Wyoming Bride

by Joan Johnston

  “Ransom is a good man,” he said.

  “I can offer her a more comfortable life,” Patton replied.

  “Maybe money doesn’t interest her,” Flint said. “Maybe she’s looking for someone with honor and integrity.”

  Patton’s lips curled in a contemptuous sneer. “I guess that explains why she chose your brother over a yellow belly like you.”

  Flint’s face went white. “You son of a bitch!” His right hand was already fisted to throw a punch when he found himself facing a Colt .45 held by Patton’s hired gunslinger, Sam Tucker.

  “Bad idea,” Tucker said.

  “Put it away, Sam,” Patton said, frowning at his hired gun. “This is a social gathering, not a saloon. Besides, I can handle this.”

  “Just makin’ sure there’s no trouble, Boss,” Tucker said as he holstered his weapon.

  “Get yourself some punch,” Patton told the gunman.

  Tucker smirked at Flint, then turned and headed for the punch bowl that had been set up on a table across the room.

  Flint shot a glance toward the group by the fire, but none of them seemed to have an inkling of what had just happened.

  “Be careful who you’re calling names,” Flint warned. “Words like that can get a man killed.”

  “I heard a rumor about you,” Patton said. “If it turns out to be true, I don’t think the colonel’s going to give you that beef contract even if you’re related by marriage.”

  Flint barely managed not to wince. During the Battle of Cedar Creek, the final skirmish in the Shenandoah Valley in late ’64, the Union counterattack had resulted in panic among the Confederate troops, who fled the battlefield. Left with his flanks undefended, Flint had been left with no other choice than to retreat with his men as well.

  Flint had fought bravely in other battles with his company both before and after that incident, but the words yellow belly and craven and chickenheart and coward had followed him until the end of the war.

  Most of the men he’d fought with were dead, or living a long way from here. There was no way for Patton to have found out that he had so notoriously retreated with his company. Flint didn’t lack courage, he was simply a man willing to allow himself to back down rather than die. Maybe that was shaving hairs, but there it was.

  However, if he was ever branded a coward in Wyoming, he would have to leave. No man would work for him. No man would ride the river with him. No man would have anything to do with him.

  Oh, God. Was that why Emaline had rejected him? Had she heard rumors of what had happened during the war? No, if that were true, he and his brother wouldn’t even have been allowed over the colonel’s threshold, let alone have a chance at that all-important beef contract.

  “I hear the musicians tuning up,” Patton said. “I intend to have a dance with the prettiest lady in the room before I leave.”

  “Just remember she’s already promised to my brother,” Flint warned.

  Patton smiled. “There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip.”

  Flint stepped in front of Patton and said, “What does that mean?”

  “There are a lot of dangers in a land like this. And lots of reasons to change one’s mind about marriage. I’d be very surprised if your brother is still around when it comes time to wed the beautiful Miss Simmons.”

  “Just so you know,” Flint said, “if anything happens to Ransom, you won’t be around long enough to become a groom, either.”

  Patton laughed. “I enjoy a good contest. May the best man win.”

  “May I have this dance?”

  “Why, yes. Of course.”

  Flint thought Emaline looked endearingly startled by his request for a dance. He held out his hand and felt the warmth and softness of her hand as she placed it in his. He realized he was nervous as he rested his palm against her back and took the first steps of the waltz the violinist was playing. Her eyes were lowered, so all he saw was the shiny twist of dark brown hair on the top of her head.

  He watched the pulse in her throat above the high, frilly collar of her dress. He was aware of the stiff corset she must be wearing, which kept her back so straight. He wondered what it would be like to undress her a layer at a time, whether her skin would be as soft as it looked, whether it would be the same translucent ivory everywhere.

  Flint knew he should be making small talk, or she should, but neither of them spoke. He thought he could feel her trembling, but maybe that was him. He knew what was keeping him silent. He wondered why she didn’t speak. But he didn’t ask.

  They danced on, the silence increasingly uncomfortable, at least for him. Finally, Flint cleared his throat and said, “How are plans coming for the wedding?”

  She looked up then, her dark brown eyes bright and excited, and said, “Sadly, I don’t have a mother to help me organize things, but Captain Harvey’s wife, Jean, and the sutler’s wife, Phileda, and several of the ranchers’ wives have volunteered to help. I’m so looking forward to the picnic after the wedding!”

  He watched her mouth as she spoke, imagined kissing it, imagined pulling her close and never letting her go.

  “Mr. Creed?”

  “What?”

  She smiled endearingly at him. “The music has stopped.”

  “Oh.” He let her go and took a step back and bowed awkwardly. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Simmons.”

  She put her hand through his arm as he walked her back to his brother, leaning so close he imagined he could feel the weight of her breast against his sleeve.

  “We’re going to be family,” she said, looking earnestly up at him. “I’ve always wanted a big brother, and now I’ll have one. I hope you’ll call me Emaline, as Ransom does.”

  He managed a smile as he handed her over to his brother. “I’ll do that. Emaline.”

  She laughed with delight, a sound so velvety and feminine it made his throat ache.

  “I’m heading back to the ranch,” he told Ransom.

  “So soon? The party’s just getting started.”

  Flint forced a grin. “I’ve already danced with the prettiest girl in the room. It would all be downhill from here.”

  He saw Emaline blush and watched as Ransom proudly and possessively put his arm around his future bride’s waist.

  “Thanks for giving me the time off to go to Denver to shop with Emaline,” Ransom said, meeting his gaze. “I know it’s going to mean a lot of extra work for you.”

  “I’m glad to do it,” Flint said.

  “I thank you, too,” Emaline said, laying a hand on his forearm. “I’ll be glad to have Ransom’s opinion when I spend the money my mother left to me. I want our home—which is also your home, of course—to be filled with beautiful things.”

  He managed not to jerk away, but he freed himself, nonetheless. “With you there, it certainly will be.”

  Her smile was enchanting. And heartbreaking.

  “See you when you get back from Denver,” Flint managed to say. He couldn’t get out of the colonel’s house fast enough. Acid had backed up in his throat.

  Our home—which is also your home.

  That was the nightmare Flint dreaded. Unfortunately, Ransom had sprung this engagement party and the late-August wedding on him only a few days ago. If he’d had the time, Flint would have built himself another house. But in Wyoming there was only July, August, and winter, and once in a while, even July and August saw snow.

  Building another house was out of the question.

  He was going to be stuck living with the two of them. Stuck like a bull buffalo in mud, bellowing in despair, helpless to escape.

  Several of the local ranchers attempted to engage him in conversation, including the biggest rancher in the Territory, John Holloway, and his wife, Kinyan, but Flint managed to stave them off and make it out the front door onto the porch. He took the steps two at a time, freed the reins that were tied to a rail in front of the colonel’s house, mounted up, and spurred his buckskin into a lope, heading across the le
ngth of the military post.

  Fort Laramie had been established forty years ago, dead center at the junction of the Sioux, Crow, and Arapaho lands. The fort no longer had any protective walls but was rather a collection of clapboard buildings arranged in a rectangle around an immense parade ground that was more dirt than grass, with a flagpole stuck in the center.

  Flint rode past the Second Cavalry officers’ quarters and officers’ stables and the barracks for the soldiers and noncoms, placed on either side of the quadrangle. Once he was beyond the parade ground, he rode past the bakery, sutler’s store, workshops, stable, laundry, and smithy, all of which had been built from sunbaked clay bricks. He continued across a series of grassy, rolling hills until the fort disappeared from view.

  Flint turned in the opposite direction from home and crossed the Laramie River, which ran past the fort. He couldn’t go home. He never wanted to go home again.

  If only Emaline had chosen him! Did he dare, at this point, try to win her away? Ransom would be devastated if he succeeded. More to the point, could he make himself happy at the expense of his brother?

  He could not.

  Flint galloped his horse until the animal was breathing hard and lathered with sweat. When he stopped at last, his mount stood with his head down, trembling with exhaustion.

  “I am one sorry son of a bitch,” he said aloud.

  He couldn’t outrun the truth. Emaline was lost to him. She loved Ransom. They were going to be married a month from today, and they would all be living together. He was going to have to hide his feelings. He was going to have to endure.

  The most practical—and most honorable—solution to his dilemma was obvious. He needed to meet and marry someone else. The problem was, there were no single women to be had. Females who made it all the way to the Territory were either too young, too old, or already married.

  “Swear to God I’m going to marry the next single woman I meet,” he muttered. Fat or skinny, ugly or pretty, good-tempered or bad, any wife would be better than none. “Just let her turn up where I can find her.” He laughed bitterly. Fat chance of that.

  “Come on, Buck,” he said to his horse, sighing in resignation. “Let’s go home.”

  Flint was turning his mount when he spied a splash of sunshine yellow showing at the edge of a gully. Plenty of flowers bloomed on the prairie, but with the lack of rain over the summer, most of them were long gone. Whatever he’d seen wasn’t part of nature. Better to be safe than sorry. He hadn’t lived this long without being cautious.

  He took out the makings for a smoke, while he loosened his rifle in the leather boot on his saddle. He quickly rolled the smoke and cupped his hands around the match to light the tobacco, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously check out his surroundings from beneath the flat brim of his hat.

  What he’d seen might be a scrap of cloth blown by the wind that had caught on sagebrush or cactus. Or it could be a renegade Sioux in a shirt he’d stolen from some settler. Or one Sioux in a yellow shirt along with an entire band of renegades that were hidden from view.

  Miners had invaded lands in the Black Hills promised by treaty to the Indians. Small bands of angry Oglala Sioux had begun attacking isolated travelers. In addition, the Brulé Sioux had been known to stray from the nearby reservation, where rations were short because they’d been stolen by dishonest Indian agents, and prey on the helpless and the hapless.

  Flint deeply regretted pushing Buck so hard. His horse wouldn’t last long if he needed to make a run for it. Flint kept his eyes on the scrap of cloth as he eased his Winchester out and leaned it across his forearm. He still hadn’t seen any movement, but the scrap of fabric remained visible.

  Flint didn’t want to turn his back, in case it was savages, so he rode parallel to the hill. His heart was beating hard in his chest as he waited for the whoop that would announce an assault. He kept the spot of color in sight from the corner of his eye.

  So he saw the hand that rose above the hill, waved, then dropped back down.

  Flint hunched, waiting for an arrow in his flesh. He was about to put spurs to his mount when the hand appeared again, waved again, and dropped again.

  Curiosity held him motionless.

  Was what he’d seen some clever ploy to get him to come closer, so he could be shot more easily? But why would anyone planning an ambush reveal his position? Besides, the hand he’d seen looked like it belonged to a child. Maybe some Sioux kid had left the reservation and gotten himself into trouble. Flint couldn’t ride away without knowing for sure.

  “Who’s there?” he said. “Come on out where I can see you.”

  “Help me. Please.”

  Flint frowned. It sounded like a woman, but the voice was so faint and hoarse he could barely hear it. Maybe this was a trick after all. “Who’s there?” he repeated.

  “Help.”

  Flint took his time closing the space between himself and the splotch of color, rifle in hand. He tensed when his horse snorted and sidestepped as they mounted the hill above the gully.

  Flint was shocked at what he found.

  The young woman was alone. Her sunshine yellow dress looked the worse for wear. So did she. Blond curls rioted around a sunburned face. Her lips were cracked and dry. Her nose and cheeks were smudged with dirt. Her eyes were closed, and he wondered whether she was merely exhausted, had fallen unconscious, or had succumbed and died from exposure.

  With his luck, it was the latter.

  Flint was off his horse a second later and on one knee beside her. He lifted the young woman into his arms, searching for signs of life. Surely God hadn’t put this female in his way without some purpose. Here she was. His salvation. She had to be alive.

  “Miss?”

  Her eyes fluttered open. They were as bright a blue as the sky above them. They closed again, but she croaked, “Water.”

  He settled her on the ground and ran to retrieve the canteen tied to his saddle. He brought it back, lifted her up again, and put it against her closed lips. “Open your mouth. Drink.”

  She lifted her arms but dropped them again, too weak even to hold the canteen. He held it for her, and she gulped water so fast it dribbled down her chin.

  “Easy. Slow down. How long since you had a drink?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in a frail voice.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s your name?”

  For a moment he thought she would say she didn’t know that either. She opened her eyes, looked up at him, and said, “I’m Hannah McMurtry. Mrs. Hannah McMurtry.”

  Son of a bitch. She was married.

  “Where’s your husband, Mrs. McMurtry?”

  Her lower lip trembled and tears welled in her eyes. “He’s dead. Cholera.”

  Flint let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He needed a wife. And a woman—a widow—had been placed in his path. He knew he should have her treated by the doctor at the fort, but he wasn’t willing to take the chance that some other man would step up and win her favor while he was working the ranch in Ransom’s absence.

  He decided then and there to take her home. He could care for her himself until she was well. He had plenty of time to woo her before Ransom and Emaline returned from Denver. If he played his cards right, he just might persuade the widow to marry him.

  Mrs. McMurtry had provided the first ray of hope Flint had felt since his brother announced he was planning to marry Emaline. If he could convince this woman to marry him, he wouldn’t have to spend the winter alone with Ransom and his lovely bride. He would have a wife to distract him from the woman he loved.

  Hannah dreamed she was home in her bed in the three-story town house in Chicago where she’d grown up. It was Christmas morning and the air in the large bedroom was crisp and cold enough that she could see her breath. Susan, the maid, hadn’t come yet to light the fire.

  Then she remembered that Susan had gone to be with her family fo
r Christmas. Father had reminded her at bedtime that the fireplace had been readied, and all that was needed in the morning was a match to light it.

  Hannah knew she should get up and start the fire, but she was too warm and cozy. The bed was so comfortable and the blanket was soft and fuzzy and always smelled so good.

  Hannah inhaled, expecting the scent of rosewater. Instead, she smelled bacon cooking. That was strange. She couldn’t usually smell food being cooked in the downstairs kitchen all the way up in her bedroom on the second floor.

  The dream ended abruptly as Hannah woke. She couldn’t be in her home because it had burned down on the third day after Mrs. O’Leary’s cow had kicked over a lantern and started the Great Chicago Fire.

  But the lovely feelings hadn’t quite faded, so she kept her eyes closed. The air in the room was actually cold, and her fingers closed around the blanket and pulled it all the way up to her chin. Which was when she realized it wasn’t at all soft. It was scratchy. And it smelled nothing like rosewater. The pungent smell was not unpleasant, just not what she’d expected.

  Hannah tensed. She was in a soft bed. A soft bed. How was that possible?

  The last thing she remembered was struggling across endless miles of prairie, her stomach empty, her throat parched with agonizing thirst, her body shivering from the bitter cold, completely lost.

  She opened her eyes and looked around. She was in a room with whitewashed wooden walls. A stone fireplace took up most of the wall opposite her. A rectangular window was cut into the wall to her right. No curtains covered the four dirty windowpanes. The door opposite the window was closed. She pushed back the panic that rose as she realized she didn’t recognize this place.

  Where was she? How had she gotten here?

  Hannah felt weak and woozy as she pushed herself upright to look more keenly at her surroundings. She closed her eyes until the spinning stopped, then opened them again.

  She was lying in a bed large enough for two, with a roughly carved footboard. She turned and saw the headboard was also carved with a rugged leaf design. A plain wooden clothes chest stood beside the door with a small oval mirror above it. There was nothing soft about the room, nothing to temper the rough edges. Nothing feminine.