Prairie Song

by Jodi Thomas

  “Then why are you here?” Cherish’s voice was low, but strong.

  Grayson’s face grew hard and his eyes, like iron, brooked no compromise. “I also have no intention of telling you my assignment, Miss Wyatt.”

  Cherish was lost. If she told Maggie about Grayson, it would shatter Maggie’s trust in the one man she’d been within ten feet of since Westley died. There was always the chance that Grayson’s work didn’t concern them at all. She drew herself up to her full height, but still she didn’t come to his shoulder. “I need to think this over. But understand this, Officer Kirkland, if you hurt my aunt I swear I’ll shoot you so full—”

  Grayson wasn’t a man to be threatened. “And if you, Miss Wyatt, step outside the law one time, I’ll arrest you faster than you can pull a gun.” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “And it’s Captain Kirkland.”

  Cherish stormed out of the sitting room and into the hallway. Anger bubbled in her like an active volcano. She’d guessed one thing from Grayson: he didn’t know about her helping Brant, for if he had, she’d be arrested right now. He was a hard, cold man whose only Achilles’ heel seemed to be Maggie.

  As she maneuvered around the broken stair, Azile called to her from the doorway of Hattie’s room. Cherish hurried to find the old woman wide-eyed with fright.

  Hattie’s voice rushed past gulps of breath. “They’ve come to hurt us all.” Her bony hand grabbed Cherish’s arm. “They plan to kill us all, one at a time, and take my treasure.”

  Cherish cradled Hattie as if she were a child. “It’s safe now. No one is going to hurt us.”

  The old woman stared up with glassy eyes. “They would have killed me already but I’ve got the names. They’re never gonna get them or my treasure.”

  Azile handed Hattie a mug of drugged tea and whispered to Cherish. “There ain’t no treasure or any papers for that matter. She’s lost what little mind she had.”

  Hattie gulped the potion, then tossed the empty cup aside and clung to Cherish. “I need some more of that medicine the priest brings me. I’d go get it myself if I could. If I send Azile she keeps half of it for herself.” She patted a box beside her as she leaned back and fell asleep, mumbling, “I’ll never let them have my treasure or any old list. Never.”

  Hesitantly, Cherish reached and opened the shell-covered box. Inside was a cheap amber necklace. Cherish knew that quite a few of the old-timers kept amber as a way of warding off evil spirits. Beneath the necklace were a few letters addressed to Miss Hattie in a bold, childish hand.

  “Her treasure.” Azile sniffed. “The old bat is a few bricks shy of a load, if you get my meanin’. The tea should keep her quiet for tonight, but Lord help us tomorrow.”

  Without any thought of what time it was, Cherish grabbed her cape from the hook by the door and hurried out. There was only one person she could go to about both Grayson and Hattie’s medicine and that was Father Daniel. If he knew the entire story, maybe he could help on both counts.

  The wind was icy as she walked the street through a part of town folks had taken to calling Hell’s Half-Acre. Since there were no cattle drives coming through, the streets were empty except for a few drunks sleeping it off near the saloon doors. She remembered the priest telling her about a back path to the mission grounds, but she didn’t want to try it in the dark. Cherish moved as silently as an Apache over rocky land. The closer she got to the mission, the more Brant’s words haunted her. The first night when they’d brought him in and he’d been so near death, he’d pulled her against him and whispered to be careful of the priest.

  Cherish’s hope of talking things out with Father Daniel soured in her mind. If she told him about Grayson and the priest was the wrong person to know that information … well, she could almost picture Grayson’s body swinging from the hanging tree.

  “Miss Cherish,” a low voice whispered as a lean figure appeared from the shadows at the gate of the mission. “What are you doing here?”

  Cherish touched the Colt in her pocket before recognizing Father Daniel’s voice. “I came …” She tried to think. The priest wasn’t dressed in his robes, but all in black with knee-high riding boots. He looked more like an outlaw than a man of the cloth. “I came to see if Brant made it here without reopening his wound and to ask about Miss Hattie’s medicine that you bring her.”

  The priest’s head rose slightly. “Brant didn’t come here, Miss Cherish. But he will.” The last words were a statement of undoubted fact.

  Cherish felt the sudden cold of the moonless night and wished she hadn’t come. “Do you know where he is?”

  To her surprise, the priest shook his head.

  “Will you step inside the mission? While you’re here I’d like you to take a look at a little girl who was brought to us. She seems ill, but we can’t find the cause.”

  Cherish followed the padre through the huge double doors to a mission that didn’t live up to its exterior. Inside, the walls were unpainted and stark. Several children were sleeping on cots in the corners. A daughter of the church moved among them, placing thin blankets over each.

  Father Daniel lifted a tiny girl of no more than two into his arms. He seemed awkward with the little one, as if he wasn’t sure how to hold the creature.

  The child began to cry, and turned huge, seeking eyes toward Cherish. Her eyes looked sore from being rubbed and her nose was red and caked from hours of dripping without being wiped. As Cherish lifted the child, she could feel the fever on her damp skin. She carried the tiny one to the light and looked closely at her before smiling.

  “She has the measles, Father. It’s a very common problem with children. As long as she’s cared for and her fever doesn’t go too high, she’ll be fine.”

  The priest looked worried. “She’s been sick since they brought her and two others in last week. They were the only survivors of a wagonload hit by Indians. The others are fine, but this one has been crying since she arrived.” Father Daniel said the words as a complaint for he, as a priest, knew even less about babies than the average man. “The other little girl looks like she could be this one’s sister, but I’d swear the baby boy is half-Indian. I thought her red marks were burns. I can’t have all the children coming down with measles. The sisters have hardly enough time to feed them now, much less care for them sick, and I must leave in an hour.” His face wrinkled in worry and Cherish couldn’t help but wonder if it was for the other children or for himself.

  Cherish had inherited a decisive instinct from her German mother. “I’ll take the child.”

  Father Daniel looked at her in disbelief. “The Virgin Mary’s giving spirit is in you, Miss Wyatt. I am in your debt once more. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Cherish wrapped her shawl around the child. “Yes. Let me know when Brant comes. I must see him. And please bring more medicine for Miss Hattie.”

  Without another word, Cherish cradled the child and headed back to Hattie’s. She’d gone through measles with her brothers and sisters and knew there was much to be done to make the child comfortable. The tiny girl cried softly and clung to Cherish.

  Grayson, Father Daniel, and even Brant would have to wait. All her problems didn’t seem to matter as she thought of the child. As always, she had to help, she had to ease another’s pain. It was sewn into the seams of her heart and there was no way she could turn away from her calling.

  Grayson saw Cherish slip out the back gate and head down the road. He would have given a great deal to know where she was going, but there was no way he would leave Margaret. He’d taken one look at the step and known someone had cut it. There was no telling how many times they’d stepped on the wood before Margaret finally stepped in just the right place and the wood snapped. The light layer of sawdust on the second step told him the “accident” had to have been set up recently.

  At least her fall had given him one answer: Margaret was not part of any of this, but he could not be sure of anyone else in the house, even Bar.

  “Grayson.”
Margaret’s voice sounded tired and sleepy from the cup of herb tea Azile had given her.

  He moved to the side of her bed and marveled at how beautiful she looked lying there with her hair all around her and her dark robe pulled close for warmth.

  “Will you help me out of my robe?”

  The question was simple: an order no different than a hundred others she’d given him in the past week, but Grayson felt his mouth dry and his palms sweat at the thought of complying with her request.

  Margaret leaned forward and lifted her bandaged arm. Grayson bent beside the bed and pulled her gently to her feet. He slowly pushed the robe from her shoulders and allowed it to slide along her back. As he did so, Margaret leaned toward him, resting her head on his chest. He lifted her and for a long moment held her in his arms, amazed at the pleasure it brought him to hold a sleeping woman again.

  Her nightgown was plain white cotton worn smooth from years of wear. He could have guessed she would not be a woman to waste money on new nightclothes during a war. Her head moved slightly as she snuggled against his chest and he swore he could feel his heart turn over. Why couldn’t she be like this all the time and not so stiff and starched? He knew the answer even before he finished the question. She couldn’t have survived as a widow if her backbone hadn’t been straight. She’d fought her way alone for four years and she was fighting every inch of the way now, as if this house and the little money Tobin left was all she had in the world. With a sudden realization, he knew. This was all she had. The memory of her Westley and her brooch were the only treasures she possessed.

  Slowly he lowered her onto the bed and spread the covers over her. Then he returned to his chair by the window. He laid his Colts an inch from his hand and closed his eyes. No one, not even the ghosts of Hattie’s Parlor, was going to bother her tonight.

  An hour later, Grayson’s peace was shattered by the cry of a baby. He jumped to his feet and had his gun in hand before he realized what the sound was. As he crossed the room he glanced at the still sleeping Margaret. The child’s cry came again as he opened the door to the sitting room.

  Cherish passed in front of the fire with the child cradled against her shoulder. “Close the door before you wake Maggie up,” she ordered as if he were the one doing something out of the ordinary.

  Grayson raised an eyebrow and studied her closely.

  Cherish talked softly with the child as she continued to walk. Her voice didn’t change but her words were for Grayson. “She’s got the measles.”

  “And we’re going to take care of her?” He couldn’t believe with all their problems Cherish was taking on yet another one. What was this? A home for every stray sick child and orphan in town?

  “No.” She talked as if to the child. “I‘m going to take care of this baby.”

  “But where? How?”

  “As soon as my room warms, I’ll take her in there.”

  Grayson ran his large hands through his cinnamon hair. “I …”

  Loud pounding from downstairs silenced him. He glanced at Cherish and as their eyes met they both silently asked the same question. “Who could be visiting at this hour?”

  “I’ll get it.” Grayson noticed a hint of fear in Cherish’s eyes and wondered who she’d been expecting.

  As the pounding came again, Grayson yanked open the front door. An old nun stood huddled against the night wind. She carried two wiggling bundles in her arms. As Grayson stepped to allow her inside, she shoved the bundles toward him and pushed away.

  “Father said to take these two, for they got the spots also. And here is the directions to find Hattie’s medicine. Give the paper only to Miss Cherish.”

  “But …” Grayson balanced the wiggling blankets in his arms as he blinked, and the old woman blended into the night even before he thought better of giving away his disguise by words of protest.

  He carried his delivery upstairs. He’d meant only to dump them in Cherish’s lap and return to his quiet vigil in Margaret’s room but, even to his unskilled eyes, three sick children were more than one person could handle. He rolled up his sleeves and silently added his help, grumbling all the while about how he disliked children—especially ones with red spots.

  By dawn he’d learned more about sick babies than he’d ever wanted to know. He was amazed that when they weren’t crying, they were spitting up or coughing, or making a mess out the other end. A pile of towels and sheets large enough to keep a washwoman busy all day lay by the door and still the babies looked no better off than when they’d arrived. Bar lay exhausted on the floor by the fire as Grayson paced with the little girl Cherish had first brought home in one arm and a boy not yet old enough to walk tucked into the other. Cherish sat, sound asleep, in a corner of the couch with a sleeping baby beside her.

  Margaret appeared in the doorway of her room and stood watching the scene before her. For several long moments she pieced the picture together. Finally, Grayson stopped his pacing and looked up at her with heavy, sleepless eyes. He didn’t speak, but lay the infants down on their makeshift beds and walked toward her with a caring question in his blue-gray depths.

  Margaret gently lay her hand on his muscular forearm. “I’m fine, Grayson. Don’t look so worried.” She could feel his arm tighten slightly, so she patted him gently.

  Maggie’s voice awakened Cherish. She rose up on one elbow. “Maggie,” she whispered, hoping not to wake the children. “You look wonderful this morning.”

  “Which is more than I can say for the two of you,” Maggie scolded gently. “Where on earth did these babies come from?”

  Cherish laughed and explained. Maggie started shaking her head as she looked at the sleeping children.

  “We can’t keep them. There’s hardly any money to buy food now and I have no idea how long it will take to get Tobin’s money released.” Even as she spoke, Maggie moved toward the children. Her slender hand reached up and covered a tiny shoulder. “We just can’t,” she whispered, but there was no need for Cherish to present any more argument. The children would stay until they were well.

  “Miss Cherish.” Bar pulled Cherish aside as she moved down the hallway.

  “Yes?” She couldn’t help but smile at the boy. He had a way of climbing into her heart with both feet.

  “I was wonderin’ if you make a habit of bringin’ home every sick child or wounded man you find. ‘Cause if you do, I might find myself worked to a nub before I can grow whiskers.”

  Cherish laughed. “I’m afraid I do, Bar. My father used to say I had a gift for healing. He told me once that my mother worked day and night to help her people when typhoid fever almost wiped out their town. Afterwards, folks said she had the gift. I guess I’m like her; I just can’t stand to see folks suffer if I can help.”

  Bar nodded slowly. “I ain’t never met folks like you and Miss Margaret.”

  “You’ll get used to us.” Cherish laughed.

  “Oh, I don’t mind helpin’ out. Heck, I’ve hauled enough water in the past three days to fill twenty horse troughs. Bothers me some that Miss Margaret keeps expectin’ me to use it on my own body. That woman gets an idea in her head and there ain’t no way of reasonin’ with her. Her Westley that she keeps talkin’ about didn’t by chance die of pneumonia from bathin’ in the winter, did he?”

  Cherish fought the urge to hug him. “No,” she answered. “He died in the war just like a lot of other men.”

  “Oh.” Bar shrugged and headed down the stairs just as old Hattie called him about hearing someone under her bed.

  Chapter 9

  Brant Coulter leaned against the rough window frame and stared into the frosty night. He was thankful for the cold and rain. With no cattle drives camped nearby and the weather keeping all the local folks away, Hell’s Half-Acre was as quiet as if it were respectable. He could still smell whiskey and filth seeping up from the bar below his room, but at least there was no noise. He lit the end of his thin cigar and studied the house on the hill at the end of Hell’s Half
-Acre.

  He couldn’t get his mind off of the beautiful woman who had saved his life. She had a way of seeping into every still moment and settling there, more than a memory, less than reality. Even though it had been almost a week since he’d seen her, his hunger for her hadn’t diminished. But she was from another world and he couldn’t live with himself if he soiled something as perfect as Cherish Wyatt.

  A tap rattled him back from his longings. He tossed his cigar out the window and crossed the tiny room to his guns.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, honey. Holliday.” A voice as husky as a miner’s answered.

  “Come in.” Brant shoved his Colt back in its holster and relaxed. As the door opened a woman almost as wide as the frame waltzed in. She was like a day-old sweetshop with cinnamon hair, dark raisin eyes, and wheat-flour skin. Her huge breasts jostled like full-risen dough in her low-cut blouse and her walk seemed to advertise that anyone could buy her sweets for a bargain.

  Holliday smiled with blood red lips that spanned her face. She was not many years older than Brant, but she’d lived her life in double time. “I know you said you wanted to be left alone, but I thought you might be wanting a girl to keep you company.”

  “No, thanks.” The idea of one of Holliday’s long-ridden girls almost turned his stomach, but he had to be polite. She was doing him quite a favor by letting him stay, even though he was paying well for it. “Your girls could probably use a night off before business picks up tomorrow.”

  Holliday chuckled and waved her porky little fingers in the air. “I wasn’t thinking of one of my girls. I was referring to this wisp of a little thing that came in the back door with that boy Barfield. She told me she knew you were here and wasn’t leaving Until she’d seen you. I figure either you see her or I put her to work. After a few cowhands who leave their boots on, she’ll lose some of that spotless clean look and probably start to enjoy my line of work.”