Separate Roads (29 page)

A fallen branch proved the best weapon she could find. She grabbed it with trembling fingers and continued on.

The gunfire had died away, and she tried to construe this as a positive sign. But her mind filled instead with all the horror stories she’d heard about Indians. Most she had discounted as tales from folks with wild imaginations. But her own imagination was having a field day now. Scalpings apparently were the least of the dangers. And female captives were likely to have an even more terrifying time of it. She wondered what it would be like to be taken to an Indian camp and forced . . . well, it was best not to wonder at all. She wasn’t going to get captured. She wasn’t going to end up a “white squaw woman.” She was going to get out of here and away from danger. She was going to make it back to camp and to her brother.

“Oh, God, please help me! I sometimes think I am so strong and tough, but I’m not really. I’m just a woman, and even if my heart cries out to be more, you have given me the frail body of a female. I suppose it is so I will depend on you.”

She stumbled again, then saw the ebbing light of the setting sun glint off the surface of the water. She was relieved to see the creek, though she didn’t know what advantage it would be. But her heart was pounding and her lungs still heaving, so she had to stop for a minute. Her mouth was dry and she was dying for a drink, but she would be too exposed if she stopped at the edge of the water. Ignoring her thirst, she kept to the trees.

But why couldn’t she hear anything? Had the Indians given up on her? Brushing back her unruly hair, she strained again to listen. Only then did she hear the soft voice and the sweetest sound she could think of.

“Jordana!”

It was barely a whisper, and the moment the sound reached her ears, a hand grasped her shoulder. It startled her nonetheless, and she gasped.

“Rich . . . I . . . uh . . . mean, Captain O’Brian!” She turned, forgetting the branch in her hand. It clipped him on the shin. “I’m so sorry!”

He grinned, then raised a finger to his lips. “Shush!” he breathed. “I’m getting quite tough, thanks to you, Miss Baldwin. Now, why don’t we see if we can get out of here.”

“Where are the Indians?”

They spoke in hushed tones.

“I killed one on the edge of the wood. I don’t know where the other one is. I managed to circle around to elude him and get to you.” He took her arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, and thank you for coming after me.”

“What else would I do?” And though a little smile played at the corners of his lips, there was an earnestness in his tone.

It was then that she noticed the blood, mostly dried, smeared down the left side of his face. “You’ve been wounded?”

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Just a graze. Let’s go.”

Keeping to the trees, but with the creek in view at their right, they moved on. Rich had his revolver drawn. Jordana still clung to her branch. They walked for about five minutes, darkness steadily encroaching upon them. But Rich had the step of a man accustomed to the woods and to survival. His feet hardly made a sound, but he was patient with her when she chanced to snap a twig underfoot. Jordana wondered about the kinds of military action this soldier of hers had experienced.

Of hers?

Well, it was getting to be like he was her personal guardian angel. But of course it went no further than that, no matter what Brenton thought. Rich O’Brian was a very nice man, even if he had a few rough edges. He’d saved her life on several occasions at no small risk to his own. She owed him something. Friendship? Well, maybe she could at least be nicer to him. And maybe she could try harder to keep from harming him, accidental though it might be.

Suddenly Jordana was jerked to a stop with a painful wrench to her arm. “Ow—!” But Rich’s hand shot to her mouth, preventing further comment.

In the next instant, an Indian leaped as if from nowhere, grabbing Rich and knocking him to the ground. The revolver bounced from Rich’s hand, and only then did Jordana see that the Indian had a knife.

The two men grappled on the ground, the knife glinting in the shadows as it hovered lethally between them. Jordana thought about making use of her branch, but she’d done more harm than good with such maneuvers in the past and feared doing so again. Besides, Rich was on top of the Indian now, and she couldn’t have done much with the branch anyway. Instead she tried to see where the gun had fallen, but in the growing darkness it was almost impossible to find.

In a moment, the two combatants were on their feet. The Indian still held the knife, and they were facing each other. The Indian made a lunge, the tip of his blade slicing Rich’s arm. Undeterred, Rich grabbed the Indian’s knife hand, repelling it momentarily.

Suddenly, Rich went down. He must have stumbled over something. It hardly mattered. The Indian intended on taking full advantage of this error.

At that same moment, Jordana spied the gun. She dove for it and took aim, praying it was fully loaded and ready to fire. She fired as the Indian made what would have been a fatal thrust with his knife at the now defenseless Rich. A moment after the explosion of the pistol, the attacker stumbled forward—right on top of Rich.

Jordana screamed, squeezing her eyes shut, fearing she had been no help at all and the knife would still find its mark.

Shaking all over, she forced her eyes open, only to find Rich had rolled away from the falling attacker just in time. Relief swept over her at seeing him safe. Then, in the very next instant, she realized she had just shot a man. The shock of it made her crumble to the ground.

She awoke from her faint to find herself in Rich’s arms. It felt very nice, and she just wanted to close her eyes again and snuggle close to his safe and secure body.

“You saved my life, Jordana,” he said, forcing her from her sweet solitude.

“I . . . I g-guess we’re even,” she said with a lopsided smile. She added, “No . . . you are still a couple up on me.”

He tenderly brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “You are a very brave woman.” He wore a slight smile, but his tone seemed to vibrate with intensity. “Can you walk?”

That little question jarred her from her shock. Could she walk? As if she were some frail creature! She conveniently forgot she
had
just fainted. Instead, she scooted to her feet, with only a little remaining regret at having to part from Rich O’Brian’s strong, warm arms.

“Of course I can walk,” she said tartly. But then her gaze strayed to the fallen form of the Indian. A sick feeling fluttered in her stomach, and she swayed on her feet. Rich, having also stood, caught her. “Is . . . is he dead?”

“Yes . . .”

“Oh, dear! How awful! I . . . I . . .” But she didn’t know what to say, how to express the horror she felt at having taken a human life. She had been so afraid of the Indians hurting her, she had never imagined her doing the same to them. But he was
dead,
and she had killed him.

Rich put an arm around her. “I’m sorry you were forced to do that. It is never easy to take a life.”

“Even for you?”

“It makes me sick every time.”

“Oh . . .” She turned to look at him and found him gazing at her.

They both started in embarrassed surprise at the closeness, then jerked their heads away. Rich dropped his arm from around her waist.

“We’d best get back,” he said. “Hopefully, my men have fought off the other Indians. I guess it helped that you drew off a couple from the main battle.”

“Maybe that was my intention,” she said coyly.

He laughed and the sound of his wry humor seemed to break the awkwardness they had suddenly begun to feel. Both of them, Jordana thought, were far more comfortable sparring with each other.

“I think your intention was just to make my life complicated again,” Rich said with an amused edge to his voice.

“I am so very sorry! You didn’t have to come after me.”

“What? And risk one of my men on such a hazardous duty, when I know saving you can be a dangerous business!”

With a loud “Harrumph!” Jordana started walking.

“Miss Baldwin, it’s the other way.” His laughing eyes met hers as she turned.

She fought to restrain a responding smile and keep up her look of haughty affront. But it was a hard battle because Rich’s humor was so infectious, and she was so very grateful to him.

After finding their horses, they returned to the wagons where they found the battle had ended. Sergeant Hart reported that their party had sustained only a couple of minor injuries. The attackers retreated after losing some three or four of their number.

“Add two more to that,” said Rich. “I killed one, and Miss Baldwin killed another.”

“Jordana!” Brenton exclaimed. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes. It was horrible, but it’s over now. And”—she glanced toward Rich and smiled sincerely—“I have Captain O’Brian to thank again for rescuing me.”

Brenton said, “Thank you again, Captain. We are once more in your debt.”

“Your sister saved my life as well.”

“Nevertheless, your superiors will hear of your bravery and of your men’s bravery as well.”

“Please, Brenton, the last time you wrote my superiors, I got this assignment. If you write again I might end up serving somewhere in the frozen north, where, given my luck, your sister will decide to settle.” His gaze skittered to Jordana, and he gave her a roguish grin.

She knew he was just being playful. She liked it so much better that way, and to keep it in that vein, she responded with a click of her tongue and a haughty look.

“The next time an enemy comes at you with a knife, Captain,” she countered, “I may just find myself too faint of heart to pull the trigger.”

“Speaking of fainting . . .”

“Don’t you dare!” she gasped, part warning, part imploring.

He laughed but did not finish his statement, much to her relief, for she’d have been mortified for Brenton and the others to think of her as a swooning female. Then other duties called him away. Jordana watched him briefly before she too turned her energy to helping Brenton.

Yes, she thought, Rich O’Brian might just be a pleasant friend.

25

If Jordana had hoped to find peace at home after the adventures of the trail, she was disappointed. When the survey team returned to Omaha, it was like being tossed into the middle of a fire, or at least a powder keg close to exploding.

Rumors, never completely quelled, were rampant about various threats to the town. It was feared Quantrill’s raiders had set their sights on Omaha. After Quantrill’s devastating sack of Lawrence, Kansas, in the spring of ’63, perhaps the citizens of Omaha had a right to be nervous. The Confederate guerrilla leader—though many considered him more an outlaw than a soldier—along with his four hundred fifty bushwhackers, was an imposing threat.

This, coupled with renewed Indian uprisings along the Platte and Elkhorn Rivers, had spurred on the forming and training of a local militia. Brenton and Jordana were still unpacking from their trip when an acquaintance of Brenton’s, along with two strangers, came to their little house.

“We expect you to be there this Saturday when we drill,” said Jeff Tanner.

“I’ve been away on railroad business,” Brenton explained, trying to remain cool in spite of Jeff’s belligerent tone.

“Well, you’re back now. You ain’t got no more excuses.”

“I’m not giving excuses—”

“Sounds to us like you are,” cut in one of the strangers. “Sounds like you are just plain yella.”

“That is pure bunk!” But because Brenton did feel a pang of guilt, he felt compelled to add, “I’ve just returned from fighting Indians out on the plains. I’m doing my part.”

“Good, then we’ll see you there.”

The three men stalked away.

Brenton took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Jordana laid a comforting hand on his arm.

“You are only doing what you believe is right,” she said.

“Sometimes I no longer know what is right.” He sucked in a deep sigh. “I can fight Indians, and fighting Quantrill is only technically fighting the South. I expect there are many honorable southerners who deplore that man’s activities.”