Bittersweet

by Anita Mills

  He took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly, knowing he was about to pay the piper for the dance. “If you want to, we’ll get married. While you get yourself cleaned up, I’ll go down and make arrangements with the preacher in camp.”

  Humiliated, she could barely whisper, “I want better than that.”

  Mistaking her meaning, he said, “There’s not time for anything else. I told Hawthorne I’d be ready to leave tomorrow, and I don’t know for sure when I’ll be back—probably in a couple of weeks—so it’s got to be today. When I head for San Francisco in May, you can either go with me, or I can come back through to get you after I find Josh.” When she didn’t respond, he told her, “Look, it may not be what either of us wanted, but I don’t mind. It’s probably the best thing, anyway—Jessie will get a father, and Josh a mother, so it’s not a bad bargain. At least you’ll have somebody to take care of you this way.”

  Fighting tears, she pulled her dress over her head, thrust her arms into the sleeves, and yanked the bodice down to cover her breasts. Standing up, she dropped the skirt down over her hips. “Those aren’t exactly the things a woman wants to hear, Spence. I married for Danny the last time, and if there’s a next time, it’ll be for myself. And it’ll be to somebody who loves me, not somebody who thinks he’s doing something honorable.” Turning away so he couldn’t see her face, she added, “I’ve got to want to be your wife, Spence, and right now, I don’t.”

  “I thought you and I had a pretty good time, but I guess I was mistaken.”

  She swung around at that and looked him in the eye. “I had a real good time, all right,” she said evenly, “but that’s not enough for me to promise my life away. If it’s a good time you’re after, go to the hog ranch—the whores down there can probably give you a better one than I can.”

  “I didn’t say that’s what I was looking for. I said I thought you—”

  “I’m looking for somebody who wants to spend his whole life with me, who won’t mind growing old with me. I want to be everything to somebody, Spence. Any man that asks me had better be ready to convince me he’s got his heart set on me and nobody else. Otherwise, I’m going to be a widow for the rest of my life. That’s all I’ve got to say about it.”

  “Well, that was quite a speech.”

  “It came from my heart,” she said simply. Her eyes took in his tousled black hair, his strong, masculine shoulders, and she condemned herself for being a fool. A man like that could never love her. Looking down to button the front of her dress, she told him, “Since you’re leaving in the morning, you can stay tonight, but when you get back, I think you’d better figure on staying somewhere else. Jessie and I’ll miss you, but what we did just now wasn’t right. And since I don’t think I’ll be likely to forget it happened, having you around would be just plain awkward.”

  The look on her face would haunt him a long time. “I see,” he said heavily. “I don’t think I’ve been sorrier for anything in my life.”

  “Yes—well, I’ve got to get busy, or I won’t get the laundry finished up and ironed by tomorrow. I’ll try to have your shirts ready before I go to bed, but if I can’t I’ll get up early.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help out?”

  “I guess if you get your packing done, you could chop wood. I’ll probably be needing a lot more before warm weather gets here.”

  As she walked away from him, he felt drained, utterly empty. “I’ll chop what I can, then leave you money in case you have to buy some. It’s the least I can do.”

  She whirled to face him furiously. “Don’t make me feel any worse than I already do, Dr. Hardin!” she snapped. “I may be a sinner, but I’m not a whore! I don’t want to hear any more talk about money—now or ever!”

  He finished dressing in silence, telling himself he’d tried, that there wasn’t much more he could do to help her. When he sat down to pull on his pants, he saw she was punching down the bread dough with a vengeance. And he felt as though he’d just lost his best friend.

  Light from the three-quarter moon overhead shone on the murky waters of the Platte, revealing the flat plates of ice churning by, breaking the otherworldly stillness of the deserted road as Spence gathered dead sticks into the burlap sack. The air was so cold his breath formed ice crystals on the bandana over his nose, telling him Nebraska wasn’t any place anybody from Georgia ought to be. Down home, it’d be starting to feel like spring about now.

  The other members of his railroad crew, most of whom had wintered on the plains before, claimed that as long as it didn’t snow, they didn’t mind being out in weather like this. A body got used to it, they said, but so far he hadn’t. And if he ever got out of Nebraska, he damned sure wasn’t coming back to give the place another try.

  Every night since he’d left Laura’s cabin, he’d rolled himself up in four heavy blankets and shivered himself to sleep so he could wake up before dawn, gulp a cup of scalding coffee to wash down his share of hardtack, then head out to tear up pieces of broken track for twelve or thirteen hours. She’d been right about that, like just about everything else.

  It wasn’t the hard work that bothered him. At night he was almost grateful to fall into bed too tired to even think. No, it was the damned, unrelenting wind—and Laura Taylor. That wailing, otherworldly wind swept the bitter cold down from the mountains and bore it across the plains, driving everything but wolves and railroad men into dens and lairs. It made him long for the warmth of that tiny cabin. It made him miss her.

  But tonight he was going to be warm, he promised himself. He’d already cut a small vent hole in the roof of his tent to draw the smoke, and as soon as he had enough wood and tinder to make one, his water bucket was going to hold a fire instead of ice. He was going to show these Yankees some good old Rebel engineering he’d seen in. the Tennessee campaign. Once he got a bucket full of red-hot coals, the metal’d give off at least enough heat to keep him from freezing, maybe enough that four wool blankets could keep him warm. And if he could keep the fire going until morning, he’d throw an extra buffalo chip on it, put some holes in an old rusty pan he’d found, and cover the bucket with it to make himself a cook-stove. Instead of hardtack for breakfast, he was going to have soda biscuits and fried potatoes with his coffee.

  As he twisted dead twigs from a limb, he couldn’t help wondering how she was. By now, she’d have Jessie asleep, and she’d have that rocker pulled up close to the hearth. She’d probably be reading one of her books again, wearing her eyes out in that yellow light, or if she was trying to save on kerosene, she’d be knitting in the dark. He just hoped she wasn’t running low on wood or anything else. He didn’t want her trying to split logs or walking down to camp by herself.

  He had to wonder if she missed him, or if she was doing just fine without him. She’d say she was, anyway, and she’d try her damnedest to believe it. She was the stubbornest woman of his memory, determined to take care of herself, refusing to go back home poor. He guessed he understood that—if he hadn’t had to wait for Pinkerton to answer, he sure as hell wouldn’t have spent those last months in Georgia, pretending not to notice conversations turned to furtive whispers whenever he entered a room. Pity wasn’t anything either of them could stand.

  He hadn’t thought much about Lydia lately, or Ross either, for that matter. It was Joshua who occupied his thoughts. And Laura. Lydia didn’t matter anymore. The speculative gossip that had probably found him wanting as a husband was a distant memory that no longer stung. It was the here and now that plagued him.

  He just didn’t know what to do about Laura, and he knew she wouldn’t help him any. She wouldn’t go home, she couldn’t stay where she was, and she’d refused to go to California, too, which was going to make it damned difficult for him to leave when the time came. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate, she was haunting his waking thoughts, seducing him in his dreams.

  He’d go to bed telling himself he’d already been deceived by one pretty fac
e, that women were all more or less faithless creatures, and he would vow he’d never make a fool of himself over a woman again. Then, before he could get across that hazy netherworld leading to sleep, rational thought would slip away, and he’d relive every word, every movement, every touch that had passed between them in that bed, and he’d ache for her—not just lust, ache.

  Her response to him had been a revelation, showing him yet another way Lydia had cheated him. He’d mistaken lying words for passion, accepted it as fact that a decent woman wasn’t supposed to pant and writhe under him like a whore pretending to enjoy it, that she’d be shocked and repelled by what a man really wanted. Lydia had done her best to plant and nurture that notion. Looking back, he could see now that there hadn’t been much about marriage she’d liked except the Mrs. in front of her name. It made him wonder why she’d turned to Ross—or Ross to her, for that matter. They must’ve made quite a pair, two beautiful people intent on deceiving each other.

  He could close his eyes and feel Laura’s warm skin, taste her mouth, and he could hear her whisper, “Yes, I want it, too.” And her body had proven her words. The only thing she’d been unwilling to do was touch his manhood. I can’t—I’ve never done that before. It made him wonder if Jesse had cheated her as Lydia had cheated him. He didn’t guess he’d ever know that answer either.

  Well, he’d offered to marry her, and she’d turned him down, freeing his conscience if he wanted to go. And go he would, because he had to. Somewhere there was a four-year-old motherless little boy who needed him, who had no other relatives closer than distant cousins left, and Spence could not fail him. They’d be strangers, but the love would come later. No, Laura had made her choice to stay, and he had chosen to go. And sooner or later, she’d leave his mind. It had to happen that way.

  He’d taken this job to escape from her, to avoid falling into a trap he’d regret, and it hadn’t helped him much. He’d just forsaken a warm cabin, good food, and clean clothes for nothing. Now he was wandering around picking up sticks so he could build a fire in a bucket, feast on buffalo jerky and rock-hard biscuits, then try to sleep with that howling wind slashing through canvas walls. And the memory of another woman who did not want him was driving him mad.

  Forcing his thoughts from her to the task at hand, he reached for a hollow branch and stopped dead, nearly paralyzed by shadowy figures riding behind the black, skeletal branches of leafless trees so silently he had to blink to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Spence edged back into the cottonwood grove, thinking he had to alert the rest of the camp without giving himself away. His stiff fingers sought and closed around the Navy Colt, drawing it soundlessly from his holster as he watched the Cheyenne war party skirt the small cluster of tents. They were after the picketed horses, and a big buck had his eye on Clyde.

  Spence put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long, shrill whistle, and the big chestnut gelding’s head came up. The second time, the animal kicked over a barrel anchoring the rope picket and broke out, heading for him with mane and tail flying, and the commotion stampeded the others, alerting the men in camp. Rolling away from a blazing campfire, most of the crew scrambled to get behind a pile of ties while a man who had a repeating rifle handy covered them. Within seconds, the thundering booms of buffalo guns had picked off two Indians trying to round up the horses, and after a mad dash back for the bodies, the rest of the war party took off.

  Matt Hadley yelled, “Where’s Hardin? Did the sons of bitches get Hardin?”

  “There he is!” somebody answered, seeing Spence running toward them. “Damned if he ain’t got that big horse of his chasin’ him! Must’ve been him that sounded the alarm!”

  “That’s some eyes you got, Mr. Hardin,” Hadley told him as he caught up to them. “Don’t know how you seed ’em at night, but if you hadn’t, I reckon as soon as they got the animals, they’d been back for scalps.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Reckon at least some of us owe you for that whistle. I’d say you’re damned lucky them injuns didn’t come right at you soon as they heard it,” the crew boss went on.

  ‘Ί thought they’d be too busy chasing horses.”

  “Well, you got guts and a cool head to go with ’em, I’ll say that for you.”

  ‘Thanks.”

  “Looks like they’ll be looking for easier pickin’s on up the road—guess I’d better send somebody to warn the main camp.”

  “Aw, they ain’t going there,” Billy Watson argued. “‘Sides, ain’t no way any of us could get ahead of ‘em the way they was hightailin’ it out of here.”

  “Better warn Hawthorne, anyway,” somebody else countered. “Hell, Bill, they been bold enough to run off government horses over at McPherson right under the cavalry’s noses. Looks like they’re headed that way again, and a bunch of railroad men’s bound to look better to ’em than the U.S. Army.”

  “Humph!” Billy snorted. “If we put ’em on the run, they ain’t got no stomach for a real fight, Ben. No, sir, they’ll be lookin’ for easy pickin’s, all right, so I’d say it’s folks they can catch alone that’s in for trouble. Like last summer when they killed that old German farmer right outside Fort Kearny. Hell, you know he thought he was safe settlin’ in less than a mile from an army post, but by the time anybody heard the commotion and the soldiers got mounted up, the damned savages had scalped the old gent and got clean away.”

  “Yeah, I remember that,” Hadley murmured, nodding. “Snuck up on him right at sunup, and if any-body’d been looking, they’d seen it from the fort.”

  “I’ll go,” Spence offered.

  “I dunno—don’t seem like you been out here long enough to be trailin’ injuns.”

  “I’ve got the strongest horse.”

  “Something to be said for that, Mr. Hadley, ‘cause you know they’ll be switchin’ off to rest those ponies, which is how they keep the cavalry from catchin’ ’em,” Billy observed.

  The older man considered Spence for a moment, then sighed. “Think you can find your way without taking the road? There’s not much cover anywhere, but you’re out in plain sight if you stay on it.”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t get going, I won’t catch up to them between here and McPherson.”

  “They might make camp for the night somewhere. Seems like the times you got to watch out for the sneaky bastards is right before sunup or right after sundown.” Without turning around, Hadley called over his shoulder, “Frank, you lend Hardin that Spencer—you got a Quick Loader for it, ain’t you? He don’t need to be trying to reload in a fight,”

  As Spence swung into the saddle, Frank Davidson ran up to hand him the rifle and a cartridge loader for it. “There’s thirteen seven-round loads in there,” he said as Spence stuffed it into his coat. “All you got to do is open the butt-trap, pull out the magazine spring, and drop the load in. Soon as the spring’s back in, you’re ready to go again—whole thing takes about five seconds.”

  “Beats my Colt,” Spence admitted. “Thanks.”

  “Just don’t forget where you got it, ‘cause I’m lookin’ to get it back—you hear?”

  “I will.”

  Pulling wide on the reins and nudging the big chestnut with his knee, Spence turned Clyde toward the road, then leaned forward as he applied his spurs, and the horse took off like a bullet from a full charge of powder. It took almost a furlong for him to ease off a gallop into a canter. At a wide bend, Spence left the road to skirt along the row of trees following the river.

  It took him close to an hour to get his first glimpse of the war party. Relieved that he hadn’t missed it entirely, he dropped back to trail the Indians at a distance until he could find enough cover to pass them. Slowing to a trot, then to a steady walk, Spence told himself they’d probably turn off somewhere before McPherson, and he was probably making a long ride in a miserably cold night for nothing. But he wasn’t taking any chances as long as they could be headed anywhere near Laura and Jess
ie. The thought had already crossed his mind that if they scouted the perimeter of the main camp, they stood a good chance of stumbling onto her cabin, and tomorrow morning was wash day. It’d be damned easy for them to catch her and Chen Li outside hanging the laundry.

  Hell, he didn’t even know where they were going yet, he reminded himself again. Nebraska Territory was a big place, and it was damned unlikely that out of thousands of square miles of empty land, a small band of Cheyenne would find one very small cabin perched on the side of a hill. But at least he had an excuse for coming home, one they both could believe.

  Forcing his straying mind back to the Indians ahead, Spence realized that while he’d been lost in thought, they’d gotten away. Or they’d seen him and were lying in wait up ahead. The thought was enough to make his scalp crawl. Spurring Clyde into a lope, he took the river side of the road, where the moonlight on the ice made it easier for him to see. As he came around a wide bend, he gave a sigh of relief.

  Yeah, there were five of them riding right up the middle of the road, and he was close enough to hear them talking to one another. Slowing again, he widened the distance. If they fell silent, he didn’t want the sound of Clyde’s hoofbeats alerting them. With McPherson still more than thirty miles away, it was hard to guess where they were going. Maybe he was green when it came to Indians, but it didn’t seem reasonable that a war party of five would want to go anywhere near a fort.

  They were stopping. Moving Clyde into the trees, Spence watched them, wondering what the hell they were doing, until he heard more riders. A larger party was joining them. The whole group dismounted and stood around while someone made a small fire. It looked as though they might camp for the night.

  Spence dropped from his saddle to the ground, then crept closer. They were chattering like magpies, joshing each other, posturing. As the tinder flared, there was no mistaking the yellow streaks on their faces—it was a war party all right. More riders joined them, and their leader waved a war lance, dipping it close to the fire for the others to see. Long blond hair rippled in the flickering light. He’d taken a woman’s scalp, and he was bragging about it.