Magic in Her Eyes

by Donna Dalton

  “Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

  Arms spread for balance, she crossed the uneven, rock-strewn ground and found the branch. It was of good size and solid, with no sign of rot. She picked up one end and dragged it back to Pete.

  “I think this will work.” She chocked one end under the smaller of the two boulders. “There. When I say push, you push as hard as you can. I’m going to put all my weight on this branch. With any luck, we’ll move the rock enough that you can slip free. Ready?”

  At his nod, she yelled, “Push,” and leaned across the limb. Their groans clawed the air. Despite their labors, the rock held fast.

  She shoveled the branch deeper. “All right. Try again, Pete. Push. Hard.”

  He grunted a response, and she bore down on the branch. The rock shifted slightly. Pete strained, his face and ears turning red. The rock gave a sucking grumble, and the boy yanked his foot free.

  “We did it,” he yelped. “I’m out.”

  She let go of the branch and slumped against the rock. We sure did.

  Pete shucked off his boot and rolled down his sock. The skin around his ankle was red, but not swollen.

  “Try putting some weight on it,” she suggested. “See if you can walk with no pain.”

  He took a few tentative steps and spun around. His face split into a wide grin. “It feels fine. I sure am grateful. What’s your name, ma’am? I want to let my folks know who helped me.”

  “Miss Talbot. I look after the orphans from Seaton House.”

  His eyes widened, and he backed away from her. “The witch Talbot?”

  “Pete—”

  “I gotta go. My ma will be looking for me.”

  He shoved on his boot and took off up the incline, scaling it as effortlessly as a monkey climbing a tree. He certainly didn’t have any lingering impairments from his ordeal.

  She sighed and pushed upright. She still had a mission to accomplish, and this rescue had cost her precious time. Time Robbie might not have to spare.

  She crossed to the far side of the gully. The gorge wall was steeper than the other side and had eroded to bare clay. Scaling it would be difficult, but she had no other choice.

  Digging and clawing for each handhold, she moved slowly upward. Sweat trickled from beneath her bonnet and stung her eyes. Her breaths were coming in strained puffs. After what seemed like an eternity, she made it to the top. She hauled herself over the lip and paused to catch her breath.

  To her left stood a thicket of pines, their branches elbowing each other as they reached for the sky. None of the trees were as grand as the oak at Seaton House or the cottonwood at Dancer’s Creek, but they would have to do. She needed answers, and she needed them now.

  Her breaths calming, she brushed mud from her hands and pushed to her feet. She crossed to the tallest tree and rested a palm on the trunk. The midmorning sun had penetrated the bark, turning it warm as toasted bread. She closed her eyes and gathered herself. She could do this.

  She formed an image of Robbie in her head. Short-cropped curls, bleached almost white by the sun. Beaming blue eyes, and britches worn thin at the knees.

  What do you see of him? Let me see.

  There was no answer. Only a chattering squirrel interrupted the quiet. Perhaps being young in tree years, the pine required broader contact. She wrapped her arms around the trunk and pressed her cheek against the bark. Children needed hugs for encouragement, why not trees? She concentrated on connecting with the pine, on sending her thoughts deep into its heart.

  Please, I need to see him.

  The tree trembled beneath her embrace. Warmth bathed her arms and spread into her chest. Energy pulsed through her, welcoming her, connecting with her.

  “Yes. That’s it. Show me.”

  A low hum filled her ears. Her vision swirled with white fog, dowsing the sunlight. A towering shelf of rocks stacked like books appeared. Sitting Rock. Aunt Mildred had mentioned the stone monolith located on the Creek Indian reservation where strange symbols had been etched into the rock face. Some claimed the markings were made by early Spanish settlers who had mined the mountains for gold.

  “Is Robbie at Sitting Rock? Show me.”

  The mist swirled, and the image drifted downward, past rocks and scrub brush. The mouth of a cave emerged. Inside, silhouettes danced on the rock walls. One tall. One small and crouching. Faint sobs wafted from the opening.

  Robbie. Fear throttled her throat. “Is he injured? Did that horrible man hurt him?”

  A gunshot barked inside her head. And then another. The noise pierced her skull, making her stomach twist. She swallowed back a surge of bile and concentrated on the image. She would see this to the end no matter what the outcome.

  The fog churned and rolled, revealing soldiers hunkered in the rocks below the cave. Gun smoke swirled around them. Slugs pinged into the hillside. One soldier stepped from behind a large, egg-shaped boulder. Another figure moved out of the shadows—a short, squat man, holding a short-barreled pistol. Finley. A shot rang out. The solider fell backward. Blood spread out in a circle, darkening his uniform.

  Her heart crashed against her ribs. “Who is it? Who was shot?”

  The image drew in on the injured soldier. He lay sprawled against the boulder. His gray-brown eyes were open but not seeing, his chest still as a frozen pond.

  She dug her fingernails into the bark. “No, please. Not Preston.”

  A burst of light flashed, and then there was only inky blackness. She released the tree and slumped to the ground, head throbbing and mouth tasting of metal. The need to warn Preston battled the need to keep silent. The last time she told a non-believer about a vision, she’d been banished from her home.

  Yet if she didn’t tell him, Preston would die.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Meredith leaned against the newel post at the bottom of the porch steps and drew in several much-needed gulps of air. After navigating the gully and wading back through the undergrowth, she was quite winded…and sore. Muscles she didn’t know existed screamed in protest. But she couldn’t rest. Not until she found Preston.

  A bay gelding tacked with a cavalry saddle stood tethered to Jana’s porch railing. Preston must have dropped off the wagon and retrieved his horse. A combination of relief and dread swamped her. She would have to convince him to go against all he held sacred in order to save his life.

  Footfalls sounded, and Private Greene rounded the corner of the house. Good. He would know where Preston was and save her the time of searching.

  “Where is Lieutenant Booth? I need to speak with him.”

  Private Greene wagged his head. “He’s not here, ma’am. The lieutenant rode off with a patrol to look for Agent Finley. He left me here to guard you and the children.”

  If it wasn’t for bad luck, she’d have none. “How long ago did he leave?”

  “’Bout an hour or so.”

  An hour. She’d never catch up to him on foot. She crossed to the bay and freed the reins. “I need to borrow your horse.”

  “But Miss Talbot, the lieutenant said for everyone to remain here.”

  “It’s vital that I reach Lieutenant Booth as quickly as I can.” Life and death vital.

  “He won’t be none too happy to see you.”

  That was putting it mildly. Yet if it saved his life, she’d suffer his wrath. She tossed the reins over the gelding’s head. “I’ll deal with the lieutenant. Give me a leg up, if you would please.”

  Hesitancy twisted his face. He opened his mouth and apparently thinking better of arguing, propped his rifle against the porch and helped her onto the horse. She settled on the saddle and adjusted the stirrups to her shorter length. Cordelia would be aghast at her unladylike display…as would the good ladies of Mineral. If only they knew how adept and how often she had ridden astride, it would make their heads spin.

  The trooper’s withered expression clearly conveyed his concern. She was concerned, too, but she couldn’t let doubts stop her from going
after Preston. “Thank you, Private Greene. I appreciate your assistance. I need one more thing from you…how do I get to Sitting Rock?”

  “Sitting Rock? That’s on Creek reservation land. You shouldn’t be going there by yourself.”

  “I won’t be by myself. I’m going to meet up with Lieutenant Booth.” She hoped.

  “How do you know that’s where he’s headed?”

  He wouldn’t believe her if she told him. “I learned from a reliable source that’s where Agent Finley went. Before you ask, I’d rather not reveal who my source is.”

  The trooper scratched his chin, mulling over her request. He was almost as mule-headed as his commander. Almost.

  “Please. I don’t have a lot of time, Private Greene. If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to find the way on my own. And I’m running out of time.”

  His grumbling sigh scrubbed the air. “You remind me of my sister—strong-minded as the day is long. Reckon I have ’bout as much of a chance of stopping you as I did her.” He pointed to the west. “Follow Dancer’s Creek south. It runs along the base of the Shoehorn. After travelling a few miles, you should come to a gap in the ridge. That’s Big Stoney Gap. Cross through that. On the other side, there’ll be a wide mesa. Head west. Most of that will be Creek reservation land, so keep an eye out. They’re a bit touchy ’bout trespassers. When you get to the oxbow lake, take the fork to the right. That’ll lead you straight to the foot of Sitting Rock.”

  “Thank you, Private. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  He turned and retrieved his rifle. “Do you know how to shoot?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know how to handle a firearm.” Quite well, in fact. When the fighting between the Union and Confederate armies had ventured close to the estate, her father had insisted she learn how to load and shoot both pistol and long guns. Even at an early age, she was a competent shot. It was one of the few times her father had been proud of her accomplishments.

  “Is that a Sharps carbine?” She recognized the short-barreled weapon which had made shooting much easier for her smaller stature.

  “It is. You know your firearms, ma’am.” Private Greene slipped the carbine into the scabbard attached to the saddle. “The breech is loaded, and there’s more ammunition in the saddlebag if you need it.”

  “Thank you again. I won’t forget this.”

  She reined the horse around and nudged it into a steady lope. Nothing too strenuous. The animal needed to be fast, but not give out on her. She might be strong-minded, but she wasn’t reckless.

  It had been a while since she’d sat astride a horse, but it only took a few minutes for her body to remember the midnight rides she and Charles had stolen under the full moon. Her stepmother had accused her of inciting her son into wild and rebellious behavior. She had also accused her of causing his death.

  Deep down, she knew that accusation was untrue. Charles’ death had been an unfortunate accident. Yet a small tumor of uncertainty festered inside her. Perhaps if she had kept silent, her stepbrother might still be alive. Charles was not one to shy away from danger. In fact, he confronted it head-on, like the time he routed the copperhead from the chicken coop. Not an ounce of hesitation. She’d never know if he purposefully went into the pasture that day, or if fate had merely caught up with him.

  Unease galloped in stomach, matching the horse’s ground-eating stride. Preston was just as strong-minded as Charles, if not more. As much as she wanted to keep the details of her vision to herself, she didn’t have a choice. She would have to tell Preston what she had seen. He would not sit idle while his men risked their lives—not without a sound reason.

  Broaching the subject was another concern altogether. I have a special talent. No. I have a gift. I can see things in the near future. She groaned in frustration. Even to her, the words sounded fanciful and completely unhinged.

  The horse stumbled, and she grabbed for the pommel. The path following Dancer’s Creek had turned rocky and uneven. She slowed the gelding to a fast walk. Best stop her woolgathering and pay attention else she risked having her only mode of transportation come up lame. A half mile later, she reached the gap in the mountain ridge. Thankfully the owner of Shoehorn Silver Mine had suspended all operations until the renegades were captured. At times, the rumble of the mining blasts could be felt all the way to Seaton House. Riding so close to a blasting area would surely shake her right out of the saddle.

  On the other side of the gap, a wide mesa spread out before her with another mountain ridge looming in the distance. Any other time, she would slow down and take in the wondrous sight. Right now, she had a mission to accomplish.

  She set the horse to a slow canter. Little grew on the sparse butte. A few tufts of grass here and there and an occasional scraggly-looking bush. The Creek Indians sure did get the raw end of the treaty negotiation. She could almost sympathize with them for revolting.

  After what seemed like hours, rolling hills replaced the flat terrain. In one low spot, rain water had collected in a shallow crater. She reined the horse to a stop and let him and her bottom have a quick breather. Unaccustomed to riding for such a long period, her bottom buzzed with discomfort.

  She glanced skyward as the gelding nosed into the water. The sun had moved well past its zenith. She’d been riding for over an hour and was deep in reservation land. A trespasser. She prayed the Creeks would understand her need and not become provoked if they discovered her.

  The gelding yanked his head up and sidled sideways. She yelped in surprise and scrambled to regain her seat. Once righted, she twisted around to see what had spooked the animal. Her heart leapt. Half a dozen riders approached at a fast clip, their dark-skinned faces and animal hide clothing unmistakable. She eased the Sharps out of the scabbard and onto her lap. She didn’t want to use the rifle, but would if the Indians intended her harm.

  They surrounded her, their ebony eyes taking her in, wary but not hostile. She held their gazes, refusing to show any fear. Maddie had once remarked that Indians respected honor and courage. She would be the American version of Joan of Arc.

  One of the braves nudged his horse closer. A jagged scar raced across his cheek. It was distinctive and most unforgettable.

  “I recognize you,” she said. “You were part of the group arrested for attacking the homesteads.”

  “Wrongfully arrested. Your army commander realized this mistake. Set us free.” Lines ploughed into his brow. “Why you on reservation land? White lady bring big trouble to Creeks.”

  He spoke passable English. That would make conveying her need much easier. Hopefully being freed had put him in an obliging mood.

  “I’m sorry for trespassing on your land, but I have to get to the place you call Sitting Rock as quickly as possible.”

  “What at Sitting Rock?”

  “Lieutenant Booth has taken a patrol there. He’s tracking Agent Finley who we believe has abducted a little boy. My little boy.” Despite her attempt to be strong, her voice cracked.

  The Indian’s expression darkened. “Agent Finley is bad man. Very bad man.”

  Bad didn’t come close to what Finley was. “Will you allow me to continue my search for Lieutenant Booth? I would be most grateful.”

  ****

  Preston motioned his patrol to a stop and dismounted. The trail of hoof prints ended at the base of a ridge the Indians called Sitting Rock. A couple of miles back, more tracks had joined Finley’s. The man had reinforcements. They were most likely the men who had aided the agent with the recent raids and possibly with his escape from jail—and were most certainly armed.

  A thick stand of trees ringed the bottom of the ridge and would conceal any approach. Yet once he and his men moved out of the tree line, the only protection would be a scattering of boulders and scrub brush. The muscles in his neck and shoulders pulled taut. They would be ideal targets. But it would have to be risked. A child’s life could be in danger. He refused to return to Meredith with a blanket-wrapped body.
r />   “What’s the plan, sir?” Sergeant Reese asked.

  Smart and a quick study, Jackson Reese was turning into a competent leader. The troopers liked and respected the non-com’s lead-by-example approach. The squad would be in capable hands when he left for Fort Sill at the end of the month—one less worry for him to shoulder.

  “Have everyone check their weapons and ammo and assign someone to secure a picket for the horses.” He slipped off his gloves and traded them for the spyglass stowed in his saddlebag. “I’m going to get closer and make an assessment of the situation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reese gathered his horse’s reins. “I’ll have Private Davis see to your mount, sir.”

  Preston left the glade and moved carefully through the thicket, using the larger trees for cover. He didn’t want to alert Finley or his guards to their presence. Not until everyone was in place and primed to strike.

  At the edge of the tree line, he stopped, extended the spyglass, and squinted through the eyepiece. A shelf of rocks that looked like a stack of books jutted from the top of the ridge. Below that, boulders and an occasional bush dotted the steep slope. Nothing moved in the barren terrain. He scoped to the left. A shadow twitched beside a large boulder. He focused in on the spot. The barest hint of a hat brim peeked around the rock. Lookout Number One. They’d take him out first.

  He shifted the spyglass up a fraction and to the right. If this were his hideout, he’d post sentries at set intervals around the perimeter. He stilled his hand. That cluster of boulders looked textbook for a lookout.

  After a few minutes, blue flashed among the sedimentary browns and grays. He smiled. There you are, Number Two. You’ll be next.

  He pointed the spyglass upward until the mouth of a cave came into view. It was the ideal hidey-hole to burrow in. Shadows drifted across the rock walls…two of them tall and slender, another short and stout. Three inside with two sentries outside. Five total. That tallied with the tracks they’d followed.

  A smaller silhouette emerged and crouched on the cave floor. A soft sob drifted from the opening. Little Robbie. Preston fisted the spyglass. If Finley hurt one hair on that boy’s head, he would pay for it—painfully.