Sarah's Surrender (34 page)

“No!” Mrs. Powell cried out at her husband's demise but turned on Luke, charging him. He back-stepped, lifting his gun and pointing it at her face. His hand shook from his wound, but he managed to hold the gun steady enough. She stopped and glared at him. “You've ruined everything.”

He smiled, in spite of how he felt. “I prefer to think that I saved the day.”

One of the cowboys grabbed her from behind. “Get a move on, lady.”

His friend hoisted Mr. Powell to his feet again—albeit barely. The man could hardly stand.

“Let's get them to the army office; then I need to get home. These two set my friend's house on fire on top of stealing this little gal.” He kissed Claire. She'd stopped wailing, but she did an odd little sniff-hiccup thing he'd seen Gabe's kids do after a big cry. Her nose was red and her skin splotchy. The poor thing felt hot. He kissed her head again, and she leaned against his shoulder in a display of trust that moved him to the core. She barely knew him, and yet she trusted him and got comfort from being in his arms—well, arm.

“We need to get you to a doctor before you collapse.” One of the men who'd been in the back of the group approached. “You want me to carry her?”

Luke shook his head. “Dr. Worth headed out to help fight the fire. Is there another doc in town?”

“Yep. A block over.”

“I can get myself there if you'll take care of them.”

“M'name's Albert Owens.” He rocked his head in a backward motion. “That's Ed Sheridan.”

“Luke McNeil. I can't thank you enough from helpin' me. I'd shake your hands, but—” he glanced at his bloody shoulder. He holstered his gun, managing not to wince, and gave the man a nod of gratitude.

“Think nuthin' of it. Glad to he'p,” Ed said.

“Tell the officials that I'll be down there as soon as I can to give a statement. They know where to find me if they need me before then.”

Luke hoisted Claire up to get a better hold. She grabbed his shirt, whimpering, as if she thought he was getting rid of her. “Not on your life, sweetheart. Hold on a bit longer.”

He tottered to the hitching post where Golden Boy waited. He loosened the reins then flipped them over his horse's neck and started shuffling to the doctor's office, knowing the horse would follow. Riding would be quicker, but he couldn't mount with Claire in one arm and a bullet hole in his shoulder.

His vision blurred as he turned onto the street Albert had indicated. His gaze latched onto the doctor's shingle, hanging two doors down. People eyed him, but no one offered to help. He stumbled as he attempted the stairs and finally fell against the door. Claire fussed at being pressed against the glass.

On the other side of the door, he saw a woman's eyes widen as she stared at him. She yelled over her shoulder for the doctor then opened the door. The woman's face blurred. Luke stumbled on the threshold but managed to step through the doorway and handed Claire to her on his way to meet the floor.

C
arson's heart broke for Sarah as he reined his horse to a stop in front of her burning house. The right side of it was completely engulfed in flames. He doubted anything short of a downpour could save it. What a horrible loss.

Jack rode toward them fast. Carson slid off his horse and tied him to a bush a safe distance from the inferno. He followed the other men from town as they jogged toward Jack. Ted Buckner grabbed one of the buckets and tossed it onto the flames. A loud hiss rose up along with a cloud of smoke. A man he didn't know took the other bucket from Jack and dumped it. They passed the buckets back to Jack. He quickly mounted his horse.

Two of the men grabbed charred blankets and started beating flames. Loud whacks mixed with the eerie crackle of fire and stench of smoke. One of the men Carson recognized as being a Peterson who'd help build the house jogged toward them, two more pails in tow.

Carson looked all around then at Jack. “Where's Sarah?”

He frowned. “She was out here a while ago.”

Carson's heart did a somersault at his sudden thought. “You don't suppose she went inside, do you?”

“No—” Jack's tanned complexion paled. He dropped the buckets, tossed his leg over the horse's neck, and slid down. He threw the reins toward Ted. “Keep getting water at the river.”

He broke into a run, as did Carson. Surely Sarah wouldn't have gone into a burning house—unless the little girl had been inside.

The front door was open and they burst through. Jack paused and looked around the smoky, empty downstairs. Then he darted up the steps. Carson covered his nose and mouth and peeked into the smoke-filled parlor. Flames had burned up one side and were spreading across the ceiling. Thank God it was empty. Sarah might lose her house, but at least she wouldn't lose her furnishings, too.

He heard arguing upstairs and ran up to the second floor. The smoke grew thicker as he reached the landing. He yanked his handkerchief from his pocket, covered his mouth, and then bent over to avoid the worst of the smoke.

“No! Got to save Lara's trunk.”

“We have to get out. Now!” Jack yelled.

Carson reached the door of a bedroom that held only a bed and a cot. The mattress was half off the frame. Where was the girl?

Jack stood in a face-off with Sarah, whose arms were filled with clothing. She noticed him step into the room, and relief softened her expression. “Carson can help with the trunk.”

Jack scowled at him, as if his presence had encouraged her. “It's not worth our lives.”

“It's Lara's. I have to save it.”

Jack shook his head then gave Carson a hard look as he stepped around Sarah. He handed Carson a crate of diapers. “Help her downstairs. Fast.”

Jack grabbed the trunk as Carson took hold of Sarah's arm and led her to the stairs. She coughed but hung on to the clothes she carried. They burst out into the fresh air, hurried down the porch steps, and out into the yard. He looked back at the house, as Jack ran out, his face blackened.

The flames had reached the front of the house and were eating their way toward the porch. Beside him, Sarah coughed. He bent over, mimicking her as he struggled to get fresh air into his lungs. Sweat poured off of him from the heat. Suddenly he realized he hadn't seen the little girl. He bolted upright. “Where's Claire?”

Sarah's sad expression crumpled even more, and she turned toward Jack, falling against him. He wrapped one arm around her. “She's gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Long story. Have to wait.” Jack eyed him with a look that said not to mention it.

One of the Peterson men jogged around the side of the house. He looked at Jack and shook his head. He strode over to them and stared at the house, too. “There's no savin' it now. The other men are wetting the grass in hopes of keepin' the fire from spreading to the barn or starting a prairie fire.”

“Cody! Gotta check on my son.” Jack turned toward Carson. “Could you stay with Sarah? It's been a hard day.”

“Of course.”

Jack gave Sarah's shoulders a squeeze and placed a kiss on her head then backed away. “Will you be all right?”

She nodded but didn't say anything. She just stood there with her head hanging, the piddling bit of clothing she'd salvaged in her arms. Carson hated the conflicting emotions roiling through him. Was there more between Jack and Sarah than he first realized? And what happened to the girl? “Why don't we move back? It's not good for you to breathe in smoke. And let me hold those.” He held out his arms.

She shook her head, hugging the garments to her. “I should make some coffee. The men may want it”—she choked on a sob then regained her composure— “after they're … done.”

“Cool water might actually taste better than coffee.”

She glanced up, looking alarmed. “My rain barrel is at the back of the house. We should move it so we don't lose the water. It's much better for drinking than the river water.”

There hadn't been much rain lately. He doubted there would be any to salvage—either the men had used it, or by now, it would have soot in it and not be drinkable. Still, she needed to do something to help. “Let's walk around the side that isn't on fire yet and check on the barrel.”

She fumbled with her clothing until she held them in one arm then looped her hand through the arm he offered, and he led her around the house. He hated the way she trembled, but he had to give her credit for not crying, albeit she had every right to do so. She paused and stared wide-eyed at the rear of the house. Flames galloped across the wooden siding as if in a race to beat the blaze at the front to the far side. A window fifteen feet away exploded. He and Sarah jumped. He tugged her back, hating that this had happened to her new house.

“The barrel is gone.” The accepting tone of her voice, as if she expected everything to be destroyed, made his heart feel as if someone had encased it in plaster. “Sarah, let me take your clothes and put them in that buckboard by the barn.”

She finally nodded and held them out. He relieved her of that small burden, tried not to consider the fact that he carried not only two dresses but some of her unmentionables. He laid the items carefully in a relatively clean spot in the back of the buckboard then swung around and studied the rear of the house. Over half of it was already on fire.

Jack stood inside the barn, comforting his son. Carson started forward, but his gaze landed on a barrel sitting out in the open. He was grateful for one thing going right. “Sarah, isn't this the water barrel?” He lifted the lid and looked in. “It is. Someone must have moved it away from the fire.”

She eased her head around and nodded. “I think so.” She moved slowly—almost lethargically—toward him. Had the smoke affected her more than he realized, or was the trauma of the burning house responsible for her downheartedness? He'd read in medical journals about doctors studying how traumatic events affected people. Sarah was showing some of the symptoms, but that was certainly understandable.

She walked over to the barrel and looked in. “There's still some but not much.”

He reached down and snagged the tin cup floating in the water. He filled the cup and handed it to her. She took it and stood there, staring into the cup. “Sarah, you need to drink it. Your body has had a shock.”

She did as told then turned back and stared at the house. “There's no saving it. I'd hoped at first …”

He hated the forlorn tone to her voice. He wished he had the right to wrap his arm around her and offer comfort, but all he had to give her were words of encouragement. “It can be rebuilt.”

She shook her head. “I don't have enough money for that.”

His stomach tightened. Did that mean she'd leave town? He wasn't sure when he'd come to care for her, but he realized now that he did. “What will you do?'

“I don't know. The land is mine, but I have to live on it for fives years and improve it before I get the official title. If I don't, I could lose it.”

“You have years to get that done. Perhaps you could start with a small house and add on later.”

She shrugged, as if thinking about it was too much.

“Let me take you to town. Get you something to eat. There's a new hotel you can stay in.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to stay here. I have to prepare lunch for the men.”

Carson wanted to say the men could fend for themselves, but after fighting the fire, they would be exhausted.

“I need to do something. I can't just stand here.”

“Where do you do your cooking?” There hadn't been a stove inside the house, so he knew she didn't cook there.”

She looked down the hill to her right. “At the Petersons' camp.”

“Why don't we walk down there? You can still watch what's happening, but the heat won't be so fierce.” He still had his handkerchief in his hand and longed to wipe the sweat and grime off his face, but he held it out to her instead. “Why don't you wet this and clean your face?”

She looked at him and blinked. “My face is dirty?”

“Just a little soot.” And sweat.

“Oh. I must look like you do.”

He glanced into the barrel, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, but the water level was too low.

“Could you get me some more water, please? I can't reach it.”

“Certainly.” He dipped the cup again and handed it to her.

She poured the water over the handkerchief, dropped the cup in the barrel, and then wiped her face. “That feels good.” When she pulled the soiled hanky away, her dark eyes widened. “Oh my. You weren't joking.”

He relaxed his tense stance, glad to hear her sounding closer to normal. At least there was a pitch to her voice instead of the monotone that had been there a moment ago.

She gazed up at him then stared off in the distance. “A couple showed up this morning, claiming to be Claire's grandparents. They knew enough information that we believed them.” She swallowed hard. “I gave her to them. Just handed that poor little girl over.”

“Why wouldn't you if they were her relatives?”

She looked at him again, her gaze bleak. “That's what I thought, too, even though it broke my heart to give her to them. Mr. Powell—the supposed grandfather—started the fire before he left.”

Carson gripped the edge of the barrel. “Why would he do that?”

“To keep us from going after him—when we realized they'd lied. I don't believe they are related to Claire at all.”

“Oh, Sarah. What are you going to do?”

“Luke figured it out and went after them.”

“Who's Luke?”

A sweet smile—one he didn't at all like since it related to a man—softened her expression. “He's a very good friend of mine. He realized the Powells had said Claire's mother had green eyes when they were actually blue, just like her daughter's. I pray he finds them and brings her back.”