Beyond The Horizon

by Connie Mason

  The flickering campfire softened the hard planes of his face and the expression in his dark eyes was one of warm regard instead of the usual stern disapproval he exhibited toward her. For a brief moment Blade had lowered his guard, allowing Shannon an unintentional glimpse of the sensitive man beneath his austere facade. He looked—my God, Shannon thought, thunderstruck—he looked like any other man burdened with responsibilities and worries!

  Then, just as swiftly as he had appeared, the man Shannon thought she had discovered vanished, replaced by the half-breed, Swift Blade. When the warmth of his hands left hers, Shannon felt strangely deprived, yet vastly relieved.

  “Don’t fret, Shannon,” Blade said softly. “Callie will be just fine. I suspect the baby is large enough to survive should she deliver early.”

  Then he was gone. One moment he was there beside her, the next he was gone, nearly convincing Shannon that she had imagined the whole thing.

  Chapter Three

  Late that night Callie went into premature labor. Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Cormac were hastily summoned and Shannon was shooed outside to placate Howie who was on the verge of panic. The poor man was beside himself with worry, and with good cause. At dawn Callie appeared to be no closer to delivery than she was at midnight. By noon the entire wagon train was aware of Callie’s travail and her difficulty in delivering. As dusk approached both Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Cormac came out of the wagon to announce that Callie was growing visibly weaker and they feared for her life. Both good women looked exhausted and Shannon immediately offered her assistance.

  “There is nothing you can do, honey,” Mrs. Wilson said, patting her hand consolingly.

  Those words seemed to send Howie, already prostrate with grief, over the edge. “Please do something,” he begged, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Don’t let Callie die.”

  “Perhaps I can help.”

  All eyes turned to Blade. His silent approach never failed to amaze Shannon. Obviously he had heard both Mrs. Wilson’s words and Howie’s impassioned plea.

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  Mrs. Wilson flushed, unaccustomed to discussing intimate details of childbirth with a man. Blade sensed her reticence and resisted the urge to rail at her misplaced modesty. Didn’t she realize that a woman’s life was at stake?

  “How can I help if I don’t know what the trouble is?”

  Mrs. Wilson glanced at Howie and, when he voiced no objection, explained, “The baby won’t come. We think it’s turned wrong.”

  Grasping the situation instantly, Blade turned to Howie. “Do you trust me, Howie? Do you trust me enough to let me help your wife?”

  At first Howie seemed disturbed by the thought of another man touching his wife. But contemplating her death was even more abhorrent. If Blade could help Callie, what did it matter that he was a man—or an Indian? Howie reasoned sensibly. “I’d be grateful if you could help Callie,” he said evenly, realizing by the shocked faces around him that his fellow travelers thought he had lost his mind. What did a half-breed know about birthing?

  “I’ll assist you,” Mrs. Wilson offered, her lips pressed tight in disapproval.

  “You’re exhausted, Mrs. Wilson, and so are you, Mrs. Cormac,” Blade said dismissively.

  Blade glanced around the circle of people gathered around the Johnson wagon, aware that propriety demanded another woman be present during the birth. He scanned the faces staring at him, some with awe, others with outright distrust, and settled on one. “Miss Branigan is close to Mrs. Johnson. She’ll do just fine.”

  Surprised, Shannon stepped forward, more than eager to do whatever was necessary to help Callie.

  “But Miss Branigan is unwed,” Mrs. Cormac complained, shocked to the core. “It’s not proper.”

  “I have several younger brothers and sisters, and childbirth is no mystery to me,” Shannon declared stoutly. Turning on her heel she climbed into the wagon, followed closely by Blade.

  Shannon knelt beside Callie, who lay moaning softly on a sweat-soaked pallet. Deep purple shadows marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes and it was obvious her strength was swiftly ebbing.

  “Callie, can you hear me? It’s Shannon.”

  Callie opened her eyes, grasping desperately for Shannon’s hand. “Am I going to die?” Her fear was stark and real.

  Shannon and Blade exchanged worried glances. “No, of course not. Blade has come to help you.”

  “Blade?” Callie asked, confused.

  “I can help you, Mrs. Johnson—Callie—if you let me,” Blade said. “Do you trust me?”

  Callie shifted her gaze from Blade to Shannon, then back to Blade. She wanted her baby, wanted to live, and found only one answer. “I trust you, Blade.”

  Flashing a reassuring smile, Blade stuck his head through the wagon flap, issuing crisp orders. “Hot water and strong lye soap.”

  When they arrived he told Shannon to sit beside Callie and hold her hand. Shannon complied without question while Blade thoroughly washed his hands and arms. When he was ready he began talking to Callie in low soothing tones, telling her what he was going to do and not to be afraid.

  Shannon held her breath as Blade carefully inserted his hand into Callie’s body, examining the position of the baby. He grunted in satisfaction when he discovered the problem and then proceeded to turn the infant into the right position for birthing. Callie screamed once, twice, panting from the pain. From that point things moved along swiftly and shortly afterwards the baby slid effortlessly into Blade’s big hands.

  “It’s a boy,” he said, handing the child to Shannon. Then Blade climbed out of the wagon, satisfied to let the women take over. Within seconds he had disappeared into the encroaching darkness.

  Later that night Shannon sought out Blade. No matter what she thought about him personally, the man had saved Callie’s life and received little thanks for his efforts. Having learned he was on guard duty that night, she found him leaning against a tree some distance from the perimeter of the camp.

  He looked as if he were totally relaxed, but Shannon detected a constant alertness in his gaze and stance. He seemed aware of every noise and movement, knowing the precise moment Shannon neared.

  “What are you doing roaming about this time of night?” Blade asked, frowning.

  It was as if he had conjured her up, for he had been thinking of her and how she hadn’t turned squeamish or appeared shocked when he did what he had to do to save Callie and her child.

  “I—I want to thank you. For what you did for the Johnsons. Callie would have died if you hadn’t offered to help and known what to do.”

  “I told you before, I’m responsible for every person on the wagon train. I do what I have to do.”

  “How did you know what to do?” She hadn’t meant to be so nosy, but curiosity got the best of her.

  “Indians know many things,” he replied. His cryptic words told her little.

  What he couldn’t say was that as a young army lieutenant he was once called upon to assist the company doctor in just such a delivery. During a march, their outfit had sought lodging at a remote plantation and they couldn’t have arrived at a more convenient time. The young mistress, alone but for a single male slave, was giving birth. The doctor promptly offered his services and Blade volunteered to assist. As it was with Callie, the baby was turned wrong and the mother and child would have perished if the good doctor hadn’t known what to do.

  Shannon searched Blade’s face, wondering how so compassionate a man could look so big and dangerous. This was a side of him he rarely showed. It was also a mystery to her why he seemed to dislike her.

  “Why don’t you like me?” she asked bluntly.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s obvious my presence on this wagon train offends you.”

  “Nothing about you offends me, Shannon,” Blade muttered beneath his breath, “except what you do to me.”

  “What?” Surely she hadn’t heard him right.

&
nbsp; “I said you don’t offend me and I don’t dislike you. It’s more like I offend you for being what I am.” Blade hadn’t meant to say so much, but somehow this exasperating female put words in his mouth.

  Shannon flushed. A few weeks ago that might have been true, but as the days slid by she had come to regard Blade as a man, not as a half-breed Sioux.

  “Is it true, Shannon? Do you think of me as less than human?” His voice was soft and low and utterly beguiling, turning Shannon’s legs to water. She couldn’t have spoken had she known what to say.

  He was so close that she could smell his musky masculine odor, feel the tenseness in his body. With rising panic she studied the shape of his lips as they hovered dangerously close to hers, mesmerized by their rich, full contours. Vividly she recalled their softness, the unique taste when his tongue explored her mouth.

  “Shannon.” Her name was a groan on his lips, softly uttered, barely heard, swept away on the warm summer breeze.

  Without realizing exactly how it happened, their lips meshed, clinging, tasting. A shudder passed through Blade as his tongue outlined the generous contours of her lips, lingering at their moist corners, savoring their sweetness. He knew he had no business kissing Shannon, it could only lead to problems for both of them. But a compelling force inside him blanked out all reason and bid him take this small pleasure and savor it. Seeking a deeper intimacy, he meshed their bodies, his desire rising between them like a hot brand. Blade’s strangled moan seemed to bring a semblance of order to Shannon’s scrambled wits as she came abruptly to her senses.

  What was she thinking, to allow a man she hardly knew such liberties? His mouth was demanding things she knew nothing about while his hands searched her body with practiced expertise. How many other women had he seduced so effortlessly with his male magnetism? she wondered. How had a half-breed acquired such sophisticated talents? And what was she doing in his arms, responding to him with an eagerness that shocked her?

  “Don’t,” Shannon gasped. She was shaking from head to toe as she pushed herself from Blade’s arms.

  My God! Blade thought, nearly as shaken as Shannon. If he continued like this he’d be bedding her on the hard ground in another moment. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he taunted. It took considerable effort to make his voice deliberately cruel and cynical.

  “Are you trying to humiliate me?” Shannon struggled for breath, his cruel words fueling her anger.

  “Isn’t this why you came out here?” Blade replied with sly inuendo. “Does a half-breed kiss any differently than a white man? Did you pick me to experiment on because I’m only half-tame and the thought excited you?”

  Shannon sucked her breath in sharply. Then she bombarded him with her Irish temper. “You conceited jackass! I don’t understand you. One minute you’re kissing me and the next you’re accusing me of despicable things. But why should I expect gentle treatment from a half-civilized savage? You may have fooled some people on this wagon train, but you don’t fool me!”

  Abruptly she turned and stalked away, leaving Blade with a bad taste in his mouth. It was a helluva long way to Fort Laramie and Shannon Branigan wasn’t going to make the trip an easy one!

  The wagon train lingered another day on the bank of the Big Blue then crossed with relative ease, since the water was down. The oozy bottom looked threatening to Shannon but Blade seemed to know exactly where to cross.

  Beyond the crossing the trail ran up into Nebraska to meet the Platte River, which emigrants described as bad to ford, destitute offish, too dirty to bathe in, and too thick to drink.

  There were many Indian sightings now, mostly Pawnee who had to be watched carefully, for they stole horses and cattle and pilfered food indiscriminately. The emigrants crossed trails of Pawnee leading from permanent winter villages to hunting grounds to the south. Blade appeared unconcerned over these sightings, which eased the emigrants’ minds considerably.

  The journey was tedious now, as they passed up the middle of a long, narrow sandy plain reaching like an outstretched belt nearly to the Rocky Mountains. Wood was practically nonexistent and the trail became littered with stoves, which were of no further use and too cumbersome to be of value. Following behind the wagons, the women and children now collected buffalo chips for fuel. They burned with surprisingly little smoke or odor, but it was an unending chore. As far as the eye could see, women and children carrying baskets or using their aprons bent to the task of picking up buffalo chips from the ground. Shannon didn’t particularly like the job, but Callie was still recovering from childbirth and the disgusting chore fell to her.

  Shannon found herself thinking of Blade on those long, hot days trekking behind the wagons. He was an enigma—a man who both attracted and repelled her. Would she ever understand the workings of his mind? Perhaps it was best if she didn’t try.

  Sweat trickled from beneath Shannon’s sunbonnet and she whisked it off her forehead. She wrinkled her sunburned nose, the scent of her perspiration-soaked dress offensive even to her. But she took comfort from the fact that she was no different from the other women. In a day or two they would reach the Platte River, and Blade promised the women they would have the opportunity to bathe and wash clothes.

  As though she’d conjured him up, Blade appeared beside her on his gray pony.

  “Put your bonnet on. Do you want the prairie sun to fry your brains?”

  “I just took it off for a moment,” Shannon tried to explain.

  “Your face is flushed and your nose is peeling. Your skin is too delicate to be exposed to the harsh rays of the sun.”

  Her skin delicate? Shannon was shocked he’d even noticed. Dutifully she clapped the bonnet on her head and tied the strings under her chin. It rankled her to think that the only time Blade spoke to her these days was to criticize. He seemed to find fault with everything she did.

  “That’s better.” Without another word he spurred his horse and rode off.

  What the devil had possessed him to stop and speak to Shannon? Blade asked himself, bewildered. When he saw her trudging behind the wagon, her single garment flapping about her shapely legs and her rich chestnut curls glistening in the sun, he just couldn’t help himself. Because of the heat, most of the women had shed all unnecessary female fripperies like corsets and petticoats, sometimes even gathering their skirts between their legs and tucking them in at their waists. It created more sensible walking attire and was vastly more comfortable.

  It amazed Blade that Shannon could still manage to look so beautiful with her face red from the sun and her nose sprinkled with tiny brown freckles. The sight was so tempting that something compelled him to stop, to experience again the full magnetism of those incredible blue eyes. On his way back to the head of the line of wagons he deliberately stopped beside the Wilson rig to flirt with Nancy, hoping her teasing would divert his thoughts from Shannon.

  Shannon couldn’t help but notice where Blade stopped, or how long he lingered, flirting with that Wilson hussy. That it should even matter shocked her. Blade had avoided her like poison these past few days and that was just fine with her. The part of him that was Indian made her mistrust him—yet his blatant masculinity transcended all notions of red or white. He was a man. Beautifully, incredibly male. But so damn arrogant she wanted to lash out at him every time she saw him. Was it any wonder Nancy Wilson found him so intriguing?

  Clive Bailey watched the exchange between Shannon and Blade, a satisfied smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. Until now duties kept him from pursuing Shannon. But since they had adapted to a daily routine, he had more time to indulge his fantasies where Shannon Branigan was concerned. She had struck his fancy from the moment they met and he hadn’t given up his dream of possessing her. At first Clive had thought Shannon was attracted to Blade, but with each passing day it became more apparent that they couldn’t stand one another. Shannon was too much of a lady to allow a half-breed to sweet-talk her. A man like Blade deserved sluts like Nancy Wilson who spread their
legs for anything in pants. Clive even had a taste of her himself a few days ago when she sneaked away to meet him in the middle of the night. But that hadn’t slaked his lust for Shannon Branigan—not by a long shot.

  A few days later they came upon the Platte River after traveling through two lines of hills flanking a narrow valley at a distance of a mile or two on the right and left. The level monotony of the plain was unbroken as far as the eye could see. The Platte ran through the valleys in a thin sheet of rapid, turbid water, half a mile wide and barely two feet deep. Its low banks, for the most part without bush or tree, were composed of loose sand. Only the islands sported cottonwood or willow trees, something Shannon thought most curious.

  They followed the Platte for some distance. Because it was so late in the year, the river was extremely shallow. The bed was quicksand that sucked at boats and wagon wheels. It could not be ferried and was too dangerous to ford. For a distance of three miles on both sides of the Platte, the land rose in sandstone cliffs that grew higher and more broken as the trail moved west.

  Shannon was amazed at the prairie wildlife—antelope, deer, coyotes, grizzlies, and black bears, buffalo, and prairie dogs. Prairie dog villages sometimes covered five hundred acres. Worst of all were the hordes of mosquitoes and gnats. Buffalo weren’t as plentiful as they once were but they could be a nuisance. Sometimes potable stream water turned dark and redolent as herds wandered through it. At other times, emigrants’ oxen and cows might stray off with the buffalo herd, never to be seen again.

  Trouble with Indians was rare along this stretch, for the Platte valley lay in a kind of no man’s land between the Pawnees to the north and the Cheyenne to the south. Though their meetings with Indians were peaceable affairs in which the tribesmen traded buffalo meat for tobacco, ironware, and the travelers’ worn-out clothing. Blade insisted the wagons be drawn up into a corral at every campsite. This also served the practical purpose of enclosing some of the livestock overnight so they could graze. The corral was formed by interlocking wagons, with the tongue of one extending under the wagonbed of the other.