The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) (21 page)

      
“That still won't change the ugly situation between us,” she murmured to herself as she sat at her dressing table massaging her aching temples that evening. They would leave at first light in the morning. Hugh was not home yet. Probably he was out drinking with Captain Shaffer again. Such had become a common pastime. Although she hated the reeking smell of whiskey and his abusive moods, he usually passed out quickly after an evening of overindulgence and did not touch her.

      
The front door slammed. Hugh was home. Stephanie looked in the mirror, seeing the pale, hollow-eyed face staring at her. She fought back tears as she heard him shamble with a drunken gait toward the bedroom.

      
Stumbling against the door frame he glared at her back, watching her expression in the mirror in front of her. “You have good reason to look afraid. I told you to stay away from those damned meddling Quakers and the savages.”

      
‘‘Little Otter was asking for me. I had to see if his fever had broken and to take the last of the blankets and clothes we gathered.”

      
He lurched across the floor and seized a fistful of her heavy hair, which she had just finished brushing. Tears spilled as the stinging pressure of his hold tightened. She did not utter a sound, only stared at his reflection in the mirror.

      
“Little Otter needed you, eh? You and those damned redskins! What is it about them—you prefer dark meat, is that it?”

      
“Hugh, Little Otter is only seven years old!” She sat rigidly, furious at his crude remarks.

      
“Too bad that Remington bastard jilted you. Maybe you wouldn't have been so cold in his bed!” he blurted out, then reddened even deeper beneath his already drink-stained complexion. He released his hold on her hair as if it had scorched him and staggered back a step, staring at her as she continued to sit with her back to him, spine straight, but her eyes were downcast now, no longer meeting his reflection.

      
“So, it's true, isn't it,” he said softly.

      
She turned around and faced him, her hands clutching the seat of the chair tightly. “Whatever I once felt for Chase Remington has nothing to do with us now, Hugh. You're right. He jilted me three years ago. And I made myself a promise that I'd begin a new life. I've tried my best to be a good wife to you, but you never intended to be a good husband. You used me, Hugh—you wanted my money and my family name so you preyed on my naiveté and vulnerable position after Chase left to get me to marry you. You pretended to be someone you weren't, but you knew who I was all along. You just never wanted me to be me.”

      
He stared at her, slack jawed at her truthful accusations, hating her for all of it, too befuddled by liquor to refute her logic and furious that he had revealed his jealousy to her. He cursed roundly, then turned and stumbled against the bed, falling on his back, spread-eagle atop the covers.

      
Stephanie sat and watched him fall asleep, snoring loudly. Then she slipped into the parlor with a quilt and made her bed on the settee. Hours passed before she finally drifted into an exhausted slumber.

* * * *

      
The ride into Rawlins took several hours because Mrs. Boyer insisted on stopping to rest midway, saying the jouncing ambulance in which they rode was giving her a migraine. Stephanie took the time to enjoy the pungent scent of sagebrush and saltweed bushes and watch the breeze rippling miles of gramma grass. Rawlins was typical of newly constructed rail towns across the West: raw, boisterous and tentative, situated amid jagged escarpments of sedimentary rock on one side and the level stretch of the High Plains on the other. The North Platte flowed serenely past it, with cottonwoods and willows growing profusely along the banks, breaking the starkness of the landscape.

      
Stephanie spent the evening with Emma Boyer and Abigail Shaffer. After a hearty meal in the dining room of the Rawlins House Hotel, she excused herself, pleading a headache, which was not far from the truth. After the latest ugly scene with Hugh, she felt drained. The idea of a room—and a bed to herself—was greatly appealing.

      
The next several days the women spent poring over pattern books and selecting fabrics in Mrs. Carmichael's modiste shop. By the end of the third day of fittings and endless gossip, Stephanie was ready to scream with boredom.

      
“And I said to the colonel, my dear, I said, you simply must do something about these quarters. Why, how could I be expected to give a regimental ball—”

      
“Pardon me, Mrs. Boyer, I do hate to interrupt,” Stephanie said as she entered the stuffy dressing room where Emma was holding forth to Grace Carmichael as the intrepid Irishwoman adjusted a bustle. The scent of Emma's heavy perfume blended with the stench of moldy lumber and old sweat, assaulting her nostrils. “I'm going to take a walk around town while you and Mrs. Shaffer finish up here.”

      
“Do you think it safe to do that unescorted?” Mrs. Boyer asked doubtfully.

      
“I’ll only walk a few blocks. I'll be fine.”

      
Before the older woman could raise any further objections, Stephanie was gone, eager to begin exploring the raucous railhead.

      
There was a sense of raw vitality and freedom in the West that she had grown to love, especially whenever she was able to escape the rigid social protocol of an army post and spend time in a neighboring settlement. Best of all, she loved her occasional rides across the incredible open expanse of the plains, to feel the wind and the sun beating on her, to smell the tang of sagebrush and listen to nothing but the echoing majesty of silence, broken only by the shrill cry of the hawk.

      
Perhaps she would see about renting a horse for a short ride, if she could slip away from the troopers the colonel had assigned as escorts for the officers' ladies. Stephanie observed the bustling activities all around her. In front of a barbershop, two indolent looking cowboys in shabby denims and sweat-stained collarless cotton shirts argued amicably over who would go first for a badly needed shave and haircut. Across the street a heavy freight wagon rumbled past her, its driver cursing and popping a whip over the team of straining mules. A female of the sort ladies never mentioned leaned on the upstairs railing of a shabby saloon, calling out a crude invitation to passersby. Prosperous looking merchants in dark wool suits rubbed elbows with hard looking gunmen while a cluster of “pumpkin rollers,” as the homesteaders in their stained muddy coveralls were called, ogled a display of iron tools in the window of France's General Merchandise.

      
As she strolled into the dim dusty interior of the livery, she could see through the broad barn to the open double doors at the opposite end where a large corral was situated. A team of horses was being unhitched from a freight wagon by the boys employed at the stables while the driver talked with a trooper from Fort Steele. Stephanie slowed her step, disappointed that one of her chaperones was there to stop her impromptu ride. She slipped quietly next to one of the stalls in the gloomy interior where a delicate little sorrel filly let out a wicker of welcome.

      
Patting the horse's nose she blinked her eyes, letting them adjust to the poor light. Then she heard the low conversation between two men who were standing partially hidden just behind the corral post.

      
“This here looks like a real heavy wagon. Could carry a pretty considerable of a load, I ‘spect,” a drawling voice said.

      
“Yep, this here wagon was plumb loaded down with bullion from the mines outside Helena. They come 'n' put it on th' train. After that White Wolf feller got ahold of the supply wagons last week, I reckon they's figgerin' they wuz lucky to git it to th' railhead safe 'n' sound,” the grizzled old man volunteered, spitting a wad of tobacco into the dust at his feet.

      
“Heard ‘bout the reward for the White Wolf. Wouldn't mind collectin' some of it.”

      
“Five thousand—say who wouldn't, Asa,” the old man said with a cackle, “but them soldier boys figger they can catch that renegade theyselves. Course with you bein' a quarter Osage, mebbe you could scout for 'em 'n' get a cut o’ some kind.”

      
The trooper ambled over, joining in the conversation at this point, as did the wagon driver and one of the stable boys, but Stephanie's mind did not register their casual speculations about where Colonel Boyer's forces had been deployed. She stood frozen, straining to catch a glimpse of the Osage breed who was leaning with his back against the corral post, now silent while the others talked.

      
In spite of his drawl and uneducated speech patterns, his voice sounded exactly like Chase's! Deep, low and slightly gravelly. All she could see was one shoulder clad in a dirty homespun shirt. The brim of a greasy flat-crowned hat with a rattlesnake band shaded his face, which was further obscured by straight black hair falling to his shoulder blades.

      
I’m imagining things
, she scolded herself. What on earth would Chase be doing here in Rawlins, dressed shabbily like a tramp, talking like an illiterate drifter? Ever since she had come west, Stephanie had entertained fleeting thoughts of encountering him again one day, especially when Hugh was posted to Wyoming Territory, but she had always suppressed them. Not only was such a notion disloyal to her husband and certainly most unlikely since Chase intended to live as a Cheyenne, but even more devastating was the very idea of what such a meeting would do to her. Seeing him again after he had broken her heart, when she was irrevocably bound to another, would destroy her.

      
Still, some self-punishing, desperately hungry part of her ached to hear that familiar voice, to see those fathomless glittering eyes, that blinding white smile. Biting her lip, she inched across the stable to the opposite side of the wide center aisle where she could see more of the Osage, cursing herself for a fool with every step.

      
He was tall and lean like Chase. She could see one long leg bent at the knee, the heel of his boot resting against the corral post. He was several inches taller than any of the other men, even leaning back, slouched down. Suddenly he shifted his weight away from the post and straightened, his face in clear profile to her. The man's complexion was coppery dark like a mixed-blood Indian, yet his features were classically sculpted, the nose straight and prominent, the eyebrow a heavy black slash, the jaw clean and strong, the lips...the lips that had kissed her!

      
Chase!
It could not be. She had longed for him so deeply over the lonely years that she must have convinced herself that the handsome stranger was her love.
My love, yes, admit it. He will always be my love, my only love.

      
A low prickle danced down the back of his neck. Chase sensed someone watching him from inside the stables. He casually turned his head toward the open door, his hand nonchalantly resting on the old Navy Colt on his hip. The shadows were too deep to see clearly, but it was a woman's figure. There was something eerily familiar about her. He turned his back on the group of men and took a step toward her. A flash of bronze hair caught the sunlight as she turned in a flurry of skirts and vanished like a wraith in the gloom.

      
She was tall and slender just like Stevie. He shook his head. No sense making a fool of himself over some unknown white- female who was probably already having heart palpitations because a breed had looked at her. He knew the rules, even harsher out here than they had been back east where the Remington name had allowed him a little more freedom—white ladies could look at him with secret lascivious thoughts but he dare make no public overtures in return without risking a killing—his or somebody else's. Here on the High Plains in the middle of an Indian war, those consequences were apt to be even more swift than usual. He could not afford to draw attention to himself by getting into a fight.

      
Too long without a woman
, he thought with a curse. That was what made him think the bronze-haired female looked like Stevie. Shaking his head to clear away painful memories, he turned and ambled off toward the corral gate, leaving the group of men behind. He'd learned all he needed to know from garrulous old Hiram Wimbley and the dumb young trooper. Gaston de Boef would tell him the rest tonight. The wily little Frenchman sold information to anyone with the price of a bottle but he had been as good a friend as Chase had ever encountered in the white world.

      
The best thing he could do after their meeting was to relieve the itch that had been growing inside him with a few hours of recreation at the Rocky Road. Hell, Rocky would be glad to see her old customer Asa Grant, the Osage quarter breed. If Rocky Rhoades' voluptuous whores couldn't take his mind off Stevie, he might as well turn himself in to the army and let them hang him!

      
Stephanie stopped in the alley half a block from the livery, leaning against the wall, her arms wrapped protectively around her waist.
Chase! It
was
Chase.
Once he turned and started to walk toward her there could be no mistaking that long-legged pantherish stride, the way his broad shoulders rolled gracefully as he moved. And his face! No matter that he wore a scruffy beard and his hair fell in shaggy strings past his shoulders, she would know him anywhere.

      
But he had changed in more ways than the obvious. The greasy, cheap Western clothing and lethal looking arsenal of weapons were not as dramatic a difference as the expression on his face. He looked hard and dirty and dangerous. There was a flatness in the cold black eyes which had once glowed with passion and laughter. What had happened to make him change this way? Why did those men call him Asa and think he was Osage? He looked like a drifter, a mercenary gunman who would kill without blinking an eye. She had fled, terrified of the stranger who was Chase.