by Janet Dailey
“Where is your husand?” Kell demanded, much to Ann’s embarrassment.
“I have none.”
A spinster. Ann looked at her pityingly, then realized what the woman was saying. “You aren’t making the Run yourself?” This was no sturdy farm woman with a complexion turned ruddy and coarse by the sun. Both her manner and style of dress spoke of gentility and education.
“Indeed I am,” she stated. “I intend to have a place of my own—become a woman of property.” Then she explained that she’d been a teacher for the last eight years in the backwoods of Texas, obliged to board with the parents of her pupils. “I want to sleep in my own bed, have my own curtains at the window, and cook my meals on my own stove. And this is my one chance to do it. Please, will you buy my hat?”
…Kell bought the hat for me, although afterward he said he shouldn’t have encouraged her to go ahead with her foolhardy plan. He says that it will be a stampede when that gun goes off to start the Run. I’m quite sure he’s right. I wonder at the daring she has. I know I could never be so bold as to do such a thing. Yet I understand the desperation I saw in her eyes, that need to break from a way of life she despises before it crushes her spirit completely.
It is nearly four o’clock and I am to meet Chris in the lobby on the hour. I think I shall wear my new hat.
There is so much more to tell. I hope I shall remember it all to write down later, but Chris awaits and I am anxious to be out of this room and among people again.
From the stairs’ bottom step, Ann scanned the jumble of people crowded into the hotel’s small lobby. With the red felt hat perched atop her freshened curls and a closed parasol in hand, she idly fanned her face with a lavender-drenched kerchief, and dabbed occasionally at the perspiration that gathered so readily on her upper lip. A fan turned overhead, yet it seemed to accomplish little beyond circulating the oppressive heat. She looked, but there was no sign of Chris. Usually he was easy to spot in a crowd, like Kell, standing a good inch over six feet, which put him head and shoulders above nearly everyone else. It wasn’t like him to be late. Perhaps he’d stepped outside for some air. Ann decided to check.
Skirting the crowded lobby, Ann made her way to the double doors, propped open to admit any breeze that was stirring. Outside the hotel, the spectacle of the street greeted her once again. She had never seen anything like it in her whole life—cowboys mounted on snorting, half-tamed broncs, dudes in their checked suits and square-crowned bowlers, and women in their poke bonnets and worn gingham dresses riding on buckboards and prairie schooners crammed with all their possessions. The constant stream of traffic churned the dust and created a cloud that hugged the ground. And the rumble of wagons, the rattle of trace chains, the thunder of hooves, the creak of leather, the crack of the whips, the shouted curses of the drivers all combined to assault the ears, just as the stench of sweating bodies, man and animal, combined to assault the nose.
Ann pressed the lavender-scented kerchief close to her nose and looked about the boardwalk outside the hotel’s entrance for Chris. But there was only one man in front of the hotel. Dressed in a black waistcoat and black hat, he stood at the edge of the walk facing the street. He was tall, but not as tall as Chris. Nor were his shoulders as wide. And his hair did not possess the gold streaks the summer sun had put in Chris’s. Rather, it was black, that deep shining black of a raven. He turned his head to look at something up the street, giving her a side view of his clean-shaven face. Then, as if sensing her gaze, he turned the rest of the way, the satin brocade of his gray vest gleaming between the parted front of his waistcoat.
Excitement fluttered in her breast. He was quite the handsomest man she had ever seen—and a gentleman, too, judging by his dress. But it was definitely improper for a married woman to be staring at a strange man. With a guilty flush, Ann looked away and attempted to cover her momentary confusion by opening her parasol. As she extended it to one side of her, a stout man in a tweed suit and bowler hat chose that moment to exit the hotel. He walked right into it, knocking it out of her hands.
With her mouth open in dismay, Ann watched it land on the sidewalk practically at the man’s feet. She saw him look at it, and observed the faint smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth—and wanted to die of pure mortification. She rushed to retrieve it, ignoring the profuse apologies offered to her by the man who had knocked the parasol from her grasp.
Before she could stoop to pick it up, a black-sleeved arm reached down. “Allow me.” The warm, low pitch of his voice seemed to vibrate right through her.
Immediately she straightened to stand erect and struggled to regain her composure, succeeding to a degree. Her opinion of his looks didn’t change when they finally faced each other. If anything it intensified when she encountered the deep blue of his eyes, darkly outlined by thick, male lashes as black as the wings of his brow.
“Thank you.” She held out her hand for the parasol.
But he didn’t immediately give it back to her. Instead, he opened it first, then returned it, angled to shade her face from the late afternoon sunlight. The look in his eyes was much too familiar as his gaze wandered over her face.
“It would be a sin, indeed, for the sun to damage skin such as yours. I have not seen the likes of it since I was in St. Louis a year ago.” Unexpectedly he reached up and lightly trailed a finger across her cheek. “It’s as creamy white and smooth as a magnolia petal.”
She knew she should object to such effrontery. At the very least, she should be shocked by it. But shock didn’t accurately describe her tingling reaction. Thankfully, she had the good sense not to comment on either his remark or his feathery caress of her cheek. And she hoped her silence on the matter would correct any wrong impression she might have given.
“Are you here to make the Run?” he asked.
“Gracious, no.” She laughed, mostly to release some of the unbearable tension that gripped her. “My husband is here to sell some of our horses to the settlers.”
“I am envious.”
“Sir?” She blinked at him in confusion, then fought the sensation that his gaze was absorbing her whole.
“I would be envious of any man who has the honor of calling such a rare and beautiful flower his wife.”
Flustered, she lowered her gaze and attempted a cool “You flatter me, sir.”
He cocked his head at a denying angle. “Truth is never flattery. And it is the truth when I say that you are a rare and beautiful flower, one that a man doesn’t expect to find out here on the prairie.”
Nor did she want to be here. She hated its emptiness, its isolation, and its rustic society. She longed for the lawn parties, the literary teas, and the cultural pleasures she’d left behind in Kansas City. Once more she wanted to sit at a dinner party where the guests didn’t belch or tuck the napery over their shirts or talk about cows and shipping rates or the bank panic.
Suddenly aware of the lengthening pause, Ann murmured a quick “I suppose not,” then smiled with forced brightness. “I shall tell my husband that when I see him. I’m sure he’ll find your observation quite interesting.”
“You’re meeting him?”
“No. That is, his brother is meeting me here. Kell…my husband will join us later for dinner.”
“Kell. That’s his name?”
“Kell Morgan, yes. Do you know him?” she asked curiously.
“I know of him,” he replied, carefully qualifying his answer. “But then, there are few in the territory who have not heard of Morgan’s Walk. That is your home, isn’t it, Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes.” She held her breath for an instant, wondered if she dared to ask. “And you are?”
“Jackson Lee Stuart.” He touched the brim of his hat. “At your service…anytime.”
A trio of riders raced up the street, whipping their horses and kiyipping at the top of their lungs as if the race for land on the Cherokee Strip had begun. Distracted by the commotion, Ann glanced at the street and immediately spotted Ch
ris riding toward the hotel. Regret swept through her, sharp and poignant. She knew his arrival would signal the end of her meeting with Mr. Jackson Lee Stuart and she didn’t want it to be over—not yet.
She forced a bright smile onto her face. “There comes my brother-in-law now.”
Jackson Stuart looked over his shoulder, then turned back to her. “Now that you have another protector to look after you, I will take my leave.”
“It has been a pleasure, Mr. Stuart.” Automatically she offered him her hand in parting.
“If the fates are kind, we’ll meet again.” Her heart skipped a beat or two as he bowed slightly and carried her gloved hand to his lips, his blue eyes holding her gaze. Instead of kissing the back of it, he turned it over and pressed a kiss into the very center of her palm. She was quite breathless with shock—and that guilty feeling of forbidden pleasure—when he straightened and released her hand. “Let us hope that they are.”
She couldn’t agree to that, not out loud. Tipping his dark hat to her, he moved off, joining the stream of pedestrians on the boardwalk. With an effort, Ann tore her gaze from him and crossed to the edge of the walk to greet Chris as he dismounted.
“At last you’re here,” she declared gaily. “I was about to decide you’d forgotten me.”
“Never.” Smiling, he looped the reins around the hitching rack and gave them a quick tie, then joined her on the walk. “But what are you doing out here? I thought we agreed to meet in the lobby.”
“We did.” She switched the parasol to her other shoulder as she linked her arm with his. “But you weren’t there when I came down so I stepped outside to look for you.”
“That wasn’t wise, Ann. Didn’t I see a man talking to you when I rode up?”
She had difficulty meeting his gaze, and chided herself for feeling so absurdly guilty. She had done absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
“Yes,” she admitted, quite openly. “He retrieved my parasol after some passerby had knocked it from my hand. He was very polite.”
“Just the same, you shouldn’t venture out alone. This town is filled with unsavory types. Kell’s right.”
“I’m sure he is.” Just for an instant, she was angry. She turned on Chris, unleashing her frustrations on him as she always did. “But I didn’t endure that horrid trip just to trade one prison for another. You might as well know that I have no intention of spending my entire time here in that hotel room alone. I want to get out and see things—and do things. So much is happening…there’s so much excitement. I want to be part of it, Chris.”
“I know.” He covered the hand that gripped his forearm and gave it an understanding squeeze.
Ann looked up, realizing that she could always count on his sympathy. Dear, wonderful Chris, so like Kell in looks, yet so unlike him. Both had the same strong features and dark eyes, but on Kell they were hard and cold, whereas on Chris they had a gentleness, a sunniness that matched the dark gold of his hair. She could tell him anything and he would understand.
“Kell worries about you, Ann,” he said. “You can’t blame him. He loves you.”
“I know.” She lowered her gaze, realizing that she could tell him anything, but not necessarily everything, and definitely not about Jackson Stuart.
How odd that such a brief meeting should linger in my mind this way. I wonder if I shall see Mr. Stuart again. Is it wrong of me to hope that I do?
I must end this. Kell calls me to bed.
September 14, 1893
The horses are selling well now that Kell has moved the herd twenty miles north to the small town of Orlando. That is where the registration booth is located for this area, so all the settlers have gathered there to sign up for the Run. Kell keeps the horses groomed and grained, so they look sleek and fast. Already he has sold all but ten of the one hundred horses he brought. Which is truly remarkable when one considers that he sells them for two hundred dollars each. Six months ago he asked thirty dollars a head for the same stock!
Now that the horses have become such valuable steeds, guard must be kept on them at all times. And with literally thousands of people crowded into that small community, there are no accommodations available, so I have been obliged to remain here at the hotel in Guthrie. Either Chris or Kell rides the twenty miles back every night so that I at least have company for breakfast and dinner.
I chafed so at being forced to rely on newspaper accounts to know what was happening outside my hotel door that Kell finally consented and allowed me to accompany him to Orlando today and see for myself the spectacle of all the “strippers”—that is what the newspapers are calling the settlers intent on making the Run onto the Cherokee Strip.
I admit that within minutes of embarking on the journey to Orlando, I questioned the wisdom of it. The temperature soared to one hundred degrees in the shade—if one could find any. And a wind blew constantly, as hot and dry as everything else. Need I mention that the dust was unbearable. I can still feel the grit of it on my skin.
But the sight I beheld at the end of the morning’s journey staggers my mind even now. Tents were pitched everywhere, transforming the prairie into a sea of brown canvas that rippled live waves in the incessant wind. And there were vehicles of every shape, size, and description—buckboards, covered wagons, buggies, pony carts, even a racing sulky. I read that there may be as many as ten thousand people camped at Orlando. To me the number seemed much larger than that. Add to all that teeming humanity their animals, and the entire scene becomes one beyond words.
Most pitiful of all, however, were the hundreds upon hundreds of people waiting in line to register. Some had been in line for as much as forty-eight hours. They dared not leave or they’d lose their place in line. And it was a line that grew by the hour instead of diminishing as the ones in front received their certificates. How they could stand there hour after hour in that infernal heat with gale winds swirling that choking dust around them—with not a speck of shade to offer them a respite from the blazing sun—I shall never know. Many succumbed to the heat, collapsing into the dust where they stood. It was a sight that would have torn at my poor papa’s heart—especially the women. One was the woman who sold me her hat. She had changed so that I barely recognized her….
Ann pulled back on the buggy reins and stared at the woman in the torn and bedraggled gown. Her face was black with a mixture of dirt, sweat, and tears that had caked, melted, and caked again. Her hair hung in a lank, tangled mass about her shoulders. Ann couldn’t believe it was the same woman. But it had to be. That brightly beaded reticule, clutched tightly in both hands, was the same as the one into which the woman had put the five dollars that Kell had given her for the hat. It was doubtful that there could possibly be two like it.
The woman turned her head and stared at the hooded buggy with blank, bloodshot eyes. Then, as Ann watched, the woman’s pupils rolled back and she sank to the ground in a heap. Ann gasped in horror, and that horror increased when she realized that no one was going to risk losing their place in line to come to the woman’s aid. Hastily she wound the reins around the whipstand, gathered up her skirts, and clambered from the buggy, not taking the time to call to the cowboy Kell had detailed to escort her.
She ran to the woman and knelt in the dirt beside her, for the moment mindless of the heat and the blinding dust. She tried to lift her off the hard ground and cradle her in her arms, but the woman was too heavy for her.
“Please.” She scrambled to her feet and appealed to the others in line. “Someone get a doctor. There must be one in town. She’s fainted from the heat. She needs help.”
“Here.” The man in front of her shoved a dirty blanket into her hands. “Wad that up and stick it under her head. She’ll come around in a few minutes.”
Stunned by his callous indifference to the woman’s plight, Ann stared at him, but he turned his back on her and shuffled forward as the line moved a foot at a time. Ann turned to the next man as he started to walk around her and rejoin the moving line.
“No.” Impulsively she caught at his arm. “You can’t walk by like that.”
He glared at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Yo sure as hell ain’t gonna stop me, missy. An’ yo ain’t gonna steal her place in line neither. If yo want to register, yo can just git yore fancy ass to the back of the line.” His talonlike fingers dug into her shoulder and gave her a rough push toward the rear, the suddenness and the violence of it sending her sprawling hands first into the dirt.
Shocked as much by his vulgarity as by his roughness, Ann lay there for a stunned instant, then pushed up on her knees just as a big black stallion slid to a prancing stop not three feet from her. A man vaulted from the saddle. Her heart somersaulted at the sight of Jackson Stuart, jacketless in the heat with just a thin cotton shirt, wet with perspiration, covering his arms and torso.
He was at her side in a stride, catching her by the shoulders and pulling her upright as if she weighed no more than thistledown. “Are you all right, Mrs. Morgan?” His hat was pulled low on his forehead, its brim shading the gleaming bronze of his face and intensifying the sharp blue of his eyes.
“I’m…fine.” She nodded shakily, aware that her hat was askew and her beautiful gown was smudged with dirt. As she reached down to brush uselessly at the dust, Ann noticed the holstered gun strapped to his hip. She was surprised to see him wearing one. Kell, yes—a gun fit him as naturally as the hardness of this land—but not Jackson Stuart. It was the moment’s pause the gun gave her that kept her from mentioning the unconscious woman lying on the ground only a few feet away.
And in that moment, Jackson Stuart spun around and grabbed the man who had shoved her. “I believe you owe the lady an apology.” There was a coldness in his voice that stunned Ann, but the man just looked at him with torpid eyes, his senses too dulled by the heat to catch the threatening tone. In a lightning move the gun was in his hand, the muzzle pressed under the point of the man’s chin and the hammer back. “I said—you owe the lady an apology, mister.”
