Without Words (9 page)

Hassie looked at the pan crowded with bacon again, looked at Yellow Dog, salivating on the far side of the fire, and told him, “I think things have changed for the better for us this time.”

Bret returned to the fire and took the fork from her. “If all that hand-waving means you burned yourself, I have some ointment in the packs.”

She fetched the slate from her saddlebags.
“No burns. Sign language.”

“The dog understands sign language.”

“More than anyone else since Mama died.”

“So you spell things out with your fingers.”

“Only sometimes. Mostly words, phrases, more.”

“Huh. Doesn’t seem too likely.”

Hassie used one of her gloves for a potholder, grabbed the coffee pot from the fire, and gave it an inviting little heft.

“No, my cup is still....”

She smiled at him. His gray eyes were still cold, his lean cheeks and strong chin under dark stubble more menacing than yesterday. If he smiled he’d be handsome. Maybe he was a little handsome even without the smile. He didn’t seem so intimidating this morning.

“All right,” he said after a moment. “I take your point.”

They ate in amiable silence. Two of the fat biscuits wrapped around a disgraceful amount of bacon left Hassie comfortably full. Bret ate twice as much, and as she had suspected, that still left two biscuits and several strips of bacon for Yellow Dog.

Bret gestured with his cup toward the horses. “You have a name for the horse?”

“Brownie.”

He said nothing, drank more coffee.

Hassie ignored her twitching fingers. She was not going to defend the way Cyrus named things, and his name for the horse was better than most even though Brownie was not really brown, more of a grayish tan with a lighter mane and tail, a coloring common on plow horses. Draft horses in her ancestry had probably contributed both to Brownie’s coloring and appearance. And her sweet nature.

“I know you’re fond of her,” Bret said after a while, “but even fattened up, a horse that old may not be able to handle days on the trail.”

“Brownie is not old. 6.”

“Twenty-six maybe.”

“6.”

Bret went over to Brownie, slid his hand in the side of her mouth and pulled out her tongue, examining her teeth as she fought his hold with her mouth wide.

When he came back to the fire, he said, “I’m no expert on teeth, but you could have made a lot of money betting me on that one. I’ll give you six. Was she born with her lips hanging loose like that?”

Hassie didn’t answer. She didn’t think he expected her to.

“What about him?” Bret said, pointing with the cup again.

“Yellow Dog.”

Bret’s head jerked around toward her. Maybe he was just as intimidating today as yesterday and the day before after all.

“Who the hell named him that?”

“My husband.”

“Whatever you call him, I’m not riding around with a dog named as a coward, especially when he’s not. He looks like an artillery sergeant I once knew. I’m calling him Gunner.”

Yellow Dog had given up on more food and was sniffing around near the horses. He had a long pointy muzzle, hound ears, and a wiry, tan coat a few shades darker than Brownie’s. At best, he’d weigh sixty pounds and right now wouldn’t reach forty. Hassie tried to imagine any man looking like that and failed. The thought made her laugh.

Bret got up so suddenly Hassie searched the trees for trouble.

“You clean up here, and I’ll saddle the horses,” he said as he strode away.

Hassie cleaned up as best she could in the dry camp and smothered the fire. Why would a man like Bret Sterling stomp off like that over the dog’s name?

B
RET HAD CHANGED
his estimate of how long it would take to reach Fort Leavenworth from five days to eight and wasn’t far wrong. Late the seventh day, his small cavalcade topped a rise, and there before them was the wide river, snaking away to the northwest and southeast as far as the eye could see.

After sitting a while admiring the view, or in Bret’s case, enjoying the look of wonder on Mrs. Petty’s face, he turned back and set up their supper fire a prudent mile away from the river. Bandits preying on travelers would be thick on the ground here.

Bret had been avoiding Mrs. Petty as much as possible under the circumstances for days. They ate meals in silence. Each did a share of routine camp chores. She read from her Bible until the light faded. He memorized descriptions on wanted posters.

It was better that way. He didn’t want to get to know her, didn’t want to know more of her history. Gabe and Belle could deal with all that.

Still, before they approached the ferry, he needed to give her some serious instruction. Not only was she too damned cheerful, too eager to help, she was too friendly. At least twice he’d caught her waving at people they passed on the trail. He’d ignored it at the time, but she had to stop.

Once he had potatoes frying and quail roasting, he broached the subject, “Before we get to the ferry tomorrow, Mrs. Petty, we need to talk.”

The chalk pencil scritched on the slate, and she held it up.
“Hassie.”

He’d almost forgotten seeing her given name on the bill of sale. How did a woman whose face all but had “Irish” written on it end up with a name like that? He pushed it aside. One more thing he didn’t want to know. “Mrs. Petty. Before we get to the ferry tomorrow, we need to talk about how you should act.”

Her face fell, her eyes dropped from his to the fire. In a minute she’d be clutching at her stomach the way she did when she was upset.

He ignored the urge to say something reassuring. “No one who gets a good look is going to take you for a boy or a man, even dressed like you are. So you need to do your best not to give anyone a reason to look. Put your hair up under your hat tomorrow, wear your coat and gloves, a little dirt on your face wouldn’t hurt, and pull your hat down.”

Her chest wasn’t the problem. Bret eyed that area speculatively. The breasts he’d seen bare were small, but they were definitely female breasts. A man would need a magnifying glass to find anything female under her shirt now. She must be tying everything down flat.

Her rump and walk were a different story. She was not a properly curvy woman, nothing like Mary, but that rump had a distinct heart shape loose-fitting trousers didn’t disguise. She’d be too warm, but the heavy coat would hide things that needed to be hidden.

Nothing could disguise or hide the female way she moved. Keeping her on the horse so she could never take a single step on her own was the only chance there. He continued with her orders for the morning.

“Don’t laugh. Keep quiet. If you can keep the horses between you and anyone else on the ferry, do it, except stay away from the cavalry horse.” He turned the potatoes and remembered another thing. “And stay as close to me as you can.”

She nodded, already looking anxious.
“Brownie and Yel....”
The last three letters disappeared as she rubbed them out with the side of her hand.
“...Gunner have never been on a ferry.”

“Have you?”

She shook her head.
“Train and stagecoach when Mama and I came west.”

West from where? He didn’t need to know. Didn’t want to know. “I’ll give you a rope in the morning. You get it on the dog before he disappears after breakfast and keep hold of him. That way he won’t miss the boat. Your horse will be fine.”

Her horse wouldn’t be fine on its best day, but at least it was better. The mare’s speed had increased from that of a turtle to that of an ox, an old slow ox.

Mrs. Petty was doing better too. The dark circles under her eyes seemed gone for good, and her skin no longer had the pallor of sickness. He’d guess her age at mid-twenties now. She hadn’t pressed a hand over her stomach for days, and there was nothing wrong with her appetite.

Gunner’s spine had disappeared, and you had to look hard to see his ribs under the scruffy, wiry coat. With the help of a little jerky, the dog was responding to his name. He still growled at Bret regularly but no longer sounded serious.

The nightmare hadn’t come again yet, but Bret had kept his promise about rabbits. Of course if the dog didn’t wake him next time the dream came, it better get to hunting for itself.

The worried look stayed on Mrs. Petty’s face, and she didn’t eat as much as usual. When they remounted and moved into the dusk, away from the fire, he caught her with her hand over her stomach. He should have waited until after breakfast tomorrow to talk to her.

Then again, he wouldn’t have to lie awake fighting the effects of her laughter tonight.

H
ASSIE’S FIRST GLIMPSE
of the Missouri River unsettled her even before Bret told her what she had to do the next day. From bank to bank the water must be a mile wide, or at least half a mile. Knowing the Missouri was a major river had not prepared her for anything so daunting.

Brownie was never going to get on a ferry, and neither was Yellow Dog, who still didn’t seem like a Gunner to her. Brownie would balk, and Bret would lose his temper and leave the poor horse on this side. Yellow Dog would growl and throw himself around like a mad dog at the end of the rope, and if Bret didn’t shoot him, someone else would.

Squirming and turning in her blankets, Hassie fretted half the night away before falling into a troubled sleep.

The next morning getting a rope on Yellow Dog—Gunner—proved easy. He was too busy gulping down the breakfast Hassie had been unable to eat to pay any attention until it was too late.

The river disappeared behind trees and thick brush as they descended to its level. Twists in the trail to the ferry continued to hide the water until they were almost on the bank. The scent of wet mud and vegetation hung heavy in the air long before the trail ended in a large clearing and the water came into view.

They didn’t travel the trail alone. A group of rough-looking men rode ahead, two more followed close behind. Hassie tugged her hat lower, understanding why Bret didn’t want anyone to know about her.

She pushed Brownie as close to Bret’s horse as she dared. Keeping Yellow Dog on one side of Brownie and not letting him tangle the rope around her horse was hard enough without getting so close to Bret the dog could interfere with the other horses.

A wide platform of heavy logs protruded into the river. Solid though the landing appeared, Brownie balked before getting anywhere near it. Would all these men be able to ride their horses across the landing and a less solid gangplank onto some little....

“Here she comes,” a man near the front of the line shouted.

A flat-bottomed vessel with a cabin the size of a house in the middle steamed toward them. Steamed. White clouds billowed from a stack. Hassie’s visions of the ferry as a raft propelled by men with oars disappeared.

Mouth dry, heart racing, Hassie fought Brownie’s attempt to whirl and run when a whistle blew. Giving up the effort for the moment, Brownie watched the ferry loom larger and larger. She threw her head high and swiveled her big furry ears so far forward they almost touched. Yellow Dog panted and whined.

Bret turned in his saddle, took in her struggle at a glance, and wheeled all three of his horses in spite of the strangers hemming them in. He dismounted and took hold of Brownie.

“Get off.”

Hassie got off, thankful to reach solid ground in the usual way instead of flying through the air off a panicked horse.

“Hold him.” Bret handed her Jasper’s reins, leaving her holding Jasper and the other two, whose lead ropes were wound around the saddle horn. Bret led Brownie and Yellow Dog into the brush beside the trail and tied them there.

The ferry docked. The gangplank crashed down. Men shouted, cursed, and laughed.

A rider on a flashy pinto shoved his way through those waiting their turn. When he came abreast of the cavalry horse, it lashed out, narrowly missing his knee. The man cursed and shook a fist at Hassie. Startled, she looked up into angry dark eyes for an instant before remembering, dropping her gaze, and moving behind Jasper’s head.

Bret returned and pushed Hassie toward Jasper. “Get on.”

Get on his horse and leave Brownie and Yellow Dog tied in the woods? No. She tried to shake Bret off.

“Stop moving around and get on the horse,” Bret hissed. “I’ll come back for them.”

Unsure if she believed him, sure he would toss her up on the horse if she didn’t mount voluntarily, Hassie crawled up on Jasper. Her feet dangled far above Bret’s long stirrups. She grabbed the saddle horn in a death grip, barely remembering to keep hold of the reins. Bret had the leads of both other horses. He swung up on the cavalry horse, and led the way across the landing, over the gangplank, and onto the ferry.

The flood of men and horses boarding slowed to a trickle. Bret found a place by the rail, tied the horses, and shoved Hassie between Jasper and Packie.

“Stay here,” he ordered as he rummaged through his saddlebags. “Don’t move around. If anyone gets too close, push him over the rail. If you can’t do that, push him into the horse,” he said, jerking his chin toward the cavalry horse.

He hurried toward the gangplank, his spare shirt hanging from one hand, his long legs carrying him quickly past the last stragglers coming the other way. Once off the gangplank, he broke into a run.

Men moved into position, ready to pull the gangplank up. Hassie stared at the empty end of the trail. What was she going to do?

Bret had already paid their fare. If the ferry left without him, could she get the three horses off on the other side by herself and wait for him? He never let her near the cavalry horse.

She forgot to stay still, bounced nervously on her toes. There. Bret came into sight, leading Brownie with his shirt tied over her eyes. He held Yellow Dog’s rope so close to the dog’s neck when Yellow Dog pulled back, Bret pulled up, and the dog’s front feet paddled air.

On they came. Although his clothes were similar to the men on the ferry, and like them his lower face was obscured by beard, Bret looked—better—as if he really should be wearing an officer’s uniform, clean and crisp.