Magnificent Passage

Table of Contents

 

 

 

ALSO AVAILABLE BY KAT MARTIN
FROM VANGUARD PRESS

To my husband, Larry, who got me started writing and has been my heart and soul for twenty-eight years. To my best friend, Diana Crockett, who convinced me to write this book and gave me the courage to finish.

 

And to all the readers who have supported me over the years and allowed me to continue doing the work I love.

Twenty five years ago I started my first novel, which today would be considered an old-fashioned Bodice Ripper. In those days, the romance genre was wide open. There were no taboos, nothing was considered politically incorrect. The hero was all-man and the heroine was pretty much at his mercy.

I would never write this book today. Male, female roles have changed drastically since
Magnificent Passage
was published in 1988. The novel was never re-issued so very few copies of the original work remain, and none have the fabulous cover that Vanguard had created for the new edition.

This is a Western Romance, the sort popular back in the eighties. Having come from a family that included a grandmother who was a rodeo cowgirl in 1916, a father who was a PRCA team roper, and an uncle who was a famous rodeo bullfighter, choosing a Western setting for my first Romance was a perfect fit.

I hope you'll keep an open mind as you read this book, enjoy the oldie-but-goodie that began my writing career, and that you'll look for other of the more than fifty books I have written over the years.

Till we meet again, wish you all the best and happy reading,

 

S
he wasn't supposed to be here—in front of the parade field near the soldiers' barracks. Truth to tell, she wasn't even allowed this far from the cottage. But she'd wanted a little fresh air, and when the wagon rolled in, the jangle of harness, the rumble of wheels, and the tall, sandy-haired man at the reins had captured her attention.

The man halted the team of horses some distance from Commander Russel's headquarters, set the brake, and tied the reins. He climbed from the seat, his broad shoulders squared determinedly. When the soldiers approached, he spoke to them only briefly, gesturing to the rear of the wagon, then strode purposefully into the low adobe building.

Samantha Ashton watched as the soldiers clustered around the wagon and a burly corporal lifted the tarpaulin thrown over something in the back. His face looked pale as he walked away. Two more soldiers lifted the canvas, stood momentarily transfixed, then hastily dropped the tarp.
They cautioned several approaching women, who hurried away, whispering, without a backward glance.

More and more, Mandy—for that was what her friends called her—became curious about the wagon.

The day was blustery and cloudy and carried a bitter chill. Like thin knives, it sliced the air. Mandy pulled her serviceable gray wool cloak tighter about her navy blue homespun dress, but the wind continued to tug at the heavy fabric. She'd tucked her chestnut hair into the broadbilled bonnet she wore, so only a small portion of her face was exposed to the biting cold. Standing beside a post in front of Johnson's General Mercantile, she was close enough to watch the activity but far enough away to remain unnoticed. Few people traveled the dirt street, and fewer still paid her any heed.

A second group of men neared the wagon, having been summoned by the first, and again they seemed unable to resist the urge to look. One man walked quickly around the side of the building, his face a decided shade of green. More soldiers looked in the wagon, but they all left quickly. In minutes the cluster of men had disappeared, leaving only the wagon—and its contents—to beckon her forward.

Mandy had always been curious—a trait she was certain she'd picked up from her grandmother. Grandma Ashton always said curiosity never killed the cat, it just made him smarter. Now Mandy's curiosity was so overwhelming it felt like an itch.

She straightened her shoulders and marched to where the wagon sat forlornly near the edge of the field, nibbling her lower lip nervously. If her father found out, he'd be mad
as a hornet. But, she reasoned, he was mad at her half the time anyway.

As she neared the wagon, tiny beads of perspiration dampened the hair at her temples. She caught a faint whiff of something foul, though the wind blew most of the odor away. She could see the rough-hewn sides of the wagon, the edge of the canvas hanging out the back. Just a few more steps and she'd be there.

A wide, firm hand grabbed her arm and pulled her up short, turning her at the same time.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, miss.” The sandy-haired man gripped her arm tightly. His jaw was set, his face grim beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He was dressed ruggedly in a fringed buckskin shirt, snug-fitting buckskin breeches, and moccasins instead of boots. His proper use of English surprised her.

“Why not?” she asked stiffly, annoyed at being caught. He continued to hold her arm, his grip unyielding. He seemed a hard sort, even though he spoke well, and a sudden tremor of apprehension snaked up her spine.

As if sensing her fear, he let go of her.

“It's not a sight for a lady,” he said flatly, his dark eyes cold.

The words sent sparks flying in her head.
Not a sight for a lady.
Mandy was so sick of being “a lady” she could spit. It was all she'd heard from her father for the past three years—ever since her mother died.

She eyed the stranger curiously. “And tell me, sir, just what would you know about being
a lady?”

He smiled in spite of himself, and Mandy glimpsed even,
white teeth. He was a big man, muscular, with powerful arms and a thick neck. But his waist was lean and his hips were narrow. His tanned face told of hours of work in the sun.

“As you say, miss, not a whole lot. But I'm telling you for your own good, go home where you belong.”

Home where you belong.
To Mandy, those were fighting words. Her father had kept her all but locked in the house for the past three years. “Stay home, Mandy. You'll be safe there. A woman's place is in the home.” She wanted to ride horses, be out-of-doors, maybe even go fishing like she used to before her mother died. Of course she'd only been a child then—a tomboy, her mother had said. Now that she was older, she wasn't supposed to enjoy those things anymore. But she did.

Yesterday she'd turned sixteen. Now she wanted to go to dances and wear pretty clothes, but even that was forbidden. Looking in the back of that wagon became the most important thing in Mandy's life. It was a gesture of freedom, a step toward womanhood.

“I think that's my business, sir, not yours.” She stared at him determinedly. “Unless, of course, whatever's in the wagon belongs to you?”

“Not hardly. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.”

“Then unless you're going to stop me, I'm going to look.”

“I've got no right to stop you,” he said. “But I'm telling you, there's a dead man in that wagon, and a dead man's no sight for a woman.”

Now Mandy was determined. She lifted her chin defiantly and brushed past him, heading toward the wagon.

He didn't move.

She turned to look at him just before she lifted the tarp,
and saw something unreadable in his eyes. Then she turned back and, with a bravado she suddenly didn't feel, lifted the canvas.

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Her hand clutched the canvas so hard her knuckles turned white. The color drained from her face, leaving her cold and clammy, but she couldn't let go. Lying on the floor of the wagon, a once-blond soldier grinned through a slash where his mouth had been. Most of his scalp was gone, leaving only a fringe of hair along each side of his head. Dark empty holes stared up at her instead of eyes. His body was nude, but she wasn't offended by his sex—no male organs remained. Every inch of his thin, bloodless body was spiked with tiny wooden splinters, which had been set on fire and burned down into his flesh. His ankles and wrists were gouged so deeply from the leather thongs binding him that portions of bone were exposed.

The world spun before her. She dropped the canvas and turned toward the big man, who was walking rapidly in her direction. He cursed beneath his breath, but she couldn't make out the words. Her stomach rolled, and it was all she could do not to be sick. Her vision was growing narrower by the minute. She looked up at the man and swayed against him.

“It was Davey,” she whispered. “My friend, Davey Wil . . . ” The last syllable refused to leave her throat as she slumped into blackness.

Travis Langley cursed himself for the fool he was. He scooped the young girl into his arms and carried her toward the surgeon's distant quarters. She was light as a feather, a mere slip of a girl.
Why hadn't he stopped her?
He knew what would happen; even a battle-hardened soldier had been
known to pass out cold from a sight like that. Truth was he hadn't really expected her to do it. Most women would have run, just from the smell. And he certainly hadn't expected her to know the soldier. The boy wasn't even stationed at Fort Laramie, or so Colonel Russel had told him.