Wyoming Bride

by Joan Johnston

  Flint glanced at his brother and said, “You went along with this harebrained idea?”

  “Didn’t seem too crazy to me,” Ransom said. “We have no way of knowing how long this good weather will last. Might as well take advantage of it to get some shopping done.”

  “And I want to send off a letter to Miranda,” Hannah said. She sat her ungainly bulk down on the chair next to Flint, put her hand on his, looked into his eyes, and said, “Please, Flint?”

  Maybe he could have said no if she’d made it a demand. But there was no way he could deny her when she was asking him so prettily. Besides, he needed some paint to dress up the cradle he’d made as a Christmas gift for her, which he could pick up in Cheyenne.

  “All right, fine. You can go.”

  “Yes!” She rose immediately, kissed him on the cheek, and then waddled like a duck toward the stairs.

  Emaline followed after her and turned to call back, “We’ll be ready to go in the shake of a lamb’s tail.”

  “You realize this is a bad idea,” Flint said to his brother.

  Ransom shrugged. “They’ll be with everyone else’s wives. I don’t expect they’ll be in any danger.”

  “Not at the meeting. What about after? We’ll still have to get from Hoot’s ranch to Cheyenne. Then we’ll be in town overnight. If Patton gets mad enough, it could mean a lot of trouble for us.”

  “Better to face that trouble in town, where we’ll have witnesses, than out here at the ranch,” Ransom said.

  Flint knew his brother was right. If they were going to be ambushed, it wasn’t going to happen in town. It was the trip home that was worrying him. “You don’t think it’s crazy to take two pregnant women on a two- or three-day trip each way in the middle of December?”

  Ransom grinned. “Crazy as a loon, but I wasn’t going to tell my wife no, and it looks like you couldn’t say no to yours, either.”

  Flint smiled. “No, I couldn’t.”

  “We’re ready,” Hannah announced as she came waddling back into the kitchen with Emaline right behind her.

  “That was fast,” Flint said.

  The two women exchanged a conspiratorial look that told Flint they’d been planning to make the trip all along. He should have felt resentful at being manipulated. But the delighted smile on Hannah’s face, and the appearance of her dimples, kept him from regretting his decision. It felt good to make her happy. He wasn’t going to examine his feelings for his wife any more closely than that.

  Since the weather stayed clear, they ended up camping their first night on the road. They rose early the next morning to finish their journey, and the rest of the trip to Hoot Beaumont’s ranch was filled with lively chatter from the women.

  Flint’s mind was only half on what Hannah and Emaline were saying. The other half was focused on how and when he should accuse Ashley Patton of being a cattle thief as well as selling guns to the Indians.

  The other ranchers hadn’t yet seen the evidence Flint possessed. He had a letter from Colonel Simmons documenting how many cows with doctored brands had been butchered at the fort. He also had the colonel’s written response from the New Haven Arms Company regarding Patton’s order for a dozen Winchester ’73s.

  “Flint, we have a problem,” Ransom said.

  Flint was surprised to discover how far ahead of the buckboard he’d ridden. He stopped Buck and asked, “Are the women all right?”

  “Hannah’s having labor pains.”

  “Damn! I was a fool to let her come.” He reacted with anger because that kept him from revealing to his brother how terrified he felt. “Are we sure it’s the real thing?” he said as he turned his horse back toward the wagon.

  Ransom shrugged. “I don’t know any more about this than you do. Em’s scared.”

  “How’s Hannah?”

  “I’m fine,” Hannah answered. She placed a hand on her belly and said, “I’m not sure it’s labor pains, Flint. I just mentioned to Em that I had some twinges.”

  Flint felt sick to his stomach. If this was labor, it was bad news. Babies who weren’t fully formed didn’t often survive. “You sure about the date you got pregnant?” he asked bluntly.

  Hannah glared at him. “I know what day I got married. I guess I know when I got pregnant!”

  Flint stared at her. He couldn’t believe what she seemed to be saying. She’d gotten pregnant on her wedding night? How could she know she hadn’t gotten pregnant after that? Unless she hadn’t had sex after that. It hardly seemed possible, but it wasn’t something he could—or would—ever ask her about. Instead he said, “How hard are the contractions?”

  “Not very,” Hannah replied.

  “So maybe it isn’t labor,” he said. But if it was, they were going to need help. “Let’s get where we’re going. Maybe one of the ladies at the meeting can tell us more.”

  And deliver the baby if that became necessary.

  “False labor,” Wilhelmina Beaumont announced.

  Flint had never heard two more comforting words. “Thank God. Is Hannah all right?”

  “Your wife’s fine, Flint. She’s resting in my bedroom,” Wilhelmina said. “We’ll do our quilting upstairs today and keep Hannah company. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

  “Is it safe for her to travel on to Cheyenne after the meeting?” Flint asked. “We were planning to spend the night there.”

  “What twinges she had have stopped,” Wilhelmina said. “So I don’t see why not. That’s a strong girl you have there.”

  “May I talk to her?”

  “Sure. We’ll all finish up our coffee and tea cakes down here and give you a little privacy before we head upstairs.”

  Flint took the stairs to Hoot Beaumont’s bedroom two at a time. When he got to the door, he was strangely nervous. He knocked softly, and Hannah called, “Come in.”

  He opened the door and found her sitting up in an enormous bed with a fancy canopy set on four carved posts. She was wearing one of Wilhelmina’s voluminous nightgowns and was sitting upright with several pillows stacked behind her. A cheery fire crackled in a river rock fireplace.

  “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” she said, her eyelids dropping so her lashes sat on her freckled cheeks. She looked bashful and vulnerable. “I really thought it was labor.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t,” Flint said. “Wilhelmina says you’ll be well enough to travel to Cheyenne after the meeting is done.”

  She lifted her gaze to his timidly, and Flint felt his heart take an unexpected leap. “I wanted to be downstairs to hear how things went,” she said.

  “I’ll tell you everything later,” he replied.

  “Why are you standing so far away?”

  Flint realized he was still poised right inside the door. He closed the distance to the bed and sat down beside Hannah. She reached out her hand, and he took it. His heart began to romp in his chest. “I was worried about you,” he admitted.

  She smiled. “I was worried about the baby. I’m glad to know she’s going to be staying put for a while longer.”

  “It made me realize I should probably send you somewhere to stay this last month where there’s a doctor to deliver the baby, either to town or the fort.”

  She shook her head. “Our daughter is going to be born at home. You’re going to deliver her.”

  Flint felt sweat break out on his forehead. It wasn’t heat from the fire, because where he sat, the air was chilly. “I don’t know squat about delivering babies, Hannah.”

  “I’ll find out everything we need to know before I leave here today. I’m sure the ladies can tell me all the important things. Emaline can help, too.”

  Flint wondered how much help Emaline would be, considering her fear of childbirth. He hadn’t minded nursing Hannah when she was a stranger. Now that he was falling in love with her—or maybe already had fallen in love with her—he was terrified of doing the wrong thing and causing harm.

  “What if something goes wrong?” he asked.

&n
bsp; “Then a doctor wouldn’t be much use, would he?”

  “Hannah, I don’t want to lose you.”

  She closed her eyes, leaned back against the pillows, and sighed. “I know. That would be difficult for you, I’m sure.”

  He knew what she was thinking, that if she died, he would no longer have a wife as a buffer between himself and Emaline. He felt his heart squeeze. He wanted to tell her that that wasn’t why he would miss her, but he didn’t think she would believe him. So he remained silent. How could he prove his feelings had changed?

  Only by loving her.

  He leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth. If only he could convince her he loved her. If only she could learn to love him in return. Life would be so … He wasn’t sure what word would properly fill in that blank. Wonderful? Happy? Satisfying? Special? All of the above.

  “Get some rest, Hannah. If you’re not feeling well later, we can always stay here for the night.”

  She opened her eyes, sat up straight, and smiled at him. “I’m already feeling better. The only reason I’m in bed is because Wilhelmina insisted on it.”

  The smile, which showed no signs of the twin dimples that appeared when she was truly happy, made his gut wrench because he knew it was meant only to soothe his worries. She didn’t want to be a bother. He wanted her to know she was no bother at all. That for her, he would carry the world on his shoulders. All she had to do was ask.

  But Hannah wasn’t asking for anything from him. Especially not his love.

  “Wilhelmina is worth listening to, Hannah. She’s borne and raised a bunch of healthy kids.”

  Hannah pursed her lips. “All right. I’ll stay here and rest. Promise me you’ll come get me when you’re done, and that we’ll go to Cheyenne tonight, so I can mail my letter to Miranda.”

  “Only if you’re feeling—”

  “I’m fine!” she snapped. She huffed out a breath and said, “Really, I am. I hate all this fuss. I want to be downstairs with the other ladies.”

  She wasn’t fine, or she wouldn’t be so irritable. She must be more tired than she was letting on. Thank goodness she would be able to rest this afternoon. “They’re all going to be up here in a minute,” he said, “so you’ll have plenty of company. I’ve got to go, Hannah.”

  He rose and glanced down at her. She looked flushed and beautiful and very desirable lying in that big bed. He felt himself becoming aroused and turned away so she wouldn’t see.

  “Flint,” she called after him.

  He turned to look at her over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Don’t get yourself killed.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll do my best to stay alive. See you later, Hannah.”

  He supposed it was a good thing that she didn’t want to have to find another husband. It meant she wasn’t going anywhere before he had a chance to woo her properly.

  Flint hurried down the stairs and joined the ranchers who’d congregated in the parlor. The women were bidding their husbands good-bye and heading toward the stairs. He perched on the arm of the chair where Ransom was sitting, waiting for all the ladies to vacate the room. When they were gone, twelve men remained, including Ashley Patton.

  Because Sam Tucker wasn’t a member, he wasn’t allowed to attend Association meetings. But Flint had seen Tucker’s horse tied up near Hoot Beaumont’s bunkhouse, which meant the gunslinger was close by. Flint figured there wasn’t much risk of physical harm from Patton or his gunman at Hoot’s house. The danger would come after they left, somewhere between here and Cheyenne.

  Ransom held the saddlebags that contained the double-branded pieces of hide from cows slaughtered at the fort, a letter from Colonel Simmons confirming that he’d collected the strips of hide, and the colonel’s letter from the New Haven Arms Company regarding Ashley Patton’s recent purchase of Winchester ’73s.

  “What you got there, Ransom?” Hoot asked as the men settled around the parlor in wing chairs and sofas and an upright piano bench.

  “Evidence,” Ransom replied. He handed the saddlebags to Flint, who would present their case to the Association.

  There was an immediate hubbub among the gathered men, who turned to one another to speculate on what Ransom had meant. Flint found Patton staring straight at him, his lips pressed flat, his eyes narrowed.

  “Why don’t you call the meeting to order, Hoot,” Flint said. “Then I can make my case.”

  “This isn’t a courtroom,” Patton said.

  “Hoot?” Flint said.

  “I call the December meeting of the Laramie County Stock Association to order. Warren, will you read the minutes from the previous meeting?”

  “I move that we waive the reading of the minutes,” one of the members interjected, “and hear what Flint has to say.”

  After the majority voted to waive the minutes, Hoot said, “Don’t have any old business to take care of, which leads me to ask if there’s any new business.

  Flint?”

  Flint fumbled at the buckle on the side of the saddlebags but finally got it open. He reached inside to collect the two letters, which he set on the coffee table in front of him. Then he unbuckled the other side and pulled out numerous squares of cowhide. He stood and draped the saddlebags over the arm of the chair where he’d been sitting. He handed half the squares to Ransom, then fanned out the rest of them, skin side out, so the gathered men could see what the brands on each of the hides had originally been.

  “These are all brands from steers belonging to Association members in this room.” Then he turned the hides over to reveal the OOX brand on the other side. “These steers were delivered by Ashley Patton to Fort Laramie for slaughter, as part of his contract to supply beef to the fort.”

  Ransom held up the rest of the hides, turning them to show the incriminating hot-iron brands.

  The men rose almost as one and gathered around Flint and Ransom, claiming the strips of hide that held their brands.

  When they were done, John Holloway held four. Hoot Beaumont held two. Warren MacDougall held one. Jim Grayhawk held two. And Flint and Ransom were left with the last six.

  “This appears to be pretty damning evidence,” Hoot said as eleven men turned to confront Patton.

  “It might be, if I were responsible,” Patton said. “These two boys have had it out for me ever since I moved into the neighborhood. They’ve got the best water, and they’re determined not to share it.”

  That was news to Flint. There had never been any question of Patton using the Laramie River to water his beef. He realized it was a red herring to take focus away from the rustled cattle. Instead of commenting on the accusation, he said, “Are you suggesting we changed these brands?”

  “Who else?” Patton said.

  “To what purpose?” Flint demanded.

  “To give me a bad name,” Patton retorted. “To paint me as a thief.”

  Ransom said, “You are a thief. A liar and a thief.”

  “Those are strong words,” Hoot said.

  “How else do you explain all these changed brands?” Ransom argued.

  Hoot’s lined face looked harried. “What other evidence do you have that Ashley is responsible?” he asked Flint.

  “I have this letter from Colonel Simmons, confirming that these brands came from cattle delivered by Patton under his contract with the fort,” Flint said, picking up one of the letters from the table and handing it to Hoot.

  “Why would I take the chance of delivering stolen beef to the fort?” Patton asked.

  “Because you thought no one would check,” Flint said. “And that even if someone did, he wouldn’t dare confront you.”

  Patton’s face was flushed. His gaze darted around the room looking for support from other ranchers, but Flint could see he wasn’t getting it.

  “You’re all making a big mistake,” the accused man said.

  “You’re the one who made the mistake, Patton,” Flint said.

  “What’s that other letter,” Hoot asked, pointi
ng to the paper on the table.

  “More proof that Patton isn’t the good guy he pretends to be,” Flint said.

  “What does it say?” one of the ranchers asked.

  Flint read the letter aloud. It confirmed that Ashley Patton had bought a dozen brand-new Winchester ’73s from the New Haven Arms Company.

  “So what?” Patton said.

  “You only have a half-dozen cowhands,” Flint pointed out. “Most of whom have their own rifles. Why did you need a dozen Winchesters? More to the point, where are they now?”

  “At my ranch,” Patton blustered. “I need them for defense against the Sioux.”

  “I think you gave them to the Sioux,” Flint accused. “I think you’re the source of those brand-new rifles the Sioux have been using to raid the ranches around here.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie!” Patton said. “Another example of Creed producing false evidence. The son of a bitch is too lily-livered to face me on his own. He doctored those brands so you’d help him push me off land he wants for himself,” Patton snarled.

  Flint’s face turned white at the insult. He didn’t bother answering because the indictment was so obviously without merit.

  Then Patton added, “Which is exactly what you’d expect from a coward like Major Creed, who took his men and ran at the Battle of Cedar Creek.”

  Flint felt all eyes focus on him.

  “That’s a lie!” Ransom retorted. “Flint didn’t run, he retreated.”

  “Without orders to do so,” Patton said.

  Ransom said nothing to that.

  Flint wished his brother hadn’t come to his rescue. Ransom had only put meat on the bone Patton had thrown to the ranchers. He met the eyes of each of the other men, one at a time, and said, “You all know me. I’ve been a friend and neighbor for nine years. You know what the war was like. Nothing is that cut and dried.”

  He saw men look away and realized that whatever he said, it probably wouldn’t be enough to counter that ugly word. Coward. Nevertheless, he tried.