“Our driver...” RuthAnne could imagine his broken body at the bottom of the chasm. “We’ll need to see to it he gets a proper burial, Father. He was a good man. A God-fearing man.” Suddenly, it seemed very important that they go back and find his broken body.
“It’s already been done, my dear. Captain Shepherd’s men have taken care of it. He’s a rare man, this soldier.” Mariposa took her hands again, holding them gently.
“But, I only just told him...” He ran me through the wringer, and he already knew the truth? RuthAnne’s head went swimmy, her breath whooshed out with the violation.
“You only confirmed what he already suspected.”
RuthAnne looked up sharply, but the captain had left as silently as he’d entered.
“You are welcome to stay here as long as you desire,” Father Acuña said. She nodded in thanks as he took his leave.
Exhausted beyond belief, she accepted Mariposa’s hand and allowed the woman to lead her behind a screen to a wooden stool where a full washbasin and a rough-looking yellow sea sponge waited. A clean muslin nightdress hung from a wrought iron hook on the wall, and a thin towel lay draped over the tri-fold privacy screen.
“It isn’t much, señorita, but it will help you feel better.”
“It would be señora, wouldn’t it? I’m a widow...”
Mariposa’s eyes widened then filled with kind understanding. She helped unfasten the buttons on RuthAnne’s boots, released the hooks and eyes at the back of RuthAnne’s bodice, and folded the torn and ruined traveling garments, stained with her sister’s lifeblood. RuthAnne knew she would never wear them again.
She carefully finished undressing and discreetly wrapped the thin towel around her waist to perch on the stool. She slipped her feet into the metal tub and wrung warm water from the darkening sea-sponge. At that moment, the magnitude of what had happened hit her full force. The trunks full of clothing that were on the stage, her mother’s silver hairbrush and hand mirror, Evan’s cufflinks and epaulets from his Confederate uniform, her father’s books...lost. Forever.
But they had their lives, thanks to a soldier who did not know them. RuthAnne momentarily closed her eyes, letting the sponge drip cleansing water down her neck. She focused on the beeswax candle as it burned from the rough-hewn side table. Its flame flickered and filled the room with an amber glow.
Mariposa’s shadow filled the screen. “It was a blessing the captain found you, as far from the road as you were.”
“I’d all but lost hope when we heard them above us...” Despite the warm water, gooseflesh erupted over RuthAnne’s bare skin at the memory.
with the
“Bowen Shepherd and his men were on their way out to meet with a band of Apache. My people.”
“Aren’t the army and the Apache at war?”
“Not all of us. My familia...my tribe remains in supplication to the army. They have exchanged peace for food, shelter, and information, of course. They trust Shepherd. And only Shepherd.” She spoke it as simple fact.
RuthAnne couldn’t help but wonder. What kind of a life did this captain lead? A soldier who made peace with enemies? A man who’d abandoned her at this small mission church without even saying goodbye?
She swallowed hard as she washed the dried blood from her arms and between her fingers. RuthAnne finally stumbled across the tears that had been so long in coming. Tears for a man she barely knew. For a sister who would live only by the grace of God. For Evan. She missed him now more than she’d dreamed possible. She closed her eyes and prayed.
Chapter 6
The crow of a bantam rooster broke the morning silence. RuthAnne attempted to roll to her side in the small cot, and every muscle in her body screamed in protest. She examined her side and arms, eyeing the bruises in their full glory where there had been only shadows the night before. Turning, she groaned at the ache deep in her right side, but she didn’t think any ribs were broken.
She noticed the pottery cup on the table beside her bed and sat up to take a drink. The lemony water cooled her parched throat. Mariposa...She knew the native woman must have delivered the soothing liquid in the night, and she took another long swallow.
Catching her reflection in the tin-framed mirror, RuthAnne winced. She was a ghost of herself. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her tangled blonde curls fell loose about her shoulders. Injury seemed to abrade every inch of her skin, but she would survive the cuts and bruises. She rubbed her stiff, sore neck as best she could, the memory of El Tejano’s gun at her throat as vivid as the purple crescent bruise it left behind. But that was yesterday. Today, she was alive. Time to figure out exactly where they’d ended up.
The drink must have had restorative qualities, she decided, noticing that her muscles were loose and the soreness waned within moments. She dressed carefully in the light cotton blouse and faded blue tiered skirt left at the foot of her bed.
Standing in front of the mirror, RuthAnne fidgeted with the shoulders of the rose-embroidered blouse, a vain attempt to hide her milk-white skin. Heat already seeped through the deep open windows, making her appreciate the airy fabric of her new clothes all the more.
In the courtyard beyond, she noticed a well with a hand pump, and chickens roamed free within the confines of the chapel grounds. They clucked and scratched at their breakfast on the hard-packed dirt of the open court.
Following memory, she traced her steps to Mara’s room. She did not hesitate before entering.
Cool air met her face as she stepped through the door. She suspected the thick, white-painted adobe walls would keep most of the extreme desert heat at bay. A small, curtainless window showed a view into the courtyard and the mountains beyond that towered above them. While ordinarily she would have stood in awe of the foothills and peaks with their great stone edifices and evidence of trees and waterfalls above, she only had eyes for the slight girl on the white bed.
Mara’s even breath filled the small room. Her onyx hair still damp from a broken fever, now brushed and lovingly arranged around her face. The welt on her forehead remained purple and large, but her eyes looked peaceful. The furrow in her brow had relaxed.
RuthAnne knelt beside the bed and took the girl’s hands in her own.
“Oh, Lord, please let it be Your will for my sister’s healing...I thank You for the aid of Your servants. Of that beautiful Indian woman, Mariposa, and even of that gruff soldier who manhandled me here...”
“I don’t suppose you enjoyed it much, ma’am, but I did the best I could under the circumstances.” Captain Shepherd stood from where he had rested in a carved wooden chair.
“Captain!” RuthAnne immediately crossed her arms in front of her, uncomfortable in the unfettered blouse. He did not look away for a long moment, holding her eyes captive with his own of smoky green.
She’d seen that look on Evan’s face a time or two, right before he started courting her. RuthAnne’s cheeks flushed with heat. Her heart skipped, mid-beat. She’d not had a man look at her like that since Evan. She wrenched her gaze from his and grabbed a colorful tablecloth to wrap around her bare shoulders.
He took a step back in understanding. “I have no intention to dishonor you, ma’am. I stayed with her so Mariposa could sleep. I’m on my way back to the fort this morning.”
“You owe me no explanation, Captain. Thank you for your efforts in seeing us to safety. We’ll be getting on to Tucson ourselves as soon as...Well, as soon as Mara is well enough.”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, ma’am.” His deep voice resonated with a decidedly Midwestern accent. His people were probably farmers, but she couldn’t see this towering, dark-haired, hazel-eyed man in anything but the army blues. She didn’t care for the thoughts that flickered to her mind, being a woman alone for so long.
He shifted his weight. “After El Tejano...after yesterday, I know you are in dire straits. Do you have any means? Anyone we could telegraph back east to come fetch you?”
Heartache filled her br
uised throat. True, she could reach out to her remaining family in Somerville, Alabama, but they had all lost so much in the War Between the States. Her father had barely recovered himself.
Besides, she had chosen a different path when she had married Evan. They took Mara in following Mother’s passing, promising to love and look out for her little sister until she grew up enough to marry and start her own life. Evan’s only living relative consisted of an aunt in San Francisco whom RuthAnne had never met. They had nowhere else to turn. For now, Mara was all that mattered. In a week, the army wagons would return with their goods, and they would have means. That would have to do. She attempted to clear her throat and found it very hard to swallow.
“Mara and I are completely on our own.” She softened toward him, seeing his pained expression. “Not to worry, sir. The bandit didn’t take everything from us. They’ll ship the bulk of our belongings from La Junta as soon as I call for them. The army said it’d take about a week.”
“I see.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and smiled. “So, you’re the seamstress?” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, doesn’t that beat all? My apologies for not reaching you sooner, ma’am.” With a bow, he strode off across the courtyard.
RuthAnne drew the cloth tighter around her shoulders as she watched him walk away. His laughter was cold, and she couldn’t shake the notion that she had just been slighted. Fine, she thought, kicking her foot at the ground. At least he knew where to find her when her wares arrived.
****
RuthAnne rejoiced at every incoherent mumble that fell from Mara’s lips and died a little each time the pain sent her sister back into a restless slumber. Her thoughts flicked to her mother and how she’d soothed their fevers when she and Mara were small children. RuthAnne now tended her sister in the same fashion, loving on her, praying for her while placing cool cloths on her forehead and wrists, soaking them in a blend of water and pungent herbs that Mariposa had prepared for that purpose.
Time stood still on the chapel grounds. RuthAnne stayed by her sister’s side. She changed the dressing with freshly boiled and dried linen bandages, observed the blood clotting. Mara’s wounds would heal, and she’d never been more grateful.
RuthAnne spent her days praying in the chapel and at her sister’s bedside and long nights in the room she’d begun to think of as her own. Soon, Mara would be well enough to travel to the city. RuthAnne could meet with the new quartermaster, and they could rebuild their lives in this strange new place. So many unknowns left her worried and kept her sleepless on the lonely summer nights.
Finally, three days after her arrival, Father Acuña found her sitting in the shade of the ramada porch. His hands were folded in front of him, and his eyes were grave. Her first thought went to Mara’s condition, and a cold stab of fear sliced through her heart.
“What is it, Father?” Springing to her feet, she steeled herself for the worst, tears pricking her eyes. She vaguely noticed a bright red cardinal darting from the mesquite tree to the rafter beam, eyeing them before flying off again. A fat gamble quail puttered along the adobe fence, its topknot bobbing.
“My dear, sweet girl. You’ve had more than your share of bad news lately. I’m so sorry, but I must tell you...”
“Please, Father. Not Mara. God can’t have Mara yet...” She sank to her knees, and he clasped her hands, apologetically, helping her stand.
“She is resting comfortably. I’m so sorry to worry you. That is not why I’ve come.” RuthAnne squeezed her eyes shut with relief as he continued. “It is the army wagons. I have just gotten news. There is more trouble with the Indians at the New Mexico and Arizona border. Nothing will be transported from La Junta, or through New Mexico, for at least another month.”
RuthAnne nodded dimly. Another setback. And she couldn’t rely on the kindness of these good people for another month, not while they cared for Mara and asked nothing in return.
She knew what she must do, as much as it killed her to admit it. She needed help.
“Where might I find Captain Shepherd?”
Chapter 7
The ragtag group of soldiers stayed camped for two days at the edge of lower Tanque Verde Creek, just off the chapel grounds, where clear water trickled along the rocky riverbed. Captain Bowen Shepherd ordered his men to saddle their mounts. The time had come to return to the fort.
The monsoon storm clouds were building. Voluminous, they massed into a darkening curtain, even as the morning sun broke over the valley. Bowen wiped the sweat from his brow, replaced his army issue hat, and frowned at the jagged claws of white lighting that streaked across the darkening eastern sky. They were too far away to hear the thunder. Yet.
On the other side of the smoldering campfire, Bowen eyed Sergeant Ross MacEvoy rolling up his thin bedroll. He hefted it behind his saddle with a thump. Reggie Thompson, of late a demoted Private First Class, muttered an unheard comment that had Ross giving a hearty guffaw. Bowen hid a smile at the idle banter between Ross and Reggie as they broke camp. Though he was their commanding officer, Bowen didn’t feel inclined to stop them from hounding each other.
The three men had known each other for seven years. In that time, Bowen had seen Reggie both promoted and demoted in rank. The boy had a streak of temper a mile wide and tended to lose it in the wrong company. Though Reggie seemed threatening with his towering frame, his ice blue eyes were prone to dancing with humor, often at the expense of his compatriot and childhood friend, Ross MacEvoy.
Where Reggie was dark and as unkempt as the army would allow, Ross was fair, with a wide, easy smile and curling blonde mustache; equally broad shouldered as Reggie, and a full head shorter. The two soldiers were inseparable. Blood brothers. And, even more important than friendship, Bowen knew he could trust both men with his life and had on many occasions. Whether orders came to scout the roads for bandits and rogue natives or to clean up the messes made by the often-intolerant citizens of growing Tucson, Arizona, there were no other soldiers he’d rather ride out with.
Unlike Bowen, they had both grown up in the territory. Ross had built a home for his new wife and growing family further east, beyond the Dragoon Pass out between Fort Bowie and that fool copper mine of DeWitt Bisbee’s. Reggie and Bowen both remained unmarried. Reggie by choice; Bowen by circumstance.
A rumble of thunder echoed from the canyons above. The deep gray, ballooning clouds were a warning sign. The torrential rains and flash floods that followed could be devastating to the unaware. Every year, they scraped up the remains of some hapless traveler who’d been washed away in a flash flood out of the mountains. They would need to be exceedingly cautious, Bowen noted as he stowed his canteen in his carefully maintained saddle bags. He would keep an eye to the Rincon Mountains behind them, where the clouds gathered, looming dark and purple. Rain in the mountains above meant floods down the long slopes of the bajada into the arroyos below.
After taking advantage of a brief furlough, hunting and giving aid to Padre Acuña around the chapel grounds, they would make their way back to the fort today. If his men suspected he was keeping an eye on the two young women currently housed at the mission, neither Ross nor Reggie brought it up to his face. Bowen frowned and rubbed oil over his army issue black leather boots in slow, concentric circles. Besides, he’d found the girls and brought them to safety. The state in which that rogue El Tejano left them should see him hang for sure, regardless of the fact he was a thief and a murderer. If and when they caught him, that was. No person, Christian or otherwise, should be abandoned in such a way. Especially not a woman like RuthAnne Newcomb...
Bowen saw her image every time he closed his eyes. Soft skin, silken blonde hair swept from her graceful neck, a willowy frame still a good six inches shorter than he. But above all, her eyes seemed etched on his soul. As clear and blue as the desert sky on a summer morning, the look behind her steady, challenging gaze speared his soul and told him everything he needed to know.
That’s what worried him.
> Always look a woman in the eye, Bowen, his mother had advised him quite seriously. You’ll recognize your soul mate in an instant. He knew his mama to be romantic to the core. It’s why she’d never remarried after Pa died. Her heartfelt words filled his head in memory. Are you the one? His thoughts shifted to RuthAnne before he pushed them as far as from east to west.
He remembered laughing at his mother for such a notion. He teased, calling her a sentimental fool. Still, he always wondered at her simple statement. Could there really be a girl out there that the Lord had made just for him? He’d been so trusting. So innocent. And now, it seemed so impossible.
His mother had raised him alone after his father passed when he was a boy of twelve; she guided him into manhood on her own. She wanted a full and happy life for him: a practical wife who would look after him and a family to share it with. Once upon a time, he’d wanted so much more. An equal partner. Someone to dream and plan with, to build a life around.
But Bowen had long since stopped searching. When he was young and foolish, he believed his mother. That there was a woman out there made for him, to be his other half. The truth of the choices he’d made knifed his heart. He knew his guilty conscience and stained soul dictated that he must live out this life alone. In spite of knowing, he found reasons to linger just off the chapel grounds. He found himself looking toward the fence line, hoping for a glimpse of the tall, lean woman. Remembering how his heart pounded when he held her in his arms. That’s precisely why they needed to leave.
Bowen turned toward the small Mexican church. He wasn’t comfortable encroaching on the padre’s land. Not since he began fighting the Indian campaigns for the government. He’d done more than his share of killing. It weighed heavy on his heart, seeing how the natives were treated, but it hadn’t stopped him from following orders. And when the citizens of the town decided stirring up trouble was the best way to get more attention to this Indian Problem of theirs out at Camp Grant, he’d had enough.
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