Heroes of Heartbreak Creek 02

by Where the Horses Run

  And now, months later, he responded with this? Bemused, she read again the words written in the familiar bold script she had taught him back in the one-room schoolhouse in Heartbreak Creek, Colorado Territory.

  “Look for me, Prudence Lincoln. When the wind blows cold and the Long Nights Moon rides in the sky, I will come to you. Listen for my voice in the shadows. Then rise from your dreams, Voaxaa’e, and together we will fly away.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Are you ready?” a voice said behind her.

  Turning, she saw Cyrus Marsh standing in the doorway beside her valise, one gloved hand on his hip, holding back his overcoat, the other gripping the brim of the hat he impatiently tapped against his leg.

  “I-I can’t go, Mr. Marsh.” As she spoke, she slipped the letter into her coat pocket, not sure why she didn’t want him to see it. She disliked Mr. Marsh, and had from the moment she had met him. Despite his practiced smiles and polite words, she sensed an undercurrent of coldness within him.

  “Oh?” His blond brows rose in arcs above eyes of such a pale hazel they seemed yellow against his sallow skin. “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Lincoln. We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to make arrangements for you to join us on this trip. May I ask why, at the moment of our departure, you feel you can’t go?”

  “I’m expecting a visitor. He’s coming a long way, and I wouldn’t want to miss him.”

  “Your Indian friend.” His voice carried no emotion, but she saw the disdain in his eyes and the slight curl in his thin lips.

  “Yes. Mr. Redstone.”

  “I see.” The hat tapped harder, faster.

  Behind him, a small figure moved silently through the hall.

  Lillie. Eavesdropping again. Pru reminded herself to have another talk with the girl. Not that it would help. The child had little enough to keep her insatiable curiosity and bright mind occupied, and listening in on the lives of others was her dearest pastime. At least the girl was honorable enough not to repeat the things she heard.

  “When do you expect him?” Mr. Marsh asked.

  When the wind blows cold and the Long Nights Moon rides in the sky.

  “Mid-December,” she guessed. “I’m not sure of the exact date.” Possibly around the twenty-first, since that would be the longest night of the year. Thomas’s colorful speech was often difficult to decipher.

  “Perhaps you could write back and ask him to delay the visit.”

  “I don’t know where to reach him, sir.” Pru clasped her hands at her waist so they wouldn’t betray her nervousness. She hated confrontation. Bad enough Mr. Marsh ordered Brother Sampson around as if he were still a slave, but to have him interfering in her life was intolerable. Still, as trustee of the school that employed her, he deserved at least a show of respect. “He’s traveling from England, you see.”

  At least that’s what Maddie’s latest letter had said. The freighter carrying the Kirkwell thoroughbreds, Mr. Jessup, and Thomas were scheduled to arrive in Boston near the middle of this month. From there, they would travel by rail to Colorado, with stops along the way to rest the horses, which would drag out the journey for several weeks or more. Maddie had concluded by saying she assumed Thomas would stop to visit her on his way through Indiana, and for Pru to expect some changes.

  Changes? In Thomas? He was solid as a rock. As sure and steadfast as any man she had ever known. He certainly had no need to make changes.

  “If he’s not due until mid-December,” Mr. Marsh said, regaining her attention, “that would still leave us ample time to accomplish our purposes in the capitol. I see no problem.” Looking pleased, he set his hat on his head. “I’ll instruct the school administrator to send word if your Indian arrives before we get back. But should he do so, you can leave a note, telling him you’ll return shortly. Schuler is only a four-hour train ride from Indianapolis.”

  “But things could have gone more smoothly than anticipated,” Pru argued. “He might arrive any day. I would like to be here if he does.” And being Thomas, if he did arrive and found her gone, he might simply leave. He had a habit of disappearing when things weren’t to his liking.

  “Miss Lincoln.” Marsh paused as if struggling with words—or his temper. “You know how important this trip is. Not only for Brother Sampson, but for your education initiative, as well.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And with backing from important key people in Indianapolis,” he went on, ignoring her protest, “the two of you can advance equality and education for blacks more than the Quakers have ever done.”

  “I understand that, and I—”

  “He could be a state senator, Miss Lincoln! Or even governor. Isn’t that what you want? What we all want?”

  “Certainly, but—”

  “For God’s sake, why are you defying me, woman? Do you think I’ll allow you to ruin everything because of a damned Indian?”

  Pru shrank back, old fears flooding her mind. Breathe. Show no fear.

  “Christ.” Dropping his hands to his hips, Marsh let go a deep breath.

  Moments passed. Tension weighted the air while Pru stood locked in fear, waiting to see what he would do next.

  Stay or run.

  When he finally spoke again, his voice was flat and as cold as the glint in his near-colorless eyes. “I didn’t want to have to resort to threats.”

  Threats?

  Tipping his head to the side, he said in an almost conversational tone, “I know what you’ve been up to, Miss Lincoln.”

  Fear ballooned into an almost overwhelming urge to flee. How could he know? How did he find out? She fought to keep her voice steady. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” His smile showed small pointed teeth. A predator’s smile. “I know the Underground Railroad has started up again. Only this time, it’s not to aid runaway slaves seeking freedom, but black felons and agitators escaping into Canada. The misguided fools helping them could go to jail. Or worse. I know you’re involved, so don’t bother to deny it.”

  “They only want to live free, Mr. Marsh. Instead of being brutalized in the name of Southern Reconstruction.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “Save your speeches. If I could, I would turn the lot of you over to the authorities today.”

  Perspiration gathered under her arms. “Why do you care if a few desperate colored people seek a better life?”

  “I don’t. But I do care about Brother Sampson, and he cares about you and your initiative.” He leaned toward her, that icy gaze stripping away her courage. “And I especially care about the people who flock to hear him speak and who believe in the both of you. Voters, all.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. This was about votes?

  “You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Lincoln, especially for one of your race. Surely you’re aware that you and the good Brother are my stepping-stones to the real power in Washington. I’ve invested a great deal of time and effort toward that goal and I will not allow scandal to jeopardize those plans.”

  He stepped closer, his yellow eyes burning with the fervor of a fanatic. It took all her strength not to step back.

  “So be warned, Miss Lincoln. Behave. Stop this foolish business with the railroad. Because if you persist, I will exact a terrible price, if not from you, then from someone dear to you. One of your students, perhaps. Or your Indian. Maybe even Brother Sampson. But rest assured, someone will pay. Do you understand?”

  Pru fought to drag air into her lungs. He’s insane. Evil. Like Satan is evil. Just being near him made her feel unclean.

  Another step. “Have I made myself clear, Miss Lincoln?”

  Pru nodded.

  He studied her for a moment, then stepped back, his smile once more in place. “Then we’ll speak no more of it.” Bending, he picked up h
er valise. “Write that note to your Indian while I put this in the carriage. When I return, I’ll take it to the administrator along with my instructions to wire us if Mr. Redstone arrives before we return. And do hurry, Miss Lincoln. Brother Sampson is waiting and you know how the cold aggravates his hands.”

  Light-headed and shaking, Pru watched him leave the room. Terror careened through her mind, muddled her thinking. But one thought kept surfacing. After she finished this last rescue through the railroad, she would tell Brother Sampson about Marsh’s motives. Perhaps together they could find a way to stop him. But for now, and for his own safety, she had to send Thomas away.

  And there was only one way to do that.

  The pain of it almost doubled her over.

  On wooden legs, she went to the desk by the window and extracted a piece of paper from the drawer. Struggling to keep her hand steady, she wrote . . .

  Dear Thomas,

  I fear you misunderstood my last letter to you. I am not seeking a reunion. Our last visit made it clear to me that despite the deep feelings I have for you, we come from such different worlds we could never build a solid future together. I am sorry. Please give everyone my regards when you return to Heartbreak Creek.

  I will always remember you fondly.

  Prudence Lincoln

  One

  INDIANA, DECEMBER 1871

  With an unaccustomed twinge of nervousness, Thomas Redstone paused at the gate in front of a large brick building on the outskirts of Schuler, Indiana. He studied the words on the sign planted in the front yard. With the help of Rayford Jessup, his reading had improved, but it was still troublesome, and he wanted to be certain the name had not changed since his last visit.

  The Society of Friends School for Colored People.

  It was the same.

  From inside the building came the distant voices of children chanting their numbers. He pictured her standing before them, smiling as she had once smiled at him, her oldest pupil.

  Had she received his letter? Would she welcome him? Or would she choose these strangers over him once again, and send him away with more excuses? If so, it would be the last time. He could not spend the rest of his life waiting for Prudence Lincoln to accept him. If she turned him away this time, he would not come back.

  He did not want to think about how empty his days would be if that happened.

  Pushing the thought aside, he brushed back his shoulder-length hair and tugged the collar away from his neck so he could breathe, then opened the gate. As he walked toward the front porch, he looked around.

  The yard was bare except for a leafless willow tree by the front fence. There was no snow on the ground and few clouds hung in the sky. The breeze off the Ohio was cold but so gentle it felt like a cool hand against his cheek. It was much warmer here than in Colorado. For a moment, the horizon beckoned, and the call to return home was strong in his mind. He had been gone many months and had traveled far. He wanted to go back to his snowy mountains.

  But first he had to see Prudence Lincoln.

  When he started up the steps, he saw a black-skinned girl child sitting in a chair on the far end of the porch, staring in his direction, her head tilted to one side. She looked small and thin beneath her worn coat, and probably had less than a dozen years. She was darker than Prudence Lincoln, and tiny ribbon-tied braids sprouted from her head like raven feathers from a war bonnet. He wondered why she was not at her lessons with the other children.

  “Mornin’,” she called. “My name Lillie. It really Lillian, but everybody only call me Lillie.”

  He nodded without speaking. Setting down the leather pouch holding his extra clothes, he stared at the closed door, that uneasiness rising in him again. He did not like it. Did not like the feeling of doubt that came with it. Irritated at such weakness, he smoothed a hand down the front of his jacket. He did not like this fancy suit the Scotsman had bought for him, either. Or the boots he had to wear instead of his moccasins. He missed his topknot and eagle feather.

  But to honor his white grandfather—and Prudence Lincoln—this was the path he had chosen. For now. But once he returned to his mountains, he would cast aside these foolish trappings and become Cheyenne once again.

  “Ain’t you gonna knock?” the girl called.

  He scowled at her for interrupting his thoughts.

  She seemed not to notice and continued to stare, her head cocked.

  He took a deep breath, let it out, then lifted his fist and pounded on the door.

  Footsteps approached. He stood stiffly as the door opened and a stern-faced old woman in a plain, brown dress looked out at him. He did not recognize her from before, when he had left Prudence Lincoln in anger and sailed across the wide water with the Scotsman and his wife and Rayford Jessup.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Friend Laudner. How may I help thee?”

  A Quaker. He remembered the strange way they spoke. “You will take me to Prudence Lincoln.” Seeing the woman’s mouth tighten, he added, “Please.”

  “Miss Lincoln isn’t here.”

  The woman tried to close the door.

  Thomas stopped it with his hand. “Where is she?”

  She blinked round, dark eyes, reminding Thomas of a tiny brown wren. “I was told they went to the capitol.”

  They? And what was this capitol?

  This time, she shut the door before Thomas could stop her. “Noxa’e! Wait!”

  The footsteps faded into silence.

  Muttering, he turned to find the girl rising from her chair.

  “I know you.” She reached out to touch the porch rail. “You her Indian, ain’t you? Thomas Redstone.” She walked closer, one hand on the railing, the other pointed his way. “You a Cheyenne Dog Soldier.”

  He saw nothing familiar in her face, or in the odd way she looked toward him, but not at him. She spoke like other black skins he knew who had once been slaves. Except for Prudence Lincoln. She had never been a slave, and her white father had raised her to speak in the white way. The proper way, she called it.

  Thinking this girl—proper or not—might be more help than the Quaker woman, he put on a smile. “I did not see you when I came here before.”

  “I not see you, neither,” she said and giggled.

  Then he understood. Her careful gait. That blank stare. The intent way she listened, head tilted to one side to catch every sound. “You are blind.”

  “Scarlet fever. Three years back when I was eight. You sound tall.”

  “If you cannot see me, how do you know who I am?”

  She continued toward him. When the fingertips of her outstretched hand brushed his coat, she stopped and let her arm fall back to her side. “You talk different from the Friends. Or Miss Pru. Or anybody.” She smiled at his chest. “Can I feel your face?”

  He drew back. “Why?”

  “That how I see what you look like.”

  Forcing down his natural wariness around those marked by the Great Spirit, Thomas bent to within reach of her hands.

  Her touch was as soft as a moth’s wings. And ticklish. But he stood motionless while she felt everything, even his ears and lips and eyes. When she finally took her hands away, he straightened, glad the ordeal was over. He was not comfortable with such touching, except with Prudence Lincoln. He liked to keep people far enough away that he could see all of them at once and be ready should a threat come. “What do you see?” he asked.

  Another giggle, showing a gap where a front tooth had been. “You gots a big nose and you eyebrows very stern. What color you eyes?”

  “Black, and my nose is not big. What is this capitol?”

  “Indianapolis. I go there ’fore I blind. It a big place, sho’ ’nuff. What color you hair?”

  “Black. Why did Prudence Lincoln go there?”

  “To raise money for Rev
erend Brother Sampson.” A spark of excitement lit the blankness in her brown eyes. “You fetchin’ her? She ’posed to come back long time ago, but she ain’t showed.”

  Thomas stared past her, plans already forming in his mind. If he fetched Prudence Lincoln, it would not be to bring her back here.

  “Oh. Well.” A deep sigh. “They not let you take her, anyways.”

  He glared down at her dark head. “Who would stop me?”

  “Mistuh Marsh. He say Reverend Brother Sampson need her.”

  “Tell me of these men.”

  Leaning over the rail, she groped until her hand brushed a shrub planted alongside the porch. Plucking a withered blossom, she sniffed it, then slipped it into her coat pocket before moving down the rail to another plant. “Reverend Brother Sampson a preaching man. He a slave in Kentucky ’fore he come here on the Underground Railroad. Now he preach the holy gospel to folks in a big tent. He nice. Always bring me peppermints.”

  “And the other man?”

  She plucked another dead blossom, sniffed, then put it in the pocket with the first. “Mistuh Marsh. He white.” Her voice changed. Held a trace of . . . fear? “Usually he take Brother Sampson around so he can preach, only this time, he take him to a big tent meetin’ in Indianapolis. Miss Pru say folks there maybe send him all the way to Washington to talk to the president.”

  Thomas snorted. He knew what a talk with the White Father in Washington meant. More treaties, more broken promises, more trouble for the People. “Why do they need Prudence Lincoln to do this?”

  “’Cause she smart. Mistuh Marsh say with her by his side, folks maybe like Reverend Brother Sampson ’nuff to make him a leg-a-slater. I ain’t sure what that is. Nobody tell me nothin’ ’round here. They think ’cause I blind, I stupid, too.”

  Thomas felt a jolt in his chest. “And Prudence Lincoln? Does she like Reverend Brother Sampson, too?”

  “’Course. Everybody do. Even the Friends.”

  A coldness gripped him. Did that mean she had chosen this man over him?

  He did not want to believe that. Prudence Lincoln was his heart-mate.