The Wren

by Kristy McCaffrey

  Molly listened to the sounds of the night—the chirping crickets, a hooting owl, the distant cry of a coyote. The creatures of the night didn’t scare her. They were predictable in their own way, once their patterns were understood. But men weren’t predictable, and some men had altered the course of her life so drastically she wondered now how she had ever survived it.

  When an old bedraggled man dropped a large bag of gold on the ground for Torres, Molly hardly believed he meant to buy her. Who would think she was worth so much? Especially as she sat there in the dirt, her face swollen from the beating Torres had given her.

  But the trader grabbed the gold, then kicked her between the shoulder blades to get rid of her. Stumbling over to the old man, she didn’t dare hope he wouldn’t hurt her. A wild display of gray hair covered his head, and his eyes flashed with kindness when he inspected her.

  “You gotta name, miss?” he asked.

  The familiar language hung just beyond her reach, her mind struggling to unlock it.

  The old man pointed to himself. “Elijah Hardin.”

  Molly nodded, then pointed to herself. “Canauocué Juhtzú.”

  Elijah’s expression became disgruntled. “I can see you’re white, in spite of those Indi’n clothes and that thick coat of grime all over you. You gotta white name?”

  The meaning of the words teased her, leaving her with memories of a time when she spoke in that tongue. Tears sprang to her eyes as she grappled with the name that existed only in her dreams, a haunting recollection of a time so very long ago. “Molleeharrt.”

  “That’s better.” Elijah nodded. “You can’t talk Indi’n. You hear me? It just ain’t right.”

  Molly frantically searched her mind, but she couldn’t remember any more of the English words she’d spoken as a child. She attempted to ask Elijah to take her home using Comanche phrases, but that only seemed to aggravate him more.

  “Ne tzaréja Komantcia. Ne tza que Komantcia.” She tried telling him she had been with the Comanche, but wasn’t really a Comanche. He misunderstood her.

  “You can’t go back,” he said as he started to walk away, leading his two mules behind him. “You’re white, it ain’t right. So come on. You’ll just have to come with me. I paid a fair amount for your freedom, so you can stay with me a while, cook and clean up, to pay me back. Then, I’ll figure out what to do with you.”

  “Ne miar equihtzí neririeté…muyienaet. Taabetzaróehquit!” She pointed east to make him understand. Her home was to the east. “Taabetzaróehquit!” She needed to go toward the sunrise.

  “We’ll do fine if you just stop talkin’ Indi’n,” Elijah muttered, heading south.

  Molly stood, unmoving, as frustration threatened to overwhelm her. What should she do? As tears streamed down her face, she glanced back and saw Torres counting his gold pieces. There really was no choice. She knew she’d never survive on her own and certainly never find her way home. All she could remember about home was that it was to the east!

  Helpless once again to change the path of her life, and too weak to overcome yet another obstacle, she followed behind Elijah as quickly as her battered body would take her.

  Elijah was a bit peculiar, and while he literally abandoned her for days while mining, the remainder of the time he entertained her with his suspicious views about people and places. It soon became clear to Molly why he lived the life of a hermit. But he did teach her English, night after night, by the light of the fire until the language she’d always known flooded back into her awareness. Elijah’s sudden death came as a shock.

  Molly awoke that bright summer morning to find the elder man still asleep on his blankets. Although they had a small shelter, they frequently slept outside when the weather was clear.

  They’d been fortunate these past few weeks. Crisscrossing paths with a trader recently, Elijah had bought a chicken, enabling them to enjoy an occasional fresh egg.

  “Wake up, Elijah,” Molly said, trying to locate the cast iron pan. She walked over to nudge him.

  His stillness caused her to pause and look at him again. He wasn’t breathing.

  “Oh, no.” Molly fell to her knees beside him and tried to shake him. “Elijah, wake up.” What should she do? How could she help him?

  “Please, Elijah.” Tears blurred her vision. “Please don’t leave me.”

  A sob escaped her. She tried to stay in control, but it was clear the old man was very much dead. Leaning her head on his stiff shoulder, she let the grief pour out of her unchecked. She despaired that he’d died, and the pain of the last ten years overpowered her.

  Much later, numbed by her anguish, she sat next to his remains and absorbed her state of complete isolation. It was a frightening moment. A conversation she and Elijah had recently had came back to her.

  He had told her it was time he took her back to her family, realizing now it wasn’t right he had kept her with him for so long. He promised soon they would set out, heading back to Texas.

  Tears escaped puffy eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  A flock of wrens swooped from above and landed on a thorny shrub. Each chubby bird sat perched with its short tail held straight up to the sky. They sang a rhythmic series of musical notes.

  Chewee-chewee-chewee-chewee.

  She watched the brown-headed birds with their long, slightly curved beaks and a white stripe faintly visible above each eye. The remainder of their bodies was spotted, a mixture of brown, white, and black, and they possessed finely-streaked whitish underbellies. Molly wondered what it would be like to be a part of such a flock, to not be alone.

  The wrens abruptly took to the sky, fluttering their wings to the north. Molly took it as a sign.

  It was time to go home.

  But first, she needed to bury Elijah. Her only knowledge of such things came from the Kwahadi, so she laid Elijah to rest as befitted a Comanche warrior.

  Dressing him in his best clothes—a faded pale shirt and dirt streaked trousers—she brought his knees to his chest and wrapped a thick blanket around him, securing it with a rope. Dragging his body to the nearest rocky outcrop took the better part of the afternoon, and Molly heaved and sweated during the effort.

  Facing his body to the east, she filled the space around him with large rocks and dried brush. She placed his most prized possessions near him—his mining pick, his tobacco, and a small sack of gold. The remainder of the gold and silver she kept for herself. Maybe it was selfish, but she knew she’d need it to return to Texas.

  She also couldn’t bring herself to kill the mules—she’d need them as well. Elijah would just have to walk in the afterlife. She hoped he wouldn’t be too cross with her.

  Molly still hoped Elijah wasn’t angry with her. She had sold the mules in Albuquerque for a good price.

  * * *

  Matt stopped and dismounted from his horse.

  As Molly watched him, a sense of security overcame her, a sense of protection. It was an odd feeling, long absent from her life.

  Matt didn’t have to help her, and yet he had. And, she suspected, would continue to do so. He didn’t have to defend her, and yet she hadn’t missed the slight movement of his hand poised near his gun holster when George Sawyer had started haggling her. She was certain Matt would have fought all of those men, including Davis Walker, on her behalf if it had come to that.

  To have such an ally on her side was a new experience for her. And so was the fear something might happen to him.

  While Matt removed the saddles from the horses and led them to a nearby stream, Molly gathered wood and pondered over her jumbled feelings for him. He then fed and brushed the animals, so she worked on the fire. Once she had a good blaze going, she took a small copper pot to the stream and filled it, then set the water to boil. Pulling several bags from her belongings, she began preparing a meal.

  Matt hobbled the horses nearby on a grassy clearing. Approaching the fire, he dropped his saddlebag nearby.

  “I have food,” he began, his v
oice hard and clipped.

  “No, that’s all right.” She wondered at his curt behavior. “I’d like to make you something to eat.”

  “Boiled snake?” His tone was downright snide.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You haven’t changed, have you, Molly. You’re still chasing snakes and stupid ideas. You’re gonna get yourself killed.” The proclamation was loud and clear, hanging in the air between them.

  Shocked by his outburst, it was as if he’d thrown a cold bucket of water on her. “You think chasing Davis Walker is stupid?”

  He threw his hat to the ground, then ran a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know what to think about Walker. Believe me, I’d love to bring whoever did this to justice, but at what price? You’re alive, Molly, beyond all odds. Maybe you should just walk away, and not look back. Start over somewhere, get married, have children, be happy. Stay alive.”

  “You just want me to walk away.” She stared woodenly into the fire. “Leave Texas.” Then, before she could stop herself, “Leave you?”

  Their eyes met, and the longing in Matt’s sent a jolt of awareness clear to her toes. He wanted her. There was no mistaking it. She felt frightened and victorious at the same time. He saw her as a woman and the thought left a nervous warmth in her belly, but fast on its heels was an overwhelming apprehension about what this meant between them.

  He shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I won’t let anything happen between us.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing good can come of this.”

  Molly stood, her face burning from humiliation. “What makes you think I wanted something to happen?”

  Matt stared at her from across the fire, his eyes flashing with fear. Yes, the man looked afraid. Molly couldn’t imagine why.

  “You’ve been a good friend to me,” she said quietly. “And I’ve appreciated everything you’ve done since I returned to Texas. I don’t expect…anything more.” But as soon as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. “I’m sorry you misunderstood,” she lied. But he hadn’t. God help her, somewhere in the last few days she’d fallen hard for him.

  His shrouded gaze darted from her to the fire then back to her. His jaw flexed, as if he were going to say something, but he didn’t.

  She walked back to the stream, needing to get away, needing to hide while she cleared her head. She told herself she would retrieve more water, but it wasn’t until she leaned her hand into the stream that she realized she’d brought nothing in which to carry it.

  She attempted to compose herself as embarrassment washed over her. Had she been so transparent that Matt could guess her thoughts so easily? She would simply have to bury her feelings, something she had learned all too well during the past ten years. Bracing herself, she returned to their small camp.

  Matt sat by the fire, watching her. “Molly.” His voice broke the crackling silence of the flames separating them.

  “I’m not really very hungry after all,” she interrupted. “I think I’ll just get some sleep.” With hardly a glance toward him, she lay down on her bedroll, pulled a blanket tight around her shoulders, and willed herself to the oblivion of her dreams.

  * * *

  Matt watched Molly’s backside as she completely shut him out. It was for the best, he knew. She was so young, so innocent. For a moment, a mere brief moment, he had thought she was offering him…what? His deepest desires? What a load of hogwash that was. Molly and his deepest desires had no business even being in the same thought together. He swore at himself for even connecting the two.

  Molly had become attached to him, and who could blame her? She needed his friendship, not his lust. He was angry at her for endangering her life with that damn rattlesnake earlier, but he was also angry at himself for even acknowledging the possibility of what lay between them. He’d actually said the words to her, and she left no doubt how uncomfortable such a prospect made her feel.

  Nathan had told him to take a chance, but Matt could not, and would not, take advantage of her heart or her trust. Hadn’t her very faith in life been shaken? He’d be damned if he’d shake it further.

  * * *

  After a restless night, Molly awoke at dawn. A mist shrouded the area, reminding her of the endless days she’d spent with the Comanche. Donning a long coat to ward off the morning chill, she set off in search of more firewood, hardly glancing at Matt’s sleeping form nearby.

  In no time she started a fire, heated more water and added ingredients from her saddlebags—mesquite-bean meal, sunflower seeds, and several prickly pear apples.

  Matt roused. “Mornin’.” He sat up and rubbed his face.

  “Good morning.” She concentrated on stirring the food. “You’re welcome to some of this.” She nodded toward the copper pot. “But it’s Indian food.”

  Matt sat forward on his haunches, extending his hands to the fire to warm them. He’d slept in his clothes, his indigo shirt rumpled and untucked. “I don’t have anything against Indian food. I appreciate you makin’ it.”

  She let out a breath. He was her friend; she didn’t want to be at odds with him. Perhaps she would just have to learn to live with wanting something more between them. “I’ve been thinking.”

  Matt’s gaze settled on her.

  Maybe there’d be nothing more than brotherly love between them, but that didn’t stop her heart from beating faster when she had his complete attention. Everything about him called to a level far more basic and primitive than was proper within the boundaries of mere friendship.

  “I’d like to return to the spot where the Comanche attacked the men who took me,” she said.

  Matt sat back on the ground and reached for his boots, shaking them for critters. “Do you think you could find it?”

  “I’m not sure. Would you remember the general location?”

  “Maybe.” He shoved first one foot then the other into the soft leather footwear. “What do you think we’d find there?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it seems like a place to start.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “We should stop at the SR first.”

  She nodded. “I’ll see if Claire would like to come.”

  It wasn’t a good idea for them to be alone together anymore. That she would make a fool of herself again, she had no doubt.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Just after midday, Matt’s horse followed Molly’s toward the main house of the SR. They had hardly spoken during their return ride.

  Immediately, he noticed the strange brown horse tied at the front of the house. His first thought was Logan had found another potential husband for Molly, putting him in a foul mood. Not that he wasn’t already in a grumpy disposition.

  He and Molly dismounted, then he handed both horses off to a boy named Lionel, recently hired. Molly preceded Matt into the house before he could catch up to her. Once inside, he saw the visitor shaking Molly’s hand, a man with short wheat-colored hair and features very like Davis Walker. It was Cale.

  Cale’s attention shifted to him. “Matt, good to see you.”

  Matt smiled, shaking his hand. “It’s been a while. How you doin’?”

  “As decent as can be expected.”

  Matt noticed Logan and Claire were present, as well as his folks. “I saw your old man last night.”

  “I’m on my way to see him now,” Cale said. “I was ridin’ by, so thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

  “Matthew,” his mother said, “how did things go at the Bautista Ranch? Did you find the man you were looking for?”

  Matt nodded. Molly began removing her coat, so he stepped forward to help her. The look on her face made him feel he’d invaded her privacy. He took her coat anyway.

  “Whitaker was the one who grabbed her,” he said, hanging the long duster in the hallway then returning to the parlor. “But beyond that, he didn’t offer any conclusive evidence.” He wasn�
�t sure how much to say in front of Cale.

  “Anything I can help with?” Cale asked.

  “We haven’t told him yet,” Susanna said.

  Cale narrowed his gaze. “I’m getting the feeling I’ve walked in on something.”

  “You’ve always had a knack for timing.” Logan settled on the couch beside Claire.

  “Cale,” Jonathan cut in, “you’ve met Molly, but I don’t think we made it clear who she is.”

  Molly removed her hat, but remained near the entrance to the room. Matt watched as she pushed self-consciously at her hair. He had a sudden desire to pull her close.

  Cale looked once more at her. “Have we met?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I’m Molly Hart.”

  Cale’s expression hardened and his eyes shifted to Matt. “I’m not appreciating the humor.”

  “It’s not a jest, son,” Jonathan said. “It seems all these years, what we believed happened to Molly was wrong. The body you found wasn’t hers.”

  Cale flicked his gaze to Molly. “How the hell did that happen?”

  “Another girl was killed,” Molly replied. “It was her body you found.”

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

  “I lived with the Comanche for eight years.”

  Cale stared at her, clearly stunned.

  “She’s only just returned to us,” Susanna said. “It was a shock to everyone.”

  “It’s a mighty big one to me,” Cale said. “I was certain that body I found was hers. Whose was it?”

  “Her name was Adelaide,” Molly replied. “She was frantic that night and wouldn’t stop screaming. The Indians were very brutal when they killed her.”

  “I found the cross,” he responded, an urgency to his voice.

  “I left it with her, to ease her journey.”

  Cale went silent, his eyes flashing like a wild animal backed into a corner. His angular features hardened into an unflinching line as he attempted to process Molly’s return from the dead. Matt understood. He’d felt the same utter disbelief just a few days earlier.

  “C’mon,” Matt said to him. “Give me a hand outside, would you?” He’d tell Cale about the suspicions involving his father without everyone listening.