by MJ Fredrick
She cocooned herself and nestled against him. His arm curving over her, and she made a sound of contentment. “You’re right. This feels nice.”
“Mm. Have you noticed that we only get to sleep like this when we have all our clothes on?”
“I have noticed. And I’m not taking anything off. Too cold.”
“Too tired,” he returned. “Just sleep with me, Kit. I just need you to sleep with me.”
She yawned, allowing herself to close her eyes. But she vowed she’d wake up before everyone else in the morning.
Chapter Eight
They managed to wake before Agnes and Mary, and packed their bedrolls before Kit woke the other women while retrieving the pot of beans. The warm breakfast would help them on their way this morning. That, and the milk they got from Bessy, sweet and creamy this morning despite the cow’s distress. She’d stopped to graze yesterday, as Trace had pointed out, but they reaped the rewards now.
Agnes pouted a bit when she learned Mary would ride, but when Kit inspected her feet, she found the other woman had worn her woolen stockings as she’d been told, and her feet were fine. She could walk instead of adding the extra strain to Atrius.
The day wasn’t as cold, since the wind had died and the sun tried to peek through the clouds, but each breath still stung Kit’s lungs. She didn’t have to walk with her head bowed and was able to watch Trace, strong and sure, leading Atrius, who seemed resigned to his fate today.
She’d loved sleeping with Trace’s arms around her last night, but that couldn’t happen again. Even if Agnes never found out, Kit couldn’t open herself to the pain of loving and losing someone else. Why take the chance? Trace wasn’t ready to love again after losing his wife and child. They hadn’t discussed what would happen once they reached the Austin colony. Would he stay or move on? Or perhaps he would go back home, once he realized his choice to leave had been made in grief.
No, best to start withdrawing now, so it would be easier to say goodbye when they reached civilization.
***
Kit flexed her fingers inside Trace’s leather gloves. Her hands ached after leading Betsy, but she wouldn’t tell him. She didn’t want to give him a reason to leave the cow behind. Yet his mouth tightened when he glanced at her subtle hand movements. She wasn’t fooling him.
The question she’d been aching to ask bubbled up with her need to change the subject. “What are you going to do, once we get there?” Oh, dear, that didn’t come out as casually as she hoped.
“To San Felipe?”
“You were heading there before you came upon us.”
“You want to know if I have a plan.”
Humor laced his voice. He was poking fun. “There’s nothing wrong with having a plan,” she said primly.
“Do you have one, once you get there?”
She clenched her hands again. “No.” Not knowing what she’d find in the colonies prevented her from creating a solid plan. Right now she wanted to be warm and have a full belly. Having supplies would be such a relief. But once they arrived, they’d still have to make camp. She doubted San Felipe had a boarding house.
She loathed being limited by what she didn’t know.
“Do you have money?” he asked quietly, as if he was wary about prying.
Enough to get back to New Orleans if they could find someone to take them. “We’re fine.”
He nodded. She realized he hadn’t told her what his plans were. She opened her mouth to remind him, but a movement in the grass alerted her. Tension snapped her body upright. “Trace.”
Her tone brought him to attention. He turned where she pointed, his shoulders tight as his hand rested on the butt of the pistol he’d begun wearing at his hip.
“Get on the other side of the wagon,” he said in a low voice as three dark heads appeared above the grass.
She did as he asked, not wanting to give him something else to worry about with enemies approaching. She paused long enough to draw the rifle from the wagon, then joined Agnes and Mary who stood behind it.
“Put it back,” Trace said, not looking back at her. “They aren’t armed.”
She tightened her fingers on the barrel, instinct rebelling. Glimpsing more movement on their other flank, she whipped around and braced the rifle in front of her with both hands.
“Trace,” she said again, her voice tighter.
He drew the horse to a halt. “Karankawa?”
Beside Kit, Agnes whimpered. Kit refused to give into fear, and straightened to squint at the six Indians approaching. Identifying tattoos ran up the arms of two of the men. Kit’s skin quivered as panic reached up to choke her. Tales the soldiers had told of these people, tales of brutality and cannibalism, rushed back to her. This was why she hadn’t ventured from the fort.
“Yes.” The word trembled past her lips. Were they going to die out here? They should have stayed in the fort. What kind of horrible ending had she brought her family to?
The rifle that weighed down her arms would do her no good against so many.
“…hunting party,” she heard Trace say over the pounding of the blood in her ears.
“What?”
“Not a war party. They have children with them. Kit.” His voice was calm, reasonable. “They’re hungry.”
He went into action, moving quickly to the back of the wagon, where Betsy was tied. Kit pivoted to watch him, keeping herself between the natives and her family, her hands sweaty on the metal of the barrel.
Trace kept his back to the wagon, then to the cow, sweeping his hand across the cow’s back. The Indians approached, but not with menace. Caution. They were afraid too.
“Bring me a cup,” he said to Kit.
She edged toward the wagon, breaking free of Mary’s desperate grasp on her sleeve. Kit reached into the back of the wagon, hands shaking, to paw through their belongings to find a cup. What was Trace thinking? She pulled out a chipped ceramic mug, aware the natives had moved closer. Their attention was on Trace. Were they sizing up his threat or were they simply curious?
Staying close to the wagon, and Betsy’s head, she extended the cup to Trace. His gaze touched hers for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, turned his back on the natives and crouched at Betsy’s flank to urge milk from her udder and into the cup.
The natives moved closer. Kit clasped Betsy’s rope harness. Trace filled the cup, took a sip of the warm milk and offered it to one of the children. Boy or girl, Kit didn’t know—all the natives wore their hair long and dressed in shapeless deerskins. The child considered the cup but didn’t take it. Trace licked his lips in an exaggerated motion and offered the cup again.
One of the men came forward, snatched the cup from Trace’s hand and drained it in a defiant gesture. Surprise smoothed the big man’s tattooed forehead and relaxed his cheeks. He held the mug out to Trace. Trace nodded and filled the cup again. This time the man took the cup from Trace and held it to the child. The child looked at the man, frowning, then sipped.
The laugh that rang out over the plains was unexpected, and echoed by the men and women. Some of the tension in Kit’s chest eased. The man who’d taken the cup thrust it back to Trace, who remained crouched by Betsy’s side.
“Betsy, don’t fail me now,” he muttered, and filled the mug again.
Kit breathed a sigh of relief when the stream hit the bottom of the cup. Trace offered it to the other child, who drank and smiled.
“They’re hungry,” Trace murmured when the milk finally gave out and he rose, hands spread before him in a shrug of apology.
Tension returned full force when the native man thrust the cup back at Trace. Trace drew in a breath and bent to squeeze an udder, show the natives that no milk remained. The man frowned, but nodded an understanding.
“Untie the cow, Kit.” Trace’s voice was calm and low.
A moment passed before she realized he spoke to her. “What?”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Untie her from the wagon.”
Mary realized what he was doing before Kit did, and she surged forward, stopping short when one of the native men raised his head to look at her.
“You can’t!” she cried to Trace. “You can’t give her away! She’s not yours, she’s mine.”
“I’m going to give her to them.” He kept his voice even. “We need to do this. Do you understand?”
But he didn’t address Mary. He looked at Kit. The fear that trembled through her now was not only because of the Indians who surrounded them, but for surrendering their last source of food.
“You’re certain?”
“I don’t see another way. We’ll reach the colony in a matter of days, and our party is smaller, easier to feed.”
“And they’ll go,” Kit added.
He averted his gaze for a moment. “I believe they’ll go.”
“But they’ll kill her!” Mary cried, reaching out to stroke her cow’s face.
“They might kill her,” Trace agreed. “We also might have had to, before long.”
“And now we won’t have to make that choice,” Kit said, and loosened the rope from the wagon.
“Kit, no!” Mary threw herself at Kit.
Trace gripped the girl by the shoulders and drew her back. Tears blurred Kit’s vision at one more loss the girl had to endure, but they had no choice. The idea made the bottom of her stomach drop. Not having a choice scared her. She placed the rope in Trace’s outstretched hand and held her arms out to Mary. The girl glared at her as if she’d betrayed them all, then ran back to her mother.
Kit wrapped her arms around herself as Trace led the cow to the native man and handed over the rope. The Indian looked at the rope, the cow, then Trace. He nodded and turned to lead his band away.
Kit didn’t allow the tears to fall until the Indians were out of sight. Trace stepped up behind her and placed his hand between her shoulder blades.
“We’ll be all right,” he murmured, stroking her braid against her back. “We’ll be all right.”
***
Keeping the gun in the wagon was too far away for Kit after that encounter, so she carried it in front of her as she walked. The weight was reassuring, though a look from Trace told her he thought it unnecessary. She didn’t care. It made her feel safe.
She ignored Mary’s sniffles from the wagon. Yes, Mary had gotten attached to the cow before her illness, when her job had been to milk the animal, but surely the girl could see Trace had had no choice. Kit’s patience was too frazzled to point that out to her sister-in-law without snapping.
Agnes’s skirts swished in the grass as she approached, and Kit’s shoulders tensed.
“You’re giving Mr. Watson too much control,” Agnes chided, keeping her voice low.
“He’s keeping us safe. Do you doubt his decision to buy our passage with the cow?”
Agnes stiffened. “It was our property. He didn’t even ask us. And my china, Kit. Those savages are going to destroy property that has been in my family for generations.”
“It was too heavy. We couldn’t bring it for the same reason he doesn’t want us to ride. His horse isn’t bred for hauling, and we need to keep the animal healthy.” Why was she having to explain this? Couldn’t Agnes understand what would happen if Atrius went lame? They’d be stranded out here.
“And he’s too familiar with you. He is not your husband, but he touches you like he is.”
Kit’s face heated, but she kept her eyes forward. This was Agnes’s real problem, the reason she would argue with Trace’s decisions when she’d never raise an objection to another man. She was worried about Trace’s relationship with Kit. Kit didn’t know how to explain to John’s mother that she missed the comfort of a man’s arms, that Trace was gentle and caring. She considered telling Agnes about Trace’s own grief, but that was not her place.
Agnes was right, though Kit didn’t care to admit it. Kit had decided herself this relationship couldn’t continue on their journey, but Trace made it so easy to turn to him.
She needed to break that dependence, especially since she didn’t know what would happen when they arrived at the colony.
All she said to her mother-in-law was, “You’re right.”
That satisfied the woman, who patted her arm and fell back to walk beside the wagon that carried her daughter.
***
The line of trees alerted them to the presence of a river before they reached it. Kit tightened her wrap about her against the breeze and walked to where Trace surveyed the river.
“Is this the Brazos?” he asked without glancing over his shoulder.
Since she’d memorized his map, she didn’t even have to check.
“The Trinity, I think.” She stepped up beside him. “You’re not thinking of crossing it. It looks deep.”
“We have to.”
She shivered and moved back from the bank. “I don’t even want to think about getting my feet wet.”
He turned and walked back to the wagon. “You won’t. The three of you will ride in the wagon.”
She hurried after him, alarmed by the determined set of his shoulders, forgetting her vow to keep her distance. “And you?”
He pressed his lips together. “I’ll have to lead Atrius. He won’t take the wagon into the water otherwise. Good thing we got rid of the cow.”
“You don’t have any other clothes, and it’s freezing out here.” She pulled her wrap tighter and glared up at him. “We don’t know how deep it is. We should wait, go upriver a bit, don’t you think?”
His jaw tensed as he considered. “If the river hooks back, it’s just going to take us longer to reach the colony, and we don’t have the supplies to spare.”
“Until closer to sundown, then. Maybe we can find a shallower part of the river, or narrower.” She rubbed her arms just thinking about how cold Trace would be once he stepped into the water.
He rubbed the edge of his hand over his chin. “All right, until before sundown. I don’t want to wait till after sundown—too much of a chance for a chill, and I don’t suppose you’ll warm me up again.” He said the last with a crooked grin.
An image of stripping his wet clothes from him and pressing her body against his filled her mind so vividly, she blushed and turned away.
“Kit,” he said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” He hadn’t. Only her fears and realizations, as well as Agnes’s concern, were causing her to pull away from him and keep their interactions impersonal. “Do you want to eat before we start following the river?”
“Beans again?” He pressed his lips together in distaste. “I can wait.”
“Maybe we’ll find some game coming to get water.”
“I’m a lousy shot,” he reminded her.
She smiled over her shoulder as she made her way back to the wagon. “I’m not.”
***
The rifle had grown heavy in her hands, so Kit rested it in the back of the wagon and walked alongside so it was within reach. She scanned the river, which glinted in the occasional sunlight, watching for signs of life beyond the blackbirds that fluttered around the trees. She might be able to get a few of them before the shots scared off the rest, but they would be more trouble than they were worth, scrawny as they were. A duck would be nice, or even better, a deer.
The tall sycamore and cottonwood trees lining the river provided a pleasant change of scenery, and the soothing sound of flowing water accompanied the creak of the wagon. The air was cooler near the water, but falling asleep with that sound close by would be nice.
Not that falling asleep listening to Trace’s even breathing wasn’t. He didn’t snore, but his breathing had a pleasing rasp to it. Just remembering the sound made her think of his arms around her, and she warmed at the memory.
And promptly pushed the thought from her head. Why couldn’t things be simpler?
Because if they were, she wouldn’t be here, he wouldn’t be here, she’d never have known
him. The idea made her sad.
Trace pulled up the horse and turned. “What do you think?”
She jolted out of her reverie. Did he know where her mind had wandered?
He nodded to an area of the river that was narrower than they’d seen so far, and at least until the middle, Kit could see the rocky bottom.
Kit walked up beside him. “We don’t know how deep it is.”
“One way to find out.” He dropped to the ground and pulled off his boots.
“Trace!”
He squinted up. “You said yourself I don’t have a change of clothes. Only way to keep these dry is to put them in the wagon with you ladies.”
Just watching him undress sent a chill through her. “Can you swim?”
He snorted. “I can, but let’s hope I don’t have to.” He stood and shucked off his trousers, leaving his legs bare in his linen underdrawers.
Behind Kit, Agnes gasped and Mary giggled. Kit tried not to stare as he shucked his jacket and shirt, laying them both over the edge of the wagon. He shivered and slapped at his bare arms, then headed for the river.
Kit huddled in her own wrap, feeling a coward as he stuck his foot in the water and yelped. He grinned over his shoulder before wading to the middle of the river, knee deep, stopping, testing the depth with his foot, and plunging in to his hips.
Dear God, he was going to freeze. Kit moved to the edge of the water, as if she could will him across more quickly. Once he discovered the river was no deeper, he turned and swam back, his entire body quivering in an attempt to warm him. Kit whipped off her wrap to dry him, but he held out a hand to hold her back.
“Let’s wait until we’re on the other side. I want you all in the wagon, as close to the front as possible. It’ll float a bit when we get to the center, but we need to do this now.”
Kit nodded and turned to help Agnes into the wagon with Mary. “I’m going to help you,” she told Trace.
“No sense in both of us soaked to the skin,” he said through chattering teeth. “You’ll need to get a fire going when we’re on the other side. Besides, Atrius will follow me, won’t you, boy?” He patted his horse’s withers. Tossing his boots into the wagon, he gave Kit a look. “All aboard. No arguments.”