by Tess LeSue
They crossed the river on the ferry, and when they reached the other side, Georgiana had to press the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. She couldn’t leave him. How could she leave him? Matt reached over and took her free hand, which was clenched in her lap. She gripped his hand for dear life as he flicked the ox team and drove them away from the Green River and away from Wilby.
That first day was sheer hell. It took every ounce of strength she had not to go tearing back to the river. Half of her wanted to stay there forever in the land where her baby had died. But the other half of her was driven by a different grief . . .
Leo.
The need for her eldest son was so strong it was physical. Her arms ached to hold him. It had been so long since she’d seen him . . . she didn’t even know what he looked like anymore. He’d be so much taller . . . Oh God, please let him be safe. She couldn’t bear it if something had happened to him too.
Georgiana passed the first week in a daze. It took all of her energy just to stay upright. Breathing was difficult. Her thoughts swung madly between Wilby and Leo. She felt like she’d been torn in two: half of her was on the riverbanks of the Green River, and the other half was ahead of her in California. And none of her was right here, right now. Somehow, she kept breathing. And eating. She couldn’t sleep, but she didn’t expect to. She lay through the long reaches of the night, crammed into the tent with the children, listening to them breathing, her mind running over memories of Wilby and Leo, trying to fix their faces in her mind.
She had no hope of being happy again. Her heart seemed to have turned to stone in her chest. But she didn’t need happiness for herself. All she needed was to get her son and to keep her children safe. She had been a fool to think she could find happiness with Matt. She’d forgotten that her first and only goal was protecting her children . . .
* * *
• • •
HE’D INTENDED TO marry her here, Matt thought morosely as they headed into Fort Bridger. Usually, he bypassed the trading post, preferring the shortcut along Sublette’s Cutoff. But the cutoff was brutal, a fifty-mile stretch without fresh water, grass or relief from the heat, and Matt wanted to let his party find a little ease first. They could buy fresh animals from Old Gabe, restock their supplies and enjoy a very slight touch of civilization before the long hell ahead. He wanted to get them over the cutoff in a week at most, which meant pushing them hard. He needed them fresh to handle a push like that.
Or more accurately, he needed to be fresh, and he wasn’t. He was wrung out after Wilby’s death. Georgiana was still deep in grief, and Matt found the children turning more and more to him as their mother withdrew into herself. They missed her. Matt knew how they felt. He missed her too. She was silent these days, a tense white presence, like a ghost in their midst. The boys were living up to their promise, making sure she ate and generally watching out for her welfare, and the women of the camp were godsends, cooking for the family, washing their clothes, making sure Matt and the children were coping. And they were coping. But miserably, watching Georgiana closely for signs of life.
As they rattled up to the palisaded log cabins that made up the modest settlement of Fort Bridger, Matt couldn’t help but ruminate on better times. Those golden days back on the Sweetwater, when he’d kissed her at will; her glee when she’d said she’d marry him; the brightness of her prairie flax blue eyes; the ease of her smile . . .
He’d thought he’d be getting married here. Him, the most unmarrying man he knew. And now that he wasn’t getting married, he was genuinely bereft. Instead of a celebration, their stop in Fort Bridger was a morose event. It was just a series of cheerless chores. Matt took the children with him to the blacksmith to get repairs made; he had them help him and Kipp and Wendell with the iron wagon tires, which already needed refitting; and they stocked up on water barrels, which they’d desperately need on the barren plain ahead.
“Thatta girl,” Matt said, lifting Susannah down from the wagon, where she’d been helping secure the barrels. She kept hold of his hand. She’d grown quieter since Wilby’s death and was prone to sucking her thumb, something Matt had never seen her do before. She also didn’t want to be alone, ever, sticking close to either her mother or Matt at all times.
Oddly, Matt found he didn’t mind her shadowing him. It was a damn sight better than being alone. The minute he was alone, his feelings bit him in the ass. The worst time was at night, when they were all in their tent, and everyone bar the lookouts was asleep. He’d roll up in his blankets by the damped-down fire, feeling like the last man on earth, even though he was surrounded by tents full of people. When he was alone, his thoughts got too big to handle.
It was the damnedest thing. He’d spent most of his life alone and never thought he minded it. He’d thought he preferred it. But here he was, staring up at the infinite sky, feeling a loneliness so bone-deep it made him ache. He longed for someone to come and slide into his bedroll with him. No, not someone. Her. He wanted her here with him, nestled in close. He wanted to stroke her hair and watch the stars with her, or to simply sit with her through the worst of her grief. He wanted more than anything to fix it for her, to take away the pain; but if he couldn’t take away the pain, at least he could suffer it with her, so she wasn’t so alone.
But she was so alone. And so out of reach that she might as well have been on another planet. Every night, when the stars got too much for him, with their merciless distance, he rolled over and stared at the pale bulb of her tent instead. He knew she wasn’t sleeping. The twins had told him, but even if they hadn’t, he would have known by the dark circles under her eyes. He stared at the canvas of her tent and wondered if she was missing him as much as he was missing her.
* * *
• • •
SUBLETTE’S CUTOFF WAS brutal. The tableland was a waterless wasteland, baking in the searing August sun. They lasted two days before Matt called a halt and changed the schedule so they’d travel at night, to avoid the worst of the heat. Everyone was sunburned and limp, and they were using more water traveling through the daylight hours than they would traveling at night. Worse, the animals were being depleted; even the fresh ones were suffering. Night traveling would help them all survive. Matt had the party spread out and travel side by side, rather than in a snaking train, as the alkali dust out here was thick and gritty and made traveling an utter misery. The wagons stretched abreast across the broad and desolate plain, their wide trail of dust silvery white in the moonlight. Matt arranged for the scouts, and as many of the boys as he could round up on horseback, to travel a few yards ahead with lanterns aloft, to lead the way.
The nights were eerie, dreamlike hours, as they shuddered in the wagons across a black and silver landscape, the sounds weirdly amplified by the darkness. The days they spent sweltering in their tents or under the wagons. It only took a few days before everyone realized that the ground beneath the wagons was the coolest place to be. They draped the canvas from their tents so it fringed the wagon trays all the way to the ground, until they’d made dark caves between the wagon wheels. They piled quilts and bedding on the horrid dusty ground and curled up in the low space to wait out the worst of the day’s heat. Matt would have slunk off to join Seb under the chuck wagon if it weren’t for the children. They begged him to join them under their lead wagon. All three were tense from the emotional labor of caring for their mother and were desperate for Matt to step in and take responsibility. Being alone with Georgiana under the wagon suffocated them. Matt could see Wendell scowling as Matt crawled under the canvas to join Georgiana. Wendell hadn’t been happy to be shunted to the second wagon, or to see Matt grow closer to the children. The only comfort he could take was in Georgiana’s coolness to Matt. But then, she was cool to everyone these days.
It was cramped under the wagon, but Matt preferred it to sleeping out alone. These reversed hours had one benefit: he now got to spend his sleeping hou
rs with other people. It made a huge difference. For the first time since Wilby’s death, he could actually sleep. The sound of the children’s breathing, deep and slow in sleep, was soothing. Oddly, so was the sight of Georgiana’s back across the way. Just being close to her helped ease the pressure in Matt’s chest, and despite the close heat, he drifted off into deep and dreamless sleep.
He woke once, thinking he heard crying. He lay still, straining to hear, but there was nothing but the sound of breathing. The twins were sprawled on their backs, mouths open, and Susannah was curled up in a ball by the wagon wheel, like a cat. He heard the sound again. It was Georgiana. She was at the far end, between the front wheels, with her back to him. She had her face buried in Wilby’s quilt. She was too far away for Matt to reach, and he couldn’t get to her without climbing over the children. He lay still, listening to her cry for a few moments. The sound was like needles being pushed into his skin.
He wriggled out from under the wagon, emerging into searing afternoon light. The sun was glaring down on the camp, striking hard glints off the iron tires. The animals were sitting in the pasture between the circled wagons, looking utterly defeated. Jesus, he’d be glad to be out of this wasteland. It wasn’t fit for man or beast.
He moved to the front of the wagon and lifted the canvas. He heard Georgiana make a muffled noise of surprise. When she lifted her face from the quilt, she was a red-eyed picture of misery.
“Ah, honey,” he said quietly. Then he ducked under the canvas and crawled around her until he was between her and the children.
“What are you doing?” There was a spark of her old self in the question. A bit of zap and zest.
“What I should have done all along,” he sighed, lying down on his side behind her and wrapping his arm over her. He pulled her up against him. It was too hot to be this close, but somehow, he didn’t think either of them would care. “You mind if I share your pillow?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, but put his head down behind hers. She was stiff against him, but she didn’t ask him to leave. He ran his hand up and down her arm, slowly, the way he’d soothe a spooked horse. He heard her start weeping again. He didn’t try to stop her—how could he? If anyone had cause to weep, it was her. He simply lay behind her, stroking her arm, until he felt her melt back into him.
“Hush, now,” he murmured eventually. “I’m here. Sleep.”
And, astonishingly, she did. She cried herself right to sleep, relaxing in his arms. In sleep, her face was soft, her lips puffy and downturned, her eyes swollen. He twined his fingers through hers and felt her unconsciously tighten her grip.
“Hush,” he whispered again. “Hush, I’m here.”
She gave a shuddery sigh and slipped deeper into sleep. He watched over her, murmuring when she grew restless, holding her to keep the loneliness at bay. His loneliness, as much as hers.
30
DEATHRIDER HAD BARELY been back a week before Two Bears was hounding him about marriage.
“You need a wife,” his adopted father told him.
“This is why I don’t come home,” Deathrider grumbled. “You’re like an old woman.” He hadn’t been back for a couple of years, but nothing seemed to have changed. The summer village was pitched, the tepees spread in the usual order, the buffalo hunts planned, the children running underfoot with the dogs.
It was good to be home.
“Running Elk’s daughter has come of age.”
Deathrider groaned. “So that’s what this is about.”
“The Lakota are our allies.” Two Bears was his usual implacable self. Not even a buffalo stampede could deter him when he was set on a path. “It would be good to strengthen our bonds.”
“Running Elk won’t want me.” Deathrider didn’t bother to hide his frustration. “You know this. You may have adopted me, but Running Elk sees only a white man.”
Two Bears shrugged. “We won’t know until we ask.”
“Ask for yourself; you need a new wife.”
Two Bears shook his head. “It is too soon for me.”
“It will always be too soon for me,” Deathrider said sourly.
“You should have been married years ago. You’re becoming an old man.”
Deathrider walked away. But Two Bears wouldn’t let up.
“At least meet her,” his father said a week later. “You might like her.”
“I don’t want a wife,” Deathrider reminded him.
“Her name is White Buffalo.” As though that should sway him. Deathrider didn’t care what her name was; he wasn’t interested in marrying her.
“I’m not staying,” he told his father, “so there’s no point in marrying anyone. No woman wants to be left behind.”
“If you had a wife, you would have a reason to stay.”
There was just no arguing with him.
“If the treaty is so important to you, let Spotted Tail take her to wife.” Spotted Tail was Two Bears’s youngest son.
“He’s promised elsewhere.”
Deathrider snorted. “Then have your brother’s son Stands Tall do it.”
“I hear she is beautiful.”
And then Two Bears played dirty and invited Deathrider on a buffalo hunt. Only when they were riding out did he casually mention they would be hunting with Running Elk’s tribe and the feast would be held in their village.
“This is why I stay away for so long,” Deathrider grumbled, “because of you and your damn matchmaking.”
“You brought the white man, I see,” Running Elk told Two Bears when they arrived in his village.
Deathrider gave his father an I-told-you-so look, but Two Bears was staring resolutely ahead.
People had gathered to gawp as Deathrider and Two Bears met with Running Elk. Deathrider’s fame had spread even through the tribes of the plains.
“I am glad you’re here, White Man,” Running Elk said soberly.
Deathrider cringed. Oh hell. Did Running Elk actually approve of Two Bears’s mad idea? If so, it was going to cause no end of trouble and offense when Deathrider turned the girl down.
“I did not know you were coming, but since you are here, I have something for you,” Running Elk told him.
Two Bears almost smiled at that.
Hell, hell, hell. This was going to be unpleasant. Deathrider tried to head it off. “I’m not staying,” he said shortly. “I have travels to make.”
Two Bears shot him a poisonous look.
Running Elk nodded, satisfied. “That suits me.”
Deathrider’s stomach sank. What did that mean? That he could leave the girl behind? Or that he was expected to take her with him? Because he wasn’t about to do either.
“White Buffalo!” Running Elk called for his daughter.
Deathrider could have throttled his father, who looked far too self-satisfied for his own good.
Eventually, a girl appeared. She was too young for Deathrider’s taste. She should have been called Shy Deer or Darting Rabbit, or anything but White Buffalo. She had none of the buffalo’s strength and power, none of its bullish nature. She crept forward, eyes downcast, looking on the verge of tears.
Running Elk’s face darkened at the sight of her timidity. “Where is it?” he snapped.
Deathrider frowned. Where was what?
The girl risked a glance at her father and blanched. “Please don’t make me,” she said softly. “I don’t wish to disobey you in public.”
Running Elk’s expression was as angry as a thundercloud. “Then do not disobey me. Go and fetch it. The white man can have it. It is not our problem.”
Ah, there was the reason she was named for the buffalo. She had gone rigidly stubborn and shook her head. “Don’t ask me.” Her eyes had filled with mutinous tears.
What the hell was going on here?
Running Elk made a noise of complete frus
tration. “I have lost patience with this whim of yours.” He turned back to Two Bears and Deathrider. “Come. If she won’t bring it to you, I shall take you to it.”
The tribe studiously avoided their eyes, so as not to shame Running Elk as he overrode his disobedient daughter.
“Please don’t,” White Buffalo begged, trotting along after them. “He causes no harm!”
Deathrider and Two Bears exchanged looks. This was the strangest visit they’d ever experienced.
Running Elk led them to a tepee, which clearly belonged to his daughters. The younger girls scattered respectfully to make way for their father. Deathrider could hear the excited yipping of a puppy.
White Buffalo darted in front of her father. “No! He’s mine! The river sent him to me.”
“You will go in there and get him and give him to the white man,” Running Elk growled. “He doesn’t belong here. He belongs with his own kind.”
Deathrider tried not to take offense. He could feel his father bristling beside him. He caught Two Bears’s eye and gave a small shake of his head to stop the old man from speaking. It helped no one to rehash the old arguments.
“If you don’t go in there and get him, I will,” Running Elk threatened.
Tears were spilling down White Buffalo’s face. She was clearly on the verge of surrender and wasn’t happy about it. Her big brown eyes shifted to Deathrider.
“You’ll take care of him? You won’t make him a slave? Or mistreat him?”
“White Buffalo!” Running Elk had passed into fury now. “It is not your place to question my guest!”
