“This Man needs you to be clearer,” he said with a tight smile. “This Man is also called Jimmy.”
“Why did they slaughter the camp? Why did they kill the children? The women? The old? And the warriors? Why did they burn it? Who sent them?”
His mouth tightening, the one called Jimmy turned to face the spirit. She gathered her will. As he spoke, she forced the energy into the being and tightened her grip. She would have her answers.
All of them.
Jimmy, The middle of nowhere
The spirit shimmered—is that even the right word? It seemed to grow denser, filling in as though solidifying. The icy sensation increased and sweat slicking his back, arms and face dried.
“Make the Indian bitch let me go.” The man’s ferocious invectives continued. If he weren’t already dead, Jimmy would be seriously tempted to push his teeth down his throat. He’d begun screaming obscenities from the moment he’d appeared. Skin crawling, he stared into the milky-white eyes glowing back at him.
The question of whether the petite, yet powerful little Cheyenne woman possessed the power she claimed had been answered and then some. “Who sent you after her people?” His gut churned at the idea of a massacre, but no one could manufacture the bleakness he’d seen in her deep, dark eyes. He’d thought they were black, until the weak light of the sun shone upon them. Her pupils were huge, and oddly dilated, encircled with a ring of pure golden brown, an odd shade and very compelling.
“I’m not answering your qu—” the man gurgled, and his hate-filled gaze turned on the Cheyenne. She murmured a steady stream under her breath, words Jimmy barely recognized. “We had orders. I don’t know from who. Why am I telling you everything?” Shock stymied the words.
Could she truly control the dead? Compel them? Quanto said Shamans were powerful. His father possessed talents they’d never been allowed to see, but the woman before him carrying hell in her eyes? Swallowing back bile at the image of slaughtered children, he focused on the task at hand. “Why did you slaughter everyone in the camp?”
Protest stamped the man’s translucent features. “They ordered us to leave nothing alive if we didn’t want to be slaughtered in return, so we killed them all. Every single damn one of the dirty Indians.” Fresh spite twisted his mouth. “I guess we missed her. Too bad, we might have had some fun.”
If only Jimmy could kill him all over again. “Who else rode with you?” She hadn’t asked the question, but he didn’t believe it possible for two men alone to wipe out an entire encampment. Unless all in the encampment were women and children? No, the little beauty mentioned warriors. Little beauty? Shaking off the thought, he waited.
Her murmurs continued as did the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the dead man below. The splash of each droplet thrummed through his system. She swayed, and he cupped a hand beneath her elbow to keep her steady. Energy sizzled through him, his talent uncoiling like a snake preparing to strike. His rifle sat several feet away, his guns both holstered.
The disquieting impression increased the longer he maintained the contact.
“Who were the others with you?” He repeated the question, wanting the exercise over with. They talked to a dead man. No matter what he’d seen previously, talking to the dead new and unsettling.
“Strangers. Hired men. One of them was in charge, he’s from back east. Ohio. Maybe New York? It’s all the same.” The words meant nothing.
“Where were you headed when you came through here?”
“When you killed me?” The man’s mouth twisted, and his appearance grew fainter. “Fort Worth then down south to San Antonio. We’re supposed to kill any Indians we find along the way. Especially down south.”
Indians. Jimmy glanced at the medicine woman. She wavered from side to side, then back and forth. The muttering grew more guttural and the spirit flickered, as though a candle guttering from too strong a wind. “This Man can learn nothing more from him.” His grasp of Cheyenne was nowhere near as strong as Comanche or Apache. Quanto spoke all of the languages, and he’d taught them as many as they’d wanted to learn.
During his time on the mountain and in Dorado, he’d dealt with the latter tribes, and nearly none of the former. Quanto’s People came and went like ghosts on the mountain. He remembered them more in the first couple of years he’d lived there, less with each passing year. They were never mentioned and, when they didn’t return, no one commented. They had their family.
“Little sister.” He relied on the words he could remember. “This Man can learn nothing more. Let him go.”
She didn’t respond. Though the spirit continued to fade, he also glared at her with a near palpable malevolence. When she made no move to sever whatever connection she’d created, Jimmy reached for her wounded hand. Closing his fingers around hers, he pulled her back from the body. The spirit followed, leaning toward her.
Not a good sign. “Come on, little sister.” He wanted to curse when the ghost began to laugh. Wrapping his free hand in one of her braids, he turned her around and kissed her. The hard touch of his mouth against her too-soft lips stung him, eroding his good sense. She tasted sweet. The moment stretched as he nuzzled her mouth. Worry gnawed at him then she bit him. He tasted blood and jerked his head back.
The lost look in her expression vanished. Outrage, coupled with pure fury, kindled in her too dark eyes. Cutting a look to the right, Jimmy let out a sigh. The spirit was gone. “This Man apologizes,” he lied. “You were not waking and the—” He tried to remember her turn of phrase earlier then gave up. “—what was left of the man wanted to hurt you.”
His hand was sticky with her blood, and he looked down to their joined fingers. Grabbing a bandana from his pocket, he scowled at its condition. Dirty wouldn’t do, but he wrapped it around her wounded hand.
“So This Man called Jimmy thought touching me would assist?”
He liked hearing her say his name. “Well, ma’am.” He grinned. “This Man would say it worked. Little sister is talking to me.” The horrible cold stopped, but his system still churned. The urge to reach for his gun rode him more terribly than a thirst for water on a dying man in the desert, but he kept his hands on her and not his weapons.
Pure feminine ire flattened the line of her mouth. His good mood buoyed. If a woman could be angry, it generally meant she felt better. “Did he answer? Did he tell you?”
“This Man heard his answer and This Man will tell you.” But, first, he would take care of her and bury the bodies. Glancing down, he checked the slice on her hand. She’d cut herself deeply. The last thing he’d expected when he told her to do what she needed was the injury she’d inflicted on her soft flesh.
“This Woman will heal.” Chastisement and rebuke needed no translation. “Tell This Woman his answers.”
“Only if you promise This Man you will rest.”
“Why does This Man called Jimmy ask for payment when he offered to help?” No mistaking it, she was well and truly angry with him. The pallor in her sun-kissed cheeks retreated. With surprising speed, she put the blade to his throat. “Tell me his words.”
“Little sister will not hurt me,” he said, not bothering to resist. He’d pricked her; she had a right to prick him back. Holding what he knew over her as leverage to get what he wanted was not kind. “If little sister kills This Man, she will not hear the words.”
Frustration edged her motion as she removed the blade then jerked her fingers from his. He missed the contact immediately, but spread his hands wide. “What was left of the man did not know who hired him, only of orders to kill everyone and any other Indians they met.”
Disbelief, then unspeakable sadness, and finally a blankness—more worrying than any other action she’d demonstrated—came over her. “This Woman failed. I chose the wrong quarry.”
“Perhaps.” He couldn’t believe he was about to make the offer on the tip of his tongue. “Let me bury the bodies, then come to my camp. You can share our fire. This Man will see if he can h
elp.”
“Why?” The emptiness in the response tugged at him. “This Man called Jimmy has done much for little.”
Not really sure how to answer, he scratched at his beard and headed for the first body. Burying them didn’t promise to be easy work. He returned to the horses and found what passed for a digging tool. Glancing at his silent companion periodically, he went to work. After the first body was buried, he headed for the second.
She trailed behind, a quiet shadow. When he paused to reach for the body, she moved. She dragged the body to the hole then helped him lower the man. “Why does This Man called Jimmy do this?”
Muscles protesting, he shrugged. “Every person deserves to be buried.”
“This is not the way of the People.”
No. They elevated the bodies onto scaffolds to encourage their spirits to go on to the afterlife. Burial would impede the journey. Sometimes they burned the bodies rather than leave them to be found by others and disturbed. “The spirits of these men are gone.” Or at least he hoped so.
“Yes.” She nodded. “The bodies mean nothing. They deserve no peace.”
If they caused the deaths of her people, he could understand her anger. “This Man ended their lives. This Man will bury them.”
She nodded and said nothing more until he filled in the hole. Finished, he considered the two graves. He needed to strip the horses and let them go—or maybe he’d keep one for the little sister. Uncertain whether her continued presence was a good sign or not, he considered the dilemma. “What is little sister called?”
For a long moment, he believed she wouldn’t answer then she said, “This Woman is called Onsi.”
“On—say?” He elongated the word. The name held no meaning for him, just syllables. “What does On-say, mean?”
She raised her eyebrows then motioned to the sky and the clouds. Her name meant sky? “Little sister is called sky?” The word for sky in Cheyenne was different, or at least he thought it was.
Flexing her wounded hand, she shook her head then motioned to the sky. “The name of the sky.”
He couldn’t translate that correctly. Frankly, he was too tired to try. “Very well. On-say—Blue. This Man will call you Blue.” She didn’t object, so he accepted the tacit permission. “Shall we take one of the horses to where I am camped, Blue?
“This Man called Jimmy, what does he want from This Woman?”
“Just Jimmy,” he said and dusted the filth off of him. The exhausting work succeeded in one way. His gift quieted once more, so he felt safe enough to retrieve his rifle. “All Jimmy wants is to wash up, warm by the fire, and eat.”
Hell. He still needed to catch them some damn dinner. Jimmy dropped his chin and sighed. Take Blue to get warm by the fire, tell Shane to leave her alone then find some game suitable for at least the two of them to eat.
“This Man—” She paused. “Jimmy is not like others.”
“No, ma’am.” He summoned up a smile. “I hope not.” Since she didn’t speak his language, he relied on hers. “Jimmy is tired. Food. Fire. Rest. When the sun comes up, we make plans.”
Cradling her wounded hand, she continued to regard him. Would she follow? Would she stay? When she made no hint of movement, he retrieved his rifle and headed for the horses. “Let’s go, Blue.” He hoped the companionable invite would be enough. At the horses, he checked their rest of their supplies. The animals weren’t well cared for, but he’d take care of them for the night and figure out what to do with them after sunup.
Dragging himself into the saddle, he found Blue studying the second horse. She touched her wounded hand to its forehead and the animal let out a sigh and almost seemed to bow. Then, with grace, it folded its legs and lowered itself to the ground. Once it was down, she slid onto the saddle. The buckskin dress she wore rode up to reveal bare legs and Jimmy pointed his gaze elsewhere.
Sweet. Soft. Feminine. Beautiful. All words I will not translate. She murmured something, drawing his attention, and the horse rose with smoothness. How the hell did she do that?
Micah Kane was the best horseman he’d ever seen, yet Jimmy never witnessed him calm or control a strange horse so swiftly or so thoroughly. “Until the morning star comes again,” she said to him. “This Woman shall follow the custom of sharing a fire.”
Peace offering. He could live with that. “This Man would be honored to share the fire.”
One problem resolved. Jimmy angled the horse away from the makeshift gravesites and headed back toward his camp with Shane. Blue rode next to him. He spared a glance at the sky. He hadn’t seen the eagle since its abortive dive earlier. Hopefully, shooting the men was all the creature needed from him. Blue’s arrival complicated things.
For once, he didn’t mind the complication.
Much.
Chapter 6
Julianna, Dorado, Late Autumn 1852
The only conveyances stored behind the livery appeared to be a pair of traps and a single wagon. Inside, a scant handful of horses indicated business was slow. The livery’s primary horses had been turned out into a private paddock angling away from the town. If her brothers were of a mind, they’d open the main gate and let them into a larger paddock designed for overflow. With grass still green in many places, they could save a great deal on feed for the six head of horses the livery owned permanently. Their guest animals were likely the property of the Kanes, since the town of Dorado abutted firmly up to the Flying K Ranch.
Most of the town’s relatively new population spoke of the ranch with reverence. In the scant few months since Royce and Mitchell chose to end their flight in Dorado, she’d gotten know very few of their neighbors. Her brothers preferred she stay in the house they’d secured and to avoid direct contact—especially with the soldiers. The arrival of the stagecoach to Dorado brought new fears. The first coach was due in two days. Some likened the arrival to the laying of tracks going on up north, opening eastern travel pathways to bring more settlers.
The stage increased their chances of a hunter arriving in the sleepy little town. She could stay inside as they’d requested, but what was the point of living if all she did was hide? Dressed in a split riding skirt and boots, Julianna planned to saddle a horse and go for a ride. She needed to be away from people, to study the land and the energy patterns. Too long she’d cut herself off and she wanted to know this place they called home. The region was so different from the small towns in Virginia where they’d hidden for two years. Different still from Pennsylvania, where they’d grown up on a farm in the Allegheny Mountains.
Deciding on Sugar, a gentle roan, she picked up a light saddle and blanket. Though plenty of people in this town rode with heavier saddles, they’d managed to bring with them two of her own lighter ones.
“Jenny!” Mitchell’s voice carried from the open livery stable doors, but she continued out the back. She only needed a saddle. Sugar proved very receptive to leg control, so the bridle would simply be in her way.
At the fence to the paddock, she whistled. The low tune carried so, with a little bit of will behind it, she reached Sugar. The roan lifted her head and flicked her ears forward. Curling her fingers, she released a scant amount of force to beckon the animal. The mare rewarded her by trotting over.
“Jenny.” Mitchell practically growled the name and Julianna spared him a look. He stared right at her and it took a moment for his words to sink in. Heat warmed her face. Jenny. The name they’d chosen for her. Julianna Matthews was a wanted woman, hunted all over the Allegheny Mountains. Julie Henry, the name they’d given her in Virginia had been linked to Julianna.
So here they were the McKennas, she was Jenny and David had become Mitchell while Kent was now Royce. All McKenna, their mother’s maiden name and the name of their maternal grandparents.
She really hated the name Jenny. “What?”
“You need to remember your name,” Mitchell chastised her. The mare leaned over to whuffle at her hair and she stroked her velvet nose. Trust Mitchell to spoil her qu
iet morning with another lecture.
“I do remember it.” She kept her voice soft, and set the saddle on the fence before climbing over and landing on the other side. The mare whickered and demanded more pettings. Fair enough, sweet girl. Julianna didn’t mind exchanging affection for a chance to escape the claustrophobic conditions of her new home. “Do you remember my name…Mitchell?”
He scowled, arms folded, and gave her a level look. “Of course I do, I also remember why we chose Jenny and why we’re in Dorado. Can you please be more patient?”
Older than her by four years, David—Mitchell—gave up a great deal to help her escape the hunters when they came. A fiancée, a promising career, and a home with friends and family where he was treated with respect. Without a second thought, he’d ridden to her at the announcement of the warrant, loaded her and Kent into a wagon, taken them from the east and never looked back.
Guilt and shame twisted inside her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing he would hear her. “I am tired of being inside. I just want to ride. I want to see this land, to feel it, to explore…I won’t do anything and I won’t lead anyone back.”
“You know those are not the reasons you can’t go.” Her brother sounded almost apologetic, but she continued to stroke the horse. A sound from inside, probably someone looking to rent or retrieve a horse captured his attention. Jason Kane appeared in the doorway to the barn, and Mitchell hurried over to meet him. An attorney, Jason also handled nearly all the matters with regard to the town and to the McKennas taking over the livery. They provided a cut of their profits to the Kane’s and would until they owned the livery outright, the same for their home.
Her brothers found the deal to be very reasonable and examined it from all angles, especially Mitchell. When they could find no fault, they’d made the decision to stay. A decision they’d excluded her from, only telling her once they decided. Though Mr. Kane spoke to her brother, his attention focused on her.
The Quick and the Fevered Page 8
