Leaving Independence (30 page)

Before he turned her around to tie her arms, he kissed her forcefully on the mouth.

She wrenched her head away and spat on him. So he slapped her—hard across the face. Then he wrestled her to the ground, tied her hands behind her back, and threw her over the front of his horse.

“By God, you’re a handful.” He wiped his face and brushed the grass and dust off his clothes. He didn’t like to get his captain’s uniform dirty.

Hadley grabbed the reins of her dun, swung up on his big roan behind her, and headed down the middle of the creek for several hundred yards before cutting up a gravel bed that led to the south.

Hoke rode into camp with the soldiers, his thoughts brewing.

How long would Abigail and Baldwyn be? Should he ride out and check on things? No . . . that could be humiliating. But he was antsy . . . restless as a caged panther.

Charlie and Jacob sought him out.

“Did you see him, Mr. Hoke? How did he look?”

“Strong.” And arrogant . . . just like the soldier at Laramie had said.

Hoke couldn’t bear to talk to anyone right now. Where was his ax? He needed something to do. Swinging the heavy head of an ax into a tough, hard log might help.

Hoke looked around for a hardwood tree. Hickories had grown scarce.

Jacob slapped the fair-haired older brother he adored on the back. “Looks just like Charlie, don’t he?” Hoke turned to leave.

“Aw, you don’t even remember him,” said Charlie. “You’ve only seen pictures.”

“He has a fine red beard, I can tell you that much.” This came from one of the soldiers who’d ridden in with Hoke.

“Red?” asked Charlie. “Pa’s hair’s not red; why would he have a red beard?”

Hoke stopped.

“Why, of course his hair’s red.” The soldier laughed. “You just haven’t seen him in a long time, son, you probably don’t remember it right.”

Hoke whipped his head around to Charlie. “You got a likeness of your father?”

“Yes, sir, in the wagon.”

“Go get it.” He needed to see that picture.

Hoke filled his canteen and watered his horse. He asked James to pack a food sack. He took his knife—an Arkansas toothpick with a coffin-shaped handle and eleven-inch blade—and tied its sheath to his left leg below the holster. His sidearm—another Army Colt with pearl handles—rode low on his hip, a thin strap tied around his thigh at its base. He cracked it open to look in the cylinder, then snapped it back in place and cradled it in the leather. He checked the extra ammunition he always kept in his saddlebags—.44 cartridges for the rifle, .44 balls, powder, and grease for the Colt, along with two extra prepacked cylinders. He stuffed one in each pocket. He pulled out the rifle and checked the chamber, then sheathed it back in the stallion’s saddle.

His quick movements stirred the air like a low-hanging storm cloud.

Charlie came back carrying their family pictures in a small brown packet. Corrine and Lina were with him.

“What’s going on, Mr. Hoke?” Corrine’s brow was twisted like her mother’s. “And how come you’re wearing your knife like that?”

He stepped toward Charlie. “I want to check these tintypes.”

A couple of the soldiers, including the one who’d said Captain Baldwyn had red hair, came over to look, too.

The first picture Charlie showed them was of Captain Baldwyn in his uniform.

Jacob was right. This man looked just like Charlie would in another few years—different eyes, but the same nose and chin.

“That was taken right after he joined up. He mailed it back to Mama. He was just a lieutenant then,” said Jacob. “And this is Ma and Pa the day they married. Those are our uncles in the back there. That one is Seth. He was killed.”

“That’s not him.” Hoke looked at the soldiers for an explanation. “That’s not the man I just met.”

One of the soldiers was still looking at the pictures. “There’s Captain Baldwyn.” He pointed to a man standing in the background in Abigail and Robert’s wedding picture.

Corrine’s breath caught. “No, that’s Hadley Wiles. He asked Mother to marry him once when they were younger, and he made some unwanted advances on her again a few years ago. I saw it.”

Hoke’s heart lifted briefly . . . then sank like a stone.

He dropped the pictures and ran to his horse. Charlie was right behind him. “I’m going with you!” he yelled.

“No! Stay here.” Hoke stopped long enough to turn and look Charlie in the eye. “Charlie, I don’t know what I’m going to find. If he’s taken her, I can track ’em better alone. And hold the dog here. I can’t worry about anything or anybody else makin’ noise.”

“If he’s taken her?” repeated Charlie.

Hoke could see the boy was trying to work it out in his mind, but he was out of time. “Hold the dog,” he repeated.

Charlie and Jacob grabbed Rascal and held him tight.

James poked a food sack and a flask of whiskey in Hoke’s saddlebag.

“You think I’m going to need that?” Hoke said in a low voice about the whiskey. They looked at each other for a second.

“I pray God will give thy horse strength, Hoke. And that He’ll clothe his neck with thunder. That’s from Job 39, by the way. And this whiskey’ll give you strength and clothe your neck with thunder. It settles a man’s nerves, whether he’s having his worst day, or his best.”

Pray it’s my best.
Hoke couldn’t say it out loud. His throat squeezed at James’s words like somebody had him in a choke hold.

James laid a hand on his shoulder. “You want me to come?”

Hoke shook his head. This was something he needed to do alone.

“I’ll see to things here, then.” James clapped him on the back. “Keep your head clear.”

James scooped Lina up in one arm and put the other around Corrine.

Hoke put his foot in the stirrup and felt a tug on his sleeve.

Lina’s big eyes met his. “I want my mama.”

“I’ll get her for you, baby.”

He kissed her on the forehead, then kicked the stallion and rode. Hard.

Word quickly spread through the camp and folks hurried over to ask questions. Colonel Dotson and Christine ran up just as Hoke rode off.

“George, shouldn’t you go with him?” asked Christine.

Colonel Dotson shook his head and considered the falling blanket of evening. “No, I believe he can handle it. If they’re not back by first light, we’ll strike out after ’em.”

CHAPTER 28

The smell of the roan

Abigail lay facedown over Hadley’s horse, her hands tied tightly behind her back. When he had first thrown her over, the jolt slammed the air out of her lungs. When he mounted the horse beside her, he pushed her hard against the pommel. She fought for breath. The hard leather of the saddle and the roll caused by the top of the roan’s shoulders when it started to move dug hard into her stomach.

Finally, her chest heaved and her lungs filled again, causing every nerve in her side to surge with pain.

When she tried to lift her head, Hadley smacked it back down, the smell of the roan filling her nostrils.

“I was crazy about you, you know,” Hadley said. “From the time we were young. Why did you never care for me?”

It took every effort to breathe. How did he expect her to talk? “I thought of you as a friend,” she managed to get out.

“No, you didn’t. You were nice enough until I asked you to marry me that time. Then you wouldn’t have anything to do with me. But you sure lit up when Robert Baldwyn came to town.”

“Our families have always known each other, Hadley. I was sad when I heard you’d been killed.”

“I bet you were. Did you cry, Abigail? Did you shed tears for me? You sure didn’t act relieved when you saw me on your sidewalk. Back there by the creek, either. Wouldn’t even hug me.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you. Either time.”

All Abigail could see now was the ground moving below the roan’s hooves. It was getting dark. How far had they gone? Would anyone come looking for her tonight? It was unlikely, she thought with sinking hope.
God help me
, she prayed.

“If you’d given me the least bit of encouragement, Abigail, I would have told you Robert had been killed and not me. But you scorned me. So you brought it on yourself. At least I had the letters. You acted like you wanted me in your letters. ’Cept that last one from Marston. You seemed angry in that last one.”

She
had
been angry but had tried not to show it.

Hadley looked down at her on the horse in front of him.

“You still got a nice shape, sweetheart, even after having four kids.” He ran his hand over her backside, then began unfastening her shirt buttons in the back.

“Hadley, don’t.” She squirmed and tried to swat his hands away.

He liked making her squirm. “Do you remember dancing with me at the Tidwells’ party before you ran off with Baldwyn?”

“I didn’t run off with him. Hadley, stop!”

“We were fifteen then, you and me. You were the first girl I ever loved . . . prettiest girl at the Marston schoolhouse. Remember playing down on the banks of the Piney River when we were younger? Those were good days, weren’t they? After you ran off and got married I left Franklin for a while. Went down to Atlanta. It set me on a different path. I scraped low in the barrel until the war started.”

He rubbed her back, disappointed that her underclothes still covered most of it, even with her buttons undone to the waist. He had thought to try for the cabin tonight, but it was still miles away. Night was falling, and besides, Bonnie was at the cabin. She wouldn’t like him showing up with Abigail. A thought occurred to him.

“Say, your group have any trouble along the way?”

Abigail didn’t answer. He smacked the back of her head. “Hey, I’m talking to you. You have any problem with Indians or attacks or anything?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“After we left Laramie.”

“And?” He waited but she didn’t answer. He reached down and grabbed a wad of her hair, lifting her head up. “What happened?”

Abigail cried out in pain. “Our leader is smart. We fought them off.”

“Anybody hurt? Killed?”

“We had some injuries.”

“You kill any of
them
? A bald man?”

Hadley smacked the back of her head again when she didn’t answer. “I’ll take this pistol and blow your pretty little brains out if you don’t tell me.”

“Yes!” she cried. “One of the Indians was bald.”

Now he knew for sure he wasn’t taking her to the cabin. When Bonnie learned her father had been killed, she’d be mad. And if Bonnie learned he was the one who had sent her pa on his death mission, the Piute was apt to stab him.

Looked like it was time for him to cut and run. Abigail would have to go soon. He couldn’t afford for her to slow him down.

Hadley wondered if someone from the wagon train would come looking for her tonight, or if they’d think the reunited couple wanted time alone before returning. That was what he was banking on.

“I thought we had a good thing going in those letters, Abigail.” He ran his hand over her backside again. “But I can’t pretend I’m not excited to finally get to play married with you.”

When Hadley wasn’t smacking her or pulling her head up by the hair, Abigail’s face rubbed against the side of the roan, the sweat of its coat slick against her face. She remembered standing next to the corral in Independence and Hoke saying,
Horses sweat.

He was right. Mules didn’t. She hadn’t known that before taking this trip.

The saddle pommel hit her right at the site of her bullet wound, knocking it with every roll of the horse’s shoulders, ripping at the scabs.

She would have begged him to rein in the horse and let her off, to untie her hands, if she wasn’t scared of what he’d do to her once they stopped.

As if reading her mind, he stopped, slid off the roan, then reached up and jerked her down to him, his eyes cold in the moonlight.

“You be nice next time I kiss you or you won’t last long.” He told her to sit down while he made camp.

Abigail’s arms throbbed with pain. “Will you please untie me?”

“Let’s see how you act, first.”

It was difficult to sit with her hands behind her back, but Abigail did as she was told.

Hadley pulled supplies out of his pack and started a small fire. He didn’t seem worried that anyone might be following them. When he wasn’t looking, Abigail dug her heels into the earth and moved them around to widen the holes. She wanted to leave clear signs that someone had been here.

How long had it been since she left Hoke? Two hours? Three? It was dark now, save for the faint light of the moon. How would she get through this night? The rope around her wrists burned and cut her skin. She wanted to feel her side but couldn’t with her hands tied.

“Hadley, my wrists are bleeding; will you please cut these ropes?”

He had coffee going and bacon frying. “You going to behave yourself?”

“Yes.”

He moved a large rock over and sat on it across from her, raking over her with his eyes.

It made her skin crawl. “Tell me about your life before the war,” she said, hoping to change his mood.

“I told you, I went to Atlanta.”

“Anywhere else?”

“All through east Tennessee, then in Kentucky, working where I could. Helped lay some track, mined . . . a few other things. I never had a respectable job. I wasn’t the same person you knew back in Franklin. I even had a wife for a while. Bet you didn’t know that. Not even my family knows that. She was a good-for-nothing woman . . . rough-as-they-come mountain family. She ran off and I didn’t much care. When talk of the war started, I decided to work my way home.”

By the firelight Abigail could see that Hadley’s full beard was neatly trimmed. He had matured into a strong, handsome man. But his eyes were cold and distant. She sensed deep hurt behind them and remembered that Hadley’s father had been particularly harsh. And Hadley, even as a child, had always seemed restless, wanting . . . forever longing for what he didn’t have.

Hadley stood up then, poured himself some coffee and ate some bacon, watching her with wolf’s eyes.

She needed to keep him talking or moving, keep him from looking at her that way. “Can I have some coffee?” she asked.

He only had one cup, so he drank what he’d poured, refilled it, and brought it to her. Rather than holding it to her lips as she’d expected, he untied the ropes. Grateful, she took a couple of hot, bitter swallows and set the cup down.

If she threw the coffee on him, would it burn him? Could she get to her horse fast enough to get away? Her blouse was still unbuttoned in the back, and the evening air was cool. She shivered while trying to work out a plan of escape, gathering her courage.

Hadley walked to his horse, took down his bedroll, and unrolled it. Pulling out a blanket, he put it around her shoulders. Then he took his finger and ran it down her throat and down the center of her chest. Abigail closed her eyes and focused on keeping her body from jerking away, trying hard not to do the wrong thing and make him angry.

She didn’t move when he kissed her neck, but when he pulled down her blouse and the chemise beneath it, and sought the top of her shoulder with his lips, she shoved him away and scrambled to get up and run.

She had to get to her horse! Get the gun on the pommel!

As Hadley hit the ground he reached up and grabbed her foot, knocking her off balance. He pulled her back to him.

Abigail screamed as she fell.

Hoke flew on the stallion until he got within sight of where he’d last seen Wiles. This was why a man needed a horse like the stallion. He eased in, gripping the rifle in his left hand. This was why a man needed a side-loading sixteen-shooter. He stopped the stallion, sheathed the rifle, and dismounted, slipping the knife out of its sheath and into his right hand and the Colt out of its holster and into his left as he scouted around for signs of Wiles and Abigail. This was why a man needed a six-cylinder Colt and a bowie knife like the toothpick. He stopped every few steps to listen.

Nothing.

How long had it been since she’d reached Wiles? A half hour? Hour? Longer? Why hadn’t he insisted on coming with her? All of Hoke’s instincts had told him something was wrong. This could be the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and now her life and his heart—not to mention the hearts of those children—were in danger.

Darkness was setting in. If he lit a match to see better, he’d give his position away. Was Wiles lying in wait for him? What if he’d killed Abigail and was hiding nearby?

Hoke couldn’t bear the thought.

More likely, Wiles had taken her, thinking he couldn’t be tracked until morning. Pretty smart of him to act like he wanted time alone with her . . . and Abigail had played right into it.

So had he.

Hoke swore repeatedly at himself for sending her into a trap. Between curses, he prayed she hadn’t been harmed. Those kids needed her. He blamed himself, but what reason had there been for him not to believe what he was told? He’d thought Wiles was really Baldwyn. All the soldiers had acted like he was Baldwyn. How long had the man been playing this game?

Once he was convinced that Wiles had gone, Hoke lit a match and built a small fire. Wiles would move along the creek but in which direction? Hoke needed light to see where he had come out of the water.

It took some time, but he finally found the spot and followed it several yards. Initially Wiles had gone south. Hoke recognized Abigail’s horse’s tracks, which were lighter than they should have been.

The red roan’s tracks were deep, so it held both riders. Hoke had already determined that Abigail hadn’t gone willingly, having found the spot on the grass where they’d tussled. It looked like Wiles had pinned her down, probably to tie her hands—
please, God, let that be all it was
—then dragged her a couple of yards to his horse. The grass was pretty beat down there.