Summer Moon (4 page)

5

“You locked him in like an animal?”

Kate stared at Scrappy Parks, wondering what kind of man could treat a child so abominably. Inside the cavernous horse barn surrounded by the sharp scents of horse manure and straw and the musty smell of cool damp earth, all was still.

Not a sound issued from behind the high, locked door of the stall where a boy had been imprisoned.

As they passed through the first floor of the house on the way out, she noticed the parlor crowded with people from all walks of life. Even a few children were present. The lane as well as the yard fronting the house was now filled with carriages and buckboards of all kinds. Benton House echoed with whispered condolences.

But in the barn, Scrappy was silent and frowning. Kate folded her arms.

“Unlock the door, Mr. Parks. Please.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think you know—”

She shook her head. “I know exactly what I am doing. That boy is no doubt frightened out of his wits. Let’s not waste time arguing over this. Just open the door.”

Edgy and tired, Kate had been through enough today. She was not about to back down now.

Scrappy mumbled something under his breath and threw the iron bolt.

When Kate first stepped into the stall, it took her a moment to make out in the far corner the small figure cowering in the shadows. He was small, perhaps no older than seven, eight at the most, seated with his back pressed to the wall, one leg extended, his arms crossed protectively over the tattered front of a faded red flannel shirt. His legs were filthy and bare. He wore a loincloth made of some kind of tanned hide and moccasins of the same material which were fancifully beaded with a decorative horse pattern, and very worn. His tangled, matted dark hair hung well past his shoulders and was littered with straw.

Tearstains streaked his dirty cheeks. In a flash of bravado, he sat up and glared at Kate. Taking stock of his condition, she was stunned by his thinness.

Despite an occasional scowl, he looked very small and very, very frightened.

She opened her arms wide, held her hands out in front of him to show she meant no harm.

“I’m Kate,” she said softly as she slowly inched toward him. Straw rustled with every step. “I am going to help you.”

She heard Scrappy snort and ignored him.

The child did not move a muscle. She continued to step closer, assuring him that she only wanted to help.

She felt confident and sure now, more self-assured than she had felt since she stepped into Benton House. When she was within arm’s length of the boy, she bent closer.

Without a change of expression or hint of warning, he lunged at her, thin fingers curved like talons, teeth bared like a wild animal’s.

She jumped back and crashed into Scrappy. The boy let out a yowl of pain and fell back into the corner. Despite his pain, he continued to spit and snarl.

“I told you so,” Snappy barked. He sidestepped Kate with a gun in his hand.

“Put that away!” She was frightened half to death by the sight of the firearm. “Don’t you
dare
shoot that boy.”

“I ain’t gonna shoot him, for God’s sake. I’m just gonna scare the piss and vinegar outta him.”

Shaken, Kate refused to give up. Somewhere inside the pitiful little creature cowering in the corner of the stall beat the heart of a child.

“He’s only a little boy. Just because he’s an Indian doesn’t mean you have to mistreat him.”

“He’s no Indian. He’s white, turned Comanch’. That’s even worse.”

Kate swung around. “What are you saying?”

Scrappy nodded toward the boy. “I didn’t notice at first either, but just look at them eyes.”

She did look. The boy’s eyes were as blue as the Texas sky. Brilliant blue and filled with pain.

“It doesn’t matter to me what he is. He needs our help. He’s badly hurt,” she said.

“I figure his leg or his ankle’s broke.”

“I’m certain Reed would object to this treatment. I want him moved to the house immediately.”

“Hell, lady,
Reed
tied him to the hitching post and Miss Sofia—”

“Sofia has her hands full.” Kate could see that nothing she said would make a difference to this man until she established her authority. She forced herself to sound calm and controlled. “Sofia is the housekeeper here. I am Reed’s wife. I want the boy moved.”

“How come I ain’t heard about no wife of Reed Junior’s before today?” He pronounced Reed’s name as if it was all one word—
Reedjunah.

“Perhaps Reed’s father didn’t feel it was
important
for you to know. Now, are you going to help me? Or do I have to go inside and disrupt a man’s wake in order to get some help?”

Mumbling under his breath, Scrappy holstered his gun. During their exchange, the boy had not moved. He continued to watch them warily. When Kate tried talking to him again, he spat at her, thrashing and kicking out with his good leg.

“Got any fine ideas about how you think we ought to do this, teacher?” The cowhand did not try to hide his disdain.

Afraid the boy might further injure himself if they wrestled with him, Kate conceded momentary defeat.

“Maybe you’re right, Mr. Parks. For the time being he is safe and out of the elements. Bring him some water and food and perhaps he will calm down. That leg needs to be set if it’s broken or he’ll be crippled for life.”

“No sense in wasting any food on him.”

Kate had suffered all of the man’s ignorant intolerance that she could possibly bear. She whirled on him.

“How can you be so insensitive? Would you starve him?”

Scrappy tipped his hat up with his thumb until it rode the back of his crown.

“He won’t eat. They been known to starve themselves to death when they’re locked up.”

She arched a brow. “They?”

“Comanches that are locked up. Even captives that have been with ’em too long starve themselves to death when they’re taken back.” He stared at the boy long and hard and then shook his head in resignation. “Sometimes the ones that’s turned Comanch’ suffer worst of all.”

Wary of both white strangers, Fast Pony watched the woman carefully, trying to understand her. He already knew what was in the old man’s heart. The old one would kill him if he had a chance.

But the woman was different. There was no hatred in her eyes, only curiosity and pity.

And flashes of anger.

The boy could see that she was mad at the old man. The angry sound of her strange white words and the way she stood, as stiff and straight as a lance, told him as much.

It took all his strength to keep from crying in front of them, all his courage not to rant and scream and tear at his hair. He had not seen any sign of his mother when the Rangers herded them together like animals.

Did she lie in the burnt-out shell of their tepee? Was she somewhere out in the open where the ravens and coyote and wolves would pick at her bones? Would he
ever
see his mother again?

He had to be brave, for he knew his father, Many Horses, would surely come for him soon. Many Horses was a great warrior. His father would track and kill the other Rangers and find the tall, cold-eyed one who had brought him here.

Until then, Fast Pony would watch and wait and find a way to escape.

6

“. . . and so we commit Reed Benton Senior’s body to the grave.”

Kate stood among the throng of mourners assembled in a tight knot on a windswept knoll a half mile from the ranch house and watched as the plain pine coffin was lowered into a grave carved out of Texas soil.

The site was surrounded by people who had known Reed Benton Senior as friend, employer, or both. Shoulder to shoulder, rough, weather-beaten cowhands of all ages, prosperous ranchers, dirt-poor farmers and settlers, a butcher, a dry goods store owner—all of them stood equaled by loss as they bade the founder of Lone Star farewell.

The wind whipped long, wayward strands of hair around Kate’s face, wrapped her skirt against her thighs, revealed the high tops of her black leather shoes. Desperate to return to her husband’s bedside, she thought about slipping away, but Sofia had again assured her before the burial that Reed would remain in a laudanum-induced sleep for quite some time.

There was so much she wanted to talk to him about, so much she wanted him to explain.

Why hadn’t he told her that he was a Ranger? And what of the strange child? Why had he left the boy tied to the hitching post? Why had Reed brought him home?

She felt a tentative touch just above her elbow, which shook her out of her reverie. Turning, she found herself looking into the eyes of Reverend Preston Marshall.

The preacher was near her own age, in his late twenties or early thirties, of medium height and build with light brown hair, pewter eyes, and strong, handsomely cut features.

Except for the white band around his throat, he was dressed entirely in black. The empty left sleeve of his jacket was folded under and pinned in place.

“Excuse me for interrupting your solitude, ma’am.” He tipped his hat politely. “I thought I might walk back to the house with you, Miss Whittington.” The discreet tone of his soft, Southern drawl soothed her.

Glancing around, Kate realized that while her thoughts had centered on Reed, the ceremony had ended and the crowd had already begun to disperse. Three cowhands lingered a polite distance away, shovels in hand, ready to close the grave. While a handful of folks tarried, speaking in hushed tones, others walked back down the hill toward the house.

“It’s finally over.” Kate caught herself. “I’m sorry. I . . . I’m anxious to get back.”

She glanced down the hill. Benton House was separated from the ranch outbuildings, solitary, empty, and alone.

“I usually try to keep these things short, but Reed Senior cut quite a public figure around here. Many of us wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

“How so, Reverend Marshall?”

He began to walk beside her as they headed downhill. Used to elderly priests relegated to saying Mass at the orphanage, Kate was surprised by the minister’s youth and striking good looks.

“Reed Senior founded the ranch over thirty years ago and established the town of Lone Star smack in the center of it, hoping the ranch hands would marry and settle here. If they had a stake in the place, he figured that they would stay put through lean years and the threat of Comanche and Kiowa attacks.

“He started with a saloon, branched out to a dry goods store, brought in a butcher, and offered a free cabin to any man who wanted to marry and move in a family. When there were enough families to warrant it, he built a school. Two years ago, he built a church. That’s why I came to Lone Star.”

Her mind went to the child locked in the barn. The white child “gone Comanch’.”

“It appears he was able to hold the Comanche back, at least from Lone Star.” She took care walking. The ground was hard and uneven, pocked with prairie-dog mounds and tufts of buffalo grass.

“Things went fairly well—after his first few years.” He paused to help her steer clear of a hole. “He gave the Indians occasional heads of beef when they needed it, and he was able to show plenty of firepower. There have been outlying raids along the borders of the ranch over the years, but it appears Lone Star’s been left pretty much alone.”

He continued to defy both her perception and firsthand knowledge of a man of God. “Do you have a family, Reverend?”

He paused, looked out across the open plain to where the sun was low in the afternoon sky. Clouds above the horizon had already begun to blush.

“I fought for the Confederacy. Even had a fiancée before the war started, but afterward—” He shrugged the shoulder above his empty sleeve. “—Well, let’s just say things didn’t work out. My only living relative is my maiden aunt. I brought her to Texas with me. If you get into town, I know Aunt Martha would love to have you to tea. She makes a cream cake that’s the talk of the town.”

They walked in silence for a few yards, Kate trying to understand everything that had happened since she stepped off the stage.

Reverend Marshall was the first to speak. “Sofia said that you are here visiting from the East.”

Obviously, Reed had not told anyone other than his father and Sofia of his plans, and they had kept his confidence—just as she and Sofia had decided to tell no one Reed was injured, but that he was away on duty. What he had written assured Kate that he would have wanted it that way.

I’m a private person. No one really knows me.

“Actually I . . . I’ve been corresponding with Reed Junior.” She smiled inside, reminded of that fall day when she first saw Reed’s advertisement. “I’m from a small fishing village in Maine. Until a short time ago, I was a schoolteacher at a Catholic orphanage for girls.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like a teacher, Miss Whittington.”

She turned to him and smiled. “You don’t look like a man of God, Reverend Marshall.”

His smile faded. “Because of my arm?”

“Heavens, no,” she said quickly, embarrassed to think she had offended him. “Until today, the only men of God I’ve ever met have been priests, and all of them were very . . . old. None of them were han—none of them looked like you.”

He smiled again. “I see.”

They had reached the house. Kate glanced up at Reed’s second-floor window. Although light shone from a few of the windows on the ground floor, the upper rooms were dark. The gloaming had thickened as twilight crept across the land. Miles and miles of darkness would soon engulf them. She looked out across the open prairie and shivered, suddenly feeling vulnerable, knowing they would be left in virtual isolation.

She was eager to get back to Reed, hated to have him wake up alone, in pain, in the darkness.

“It was nice to meet you, Reverend Marshall,” she said.

He reached up and tipped his black hat. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Miss Whittington.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “Please feel free to call on me if you need anything while you are here.”

She quickly assured him that she would, then bade him good-bye and walked up the wide steps beneath the portico.

As soon as the last caller drove away, Sofia went upstairs to rest, but Kate, unable to get her mind off the little boy in the barn, lit a lamp and slipped outside with it, balancing a blanket and a pillow from her own bed as she made her way through the gathering darkness.

The huge, hollow horse barn was pitch black until Kate stepped in with the light. As she stood on the threshold, the barn echoed with emptiness, the only sound a soft, mournful sobbing which stopped almost immediately as she stepped inside. Kate was halfway down the long central aisle between the stalls when Scrappy Parks walked in behind her.

“Saw you crossing the yard with that lamp,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully.

“I came in to see about the boy and to bring him these.” She indicated the bedding and frowned. “You left him alone in the dark.”

“Better than have him burn the place down.”

“Do you honestly believe he could climb out of there?”

“It’s my job not to take chances.”

She looked around the barn, glanced up at the loft. “Why not hang a lantern way up there? He can’t possibly climb in the condition he is in.”

Scrappy craned his neck, followed her gaze. Then he shook his head no.

“I don’t want him left alone out here in the dark,” she reiterated. “And I don’t want to have to disturb Sofia about this. She’s resting.”

The wrangler let go a long-suffering sigh. “All right. I’ll put a lantern up there, but if he burns this barn down with all the stock in it, then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She refused to let herself doubt her order as she passed the many stalls and the beautiful horses in them, animals from the purest white to deep chestnut. There was even one warm-eyed, black-and-white pinto.

She shot the bolt on the boy’s stall, found him just as she had left him, pressed against the wall and wary of every move she made. Easing close enough to gently toss the pillow beside him and then the blanket, she longed to be able to sit down beside him, to comfort him, perhaps lull him to sleep with a song or a story as she might have one of the girls at Saint Perpetua’s.

For now, the simple offer of comfort would have to be enough. There was only so much she could do to relieve the suffering caused by the rending tear of separation from all he held dear. She knew that firsthand.

“Good night, little boy,” she whispered before she left him. “I know how you feel. I truly, truly do. I hope you get some sleep.”

Kate walked back to the house and went upstairs. Once she reached Reed’s room, she lit another lamp and then paused to stretch and rub the back of her neck. When he suddenly moaned, the sound nearly frightened her to death. She dropped to her knees at his bedside.

He quickly became more restless, gripped by fever and pain, struggling with whatever demons they conjured. She pressed her palm to his forehead. Reed was burning up.

She brushed his dark hair back, worried by the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His head tossed from side to side as he mumbled something she could not understand. She leaned closer.

“Reed,” she said softly. “It’s me, Kate. I’m right here beside you at last. Please, fight this, Reed. Get well. We’ve so much to talk about. So much to plan.”

As she leaned against the edge of the mattress, staring down at strong features drained of all color, she could not help but recall his written words. They were all she had of him now.

I want a family again. I have been lost without a wife, without my child. I need a loving woman in my life who is willing to stand by me, willing to face life’s challenges and share my hopes and dreams. A woman who can love this land.

“Reed?” she whispered. “Oh, please, Reed.”

He stirred again and turned toward the sound of her voice but did not awaken. Kate sighed and leaned back on her heels, closed her eyes, and lowered her forehead to the edge of the mattress. She was exhausted but determined not to lose hope.

His arm brushed against her face and she felt his burning skin. A basin of fresh water and clean folded rags stood ready on the washstand across the room. She stood up and walked over to the washstand and dipped a rag into the tepid water, wrung it out and went back to Reed’s bedside. Bone tired, she had no thought of leaving. Each passing hour spent alone with him was a gift. A precious, private, one-way exchange that allowed her time to know him in an intimate way.

Bathing him the way Sofia had done earlier, Kate found it almost impossible not to let her hand linger as she ran the damp cloth over his face and neck, across his strong shoulders, and down his arms. She drew the bedsheet past his chest, to his hips. Staring down at the crisp dark hair that covered his pectorals and trailed to his navel, she blushed fire.

I am touching a naked man.

She took comfort in the notion that he could not see the burning embarrassment of a once-cloistered spinster and tried to remind herself this wasn’t the first time she had ever set eyes on a man’s naked body.

As she studied the hard lines and angles, the muscular shoulders and arms, his size and strength became apparent and a bit overwhelming. Lying in the center of the double bed, he almost dwarfed it. There was barely any room left for someone else to lie there without being pressed against him.

She lifted his right hand, washed it carefully and gently, whispering all the details of her trip West, hoping to soothe and comfort him. Each finger was attended to with care. She turned his hand over, traced her fingertips across the lines and calluses that marked his palm, carefully laid his arm down, and then picked up the other.

As she studied his hand, she could not help but think about how, when he was well again, these very hands would one day touch her, fondle and caress her. She shivered and felt her face burn again. Still, she anticipated that day.
At least I know what to expect.
She had never forgotten all she had seen and heard those years she lived with her mother, had not forgotten the things that men and women did with one another.

The curtains billowed as the night wind lifted them high and let them sink back against the window frame. She looked outside, watched high, thick clouds slip across a full moon. In that instant, from somewhere deep inside the cobwebbed corners of her mind, came a recollection of her early years.

Twisted sheets on narrow beds. The pungent smell of aroused, sweaty bodies. The mystery behind the gruff sounds made by the noisy strangers her mother had taken into her body.

Meg Whittington had entertained men for money— for food and shelter. She had let them touch and taste her, couple with and ride her. If Mama hated those nights, if she had ever suffered shame, she had kept it hidden behind a brazen bravado. Kate refused to wonder if her mother might actually have enjoyed her work, if there was something in Meg that had made her want to whore with men.

Kate’s hands began to shake. She set the washcloth aside and quickly drew the sheet up, covering Reed to the neck. She stared down at him, watched his chest rise and fall, memorizing the way his dark lashes—sinfully thick lashes—brushed his high cheekbones. He seemed to have calmed; his skin had cooled. He was resting comfortably. Kate decided to take advantage of the bathing room at the end of the hall, so she picked up the lamp, crossed the room, and gently closed the door.