Home by Morning (10 page)

“Lillie!” Pru ran down the walk.

At a nod from the senator, the carriage pulled away. High-pitched shrieks sounded from inside.

“No! Stop!” Waving frantically, Pru ran toward the carriage, but the coachman flicked the whip and sent the horses faster. Panting, she turned to the two men by the curb. “What's happening? Where are they taking her?”

Marsh glanced at the house and the people crowding the open doorway. “Calm yourself, Miss Lincoln. You're making a scene.”

“Why are you doing this?” she cried, her voice shrill with tears. “Where are you sending her?”

“To my school, Miss Lincoln,” the senator said. “For her own good.”

“Her own good? What's good for her is to be with me! You have no right!”

“I have every right.” Face flushed with anger, the senator said to Marsh, “I was afraid this would happen. These people are so excitable.”

“
These
people?” Pru charged toward him. “You stole my—”

Marsh moved forward to block her way. “Miss Lincoln!”

“Stole your what?” The senator's voice was mild, but ice crackled in those cold eyes. “She's not your daughter, Miss Lincoln. She's not kin to you at all. By her own admission, she's an orphan and, as such, is under the protection of the State of Indiana.”

“You can't—”

Marsh gripped her shoulder. Hard. She twisted, trying to break his hold. “Let me go! You can't do this! You'll be sorry for this! Both of you!”

Marsh's fingers dug deeper. “Go back inside now, Senator. I'll handle this.”

Unable to pull from Marsh's grip, Pru stood shaking, breath rasping in her throat, her mind in tatters.

As soon as the door closed behind the senator and the front porch gawkers, Marsh shoved Pru away with an expression of disgust. “Do be quiet, Miss Lincoln. All this weeping and wailing won't get the pickaninny back.”

Teeth bared, Pru ran at him, hands curled like claws.

Marsh caught her wrists. Gave her a hard shake. “But I can. I can bring her back.”

She stilled. “Y-You can?”

“I can and I will.” Releasing her arms, he smoothed his waistcoat as though brushing away any filth her nearness might have left on the silk brocade. That predator's smile thinned his pink lips. “Just as soon as you board the train for Washington, I'll make sure she's released.”

*   *   *

Thomas awoke on his back, a boot planted on his chest. He reached up to push it off, then froze when he heard the click of a hammer being cocked.

He slumped back, his head spinning, tasting blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek.

“Where's the other one?” the man holding the gun asked.

Thomas cursed him in Cheyenne.

The barrel of the revolver cracked against his cheekbone. More blood dripped down into his ear.

“In English. You do know how to speak English, don't you, redskin?”

When he did not answer, the man leaned down and rested his forearm across the knee of the leg propped on Thomas's chest. “Now I can start shooting off parts of you,” he said in a friendly tone. “Or you can answer me.”

“What do you want to know,
ve'ho'e
?”

The spinning had slowed. As his head cleared, strength flowed back into Thomas's arms and legs. Muscles flexed in readiness. Soon, he would kill this man. But first he would find out who had sent him after them.

The tip of the gun barrel poked his nose. “I'm asking for the last time, redskin. Where's the other one?”

“He ran off. Who sent you?”

The man smiled, showing stained teeth and a wad of tobacco between his cheek and gums. “Someone who didn't want you getting to Westfield, I'd guess.”

“A man named Marsh?”

“Maybe.” Another poke with the gun. “Ran off where?”

“Into the brush.”

Muttering, the man looked around.

He was not a big man. He did not wear the clothes of one who worked outside for his money, and his hands looked soft. The hands of a banker. Or maybe a gambler.

“I don't see him. What's he doing? Just hiding in there?”

Thomas filled his lungs and readied his body for the fight to come. “He is hurt.” He tipped his head toward the brambles. “He crawled over there.”

When the man turned his head to look, Thomas grabbed the ankle of the foot on his chest and pulled hard in one direction, and at the same time, drove the heel of his other hand into the side of the man's knee from the other direction.

Something snapped. The gun fell. Screaming, the man grabbed at his leg and toppled sideways. By the time he hit the ground, Thomas was on top of him, his knife at his throat.

Silence, except for the rasp of their breathing.

Thomas watched blood from the cut on his temple drip onto the man's face, leaving ribbons of red across his cheek. Blue eyes, wide with shock and pain, stared back at him, tears pooling in the corners.

“Oh, Jesus . . .”

“
Ma'heo'o
cannot help you now. Who sent you?”

“L-Like you said. Marsh.”

“He told you to kill us?”

“If we had to. Just so you didn't come back.”

At a sound, Thomas looked back to see Mose Solomon crawling out of the brambles, his face marked by thorns, one hand clamped to the blood-soaked poncho over his side.

The man on the ground looked frantically over at him. “Help me! Don't let him kill me!”

Thomas jiggled the knife to regain his attention. “Will you go back and tell Marsh that we still live?”

“No! No, I swear it!”

Thomas studied him for the space of a heartbeat. Then two. “I do not believe you,” he said, and drove the knife down.

When the twitching stopped, he wiped the blade clean on the man's shirt and slipped his knife into the sheath at his back. He turned to find Mose Solomon regarding him with wide, fearful eyes. “He dead?”

Thomas did not bother to answer. “How bad are you hurt?”

“N-Not too bad. Bullet go clean through. Why you kill him?”

“So he will not tell anyone where you are, or who the people are who helped you.” As he spoke, Thomas ripped off pieces of the dead man's shirt, folded them into pads and pressed them against the holes in the black man's side.

“I ain't never seen so much blood. Ain't never killed a white man, neither.”

“You did not kill this one. I did.” To distract Mose while he tore more strips to wrap around the black man's belly, Thomas asked what he would do when he reached Canada.

“Blacksmith. Workin' the forge and poundin' iron all I knows how to do.”

“Will there be people there to help you?”

Mose winced as Thomas tied off the bandage holding the pads in place. “Cousin and his wife.”

“That is good.” Thomas rose. “
To'estse.
Get up. Gather the guns while I find our horses. We must hurry to reach the Quakers before full light.”

Once he'd collected all four horses, Thomas stripped those belonging to the dead men and drove them into the brush. As he helped Mose Solomon onto the sorrel, the black man stared down at the bodies sprawled on the ground.

“We just gonna leave them? Not even bury them?”

“Do you have a shovel?”

“No.”

“Then we cannot bury them. The coyotes will find them soon enough.”

They reached the barn on the outskirts of Westfield just as the town was awakening. Several plain-dressed men were there to meet them. When the Quakers saw their injuries, they sent for a healer and rushed Thomas and Mose inside the barn to a special room built beneath one of the stalls.

An old woman with a medicine basket came down the ladder. While she tended their wounds, the men muttered among themselves. After a moment, the leader of the group, an older man with a round belly, stepped forward, his hands on his hips. “Thee will explain to us how this happened.”

Thomas told them about the ambush and the two dead men in the woods.

It upset them. Some wanted to put Mose out. Others argued against it. Thomas knew Quakers were what the whites called pacifists, which meant they would not kill or fight. He did not understand that, but he was glad when they finally agreed to let Mose stay until he was well enough to move on.

His own injuries were nothing. While the woman put salve on the bullet crease and the cuts on his cheekbone and temple, the men argued about what to do with the bodies in the woods. They were afraid if they were found, it would bring suspicion down on them and their work with the Underground Railroad.

“Do thee know who sent these men after thee?” a man asked.

Thomas nodded. “A man named Marsh. But I think he does not care as much about the railroad or Mose Solomon as he does about killing me.”

“Yet thee bring this evil into our midst?”

Thomas did not respond. It was always a waste of his time to argue with white people.

“Then we have no choice,” round belly decided. “Thee will show us where these bodies are and we will bury them as is proper.”

“I cannot stay to help you,” Thomas said. “I am already late getting back. And I will need a fresh horse.”

An hour later, Thomas left the Quakers and their shovels in the woods and headed back to Indianapolis. As the miles passed beneath the drumming hooves of his horse, one thought kept circling in his mind.

If Marsh was desperate enough to send gunmen after him and Mose Solomon, what might he do to Prudence and Lillian?

P
ru stared numbly at the wall beside the bed in her hotel room. She was too empty to cry anymore. Too weary to check her watch again, as she had so many times over the last hours. Too distraught to think of a way out of this mess.

Brother had sat with her while they waited for Thomas. But after midnight came and went with no sign of him, she sent the reverend to his own room, telling him they would do the ceremony in the morning before they took the signed license to the courthouse.

This is what my blind self-importance has done to all of us.

She thought she could change the world with a slate and a primer. Instead, she had endangered all she held dear. If something had happened to Thomas . . .

She trembled with despair.

He should have been back hours ago. She prayed he had simply wandered off as he often did when upset, or had stayed away to give them both time to think. But hope was beginning to fray.

Be alive . . . please be alive.

With a hitching sigh, she rolled onto her back. Every part of her body felt brittle and withered, drained of even the energy to rise from her bed and change out of her wrinkled dress.

The last words Marsh spoke to her before he sent her away
now echoed through her mind.
If you want to see the girl again, be at the depot at eleven o'clock. As soon as you step on the train, she'll be released.

Released? Had they locked her in a cage?

Oh, Lillie . . .

How frightened she must be, trapped in blindness among strangers. Did she think everyone had abandoned her?

Feeling herself sinking into a downward spiral again, Pru made herself sit up, hoping that would pull her mind out of the dark desolation that gripped her. But all she could think about was how alone she felt.

Images of Heartbreak Creek—the only home she had now—flitted through her mind. In her rush to change the world, she felt like she'd left the better part of herself behind.

She had missed the arrival of Whitney, her sister's first child. And later, the triumphant rebirth of Heartbreak Creek when the railroad finally came through. She hadn't been there to see Ash and Maddie off to Scotland and their new roles as the earl and countess of Kirkwell, nor had she been there to welcome the newcomers who had chosen her town as their home.

Her town.
Would she even recognize it anymore?

The schoolhouse she had helped build was probably open and running by now. The new depot, too. Edwina's letters said new houses were cropping up everywhere, and soon, construction of a grand new hotel would start in the canyon, not far from the hot spring where she had wept in Thomas's arms and told him she was leaving.

How could she have thought helping strangers was more important than all the dear friends she had left behind?

Realizing she was starting to cry again, she swiped a hand over her eyes and rose from the bed. It wasn't too late. She could go back and start over again . . . as long as she had Thomas and Lillie by her side.

But first she had to fix this mess she'd made. Find a way to thwart Marsh, but still keep Lillie and Thomas safe.

Energized by desperation, she began to pace, plans forming in her mind.

She would go to the depot as Marsh instructed. Assuming Thomas would return before the train left, she would have him
wait out of sight by the platform for Lillie. The moment the child arrived, Pru would signal Thomas to get his daughter, and then she would go to them. Marsh wouldn't dare try to stop her with so many people watching. And if he did try, Thomas would be there to protect them until the train taking Marsh to Washington departed. Then they'd be free.

The promise of it brought a sob to her throat.

Free to return to Heartbreak Creek.

Free to live in a tipi if she must.

Free to build a new life with Lillie and the man she loved.

“Why do you weep,
Eho'nehevehohtse
?”

With a cry, she whirled, saw Thomas standing behind her, and threw herself against him. “You're back! Thank God! I've been so worried. I thought you weren't coming. Oh, Thomas, the most terrible thing has happened!”

“Ssh. I am here now. All is well.”

She drew back. “No! No, it's not! They've taken Lillie—” Words deserted her when she saw the bloodstains on his jacket, the cut on his cheek, the bruise darkening the side of his face. “My God, Thomas, what happened to you?”

*   *   *

Thomas wanted to ask her the same thing. She looked broken, a shadow of his beautiful Prudence. Then her words reached past his shock. “
Katse'e
is gone?”

“Marsh took her. I tried to stop him, but . . .” Suddenly words tumbled out of her so fast he could hardly keep up. “We were at the fund-raiser. Everything was fine until it was time for me to give my speech. Marsh said he would watch Lillie. I know I shouldn't have let him, but Brother was introducing me and everyone was waiting and—”

Thomas gripped her shoulders. “Breathe, Prudence. Slow down so I can understand you.” It was hard to keep his voice calm. Hard to keep from breaking something. Tearing something apart with his hands. But before he could go after Marsh, he needed to know what had happened and where Lillian was.

“They took her, Thomas. Marsh and Senator Brooks took her while I was giving my speech. I tried to keep an eye on her, but there were so many people, and it wasn't until my speech was over that I realized they had her. I ran after them, but the
carriage was already pulling away.” Her voice broke. “Thomas, they've locked her in that asylum.”

He started for the door.

“No!” She grabbed his arm. “Marsh said he would bring her back.”

He stopped. “When? And why did he take her at all?”

“To make me behave. If I get on the train with him tomorrow, he promises he'll have her brought back.”

He felt sick. “And you agreed to this,
Eho'nehevehohtse
?”

“Temporarily. Sit.” Still holding his arm, she pulled him down onto the edge of the bed. “I think we can save Lillie and outsmart Marsh at the same time. But first, we'll have to marry so we can adopt her.”

Marry?

It was not a bad plan, he realized, once his mind stopped spinning and she had explained what they would do. Not as final as his plan would have been, but not as messy, either. And although it bothered him that her need to protect Lillian was what had finally convinced her to take him to husband, he did not want to argue with her about it tonight. Tonight, he only wanted to hold her in his arms and forget the fear that had chased him all the way from Westfield.

“So don't show yourself at the depot until Lillie arrives,” she finished. “I'll be standing with Marsh beside the train. Once I see you have her, I'll just walk away. He won't try to stop me with a crowd of people around.”

“If he was dead, he could not stop you, either.”
And then you would not feel you were forced to be my wife.
But he did not have the courage to say that out loud. “What will stop him from stealing her again?” he asked instead.

“You.” She gave a grim smile.

Thomas did not respond, his mind moving on to other plans.

She must have read his silence as reluctance. “We'll be free, Thomas. Lillie will be safe and Marsh won't have any hold over us. And as soon as the eastbound leaves, we'll get on the first train headed west and—”

“No.” He held up a hand. “We will not speak of that now.”

“But I—”

“No, Prudence. Not tonight.” Before she could question him, he rose and walked to the bureau. He did not want to hear
grand plans or listen to more promises. He did not want talk at all. Hoping to avoid it, he poured water into the bowl for washing, then shrugged out of his coat.

“Thomas, is that blood on your shirt? How badly are you hurt?”

“It is nothing.”

He saw her face reflected in the mirror above the bureau and knew by her expression that the harshness of his tone had hurt her. But how could he tell her he did not want to talk because he was afraid of what she might say? If she made promises tonight, then changed her mind about marrying him and got on the train tomorrow . . . that would be the end of it, and he was not ready for that.

In silence, he pulled his shirt over his head. He felt her watching as he splashed cold water on his face and neck and chest then wiped it away with his shirt.

One more night. That was all he wanted. If there were to be no more tomorrows for them, he wanted at least this one last night with her.

But his pride would not let him say that, or admit his weakness for this woman who had walked away from him so many times.

Weary from his long ride, he stood at the bureau, head drooping, hands braced on the wooden top. He watched water drip from his hair and felt the silence press around him.
Oh, Prudence. How has it come to this?

After a moment, he heard her rise from the bed.

Lifting his gaze, he watched in the mirror as she came up behind him and slid her arms around his waist. Her touch sent a shiver through him, and he closed his eyes so she would not see the need in his eyes.

“Thomas . . .”

His body tensed when he felt the warm smoothness of her cheek against his back, the soft press of her breasts against his damp skin. A hot trail of silent tears rolled down his spine, and something shifted inside.

“I've made such a muddle of things, haven't I, Thomas? Will you ever forgive me?”

The ice around his heart cracked. Resolve shattered at his feet. With a groan, he turned and pulled her into his arms. He couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop the burning behind his eyes.

“
Heme'oone
,” he whispered in a rough voice. “I will always forgive you. But tonight, we will not speak of the troubles between us. Tonight, I only want to hold you and show you how much I have missed you. Can we do that?”

She leaned back to look into his eyes. Tears shimmered in the lamplight. Her lips trembled. He could see that his earlier words still hurt her, yet the hand that cupped his unmarked cheek was gentle. “Will you at least tell me if Mose Solomon is all right?”

Pleased to speak of less emotional things, he began undoing the buttons down the front of her dress. “He was shot, too, but he will be safe with the Quakers until he recovers.”

She stiffened. “Shot,
too
? You were shot? Why didn't you tell me? How bad—”

“I am fine,” he cut in. Then, before she could ask more questions, he hurried on. “Marsh sent men to stop us. They will not return to tell him they failed. Why do you wear clothes with so many buttons?”

“But how did Marsh know where you were going?”

He undid the last button, then slid the dress over her shoulders and down her hips. “Chester Hogan told him, I think. Step out.”

She stepped out. He could see her legs were shaking, and kept a hand on her hip to steady her. It felt warm and soft beneath his palm. Her scent rose up, inflaming his senses.

“Why would Chester do that?”

“Fear. He has the courage of a mouse.” He finished loosening the tabs on her petticoats, let them fall, then began on the laces down the front of her corset, a foolish thing women wore to push their bodies into unnatural shapes. “I have thought about your plan,
Eho'nehevehohtse
, and I will do as you say. But Marsh must not know I still live until
Katse'e
is safe.” He tossed the corset aside. “Then you will decide if you come to us or get on the train.”

“But I've already de—”

“No. We will speak no more of it.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he leaned down to kiss the tear tracks from her cheeks. “The time for words is past.” With suddenly clumsy hands, he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers. Another reason he preferred his Cheyenne clothes. They were much easier to get out of. “It is time for you to show me that you missed me, too.”

He let the trousers fall. “And you will start by taking off your shift.”

“Will I?”

“Yes,
Eho'nehevehohtse.
You will.”

*   *   *

He stood before her, a proud, battered warrior whose strong, sleek body bore a patchwork of scars: twin ridges across his chest from the Sun Dance ceremony—a puckered line down his muscular thigh from the wound he'd taken when Lone Tree's men abducted her—the dent from a bullet here, a knife slash there. The first time she had seen them, she had been horrified.

“Scars are marks of courage,” he had told her when she had finally allowed him to see her own scars. “They tell what we have endured. Only survivors wear them.”

With those words, he had helped her accept the senseless act that had left her disfigured. But even now, she had a hard time accepting his scars and the brutality that had caused them. How hard his life must have been.

He misread her hesitancy. “Put your worries behind you, Prudence. Think only of me.”

“I'm not worried. I'm enjoying the view.” Her shift fluttered to her feet.

Laughing, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, then stretched out beside her.

The feel of his lips across her face, her scars, her breasts, sent her mind into breathless turmoil. His magical hands awakened her body to a trembling need. How easily he called her to surrender.

“You are eager,
Eho'nehevehohtse
,” he whispered against her quivering abdomen, his thick, dark hair framing his face.

“Yes.”

“I will make you even more eager.” And dipping his head, he did just that.

She twisted, mouth open, fingers tangling in his hair, until finally she could take no more. Pulling him up, she put her open mouth against his, putting into that one point of contact all the need and love and emotion she had locked away during the lonely months apart from him.