Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15)

by Georgina Gentry

  “You’re very impudent for a well-bred young lady. We will just—we will just keep going the way we were going, that’s all.”

  “Suppose we run into a war party?”

  “Suppose we do?” Cleve shrugged. “I’ll just explain who my father is. They’d help us get back to civilization for the reward Father would post.”

  Wannie began to laugh because if she didn’t, she might cry. “Aren’t we a pair? I’m wearing a fortune in jewelry and it won’t buy us a bite of food and your daddy’s money and influence is no help, either. What we need to get us out of this is the guy I was ashamed of because he didn’t know which wine was served at which course. I wish he was here so I could get on my knees and apologize.”

  “Now, don’t get hysterical,” Cleve ordered, but he was hovering on the edge of terror himself. “Maybe if we get to a prospector’s camp or run across an army patrol, they’ll send out a search party.”

  That sounded logical. Like Cleve, she was helpless and lost in this wilderness and they were out of food. There was no other solution—they had to keep going.

  Cleve had a difficult time with Spirit. The black stallion laid its ears back when Cleve tried to mount and he hit the horse across the muzzle with his quirt.

  “Cleve, stop that!” Wannie scolded, angry and horrified at his cruelty. “Keso never uses a quirt on that horse.”

  “Well, he’s not here now, is he? His damned horse is as stubborn and independent as he is.”

  That was what she liked about Keso the most, Wannie thought, biting back her anger. It wouldn’t do to get into an argument with her fiance. They’d have to cooperate to survive.

  Cleve finally managed to mount Spirit. “Let’s get out of here. Remember what the Utes did to that soldier.”

  “And with Brewster butcher knives,” she couldn’t resist reminding him as she swung up on old Blue in her torn and ragged calico.

  “Only in this savage, uncivilized state would that happen,” he said. “Remember, Wannie, you’ve shown you prefer my world.”

  Maybe she had made the wrong choice. No, of course not. She wanted that glittering world of society balls, elegant fashions, and priceless jewels. She would finally show her mother that the small girl the Duchess thought so little of could shine after all.

  They rode out, uncertain which way to go, but knowing that they needed to get out of this hostile area. Wannie was so worried about Keso that she could think of little else. She was torn between hoping they would at least find his body so she’d have a reasonable explanation of his disappearance, and dreading they’d find it and she’d know with certainty that he was really dead. One thing she knew—something terrible had happened to Keso or he would never have left her on her own. She began to cry softly.

  “Oh, stop that sniveling, you’re making things worse.”

  She was stung at Cleve’s cold hardness. He sounded just like his father talking to poor Bertha Brewster. “I—I can’t help it, I was just thinking about Keso.”

  “Well, stop thinking about him and think about saving our own necks,” he grumbled. “Do you think we should turn at that fork in the trail up there?”

  She admitted she didn’t have the slightest idea. “I’ve been gone four years and I never really knew the Western slopes.”

  Cleve paused and ran his hands through his blond locks. Even with his cleft chin, he didn’t look handsome, he looked weak and frightened. “Let’s not panic. Maybe by now, the Evanses have called out the army or the sheriff. My father would send a reward.”

  “They know we’re with Keso, so they won’t worry for awhile.”

  “Must you constantly remind me how very damned competent he is?”

  “Cleve, really, I never heard you swear before.” The polished gentleman seemed to be unraveling before her eyes.

  “I’ve never been in such a desperate predicament. I’m from civilization, where a man doesn’t need survival skills.” He reined in, looking in all directions. “I think maybe we should take this trail.”

  “Are you sure?” Wannie looked around uncertainly.

  “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “I certainly am!”

  “A lady does not question her fiancé’s judgment.”

  “Oh, Cleve, shut up! I’m sick and tired of hearing what ladies do.”

  His pale eyes widened. “I’ll excuse that on the grounds that you’re frightened—as any mere girl should be in these circumstances.”

  “I’m not a mere girl.”

  “Of course you are. Now, come along, my dear, this is no place to give way to hysteria—I don’t have any smelling salts.”

  Cleveland Brewster, Jr., was a pompous ass, Wannie thought, but he was right about one thing—this was no time to get into a fracas. With a sigh, she followed his lead down the trail. “Oh, Cleve, suppose the war party got Keso?”

  He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Look, my dear, I understand why you’re upset, but there’s really nothing the two of us can do. When we find help, I’ll send a telegraph and we’ll have the army out here combing these mountains for him.”

  “Thank you, Cleve,” she sighed with relief, feeling a lot better and kinder toward her fiance. He was right, of course.

  They ate the last of the smoked jerky when they made camp that night. She noticed Cleve didn’t offer her his share as Keso would have. “What are we going to do now that we’re out of food?”

  “I’ll think of something,” Cleve said, but he sounded uncertain.

  They spread their blankets and lay down. Wannie was more terrified than she wanted to admit. Keso had always looked out for her and she didn’t have any confidence in Cleve at all. He might be smooth and polished on a dance floor or hosting a formal dinner, but he didn’t know how to built a rabbit snare or figure out the direction they were traveling by checking the moss on trees as Keso would have done. She’d been such a fool and he was probably lying out there somewhere dead. Tears began to run down her cheeks, although she tried to smother her sobs.

  “Wannie, are you crying?”

  “I—I’m sorry, Cleve, I can’t help it.” She waited for him to offer soft words of comfort.

  “Well, stop it. It gets on my nerves. I’ll be lucky if I’m not crazy when this ordeal is over.”

  “You know, I’m beginning to think I never really knew you at all.”

  “And maybe I didn’t know you very well, either. I certainly didn’t know you rode astride and behaved like some headstrong female.”

  “In this part of the country, men admire headstrong women.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Cleve, don’t be sarcastic. What’s really bothering you?”

  “All right, since you insist,” he said as he rose up on one elbow, “I didn’t realize your guardian was a half-breed, your adopted brother was a savage, and the family lives like Daniel Boone. I really don’t know much about you at all except that you’re beautiful and your mother was some mysterious duchess.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. The Evanses are fine people and Keso is kind and gentle.”

  “To you, maybe. He’s always wanting to sock me in the mouth.”

  “Okay, so he’s got a few rough edges.”

  “Rough edges? I swear, I thought my family would die of embarrassment and humiliation the whole time he was at our estate.”

  Once she had been embarrassed by Keso’s social blunders, but now that seemed so shallow and silly. What would Cleve think if he knew Wannie’s own questionable past? Wannie thought about it a long moment. Someday, Keso had said, Cleve might find out about her background. In the meantime, she would always worry about his discovering the secret. If he loved her, it wouldn’t matter. She needed to be reassured. “Cleve, would it—would it make any difference if I’m not what I told you I was?”

  “What are you talking about?” He sounded grumpy and sleepy.

  Was she afraid to find out? “I—I mean, if my mother wasn’t
a duchess, would you care?”

  He laughed. “Next, you’ll be telling me the Evanses aren’t rich.”

  “Does that matter so much?” She leaned on her elbow and looked at him.

  “They are rich, aren’t they?” He sounded upset.

  “Yes, I guess by your standards they are. They own a lot of mining and timber interests they’ll never use because of their simple lifestyle.”

  Cleve seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “So what is this about the duchess?”

  Her mouth went suddenly dry and she hesitated. Somehow, she knew it was going to matter very, very much to Cleveland Brewster, Jr. “Cleve, do you love me?”

  “You know I do.” His voice was soothing and he reached over and patted her hand.

  “More than anything?”

  “Of course, dearest, we’re going to be married and have a wonderful, civilized life together.”

  Wannie breathed a sigh of relief. “Then it wouldn’t matter to you if my mother wasn’t really a duchess?”

  He was staring at her in the darkness. “Then why—why would you tell everyone she was?”

  A tiny doubt began to build in her mind at the way he was staring at her. She decided to make light of it since there was no way to take back her words. “Ancestors seemed so important to everyone associated with Miss Priddy’s. All the other girls talked about their pedigrees and when I met you, you made so much over your father’s relatives coming over on the Mayflower and all.”

  “Father also has an earl and an early governor of the colonies among his ancestors.”

  She waited for Cleve to tell her it didn’t matter what her background was, he’d love her anyway. She’d picked the worst possible time to explain her secret. Maybe it was because she was scared and she wanted Cleve to put his arms around her and tell her that nothing mattered but their love and that everything was going to be all right. “You might as well know it all, dearest—the Duchess’s Palace was a fancy saloon and bordello in Denver.”

  He laughed, then stopped short. “You aren’t joking, are you?”

  She shook her head. “Keso said if you really loved me, it wouldn’t matter.”

  His handsome face mirrored confusion. “A duchess running a saloon?”

  “Dearest, what I’m trying to tell you is that my mother wasn’t a duchess, she was just an Arapaho squaw, but she did run the saloon. I was fathered by some white trash cracker who served time in prison.”

  Cleve stared at her, his blue eyes round with surprise, his handsome face pale, the cleft deepening.

  “I told Keso it wouldn’t matter to you,” she rushed on, desperate for his reassurance, “that you loved me and wanted to marry me, despite the fact that I’m not an aristocrat like the Brewsters.”

  The color gradually came back to Cleve’s face. “I—it is just such a shock, Wannie.”

  “I know—I’m sorry I lied to you,” she wept, “but I’m still the same person you fell in love with. Tell me it won’t make any difference in the way you feel about me.”

  “My parents,” he said, “I don’t know what my father will say—”

  “They don’t ever need to know,” Wannie said. “If you love me, you’ll forget it and never tell anyone.”

  He took a deep breath. “Of course I still love you. It’s just such a shock, that’s all.”

  Wannie smiled with relief. “I knew you really cared about me. You won’t be sorry you married me, Cleve—I’ll make you proud.”

  “Proud? Oh, of course.” He seemed to dismiss her with a nod. “What’s important now is getting out of this predicament. We’ll discuss the wedding later.” His tone lacked conviction.

  “You’re sure it doesn’t matter?”

  He shook his head. “You know, it’s getting colder. Maybe we ought to share blankets.”

  She felt uneasy. “I don’t think so.”

  He snickered. “If you were worried about what people would say, you shouldn’t have ventured out with two men without a chaperon—and riding astride yet.”

  “I’m not worried about what people would say, Cleve—only people back East worry about things like that.”

  Even in the darkness, she could see him frown as the moonlight reflected off his fine yellow hair. “You’re worried that Keso wouldn’t like it.”

  It was true, she thought, and wondered why Keso’s opinion always seemed so important to her. “You’re all right with what I’ve told you, Cleve? I was afraid you’d be shocked.”

  “Egad, what kind of rotter do you think I am, dearest? As you said, you’re still the same dear, sweet girl you always were. Now, go to sleep. We’ve got a long way to travel tomorrow.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and lay down, concerned about Keso’s safety. All this time, she had worried about what her fiance would say if he ever found out about her background and Cleve was every bit as warm and understanding as she’d hoped. “Good night, dearest.”

  “Good night.” Cleve wrapped up in his blanket and lay down, swearing silently. She was nothing more than a common slut, a half-breed from the worst kind of parentage. Why, a gentleman of his own distinguished background couldn’t marry an Injun whore’s daughter! With the Brewster legacy, he needed to marry a girl of as fine a lineage as his own. Mongrels begat mongrels. On the other hand, he wanted Wannie in his bed. Maybe he could seduce her and keep her as a mistress and throw out that bitchy Maureen.

  The thought cheered him as he dropped off to sleep on the cold ground. Yes, that was what he would do; somewhere along this trail, he would seduce or maybe even rape her. Now that big Indian wasn’t around to protect her. Cleve would tell everyone she’d offered to sleep with him and when her secret came out, everyone would believe the gentleman, not the slut. At least Cleve had something enjoyable to look forward to. He smiled, imagining seducing Wannie as he dropped off to sleep.

  It was before dawn that he awakened, hungry and cranky. Wannie still lay asleep in the little dell. Maybe he could find some berries, or at least, some water.

  Cleve got up and began to scout the area in the first gray light of dawn. He found some wild berries, paused, then considered taking them back to share with Wannie. Then he remembered what she had told him last night. The slut wasn’t worth it. Cleve gobbled the berries and ventured farther out, looking for more. He was several hundred yards from the camp now, but the landscape seemed peaceful enough. Maybe he could find some bird eggs and they could cook them over a low fire, or maybe he could kill a quail with a stick. At least, there might be more berries. Up ahead was a bush full of juicy, ripe berries. Cleve ran over to it and began to pull them by the handfuls, stuffing them in his mouth.

  Abruptly, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and froze into stillness. He was acutely aware that he was out here alone without a horse or weapons. The movement fluttered the grass ahead of him and his heart beat faster. A quail or something edible? His hunger made him lose caution and he took off running toward the movement. Cleve topped a rise and slammed to a stop.

  A group of mounted Indians sat their silent ponies just over the rise. Their dark faces were painted red and black as were their horses. They were all naked save for buckskin leggings, feathers, and ornaments. The first rays of sunlight reflected off the silver ornaments, their lances and the long blades of the new butcher knives in their waistbands.

  He was too terrified to cry out. Instead, Cleve made a strangled moan and turned to run toward the camp.

  Grinning, the silent band of Indians galloped out to surround him. The big ugly one reached out to poke Cleve with the butt of his lance. “Hey, white man, where is your horse?”

  He was too terrified to do anything. Even as he began to sob, he felt the sudden wetness in his pants.

  Another warrior said in English, “Maybe horse die. Gringo lost, all alone.”

  Why did that voice sound familiar? Cleve was too terrified to do anything but wallow on the ground, begging for mercy. “Please, my father is rich. He’ll give you m
uch gold to free me!”

  Someone among the riders translated and the braves laughed.

  The ugly one said, “With us on the warpath, where would we spend gold? Killing you would give us pleasure.”

  “No, please,” Cleve was on his knees before the Ute’s paint horse, “Please, let me go. I—I’ll tell you where there’s a white girl if you do. You’d like a white girl?”

  “He lies!” said the familiar voice again. “He tries to buy his life with lies! Take him prisoner and let us leave this place.”

  But the ugly one held up his hand for silence. “No man worthy of the name would trade his freedom for his woman. You must lie!”

  “No,” Cleve said and pointed, his hand shaking, “she’s over in those bushes asleep. Take her and let me go!”

  “We take you both!” The ugly one grinned and shouted an order. As he groveled in the dry grass, Cleve was aware that several of the war party nudged their ponies and took off toward the grove, but he was too terrified to care what happened to Wannie.

  Wannie had just awakened and was sitting in her blankets, looking around, wondering where Cleve had gone. Maybe he was out in the bushes relieving himself. She’d better do the same. She walked away from the sparse camp to take care of that necessity. She was on her way back when she was abruptly confronted by four warriors.

  The guns—if she could just reach the guns. She tried to rush past the horses and the half-naked brown bodies with garishly painted faces.

  Perhaps they had guessed her intent because a big, half-naked warrior on a fine palomino horse leaned from his saddle and scooped her up. She screamed and fought him in the dim dawn light, but be twisted her hands behind her and tied them with a piece of rawhide, then threw her up on his stallion before him. She was spilling out of her torn calico dress and he was almost naked. She winced as if touched with a red-hot poker when his warm, naked flesh touched hers. He put his arms around her, cradling her against him. She was too terrified to fight anymore or even look up into his painted face. All she could think of was the heat of his hard, sinewy body against hers, the prominence of his big manhood under the skimpy loincloth he wore as he held her to him familiarly.