If not for the letter from Edward’s old mentor Dr. Amos asking Edward to take over his practice in Waco, Texas, Courtney’s father would probably have drunk himself to death. Disillusioned Southerners were pouring into the West, looking for new lives, Dr. Amos wrote, and Edward decided to become one of those who chose hope over disillusionment.
This was going to be a new life for Courtney, too. There would be no more schools, no more living away from her father. She would have a chance now to make him see that she wasn’t a burden, and that she loved him. It was going to be just the two of them, she told herself.
But when their train was delayed in Missouri, her father had gone and done the inconceivable. He had married their housekeeper of the last five years, Sarah Whitcomb. There had, it seemed, been some mention of the impropriety of a thirty-year-old woman traveling with Dr. Harte.
Edward didn’t love Sarah, and Sarah had eyes for Hayden Sorrel, one of the two men Edward had hired to escort them through the dangerous territory to Texas. The very day of the wedding, Sarah was transformed into a new person. Where she’d once been so kind to Courtney, she was now a veritable shrew-bossy, criticizing, unmindful of anyone’s feelings. Courtney had given up trying to understand the change. She simply tried to keep out of Sarah’s way. That wasn’t easy when five people were traveling by wagon across the plains of Kansas.
Traveling along the Arkansas River since leaving Wichita that morning, they had left the river to see if they could find a homestead or town to spend the night. After all, sleeping under a roof was one of the things they would have to do without once they reached the two-hundred-mile stretch through Indian Territory.
Indian Territory. The name alone was enough to frighten Courtney. But Hayden Sorrel and the other fellow, called simply Dallas, said they had nothing to worry about as long as they took along some cattle to bribe the Indians with. Jesse Chisholm, a half-breed Cherokee, had discovered a comparatively flat route between San Antonio, Texas, and Wichita. Chisholm used that route to haul merchandise in “66, and settlers had used it ever since to cross the plains. People were now calling it the Chisholm Trail. The first of the Texas cattle herds had reached Abilene over this route.
A livestock broker from Illinois, Joseph McCoy, was responsible for the herds coming through Kansas this year—McCoy and the Kansas Pacific Railroad, which had finally reached Abilene on its slow trek west. What with Abilene having ample water from the Smoky Hill River and good grazing land in the vicinity, as well as having Fort Riley nearby to protect folks, the Chisholm Trail was now the ideal route to bring the herds for shipping east.
The railroad had made a phenomenal difference to Abilene. Just last year the town had been no more than a dozen log dwellings. It had grown monstrously in just a year’s time, and now there were a dozen saloons and other dens of vice to attract the cowhands who brought in the herds.
It would have been nice if the railroad had reached even farther, but it didn’t yet, so Abilene was as far as the Hartes had been able to travel in relative comfort. They bought a wagon there to carry the few possessions from home, one of the chuck wagons, in fact, that had already traveled the Trail. Knowing that their mode of transportation had come safely through Indian Territory at least once was a little reassuring.
Courtney would much have preferred to return east and get to Texas a roundabout way. That had, in fact, been their original intention, to travel through the South and then enter Texas on its eastern border. But Sarah wanted to visit her folks in Kansas City before she settled as far away as Texas was. So when Edward heard about this cow trail that had been traveled safely and learned that it passed right by Waco—their destination—he was adamant about changing their route. After all, they were already in Kansas. So much time would be saved by traveling directly south. A secret truth was, he didn’t want to travel through the South and see again the destruction wrought there, not if he could take this other route.
Dallas rode ahead to the farm they had sighted, then returned to inform them that they were welcome to spend the night in the barn. “It’ll do, Doctor Harte,” Dallas informed Edward. “No sense ridin” the extra mile out of our way to Rockley. It’s an itty-bitty town anyhow. We can head back toward the river come mornin’t“
Edward nodded, and Dallas fell into place beside the wagon. Courtney didn’t like the man very much, or his friend Hayden, either. Hayden kept making eyes at Sarah. Dallas was much younger than Hayden, maybe twenty-three, so he wasn’t interested in Sarah. He’d shown an interest in Courtney, though.
Dallas was good-looking in a rough sort of way, and Courtney would have been extremely nattered by his interest if she hadn’t seen the way his eyes greedily took in every female they saw. She was smart enough not to let the novelty of a man paying attention to her go to her head. She knew she was only catching his eye because Dallas was a normal, healthy male, and she was the only female around young enough to suit his tastes.
Courtney knew she wasn’t attractive, at least not enough to draw men’s interest when other females were present. Oh, she had pretty hair and eyes, and her features were set up kind of nice if you saw beyond the fullness. But men didn’t usually notice that. They would look at her short, chubby frame and then look no more.
Courtney hated the way she looked, but she often turned to food as a solace for unhappiness. A few years ago, she hadn’t cared. When other children teased her about her weight, she just ate more. When she finally began to care about her appearance, she made an effort to lose weight and had succeeded. Now she was called chubby instead of fat.
One good thing had happened after her father’s marriage, and that was his taking notice of Courtney. He began talking to her at length when they rode side by side in the wagon. She didn’t actually credit the marriage with this. It was more likely the forced intimacy of the trail that did it. At any rate, she was beginning to think maybe it wasn’t hopeless after all. Maybe he really was starting to love her again, the way he had before her mother died.
Edward pulled to a stop in front of a large barn. It still amazed Courtney, having lived in Chicago all her life, that people like this farmer who was coming out to greet them didn’t mind living out in the middle of nowhere like this, with no neighbor in sight. Courtney liked being alone, but in a house surrounded by other houses, knowing there were people around. There was no security in this isolation, this wilderness where Indians still roamed.
The farmer was a huge man, at least two hundred and fifty pounds, with hazel eyes in his ruddy face. Smiling, he told Edward there was room to drive the wagon inside the barn. When that was accomplished, he helped Courtney down from the wagon.
“Aren’t you the pretty one?” he said, then reached to give Sarah a hand. “But you need to put on a little weight, honey. You’re a stick.”
Courtney blushed three shades of red and ducked her head, praying Sarah hadn’t heard. Was the man crazy? Here she’d spent two years trying to lose weight, and he was suggesting she was skinny.
Dallas came up behind her while she was trying to sort out her confusion. He whispered in her ear, “He’s big enough to like big women, honey, so don’t pay him no mind. In another year or so you’ll be rid of that baby fat, and I’ll wager you’ll be the prettiest gal in north Texas.”
If Dallas had seen her expression, he might have realized he wasn’t paying her any compliment. Courtney was mortified. All this personal criticism from men was more than she could bear. She rushed out of the barn and ran behind it to the back. She stared out over the flat land that stretched for miles. Tears glistened in her golden brown eyes, making them look like pools of honey.
Too fat, too skinny—how could people be so cruel? Could there be any sincerity in two such opposing opinions? Or was she learning that men never told the truth? Courtney didn’t know what to think anymore.
Chapter 4
ELROY Brower was at his most congenial. He’d never had so many people visiting his home since he’d built it. He hadn’t
gotten any work done yesterday, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t feel like heading back to Wichita for his plow, not with the hangover he’d woken up with the day before, but he didn’t mind that, either. It did a man good to get drunk once in a while. He’d had lots of company, too, what with Bill Chapman and all the others bedding down in the barn night before last and breaking out whiskey flasks to celebrate their victory. Only the two Joes were absent, having ridden off directly south after the killing.
And then, yesterday, the doctor and his ladies and the doctor’s cowhands had come by. Imagine that, ladies sitting down at his table for supper! And they were real ladies, too. He could tell that easily by their fancy traveling clothes and their manners. And their delicate white skin, of course. He’d even made the young one blush.
Elroy told himself he’d be perfectly happy if they wanted to stay a few days. His plow could wait. Chapman had paid to store it along with his oxen, and Elroy could fetch it when he had a mind to. But the doctor said they’d be heading out this morning. He had insisted on going hunting at the crack of dawn to replenish Elroy’s table. Well, shoot, nothing wrong with that. A nice man, the doctor, with real class. He had noticed the three scratches running down Elroy’s neck and offered to leave him some salve.
When the scratches were mentioned, Elroy got a little flustered. Not that he was ashamed, because he wasn’t. But you didn’t mention such things in front of ladies, things to do with sex, and what had happened at the Indian camp. But the doctor didn’t ask how he had gotten the scratches, and Elroy said nothing about it.
The retaliation had been a thrilling experience. It also eased Elroy’s mind about having Indians so close to his home. Hell, they were easy to kill—easy to rape, too. He didn’t know why he’d been so worried about Indians in the first place. He’d felt only a second’s hesitation when he saw that the little savage who scratched him wasn’t pure Indian. Those eyes that couldn’t belong to a pure Indian looked up at him with such loathing. But he raped her anyhow. He was too excited by all the killing not to. Elroy didn’t even realize she was dead until he’d finished. He didn’t feel any guilt over what had happened, just irritation because he couldn’t stop thinking about those eyes.
Elroy decided the ladies were probably up and dressed, so he could head out to the barn in a few minutes and invite them in to breakfast. The doctor and Dallas ought to be back soon, too. The other hand, Sorrel, was shaving out back by the well and probably spinning more tall tales for Peter. That boy wouldn’t be around much longer, Elroy feared. He was already talking about joining the 7th Cavalry so he could fight Indians. Elroy hoped he’d wait at least until after harvest.
Twenty yards from Elroy’s log house was where his cornfield began. The tall stalks were swaying gently. If Elroy had noticed that as he went to the barn, he might have thought an animal was loose in the field, for there was no wind blowing, not even the slightest breeze. But he didn’t notice. He was thinking that as soon as the Harte party departed, he’d head back to Wichita for his plow.
Courtney had been up for half an hour and was waiting for Sarah to finish her morning toilet. Sarah was pretty, and she always spent a great deal of time each morning making sure everyone would see just how pretty she was, fixing her hair just right, fooling with her powders and the lotion she had brought along that was supposed to prevent sunburn. It was Sarah’s vanity that had them continuing this trip so late in the season that they’d be lucky to reach Waco before winter set in. Sarah had cajoled Edward into visiting her folks in Kansas City because she wanted to show off her husband, an important doctor, and let everyone in her hometown see how well she’d done for herself.
The farmer made a good deal of unnecessary noise outside the door before he stuck his head inside. “Bacon’s done, ladies, and the eggs are ready to be whipped up if you’d care to come to the house for some breakfast.”
“How kind of you to offer, Mr. Brower,” Sarah said, smiling. “Has my husband returned yet?”
“No, ma’am, but I don’t reckon he’ll be much longer. There’s plenty game around here this time of year.”
The farmer left. Hearing him making noises against the door again, Courtney shook her head at his strangeness. She knew why he’d done it when he arrived, but why now?
And then the door was jerked open and Elroy Brower fell inside, clutching his thigh. A long, thin stick was stuck in it. Now, why would he…
“Jesus God, there were more of ”em!“ Elroy groaned as he got to his feet, breaking off the arrow shaft as he did so.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Brower?” Sarah demanded, coming toward him.
Elroy groaned again. “Indians. We’re being attacked.” Sarah and Courtney stood there staring at him, openmouthed, and Elroy said hoarsely, “Over there!” Pointing to what looked like a large feed box with a lid on it, he said, getting more agitated by the second, “I dug a hole for my wife for just this reason. She was a big woman, so it should be big enough for both of you. Get in and don’t come out, even if it gets quiet. I’ve got to get back to the house where I left my rifle.”
And then he was gone. Neither Sarah nor Courtney wanted to believe him. This was not happening. It couldn’t be.
Hearing a rifle shot, quickly followed by another, Sarah felt sick. “Get into that box, Courtney!” Sarah cried as she ran for the box.
“Oh, God, this can’t be happening, not now, not when everything’s been going so well.”
Courtney moved mechanically toward the low box and crawled in after Sarah. There was no bottom to the box. The hole had been dug two and a half feet into the ground, enough room for both to crouch down without their heads reaching the top of the box.
“Close the lid!” Sarah snapped, her gray eyes round with fear. Then, “We’ve got nothing to fear. They won’t find us. They’re just stupid savages. They won’t even look in here. They—”
Sarah’s words stopped as they heard a scream beyond the barn, a horrible scream filled with terrible pain. What followed was even worse: many sounds, animal sounds, getting louder by the second. And then there was a high-pitched howling just outside the barn door. Courtney snapped out of her trance and pulled the lid closed, enclosing them in blackness that was terrifying in itself.
“Sarah. Sarah!”
Courtney began to cry when she realized Sarah had fainted. Even with the warmth of the woman’s body slumped next to her, she felt alone. She was going to die, and she didn’t want to die. She knew she would die shamefully, would scream and plead and then die anyway. Everyone knew Indians had no mercy.
Oh, God, if I have to die, don’t let me beg. Let me find the courage not to beg.
Edward Harte had heard the first shot and raced back to the farm, Dallas close behind him. But when they were near enough to see what was happening, the younger man turned tail and rode away. Dallas was not a hero.
Edward didn’t know he rode the rest of the way alone, for all he could think about was his daughter and saving her. He approached from the side of the farm and saw four Indians surrounding the bodies of Peter, the young farmhand, and Hayden Sorrel. Edward’s first shot scored, but immediately afterward an arrow was embedded in his shoulder. It had come from the front of the barn, and he fired in that direction.
It was his last shot. Two more arrows found him, and he fell from his horse. He didn’t move again.
The eight Comanche braves had accomplished what they’d come for. They had followed the tracks of thirteen horses to this farm. They’d seen that only eleven horses had gone on from the farm. That left two men at the farm, two of the thirteen the warriors wanted. One of those two was already dead. The huge farmer was not.
The farmer had only one wound. He had been cut off from reaching his house, cut off from returning to the barn. Four braves played with him now, taunting him with their knives, while the other Comanches searched the house and barn.
Two Comanches entered the barn. One climbed into the wagon, tossing out its contents as he searched. The ot
her scanned the building for hiding places. His eyes took in everything with deadly thoroughness.
His face revealed nothing of his thoughts, but he was filled with an awful, wrenching grief. He had gone into the Comanche camp yesterday and found the nightmare left behind by the white men. His entrance into the camp was his first visit to his people after three years’ absence, and he had returned too late to save his mother and sister. Revenge would never make up for their suffering, but it would help to ease his own pain.
The footprints in the dirt caught his attention, and he walked slowly to the feed box. In his hand he gripped the short, razor-edged blade he used for skinning animals.
Courtney hadn’t heard the two Indians enter the barn. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear all the noises out in the yard.
The cover of the feed box flew open, and Courtney barely had time to gasp before her hair was seized in brutal hands. She squeezed her eyes shut so she wouldn’t see the death blow coming. She knew her throat was going to be cut, for he forced her head back, exposing her neck. Any second now, God, any second…
She wouldn’t open her eyes, but he wanted her to be watching him when he killed her. The other woman was slumped over in the hole, passed out, but this one was aware and trembling. But she wouldn’t look at him, not even when he twisted her hair as hard as he could around his hand. He knew he was hurting her, but still she kept her eyes squeezed shut.
And then through the haze of rage, he began to look her over. He realized that she didn’t fit in here. Her clothes were fine, neither calico nor faded cotton. Her skin was too white for a farmer’s wife or child, nearly translucent, barely touched by the sun. Her hair was like silk against his fingers, not brown or blond, but a blending of the two. Looking at her carefully, he realized she couldn’t be more than fourteen years old, perhaps a little more.
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