Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Frontier Courtship

Frontier Courtship
Valerie Hansen


Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesShe had made a solemn promise to see her younger sister to safety in California.But the endless journey across the frontier was proving a heartbreaking test of courage and endurance for Faith Beal. All she had to sustain her was her steadfast belief in a loving God–and the guiding hand of a stranger who truly seemed heaven-sent. Connell McClain was her selfless guardian as their wagon train slowly made its way west.And as they shared the dangers of the trail–and the closeness of a covered wagon–Faith felt the first tender stirrings of love for this roughhewn yet caring man. But would the secrets that seemed to haunt him threaten their growing feelings for one another?









Valerie Hansen

Frontier Courtship















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Joe Roe for helping me understand mules

the way he does. And to my husband, Joe,

for talking me out of buying one and breaking

my fool neck trying to ride it!




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue




Prologue


Ohio, 1850

Clouds boiled black. Threatening. Lightning shot across the sky in endless jagged bursts of fire. A blustery gale swept the hilltop as if bent on clearing it down to the last blade of grass.

Alone, Faith Ann Beal stood her ground in spite of the scattered drops of rain that were beginning to pelt her. She leaned into the wind for balance, determined to withstand the rigors of the early spring storm long enough to place flowers atop her mother’s resting place. After the horrible tempest they’d all weathered mere days ago, it was going to take more than a little wind and water to deter her.

Faith kissed her fingertips, bent to touch them to the damp earth, then paused for an unspoken prayer before she said, “I’ll keep my vow to you, Mama, no matter where that duty takes me. I promise.”

Shivering, yet loath to leave, she straightened and took a shaky breath. Everyone’s life had changed in literally seconds when the tornado had mowed a swath through Trumbull County. It was still hard to believe her own mama was gone to Glory, along with so many of their closest family friends.

There was little left of the farm where nineteen-year-old Faith and her younger sister, Charity, had grown up. The lower part of the chimney still stood behind the iron cook-stove, but the rest of the house had been reduced to a pile of useless kindling. The roof had blown clean off the barn Papa had built, too. Most of the livestock that had survived the storm had been rounded up and quickly sold for traveling money.

A hooded bonnet partially sheltered Faith’s cold-stung, flushed cheeks and she clasped her black wool cloak tightly to her. Despite that protection, her body still trembled from marrow-deep chill. The sweet, peaceful life she had taken for granted was gone. Over. She felt as if her soul had been trapped and frozen within the numbness that now filled her whole body.

Looking down to where her mother lay beneath the freshly turned earth, she gained comfort by imagining her dear one asleep in the arms of Jesus, instead.

“Oh, Mama, why did you have to leave us?” she lamented. “And why did you make me promise to take Charity and look for Papa? What if I can’t find him? What if he’s lost forever, like so many of the other men who went to seek their fortunes?”

Bittersweet memories of her father’s initial departure, his last hugs and words of encouragement to his family, rushed to soothe Faith’s wounded spirit. Would she have reneged on her deathbed promise to her mother if she’d still had a comfortable home in which to wait for her father’s return? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was a pointless question. No choice remained.

“Oh, dear God.” Her prayer was as plaintive, as wistful, as the wind that carried it. “Please, please show me what to do. Spare me this obligation.”

No reprieve came. She hadn’t truly expected divine intervention to lift her burden. Instead, she found herself remembering how she’d clasped her mother’s hand and listened intently as the injured woman had spoken and wept, then had breathed her last with a blissful smile softening her features as she passed on.

“Lord willing, I will come back,” Faith vowed, making peace with the past as best she could. In her deepest heart she feared she would never again climb that desolate hill to look down on those verdant valleys and farms of Ohio.

Bending over, the edges of her black cloak flapping wildly in a sudden gust of frigid air, she laid a bouquet of dried forget-me-nots on her mother’s grave, turned and walked resolutely away.

Behind her, the storm tore the fragile flowers from their satin ribbon and strewed tattered fragments across the bare ground, destroying their beauty for the moment in order to plant the seeds of future blooms.




Chapter One


Fort Laramie, early summer, 1850

“Look out!” Faith yanked her sixteen-year-old sister to safety, barely in time. Massive wheels of an empty freight wagon ground across the footprints they’d just left in the powdery dust.

True to her nature, Charity gave a shriek. She cowered against the blunt end of a water trough while she worried the strings of her bonnet with fluttering fingers.

Faith caught her breath and waited for her heart to stop galloping. Fort Laramie was not at all what she’d expected. It was more a primitive frontier trading post than a real army garrison. No one seemed to care a fig about proper deportment, either. The rapidly rolling freight wagon that had just cut them off would most likely have run them down without a thought if they hadn’t dodged in time!

As it was, she and Charity were both engulfed in a gritty brown cloud of powdered earth, undefined filth and bothersome, ever-present buffalo gnats. The tiny insects had been driving their mules crazy since before they’d reached the lower Platte. Not to mention getting into everything. Even her biscuit dough. She grimaced at the thought.

Waiting for the worst of the blowing dust to clear, Faith spied an opportunity, took hold of her sister’s hand and dragged her back out into the fray. “Come on. We can’t stand here all day.”

“Ouch! You’re hurting me.” Charity’s voice was a childish whine, far less womanly than her budding body suggested it should be.

At that moment, Faith’s singular intent was surviving long enough to reach the opposite side of the roadway, whether Charity liked the idea or not. She refused to slow her pace. “Oh, hush. Stop complaining. You’d think I was killing you the way you carry on.”

Charity’s blue eyes widened. “You might be!” Planting her heels, she brought them to a staggering halt in front of the log-and-adobe-walled trading post. “I don’t like it here. It’s so…so barbaric. And it stinks.”

Faith couldn’t argue with that. Between the passage of hundreds of draft animals, plus careless, slovenly local inhabitants and travelers, the place smelled wretched. Though the high adobe walls surrounding the fort were obviously necessary for protection, she couldn’t help thinking they’d all be better off if the tightly packed settlement was more open to the cleansing wind and rain of the plains.

Intent on finding the best in their situation, she nodded toward a group of blanketed Indians sitting silently against the front of the trading post. “Look, dear. Isn’t all this interesting?”

Charity pressed a lace-edged handkerchief over her mouth and nose. “Not to me, Faith Ann. I think it’s awful.” She lowered her shrill voice to a whisper, her sidelong gaze darting to the stony-faced Indians. “Do you suppose they understand what we’re saying?”

Faith boldly assessed the native women. They were short, like herself, but twice as wide and far more rounded, and seemed to be cautiously avoiding meeting her eyes. Even the smallest children were careful not to look up at the sisters.

“I suspect they may,” Faith said, a bit ashamed. “Else why would they act so shy?” Lifting her skirts, she urged Charity up the high step onto the boarded walkway. “We probably hurt their feelings.”

The blue eyes grew even wider. “Do you think so? Oh, dear.” The fair-haired girl blushed as a tall, manly, cavalry officer in a uniform of blue and gold doffed his hat, bowing graciously as he passed.

Faith’s quick mind pounced on the occasion to raise her sister’s spirits. “There,” she said quietly. “See? Aren’t you glad you washed up and put on your best bonnet?”

“Captain Tucker already said I looked lovely, today,” Charity countered, blushing demurely and twirling the tails of the bow tied beneath her chin. “I think he’s wonderful.”

Her sister was appalled. “Handsome is as handsome does, as Grandma Reeder used to say.” Faith likened the horrid wagon boss to an unruly billy goat, bad to the bone and just as dangerous a creature to turn your back on. She knew better than to criticize him openly, of course, because he literally held their future in his hands. But that didn’t mean she had to pretend to admire him. He was a necessity. Nothing more.

Leading the way into the trading post, Faith took one whiff of hot, stale air and wished she could hold her breath indefinitely. The cloying smells were no improvement over the pungent aromas of the street, they were simply more varied. Spices, coffee beans, vinegar, molasses and salted fish added their own tang to the almost palpable atmosphere.

Judging by the overwhelming odor of sweat and smoke liberally laced with dried buffalo dung, most of the customers had long ago abandoned any notion of bathing, too. Not that Faith blamed them. Now that she and Charity had spent two long months traveling from Independence, Missouri to Fort Laramie in the Territories, they, too, realized how few of their old customs and manners fit the wearying trek.

Glancing around the crowded room for the proprietor, she spied an older woman with a topknot of gray hair. Faith watched her deftly wrap and tie a package, hand it to a matron in a dark wool dress, accept payment, then turn to help the next of the noisy, milling customers.

“Come on.” Taking her sister’s hand, Faith began to lead her between the piles of flour sacks, kegs of tar and barrels of pickles to wait their turn to order supplies.

They were quite near their goal by the time Faith paid full attention to the tall, broad-shouldered man at the counter ahead of them. He was as rustic as anyone present, yet different. Intriguing. For one thing, he didn’t smell as if he never bathed! While his back was turned, she took the opportunity to study him.

Long, sandy-colored hair hung beyond the spread of his shoulders. Worn buckskin covered him from head to toe. When he moved even slightly, he reminded Faith of the sleek, sinewy cougar she’d seen stalking a herd of antelope through the waving prairie grasses along the lower Platte.

Embarrassed to have been so bold, she lowered her focus. The man was speaking and his voice sent unexpected shivers up her spine. Her cheeks flamed as if touched by the summer sun. Surprised by the uncalled-for reaction, Faith nevertheless set aside her ideas of proper etiquette once again and peered up at him, listening shamelessly.

The storekeeper was looking at something cradled in the man’s outstretched palm. “Sorry, son. It’s been too long. I can’t say for certain. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Sighing, the man turned to go. With the Beal sisters directly in his path there was little room for polite maneuvering.

For a heart-stopping instant his troubled gaze met Faith’s. Held it. His eyes were the color of smoke, of a fog-shrouded mountain meadow at dawn. And his beard, almost the same hue as his buckskins, continued to remind her of a stalking mountain lion. Faith caught her breath.

The man nodded politely, pushing past them toward the door. Charity gave a little squeak of protest and fell back as he passed. Faith stood her ground. She had never felt so tiny in her entire life. Yet she experienced no fear, even though the plainsman was rough-hewn and dusty from the trail.

The gray-haired woman noted Faith’s watchful interest. “Feel kinda sorry for him, I do.”

Faith frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“That big fella. He’s lookin’ for his betrothed. Might as well be lookin’ for a will-o’-the-wisp. Got about as much chance a findin’ one.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

Faith saw him pause to show something small to several groups of people, then square his hat on his head and leave the trading post. Thinking of her own home and family, her heart broke for the poor man. She knew all too well what it was like to lose a loved one. As she absently laid her hand over the heart-shaped onyx pendant containing a lock of her mother’s hair, she vowed to add the stranger’s quest to her nightly prayers.

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Happens a lot out here. Folks windin’ up lost, I mean. Now, what can I do for you ladies?”

Focusing on the reason for their visit, Faith took a scrap of paper from her reticule and handed it over. “We’ll need these supplies. Do you have them all?”

“Coffee’ll cost you dear,” the woman said, licking the point of a pencil and beginning to check off items on the list. “The flour’s no problem, though. And the bacon. You’ll have to go across to the mercantile if you want a paper of pins.”

“All right.” Faith couldn’t help glancing toward the doorway where she’d last glimpsed the intriguing man. Sadly, he’d gone.

“Indians steal pins if I keep ’em here,” the shopkeeper went on. “Candy, too. Regular thieves, they are.”

Charity grasped her sister’s arm in alarm. “You see? I told you we shouldn’t have come.”

“Oh, nonsense. Surely you don’t think there were no thieves at home in Ohio.” Faith shook her off.

“You in a hurry?” the proprietress asked. “Otherwise we’ll have this packed up and ready to go in an hour or so. Have to send Will out to the smokehouse for another side of bacon. You put aside enough bran to pack it in a barrel real good like?”

“Yes. And there’s no hurry,” Faith assured her, ignoring Charity’s scowl. “Our friend Mr. Ledbetter is at the blacksmith’s getting a wagon wheel fixed. No telling when we’ll be ready to go back to the train.”

“I got lots o’ pretty Indian trinkets,” the woman urged. “Or you could do what most of the ladies do and go wonder at the dry goods in the mercantile. They got twenty…thirty new bolts o’ calico since winter. Been meanin’ to go have a look-see myself. Never seem to find time.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Tell ’em Anna Morse sent you.”

Faith thanked her for her advice. “We’ll be back in a bit, Mrs. Morse. We’re the Beal sisters. This is Charity and I’m Faith. We’re with the Tucker train.”

“Yes,” Charity added proudly. “Captain Ramsey Tucker is kindly looking after us.”

Faith noticed an immediate change in the woman’s countenance. Her gray eyebrows knit, her wrinkles becoming more pronounced as her eyes narrowed in a wary expression. It was somewhat of a relief for Faith to see that she, herself, was not the only one disturbed by references to the captain.

That realization gave her pause. What might Mrs. Morse know about their wagon train? And would she reveal the truth, if asked?

Faith glanced nervously at her sister. Any candid conversation must not take place in front of Charity. The silly girl was too smitten with Tucker to be trusted to hold her tongue, especially if the news was disturbing.

Pondering alternatives, Faith recalled their schedule. They were to lay over in camp the rest of today and tomorrow before pushing on to California. In that length of time she was bound to be able to sneak back into the fort and make some discreet inquiries of Anna Morse. She only hoped she could live with whatever secrets were revealed.



The sun had crested and started toward the west as Faith waited on the plank walkway in front of the trading post. A small bundle from the mercantile, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, lay at her feet where it had been for the past three hours. The rest of their purchases remained inside.

Shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare, she seemed oblivious to the people pushing past. She fanned her burning cheeks with an embroidered handkerchief while looking left and right in anticipation of the arrival of the Ledbetters’ wagon. Repairs to the wheel must be taking a very long time.

Charity tugged at her sister’s sleeve. “It’s fearful hot and dusty out here. I’m going back into the store.” She pulled harder. “Come with me.”

“Just a moment more.” Faith pushed her slat bonnet off the back of her head, letting it hang down her back by its strings while she dabbed away the drops of perspiration on her forehead.

“No. I’m frightened,” Charity insisted. “I told you, Ramsey…Captain Tucker…warned us not to come into town at all. He said he’d take care of buying our supplies for us. He was right. We should have listened to him.”

Faith could hardly tell her gullible sister that the nefarious captain was not going to get his hands on any more of their money if she could help it. Not even to run simple errands. She’d paid dearly for their spot with the train because she hadn’t known any better. Now, she knew they’d been cheated. She wouldn’t play the fool twice.

Instead of arguing she merely said, “We’ll be fine.”

Cupping one pale hand around her mouth, Charity made a pouting face and leaned closer to whisper. “The Indians get more terrible looking all the time. See them scratching? I hate to think why. Makes me want to dip the hem of my skirt in kerosene to ward off the fleas!”

“You’re being a silly goose.” Faith took her sister’s shoulders, physically turned the girl to face the door to the trading post, shoved the paper-wrapped bundle into her hands and gave her a push. “All right. Go on. Suffer in the stench of those stacks of awful buffalo hides if you want. I’m perfectly happy out here.”

Charity turned back. “The captain told us to stay together.”

“Captain Tucker is merely our guide,” Faith said flatly. “I will not pretend we aren’t beholden to him, but neither will I cede to his every command.”

“I can’t believe you’re being so mean. He’s a brave and wonderful man.”

“That remains to be seen.” Faith took a deep breath and made a decision. “Look, I can’t abide standing here wasting my time any longer. I have wash to do and food to prepare back in camp. Fixing one loose wagon wheel shouldn’t take this long. I’m going to walk to the blacksmith’s and see what’s delayed Mr. Ledbetter.”

Charity gasped. “You can’t do that! Not here. Not alone.”

“Then you’ll come with me?”

The pale girl stepped back quickly, clutching the package to her breast. “I can’t. It’s not fair to ask me.”

That reaction was what Faith had counted on. Two months as her sister’s constant companion and chaperone had been an insufferable trial. If the Lord hadn’t granted her an extra dose of patience, she’d surely have throttled the girl by now, especially when Charity had claimed she’d accidentally lost both their black dresses while washing them in a flooded river and they’d been forced to cease wearing mourning for their mother far too soon. For Faith, a few minutes respite from her familial duty would be like a breath of cool breeze in the midst of oppressive heat.

She composed herself, then said, “All right, Charity, dear. Then why don’t you go inside and check the rest of our order to be certain everything is exactly as it should be?”

“I could do that.” The younger woman began to blink and smile sweetly. “The captain would be proud of my efficiency, wouldn’t he?”

“Undoubtedly. I’m certain Mr. Ledbetter will tell him you are the picture of virtue. And you needn’t worry about me. It’s obvious the army has plenty of men here to keep the peace.”

“Oh. Well, if you’re sure you’ll be all right…”

Wheeling quickly, Charity gathered her skirts and darted through the door.

Faith breathed a relieved sigh as she turned away to look down the street. She’d often thought it must be a sin to wish for self-serving favors from heaven, yet there were times she couldn’t help hoping some suitable young swain would soon rescue her from her sister’s trying foolishness.

Tiny flies continued to buzz around Faith’s head. Beads of perspiration gathered on her temples while sweaty rivulets trickled down her back between her shoulder blades. Ignoring the discomfort, she squashed her bonnet back on her head, whipped the ties into a loose bow and started off.

Wide cracks between the rough-sawed boards of the walkway captured the narrow heels of her best shoes, forcing her to either descend into the street or chance taking a bad fall. Since Charity had never learned to handle the mule team, Faith certainly couldn’t afford to be incapacitated. Not unless she wanted to be compelled to put up with whatever form of retaliation or retribution the unctuous Captain Tucker decided to arrange.

Since their last set-to over his brutality toward one of her mules that very morning, she’d suspected that the captain would shortly come up with some lame excuse why relief drivers, Ab or Stuart, could no longer be spared to handle her wagon. Well, fine. It would be her pleasure to show Ramsey Tucker that at least one Beal sister was capable of something besides giggling helplessness. If he wouldn’t provide the assistance he’d promised when she’d joined the train, Faith would handle the lines herself, just as she had at home in Ohio.

She set her jaw. Tucker had underestimated her for the last time. She’d stood up to him before and she’d do it again. And, oh, was he going to be scalded!

Faith shuddered at the memory of his dark, penetrating eyes, the way he’d stared at her, spitting that disgusting tobacco juice at her feet. He was not a person to be taken lightly. But then, neither was she.

Clouds of choking dust billowed from beneath passing rigs as Faith hurried down the street. Grasping the brim of her bonnet, she pressed it closer to her cheeks. The din around her was so loud, so packed with shouts, curses, strange tongues and the sound of rolling wagons and clanking harness traces that Faith didn’t see the danger or hear anyone call out a warning until a melee erupted directly in her path.

A door flew open. Glass shattered. Shutters banged. Three uniformed cavalrymen careened off the walkway and down into the street, tumbling, pushing, swinging and cursing as they went.

Faith jumped aside. One of the men, a thin, filthy fellow who reminded her of a rickety calf, was bleeding from his nose. He wiped the blood on his dirty sleeve, then flung it aside, dotting her skirt with ugly red splotches.

Disgusted, Faith was wiping at the stains in the green calico when a fourth man lurched off the porch. He hit her a jarring blow with his full weight. Breathless, stunned, she went sprawling in the dust.

For an instant she lost track of where she was or what had happened. All too soon, it came back to her. Raising up on her forearms she tasted the gritty substance of the well-traveled street and found her mind forming thoughts quite inappropriate for a lady. Her only clean dress was a grimy mess, her bonnet was askew and, worst of all, no one in the crowd seemed to even notice.

Pausing on her knees, she assessed her pain. Something was very wrong. If she hadn’t been in such unexpected misery she would very likely have lectured the careless men on the impropriety of brawling in the streets. As it was, she knew she’d be doing well to merely maneuver out of harm’s way.

One of the soldiers had collapsed, gasping and retching, in a drunken haze beneath the hitching rail. The larger of the two remaining was beating the rickety-calf man to a pulp.

Gathering her soiled skirts, Faith lifted them above her shoe tops with one hand, lurched to her feet and stumbled around a corner. Finding a bare wall, she leaned against it and closed her eyes.

It hurt to move. To breathe. She pressed both palms hard against her aching side. Dear God! As much as she hated to admit it, Charity was right. The streets of Fort Laramie were no place for a stroll.

At the passage of a shadow across her flushed face, Faith’s eyes snapped open. The muscled shoulder of an enormous reddish-colored horse was a scant three feet from the tip of her nose. She heard saddle leather creak as its rider leaned forward.

“You should have better sense,” he grumbled.

Her blurry vision focused. That beard. That hair. The buckskins. It was him. The man from the trading post who was searching for his lost bride-to-be. She drew a short breath and winced as pain shot from her side to her innards. “Sarcasm is quite uncalled-for, sir.”

“Where’s your man?”

“I hardly think that is a proper question,” Faith shot back, grimacing in spite of herself.

He dismounted beside her, his tone a little more gentle. “You’re right. My apologies. Guess I’ve been alone on the trail too long. Are you badly hurt?”

Suddenly not certain, Faith sagged back against the wall. “I…I don’t think so.” Taking a deeper breath, she assessed the searing pain that increased every time she moved or dared inhale. “Oh, dear.”

“Can you walk?”

“Of course.” What a silly question. Why, she’d never had a sick day in her life, not even when she’d been left to try to cope after Mama had died. Faith bit her lower lip. Today’s problems were sufficient for today, as the Good Book said.

The plainsman stood by, waiting, his mere presence lending her added fortitude. She would straighten up, stand tall and prove to him she was fine. The moment she tried, however, agony knifed through her body, bending her double. She bit back a cry.

“Have you got a penny?” he asked, sounding disgusted.

The slim cords of Faith’s reticule were still looped around her wrist. Had she been in better command of her faculties, she might have questioned his request. Instead, she raised the drawstring bag to him without speaking.

“Good, because I don’t. I’d hate to waste a whole dollar on this.”

Although pain was coursing through her like the racing water of a rain-swollen stream, she was still capable of a modicum of indignation. “I beg your pardon?” Her mouth dropped open. What audacity! The man had invaded her reticule to withdraw the asked-for penny.

“This will do.” Flipping the oversize copper coin into the air and catching it several times, he whistled at a young boy who was passing. “Son! Over here.”

The boy’s face lit up when he spied the coin. “Yessir?”

Connell bent low, holding out the penny as inducement. “I want you to fetch that Mrs. Morse from the trading post. You know her?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Tell her a lady is hurt and needs her. Then bring her here and I’ll pay you for your trouble.”

Young eyes darted from the coin to the pale, disheveled woman leaning against the wall. “Did you hurt her, mister?”

Faith managed to smile. One hand remained pressed tightly to her ribs, but she put out the other and laid it on the buckskin-clad arm of her Good Samaritan. “No,” she said. “There was an accident and this gentleman came to my rescue. Now, hurry. Please.”

“Yes, ma’am!” The boy was off like a shot.

Breathing shallowly to minimize her pain, Faith peered at the man on whose sturdy arm she was leaning. Soon, she would release her hold on him. Just a few seconds more and she’d feel strong enough to stand alone.

“I do thank you for looking after me,” Faith managed. “No one else seemed to even notice.”



“They noticed.” How delicate she seemed, Connell McClain thought. Her skin was soft, like the doeskin of his scabbard, only warm and alive. And her eyes. No wonder they had reminded him of a deer’s the first time he’d looked into them. They were the most beautiful, rich brown he’d ever seen.

He scowled. Better to keep the woman talking and draw her thoughts away from her injuries. She didn’t look well. If she passed out on him before Mrs. Morse arrived, he didn’t know what he’d do with her.

“The Indians wouldn’t help you because they don’t dare touch a white woman,” he explained. “And if the soldiers got involved, they’d have to admit they were the cause of your troubles. That could mean the stockade.”

“Oh.” The woman glanced at the street and seemed to realize passersby were eyeing her with curiosity. “I’ll bet I look a fright.”

“You have looked better,” he said, remembering the strong response he’d had when he’d almost bowled her over in the trading post. Some of the pins had come loose from her hair and it was tumbling down over her shoulders. He hadn’t imagined that the coffee-colored tresses under her bonnet would be nearly as comely as they actually were.

Nodding, she folded her arms more tightly around her body in an apparent effort to cope. Between the sweltering heat and the pain she was evidently experiencing, it was little wonder she was struggling so.

“I expect they think I’m your kin, so they’re leaving us alone,” he offered.

“I’m truly sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir. If I had money to spare, I’d gladly repay you for your kindness. My sister and I are on our way to California. After arranging our passage I’m afraid we have very little left.”

A sister? Connell vaguely recalled that there had been another woman with her in the trading post, but for the life of him, he couldn’t picture what she’d looked like.

An unexpected twinge caught her unaware and she gasped before she again gained control of herself. Tears gathered in her eyes. He hesitantly cupped her elbow with as light a touch as he could manage and still support her.

“I’m sorry for being such a ninny,” she said, with a faint smile. “I’m usually quite brave. Really, I am.”

“I’m sure you are, ma’am.”

“I can’t be seriously injured, you know.” She looked east toward the wagon camp. “I may have to drive the team when we leave here.” Her voice trailed off. She could tell from the way the man was looking at her that he had already decided she was, indeed, badly hurt. Coming on top of so much throbbing pain, the thought of not being able to function on her own was too much for her.

Darkness pushed at the edges of her vision. Flashes of colored light twinkled like a hundred candles on a festive Christmas tree. Nausea came in waves. She fought to keep her balance, but it was no use. Closing her eyes, she began a slow-motion slide toward the ground.

Connell saw her going out. The doe’s eyes glassed over, then rolled back in her head. He cast around for help. Where had that fool boy gotten to?

The plainsman instinctively grabbed Faith’s arms, then made the split-second decision to catch her up in spite of his misgivings. Next thing you knew, he’d probably be shot by the woman’s jealous husband or brother for trying to help her. They’d bury him on the prairie in an unmarked grave and forget he’d ever lived. Then, who’d be left to find out what had happened to poor Irene?

Connell lifted the unconscious Faith in his arms, trying not to jostle her ribs as he swung her across his chest. She was so tiny. Barely there. He couldn’t just walk away and ignore her plight. He wasn’t going to leave her until he’d seen to it she was safe and well cared for.

He could only hope that someone, somewhere, was doing the same for his intended bride.




Chapter Two


Connell met the breathless boy halfway to the trading post.

“She die, mister?”

“No. Fainted. Where’s Mrs. Morse?”

“She ain’t comin’. I told her what you said but she didn’t believe me.” He trotted alongside, struggling to keep up with Connell’s long, purposeful strides. “Kin I have my penny, anyhows?”

Connell muttered under his breath. No telling what had happened to the coin. Chances were he’d dropped it when he’d had to catch the girl.

He glanced down at the eager child. “Look in the dirt, where we were before. If it’s not there, follow along and I’ll get you another. And bring my horse. His name is Rojo. That’s Mexican for red. Call him by name and he won’t give you any grief. He’s a full-blooded canelo I picked up in California and I’d hate to lose him. I’d never find another one like him out here.”

“Aw, shucks. You said…”

Connell was in no mood for argument. “Go, before somebody else finds your money.” The boy seemed to see the logic in that suggestion, because he took off like a long-eared jackrabbit running from a pack of coyotes.

Crossing to the trading post, Connell and his frail burden solicited few inquisitive glances. He looked down at the sweet face of the girl. Her cheeks were smudged and her hair nearly undone. The bonnet hung loosely by its ribbons. Her doe eyes were closed, but he could still picture them clearly.

She stirred. Long, dark lashes fluttered against her fair skin like feathers on the breeze. She was so lovely, so innocent looking, lying there, the sight of her made his heart thump worse than the time he’d fought with Fremont against the Mexicans in San Jose in ’45.

The quick lurch of his gut took him totally by surprise. He stared down at the girl. She was all-fired young. Much younger than Irene. Couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen if she was a day. That made her ten or so years younger than he was; about the same distance apart in age as his mother and father had been.

Clenching his jaw, he tried unsuccessfully to set aside the bitter memories of his childhood, the mental image of his mother’s funeral and the cruel way his father had behaved afterward. If it hadn’t been for Irene and her family taking him in and showing him what a loving home was supposed to be like, no telling what would have become of him back then.

Connell took a deep breath and started across the street, his purpose redefined, his goal once again in focus. It didn’t matter how attracted he might be to this woman. Or to any other. It was Irene he had to think about, Irene he had sworn to find. To marry. If he had to spend the rest of his life looking for the truest friend he had ever had, then he would. Without ceasing.

The unconscious girl moaned as Connell mounted the walkway in front of the trading post. Several Indians edged out of his path.

As he made his way into the store, all conversation ceased. He headed straight for the proprietress.

Anna Morse clapped a hand to her chest. “Land sakes! The boy was tellin’ the truth.”

“Obviously.” The plainsman reached her in six quick strides, his tall cavalry boots thumping hollowly on the floor. “Where can I put her?”

“Let’s take her upstairs,” Anna said. “Her sister’s right over…” Pointing, she snorted derisively. Charity had fainted dead away. The girl lay draped across a stack of flour sacks while two other women and a child patted her hands and fanned her cheeks. “Never mind. We’ll see to her, later. Bring Miss Faith this way.”

Faith. Connell turned that name over in his mind. He’d have guessed she might be called after a flower or some famous woman from the Bible, like Sarah or Esther. Hearing that she was, instead, Faith, gave him pause. Yet it fit. A strong trait, a gift necessary for survival especially when crossing the plains, Faith was appropriate. How was it the scripture went? Something about…“if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you can say to a mountain, move, and the mountain will move.” This tiny woman was going to need that kind of unwavering faith if she was to survive the many rigors that would face her on the trail.

The upstairs room Anna led him to was small but clean. An absence of personal items led Connell to believe Mrs. Morse probably rented it out whenever she could. Careful not to jostle his limp burden, he lowered Faith gently onto the bed.

As he straightened and slipped his arm from beneath her shoulders, he reached up to gently smooth the damp wisps of hair from her forehead. The act was totally instinctive. Until the older woman cautioned him, he didn’t think about how improper his actions must look.

“That’ll do, mister. We’re beholden to you for totin’ her here.” Anna wedged between him and the prone figure, which was beginning to stir. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Connell nodded and touched the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am. It doesn’t appear the sister’ll be much help, that’s a fact.” Keeping his voice low, he added, “This one got herself knocked down by a bunch of drunken horse soldiers.”

“Figures. I swan, this old world has got to be nearin’ judgment day.”

“Don’t know about that, ma’am, but there’s four boys in blue who will be when I get ahold of them.”

“You ain’t plannin’ on startin’ trouble, are you?”

“No, ma’am.” Connell took a few backward steps toward the open bedroom door. “Finishing it.”

Anna made a noise of disgust. “Bah! All men are fools. Every bloomin’ one of ’em.”

At that, the plainsman managed a half smile. “You’re probably right.” Peering past her, he tried to get another glimpse of Faith. “You think she’ll be all right? I reckon her ribs are broke.”

“Soon as she comes to, I’ll be able to tell for sure.”

Turning toward the door, Connell paused. “I’ll be back to pay you for whatever the girl needs.”

The older woman shook her head. “You ain’t her kin. You done enough.”

He scowled, his helpful attitude hardening into determination. “I told you why I was here. Whatever I do for Miss Faith, it’ll be like I’m doing it for my Irene, too. Understand?”

Anna nodded solemnly. She wiped her hands on her apron. “That, I do. Long as you remember your money buys you no rights to the Beal sisters.”

The growing smile lifted Connell’s mustache. “Oh, it won’t be my money,” he said. “I aim to collect damages due from the sons o’—’scuse me, I mean the soldiers who did the hurting.”

That seemed to satisfy Anna’s sense of decency. “Good for you. Think they’ll pay up?”

For Connell, the question was already answered. His decision was firm. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes of his time to enforce justice on Faith Beal’s behalf. To see to it that she was recompensed. He was certain that was what Irene would want him to do.

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” he said flatly. “Those four boys’ll be real tickled to help out. You’ll see.”

Anna shook her head. “I don’t want to see any of it. You do what your conscience tells you to do, son, but leave me out of it. You hear?”

Tipping his hat, Connell nodded in affirmation and left her. By the time he’d reached the bottom of the staircase, his anger in respect to Faith’s plight was white-hot. How dare those drunken fools abuse a refined, gentle soul like her and then ignore what they’d done without so much as a backward glance or a word of apology?

He left the trading post, jumped down to the street and started off toward the saloon. Very little time had passed since the incident. He had no doubt he’d easily be able to locate the perpetrators.

The door to Maguire’s Saloon swung back with a bang as he straight-armed it and headed for the bar. The place wasn’t fancy red velvet and sparkling chandeliers like the plush parlors of San Francisco. Nor was it any cleaner than the rest of the fort. At each end of the bar stood gaboons, wooden boxes filled with sawdust, that served as poor men’s spittoons. By the look of the floor, no one there took very good aim.

Connell scanned the crowd. Nearly a dozen men were dressed in the blue of the cavalry but only a few were as filthy and bruised as the guilty parties he was looking for had to be. Bellying up to the bar, the largest of the four was lifting a glass and laughing as another member of the disgusting quartet gave his impression of Faith’s shocked facial expression after her fall.

Silent, Connell approached, his jaw set, his fists clenched. The loudmouth had reddish hair and a swollen eye as purple as a ripe plum. When Connell tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, still chuckling, with a sarcastic what-do-you-want? look on his face.

Connell reached up and whipped off the man’s hat, turning it over to serve as a collection basket.

“Hey! What the…?”

“For the lady you boys hurt,” Connell said. The low, menacing timbre of his voice was as threatening as his words. “Ante up.”

The man cursed. “Now wait a…”

Connell had grasped the redhead by the shirtfront and hoisted him high in the air before anyone could interfere. As formidable as the soldier was, he was no match for such ferocious rage and brute strength. The others began to edge away.

“All of you,” Connell shouted. “Freeze where you are and fill the kitty.” His head cocked toward the hat, which had landed on the bar when he’d grabbed the loudmouth. “Now.”

He waited till three soldiers had complied before releasing the fourth. “Your turn.”

“I ain’t got no money to waste on no stupid settler.”

Connell’s fist connected hard with the man’s jaw, sending his body sliding along the front of the bar where it finally came to rest in a heap near the gaboon. He gestured to the man’s friends. “Pick him up.”

The smallest of the three shook his head violently and backed away, his hands in the air. Thin and much shorter than the others, he’d obviously gotten the worst of the brawl. “No way. He wakes up, he’ll kill me.”

“Judging from what’s left of your sorry face, it looks like he nearly did, already.” Connell glanced at the remaining two. “You think your friend would be interested in making his fair share of the contribution?” He held out the hat. The few coins it contained chinked together.

“Sure, sure. Ol’ Bob, he’s a regular fella. He just gets nasty when he’s keepin’ company with John Barleycorn, is all.” The closest one reached into his companion’s pockets and came up with a fistful of coins. “This do ya?”

When the soldier dropped the money into the hat, Connell gathered it in his hand, briefly calculated how much there was, then threw the empty hat across the face of its unconscious owner. “He wakes up, you tell him for me that the lady is much obliged.”

“Yes, sir. Sure will.”

Turning away, Connell stalked out. He was certain neither Miss Faith Beal nor Mrs. Morse would approve of his methods, yet they’d have had to admit they were effective. There was no need to go into detail when he delivered the “donations” to the women. It was enough to know that he’d righted a wrong. An innocent young woman wouldn’t have to suffer more hardship because of the yahoos who’d harmed her.

Thinking about Faith’s vulnerability, he took a deep breath and exhaled noisily as he reentered the trading post. Near the door, the pale girl with corn-silk hair still sat atop the filled sacks. White flour dusted the back and shoulders of her blue dress, a clear reminder of her fainting spell. An older man and several women were fussing over her. Unsure of whether or not to approach, Connell paused to listen to what they were saying.

“No! I can’t stay here. I just can’t,” the girl whimpered. “Please, take me back to camp with you.”

“Now, Miss Charity,” the man was cajoling, “you’ll be perfectly safe with Mrs. Morse. Your sister might need you.”

“No! No, no, no.” She stamped her small foot. “It wasn’t my idea to come here in the first place and I’ll not stay. I demand you deliver me back to Captain Tucker.”

One of the matrons patted Charity’s hand. “There, there, dear. Of course we’ll see that you get to the captain. I’m sure your sister is in good hands.”

Shaking his head in disgust, Connell watched them leave before he started for the staircase.

Anna Morse met him halfway up and solidly blocked his path. “Well?”

“The sister left,” he said, scowling.

“Figures. What about the fellas what done the hurting? Did you clean their plows for ’em?”

“Enough to get their attention. I never did intend to start another set-to.” He transferred the money he’d collected to the proprietress. “If you want more…”

“No need. This’ll be plenty. I bandaged her myself. You was right. She’s got a few sore ribs.”

“You bound her tight?”

“’Course. I did fine and so did she. She’s a spunky one, that Faith.”

Connell nodded. “That she is.”

“Too bad about her ma.”

They made their way to the base of the stairs, Connell in the lead. “Her ma?”

“Got kilt by the same twister that wiped out their house and most of their belongings,” Anna told him. “That’s why she and that worthless sister of hers are on their way to Californy to look for their pa.”

“Alone?” Connell couldn’t believe how many women tried to cross the plains without proper help or preparation. He didn’t fault them for their courage, only for their lack of common sense.

“That’s right. Ramsey Tucker’s supposed to be lookin’ after them. To my thinkin’, they’d be better off all by themselves than trustin’ him.” Heading toward the busy young man who was trying to wait on three families at once, she slipped the coins Connell had collected into her apron pocket. “I’m comin’, Will.”

Connell followed and asked, “When does the Tucker train pull out?”

“Tomorrow.” Anna smiled with understanding. “Don’t fret. Our girl’ll be able to travel just fine. Now, scoot. I got work to do.”

It wasn’t till Connell was outside that he remembered what Faith had said about having to drive her own team. Well and whole, she might be able to do it. Hurt the way she was, the pain would be dreadful. Besides, she might make her condition worse. Maybe even puncture a lung.

Muttering and gritting his teeth, Connell argued that Faith wasn’t his concern. Irene was. He found his horse where the boy had left it, rechecked the cinch on his saddle, then mounted. It was time to head for Maguire’s or some such place. The drink and eats he’d promised himself a whole lot earlier were way overdue.



Standing in the upstairs room in her chemise and drawers, Faith listened at the slightly open door, then quietly eased it closed. Thanks to the tight bindings around her midriff, she’d managed to get out of bed without too much discomfort. She hated corsets. Always had. But she had to admit wearing one might have spared her poor bones.

Placing her forehead and palms against the wood of the door, she closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that somehow, when she opened them again, her current predicament would prove to be no more than a bad dream.

Such was not the case. Breathing shallowly when she really wanted to sigh deeply, she straightened and took a long look at the room. The bed sagged in the middle where the ropes had stretched, but at least it was clean. Mrs. Morse had hung her soiled dress on a peg next to the pine washstand. On the floor in front of it was a small rag rug, just like the ones Grandma Reeder used to make, and laid across the foot of the bed was a plain lawn wrapper.

Barefoot, Faith crossed to the bed and slowly threaded her arms into the wrapper, folding it closed. The process was painful, though not nearly as bad as she suspected trying to put on her dress would be. Pensive, she tied the sash and padded across the cool wooden floor, in search of a breeze from the open window.

The wide, busy street lay below, it’s clattering traffic an ongoing performance. Wagons of all shapes and uses were passing, as well as riders and enough foot traffic to more than fill the fondly remembered old streets of Burg Hill. In the midst of all the hubbub sat a man in buckskin astride a giant horse the color of a rusty rose.

With a trembling hand, Faith drew aside the lacy curtains and studied the traveler who had so recently borne her to safety in his arms. It was a kindness she hadn’t expected here in this wild country. She fingered her pendant and thought of home. Of family. Oh, how she wished her mother were there to be a companion in her travails, to understand her the way Charity never could.

Well, at least her Good Samaritan had the hope of someday finding his missing betrothed, Faith mused, looking down at him and stifling a tiny twinge of jealousy. She would never again see her dearest ones or the home place she’d loved, no matter how hard she wished or prayed or toiled.

Suddenly realizing she had taken her deliverance for granted, Faith was penitent. Not only had she been spared the fate her poor mother had suffered, she’d been rescued a second time since then. Given the unsympathetic reactions of the other travelers she’d encountered at the fort, it was a wonderment she was not still lying in a heap in the street.

In retrospect, Faith realized she’d drifted in and out of consciousness while being carried to the trading post. She’d felt the rumble of the man’s voice beneath his buckskin shirt as he’d told the boy she’d fainted. There was also a vague recollection of a gentle hand on her face as someone touched her to brush back a lock of hair. Could that have been him?

Stepping in front of half of the curtain, she toyed with the loose curls that hung down over her shoulders. Decent, grown women didn’t let anyone but their husbands see them with their hair thus, Faith reminded herself. And they certainly didn’t stand in a window clad in nothing more than their chemise and a wrapper. Yet she didn’t move away, even when the man’s head tipped back and he gazed boldly in her direction.

Did he know who he was watching? He must. If not, why stare like that? There was plenty to see in the street below without bothering to peer into a tiny window fifteen feet above the entrance to the trading post.

Faith knew she should step back into the shadows. Displaying herself was indecent. Wanton. Still, there was the remembered touch of a hand on her cheek, the pounding of a strong heart beneath her ear as he bore her away in his arms, and the concern she’d glimpsed in his eyes as mental darkness had overcome her.

One more look, one more thought of intense gratitude wouldn’t hurt. She knew she’d never see the man again. He had a quest of his own—the search for his bride—while she must complete her own journey. That their divergent paths had crossed at all was amazing. She only wished she’d had an opportunity to thank him in person.

Wanting to memorize the image of her rescuer so she could later pay proper homage to his compassion, Faith swayed closer to the thick, white-painted casement. Beneath his beard and mustache, she thought she saw a smile, though it was impossible to be certain at such a great distance. Hopeful, she raised her hand as if bestowing a blessing.

In reply, the man tipped his hat, then squared it on his head, reined his horse hard and rode off.

Faith’s heart pounded as she watched him go. Clearly, he’d entered her life to profoundly influence it. No matter how far she traveled or how many more years she lived, she’d never forget him.

Sudden awareness made her breath catch. Of course! The man on the red horse had been the answer to her fervent prayers for deliverance. Accepting that notion tempered her perspective of the ordeal in which she was currently embroiled. Without his amazing intervention she might actually have died, alone and ignored.

And gone to be with Jesus, she countered, certain her lonely soul would approve of the idea, just as it had ever since her mother’s fatal accident. This time, however, Faith found she was no longer looking forward to joining Mama in heaven. Yes, she wanted to see all her loved ones again someday, but her earthly tasks weren’t complete. Not yet.

By proving she wasn’t truly alone in her current trials, a heaven-sent stranger had inadvertently opened her eyes—and her heart—to the possibility of a bright, worthwhile future.

And she didn’t even know his name.




Chapter Three


Near evening, the sun turned the adobe walls of Fort Laramie a pale crimson. Myriad cooking fires were burning in the distant wagon camps. Anna brought Faith a bowl of warm gruel with pork trimmings and a cup of broth made with boiled, dried vegetables.

“I’d a fetched you more if I’d figured you could hold it,” she said, setting the small pewter tray down on the top of the washstand.

“Whatever you’ve made is fine.” Faith managed a smile and arose with care, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Thoughtful, she paused. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to repay you for all your kindness. If I were going to be here longer I’d offer to work off my bill.”

“Ain’t necessary. It’s been paid.”

“But…how? Surely my sister didn’t…”

“Not her. Forgive me for sayin’ so, but she’s about as worthless as a pocket on a pouch.”

Blushing, Faith stifled a chuckle. The analogy was funny and most apropos. “Then, how was it paid?” Tempted by the aroma of the hot broth, she raised the cup to sip while Anna spoke.

“Them fellas what busted you up took up a fine collection—with a little prodding.”

Faith paused as the liquid trickled down her throat, warming her against the cool of the evening. “Prodding? I don’t understand.” But in her heart, she did. Unless she missed her guess, her buckskin-clad benefactor had once again come to her rescue. A faint smile began to lift the corners of her mouth.

Anna snickered. “From the look in your eye, I’d say you’ve got the right idea. Didn’t see it happen, myself, but talk is, your Mr. McClain dusted the floor of Maguire’s with them boys in blue.”

“Oh, dear.” Faith pressed her free hand to the base of her throat, over the mourning pendant. It was strange to hear the big man referred to as her Mr. McClain. So, that was his name.

“Quite a sight, they say, and I can sure see why. That boy’s a big one, all right. Strong as Finnegan’s ox.”

“He’s hardly a boy,” Faith observed, sipping more broth to cover her urge to smile at the ridiculous comparison. “Did he say what his given name was?”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say as he did. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“It’s good you’ve got a friend like him, considering the mess you’re in.”

Lowering the cup of broth, Faith set it aside before taking advantage of the comment to ask, “When you say mess, are you referring to my injury, or to our business dealings with Ramsey Tucker?”

“Both. Mostly Tucker, I reckon.”

Faith reached for the older woman’s callused hands, clasping them tightly. “Please. I must know everything you’ve heard.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Ramsey Tucker has made more than one inappropriate suggestion regarding my lack of a husband or father to care for me and my sister during the crossing. I’d hardly be shocked at anything you’d tell me about his character. He’s detestable.”

Nodding, Anna led Faith over to the edge of the rope bed and they perched together on the wooden frame. “You’re right about him. He’s passed through here seven or eight times. I liked him less every time I laid eyes on him.”

“But why? I’ve seen that he’s cruel. He’s even whipped my poor, innocent mules for no reason except pure meanness. But there must be more. I feel it.”

“Maybe so. Not that I have any sworn word on it, mind you, but I hear your captain’s been made a new widower on just about every trip.” She paused, patting Faith’s hands for comfort. “They say he picks out a woman of property, sidles up to her, and before she knows it they’re married. Trouble is, his brides don’t reach Californy.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “And he inherits?”

“Every penny. And all his dead wife’s possessions, to boot. Makes himself a pretty piece of change, what with sellin’ off their rigs and all.”

“Oh, dear Lord!” Faith’s hands fluttered to her throat again. “He started making up to my sister after I rebuffed him.”

“That ain’t good. Not good at all.”

“I know. But what can I do? We have to get to my father somehow.”

“Stay here then. Wait for the next train to come through and join up with them.”

“We can’t.” Ringing her hands, Faith began to pace, oblivious to the pain in her side. “Tucker has most of the money I was able to raise by selling what was left of the farm. We can’t afford to pay again. And we might not be able to talk another party into accepting us, even if we could. Not two women alone.”

Shrugging, Anna got to her feet. “You’re probably right about that.” She reached into her apron pocket, came up with a fistful of coins, and placed them in Faith’s hands. “Here. Take this. It’s not much but it’ll help.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Have to, as I see it,” the shopkeeper countered. “It ain’t my money. It come from the soldiers I told you about. Way too much for what little your stay here cost.”

“Well…”

“Good girl. Take whatever the Good Lord supplies and don’t ask questions. That’s the way to get by out here.”

“Thank you.” Faith smiled with gratitude. “Now, what advice can you give me about handling Ramsey Tucker?”

Snorting in derision, Anna shook her head. “That’s another kettle of burnt beans, ain’t it? As I see it, all you’ve got to do is keep your little sister locked up tight for the next couple o’ thousand miles. Anything so’s she don’t go gettin’ all het up about marryin’ that son of perdition—excuse my plain speakin’.”

“No pardon necessary. I’ve thought to call him worse than that myself, once or twice.”

“I’ll bet many a sensible woman has. It’s the foolish ones what get taken in and pay so dearly. I’ll be prayin’ for you, Faith. I truly will.”

“Thank you. Please do. I suspect I’ll need all the help I can get before I ever set eyes on the American River.”



Dozing in the soft, slightly sagging bed, Faith was nudged into wakefulness just before dawn by the low timbre of a man’s voice. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing, she’d donned the wrapper again and tiptoed across the floor to her door, opening it a crack so she could listen.

The voice was unmistakable, both in its inflections and its concern. She knew if she looked out her window to the street below, she’d no doubt see a big red horse waiting at the hitching rail.

The trouble was, she couldn’t make out what her self-appointed defender was saying. Nor could she hear Anna’s quiet responses. At home in Ohio she never would have ventured out onto the upper landing dressed as she was, but this wasn’t Burg Hill. This was the frontier. Her need to know was greater than any false modesty. Nervous, she crept to the railing and looked down.

The plainsman had slicked back his sandy-colored hair and, hat in hand, was speaking with Mrs. Morse at the base of the stairs. One booted foot rested on the bottom step.

“You’re sure she’ll be all right?”

“Fine,” Anna said. “She’s a strong one. Stubborn.”

“Her ribs?”

“Prob’ly cracked, like we figured. No fever, though. I checked on her twice during the night.”

He took a deep breath, releasing it noisily. “Thanks.”

Anna merely nodded. “Soon’s I get the store ready for today’s business I’ll take her up some breakfast. The train fixin’ to pull out soon?”

“Looks like it. Think she’ll be able to travel?”

“Oh, it’ll hurt, that’s for certain. But she’ll do.”

Connell muttered an unintelligible curse. “What are idiotic women thinking when they try to make a journey like this practically alone?”

Still poised one floor above him, Faith closed her hands tightly over the banister. She’d heard it all before. Too often. Who had made the rule that women ought to live their lives according to the rigid rules men set down for them, anyway? It didn’t have to be that way.

Her father had left his family to pursue gold. Wealth. Supposed happiness. Waiting behind, her mother had adjusted beautifully to life without a husband to sanction her daily decisions, and Faith had every intention of following that good example. Nobody, least of all a drifter, was going to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do. The fact that he’d helped her once didn’t give him any right to criticize her personal choices.

The hackles on the back of Connell’s neck began to prickle. He’d spent the past eleven years making his way through varying degrees of wilderness. The ongoing experience had honed his natural senses to a keen edge. Either an Indian was about to chuck an arrow his way, a hungry rattlesnake had a bead on his ankle, or Faith Beal had overheard his last comment. For the sake of his hide, he hoped it was the latter.

Raising his eyes, he looked up the stairs, intending only a quick glance. What he saw changed his mind in a blink.

The rising sun was coming through a window behind her, giving her a golden, glowing aura. The plain white wrapper was belted at her waist, its long sleeves gathered at her wrists, the skirt reaching to the floor. And her hair! Soft brown curls framed her face and cascaded in a tousled sheet of silken beauty over her shoulders. Most of the women he’d known, including Irene, had plaited their long hair at night. The wild, untamed look of Faith’s tresses took his breath away.

Nodding, he acknowledged her. “Ma’am.”

In spite of Anna’s sputtered protest, Faith did not withdraw.

“I apologize if I offended you,” Connell said, seeing undisguised ire on her face as he spoke.

“Not at all,” Faith said. “I’m quite used to men assuming that because I’m a woman I’m about as dumb as an old muley cow.”

Connell stifled a chuckle. “Some of those ol’ mossey-backs are pretty smart critters. It might be a compliment, ma’am.”

“I doubt it. At any rate, my sister and I do thank you for your care and concern, even if it is uncalled-for.”

“A pleasure. Can I take a message to your sister for you? I’m headed out that way.”

It was a reasonable enough offer, considering. And she did need a way to either get word to Charity or find her own ride to the wagon camp. “Yes, please. Ask for the Beal wagon and have my sister send Mr. Ledbetter back for me, if you please.”

With that, Faith stepped away from the railing and disappeared into her room, shutting the door firmly. She was suddenly weak, dizzy. Not that she intended to admit it to anyone but herself.

Pouring fresh water from the ewer into the shallow basin, she splashed her face and breathed as deeply as her ribs would allow until her head cleared some.

Anna had managed to rinse most of the previous day’s grime out of her green calico and had returned it to the peg beside the washstand. Though Faith would have preferred to sponge off her whole body before getting dressed, she logically decided against removing the tight bindings and chancing further injury.

Back home, she’d seen Gunther Muller die from a rib that poked into his lungs. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He’d lingered for hours while neighbors gathered to pray and offer their support. In the end, he’d died gasping for air. When he’d breathed his last, Hilda had gone out to the corral and put a bullet into the prize bull that had stomped her husband to death.

Faith shivered at the memory. Before she left Fort Laramie she’d be sure to pick up some extra muslin for bandages so Charity could replace her bindings when it became necessary.

Thoughts of the days and weeks ahead before she was fully healed made Faith’s heart lodge in her throat. So far, their trip had been fairly easy compared to some of the stories of hardship and loss she’d heard. From now on, however, it was going to be dreadful. Pure and simple.



Not sure she’d have time to eat before the Ledbetters came for her, Faith concentrated first on buying the muslin. Accepting a parcel of fresh biscuits from Anna in lieu of a morning meal, she then waited inside the store, scanning the busy street.

Will had been going in and out, loading goods for a teamster headed up the Platte toward the Black Hills and Deer Creek. He stuck his head back in the door to holler, “Wagon’s here for you, Miss Beal.”

She rose stiffly from her perch on some sacks of beans and said politely, “Thank you.” Approaching Anna, she held out her hand in parting and found herself swiftly swept into a gentle but encompassing hug.

“You take care, you hear?” the older woman warned, her eyes suspiciously moist, her wrinkled forehead creasing even more as she spoke. “Watch your back.”

“I will. The Ledbetters are good people. They’ll stand by me, I’m sure.”

“Still…”

“I know. I’ll be careful,” Faith vowed. “I promise. If you’re ever out Sacramento way…”

Anna stood back. “Doubt I will be, but thank ya.”

It was hard to make herself break away and leave the haven of Anna’s presence. “Well…”

“Have a safe trip.”

“Lord willing.”

Turning away, Faith stood tall and walked out the door into the bright morning sun, shading her eyes with her right hand. Her bonnet ribbons, reticule and the string around the small bundle of muslin were looped over her opposite wrist.

Ledbetter’s spring wagon was waiting, all right, but Ramsey Tucker was in the driver’s seat! The sardonic grin on his face set Faith’s teeth on edge.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Mr. Ledbetter?”

“He had chores in camp.”

“Chores you assigned him?”

Tucker spit tobacco juice over the off side of the wagon. “Maybe. So what? Get in.”

She started to place her hands on her hips, realized the motion made her left side hurt worse and lowered her arms. “I’d rather walk, thank you.”

“You do and you’ll be walkin’ from here to Fort Bridger, missy. I’ll see to it.”

“Don’t you dare threaten me.”

Tucker cursed. “Come on. Get in. I’m tired o’ foolin’ with ya.” He reached down and grabbed her arm, giving it a mighty tug that lifted Faith’s feet off the ground.

She stumbled and swung against the front wheel of the wagon. Searing pain shot through her. Set knives to her spine. Made her cry out.

So far, the package of unbleached muslin had padded her side. It slipped slightly off center when she banged against the wheel rim a second time. If only Tucker would let go of her she’d gladly board! Anything to get him to stop jerking on her arm.

Gathering what breath she could muster, Faith struggled to get her feet back under her. She glared up at him. “Stop! That hurts!”

He just laughed. Tucker’s meaty hand dwarfed her wrist and her fingers were already turning white from his tight grip. Surely, Charity had told him about her injuries! Therefore, he must be inflicting this horrible pain on purpose.

Suddenly, a buckskin-clad arm shot past her shoulder. A stalwart hand closed like a vise on Tucker’s thick wrist, forcing the man to his knees in the wagon bed. The captain let go. His adversary did not.

Faith, clinging to the wheel for needed support, knew instantly who had come to her rescue. The glimmer of fear in Ramsey Tucker’s eyes was a truly blessed sight to behold!

The plainsman’s voice rumbled. “Are you hurt?”

Rubbing her wrist, she backed away from the wagon. Pure truth could do irreparable damage. Like it or not, without the captain’s guidance, she and Charity would never make it all the way to California.

Faith made the necessary choice. “No,” she gasped. “I’m fine. There’s no problem here. Captain Tucker and I just had a little misunderstanding.”

The plainsman regarded Faith, his doubt evident. “You’re sure everything is all right?”

“Positive.” She labored to make her voice sound stronger, more convincing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was just about to get into this wagon and start back to the train. We’re pulling out soon.”

“Whatever you say.”

He released Tucker’s wrist, nodded to them both and started away without further debate. Faith could tell he didn’t believe her assertion. Not for one minute. And no wonder. The statement, though partially true, had burned on her lips it was such a blatant lie.

She squared her shoulders. With her left arm held tightly against her waist and side, she faced Tucker. She knew there was loathing in her expression. “Back off and I’ll get in.”

“You meant what you told him? Well, well.” Chuckling with satisfaction, he offered his hand.

Faith gritted her teeth, gathered her skirts, put one foot on the step and managed to boost herself aboard without his help.

“I need a ride and you’ve come to fetch me. That’s all,” she said icily, wrapping her skirts around her legs so they wouldn’t touch even a smidgen of Tucker’s person. “Nothing else has changed between us.”

He slapped his knee, guffawing rudely. “Feisty little thing, aren’t you? Aw right. If it’s a wagon ride you fancy, a wagon ride you’ll get.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Other kinds of things, you and me’ll discuss after you’ve healed up.”

Faith’s face flared in anger and embarrassment. Of all the insulting, vulgar…She held her temper, saying nothing. Tucker had the upper hand, for now. Someday, though, she’d best him.

She swore it on her mother’s grave.




Chapter Four


Connell stomped down the street, pulling his hat lower over his eyes to shade them from the morning sun. It was going to be another scorcher. Pretty normal for this time of year hereabouts.

A green spring wagon clattered past, stirring up a cloud of dust. Ramsey Tucker rode the driver’s seat. Beside him, her back ramrod straight, her bonnet strings blowing behind her, sat Faith Beal. The bad blood between her and the captain was as thick as flies on a dead buffalo, so why had she insisted on letting him have his way?

Connell cursed under his breath. Why should he care? He had enough trouble already. He had to find Irene.

Pushing on the door to the saloon, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. The place was sure busy. Him, he’d rather have a steak than a slug of whiskey for breakfast. But here was where the drovers from the Tucker train had congregated, so here he’d stay. At least as long as they did.

What few chairs and crude benches the place had to offer were already taken. Connell leaned against the far, canvas-covered wall with some other latecomers and studied the crowd.

A short, slight man with a wary look in his eyes and a Colt revolver stuck through his belt sidled up to him and spoke. “You’re not with the Tucker train, are you?”

Connell shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Just wondered. It’s a big outfit, but I didn’t think I’d seen you before.”

“I rode in alone. You?”

“Lookin’ for a party going back to Missouri,” the thin man said. When he smiled, Connell saw he was missing his front teeth. It didn’t look like they’d been gone very long either, judging by his swollen lips and gums.

Noting the focus of Connell’s glance, the man closed his mouth as tightly as his injuries would allow. “Saw you face up to the cap’n this mornin’. Wished it’d been more of a fight. He needs to be taken down a peg.”

“You know him?”

“Too well.” The man rubbed his jaw. “Too blamed well.”

Nodding, Connell reached into his pocket for the miniature of Irene and held it out in his palm. “Ever see her before? Last trip, maybe?”

“Your woman?”

“Irene Wellman. My intended.”

“Nope. Sorry. You might ask them two by the door. If she was ever with Tucker, they’d know. They been his drovers for years.”

“Which ones?”

“Tall, fat fella with the beady eyes in the black vest and beat-up gray hat is Stuart. The shorter, weasely one next to him is Ab. He walks, you’ll see he limps a might. Understand he got hurt around St. Jo last trip.”

The hair on the back of Connell’s neck was bristling. “What makes you think my Irene might have been with Tucker?”

“It figures. You been payin’ a lot of attention to the captain’s affairs. If it was me and I was lookin’ for my intended, I’d start backtracking. Her trail lead you here, did it?”

Connell took a chance that the man really did have a grudge against the wagon boss. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Thought so. Word is, Tucker has a bad reputation with women. No offense, but was your lady the kind to change her mind about waitin’ for you and marry up with a fella like him, instead?”

“Marry him?” Remembering his recent meeting with the wagon boss, he didn’t see how any woman would consider agreeing to such a marriage bond.

“No. Irene isn’t like that,” Connell said. “We’ve known each other since we were children. If she’d changed her mind, she’d tell me straight out.”

“Well, like I said, if it was me, I’d talk to Ab and Stuart. You never can tell.” Pulling his battered brown felt hat lower, he used the floppy brim to partially hide his face. “Just don’t let on I sent you, all right?”

Palming the miniature, Connell agreed. He began at the closest end of the bar for his informant’s sake, asking after Irene as he worked his way along. By the time he reached the door, the fat man named Stuart was already gone. Ab, the weasel, seemed ready to bolt as well.

Connell touched the brim of his hat. “Morning.”

“Mornin’.” The shifty-eyed little man glanced toward the open door and shuffled his feet.

“I wonder if you could tell me…?” As Connell lifted the portrait, the man looked the other way, muttered something about being late and darted out the door.

Tucking Irene’s image away in an inside pocket with her last letter, Connell followed. He was in time to see the two drovers mount up and ride. For fellows who were just honest, hardworking hands, they were acting awfully suspicious. If they didn’t know anything about Irene, why refuse to look at her picture?

He swung easily aboard Rojo and trailed them at a distance. They made a dash straight for the Tucker train, then split up. The shorter man stopped at one of the wagons to help a lone woman harness a mule team. The same woman Connell had rescued twice.

Pondering all he’d learned, he squared himself in the saddle to watch and think. It was starting to look like the key to locating Irene might lie in that wagon train. Her last letter to him had been written while she was at Fort Laramie and she had mentioned a Captain T., without actually spelling out the man’s name.

Beyond that clue, Connell had no other leads. Perhaps a kind Providence was trying to tell him something. He had planned to follow the same trail the wagons did, anyway. Why not do it as an actual member of Tucker’s train?

Once the wagons were lined out and rolling, Connell figured he’d simply ride along by the Beal rig and offer his services. He already knew the women needed a driver. If he kept his eyes and ears open, someone might inadvertently give him a clue to Irene’s whereabouts. And in the meantime, he’d be able to keep a close eye on Miss Faith and her addlebrained sister.

It never occurred to him she might turn down such a sensible offer.



Riding drag for the first hour, Connell figured he’d picked up enough trail dust in his beard to grow potatoes. Shaking it off as he cantered forward, he drew up beside Faith’s wagon. There was no sign of her sister.

He tipped his hat. “Morning.”

“Good morning.” Her glance was cursory. “If you came to judge whether or not I was capable of handling my team, you can plainly see that I am.”

“Oxen would be better for a hard crossing like this,” Connell said, trying to steer their conversation in another direction. “You could pull a much bigger wagon.”

“I grew up with two of these mules, the lead jack, Ben, and one of the jennies. The other two came cheap. A good ox cost more than I could afford. So did a Conestoga.” She eyed him curiously. “Now that we’ve discussed my livestock, why are you really here?”

“Just passing by.”

“In the middle of the plains? Really, Mr. McClain.”

“Hush. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use my name.”

“Why not?”

Connell shot a glance at the empty portion of the seat beside her. “Your sister isn’t with you?”

“Not at present. You haven’t answered my question.”

“May I come aboard?”

“No! I told you, I’m perfectly able.” She heard him mutter a string of epithets that reminded her of her father’s mood just prior to his leaving for the gold fields. Before she could protest further, Connell had urged his horse closer and stepped off onto the wagon seat as easily as if he did it every day.

His presence crowded more than her body. Her senses were full of him: his earthiness, the scent of the soap he’d obviously applied so liberally while at the fort. And his strength! Oh, my! He exuded the power, the controlled force of someone who knew his extraordinary capabilities and took care to harness them as long as he deemed necessary.

To her relief and surprise, he didn’t try to wrest the lines from her. Still, she ordered, “Get out of my wagon.”

“No.”

“It’s not fitting for you to be here or to talk to me that way.”

He lowered his voice. “If I’d come to court you, Miss Beal, you’d be right. But I have no such intentions. I’m here to speak to you man-to-man…as much as possible. So please keep your voice down and try to look relaxed.”

Staring ahead, he propped one booted foot up near the brake and laced his fingers together around his knee. “You’re going to hire me.”

“I’m what?” Faith’s voice squeaked. She was still struggling to digest his odd suggestion that they speak man-to-man.

Connell laid a finger across his lips. “Shush. Some of Tucker’s people might hear you.”

“What if they do? I have no intention of hiring anyone. I already made that quite clear.”

“I know, I know. You’re a regular mule skinner. Fine. Say that’s true. Who’s going to spell you along the way? Your sister?”

Faith pulled a face. “You know better.”

“Ab or Stuart, then?”

She scowled over at him. “How do you know them?”

“I get around.”

“They used to help me out. The last time Tucker beat poor Ben, I stood up to him and caused him to lose face, so now he doesn’t want either of them to come near me. This morning, Ab helped me harness up and the captain flogged him across the shoulders for his trouble.”

“Nice fella.”

Faith couldn’t help agreeing with the sarcastic observation. “I wish my sister didn’t really believe that.”

Taking off his hat, Connell ran his fingers through his thick hair to comb it back. “That’s the only part that’s got me buffaloed.”

“What does?” She was so caught up in their strange conversation she was almost able to forget the shooting pain in her side every time the wagon hit a rut or bounced over a depression.

“Mrs. Morse tells me Tucker’s been acting interested in your sister. I can’t figure out why. Not that she isn’t a pretty little thing.”

Faith kept her familiar twinge of sibling rivalry to herself. For as long as she could remember, people had remarked how lovely her younger sister was.

“Charity is comely,” she said.

“So’s a butterfly, but men don’t go around courting them. No. There’s got to be something else.” He pondered a bit, then shook his head and replaced his hat. “Blamed if I know. From what I’ve heard about Tucker, he only goes after women of considerable means.”

Faith gasped, nearly dropping the reins. “Oh, no! Why didn’t I think of that?”

Connell reached over and relieved her of the lines without incurring any protest. “Think of what?”

“The mining claim.”

“What claim?”

Faith shifted her body sideways. She wanted to watch her companion’s expression while revealing the family secret. “Papa’s been gold prospecting. Last we heard, he’d been quite successful. I’ll bet Charity told Tucker. She’s just foolish enough to have spoken out of turn.”

Connell’s eyebrows raised. “So that’s why you’re headed west by way of Sacramento City.”

Since they hadn’t yet come to the place where either of the trails to California branched off from the Oregon trail, she was surprised he knew. “Yes, but how…?”

“I’ve been asking around and keeping my ears open. Same as anybody could do. Chances are, Ramsey Tucker’s not the only one who’s heard about your papa’s good fortune by now, either.”

“Oh, dear.”

She grasped the wagon seat and held on tight while they jostled across an unusually rough area. The wagon creaked with the stress. Late spring rains and the passage of earlier wagons had left deep, uneven ruts. Now that drier weather had come, the roughness bound the wheel rims and put a twist on the wagon’s undercarriage that made it squeal in protest.

“I’ll work for found,” Connell offered, expounding on his original offer. “You won’t be the first traveler to need extra help on the trail. Just feed me and give me a place under the wagon to sleep and we’ll call it even.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Faith said flatly. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. It’s been over a year since my father’s last letter home. We may not even be able to locate him when we reach California. I couldn’t guarantee any pay, even then.”

“I never asked for it,” he countered gruffly.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the miniature of Irene and held it up. “See this woman? Her name is Irene Wellman. We’ve been friends since we were children. She disappeared on her way to marry me. I figure, if she was traveling with Tucker on his last trip, she probably mentioned my name plenty. That’s why I didn’t want you to use McClain. I don’t want anybody to get suspicious and shut up before they can spill useful information.”

Gently, reverently, Faith took the picture. The woman was young, in her early twenties from the look of it, and pretty in a plain sort of way.

“After my mother died,” Connell said, “I lived with Irene’s family for a few years and we grew close. She gave me that picture when we parted and we pledged to marry someday. I was sixteen and headed for the mountains to make my fortune trapping. By the time I finally sent for her, she’d decided her bounden duty was to help her father care for her invalid mother, instead.”

“What does all this have to do with me?” Faith asked.

“Irene and I kept in touch as best we could. After her parents both died she had no family left, so she finally wrote and agreed to come to California to join me. That was a year ago. Far as I can tell, she never reached Salt Lake. Nobody will admit to knowing what happened to her.”

“And you think Tucker may be responsible? Why?”

“Because he’s the most likely prospect I’ve come across, for starters. The only connections I’ve been able to come up with are the first initial of his last name and the funny way his drovers started acting when I was asking about Irene. I know it isn’t much to go on, but it’s all I have. I need this job so I’ll be in a position to learn more.”

Faith gave back the miniature, sighed and turned to face the west where heaven-knows-what awaited her. How awful not to know for sure what had happened to a loved one. Was wondering worse than knowing the worst? She thought it might be.

Her mind made up, Faith held out her hand. “All right. Shake on it,” she said. “You’re hired.”



As soon as there was an easy opportunity to do so, Connell pulled the Beal wagon out of line. Halting the team, he called to Rojo. The gelding responded by obediently trotting up.

“You’ll ride him for a while,” Connell said, climbing down and holding out his hand for Faith to follow.

“There’s no need.”

He gritted his teeth. Why did she have to be so proud? “It’s not a favor, it’s common sense,” he argued. “You don’t weigh as much as a good-size calf, the horse is making the trip anyway, and your ribs will heal faster if you don’t go bouncing around all day on that hard wagon seat.” He started to make a token effort to get back into the wagon. “But, if you don’t want to…”

“I see your point,” she said begrudgingly. When he started to reach up to grasp her by the waist then stopped himself, she reassured him with, “I can manage. My side hurts less when I move without assistance.”

Standing by the side of the horse, Connell laced his fingers together to give her a boost up, wincing as he watched the signs of pain flash across her face. You could see from her eyes that she was hurting a lot more than she’d let on. To his surprise, she swung a leg over to ride astride. Her skirt hitched up to her boot tops, showing a bit of white stocking.

Seeing his quizzical expression, Faith adjusted the fabric of her dress and gave him a half smile as she took up the reins. “I was raised riding mules like old Ben without the benefit of a saddle. A body tended to wind up in the brambles if she didn’t sit her mount sensibly.”

Without comment, Connell climbed back aboard the wagon and called to the team to move out. Nothing Faith Beal did or said should surprise him, yet it kept happening. She was an enigma: a frail-looking beauty with the strength and stubbornness of a mule and more than a few useful skills many men didn’t possess.

Connell smiled to himself. Looking at her, he’d never have guessed just how capable she was; nor did he think it wise to tell her what he thought for the present. Something inside him kept suggesting that Faith was the key to finding Irene and he tended to trust his gut feelings. Besides, she made an interesting traveling companion.

He looked over at her astride his horse and sighed. It had taken him months to acclimate himself to life among the Arapaho but he’d eventually adjusted, thanks to the love of Little Rabbit Woman. A Pawnee raid had ended her short life. He hadn’t let himself care for a woman that way since. Nor had he wanted to.

Connell cast another sidelong glance at his new boss. No God-fearing Christian woman would submit herself the way Little Rabbit Woman had when they’d been married in the Indian tradition. That was as it should be. So why was he suddenly feeling let down?



Ab and another outrider were the first to notice Faith astride a horse while someone else managed her team. She saw Ab’s shocked, nervous expression as the two men wheeled their mounts and rode rapidly away.

Pulling abreast of Connell, she called out, “I think we’re about to have trouble.”

“I saw. Ab, I recognize. Who’s the other man?”

“Calls himself Indiana. That’s all I know.”

Connell nodded. “When Tucker gets here, let me do the talking.”

“In a pig’s eye. That’s my rig. You work for me, remember?”

With a grin, Connell cocked one eyebrow and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And you needn’t pretend to be subservient, either. We both know you don’t feel that way, so stop taunting me.”

His resultant laugh was deep and mellow. “You’re a hard one to please, Miss Beal. Do you want me to be your equal or your slave? Make up your mind.”

Faith had only a few moments in which to send Connell a warning glance before Ramsey Tucker reined his lathered horse up beside the wagon. It made no difference whether or not her new driver had permission to speak for her. As far as Tucker was concerned, she may as well have been invisible.

He glared at Connell. “Who the blazes are you?”

Deferring, Connell nodded toward Faith. “Miss Beal has engaged me as her driver. Seems all her usual assistance is unavailable.”

Tucker snorted and spit. “You talk pretty fancy for a drover. Where you from?”

“Around.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re not welcome here. Get on your horse and scat.”

“Nope.”

“What’d you say?” Shouting, Tucker was reaching for the coiled bullwhip tied to his saddle by a leather thong.

Connell’s eyes met Faith’s, their message clear. While Tucker was distracted, she let the canelo fall back a bit, quietly slid the plainsman’s heavy Hawken rifle out of its scabbard and held it ready in both hands. At Connell’s nod, she tossed it to him.

His left hand closed around the barrel. He swung the long gun around in one fluid motion, laying it across his knees with the business end pointed toward Ramsey Tucker.

“No,” Connell repeated. “I’m staying.”

Faith saw terrible anger in Tucker’s face, vitriol in his eyes. She also sensed raw fear. He’d met his match in the rough-edged stranger and he knew it.

The captain’s nervous mount danced beneath him and he jerked hard on its bridle. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Folks call me Hawk,” Connell offered. “I rode night hawk for Fremont out in California. The moniker stuck.”

“We could use a good hand with the stock.” Tucker’s voice was filled with false bravado. “You take your turn as a wrangler with the other single men and you can stay.”

“Mighty neighborly of you.” Connell smiled over at him, his steady regard a warning he’d not be deterred. It wasn’t until Tucker had ridden off that the smile became truly genuine.

Faith was grinning broadly. “You’ll do.”

“I thank you, ma’am.”

“And quit with that false politeness, will you? If I’m going to call you Hawk, you’d just as well call me Faith.”

“The other respectable ladies would have my hide if I did that, and you know it. Think of all the loose talk that kind of familiarity would cause.”

“Let them talk. It’s gotten so I don’t give a fig what they say.” Faith was warming to her subject. “Every one of them has stood by while Ramsey Tucker abused my animals and ordered me around like some worthless chattel. The way I see it, you’ve earned the right to call me anything you like.” She giggled. “Did you see the look on his despicable face when I tossed you that rifle?”

“That, I did.” Connell sobered. “I should have thought to strap on my forty-four again once I left town. Did it hurt you to lift the Hawken?”

“Honestly? A bit. But it was worth every twinge to see Tucker running off like a mangy cur with his tail twixt his legs.”

“Do you have a pistol of your own?”

“Papa’s Colt Walker. Why?”

“Because I intend to drive, eat and sleep with my revolver. I want you to begin wearing yours, too, right out where everybody can see it.” With a grin he added, “I assume you have extra cap, ball and powder and know how to shoot.”

“Of course I do. What’s so funny? Did you figure I couldn’t handle a gun?”

“Not at all. I was just marveling at the fact I knew you’d say you could. I assume you’re a good shot, too.”

“You’d better believe it!”

She nudged her heels against the horse’s side to keep him in line with the front of the wagon. Whether Hawk McClain was teasing her or was dead serious, at least he’d quit assuming she was totally helpless. For a man like him, that was pretty good progress, considering they barely knew each other.

“I never shoot animals for sport,” she warned. “Only when we need food.”

There was genuine admiration in his tone when he said, “You’d make a good Indian. Little Rabbit Woman would have liked you a lot.”

“Who?”

“Little Rabbit Woman. She was my Arapaho wife,” Connell said quietly. “In another life. She died a long time ago.”

Empathy flooded Faith’s heart. “I’m so sorry.”

“I believe you actually mean that.”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because she was an Indian and I’m not. Lots of folks would hold that against me.”

“Do you think Irene will?”

Connell shook his head, a look of benevolence and calm on his face. “No. Not Irene. We haven’t seen each other in years, but I wrote and told her all about my past with the Arapaho before she made the final decision to travel to California to finally marry me.”

“I’m glad,” Faith said. “That speaks well of her.”

“Yes,” he said with a lopsided smile that made his eyes sparkle. “It speaks well of you, too, Faith Beal.”




Chapter Five


The tight bindings around Faith’s midsection were chafing in the heat something fierce by the time the wagons stopped for nooning. Normally, she and Charity shared a cooking fire with the Ledbetters and the Johnsons, but this afternoon the reception she received from the others when she approached was decidedly unfriendly.

In pain and more than a little put out, she returned to the solitude of her wagon.

Connell had finished putting the mules with the other stock being herded out to graze and was about to remove his horse’s saddle. The dejected look on Faith’s face made him stop what he was doing and go to her.

Gently, he touched her shoulder, then quickly stepped away and apologized for the undue familiarity.

“No need to worry,” Faith said with a shrug. “Thanks to the captain’s lies, everybody thinks I’m a soiled dove already.”

“A sporting woman?” Connell laughed aloud. “You?”

“You think I’m not pretty enough? I don’t blame you.”

“Hey. Hold your horses. I never meant anything of the kind. It’s simply obvious to me that you’re one of the most honest, upright women I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine how anyone would believe such idiotic rumors.”

Faith held herself proud in spite of the lingering soreness around her middle. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now that we have that settled, what’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

She sighed and made a disgusted face. “We’ll have to kindle our own fire. I’m afraid I’m no longer welcome at the others’ camps.”

“Their loss,” Connell said. He glanced at the calf-hide “possum belly” strung under the wagon to make sure it contained enough kindling and dry buffalo chips for Faith to start a fire without having to go out gathering. “So, what do you fancy? Rabbit, antelope or sage grouse?”

Raising an eyebrow, she began to smile. “You’re going hunting? Now?”

“Unless you’ve figured out a way to get the critters to jump into the pot on their own.”

“Very funny. Just bring back whatever you see and I’ll cook it, no questions asked.”

“That could be dangerous.”

She laughed. “Not with you eating out of the same kettle. Now, skedaddle. I’m hungry, too.”

Watching him mount up and ride away, she sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, adding a postscript plea for his missing bride’s safety. If Tucker was truly involved in the woman’s disappearance, no telling what had become of her. Faith hoped, for Hawk’s sake, that he was wrong about that possibility. Perhaps Irene had simply found herself a husband among the emigrants on her train and gone off to wherever that man was bound.

But what if Tucker had been her choice? Faith thought the idea quite discomfiting. And what of Charity? If there was even the slightest chance that the captain was guilty of purposeful harm, how was she going to protect someone as innocent and gullible—and stubborn—as her sister?

Faith glanced at the communal fire where Charity was assisting in the preparation of the large noon meal. It was no great surprise to see Ramsey Tucker’s horse tied to a nearby wagon.

Angry that she’d been rendered powerless by circumstances beyond her control, Faith began to lay a separate cooking fire. Her mind was whirling and darting like the eddies in a fast-moving mountain stream. Too bad she couldn’t really tie Charity up till they reached their destination, the way Anna had jokingly suggested.

Other than doing exactly that, she had no idea how she was going to save her from herself. None at all.



While her new boon companion was away, Faith managed to bake corn bread in the Dutch oven and also boil a pot of beans using side-pork for flavoring. When Connell returned, they added a spit and roasted the hare he’d bagged. All in all, the meal was as tasty as any she’d eaten in a long time, due in part, she was sure, to the good company.

Hoisting the nearly full bean pot by its wire handle, Connell stored it in a box packed with straw in the rear of the Beal wagon. Thus secured, it would ride safely and continue to cook from its own internal heat for some time, making it easy to fix supper after the long day of travel still ahead of them.

When he saw Faith grimace as she bent to clean their dishes, he went to her and crouched down by her side. “Let me do that.”

Wide-eyed, she looked at him as if he’d handed her a poke full of gold nuggets. “You? Why?”

“Because it pains you.”

“It’s woman’s work,” she said.

“A man learns to do lots of things when he’s on his own in the wilderness. Let’s make a bargain. You go hunting next time and I’ll help with your chores now.”

“Don’t be silly.” She scrubbed harder, her hands flying over the gray surface of the tinware.

“I’m not. You claim you can shoot straight.”

“I can, but…”

“But, what?” Taking the dish from her hand, he looked it over carefully. “If you rub this any cleaner, it’s liable to end up so shiny it’ll start a prairie fire.”

Faith wasn’t about to admit how much his close presence had dithered her. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

He drew a hand slowly over his beard, bringing his fingers together at his chin. “While we’re speaking of such things, do you happen to have shears and a looking glass I can borrow?”

“In my trunk in the wagon,” she said. “I’ll get them for you presently.” Hawk had fallen into the rhythm of her work and was relieving her of each piece as she finished with it. Since there had been just the two of them for dinner, there wasn’t much left to clean up. “I can trim your hair for you, if you like,” she offered. “I used to cut Papa’s.”

He eyed her mischievously. “I trust he had hair to cut?”

“Of course, he did!” Straightening stiffly, she batted him with the corner of her apron, then used it to wipe her hands.

With one eyebrow raised, he warned, “Just a trim, mind you. It’s been ten years since I had a city haircut. The back of my neck is real used to the shade.” Seeing her heading for the wagon, he followed, reaching out to stop her. “Let me get the shears for you so you don’t strain.”

Faith halted and wheeled to face him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “Look, mister. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but you’re being so solicitous you’re driving me crazy. I’ve been hurt before. I’ve healed. And I’ll do it again, with or without you.”

He tried to look chagrined when, in truth, her fortitude pleased him greatly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Catching the wry humor in his reply, she hoisted herself into the wagon and looked down at him with a smirk. “You’d best not tease me, sir. Not when you’re about to turn your barbering over to me.”

“Is that a threat, Miss Beal?”

“Take it as you like,” she offered, slipping the scissors, a wide-toothed comb and a small hand mirror into her apron pocket.

Once again, Connell tentatively held out his arms to her. Situated above him as she was, allowing his help in descending was the sensible thing to do. This time, Faith acquiesced.

“Okay. Easy,” she said, placing one hand on each of his shoulders and leaning forward.

His hands circled her slim waist, almost fully spanning it, and he lifted gently, slowly and with great care, bringing her closer, then lowering her till he felt her feet brush the toes of his boots.

Breathless at his nearness, Faith was loath to let go. She was remembering how marvelous it was to be cradled against this man’s broad chest, to be held the way a loving husband might hold his wife.

Only she and the plainsman weren’t husband and wife, nor would they ever be, she reminded herself. Not only was he betrothed to someone else, he was little more than a stranger to her!

Shocked by the wild thoughts racing through her head, Faith decided they must be sinful. She’d always been taught that no good Christian woman desired a man’s arms around her, so why did this moment seem so right, so meant to be, as if her whole life had been nothing but preparation for her extraordinary encounter with the plainsman?

Connell knew he should let go of her, yet kept granting himself one more breath of the natural fragrance of her hair, another second to plumb the wondrous depths of her dark, expressive eyes. If they had been alone, he knew he might very well have leaned down and kissed her. Then there’d be a fracas for sure, wouldn’t there?

“Did I hurt you?” he finally asked as he released her.

Faith cleared her throat. “Um, no. Not at all.”

“Good. Where do you want me?”

For some reason, her brain seemed as befuddled as it had been immediately following her accident at Fort Laramie. “Want you?”

“To sit. For my haircut.”

“Oh.” She took as deep a breath as her ribs would allow, then gestured toward one of the packing boxes they had used for chairs while they ate. “Over there. Take off your hat.”

Connell seated himself, hat in hand.

“You’d better take your shirt off, too,” she warned. “Papa always complained I got bits of hair down his neck.”

“I’ll be fine the way I am.”

Faith knew she should let him have his way, especially since his reply had sounded so gruff, yet a perverse part of her nature insisted otherwise. “You act as if I’ve never seen the top of a man’s union suit before,” she taunted. “I guess if you’re afraid to remove your shirt in my presence we’ll just have to make do as is. I won’t be responsible, though, if you itch something fierce afterwards.”

Casting her a sidelong glance that was more an irate glare than an expression of admiration for her boldness, he reached down, crossed his arms and drew the soft buckskin hunting shirt off over his head. There’d been times when he’d stripped to breechcloth and leggings while stalking buffalo or antelope, but when among those he considered the polite society of his upbringing, he’d always remained fully clothed. Till now.




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