The fury of their overland voyage had dislodged everything and it was all being flung hither and yon, bouncing around in a bizarre dance to the devilish music of their mad stampede. More than once Phoebe had to duck when an unsecured item seemed to fling itself at her head. A couple of times, she wasn’t quick enough.
Was it getting hotter, or was it her imagination? She opened her eyes again and tried to find the end of the wagon again. She couldn’t get her bearings and decided determining if she were going to perish by fire or being crushed wasn’t important. She shut her eyes again, began to pray, and wondered why she’d waited so long to do so.
She had no idea how long she’d been praying when a new sound assaulted her ears. It had started a while ago as a soft rumble but when Phoebe noticed it, it had grown to a roar, almost as if a locomotive were pursuing them. She thought it odd that the locomotive sound should have intruded even over the thundering of the wagon and mules. When she realized it must be the roar of the prairie fire, she would have screamed if she’d been able. But she couldn’t give voice to so much as a squeak, so dry had her throat become.
Feeling an overpowering need to look outside, she patted Sarah’s shoulder, gestured for her to stay put, and crawled to the end of the wagon. Twice, she was nearly knocked cockeyed by flying debris, but at last she made it to the opening in the tenting.
“Oh, my God.”
Phoebe couldn’t even hear herself. Through the dust and smoke, in front of a veritable wall of flame, a horseman rode, his rifle straight at the wagon. She saw a flash from its barrel the second before she heard a tiny pop. She knew the pop to be the sound of the rifle firing. She recognized the gun, though, and knew that under ordinary circumstances it made an explosion that rocked her to her shoes.
She recognized the man carrying the gun, too. She’d recognize that damned villain anywhere. Struggling to maintain her balance, Phoebe swiveled around to look for the rifle she knew was packed in the wagon. The ride was so bumpy, everything seemed cockeyed to her, but she got her bearings at last, and inched toward the crate in which she’d packed her father’s gun.
The crate’s lid fell while she searched for ammunition and she had to prop it with her elbow. She didn’t stop, though. Doggedly, determined to help if she could, she loaded the rifle. Bullets spilled everywhere as she dropped them, and Phoebe cursed her clumsiness, but she didn’t stop. Sarah wailed, and Phoebe hollered back to her to be still.
After she managed to load the rifle, Phoebe crawled back to the wagon flap
“Oh, my God.” Basteau was practically on top of them. He looked different to her somehow, and Phoebe chalked the odd phenomenon up to their perilous circumstances. She could see his evil grin even through the dust and smoke.
Bracing herself, Phoebe drew as good a bead as she could on him and pulled the trigger. The rifle’s recoil sent her sprawling backwards, but her brain registered a moment’s triumph when, in the split-second allowed her, she saw the look of shock on Basteau’s face.
Then she picked herself up and did it again.
Six times, Phoebe was thrust back by the force of the rifle shot. Five times, she picked herself back up, crawled to the wagon flap, aimed, and fired. Four times she saw Yves Basteau. The fifth time, she pulled the trigger for form’s sake. She couldn’t see anything any longer. Tears from the smoke and dust nearly blinded her. After the sixth time, she had no more strength left, but only lay on the floor of the wagon, tumbling here and there as the horrible ride flung her around, unable to do more than pray.
After a while she realized that, over the terrible noise of the fire and the clamor of their escape, she could discern the voice of Jack Valentine.
He must be hollering at the mules, encouraging them in their perilous race toward the river. Bless his heart.
And then she heard a brand-new sound. At first she didn’t dare believe it. But when the wagon lurched horribly and she felt a tremendous wave of water crash against its belly, she had to believe it.
In another moment or two she heard whoops of relief and a scattering of gunfire and dared open her eyes. The wagon rocked madly. Phoebe couldn’t quite pick herself up, but she looked over to where she thought Sarah was and saw her niece clinging to the safety of her wagon rib.
Thank God. She called out, “You were a very brave girl, Sarah,” but wasn’t sure the little girl could hear her.
Sarah seemed to be crying wretchedly, and Phoebe felt guilty for deserting her. Still, although she wanted to give Sarah comfort, she couldn’t seem to move. Somehow she’d become squashed between two crates and couldn’t budge either one of them. She did look around, though, and realized water had sloshed through the open end of the wagon and a trickle of it dribbled toward her. She began to laugh. They were safe. Jack had saved them.
Then there was another gigantic jerk as the mules found purchase on the other side of the river and began to scramble for safety up the bank. Phoebe found herself tumbling again as the lurch sent her crates topsy-turvy and threw her against a barrel.
When the wagon shuddered to a halt, it sat at a precarious tilt. Phoebe managed to crawl over to the Sarah and take her in her arms. Then she rocked her back and forth and waited. Phoebe knew Jack would come as soon as he could. She heard distant gunshots and cringed as memories that seemed as old as time itself crashed into her brain.
“It’s all over now,” she whispered into the almost deafening silence now settling around them. “It’s all over.”
Then, when she began to feel an almost uncontrollable urge to succumb to tears herself, she gave herself a mental shake, tightened her hug around Sarah, and spoke more soothing words to her. Her mouth was so dry they came out sounding thick and strange.
“It’s all right, Sarah, darlin’. Everything will be all right now. It’s all over, sweetheart.”
Phoebe’s heart gave a violent swoop when she felt the wagon dip and sway. Several seconds passed before she realized the latest sensation had been caused by Jack jumping down from the driver’s seat. She heard him running as he headed to the back of the wagon and wasn’t surprised when his face appeared at the opening. His swarthy countenance with its devilish black mustache made her insides light up like sunshine after a winter squall.
“Are you all right?”
Phoebe was surprised when Jack didn’t pause after hurling his question, but clambered up and plunged inside the wagon. Then he lunged over to them, wrapped them both up in a strong arm, and Phoebe knew everything was going to be all right.
“We’re fine,” she managed to say after fighting down a sob of gratitude.
He held them forever. At least, that’s what it felt like to Phoebe. And she loved every precious minute. Finally, though, he sat back and looked at her. Then he looked at Sarah, who still snuffled in terror.
“It’s all right, Scamp. Everything’s all right now.” His voice sounded rough.
“Oh, Jack, I was so s-s-s-scared!”
The little girl flung herself into his arms, and Phoebe felt a second’s jealousy for the freedom enjoyed by small children.
Her heart still slammed, and she could feel the rocking and plunging of their ride as though it were still going on. She didn’t realize quite how dazed she was, though, until she suddenly discovered it was she in Jack’s arms instead of Sarah. She had a vague impression of the child, looking surprised and not a little miffed, staring at them, before she succumbed to the deliciousness of being cared for.
“Jesus, I was scared,” Jack mumbled.
Phoebe was perfectly astonished. “You were?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
She felt his heart pumping beneath her breast and guessed he was telling the truth. Then she realized he was only holding her with one arm. The other dangled at his side. Immediately, her Phoebe-ness went on the alert.
“What’s the matter with your arm?”
“What?”
“Your arm, Jack Valentine.” She pushed herself out of his embrace. “What’s the mat
ter with it?”
Jack looked at the useless appendage blankly for a second. “Oh. I wrenched it.”
“What?”
“Damn it, don’t screech at me, woman.”
“I’ll screech at you if I want to, Jack Valentine, and don’t call me woman.”
Immediately, Phoebe took charge. Leaning out the back of the wagon, she hollered, “Antelope!”
“Here!” Antelope’s face peered into the wagon. Then he smiled at her. “You saved our skins, Miss Phoebe.”
She’d opened her mouth to begin spouting instructions when his words stopped her cold. “What?”
“You saved our damned skins, shootin’ at Basteau. You saved our lives. He’d’ve got us sure if it wasn’t for you.”
“You did that, Phoebe?”
Phoebe looked at Jack and discovered he was staring at her as if she were some sort of savior.
“Well . . . well, I saw him out there.” She shrugged. “I’m sure I didn’t hit him.”
“It don’t matter,” Antelope said. “You scared him off.”
“I did?” Too stunned by this unaccustomed approval to be proud, Phoebe gaped at him for a moment before she remembered she had work to do.
“Will you please take care of Sarah, Antelope. She’s scared to death. Mr. Valentine has hurt his arm, and I need to attend to it.”
“Oh, for God’s—”
“Right.” Antelope walked right over Jack’s exclamation as if he hadn’t spoken.
Phoebe saw the stocky Indian open his arms and Sarah scramble into them without even a second’s pause. Then the little girl disappeared, leaving behind a girlish, “I was so scared, Antelope!” and a deeper, “It’ll be all right in a minute, Sarey gal. Your auntie saved our hides.”
Well, for heaven’s sake. Phoebe allowed herself one brief swell of pride, and then got down to business.
“You sit right there, Jack Valentine. Don’t you move an inch until I check that arm. If it’s broken, it needs to be splinted. Even if it’s only sprained, we should rig you up a sling.”
“Damn it, Miss Honey—”
“Don’t you dare move an inch.” Although she was used to caring for patients, Phoebe had never heard herself sound so forceful. Terribly pleased with herself, she would have smiled except she figured Jack would think she hadn’t meant her command. And she had.
He glared at her. She ignored him.
“I’m going to get Pete to fix you up a bed, Mr. Valentine. I don’t want you within a hundred yards of William, because he’s sick.”
Phoebe tapped her chin with her finger for a moment, then had a brilliant idea. “I’ll set Sarah to nursing him! That will take her mind off what we’ve just endured, and leave me free to nurse you.”
“You’re going to nurse me?”
She shot him another scowl. “Yes, I am, and I don’t want to hear a word from you about it. You always think you know what’s best for everybody, but I know about nursing.” She wagged her finger under his nose. “And I won’t hear a word against it, either.”
Pete appeared at the wagon flap. “What the hell’re you two doin’ in there, anyway? The whole prairie’s burning up behind us and just look at you, in here playin’ house.”
Ignoring his insinuation, Phoebe said primly, “Mr. Valentine’s arm is hurt. Will you please see to making up a bed for him? Away from the children, if you please. I don’t want him to damage it any further.”
“Right. I can make up a sling if he needs it.”
“Thank you very much. That would be fine.” Phoebe smiled at Pete, something she’d seldom done.
“I don’t need a damned sling.” Jack jerked his arm away from Phoebe in annoyance and let out an involuntary, “Ow! Damnation!”
Phoebe smirked at him. “I believe it’s sprained.”
“Gotta immobilize it, then,” said Pete.
“Yes. Exactly my thoughts.”
“Aw, hell.”
“Give up whinin’, Jack. Besides, it’ll be better in a day or so,” Pete said cheerfully. “Miss Honeycutt, you done us a real good turn, and we all owe you one.”
“You’re welcome.” It had been a long time since Phoebe’d been praised for anything. She decided she could get used to it.
Pete nodded. “After I get Jack fixed up, I got to head on after Basteau.”
“Oh, dear, do you think he’s still around?”
“You bet he’s still around. He ain’t goin’ to give up on you that quick. He’s crazy.”
“Oh.”
Although Phoebe wasn’t thrilled to know that, she guessed she was grateful Pete Spotted Pony would be looking for Basteau. At the thought of the villain pursuing her, a shiver rattled her, then she pulled herself together and resumed her nurse role.
“I’m going to fetch you some water now. Take your shirt off and prepare to be examined when I come back. If you move an inch, Mr. Valentine, I’ll have Antelope tie you down.” She wasn’t fooling.
Jack apparently sensed her resolve because he glared at her but only said, “Oh, all right.”
When she climbed down from the wagon, the sight she saw held her motionless for a moment. Good heavens. On the other side of the river, the entire prairie was black. Little threads of fire still burned, sizzling out when they reached the water. Phoebe shook her head, awed at the destruction Basteau had wrought.
“Mercy.”
She saw Sarah wave to her, and Phoebe walked over to see how William was doing. Sarah had tucked him up, and he looked crabby and sick.
“Sarah will be your nurse for a while, William. I have to take care of Mr. Valentine.”
William’s eyebrows shot up. “Jack’s hurt?”
“Just his arm, dear, but it’s sprained and he can’t use it for a while. Right now, I think we both need water more than anything else.”
Jack was in a towering grump by the time Phoebe returned to the wagon, but at least he hadn’t moved.
“I brought you some water, Mr. Valentine.”
Scowling, Jack muttered, “I’ve got to get out of this damned wagon one of these days, Miss Honeycutt. The damned wheel’s broken.”
Phoebe scowled back. “You can see to the wagon’s wheel when your own is healed. And if you don’t stop swearing at me, I’ll drink your water myself.” She felt quite proud of herself, both for her joke and for sounding so firm. As soon as she’d entered the wagon, the sight of him—bare-chested, muscles bulging, blue eyes spitting sparks—nearly sent her into a swoon.
Jack only grunted as he reached for the water, and Phoebe inspected his arm while he drank it, trying very hard to keep her mind on her business and her fingers at their job. They felt a tremendous urge to go exploring Jack’s chest; to feel those crisp-looking hairs and the hard planes beneath.
“I believe your arm is merely sprained, Mr. Valentine. I don’t detect any breaks, and it doesn’t seem to be swollen.”
“It hurts like hell.”
Phoebe pinched her lips together. “I’m certain you must be in pain, sir.”
“Damned right I am.”
Swallowing her sigh of exasperation, Phoebe said, “Mr. Valentine, I realize you are hurting—”
Suddenly Phoebe’s reprimand ended in a squeak when a tremendous crack rent the air and the wagon tilted, hurtling her on top of Jack. He ended on his back and with Phoebe in his arms.
He liked it a lot, even if the lurch did make his arm ache like crazy. Clamping her tightly to his bare chest, he grinned wickedly. “Axle must have given out.”
“Oh!” Startled, Phoebe lay still for a moment before she realized what an improper position she was in. She began to struggle.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Jack heaved himself over, pinning Phoebe underneath him. “You’re not getting away from me that easily, woman.”
Phoebe had heard that people acted strangely after they’d had a fright. She guessed they were right when he kissed her and she felt as though all the bones in her body had melted. Oh, Lord, she needed this.
She felt the chest she’d just been mooning over crushing her breasts and wanted to writhe underneath Jack so she could feel the sensations even better.
“Oh, God.”
Jack lifted his lips slightly away from hers. Phoebe hoped he wasn’t going to start complaining about his arm again. Worried, she flung her arms around his back to hold him in place. She guessed he’d decided to stay, when he resumed his kiss with renewed vigor.
“Aunt Phoebe!”
Sarah’s shocked exclamation wrenched Jack away from Phoebe and brought Phoebe up off the floor of the wagon in less than a trice. She scrambled to her feet, patting her hair for all she was worth, and knew her face must be flaming.
“Why, hello Sarah, dear.”
Antelope’s face appeared next to Sarah’s. “Saw the axle go and thought we’d better see about you two.” He grinned. “Looks like they’re all right, Sarey gal.”
Jack muttered, “Aw, hell.”
“Mr. Valentine has sprained his arm, Sarah. He won’t be able to do any heavy work for a day or two. How’s William? Does he need me to tend him?” She knew she was babbling and couldn’t stop herself.
After peering at her aunt for a moment, still obviously puzzled about the scene she’d just witnessed, Sarah said, “I’ll tend to William for you, Aunt Phoebe. Antelope, he says you need to rest ‘cause you must be tired from keepin’ me from bein’ crushed to death in the wagon and then savin’ all our skins by shootin’ at that Mr. Basteau who was tryin’ to murder us all.”
Phoebe gaped at her niece in astonishment. Well, for heaven’s sake.
“But why was you kissin’ Jack, Aunt Phoebe?” Sarah asked innocently.
Rather than answering the child, a task that sounded too formidable for her in her present condition, Phoebe shot Jack a look to punish him for his crack of laughter, and took refuge in her aunt-like demeanor, “It is impolite for children to ask adults such questions, Sarah, dear. But I am pleased that you feel able to care for your brother. That’s a very noble undertaking.”
Catching Phoebe’s mood, little girl nodded with adult-like sobriety. “I know, Aunt Phoebe. I’ll do a good job. Promise.”
Phoebe's Valentine Page 14
