The Vigilante's Bride (3 page)
“You talking to yourself?” he asked, a smirk in his voice.
Her eyes snapped open. “I’m talking to the Lord. I pray when I’m scared.”
Luke nodded. “He ever hear you?”
“Most of the time. Some of the time.”
“Which is it?”
“It all depends.”
“On whether He listens or not. Well, while you’re at it, say one for me.”
She gave an indignant little huff. “You’re the reason I’m scared. Say your own.”
No point in that. He’d learned a long time ago, the Lord went stone-deaf whenever Luke Sullivan started to talk.
They continued in silence. Guilt picked at him. Here he was, trying to help, and all he’d done was scare her to death.
“Come on, tell me why you’re marrying an old man like Bart Axel.” He kept his voice quiet so as not to frighten her anymore.
She let go a shaky little sigh, and he leaned forward, straining to listen as she told him about someplace called Aldersgate and the government sending Indian girls to white schools to learn to be civilized.
“So, you see, I have to marry him. But I’ll be a good wife. He won’t be sorry.” Her voice cracked.
Though the words were confident, Luke heard tears just a swallow away.
“Please take me back to the stage.”
His jaw set. “No.”
Growing up in an orphanage made boys tough and self-sufficient, but maybe it didn’t work that way for girls.
He concentrated on a snowy, chest-deep wash ahead of them and took Bugle around it. Trying to put more miles between him and the stagecoach, Luke cut across open country. Once Axel learned about the girl, he’d have every man on his place out hunting her.
With any luck at all, Luke figured he could outrun a posse, but he had to get her to New Hope while it was still dark. Maybe his friend Molly, who ran the place, could use her there. Her girls did all right for themselves. Molly would sure talk some sense into her, teach her a few things about men, too.
He headed across rolling hills and snow-covered rangeland, following a trail he sensed rather than saw, one hidden by the snow and underbrush, sometimes lost completely in the unbroken blanket of white. He’d grown up out here and knew every twist and turn of these trails. He slowed, debating with himself which way to go. North or east?
East would cut off five miles. His gaze pulled to the eastern sky and three ominous black buttes towering like sentinels – Crow Indian territory, a place he’d never stepped foot on. He headed the horse east, and, as cold as it was, he started to sweat.
Pryor Creek lay at the bottom of a coulee, the water a silver shimmer of moonlight through the trees. Loosening up on the reins, he let Bugle pick his own way down. Horses saw better than humans in the dark.
Time and again he hipped around in the saddle and checked the trail behind him, but no shadows slipped between the trees.
Sharp yips and a coyote’s quavering howl slid through the silence. Seconds later, another answered. His scalp prickled. Indians? Those howls didn’t always come from coyotes. Heart pounding, he peered into the dark and strained to listen. Nothing. Only the wet whisper of the water beside them. He drew in a slow, relieved breath. Normal night sounds. He took the horse across the creek and up the bank on the other side. There, he stopped to check the stars to get his bearings. Concentrating on the pinpoints of light, he relaxed his hold on her.
Emily ducked under his arm and slid down the side of the horse. Landing on her feet, she scooted up the embankment like a cat. Gone!
Luke came off the horse after her almost before her feet had hit the ground. He grabbed for her, came away with a fistful of air instead. In the dark he lost sight of her at once, but he could hear the crunch of frozen snow as she scrambled up the hillside. He heard her cry out and fall, then get up and run again.
Clawing at bushes on the steep slope, he sprinted up after her. His boot slammed into something solid – probably the same log she’d tripped over. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled facedown in the snow, his hand stinging. He pulled himself to a crouch and listened.
She’d stopped. Hiding behind a tree, most likely.
A stone caromed past, cracking down the hillside – rock on rock – and then a faint watery
plop
into the creek. Carefully, he eased himself toward the source of the sound, working his boots sideways for a foothold. With each step, the snow packed and settled underfoot.
He stretched for a small sapling, closed his hand around it. Silently, he hauled himself up and waited. In the still, cold air he caught a faint whiff of lavender soap. She was close.
The moon broke out of a cloud. Clear ivory light wove through the treetops. If she’d remained still, he wouldn’t have seen her, but she panicked at the moonlight and darted for the shadows. Luke lunged. His fingers locked like a vise around her wrist.
“You little fool.” Anger made his voice harsh. “You’d freeze to death out here.”
“Let me go!”
“I won’t. For two reasons. First, I’m not about to swing for robbing that stagecoach.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Well, the second one’s yours, lady. We’re in Indian territory. I cut into the Crow reservation to save us an hour. No way would I leave a white woman out here.”
Emily shuddered. Her shoulders sagged. “I’m afraid of you and your mean old horse. Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”
“If I’d a mind to do that, I would have by now. And he is
not
mean.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To someone who’ll talk some sense into you. She knows all about girls.” Luke started down the slope, pulling Emily after him. “Come on, we’re losing time.”
Soon there’d be a posse of men with guns and ropes, bucketing across the countryside to rescue one Emily McCarthy.
She stumbled. He caught her. “Watch where you’re going.”
“I can’t see,” she whimpered.
His temper started to smoke. “You saw well enough to get up here.”
“I didn’t know about the Indians then.”
He snatched her up around the waist and behind the knees. Carrying her, he began to work his way back down the hillside.
“And you kick me again, lady, so help me, I’ll scalp you myself.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when his boots shot out from under him. He fell hard on his behind and shoulder. Helpless, he clutched the girl on top of him, the two of them sledding down in the dark in a mess of stones and snow and frozen mud.
At the bottom, he picked himself up and set her on her feet in front of him. “You all right?”
Emily’s mouth worked, but no words came out. A choked squeak was all he heard.
Hanging on to her with one hand, he brushed himself off with the other. He gave a soft whistle for the horse, then limped to it and boosted her into the saddle. Stiffly, he swung up behind her. For another mile they followed the creek in silence.
“I’m so co-cold. I got snow down my front when I fell.” Her teeth chattered. She bunched the heavy woolen cape close around her neck.
Luke reached behind him and, with numb fingers, fumbled in the bedroll tied to the saddle and pulled out an old brown blanket that was mostly clean. He tucked it around her, muttering to himself. Tonight was not going well. He could hardly move his arm, and she – poor little snippy thing – was cold. He wasn’t so great himself. Probably dislocated his shoulder falling down that ravine. His hip and leg stung like fire, he’d torn a glove, and his knuckles were bleeding. And she’d kneed him in the gut, not once but twice.
He eased his weight off his bruised backside and tried to get comfortable in the saddle.
“How much you weigh, Miss McCarthy?”
“Ninety-nine pounds.”
Last time he was this sore, the man had topped two seventy and had fists like shovels. Yet she was just ninety-nine pounds and didn’t have a scratch on her.
A few miles later, the sides of the gully flattened. Luke headed due north. Pryor Creek meandered away to the right. Almost there. He pushed Bugle into a slow gallop across open rangeland again. He guided the horse into a long lane curving around a low-lying hill. Along one side, a row of poplars thrust a black fringe against the sky, guarding a long approach to a big house with dark windows.
An iron picket fence surrounded the three-story structure. Gables jutted from a steep-pitched roof bristling with chimneys. Except for one window glowing in a dormer on the third floor, the house was dark. The window brightened as the curtain drew aside. A figure peered through the glass.
Emily pressed a hand to her heart and turned to him, wide-eyed. “It looks like a prison.”
“It isn’t.”
Luke stopped before a scrolled iron gate set into brick pillars near the walk leading to the house. He swung himself off the horse again and lifted her to the ground in a courtyard, a large clearing surrounded with smaller buildings.
“Luke! Luke Sullivan! We been worried to death.” Henry Bertel, a tall, thin man with a rifle, moved out of the shadows and broke into a run across the yard. He threw his arms around Luke and thumped him on the shoulder. “Am I glad to see you.” Henry grabbed the reins of Luke’s horse. “Man, you don’t know what all’s gone on here tonight.”
“What happened?” Luke suspected he already knew.
“The stage was robbed! Old man Bolton and his boy from up the road just lit out of here, warning everybody to lock their doors. They’re looking to get a posse together.”
“Too bad we missed all the excitement.” Luke shot Emily a
keep your mouth shut
look.
“Molly’s been fretting all night, afraid you weren’t gonna make it. Now she’s scared to death you ran into the robbers. I’ll take care of your horse – you go on inside and calm her down.”
“Treat him good, Henry. He’s had a hard night.” Luke patted Bugle’s neck.
Henry’s bony face creased into a wide grin. “From the looks of it, so did you. What happened? You fall off a mountain or something?” He slapped his thigh and snickered.
Luke seamed his mouth shut, not trusting himself to answer.
Henry looked at Emily McCarthy and touched his cap. “Evening, ma’am.” He turned back to Luke. “Got us another one, huh? Molly’ll like that. We never get enough pretty girls out here.”
She screwed her eyes shut. “Dear God in heaven, help me.”
Henry frowned at Luke. “She sick or something?”
Luke glanced down at Emily and shook his head. “Naah, must be scared again.”
Henry chuckled. “They always are when they first get here. Don’t you worry, miss. Luke here will learn you the ropes in no time. She looks cold, Luke. Get her on inside and warm her up. I’ll be in when I’m done with your horse and help you.”
Her eyes flew open. “You animals!”
Henry’s mouth fell open. Before she could say more, Luke spun Emily around and hauled her down the walk by her elbow, up the steps, and onto a columned porch. He shook her arm. “Don’t you say another word – not one word, you hear? You let me do the talking.” He scowled at her. “I haven’t decided how to explain you yet.”
The color drained from her face. Big saucer eyes stared at him. “I’ve never been in a place like this in my life,” she quavered. “How dare you bring me here? I’m a decent, respectable Christian woman.”
Luke stiffened and looked down at her, puzzled. “Never said you weren’t.”
Her voice rose. “I’ve heard about these sporting houses for men. I’m not that kind of woman. I will
not
stay here. The very first chance I get – ”
Luke cranked the little handle on the door so hard it nearly flew off in his hand. The doorbell clamored. From inside came the sound of running feet.
Alongside him, Emily trembled, her jaw clamped.
“Miss McCarthy, can you read?” His lips barely moved with the words.
“Of course I can read!”
“Then, do it!”
He struck a match and held it over a small brass plate attached to the doorframe. In raised black letters, it said:
NEW HOPE FOUNDLING AND ORPHAN ASYLUM.
CHRISTMAS MORNING, 1884
A long, thin cheroot smoking in his hand, Luke sipped a mug of coffee and leaned against the fireplace at the end of the dining room.
Earlier, in the room upstairs that still was his, he’d washed and shaved and changed into corduroy trousers and a checkered red and black buffalo shirt. Just before he came down to the dining room, he’d pulled a black string tie out of the wardrobe, telling himself he wanted to dress up a bit for the kids at Christmas.
Kids, nothing. The tie was for Emily McCarthy and he knew it. He’d knotted it around his neck and left the room quickly, avoiding his eyes mocking him in the mirror.
Breakfast was long finished. Now the cavernous dining room hung with the smell of roast goose and tangy mincemeat coming from the kitchen. And over everything floated the faint scent of balsam from the Christmas tree in the corner, its branches hung with paper chains and ropes of popcorn and cranberries strung by this year’s crop of children. Christmas crowded in, always a little sad, a little poignant for him.
“Hey, Mr. Luke!” a voice called from overhead.
Luke looked up and grinned. Long wood beams, as thick as railroad ties, braced a ceiling vaulting to the second story. A boy about twelve had shinnied out on one of the crosspieces.
Straddling it, he waggled his eyebrows at Luke. “Come on up, Mr. Luke.”
“Get down from there, John. You know better than that.
Molly’ll skin you alive if she catches you.”
“Naah, she won’t.”
Luke chuckled and stretched his hand up. “Trust me, she will, and I speak from experience. Come on down now before you get in trouble.”
John waved the offer of help aside. Legs dangling, he boosted himself forward along the beam, scooting his bottom to the far wall. There he swung a leg over the side, hung by his hands, and dropped to the floor.
Years ago, Luke got stuck up there, climbing in forbidden territory, and no one had been allowed to help him down. All through supper he’d perched up there like a monkey, sullen and hungry and scared, watching the others eat. He’d learned a lot from that about obeying rules.
Down on his knees a few feet from Luke, a dark-haired little boy he didn’t recognize struggled to untie the ribbon on a present, his forehead wrinkled in concentration.
Luke squatted, arms resting across his thighs. “Need some help with that?”
Solemn faced, the boy held the present out and watched as Luke used his pocketknife to cut the ribbon. Luke folded the ribbon, which could be used again to wrap another present. He ruffled the boy’s hair and smiled as the youngster moved to a corner and sat on the floor, the present between his legs.
“I taught you well, I see,” a voice behind Luke said.
Still smiling, he turned and handed Molly the folded ribbon.
Never a pretty woman, the years had not been kind to Molly Ebenezer.
Plain
was the first word that came to mind on meeting her. Her blue eyes were too pale to be considered striking, her figure too ample by anyone’s standards, but humor and goodness lit her face with inner beauty. She was the nearest thing to a mother he could remember, and he loved her.
“Remind you of anyone?” she asked, looking at the boy unwrapping his present in the corner.
He looked at the little boy again. “Reminds me of me, I guess. But was I that serious?”
“Oh my, yes. Your first Christmas here, you nearly set your pants on fire. You backed your skinny little behind against the fireplace and frowned like it was the end of the world.”
“For me, it was, I reckon.” He gestured to the youngster ripping the paper off his gift. “How old is he?”
“Six. Same age you were when you came.” Her face softened. “I miss you. How long can you stay this time?”
Luke palmed the coffee mug in both hands and looked at her, his gaze steady. “I’m not going back, Molly. I quit.”
She nudged her spectacles up and blinked in surprise. “I thought you liked Mr. Stuart.”
“I did. I do. Just had enough. I hired on with Stuart as his foreman, not his gun.”
She reached over and squeezed his arm. “Vigilantism is an ugly business, and I’m glad you’re out of it. I understand, though. With no sheriffs or marshals up there, decent folks have to be the law themselves, but I never liked your doing it. What brought all this on now, anyway?”
“Nothing new.” He looked away. “I don’t like what I’m turning into,” he said quietly.
“What you’re turning into is a fine man I’m proud of.
Even down here, they brag about Lewistown and Stuart’s vigilantes – ”
“Vigilance committee – it’s called a
committee
.”
She nodded. “They say Lewistown is the safest town in the territory now because of them. They also say Stuart won’t tell who belongs to the committee.”
Luke took a long swallow of coffee and met her eyes.
“People aren’t dumb. They got a pretty good idea who we are.”
“The preacher doesn’t really belong, does he?”
“No, but I’d tell you that even if he did. Vigilance committees got no sanction under the law. What we’re doing is necessary, but it’s not legal.” He put his arm around her and hugged her. “Seems to me, if a man goes gunning for rustlers, at least it ought to be for his own cows, not someone else’s.”
Eyes gleaming, she cocked her head at him. “Now, that sounds like a man who gets to church once in a while.”
A smile played in the corners of his mouth. “Not often.” He dropped an arm around her shoulder. “God and me ain’t exactly on speaking terms.”
Molly sighed. “I hoped you were over that. You’ve been mad at God ever since your family died. Bad things happen to people, Luke, and it’s not God’s fault.”
“I came to terms with that a long time ago, but by then I’d kind of drifted away. I gave up on Him, and He gave up on me.”
Molly looked up, blue eyes serious. “I doubt that. In fact, I suspect He had a hand in your coming here last night. You wanted out of vigilantism and He arranged it. And I think He’s got plans for her, as well. Nothing would stand in His way, even if it meant” – she looked around quickly and then lowered her voice – “that ridiculous business with you and the stagecoach. Makes me think He’s also got a sense of humor.”
She reached up and patted his hand. “We got law down here now. There’s a sheriff in Repton. You wouldn’t have to go after anyone ever again. That is, if you’ve a mind to stay.”
He let out a small breath of relief. “I hoped all the way coming here you’d ask me again. You still want me to run New Hope’s herd?”
“You know I do. I need you here.” Her eyebrows pulled together. Across the room, Emily played with two of the little girls. She picked up a long string of cranberries and lifted the smaller girl up to place it back on the tree.
“She’s good with children, I’ll say that for her, but what am I supposed to do with her?”
“I wish I knew. I just couldn’t leave her there to marry Axel.”
Last night when he’d brought Emily into the house, she said little when he’d introduced her. Both hands stuffed into her little fur muff, she’d stood straight, her face stiff. She’d darted puzzled little glances first at Molly, then at Luke, and the excited children crowded around him and the little one hugging his leg.
But the minute he told Molly he found her standing in the road after the stage was robbed, Emily pulled a hand from her muff and held it up. “Stop right there.” Yes, she’d said, that was the truth, but not the whole truth. Then she’d looked at the children and then at Molly. “I’d rather talk privately.”
It had taken Molly less than two minutes to clear the children out, pin him down, and pry the whole story out of him last night.
Now Molly looked over at him. “What do I tell Bart when he comes after her?” Molly asked. “And you know he will. I can’t keep her if she doesn’t want to stay.”
“Could you use her here? She sounds educated enough. Last night, she told me to keep my proboscis out of her business.”
He bent his head close to Molly’s ear and asked softly, “What is my ‘proboscis,’ anyway?”
Reaching up, Molly tapped his nose gently,
tut-tutt
ing at him and shaking her head.
“So I forgot.” He grinned.
Lips pursed, Molly studied Emily across the room and turned back to him. “Maybe I could use a little help, if she can read and write, that is. I’m getting tired. The years are catching up with me. Two dozen children wears a body out.”
Over the rim of his cup, Luke looked across the dining room at Emily. Her blue skirt hung smoothly to her ankles, and a long-sleeved white embroidered waist covered her throat and neck. She’d caught the thick mass of copper hair with a white ribbon on the back of her neck.
He’d had his first look at her in daylight at breakfast this morning. When she walked in with Molly and sat down across the table from him, he’d kept his face blank and tried not to stare. With all that red-gold hair and skin like new cream, she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen in his life. And the snippiest.
He turned back to Molly. “She came out here to marry Axel because she has nowhere else to go. Aldersgate in Chicago only knew what he told them, and I’m sure he made himself sound like a regular pillar of the community.” Sarcasm was thick in his tone.
“She’s very pretty.”
“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”
Molly arched an eyebrow at him. “That’ll be the day. I raised you, remember? There wasn’t a girl in this territory you didn’t check out.”
His chest jumped with silent laughter. “I hope you kept that to yourself.”
Her eyes crinkled. “This time I did.”
He looked over at Emily and shook his head. “Bart’s too old for her.”
“I agree, but he’s a wealthy man. She could do worse. A man gets lonely out here. He’s been a widower for five years.”
Luke’s mouth set. “Have you forgotten why?”
Molly’s hands fluttered a denial. “Rumors. Just ugly talk. There’s no truth to that.”
“Aw, Molly, everyone knows Elizabeth Axel wasn’t dragged by her horse, not the way that woman could ride. No wonder he left town the next day.”
“The same day. Said he was too upset to face people. He left right after the funeral.”
Luke lowered his voice. “For Chicago. I was there with Stuart selling beef, and your grieving husband walked into the Stockmen’s Club with a prostitute on each arm and both hands bandaged. Told Stuart he’d busted his knuckles in a fight back home. It was months before I heard about his wife and connected up the dates. He’s always had a mean temper. My guess is he hit her one time too many. Emily McCarthy needs to know what she’s getting into if she marries Axel. You have to tell her, Molly.”
“I live next to him. I’d rather you told her.”
Hands shoved into his pockets, Luke frowned across at Emily, then down at Molly. “I tried on the way here. She doesn’t believe me.”
Molly sighed and turned to leave. “Then she probably won’t listen to me, either.”
She crossed the room, said something to Emily, and they left the dining room together.
Ten minutes later, Molly returned alone. As soon as her gaze caught his, she shook her head. Grim faced, she beckoned Luke to a corner.
He followed, uneasy about what she must have learned.
“Her parents were from back east,” Molly said. “Her father died in a mine explosion when she was an infant; her mother killed herself six months later. And you were right. She can read. She can also cipher, typewrite, play the piano, and speak a little French. She’s been teaching at Aldersgate in Chicago, run by a big fancy church out there. The school has a hundred Cherokee girls signed up, funded by the government under this new law. The school let her go because they needed her room for new students.”
“She told me about the Indian girls coming, but marrying Bart Axel – ”
Molly gave him a sad little smile. “That was the kind director’s attempt to help Emily start a life of her own. Emily could have turned it down, said she would have if she could have found any kind of job.”
“So what does she plan to do?”
“Marry him.”
“After what you told her?”
“Says she has no choice.”
Luke scrubbed his fist up and down the back of his neck, spun around, and started for the kitchen.
She reached her hand out and held Luke’s arm. “I’m as upset as you are. I talked till I was blue in there with her,” Molly said quietly, her face solemn. “I’m not surprised at what you saw in Chicago. Elizabeth told me once that Bart had lady friends. She was also afraid of him.” Molly’s eyes filled. “Take Emily to the library, where you can talk alone. I’ll back you up. Elizabeth was my friend.”
Emily looked up a few minutes later when Luke finished talking. A wave of dizziness swirled behind her eyes, leaving her half sick at her stomach. “The Society would never send me to a man like that,” she whispered.
“They didn’t know,” he said gently.
Emily sat at a long yellow oak table in the library, twisting her hands together and trying to pull her thoughts in line. There was a way. There was always a way. She’d postpone the wedding until she could telegraph Aldersgate for advice. In the end, however, it would still be her decision. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts stumbling around, bumping into each other.
