagons that came after or the captain at Deer Creek or the major at Fort Laramie.” She pounded a fist upon the rail. “They were all like turtles, tucking in their heads at the first sign of danger.”
“They refused to search?” He could not quite believe it.
“They sent a unit to retrieve the dead but wouldn’t give chase. No jurisdiction—Indian territory, undermanned.” She choked his handkerchief in her fist a
nd shook it. “How I hate them.”
He imagined pummeling the commander’s face to a bloody pulp as Sarah drew a breath.
“Did they take any other captives?”
“A young bride, Kathryn Jackson.” Sarah wiped her nose. “They butchered her husband.
“I carried the money for our family and offered all I had for Lucie’s return. I tried, in vain, to shame the army into taking some action. They leave their fort only to ride the wagon trail and never venture into the prairie. In the end I thought of you.”
Her watery gaze pinned him with a look of such desperation, he knew he would travel to hell itself to recover their daughter.
“I lost you. I lost Samuel. I will not lose my child, as well.”
He nodded. She’d been through the mill but loved Lucie enough to go back to the plains to find her. He silently vowed to protect and provide for Sarah on this dangerous journey. If she’d allow it, he’d even try to comfort her, but that possibility seemed remote at best. He sighed and pushed off the fence rail. “You rest here. I have business in town.”
She set her jaw.
“Do you need anything for traveling, Sarah?”
She hesitated, then broke eye contact, and he knew that her pride prevented her from asking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing from me, you mean.”
She frowned at him, showing he had hit the mark. Not one woman on this earth could rile him faster than Sarah Talbet.
But it wasn’t Sarah Talbet anymore. It was West. Mrs. Samuel West.
“How much of that money do you have left?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m bringing your horse to the smithy for new shoes.”
She did not object. He turned and headed to the barn to saddle his buckskin, leaving her standing in the corral beside her trail-weary Appaloosa.
Why had Samuel come west? He had the farm and a family. Why make such a foolhardy journey?
Had Samuel spent those long years missing the company of his little brother as much as Thomas had missed him?
Sarah said Samuel had lied. Could it be? One of them had. Either Sarah married soon after Thomas’s departure or she had wed only when he was reported dead. Who did he believe? Up until a few minutes ago, he’d trusted his brother completely. Now, he didn’t know.
The air about him grew heavy. The sweet odor of molasses and leather made his stomach heave. He sat upon a hay bale, cradling his head in his hands as he realized he believed Sarah.
“Oh, Samuel—why?”
Sarah had been the love of his life. Samuel knew it. He thought back, recalling that his brother had taken a shine to Sarah early, but Thomas had won the battle for Sarah’s heart. Thomas had won at most everything they had fought over. His brother had not been as fast at running or as talented with numbers, but he had been the eldest and they looked to him when trouble came. Had Samuel loved Sarah enough to do anything to have her—even if that meant driving off his own brother? The betrayal burned him like a firebrand.
If Thomas had not written that letter faking his death, would Sarah have married?
The possibilities tumbled together, crashing like boulders in an avalanche. How could he have known about the child?
An answer came like a condemnation. You could have written to Sarah.
He made a quick rebuttal to himself. “I couldn’t. I was blind and broke.” And heartsick at Hyatt’s death.
How could he write her? She was an honorable woman and likely would have still taken him. But he could not burden her with a blind husband and could not stomach the thought of her pity.
All Samuel had done was pick up the treasure he had cast aside. It was his own fault.
As for his brother’s part—if placed in Samuel’s position, what would he have done to keep her?
His thoughts were tangled up like an unbroken horse wound in its lead line.
Thomas rose on weary legs and then bridled his horse and cinched the saddle. When he reached the open barn door he found Sarah standing beside her bridled gelding. He reached for the reins. “I’ll make preparations in town.”
Sarah kept custody of the reins. “We.”
“What?”
“We will make preparations in town.”
Sarah stared him down. He looked as if he wanted to order her to stay behind, but he didn’t—couldn’t, really, as she was not his. He hesitated a moment before nodding.
Together, they mounted and he led the way south to Bakersfield.
Sarah kept her own counsel on the ride, trying to ignore the pulsing pain in her lower back. She had ridden ten miles already today. At last they reached their destination.
She did as he asked at the Indian Affairs office, waiting impatiently while Thomas spoke with the man in charge. When he returned, his red face told her he had received no satisfaction.
“They’re not going to do a damn thing!”
She pressed her lips together as she followed him, scurrying to keep up with his long strides. He did no better with the local marshal, who offered sympathies but nothing more. The fruitless meetings ate away the afternoon.
Thomas glanced up the street. “You want to stay in town?”
She hesitated. Having spent nearly everything on trying to shame the army into taking up her cause, offering rewards for information that proved useless and then searching for Thomas, her funds were low. She didn’t want to appear a pauper, but neither did she want the entire town talking about her staying at his place.
“For how long?”
“Just the night. We’ll head for Sacramento tomorrow.”
One night. She likely had that much silver.
“Fine.”
“I’ll get you situated and then be back in the morning.”
They walked the horses over to the boarding house but found the place full up.
“All that’s left are the rooms above the saloons, but you can’t stay there.” Thomas glanced across the dirt road, considering the establishments in question. “I could try a friend of mine. He’s married.”
She stared at her feet. “We’ll be going tomorrow. Perhaps I could stay with you.”
It hurt her pride to say it, but she did not want to impose on strangers.
“Guess that’d be all right.” He leaned in, and she smelled coffee and leather. “Seeing how we’re family.”
Sarcasm? She studied his inscrutable face but could not tell. All that was clear was the hurt in his eyes. Weariness now ached deep in her bones. The thought of the mile-long ride to his place nearly made her groan aloud.
By the time they reached his property, twilight was stealing across the yard. Her horse stopped without her urging and Sarah swayed with fatigue. Thomas slipped smoothly out of his saddle and dropped the reins. Buck nudged him, obviously expecting some recompense for his labors. Thomas scratched the horse’s ears and then turned to Sarah, reaching up to help her dismount. She hesitated and he waited, hands outstretched.
With a sigh of defeat, she threw a leg over the saddle horn and released her foot from the opposite stirrup. She slid from warm leather into his arms. Strong hands gripped her waist as he eased her down. She held his shoulders to steady her descent before he set her gently on her feet. There he paused, as if reluctant to let her go. His familiar scent surrounded her. She grew dizzy with the fragrance of this man, changed from the boy she had loved. He gazed down at her from the deep shadow of the brim of his hat. Even here she could see the grim set of his lips, as if he fought against something painful. What had happened to him?
The heat of his palm crept through her thin deerskin coat, through the blouse and the shift beneath. Familiar hands, unfamiliar hands. Her heart raced as his warm breath fanned her cheek. For one instant she thought he meant to kiss her.
Reality crashed upon her. What once had been now lay broken by years. She stepped back.
He cleared his throat. “Lantern and matches are inside to the right. I’ll s
ee to the horses.”
He seized both sets of reins and disappeared into the barn. Sarah stood trembling. Coming here had been a mistake, a terrible mistake.
Why was she putting herself through this torture?
The answer came in one word—Lucie. For her daughter’s sake she would stay with this man, her last hope—her only love, her mortal wound.
She turned toward the house and staggered up the steps to the front door on weary legs. The latch lifted with a click and Sarah stepped into darkness. Groping, she found the kerosene lantern and the cold cast-iron matchbox hanging on the wall. A strike against the iron box and the match flared blinding white. Sulfur burned her nostrils as she lifted the glass to light the wick.
Even in the cheery yellow glow, the house seemed hollow. She gazed about with a critical eye. Thomas obviously prospered here. The imported runner leading back to the kitchen, glass lan-terns and sturdy furniture all spoke of wealth. His two-story clap-board home looked neat and clean but a feeling of emptiness pervaded it. Why?
She glanced into the living room, noting the bare walls and stark unadorned windows. The tabletop beside the single armchair lay empty, except for a pipe and bowl of ash. A rifle and shotgun hung above the mantel as grim décor.
Minutes ticked by in her head, for no clock graced the parlor. A bear hide lay before the hearth. Should she go to the kitchen and put on a kettle?
She hesitated, knowing she was intruding in his home—in his life. He had not asked her here. But here she was, as welcome as a skunk under his porch.
Finally, there came the click of the latch. He carried her bags over his shoulder with one hand as if they weighed next to nothing. She recalled the trouble she had just lifting them onto the horse’s rump and stood in silent appreciation of his strength.
“Well, don’t stand there like a hat rack, head for the kitchen.”
He took possession of the lantern and led the way, depositing her gear beside the table and then stirring the coals in the woodstove. She stood just inside the door, uncertain as a stray dog at the back step. In a few minutes a fire chased off the chill.
“Coffee?”
