Wyoming Bride (33 page)

Then his brother said, “I defended you, you know. When they said you were yellow, I denied it. I was there, Flint. I saw how hopeless our situation was, how the odds were stacked against us when General Sheridan counterattacked.

“But there were a lot of battles like Cedar Creek in the war, from beginning to end,” Ransom continued. “Why did you back away, run away, I should say, on that particular day, Major Creed? I’ve always wondered, but I’ve never asked.”

Flint’s belly was knotted with tension. He kept his hands easy on the reins, but inside, his blood ran cold. He’d never expected his own brother to confront him. How should he answer? What could he answer?

“We’d be dead now if I hadn’t,” he said at last.

“True. But it would have been an honorable death.”

“Are you saying you’re sorry to be alive?” Flint asked.

Ransom shrugged. “It wasn’t my call. I would have stayed if you’d ordered it. All of us would. We’d have followed you to hell, we had so much trust in you. When you said retreat, we thought the order had come to retreat.

“It was only later we learned the truth. That there had been no such order. So why did we run, Major Creed?”

It was ominous, Flint thought, that Ransom kept using his rank to address him. Ominous that his brother was asking now, nearly a decade after the war had ended.

“The war is done. Does it really matter?” Flint asked.

“It does to me. Because I see how you’re reacting to this threat from Patton by backing away, by not confronting him, by letting him get away with murdering a lot of innocent settlers.”

Flint had opened his mouth to comment, but Ransom kept talking. “We’re supposed to help our neighbors,” he said, “but we’ve stood aside and let Patton mow them down, one by one. All that’s left are the three big ranches—Holloway’s, Grayhawk’s, and ours—and the smaller ranches that border the three of us to the west and south. Patton has title, legal and by right of possession, to everything else.”

Flint understood his brother’s need to attack Patton. But he could see no way to do it without putting themselves in the wrong. It was another no-win situation, like the Battle of Cedar Creek.

General Jubal Early had addressed the ranks three days after that fateful battle in the Shenandoah Valley, near Strasburg, Virginia, to chastise them for their behavior during General Sheridan’s afternoon counterattack. Flint had never forgotten Early’s condemnation of the Army of the Valley. It was seared in his mind, especially because of the labels that had been attached to him in the aftermath.

General Early had accused officers like Flint, when they saw the ranks thinned by those who’d left it to “disgracefully” plunder the Union camps they’d vanquished that morning, of yielding to “needless” panic and fleeing the field in confusion.

Standing there listening to his commander, Flint had felt the humiliation of being spanked like a naughty child for something he hadn’t done—plundering—and the frustration of knowing he was guilty of retreating, but
not
of retreating in “needless” panic.

His men had made an orderly withdrawal, fighting all the way. The panic he’d felt at the time was not at all “needless.” Sheridan’s counterattack had been devastating, causing nearly three thousand casualties.

“We never panicked and ran, like the troops to our left and right flanks,” Flint told his brother. “We made an orderly retreat.”

“We were supposed to stay and fight.”

“You saw how thin the line was. It would have been suicide. I made sure we got out of there alive. That was the best I could do. Next time, you be the leader,” Flint said in a harsh voice.

“Fine.” A moment later, Ransom pulled his rifle from the boot and shot the injured steer in the head. He quickly dismounted, pulled a knife from a sheath at his belt, and cut into the hide surrounding the brand on the animal’s flank. He flayed the skin around the cut, freed the square from the rest of the hide, and held it up for Flint to see.

The CC brand was clearly revealed.

“I say we take this to the Association meeting this month, make our accusation, and let the chips fall where they may,” Ransom said.

“That’s not enough.”

“It’s plenty,” Ransom argued.

“It would be our word against his.”

“We can’t be the only ones losing stock. Patton’s cows would have to be bearing triplets for his herd to grow this big this fast. Surely there are other brands that don’t fit so conveniently under the OOX. I say the Association ought to take a ride through his herd and take a good close look.”

“You do that, and Patton’s going to come gunning for you.”

“He already has, and I’m still alive and kicking.”

“Barely,” Flint muttered.

“Are you with me or not?” Ransom demanded.

Flint sighed. Here was proof that one cow, at least, had seen a running iron. Then he had an idea. “I’m with you,” he said. “But I have a suggestion.”

“Fine, so long as it doesn’t mean we have to keep running from Patton.”

“There is someone who has the right to legally skin Patton’s cows.”

“Who’s that?”

“Colonel Simmons. I’d be willing to bet that a few of our cows have ended up in the fort’s monthly beef supply. I say we have the colonel take a look at some of those skins when the beef is slaughtered.”

“Surely Patton wouldn’t be stupid enough to send our beef to the fort,” Ransom said.

“He gets paid by the pound, and our cows are a lot fatter than his. He’s greedy enough to try and arrogant enough to think he can get away with it.”

Ransom grinned. “You may be right.”

“I’ll send a letter to the colonel, along with this hide, and he can start investigating with Patton being none the wiser.”

“Maybe he’ll rescind the contract with Patton, and we’ll have another crack at it,” Ransom said.

“That would be nice,” Flint said. “We might as well butcher that cow and take home the meat, seeing as how she’s ours.”

As the two men worked together cutting up the beef into portions they could carry in tarps tied to the back of their saddles, Ransom said, “I see Hannah is speaking to you again.”

Flint grimaced. “You noticed that?” To deflect the need for further explanation he said, “How are things going with you and Emaline?”

“Better,” Ransom said. “She’s still convinced she’s going to die in childbirth, but she’s ready to make the great sacrifice.”

Flint stared at his brother. “Holy shit.”

“No shit,” Ransom replied. “I’m doing my best to convince her life doesn’t end with childbirth.”

“Maybe when Hannah gives birth she’ll see it’s not as bad as she thinks.”

“You sound pretty sure Hannah isn’t going to have any trouble,” Ransom said.

“Her mother bore six children. And you’ve seen Hannah’s hips. They’re the right shape for bearing kids.”

“Yeah,” Ransom said glumly. “Emaline’s a lot smaller and a lot narrower through the hips.”

“At least Emaline’s willing to try,” Flint said. “You have to be glad for that.”

“I am,” Ransom agreed. “But I feel like I’m taking fate in my hands every time I make love to my wife.”

“You could stop making love to her,” Flint pointed out.

“I love her, Flint. I want her constantly. I restrain myself as long as I can, but I’m not a monk. And she’s … responsive,” he said.

It should have been an extraordinarily uncomfortable conversation. After all, Ransom was discussing making love to the woman Flint supposedly loved. The strange thing was, Flint realized he wasn’t feeling envious of his brother. Or jealous.

Only last night Hannah had accused him of loving Emaline, and he hadn’t denied it. At the same time, he’d told her that he’d never had carnal thoughts about Emaline. Which didn’t make sense. What man didn’t desire the woman he loved?

He remembered telling Ransom that he’d take Emaline even if she didn’t want children, when he desperately wanted children of his own. What kind of love was that?

It was hard for Flint to admit that he’d been acting like an ass, but when he looked at the cold, hard facts, the truth was right there staring him in the face. When Emaline had chosen Ransom so soon after he’d met her, he’d put her on a pedestal, like some untouchable goddess. He’d coveted and desired the beautiful goddess—but not the flesh-and-blood woman.

Flint felt thunderstruck. He wasn’t in love with Emaline. He wasn’t in lust with her. She was simply his sister-in-law, who might die in childbirth and leave his brother heartbroken.

When had the change occurred? When had he stopped dreaming about Emaline and started wanting and wishing for Hannah instead?

Flint realized the change had begun when Hannah started avoiding him. He’d realized that he wanted her to notice him. That he wanted her to want him. That he wanted her to love him.

Did that mean that he loved her? Flint examined the idea and realized he might. He just might. And when had
that
happened?

He couldn’t wait to get home. He wanted to talk with his wife. He wanted to watch her eyes when she spoke to him, to see if her feelings could be found there. He’d already asked her if she loved him, and she’d said … What had she said?

Even if I did, I wouldn’t be fool enough to admit it
. So did she love him? Or didn’t she?

Then he remembered how their conversation had started. She’d accused him of being in love with Emaline. And he hadn’t denied it. Would she believe him a day later if he told her his feelings had changed? Probably not.

So what should he do?

Flint knew the answer even before he asked himself the question. Hannah had made her assumption based on how he’d been looking at Emaline. Well, he would simply have to start looking at Hannah that way instead. Would that be enough?

He had two months before McMurtry’s kid arrived and took up a great deal of her time and attention. It might behoove him to start right now convincing Hannah his feelings for her had changed.

Hannah had been looking forward to Thanksgiving Day because it was the first time since the Great Chicago Fire that she would celebrate the holiday by eating turkey. Flint and Ransom had gone hunting and brought home a large tom. Both Emaline and her aunt Betsy had helped Hannah pluck it and stuff it and cook it. Emaline’s father had come to the ranch as well, to help eat it.

Besides turkey and stuffing, the table was filled with more food than the six of them could possibly eat. Which was what a Thanksgiving table should look like, Hannah thought with a smile, as she perused the stuffed turkey, honey-laden sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, pickled green beans, corn relish, deviled eggs, biscuits with blackberry jam, and pumpkin pie.

Hannah had made the soda biscuits herself. She’d found the instructions in a Confederate Receipt Book, a thin manual she’d discovered in one of Flint’s cupboards, which also contained directions for how to make candles and soap, which had been a blessing.

In addition, she’d found remedies for common ailments such as dysentery (table salt in vinegar, corked in a bottle after the foam is discharged, then a spoonful in a gill of boiling water), chills (hoarhound boiled in water and served in tea), croup (cold water applied to the neck and chest with a sponge or towel), and sore throat, scarlet fever, or diphtheria (a cup of fresh milk, two teaspoonfuls of pulverized charcoal, and ten drops of spirits of turpentine, gargled frequently).

Hannah was grateful her mother had insisted that she learn to read and write proficiently, so she could make use of all that information. She’d already memorized many of the culinary receipts, including the one for soda biscuits: one quart of sour milk, one teaspoonful of soda, one of salt, a hunk of butter the size of an egg, and flour enough to make them roll out. Her biscuits were perfect, if she did say so herself.

“Will you say grace, Colonel?” Flint said.

Flint sat at the head of the table, the colonel to his right, Hannah to his left. Ransom sat at the opposite end of the table with Aunt Betsy to his right and Emaline to his left.

“Shall we hold hands, Father?” Emaline said as she reached for her father’s hand.

“Yes, child.”

Hannah was taken back to her childhood, when her father had said grace at Thanksgiving and the six Wentworth children had held hands around the table. “We should each say something we’re thankful for,” she said. That had been the custom in her family.

She saw a flicker of approval in the colonel’s eyes before he said, “Grace first, I think.” He bowed his had and said, “Dear Lord, make us truly thankful for the blessings of family and friends on this beautiful Thanksgiving Day.”

Everyone joined in to say, “Amen.”

The colonel released the hands he was holding, turned to Emaline and said, “You go first, my dear.”

Emaline blushed, then said to Ransom, “I’m thankful because I expect to give you a son or daughter in nine months.”

“Em! Are you sure?”

“As sure as a woman can be,” she said, blushing at the need to acknowledge in front of everyone that she’d missed her courses.

Ransom jumped out of his chair and pulled Emaline into his arms and gave her a crushing hug, then released her and laughed as he looked down at her flat belly. “I’m going to squash you both, I’m so happy!”