So Wide the Sky

by Elizabeth Grayson

  "What will you do?" he finally asked.

  The question was inevitable. The answer was inevitable, too.

  "I'll stay on. Meggie needs me, and I need her. Sometimes when I'm holding her," she admitted softly, "I pretend she's mine."

  Hunter recognized the heartbreak in her eyes. Cass wanted so much more than it seemed likely she could ever have.

  "Is Meggie enough to keep you here?"

  She lifted her gaze to his, touching him in some extraordinary way that left him tingling.

  "I have you, too, don't I, Hunter?"

  His heart kicked hard against his ribs. She could have him any way she wanted, heart and mind, body and soul.

  "You understand what it means to live between two worlds," she continued softly. "You know what that demands, and you've helped me pay the cost. You've been my friend, Hunter, and I need you to stand by me now."

  He needed her, too, in a hundred ways that went beyond understanding and friendship. He needed her strength when the way was hard, her tenderness when he'd had his fill of brutality. He needed the solace of her mouth and hands and body when he craved peace and beauty and pleasure.

  He wanted to reassure her with his touch, but he didn't dare reach out to her. "Of course I'll stand by you," he told her. "Whatever you need, you have only to ask."

  She held his gaze again, turning him breathless, making him ache with a need so deep it seemed as if it had always been part of him.

  "Thank you, Hunter," she whispered. "Now I need to go back."

  Hunter nodded reluctantly. "Shall I go with you?"

  Whatever had happened between them today had changed things.

  "I don't think that would be wise."

  Hunter swallowed down his regret. "As you wish."

  She turned and started up the bank, alone and vulnerable, brave and fine. He stood and watched her go—a woman so special she shone like the sun, the woman Hunter Jalbert had come to love.

  Chapter 18

  The attack would come today. Hunter knew it the moment he opened his eyes. They were three days out from Fort Carr and would reach the junction with the Bozeman Trail some time before noon. If they got their cargo of rifles through, they'd sleep in the stockade at Fort Phil Kearney tonight.

  If they got the rifles through.

  Hunter sat his horse on the crest of the hill above the previous night's camp. He watched the cavalry finish saddling their horses and the infantry troops take their places in the three covered wagons. While he waited, Jalbert reviewed the plans they'd made to defend themselves. Parker and his men would engage the attackers while the muleteers circled the wagons and the infantry rolled back the wagons' canvas tops to give them fighting room. It was a more than adequate plan and could drive off a good-sized force of Indians. Still, Hunter felt the itch between his shoulder blades that always meant trouble.

  "Keep an eye out, boys," he heard Captain Parker shout as he motioned the wagons forward. Hunter intended to do the same.

  He galloped on ahead and spent the morning ranging to the right and left of where the wagon ruts cut through the rolling prairie land. He investigated every hollow where the enemy could hide. He rode to the crest of every ridge. It was inching on toward midday when he spotted a narrow passage where the trace wound down along the bank of a rippling stream. Low, dun-gray bluffs of broken stone hemmed the stream on the far side, and a grassy plateau rose off to the right. The place felt oddly confining for all that it was in the midst of open ground.

  Hunter rode both west and east, looking for a way to circumvent the creek, but any other course would take them miles out of their way. He rode back to where the wagons were approaching the little draw.

  "I'm concerned about the narrows up ahead, sir," he told Parker as he reined in his horse. "I don't see any sign of hostiles, but it wouldn't hurt for us to be ready."

  Parker took his advice and gave the order. "Stay in close, Jalbert, at least until we're through that draw."

  It seemed ten degrees cooler along the rippling stream than it had in the flat. Birds chattered in the bushes that lined the opposite bank. Yellow and pink wildflowers poked their heads above the green-gold grass. It was a pleasant place, yet Hunter breathed a little easier when he saw the land opening up beyond it.

  The first wagon was just pulling toward the mouth of the draw when Hunter heard the rumble of horses' hooves off to the west. He wheeled his mount and saw the Indians riding down on them. They galloped in an inexorable stream, yipping and waving their weapons. Hunter saw more attackers skidding down the slope at the rear of the little wagon train.

  The front and rear guards rode out to engage the enemy. Though the draw was too narrow to circle the wagons, the muleteers managed to pull them far enough off the trail that the infantrymen would be fighting with the slope of the plateau against their backs.

  Hunter grabbed for his pistol and nudged his horse toward where Parker and his vanguard were already battling hand to hand.

  It is a very good day—

  An image of Cassandra flickered in his head, accompanied by a sharp, hot pain of regret. He blinked the apparition away, angry that thoughts of her could intrude on him now, appalled that a warrior should be so weak.

  He turned to the brave riding down on him, whooped his war cry, and fired on his attacker at point-blank range.

  The man went down in a swirl of dust. A second challenger loomed up from where the first warrior had fallen. Painted and feathered, his face contorted in a leer of hatred, the second Sioux lowered his lance and rode at Hunter.

  Hunter jerked his horse to the left to get out of the way, but he was hemmed in by the wagons on one side and a cavalryman on the other. He raised his gun, but he was far too late to save himself. The muscles of his abdomen contracted, anticipating the thrust of the lance, the searing pain and certain death.

  Then from almost directly behind him came the crack of a cavalry rifle. The lance went wide. The Indian pitched from his horse not a yard away.

  Hunter swung around to see if he could tell whose shot had saved his life. Josh Wilcox paused in his reloading just long enough to lift his head above the wagon seat and grin. Hunter nodded in acknowledgment. He owed Corporal Wilcox a drink when they got out of this.

  Hunter looked around and saw that the fight was far from over. More Indians were pouring down on them. He heard Parker shout for the cavalry to fall back. The troopers still in the saddle kicked their horses toward the shelter of the wagons. The captain did the same, but before he could reach safety, he clutched at his chest and slumped forward in his saddle.

  Hunter pulled his mount's head around and spurred up the draw. He couldn't tell how badly Parker was hurt, but no man deserved what the Sioux would do to him if he was captured. Hunter fired as he rode and clawed the reins from the captain's bloodstained hand.

  The narrow seam between the hillside and the wagons provided a modicum of safety. Once he'd threaded their way inside, Hunter jumped from his horse and eased Parker out of the saddle. He laid the captain on the grass and probed his wound.

  "No use," the captain gasped, and Hunter could see that he was right. "Go and try to hold the resistance together."

  Hunter turned back to the fight, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Cavalry troopers' bodies were strewn across the grass along the course of the stream. Infantrymen lay crumpled behind the wagons. The gunfire had dwindled to the point where Hunter wondered if there was anyone left to fight at all. He reloaded his pistol as he ran the length of the wagon train, shouting for a response from soldiers still at their posts. He got almost two dozen answers out of what had been a company of forty men.

  Near the end of the line, he encountered Sam Gifford, one of Noonan's first lieutenants. "Parker's wounded," Hunter told him. "I think that means you're in charge."

  "Me?" Gifford gasped, going a shade or two whiter than he'd been before. He was new to Fort Carr and without a lick of field experience.

  "I don't know how much long
er we can hold out," Hunter went on. He picked up a rifle, reloaded it, and handed it to Gifford. "But whatever happens, we sure as hell can't let the Sioux get hold of these guns. I think we need to prepare to blow the wagons."

  "Blow the wagons?" Gifford gasped, his mouth sagging like bunting the day after a parade. "Blow them up with dynamite?"

  Hunter nodded. "There's some in that first wagon. Do you want me to rig it?"

  "Rig it?"

  "Rig the wagons to blow up in case we're overrun."

  Gifford looked ready to wet himself. "Are we going to die, Mr. Jalbert?"

  "I'm not making any plans for tomorrow," Hunter answered. He cast an eye to where the Indians were massing at the head of the draw.

  Gifford saw them, too. It jolted him into action. "Very—very w-w-well, Mr. Jalbert. You rig the wagons. The rest of us will do our best to hold the hostiles off."

  Hunter grinned at Gifford's sudden surge of gumption and headed back the way he'd come. He stepped over bodies as he ran. The sickly-sweet smell of blood soured in his throat. The shrill whoops of a hundred warriors drowned out the moans of men in pain. The rifle fire that answered the charge wasn't nearly enough to hold off the Indians.

  They were going to die after all.

  Hunter swallowed something that tasted suspiciously like fear and reached over the side of the first wagon. He rummaged for dynamite, clamped his hands around six fat sticks and a coil of fuse. Now where were the goddamned blasting caps?

  Then above his own muttered curse, the yelling and the shooting, Hunter heard what sounded like a bugle call. With explosives in hand, he dropped down behind the wagon and listened hard. From up to the north where this trace connected with the Bozeman Trail came the clear, sweet notes of the call to arms.

  The Sioux seemed to hear it, too, and decided, just as Hunter had, that the sound meant reinforcements. They broke off their assault on the wagons and headed south.

  Moments after the last of the Sioux swept past, a detachment of cavalry came galloping into the draw. Most of the troopers lit out after the Indians. A few reined in and drew up before the wagons. Judging from their insignia, they must have been sent from Fort Phil Kearney to meet and escort them north.

  Hunter leaned back against the wagon and let out his breath.

  As the troopers from Fort Phil Kearney began to assess the wounded and the dead, Hunter went back to where he'd left Amos Parker lying in the grass.

  Parker was still breathing, still barely alive, when Hunter bent over him.

  "We got reinforcements, Captain," he murmured, not sure Parker could hear him.

  The captain's eyelids fluttered. He seemed to smile. "Good," he said. "We beat them back then, did we?"

  "Yes, sir. The troops put up a good fight."

  That seemed to satisfy Parker for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and looked into Hunter's face.

  "A favor, Jalbert?" Parker rasped, his breathing thready.

  "Of course, sir."

  "Promise you'll give—my gold watch—to my oldest son, Billy," he instructed.

  Hunter nodded.

  "Tell Alma"—the captain grimaced—"I'm glad she chose me—for that quadrille. Tell her I—love her. That—I'm sorry I didn't—say it nearly enough..."

  Hunter watched the light go out of Amos Parker's eyes. He hadn't known the man very well. He hadn't liked him or his wife and children because of how they treated Cass, but he was sorry Parker was dead. No man should die with words of regret on his lips.

  But you can't tell Cass how you feel. You can't tell her you love her. Not while she was married to another man. Not even now that he knew that marriage was a sham. He couldn't burden Cass with knowing. He couldn't confuse her or compromise her. He might die without the words ever passing his lips, but Hunter would love Cassandra Morgan until the day he breathed his last.

  Hunter closed Parker's staring eyes and pushed to his feet. He would see that Parker got a proper burial. He would deliver the watch and the messages to Parker's wife and family.

  It had been a good day to die—just not for him.

  * * *

  "They're back!" Meggie crowed, bursting into the kitchen. "The wagon men are back!"

  Cassie dropped the scissors she'd been using to cut out the pattern for Meggie's new dress and rushed out onto the porch. Three tall wagons were just pulling up in front of headquarters. She grabbed Meggie's hand and ran down along officers' row to where a crowd was gathering. Cavalry and infantry, laundresses and scouts, muleteers, pioneers and even a few of the friendly Indians had quickly assembled to welcome their boys home. Drew had to be here somewhere, and even Tyler Jessup had oozed out from under his rock to hear what had happened.

  Word of the attack had reached Fort Carr by telegraph five days before. The message hadn't said much, just that the rifles were safe, that there had been some fighting, and that Captain Amos Parker had been killed in the line of duty. In typical army fashion, the telegram hadn't mentioned the fate of the forty men who'd ridden with him.

  Drew had referred to this expedition as "glory duty." But as Cass shouldered her way through the crowd, she couldn't see anything glorious about the battered wagons and even more battered men who had returned to the fort.

  "There are so few left," Cass whispered, half to herself.

  The knot in her chest cinched tighter as she sought out one familiar face, one particular man. She found him standing at the rear of the third wagon, holding his horse. He looked tattered, dust-stained, and exhausted, but whole and safe.

  Cass sucked in a long, deep breath, light-headed with relief. Then Hunter raised his head and caught her staring. Their gazes held, his eyes tormented and hot. She recoiled at the anguish she saw in him. She felt stunned by the intensity of his regret. Whatever had befallen this detachment of men, Hunter blamed himself.

  At the head of the line of wagons, Lieutenant Gifford stepped forward and saluted Major McGarrity. "Detail from Fort Phil Kearney reporting, sir."

  Though under normal circumstances the young lieutenant would have given his account of the mission in the major's office, McGarrity knew emotions at the fort were running high.

  "You may speak, Lieutenant Gifford," he said. "We all want to know what went on out there."

  As the lieutenant spoke, Cass watched Hunter's face. In spite of what had passed between them a few moments before, he was not a man who revealed much of himself. Still, she recognized the signs of his distress. His jaw broadened. His shoulders bunched. She saw the way his fingers clenched around his horse's reins. Though Lieutenant Gifford made it clear there was nothing anyone could have done to prevent the attack, Cass knew Hunter considered himself responsible.

  When Gifford was done, McGarrity asked about the losses. "Have you a list of casualties from this action, Lieutenant?"

  A wave of dread ran through the crowd. Cass picked Meggie up in her arms, as much to feel the weight and warmth of the child against her as to stop the girl's fidgeting.

  Gifford withdrew the paper from his pocket.

  Cassie saw Hunter dip his head and felt dread settle deeper. The news was bad.

  "We lost one officer and six enlisted men, sir. Nine others are recovering from wounds at Fort Phil Kearney."

  Sixteen men out of forty, Cassie thought.

  "And will you read us the names of the dead, Lieutenant." McGarrity knew this was what everyone was waiting to hear.

  Gifford cleared his throat. "Cavalry Captain Amos Parker."

  Alma Parker, all done up in her widow's weeds, turned to sob against Sally McGarrity's shoulder. Her children, tear-splotched and uncertain, clung to their mother's skirts. Cassie ached for them, understanding what they were feeling. No one should be deprived of a parent so early in life.

  "Also deceased are Cavalry Sergeant Shamus Mulligan," Gifford continued over groans of dismay, "and Corporal Johnny Wegman. Cavalry Privates Billy Boyle, Michael Longacre, and Alfred Spencer. And Infantry Corporal Joshua Wilcox."

  "Josh
?" Cass gasped on a breath that burned all the way down.

  "Josh?" Meggie repeated.

  Patting Meggie's back, Cass scoured the crowd for Lila and Will. She spotted them standing to the left of the headquarters' steps. They slumped together like two wax dolls. Will's eyes were fixed and flat. Lila clenched and unclenched her reddened hands, as if she were grabbing at something that was already gone.

  Cassie buried her face against Meggie's throat. Cass didn't know how a mother lived with the death of her child, how Lila could accept the loss of all of her sons. What could Cassie say or do to comfort her?

  How would she survive if she lost Meggie?

  She nuzzled closer, unwilling to believe that such a thing could happen when she loved this child so desperately. Yet she knew she'd lose this baby forever if Drew sent her away.

  Cass couldn't think about that now. Not when Lila needed comforting and Hunter looked so brittle and shaken.

  Cass raised her head, suddenly aware of the strident, outraged voices rising around her.

  "How did the hostiles know what route our men were taking to Fort Phil Kearney?" someone demanded of Ben McGarrity.

  "And how did the redskins know what those wagons were carrying?"

  Cass nodded, as eager for explanations as anyone here.

  McGarrity held up his hands in a plea for quiet. "Those wagons were carrying army stores," he told the crowd.

  His declaration stirred up hoots and catcalls.

  "Hell, Major," one of the muleteers shouted around his wad of chaw, "even my lead mule Blue knew them wagons was carrying rifles."

  McGarrity's jaw bulged dangerously. "No one knew that," he insisted. "No one knew the route those wagons were taking. No one knew when they were leaving."

  But the major was wrong. Cass had known about the shipment of guns. Drew had told her. Other wives would have known, too. So would the bunkmates of the soldiers who'd been assigned to the detachment. So would the quartermaster and the baker and the cooks. There were no secrets on a post this size.

  "Then, Major, if you're so certain you kept the shipment a secret," someone suggested, "there must be an informer here at the fort."