Again she pushed aside the curtain, leaned out into the frigid air, and called up to the driver. “Excuse me, please. I need to stop.”
The wheels kept turning even though he barked back an answer, the words whipped away by the cold wind. She squirmed in her seat as the coach hit another bump, knocking her paints against her. “It’s an emergency. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”
Mr. Sloane’s charming mouth turned down with impatience. “And I thought my boss was insufferable.”
The agent sitting opposite her might be hiding his face, but he wasn’t hiding his opinion. “Do you need to get some fresh air, or do you have to refresh your powder? Which emergency is it this time?”
Hattie’s blush spread from ear to ear. They had no idea how uncomfortable it was to be the lone woman traveling in a public coach. Had she known how difficult the journey would be, she would’ve given it more thought. But what were her choices? According to the directors at the art galleries she frequented, her paintings lacked depth, lacked an understanding of the world, and that was what she was after. If those critics thought she hadn’t experienced enough tragedy to be taken seriously, they should see her now.
Hattie took a deep breath of cold air and stuck her head all the way out the window. “Stop this coach!” she hollered. “Please.”
Agent Gibson snickered. Mr. Sloane checked his pocket watch and looked fretfully out the window.
The coach rolled to a stop. The brake sounded as it was pushed into place. Before Hattie had the door open, she already had spotted a gulley that would give her some privacy.
She pushed the lap robe away, then hesitated. Her box of paints was her prized possession. Separating from it was never undertaken without careful thought. She glared a look of warning at the two men before arranging it on the seat next to her and departing the coach.
Hattie’s knees jarred when she landed on the frozen ground. The wind whipped her skirts viciously, with the cold air making her errand even more imperative. She paced the gorge, looking for an easy way down the embankment. Finally, sliding on the loose dirt, she skidded down and out of sight from the stagecoach to take care of necessities.
Hattie was just about to return to the coach when she heard a loud cracking noise. What were they doing now? Trying to rush her? She arranged the hood of her coat snuggly over her bonnet and planted her foot on a high shelf of red clay. Another loud pop . . . a couple, in fact. The top of the stagecoach came into view as she climbed up. The driver crouched in his seat.
“Stay down,” he yelled, forcing his hand downward in a sharp gesture.
“What?” She caught the edge of her hood to keep the wind from snatching it.
The leather window covering flapped open, and a pistol emerged. Smoke puffed out of it, and then a second later a sharp crack split the air. Agent Gibson was shooting at someone, and Mr. Sloane was right behind him. The door opened, and the agent used it to shield himself as he continued to return fire.
Hattie felt the blood drain from her face. It couldn’t be. The cold hard dirt scraped against her cheek as she ducked and hugged the ledge. The driver had turned and taken up the reins.
“Wait!” Hattie stood. All her paints and canvases were on that stage. They couldn’t leave her behind. But then she saw the horseman racing toward them. The driver of her coach was hunched over the reins, urging the team to start forward, when suddenly he stiffened, then slumped to the side. The stage’s horses jerked to a start even as he fell out of his seat.
Hattie ducked out of sight. No. Why? Suddenly the boorish men she’d been traveling with didn’t seem so bad, and they needed help. But what could she do?
Another shot made her rise up just in time to see Agent Gibson topple out of the door as the stage careened away. She could only see the back of the outlaw, but she could feel the deadly intent as he walked his horse slowly toward the crumpled figure.
If Agent Gibson wasn’t dead already, he would be in the time it took to twitch a trigger finger. She rested her head against the ledge. After all, she didn’t owe the agent anything. But before she could think better of it, Hattie stood to her full height and waved her mittened hand over her head.
“Over here!”
How small her voice sounded on the prairie. How frail. But it was enough for him to hear. The killer led with his pistol as he turned his horse. His nose twitched like a dog on the scent, and his mouth hung open like he was tasting the air.
Of all the dumb decisions Hattie had made in her life, this was the worst. She might have bought Agent Gibson a few minutes to make his peace, but at what price?
With a quick prayer for the men scattered above her on the plain, Hattie dropped to the dry creek bed and ran down the narrow corridor of the gully, following its twists and curves, looking for a way to save her life.
The hooves pounded behind her. The outlaw’s voice echoed through the canyon, furious at her disappearance. Her stays pinched her ribs as she forged on, expecting to see his dark figure above her at any moment. As she ran, the ground rose beneath her feet, and the gully grew shallower.
Zing! She heard the high-pitched buzz streak past her ear before she heard the report of the gun. Hattie dropped to the ground. The ditch wasn’t deep enough here. She would be exposed. She had to go on, but the maze was running out. Who knew when she’d reach a dead end?
Hattie stumbled blindly along, running on pure terror, but she had one last rational thought. The dry creek bed had split a few yards back. If he was looking for her up ahead, maybe she could get back to the turn out and get away.
There were tears on her face, or maybe it was sweat turning the dust red on her cheeks. Her side hurt. Knowing the consequences if she raised her head, she scrambled back the way she’d come and prayed that she could beat him to the fork and find a place of safety.
By nightfall, Hattie was still alive and praying with every breath. She held her frayed mittens to her mouth and blew warm air onto her numb fingers. Hours ago, she’d burrowed into the deepest, darkest crevice she could find, her heart racing as footsteps came closer. The stagecoach had raced away, terrified horses dragging it and her paints along even though driverless, but the killer had stayed, pacing the flatlands above her.
She was so cold and miserable that part of her wanted to stand up and get it over with, but he might decide not to kill her, at least not right away, and that uncertainty kept her huddled in the muddy ditch with icy water pooling around her feet.
Reins jangled, and hooves could be heard retreating. Was he finally giving up? Straining her ears for any clue, Hattie shivered as the seconds ticked away. She had to get out of here. She had to find help, but what would she face when she left her sanctuary? What would she see when she climbed up?
As much as she’d hated the shooting, it had meant that her traveling companions were still fighting. When it stopped, she knew she was the only survivor. Which meant she had a job to do.
Finally, it was quiet. It wasn’t until the moon had risen that Hattie found the courage to creep out of the gully and near the two motionless bodies that lay discarded on the ground. No one created in God’s image should be left out there without a kindness shown. Teeth chattering and tears icy on her cheeks, Hattie scurried forward, bent double against the wind. She reached the driver first. He lay on his side, crumpled over with both hands holding his middle. She wouldn’t look at his face—that she’d already decided. Instead, she pushed against his shoulder. His whole body rocked. Even the strange angle of his blood-covered fingers remained set. Forcing down the bile in her throat, she removed his hat and put it over his face the best she could without looking. Saying a quick prayer to God for the family he might have left behind, she scurried to the next man.
Agent Gibson lay on his back with his arms outstretched. Still hunched over, she began a wide circle around him so she could approach away from the direction he was looking. Something about being caught in the sight of a dead man’s eyes made Hattie supremely une
asy. But what was she accomplishing anyway? Even if she had a shovel, burying the men would be impossible.
She’d almost reached the agent when she heard the first yipping howl. Hattie spun around. Wolves? Coyotes, more likely. Just another reason she shouldn’t be out on the frontier alone. While coyotes weren’t difficult to scare away, she didn’t like staying out in full view of anyone who happened to be watching. What if the murderer returned? She needed to be far from there.
In the melee, the agent had lost his hat. Hattie lowered the hood of her coat to untie her bonnet and carefully laid it over his face. The wind would blow it off, but it was the best she could do. And the fact that he didn’t flinch when the bonnet touched him told her that he was already beyond any help she could provide.
Mr. Sloane’s body hadn’t fallen out of the stagecoach. She’d seen him just briefly through the open door, pistol drawn, but he’d undoubtedly met the same fate. His body could be miles away, beyond her help. She uttered another quick, desperate prayer, more to remind herself that God was there and that she wasn’t alone than to ask for anything specific, and then she had to go.
She shivered and held her hands over her ears to keep the wind out until she’d slid down the slope and into the gully again. The red clay felt like ice, but it was the warmest place she could find. This time, instead of hunkering down and hiding, she kept moving, putting distance between her and the scene of the massacre until she had no more strength. Then she huddled against the dirt wall and tried to stay warm.
How long before her parents learned of her fate? When she failed to show up at the boardinghouse in Denver, the proprietress would surely contact them. Hattie could imagine their anguish when they heard she was missing. Most of all, she didn’t want them to blame themselves.
Hattie’s parents had always encouraged her considerable artistic talent. They’d bought her the box of paints, paid for lessons, and taken her to every exhibition within fifty miles of Van Buren, Arkansas. But when she’d reached adulthood, they’d expected her ambitions to change.
It wasn’t as if Hattie hadn’t made an effort. She’d had more beaux than Ole Red had fleas, but one by one, they’d disappointed her. Inevitably, the more comely the man, the less he’d developed the finer qualities. With every rejected offer, her parents’ desperation grew. Just as Hattie was fine-tuning her talent, they expected her to set it aside, but she’d yet to meet the man who could tempt her to quit. She’d be better served finding beauty on a canvas than in a corduroy suit.
After what seemed an eternity of sleepless exhaustion, the eastern horizon began to glow, though the temperature continued to drop. Hattie’s fingers were stiff, and she couldn’t feel her toes at all. Her stomach growled. Her teeth clattered. But the worst part was the fear. She was lost, without a town, without a house in sight. The only thing Hattie knew for sure was that there was a very bad man about, and he had murdered the only decent people in the area.
Marginally decent people, anyway.
At least they were people.
How long before anyone realized she was missing? Would the stagecoach make it to Fort Supply? How long before someone came looking for her, and would they find her?
Hattie licked her lips. They were dry, and her nose was so cold it was painful. She shook against the dirt hill she’d cuddled up on. She had to do something or else she’d freeze and starve, and she wasn’t sure which would be first. At least it was morning now. No more coyotes howling in the darkness, but she knew not to return to the bodies. Not if she wanted to keep her sanity.
She got to her feet, but her legs felt as thick and stiff as barrels. Bouncing up and down, Hattie forced her blood to start pumping beneath her tattered wool coat. The tears started pumping, too. She had no plan besides running in terror away from all threats. When she climbed out of the ravine and took a look around, the helplessness of her situation assaulted her again. If she had her paints, she could’ve captured the remote, wind-scraped landscape with all the elements of tragedy the gallery directors in Arkansas could ever desire.
Which way should she walk? She hadn’t paid any attention to where the stage was. Landmarks were scarce on the prairie. She looked at the morning sun, but there was no going backward. Her only hope lay ahead, although she could see many miles, and nothing on the horizon could be deemed promising. With her hands in her pockets and her chin tucked beneath her dirty scarf, she started walking west.
Not a thought cheered her until she saw some horsemen in the distance. Frantically, she wrestled her scarf off with inept fingers. She waved the scarf over her head and yelled as its banner caught the wind and the horsemen’s attention. It wasn’t until they got closer that she realized her mistake. What if they were more bad men? What if she’d attracted deadly attention to herself?
But they weren’t outlaws coming toward her. It was even worse.
They were Indians.
Chapter
2
FORT RENO
CHEYENNE AND ARAPAHO RESERVATION, INDIAN TERRITORY
Lieutenant Jack Hennessey fastened the last of the shiny buttons on his dress uniform. Today was his commander’s wedding, and they couldn’t be late. Finally, Major Daniel Adams was marrying the woman he’d fallen in love with—who also happened to be the governess he’d hired to teach his daughters. Finally, all the sentimental arrangements would be complete, and the fort could return to its daily routines.
“I forgot my gloves,” Major Adams called from the spare room next to Jack’s. “I’m going next door to get them.”
Another excuse? Jack stepped into the hall to intercept the major. “For the hundredth time, you can’t see the bride before the ceremony. Settle down.”
Major Adams glared at him. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting married today.”
No, he wasn’t.
“I’ll get your gloves for you once I’m ready. Until then, you stay put. And no peeking out the windows, either.”
It was fun bossing around his commander for a change. Not that he didn’t frequently share his opinion with Major Adams, but today the major had to listen to him. Jack took his belt and gloves off the stack of books that balanced on his nightstand.
Major Adams was one lucky man to have found a wife. Women didn’t just appear out on the prairie very often, and definitely not ones as fetching as Miss Bell. Who cared if she had faked being a governess? It showed she had imagination. And Major Adams had been able to overlook her lack of qualifications once he looked her over.
Jack smiled at himself in the mirror. He was happy for them. He was. How could he be jealous when the only girl he’d ever carried a torch for probably didn’t remember that he existed?
Oh, he’d done his best back when they were still in school. He’d looked for every opportunity to assist her, even spying in the teacher’s gradebook to see what subjects she might need his help with. He’d complimented her on her drawings and showed her any illustrations he came across in his books. He’d nearly lost his head the day she’d asked to borrow his copy of Peter Parley’s Wonders of the Earth, Sea, and Sky so she could try to replicate a drawing. Then she’d forgotten to return it, and he’d never had the nerve to remind her.
Jack buckled his belt. What a timid child he’d been, studious and awkward. Joining the cavalry had toughened him up, although it probably hadn’t improved his skills with the ladies. What he’d found instead was an outlet for his academic pursuits. His studies with the local Arapaho tribe had earned him commendations, and his work to promote the Darlington School for Arapaho students was showing progress. But as much as the army had changed him, it hadn’t been able to erase his sentimental streak. No one quite measured up to the memory of his charming childhood sweetheart.
So good for Major Adams, and good for Miss Bell. Today promised to be quite a celebration. Louisa Bell knew a thing or two about productions, and she’d planned this one down to the last detail. The fort’s chapel had been stacked with evergreen branches, and if th
e musicians could breathe through all the pine scent, there’d be music performed for hours. As Major Adams’s best friend, as well as the one who introduced the happy couple, Jack was ready to celebrate along with them.
It was almost time. He went into the hall again and found Major Adams pacing. “I can’t find the ring,” he said. “I left it in my boot last night, but it wasn’t there this morning.”
“No ring, no wedding. Miss Bell is going to be heartbroken.” Jack shrugged. Then, seeing the stricken look on the major’s face, he fished the ring out of his pocket. “You gave it to me for safekeeping.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“You said something about my house being full of clutter and it going missing.”
“I’m never this distracted before a campaign.” Major Adams took the ring and slid it onto his pinky finger. “I won’t lose it again.”
“Another half hour, and then Miss Louisa won’t let it out of her sight for the rest of her life,” Jack said. Or at least that was how he’d imagined his bride would behave, and in all his imaginations, the future Mrs. Hennessey looked an awful lot like the girl he’d left back home.
Someone was pounding on his door.
“It’s time?” Major Adams looked slightly ill as they hurried down the stairs. But it wasn’t the parson at the door, it was Sergeant Byrd with his mustache waxed straight-out horizontal for the special occasion.
“Major Adams.” He saluted. “I’ve got a message from Chief Right Hand. We’ve got trouble.”
Jack stepped forward. “I’ll handle it, Byrd. Major Adams is a mite busy today.”
“I figured Major Adams would send you to do it anyway,” he said. “Just keeping the chain of command.”
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