Texas Love Song

by Jodi Thomas

  “I know,” she answered. “I noticed. They are Cheyenne. Their leader was Black Kettle. From what I understand, they were camped along the Washita River for the winter when soldiers destroyed their village.”

  “And where are their parents now?”

  “What’s left of the tribe crossed the hundredth parallel three weeks ago after their village was attacked. So, I guess that makes them somewhere in the Great Plains and on the warpath.”

  “But how did the children get here?”

  “An old medicine man hid them during the fighting, moving south each night. By the time he felt safe enough to travel in light, he was too far from the tribe to catch up and too old to hunt. A friend of Miss Alyce’s found the old man and brought him here for her to treat. Before he died, he told her where the children were hiding. She needed me to get them here and smuggle them into the station.” McCall looked at him over the head of the little girl. “And I need you to help get them home.”

  Sloan tried to keep his voice from rising. “You can’t be serious! If we take these children into the middle of an Indian war, any soldiers who find us will at best hang us and take the children back to Indian territory. At worst, they’ll kill the children. Any Indian across the line is considered hostile, and some don’t make exceptions for age.”

  He had to make her understand the danger. He’d spent two years fighting on the western frontier and knew the risk she’d face. “Should, by some wild chance, we make it through the fort’s patrols and onto the plains, any war party greeting us will be taking our scalps.” How could this woman think of such a crazy thing as transporting these children into country not safe for the frontier army, except in large numbers?

  “I didn’t say it would be easy. We’re breaking the law, and we’ll probably be killed before we can get back. But I’m going if I have to drive the wagon all day and scout the trail all night. And Miss Alyce has agreed to come with me. She thinks it a fine quest.”

  Sloan glanced at the wrinkled woman obviously older than any settlement in Texas. “Of course,” he shrugged. Miss Alyce didn’t seem strong enough to make it down the stairs for meals, much less across open country in a wagon filled with children.

  He turned McCall toward him with a light grip on her shoulders. “This is impossible. You can’t consider such a thing. The Great Plains isn’t the town down the road, it’s hundreds of miles of land. If the soldiers and Indians don’t kill you, the storms and snakes will. There are herds of buffalo out there so huge a man couldn’t cross them in a day if he could walk on their backs. And they move, thundering across the land, trampling everything in their path.”

  She looked at him calmly, as if refusing to be frightened or swayed by the truth.

  “The weather can turn cold so fast you’ll freeze before you can find shelter. No one in his right mind would travel alone through such a place.”

  The lady in black watched him with pleading eyes and a lifted chin that said she’d only ask once more. “I’m going. Will you go with us? I don’t need a hero, I only need a driver.”

  Sloan studied her, then the faces of the children. Some stared at him, openly curious, some fought not to show fear. He guessed they’d been through hell to be this far south and alone. They were going whether he went along to help or not. He wasn’t sure he could live with himself if he sent them out alone, and he wasn’t sure he would live long if he went with them.

  He took a deep breath, as if it might be his last, and answered, “I’ll go.”

  She’d read him correctly. If he succeeded, he could never tell anyone, and if he died, McCall Harrison was right, he’d die with honor.

  Three

  SLOAN STRETCHED OUT across the hay in the barn loft and tried to make his bruised body relax. He’d spent hours talking and planning with McCall Harrison. Finally, after several arguments, he’d agreed that they would take two wagons, even though it meant traveling slower and much fatter with supplies than he’d have liked. They’d also take two extra horses. Once the children were delivered, McCall planned to abandon one of the wagons and bring Alyce Wren home on the other. Sloan agreed to ride as far as the first fort with them, then he thought he would turn west toward Santa Fe. Somewhere farther west he’d lose himself and his past, if he had to go all the way to California.

  McCall could have put most generals to shame with her detailed planning. Her only weakness lay in her insistence on comfort for the children and her inability to tell Alyce Wren no. These were Cheyenne offspring. They were used to hardships, but Sloan couldn’t convince her. So, he would be heading north as soon as the storm cleared with twice the wagons and supplies they’d need and enough blankets to keep half the children in Texas warm for the winter. To top it off, Alyce Wren had decided she wasn’t leaving her favorite rocker.

  Closing his eyes, Sloan pictured how McCall’s face had looked in anger. She had the kind of beauty that stuck with a man a long time, he thought. The kind of woman he’d probably never be so close to again.

  A board creaked somewhere within the darkness of the barn. Icy wind blew between the cracks in the walls and rumbled in the distance like faraway cannon fire. Several animals below shifted at once. Sloan felt his muscles tighten.

  “Relax,” he mumbled to himself. “The war’s over.” How many times had he told himself that and still he couldn’t believe the words. Awake or asleep, the war still haunted his thoughts. The memory of the curse Satan’s Seven had whispered always seemed to follow him like a shadow. If he changed sides, they promised to find him, even if it took a lifetime.

  As he closed his eyes once more and forced his body to uncoil, the thin blade of a knife pressed against his throat…cold, hard, and deadly.

  Sloan didn’t open his eyes as every instinct came fully awake.

  The blade pressed harder, threatening to break the skin.

  Sloan waited for his chance to respond. If he swallowed, the knife would be bloody.

  “Don’t move, mister,” a young voice whispered, “or I’ll cut your Adam’s apple out and feed it to you.”

  Slowly opening his eyes, Sloan stared at a boy above him. The attacker was one of the older Indian children he’d seen earlier. In the darkness, Sloan could hear that his voice was filled with fear, but his hand was steady. His dark hair hung to his shoulders and his eyes were wide and black.

  Sloan raised his hands above his head.

  “That’s right, mister,” the boy whispered. “Now if you listen, you might just get out of here with most of your blood and some of your hair.”

  Sloan fought down a smile. The kid couldn’t be more than seven or eight.

  “The others sent me, ’cause I’ve hunted and killed things before, and I can speak your language better than most born to it. They want me to tell you to get on one of the horses and ride out tonight. We don’t want or need you around.”

  “Or what?” Sloan shifted slightly, moving a fraction of an inch away from the knife at his throat.

  “Or I’ll kill you in your sleep. I swear,” the boy answered with the chilling confidence of certainty.

  “Why?” Sloan moved another fraction away. “I’ve done nothing to harm you. I’ve only offered my help.”

  “We decided we don’t want you along. Miss Alyce Wren can doctor us and Mrs. McCall can drive the other wagon. We see you as nothing but extra baggage carrying trouble.”

  Sloan guessed that his attacker and one or two of the older boys already considered themselves men enough to protect the others. “And if I refuse?” Sloan whispered as he shifted slightly.

  The boy thought a moment. “Then I guess I’ll have to kill you now. There’s no use waiting until you’re asleep.”

  Sloan knew he could move suddenly and take the knife away from the child without so much as a scratch, but he’d rip the boy’s pride apart. “Could we talk about this?” The boy hesitated and Sloan continued, “You could keep the knife ready to kill me at any time, but hear me out. After all, it’s only a few minute
s of your time and it seems to be the rest of mine.”

  The boy leaned back and nodded. “We’ll talk, but don’t make any sudden moves, mister. I sharpened this knife on the bones of a deer.”

  Sloan slowly rose to sit cross-legged beside his attacker. “First, any warrior, even one about to die, deserves to know his killer. What’s your name, brave one?”

  The boy smiled, his dark eyes shining with pride at the compliment. “I’m called Winter.”

  “Winter is a fine name.” Sloan offered his hand. “I’m called Sloan Alexander.”

  A warm brown hand slowly touched Sloan’s palm. “We will not be friends, Sloan Alexander,” the boy said as he shook hands.

  “Then you will be my respected enemy, Winter. I understand a man can measure his worth by the strength of his enemies.”

  Winter nodded and sat a little taller.

  “I know you and the others don’t need me to go with the women to take you home.” Sloan tried to guess why the children would want him to leave. “Many of you are old enough to fight and protect all the women and children.”

  The boy nodded agreement.

  “But when we reach the camps of your people, who will take the women back?”

  The boy lowered his knife. “We didn’t think of that. Someone will have to. It would put our people in too much danger to ask them to wait while we backtracked.”

  Sloan smiled, thinking this bright little boy would make a great man someday, if he lived long enough in this crazy world. “Then, you wouldn’t mind if I ride along with you just so I can bring the women back? I’ll try to stay out of the way.”

  Winter shook his head. “All right. I’ll let you live, mister. But you’d better never make me sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Sloan answered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Also,” the boy added, “you have to swear not to tell anyone that I know English. Once folks find that out it’s a real bother.”

  “You have my word, Winter.”

  As silently as the boy had appeared, he disappeared. Sloan leaned back on his blanket. There would be plenty of time to ask Winter how he’d learned to speak English so smoothly…or if he was of mixed blood. The boy brought up several questions, but of one thing Sloan was sure. Winter had been willing to kill him if needed.

  A light snow continued to fall the next day and the next. Sloan spent most of his time in the barn making sure every inch of the wagons was ready to travel. The station manager’s daughter made excuses to visit often, but soon grew bored with Sloan’s coldness. She was trouble looking for a place to root and grow, and he wasn’t offering to help.

  On the third afternoon the sky cleared and a weak sun melted away the dusting of white within a few hours. Sloan pulled a workbench out into the sun and turned his face to the warmth. He carefully folded one leather strap over another, braiding a flat strip like he’d been taught while in the cavalry. In the three days he’d been at the stage station he’d managed to stay out the manager’s way and out of sight of all travelers. Only Alyce Wren seemed to make it her business to keep up with him. The coldness that had worked so easily on the girl only seemed to encourage the old woman to stay longer. Sloan was starting to wonder if the old lady thought she’d hired him, or adopted him.

  “I’d make one strap thicker.” Her voice came over his shoulder. Sloan didn’t turn around or stand from where he straddled the bench.

  Miss Alyce Wren waddled closer, in a rustle of heavy satin and fur. “The vaqueros on our ranches in my youth always braided an irregular strap in with two of the same size to strengthen the rope.” She moved around the bench so that she could face him. “Now, those were cattlemen—kings compared to the drifters who think they herd today.”

  Sloan didn’t answer. He hardly ever answered, but she didn’t notice. She loved to tell him of a time long ago when Texas was a part of Mexico and she was the belle of parties on both sides of the Rio Grande.

  Miss Alyce Wren turned her face to the sun for a few minutes before looking back at Sloan. “I crossed the plains with my father more than once. I’m guessing we’ll hit trouble about a day past the last fort. Before that, we’ll be safe. The wind increases as we move onto the plains, and the Indians will be able to hear us coming. I remember that the land smells so thickly of soil and sun. A body can see a hundred miles across the tall grass and hear twice as far. You were right about the danger. It doesn’t even have to snow; the cold wind is so strong it can freeze a horse in minutes, never mind a man. But the silent beauty of it took my breath away, and I’d like to see it again before I die.”

  “You could stay here. I’ll return to tell you about it,” Sloan encouraged as he glanced up to meet her gray eyes. “So could Mrs. Harrison. I could go alone.”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly. “I have to go this time. My McCallie would never let you go alone. If she did, she’d just find another cause to fight without your help. She dances to danger’s melody and doesn’t plan to stop. For three years I’ve watched her. Now, maybe I can help.”

  “I’ll watch out for her.” Sloan halted braiding. The old woman was starting to spook him worse than the sound of a rattler in the center of a herd. She was such a mixture of southern lady and homeless fortune-teller. He guessed she’d been raised with wealth, but if she’d lived through the past fifty years in Texas, it would take far more than a cold wind or threat of danger to frighten her.

  “You’ll need McCall more than she’ll need you.” Alyce Wren’s face seemed to melt with sorrow. “You’ll go with her this time and, if you live, walk away with pride, but she’ll go on to fight another cause, then another.”

  “What’s she trying to prove?”

  Alyce Wren wiggled her mouth, attempting to find words, then suddenly threw her hands in the air as if no language would tell her thoughts. With a mumbled sound, she turned and hurried toward the back door of the station.

  Sloan shrugged and finished the braid. He didn’t need an answer. He’d figured it out for himself from the bits and pieces others had said. According to the station manager’s daughter, McCall Harrison had loved her husband so much she went to war with him, staying well behind the lines. But one dawn, he led his men into a bloody fight with the Yankees in Indian territory. The Rebs were winning for a few hours, but the battle turned. By dark, most of the men were dead, or dying. McCall drove her wagon to the edge of the battle and waded through the bodies until she found her gut-shot husband. He was too big for her to carry alone, so she held him all night while he died slowly in her arms. At dawn the Yankees helped her load his body into her wagon. She arrived home several days later, still wearing her blood-soaked dress and half dead herself from hunger and exhaustion.

  Propping his foot on the bench, Sloan closed his eyes and tried to imagine loving or being loved by someone so much. He leaned his arm atop his knee and stared out toward the house. Maybe McCall’s story was just that, a story. Folks like to color the truth from time to time. She was probably just a widow left half mad by a war no one seemed to understand. But he’d seen the respect the men had shown her the night he’d been beaten, and he had to wonder if parts of her tale weren’t true.

  * * *

  McCall watched Sloan from the shadows of the barn. His lean body was war-thin, yet strong like the rawhide he worked in his hands. The bruises he’d suffered in the beating three days ago were still there, but he hadn’t complained. His hair was such a remarkable brown, it looked sun-kissed at first glance and hung a few inches too long over his collar. Her husband would have ordered him to get it cut before the next formation.

  Blinking away her tears, McCall realized there were no more formations. It seemed she’d lived all her life in a military camp. The few times they’d returned to the ranch, Holden Harrison had kept military hours for meals and lights out. He’d expected everyone around him, including his wife, to be ready to stand at attention.

  Watching this stranger now, McCall saw little of the army left in him. Ex
cept in the hardness of his jaw and the depth of his brown eyes. She didn’t want to admit to herself that he made her uneasy…like a scent that drifts across the land warning of a storm. There was a stillness about him that frightened her. Holden, her husband, had always been predictable in his actions, but this stranger didn’t seem to live by the same code. He hadn’t fought for his own life against the attack three nights ago. He’d agreed to help her without asking a price. And sometimes he looked at her with those haunting dark eyes as if he didn’t believe what he saw. He looked at her with the hunger of one who’d never known being full. But a hunger for what?

  McCall moved from the shadows into the long afternoon strands of light. She knew he saw her coming, but he didn’t glance in her direction or stand as a gentleman would have done when she approached.

  “Think it’s going to snow tonight?” she asked softly, as if talking to herself.

  “Might,” Sloan answered, his fingers moving along the leather.

  McCall circled him. The man was starting to bother her more than she wanted to admit. She’d thought he’d be perfect to drive the wagon, but now she wasn’t so sure. In the past few days he hadn’t spoken a complete sentence to her. She was beginning to think even if she could turn him upside down and shake him, she couldn’t get more than a dime’s worth of conversation out of him. Most men talked of home or the past; he only spoke when asked a direct question. “Do you think you’re up to riding out with me to my ranch? I need to pick up a few things before we leave tomorrow. It isn’t far.”

  “Sure.” He stood and laid down the rope. “I’ll hitch the wagon.”

  “No.” McCall reached toward him, then drew her hand back, not sure how such a man might react to a light touch. “Saddle a couple of horses. We’ll make faster time.”

  To her surprise, he turned and smiled. A brief smile that only lasted a moment before he moved to the stalls.