by Anita Mills
Moccasins crunched on dead leaves and sticks about twenty feet from Spence. He held his breath, thinking he’d been a fool to leave his horse. They’d posted a sentry, making it almost impossible for him to leave unnoticed.
Spence lay on his stomach in the frosted grass, fighting sleep, telling himself it was too cold, that he’d freeze if he didn’t stay awake. As tired as he was, it seemed like yesterday’s dawn had been in another lifetime. Now that he had time to think about it, he realized every muscle in his arms, shoulders, and back ached from a full day of digging up broken track and hammering down new rails. A nine-pound hammer, they’d called the one he’d swung, but by the end of the day, it had felt like ten times that heavy.
They weren’t picketing the ponies, so they weren’t planning on staying the rest of the night, after all. They were just gathering a large party before they went on—and swapping tall tales while they ate, by the sound of it. Spence kept his eyes open by counting them. Sixteen full-grown warriors and two young boys, one of whom looked white, even with that war paint on his face.
It seemed as though they were there for hours while Spence shivered in the sharp-bladed, icy grass. Finally, they buried the fire, chose fresh ponies, and mounted up. The sentry dropped from his perch on a rock to follow them. The whole war party took the road west toward McPherson again. If he had to guess, Spence thought they’d get there just before dawn. So sore he groaned when he pulled himself to his feet, he found Clyde and mounted up again.
Sometime later, he dozed, then caught himself as his chin dropped to his chest. Rallying, he looked over his shoulder. It was still dark overhead, but a layer of red hugged the horizon, fading to a pink haze before it met the sky. He’d been up almost twenty-four hours. And McPherson was just a couple of miles up the road.
It looked as if they were going to skirt the fort, surprising him, but then the two boys split away from the rest of the party, dropped to the ground, and snaked through the grass on their bellies, right past two soldiers on guard duty. Spence considered sounding an alarm, but the rest of the party stood a good chance of getting away before a troop of cavalry could mount up to chase them. Besides, it was the others who worried him—there wasn’t much of anything else out here except the railroad camp. And Laura’s cabin. The cavalry couldn’t get there in time to warn anybody, and Spence couldn’t get past the Cheyenne himself.
In the graying light, the boys emerged again with a pair of government horses. As bold as you please, they swung up onto the animals’ bare backs and rode off, leading their ponies. They’d tweaked the U.S. Army and gotten away with it.
They were going for the railroad camp, all right. Alert now, Spence realized if they raided it, there was a good chance some of them would ride up that hill. Digging in his coat pocket for the Quick Loader, he checked it, then reached for the Spencer rifle. Five seconds to reload, Frank Davidson had said, but he doubted that. Between the Colt and the Spencer, he had twelve bullets, and after that, it’d be hell reloading under fire. But as long as he had a breath in his body, that war party wouldn’t get Laura and Jessie.
He could see them clearly now, and he could see a faint curl of smoke rising above the cluster of white tents. At least someone was up to raise the alarm if he didn’t get there. The damned Indians were intent on surprise, and he intended to give them one. He cocked the Spencer’s side hammer, jerked on the reins, and dug his spurs into Clyde’s flank, praying the big horse still had enough left to make a run for it. The chestnut took off across the road to the left side, then shot down it, and headed straight for the Cheyenne.
Bending down against Clyde’s neck, Spence pulled the rifle’s trigger, and an Indian pony went down. His second shot hit one of the kids bringing up the rear. The boy pitched forward, then fell under the horse. The Indians wheeled to defend themselves and rode hell-for-leather toward Spence. Knotting the reins over his saddle horn, he reached across to draw the Colt with his left hand as he urged Clyde to go right through the middle of the war party.
He hit them firing both guns, and for a few seconds he was surrounded by yelling, yipping Cheyenne warriors. He felt a hot sting in his ribs, and then he was past them. Clyde staggered, and for a moment, Spence figured he was done for, but the big animal’s front legs regained their footing, widening the gap as the war party wheeled to pursue.
He hit the camp at full gallop, shouting, “Indian raid! Indian raid!” before he saw men already scrambling from tents. They’d heard the gunfire. Two of the grimiest fellows he’d ever seen were dragging out the wagon, while someone else had climbed onto it to load the Gatling.
“Hold your fire! Let ’em get close!” Spence yelled. Dismounting, he reloaded the Spencer, crawled behind a supply wagon, and drew a bead on the closest Indian. Still thinking they had a chance of overrunning the defenders, they charged. “Now!” A volley of rifle fire, followed by the steady spitting of the Gatling, shattered the dawn, and as half the Cheyenne dropped, the rest fell back, trying to get out of range, while men with Sharps took over, picking them off. Within minutes, the battle was over. As Spence stood up, he was surrounded by railroaders wanting to shake his hand.
“Mister Hardin, I been in four years of war, and I ain’t never seen anything like what you just did— you got to be either the nerviest or the stupidest sonofabitch I seen yet,” a grinning man told him.
But all he could think of was getting to Laura. Pushing through them, he pulled himself into his saddle, turned Clyde toward the path, and shouted, “I’ve got family to look after—cover me up the hill!” As the horse climbed, he could hear men running behind him.
Laura came awake with a start, sitting up in bed. For a moment, she thought maybe the baby had made a sound, but when she lit the lantern and crept to look into the cradle, Jessie was asleep, her little rosebud mouth working as though she nursed in her dreams. It must’ve been something stirring outside in the dawn.
Turning to the window, she froze, and the hair at the nape of her neck prickled, sending a shiver down her spine. The face pressed against the pane was painted, the black eyes watching her. Trying not to panic, she turned away as though she hadn’t seen the Indian, and she knelt over the cradle to tuck the shawl around Jessie while her mind raced. She knew every move she made could be seen from that window, and as soon as she got to a gun, she’d better be prepared to shoot.
She began humming, then started singing “Dixie” as she picked up Jessie. The startled baby blinked blankly; then her eyes focused, and she let go with an indignant cry that gained volume and intensity while Laura carried her into the kitchen area. Rummaging in the cupboard drawer, she eased Jesse’s old Colt into a fold of her skirt before she turned around. For a moment, she stood there, trying to figure out how she could make a stand, what she could get behind that could stop a bullet.
There were two sources of light—the lantern and the fire. And when she doused one, they’d probably attack—in fact, it was a wonder they hadn’t tried to break in already. The hopeful thought crossed her mind that maybe there was just one and he wasn’t hostile; then it died. Out here there wasn’t any such thing as a friendly Indian, and if there were, he wouldn’t have yellow paint on his face. He was just taking his time getting down to the business, she decided. Or he was waiting for others to catch up.
Stalling for more time, she carried Jessie to the fire and unhooked the kettle of hot water. If worse came to worst, the first one inside was going to get his face scalded. She’d heard too many gruesome tales to go to her fate tamely. As she carried the kettle close to the bed, she counted her bullets. Six in the Colt, not counting the double load in the shotgun, and the heavy slug in the Sharps. But those guns were on the other side of the room.
Laying Jessie under the bed, she hesitated, then blew out the lantern. Dropping to the floor, she crawled in the near darkness with one hand clutching the gun, the other reaching for the shotgun. Now she could hear a horse, and it was coming at a full gallop.
Gunfire burst like popcorn over a fire, and when she looked up, there was no one at the window. Not knowing if he was creeping toward the door or he’d been joined by others, she tensed her finger on one of the shotgun’s triggers, ready to fire the first barrel. It sounded like men were running and shouting. Then the door shook as someone pounded on it.
“Open up—it’s Spence!”
She sagged in relief, then started to cry, overwhelmed by the fullness of her heart.
When she didn’t answer, he pounded harder. “Laurie, are you all right?—for God’s sake, answer me!”
“Yes—yes, I’m fine!” she called out, scrambling for the door. “Spence … oh, Spence … thank God you’re here!” she cried through her tears.
As she slid back the bolt, he shouted over his shoulder, “She’s all right!” before he stumbled across the threshold into her arms. In the light of the doorway, she could see he was half frozen and utterly exhausted. Wrapping her arms tightly around him, she walked him toward the rocker. “You look like death warmed over,” she managed, “but you sure are a sight for sore eyes. You’d better sit down before you drop.”
“No—I just want to hold you.” Weaving, he held onto her as though she were his life. “If I lost you, I think I’d want to die,” he murmured into her hair. Unable to speak, she turned her face into his and found it as wet as her own. His hands moved over her back and shoulders; then he buried his face in her tangled hair, and she heard him whisper huskily, “Oh, God, I love you, Laurie—more than anything.”
She held his shirt tightly as she looked up at him through tears. “What did you just say?”
“I’ve chased a war party nearly sixty miles in the dark to tell you I love you. I want you to know that before I ask you again to marry me.” His palm smoothed her hair back from her face. “Laurie, I want to take you to San Francisco as my wife. I’m not asking because I feel obligated to—I’m asking because I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” He could see her lip quivering. “Hey, I don’t want you to cry.”
“I can’t help it—I just want you to mean it”
“I do. I should’ve never gone off and left you like that. All I could think of all the way home was how much you and Jessie mean to me. It was the longest sixty miles of my life—and the coldest.”
He’d said home. Feeling as though her heart would burst with happiness, she smiled through her tears. “I love you, too, Spence, and I guess I have for a long time now—ever since Jessie was born. I’d be proud to be your wife, but I want you to be sure yourself. I don’t want you to be ashamed of me later.”
“Ashamed of you? What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m not like your people, Spence. I was raised poor, and I don’t know much about being a lady.”
As tired as he was, he had to gape for a moment before he shook his head. “I was raised by a man I wish you could’ve met, Laurie,” he said quietly. “He used to say class isn’t what you have—it’s what you do. He was probably the smartest man I’ll ever know. Last night as I was riding back, I couldn’t help thinking how much he would’ve liked you.”
“He sounds like somebody I would’ve liked, too,” she said softly. Leaning into him, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder, wishing she could hold him forever. As cold as he was, it took a moment for her to realize her nightgown was being soaked by something warm. Steeping back for a look, she saw the wet place on his coat. “You’re hurt!”
He let her go reluctantly. “It looks worse than it is—a bullet grazed a rib, that’s all.”
“You’ve got to take off your coat and shirt and sit down so I can look at that. You can’t know how bad it is without looking.”
“I’m a doctor,” he reminded her. “I’m just going to wash it off with a little turpentine before I turn in. Right now, all I want to do is find a warm place and go to sleep. And say hello to Jessie,” he remembered. “She’s squalling someplace.”
“Jessie!” she gasped guiltily. “Oh, Spence—I left her under the bed! It was the only place I could think of where she’d be safe if bullets started flying.”
“I’ll get her.” He crossed the room and leaned down to pick up the baby. Her indignant wail ended in a hiccough as she moved her head back to look at him owlishly. Her chubby little fists waved, and her mouth blew bubbles. He held her close, nuzzling the soft, silky hair on her head with his cheek, feeling an intense tenderness for the tiny little girl. “Yes, Miss Jessie, you are a wonder,” he murmured. “And one of these days, you’re going to be as pretty as your mother.”
“And the apple of your daddy’s eye,” Laura said, taking the baby. As she carried the baby to a chair, Jessie’s eyes stayed on Spence. “I guess you’re as glad to see him as I am.” Sitting down, Laura pulled the shawl over her shoulder, then unbuttoned her bodice. “As soon as I get her fed, washed, and into dry clothes, I’ll take a look at that wound,” she told Spence.
“Just tell me where to find the turpentine.”
“I poured it into the bottle in your bag. I figured if you weren’t going to use those things, I might as well. I’ve been reading your formulary, too, just in case I want to make my own medicine.”
He didn’t answer, but Laura heard him rummaging in it. Her gaze dropped to her daughter, and watching the baby suck, she couldn’t help thinking how much she owed Spence, how much she loved him. Happy beyond belief, she began singing softly as Jessie closed her eyes, but that little mouth just kept working.
When she finally decided the baby had to be full, she eased her to her shoulder and stood up. “It won’t take long to wash her, and then I’ll fix you some eggs before you go to bed. I know you’re bound to be hungry.” Looking to his chair, she saw the open bottle of turpentine, the rag in the washbasin at his feet. His bloody shirt was hanging open, revealing a shallow gash over his rib cage where the bullet had grazed it. He was sleeping soundly.
Moving closer, she studied the well-chiseled face, the tousled black hair, thinking he had to be the handsomest man she’d ever met. And the best. He’d ridden all that way because he loved her. Looking lower to his bare chest, she couldn’t help remembering the feel of his skin against hers, and she felt weak all over. She’d never been loved like that before. But she would be again, she reminded herself. As hard as it was to believe yet, he was hers.
“Spence …” When he didn’t respond, she shook him. “Spence, you need lie down. It’s been a long day and night for you.”
“Huh?” He sat up and rubbed his face. “Yeah.” Pulling himself up, he stumbled over to the bed, fell in face first, then rolled onto his side, still fully clothed. His eyes closed again as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Leaning over, Laura pulled the heavy covers over him, then tiptoed away. As soon as she got Jessie down for her morning nap, she was going to get in bed with him and hold him. She wanted to be there when he woke up. She wanted to see him open those bright blue eyes.
There was a dusting of white already on the ground, and the hazy clouds were spitting snow. Holding the heavily bundled baby close, Spence hurried to the wagon. Behind him, Laura closed the cabin door, then ran across the yard. “I think I shall never see a March day that it does not snow,” he muttered, giving her a hand up.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m ready for spring, that’s all.” He waited for her to settle onto the wagon seat before he passed Jessie to her. Grasping the cold iron ring, he pulled himself up beside them and took the reins. “By now, everything’s green in Crawford County.”
“Spring’s day after tomorrow,” she reminded him placidly.
“Yeah—a couple of hundred miles south of here.”
“You don’t like cold weather, do you?”
“Does anybody?” he countered.
“I don’t mind it.” Pulling a blanket from under the seat, she wrapped it around her and the baby, then leaned against him. “I feel pretty lucky myself.”
&nbs
p; Glancing down at the melting flakes in her hair, he was struck again by the beauty of the woman beside him. In less than an hour, she’d be his wife, the baby in her arms his daughter by choice, not birth. Yeah, he felt it, too. “You’ve got your mother’s Bible?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess we’re ready,” he decided, slapping the reins over the same mismatched team that had brought them here.
“You’re sure you want to go through with this?” she dared to ask. “I don’t want you to think you have to.”
“I want to.” As the wagon creaked into motion, he added soberly, “I just hope you never think marrying me was a mistake.”
“I won’t.”
He couldn’t help thinking how different this was from the day he’d married Lydia. Everything Laura owned wouldn’t fetch what Cullen Jamison had paid for one of his daughter’s dresses. The ring Spence had put on that slender white finger had cost a pretty penny, too—he’d paid three hundred dollars for that pigeon blood ruby. He wondered if Ross had it now, or if Lydia had sold that with everything else. Surprisingly, it didn’t matter to him anymore.
It was Laura who deserved things like that. Instead, she was wearing the least faded of the only three dresses she had, and if he had to guess, he’d say she’d made all of them out of calico flour sacks like the ones Bingham used to give to his slaves. But worst of all, he hadn’t had time to get her any kind of ring, not even a dollar gold band. Maybe he should’ve waited until he could do this right, maybe he was just plain selfish for not even giving her time to think this marriage over, but he wanted her now. He wanted the right to wake up next to her tomorrow morning.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
“Am I?” He forced a smile. “I guess I was just thinking you deserved a whole lot better than you’re getting.”