“I must continue my circuit no later than tomorrow,” Miles said, looking at me as he spoke; my heart began sinking. “I have no wish to leave but I am already delayed, due in Billings.”
We surrounded the table in the quiet, lantern-lit kitchen. Grant and Birdie had retired to bed, allowing momentary privacy. Miles sat at the head, hands folded and demeanor steady, Cole at the foot, both forearms resting on the table’s surface; Axton claimed the chair across from Patricia and me, close enough we could have reached mere inches and touched his hands. Patricia, to my right, could not seem to keep her somber gaze from roaming to Axton, who sat with wide shoulders slightly hunched, his hair curling along the back of his neck. I remembered thinking, months ago in Howardsville, that Axton had no idea how appealing he really was – and as he sat there across from Patricia, taking pains to remain focused on Miles rather than her, he appeared unusually aloof and almost achingly handsome.
And I felt, more strongly than ever, a sense of the connection binding the five of us. I studied Miles in the apricot tint of the lantern, sitting with forced calm when inside my head a distant roar grew louder by the second.
If you would just understand…
Miles was unfinished issuing orders. “Ruthann, Patricia, you will remain here for the time being. We are dozens of miles from town and no one rides up on the homestead undetected. You will be safe here. Cole, I would appreciate your accompaniment to Billings. Axton, you’ve done good work, young fellow. You delivered the women safely here and now I have another favor to ask of you.”
Axton waited in silence but I could sense his pride at the compliment.
“I would that you return to Howardsville within the week. The men sent to scout for Yancy will have returned to town by then and I am counting on you to get a read on the situation in my absence. Gauge the mood and return here to Grant’s with the information you gather, by month’s end. Cole and I will have returned by that time. What say you?”
Axton’s shoulders squared. When he spoke, his voice was gruff with responsibility. “Of course, marshal.”
And though she scarcely shifted position and spoke not a word, I sensed the regret gathering inside Patricia.
To say I had missed Miles in the past month would be an unspeakable understatement. My eyes roved the northwestern horizon dozens of times a day, watching for any sign of Blade’s galloping return. Patricia and I spent almost every waking moment together, more often than not in Birdie’s company; I could barely remember a time when Patricia hadn’t been part of my life. I loved her dearly and had come to care deeply for Grant, Birdie, and their boys, a loving family fortunate enough to remain intact.
More than a hundred times I’d debated telling Birdie about Celia, but Patricia continually reminded me it was not my place to do so. It was easy to talk to Birdie, who’d been starved for the company of other women; I was so tempted to confess what I knew. Birdie’s sense of humor bordered on naughty and she seemed never to tire of conversing, or discussing the newspaper articles and monthly periodicals she received in the mail courtesy of Grant and Miles’s mother, Fannie Rawley. Most importantly, I knew if I dared to trust her with the knowledge that another Rawley was due to enter the world, she would take charge. She would see that Miles’s baby was not sent away.
Patricia and I continued to share the small upstairs bedroom, lying awake long after everyone else fell asleep, sometimes laughing so hard we smothered the sound with our pillows but more often discussing topics of a serious nature. One such conversation took place the night Axton had saddled Ranger, three days after Miles and Cole departed for Billings, and set out on the return journey to Howardsville.
“Ruthie, I must tell you something.” Patricia’s usual sleeping position was her right side, knees bent, but she lay now facing the ceiling, fingertips resting on her eyelids. My pupils had long since adjusted to the dimness and I rolled to face her, seeing the gray line of her profile silhouetted against the pale wall. My eyes were sore and grainy; I’d been so sad to bid farewell to Axton it manifested as physical, weeping pain. I hadn’t been apart from him for more than a few days since my arrival in Howardsville. Patricia and I kept nothing from each other but her tone carried weight – much the same as it had when she’d first mentioned her terrible wedding night.
“I’m right here,” I whispered.
When she spoke at last, her voice emerged with a vulnerable note I’d never before heard. “I’ve done something unforgiveable.”
I lifted to an elbow, about to contradict her, but she kept speaking, pressing harder and harder against her eyes.
“Axton kissed me last night. We took a walk together after dinner, to the creek beyond the main house, as you know…”
I had known, but this particular detail came as something of a shock. It explained the gravity of Axton’s demeanor before he’d left this morning, and Patricia’s reticence and immediate disappearance after he rode out. I’d found her curled on our bed, feigning sleep. Now, many hours later, her torture had grown to immense proportions.
Feeling I owed it to both of them, I talked straight. “Axton’s in love with you. I’ve known since the day I introduced you to him.”
She choked back a sob, squeezing her temples as though holding them in place. “Oh, Ruthie, I’ve known the same. I’m hardly blind. I recognized his infatuation and was flattered by the attention. I certainly never imagined I would see him beyond that first evening, when Branch invited us to dinner.”
“What did he say, yesterday?” I whispered, reaching to gently remove her rigid grasp, fearful she would bruise her own face.
“He is so very sincere, Ruthie, and perceptive, it hurts me like a fist to the chest.” Tears rolled down her temples as she fought another wave of weeping, determined to speak. “He told me to keep safe, for he would never forgive himself if something were to happen to me in his absence. He said he meant no disrespect, and it was clear I cared for Cole, but he could not ride away without telling me how he felt. He said…he said he knew I was the woman for him the second he saw my eyes that morning in Howardsville…” She gulped and her chest heaved; her throat sounded like someone had applied a razor to its length.
“Oh, Patricia,” I breathed, hurting for both of them. I thought, Axton, sweetheart, that was so very brave.
“My arms were around him before I knew I had moved, Ruthie. Since we first met I have thought of little but Cole, this is true, but when Axton touched me there was only him. Oh, dear God, he kissed me and I…oh Ruthie, I lay here now recalling the feel of him in my arms, the taste of his mouth, and my legs are weak. The simple act of speaking his name aloud causes my stomach to become hollow…Axton…”
I couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph – were Ax still sleeping in the bunkhouse this night, as he had since our arrival, I would have dashed out there and congratulated his boldness.
“What did you think when you kissed Cole?” I felt it was only fair to ask.
“I haven’t,” she whispered. “We were never able to steal a moment’s time. You shall recall when he and Miles left we were in the company of the entire household.” She issued a low, growling sound of frustration. “I am a vain, fickle woman. What I have done is unforgiveable. The night Cole carried me to Branch’s cabin I wondered how I could ever wish for anything more. I wanted to beg him to stay, to hold me through all the hours of the night. How might I harbor feelings for more than one man? For this is the plain truth – my feelings for both of them are undeniable. What in God’s name is the matter with me? I know the word you are surely thinking…and you are justified for thinking it…”
“Tish, enough! Don’t make me smother you! Stop punishing yourself.”
There was a moment of complete silence before she whispered, “‘Tish?’”
“What…” I blinked in slow motion, a beat of awareness pulsing between us. My mind rolled like a long, low wave headed toward its demise upon the shore. I admitted, “I don’t know where that came from.”<
br />
“How peculiar, Ruthie. How could you have known? That was Rosemary’s nickname for me, when she was very small.”
I felt cold and hollow. I fought the urge to throw off the quilts and flee.
I don’t belong here. Oh God, I don’t belong in this place.
I felt it more strongly than ever before.
“Ruthie?” Patricia sat up, concern lacing the word.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, but it was a lie. I regrouped, with effort, but my breath was shallow. “You haven’t done anything wrong, do you hear me? You are entitled to care about whomever you want.”
“I care for them both. I want them both. Is that not the very definition of shamelessness?”
I could handle no more and gathered her hands. “Nothing needs to be decided tonight. It’s all right.”
“I love you, Ruthie, thank you for being here. I do not know what I would do without you.”
“I love you too, Patricia,” I whispered honestly.
Tish…
“Wolves, they think, based on his wounds? Or perhaps a catamount?” Birdie asked Grant the first week of October. It was an hour after dawn, the promise of a clear, bright day on the horizon. Grant, who had eaten before daybreak with his men, now stood sipping coffee, leaning against the woodbox and watching Birdie as she boiled oats for their boys. Birdie’s cheeks were flushed and her golden hair hung in a long braid; she wore a hastily-tied apron. She was the type of person unable to still for long but her work never slowed her chatter. She peered over her shoulder at her husband, awaiting his response. I sat at the table rolling biscuit dough; I did my best to rise early to help Birdie in the kitchen, usually leaving Patricia in bed, snoring.
Grant nodded. “I’d put my money on a wolf, likely a weakened stray from a pack. A confrontation with a mountain lion would have left the fellow dead.”
“Might be that they’ll need my help,” Birdie mused, stirring vigorously. “If Amos thinks he won’t recover. Do the wounds need stitching? What was Henrietta’s opinion?”
“Wolves attacked someone?” I asked. Despite numerous anxieties, I hadn’t yet been given reason to fear wild animals.
“I apologize, Ruthie, we are speaking of a neighbor, Amos Howe, a dozen miles west of here,” Birdie said. “Amos found a man badly injured on his property a day ago. The poor fellow was unconscious and bloodied. Amos recognized an animal was responsible, not a human, and rode over to warn us. Wolves will pick off cattle if we are not careful. But we’ve no reason to fear, dearest. Attacks by animals are few and far between, even out here in the Territories.”
“The man isn’t someone Amos recognized from around these parts,” Grant said, and though his tone roused no cause for alarm, my hands stalled over their task. “No horse, but his mount likely spooked and ran. No supplies, no pocket watch or bible inscribed with a name. I admit I’m damn curious. I’ve been wondering about it since Amos rode over to tell the news. Amos said Henrietta was worried if that answers your question, Birdie-honey.”
“Has he come to? Been able to tell them anything?” she asked.
“Not as of yet. He’s fevered and ailing but of course Henrietta is doing her best to revive him.” Grant slowly shook his head, holding his coffee mug a few inches from his chin. “Amos was hopeful for his recovery, said he’s a young man and seems strong. Amos said the fellow opened his eyes for a moment and it gave him a start, gray as smoke they were.”
I jerked as if stabbed between two ribs. My mouth went dry.
“Ruthie?” Birdie paused, moving to my side, resting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Whatever is the matter, dear? You’ve gone pale as a bedsheet.”
“I’m all right,” I whispered, but it was far from true.
What’s wrong, what’s wrong…oh God, what’s wrong…
But there was no answer.
Miles and Cole returned that very night, well after the moon climbed past its zenith and began a slow descent, the sound of their horses drawing me from bed. Allowing Patricia to continue sleeping, I hurried to button a skirt over the chemise I used as pajamas and wrapped my new shawl around my shoulders. Grant, Stadlar, and several other ranch hands were already outside to greet them but I paid no mind to anyone else, running barefoot across the cold and prickling ground. Miles caught sight of me and heeled Blade, dismounting with the graceful movements I knew well. I gathered my shawl tighter and stayed put even though my heart leaped toward him.
He paused just within arms’ reach and said with quiet gladness, “Ruthann. Are you well?”
I hadn’t seen him in over a month and my voice trembled. “I’ve missed you.”
The desire to move the mere inches it would take to come together drove at both of us, I knew, but we remained apart.
“And I have missed you. I am very happy to see you. Words cannot express.”
“How was your trip?” I sounded so bland and stupid. The words I wanted to say, but could not manage, broiled just beneath the surface.
“I was glad for Cole’s company, for more than one reason. But we can discuss this tomorrow, when you have not been rudely pulled from sleep. You are chilled.”
“I’m not,” I insisted. I was clutching the shawl so tightly for other reasons, such as holding back my heart from jumping through my ribcage. I rushed on, “Birdie has been so kind. She’s made winter clothes for Patricia and me.”
“I told you she would adore you at once.” Behind him, Blade snorted a loud breath, nudging Miles in the spine, and he shifted to avoid his horse’s questing nose. “We will talk first thing in the morning. You return to the warmth of your bed…”
His voice was hoarse and my blood burned; I didn’t move. Instead, I spoke his name and just that one word was temptation enough for him to touch my face. He cupped my cheek and passed his thumb over my mouth.
He whispered, “I like hearing my name on your lips. I like it very much.”
Within the house, baby Isaac began to cry.
I reached up and clutched Miles’s wrist. A soft rush of air escaped my throat. It was all the invitation he required; my hands slipped over his collarbones, seeking to hold him in a full embrace at last, my murmur of welcome caught between our mouths. I dug my fingers in his loose, thick hair. He released Blade’s lead line to wrap me in his arms. When Miles lifted his head, we were both short of breath. I flushed from hairline to toes as he studied me with mild amazement; his black hat was slightly askew.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I whispered, my palms resting on his chest. I could feel his heart thrusting against my breasts.
“I don’t know when I’ve ever been gladder to be home,” he whispered back and wasted no time reclaiming my mouth. I angled beneath his hat brim, returning his kisses with increasing abandon, punishing myself – I knew the feel of this man, I knew his taste, and yet he wasn’t…
Oh God, he wasn’t…
I broke away, a roaring in my ears, as wide-open and aching as if torn apart mid-body.
“Your horse is stealing off, Rawley!” Cole called from somewhere distant.
Miles kept me anchored flush against his chest; he stole one last, soft kiss before whispering, “Until tomorrow, sweet woman.”
“Might do to keep a few more men out in the evenings,” Miles told Grant at breakfast.
There had been rustling activity across the Territory, in all directions, and Miles did not believe there was such a thing as being too cautious. Though he did not come right out and admit it was the responsibility of Bill Little’s gang, more specifically the man called Vole, I could tell this was what he believed. I intended to ask him privately, when we had a chance to talk alone, rather than in front of everyone at the breakfast table; it turned out I had the perfect opportunity later that afternoon.
“Who exactly is Vole?” I asked.
Even though the air was cold and the wind held a bite, the sky was cloudless. We had saddled Blade and Flickertail and now rode alongside one another, toward the mountain range guar
ding the western horizon. Its upper ridges were blunted rather than pointed peaks, but majestic nonetheless, a smudgy blue-gray in color and frosted with snow. I borrowed Miles’s jacket, the one Cole had draped over my shoulders back in the jailhouse in Howardsville, and wore the trousers Axton had once lent me.
Miles said, “It is a long and complicated story. To be honest, I have tried in these intervening years to forget some parts of it, as Malcolm Carter is one of the dearest friends I have ever been fortunate enough to have, and he will never overcome the loss of Cora, his woman. You will meet him, in time, as he ventures this way now and again. He does not wish to attempt overcoming the loss, and I never fully understood that before.” His chest expanded with a breath and his gaze skittered out toward the mountains. “I’ve never known Vole’s given name, or if he even possesses one. Malcolm and Cole first came across him back when Vole rode with Bill Little in the spring of ’seventy-four. They were all working the railroad that year, and Bill was obsessed with Cora.”
“Did Bill Little kill her?” I whispered, already dreading the answer.
“Malcolm believed so, though when we had the bastard pinned down and on death’s door…” Miles cut short his words. “I do not wish to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I feel like you trust me when you tell me these things.”
“I wish to speak freely to you, at all times. And I wish the same of you, in return.”
I nodded agreement.
He continued, “Malcolm, Cole, Grant and I met up again later that summer. Grant and I had not seen Cole for over a year, and Malcolm for nearly eight years, at that point. For a time, Cora rode with us and she and Malcolm were so happy. They intended to marry. We…” His voice grew rough. “We made the worst mistake of our lives in leaving her behind that night. Malcolm will never forgive himself. He ripped himself inside-out with the torture of it. We thought he would take his own life. He scarcely spoke to any of us for over a year. Searched the countryside for months without let-up. His name amongst the Cheyenne is One Who Hurts. Or Wandering One. And he never found her.”
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