by Kaki Warner
Edwina blinked up at him, taken aback by his casual demonstration of affection. Her father had never kissed her mother in front of others. Or probably in private, either, considering the state of their marriage. It was surprising, but nice, that Declan felt comfortable doing so.
She wondered how he would react if she threw herself at his neck like she wanted to. She smiled, picturing it. Maybe he’d scoop her up in those strong arms and whisk her away to—
“I guess we could start in the loft.”
“W-what?” Had he really said that? In front of everyone?
“See what you want to salvage from there, then check out the other rooms. What do you think?”
“Oh, yes, well . . . there might be a few things.” She tried to cover her distraction by pretending to consider his question. In truth, the main thing she wanted from the house was that marvelous log bed. Surely Declan could plane out the hatchet marks left by the Indians. And the tub would be nice to have. And maybe that cabinet where he kept his shaving mug. She thought of the way he’d looked standing there in that towel—all golden skin and rounded muscle and that arrow of dark hair pointing down—
“Unless you are too sore.”
Edwina almost choked.
Taking her hand, he studied the scratches on her palm, the bruise above her wrist. The frown on his brow told her he was thinking of practicalities rather than improprieties. “If so, we could stay another day if you want. Figure out what to take back when you’re feeling better.” He continued to stroke her hand, sending a tingle all the way up her arm.
Another day meant another night—away from the crowded rooms and constant interruptions—just the two of them in that big bed, in the dark . . . “I’m not that sore,” she said in a shaky voice.
His expression changed, shifted into something that sent blood pumping through her veins. When his gaze dropped to her breasts, she felt an instant reaction in places she had no name for.
How did he do that? With just a look and a smile he had her mind in chaos and her body in turmoil. Mercy, she was almost sweating. It was shocking and embarrassing and . . . well, a little bit nasty.
But if they did stay another day . . . and night . . .
“I’ll talk to Guthrie,” Declan said. “Tell him we’ll leave at first light tomorrow.”
Edwina might have been mistaken, but it felt like the big hand holding hers might be sweating, too.
It took most of the rest of the day to pick through what items and furniture remained, decide what could be repaired, then load everything onto the wagon.
He and Ed agreed on everything but the bed. She wanted to bring the whole thing. He just wanted the mattress, patiently explaining to his wife that the log frame was too bulky, and would have to be taken apart to get down the stairs, and he’d never be able to get out the chop marks, and it would be easier to get more logs and build another frame.
Besides, he had plans for that bed as soon as it got dark.
They compromised.
He got to make love to his wife in it that night, and in the morning he would take it apart and load it in the wagon.
Not his best negotiation, but Ed was satisfied. Repeatedly.
As was he.
It was midmorning when he closed and bolted the kitchen door for what he hoped would be only a temporary absence. He had no choice but to go. Yet, as they rolled down into the valley, the idea of leaving the ranch carried the bitter taste of failure.
Ranching had been his dream all his life. Even though he’d been raised on a Missouri bottom-land farm by a second-generation farmer, he’d always dreamed of working cattle rather than dirt.
He understood farming. With his size and strength, he probably would have been good at it. But there was something about cutting up good grassland with a plow blade that had always seemed wrong to him.
So, when he was sixteen and his brothers were old enough to help Pa, he’d headed west. For three years he’d worked at different outfits, learning the land, the climate, the ways of cattle. By the time he’d reached his twentieth birthday, he’d met Sally, married her, and staked his claim to sixty thousand mountainous acres that he named Highline Ranch.
Over the next few years he’d driven feral cattle up from Texas and across the plains. He’d fathered children, built a home, battled blizzards and drought, and been so busy chasing his dream across this long, grassy valley, he’d lost his wife somewhere along the way.
He wasn’t going to lose this one, too. Even if he had to leave the ranch and live in a ramshackle mining town until he was too old to wear a sheriff’s badge, he would do it to keep his family safe and his wife happy.
Although, he mused, studying Ed’s forlorn expression as she twisted on the seat to look back at the house, this wife seemed almost as sad as he did to be leaving their home.
“So what should we do for Brin’s birthday?” she asked after a while.
“Give her the presents we got her.”
She gave him a look from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “I mean should we invite other children to the house? Girls her own age? I could make a piñata and fill it with candy. Pru could make a cake. She makes the most delicious buttercream frosting. Do you think Brin would like that?”
“The cake part.”
“You don’t think she would like having a birthday gathering?”
“Not if she had to wear that dress you made for her.”
She muttered something he didn’t catch, which was probably for the best. They rode in silence for a time, then she said, “How did you break your little finger?”
“Joe Bill.”
“No! I’m shocked!”
He kindly overlooked the blatant sarcasm. “Actually it was my fault. I told him to close the door but forgot to remind him to wait until I got my hand out of it.” He smiled down at her. “I think you’ve won him over.”
She laughed—a soft, rippling sound that had a breathy quality, which made him think of other breathy sounds she made. In bed. In the dark.
“Rout one cougar and you’re a hero forever. I wonder what heroic feat I’ll have to perform to get R.D. to talk to me.”
“Good luck. R.D.’s not much of a talker. Never has been.”
“Like his father?”
“I talk plenty,” he defended. “In fact, since you got here, Thomas can hardly be around me, I talk so much.”
She laughed. “So many talents. Talking and peep shows. You should go on stage in New Orleans.”
“Want to pull over and see how talented I can be?”
“Hush. Besides, I already know how talented you are.”
“Not in daylight.”
“My, look at those orange flowers. Aren’t they lovely?”
Sixteen
It was late afternoon when they reached the confluence of Heartbreak Creek and the smaller, less foul Elderberry Creek, which ran behind the refurbished sheriff’s house.
Edwina was so relieved, she almost wept. She felt like she’d been run through a wringer in a bag of rocks, she was so sore from bouncing around on the hard seat all day.
Pulling the team to a stop, Declan waited for Lieutenant Guthrie to come alongside the wagon.
“You’re welcome to stay at our place, Lieutenant. The water’s better and we’ve got a woman who can cook like nothing you ever ate. Two of them,” he added quickly before Edwina could dredge up the energy to take offense.
“Appreciate that.” Leaning over, Guthrie doused a weed with a stream of brown tobacco juice, saw Edwina’s look of distaste, and muttered, “Excuse me, ma’am,” as he straightened. “But I’m giving the men an overnight furlough, and they’ll be wanting to cut the wolf loose.” He gave Declan a meaningful look. “I’ll try to keep them in line until we leave in the morning, but I hope you’ll be lenient with them, Sheriff.”
“No shooting or fighting,” Declan warned, “and we’ll get along fine.”
Guthrie nodded. They said their good-byes, then the troopers turned north
into town, and Declan reined the team east along the track that followed the creek, Amos and the boys bringing up the rear.
As soon as the wagon pulled into the yard, Thomas stepped onto the front porch. Brin and Lucas rushed out after him, but at a word from the Cheyenne, they stopped at the porch railing and watched with anxious faces as he continued past them down the steps. He was limping, Edwina noted.
He was also wearing his Indian attire again, complete with war shirt, leggings, topknot, and eagle feather. But no deputy’s badge. A huge, dark bruise covered one side of his face and he cradled his rifle across one arm.
Edwina glanced around, wondering where Pru was.
After telling R.D. and Joe Bill to help Amos unload the wagon, Declan climbed down and went to meet him. Feeling a prickle of unease, Edwina remained in the driver’s box and watched the two men talk in low, earnest tones.
Something was wrong. Something had happened.
She looked around again. Where was Pru?
Without waiting for help, she climbed down. But once on the ground, she was assailed by sudden dizziness, her heart beating so hard she could feel the thud of it against the walls of her chest.
Clinging to the wheel, she glanced at the children on the porch, scanned the carriage house, the side yards. But still didn’t see Pru.
Then Declan turned. And in that instant their gazes met, she knew with a certainty that almost buckled her knees.
Something terrible had happened.
No, a voice screamed inside her head. Not Pru.
Frantically she scanned the yard again, found Thomas looking back at her out of his black agate eyes, and wanted to rail at him for not keeping her safe, for letting something happen. “Where’s Pru?” she called.
Instead of answering, he turned and limped through the side yard to the stables in the carriage house.
Declan walked toward her. She clutched at the wheel, felt the nicked edge of the metal rim dig into her hand, and shook her head, willing him to stop and go back. “No,” she said.
But still he came, closer and closer, until he filled her vision and all she saw was the placket on his shirt with three white buttons.
“Ed, I’m sorry.” He put his hands on her shoulders, to steady her or keep her from falling, she didn’t know. “Pru was taken.”
Taken? How was someone taken? She didn’t know what that meant. “Is she—is she dead?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“What happened? Taken where? By who? I don’t understand.”
“By Lone Tree.”
A buzzing began in her ears, growing so loud she heard only snatches of what he said next. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
We should have been back then. But I made him stay. Because of her, Pru would suffer again. She almost staggered from the pain of it. Then she saw Thomas come around the house leading his horse, and her fury ignited, burning so hot it brought tears to her eyes. “Why didn’t he stop them? Why didn’t he save her?”
“He tried, Ed.”
Shoving her husband aside, she ran toward Thomas.
He stopped and waited for her to come, his bruised face impassive, his eyes as flat and hard as chips of black stone.
She wanted to hit him, claw those eyes, scream her rage in his face.
“How could you let this happen, Thomas? How could you let them take her?”
Favoring his bad leg, he pulled himself up onto his horse’s back. After sliding the rifle into a sling by his knee, he looked solemnly down at her. “I tell you this, Edwina Brodie. I will find Eho’nehevehohtse. I will bring her back. That is my promise.” With a nod to Declan, he reined the horse toward the mountains and nudged it into a lope.
“He’ll find her,” Declan said from behind her.
Edwina turned on him, the fury still strong inside her, her thoughts so scattered nothing was making sense. “Why are you still here? Why aren’t you going with him?”
“I can’t leave you and the children.” He put his hand on her shoulder.
She shrugged it away and started toward the stable. “Then I’ll go.”
He pulled her back. “You would only slow him down.”
Without warning, acid rose in her throat. She doubled over, retching, but nothing came out. Pru. Oh, God . . . Pru.
Declan’s arm came across her shoulders. She hadn’t the strength to fight him, so she let him steer her toward the porch where the children watched. Lucas was pale as parchment. Brin was crying, tear tracks showing through the dirt on her face.
Not now. Don’t cry in front of the children. Wait. Later she could curl up somewhere and give in to the fear. She would wail and weep and rage until her mind went numb and her throat grew hoarse. Then she could decide what to do next.
Wait. Just a few more steps.
“Thomas said Lucinda sent food from the hotel,” Declan told her. “Let’s get the children fed, then we can talk.”
Talk? About what? What was there to say? What could he possibly tell her that would make sense of this?
When they reached the porch steps, Brin launched herself at her father, Lucas close on her heels. Letting go of Edwina, Declan went down on one knee and took them into his arms, murmuring that they were safe now, he was here, everything would be fine.
Edwina looked away, the need to give in to her own tears like a fist in her throat. How could anything be fine again?
R.D. and Joe Bill came up behind them, and suddenly everyone was talking at once, and Brin was crying and Joe Bill and R.D. were wanting to saddle up and go after Thomas.
Edwina couldn’t bear it and continued on past them, desperate to escape the noise and the pain and the fear that clawed at her insides.
Just a few more steps.
It was a quiet dinner. Edwina couldn’t eat, but stared blankly down at the table, terror lodged like a stone in her chest. The children scarcely spoke, and Declan spent more time watching her than eating.
The part of her mind not steeped in fear wondered why she was sitting here before a plate full of food, safe and secure, while Pru—
God . . . Pru.
“Ed.”
Through a blur of tears, she looked at Declan’s hard, unsmiling face with that furrow between his eyes.
“You have to eat something,” he said.
She looked down at the food on her plate, not sure what it was, or how it had gotten there. Dutifully she picked up her fork. But her fingers couldn’t seem to grip it, and the fork clattered against her plate, then slipped from her grip. Such a simple thing. But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make sense of anything. Couldn’t stop shaking. “I c-can’t—” she began, then clapped a hand over her mouth as a sudden hot wave of nausea churned in her throat.
“Boys, tend your chores. Take Brin with you.”
Dimly she heard the scrape of chairs, footfalls fading down the hall. Propping her elbows beside her plate, she dropped her head into her hands.
Not yet. Later. Just a little while longer.
But the dam had already burst.
Declan watched her from his place at the end of the table. He hated to see her cry, but he was glad that her brittle control had finally snapped. He was surprised she’d held herself together this long. That glassy-eyed look had scared him. Like she’d moved to a place he couldn’t reach, and if she kept drifting, she would disappear altogether.
He wanted to go over there and comfort her, but he wasn’t sure how, or if she would even let him, so he kept his seat. “Ed,” he said, finally.
Slowly she looked up.
There was a savage look in her eyes. A fury he hadn’t expected. Yet beneath it, he saw the bewilderment of a stricken child.
“Why, Declan?” Her voice wobbled. Tremors shook her chin. Her eyes were seeping wounds in her pale, tear-streaked face. “Why won’t you go after her?”
“And leave you and the children here alone?”
“Thomas is hurt. He could have stayed.”
“Ev
en hurt, he can go where I can’t.”
He watched her digest that. Then her shoulders sagged in resignation. “Yes. Thomas will find her. He’ll bring her back. He promised.”
Declan clamped his jaw against an unreasoning swell of resentment. He wanted to be the one to find Pru. He wanted to be the one to bring her back and wipe that stricken look from his wife’s face.
“I can’t leave you and the children unprotected,” he said.
She looked toward the window. “I understand.”
He wondered if she did. He wondered if she knew that her pain was eating a hole in his chest. “Ed, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t respond.
Talk to me, he wanted to shout at her. Just talk to me.
She didn’t. And so they sat.
Gravy congealed on the plate before him. A fly droned slow circles above the butter crock. Beyond the window, horses paced and whickered as the boys threw hay over the paddock fence.
“What happened?” she finally asked, breaking the long silence.
Declan hadn’t been able to get many details from Thomas before he left, and Brin was still so upset she didn’t want to talk about it, but he related what he knew. “They were fishing at the creek,” he began. “Brin got bored, so she and Pru wandered a ways down the bank, hunting tadpoles. They were about fifty yards upstream when two Arapahos jumped out of the bushes and grabbed for Brin. Pru tried to stop them. Thomas heard her scream and came running, but it was two against one.”
“That’s how he got hurt?”
Declan nodded. “Took a knife in the leg and a rifle butt to his head. When he came to, Pru was gone.”
“What about the children?”
“Jeb Kendal—you met him, that log place down from ours—he’d heard Pru’s scream and had grabbed his rifle and was running toward the creek when the children came tearing out of the brush with an Indian on their tail. When the redskin saw Jeb, he ducked into the trees and the children ran to Jeb. He thought he heard a woman cry out, but wasn’t sure. A minute later, Thomas staggered out of the brush. They searched, but no sign of Pru or the Indians.”
