Trail Angel (22 page)

“Certain members of the posse believed it would be crueler to send the letter.”

Annabelle sat up abruptly. “That's terrible.”

“Is it?” The Colonel faced her, his mustache drooping like a frown. “I won't pretend to know that it was kinder to spare the father from the knowledge his son had become a horse thief. But that's what Josey believed. I don't recall all he said, but it convinced those men to leave the poor boy's father in blissful ignorance.”

Annabelle wanted to argue the point, but they were interrupted. A uniformed private offered an uncertain salute to the Colonel and handed over a written message from the fort's commander. The Colonel looked more than a little grateful to break off their conversation as he stood and opened the letter, pacing as he read it. The private, a splotchy faced boy who didn't look much older than Annabelle's cousin Mark, stood waiting.

Finishing the letter, the Colonel stopped in front of him. The drooping gray mustache always gave the impression of a frown, but on this occasion the rest of the Colonel's features matched.

“What's wrong?” Annabelle asked.

“We need to hurry, I'm afraid.” To the private he said, “Tell the commander I'll be right there.” Then he turned to Annabelle. “It seems the peace treaty everyone's talking about doesn't mean as much as the government men from Washington have been letting on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean all these soldiers may soon find themselves at war— and if we don't hurry, we may wind up in the middle of it.”

Josey led his gray pony to the river and left him to drink his fill. From his saddlebags he pulled out and unwrapped a parcel of purchases from Fort Laramie. The pants were stiff and smelled vaguely of medicine. Better that than the cowboy sweat that clung to his old clothes no matter how many times they were washed. The new flannel shirt smelled better and felt nicer, too.

The days were still hot, but that wouldn't last. The Powder River country they would soon enter stretched from the North Platte to the Yellowstone River, between the peaks of the Bighorns to the west and the Black Hills to the east. Even in summer, cold breezes slid down the snow-capped mountains. Within moments, a man who had been sweating in the thinnest of shirts would be grabbing for his coat.

Josey carried the parcel toward the water, chiding himself for wondering what Annabelle might think of the shirt. He hadn't seen much of her in the past week. He'd spent most of his time at the fort talking with soldiers about the peace treaty. Officially, the talks were declared a success. The Indians had signed, and the bureaucrats from Washington went home to bask in the success of guaranteed peace.

From the soldiers, Josey learned that at the time the diplomats were negotiating, Colonel Henry Carrington and his regiment from the Eighteenth Infantry arrived at Fort Laramie on orders from the war department to build and fortify a trio of outposts along the Bozeman Trail between Fort Laramie and the Montana Territory.

The inconsistency of these separate endeavors wasn't lost on the outspoken Sioux chief Red Cloud. Following Carrington's arrival, Red Cloud left Laramie. His final message to the peace commissioners made the rounds of the soldiers.

“The Great White Father in Washington sends us presents and wants a new road through our country while at the same time the white chief goes with soldiers to steal the road before the Indian says yes or no.”

The Indians who remained to sign the treaty were the same “Laramie Loafers” who had been living off handouts from the fort for months. It was akin to Grant accepting surrender at Appomattox from a gaggle of old men and widows while Lee rode on Washington.

Following Red Cloud's declaration, the Laramie commander sent word to the Colonel that he would be stopping wagon trains at the fort until they were sufficiently large to protect themselves. The Colonel persuaded him to permit their train to hurry ahead in hopes of catching a military transport that soon would leave Fort Reno, the first outpost along the trail. If the emigrants accompanied the soldiers through the disputed Powder River territory, they should have nothing to fear from Red Cloud.

Josey saw no better alternative. Once they reached the disputed land, the emigrants would need to increase their nightly guard, and Josey planned to range farther ahead than usual to scout the safety of the route.

Keeping busy enough to distract himself from thoughts of Annabelle seemed a good idea, but that didn't make it simple. He had her in mind when he bought the clothes, wondering if she would like them. Josey longed to see her. Her smell filled his head when he recalled the night after their long ride. His body ached to imagine holding her. He had wanted to kiss her, but when he looked into her eyes he saw how it would end. How it must end. The big dog in the yard. She didn't see it now because she needed him. Once she felt safe again, she wouldn't want him around. He had survived the war but doubted he could live with that pain.

He found a large, flat rock that provided a natural drop where the river ran deep. The snow-fed water would be cold. No sense drawing it out. It would have been a waste to put new clothes on a man who smelled more horse than human, so Josey looked around a final time to ensure he was alone, then quickly stripped and leaped in.

Annabelle hadn't been looking for Josey when she left camp for a ride. That's what she told herself. The wagons stopped early for the day near Bridger's Ferry. With other wagons already waiting to cross, their turn wouldn't come before morning. Annabelle missed her long rides with Josey. When she didn't see him in camp, she headed out on her own. Finding him swimming in the river was a coincidence. She would swear to it.

Tethering her horse near Josey's, Annabelle perched on the stone where Josey had piled his clothes. He moved briskly against the stream and didn't see her as she admired his purchases.

“New clothes. How nice.” He spun around toward the sound of her voice so fast, she smiled to see him startled. “Don't worry, it's just me. Not a band of Sioux.”

“The Sioux I could handle,” he said, crouching to keep his body below the waterline.

“I wasn't spying on you.”

“Then why do you feel the need to say so?”

He joked so rarely Annabelle couldn't take offense. “I'm not going to answer that.” She stood with her back to him. “I'll look away until you get dressed. You must be freezing.”

“The water's not so bad if you keep moving. You should try it.”

She feigned anger. “A proper lady doesn't bathe in the river.”

“I don't know why not. It's faster than washing one part at a time with your underclothes on. It feels good, too. Besides, a proper lady doesn't wear pants or ride like a cowboy, either.”

Though she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of admitting to it, Josey had a point. Every time she did something that would have seemed improper at home, she found she liked it. Looking around, Annabelle reassured herself of their isolation from camp. No one would be likely to stumble across them. Still, some lines shouldn't be crossed.

“I won't look.” Josey seemed to be reading her thoughts. He turned from her, struggling slightly to keep his balance as he hunched in the water.

“How do I know you won't peek?”

“You have my word as a gentleman.”

“I'm not sure how much that's worth.”

“Only one way to find out.”

The water looked refreshing. Annabelle had assumed the blistering heat of the prairie would give way to something more comfortable as they neared the mountains, but that hadn't happened yet. The thought of dunking her head in the water to wash away days of dust appealed to her, and the notion of fully immersing her body won her over. She hadn't had a proper bath since the last night in Omaha. Plus, she carried a luxury item purchased in Fort Laramie: a bar of Castilian soap.

“I'm holding you to your word.” She loosened her hair and began to unbutton her riding shirt. “And you better keep your distance once I'm in there.”

“You won't even know I'm here.” He moved upstream from her.

“Don't go too far.” Privacy was one thing, it was quite another to be
alone
so close to Indian country.

She fetched the soap from her saddlebag and started to pile her clothes next to his. She had intended to leave on her undergarments, but it occurred to her she would be unable to put on her shirt and pants if her drawers and chemise were wet.

The sun warmed her bare skin, yet she shivered with a frisson of wickedness as she stripped. Her skin prickled at the slightest movement of air. With no intention of leaping in, Annabelle stepped tentatively onto a dry rock where the water eddied into a calm pool. She moved slowly, her eyes shifting from the rock to Josey to be sure he kept his promise. He had stopped swimming but kept his back to her.

“Aren't you in yet?”

“Be patient.”

“It's better if you jump.”

Annabelle dangled a toe toward the water, still watching Josey as she leaned forward. With a slight drop from the rock to the river, she balanced herself on one bended knee. The cold water sent a shock through her leg, as if she'd stuck her foot into a campfire rather than a stream.

“That's
cold.
”

With a jolt, she pulled back her leg, losing her balance. She had misjudged the depth of the pool, and her leg went into the water to just past the knee, her foot sinking into squishy river bottom. She shouted again and tried to leap from the frigid water, turning as her wet and muddy foot slipped on the rock. Annabelle's arms spun like a windmill, seeking something, anything, to regain her balance.

There was nothing.

For the briefest moment, Annabelle viewed the perfect blue sky as if it stood before her on a painter's easel. Before she had time to consider this unnatural perspective, she went under.

The shock of the cold made Annabelle want to scream, even as the impact with the streambed forced the breath from her body. Water rushed over her. She heaved for air—too late. Droplets tore at her throat like swallowing shards of glass. She flailed, convinced she was drowning, becoming aware only gradually that something had her, lifting her body and turning her as she coughed and fought for breath.

The coughing and wheezing probably lasted only a few seconds, though it seemed an eternity before Annabelle regained her wits. She hovered over the water, across Josey's knee so the pressure on her stomach forced out the water. He brushed her hair from her face with his fingers, saying something, the sound soothing even if the ringing in her ears precluded understanding. She coughed her throat raw. She moved when the pressure from his knee made it difficult to breathe.

“You all right?”

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. She had fallen to her knees, the water nearly to her navel. He was behind her, his arm around her waist. He shook slightly, but not from the cold.

“Are you laughing?”

“No,” he insisted.

He drew back before she swung at him. The motion reminded her of their nakedness. She averted her eyes. “Oh.” She sank to her bottom so the water reached her shoulders.

“You should have let me drown.” She failed to stifle a laugh. “I suppose you will never let me forget this.” Her voice rasped from the coughing. “And I suppose you looked, you devil.”

“I
wish
I had been looking, but I only turned around when you started shouting. I thought that Sioux war party had come after all.”

Laughter brought on another coughing fit. From behind, he enveloped her in his arms. She didn't object. His body warmed hers, and he held her until the coughing stopped. She turned to look and felt she was falling again, into his eyes, big as saucers, brown like sugary coffee. He wanted to say something but before he drew a breath her lips sealed his.

The kiss ended quickly, but there was no denying it happened.

“Why did you do that?”

“Because I knew you wouldn't.”

He offered no argument. His eyes looked even bigger as he leaned into her and lifted her chin so her mouth met his.

“You won't need to think that again.”

“War leads to lovemaking.”

That's what the old woman had said. The ladies were taking tea on the piazza overlooking the garden, where a profusion of ivy, vines and roses shrouded them from the foot traffic on the street. A gentle breeze found its way from the battery, carrying the fragrance of magnolias in bloom. Annabelle could almost forget the war on such a glorious June day, if only there had been anything else to talk about.

Mrs. Huger, their hostess, was in a philosophical mood. A large woman, she had the unfortunate habit of choosing short-sleeved dresses, leaving exposed fleshy arms that dangled like chicken wattles whenever she raised a hand to make a point.

“Soldiers do more courting here in a day than they would do at home, without a war, in ten years.”

Some of the younger women giggled. More than a year after the fighting had begun, Annabelle held no more illusions about war than she did of love. She kept her silence for the benefit of her young friend Rebecca, whose reading of a letter from her beau inspired Mrs. Huger's philosophical turn. The ardent young man served alongside Annabelle's brothers in Virginia. He wrote to Rebecca as if she had just come from a convent.
To hear his letters, he must think she had never flashed her innocent blue eyes on a man before he came along.
Annabelle knew her brother Johnny could dispel him of that notion, but she kept silent on that point as well.

With so much mourning in the world, Rebecca's letter was a harmless distraction, and Annabelle urged her to continue. “I'm not sure I should,” Rebecca said, her face growing as crimson as one of Mrs. Huger's roses.