Sunset Embrace (31 page)

"We don't need interference from outsiders," Leona said, not even deigning to look at Lydia. Instead she turned hard, colorless eyes on the black man. Those who had been standing nearest him moved back on shuffling feet, giving him wide berth and looking at him suspiciously. It was as if they had never seen him before, though they had been traveling in the man's company for weeks.

"I saw him slinking through the woods yesterday on my way to the river," Leona Watkins whispered loudly. Her eyes were glittering malevolently, seething with hate and prejudice. "I say he's the killer."

There were murmurs of consideration and Lydia's heart began to pound. Surely this was all a terrible dream and she would soon wake up, wake up with Ross's arm heavy and secure over her waist.

"Why would Moses want to kill anybody?" someone in the crowd asked.

"He's a former slave," Leona reasoned loudly, spreading her arms wide. "Now that he's been freed, he's got the lust to kill white folks. There have been times when I've felt his eyes crawling over me and my daughter. One look from those evil, dark eyes is enough to make my blood run cold."

"That's ridiculous," Lydia shouted, but she couldn't be heard over the rumblings of speculation.

Moses was beginning to glance around nervously. He had been protected by the Hill family all his life but knew enough about the night riders who terrorized freed Negroes to be afraid. He had witnessed mobs incited to lynching blacks on trumped-up suspicions, suspicions much less incriminating than the bloody murder of a white boy.

"I say we tie him up and try him ourselves," Leona screamed. "There's no telling when that sheriff might decide to come help us. In the meantime, others could be killed. Do you want him running loose with your children around?" she demanded of Mrs. Norwood, who was standing beside her.

"Wait!" Mr. Grayson commanded, holding up both bands. Everyone respected him enough to stop their hostile advance toward Moses and look toward their wagonmaster. "We haven't heard anything from Moses. Were you in the woods yesterday?" he asked the black man.

"Yes, sir. I was picking healing herbs to make a tea for Mr. Hill. It's good for his consumption."

Lydia had visited Winston only that morning. He was looking better. She only hoped that from his bed in his wagon, he couldn't hear what people were accusing his friend of.

"Did you see Luke Langston?"

"No, sir. Not until I found him the way I brought him in."

"Lies," Mrs. Watkins shrieked. "You're going to believe him? He was probably picking poisonous weeds to kill Mr. Hill with. I saw him, I tell you, creeping around like he was just waiting to pounce on a poor unsuspecting soul. Jesse, get the rope." The man rushed to obey and several others surged toward the black man.

Everything happened at once then. Lydia, frantically looking around her, pushed Lee into Mrs. Greer's arms. She cried out to Grayson, "You can't let them do this."

He was overwhelmed to see people usually so civilized behaving in so barbaric a fashion and only stood and watched helplessly. Moses, seeing the enraged men striding toward him, panicked and, turning, began to run.

"He's gettin' away," someone screamed.

"Stop him!"

"No, Moses, no!" Lydia shouted and charged after him, knowing that his running away would be as good as an admission of guilt to these people gone temporarily mad.

"Stop him, Jesse. Get the shotgun," Leona yelled to her husband.

It was at that instant that Ross's horse leaped over the tongue of a wagon and came streaking into the circle like a ruthless black dart. No sooner had Lucky's hooves landed than he was turned about, deftly separating Lydia and Moses from the others. Ross had the barrel of his rifle trained into the crowd and his pistol pointing at Jesse Watkins, who had frozen in the act of catching up the shotgun at his wife's shouted order. Everyone froze, as much out of surprise as fright. But anyone having the misfortune of meeting Ross's eyes at that moment tasted fear, acrid and vile.

"I wouldn't if I were you." Those were the only words he uttered, and he spoke them in a sibilant whisper, but Watkinss hand came away from the shotgun as though a puppeteers string had jerked it back. "Everyone stay real still now until I find out what the hell is going on."

"I'd like to know that myself." That came from Ma. At hearing the commotion, the Langstons had come back to the camp. Ma was relieved that whatever the trouble was, Bubba didn't seem to be involved. The boy wasn't himself and the drastic change in him went deeper than grief.

The members of the train stood stunned. They had all respected Ross Coleman as an upstanding man, a man who minded his own business, who had been devoted to his first wife and now seemed to be making the adjustment to being a parent with a new wife to cope with. He was helpful when asked for help, but didn't give unsolicited advice. He had never been known to invite confidences, but he would laugh at anyone's joke and take a swig of whiskey when the womenfolk weren't watching, same as any other man. He was all right, not as friendly as some, more handsome than most, a tad standoffish, but hardworking.

Now, however, they were seeing a side of the man they had never seen. His voice could have stopped an avalanche with its quiet persuasion. And those eyes, as all-seeing as an eagles, were fearsome and hypnotizing. No one moved for fear that he might misinterpret the motion and fire the pistol. Everyone had seen him whip it out of his holster even as that horse of his sailed between the wagons. They could almost believe they had seen that. What they couldn't believe was that at the same time, with his left hand, he had pulled the rifle out of its saddle scabbard.

Not a muscle in his face flickered as Ross slung his right leg over his saddle horn and slid to the ground, still keeping his two guns poised and ready to fire.

"Lydia?"

"Yes?"

"Come here."

Lydia had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. She felt compelled to run toward him and wrap her arms around his waist and let his strength ebb into her. Instead she gave Moses a reassuring glance and walked forward slowly until she was even with Ross. His eyes didn't waver off the others as he asked, "What's going on?"

She swallowed, not sure she could keep herself from stuttering, and then commenced to tell him about Luke's murder and what had transpired that morning. At hearing of the boy's death, Ross's whole body spasmed and he glanced toward the Langstons, who were still grouped together. Otherwise he didn't flinch. When Lydia finished giving him the relevant details, Ross, sensing that violence was no longer about to erupt, let go the hammer of his pistol and sheathed it in its holster. He lowered the rifle to his side.

Walking through the subdued members of the train, his spurs the only sound in the camp, he came face-to-face with Mr. Grayson. "Do you think old Moses is capable of killing anyone?"

"No," the man said abashedly, shaking his head. "The local sheriff's deputy more or less left it to us to settle. I didn't know what to do."

"I know what I'm going to do." Ma had listened to Lydia's explanation as closely as Ross had. Now she strode toward Leona Watkins and, without the least hint of warning, slapped the woman hard across the cheek. "I've buried three children, and I might have to bury other loved ones before my own time. I only pray to God you ain't around to contribute to my family's grievin' then. Besides bein' a mean old witch, you're a fool, Leona Watkins. Why would Moses have brung me my boy if he'd been the one what killed him?" She drew herself up taller. "You're heartless and ain't ever been acquainted with joy. I feel sorry for you."

Leona glanced around the group, seeing only hostility where moments before she had seen allegiance. Sweeping her skirts aside, she turned toward her wagon. When Jesse and Priscilla only stared at the ground, not following her, she turned to them and said, "Well?" Meekly they followed her into the wagon.

Ma was the first to stir. She turned to speak to everyone at once. "I'm not surprised by her behavior, but it 'pears to me some of you others got some apologizin' to do." Guilty eyes were lowered as everyone began shamefacedly to shuffle back to their wagons. Some cast embarrassed eyes toward Moses, who stood with quiet dignity, but no hauteur.

Lydia retrieved Lee, then crossed the dusty ground to speak to the black man. "I'm sorry, Moses. That was a terrible thing they did to you. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Miss Lydia. Thank you for standin' up for me."

She smiled at htm and touched his arm. "It was no more than you and Winston did for me when I was the outcast." Then in an encouraging tone she said, "If you could watch Lee for a while this afternoon, I'll cook supper for you and Winston."

The gesture was intended to invest confidence and it did. Tears glossed the old man's eyes, "Thank you. That would truly be appreciated, I'm sure."

Feeling his presence behind her, she turned to Ross and said softly, "I'll have coffee waiting for you at the wagon."

He looked down at her and she felt the look straight through to her soul. "I'll be along as soon as I pay my respects to the Langstons."

She didn't want to leave him even for a moment. She wanted to look at him, to assure herself that he had really returned and was gazing at her like he had missed her. But if she stayed with him one more moment, he might see the tempest in her heart through her eyes. She turned away quickly.

His fatigue was evident when he came to the wagon a while later. He nodded his thanks for the cup of coffee she handed him as he sank down on a stool. "Helluva mess to come back to."

"I thought you'd be gone for several days." The casualness in her voice was acquired. Actually she was consumed with curiosity as to why he had returned to the train early.

"So did I, but ..." He shrugged evasively. "I decided before dawn to come back. Scout will go on ahead."

Why didn't he just say it? Why didn't he just come right out and tell her that he couldn't stay away, that he had tossed on his bedroll last night until he had decided he was wasting his time trying to sleep? He had packed and saddled his horse, had awakened a surprised, sleepy Scout to tell him the change in plans, and then had ridden hellbent on getting back to her as soon as possible?

"Its a good thing you came back when you did." She didn't have anything to do with her hands. Lee was taking his morning nap. Her chores were done. The best thing she could think to do with them was massage away the tiredness she could see weighing down Ross's shoulders, to erase with soothing fingers the lines wrinkling his brow. She wanted badly to touch him, but she didn't. Her hands held each other.

He was staring into the cup as he swirled its contents in a tiny whirlpool. "I can't believe someone killed that boy in cold blood. Why?" he asked rhetorically. "Dammit,
why?"

"I don't know, Ross. What is Mr. Grayson going to do?"

"He thinks we should look around today, see if we can find any evidence as to who could have done it."

"We?" she asked tremulously.

"I volunteered."

"Oh." She sat down on the stool facing his and laced her hands together tightly. She had seen Luke's body, the gash that had almost severed his head. She shivered. "What do you think you'll find?"

"Nothing," he said succinctly. She watched fascinated and terrified as he methodically began to check his pistol and rifle. "It could have been Indians, but I doubt there are any warrior tribes left this far east. Besides, this wasn't a noble killing, not for food or to serve any purpose. It was wanton, a murder for the hell of it. In that case, it could have been any renegade Luke happened upon. There are thousands of them roaming the South since the war, fighting their private battles, getting their own brand of revenge, taking out their hate on someone as innocent as Luke, This kind of killer is crafty, used to striking and disappearing. He's probably miles from here by now."

"Why do you have to go after him?"

His busy hands stilled and his head came up. The anxiety in her voice was genuine. "Why did you have to defend Moses, nearly getting yourself shot?"

She lowered her eyes from his inquiring gaze. "Of course you have to go," she mumbled. Only, please don't let anything happen to you, she wanted to beg. "You're tired. I can tell."

"Yeah. 1 rode hard this morning." To see you. To smell your hair that even on a gray day like today smells like sunshine. To see if your body is real or only a figment that keeps haunting me. To hear your voice.

As he stood, he slid the pistol into its holster. She couldn't help but notice the practiced ease with which he did it, or how automatically he tied it to his thigh with leather thongs. He pulled his hat down low on his brow and picked up his rifle. "Don't look for me until well after dark," he said as he worked his hands into leather gloves.

Forgetting to keep her emotions a secret, she rushed to him and put both hands on the forearm that was crossed over his stomach as he held the rifle. "Ross, you'll be careful?"

When had anyone cared like this about him? In his whole godforsaken life, when had anyone worried about his safety? Even Victoria had taken it for granted that he could look after himself. If anyone needed protection it was she, not he. When had anyone looked at him with such apparent concern, not for what it meant to them if he survived or not, but concern exclusively for his safety?

He thought of the night he had spent dreaming of her, of the hours of riding when he had spared neither himself nor Lucky to get back to her. He thought of how his body raged to be held tightly in hers once more . . . and the hell he had gone through trying to forget the splendor of that.

Now she was looking up at him with those eyes that reminded him of the finest whiskey. Her hair was begging to be caressed away from her cheeks. Her mouth was moist and inviting and looked as if it wanted to be kissed.

By the Almighty, he was owed one.

In plain view of God, and Leona Watkins, and anyone else who wanted to watch, his hand cupped the back of her head and lifted her up and against him. His mouth met hers with tender temperance. Sipping lightly until he felt her lips go pliant, his tongue then slid between them and sank into the sweet hollow that closed about it.