Prairie Song

by Jodi Thomas

  Cherish laughed and prayed the Yankee was up to the challenge of loving her aunt.

  They walked toward the barn together, but Bar stepped on ahead to light the lamp while Cherish took a moment to look at the stars.

  She loved the evening most of all in this land. She loved the way the sun blazed out slowly in a long moment of glory before it fell. Then the stars would span the night sky. As a child, Cherish used to sleep out on a wide porch and watch for falling stars to wish on.

  She glanced over to the barn and noticed that Bar hadn’t lit the lantern. Like a wisp of wind that comes up suddenly before a storm, she heard a thud just inside the barn. Bar must have tripped over something and fallen. She ran to help him.

  Stepping into the darkened interior, she reached for the lantern. The odor of hay and horses blended with a foreign smell to the area … whiskey.

  Cherish groped again in the darkness for the lantern. It wasn’t on the hook. She stepped back suddenly, feeling that she wasn’t alone. “Bar?”

  The toe of her boot struck something. Cherish knelt in the blackness, feeling her way along Bar’s unconscious body. “Bar!” Panic froze her spine. She could hear the slow breath of someone behind her in the shadows.

  “Brant?” she whispered.

  Something moved through the blackness, rustling the straw on the ground between her and the door. Fear rippled in tiny waves along her skin.

  “Who’s there?” she said louder. Brant wouldn’t frighten her so and she couldn’t believe he’d ever hurt a child. Maybe a drunk had crawled in to sleep and now only wanted an escape. The smell of whiskey assaulted her nose as she stood and moved toward the door.

  Heavy footsteps ventured closer … stalking.

  Cherish fumbled behind her, grabbing in the blackness for something, anything, to use as a weapon. “Identify yourself,” she said with all the volume she could shove past her contracting throat, “or I’ll scream!”

  Large, beefy hands jetted from the shadows and encircled her arms. They jerked her violently backward against a wide expanse of stomach. The odor of cheap cigars blended with whiskey as sweaty hands closed around her like a greased bear trap.

  Cherish tried to scream, but a rag was shoved into her mouth with enough force to choke her. She gagged and stumbled forward as her attacker pulled her arms high against her back. Her knee crashed against the corner of a stall. She heard the wood rip through material and flesh. Pain seemed everywhere on her body.

  “Is that any way to greet your uncle?” A low voice sounded in her ear, laughing as she struggled. “I haven’t seen you for five years, Cherish, but I’d know that spitfire attitude of yours anywhere. You Wyatts were all alike, always thinking you were high-and-mighty. Always giving us the feeling you thought you were better than the rest of us hill-country farmers.”

  Cherish twisted, but he held her tight. She pulled with all her strength. Her efforts were answered with the back of a hand across the side of her head. He slapped her again with no more concern than one might show a stubborn horse.

  “You grew up real fine, girl. Not as tall as your aunt, but ain’t many women are.” He turned her to face him and pulled her into the thin beam of moonlight by the barn door. “You’re a hell of a lot prettier, though.”

  The man before her bore little resemblance to the wild, recklessly handsome Westley she’d remembered. The years of self-abuse had scarred him, knotting normal features into an evil mask. His body, once hard and tanned from working outdoors, was now soft and pale.

  His fingers bit into her flesh. “Yes, you remember me, don’t you?”

  He slapped her again and she was terrified at the pleasure his action seemed to give him.

  “Do you have any idea how much I always hated your family? My dad never stopped reminding me how much smarter all your brothers were, and how much harder they worked than I did. But I fooled them all. I married their Maggie. Dear Maggie. You all loved her and made her one of your family, but I offered her something all you Wyatts couldn’t. I promised her a house of her own, where she wouldn’t be the orphan little sister or the old-maid aunt. She jumped at the offer without taking a close look at the man behind it.”

  Cherish fought to spit the rag from her mouth, but he shoved it in further, bloodying her nose with his force. Cherish was so angry she could have killed him easily. Westley Alexander was never one of the family. He’d only been married to Maggie a few days when he’d left, and Cherish had only seen him a few times before the marriage. She remembered her mother crying the night Maggie married, fearing the girl had made a mistake. But Maggie had insisted it was what she wanted. She was over twenty and it was time she had a house of her own. She’d planned to live with Cherish until Westley returned and they could start farming. But Westley had never returned … until now.

  “That’s better,” Westley hissed as Cherish finally stopped struggling. “I only want to talk to you, little girl. You don’t have to get high-and-mighty with me like your aunt did.” He laughed and his foul breath stung her eyes. “She wasn’t so uppity when I left her. I knew she was still a virgin and she bleeds red like the rest of us. I brought her down a few notches that first night but I knew she wouldn’t say anything. A woman like her would take a lot without admitting to the world anything about her private life. The next night she tried to lock me out. By the time I beat some sense into her I was too tired to bed her.”

  He pulled Cherish closer. “You still a virgin, girl?”

  Cherish kicked at him with all her might, not caring that each kick cost her dearly as he twisted her arms.

  “Stop that!” He shook her so hard that Cherish felt like she might faint. “I just want you to deliver a message to my dear wife.” He blackened her arms with his grip. “Tell her to sign those damn papers the lawyer’s got or I’ll be coming to visit and reclaiming my husband’s rights.” He pushed Cherish hard.

  Losing her balance, she stumbled to the ground, almost freeing herself from his grip. “I don’t want her. I want this house, and nothing she can do will stop me from having it. There isn’t any law that will come between a man and his wife.”

  Fear welled inside Cherish. She pushed violently toward him, hoping to throw him off balance. He stumbled backward a few steps, dragging her with him. When he recovered his footing, rage oozed from him. He turned her to face him and slammed his fist against her jaw. “Before you go getting any ideas”—his fist slammed again—”don’t tell anyone but Maggie the message or you’ll be sorry. A few Yankees at the door ain’t going to stop me from getting that treasure. I’ll find another way in.”

  His anger had made him reckless. He dropped one of her arms and laughed. “I’ve always thought it would be fun to bring another one of you Wyatts down to size.” He shook her as if she were a rag doll. “I should probably just kill the both of you and take the house. It was supposed to go to me that night in the poker game, but I let old Tobin sit in, just to see if he remembered me.”

  Cherish spit the rag out while he was increasing his hold on her arms. She pulled away from his grip and screamed—a long, loud, eardrum-busting scream of outrage and pain.

  Westley hesitated in panic, then dropped her arms and ran. A moment later the two guards appeared. One took a shot at the shadow running down the hill while the other caught Cherish as she fainted.

  Hours later, Bar lay sound asleep on a cot in the sitting room, his head bandaged. Cherish had been safely tucked into bed with her bruised arms wrapped in cool cloths and her knee bandaged. Maggie whispered one word: “Who?”

  Cherish tried to answer but no words passed her swollen lips. She formed a name in a half-whistle, half-hiss, but it was enough of a word to make Maggie nod.

  Cherish closed her eyes to the pain and to the world.

  Maggie covered her niece and knelt beside the bed, crying softly. Somehow, all this had been her fault. She’d foolishly married Westley, believing that after he’d had his wild days for fighting he’d come home and settle down
. But he’d lied—she’d known her mistake even on their wedding night—and now he’d hurt Cherish for no reason.

  As Maggie buried her head into the covers beside Cherish, she didn’t see a shadow move from behind the door and slip silently down the hall to the stairs leading to the basement and the tunnel.

  Chapter 18

  Grayson Kirkland crossed the crowded, dusty street and headed for his hotel room. He thought about when the war started and recruits came in from the farms so dumb they didn’t know their right foot from their left. Some sergeant tied straw to one boot and hay to the other and made them march to “hayfoot, strawfoot, hayfoot, strawfoot.” The nickname of “strawfoot” began to be used for anyone so muddled he didn’t know his right from his left.

  Tonight, Grayson thought he was probably the biggest strawfoot in the South. Why had gambling with Westley ever seemed like a good idea? He knew there would be hell to pay when Margaret found out, but he figured he had a few days to tell her. Maybe by then Westley would be long gone. But now it seemed everyone in town saw her go into Holliday’s this morning … everyone except him.

  Crossing the tiny lobby, Grayson picked up his key from the desk and headed up the stairs. He was almost to the landing before he changed his mind and decided he needed a few drinks before dreaming of Maggie’s anger.

  He walked to the small restaurant that doubled as a bar at night and sat down in the corner. The place was almost empty. All the cowhands sought more lively saloons with girls and music. Only the serious drinkers would pick a little place like this with only a bartender and a few drunks to keep him company.

  He was thankful for the dim lighting that hid the questionable cleanliness of the place. Even his glass felt grimy, but at least the floor looked like it was swept monthly, which was more than he could say about most of the places in Hell’s Half-Acre. Fort Worth would probably be better off if they burned the whole Acre to the ground.

  The bartender brought him a bottle and wandered off without comment. Grayson laid his hat on the table and unbuttoned his uniform. He’d worked all day at getting some legal action taken against Westley Alexander. He’d tried everything, including badgering everyone he knew to step in on Margaret’s behalf. But the law was clear. A husband had a right to all property the wife obtained during the course of their marriage.

  A shadow moved across the table. When Grayson looked up, the stranger was only a silhouette in front of the light.

  “You Grayson Kirkland?” the man asked.

  Grayson touched the butt of his Colt and nodded.

  The stranger moved closer and straddled the chair across from Grayson. His wide-brimmed brown hat covered his face, but his dress and nervousness told Grayson a great deal. He’d guess this boy to be one of those who grew up in the war. He was too old to be afraid of death and too young to have lived.

  “I understand you’re looking for a group of men that met before the war known as the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

  Raising his glass, Grayson tried to see the man’s face as he continued.

  “I’ve got a warning for you. Stop looking if you want to remain healthy.”

  “And if I don’t?” Grayson asked.

  “I was just told to deliver the message.” The man stood and backed away. “Somebody’s been killing off all the Knights, one by one. If they find out it’s you, your life won’t be worth a Confederate bill.”

  “What makes you think I’m behind the killings?”

  “You’ve been hanging around the house.”

  “So have several women and a boy.”

  The man stood. “Yeah, but we figured the Alexander woman was the only one with enough backbone to shoot anyone, and after seeing her firing over at Holliday’s we eliminated her as a suspect.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  The man touched his hat in a hint of a salute and turned without answering.

  Grayson watched him go, then leaned back in his chair and mulled over the words the young man had delivered. He wondered who could possibly be killing the Knights. If someone hated them so much, wouldn’t it be easier to just turn them in? If they were still raising hell, the Union army would take care of them. Rumor was that they’d collected quite a sum of money to start a slave state down in Cuba before the war. If the money was still lying around, who knew? Maybe the Knights of the Golden Circle were killing one another.

  Suddenly, the whiskey tasted sour. He disliked the idea that there might be civilians involved in his work. Whenever there were, they always managed to get themselves hurt or killed.

  Grayson dropped a gold piece on the table and headed for his room. He’d better get a good night’s sleep before he faced Margaret’s wrath in the morning. He smiled, remembering how black her eyes always turned when she was angry. Well, he thought to himself, tomorrow morning they’re going to be as black as a moonless road at midnight.

  Ten minutes later, he was lying on his bed trying to piece together all the senseless facts he knew about the Knights when the door flew open. A woman draped in a long gray cape entered and slammed the door behind her so hard that the hinges rattled.

  He didn’t have to ask who it was.

  “Maggie.” Grayson rose to his feet and waited for her attack.

  She lowered her cape and looked straight at him with those indigo eyes that always made him feel like someone had poured hot coals into the pit of his stomach. She didn’t speak; she only looked at him.

  Grayson was prepared for a fight. He’d even agree that he deserved her anger, but the silence was unnerving. “Maggie, I thought …”

  He took a long breath. What did it matter what he thought? He’d done a stupid thing to try and gamble for her. He should have known Westley wouldn’t leave just because of some card game, but it was the only thing he could think of besides killing the rat. “Maggie, give me a chance to explain.”

  Margaret’s back straightened slightly in the way it always did when she had heard enough. Her words came direct and without emotion. “I need your help.”

  “What?” A bullet through his chest wouldn’t have surprised him more than her request.

  Studying her closely, he saw it then: the pain and fear that rested in the corners of her mouth and the moistness of her eyes. She whispered the words but they could have had no more impact if they’d been a call to arms. “Cherish has been hurt.”

  Grayson grabbed his gun belt from the bedpost. He crammed on his hat and walked toward her. “Lead the way,” he said, and they left without another word. She might be mad as hell at him, but it could wait if Cherish was in trouble. Grayson knew that Margaret would never have to ask for his help twice.

  They walked down the stairs, ignoring the looks boldly turned their way. He figured they made quite a sight: a huge Union officer and a tall Confederate widow. Only, judging from the looks on everyone’s faces, they knew she wasn’t a widow through no fault of her own.

  Grayson offered his arm and Margaret took it without any hesitation. He pulled her close as they maneuvered through the Saturday night crowd. Most were young men filled with the dreams of the spring’s cattle drive. These were their last few days in town before months in the saddle; they wandered around in packs, wanting to see and taste everything all at once. Only Grayson’s size and the Colt strapped to his side kept them at arm’s length tonight.

  “Why didn’t you send Bar or even Azile?” he asked as they neared the house. “A lady should never be out on a night like this.”

  “Azile left and hasn’t returned. I fear she’s drunk somewhere or, worse, has found more drugs. We think most of Hattie’s furniture disappeared to buy Azile’s liquor and drugs. Bar was hurt, also.” Margaret’s voice was calm, but her fingers trembled slightly on his arm.

  Grayson pulled her closer and stepped up his pace. They moved through the foggy night like wisps of blue and gray smoke on a windy day.

  When he reached the porch, both soldiers stood at attention. “I’ll want a full report,” he snapp
ed at one without stopping, “as soon as I’ve seen Cherish.”

  He climbed the stairs three at a time and was already in Cherish’s room before Margaret reached the door. Carefully he studied her, noting the bruises along her arms and the cut lip and cheek. One of her eyes was almost swollen closed and the other had dark rings of purple around it. She looked so tiny and helpless as she curled in sleep amid the covers.

  Margaret whispered by his side, “Your men found her and Barfield in the barn. He’d been knocked unconscious.”

  Grayson glanced from Cherish to a cot that had been set up by the fire in the sitting room. Bar was curled on it, asleep, his dark hair fanning across his bandaged forehead. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

  Margaret stood in the doorway, as stiff as if she were sculpted from ice. “I think Westley must have.”

  Grayson shook his head. “He told me he was leaving town at dawn and I made it clear he’d better not dally.”

  Margaret stepped back into the sitting room and Grayson followed. Her voice was tightly controlled. “You believe a man who faked his own death and became a traitor?”

  Grayson removed his Union jacket, suddenly not wanting any reminder of the war coming between them. “No.” Lord, why did she always have to make him feel like a wet-behind-the-ears pup? “I guess I was just hoping he’d leave before I had to kill him.”

  “But why?” Again her voice was so cold he thought it might crack the window glass at any moment. “Don’t you Yankees like traitors? After all, that was one less you had to fight.”

  “Margaret, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” She moved a few steps closer to him. “Don’t state the facts. Don’t make a fool of myself. Don’t fall for a lying Yankee who embarrasses me before everyone in town.”

  “I thought it might work. I thought he’d leave.” Now the idea seemed dim-witted even to Grayson, but last night it had seemed so logical.

  She stood less than an arm’s length from him and she might as well have been across the Mississippi. “When we find him, I’ll kill him myself. I only need your help in locating him.” She pointed one slender finger at his chest. “And then, Captain Kirkland, I never want to see you again as long as I live.”