Separate Roads (28 page)

It had rained all night. Again. Mud splattered everywhere, caking on Rich’s boots, his trouser legs, even his coat sleeves. Riding at the front of the procession of wagons and soldiers, he turned slightly in his saddle to briefly assess the group. All seemed in order. The Baldwin wagon was lumbering at the rear, and that fool woman, Jordana, was riding alongside the wagon as if taking a Sunday jaunt. It still both shocked and beguiled him to observe her boldness in riding astride.

Yes, she was quite a woman. A foolish woman. A beautiful woman. An intriguing woman. A dangerous woman . . . for a man like him. But no matter how often he told himself that, he could not get her completely out of his mind.

Rich thought about last night as he had watched her with her brother. He’d glimpsed another side of her then, one that just made her even more intriguing. The two had been talking so earnestly, and there had been such a deep tenderness in her expression toward Brenton. Jordana Baldwin presented to Rich, and probably to the rest of the world, a self-sufficient, slightly tart, very daring character. He thought now that it must surely be a facade meant to mask a tender, vulnerable side. More likely—and this was the intriguing part—she was all those things in one lovely package. She was indeed a rose beset by a good number of thorns.

Rich could have been easily tempted to risk a few scratches to hold that rose and to deserve that same expression she had given her brother. But he was far from ready to take such a risk again.

Rich peered ahead, forcing his attention to matters at hand. All seemed in perfect order, which did not explain the unsettled feeling he’d had since the party had departed Omaha several days ago. Maybe it was only the Baldwin woman. Still, Rich was not a man to become so besotted by a woman’s charms that he completely lost his head. He knew better than to attribute the small gnawing in his stomach just to that. And he knew better than to accept words of peace and tranquility without firm proof. The moneymen wanted settlers to think all was safe and secure on the plains so settlement would continue. But too many lives depended on Rich not buying their assurances wholesale. Yet the survey party had gone this long unmolested. Perhaps Rich was just being too much of a doomsayer.

The party paused for a midday meal just south of a small creek. There were only a few cottonwoods along the banks of the stream to shade the group from the sun, which had turned the air hot and muggy despite the dotting of dark clouds still in the sky. Rich ambled around the camp, passing the time of day with his men and the survey team. It was quite natural then for him to pause at the Baldwin wagon. Brenton had taken his camera closer to the creek to take photographs. Jordana was cutting up biscuits left over from breakfast and some beef jerky. Rich had told the group this stop would only be for an hour, so cooking fires were out of the question.

“Are you getting on well, Miss Baldwin?” he asked.

“Yes, quite.” She took the cloth she held in her hand and dabbed unconsciously at her neck. “If only we could do something about this heat. How I would love a swim in that creek!”

“I am sorry there isn’t time for that now,” he said. “And when we move on, we shall veer away from the creek. It will be open, dry prairie for a while then.”

He watched her finger a damp strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. He wondered how one appearing so cool on the surface could be hot and perspiring. He searched in his mind for words that might probe beneath the chilly exterior to the tender heart he knew must be inside. But he could think of nothing. And even if he could, what right had he? They had spoken of being friends, but the sentiment had progressed no further than words, and he felt it was not his place to encourage it more than that.

“Well, there’s nothing for it, then, is there? I mean the heat.” She shifted her gaze back to her work, then her eyes skittered to him once again. “Would you care to join us, Captain O’Brian? Brenton should be back shortly.”

“That is most kind of you, Miss Baldwin, but I have already eaten.” He didn’t know why he refused. It would not have hurt him to have another meal. He added quickly, “Perhaps another time.” He supposed he was just as cautious as she, if indeed her reserve had anything to do with caution. Perhaps she simply disliked him.

“All right, then.”

“I best return to my duties.” Tipping his hat, he turned and strode away, wondering just what duties he had that were so pressing.

The party continued on after lunch. The heat dried out the earth, quickly turning mud to dust. Rich’s prediction about this leg of the journey proved true. Grassy prairie stretched out before them now like an endless sea. Not a tree in sight for mile upon mile.

Rich rode up next to his sergeant. “Wes, I’ve got this prickly feeling in the back of my neck. But I don’t see a blessed thing out there.”

“Yeah. It’s mighty quiet.” Sergeant Hart squinted as if that might change the horizon of unending grass.

“Too quiet.”

“I’ll keep a sharp look out, Captain.”

“Never figured you’d do anything else.” Rich grinned, a gesture that did not reach up into his eyes, which were still focusing ahead.

A half hour passed uneventfully—the creak of harness, the snorts of horses, the clouds of dust making a kind of music in the hot air. And it wasn’t a soothing music. But for all those sounds, it was just too quiet.

Thwang!

Rich heard the sound, felt the brief rustle of air. The instant it registered in his mind, another followed.

Thwang! Thwang!

“Indians!” someone yelled.

But Rich was already shouting the orders for his men to take defensive positions, that is, circling the survey team, using the wagons for protection from the back. Unless the attackers were simply too many in number, the party’s best hope would be to stop and fight it out rather than attempt to outrun the Indians. All his men were armed with good percussion-cap rifles, which should quickly overwhelm the Indians, who he hoped were armed with only bows and arrows or old muskets. He quickly counted about a dozen attackers, who appeared to be Pawnee. Less than half were armed with rifles. How they had managed to keep hidden and get so close, Rich could not tell, but he knew enough about Indians to know they had their ways. They’d probably been following the party for hours, maybe even days.

After seeing that the wagons were positioned to lend maximum cover, Rich was ready to dismount himself and take up a firing position, but before doing so he glanced toward the Baldwin wagon. It had stopped with the others, and Brenton was crouched behind the front wheel, rifle in hand, about to fire. Where was Jordana? The sorrel was not tied to the back of the wagon.

Rich looked frantically around. Curse that girl!

Zing!
A sharp pain seared Rich’s head, throwing him back in his saddle. He would have been able to hang on too, despite the pain, if only the sudden dizziness from the blow hadn’t assailed him. He pitched forward, and the next thing he realized, he had hit the ground and a pair of hands was grasping his arms and dragging him toward the wagon.

“Dear Lord! Are you . . . ?” came Brenton’s shaky voice.

Rich blinked and brought a hand to his head. “I . . . I think so.” He drew away his hand, finding it covered with blood. “Just grazed, I think. Thanks for getting me—” Suddenly he remembered what he had seen—or not seen—just before he’d been hit. “Jordana! Where’s your sister?”

Brenton’s head seemed to spin on his neck as he gazed all around. “She’s not here! Last I saw she was dismounting.”

Rich sat up, and beyond the clouds of dust and gunpowder, he saw the sorrel racing away. What he could not tell was whether it had a rider.

——

Everything happened so quickly, Jordana had no time to be either excited or afraid. She heard the shouts of Rich O’Brian before the chilling whoops of the Indians reached her ears. There were a few moments of chaos as everyone in the party reacted to the captain’s orders and their own stunned fear and excitement.

With gunfire all around, both from the Indians and the soldiers, and arrows flying, Jordana was as anxious as anyone to dismount her sorrel and duck for cover behind the wagons. Brenton shouted her name as he reined his team to a stop.

“I’m all right,” she assured.

“Let’s get to cover!” He grabbed his rifle and leaped over the side of the wagon.

“I’m right behind you.”

And she had been. Within seconds she would have been down there safely behind a wheel. Then the sorrel reared suddenly. This was not a battle-hardened cavalry mount. Brenton had rented the animal from a livery in Omaha. The beast had probably never even been hunting before. Snorting with terror, the gelding shot off at a gallop the moment its feet retouched the ground.

Jordana screamed, but who could hear above the riot of battle sounds?

The sudden start of the horse unseated Jordana and would have surely thrown her to either her death or at the least a bad bruising on the ground had her boot not twisted in the stirrup, holding her foot firm. As she hung by the reins to the flank of the sorrel, she saw what had so provoked the animal. An arrow had pierced its right shoulder. But Jordana had no time to feel sorry for the beast, her own life hanging literally by a thread—a leather one gripped fiercely in her hand. As her teeth jarred in her head with the bouncing of the sorrel, Jordana’s arms felt as if at any moment they would be wrenched from their sockets.

Struggling with all the strength left in her arms, she finally managed to get her leg over the back of her mount. Two bone-rattling minutes later, she found the strength to pull herself back into the saddle. Exhausted and hardly able to do more than hold the reins, she fell forward, hugging the sorrel’s neck. But she did not have the luxury to rest. The horse had to be brought under control. Taking a breath, she was about to do just that when she heard shrill shouts behind her.

Turning in her saddle, she saw the last sight she expected or desired. Two of the Indians were chasing her.

24

Now she dare not stop. She dug her heels into the sorrel’s flanks. How would she ever outrun her pursuers? She could already feel her mount tiring, especially as they galloped up a grassy knoll. She wondered how serious its wound was and prayed the animal would not simply drop out from under her.

A rifle blasted behind her, but a quick glance to the rear assured her she was still out of range. Surely the range of an arrow was no more than that of a musket. At any rate, a bobbing target on a galloping horse should do nothing for their aim. But as she crested the rise, she wanted to let out her own war whoop. A stand of trees stretched out about a quarter of a mile away. Either the creek they had left earlier in the day wound around to here, or this was another waterway altogether. Regardless, the trees meant cover—if she could get to them before the Indians got to her.

“Just a little farther,” she encouraged the sorrel.
Please, God, help us get there!

The sun was now setting, and the bright glare was directly in front of Jordana. It was nearly impossible to see. But she hoped it also impaired the Indians’ sight as well as she veered toward the trees. It was not easy to slow when she reached the first of them. Of course, the sorrel was more than willing, but Jordana’s racing heart made her want to keep on racing as well. At least it was darker within the wood, but the branches and leaves that made it dark also proved to be a hazard to a rider. She had to duck several times as she penetrated more deeply into the thicket. Finally, believing she’d have a better chance on foot of eluding pursuit, she dismounted and tied her horse to a branch hoping she’d be alive to retrieve it later.

In the not-too-far distance, she could hear the gurgling of the creek and, remembering that the water would cover her tracks, headed in that direction. As she went she cocked an ear for sounds of the Indians. Bursts of gunfire in the distance gave her hope that perhaps one of the soldiers had come to her rescue.

A branch snagged at her hair, pulling out the pin holding the mass in place. It tumbled into her eyes. She didn’t see the root at her feet and stumbled, flying to the ground on her stomach. Bruised and scratched, and covered with damp leaves and mud, she was not seriously harmed. She jumped up and continued on. She heard no pursuit but knew that Indians had a talent for stealth. They could be within feet of her, and she’d not have a clue. But she made a concerted effort to push such negative thoughts from her mind. Instead, she looked about for a weapon, telling herself that after this, she was never going to travel unarmed again.