Beyond The Horizon

by Connie Mason

  It was during the long tedious trek along the Platte that Clive Bailey began actively pursuing Shannon, much to Blade’s consternation.

  Shannon hugged little Johnny Blade Johnson to her breast, thinking how much she missed her own closeknit family. The little boy was precious to her, and she would miss him terribly when they parted. Callie’s strength had slowly returned, and fortunately her milk was plentiful enough to keep her baby well fed and happy. As its youngest member, he soon became the darling of the wagon train.

  Clive Bailey took to stopping by frequently to visit the baby, but the premise did not fool Shannon. She did her best to discourage Clive, but he remained insensitive to Shannon’s coolness. When an impromptu dance was announced for their Sunday night entertainment, Clive plotted to get Shannon alone.

  Blade rarely attended these festivities, nor was he invited. He usually stood on the sidelines to watch and listen, recalling with fondness some of the festive balls he had attended before and after the war. He had never lacked for partners then. But out here on the Western frontier, he was a misfit, a man neither white nor red, living on the fringes of society. Occasionally Nancy Wilson or one of the other young ladies insisted on a dance, but he usually declined, unwilling to flaunt custom or anger parents.

  The dark, mysterious pools of Blade’s eyes followed Shannon’s lithe figure as she flitted from one man’s arms to another’s. His body reacted spontaneously to the memory of how she felt in his arms, all soft and warm and vibrantly female.

  Spinning to the music of the fiddler, Shannon suddenly found herself dancing with Clive Bailey. She still hadn’t forgiven him for behaving so despicably toward her and the smile faded from her lips.

  “I’ve not had the opportunity to properly apologize for acting like a fool, Shannon,” Clive said. His obsequious smile did little to ingratiate him with Shannon. “I meant no disrespect. I don’t know what got into me. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “It is over and done with,” Shannon said with cool disdain. “I don’t wish to speak of it. Perhaps my traveling alone gave you a false impression of me.”

  “If we can start over again, I promise to behave like a perfect gentleman.”

  Shannon doubted Clive Bailey’s sincerity, but her generous nature prompted her to give a grudging consent. A sly smile curved Bailey’s thin lips as he whirled Shannon around the circle of dancers.

  Blade’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he noted Clive’s preoccupation with Shannon. Though he hated to leave Shannon in Bailey’s clutches, Blade slipped stealthily into the shadows, melting like a wraith into the darkness. There were still several wagons he hadn’t searched for hidden weapons and he couldn’t have asked for a better time than the present to do it. The impromptu revelry had drawn everyone to the music and dancers. With the stealth of a cat Blade slipped into a wagon belonging to Fred Hankins and his family. Fred was a loud-mouthed braggart who abused his family shamefully. But no matter how badly Blade wanted to involve the man in gun smuggling, he found nothing to suggest his guilt.

  He chose another wagon in the circle and again came away without a shred of incriminating evidence. Perhaps Washington was mistaken and the guns were already on their way to Fort Laramie concealed on another wagon train. The next wagon in line belonged to Clive Bailey, and as usual his driver, a big Swede named Olson, lounged nearby. Blade cursed his rotten luck. Time and again Blade had been prevented from searching Bailey’s wagon because of Olson’s annoying habit of spending his leisure hours leaning against the rear wheel whittling on a piece of wood. Somehow, Blade reflected grimly, he’d have to devise a way to get Olson away from Bailey’s wagon long enough for him to inspect it.

  Excluding Bailey’s wagon, Blade was left with two others to search, one of them belonging to the young Johnsons. Glancing toward the festivities, Blade noted that both Johnsons were occupied. Howie was with a group of men and Callie sat amidst a circle of women who were admiring the baby. Shannon was now dancing with young Todd Wilson. Blade’s moccasined feet were noiseless as he eased through the rear opening of the Johnson wagon. He didn’t actually suspect the Johnsons, but he felt duty-bound to search every wagon.

  Determined to refuse the next dance so that she might catch her breath, Shannon strolled over to the group of women surrounding Callie and the baby. She was greeted warmly and would have joined in the conversation but for the sudden breeze that sent a chill down her spine. Callie felt it too, and when Shannon said she would return to the wagon for their shawls and a blanket for little Johnny, Callie thought it a prudent idea. Shannon left immediately.

  It was dark at the outer perimeter of the campsite where the wagons formed a protective circle around the dancers, and Shannon slipped inside the wagon as silently as Blade had done only minutes before. The moment Shannon entered the dark interior she sensed immediately that she wasn’t alone. A frisson of fear raced up her spine and she felt the hair rise at the back of her neck. She stood frozen in a sort of limbo, waiting, undecided whether to scream or issue a challenge. She chose the latter, marshaling her courage to ask, “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  “I know someone is in here. Who is it? I’ll scream if you don’t answer me.”

  Then suddenly Shannon knew! She recognized immediately the clean musky scent of him and the aroma of woods, smoke and leather that clung to him. She didn’t need a light to identify Blade, for his nearness created a subtle awareness in her that was hard to define but easily recognized. “Blade? What are you doing in the Johnsons’ wagon?”

  He crawled out from behind some stacked boxes, the dim light from the campfire confirming his identity. How did Shannon know it was him? Blade wondered, mystified. Was she one of those fey Irish lasses who had the vision? Or was she as profoundly aware of him as he was of her?

  “I hoped to be gone before anyone returned.” Blade’s cryptic words made little sense.

  “What could you possibly want in here? The Johnsons have nothing of value to steal.”

  “You think I’d steal from the Johnsons?” His voice was harsh with reproach. It rankled to think she thought him a thief.

  “I don’t know what to think. Indians are notorious pilferers.”

  “What about that half of me that’s white?”

  “If you’re not stealing, what are you doing?” Shannon wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt but it was difficult, having caught him red-handed.

  “I can’t tell you.” The firm line of his mouth quirked downward. “And I’d strongly advise you to forget you saw me here tonight.”

  “Are—are you threatening me?” Shannon gasped. Disbelief colored her words.

  “Perhaps,” Blade hedged.

  “I don’t scare easily.” Blade nearly laughed aloud when Shannon’s firm little chin jutted out defiantly. He could snap her in two with little effort. “Convince me otherwise and I’ll take your—request into consideration.”

  “I can’t explain. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Trust you! Is that the best you can do?” Shannon really did want to trust Blade, but she felt she deserved an explanation.

  A spark caught fire and grew in Blade’s dark eyes. “I can do this,” he said huskily, catching her in his arms and drawing her close. “And this.” His mouth slanted across hers, searching for the sweetness he remembered with vivid clarity as he meshed their bodies together. Shannon felt the brazen thrust of his manhood between them as his tongue nudged her lips apart.

  He pulled her closer still, his hands molding her buttocks, now clutching her waist, finally finding the soft mounds of her breasts. All restraint fled as Shannon moaned, her arms creeping around his neck with a will of their own, her fingers sliding upwards into the thick silk of his hair.

  “You’re an Irish witch, Shannon Branigan,” Blade rasped. All reason fled as he slid downward with her to the wagonbed.

  Blade’s kiss was so potent that Shannon wasn’t aware of her danger, or where her surrender was likely to lead
. Nor did she feel his hands tugging at the buttons of her bodice. What she did feel was Blade’s lips sliding down her neck, tasting the shell-like indent of her ear, his tongue teasing the swell of flesh rising above the neckline of her chemise.

  “Shannon, are you in there? Callie grew worried when you failed to return.”

  Howie! A strangled curse flew from Blade’s lips. “Tell him you’ll be right out,” he hissed when Shannon was slow to regain her wits. “Say nothing about me.” His voice was ominously low and fraught with warning.

  “Shannon!” Howie was close to the wagon—too close. Shannon perched on the horns of a dilemma. She could keep Blade’s secret or she could tell the entire wagon train he was a thief. But try as she might, she really didn’t believe that Blade was capable of theft.

  Unbidden, her thoughts returned to the way Blade’s mouth felt on hers, how her body burned everyplace he touched, and only one answer was possible. “I’m coming, Howie. I couldn’t find my shawl.”

  Hastily buttoning her dress and gathering what she had come to the wagon for, Shannon appeared at the entrance. Howie was already holding back the flap and offering a hand to help her to the ground. She glanced over her shoulder only once as she walked away, aware that Blade was watching, wondering what he’d do if she decided to make his nighttime activities known. How many other wagons had he secretly invaded? Shannon wondered grimly. She found her answer later that evening when she returned early to the wagon and spied Blade slipping out of the Carpenter wagon.

  At first Shannon thought it was just the Johnson wagon Blade was curious about, but he had disproved that theory by skulking inside other wagons as well. Her natural curiosity demanded an answer to the mystery.

  Blade slipped from the Carpenter wagon with no more proof of gun smuggling than he had the day they began this journey. During these past weeks he had managed to search every wagon but the one belonging to Clive Bailey with no one the wiser until he had been confronted by Shannon. He turned, melting into the shadows, and from the corner of his eye spied Shannon watching him. He knew then that he must find a plausible excuse to allay her suspicions or he would find himself in deep trouble. But how in the hell was he supposed to do that when he couldn’t even remember his own name whenever he got within two feet of Shannon Branigan?

  The next morning Blade surprised Shannon when he asked her to ride ahead with him while he scouted the area. As usual he was mounted on his big gray pony, Warrior. Shannon and Callie were walking behind the wagon when he approached holding the leading reins of a gentle black mare.

  “Can you ride?” he asked Shannon, nodding pleasantly at Callie.

  “Of course.” Did he think she possessed no skills at all? Shannon wondered.

  “I thought you might enjoy riding along while I scouted ahead.”

  Shannon looked startled. “I prefer to walk.”

  “I suggest you think again,” Blade persisted. There wasn’t a place on her body that wasn’t touched by his dark gaze.

  Callie stared with interest at the two antagonists, wondering if there was something she had missed. She’d swear there was something deep and profound between Blade and Shannon; something that reeked of dark secrets and tension and had nothing to do with mere friendship.

  “Go on, Shannon,” Callie urged, “it will do you good to get away for a while.”

  Before she could protest, Blade dismounted and hoisted Shannon into the saddle, handing her the reins. “We’ll ride west a few miles and meet you at nooning,” he told Callie. Then he slapped the rump of Shannon’s mare and led the way past the meandering line of wagons.

  Shannon’s cheeks bloomed with color not of the sun’s doing as dozens of pairs of eyes followed their progress—especially those of Nancy Wilson and Clive Bailey.

  Blade knew he wasn’t helping Shannon’s reputation by insisting that she ride with him, but it was no more than what some of the other young women had done from time to time these past weeks. Besides, there was no other way to get Shannon alone in order to convince her to remain silent about his suspicious behavior.

  They rode without speaking for several miles, leaving the wagon train far behind. Finally Blade halted at a narrow offshoot of the Platte to water the horses. Shannon slid from the saddle and knelt beside the stream, using her hands to scoop up water to dampen her neck and face. Then she removed her bonnet, shaking out her tangled mass of chestnut curls. Mesmerized, Blade thought they looked like lustrous strands of burnished copper. No sooner had she refreshed herself than she turned to Blade, stormclouds gathering in her blue eyes.

  “What is this all about, Blade? Did you bring me here to explain why you’ve been rifling wagons? I saw you leaving the Carpenter wagon last night after you’d been prowling around in the Johnson wagon.”

  “Thank you for not giving me away. What I am doing will hurt no one.”

  “If it hurts no one, why can’t you explain?”

  “I know it doesn’t make sense, Shannon, but what I’m doing is important.”

  “Important to whom? To what? Are you waiting for your people to arrive and attack the wagon train? Have you been searching for hidden wealth and possible loot?”

  “I’d never betray the lives I was hired to protect.” Blade said it with such heartfelt sincerity that Shannon was inclined to believe him. “I consider myself as much white as Indian. I’m as proud of my mother’s Sioux blood as I am of my father’s white heritage.”

  “Sioux!” Shannon gasped, the name instilling fear in her heart. The war-like Sioux were daring raiders who had resumed attacking wagon trains, railroads, and stage coach stations along the Oregon Trail after becoming increasingly dissatisfied with their treatment at the hands of the American government, the large number of emigrants moving across their hunting grounds, and the callous slaughter of their buffalo.

  Immediately Blade sensed her fear. “My mother is Sioux. My father was a mountain man, a trapper adopted into Yellow Dog’s tribe. He fell in love with and married my mother.” Blade had no idea why he was telling Shannon all this except that he needed her trust and her silence.

  “Are both your parents still living?”

  “Only my mother. My father was killed by a grizzly bear a few months ago.”

  “I’m sorry. They must have been conscientious parents, for your education wasn’t lacking.”

  “Father wanted me educated as a white man so that I could make my way in the white man’s world if I so desired.”

  Shannon eyed Blade suspiciously, her gaze settling on the blue army jacket he wore with casual pride. “You were educated in the North? You’re a Yankee?” She made it sound as if an Indian half-breed was several notches above a Yankee.

  “You hate Yankees so much?”

  Shannon’s face twisted into a bitter grimace. “Yankees killed my brother. They were the cause of my father’s death and the loss of my home. Did you fight for the North?”

  Shannon’s blunt question caught Blade off guard. President Johnson had advised him to tell no one that he was an army officer. Every aspect of his assignment was to remain secret. The answer he was forming never left his mouth as his eyes drifted past Shannon to a place above her head where the brown hills rose in an unbroken line.

  Shannon felt his body tense, saw him look past her, and asked, “Blade, what is it?”

  “I don’t know, but every bone in my body tells me something isn’t right.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing, it’s just a feeling I have. Perhaps I was wrong. What were you saying?”

  “I asked if you were a Yankee soldier.”

  “Would it matter if I were?”

  “Actually, I don’t care one way or another,” Shannon sniffed haughtily.

  Suddenly Blade went rigid, and she saw him look past her to a ridge rising behind her.

  His voice was low and grating, his words terse. “Turn around and walk slowly to your horse. Don’t panic and don’t make any sudden moves. I’ll follow and h
elp you mount. Then ride hell-for-leather back to the wagon.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “Perhaps,” Blade said slowly. “We’re surrounded by Sioux.”

  Shannon paled. She wanted to turn and scan the hills, but didn’t dare. Instead she did exactly as Blade suggested, walking on rubbery legs toward her horse.

  “Stop!” Blade’s voice was harsh, his body taut. “It’s too late. Here they come.”

  Chapter Four

  There was no longer a need for caution as Shannon whirled to face the danger descending on them. With pounding heart she watched twenty-five or thirty warriors ride down from the hills. They were dressed in full war regalia and gaudily painted. Shannon surmised that they were either returning from or on their way to a raid.

  From what Shannon knew of the Sioux they were a fierce, war-like people, often referred to as the “terror of the mountains.” As they drew near, Shannon could see they were also a handsome lot, more than the Pawnee or others she had seen. Like Blade, they were tall and strongly made, possessing firm features and light copper skin. They appeared clean and well-kept down to their shiny black hair. Shannon also knew that since 1860 the Sioux had become increasingly hostile toward travelers across their land. They tended to attack small wagon trains and stragglers, for attacks on well-armed wagon trains were dangerous and brought immediate retaliation from the United States army.

  Blade’s eyes narrowed into dark slits as the warriors surrounded them. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his body alert, wary but showing little outward emotion or alarm. To Shannon, Blade appeared thoughtful but watchful, and it struck her that he might have been expecting Indians to appear. Did it have anything to do with his searching the wagons? she wondered. Then all thought skidded to an abrupt halt as the Indians formed a circle around them and the leader nudged his horse forward.