The Accidental Guardian

by Mary Connealy

  And to make himself go on, all he had to do was imagine someone in those woods, maybe someone evil enough to kill a wagon train full of people, maybe someone with a rifle scope pointed right at them.

  Because someone was out there. Or had been. Trace couldn’t read Wolf’s actions any other way.

  Thunder rumbled, and Trace pushed himself harder, driven by the lighting coming and others watching them, others with reasons for not showing themselves.

  That could only be bad.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Trace didn’t know much about women and less than nothing about children, except he’d been one himself. But these four seemed like a decent bunch.

  Through sheer effort, he kept himself from saying so.

  He didn’t want to start the women talking again, even worse the children crying again, because how quiet they all were was a big part of what he admired.

  They rode along in silence. Not a word of complaint from any of them. He’d settled into a steady run, up and up and up, and thought he could probably keep going almost forever.

  Back in the very beginning he’d had an old plow horse, the one he’d been riding the day of the wagon massacre. The horse hadn’t survived the first winter. Trace had learned to use his feet. And though these days he wasn’t forced to run everywhere he went, he still did a fair amount of it when the distance wasn’t too far. He could keep going for miles. But he didn’t usually go for one of his long runs with a hundred-pound pack on his back.

  He reached the mountaintop and felt the coldness of a nasty storm breathing down his neck. He passed over the heights and began miles of descent. But once the worst of the danger had passed, it was as if the storm decided that if it couldn’t stab him with a lightning bolt, it wasn’t interested at all. It headed toward the east, rushing on, leaving them dry.

  Trace saw the sheeting rain. It drenched the trail he’d wanted to come back and follow to get the men who’d massacred the wagon train.

  Oh, he’d find them. The determination burned in him like the flaming sword of justice. But the rain made it harder.

  He settled into the rhythm of the run as time and territory passed. If he could keep going—well, he was still going to reach home long after dark—the sun was setting earlier every day. There’d be no camping on the trail. Whatever was out in those woods made him want to make it home as soon as he could.

  “Wake up!” Trace hadn’t meant to yell, but it’d come out mighty loud when he was jumping to catch Deb as she came sliding off his stallion’s back.

  He caught her. He’d touched both her and Gwen when he was helping them get on and off his horse, but he was struck now by this live wiggling woman. Something about the weight of her in his arms struck him as the best thing he’d ever felt.

  Of course, he was half asleep with exhaustion himself, so he could be imagining things.

  She jerked awake. He grabbed the reins with his teeth so he could hold her with both arms. The horse shied, and he decided, though he’d’ve liked to hang on to her longer, that he should act in the best interests of his teeth.

  He eased her to the ground but she didn’t stand. Her legs buckled, so he guided her all the way to the ground to keep her from plunking down hard. It was cold. Past midnight and the ground was white with the flurries of snow that’d begun about two hours ago. Black danced sideways, and Trace caught Maddie Sue falling next.

  Trace spit out the reins and shouted, “Deb, Gwen, wake up! I need some help out here!”

  Deb stirred from the cold more than from his words. Trace hated to jar them like this. They’d hung on to the horse with the grit and courage of warriors all day, but they had to help him for just a few more seconds.

  Deb pulled Maddie Sue onto her lap as Trace lifted Ronnie, deeply asleep and limp as a rag doll.

  A lantern came on in the house, and the front door swung open. Utah Smith, a cowpoke who’d come wandering through right around the time Trace was starting the cattle drive, came rushing out, pulling on his thick winter coat.

  “Boss, we were fixin’ to come huntin’ you.”

  Trace had tarried so long he was two weeks behind his men.

  “I need more hands, Utah. Quick.” The pack on Trace’s back felt like the earth had grown claws that were trying to drag him right underground. His hands were too busy to shed it. Ronnie hung, fast asleep, in one arm. He grabbed Gwen in the other and eased her down, her eyes blinking up at him owlishly. Unlike Deb, she managed to stay on her feet.

  Utah caught Black and led him aside. “What in tarnation ya got here, boss?”

  He was too tired to smile, but he didn’t blame Utah for being surprised. Adam Thayne was a pace behind.

  “Put the horse up, Utah. Adam, help me get them inside. And grab this pack I’m carrying. I’m about all in.” Which reminded him he didn’t have a bed to sleep in, and neither did his hired men. They’d realize that soon enough. Still, they were tough western men—they’d slept on a hard patch of dirt many a time.

  Utah headed for the stable with the mustang.

  Adam got Trace’s pack. “You want this inside?”

  “Yep, and the women and children. All of the menfolk are sleeping in the stable.”

  It didn’t matter too much. The house was so poorly built, it wasn’t much better than the barn. Utah had seen the place when he signed on for the cattle drive and told Trace he was a handy carpenter, offering to build a new house and stable in the spring.

  Trace was all for it, yet it was only talk at this point. And talk didn’t put a roof over their heads tonight.

  The house’s one advantage was that it had a fireplace—and that was a big advantage.

  “Adam,” Trace said when his hired man rushed back outside, “take the little boy. He’s fast asleep. Just get him inside and put him in any bed.”

  Adam gathered up the boy and cradled him awkwardly.

  “I’ll help settle him.” Gwen went after the boy.

  Deb had gotten off the horse several times throughout the day and run along to lighten the stallion’s load. The mustang was mountain born and bred and a strong tall animal, but four riders, even with two of them little, was a heavy load over long hours.

  Trace figured Deb’s willingness to walk was the difference between their making it or not. It also explained her deeper exhaustion than Gwen’s.

  Trace was about used up, but he dug deep and found the strength to pick Deb up, with Maddie Sue asleep in her lap. He adjusted the load to keep from dropping the child and headed for the house with both of them.

  “No,” Deb muttered, her words slurred, her voice groggy with sleep. “Give me a few minutes to gather my wits and I’ll walk.”

  Since Trace sincerely hoped to be asleep in a few minutes, he just carried her on in. And tired as he was, he enjoyed every second of it. In fact, it struck him that if he hadn’t been quite so close to insensible with exhaustion, he might’ve had a little more self-control and not enjoyed a woman in his arms nearly so much.

  He came inside to see Gwen collapse on one of the bunks. Adam handed Ronnie to her, and she wrapped up in the blanket and was asleep instantly.

  There were three hard little beds. One brand-new, probably built for Utah. It had an old blanket sewn up and stuffed with what smelled like dry meadow grass. That’s the bed Adam had picked for Gwen, and Trace was glad there was clean straw for her.

  Adam built up the fire.

  Trace lay Deb down on his bed, and Maddie Sue just snuggled up right in her arms. He paused a second at the wonder of having a woman in his bed. It wasn’t quite how it sounded, but that didn’t keep the thought from bouncing around in his head like some kind of mountain echo.

  Trace covered Deb and Maddie Sue with his only blanket, then forced himself to look away from her.

  He said to Adam, “We’re evicted from the house, I reckon.”

  “I reckon.” Adam plucked his blanket off his own bed. Beyond that he didn’t speak as he headed outside. Trac
e wore his heavy coat, and it looked like that was all he was getting.

  He left, pulling the door shut behind him and saw Adam give Utah the news.

  “They took all the blankets, too?”

  “Nope, we got one, but they took yours and mine,” Trace said. “There was one in my bedroll on Black—did you get that?”

  “Yep. We’ve got two, one short.”

  “You take it. My coat is plenty warm.”

  “They get the fire and the blankets?” Utah sounded resigned, and why not? No one was going back in there to tear a blanket off those women and children.

  “It don’t seem right, does it?” Trace chuckled, surprised he had the strength.

  The other two added their own quiet mirth.

  Utah spoke with laughter in his voice. “I been around women some. It’s probably right.” He turned and headed for the stable with the rest of them.

  “Where’d you find two women and two little’uns?” Adam was close enough that, as he held the door for Trace to go into the stable, he could see the man’s brow, furrowed with confusion.

  “It’s a family? Did you bring them from Sacramento? Why did you have only one horse?”

  The stable was no great structure. Trace had hoped he could keep Utah on for a long time, as he seemed like a man looking for home. If he’d stay until they’d built a new house and stable, Trace would finally have a real ranch going.

  But even if he could see stars through the gaps in the roof, and snow silted down here and there, Trace had straw aplenty, just dried meadow grass but as soft as the beds in the house. The wind was cut by the walls, mostly, and with Trace’s good coat and complete exhaustion helping him along, he was asleep before he could relax into the straw.

  If the men asked any more questions, Trace was beyond answering.

  CHAPTER

  8

  A scream jerked Trace awake.

  He charged out the door, glad he’d slept in his boots and coat.

  The scream echoed again, shrill and terrible. He sprinted toward the house and heard feet pounding behind him.

  Had the outlaws come for the women? Had they found out someone from the wagon train survived? Had they—?

  “Potty!” The scream was a word this time.

  Trace skidded to a halt, and Utah slammed into him and sent him staggering forward. Adam ran on past, then stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.

  From behind him, Trace heard Utah mutter, “Potty?”

  Adam leapt to his feet and charged right straight back to the stable as fast as he’d run out. Adam was young, but he’d been with Trace four years and was already a tough, seasoned cowhand when Trace hired him. Mr. Tough Man Adam had finally heard something that scared him.

  “I gotta go potty!” Maddie Sue was up.

  The sun was just showing itself over the snowcapped mountains to the east. Trace pivoted and headed straight back to the stable. He didn’t see getting any more sleep, but he wasn’t going in that house for nuthin’. He finally had time to notice that every bone and muscle in his body burned like he was on fire. He’d taken a beating yesterday with the long, hard run carrying that heavy pack.

  As he headed for the stable, Utah fell in beside him and started chuckling, Adam laughing out loud.

  Trace felt his cheeks heating up. “This is the strangest situation of my life.” Well, no. Not in his life. Being stranded on the frontier, completely alone with winter coming on, was stranger.

  “Potty!” This time little Maddie Sue just plain yowled like a wounded raccoon. What was going on in there? Trace hadn’t thought to point to the outhouse last night. But it was right out back, and the women struck him as bright little things. Maybe . . . he shook his head and refused to think about going in there now and pointing. Instead, he started laughing. Surviving out here was a serious business, so he’d take his laughter where he could get it.

  They all laughed so hard, Trace wondered if one or the other of ’em were near to collapsing. They settled down after a bit, but after yesterday and what Trace had seen, it felt good to laugh. Thinking of yesterday sobered him.

  “What’s going on, Trace?” Utah broke the friendly silence.

  Utah didn’t quite count as an old-timer, though he was the oldest of the three of them and the newest on Trace’s ranch. From working alongside him, Trace knew Utah was a man in his prime. But life out here put lines in a man’s face. If he owned a mirror—and where would he get one of those?—Trace would probably see a few lines in his own face.

  Back in Sacramento, before they’d split up, he’d heard Utah mention growing a beard to keep the winter from freezing his face. He’d started it on the ride home, so he had about two weeks’ growth, and the beard was salted heavily with gray. That aged him, too.

  There hadn’t been two minutes last night for them to talk. Now it was time. “They survived a wagon train massacre.”

  “Paiutes? Never heard much trouble coming from them.” Adam had been with Trace the longest. Adam said he was on the run from a shrewish wife. Trace had needed help, and Adam said he’d stay for a while. That was four years ago.

  Adam was short and stocky, solid muscle. No man carried fat out in this land. The work was too hard and the food too hard to come by. Adam was a Swede with white-blond hair and skin that burned in the sun rather than turn brown. He didn’t mind the heat in the summer nor the cold in the winter. He said the cold reminded him of his folks talking of home back in Sweden. The high-up mountains, too. Adam was born in Denver, and he’d been wandering for a time before he settled in with Trace’s HS Ranch.

  HS . . . Trace still felt a sweep of pride when he thought of his High Sierra Ranch. He’d made his own branding iron, an HS inside a circle. He’d registered the brand a few years back, but long before he registered it, he’d been slapping the brand on cattle he rounded up that he’d found running wild in the mountains.

  Both of these men had considerable cowhand skills—most of them equal to or better than Trace’s. The only thing that made Trace the boss was that he’d managed to claim a homestead the fifth year he’d been out here alone—they’d finally passed that law. That was the year he finally found a town, and Adam. He was still working out the homestead years, but while he did, he bought up more land every time he gathered enough money to do it. He’d bought land for pennies an acre that had high mountain valleys full of lush grass and year-round water. Once, he swapped three cows for three hundred acres, and the folks in the land office had laughed at him and called him a fool. He let them laugh just as he’d done the same several years running, cornering water rights and buying grassland no one knew was up here.

  It was as close as he could get to making his pa’s dream of farming come true. No corn grew up here, but the tough, wild cattle were mountain born and bred, and they thrived through the harsh winters.

  And Trace’s land, here where his cabin stood, wasn’t in the highest peaks. This was his homestead land, and it was lower, in a nice grassy valley.

  The three of them—Trace, Adam, and Utah—had worked well together through the roundup and cattle drive. Trace respected each of them, and he thought they returned that respect.

  “Nope, it was made to look like an Indian attack, a few arrows and such, and . . . and some . . .” Trace shook his head, sickened by it. “Some scalping . . . d-damage to the bodies before they were burned, but it was white men who done it. I could read the signs everywhere.”

  Utah flinched just a bit, enough that Trace suspected Utah had seen such things before.

  “And the ladies confirmed it.” Trace didn’t like that.

  “They saw their attackers?” Utah looked sickened that the women had witnessed such a thing.

  Trace hesitated over this. If the knowledge fell into the wrong hands, Deb would be in danger. “One of the ladies saw a man in the firelight after they started the wagons burning. I haven’t even asked her to describe him—we were on a fast march to get to shelter last night. She also heard a high-pit
ched man’s voice, not the man she saw. And they definitely spoke English. She says it wasn’t Indians.”

  Both of his friends heaved a sigh of relief. Trace understood it. The Native folks in the area were a decent bunch, and any trouble blamed on them could bring big trouble. He was glad he’d seen enough to be sure it wasn’t Paiutes, but he wished like the dickens he hadn’t seen any of what he had, and he regretted to the marrow of his bones that Deb had walked through that burned-out circle of wagons with him.

  “The women and children walked away from the train into some tall grass before sunup. They were well hidden when the gunfire and screaming started.” Trace stopped talking for a moment. He could well imagine their horror. When it happened to him, when Pa had died, he hadn’t heard a thing. He’d been off hunting meat before the sunrise and only knew what had happened when he rode back to the wagon train . . . and smelled the burning flesh.

  “It’s a long ride to a town, and I’m not sure what two young women and two little’uns would do if they got taken there. Dismal is closest, but it’s not a fit place for women and children alone. Bodie’s no better. To get her . . . uh, them to Carson City, well, we could do that, but they’d still be alone unless they hitched a ride on a late wagon train. They can’t stay the winter alone in Dismal. Where do they stay? Who would protect them?”

  There was a stunned silence, until Adam asked hesitantly, “You’re fixin’ to keep ’em on the HS through the winter, boss?”

  Trace hadn’t really put it into words; he’d only thought of all they couldn’t do. “What choice do we have?”

  The men were silent.

  “I need to talk to them. They weren’t headed toward Sacramento. They’d taken the south fork of the California Trail that stays up in the high country. The baby boy had folks killed in the massacre. The girl is his cousin, and she’s got a father building a house and getting ready for them. We need to find out who that is and get a letter to him. We can make a run to Dismal to send a letter, but it might not get out till spring. Nothing gets through once the passes close up for the winter. The Donner Party cured most folks of trying to make a late-season passage. There are always a few, though.”