The last of the letters he discovered was to Jessy. It wasn’t sealed in any way, just folded over, and he opened it, having no idea of what it might say.
Jessy, if you are the one finding this stash, it will mean that I am gone, and that you have braved tremendous rigors to come here. Bless you, Jessy. Take care of yourself. Your life is far more precious than my honor, so don’t do anything at all dangerous. I’m very afraid these days. I don’t know who to trust. I love you with all my heart, and pray for your happiness. Death holds no fear for me, only the pain of leaving you.
Ever,
your Charles
Blade hesitated a moment.
“What is it?” Jessica asked worriedly.
He handed her the letter. She read it. He saw her fingers begin to tremble and he turned away. He knew that there would be tears in her eyes, that she would be furiously trying to blink them away.
She had loved Charles. An emotion pure, sweet and beautiful, and based on years of companionship. While what she felt for him …
Well, hell. He was a hired hand. One she had needed desperately. One she had been willing to pay well to keep. He’d been the damned fool to fall in love with her. Even when he had thought that his own heart had been broken and had turned to stone he was here helping her exonerate a man. Forgetting his own quest. … No, it was never forgotten.
She folded the letter, put it away in the pocket of her skirt. The others she stuffed into the satchel.
“I’ll have to do something with these, now that we’ve found them,” she said. She stood. “I guess—”
“Don’t guess!” he warned her, aware that there was a harsh edge to his voice. “What you’re holding now is dangerous evidence against a powerful man. Manson Jenks was here last night. He surely told Harding that he knew you had come, and just as surely, Harding is going to realize that your husband had evidence against him, and he’s going to be wanting to make sure that you don’t get your hands on it, either. When Jenks doesn’t appear, Harding is going to be very worried. He’s going to have to come after you.”
“But I’ll just see that someone else gets the letters!” she exclaimed.
“He’s a colonel now, Jessy! We’ve got to go above him, we’ve got to find a general.” He paused for a moment. “Sherman has been riding out here. After the Indians,” he added wryly. “We’ll go into town first thing in the morning, and you’ll go in with Mrs. Peabody, and don’t you even think of moving out of her place until you hear from me again, do you understand?”
“But what—”
“I’m going to find Sherman,” he told her.
“You want me to just sit and wait?” Jessica asked.
“No. I want you to order more supplies and wait. But I don’t want you away from Mrs. Peabody for a minute, do you understand?”
“I—”
“Jessy, damn you, you paid a high price for me to protect you, remember? Let me do it.”
Her chin set and her face paled. She stood up and walked across the room to the bedroom door. “Good night,” she said icily.
He nodded and watched her go. He stared at the fire, and at the leather satchel. He shoved the satchel under the sofa and stretched out upon it.
It suddenly occurred to him that, if he were caught, this might be his last night with her. He couldn’t be caught. But there were still a lot of Yanks out there who knew him. It wouldn’t matter he tried to tell himself. Not if he could take a few of them down with him.
No, if he were going to take anyone down, he wanted it to be the right men now. The war was over. He was tired of the fighting. He was even ready to make peace with an army ready to decimate his mother’s people, he realized. He just wanted revenge on a few.
To help Jessica, he might never get that chance.
He rolled over. He couldn’t hold on to the letters. Once they were delivered into the right hands, Jessica would be out of danger. He tossed on the sofa again, onto his back. He heard a sound in the night. His eyes flew open instantly.
Jessica. He half-closed his eyes and waited. She was wearing a soft, sheer gown. Her hair was free, newly brushed, cascading all around her in a rich golden fall. She hesitated by his side, and must have seen his eyes closed, he thought, because she started to turn.
He reached out for her, caught her arm, pulled her back. He swept her down beside him, held her, kissed her. He enwrapped her in his arms. He held her close and stared at the ceiling, praying. Please, God. Please, God. He wasn’t even sure what he prayed for.
Just a life with which to hold her again.
Mrs. Peabody was delighted to see them. She was startled when Blade said that he couldn’t stay to supper. “You’re headed over to the saloon, I’ll wager!” she chastised him immediately. But he smiled, and assured her that he was not, his eyes touching Jessica’s.
“I’m not, Mrs. Peabody, I mean, Rose. I’ve got a ride ahead of me tonight.” Jessica was standing next to Mrs. Peabody. Tall, slim, shapely, her eyes steadily upon his, so anxious while she tried so hard not to give away the emotion.
Blade tipped his hat to them both and turned, starting down the two steps to reach his big bay in the street. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.
He mounted quickly and started to turn his bay for the westward course he needed to take. Sherman was traveling along the Washita, he had been assured by Mr. Delaney. The general was moving very slowly because he was visiting officers stationed at forts deep into Indian territory.
“Wait!” Jessica cried suddenly. She picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps, running to him. She came to a halt as he quickly reined in, and stood looking up at him, concern in her eyes. Liquid, shimmering, so beguiling. “You shouldn’t be doing this! It’s not your fight, not your problem, and I’m so afraid.…”
“Afraid of what?” he asked her.
She moistened her lips. “You never said that you weren’t an outlaw!” she reminded him softly.
He smiled. “I’m going to be all right,” he told her. “Now let me move on while there’s still a little bit of daylight left.”
She stepped back. He started to ride. She ran after him once again. “Blade!”
He reined in. “Jessica—”
“I love you,” she said swiftly. “Please, please, take care of yourself. I—I love you.”
He nearly fell off his horse. He wanted to. Wanted to forget the damned letters, forget revenge, forget everything in life. He just wanted to hold her, and live with her, and know that he could wake with her every morning of his life. He wanted to grow old with her.
But it wouldn’t be any good. They could never run from Harding. They couldn’t run from his past, either. He reached out and touched her cheek and felt the dampness of her tears there. “I love you, too,” he told her softly.
Then he spurred his bay. He dared not wait any longer.
He rode through the night. Thankfully, the moon was still nearly full and there was plenty of light. It was easy enough to follow Sherman’s route along the river—remnants of camp fires along the way, broken branches on the foliage, heavy footprints along the trail. Blade could tell that there was a fairly large encampment moving west, for there were marks from many tents, little things that people lost along the way. A rag doll lay in the trail, a broken pipe, a strip of calico that had tied back some pioneering woman’s hair. Army officers often brought their wives with them. Women cast into a hard lot, but an intriguing and adventurous lot, too.
He picked up the little rag doll and carried it with him. Maybe he could return it.
It was just at dawn when he came upon the camp. He saw the sentry by the river before the sentry saw him, and he called out quickly. Men had a habit of shooting first and asking questions later when a man looked as much like a Sioux as he did.
“Ho, there!” he called out, raising both hands in a peaceful gesture to the very young soldier by the river. The man took a look at him and began seeking his gun—where he had lain it by a
rock by the river—too late. “I’m looking for General Sherman!” Blade called out irritably. “And don’t pick up that weapon because I don’t want to shoot your damned fool head off!”
Maybe it was the warning. Maybe it had just been his very natural use of the English language—with a little bit of Missouri thrown into it—that advised the young sentry that Blade was not his enemy. Maybe the sentry realized he still had his scalp.
“The general is in camp, sir!” the sentry called out quickly. He had gained some dignity. He held his army-issue rifle, but did not aim it at Blade. “I’ll call for an escort, sir!”
The sentry whistled, and a second man in cavalry blue appeared, this one an old-timer, one who quickly eyed Blade. He saw that the half-breed was alone and presumed he might be a scout. “I’ll bring you into camp,” the older man said, still watching him curiously.
“Thank you. I’ve letters with information I think he’ll find exceptionally interesting,” Blade said.
“Come with me.”
Blade dismounted from his bay and followed the old man. They passed through the wakening camp, men rising, dressing, shaving, washing. They all paused to watch.
Blade felt their eyes. Felt them roam down his back. Did any of them know him?
They reached one tent with a middle-aged officer just pouring coffee in front. He paused the second he saw Blade. He had a haggard look about him.
Blade knew that look well. Most men had worn it after the war. Many men still did.
“Lieutenant Gray, this man has come to see General Sherman. Says he has important correspondence.”
“It’s an old matter,” Blade said. “But an important one.”
Lieutenant Gray looked at him, scratching his chin. “What’s your tribe, Blackfeet?”
“Oglala,” Blade replied.
“I heard about a fellow like you once,” he said. “A half-breed with Mosby. Faster than lightning.”
“Had to be,” Blade said.
The lieutenant grinned. “The war is over,” he said. He hesitated. “Though they did say this particular fellow had once been with Quantrill.”
“Briefly, so I heard,” Blade agreed.
The lieutenant turned, still grinning. Blade realized that he hadn’t quite been breathing. He gulped in some air, then let it out.
“I’ll find out if the general can see you,” Lieutenant Gray said. “Help yourself to some coffee in the meantime.”
Blade did so. It was hot and strong and black, and helped a little against the exhaustion he had begun to feel. But he felt something else, too—eyes upon him. Union army eyes. These were the men he had been fighting not so long ago. Now they were men with faces.
Lieutenant Gray returned. “This way, sir. General Sherman is quite curious.”
Blade followed Gray into Sherman’s big field tent. The general was behind his desk. He was a man of medium height and medium build, with a ragged face, helped somewhat by his beard and mustache. A little man, Blade thought, for one who had ravaged so much of a countryside.
A smart one—a brutal one, in a way. Hell, Sherman had sure helped to bring it all to a close. And now he was bringing his talents and energies against the Indians in the West. There was just no way he could ever be a man Blade would like, he decided wryly.
But at least he hated Indians openly, and he had made no bones about his plan to bring the South to her knees. He was the right man to bring Harding to his knees, as well.
Sherman stood, eyeing Blade curiously. “All right, so what is it that sends a half-breed ex-Reb into my camp?” he demanded flatly.
Blade didn’t say a word. He handed the leather satchel of letters over to the man.
“What’s this?” Sherman demanded.
“Letters, sir,” Blade responded. “Read them, General.”
Sherman sat at his desk. Blade realized that Lieutenant Gray was still behind him. Maybe they had been afraid that he intended to knife Sherman the moment he had been alone with him.
Sherman glanced through every letter. He looked at Lieutenant Gray. “We just met with a Colonel Harding at the fort, eh, Lieutenant?”
“That’s right, General.”
Sherman drummed his fingers on the desk. He stared at Blade. “What’s your name? Who are you? What’s your involvement in this?”
“My name’s McKenna. I’m working for Dylan’s widow. I’ve left her back in Jackson Prairie, at the boardinghouse there. I came as quickly as I could. I’m sure Harding will come after her if he even suspects she might have found the letters.”
“Mrs. Dylan knew about these letters?”
“She came West to find them.”
Sherman nodded. “Lieutenant, arrange a party to travel back to Jackson Prairie. See that Mrs. Dylan is safe, then move on to the fort and relieve Colonel Harding of duty. He’ll be placed under arrest to face a court-martial.” He studied Blade. “I’ll assume you’ll be accompanying my men.”
Blade nodded. Lieutenant Gray hurried out.
“I heard tell of a half-breed Sioux with Mosby. Was that you?”
Blade hesitated. This was it. Mosby had been a legitimate member of Lee’s army—not like Quantrill, who had been an embarrassment to the entire Southern command. Still … “Yes, sir, that was me,” Blade said.
Sherman drummed his fingers on his desk. “Custer used to hate Mosby with a passion. Used to hang any of his men he could get his hands on.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel Mosby was careful to hang only Custer’s men in return.”
“Sad state of affairs, eh, among civilized men? He was one hell of a raider, your commander.”
“Yes, yes he was.” Blade hesitated. “If you’re going to put me under arrest—”
“Hell, sir! The war is over. I admire the man, and I bemoan our losses to him. That’s all.”
Blade started to turn. Sherman’s words stopped him once again. “Though I must say, there was some rumor that Mosby’s half-breed rode with Quantrill first. With boys like Bloody Bill Anderson. Men who dragged Union officers out of trains, stripped them, and shot the right in me back.”
Blade felt his spine begin to freeze. “If you’re going to hold me, General—”
“Oh, there was lots to the story. It was my understanding some Red Legs bushwhacking out of Kansas had mown down the half-breed’s whole family. Father, pregnant wife.”
Blade turned to him. “I didn’t stay with Quantrill,” he said softly. “Even after what I’d seen, I couldn’t.”
“There may be worse ahead out here,” Sherman warned him. “The West is going to be a rough place with the war over. Custer didn’t like Mosby. A lot of men don’t like Indians.”
Blade shrugged. “A lot of Indians don’t like white men, but being a mix, General, I find that I really have to try to like myself. And if I’m not under arrest, I’m staying out here. No matter what.”
Sherman leaned forward, studying him. “There’s a lot of bushwhackers straight out from Kansas in the army here. There were a number of them at that fort I just left.”
“So I’d heard, General.”
“You might have been looking for a few men out here right from the start, mightn’t you?”
“I might.”
Sherman wagged a finger at him. “You’d best be damned careful, McKenna. Harding needs to face a court-martial. You can’t just ride in and shoot up all my men.”
“I have to—”
“Yes, Mr. McKenna. You go. Ride with my troops. They move quickly. They must be about ready to ride. Take care, McKenna. I like you, and I’ll be damned if I know why. I hated Quantrill and I’m not all that damned fond of Indians, sir, but I admit, I do wish you the best.”
So Blade turned and walked out of the tent. The warmth of the sun struck him, and he smiled suddenly. A massive weight seemed to fall from his shoulders.
“Mr. McKenna!” Lieutenant Gray called out from atop a handsome roan. “Are you ready, sir?”
“Indeed, Lieutenant!” Blade mounte
d his bay. And in the morning’s light, they started to ride hard, back to Jackson Prairie.
The night seemed to last forever.
Jessica tried to sit still with Mrs. Peabody, sipping her sassafras tea. She tried to answer the woman’s questions intelligently, tried to forget that Blade was running after the army.
At nine she jumped up and said that she was exhausted and needed to sleep. She never slept.
She paced the blue room for hours. She worried endlessly. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw him. He was so tall, dark and completely fascinating. She remembered his eyes, the way they could pin her to the wall, the way they could touch her with warmth and fire. I love you.… The words had just tumbled from her. Maybe she hadn’t even realized it until then. Maybe she had known that he had given her something she had never imagined. But until she had seen him riding away, she hadn’t known that she had really fallen in love with him, that their lives together now meant more than anything else. I love you, too, he had told her.
But though he now knew all about her life, she still knew very little about his. And she was so afraid. He had been taking chances to ride into a Union army camp. And if anything happened to him …
It wasn’t even dawn when she rose and dressed. She slipped out of Mrs. Peabody’s and hurried around back to see Mr. Delaney. He was already up and busy, brushing down someone’s carriage horse. He arched a brow when he saw her. “Morning, Mrs. Dylan. Aren’t you supposed to be waiting in the boardinghouse for McKenna to come back?”
“Yes,” Jessica said, looking at him intensely. “I’ve got to know what I’m watching out for, Mr. Delaney. I’ve got to know something about him.”
Mr. Delaney lowered his head. “Seems like you’ve got to ask him, now, Mrs. Dylan—”
“Mr. Delaney, please! I need help. Blade is gone, and now I’m terrified that he might not come back. You’ve got to help me, please, Mr. Delaney. I—I swear to you, I’d never hurt him. I’m in love with him.”
Delaney’s eyes shot swiftly to hers. Then he shrugged. “Well, I guess there’s lots of people who know the truth. I wouldn’t really be telling tales out of school.”
Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings Page 8