A Place Called Harmony (9 page)

“Please, Truman.” She lowered her fork. “Don’t keep telling me to eat. I’ll try, I promise, but don’t keep ordering me.”

Her words were a request, as if what she asked was not her right to demand.

“All right,” he said, thinking that this was the first time she’d looked like she might live more than a few days. “I’m not in the habit of ordering anyone. I’m also not in the habit of talking to a lady. You may hear an order, but I’m thinking I’m making a suggestion. No matter what I say, you have no call to ever be afraid of me. Ever.”

“I’ll try to believe you, Truman, but it may take some time.” Her shoulders straightened a bit as if he’d just handed her an ounce of power.

He saw how hard she was trying to be brave. “Tomorrow, I’d like to leave as soon as we stock the wagon. We’ll have about ten days, maybe less on the road, so we’ll need blankets, food stores, and tools. Anything you want for the trip, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

She nodded and they ate the rest of the meal in silence. He’d expected her to go to bed, but she gathered up her sewing and began measuring out a dress. He watched her working, careful not to waste an inch of material.

As the fire grew low, she wrapped one of the baby blankets over her shoulders and kept working.

“You need your sleep, dear,” he finally said in a voice he hoped didn’t sound like an order.

She didn’t look up from her work. “If I can get this one dress cut out, I can sew it on the road tomorrow. May I work a little longer?”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said. “I was just making a suggestion. You’re free to do as you will.” It crossed his mind that she might still decide to leave. They were barely more than strangers.

Clint fell asleep watching her work. A few hours later, the wind woke him as the windows rattled. She’d gone to bed and the extra blanket was resting over his body. He pulled the other chair closer to prop up his feet and went back to sleep.

The next morning while she fed the baby, he collected the wagon. The cover over the wagon bed was tall enough to stand in, and someone had built a fold-down cot on one side. With the flap pulled down in the back the covered wagon reminded him of a flimsy cave, barely strong enough to hold out the wind and rain, but cozy inside.

He bought plenty of supplies, not knowing how many trading posts would be along the trail of a road heading north. Huge wagons left out ahead of him carrying lumber toward Fort Elliot. The man at the livery said the tent fort on the edge of the Indian Territory would be a real fort by summer. Once that happened, the traffic on the north road would double.

For all Truman knew, double could be from ten to twenty. After all, the man called the trail of wagon tracks a road.

At the last moment, he purchased a small rocker and put it in the back. It would rock along when the wagon was moving and give her privacy when she fed the baby.

Clint told Karrisa the news of the new fort when he picked her up. He hoped she’d feel safer, but what his wife feared seemed to lie behind her, not in front of them. Now and then he noticed her glancing back as if to see if her past followed her.

He didn’t comment about her fears, for he often felt the same way. A few of the things he’d done during the war to save lives had been considered spy activity. When all the Southern men who fought were given amnesty, those who committed acts of spying were left out of the pardon.

It had been eleven years since the war. Surely no one was looking for him now, and no more than a handful of men knew he’d crossed into northern territory a few times to spy. Most of those were Southerners who’d never testify against him, and the few who weren’t would be living up north, not down here in wild Texas.

Still, he froze now and then when a shadow crossed his path. That was why he didn’t settle down when he first came home. Why he’d moved his wife twice in the five years they’d been married. But no one had ever called him out or knocked on his door. Eleven years. He was safe.

As they traveled farther north, he guessed he did ninety percent of the talking. She worked on her dress, then knitted a blanket for the baby. He drove the wagon, took care of the horses, and built the fire every night. Then, to his surprise, every evening she handed him the baby to hold while she cooked. The meals were simple. He never complained or complimented. They were simply each doing their job.

She slept with the baby in the wagon and he slept on the ground by the fire. Every night he’d hear her cry out softly in her sleep as her nightmares came to claim her rest. Once, after she’d woken him, he heard her crying. Clint listened to her, knowing he wouldn’t be welcome if he tried to comfort her.

Hell, he thought, he wouldn’t know how to comfort a woman anyway. He’d learned that there are some things in this life that can’t be smoothed over with kind words, and whatever she was crying about sounded like one of them.

During the day he’d learned that if he ended his orders with
dear
, she was much more likely to do whatever he needed her to do. “It’s time for you to rest for a while in the back, dear.” “Finish your meal, dear.” “Let me help you with that, dear.”

She was not dear to him, but the one word made orders into requests.

The journey from Dallas was uneventful until the last day.

M
ARCH

Patrick McAllen took his time moving down the road on the cool winter afternoon. He knew they were close to the trading post, far closer than he wanted to be. The days on the journey had been a dream. It had taken them almost a month by wagon from Galveston, but he felt like he’d passed from one life to another. He’d become a man. A husband. Nobody’s boy.

Sleeping out under the stars with Annie by his side on clear nights and cuddling close to keep warm on cold nights was a kind of heaven, he’d decided. They’d bought what they had to along the way, and he’d hunted a few times while she’d made camp. Both loved talking, sharing, and best of all, they’d made love so many times they’d both lost count.

They laughed often, saying they hoped they were doing this marriage thing right. They’d sing songs until she complained about him being tone deaf. So he’d sing louder until she started beating on him. He’d finally give in, ending his performance until she was almost asleep, and then he’d whisper his song in her ear. She’d giggle and fight him for the one pillow to put over her head.

Now and then a wagon would pass. Every time Patrick would ask how far it was to Harmon Ely’s trading post. Finally, this afternoon, a man had said simply, “A few hours.”

The stranger’s guess took Patrick by surprise. He’d thought they had another day or two. He thanked the man and moved on, slowing his pace rather than hurrying.

“You afraid to get to Harmon Ely’s place?” Annie asked at the same time she bumped his shoulder with hers.

He wasn’t surprised she’d read his mind; she’d been doing it often lately. “All I ever thought about before this trip was getting away and starting a new life. I thought I’d push the horses as hard as possible the whole way, but that was before you. Part of me wants to stay on the road forever, just me and you. We could become Gypsies and never talk to others or settle on a town or have to work. We could pass the years growing old as we always turn down the less-traveled road when we come to every fork in life.”

“I’d love that, but eventually we’d run out of money.”

“But I don’t know what’s ahead of us, Annie. What if building this new town is terrible? What if we hate it? There are outlaws and Apache in this part of Texas. I’m good with a hammer or a plow, but I’ve never been much of a shot and I’ve never worn a holster.”

She cut him off. “If it’s terrible, we’ll hitch the wagon and find another town. And as far as handling a gun, I’m fair. I’ll ride shotgun for you.”

“It could take a long time to find where we belong. Most of the towns in this part of the country are populated by prairie dogs.”

“But this place doesn’t sound so bad. I want a house to really cook in and a real bed to sleep in and children to raise and . . .”

He smiled. “Just think, when you married me a month ago all you said you wanted was to be ‘away.’ I was the one who wanted everything. Now, all I want is you. I’d be happy with campfire food and the sky as my roof if you were next to me, Annie.”

“Not me. While you were sleeping on me last night, I was sleeping on the ground.”

“I don’t remember you complaining last night. I barely had the energy to keep going, wife. I think people who do what we did last night must age twice as fast.”

“If so, we’ll be dead by summer.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t complain.”

He watched her stretch as she whispered, “I think we may have had a little too much fun last night. My whole body is sore. I don’t think people are supposed to make love on the ground.”

“I’ll build you a bed, Annie. As big as you like, just as long as I can find you in it.” He studied her. “It’s not just what we share in bed, you know. I love being with you. I think I was a very lucky man that night you asked me to marry you.”

She smiled. “You asked me, Patrick McAllen, and don’t you forget it. I won’t have our children thinking—”

Annie froze, her brown eyes growing huge in fright as she stared straight ahead.

“What—” He looked in the same direction. For a moment he thought what headed toward them was a horse pulling a pile of rags between two poles tied on either side of an empty saddle. Then he saw the girl walking beside the horse, her head down, her coat spotted with dried blood.

Patrick shoved the reins toward Annie and reached for the rifle under the seat. “Stay here, Annie, and keep the rifle ready.”

He jumped down and ran toward the girl. “Are you all right? What happened? Can I help?”

Forcing himself to breathe, Patrick calmed. He was a grown man. He could handle this. If he got too excited he’d probably frighten the girl covered in blood.

She stared up at him with eyes that looked hollow from lack of sleep. “I’ve been walking for three days but I’m not hurt, just tired.” She rubbed the front of her coat. “This blood belongs to the captain. He was shot in the head and I can’t stop the bleeding.”

Patrick knelt down beside a man bundled in dirty blankets. He rested on branches tied to the poles that pulled him along. Blood was everywhere, but the man she’d called the captain was still breathing. He wore the uniform of a soldier.

“Annie, fire off a shot. If the trading post is close they might send someone to help.” Patrick placed his hand on the man’s chest and felt a strong heart pounding.

The sound of one round of gunfire seemed to echo off heaven. Then silence.

Annie climbed down from the wagon and lowered the rifle. She moved slowly toward the man wrapped in blankets.

The girl started to cry. “Please help the captain. Please help him. He was just trying to protect me. He didn’t do nothing wrong to get shot.”

“We will,” Patrick promised, having no idea how to keep his word.

Annie knelt down and pulled the blankets from his chest. “No blood here,” she said. “I think he’s just shot once in the head, like the girl says.” She pulled the scarf from her neck and wrapped it tightly around the soldier’s head.

Patrick watched, unsure of what to do.

Annie’s voice came through to him, giving Patrick direction. “If we can get him in our wagon we can travel faster. We can’t be far from help.” She put her arm around the girl and guided her toward the wagon. “This one may not be bleeding, but she’s about to drop. I’ll get her up in the wagon first.”

Tears bubbled in the girl’s eyes, streaking her face. “I’m so tired, I must have missed the trail north of here. When I realized it I decided to circle around, hoping to come across the wagon ruts going to the trading post. I hoped any trail I took would lead me to folks who might help. The captain said he was meeting his wife at Harmon Ely’s place. I got to get him there. It’s all my fault he’s hurt.”

“We’re heading that way.” Patrick finally got a handle on his fear. “Annie, clear a place and I’ll carry him to the wagon.”

Before they could lift the captain, they heard horses heading toward them fast. Patrick reached for the gun and stood beside Annie. The half-grown girl disappeared amid the supplies.

Briefly, he thought of jumping in the wagon and making a run for it, but whoever was coming might be the answer to their call for help. Or—a thought crossed his mind—anyone coming might think that he’d shot the captain.

There was no time to run, and the captain’s life might be at stake. There was no time to waste. Patrick widened his stance and prepared to face whatever was traveling at full speed toward him.

A quarter mile away he saw a wagon about the size of his, only with a bonnet covering the bed. A man and woman were on the bench. The man driving handled the wagon like an expert.

“Help,” Patrick whispered. “Help is coming.”

The tall, wide-shouldered stranger dressed in black and wearing one gun while carrying another jumped from his wagon and hurried forward. Before he could ask questions, Patrick told him what he knew.

The stranger nodded once and handed his rifle up to his wife.

It only took a minute for them to lift the injured captain into Patrick’s wagon.

“I’ll follow you,” the stranger said to Patrick. “We need to move fast. I don’t know how much time this man has, but we’ve no time to waste.”

As Patrick moved onto the bench and took the reins, the stranger added, “My name’s Truman. Don’t worry; I’ll keep you covered until we’re all safe. Whoever did this may still be out there.”

Annie and the girl sat beside the man as if buffering him on either side.

As Patrick pushed the team into action, the stranger who’d said his name was Truman stripped the makeshift travois off the tired horse and tossed it aside. The flimsy stretcher on poles fell to pieces as it tumbled down toward a stream.

Glancing back, Patrick saw that Truman had staked the animal a few yards off the road. The horse could graze and reach a stream. He’d be fine until they had time to get back to him.

Within a few minutes, Truman was close behind Patrick as they raced across the dried grass. When they saw the roof of what had to be the trading post, Truman pulled even with Patrick. “That’s it, kid. I’ll pull up first. You hang back a little to make sure whoever shot the captain isn’t at the trading post.”

Patrick yelled back as he fought to control the horses. “Truman, we’re the McAllens. Patrick and Annie.”

The man named Truman touched his hat in greeting to Annie and then pulled ahead to lead the way.

Patrick drove as fast as he could, thinking that whatever lay ahead of him might be trouble, but at least it would be interesting. This was the most excitement he’d had in his life, and suddenly all the world looked like an adventure.

Glancing at his new wife, he knew she felt the same way. It was as if they’d been asleep since birth, just waiting to start living. He saw fear in her eyes, and excitement and love. Wherever he was going, she planned to be right by his side.

Annie sat in the back of the wagon cleaning away blood from the man’s face using the last of the canteen water.

When the man called the captain asked for a drink, she took a deep breath for the first time. “Hang in there, sir, you might just make it.”

“Daisy,” the handsome officer muttered. “I have to get to my wife, Daisy. She may be dying.”

Annie gave him another drink. “Don’t worry, Captain, we’ll get you to your Daisy.”

Patrick looked back at her. For a moment their gazes met and he knew they were both thinking the same thing. He hoped her promise was true.