A Hero's Heart

by Sylvia McDaniel

  Forcefully, he reminded himself that there was no room in his life for a woman, especially a preacher’s daughter. The sooner they reached Fort Laramie and parted, the better for everyone.

  “Mr. Ketchum, are you busy?” Becky’s sultry voice called from the shadows.

  Wade reluctantly strode back toward camp. The younger Miss Cooke was a practiced charmer, who had sharpened her wiles on him all evening. Becky was as predictable as the ticking of a clock, and Wade had known it was only a matter of time before she sought him out. “What can I do for you, Miss Cooke?”

  He stared as she strolled toward him, a coquettish smile on her lips. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, but I wondered if you would mind moving some boxes around in our wagon.”

  He watched as Becky deliberately ran her tongue across her bottom lip and sidled closer to him.

  “I’ll move the boxes for you, Miss Cooke,” Wade replied, impatient to put distance between himself and this flirt.

  She reached out and laid a hand on his chest. Gazing up at him with adoration, she pouted. “Don’t hurt yourself moving those big, heavy boxes.”

  Looking from the hand on his chest, into the most calculating blue eyes Wade had seen this side of Papa’s saloon, he felt a chill all the way to his bones.

  “I’m sure it’s perfectly acceptable to touch a man where you come from. But I was raised in a saloon with a brothel. And when a woman touches a man, she’s usually drumming up business.”

  He almost laughed as her blue eyes widened in horror.

  Becky jerked her hand back as if she’d been scalded. Even in the near darkness, her cheeks burned a brilliant pink.

  “Are you suggesting that I’m a whore?” she challenged.

  “No, ma’am, not in the least. I just think you should know what I’m used to,” he replied. “I’ll move those boxes for you.”

  As he strode off, he could feel her gaze burning into his back. Women like her had tried to seduce him since he was fifteen. Growing up in a saloon, he’d quickly learned what was going on upstairs. A different game, called poke-her.

  In his younger years, he’d taken advantage of every opportunity available in his father’s saloon. But now he was choosier. While no one would ever call him a saint, at twenty-nine, he’d become bored with easy women and tired of the sleazy side of life.

  Hoisting himself into the wagon, he gazed around at the neat stacks of crates. A few had indeed been knocked over. While he was moving the boxes back into place, curiosity overcame him at spotting writing on the outside of a crate: Bibles.

  Shaking his head, he sat back on his heels and counted the crates. Four boxes of the Good Book took up precious space. Quickly, he shoved them back into position, thankful Fort Laramie would see the end of this bunch of greenhorns.

  Bent over, he turned to leave and almost bumped into a large, draped object occupying the back corner of the wagon. With growing suspicion, he lifted a corner of the quilt, half expecting more Bibles. Instead he found an intricate wood-carved case with ivory keys. An organ. He dropped the blanket back into place, laughing until he realized he was stuck with this group of fanatics till they reached Fort Laramie.

  Was she planning on playing the blasted thing all the way to Oregon or straight into heaven? Whoever had convinced them to make this trip had never crossed the rugged trail awaiting them. With a chuckle, he crawled outside to the waiting Miss Cooke.

  “Good night, Miss Cooke,” he called, before strolling off.

  They would never make it over the mountains with the extra weight of an organ and Bibles. He was surprised they’d made it this far. Every greenhorn deserved one warning, and hopefully this pious, stubborn female would listen with the God-given sense she had and lighten the wagon load.

  Strolling to the tent, he yanked the flap open. Rachel glanced up at him, clearly startled, then returned her attention to the children.

  He watched as Rachel moved to each one, kissing their cheeks in a good-night gesture. The girl wrapped her arms around Rachel’s neck and hugged her. “I love you,” the child said.

  “And I love you, sweetheart.”

  Rachel crawled to the tent opening. “I’ll be outside if you need me, Toby.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the boy called into the night.

  The words of warning Wade had been ready to sling at Rachel died away as he watched her with the children. The long-forgotten memories of tucking in his brothers and sister assaulted him, bringing back the searing blade of guilt.

  He strode away from the tent, taking deep breaths. The sound of Rachel’s footsteps alerted him she followed. He’d been too young when his mother died, leaving his younger siblings in his care; with a father who was too busy working his saloon to concern himself with children. He’d worked hard to keep them all together, and in the end, his efforts had been for nothing.

  Pushing the dreaded memories away, he willed his thoughts back to the present. Dusk covered the camp area, wrapping it in the coziness of twilight. Until he was certain they had traveled safely away from the Pawnee, there would be no campfire.

  Even the fading light failed to hide Rachel’s exhaustion. Her eyes, had lost their sparkle. Her voice lacked its earlier vitality.

  “Did you want something, Mr. Ketchum?” Rachel asked.

  Her voice, low in the darkness thrummed his nerve endings, like a soft guitar.

  In her present condition how could he berate her about the impossibility of traveling across the mountains with a wagon load of Bibles and an organ?

  “It can wait, Rachel. You look like you need to rest.”

  Rachel rubbed the back of her neck. “I slept very little last night. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight, either.” She ducked her head and said softly, “I keep seeing their bodies.”

  An incredible urge to shield her from the nightmares-to protect her, to enfold her in his arms—overcame him. But his hands remained at his side.

  “Don’t think about it. You and the children are safe.” His voice sounded gruff, even to his own ears.

  “I know, but so much has happened.” Her small shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world rested upon them. Without thinking, he stepped toward her, placing his hands on her neck.

  She jumped at his touch. “Mr. Ketchum…I appreciate your concern, but…”

  Her voice quivered, yet she didn’t move away. The tenseness in her shoulders seemed to relax under his fingers’ gentle massage. Soft wisps of hair curled alluringly on the back of her slender neck. He wondered how she would taste there.

  “Can’t you call me Wade?” he whispered.

  A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “Wade…” She faltered and stepped out of his reach. He watched her chest rise and fall in rapid breaths. “We should talk.”

  What had possessed him to touch her? His rough hands tingled from gliding over the warm calico of her dress, leaving him yearning to feel her skin.

  “My sister…” Rachel paused. “My sister can be…”

  Wade couldn’t help but grin. He stood back, folded his arms across his chest and waited for her to complete the sentence.

  “Please don’t misunderstand Becky’s actions. She’s young and used to getting her way.”

  The urge to pull her into his arms was strong. All he’d done was touch her. How could one small caress of a woman who’d probably never been touched by a man leave him aching for more?

  The months of being without a woman had certainly caught up with him if he was responding to a prim and proper preacher’s daughter. Women like Rachel were never interested in men like himself. They wanted marriage, babies, stability. Not that he was interested, but if he were, a gambler didn’t have anything to offer a woman, especially one like her.

  “Don’t worry about Becky. She can take care of herself,” Wade replied.

  But the way he burned after touching the prim Miss Rachel Cooke, who in the hell was going to take care of him?

  Chapter Two

  Dear Diary,
>
  Three days have passed since Papa was taken from us. Though Mr. Ketchum has been a Godsend, I miss Papa so. Mr. Ketchum said it was unusual for the Pawnee to actually attack a wagon train, since they usually only steal livestock. I wonder what we did to provoke the savages.

  Today, while Becky reluctantly drove the team, I went through Papa’s belongings. Six hundred dollars doesn’t seem like much to buy supplies, take us to Oregon and get us settled and fed through the winter. I can’t help but wonder, will it be enough?

  Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. The children were finally asleep. Grace had found every possible excuse to avoid bedding down, until Rachel had lost her temper and scolded the child. What was wrong with her? She’d snapped at everyone all evening after finding Mr. Ketchum teaching Becky and Toby to shoot while Grace watched. The children had looked at her like she’d grown an extra head, and from the way it pounded, she wondered if it were true.

  When she stepped out of the tent, the scene that greeted her was enough to make her want to crawl back in and hide until morning.

  Becky hovered around Wade with a coffeepot in hand, refilling his cup and smiling flirtatiously. Her hair gleamed in the firelight, her apron was spotless as if she’d just stepped from someone’s parlor.

  Rachel felt like her sister’s exact opposite. Strands of hair curled around her cheeks and neck, having escaped their knot earlier in the day. Her apron looked as if it had gone off to war and lost. Maybe it was better this way. After all, she wasn’t looking forward to confronting Mr. Ketchum.

  Apprehension guided her footsteps to the glowing fire where Becky played hostess. Her sister smiled and flirted, the tinkle of her laughter resounding in the night air. Rachel cringed. The giggle grated on her already tightly strung nerves.

  Wade leaned against his saddle, a smirk on his face as he sipped his coffee and watched Becky. Rachel had to give the man credit; he never seemed to get overly excited about the girl. Then again, Papa had warned her that men acted on urges more often than feelings.

  Rachel stepped into the light of the campfire, and Becky glanced up. “Why don’t you go on to bed, Rachel? You look worn out.”

  When had Becky ever been concerned about her health before?

  “No. I want to talk with Mr. Ketcham.”

  Becky sighed, her eyes clearly sending Rachel the leave-us-alone message. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No,” Rachel said, spreading out a blanket to sit on.

  “If this is about my shooting that gun—”

  Wade interrupted. “Go to bed, Becky.”

  Becky’s spine stiffened and she turned upon Wade, giving him a glare that should have singed his hair all the way to its roots. “You want me to leave?”

  With cool authority, Wade replied, “Yes, you.”

  Her hands grasped the skirt of her peach muslin dress, and she raised it, flashing an ankle. “I was bored with the company anyway!”

  As Becky flounced off toward the wagon, Rachel tried to suppress the smile that came naturally at her sister’s childish gesture, but somehow the corners of her lips turned up.

  “I’ve never had a lady call me boring before. But it was worth it, just to see you smile,” Wade said.

  Embarrassed, Rachel felt herself blush. “I shouldn’t. But Becky is often difficult, and you handled her so well.”

  “Becky is a kid in a woman’s body.”

  “Mr. Ketcham!” Rachel exclaimed indignantly, then sighed. “I must admit you’re right.”

  “I just tell it like I see it, honey.”

  Tension spread around the campfire, different from the tight ache that lay coiled in Rachel’s body. She watched Wade stretch his long legs, crossing his right boot over his left ankle, and settle back against his saddle. Self-consciously, she touched a hand to her straggling hair and waited. Silence filled the camp, and he bestowed on her a patient grin.

  Unable to stand the silence any longer, Rachel blurted out, “About this afternoon. I know you know how to use a gun, but Toby is too young to be handling guns.”

  “Most boys his age are out hunting with their fathers.”

  “He’s only twelve,” she argued.

  “He should know how to take care of himself.” Wade said as he took a sip of coffee. “You’ve coddled him.”

  “I have not!”

  “Then why can’t the boy start a fire, hitch up the wagon, saddle a horse or shoot a gun?” Wade picked a blade of tall grass growing close by and chewed on it. “What happens the next time someone attacks you? Who’s going to protect you, Rachel?”

  Rachel jumped up and paced around the campfire. “Papa did all those things.”

  “He’s gone,” Wade quietly reminded her.

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She wouldn’t allow herself to cry in front of him. “I know.”

  “All of you should be able to hitch the wagons, as well as start a fire and shoot a gun,” Wade stated.

  Tears burned the corners of her eyes. “Toby is a child.”

  “Like hell he is.” Wade tossed the grass aside and rose to his feet. “He’s a young man.”

  Rachel walked to within inches of Wade, her chest heaving with suppressed tears. “I don’t want to see him hurt.”

  “Then let me teach him,” Wade countered.

  Rachel shouted, “I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’ll teach him?”

  Wade resisted the urge to throttle the woman. “What kind of a man do you think I am?” He lowered his voice, restraining the memories of a little boy scorned by fellow parishioners. “I’m a gambler, a card shark and the son of a saloon owner. But I don’t make my living by killing men.” He took a calming breath. “That’s the problem with you Bible thumpers. You’re too busy looking down your noses at us sinners.”

  “Just because I’m a preacher’s daughter doesn’t mean I look down at other people,” Rachel said defensively, her voice high.

  “Then why am I not good enough to teach Toby?”

  Her bottom lip trembled. She closed her eyes tightly as if trying to block out the truth. “Until two days ago, I had a father to protect me, hitch the wagon, start a fire, hunt for food. Now I’m alone in the wilderness, hundreds of miles away from Oregon, with three children and a useless sister.”

  As if all the strength left her body, Rachel sank to the ground, tears streaming down her face. “I’m scared! I don’t know what to do!” She wept, gulping sobs coming from her throat.

  A curse escaped Wade’s lips. What now? He had a hysterical woman on his hands, and he’d never dealt well with tears. The only medicinal thing he had in his saddlebags was a bottle of Kentucky Red whiskey, guaranteed to wash the dust from his throat and soothe her pain. He picked up the cup Becky had left on the ground.

  Strolling over to his saddlebags, he pulled out the bottle and poured himself a half-cup, Rachel a quarter-cup of whiskey. Then before Rachel noticed, he added a dose of coffee to hers. One quick glance at Rachel’s sobbing form was enough to convince him he was right in giving her the alcohol.

  She sat on the ground, her head cradled in her hands, crying. Her sobs weren’t as violent, but her shoulders still shook. He sank down beside her and placed an arm around her. “Here, this will make you feel better.”

  She lifted her head, her large hazel eyes glittered gold in the firelight. He ached with the grief he saw reflected in the depths of her stare, and wondered if his eyes had looked the same way. For the first time in many years, he had a sudden urge to protect someone, to take care of her.

  “What is it?” Rachel asked as she moved away from his arm.

  “Coffee.” Wade didn’t want to lie to her, but if he told her the truth, she would never touch the drink.

  She sniffled and took a sip of the hot brew. Immediately, she coughed and sputtered. “Why can’t Becky learn to make a decent pot of coffee? It’s so strong.”

  “I made this pot. It’s a different kind. They brew it in Kentucky.” His conscious twinged.


  “This is awful.” She took another sip and grimaced.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry, too for my outburst.” She wiped her eyes with the tail of her apron. “But I miss Papa so.”

  “You’ve been through a lot these last few days.” Leaning back against his saddle, he watched the firelight’s shadows flicker on Rachel’s flushed face.

  “Papa was taking Bibles to his new church in Oregon.”

  “I know.” Wade sipped from his whiskey. “But loaded down the way that wagon is, it’ll never cross the Divide. What was your father thinking, dragging along an organ?”

  “I insisted.” She hiccupped. “The organ belonged to my mother.” Her voice rose with fierce determination. “I won’t leave it behind.”

  He watched as she finished the coffee in a single gulp. For a woman who had never tasted whiskey before, she was catching on quickly. “Let me pour you another cup.”

  She sniffled, but appeared calmer. “All right.”

  Wade poured the coffee into the cup and then went to his saddlebags. With his back shielding the bottle from Rachel’s view, he poured more whiskey into the cup. Hopefully, this would be enough to send her into peaceful oblivion for a little while.

  Handing her the cup, he sank down on the grass beside Rachel. In the flickering firelight, her features seemed more relaxed. There was a softness about her expression, that made her…pretty.

  If only her chestnut hair was not drawn back in that tight little bun. How would she look with her hair falling past her shoulders? Would her tresses feel as silky to the touch as they appeared?

  Until tonight, he’d never noticed how lovely she was. Her drab dresses, schoolmarm bun, and the stress of the last few days had disguised her beauty. But tonight, with the glow of the campfire in her eyes and the light of the moon reflecting on her hair, she had rocked his senses all the way to his toes.