Shattered Lives (Flynn Family Saga Book 1) (9 page)

Flynn took it.  “I wish I could come to the wedding.”

Sees Far nodded.  “So do I.  Maybe someday...”

Flynn nodded back.  He turned and rode eastward,
back to the wagon train.

*  *  *

The days passed, and so did the miles.  Sometimes,
at night, Flynn watched the families: husbands, wives, children.  He remembered
the dream he once had of the white house on the hill, of the sound of children’s
voices and the touch of a woman’s hand.

And then he remembered Jennie.

When the pain became too great, he rode ahead,
checking the trail and fighting his demons.

When the wagon train reached Cheyenne, Sam took
Flynn aside.  “The Lessings are leaving the train.  Tom has land north of Casper. 
I want you to go with them.”

Flynn nodded.  “I’ll meet you at Fort Steele.  When
do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”  Sam hesitated.  “Will you be
all right?”

Flynn nodded again.  “It’s Tom I’m worried about.”

Sam turned and looked at the Lessing wagon.  “Me
too.”

In the morning, Flynn rode while Tom drove his
wagon.  Amy sat beside her husband with her arm through his.

Flynn felt a pang of envy.  Resolutely, he turned
away.

That night, when they made camp, Flynn watched the
two of them together.  “How long have you two been married?  One week?”

Amy blushed.  “Six years.  It’s hard to imagine, isn’t
it?  But we were apart for four of those years, and we’re making up for lost
time.”

Flynn grinned.  “So I noticed.  When is the baby
due?”

Amy’s blush deepened.  “October.  But a gentleman
doesn’t mention such things.”

Flynn’s smile faded.  “I stopped being a gentleman a
long time ago, Mrs. Lessing.  But there was a reason I asked.  I needed to know
if I should lay in a supply of herbs for when the baby comes.”

“Herbs?”  Tom looked interested.

Flynn nodded.  “The Lakota use herbs for a lot of
things when their women go into labor.  There are herbs to make the baby come
and herbs to ease the birthing.  Among other things.”

“I guess you must have studied Indians a lot, in
your line of work.”

Flynn looked away.  “It’s getting late, Tom, and I’d
like to make an early start tomorrow.  I’ll take the first watch.”

Tom nodded.  He climbed into the wagon with his
wife.

Flynn unsaddled Scout and rubbed him down.  He took
his rifle out of the scabbard that was attached to his saddle.  He walked
restlessly to a small rise, but heard nothing, saw nothing except a solitary
coyote trotting across the moon-dappled plain.  A little after midnight, he woke Tom and lay down on his blanket.  He watched Tom for a few minutes.  Tom
held the rifle like a professional, but Flynn knew that he still couldn’t hit
the broad side of a barn.

Flynn lay awake a little while, worrying, but the
night was still quiet, except for the distant howling of the coyote.

Flynn slept.  He dreamed of Manassas.  He smelled
the gunpowder and blood.  The sound of gunfire woke him.  He rolled to his feet
with his pistol in his hand.

CHAPTER
NINE

Tom Lessing stood with his rifle against his
shoulder.  The barrel smoked.  A man lay on the ground, bleeding.  Seven other
men stood behind the wounded man.  All of them had pistols.

Flynn pulled Tom behind the wagon.  The two of them
fired carefully.

Two more men fell.

A fifth man tried to creep toward the wagon.

Flynn fired, and the man screamed in pain.

The remaining five rode off.

Tom sank down next to Flynn.  His hands were
shaking.  “Well, I guess all those hours of extra practice paid off.”

Flynn hesitated.  “I don’t know how to tell you
this, Tom, but you missed every time.”

“I what?”

“You heard me.”

Tom ran his hand through his hair.  Then, he started
to laugh.  His laughter was very close to hysteria.  Flynn’s muscles tightened
in preparation, but Tom got control of himself.  He drew a deep breath.  “Why
the hell didn’t you tell me?”

Flynn shrugged.  “Because I didn’t want you to be so
worried that when the time came you froze.  And I guess I was right.”

“You
guess
?”

Flynn shrugged.  “It worked, didn’t it?  You hit the
first man square in the chest, in bad light, from at least ten yards away. 
That’s a shot
I’d
be proud of.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”  Tom shut his eyes and drew a
deep breath.  He let it out again slowly.  “Flynn?”

“Yes, Tom?”

Tom opened his eyes and stared Flynn in the eye.  “Do
me a favor?”

“Sure, Tom.  What?”

Slowly, Tom grinned.  “Don’t do me any more favors.”

“I think I can manage that.”  Flynn slapped Tom on
the back and went back to his bedroll.  He lay with his hands beneath his head. 
Scout whickered.

Flynn smiled.  “It’s all right, big fella.  The
excitement’s over for tonight.”

Scout shook his head and snorted.

Flynn laughed.

*  *  *

By the time Flynn reached Fort Steele, he was
lonely.  The feeling surprised him.  Ever since his release from Elmira, he had
felt uncomfortable around people, but he missed Tom and Amy.

When he caught sight of the Fort, he kicked Scout
into a gallop.  Scout’s long legs ate up the distance between Flynn and the
circle of wagons, just outside the stockade fence.

Sam rode out to meet him.  “How did it go?”

Flynn hesitated.  Then, he told Sam about the men
who had tried to ambush them.

Slowly, Sam grinned.  He slapped Flynn on the back
so hard that he almost fell from Scout’s back.  “
That’s
why I love bossing
a wagon train, son.  These folks start out as green as a manicured lawn.  By
the time we reach Wyoming, they’re almost frontiersmen.  And women.  And it’s
the ones you least expect who really shine.”

Flynn nodded.  “It was like that in the Army.  My
men constantly surprised me.”

Sam nodded back.  “Get something to eat, boy.  You
look half-starved.”

Flynn laughed.

That night, he sat a little apart as Sam and Ben and
Frank bantered back and forth.

“Frank, do you call this stew?”

Frank put his hands on his hips.  “What would you
call it, Ben?”

Ben shrugged.  “Dishwater.”

“Dishwater?  Huh!  You’ve never washed a dish in
your life.  Why I even have to do your laundry!”

“That explains it.”  Sam’s bass rumble carried
easily.

“Explains what?”  Frank turned to him.

Sam grinned.  “Why this tastes like dirty wash
water.”

Frank spluttered, and Flynn smiled.

That night, he dreamed of Elmira.  He walked among
the graves, and for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of a single
man.  He reached into his pocket for the notebook, but it was gone.

Flynn woke with a gasp.  He fumbled in the pocket
for the notebook.

It was there.  He sighed and relaxed a little, but
his heart still pounded.  He almost opened it, almost read the names he hadn't
looked at in over a year, but he put it back in his pocket without looking at
it.  Shivering, he got up and went to the picket line.  Scout nudged him, and
he scratched the stallion between his ears.  He took out Scout’s brush and
curried him, but this time, the rhythm of the work failed to ease the ache in
his chest.  He sighed and went back to his bedroll, but he did not sleep again
that night.

*  *  *

When they reached Sacramento, Sam called the last
meeting of the men and women who had traveled together for five long months. 
He stood inside the circle and turned to face the people he had cussed at and
coddled and nursed and bullied across a continent.  “When you joined this train
in St. Jo, I thought to myself that this was the sorriest bunch of greenhorns I’d
ever seen.”  Laughter greeted this declaration.  He grinned.  “Of course, I say
that every year.  I’ve watched you grow and change, and I’m proud of you, every
single one of you.”  He took off his hat.  “Let’s give thanks for a safe
crossing.”

Some people knelt.  Some stood.  The men took off
their hats.

Flynn turned and walked away.  He went to the picket
line and began to saddle Scout.  He heard footsteps and turned.

Sam stood behind him.  “Don’t you want your pay?”

Flynn shrugged.  “I don’t need much.  And I owe you
for Scout and my room and board.”

Sam sighed.  “And I owe you my life.”

Flynn turned to Sam.  “Sam, you don’t owe me
anything.  There were so many—“  His voice broke.

“So many men you
couldn’t
save?” Sam asked
gently.

Flynn nodded.

Sam nodded back.  “Me too.  But I always pay my
debts, Flynn.”  He held out a sheaf of bills.

Flynn accepted the money and put it into his
saddlebag.

Sam cleared his throat.  “Well, take care of
yourself, son.”

“I will, Sam.”  Flynn threw his saddlebags onto
Scout’s back and mounted.  He turned once more to face Sam.  “And thanks.  For
everything.”  He turned and rode away.

“I expect to see you in St. Jo on March 15th to help
me with those guldurned greenhorns!”  Sam’s bellow brought a smile to Flynn’s
face.

*  *  *

The years passed.  Flynn began to take part in the
banter around Frank’s cook fire.  He even danced with some of the women on the
wagon train.

But he had given up on his dream of the white house
on the hill.  He could sleep inside the cabin he and Shadow had built, but as
soon as spring came, a restlessness took him, and he was relieved when the
wagon train rolled out of St. Jo and onto the prairie.

Flynn’s life settled into a routine, and the
nightmares troubled him less often.

Then, in the autumn of 1868, Flynn rode into the
valley where he and Alexander Ridgeton had built their cabin.  Gray clouds
corrugated the sky, like ripples in a stream, promising snow.  No smoke rose
from the chimney.  Flynn sighed and rode into the valley.  He had been hoping
that Ridgeton would be there.  He dismounted and slapped Scout’s rump.  Scout
trotted into the lean-to.

Ridgeton’s horse was there.

Flynn’s heart skipped a beat.  He drew his pistol
and crept toward the cabin.  He opened the door silently and waited a moment
for his eyes to adjust.

A still form lay on Ridgeton’s cot.

Flynn advance silently.  He threw back the sheet.

Alexander Ridgeton lay on his back with his eyes
staring at the ceiling.

“No!”  Flynn turned and ran from the cabin.  He
buried his face against Scout’s neck and wished with all his heart he could
cry.

It began to snow.

Flynn shivered.  He turned and went back into the
cabin.  His hands shook as he lit the oil lamp.  A letter lay on the table
where he and Ridgeton used to eat.

Flynn opened the letter.

Dear Rob,

If you are reading this letter,
then I have passed over to the other side.  Do not grieve for me.  I lived the
life I chose.  It wasn’t the life most people would have chosen, but it suited
me.  I’ve been feeling poorly the past month or two.  Doc Cranshaw tells me it’s
my heart.  I’m going to try to hold on until you get back, but it’s getting
harder and harder to chop wood.

Anyway, I’m leaving you this
cabin.  And my maps.  There are only two things I’m proud of.  Those maps are
one and you’re the other.

Take care of yourself, Rob.

Yours faithfully,

Alexander Ridgeton

Flynn read the letter over several times.  Tears
burned his eyes, and his throat ached, but he could not cry.  He hauled water
from the stream in the wooden bucket by the door and poured it into the iron
pot set on a hook over the hearth.  He built a fire, and when the water started
to hiss, he took the pot from the hearth and cleaned Alexander Ridgeton’s body
for burial.  It was dawn when he finished.  He built a travois and lashed it to
Scout’s saddle.  Then, he carried Ridgeton’s body from the cabin and laid it
gently on the travois.  He rode slowly to the place where Light On The Water’s
scaffold stood.  He built a scaffold next to hers and placed Ridgeton’s body on
it.  He laid Ridgeton’s pipe beneath the scaffold and began to chant.

The sun rose slowly, and it was high above the
bluffs by the time Flynn fell silent.  He stood for a long time staring at the
body of his friend.  Then, he turned and rode back to the cabin.  He lay down
on the mattress and tried to sleep, but his dreams were filled with the faces
of the dead.

*  *  *

The days passed slowly.  The silence of the cabin
weighed on Flynn.  Sometimes, he thought he heard the distant sound of cannons.

Finally, the snow thawed.  He saddled Scout and rode
back to St. Jo.  Just outside of town, it began to rain.  Cursing the weather,
Flynn shook out his canvas duster and pulled it on.  Rain poured off his hat
and down his back, but the oiled canvas kept him dry.

He stabled Scout and walked to the corral.  He fully
expected it to be empty, but a boy stood just inside the fence, wearing a
yellow slicker about three sizes too big for him.  He was trying to teach a
grown man how to hitch up a team.  The man had the reins wrapped around his wrist. 
Flynn’s gut clenched.  “Mister, you’d better—“  Thunder cracked, so close he
could smell the ozone.

The horses bolted, dragging the man through the mud.

The boy leaped in front of the lead stallion and
waved his hat.  “Easy, Sidney.  Easy.  It’s just thunder.”  A pair of braids,
the color of flame, fell down the boy’s back.

Correction, the girl’s back.

As soon as she realized what she had done, the girl
tucked her hair back under her hat.  She stroked the stallion’s nose until he
settled down.  Then, she walked through the mud to the fallen greenhorn and
held out her hand.  The man took it, and she helped him to his feet.  “Now, try
it again.”

Flynn cleared his throat.  “You ought to think about
gelding that stallion of yours.”

The girl turned.  She planted her hands on her
skinny hips.  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

Flynn grinned.  “Actually, it’s my job to sneak up
on people.  My name is Flynn, and I’m scout for this outfit.”

Her mouth opened.  “Robert Sean Flynn?”

He nodded.  “Do I know you?”

“No sir.”  She shook her head.  “But I’ve read all
the books about you.”

Flynn scowled.  Ridgeton had bought him one of the
penny dreadfuls for Christmas one year.  The writing was terrible, and the lies
were even worse.  “Don’t believe everything you read.”  He turned to the
greenhorn.  “Maybe you ought to rethink using a stallion as your lead horse.”

The girl nodded.  “That’s what I’ve been telling
him, but he wants breeding stock when he reaches Wyoming.”  She grinned.  “And
Mr. Thompson is as stubborn as Sidney is.”

“Sidney?”  Flynn tipped his hat back and examined
the stallion.  He was almost as tall as Scout, and his legs were trim.

The girl nodded.  She smiled approvingly at the
stallion and stroked his sleek neck.  “Sidney Carton.”

“A Tale of Two Cities?” Flynn asked.

The girl nodded again.  “This is Edward Thompson.” 
She gestured toward the greenhorn.

Thompson held out a muddy hand.  He noticed his
mistake and rubbed it on his trousers.  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flynn.”

Flynn shook the man’s hand.  He turned to the girl. 
“And you would be...?”

The girl blushed.  “O’Brien.”  She wiped her hands
on her worn dungarees and held it out to him.

Flynn took her hand in his.  Her hand was small, but
strong and brown from the sun.

“O’Brien!  Are you going to stand there all day?”

Sam’s growl startled both of them.  The girl climbed
the fence and picked up the reins.  “Never, ever wrap the reins around your
wrist like that...”

Flynn walked over to Sam.  “Hello, Major.”  He
looked back at O’Brien and Thompson.  “Major, if the good women of this town
ever figure out who it is you’ve hired to train greenhorns...”

Sam took off his hat and ran his fingers through his
wet hair.  “Flynn, she needs the job, bad.  And there just aren’t many honest
jobs for girls her age.”

Flynn turned and looked over his shoulder at the
saloon and shuddered.  The idea of that girl working in a place like that made
his blood run cold.  “All right, Sam.  Your secret is safe with me.”

“Good.”  Sam slapped him on the back.  “Now get to
work!  I’m paying you to train greenhorns, not stand in the street jawing.”

Flynn raised one eyebrow.  “It looks to me as if O’Brien
has the training of greenhorns all sewn up, Sam.”

“Well, I’m taking more than one wagon across this
guldurned country!  That is, if we ever get these guldurned greenhorns whipped
into shape!”

“Yes sir, Major!”  Grinning, Flynn touched his hat
and strode slowly toward the next corral.