“I like a spirited girl. When I get back from town we’re gonna have us some fun. Then you will be my wife, girly.”
Claire glared at him with all the force she could muster. “That will never happen. I will never submit to you. You’ll have to kill me first, you low-down snake-in-the grass.”
Frank picked up his battered hat, smirked at the bound girl and sauntered out the door. “Later, girly, later.”
The moment the door shut behind him Claire began to squirm and twist around. If she could twist her skirt around just right, she might be able to reach the knife that was still in her pocket. She thought about screaming for help, but the closest neighbor was Bud, and she didn’t want him anywhere near her.
She had to keep stopping to rest as she struggled; the rope cut into her arms and wrists, which were already marred and sore from the ride in the wagon. She found if she used just her thumbs to grab the fabric of the skirt she could get a grasp of the material and yank it around. Finally, she was able to grab her gardening knife and begin sawing the rope.
It was a slow process. Please Lord, she prayed, don’t let me drop the knife.
Back and forth she maneuvered the blade, all the while listening for Frank’s return. Finally, she sawed through the last bit and freed her hands. Hurriedly, she bent down and cut through the robes at her ankles. A noise outside of the shanty grabbed her attention.
Oh no, he’s back, he can’t be back.
She darted over to the stove to grab the heavy cast iron skillet, and moved behind the door. It opened slowly, creaking, and when she smashed the pan down on Frank’s head as hard as she could, he crumpled to the floor. Claire dropped the skillet and knelt down beside the man, checking to see if he was still breathing. When she was sure that he was still alive, she flung open the door and raced for the barn, skidding to a halt as a silhouette filled the doorway.
“Goin’ someplace girly?”
Claire pulled out the old military pistol. She pointed it at Bud and said, as forcefully as she could manage, “I’m going back home. Back to Omaha.”
Bud burst out laughing. “You stupid woman. There ain’t no bullets for that pistol. Ain’t been none fer years.” Claire cocked back the trigger and fired. Bud staggered back, a look of disbelief on his face. A patch of crimson blossomed on his chest and he fell to the ground, blood forming in a pool around his body. Claire looked at the gun and the body before her in wide-eyed horror. Her last thought was of Maxwell, hoping that he might find her before Frank woke up, and then her world turned black.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On the Boston and Albany Railroad, August 1869
On the Boston and Albany Railroad
Cal leaned back in his seat and lit a cigar. He re-read the notes that he’d compiled from his interview with a man in Boston who was manufacturing railroad ties. As soon as Cal reached Chicago he would telegraph his story back to Baltimore. From Chicago he’d travel to Omaha and meet up with the man who was working on an ice box rail car, Mr. Linus Mason.
Mason’s letter said he was on a small ranch outside of Omaha. When he got to Omaha, he was to stop at the jail to get directions. From there he could rent a horse and ride out to the ranch. Cal was grateful for the opportunity to see the country; he might even be able to write a piece on the frontier town.
His readers were always fascinated by tales of the Wild West. Dime store novels were full of adventurous tales of places like Omaha, Dodge City, or Abilene, Kansas. It made him think he might even start a novel of his own.
He glanced out the window and was taken aback by the scenic beauty along the route. The train was passing over a stone-arch bridge designed by railroad pioneer George Washington Whistler. The railroad he was now taking was the Boston and
Albany, but just two years ago, in 1867, it had been known as the Boston and Worchester line. In a matter of only a day, the railroad would deliver him to Chicago. This was a revolutionary technology that Cal was excited to write about. It allowed men to travel farther, faster than they ever had. Why travelers could cross the country in a week instead of months, all for the price of a train ticket.
In addition to meeting with the ice rail car inventors, Cal also had a meeting with the managers of the stockyards in Omaha, and hoped the trip would find him with several quality stories to send back to his editors. Suddenly, Cal felt weary, overwhelmed, and had to lay his head back on the seat. The constant bumping and jerking of the train made it difficult to sleep and his aching leg bothered him. He stretched out as far as space would allow and drifted off.
Claire was calling for help. He tried to run to her, but his bad leg slowed him down. He could see her faintly but she was very far away. She was bound somehow and could not rise. He struggled on, but seemed to get no closer. “Claire!” he called out, “Claire, I’m here, I’m here.”
Suddenly he was lying on a bunk in Cassie’s shack. She was soothing his forehead with a cool cloth. “Boy, boy, you’ll be alright.”
In the next moment he was face down on the battlefield, bleeding from his head and leg, hearing the shrieks and cries of dying soldiers around him, helpless to do anything but scream.
Cal awoke with a start. He was shaking and sweating, nausea overcoming him. He tucked his head between his knees and sat there, breathing heavily, trying to regain control. It took a full minute for him to realize that it had only been a dream. It took several more minutes before he stopped trembling. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Claire was in trouble. He reached under his shirt and rubbed the half-heart pendant between two fingers. It was his only contact with Claire, and somehow it helped him feel like he was closer to her than he’d been in a very long time.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Plains of Nebraska, August 1869
Maxwell leaned down from his mount and snatched up another scrap of faded calico. Tipping his canteen upside down he let the tepid water wet his chapped lips. He’d been riding hard for several days and he could really feel it. He ached down to his bones, but he refused to rest until Claire was safely in his arms.
His horse was showing signs of wear as well. He nudged the horse’s flanks and the exhausted mare picked up her pace. When nightfall made it too difficult to follow the tracks, he looked for a place to camp. Then at dawn he started out again, carefully searching the area for clues.
When he made camp for the night, as he was gathering some dry twigs and branches he noticed a small clearing where someone had recently built a fire. Squatting by the charred ashes, he deposited the kindling and observed a small half circle of stones.
Odd, why would someone make a partial ring of stones? He stared at the ring from a different angle and realization hit. It was the letter “c”! Grinning broadly Tom built his fire, his weariness, and aches and pains forgotten.
Yes that’s some girl I’ve got there. Some girl indeed.
For the first time in days sleep came quickly.
Early the next morning he rode slowing, following the trail of new clues Claire had left behind. A wagon had recently been driven west, the ruts were clearly visible, and a series of pebbles and stones had been dropped in a long, continuous line. He laughed to himself. Claire, dear, sweet, methodical Claire would have thought of that. By midafternoon, Maxwell estimated that he was getting near the turnoff point for Columbus. It was a small but bustling city and he’d passed through it once or twice on his way to pick up runaway felons. It sat near the junction of the Platte and the Loop River. Maxwell hoped he would find Claire before he came to the split. The Loop headed slightly north, then west, whereas the Platte headed south and west. Either way, it would become more difficult to find her after the turnoff, especially if the wagon had crossed through water.
The day was hot and sunny, but Tom didn’t notice. His entire focus was on the trail, looking for signs. He continued following the wagon ruts, but there hadn’t been any lines of pebbles for several miles now. He didn’t think that could be a good sign, but maybe it meant that
they had stopped again. The sun was beginning its descent in front of him; there were only a few hours of light left. His neck ached from staring at the ground for hours and he rubbed it absentmindedly. He glanced up at a blue jay chirping overhead and caught a glimpse of smoke signaling that a homestead was nearby. He decided to stop there to see if they’d share a meal with him and maybe some grain for his horse.
He turned down the narrow road and stopped cold. There. The same tracks he’d been following. He dismounted and led his horse quietly down the path. There was no sign of anyone working in the fields. It was summer. The farmer should have been out tending his crop. Something was definitely odd about this farm. Maxwell crept up to the back of a small sod barn. He tied his horse to a post and started to slowly work his way around the barn when he heard voices and a gunshot crack through the air, the silence ringing louder than the pistol.
Maxwell burst around front and saw a large, unconscious man on the ground, blood pouring out of a shoulder wound, and Claire passed out next to him, her hand still clutching an old army pistol. Aside from a nasty welt on her face, he could see no major injuries. He paused to gather a bucket of water from the well, using it to splash water on Claire’s face.
He touched Claire’s shoulder, shaking her gently, trying to rouse her. “Claire, can you hear me? He got down on his knees and gathered her into his arms.
“Claire, wake up, it’s Tom.”
Claire slowly opened her eyes and gasped, “Wh-what happened?” She looked up into the eyes of her rescuer, which were crinkled with concern. “Sheriff Maxwell! Oh, thank heavens you’re here! I’ve been waiting. . .” Claire felt tears begin to prick her eyes now that the ordeal was so close to being over. He pulled her close and she buried her head in his shirt. She didn’t want to cry in front of Maxwell, and she was dangerously close to breaking down, so she turned her attention to the other man beside her, lip curling into a grimace.
“Is he¼dead?”
Maxwell scowled at the unconscious body. “No, he’s not dead, but I best go take care of him before he wakes up. Drink some of that water and I’ll be right back.”
Tom knelt down by the wounded man and silently whistled. It was one of the cleanest shots he’d ever seen; he couldn’t have done better himself. He turned and looked at Claire, who was staring at him as if he were a mirage. She was calm, but very pale. He turned back to the man just as he was beginning to stir. Maxwell quickly handcuffed him and stuffed a clean handkerchief into the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“I need to get him into the house and try to bandage his shoulder.”
“That’s good. . . but maybe we should tend to the other one first.”
“The other one?” He said incredulously.
“Yes, this is B…Bud. Frank’s the one in the house.”
“Did you shoot him too?”
“Oh, no! I hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet.” She stared up at him with eyes as wide as saucers, face white as a sheet.
Tom stared back in disbelief, a mixture of emotions playing across his face. He decided on amusement, his mouth creasing into an amused grin.
“You just hit him over the head with a skillet?” Claire’s face turned pink, she rose, put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“Yes, I hit him over the head. What is so funny about that?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that I was so scared for you and here you took out both of these men on your own. I severely underestimated you.” Claire sensed that Maxwell might be getting ready to tell her something else. His eyes shone with an odd light, and he seemed on the verge of a declaration. Just as she thought he might speak, Bud began to moan loudly and piteously.
“I’m dying over here. Mister, you just gotta help me. That woman is crazy. She tried to kill me.”
Maxwell turned to the man sprawled on the ground. “You fool, count yourself lucky. From the looks of things, if she had wanted to kill you, she would have. As it happens, now you’ll just have a wicked scar.”
Bud spat at the sheriff. “If I ever get my hands on her, I’ll kill her. I should have, back in that store in Omaha. That stupid Frank wanted to keep her as a wife. I told him it was a dumb idea. Mister, you want that wildcat you can have her, I just wanna get
my wound fixed and go home. If you uncuff me, I’ll just be on my way.”
Maxwell merely flipped up the flap on his shirt pocket, revealing his badge. “The only home you’re going to see is the jail in Columbus. Now shut up before I shoot you. I always aim for the heart.”
Bud slumped down and groaned. Maxwell handed Claire his pistol and instructed her to watch the varmint while he checked on the other unfortunate kidnapper. Maxwell covered the yard in three quick strides and pushed open the shanty door. Frank was still out cold. He leaned over the limp figure and felt for a pulse. To his relief, it was strong and regular. Claire wouldn’t have been in trouble with the law if he had died; after all, she fought the two men in self-defense. But it was better all around not to have to deal with the paperwork, and the emotions that came with killing another human being. Knowing that both men would be fine, the thought of Claire smashing a skillet over her kidnapper’s head was now downright hilarious. Maxwell wanted to laugh at the image, but it was quickly replaced by a more somber thought.
Claire claimed she was okay, but was she really? She had been gone for days, and in addition to the bruise that was flowering on her cheek, her wrists were bloodied and her arms looked bruised. They’d have a serious talk later, not only about the ordeal, but about their future. Maxwell was determined to protect her from anything like this happening again—he just hoped she had similar ideas.
Maxwell glanced down at the man again. Man alive, a frying pan. Wait ‘til Percy hears about this. A huge grin of delight spread across his face. Land sakes.
Looking around the room for something to secure the crooks; he saw a tangle of rope on the floor and used it to hogtie the man to the bed, securing him with multiple knots. Frank wasn’t going anywhere for a very long time.
Tom breathed deeply to regain his control before heading out to tie up Bud as well. He yanked Bud up by the elbow and shoved him toward the shanty. Claire followed behind, the pistol still aimed at Bud’s back in case he tried to escape, or worse, attack.
“Get in there, you louse. It’s your lucky day. I’m going let you live. Let’s see how you like being taken captive.”
“Sheriff, sir, you cain’t do this. Please, I got to have a doctor.”
“We’ll get you a doctor. Eventually.” Maxwell glared at the man, daring him to argue.
Claire interrupted their willful stares. “Sheriff, we really need to care for this man. I shot him, true, but I was afraid for my life. We still need to help him. Please.”
Maxwell softened when he saw the pleading in Claire’s eyes and he relented. “You’re right. We’ll fix him up best as we can and when we get to Columbus we’ll send a doctor and the law back here to care for him and his buddy. Find me some whiskey, then.”
Maxwell half pushed, half shoved Bud into the cabin and tied the man to the heaviest object he could find, the pot belly stove. The man opened his mouth to protest, but Maxwell silenced him with a glare. Bud looked over at Frank, still unconscious on the bed, and a visible shudder ran through his body.
“Claire, where’s that whiskey? I want to clean out that shoulder wound. Besides, I could use a belt, and from the looks of your face, a swallow wouldn’t hurt you either.”
“Tom, I’m fine, really I am. I’m just so relieved to see you. I’ve been praying for days that help would come, and here you are.” Her voice trembled and her knees felt weak. Claire grabbed the table’s edge to steady herself. After a moment, she reached into the flour bag and produced the bottle of liquor she’d hidden earlier.
Maxwell pulled out the stopper and leaned over Bud.”This is gonna sting a bit.” He spread apart the torn and bloodied shirt and sloshed whiskey into the wound. Bud’s face contorted in
to a grimace of pain, but he said nothing. Maxwell peered closely at the hole.
“Doesn’t look too bad.”
He pulled a knife from his boot, poured some whiskey over the blade to sterilize it, and began to probe gently. Bud yelped in pain before losing consciousness. Maxwell continued to probe, fishing out the slug and setting it on the table. While Bud was still out, Maxwell dressed the wound and turned to Claire, who had been hovering at his shoulder.
“He’ll be okay now. It’s better he’s out. The less he moves, the more quickly the wound will start to heal.”
He wiped the rim of the bottle with his shirttail and took a large swallow downing it quickly, warmth spreading through his belly. He re-wiped the rim and insisted Claire take a drink. She managed a small swallow that made her splutter and cough at the burning in her throat. She reached for the coffeepot, still warm from dinner, poured out a mug and gratefully drank a few sips while Maxwell watched her, amused. She poured him a cup as well and noticed him eyeing the dinner dishes.
“I haven’t had a bite to eat all day, but we really need to get going. It’ll be dark soon and I want to get you safely to Columbus.”
Claire snatched up some left over biscuits and handed them to Tom.
“You can eat these while I gather up my belongings.”
“Claire¼”
“Tom, I am not leaving my mother’s candlesticks or my jewelry.” She scooped up her items and stowed them in a bag. She paused as she was walking out the door.
“How are we planning on getting to Columbus? You only have the one horse.”
“We’ll borrow Frank’s. He won’t need it. I’ll make arrangements with the sheriff in Columbus. After all you’ve been through, he might even decide you can keep the horse. Call it the spoils of war.”
“We¼we aren’t taking them with us?”
“Nah, they’re better off here anyway. Besides, I think they deserve to stew in pain for awhile. I’ll send the law out to pick them up tomorrow morning. Now let’s go, before it’s completely dark.”
Faith of the Heart Page 12
