by Anna Schmidt
“Watch that stuff,” Colt warned. “We aren’t supposed to drink, remember?”
Slim, a nickname applied because his physique was quite the opposite, wiped his lips. “I’m not so sure I’m going to like this job,” he told Colt. “This is what I get for lettin’ you do the choosin’.”
“You find me another wagon train that will pay us five hundred dollars each, and we’ll forget about this one.”
Both men stood waiting on the porch of Mrs. Webster’s boardinghouse. Stuart Landers had ridden out to greet his father in the distance, and the whole train stopped momentarily while a tall, husky man got out of a grand but very dirty coach. Colt and Slim watched the men talk. “That must be the old man,” Slim grumbled. “A bastard to work for, I’ll bet. And look at all them men with him, all them wagons. Hell, you’d think it was the president of the United States in that coach.”
“Or the queen of England,” Colt commented. He glanced at Slim, wanting to laugh at the sight of the man in new buckskin pants and shirt, wearing a new hat, his face clean-shaven and his hair cut and combed. Slim Jessup was not a man prone to spruce up for anyone, and that was part of what Colt loved about him—he had done all this for him, respecting his decision to take this job. Slim had been like a father to Colt for years, ever since Colt saved his life.
Colt was only fourteen at the time. Having set out on his own after his father’s death, Colt had come upon Slim’s camp in the foothills of the Rockies. Slim invited Colt to share his coffee, and before their first conversation was ended, Colt had shot a rattler that had slithered up behind Slim and looked ready to strike. From then on the friendship deepened, and Colt began traveling with the seasoned scout, learning how to track, how to handle Indians, how to find food where it seemed none could be found. Colt had come to be as skilled as his mentor. The two men shared a mutual respect for each other and had traveled together now for six years.
“Somethin’ tells me we’ll dearly earn the five hundred, and wish we had asked for more,” Slim commented.
“Relax. Lord knows we’ll probably eat good. Stuart Landers has arranged for one hell of a supply of bacon and dried beef, potatoes, you name it. And he says two men are coming along who will cook for everybody. At least you won’t have to eat cold beans out of a can, and we won’t have to drink that rot-gut brew you call coffee.”
“I make the best damn coffee this side of the Mississippi, and you know it.”
“If that’s true, I’d hate to taste the rest.” Colt moved off the porch as the wagon train began moving again. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Would you look at that coach? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Special made for Her Royal Highness, I expect,” Slim answered. He straightened, trying to pull in his big belly. He removed his hat and smoothed back his graying hair, then scratched at his chest. “All this pretty-smellin’ junk you made me put on over at the bathhouse has got me itchin’,” he complained. “I need a little dirt and sweat under this shirt.”
Colt did not seem to be listening. Slim watched him push his own hat back, exposing a few dark waves that framed his finely chiseled face. Colt had his mother’s dark skin and hair, his father’s height, and hazel eyes. The young man’s handsome looks had cost him run-ins a time or two over young white girls on wagon trains, girls who were quite taken with Colt in spite of his efforts to avoid them. Colt was fully aware that the girls’ fathers considered a half-breed not good enough for their “chaste” young daughters.
Colt had learned the pleasures of being a man at the tender age of fifteen, in the arms of a whore in Portland whom Slim had paid to entertain Colt as a birthday present. Slim grinned at the memory. He supposed he loved Colt; felt almost like a father to him. Colt was as close to family as Slim figured he would ever get. It pained him to know that most of his life Colt had wrestled with not knowing to which world he belonged, white or Indian. Slim had tried to teach the young man that he was simply a man, his own man, worthy of being accepted with respect by both races.
The coach drew up beside them then, interrupting Slim’s thoughts. Colt stepped back a little. Men shouted at the mules that pulled the following three wagons, and dust rose skyward. Besides the eight men who drove and rode shotgun on the coach and wagons, six more rode on individual horses, all sporting rifles and pistols. Some of them rode behind the wagons, driving a small remuda of horses and mules, apparently extras to be used to switch teams on the coach and wagons so that the animals would not be worked too hard.
The man has thought of everything, Colt thought. He glanced back at Slim, who shook his head in wonder.
Stuart Landers trotted his horse up to Colt and dismounted as the coach door opened and a well-dressed graying man stepped out. He looked even bigger now that he was closer, standing as tall as Colt but much heftier, a man who obviously ate well. “Hello!” he bellowed. “So, this is Omaha. Sure isn’t much compared to Chicago.” He took a quick look around, then reached inside the coach. “Come on out and have a look, honey.”
A small, gloved hand took hold of Landers’s hand, and in the next moment there appeared a young woman, certainly not the child Colt had expected. She wore a pink cotton dress that fit her slender waist and developing body enticingly. Although the dress had become wrinkled and dusty from the ride, its poor condition did little to detract from the beauty of the young lady who wore it. She stepped down, looking too warm in the long-sleeved dress. A feathered hat topped her golden hair, and when she looked at Colt, he wondered if anyone possessed eyes quite so blue. He could not help staring, especially when the young lady broke into a brilliant and genuinely sweet smile. “Hello,” she said, little hint of shyness in her demeanor. “Are you the scout Stuart told us about?” Before he could answer she turned to her father. “Daddy, he doesn’t look like those Indians we saw a few miles back.”
“Those were full blood. Mr. Travis here is only half Indian.” The man let go of his daughter and offered his hand to Colt. “You are Colt Travis, I take it. You certainly fit my son’s description.”
“Yes, Father, this is the one,” Stuart put in.
Colt quickly looked away from the daughter, whose age and beauty surprised and intrigued him, but whose remark had left him wondering if it was meant as curiosity or an insult. He took Landers’s hand. “I’m Colt Travis,” he said. “The man up on the porch there is my partner, Slim Jessup.”
Landers nodded to Slim. “I’m Bo Landers,” he said loudly, “but then, I guess that’s obvious by now.” The man let go of Colt’s hand and stepped back a little, eyeing him more closely. “Awful young, aren’t you?”
“Old enough,” Colt answered, feeling the daughter staring at him. It was the first time in his life a young lady had made him feel strangely uncomfortable, made him wonder if he looked presentable. “I’ve done a lot of scouting and can match anyone else you might pick.”
“Stuart has already told me all of that. He says you even know a little bit about surveying.”
“Well, I never learned it all, sir, but as far as the land to the west, I can tell you where the solid ground is, where it usually floods, where the ground is always too soft—that kind of thing.”
“That’s all I need. Pardon my daughter’s remark about your Indian looks. It’s just curiosity. Makes no difference to me. I’ve called many an Indian friend in my day. If a man is honest and hardworking and good at what he does, makes no difference to me what runs in his blood.”
Slim eyed the conversation closely, grinning to himself. Yeah, he thought, unless that hardworking half Indian man takes an interest in your daughter. What kind of a difference would it make then, Mr. Bo Landers?
Landers thundered every word, unlike his quieter son. The skin of his face was a ruddy red, and when he removed his silk hat to apply a handkerchief to his sweating brow, the remaining hairs on his balding head were pure white. He replaced his hat and turned to his daughter, put
ting an arm around her. “This is Sunny, Mr. Travis. She’s fifteen. Whatever else we do on this trip, the one thing to remember is that she is to be protected at all costs.”
Colt glanced at Sunny, removing his hat. “Miss Landers,” he said, nodding his head slightly. She smiled again, a bright, winning smile. Colt thought how her brother’s description truly did fit her.
“We’re glad to have you guiding us, Mr. Travis,” she told him. “I’m so excited about the trip. It’s going to be such fun.”
Colt suppressed an urge to roll his eyes in exasperation. Fun? He looked back at her father. “I have to say, it might be better for your daughter if you left her here in Omaha or sent her back to Chicago, Mr. Landers.”
“Oh, no.” Sunny spoke up, taking her father’s arm. “Wherever Daddy goes, I go. It’s always been that way. I’ll be just fine, Mr. Travis.”
Landers patted her hand. “My daughter goes everywhere with me, Mr. Travis. We have plenty of well-armed men and plenty of supplies. Sunny’s personal tutor is also with us, Miss Gloria Putnam. She’s still in the coach, not feeling too well, I’m afraid, but she’s getting used to the travel. Miss Putnam will help Sunny bathe and dress and do her hair, as well as continue her lessons. I keep my daughter well schooled, Mr. Travis. Sunny will be taking over a good share of my business someday, and by the time she does, she’ll be as adept at doing accounting and figures as any man.” The man beamed with pride. “Don’t you worry about my Sunny. She’s looking forward to the adventure. She’s got more strength and spunk than you think, and she comes from rugged stock, brave and uncomplaining, loyal to the death.” The man scowled then. “Which is more than I can say for my oldest son.”
“Oh, Daddy, Vince will come around one day.” Sunny tried to soothe him. “He’ll see how right you are in this.”
Colt allowed himself to look her over once more. Rugged stock, he questioned silently. And she comes out here with her nanny, dressed like she’s going to a dance.
“I do hope the Indians farther west have tamed down some,” Stuart Landers put in.
“We shouldn’t have too much trouble if we stick to the main trail,” Colt answered. “It would be wise to take along plenty of things to trade, like ribbons and tobacco and such.”
“Right,” Bo Landers agreed. “See to it, Stuart.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll have all the supplies we need. I already have a lot of things waiting in storage.”
Colt took a quick inventory of the wagons and coach, deliberately not allowing himself to look at Sunny again. He had been prepared for a whining little child, but Sunny Landers was certainly no child, nor did she seem prone to complaining. More than that, she was beautiful.
He immediately chastised himself for the thought. Someone like Sunny Landers was as dangerous and wrong for him as a rattlesnake. Besides that, once they got going and she showed her feathers, she would probably prove herself to be spoiled to the point of unbearable.
That sweet smile didn’t fool him any.
Acknowledgments
Every novel “takes a village” to come to life. In this case, three people provided me with moral and practical support to see this through. Melody Groves, a real-life Arizonian, kept me honest when it came to ranching details, life in the West in 1882, and the use of Spanish. Editor Mary Altman took what I wrote, added her magic, and made the story better. And my agent and friend, Natasha Kern, just keeps finding ways to make my career dreams come true. Thanks, ladies!
About the Author
Award-winning author Anna Schmidt resides in Wisconsin. She delights in creating stories where her characters must wrestle with the challenges of their times. Critics have consistently praised Schmidt for her ability to seamlessly integrate actual events with her fictional characters to produce strong tales of hope and love in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Visit her at www.booksbyanna.com.
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