A Hero's Heart

A Hero’s Heart

Sylvia McDaniel

A Hero’s Heart

Copyright © 1998, 2012 Sylvia McDaniel

Published by

Virtual Bookseller

Published originally by Kensington Publishing Corporation 1998

All Rights Returned to the Author

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-9916238-4-6

Chapter One

1846 Indian Territory

D
eath spiraled toward the sky in a hazy plume of thick black smoke, spreading its raucous odor across the hilly countryside. From his chestnut mare, Wade Ketchum gazed upon the burned wagons, scattered furniture and littered bodies. The sight seemed unreal in the early morning light, but the woman kneeling beside a freshly dug grave, shoulders shaking with grief, made the scene painfully real.

Wade slid from his saddle, the creak of leather echoing in the deadly quiet. Alert, he walked towards the woman, his boots crunching on the hard ground. As she bent over the grave, her sunbonnet rested against her slender shoulders, exposing a soft mass of mahogany tresses at her nape.

Her head was bowed her hands clasped together.

“Please, Father, I need your help. Guide us through Your wilderness.”

Wade hesitated. The woman was praying.

“Send someone to help us. I can’t do this alone.” She sobbed. “Our lives are in Your hands. Amen.”

Wade cleared his throat.

She jumped up, whirling around at the sound. Her gaze collided with his, and her shoulders seemed to sag with relief.

“I was afraid it was the Pawnee returning,” she said, her voice filled with relief, her eyes wary of him.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, just terribly frightened,” she answered, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

Wade glanced at the camp. Smoke drifted across the area giving it a ghostly appearance, nothing stirred. The attack had been recent, and even one survivor was a miracle.

A feeling of unease crept up his spine. Why was she still here, vulnerable to another attack? “What happened?”

“The Pawnee ambushed our wagon train late yesterday evening. I’ve been trying to hitch up our wagon.” She rambled nervously on. “I was beginning to wonder if we were going to all die here in this barren country.” The woman held out a shaky right hand. “I’m Rachel Cooke.”

“Wade Ketchum, ma’am.” Gripping her cold palm, he realized the woman was skittish as a wild horse.

She withdrew her hand from his, wrapping her arms around her middle as if to protect herself. She stared at the destruction of what once had been fifteen or more wagons, and seemed to sag before his eyes. One wagon stood apart from the others, the canvas singed and ripped, but otherwise still intact.

“We were fortunate,” she whispered, as a sob escaped her throat. “Somehow our wagon was spared.” She wrung her hands fretfully. “But the oxen were spooked by the raid, and I haven’t been able to hitch them, to take us away from here.”

“Ma’am, I’m surprised you still have oxen.”

“They were down at the creek being watered when the attack occurred. We heard the noise and hid in the bushes.”

Wade wanted to reach out and touch her, reassure her somehow. Knowing he had to be in Fort Laramie in three days, knowing she would only slow him down, and yet knowing he couldn’t leave her behind, he said, “I’ll hitch your wagon and help you reach the next town.”

“Just get us out of here. Away from all this. I don’t care where you’re going,” she said, her voice trembling with fear.

“I won’t leave you, ma’am,” Wade said, trying to dispel the fear from her eyes, nervous about the possible return of the Pawnee.

His gazed wandered to the single grave. “Your husband?”

She followed his gaze. “No, it’s Miss Cooke. The grave is my father’s.” She choked up momentarily. “I couldn’t stand the thought of animals or Indians desecrating his body. So I spent the morning, burying him the best I could. But the others, God rest their souls, I couldn’t help them.”

While not a classic beauty, she was pretty, in an unusual way. There was a wholesomeness of face and spirit that Wade was not accustomed to in a woman.

He sneaked another glance, his gaze taking in the delicate profile and lush curves. Those curves would be a definite distraction.

Wade picked up the hitch and approached the oxen. He slipped the yoke around their necks and proceeded to fasten it on the animals. “I have to be in Fort Laramie in three days. I’ll take you that far, but then you’re on your own.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if a chill had passed over her. “I’m so grateful you came along. We were on our way to The Dalles, Oregon, to my father’s new church.”

“You should be able to catch up with another wagon train in Fort Laramie, Miss Cooke. They’ll see you on to Oregon.” He checked the ropes one last time. “Are you ready? I don’t want to linger here any longer than necessary.”

“I agree. Just let me get the children,” she said.

“Children?” Wade heard himself blurt the word. “I thought you said you weren’t married? That no one else survived.”

“Just my sister and three orphans. My father was a minister. We ran an orphanage back home, in Tennessee.”

Suddenly, a small army crashed through the brush. Wade whirled around and pulled his gun, expecting to face Pawnee and came face-to-face with a beauty. The young woman held a small baby in her arms and a little girl of about seven tugged a freckled-faced adolescent boy behind her. They all stopped, wide eyes fixed on him and his gun.

Wade stared at the group in disbelief. “What the hell?” He shoved the weapon back in his holster.

“Mr. Ketchum, please watch your language!” Rachel exclaimed.

He didn’t have time for children. They were little creatures that cried or whined most of the time and had a way of getting under your skin, twisting your heart. He didn’t need the aggravation, or the memories they evoked.

The little girl looked wide-eyed at him, and Wade growled, “I don’t know, Miss Cooke. I didn’t bargain for this.”

Catching sight of Rachel, the baby started to fuss, holding out his arms. The young woman carrying the infant grimaced with distaste. She hurried over to Rachel, her long skirts swishing, and shoved the baby into Rachel’s arms. “It’s your turn to take care of this wet, fussy brat.”

With a toss of her blond curls, the other woman informed Rachel, “We couldn’t stand waiting in that ravine any longer. The children had to see you were all right.”

“I’m fine, Becky. This is Mr. Ketchum. He’s going to see us to the next town.”

Becky carefully assessed him from head to toe. For a moment he felt like he was sized up, tagged, and numbered. Trouble was etched in her smile, in the way she walked and in every line of her seductive body.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ketchum,” she cooed.

Wade shook his head in bewilderment. These two women couldn’t possibly be sisters. They were about as much alike as a skunk and a porcupine.

“Rachel, the wagons—they’re all burned,” the little girl cried.

She knelt with the baby on her hip, putting herself at the child’s level. “Yes, Grace, I know.”

“Where is Papa Cooke?” the child asked.

“Remember what we talked about last night?”

“But I want to see him.”

Tears filled Rachel’s eyes. “We won’t see him again until we get to heaven. Let’s say a prayer for Papa and everyone else before we leave.”

Wade swore beneath his breath. “Miss Cooke, we don’t have time for a prayer service. Those Indians could return any time.”

She looked at him the way a schoolmarm would gaze at a misbehaving child.

“Please, Mr. Ketchum, the children and I need just a few moments to say good-bye. We’ll make it quick.”

How could a woman who looked so soft be so damn stubborn?

He watched Rachel gather her small brood around the lone grave. She pulled a Bible from her apron pocket and read a passage as unfamiliar to him as Greek. Then bowed her head and led them in prayer.

Not for the first time, Wade wondered what he’d gotten himself into. He shook his head, mentally chastising himself for getting involved. Three days from now the biggest card game west of the Mississippi was being played in Fort Laramie, and he intended on winning that money. He had to win a decent amount in that card game or find himself stranded, unable to continue the search for his brother.

But he couldn’t just leave them here. And more importantly, the sight of Miss Cooke bending over that grave had touched a memory he’d rather forget.

“Thank you, Father, for sending us Mr. Ketchum,” Rachel said. “Amen.”

“Good Lord! Now she thinks I’m a damned saint,” Wade mumbled his thoughts out loud.

Immediately, Rachel turned to face Wade, sending him a puzzled look. “What did you say, Mr. Ketchum?”

“I don’t have time to cart a bunch of kids around,” Wade said, running a hand through his hair as he gazed upon the children. “I have to be in Fort Laramie by Saturday.”

Becky twittered with laughter. “Oh, I don’t think a strong man like you would leave three small children and two helpless females all alone in the wilderness.”

Helpless? Maybe they appeared vulnerable, but any woman who survived an Indian attack and buried a man, was anything but defenseless.

“Mr. Ketchum, I would like to leave here as soon as possible,” Rachel asserted suddenly. “Are you going to help us or not?”

Everyone turned to him expectantly. Only the baby seemed uninterested in his response. The blonde-haired little girl looked so much like his sister Sarah, her gaze felt like a knife gouging his heart. They were wasting precious time.

He cursed under his breath.”Of course, I’m going to help you. But I’m not going to spend another minute waiting for the damn Pawnee to return. Let’s go.”

* * *

Rachel drove the team of oxen, just like she had for the last three months. The dust was still incredible and the heat intolerable as the wagon bounced along the rutted trail. But Rachel knew that yesterday’s Indian raid had changed everything, and she was frightened.

“If he ain’t the best-looking man we’ve seen since we left Tennessee!” Becky said as her gaze devoured Wade.

Rachel barely comprehended her sister’s words. Her mind and body were weary. She was grimy. And even though she had scoured the blood and dirt from her hands, she felt stained. Stained with her father’s blood and that of other members of the wagon train.

“I’d bet the trail he’s traveling is littered with broken hearts,” Becky prattled on as if this wasn’t the day after their father’s death. “How could any woman resist a man who looks as fine as he does.”

“Becky!” Rachel exclaimed, finally unable to ignore her sister’s comments any longer. She peeked over her shoulder, worried the children were listening.

“I know you’re young, but must you always be so interested in men?” Rachel asked wearily, knowing she wasted words on deaf ears. “The soul is more important than physical beauty.”

“You think about his soul. I’ll admire the way he sits a horse, that spark in his eyes and the muscles in his forearms.” Her voice was barely audible over the rumble of the wheels and the creaking of the wagon.

Gripping the reins, Rachel guided the oxen up the steep incline as she sneaked a glance at the stranger who had aided her. His hat rested low on his forehead, shielding his gaze from the late afternoon sun. Reluctantly, she admitted her sister was right. Rachel had not failed to notice his powerful good looks, or the way his pants fit snug across his muscular buttocks.