Tall prairie grasses brushed his boots, the ones he’d ruined rolling about in the river with her. Dammit, couldn’t he stop thinking of her…of them together?
Engaged in the battle of both his wills, he didn’t hear or see the posse that cut across the plains, until they shouted, and gunfire popped in the still, warm morning. Out of range, but closing fast.
“Turn loose, get off,” he shouted at her. “They won’t hurt you.”
She hung on fiercely, screamed at them to stop, not to shoot. The brisk wind snatched the words away. In the melee, Gabe reared and she slid backward, landing on the ground with a thud and a pitiful cry.
Calder stood in the stirrups, threw a quick glance at her to see if she was hurt. Gabe danced, pawed at the air; out of the corner of his eye he saw her scramble to her feet, wave her arms at the approaching men and scream for them to stop shooting…not to hurt him.
“Please God, don’t hurt him.” Turning back to him, “Please, Calder, don’t leave me.”
“Dammit,” he muttered, leaned forward, caught her around the waist and swept her up, heeled Gabe into a hard run. At the same time he slipped from the saddle to the horse’s broad back and settled her in front of him, sent the bay into a ground-eating stride. No time to look back or consider consequences. Just get the hell out of there.
Two on a horse. They’d never get away. Never. But he had to try.
“Yah, Gabe. Yah.” He hunched forward, protecting her body with his.
Gunfire behind them. Gaining. A bullet whizzed by his ear like an angry bee.
“Calder, let me down. You can get away if I get off. Please.”
“No, dammit. No. We’ll make it. We have to. I can’t let you go.”
Something slammed like a branding iron in his upper arm. The bastards had shot him. Burned like the fires of hell. But he’d been shot before. Worse than this by a long shot. Hot blood on his flesh. Cannons booming, men dying all around him. But no one would die this day.
“I think…I think they shot me,” Wilda cried.
Oh, God. God, no. “Where?”
“My side, under my arm. It stings. Hurts.”
“Whoa, Gabe. Come on, son.”
“What are you doing?”
He half turned, saw the posse closing the wide gap between them. “Letting you off. They’ll take care of you.”
Wild eyed, she shook her head, stared at him. Warring with herself. He could see it in her eyes, that need he so well understood. Go with him or stay so he could escape. And they’d be apart forever.
At that moment, a rider appeared over a rise, riding flat out, firing into the posse of Englishmen. No sheriff in the lot, just a bunch of fops seated on a patch of leather they called saddles, astride bob-tailed ponies. One, then two, fell to the ground. The others scattered for cover where there was none.
The rider continued to press his advantage, firing from one hip while taking fire himself. And Calder well knew who it was, recognized that style of wild ass attack. Finally, those five or six men still on their horses, turned and fled, their attacker in hot pursuit.
“Who is that?”
“It’s Baron. Look at him go. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ve got to cover some ground. Gabe can’t outrun them with both of us on his back, but Baron’ll keep those yahoos busy enough for us to make tracks, find a hole to hide in. He can’t keep ’em corralled forever. Come morning they’ll be out looking for us again.” He gritted his teeth against an onslaught of throbbing pain from the wound.
Hers worried him more. “Are you okay? Where were you hit?”
She fingered under her arm. Came up with only a trace of blood. “I’m fine. It burns, but I don’t think it’s bad.”
“Then let’s get out of here. You with me?”
For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she took a deep breath and leaned her head into his chest. Made her choice, at long last. “Oh, yes, I am with you.”
He backtracked the way they had come, reasoning that if they went in the opposite direction it would take the men longer to pick up their trail again. Depended a lot on who came after them, the sheriff and his more experienced trackers, or the Englishmen who knew little more than chasing foxes and hounds.
She clung to the saddle as best she could, no doubt in her mind that she had made the right choice. She came with him because she loved him, and more than that, she had weighed the possibility of a life with Blair Prescott against sleeping each night in Calder’s arms, safe and adored, and come up with the only possible solution. Love and contentment and a hard life compared to unhappiness and despair and an easy life. She had tasted a bit of both and knew what she wanted. Now, if only they were allowed to live that life without interference.
By the time Calder guided Gabe into a thick copse of trees along the river bank, the sun hung low in the flaming western sky, and the horse was breathing hard, sweat foaming from under the saddle.
“We have to rest. Gabe has to rest or we won’t get much further.” He slid backward over the sweat-lathered haunches.
Bone weary and exhausted, she threw a leg over the pommel and dropped to the ground that tilted beneath her feet. Dizzy, she leaned against the animal.
Calder touched her shoulder. “You okay? Let me see.” He raised her arm. The bullet had torn the fabric, leaving an angry welt, but barely breaking the skin. He cupped her face, kissed her quickly. “It’s fine, you’re not hurt. Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Gabe cast them both a look, then sauntered toward the riverbank and lowered his nose to the water.
“No, don’t leave me alone.” She grabbed his arm and he groaned. Her hand came away sticky with blood.
She felt sick to her stomach and dread clutched at her heart. What if he died? Oh, dear God. In spite of the silent vows whispered over and over during their flight, vows to be strong and handle anything that came along, panic crawled up her throat.
“Listen to me, Wilda. I’ve been shot before. Believe me, this is nothing. There’ll be time to take care of it later. It hurts like hell, but I’m okay. Damn thing went through my arm, grazed you and passed on. Thank God it didn’t get Gabe. I’m going to wipe out our tracks for a ways, make it harder for them to see which way we went. I’ll be back. Go down to the river, clean up, get a drink and stay there. No one can see us here unless they ride straight through the trees, and that won’t happen. Wait for me.”
He took her hand, pressed it to his mouth, stared at her until she nodded in agreement. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, make him sorry he’d let her come with him. She must be strong for him, for herself, for the life they would one day have. If they survived this…no,
when
they survived this.
She had no idea that she fell asleep in the warm afternoon sunlight after bathing in the river until he returned and awoke her.
“Help me clean this up.” He dropped to his knees beside the water and fingered the blood soaked sleeve of his shirt.
His drawn features told her he was hurting more than he admitted.
Though she’d never dealt with such a thing, she knelt beside him. Touching the fabric stiff with his blood sent shudders through her, but she managed to rip the shirt away from his torn flesh.
“I don’t think it hit bone,” he said through gritted teeth. “Hurts like a son of a bitch, though.”
An angry black hole through the muscle along the inside of his upper arm oozed fluid. Gall filled her throat and she turned away, gagged and swallowed hard several times. Eyes smarting, she squared her shoulders and, ripping a square from the hem of her own shirt, wet it in the river and mopped at the entrance and exit wound. With each touch, he hissed through his teeth, finally collapsed to his bottom in the sand while she bound the rag around his arm and tied it in place.
Sweat poured from his ashen face, but a tremulous grin told her he’d be all right. At least for now. She was well aware of the damage infection could do and wished they had something to properly clean the wound. Abruptly, her stomach churned and she barely turned away in time to heave up its contents.
At his soft chuckle, she leaned down, strained to hear his words. “At least you had the sense to wait till it was all over before puking. Good job.” He lay back and closed his eyes.
Filled with hope, she smiled and brushed the hair off his forehead, then went down to the riverbank to rinse her mouth. He would be all right, he had to be.
When she returned with another piece of torn shirt wet from the river, he appeared to be sleeping. She sat near him, staring out over the brown water toward the other shore and the rise beyond. If someone came from that direction, they’d see them easy enough, but beyond the thick trees at their back lay Ft. Hays and Hays City. They were safely hidden should the posse regroup. And it would. If she knew anything about Blair it was that he would not give up the search. She was his and he would come after her, and keep coming until he found them.
She had to convince Calder to leave Kansas, take her away to someplace where they could make a new life. That wouldn’t be easy to do. In fact, it might be impossible.
Chapter Fifteen
Rowena’s Journal
Monday, June, 7, 1875
Oh, dear, I fear the worst. Blair is livid at the latest report about Wilda. I thought his hair would catch fire after he spoke with Sir Stanley Forbes who took out the search party this morning. I couldn’t hear the entire conversation, but I did hear that Wilda had a chance to escape the clutches of that outlaw and did not, instead chose to remain with him, even as the party bore down on them.
I could not hear the rest, but do know that there was quite a hubbub when the search party arrived at Fairhaven, riding as if their very lives depended on escape. A lone man on a giant black horse chased them right into the courtyard before turning away. Two of the men were hit by gunfire, and someone had to ride out and fetch them. Neither seemed to be badly injured.
If Wilda truly made this choice on her own, I am afraid Tyra and I may soon be put out to fend for ourselves. I cannot believe she would do this to us. The dastardly fellow must have threatened her in some way. I can only hope that the friendship I’ve begun with Blair will stand us in good stead and I can prevent our ousting. I should hate to think of begging for shelter with one of the families in town, though perhaps someone would take pity on two orphans in a strange land with no home.
Even so, it would not be the most desirous of situations, and eventually we would surely be sent back to England and St. Ann’s.
As for poor cousin Tyra, she has gone as wild as this country. She is completely out of Marguerite’s control and lately Blair has not had the time to spare her any thought. I fear she will come to harm, and that too can be lain at Wilda’s feet.
Though it is not in my nature, I plan to make myself as attractive to Blair as possible in an attempt to appeal to his baser male nature. I shall pray that he will marry me and make everything all right, but his fury at my sister may well prevent that. I shudder to think what I will do if he wishes to take me to his bed without marriage vows to pay for our keep. He is so angry that the gentle soul I’ve glimpsed on occasion seems to have withdrawn forever.
Oh, Wilda, what have you done?
****
Calder awoke in blackness, startled and unaware of where he was. Lying oh so still, so he would not make a target of himself. So many nights had he come to himself like this, listening for the echo of cannon or the cry of the injured and dying. Only the gentle lapping of water and the wind singing through the cottonwoods along the riverbank interrupted the peaceful night songs. He was no longer a soldier, waiting for dawn to come so he could kill or be killed. But he had no doubt that he was still at war. The fiery ache in his arm reminded him only that he had been shot.
Then he remembered the previous day. Heart beating rapidly, he cradled the injured arm and rose to check his surroundings. Wilda had come with him, despite his efforts to prevent it. Had he slept and let her be captured? Allowed those lowly English dandies to sneak up on them and steal her away? Take her back to that foppish Earl or Duke or whatever the hell he called himself. A cruel man who would surely punish her sorely.
Lord indeed. The English had such frothy ideas of what it took to be a man. Ruffles and lace and bob-tailed nags and folderol. Shut up in their stone houses, keeping God knew what secrets hidden behind closed doors. Did all the men force women to marry them? And what treatment did they face after marriage? He shuddered to think that could’ve been Wilda’s fate.
This wild land would soon defeat those foppish Englishmen, send them back home, tails between their legs. And good enough for them. If they could not become Americans, then what were they doing here?
In the pale light, he spotted Wilda, lying apart from him, curled in a ball like a barn cat. Relief that she was safe filled his heart. He had slept with her, touched her in the most secret of places, kept her pure despite his desires. And she had changed him in ways he couldn’t have imagined only a few weeks ago. Polished off his rough edges, made him laugh, for God’s sake. And he had changed her too. Gone were her snooty ways. He’d taught her to enjoy a simple life.
Too bad all that had come down to this night. On the run, the two of them, and him shot. All because he had flirted with a pretty miss who had no notion what she was getting in to when she smiled back at him that first time, and him standing there with a gun pointed at her.
Now, what in the hell was he going to do with her? With himself, for that matter? They had fled in a way that guaranteed they could not go back. Neither she to her Lord Dandy, nor he to Baron and Deke and the life he’d led with them. They were on the run and he had to keep her safe. He, who had never wanted the responsibility for anything or anybody. Not since Ma and Pa and the boys had gone and died on him. And him unable to protect them.
In silence, he moved closer to her. Listened to the gentle sigh of her breathing, enjoyed her womanly aroma. He yearned to take her in his arms, make sweet love. Instead, he leaned his head back to stare up at the stars, astonished that a tear trickled from the corner of one eye. Dear God, when had he last cried?