by Zack Wyatt
Widow Hammer. Uneasiness ran through Sands. He had thought of Marion Hammer that way himself. Yet to hear it from Jack sounded cold and lifeless. The young redheaded woman was anything but cold and lifeless—and far too young to bear the burden of widowhood.
“Rest on the way back into town,” Jack continued. “Hitch your mount to the Hammer wagon. I want you to drive it back.”
Sands didn’t question the orders, just Hays’ definition of rest. Keeping a four-horse team under rein while riding a wagon’s unyielding wooden seat wasn’t his idea of rest.
As Jack gave the orders to break camp, Sands tied the gelding to the rear of the wagon and helped Marion Hammer and Jamie into the wagon’s canvas canopied bed. He then took his place up front. Picking up reins and whip, he kicked off the break and moved out with Hays’ signal, stoically resigned to the rough drive back to town.
Fifteen minutes later, the canvas flap behind Sands opened and Marion Hammer’s flaming red head poked out. “Jamie’s tucked away in some quilts and sound asleep. I thought you’d like some company up here.”
Sands smiled and nodded. Reaching back, he pushed the flap wider to allow her to climb forward and settle beside him on the driver’s board. Her gaze traveled back to her son for an instant before the flap closed.
“I don’t think he realizes what’s happened yet ... that his father and sister are dead.” Her head slowly moved from side to side. “Everything happened too fast for his small mind. I’m afraid it’ll suddenly catch up with him, and ... ”
Her voice trailed off, and Sands saw the shudder that ran through her body. Her hands clutched in tight balls that left her knuckles glowing white. “… catch up with him, and ... ”
“And he’ll have you there to comfort him, ma’am. To tell him that in spite of all the bad, everything will work out.” It sounded awkward and stiff, the words of a man unaccustomed to comforting others. “He’s lucky on that count ... to have a strong mother there to help.”
Sands’ memories wove backward through doors he thought had been so carefully locked. His jaw tightened until his teeth ached from the pressure.
For an instant he smelled the smoke and felt the flames that devoured a small supply store on the outskirts of a settlement that now bore the name Austin. He saw his father, skull split by a Comanche war axe. Fingers crept high to the left side of his chest to rub a small scar beneath his buckskin shirt as the pain of a nine-year-old boy, Comanche arrow skewered into his young flesh, re-awoke.
Worse, he heard the screams—the anguished cries of an endless nightmare—that rose above the roar of the flames.
Screams that he would be unable to forget for as long as he lived. The screams of his mother trapped within the blazing inferno.
Sands closed his eyes to force the memories back into their dark recesses, securely burying them—until they crept forth once more to haunt him.
From the corner of an eye he saw Marion Hammer draw a deep breath. Her hands unballed and her gaze rose to the trail ahead. She drew another breath, then turned to him. Reaching out, she rested a soft, warm hand atop one of Sands’ weathered hands.
“Thank you, Mister Sands.” Her voice trembled and moisture welled in her eyes, but there were no tears. Her face reflected the strength he had seen the night before.
“The name’s Josh, ma’am. Mister’s what they used to call my Pa.” Sands repressed the sudden urge to take Marion Hammer’s hand in his own and squeeze it tightly.
She smiled, her hand remaining lightly on his. “My Christian name’s Marion. I’d be pleased if you used it.”
“Yes, ma’am ... ” Chagrin crept onto Sands’ face when he corrected himself. “Marion.”
The corners of her mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. For seconds that lingered like hours her hand rested atop his, then she gently withdrew it to leave the glow of her warmth on Sands’ skin.
When her gaze turned to the trail, he watched her with stolen glances that left him feeling like some boy in grammar school.
“I guess all that’s happened is just catching up with me.” The tremble returned to her voice to be quieted with another deep breath. “I can’t accept that Felix and Sara are gone. That the plans we made for ourselves and our children mean nothing now ... yesterday they meant everything.”
She hesitated. “To be honest, Josh, I’m not certain what I should do now. I’ve never been on my own before.” Sands clucked to the team and loosened his hold on the reins as the wagon moved up a grassy hill spotted with mesquite.
Her words came as a statement rather than a plea for help. Another indication of the strength he found within this woman at his side. Had other women he knew survived what Marion had been through, they would be wailing and bemoaning the fate life dealt them. But Sands sensed this diminutive woman’s mind working, examining the possibilities that lay before her and trying to judge the best route to take.
Women, hell! Sands eased back on the reins as the team topped the hill. Most men wouldn’t have the presence of mind to do more than sit with their heads in their hands if half their family had just been butchered.
“There’s so much I want to give Jamie. I guess keeping a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs are the first things to worry about,” Marion said.
“Reckon food and shelter are all that one needs to get by,” Sands answered, recognizing the difficulties that faced a woman alone. “Everything else is icing on the cake. It makes things a mite sweeter, but it ain’t needed to enjoy eating good cake.”
“Felix left about forty dollars packed away in my cedar chest. That should be enough to get us started ... ” Marion shook her head and glanced at the riders ahead of the team. She then looked down at herself. “Guess I don’t sound like a widow ... or even look like one. I don’t even own a black dress for mourning. Seems like Felix and Sara deserve that... for me to mourn them properly.” With only forty dollars to her name, she couldn’t afford to purchase a dress or even the material needed to sew one, Sands realized. Forty dollars could carry a man for a year, maybe two if he didn’t mind pinto beans and bacon every meal. For a woman and a child, the amount would only be enough to see them through a few months.
“Do you have any family?” Sands asked.
“My father is in Linnville. That’s where Felix and I were coming from,” Marion answered, an odd expression on her face.
“Seems to me that’s where to start. Families to take care of their own when there’s trouble.” Sands turned to Marion and smiled. “You can send a letter with someone riding toward the coast.”
“Yes.” Marion’s face brightened. “It shouldn’t take more than a month or so to get a letter to my father.”
“Meanwhile, if you need money, you’ve got a wagon and a team that should bring a good price,” Sands suggested. “I can handle the sale if you want. But I’d hold on to what you’ve got until you hear from your Pa.”
Marion sat quietly again, and Sands could feel her mind sorting through what he had said in an attempt to piece her life together.
“Mommy!” Jamie cried out over the wagon’s rattle and creak. Sands heard tears and fear in the boy’s voice. “Mommy! Mommy, where are you?”
Sands barely got the canvas flap open before Marion scurried through, saying in gentle and comforting tones, “It’s all right, Jamie. Momma’s here. It’s all right now.” Before the flap dropped, Sands saw Marion gather her son and nestle him to her breast. His sobs subsided beneath the soothing stroke of her hands and the lullaby she crooned.
Sands smiled as he turned back to the trail. He glanced at the place Marion had sat beside him only seconds ago, uncertain of the loneliness that moved within him.
“Damned fool!” he muttered under his breath as he snaked the whip out to pop it over the team leader’s head. He wasn’t certain whether he cursed Felix Hammer for leaving a woman like Marion alone—or himself for the unwanted sensations Marion awoke in him.
Chapter Five
A full, angry y
ellow-orange moon hung low on the eastern horizon when the Hays’ patrol rode into San Antonio. Sands sucked at his teeth and silently prayed the Nermernuh, the People, the name the Comanches gave themselves, rode far and wide this night. Two long nights had passed without sleep, and two equally long days had gone by with nothing more than hastily chewed bites of stringy jerky to quiet the rumblings of his stomach.
The only thing Sands wanted to attack tonight was a fresh-cut, mesquite-broiled beefsteak. Likewise, the only thing he planned to ride was a sweet dream while he snuggled in a big feather bed with a thick comforter tucked beneath his chin and a fluffy down pillow securely under his head.
Ahead, as he reached the town’s main street, Jack Hays signaled his command left toward the garrison.
An amused smile touched Sands’ lips. Garrison was a fancy word to describe the long, low-slung, limestone building that served as ranger headquarters. The structure was the solitary reminder of an early Spanish hacienda in the area—a bunkhouse once used by vaqueros.
While the rest of the patrol followed Jack, Will Brown reined the mustang he now rode beside the wagon. “Meet you at the Casa de Chavela?”
“In about an hour,” Sands replied and watched Will ride after the patrol.
Keeping the team on a course down the center of the street, Sands shifted his weight to relieve a backside grown tender from eight hours of spine-jarring bumps and jolts atop an unforgiving hardwood board. Casually he glanced at the dark buildings he passed.
The heart of San Antonio slept. Candles burning within an old Spanish Mission or the occasional harsh glare from a saloon or cantina were the only indications that the town hadn’t been abandoned while he had been on patrol.
He had no complaints about the sleepy atmosphere. The quiet meant an absence of trouble. He remembered a Cherokee saying: “The night is for sleeping, or love-making.” He couldn’t recall the rest of that bit of Indian wisdom, but it ended by labeling a man who talked or drank the night away a fool.
On more nights than he wanted to remember, he had made just such a fool of himself. So far the pleasure had been well worth the pain a man always pays for his foolishness.
He by-passed a two-story building with its neighboring saloon, one of San Antonio’s two hotels. He did the same to the town’s remaining hotel. There was nothing wrong with either of the two establishments. Their rooms were clean, the food good, and the whiskey unwatered.
However, he felt the usual clientele for both was unsuitable for a mother and child alone. Marion had enough troubles now without contending with drifters, gamblers, and local rowdies.
Sands maneuvered the wagon along the dusty, unpaved street to the opposite end of town. There he drew the team to a halt before a large frame house. A single shingle hung above the front porch steps—Barrett Boarding House. In smaller letters beneath were painted—Rooms by the Night or Week.
Wedging down the brake with the heel of a round-toed boot, Sands smiled at the grand old house with the warm yellow glow of tallow candles coming from its windows. The Widow Barrett had opened her home to boarders three years ago after the money her husband Cranvil had left her ran out. Cran Barrett had served with Sam Houston at San Jacinto the day the Texian army defeated Generalissimo Santa Anna and won Texas’ independence. Barrett paid the supreme price for his share of that freedom—his life.
Sands reached behind his back and pushed aside the canvas flap. Marion and Jamie lay nestled together, soundly asleep. He couldn’t fathom how either managed to rest with the constant jostling and the deafening rattle of the pans and equipment attached to the wagon’s side, but they did, and that was good. Sleep and rest would help heal the wounds the Comanche attack had opened in the souls of woman and boy.
Quickly climbing from the wagon, Sands stretched, and stretched again to work the kinks from his back and legs. He gingerly rubbed his tender backside as he walked up the house’s steps. He grimaced; each time he would sit down for the next week, he’d have a painful reminder of the day’s drive.
Netty Barrett, her rotund body abustle and a nervous hand patting stray strands of silver hair into place, answered Sands’ rap on the door. The woman’s bright expression transformed to concern as the ranger recounted all that had happened to his two wards asleep in the wagon.
“I’ve got food on the stove and beds awaiting,” the plump woman said as she directed Sands back to the wagon. “Get that poor woman and child into the house. You tend to getting their things. I’ll see to it that they get fed, bathed, and into a clean bed. Now get a move on. A wagon ain’t no fit bed for two that’s been through what they’ve suffered!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Sands grinned as he hustled back to the wagon to do exactly as ordered.
Ten minutes later, Sands stood beside a small mountain of trunks and bags piled inside Netty Barrett’s door while she directed Jamie toward the kitchen and a fresh apple pie that waited there. Marion Hammer nervously glanced at Sands then shyly looked at the floor.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you or Captain Hays and all the other rangers for all you’ve done.” She paused as though searching for words that eluded her.
“Ma’am, there’s no need.” Sands hoped to sidestep an awkward situation.
“I know that everyone of you feel that way, but I don’t. I want to thank you ... for everything.” Marion rose on tiptoes and lightly kissed Sands’ cheek. She whispered, “My name is Marion, not ma’am, remember?”
Before he could reply, she turned and followed her son into the kitchen. The indefinable hollowness he had felt earlier in the day returned. Forehead furrowed, Sands pondered the strange sensation drawing him to the kitchen door that closed behind the redhead.
“No need to worry yourself about them two,” this from Netty, who stared at the ranger. “I’ll tend to them.” Sands stepped toward the door, then stopped to dig a hand inside the waist of his buckskin breeches and pull out a small leather pouch. With a tug of its drawstring he opened the sack and shook a single silver coin into Netty’s palm.
“She mentioned needing a black dress to properly mourn her husband and daughter. Will you see that she gets one?”
“Be proud to, Mr. Sands,” Netty answered and dropped the coin into a pocket of her apron.
With a nod, Sands entered the night. He mounted the wagon, kicked the brake free, and turned the team northward. The horses could be stabled with the patrol’s mounts tonight. Tomorrow he’d find someone to pasture the team until Marion decided if she wanted to keep the rig or sell it.
Sands, with knife in one hand and fork in the other, attacked the thick, mesquite-broiled beefsteak. He paused only to spear a boiled potato from the mountain piled on a separate plate on his right or to scoop a steaming portion of pinto beans from the bowl to the left.
Will’s attention lay a room away from his meal. His eye wandered to a brunette seated in a corner of the Casa de Chavela who was playing the guitar. The most ribald songs Sands had ever heard came from her lips with the sweetness of a woman singing hymns on Sunday morning.
“Sings pretty, doesn’t she, Josh?” Will’s eyes were riveted to the young woman.
“That she does,” Sands managed to say around a mouthful of potato.
He also managed to keep a straight face. The singing first caught Will’s attention. What held the young ranger mesmerized was a long, shapely expanse of leg—from ankle to knee—revealed by the brunette’s short, ruffled red dress.
“Her name’s Adela. She started here last week,” Sands said, then gulped down half a cup of steaming coffee.
Laughter broke out at a table to the right, momentarily drowning Adela’s melodious tale of a farmer’s daughter and a traveling preacher who freely practiced loving his neighbor. The laughter also drew a scowl from Will.
“What’s wrong with them three? Don’t they appreciate good music?” the young ranger muttered as his longing gaze returned to Adela—her shapely calves and sweet voice.
San
ds shook his head and paused in his beefsteak attack to suggest, “There’s an empty table beside her. We could move.”
“That wouldn’t be right.” Will glanced at his fellow ranger. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you none.”
Sands’ attention returned to his meal.
“But, I reckon I can take my plate over yonder.” Will stood and crossed the room to settle beside the singer before Sands could utter a reply.
Sands chuckled to himself. Will’s plate, one bite gone from the beefsteak, hadn’t managed to make the trip across the cantina.
“You have the eating habits of a field hand, Joshua Sands.” The voice came from behind the ranger—soft, husky, and very feminine.
“It’s only because I feel like a field hand.” Sands grinned as he turned to greet the owner of the seductive voice, as well as Casa de Chavela.
Elena Chavela, dressed in a black gown of lace and ruffles befitting a Spanish queen, smiled down at Sands. Tortoise shell combs and a single red rose adorned the thick raven black hair piled tight and high atop her head. An open lace fan held in the long, graceful fingers of her right hand fluttered ever so lightly.
The woman’s beauty held Sands’ eyes beyond the time considered polite and gentlemanly. For the two years he had known Elena, he had been unable to accept that one woman could be so beautiful. Elena personified his visions of European princesses his mother had told him about as a child. Surely Elena’s Spanish bloodline traced back to those royal houses.
“I noticed your companion’s interest and hoped he would be attracted to our little songbird.” Elena’s eyes, the deep jet of her hair, glinted with impish light. “Adela’s bed will be warm this night. ”
Sands chuckled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t wager on that. Will’s eyes are bigger than his courage when it comes to women. He’ll need time to get over his shyness. He’s just a boy.”
It was Elena’s turn to laugh lightly. “Young, perhaps, but not a boy, Josh. Look at Adela’s eyes. That is not the look of a woman admiring a boy.”
