by Zina Abbott
KIZZIE’S KISSES
By Zina Abbott
Book 2 ~ Grandma’s Wedding Quilts series
Copyright © 2017 Robyn Echols writing as Zina Abbott
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to
The hard-working authors of the Sweet Americana Sweethearts blog who provide the world with sweet/clean historical romances about North Americans between 1820 and 1929.
ALONG THE SMOKY HILL RIVER, KANSAS – APRIL 1862
CHAPTER 1
Kizzie Atwell felt her breathing become more labored. She and her horse had recently clattered over the Army-built bridge crossing the second stream east of the Solomon, so she figured she was not that far from Junction City. From there it was a short distance to Fort Riley, the most westerly of the two Kansas forts along the Smoky Hill Trail.
Kizzie reached forward to pat Sugarcone’s neck, a gesture she hoped her young mare would recognize as a thank you. She could sense Sugarcone’s heavy breathing, also. Kizzie had been pushing them both at a dead run ever since she left the family’s farm a few miles east of Salina.
Kizzie involuntarily shuddered as the thought of the danger facing her family along with the rest of the inhabitants of Salina once again skittered through her brain. A rider had raced up to their home to warn them that Indians were attacking the inhabitants to the west of Salina and leaving few, if any, survivors. The men they killed and scalped. The children they pinned to the earth with arrows after dispatching them. As for the women, as the rider had glanced at Kizzie and her mother, Jemima, he cleared his throat and merely said the women were “outraged” before they were killed. Kizzie was not naïve; she had a pretty good idea what constituted an outrage against the women.
This war party was on the move and taking no human captives, only horses. They were moving from the homesteads on the western-most outreaches of Saline County east towards the town of Salina itself. Those who lived west of the town now fled towards Salina, hoping the grouping of crude buildings could afford them some protection. But, the rider who had reached the Atwell farm advised Jemima, better known as Mima, to flee east to Junction City. Since that town was just west of Fort Riley, they had a better chance of protection there.
With her papa, Sidney, along with Uncle Jefferson Atwell gone, there was only Kizzie, her mother, her brother Jason, age thirteen, and sister Meredith, age nine left at home.
As Kizzie watched the man ride off to the north, she reasoned he had already been to the farms owned by her Uncle Jefferson and her Palmer grandparents. After she told her mother she thought Grandpa and her aunt with her family would probably come by so they could all travel together, her mother had sprung into action. For a woman Kizzie knew had been ill and feeling depressed the last several months due to her most recent miscarriage followed by a bought of pneumonia, her mother had surprised her. Mima Atwell had begun issuing directions to her little family so they would have their wagon prepared to go when her step-father, Edward Palmer, and mother, Mary, showed up.
Mima had Jesse hitch the wagon and start loading the heavier items. Although Jesse was only thirteen and sometimes acted like he thought he was Kizzie’s boss even though he was two years younger than she was, Kizzie had to admit he could almost handle the work of a full-grown man. While Meredith helped her mother pack clothes and bedding, Kizzie had been put to work setting a pot of water on to boil while she gathered eggs and turned the chickens loose, saving three of her mother’s prize laying hens to crate and take along. She packed the kitchen necessities including enough food to last for a couple of weeks, cooking essentials and her own clothes.
When her mother hadn’t been looking, under her blue skirt Kizzie had pulled on her trousers she had altered from an old pair previously worn by her father. Her mother might have them turn the remaining cattle loose to fend for themselves, but under no circumstances did she intend to leave Sugarcone behind. Her family might consider it more seemly for a young woman age fifteen to ride in the wagon instead of being seen astride a horse, but Kizzie made other plans. She had quickly decided she would take Sugarcone, the horse she had received for her most recent birthday, to ride after her father and uncle for help. She loved that horse with its soft molasses brown coat sprinkled with a smattering of white hairs that hinted of a brindle somewhere in her pedigree. Although Sugarcone was not a big animal, she was a strong mare with powerful formation, and she was the perfect size for Kizzie to ride.
Kizzie knew she didn’t dare say a word about her plan, or her mother would have insisted it was too dangerous. After all, unlike her cousin, Hannah, the perfect daughter, she had a tendency to do many things her family considered inappropriate for a young woman. She could hear her mother now: It was unseemly for her to ride off by herself. If anyone rode alone to get help, it should be Jesse.
As far as Kizzie was concerned, her little brother riding off on her horse was not going to happen.
Kizzie had kept her skirts down and her eyes glued on the eggs boiling. She packed the wagon and did her mama’s bidding between discreetly tying a blanket, some grain for Sugarcone, and food for herself behind her saddle. She hid Jesse’s old shirt, waistcoat and jacket behind a pile of hay.
Kizzie’s family had collectively sighed with relief at the site of the two-wagon caravan approaching their home, up until they saw Grandma Mary driving the wagon flanked by Atwell cousins, Carl, age twelve, and Henry, age ten, with Grandpa Edward in back, his face red and sweating. As soon as Grandma Mary had explained that Grandpa had wrenched his knee again, Mima had turned to Kizzie with directions to run and put some of the hot water from boiling the eggs into a crock jug along with some willow bark and to bring the rest of the willow bark out to go with Grandpa.
Otto Atwell at age eighteen, having been left behind to protect his mother, Carlotte, his two brothers, his sisters, Hannah, age fourteen, and Marguerite, known as Magpie, age eight, may have felt disgruntled about not being included when his father and uncle departed to drive cattle to the fort. Now he found himself the strong man in the family. Grandpa was still in charge, giving directions from his seat in the back of the wagon where he kept his rifle by his side to help protect the family. But, it was up to Otto and Jesse who were more mobile to help to tackle any physical challenges the group might encounter.
Kizzie could tell packing the wagon had used up what little reserve of energy Mima had still possessed. She had watched as her mother had crawled into her wagon box next to Meredith and, with a sigh, had leaned back against a stack of bedding. Jessie had climbed into the seat to drive the wagon, settling the shotgun at his feet.
Kizzie gritted her teeth as she recalled how he had barked an order at her just as she had finished handing the jug with the willow bark tea to Grandpa. “Kizzie, make sure the barn and corral are clear then catch up and get in the wagon. We’re leaving now.”
Jesse was her younger brother. Who was he to give her orders?
Kizzie had merely nodded and headed for the barn. As she heard the wagons slowly start out of the yard, she had quickly pulled off her gown and petticoat and stuffed them into the center of her blanket roll. She had donned her brother’s old clothes and piled her braided brunette hair on the top of her head as she pulled on the old felt slouch hat that at one time had been Grandpa’s until one of his horses had grabbed the brim and ripped it. Mima had sewn it back so that it wasn’t too misshapen, and, much to her mother’s dismay, Kizzie had laid claim to it for when she rode herd with her papa and Jesse. As she cinched the chin strap t
ight, Kizzie had again declared to herself she didn’t care how the hat looked. She preferred it to the sunbonnet her mother usually insisted she wear.
The pepperbox pistol her papa had bought for her mama, and which Mima had declared more than once she would never use, Kizzie had tucked into the back of her waistband. She had raised her eyes in gratitude when no one had questioned her about why they couldn’t find it. That three-shot pistol, and the big kitchen knife she had stuck down the side of her work boot were all she dared take for her own protection. The shotgun she had left for Mama and Jesse plus Jesse had his own hunting knife. The rifle Papa had with him, which was why she needed to find him and tell him to forget about any cattle he hadn’t sold yet and come back to protect his family from the Indians.
Instead of turning Sugarcone loose or tying her to the back of the wagon for the trek east, Kizzie had climbed into the saddle. She had ignored her family members as they called out to her. She had not looked back as she raced Sugarcone past the wagons and down the lane towards the road leading to Junction City, and after that, Fort Riley.
Kizzie had been pushing her horse hard ever since she left home. Within minutes she had fought back tears of anger forming in her dark brown eyes. At that point she was angry with all the men in her family.
First of all, she was furious with Grandpa Palmer for being the first to bring up the idea to move west to the wilds of Kansas after it was newly opened up to white settlers. Even though she had been twelve and old enough to understand the disputes and occasional bouts of fisticuffs between the men who supported slavery and those who didn’t back in Boonville, Missouri, surely that had not been as dangerous as facing attacks from hostile Indian tribes. Although her family supported Kansas coming into the Union as a free state, they were not die-hard abolitionists to the point they chose to live next to Missouri where the skirmishes along the Kansas-Missouri border between those who supported the free-soilers and the pro-slavery bushwhackers often ended with deadly results. Instead they had moved further west where they found prime farmland and plentiful water. But, surely, dealing with other Americans who disagreed over the slavery issue was not as deadly or terrifying as dealing with the hostile Indians who had become bolder now so many soldiers were tied up fighting the war that had been raging for a year as the Union struggled to reclaim the Southern states that had rebelled and broken away.
Kizzie was also angry with her father and uncle, first for agreeing with Grandpa Palmer to move to Kansas, and second, for leaving the family at a time when they were in danger of being tortured and killed. No matter how much they needed the money from the sale of the cattle, she must find them and convince them to return and help protect the family.
Kizzie ceased her internal ranting as she realized both she and Sugarcone needed to stop and rest, even if only for a few minutes. She looked off to her right. The trees hiding the bank of the Smoky Hill River just before it joined the Republican to become the Kansas River were in view. Sugarcone needed to drink as did Kizzie. If she stopped for only a few minutes, surely she could still make good time and arrive at Fort Riley in time to prevent her father and Uncle Jefferson from leaving for Fort Leavenworth if Fort Riley didn’t buy their cattle. She would make better time if she and Sugarcone did not collapse along route.
Kizzie squinted at the dust cloud she spotted ahead of her. At first she panicked. Had the marauding Indians reached this far east? Then she chided herself for overreacting. It could be one of the men who had ridden to Fort Riley for help returning with a report. Except, she realized, the billowing haze was bigger than what would be kicked up by a single rider.
Or, it could be another group of refugees fleeing east to safety. Kizzie had already passed one such group. She had almost not gotten away from them as grasping hands tried to grab her reins to stop her long enough to lift small hysterically crying children on her horse while frantic parents begged her to carry them to safety. The scene had upset Kizzie terribly and tears had nearly blinded her as she had denied their pleas and pulled away, insisting she must hurry to get help. Later she had justified her refusal by realizing if she had been willing to be slowed down by bringing a younger distressed child, she would have brought her own sister.
Kizzie felt no desire to discover who was ahead of her. She felt too spent. She must figure out the best way to ride around them without being noticed. Sucking air into her aching lungs, she turned Sugarcone towards the river, all the while hoping whoever was ahead of her on the road had not seen her any better than she had been able to see them. She slowed her exhausted horse as she neared the trees that lined the banks of the river, and let Sugarcone pick her way through the dense foliage down to the water.
CHAPTER 2
Kizzie nervously shucked the shell away from the now-cooled hard-boiled egg she had pocketed away from the clutch she had passed to her mother. She grimaced as she bit into the soft outer white of the egg once she realized it included a small piece of shell she had missed. Sugarcone now grazed on sparse patches of grass underneath the leafy canopy of trees that edged the river. She decided she would give her horse until she finished her egg and was able to take a bite of the jerked beef she had brought before she would mount up and continue her journey.
Kizzie, holding the reins loosely, urged Sugarcone to follow her as she moved close to the edge of the tree line to make sure they were alone. The refugee group ahead of her must surely be closer to Junction City by now. With Sugarcone refreshed, she would quickly skirt around them, even if it meant leaving the main road.
Sounds of wagons and animals caught Kizzie’s attention. Still holding the reins and keeping hidden behind the tree trunks, she crept towards the noise. What she saw caused her jaw to drop in surprise. Oxen yoked to freight wagons had pulled off to the side of the road close to the trees. Men scurried around to check on their loads and their animals, leading a few teams at a time towards the water while the rest of the large beasts grazed.
Why? Kizzie asked herself. If they had come from either Fort Riley or Junction City, it wasn’t that many miles away. The April weather was not that warm, yet the days had been dry enough the road was no longer slick with mud. Then she realized they may have heard about the Indian raids up ahead of them and chose to stop here to wait them out.
Kizzie heard the whinny and snort of fear. She felt something tug the reins out of her hands as Sugarcone began to step back. Something or someone was behind her trying to steal her horse.
Kizzie pulled the pepperbox pistol out of her waistband as she spun around. “Drop the reins! Don’t you dare try to steal my horse.”
Kizzie’s eyes widened and her breath began to heave as she took in the appearance of the filthy, poorly dressed man twice her size that stood before her. He was of average height, but the width of his shoulders and his barrel chest above his bulging stomach spoke of bulk strength. His dark beard and moustache bushed full over the lower half of his tanned face coated with dust. A sweat and dirt-encrusted misshapen slouch hat covered his head. His sunken eyes narrowed even further as his mouth split into a mocking grin. He raised his hands, but never let loose of the reins.
“Naw, you don’t want to shoot no one with that silly little pop gun. You just hand it over real nice. I’ll take that and the horse and leave you be.”
Kizzie knew she was in trouble. Something told her the man, who must be one of the bullwhackers from the freight outfit, had no intention of letting her go.
Behind her, she could hear someone on a horse approaching fast. Soon it would be two against one. She had to get Sugarcone free of this man quickly and ride away as fast as she could. She used her left hand to pull back the hammer. “You are not taking my horse. Now drop the reins or I’ll shoot.”
Kizzie watched as the man first responded with a laugh before he glanced behind her at whoever was approaching. She lunged in an effort to grab the reins, hoping to jerk them out of the man’s hands while he was distracted. The next thing she knew, the man lunged at her and
grabbed the wrist holding the gun. Instinctively she pulled the trigger as he angled her hand up to wrest it from her. The pistol shot high, knocking the hat off his balding head and leaving a crease across the top of his forehead and scalp. His head began to bleed profusely. He released her wrist. Feeling unnerved, and much to her dismay, Kizzie dropped the gun.
The man cut loose with a string of swear words. The ones Kizzie recognized burned her ears, but she did her best to tune them out. Her assailant was too dangerous for her to allow herself to be distracted by them. He jerked her towards him as his free hand closed around her throat like a vice. “I’ll kill you for that when I’m done with you. You’ll beg me to kill you first.”
Even as she struggled for breath, the stench of the man’s unwashed body and the smell of alcohol on his breath almost overwhelmed her. Kizzie knew she only had one chance. She must reach the knife in her boot before she passed out, or she wouldn’t live to see the day end.
A few feet away a horse neighed at the indignity of being jerked to a quick stop. She heard a thud of boots hitting the ground. There would now be two of them to contend with, but she could not give up; she had to try to save her life. The safety, maybe even the lives of her family, might depend on her getting word to her father and uncle in time for them to come protect them from the Indians.
Another string of expletives from a new voice assaulted Kizzie’s ears. “Have you gone loco, Tucker? Leave the boy alone.”
The next thing she knew, the hand gripping her throat was jerked away. She took a step back and leaned over. She grabbed her burning throat with her left hand as she inhaled deeply. She forced herself to ignore the pain. On her second breath, she remembered the knife she intended to pull from her boot.
The mocking laugh from the large man with blood running into his eyes chilled her. “You gotta be blind, Jones. Either that, or you better start spending more time in the whorehouses. I came up behind that kid watching us through the trees and knew right off what showed beneath the bottom of the jacket didn’t belong to no boy.”