But there was nothing but empty miles.
“You feeling better?” Axton whispered.
“I am. How’s your back? You’ve been hunched over those reins all day.” I briskly applied my thumbs between his shoulder blades and along his nape, and he issued a low, appreciative groan. Keeping my voice at a whisper, I implored, “Ax. I don’t know how to say this…”
I had his full attention and pressed on before losing my courage; it was Axton, for heaven’s sake, with whom I’d discussed many an intimate topic in the past two months. But this was different. Words failed me as I studied his familiar face; the deep green of his eyes shone with traces of gold in the sun. His lips were slightly parted, as if poised to ask me what in the hell I was so worried about saying. Of course he wouldn’t think of interrupting me; it was not his way.
“I’m so proud of you,” I blurted. “I think the way you stood up to Cole this morning was really impressive.”
His brows lifted in two perfect arches of surprised pleasure.
“I like Cole, I really do, but he’s…he’s just…” I faltered, hating the way I was messing up this chance to talk to him about Patricia. What was my exact intent, anyway?
“He’s what, Ruthie?” Ax prompted. His shoulders had squared, as if I was about to relate something truly dreadful.
“He’s cocky,” I whispered in a rush, peeking over my shoulder to ensure Patricia was still sleeping. “And vain. She’s infatuated by him, I can tell…”
As if alerted by the tension in my voice, Patricia stirred and I gritted my teeth. I wanted to tell Axton I thought he was a better man all around – but then again, who was I to make such a determination? I hardly knew Cole; I was using my limited impression of him to make judgments, which was unfair. Besides, Patricia remained a married woman; it was not something she could simply wish away.
Axton continued to study me, his eyes serious and full of questions.
“We’ll talk more tonight,” I promised.
He nodded understanding and then murmured, “There’s the creek, yonder.”
Chapter Sixteen
THE TRAIL WOUND DOWNWARD IN A MEANDERING FASHION, taking us into a small valley sheltered by cottonwoods and a worn ridge of rock slabs, a sort of rough natural fence. The creek was shallow and not much wider across than I could chuck a heavy stone, but I supposed we were lucky to find any liquid in a waterway called Dry Run. Clouds were stacked on the western horizon, painted a luxurious mauve by the setting sun. Axton jumped to the ground and helped us down before leading Ranger and Flickertail to the creek; the horses snorted and stomped, plunging their long noses into the wetness for a long drink.
I rubbed Flickertail’s warm neck, bent low over the water source. “You’re a good girl. What a good girl.”
My legs were as stiff as wooden planks but I strode a few yards away and crouched, splashing my face, wetting my blouse, and it was there, kneeling at the water’s edge, inhaling its cool, earthy scent, that a chill seized my spine. A sense, a knowing, of a place with blue water. A large, glistening expanse of blue water, crystalline and beckoning. My eyes flew open but there was nothing more than the meager little creek upon whose bank I knelt – nothing like the picture in my mind.
Was that a memory? Did you just remember something from your past?
I stood in a rush, darting my gaze over the water, attempting to provoke the same sensation. A memory had stirred, I was certain, and my heart increased in speed.
“There is a peculiarity to the air here, is there not?” Patricia asked, coming to stand beside me and guessing the direction of my thoughts, at least to some extent. “It is like nothing I have known before now. I feel alive here, truly.”
Her loose hair hung to her shoulder blades, rippled and windblown. Resting her forearms atop her head, clutching her wrists in either hand, she regarded the scene before us. Upon her face was a hesitant, fleeting sense of peace.
“It is beautiful. And it smells good out here,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. Lukewarm water dripped toward my elbows but I didn’t care; the vision of blue water had faded. I elaborated, “In town, no one bathes.”
“Well, it is a rather process to fill and heat a tub,” Patricia said, and I was relieved to see a tentative smile move across her lips.
“I meant to wash up in the creek but now I’m not so sure. I can’t let my clothes get wet since I don’t have any others.”
“And it would be unseemly to disrobe out of doors,” she added. “Though, I am certain you could trust Axton to spare you a few minutes to bathe.” Her gaze followed in the direction he’d disappeared, about fifty yards down the creek bank, seeking a moment’s privacy.
I watched carefully for her response as I said, “He’s the kindest man I’ve ever known, other than Branch.”
Patricia’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, arms lowering to her sides. She whispered, “He is, indeed.”
I was tempted to go swimming, unconcerned about wet clothes or nudity for a few reckless seconds, but considering that Miles and Cole might soon be joining us, I decided against it; instead, Patricia and I shared a soap cake, washing our faces, hands, and forearms. She settled me in the shade provided by the wagon to finger-comb my hair and had just begun braiding its length when Axton returned, his shirt collar and shirtsleeves damp. He smiled to see us, the last of the sun washing red-gold over his handsome, guileless features, glinting in his beautiful hair. He radiated a sense of accomplishment; he’d gotten us this far without mishap.
I love you so, I thought, with a sharp, passionate jolt of emotion. You are a better choice for Patricia all around, Ax, I know this to be true.
“Any sign of Miles and Cole?” I asked him.
“They thought not until after dark,” Axton replied, moving to unhitch the team. He rested a hand briefly on my shoulder as he brought them to graze, leading Flickertail first. “Don’t worry, Ruthie, they can look after themselves.”
I nodded, trying not to consider all the ways our plan could swiftly go wrong. I knew Miles was more than capable, I knew this, and still I prayed with an evangelical level of intensity that Yancy’s men would not return before Miles and Cole rode out of Howardsville; it seemed unlikely they would, but what if…
“In the meantime, let’s get a fire going,” Ax said.
He angled the wagon north-south and settled us on its west side, allowing for a view of the spectacular sunset afterglow, the horizon awash with orange and gold. Next he used a trowel to clear a patch of ground, making a rough oval of dirt over which to build the fire. Patricia still appeared depleted and settled quietly on a blanket, watching as we roved in a wide half-circle, collecting anything we could use for kindling.
“Ruthie…” Axton spoke from a few feet away, both of us bent over the ground and with armloads of twigs.
“What?”
He looked my way. “It’s exciting to see this land, to be away from home, and I feel guilty for saying so.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty, sweetheart,” I said, and he smiled a little at my use of the endearment.
“But I do. Uncle Branch was sad to see us go,” Axton acknowledged, straightening to his full height. “I miss him already. He’s the only daddy I’ve ever known.”
“Hey. Come here.” I stood so I could hug him with my free arm, resting my cheek against his chest. “You can tell me whatever you want, you know that.” I stood on tiptoe to kiss his jaw, finding it prickly with a day’s growth of stubble. “I love you dearly, Ax. And Branch is the only father I can remember at this point, too.”
“I love you too, Ruthie.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever had a brother, but I’d want him to be just like you.”
“Same here,” Axton murmured, squeezing me extra tightly before drawing away. Stealthy gloaming light began leaching color from the landscape, tinting objects with grays and pewters. He spoke with quiet wistfulness. “I always wanted a big family, with plenty of brothers and sisters.”
&nbs
p; “I bet you’ll have at least ten kids someday,” I mused, with an unexpected glimmer of premonition. A vague and blurry picture formed itself into sudden, fleeting crispness – of Ax laughing and roughhousing with a rowdy band of little redheads.
“You think?” he whispered in a tone of bashful awe, unable to keep his longing gaze from crossing the distance between him and Patricia.
Returning to the task of gathering twigs, I murmured sincerely, “It would be a crying shame, if not.”
“Hallo the wagon!” hollered a familiar voice and my heart blazed like a firecracker; I dropped the entire bundle of kindling I’d gathered as Axton and I turned to spy Miles and Cole riding near, their horses cantering elegantly in the direction of our camp.
“Thank God,” I breathed, nearly going to my knees with relief, able to draw a full breath for the first time since early this morning.
“You care for the marshal, don’t you?” Axton murmured, watching me watch Miles, and I nodded without speaking.
Miles heeled Blade to a gallop and arrived ahead of Cole, bringing Blade close to where I stood.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, unable to hold my tongue, the welcome heat of reassurance swamping my body. “I’ve been so worried all day. You don’t even know.”
“As have I,” Miles said, and my heart hurtled against my ribs as he offered a genuine, full-fledged grin. “I could not ride swiftly enough. You do not even know.”
“Do you think we need to worry about snakes?” Patricia asked after we’d eaten dinner and intended to retire to the pallet of quilts in the wagon bed, with no small amount of anxiety. Miles, Ax, and Cole stood at the edge of the creek many yards away as she posed this question, hidden by the darkness, the three of them laughing about something with their backs to us, probably standing down there peeing. I almost giggled at the thought, giddy with relief that Miles was finally here.
“Snakes?” I repeated, looking up at Patricia, who’d stood to shake out her skirts.
“Yes, in our bedding. Suppose one crawls inside while we are sleeping.”
“We’ll ask them when they get back up here,” I promised. I remained sitting, arms wrapped around my bent knees – a position I would have avoided were I wearing a skirt instead of Axton’s trousers – in no hurry to retreat to the wagon.
“They shall poke fun at us, for worrying.”
“They won’t,” I whispered, even though they probably would. “Here they come.”
The tripod of wood arranged for the fire had tumbled as it burned, creating a muted red glow, much less brilliant than the blazing orange of its earlier, higher flame. By this scant light I watched the men approach from the creek, seeking Miles. Instead of reclaiming their spots around the fire all three stood in a momentary lull, as though Patricia and I were guests at a fancy dinner party and awaited their assistance.
To fill the awkward gap, I hurried to say, “We were just headed to bed.”
“Will you two be warm enough in that wagon?” Cole asked. I sensed his sincerity; I also recognized he was no more than a step away from offering to join us. Patricia ducked her chin to hide her fluster.
“We will.” I spoke firmly.
“Will it be a bother to you if we sit for a spell before retiring?” Miles asked.
“No, of course not,” I said. I wished they could play their fiddles, but of course they hadn’t toted along the instruments on this journey.
Without another word Miles stepped around the fire and reached to help me to my feet. He released my hands as I stood but our gazes seemed ensnared.
“We’ll be right here,” he murmured, then added hastily, “Should you require anything. Either of you.”
Thank you. My lips moved but no sound accompanied the words.
“You are more than welcome.”
Before I lost my nerve I said, “Wait! What about snakes in the wagon?”
Patricia murmured, “Or other…undesirable creatures?”
“Snakes are not particularly common out here in the open, as I’ve ever noticed,” Miles said. “They tend to prefer caves.”
Axton gathered up a lantern and offered the most practical solution. “C’mon, I’ll check the wagon for you.”
Once the wagon was deemed critter-free, Cole sidestepped Axton to help Patricia climb the tailgate to enter its confines. Miles and I remained at the fire a few yards away; when it was apparent I had no further excuse to linger, I said, “I better join her.”
Miles nodded, resting his fingertips briefly upon my arm. “Good-night, Ruthann.”
I matched his courteous tone. “Good-night, marshal.”
“I would that you call me by my given name,” he requested.
I steadied my voice and whispered, “Good-night, Miles.”
The men reclaimed their places and proceeded to smoke and talk in low, quiet tones, their combined voices as comforting as anything I’d ever known. Once in the wagon, I snuggled beneath the quilt with Patricia, both of us too exhausted to whisper. I lay facing the arch of canvas lit by the fire’s dull-red glow, imagining the foothills beneath the half moon, a wild expanse stretching much farther than my eyes could perceive; the back of my neck prickled at the thought of all that dark emptiness but I scooted closer to Patricia, effectively eradicating the feeling. I turned my thoughts instead to what Miles and Cole had related earlier, as we ate dinner around the fire.
A reasonable stir had been caused by the death of Mrs. Mason and her unknown attacker. Miles and Cole had delivered the bodies to the undertaker and saw to it that both were secured in proper coffins; burial in the local cemetery, situated on a hill outside town, was arranged and paid for. Miles proceeded to spread the word that young Mrs. Dredd Yancy was also presumed dead. He gave orders that the train cars were to be locked until Thomas Yancy’s men returned from their scouting mission and further investigation could be conducted. Miles left word he would return to Howardsville in a month’s time, when his route permitted, and could be contacted then; his deputy, Alvin Furlough, was to be sought in the meantime in the event of any additional inquiries.
Of course we all knew this was only the beginning; the road ahead was one of danger and uncertainty, but no one said otherwise – at least not for this evening.
“I wish they could play their fiddles,” Patricia murmured, the last thing I heard before drifting to a state of fretful dozing.
Time passed in fits and starts; at some point I began to dream.
Ruthann.
His familiar voice flared to life in my sleeping mind. I knew it was him, my husband, and in the dream I flew to my feet, peering outward at the gloom of the midnight prairie.
I’m here, I’m right here! I cried in frantic response, scanning the emptiness. Where are you? Why can’t I see you?!
He spoke again in the voice I knew all the way to my dark, secret center, urgent with insistence. I am coming for you, angel. I will find you, I swear to you.
I need you, oh God, I need you. I am dying without you…
I will find you. Do you hear me?
I hear you – I need you – I need you – I screamed these words, repeatedly screamed my husband’s name.
My arms and legs jerked in a violent attempt to give chase, ripping me from any sense of him and casting me back to my reality. I sat so quickly blood drained from my skull and I reeled sideways, ending on hands and knees. It took long, shuddering moments to acknowledge my surroundings, to accept that I remembered nothing. The ache of sadness assaulted. I wrapped both arms around my head, hollow with pain. The air was chill, the fire a mass of glowing coals. I heard people and horses nearby, breathing with the slow, even cadence of sleep.
I was sweaty beneath my clothes, skin rippling with goosebumps, and slid from beneath the quilts, taking care to avoid waking Patricia. I was too restless to remain still, supercharged with frustrated agony. I wanted to flee into the cold darkness and run until my blood was pounding and I found what I was looking for, as senseless as this was;
I couldn’t remember a goddamn thing. I also needed to go to the bathroom, which allowed for a legitimate trek away from our camp. I eased to my knees, letting my head hang as I tried to collect my thoughts; my temple hurt where I’d been struck only a night ago, in the train car.
Why can’t I remember?
Oh God, let me remember. Please. I’ll do anything…
I climbed down and then skulked away from the wagon, intending to find somewhere to crouch, figuring the best place for privacy was near the creek. I angled that direction, both arms wrapped around my jittery ribcage. Damp sweat evaporated quickly away from the warmth of Patricia and the quilts, leaving me chilled. I was barefoot, which was really stupid; the ground was prickly and uneven, and probably over-populated by biting creatures, so I slowed my pace.
If you step on a snake, you have no one but yourself to blame.
I hadn’t walked more than a dozen yards when I sensed someone behind me; before I could think of spinning around to confront him, hands clutched my upper arms. I gulped on a scream as he demanded in a low voice, “Where are you going?”
“The bathroom!” I hissed, yanking at his iron hold. Irrationally angry at being detained, I assumed for the moment he didn’t realize how strong his grip was. “Let go!”
Miles turned me around and with the light of the moon at his back he appeared a featureless silhouette, his face obscured in shadows. He was close enough I could smell his breath and skin, and found them familiar; how in the hell this was possible, I didn’t know. It was like a rock dropped into the deep well of sadness in my heart.
“I apologize,” he said after seconds of tense silence ticked away between us. “You were experiencing a nightmare, only minutes ago. I am terribly concerned for you.” His voice was hardly a whisper as he speculated, “It is surely the trauma of what you’ve endured which causes you to cry out.”
“Cry out?”
“You were…” Miles broke off the explanation and shifted position, as if uncertain how to proceed. I felt the moon was unfairly spotlighting my face, leaving his in specter-like dimness. At last he concluded, “You were repeating the word ‘marshal,’ which led me to believe you were calling for me.”
Way Back Page 21