by Pat Tracy
“Why did you call me kid?” came the definitely edgy query.
“Hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”
“I’m no child.”
“I’m sure you’ve traveled far and faced your share of hardships,” he conceded. “Now how about that food and water?”
The metal grate came up abruptly. No light flooded through the puny opening. Logan realized night had fallen. He fumbled in the darkness for his empty canteen and pushed it through the open grate. Then he waited.
“Here,” came the gruff voice.
Logan cupped his hand beneath the slot. A fragrant, warm lump fell into his palm. When he took his first bite of the biscuit, his taste buds wept more saliva. Considering the exacting standards he expected from the hotel chef at the Prairie Rose, his starvation must be at an advanced level for him to take delight in such humble fare. Of course, when he lived with the Shoshone, he’d learned to appreciate simply cooked foods.
Moments later, his canteen rolled to his feet. He sat on the ground with his back against the log wall and tipped his head, letting the life-sustaining liquid trickle down his dry throat. Nothing had ever tasted so good, except for-”Do you have any whiskey you’d like to share, kid?”
“Certainly not! And stop calling me kid.”
“Don’t tell me,” Logan said. “Your folks don’t approve of a man enjoying liquor now and again.”
“That’s right!”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised. “I finished my biscuit. Do you have any more?”
The grate came up, and Logan held out his hand expectantly. Three more biscuits filled his palm. If he was a religious man, he might have burst into hallelujahs.
“You’re a good cook, kid,” Logan said around a mouthful of filling bread. “Do you do it for a living?” In between sips of water, Logan savored his third biscuit. “What’s your name?”
A hesitation followed his question. What else was new?
“Amory.”
Despite his desperate circumstances, Logan discovered, he could still smile. “That a first or a last name?”
“Last.”
“Got a first initial you’d like to share, or do you want me calling you Amory?”
Silence.
“You don’t talk much.” A feeling of welcome fullness coupled with incredible fatigue washed over Logan. “That’s fine with me, Amory.”
Silence.
Logan’s eyelids drifted shut.
“V.!”
The strident shout fairly rocked the stockade door. Logan chuckled. His ribs made their presence known. Grimacing, he sank onto a pallet. That he could find anything amusing in his present predicament suggested that he might live after all.
“V.A. it is.” Logan was going to have to tell him that each time he lost his temper, his youthful voice went up several notches.
Now that he had some food in his stomach, Logan’s exhaustion caught up with him. He told himself he’d rest a bit before trying to convince the youth to release him.
Victoria looked down for several moments at the small, square hole into which she’d shoved the prisoner’s food and water. Then she pushed shut the metal grate and stepped from the cell.
She bit her lip, trying not to feel guilty about keeping the wretched man inside the stockade. Yet the plain and simple truth was, she did feel sorry for Mr. Logan Youngblood. Not sorry enough, however, to risk her life by setting the foul-spoken criminal free. At least not until she’d discovered what he’d done to warrant such harsh punishment. Only a simpleton would ignore the fact that he’d been abandoned to certain death. It stood to reason that Logan Youngblood’s sins must be black indeed.
Victoria set about tidying the campsite. The familiar ritual brought a measure of peace. Later, she stretched out upon the blankets she’d spread beneath the wagon. For once, because of the smoothness of the military yard, no sharp sticks or rocks poked through her bedding and into her skin.
Even though the fort was filled with available beds, Victoria wasn’t tempted to spend the night in any of them. Too fresh in her memory was the eerie sensation of standing in empty rooms and feeling the ghostly presence of their former occupants.
“Amory, get your butt over here!”
The surly command jerked Victoria from the few minutes of extra sleep she’d tried to steal from the brightening dawn. She sat up and promptly rammed her forehead against the wagon’s underbelly. A disorienting wave of pain shot through her skull. Simultaneously, her back muscles protested the sudden movement. She pressed her eyelids shut and waited for the shocks to her body to lessen before crawling from beneath the wagon.
“Move it, Amory. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Victoria glared balefully at the stockade.
“I was asleep,” she said, her voice groggy.
“Kid, if you don’t haul your butt over here and let me out, we’re both going to be meat for the buzzards.”
In the morning light, the stockade was a small, crude building that looked both forbidding and forlorn. She steeled herself against any further sympathy for Mr. Youngblood, locked inside its dark interior. Again, she reminded herself that the man must be an evildoer of the blackest sort, and therefore was suffering only what he deserved.
Her jaw tightened. “Relax, Mr. Youngblood. No buzzard is going to get you while you’re inside your cell.”
As she waited for the prisoner’s response, Victoria’s stomach rolled over. She’d forgotten to disguise her voice as that of a man! Apprehensive, she awaited Logan’s next words.
“Kid, just how old are you?”
Victoria couldn’t tear her gaze from the small log building. She coughed once, then cleared her throat and tried to speak from the region of her toes. “Old enough.”
“Ten? Twelve?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m going to make this simple. Any time now, several bands of Indians are going to ride down upon this fort. If the United States Army didn’t care to hang around for the outcome, don’t you think you should reconsider setting up a camp here?”
At the open scorn coating the prisoner’s question, Victoria winced. She looked toward the fort’s gaping entrance. Perhaps she should have closed the gate behind her.
“Look, kid—” The man broke off. “Amory, the Indians plan on burning Fort Brockton to the ground. They don’t intend on taking any prisoners. Unless you want a burning arrow through the gut, I suggest we get the hell out of here.”
“How do you know they’re coming?” Victoria asked, her throat muscles tight.
“That doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we—”
“What do you mean, we?” she demanded, hating the new fear Logan Youngblood’s words had unleashed within her. “I told you, I’m not letting you out until you tell me what your crime was.”
“Do you honestly think you have a choice?”
“Yes, I think just that.”
“Dammit, you need all the help you can get. One snotnosed kid isn’t going to hold off a band of revenge-minded Indians.”
“I told you, I’m not—”
“I’ve got ears, Amory. You sound about ten to me. I don’t know what in blazes you’re doing running around the Idaho Territory on your own. But I do know that, if you intend to see eleven, you better haul yourself over here and unbolt this door.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” Victoria asked, wondering if Logan Youngblood was making up this new threat to scare her into freeing him.
“I was only thinking about the hole in my stomach that needed filling,” came the clearly grudging admission. “I must have passed out afterward.”
“And this morning you came to with the sudden recollection that this fort was about to be attacked?”
“That’s right, boy. We need to get to Trinity Falls.”
Trinity Falls—exactly where she wanted to be.
“Why did they lock you up, Mr. Youngblood?” she repeated, wondering if she could believe an
ything he told her. Obviously, it served his best interests to lie.
There was a distinct pause.
“I brought the warning of the attack.”
“And they put you in the stockade for that?” Victoria couldn’t suppress her disappointment that he would prevaricate in this dire situation.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, what was it exactly, Mr. Youngblood?”
“They wanted to know how I knew the Indians’ plans.”
“A most sensible question,” she pointed out.
“I told them Night Wolf had warned me.”
“Night Wolf?”
“He’s an. acquaintance of mine.”
“Really?” Victoria asked, intrigued that anyone should count an Indian among his circle of acquaintances. “How did you meet?”
“That’s hardly important.”
“I suppose not.” Still, she was curious about such an odd circumstance. “Why did Night Wolf warn you about the attack?”
“He realizes that more bloodshed will only make it harder for his people to coexist peacefully with the white man.”
“I see.”
Victoria knew she was in the minority in sympathizing with the primitives. To her, they seemed like beautiful and free people who were rapidly losing their home in a land that had sheltered them for generations. If only there could be an end to the violence that raged between the settlers and the Indians, and a place could be preserved for the country’s native inhabitants.
“You still haven’t told me why they locked you up.”
“I refused to lead Colonel Windham to Night Wolf’s camp.”
“Why on earth would you object to doing that?”
“I told you, Night’s Wolf’s people are at peace.”
“Then they have nothing to worry about.”
“Boy, you can’t be green enough to believe that.”
Victoria’s teeth clicked together. “I’m smart enough to stay out of jail.”
“But foolish enough to land in the middle of Indian country during a war.”
“Mr. Youngblood?”
“Yes?”
“Are you comfortable in your cell?”
“Not really.”
“That’s unfortunate, because at this rate you’re going to remain there.”
“Amory, we’re running out of time.” A pounding blow sent a flurry of dust motes flying from the stockade door.
She jumped back. “Stop that!”
“Listen to me, you stubborn brat—the Indians are coming.
“So you said.”
“And you don’t believe me?” he asked, his tone furious. “Where the hell do you think everybody went? To a barn raising?”
Victoria stood before the barred entry and eyed the heavy beam holding it closed. For the first time, she was tempted to unlatch it. If the man was telling the truth about having brought news of an attack, he didn’t deserve to die.
The sun’s rays bore down. She closed her eyes and sent a hasty prayer heavenward, asking for divine guidance.
“Kid?”
The deep voice was relentless.
No answer came to her prayer, at least not in the form of words. But as she stared at the stockade, a sense of inevitability washed over her. The plain and simple truth was that she was incapable of leaving Mr. Youngblood to rot inside his log prison.
“I’m going to open the door.”
“When?”
She struggled to lift the heavy bar lodged tightly between the metal posts. “Now.”
“Smart move, Amory,” came the approving voice. “We’ll ride hard and fast for Trinity Falls.”
“And, once we’re there, we’ll be safe?”
“Since the last gold strike, the town’s swollen to more than five thousand miners,” he informed her. “It’s in no danger of being attacked. Do you have a good horse?”
“No.” A splinter stabbed her index finger. “I’ve got a team of oxen.”
“Well, hell, what kind of time do you think we’re going to make with oxen?”
“They may not be fast, but they’re steady. And they’ve had time to rest. They’ll pull my wagon just fine.”
Victoria gave up trying to raise the bar with her bare hands and went to fetch her cooking fork. She was sure it was sturdy enough to dislodge the metal beam.
“You’ve got a wagon?”
Her efforts began to noticeably budge the crossbar. “That’s right.”
“I don’t like the idea of using a wagon.”
The heavy iron arm finally came free and toppled to the ground. The stockade door swung outward, revealing a sinister black hole.
The prisoner stepped toward the light. “Wheel tracks are too easy to follow.”
Without the barrier of the log portal between them, the deep voice sounded alarmingly close.
“We’re going to need the wagon. I refuse to leave my precious cargo behind.”
Mr. Youngblood emerged from the shadowed doorway, blinking against the sudden onslaught of sunlight.
“Precious cargo—?” He broke off abruptly. She saw his dark eyes narrow at the sight of her. “Well, hell.”
The observation was his, the sentiment hers.
Chapter Four
The man before Victoria was unlike any she’d ever seen. He filled her entire field of vision and, with every foot he drew closer, seemed to grow in stature. Her mouth went dry, and she took a stumbling step back.
The morning breeze ruffled the tattered remnants of a white shirt that, despite its torn state, managed to adhere to his muscular shoulders. She had never seen an uncovered male chest before, and thus was unprepared for the shocking sight of the lush pelt of black hair that grazed his bared flesh. Goodness, surely no American Indian roaming the western plains could appear more awesomely proportioned than Logan Youngblood.
Or more distressingly primitive.
“Where’s the kid?”
The gruff question jerked her gaze from his almost naked torso to a dark pair of glittering eyes. She swallowed. The man looked as if he’d been pummeled by an angry mob. His blackened right eye was almost swollen shut. He also sported a bruised, whiskered jaw and a split bottom lip.
The single thought that danced in her head was that, if she hadn’t released the devil himself from the stockade, she’d surely freed one of his henchmen to murder, plunder and pillage.
“The—the kid?” she repeated stupidly.
He took another step forward. She tipped her head back to keep his daunting visage in view.
“The one I’ve been talking to since last night.”
“I told you I wasn’t a child,” she answered, hearing the wobble in her voice and regretting it.
His savage gaze shriveled to a blistering slit. “You mean all this time I’ve been talking to you? A female?”
The derisive way he pronounced “female” caused a hot flush to singe her cheeks. She stood taller, digging for a measure of her normal pluck. “I should think that would be obvious to anyone of reasonable intelligence.”
Usually she didn’t approve of cutting remarks designed to wound another’s sensibilities. But in Mr. Youngblood’s case, she felt justified in making an exception. Clearly the criminal possessed no sensibilities with which to concern herself.
His glare was of sufficient scorching intensity to fry a buckwheat biscuit without benefit of fire.
“I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true.” Had his confinement addled his senses, making him incapable of grasping that she had only pretended to be of the male gender? “I can assure you I am traveling alone. There is no one with me, least of all a child.”
She couldn’t make her explanation any simpler.
His good eye, the one that wasn’t fiercely swollen, studied her balefully. “Why?”
“Why what?” She assessed the challenge of getting the confused man to Trinity Falls. Of course, there was a positive side to his apparent simplemindedness. It was possible that he was mis
taken about the Indians being on the warpath. “Are you wondering why I wanted you to think you were talking to a man?”
He shook his head, then winced. “I don’t give a damn about your theatrics. I want to know why you’re alone.”
“Oh, that.” She glanced from his ruthless stare. She hated admitting to this disreputable stranger that she’d been banished from the wagon train. She attempted a reassuring smile. “I don’t have the plague, if that’s worrying you.”
A grave expression settled over his battered features. “Were you attacked?”
Victoria’s thoughts immediately went to her late-night mishap with Hyrum Dodson, the unfortunate discharge of her rifle, and his piercing howl as he’d hopped about on one foot while trying to ascertain the damage to his other one. “I wouldn’t call it an ‘attack’ so much as a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Youngblood’s good eye narrowed. “Misunderstanding?”
“You see, I thought a bear was invading my wagon.”
Confusion seemed to sweep his countenance. “A bear?”
The man really was limited in his reasoning abilities. She regretted her earlier cutting remark about anyone of reasonable intelligence being able to comprehend her explanations.
But she hadn’t known that Logan Youngblood was blighted by limited mental prowess. Her gaze made a quick foray across his virile physique. What a pity that his physical endowments were not matched by an equally keen intellect. Had his lack of mental fortitude led to an association with unsavory men who’d introduced him to a life of crime?
“Of course, as it turned out, there really wasn’t a bear.” She carefully enunciated each word so that he could grasp what had happened. “But I had no way of knowing that at the time, did I?”
His cracked lips parted, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he seemed to regard her with a kind of morbid fascination.
Since leaving Boston, Victoria had become familiar with that look. As usual in her encounters with Western men, she was mystified as to why he had difficulty understanding her.
“The point is, I didn’t mean to hurt Mr. Dodson. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”