Tender Touch (33 page)

Again, Barret shook his head.

“It means mourns the loss of a loved one. I, too, mourn. Do you know why, monsieur Wight?”

“It. . . it’s nothing to do with me. Look, I’ve been shot. You have to get me some help, I—”

“My daughter’s name can never be spoken again,” Antoine interrupted.

Brianna gasped, remembering Col’s words about the speaking of a dead one’s name being bad luck.

Antoine glanced at her. “I see that you,
madame
, know the significance of this. My little one was shamed, you see, taken against her will, by a man she mistook as a friend.

“The Black Robes spoke much with her about the sanctity of marriage and the importance of going to a husband with innocence intact. She believed Yellow Fox would no longer want her, so she take her knife and plunge it into her heart. She is with her ancestors now, but my friend finds this small comfort. You are a
femme
. You have the tender heart, no? You understand we must avenge t
his wrong done my
petite Jille
.
”

“Wha . . .
what are you talking about?” Blubbering, Barret backed away, his bloodied hands held out in front of him. “Why is that . . . why is that savage looking at me that way?”

Antoine nodded at Yellow Fox. The Indian drew an arrow, nocked it and drew back the string of his bow.

“Wait
. . .
hold on a minute,” Barret screeched. “She came onto me. You know, she wanted me to—”

The sentence went unfinished. The lie was cut short by the twang of Yellow Fox’s bowstring and the dull thwack as the arrow drove deep into Barret’s thick chest.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

With a strangled gasp, Barret staggered under the arrow’s impact, then caught himself.

Brianna screamed. The sound seemed to bring the world alive again. She lurched to her feet and stumbled backward, away from the awful sight of her husband and the brightly painted feathers quivering at the end of the shaft protruding from his chest.

Beyond the grisly scene, the huge emigrant encampment also came alive like a hive of bees knocked awry; people raced everywhere, confused and alarmed. Men ran toward the hill where she stood, armed with rifles, shovels, and picks.

Barret’s hands encircled the shaft. The disbelief in his eyes changed to horror as he watched the second Indian nock an arrow. “No . . . no!”

Antoine held up his hand. The Indian paused.

As the Frenchman dismounted and walked over to him, Barret fell to his knees. “God, Antoine, have . . . mercy. Don’t
  . . .
let them . . . hurt me anymore. I didn’t
. . .”

His voice faded as Antoine drew a knife from his belt.

The Frenchman knotted his hand in Barret’s hair. He shoved Barret face-down on the ground, ignoring the man’s howl of pain as the arrow was driven through his body. The barbed steel tip with its grisly coating of blood emerged to point into the sky like a cockeyed road sign.

Brianna covered her face with her hands but couldn’t stop watching. Her breath huffed out in terrified gasps, and the roar in her ears blocked out all sound.

With the tip of his skinning knife, while Barret gasped for air and gurgled up bloody froth, Antoine carved a circle four inches in diameter in his victim’s scalp. Then, still hanging onto the pale yellow hair, the trader braced his foot on Barret’s back and gave a hard yank. The round patch of scalp tore loose with a sickening, sucking sound. Blood splattered, catching Brianna.

She gagged.

***

Col reined in his horse and scanned the river crossing in confusion. Rafts used by the Mormons to ferry wagons and emigrants over the North Platte bobbed in the water, loaded and ready, but unattended. People were running up a rise beyond the Mormon’s crudely built log house. Already a large crowd had gathered near the hill’s brow. Then he noticed that even the people on this side of the river were frozen like statues, their eyes glued to the same spot.

Every sense he owned kicked in, telling him he’d found Brianna, and she was in trouble. As he kicked his horse and galloped down to the water he caught the word “Indians,” shouted by someone, and then “She shot him.” Foreboding lashed at his insides.

He didn’t waste time wondering what the Indians could have to do with Brianna. The other three words were enough to drive him into water, whipping the buckskin with his quirt as he forced the gelding across the shallow but treacherous river.

The horse stumbled as quicksand sucked at its hooves. Col whipped him harder and screamed obscenities in his trembling ears. The horse jerked free and plunged forward.

Halfway across, they sank in one of the inexplicable holes the Platte was famous for. Before Col could slide off to allow the horse to swim, the animal found purchase on the shifting, sandy bottom and they were moving again.

Panic drove Col on.

Dripping wet, he raced toward the hill, his lips moving in silent prayer as his glance raked the crowd, searching, always searching, for Brianna.

“Naw, the Injuns are gone,” he heard someone say as he slowed to work his way through the throng.

His bowels knotted in figure eights as a woman, her hands clasped to her plump cheeks, said over and over, “The poor woman. The poor, poor woman.”

Cursing and ordering people aside, he drove the buckskin deeper and deeper into the mob while fear ate at his innards like turkey vultures on a corpse.

***

The Indians put away their bows. Yellow Fox spoke to Antoine in a tongue much like Brianna had heard Col use, then tossed the Frenchman a rope. The arrow was carefully withdrawn from her husband’s inert form, wiped clean on Barret’s shirt, and returned to its owner. The rope was tied around the carcass which was then turned over. Barret’s eyes, so like the color of the sky, stared sightlessly into the sun.

Falling to her knees, Brianna vomited.

Antoine swung himself into his saddle. He handed the scalp to Yellow Fox who quickly attached it to his lance. Antoine secured the rope to his saddle and, as one voice, the three men tipped back their heads, opened their mouths and let out a spine-tingling screech.

The horses reared and danced, kicking up dust. The men lashed the animals with quirts and galloped away, dragging Barret’s body behind them over rocks and sagebrush.

The last thing Brianna saw of her husband were the puffs of dust raised by his body as it bounced along, and the bloody patch of his scalp dangling from a lance. She retched and retched until there was nothing left in her stomach.

Finally it was over and she realized Marc was beside her.

“Brianna, are you all right?” He gave her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth and helped her to her feet. With her arms around his waist, she clung to him. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.

People milled around them, stirring up the dust and heat. Voices jangled. The smell of unwashed bodies crowded out the scent of sagebrush. And death. Brianna focused on the familiar, comforting face of her friend.

“They killed him, Marc. Oh God, they killed him.”

“I know. I saw them drag him away as I was running up the hill. The wind carried his howls of pain clear down to the water. Someone yelled ‘Indians!’ Then I heard you scream.”

She laid her head on his shoulder and gave in to the tears that had simmered below the surface of her emotions for days. Awkwardly, Marc patted her back and murmured inanities in an effort to comfort her.

“Come on,” he said when she began to calm down. “Let’s get you back to the wagon where you can lie down.”

She drew away. “My mouth,” she said with a grimace. “Can you get me something to rinse it with?”

He called out to one of the men watching with gruesome fascination as flies swarmed in the warm pool of blood on the ground, and asked to borrow the flask the man carried.

“Here.” Marc held the flask to her lips. “It’s whiskey. Just swish it around and spit it out.”

After she had done as he told her, he held the flask to her mouth again. “Now take a swallow. It will calm you.”

She choked and gasped as the fire burned its way down her throat into her stomach. As the liquor’s warmth spread through her veins, a bit of the tension eased from her body.

A man on horseback was shouting and shoving his way toward them. The crowd parted reluctantly before the rider. Then she saw him.

“Col!”

In a flash, he was there, gaping at her as though he couldn’t believe what he saw. His gaze took in her bloodstained clothes and the relief in his silver-gray eyes vanished. A heartbeat later he had dismounted and was stood before her, his hands cradling her arms. Marc released her and stepped away.

“The blood,” Col stammered hoarsely. “Where are you hurt? Is it bad?”

She glanced down at her dress, noticing for the first time the blood splattered on her from Barret’s wounds. “It . . . it’s Barret’s, not mine.”

He let out his breath and jerked her into his arms. The lower half of his body was soaking wet and dampening her clothes.

“Bri, oh God, Bri.” He muttered her name over and over, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. But she didn’t care. This kind of breathlessness she could handle. Col was here. Her love was here. She drew back and smiled up at him. The water splashed on his face as he crossed the river had turned the dust to muddy runnels that dripped from his chin. Red rimmed his eyes. He had never looked more handsome.

His long fingers on her bruised jaw and cheek were gentle, in direct opposition to the hardness in his voice. “Did Barret do this? Where is he, I’ll kill him—”

“You’re too late. He’s gone, Col. He’ll never bother us again.”

Again he heard the words, “She shot him.” Over her shoulder Col sent Marc a q
uestioning glance. Marc nodded.

Turning his attention back to Brianna, Col said, “I ought to paddle you. You made me so angry I couldn’t think straight. When I realized what you intended to do, I nearly rode my horse to death trying to get back to you.”

“It wasn’t necessary,” she said. “But I’m so glad you did.”

He frowned. “What do you mean, it wasn’t necessary?”

She smiled at the fear in his eyes. “I mean that as soon as I convinced Barret to grant me a divorce, I was coming to find you. In our valley,” she added softly.

“In our valley,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’re crazy, you know that? The Indians would call you Woman Who Has Gone Out Of Her Head.”

“No. They’ll call
me Woman Of Man Without Fear.”

He kissed her then, so tenderly, so reverently, Brianna felt her eyelids prick once more with tears. Swallowing them, she entwined her arms about his neck and returned his kiss. He tasted of dirt and river water, but she barely noticed. Her lips moved over his, telling him with action what she hadn’t been able to say in words until this moment.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered against her whiskey-flavored mouth. “As soon as we can find a man of the cloth, I’m going to make sure you can never leave me.”

She cocked her head and gave him a coy smile. “You’d better. I’d hate to see the next generation of Nighs come into this world illegitimate.”

He stepped back, staring at her as though she’d spoken a strange language. Slowly his gaze swept over her, lingering on her breasts and stomach, searching for evidence that what she hinted at was true.

Brianna blushed. “It won’t be here till spring, Col. That’s several months away yet.”

He smiled. The smile turned into a grin. Then he let out a whoop every bit as loud as that the Indians had let loose before dragging off Barret Wight’s body.

“Go find a preacher, Marc,” he shouted. “We’re having a wedding.”

Holding her about the waist Col swung her in a circle, round and round. Abruptly he stopped and said, “I’m sorry, did I hurt you? Did I hurt the baby?”

She laughed and clung to him. “No, silly, we’re not made of glass.”

“No, you’re moonshine, spun like a spider’s web to snare me. You even taste like moonshine,” he teased.

The joy in his eyes altered, grew serious and took on depth. He pressed his lips to her temple and his voice became hoarse and unsteady as he whispered, “Ah, Bri, I love you so much. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, although sometimes 1 can’t believe I could be so lucky.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “You know what 1 am and all that I’m not. Yet you can say that?”

“You’re a gentle and caring man, Columbus Nigh. What more could any woman want? Knowing that you love me makes me feel more blessed than any woman alive.”

She pulled back, took his hand and held it to her stomach. There was no denying the pride in her voice and eyes. “You gave me this child and I already love him as much as I do his father. We’re a family now, Col. A family.”

He swallowed, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Told you we belonged together, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Col. The sun and the moon. And next year a little star to add to our own special heaven.”