Sunset Embrace (30 page)

But to Lydia he couldn't make amends. He was too ashamed. He couldn't bring himself to face her with an apology. No matter what she had been, she was now his wife, virtually mother to his son. She had said no, and it hadn't made one goddamned bit of difference. He had had to have her and he had taken her like a savage.

Waking next to her this morning had felt so good. But then he had remembered the night before. When he saw the bruises on her upper arms and wrists as she crossed them over her defenseless breasts, saw the residue of his rape dried together with her blood on her thighs, he had never felt so wretched.

He hadn't even considered that she would be almost as tender as a virgin after having her baby. It was a wonder he hadn't permanently injured her. He cursed himself as he stirred the pan of beans. Maybe he had injured her beyond healing. Maybe even now she was slowly bleeding to death.

"Smells good," Scout said, hunkering down beside the fire and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"It's ready when you want it." Ross leaned against a tree and stared into the sunset. When he left she had looked disspirited, but she didn't look sick. Hopefully he hadn't hurt her too badly.

It was no wonder she hadn't even looked at him when he spoke to her. He had searched for one glimmer of forgiveness in her eyes. He would have grasped at her faintest protest that it was too soon to talk about divorcing when they had only been married for a few weeks. But she had only stared back at him with those eyes of hers that could burn as bright as firelight or turn as hard as stone depending on her mood. The contempt she had for him was all too apparent.

"You ain't eatin'?" Scout asked around a mouthful of beans.

Ross shook his head. "I'm not hungry just now. Maybe later."

What the hell did he care if she forgave him or not? She was a tart. Surely she had had it rough before. Why should he feel sorry about it?

Because she was afraid of you, you bastard. You knew that but went right on with it anyway.

She could have fought harder.

She fought as hard as she could. Have you looked at her? A strong wind could blow her down. What chance did she have against a brute like you?

Well, she had asked for it.

For rape?

Maybe not rape. But she let you know she wanted it by brushing up against you and doing nice little favors for you and wearing her hair to look like she had just had a most satisfactory tumble. And what about all those glimpses of flesh she gives you?

Accidents.

Are they?

Yes. I think.

Did you ever think of Victoria like this? To the point of thinking if you didn't see her, touch her, make love to her, you would explode?

I don't remember.

You remember. You didn't. You loved her, but she didn't consume your every waking thought and that's what's really troubling you, isn't it? It was ten times better with the girl than it ever was with your wife. With any woman. And you can't forget it.

Yes, I will.

I doubt it. You're hard as a pike now with thinking about it.

Yes, yes, yes! It was goddamn great and I want it again. Dammit, what am I going to do?

"It's good to get away from them sod busters for a spell," Scout said.

"Yes," Ross answered laconically. It would be supper-time. She would be bending over the fire and her cheeks would be flushed from the heat. He would step around the wagon after washing and they would look at each other and then she would wet her lips the way she did when she was nervous.

"That little Watkins gal is drivin' me crazy. Hot bitch," Scout said, tearing oif a plug of tobacco. He offered a chew to Ross, who shook his head no. "Know what she did?"

"What?" Ross asked when he couldn't have even said what they were talking about.

God, sinking into Lydia's body had been like finding home for the first time in his life. He had intended to take her hard and fast and dispassionately, but once encased in her, he found that he couldn't. It had been too good. Had she put her arms around his shoulders, or is that just what he wanted to remember?

Scout was embroidering a luscious tale. "Well, I played the stud for her a few times and now she's talkin' weddin' and babies and all." He chuckled in gross amusement. "I'll tell you one thing, she's as tight as ol' Dicks hatband. You ever dipped into that honeypot? Naw, 'course you ain't. Not with that juicy little piece you're married up with now waitin' for you every night."

Ross moved with the speed of lightning. He kicked Scout in the chest with both bootheels and sent him reeling backward. Before the younger man had recovered, Ross rolled him over, planted his knee at the base of his spine and arched him backward with a forearm beneath his chin. Scout heard the deadly click of a pistol hammer at the back of his skull. How the hell the man had gotten it out of his holster, Scout would never know.

"Have you got anything else to say about my wife?" Ross asked, and his dulcet tones did more to terrify Scout than the lethal quickness with which Ross had moved.

"N . . . no," he stuttered. "I didn't mean nothin'. Swear to God I didn't . . . Awwww," he yelled as Ross pressed his knee harder and brought his arm back farther. "Swear to God I meant no disrespect."

Gradually the deadly hold relaxed. Ross stood slowly, released the hammer of his pistol and put it back in his holster. "I think I'm hungry now," he said with a voice as cold and steely as the long barrel of his gun, which Scout could still feel tickling the back of his neck.

He fearfully eased himself over and saw Ross indifferently spooning beans into his tin plate. Scout had never thought Coleman belonged with the rest of them. Now he was certain. There was more to the man than anybody thought and damned if he wanted to find out what it was.

* * *

Mas face was as hard as stone as Bubba came gliding dreamy-eyed into the circle of firelight. His feet barely touched the ground. He was floating in a state of euphoria.

"Where, might I ask, have you been?" Ma's booming voice cracked through his state of well-being and brought him hurtling back to earth.

"Uh..."

"I'm gonna thrash the both of you," Ma said, shaking nn intimidating willow switch in Bubba's face. "Sent you out for firewood hours ago and ain't seen hide nor hair of you since. Where's that no 'count brother of yours? Might as well whip both of you at the same time."

"Luke's not back?" Bubba was having a hard time getting his head on straight. Priscilla had not only wrung his body dry, but seemed to have pickled his brain as well. When he realized that Luke hadn't lived up to his end of the bargain, he went almost as livid as Ma.

"No, he ain't back. What have you two been up to?"

"I ... we . . . we went after the firewood and Luke said he was gonna bring it back."

"Which he didn't, 'cause I had to send your hard-workin' pa after some. Well?"

"And he said he was gonna ... I know . . . I'll bet he's at the corral with Mr. Coleman's horses ... he said—"

"No, he ain't. I done sent Marynell lookin' down there and Lydia's taking care of them horses. Atlanta said Luke ain't nowhere in camp. If you're covering up for some of his mischief ..." She shook the switch at him again.

Bubba hoped to God Priscilla wasn't listening to this. She would laugh at him. Diddlin' all afternoon like a man and gettin' a whippin' in the evenin' like a kid.

"No, Ma, I swear ... he ..."

Bubba's voice dwindled off when he realized his ma wasn't listening anymore. She had suddenly dropped the switch she had been brandishing. Her red, work-rough hand flew to her mouth, and for the first time in his life, Bubba saw his ma's cheeks go pale as she knocked him aside and took stumbling steps forward.

"Mrs. Langston," Moses said quietly. "I found him over yonder in the woods."

He was carrying Luke, who looked amazingly young and small cradled in Moses's arms. There was a handkerchief tied around Luke's throat, but still the gaping slash was visible. His shirtfront was stiff, sticky, red—drenched in blood that had dried quickly in the summer heat.

Bubba collapsed against the wheel of his family's wagon and began to vomit.

L
ydia stared into the gaping square hole in the ground and refused to believe that the quilt-wrapped bundle at the bottom of it was the vivacious, mischievous Luke Langston. The mourners stood grim and silent as Mr. Grayson officiated at the brief burial service. This was the second mortality among them since the outset of their journey. There was no coffin. There hadn't been time to make or buy one.

Lydia let the tears roll down her cheeks without attempting to wipe them away. Thankfully Lee was being quiet and still as she held him. Could he sense the tragedy of the situation, the tension in the adults around him?

How Ma Langston was holding up so well, Lydia didn't know. The woman looked as she did every day, sparse hair sleeked back, dressed in calico and the perennial apron. She stood erect, with her face set into an expressionless mask. Her hands were clasped together at her shapeless waist. The white rigidity of her knuckles was the only giveaway to her grief. Her family was clustered around her. Zeke was bent, looking far older than he had this time yesterday. Anabeth was trying to imitate the dignity of her mother, but the other girls were clinging to each other, weeping copiously. Samuel looked bewildered and on the verge of tears. Little Micah, uncomprehending, stood beside his mother, her skirt clutched tightly in his hand as he solemnly watched the proceedings.

But Bubba, Bubba was the most pitiable to behold. His eyes were hollow as he stared down into the grave. He was several degrees more pale than the body that had been carefully washed and wrapped for burial. While Luke's face had looked peaceful in death, that of his older brother was ravaged by grief and despair.

"They were so close, those two young fellas," folks murmured.

"It'll take a long time for him to stop missing Luke."

Mr. Grayson finished reading the Twenty-third Psalm and closed the worn leather binder of his Bible. He cleared his throat softly. "Ma, if you're ready ..."

Ma bent down and picked up a handful of the dirt that had been emptied out of the ground for her son's grave and sprinkled it over the body. "Children," she said. One by one the brothers and sisters of Luke Langston came to the rim of the grave to toss down a clump of earth. When it came Bubba's turn he looked down into the grave with eyes too dismayed and an expression too stark to weep. He uttered one anguished cry, turned, and ran through the people gathered around the grave. Ma looked after him as he fled toward the wagons, her expression as bleak as his. "Zeke," she said, nudging her husband's arm. Zeke stirred, mechanically taking up a handful of dirt and letting it sift into the grave as though it had no relevance to him.

The family stood solemnly as everyone else took a turn and started a slow, sad procession back to the camp. Soon only Lydia and Mr. Grayson were left standing with them.

"Take as long as you like. I don't reckon anybody feels up to traveling today. I'll have some of the men come back to finish here"—he gestured toward the open grave— "when you're done." Ma nodded.

Lydia hugged each of them in turn and then let Mr. Grayson accompany her back to the wagons. She longed for Ross. If he were here with her, maybe she could stand the thought of Luke's brutal death. Ross could help Bubba get through the horror of seeing his brother viciously and senselessly slain.

She grieved for young Luke. She had liked him for his sense of humor and his mischievous nature, his zest for life, and his quick mind. She wanted to weep for the wasteful taking of his life. She wanted Ross to hold her as she did.

But he was gone and she needed to be strong and helpful to Ma and Zeke. Never would she be able to repay them for taking her in when no one else would have, but she could try and help them through this tragedy.

Arriving back at the camp, Lydia realized at once that Luke's murder was going to have serious repercussions that extended beyond grief. Last night after Moses first brought the body in, it was too late in the evening to send a rider after a peace officer. The nearest town with a sheriff was twenty miles away through unfamiliar territory. And no one wanted to get mixed up with the Federal troops that still occupied Arkansas.

Mr, Grayson had dispatched an emissary before sunrise that morning. Now he was back, reporting to the avid, restless listeners that the sheriff hadn't been available. He was on the far side of the county and wasn't expected back for days. The deputy refused to leave the office.

"They haven t heard of any such crimes in these parts," Mr. Sims said gravely. "He said ... uh ... for us to think about someone in the train—"

"You can't mean he suggested that one of our own killed the boy?" Grayson asked.

Miserably, Sims twisted his horse's bridle in his fingers. "That's what he hinted at. I told him I didn't agree, but—"

"Well, I been giving it some thought," Leona Watkins said shrilly. When all eyes turned on her, she pulled her shawl around her, lifted her shoulders back haughtily, and let the suspense build, "I saw somebody sneaking through the woods yesterday. I didn't think anything about it till the Langston boy turned up dead, but now I feel that it's my Christian duty to report it."

Her husband Jesse was glancing around nervously. Lydia had always thought the man was as afraid of his shadow as he was of his wife. He looked now like he desperately wished she hadn't opened her mouth. Priscilla stood nearby in sulky boredom.

"Leona, you don't know—"

"Quiet, Jesse," she snapped and her husband cowered. "These folks ought to know if they're harboring a killer."

Everyone gasped, including Lydia. "Mrs. Watkins, surely you don't think someone on this train killed Luke," Mr. Grayson said.

Leona let her ferret eyes dart around the circle of people. She had everyone right where she wanted them— held in breathless suspense. "Who brought him in? Hmm? Covered in blood himself."

"Moses?" Lydia exclaimed on a high note. "You're accusing Moses of killing Luke? Of killing
anybody?"