Trail Angel (17 page)

“I never even knew her name.”

For twenty minutes Josey rode past the Rutledge wagon, waiting to catch Annabelle alone. Finally, he saw her carrying a bucket to the creek. Her strength always surprised him. She wore what looked like a new dress for her, white with blue patterns and a calico apron. He rode up on his spotted, gray pony, leading a smaller paint pony on a rope.

“Evening, Miss Annabelle.” He had never had cause to call her by name and it sounded foreign on his tongue.

She replied with a curious smile. “That's a pretty horse you have.”

“I'm pleased you think so.” In truth, the paint looked scraggly compared with the well-bred horses Annabelle would have ridden back east, but Josey knew the mustang could run all day eating nothing more than prairie grass, and it would prove as sure-footed as a mule in the mountains. “It's for you.”

Annabelle's look of shock wasn't the reaction he sought. “Well, I'm sure I don't know what to say,” she stammered. A flush came over her face, and she turned to the wagons as if seeking reinforcements.

Josey couldn't figure what he'd said wrong, and his temper started to get the better of him. “You could start with,
‘Thank you.'
”

“This gift is too rich.” She covered her face with her hands. “I can't accept it.”

Sensing the change in mood, the horses grew skittish. Josey dismounted to keep the paint from bucking. He led the pony closer to her.
Does she think it ugly?
Small and black with milky splotches, the horse had a white mane that made him look prematurely old. “It didn't cost much. I got a good swap at an Indian village.”

Annabelle stepped back from the horse. “That's really not the point. It simply wouldn't be appropriate.”

Josey fought the rage coming on.
Damn you, Colonel. Why did you put me up to this?
“The Colonel told me you wanted to learn to ride.” He swallowed back the anger, hoping the woman would see sense. “I thought you should have your own horse.” The color had risen in her cheeks. Her skin, tinted by the sun, looked even prettier than usual, offset by the soft colors of the dress. His anger leeched away. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

The words had sounded as good as an apology to his ears, but she seemed unmoved. “You shouldn't have troubled yourself then,” she said with a sudden anger he found as baffling as if she had spoken in Chinese. “For one thing, I already know how to ride. For another, I guess you don't have to be concerned with what people will think.”

What people will think? Who?
He felt like two conversations were happening and neither of them heard the other. He put the rope in her hand and stepped back.

“It would please me,” he said, hoping the formal nature of his speech would sound more gentlemanly, “if you would accept this token of my appreciation. You've done many kindnesses for me, washing, cooking and such. I would like to repay you for your consideration.”

“Washing? Cooking?” Her voice rose to a level that threatened to spook the ponies. Josey took the rope from her and soothed the paint. “Is that what I am to you?”

She pointed a finger at him, prepared to hurl more invective. Josey flinched along with the horses, but fury overcame fluency. Once, twice she started to speak, but all that crossed her lips were noises more akin to grunts than words. Finally, she gave up, turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving Josey alone to wonder how he would manage two horses.

“You gave her a horse? What were you thinking?”

The Colonel laughed, then laughed even harder seeing Josey's reaction. It was early the next morning. The emigrants were packing with an efficiency that came with routine. After stewing over his conversation with Annabelle all night, Josey gave up the idea that he could figure out on his own what went wrong.

“You told me she wanted to learn to ride.”

“I didn't tell you to give her a horse.” His laughter fit having passed, the old man's voice grew gentle. “I've known you too long to think you a fool, Josey. But you are ignorant when it comes to the ways of women.”

Being unable to argue the point only made Josey more defensive. “It's a good horse.”

“He ain't pretty.” The Colonel stroked the paint's neck. “But he would serve her well out here.”

“I tried to tell her.”

“That ain't the point.” The Colonel adjusted his tone, explained that the gift was too much for the beginning of a courtship.

“I'm not courting her,” Josey said.

The Colonel chuckled. “Yes, you are.”

“I was just trying to be kind.” It didn't sound convincing, even to Josey.

“That's how it usually starts.” The Colonel moved to the paint's muzzle, examining its teeth and grunting in appreciation. The horse whinnied and stamped. “Affectionate, ain't he?”

“I got the gentlest one I could.”

The Colonel nodded as he ran his gnarled hands along the horse's forelegs and knees. He held the fetlock and the horse lifted its leg and he examined the sole. “What you think isn't what matters. It's what she thinks.”

“Why would she think anything different? It's just a horse.”

The Colonel looked up with a sigh, a teacher lecturing a particularly slow pupil. “It's not
just
a horse. A gift at the start of a courtship can't be anything a woman feels she can't repay. How would you feel if she gave you a horse?”

“I already have a horse.”

“That's not the point, you dolt.” The Colonel took a deep breath. “If you give too grand a gift to a lady, she might think you have expectations.”

“Expectations?”

“Ideas of how she might—” he paused, searching for words that would convey the same meaning as the cruder terms in his head “—repay the favor.”

Josey's stomach twisted. “What do I do now?”

“You'll figure out something.” The Colonel didn't sound overly sympathetic. “If nature teaches us anything, it's that man always does.”

“It was impertinent.”

Annabelle's mother agreed. “But I don't think it was ill-intended. Josey hasn't had the experience with mannered ladies that your brothers had.”

Annabelle contained her reaction. Her brothers had rakish reputations in some circles of Charleston, but if her mother didn't know that, it was better she never learn. Her mother's comment suggested she knew more than she'd previously shared about a topic of far more interest to Annabelle.

“What do you know of Josey's experience?”

“Not very much, I assure you.” Her mother looked a little flustered.

“Mother?” Annabelle felt closer than ever to her mother. At nights, they took to sitting alone in the wagon before going to sleep while her father took a smoke with the men. Her mother brushed Annabelle's long, dark hair, just as she had when Annabelle was a child. They would talk as they hadn't in years. Now her mother appeared to be weighing something in her mind. Finally, she told Annabelle of her most recent conversation with Josey.

“He's really a rather sensitive young man,” her mother concluded. “A little ill-mannered, I'll grant you.”

“Mother, he's killed dozens of men. Maybe hundreds. ‘Illmannered' hardly seems a suitable description.”

“He was at war, Anna. Just as your brothers were. If they had lived, I wonder what strangers would think of them.”

Perhaps I was too quick to be angry with him.
Annabelle had been thinking of Josey more often than she would confess even to her mother. After they buried the Chestnuts' boy, her cousin Caroline had come to her, her grief deeper than anyone realized. Burton Chestnut was about Caroline's age, and he had asked to kiss her one evening while their families were gathered in the dark after sharing a meal.

“I didn't know what to do,” Caroline said, burying her tear-streaked face in her cousin's bosom. “I told him no. I was just scared. I've never kissed a boy.”

Smoothing her fair hair with her hands, Annabelle told the girl it was all right, but Caroline would not be consoled. She pulled back from Annabelle to look at her. “Later, when I had time to think on it . . .”

“You wished you had kissed him?”

Caroline nodded. “Now I'll never kiss him, and I feel wicked for even thinking that because he's—” She couldn't say the word.

Annabelle pulled Caroline into an embrace as she began to cry again. “We can't live like that, Caroline. Life is too short to let ourselves be ruled by regret.” They talked longer, but all the soothing words sounded empty compared with the question about regret her cousin asked of her.

“Is that how you live your life?”

Annabelle considered that as her mother brushed her hair, sharing more from her talk with Josey. They speculated about the dead woman he wouldn't speak about.
We all have our secrets. We all have our regrets.

“I suppose the pony was a noble gesture,” she said as her mother tied back her hair for the night.

“Haven't you been wishing we'd kept a horse?”

“Mother.”

She held up her hands in defense. “If you permit him to teach you to ride better, perhaps you might teach him better manners.”

They camped the following day near a stream where the water gurgled musically as it passed over round stones in the streambed. Josey found Annabelle there with Caroline gathering water. He rode to the edge of the stream and dismounted, allowing the gray pony to drink. A light rain in the afternoon had tamped down the dust and left everything smelling fresh as spring. Caroline gave a cheerful wave before excusing herself and skipping off, leaving her bucket with Annabelle and ignoring her cousin's pleas to stay.

Turning to Josey, Annabelle said, “Only one horse today.”

He wasn't sure if it was a question or statement. He had practiced what he wanted to say and didn't want to be thrown off.

“I wish to apologize for yesterday,” he said, hoping the words didn't sound rehearsed. “I didn't think through how my actions might be interpreted.” Annabelle watched him, as if weighing his sincerity, so he added, “I intended no offense.”

“Think nothing more of it.” She turned from the stream and started walking away. A slight incline with the weight of both buckets forced her to move as if limping with a bad leg.

Josey went to her. “May I help?”

“I can manage.”

Returning to his horse, Josey said over his shoulder, “I have something for you.”

“You think that's a good idea?”

A note of humor in her tone encouraged Josey as he fumbled through his saddlebag. “A peace offering.” He brought to her a bunch of flowers with long green stems and brilliant red petals. “I've heard them called Indian paintbrushes. I thought you might not have any like this.”

“They're beautiful.” Annabelle set down the buckets and took the flowers. The bunch filled her hands. “I've never seen any so pretty. Thank you.”

Josey swallowed back the lump in his throat as he picked up the buckets and they continued toward camp. This was the reaction he had sought when he'd offered the horse. It irritated him to admit the Colonel had been right.

“You didn't have to do this.”

“I didn't want to leave things like they were between us.” He stole a glance. Against Annabelle's skin, the flowers glowed. He understood then why he had been moved to give her something. Josey felt a new intimacy between them, even if he didn't know what to do about it.

As they walked, she spoke of her plans for pressing a few of the flowers and sharing the rest with her cousin, mother and aunt. Josey listened, gratified for the opportunity to linger, to notice things like the delicate strength of her fingers twined around the stems of the flowers and the largeness of her dark eyes when she turned to him. He saw the slightest tint of color to her nose and cheeks. The gentle slope of her neck transfixed him, and he looked away to keep from imagining the appearance of things he couldn't see.

“I should thank you again.” Her mouth tightened in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She looked as nervous as Josey. She held the flowers close and inhaled. “They don't smell much, but they're so pretty. I would like to see them growing wild. Will we be passing near where you found them?”

He shook his head, sorry to disappoint her, then brightened with a new idea. “I could take you to see them . . .”

She sensed his hesitation. “Yes?”

“Well,” he suppressed a smile, “you would need a horse.”

“I can't believe you said that.” She swatted him with her free hand.

Her eyes were bright and Josey's nervousness melted away. “Maybe you could do a favor for me,” he said. “I have this problem . . .”