Prairie Song (12 page)

“Be ready to ride in an hour.” Grayson walked over and picked up his hat. “You’ll have no use for anything but necessities. Where we’re going won’t be easy.”

“Nothing in my life to this point has ever been easy,” she answered. Again he fought the need to hold her.

An hour later Grayson returned with horses and two uniformed men. He stationed the two soldiers at the front door with orders to shoot any man who tried to enter the house.

Margaret appeared wearing riding pants and a white cotton shirt. She looked very young with her hair in a long ebony braid to her waist. Grayson had always admired her lean figure, but to his shock he found her even more alluring in pants. As he lifted her into the saddle, he allowed his hand to rest on her leg a moment longer than necessary.

When she didn’t pull away or cut him to the quick with her sharp tongue, he knew the answer to a question that had haunted him since their fight. She wanted him just as deeply as he wanted her.

He turned away, wishing he could think of the right words to win her, but words had never flowed easily and now they were dammed up inside of him. She wasn’t some saloon girl to grab and show her what he wanted; she was a lady who had to be talked to, and Grayson hoped that there would be time later.

Brant Coulter shifted his rifle on his arm and leaned back against the gully wall. The night was as black as the inside of a Franklin stove. Dark, rumbling clouds formed a ceiling so low he felt like he could have touched them if he’d tried. Normally, he’d never have built a fire, but when he’d lifted her down from her horse, Cherish was soaked to the bone from a mixture of the hard ride and the humidity. She’d catch pneumonia before he could get her home safely if he wasn’t careful. The gully offered the only protection from both the wind and the searching eyes of anyone who might be following them. Its walls hid the fire, and hopefully the gray of the smoke would mix with the low clouds.

Watching her as she slept, Brant wondered what kind of woman continually risked everything for others without ever thinking of herself. Even in the long hours they’d ridden, the only worry she’d voiced was to hope that the others had made it safely away. She was so loving, yet a part of her always seemed out of reach. Sometimes when she looked at him he could see the loneliness in her eyes. She reminded him of a sister in the mission where he’d stayed as a boy. The nun was always caring for others, but in the end she died alone without anyone at her side.

There was something so impoverished about Cherish. Protecting her was as natural to him as breathing, as if somewhere, before they’d been born, the angels had assigned him this one task in life. But this time the angels had messed up, for all the trouble she was in now was his fault.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but he couldn’t lie to himself or to her. Trouble had followed him for as long as he could remember. Even as a boy, he’d broken the law to survive. But this time he hadn’t meant to get someone like her involved. Curling beside her on the bedroll, he realized that finding her was the one thing that ever happened in his life that he didn’t feel was wrong. He laid his arm protectively over her shoulder and fell asleep for the first time in over forty-eight hours. A feeling of being home filled his senses as he held her tightly against his heart.

In his dreams waited his only peace: no war, no Union prison, no hatred. As the hours passed, Brant dreamed of all that might have been if not for the war taking his youthful years and leaving him hollow inside. He’d lived outside the law most of his life, but when he’d tried to fight for Texas, it had been a Union prison that taught him the horror of jail. It didn’t matter what he’d done or hadn’t done: he swore that he’d never spend another day in a dark cell.

A steady rain fell, but he slept on, wrapped in hope, for he no longer believed in reality.

Slowly, he was pulled from sleep by thunder that sounded like it came from within the earth. The ground rumbled as if a thousand horses were coming toward him. Lightning flashed, making a moment of day in the blackness. Brant jerked suddenly, realizing she was no longer in his arms.

“Run!” Cherish screamed as she pulled at his arm. “Run!”

Brant shook his head to clear it. He grabbed his rifle and they ran up the gully embankment only seconds before a wall of water crashed down upon their campfire. Where dry land once had been, now a fast-moving river flowed.

Pulling Cherish close, Brant watched the water rush past. Her arm went around him as she shook with fear. The rain was cool on his face, unlike her body, which was so warm against his. Instinctively, he drew her to him.

He hadn’t planned to kiss her. She was in enough trouble without having to fight off his advances, but suddenly there was no thought, no need within him, except to feel her in his arms.

Her lips were warm and sweet and tasted of fresh rainwater. His kiss was long and tender, and desire built with each moment of pleasure. To his shock, she didn’t pull away, but ran her hands inside his coat and spread her fingers over his wet shirt. When he would have ended the kiss, she held tight and drew him to her as if she needed more.

The realization that he might have to protect her from himself shook Brant worse than if the flash flood had hit him full force.

“Cherish,” he whispered into her wet hair when finally he pulled his lips from her, “I can’t be doing this.” He’d promised himself he’d not touch her again and face the withdrawal she’d shown him before. “We have to get out of this rain.”

She nodded, kissing the corners of his lips lightly before pulling away, as if she’d allowed herself all the emotions she could at one time. He took her hand and they began running toward higher ground.

After several minutes, exhausted and covered with mud, Brant saw the flicker of a campfire among the shallow caves of a low ridge. In this country it was a sure bet that the open fire would not be a friendly one, but, faced with catching pneumonia, he had to give it a try. The rain was flowing in a steady sheet now, with no sign of easing. He knew he’d never find the horses, so his only hope shone above them in the dancing flames.

Finally, breathless and freezing, Cherish and Brant stepped from the curtain of rain beneath the protective ledge of a cliff. They blinked at the firelight for a moment before they saw the figures huddled around it.

Women. Indian women and children, all staring wide-eyed at the ghosts who appeared from nowhere. Brant could taste their fear, as thick as the rain in the air. No one moved to show how they felt. He lowered his rifle and held his hands away from his body, showing them that he meant them no harm.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw that they weren’t looking at him at all. They seemed only to see Cherish. She’d pulled her long, blond hair from her coat and was moving slowly toward the fire. All the dark eyes of the Indian women were on her as they held their children close.

Cherish warmed her hands and whispered, “What’s the matter with them?”

Brant studied them carefully. “I think they’re not sure if you’re real or a spirit.”

“Can you tell them that I mean them no harm?”

Brant moved closer to the fire. The women didn’t take their stares off Cherish. He looked at the rich blues and reds of the clothes and blankets. “They’re Apache,” he whispered. “Something is wrong. Apache men don’t leave their women unarmed in caves. Even an Apache woman would fight to protect her children, but I see no weapons.”

Cherish could sense something was wrong even before Brant pointed out the lack of weapons. She counted six women, each with one or two children huddled in blankets around her. The youngest woman, maybe fourteen, held a tiny baby wrapped in her arms. She watched Cherish with huge eyes filled with sorrow and fear.

“Move very slowly,” Brant whispered as he pulled off his coat and spread it on a rock to dry.

The heat from the fire made the shallow cave feel as warm as a summer night. Cherish stripped off as many layers of clothing as she dared, then sat by the fire as though she’d been invited.

After an endless silence, one of the babies began to cry and a woman lifted the child in her arms. When she pulled its face to her breast, Cherish saw the child beneath the blankets.

“Brant.” She moved closer to the nursing child. The woman didn’t protest as Cherish pulled the blankets from the baby’s face. “This child has just had measles.”

Brant knelt beside Cherish. “That explains why these women are here alone. They’ve been isolated from the tribe.”

Cherish touched the woman’s shoulder and smiled as she nodded toward the baby. “What can we do to help?” she asked him without looking away from the woman.

“We can get the hell out of here the minute the rain stops.” Her endless need to help people was starting to get on his nerves. “You can bet someone is bringing them food and firewood. These are Apache. They’ll cut out your liver and feed it to their dogs. Didn’t you hear about the raid last week?”

“They are mothers whose children are ill.”

Brant stood and faced the rain. “Will you stop trying to save the world and start thinking about your own neck for once?”

Cherish wasn’t listening to him. She was moving from one mother to the other, her eyes asking permission to look at each child. Hesitantly the mothers unwrapped their children and Cherish smiled and nodded. “Some still have a little fever, but as long as they’re kept dry and warm they should be fine.”

Brant paced in the cave opening. “Which is more than I can say for us if the tribe comes back.” He watched the water, willing it to stop, but the rain took no more notice of his problem than Cherish did.

When she moved to the youngest mother, the woman didn’t want to show her the child cradled in her arms. She held the baby tightly against her chest and shook her head. Cherish gently touched the blanket, then fought to keep from making any sound that might show her horror. She stood and joined Brant by the door.

“Brant,” she whispered, “the child of the young mother is already cold and stiff.”

The mother might not have understood the words Cherish said, but she pulled the baby close and rocked it softly in her arms.

Tears welled in Cherish’s eyes. “I wish I could help her.”

Brant watched Cherish and thought he’d never wanted to hold anyone as much in his life as he wanted to hold her now, but he didn’t want to be another one of her charity cases. Even her passion seemed doled out in spoonfuls.

Finally he touched her shoulder and said, “Apache, for all their blood lust, have a fear of death. I’ve heard that they sometimes burn all the belongings of the deceased and refuse to touch anything of his.”

Cherish moved silently to the young mother. She held out her arms for the child. All the other women pulled their children and blankets tight around them.

The mother of the dead child stared up at Cherish for a long moment, then slowly lifted her baby’s body.

Cherish took the child and moved close to the fire. With great dignity she unwrapped the baby and bathed its already darkened body. Then she ripped a long strip of cloth from her underskirt and wrapped the infant.

Every woman watched as the strange woman dressed the child for his last journey. Brant at first didn’t understand what Cherish was doing, then finally he whispered, “White, the color of the clouds. You pay the baby honor.”

Cherish folded the blankets. “If only I had yellow for the sun.”

Brant slowly pulled his knife from his boot. He lifted a lock of her golden hair and raised his eyebrow in question. When Cherish nodded, he cut the curl free.

Cherish made a circle with her hair on the baby’s chest, then folded the final blanket over him. When she looked up at the young mother, she didn’t miss the pride in the woman’s face. Cherish’s father had told her how important color was to these people: black for night, brown for earth, yellow for warmth. Now the child was in white, forever in light, and the sun would warm him always.

Raising her head, Cherish smiled at Brant. He returned her smile with a nod. She handed the baby back to its mother, and looked back to Brant just before a round weapon materialized from the sheets of rain and struck him against the back of his head.

She screamed in horror, watching him crumble like a boneless body. Two Apache warriors stepped on either side of him, filling the opening to the cave with their dark bodies striped in red and black paint: red, the color of blood. The color of violent death.

Cherish watched as the two Indians dragged Brant across the floor of the cave and strapped him to a rock. One pulled his shirt open while the other forced his head back to make sure Brant was unconscious. Then, to her horror, they walked to the cave opening and drew arrows from a leather case.

She had no intention of watching while they used his body for target practice. They were young and this would probably be their first kill. While they shouted and shoved one another for the first shot, she ran to stand in front of Brant.

As she faced the two young braves they looked at her in surprise, as if she was more of an irritation than a barrier. They talked as if debating which one would shoot her to get her out of their game. The taller of the two raised his bow, strung the arrow, and pointed it directly at her heart.

Cherish closed her eyes and waited for the arrow to pierce her. Silently, life pounded in her ears, screaming to continue, but she didn’t move. The blow didn’t come. She took a deep breath and braced herself once more. But still the expected blow didn’t come. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and to her shock, the young Indian mother was standing between her and the two braves.

Cherish couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the girl kept pointing to the dead baby. The braves looked like two children cheated out of their fun. With a sudden order, the men moved back into the rain. Silently, the woman followed.

Cherish wanted to stop them, but she knew they thought it was time to get back to the tribe and they couldn’t understand anything she would say to them. The young woman picked up her dead baby and carried it proudly before her. Cherish had a feeling that she’d tell her grandchildren someday about the way her baby had been honored in death. As she passed Cherish, she removed a blanket from her shoulder and handed it to Cherish. Then, in a moment’s passing, they were gone as if they’d been smoke and not real.

Rushing to Brant, Cherish cut him loose. A huge knot protruded from his head and blood oozed from a small cut. Cherish cleaned the wound as best as she could, then wrapped the blanket around them both. She held tightly, allowing the sound of the rain to finally calm her into sleep.

“Thank God I’ve found you!” A voice entered Cherish’s dreams. She felt Brant move beside her, but for a moment she didn’t want to open her eyes and leave sleep’s warmth.

“Hank?” Brant rubbed his hair and felt the knot on one side of his head. He looked at Cherish for an answer, but she only yawned.

Hank was stamping out their fire. “I followed the smoke in from the east. I remembered you saying you were heading north. I had to try and warn you not to go any farther or you’d run into Apache. If the rain hadn’t slowed you down, I’d have never caught you.” He looked at the blanket they were sleeping under and raised an eyebrow. When neither of them volunteered an explanation, he continued, “I’ve got a plan that should keep Cherish safe.”

Brant stood and straightened his clothes. He glanced at Cherish. She either had some answers he needed, or he’d had one hell of a dream. But maybe it would be best to wait until they were out of Hank’s hearing. The man had a way of telling everything he heard to anyone who would listen. “What’s your plan?” Brant asked.

“I came from town yesterday and I found out that the army’s got men stationed on the front porch of Hattie’s Parlor. Talk is, they’re protecting it from some gambler who’s making a claim on the place. The army is just there to see no one comes in or out until the court can settle things. I figure we can sneak her in and she can hide out right there in the house. Then we don’t have to wait for her to be shot somewhere out in open country.”

Brant shook his head. “Too many people know about the way into Hattie’s.”

But Hank was sure about this. “No. I’ve been thinking. We could board up the passage from the inside, so we could get out if needed, but no one could ever get in. The passage hasn’t been used by the Knights since before the war and these new hooded warriors ain’t bright enough to figure the passage out. There’s probably not a handful of men in the country who even remember it.”

“What gambler? What passage?” Cherish felt like her head was full of cotton and she couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

Brant picked up his rifle. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He walked into the sunny morning and saw their horses tied to Hank’s saddle. “While we ride I’d like to have a little talk with you about last night.”

Cherish pulled her hair up under her hat. “Oh, nothing much happened. I just saved your life again.”

Brant laughed. “I thought I told you my life’s not worth your time.”

Cherish glanced to make sure Hank was out of earshot. “Your life is worth a great deal to me. If you had been dead, you’d have been no warmth beneath the blanket.”

Brant’s handsome face twisted with new pain. “The thought that I slept beside you all night without touching you pains me more than this damn headache.”

Cherish loved having the upper hand with him. She folded the Indian blanket and ran her fingers slowly along the bright colors. “Too bad I couldn’t say the same, Mr. Coulter.”

It took Brant a moment to understand what she’d implied. By the time he reached for her, she was already out of the shelter of the cave and heading toward the horses.

As he lifted her onto her horse, he whispered, “Tonight.”

There was a challenge in his rusty depths that made her heart pound even harder. “Perhaps … if you can stay conscious.”

Hank yelled for them to ride and there was no more time for conversation. As they covered the miles, Cherish pieced together her feelings for Brant. There was a rough exterior about him that frightened her, but inside she felt a bond with him as if their souls were linked. He was the first man who had had the power to shake her from her observer’s post of watching life, and she wanted to take a few steps into this new emotional world while she had the chance.

As they traveled, Brant told her of growing up in the streets of Fort Worth. He talked of how he and Daniel, who was two years older, had become friends. His folks had been killed by Indians and Daniel’s by an angry slave who worked their farm. He’d planned to kill the whole family, but Daniel’s parents had hidden him in the food cellar. Daniel had huddled in the total blackness, frightened, listening to his parents scream as they suffered a violent death.

Hattie’s Parlor was a big gambling place back then and she paid the boys to run errands, so Brant and Daniel had met and become friends. When the war came, Brant was seventeen and in a hurry to fight. Daniel wanted no part of it, so he joined the church.

Cherish listened quietly, wanting to ask a hundred questions. One kept turning over and over in her mind but he never mentioned the scars on both their wrists. When he talked of the young Daniel, he did so with a softness in his voice that wasn’t there when he mentioned Father Daniel.

Just past nightfall, they were on the outskirts of Fort Worth. They circled the back of Hattie’s barn and went around to the dark side where Brant had once kissed her. There, to her amazement, beneath a layer of dirt, was a trapdoor.

Hank held the door. “I’ll stay here and keep watch. You get Cherish to her room safely. When you return, we’ve got a meeting to go to.”

Brant took one step into the passageway and looked back at Hank. “Problem?”

Hank nodded but said no more. Brant took Cherish’s hand and led her into the total darkness.

The air was cool and damp against her skin. She could smell the earth around her, but the passage was tall enough for her to walk through.

Brant talked softly as though to calm her fears. “Hattie says her English mother would have called this a ‘priest hole.’ Back a long time ago, when priests were often being hunted in Europe, they built all the abbeys with secret ways to get out.”

“Why did Hattie build this?” Cherish drew closer to him as they continued through the blackness.

“When she first constructed the place she had a few gentlemen friends who came to call and didn’t want anyone knowing that they had visited her. When the Knights met here before the war, a few of them might have known about this passage, but most came through the front door of Hattie’s. Back then they were proud to be members of the group. Talk was, even old Rip Ford, who had been head of the Texas Rangers, was one of the organizers.”

Cherish had heard of “Rest In Peace” Ford all her life. He’d been everything from a senator to a newspaper editor. If he’d been involved, this group of Knights must have been a powerful organization.

Brant pulled her on through the darkness. “As far as I know, only Daniel, Hank, and me know about it now. And Barfield, of course. I showed it to him the other night when I left. Hattie locked the inside door years ago and told everyone to keep out.”

“How much farther?” Cherish tried to keep the fear out of her voice but the tunnel was closing in around her and she could feel thin lines of spider webs brushing her face. She moved closer to Brant.

“We’re almost there.” Brant slowed and pulled her even with him in the slender tunnel. “But before we go into the house I’ve got a few questions about last night.”

Cherish laughed, loving the way she’d teased him. They were close, brushing one another in the darkness, but he didn’t touch her. She could feel his breath against her hair and smell the blending of leather and danger that always followed him.

“What happened last night?” His voice was hard, demanding information.

Cherish raised her hands to his chest and spread her fingers out over his shirt. “You don’t remember?”

She heard his sudden intake of breath as she boldly pushed his jacket aside and leaned her cheek against his heart. Laughter and excitement bubbled inside her, but she kept her voice low. “I know you told me to stay away from you, but last night you voiced no objection …”

“Cherish, what happened?” His voice was tight, coming from between clenched teeth. “I told you once to stop playing games with me.”

“I’m not playing a game.” She moved her lips to touch his throat as she talked. “I loved being in your arms last night.”

His body was as hard as stone. He knew the kiss in the rain had been a mistake. She was so soft, so tiny, so fragile. His love would crush her and destroy them both. She belonged with a gentle man who ran a mercantile and came home every night at six, not an outlaw whose days were numbered.

“I want you to hold me like you did in your sleep last night,” she whispered against his throat. “I want to know that what I feel for you is returned.”

Her hands moved into his hair as her body leaned into his. “Please hold me, Brant.”

Like an oak in a violent storm, he snapped from the blow of her pleading. His arms went round her and crushed her against him as his lips found hers. For a moment his kiss was hard and fierce with need. She molded against him willingly, melting into his very soul.

Slowly, his kiss softened. He loosened his hold on her. She responded by brushing his hair with her fingers. Her hands moved hesitantly to feel the hard wall of his chest and trace the lines of his shoulders.

As the kiss continued, he realized that this was what she wanted and needed: not the wild passion of sexual arousal, but a gentle loving. He forced himself to relax and touch her softly, lightly. His kisses turned tender. His mind was whirling like a dust devil. The few times he’d had sex, it had always been wild and almost brutal, with a whore who earned her money in numbers. But with Cherish the world had shifted and changed and, to his surprise, he found the slow loving far more satisfying. If he didn’t slow down, he’d frighten her as he had a few nights ago beside the barn.

He loved the feel of her warm, soft body against his. He loved the way her small hands touched him, like he was a treasure she’d found and had to explore. And most of all he loved the way she made him feel inside, as if he were worth a great deal to her, more than anyone else in the world. She wasn’t a woman of the streets turning tricks for money. She was a priceless angel. He secretly wondered if she would ever need him as much as he needed her.

Cherish broke the kiss and cuddled into his arms. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Brant kissed the top of her head. “For what?”

“For holding me,” she added. “There is no gentler place than your arms.”

Brant laughed, for he doubted anyone in the world would agree with her. But, because she thought it, it somehow became true. He found himself moving his hand over her shoulder and holding her securely in his embrace.

“I’m afraid sometimes,” she whispered. “Afraid that there is no part of me left. During the war I hurt so badly for the wounded that I finally had no feeling remaining. But with you it’s as though you found the tiny little feeling left in me and pulled it forward.”

“You care about everyone. I was just one of the hundred you fought to save.” Brant didn’t want to admit it, but he’d seen her put everyone ahead of herself.

“No!” Cherish rubbed her head against his chin. “I need to help people but I
feel
a need for you.”

Brant wasn’t sure what she was asking. “What do you want of me, Cherish?”

“This is a good start.”

“And if I touch you again, will you pull away?”

“Maybe,” she answered. “And if I ask to be held again, will you hold me?”