Fire on the Plains (Western Fire) (5 page)

Forcing a smile onto her lips, Lydia bravely waved at the assembled gathering
. She didn’t want anyone to think that she harbored any regrets. Slowly, her gaze moved from face to face as she engraved onto her mind’s eye the image of the family that she loved so well, her attention momentarily arrested by the sight of Spencer comforting his wife with a husbandly kiss.

Oh, how
I envy their ease with one another.

And there, beside them, stood Mercy and Ben’s younger sister Prudence, her fifteen
-year-old face marred with tears. Young Dewey McCabe, standing to the right of her, manfully put an arm around her trembling shoulder. Watching them, Lydia’s breath caught in her throat.

Clearly,
they’re young lovers . . . why didn’t I realize it sooner?

Indeed
, everywhere that Lydia glanced there were people happily, gloriously, in love.

“Are you ready to leave?” Ben asked, his deep-pitched voice intruding on her silent reverie.

“Yes, I am now ready,” Lydia murmured, seized with a melancholia that had nothing to do with their imminent departure.

Dixie, seated between them, tugged on Ben’s jacket sleeve. “My Aunt Ginny says that Kansas is where all the Yankees live.”

“True enough,” Ben replied, snapping the reins down on the horses’ backsides. “Guess we’re just gonna have to make you an honorary Yankee. What do you say to that?”

Dixie’s
childish face beamed with wide-eyed wonder. “Can Mama be one, too?”

“Sure, why not.” Then,
with a mocking glimmer in his gray eyes, Ben said, “After all, she’s already my honorary wife.”

“When, may I ask, will we be making camp for the night?”

At hearing Lydia’s question, Ben glanced at the sun, calculating that there was still a good three hours of daylight left. “We’re not stopping anytime soon, if that’s what you’re asking. What do you think this is, a harvest hayride?”

“
Really
, Mister Strong!”

Guiltily aware that
the censure was well-deserved, Ben bit back a sarcastic riposte. Since leaving the Widow McCabe’s bed chamber the previous night, he’d been as ornery as a wounded bear. Humiliated by the incident, he’d had a long, sleepless night during which he decided that he’d rather single-handedly face Bobby Lee’s entire army than suffer through a repeat conjugal visit with his wife. Although given the brevity of the visit, what transpired between them had been anything but ‘conjugal.’

A damned travesty is what it had been.

Sweet Jesus. The woman had actually been clutching her old wedding band.

Just thinking
about it made his blood boil.

Of course, Lydia didn’t help matters any with her
starched manners and frigidly polite small talk. And it sure didn’t improve his disposition to be able to glance at his wife’s stylishly-clad bosom any time that he pleased. Seeing it as a husbandly right, Ben had availed himself of the privilege more than a few times over the course of their day’s journey. However, that was the only husbandly right he was willing to claim. Damned if he was going to share his bed with a dead man. They could just shoot him and put him out of his misery before he let that happen. While he might have need of a woman, he didn’t need one
that
badly.

Although he did need
a woman to cook, and clean, and tend to the house. With his stepfather and Ethan both dead, and his mother and two sisters now living in Missouri, he would need all the help that he could get to work the Kansas farm. If his new wife didn’t want to share his bed, she could earn her keep by running his household.

He’d satis
fy his bodily urges elsewhere.

As the wagon bumped along the rutted pike, Ben cast a glance at his new family, his foul mood improved somewhat by the sight of little Dixie
. Sound asleep, her head of flame-red curls was nestled on her mother’s lap. To his complete astonishment, he enjoyed listening to the child’s gleeful banter. Unlike her mother, Dixie was possessed of a sweet, angelic nature. Not to mention, she hadn’t once compared him to her dead father, the sainted James McCabe.

Turning his head, Ben scanned the surrounding countryside. Because this part of Missouri was known to be menaced by roaming bands of armed robbers, he’d been keeping a vigilant watch, constantly searching the landscape
for anything out of the ordinary.

And holy hell if
I didn’t just catch sight of something.

Calmly, so as not to cause undue alarm,
Ben reached under the wagon seat for his Henry rifle and slid it across his lap.

“Wake Dixie and have her climb into the back of the wagon.”

Craning her head in his direction, Lydia blinked her eyes several times, making Ben think that he’d roused her from a cat nap. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“I just spotted a pack of fast-moving riders on our right flank.”

Forcefully slapping down the reins, Ben issued a guttural command for the horses to get a move on it.

To Lydia’s credit, she immediately nudged Dixie awake, assisting her into the wagon bed. Once her daughter had taken cover between two large trunks, Lydia righted herself on the seat,
giving Ben her full attention.

“You suspect
that they might be bandits, don’t you?”

“The thought crossed my mind,”
Ben said with a terse nod.

“Perhaps we can outrun them.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s not likely to happen.”

Clearly bewildered, Lydia’s brows drew together.
“If we can’t outrun them, why are you pushing the horses to go faster?”

Again, Ben slapped
down the reins. “Because if we can get to that limestone outcrop about a half a mile yonder, we might be able to hold them at bay.”

Never one to back down from a fight,
Ben was fully prepared to fend off any armed bandits who might try to accost them. Although given that there were six riders on the horizon, their odds of winning the bout were markedly dismal.

And the odds got that much worse when, a few seconds later,
the crackle of gunfire began to reverberate.

Without thinking,
Ben shoved Lydia to the floor of the wagon seat, her black skirt gracefully ballooning around her. Clenching the wagon reins between his teeth, Ben then whipped his Henry rifle to his right shoulder and fired at will. Mad as hell, he made every shot count. As in battles past, the blood lust ran through his veins, fast and furious.

‘Charge their defenses, men! On the double
-quick!’

Lydia, surprisingly calm, managed to pull herself back onto the wagon seat. Raising her voice to be heard over the din of gunfire, she
said, “Give me the horses’ reins before you run us over that ravine up ahead.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw which ravine she referred to. Too late, he realize
d that the bandits had cleverly trapped them in a large field composed of formidable boulders and steep rocky cliffs. And while it didn’t look good, he’d been on plenty of Virginia battlefields where there’d been an even less favorable prospect.

‘
Put the bayonet to ‘em! Let those Rebs have a taste of Union steel!’

Tucking the Henry rifle under his arm, Ben snatched the reins out of his mouth, placing them in Lydia
’s gloved hands.

“Don’t let the horses veer from the road. It’ll be certain death, if you do.”

Lydia nodded grimly, bracing herself against the back of the wagon seat as she endeavored to control the horses. Somewhere along the line, his fashionably dressed wife had learned how to drive like a teamster.

With both hands now free, Ben grabbed hold of the wagon frame and hoisted himself into a standing position. Steadying the barrel of his rifle on the
wagon bow, he took careful aim before firing.

In the next instant, o
ne of the riders clutched his arm, his horse quickly falling away from the pack.

‘
Give the Rebel sonsofbitches hell!’

Again,
Ben squeezed the trigger, this time blowing a man clear out of the saddle.

‘
Rally, men! Keep charging ‘em’

His finger poised on the trigger,
Ben was about to take out the lead rider when, suddenly, the wagon came to a shuddering halt. Grabbing hold of the wooden wagon frame, he narrowly prevented himself from being upended.

Still standing, he glared at Lydia. “What’s the matter with you, woman? Are you trying to get us all killed?”

Lydia wordlessly raised her arm and pointed. Inclining his head, Ben could see that they were parked several yards from a dried-out river canyon, the drop to the bottom a good forty feet.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, her face flushed with heightened color. “
I was unable to keep the horses on the roadway.”

Ben’s gaze quickly ricocheted from side
-to-side. How it happened, he wasn’t entirely certain, but they were several hundred yards from the road with a steep river ravine to one side of them and a grove of tightly clustered trees on the other. A dead man’s snare. And with the gang of riders just off their rear flank, and closing in fast, they didn’t have time to make a beeline for the trees.

“Quick! Grab Dixie out of the back,” Ben ordere
d as he leaped from the wagon.

Running around the Conestoga, he reached Lydia’s side just as she lifted Dixie over the lip of the wagon bed.
With the Henry rifle braced between his knees, he snatched the child in one arm and swung Lydia to the ground with the other.

At catching sight of the terrified look on Lydia’s face,
Ben grazed his fingertips across his wife’s flushed cheeks. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

“I know that you won’t.”

Lydia’s assertion spurred him into action. Grabbing hold of his rifle, Ben hustled them toward the ravine, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder – quick enough to see that they had only scant seconds left.

When they reached the edge of the rocky cliff, he came to a full stop, carefully setting Dixie on her feet. Although the child’s eyes were flooded with
unshed tears, she remained stoic, her valor tugging at Ben’s heart.

Having positioned Lydia and Dixie
directly behind him, Ben hoisted the Henry rifle to his shoulder, prepared to meet the enemy.

“What are you doing?” Lydia
husked in a voice fraught with fear.

“With the ravine to our backs, they can’t maneuver around me. And if they can’t get around me, they can’t get to you or Dixie. So no matter what happens,
I want the two of you to stay to the rear of me. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” He was taking a calculated risk, to be sure, but Ben didn’t see any other way to protect them.

A moment later, they were enveloped in a thick cloud of dust, four lathered horses coming to a halt a few feet from where they stood.

A lanky man leaned forward in his saddle, a rabid smile on his face.

“I’m Frank James.” With a raised pistol he gestured to the rider beside him. “This is my brother Jesse. And you, mister, are a dead man.”

Undaunted, Ben Strong stood his ground.
“That may be true, but I guarantee that I won’t be the only dead man to litter the ground before all is said and done.”

“Put down the rifle,” the elder James groused, his revolver aimed menacingly at Ben’s heart. “You ain’t got a whore’s chance in heaven.”

The terse exchange between Ben and the pistol brandishing outlaw caused Lydia’s legs to quake beneath her skirts. Inundated with a dread fear, she bit down on her lower lip. Then, without thinking, she balled a hand in the linen fabric of Ben’s shirt.

Timidly peering over her husband’s shoulder, Lydia saw that th
ere were four bandits all told, each of them armed to the teeth. Although the war had ended nearly two months ago, three of the bandits wore gray tunics; while a third gunman had a Confederate forage cap atop his head.

The younger of the James’ brothers pointed to the dark blue welt of fabric
that trimmed the outer leg of Ben’s uniform trousers. “Them’s Yankee infantry britches, ain’t they?”

Ben inched his rifle a notch higher. “You got a problem with that?”

“Hell, everybody knows that you blue-bellied Yanks can’t shoot your way out of a wet paper bag.” The boyish-looking thug waved a loaded pistol in Ben’s direction, evidently thinking that he could intimidate him into agreement.

He was soon proved wrong.

“Having been an infantry sharpshooter, I can blast my way out of any bag,” Ben said impassively, his low-pitched voice devoid of fear. “I can also take out at least two of you southern misfits before you have a chance to even drop me. Care for a demonstration?”

The question went unanswered.

“You gotta admit, that was some mighty fine shootin’ he did back there,” one of the other bandits nervously remarked, his eyes darting between Ben and the elder James brother. “He hit Clancy clean through the heart. And at four hundred yards, to boot.”

“Well he might be one helluva marksman, but this here Yankee is still outnumbered four to one.”

Frank James’ laconic remark sent a chill down Lydia’s spine. Ben spine’s, as well. Pressed as close as she was to her husband’s backside, she felt the imperceptible tightening of his muscles.

Oh, dear Lord, please deliver us from this
—

“Mama and I are honorary Yankees,” Dixie unexpectedly chirped, poking her cur
ly head around Ben’s left hip.

“Dixie, honey
. Shh!” Lydia tried, unsuccessfully, to pull her precocious daughter closer to her side. With the rifle hoisted to his shoulder, Ben could offer no assistance.

Several of the bandits
guffawed, amused by the antic.

“Look at them red curls,” one of the gunman remarked, a grin plastered on his whiskered face.

“What’s your name, lil’ darling?” another highwayman asked.

“Elizabeth Mary McCabe,”
Lydia’s daughter readily replied. “But everyone calls me Dixie.”

“McCabe, huh?” Frank James carefully eyed the three of them. “
Are you any relation to Spencer McCabe?”

The question hit Lydia with a burst of hopeful expectation. It should have occurred to her sooner that these men, former rebel bushwhackers in all likelihood, might be acquainted with Spencer. Although he rarely spoke of it, during the war her
former brother-in-law had ridden with some of Missouri’s most notorious marauders.

“Spencer McCabe is my
husband’s brother-in-law, his sister having recently wed Spencer,” Lydia informed the bandit leader.

“Keep quiet,” Ben rasped out of the corner of his mouth. “I’ll not have my wife conversing with a pack of outlaws.”

The elder James brother ignored the insult. Instead, he shoved his hat off his forehead with his pistol barrel. “Spence McCabe married a Yankee? Lord Almighty, the times they are a changin’.”

“Hey,
do you remember that day at Elkins Creek when Spence saved both our hides?”

Frank James answered his brother with a slow nod of the head. “As I recall, I never did have a chance to repay the favor.” He pursed his lips as he mulled over
this latest turn of events. Then, much to Lydia’s surprise, he uncocked his pistol and shoved it into his holster. “All right, get on with you,” he ordered brusquely, jutting his chin in Ben’s direction.

“You mean you’re letting ‘em go?” his younger brother asked, an incredulous look on his face. “But he killed Clancy. Not to mention, he put a nice size hole in Bill Dobbs right arm.”

“Yeah, and he’s going to put a ‘nice size hole’ through two of us if we keep standing around yammering about it.” Frank James wrapped his reins around a gloved fist. With the other hand, he tipped his hat at Lydia. “Give my regards to Spence the next time you see him.”

“It will be my pleasure, Mister James.” Lydia had learned
long ago that a civil tongue could see one through most of life’s difficulties. Even when those difficulties involved a gang of Missouri outlaws.

Without a backward glance, the four horsemen took off riding. Once they were out of sight, Ben finally relaxed his guard, lowering the Henry rifle from his shoulder.

Belatedly realizing that she still clutched the back of his shirt, Lydia released the linen fabric, relief washing over her in waves. Bending slightly, she hugged Dixie to her side, the child’s innocent remarks having been the catalyst that brought about the final cessation of tensions.

Ben, his shoulders angrily hunched, walked over to the parked wagon. For some reason, one
that she could not fathom, he seemed annoyed by the peaceful outcome.

“Given that you were greatly outnumbered, surely you wouldn’t have opened fire on those men?”

As he reached for a wooden box stowed under the jockey seat, Ben said, “If I’d had me some more ammunition, I would have.”

Lydia’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief. “Do you mean to say that you had no bullets in your rifle?”

“Yep, that’s what I’m saying.” Flipping open the ammunition box, her husband grabbed a handful of cartridges.

Watching him load his weapon, Lydia’s earlier relief congealed into an emotion
that she was not accustomed to feeling – that of stone cold fury.

“How dare you jeopardize my daughter’s life with your arrogant posturing!”

Finished reloading, Ben slammed the lid on the ammunition box. “In case you didn’t notice, it was my ‘arrogant posturing’, along with the mention of your brother-in-law’s name, that saved your stylishly-clad backside. You sure have one helluva way of showing your appreciation.”

“What I would appreciate
, sir, is you watching your foul mouth.”

Somewhat sheepishly, Ben glanced at Dixie. “I’m sorry about the rough language,” he muttered, shoving both his rifle and the ammunition box under the wagon seat. “Although, curse words aside, I don’t see what you’re getting so riled about.”

“Did it not occur to you, Mister Strong, that those men may not have been taken in by your foolish bravado? What if they’d been aware of the fact that you had no bullets left? What then?”

“Those fellas didn’t look like the type to keep count of how many bullets
had been fired.”

“But how could you know
that for certain?”

“I grant you, it was a calculated risk.”

“Well, see that it doesn’t happen again.” Exasperated, by his insouciance, Lydia’s voice trembled with rage. “While you may be accustomed to taking such risks with your own life, I will not permit you to behave so recklessly with my life, and especially that of my daughter. Is that understood?”

Ben
stared at her, a guarded look in his gray eyes.

“Just get on the wagon,” he muttered, refusing to answer her.

Knowing that she’d been stalemated, Lydia assisted Dixie into the back of the wagon. She was about to grab hold of the wagon bow in order to hoist herself upward when Ben wordlessly grasped her around the waist, effortlessly lifting her onto the seat. With a noticeably unsteady hand, Lydia smoothed her skirt into place.

“Would it be too much to ask if we could soon make evening camp?” she inquired once Ben
had seated himself.

Her husband unwrapped the horses’ reins from around the brake handle. “It would.”

With that said, he snapped down the reins.

“How about naming him General Lee?”

Ben peered at the sorrel-colored horse in question, his brow contemplatively furrowed. “Well, if he’s to be called General Lee, and the bay is General Jackson, then I think it’s only fair that the other two horses are respectively named General Grant and General Sherman. Agreed?”

Dixie looked to her mother for confirmation. “What do you think, Mama?”

Glancing at the team of horses hobbled near their encamped wagon, Lydia nodded her assent. “I believe that it is a fair and fitting compromise.”

Her daughter beamed a smile at both her and Ben, not the least bit
prejudicial in her affections.

Over the course of their tiring first day’s journey, Lydia had been pleasantly surprised by the easy rapport between Dixie and her new husband. It made her realize, albeit with some measure of guilt, that
her daughter had been too long without a father in her life. Moreover, as she’d watched and listened to Ben and Dixie amiably interact, it’d made her hopeful that there might be a chance yet for her fledgling marriage to succeed.

Granted
, she’d been of a decidedly different mindset after their harrowing run-in with the James gang. Quite honestly, Lydia didn’t know who she’d been more afraid of – her own husband or those dangerous bandits.

As had happened numerous times since,
Lydia again pondered Ben’s fierce, belligerent reaction. Like a gladiator of old, he’d shown no weakness, no fear, as if he’d been magically transformed into a different man altogether. A man with a single-minded purpose – kill or be killed.

And the notion did not sit well with her.

Although to give her new husband his due, she knew that Ben would have freely given his own life to save her and Dixie. Still, she couldn’t dismiss the fact that his was a bravery with little regard for the sanctity of human life.

Purposefully shoving the disturbing thought aside, Lydia turned to her daughter. “The time has come to retire for the evening. Say goodnight to Mister Strong.”

Dixie dutifully rose from where she’d been sitting at the evening campfire. Attired in her ankle-length nightdress, she looked like a dainty, pint-sized ghost. To Lydia’s utter surprise, she stepped over to where Ben sat on a wooden camp chair, looped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Goodnight, Mister Strong.”

Her big rugged husband appeared downright flustered.

“
Be sure to get a good night’s sleep, young lady. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” Ben said, taking a moment to smooth a red curl from Dixie’s cheek.

Clearly reluctant to leave just yet, Dixie impishly smiled at him. “How many more days before we get to your farm in Kansas?”

“Oh, six or seven, I’d say.”

“That’s a long time. Do you think I could help you drive the wagon?”

Ben cocked his head to one side. Running a hand over his cleanly-shaven cheek, he thoughtfully considered Dixie’s request. “Hmm, it’s possible.” He turned to Lydia, unexpectedly including her in the conversation. “What do you think? Should we let her assist with piloting the wagon?”

Lydia didn’t know which
was more astounding: the fact that Ben had asked her opinion or that he’d used the word ‘we’ in connection with the two of them.
We
as in mother and father. Man and wife.

“I don’t see why not. Provided that she wear
s her gloves,” Lydia answered. “It would never do for a lady, even an eight-year-old one, to have her hands marred with blisters.”

Hearing the verdict
, Dixie gleefully clapped her hands together. “Oh, Mister Strong, I can’t wait until tomorrow,” she enthused, her cheeks flushed with cherubim color.