Prairie Song (3 page)

Grayson closed his eyes, not wanting to remember the nightmare of his past, not wanting to allow any hope of a future. But the fresh smell of her eroded his determination. He found himself longing to pull her against him, to break the oath he’d made to himself the day he’d buried his wife.

When she turned to look at him, her face and eyes were sculpted ice. “I thank you for your help and I wish I could repay you in some way.” She shook her head and patted him on the shoulder as if he were a slow-witted child. “I wish you understood what I’m saying.”

Grayson almost laughed aloud. Maybe he’d saved her from a lot of questions, but she’d saved his life with the shot she’d fired, and here she was thanking him. This was more woman than met the eye. He stared at her as she straightened her dress and moved away. How could such a tight-lipped, straitlaced lady make him feel such a need when he thought his feelings had long been dead?

She was almost out of the alley before he recovered enough to act. Shoving his feelings aside, he concentrated on his job. On impulse he ran toward her and touched her shoulder.

“Yes?” She looked directly at him without fear.

“Job.” He made his voice thick with an Irish accent.

Her mouth dropped open. “You want a job?”

Slowly Grayson nodded as if unsure of her words. The less he said, the more likely she would believe the lie.

Margaret studied him for a moment, then smiled and linked her arm into his. “Well, why not. I know a stableman who can speak your dialect and he’ll explain everything to you.”

Grayson fell into step beside her and was happy to see his normally long stride matched hers as they walked. He had no idea what he’d just gotten himself into with the one word he’d said, but he figured this was one way to keep an eye on her and find out about the house she’d inherited. If he could play along and convince her that he couldn’t speak English, maybe she’d feel free to talk with others around him and he’d be able to close this case promptly. He wanted out of the South. Although he wasn’t ready to go home to Ohio, there must be somewhere he could travel and let the war die inside him.

He didn’t want to think about any other reason he might want to be around Margaret Alexander.

Sam McMiller almost swallowed his plug of tobacco a few minutes later when he saw Margaret Alexander storming through the barn door with Grayson Kirkland in tow.

“Mr. McMiller,” she ordered, “will you explain to this man what I will be needing in a driver? He is newly arrived from Ireland, I believe.”

Sam looked at Grayson and almost laughed. He’d known the career officer for months and doubted if the man possessed a drop of Irish blood.

“And,” Margaret added, “tell him I’ll pay ten dollars for a week’s work. Once we’re in Fort Worth I may need him to help us move in. After that he can return your team.”

Sam mumbled a few words and Grayson nodded as if accepting the arrangement.

“Good.” Margaret smiled smugly. “Then it’s all arranged. Tell him I’ll meet him back here in one hour.” She reached into her bag and handed Grayson a gold piece, but looked at Sam. “Tell him to buy himself a hat and a gun. An unarmed man is of no use to me.”

Sam scratched his stubbled chin. “I know where I might find him one for a good price. A man about his size abandoned his gear here not long ago. I might even throw in a horse for this price.”

Margaret said her good-byes and vanished.

Grayson watched her go, then flipped the coin she’d given him to Sam. “Mighty nice of you to offer to sell me my own gear and mount.”

“Anytime, son, anytime.” Sam chuckled. “But I don’t know why you want ta go getting mixed up with the likes of that crow. I’ve seen widows like her before. She’s all dried up and hard like petrified wood. It’s obvious you don’t have any Irish blood in you or you’d have more sense than to try lassoing a lightning bolt.”

Grayson laughed. “Hitch up the wagon. I’ve got to go retrieve my hat and guns from the weeds. If she gets back before I do, tell her my name’s Grayson McKirkland.”

Sam snorted. “McKirkland, my eye. How long do you think you can fool her once she hears that damned Yankee accent of yours?”

“Long enough.” Grayson winked. “Long enough.”

As he walked away, Sam shook his head. The mountain lion and the lone wolf had just bedded down together for the night. As far as he was concerned, come morning there was going to be one hell of a fight.

The spring sun rose hot, sucking moisture from the earth in a thin veil of steam as the train pulled into the station at Bryan, Texas. Stepping from the train, Cherish saw the rows of blacks lining the platform as though the train to the promised land would arrive at any moment. She walked half the length of the platform before she saw her aunt. Margaret Alexander stood straight and tall, apart from the others, reminding Cherish of a queen among her subjects. Her ebony hair was pulled into its customary widow’s bun, making Cherish smile at how ragged she would look in comparison to her prim and proper aunt.

“Maggie!” Cherish shouted, breaking into an unladylike run.

Margaret’s hug was warm and tight as always, telling Cherish just how lonely and fragile this queen was beneath her dignified charade. Although Cherish was eight years younger and a head shorter than her aunt, she’d known since childhood that Margaret’s need to be with her was greater than her need for Margaret. Her aunt had been like a little mother to her, then a sister, and now a friend. For most of their lives they’d been each other’s only playmate. At times during childhood, their survival had depended on how tightly they’d clung together. Later, when Cherish had gone into nursing about the same time her aunt was widowed, Margaret had followed, not from any calling to heal, but so that she could stay beside Cherish. Even now, the month they’d been apart seemed like an eternity.

A huge man stepped onto the platform just behind Margaret. His hair was the color of red clay and his shoulders were granitelike with muscle. Not enough age lines marked his face to put him far out of his twenties, but hardness hung about him like a long-worn cape.

Cherish backed up, reaching for the gun inside her bag. The night’s activity on the train had left her exhausted and jumpy, but she was still aware that a stranger stepping too close meant danger.

“Cherish”—Margaret read her niece’s eyes—”don’t let Grayson’s size frighten you. This is the man who’ll drive us to Fort Worth. He speaks little and he’s quite harmless.”

“But he’s so big.” She felt like little more than a child beside this man who looked as if he’d never in his life followed an order that didn’t suit him. “Are you sure?”

“Believe me.” Margaret laughed. “We’ve been through a great deal this morning and if he were a bad man, I think I’d know.”

“Where did you meet him?” Cherish found it hard to believe that her aunt could so readily trust such a man. Margaret was the type who mistrusted all males until they proved themselves. And, unfortunately, most failed the test in her eyes.

“We kind of found one another.” Margaret pointed to Cherish’s luggage and Grayson shouldered the bags.

He followed them to a wagon, seemingly unaware that Cherish glanced backward several times to see if he’d absconded with her things. Cherish raised an eyebrow as her aunt allowed Grayson to lift her into the seat. Without a word of thanks, Margaret patted his shoulder, paying him no more notice than one would a beast of burden.

Shaking her head at his offered hand, Cherish climbed into the wagon without assistance. She was Texas born and bred. She believed in doing for herself. Until today she would have sworn Margaret felt the same, but her aunt seemed comfortable with this man. The idea of Margaret being less than full-starched around a man was almost as strange as what they were about to do. Cherish wouldn’t have believed she would travel halfway across Texas to help Margaret set up housekeeping in a house that had once been reported as a gambling casino and trouble spot.

The sensible thing to have done would have been to return home to be among family, but she and Maggie had been on their own too long. They needed this house Maggie had inherited to recover from the war and to allow their minds to return to the everyday problems of living.

Excitement seemed as thick as humidity in the air. “How long will it take us to get to Fort Worth?” Cherish asked.

Margaret sat in the middle of the bench, holding the reins as Grayson climbed onto the seat beside her. Again Cherish saw her aunt pat him, this time on the leg, as she pointed down the road. She finally turned to answer Cherish’s question. “We’re leaving so late we may not make much time today, but I understand the roads are good.”

Cherish didn’t hear the last words, for the priest she’d met on the train crossed in front of their wagon. He was riding a horse far more spirited than any poor friar should have been able to afford. His lean frame sat the saddle as one born to it and his slender hands expertly caressed the reins. Polished black leather knee boots shone from beneath his robes.

The smile on his thin lips never reached his charcoal gray eyes. “Good day, Miss Wyatt.” He pulled his mount alongside the wagon. In the daylight, Cherish could tell that he was younger than she’d thought, even though his black hair was touched with gray at the temples and his tanned forehead was deeply carved with worry lines.

She wondered again where he’d learned her name or why he’d bothered. “Good day, Father. I hope you enjoy your stay in town.”

This time the twinkle of a smile touched his eyes. “Oh, I’m not staying. I’m heading on toward Fort Worth.”

Margaret nodded toward the priest, volunteering information Cherish might have withheld. “So are we. You’re welcome to ride along with us.”

The priest looked at Margaret as if only just now seeing her. “Thank you, ma’am, but I have to wait for a friend.” He hesitated a moment before fixing his gaze on Cherish. “If you need me once you reach Fort Worth, my church lies to the north of town. Just ask for Father Daniel.”

“Thank you.” Cherish wasn’t sure what to add. Despite his kindness last night, she had the feeling she was looking more at a reflection of a man than at the man himself. There was something missing in him. If he hadn’t been a priest, she might have guessed it to be his soul.

Margaret spoke like a mother correcting a child’s manners. “And, Father, should you need us, we will be at a house called Hattie’s Parlor on the south side. I understand it’s near a part of town called Hell’s Half-Acre.”

Showing no surprise at their strange destination, the priest nodded, telling Cherish he knew more than just her name. Urging his horse forward, he disappeared into the street’s commotion.

“Where did you meet him?” Margaret asked as she touched Grayson’s arm and pointed forward.

“On the train,” Cherish whispered halfheartedly. Her mind was trying to fit the pieces together of all she knew about this strange, thin priest. But, like parts of two puzzles, the pieces wouldn’t go together.

They rattled through town and onto the muddy road leading to Fort Worth. Margaret talked of her plans for the house, the first real home she’d ever had that she could call her own. Both women needed a long rest. For four years they’d worked tirelessly to nurse the Confederate wounded. They’d thought they both would have to apply for work right away at some hospital, but thanks to an old man’s gift they had a home to go to.

Sleep kept trying to overtake Cherish as the countryside slid slowly by. When they camped, she took only a few bites of dinner before she curled in her blankets beside the fire and fell asleep, the memory of the bandit’s lips her last waking thought.

In the folds of her dreams, Cherish held the stranger in her arms once more, only now she was not afraid. He kissed her with passion as before but gentleness guided his actions.

Cherish awakened with the early dawn light touching her face and a longing in her heart. If the stranger had stayed around her, she told herself, he would have meant nothing to her, but the knowledge that this bandit was out of her reach made him the focus of her fantasy. Since she’d never seen his face, her imagination wove a daydream lover. She sat silently, remembering the dream and wondering what another meeting with him might be like.

Margaret talked of their future goals without needing more than a casual response from Cherish. Loving to organize and plan, Margaret didn’t comment on her niece’s silence until three days later.

Cherish satisfied her with excuses about being tired and unable to sleep. In reality it was her nightly dreams that each day filled her mind with the memory of passion and tender longings. Never, in all the years of the war, had a man she’d met troubled her thoughts so. She’d known his touch, and somehow he’d seeped deep inside her like a dye forever changing the color of her thoughts.

Her dreams continued until their last night on the road. Like the evening sky, her dream turned dark and brooding. The stranger reached for her, but they couldn’t quite touch. His tender whispers were stolen by the wind before the sounds reached her ears. No matter where she moved, a shadow always hid his face from her.

Tortured hours of the nightmare continued until finally the rumble of thunder shook Cherish awake. She blinked, thankful to have escaped the haunting dream. Grayson was moving in the early light, stamping out the fire, tying down the wagonload. He and Margaret worked together wordlessly. The bond between this huge man and her aunt was almost a tangible tie. She’d never known Maggie to have anything to do with men after her Westley died. Her aunt had simply denied that there might be another man for her in the world. She’d always worked in hospital administration, only turning her hand to nursing when needed. For the most part she was never around any man a moment longer than necessary. Now, with Grayson, it was different. Although she treated him little better than she would a pet, she leaned on him as if he somehow had the strength she needed.

“Cherish!” Margaret shouted above the thunder. “Load up. We’re going to try and outrun the storm; otherwise, I’m afraid we’ll be trapped by mud.”

Cherish helped hitch the horses, then climbed onto the seat as the first drops of rain splattered against her cheeks. Clutching her cape, she fought the whipping wind as Grayson slapped the horses into action.

They moved as fast as the road would allow, but within an hour the rain caught them full force. Without a word, Grayson handed Margaret the reins and climbed down. He walked to the horses’ heads and began guiding them through the muddy river that once had been the road. Cherish’s knuckles whitened around the seat as the rain grew worse.

Margaret finally passed the reins to Cherish. “I’m going to help Grayson!” she shouted over nature’s wrath.

Cherish nodded. She’d been caught outside in storms before and knew they would certainly suffer more if they didn’t keep the wagon moving in this open country. Fort Worth couldn’t be much farther. With supplies low and only wet gunpowder, they were better off braving the storm than risking the danger of stopping.

Maggie’s lean body twisted like an elm branch as she battled the wind and rain. She bent and pulled the back hem of her skirt between her legs as she and Cherish had done many times in their childhood. Then she tucked the hem into her belt, making her full skirt more like pants. Grabbing the bridle of one of the horses, she shouted at Grayson to move ahead.

Cherish’s hands grew frigid and raw from holding the reins as she watched Maggie and Grayson plow through the knee-deep mud. The hours and the rain seemed like endless torture as they measured their progress from one hole in the road to another.

Again and again Cherish watched her aunt slip into the mud, and always Grayson’s arm was there to pull her up.

The gray day had turned black by the time they reached the outskirts of Fort Worth. Stores and homes were boarded up against the storm, transforming the town into a near-abandoned settlement. The small city had obviously suffered during the war from lack of manpower. Now it was hard to tell if the town had been half-built, or lay in half-ruin.

They went past several houses before Margaret saw a man running from his barn to his house. She yelled out, asking directions to Hell’s Half-Acre, but he only stared at her as if she were a devil and then turned to run inside. Margaret’s harsh rebuke was not lost in the thunder.

Finally, they found a tattered pole of street signs. Grayson lifted Margaret’s exhausted, muddy body onto the wagon. Cherish handed him the reins and snuggled into her hopelessly wet cape as he climbed up beside her aunt. Wordlessly he took the reins in one hand and pulled Margaret beneath the protection of his free arm. He drove through the streets until finally they saw a large, two-story home set back from the road. An old sign was nailed to the gate: “Hattie’s Parlor.” It stood like an aging, defiant warrior atop a small, barren hill. Silently, it faced the wrath of the storm alone.

Staring through the curtain of rain, Cherish looked closely at her new home. The house dominated a rise with barns and chicken yards gathered around its skirt. With fallen shutters and broken porch steps it looked more like a beggar than the king of the mountain. A screen door flapped in the wind, seemingly pushing away all who might wish to enter. Grayson maneuvered the wagon around back and into an empty barn.

They were all too tired even to talk. The women knew that the horses must be attended to before any comfort could be sought. While Grayson unhitched the team, Maggie carried grain and water. Cherish found a worn blanket and began rubbing first Grayson’s bay and then the team.

Finally, Grayson pulled the blanket from her hands and pointed toward the house. The women linked arms and made a run through the rain to the back porch.

Cherish left her soaked cape’s protection as they reached the steps, then shoved the back door open with her last bit of energy. A single light blinked, blinding her for a moment.