Trail Angel (25 page)

The Colonel must have let slip to the private who met them outside Fort Reno that he was a friend of General Sherman because the commanding officer wore his dress coat when he greeted the Colonel and Josey.

“Gentlemen, it's so good to make your acquaintance.” Captain Joshua Proctor was a tall, handsome man, almost pretty, with fair hair and delicate features he masked with a too-big mustache. He shook hands eagerly and Josey noticed a smear of mud as he drew back his hand. Proctor had dressed so quickly he'd left his shirt untucked in the back. Apparently, the captain didn't let West Point breeding keep him from aiding in Fort Reno's reconstruction efforts.

Fort Reno wasn't much of a fort, just a ramshackle collection of partially collapsed adobe and log buildings. The sod-covered quarters, guardhouse, sutler's store and magazine were on an open plain that stood on a shelf of land covered with thistle, saltbush and greasewood about fifty feet above the Powder River.

The official name was “Reno Station,” but all the soldiers called it Fort Reno. Josey couldn't blame them. “Fort” sounded safer, and a sense of security was better than nothing. The emigrants were edgy after the attack on Caleb, and the soldiers seemed no more at ease. The single company of infantry left to fortify Reno busied themselves rebuilding the remaining structures and extending the fortified wall.

Josey listened as Proctor and the Colonel took each other's measure, comparing where and with whom they'd served. “And you, Mr. Angel—” The captain's tongue seemed to get twisted in his mouth.

The Colonel laughed. “Everyone calls him Josey Angel.”

Looking embarrassed, Proctor nodded curtly to Josey. “Of course, I'm familiar with your, uh . . . with you, sir. I was uncertain whether the sobriquet was to your liking.”

“Just call me Josey.”

Proctor relaxed once they settled to business. The Colonel told him about the attack on Caleb. “It's amazing he survived,” Proctor said. “The Indians have killed nearly a dozen men—the ones I know about, at least.”

“Open warfare?”

“No. Nothing so dramatic. Sneak attacks and ambushes, mostly. It started near Crazy Woman Creek last Tuesday. Four companies were camped on their way to resupply Fort Phil Kearny. A few Indians sneaked past the pickets, cut loose the horses and charged off on the bell mare. Stampeded all the loose horses and mules. In the fight that followed, two infantrymen were killed.

“It wasn't a full-out assault, by any means,” Proctor added quickly. “But it was organized.”

The Colonel looked to Josey. Neither liked the idea of leading the emigrants through the same area. “It might have been worse.”

Proctor nodded. “It gets worse. Later, a patrol came upon several destroyed wagons. Covers were torn to shreds. Loot strewn all over. They found five dead civilians, another mortally wounded.” He swallowed hard. A war veteran, Proctor had seen carnage. His pause suggested something new in the experience. “All of them were mutilated in the most horrible fashion.”

“They told us in Omaha we would be safe, between the treaty and the forts.”

Proctor shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes directed to his desk. “Yes, well, I wouldn't say they lied. . . .”

They were silent a moment before Proctor regained the initiative, telling them of his new commander, who had marched on to build two additional forts along the trail. “Colonel Carrington has ordered that all civilian trains be consolidated to protect against further attacks. The Indians haven't dared assault a well-armed wagon train.”

He cleared his throat and straightened his coat. His focus returned again to his desk. “Your arrival is quite timely. News of this unrest has put me in a predicament. I have a company of infantry prepared to leave for Fort Phil Kearny, but we've been anticipating any day now reinforcements from Laramie, including a surgeon and the fort chaplain. Given the circumstances, I've been loathe to delay the company any longer than necessary, but the reinforcements will need a scout.”

Realizing his shirt was untucked, Proctor stood straighter and fixed himself. He also seemed to remember he was the only officer in the room still commissioned by the U.S. Army.

“I've had only one scout I trusted to lead the infantry to Fort Phil Kearny and no one to guide the reinforcements once they arrive,” he said, looking from the Colonel to Josey and back to the Colonel again. “Until now.”

A full moon was rising when Annabelle stepped lightly from her family's wagon. She paused to listen that her father's steady snores did not alter before she stole away into the darkness.

It was a cloudless night, and cooler for it. Her mother had wrapped hot stones in blankets to leave at the foot of their mattress to warm the bed, but the rocks had lost their heat. Nights were peculiarly beautiful here, the rarity of the atmosphere magnifying the starlight so that it seemed there were twice as many stars in the sky as she remembered at home. Their light dimmed as the moon rose, shining like a beacon so bright Annabelle worried her efforts at stealth would be exposed for the whole camp to see.

No one stirred. They were enjoying a restful night in the relative safety of the fort. Few had slept the previous night after Josey brought Caleb Williams into camp, barely alive after a savage Indian attack. The burly handyman had lost consciousness and fell into a fevered fit from which he still hadn't recovered.

Annabelle made a wide berth around the watch fire of the men tending the stock. The previous night they had doubled the guard, and they hadn't set a fire because Josey said it would mark their position. Instead, they dug rifle pits, lying in wait for anyone intending to steal a cow or horse. Josey had been awake the entire night.

With less cause to worry tonight, Josey and Byron had kept the first watch by themselves. Annabelle counted the hours until she judged Josey's turn would be finished. After hearing the news that their wagons would be joining the infantry and moving on without him, she knew she wouldn't sleep. She had to see Josey again.

Since what she had come to think of as their “bath” in the river, heightened fears over Indians had made it impossible for them to steal away. Annabelle wanted to believe the circumstances were as aggravating to Josey, but he gave away so little of his thoughts. Niggling doubts nettled her mind like a loose thread she couldn't leave alone—even at the risk of unraveling her peace of mind.

Things happened so quickly that day by the river. With no time to think, the skeptical part of her mind couldn't stop what happened. Her doubts multiplied afterwards, and she'd been relieved they hadn't been alone since then. That changed at dinner when the Colonel shared the news he and Josey wouldn't lead them to the next fort. He might as well have said they were joining an Indian band for all the sense it made to her.

Her father had known. He never looked up as the Colonel spoke, even at the exclamations of surprise from her mother, her aunt Blanche and the others. Her father explained the logic of the decision after the Colonel moved on to the next cook fire. They would have a whole company of soldiers to escort them and would be guided by the legendary mountain man Jim Bridger. The Colonel and Josey would wait and lead the reinforcements coming up from Laramie.

Her father tried to mollify them. “Without our ox-pulled wagons to slow them down, they will probably make the next fort about the same time we do.” As much as she struggled to quell her doubts, dread tormented Annabelle. Weeks of frontier travel had taught her this country was so big even a man as capable as Josey could get lost in it.
Especially if it were in his mind to do so.

Annabelle found him beneath his blankets, using his coat and a roll of clothes as a pillow. He had been looking to the skies as if counting stars when she noticed him, his figure a shadow against the gray ground. His face glowed in the moonlight when he turned toward her.

“You don't look surprised to see me.”

“I heard you coming.”

She kneeled beside him, lowering her voice to a whisper. “What if I had been an Indian? Or a road agent?”

“If you had been an Indian, I wouldn't have heard you. You don't sound—or look—like a road agent.”

“Aren't you glad for that?” She took off her shoes and slipped out of the quilt she'd wrapped herself in. Beneath it, she wore a white cotton chemise. The fabric was loose and light and left her calves and feet exposed. Josey had seen her so often in a boy's riding clothes, she wanted to come to him tonight dressed like a woman.

He lifted his blankets in invitation. “You must be freezing.”

Eagerly, she moved beside him. He wore the clothes he had bought in Laramie. She nestled against the soft flannel shirt, shivering at the change in temperature. The cold slipped away, leaving her as comfortable as she'd ever been in a feather bed with downy covers. “I couldn't let you leave without seeing you.”

“You'll see me again.”

“Will I?”

“Don't you want to?”

“You know I do.”

He looked at her, a hesitation giving her time to turn away, but she didn't, an unspoken request granted as her eyes held his. Their lips met tentatively, once, twice, again. He pulled her tight. Her thin nightdress left her aware of his body almost as much as she had been at the river when they wore nothing. Josey's next kiss left her breathless. He allowed her head to fall against his chest, and he stroked her hair, seeming to breathe her in.

She needed to unburden herself, to tell him what had happened to her. She couldn't live with the dread of wondering again when a man might leave her. With Richard, she had been sure one day he would decide his need for progeny outweighed any marital obligations. His death, ultimately, came as a guilty relief. Better to be a childless widow than cast aside as barren and useless.

With Josey, she felt a passion she had never known—and felt it returned in full. This was how love should be, how they wrote about it in books: unbridled emotion, feelings so unmanageable they frightened her, excited her, consumed her. She could no more stop feeling than she could cease drawing breath. The only thing that frightened her more than how he might respond to her infertility was the thought that she would never see him again, never have the chance to sort through the rest of her feelings.

That's
what she should tell him, she decided.

Annabelle opened her mouth, still uncertain which word should come first—when she recognized the steady rhythm of his breaths as sleep. The poor man. Extra guard duty left him so tired he couldn't stay awake even with a woman pressed against his waist.

She nestled tighter against him. His legs twitched, but his breaths remained steady. She should sleep, too. Her body ached from the day's trek as it always did, but her mind whirled as active as at noontime. She recalled what it had been like to sleep with her husband, but thinking of that only brought back bad memories. Better to think of the man beside her now.

She allowed a hand to rest on his hip, her touch tentative at first, not wishing to wake him. It surprised her that he slept so well beside her. He'd told her he was a fitful sleeper. She smiled to think he rested more easily with her.
Why does he have to choose
this
moment to demonstrate that
?

She nudged him with her leg.

He moved but settled into the same position.

She pushed him again, using her arm along with her leg.

He stirred.

“Are you awake?”

He did not answer.

She repeated the question, louder this time.

He responded. Annabelle took a breath, thinking of how best to delicately broach the subject of her miscarriage and condition.

“I cannot give you children.”

Annabelle rolled back and fell against the ground. After all that time strategizing the best way to share her secret, she had blurted it out, subtle as a church bell. It wasn't even what she'd intended to say.

He grunted in response without moving. Annabelle began to panic.
Had he not heard? Had he heard and feared speaking?
She repeated herself as she pushed against him so he faced her.

“I cannot give you children.”

“So you say.” He sounded groggy. “It matters not to me.”

He attempted to roll away, but she stopped him.

“Didn't you hear me? Of course, it matters.” Her mind whirled, searching for explanations for his reaction. She found none. “You might pretend it does not matter in the heat of our bed, but it will matter one day. Don't let me think it doesn't matter while you plot how to remove yourself from me.”

He turned to her, blinking sleep from his eyes, his forehead creased.

“You are mine. You will give me children, or you won't give me children. If you wish to have children, we will take in orphans or Indian babies or bear cubs, for all I care. So long as you are contented. So long as you are mine.”

He rolled away from her, the subject closed. Annabelle lay back, looking at the stars, their number diminished by the moon's brightness. She started to laugh, a release of tension. “I should have told you sooner.”

“It wouldn't have mattered.”

“I suppose not, not then.” Passion has a way of clouding the mind, especially in a man. “It will matter more later.”

He turned back to her. “I was dead to the world until I met you. You gave life to
me.
If the price God demands for restoring me to life is that I shall have no children, well, I have you. I have life. Nothing else matters.”

Relief warmed her, but she didn't trust the feeling. “You may feel differently when you are older, thinking of the grave, with no child to carry on your name.”

“No one can pronounce it anyway.”

“Don't tease me, Josey.”

“Would that I could be an old man, if you are with me. I never thought I would outlive the war. You believe you can't bear children. Ours is not to say.” He smiled mischievously, his hand sliding around her waist to her thigh. “Besides, we've only just started. I intend to practice diligently.”