Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  By the firelight Abigail could see that Hadley’s full beard was neatly trimmed. He had matured into a strong, handsome man. But his eyes were cold and distant. She sensed deep hurt behind them and remembered that Hadley’s father had been particularly harsh. And Hadley, even as a child, had always seemed restless, wanting . . . forever longing for what he didn’t have.

  Hadley stood up then, poured himself some coffee and ate some bacon, watching her with wolf’s eyes.

  She needed to keep him talking or moving, keep him from looking at her that way. “Can I have some coffee?” she asked.

  He only had one cup, so he drank what he’d poured, refilled it, and brought it to her. Rather than holding it to her lips as she’d expected, he untied the ropes. Grateful, she took a couple of hot, bitter swallows and set the cup down.

  If she threw the coffee on him, would it burn him? Could she get to her horse fast enough to get away? Her blouse was still unbuttoned in the back, and the evening air was cool. She shivered while trying to work out a plan of escape, gathering her courage.

  Hadley walked to his horse, took down his bedroll, and unrolled it. Pulling out a blanket, he put it around her shoulders. Then he took his finger and ran it down her throat and down the center of her chest. Abigail closed her eyes and focused on keeping her body from jerking away, trying hard not to do the wrong thing and make him angry.

  She didn’t move when he kissed her neck, but when he pulled down her blouse and the chemise beneath it, and sought the top of her shoulder with his lips, she shoved him away and scrambled to get up and run.

  She had to get to her horse! Get the gun on the pommel!

  As Hadley hit the ground he reached up and grabbed her foot, knocking her off balance. He pulled her back to him.

  Abigail screamed as she fell.

  Hoke flew on the stallion until he got within sight of where he’d last seen Wiles. This was why a man needed a horse like the stallion. He eased in, gripping the rifle in his left hand. This was why a man needed a side-loading sixteen-shooter. He stopped the stallion, sheathed the rifle, and dismounted, slipping the knife out of its sheath and into his right hand and the Colt out of its holster and into his left as he scouted around for signs of Wiles and Abigail. This was why a man needed a six-cylinder Colt and a bowie knife like the toothpick. He stopped every few steps to listen.

  Nothing.

  How long had it been since she’d reached Wiles? A half hour? Hour? Longer? Why hadn’t he insisted on coming with her? All of Hoke’s instincts had told him something was wrong. This could be the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and now her life and his heart—not to mention the hearts of those children—were in danger.

  Darkness was setting in. If he lit a match to see better, he’d give his position away. Was Wiles lying in wait for him? What if he’d killed Abigail and was hiding nearby?

  Hoke couldn’t bear the thought.

  More likely, Wiles had taken her, thinking he couldn’t be tracked until morning. Pretty smart of him to act like he wanted time alone with her . . . and Abigail had played right into it.

  So had he.

  Hoke swore repeatedly at himself for sending her into a trap. Between curses, he prayed she hadn’t been harmed. Those kids needed her. He blamed himself, but what reason had there been for him not to believe what he was told? He’d thought Wiles was really Baldwyn. All the soldiers had acted like he was Baldwyn. How long had the man been playing this game?

  Once he was convinced that Wiles had gone, Hoke lit a match and built a small fire. Wiles would move along the creek but in which direction? Hoke needed light to see where he had come out of the water.

  It took some time, but he finally found the spot and followed it several yards. Initially Wiles had gone south. Hoke recognized Abigail’s horse’s tracks, which were lighter than they should have been.

  The red roan’s tracks were deep, so it held both riders. Hoke had already determined that Abigail hadn’t gone willingly, having found the spot on the grass where they’d tussled. It looked like Wiles had pinned her down, probably to tie her hands—please, God, let that be all it was—then dragged her a couple of yards to his horse. The grass was pretty beat down there.

  He liked to think Abigail had done that on purpose, to make it easier for someone to read the signs. There was no blood. Thank God for that.

  Would she know he would come for her?

  Of course he would come for her.

  How could she doubt it? But she couldn’t know that he would have made the discovery and come after her so soon. That was the one great break for Hoke.

  He kicked dirt over the fire and moved off to the south, his instincts guiding him better than what little he had seen of a trail.

  Wiles would stay near the creek, Hoke was sure. He might try to make it look like he was moving away from it, but he would eventually swing back around. He was a fussy man, overdressed and particular. He’d want a place to wash his hands.

  The stallion, responding to his touch, stepped quietly as Hoke picked his way along the brush near the creek. How long would Wiles ride before he stopped? That was one advantage Wiles had. He knew this area and Hoke didn’t.

  Hoke rode steady for several miles, following his gut and the bend of the creek. It was pitch-black out now, save for the mottled moon overhead in the early August sky.

  Surely Wiles had stopped to make camp by now. Hoke decided he must have changed direction. He was just swinging back around to search a wider circle when he heard a scream. It came from his left.

  He kicked the stallion in that direction.

  CHAPTER 29

  Coffin-shaped knife handle

  When Hoke came crashing through the brush, Wiles was trying to pin Abigail’s flailing arms to the ground with his knees. In an instant, Hoke took in the scene unfolding in the firelight: Abigail fighting like a cougar, Wiles slapping her with the back of his hand, blood dripping from her head.

  Hoke was off his horse and running toward them before he knew he had dismounted.

  Hadley, furious at the interruption, rolled off Abigail and came up with his fists ready. He’d lived pretty hard and knew a thing or two about fighting.

  “You’re back, Mathews. I was hoping I’d seen the last of you.”

  The scout’s eyes were as fierce as ever. “Mister Mathews to you.”

  Hadley sized Mathews up, from the hard line of his mouth down to his ivory pistol, coffin-handled bowie, and dusty black boots. He appeared a worthy opponent, but Hadley still felt a sense of superiority. “I believe I’ve got a few pounds on you.”

  “It’s not going to help you.”

  Hadley nodded at Abigail, who was still lying on the ground. “You’ll have to kill me if you want to take her out of here.”

  The firelight danced in Mathews’s eyes. “Glad to.”

  “What a bother,” groaned Hadley. None of this was going as he had hoped.

  Hadley punched with his right and Mathews deflected the blow. Next, he swung a left and caught a piece of Mathews’s right shoulder as the man came around with his left. When it hit Hadley’s jaw he felt the crack all the way down his spine.

  He had known the scout looked strong, but damn! The man could hit.

  Like bulls they squared off. Then they punched.

  Relief at Hoke’s arrival flowed through Abigail, but so did fear. What if Hoke got hurt? Or worse?

  First it looked like Hoke had the upper hand, then Hadley, then Hoke again. They separated, stepped back, and circled each other. Hadley pulled out his sword and twisted it so it would gleam in the firelight.

  “I bet you’ve never seen one of these before.” The blade was long and thin, attached to a fancy handle. “It’s two hundred years old. See the hilt? Protects the hand. Which is good for me, ’cause I already lost two of my fingers.” He swished it in the air to demonstrate its effect. “But don’t worry. I can still thrust. It’s made for thrusting.”

  Hoke looked unimpressed. “What’d that
set you back? Or did you steal it, like you been stealin’ other things?”

  Hadley laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand. “Pretty clever, wasn’t it? I knew somebody might find me out one of these days, but it surely was fun while it lasted. I’m going to keep right on enjoying myself, too, once I run my rapier through your heart and take her.”

  “Right here.” Hoke pointed to his chest with two stiff fingers. “All the way up to your fancy little hilt if you can get it in there, ’cause I got a hard heart.”

  Hadley’s eyes briefly cut over to Abigail, who was crawling away from them. “I suspected you’d taken a shine to my wife.”

  “She ain’t your wife.”

  “All our marriage needed was consummation. We were just about to see to that when you so rudely interrupted. Too bad you didn’t bring your fencing sword.” Hadley thrust at him and Hoke stepped backward, the blade slicing through the side of his shirt, whispering past his skin.

  Abigail gasped. Her breath came in ragged spurts and her ears still rang from Hadley’s slaps. It was hard to think straight. Only weeks ago she’d been shot. She felt like she might faint again.

  No! She had to stay alert. She had to help Hoke.

  Hoke was here. He didn’t have a sword, or a knife or anything. No wait, he did. His pistol was strapped to his side. She could see it. Why hadn’t he pulled it from the holster? And there was something else on his leg. A knife. She’d seen him use that knife before but had never seen it strapped to his leg. He always kept a smaller knife in his left pocket, too, the one he used to poke holes in the tops of lightning bug jars for Jacob and Lina.

  Why didn’t Hoke get out one of his knives? Or just shoot Hadley? Hadley didn’t have a gun on him. Where was Hadley’s gun? On his horse! She should get it. Or get the one Hoke had tied to her horse’s pommel. Yes! It was loaded and ready to go.

  She groped her way on hands and knees toward the horses, past the light of the fire, trying to keep her eyes on the men as they fought. When she stood up, the blood drained from her head and she fell to her knees.

  Hadley thrust again, and Hoke feinted left. Hadley thrust left. Hoke stepped to the right and punched him in the jaw. Enraged, Hadley slashed wildly with the sword.

  Hoke caught his arm and smashed it over his knee. Abigail heard it crack. Hadley cried out in pain and dropped the sword. Enraged, he reached into his boot with his other hand and pulled out a derringer, pointing it at Hoke with a shaking hand.

  “At this range, I won’t miss.”

  Abigail threw herself to her feet and reached for the gray dun in the darkness.

  Hoke lunged and knocked Hadley down before he could get off the shot. They rolled over the ground, punching and hitting each other. Abigail found the pommel and pulled on the Army Colt. To her horror, it was tied down. She fought with the string, unlooping it as fast as her fingers would go.

  Hoke was down and Hadley was on top of him when a shot ripped and echoed through the still night air, just as Abigail got Hoke’s gun free. She thought she was too late—that Hoke had been killed—and held the pistol in two shaking hands ready to shoot Hadley when he came for her.

  Then Hadley’s body rolled off Hoke’s, a bloody coffin-shaped knife handle sticking out of his stomach.

  A low, involuntary sob shook out of her throat as a cascade of emotions swept over her like a waterfall. Horror. Relief. And disbelief that Hoke was alive.

  She dropped to the ground and laid down the gun, the dun sidestepping nervously beside her, upset by the events of the evening.

  Hoke threw off Hadley’s leg, got up, and slowly came to her. He knelt down and cradled her head in his hands, looking deep in her eyes, then pulling her forehead to his.

  She loved the feel of his skin touching hers, the brush of his hair over her eyes.

  Hoke’s breath grew steady. She was safe. God, thank you. Thank you, God. She was safe.

  “You came,” she whispered.

  “I came,” he answered.

  Abigail raised her head to look at him. He was here. She was safe. Everyone was safe when Hoke was around.

  The fire was dying out. Hoke went to stoke it.

  Her nose dripped and her head and side were pounding. It was pitch-dark now. She wiped at her nose—what came off on her hand was hot and smelled like blood. It was blood. And it was coming from her head, not her nose. She touched it gingerly. Now she knew why her head was throbbing.

  “Come here so we can get a look at that head wound,” Hoke said. He followed her eyes to the front of his yellow shirt. “Let me change that.” He went to the stallion and pulled an old buckskin shirt out of the saddlebag, along with his canteen. Splashing the blood off his chest, he pulled on the buckskin, then pulled out the bottle of whiskey.

  Lacking the strength to stand, Abigail crawled toward what remained of the fire. Her blouse hung loose on one shoulder. Hoke reached around her and buttoned it. She’d heard him splashing water but could still smell his sweat, and the sweat of the stallion, on him. Or maybe it was the smell of the buckskin shirt.

  Whatever it was, the smell was nice . . . masculine. She wanted to see, smell, taste, touch everything that had to do with Hoke—the waft of pine that always encircled him, the sound of his movements, the flame that constantly flickered in his eyes.

  “I guess this is ruined,” he said of the gold shirt, which was now wadded on the ground. “Mrs. Austelle had just got the bloodstains out. It was my favorite shirt, too.”

  “I can repair it. There’s still some cloth on the bolt.”

  “We can think about that later.” Hoke inspected her head wound. Then he rolled up his shirtsleeves, uncorked the whiskey, saturated the bandana, and prepared to bathe her head and wrists.

  “This is going to sting,” he said softly.

  “All right.”

  She winced when he held the cloth to her head. He pulled her close and blew on the wound, then dabbed at her wrists and blew on them, too. She followed his every move with dull eyes, feeling passive and heart-spent.

  “I knew somethin’ didn’t feel right about him, and I fault myself for not trustin’ my instincts,” Hoke said as he worked. “All of this could have been avoided if I had.”

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself for any of this! I might not have made it until morning if you hadn’t come.” Her voice cracked.

  She watched his hands—oh, how she loved his hands! They were the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen, with a faint layer of black hair curling on the backs of them . . . strong, yet incredibly gentle.

  Abigail stared at the fire, finally feeling warm and safe, exhaustion wrapped around her. She felt her side.

  “Do we need to look at that?” Hoke asked.

  “I’m pretty sure the scabs pulled off, with all that twisting and getting thrown up over the side of a horse.” She laughed weakly and pulled at her clothes. The blouse was easy to pull from the skirt, but the chemise she wore underneath was longer. “I don’t know why we wear so many layers.”

  “Want me to cut through ’em?”

  She nodded.

  Hoke took out his pocketknife and cut a fist-sized gap in the side of her clothes. Then he lit a stick in the fire and held it up so they could see better. The scabs were off Abigail’s wounds, as she’d suspected.

  “It’s worse on the front hole than the back,” he told her. He dabbed whiskey on the bandana again. The sharp sting when he applied it to her wound stole her breath.

  “Doc’s got a good ointment when we get back to the train. It helped when James got that cut on his arm.” Hoke threw the stick back on the fire.

  She covered back up, feeling self-conscious about her bareness and his nearness . . . and about her new status of freedom. “How did you know to come?”

  “One of the soldiers mentioned his red beard. The kids said your husband didn’t have red hair. So I asked if they had a picture. One of them was a picture of your weddin’ day. Wiles happened to be standing in the ba
ckground and one of the soldiers spotted him.”

  “I never noticed Hadley in that picture before. He’s dead, Hoke. Hadley said he found Robert dead in a field.” She bit her lip. She felt like she’d always known it, from the moment she realized she was pregnant with Lina.

  Robert had wanted a fourth child. And he had hoped for another girl. He had been elated during Abigail’s fourth pregnancy. But shortly after they learned she was pregnant, Robert became ill with scarlet fever. The doctor told them Robert wouldn’t father any more. That was why Robert had been so upset with her when she rode horses with Seth and lost the fourth baby. And that was why, when they learned that Abigail was expecting a fifth child, shortly after Robert left, Mimi called Lina the miracle baby.

  “You know what’s so awful?” Abigail asked Hoke now, gripping his sleeve. “I told Mimi it would have been better if Robert had died in the war. I said that standing in my kitchen in February. What a terrible thing for me to say.” She hung her head.

  Hoke put his hand under her chin and raised it back up.

  “Words you said in February didn’t reach back and cause a thing to happen years ago.” He started to add that he was sorry, but he wasn’t. Robert’s choices had led her here, to him.

  He found the coffee cup, emptied it, and refilled it with whiskey. First he took a swig to calm his own nerves. A man’s best day, he thought wryly.

  “Here.” He handed her the cup. “Drink this, and don’t get all female about it.”

  She did as she was told, jerking her head at the bitterness of the whiskey. Then she laughed.

  “What?” he asked.

  “First the Indian fight . . . now this.” Her laughter changed to tears. “I’ll be fine . . . eventually. I think. I’ve just never had events to quite compare.” Her eyelids drooped. “My head keeps swimming.”

  Hoke looked at Hadley’s body. “Let me bury him, then I’ll get you to a better camp a little ways off. We’ll go back to the train at first light.”