“But still, you haven’t been properly introduced. We don’t know anything about the man, and you’re letting him...”
“I allowed him to be a gentleman and open the door for me. It isn’t as if he is courting me.” She patted Margaret’s hand in assurance.
The driver called to the six-horse team and cracked his whip. She fell back in her seat as the coach started off with a jolt. The opposite door flew open, and Peder jumped in.
“Uff da, I made it!”
As Peder launched into his description of the stalled bull train for Aunt Margaret, Sarah turned in her seat and lifted the corner of the canvas window cover. Nate Colby stood in the center of the muddy trail, his feet planted far apart and his arms crossed over his chest, watching the stage. She let the curtain fall and braced herself against the rough road. He certainly wasn’t the kind of man she had expected to meet in the notorious Deadwood.
* * *
Nate shook himself. He had no time to stand watching a stagecoach wind its way along the muddy trail between the freight wagons, even if it did carry the most intriguing woman west of the Mississippi. He had a family to take care of.
He turned to the wagon, tilted on the bank between the road and the creek, and that stubborn mule still pulling on the halter rope with all her might as if she could keep the whole outfit from tumbling into the water.
Olivia appeared in the opening of the wagon cover. At nine years old she was the image of her ma, from her upturned nose to her golden hair. “Uncle Nate, are we almost there?”
“We should be in town this afternoon.” Nate tied down a corner of the canvas that had pulled loose in the rising wind. “You get back in the wagon and take care of Lucy. I’ve got to get us off the creek bank and back up on the trail. It’s going to be bumpy.”
Eight-year-old Charley popped his head up next to Olivia’s. “Who was that, Uncle Nate? I’ve never seen a prettier lady.”
Olivia gasped. “Charley, you can’t say that. No one was prettier than Mama.”
“Mama was a mama, not a lady.”
Nate tightened the end of the canvas. “Your mama was a lady, Charley,” he said, drawing the opening closed with a tug. “She was the prettiest lady who ever lived.”
“I told you so.”
Nate hardly heard Olivia’s words as he moved around the wagon, checking every bolt, tightening every rope. She was right; no one had been prettier than Jenny, and no one had been happier to have her as a sister-in-law than him. But if anyone came close to Jenny, it was that girl from the stage. Instead of Jenny’s golden light, she had the beauty of a rare, dark gem, with black curls framing her face. Her eyes had seemed nearly purple in the gray afternoon light, but no one really had purple eyes.
Olivia’s voice drifted through the canvas cover, singing Lucy’s favorite song. Nate pushed against the familiar worry. Lucy would get better soon. Once they were settled, she would get back to the bubbly and energetic five-year-old she had been before the fire. All she needed was a safe and secure home with her family, and she would be back to normal.
But how long would it take until they had a home again? He went through the steps in his head.
Find his land. Good land with plenty of meadow grass for the horses. That was first. Then file the homestead claim. Next would be to build a house, outbuildings, make sure water was accessible.
Nate worked a wet knot loose and pulled the canvas tight before tying it again. He moved on to the next knot.
Find more mares for his herd. Some of the mustangs he had seen here in the West had descended from quality stock, he could tell that. And with some work and gentling, they’d make fine broodmares. Their colts, with his Morgan as the sire, would make as fine a string of remounts as the US Cavalry could wish for.
Test the next tie-down. Loose. He pulled at the soaking knot. The plan had to work. What would become of the children if this chance didn’t pay out?
He retied the rope, tightening the wet cover against the rising wind. The plan would work if it killed him.
Nate pressed his left cheek against the damp, cold canvas, easing the burn of the scars that covered his neck and shoulder and traveled down both arms to the backs of his hands. The constant reminder of his failure to save Andrew and Jenny. The reminder of what his cowardice had cost the children. A chill ran through him. What if he failed again? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Olivia’s song filtered through the canvas, a song of God’s protection and care.
With a growl, Nate pushed away from the wagon and headed toward the horses. When had the Lord protected them? When he was nearly blown to pieces in Georgia during the war? When Ma and Pa died in ’64, leaving Mattie alone to fend for herself? When Jenny and Andrew were burning to death? When three children were left homeless and orphaned?
He could live without that kind of protection. God had His chance, and He hadn’t come through. They would just have to get along on their own.
And they’d get along without any busybody schoolteacher stepping in. As if he’d let some stranger take care of Andrew and Jenny’s children. It didn’t matter that the scent of violets curled like tendrils when he stepped close to her, pulling him deeper into those eyes.
He shook his head. The children were his responsibility, and he’d make sure they had everything they needed.
When he reached the team he checked the traces, and then each horse. Pete and Dan, the wheel horses, stood patiently. Ginger, his Morgan mare, tossed her head as he ran his hand over her legs. At just three years old and growing larger with her first foal, she had the lightest load of them all, but she’d have to throw her shoulders into the harness to get the wagon back on the trail. She could do it, though. Morgans were all heart.
Last was Scout. The stallion rested his nose on Nate’s shoulder, mouthing at his neckerchief as Nate scratched behind the horse’s left ear and smoothed the forelock back from his eyes. This horse had saved his life more times than he could count during the war and carried him all over the West as he had searched for Mattie the years since then. Nate owed him everything.
Scout nudged his shoulder.
“Sorry, boy. No carrots today. We’ve got work to do.” He stroked the dark cheek under the bridle strap, holding Scout’s gaze with his own. The horse understood. He would get the wagon back onto the trail.
With shouts from the bullwhackers and the crack of whips, the train started out. Nate called to his team, “Hi-yup, there!”
The horses strained, the wheels turned in the mud and the wagon lurched up and onto the road. But as it did, Nate heard a sickening crack. Halting the team, he stooped to look under the wagon, dreading to confirm his fears.
The front axle was splintered and twisted along a narrow crack from one end to the other. A stress fracture. But it was still in one piece. He’d have to try to drive the wagon into Deadwood for repairs.
He stamped his feet to get some feeling back into them. The weather was turning bitter, and fast. He had to get the children into some sort of shelter for the night. The wind seemed to take a fiendish delight in whistling down the length of the canyon. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this weather was bringing snow behind it. But this was May. They couldn’t have snow in May, could they?
He’d have to walk to keep the strain off the axle. He glanced up at the wagon. Should he have the children walk, too? He shivered and buttoned the top of his coat. No, they’d be better off in the wagon, out of the wind. He pulled at Scout’s bridle, and the horses started off.
Glancing upward, he breathed out a single word. “Please.” As if he really believed someone would hear him. The wind pulled water from his eyes, and he ducked his head into the blast. When the gust eased, gathering itself for another onslaught, he looked straight up into the pewter sky, at the light breaking through the gray clouds in golden rays. He had to k
eep the children safe. He had promised.
* * *
“Oh, not again!”
Sarah caught hold of the branch of a juniper shrub as her boot slipped on the muddy creek bank. The night spent in the snug cabin Uncle James had built when he came to Deadwood last summer had been a welcome relief after days in the stagecoach, but she was quickly getting chilled and miserable again on this afternoon’s mission of mercy.
“Are you all right?” Aunt Margaret puffed as she tried to keep up with Uncle James’s pace.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Sarah pulled at the juniper until she was on the trail next to her aunt again and brushed a lank strand of wet hair out of her face. Uncle James reached out a hand to steady her, shuddering as a gust of wind struck them.
“This storm is getting worse, and it’s starting to snow. We need to be getting home.” Uncle James took Aunt Margaret’s arm.
“I’m glad we went, though. Mr. Harders would have been frozen solid by morning in that cold cabin with no fire.” Sarah buried her chin in her scarf.
“The poor man.” Margaret clicked her tongue under her breath. “If he was this sickly, he should never have come to Deadwood.”
James tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “His doctor told him to come west for his health.”
“And this place is healthy?”
“Wait until the weather clears, my dear. I know you’ll love it as much as I do.”
Sarah took her aunt’s other arm. “Let’s hurry and get home where it’s warm.”
“Wait.” Margaret clutched at James. “What is that? An Indian?”
Sarah peered through the brush along the creek. “She doesn’t look like a Sioux, unless they wear calico skirts.” Sarah started toward the girl, who was now bending to dip a pail in the creek. A few steps took her around the bushes and face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun.
“You stop right there.” The gun barrel wavered as the eight-year-old boy holding it stepped into view. The same boy she had seen yesterday afternoon, peering out of the covered wagon. Charley, wasn’t it? She looked past him to the empty trail. Her stomach flipped at the thought of seeing Nate Colby again.
“Young man, put that gun down right now.” Margaret’s voice was as commanding as if she was reprimanding one of the Sunday school boys.
“Uncle Nate said to keep a gun on any strangers coming around, and that’s what I mean to do.” Charley squinted down the barrel and raised it a bit higher to aim at Margaret’s head.
This was getting nowhere, and Sarah was wet and cold.
“Come, now, surely you can see we’re no threat.” She smiled, but Charley only swung the gun barrel around to her. The gun wavered as he stared at her. “I know you, but I don’t know them.” He turned the shotgun back toward Uncle James.
“Charley, what are you doing?” The girl with the water pail came up the path behind him, and the boy tightened his grip on the gun.
“Keeping a gun on them, just like Uncle Nate said.”
The girl, half a head taller than the boy and a little older, eyed Sarah as she pulled a dirty blanket tighter around her small body.
“Are you two out here alone?” Sarah smiled at them. “Where is your uncle?”
The children exchanged glances.
“No, ma’am, we aren’t alone,” the girl said. “Uncle Nate went hunting, but he’ll be back soon.” She pulled at her brother’s sleeve. “Come on, Charley. We have to get back.”
Charley let the gun barrel droop and backed away.
“There aren’t any cabins around here.” James sounded doubtful, as if these children would lie.
“We have a wagon. We’ve been traveling the longest time.”
Charley turned on the girl. “Olivia, you know Uncle Nate said not to talk to strangers.” His voice was a furious whisper.
“They aren’t strangers. They’re nice people.” The girl’s whispered answer made Sarah smile again.
“Why don’t you bring your family to our cabin for a warm meal? You can wait there until this storm blows over.”
The two looked at each other.
“Uncle Nate said to stay with the wagon.” Sarah could hear doubt in the boy’s voice.
His sister pulled on his sleeve again. “Lucy is already cold, and night’s coming. It’s just going to get colder.”
“We have stew on the fire,” Sarah said. The thought of the waiting meal made her stomach growl.
“Why are you even asking them?” Margaret stepped forward and took each of the children’s hands in her own. “Now take us to your wagon, and let us take care of the rest.”
The children looked at each other and shrugged, giving in to Margaret’s authority. They led the way to the covered wagon, listing on a broken axle, at the side of the trail. The canvas cover whipped in the wind. So Mr. Colby had made it almost all the way to town before breaking down. Another half mile and he would have reached safety. But where they were now... Sarah glanced at the bare slopes around them, peppered with tree stumps.
As they drew close, Olivia dropped Margaret’s hand and ran to the wagon.
“Lucy! Lucy, where are you?”
A curly head popped over the side of the crippled wagon, and a young girl with round eyes stuck her thumb in her mouth and stared. Sarah guessed she looked about five years old.
Out here, away from the shelter of the trees and brush along the creek, the wind roared. Sarah marveled at its fury, and the children huddled against the gust.
Margaret stepped to the end of the wagon and looked in. “Is this all of you? Where is the rest of your family?”
Olivia’s teeth chattered. “There’s only Uncle Nate. We’re supposed to wait here until he gets back.”
Sarah stamped her feet to warm them. Mr. Colby should know how dangerous it was to wander around this area alone. Uncle James had warned her and Margaret to never go anywhere outside the mining camp without him after they had arrived last evening. Between claim jumpers and Sioux warriors scouring the hills, even visiting a sick neighbor was a risk.
She stepped forward and put her own warm cloak around Olivia’s shoulders. “He can find you at our cabin. We need to get in out of the weather, and you need a hot meal.”
Charley looked at her, his lips blue in the rapidly falling temperatures. “How will Uncle Nate find us?”
“I’ll leave him a note.”
Olivia and Charley exchanged glances, and then Olivia nodded. “All right, I think he’ll be able to find us there, if it isn’t too far.”
Sarah scratched a brief message on a broken board she found near the trail and put it in a prominent place next to the campfire. She raked ashes over the low coals with a stick and stirred. The fire would die on its own.
She took Olivia’s hand in hers as Margaret lifted Lucy out of the wagon. Uncle James untied the horses, Charley took his mule and they started up the trail toward home.
Sarah’s breath puffed as they climbed the steep hill, her mind flitting between worry and irritation with the children’s uncle Nate. These children needed her, no matter what their uncle said. Somehow she would see that they received the care and education they deserved.
* * *
As the snowfall grew heavier, obscuring the distant mountains, Nate gave up. He’d been wandering these bare, brown hills since midmorning and hadn’t seen any sign of game. He and the children would just have to make do with the few biscuits left from last night’s supper.
When the wagon axle had finally broken yesterday afternoon, he thought the freight master would have helped them make repairs, but the man had only moved the crippled wagon off the trail and then set on his way with the bull train again.
“We’re less than a mile from town—you’ll be fine until we send help back for you. Just keep an eye out for those
Indians.”
And then they were gone, leaving Nate and the children alone.
Less than a mile from Deadwood? It might as well be twenty, or fifty, when everything they owned was lying by the side of the road. By the time the gray light of the cloudy afternoon started fading, Nate knew the bull train driver had forgotten them.
They had spent the night on their own with little food and a fitful fire. Morning had brought clouds building in the northwest and he’d hoped he’d be able to find a turkey or squirrel before too long. But here he was coming home empty-handed.
As he hurried over the last rise, Nate’s empty stomach plummeted like a stone at the sight of the wagon. The wind had torn one corner of the canvas cover and it flapped wildly. Why hadn’t Charley tied that down? Didn’t he know his sisters and all their supplies were exposed to this weather?
And why hadn’t they kept the fire going? They had to be freezing.
The hair on the back of Nate’s neck prickled. The wagon tilted with the blasting gusts of wind. It was too quiet. The horses were missing. Even Loretta was nowhere in sight.
Nate broke into a run.
When he reached the wagon, he closed his eyes, dreading what he might see inside. They were just children. He had been so stupid to leave them. He had let his brother down again.
He gripped the worn wooden end gate and slowly opened his eyes. Nothing. Just the barrels and boxes of supplies. The children were gone.
Why had he taken so long? He should have stayed closer to the wagon. He had been warned about the Indians in the area, attacking any settlers who were foolish enough to venture out without being heavily armed.
He knew why he had taken the risk. No game. No food. He had had to leave them for a few hours.
He turned into the wind and scanned the hills rising above.
“Charley!” A gust snatched his voice away. “Olivia! Lucy!”
A wolf’s howl floating on the wild wind was his only answer as he slumped against the wagon box, his eyes blurred with the cold. It had been the same when he and Andrew had returned from the war, back home to the abandoned farm. The wind had howled that afternoon, too, with a fierce thunderstorm. But they were gone. Ma, Pa, Mattie... Ma and Pa were dead, but Mattie was lost. None of the neighbors knew where she had gone, or even when. Years of searching had brought him only wisps of clues, rumors that this cowboy or that miner had seen her in Tombstone, or Denver or Abilene, but she was gone without a trace.
His Precious Inheritance (Inspirational Historical Romance) Page 23