by Janis Jakes
“In the shadows?” Luke felt his chest crushed with the agony of years without a father—made worse by the realization he’d been so close, and yet so far. “I would have rather had your presence. All the neighbors could have hated us, but if I’d had you, that would not have mattered.”
“You say that now, but—“
“I needed you. We all needed you.”
Something moved in a nearby brush. Luke turned just as several birds fluttered their wings and flew into the sky. He squinted into the descending sun—its brightness blinding him from what lay on the other side. He turned back to Walking Stick.
The older man’s eyes remained fixed on the brush. “Then I made a mistake,” Walking Stick said. “Can you forgive me for that? Or will you spend your entire life hating me for something neither of us can change?”
An arrow whizzed past Luke’s face, hitting his father square in the chest and knocking him to the ground with a muted thud.
Luke wailed, pulling his gun from its holster and falling to his knees at his father’s side.
Walking Stick stared at him, alive but bleeding like a river bursting through a dam.
Luke stood up, rushing into the brush without thinking.
In the distance, White Feather jumped on a horse, digging her heels into its flesh before riding off bareback into the woods at a wild pace.
He slammed his gun into his holster then hurried back to his father’s side.
Billie made it to them, her breath coming in heaving gasps and her face as pale as the dry stones that lined the edge of the creek bed. “I heard you scream and—” She stopped, her eyes opening wide at the sight of all the blood.
“We’ve got to save him. I need your help.”
Walking Stick looked at his son and closed his eyes.
17
“What if she comes back?” Billie asked. “What if she tries to kill you next?”
“White Feather won’t ever return,” Luke said. “There are serious consequences for killing a member of the council. Her own father would hang her.”
Billie’s stomach revolted at the thought.
Luke lifted his father’s head, offering him a drink of something from a smaller canteen that he took from his father’s saddlebag. The smell was horrible. “This will help him rest. Heat my knife over the fire. I will have to remove the arrow.” He withdrew a folded cloth from the same saddlebag.
“But he’s lost so much blood. Let him regain his strength.”
“The sooner he can begin healing the better.”
Billie grimaced as Luke guided the arrow from his father’s flesh, turning her head away to hide the tears of anguish. The point had pushed deep within Walking Stick’s chest. With the arrow pulled out, blood flowed bright and new.
Luke remained tense and focused as he poured the strong liquid over part of the cloth, then gently guided it around the circumference of the wound, pressing it inside. His father moaned. Luke drew back. He then wrapped the cloth around his father’s body, tying it in a hard knot at his side. Every inch of his fingers was stained red.
“We will see what it looks like in a few hours,” Luke said. “If blood continues to soak through, we know that he will not live. I will go to the creek and wash my hands.”
Billie got Walking Stick a blanket from his pack. She was glad to see he was not shivering. His breathing, though shallow, remained steady. Surely, that was a good sign.
“We will stay camped here for a while.” Luke returned from the creek. “I’ll keep a watch tonight for Caldwell’s men. In the morning, I’ll rest, and you can keep watch.”
She was too exhausted to argue. Billie lay down only feet from Walking Stick, closing her eyes and welcoming slumber. The smell of coffee woke her during the wee morning hours. She rose onto her forearm.
Luke drew the cup to his lips. His gaze remained on his father—an older and taller but almost identical version of the son.
“How did he do through the night?”
Luke’s gaze darted toward her. “He’s alive. I wish Abigail could be here. She barely remembers him.”
“When he gets better, maybe he’ll go visit her. Now that he’s reappeared in your life, it won’t be so difficult to remain.”
“Maybe,” he said, but it was obvious he didn’t believe that would happen.
She pushed the covers away, rising to her feet. “I’ll trade places with you so you can get some sleep.”
He yawned. “I need to rest, but I also need to eat.” He stood to his full height. “I’ll be back soon.” He strode from sight, entirely impressive in his strength and stature. His father may not have raised him, but he certainly left his imprint upon him in every aspect of his imposing presence.
After they ate, Luke curled up and fell asleep, leaving Billie alone with her thoughts. Her relatives in Arkansas were not far away. Only a few days’ journey but leaving was impossible. She had to believe that God had not forgotten them. He knew what was going on, and any anxiety she felt for the delay was purely selfish.
She pictured Abigail enjoying time with her husband and baby Henry. Henry, Sr., would be home by now, and the thought brought her peace. If Caldwell’s men showed up again, at least Abigail would have someone there with her. Then she thought of her parents and siblings. How worried they must be. As soon as it was safe, she would get word to them. And she thought of the children in her schoolroom. They would probably have a new teacher by now, though she hoped they still thought of her fondly. She certainly cared a great deal for them all. So many people, and all ripped away from her like a season suddenly ending.
It almost seemed impossible to recall the predictability of her world only a month ago compared to her life now. She longed for a bit of boredom and mundane routine. What she wouldn’t give to scrub laundry, peel potatoes, and bake rolls for the Sunday dinner with family and friends. Would she ever see those days again or would she remain a criminal on the run for her entire life?
Walking Stick groaned, and she moved toward him.
Luke had heard him and was already at his side. “It’s OK,” Luke whispered. “You’ll be OK.”
The older man reached out his hand and touched Luke’s arm. Then his face twisted in a wince, and he drew his hand toward his chest. Luke checked the bandages, finding blood had seeped through.
“We’ve got to change his dressing.”
“I can do it,” Billie said, her heart overflowing with compassion. “You need to rest.”
“I can’t rest. Not now. I want to help.”
She started to argue then thought better of it. This could be his last night with his father. She did not want to interfere or take that away. Father God, let this man live. They’ve wasted so many years. Give them a chance to know one another—to love one another.
When the sun rose, Luke caught some more fish and cooked it over the fire.
They sat in the cool shade, occasionally talking, but mostly silent as Walking Stick slept.
Luke leaned back against a large boulder as he kept watch over his father.
Billie wandered toward the stream, determined to bathe in its cool waters. She found a secluded spot away from view of the campsite and removed her dress and pantaloons. She dipped her clothes in the water several times, washing away the dust then laying them across a rock to dry in the warm sun’s rays. She rinsed her hair and cleansed away the grime. She scrubbed her scalp then used the mud from the stream to polish her skin. It felt good to bathe in the stream waters. She wiggled her toes when minnows came near, scaring them away. Only when she felt completely refreshed and clean did she rise out of the waters and put on her sun-dried clothes. She twisted her hair into a braid then tucked it atop her head.
Luke greeted her with a smile when she returned, standing just outside the campsite. “Feel better?”
“Much.”
“I think I’ll do the same.” He reached up and began to unbutton his shirt.
“Can you not wait until you’re at the water to
undress?” she huffed, shocked at his casual attitude.
“Why so embarrassed? You’ve seen me without a shirt before. At the tribal camp.”
“I was too scared to care.”
“But you care now?” he teased, draping his shirt across his bare shoulder.
Her eyes narrowed, and she worked hard to keep her gaze on his face.
He laughed, brushing past her as he headed toward the water. His mood had improved. Perhaps he was used to women who approved of half-dressed men parading about in front of them. Her thoughts pulled up short. Of course, in the Comanche camp of his teenage years, he probably ran around with even less body coverings.
Tawny skin rippled with each step, the muscles along his back were strong and lean. Heat moved from her cheeks to her neck. She turned away. Irritation grew—part of her annoyance directed at herself but much more at him. He would not toy with her. She expected more from him and intended to let him know.
When he returned a half-hour later, he was dressed. His hair lay damp against his head. A flash of white teeth shone as he smiled, irritating her all the more with his carefree demeanor.
“How is my father?” he asked.
“Resting and fine. The bleeding has subsided.”
“Good. I’ll check—”
“May I have a word with you before you go to him?”
He stopped in front of her. He stood a good foot taller than her, and his towering presence made her feel like a frail leaf dangling from a mighty oak.
“About?”
Her hand touched the lace upon her collar as her foolishness overwhelmed. With his father fighting for his life, did she really want to discuss his cavalier behavior? “Never mind, it can wait until later.”
“You look upset. If I’ve done or said—“
She wished she could disappear. “No. It doesn’t matter.” She swished her hand through the air. “Please. Go check on your father.”
“All right.” He turned to walk away and then stopped, looking back with a probing stare. “It’s because I unbuttoned my shirt, isn’t it?”
“No!” Her cheeks turned crimson. “Yes. But it’s so unimportant now compared to everything else going on. I’m sorry I was bothered.”
He moved close, taking her hands within his own. “And I’m sorry I teased you. I can assure you; no woman holds more of my respect right now than you do. You’re the last person on earth I want to embarrass or hurt.”
She blinked, not sure what to say. His apology left her feeling deflated. It seemed the more she got to know the man, the less she understood him. He dropped her hands, and she folded her arms. “Thank you.”
He turned to walk away.
“Luke.”
“Yes?”
“I’m curious. Why do I hold your respect?”
His hungry gaze drew the very breath from her lungs. “You’ve had your world turned upside down and look at you. You’re still standing. I admire that in anyone—man or woman.”
She nodded, pleased with his answer.
He turned away again, but she reached out, stopping him in his tracks. “Luke.”
He grinned, his voice dipping several octaves. “Yes?”
“I admire you, too. You’ve stayed with me when most would have run for the hills. I know this isn’t your fight, but still, your honor has kept you here.”
“It is my fight, Billie. It’s not just honor. It’s also my job. I was hired by Littleton and Clark Detective Agency to bring in the person who stole property from the Justice City Bank, and I intend to finish what I started.”
She was disappointed in his response. One part of her wanted to hear he was here because he had feelings for her, while another part never wanted to hear such words. It was absurd to think they could be more—a bounty hunter and a schoolteacher. Their worlds were too different.
His fingers that trembled slightly moved a lock of hair behind her ear.
She bit into her bottom lip—her gaze drawn to the ground between his feet. “Luke, I’ve not been candid with you.”
“About?”
“I do find you attractive. That is the reason I want you to keep your distance. It would never work between us.”
“Why? Because I’m part Comanche?”
“No.” His assumption startled her. “Not at all. It’s because of your work and my work. We’re so different, and our worlds are night and day.”
“You don’t have to explain.” His eyes held deep pain. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“More than you know,” he snapped. “How would you introduce your half-breed beau to your parents? How would you introduce me to your friends? How would you introduce me to your students’ parents? How would you—”
“Stop behaving like such a goose!” She reached up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms about his neck and pressing her lips against his in a fierce kiss.
His arms immediately encircled her slim waist, one moved against her spine and pulled her soft form against his own. He leaned into her, taking the kiss deeper until she felt sure she would faint.
Billie pulled back. “I’m sorry. I’ve never kissed a man before. I don’t know what came over me.”
He pulled her back into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”
Billie closed her eyes, nuzzling against his broad chest.
A groan sounded only feet away. Walking Stick.
Luke took her hand. “Come with me.”
She intended to do just that—as long as she could. Maybe forever. Did she dare hope? Or was Luke like his father—a lone wolf who wanted the pleasure of a woman but on his terms? Her heart winced at the thought.
Lord, help me.
18
“Water…” Walking Stick spoke, his voice raspy.
Luke opened his canteen and poured small sips through the man’s lips. He smoothed his hair back from his forehead then settled him back upon the soft blanket.
“Thank you.”
He’d bled through the bandage again.
Billie didn’t want to think about what Luke said about bleeding. She said another prayer as Luke unwrapped the wound, applied fresh salve, and then rewound the bandage about his father’s broad chest.
“I am dying.” Walking Stick’s words sounded faint, like the whisper of water gliding over pebbles in a slow-moving stream.
“I’m not letting that happen,” Luke replied.
The clouds had started to disappear, folded between the blanket of darkness that enveloped the evening.
Luke would soon make a fire to keep his father warm and any potential predators away.
“And when I go, I want a Christian burial.” Walking Stick continued talking as if Luke had not spoken.
Luke leaned closer toward his father, his head almost on his chest as he looked him in the eyes. “Why are you talking like this?”
“A Christian burial is proper,” Walking Stick said, though his voice sounded fainter. His eyelids lowered. “Your mother introduced me to the Lord many moons ago. I have strayed from the path, but like a deer panting for water, so I have returned.”
“Don’t talk so much,” Luke said. “Save your strength.”
Walking Stick closed his eyes, growing still.
“Dad?” Luke said, his voice filled with urgency even as his father lay limp.
Walking Stick opened his eyes and smiled.
It was the only time she’d seen such an expression on the man’s blank features. Billie’s palm moved to her chest, splayed across her heart. The older man closed his eyes once more, his smile fading into a peaceful rest.
Luke touched his father’s wrist. “His pulse is weak.”
“If you can catch another rabbit, I’ll make some broth. It will help him regain his strength.”
With only a nod, Luke slid dusty boots from his feet then disappeared with silent footsteps into the surroundings. Billie lay her hand upon Walking Stick’s chest and prayed.
It was more than an hour later when Luke returned with a rabbit, already skinned and ready for boiling. She made the broth then passed the cup to Luke.
With a gentle hand, Luke spooned the liquid through his father’s lips. Soon, the color returned to Walking Stick’s cheeks and soft snores parted his lips.
“I don’t believe God would bring my father back to me only to let him die,” Luke said.
“Luke—” Part of her wanted to prepare him for what might come, but another part hesitated. Who was she to say what God would or would not do?
“Either way, I am thankful for this time with him,” he said.
Either way. Those two words soothed Billie’s soul. Luke would not make the same mistake he’d made with his mother. He would not turn from God or allow bitterness to take root. She was sure of it. Either way, his faith would sustain him.
Nightfall neared when Luke checked Walking Stick’s bandage once more. His gaze shifted from his father’s wound back to Billie. “Come look.”
Billie inched closer, fearing what she might see. There was no fresh blood. Only a few specks of dark crimson from earlier in the day.
“The bleeding has stopped,” he said.
“Can’t you let an old man rest?” Walking Stick grumbled, rolling onto his side.
Billie’s hope soared. “Complaining is always a good sign.”
Luke grinned, leaning back against a tree trunk. “He will live to complain another day. I’m sure of it.”
Silent praises poured from her being. Oh, yes, Lord, let it be so!
~*~
Several days rolled by and Walking Stick grew stronger with each passing hour. He had insisted on taking a walk so he could enjoy solitude and commune with God. Although resistant at first, Luke left his father alone to do as he wished.
Luke stood near a grove of trees with leafy boughs as he watched him meander off. “I think my father is well enough to travel now. He asked me to journey with him to visit Abigail and her family.”
She stood at his side, trying to ignore the crushing within her chest. Was he about to send her to Arkansas alone? Words she never intended to say spilled forth. “I’m not ready to say good-bye. I need more time.”
