Bandit's Hope (4 page)

J
oseph Nukowa Brashears stilled in his tracks. With the ruins of Fort Towson at his back, he gazed northward along the old military road toward Gates Creek, as sure as spit that a fat buck rabbit had just scurried past. The taste of Myrtle’s stew teasing the back of his tongue, he held his breath and trained his gun on the brush.

"He’s gone, Joe."

The barrel leaped toward the sky, along with his surging heart. Spinning, he gaped at his woman.

Myrtle stood a few paces behind, her fingers toying with the plaited black hair over one shoulder. Her skirt moved as she swayed, the turned-in toes of her moccasins peeking from under the hem. She looked like a naughty child instead of his wife of many moons. She shrugged. "I saw him go. Don’t waste your lead."

"You saw nothing." Joe sniffed and turned up the wide brim of his hat. "And you just loud-mouthed yourself out of a fine supper."

She gave an answering snort. "I know what a cottontail’s behind looks like, old man. Something’s gone off with your vision, and I suppose it’s old age. Once you were a lively young brave, one who wouldn’t let a meal slip through his fingers." With a strangled laugh, she tugged on his sleeve and pointed. "Hop through in this case."

In the distance, the long-eared critter bolted past a pawpaw tree, bounded thirty yards, and ducked into a knot of flowering staggerbush—stopping once along the way to nibble a dandelion.

"Forty years is not old, wife. My eyesight’s keen. There’s a pressing weight on my shoulders today, is all."

Myrtle made a sunshade with her hand and gazed at the horizon. "It’s early to be wound so tight, Joe. The day has hardly begun."

"Never mind." He yanked his arm free and shouldered the gun. "His furry behind will be mine yet. Wait and see."

Tilting her face, she peeked at him. "I’d ask what’s hung in your craw, but I fear you’ll tell me."

He stared into the sunrise and pursed his lips. "You’ll find out soon enough—when I ride off after breakfast tomorrow."

She shot him a wobbly grin. "So you’re leaving me here to pull corn by myself? How long will I be shed of you this time?"

If a stranger happened along to hear the teasing in Myrtle’s voice, see the carefree set of her mouth, he’d swear Joe’s wife didn’t mind his going away.

Joe knew better.

He wound her arm through his and patted her hand. "I’ll be gone for a good while, I’m afraid." Urging her forward until her shuffling feet caught up, he started her down the road toward what was left of the fort and their humble cabin beyond. "Don’t worry about bringing in the corn. Our neighbors will help."

She trudged alongside him in silence before slipping her hand free and fisting it at her side. If he bothered to look, he’d find the other hand clenched, too, the knuckles of all ten fingers a matching shade of white.

Joe steeled his spine and prepared for battle. "I don’t want you to fret, Myrtle. I’ll be home before the days grow short. You can count on it.”

"Where you thinking to go?" The angry glint in her downcast eyes said she knew the answer before she asked.

Squirming under the scorn in her voice, he glanced to the side of the road. "Thought I’d ride east for a spell."

"Joe." His name hung in the air between them, splitting their hearts like an ax on kindling. "There’s nothing left for you in Mississippi."

His brows bunched. "I’m duty-bound to my sister’s memory."

Myrtle pinched her lips and blew a long breath through her nose. "You’ll do as much good as you did before. John Coffee won’t change his mind."

Joe winced at the sound of his enemy’s name. Why had his sister married an ignorant
nahullo
then up and died? And not just any white man. The most stubborn paleface in Mississippi.

To drive the thorn deeper in Joe’s side, his sister’s husband was named for Colonel John Coffee, a United States representative at the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, the day that marked the end of the Mississippi Choctaw Nation.

Because of John Coffee Bell, Joe had taken the name Nukowa, or "fiercely angry," in the white man’s tongue.

Myrtle prattled on, as if he hadn’t growled and set his jaw. "John doesn’t hold with the ways of our people. He will never accept that Mariah became your charge the day she was born."

She lifted one shoulder. "Besides, if your niece cared to live with us, she’d be walking this trail with us now. The girl has made her wishes known."

"I can’t help what she wishes."

"Mariah’s not a child, Joe. She’s well past marrying age."

"All the more reason to bring her among her people. John will see her wed to a nahullo, one as stubborn as he is. Then Mariah and her children will abandon our traditions forever." Joe gripped the stock of his gun until his fingers ached. "Every day she becomes more of John and less of her mother. My sister’s spirit wails to me in my sleep."

Blinking away stinging tears, he gazed over his shoulder at Fort Towson, abandoned by the military at the close of the Civil War. Once a thriving garrison, the broken-down row of buildings was little more than a burned-out shell.

Joe took Myrtle’s arm and led her down the path that branched away from the stark reminder of the past. There’d been enough wars fought in the nation to suit him, yet he found himself crossing swords with his dead sister’s man.

With a mind shut tighter than a gulf clam, John ignored Joe’s pleas where it came to Mariah’s welfare. Joe had swallowed his bitter anger and allowed John to force the white man’s way over Onnat, but his heart had stirred at her death.

The time had come to bring Mariah Bell to live where she belonged, under the watchful eyes of Joe and the other men of the tribe. John Coffee’s pride would not stand against generations of Choctaw wisdom.

Distant voices brought Joe’s head up.

Three boys loped toward them on the lane, their sun-washed faces the color of acorn tops. The oldest balanced a shotgun over his shoulder. The beaming lads flanking him carried bobbing cane poles and a can likely filled with fat worms. They nodded as they passed, no doubt headed for Gates Creek to jerk fish for the family table.

Their laughter and happy chatter pulled at Joe. He longed to swivel on the ball of his foot and fall in beside them. He’d missed so much by never having a son.

"Did you hear me, Joe? You can’t force Mariah to come."

He grunted. "I heard."

"But you won’t change your mind." Her defeated sigh pricked his heart.

Digging in his heels, Joe gripped her arm and pulled her around. "I’ve chosen Mariah’s husband, Myrtle. A nephew of the tribal chief. It’s what my sister would want for her daughter." He blew a frustrated breath. "The girl’s future is here now."

Myrtle shook her head. "Your sister embraced John’s way of life, especially where Mariah was concerned. How do you know that Onnat—" Her gazed dropped, shame bright in her eyes. "I mean … how can you know it’s what she wanted?"

He shot her a warning scowl. "You utter aloud my dead sister’s name? In your eagerness to keep me here, you abandoned our ways, too?"

She bit her bottom lip. "I’m sorry," she whispered. "I didn’t mean—"

A blast rang out, the echo sounding through the nearby trees.

Joe’s head whipped around, a sudden thought tensing his jaw. "The boys. They’ve bagged something."

Sullen, Myrtle nodded. "Sounds that way."

"You don’t suppose they crossed paths with my cottontail?"

The hint of a smile teased the corners of her mouth. "I’d say it’s more than likely."

Biting back a grin, he tugged on her arm and started down the trail. "In that case, let’s go home so you can cook me something tasty. Those three will have my rabbit stew for supper tonight, and it’s your fault."

She sniffed. "Since you’re bound to leave, I’ll cook you something better than stew, a meal to fill your stomach and see you off right."

He nudged her with his elbow. "Not too much for you, huh? Your belly looks full enough these days, and your behind’s getting broad in old age."

She ducked her head, pressing the palm of her hand to her middle. "I’ve grown heavier, I admit. But I’m barely forty, Joe Brashears, and I can still best you in a footrace."

He cocked back his head and laughed, then grabbed her and hugged her close. "You’re forty-one years, Myrtle Brashears, but don’t fret. You’re a fetching woman still. Besides, I don’t mind a little extra to hold on to. You were always too scrawny for my taste."

Myrtle’s soft chuckle lifted his spirits. She didn’t want him to leave, but she’d see him off with a kiss and a smile. A knapsack filled with corn cakes, if he was lucky.

Joe drew a deep, cleansing breath. It was enough.

Mariah slid a plate piled high with steaming flapjacks to the center of the table.

Greedy, grasping hands emptied the Stanley platter before it came to a stop, clear down to the bright bluebirds perched in the center. The four men seated around the kitchen had already cleared a large bowl of scrambled eggs and most of a slab of bacon.

Dicey bustled behind them with a jug of cold milk in one hand, a chilled pitcher of water in the other. She’d arrived to work a half hour late, dragging onto the porch with a frown, her black curlicues braided in haste by the look of her crooked rows. Sighing, she’d fumbled into her apron and set to work mixing the batter. For reasons unknown to Mariah, the girl despised her job.

The steady
whir
of spinning blades drifted under the windowsill. Between the slats of the blinds, Rainy crisscrossed the yard, cutting a swath in the tall grass with the push mower. His bare, skinny wings stuck out behind him, glistening with sweat despite the early hour.

"Any more of them eggs, miss?"

She turned with a smile. "Coming right up."

The patrons of Bell’s Inn were a few faithful regulars and those who found their way by word of mouth. Occasionally, daring souls who still braved the overgrown Trace stopped in, but the stretch that passed in front of the inn saw far less traffic these days. For the most part, the men who wound up on her doorstep were of a kindly sort, friendly wayfarers on their way to unknown destinations.

At times, tight-lipped, shifty-eyed strangers arrived, rough and tumble men who looked like trouble. To keep the peace, Father allowed them rooms if he had any free, but Mariah always fed them fast and sent them on their way. It wouldn’t do for those types of men to find out she and Miss Vee were running the inn alone.

Thankfully, the group that hunkered over the table, elbows working, seemed as harmless as nursing pups.

Back at the stove, Mariah poured six more beaten eggs into a pan with sizzling butter. Eagerness to see the men fed and out the door sped her hands. Their crude chorus of smacking lips and belching set her teeth on edge.

"These are mighty-fine vittles, ma’am. Most especially these here biscuits."

She craned her neck to nod at the skinny young man smiling up at her with blackened teeth. "Why, thank you. Make sure you get enough, now, you hear?"

The scruffy companion perched beside him nudged his side. "She ain’t no ma’am, Jack. That there’s
Miss
Mariah Bell. Her daddy owns the place."

At the mention of Mariah’s father, tears blinded her. Biting her lip, she blinked them away.

She caught the glint of admiration in both men’s eyes and fought a shudder, cautioning herself to be nice. With the scarcity of business, she needed these poor, bedraggled souls and others like them. Resting her spoon, she turned with a weak smile.

The prim gentleman seated across the table smoothed his vest and straightened his cuffs. "This girl’s no ma’am or miss, you half-wits." He sniffed as if he’d caught a whiff of the chamber pot. "She’s an Injun squaw."

Pain jolted Mariah’s heart, and her head reeled as if he’d struck her with his deerskin gloves. Dicey’s huge eyes flickered to Mariah’s before she slanted her heated gaze to the floor.

The two dullards’ interest turned to mischief as they snickered and sparred with their elbows.

A fourth guest, the big man traveling with the prissy boor, bent over his plate with glassy eyes, shoveling eggs in his mouth. He showed no interest in the antics swirling around him, and Mariah suspected the sour smell of stale liquor came from him.

"If you lot are done stuffing your guts, it’s time you were on your way."

Heads spun toward the irate voice on the stairs.

Miss Vee always did like to make an entrance. She stood on the bottom step, her cheeks softly rouged, her lashes darkened, and mounds of hennaed curls pinned beneath a small white cap. A crinoline petticoat, out of fashion for years, puffed the skirt of her crisp black dress, and a starched white apron stretched fit-to-split over her ample bosom. With a warning scowl and clenched fists on her hips, she made a daunting figure.

Glaring at the fancy man, she sauntered to the table. "For your information, this lovely girl is the mistress of our establishment, and I’ll ask you to treat her accordingly"—she pointed behind her—"or you can hit the road out front, finished with breakfast or not."

The large fellow, who had minded his business so far, gaped up at Miss Vee. Abandoning his eggs and skillet cakes, he spun on the chair and wrapped his arms about her waist. "Look what I got me, Herman. This big heifer’s my kind of woman."