Caving into You (Love in the Old West series Book 1)

by Bess McBride

  “No, we can ride.”

  “Well, let’s go see John then and see what sort of a horse he has available.” He picked up the mysterious basket and they went out the front door and around the corner to the livery stable.

  John greeted him and led Joe out. He handed Clint his holster and gun, and Clint belted the holster.

  “I think we should put Hilly on an older mare if you have one, John. Something gentle.”

  John nodded and led out a lovely brown horse.

  “This is Dolly. I don’t have a sidesaddle,” he warned, to Hilly’s surprise and ultimate delight.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ve never ridden a sidesaddle.”

  “That’s very lucky for you, Miss. Nan hates them, but she doesn’t much like horses anyway.”

  He saddled Dolly and led her forward to Hilly.

  Clint cupped his hands and Hilly stepped into them and swung her leg over the saddle. Her skirt caught unceremoniously over the saddle horn, and she yanked it down over her leg as best she could. Her shoes were obvious for all the world to see, but John didn’t seem to notice or care. He waited until Clint had mounted before handing him the basket which he settled on the saddle in front of him.

  “See you later,” John said. He turned away and busied himself in the stable while Clint urged his horse forward.

  Hilly gave her horse a gentle tap with her heels, but the mare didn’t move. Clint had not turned around but disappeared out of the darkness of the stable.

  “Come on, Dolly,” she muttered. “Don’t make me look bad.” Hilly nudged the horse one more time, and she moved. Hilly emerged from the stable to find Clint turning Joe around.

  “There you are! I wondered what happened.”

  “Here we are,” Hilly said brightly.

  “Are you ready?” Clint asked. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at them.

  “Oh, sure!”

  Clint smiled and turned his horse around. Since the stable was near the end of town, Hilly rejoiced that she wouldn’t have to maneuver around wagons, pedestrians or other horses. If only she could get Dolly going again. The mare didn’t follow Joe as Hilly had hoped but had stopped, turning her head toward the stable. Nudging her didn’t work.

  Clint looked over his shoulder and turned his horse around again.

  “I’m doing something wrong,” Hilly said with burning cheeks.

  “Probably not. Dolly seems to be stubborn.” He grabbed the reins and led Dolly out of town, with Hilly holding onto the saddle horn like a child riding a pony. She was reminded once again how much trouble she was.

  They rode out of Tombstone, taking a path that Hilly hadn’t been on before. As soon as they cleared the town, Clint stopped and handed the reins to Hilly.

  “Try her now. I think she has the idea that she’s going for a ride.”

  Hilly gratefully took the reins and urged Dolly forward. Dolly responded, and Clint smiled broadly and fell into step beside them.

  “We’re going down to the San Pedro River. I thought we’d have a picnic down there.”

  Hilly grinned. She was going on a picnic and Dolly was behaving. What more could a girl ask for?

  “A river?” she echoed. “In this desert?”

  Clint chuckled. “Yes, even in the desert. The mountain snows melt and run off into the river. And when it rains, the rivers fill occasionally to the point of flash flooding.” He looked up at the sky. “I don’t think that will happen today. The rainy season here is in the summer. That has come and gone.”

  “Oh, I remember seeing the San Pedro River as I drove down here. It’s a dry river bed, right?”

  Clint sighed. “There isn’t much water in it in the twenty-first century, but it is quite a lovely river now. I wondered about that and read that once the beaver were exterminated by fur trappers—which they will be—they will no longer be able to build damns and ponds, and the river’s course will broaden and dry up except during the rainy season.”

  Hilly bounced along on Dolly and listened to Clint talk. He pointed out various birds, cacti, and trees. The day was comfortable, neither too hot nor too cool, and the clouds provided a welcome shade from the sun. The wind, often a nightly occurrence, barely moved the limbs of the mesquite trees, and the gentle breeze felt good.

  They reached the river, and Hilly gasped. It was indeed filled with water, a lovely blue-green vista in an otherwise brown desert. Marshy grasses and cottonwood trees lined the riverbanks.

  Clint led them down a slight embankment, and he stopped at the river’s edge under the shade of a large green-leafed cottonwood tree. He helped Hilly down and led the horses to the river to drink.

  She accompanied him and studied the river. If she hadn’t known she was in the desert, she would never have suspected that the lush vegetation was in anything other than a forest.

  “This is beautiful!” Hilly said. “Oh, look! I’ll bet that was a beaver at work.” She pointed to a tree near the embankment, almost ready to topple over as the trunk had been gnawed on from all sides, revealing the tender white pulp beneath.

  “I’d guess you’re right,” Clint laughed. He pointed to a pile of logs in the near distance. “And there is a damn. When I was in your time, I borrowed Larry’s horse and rode down here on my off days to get away from town, to see the river and the beavers, but there was very little water and no beavers.”

  “That’s so sad,” Hilly said.

  “We did it,” Clint sighed. “Not you. Us. We let the cattle graze along the river edges causing erosion and we hunted the beaver.”

  Hilly echoed his sigh.

  “Let’s eat. I am starving,” he said. “I stopped by one of the hotel kitchens and they made up a basket for us.” He led the horses to a mesquite tree and tied them loosely. He gestured to a patch of grass for Hilly, and he sat down beside her.

  The picnic was delicious. Hilly generally stuck to the fresh fruit and bread, but still, there was something about eating a picnic near a beautiful river with two peaceful horses grazing nearby and a handsome cowboy sitting next to her.

  “Speaking of cowboys, have you done any of that stuff?”

  Clint turned toward her, one eyebrow lifted in surprise. “Were we talking about Cowboys?”

  Hilly blushed. “Well, we are now. Have you ever been to a rodeo or herded cattle?”

  “Remember, around here, a Cowboy is generally a rustler, an outlaw. Not like in Texas where cowboys ride the range. The ranchers around here call themselves cattlemen. But to answer your question, no, I have never even seen a rodeo, but I have herded cattle. I did that for a bit before coming here. Didn’t like it much, so here I am.”

  Hilly heard a child’s cry, and she looked up to the embankment behind them expecting to see some sort of hawk. A small group of Native Americans watched them. One man sat astride a horse, while another man along with several women and children stood. The men wore their hair long with strips of cloth tied around their foreheads. Their clothing was loose, the one standing wore a loin cloth over his trousers. The women wore nondescript loose skirts and blouses. The children wore even less.

  Hilly waved a greeting.

  “Get behind me, Hilly,” Clint barked as he jumped up and pulled his gun from his holster.

  “Clint! What are you doing?” Hilly almost screeched. “Stop that!” She moved to stand between the group and his gun.

  Clint grabbed her and pulled her behind him. “These are Apaches, Hilly. Apaches! This isn’t the twenty-first century.”

  Hilly blinked and looked up the hill. The small group looked as if they had come straight out of one of those awful photographs of Indian bands during the late nineteenth century trapped on reservations—depressed, downtrodden and bedraggled. Clint was right. This wasn’t the twenty-first century.

  The man on the horse held up one hand in a gesture of greeting or peace.

  “What do you want?” Clint called out. “Move on.”

  The man shook his head as if he didn’t underst
and. He gestured toward his mouth several times as if putting food in it.

  “They’re hungry, Clint. This isn’t some wild savage raid. They’re hungry.”

  “They’re supposed to be on a reservation,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Clint! You lived in my time long enough to know why they’re starving. They probably had to leave it to find food.”

  The man on the horse moved to descend the embankment, and Hilly, for all her defense of them, wondered if he intended to take some food—or their horses—by force.

  “Don’t come near or I’ll shoot,” Clint warned. From the steeliness in his voice, Hilly had no doubt that he meant it. He raised his weapon.

  The Apache paused. He gestured once more toward his mouth and then toward the people on the hill.

  “I know they’re hungry, Hilly, but some of the Apache do not necessarily have a history of asking for what they want, but of taking. He’s got a pretty large rifle strapped to his horse there.”

  “This isn’t Geronimo, is it?” she asked.

  “No. I’ve seen a picture of Geronimo in John Clum’s office, the editor of the local newspaper. This isn’t him.”

  Hilly squinted, trying to remember what Geronimo looked like from photographs. He was short, squat, with shoulder-length hair. This man had much longer hair, dark, almost sleek. His profile was strong with a long aquiline nose. He was tall.

  “Cochise?”

  “No, he died a long time ago. I suspect this is just some man and his family.”

  “Well, give them the food that’s left. There’s plenty.”

  When Hilly would have moved out from behind him, Clint kept an iron grip on her.

  “Clint! Those are children up there. Give them the food!” She wormed her way out of his grasp and moved toward the basket to pick it up and hold it aloft in an offering gesture.

  The man on the horse hesitated, keeping a wary eye on Clint.

  “Hilly, you will be the death of us!” Clint lowered his gun but didn’t holster it. He took the basket from her. “Stay there,” he commanded her.

  He moved toward the Indian, holding up the basket. Hilly swallowed hard. What had she done? What if the Apache just decided to swoop down and scalp Clint? She stepped forward as if to try to protect him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw her.

  “Stay there!”

  The Apache took the basket from Clint and put his hand over his heart. He turned and signaled for his family to descend the embankment.

  “We’re leaving, Hilly,” Clint said. “Walk slowly over to Dolly and get on. I’m not absolutely sure he wouldn’t want to ask for the horses next.”

  Hilly smiled brightly toward the Apache and backed away carefully. He tilted his head and watched her. She couldn’t read his expression and had no idea if they were in danger or not.

  Clint nodded and took several steps backward before turning toward the horses. The Apache climbed down off his horse and handed the basket to one of the women in his group.

  Hilly tried to grab the saddle horn to pull herself up, but her skirt got caught in the stirrup.

  “Here,” Clint said as he cupped his hand for her foot. She mounted Dolly, and Clint took Dolly’s reins and mounted Joe. He turned to face the Apaches—the women and children now pouring through the basket and picking out things to eat. The two males watched Clint as he maneuvered Joe downriver before turning to lead Dolly up the embankment. Hilly looked over her shoulder to watch the group until she could see them no longer.

  Unaware that her adrenaline had been raging, she began to shake and was thankful that Clint held Dolly’s reins. They rode without a word for about ten minutes before Clint paused, pulling Dolly even with Joe.

  “That, my dear, is what life in 1881 is like,” Clint said, a hoarse note in his voice. “It’s dangerous, it’s lawless. You never know when and where death will come.”

  Hilly wanted to argue, but she really couldn’t. She had to admit she’d been frightened, once she realized this wasn’t a modern-day Native American family out on a family stroll in the park after a delightful meal of Indian tacos and fry bread.

  “I have to let the sheriff know about the encounter when we get back to town,” Clint said.

  “Why? What will the sheriff do? They’re not breaking any laws, are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “You know I’ve been gone for six months. I don’t know if they’ve been raiding or what they’ve been doing. The sheriff will probably contact the soldiers at Fort Huachuca, and they’ll send out a party to find them.”

  Hilly’s hands turned cold, though the afternoon was still warm.

  “Don’t do that, Clint. Please don’t do that. Those are children. You know they’ll round them up and send them to the San Carlos Indian Reservation, or worse yet, kill them.”

  “The cavalry will not indiscriminately kill women and children, Hilly.”

  “Oh, really?” Hilly said, a tear slipping down her face. She wiped at it angrily. “Wounded Knee? The Sand Creek Massacre?”

  Clint reached across his horse for Hilly’s hand, but she snatched it from him.

  “I don’t know anything about a wounded knee,” he said, “but I have heard of the Sand Creek Massacre. Well, what would you have me do, Hilly? I have to warn someone, let someone know.”

  Hilly shook her head. “No, you don’t. Just let them go on to wherever they’re going. If he’d wanted to kill us, he would have. I’m not going to say I wasn’t scared, but I think they’re just what they seemed to be. Hungry.”

  Clint sighed, and nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. The Apaches will all be rounded up soon enough, whether I do anything about it or not. I’ll keep this encounter to myself.”

  “I hate the term ‘rounded up,’” Hilly said. “Just like cattle.”

  “You’re right. Captured sounds a bit brutal though, especially when one thinks of the children.”

  Hilly bit her lip. “Let’s go. I’m having a hard time at the moment with your time.”

  She looked away from the hurt in Clint’s eyes.

  They returned to town subdued and wordless just as the rain began to fall. They walked the horses into the stable, and Clint helped Hilly off her horse.

  “When are you going back out to the mine again?” Hilly asked.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Clint said. He began to unsaddle the horses.

  “So soon?” Hilly couldn’t hold the words back, and she knew she had no right to say anything.

  Clint’s hands stilled, and he turned to her.

  “What do you want from me, Hilly? What do you want me to do?” His voice was surprisingly harsh, and Hilly stared at him open mouthed. “You are confusing me, and I don’t know what you want! One minute, I think we’re in love and that you’re going to marry me, and the next minute, you are unsure of me...of how you feel about me. You say you think we were meant to be together, that our meeting was no accident, but we are not together. We are apart, and you are distant. I know this is a confusing time for you, Hilly. I better than anyone know that, but I cannot sit on the Dorns’ doorstep waiting for you to find it in your heart to forgive me for something that I haven’t done. I have to get on with my life. I have to make a living.”

  Hilly’s cheeks burned. He was right, of course, but that didn’t make his words any easier to hear.

  “I know I’m not being fair to you, Clint. I know that!” she muttered as she stared down at the ground. “I love you, but I don’t think I trust you. I want to...” She looked up at him, trying to show him how she felt. The right words just wouldn’t come.

  Clint shook his head and turned from her to stare at the saddle on Joe’s back. The slump in his shoulders made him look defeated.

  “There is nothing I can do to make you believe me, Hilly. I’m sorry.” With visible effort, he straightened his shoulders and began to busy himself with removing Joe’s saddle. She felt dismissed, as if he wanted her to leave.

 
“I’m sorry, too, Clint,” Hilly said quietly as she turned to enter the house.

  “How was your ride, Hilly?” Nan said. “John has just gone to the blacksmith, but he’ll be back in a few minutes to help Clint put the horses away.”

  “Fine, thank you,” Hilly said. “If you don’t need me in the store, I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down. I’m not feeling very well.”

  “No, that’s fine, dear. It is quiet today. Probably the rain.”

  The rain had begun in earnest, clattering against the windowpanes in the kitchen and the wooden siding of the building.

  Hilly went up to her room and looked out onto the street below. She hoped Clint wouldn’t get wet. As if she conjured him up, she saw him running across the now muddy street, his hat low over his face. With a heavy heart, she followed his progress down the sidewalk and out of sight. She wasn’t even sure exactly where he was staying. How could she not know? What if she needed him?

  She sank down on her bed trying to make some sense of her jumbled thoughts. She loved Clint. She trusted him with her life. But did she trust him with her health? With prostitution came disease. If Clint had frequented prostitutes. Hilly tried to stop the image. The red-lipped faces of Marie and Katherine were never far from her thoughts, nor the flirtatious and familiar way they had said his name, “Clint.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clint maneuvered the wagon into the stable.

  “You were out for a spell this time, Clint,” John said as he began to unhitch the mules. “Hilly asked after you.”

  Clint should have been elated to hear she cared enough to ask about him, but he had hardened his heart. He had seen her set up in the house before he had returned to the mine, and that was that. He would always see to her welfare. After all, wasn’t it his fault she was here? But he had no intention of asking her to marry him again, and no hope that she would accept even if he did ask.

  “Three weeks,” Clint said as he climbed down from the wagon. “The weather was so good, I wanted to get as much done as I could while it lasted.” He wanted to ask after Hilly but resisted.

  “How are you doing out there?”