Tender Touch (25 page)

Brianna and Col made their way with the others, back up the hill to the crest where the land dropped nearly five hundred feet at a forty-five degree angle to the wooded glade below.

“Oh Col, how will we ever get the wagons down without losing them?”

“Probably will lose one or two.”

“Gawdamighty, Magrudge!” bellowed Jim Lyon when he saw the drop-off. “Why didn’t you find us a better route? Somebody’s bound to lose everything they own tryin’ to go down this hell-ride.”

Magrudge glared at the man. Jim Lyon had done nothing but complain all the way from Independence. “You think you can find a better goddamn route, you’re welcome to try.”

The people gathered around Magrudge and Hanks as the two men explained how they would lock the wheels with chains attached to the wagon boxes, then slowly lower the wagons down the hill on ropes. Everyone was ordered out of the wagons to avoid being killed or badly maimed if a wagon broke loose.

Brianna stood to the side, chewing her lip as they got ready to take the first wagon down. Dulcie came to stand beside her. The two women held hands and prayed while the men, hanging onto the ropes holding the wagon, grunted and swore and sweated until the wagon had safely reached the bottom. The work was made all the more difficult and dangerous for the layer of slippery grasshopper bodies that covered the road. The owner of the wagon that had made it to the bottom drove off to the selected campsite and the men trudged back up the hill to do it all again with the next wagon. But before they began, the women hustled out with their brooms and swept the road clean.

Jim Lyon insisted on unloading a few of the family’s more valuable possessions, while his wife, with her bulbous nose and flat chest, screeched and threatened and wailed dire predictions. The Lyons were impoverished farmers from southern Missouri and had barely met the requirements for inclusion in the train. They were short on food, cash, and common sense, Col had said on meeting them.

The Lyon wagon had skidded halfway down, the men hanging onto the ropes attached to the rear wheels, when a loud crack was heard. The wagon lurched as the rear axle broke. The tail end dropped to the ground with a thud and scraped along fifty feet or more before one of the front wheels gave. Then the wagon tilted onto its side and rolled into a ravine. Bits and pieces splintered and flew off in every direction. Wind sailed scraps of clothes and bedding over the trees. A flour barrel bounced crazily over the rough ground until it crashed against a tree, spewing the white powder everywhere. The wagon came to rest upside down in the bottom of the wash in a cloud of dust and scattered goods.

Most of the members of the Magrudge Company considered it ironic that the Lyon wagon was the only one lost. Had the tragedy happened to any other family, the celebration that took place that night might not have been as gay. But each family loaned or donated goods to replace those that were destroyed. Then they sang and danced the night away, grateful to have survived the tornado and the harrowing rigors of Windlass Hill.

Edward Magrudge, standing with Punch Moulton, watched Brianna laugh as Columbus Nigh attempted to teach her to dance. It seemed to the wagon master that the widow got prettier every day, especially smiling as she was right now. She had shed her widow’s weeds and wore a dress of blue calico she had sewn herself. The scooped neckline and the shirring that began below her full breasts and ended at the pointed waistline, emphasized the per-fection of her figure. She was no longer gaunt, but deliciously voluptuous. His loins ached, just looking at her.

Punch elbowed him in the side, grinning. “Got a hankerin’ fer a piece of that widow, have ya?”

Magrudge glowered at the man. “Naw, ain’t my type.”

“Whoo! That high-class bitch snubbed you, did she? Hell, you shoulda expected that, Magrudge.”

“Can’t be too high class and have Col for a brother.” For some reason Magrudge couldn’t understand, Punch thought that particularly funny. Incensed, the wagon master stomped away. Punch would stop laughing when he saw the uppity Widow Villard beg for Magrudge’s favors, he told himself. And that’s just what she’d do once he showed her what a real man like himself could do for her. Her late husband had likely been a milksop who’d let her run things. What she needed was a real man, and Magrudge was the one.

He’d noticed the way Nigh had taken to slipping from camp at night, not returning till morning. Maybe he’d found himself a woman in another train. That suited Magrudge fine. He’d be watching. Next time Nigh went courting, Magrudge would pay the widow a visit. And this time there’d be no goldarned cat to louse things up. Not a full-grown one, anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Brianna fanned her hot face with her hand. “Please, can we sit this one out? I’m exhausted.”

Col led her out of the twirling throng and seated her on a flour barrel. “You were just getting the hang of it.”

“Maybe, but I’ll never dance as well as Lucy
Decker.”

He turned to watch the Decker girl dance with her brother. Her flying skirts offered a glimpse of slim ankles and firm calves. Brianna frowned, scolding herself for opening her big mouth.

As if feeling Col’s eyes on her, Lucy glanced over. Instantly she broke from her brother’s grasp and pranced over to them. “Come on.” She took Col’s hands in hers and pulled him toward the other dancers. “You haven’t danced with me once tonight.”

Giving Brianna a helpless shrug, he let the girl drag him away.

Brianna couldn’t bear watching them. She sauntered over to the table the ladies had loaded down with pots of coffee, roast beef from a cow someone butchered when it broke its leg coming down off Windlass Hill, rabbit stew, golden brown biscuits, corn bread, jam and preserves, salad made with dandelion leaves, lamb’s quarter, and dock, baked beans, vinegar pies, rough-and-ready cake, and pitchers of sorghum.

Someone had flavored the water with a precious supply of honey, she discovered when she helped herself to a glass. But it failed to dispel the bitterness of seeing Col leave the dancers and disappear into the darkness with young, pretty Lucy Decker.

Brianna left the party behind and wandered toward her wagon, wondering if she could steal some of the food and hide it to take with her when she snuck away that night after everyone was asleep.

What were Col and Lucy doing alone out in the trees? Was he kissing her the way he’d kissed Brianna last night?

When she reached the wagon, she found she was too restless to go to bed. She sat on a stump and stared at the smoldering remains of the cook fire, wondering how the tangle of her life would ever unsnarl itself.

She had been a fool to give in to Col. Unless he had already tired of her, unless someone like Lucy stole him away from her, he wouldn’t let Brianna go now. Not easily anyway. She knew he wasn’t the kind of man to force her to stay with him against her will. Someday Barret would catch up with her and then there would be hell to pay. Someone, she greatly feared, would die. The thought that it could be Col sent her abruptly to her feet.

Just as gunfire exploded in her ear.

***

“This is far enough, Lucy. Go ahead, talk.”

Col watched the girl fidget with the tips of the shawl she had draped over her shoulders as they stepped beyond the wagons and away from the heat of the bonfire.

Lucy turned to the side so he could see her blond hair tumbling down her back. She had learned long ago that men found it difficult to resist her hair. She gave her head a slight shake so that her curls bounced. “I only wanted to be alone with you.”

He stuck his thumbs in the back of his belt and shifted his weight to his left foot. “What for?”

She turned to face him then. “You’ve been nice to me, and . . .well, I wanted to tell you how much it’s meant to me.” She moved closer, letting her shawl slip from her shoulders as she reached up to put her hands on his chest. “I like you, Col. I like you a lot. Don’t you like me a little?”

“What exactly do you want, Lucy?”

On tiptoes she kissed him square on the mouth.

He shoved her away. “You little fool. You got any idea what you’re doing?”

Anger flashed through her eyes, so brief he wondered if he truly saw it. Then her expression filled with pain.

“No, I don’t,” she said, her voice choking slightly. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do, but you obviously don’t care ’bout me at all. Go back to the party, Col, go back and forget the fool I’ve made of myself over you.”

Sobbing, she rushed off into the darkness.

Col cursed. He’d had no idea she had taken such a notion about him. She was too young to even know what love was. Damn! He couldn’t simply go off and leave her hurting the way she was; no figuring what she’d do. With a sigh, he started after her.

Then he heard a distant shot.

Lucy was panting by the time she reached the stream. She stopped and listened, then smiled at the sound of footsteps hurrying her direction. Col had followed as she had prayed he would. She ripped her dress off over her head, stripped off her petticoats and was lifting her chemise when a man burst from the bushes and came to a dead stop in front of her, a rifle in his hand.

Punch Moulton looked quickly about. The girl was practically naked. And alone. “Well, well, what you doin’ out here, sugar? You waitin’ fer me?”

Lucy smiled, her mind working quickly. He wasn’t Columbus Nigh, but he could give her the means to get the man she wanted. All she had to do was get herself pregnant and name Col as the father. Her parents would see to it he did right by her.

When Col reached Brianna’s wagon, he found Lavinia Decker fussing over her while Dulcie Moulton brought her a cup of tea thick with cream. Several men stood about, guns in their hands, staring out into the night.

“What happened?” Col demanded.

“Somebody almost shot your sister.”

Col’s gaze met Brianna’s over the steaming cup. Tobias Woody emerged out of the darkness. “Didn’t see nobody. Hanks is still looking. Don’t imagine it was anything more’n
an accident. Heck, been plenty of folks shot accidentally the last few months, and still no sign of Injuns.”

“Huh!” muttered Jim Lyon. “How can he be certain in the dark and all? Sure as shootin’ we’re gonna get scalped in our beds tonight.”

Abner Goodman hawked and spat. “I say we post guards. Maybe a few of us should fan out and search a bit farther.”

“Yeah, where’s Punch? He’ll wanna be in on this.”

Hanks, with Magrudge close behind, pushed his way through the crowd. “No need to panic. Varmint’s gone now, but it weren’t no Injun, that I gar-an-tee.”

“How in thunder can you do that?”

Hanks raised his hand for silence. “You hear any dogs yapping? If thar was Injuns yonder, ever’ hound in camp’d be raising a ruckus fit to wake the dead. Dogs cain’t stand Injun stink.”

The men listened and glanced around. An owl hooted upriver. From across the murmuring river came a faint reply. Crickets chirped. A burning log popped and crackled. All else was silence. Reluctantly they tucked their pistols back into their belts.

“Go on about yer business,” Hanks said. “Gonna lay over tomorry so’s the women kin wash n’ such, this bein’ the first good water we’ve come across in days. Enjoy the rest.”

“Praise the Lord!” Lavinia Decker bellowed.

The others muttered agreement and began to wander off.

“What happened?” Col asked Brianna when they were alone.

She stared at him, her eyes large and luminous in the lantern light.

“Like Tobias said, someone accidentally fired their gun and it just happened I was nearly in the way.” She shuddered, remembering the rush of air on her ear as the bullet sped past.

He stared at her as though he didn’t quite swallow her story. Angry that she should feel guilty for not telling him about Barret’s threat after the way Col had gone off with Lucy Decker she glared at him. “I’m fine. Why don’t you go back to your new little plaything and leave me alone.”

“What are you talking about?”

His eyes were blazing. A voice in the back of her head told her here was her chance to keep him safe. By keeping him away from her. That shot in the dark had shown her how foolish it would be to try going anywhere alone. Swollen rivers, tornados, wolves. How could she possibly protect herself from all the danger waiting out there?

“Keep away from me, Col. I-I’m ashamed of what happened last night. I feel dirty, as though I was one of your squaws.”

She knew the words would hurt him. But the pain so clear in his face was like a lance in her heart. She wanted desperately to take back what she’d said.

Col stared at her, seeing the mortification and the regret in her eyes. Regret that she had let a squawman touch her.

“Please,” she begged, closing her heart to his pain. “I can’t bear being around you after . . . after. . . Just go, please.”

She jerked herself from his grasp and climbed into the wagon, tying the cover tightly closed behind her.

Col kicked viciously at the wagon wheel. Cursing, he stomped off to find Jeb Hanks. The old mountain man would have a jug of whiskey hidden somewhere in his plunder, and Col felt a powerful thirst coming on.

The next day dawned bright and clear. The smell of lye soap pervaded the camp as women scrubbed several days’ worth of grime from clothes and bedding. Those who had space to carry it loaded up on firewood. Men repaired tack, tarred their hubs, rearranged loads, mended ropes. Children squealed as they played, dogs yapped. A high, sweet voice sang “Maryland, My Maryland.” A rich, low voice countered with “My Old Kentucky Home.”

Col woke with an aching head and a parched tongue. His mouth tasted like old Hanks had fed him horse droppings with his liquor the night before. Col opened his eyes to find the grizzled older man peering at him from across a small fire. Hanks chuckled at the expression on his friend’s face. He poured coffee into a tin cup, added a dollop of whiskey, and brought it to Col.

“Lookee here, old hoss, best get some hair o’ the dog in ya ’fore ya crawl away t’ lick yer wounds.”

Col accepted the coffee and blew on the dark, steamy liquid to cool it. Hanks sat back down across the fire, his legs crossed Indian style.

“Wanna talk ’bout it?” Hanks asked.

Col lifted a questioning eyebrow at the old man.

“I know, it’s a unwritten law in the mountains, a man don’t ask personal questions. But when ya been around long as I have, there’s things ya figure out.” Hanks swilled the last of his coffee and set down the cup. He picked up his rifle and proceeded to swab the barrel with a cleaning rag and his wiping stick. “Ain’t got no sister, have ya?”

Two girls raced past, screaming. Behind them came Tommy Shorthill waving a fat frog. Col sipped his coffee and kept quiet. Hanks saw the twitch in Col’s jaw and knew his words had rekindled the anger the man had come to him with the night before. Hanks also knew Nigh wanted to hear what else he had to say.

“Had me a wife once. Didn’t know that, did ya?”

“She was a Crow and a damned good lookin’ one, if I remember right,” Col said in hard, tight voice.

“Naw, ’fore that. ’Fore I come to the mountains. Her name was Mary. Pretty as a sunrise over the Wind Rivers, she was. Sweet, too.” Hanks shook his head and Col saw the wistfulness in the rheumy old eyes. “Mary died birthin’ me a son. Boy died too. Point is, this old coon knows whut it’s like to have a good woman. Knows a good ’un when he sees it, too. You’re a dang fool, if you let that widder get away.”

“Don’t reckon to let her get away.”

“Then whut in thunder ya doin’ spending the night drinkin’ trade whiskey with an old man like me fer?”

Col lumbered to his feet. If that was all the snoopy old buzzard had to say, he’d heard enough. He needed to dunk his head in cold spring water and clear the fog out of his thinker. Somehow he had to make Brianna see sense before it was too late. “There’s more to this than you know, Jeb.”

“Ya mean like the fact she’s still got a husband, an’ that the husband’s been followin’ us fer days now?”

Coll stared at the man, then snorted. “You worthless old crow bait, shoulda known better’n to try to fool you.”

Hanks kept on swabbing out his rifle. “If that big German keeps shootin’ like he did last night, you’ll likely be safe, but I wouldn’t count on it. Best you go plug his lights fer ’im or you’ll find yerself sleepin’ with me the rest of the trip.”

“The hell I will! Besides, I’m not sure it was the German last night. Figure he’s got help right here in camp.”

“Yeah, Punch Moulton. Now there’s a polecat fer ya. Weren’t fer him, might could smell the roses round here.”

Col chuckled. Hanks might be getting old, but he hadn’t lost any of his Indian sense yet. No one would ever put anything over on that old mountain man. “I’m not sure he’s the only polecat on this train,” Col replied. “Keep an eye on him for me, though, and I’ll take care of Brianna.”

“I jest bet you will.”

Col headed for the wagon. Hanks was right, there were wild roses blooming along the creek bed and around the springs, as well as currents and chokecherries. The scent of the roses reminded him of Brianna and his feet picked up speed.

When he spied her, he had to swallow disappointment. She was surrounded by a dozen women, washing clothes in boiling pots over fires built along the creek. He stopped to watch and she glanced up after a moment. Her chin rose, her back stiffened and her eyes darkened to sapphire. He went on to the wagon and set about seeing to his own chores while he waited for a chance to talk with her.

It wasn’t until after the noon meal that Col managed to get Brianna alone. She’d been as cold as Patch’s nose toward him all morning and he was losing patience. After all, she was the one who refused to cooperate and do what was necessary to get free of the bastard she was hitched up to. She had a bee up her bottom, that was sure, but he had a hunch it had nothing to do with his previous wife, and he was determined to find out what had kindled her temper.