Trail Angel (26 page)

She pushed his hand away. She wouldn't let him joke this away.

“It's not just a belief. I was pregnant once, but I was hurt and lost the baby. The doctor said I can't have children.”

He rose on an elbow and looked at her. “Doctors can be wrong.”

“I can't count on that.” Her throat grew tight, choking the words. She blinked back the tears welling. She turned away, but he moved his hand to her face.

“It does not matter. Time will—”

“No.” She put a hand to his lips. “Do not give me false hope. It will hurt more when I see your disappointment later.”

“You won't see it.” He took her hand, squeezed. “I am not he. He didn't love you as I do. You are mine. That is all I care about.”

He kissed her, silencing any reply she might offer as his hands moved greedily over her body.
He is wrong. It will matter to him someday.
Then she stopped thinking.

Caleb drifted gently until a stiff breeze off the harbor set his boat rocking. His eyes closed, he breathed in salt air, ignoring the pain as his chest expanded, forgetting the soreness in his limbs. He inhaled again, but instead of salt or the rotten-fish smell of shore, he took in horse dung, pine tar, leather. Instead of the lapping of water against the boat or the shriek of a gull, he heard the creak of harness, the crack of bullwhips, the braying of mules, the rustle of wagon canvas flapping in the wind.

He opened his eyes. Waited for them to adjust to the darkness. He was in a wagon. He breathed again, his ribs pinching in protest against sodden clothes. An odd chemical smell cut through the others, and he knew it wasn't his wagon. Swallowing took effort. His lips were gummy. Lifting his head, he cringed, feeling as if someone were taking a hammer to it. More slowly, he lifted his head again. A small glow from the back of the wagon alerted him to another man's presence. Caleb's movements, slight as they were, drew his attention.

“Good morning. I'm pleased to see you're still with us.” The man moved with practiced ease among the boxes and trunks whose forms emerged from the shadows as the man approached with his lamp. He took a seat on a box beside Caleb. “How do you feel?”

Impatient for an answer, the man put a hand to Caleb's forehead. Caleb started to speak, but his head grew heavy. Thoughts formed slowly, like his mind trudged through waist-high water.

“Where . . . ?” His voice rasped. He needed water but couldn't remember how to ask for it.

“You're in an ambulance wagon. I'm Dr. Hines, the surgeon posted to Fort Phil Kearny, with the Eighteenth Infantry Regiment. We're in a train headed to the fort.”

Nothing the man said made sense to Caleb. The darkness faded, or maybe his vision cleared. Dr. Hines was a fine-boned man, with a wispy mustache and a tousle of dark hair that seemed electrified.

“Water . . . ?”

“Yes, of course. I should have thought of that.”

The little man moved almost noiselessly amid the tight confines of the wagon, reminding Caleb of a monkey he had seen in a street show. The doctor held a canteen to Caleb's lips, cradling his head with one hand. Caleb's throat was so parched the water burned. In his greed for more, he leaned forward and gagged, water spilling down his chin and onto his chest, cool against his skin. He coughed and collapsed, completely spent from the effort.

“Easy does it. We don't want you drowning now that the fever's broken.”

Caleb struggled to breathe. “What . . . ?”

“You took a fever after the Indians left you for dead,” the doctor said as he wiped Caleb's face and neck with a cool, moist cloth. “You might not feel it now, but you're a lucky man, at least compared with the others the Indians have taken. They did no permanent harm that I can see. I expect it was an infection that nearly did you in.”

“Indians?” The doctor didn't seem to hear the question. Still feeling like his mind was under water, Caleb needed a moment to catch up. He remembered the captain and Harrison. Apparently, they had nearly taken their theatrical touches too far. Before he asked another question, the doctor lifted his head and brought the canteen to his lips.

“Slowly, this time. We've got a long day ahead of us.”

Caleb obeyed. The water no longer burned. Caleb swallowed gratefully as the doctor laid his head back. His mind started to clear.

The gold.

Caleb might have leaped out of the wagon if he'd had the strength. Alarmed at his sudden thrashing, the doctor placed a firm hand on Caleb's shoulder. “Lie back, please. You're not strong enough to be moving around.”

This was true. Too weak to resist even this tiny man, Caleb fell back. His mind, no longer wading, had taken flight. “My wagon,” he managed. “Where are my things?”

The doctor misunderstood his concern. “You're perfectly safe. You're in a military train now.” His voice controlled, soothing his patient. “It's Caleb, isn't it? May I call you Caleb?”

Caleb's panic invigorated him, and he grabbed the doctor's bony wrist with a strength that surprised the smaller man. “Where's my wagon?”

Wincing, the doctor attempted to pull away but gave up the idea. “Your friends went ahead to the fort.”

I don't have any friends.
“They left me behind?” In his anger, Caleb squeezed, eliciting a yelp from the doctor.

“They didn't leave you behind,” he said through gritted teeth. “They left you in the care of a doctor.” He explained, something about a military train and reinforcements. Between his muddled head and concern for the gold, Caleb couldn't keep up.

“What about my things? Do you have my trunks?” Caleb relaxed his grip, his strength already waning, and the doctor wrenched free. Hines leaned back, out of Caleb's reach, rubbing the wounded limb.

“I don't know anything about that. You had no need of anything when you were crazy with fever.”

Caleb's mind whirled.
What if they found the strong boxes and opened them?
He stared at the canvas top. It was growing lighter. That explained the darkness earlier. They must have left before daybreak. He took a breath, calming himself. No one had reason to go through his things. He wasn't dead. The trunks were probably still buried under supplies in the back of the wagon, just where he left them. Even if he had been dead, they probably wouldn't find the gold until reaching Virginia City and unloading everything else.

“They shouldn't have left me.”

“That's not what they did,” the doctor said, careful to stay out of Caleb's reach. “They knew we would be following as soon as we arrived. They tell me our mules are faster than oxen. We might catch them before they reach Fort Kearny.”

“When did they leave?”

“A day ago, I think. Captain Burroughs has a full company with him, bringing supplies to the fort. With the Indians stirred up now, they must have thought it best to move your wagons with a sizeable military escort.” The doctor sounded cheerful. “You should rest. We'll rendezvous with your friends at the fort. I'm sure they will be pleased to see you so much better.”

Caleb wasn't sure about that. Despite the doctor's confidence, it was hard to avoid a conclusion that the others had left him to his fate. Rutledge was probably already counting the wages he would save with Caleb's death. Well, the bastard could keep his money, so long as those trunks were safe. Caleb had plans. His life depended on it.

Riding alongside the wagons toward Fort Phil Kearny, Annabelle noticed how much the landscape had changed. One day they had been traveling over flat, brown prairie under a heat great enough to crack leather boots. The next day chilly mountain breezes compelled Annabelle to put on a shawl. The prickly pear and greasewood gave way to grasses so thick a horse couldn't be trotted through them. Groves of leafy willow and cedar grew along cold mountain streams so clear she counted the fish that hovered in place as if tethered to the banks.
No wonder the Indians value this land so greatly.

The day should have seemed no different than any other. Josey rarely rode within view of the wagons, yet she felt his absence like a hunger pang. She was thankful Lord Byron was with them, driving a wagon in Caleb Williams's absence. It reassured her that as long as Byron was here, Josey would return.

Her last night with Josey should have been enough reassurance, she knew. Reflecting on it occupied her mind during the tedious hours of travel.

After they'd fallen asleep under the stars, Annabelle woke with a start, unsure of her whereabouts. Understanding rushed back as Josey kicked, murmuring, his arm twitching beneath her. It was still dark. His thrashing had pulled the blankets and exposed her back to bone-aching cold. His arm swung out, and only the blankets prevented him from striking her. She shook him.

“Josey, it's all right.” His eyes snapped open, and she saw the confusion on his face in the dim light. “It's all right, Josey. You must have had a nightmare.”

Josey nodded, still more in the dream than the moment. Annabelle leaned forward, her hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammering a rhythm like raindrops in a summer shower, his breathing nearly as fast. She shivered as he looked at her.

“You're cold.” He tugged at the blankets and covered her. She laid her head against his chest, still hearing his heart. “I'm sorry I woke you. I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“No, of course not.” She placed an arm over him. “Are you all right?”

“Like you said, it was a nightmare.”

“It must have been terrible. Do you remember what it was about?”

“I think so. It was . . .” He hesitated. “The war.” He shrugged, her head rising with the movement. “Go back to sleep. It's nothing.”

She knew better. “When I was a little girl and had nightmares, my father would ask me about them. He said if you talked about your nightmares when you were awake, that would take away the fear when you went back to sleep.”

He was silent a moment. “That may work for children, when the dreams are monsters. I don't know if it works when the dreams are memories.”

“You can try.”

“They're horrible things, Belle. Things I wish I hadn't seen, wish I hadn't done.”

Annabelle thought back to the day the road agents attacked and how she felt watching Josey kill those men. They had threatened her family and friends. If Josey hadn't killed them, the bandits would have killed him or hurt more people in the wagon train. Josey didn't seem to enjoy fighting, but he didn't shy from it, either. She supposed it was no different when he had been at war. One side attacked and you either killed the man across from you—or allowed him to kill you. That didn't make him a bad man.

She pulled closer, wishing to cover him entirely, wrap him like a cocoon and make him feel safe the way he did for all of them. His body stiffened against hers, but in a moment he relaxed as she clung to him.

“You can tell me anything. I won't judge you.”

His breathing became regular, his heartbeat back to a methodical rhythm. She kissed his neck without thought, the way she might comfort a child. When he spoke, the sound of his voice startled her.

“Belle, there are a lot of things I've done that I wish I hadn't.” He shifted to face her, but his eyes cast down as he spoke, as if in search of the words he wanted. “Things that make me unworthy of you, I know.”

“That's not true—”

With a gentle hand, he stayed her, his eyes finding hers. “I need to say this, so you understand. I don't mean to hide from you who I was. I think you know already.”

She nodded. “I've seen. There's no need for secrets between us, Josey.”

“No secrets, maybe, but memories, Belle. If I don't share more with you, it's because I want to forget and telling you will only make those memories a part of the new life I want to have.” He looked at her, took her hand in his. “You have memories, too, Belle. Memories I wouldn't wish to share.” She thought of Richard. In all the nights she lay with him, they had never talked like this.

Josey seemed to read her thoughts. “I would rather not know about your life with him. I can tell you weren't happy. I think knowing why would only give me an anger I can't vent.”

“We both have secrets, I guess,” she said, correcting herself. “Memories. We have memories that are best forgotten.”

They lay back together. The moon was so bright, Annabelle couldn't see nearly as many stars as she had before it rose. Not seeing them didn't mean they weren't there. She wondered how long she would need to be with Josey before they created enough memories that the war faded from his mind like stars on a moonlit night.
I would like to find out.

When she thought he had fallen asleep again, he proved he had other things in mind. She did not object. She was contented when he was inside her in a way she wasn't any other time. Even when the urgency of his need took over and his mind seemed removed from her, she was happy.
He thinks too much of death. This is life.
Their bodies were sweat-slicked despite the cool night air, and he slid against her smoothly. Abruptly, he stopped.

“Did you—?” She hadn't felt anything.

He shook his head, the movement rigid.

“Why—?”

He shook his head again. “I don't want it to end,” he said, his voice tight, as if he were holding his breath.

“I'm afraid it doesn't work that way,” she said. Her laughter shook her body.

“Don't move.” He gripped her tighter.

She squeezed her legs against him, then allowed her hips to slide the tiniest of increments, down, then up. “Is it all right if I do this?”

“I wish you wouldn't.” His eyes were closed and he breathed through his teeth.