Defiant (26 page)

“Since yesterday morning.”

“You say he's with Foster. He'll be all right.” He started to close the door. “Foster likes kids. I don't.”

“You don't understand,” Mary Jo said desperately. “Wade … Mr. Foster didn't take him. My son followed him. I think … Mr. Foster would have brought him back if Jeff had caught up with him. He knows how I feel about—”

Those damned pale blue eyes impaled her. “You an Indian hater, too?”

She squirmed under his gaze. She felt herself shrinking.
Indian hater
. It sounded ugly, put like that. “I just don't trust—”

“How in the devil did you ever get mixed up with Foster?”

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “Just my son. Please, I'll pay you anything. Just help me find Wade Foster.”

He hesitated.

“Are you afraid?”

“I've been trading with them Utes for fifty years,” he growled. “They ain't nothing to be afraid of. Now them damned pilgrims, they're something else again. Can't leave a man in peace. Takin' what ain't theirs to take.”

From the glower on his face, Mary Jo figured unhappily she qualified as a pilgrim. She suspected that any settler who came to these mountains did.

“Wade … Mr. Foster—”

“He fits into these mountains. “'Predates 'em for what they are. Doesn't try to dig 'em all up.”

For the first time, she detected a note of approval in his voice. Hope filled her. She tried again. “Please … he would want you to. He and Jeff are friends.”

“Hell, you ain't gonna give me any peace till I do,” he mumbled. “Planning to go up there, anyway. Got some goods to trade. But you better keep up with me, missy, or I'll leave you flat-out.”

“I will,” she promised, relief flooding her. Then she felt renewed impatience after clearing that hurdle. “How soon?”

He scowled at her. “When I get my trousers on. That all right with you, missy?”

She nodded.

“And I'll want a couple bottles of good whiskey in payment.”

“As many as you want,” she swore.

He didn't say anything but went back into the cabin, banging the door shut behind him, leaving Mary Jo outside, wondering again whether she was doing the right thing. Tom Berry looked as if he would cut a man's—or a woman's—throat as easily as look at him. There had been no warmth in his eyes, only irritation and dislike. And now Jeff's life depended on him.

Jeff couldn't lie to himself any longer. He was totally lost. So was old Seth. He realized it when they passed the same rotted log for the second time.

If he continued, he might just go farther from the trail, from where someone might find him. He looked up at the sky. Mid-afternoon from the position of the sun. He should get some sleep now, before night, when he needed to stay awake. He thought about his food. Enough for two more days if he ate sparingly and added berries to it. Water was no problem. It dripped from any number of rocks, and the horse could find enough grass to survive. He tried to remember everything his pa and Ty had told him about survival. The first was not to panic.

That, he thought, was easier said than done. Fear kept tugging at him. He found a small clearing and dismounted. He had watered Seth just an hour earlier at a small waterfall and pool, but he knew not to linger there. There had been too many animal tracks. Jeff unsaddled Seth and staked him out near a patch of grass, then gathered wood for a fire. After he had finished that, he spread out his blanket and ate the last of the remaining biscuits. He eyed some nearby mushrooms hungrily, but he was afraid to try them, not being sure which were poison and which weren't.

His stomach growled, and he took some swallows of water. His rifle was next to him, the horse several yards away, securely fastened. He was so tired. He shut his eyes and, despite his fear, felt sleep closing in on him.

16

Tom Berry was the quietest man Mary Jo had ever met. She'd thought Wade Foster was until that morning. Did the mountains do that to a man? Or was it the character of the men who chose to live in them?

Mary Jo followed the man silently. She was afraid too many questions might make him change his mind. They'd exchanged only a few words as Tom Berry saddled the mule. She'd watched with astonishment as the animal tried to bite him, and he twisted deftly out of range. He hit the mule on its side, and quickly tightened the buckle as the mule released air that had bloated its stomach.

The bearded man glanced up, and Mary Jo would have sworn she saw a twinkle for a moment before it disappeared in the flat blue of his eyes. “Don't like horses myself. Too dumb. Now Rachel here, she's right smart, smart enough to know she don't want no one on her back.”

“Rachel?” she said.

He gave her an irritated look. “Rachel's as good a name as Sam,” he said with as much explanation as he was apparently going to offer for giving a woman's name to an animal that was obviously not of the feminine gender.

That odd conversation was the last, and puzzling enough to keep her mind off Jeff for the first several miles, but Mary Jo soon discovered Rachel's appeal. They seemed to go straight up into the mountains, and Rachel never faltered on the steep trail, never blew hard, never slowed, while her own Fancy struggled for footholds, and was breathing hard. The trail was narrow and overgrown, seemingly leading to nowhere, and she questioned several times how wise she was to follow him. But after several hours, she had no choice. She had absolutely no idea where she was.

He called a halt only once before they stopped for the night, and that was to give the mare a few moments of rest. He did that begrudgingly, looking at both of them with disgust. “Want to make it by nightfall,” he growled. “Won't do it if we have to stop every few moments.”

Since this was the first stop in hours, Mary Jo wanted to protest, but she held her tongue. Instead, she ran her hand comfortingly down the mare's neck and poured some water from a canteen into her hat for Fancy to drink as she pushed back tendrils of her own hair.

She was filthy. It had been hot below, and sweat had trickled down her face, her back, and between her breasts. Now the air was cooling fast as they ascended into the mountains. The sweat had cooled, and grit clung uncomfortably to her body. She was stiff and hungry and afraid. Fear for Jeff wiped out any concern for herself. She only prayed that her son had somehow met up with Wade, that he was safe. He was still just a boy, no matter how much he thought otherwise.

They mounted again after the mare had rested and traveled until it was dark. He stopped again and dismounted. “We stay here tonight,” he said.

“But—”

“You've got grit, missy. I'll say that for you. But that damn horse of yours could break a leg on this trail at night. We'll leave again at daybreak.” He turned away from her, taking some food from a pouch and eating by himself, obviously expecting her to do the same.

“A fire?” she asked tentatively.

He shrugged. “If you want one. You'll have to stay up all night tending it.” The thought quickly killed any desire for one. Her mind was willing, but her body wasn't. Her eyes kept closing, and her arms and legs felt like dead tree limbs, ready to snap with the slightest breeze. She thought of Jeff. She prayed he wasn't alone out here.

She looked at Berry. He had already spread out his blanket. He was smoking a foul-smelling pipe.

She heard a coyote and flinched.

“Ain't within miles of here,” her companion said disdainfully.

“I'm not worried about me,” she said sharply. “But Jeff, he'll be frightened.”

He eyed her with indifference. “Not if he's your get, I'm thinking.”

It was approval, nothing else, and she felt a certain pride in it. She'd tried all her life to be useful, and after her husband had died, she had to be self-reliant. And then when they'd moved here, she was so sure she could handle everything. That it hadn't happened that way, that she needed Wade and now this man, shamed her. But with those few words, Tom Berry restored something important to her.

She didn't reply, just sort of savored the words, hoping with all her heart he was right. And then knowing she needed her strength, she snuggled down in the blankets she'd brought and closed her eyes.

It was around noon the next day when they reached a plateau. A rich green valley dotted with tepees spread out before her. Women and children gathered to look when they spied the visitors, and then men, their hair plaited into braids decorated by beaded bands, started to appear.

Mary Jo stifled her apprehension. It looked peaceful enough. The tepees were made of animal skins and richly ornamented with beads. Dogs barked in greeting, and Mary Jo saw the women's faces reflect curiosity and concern, even some fear, while the men's faces were stoic, as blank as Wade Foster's had been so many times. There was no war paint as she'd seen on Comanches, no angry scowls.

She sat straighter, her back stiff, as she looked for Wade's blue trousers and shirt. She looked for a redheaded boy with freckles spread over his nose. She saw neither. Then Tom Berry approached two of the men, bending over to speak to them quietly. One nodded, looked at Mary Jo curiously, then retreated back into the tepee from which he'd emerged.

In another minute, she saw Wade coming out of the tepee, his back bent as he stooped through the flap. He looked defiant in his deerskin clothes and beaded eagle necklace, and his feet were encased in leather moccasins that reached nearly to his knee. He appeared so savage and primitive that Mary Jo wondered whether she knew this man.

He walked over to her. “Mrs. Williams,” he said, eyeing her as warily as the others.

“Is Jeff with you?” she asked, refusing to waste time with preliminaries.

His brow wrinkled and his eyebrows knitted together. “Jeff? Why would he be here?”

Her heart sank. She had hoped against hope he would be here.

“He left a note three days ago. He said he was going with you. He left several hours after you did. He told me he was going to find Tuck and Ed. I didn't find out until they returned that night. He never came home.”

Wade's sun-bronzed face paled. “What did the note say?”

Mary Jo searched in a skirt pocket, retrieving the wrinkled piece of paper she'd read and reread so many times. She handed it to him silently and watched his face change as he skimmed it once, then read more carefully.
I'm going with Wade up into the mountains. He will need my help
.

“I never saw him,” Wade said hoarsely, pain in his voice. “If I had I would have brought him back to you.”

Mary Jo swallowed. “I know … I just hoped—I knew he would be safe with you.”

He held out his hand to her, helped her down, holding her just a moment longer than necessary. She felt herself trembling as her body leaned against his. She needed his strength.

“We'll find him,” he whispered, his voice sure again. “He must have followed the road, then taken a wrong trail.”

“We?”

“Manchez, his friends, they'll help search.”

Mary Jo backed away, searching his face.

“Don't worry,” he said. “They're all good trackers, great trackers.”

“But why should they—”

“Because,” he said gently, “they're my friends and they value children.” His eyes warned her not to object, not to insult the men standing around him.

They were not as tall as Wade, but their bodies were sturdy, compact, and their piercing obsidian eyes difficult—if not impossible—to read. They were foreign to her, and therefore frightening. Most were wearing dusty deerskin shirts and leggings; some wore bright plaid cotton shirts.

“I would be grateful,” she said, trying to ignore the lump of fear in her stomach, trying to be grateful to anyone who would help. Still, she didn't feel reassured by the idea of these warriors tracking her son.
They value children
. Comanches had valued her sister at one time, enough to risk their lives to kidnap her.

Wade's eyes narrowed slightly, and his hand left her. He turned to the man next to him. “Brother,” he said, and Mary Jo wondered whether that address was meant particularly for her ears. “How many can you send out?”

Mary Jo had also turned her gaze to the Indian. So this was Manchez, brother of Wade's wife. He reciprocated her perusal, his eyes unblinking. But not hostile. That surprised her.

“Ten and eight,” Manchez said. He put his hand out to Wade's arm, guiding him away from Mary Jo, lowering his voice and speaking in a language she didn't understand. She heard Wade answer in the same tongue. They spoke for several moments, then Wade turned back to her.

“Manchez saw the fear in your eyes. He wants to know if you trust him to hunt for your son.” His own voice was empty of emotion, forcing her to make a decision, forcing her to trust.

She swallowed her protest. Wade trusted them. She had to. She had no choice. She took a few steps to Manchez. “Please find my son,” she said.

He studied her face, then nodded. “You stay with my wife.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then saw Wade's mouth form the word “yes.”

“I want to go with you,” she said instead.

“We will all go separate ways and we will move fast. We cannot spare time for you.” Manchez's tone was adamant. “You stay.”

Wade caught her arm and guided her several feet away. “This is no longer their land,” he said abruptly. “They will be risking much to help you. Do as he says.”

“What about you?”

“You'd slow me down, too. You don't know these mountains. You'll be safe here. They think you're my woman.”

Her eyes opened wide with questions.

“I told them that because I knew they would be more willing to search. After being robbed of most of their land, all their best land, do you think they would risk what little they have to find a white child? If they run into some soldiers or liquored-up whites …”