Texas Love Song

by Jodi Thomas

  For a moment she wanted to shout to her savior to stop. For if it was Alyce Wren or Winter, they would be no more a match for an insanely angry Sloan than she was.

  McCall staggered forward and watched the two struggling. The attacker and her defender were equal in height, the defender slimmer and bare-chested, the attacker bearded and barrel-chested. Whoever was fighting her attacker was far too tall to be Miss Alyce or Winter.

  Suddenly, her defender had the upper hand, pinning the larger man to the ground. She could hear the bearded man being choked until his breath seemed almost gone. He fought wildly, but the bare-chested man seemed stronger.

  “Had enough?” Sloan shouted from above the man. “I’ve no wish to kill you.”

  The man on the bottom relaxed and Sloan slowly pulled back, allowing McCall to see for the first time the face of the man who’d hit her. He seemed more bear than human, with long scraggly hair and a beard fanning his face. A crimson line cut his cheek just below his left eye. Blood flowed into his beard like a tiny waterfall. His clothes marked him as a buckskinner, or maybe a buffalo hunter.

  The man raised to one elbow and gripped his throat, choking out his words one at a time. “First she tries to shoot me and now you try to choke me. What kind of people are you folks?”

  Sloan glanced at McCall with worry in his eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

  McCall lied with a shake of her head.

  He turned his attention to the stranger. “She wasn’t shooting at you. She was shooting at me.”

  The man looked even more confused. “And you stopped me from killing her?”

  Sloan’s smile flashed white in the moonlight. “Does sound a little crazy, but I can’t allow you to beat her even if she is trying to kill me.”

  “Are there any more of you folks around?” The mountain man retrieved his hat and slapped it against his leg.

  Sloan and McCall exchanged a glance. “No,” McCall said. “We’re alone.”

  Moving slightly so that the view of the campsite would not be behind him when he spoke to the stranger, Sloan added, “That’s right. My…wife and I are on our way to a ranch just south of the Indian territory. We had a little fight an hour back, and she was just taking out her anger while I took a bath.”

  “She could have killed you!” The stranger looked at Sloan as though he were a little too dense to be left alone.

  “He’d be dead by now if I were trying to kill him. I’m a better shot than that,” McCall added.

  Sloan raised an eyebrow, telling her he remembered just how close she’d come.

  The stranger watched Sloan closely. “Don’t I know you? My name’s Willis, but most call me Bull. I’m not real good with names, but I never forget a face.”

  Sloan looked back at the man, but in the moonlight he couldn’t see beyond the beard. “No, I don’t think so.” He saw no point in giving his name.

  “I never forget a man and you sure do look like we’ve crossed paths before,” the man mumbled. “You fight for the North, or South?”

  “North,” Sloan answered slowly.

  The stranger shook his head. “No, couldn’t have been the war. I was a Reb. Spent most of the time in a Yankee prison. You weren’t one of the guards or I’d remember you for sure. Their faces are tattooed on my brain. Since the war, I’ve been riding with some old buddies. There’s money to be made in killing buffalo, if you can do it fast enough. I’d just stopped to water my horse, across the creek there, when your wife almost clipped my ear with her first shot.”

  The stranger took a step closer. “You been in Texas long?”

  Sloan fought to not look away or step back. “No,” he said.

  Bull scratched his beard as though the action helped him think.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever met, Bull.” Sloan’s tone left no room for discussion. “I was on the frontier most of the time after the war, and I only arrived in Texas a short time ago.”

  The stranger seemed to stare closely, then suddenly moved restlessly. “Well, I don’t want to come between a married couple.” He glanced at McCall as if just remembering she was near. “Sorry to have hit your wife. I don’t usually fight with women. Especially ones using bullets.” He didn’t seem to feel any need to say he was sorry to McCall. “I’ll just be on my way.”

  “Where are you headed?” Sloan asked the question casually, almost.

  “South,” the man answered. “I was supposed to meet up with some men, but I reckon I’m a day late and a dollar short, as they say.” The man’s dark eyes stared hard at Sloan as he continued, “Who knows, they may be staked out somewhere, left to dry in the sun with their hearts cut out.”

  The stranger disappeared back into the night as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Nine

  SLOAN WATCHED THE mountain man walk back into the night. He knew that under normal circumstances travelers would offer to share a campsite. But Sloan hadn’t offered and the stranger hadn’t suggested. The Apache they’d seen at dawn came to mind, and Sloan wondered if they were the men the stranger had been expecting to find, or were they, like the mountain of a man, both waiting for someone else?

  Instinctively, Sloan stepped in front of McCall in case a bullet should come out of the darkness from the direction the stranger had gone. Had the man’s last words been just something he’d heard somewhere, or was he one of the Satan’s Seven who’d ruled the prison camp years ago? The odds were that he wasn’t, but Sloan couldn’t be sure until he saw the man more clearly.

  Sloan tried to relax, but he had the feeling, after three years, that his oldest nightmare was about to come to life. The image of the first Confederate to say he’d changed sides flashed in Sloan’s memory. They had staked the man out near the front gate, blatantly showing their work to all the Union guards. The man’s mouth was gagged and he had bloodied the ropes binding his hands and feet trying to pull free. His heart lay atop his chest, already collecting flies by the time the rest of the prisoners had awakened.

  Glancing at McCall, Sloan pulled himself back to the present and whispered, “Let’s get out of here tomorrow.”

  He didn’t know if the man recognized him or not, but Sloan wasn’t taking any chances.

  McCall straightened her clothes, “That man almost killed me,” she whispered. “He would have if you hadn’t stopped him.” Her hands shook as she moved them over the folds of her skirt. “He hit me!”

  She reminded him of a first battle warrior…all brave during the fighting, then falling apart as soon as they realized they were safe.

  “Let me take a look at that chin. I could hear the smack he gave you from across the creek.”

  McCall made no protest as Sloan touched her cheek and turned her face to the moonlight. The moon shone a lantern’s worth of brightness.

  “You’ve never been hit before, have you?” he asked, thinking of the times he’d been slugged by his stepfather, before the man kicked him out at fifteen. By then Sloan had reached a point where he’d stand and take the blows without giving his stepfather the satisfaction of knowing how much each one hurt.

  “No,” she answered. “No slaps and no hugs. That seemed to be my family’s code of conduct. My father could punish with a look and reward with a word.”

  “Well, since you’ve had a hit tonight, how about the other—a hug?” Without thinking of how she might react, he opened his arms.

  McCall moved into his embrace. He held her tightly, guessing that it wouldn’t have hurt her father to have done so a few times.

  “Thank you,” she whispered against his shoulder as she pulled away. “For the hug and for saving my life.”

  Sloan lightly brushed at the bruise forming as if he could sweep away the pain. “You wouldn’t have been in danger if you hadn’t been shooting at me, so I guess the whole thing was my fault.”

  “I’m glad I missed.” She stepped out of reach and he didn’t try to stop her. If she ever allowed him to touch her again, he knew it would be of her doing and not from a
ny advance he’d make. She was a person who had to set the boundaries, even in relating to another.

  “I’m glad you missed, too,” he answered. “Next time you try to kill me, you might think of borrowing Winter’s knife. Maybe that way no one else will get involved in the murder. I hate it when strangers come uninvited to my killing.” He smiled, but noticed she didn’t catch the humor of his words.

  “I don’t think I’ll try again.” She held her chin up an inch, as if negotiating a deal. “If you’ll promise to forget this morning ever happened, I’ll promise I won’t try to kill you.”

  “Nothing happened this morning,” he lied, knowing he could never forget touching her. “Only don’t be afraid of me, McCall. Half the time you act as though I’m going to grab you if you pass within five feet of me.”

  “Maybe I’m reacting from experience,” McCall suggested. It was her turn to smile.

  Sloan opened his mouth to argue, but she raised her hand in protest.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped another foot away from her. “I’ll try once more.” He bowed slightly. “I’d like to accept that friendship you offered me earlier. You saved my life the night we met, and maybe I saved yours just now.” He didn’t want to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t been so close. “It’s time we stopped looking at each other as the enemy.”

  McCall nodded. “All right,” she finally said, “but you have to try to understand that I am the way I am, and you haven’t the time to change me. Nothing you can do or Alyce Wren can say will make me any different than what I’ve become.”

  Sloan smiled and tried to make out her expression in the shadows. He lifted one eyebrow, thinking of both the women he knew who seemed to share this lovely body before him. One was as straight as any West Point officer he’d ever known, the other curved and molded to his touch.

  He walked a few feet toward the creek and retrieved his shirt, thinking how he’d like to get to know both women better. When he returned, he handed her the rifle he’d found.

  She accepted the weapon and watched as he pulled his shirt over a tightly muscled body. He hadn’t been as big as the mountain man, but he’d been stronger. Suddenly, McCall was curious about this man she’d hired. “Have you fought in a great many battles?”

  “A few,” he said as he combed his wet hair back with his fingers.

  She couldn’t help but notice, even in the moonlight, the long scar that crossed over his shoulder from collarbone to arm. Another one cut just above the waistband of his pants.

  When he glanced up and saw the direction of her gaze, he quickly closed his shirt and looked away, as though distancing himself from any questions about the scars.

  “Most men talk about their battles.” She’d grown up on dinner table conversations of war. The men in her family would never have seemed ashamed of a scar won in battle. In fact her grandfather’s favorite after-dinner game was to count the bullet holes in his leg he’d collected in the war of 1812.

  “I never found killing a man something to brag about, and I’m not old enough to believe the war was an adventure.” Sloan didn’t look at her as he finished buttoning his shirt.

  “Then why did you join?” she asked as she fell into step with him as they headed back toward the camp.

  “My mother remarried when I was fourteen, and I didn’t really belong at home anymore. I lied about my age and joined up, more for the three square meals than the glory of fighting.”

  He was silent for several steps, then added, “The three squares weren’t too regular in coming. Supplies were always short when I fought for the South. In prison we were lucky to count one meal a day. And on the frontier, we were in the saddle before sunup and didn’t stop until after dark. Most nights the cook was too tired to strike a fire. Some days I wasn’t sure I was eating the dried meat he passed out, or my tack.”

  They were halfway back to the camp and both slowed as if wanting to prolong the conversation.

  “Is your mother still alive?” McCall couldn’t imagine a mother letting her son go to war early.

  Sloan shrugged. “I’m not sure. The night I left she met me about a mile down the road with a knapsack and probably all the money she had. She handed me the food and told me not to ever come back. She had a new man and a new family on the way. There was no room for me.”

  “But didn’t you write her, or return?”

  “Once,” he whispered. “The troop was passing through my hometown in Kansas, and I saw my mom come out of the mercantile not six feet from me. She had a baby in her arms and another one following behind her. I started toward her, but she moved away. She didn’t recognize me. Or if she did, she wished she hadn’t.”

  McCall could tell he was uncomfortable talking about himself and wondered if he’d ever told another what he was telling her now.

  “But where do you call home?” She knew she was prying, but she had to ask.

  “Anywhere, nowhere.” Sloan shrugged. “Does it matter? An hour ago you were trying to kill me. Does it bother you that you wouldn’t know where to send the body?”

  McCall stepped slightly ahead of him so he could no longer see her face.

  “No, I’d already had that planned out. I’d pack you in the back of the wagon and take you to the nearest town or fort. Then I’d put you in a crate, marked fragile, of course, and ship you to New Orleans. It’s so hot down there, someone would smell you setting on the dock and they’d bury you for me.”

  “That’s a plan? General, you’re slipping.”

  “Or I thought of rolling you in the mud so thick you’d look like a log and then I’d tell the children you disappeared.”

  He caught up with her. “You’re kidding? That’s an even lamer idea.”

  The moment he looked in her eyes, he knew he was right. She was teasing him. “Maybe I’m not so easy to kill, General.”

  “That would be a change from every man I’ve ever met,” she answered honestly. “Should I try again?”

  “No.” Sloan held the flap open for her to enter the campsite. “Not until you come up with a better way to dispose of my body.”

  They were both laughing as they stepped into the circle of light around the fire.

  Alyce Wren looked up at the pair and huffed in anger. “You’re both late for supper. I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with folks who are no better than my tomcat at guessing what time to come in after dark. They leave with murder in their eyes and return laughing, when I’m the one who is doing all the work.”

  Sloan couldn’t tell if Alyce Wren was sorry he’d touched McCall, or sorry McCall hadn’t killed him. The old woman made him nervous, always looking at him as though she were waiting for him to do something. It almost seemed as if she’d read a book on his life and was just sitting around waiting for him to get to a page she found interesting.

  Winter moved near Sloan as Sloan knelt to pour a cup of coffee. “Mr. Sloan?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Winter.”

  “We’ve all been talking and we think Miss Alyce’s mind may have flown a little close to the sun today. Some of it sure seems melted away. She’s been talking to herself so much, half of the children have decided it’s their eyes that have the problem and not Miss Alyce.”

  Sloan nodded, and the boy seemed relieved to have told an adult his problem.

  “Want to help me pack up in the morning?” He handed the child a cup half full of coffee.

  “We’re leaving?” Winter took the drink.

  “At first light. This place seems to be the crossroads. The sooner we make it to your mother the better. Every day we wait is just one more chance we’ll hit bad weather.”

  Winter agreed. “I’m ready. My mother can’t sleep without me close. She likes to pat my blankets a few times each night. I’m too old to need such comfort, but I let her. I bet she’s missing me bad right about now. Since my father died, I’m all she’s got in this world.”

  The boy swallowed hard and poked at the fire with a sti
ck as if it were something important to do.

  “Want to go out on watch with me tonight?” Sloan asked without looking too closely at Winter. The boy didn’t need to add that his mother was all he had. “I get kind of lonesome out there by myself.”

  “All right.” Winter stood. “I guess I could help you out.”

  “Thanks.” Sloan smiled at McCall, who’d been listening. “Everyone should sleep better knowing we’re both on guard.”

  An hour later Sloan pulled the covers over a sleeping Winter. The boy looked so small curled up on the ground. Sloan didn’t want to think about the sadness Winter was about to find. For he had a feeling that if they discovered the tribe, Winter’s mother wouldn’t be among them.

  * * *

  He kept watch all night, and at dawn everyone helped load the wagons. They moved out across the open land for two days without seeing anything of life other than nature’s. On the third day, McCall crossed solitary wagon tracks and decided to follow them.

  Sloan grumbled for a hour, hoping she’d reconsider. To him she seemed to be doing a lousy job of staying out of sight. The woman never waited for trouble, but went hunting for it harder than a son-in-law looks for a husband for his newly widowed mother-in-law. He couldn’t convince her that if they followed the trail of another wagon, they might run into anything. From the tracks, he knew it couldn’t be a troop supply wagon. Two sets of footprints walked beside the wheels, and only one horse seemed to be following. Any army wagon would have been guarded by several mounted men. A single wagon of settlers wouldn’t be this far north, away from a fort.

  But McCall wanted to follow, so follow they did. The children stayed in the wagons during the day, and at night Sloan made sure he kept watch. They traveled three days before they caught up to the maker of the tracks.

  McCall stopped her wagon so fast a half-asleep Sloan jolted awake as his team also slowed. He handed Winter the reins and climbed down, warning the children to stay quiet. Walking up beside her, he stared into the distance at a long column of smoke rising from below the bluff just beyond.