by Holly Bush
* * *
Benson and Blake plodded along north to Chicago. They had fallen into a comfortable routine. Benson tended the horses and started a fire while Blake hunted for their dinner. Some nights they didn’t eat well. The only thing Blake was positive of was that Benson would hand him a steaming cup of tea first thing. That morning they had come upon a small waterfall. The water crashed over rocks and huddled in a lazy pool as clear as the sky. Blake could smell himself and was not passing up the opportunity to bathe. Benson gathered their dirty clothes and stripped to a pair of full-length red drawers and waded into the water to do the laundry. Blake, bare-bottom naked, ran at the water full tilt. It was gloriously cold. He rinsed under the fall of water after scrubbing his body and hair.
Blake stood in the water waist deep and shaved away two days’ worth of stubble. He caught his reflection in the still water around him. Days back he had found a barber and was glad his collar length curls were gone. Blake sported a tightly-cropped haircut, and if the ripples in his mirror didn’t deceive him, his skin had mellowed into a tan. There was not an ounce of fat on his chest or arms. The riding and lifting and walking and hunting had pushed the years on his body back to youth. He felt more fit than he had since he was a boy.
Blake preened in the water’s image. Women in London would swoon at his new physique. Forty-years-old and trim and now reasonably fast with his colt. He pulled an imaginary gun from his naked hip in a draw. But London ladies would not appreciate his new honed body or skill with a six-shooter. Proper English women would find nothing appealing about the tan color of his skin or the roughened calluses of his hands. To them he’d look like a savage or a servant. Maybe Gertrude would think he looked more American.
Blake waited, unsuccessfully, for his longing for Gertrude to lessen. Hoping, on some level, a dance hall girl would arouse his lust. In the past, a tempting view of a breast or a pale ankle would have been enough to drop his eyelids in want, bringing a twitch to his lips and a twinge to his crotch. Not so anymore. Barely-clothed bar wenches, even on his lap as had happened in the last town they’d come to, did little for him. But every night, regardless of stones digging into his back while he slept, he awoke rock hard with Gertrude’s face swimming before him. There was no one to discuss this strange change in his body. He could hardly imagine what he’d say. I’m limp as a dead daisy while conscious and stiff as a board while asleep. And whom would he admit that bit of nonsense to. Not Anthony for certain. His best friend would laugh and say he was in love.
Currently the cold water had him shriveled and wrinkled. Benson had strung the cord from his saddlebags and was draping their clean clothes over it for the sun to dry. Blake pulled on clean half-drawers and stretched out on a flat rock to dry. His eyes opened to the blue sky as he lay there.
Blake had the strangest feeling he and Benson weren’t alone. He peered through trees and wandered around but saw no one. He still could not shake the feeling. Their clothes dried quickly, and soon Benson and he were saddled and riding north. Closer with each step of the horses’ hooves to Gert and his son. Benson had taken to whistling a tune while they rode and Blake had to smile at his valet. The stiff starchy servant had changed. As he had, he supposed.
The beating of the sun’s rays on his black hat and the steady clip of his mount’s canter had nearly lulled him to sleep. Suddenly and to his and Benson’s surprise, they were surrounded by red-skinned men wearing naught but a strip of hide to cover them. His horse ground to a halt in the closing circle. Benson’s face was wide-eyed in fear. Their leader, Blake surmised by the number of colored feathers in his headdress, walked his spotted horse close to Blake.
The man grunted and signed.
Blake shook his head and lifted his shoulders hoping to indicate he hadn’t a clue what the man said.
The leader turned on his mount and shouted gibberish. The other men laughed and raised their lances to the sky. Blake knew real fear at this moment. He’d listened to stories of the savages in the towns he passed through. From the look on Benson’s face, he remembered the tales as well. He’d never get the chance to tell Gertrude he loved her. Was the only explanation he’d been able to fathom for the strange things happening to his mind and his body. He understood Anthony’s words now. He’d beg Gertrude’s forgiveness with his dying breath. The words of the fierce warrior before him brought his head up.
“You pass through the land of the Illinois Indian. You will die now.”
A whimper escaped Benson’s lips.
Blake was surprised to hear English, although stilted from the lips of savage before him. “We meant no harm,” Blake said.
“Your bodies staked out in the sun will send a message to other wanderers.”
Blake blew out a breath and dropped his shoulders thinking how close he’d come to his final destination. “Before you do, can you tell me how far away we are from Chicago?”
The warrior blinked and translated the words. Braves pulled their horses in tight. “Strange talk you have. What white city did you come from?”
“London, England.” The one he’d never see again.
The chief’s eyes widened, and he spoke quickly to his band of men. “Why this Chicago?”
“My son’s there. And a woman,” Blake said.
“The woman’s name. What is it?” the chief asked.
Blake toyed with the idea of not responding for fear of putting Gertrude and William in danger. But some part of him begged to hear her name said aloud. To go to his death with her name on his lips.
“Gertrude Finch,” Blake said softly.
The chief roared, and the braves’ ponies danced and neighed as they clamored. The chief held his hand up for silence, finally, and Blake could tell his men were angry but the stiff command brooked no argument. Six braves jumped from their barebacked horses and pulled Blake and Benson from their mounts. Blake shouted to Benson his apology as a brave’s fist plunged into his stomach. Blake’s air left on a whoosh. He could not defend himself from the battering of punches as two men held his hands behind his back. All at once it was dark.
Blake’s eye opened slowly. He felt the plodding of his horse underneath him. He was not staked out to die in the prairie but trussed to his horse with ropes. He risked a look to his side. Benson was tied to his horse as well. There was nary a scratch on him.
“Your Grace,” Benson whispered. “I feared you’d never wake up.”
“We’re not dead, are we?”
“No, sir, we’re not. But I haven’t a clue where they’re taking us.” Benson shouted to one of the sentries. “You there. My master needs water.”
“Don’t get killed on my account, Benson.” But his valet continued his harangue. Finally, the chief held his hand up, and every horse behind him stopped. A path opened up to Blake and Benson.
“You’ve beaten the Duke of Wexford to a pulp. I demand you give him water,” Benson said.
The chief’s eyes opened wide. “You have nothing to bargain with.”
“I’m well aware of that, but I still insist you give him something to drink. If you meant to kill us you would have done it two hours ago,” Benson shouted bravely.
The chief almost smiled and nodded to Blake. “True. But the death of this one belongs to my old friend.”
Benson bristled. “Friend? No friend of yours could possibly know my master.”
Blake’s lip cracked as he spoke and he tasted blood. “Who? Who is your friend?”
“Your thirst for water will be nothing compared to what Hastings will do.”
“Hastings? The duke knows no one named Hastings,” Benson said.
Blake brought his bowed head up slowly. “How do I know this Hastings?”
The chief smiled maliciously. “He is father in his heart to Gertrude Finch.” The chief threw back his head and laughed. “It is his right to kill the man that left her.”
“Miss Finch?” Benson said. “Are we close to her ranch? Your Grace, we may be saved yet! But why would a rel
ative of Miss Finch’s wish to kill you, sir?”
The chief smiled. “You will know soon enough, English.”
The braves undid their ropes and pulled Blake and Benson from their saddles. Blake landed on his butt with a thud. Until that moment it was the only part of his body not bruised. Dimly, he heard Benson shouting at the departing Indians.
“Stand up, Your Grace. We must get to Miss Finch’s ranch.” Benson said as he pulled Blake to his feet. “We are going to continue in the direction the savages were taking us. Lean on me, sir.”
Blake had no choice. His legs were as mushy as cook’s pudding. He grimaced when he touched his hand to his jaw. It clicked as he closed his mouth. It was not broken as far as Blake could tell, although his nose surely was. He tried to straighten and grimaced from a pain in his side.
“We’re not far, I imagine, Benson. I think that Indian wanted to make sure I met Miss Finch’s uncle,” Blake said.
“Do try and hurry, sir. I have no inclination to run into another band of Indians. I thought we were done for back there, sir.” Benson said as he helped Blake along. “I admit I’ve been shaken to the core.”
“You did admirably, Benson.” The two of them trudged up a small grade. At the top they saw smoke coming from a house. A barn and corral to its side.
“Look, Your Grace. Civilization!”
Blake squinted his good eye. “I’m afraid, Benson, I must rest a moment. Let me sit. You go ahead.”
“Are you sure, Your Grace?” Benson asked. Blake nodded. “I’ll hurry then and attempt to bring back a conveyance.”
Benson started out and Blake watched him. When the man was a hundred feet away, he turned to give Blake a thumbs up. Blake nodded and watched the expression on his valet’s face change from encouragement to terror. Benson ran then, tripping and screaming towards the farm. Blake looked over his shoulder to see what had given Benson such a start. A long silent line of Indians stood on the ridge not thirty feet to his back. Not that there was a thing Blake could do about it. He didn’t think he could stand, much less fight. Their chief in the middle looked at him smugly. If what Blake thought were true, his best chance of survival would be at an Indian village. Far away from Gertrude’s relatives.
William Sanders looked out on the range as the other hands were doing. White Cloud, Uncle Fred’s Indian friend, stood on the ridge with a line of braves on either side. Then he noticed a man running wily nilly, down the slope, falling and shouting for help. Fred Hastings stood beside Will.
“What’s White Cloud up to now? He hasn’t chased a settler for ten years,” Fred said.
The prick of recognition came to Will in that instant. The cowboy running to him in a bright plaid shirt had an English accent and sounded suspiciously like his father’s valet. The man was closer now and Will let out a held breath. “Dear God. That’s Benson.”
“You know him, son?” Fred asked.
“He’s my father’s valet.” Will began walking to Benson.
“What’s a valet, Will?” Clem asked from the crowd of hands now following behind as the screaming man tumbled over a rock.
“English gentlemen have a servant to see to their bath and getting them dressed every day.”
“Yer daddy needs someone to pull his pants on him?” Cookie asked.
Will looked at Benson and saw the wild look in the valet’s eyes. “Benson,” Will shouted.
The man stopped. “Master William. Thank God.” Benson ran then as fast as his legs would carry him. “Hurry. Your father’s sitting not,” Benson stopped to breathe. “Your father’s sitting not twenty feet from those savages.” Benson puffed a breath. “We must rescue him.”
Fred Hastings lifted his brows. “White Cloud hasn’t hurt a white man in ten years. Likes to scare ‘em some on occasion.”
Benson straightened and buttoned his leather vest. “I beg to differ, sir. That savage nearly beat the Duke of Wexford to death.”
Uncle Fred’s mouth ticked. “He talking about the same duke that’s your daddy?”
“Yes, sir. He is,” Will replied.
“Please sir. Hurry. They’re almost upon him,” Benson pleaded.
The men looked where Benson was pointing to a man sitting, holding his knees. “Take a pony to him, Will. He looks plum tuckered-out,” Fred said.
Will pulled himself up on a horse and strung a saddled mount behind him. He stopped to talk to Benson. “I’ll get him, Benson. Don’t worry.”
The valet grabbed Will’s leg. “I hardly recognized you, Master William. But you’ll save him, I know.”
Will nodded and set out at a trot.
Blake watched a lone rider approach with a horse in tow from his saddle. Blake drew a breath deep enough to double him over as he recognized the cowboy. “William,” he whispered. The boy sat the horse as if born to these western plains. Confident and dusty with a wide leather covering over his legs. His heir had not only survived this wild country. He had thrived.
“Dear God, William. I am glad to see you.” Blake said as William came to a stop. His son threw one leg over the neck of the horse and slid down. Blake wanted desperately and within the same thought to hug him tightly and shout till the boy cowered. Blake swallowed. He settled to a fierce ache of pride for his first-born son.
William said nothing as he approached. Just stared hard at his father. “I am glad to see you unhurt.”
Blake blustered. Did the boy not notice the rearrangement of his face? “Is that all you can say, William? I’ve chased you for months. Your mother is worried sick, and your sister …” Blake didn’t complete his sentence before he found himself face down on the prairie. He wiped the dirt from his eyes and nose and looked up to William.
“That’s for Miss Finch.” William unhooked the second horse’s reins and dropped them in the dirt beside his father. William mounted his own horse and rode away.
Blake stood slowly. He turned and gave the Indians a jaunty salute. He didn’t think he could get himself in the saddle. He would walk the short distance to his fate, he thought, as he looked up to scan the activity surrounding the house. The screen door slammed on the porch of the cabin and there stood his Gertrude.
“Master William. You planted your father a facer!” Benson said to William as the boy approached the growing crowd.
“Benson,” Gertrude shrieked from the porch.
The valet hurried to her but stopped mid-stride. “Miss Finch!” He stared at her belly.
Gertrude looked over Benson’s head, and her hand covered her mouth for a brief instant. “Blake!” she shouted.
Blake stood still. His name on her lips was his undoing. His mind flashed scenes of his travels. He knew he’d crawl across this bloody country to hear her voice again. Then he noticed her hands clenching a round, protruding belly. He was certainly not going to blubber like a fishwife in front of her relatives and his son. He hurried to her. His path was blocked by rough cowboys. “Stand aside,” Blake shouted.
A tall, blond cowboy stepped forward and tilted his hat far back on his head. “Not likely.”
An older man elbowed his way through the men. “You and me is going to have a long talk.”
Blake was at the end of his patience. He was not going to wait another second to touch Gertrude. He’d dreamed too long of this moment to be denied. He was not a duke for any small reason, either. “Not right this moment, we’re not.” The men guffawed. “I’m going to talk to Miss Finch.” The circle closed tightly.
Blake rarely raised his voice. It was unnecessary. But his temper had the best of him this time. He screamed his commands. “Get out of my way this instant. I’ve been traveling for months, and it’s bloody unlikely I’ll be leaving without speaking to her. If I have to fight every man to my last breath, I will.” He turned his head slowly from one man to another. “Now get out of my way.”
The old man stared hard at Blake Sanders and took one step back. The other men followed his lead.
“Well done, sir,” Benson called
from the porch steps. “Well done, indeed.”
Blake focused on the woman before him. Gert’s eyes were shimmering with tears, and Blake thought she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. Her lip trembled under one hand while the other clenched her stomach. His child grew there, inside this stunning, smart woman capable of bringing a peer of the realm to his knees.
“I say, sir,” Benson said from Blake’s side. “Most proliferate country this America. Nearly every woman we’ve encountered is increasing.”
“Fortunately, this is the only one I’m responsible for,” Blake said.
Benson’s eyes widened. He looked from Gertrude back to his master and stumbled away. “Oh, dear.”
“I was so worried. Elizabeth wrote and said you left London months ago. I thought you were dead. I’m pregnant.” Gertrude’s lip trembled. “And I’m a wreck. I shout and cry and don’t know what to do,” she stammered and wept. “I was worried about you and me and about Will. And I came here all alone and you’re never taking this baby, Blake Sanders. I hate you.” She slapped him.
Blake touched his cheek and winced. He felt a loose tooth with his tongue. Gertrude huffed and turned to the house in a flurry slamming the door on her way inside. Blake turned to the assembled behind him. The old man stepped forward and spoke.
“I was going to beat the tar out of you.” The old man said as he took off his hat and scratched his head. “But I’m thinking that won’t be half the punishment my Gert’ll give you.” He laughed sharply. “Hell, ought to be fun to watch, too. Huh, boys?”
The men around him leaned back in unison and crossed their arms across their chests. One spit and then answered. “S’posin’ your right, Fred. Might be fun at that.”
“William. What have they done to Miss Finch?” Blake asked.
“What have we done to her? You’re the one’s gone and got her in this mess.” Two men, nearly identical, held the tall, blond cowboy back from charging Blake.
“If I may be so bold, sir,” Benson said hesitantly to him from the side.
