Owen Family Saga Box Set: Books 1-3

by Ward, Marsha

  She shivered again. How will Robert feel when he finds out that vicious cur planted his seed in me? He won’t be able to love me when he learns of it. How can I keep this horrible baby a secret?

  A noise from behind brought Hannah out of her thoughts. She looked back, but it was only Ned Heizer on the road. The riotous curls of his yellow hair made a halo around his somber face. Her spine prickled with dread of the battle that would engulf them. The Yankees were coming.

  ~~~

  The first hint that the riders had caught up to them came in the afternoon with the sound of rifle fire from back down the turnpike. Robert and Luke got the wagon stopped and pulled off into a screening stand of trees and brush. Luke unhooked the team from the wagon tongue, swatted the near horse on the rump, and the animals ran off.

  The firing moved closer, but came sporadically. Robert got the shotgun from the rear of the wagon and handed it to Mrs. Bingham with a few words of instruction. He swept his arm toward the forest. “Ladies, get into the woods. Keep out of sight. George and Ned are bringing the fight to us.”

  “Robert—” Hannah started to say something, but he cut her off.

  “Run, Hannah!”

  Robert and Luke hunkered down behind what little shelter the wagon box gave them. “Don’t fire until George and Ned are clear,” Robert said. “If you can’t get a good bead on a man, shoot his horse and bring it down. A moving man is a hard target.”

  Luke’s voice shook when he answered, “I ain’t shot a man before.”

  Robert felt as though his words would strangle him. “These are monsters. When you aim, think on what their buddy did to your sister.”

  Luke swallowed hard and nodded. He whispered, “Is she going to be all right?”

  Robert didn’t answer for a minute. Outwardly, Hannah looked the same. She had begun to eat better. Her bruises were healing. However, the light hadn’t come back into her eyes. Instead, she looked haunted by bad memories. It’s going to take time, he thought. He cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know yet. Keep a good watch down that pike.”

  Hooves pounded. A bullet whizzed through the air. George came down the road, whipping the reins against his horse’s flank. Ned was close behind, but turned and fired his sidearm before he approached Robert and Luke’s position.

  George pulled up his horse and vaulted to the ground where the wagon had turned off. He shoved his animal in the direction of the trees, then flopped to the ground behind a bush. “There’s still three of them,” he shouted to Robert. “I winged one, but he didn’t fall.”

  Robert nodded. Luke screamed beside him, “Look out! Look out!” Ned wheeled his horse toward the forest. Luke’s rifle boomed as three horsemen came into view.

  One of the three horses faltered and bucked sideways, trying to unseat its rider. The man fell, but one foot didn’t clear the stirrup, and the horse dragged him by, screaming.

  “He’s your lookout, Luke,” Robert said. The boy turned and stood, bringing his rifle to his shoulder. The weapon spoke again. Luke raised his voice in an imitation of the rebel yell, then shouted, “I got him!”

  The other two riders turned their horses in the road and sought shelter. Robert fired, but the bullet didn’t find the target. He berated himself for wasting his shot, then ducked at evidence that one of the riders had taken up a position and thought well of shooting him. A yelp behind him made him turn. Luke lay sprawled on the side of the road. His hand flew up to clasp his left arm above the elbow. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  George ran to the boy and dragged him into the brush. “I’ll tend him,” he called to Robert. “Ned, where are you?”

  “Shh,” came a soft response.

  Robert squinted into the dust raised by the horses. Where had the two remaining men gone? He thought he saw movement in the woods to the left of where the men had turned off the road. Was that one of the men, or both? His stomach cramped with tension as time passed and the lull in the shooting grew longer. Where were the Yankees? Were they hunkered down as he was, or had they chosen to creep closer under cover of the trees? His back was exposed if the men passed his position. Did it matter where he was? Should he move? No, he wouldn’t be able to spot movement down the turnpike if he abandoned his post. But who would choose to charge down the middle of the road into the rifle fire of your enemy? He wouldn’t, and the men had already gone into the protection of the forest. Maybe it would be best to retrench back in the trees.

  Robert lowered his weapon, and was in the act of shifting his feet to move when the shot came from across the road and down a piece, cutting a splinter of wood loose from the tailboard of the wagon.

  He jerked his rifle to his shoulder and shot in the direction of the muzzle blast. One of the men in his party—Ned, maybe?—shot back as well.

  An enraged cry came from a Yankee. Was he hit? He didn’t fire again, and Robert took that moment to remove himself from the side of the wagon and back into the woods.

  He came upon George, crouched beside Luke. The boy’s arm bore a crude bandage and splints made from segments of tree branches.

  “How is he?” Robert asked.

  “His arm’s broke, but he’ll live.”

  Robert nodded and looked around for Ned. Soon he spotted him to his right. Ned raised his hand and motioned toward the Yankee across the road. Taking the movement as a question, Robert shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. There was no telling if the Yankee was injured or not.

  ~~~

  Jessie knelt in a circle of oak trees, her eyes darting from the direction of the road to her mother and sisters. Ma stood upright, her back to a tree, holding the shotgun so tightly in front of her face that her knuckles were white. Hannah and Heppie huddled together, their arms around each other. The men will protect us, Jessie thought. There are four of them now.

  An errant thought flashed into her mind. I’m glad I’m wearing this light-colored dress. It doesn’t stick out like Ma’s widow’s weeds. She looked down at her skirt, sprigs of flowers aligned in rows on a tan background. She shook her head slightly. What on earth does it matter what I’m wearing? she chided herself. Three hell-raising Yankees are after us and I’m thinking about my clothing? She looked at Ma again. The black clothes would be visible for a long distance.

  A crashing noise in the woods behind them brought Jessie to her feet. She turned around to face the sound, aware that one of her sisters had caught her by the ankle.

  “Leave go!” she said, shaking her foot at the same time as she tried to stay upright on her other.

  “What is it, Jessie?” Hannah said in a wailing voice.

  “Let me go so I can give attention to finding out,” she said, hopping to keep her balance. As soon as her sister turned her loose, she said, “Ma, give me the shotgun and sit down!”

  Her face white, her mother obediently handed her the weapon and sank into a heap.

  Jessie lifted the shotgun until the barrels faced in the direction of the noise. Someone was walking toward them through the trees, and whoever it was didn’t care how much racket he made. In a few moments, she would be able to see who it was.

  She felt the strain in her arms and her back of keeping the weapon in position. Sweat dripped off the tip of her nose. Out of the corner of her eye she sensed movement within the circle of the oak trees, but didn’t dare glance down to see what her sisters were doing. Someone was coming, and he probably wasn’t one of their traveling party.

  What if it’s someone who lives around here? She thought. Maybe he heard the shooting and is coming to investigate. Dread of shooting a stranger filled her chest, squeezing her windpipe nearly closed.

  A large man stepped out of the cover of the nearest copse of trees. His black-bearded face was familiar, seared into her memory by the tobacco-spitting incident in the street. “Bull!” slipped from between her lips like a swear word. She bit her lower lip to prevent saying more. This man wasn’t a stranger come to see what was happening on his lands. This man had spit
on Southern women, beaten Heppie’s George, and now he was surely coming to hurt as many of them as he could.

  In the next instant, a malevolent grin splitting the man’s scruffy beard told Jessie he had seen her and the other women.

  “Yep,” he said, almost chortling in his glee, “we found you, all right. This is going to be fun.” His voice became more threatening as he lifted his rifle in his hands. “Sort of a memorial for my brother, Red. I hope he got his licks in before that banker killed him.” His voice turned into a snarl as he took notice of the shotgun in Jessie’s hands. “Put down that scattergun, little lady. It won’t stop me.”

  Jessie tightened her grip. Mr. Fletcher had told Ma to aim low and squeeze the triggers. She could do that.

  The man advanced toward the circle of oaks, speaking in a wheedling tone of voice. “Give me the gun, sweetheart. It’ll break your shoulder. You don’t want a broken shoulder, now, do you?”

  Better a broken shoulder than the horror your kin dealt to my sister, she thought.

  The man put out his left hand, reaching for the shotgun, saying, “Give me the gun, sugar! I got a better plan for you.”

  Jessie’s eyes locked on the man’s leering face. He wanted to impose the same indignities on her as his brother had on Hannah. She squeezed both triggers and felt herself being thrown backward as the man disappeared from her view. The metallic smell of blood filled her nostrils, and she knew for certain the man named Bull was not a threat to her or her sisters any longer.

  ~~~

  Ned heard the blast of the shotgun and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the noise. He half rose to his feet and looked back at Robert. “You get that one across the road,” he shouted, then spun around and sprinted into the trees.

  “Jessie,” he cried out, wondering at the vehemence in his voice. He dodged a hanging tree branch and leaped over a downed log. A woman’s high-pitched shriek came from ahead, and he adjusted his course, weaving between the trees as he ran. Someone ran behind him, but he figured it had to be George or maybe Robert, and he didn’t look around. At last he could see the women, sheltered by oak trees. None were standing, and he increased his speed, drawn by the sharp wails made by one of them.

  “Jessie, Miss Jessie,” he called. In five more steps he skidded to a halt. Jessie lay on her back, blood spotting her dress. She clutched the shotgun with one hand and rubbed her shoulder with the other, while her sisters and mother crowded together, arms about each other. One of the twins continued to wail.

  At that moment, Ned saw the mangled remains of a body on the opposite side of the tree circle. He shuddered at the nearness of the carnage and turned to stare at Jessie.

  “He came so close,” he said, the tightness of his throat almost strangling him. Jessie was trying to sit upright, and Ned took her hand to help her. Once she got situated, Ned reached for the shotgun. Jessie let it go without a word.

  “That blood?” he asked, motioning to her dress. “Is any of it yours?”

  Jessie shook her head. She didn’t seem able to talk yet.

  George came through the trees and went immediately to Heppie, quieting her outcry. Mrs. Bingham turned her loose, gathering Hannah to her bosom.

  “Stay low,” Ned said. “There’s still one other man alive out there, but Mr. Fletcher’s seeing to him.”

  “Luke?” Jessie whispered. She rubbed her neck.

  George answered. “He took a slug through the arm. It’s broken because he fell wrong when he went down, but he’ll mend.”

  Ned removed Jessie’s hand from her neck. “Do you mind if I test out your shoulder for injury?” he asked.

  Jessie turned wide eyes to look at him. “He said”—she took a gulp of air—“he said it would break my shoulder. Maybe he was right. It hurts pretty fair.”

  “Let me check,” Ned said. At Jessie’s nod, he felt along the bones of her arm and shoulder with gentle fingers. Finally he smiled and patted her arm with great care. “No broken bones. You’ll bruise up and probably hurt like you do now for several days, but there are no broken bones.”

  Jessie must have been holding her breath, for she let out a long, shaky sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Heizer.”

  “You called me Ned back in school days.”

  Jessie slid a glance toward Mrs. Bingham and then looked back at Ned. “That was when we were children. Ma would take a switch to me if I did that now.”

  Ned chuckled. “Don’t let her hear you.” The smile she gave him warmed his soul.

  ~~~

  Robert looked at Ned running toward the sound of the shotgun blast. He’s got the situation in hand, he thought. I’ve got someone to worry about across the road.

  He squinted through the brush but could detect no movement. He crouched and sidestepped to his left until he reached Luke’s position.

  “How are you doing?” he whispered to the young man.

  Luke looked up, his face white. “It hurts a mite, but Mr. Heizer says I’ll live.”

  “Good lad.” Robert motioned down the road. “How far is your man?”

  “About two hundred feet. The horse quit dragging him when it fell over dead.”

  “I’m going there to check.”

  “The Yankee’s dead.”

  “Good. Making sure will give me a chance to get on the other side of the road.”

  “Oh.” Luke nodded.

  As Robert left Luke with a pat he heard, “Be careful.”

  Both man and horse were indeed dead. Robert crossed the road and started toward the spot from which the last Yankee had fired. He heard thrashing sounds. Huffing. Snorts. Not the man. He slowed his pace, peering into the underbrush before he changed position.

  After a time, he came upon the horse, down on its side, barely moving. He gave it a pat and looked around warily. A breeze came through the trees, blowing against his face, bringing with it an acrid odor.

  The man must be down. He’s fouled himself. He continued in the direction of the smell, using the trees and bushes for cover. A few steps farther along, he spotted the Yankee propped against a tree trunk. He held his belly with blood-stained hands. The ground beside him was discolored with red pools.

  Robert stayed where he was until he located the man’s rifle. It lay out of reach in a blackberry bush, so he approached the man, watching for sudden movement toward a hidden weapon.

  “What’s your name?” Robert asked, standing over the mortally wounded Yankee.

  “Jace Foster.” He squinted at Robert. “What’s yours?”

  “Robert Fletcher.” He looked around for the man’s canteen. Instead, he found a flask half full of liquor. He squatted and held it to the man’s lips.

  Foster slowly took a sip, then spoke in a whisper. “You’re the damned murderer we came after?” His drawn-out words spoke of coming death.

  Robert shook his head. “He died in a fair fight. If it soothes your sensibilities any, I would have killed him for what he did to my wife.”

  “You killed me.” Foster’s voice faltered.

  Robert considered for a long time. “Maybe I did.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe it was Heizer’s bullet.”

  “Which brother?”

  “The Yankee.”

  Foster choked, and blood spilled from the corners of his mouth. When he could speak again, he asked, “Where are my buddies?”

  “You’re the only one left.”

  “Finish me off!”

  “No.”

  “I’ll bleed to death.”

  Robert swirled the flask. “You’d better drink this down. It’ll take the edge off the pain.”

  “Slit my throat. You’d do it for a dog.”

  “No. But when you’re gone, I’ll do it for your horse.”

  With a burst of energy, Foster reached for the liquor. He tipped the flask, rinsed his mouth, and spat. Then he drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a steady rhythm. When he had drained the container, he threw it away and slumped forward.

  Robert watched for a
long time, but when Foster didn’t right himself, he touched the man’s neck. Then he walked away, drawing his knife.

  ~~~

  When the riders were buried, Robert called the group together around Luke, who sat propped against a tree trunk.

  “I don’t want us to camp here for the night. My question to you is which way do we go, now that those … men are dead?”

  Hannah asked, “What do you mean, ‘which way’?”

  “Do we go back to Virginia, or continue west?” He motioned with his head toward the common grave they’d dug back in the woods and filled with the remains of the Yankees. “They’re not a threat to us now. We could go back.” Robert looked at the somber faces around him. “Each of you has a vote. It’s ‘Virginia’ if you want to go back, and ‘west’ if you want to go on.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then gestured down the road. “Let me say it’s a long journey to New Mexico Territory, and right now we’re ill prepared for such an undertaking.”

  No one said anything, so Robert continued. “We’ll start with Mrs. Bingham. What’s your vote, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Bingham looked down at her hands, clasping the edges of her apron. “West,” she whispered. “Let’s join Max.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “West!”

  “Miss Hepzibah?”

  Heppie looked at George, then down at her toes. Finally, she said, “West.”

  “Miss Jessica?”

  “I want to go west.”

  “Master Lucas?”

  The boy shifted his broken arm with his other hand. “I reckon Ma needs me. West.”

  “I vote to go west,” Robert said, and turned to the Heizer brothers. “Mr. Ned?”

  Ned glanced at Jessie, and said “West,” with an emphatic nod of his head.

  “Mr. George?”

  George reached for Heppie’s hand and drew her toward him. “I’ve asked Miss Heppie to marry me, and she has agreed. I’ll go west with her.”

  “It’s decided. Let’s hitch up the team.”

  Chapter 8

  Ned offered to drive the wagon in Luke’s stead. “The youngster can’t handle the lines with that busted wing,” he reminded Mrs. Bingham. “If he’s careful, he can ride my horse. If he’d rather, he can sit in the wagon.” He looked around for Jessie. “Miss Jessie should ride until her shoulder stops hurting so much.”