Wild Is the Night

by Colleen Quinn

  “Come on, Amanda. You can do it. I know you can.”

  She blushed furiously, hating her own weakness. She gave him a doubtful look, but he smiled encouragingly and waved her on. She kicked her horse, clamping her eyelids shut and trying desperately not to look at the brown waters swishing like coffee in the bottom of a tin cup. Luke called to her horse, urging the mare to cross the murky river depths and to follow the wagon just ahead. The mare, a stout chestnut that was used to following orders, leaped into the water and began the journey to the other side.

  Amanda felt like she was going to throw up. She fought the rising bile in her throat as the horse plunged in deeper and the current swirled around them like a rattlesnake. She gave Luke a pleading look, but he continued to shout encouragements.

  “We’re halfway there. I won’t leave you. You’re doing fine, Amanda!”

  Terror was building inside of her. She could hear the roar of the waters, the sound of the cattle lowing in protest, the whinny of the horse beneath her as the river grew deeper. The waters crept up to her boots, threatening to pull her down into their murky depths, to keep her forever sealed beneath the earth in a mystical world of gently waving seaweed and turbulent shallows. Fighting the feeling of falling, she opened her eyes, held tightly to the reins, and refused to look at anything but Luke. He was just ahead, waiting for her, his black Stetson shading his face against the sun, making it appear shadowed and mysterious. His eyes seemed to warm her like two pale blue flames. His smile was genuine and compelling, urging her on the way no argument could.

  Amanda took a deep breath, then gently tapped the horse’s flanks the way she’d seen the other riders do. The mare lurched forward, then picked her way among the stones, feeling for safe ground. Once the horse misstepped, and Amanda could feel the crunch of the gravel beneath and the huge animal’s wavering. For a horrified moment, she thought that the horse would lose balance and send her tumbling down into the river below. But the mare quickly regained footing, and resumed the dangerous steps once more.

  “That’s great! You’re doing it!”

  Amanda smiled back at Luke, then gasped in surprise as the horse lifted her legs and stepped gracefully out of the river and onto the soft mossy bank beyond. A breath left Amanda’s body in one loud whoosh as the realization struck her: she’d made it. She’d faced two of her worst fears, horses and water, and had triumphed.

  “You did it!” Luke grabbed her in a bear-like hug, wrapping his buckskin-clad arms around her shoulders while still atop of his mount. Amanda flushed a brick red, but she was unbearably proud. Nothing could have meant more to her at that moment, not even an academic scholarship. Unless it was to Radcliffe.

  “I did, didn’t I?” Amanda glanced back at the river, as if unable to believe that she hadn’t dreamed this.

  “You damned well did, and as good as anyone. When we get to Texas, I’m buying you the best beef dinner you ever had.”

  Amanda bit her lip, trying to suppress her enjoyment, but her eyes twinkled. She’d done it. She got the damned horse across one of the most virulent rivers in Oklahoma, and without a hitch. She wanted to giggle. Then her excitement dimmed as she thought of what he’d said.

  Texas.

  He’d be divorcing her soon.

  Amanda forced the depressing thought aside, unable to bear the implication. For better or for worse, he was married to her now. And she would enjoy it for as long as she could.

  Jake caught up with Luke after the others had crossed and the cattle were safely on the same bank. It had been a successful undertaking; they’d lost no one and had no injuries. The camp was in high hopes, with the Texas border close by and the fulfillment of dreams within arm’s grasp.

  “It’s hard to believe we’ve only a few days now.” Jake broke the silence as they rode comfortably along for a mile or so.

  Luke nodded in agreement. “All in all, it’s been a good trip. We’ve recovered most of the cattle, so all of the families can make a fresh start. The Herefords are in good shape, in spite of the stampede. We’ve only lost half a dozen head, but that’s to be expected.”

  “We would have lost a lot more if not for Amanda,” Jake said gruffly. “Hard to believe that a little slip of a woman would have so big a brain.” Then, after a moment, “Aileen’s become quite attached to her, you know.”

  “So I see.” Luke glanced at the former saloon girl and saw her riding in the wagon with Amanda. “I’m grateful for that. Amanda can use a good friend.”

  “She’s glad to do it.” Jake cleared his throat, as if unable to decide how to verbalize his next words. “I understand how Aileen feels. I’ve come to admire Miss Edison myself. Neither one of us felt right about the way those holy folk forced you to wed. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to undo the thing the first chance you got.”

  Luke gave Jake a searching look. “We talked about something of the sort.”

  “I kinda thought so. Aileen said Amanda’s been sort of disturbed lately. I guess it would unsettle anyone, coming to a new place, alone, with a man for a husband who doesn’t want her. Is that your intention, then? To divorce her when we reach Waco?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Luke said gruffly.

  “It’s none of my business, except that if you do want to leave her, she can come live with us.” Ignoring Luke’s glance of amazement, Jake continued, looking straight ahead as his horse picked its way along the trail. “Aileen suggested it, and I’m agreeable if that’s the way things work out. A woman alone stands no chance where we’re headed.”

  “She’s not alone,” Luke pointed out. “I’m sharing the ranch with her.”

  “So I hear.” Jake gave him a second glance. “I understand you made a deal with the lady, for her protection. And that half the ranch was the bargaining price. Not that I have anything to say about that. Stranger contracts have been made along the Chisholm trail, and my relationship with Aileen wasn’t written in any beggar’s bible. But I just wanted you to know that there was an alternative, if you don’t want to stay with her.”

  “I appreciate that,” Luke replied, wondering why he was annoyed. “But I feel protective of her at this point. Amanda is not like other women.” Any other woman, he amended to himself.

  “I know.” Jake chuckled. “I heard about your clothes. It must be hell being tethered to a woman with the brains—” Then, abruptly, “Why do you think she has a price on her head?”

  It was Luke’s turn to look startled. He was about to deny any such thing, but Jake shook his head.

  “I was a lawman before I decided to come south. Haskwell doesn’t just send his men after anybody because it’s Tuesday and the newspaper wasn’t printed. That black Irishman’s got a good reason—a damned good reason—to want her dead.”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Luke said, his brow furrowed in thought. It was a puzzle he’d been trying to figure out for days. “Amanda doesn’t know either. They started attacking her on board the train west, and haven’t let up since. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Amanda’s never been anywhere, never done anything, doesn’t have any jewels, clothes, or anything an outlaw could sell. Unless she has something valuable that she doesn’t know about.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Jake said gruffly. “A man will track his victim this long only if his life is threatened. Especially Haskwell. He’s a gambler and investor, and will kill when cornered, but he knows better than to go looking for trouble. Do you remember the Haines murder about five years back?”

  Luke’s hand tightened on the leather reins. “When that sheriff was shot in cold blood, and they couldn’t find the witness?”

  Jake nodded, then wiped his mouth with his buckskin jacket. He took a flask from his pocket, pulled the cork out with his teeth, then took a long drink before offering the bottle to the younger man riding beside him.

  “Haskwell would have hanged for that, had we found the woman who saw him. We know the bastard did it. All we needed was for her to show up.�
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  Luke froze as the whiskey tin touched his mouth, the metal cold against his teeth. “You don’t think…”

  “She was five foot five, chestnut colored hair, and glasses,” Jake replied. “That’s the description.”

  “Jesus,” Luke swore softly. “You mean, Amanda saw him?”

  “It hardly matters whether she did or didn’t,” Jake pointed out. “If Haskwell thinks she saw it.”

  Luke nodded. It made sense, all of it. And if Sam Haskwell thought Amanda could hang him, he wouldn’t stop pursuing her until she was dead. Hatred rose up in him. He refused to even entertain the thought. Haskwell wouldn’t wantonly kill someone who meant something to him again. When he was fighting Grant at Petersburg, there was nothing he could do.

  This time, it would be different.

  The hot Oklahoma sun glittered brightly on the swaying fields of the Great Plains. A wagon train snaked through the grass, plodding down a trail worn through by hundreds of wheels and thousands of hooves. Soft white daisies dotted the land, while empty sacks of burlap and discarded tins testified to the human element who had made the same trek.

  In the distant hills, the starving Indians watched the procession, their bronzed red bodies blending perfectly with the dusty red clay of the earth. Lying poised against the dirt, their slender bodies perfectly controlled, they waited for the right moment to pose an attack on the unwary settlers below.

  Inside the second wagon, a woman took off her bonnet and ruffled her soft blonde hair. The breeze felt wonderful against her hot scalp, and she stretched, allowing it to play over her sweat-soaked dress.

  Angel Hollister was tired of the trail, tired of the ugly Longhorn cattle they’d been tasked to drive up to Abilene. But she’d begged her father to take her these past months, with a girlish desire for excitement. She hadn’t known what the trail would really be like—that every bone in her body would ache incessantly, that thirst and hunger would become constant companions, or that simple tasks would take on a monumental difficulty.

  She also hadn’t known what a blazing sunset would look like, unfettered by buildings or saloon lights, or how pristine and clear the air would be at dawn. She hadn’t anticipated the flowers, the brush plants, the geranium and columbine that appeared in the sea of softly waving grass like casually dropped presents. No, she hadn’t known of any of this, nor could she explain the way she’d been feeling lately.

  It was as if her body had come alive with nature. In the past few days, she’d become keenly aware of Chase Rutherford, her father’s foreman. She could see him just outside the wagon, riding with his body bent forward and his legs pressed tightly to his mount. Tall, with crisp black hair and sky-blue eyes, he could look right into her and make her blood pulse hotter and her heart do crazy things. He saw her in the wagon and he tipped his hat, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Morning.” His eyes wandered down the front of her dress. “Care to ride? There’s a waterhole a few miles south. We could make it ahead of the wagons.” He smiled knowingly. “You would be a lot cooler for a swim.”

  She shouldn’t, Lord knows, she shouldn’t. Her father would be furious. Angel Hollister had always done the right thing and had always listened to authority. Until Chase. For some reason, the blue-eyed cowboy made it difficult to think. She wanted to refuse now, but her nerves felt as tight as a guitar string and the thought of the cooling water was just too tempting. Checking to make sure her father was still well behind them, she nodded eagerly and slipped into the saddle before him, her legs fitting expertly next to his….

  Amanda read through the scene from her new novel, pleased with its progress. The difference in her writing was apparent. Her trip on the prairie was obviously affecting her work.

  “Go on out there and sing, Honey me girl.”

  Honey stared back at Sam, her eyes lifeless. Clad in scarlet silk, she looked stunning, but there was an emptiness about her that made her black ostrich feather droop and her glass diamonds lose their luster. She looked beaten, frightened half to death, and pushed past the point of caring. As she gazed at the man who was her captor, she swallowed the hatred that was beginning to eat away at her. She refused to feel anything at all.

  She couldn’t. For the past few days, Sam had dragged her from one cow town to another, in a relentless search for a woman named Edison. None of it meant anything to Honey. Nothing mattered now except escape, and that seemed impossible.

  She had given up trying ever since the last time Sam threatened her in the dressing room. She shivered as she thought of that gun pressing against her skin, and worse, what had followed afterward. Although he had yet to physically beat her, he abused her in every other way possible. He beat her down mentally, made her feel terrified all of the time. Sexually perverted, he seemed to delight in anything that humiliated her, that added to her sense of helplessness and fear. It was a stimulant to him, an aphrodisiac to the older man who needed whatever he could get to arouse him.

  And now he wanted her to sing. Numbly, Honey clutched the black lace fan Sam had given her and she stared out onto the scarred and empty stage just beyond. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even remember a song, or the days when she was free, enjoying the attention of men, and letting them shower her with gold and compliments. She used to allow only one man to take her to dinner, and she always refused to sleep with him after. It was a trick she had learned early on—not to give in. It made the men crazy for her.

  It was the ultimate irony to wind up like this. She, Honey Bee, who could have any man, who rejected governors and silver kings, railroad barons and rich Yankee speculators, was now the plaything of a man so cruel and worthless that she couldn’t think of a name low enough to do him justice.

  “Get out there.” Sam’s voice turned cold. “Now.”

  “I can’t,” Honey protested, her voice taking on the first glimmer of life that it had shown in days. “Sam, please don’t do this. Don’t make me sing. I just can’t.”

  Sam grabbed her roughly, bruising her alabaster shoulder. “You can and you will. This trip is costing me money, and I need to make it back. Now you’ll do it for me, or I’ll find another way to make you earn your keep.” He smiled, his black eyes glittering with menace. “There are over fifty men out there who have paid to see you, Honey darlin’. Fifty men. Any one of them or all of them would pay a tidy fortune to spend an hour between your legs. Ah, I see you understand me now. Which way would you prefer?”

  “No, Sam!” Honey cried, crystal tears spilling down her cheeks and smearing the black kohl Haskwell had insisted she use. “Please, no!”

  “All right then.” Sam let go of her arm and shoved her gently out to center stage. “You’ve made your choice then. I’ll let the piano player know what songs you prefer.”

  He was gone a moment later, disappearing through a dusty velvet curtain. Honey could hear the silence, followed by a thunderous applause as the piano man struck a few tinny chords. The curtain slowly opened, and the spotlight fell on her with a painful illumination. The clapping ceased, and the men waited in anticipation as Honey opened her mouth to sing.

  “The sun shines bright, on my old Kentucky home; ‘Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn top’s ripe and the meadow’s in bloom, While the birds make music all the day…”

  It was the only song she could remember, the only one whose words would come. She sang softly, her voice tremulous as she fought back tears, wishing she could go home and be well away from this nightmare which had become her life.

  The cheer dissipated from the room like a jolly ghost no longer welcome. The men, already rich with beer, stared at the sad and beautiful girl on stage, and felt her pain. Many of them, defeated Confederates who were struggling to rebuild a new life, thought back to the homes that once waited for them—homes that no longer existed or were forever changed. As Honey sang, the sadness permeated the saloon. More than one man roughly wiped his eye with his sleeve, while others slipped solemnly away, wanting to escape fro
m the painful reminders of the war.

  “What the hell is this shit?” the bartender swore. Instead of clapping and cheering and buying round after round, the men were acting as if they were at a funeral. Honey’s voice rang out true and clear, filled with sorrow and grief. She moved gracefully across the stage, her dress falling around a figure that was now too thin. Even her hair, that wonderful arrangement of black glossy curls, seemed to have dimmed, and her eyes looked out onto nothing.

  The barkeep gestured to the piano player to change the music, but the man shrugged. Every time he attempted it, Honey returned to the sad lament of the lost South.

  “A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter, it will never be light; We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away.”

  A cowboy sobbed, then drowned himself in his beer, while more men slipped away. The barkeep strode up to the stage, threw a menacing glance to the piano player who immediately began a cheerful ditty, then hauled the curtain shut. He turned to Haskwell and Honey, his face beet red, his black moustache twitching in anger.

  “What the hell do you call that? I hired you to bring men in, not to make them leave! This whole place is as depressed as a morgue!”

  “I’m sorry,” Honey stammered, suddenly realizing what she’d done. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re fired.” The barkeep tossed a coin onto the floor. “Take that and leave. You’re lucky I don’t hold you responsible for loss of income tonight. Goddamn! Saturday night, and we usually pack the house! Tonight I book Honey Bee, and she drives out half the men with one song! When word of this gets out, you won’t get a booking anywhere!”

  “You aren’t threatening now, are you?” Sam said, his black eyes narrowing with menace. His hand rested lightly over his gun, his fingers twitching, as if aching to draw.

  “No.” The barkeep swallowed hard. Haskwell was no one to tangle with. The man was ruthless, and would kill with no more compunction than he’d spit out tobacco. “I didn’t mean that.”