Savage Horizons

by Rosanne Bittner

  The boy stumbled back, his arm bleeding badly. Caleb quelled his panic, the panic that always crept up on him when he feared something might happen to Tom. It was the one thing he knew he could not bear, and allowing the boy freedom to be his own man had been difficult for Caleb. He rode up to the boy, dismounting before the horse even came to a halt.

  “He pulled a knife on me.” Tom grimaced and held his arm.

  Caleb quickly untied a scarf he wore around his neck and tied it tightly above the cut.

  “Bastards,” he muttered. “You get back to Marie right away and have her clean it and wrap it tightly. It doesn’t take much for a man to bleed to death. Take the regular trail. Lee and I will herd the horses back the same way, and if anything happens to you, we’ll see you.” He met the boy’s eyes. “Can you make it?”

  Tom grinned. “Father, it’s only a cut. I did not lose my arm.”

  “You just do what I said. Out here a cut can turn into much more if it isn’t treated.”

  The boy shook his head and mounted his horse, easing up in one leap, preferring to ride without a saddle like his father. “You worry too much, Father. But I will do what you say.”

  “I have plenty of reason to worry. Now get going. Lee and I will not be far behind you.”

  Tom turned his horse. “Yes, Father.” He turned to Lee. “Hey, how come you let one get away, ‘Uncle’? Not enough bravery or brains?”

  “Get going, ‘Nephew’, before I add to your wounds.”

  Tom laughed and rode off. Caleb watched after him before mounting his own horse and riding over to Lee. “Let’s get the horses.” He looked down at the man Tom had stabbed, then around at the other fallen theives. “We have to do something. It’s like Austin says. The Mexicans don’t care much about protecting the Americans here. They’re too far away to be of any use and we need more protection. Things like this are only going to get worse.”

  Lee sighed, looking at the dead thieves. “What we need is more strength, more power,” he replied. “Maybe this part of Mexico should belong to the Americans. The Mexicans don’t seem to care about it anyway. We have settled it for them. They profit by it but do not help us.”

  Their eyes held. “What you say may be true, but do you know what it means?”

  Lee nodded. “I know. It is the same thing many others are saying. We are tiring of Mexican rule.”

  “Watch what you say and to whom you say it,” Caleb warned. “It could be dangerous talk. If it is spoken too often, the Mexicans might decide they do not want us here any longer.”

  “And would you leave if they told you to go?”

  There was a long silence. Caleb looked around at the beauty of his land. His Cheyenne side argued that no man should own land at all. But his white side told him that was the only way a man was going to survive in these changing times. He had his family to think about.

  “No,” he answered.

  “And if the Mexicans tried to force you out?”

  Caleb straightened, jerking his horse around. “I will worry about that when and if it happens.” He rode off, his long hair flying behind him, the fringes of his buckskins dancing. Lee grinned and shook his head. He knew Caleb Sax would fight to keep this land.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  LYNDA tried to keep her eyes open as she sewed on yet another button. The Philadelphia clothing factory in which she worked sixteen hours a day was hot and airless, and her neck ached from sitting so long in the same position. She hardly saw sunshine six days out of the week since she was up and at work by six A.M. and stayed there until ten at night. But she had no choice. It was required by the orphanage that every girl over twelve begin earning her own keep or leave. Lynda knew next to nothing about the outside world, but she had considered leaving at times, especially when she grew so weary she was sure she would die right in her chair, button in hand. But she was also afraid of it. How would a thirteen-year-old girl survive? The orphanage had been her whole world.

  She sighed when she saw McKenzie Webster approaching. Webster was the foreman she dreaded seeing, for he always stopped by her work station to watch, bending too closely, his liquored breath making her wince. Lately he was in the habit of casually putting his hands on her, moving them close to her breasts, sometimes over them, sending shivers of horror through her blood. But to resist could mean losing her job, which meant losing her security.

  The man stopped beside her, studying the way she rapidly sewed on the button. “You work very fast, Lynda,” he said with a grin.

  She did not reply. She could feel his steely gray eyes on her, and she felt ill.

  Webster studied her exquisitely beautiful face, which was too mature for a girl her age. She was tall, with a firm body, her hair a long cascade of dark waves, her eyes large and startlingly blue, enticingly provocative. Her skin was dark and satiny, and the thought of how she must look naked brought out Webster’s animal instincts, especially when he considered her vulnerable position. She was at his mercy, and he knew it. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  Lynda tensed, wanting to scream as his hand moved down to gently squeeze a breast.

  “You are the prettiest girl here. Do you know that, Lynda?”

  She refused to look at his pinched, red face and the balding head, his thick waist and wrinkled hands. “I’ve decided to take you out of this hot, uncomfortable place, away from the long hard hours. I’m taking you to a beautiful home, where it’s cool and there will be little for you to do but care for my invalid wife.”

  She jerked away, shuddering. “What do you mean?”

  Webster smiled. “It’s all arranged, child. Out of the kindness of my heart, I am adopting you. I need someone to care for my wife, and the orphanage is more than happy to find a home for you. Quite grateful, in fact. You’re getting too old to be taking up space there and eating their food. Tomorrow morning, instead of coming to the factory, you will be going to live with me. You’ll ride in a fine carriage and have a room all your own. Won’t that be nice?”

  Tears stung at her eyes. “No,” she answered in a shaking voice. “I’ll keep working here. I don’t mind.”

  “You really have no choice, no say in the decision.” He wound his fingers into her thick hair. “And you could show more gratitude. You’ll even be paid to care for my wife.” He rubbed her neck. “There are several ways you could show your gratitude, Lynda—and ways you could make even more money. All you have to do is not lock your bedroom door at night.” He moved down to fondle a breast again. “My wife has been sick for a long time. I’m a lonely man.”

  She stood abruptly, knocking over her chair. Others turned to stare and Webster’s eyes narrowed angrily. Lynda glared back at him, her blue eyes cold. “Don’t you touch me again.” Her cheeks were crimson, and she could feel the others looking at her, all of them understanding but none of them courageous enough to talk back to McKenzie Webster.

  “We will discuss it tomorrow when I pick you up at the orphanage. Be ready.” He smiled cunningly. “The orphanage says you are probably part Indian. You certainly look as proud and wild as one right now. But I’ll quickly tame that stubborn side of you.” His eyes moved over her appreciatively.

  “You’ll wait a long time,” she sneered.

  Webster only smiled again. “You think about what it’s like out in the streets, girl. You’ll be waiting for me.” He turned and left, and moments later it was quitting time. Lynda choked back hot tears, saying nothing to anyone as she put down her sewing and ran from the factory. Her tears nearly blinded her as she hurried back to the orphanage, not even waiting for the two other older girls who worked with her.

  How could she tell the people who ran the orphanage that she did not want to work for Mr. Webster? They thought he was kind to provide jobs for the girls. They would never believe her side of the story, they would simply think her ungrateful. It would be the word of a bastard child with Indian blood against a prominent businessman who was known for his “charitabl
e” deeds. She had nothing, no money, no family. All she had was the blue quill necklace that had been left with her, her only clue, her only link to her parentage.

  All her young life she had wondered about the necklace, wondered why it had been left with her. And whenever she touched it, she felt a presence, a warm, sweet feeling of love. It was obviously an Indian necklace, and because of her own dark skin and hair she was certain she had Indian blood. But was it through her father or her mother? The necklace was her secret treasure, and she often fantasized about her real parents, picturing them as beautiful and loving people, for that was what she would have wanted them to be.

  She would probably never know. She was an orphan, scorned by outsiders, treated like a slave and loved by no one.

  She hurried into the orphanage and ran up the stairs to her cot, taking the quill necklace from under the mattress. She lay down and started crying into her pillow. What should she do? Where would she go? She had to decide by morning, or they would make her go home with Mr. Webster. Going off alone and risking the consequences had to be better than that.

  She clutched the necklace to her breast, wishing her parents were there to protect her and give her a home like normal children. Had they loved her and wanted her but been forced to give her up? Or had she simply been an unwanted child to begin with? Perhaps she was the result of some Indian warrior raping a pretty white woman. She wondered what it was like for children whose parents loved and wanted them.

  She thought about Mr. Webster again and her stomach churned. No. She would not go with him. She would take her chances out there and make her own way. If there was one thing she had inherited from her Indian side it was pride and courage, a stubborn pride that told her she was worth just as much as the next person and courage to fight those who would destroy her.

  She sat up, wiping her eyes and pressing her lips together in determination. She pulled open her drawer in the large dresser she shared with others. She threw her few belongings onto the bed, then pulled up the top blanket and tied it around them, making a bundle that she could carry. She would leave this place. She would do it tonight after everyone was asleep, and she would never come back.

  Maybe, just maybe, she would even find her parents.

  Lynda stayed in the trees as much as possible, making sure those who passed on the nearby road did not see her. Perhaps the orphanage or Mr. Webster would send people looking for her. Her stomach growled with hunger, and she stopped to eat some wild berries, wishing she knew more about her Indian heritage and how those people survived. She hoped she could reach another city, or a smaller town where no one would know her and get a job so she could rent her own room.

  At least it was warm, so she wouldn’t be cold. And there was plenty of foliage on the trees and underbrush to hide in. She ducked again as a fancy carriage came into view. She watched, waiting for it to go past, but it made a funny scraping sound and stopped.

  A dark handsome man stepped out of it, muttering something under his breath and looking upset. She stared, for she had never seen quite such an elegant man before. His hair was neatly combed and topped with a black velvet hat. He wore a dark blue velvet waistcoat, with gilt buttons and tight, dark blue breeches and shiny black boots. His white shirt was ruffled, with a dark blue bow tied at the throat. If there was one thing she knew from her work, it was clothes, and his were very expensive.

  From where she watched the man appeared to be as handsome as his apparel. He knelt beside a front wheel of the carriage and seemed to be trying to fix something, then yelled out. He kept yelling, pushing on the wheel rim at the same time. Lynda hesitated. He appeared to need help, but she was frightened of strangers. Her cautious side told her not to go to him, but her softer side compelled her to approach warily. As she got closer it was obvious he was in intense pain. She set down her bundle and approached him, staying at a distance.

  “What’s wrong, mister?”

  He looked over at her, in too much pain at the moment to appreciate her youthful beauty. “Help me,” he groaned. “The wheel. My fingers are caught in the hub.” He winced with pain, closing his eyes and pushing again. “Please… Push on it so the center ring moves away from the hub.”

  She hurried over, unable to watch him suffer. She took hold of the rim and shoved with all her might, her girlish strength just enough to move the wheel a bit so he could get his fingers out. He groaned and grasped his wrist, sitting down beside the wheel. She knelt close to him.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  He leaned his head back, breathing deeply. “I don’t think so. I just have to wait for the pain to go away… and hope I didn’t break something.”

  Lynda waited until he finally opened his eyes and looked at her. He frowned, looking her over with a touch of humor in his eyes.

  “Thank you, young lady,” he said in a smoother voice. “Where on earth did you come from way out here?”

  She reddened slightly, thinking how raggedy she must look to such a fine gentleman. “I—I am on my way north, to find work.”

  He squinted, studying her more closely. “Work? A pretty little thing like you has to work? Don’t you have a home?”

  She swallowed, afraid to tell him about the orphanage. “My—my mother is very sick. I have to find a job to help pay for a doctor and all. My sister is staying with her while I try to find a way to earn some money.”

  He smiled inwardly, not believing a word she said. He began to notice her unusual beauty. She was very young. But perhaps she was alone and needed help. He was never one to pass up a chance to help a pretty girl, although this one might be a bit too young for the payment he usually got. Then again, maybe not. And if she was grateful enough… After all, she could certainly use some pretty new clothes.

  “You must let me repay you for helping me,” he said, giving her a handsome grin that made her heart flutter. “How about a ride to wherever you’re going? As soon as my hand feels better I can fix the wheel.”

  She studied him closely. His eyes were kind—a little mischievous, but kind. And he was the most beautiful man she had ever met. “I… I don’t know your name.”

  He got to his feet then and bowed. “A thousand pardons. The name is Luke. Luke Corey. Lucky Luke, some call me. I have a way with cards, if you get my meaning.”

  She frowned. “No sir.”

  He straightened. “Oh. Well, I’ll explain on the way. I’m headed west myself.” He studied her, sure she had lied to him so far. “I don’t suppose you’d consider going west instead of north?”

  His eyes hypnotized her they were so dark, so full of joy and humor. “I… I suppose I could try that direction. You’ll let me off whenever I say?”

  “Of course. And your name?”

  She reddened. She’d best make up a last name. Maybe he’d heard she’d run away—heard the last name the orphanage had given her… Brown. “Lynda,” she answered. “Lynda Webster.” It was the first name that came to mind, for she’d had McKenzie Webster on her mind all morning.

  “Well, Lynda Webster, that is a very pretty necklace you’re wearing, though somewhat large for your pretty young neck. Is it an Indian necklace?”

  “I…” She put her fingers to the blue quills. “Yes. An old Indian gave it to me.”

  He suppressed an urge to laugh. There were few Indians left in these parts, and she looked Indian herself. Surely it was some relative of hers and she was afraid to tell him.

  “Well, it looks very interesting. Why don’t you pick up your bundle and climb into the carriage? I think I can fix it and we can be on our way.”

  She studied him another moment, then hurried back to get her clothes. There was something about him that made her trust him. At least it was a quicker way of leaving Philadelphia behind her. No one would look for her in such a fancy carriage. He worked on the wheel a moment, then they both climbed up into the fine leather seat. He released the brake and the shiny black horse that pulled the carriage moved on.

  “Do yo
u like my carriage?” Luke asked.

  “Yes. It’s beautiful.”

  “Just one of Lucky Luke’s many winnings,” he told her. “I picked this up last night. Three aces did it for me.”

  “Three aces?”

  He laughed as though delighted with her ignorance. “I see you have a lot to learn. You must let me teach you, Miss Lynda Webster.” He smiled to himself. He could teach her many things. This beauty could help him if she would stay with him. His guess was she had no place else to go. All he had to do was make her feel comfortable and safe. Perhaps a new dress would help. He would take her to the closest city and buy her a new dress, and everything she needed to go with it. He would leave her someplace where she could bathe, buy her some food… yes, by Jove, she was a looker, and by his guess completely alone.

  “You ever drive a carriage before, Miss Webster?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Well now, that’s the first thing I will teach you. Here.” He handed her the reins, gently putting them into her small hands. He reached around her and wrapped his strong hands over hers, pulling her close and showing her how to drive.

  Lynda did not mind his closeness. He was nothing like McKenzie Webster, nothing like him at all.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  THE outlaws used the dark of night as cover. There were ten of them, well-armed men who stalked untamed and lawless lands, looting, taking women of their choosing and living off the brave settlers who struggled so hard to survive on the frontier. An outlaw life was an easy one in Texas. There were no marshals to come after them, no protection for the settlers. Everything was there for the taking, although most of the settlers had very little of value. As much as the settlers complained about the outlaws’ raids, the Mexican government never kept its promise to help protect them.

  “Why are we bothering with this place, Reem?” one of the men asked. “They’re all Indians. I don’t want no Indian squaw.”