The Angel and the Outlaw

by Madeline Baker

  J.T. clung to that reassurance as they followed the tracks left by the Pawnee.

  It was near dark when they caught sight of two Pawnee warriors hunkered in the shadows beneath a cottonwood tree.

  “Scouts,” Tatanka Sapa whispered. Dismounting, he knelt beside his horse. “They trail behind to make certain they are not being followed.”

  J.T. nodded as he dropped lightly to the ground.

  “I will take the one on the left.”

  “Right.”

  J.T. drew an arrow from the quiver slung over his back. Sighting carefully down the shaft, he thought of his grandmother dying in his arms. His arrow flew straight and true, striking the Pawnee squarely in the heart.

  The warrior on the left fell backward at the same time.

  He was congratulating himself on a job well done when a shrill cry rent the air. Whirling around, J.T. swore under his breath as a Pawnee brave came hurtling toward him, a long-bladed knife his hand.

  There was no time to think, no time to worry about Tatanka Sapa or how many other Pawnee might be nearby. Dropping his bow, J.T. jerked his knife from the sheath at his side, parrying the other man’s thrust.

  For a time, they scuffled in the dirt, knives slashing viciously. J.T. put everything from his mind but the need to survive. He had to live, for Brandy’s sake.

  Rolling nimbly to his feet, he faced the Pawnee. For a timeless moment, they studied each other, then, with a cry, the Pawnee lunged forward. The sound of metal striking metal echoed and re-echoed in J.T.’s ears. The Pawnee, fighting for his own life, fought valiantly. But J.T. was fighting for the freedom of his woman and his child, and he fought like one possessed, slashing wildly, until his blade sank into his opponent’s heart. With a cry of triumph, J.T. jerked his blade from the Pawnee’s chest. Bending over, he wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s leggings. Only then did he become aware of the deep gash in his own side.

  Grimacing, he pressed his hand over the wound as he glanced around. Tatanka Sapa was standing a few feet away. With a triumphant grin, he raised a pair of bloody scalps over his head.

  J.T. glanced at the man he had just killed and then, very deliberately, he bent down and took the warrior’s scalp. He looked at it for a moment, a surge of satisfaction sweeping through him, and then he threw the grisly trophy away.

  They stripped the bodies of the dead, taking their weapons and food stuffs, using strips of their clothing to bind their wounds, and then they were riding again, weariness and pain overshadowed by their need for vengeance.

  * * * * *

  Brandy sank wearily to the ground. She had never been so tired in all her life. Or so afraid. The battle the previous morning had been like nothing she had ever seen. Images both horrific and valiant had burned themselves into her memory—the sight of Wicasa Tankala fighting to protect Chatawinna; a young mother struggling to defend her children; a small boy running out of a burning lodge, his clothing in flames.

  The acrid scent of gunpowder and smoke had clogged her nostrils and burned her eyes as she tried to fight her way to freedom.

  The screams of the terrified, the wounded, the dying had buffeted her ears until she had felt like screaming herself.

  She had watched, appalled, as the Lakota warriors fled the village. Only later had she realized that, with their going, the battle had come to an end.

  The Pawnee had rounded up the women and children, killed the wounded, looted and burned lodges. They had ridden all day yesterday, stopping only briefly to rest the horses. Around noon, one of the warrior’s had thrust a hunk of dried venison into Brandy’s hands. It had been the only food offered until nightfall.

  With a sigh, she sat back and closed her eyes, her thoughts turning homeward, toward J.T.. How awful it must have been for him to return to the village and find it destroyed. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he would come after her. The thought of J.T. riding to her rescue like some medieval knight in shining armor caused her heart to swell with joy even as she contemplated the danger of his undertaking such a task. But surely he wouldn’t come alone!

  Despair settled over her as she realized he might not find her, that he might be killed trying to rescue her. What if she never saw him again? She was conscious of minutes and hours passing, of time slipping away. They had only a few months left, and she wanted to spend every minute of it with J.T., to hoard as many memories as she could so she could take them out and remember them when he was gone.

  Brandy gazed into the fire, her heart sending a silent prayer to Heaven, beseeching the Great Spirit to reunite her with the man she loved, to protect him while they were apart.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, the Pawnee split into several small groups.

  Brandy felt a surge of panic. Even if J.T. found the site of last night’s camp, he would have no idea which group to follow to find her.

  She shook her head as one of the warrior’s grabbed her by the arm. “No! Leave me alone!”

  He frowned at her; then, with a shrug, he shoved her toward a handful of other women. Surrounded by warriors, there was nothing to do but obey.

  They were headed north, she thought, but J.T. would have no way of knowing that. And then she smiled.

  A moment later, she tripped. Before anyone noticed that she had lagged behind, she quickly scratched the word ‘north’ in the dirt, then hurried after the other women.

  * * * * *

  Tatanka Sapa knelt beside the Pawnee’s campfire and stirred the ashes, his brow furrowed. “Still warm,” he said.

  It was a good sign, J.T. thought.

  Rising to his feet, the warrior checked the ground for sign.

  “They have split up,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “Tracks go in four directions.”

  J.T. swore under his breath. How the hell was he going to find Brandy now? They couldn’t scout all four trails, and if they followed the wrong one, the right trail could be cold or washed out by the time they realized their mistake.

  “Damn!”

  “Tokala.”

  J.T. glanced up to see Tatanka Sapa hunkered down on his heels a few yards away. “Did you find something?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Curious, J.T. went to see what the other man had found.

  Tatanka Sapa gestured at the ground. “Strange markings. They mean nothing to me.”

  Hope flared in J.T.’s heart. “It’s wasichu writing,” he said, his voice betraying his excitement. “They’ve taken Brandy north.”

  Tatanka Sapa grunted softly. “Let us ride back and tell the others we have found the trail.”

  “You go,” J.T. said.

  “You cannot ride in alone.”

  “I can’t take a chance on the trail getting cold, either.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Tatanka Sapa placed one hand on J.T.’s shoulder. “Wait for us when you find their camp, my brother. I will bring help as soon as I can.”

  J.T. nodded. He grimaced as he swung onto the back of his horse. One hand pressed to his wounded side, he rode north, his only thought to find Brandy.

  Among the Lakota, a captured woman became the property of the man who captured her. He could sell her, or take her to wife, as he saw fit. Any children born to the captured woman were treated as full-blooded Lakota. If the man who captured an enemy woman did not take her to wife, it was considered a mark of esteem for the warrior who had captured her to give her to another. Occasionally, a captured woman might be passed to several warriors before she was taken to wife. A Lakota warrior could have as many wives as he could provide for; occasionally, a woman had more than one husband, but such instances were few, since the first husband had to give his consent. Usually, when a woman took a second husband, it was because the first had been unable to give her children. Any children born to the woman and her second husband were considered to be the children of the wife and her first husband.

  J.T. swore under his breath, wondering what Brandy’s fate would be if he failed to locate her. He
knew nothing of Pawnee customs. Would Brandy be passed from warrior to warrior? Would some Pawnee take her to wife, or would she be no more than a slave in some warrior’s lodge, mistreated and humiliated? The thought of his woman and child becoming the property of another man cut through J.T. like a rusty knife.

  The Pawnee, obviously expecting to be followed, were riding hard. J.T. worried about Brandy, about the effect such hard riding would have on her in her condition.

  He cursed each minute that went by, each hour without her. Time had become a precious commodity. He had so few days left to share with Brandy, it grieved him to know that two of those days had been lost.

  It was late afternoon when J.T. reached the place where the Pawnee had paused to rest the horses. Dismounting, he searched the ground for some sign of Brandy, some clue that she was all right. Moving in an ever-widening circle, he was about to give up when he saw it, a small heart drawn in the dirt behind a clump of sagebrush. Within the heart, she had drawn B.C. loves J.T.C.

  He felt a lump rise in his throat as he stared at the heart.

  Brandy Cutter loves J.T. Cutter. Impulsively, he drew a heart of his own beside hers. Inside, he wrote J.T.C. loves B.C.

  It seemed a foolish thing for a grown man to do, but he felt better for it.

  J.T. stood up, cussing softly as the wound in his side reopened. He felt a sudden wetness against his skin and knew the wound was bleeding again.

  Lifting his shirt, he removed the sodden bandage, rinsed it out, and tied it tightly over the wound again.

  Climbing slowly into the saddle, he pulled a strip of jerky from his war bag, then urged his horse into a gallop. Time was wasting, and he had none left to waste.

  He rode hard all that day and into the night, always heading north. He was about to call it quits when he saw it, a faint glow off in the distance.

  All thought of rest fled his mind as he drew his horse to a halt. He would give the Indians time to turn in for the night, then scout their camp.

  Dismounting, he hunkered down on his heels to wait.

  It was near midnight when he made his way toward the Pawnee camp. He crawled the last few yards, conscious of every breath he took, of every sound that broke the stillness.

  There appeared to be only one sentry keeping watch. Everyone else seemed to be asleep.

  J.T.’s gaze darted from one sleeping person to the next, then came to rest on Brandy. She, too, seemed to be asleep. Just looking at her caused his heart to turn over in his chest.

  Using all the stealth at his command, he made his way toward the sentry. He took the man unawares, knocking him unconscious with the butt of his rifle.

  Moving quietly, he ghosted toward Brandy. He placed a hand over her mouth, then gently shook her shoulder. “Brandy, wake up.”

  She came awake with a start, her eyes wide with fright until she saw his face. He saw the recognition in her eyes, felt her smile beneath his hand.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  She nodded, and he realized his hand was still covering her mouth.

  Lifting his hand, he bent down to press a quick kiss to her lips. “Let’s go.”

  Brandy nodded. She took the hand he offered, letting him pull her to her feet. No easy task these days, she thought. And then they were hurrying away from the Pawnee camp.

  She tripped once, and J.T. was there to steady her.

  When they were out of sight of the camp, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Just one kiss. Quick. Possessive. Thorough.

  Minutes later, he was lifting her onto the back of his horse, swinging up behind her.

  Eyes closed, she leaned against him, felt his arm curl protectively around her. Home, she thought as she placed her hand over his. She was home.

  “Are you all right?” J.T. asked.

  “I am now.”

  “They didn’t hurt you?”

  “No. What about the others, J.T.? We can’t just leave them there.”

  “Tatanka Sapa and Nape Luta will find them.”

  “But…”

  “It’s my decision, Brandy, and it’s not open for discussion. I’m taking you away from here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m taking you back to Cedar Ridge.”

  “Why?”

  “My time’s running out. I want you settled somewhere safe before it’s too late. I’ve got to know you’ll be all right when I’m gone.”

  Time, Brandy thought. It was their enemy now. Each tick of the clock, each sunset, shortened their time together. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to plan for a future without J.T.. But the time for procrastination was over. She had to face reality, had to think of the baby. She had to think of J.T. instead of herself.

  But one thing bothered her. “Is it safe, going to Cedar Ridge?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s where all this started. It seems to me that going back is your only chance of getting home again.”

  Home. Brandy blinked back the tears burning her eyes. Didn’t he know home wasn’t a place? It was being with the one you loved. The one who loved you. J.T. was her home.

  It was late the following afternoon when they met Tatanka Sapa. He was riding at the head of about forty warriors.

  “Ho, brother,” J.T. said, reining his horse to a halt.

  Tatanka Sapa smiled at Brandy, then looked at J.T.. “I see you could not wait for us.”

  “No. Keep riding north, and you’ll find the Pawnee camp.”

  “Hin, we will. Tatanka Ohitika, Nape Luta and Mato are following the other trails.”

  “Good.”

  “Will you ride with us?”

  “No.” J.T. took a deep breath. “I’m taking Brandy back to her own people.”

  Tatanka Sapa frowned. “Is this her wish?”

  J.T. shook his head. “It is my wish. Goodbye, my brother.”

  Tatanka Sapa nodded. “May Wakan Tanka smile on you both until we meet again.”

  J.T. nodded. “And you.”

  The two men clasped hands. J.T. felt a lump rising in his throat. He would never see this man, or his mother’s people, again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They rode until nightfall, then took shelter in a stand of heavy timber.

  Alone in the wilderness, J.T. dared not risk lighting a fire for fear they might draw unwanted attention. They ate jerky and pemmican for dinner, washed it down with water. Then, wrapped in a buffalo robe, they bedded down for the night.

  J.T. drew the robe over Brandy’s shoulders. ”Are you comfortable? Warm enough?”

  “I’m fine.” She snuggled against him, her back against his chest. She reveled in his nearness, in the security of his arms. “I knew you’d come for me.”

  “Did you?” His breath fanned her cheek.

  Brandy rolled toward him, heard him groan softly as her arm hit his side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing serious,” J.T. said.

  Alarmed, she threw back the buffalo robe and lifted J.T.’s shirt. “You’ve been hurt!”

  “I’m all right.”

  Lightly, she touched the cloth wrapped around his middle. Even without seeing the wound, she knew that it was more than a scratch. “What happened?”

  J.T. shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, not wanting to worry her. “Just a little run-in with a couple of Pawnee.”

  “You might have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t.” He drew the buffalo robe over them again. “I even took another scalp.”

  “You’re getting good at that.”

  “Next time I take a scalp, you’ll have to carry it for me in the Scalp Dance,” J.T. said, grinning. “I can’t wait to see how you’ll look with your face painted black.”

  “Yes,” she said, fighting back her tears. “Next time.”

  “Brandy, don’t cry.”

  She sniffed. “I’m not.”

  Loving her the more for the lie, he brushed a lock of hair away from her face, trac
ed the curve of her cheek with his forefinger. The touch of her skin was familiar, so familiar.

  “I don’t want to live without you, J.T.,” she whispered tremulously. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I’d stay with you forever if I could, Brandy love. You know that.”

  “I know.”

  He drew her into his arms and held her against him as tightly as he dared. Eyes closed, he let himself absorb her nearness. Her breasts were warm and firm against his chest; the bulge of her belly reminded him that she carried a new life beneath her heart. His son, the child conceived out of their love; a lasting link forged between two people whose lives had miraculously merged across time and space.

  “What will you name the baby?” J.T. asked after a while.

  “John Tokala, of course.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I love you, J.T.. You won’t ever forget that, will you? Or me?”

  “What do you think?”

  She made a soft contented sound as she snuggled against him. A moment later, she was asleep.

  The weather remained mild during the next couple of days. J.T. rode warily, stopping often so Brandy could rest and stretch her legs. He knew the long ride must be tiring for her, but she never complained.

  Though it was J.T.’s intention to take her back to Cedar Ridge, he wasn’t about to risk it in the dead of winter and so he headed for Copper Flats, an old mining town with a population big enough to support a small mercantile and a boardinghouse, and yet still too rustic to warrant having a newspaper or a telegraph office. With luck, no one would be aware of who he was, or conscious of the fact that J.T. Cutter was a wanted man.

  By the time they reached Copper Flats, Brandy fervently hoped she’d never have to sit a horse again.

  It wasn’t much of a town. The main street was only two blocks long; the buildings were all weather-beaten. There was a mercantile store, a blacksmith, a feed store, a barber shop, and a small saloon.

  J.T. reined his horse to a halt in front of a run-down two-story house located at the east end of town. The paint, once white, was a dingy gray. Water from a recent rain stood in muddy puddles in the yard. One of the shutters was hanging loose, a handful of hand-hewn cedar shingles lay in an untidy heap along the side of the house.