Wilda's Outlaw (29 page)

“You held a gun to his head, I suppose.” His eyes had lost their glint, turned smoky under the influence of the strong liquor he continued to swig. If he did not lean upon the table, he would surely fall on his face.

“No, of course not.”

“Ah, but being a beautiful woman, you did not find it necessary to do that, did you?” Tilting the glass to his mouth, he emptied it, then whirled and threw it in the fireplace.

She jumped and terror clenched her stomach.

Before the crash faded he grabbed her by both shoulders with fingers like iron vises. “What did you allow him to do to you? Or worse, invite him to do? I should not be surprised at the lengths you went to have your way.” Pulling her close, lifting her feet off the floor until their breath mingled, he snarled. “Are you intact, my dear, or have you shamed me to the limit of my endurance?”

His hot, sour breath in her face slashed to the depths of her fear. Knees knocking, she gagged, tried to summon an image of Calder that might give her the strength to continue to fight this man who terrified her beyond all reason. Somewhere deep inside anger lay defeated. She was no longer a virgin, and this man would know, so she couldn’t offer herself in return for Calder’s freedom.

Prescott would kill her when he found out she’d made love with an outlaw. He already suspected it, all he needed was proof. Breathing raggedly, he dragged her from the sitting room into the darkened bedroom and flung her onto the bed, stumbled and almost fell there as well. “Take off your clothes.”

Stars swam through her vision and she could scarcely catch her breath. He was going to ravage her and he would know…find out that she had indeed lain with the outlaw and was no longer pure. Perhaps he would kill her, but she didn’t think so. Despite his violent demeanor, he had never actually struck her. Her chances of surviving this encounter would be stronger if she did not fight him, for her every word inflamed him further.

With fingers that trembled she worked at the front of the evening attire, sitting on the edge of the bed that was so high her feet did not reach the floor. She unfastened the dress to her waist, then stopped. He grabbed the fabric at the shoulders and yanked it down, revealing her chemise and corset.

There was little she could do to stop him, and so she didn’t try, but caught his gaze and held it.

“Don’t you look at me that way, girl. You came here to be my wife. I’m simply hurrying up the consummation. We’ll say our vows tomorrow, as planned. Tonight, I will learn if you will be an adequate wife. But either way, you will be my wife. Now, get undressed.”

“Sir, you will have to remove the laces from my corset.” She made to turn her back so he could do so, but his next words stopped her cold.

“Not necessary. What I want lies much lower than those tits of which you are so proud.” With that pronouncement, he hoisted her legs onto the bed and tore away the layers of skirts and undergarments, ripping the bloomers aside.

Her throat filled with a vile tasting liquid. She pushed herself up, spewed it out into his face. When he jerked away, spatting and cursing, she rolled off the bed, kicked free of the tangle of clothing caught around her legs and ran for the door.

The sound of his stumbling footsteps sped her on, but a great thud caught her up short. Sparing a brief glance, she saw that he lay sprawled on the floor. He’d either fallen and hit his head or passed out from consuming so much liquor so quickly.

Frantic to escape, she clawed the door open and darted down the hall, not taking the time to close it behind her. Let someone find him like that, her torn undergarments lying on his bed. It would not raise the servants’ estimation of their Lord to come upon such a shameful scene. On the other hand, when he did come to his senses, his fury would be increased tenfold, and he would come after her. There was no imagining what he might do. She must leave this place or he could very well kill her for embarrassing him so.

Halfway down the hallway, she drew up near the door to Tyra’s room. Suppose he took out his anger on the child? There was no fear he would hurt Rowena, for it was obvious that the two had grown close. What her usually meek sister saw in the dark monster was beyond her comprehension. But she dare not leave a seventeen-year-old girl here to deal with a punishment that should be hers alone.

The hallway stretched in both directions, dark and quiet. No sign of Marguerite or the manservant. She tried Tyra’s door. Locked. Of course. She knocked softly, whispered her cousin’s name. Waited. No reply. Knocked a bit louder, terrified that at any moment someone would hear her.

Finally, a small, soft voice from the other side. “Yes, who is it? What do you want?”

“It’s me, Wilda. Can you escape, get out of the room through a window?”

A pause, then, “I suppose so. Why?”

“Put your things into a valise and meet me out at the barn as soon as you can.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I will. Wilda, I’m so—”

“Don’t talk. Lord Prescott is on a tear, and I’m leaving for good. Now, hurry.”

“Yes, yes I will,” Tyra said in an excited voice. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

How close she’d come to doing just that. So close shame filled her. No time for regrets. She hurried to her own room. Still no sign of Marguerite. No doubt she was helping the manservant clean up their master and get him into bed.

God, make him sleep the night away.

Quickly she gathered up the dress Rachel had given her, the one she’d washed in the Smoky River before she and Calder…. She broke off thinking of the past, thanked the powers that be that Marguerite had not thrown it away. Nothing she owned would be suitable to wear for this adventure. She slipped the dress on over the corset, which she could not remove on her own.

Glancing around the beautiful room one last time, she raced into the hallway and down the steps, shoes in hand to keep them from clattering on the wooden stairs. Lights still burned downstairs, so not everyone had retired for the night. No matter. If anyone tried to stop her, she would fight them off. She could not remain in this house one moment longer. Not after what Blair Prescott had tried to do to her this night.

Praying once more for Tyra’s safe escape, she grabbed the cumbersome door handle, heaved with little expectation. To her surprise it opened. So far fate was on her side, for the servants hadn’t yet locked up for the night. Outside, she glanced furtively around, then hurried toward the barn. Once Tyra joined her, they would go to Victoria and try to enlist help from the jovial blacksmith who had seemed so taken with her. It was all she could think to do, for she dared not bring down Prescott’s wrath on her friend Rachel by going there for help. If she and Tyra stole his Lordship’s horses, that would be worse. They would have to walk, and keep to the woods should their absence be discovered and riders sent to find them. It was the only way.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Tyra still had to escape. Tucked safely into the tack room of the barn, where she could watch the house through the small window, she waited for her cousin. What would she do if the girl didn’t come? Dare she leave her here? If she was forced to do so, would Marguerite or Rowena have the courage to protect the child from Prescott’s wrath?

It seemed she leaned at the window for an eternity before a small, shadowy figure darted across the broad space between castle and barn. Fear for the child’s safety grew until her stomach roiled with it. The nails of both hands cut into her palms while she watched her approach. Finally, Tyra slipped through the big door.

Wilda rushed to her, grabbed her in a choking hug. “You’re safe. Thank God, you’re safe. No one saw you?”

“Of course not. I was scared, but the stones made for easy climbing down the outside. Scraped my knees, but I’m okay. Where are we going? What happened? Where is your outlaw?”

“Not now. We must leave before they discover we’re gone.”

“I’ll saddle some horses. No sense in our walking. I ride very well now, you know.”

She broke off when Wilda grabbed her arm. “No, we must leave on foot.”

“But why?”

“I’ll answer all your questions as we go. No time for this now, Tyra. Hush up and come on. We’re going out the back door. I hope you wore walking shoes.”

She dragged the girl along through the barn. On both sides horses shifted and whinnied. The odor of hay mixed with the animal’s own special smell.

“Boots. I wore trousers and boots and a shirt,” Tyra said, “in case you needed me to run another errand disguised as a boy.” Tyra chattered with childlike anticipation, and hurried to keep up with Wilda.

“Save your breath now, and run,” Wilda said, and took off in the direction of the road trusting the girl to keep up.

Tall crimson grasses whipped at her skirt, and she cast an occasional glance over her shoulder. If someone did exit the castle, they could fall onto their stomachs and not be seen. The broad Kansas prairie offered few trees to hide them. Only along rivers and streams did the singing trees grow tall and thick. Calder called them cottonwoods. All she knew of them she’d learned lying in his arms on the riverbank before the posse had found them. Their leaves sang a soothing song in the constant wind.

Despite her admonition, Tyra soon took up her chatter again. The child could come up with more to talk about than anyone she’d ever met. But she was a sweet girl with a good heart. Wilda had to see that no harm came to her.

When they crested the rise and started down, Wilda sank to her knees and pulled the girl with her.

“Let’s rest a minute.”

“I’m not tired. I still think we should’ve taken some horses.”

“They hang you for stealing horses.”

“But one is mine.”

“What?”

“Yes, it was given to me by the groom.”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure his Lordship will honor that gift.”

“But he said—”

Wilda wanted to shake the child, but only lay back in the grass and stared up at the star tossed sky.

Oh, Calder, what are you doing now? Can you see the stars from you cell?

“You going to tell me what happened, why we’re running away?”

Quickly, if for no other reason than to quiet Tyra, Wilda filled her in on Calder’s capture and her own forced return to Fairhaven. She left out Lord Prescott’s attack, saying only that she would not stay and be forced into a marriage with him.

“What of Rowena, then?”

“Rowena will do fine by herself. With me gone, I believe she will tame that wicked man.”

“You mean, they might marry?”

“I don’t know, it’s possible.”

“Then where are we going?”

“To Victoria to find help to get Calder out of jail. I can’t let them hang him. I won’t.”

“Oh, how exciting. Who will help us?”

“A man by the name of Smith, I hope. Now, it’s time to leave. Come on.”

She pulled Tyra to her feet and followed the wagon tracks in the grass. When they reached the main road she stood there for a moment. The night was dark with no moon, so they must stay near the road, but not on it. That would be much too dangerous.

It was no more than a mile to Victoria, and she prayed they would be able to reach the small settlement before the sun rose.

Nothing stirred in Victoria City when finally she led her cousin into town. To the east, the rolling plains lay dark against a silvery sky. It would soon be dawn and the town would come awake.

“We have to hurry and get under cover. Prescott is sure to come looking for us.”

“Where are we going to hide?” Tyra’s tone told Wilda she was still excited to be playing this game. Hopefully, that could continue.

Up ahead, she spotted the blacksmith’s shop, and pulled Tyra to the door and inside past the anvil and forge. From its belly smoke rose in lazy tendrils, emitting a smell that reminded her of the train ride across the prairie. In the back was a dark enclosure. Her feet kicked through hay that lay scattered about on the floor. She sank wearily onto her knees.

“Come on, let’s lay down and sleep till he gets here. We can’t do anything else now.”

“Good idea, I’m tired.”

Tyra coiled up around her and was soon breathing evenly in sleep. It took Wilda a while longer because she couldn’t get her mind off Calder and what might be happening to him in the jail in Hays City.

****

Rowena’s Journal

Tuesday, June 8, 1875

This morning I could not believe the sight of Lord Prescott lying sprawled in his bedchambers, the odor of vomit sour in the room. I would never have entered except that his door stood open and I was concerned. He drinks to still the demons of war that haunt him, and I feared the worst. But I found that he had only passed out.

Several items of feminine clothing lay on the bed. I knew immediately that they belonged to my sister. My heart cried out in despair. What had she done? What had happened in here?

He stirred and moaned when I sat beside him to bathe his face in cool water. The rancid stench of whiskey and vomit was nearly unbearable, but I cleaned him as best I could. Daring to loosen the nightshirt, I washed his neck and upper chest. He would need a thorough bathing once he came around, but it was the best I could do. Simmons would see to him further.

Touching him thus started my heart to beating so loudly I was sure it would bring him to his senses, but he did not move. His long, dark lashes lay on his cheeks, and in repose his mouth was soft, kind.

“Why do you punish yourself so, Lord?” I whispered, compassion tearing at me.

Often when we talked, after he had imbibed of too much whiskey, he would speak of the horrors of war, of men dying in his arms, of their blood that he could not wash off.

Why men do such vile things, I will never know. They rant and rave and act as brave warriors, killing and being killed, while inside their hearts and souls slowly dry to wrinkled nubs. Oh, how I wish I could soothe his wounded spirit, show him the beauty of loving, of life. This will never occur until the day he manages to put my sister firmly from his mind. And the more she resists, the more he will insist.

Dear God, no, do not tell this man he cannot have a thing or he will die in the attempt to possess it, even though he may no longer want it at all.