Comanche Rose

by Anita Mills

  "You coming, Annie?" Walker called out.

  "Mrs. Bryce isn't going anywhere in the middle of the night, Hap. Come on."

  Half walking, half dragging the drunk man, Will managed to get him up the steps and through the door. Her lips drawn into a thin line of disapproval, Cora followed them inside.

  "Do you want me to make coffee?" she asked.

  "I want to get him down first."

  Annie threw a dress over her nightgown and came out to the parlor. The big clock said seven minutes past three. "I'm sorry, truly sorry," she told the Sprengers. "I cannot think what got into him."

  "Rotgut," the surgeon muttered. "How much of the stuff did you drink?" he asked Hap.

  "Not enough."

  "Half a bottle?"

  "No."

  "More?"

  "Yeah. It's all gone."

  "You had the whole pint by yourself?"

  "More'n that," Hap muttered.

  Sprenger turned to his wife. "Must've been a fifth. You'd better get some milk—and bread and butter."

  Hap blinked, trying to focus his eyes on her. He lifted his hand, then let it fall. "I'm all right—just going home."

  "It's a good thing you put away all that fried chicken," the doctor told him. "Otherwise, you'd be poisoned. You trying to kill yourself?"

  "No." Slumping on the settee, Hap ran his hands through his hair, trying to think. He was beginning to feel sick. "I got to get home, Doc," he mumbled.

  The surgeon laid a hand on Hap's arm and said soothingly, "Why don't you lie down right here, and we'll throw a blanket over you? We'll talk about this in the morning."

  "Feel like hell." Shaking off Sprenger's hand, he looked up at Annie. "Got to get a wagon—can't—can't ride m'horse." He combed his hair again with his fingers. "Can't think right now."

  He looked more like an unruly boy than a man in his thirties. Yet in spite of his bleary eyes, he was obviously sincere about taking her with him. As Annie studied him, one corner of his mouth turned downward, making a silly, crooked smile.

  "Well? You coming?" he asked her. "You going to answer?"

  Cora returned with a tray and set it down on a table. "What is she supposed to say to a drunk who shows up at three o'clock in the morning?" she countered tartly. "She probably thinks you've lost your mind."

  His eyes still on Annie, he promised solemnly, "Take you to San Saba. Want to do it."

  "Annie, he's drunk," Cora said. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

  There was no question he'd had too much—or that he might not even remember the offer come morning. Still, she found herself nodding. "All right, as soon as you can drive a wagon."

  The smile broadened to an outright grin. "Good."

  "Annie, have you taken leave of your senses?" Cora demanded. "What if something happens? If an axle breaks or, well, neither of you is in any condition to deal with any kind of trouble. You are better advised to take the mail. Will, tell her—"

  "Oh, for God's sake, Cora! Let her humor him," he snapped.

  "No, I meant it," Annie said quietly. "When he's able, I'd like to go."

  "Will, this is nonsense."

  But her husband seemed to be mulling over the notion without discarding it outright. "Think you can handle a team of oxen, Hap?"

  "Yeah."

  "Will, he doesn't even know what you're asking him!"

  The major rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Well, I'd wait until mid-week at least, but I suppose if you'll take it easy—and if the weather doesn't turn bad again—you can make it. You'll have to stop and move that leg every now and then."

  "Will! He can barely walk. What if something happens?"

  "If I have to, I can drive a team of oxen," Annie spoke up. "I've done it once before, when Ethan bought me a piano in Austin. We took turns on the way home."

  Cora rounded on her. "And you've not regained your full strength, so I don't see how you even think you could control the beasts."

  "Leave her be, Cora. She knows her mind, and so does he."

  "Not right now he doesn't. Indeed, I'd be surprised if he knew his name," she countered archly. "Besides, there'll be talk. One female alone with one man—well, it just won't look right! At least with the mail, it could be said she bought passage."

  "There'll be talk, anyway. But right now you'd better get some of that milk down, Hap. And then we'll cover you up and let you sleep it off. Come morning, we can talk."

  It was too late for any milk. The whiskey was already roiling in Hap's stomach, and if he didn't get out of there, he was going to be sick on Cora Springer's floor. Clenching his teeth shut, he managed to mutter, "Thanks." Desperate now, he lurched from the settee and bolted for the door as fast as the leg would let him.

  "Will, you'd better go after him. He doesn't even have a coat!"

  "Leave him be, Cora. A man don't like to be bothered when his whiskey's coming up."

  "But—"

  "I'm going back to bed, and so are you. And if Mrs. Bryce has any sense, she'll follow the example." With that, he headed for their bedroom. "He'll be all right," he flung over his shoulder. "He's a damned fool, but he'll be all right."

  Outside, Hap caught the bar of the hitching post and hung his body over it. His head down, he retched, heaving as wave after wave of nausea hit him, emptying his stomach. Exhausted, he stayed there, sweat pouring from his face, until he was sure there was nothing left to come up. Finally, he caught his breath. Leaning down, he scooped a handful of dead grass and ran it over his face. When he straightened up, he felt like he might live a little longer. Come morning, he'd probably wish he hadn't.

  Shivering, he hunched his shoulders and limped unsteadily back to his room. Anne Bryce was probably thinking he'd lost his mind, but it didn't matter what she thought of him as long as she let him take her to San Saba. He owed her that much.

  CHAPTER 10

  After he sobered, it took him nearly two days to get rid of the hangover of his life. It was another sign he was getting past his prime, he supposed. There'd been a time in the not very distant past when he could have drunk a bottle down, then been up at dawn to follow a trail. Not anymore.

  He'd have felt a whole lot better if he hadn't made a damned fool of himself in front of Anne Bryce and the Sprengers, but despite his aching head he remembered most of what he'd said, enough to know he'd committed himself to taking Mrs. Bryce back to Texas. Not just committed, either—he'd insisted. All the way to San Saba. And San Saba was one hell of a long way from the Ybarra.

  But the weather remained mild, too warm for the latter half of November, and it hadn't snowed or rained since the norther twelve days before. And since he'd made up his mind to go, he figured it'd be better to make the trip sooner rather than later. The roads, even when dry, were hazardous—badly rutted and filled with stumps. When wet, they were damned near impassable. He knew seasoned bullwhackers who'd lost whole loads when they hit a bad place.

  On Wednesday he rode Old Red a mile or so down toward the reservation, making a final check of the road. It was a sort of trial for him, a test of whether he could sit the horse if he had to. Satisfied he could, he came back and told Annie they'd be leaving the next morning at dawn. That afternoon he proceeded to fit out a wagon for the hundred and twenty-three miles to Richardson, which was just the beginning. After that they still had to get to Griffin, then to Concho, following the military supply routes. For a man who could barely walk, he'd cut out a big job for himself.

  She'd questioned whether he was up to a journey of such distance, pricking his pride. Despite his own misgivings, he declared he was going to Texas with or without her. Satisfied, she packed up, promising to be ready when he came for her.

  It hadn't taken her long to throw two donated dresses, one of Cora's old chemises, a petticoat, three pair of drawers, and the ugly red flannel nightgown into the borrowed carpet bag. With a hairbrush, toothbrush, a square of homemade soap, and a washcloth, they represented everything she presently owned.

 
Setting the carpet bag by the door, she retired early, then tossed and turned much of the night because she was too excited to sleep. For the first time since her capture by Two Trees, she felt truly free. She was finally going home. She'd see those things she'd clung to in her dreams—her piano, the brand-new cooking range, the heavy oak furniture, the lace curtains she'd crocheted, the quilts she'd made while she carried Susannah.

  The horses, two cows, and her chickens she'd left behind wouldn't still be waiting for her, she realized, but the barn and coop probably remained. She'd have to go into Austin, take stock of her money, then probably get a loan for enough supplies to get through the rest of the winter, but she didn't foresee any problems there. The money she and Ethan had borrowed to buy the place had been paid back early.

  Come spring, she'd have to make up her mind whether to sell or not. A lot depended on whether she could persuade the authorities to search for her daughter. If they did, she wanted to keep the place. Susannah had been born there, after all, and surely she'd remember it. She'd need that anchor, that tie to her past, after spending nearly half her young life with the Comanches.

  When the clock struck four, Annie gave up trying to sleep. Shortly after, she was dressed and creeping into the Sprenger kitchen to fix herself coffee and a hard-boiled egg. Not that she was hungry. She had to force herself to sit at the table and eat, and then the egg lay like a rock in her stomach.

  Her thoughts turned to the Sprengers. They'd both been kind, Cora even more so than the major, and she was going to miss them. But it was time to move on, to look forward instead of back. Without Ethan she had to focus on making a life for herself so she could make one for Susannah. But that didn't make parting from Cora any easier. It was going to be like leaving her own mother again. She was still at the table, staring into nearly cold coffee, when the older woman found her.

  "I thought I heard noises," Cora said.

  Caught out, Annie smiled ruefully, admitting, "I was trying not to wake you or the major. Both of you need your sleep."

  "As if I wouldn't want to say good-bye," Cora chided. "And Will's up and already shaving." She glanced at the peeled shell on Annie's plate. "I'd planned on making you a better breakfast than one egg. That's not much to travel on, especially when one travels with a man. They aren't like us—they never want to stop, you know. And I expect it'll be even worse with Captain Walker, because the rangers are not known for any notions of comfort at all."

  "It can't be worse than following a war party," Annie murmured.

  "At least let me fry some bread and salt pork. If you can't eat them now, you can at least make a sandwich for later."

  "I guess I'm just excited. It's been a long time since I've been there. In some ways it seems like I just left, you know. I can close my eyes and remember everything in my house."

  The older woman regarded her wistfully for a moment, then sighed. "I suppose you are all packed up, aren't you?"

  "Except for my toothbrush and hairbrush. I still have to use those."

  "I find myself wishing you'd stay—at least through Christmas, anyway. But..." She sighed again. "But I quite understand how it is."

  "As much as I want to go, it's hard to leave," Annie admitted. "You've been very kind. I don't expect the same generosity when I get home."

  "No." Cora sat down across from her. "It wasn't entirely kindness, my dear," she allowed somewhat sadly. "To a degree it's been selfishness, for I've enjoyed your company. So many of the other military wives on the post are terribly young, and I don't have much patience with most of them. They arrive with such silly notions of what life is like, and then they are so disillusioned all they want to do is complain about everything from the weather to the isolation. Sometimes I just want to shake the nonsense out of them."

  "The Hughes woman comes to mind."

  "Exactly. When I was a young army bride, I considered it a noble calling, Annie. The need was—and still is-—very great for good surgeons, and I knew Will could fill that need," she said softly. "It was my duty to make it possible."

  "I imagine there were times it was hard for you."

  "Not really—or at least no more for me than for Will. And we had four children—three that lived to grow into what I hope are good men. Even though one was born out on the Kansas prairie with soldiers holding blankets to shield me, and another in a tent during a blizzard, I wouldn't change my life for anyone's, Annie. It's been a grand adventure."

  "I always thought that was the way a marriage was supposed to be—a grand adventure, I mean," Annie said quietly. "Ethan and I had such plans for the children and for growing old together."

  "Oh, my dear—"

  "No, I'm all right now. I've accepted that it won't happen, that he's gone. I know I'm not going to wake up from the nightmare one morning and find him beside me-—at least not in this life, anyway." Annie stirred her cold coffee absently. "I loved him more than anything, Cora, and it's hard to go on without him and Jody. But at least I had them for a while."

  Cora nodded. "I've always wondered what it would be like without Will. During the war, when he ran field hospitals in the thick of terrible, terrible battles, I was so afraid." Her mouth twisted. "I've always loved Will, you see—from the first time I danced with him at my coming out in Boston. Of course, my father was less than pleased. Although Will was in medical college, he'd already declared an intent to go into the army, and Papa wanted me to marry well."

  "Mine wanted me to choose a lawyer in Austin rather than what he called a 'dirt farmer,'" Annie recalled. "But the lawyer he liked didn't suit me at all."

  "It's always that way, isn't it? In my case, Will enlisted as soon as he completed his degree and was posted to Fort Hays, Kansas, something that gave my father enormous relief," the older woman went on. "Papa said it was a wild place, fit only for Indians, and he thought the distance would make me forget my 'foolish infatuation,' but it didn't. Finally, when Will came back to Massachusetts on leave, we faced Papa together, seeking his blessing. Of course, he didn't give it, but at least we tried. We wed at the Congregationalist minister's parsonage, then left for Kansas the next day."

  "Ethan and I were married like that," Annie said softly. "Only it was a Baptist preacher's parlor in Austin."

  "I guess that's what I like so much about you. You're a lot like I am, only you've faced more than I ever will. In spite of everything you still hold your head up."

  "Thank you."

  "I just hope you can keep it there." Cora reached out and clasped Annie's hand. "I admire you, my dear. I don't know how you managed to survive."

  "I didn't want to die," Annie answered simply.

  "But you chose not to give up."

  "It wasn't much of a choice, really. The war party had taken a young German girl earlier, and she was so afraid—so very afraid. I couldn't let her know how frightened I was, not even after"—pausing, Annie looked away—"after they killed Jody," she finished, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I knew if she was hysterical, they'd kill her, too."

  "You're very brave—you know that, don't you?"

  "No. I did what I had to, nothing more."

  "Is she still alive?"

  "No. He killed her later, anyway." Afraid to remember any more, Annie stood up. "I guess I'd better finish getting ready. Captain Walker said he wanted to get an early start."

  Knowing that the younger woman's confidences were at an end, Cora let her go, then rose to cook her husband's breakfast. What Annie needed, whether she knew it or not, was another husband, she reflected as she laid pieces of pork in the iron skillet. But it was going to be hard to find one big enough to overlook what the Comanches had done to her, and that was a shame. With a new man and a new name, Annie could get on with her life, and people would eventually forget. Without them, they never would. For a moment she thought of Hap Walker, then shook her head. He was too bitter—and he didn't seem like a man who'd want to settle down.

  Outside, at five-thirty, it was cold and dark, with the moon
still visible in the sky. But Hap already had the four-oxen team under yoke, the canvas around the wagon bed secured, and Old Red and a mule he'd bought tied to iron rings at the back. Ready, he stowed the Henry rifle and his old army pistol under the seat, swung up, and drove up to the Sprengers' door. He was early, and he knew it. He'd probably be lucky if Annie Bryce was even awake.

  He eased down from the seat, thinking he'd get a cup of Cora Sprengers coffee while he waited. As he raised his hand to knock on the door, he heard something heavy hit the back of the wagon. He spun around, drawing the Colt.

  "Oh, it's you. Sorry."

  "Well, there's nothing wrong with your hands, anyway," Doc remarked sardonically. "You're pretty fast, Hap."

  "Yeah." He eased the gun back into the holster.

  "Kinda skittish, though."

  "I'm thirty-seven—and alive."

  "That's right. Most of 'em don't last that long, do they?" Sprenger murmured.

  "No. Not many, anyway."

  "Then I guess you could consider yourself real lucky, if you wanted to look at it that way."

  "I don't. If I'd known that the bullet was going to do this, I'd have had Rios stake the damned Comanchero that gave it to me out on an anthill. Instead, I just shot him."

  "You're a bitter man, Hap."

  "You could say that. It's not easy to be washed up, Doc."

  "I wouldn't say that. It's the leg, isn't it?"

  "What did you put in the wagon?"

  "Cora offered Mrs. Bryce some blankets, but she wouldn't take 'em—said she'd taken too much already—so I put the box back there, anyway. I reckon if it turns cold, she'll be glad enough to have em."

  "Yeah."

  "It's going to get better, you know," Sprenger told him. "The infection's gone, and if you'll stay off the damned thing, give it time to heal, that limp's going to improve. In time it won't even hurt except when the weather changes."

  "That's a lot of comfort, Doc."

  "It ought to be."

  "It'd be a whole lot more if you could say I'd be back in the saddle again."