Heartbreak Creek (35 page)

“How about I do better right now? You have the room key Lucinda gave you, don’t you?”

Her lips twitched. “Don’t be nasty.”

“I thought you liked when I was nasty.”

“The point is, Declan, that before you go gallivanting off taking foolish risks, you think about me and the children and Amos and Chick and your dog and all the people in this town who love and depend on you.”

“We need for you to come back. With or without Pru.”

His amusement faded when he saw her blinking hard. “I’ll come back, Ed. Always.”

“You’d better.”

“I will.”

“Now.” When he didn’t respond, she peered up at him, her eyes wet and red-rimmed. “Now would be a good time to say that you love me.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Now behave.” Lifting a hand, she waggled her fingers at the two figures coming down the stairs. “Morning, Lieutenant Guthrie, Sergeant Quinlan. Declan’s going with you. Isn’t that grand?”

Lieutenant Guthrie read his new orders, muttered something unkind about the commander, then told Quinlan to roust out the men. “Boot to boot. Twenty minutes, outside the livery.” Turning back to Declan, he asked, “Figure it’s the same war party that hit your place and Parker’s?”

“I do.”

“Hell, Sheriff—sorry, ma’am—what’d you do to that Indian?”

“My duty.”

“Well, now he’s mine, damn it all—sorry again, ma’am. Let’s get going then.”

T
he best way to catch up with Pru was to catch up with Thomas—no one knew this country as well as he did. That in mind, Declan led Guthrie and his men along the edge of the Ragged Mountains, past the gorge, then north into the Ruby Range and prime summer hunting grounds. After the Sand Creek Massacre six years ago, remnants of Thomas’s old tribe had settled up there on an aspen and spruce bench bordering a fast-moving creek. Declan figured if Thomas had gone there first, maybe someone in the village would know where the warrior had headed from there.

It was hard going up steep trails and over occasional hardcrusted patches of icy snow. As they passed beneath the Raggeds, slabs of polished rock soared upward, ending in the jagged, sharpedged silhouette that had earned the range its name, while below them, barely heard over the clatter of hooves on the rocky trail, the roar of Anthracite Creek through Dark Canyon sounded like a continuous roll of distant thunder.

Declan tried to keep his breathing even. The higher they climbed, the more often they had to stop to allow the horses to blow, and even Declan found his lungs pumping harder than usual in the thin air. But that could have been fear. He hated these high trails. Even so, with the cool weather, good forage for the horses where they camped, and plentiful game, they made good time.

Two days after leaving Heartbreak Creek they topped a low ridge above a narrow valley and saw an Indian encampment strung out along a shallow, rocky creek a quarter mile away.

Declan reined in. “How do you want to do this?” he asked Guthrie.

“I’m thinking.” The lieutenant punctuated that with a stream of tobacco juice, then reached into the
sabretache
case hanging off his sword belt and pulled out a brass telescope. He peered through it at the village, then handed it to Declan. “Eleven tipis, less than two dozen horses. Mostly women and children. A poor group.”

Hearing that, Declan was glad of the deer he’d shot earlier and strapped behind his saddle. With so many warriors lost in the Indian wars, he figured keeping a tribe fed would be a harder task than usual, and maybe the gift of fresh meat would be his entry into the village.

He scanned with the scope but didn’t see Thomas’s horse, which told him Lone Tree probably wasn’t in the village, either. Yet he thought he recognized the markings on a tipi in the center of the encampment. After Sally had disappeared, he and Thomas had come through here and had spoken with an elder—Spotted Horse, if he remembered right—and the old Cheyenne’s tipi had carried the same galloping horse drawings as the one he saw now.

Sliding the telescope closed, he returned it to the lieutenant. “How about I go in alone?”

“How about you don’t?” Guthrie dropped the scope back into his
sabretache
and rolled the wad of tobacco to his other cheek. “You get yourself killed and I’m back to second lieutenant. Again.”

Declan tried not to let his frustration show. “Then why don’t we all go partway so they’ll see you and know you’re there. Then I’ll go the rest of the way by myself.”

Declan still hadn’t told him that Pru was half black and Thomas was a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, fearing the lieutenant would balk at his orders. Guthrie would find out soon enough, but hopefully not before Declan located Thomas.

Guthrie chewed thoughtfully.

“You said it was a poor group,” Declan reminded him. “I don’t want to scare them. If these folks are who I think they are, a lot of them were at Sand Creek. I don’t want them thinking this is another raid.”

Guthrie studied him through narrowed eyes. “Indian lover, are you?”

Ignoring that, Declan pointed to a stand of aspen and spruce about twenty yards back from the far side of the creek. “You could circle around and come out of those trees. That way, if things go sour, you’ll have cover behind you and the creek in front.”

“While you go in alone.”

“There’s a better chance they’ll talk to one civilian than a dozen troopers.”

Guthrie chewed and thought.

Declan wanted to reach over and thump the man’s head just to make sure it wasn’t hollow. “No use getting your men involved unless there’s good cause.”

“Well . . .”

Twenty minutes later, Declan left the troopers waiting in front of the trees across from the village and rode down into the rocky creek bed. He knew the villagers had seen them, but no shots sounded and no arrows whistled through the air, and no one called out a warning as his horse clattered up the bank beside the village, so he figured he was safe. For now.

It was midafternoon, and the sun was already pressing against the mountain ridges. The women would be stoking the cook fires and pounding berries and nuts and corn into pemmican. Boys would be driving the horses to fresh grass and hobbling them for the night, and the old men would be waiting patiently for their evening meal. Any warriors that were left would step into their tipis to gather bows and rifles before coming to challenge him. Anticipating that, he held himself stiffly, looking neither right nor left, half expecting an arrow to stab into his back as he wound through the tipis toward the one with the running-horse markings.

But he saw no warriors, only tired-faced women and unsmiling children. The meat hanging over the cook fires seemed meager and stringy, and even the dogs looked half starved as they circled around him, sniffing at the deer carcass. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the reek of curing hides staked out on the tanning poles and the stench of the latrine trench behind the village. As he rode by, heads poked out of tipis and children ran up, and soon a string of curious women and children fell in behind him. When he reached the tipi he thought he recognized, he reined in the gelding and sat waiting.

After a few moments, a gray head poked out of the hide-hung door, then an old man emerged. Declan was relieved to see he was the same elder he and Thomas had spoken to four years ago. He hoped the old warrior remembered him, as well.

He dismounted and raised a palm to the old man, whose dark eyes stared back out of a wrinkled, expressionless face that boasted a lantern jaw and a nose that could filet meat. “Spotted Horse,” Declan said with a nod of respect. “I am glad to find you well.” He spoke in English, hoping the old man was still familiar enough with the language to understand him. Declan’s understanding of the Cheyenne tongue was spotty, at best.

The old man squinted through the smoke of his campfire. “That is a nice deer you have there.”

“I would like for you to have it.” Declan untied the carcass. As it slid to the ground, two women rushed forward to drag it away, trailed by a pack of sniffing dogs.

Declan turned back to find the old man studying him thoughtfully. “I remember you,” the Indian said. “You are called Big Bob.”

Declan nodded.

“That is a foolish name.” He motioned for Declan to sit on the woven rug outside his tipi, then stiffly lowered himself into a crosslegged position across from him. “Now, Mangas Coloradas. He was a big one.”

“So I heard.”

“Bigger than you.”

Declan nodded, wondering if there was a reason the old man was bringing up an Apache chief who’d been dead for over seven years.

“The blue coats cut off his head and sent it to your Great White Father. Do you know why they would do that to their red brother?”

“Bad people come in all colors, Spotted Horse.”

The old man nodded and sighed. “This is true.”

Silence. Declan heard movement behind him, but resisted the urge to look around, figuring if they had wanted to kill him, he would already be dead. He continued to sit without moving, his gaze fixed on the old man’s, refusing to be the one to look away first. After a while, despite the cool breeze, his shirt felt damp against his back.

“You came before,” the Indian finally said. “Seeking your lost wife.”

“Yes. I came with Thomas Redstone.”

“I remember. Why do you come this time?”

“I’m looking for my new wife’s sister.”

“You lose a lot of women, white man.”

Behind him, someone who apparently understood English snickered. Heat rose in Declan’s neck, but he kept his face impassive.

“Why have you brought blue coats to our peaceful village, Big Bob?”

“We mean no harm, Spotted Horse. We only seek news of my friend, Thomas Redstone, who was once a member of your tribe.”

“There are not many of us left.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

They sat without speaking for several more minutes. Then the Indian pointed at Declan’s waist and said, “That is a fine belt you have there.”

Declan looked down at the fancy tooled belt that had been a gift from Sally the year Brin was born. “It is.”

“I wish I had such a fine belt.”

“Take mine.” He unbuckled and handed the belt over.

The old man put it on and didn’t seem to mind that it was at least eight inches too big. He showed gapped teeth in a broad smile. “It is a fine belt.”

Declan nodded, hoping he could keep his pants up until he cut a length of rope to replace it.

“Thomas Redstone was here this morning,” Spotted Horse said.

Declan tried to mask his excitement. “Do you know where he was going when he left?”

“After the woman you lost.” Apparently pleased with his quip, he grinned again. “He thinks she is his woman.”

“She is,” Declan said, wondering if that was true. “I’ve come to help him find her.”

“With blue coats.”

Declan didn’t respond.

“He believes Lone Tree took this woman. Do you also believe that?”

“I do.”

“Such trouble over a squaw.” The old man sighed and shook his head. “Will the blue coats fight him to get your lost woman back?”

It sounded cowardly, the way the old man said it, but Declan didn’t rise to the bait. “If he won’t give her up, then yes, the blue coats will fight. Many will die.”

“Many have already died.”

A gust swept through, kicking up grit and smoke and pulling long gray strands from the old man’s topknot to whip across his face. Spotted Horse was a proud old warrior, but years of strife had bowed his shoulders and shrunk muscle to bone. His wrists looked frail as twigs. “We only want peace, Big Bob. We need no blue coats here.”

“Then tell me where Lone Tree is, and we will leave.”

It was a long time before the old man spoke. When he did, he sounded weary and sad. “Crystal River.”

“What’s this?” Brin held up the dress Edwina had made.

“Haven’t you ever seen a dress before?” Mary Lynn Waltham snickered at the other four girls and shot a shifty glance at the three boys to gauge their reactions.

Cruelty loves company even more than misery, Edwina had found.

To their credit, none of Brin’s brothers cracked a smile.

“And it will look lovely on you, Brin.” Edwina forced delight into her voice, sorry that she had gone against her better judgment and allowed this birthday party. It was all Lucinda’s and Maddie’s idea, bless their hearts.

“I am sick to death of watching you pace and having your downcast children moping about the hotel,” Lucinda had announced over breakfast yesterday morning. “So we’re planning a birthday party for Brin. You’re in charge of getting the boys presentable and there on time. Maddie and I will take care of the rest.”

Edwina had feigned enthusiasm throughout the preparations, but anyone seeing her haggard face had probably known it for the ruse it was. Then to make a difficult situation even worse, she had stupidly invited Mary Lynn Waltham, a spiteful creature every bit as vicious as her mother, Alice.