Linda Ford (2 page)

Heaping plates of steak, eggs, fried potatoes, and flapjacks were set before them. Crane dug into the food without a second look. By the time he cleaned his plate, he knew he’d enjoyed a hearty breakfast and figured Maggie would surely be stalled by now, but she steadily plowed through the mound, finishing up shortly after he did.

“You ate the whole thing.”

Her cheeks bloomed pink. “I was hungry.”

“I guess so.” If she ate like that every day, he would spend all his time foraging food.

“I haven’t eaten in three days,” she whispered. “Since I walked away from—” She didn’t finish.

He rubbed his forehead. “You better explain yourself.”

“It’s not what you think.” She took a deep breath. “I was working at the hotel in exchange for a place to sleep and some food.” Her fingers twisted around each other. “My job was to clean up rooms after the guests.” She shuddered, and Crane could only guess at the things she’d done.

“When the hotel owner wanted me to do other things”—her eyes grew stormy—“I left.” She squirmed forward until she balanced on the edge of the chair.

Finally he nodded. “And you left everything you own.”

She shrugged. “It weren’t much.”

Seems like what he had to offer, no matter how slim, was an improvement. He felt rather pleased with himself. He pushed his chair back, and she sprang up, bouncing on the balls of her feet. He clamped his hat on, and they ambled toward the livery barn, where Crane ran his practiced gaze over the available mounts, choosing a well-built mare for Maggie.

She slid her hands along the mare’s neck and whispered to the animal in a way that assured Crane she was at ease with the horse. “I shall call her Liberty.”

The significance of her choice was not lost on Crane, and he smiled, hoping they would both find what they wanted in their new life—sweet liberty for her and, for him, help in building a home. A vague yearning tugged at his thoughts, but it disappeared as swiftly as it came, and he had not the time or patience to search after it.

They repacked the animals, Maggie working alongside Crane with a quiet quickness he found comforting. Then they headed toward the little church where the man who sold them the horse said they would find a preacher.

With every step, Crane’s resolve strengthened. It was what he had decided to do; Maggie seemed pleasant enough and, now that she was cleaned up, not hard on the eyes. Whatever there was to discover about each other, they would have plenty of time to find it out on the trail.

And so he stood before the preacher with Maggie at his side.

“Do you Byler Thomas Crane take Margaret Malone to be your lawful wedded wife?”

He answered, “I do.”

The short ceremony ended, and they stepped outside into the bright afternoon sun. “Well, Mrs. Crane, are you ready to set out?” He grinned down at her.

She nodded, keeping her head bent. “The sooner the better.
”

In order to pick up the trail to the west, they traversed several streets, dirtier with each step, the buildings increasingly ugly. The whole place smelled of trouble, and Crane kept sharp attention.

As they drew abreast of a narrow alleyway, he heard a high-pitched scream followed by gasping fear-laced wails, then a sudden flash of pink and white to his right.

A child. The small body rocketed across his path, with thundering steps in pursuit. Crane had his hands full, holding Rebel, who snorted and reared.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maggie drop to the ground and wondered if she had been thrown, but he was too busy with Rebel to offer help. As soon as he’d calmed his horse, he dismounted, searching for the figure he was sure had been battered by Rebel’s hooves, but a man scooped up the small child.

“Let me go!” the child shrieked. “I won’t go back!”

Crane saw it all in a heartbeat. The swelling arms of a blacksmith tightening around the tiny body clad only in skimpy white undergarments. The anger darkening his face. Crane clenched his fists at his side. He was no match for this bulk of a man, and it was none of his business, but his gut wrenched.

A figure in a blue-flowered dress he recognized as being one he’d purchased just a few hours earlier skidded to a halt in front of the struggling pair. Maggie planted herself in the man’s path, her hands on her hips. “This your child?”

“He ain’t my father. He ain’t nothing.” The child’s sobs tore at Crane’s mind like a cold winter gale.

“Get out of my way.” The burly man pushed Maggie aside with a thick arm.

She swayed but held her ground.

Cold steel filled Crane, and he stepped toward them with casual deliberateness.

“Put her down,” Maggie growled, her fists clenching and unclenching at her side.

“Lady, you best mind yer own bizness.” He lifted his hand.

Crane pushed the hand away, at the same time shoving Maggie behind him. “What seems to be the problem?” He balanced on the balls of his feet, his words low and lazy.

“No problem.” The burly man dropped his arm. “Just claiming what’s rightfully mine.”

“Put her down.” Maggie again faced the man.

A gleam jerked at Crane’s nerves, and he stared at his Colt .45 gripped in her hands.

“Where’d you get that?” Something akin to knifepoints scraped along his nerves.

She didn’t answer, but there was no need. He’d hung the revolver on the pack animal. He was not a fighting man, but neither was he naive as to the need for a gun.

“Maggie, what do you think you’re up to?”

“I’m doing what any decent person would do,” she answered without shifting her gaze. Again she ordered the man, “Let that child go.”

With a volley of curses, the man lunged at Maggie. She neatly sidestepped and fired.

Dust at the man’s feet kicked up, and Crane saw a hole in the toe of his boot. His muscles coiled to spring. “Why you—”

“Let her go, or I’ll shoot you.” She jerked away as he swung a fist at her.

She fired another shot, removing his hat. He gingerly rubbed his head.

The child squirmed from his grasp, skidding out of reach of the three adults, her glance darting from one to the other. Crane had seen that hunted look in wild animals. The child seemed not far removed from a wild animal with her matted hair and scruffy appearance.

“Honey, who is this man, and what does he want with you?”
Maggie kept the gun trained on the man as she addressed the
child.

The child shook like leaves before a wind. “He thinks he owns me ’cause I don’t have no folks.”

“That so, Mister?” The voice, so sweet and gentle when speaking to the child, carried a hard, warning note.

Crane smiled at the contrast.

“She’s mine. I owned her mother, and I own her.” He jerked his head down the alley. At the end of the lane, Crane saw a mean building and knew it for what it was—a place of disrepute. He shuddered to think of anyone, least of all a child, having to live there.
You don’t own people. Nobody can own another.

“You got any papers to prove that?” Maggie pressed the man.

He spat. “Don’t need any. Nobody gonna argue about it.” He spat again, his spittle landing at Maggie’s feet.

A small crowd had assembled, and their mute silence proved his words.

“Nobody but me,” Maggie snarled, turning to the child. “You want to come with us?”

Her eyes bright, the child nodded.

Unmindful of Maggie’s gun, the man roared and reached for the quaking child.

Quicksilver-like, Maggie grabbed her and, in a swift movement, sprang for her horse, lifting the child behind the saddle and jumping up in front of her.

“Let’s go!” Maggie called.

Crane didn’t have time to think about who was right. “Ride!” he called, but he could have saved his breath. She was already leaning over the neck of her horse, urging it forward. They raced toward the open trail. Shots rang out behind them, and Crane ducked lower.

Two

Crane narrowed his eyes, forcing them to focus on bits of the racing landscape to examine them for danger. He saw speeding trees and one lone shack—the only visible occupant a brown-speckled hen, flapping and squawking a protest at the clattering trio.

The only other sounds were pounding hooves and the heaving breath of his horse. The flying mane stung Crane’s cheeks as he kept his head low to avoid any bullets aimed at them, but he heard no more. His thoughts galloped at a pace every bit as swift as their flight.
All I wanted was someone to help set up a home in the new West.

The last few minutes were giving him pause for thought. Not in his wildest dreams had he considered he might be biting off more than he could chew.

He kept at a gallop until they crested a hill some miles from town, where he slowed Rebel, turning him to face the back trail. For several minutes he squinted toward town, now a low cluster in the distance. Maggie pulled up beside him.

“I don’t see nobody after us.”

Crane held his peace, willing their dust to settle so he could be certain.

Maggie stood in her stirrups and shaded her eyes. “You see something?”

Finally he eased back and lifted his hat to let the breeze sift through his hair. “Don’t see nothing. Don’t necessarily mean there ain’t nothing.” But they’d had plenty of time to mount a party to ride after them. Perhaps the townspeople had refused to help the burly man. Maybe they’d decided one little bitty child wasn’t worth the effort.

Maggie murmured to the mare as it pranced nervously and settled again, half a head in front of Rebel, allowing Crane to study Maggie without turning his head. She clutched the child’s arm around her waist. Her skirt flowed around her legs. She strained forward, still watching for pursuers. Every muscle seemed taut, every nerve alert, yet he sensed no fear.

A suspicion grew. He could have sworn she was enjoying this inordinately much, and again he wondered what he had gotten himself into. He slapped his hat to his head, pulling it low. “Let’s go.” He paused, his gaze fixed to the front. “We’ll put some space between us and them. Then we’ll talk.” He looked squarely at Maggie and the child. These were not saddle-hardened men at his side. “You both up to this?”

Maggie’s eyes snapped. “We certainly are.” She dipped her head to the child. “Aren’t we?”

Eyes wide, the child glanced at Crane, turning away quickly, her whispered yes barely audible.

They kept a steady pace for another hour or more, riding in silence. Crane wondered if Maggie’s thoughts were as confused as his; as for the child, he had no notion what such a little thing would be thinking.

The sun had passed its hiatus when Crane reined in. “There’s a good spot over there. We’ll give the horses a break.” He wasn’t going to invite any more surprises, and he led the way to a thick grove of trees close to the river. They could water the horses and still be able to see the trail.

Maggie swung down, pulling the child after her, then stiffly turned her horse to water. Crane did the same, taking his time. It wasn’t until the horses had been led to a grassy spot and left to graze that he faced Maggie.

“Do you mind telling me what you think we’re going to do now?” His voice was low.

She shuffled her feet in the sand.

Crane waited, his gaze lazily resting on the top of her head. Could be she was regretting her haste.

She snapped her head up so suddenly he jerked back. “What else could I do?” Her eyes flashed.

“Besides shoot the man dead, you mean?” Perhaps he should count himself lucky she hadn’t. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

She grinned. “A boy taught me.”

He held up his hand. “I don’t want to know. Next thing you’ll be telling me you’re part of a gang of bank robbers.”

She laughed, a sound echoing the bubbling water behind him. “It wasn’t near that exciting. I was about twelve or thirteen, and a neighbor boy begged his dad to teach him to shoot. His dad gave him an old pistol and told him to go practice.” She shrugged. “I tagged along.”

“I can’t say whether or not it was good you did. Seems like it’s given you call to get yourself into a heap of trouble.”

She looked past him, a distant longing in her expression. Finally she turned her blue eyes toward him, direct and challenging. “What would you have me do?” She shivered. “It don’t take any imagination to guess what kind of life she’s had.” Her eyes darkened. “And what’s in store for her. Somebody needed to help her.”

He couldn’t argue that. “Why’d it have to be you?”

“You see anyone else rushing in?”

“No.” He wanted to tell her the code of the West: Keep your nose out of other people’s business. But her chin jutted out, and he was pretty sure she would have told him that was all well and good in most situations, but this wasn’t one of them.

The child sat with her toes in the water, peeping out from under a curtain of tangled hair. Seeing him look at her, she ducked her head.

“What do you expect to do with her?”

“Why, I figured she would go west with us.”

“How do you figure? You don’t just ride into town, snatch a child, and ride away without so much as a ‘do you mind’ or ‘if you please.’ ” Crane kept his voice low, disguising the tension stiffening his spine.

“A body shouldn’t ignore a child in need, even if it means stepping on toes.” Her taut voice made Crane wonder why she cared so much. How little he knew about this woman who was now his wife. He had a wife! In all the excitement he’d almost forgotten. Not only a wife, but now a child as well.

He looked more closely at the child. “She ain’t very big.”

“Size means nothing.” She spat the words out.

He guessed she meant something by that, but he wasn’t about to go nosing down an unfamiliar trail.

She answered him even though he hadn’t asked. “It’s your heart that counts. How you look at things.”

They stood side by side watching the child. He pushed his hat back. “She got a name?”

“I ’spect so. Everybody’s got a name.” She paused.
“Sweet-heart, come here.”

The child slowly turned toward them, looking at the ground, her toes clenching in the sand. She studiously avoided eye contact with Crane.

He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. Big brown eyes, a mat of blond hair, a hunted look. “I don’t know much about little ones.”

Maggie motioned the child closer but directed her words at Crane. “You got no brothers and sisters?”

The little one inched toward them, her tiny limbs stiff. He could smell her fear. It made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. “No, I was the onliest one.”

Maggie looked at him for a moment. “Huh,” was all she said before turning back to the child, rocking back and forth just out of reach. “You got a name, Child?”

Big brown eyes stared unblinkingly at Maggie. “My
mamma”—she swallowed hard—“my mamma done call me Betsy.” Her words carried on the breeze.

Maggie nodded. “That sounds like a right nice name to me.”

A trace of a smile transformed the child’s face for a heartbeat.

“You got another name, a last name?” Maggie prodded.

The child shook her head. “I don’t know. My mamma not tell me.”

“That’s fine,” Maggie said as the child’s fingers plucked at the material around her waist. “Betsy, do you know how old you are?”

“Maybe five. Maybe six.” She twisted the material into a knot.

Maggie turned to Crane. “What’s today’s date?”

“I believe the preacher wrote May tenth, eighteen ninety.”

“Look at that, Betsy. Your birthday and our wedding are on the same day.”

Crane stared at the child’s tiny fingers and pint-sized feet.

“Well, what you going to do with her?” Maggie’s question jerked at his senses.

“Me? Seems this is your doing.” His slow words hid his turmoil.

She flung her hands out. “You played a part too.”

He watched the river gurgle by; he saw the trees whispering in the breeze. He could not think.

“You got to choose—either we take her with us, or you have to ride back to town and give her back to that horrible man.” She spat out the last few words.

He blinked and turned on her. “Ride back there? Why me?” She sure had a funny notion of what was right for him.

“I’d go with you if you want.”

He didn’t want, and he had no intention of taking the child back, which left him few choices.

“Wash her up,” he told Maggie. “I’ll get a shirt for her. She can’t ride around the country half naked.”

Maggie looked at him open-mouthed. Then a slow grin spread across her face, and her eyes flashed bright blue before she led Betsy to the water’s edge.

Crane stared after them. How had he managed to end up this far from where he was only this morning? With a shake of his head, he trudged toward the horses, rifling through his pack to pull out a faded denim shirt. He shook it, trying to imagine the child wearing it. His mental powers failed to produce any sort of image. He’d have to buy her some proper clothes at the next town. And shoes. You needed shoes to head west.

He grabbed the bar of soap and towel and returned to the river. Maggie stood beside Betsy in water to their ankles. Betsy. He turned the name over in his mind, trying to get used to the feel of it. The child shook enough to rattle her bones.

Maggie spoke to her, but Crane did not catch what she said. The child nodded, clutching her hands in the hem of her undershirt.

Maggie acknowledged Crane. “Good. You’ve brought the soap.” She took bar and shirt. “We’re going to stand right here to wash. Betsy says she’ll take her clothes off, if you don’t look.”

Warmth rushed up his ears. “I’ll wait over there.” He jerked his thumb toward a wide sandy spot. “Thought I’d build a fire and make some coffee.” The idea hadn’t entered his mind until this very moment, but now it seemed good. He saw no sign of pursuit, and the child would want to get warm after her wash.

Crane lit the fire. He filled the coffeepot, opened a can of baked beans, and hunkered down on his heels.

Maggie carried the towel-wrapped child close to the fire and set her down on a grassy spot before she hung the wet underthings to dry and fetched a comb from her saddlebag. She perched behind the child on a fallen tree and combed the tangles from Betsy’s wet hair.

Big brown eyes watched Crane as he stirred the beans, but as soon as he turned toward the child, she dipped her head and pulled the towel closer.

Maggie rested her hands on her thighs and looked across the fire to Crane. “She’s nervous of you.”

Crane thought on the notion, but before he could draw a conclusion, Maggie added, “She don’t trust men.” Her voice hardened. “She ain’t got much reason to.” She picked up the comb and ran her fingernail along the teeth, making an annoying insect sound.

Crane watched a play of emotions across her face. A look of determination settled. “Don’t worry, Child. This man won’t hurt you. I promise.” And the look she gave Crane was direct. He understood her meaning.
I’m making it my business to see you don’t.

He wanted to say not all men are the same, not all men want to treat her like that, but the child’s frightened gaze stopped him. Instead he seated himself on a tree stump across the fire from Maggie and Betsy.

“Betsy,” he began, the name awkward on his lips. “My name is Crane.” She looked at a spot in the middle of his chest. “Maggie and I got married this morning.” Now was not the time to wonder if he’d done the right thing. “We’re headed west to the Territories, where we can get free land. We’re going to build us a home and a new life. There’ll be lots of work and not a lot of people. You’re welcome to come with us if you want.”

Maggie had finished combing Betsy’s hair, and the girl turned to look into her face. “It’s all right,” Maggie said, rubbing her hands along the small arms. “We’ll take good care of you.” Crane nodded.

“Now turn around, and I’ll braid your hair.” The child obeyed instantly, plucking at the edge of the towel as Maggie worked on her hair and talked in a soothing tone. “I hear tell the grass is up to a horse’s belly, and the mountains are giants topped with snow. They say the winters are cold, but the summers are so nice it’s worth the winter just to get the summer.”

Wondering where she’d picked up her information, Crane added, “There are ranches with thousands of cows. And deer and antelope.” He’d seen many deer but was itching to see his first antelope.

“And flowers?” The child’s eager question was so low Crane wondered if she’d really spoken. For a heartbeat he caught a glimpse of her big eyes before she ducked her head.

“Yup. Flowers, for sure.” Though he’d never heard tell of them. But a country as pretty as the West was sure to have its share of flowers.

“And birds.” He heard her sigh and met Maggie’s solemn glance over her head.

Finished with Betsy’s hair, Maggie stood and checked the garments. “Not dry yet,” she announced. “That coffee ready?”

He filled two tin mugs with steaming coffee, then hesitated. “What about—?” He glanced toward Betsy. Maggie took her cup. “She can have water. Is there another cup?”

He shook his head. He never thought he’d have call for more than two.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He gulped some of the hot brew, then spooned beans onto the two plates, leaving his share in the can. He handed Maggie and Betsy each a plate and a biscuit. Maggie caught the child’s fingers before they dug into the beans and wrapped them around the handle of a spoon.

As he ate, Crane kept a guarded eye on the pair across from him. Betsy licked up every crumb on her plate before turning to watch each mouthful he took. He swallowed hard. Betsy licked her fingertips. He tossed the almost-empty can at her.

“Here—wash this, and it can be your cup.”

She dove after the can and cleaned it thoroughly with her fingers before she ran to the river and washed it.

“She’s hungry,” Maggie observed. “Wonder when she ate last.”