Charity yelped and raced about, slowing Samantha’s dash toward the house. Then suddenly the dog swerved into Samantha’s path, tangling with her legs and the shoes she’d been too rushed to fasten, and sending her sprawling in the dust.
“Oh, get off me!” As if to apologize, Charity now leaped onto her mistress, lapping the dirt from Samantha’s face with giant swipes of her tongue. “I’m not playing,” Samantha spat between licks, but it was useless. By the time she managed to scramble to her feet, Landis Moore and two other men seated on their horses, not ten feet away, were watching her.
Samantha tossed back her braid, looking to the ground for Captain Morgan’s gun. She couldn’t find it! Somehow as she’d fallen or tumbled around with Charity, the revolver had disappeared. It was there someplace among the clumps of grass and weeds but she couldn’t see it, and Landis Moore’s voice reminded her there wasn’t time to look.
“Seems you’re having more than your share of troubles here, missy.”
“What do you want, Moore?”
He leaned forward, resting his wrists across the saddle horn, and chuckled, the sound making goose flesh crawl down Samantha’s back. “Now that’s not a very neighborly question. I heard you had a problem out here the other day and thought I’d see if you needed any help.”
“We’re doing fine. And you’re no neighbor of mine.” Samantha took a step toward the house, only to have one of Moore’s men sidle his horse that way, blocking her path.
“Not a neighbor?” His dark hooded eyes widened in mock surprise. “You must not of heard.” Moore hiked himself up in the saddle, straightening the paunch that hung over his pants. Too much gluttonous eating and drinking, her father had said ten years ago when they’d first run across Moore. At the time he was in his twenties, a dark-haired, swarthy character, and a bully. But none of them realized then how dangerous he really was.
“Heard what?” Samantha hated to ask but then she didn’t have much choice. The three horses kept inching forward, forcing her back closer to the barn. When was Captain Morgan going to call out to his friends? Maybe he couldn’t hear them. She’d closed the barn door and there were no window slits in the front.
And Will. What was he doing up at the cabin? She hoped he didn’t do anything foolish.
“I bought the Colt place. It butts up to yours, now don’t it?”
“The Colts wouldn’t sell to you! They wouldn’t sell to anyone. They’ve worked too hard.” Samantha paused for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “What did you do to them?”
“Why Miss Emery, you wound me. The Colts and I transacted a business deal. We—”
“You lying bastard! The Colts came out here about the same time as my parents. They wouldn’t have anything to do with you!”
“Now you’re talking foolish, girl.” Moore and his men made no pretense of hiding their actions now. The horses backed Samantha against the sod walls of the barn. Bits of dirt crumbled into her shoe. “Maybe you need to be taught some manners. What you think about that, boys?”
Both “boys” readily agreed, and Samantha tried to ignore their leering faces as she stared back at Moore. “Get off my property!”
He laughed harshly then leaned forward and grabbed Samantha’s braid. “Big talk for such a helpless little girl.” His tug pulled her against the side of his lathered horse. He bent down and Samantha could smell his sour breath as he spoke. “And one running around in her nightclothes. Some folks might say you was asking for it.” He gave a savage yank, then let her loose. Samantha stumbled but stayed on her feet. Little comfort as the three men glared down at her.
Samantha’s heart beat frantically and she clutched her hands together to keep them from shaking. She wouldn’t show them how truly frightened she was. She wouldn’t! No matter what they did.
“You think about it, little lady.” Moore jerked his head to the side, and the two others turned their horses. “Moving might be the best thing for you, too. We’ll be back.”
Samantha collapsed against the dirt wall, locking her knees to keep from sliding to the ground. They were riding away. They were actually leav—
Moore was almost out of the yard when he reined to a stop, turning his mount in a tight circle. “Where’d you get that horse?” he yelled. Samantha’s gaze shot to where he was looking, and her heart sank.
There in plain sight was the Rebel’s horse. They’d put him in the small paddock beside the barn after Will fixed that stretch of fence. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But now the eastern sun shone off his chestnut coat and Samantha couldn’t think of a single way she could have gotten a fine animal like that. Not to mention that Moore probably recognized it as belonging to one of his men.
Samantha wondered briefly why Morgan hadn’t yelled out, but dismissed that thought as Moore trotted back toward her.
“Answer me, girl. Where’d you get him?”
“I traded.” Samantha swallowed. “A stranger came through here last week needing food and clothing.”
“And he traded that for a horse?”
Moore obviously didn’t believe her, and why should he? Her lie was stupid. The other two men were walking their horses up to join their boss. Samantha glanced toward the cabin and caught the glint of sun off a gun barrel poking through the paneless window. She hoped Will wasn’t going to shoot. He’d never hit even one of them, and they’d be on him before he could reload.
“A horse for some food don’t make much sense, girl.”
“It does if you’re starving,” Samantha answered with as much certainly as she could muster. She must have been convincing, or maybe Moore had noticed the gun pointed his way by this time. For whatever the reason he signaled his men again, and they all cantered out of the yard.
“You think about it, little girl” drifted back to her across the prairie as they galloped away.
“Sam! Sam! You all right?”
She was and she wasn’t. Samantha waved briefly toward Will as he raced across the yard. His shirttail was flapping behind him and his large flat feet were bare.
“I thought they were going to hurt you sure,” he said skidding to a halt in front of her. “What’s wrong? Oh no, what’d they do to you? I should have shot them.” He grabbed his sister’s shoulder.
“No.” Samantha tried to say more but she was shaking so badly her teeth were chattering as if a winter wind had swooped down on them. “I...” she started only to be interrupted by yelling from the barn.
“What in the hell is going on out there? Someone get in here!”
Samantha straightened, folding her arms across her chest and looking at Will. She’d totally forgotten about their visitor. But he wasn’t going to stand for that now. He was hollering his head off, the sound ringing out loud and clear. Why hadn’t he made his presence known before?
Following her brother into the barn, Samantha bumped into him when he stopped suddenly.
“Hell’s bells, why’d you tie him up?”
“Because he’s the enemy. And watch your mouth, young man. You’re not too big for me to—oh my heavens!” One look at Captain Morgan, and Samantha forgot her brother’s cursing. She dropped to her knees in the straw. “What have you done?”
“Ouch! Damn, would you be careful?”
“This isn’t my doing,’ she yelled back, but her hands gentled on his wrist, where the rope had cut into his skin.
“I suppose I tied myself to this board.” Jake gave his arms a jerk, yanking on the stall siding and sending the twined rope digging further into his torn flesh. He mumbled a string of curses he’d learned in the army, not giving a damn if she liked it or not. Stupid woman.
Samantha waited till he ran out of steam then went back to untying his wrists. Besides tightening the knot and cutting up his arms, he’d managed to pull the board loose from its support. “Something else to fix,” she complained before blowing a strand of hair from her face.
Jake wasn’t certain whether she was referring to him or the board, but by the
expression on her face when she looked at him, he guessed her sympathy lay more with the board.
“Oh, I give up.” Samantha sat back on her heels. “Will, run and get me the knife. He’s got this thing so wound up I can’t untie it.”
“My apologies,” Jake murmured sarcastically as he watched the boy, Will, run out of the barn.
The woman shot him a look out of her blue eyes that had Jake wondering how he’d ever thought they were gentle. Then her gaze drifted to his chest and she clamped her lips together. “Would you look what else you’ve done? Your wound is bleeding again.”
Jake shifted his head around and tucked his chin down to do her bidding. No wonder the thing hurt like hell. But it had hurt the whole time he’d tried to get himself untied, and it hadn’t stopped him.
She stood, looking around, then tore off a strip of bedding hanging off the stall divider. Folding it, she sat down on her heels and pressed it against his shoulder. Jake sucked air in through his teeth.
“What were you trying to do?” She leaned into her hand to stanch the flow of blood, biting her bottom lip when he winced.
“Get loose,” he snapped, then continued because she didn’t seem to think that enough of an explanation. “I don’t like being tied up, especially with the caliber of visitors you have around here. And maybe I—damnit would you watch what you’re doing—thought you needed some saving,” Jake finished through clenched teeth.
“Saving?” Samantha couldn’t help laughing. “That’s real funny, Captain Morgan.”
Funny? He hadn’t found anything amusing since he’d been here—wherever “here” was. And he didn’t think she had either. He looked up, not intending to remind her of what had happened—and how he’d seen her shaking when she’d come into the barn. But she met his stare with such defiance he forged ahead. “You weren’t laughing much earlier ... when those men were here.”
“No,” she agreed. “And I wasn’t laughing last week when it was you.”
“When what was me?” But she ignored him. Will had come back with the knife and she bent over him, intent on hacking through the twisted twine. Jake stared at the top of her head, thinking how familiar this seemed—her bending over him. But then she’d taken care of him so it was to be expected.
“Me what?” he repeated angrily. “What in the hell kind of woman are you to tie a wounded man up because he used to be in the Confederate Army? That’s what you told the boy, isn’t it?” Her lack of response angered him, made him struggle to lean on an elbow. “Well, isn’t it what you told him? Don’t you know the war’s over? Or are you just too damn stubborn to admit it?”
She punctuated her order to hush by jabbing the knife toward him. Jake hushed—for the moment.
He watched her, trying to tap down his anger, as she sawed through the twine. Her hair was a golden color, combed back from a center part and braided into a long thick rope. There were bits of dirt and grass in it, some fell on his chest as she worked, but her hair smelled clean. He took a deep breath, trying to place the scent, but he couldn’t. He just knew it was softer and prettier than soap.
Lydia had always smelled good. Jake smiled at the thought. Her perfume had been imported from Paris, and costly. But he’d never complained.
Jake studied the woman as she cut through the rope then began picking the slivers of string from his wrist. He doubted she sent off to any foreign country for her fragrance.
“Your name’s Samantha, right?”
She glanced up, her eyes meeting his for only a moment. “Yes.”
“I remember you telling me that.”
Did he also recall finding her with his daguerreotype? Samantha glanced toward her brother, who leaned against a post watching Captain Morgan intently. “Will, I dropped a gun earlier, not far from the barn door. Go find it for me and take it in the house, please.”
“Aw, Sam...”
“Just do it, Will.”
“He your big brother?” Jake asked after Will shuffled from the stable. She was wrapping his wrist now, and Jake clenched his teeth to keep from crying out when she tied it off with less than a gentle touch. He decided questioning her while she had the upper hand wasn’t very smart. Jake thought she wasn’t going to answer him but she did, after settling down beside him. “Will’s my younger brother. As any fool can plainly see.”
Jake sucked in his breath as she pried off the soiled, blood-soaked bandage from his chest. He thought she’d been lying about an older brother; now he wasn’t sure. But if there was a man around here someplace, why hadn’t he done something earlier when those men were taunting her?
She settled back on her heels, examining him critically. “This doesn’t look too bad,” she sighed before rewrapping his wound with clean bandaging. “But try not to tear it open again.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t tied me up,” Jake said reasonably.
She stared at him a moment, then pushed to her feet, brushing straw off the front of her bedraggled nightdress. “I’ll send Will out with something for you to eat.” She started toward the door.
“Wait a minute!” Jake pushed up to his elbow again. “Why did you tie me?” She glanced over her shoulder, the heavy braid of hair hanging down her back, but she didn’t pause and she didn’t answer. “Wait!” Jake repeated. “I’m Jacob Morgan and I—”
“I know who you are, and what you are.” This time she stopped and faced him, her blue eyes angry. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you out there”—she motioned toward the door—“for the wolves to feast on. All I want from you is to get well enough to ride that horse out of here, and leave us alone.”
Her words, so embittered and impassioned, left Jake momentarily speechless. The war had filled a lot of people with hatred, but he rarely witnessed it firsthand—the results of that hatred, yes. The killing and maiming, but not the raw, “look them in the eye and spit on them if you could” kind he saw now from this woman. She hated him, all right. She may be ministering to his wound. She may have fallen asleep in his arms. But she hated him.
Jake fell back against the pillow. Was all this because he’d worn a Confederate uniform? He stretched beneath the prickly blanket. He sure wasn’t wearing it now. He was as naked as a jaybird. Jake wondered idly if the woman, Samantha, had anything to do with that, then got annoyed with himself for thinking such thoughts. But annoyed or not, he couldn’t blot out the image of her taking off his pants and then lying down beside him. And he fell into a fitful sleep.
Jake jerked awake, feeling someone was watching him. He shifted, staring up into a slice of sun shining through the window cut through the sod, and saw the boy, Will. He leaned against the stall boards, a piece of straw stuck between his teeth, studying Jake as if he were a butterfly pinned to a board.
“I brought you some gruel,” he said, motioning toward a pottery bowl he’d placed near Jake, using a turned-over pail as a table.
“Thanks.” Jake moved, trying to ignore the pain as he reached for the bowl. Just the thought of food made his stomach growl. But before he could manage a sitting position, Will hunkered down in the straw, the bowl cradled in one hand, a pewter spoon in the other.
“Sam said I wasn’t to get close to you but I don’t think she wants you starving to death.”
Jake wasn’t too sure of that, but he gratefully accepted the gruel Will spooned out. It was warm, and sweetened with fresh milk. “What’s she think I’m going to do to you,” Jake asked between bites.
“Nothing, I suppose, or she’d a tied you up again. You ain’t going to do nothing, are you?”
“Even if I wanted to, there’s not much I could do like this.” Jake took a deep breath. “Your sister realize the war’s over?”
“Ain’t us keeping things going.” Will scraped the bottom of the bowl. “But then I don’t need to tell the likes of you that.”
Jake’s hand stayed the spoon inches from his mouth. “What are you talking about, ‘the likes of me’?”
The spoon plunked in
to the bowl. “I gotta get going now. Sam’s waiting for me to help with the garden.”
“No you don’t.” Despite the pain in his upper chest and the expression of fear on Will’s face, Jake grabbed a handful of the boy’s shirt and pulled him down in the straw. The pottery bowl landed on the straw-covered floor with a soft thud. “I want some answers. What do you mean, ‘the likes of me’?”
Will’s chin jutted out at an angle that reminded Jake of his sister. He didn’t answer.
“Is it because I was in the Confederate Army? Is that what has you people so riled up?” Jake tightened his fingers in the cloth to fight a wave of dizziness.
“Like you said, mister. The war’s over.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m wondering what’s going on here.” He leaned back, releasing Will’s shirt. “A strong dislike I could understand.” Jake paused. “You have anyone killed in the war?”
Will realized the Rebel no longer held him, and thought about bolting, but didn’t. The man lying on the blanket seemed sincerely interested. “My brother was killed at the second Bull Run.”
“I’m sorry.”
Will’s chin jutted out again. “Were you there?”
“At Manassas in ’62? No.” That had been the second summer of the war and he’d been home in Richmond, burying his wife and son. Jake looked back at the boy. “You thinking it might have been me that killed your brother?”
Will colored because he had been thinking exactly that. And even he knew how unlikely the chances of that were.
“Well, I wasn’t there,” Jake repeated. He’d rejoined Lee’s army for their march into Maryland—not because of any burning desire to support the cause, but because he’d become numb after the death of his wife and son. He’d hoped helping others, doctoring, would give him some purpose. It hadn’t. And now three years later he still floundered around without direction. The only difference was, now he didn’t care.
Will seemed to take him at his word because he sat down, drawing his bony knees up under his chin. His bare feet were crossed. “Ain’t you got no home?”
Christine Dorsey Page 5
