Kaki Warner (7 page)

She often brought him leftovers, knowing he was frequently late returning home after his patient visits, and with no wife to cook for him, was sometimes too weary to prepare a proper meal. It was small payment for the comfort he had given her over the last year.

“I talked to Mr. Hobart,” she told him several minutes later over a cup of tea. “I needed to hear for myself what he had to say.”

He waited, his gentle brown eyes showing concern. He understood. She could say things here that she couldn’t say to her brothers. Battling their own grief over Hannah’s disappearance, they were helpless to deal with hers. But here, in this quiet kitchen with this kindly old man, she didn’t have to be strong. Here, she was allowed the luxury of despair. And hope.

“Do you think he’s deranged, doctor?”

“Deranged?” Doctor Halstead shook his head. “But I think he wants your daughter to be alive almost as much as you do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hannah is his redemption.” The elderly man sighed and scratched at the white stubble on his chin. “Daniel had a wife and son. Back in Georgia.”

Had?
She thought of the starkness of Mr. Hobart’s home. Her own house was filled with reminders of Hannah, yet she hadn’t seen a single memento of his family in Mr. Hobart’s lonely cabin.

“Don’t know the particulars,” the doctor went on. “It happened during the rebellion. But while he was off fighting somewhere else, Sherman marched through Georgia. You know the stories, how the general burned everything that might aid the Rebels. Apparently, his wife and son were among the casualties.”

“Sherman killed them?” She had read accounts of Sherman’s “scorched earth” policy but wasn’t aware that such harsh treatment had been extended to the civilians in his path.

“Not directly. But it was hard on folks who lost everything, especially with winter coming on. Daniel faults himself for not being there when his family needed him.”

Mulling that over, Lacy watched snowflakes drift past the frost-edged panes of the kitchen window. Redemption. Was that the reason for the sadness behind Mr. Hobart’s eyes? And what did that have to do with Hannah? Turning back to the doctor, she asked him that.

The old man shrugged. “Maybe if he finds Hannah, it might ease his guilt, make up for what he feels was his neglect of his son.”

“But that makes no sense. The two aren’t connected at all.” In fact, it sounded crazy. Something a disordered mind would think up.

“I agree.”

“So you do think he’s disturbed.”

“I guess we’ll never know. He left this morning.”

“Left?” Lacy sat back, stunned. Granted, she scarcely knew the man, yet she felt as if something had been lost. Perhaps the last link to her daughter, frail though it was.

Rising, Doctor Halstead carried their empty cups to the sink. “Came by here with a box of skinny chickens and some feed. Wished me Merry Christmas and rode off. Not sure what I’m supposed to do with the chickens. You want any?”

“Where is he going?”

“Didn’t say. But he planned to stop by the livery on his way out to pick up some hobbles and an extra halter. Seems his horse has a habit of wandering off. If you hurry, you might still find him there.”

With barely a good-bye, Lacy dashed from the house.

Mr. Hobart was buckling the strap on his bulging saddlebag when she rounded the corner of the livery. “Mr. Hobart,” she called, a bit out of breath from her rush to catch him. “Might I have a word?”

He turned, a look of surprise on his scarred face. His hound came to offer a greeting. Mr. Hobart didn’t, but watched her approach with a wary look in his gray eyes. After their last angry parting, she wasn’t surprised.

He was dressed for travel in a dark Stetson, a tattered woolen scarf around his neck, and thick leather gloves. The shearling jacket under his open canvas duster made him look even bigger and broader than she remembered.

Panting, she stopped beside him. “Where are you going?”

He took a moment to secure the rifle in the scabbard tied to his saddle, then said, “South.”

Hope reignited, sent a charge of excitement coursing through her. “South where? To Volker’s Crossing?”

“Maybe.”

“To look for Hannah?” Before he could respond, she grabbed his arm with both hands, which seemed to startle him. “You’re that convinced she’s still alive?”

He looked down at her hands, a flush climbing his cheeks. “I, ah . . . ”

“I’m going with you.”

His gaze flew up. “What?”

“I’m going with you.” Releasing his arm, she started toward her house, calling back over her shoulder, “Just give me a moment to gather my things.”

“What? No, wait.”

She didn’t, but he caught up with her in two strides and continued walking beside her, the hound running ahead, the horse plodding behind on his lead.

“You can’t go with me,” he argued, then launched into a long list of reasons why. “It’s winter, it would be too dangerous, we could get caught in a blizzard, you would only slow me down”—and so on.

“Rubbish.” She stopped so abruptly his horse almost walked into them. “I’ve been through many a Colorado winter, I assure you. I know what to expect. And I won’t slow you down. I’m a good rider. I’ll—”

“But it wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper?” She almost punched him. “What do I care about proper, Mr. Hobart, when there’s a chance of finding my daughter? I’m going with you and that’s the end of it.” She resumed walking.

Mumbling under his breath, he once more fell into step beside her. “We’ll see what your brothers have to say about that.”

***

They had a lot to say, judging by what Daniel heard through the closed bedroom door as he sat at the kitchen table nursing a cold cup of coffee. Most of it he agreed with . . . except the “crazy” part. Yet there might be truth in that as well, considering how much the idea of spending time with Lacy Ellis appealed to him, despite all the problems it would create.

After a last heated exchange, the brothers stomped out. Through the open door behind them, Daniel saw their sister stuffing clothing into a saddlebag. He bit back a smile. He admired spirit in a woman, as long as it wasn’t directed at him.

Stopping on the other side of the table, Tom Jackson glared down at Daniel. “She insists on doing this, so I’m going, too.”

“You got anything to say about that?” Harvey challenged.

“Nitwits,” Lacy Ellis muttered loud enough for all to hear.

Ah, a nice family outing.
What a treat
. Daniel took a sip of cold coffee, carefully returned the tiny china teacup to its tiny matching saucer, then pushed back his chair. “I leave in ten minutes.”

Thirty minutes later, Harvey waved them good-bye from the porch of the little house at the end of the road. Luckily, the unseasonably warm days had left the road more mud than snow. Daniel hoped it stayed that way so they could make the trading post before the next storm came through.

Tom Jackson took the lead, moving at a fast pace and towing a packhorse laden with a tent, hatchet, coils of rope, food, grain for the horses, assorted emergency equipment, and one battered rag doll. Bulging saddlebags were tied behind his saddle, and his rifle hung from a sling hooked over the saddle horn.

His sister rode behind him, so heavily bundled she looked like a mound of laundry atop her chestnut mare—which didn’t keep Daniel, who rode behind her, from admiring the view and thinking about the curves hidden beneath all those clothes. He thought about the night ahead and wondered if the tent was big enough for the three of them.

It wasn’t. And that evening, while Mrs. Ellis cooked stew over the campfire and her brother set up the tent for the two of them, Daniel made his own shelter with a piece of canvas strung between two trees. He’d had worse.

Dinner was as quiet as the ride had been, the three of them lined up on a log, blinking against the smoke and ignoring one another. When Jackson finished eating, he dumped his leavings on a rock for Roscoe, then glowered at Daniel over his sister’s head. “When we get to the crossing, I’ll do the talking. They know me. Meanwhile, keep your eyes and hands to yourself, and we’ll get along fine.”

“Tom!” his sister scolded.

Daniel pinned the other man with the stare Doc said people found disturbing. “Where do you think I’d put them?”

“I’ve seen the way you—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tom! Mr. Hobart has been a perfect gentleman, which is more than I can say for you.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Well, don’t! And stop trying to pick a fight. You’re embarrassing me.”

Jackson scowled at Daniel.

Daniel smirked back. Then, turning his attention to Mrs. Ellis, said, “Thank you for the fine meal, ma’am. Don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed better.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Hobart.” She aimed a warning look at her brother. “I just wish we could say the same for the company.”

Leaning closer, Daniel said softly, “The company is just fine, ma’am. Even better than the food.” Then he sat back, punctuating that with his best smile, just to rankle Jackson, although it seemed to bring a flush to his sister’s cheeks, as well. But that might have been the cold.

In hostile silence, he and Jackson secured the horses on a picket line between two trees—Merlin, with the added restraint of hobbles—then hung their foodstuffs in bags from tree limbs to discourage varmints, and gathered enough firewood to last through breakfast. Without a word, they retired to their tents.

It was a clear night, which meant a cold night. Keeping on all his clothes, Daniel added a second pair of socks and tied the scarf around his head. Then, wrapping himself in his bedroll, he stretched out on Merlin’s saddle blanket and tried to ignore the horse smell. Silence settled around him . . . except for the whispers coming from the tent across the clearing. Arguing about him, probably.

He smiled, remembering the way Mrs. Ellis had stuck up for him earlier, and wondering if she was doing it again now. He had no illusions her defense carried a deeper meaning, but it was nice just the same. Even nicer was that she seemed to regard him as a normal man and not one to be feared or pitied.

Roscoe wandered in and poked his cold nose against Daniel’s cheek. Daniel batted him away and pulled the bedroll tighter. The temperature dropped. Yet despite the chill, with Roscoe at his back and thoughts of Lacy Ellis crowding his mind, he managed to stay warm enough that he finally drifted to sleep.

The weather held, and they reached Volker’s Crossing late the next afternoon. It seemed a prosperous place—a few houses, a cantina that rented upstairs rooms by the hour, a barbershop that offered haircuts and tooth-pullings as well as hot baths, and a sprawling general store situated at the confluence of two fast-running creeks. But with winter full on them, there weren’t many horses outside the cantina, and few shoppers browsed the shelves in the store.

Content to let Jackson and his sister do the talking, Daniel let them precede him inside. While they spoke to the storekeeper, he wandered the aisles, knowing this was the last place Hannah had been seen by her family. He wasn’t sure what he expected—a feeling, some lingering sense of her presence, a voice whispering in his mind. But there was nothing. Just a store filled with goods and watched over by a fat calico cat dozing in the front window.

By the time he’d gathered the few supplies he needed, the other two had finished questioning the old man behind the counter. It was apparent by their expressions that the storekeeper had imparted no new information. Mrs. Ellis’s face had taken on a pinched look, as if her skin had shrunk against her cheekbones. Even her pretty eyes had lost their luster.

“So now what?” she asked her brother when they stopped beside Daniel near the front door. “Do we search for her here? Or try somewhere else?”

“Ask him. He’s the one brought us on this fool’s errand.”

Daniel ignored Jackson. “Doc Halstead told me most of what happened the day your daughter disappeared, but he didn’t mention what time of day you and Hannah came into the store.”

“Morning. Early. It looked like snow, and we wanted to leave as soon as Tom and Harvey put on the new wheel. Why?”

“She like cats?”

“Hannah?” She frowned at her brother, then back at Daniel. “Yes, she likes cats. They’re her favorite animal. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just curious.” He turned to Jackson. “We camping here tonight?”

“By the creek.” Jackson held open the door for his sister. “But first we’re going to the bathhouse.” He shot Daniel a pointed look. “You ought to come, too. You smell like horse.”

“You go on. I need to pay for these.”

After they left, he set his items—a ten-pound bag of grain, a packet of buffalo jerky, and three slightly soft apples—on the counter. While the storekeeper, an older man with a squint and more gums than teeth, tallied the total, Daniel mentioned the calico and asked if the cat was a good mouser.

“Worthless. Prefers frogs. Damn thing sleeps half the time, prowls the creek the other half. Mice are eating my profits.” He looked up, his gaze skimming Daniel’s scar, then falling away. “That’ll be a two thirty-two.”

Daniel handed him three silver dollars. “Last year, the day that little girl went missing, many folks in town?”

“More than here today. Must have been eight or ten wagons lined up along the creek. German pilgrims, mostly. Here’s your change.”

Daniel slipped the coins into his trouser pocket. “Remember where they were headed?”

“West. Same as everybody comes through here in the fall. Trying to clear the pass before winter hits. Want me to wrap the jerky and apples?”

“No, thanks.” Daniel slipped them into the pockets of his jacket. “Anything between here and the pass? Maybe a town or water stop?”

“There’s a fort halfway up the west fork. But we’re the only store for fifty miles in any direction.” The elderly fellow tipped his head at an angle and squinted at Daniel. “Why you want to know? If you’re with those other folks asking about the girl, I already told them all this.”

“Just curious.” Tucking the bag of grain under his arm, he thanked the shopkeeper and left the store.