Gage’s cheeks burned. “I, uh … I apologize again, ma’am. Surely didn’t mean to take over your be— I mean—”
“I wasn’t referring to my room, Mr. Wells.” Her cheeks pinked. “I’m referring to this place in general. I’m not familiar with any of my surroundings. Becca and I arrived only moments before the explosion.”
That would explain why he’d never noticed the beautiful young woman when he’d spied on the hell-on-wheels camp in the previous weeks.
“Boston is my true home….” The whispered admission dripped with longing and pain.
“Sounds like you miss it.”
“Very much.”
Dare he ask what brought her west? Probably better not to broach the subject, particularly if he wasn’t willing to answer such questions himself.
“I’m real sorry to hear that. Truly.”
“Thank you.” She shivered.
At the full-body tremor, he extracted the quilt from his shoulders and turned to her. “Sit up a minute.”
She shook her head. “You need that more than I do.”
“Hogwash. I was getting too warm.”
She did as he asked, and Gage draped the blanket around her shoulders.
She leaned back, smiling. “Thank you.”
His heart pounded as memories washed over him … of draping a blanket around his and Beth’s shoulders as they’d sat on their farmhouse porch on a cool fall evening. They used to cuddle under their blanket and talk as the sun set. On just such a night, she’d laid his hand on her belly and whispered that she was with child.
Gage shook away the memories. Dara Forsythe was not his Beth, and he’d be a fool to let himself imagine she was.
Yet when he realized her eyes brimmed with tears, his belly flip-flopped. He rubbed her arm with the back of his hand, hoping the small gesture might comfort her. Instead, a silent sob racked her small frame. Caving to his instincts, he circled her shoulders and tucked her close to his side. She leaned into him, head resting against his chest. Gage scrambled for some topic that might keep her from crumbling completely.
“Would you believe that before the war, I’d never been in a big city?”
After an instant, Miss Forsythe peered up at him and sniffled. “You hadn’t?”
“It’s true. Lived my whole life in the country.”
She straightened, shrugging out of his grasp.
“Did you go to school, or …?”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. I went whenever Pa didn’t need me on the farm, and Ma taught me at home when I couldn’t get there.”
“That’s fascinating. I spent most of my life in the city. All this isolation is so foreign to me. I feel at loose ends. Mama and I spent our days helping others, but here, there’s little to do but read books.”
“What kinds of things did you do to help others?”
“Most recently, Mama and I would either visit with soldiers and other patients in the hospitals, or we’ve tried to help the men return to their families. Before and during the war, we …”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “You what?”
She lifted her chin. “We worked with the abolition movement.”
Before Gage could react, Forsythe halted the wagon well outside the yard. Young Becca Chenoweth gasped.
“Someone grab my rifle.” Forsythe spoke over his shoulder just loud enough to be heard.
Concerned, Gage reached over Miss Forsythe to lay hold of the gun. However, before he could, a distant, yet familiar call cut the stillness. All uneasiness fled. He rolled onto his knees to see the yard, pain rippling through his back with the movement.
A Cheyenne brave, dark hair shining in the morning sun, stood only feet from Gage’s door. He tossed off the heavy buffalo hide wrapped around his lean frame and barged toward them. He spoke sharply and flailed his arms as if shooing birds from a field of freshly sown seed.
“Wells!” Forsythe hissed his name. “My rifle.”
“You don’t need the gun, sir. Spotted Hawk is a friend.” Gage stood slowly and climbed down from the wagon, calling a greeting in Cheyenne as he did.
The brave softened his stance, though his demeanor still bespoke caution. “I have been looking for you, my friend,” he called in his native tongue. “Your horse came to my tent many days ago without you. I was concerned.”
“Thank you.” Gage took several halting steps toward the brave. “There is much I have to tell you about these last days.”
Spotted Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “You are all right?”
“I was injured. These people took care of me.” He nodded toward the wagon.
“Dara … stay!” At Forsythe’s command, Gage turned to see Dara walking his way, though the railroad builder had latched on to her shoulder as she passed. “Wells, what’s going on here?”
Gage shifted toward Forsythe.
“I promise you, sir. Spotted Hawk won’t cause any trouble.”
Forsythe eyed him. “How is it that you’re friends with the Cheyenne?”
He shrugged. “Weeks after I came here, I found Spotted Hawk’s daughter, Walks In Shadows, on the plains with a badly broken leg. I set it, cared for her until I could move her, then took her back to her people. A friendship grew out of that.”
“And you speak their language …”
“I’ve learned some.” He’d become fluent during their two years of friendship, and Spotted Hawk’s broken English had improved as well, though Gage wouldn’t volunteer that fact.
“I have need of a man with your language skills, Mr. Wells. My superiors have brought supplies—things to help the Cheyenne. Call them goodwill gifts, compliments of the Union Pacific Railroad. We’ve been unable to deliver them because we couldn’t find a translator. If I’d known you were under my nose this whole time, it would have saved me a lot of searching. I’ll pay you handsomely if you’d be willing to translate for us so we can deliver the items.”
“Goodwill gifts.”
“That’s right….”
Fatigue stole through Gage, and he braced a hand against the wagon. “Begging your pardon, sir, but since when has the railroad concerned itself with the goodwill of the tribes that make these plains their home?”
Forsythe’s eyes widened, though he quickly schooled his expression. “Yes, the tensions have been high between us. We’re doing this in hopes of creating peace.”
How had he gone from trying to stop the railroad to being asked to translate for them? An odd twist. But his end goal was to help the Cheyenne, and since he’d lost the ability to use stealth to do it, perhaps this would provide another means to that end. Gage nodded toward his soddy. “Let’s talk.”
Chapter Four
Three days later
The Cheyenne camp was several miles beyond Mr. Wells’s home, so Papa had agreed to take the promised supplies there, rather than Mr. Wells meeting them at the rail camp. As the supply wagons rumbled toward the meeting place, Dara studied the tumbledown house from her saddle. She’d always been aware that not everyone lived in the luxury she’d been afforded, but it had never struck home so sharply as when she’d set foot inside Mr. Wells’s residence. The little house, built from stacked earthen squares with a stone chimney on one end, was a fourth the size of Papa’s Pullman car. And that, in contrast, was miniscule compared with the Boston home where she’d lived. The soddy’s interior was dark and shabby, the scant furnishings rickety at best. It flustered her, both then and now.
As the first of the wagons rumbled into Mr. Wells’s yard, he stepped outside, tugging his hat on.
“Morning.” He nodded to them.
She smiled, not wanting to acknowledge the flutter that ravaged her belly at his lingering, brown-eyed gaze. “Good morning.”
Mr. Wells scanned the four wagons, each loaded with several wooden crates, followed by a herd of twenty cattle driven by several of the railroad workers. He pinned Papa with a sharp look. “This is all for the Cheyenne?”
Papa dismounted and handed his
horse’s reins to her. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. My Cheyenne friends have told me the troubles between their people and the railroad.”
One of Papa’s superiors approached. “Rest assured, these gifts are meant to put an end to the tensions.”
Suspicion etched Mr. Wells’s gaze. “And you are?”
“Gage Wells, meet Pierce Marston.” Papa made the introduction then shifted toward his other superior, who also approached. “And this is Thomas Adgate. They are my superiors.”
Mr. Wells shook each man’s hand, though the grim set to his mouth warned Dara he was uncomfortable. The four approached the nearest wagon, Mr. Marston motioning to the different crates as he spoke. After a moment more, the men headed back to their horses, and Mr. Wells strode into his tiny home.
He emerged with his rifle, mounted a spotted pony, and gave a call to follow him. Once the line of wagons and cattle moved out, Dara maneuvered her horse next to Papa’s, though all his attention went to his conversation with Mr. Adgate. After several minutes of being ignored, she nudged her chestnut mare in Mr. Wells’s direction.
The man grinned as she fell in beside him. “Morning. Your cousin and uncle didn’t come today?”
A knot constricted her throat. “Becca wanted to come. Uncle William suggested I should spend time alone with Papa.” Unfortunately, Papa had no desire to be alone with her.
“Not that I mind the company, but … if that’s the case, why aren’t you riding with him?”
“He’s focused on business right now.” As always. She couldn’t recall such a driven nature when she was young. He’d been hardworking, but before the war he’d always made time for her.
His brown eyes clouded. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She forced a smile to her lips. “He’ll be less preoccupied after we’ve met with the Cheyenne.” She could hope. “You look like you’re feeling better, Mr. Wells.” The pallid tone had disappeared, and the stiffness that had plagued every movement seemed better as well.
“I am. Thanks again for looking after me.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
“I, uh … I was thinking it might be easier if you’d call me by my given name. Gage.” He hesitated an instant. “I’m not used to formalities.”
“Oh.” Dara nodded. “Of course, if that’s what you’d prefer. You may call me Dara.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A lopsided smile curved his mouth. “It’s a real pretty name.”
An ache stole through her. “It was my mother’s middle name.”
“Was … not is?”
She faced front, willing herself to remain stoic. “She passed.”
“I’m truly sorry.” After several moments of silence, Gage finally spoke. “You were starting to tell me about the work you and your ma did in Boston. With the abolition movement?”
Dara tamped down the ache in her chest. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that.”
“You want the truth?”
“I’d prefer it to the alternative.” Or would she? She may not like his response.
“I’m none too sure how I feel, ma’am.”
“You said over breakfast the other day that your family had never owned slaves. You never saw the need.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I looked down on those who did. It was a different choice than mine. Before the war, I’d have told you the whole matter of abolition was off-putting.”
Dara suppressed the anger threatening to flare across her features. “And now?”
He was quiet. “After befriending the Cheyenne, I’ve been rethinking the matter some. Maybe I’m able to see some similarities between that situation and what’s happening to the Indians.”
“I got the sense … Gage … that you aren’t completely comfortable with what we’re doing today. I’d like to understand why.”
He exhaled heavily. “Have you ever seen a buffalo?”
“I’ve seen likenesses in the newspaper.”
“The buffalo roam these plains in great numbers, so many that the herd stretches for miles.”
“And?”
“The buffalo are sacred to the Indians. The men hunt them, then everyone feasts on the fresh kills. Their women make pemmican and jerky for winter stores. They use their skins for tepees, bedding, clothing, and winter robes. Buffalo bones become hand tools. They drink from their horns, and use their stomachs and other innards as waterskins. They use the sinew for rope or sewing thread. Even buffalo dung gets used as fuel for their fires. They can’t survive without these animals. But the Union Pacific has hired hunters to kill the herds.”
“Why is that wrong? You just told me the Cheyenne kill the buffalo.”
“My friends kill just enough to provide for their needs, and they use every part of the animal. The railroad’s hunters shoot these animals by the thousands, skin ’em, cut their tongues out for the money they’ll fetch back east, and leave everything else to rot on the plains.”
The image turned her stomach. “Why would they do such a thing?”
“I don’t know what Mr. Marston, Mr. Adgate, or your pa would tell you, but here’s what I do know. The Indian tribes that live on these plains—they aren’t like us white folk. We build homes and stay in one place. The Indians … they set up camp, stay for a while, then move on. I’m guessing the railroad doesn’t like that much.”
“Why?”
“The Union Pacific makes money bringing folks west on their trains. The Cheyenne want to roam. The whites want to settle in one place. The two lifestyles conflict. The whites will come by the thousands, building towns, homes, farms … and the Indians’ll start feeling hemmed in. Then the government will shuffle the Indians onto reservations, expecting them to settle down and farm the land like white folks do. I think the railroad’s killing the buffalo so it can hurt the Indians’ way of life, make ’em desperate enough to move to those reservations.” His brown eyes smoldered. “And that feels a whole lot like what I experienced during the war—someone from a long way off telling me I had to change the way I live. Also got me to thinking on how the slaves were treated—taken from their homes, brought to this country, and forced to work for someone else. None of it sits right.”
No, it didn’t. “But … Papa and the others intend to give the Cheyenne cattle and other supplies. How is that bad?”
Gage shook his head. “Maybe it’s not. Let’s just say I’m cautious.”
Gage smiled at the wonder on Dara’s face as the Cheyenne camp came into view. Tepees dotted the landscape, and smoke curled from their tops. Around the perimeter, a sizable herd of horses grazed contentedly. Children played outside the camp, while the interior showed only moderate activity. As the wagons rumbled over a small rise behind them, a few of the older boys broke from the group of children and ran into the camp.
“Quite a view, isn’t it?” He stopped well outside the camp’s perimeter. Dara halted beside him.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Connor Forsythe rode up beside them. “Where do we go now, Wells?”
Gage adjusted his hat. “We wait until the elders welcome us.”
“I thought you said you’d tell them we were coming.”
Irritation crawled up his spine. “I did. Now we wait.”
Within moments, the tribe’s elders rode out dressed in ceremonial garb, among them Spotted Hawk. They stopped a good thirty feet from where Forsythe’s wagons had lined up. Behind them, the younger braves watched. The women and children gathered at the back. When the chief, Little Wolf, signaled, Spotted Hawk rode forward alone.
“Stay here, please.” Gage nudged his horse forward and met his friend between the two groups.
“You ride beside the pretty woman, just like the other day.” Spotted Hawk spoke in his native tongue, eyes glinting as they stopped feet from each other. “You are drawn to her.”
Heat crept up Gage’s neck. He could tell Spotted Hawk otherwise, but anything he said would be riddled with
half truths. The Cheyenne brave was too perceptive. “That is not what I have come to discuss.”
Spotted Hawk’s smile deepened. “But it is the truth.”
Gage blew out a breath. “She has been kind to me while I healed. If things were different, I would call her my friend, but she is the daughter of the man who builds the iron horse.”
“You do not trust this man?”
He cocked his head. “I do not know the man, but I know what men like him have done to your people. He and his chiefs say they bring gifts—food and supplies. I have tried to think how this could be harmful to you, but I see no danger in it unless they expect the Cheyenne to promise things in exchange for these gifts.”
Spotted Hawk gave a thoughtful nod. “Little Wolf says we will talk with the iron horse men. He will not be fooled. Bring their chiefs to his tent. The rest should stay with the supplies.” The man reined his horse around but paused. “Walks In Shadows wants to meet your woman. You can bring her to Little Wolf’s tent also.”
“She is not my woman!” He hissed under his breath.
Spotted Hawk answered with a low, knowing chuckle as he rode away.
No, Dara Forsythe was not his woman, but he was having an increasingly difficult time fighting the attraction.
Shaking the thought, Gage returned and explained their instructions. “They requested Dara come to Little Wolf’s tent.”
Forsythe shook his head. “This is business. She’ll stay here.”
Dara’s eyes grew huge. “Papa, please take m—”
“Vickers.” Forsythe turned to the man driving one of the wagons. “Take care of my daughter until I return.” He turned to follow the Cheyenne elders.
The sheer panic in Dara’s eyes wrenched Gage’s heart. He rode after Forsythe, ready to give him a piece of his mind.
Chapter Five
Dara vacillated between anger and fear while watching the twenty Cheyenne braves stationed between the wagons and the Cheyenne camp. How could Papa leave her? She could sit silently while the railroad bosses and Cheyenne elders transacted their business. Instead, he’d left her with the railroad workers, many grumbling about the savages milling about. The demeanors of the braves ranged from boredom to vigilance to suspicion. Were they simply being watchful, or were they positioning themselves for attack? The fact that they carried weapons provided no comfort. She remained alert, praying no trouble would erupt.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 3