by Janet Dailey
"He is," Jed began, only to be interrupted by the striker's return.
"There you are, Johnson." Diane saw the enameled tray he carried and the mixed assortment of cups. "And you made tea. Wonderful."
"I thoughts I heard your voice, Miss Diane, and I adds a extra cup fo' you. But I didn't know the major was with you. I'll fetch another."
"Don't bother," Adam Clark told him. "I can't stay. I'm sure my services are needed at the dispensary. I'll stop by later this evening and see how you are. Ladies," he said, taking his leave of them before walking away.
Diane watched him for a moment, then pushed the wooden crate away from her father's chair and maneuvered it into position in front of the sofa. "You can set the tray here, Johnson."
"Have a seat, Diane." Temple shifted to make room for her on the sofa.
"After bouncing on that wagon seat for days, I prefer to stand," she insisted with a laugh. Jed chuckled. It was the first sound of genuine amusement Susannah had heard from him. She silently marveled at the way Diane brought life and laughter to every corner of the drab room. There was no doubt she would be excellent medicine for Jed. "Please, you pour, Temple."
"If you wish."
The striker placed the tray on the crate. "I'se sorry we ain'ts got no pretty cups fo' you to sip from, but the tea be hot."
"I noticed there are many things we don't have," Diane observed. "No curtains at the windows, no rugs on the floor, no pictures on the wall. I can see I'm going to be very busy these next few days trying to make this place presentable."
"Believe me, you won't recognize these quarters when Diane finishes with them," Jed declared. "As I said before, she is very resourceful."
"At an army post, that means I am an excellent scavenger." After the tea was poured, Diane picked up two cups and carried one to her father, turning it so he could grip it by the handle.
"You will have to be," Susannah said, "especially here, where even necessities are hard to find."
Diane sobered. "Yes, there are so many people all crowded together. The sanitary conditions are deplorable—refuse everywhere, open latrines. I shudder to think what the rations have been, as isolated as this post is, and as tenuous as its supply line is." She stood beside her father's chair, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.
He smiled up at her. "Diane was very active in the women's relief organization in Kansas. Naturally, she did more than tend the sick, write letters, and collect bandages, clothing, and food items. She was extremely quick to draw the post commander's attention to any deficiencies in cleanliness, diet, or ventilation."
"I did make a nuisance of myself on occasion." Again her smile was back, making light of her contributions.
"And you worked hard, too."
"When it was necessary."
"With so many families living at the fort for protection, the needs are endless," Temple admitted. "Many lack even the basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter. We brought all our spare clothing and blankets to Reverend Cole last week, but it was so little. And the crowding . . . there is so much sickness and disease, it's been difficult for the fort surgeon to cope."
"No single person can solve all the problems here. But several people working together can make a difference, and at least improve the situation," Diane stated. "Naturally, the first thing that has to be done is identify the points of concern. After that, steps can be taken to correct them. For that, you need a lot of hands willing to help." She paused, her glance running over Temple and Susannah in quick assessment. "I know it's a struggle merely to survive right now, but if you could spare a few hours every other week or so . . ."
"Listen to her," Jed declared, amused and proud. "She isn't here five minutes and she's already recruiting volunteers."
"Father is right." The comers of her mouth turned up in a rueful smile. "Forgive me. But there are so many things I am powerless against that when I do find something I can do, I tend to charge right in. It's a failing of mine."
Susannah laughed. "It's a laudable one. I, for one, will be happy to help whenever and however I can."
"We all will," Temple added.
"Good." Diane beamed with pleasure. "After all, it has nothing to do with the North or the South. It's about helping those who are suffering, those who are living in intolerable conditions."
Temple nodded. "I know Eliza has often lamented her inability to ease the work load Reverend Cole has taken upon himself, especially with the orphans."
"How is Eliza? And Sorrel?"
They chatted for a time about family, each of them skirting any talk of war that might lead to an inadvertent reference to Lije or The Blade. All the verbal tiptoeing soon created a strain.
Before it became too noticeable, Susannah sought a diversion and found it in Jed's empty cup. "Would you like some more tea, Major?"
He glanced at his cup as if surprised to find it empty. At the same time Susannah noticed the first signs of fatigue around his eyes and mouth.
"No, I don't believe so," he said and leaned forward to return his cup to the tray.
"I'll do that, Father." Diane took it from him.
"I think it's time we were on our way," Susannah said. "We don't want to overtire you, and we do have a long ride home ahead of us."
Jed made a half-hearted protest that clearly revealed his flagging energy, a fact that both Temple and Diane noted.
"We'll come again," Temple assured him, rising.
"I'll walk you to the door." As she moved away from his chair, Diane glanced back at her father. Already he had abandoned his pose of alertness, his chin drooping, his body sagging against the chair. All her earlier concerns for him rushed back.
At the door, Temple turned to say goodbye. Diane held up a silencing finger and motioned both of the outside. She stepped out after them and closed the door nearly shut.
She came straight to the point. "I couldn't ask him. His arm, how serious is it?"
Temple hesitated, then admitted, "It's possible he'll never regain the use of it, but it could have been worse, Diane."
"Of course." She bowed her head stiffly. "I was told the supply train was attacked by Watie's regiment. Is it true?"
"Yes, but—you can't blame Lije for this, Diane," Susannah protested.
She lifted her head, her eyes cool, pain hidden in their depths. "Then he was there."
Susannah wanted to lie, but all she could do was shake her head. "Don't do this, Diane."
She turned back to the door, her hand reaching to push it open again. "Please come visit Father again. Don't let my being here stop you."
"We would never do that. We've been friends too long," Susannah told her. "That will never change, no matter what."
Diane looked back, gratitude welling in her eyes. "Thank you."
Back inside, Diane directed a quick glance at her father and paused. His eyes were closed, a small grimace of pain showed in his expression. Her glance slid to the empty blouse sleeve pinned to his shoulder.
She was suddenly dangerously close to tears, but there was no time for weeping now. No time to dwell on what-might-have-beens and what-ifs.
Turning, she gave the door a hard push. It closed with a solid thud, the sound rousing her father as she had known it would. She swept back into the room. "I swear, it is hot enough outside to boil an egg in its shell. On days like this, everyone would be wise to follow the example of the Mexicans and take a siesta."
Jed raised an eyebrow. "Are you hinting I should lie down?"
She grinned and bent down to give him a peck on the cheek. "I always knew you were a clever man. As for myself—she straightened, holding onto her carelessly bright air—"I have a thousand things to do, but the first order of the day is to bathe. Just as soon as you lie down to rest, Johnson can start bringing me buckets of water. Heaven knows, I will need them. I feel like I have half the dirt from the Texas Road on my skin."
Jed chuckled, then caught at her hand and gave it a squeeze. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Daddy." She wished she were six years old again so she could crawl onto his lap and know the comfort of his arms around her, soothing all her troubles away.
But she was no longer a child. Her troubles were not so easily banished.
Lije was the cause of the ache inside that wouldn't go away. He was the memory that haunted her, never leaving her alone. God help her, she still loved him. And she hated him because of it. She desperately wanted to forget him.
Someday, she promised herself.
19
Cherokee Nation
September 1863
Soldiers in Union blue swarmed over the wagon, rummaging through its contents, throwing out most of what they found. The afternoon rang with the clang of metal pots and iron skillets, splintering wood, hoots of discovery, and the crash of breaking china. Alex pushed his forage cap to the back of his head and looked on with indifference. The wagon and its contents belonged to John Meynard, a Cherokee long known as an advocate of the rebel cause.
Meynard's wife ran up to the black mare and clutched at Alex's leg. "They're destroying everything. Make them stop. Please. It's all we have."
Unmoved by her frantic plea, Alex cast an idle glance in the direction of her husband, who stood stony-eyed before Kipp. Blood still ran fresh from the gash along Meynard's temple where Kipp had pistol-whipped the man for refusing to reveal information about rebel troops in the area.
Again, Alex heard the man's sullen voice say, "You are the only soldiers we have seen today."
The man was lying. Like his father, Alex was convinced of it. For days now the countryside had been rampant with rumors that a large Confederate force had crossed the Arkansas River and was headed north. At a farm two miles down the road, an old man and two young boys claimed they had seen a band of twenty or thirty rebels ride past their cabin around noontime. The old man had also insisted that he'd seen a large dust cloud to the west, and he swore it wasn't made by a passing buffalo herd.
If the dust were the main body of the Confederates, then the band of riders was its scouting patrol. And if it had been on the road or anywhere close to it, these people had to have seen it.
Over at the wagon, flour billowed like white smoke from the sack that one of the soldiers held upside down. Cackling, the man gave the sack a final shake and tossed it on the slick black pool of wagon grease that puddled next to an overturned bucket.
Again, the woman pleaded with Alex. "Not our food. We have children to feed."
Alex glanced at the runny-nosed girl clinging to the woman's skirts. A boy of seven stood beside the yoked oxen, his cheeks streaked with tears, his chin trembling, and his eyes glaring his hatred and fear.
"Stop them, please."
When the woman pressed closer, the black mare snorted and danced sideways to escape the contact. Alex made no attempt to check the movement.
"If you want us to stop, you'd better have your husband tell us what we want to know."
She looked at her husband, hesitated, then let her shoulders sag in defeat. "We saw no rebels," she said in a wooden voice, then turned and watched in stricken silence as a heavy wooden trunk fell from the back of the wagon. Its lid snapped on impact, spilling clothes and blankets. She jammed a fist against her mouth, smothering the involuntary sound of protest.
Alex saw that the clothes on the ground were of good quality, better than what the family had on. He took another look at the well-fed oxen, all splattered with mud. Deliberately?
Alex knew John Meynard had been a prosperous farmer. Not as wealthy as The Blade Stuart, perhaps, but he and his family had lived very comfortably. But their farm was now in Union domain, and like so many other Confederate sympathizers, they were fleeing south to friendlier territory. They could not take everything they owned, but they had packed all their valuables.
Grinning, Alex dismounted and dropped the mare's reins. "Hey, boys," he called to his compatriots in the wagon box. "Haul everything out of there and start ripping out the floorboards. It could be they're hauling rebel gold."
As the men fell to the task with a vengeance, Alex watched the woman's reaction out of the corner of his eye. She smothered another sob of protest but showed no alarm. He shrugged at his luck—or lack of it—and walked over to the water barrel lashed to the side of the wagon.
The instant he reached for the barrel's lid, the woman rushed up. "What is it you want? What are you doing?"
After her previous pleas, Alex was amused by her sudden vehemence. "A hot day like this makes a man thirsty."
"You want water, I'll get it for you." She fumbled in her haste to gather up the drinking gourd that hung from the barrel.
Suspicious of her offer, Alex grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "I'll get my own." When she looked up, he saw the panic in her eyes and smiled, his suspicions growing. "What's in the barrel?" he asked softly.
"Water, of course." She dropped her gaze, looking anywhere except at him.
"I think I'll take a look for myself."
"No," she moaned and squeezed her eyes shut.
He maintained his grip on her wrist and lifted the lid to peer inside. There, in the shadowy bottom of the wooden keg, was a dark cloth bundle, almost invisible if he hadn't looked closely.
"What have we here, I wonder?" Grinning, Alex propped the lid up and plunged an arm into the water.
His groping fingers quickly closed around the bundle and felt the flat, round shapes of coins. He winced at the prick of something sharp. A lady's brooch, maybe? After a furtive look to make sure no one other than the woman watched him, Alex pulled the bundle out and tucked it inside his blouse. Laughing softly, almost silently, Alex jerked her closer,
"Your idea was sound," he told her in a low taunting voice when she strained away from him. "Water is plentiful now. It isn't something anyone would bother to steal. But you gave it away."
With a sob she pulled free and ran a few steps away, then paused and clutched the little girl closer to her skirts. Alex laughed.
"Hey, Corporal." A soldier poked his head around the wagon's canvas cover. "There's nothing under this floor but ground."
"Too bad," Alex shrugged, smiling at the cool wetness of the bundle against his skin.
A sharp, cracking thud ripped the air. Alex turned as the husband fell to the ground, blood pouring from the freshly split flesh along his ear and cheek. Kipp stood over him, his revolver aimed at his head.
"By God, I'm tired of your lying!" Kipp raged.
"John! No!" the woman shrieked and ran toward her husband, only to be halted when Kipp swung his gun at her.
"Get back." He snarled the order, then threw an impatient look at Alex when he walked up. "We've wasted enough time here. The fool knows where those rebels went, but he won't talk."
"Ask her." Alex jerked a thumb at the woman. "She knows."
"No." She shook her head, fear leaping into her eyes.
"Where'd you see them? Where'd they go?" Kipp pointed his gun at the man on the ground. "Answer me, or you'll be a widow."
"Dear God, no." She reached out a hand to Kipp in mute appeal, then saw the futility of it and sobbed helplessly, "You're animals. Animals!" She paid no attention to the whimpering little girl reaching up, begging to be held.
Alex glanced from the unconscious man on the ground back to the woman. "She doesn't seem to care much about saving him, does she?" In one step, he grabbed the child by the hair and yanked her away from the woman at the same time that he drew his revolver and pointed it at the screaming girl. "Talk or she dies."
"Please, God, no. Don't hurt her." The woman sank to her knees, her hands outstretched to the child. "Don't hurt my baby."
"Talk!" Alex barked again and cocked the hammer.
"We saw them!" she screamed and broke into sobs. "Don't hurt my baby. Please, please."
"Where? When?"
"Three hours ago. Four. I don't know," she gulped back another sob. "It was at the creek. They were in some trees by the bank, watering their horses."
"How many?" he said above the little girl's whimpering cries.
"Twenty—I'm not sure. Oh God, let her go."
"Where were the rest of them? The main body?"
"We didn't see any others—"
He tugged sharply at the girl's hair roots and ignored her fresh wail of pain and the little fingers that pried at his hand. "Where?" When the sobbing woman started to shake her head in denial, Alex pressed the muzzle to the girl's head. "Talk!"
"No!" She clutched at her throat. "We never saw them, but—John—John thought they were farther west. There's a town . . . to the north. He . . . he said they would circle wide of it. Please."
Satisfied that he had all the information he could get, Alex started to ease the hammer forward. Then his father broke in. "What regiment were they with? Who was commanding them?"
She shook her head, her mouth opening for a speechless second. "I—" She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to think. "John . . . John knew one of them. He said he rode with Colonel Watie."
"The man he knew—what was his name?" Kipp demanded with sudden and savage intensity.
"I think it was . . . Stuart. He used to be with the Light Horse. That's all I know, I swear it. Pie—"
Kipp had already heard all he needed to hear. "Let's go." He strode off, shouting to the rest of his men. "Mount up!"
Alex shoved the girl at the woman and hurried to his horse, holstering his revolver. She gathered the child up in her arms and ran sobbing to her husband. Alex threw them a glance and swung into the saddle, smiling to himself. Meeting up with the Meynards had proved to be profitable—in more ways than one.
The Blade loped his horse across the prairie. Deu, as always, rode with him along with an escort of three men. The main body of his troop, some one hundred strong, was a good four miles behind him, and Lije was somewhere ahead of him with his scout patrol.
It was the somewhere that bothered The Blade. Lije had pulled out this morning at first light. He should have reported back hours ago. Had he run into a Union patrol? The Blade had heard no sounds of gunfire, though he knew he might be beyond the range of such sound.