The Accidental Guardian

by Mary Connealy

  Banshees were looking mighty good right now.

  While they kept running and hollering, he started figuring. He was twenty miles from home. He had one horse to carry five people. He’d been on the trail a long time and had very little food left, and sure as certain no baby’s milk. The blustering wind and overcast sky told him snow and cold were on the way and might strike at any time.

  He looked down at his black mustang stallion. He’d caught the critter when it was just a foal, standing on wobbling legs behind its dying mama, circled by wolves. Trace had driven the wolves off. The mare died, and Trace had taken the young mustang home and gentled him. He broke it himself and considered the loyal animal one of his few friends. He glanced at Wolf and remembered well that saving the colt had cost the pup its own mama, a dog running with a wolf pack. Between the wolf and the mustang, it was hard to tell which one was his best friend.

  “Don’t leave us. We need help!” the woman closest to him shrieked again. Hadn’t she noticed he wasn’t going anywhere? Both kids were caterwaulin’ now, both women shouting and waving.

  Wolf seemed to have second thoughts and came running back to Trace with his tail between his legs.

  Leaning low so he wouldn’t be overheard, he rubbed Black’s shoulder and said to his friends, “These four aren’t the only ones who need help.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  “Help, don’t leave us!” Deb forced herself to step forward.

  As terrified as she had been to show herself, afraid that whoever had attacked the wagon train might’ve come back, she had to risk it.

  She had no idea how to survive out here alone. Besides, she’d seen the filthy villains ride off to the east, and this man had come from the west.

  He looked bad. Dirty, his gun drawn, and edgy, like he might shoot first and see who he’d shot later. But what other possible decision could she make than to hope against hope he was a decent man who would help them?

  Honestly, they didn’t have a thing worth stealing, so unless he was just a pure cold-blooded murderer, he might come to their rescue. Deb had heard that most western men were good to women and children. His dog barked, wagged its tail, and panted. At least the gray dog was willing to be friendly.

  “Please, you have to help us!”

  With deep prayers for protection from God, she and Gwen rushed forward. Once they’d decided to wave him down, she was terrified the rider might move on before they could gain his attention.

  All the prayer and fear and hope brought out the loudest scream yet. “Help us, please. Help!”

  The man stared at them. He was still a ways off. She was no judge of distance, but she couldn’t see his eyes or the expression on his face. But he did lower his rifle, turn his head . . . maybe looking for danger? And then shoved the rifle down into a scabbard on the side of his saddle.

  So that was good. He’d disarmed himself. He looked down for some reason, just sort of hung his head, gave his horse’s shoulder a gentle rub, and she thought maybe she saw his lips move. As if he were talking to someone. His horse? His dog? An imaginary friend?

  Oh, fine. She’d stumbled on the only help in sight, and he was a madman.

  Then his head came up and he reined his horse in their direction and kicked it into a trot. He closed the distance between them and swung to the ground as soon as he was near.

  “Are you all right? Are you from the wagon train?” He was tall, taller than Pa, at least six-foot-two. He had a bit of hair showing beneath a sharp-looking black Stetson that must be brand-new. There was a line of white on his neck that told her he’d just had a haircut. His eyes were a darker blue than hers. Concern and confusion shone out of them.

  “Yes, we were in the grass when the raiders came and sh-shot everyone.” Deb rested her hand on the back of little Maddie Sue’s head and urged the little girl, who’d been bounced along as Deb ran, to rest her head. The little sweetie set her cheek on Deb’s shoulder and turned to look at the rescuer.

  The dog sniffed Deb’s skirt and then went to sniff Gwen, then rolled over on his back, legs in the air, panting with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Not a sign of the killer dog to be seen.

  “I’m Deb Harkness, and this is my sister, Gwen. We are caring for these two children, Madeline and Cameron Scott. Their parents were—were—” Deb swallowed hard.

  The man nodded. “They weren’t with you when the attack came.”

  Deb shook her head and hugged Maddie Sue tighter.

  “I’m Trace Riley,” the man said. “I need to go look at the wagon train. Make sure there are no survivors. My ranch is a long ride from here, and it’s the closest shelter around. Give me some time over there, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Deb didn’t want to say it, but she had to. “I think I had better come with you.”

  “No, I don’t want you—”

  Since she knew what he would say, and appreciated it, she ignored him while she handed Maddie Sue to Gwen. “Keep the children away.”

  “Deb, if there is anyone left alive, I can help.” Gwen had her arms full, yet Deb knew she was better at doctoring than most.

  “I’ll come and take over with the children if we need your help. But I don’t think they left anyone alive.”

  Gwen nodded, gave the dog a nervous look, and sank down on the ground. Both little ones had quit their crying and now seemed overly subdued, and Deb worried about that.

  The dog turned in a circle three times before lying down at Gwen’s side as if to take a nap.

  Ronnie was probably asleep, and Maddie Sue looked to be nearly so. They’d usually have gone back to sleep for a bit after the early-morning run into the grass. Since they’d missed that, under the circumstances, this might be a natural nap time. Or maybe the dog was just setting a good example for them.

  She looked at Gwen, who met her worried gaze and shrugged. “We’ll be fine. Go.” Gwen looked past her at the carnage and shuddered.

  Maddie Sue huddled even closer.

  Deb didn’t want to go any more than Gwen did, but she had to find what she knew was hidden in the Scotts’ wagon. It might make all the difference to the children’s future.

  It would also test this man Trace Riley. Because if the thieves and murderers hadn’t found and stolen the Scotts’ gold, maybe Trace would. Though not a treasure trove, it still had value, and Trace would show himself to be a man of honor . . . or not.

  There was only one way to find out. She had to go look at the massacre.

  “You can’t go look at the massacre.” Trace watched her hand off the child just as if he hadn’t spoken. He knew the woman wasn’t deaf.

  She turned to him and, after meeting his eyes and no doubt seeing exactly what he thought, strode right past him toward the circle of burned-out wagons.

  Not only was he not stopping her, he couldn’t even keep up.

  “Miss Harkness,” he called to her back as she walked. He hustled to catch up, leading his horse, unsure where to tie the critter in this grassy stretch. He moved along fast. He sure didn’t want her getting there first.

  As they left the little ears of the kids behind, he leaned close and whispered, “You don’t want to see what’s in that campsite, miss.”

  “I know.” She gave him a frightened look. “Believe me, I know. But I have to.”

  Trace didn’t know much about women. Practically nothing as a matter of fact. He’d seen a couple just these last few weeks when he’d been near Sacramento on his first cattle drive, but they bothered and confused him to the point they seemed kinda dangerous, so he’d stayed well back.

  No chance of staying back now. He caught her arm, lightly, not yanking her around, but just wishing she’d let him get control of her. “It’s gonna be so ugly. Please don’t walk in there.”

  She stopped, and his hopes rose. Looking up at him, she met his eyes. She was about four or five inches shorter than him so that her eyes were level with his mouth. He figured himself for around six feet tall—
he’d never measured, didn’t even own a yardstick—which made her a bit over five and a half feet.

  He saw dread and determination in equal parts. Her eyes were a shining bright blue that seemed to be lit from within because of their contrast to her dark brown hair, worn in a single braid down her back. But her hair was all a mess, with long strings of it escaping from both the braid and her bonnet and blowing around her face. Her heavy brown wool coat was buttoned up to her chin, and her bonnet matched the coat. Her skin—what little he could see of it—was deeply tanned, as anybody’s would be after long months on the trail.

  He’d never been this close to a woman in his life, hardly ever been this close to a person in general, not since the wagon train he’d been on had been attacked all those years back, with him left as the only survivor. Although his hired men rubbed shoulders with him from time to time.

  He knew exactly what she was about to see in that camp, and he looked at that pretty face and ached for her because, short of hog-tying her, the unwavering gleam in her eyes said she was going to stay with him.

  “Have you seen a-a dead—?” His throat went bone-dry and he swallowed hard. It was such a terrible thing to be talking about, but seeing it was so much worse than talking of it. He felt a desperate need to stop her. “Have you seen a dead body, miss?”

  “My ma and pa are both dead. I saw them.”

  “Have you seen one that’s been burned?”

  She flinched, and he felt like a brute. But he went on, trying to sound kind even though he hadn’t had much practice at it. A man talked, that was all. He didn’t concern himself so much with how he sounded to anyone. So he tried hard to wrangle a kindhearted tone to his voice yet wasn’t sure he managed at all.

  “I would spare you having that vision. Once it’s in your head, it’s never forgotten.”

  That got her attention, which had been on him anyway. But by the way her gaze had sharpened, he knew it was more so now.

  “You’ve seen such a thing?”

  “Yes.” His stomach twisted with the ugly memories that haunted him still, ten years after he’d seen the burned remains of his pa. He’d had to look in order to identify Pa, and it had haunted his nights for years. “I still have nightmares sometimes, and you will, too. Why do that to yourself?”

  He realized he still held her arm and let go. “It’s nothing a body can forget. Ever.”

  Her expression of dread deepened, and her eyes looked—were those tears?

  Before he could bring himself to ask, she turned to face the wreckage and swiped the back of her wrist across both eyes. “I have no choice. There are things I have to search for. I’m hoping there is some canned milk for Ronnie. The Scotts had other things, including letters, that I hope survived and will tell the address of Maddie Sue’s father. He’ll need to be contacted. If the fire didn’t destroy everything, maybe we can even find diapers.”

  Trace didn’t want to add thinking of diapers to this. “I reckon that sort of thing is all burned away. But I give you my word I’ll go through everything, and I’ll bring any canned goods that aren’t ruined, anything that didn’t burn. I’ll make a pile out here for you to choose from.”

  He couldn’t bury the bodies, though, and that made him sick with regret. It would take hours, maybe days, to dig a grave for all those people. He had no shovel and doubted there was one with a handle that had survived the fire. The ground was most likely frozen.

  And he had these four to take care of. Best to let the bodies rest the way Native folks did. Let nature handle the dead and let the ground reclaim them. He had the living to care for.

  “Tell me what to search for and I’ll find it. I won’t give up until I do or until I’m sure I can’t.”

  He thought he saw her chin quiver a bit, but she didn’t admit she was scared. Tough little thing. Poor, tough little thing.

  He frowned when she shook her head, squared her shoulders. She stopped and turned toward him. “You say you’ve seen this before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe . . .” Her hand tightened on his arm, and her eyes filled with something almost as scary as tears. Was it concern? For him? But when had he ever learned the skill of reading what was in a woman’s eyes? Must come natural. “You should stay here,” she said. “There’s no sense in both of us walking into this, and I have to go. I believe you when you say I shouldn’t.” Her teeth clenched until her jaw was a rigid line.

  Trace shook his head. “I’m not letting you walk in there alone.” He made it sound like the circle of burned-out wagons was the gateway to hell. He was sure it wasn’t, but then hell must be so vicious . . . well, it’d keep him to his faith just thinking of it.

  “Very well.” She let go of his arm. “I appreciate your warning and your offer to take this responsibility. I do. But I have to do it myself.” She headed out again.

  Giving his horse a dismayed look, Trace followed along like a pull toy on wheels—he’d seen such a thing once as a child. Rolling along her trail, he gave up on saving her from the experience. Instead, he caught up and rested his left hand on the small of her back.

  She turned slightly, her eyes widening in surprise. Then she laid one hand on his shoulder, nodded, and whispered, “Thanks.”

  Thanks for what? he wondered. After all, he should be thanking her for going with him. He was probably as sickened to be doing this as she was. Once he thought of it, he knew it was true. He was dreading it more because he’d seen such horror before and understood exactly what lay ahead of them. Her turn was about ten paces away.

  They reached the nearest blackened hulk of a wagon, and he tied his mustang to a charred wheel hub. The horse started grazing.

  Trace was glad someone’s stomach was working.

  CHAPTER

  3

  “Did you find it?” Gwen whispered.

  “Yes, I found things hidden in nearly every wagon.” Deb had her knapsack, now bulging and heavy, that she’d carried with her when they took the children away from the wagon train before sunup. She had her skirts gathered and full of things too, and Trace carried a load that he was quietly placing into a pack.

  Deb handed over all Gwen could carry. Gwen had also taken her small bag this morning. Both of them always kept their guns with them along with a few basic supplies. The Scotts had trained them well to be prepared for trouble.

  Gwen filled her own sack while she sat in the grass with Maddie Sue asleep on her lap. Ronnie slept on the ground, on his back. The dog stretched out beside Ronnie like a warm, loyal pillow. It lifted its head and panted while watching Deb as closely as Gwen.

  Deb was trying to keep it hidden, but she could tell both sister and dog were noticing how upset she was. She concentrated on the charred cans she’d gathered.

  “I found three cans of milk. I don’t know how far we have to travel, but we’d best set out soon because this is less than a day’s supply.” Deb dropped her leather bag on the ground with a dull clank as the cans knocked together.

  “Ronnie eats solid food now. He can get by without milk for a while.” The words halted, and Gwen gave her a long, searching look. “Are you all right?”

  “It was hard to see, but I’m fine.” That was just a plain old lie. She wasn’t going to be fine for quite a while—maybe never. She had images in her head that would never fade. She did her best to regain her composure after what she’d seen, yet she knew Trace’s talk of nightmares would be true for her now, too.

  She noticed a gray pallor to Trace’s complexion and suspected he was as sick to his stomach as she was. It helped somewhat that a strong man was as affected as she by the ugliness and brutality of what they’d seen.

  “Some of us will have to walk. I’m so sorry we’re adding such a burden to your journey, Mr. Riley. Thank you.”

  “Call me Trace. ‘Mister’ sounds like an old man to me. Although”—he glanced at the wagon-train ruins—“I’m feeling older by the minute.”

  “And we are Deb and Gwen. Callin
g both of us Miss Harkness will be confusing.”

  Nodding, he said, “Let’s get the little ones up on horseback. Black here is strong enough to carry all four of you, but with all these supplies to add, I just don’t think you’ll all fit.”

  “That’s fine. Gwen and I walk along with the wagon train most days.”

  “That’s what we’ll have to do, then. One of you riding and holding the young’uns. Each of you will take a turn walking.”

  “You’ll have a turn riding, too.” Deb was determined.

  “Let’s get moving. We’ll worry about who’s riding later.” The dog, Trace had called it Wolf, or some such odd name, got up and went to his master’s side and nosed at his hand. A quiet whine that sounded like sympathy came from the dog, and Trace looked down at it and rested one big hand on his pet’s head. Deb could see Trace’s very carefully concealed dismay in the gentle way he stroked the dog’s gray fur. His eyes lifted and met hers, and she knew all he felt.

  It was a connection between them, a connection Deb prayed that Gwen never shared. Deb had done what had to be done, gone through the wreckage and found what could be salvaged. There was little enough, yet the Scotts weren’t the only ones with hidden boxes, and Deb had known where to look. She now carried a small stack of silver and gold coins and some surviving papers, as well as a heavy bag of canned goods. Trace had picked up what he could. The pack he’d formed was tied on his horse behind the saddle.

  “Do the little ones need to eat before we set out?” he asked.

  Deb was amazed to admit she hadn’t thought of it, even with the talk of milk. This whole morning had shaken her right to the ground, and she was a woman who prided herself on being able to handle anything. Though her Heavenly Father knew well that she’d never handled anything close to this.

  The dog’s head snapped to alert, and without a sound it tore off into the tall grass.

  “What happened?” Deb looked to where the dog had disappeared.

  “He heard me say eat. He hunts his own. Reckon he’ll be back soon.”