The Outlaw Bride

by Sandra Chastain

  From the first time he’d opened his eyes and looked up at her, she’d been kind—caring for him, preparing food, and bathing the wounds on his face and head—yet she’d avoided his questions. No, she didn’t know how he’d been hurt. No, she didn’t know who’d hurt him.

  “Just rest,” she’d say. “You’ll remember in God’s good time.” And she’d scurry away.

  But as she’d driven the wagon across the plains, he’d heard her singing. Hymns and other songs she’d voice under her breath. Sweetly, but softly, as if she were singing for herself and didn’t know anyone could hear. That voice had soothed him into and out of sleep, across the bumpy ruts and through the fretful dreams of violence that plagued his rest and vanished when he awakened.

  Rachel. Just Rachel. No last name. And he was Jacob. A fine name, but not his real one, he was certain. Just as he was certain there was some terrible thing behind him. Still, for now, having a name gave him a reality. Until he knew who he was, he would be Jacob, because Rachel liked that name. Because she’d given it to him.

  He pulled himself to his knees and crawled to the back of the wagon, pausing just a moment to look to the west, where a single star hung low in the night sky.

  He clung to the sides of the wagon for a moment, testing his strength and his balance, then swung his feet to the ground. He was still weak, but he was standing on the prairie, holding himself erect for the first time in—he suddenly realized that he had no idea how long he’d been in Rachel’s wagon.

  There were wagons lined up side by side. In front of each was a small campfire—it reminded him of the welcome fires his mother used to have surrounding the plantation house every Christmas.

  Plantation? At Christmas? Another vague memory came—and vanished just as quickly. This was not a land of plantations. It was a land of mountains and endless plains.

  Rachel moved into his sight. She placed her hand against the small of her back and stretched her shoulders. Too slight, she was, to drive a large wagon and four oxen across a rough terrain. But she did it, and she found enough joy to sing.

  Here in the twilight, in a strange place he didn’t recognize, the man who’d taken the name of Jacob felt unexpectedly happy.

  “Miss … Rachel?”

  She glanced up, surprised, alarmed. “You’re up?”

  “Almost. But I’m not certain I’ll manage that for long.” He felt himself sway and cursed the lightheadedness that turned him helpless.

  “Here.” She darted forward and slid her arm around his waist. “Let me help you.”

  She looked up at him, eyes wide with concern. And this time she didn’t turn them away. He felt a shock run through him, like a fissure forming in the earth, the kind that shakes rivers and lakes. He’d felt those shocks before. But where? He didn’t know. Now he was leaning against this woman, smelling her hair, her travel-worn woman scents seeming familiar, yet he had no recollection of holding a woman close. The only thing he remembered was a voice, a voice damning someone. Was it him?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, breaking the moment. “I guess I’m not as strong yet as I thought. I thank you for helping care for me,” he said, fighting the confusion that muddled his choice of words.

  She helped him over to a stool.

  He sank down wearily and took a deep breath, warding off the blurry feeling that had swept over him.

  “Being laid up for over a week takes a man’s strength,” she said, “even if he has no fever.”

  He hadn’t realized how long he’d been ill and it surprised him. “I’m still a little unclear as to who you are and where we’re going.”

  She turned back to the fire and took the big wooden spoon she’d been stirring with from the pot. “I’m Rachel Warren,” she said. “And we’re going to the Oregon Territory. We—I own a piece of land there I intend to farm.”

  “You’re a kind and generous woman, Mrs. Warren, and I thank you for taking me in.”

  “You might not thank me when you find out the truth.”

  “Miss Rachel, I can’t imagine any truth that would make me less grateful. I’m thinking I would have died if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “You would have. That’s what I told them. They don’t approve, say it’s not fittin’.”

  She looked around. He followed her gaze and saw the other travelers gathered in the middle of the circle. A large man wearing a black suit and hat like the one Rachel had been wearing came forward, holding something. Everything went silent, then a voice spoke out.

  Jacob couldn’t understand the words, but he suddenly understood what Rachel meant. The man speaking was a preacher, and the others were listening as he prayed. “A preacher?” Jacob said.

  “You’re on a missionary train,” she explained softly. “They’re going to Oregon, to preach to the heathens.”

  He let that sink in for a minute. “You aren’t joining them in prayer?”

  “No, I’m one of the heathens. My man got sick and the train we were with left us behind. He died. A few days later you came stumbling up to where I was burying him. We were somewhere north of Laramie. Somebody had beaten you bad. You didn’t know who you were or what had happened. I couldn’t just drive away and leave you, so I hid you in the wagon.”

  “Hid me?”

  “That night, riders came. I think they were looking for you. But I’d camped behind some rocks, and they didn’t find us. Then the missionary train came along.”

  “And I never said anything that would tell you my name?”

  “The only name you mentioned was Sam, or maybe Sim. I couldn’t tell for sure. You just seemed to be calling to him.”

  He tried that name on. “Sam. Sim.” It meant nothing. “That’s all I said?”

  “No, you said over and over again that you had to get away.”

  He frowned in frustration. He couldn’t connect that to anything. “Get away?”

  “I didn’t say anything to anyone, but I figured somebody was chasing you. Maybe you’re a wanted man.”

  That hadn’t occurred to him. “And weren’t you afraid?”

  She waited a long time before she answered. “I’ve been afraid for most of my life. When my man died, I figured that I’d die out here, too. I decided not to be afraid anymore. Then you came. So, Jacob Christopher, if you’re a criminal, you just got yourself a second chance. Nothing you can do or say will frighten me.”

  “Rachel, why did you call me Jacob Christopher?”

  “I named you Christopher for Saint Christopher. He’s the patron saint of travelers and we’re travelers in a strange land, and Jacob because in the Bible Rachel is the wife of Jacob.”

  “And the mother of Benjamin,” he said, wondering how he knew Benjamin. He repeated the name and felt an odd flutter in the vast nothingness of his mind.

  The call of a night bird came through the dusky air, sweet and clear. A sudden breeze rustled the tall grass, and the silky whisper brought Jacob an unexpected feeling of peace. This wasn’t where he belonged, but this was where he was, and he’d do the best he could until he remembered.

  If he remembered.

  Suddenly, he did remember something that had puzzled him earlier; Rachel’s comment about being “one of the heathens.” He studied her.

  She possessed a kind of resigned strength that came from living a hard life. He could still feel the callous on her fingers. As he listened, he touched his own hands. Calloused, yes, but it was obvious that his hands had been gloved. Hers had not. “Rachel, why do the missionaries consider you a heathen?”

  She seemed to think about her answer, then said, “They thought you were my husband. I should have let them believe that, but before I knew who they were I’d told them we weren’t married. The reverend said nobody living in sin could be a part of the train. That once you were in command of your faculties, he’d marry us. Else we’d have to go—both of us. I”—her voice strengthened—“I couldn’t let that happen. I know now it was selfish of me, but I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t
come to your senses till we got to my farm. I could use the help there.” She glanced at the gathering. “But I guess it’s too late now.”

  Jacob looked up to see the preacher heading toward them, the others following like goslings behind the mama duck.

  “I’m Brother Joshua,” the preacher said when he reached them. “And I’ve come to perform the ceremony.”

  “I think we ought to talk about this,” Jacob said quietly, coming to his feet. “I’m not sure that getting married would be wise.”

  “Suit yourself, Jacob. But we are God’s people, and we don’t condone living in sin. Either you marry this woman or she’ll have to leave the train. Without help, she won’t survive, and neither will you. This is Indian country.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Jacob,” Rachel said softly, coming to stand beside him. “I’ll manage. I always have.”

  She was wrong. He did have to do it. She’d taken him in and saved his life. If he had a wife, he had no knowledge of it. Because he had no past, he had no future beyond repaying a debt to the woman who’d put herself at risk by taking him in. This was a question of honor. Looking from Rachel to the pious man with the threatening eyes, he saw no choice.

  “Of course, Reverend,” he said, stepping back to brace himself against the wagon. “I’ll marry Rachel.”

  The others drew near. The women, heads down, nervously gathered their children while the men stared at Rachel’s proud stance with accusing eyes, as if she’d planned her sin and dared them to criticize.

  “What’s your name?” the minister asked.

  “I’m … I don’t know.” He looked at Rachel for assistance.

  She frowned, then said, “He doesn’t remember who he is. I gave him his name. He’s Jacob … Jacob Christopher.”

  The minister opened his Bible. The ceremony was short and brusque. “Worship the Lord, else this union will be a punishment,” the minister said. These words lingered in the groom’s mind, for they were not a blessing. They were a warning.

  It was almost morning when Josie felt Ellie stop the wagon. “Josie, we’re coming up on Sharpsburg. Unless you want to be arrested, you’d better get out here. I’ll drive on alone.”

  Josie slid out of Callahan’s arms and sat up. “And how do you intend to explain having an escaped criminal in your wagon? Remember, Sharpsburg is Callahan’s town. People are bound to recognize him.”

  “That won’t matter. We aren’t going into town. I’ve changed my mind. We’re going to my ranch. That’s where Ben would have gone.”

  Josie shook her head. “And that’s the first place the other ranchers—not to mention Will—would have looked.” Will was likely to check out the ranch again as soon as he heard that Callahan had broken out of jail.

  “Maybe, but Ben’s smart. He wouldn’t let himself be found. He’ll hide—and wait.”

  Josie didn’t agree, but she hadn’t the heart to point out the flaws in Callahan’s logic.

  “I have to know, Josie,” Callahan said quietly. “I’ll ride in east of the ranch and follow the river to the stand of cottonwood trees. They’ll conceal my approach. When I’m sure it’s safe, I’ll ride in.”

  “If you don’t fall off your horse and drown,” Josie chastised. “You can’t go alone, Callahan.”

  “I can and I will. If you run into the sheriff, you’ll have a legitimate reason for being in Sharpsburg—you’re getting information for my defense. Please, Josie. I won’t cause anymore trouble for you than I already have.”

  The tenderness in his voice stopped Josie for a moment. “And what happens if you do find Ben? You know he’s been hurt. You may need me.”

  “He hasn’t been hurt,” Callahan said quietly.

  “You don’t know that.” Josie argued, just as quietly. “Something has kept him from coming to you.”

  After a long minute, he nodded. “All right, we’ll take two of the horses. One ought to be able to pull the wagon. Ellie can ride on into Sharpsburg and check out the situation.”

  “Me?” Ellie questioned. “And how do I let you know what I find out?”

  “Just check into the hotel and wait. Josie will come to you.”

  Josie looked worried. “Somebody will telegraph Will as soon as they find out you’re gone. What’s Ellie’s reason for being there if she runs into him?”

  “She’s to tell him that I escaped,” Callahan said. “I’ve headed west in search of the missionary train.”

  Ellie shook her head. “He’ll never believe that. And where is Josie supposed to be? Why isn’t she with me?”

  The horses moved restlessly in the silence that followed. Then came Callahan’s terse answer. “You’re right, Ellie. Just tell Spencer I kidnapped her.”

  10

  Josie rode beside Callahan, who traveled at an easy pace. She had never been south of Laramie on horseback, so she was surprised to find the countryside so lush and green. Laramie existed because of the railroad. By the time Dr. Annie, Dan, and Josie had arrived, the town had saloons, a hotel, a store, a jail, a newly formed city government that had rid the town of its riffraff, a town marshal who was once accused of murder in Cheyenne, and soldiers at the nearby fort.

  In the years since, Wyoming had given women the right to vote and serve on juries. They’d discovered gold in the Snowy Mountain Range, and the population was growing. But this section of the territory, near the Colorado border, was still sparsely settled cattle and farming country.

  As the sun rose beyond the hills in the east, a peaceful glow was cast over the plains, and with it came a gentle breeze that ruffled the tall sage grass and spread its pungent odor. Had it not been for the danger, Josie might have enjoyed the ride. To be alone with a man like Callahan was something new to her, and the warmth she felt had more to do with the man riding beside her than the glow of the sun.

  They followed the river, east to west, their horses scaring up wildlife nesting in the grass and insects hovering over the blossoms. For a while Josie kept an anxious eye on Callahan, and he seemed not only to be holding up well, but to be rejuvenated as they drew nearer his ranch. She didn’t know whether it was the sun or the activity that was bringing faint color to his cheeks. The deep worry lines she was so accustomed to seeing on his forehead seemed to have relaxed, and he sat straighter in the saddle. How would he feel when he learned that Ben was not there? What would he do?

  “We’re on Callahan land now,” he said with pride. “I never thought I’d own my own place. I know it doesn’t look like much to you, but with the new cattle and a little luck it could have been.”

  “It still can, Callahan. Don’t give up. A man who came back from the dead can do anything.”

  “Not without Ben,” he said, and turned his horse into the stand of cottonwoods that bordered both sides of the small river. “All of this was his dream. I lost any hope for a future long ago.”

  He fell silent for a moment, then added, “I was surprised when Ben suggested raising cattle. I always thought he was more the schoolmaster type, or maybe a banker. In the beginning I thought he was doing this for me, but later he seemed almost happy. You know, we might have made it.”

  “You like raising cattle?”

  “Cattle? Yeah, I do. It’s the kind of thing a man can do himself. He doesn’t have to rely on … workers. We hired an extra hand or two at branding time, but otherwise we managed.” Callahan fell silent for a few minutes, then said, “We have to be careful now, Josie. The barn is just across the river, beyond the trees.”

  Josie didn’t have to be told. On the flat plains she had already seen the outline of the ranch in the distance. “What do you intend to do?”

  “First, I’m going to search the buildings. If …” He let his voice trail off. “If he isn’t here, we’ll stay here until dark, then we ride into town.”

  She noticed he didn’t mention searching further for Ben. Perhaps he knew this was a futile trip. Still, with every word he spoke, he seemed more determined, more in charge, stronger.


  He chose a wide, shallow spot in the river and signaled his horse forward with a nudge of his heels.

  Josie followed.

  Old Solomon balked at going into the water, until he saw Callahan’s horse start across, then he trailed along at his normal, plodding pace.

  They reached the clearing between the stand of cottonwood trees and the barn, and Callahan drew his horse to a stop, motioning that Josie should do the same. He slid from the saddle and leaned against the horse while he tested his legs.

  Letting out a deep sigh, he said, “Wait here until I signal.”

  “And if you don’t? Shall I come when you fall on your behind, or just wait around here until you get shot again?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he crouched down and ran in an uneven gait toward the back of the barn. His dexterity amazed her, though it shouldn’t have. Callahan’s speed announced his determination, his awkwardness betrayed the still tender injury in his groin. She could see his right hand as it reached for the spot where his gun should have been, but wasn’t. The morning suddenly went silent. Since waiting had never been Josie’s style, she certainly didn’t intend to do it now.

  As quietly as possible she slid off old Solomon, flipped his reins over a low branch, and followed Callahan’s path. Something about the silence told her that they were alone.

  The barn was empty, except for one lone chicken pecking seed from the grain in the corner. Josie heard the creak of steps in the hayloft overhead and was looking around for a place to hide when she saw Callahan’s feet backing down the ladder. He tightened his lips when he turned and caught sight of her.