Her curiosity peaked, she remarked, "It must have been quite a favor for him to part with such a fine animal."
"I guess Many Horses thought it was enough."
Kierin stroked the stallion's muzzle, her eyes still on Clay. "But you're not going to tell me what it was, are you?"
Clay studied the brush in his hands, sensing the conversation had taken a sudden turn. "You want to know? It's not a secret. Just something I don't talk about."
Resignation shadowed her eyes and she turned away.
"Add that to the list."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's not important. Never mind."
"Isn't it?" He grabbed her arm. "Okay, I killed a marauding grizzly that was attacking Many Horses' son. Practically got myself killed in the bargain. You probably saw the scars when you doctored me."
Her wide eyes strayed to his chest, remembering the marks vividly.
"Anything else you want to know? Just ask," he said. She could get under his skin faster than any woman he'd ever known. "Want to know about this one—?" he asked, pointing a finger at the thin white line on his jawline.
She swallowed hard and looked away, avoiding his eyes.
"A saber at Churrubusco."
"Stop it-"
"What's this all about, Kierin? Not about my scars or the time I spent with the Cheyenne."
"I didn't come out here to fight with you, Clay," she told him, prying his fingers from her arm. "Let's just forget it, all right?"
"No. Not this time, darlin'. I'm getting tired of shoving everything under the carpet and pretending nothing's happened between us." He let go of her and raked his fingers through his damp hair. "Something did happen back there and I'll be damned if I understand what it was. You came out here and started this. Okay. Finish it. What's on your mind?"
"All right. Yes. Something happened. We can hardly deny it. But as you said, it was a mistake."
Clay put a hand up. "Don't put words in my mouth. You were the one to draw that conclusion, not me."
Was she? she wondered. She couldn't remember. It doesn't matter. A mistake is a mistake. "Well, it was and there's no getting around it."
"Suppose you tell me why?" he demanded. "Why was it a mistake? I liked it, and you sure as hell seemed to. If two people—"
"Because you don't love me—" she blurted.
Denial sprang to his lips, but she cut him off.
"—and I don't love you." She lowered her eyes so he wouldn't see the lie.
Her statement silenced him as surely as a slap. He blinked and looked away with a grim set to his jaw.
"And if we weren't out here," she continued, "in the middle of nowhere, it would be easy to walk away. We could just... say good-bye. Go our separate ways. But we are here. And it won't do either of us any good to go on the way we have." She wrung her slender hands together unconsciously. "I came out here hoping we could work things out, maybe even be friends again."
"Friends?" he repeated woodenly. The word stuck like a fish bone in his throat.
She lowered her head. "Yes. But if you'd rather not..."
He rocked his head back, tipping his face up to the morning sky and let out a long breath. "You ask a lot of a man, Kierin," he replied, thinking of the months ahead—of being near her without touching her. To her silence, he replied, "All right. If that's my only choice."
"Good," Kierin answered. She lingered at Taeva's neck for a moment before giving the horse a final pat. "I... thank you," she said and then turned before her eyes could betray her.
* * *
Ben spotted the herd first as the six men and Dove approached the crest of a hill. He raised his hand to signal the others to stop behind him. Like an enormous ink stain on a green felt blotter, the bison spread across the shallow valley before them. Thousands of the shaggy beasts grazed there, leaving the bluestem grass and thistles cropped short in their wake. An occasional buff-colored pronghorn mingled companionably with the herd.
Ben dismounted silently and crouched down at the top of the hill, testing the direction of the wind with the moistened tip of his finger. The sun-warmed breeze favored them, keeping their scent from the herd, but they were still too far away for a shot.
"Hellfire. Just outta range," he told Clay, who'd crouched beside him.
"Yeah, and no cover between us and them," Clay added with a frown. The day had started out bad and only seemed to be getting worse. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Once they get a look at us, they'll tear outta here like they was burned with the business end of a stove poker."
"What's the hold-up?" asked Daniel who, along with Jim Kelly, joined them at the knoll. Catching sight of the herd, Jim let out a low whistle.
"We're too far away," Clay answered, "and we'll spook 'em if we try to just ride in there."
Daniel studied the herd below. "Maybe we can wait 'em out until they drift this way, then take our shots from here."
Ben shook his head and pointed out the thinly stubbled ground directly before them. "They've already covered this patch of graze. They're headin' north." He rubbed an anxious hand across his silvery beard. "We could try a good old-fashioned surround, but it's risky with these tinhorns."
"Too risky," Jim agreed.
"Then we got only one other choice," Ben said with a shrug. "And just pray the wind don't change."
Leaving Dove on the grassy knoll alone with the improvised travois and the mule, the men began a painstakingly slow descent down the gently sloped hill. Ben had cautioned each of them not to make a sound and to hang low over their horses' necks to disguise their silhouettes. They spread out across the hill: Daniel rode beside Billy Lovell, a fair-haired nineteen-year-old whose lanky frame belied his solid strength. Clay and Ben veered off to the right to get behind the herd while Mel Watkins took the left. Jim Kelly angled off toward the center of the herd.
With a perverseness Clay had grown accustomed to, Kierin's face invaded his mind as he rode toward the herd. Why would he think of her now, when his mind should only be on the job at hand? Lately, he seemed to have little control over her comings and goings inside his head. At the strangest times, he'd imagine he could smell her sweet scent or remember how she'd felt under him—impossibly soft and willing.
He cursed, remembering their conversation this morning. Friends, she'd said. As if they could ever be only that after what had happened between them. He took a deep breath and he pushed the vision aside, willing her out of his consciousness.
They were nearly in range when the first shaggy head came up in sudden startled awareness. Another looked up and the herd began to move restlessly. The animals' tension was a palpable thing. Fear thickened the air. A cloud of dust stirred at the center of the herd and they collided against each other, sensing the unknown danger.
Clay tightened his knees and ankles around his stallion and fingered the trigger of the rifle in his hand. Sweat prickled his skin and trickled down past his ear. Beside him, Ben crouched low over the sorrel's neck, his weathered face a study of control and determination. Slowly, he shouldered his Hawken, giving the others the signal to fire. "Now!" he shouted.
The first crack of gunfire rent the air like the roar of cannon. As one, the massive herd thundered into motion, stumbling over one another to escape. The riders gave chase, firing into the melee of bellowing animals. Ben's first shot dropped a huge cow in its tracks. Taeva hit a dip as Clay squeezed off his first round and he missed his target completely. Cursing, he one-handed his horn of powder and pulled the plug out with his teeth. As he reloaded, he caught sight of Billy and Daniel riding hell-bent behind the stampeding herd, their rifles leveled.
Billy Lovell's shot hit an enormous bull in the shoulder, wounding him, but not stopping him. Youth and inexperience failed to warn him of the dangers of a wounded animal and he bowed his head to reload. In a frothing rage, the bull turned and charged Billy's horse.
"Lovell!" Clay screamed over the thunderous noise. "Watch out!"
There was no time to reload the rifle, so Clay tossed aside his powder horn and reached frantically for the pistol strapped to his hip. Taking aim, he fired at the wooly back, but the small-caliber bullet barely made the beast flinch. The bull careened into Billy's terror-stricken horse, tossing it sideways like a rag doll.
"God in heaven!" Billy screamed, getting to his feet. "Somebody help me!"
Clay's heart pounded in his chest as he headed for the fallen man but before he could cross the distance between them, Ben intervened, placing his horse between the beast and Billy. The younger man scrambled to get up behind Ben while the older man shoved the ramrod down the barrel of his Hawken.
"Come on, you devil!" Ben shouted wildly over the cloud of dust between them. "I'll blast ya to hell and back."
"Ben! Get out of there, for God's sake!" Clay warned.
Ben shouldered the gun to fire as the pain-crazed animal bore down on them. The sorrel horse, wild-eyed with fear, shrieked and stumbled backward with Lovell dangling across its hindquarters. Ben's Hawken exploded with a flash of fire. The charging bull stumbled but, incredibly, kept coming like some kind of four-legged demon.
A scream tore from Ben's throat as the huge bull sank a horn into the old man's abdomen in a final desperate plunge, then collapsed to the ground, dead.
Clay let out an anguished cry. "Ben! Oh, God—"
The trapper's panicked horse lunged away from the lifeless animal. Ben hung on, doubled over in the saddle, clutching his blood-soaked belly.
Spurring Taeva, Clay raced alongside Ben's horse and grabbed the loose reins, slowing it to a stop. He leapt to the ground, catching Ben as he slipped, unconscious, from the saddle toward the unyielding earth below.
Clay cradled the older man in his arms and sank with him to the ground. Tears blurred his vision and he blinked rapidly trying to clear them. "Don't die, Ben, please, don't die," he whispered, but Ben's hardy body seemed suddenly frail in his arms. Thick crimson blood seeped from his gaping wound and Clay tore the shirt from his own back to try and stanch the flow.
Billy Lovell dropped to his knees beside the old man. His gaze traveled across Ben's ruined body with eyes that bespoke the misery he felt. "Sweet Jesus—it's m-my fault..."
Clay glanced up at the boy, whose face was stricken with guilt. A part of him wanted to pin the blame on Billy, wanted to thrash him good for being so god-dammed careless and inexperienced. He wanted someone to be responsible for this terrible mistake. But he knew there was no one.
"It could have happened to any one of us, Billy," he said at last. "Ben knew the risks."
"He... saved... my life," Billy replied haltingly, shaking his head.
The trembling roar of hoof beats faded in the distance. Billy's horse lay dead in closely cropped weeds beside the carcasses of the slaughtered buffalo. The pungent tang of blood and death and the rank scent of Clay's own fear burned his nostrils. Only the sibilant rush of wind over the arid plain and Ben's labored breathing stirred the eerie silence now.
"Billy," Clay said gently, "Go fetch Dove. Take my horse. And bring back the travois. We'll need it."
Chapter 15
Ben moaned as he came around. His features were pinched and shadowed with pain.
"Ah, Ben," Clay whispered, cradling the old man's head. "Ben."
"I reckon I... misjudged that devil... didn't I?" Ben's voice was rasping and thin.
"We're gonna get you back to camp," Clay told him. "Fix you up. You'll be-"
Ben raised a hand weakly to silence him. "No. We both know that ain't so. Let's not... waste our time lyin' to each other. Not... now."
Dammit. Dammit to hell. Clay wasn't ready to let him go yet. Not yet. He nodded silently, unable to hold back the tears that spilled down his cheeks.
"None a' that now," Ben admonished gently. "It's a good day to die." He coughed and Clay felt Ben's body go stiff from the pain. Finally, it passed. "I ain't got much time... so I want ya to... hear me, boy." Clay leaned closer to the older man.
"Yer the closest thing to a son I ever had... couldn'ta asked fer better. I'm proud of the way you turned out." He sighed and shook his head. "A feller shouldn't wait... til he's a' goin' out to say them things. He's liable to... come up short."
Clay squeezed Ben's shoulder. "You taught me everything I know about being a man, Ben. You're more a father to me than my own ever was. I'll never forget that."
Ben nodded and swallowed hard. Emotion roughened his voice. "Somethin' I been meanin' to say to ya, boy. Ya ain't... cut out to be a loner like me. I know'd that since that first day... in Wind River."
Clay closed his eyes. He'd believed that about himself once, too. Now, thinking of the woman who'd turned him away, he didn't know. Time has a way of changing things. Ben coughed again, and Clay tightened his arms around him.
"Bendin' never come easy to me..." Ben said, gripping Clay's arm. "An' I lost her... was too stubborn..."
"Lost—? You mean Joey?" Years ago, Ben had mentioned a woman. Said he'd lost her to another man. A steadier man. He'd never told him the woman's name. All the times he'd met Joey over the years he and Ben had been trapping together, he'd been too young or stupid to notice. But back at the fort, only a blind man could have missed how much they still cared for each other.
Ben smiled and his eyes slid shut. "My only regret. But you... you ain't made of hickory, like me. Take yer chance. Bend a little. She'll come to ya."
Clay's brows drew together in a frown. Ben was talking about Kierin. He sighed, knowing Ben was wrong about her. But this was no time to argue. "All right, Ben. Don't worry."
Ben's breath rattled in his chest like seeds in a dried locust pod. The sound of pounding hoof beats sliding to a stop made Clay look up. Jacob, Jim, and Daniel were already off their mounts and hurrying toward the fallen main. Clay and Jacob exchanged bleak looks.
Ben blinked slowly, trying to focus on Clay. His voice was a whisper. "Dove..."
Clay ran his hand across Ben's damp brow. "She can stay with us for as long as she wants. We'll all watch out for her."
Too weak to respond, he managed a smile that tipped the corner of his mouth. Ben took one last shuddering breath, then was gone.
* * *
With a heavy heart, Clay pounded the marker into the ground at the head of Ben's freshly covered grave. They'd buried him at the foot of the bluffs where the soil was still soft enough to take the blade of a shovel. The fine, reddish dirt accepted the wooden stake as generously as it had the body of his old friend. The others had gone, leaving him alone with the grave. Clay sat back on his heels and stared vacantly at the rough placard he'd carved.
Ben Crowley
Voyager & Friend
Died: June 16, 1854
By the horn of a buffalo
Rest in peace
Damn few words to sum up a man's life, Clay mused bitterly, tossing the fist-sized rock aside. Above him, a red-tailed hawk circled in the mauve-tinged evening sky, sailing on the fickle currents of air below the bluff. Clay tipped his head back to watch it dip and soar. If his friend, Many Horses, were here, he would call the hawk a sign from the All Father that Ben's spirit had begun its journey heavenward. Clay wasn't sure he believed in any god that could have stripped him of so many of the people he loved. So many.
He knew, however, that Ben believed in the great circle of life as the Cheyenne did. His gaze followed the ascending hawk. "Wakantanka opa, tsehe-heto," Clay whispered in Cheyenne. Go with the Great Spirit, my father.
He stood and slapped the brim of his hat against the knees of his trousers, sending up little clouds of dust into the air. It wasn't until he turned around that he saw her. Kierin was standing back some twenty feet away, holding the wilted bouqu
et of wildflowers she'd picked for Ben's grave. His gut tightened at the sight of her. He thought she'd gone back with the others.
Their eyes met over the freshly turned mound—hers filled with pain, his, hardened against it. Weighing his options and finding them seriously lacking, he nodded curtly to her and started toward the wagon.
"Clay..." Kierin called as he passed, halting him midstride.
He stood with his back to her, silent.
"Clay," she said again. "I'll miss him, too."
"I know," he answered, not turning around. He held himself stiffly, turning his hat between his fingers, staring out across the deepening sunset.
She walked toward him and rested a hand on his arm. "We're friends, aren't we?" Her voice was gentle and pleading. "Will you just walk away from me and not let me comfort you?"
Ben's last words rang in his ears—Bend a little, he'd said, she'll come to you. Clay let out an audible breath. Here she was, offering him the very thing he craved. Why was it so goddammed hard to accept it? For so long, he'd depended on no one to comfort him, share his thoughts or his pain. Now...
Bend a little, the voice persisted.
Kierin's pulse fluttered as he turned toward her, letting her glimpse the grief in his eyes.
Wordlessly, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and pressed his face against her hair. With her cheek against his shoulder she felt him give in to the pain he'd been holding inside.
"It all happened so fast," he told her in a choked whisper.
"I know," she soothed. "There was nothing you could have done. Billy told me what happened."
Clay nodded against her hair. "One minute he was there and the next he was gone. It just doesn't seem possible. He survived all those years in the mountains alone. Terrible winters, rabid wolves, wounds that would have killed a weaker man. He seemed indestructible. And then a damned buffalo gets the better of him. I can't fathom life without him here. I'd go years without seeing him, but I always knew I would again."
"I'm sorry. He loved you, Clay," she whispered. She felt his fingers splay across her back in answer.
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