“Well, I understand, but it doesn’t give you a reason to beat a man up. Especially when he’s bringing you flowers.”
“He’s a Confederate.” Juliet let out a shuddering breath. “They’re all detestable.”
“Hush. Let me fix your hair.” Posy turned Juliet around and loosened her braid then smoothed her hair with her fingers before pulling it tight.
“Why are you so nice to him anyway?” Juliet craned her neck to try to see her. “Just think of what the Confederacy has done to the black race, to the Union, to everyone. They’re criminals.”
“Hold still. How am I supposed to make you look presentable with you wiggling around?” Posy forcefully turned her head. “And President Lincoln didn’t treat ’em like criminals, even when they surrendered. We’re all brothers.”
“Nonsense.”
“Fact is, they’re not that different from us, Juliet.” Posy finished the braid and handed Juliet her bonnet. “My cousins fought in North Carolina with the rebs. Are you gonna quit talking to me now?”
“Don’t be silly.” Juliet slapped the bonnet on her head and tied it under her chin. “And that’s not a fair comparison! You don’t agree with your Southern cousins. They’re wrong. Plain and simple.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. From what I hear, they had some legitimate gripes about the way things were. It all depends on who you talk to.”
“Posy. You can’t justify slavery.”
“Of course not! But we aren’t as righteous as you think either. We’re the ones who brought the slaves here in the first place, flying our flag, docking them horrible slave ships in our Northern ports. Just because the South made more profit from them doesn’t mean we’re any less guilty.”
“I can’t believe you’d say such a thing. And I’ll never change my opinion about people like Jacob Pike.”
“They’re people just like us.” Posy raised herself up on her toes to meet Juliet’s eyes. “My family never owned slaves, and neither did my cousins. But there’s good folks caught up on both sides, and they’ve got their own reasons that they think are worth dying for.”
Juliet covered her face with her hands at the word dying. Remembering Robert’s ivy-covered grave in the green Maryland glen, so lonely and far away. The rows of bloody stretchers and men moaning in pain. “I can’t think about it any more right now, Posy—I just can’t.” She let out her breath. “I need to make sure Carrie Ann and Elizabeth are all right. Are you coming with me?”
“Sure.” Posy took her arm and led her gently. “Just don’t go whacking my arm off, okay? Last I checked, I still need them both.”
When Juliet parted the quilts between the wagons, she found Elizabeth resting in a beautiful cane-backed rocker—an heirloom produced from somebody’s wagon, where it had probably slept for weeks upside-down in a bed of dust, tightly packed linens, and sleeping children. Elizabeth had changed into a fresh dress, and from the looks of her long, damp curls, somebody had washed her hair and maybe even helped her bathe from a tub.
And wonder of wonders—little Carrie Ann lay sleeping in the crook of Elizabeth’s arm, her butterfly-fragile eyelashes closed. Her tiny back rose and fell with gentle breaths, and Juliet’s heart beat fast with joy.
“Oh, Elizabeth. You look wonderful.” She touched Elizabeth’s rosy cheek with the palm of her hand. “Just look at you.”
Elizabeth took her eyes off Carrie Ann long enough to smile up at Juliet. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? I didn’t know if I could make it, but …” Her eyes shimmered with tears.
Juliet knelt next to her. “I knew you could.” She stroked Carrie Ann’s tiny ear lightly with the tip of her finger.
She was about to ask some more nurse-like questions about bleeding and breast milk when, from inside the little corridor of fluttering quilts and sheets, Juliet sensed a lull in the normally bright conversation outside. The clatter of tin pans and cast-iron skillets paused, and even the Hendersons’ dogs stopped barking.
“What is it?” Juliet pushed the quilt aside. “Is somebody hurt?”
Only the grasses stirred, rustling, over the low hum of whispering voices and stamps of tethered horses.
And then she saw it: a puff of hazy dust rolling out across the distant plain. The low thunder of hoofbeats echoed. The dust came from the ridge, the same direction the scouts had gone that morning when they rode ahead of the wagon party to check out the area to the west.
“Do you see that, Posy? Is that the scouting party?” Juliet stood on tiptoe to see over the wagons and lines of hanging laundry. In her long, narrow bonnet, it was hard to see anything at all—like peering through a tunnel. “I thought the scouts were back already.”
“No, they went out again this afternoon. Shh.” Posy motioned for silence. “I’m trying to hear what everybody’s saying. Something about the fighting that was going on close to the Montana border.”
Juliet fell silent, suddenly chilled, as the galloping grew louder. From a distance, over the waving grasses, the specks looked like Sam Crowley’s small group of scouts led by Ned Blackfoot, the hired guide on his pinto mare. But they were thundering—pounding—rather than paced at the usual confident clip of horses returning to camp.
“What’s going on?” The sweat trickling under Juliet’s bonnet felt clammy, and she took a step backward. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Jacob Pike, who still stood there nursing his injured arm—wrapping and rewrapping the bandage. But his eyes, like everyone else’s, were fixed on the horizon.
“It must be bad,” he said to no one in particular.
Juliet turned around. “What must be bad?” She kept her tone frosty and aloof.
“The fighting. The Cheyenne and Arapaho have been attacking forts near the Montana border.” Jacob ventured a tentative step closer, apparently careful to keep a good distance between Juliet and his sling.
“But I thought we were far enough away! Everybody said we were safe passing through here—that we had treaties in place.”
“Ha.” Jacob snorted. “Treaties. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“Are you suggesting we don’t keep our treaties? Of course we do. We’re the great United States of America.” Juliet hoped he heard the pride in her voice. “No thanks to you Southerners, of course.”
Juliet wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw Jacob roll his eyes. She ignored him and turned back to Posy. “I don’t understand. Papa said we’d be fine—that relations with the Indians are good in these parts. He said we’d given them everything they could possibly want, and then some. Isn’t that true?”
Jacob chuckled, and she shot him a cold look. “What? What’s so funny?”
“You really don’t know what the world is like, do you, Miss James?” Jacob said it sort of sadly, shaking his head.
“And you do?” Juliet stuck her head around Posy to look at him. “What makes you think you know so much about Indian relations, anyway? I thought you were from Virginia.”
“Yep. Plain old Irish settler stock from the Shenandoah Valley. But I’ve been through here twice on business, delivering goods. I’m no expert. I just listen to what goes on around me—and it isn’t always pretty.” He winked. “But that’s all right. I’ll leave the pretty part for you.”
Jacob caught her gaze and held it a touch too long, and Juliet felt the sultry roll of his syllables like a breath of warm summer breeze over the prairie.
She whirled around to fire back a retort, but the scouts careened into the camp, and the press of the crowd interrupted her. Shoulders and arms brushed her as people elbowed past. All she could do was grab Posy’s arm and lurch along beside her, feeling Jacob’s jacket crush against her sleeve.
“What are they saying?” Juliet cried as she strained to hear over the snorting of the horses. They were lathered, foaming, and one of the riders had lost his hat. His sweaty hair was plastered back from his sunburned face, his eyes round and frightened.
Posy pointed with a squeal—to an arrow protruding f
rom the bloody flank of the horse.
“It’s a mess,” Sam Crowley gasped as someone helped him off his horse. “They’re everywhere! Cheyenne, if I’m not mistaken, and mad as hornets. We can’t hold ’em off for much longer. Our cavalry guys were no match for them—not with the few we’ve got out there now. We barely got out of there alive.”
“The US Cavalry post is in trouble?” Jacob murmured next to Juliet’s ear. “The Cheyenne couldn’t take over Fort Smith already, could they? I knew they were in a tough spot, but I didn’t expect them to fall apart so quickly.”
Juliet aimed a spiteful glare at Jacob. “Why not? After the war, there’s practically nobody left, and no funds either. They’re broke—thanks to you and your foolhardy rebels, sir.”
“With all due respect, your power-hungry opportunists taxed us to death and then stirred up the first squabbles, if I remember correctly. And if the U.S. Cavalry in Montana had used their budget correctly instead of squandering it on ale and women, they’d be in fine shape.”
“You’re a liar!”
“On my honor.”
“Rubbish! You don’t know a thing about honor.”
“Does this mean we’re in trouble?” Posy interrupted, her blue eyes frightened under her bonnet.
“If it’s the Cheyenne, yes, after we pushed them off their land again.” Jacob stroked his stubbly chin. “I just hope they haven’t teamed up with the Arapaho, or we’re in for it.”
The wounded stallion stumbled. Juliet’s heart quavered as she remembered her beloved horses—rare and graceful Arabians, sleek Morgans—back in Maryland. The stables closed and boarded up, and the saddles and leather polished for a new owner.
“I need my medical bag. Excuse me.” Juliet pushed her way through the crowd, hoping she had enough willow bark to ease the stallion’s pain.
“Does that prairie coneflower really work?” she called over her shoulder to Jacob.
“Sure does.” He met her eyes over the crowd. “But I don’t know if I’m willing to give you that bouquet of it a second time.”
“Please. I won’t hit you. I promise.”
A couple of lanky boys stepped between them, and Juliet couldn’t see Jacob anymore. She found her medical kit and snapped it shut then hauled all her bottles and herbs back through the crowd. She pushed her way to the front and held out her hands for the reins, but Sam Crowley curled up his lip.
“Where’s Doc Hadler?” he said, sponging his sweaty neck. “He didn’t stay back in Sheridan, did he?”
“Gallstones.” Juliet set down her sack of forceps and sutures. “So that leaves me.”
Sam ignored her, squinting through the crowd. “Is that the only doctor we’ve got?” he fumed. “A girl?”
“I’m almost twenty-three,” she said tartly then shifted her heavy satchel to the other side. “And I’ve helped perform surgery on a Union general, sir. I think I can handle your horse.”
Sam mopped his forehead with his beefy arm, not answering. Juliet quietly set down her satchel and began tearing bandages from long strips of sheet, draping them over her arm. The stallion moaned, a low sound of agony.
Sam glared at Juliet then slowly handed her the reins.
Chapter 3
September 21
The Cheyenne were coming again—the scouts had seen their horses from the ridge.
“Huddle up! They’re getting close!” the camp leaders shouted as they rode through the camp. “We’re going to try and pick them off one by one. Take cover and keep your dogs quiet.”
“Not again.” Juliet put down the hot forceps she was sterilizing in the fire and poured water on the glowing coals. “Posy? I’m going to find Elizabeth.”
Last time the raiders had ridden by in the foggy early morning they’d simply exchanged shouts and a few rifle shots. Now they came closer, emboldened—in the pure daylight of midmorning. The wagon party was stalemated in—wagons circled to protect the livestock and travelers and get a better aim at approaching raiders.
“Oh, Juliet—they’re coming again?” Elizabeth quavered, pale, nestling tiny Carrie Ann to her shoulder and gently patting her back. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever get out of here.”
“Sure we will.” Juliet put her arm around Elizabeth. “Come on. We’ll stay together. Can I take Carrie Ann?”
And to her surprise, Elizabeth placed her gently in Juliet’s arms.
“Thanks.” Elizabeth coughed and tapped lightly on her chest. “I’m just not feeling so well. The other ladies told me it’s normal after giving birth and nursing, but …” Her voice trailed off. “I just feel so weak. And thirsty.”
Juliet felt her stomach lurch. “Thirsty?”
“I can’t seem to get enough. I even dream about water.”
Juliet touched Elizabeth’s forehead, and it burned with heat. She sucked in her breath, willing her heartbeat to slow down. “Forgive me for asking, but you haven’t had any diarrhea, have you?” She whispered, not sure how to phrase such an indelicate subject.
“Why, yes,” whispered Elizabeth. She ducked her head in embarrassment. “Does that mean something’s wrong?”
“Quiet everybody!” called Sam Crowley, who was riding through the now-quiet camp. “Keep your heads down and your children with you. We don’t want to shoot anybody by mistake.”
Juliet rocked Carrie Ann lightly and huddled next to Elizabeth and Posy on the grass, not realizing she’d just had her last conversation with Elizabeth Baker.
Rifle shots cracked in the distance, echoing against the vast expanse of plains and fields. Juliet huddled next to her younger brother, Silas, as he peered through narrow gaps in the tightly circled wagons. She noticed his normally steady hands slip on the barrel twice as though they were sweaty. He wiped his palms on his pants before getting a better grip.
Out of the corner of her eye, Juliet saw Jacob kneel before a crack in between the wagons and feed his rifle carefully through the space. He kept his head low to the ground and shifted sideways, apparently to see better.
“I don’t want to be scalped,” Posy whispered. She twisted a handkerchief in her trembling hands like a rosary. “I hear the Indians scalp their victims, dead or alive.”
A wave of nausea roiled in Juliet’s stomach. “Hush, Posy,” she whispered back. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Of course you’re not worried. Nobody’s going to scalp you. You don’t have enough hair for anybody to scalp.”
“Well, with all your pretty curls, somebody would want you for a bride, not a scalp. Think about that.”
Posy moaned, and Juliet elbowed her in the side and broke the tension. “Shush. Sam Crowley said we’re too big a wagon party for them to attack full-on. They’re raiders. We can pick them off one by one.”
“Or not.” Posy’s lips trembled. “They’re not sure how many are headed this way. It could be ten; it could be a hundred.”
“We won’t know until they get here,” whispered Jacob as he rose up on his knees, his rifle nestled against his good shoulder. “If it’s horses they want, they might try to stampede the livestock and break up our circle. And they might be able to do it. There aren’t but forty of us, and how many children? We’re late in the season to be traveling through here, you know.”
“Well, we wouldn’t be, if it wasn’t for the bad weather and the flooding,” Juliet whispered back. “And then being stuck here for weeks. It’s not our fault.”
“Tell that to the Indians and the October snowstorms. I’m sure they’ll let you off the hook.”
“You’re not making us feel any better about this, Mr. Pike, you know?” Juliet snapped as she shifted Carrie Ann gently in her arms. “Why don’t you keep your thoughts to yourself?”
“I’d rather prepare for real life. You’ve been so protected in that rich world of yours, haven’t you?”
Juliet whirled around. She felt her face heat. “You don’t mean that.”
“I certainly do.”
“You should be hap
py Papa’s hard of hearing, or he’d string you up from the nearest tree,” she whispered fiercely.
“And spoiled, too, just a bit,” Jacob went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. “And there aren’t many trees around here to string me from, in case you hadn’t noticed. And besides—he agrees with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If I were you, Miss James, I’d be thinking through your best options at a time like this.”
“Options?” Juliet hissed then scooted away from Elizabeth and Posy so they didn’t overhear. “You mean like being shot or taken prisoner? Oh, that’s a really pleasant toss-up. Or maybe running out of food and having to eat each other?”
“Well”—he shifted his position and squinted down the barrel of his rifle—“I hope not. You won’t live long on me, that’s for sure—but you’re welcome to it.”
Juliet fought the mounting urge to slug his arm again, and she scooted as far away from him as possible. “It’s impossible talking to you, you know that, Mr. Pike?”
“Jacob. My name’s Jacob.”
“Whatever. You’re infuriating.”
“Thank you.”
“Never mind.” She cupped Carrie Ann’s fuzzy head with her hand and stroked it gently. “We’ll all die, then. That’s it. I’m ready for it. There’s not much to live for anyway.”
Jacob glanced over at her, and his eyes glittered in the shadowy light, like a shimmer of wine in a glass. Not laughing this time. “There’s plenty to live for, Juliet. Don’t forget that.”
“You can call me Miss James.” Juliet turned away from him and felt for the slim pin of the gold brooch Robert had given her which she hid under the collar of her dress. She kept it there next to her engagement ring, stitched into the ruffles for safekeeping. Her own secret; her private pain.
Before she could reply, the sound of battle rose from behind them: shouts and gun blasts and the fierce cry of Indian warriors. She tore her eyes away from the skyline and listened, heart pounding, to the low roll of drums, like the beginning of an impending rainstorm.
The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West Page 48