Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (22 page)

      
“Well, if it isn't my darling wife, the Indian lover...let's just pretend I'm some big, black-haired buck with greasy braids...”

* * * *

      
Noah made a late start the next morning because of his drunkenness the night before. He was taking a coach east to pick up the rails to Chicago. If there was one last chance to influence the Northern Pacific officials about the route, he must take it. Beating Krueger and Hawk was growing into an obsession with him—that and getting his willful wife pregnant.

      
His memories of the previous night were hazy. Nevertheless, when he saw Carrie's purple-shadowed eyes and flinching avoidance that morning, he knew he must have dealt effectively with her. Just let her quicken and he would gladly leave her cold bed for the lusty whores in Miles City.

      
Once Carrie was certain he had departed, she went down to the corrals and began to saddle Taffy Girl for a ride. Aching and exhausted, she needed to ride in the warm, clean air to cleanse the poison of Noah's touch from her body.

      
“Easy, Taffy, easy. You and I will have a good, quick ride. Just—” Carrie stopped in midsentence as Hawk rounded the corner. What was he doing here so late in the morning?

      
As if in answer to her unspoken question, he said, “Redskin threw a shoe. Brought him in for Jeremy to replace it.” He took in her drawn, tired appearance, trying not to dwell on the reason for it.

      
With a quick “Good morning,” Carrie fairly fled past him and led her mare outside the barn. Just as she began to put a foot in the stirrup, a pair of hands reached around her waist to boost her up. Thinking it was Hawk, she turned to plead that he let her go. It was not Hawk, but Lew Smithers, a tall, rangy cowboy with an angular face. His thin nose and concave cheeks were red and veiny, his hands large with long, callused fingers. Smithers was unwashed, smelling of sour sweat and cheap cigars. As he nodded, one long spike of dirty blond hair fell across his forehead.

      
To Carrie he looked for all the world like a young, impoverished version of Noah. She paled and flinched at his unexpected appearance. “Please, I can mount by myself.”

      
As she did just that, he let out a loud chuckle and said, “Yep, in them duds, I just bet you can.” His eyes roamed across her hips and followed the curve of her split skirts down to her boots, then slid back up to her breast, now beginning to heave in agitation.

      
Carrie turned Taffy, but Smithers grabbed the bridle and held on. “Just a minute. What with the boss man gone 'n' all, I reckon you can use some protection. I'll ride along.”

      
By this time, Carrie was flushed and angry. Still unnerved by the previous evening, she could not bear the proximity of this smelly young incarnation of her husband. She had to escape! “I don't want company. I ride alone.”

      
His face darkened. “I seen ya ride with Lowery 'n' Hunnicut, even that breed. Ya mean I ain't as good as them?” Since coming to work at Circle S, he had watched the old man's beautiful young wife for weeks. If she rode out with other hands and that Indian, why not with him! He did not loose his hold on Taffy's bridle. The horse shied nervously.

      
“Let me go.” Carrie fairly bit off each word.

      
Before she could say more, Hawk's voice cut into Smithers's back, low, silky, deadly. “You heard the lady, Smithers. Let her go, or this breed may decide to do something downright hostile.” He was lounged against the stable door, ever so casually, but the low gun on his hip gleamed evilly in the noon sun.

      
Smithers quickly reconsidered, tipping his greasy-rimmed hat. “Meant no harm, ma'am. I got no fight with you, Sinclair.” With that he vanished around the corral fence.

      
Hawk paid the cowardly Lothario no further attention, but looked at Carrie's shaken demeanor. With a quick, choked little thank-you, she rode over the hill. He stood there, debating whether or not to follow her, thinking how frightened and vulnerable she looked. Nor did he miss the shivering revulsion she had for Smithers.
Damn you, Noah, you'll make her shrink from all men before you're done!
Just then, Kyle came up behind him.

      
Watching his friend's pensive stare and haunted black eyes, Hunnicut swore to himself, then spoke aloud. “It'd be smart ta fix on somethin' else, Longlegs. She'll git yew in a passel o' trouble.”

      
Hawk scoffed. “I’ve already said white women were trouble, Kyle. I know.”

      
“It ain't her fault any more'n it's yourn. If thing's different, I 'spect yew 'n' her'd 'a'done all right. But—”

      
Hawk cut him off abruptly. “Forget it, Kyle! She's never been for me, and we both know it. I'm not a complete fool for you to shepherd.” He considered a few seconds, then smiled. “At least, not since you carried me out of that bar years ago.”

      
“Carried! Huh! As much lead as ya had in yew, a lil' feller like me's lucky ta drag ya.” He sobered again, not wanting to avoid the issue as Hawk obviously did. “Whut yew say me 'n' yew slip off ta th' Nations agin? Ya kept th' railroad off'n yer grandpa's land. Nothin’ thet ought ta be keepin' us here now.”

      
“Krueger,” came the terse reply. Hawk walked toward the lower corral where the smith worked, leaving a very unhappy and thoughtful Kyle Hunnicut scratching his head.

* * * *

      
Noah had been gone for five days, and every morning Carrie thanked heaven she had not been forced to accompany him. He had considered it, but the doctor's advice about allowing her rest and a stable routine stopped him. What if she were already pregnant and the rough coach and train trip caused her to miscarry? No, he left her at Circle S and she was grateful. By the time Noah was gone a week, Carrie's monthly courses came, and she knew she was not with child. She grimaced, thinking how angrily he would take that news.

      
Such were her troubled thoughts when she rode home the afternoon of the sixth day of Noah's absence. She pulled Taffy up at the corral and dismounted, then stopped short when she heard a child's whimper and Kyle Hunnicut's voice trying to communicate with the frightened little one.

      
“Now, jist take it easy, lil' mite. Soon's Hawk gits here, we kin palaver. Lordy, do step it up, Longlegs,” he muttered under his breath, all the while attempting to soothe the child.

      
Carrie walked quietly into the stable, adjusting her eyes to the dim interior. Then she saw the wiry little man awkwardly trying to get a small Indian girl to lie still on a hastily unrolled saddle blanket. She looked to be no more than seven or eight. Her large brown eyes were dark with terror, and her lips trembled as she whispered brokenly in a strange language Carrie had never heard before. Her long hair was bound in two shiny braids that had come partially undone and her beautifully worked deerskin tunic was ripped. However, it was the right legging that told the tale of her pain and terror. It was slashed open at midcalf, and a large gash bled profusely over the sweet hay and the blanket.

      
Quickly Carrie moved to Kyle's side. “She's badly hurt, Kyle. Where did you find her?”

      
“I wuz down a fer piece, near Cheyenne huntin' country. Heered this here little bitty cry. She's tryin' ta be real quiet. Good thing she warn't. From th' sign, I 'spect she wandered off pickin' berries an’ a she bear got a couple o' good swipes at her. Dunno why it didn't finish her, but bears's funny. Niver kin tell whut they'll do.”

      
Carrie knelt and placed a gentle hand on the girl's feverish brow. “Do you have any idea how long she lay there injured like this?” As she spoke and touched the girl, the child quieted, gazing in awe at the fiery curls spilling down Carrie's shoulder. Wonderingly, she touched one long springy bit of the hair, then withdrew her fingers as if burned.

      
Carrie smiled reassuringly. “It's all right.” Turning to Kyle, she said, “Do you suppose she's never seen a white person before?”

      
He nodded. “Possible, leastways not a woman, an’ fer shore not one with yer kinda har.”

      
“If only we could communicate with her. What tribe is she? Cheyenne?”

      
He nodded again, then added, “Hawk should be here soon. He kin tell her we mean no harm.”

      
“We have to get her to the house, Kyle. I'll ask Frank to send a hand into town for Dr. Lark. She needs medical attention.”

      
“Forget Dr. Lark,” a harsh voice barked out. “He wouldn't cross the street to treat a sick Cheyenne, much less come to Circle S.” Hawk knelt by the girl's side, brushing Carrie back and taking the child's hand.

      
As if sensing their kindred blood, she spoke haltingly and he replied.

      
Carrie interrupted, placing her hand tentatively on Hawk's shoulder as she spoke. “We must at least get her to the house and into a clean bed so we can tend her wounds.”

      
He looked up with a sardonic gleam in his eye. “You figure to face down Noah when he finds a filthy redskin in one of his lily-white beds?”

      
Her eyes flashed emerald fire. “He already has one—in your room! I'll take my chances. While we're arguing, this child is in pain!”

      
Without another word, Hawk scooped up the girl and strode toward the house with Carrie beside him. Smothering a chuckle, Kyle turned to attend to the horses.

      
When they arrived at the big house, Carrie calmly opened the door. Hawk carried the tiny, quaking child into the front hall. Gazing into the parlor with its high ceiling and glittering chandelier, the child's eyes glowed in fear and wonder. Just as the three moved toward the stairs, Mathilda Thorndyke materialized from the dining room, a look of horrified incredulity spread across her face.

      
She perched two bony fists on her spartan hips and fairly shrieked, “You can't bring that—that savage into Mr. Sinclair's house!”

      
Carrie cut in sharply before Hawk could speak. “You forget yourself, Mathilda! I'm Mrs. Sinclair, and I say I can.”

      
Grinning evilly, Hawk added, “And I'm Mr. Sinclair, too, in case you forgot, Mathilda. This is my house as well as Noah's—for now.” With that he swept effortlessly past the stupefied sentinel.

      
Carrie followed him upstairs after issuing crisp instructions. “Have Feliz boil some water and bring clean bandages to the spare bedroom on the east end of the hall. Immediately!”

      
Livid with rage, Mathilda Thorndyke did as she was bid. By the time Feliz arrived, Carrie had settled the child in a comfortable bed and Hawk had cut the leather legging away from her wound. The little guest room was seldom used, clean but sparsely furnished. Carrie chose it because it was small and far from Noah's room. The girl would need sleep. Already Carrie considered how she would handle Noah.

      
As Hawk explained to the child that Feliz was a medicine woman who was going to help her, Carrie wrung out linens from the sterilized water and handed them to the intrepid Mexicana.

      
“What is her name? Oh, I wish I could talk to her,” Carrie said in sad frustration.

      
“It's Bright Leaf,” Hawk replied.

      
“What was a child of eight or nine doing out there all alone!” Carrie was shaken. She had never seen such stoic endurance as the child displayed while Feliz cleansed the fierce claw gouges. Even while the rawest places were washed, she made no cry.

      
“She's six,” Hawk replied. “Cheyenne are tall, even the children. She was with her older sister and got separated. Wandered off to follow a butterfly and got out of earshot.”

      
“Are her people near here? Surely they wouldn't desert her!”

      
“No, not normally, but if nothing is found but the bear and her tracks, they might conclude Bright Leaf is dead. I'll have to check around and see which band she's from and then locate them. It may take a while.”

      
“Well, she can't be moved for some time, anyway,” Carrie said, wincing as Feliz applied an astringent poultice to the deep, angry gashes on the thin sturdy leg.

      
Hawk looked at Carrie, sensing her unspoken question. “I'll help you with Noah.”

      
“He'll not throw a sick child out to die!” She vowed it fiercely to herself, not even realizing she spoke the words aloud. Then her green eyes softened as she looked at the tall, dark figure standing beside the bed. “Thank you, Hawk.”

      
“She's one of the People. I could do no less, but you could have, Carrie. Perhaps I should be the one thanking you.”

      
Over the next several days, Carrie stayed close to the house and helped Feliz tend to Bright Leaf. Once her initial awe and fear were dispelled, the child responded wholeheartedly to the warmth and kindness of the Mexican cook and the flame-haired young woman. Feliz knew a few simple words and phrases in Cheyenne and taught them to Carrie. The girl was as bright as her name and quickly picked up a similar vocabulary in English. The three of them communicated fairly well.

      
Hawk went in search of her band the next morning, figuring the more rapidly he returned her to her own people, the better things would be. Carrie did not need another incident to antagonize Noah. Even if he faced the old man down, Carrie's love for the child would be obvious. The second night, when he returned to the ranch after an unsuccessful search, he heard her halting attempts at Cheyenne and Bright Leaf’s similar efforts in English. Hawk realized that Carrie would not suffer Noah's slurs against the child in silence.