The Outlaw Bride

by Sandra Chastain

  “Don’t you ever do as you’re told?” he asked.

  “Of course. But I also do what I think is best in a given situation,” she said patiently, “and I’m thinking, after what’s happened, you ought to be glad that I do. Looks like the barn is empty.”

  “Yes.” Callahan didn’t seem surprised.

  She hadn’t expected to find Ben here. Bear Claw said Ben was with the wagon train, which was north of Laramie. She knew that Bear Claw was right. But she also knew that Callahan had to find out for himself.

  “I’m going to tell you one more time, Josie, stay put. I didn’t steal the ranchers’ money, and with any luck I’ll be able to prove it. But if anything happens to you, I’ll be strung up to the nearest tree.”

  The stern look in his eyes slipped for a moment, and she caught a flash of something she could only interpret as worry.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he whispered.

  “Nothing will.” She reached out, almost touching him, then stopped. As they stood, only inches apart, she watched him start to speak, then turn away.

  “I mean it Josie, please.”

  She nodded and watched him walk toward his house.

  Callahan moved slowly, refusing to stoop or run on his own land. Josie had been right. He’d virtually come back from the dead. He wouldn’t have come this far if he wasn’t supposed to make it. He’d been through a lot in the past, but had always survived. This time was different. He wasn’t alone. Josie had saved him and she refused to give up, even risking her reputation by accompanying him here to the ranch. He could only guess how hard that had been. It was hard for him, too, in another way. He could feel the heat of her presence, and it had taken all his strength to turn and walk away from her just now.

  He reached the house, put one foot on the bottom step of the sagging porch, and listened. He didn’t have to be told the house was vacant; he sensed it before he pushed open the door and stepped inside. It looked exactly as it had the morning he and Ben left to transport the money to Laramie. He hadn’t truly expected Ben to be here, but he’d hoped, and now that hope was gone.

  Wearily, he sank down in the rocking chair Ben had insisted on bringing from South Carolina. It had been falling apart, but it had been the only thing left of his mother’s, except for her cameo. Through the winter, Ben had spent hours replacing the cane in the chair. The chair was still here, but along with the missing money, the cameo was gone too.

  Callahan leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. How in the world was he going to find Ben without getting caught himself? he wondered.

  “Callahan, are you all right?” Josie’s voice came from the porch.

  Callahan cleared his throat and swallowed the lump that threatened to close it completely. But he hadn’t moved quickly enough, because before he could erase the moisture at the corners of his eyes, Josie was before him, on her knees, her hands holding his. She looked like the angel he’d called her. A bit tattered and dusty, but an angel nonetheless. Now they were alone. The house seemed smaller.

  He’d allowed himself to hold her last night in the wagon, telling himself that it would be the last time. Once they reached Sharpsburg, she’d be forbidden treasure—seen, touched, and relinquished. He couldn’t be with her now, not when he was facing prison or worse, not after all they’d been through, not after he’d lost Ben.

  “Don’t worry, Callahan. We’ve come this far. We’ll find him.”

  Her hands were soft against his rough ones, holding them gently. She gave him her strength and compassion with her touch. He pulled off her hat and studied her openly, allowing himself to see what he so badly needed now, the courage of those decisions she made regardless of the consequences.

  Blue eyes looked back at him, clear and honest. This must be what a man could expect from a woman who cared about him. But he couldn’t be sure because he’d never seen it before.

  “You have to go back to Sharpsburg,” he said in a voice so tight he wasn’t certain she understood. “You’ve done enough.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  He fought off the urge to put his arms around her. “If you go now, you can say I forced you to bring me here.”

  She cupped his face, rubbing her fingertips against the stubble of his beard, as if she were comforting a child. “I know now what Bear Claw’s ghost horse meant.”

  Callahan was baffled. What did this have to do with Sharpsburg?

  “The night you came to me, I saw it on the ridge in the storm. The Sioux—or at least some of them—believe that when you see the ghost horse it means a person is about to be claimed by the spirit world. But you didn’t die. I don’t know why, but I think it means that we are supposed to … care for each other.”

  Callahan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to answer her, and he didn’t know what to do about the closing distance between their faces as she leaned forward and kissed him. Her touch was light, gentle, almost shy. For a moment he allowed himself to feel her gentleness and the sweet illusion her touch inspired.

  When he finally pulled back, she lifted her eyes in uncertainty. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I know I’m not very good at this.” She lowered her gaze in embarrassment, and in that moment Callahan felt like the liar and thief he’d been branded. What she didn’t understand was that her actions could hurt her even more than her embarrassment.

  “Don’t do this, Josie. What you’re feeling now, it isn’t real. You saved my life and now you feel responsible. But I’m tired, and I’m still weak, and it’s been a long time since a lady kissed me. Go back to Sharpsburg, find Ellie and Will, and tell them I passed out and you got away.”

  She stood up and turned toward the window, her brow furrowed in uncertainty. He wondered how long it had been since Josie Miller hadn’t known exactly who she was and what she was doing.

  “You didn’t find Ben, but you still need me to get into the bank, to check those loan papers. That is what you came here for, isn’t it?”

  He gave a dry laugh. “And how are you going to get me into the bank, pick the lock?”

  “If I have to. I don’t know what’s happened in your life,” Josie said in low, tight voice, “to keep you from trusting people, but I can understand it. It took me a long time to learn that when somebody offers help, you should accept and appreciate it and try to become the person they believe you can be. I saved your life. That ought to be enough to have earned your trust.”

  “Trust?” he questioned, his body a mass of quivering muscles. “The last time I trusted you I ended up in jail.”

  “I couldn’t stop that, Callahan.”

  And he couldn’t stop his response. He’d punished his body and it was protesting. Even now, the air between them was turning as hot as a desert wind. “Josie. I trust you, but I still haven’t earned your trust. And I won’t be able to prove myself until this is over. That’s the way it is.”

  “Callahan, I’m not judging you. Dan and Dr. Annie took me in when nobody else would. They didn’t know how I’d turn out. They told me they cared. I still don’t understand why. But they did. They taught me that caring comes from a kind of internal goodness. People either have it or they don’t. Sometimes we can’t see it or explain it, but when it’s there, it’s there. You just have to believe it in your heart. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  With a stubbly growth of beard on his craggy face, Callahan looked every inch an outlaw. Josie knew that believing anyone cared about him was beyond Callahan’s present state of mind. Her passionate speech came from the knowledge that she was beginning to believe in his goodness. The kind of goodness that comes from loyalty and love. Wherever he was, nothing was going to stop him from finding his brother and saving this ranch. Not her. Not bullets. Not the law.

  Callahan might be an outlaw, but he didn’t lie. She was the dishonest one, one minute pretending to be an outstanding member of the community, the next, reverting to her street-urchin, pickpocket ways.
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br />   “It’s been a long time since I believed in anything, Josie,” Callahan said finally. “Don’t try to make me more than I am. I’m not a very nice person. I told you that before and now it’s time for you to believe it. Years ago I went away to fight for the south, not out of any great sense of patriotism, but because I almost killed my old man. I didn’t know until the war started that he wasn’t my real father. He’d promised my mother that nobody would ever find out. She was the one with the plantation, you see. He was her pa’s overseer. Once Ben came along, I was in the way. So when South Carolina seceded, I joined the army. I thought he’d be proud. But in the end he was killed by a band of Yankee soldiers who were raping and stealing from anyone who was still alive. The plantation was lost. I couldn’t even save my mother and sister. And now I’ve lost Ben.”

  “You tried, Callahan. That’s all that matters,” she said quietly.

  “The one thing I learned was that the victor reaps the spoils, even if they are criminals. The loser only loses. And pride? It’s not worth the tin cup you use to spit it in. After the war, there were no graves for my family, and Ben had disappeared. I’d lost everything.”

  “Believe me, I understand about loss. But that’s in the past. What we both need right now is food. Any chance there’s something here to eat?”

  “I don’t think anybody’s been here,” he said, “but there ought to be cans in the storeroom. Maybe some beans and flour. Ben did most of the cooking.” He brushed by her and opened a door off the kitchen. “Out here.”

  She followed him, her senses taking off at a wild gallop in the aftermath of his touch. “Is there coffee?”

  “Over the stove. You get what you want out here while I start a fire. I’ll go get fresh water from the pump at the back door.”

  Josie fidgeted. “I’ll get the water,” she insisted as she picked up the flour. “You’ve done enough walking.”

  “I told you, I’ll go,” he said. “The horses have to be put in the barn.” He started toward the front door.

  Josie stopped where she was and faced him with a look of chagrin. “Wait, Callahan, there’s something you ought to know.”

  He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What?”

  “I don’t know how to cook.”

  When the reverend and his followers turned away, Jacob—he still found it hard to think of himself by that name—relaxed the protesting muscles in his body and sagged back against the keg where he’d been sitting.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Rachel said softly.

  “Do what?”

  “Marry me.”

  “I couldn’t leave you alone, not after what you’ve done for me.”

  “Long before my husband died, I was alone.” A sad look crossed her face. “Howell drank too much. He found a way to hide from his trouble.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, Rachel, and if you’d rather not tell me, I’ll understand, but what kind of trouble?”

  “Howell had only one leg. In his eyes, that made him only half a man.”

  “A lot of fighting men came back from the war with missing limbs. I can imagine how hard that must have been.”

  “Yes,” she said, without offering further explanation.

  He smiled at her. “And you looked after him without complaint, didn’t you?”

  “It was my duty.”

  “You take duty very seriously, don’t you, Rachel?” Jacob asked, looking off into the distance.

  He wanted to know more about this woman. “Are you Catholic? Brother Joshua didn’t seem to be a priest.”

  “No. He’s starting his own church. And I don’t suppose you’d call me anything. My father gave up on God a long time before I was born, but don’t tell the reverend that. He’d probably turn around and go back to that salty lake we passed to baptize me. I may go to hell, but I’d rather not be pickled when I get there.”

  Jacob grinned. It seemed his wife had a sense of humor.

  Just for a moment, when she smiled, he saw a different woman from the strong, silent little wren he’d thought her to be. Of course, his vision had been clouded before, but he’d thought her older. Her ample breasts couldn’t be disguised by the plain, threadbare brown dress she was wearing. The worn spots looked almost honey-colored, matching the golden tints in her primly braided hair. He wondered how it would look loose on a pillow. A twitch in his loins reminded him that, in spite of his loss of memory, he was a man. And this woman was his wife. Wife? Had he ever had one before? This time, no flashes of memory came to him.

  There was an awkward silence while he attempted to remember the thread of their conversation. Parents. “And your mother?” he asked, moving reluctantly back to the present.

  “I don’t know. She left soon after I was born.”

  “I’m sorry, Rachel.” The mention of her parents brought back images of his own. “I have a shadowy impression that my mother was quiet—or afraid. Maybe of my father. He was killed during the war, I believe. I don’t think his death was a great loss.”

  Rachel wanted to be glad that he remembered, but she wasn’t. She was afraid that he might remember too much, remember a life that would take him away from her.

  “My Pa was a violent man,” Jacob added. “He treated … people badly. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.”

  The distant pounding in his head intensified, and he pressed his fingertips to the sore spot on his forehead, trying desperately to pull back something from the darkness. Nothing came.

  “You just lean your head back against that wagon and rest,” she said, “while I get our supper done. Whatever you need to know will come to you in time.”

  But when? Jacob cursed whatever fate had taken his past and left a shell of a man behind. This Howell that Rachel had been married to might have had only one leg, but at least he knew who he was. Jacob looked down at his clothing—typical ranchhand wear, but surprisingly clean. “My clothes?” he said, using the tone of his voice to turn it into a question. “You washed them, how’d you … I mean, did I …?” He felt his face flush.

  “Take ’em off? Nope. I did it. And I kept you cleaned up too. And yes, you were naked at the time. No way around that. You don’t wear underwear. Makes sense to me. Why’d a man want to burn up if he doesn’t have to?”

  She’d taken off his clothes, washed them, and bathed his body? Jacob was speechless. He closed his eyes, drawing in the smells of the campfire, listening to the sound of the oxen and the laughter of children running through the camp in a game of chase.

  Rachel began to sing. Conscious now of the woman behind the shadowy figure who’d hovered at the edge of his awareness for days, he listened to the words of her song. She sang a plaintive song of an Irish boy who went off to war, of the fair Colleen who’d loved him, and how she went to a rock on top of a hill outside their village to wait for his return. But he never came home, and she grew old alone. The boy’s name was Fin, and as Rachel sang, that song permeated Jacob’s awareness like the smell of a smokehouse in winter, tantalizing and somehow reassuring.

  A stronger scent filled the air—coffee—and he realized that he was hungry. “Let me help you,” he said, forcing himself to sit up again.

  “No need. I’m making biscuits,” she replied. “They’ll be done in a minute.”

  “I can do that.”

  She looked over her shoulder, surprised. “You cook biscuits?”

  “Did it every day.” Her fingers were forcing the flour and lard together. He came closer. “Where’s the milk?”

  “In the cow,” she answered.

  He smiled, his face lighting up like a small boy who’d discovered a bee’s nest filled with honey. He glanced around. “A cow? Where?”

  “Rosie’s tied out with the oxen, grazing. It might be harder than you think, Jacob.…” Her voice trailed off.

  But Jacob, undeterred, picked up a bucket and headed for the animals.

  Though his gait was unsteady, he felt a certain pride in moving, in being able to
do something. Milking a cow was a simple thing—not manly, probably not even particularly helpful, but for the first time in days he was doing something.

  Jacob pulled the cow around so he could sit on a stump and placed the bucket on a level spot. He realized he didn’t have a clue about what he was supposed to do. The cow fidgeted, swishing her tail impatiently. Obviously, he’d done this before, otherwise he wouldn’t have known to bring the bucket or where to put it. Gingerly, he clasped the teats in his hands and tugged.

  Rosie snorted, lifted one leg, and brought her hoof down hard on Jacob’s foot.

  “All right, girl. So I’m doing it wrong. You could be a little more helpful to a man who’s had a lick on the head.”

  She swung her head around and gave him a careless glance, as if to say it was up to him and he’d better be quick about it.

  “Need some help, mister?”

  An orange-haired boy with a dirty face peeped around one of the oxen. “I mean, if you’ll let me have a cup of her milk, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “That’s a deal,” Jacob said to the boy and stood up. “Show me.”

  “Well, it’s like this. You pretend there’s a bucket full of ants down there and you got to drown them suckers. Then you just catch hold at the top of the tit and squeeze, like you’re trying to empty it.”

  Jacob watched a stream of yellow-white liquid hit the bottom of the bucket and spatter the side, like the frothy surf kicked up by a storm. As he watched, he knew that he’d never milked a cow before. But he did have the uncanny sensation that he’d at some point lived near an ocean. It occurred to him that he didn’t even remember where Wyoming was. But he was certain they were a long way from the coast. After a few minutes the boy leaned back. “You want to try it?”

  As Jacob Christopher, he would have to learn a whole new way of thinking. He nodded and sat on the stump, clasping Rosie’s warm teats and closing his eyes so that he didn’t show his revulsion.

  “Remember the ants,” the boy directed. “One at a time, aim, squeeze, and let ’em have it.”

  The directions were good. Jacob followed them to the letter, and a short time later they had half a bucket of warm milk.