Prairie Song

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Dirty work? Cole frowned, felt troubled. He’d never before termed his profession “dirty work.”

  But he’d never agreed before to kill a woman, either. Maybe it was getting to know Kate that was at the heart of his conflicting feelings. After all, before her, the only decent women in his life had been his mother and Charlotte. That was all he knew of women. Except for the ones he’d bedded, of course. All of them willing women, women in the trade. Upstairs girls. Women who knew what to do and were paid to do it. Cole realized now he’d never had anything more than a passing thought and some small affection for those women. It was true. In his line of work, in the kinds of places the job took him, he didn’t run into too many decent women. Women like Kate. But now that he knew one of the breed, the marrying kind of woman, she sure was making his life hard.

  Hell, at this point, and if he had his druthers, Cole told himself, he’d give Mr. Talmidge his damned money back and tell him to get himself another hired killer. But he couldn’t do that. For one thing, he’d never gone back on a job once he’d accepted it. And for another, he already had the money, a goodly amount of it already spent or committed. And the rest of it needed. But worst of all, he still—and he couldn’t get away from this fact—had three little kids to feed. And a wife.

  Son of a bitch. Cole shook his head, put his hands to his waist. And then, hearing something coming through the underbrush, pivoted around, his hand to his gun. It was Kitty. Cole relaxed, chuckling, thinking of Lydia and her insistence on calling this mutt Kitty. Damned stupid name for a dog. Who promptly sat down on his haunches and cocked his head, sending Cole a considering stare.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” Cole asked the scarred and rangy mutt. “Haven’t you ever seen a man standing around and questioning his worth when there’s a wagonload of work to be done?”

  All Kitty did was woof. And get up and pad over to the schooner’s tailgate. He looked back expectantly over his shoulder at Cole.

  “All right. You’re right. All I’m doing here is burning daylight. When I’ve got mules and a horse to water. And packing to do.” Cole started for the other wagon, the schooner wherein his niece, two nephews, and his … wife still slept. What the hell. All his musings hadn’t changed one blamed thing. Probably why he didn’t spend too much time listening to his own thoughts. They never had much good to say. At least, not about him. Cole leaned down enough to rub at the dog’s head. “Let’s get ’em up and get ’em rolling, Kitty. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  Then, standing at the back of the wagon, with Kitty next to him reared up on his hind legs and his front paws resting on the wagon, Cole began untying the drawstring closure that pulled the canvas covering taut and secured it at night. When the dog whined, Cole told him, “Hold your horses, will you? These ties are knotted.”

  And that was curious. But blaming his fumbling fingers on not having the first sip of coffee inside him, Cole worked with increasing disgust at the disarrayed knots tangling the thin rope.

  Then it struck him … the realization that he hadn’t tied this mess. He knew better than to tangle it so. His hands stilled. He stared hard at the knotted ties and knew the truth. Someone, in the course of the night, had gotten out of the schooner—maybe just to relieve himself—and then had crawled back in and retied it like this. One of the kids? Or Kate? Either way, there was no excuse for this.

  “Kate?” he called out. “Are you awake? Are you in there?”

  Her answer was immediate. “Yes.” And flat.

  Cole tensed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  The same flat tone of voice. Cole’s insides knotted, just like the stubborn ropes under his fingers. He renewed his efforts with them, working fast and furious now. “What is it? What’s wrong, Kate?”

  “I don’t know,” came her plaintive answer. “I’m bleeding.”

  Chapter Nine

  Cole froze, standing there and staring at the knots that kept him out of the schooner. He’d heard Kate’s words. But they wouldn’t sink in. “You’re bleeding? Why are you bleeding? What happened?”

  “Shh. Don’t wake … the children. I don’t want to … frighten them. And nothing happened. I’m just … bleeding.”

  There was a catch in her voice that tore at Cole. Furiously he tugged on the knots, finally loosening the first one. He only hoped the rest would follow suit. Then, lowering his voice, he hissed, “Kate, who tied these damned knots? I can’t even get them undone.”

  “I did. I … had to … get out last night. But I couldn’t.”

  Cole frowned. Now what does that mean? She had to get out but couldn’t? Still, he abandoned that concern for the present one. “How bad are you bleeding, Kate? Do I need to cut these ties and get in there? What’s wrong?”

  “I—” She was crying softly.

  Again Cole stilled, his hands clutched around the knots. “Kate, what the hell is wrong? Talk to me.”

  A muffled but no less heartrending sob came from inside the wagon. “My baby.”

  “Your baby?” Cole was certain he hadn’t heard her right. She didn’t have a baby. “You mean Lydia? Is something wrong with Lydia?”

  Silence greeted his question. Cole died a hundred deaths. What in God’s name was going on inside this wagon? Kitty suddenly became agitated and began barking loudly and baying and then whining and scratching at the tailgate. Cole could hear the kids rousing … and Kate talking to them. But over Kitty’s noise, he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He turned to the dog and, grabbing a handful of the folds of loose and furry skin at the dog’s scruff, pulled him backward, off the wagon, and admonished, “Hush up, Kitty. Shut up.”

  But Kitty only bayed that much louder. “Hush it up, now. You hear me?” Kitty most likely did hear him, but he didn’t shut up. Instead, and whining for all he was worth, the hound pranced and paced back and forth.

  Giving up, and cussing, Cole ripped his knife out of its leather sheath at his waist and sawed right up one side of the hopelessly braided ties. “Hold on, Kate. I’m coming.”

  But it wasn’t Kate who answered him.

  “Hurry up, Uncle Cole.” Joey’s voice was high-pitched with fear. “Something’s powerful wrong with Miss Kate.”

  As agitated now as Kitty was, Cole called out, “I know, son. Just sit tight. And all you kids stay back.” At last, the canvas came free. Cole ripped out the useless rope and finally pulled the flap back so he could see inside the wagon’s dim interior. His gaze instantly sought out Kate. She was on her knees and doubled over, her arms around her middle. Son of a bitch. What the hell went on in here last night?

  To either side of her, their eyes wide with fright, but obviously fine, sat Joey, Willy, and Lydia. With her chubby little legs stretched out in front of her, the sleep-tousled little girl patted worriedly at Kate’s tangled hair and told Cole, “Her’s sick. Like Mama.”

  “No, she isn’t, Lydia. She’ll be fine. Just you sit tight.” Cole wished he could believe his own words. And surprised himself by how much he needed for them to be true. With his heart racing, he quickly resheathed his knife and, employing the smooth motions that spoke of long practice, worked the pinnings that held the tailgate in place. Just as quickly, he had it down and open, and was climbing up onto the wagon bed. Kitty bounded in right behind him and pushed against Cole’s legs as he maneuvered his way over to Kate.

  With the wagon bed’s dimensions being no wider than four feet and its length about twelve feet, Cole had all he could do to get around without injuring himself. More than once he bumped into some solid object and nearly tripped. Twice he had to clutch at his Stetson as he nearly lost it when rubbed against the canvas covering stretched over the hickory ribs. But in spite of it all, and propelled as he was by concern, in only seconds he was kneeling in front of Kate and gripping her by her arms. Tears streaked her face. White lines of pain bracketed her mouth. And blood dotted her skirt.

  Cole’s eyes widened. He met Kate’s gaze. Pain
and fear rode her pale and pinched features. Weakly, she gripped at his hands on her shoulders. “Get … the kids … out of here.”

  Cole nodded, standing up as he ripped off his hat and threw it on the bedding. “Joey, take your brother and sister and go wash up at the creek.”

  “But Uncle Cole,” the boy protested. “You might need help with—”

  “I’ll see to Miss Kate. You do as I say, you hear me?”

  Joey scooted to his feet and pulled on Willy as he edged across the rumpled bedding.

  “Good. And take Lydia’s hand. Hold on to her real tight. There’s all sorts of commotion outside, what with the wagons starting to head out for the Cherokee Outlet this morning.”

  Joey nodded and worked now at pulling the resisting little girl away from Kate. “Are we going with ’em, Uncle Cole?”

  Cole firmed his lips together as he watched Kate smooth back the baby girl’s ringlets and speak softly to Lydia, encouraging her to go with her big brother. “I don’t know, son,” he finally answered the boy. “We’ll just have to see how Miss Kate is. And take that dog, too.” Then Cole began to manufacture chores and duties to keep the kids occupied for a decent space of time while he saw to Kate. “When you get back, start your breakfast. Boil some of that oatmeal for the three of you.”

  “Okay,” Joey agreed. “You need me to get the mules and your horse to water, too?”

  Cole cursed under his breath. He’d forgotten about the animals. “No, not just yet. They can wait a bit. Just keep up with Willy and Lydia. That ought to keep you busy.”

  Another nod from Joey. “I reckon so. You want me to start your coffee?”

  And that was when Cole realized how much he relied on this seven-year-old. Also surging through him was the realization of how much he loved this boy, as well as his younger brother and sister. Surprising himself no less than he did Joey, Cole reached out and tousled the boy’s hair. “Yeah, son. That’d be nice. Now, you go on.”

  Joey turned his big dark Youngblood eyes up to Cole. And almost smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said proudly, rounding up Willy and the dog Kitty, herding them ahead of him as he gripped Lydia’s tiny hand. Then he turned to Cole. “I hope Miss Kate is okay.”

  Cole winked at the boy, realizing this was the first time he’d used her given name. Until now she’d remained Miss Chandler to him, even though her name was now Youngblood. “She’ll be just fine. You go on now. Hurry it up. I’ve got to see to her.”

  After that, and with only a minimum of further ado and fussing, the three kids and the dog were out of the wagon and headed—hand in hand, with Kitty the hound dog ambling loose-jointedly beside them—for Walnut Creek. Immediately, Cole turned his attention to Kate. And found she’d lain down on the mussed bedding the kids had only just abandoned. Lying all drawn up on her side, her knees to her chest, she clutched at her middle and cried softly.

  Cole dragged his hands through his hair and realized he didn’t have the first idea what to do. Although he knew what was wrong with her. She’d said it herself. Her baby. Cole exhaled tightly. Joey’d been right yesterday when he’d said that he thought she was carrying a baby because his mama had gotten sick like that when she was carrying Lydia. Cole exhaled sharply, thinking, his wife in name only, his wife of one day, was carrying another man’s child, it would appear. But maybe not for long, the way things looked now.

  Cole smoothed a hand over his chin and jaw as he put aside any questions he might have about that. And then sank down beside Kate on the bedding, facing her and putting a hand on her trembling shoulder. “Kate? I don’t know what to do to help you. You’re going to have to tell me.”

  She shook her head and sniffled. Tenderly, Cole smoothed her hair back, saw her reddened face and crumpled expression. Fear and concern mixed in his heart. “Can you tell me what to do?”

  “My baby,” she whimpered. “I’m going to lose my baby.”

  “We don’t know that yet. You might not.” Instantly, Kate opened her eyes and stared up at him. Desperate hope blazed from their tear-washed green depths. Cole swallowed. Why had he said such a thing? To smooth it over, he asked, “How long you been bleeding?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, shook her head. “Not long.”

  “Are you … well, are you bleeding a lot, Kate?”

  She nodded vigorously and began crying in earnest.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cole muttered, feeling as useless as he’d only minutes ago accused himself of being. “All right. We’ve got to … well, we’ve got to get your clothes off you, Kate. I’m sorry. But I don’t see any other way. If you want, I can go see if I can find a woman to help—”

  She clutched at his wrist, gripping it hard, a look of pure panic on her face. “No. Don’t leave me. Please. Just you. I don’t … want anyone else … to know. Please.”

  “All right,” Cole drawled as, eyes narrowed, he stared at her hand gripping his wrist and considered her condition. This was mighty strange. But not the time for questions. Or further hesitation because of the niceties. “Let’s get to it.”

  With that, Cole set about gently undressing her. Scooting down to her feet and untying first one shoe and then the other, he realized that she was completely dressed, down to her shoes and her green jacket. Which was buttoned up. Cole kept working … and thinking. She’d said a moment ago that she’d meant to get out of the wagon but couldn’t. What did that mean? Had she needed to relieve herself in the night? If so, what had prevented her? But it appeared to him now that she had gotten out of the wagon and had retied the canvas as best she could afterward.

  Only—and this was the curious part—she’d tied enough knots in it to keep herself and the kids in here until the end of time. Much as if she feared being able to get out. Much as if she’d needed to be sure she couldn’t get out. Or was it that she feared someone would get in? Me? Is she afraid of me? Before this morning and this revelation—her being with child—Cole figured he would have laughed at her tying so many knots and would have concluded she was afraid, on her wedding night, that he’d want to consummate their bargain in such a way as to make it a true union.

  But now? Sitting here, removing her shoe, handling her slim ankle and foot through the thin cotton of her stocking? Well, he just didn’t know. Yesterday morning, when he’d come into the wagon and had awakened her, she’d been wearing only her smallclothes. But not this morning. He looked at her face, saw she had her eyes closed. Pinched vertical lines between her eyes spoke of pain.

  Cole grimaced in sympathy but couldn’t banish the suspicious thoughts that kept coming. He gently put her foot down and picked up the other one, working the shoe off her foot. She’d said she hadn’t been bleeding long. Which meant she’d had time to undress again after relieving herself in the middle of the night and before all this hit her. That could be. Or … had she been thinking of leaving? Cole glanced her way, saw the delicate curve of her cheek. She didn’t look to be much more than a child. Why would she leave? Where would she go? It didn’t make sense. So there had to be a simpler reason. Maybe she just hadn’t undressed because the boys had been in here with her. That sounded reasonable … except for her shoes and her jacket.

  Cole laid her foot down and pushed her shoes aside. He then sought her attention. Her eyes were open. She was watching him. He felt his face heat up because of what he had to do next. He’d done this plenty of times with the upstairs girls. But not with someone like … his wife. “I’m sorry, Kate,” he said, gesturing apologetically, “but I have to reach up under your skirt and pull your bloomers and your stockings down. I just wanted you to know before I … well—”

  “It’s okay. I know you have to.”

  Cole firmed his lips together and nodded, trying not to think about how he wasn’t the first man to put his hands up under her skirt. If he were, she wouldn’t be in this condition. Not that he was jealous or mad. He had no right to be, even though they now shared the same last name. This wasn’t a real marriage, he knew that. But still … he ju
st wondered, was all. Just wondered who’d gotten her like this and then had left her. But maybe she’d left him. Either way, he was just curious.

  Thinking all that, Cole carried on with doing exactly what he’d said he had to do. He reached up under her skirt, untied her blood-tinged bloomers, and tugged them off her. Then he rolled her thigh-high cotton stockings down, one leg at a time. She cautiously moved each leg in turn, whimpering a bit with pain but wriggling her foot to help him. Under his hands Cole felt warm, firm, smooth female flesh. And sticky blood. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered again as he tugged the hose off and laid them aside, too.

  He looked at his hands. His fingers were coated in bright red. He swallowed, ran the back of a hand across his sweating brow, and hurried, now thinking only of helping Kate … somehow. But nothing in his life as a gunslinger had prepared him for this, for stopping the flow of someone’s blood. Instead, it was his job to cause it to flow. In only minutes, though, and working as gently and as quickly as he dared, Cole had Kate down to her light blue cotton camisole … and little else.

  As he draped a soft quilt over her nakedness, he couldn’t help but observe to himself that she was milky-skinned, slender, and beautifully put together. He could see that much. A fine figure of a woman. But he’d already known that much, too. All he’d had to do was look at her, even fully dressed, to see that it was so. But now her dirt- and blood-stained heap of clothing lay cast aside, at the end of the bedding. She was now free of restrictions on her movements and her breathing. Done with his task, but knowing the ordeal was just beginning, Cole sat back on his haunches, resting his hands on his thighs as he considered her and what next to do for her.