by Jodi Thomas
The widow’s face darkened in anger for the first time. “I am also a Texan, sir.” She straightened her back slightly as if she’d stand against any or all in the room. “Do you plan to stop me, Lieutenant Murry?”
The lieutenant backed away, raising his hands as if she’d turned a gun on him. “No, ma’am.”
“Do any of you plan to interfere?”
To Sloan’s amazement everyone took a step backward. The redhead looked worried. “No, ma’am,” he mumbled. “There ain’t a man in this room who’d stop you if you wanted to kill this traitor right now. We’d be happy to drag the body out for you.”
“And if I wanted to help him?”
Her suggestion seemed to startle them.
She turned once more to Sloan without waiting for any answer from the Rebs. “Can you stand, soldier?”
“I don’t need your help,” Sloan mumbled. He didn’t want to depend on anyone. He’d seen people turn too fast from friend to enemy. “I’m fine,” he lied.
She gave her full attention to him. “I asked if you can stand, soldier.”
Somehow, her calling him “soldier” demanded his best effort.
Sloan nodded and gripped his ribs as she helped him to his feet. Pulling away, he bit back an oath. He didn’t want anyone’s help, not even an angel’s, yet he sensed if he didn’t do what this woman asked, no matter how insane it seemed, every man in the room would take a turn at killing him.
“Help me get him upstairs, Annie,” she ordered the manager’s daughter. “Miss Alyce Wren will doctor him.”
The station boss wiped his hands on his dirty apron, then nodded for his daughter to follow the lady’s order. The young girl circled Sloan’s arm across her shoulder. She was probably no more than fifteen, but he couldn’t help but notice she was strong and fully rounded. The two buttons open at her collar told the world she wanted everyone to notice the fact that she was now a woman and no longer a girl.
The widow, slimmer and taller, steadied Sloan from the opposite side. All the families camped out on the steps hurried to make way for the trio.
Fighting the darkness that threatened to blanket his brain, Sloan leaned against the woman in black, depending on her strength and not the girl’s. He could almost feel everyone in the room holding their breaths, hoping he’d die before he escaped, silently begging the widow to turn him loose so they could deliver more blows. Maybe they were hoping she’d make it to the top of the stairs, then drop him.
But she gripped his shirt with her fist and held tightly as they moved. No man stepped in her way. Whatever power she had over these people was great. He could see respect, and maybe a little fear in all their eyes.
Sloan thought briefly that she was the angel of death dressed all in black, and she’d finally come for him. He’d waited many nights on the battlefield for her, even prayed for her to come in prison when the stench of rotting flesh thickened the air and the prisoners’ cries of pain became a sorrowful song that never ended.
As he stumbled, she held tightly to him, giving him strength when he had none left.
“Where…?” he whispered, wondering why he cared.
“I’m taking you to Miss Alyce Wren’s room to get you patched up,” she answered, “and if you die before I get you up these stairs, I’ll shoot you. Miss Alyce may not be a real doctor, but she’s the closest thing we got to one in these parts. She’ll not take kindly if I deliver a dead man.”
Sloan tried to laugh, but pounding pain in his chest muted all thought. “And if I don’t go with you?” he asked as they reached the landing.
“You have no choice,” she answered, helping him up another step. “If you stay downstairs, you’re a dead man. Of course, if you live and go with me when the storm is over, Mr. Alexander, you may be just as dead in a week. Since it seems to make little difference to you, we might as well let Miss Alyce work a little of her charm.”
“I don’t need…” He gritted his teeth, fighting back the pain in his side. “How’d you know my name?”
“I know more about you than you may guess,” she answered as they reached the second floor. “And you may not need my help as dearly as I need yours.” She nodded for Annie to open the door. “I don’t care what side you fought on. The war is long over. Right here, right now, you may be my one hope of survival,” she whispered so only he could hear. “I need you alive and able to at least hold a rifle.”
Sloan doubted she needed anyone’s help, as he bit back a moan and gripped his side.
Annie opened the door and backed away as if she’d done what was asked of her and now had her own plans to execute. “I got to get back to that soldier I was talking to,” she mumbled as if her excuse made sense. “He rode two hours just to see me tonight.”
The woman in black smiled at the girl, then helped Sloan through the doorway.
Standing in the center of the room, surrounded by light, was the oldest woman Sloan could remember seeing. She wore a dress of dark green that made her hair seem even whiter. Her crippled, twisted hands were blue-lined and bone-thin as they extended toward him in welcome. Both wrists were layered in gold bracelets. He thought for a moment that this woman must make her own world, for she certainly belonged in none he’d ever seen.
She stared at Sloan for a long moment, then her aged face rippled in a smile of what Sloan thought looked like liquid insanity.
The woman the men downstairs had addressed as Mrs. Harrison helped him to a chair.
“Miss Alyce, I found the one I’ve been watching for.” The widow lowered him slowly onto the chair. “If we can keep him alive, he’s the man to help us.”
The old woman laced her fingers together and stared hard at Sloan, then at the widow.
Her watery old eyes moved back to him. Her gaze traveled from his hair to his boots and back as if sizing up every inch of him. Sloan wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d opened his mouth and counted his teeth. He’d seen men buy horses with less scrutiny.
Her gaze came to rest on his hand gripping his side, Mrs. Harrison’s fingers atop his as she steadied him back against the cushions. “Oh, yes, this one will do.” The old woman almost giggled. “You’re right, my McCallie, he’s just what I was hoping you’d find.”
Two
MCCALL HARRISON MOVED her fingers over the bandage Miss Alyce Wren had tied around the stranger’s rib cage. She wasn’t sure if he’d passed out from pain, or if he was so tired he’d fallen asleep. His sandy hair, not blond or brown, curtained his sleeping eyes. He looked almost peaceful now, not all hard and cold as he had when he’d watched her downstairs. She’d known he was staring at her, but he’d been only one of several she’d watched since dusk. He had a kind of pride about him, though his clothes told her he wasn’t a rich man. She liked the way he stood, as if no place were ever totally safe and he must always be on his guard. Also, he looked at people directly as only an honest man can do.
“Will he be able to travel soon, Miss Alyce?” McCall asked softly, fear creeping into her voice.
The old woman nodded as she folded her herb bags and sewing kit away. “He’ll hurt, but he’ll live if my stitches keep the dirt out of that hairline cut.” She watched him closely as though trying to guess his fate. “And if one of the cracked ribs don’t break and decide to puncture a lung. Not even those drifters downstairs can kill one of their own that easy. My guess is, he didn’t fight his way through the past four or five years to die now at this crossroad in the middle of nowhere.”
She rocked back in her chair and continued talking more to herself than McCall. “No matter what the men said downstairs, this one’s a knight. I can tell just by the way a man moves. It’s something they can’t hide from a knowing eye like myself even with dirty, tattered clothes. My father was a knight. I know one when I see one.”
McCall looked up at the woman her grandfather always called “the lovely Alyce Wren.” Over the years McCall had gone from thinking Miss Alyce was crazy, to feeling sorry for her, to loving her
even though the real world never touched her too closely. She was the one person who knew McCall, who understood her, who loved her without condition.
Gripping the stranger’s gloves she’d retrieved from the bar, McCall asked, “Could you see his soul’s face?” All her life McCall had heard Miss Alyce say she could see what no one else could. She could see the face of a man’s soul. The gift hadn’t come without its curse, for Alyce Wren once told McCall that her ability had kept her from marrying. When she saw what men really looked like, it cut the number of possibilities down considerably.
“I saw the true face of him, child. Young as he is, he’s been walking in death’s shadow so long he don’t remember the sun, but these wounds won’t kill him. I’d be willing to bet there’s nothing in this world he cares about. He’s lost a war, probably any home he ever had, and anyone he ever loved, judging from the look in those eyes. If he’s one of them men who changed sides, he’ll be taking other beatings if he doesn’t get out of the South. He’s a searcher without a map and all he’ll find wandering is trouble.”
“But his inside face.” McCall had to know. She wouldn’t enlist the aid of a man who didn’t measure up with Alyce Wren.
“His inside face is scarred with all the hurt he’s suffered, but there’s good in this man. A knight’s kind of good.”
“I can tell he’s still got his pride.” McCall brushed her fingers once more over the bandage. She could feel the slow rise and fall of Sloan Alexander’s chest. “I knew it the moment the blows started flying and he refused to make a sound. I got the feeling he’d be one who’d die without a word. That’s the kind I need along with me this time. I don’t need a hero.”
“So you think he’ll help you because of his pride?” The old woman moved to the tiny stove and poured herself a cup of tea. The warm, sweet smell of raspberry tea filled the little room as she continued, “All that his pride will do is keep him from telling anyone about this crazy scheme of yours. Pride don’t always make a man a fool.”
McCall sat back in her chair. “You’re right, pride alone would never make him do what I need done. I’m guessing money wouldn’t help much, either, though from the look of him, he could use a little. I’ve decided to offer him the one thing he’s still willing to risk his life for.”
* * *
Sloan could hear the women talking, but he didn’t open his eyes. The lady’s words were smooth, polished with education and breeding, while the old woman’s voice was slower, yet no less polished, as if she came to the language as a second tongue. They spoke in a comfortable rhythm of longtime friends.
Finally, the conversation stopped, and he slept, never bothering to open his eyes. He knew the proud widow was still near; he could feel her fingers rest gently across his heart from time to time. She was checking, he realized, making sure he was still alive. Part of him wondered what kind of past she must have had to test so easily for his life’s breath. Part of him wanted her to keep her hand across his chest, for the weight of her fingers touched him far deeper than she realized.
Her nearness kept the nightmares away, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he slept without dreaming.
Dawn slowly filtered into the room and Sloan opened his eyes to a clear morning. As the beams brightened from the window, he focused on layers of wood, polished to a shine, and fine lace washed so many times over the years it seemed spiderweb thin. A few fine dishes were neatly displayed on one shelf, and a silver service set for tea rested in front of the small stove. He smiled, remembering the old woman who’d met him at the door. She was the only person he’d ever seen who looked like she’d fit in such a room. The room, like her, seemed to have become almost timeless with age.
Slowly, Sloan turned his head. Years of waiting for an attack had created a sixth sense, something beyond touch or sight or hearing…a feeling. He knew someone was there before he saw her sitting beside him.
He’d expected the old woman, but the young widow looked back at him from blue eyes full of curiosity and an intelligence he’d rarely seen. Proper, as before, she showed no sign of having slept. Her hair was still in place and not an unwanted wrinkle bothered her clothing.
“Good morning, Mr. Alexander.” She leaned forward. “How do you feel, soldier?”
Sloan raised an eyebrow, wondering if she’d been there all night, guessing she had. “Fine,” he lied. “But I’m no longer a soldier,” he paused, then added, “in any army.” Bits and pieces of conversation came back to him, and he wasn’t sure what this lady might want of him. “Thanks for helping me out last night, but it wasn’t necessary. I’ve been in worse scrapes and always managed to get out.”
The woman smiled. “Of course. You would have licked them all if I hadn’t stopped the fight. You must have had far more to drink than I suspected.”
Sloan tried to smile but his swollen lip protested. “It wasn’t a fight,” he mumbled, touching his mouth with his fingertips. “It was a beating. Eventually, they would have tired.”
McCall frowned, realizing the stranger cared little about his own welfare. She stood and paced the few steps to the fireplace. “If I hadn’t stopped them, you’d be in no shape to help me.”
“Help you?” he whispered.
She turned toward him, a beautiful warrior making a direct assault. “I’m McCall Harrison and I need your help desperately, Mr. Alexander. I’ve been meeting every stage for the past week, hoping someone like you would come along.”
He plowed his fingers through his hair, trying to clear his brain enough to think. “How’d you happen to know my name? And I wasn’t aware I was applying for a job.” If she was in some kind of trouble, the man on the floor last night—him—seemed to be the least likely pick. “Maybe you should try one of those officers downstairs. Or maybe one of those Rebs with plenty of fight left in him. I’m not looking for any more battles—not even on behalf of a lady.”
“I don’t need a champion; I only need someone I can trust to keep quiet.” She handed him his gauntlets. “Those are Union cavalry issue. Can you drive a wagon as well as ride?”
“Of course I can drive a team, but what makes you think you can trust me to keep quiet about what you’re planning?” He sat up, tucked the gloves in his belt, and looked for his shirt. “I’ve given up causes as well as fighting, and like I said, I’m not looking for a job.”
“You’ll help me because I can offer you the one thing you need.” Reaching behind her chair, she handed him his shirt. As he raised his arms to pull on the shirt, McCall lightly brushed his bandage once more as though checking before she continued, “I saw something last night that told me they can’t beat one trait out of you.”
Slowly, very slowly, Sloan buttoned the shirt. “What’s that, Mrs. Harrison?” He had the crazy longing to have her touch him once more, but she stepped a few feet away.
“Pride,” she whispered, but it was as though she’d shouted “Gold” in a room full of forty-niners. “You may not care if you live or die, but you were still too proud to yell out during the beating I saw you take. So, if you’ll help me, I’ll give you the one thing I think your pride demands.”
“And just what might that be?” Sloan’s laughter sounded hollow even to himself. There was nothing he wanted anymore.
“I’ll give you a reason to die with honor.” Again, she whispered the words.
Sloan met her gaze then and a new fear crept across his tired mind. She understood him. Somehow, this woman in black knew the last hope, after four years of war and endless days on the frontier, that he allowed himself to have. He’d seen bodies rotting in the fields with not enough men left alive to bury them properly. He’d watched pickers move across the dying, pulling the valuables from soldiers not yet cold. A hundred nights when he’d been in prison, weak and sick, he’d thought he’d felt someone rolling him into a mass grave with stiff corpses all around him.
McCall moved closer and touched his arm. He could feel the warmth of her body along his side. He w
ondered if she had any idea how rare such a warmth was to him?
“What I have to do will probably get us both killed, but I swear that if I live and you should die, I’ll bring you back to my land and bury you with honor.”
“And if I should live through this quest?” He started to smile, but saw that she was too serious to lighten the mood.
“If you live, and we make it back, you can never tell anyone what you did. But, all the rest of your life, you’ll remember.”
The warmth of her hand on his arm almost halted Sloan’s breathing. Part of him didn’t care what she asked. He’d try anything to be closer to such a woman for a few days. Even if he suspected she was as mad as she was beautiful.
“Name the quest.” He straightened to attention. “I’ve nothing to lose from listening.”
For the first time, she smiled. “Come with me.”
They walked to the back of the room, and McCall opened a small door that looked like it might lead to an attic storage. Tiny bells jingled, sounding an alarm as they passed. “All we have to do,” she whispered, “is take these children home.”
Sloan stepped around her into a room packed with children of all sizes. The old woman who’d doctored him sat in the midst of them at a little table, cutting bread slices and passing them to each child.
He froze, speechless.
“We’ve found eleven in all, but by the time we have wagons and supplies ready there may be more.” McCall knelt and hugged a little girl who looked about four. “I don’t know how long it will take to find their parents, but we could hunt for food along the way if we need more, or I have enough money to buy supplies if we near one of the outposts along the fort line. Alyce Wren and I guess it will take a week, maybe two.”
“McCall,” Sloan knelt, too stunned to use her proper title. Now he was convinced the woman was crazy. “McCall, these are Indian children!” He spoke slowly, as if trying hard to get the point across.