Thunder on the Plains (13 page)

She felt her cheeks quickly grow hot. “I know.”

“It's not very fancy, but then, there isn't anything fancy any place around here. It would be nice to stay here, but I thought it might be a little awkward for you, with Mrs. Scott and boarders here and all.”

She nodded. “You're right.” She searched his eyes, and he read the mixture of anticipation and fear in her own.

“It'll be all right, LeeAnn,” he promised her. “I haven't been mean to you or broken any promises yet, have I?”

She shook her head. “I love you so, Colt. I'm so glad you're back.” Tears spilled over in her eyes. He pulled her into his arms once more.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I'll be a good husband, LeeAnn.”

“I know you will.”

He held her so tightly she could hardly catch her breath. Again she brushed his mouth, their lips meeting in a hot, passionate kiss that made both of them feel they must do this or die. Today she would become Mrs. Colt Travis, and no woman could ask for a more handsome, gentler, braver man to call her husband.

Sunny clung to her father's arm amid a crowd of hundreds of cheering men. Brass bands played while banners and signs supporting Abraham Lincoln and the Republican Party waved above people's heads. Bo Landers had been instrumental in urging the Party to hold their national convention of 1860 in Chicago. He had taken a suite in one of Chicago's finest downtown hotels so that he and Sunny could be close enough to attend nearly every hour of what would become a historic event. Each time more votes came in for Abraham Lincoln, the Party favorite, the huge hall would resound with a barrage of cheers and more band-playing.

Sunny laughed and held up her own banner while the party chairman pounded his gavel and tried to bring the gathering back to order. “Father, he's going to win!” Sunny said excitedly.

“It looks that way.” Landers held up a fist, cheering the important victory. To have a president who backed a continental railroad was one big boost in the right direction. The crowd finally quieted enough so more states could cast their votes, and Lincoln continued to gain strength through the third balloting. When Ohio finally went against Salmon P. Chase, a candidate from their own state, taking four votes from him and giving them to Lincoln, the nomination was sealed in Lincoln's favor.

Again the crowd broke into mighty celebrating. Sunny wondered if some of the southern states would really secede if Lincoln was elected. Many had threatened to do so. Still, he was not president yet. That was the next big step.

Speeches and celebrating continued until the wee hours of the morning, and Sunny and her father were among the last to leave the convention hall. Bo talked excitedly all the way out to their waiting carriage.

“This is the best thing that could have happened, Sunny! The only problem will be if those damn southern states make trouble. Why can't they behave like civilized men and give up their hideous practice of owning slaves?”

“I agree that it's immoral, Father. Some of the things we've heard—I can't imagine they really happen; but you know why the South won't give it up. Farming is their wealth, just like industry and railroading is ours. I wonder sometimes if we had built all that we have on slavery, if we would want to give it up.”

“Those plantation owners can just start paying their labor, just like we have to do. It's one thing for a man to make his fortune while treating other men like human beings, quite another for him to make it by breaking other men's backs. I might be demanding of the men who work for me, but by God I respect them, and they respect themselves for earning their way.”

They climbed into the carriage, and Bo closed the door. Sunny leaned back into the plush velvet seat. “What would happen to those poor slaves if they were freed, Father? I mean, where would they go? Apparently, they're completely cared for by their owners, poor as some of that care might be. If they're freed, they'll have no money, no homes, nothing.”

Landers leaned out the window and waved to someone before answering. “I don't know what they would do, but there's no sense worrying about it right now. Ending slavery isn't something that is going to happen overnight, but I do think this thing is going to come to a head very soon, and I don't like to think of what could happen. Already the fighting in Kansas over the slavery issue has been terribly bloody, and there are those awful border wars between Kansas and Missouri.” He reached over and patted her hand. “That is one area we'll avoid when we do our campaigning. Some of the western territories are in a real turmoil over this because they have to choose to be free or slave.”

As always, when someone reminded her of the land to the west, sweet memories stirred Sunny's soul. Did Colt know or care about the problems over slavery?

“The first step to keeping this country united and getting our railroad built is to get our Mr. Lincoln into the White House,” her father was saying, “and we'll by God do it. We'll hit every major industrialist in the North and New England, every man who is anyone important, get them to contribute to the campaign and to do their own talking to their employees and such. I'll make speeches myself. Then at the same time we can talk to people about the railroad.”

Sunny squeezed his hand. “Father, are you sure you're well enough to go stomping all over the country campaigning? I'm worried about you.”

Landers forced a laugh. He was secretly glad that the last couple of days he had been able to hide the fact that he had not felt well at all. What bothered him most was shortness of breath and a constant feeling of a weight on his chest. For a year his doctor had been preaching at him to slow down, telling him his heart was no longer strong. Such talk only angered him. “Bo Landers slow down? Never! I'm fine, honey. Don't you worry about your ol' dad. You just worry about helping me get Lincoln elected.”

Sunny sighed, putting her head on his shoulder. Sometimes she wanted to tell him how it frightened her to think of being without him, of bearing the responsibilities that would be hers when he was gone, let alone the trouble she knew Vince would make for her. At least now, because of Vi, she had Stuart on her side; but Stuart was not someone who could stand up to Vince. She kept her thoughts to herself, hating to burden her father with them, always afraid of upsetting him and maybe making him get sick. He was so proud of her strength and spunk. How could she tell him how afraid she was sometimes?

She told herself she was being foolish to worry anyway. Bo Landers was a hefty, energetic man who would probably live to be a hundred. The carriage clattered over the bricked streets, now and then splashing through fresh puddles left by a summer rain. Weariness claimed Sunny as she began to drift off to sleep. The splashing sounds combined with riding in the carriage recalled another time…a wagon, crossing a river…a horse splashing through water…her skirt getting wet…someone holding her so she wouldn't slip into a cold river. In her mind's eye she saw a picture of vast, endless grasslands. She glided across them on a horse, floating, feeling nothing except the strong, protective arms of the man who rode with her, a dark man who wore buckskins. She was happy and free, and no one could hurt her in the sweet dream, not while those arms were wrapped around her.

***

Colt galloped Buck across the open grassland, a fresh-killed antelope and two jackrabbits tied to the horse's rump. He smiled at the thought of how glad LeeAnn would be to see him coming with a fresh supply of meat, and he wondered why God had seen fit to give him such happiness. Ten months after their marriage LeeAnn had given birth to a son. Little four-month-old Ethan was named after LeeAnn's father. Colt had helped deliver the baby himself, since there was no one close by to help. Never would he forget the joy and miracle of that moment. As far as he was concerned, a man's life could not be fuller or more satisfying than his was. For years he had never dreamed things could be like this for him, or that he would even want to be a settled man. Life with LeeAnn and Ethan had changed all of that.

The sky was a brilliant blue, with just a hint of coming winter in the cool air. He thought about how nice it was going to be to get inside the warm little cabin and eat some of LeeAnn's cooking. He didn't like leaving her and Ethan alone, but he had not gone far and had been gone only since morning. This was the time of year a man had to think about getting in a supply of meat for the winter. The corn and beans were already in, and he never ceased to be amazed to discover that he actually didn't mind farming. He intended to expand each year, maybe even hire some help, begin taking produce to the fast-growing city of Denver, one of the few gold towns that looked as though it might last.

He crested one of the rolling foothills that stood between him and home, only to see smoke beyond the next rise, which was where his own little cabin lay. He stared for a moment, telling himself not to panic, then kicked Buck into an even faster run, galloping down one slope, charging up the next, his horse making little sound in the soft sod. When he crested the next rise, his eyes widened in horror. The cabin was on fire! To his right Indians were herding away his four plow horses, and six more wild horses he had managed to capture and corral. A small barn and another horse shed were also on fire.

“My God!” he groaned. He ripped his rifle from its boot and screamed a war whoop, charging down the steep slope toward everything that had ever meant anything to him since he was a little boy. He raised the rifle while still in the saddle at a hard ride, aiming and firing. One Indian fell. More began to flee from the front side of the cabin, which he could not see yet. He told himself it was not possible that anything could have happened to LeeAnn and Ethan. God simply wouldn't let them come to harm. He wouldn't take away such a beautiful, loving woman and a tiny baby boy. It couldn't happen!

His hope dwindled in the seconds it took to get closer, for he saw by their paint and hair that they were Pawnee, bitter enemy of the Sioux and Cheyenne, Indians who sometimes seemed to kill simply for the pleasure of it.

“Bastards!” he screamed. Dread boiled in his belly like hot tar. He fired the rifle again, over and over, not even sure how many men he hit, not caring that he was outnumbered. He had to get them away from LeeAnn and Ethan! Why had he left this morning? Why had he let himself become so happy and complacent as to think he could leave a woman and baby alone?

He rounded the cabin, and it was then he felt the horrible hot sting to his right ribs. He cried out, trying desperately to hang on to his rifle but unable to do so, unable even to stay on Buck. He felt himself crashing to the ground, and through a haze he saw Buck gallop off. An Indian grasped the horse's bridle and took Buck away with him, fresh meat and all.

Acrid smoke from the burning cabin stung Colt's nostrils. He lay on his back, realizing somewhere deep in his confused mind that he had taken an arrow. Knowing the Pawnee, they had probably dipped it in horse dung first to make sure that if the wound itself did not kill him, infection would. He stared up at the sky, thinking that if LeeAnn and Ethan were dead, he didn't want to live anyway. He could never bear the guilt of leaving them, or the horrible loneliness of having to live without them.

“LeeAnn!” In his mind he had screamed the name, but it was only a mumble. He scooted on his back, forcing himself then to roll to his left side. His right arm bumped against the arrow that still protruded from his ribs, and he cried out with the ugly pain. For a moment he blacked out, then came around again, opening his eyes, forcing them to focus. The only sound was the crackling of the burning buildings. The Pawnee had gone.

He crawled across the ground on his left side, most things still blurry. He tried to get over what he thought was a rock, until he felt how soft it was. He looked down to push it out of the way, only to realize then that it was his son's dead body, his head brutally crushed.

Colt gasped, rising up slightly. He screamed Ethan's name, screamed God's name, retched until he thought his insides would explode. How could this be? Ethan, his son, his baby! He had watched him be born, remembered how happy he had been to see that he was healthy and perfect.

His vomiting was followed by bitter sobbing, and in spite of his own grave wound, he dragged himself over and pulled the baby to him, touching him, begging him to come back to life. He looked around again, calling LeeAnn's name through tears. Surely by some miracle at least LeeAnn had lived. To lose them both was more than a man could be expected to bear. He realized then that if she
was
alive, he had to find her, help her.

He carefully laid the child aside, finding the baby's blanket nearby and covering him with it. With the greatest effort he managed to get to his feet and stumbled toward the cabin, vaguely aware that the roof had just fallen in. Finally, his vision cleared enough so he could see things in more detail. He saw LeeAnn then, lying on the ground at a far corner of the cabin. Her body was naked, several arrows protruding from it. He could see she had been sexually abused by the men, and part of her hair was gone.

Colt just stared in disbelief. He turned away, looking over at his dead son. Grief consumed him in one great convulsion, bringing him to his knees. He raised his arms, needing to scream out his horror, for he was again alone, more alone than he had ever been, but his voice would not come. He had no idea how much blood had already poured from his own wound. All consciousness left him then. He collapsed, sprawled between his wife and son.

***

The sweet smell of sage filled Colt's nostrils. He could hear a strange chanting, and when he opened his eyes he saw a lovely dark woman bending over him. At first he thought it was LeeAnn. He groaned her name, but as his vision focused he saw that it was an Indian woman. He tried to sit up, and a sickening pain tore at his side, making him gasp and fall back again. The woman said something to someone, and Colt recognized the Cheyenne word for “awake.” Someone grasped his shoulders firmly.

“Go and get White Horse,” came a man's voice, again in the Cheyenne tongue. “You must not move,” the same man told him, leaning closer then. “You are very, very sick.”

Colt opened his eyes to see a white-haired Indian with a wrinkled face. The old man smiled. “You will live, if you rest for many more days. It might be another full moon before you can rise.”

It felt to Colt as though his whole body were on fire, and he felt sweat trickle from his forehead. “Where…am I?” he asked, struggling to remember how to say it in Cheyenne.

“It is the village of Many Beaver, whose son is White Buffalo. Three winters ago you gave us rifles and food. Many Beaver remembered you. When he found you wounded eight sunrises ago, and saw that you were still alive, Many Beaver said we must help you because once you helped him.” Colt struggled to remember. Wounded? Still alive? “Many Beaver says you are a man who has good medicine. Not many men survive the wound of a Pawnee arrow,” the old man added.