Tender Touch (26 page)

***

Brianna had lain awake most of the night, crying and waiting for him to come back. More than once she had gotten up and started to dress so she could go find him. The fear that he was with Lucy kept her in the wagon. Over and over she assured herself she had done the right thing to protect him from Barret.

How she wished she knew exactly how Col felt about her. More than anything in the world, she wanted his love. And he acted as though he did love her, when he looked at her, when he touched her.

Yet he’d gone off into the dark with that Lucy Decker. What had they been doing when the shot was fired? Why had it taken so long for him to reach the wagon? Had he been touching Lucy’s young body the way he’d touched hers? Had he been making love to Lucy?

Brianna had tried to push away such thoughts when they came to her in the wee hours of the morning. But she knew he had not come back. Where had he slept? Had he gone back to Lucy? The question haunted her all morning. Then she had seen him. Bits of dirt and grass clung to his rumpled buckskins as though he’d slept on bare ground. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. In fact, if she didn’t know better she might think he’d been drinking all night. Had he been drunk on something other than alcohol? Like Lucy Decker’s love?

Now he stood before her, his big hands tucked into the back of his belt, his weight on his left leg, the way he always stood when facing down trouble.

“You ready to talk sense to me?” he asked.

She poured hot water from the fire into her dishpan and added cold till it was cool enough to use. Then she slid the dirty tin plates and silver into the pan. “I told you how I felt last night. What else is there to say?”

“Dammit, woman, there’s something going on here you’re not telling me about. Now put those dishes down and talk to me.”

She scrubbed a plate clean and set it aside. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

He looked at her, dumfounded. “Yeah, till the damn trouble started. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’re never going to learn to speak without cursing, are you?”

Nigh lifted his arms and eyes to the heavens. What was he to do with her? Striving for control, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Bri, what are you afraid of? What hold has Wight got over you? Please, talk to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pulled from his grasp, picked up the wash pan and dumped the soapy water on the ground, nearly soaking his moccasins. “I asked you last night to stay away from me. Perhaps I should make it clearer. You’re fired, Mr. Nigh. I’ll get you your pay and you can go on your way.”

She headed for the wagon, but he didn’t wait to see what she would do. He had to get away from her or they were both likely to be sorry for what he might do.

Brianna watched him stalk off to his horse and gallop away. Then she climbed into the wagon, lay down on the bed, and cried.

***

“Goddamn no good mules!”

Up one hill after another, Barret Wight trotted his sorrel, then stopped to scan the horizon for sign of his pack mules. When he heard the sound of hoof beats in the next draw, he hurried that direction, hoping it would be one of the stubborn blasted animals.

“Hou!”

The stranger approaching on a dappled gray gelding was tall and lean with a body that had known hard work, and was as strong and tough and supple as old rawhide. He wore a pistol in his belt and carried a rifle in a scabbard made of leather with bead work along the opening and fringe a foot long.

Barret eyed the handsome scabbard and wondered if the man could be parted from it without bloodshed. Then he looked into the man’s eyes, as gray and ominous as the clouds scudding across the western sky. Hard and sharp, like tempered steel. The man’s lips formed a grim slash in his weathered face. A sliver of wood protruded from one corner of his mouth.

A mountain man, Barret thought. He had seen men like him before in the public room of his brewery, men who had survived years of dealing with savages and grizzly bears in what they called The Shining Mountains where few civilized men had set foot and lived to tell about it. Dangerous men only a fool would cross. Barret decided the scabbard wasn’t so handsome after all.

“Lost?” the stranger asked.

“No, my mules ran off
. Haven’t seen them, have you?”

The man shook his shaggy head. “Seen Injuns, though. Ain’t wise, you bein’ out here alone.”

Barret’s gaze darted about nervously. He’d had all the run-ins he wanted with Indians. “I have a partner around here somewhere. He’s looking, too. If we don’t find our mules, we’ll be stranded.”

“You got a horse and a rifle. Hang onto your hair and you’ll be all right.” The man nodded curtly and rode off.

“Yeah, sure.” Barret gave a disgruntled snort. Easy enough for a man like that to say all he needed was a horse and rifle. Probably wouldn’t know what to do with a bed or a chair if he had one. Barret didn’t try to fool himself into thinking he was as tough as the stranger, or that it would be as easy for him to survive, living off this empty land.

Columbus Nigh allowed himself to snicker at the bumbling greenhorn he’d just left, once he was out of earshot.

When he’d set out that morning, he’d had it in his head to kill the man. But every mile he rode, he heard Brianna’s voice telling him she’d never be able to live with him if he killed her husband. It was seeming less and less likely she‘d ever live with him anyway. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him wanting her. And no matter how much he bounced the matter around inside his head, he couldn’t convince himself to give up his dream of making her his wife.

Still, on first sight of her husband, the need to feel his hands around Wight’s throat and see the life fade from his sadistic eyes, had been almost too strong to resist.

To see the bastard roaming the plain in search of mules Nigh himself had picked out for him back at Fort Kearny, helped ease the disappointment of not being able to kill him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

After Columbus rode off, Brianna spent the day helping Marc sort out Lilith’s things. Until Brianna pointed out that the Lyon family, who had lost their wagon on Windlass Hill, could use the extra Beaudouin wagon, Marc hadn’t been able to bring himself to even look at his wife’s personal belongings.

He insisted Brianna keep anything she wanted. She chose a bonnet, a few pieces of jewelry and Lilith’s embroidery basket. Lilith’s clothes were divided among the women on the train who were closer to her size. When that was done, the loads in Marc’s two wagons were rearranged and the empty one driven over to the Lyon camp.

The noon meal passed without any sign of Col
. Lavinia Decker dropped by, complaining that her daughter had stayed out until the wee hours of the morning and refused to say where she had been. Brianna couldn’t help wondering if the fact that both Col and Lucy were missing most of the night could be a coincidence. Her anger toward him turned to despair. How could she fight the girl’s youth, pretty looks, and availability?

Weary and dispirited, Brianna spent an hour playing with Patch and fighting off her fear. Only last evening, the world had seemed so sunny. She had shed her somber widow’s weeds and worn the new dress she’d made to please Col. His eyes on her had been warm and tender. She looked more beautiful than ever, he’d told her. But he hadn’t said he loved her. Not once had he ever said that. That should tell her something, she supposed.

Restless, she wandered the camp, sharing a cup of coffee and bit of gossip here and there. She couldn’t say how she ended up in Jeb Hanks camp.

“Hou, ma’am.” The old mountain man stood before her, bow-legged and bent. “Do sumpthin’ fer ya?”

She smiled. Jeb Hanks and Col had ridden together back in their beaver-trapping days. Perhaps she could get him to tell her what he knew about Col, and about Little Beaver, too.

“You got sumpthin’ on your mind, ’pears to me,” Hanks said when she remained silent. “Whyn’t you jest spit it out?”

She blushed. “Am I that transparent?”

“Not to most, I reckon. But most ain’t been knockin’ round this old world as long as me.”

“I see.” She couldn’t help smiling. Hanks was unique and she liked him. “Maybe . . . well, could you tell me about Col’s life in the mountains? He isn’t fond of talking about himself and. . . .”

Hanks gave her a knowing smile that had nothing to do with his reply. “Most o’ the men I’ve knowed since leaving the States behind are reluctant to talk ’bout their pasts fer one reason or t’other. Some’re running from the law, some jest like being alone. Reckon Col’s like that, don’t take t’ crowds much.”

Weary and dispirited, Brianna spent an hour playing with Patch and fighting off her fear. Only last evening, the world had seemed so sunny. She had shed her somber widow’s weeds and worn the new dress she’d made to please Col. His eyes on her had been warm and tender. She looked more beautiful than ever, he’d told her. But he hadn’t said he loved her. Not once had he ever said that. It should tell her something, she supposed.

Restless, she wandered the camp, sharing a cup of coffee and bit of gossip here and there. She couldn’t say how she ended up in Jeb Hanks camp.

“Hou, ma’am.” The old mountain man stood before her, bow-legged and bent. “Do sumpthin’ fer ya?”

She smiled. Jeb Hanks and Col had ridden together back in their beaver-trapping days. Perhaps she could get him to tell her what he knew about Col, and about Little Beaver, too.

“You got sumpthin’ on your mind, ’pears to me,” Hanks said when she remained silent. “Whyn’t you jest spit it out?”

She blushed. “Am I that transparent?”

“Not to most, I reckon. But most ain’t been knockin’ round this old world as long as me.”

“I see.” She couldn’t help smiling. Hanks was unique and she liked him. “Maybe . . . well, could you tell me about Col’s life in the mountains? He isn’t fond of talking about himself and. . . .”

Hanks gave her a knowing smile that had nothing to do with his reply. “Most o’ the men I’ve knowed since leaving the States behind are reluctant to talk ’bout their pasts fer one reason or t’other. Some’s running from the law, some jest like being alone. Reckon Col’s like that, don’t take t’ crowds much.”

“Did you know his wife?”

“Little Beaver? Purdy little thing, she was. Young, too. They wasn’t together long.”

“Did he love her a great deal?”

“Have t’ ask him that. Col saved her pappy’s life in a Blackfoot raid, took an arrow in his side doin’ it. Old Chief Yeller Feather took Col back to his lodge an’ Little Beaver nursed him to health. When Col was ready to leave, the chief give ’im the girl as his wife. Wouldn’t a done fer Col to refuse, you know. Bad manners. Took good care of her, though, an’ he felt powerful bad when she was kilt.”

“How did she die?”

Hanks gave her a long, searching look as though trying to make up his mind about something, then wagged his grizzled head. “Reckon knowin’ that’d go a ways in helpin’ ya understand the man, but ya oughta ask ’im yerself. Ask ’im how he lost his little finger; that’ll get ’im started.”

The little finger with the missing joint. Those first few weeks on the trail, Brianna had wondered how Col had lost the joint. She hadn’t had the nerve to ask then. Later, she became so used to it she no longer noticed it. Now she realized the missing joint had something to do with Little Beaver’s death, and her curiosity exploded.

Brianna was preparing for bed when she heard someone call out a greeting to Col. Quickly, she snatched his bedding out of the wagon and stuffed it underneath. Then she climbed inside. She put out the lantern and tied both ends of the wagon cover tightly closed. After what seemed forever, he came to the foot of the wagon and called out to her. Only Patch answered with a meow. Brianna pretended to be asleep.

Col cursed and crawled under the wagon, bumping his head on the wagon hounds. More cursing followed, two thuds as his boots hit the ground, the rustle of bedding, and finally silence. With a sigh that was half-relief, half-regret, Brianna rolled onto her side and pounded her pillow into a more comfortable lump.

“Don’t know what nonsense you got in your craw, woman,” he muttered through the floor of the wagon. “But you best be ready to talk about it tomorrow.”

Talk about it? Confess that she was trying to save his life? Or ask him outright if he spent last night making love to Lucy Decker? Never.

To end her relationship with Col might kill her. But that would be better than seeing him murdered by her husband. Even losing him to Lucy would be easier to take than his death. No matter how it all ended, Brianna felt as though her own life was already over.

At midnight a light rain began to fall. Lying awake in her bed, Brianna heard Colcurse and turn over in his bed. Turning her face into her pillow, she cried.

***

Barret returned from his mule hunt weary and irate, to find his camp a shambles. It appeared as though it had been tom apart by a pack of wolves. Goods lay scattered for fifty yards in every direction. The bacon and dried meat was gone. Flour whitened the earth like deposits of alkali and coffee lay in small dark heaps like deer pellets. There was no sign of the mules, or of Stinky.

Without pack mules or goods, there was nothing he could do but wait for morning and try to buy supplies from passing emigrants. His empty stomach grumbled as he wrapped up in his blankets and tried to sleep.

The Magrudge Company wagons were ferried across the Laramie River at two dollars each. From there they travelled barren hills and sandy ravines until they reached the high plain where the long, upward haul began that would lead them to the famed Rocky Mountains.

At Cottonwood Creek, heavy rain drove them into an early camp. Ravines, dry minutes before, ran high with floodwater. Cook pots and saddles shielded the emigrants from a barrage of hail the size of horse dung. By nightfall the sky cleared and the air became pleasant.

The next morning Brianna placed a few twigs on last night’s coals and blew hard until a tiny flame shot up, as weak and tepid as she felt.

Hot days, cold nights, wind, dust, insects, and tension had taken their toll. Like most of the other emigrants, her face was so lumpy with gnat bites she looked as though she had smallpox. She tongued grit from one side of her mouth to the other and thought longingly of a hot bath. Last evening’s rain had not lasted long enough to lay the dust, meaning that today would be as miserable as yesterday.

As the fire caught, she added buffalo chips, and prepared coffee. Col was nowhere to be seen. He’d spent the past week driving stock or scouting with Jeb Hanks. Even when he was in camp, he barely spoke to her. It had been that way since Ash Hollow when she locked him out of the wagon.

Lucy Decker was more cheerful than ever. Even Dulcie seemed happier, confiding to Brianna that Punch had been leaving her alone more lately, even in bed.

If Col suffered the same agony as Brianna, he gave no clue, while she rode a teeter-totter of anger and despair. There had been no sign of Barret and no more “accidental” shots in her direction. Her determination to protect Col by keeping him away from her was waning. She missed him. And she needed him.

As though summoned by her thoughts, she saw him driving their oxen toward camp, followed closely by Marc, Francois, and Jean Louis with their own team.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” she told them as she set bacon to frying.

“Ate with the Deckers.” Col positioned the first pair of oxen and placed the yoke across their necks.

“The boys and I didn’t,” Marc put in cheerfully.

Brianna ignored Marc. She rounded on Col, hands fisted on her hips. “Ate with the Deckers? Or just Lucy? Why don’t you eat supper with her as well. Sleep with her, too, if you haven’t already. And while you’re at it, you can just
. . . Oh, just get out of here. And take these blasted insects with you.” She flapped her hands at the cloud of mosquitoes hovering around her and stomped off.

“Papa?” Jean Louis tugged at his father’s hand. “Is Brianna angry about something?”

“Uh, why don’t we go visit the Woodys?” Marc took the boy’s hand and motioned for Francois to come along. “We don’t see Tobias much now that we don’t need him to drive the extra wagon.”

“But, Papa—”

After they were gone, Col dug into his possibles bag and pulled out a small pouch. He walked down to the creek and found Brianna on the damp grass along the bank, sobbing into her hands. Hunkering beside her, he took off his kerchief and held it out. She turned her back to him, sniffed, and took his offering. When she had blown her nose, he handed her the pouch. “What’s this?” she asked.

“It’ll keep the insects away.”

“But what is it?”

“Bear grease.”

“It smells awful.”

“Works, though.”

“Did you smear some on your precious Lucy?”

“You angry because I ate with the Deckers?”

“Should I be?”

She got up and marched back to camp. Muttering about the contrariness of females, Col followed. Ignoring him, Brianna took a sack of flour from the wagon. She set it on the table, reached inside and made a depression in the white powder with her fist. Then she poured in a little water and mixed up a batch of biscuit dough right there in the sack—a trick she learned from Lavinia to save time and dirty dishes.

“You’re the one made it plain I wasn’t wanted round here.” He poured himself some coffee and sat down.

The words stung. She longed to tell him it wasn’t because that was how she wanted it. Instead, she tore off a small chunk of dough and gave it a vicious squeeze, as though it were his neck. “Didn’t hear you complain.”

“Do any good if I did?”

In answer, she kneaded the dough viciously. Then she cut and slapped biscuits onto a pan and shoved the pan into the reflector oven.

Col rose and took her by the arms, forcing her to face him. “You gonna tell me what this is really all about?”

“I thought I fired you. Why are you hanging around here, pestering me?”

His hands fell from her arms as though he’d been stung. “All right, woman. You want to get rid of me? Fine. I’m gone.”

With that he stormed off.

A minute later, Marc came from his wagon next door. He shuffled his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets and took them out again. “Brianna, you were Lilith’s best friend,” he said finally. “You did all you could to keep her alive. I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life for that. Now something is dreadfully wrong between you and another very good friend of mine. I know it’s none of my business, but I’d like to help, if I can.”

She looked at his kind face, and the temptation to confide in him was strong. He was a good man and meant well, but she wasn’t sure she could trust him not to repeat her every word to Columbus. That was something she could not risk. It would only send him after Barret, possibly to his death.

“I appreciate your concern, Marc. But, as you said, it’s none of your business.” She heaved a sigh and added softly, “There’s nothing you can do, anyway. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

Not long after the wagon train got underway that day, Tobias Woody showed up, telling Brianna that Col had sent him to relieve her from driving.