A Lady Like Sarah

by Margaret Brownley

  "You touch me, and my brothers will be on you faster'n you can crack a whip. The last time you crossed my brothers, you ended up with a scar the size of Texas. This time you ain't gonna be so lucky."

  Shorty released her, his hand flying to his cheek. "You're not—"

  "My name's Prescott," she said, enjoying the look of horror and disbelief on his face. "Sarah Prescott."

  He couldn't have jumped back faster had he stumbled upon a nest of rattlers. "Come on, Pete. Let's get outta here. With that, he ran toward his horse.

  Pete responded with a curse and then raced after his brother, his spurs jingling like silver coins in a gambler's hand. The two men mounted their horses and took off running.

  Sarah laughed. "Would you look at that! They ain't got enough guts to hang on a—" Upon seeing the preacher's horrified face, she broke off in midsentence. "Don't tell me . . . a lady ain't supposed to mention body parts." Proud to have figured that out for herself, she gave her head a triumphant toss. "Ain't that so?"

  "Uh. . .no. I mean yes." He grimaced and rubbed the side of his head.

  Alarmed, she scooted to his side, her cuffed hands held in front. "Looks like you got yourself a bruiser," she said. "At the rate you're goin', you ain't gonna make it to Texas with or without me."

  He brushed away her concern. "Did I hear you right? Did he say you were a . . . Prescott?"

  She bit her lip. "I reckon there ain't nothin' wrong with your ears."

  He groaned but whether from pain or something else, she couldn't tell. "This is worse than I thought," he said.

  "I guess you heard about us," she said.

  He sat up and shook his head as if warding off a dizzy spell. "I heard that they killed a Wells Fargo passenger."

  "My brothers ain't killed no one," she stormed, "and don't say they did."

  He looked at her long and hard, his thoughts hidden behind his dark expression. Finally, he pulled the key from his pocket and took off her handcuffs and heaved them away.

  "Handcuffs make you too vulnerable," he explained. "If there's a problem, you can't defend yourself."

  She laughed. "I defended myself jus' fine ag'inst the Mitchell brothers."

  "You might not be so lucky next time."

  She boldly met his eyes. "Ain't you 'fraid I'll get away?"

  The question seemed to put him in an even more solemn mood than before, and he continued to watch her with dark, probing eyes that were maddening in their ability to hide his thoughts.

  "You and I both know that if you've got a mind to escape, I can't stop you."

  "You're gonna let me go, just like that? After you promised Owen?"

  The muscle at his jaw tightened. "I had no right making promises I can't keep."

  Hands on her waist, she glared at him. "What happened to your big plans to save me?"

  "I'm no longer certain that's possible."

  "'Cuz I'm a Prescott?" she asked.

  "I doubt that even the best lawyers in Boston could save a Prescott. All I ask is that you go during the daylight hours. I don't want to have to haul you out of trouble again."

  Annoyed that he could so easily discount her, she clenched her hands tight against her side. "Out there ain't nothin' but prairie. Not much protection ag'inst Indians or outlaws."

  "I thought that most of the Indian problems had been resolved, now that they're living on reservations."

  "The only ones livin' on reservations are the harmless ones," she said. "The ones willin' to give up their freedom. It's the renegades you best worry about."

  "Sarah Prescott." He grimaced as if it pained him to acknowledge her full identity. "Are you saying you're afraid?"

  She drew back in surprise. "Me?" she sputtered. Fear was for chickens, not the likes of her. "You're the one who sends up smoke signals wherever we go."

  "At least I'm not impulsive like you."

  "I don't think—"

  "That's the problem, Sarah. You don't think. You do the first thing that crosses your mind and never give a thought to the consequences."

  She glared at him. "I suppose you want me to be like you and chew o'er every idea until it ain't worth fodder."

  He frowned. "Maybe if you'd do a bit more 'chewing' as you call it, you wouldn't be in so much trouble."

  "And maybe if you'd do less chewin', you wouldn't be wound tighter than a banjo string!"

  He pulled back in surprise. "Banjo string?" He stared at her. "Banjo string?"

  He threw up his hands and stalked away, then stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Banjo string?" he mouthed. Shaking his head, he kept walking.

  Sarah seethed for the rest of the day. She was annoyed at herself for letting those scalawags sneak up on them. Sleeping by a stream with little protection was plumb asking for trouble, and she blamed the preacher for her carelessness. Crazy as it sounded, he made her feel safe. So safe, in fact, she had almost believed he could save her from the gallows.

  It was more than crazy. It was insane. The man didn't even own a gun, and he probably ain't never made a fist in his life. If he ever got in a fight, he'd no doubt turn it into a prayer meetin'. Why, she'd be safer in a den full of grizzlies than in the company of Reverend Justin Wells. Trusting him had been a mistake, that's for sure, and it wouldn't happen again.

  It started to rain around midnight, and the downpour continued for the rest of the night and most of the next morning. The gully-washer turned the trail into a muddy mess that slowed down travel and erased any tracks that could signal danger ahead.

  Though inconvenient, Sarah considered the rain a blessing. The Midwest had suffered a three-year drought causing even more hardship than usual on travelers and cattlemen. But this year's spring rains had provided plenty of water, and that was one less thing to worry about.

  Justin saw the rain as a nuisance and clearly thought that Sarah had lost her mind when she greeted the rain with outstretched arms and a loud whoop.

  As they rode along the muddy trail, she explained, "Last year it was so dry, bushes followed dogs around."

  The statement drew an unexpected laugh from him, and she grinned in response.

  Rain dripping off his hat, Justin leaned forward in his saddle and patted his horse's wet neck. "What do you say, Noah? Do you believe in dog-chasing bushes?"

  Noah nickered and shook his head. Behind him, Moses hee-hawed.

  "You can laugh if you want, but my brothers and me traveled three days without a drop of water. Didn't think we were gonna make it."

  Justin had one oiled canvas slicker, which he insisted Sarah wear, but it kept her only partially dry.

  Water puddled beneath Blizzard's hooves, splashing mud on her boots and making a sucking sound each time the horse lifted a leg.

  But it wasn't the rain or even her lack of sleep that kept her on edge. The tension between the two of them was thick as syrup. Now that he knew her true identity, things between them had definitely changed.

  Well, fiddle on him. So what if he didn't want to help her? See if she cared! What did she need with an uptight preacher? Especially one who accused her of being impulsive.

  Sounded just like her brother, he did. George continually harped on her for being impulsive. It was the one thing they fought about. She couldn't help it. She was tired of having to watch every action, every word, every thought.

  In her heart she was a rebel, and it was growing increasingly difficult to curtail her true nature. She longed to run through the grass barefoot. To ride with the wind in her hair, to hold a puppy in her arms.

  To kiss a man without having to worry about all those silly society rules.

  The last thought brought an unexpected warmth to her cheeks. She glanced at Justin's profile. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned to look at her. In that moment, reality was an arrow straight on target. Reminded of all that she could never have—could never be—she dug her heels into her horse and quickly took the lead.

  The mud almost buried a sign that
read Stonewell. It was all that was left of the town except for a few stone chimneys.

  Justin rode to her side to see why she had stopped. "Looks like a prairie fire swept through here," he said.

  Sarah bit back her disappointment. She had her heart set on a hot bath and a decent meal. "Once a fire starts out here, there ain't nothin' to stop it."

  "It wouldn't have done Owen any good had he held on this far."

  The thought had a sobering effect on them both, and they rode side by side in silence.

  Fortunately, by midday the clouds began to part, and patches of blue sky appeared overhead. She sat straight in the saddle and scanned the horizon ahead. Prairie dogs popped in and out of burrows. Deer grazed on the grass, and one of the few remaining herds of buffalo roamed on a distant hill. A turkey hawk with rigid wings flew overhead in ever widening circles. Animals would be the first to sense trouble ahead, but for now, at least, the countryside appeared calm.

  "Look," Justin called from behind, pointing to the northern sky. "A rainbow."

  She pulled back the hood of the slicker and shook out her hair. "I've seen rainbows before," she said irritably. Last night, she'd spent most of the night trying to stay dry and had gotten little sleep. Nevertheless, she had forced herself to stay alert on the trail, though her muscles ached with fatigue.

  "You can never see enough," he said, clearly trying to humor her out of her bad mood. "A rainbow is a promise from God."

  She rolled her eyes, and guided her horse around the skull of a dead buffalo. "Next you'll be tellin' me that there's a pot of gold at the rainbow's end."

  "Maybe there is," he said. "Maybe there is."

  Sensing some hidden meaning to his words, she studied his handsome face and recalled how he looked without his shirt. Every detail of his broad shoulders and surprisingly muscular chest came to mind. The memory was followed by a jolt of awareness that made her stiffen her back and chew on her lower lip.

  Both embarrassed and annoyed by her thoughts, she blurted out, "There ain't no gold, and there's not a promise in the world that's worth a wooden nickel." With that she galloped ahead of him so she could study the trail without distraction.

  The grasslands fell behind them and they followed a deep-rutted buffalo trail through rugged hills, around buffalo wallows, and across fast-running streams. For the most part they rode in silence.

  Suddenly, she saw something that alarmed her. Reining in her horse, she pointed to the ground.

  "Indian tracks," she called. "Looks like they're recent. A day or two maybe."

  He looked up sharply. "How can you be sure?"

  "Only man can make a horse walk in a straight line. Wild horses wander," she explained, "and they travel with colts. These horses are mature." She pointed to a U-shaped print at the water's edge. "Two horses are shod. Probably stolen." Stolen horses meant the tracks likely belonged to renegade Indians.

  "I guess we're lucky they're ahead of us rather than behind us." He probed her face. "We are lucky, Sarah, right?"

  "It depends," she said.

  "On what?"

  "On whether you druther be attacked from behind or ambushed in front."

  A couple of miles later, the tracks vanished from the trail. The horsemen must have cut through the grass and taken off in another direction. Sarah sighed in relief, but she remained alert, her eyes in constant motion as she scrutinized the countryside. For the most part, the land was flat with only a few worrisome hills.

  Her horse started to favor one leg. Sarah slid off the saddle and led Blizzard to a grassy area to take a look.

  Justin galloped to her side. "Is there a problem?"

  "I think Blizzard picked up a stone."

  Justin regarded the hill that rose ahead of them, his saddle squeaking beneath his shifting weight.

  "I'll take a look," he said. He slid off his horse and tethered Moses to a bush. Mounting his horse, he tugged on the reins. "Stay here."

  "Wait!" she called after him. "You be careful, you hear. And . . ."

  He lifted a brow and waited.

  "I'm sorry 'bout callin' you a banjo string."

  He considered this a moment. "I'm sorry I said you were impulsive."

  Hands on her hips, she pursed her lips, wondering if he was sincere. "Are you sayin' it's not true?"

  "Oh, it's true, all right. I'm just sorry I said it."

  She made a face, sticking out her tongue as she often did to her teasing brothers.

  He winked back, a glint of humor in his eyes. He then pressed his heels into Noah's sides and urged his horse into a full gallop up the grassy incline.

  Feeling a sense of unease, she watched him ride away.

  Upon reaching the crest, he reined in his horse and adjusted his hat against the sun. He then rose in his stirrups to peer at the valley below.

  Telling herself she was being overcautious, she tethered her horse to a small tree. Keeping one eye on Justin, she searched the ground until she found a sharp, pointed stick. She stroked the horse on the neck, talking in a soft voice. "Atta boy."

  Leaning against his shoulder, she pushed until the horse rebalanced its weight to the other side. She ran her hand down the horse's foreleg, squeezing the hard callus on the inner surface of his leg until he raised his foot.

  Working from heel to toe, she scraped away the mud, grass, and pebbles embedded in the hoof. Then she walked the horse in a circle until she was satisfied that the limp was gone.

  Justin returned just as she finished the job, his face grim.

  "Let me guess," she said. "There ain't no gold at the end of the rainbow."

  Seldom did Sarah regret anything she said, but moments later, standing at the top of the hill by Justin's side, she would have given anything to take back her carelessly spoken words.

  The burned-out remains of a wagon train lay scattered along the trail below. It was a short train with only a couple of wagons and a buckboard. There were no signs of oxen or horses.

  Sarah turned her head and spotted a dead Indian half hidden in the tall grass. Retching, she covered her mouth but nothing could block out the stench of decaying human flesh. Nearby, a discarded boot lay in the dirt, the shaft missing. Sarah had heard that Indians used the soft leather tops of boots for moccasin soles.

  Justin walked over to the body, then squinted against the sun to better view the overturned wagon a short distance away. "Stay here and keep watch while I see if anyone is still alive."

  Though she was tempted to run, she nodded. The stench was making her sick to her stomach. The thought of what Justin was bound to find in the ill-fated wagons filled her with horror.

  He took one last look at her before mounting his horse and riding away.

  From the distance, she watched Justin check an overturned wagon before moving on to the next one on foot. He moved quickly and with far less caution than circumstances required.

  "Justin Wells, you're gonna get your fool head blown off one of these days," she muttered to herself.

  She shaded her eyes against the sun and scanned the surrounding hills. Every shadow, every bush, every rock suggested possible danger and demanded close scrutiny.

  Time seemed to stand still. She could have sworn she'd stood in that same spot for hours, waiting for an arrow, a war cry, or some equally horrible occurrence. But the sun remained stubbornly in place, telling her that only a few moments had passed.

  Adding to her unease was the eerie silence. Not even the song of a bird could be heard in the valley. What did nature know that she didn't?

  Justin vanished behind an overturned wagon. When he didn't reappear, she grew anxious.

  "Where is he?" she muttered under her breath, her imagination taking flight. What if he had been ambushed by an Indian? Her heart nearly stood still. What if he had been stabbed or otherwise wounded? What if she lost him?

  Sweat broke out on her forehead. What was wrong with her? The man with all his virtuous qualities couldn't protect himself against a tin soldier. He neede
d her, and here she was, useless as a bucket under a bull.

  Unable to stand still for another second, she tethered her horse next to Moses. With lowered head, she ran down the hill and toward the nearest wagon, taking cover next to an overturned wagon. Pots, pans, and other belongings were strewn everywhere.

  A copy of Henry James's The American lay spine-up in the dirt. The portent smell of whiskey rose from a broken glass bottle.

  Checking first to see that the way was clear, she made a beeline for the covered wagon a short distance ahead.

  Without warning, the sharp retort of a gun broke the silence, and she dived for cover.

  Ten

  The bullet missed Justin, and that in itself was a miracle. Warned in advance by an almost imperceptible clicking sound, he'd hit the ground mere seconds before the rifle fired. The bullet missed him, but it had been a close call.

  Shaken, he lay facedown for a moment, then he slowly rose on hands and knees. "Don't shoot!" he cried. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a preacher. I'm here to help."

  His plea was met with a soft groan. He bent his head and peered cautiously beneath the overturned wagon.

  A young woman no more than eighteen lay huddled beneath a blanket, her eyes glazed. She spoke through blistered lips, her voice hoarse, but he couldn't understand a word she said.

  Crawling beneath the wagon, he lifted the rifle from her shaking hands. She was burning with fever.

  "Where are you hurt?" he asked, inching to her side. He smoothed her damp blonde hair away from her face. A broken arrow shaft lay nearby, and she lifted her arm to show him where the stone head remained embedded in her side.

  He pulled the knife out of his boot and carefully cut away the blood-soaked fabric, then he examined the dark, swollen wound.

  "My name is Reverend Justin Wells," he said, trying to distract her from his probing fingers.

  The arrowhead held tight. She cried out and he pulled his hand away, looking around for something to stop the fresh flow of blood.

  "You . . . you're a . . . a preacher?" she whispered.

  He nodded. At that moment he wished he was a doctor, but judging by the look of her wound and feverish eyes, he doubted that even a surgeon could help her now. Still, he wasn't ready to give up so easily. Perhaps there were medical supplies in one of the other wagons.