He put the paper down and cleared his throat for the next. “This one is from The Nebraska Gazette. Married, June 14, 1873, at the home of the bride’s mother, Mrs. Maria Sutton, Shirley Sutton and Justice Fletcher.”
Two wives? Justice had only mentioned one. Silence filled the room as she pondered the announcement. Maybe he had thought it was too hard to explain in a letter. “So he married again. He was free to do so. Are you saying he’s still married to this second wife?”
Sam tossed the announcement aside and read the next excerpt. “Died, October 9, 1873, Mrs. Justice Fletcher. Riding accident.”
She put the cup down. Another accident? “What makes you think this is my Justice Fletcher? The name isn’t that uncommon, I’m sure.”
Sam dropped the paper and read the next slip in his hand. “From The Dallas Times. Married 21 January, 1874, by Judge Robert Benton, Lucinda A. Patterson and Mr. Justice Fletcher. Best wishes to the happy couple.”
She swallowed hard over the lump that was growing inside of her throat. She could object, try to prove Sam Anderson wrong. But how? “And now I suppose you’ll tell me what happened to Lucinda?”
He folded the one paper left and stuffed it back in the saddlebag. “I don’t have to read that one to you. I know it by heart. On July fourteenth, 1874, Lucinda Fletcher, wife of Attorney at Law, Justice Fletcher, drowned in Lone Wolf Creek. They were alone. On a picnic. He said she probably went wading in the creek while he slept. He buried her the next day.”
Charlotte took a deep breath as the blood rushed to her feet. This couldn’t be happening. “Drowned? Another accident. . .?”
He nodded. “Just like his other wives. No witnesses to any of the accidental deaths.”
She tossed the blanket aside and stood. She closed her eyes for a moment. Everything inside of her screamed to resist this information, to deny its truth. Breathe slow. Get your emotions in check. Remember the letters, all the things he told you.
Shaking her head, she forced herself to reply. “You’ve got the wrong man, Sam Anderson. I don’t know who that other Justice Fletcher is, but he’s not the man that I’ve come to know these past few months.”
Sam picked up the other papers and stuffed them back inside the saddlebag. “You can believe me or not, Miss Turner. But Justice Fletcher is a murderer and I’m going to bring him in. Dead or alive.”
She folded her arms and stared at his stubborn face. “Bring him in? Are you a lawman?”
Sam was slow to answer. “Not exactly. But I’ve done my share of hunting down criminals. Justice Fletcher won’t be a problem.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips at this declaration, his information folding itself into her mind. “Especially since you have me in your. . .custody," she suggested.
He shook his head and took the bags back to the corner. “You are a problem I didn’t intend on having, Miss. I only found out about you at the last minute. We changed our plans just to accommodate you.” He offered her a mocking little smile with this statement.
Her jaw set. “So I guess I’m just a bonus. Some sort of ‘bait’ to draw him to you?”
Sam’s features hardened and his eyes grew dark in the murky light. He strode to her side and took her elbows in his hands, pulling her close to him. “I could have let you go on to Black Well and marry him, just like you planned. Then, when you had a nice convenient accident, I could get him with even more evidence. Is that what you would have preferred, Miss Turner?”
He was so close she could feel his breath, warm on her face. The misguided concern in his eyes went straight to her innermost sympathy. Another step and she would be in his arms, their lips close enough to touch, perhaps. Her breath caught at the rapid gallop of her heart. Heat burned up her neck and on her face. No, no, I'm confused...it’s Justice I love. None of this is true, it's a mistake.
“I prefer that you take your hands off of me. . .now!” She jerked her arms from his grasp and turned away from him, moving closer to the fire. Surely the warmth from the flames would serve to explain the rosy hue that blazed bright on her skin.
He was silent for a moment. “You’d better get some rest. We need to leave at first light. You can curl up with the blanket in front of the fire.”
“And where are you going to be sleeping? In the barn?” It was the only appropriate place, considering that they were unmarried.
He pulled his pistol from his holster and checked the cylinder. “I won’t be leaving you alone tonight.”
She laughed. “Are you afraid I might sneak away?”
He holstered the gun and reached for more brush for the fire. “This cabin has been empty for a while and as you can see by the floor, it’s not very tight. We had one poisonous resident for supper tonight. There may be more of them living underneath the house. I figure somebody better watch. Unless you want the job?”
The blood drained from her face and her throat began to close. She stared at the spaces between the planks. Snakes inside? “I think I’ll just sit up, too.”
Chapter 4
Charlotte narrowed her eyes as the sun blanketed her face, reminding her of the heat from the fire during the long watchful night in the cabin. Sam hadn’t said much since they’d left just after dawn. Possibly the hours without sleep were starting to wear on him, as well.
Her fingers caught a loose strand of hair blowing into her dry eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She straightened her back and blinked her eyes hard. She would not give into sleep, no matter how hard it threatened to consume her. It would mean nestling into his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, trusting him with complete charge of herself. Yet, something inside of her yearned to burrow into his safe arms. His handsome face and well-built frame floated before her when she closed her eyes.
He was a strong man. A man of decisiveness and action, apparently; knowing what he wanted and believed in, pursuing it at all costs. Despite the fact he had kidnapped her, he had not been crude or inappropriate in his treatment of her. No doubt he was doing what he felt was right. She was merely an unexpected quandary in the mechanism of his plans, no more important to him than any other part.
Was he planning to kill Justice–hunt him down like an unsuspecting animal? Confusion swam through her thoughts. The man to whom she pledged her heart was the target of a gunman, her love threatened by a vengeful plan.
Love. Did she truly love Justice? She loved his letters, the future he represented–she knew this with certainty. But as for her heart–she shook her head as irritation burned in her throat. Somehow Sam kept planting a seed of doubt in her mind as she desperately tried to weed it out. Those newspaper clippings he carried in his saddlebags probably meant nothing. But what if it was true? If Sam Anderson was right about Justice, then she’d wasted the last year of her life falling in love with a myth. She ignored the stab of pain in her heart. Somehow, she had to find the truth.
Half an hour later, they came to a road rutted by wagon wheels. Sam urged Smoke to the north.
She gazed around at the changing landscape. At last a few more hills were decorating the landscape. “Where does this lead?”
“It will take us to my house. And then on to Black Well.”
Her breath caught. Black Well! At least she had an idea of where they were. If she could get away from him, she could find the answers for herself. Perhaps she should find Justice and learn the truth from him–or from some of the residents of the town, the local authorities. They would have a good idea of the man’s true character.
She glanced back at her captor as she entertained these thoughts, as if she was afraid he would read her mind. In Sam's calm face, she could read nothing except the determined lines of concentration as they rode onwards. Perhaps by now he believed she trusted him–and believed his stories about her fiancé.
Sam’s voice pulled her attention from her musings. “There’s a small stream up ahead. We’ll stop and rest and get some water.”
***
Charlotte closed her eyes as she
cupped her hands and relished the cool, wet liquid pouring down her throat. She pulled the bandana from her neck and leaned in closer to the creek, dipping the fabric into the cool water and patting her cheeks and forehead.
Beside her, Sam untied the back of his bandage and attempted to remove it.
“Let me help you,” she offered. “Let it soak with water first so it won’t stick.” She dipped her kerchief again and applied it to the front of Sam’s dressing.
He sat on a large rock and held the wet cloth to his head. In a moment, the binding fell away, his fingers gingerly peeling away the edges. An angry red wound blazed across his forehead.
Charlotte rinsed her bandana again and cleaned around the gash. “It looks pretty good. No infection from what I can tell.”
He winced as she touched the wound. “You seem to know what you’re doing. Have you worked with a doctor before, been a nursemaid or something?”
She shook her head and wiped the dust that surrounded the injury. “I worked with a hospital during the war. We traveled to some of the battle sites.”
Sam’s eyes widened with surprise. “You must have been very young.” His curious expression vanished with a grimace at the pain of her handkerchief's touch along the raw skin.
She shrugged. “No younger than some of the soldiers. Justice wrote to me that he was in the war. A captain in a Union unit. Over half of the Unit was killed.”
Sam nodded. “It was a bad time. For both sides,” he added.
“You were in the war?”
He nodded. "A Captain," he answered. "Bristol’s Rangers out of Black Well.”
A Confederate. Charlotte blinked back the tears over the familiar sound of the war's phrases. After a while, it hadn’t mattered to her which side the soldiers were fighting for. Those boys on the makeshift pallets on the floor hadn’t so much been Union or Confederate soldiers, as they were sons of mothers who were at home praying for them to come home, safe and sound. They should have been at school or working on their farms, sitting around the family table in the evenings. She had bathed them, changed their bandages, written letters for them, and sometimes held their hands as they died. Please God, let there never be another war like that.
She swallowed hard and pushed back the thoughts. “Why don’t you let me put a fresh bandage on your head? It will help keep the dust out of the wound.” She turned toward the horse.
Sam stood and grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “It’s fine like it is. Don’t bother.”
His hand was calloused and warm against her skin, sending spikes of energy up her arm. Her heart leaped into her throat as she pulled away and folded her arms in front of her. “You are stubborn, Mr. Anderson. I’m only trying to-”
“Sam,” he interrupted. “By now we know each other well enough to be on a first name basis.” He ran his fingers through his sandy mane and adjusted his hat. “I think we better get going.”
Back on the horse, drowsiness overcame her and she permitted herself to lean against him. “How much longer?” she mumbled, when she was aware that her fatigue made her drift off for a moment.
“Another hour or so,” he answered.
His deep voice vibrated in his chest, sending a humming sensation through her shoulders. She forced herself to sit up, away from him. Maybe talking would keep her awake.
“You said you were in a Texas unit," she said. "In the war. So I take it that you fought for the Confederacy?”
“That’s right.”
She studied the landscape ahead and swallowed hard before asking her next question. “Did your family have a lot of slaves?” Her fingers gripped tight to the saddle horn, anticipating his answer.
He hesitated. “My father didn’t hold with owning slaves.”
“But you did have some?”
He sighed. “Two. My father came to possessing them by a roundabout way. They were always free to go.”
She laughed. “Are you saying they were just free to walk out of your house anytime and never return?” She’d heard stories like this before, but had never been sure she believed them.
His answer was clipped. “That’s right.”
“But they chose to stay?”
“You can believe what you want. In fact, you can ask them when you get to my house.”
“They still live at your home?” she gasped, half turning to look at him in disbelief.
“Look, Charlotte–”
Confusion swam among her thoughts. She’d never heard of such a thing. “You fought for the Confederacy. . .you–”
“I’m not ashamed of my service, if that’s what you’re wanting to hear.”
His answer was forceful, a reprimand in the guise of a reply. She deserved it, she supposed. She was meddling in things that were none of her business. Right now, her only issue was figuring out how to find Justice and learn the truth behind this story which inspired her captor and his friends to pursue her fiancé so ruthlessly.
Chapter 5
The two story house, surrounded by a split-rail fence, was set on a slight rise, facing west. Its whitewashed siding bright in the afternoon sun. Two large oak trees stood in front, lending late evening shade. The fenced yard was home to several rose bushes and various flowers in full bloom.
Charlotte gazed at it with surprise. So this was Sam Anderson’s ranch.
A large barn, constructed of logs, lay just ahead. The horse whinnied and shook his head. as they started up the winding drive.
“He knows he’s home,” Sam laughed, letting him go at his own pace.
Inside the barn, it was dark and quiet. A pair of barn swallows swooped down as they rode inside. Charlotte ducked and pulled her hat low as they flew overhead.
“I believe they’ve got a nest up there in the loft area,” Sam explained, helping her down. “They seem to help keep the fly population down in the summer, so we’re always glad to see them set up housekeeping.”
“We?”
“Howdy, Mr. Sam! Good to see you back.”
Charlotte turned as an elderly, gray headed negro, limped slowly into the barn, his eyes resting on Sam’s face. He was dressed in drab brown trousers, a white shirt and red suspenders. His face was friendly as he gave her a courteous nod and a smile that showed off a perfect set of teeth.
He stopped and his eyes opened wide. “We was a little worried when that little mare, Coffee. came home all alone–oh my! You hurt, Mr. Sam?”
Charlotte’s breath caught as she noticed the former slave’s left hand, where two fingers were missing, the remnant of an accident or cruel experience from the past.
“It’s good to be back, Luther. I’m fine, nothing for you to worry about. Just a little scratch. And I’m glad to hear the horse made it back home.” Sam handed the reins to the man and turned to her. “I’d like to introduce Miss Charlotte Turner. Charlotte, this is Luther Anderson.”
Luther tipped the brim of his black hat with his free hand. “Mighty nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Charlotte returned, doing her best to keep her eyes from the empty area of his hand. She smoothed the wrinkles from her shirt and trousers. But he didn’t seem the least surprised or taken aback at her manner of dress. She’d heard Texas women were a breed of their own. Was this what was expected of her?
Sam removed his wide-brimmed hat and shook the dirt from his hair, slapping the hat on his knee. “Miss Turner will be staying here at the ranch for a few days. Guess I’ll take her on up and introduce her to Rosie.”
Luther led the horse closer to a stall and started to unsaddle him. “I know she’ll be pleased at having some company for a while.”
How many kidnappers introduced their victims to their closest acquaintances? Of course, Sam Anderson wasn't an ordinary kidnapper, as he kept reminding her. He was a man on a mission to bring her fiancé to supposed justice.
It didn't matter how friendly he was, she thought; he was still dangerous and there was no reason for her to let her guard down in
these cozy surroundings.
***
Inside, the ranch house was dark and cool. A pleasant change from the hot breeze outside. Two large windows in the living area were draped in blue paisley print with bright white sheers behind them. Shelves of books lined the back wall, the length of book spines broken by an occasional vase or small trinket. The mantle over the fireplace held what she guessed to be family photographs. The furniture was plain and solid, lending a peaceful air to the room.
Charlotte took a deep breath and let her eyes linger on her surroundings. There was no doubt this house was truly a home.
The distant sound of singing greeted their ears. Amazing Grace.
“That’ll be Rosie,” he said, guiding her to the doorway ahead.
The kitchen walls were whitewashed and bright in the afternoon light. Warmer than the front room, the air was filled with the pleasant aroma of baking bread and something simmering on the large black stovetop.
The melodious voice belonged to a small dark skinned woman wearing a green calico dress. The cheery fabric was covered by a large white apron that dwarfed her already diminutive size. Her head was covered in a matching calico kerchief. Her eyes lit with happiness, then concern, when she spotted Sam.
“Oh, Mr. Sam, you’re hurt!”
Sam shook his head. “No ma’am. I’m fine, just a scratch.”
“Now you sit down and let me clean that for you before you go on up and see your momma. She’s been missing you something fierce.”
Sam laughed and gave Rosie a hug. “No need. It’s been washed and cleaned a couple of times. And I’ll go up and see Momma in a minute.” He turned to Charlotte. “I’d like you to meet our guest, Miss Charlotte Turner. Charlotte, this is Rosie. She runs the house and bosses me the best she can,” he grinned, his eyes twinkling with fun. “And she’s married to Luther. She bosses him, too.”
Chance Creek Brides (Volumes 1-3 & the Stagecoach Bride) Page 39
