Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (10 page)

And it didn't matter anymore.

He groaned softly and drew her into his arms. He tasted her tears on her cheeks. “Love me, Jessy, love me!” he told her. His lips found hers. She responded sweetly, erotically, hungrily. She gave in to his demand … never knowing that what he demanded was emotion, and not just surrender.

Chapter Eight

T
hey found the documents the next night.

Blade had been tempted to start looking first thing in the morning, but though they so often seemed to be alone at the ranch, he couldn't forget that Jessy had been accosted last night, and that it was amazing how quickly people could sometimes appear from a vista of apparent emptiness. They were both anxious now, but Blade decided they would wait.

It wasn't a long search. The night was light, with a full moon rising above them. Midnight approached. They could hear the calls of owls, the occasional howl of a wolf.

Blade had the strength Jessy lacked to lift the big stones, and after his fourth try, he found the leather satchel buried just beneath the surface. He wouldn't let her open it there. They hurried to the house, then searched through it. Letters and notes fell from it, and he and Jessy scanned them quickly. He found one from Harding ordering Manson Jenks to see that the prisoners were freed from any shackles, and another stating that Friday would be the right night to taste fresh air. There was a letter from Jenks, assuring Harding that “everything was in order, and should move as smooth as silk,” and that there were things in this war that could “beat bootlegging.”

He wondered how Charles Dylan had managed to get this correspondence, and realized he must have done so very carefully—and with great courage and determination.

The last of the letters he discovered was to Jessy. It wasn't sealed in any way, just folded over, and he opened it, having no idea of what it might say.

Jessy, if you are the one finding this stash, it will mean that I am gone, and that you have braved tremendous rigors to come here. Bless you, Jessy. Take care of yourself. Your life is far more precious than my honor, so don't do anything at all dangerous. I'm very afraid these days. I don't know who to trust. I love you with all my heart, and pray for your happiness. Death holds no fear for me, only the pain of leaving you.

Ever,
your Charles

Blade hesitated a moment.

“What is it?” Jessica asked worriedly.

He handed her the letter. She read it. He saw her fingers begin to tremble and he turned away. He knew that there would be tears in her eyes, that she would be furiously trying to blink them away.

She had loved Charles. An emotion pure, sweet and beautiful, and based on years of companionship. While what she felt for him …

Well, hell. He was a hired hand. One she had needed desperately. One she had been willing to pay well to keep. He'd been the damned fool to fall in love with her. Even when he had thought that his own heart had been broken and had turned to stone he was here helping her exonerate a man. Forgetting his own quest. … No, it was never forgotten.

She folded the letter, put it away in the pocket of her skirt. The others she stuffed into the satchel.

“I'll have to do something with these, now that we've found them,” she said. She stood. “I guess—”

“Don't guess!” he warned her, aware that there was a harsh edge to his voice. “What you're holding now is dangerous evidence against a powerful man. Manson Jenks was here last night. He surely told Harding that he knew you had come, and just as surely, Harding is going to realize that your husband had evidence against him, and he's going to be wanting to make sure that you don't get your hands on it, either. When Jenks doesn't appear, Harding is going to be very worried. He's going to have to come after you.”

“But I'll just see that someone else gets the letters!” she exclaimed.

“He's a colonel now, Jessy! We've got to go above him, we've got to find a general.” He paused for a moment. “Sherman has been riding out here. After the Indians,” he added wryly. “We'll go into town first thing in the morning, and you'll go in with Mrs. Peabody, and don't you even think of moving out of her place until you hear from me again, do you understand?”

“But what—”

“I'm going to find Sherman,” he told her.

“You want me to just sit and wait?” Jessica asked.

“No. I want you to order more supplies and wait. But I don't want you away from Mrs. Peabody for a minute, do you understand?”

“I—”

“Jessy, damn you, you paid a high price for me to protect you, remember? Let me do it.”

Her chin set and her face paled. She stood up and walked across the room to the bedroom door. “Good night,” she said icily.

He nodded and watched her go. He stared at the fire, and at the leather satchel. He shoved the satchel under the sofa and stretched out upon it.

It suddenly occurred to him that, if he were caught, this might be his last night with her. He couldn't be caught. But there were still a lot of Yanks out there who knew him. It wouldn't matter he tried to tell himself. Not if he could take a few of them down with him.

No, if he were going to take anyone down, he wanted it to be the right men now. The war was over. He was tired of the fighting. He was even ready to make peace with an army ready to decimate his mother's people, he realized. He just wanted revenge on a few.

To help Jessica, he might never get that chance.

He rolled over. He couldn't hold on to the letters. Once they were delivered into the right hands, Jessica would be out of danger. He tossed on the sofa again, onto his back. He heard a sound in the night. His eyes flew open instantly.

Jessica. He half-closed his eyes and waited. She was wearing a soft, sheer gown. Her hair was free, newly brushed, cascading all around her in a rich golden fall. She hesitated by his side, and must have seen his eyes closed, he thought, because she started to turn.

He reached out for her, caught her arm, pulled her back. He swept her down beside him, held her, kissed her. He enwrapped her in his arms. He held her close and stared at the ceiling, praying. Please, God. Please, God. He wasn't even sure what he prayed for.

Just a life with which to hold her again.

Mrs. Peabody was delighted to see them. She was startled when Blade said that he couldn't stay to supper. “You're headed over to the saloon, I'll wager!” she chastised him immediately. But he smiled, and assured her that he was not, his eyes touching Jessica's.

“I'm not, Mrs. Peabody, I mean, Rose. I've got a ride ahead of me tonight.” Jessica was standing next to Mrs. Peabody. Tall, slim, shapely, her eyes steadily upon his, so anxious while she tried so hard not to give away the emotion.

Blade tipped his hat to them both and turned, starting down the two steps to reach his big bay in the street. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.

He mounted quickly and started to turn his bay for the westward course he needed to take. Sherman was traveling along the Washita, he had been assured by Mr. Delaney. The general was moving very slowly because he was visiting officers stationed at forts deep into Indian territory.

“Wait!” Jessica cried suddenly. She picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps, running to him. She came to a halt as he quickly reined in, and stood looking up at him, concern in her eyes. Liquid, shimmering, so beguiling. “You shouldn't be doing this! It's not your fight, not your problem, and I'm so afraid.…”

“Afraid of what?” he asked her.

She moistened her lips. “You never said that you weren't an outlaw!” she reminded him softly.

He smiled. “I'm going to be all right,” he told her. “Now let me move on while there's still a little bit of daylight left.”

She stepped back. He started to ride. She ran after him once again. “Blade!”

He reined in. “Jessica—”

“I love you,” she said swiftly. “Please, please, take care of yourself. I—I love you.”

He nearly fell off his horse. He wanted to. Wanted to forget the damned letters, forget revenge, forget everything in life. He just wanted to hold her, and live with her, and know that he could wake with her every morning of his life. He wanted to grow old with her.

But it wouldn't be any good. They could never run from Harding. They couldn't run from his past, either. He reached out and touched her cheek and felt the dampness of her tears there. “I love you, too,” he told her softly.

Then he spurred his bay. He dared not wait any longer.

He rode through the night. Thankfully, the moon was still nearly full and there was plenty of light. It was easy enough to follow Sherman's route along the river—remnants of camp fires along the way, broken branches on the foliage, heavy footprints along the trail. Blade could tell that there was a fairly large encampment moving west, for there were marks from many tents, little things that people lost along the way. A rag doll lay in the trail, a broken pipe, a strip of calico that had tied back some pioneering woman's hair. Army officers often brought their wives with them. Women cast into a hard lot, but an intriguing and adventurous lot, too.

He picked up the little rag doll and carried it with him. Maybe he could return it.

It was just at dawn when he came upon the camp. He saw the sentry by the river before the sentry saw him, and he called out quickly. Men had a habit of shooting first and asking questions later when a man looked as much like a Sioux as he did.

“Ho, there!” he called out, raising both hands in a peaceful gesture to the very young soldier by the river. The man took a look at him and began seeking his gun—where he had lain it by a rock by the river—too late. “I'm looking for General Sherman!” Blade called out irritably. “And don't pick up that weapon because I don't want to shoot your damned fool head off!”

Maybe it was the warning. Maybe it had just been his very natural use of the English language—with a little bit of Missouri thrown into it—that advised the young sentry that Blade was not his enemy. Maybe the sentry realized he still had his scalp.

“The general is in camp, sir!” the sentry called out quickly. He had gained some dignity. He held his army-issue rifle, but did not aim it at Blade. “I'll call for an escort, sir!”

The sentry whistled, and a second man in cavalry blue appeared, this one an old-timer, one who quickly eyed Blade. He saw that the half-breed was alone and presumed he might be a scout. “I'll bring you into camp,” the older man said, still watching him curiously.

“Thank you. I've letters with information I think he'll find exceptionally interesting,” Blade said.

“Come with me.”

Blade dismounted from his bay and followed the old man. They passed through the wakening camp, men rising, dressing, shaving, washing. They all paused to watch.

Blade felt their eyes. Felt them roam down his back. Did any of them know him?

They reached one tent with a middle-aged officer just pouring coffee in front. He paused the second he saw Blade. He had a haggard look about him.

Blade knew that look well. Most men had worn it after the war. Many men still did.

“Lieutenant Gray, this man has come to see General Sherman. Says he has important correspondence.”

“It's an old matter,” Blade said. “But an important one.”

Lieutenant Gray looked at him, scratching his chin. “What's your tribe, Blackfeet?”

“Oglala,” Blade replied.

“I heard about a fellow like you once,” he said. “A half-breed with Mosby. Faster than lightning.”

“Had to be,” Blade said.

The lieutenant grinned. “The war is over,” he said. He hesitated. “Though they did say this particular fellow had once been with Quantrill.”

“Briefly, so I heard,” Blade agreed.

The lieutenant turned, still grinning. Blade realized that he hadn't quite been breathing. He gulped in some air, then let it out.

“I'll find out if the general can see you,” Lieutenant Gray said. “Help yourself to some coffee in the meantime.”

Blade did so. It was hot and strong and black, and helped a little against the exhaustion he had begun to feel. But he felt something else, too—eyes upon him. Union army eyes. These were the men he had been fighting not so long ago. Now they were men with faces.

Lieutenant Gray returned. “This way, sir. General Sherman is quite curious.”

Blade followed Gray into Sherman's big field tent. The general was behind his desk. He was a man of medium height and medium build, with a ragged face, helped somewhat by his beard and mustache. A little man, Blade thought, for one who had ravaged so much of a countryside.

A smart one—a brutal one, in a way. Hell, Sherman had sure helped to bring it all to a close. And now he was bringing his talents and energies against the Indians in the West. There was just no way he could ever be a man Blade would like, he decided wryly.

But at least he hated Indians openly, and he had made no bones about his plan to bring the South to her knees. He was the right man to bring Harding to his knees, as well.

Sherman stood, eyeing Blade curiously. “All right, so what is it that sends a half-breed ex-Reb into my camp?” he demanded flatly.

Blade didn't say a word. He handed the leather satchel of letters over to the man.

“What's this?” Sherman demanded.

“Letters, sir,” Blade responded. “Read them, General.”

Sherman sat at his desk. Blade realized that Lieutenant Gray was still behind him. Maybe they had been afraid that he intended to knife Sherman the moment he had been alone with him.

Sherman glanced through every letter. He looked at Lieutenant Gray. “We just met with a Colonel Harding at the fort, eh, Lieutenant?”

“That's right, General.”

Sherman drummed his fingers on the desk. He stared at Blade. “What's your name? Who are you? What's your involvement in this?”