Tender Touch (29 page)

Marc Beaudouin put his hand to Col’s shoulder. “Is she all right?”

Col didn’t answer. He barely noticed the people who had been brought from their beds by the ruckus. All he saw was Edward Magrudge. And Little Beaver’s torn body.

With the quickness and precision that had kept him alive this long, Col’s brain sorted facts and memories: Magrudge beating and raping a Snake squaw during a fur trappers’ rendezvous. Magrudge—one day before Little Beaver died—stopping at Col’s camp to tell him hunters were needed at the fort. Magrudge leering at Little Beaver that same day. The pieces fit.

In a haze of pain and rage, Col walked over to the man. At his sides his fingers slowly clenched and unclenched. No expression showed on his face, not even in his calm, blank eyes. But it didn’t deceive the wagon captain.

“Don’t you be giving me that look,” Magrudge sneered. “I only wanted what you been getting all along. You ain’t her brother and you got no more right to her than me.”

A muscle in Col’s jaw jumped. “Tell me about Little Beaver,” he said in a voice so soft and lethal, the hair on the wagon captain’s arms rose.

“Don’t k-know what you’re talking about,” Magrudge stuttered.

Col took hold of the stalky man’s collar with both hands and hauled him to his feet. Noses inches apart—Magrudge’s squashed and smelling of blood—Col repeated his question.

Seeing murder in the cool gray eyes, the man tried to laugh off his fear, but the sound caught in his throat.

“Spill it, you murdering bastard.”

When Magrudge didn’t answer, Col drew back his fist and rammed it into the man’s belly, releasing him as he doubled over in pain. His tunic, still clutched in Col’s hand, tore from neck to waist. Col jerked him back upright and was about to strike him again when a small beaded pouch partially hidden by the torn edge of the man’s shirt caught his eye. The pouch hung on a rawhide thong. Something about it struck Col as familiar. He took out his knife and cut the pouch free. The moment his fingers closed around the beaded leather, Col knew where he’d seen it before.

“This was Little Beaver’s. You killed her, didn’t you?”

The wagon master gave a snort, half-laugh, half-terror. “You’re crazy.”

“Am I?” Col’s voice was as cold as a glacier. “Tell me.”

The man froze beneath the fierce mountain man’s penetrating gray gaze.

“Tell me!” Col rammed his knee into Magrudge’s groin for emphasis. His victim gasped, eyeballs nearly popping from his head as he clutched himself. Opening his fingers, Col let him slide bonelessly to the ground like a snake. But he wasn’
t finished with his antagonist.

The pebbled texture of the beaded pouch in his hand spoke to him. The voice was female. Little Beaver’s or Brianna’s, he wasn’t sure. But the voice was loud and insistent. “Revenge,” it said. “Revenge, revenge, revenge!”

He watched Magrudge rolling over on the ground in pain and knew he had to kill him.

His aim swift and sure, Col kicked the bastard in the back. Magrudge arched against the pain, and a fresh kick in the ribs sent him over onto his back.

In desperation, Magrudge drew a knife. Col kicked it away, straddled the man and struck him again and again, oblivious to the alarmed shouts and grasping hands as Jeb Hanks and Marc tried to pull him off.

His hands felt good, felt right, closing around the woman-killer’s throat. Lips drawn back in a savage growl, Col watched through a haze of red as Magrudge’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and his mouth worked silently to suck in air.

Then Magrudge went still.

A new voice penetrated the red haze. “Don’t, Col. He isn’t worth it. Oh, please, Col
.
.
.”

He tried to let go. His fingers refused to work. He focused on the panic in Brianna’s voice. She was alive; that was all that mattered. She was alive, and she was his.

Then he heard the click of a pistol being cocked somewhere behind him.

Instinct sent him rolling over the ground. A split instant before he came up with his gun drawn, he heard the crack of gunfire, followed by a second crack.

Ten feet away Punch Moulton clutched at his chest. His face contorted. A woman screamed. Then he crumpled to the ground.

Col looked down at the gun in his hand. It was still cold. He hadn’t fired a shot.

Turning, he saw Jeb Hanks, his pistol still pointed at Punch. Beside him lay Edward Magrudge, a bullet hole square center in his forehead.

Brianna’s arms enclosed Col. He clung to her, his eyes still on the wagon captain’s inert form. “He’s dead.”

“Punch meant the bullet for you,” she said, holding him tighter.

Together they turned to look at Punch Moulton. Marc knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse. He glanced up and shook his head. Dulcie clapped her hands over her mouth and began to wail.

Standing, Marc said, “We all saw it. Punch meant to kill Col. Jeb had to shoot.”

“We also heard what Magrudge said,” someone spoke up. “Columbus Nigh isn’t Brianna Villard’s brother.”

At the words, Brianna buried her face in Col’s neck. He rose, drawing her up with him. His voice was as hard as the iron rims on the wagon wheels. “What’s between Brianna and me is nobody’s business but ours. We aren’t going to explain, and we aren’t going to apologize.”

“Good for you!” Lavinia Decker stepped forward, hands on her hips. “It’s about time you admitted what we been seeing on your face for weeks now, every time you looked at her.”

Brianna’s head came up. Red-faced, she stared at the crowd of people, many of whom she had come to love.

Someone chuckled, breaking the tension. A moment later everyone was laughing. Brianna wrapped her arms about Col’s waist. A tentative smile formed on her lips.

“Now, Columbus,” Lavinia went on, her finger wagging in front of Col’s face. “We expect you to take over as wagon captain.”

He pursed his lips, glanced at Brianna, then lifted his gaze to Laramie Peak. “No. Don’t reckon I’m your man.”

“Why not?” several disappointed voices asked.

Again, his eyes sought Brianna’s. “Let’s just say I’ve got other bacon to fry.”

“Well, somebody’s got to take the job.”

“There’s plenty of good men in the company.” Col put his hand on Marc Beaudouin’s shoulder. “Like Marc here.”

“Suits me.”

“Me, too. Anyone object?”

“Motion’s carried then. Marc Be
audouin’s our new wagon captain.”

Marc chuck
led and held up a hand. “Don’t I
have anything to say about this?”

“Sure do,” Lavinia said. “You’re the one who has to make sure Columbus Nigh there treats Missus Villard with respect. That means no hanky-panky before he finds a preacher to make everything legal and right.”

“Now wait a minute—” Col began.

Grinning, Marc wagged his head. “Lavinia’s got a point, Col. We’re God-fearing, law-abiding folks in this company. If you’ll recall, there was a law passed among us at the beginning of this journey, that any man caught seducing or otherwise taking sexual advantage of female members be tried by his peers and if found guilty, be given a choice of firing squad or hangman’s noose.”

“’Course—” Lavinia frowned “—may take till we get to Oregon City to find a preacher man.”

Col looked to Brianna as though expecting her to straighten out the matter. She lowered her gaze to her feet, cheeks as pink and maidenly as the rosebuds back in Ash Hollow.

“Good hell!” Col spluttered.

Chapter Twenty-Six

For the third time, the mule sidestepped, thwarting Barret’s attempt to put the packsaddle on its back. Twice he’d set the awkward wooden saddle down and whipped the animal. This time he kicked it instead, shouting every profanity he could think of in the tall furry ears. Whether it was the kick or his deafening curses that got the mule to stand still, he didn’t know. Nor did he care. He got the packsaddle in place, lashed on the packs, then looked about to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Where the hell was Stinky? He should have been back by now from getting that damned mountain man out of Brianna’s life. Thinking about his wife reminded him how long it had been since he’d had a woman.

His eyes wandered to the bluffs north of the trading post where the trader’s halfbreed daughter had disappeared up a draw a few minutes before, carrying a pail and a digging stick. Her ma must have sent her after wild onions or some other kind of roots.

Robidoux and Barret had sat up most of the night gambling and passing a jug of trade whiskey back and forth. Barret liked the French-Canadian trader, even considered the man a friend. But damn. Sure would have been fine crawling between the slender young thighs of Robidoux’s pretty daughter. Old Adam had been a rock in the front of his pants since Barret first laid eyes on her.

If he’d had time to spare, he’d have found a way to get to the girl. But the Magrudge train was almost a week ahead of him, and impatience made him edgy and mean. A roll in the grass would calm him, but he didn’t have the time. He shook his head again, trying to ignore the ache in his groin thinking about the girl had brought on.

Going into the log cabin that housed the trading post, he said his thanks and goodbyes. When he came back out, he gave the bluff where the girl had disappeared a final, regretful glance. Then he mounted his horse and started up the steep hill that led out of the small valley and on to Fort Laramie.

He’d gone no farther than the other side of the bluff when his horse began to limp. Cussing, he stopped and dug a pebble out of the horse’s left rear shoe. It was when he went to remount that he spotted the girl.

Grinning, he picketed the animals where they would be hidden from the road. He found her kneeling on the ground scraping spines off hunks of prickly pear cactus. She looked up, saw her father’s new friend, and smiled.

Barret admired the fat cactus leaves she showed him, moving slowly but steadily closer until he was able to crouch next to her. The sight of the high, firm mounds in the front of her doeskin dress made his mouth salivate. He babbled something about how pretty she was and put his hand on her thigh. This time when she looked at him, her eyes filled with uncertainty. Barret knew he had to move fast. He shoved her onto the ground, threw his thick body on top of her, and stifled her cry with his mouth.

She fought like a cougar. Barret had to hit her several times before she lay still, whimpering while he yanked up her dress and thrust inside her.

A virgin. Young, incredibly tight, and forbidden. Delicious. It occurred to him, as he refastened his trousers and gazed down on the sobbing girl that rape offered a thrill no willing woman could.

***

There they were. The Wind River Mountains.

Columbus Nigh sat on the dappled gray and gazed across the land spurs that formed Sweetwater Valley, to the higher peaks in the distance. Tomorrow they would camp at Greasewood Creek and the next day he would once again taste the cold, pure water of the Sweetwater River, born in the mountains he had never been able to get out of his heart.

Alone there on the sagebrush-covered hilltop, lost in memories of his Wind River Valley, he didn’t feel the icy chill of wind blowing off the snow-capped peaks he loved. The notion absorbing his mind was too loud to be called an echo, and yet it wasn’t new. It was the same notion he’d had at Horse Creek, just before Stinky Harris tried to kill him and wound up dead instead.

Would Brianna leave the train and go with him, if he asked? Oregon had meant no more to her at the beginning of their trek than a haven from Barret. In spite of her determination to get there, Oregon had no ties for her, no future that awaited her arrival. If she would let him, he would give her his own valley as her haven. And himself for her future.

They would be safer in the Wind River Valley. Barret would never expect them to leave the train and go off into the wilderness. Greenhorn like him would find it difficult, if not impossible, to follow them.

It was a good plan. Brianna was no squaw, but he knew she could handle the rugged life he had in mind. Yellow Feather’s village would be there somewhere. He could trade for a tipi and an extra packhorse. At summer’s end, after he had shown her why he loved this country, they could return to the Wind River Valley where he would build them a cabin, a home.

Home. Lord, but that sounded good. He chuckled, surprised and pleased. Life was looking better than he could ever remember, better even than sharing a pile of roasted humpribs on a summer evening with friends around the campfire.

He tongued his toothpick to the corner of his mouth and thought of the wonders he could show her. His certainty that they would affect her the same way they had him turned his craving into need. His eagerness churned in his gut and filled him with restless energy. He turned the gray and headed back down the long hill, determined to convince her of his plan.

They had crossed the North Platte on rafts at Red Buttes the night before and camped at Willow Springs. Storms had swollen the river. It was four hundred yards wide and very fast. Hardly anyone made it across without losing part of his load and two men had died. Today was a recuperation day.

Game would be scarce in the barren country ahead of them. It was a country of alkali ponds, sagebrush, and very little grass. Even the springs tasted like stove coal. Dead cattle poisoned by alkali already littered the trail, including an entire team, still yoked. The water at Willow Springs was cold and pure, but had to be shared with several other companies.

All about him as he wove his way through the camps rose the companionable sounds of talk, laughter, and snatches of song. Children chased lizards. Men repaired wagons and gear. Women spread freshly scrubbed sheets and garments over the sagebrush. The air was redolent with the good smells of fresh-baked bread, beans, pies, and the fragrant smoke of sagebrush fires.

He found Brianna sitting at their makeshift table, mending garments. After hearing him out, she cocked her head, a look of confusion on her face. “Col, are you asking me to be your squaw? To follow you around the mountains, caring for your lodge, cooking your food, and keeping your bed warm?”

Col blinked. Her eyes were like brittle shards of sky, intensely blue and frigidly cold. He hunkered down beside her, spit the pick from his mouth and studied her while she threaded a needle and bent to mend one of her dresses.

“Something eating at you, Bri?”

Brianna let out a long sigh. She set aside her mending and folded her hands in her lap. In her eyes he saw pain, doubt, and regret. He glanced around. There was no sign of Marc or his boys. For the first time in days, both Dulcie and Lavinia weren’t hovering over them.

“Been a long time since we been allowed more’n a second of privacy, hasn’t it?” he said.

“Not since the night you tried to choke Edward Magrudge to death for killing Little Beaver.”

Col nodded. “Is that what this is all about?”

She pushed to her feet and walked away from the wagon to stare at the countryside, much as he had done earlier. “It occurred to me that night that you must have loved her a great deal to still feel so much rage over her death. I admit that part of my pain is because I’m jealous.”

He held out his hand and surveyed the stub of his little finger on his left hand. Maybe it was time he told the story of that day when he had found Little Beaver dead. “Will you take a ride with me?”

She allowed him to lift her onto the gray and mount behind her. He took her to the top of Prospect Hill where he had sat minutes before, mapping out a future he had hoped she would want to share with him.

“Little Beaver wasn’t much more’n a child by your standards. Indian women grow up fast.” He shrugged, wondering why he had bothered to tell her that. Then he dismounted and lifted her down.

“It was late fall. We were camped on the Ham’s Fork when Magrudge stopped by to tell me they needed meat over to Fort Bridger. I never saw him again until I took you to find your sister outside Independence.

“I spent two days in the mountains hunting meat for the fort. Little Beaver stayed in camp. She was used to fending for herself. Indian women can take care of themselves nearly as well as a man.”

He gave a snort and shook his head. “Reckon I’m still trying to justify leaving her alone.” He was silent some minutes before he went on. “I went back to take her with me to deliver the meat. She loved to look at all the foofuraw the store offered and visit any of her kin who might be there. Reckon women are alike in some ways, red or white.”

Eyes dark and somber, he gazed toward the snowy peaks. Brianna’s heart ached for him. She longed to tell him none of this mattered. She had gotten over her revulsion for Indians somewhere along the trail. At Fort Laramie, she thought. The Sioux and Cheyenne there were nothing like the Kanza back home. Brianna had admired the beautifully quilled garments of the northern tribes, their proud stature and intelligence. Watching a mother bathe her child in the river had shown Brianna that women everywhere were indeed very much alike, as Col had just said.

“She was naked.” His words and the hoarseness of his voice shocked her as Col continued his story.

“Naked and sprawled on the floor of the tipi, legs spread and bloodied. One arm broken. Her face so swollen and battered, I hardly recognized her.”

There were other things he could not describe, things Brianna didn’t need to know, but that would haunt him forever. “Never even knew her medicine pouch was missing, till I saw it hangin
g from Magrudge’s filthy neck.”

He turned toward her and she felt another jolt of shock at the lack of emotion in his eyes. “I took her as my woman so I wouldn’t offend Yellow Feather.” His eyes closed and he shook his head. When he opened them again, she glimpsed anguish and guilt before he looked away. “No, that’s not entirely true. I wanted what she represented to me: home, family, all the things I’d never known, even when I was a little scrub.”

He came to Brianna then, took up her hand and rubbed her palm with his thumb while he stared her in the eye with an expression that begged for understanding.

“I was born in a shack, Bri. My father worked the docks, odd jobs when he could get them, picking pockets when he couldn’t. My ma died before I learned to walk. Only women I knew after that were whores Pa dragged home. I was nine when he was killed in a brawl. You’re right if you think I’m not good enough for you.”

When she opened her mouth to object, he placed a finger over her lips. “I followed in my pa’s footsteps, picking pockets till I was big enough to sweep floors in a brothel. When I was seventeen 1 signed on to trap beaver.”

He pointed to the snowy Wind River peaks wreathed with clouds in the far distance. “Up there I found peace, who and what I was. Or thought I did. Since I met you I haven’t been so sure.” His mouth quirked in a smile meant to tease. But it didn’t erase the sadness in his eyes.

“I never loved her, Bri.” The words were so soft she might not have heard, had she not been so close. “Kept meat in her pot, supplied hides for her clothes, bought her
foofuraw from the fort. I even
.
.
.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his gaze fell. The afternoon sun glinted on moisture in his eyes and she caught her breath. Tears. That a man of his strength, a man who had lived the roughest of lives, could be soft and vulnerable, touched her in a way words could not. But what he said next stopped her heart.

“She was carrying my child.”

Such a simple statement, but along with everything else he’d told her it spoke volumes. He had taken a young girl, used her to his own ends, giving back only what his hands could provide, and when she was about to give him what he most wanted in the world—a family—he had let her down. He had worn the guilt of her death like a hair shirt, and in his mind, only avenging her death could absolve his sins.

Should she tell him what she suspected? No, it would be too cruel, not knowing how this mess would end. Brianna lifted the hand that held hers and looked at the stunted finger.

“Indian tradition,” he said in answer to her unasked question. “A sacrifice to show grief when a
  . . .
a loved one dies. Reckon I needed to make some sort of sacrifice at the time.”

Slowly, Brianna brought the severed finger to her lips and kissed it.

Watching, Col swallowed hard. “Lord, but I love you, woman.”

He pulled her to him and hugged her so tightly she thought her ribs would break. Against her hair, he said, “Saying her name, the name of one who’s gone to the other side, is bad medicine to an Indian. Don’t reckon her medicine coulda gotten any worse, marrying me. Before you decide whether or not you want to come with me, maybe you ought to think on that. I might be bad medicine for you, too.”