Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3

by Ward, Marsha

  He imagined he could hear her heart beating, throbbing, drumming like horses’ hooves on a road. Her voice seemed raised in a strident complaint, then it lowered, then came forth again with a different timbre. He closed his eyes. Was this an omen of what lay before him?

  He shook his head to clear away the unwelcome discordant noises and stood upright as he realized that he actually heard a party of riders coming along the road. He could hear them not only because of the usual sounds of horses traveling, but because the men were arguing as they rode along.

  “All right!” one voice yelled, frustration evident in the shrillness of his voice. “We’ll stop.”

  The road was not far from where George stood, and the riders turned off on his side of the track. He stepped behind the tree he leaned against, wishing he’d brought his rifle.

  The quarrel continued as the men dismounted and prepared to camp.

  “They’re still at least a week ahead,” one man grumbled, and George recognized the voice as that of the frustrated man who’d called the halt in spite of wanting to continue on.

  “Nah, we’ve made up time,” another said.

  “If you’d let us sleep once in a while, my stomach would be in better shape.” This objection came from a different voice, so there were at least three men in the party.

  “If you’d stop nipping at your flask, your stomach would have no complaints,” the first man bellowed.

  “If you’d brought proper rations, my stomach wouldn’t have a quarrel with you.”

  “Shut your trap, Foster. Bull’s right. We can’t make good time if you’re too drunk to sit your horse.”

  George froze as the men continued wrangling over their differences. These men were the Yankee riders. How had they known— Of course. Mrs. McNeely had reported seeing Ned and him passing by. His mind whirled, sorting out what he heard the men say. He and Ned hadn’t been on the road for a week. Somehow, they’d tracked down Robert and his wife … and Heppie. Cold chills ran between his shoulder blades. The men were close by. Would they hear him as he moved away toward his own camp?

  “. . . Heizer!” one man said, and spat. “It’s all his doing.”

  George inhaled sharply and held his breath. They were after him, too.

  “Thinks he’s so high and mighty. Captain bloody rebel-born Heizer! When I get my hands on him, I’ll snap his scrawny neck!”

  “Not if I get to him first, you won’t. That damned turncoat cost me my back pay.”

  George let out his breath slowly and crept away. He and Ned had to ride out immediately. They had to escape the wrath of these ruffians. They had to warn Robert and the Binghams.

  ~~~

  George knelt beside Ned’s bedroll, gently shook his shoulder with one hand, and rested his fingers on his brother’s mouth with the other.

  Ned came awake with wide eyes.

  “Shh,” George warned. “Them riders caught up with us.”

  “Riders?” Ned blinked. “Those occupiers?”

  George nodded. “They know Robert and the family are on this road.” He paused, then continued in a lower tone. “They’re after you, too. And me, I reckon.”

  Ned was on his knees, rolling his bedding. He threw a whisper over his shoulder. “Well, we’d best not let them catch us or the girls. I’ll saddle the horses while you break camp.”

  ~~~

  After leading their animals along the pike for a mile, George and Ned rode the rest of the night, the turnpike ever climbing into the foothills. As dawn broke they entered the outskirts of Monterey. George pulled his horse to a stop and looked to the west. Pink light coming from the east flooded the hills as far as his eyes could see. What a fetchin’ sight, he thought. A pity I won’t be back to see it again.

  “Do you know the cousin’s name?” Ned asked as he dismounted. He lifted one of his horse’s hooves and took a look at it. He pried a stone loose with his thumb. “That should feel better,” he said to the horse, then lowered its leg.

  George had finished consulting his memory. “Emmy Lou. Emmy Lou Pitkin. This town ain’t so large that we can’t find her.”

  “Where do we start?”

  George looked around. It was too early for the stores to be open, but a farm woman might be a good source of information. “How about over there?” he asked, pointing to a nearby house where light came through a window.

  Ned mounted, and they rode to the dwelling. George knocked on the door, found a cautious reception, but got the information he sought. When he joined Ned, he said, “The lady told me the Pitkins live on a farm the other side of town. She gave me good directions. We don’t need to bother anyone else in finding ‘em.” He yawned. “After we learn if they have news of the Binghams, I want about two hours sleep.”

  “Dang it, don’t yawn, or I’ll start in doin’ it,” Ned protested.

  George grinned, but sobered as he climbed into his saddle. “Let’s get goin’.”

  They found the Pitkin farm, as directed, and came upon several members of the family finishing morning chores before breakfast.

  “How do,” George called out, as he and Ned halted their horses in the yard. “Is this the Pitkin place?”

  “Howdy, strangers,” said an older man, looking the brothers over. “I’m Pitkin. You look like travelers.” He gestured for George and Ned to alight from their horses, and they did so. Three teenage boys gathered nearby.

  George offered his hand. Mr. Pitkin squeezed it in a farmer’s grip.

  “We are travelin’, sir,” George said, “hopin’ to catch up with the Bingham family. How long ago did they come through here?”

  “Well now,” said the farmer, eyeing George’s face. “That cut there on your cheek looks recent.” He paused, took a pipe out of his pocket, and stuck it in his mouth. “What puts you in mind that the Binghams passed by?”

  “I was at their home when they left Mount Jackson. I’m Miss Heppie’s beau, sir.”

  “Well now,” Mr. Pitkin repeated. “If you’re Miss Heppie’s beau, why aren’t you at her side in her adversity?”

  George felt himself flush. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and said, “I would have gone with the family, sir, except they left so sudden. I had obligations to take care of.”

  “Obligations.” The man chewed on the word, squinted at the sky, took the unlit pipe from his mouth, and put it in his pocket again. “Did you get shed of your obligations?”

  George nodded.

  “Someone chasing you?”

  “Yes sir. Three cashiered Yankee riders. They’re also after the Binghams.” George paused, and then added, “Robert Fletcher, mostly.”

  “Miss Hannah’s man.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  George nodded again.

  “By the age of his scars, you didn’t beat on each other.”

  “No sir.”

  Mr. Pitkin nodded in his turn, appeared to be satisfied, and said, “My sister and her kin came in six days ago. Spent a night and left. I gave them my extra pistol and a shotgun. I figured they had more need of them than I do.” He abruptly turned on his heel, then stopped and threw over his shoulder, “Want breakfast?”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” said Ned. “If it’s no trouble to the missus, we’d be pleased to join you for a bite.”

  They left before noon, fortified by a solid country breakfast and a couple of hours of sleep.

  ~~~

  About a week into their travels, the brothers arrived at a small stream just before the sun went down. Exhausted, they made camp, keeping a good distance from a fire that told of other people nearby.

  “Do you reckon they’re friendly?” George asked.

  Ned snorted. “I don’t propose to find out. Mind you, give them plenty of space to move around.”

  “A man can’t be too careful about his neighbors,” George agreed. He arose from where he’d been scraping a bare spot for a fire. “I’ll bring in some wood.” Before Ned could offer a caution, he added, “Yes, I’
ll be wary.”

  George ranged about in the half light until he located a dry limb as thick as his arm. He put his foot in the center and lifted one end. It broke into two lengths with a snap. Somewhere behind him, a voice drew in a sharp breath, followed by, “Luke, is that you?” The voice was young, and female.

  He whirled around. A bush screened most of a female’s figure from his sight, but he could see a part of her skirt spread against the ground. “Sorry, ma’am, no, I’m not Luke. I’ll be going on now.” He turned away, his face burning at interrupting the girl at her private task.

  The skirt rustled, then the voice came again, clearly Southern, not frightened, not embarrassed. A little amused. “You sound like someone my sister would like to see. Hmm, maybe not. She’s riled that you prefer your cows over her.”

  George couldn’t move. His arms had gone stiff as stone. His legs refused to shift to let him face the girl. He tried his jaw. It moved. “Miss Jessie?” he guessed. In case he was wrong, he tried again. “Miz Fletcher? Did we find you?”

  “I’m Jessie. What took you so long, Mr. Heizer?”

  Chapter 7

  Heppie could scarcely believe the news Jessie brought her. George had come. Heppie smiled. He had followed her after all. He did love her! She’d started off to greet him, but Ma interrupted, fussing about getting the evening meal together in a hurry.

  Heppie’s fingers seemed to belong to someone else as she tried to do her part in carving venison steaks from the deer her brother had come across and shot just as they made camp. What would she say to George? Should she maintain her grievance against him, or should she welcome him with all her heart? Following several mishaps, and after she’d fumbled a chunk of the meat off the cutting board and into the grass, her mother thrust her to one side and gave her a different task: to clean up the wooden mixing bowl.

  “You can’t possibly hurt that, Heppie,” Mrs. Bingham had said, irritation sharpening her voice. “Jessie, put this meat in the frying pan. No, you’ll have to wash it a mite first. At least brush the dirt and grass off.”

  “Ma, I didn’t mean to—” Heppie began, but her mother cut her off.

  “Luke brought down that deer by the grace of Providence, and we need every last shred of the meat. Especially now that the Heizer boys have joined us.”

  Heppie sighed. Ma was going to talk all night about her clumsiness. As if that wouldn’t make her all the more bungle fingered. All she could hope for was that George would pay Ma no mind. If Heppie forgave him, surely he would cast his thoughts on the future, and not on Ma’s speech. Heppie smiled and played with a curl of hair that hung down her cheek. George was going to want to get married now that he had caught up with her.

  She took a deep breath. Married! She thought of his broad shoulders and long arms. He would put those arms around her, cuddle her to his chest, maybe kiss her. She exhaled, her lips burning at the thought of kissing George. What else did married folks do? She knew very little of their amorous ways. Surely they didn’t behave like mating animals! She shrugged. Hannah hadn’t shared that part of her life. Heppie only knew about the occasions back in Mount Jackson when she’d caught her sister glowing with happiness after spending time alone with Robert. Being married must be … pleasurable.

  Heppie dropped the bowl, startling herself back to reality. George might have come after her … no, them … well, maybe her, but he took his sweet time, and that proved she was second on his list of importance. No, make that third, she thought as she stooped to pick the bowl out of the weeds. First the cows, next, his brother. I come third!

  Determined to punish George for his disloyalty, Heppie scowled all during supper, not once looking at him. She gave him the cold shoulder whenever he tried to make conversation with her. She frowned as she washed dishes. She wondered how on earth she was going to avoid him after cleanup was finished. Maybe she shouldn’t avoid him. Maybe she should give him a piece of her mind, straight out. She attacked a pot with her brush, glaring into the dishpan.

  “Heppie?”

  Heppie jumped and dropped the brush. She knew that voice behind her, deep and resonant. She hunched her shoulders for a moment, then relaxed them, took her hands out of the water, wiped them on her apron, and faced George.

  “George Heizer,” she began, “you are a scoundrel!” She called him several other names.

  He seemed concerned, but not repentant.

  “That’s not all. I don’t know why you have the nerve to come after me when it’s obvious to a pumpkin that you don’t give me any thought.” She half turned away, then faced him again. He stared back at her, almost somber, but strangely steadfast. He wasn’t hanging his head under her onslaught of bitter words, scuffing the dirt, or fingering the poor little remnant of his ear. He should look more beaten down.

  The resin in a log at the campfire flared up. Bright light played on George’s face for a moment. He did look beaten down, physically. He had a cut on his cheek and discoloration around one eye, and his lips seemed to be misshapen. Heppie took in a quick breath and almost reached out to him before her anger overcame her again.

  “How dare you come all this way to bother me with your protestations of love!” She resisted stomping her foot, feeling guilty that he hadn’t, in fact, had a chance to make any such protestations since arriving. “And you brought your brother! I’d have thought you would leave him behind to tend your cows.”

  “You’re throwing it in my face that I chose my brother over you.” George’s voice was so soft that Heppie strained to hear it. “Ain’t it a fact you chose Hannah over me?” George bent his head and looked at the toes of his boots. He raised his eyes to look at Heppie again. “It appears we’ve both made mistakes.”

  Heppie sucked in her breath as her thoughts whirled. What was George saying? Her legs went mushy and she needed to sit down, but she steeled herself and stayed on her feet, although she swayed a bit.

  “So I’m a pot calling the kettle black?” Heppie’s hand went to her mouth. She’d said that too forcefully, too much like a challenge, when she’d meant it as a confession. She bit her lip, wanting to call the words back. A deep sense of sorrow engulfed her, making her shiver.

  George stepped forward. He looked haggard, drawn down to a fine strand. He took her by the upper arms and held her still.

  “That’s enough! The cows are dead, the barn got burned, and the house is a shell. Those Yankee riders got thrown out of the army for”—he made a deprecating movement of his head—“beatin’ me some, and they’re comin’ after Robert and y’all.” He took a breath, and Heppie thought he grew taller. “Maybe I did wrong to stay behind, to put my brother and my animals over you. I’ve regretted that choice every day since you left. Every moment was misery, knowin’ I’d lost you. That hurt more than the broken ribs.” He let his hands fall from Heppie’s arms and turned away as though he’d said too much.

  Heppie touched his sleeve, and he turned back, his eyes burning with reflected firelight.

  George stared at her, long moments passing before he spoke in a low tone. “I’m here now, come to save your life if I can. And marry you at the next town, if you’ll have me.”

  Joy thrummed through her like a plucked fiddle string. She moved toward him, and his arms encircled her, those long, strong arms she’d been thinking about. He loves me, she thought. As much as a practical man can. I reckon that’s enough love for now.

  He held her still, not moving, and she realized he waited for her reply.

  “Yes, George,” she said, and wondered that her voice trembled. “If you can abide my mistakes and forgive me for them, I’ll gladly have you.”

  ~~~

  Once they knew they were being followed, the Bingham party traveled on as quickly as they could. Hannah had recovered her strength enough to walk behind the wagon. The day after George and Ned found them, Robert strode along beside her, carrying a rifle. From time to time she glanced over at her husband’s grave face.

  “Do you reckon they�
��ll catch up to us soon?” she asked.

  Robert looked at Hannah, then directed his gaze forward again.

  “It’s likely. George said he and his brother were just a bit ahead of them.” He turned to look back at the road they’d already traveled. “That’s why they’re riding behind us. They’re what you call a rear guard.”

  Hannah tried to swallow the tightness in her throat. “What will they do to me for killing that … man?” Nausea built in her as she remembered the shock to her arms, to her whole body as her attacker’s body hit the tines of the pitchfork. She wanted to clutch Robert or fling herself into his embrace for safety, and wondered if she would be able to stand having his arms around her. She fought with her fear and revulsion and kept walking.

  “Hannah,” Robert said. His voice was so tender that Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. Robert paused for a long time before speaking again. “First of all, they’re not going to do anything to you. We have four armed men, counting Luke. There are only three of them.”

  Hannah looked sideways at Robert. He must be clenching his teeth, she thought. His jaw muscles are bunched up like grapes.

  “But you’re worried?” she asked. The rhythm of her breathing increased with her anxiety, until Robert laid his hand on her hair.

  “Concerned,” he admitted. A shadow of a smile flitted over his mouth. “A man would be crazy not to have some reservations about a coming fight.” His fingers dropped to Hannah’s cheek and stroked it. “They don’t know anything about your part. They think I killed that monster.”

  Hannah shivered, both at the venom in Robert’s quiet voice and at his touch. He hated that man called Red. He surely must hate what had happened to her. Did he still love her? She stared at the tailgate of the wagon as Robert removed his hand. His actions said he did, but his voice was so … bitter, and he hadn’t tried to share any physical intimacies since—