Deborah Camp

B
lade Lonewolf stared at the inscription on the slab of granite set beneath a pin oak tree. A new, white picket fence surrounded the grave site. He looked across the land to the log-hewn house he had shared with Julia. Since his wife’s death, he’d found no comfort there and had constructed a skin lodge next to it where he spent his nights. Someday he would have to deal with cleaning out that house and getting rid of all the little things that made him think of his life with Julia, but not now. Not today.

Moving away from the burial site, he went to the water trough where the mules had drunk their fill and methodically hitched them to the wagon. As he checked the harnesses, he caught sight of his reflection in the murky water. A savage looked back at him.

He stared at his image in amazement, noting the
fierce light in his eyes and the stern set of his mouth and jaw.

Straightening from his watery inspection, he ran a hand down his sweat-stained leather shirt. He couldn’t go into town looking like a wild Indian. He’d send the townsfolk running for cover like scared chickens!

Grabbing his black braid of hair in one hand and his hunting knife in the other, he started sawing. He grimaced at the tug on his scalp, but continued the task until he’d shorn off his Indian braid. He scoffed at his efforts. Why, he could no more become a city gentleman than he could soar with the eagles!

Whiskers darkened the lower half of his face, a curse from his white forebears, and he used the knife to scrape them off, nicking his skin once or twice before he was done. He dabbed at the blood with his handkerchief and washed thoroughly with soap and cold water, eyeing the log cabin as an animal might eye a cage. Squaring his shoulders, he headed for it with all the enthusiasm of a pig to slaughter.

Entering the dark house, he strode to the bedroom to change his clothes. He focused only on the task, careful not to look at the room, the furniture; trying not to smell the mint and clove that Julia had sprinkled around the room. Underneath those pleasant scents he could smell death. Julia had died in that bed, ending a time in his life that had not lived up to his expectations.

A sense of failure lay heavy in his heart as he traded his leather pants and shirt for black trousers and the dark blue shirt Julia had made for him to wear when he went to her church. When he emerged from the house, he saw he had a visitor.
The short, wiry woman rubbed her eyes vigorously, as if not believing what stood before her.

“Hail to you, Apache,” Airy Peppers said, swinging a leg over her little brown donkey and dropping to the ground. She wore a calico blouse and a split skirt, the hem of which brushed the tops of her dirt-caked boots. Her merry blue eyes widened and she tipped back her sunbonnet to openly appraise him. “You ain’t half bad to look at with your face shaved and washed. Hey, I ain’t seen them clothes in a long spell.”

“I don’t want to scare her off once she sees me,” Blade explained. “Thought I ought to look as civilized as possible.”

Airy propped her hands on her bony hips. “Civilized, huh? You could dress a tiger in a suit, but he could still take a bite of you.” She laughed. “You smile when you meet her, and you’ll win her over. Just like you won over Julia Lincoln.”

“Is that what won her over?” He scratched at his freshly shaved chin. “I’ve been wondering.”

“That, and that purty face of your’n.” She displayed a toothy grin. “ ’Course, it helps that you’re built like a lumberjack.”

He ran a hand down his face to hide his grin, then waved a hand at her, dismissing her lofty praise. Airy gripped his sleeve.

“You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to. That little gal will find another home somewhere if you decide she ain’t right for you.”

“I promised Julia.”

“But Julia ain’t here no more, Blade. You’ve been living in that tepee, doing what you want when you want, keeping your own company. You sure
you won’t mind someone here underfoot? It ain’t like having a new pup, you know.”

“I know.” He glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late. I’ve got to go.” He strode purposefully toward the wagon with Airy right beside him. “It will be good to have company again. It’s been too quiet around here lately. Besides, I made a promise to Julia, and I mean to keep it.”

“You ain’t thought this through. I was talking to Cousin Dixie yesterday, and she said you told her you ain’t set foot in that house since Julia died. That true?”

“You saw me come out of it just now, didn’t you?”

“Hey, Apache, you expect that little gal to live in that tepee lodge with you?”

“She will sleep in the house.”

“And you? Where you going to sleep?”

“I have to go now.” Vexed by her questions, he climbed into the wagon and guided the mules toward town. “Don’t worry, nosy woman. I’ll make a home for her just like I did for Julia.” He clucked the mules into a fast walk, escaping Airy’s worried frown but not his own nagging doubts.

If only Julia had lived … if only he could have made her happy … if only they could have made children together … then he wouldn’t be riding into town to claim a stranger as his own.

She noticed him right off.

He was hard to miss, being so tall and imposing and standing apart from the others on the platform. His ebony hair, blunt-cut as if by a knife, lay against his shirt collar, and his civilized clothes did little to temper his Indian features. An Indian! She’d never actually seen one in person!

Everything about him was large and imposing—his hands, his shoulders, his very presence. He held his hat in his hands, restlessly walking his fingers around the brim, as he scanned the area with dark, probing eyes. He had heavy brows and his skin was faintly lined by long hours in the sun. He put his hat back on, rocking it into a comfortable position, then propped his hands on his lean hips. People near him moved away, giving him plenty of room.

The shrill train whistle sent a jolt through her, and Elise St. John tore her attention from the savage beauty of his face to examine the other people milling around the train station. She wondered which ones would shape her future. Above their heads, a sign swung from rusty chains:
CROSSROADS, MISSOURI
.

How fitting, Elise thought, for she and her siblings were at a crossroads. This was their new home, a home far different from the one they’d known in Baltimore, Maryland. She gathered in a deep breath and smelled no hint of the sea, only horseflesh and manure.

Crossroads seemed to be stuck in the mid-1800s instead of keeping pace in 1888. No streetlights or streetcars or street vendors. Even the fashions were dated. She spied no bows or skirt draperies, no vibrant colors, no rich fabrics. Even the ladies’ hats were tragically plain.

Elise touched her own burgundy-and-black velvet creation, feeling out of place in this collection of drab sunbonnets and straw hats. Her fingertips brushed against the lacy bodice of her garnet dress as she examined the simple shirtwaists worn by the other women. For the first time since she’d sold her fancier gowns to pay for her train ticket, she was
glad. Obviously, she’d need no finery here.

The gowns were gone, but she still had memories of the elaborate balls and soirees attended by Baltimore’s most dashing bachelors. Last season she’d received no less than a dozen marriage proposals—all of which had been retracted after her parents’ death and the dissolution of her ties with the wealthy Wellby family.

Elise fought off the self-pity that threatened to overtake her. Let them wallow in their fortune, she thought, referring to her mother’s side of the family. All their wealth would bring her grandparents no happiness in this life or in the one after.

Two cars down, the escorts from the Children’s Rescue Society stepped off the train, both looking officious as they faced the anxious onlookers. Elise moved instinctively into the shadows. She’d been told not to follow her brother and sister to their new homes, and she was afraid the escorts would make trouble for her should she be found out. Keeping a low profile, she’d remained in the regular passenger cars, away from the ones used by the orphans.

“I am Mr. Charles from the Children’s Rescue Society,” the little, bespeckled man announced in a high-pitched voice. He pulled at his stringy mustache and cleared his throat. “Those who are here for children, please come forward and have your paperwork ready to present. Parents only! The rest of you stand back.”

Mr. Charles weighed no more than one hundred pounds, but his bossy, squinty-eyed manner caused the townspeople to hurry to obey. Six people shuffled forward, while the others retreated.

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