by Vivi Holt
One came just after noon, when a silent arrow wedged itself with a thud in the chest of a soldier riding alongside Clifford. His mare reared on her hind legs and danced sideways as his eyes flew wide with horror. Clifford reached to catch the man as he fell, but he was too far from him. The wagons drew closer together still, with the soldiers lining up around them, rifles at the ready. Clifford in the middle watched with wary eyes as he pulled his own rifle from his saddlebag, already loaded.
The natives broke into yowls and yelps as they attacked the group, their painted faces otherworldly and terrifying emerging from the dense woods. Clifford and the soldiers all fired their weapons and hurried to reload. Their attackers slid back into the woods and out again, dodging and diving as it took their fancy, shooting arrows and howling – that wretched noise filling the woods around them.
The skirmish was short but intense, and the warriors soon withdrew on their painted ponies to a nearby rise overlooking the trail. Several climbed down from their mounts and lifted their loin cloths to wave their naked rears at the soldiers. Most of the guards ran after them, certain they’d won this victory and determined to finish the battle. The warriors disappeared over the rise, and Clifford watched in disbelief and dismay as the soldiers followed, leaving the wagons virtually unguarded.
He urged Tilly forward into a line of junipers that flanked one side of the trail. He trotted silently along the edge of the woods toward the rise, cresting on one end of it. From his vantage point beneath the great evergreens, he saw the soldiers had all been slaughtered and left in a mound by the great number of Lakota warriors who had no doubt been waiting for them just out of sight. Now, however, the Lakota had left, with only the dimpled hoofprints of their ponies in the reddened mud to show where they‘d been.
Clifford glanced back at the wagon train to see a group of warriors already there, killing those who remained and loading horses with supplies from the wagons. He lifted his rifle, then lowered it again, drawing a deep breath. There was nothing he could do now – all the soldiers and traders were dead. With so many Lakota, he’d only be able to fire one or two rounds before being killed by a well-placed arrow or spear.
He lifted his hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. His heart hammered loudly in his chest, and his skin felt clammy and cold even under the warm noonday sun. What a terrible thing it was. He could scarce believe it had happened so quickly and with nothing he could do to change it. Somehow he’d escaped unharmed, at least thus far. Had he not left the wagons when he did, he’d be dead as well.
These were the same Lakota who’d kidnapped Maria Holloway, he was sure. His mind raced. Since they hadn’t seen him, perhaps it was a fine opportunity to follow them and see where they camped. But even as it crossed his mind, he knew it was foolish. How could he follow Lakota warriors to their home without being noticed? And when they saw him, his luck would run out very quickly.
But was it luck that had drawn him away from the wagon train? Was it luck that had kept him out of harm’s way?
He’d never been one to think much about God. His mother had always told him Bible stories and insisted he say his prayers each night, but he’d left home at such a young age. After the adventures of the West, those habits had fallen by the wayside as he fell into new ways of thinking and doing.
But at this moment on the trail to Cutter’s Creek, he felt compelled to pray for the first time in a long time. The prayer slipped from a grateful and grieving heart in the midst of the pain he felt over those fallen all around him. He leaned low over Tilly’s neck and kicked her forward – slowly, to trail the warriors as they pulled their laden ponies by short ropes away from the trail and into the dense forest beyond.
Clifford tracked them for hours as they laughed and joked among themselves, no doubt retelling stories of their own heroism. Finally, just after sunset, they entered a large clearing, on the far edge of which he could see smoke winding a welcome into the darkening sky above them – the Lakota camp. In the failing light, the structures in the distance were dark smudges between black trees, with only the faint glow of fire pinpricking the darkness.
He dismounted and ordered Tilly to stay, then crept forward through the thick grasses, careful to make as little noise as possible. As he neared the camp, he saw a group of women huddled around one of the fires, mixing, cutting and poking at something as they prepared the evening meal. One face appeared pale beside the others, her light hair standing out in contrast to the darkness, her porcelain complexion glowing.
Maria!
A dog barked on the far side of the camp, and he froze in place, listening. A shout, and the warriors he’d been following ran back into the clearing toward him. One leaped onto the back of a nearby pony, spun it around and galloped toward Clifford with a wild yelp. He’d been spotted.
He ran to Tilly, vaulted onto her back and spurred her forward with a kick of his heels against her sturdy sides. She was soon galloping, leaving the native and his pony far behind. But he didn’t slow her for a full hour, until he was certain they wouldn’t be caught. By then, both their breaths came in ragged bursts, and he had clutched so tightly to the reins that his knuckles were white and his fingers tingled.
He patted Tilly’s neck, loosening the reins so she could stretch out and walk slowly the rest of the way home. It was dark and they had hours of travel ahead of them. Normally at this time of night he’d set up camp on the side of the trail, but not tonight, not with Lakota tracking him. He’d keep moving until they were home.
He found himself praying again, thanking God for Tilly, who had the stamina of ten horses. Already her labored breathing had slowed to normal and she seemed ready to run again. He smiled. Two prayers of thanks in one day. Wonders never cease.
His eyes traveled to the stars above. The brilliance of their light shone so brightly that it lit his path and gave him a sense of ease as he and Tilly plodded homeward. It truly was an amazing world he lived in – not only were the heavens comely, but the glow provided enough light to travel by. Another thing to be thankful for, even in the midst of turmoil.
I made them for you.
Clifford startled, his eyes widening.
I could have placed lights in the sky only to see by, but I made a beautiful blanket of stars so you could enjoy them as well. They’re for you. All for you. Ask me how much I love you.
The voice he heard was small and quiet, yet definitely not of his own mind. His mouth fell open, and he drew in a quick, short breath. “H-how much do you love m-me?” he whispered into the night’s silence.
I made every single star for your pleasure. That’s how much I love you.
Clifford felt the prick of tears behind his eyes and swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. “Thank you,” he said aloud, for the third time that day.
Chapter Eleven
Camilla had prayed a lot lately.
Winston had returned to see her, even after the conversation when she thought she might have driven him away. It seemed he was determined to win her heart. The time they spent together, talking about God and marveling together at all He’d done in both their lives, had reminded her just how much she’d relied on Him in the most difficult moments.
She felt guilty for only turning to God when things weren’t going well, and with Winston’s encouragement she’d begun a regimen of rising early to spend time in the Bible and in prayer. After only a few weeks, she was already beginning to feel a peace she’d never before experienced in her life. Now she turned to God throughout the day as well, talking to Him about anything and everything on her mind.
Lately, that had often meant Sheriff Brentwood. The previous evening, she’d prayed for him before bed. Then after she’d been asleep for several hours, she’d awoken with a start and felt the need to do so again. Her heart had burned in her chest, and the intensity of it had kept her awake for hours on her knees by her bedside.
Her pulse raced as she thought of him again. She couldn’t seem to
get him out of her head. She was supposed to be thinking of Winston. She was seeing him again later tonight, and she liked him, she really did. He was kind to her, and good, thoughtful and handsome. So why did Clifford continue to push his way into her thoughts unbidden? What was wrong with her?
She yawned wide and, holding the bridle close to her side, walked toward Sally, Charlotte’s chestnut mare. Harry had bought Sally to replace Charlotte’s beloved steed Amber, though Charlotte had refused to name the animal the same.
Camilla had decided it was time to learn to ride. She’d ridden a few times in the past, but always awkwardly and in fear of her life. Charlotte was inside the house settling Johnny, and no doubt would take a nap herself – he usually did at this time of day. Her parents were resting in their room and Harry was at work. Camilla had some time to herself, and she was determined to overcome her fear of horses.
Of course, Charlotte had offered to help her, but she wanted to do it herself. All her life, she’d had to help others – family, friends, neighbors – and never gotten to do anything for herself. She wanted to do this on her own, this one thing. She felt as though so many things were outside her control, but not this.
She narrowed her eyes and slunk closer to the mare. “There, there, Sally. Come now, girl. We’re goin’ to have a mite of a ride, just a tad. Come now, girl.” She slipped the bridle over the horse’s head, her hands shaking. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, her heart pounding so hard it was making her head light. I can do this …
She didn’t know how to saddle the horse, so she’d decided just to try bareback – it couldn’t be any harder than riding with a saddle, could it?. Sure, there would be no knobbly thing to hold onto, but she could just clutch the horse’s mane with both hands. That ought to do the trick. She pulled the reluctant animal over to the fence and climbed up onto the second railing, then with an awkward leap sailed onto the horse’s back and landed with a cry.
Sally let out a short whinny and reared up on her hind legs. Camilla leaned forward and grasped large handfuls of mane, her legs clenching the horse’s sides in a desperate attempt to cling to her back. As soon as the mare’s front hooves landed on solid ground, she took off, riding around the outside of the yard, tossing her head low and snorting.
Camilla held on for dear life, spurred into mindless prayer – repeating “God help me, God help me!” over and over. Her red curls flew out behind her, and her long skirts billowed around her stockinged legs as she rode around the yard in a wide circle. “Whoa, Sally!” she cried, but the horse didn’t slow her headlong pace. “Whoa!”
She pulled on the reins, but one side fell slack against the mare’s neck, and all her strength was channeled into a sharp tug on the other. Sally turned sharply to the left, directly into the tall fence, and stopped short with a burst of hot air from her flared nostrils. Camilla went sailing over her shoulder, landing with a thud on her rear end.
The wind knocked from her lungs, Camilla rolled onto her back and lay looking up at the sky, unsure of what to do next. Was she hurt? She couldn’t quite tell, but she wanted to laugh. Imagining how she must have looked, flying around the yard on the mare’s back, clinging with both hands while her rear bounced frightfully all over the place, her skirts flying high … she began to giggled, then laugh until her sides ached, rolling back and forth in the mud with the clear blue sky above her.
Sally sniffed her curiously, then wandered off.
“Oh, I can’t breathe,” Camilla cried before falling again into uncontrollable laughter.
Just then a head appeared above her, obscuring her view of the sky. “Everything okay here, Miss Brown?” Sheriff Clifford Brentwood asked with a wry smile.
She stopped laughing immediately and pushed herself to her feet with a gasp. “Fine, thank you, Sheriff.” Her cheeks were on fire, and she smoothed her skirts as best she could. As her hands reached the back of her skirts, they passed over something warm and wet. She twisted to look behind her and squeaked in dismay. “Oh no!”
“What is it?” asked Clifford, walking around behind her to look. “Oh dang.” He covered a snort of laughter with one hand and bit his lower lip. “My my, Miss. Brown, you seem to have a little something on your … your dress …” He looked at the ground, obviously trying to control himself.
She’d landed in horse manure, and it was now smeared across the breadth of her skirts and her hands as well. The stench drifted into her nostrils, and she grimaced in disgust. She frowned at Clifford and stamped her foot, her blue eyes snapping. “Well, I certainly didn’t need you to tell me that. And I’d appreciate you showin’ a little bit o’ grace!”
Her indignation appeared to be too much for him to bear, and he doubled over in laughter, slapping his thighs in his mirth.
She felt anger rising in her belly, and lifted her hands firmly to her hips. How dare he laugh at her like that? He should be chivalrous and come to her aid, help her inside and avert his eyes from the mess she’d landed in. But no, instead he was overcome with laughter, and at her expense! It was ungentlemanly, and she wasn’t going to stand for it. “I insist you stop laughin’ at me this instant!” she exclaimed with another stamp.
Unfortunately, her action caused a wad of manure to plop from the back of her skirt to the ground behind her. She stepped back, felt it squelch beneath her boot. With a grimace, she lifted her foot, dancing in place as she tried in vain to shake it free.
The little jig simply made the sheriff laugh all the harder and he bent over, gasping for air. “Stop, I can’t take anymore! You’ve got to stop, please, Cammie – I’ll burst my buttons!”
Her eyelids lowered, she wrinkled her nose, stepped toward him and rubbed her hands down the length of his shirt sleeves with glee, leaving a trail of stinking brown dung on the plaid fabric. When he looked up at her, she smirked and returned her hands to her hips. That would teach him to laugh at her! Now he smelled as bad as she did.
That stopped his laughing, and while a smile still lurked at the corners of his mouth, his eyes grew dark. He stepped toward her menacingly. She moved away, suddenly feeling less certain about the lesson she’d deemed fit to teach him. He moved closer still, rapidly now, backing her up until she was pressed firmly against the fence palings that encircled the yard.
Clifford reached her and stopped. She didn’t understand the look on his face. He wasn’t angry, but there was a darkness lurking beneath the surface that she hadn’t seen before. But for the faint smile on his face, she’d have been worried.
He lifted his hands and placed them on the fence rail on either side of her.
“Clifford, what‘re you …?” He didn’t answer, and she didn’t finish the sentence. She gazed into his eyes, getting lost in the blue depth of them, and shivered from head to toe. Desire filled her and she drew in a deep breath, holding it in silence.
He leaned forward, his eyes straying to her lips, his hands still blocking her on each side. “Cammie,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes and exhaled, just before his lips met hers – softly at first, pressing gently. Then with tender nibbles and wanderings, his lips explored hers. She let herself go, her hands stealing up behind his neck. She threaded them through the hair curling from beneath his hat and used it to pull him closer, deeper. The kiss grew more urgent, and she felt a deep hunger grow within her as he pressed himself hard against her bodice.
He pulled away, his pupils dilated, his breath hot against her skin. She felt drunk on the pleasure of his lips, and her eyelids dipped heavy against her cheeks as she blinked, trying to get her bearings.
“Clifford…”
“Yes?”
“I… I don’t think it’s a good idea that we kiss when we’re not… um…” Her mind was blank. She couldn’t focus with his lips still so close to hers.
“Really?” He arched an eyebrow and grinned. “Seems to me you thought it a fine idea a few seconds ago.”
He leaned forward, his eyes betraying an eagerness for more.
But Camilla raised her palms to his chest, and pushed against him. Confusion drifted across his features, and then away again.
“Is it because of Winston? You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips together into a thin line.
“No, I’m not in love with Winston, but there is an understanding of sorts between us, and…”
“You’re gonna marry him?” His voice was incredulous, and he ran a hand over his eyes with a quick release of breath.
“No… I mean yes… Oh, I don’t know. You’re confusing me. I thought I knew what I wanted, but now I’m all befuddled.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I want you Cammie. It’s that simple. So, you let me know when you’ve figured it out, okay?” His eyes hardened and he stepped back. “I’m sorry.” He turned and walked away, leaving Camilla weak-kneed against the fence.
Chapter Twelve
Charlotte watched Sheriff Brentwood leave with wide eyes. Had he really just kissed Camilla in the horse yard, or was she still asleep and dreaming? Camilla was being courted by Winston, wasn’t she? When did she start seeing the sheriff? And why hadn’t she said anything about it? She rubbed her tired eyes and wandered down the hall to the living room. Johnny was still sleeping peacefully in her bedroom and she didn’t want to disturb him.
Her mother sat on the loveseat in the living room, working on a needlepoint piece that showed Beaufort Manor and the surrounding countryside in a brilliant pattern of greens, grays and browns. She smiled wryly – the sight brought back so many memories of home, but she also felt a small knot of pain form in her stomach.
The homesickness had taken her by surprise the first time she’d felt it – she’d always assumed she’d be relieved to leave the past behind . But now she was used to that feeling – it came whenever she thought of home, of what she’d left behind, and how she’d abandoned her family. But it left just as easily when she held her boy in her arms, or thought of Harry’s handsome, smiling face.
