Turner's Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  “It is that. I need your help now. We must be together.”

  Did she understand his orders? He vowed to let nothing prevent him from completing this journey save death. Now Emma sat before him as obstacle or ally. Only she could tell.

  “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  Serious doubts rose up in his mind. She was a woman and thus a natural liar, but she must be constant, unwavering and convincing.

  “Emma, I want you to tell me a lie, a whopper. I want you to make me believe you. Can you do that?”

  Her eyes lifted to the night sky as she considered. Then her gaze pinned him again and she nodded. “Have I told you about my little sister, Elizabeth?”

  He shook his head.

  “She was born with twisted limbs. It was very sad. My father would not claim her. He refused to admit such a thing could come from his loins. He blamed Mother.” Her eyes filled with tears, which hovered on the ledge of her lower lids. “He told her never to show their child in public. He wished her dead and my mother damned. Poor little lamb, it wasn’t her fault.”

  The tears fell and Jake resisted the impulse to wrap his arms about her.

  She dabbed at her eyes. “She never reached her first birthday. I suppose it was a mercy when God took her. I still mention her in my prayers each night.”

  Emma sat in silence as Jake considered the crippled child.

  “What part was a lie?” he asked.

  “All of it.”

  His eyes went wide. Admiration mixed with horror. She gave no indication of a lie. She sat still and straight, even crying on cue. The woman terrified him.

  Emma smiled. “My mother had a stillborn child, but she was perfect. She named her Rachel.”

  “My God, that was good. How did you make yourself cry?”

  “It’s a sad story.”

  He shook his head in amazement.

  “All right, now we need to get our stories aligned. You know much about the Bible?”

  “I’ve read it and I attended services before coming west.”

  “Good. You’re a missionary’s wife.”

  She choked. “I’m married? I don’t know if I can convince anyone that I am, that I’ve—been familiar with a man.”

  He scowled. “You just convinced me that you had a crippled sister.”

  She said nothing.

  “I was trail boss for the wagon train. The Mojave killed your husband and the others. Being the boss gives me good reason to have the compass, sextant and telescope. Only my journal and the chronometer must be hidden from them.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “My husband’s.”

  “Oh.” He scratched his bare cheek, considering. “You pick.”

  “John Martin.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. She’d chosen so quickly. “Who’s John Martin?”

  Her gaze dropped to the fire. “No one.”

  He slapped his knee. “See, now I know you’re lying. You couldn’t look at me. Always look them in the eye when you’re lying.”

  Her gaze lifted and there was a dangerous glitter there.

  “He asked me to marry him. But my father refused to allow the match.”

  He sat as if belly punched. Emma had been in love. He shook himself as if he were wet. Why should he care? He had no claim on her, nor did he want any. But he did care. The information festered like a thorn in his foot.

  “Who was he?”

  “An army captain. Father spoke with Colonel Leavenworth and he was transferred.”

  He could not keep the pleasure inside him from quirking his mouth. “You sound happy about it.”

  “I’m not, but I see now I did not love him, though I did admire him. I only wish to let you know why I am unwed at twenty-three.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want to marry?” He’d caught her in another lie.

  “That’s true. But there was a time when I wished to leave my father so badly that marriage seemed very appealing. Now I understand I would just be changing one bad circumstance for another.”

  He frowned. They were supposed to be discussing their alibi, not her old flames.

  “Can we get back to the matters at hand?”

  “Certainly.”

  He didn’t like her stiff posture or the stubborn lift of her chin. “So your husband was John Martin. He hired me to lead five wagons through the Rockies. You wanted to minister to the Nez Perce, but we stumbled into a war with the Mojave.”

  “The Nez Perce live too far northeast to ever war with the Mojave.”

  He sighed. “The Spanish won’t know that. They’ve never been farther east than we’re sitting.”

  She nodded. “I see.”

  He went on spinning the tale and had to admit that Emma noticed all weak points and filled in missing details. She gave names to all the other missionaries and even their horses. He thought that was extreme, but his memory was good and he cataloged all the details she insisted upon. He described the attack and how each man died. She wondered how long she’d been married and where and when? They camped for two days on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada and worked the story forward and backward until they matched as neatly as a pair of carriage horses.

  On the morning of the third day, they headed west once more. On a ridge above a rocky meadow they came upon wild mustangs.

  He turned to Emma and found her already weeping.

  “I know. I have to let him go,” she said.

  She slid off Scout and hugged him. Scout’s ears were alert as he called to the horses below. Jake first noted the stallion guarding his thirteen mares. The big dapple gray would never let another male near his harem. But what about a gelding? He didn’t know. The alternative was to kill the beast and let the buzzards destroy the brand. But, he could not bring himself to shoot her horse.

  She removed the saddle and then slipped the bridle from Scout’s head. Her tears seemed to scald him. She laid her cheek upon the beast’s forehead. Jake’s chest tightened as he considered having to cut Duchess loose.

  It was a hard thing.

  She stepped away and Scout stood waiting. Emma lifted her arm and pushed his head toward the herd. Her hand fell away and Scout continued to stand before his mistress. Jake removed his hat and slapped the horse’s rump. Scout exploded into a gallop, heading down the hill.

  Jake moved beside Emma as he watched the big stallion charge forward to stop the intruder. This could be bloody. Scout would either beat the big horse, submit as a member of the herd or be run off.

  The stallion reared up and kicked at Scout, who dodged him and continued toward the mares. The dapple gray cut him off, biting at his haunches. Scout kicked, but continued forward. The mares ran in the other direction over the hill and disappeared. Scout followed with the stallion in pursuit.

  When they’d gone, Jake found his arm around Emma. She clung to his shirt, the fringe of his buckskin woven into her fingers.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked.

  He didn’t think so, but kept his tongue. “Oh, yes. He’s free now. Isn’t that what you want for yourself?”

  “But that stallion was chasing him.”

  “Being free isn’t as easy as having someone care for you. There is more risk.”

  “Maybe we should follow them.”

  He let his arm slide away. Time for some hard truths. “They headed south. We’re going west. Scout’s on his own. If he follows us, I’ll shoot him.”

  Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

  “He puts us in danger.”

  She said nothing further.

  He took the time to bury her saddle before loading most of the gear from the packhorse onto the mule and dividing the rest between the two remaining horses. Then he threw the sheepskin over the packhorse’s withers as a temporary saddle. When he finished he found Emma still staring after Scout. She looked as if she’d lost her last friend and he considered that perhaps she had.

  “You
said you raised him up?” he asked.

  She nodded, still staring south. “The boys at the fort in Leavenworth used to throw rocks at him because he had swollen knees. I used to wrap his legs with cold bandages. I took him to the stream and made him soak up to his belly. When his knees healed, the sergeant tried to take him back, but by then he’d only answer to me.”

  He scowled after the horse, hoping to have seen the last of him. When he turned to her he found she considered him.

  “You hate him, too, don’t you?”

  “No. I don’t. But I know where those wild horses come from—the Spanish. Maybe this herd is up against the mountains and they won’t find them. But when they round up in the spring, someone might catch him. If they do and that horse comes to the attention of the authorities, there’ll be trouble.”

  “We will be gone in the spring.”

  There was nothing to be done now in any case. “Maybe so.” He pointed toward her new mount. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

  He held his fingers laced together like a stirrup and she placed her moccasin within. He’d done the best he could with her wardrobe. She now had Indian footwear, a wide-brimmed leather hat, her stained blue skirt and petticoats and a buckskin shirt. He thought the elk suited her. With her golden hair, the buckskin looked just right. Of course, he didn’t tell her that. But he wasn’t beyond noticing her calf as she swung up onto the sheepskin. She shifted her bottom and something grabbed him in the gut and twisted.

  She glanced at the dirt that marked the grave of her buried saddle. She gave a long sigh, but said nothing.

  “Takes some getting used to,” he said.

  The rest of the afternoon he felt guilty for not giving her his saddle. She never mentioned it, so why did he feel obligated? He didn’t know, except perhaps that she was still his responsibility. If not for him, she’d be dead or worse than dead by now. If not for him, she’d be riding her horse upon her saddle right now.

  That evening he sighted smoke coming from somewhere ahead. He judged it to be five miles off. He pulled up and made camp in a grove of cottonwoods. All about them lay open grassland. Perfect for grazing cattle or horses, but damn poor cover.

  “No fire tonight,” he said.

  “I think there is enough wood,” she said.

  “I spotted a line of smoke ahead of us. I don’t want whoever it is to know we’re here just yet. Unload the gear and lay out the skins. I’m going to scout. I’ll be back after dark.” He dismounted only long enough to relieve Duchess of the extra gear, then started off. Then he pulled up, turning to her. She stood, clasping the reins of the mule and his packhorse. “Keep your rifle handy. When I come back I’ll whistle like this.” He imitated the cry of a hawk.

  “I understand.” She took a step closer but the reins held her up. Her serious gaze pinned him. “Be careful.”

  She looked as if she wanted to say more, but did not. He wheeled away, loping over the rolling hills. When he got close, he slid from the saddle and hobbled his horse. Crawling on his belly to the top of the knoll he saw he was outnumbered six to one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emma sat alert with the rifle ready upon her lap. She chose not to cock her weapon, knowing that the act took only an instant. Alone in the darkness, sound became the center of her world. The rustle of the wind through the tall grass and cottonwood leaves dominated. Occasionally, a crackling of dried leaves drew her attention as a small animal scurried through the underbrush.

  The moon was in its quarter, giving just enough light to see about her, but not enough to pierce the darkness of the glade in which she waited. She wondered how Scout fared with his new companions. She knew this was best, still it hurt that he did not follow her or even glance back before disappearing. Granted, he was being chased at the time. Was he lost in the dark, as well?

  If the herd rejected him, the wolves would take him. She hunched, wondering how far they were from her? Soon afterward, coyotes began their chorus and she shuddered at the bone-chilling song. If they set on her all together, what would she do? The swish of her horse’s tail and the nervous sidestepping of hooves told her the animals shared her concern.

  Where was the man?

  Hours had passed since he’d ridden toward that blasted smoke. Then another chilling thought struck her. What if he didn’t return?

  He might be captured even now. She gripped the gun in a hold tight enough to wring a chicken’s neck. What if they tortured him?

  She leaped up. The mule cast her a nervous glance, the whites of his eyes clear in the moonlight. Jake told her to stay put. Even if she defied him, could she find her way in the darkness? She turned a full circle unsure of which way he went. What should she do?

  Her pulse pounded in her ears, momentarily drowning out all the sounds about her. The impulse to fire the gun came from nowhere and she staunched the rash thought as ludicrous. Panic would gain her nothing.

  “Settle down, Emma, and think.”

  She forced herself down to the log, wishing she could light a fire. Perhaps he couldn’t find her in the darkness. One grove of cottonwood looked much like another. He might just have stopped to wait for daylight. He’d be along then.

  If he wasn’t, she meant to find him. Over time her breathing slowed and the cold sweat dried on her forehead. Her bottom went numb from sitting. She occupied her mind trying to determine how many coyotes called and she came up with seven, judging by the direction of their cries.

  At last she heard hoofbeats and then the whistle of a hawk. Duchess halted. His saddle gave a familiar creak as he dismounted. Relief came in a long sigh as she stood stiffly to greet him.

  “Emma?” he called.

  She stepped out of the grove, staring at the shadowy figure.

  “I’m here. Are you all right?”

  She fought a battle against rushing forward and hugging him. How she longed to touch him and assure herself all was safe. She shifted the rifle to her right hand, pointing the barrel to the ground as she stepped forward and settled for resting a hand on his shoulder and giving a squeeze.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You were gone so long.”

  She could make out his face now, beneath the brim of his hat. His features looked drawn and his eyes blinked wearily.

  “They were ten miles off. I misjudged the distance on the plain.”

  “Ten miles! You’ve ridden twenty miles?”

  Even his nod was tired.

  She took charge, sliding the rifle beneath her arm as she grasped Duchess’s reins and his elbow. She tied the horse to a branch and steered him to the bedding laid out and ready for him. He fell in with a groan.

  “Indians, six families. They have no horses, but do have metal knives and are clothed in cowhide. Appear to be living on antelope, mostly. We’ll make contact tomorrow.”

  She realized, if not for her, he would have camped closer to them. Instead he had to ride many extra miles. No matter how she tried to be helpful, she still burdened him and cost him time and effort.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come along.”

  He opened one eye. “I told you to stay put. Damn difficult finding this grove in the darkness, though.”

  “I’m glad you did. I was so worried.”

  He grunted. “Hate to leave you stranded. I’ll always come back if I’m able.”

  He misunderstood her. Of course she was afraid to be left alone in the wilderness, but his safety concerned her more.

  “I was worried about you, not me.”

  He smiled and patted her hand. “You want to rest here beside me awhile?”

  “What about what you said, about the limits to your patience?”

  He gave a rough laugh. “Emma, I’m too tired to be impatient tonight.”

  She smiled. “Let me just see to your horse.”

  “Obliged.”

  His breathing changed before she even had time to stand. She removed the bridle from Duchess and hobbled her. The animal did not seem eager
to graze. Likely, she’d eaten as Jake scouted the Indians. His horse breathed deeply at the saddle’s removal and moved beside the packhorse, taking advantage of his swishing tail to keep the flies off her face.

  Emma gathered her buffalo hide and lay beside Jake. His arm snaked out and he clasped her waist, reeling her in like a fish until she pressed snug against his side. The comfort of lying in his arms was one of the great pleasures of her life. Too bad he set such conditions about her bed and his. But this night, he seemed to need her as much as she needed him. She cuddled against him and he held her tight. In a moment she was warm and safe. The coyotes’ cry lost its menace and she tumbled asleep beside him.

  She woke at dawn to the birdcalls and tried to rise, but Jake groaned and refused to release her, so she closed her eyes and soon slept again. The next time she woke the birds flitted through the brush. Beyond the trees, wispy clouds played across a bright blue sky.

  Her attempts to slip away met with initial resistance, but then he gave up and she rose from the hides. After washing in the stream, she readied a meal of cold biscuits and leftover jackrabbit. Jake staggered up from the nest of furs and disappeared into a grove of cottonwoods. He returned to retrieve his razor and soap, then shaved by the stream.

  She smiled as he appeared again, ignoring the red in his eyes.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asked, not quite able to keep the smile from quirking his lips.

  “I dreamed I was wrestling a bear and could not extract myself from his arms.”

  He laughed at that.

  “Sometimes the bear wins.”

  She nodded. “Apparently. How did you sleep?”

  His gentle smile sent lightning bolts of awareness through her insides.

  “I dreamed I held a little kitten and for once she let me pet her.”

  Emma stood, suddenly outraged. “I did not!”

  “Only a little.”

  She eased back down. “You shall ruin my reputation.”

  He nodded and grabbed the leg of the hare, biting deep into the meat with glistening white teeth. Why did that make her stomach flutter so?

  She turned away, heading to the river to fill the water skins. Jake stayed behind to brew his tea over a tiny fire the smoke of which she could not even see from the bank. When she returned, she found him slicing into his saddle with his butcher knife.