The Officer and the Bostoner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 1)

by Gordon, Rose

  In silence, the trio rode south. Just how bad would this be? Were they all in fact dead? Or had some been spared their lives? Once before the Cherokees had taken two travelers prisoners, and the Army had bartered for their freedom. Perhaps, they’d done that again this time.

  He tightened his grip on the reins. There was no use in concluding anything until they knew the full details.

  An hour passed. Then another. Then finally, they crested the top of a small hill and came to an abrupt stop.

  In the middle of the path before them was an overturned carriage, splintered and breaking apart. A door was missing from the side and shards of glass littered the dirt, sparkling like dozens of diamonds as the mid-day sun hit their sharp, jagged edges. From where he sat, mounted on his horse, all that was visible was the destruction of the carriage. But he knew better than to think that was the extent of it. That was only the beginning.

  He didn’t even have to look to know that someone hadn’t survived this unscathed. The smell of decaying flesh in the hot sun burned his nose. Vultures and other hungry birds flew overhead, not deterred at all by the three men who were clearly still alive.

  Wordlessly, the three swung down off their horses and trudged over to the carriage.

  Nausea swirled in Wes’ stomach as acidic bile rose in his throat, filling his mouth with the vile substance. He swallowed and grimaced as it burned his throat again on its return to his stomach.

  Beside him, Jack wiped the back of his sleeve across his slightly parted lips. On the other side of him, Gray looked unmoved. He wasn’t though. He couldn’t be. Nobody could be here seeing and smelling this and be unmoved—least of all Gray. But he only knew this because he’d seen Gray react this way before. When Gray was troubled or uncertain, he’d put up a facade so strong it was almost believable. Almost.

  Not wishing to offer assurance to his friend and make him uncomfortable, Wes continued his quiet walk to the overturned carriage. With each step he took, it felt as though his feet had grown five pounds heavier until it was near impossible to move them.

  Finally, he rounded the side and swore under his breath.

  Never before had he seen such a massacre. Lifeless, bloodied bodies were sprawled out in front of them, surrounded by rivers of dried blood that had stained the dirt crimson.

  There were four of them lying there. Three were women. Two looked to be middle aged or older, and the remaining one couldn’t have been older than Wes. Next to her lay what looked like a little boy about five.

  Nausea roiled in his gut and Wes averted his eyes, looking for something nearby to cover their faces with; but nothing had been left. Like other tribes, Cherokees wasted nothing and killed only for purpose—not for fun. Likely they’d bring these ladies’ clothes and other belongings to trade next time they came to barter. The thought made bile surge in Wes’ throat again. This time he was unable to contain it and spit in the high grass.

  “Throats,” Jack croaked, drawing attention to the way the throats of all of the passengers had been slit.

  “Scalped, too,” Gray said without a hint of emotion.

  Wes took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm his nerves or steady his gait as he walked forward. The only one missing from this scene was the stage driver. He blew out a deep breath. If he’d tried to run, his body wouldn’t be far.

  Pausing, Wes squinted his eyes and did a quick survey of the tall grass that skirted the sides of the trail but didn’t see anything. He resumed his steps, then stopped. A hand was reaching out from under the side of the stagecoach that was lying on the ground. He swore. An inch up from the hand appeared to be some fabric, presumably a sleeve.

  Wes whistled to catch Jack and Gray’s attention, then beckoned them over with his hand.

  Together, the three hefted the carriage up just enough to confirm the body underneath was dead.

  “He must have been dead before they arrived,” Jack commented.

  Wes nodded.

  “Or shortly afterward,” Gray added, using the toe of his boot to point to a gun nearby.

  Wes kicked the dirt in the direction of the dead man’s face. “You no good, yellow-bellied coward,” he mumbled. “If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you myself for being such a coward and leaving three women and a little boy that way.”

  With the lack of grace and reverence due a dead man, the three released their grip on the carriage and let it fall back where it had been.

  “At least this happened after Allison arrived,” Jack said quietly.

  Wes’ eyes shot to his friend, but he couldn’t form a coherent thought. It was devastating that this had to happen at all, but he couldn’t explain just why his heart hurt a little more at the mention of his imitation wife’s name. Had she been here— had she made it back to the stagecoach in time—

  He couldn’t even finish the thought. She might not actually be his wife, and he might have termed her as nothing more than a passing annoyance with frivolous habits not so long ago; but for a reason he couldn’t begin to explain, the idea that he could have met her this way and not seen her fiery and full of life made his blood turn to ice.

  “Right,” he said, hoping they didn’t notice how gravelly his voice was. “And to think she wanted me to be her sole escort to Santa Fe,” he grumbled under his breath, kicking the stagecoach that was on top of the spineless coach driver for good measure.

  Just then, something hit the ground.

  Wes bent to look under the stage to see what it was. Nothing really, just a little brown leather bundle. He reached for it and took a peek inside. Folded papers. He plucked one out.

  My Dearest Allison,

  The winter is mild, but my heart is most cold without you here with me in Austin—

  Wes tore his eyes away and scowled down at the leather pouch in his hand. Why was it the Indians had to take lives and leave unimportant nonsense like this? He would have scoffed at the absurdity had the circumstances been any different. It was clear that even the Indians knew what was of value and what was useless. He’d always heard they only took what they knew they could use. Apparently they didn’t even deem the letters worth the fuel for their fire.

  With a grunt he stuffed the letter back into the pouch with all of the others that Allison had thought to save, then walked over to his horse and set the leather pouch on the saddle and grabbed his shovel.

  Joining Jack and Gray, the three dug five shallow graves off the side of the road.

  Each alone with his own thoughts as they dug and the sun rose all the way to the middle of the sky.

  Just as the sun was beginning to drop in the western sky, Wes threw the last scoop of dirt on top of the grave of the little boy, then dug in his pocket for his handkerchief. He swiped it across his sweaty brow before shoving it back into his pocket and mounting his horse.

  ~Chapter Ten~

  Wes was unusually quiet as he came into their room.

  Not that she was overly surprised. She hadn’t seen him since Colonel Lewis approached him while his men were conducting shooting practice. He hadn’t come to lunch as he’d promised, and Wes didn’t seem the sort to break his word. Then, when the day had been over, it was Colonel Lewis who walked her home. Not Wes. Not Jack and Gray. Colonel Lewis—a man who would hardly say a word when she asked where Wes was. Though his mouth didn’t speak, his hard eyes and tight jaw said enough: something very bad indeed had happened.

  And now seeing Wes, she was certain she was correct.

  The man who’d joined her in this room the last three days had been full of energy and quick remarks—no matter what had transpired between them the day or night before.

  But not today.

  Today he was subdued and looked considerably more tired than he had in days past. His blue eyes, lacked that sparkle and warmth she’d grown to expect, replaced instead with cold indifference or perhaps even worry?

  If not for the hard set of his face, she might have tried to break the tension by teasing him about having a r
ough day filling out paperwork or commanding his men to march, which were the job obligations the other officers’ wives had told her the officers did. But instead, she poured him a cup of the tea that had arrived with the coffee yesterday.

  “Thank you,” he said, taking it from her and gulping a hearty swallow.

  She frowned. He hated tea. Something was wrong. But what? If they knew each other a bit better, she’d prod him for details. She set her pot down and nearly scoffed. When had that ever stopped her from being inquisitive? “Is something wrong, Wes?”

  “It’s not for you to worry about.”

  Her frown deepened. “Yes, it is, I’m your—” She cut herself off before she made fools of both of them. “Wes,” she started again, “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but we’ve known each other long enough for me to know that something is clearly bothering you.”

  “You’re right. There is,” he admitted. He set the tea she’d given him down on the table, then reached for her hands and pulled her to him. “I’m glad you weren’t a better throw.”

  She furrowed her brows. “What?”

  He didn’t say anything, just squeezed her hands a fraction tighter, then let her go. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not join the others for dinner tonight.”

  Since she didn’t enjoy the meals they were often served, she couldn’t complain; though she desperately wanted to know what had transformed Wes from the glib man who normally greeted her into this shuttered and withdrawn shell of who he usually was. “Did you want me to go get plates from the kitchen?” she wondered aloud.

  “No. I don’t feel like eating much; and I know if you brought us each a plate, I’d have to eat yours, too.”

  Allison stared at him, uncertain. Was he trying to be insulting or was that just a poorly thought out statement? His next words gave her answer the sought.

  “I purchased some dried fruit, nuts and jerky from Charles on my way in tonight. You might not like the jerky, but I’m sure the dried fruit and nuts will be more to your liking than undercooked salt pork.” He pulled three little packages of brown paper wrapped around food from the inside pocket of his coatee and handed them to her.

  “Thank you.” She unfolded the paper that was wrapped around the nuts and gave him a small handful, then picked up a few for herself.

  The peanuts were delicious. Positively delicious. They tasted a bit older than they normally did, but she’d become so hungry, they tasted fit for a king. Next, she opened what she assumed was the jerky. There were several large, thin sheets of what appeared to be dried meat. She’d never seen anything like it before and handed him one of the sheets, then did her best to pull the second sheet in half. But it was hard and no matter how firmly she gripped the top with her left hand and tried to jerk her right hand in the opposite direction, it just wouldn’t pull apart.

  Wordlessly, Wes reached for her jerky, pulled it right in half as if he were merely ripping apart an unwanted piece of parchment, then he handed it back to her.

  She took it and brought it to her nose. It smelled spicy and rugged. Rather like Wes in a way. Pushing that thought from her mind, she put the end of the jerky in her mouth, clamped her teeth down and pulled her head in one direction while pulling the end of the jerky in her hand in the other direction. She severed the piece and Wes let out a small chuckle.

  Smiling at her victory, she chewed the piece of jerky, which really wasn’t so bad. She took another bite and debated if she wanted to ask exactly what animal it was she was eating. As the flavor filled her mouth, she decided against it. It was better not to know.

  She finished off her piece and opened the next paper with the dried fruit. She picked up a few pieces and extended them toward Wes.

  He put his hand up to stop her. “No, thank you. I bought those just for you.”

  “I can share,” she insisted, pushing her hand in his direction.

  He gave her a terse nod, then accepted the pieces of dried fruit and ate them.

  “Thank you,” she said after she ate her fill and wrapped the remaining food back into their papers. “I hope you’re not angry with me for not eating more of my meals downstairs, it’s just—”

  “There’s nothing to explain. At least not something I don’t already understand. It took me a while to grow accustomed to army food, too.” A shadow crossed his face and he reached down to untie his boots. He kicked them off, then reached for his pillow and fluffed it what little it would fluff.

  Allison sat lifeless, unsure what to do as Wes made himself comfortable on the bed. Then, just as she was beginning to wonder if she should join him on the bed or not, he reached out to her again.

  She stood and put her hand in his, letting him pull her toward the bed.

  Still holding her hand, he moved over to the side and gently guided her to lie down next to him. He rolled on his side to face her, his hand still holding hers. Instinctively, she reached up with her free hand and idly combed her fingers through his hair. The setting sun allowed her to still be able to see him and the distant look in his eyes. A look she’d do just about anything to make go away.

  Last night he’d held and comforted her when she needed it; and though she had no idea what was wrong with Wes and doubted he planned to tell her, she’d be damned if she didn’t offer him the same comfort and affection when he needed it.

  ~Chapter Eleven~

  As hard as he tried to fight sleep, Wes’ eyes would grow heavy and shut—only to allow for a gut wrenching image to form in his mind. He jerked awake, taking note of how Allison’s fingers curled into his hair when he did.

  She opened her uncertain brown eyes.

  He held her gaze, but that’s all he’d do. He couldn’t think of how to tell her what had happened to the stage. He squeezed her hand, resisting the urge to take her in his arms and hold her again as he had last night. She’d trusted him then. Not saying he didn’t think she trusted him now, but it was different. She’d needed to be held then. Every fiber in his being might be screaming to take her in his arms and hold her, assuring her everything would be fine; she was safe. But that was him and his own selfishness wanting to do that. She didn’t even know to be upset; and for as much as he might like to hold her again, he wasn’t enough of a cad to purposely upset her just to do it.

  She resumed that torment of running her fingers through his hair, twirling it, and scratching his scalp; but no words were spoken.

  The sun completely drifted away, leaving them at the mercy of the sliver of moonlight that was shining through their window. Her hand stilled in his hair and her eyelids shut. He didn’t know for how long, but he stared at her sleeping form as best he could see her until exhaustion finally overtook him.

  After a time sleeping, he woke and went for his morning ride, something he hadn’t done the day before because he hadn’t wanted to let go of Allison.

  He rode Midnight hard and fast across the prairie, trying to put everything from his mind. He pulled Midnight to a stop and took in a deep breath before turning him around to walk back. From the corner of his eye, something flashed. Curious, he walked over to where the flashing had been, his stomach knotting with each step. It was as if there was some sort of gravitational pull to the flashing object. A pull he could not break.

  Nearing the object, he saw a stream of blood and torn garments. He looked farther ahead. There was a lifeless woman with dried or drying blood covering her face. Ten feet to the right of her there was another. He turned his horse but froze in place when he saw another. Then another. Everywhere he turned there was a dead woman and blood. Blood was everywhere. He dropped his gaze to the ground and there was even blood under his horse. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and he urged Midnight to run; but the horse didn’t budge.

  He grabbed his revolver from his waistband and cocked it. He’d never shot a person before, but heaven help him, he’d do it.

  A twig snapped behind him and he jerked his head around to see who had joined him.

  It
was Allison. Still dressed to perfection without a drop of blood on her, he took her in momentarily, swallowing convulsively. “Run,” he barked.

  “Wes?” she questioned, stepping closer to him.

  Panic built in his chest. “Run!” he repeated.

  “Wes?” Her calm voice only made him panic more. Did she not understand what all the blood was about?

  “Allison, run away. Go as far away as you can and hide,” he commanded.

  “Wes.” She took a step toward him, then another, and then suddenly he began shaking. “Wes,” she said a bit louder. “Wes.” She placed her hands on his leg. “Wes.”

  He shook his leg to shake off her hold, but instead of letting go, she clung and started shaking him.

  “Wes! Wes!”

  “Allison,” he yelled in return. “Stop shaking me, you insufferable woman, and go away.”

  “I would if you’d wake up,” came her calm voice.

  Wes was bewildered, still trying to shake her loose as the fog lifted and the endless prairie and bloodied bodies started to evaporate until there was nothing left but him and Allison.

  She was no longer at his feet, but her face was now even with his and her hand was in his hair as it had been last night.

  He reached up to confirm he wasn’t imagining it and his hand closed over hers. He blinked his eyes open and met her soft brown ones. “Sorry,” he said unevenly.

  “It’s all right,” she said, scratching his scalp once with her nails. “Would you like to talk about it?”