Wild Is the Night (31 page)

“Haskwell would have hanged for that, had we found the woman who saw him. We know the bastard did it. All we needed was for her to show up.”

Luke froze as the whiskey tin touched his mouth, the metal cold against his teeth. “You don’t think…”

“She was five foot five, chestnut colored hair, and glasses,” Jake replied. “That’s the description.”

“Jesus,” Luke swore softly. “You mean, Amanda saw him?”

“It hardly matters whether she did or didn’t,” Jake pointed out. “If Haskwell thinks she saw it.”

Luke nodded. It made sense, all of it. And if Sam Haskwell thought Amanda could hang him, he wouldn’t stop pursuing her until she was dead. Hatred rose up in him. He refused to even entertain the thought. Haskwell wouldn’t wantonly kill someone who meant something to him again. When he was fighting Grant at Petersburg, there was nothing he could do.

This time, it would be different.

The hot Oklahoma sun glittered brightly on the swaying fields of the Great Plains. A wagon train snaked through the grass, plodding down a trail worn through by hundreds of wheels and thousands of hooves. Soft white daisies dotted the land, while empty sacks of burlap and discarded tins testified to the human element who had made the same trek.

In the distant hills, the starving Indians watched the procession, their bronzed red bodies blending perfectly with the dusty red clay of the earth. Lying poised against the dirt, their slender bodies perfectly controlled, they waited for the right moment to pose an attack on the unwary settlers below.

Inside the second wagon, a woman took off her bonnet and ruffled her soft blonde hair. The breeze felt wonderful against her hot scalp, and she stretched, allowing it to play over her sweat-soaked dress.

Angel Hollister was tired of the trail, tired of the ugly Longhorn cattle they’d been tasked to drive up to Abilene. But she’d begged her father to take her these past months, with a girlish desire for excitement. She hadn’t known what the trail would really be like—that every bone in her body would ache incessantly, that thirst and hunger would become constant companions, or that simple tasks would take on a monumental difficulty.

She also hadn’t known what a blazing sunset would look like, unfettered by buildings or saloon lights, or how pristine and clear the air would be at dawn. She hadn’t anticipated the flowers, the brush plants, the geranium and columbine that appeared in the sea of softly waving grass like casually dropped presents. No, she hadn’t known of any of this, nor could she explain the way she’d been feeling lately.

It was as if her body had come alive with nature. In the past few days, she’d become keenly aware of Chase Rutherford, her father’s foreman. She could see him just outside the wagon, riding with his body bent forward and his legs pressed tightly to his mount. Tall, with crisp black hair and sky-blue eyes, he could look right into her and make her blood pulse hotter and her heart do crazy things. He saw her in the wagon and he tipped his hat, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Morning.” His eyes wandered down the front of her dress. “Care to ride? There’s a waterhole a few miles south. We could make it ahead of the wagons.” He smiled knowingly. “You would be a lot cooler for a swim.”

She shouldn’t, Lord knows, she shouldn’t. Her father would be furious. Angel Hollister had always done the right thing and had always listened to authority. Until Chase. For some reason, the blue-eyed cowboy made it difficult to think. She wanted to refuse now, but her nerves felt as tight as a guitar string and the thought of the cooling water was just too tempting. Checking to make sure her father was still well behind them, she nodded eagerly and slipped into the saddle before him, her legs fitting expertly next to his….

Amanda read through the scene from her new novel, pleased with its progress. The difference in her writing was apparent. Her trip on the prairie was obviously affecting her work.

“Go on out there and sing, Honey me girl.”

Honey stared back at Sam, her eyes lifeless. Clad in scarlet silk, she looked stunning, but there was an emptiness about her that made her black ostrich feather droop and her glass diamonds lose their luster. She looked beaten, frightened half to death, and pushed past the point of caring. As she gazed at the man who was her captor, she swallowed the hatred that was beginning to eat away at her. She refused to feel anything at all.

She couldn’t. For the past few days, Sam had dragged her from one cow town to another, in a relentless search for a woman named Edison. None of it meant anything to Honey. Nothing mattered now except escape, and that seemed impossible.

She had given up trying ever since the last time Sam threatened her in the dressing room. She shivered as she thought of that gun pressing against her skin, and worse, what had followed afterward. Although he had yet to physically beat her, he abused her in every other way possible. He beat her down mentally, made her feel terrified all of the time. Sexually perverted, he seemed to delight in anything that humiliated her, that added to her sense of helplessness and fear. It was a stimulant to him, an aphrodisiac to the older man who needed whatever he could get to arouse him.

And now he wanted her to sing. Numbly, Honey clutched the black lace fan Sam had given her and she stared out onto the scarred and empty stage just beyond. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even remember a song, or the days when she was free, enjoying the attention of men, and letting them shower her with gold and compliments. She used to allow only one man to take her to dinner, and she always refused to sleep with him after. It was a trick she had learned early on—not to give in. It made the men crazy for her.

It was the ultimate irony to wind up like this. She, Honey Bee, who could have any man, who rejected governors and silver kings, railroad barons and rich Yankee speculators, was now the plaything of a man so cruel and worthless that she couldn’t think of a name low enough to do him justice.

“Get out there.” Sam’s voice turned cold. “Now.”

“I can’t,” Honey protested, her voice taking on the first glimmer of life that it had shown in days. “Sam, please don’t do this. Don’t make me sing. I just can’t.”

Sam grabbed her roughly, bruising her alabaster shoulder. “You can and you will. This trip is costing me money, and I need to make it back. Now you’ll do it for me, or I’ll find another way to make you earn your keep.” He smiled, his black eyes glittering with menace. “There are over fifty men out there who have paid to see you, Honey darlin’. Fifty men. Any one of them or all of them would pay a tidy fortune to spend an hour between your legs. Ah, I see you understand me now. Which way would you prefer?”

“No, Sam!” Honey cried, crystal tears spilling down her cheeks and smearing the black kohl Haskwell had insisted she use. “Please, no!”

“All right then.” Sam let go of her arm and shoved her gently out to center stage. “You’ve made your choice then. I’ll let the piano player know what songs you prefer.”

He was gone a moment later, disappearing through a dusty velvet curtain. Honey could hear the silence, followed by a thunderous applause as the piano man struck a few tinny chords. The curtain slowly opened, and the spotlight fell on her with a painful illumination. The clapping ceased, and the men waited in anticipation as Honey opened her mouth to sing.

“The sun shines bright, on my old Kentucky home; ‘Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corn top’s ripe and the meadow’s in bloom, While the birds make music all the day…”

It was the only song she could remember, the only one whose words would come. She sang softly, her voice tremulous as she fought back tears, wishing she could go home and be well away from this nightmare which had become her life.

The cheer dissipated from the room like a jolly ghost no longer welcome. The men, already rich with beer, stared at the sad and beautiful girl on stage, and felt her pain. Many of them, defeated Confederates who were struggling to rebuild a new life, thought back to the homes that once waited for them—homes that no longer existed or were forever changed. As Honey sang, the sadness permeated the saloon. More than one man roughly wiped his eye with his sleeve, while others slipped solemnly away, wanting to escape from the painful reminders of the war.

“What the hell is this shit?” the bartender swore. Instead of clapping and cheering and buying round after round, the men were acting as if they were at a funeral. Honey’s voice rang out true and clear, filled with sorrow and grief. She moved gracefully across the stage, her dress falling around a figure that was now too thin. Even her hair, that wonderful arrangement of black glossy curls, seemed to have dimmed, and her eyes looked out onto nothing.

The barkeep gestured to the piano player to change the music, but the man shrugged. Every time he attempted it, Honey returned to the sad lament of the lost South.

“A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter, it will never be light; We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away.”

A cowboy sobbed, then drowned himself in his beer, while more men slipped away. The barkeep strode up to the stage, threw a menacing glance to the piano player who immediately began a cheerful ditty, then hauled the curtain shut. He turned to Haskwell and Honey, his face beet red, his black moustache twitching in anger.

“What the hell do you call that? I hired you to bring men in, not to make them leave! This whole place is as depressed as a morgue!”

“I’m sorry,” Honey stammered, suddenly realizing what she’d done. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re fired.” The barkeep tossed a coin onto the floor. “Take that and leave. You’re lucky I don’t hold you responsible for loss of income tonight. Goddamn! Saturday night, and we usually pack the house! Tonight I book Honey Bee, and she drives out half the men with one song! When word of this gets out, you won’t get a booking anywhere!”

“You aren’t threatening now, are you?” Sam said, his black eyes narrowing with menace. His hand rested lightly over his gun, his fingers twitching, as if aching to draw.

“No.” The barkeep swallowed hard. Haskwell was no one to tangle with. The man was ruthless, and would kill with no more compunction than he’d spit out tobacco. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Good.” Haskwell smiled, his brogue deepening. “Miss Honey isn’t herself tonight. I’ll take care of that. Meanwhile, you keep your mouth shut. Understood?”

The barkeep nodded. It wasn’t worth his life. He watched as Sam roughly dragged the young showgirl away, her feathers bobbing like a plucked hen’s. He had seen the abject misery in her eyes, but there was nothing he could do about it. Cursing, he returned to the bar and counted out his receipts.

It was a bad night all around.

The campfire oranged the night black sky, sending ribbons of flame and cinders sparkling into infinity. They had crossed the Texas border earlier that day, and already the wagon train was breaking up. The religious families headed east for places like Dallas, while the cowhands, their pockets jingling with coins, went on to Decatur.

Amanda sighed, turning over in the wagon. Jake and Aileen had gone to bed early, to prepare for their arrival in Waco tomorrow. Luke was still up. She could see him walking, his hands thrust in his pockets against the chill, his face harsh and thoughtful. He had done the work of three men that day, getting the cattle together, organizing the gradual drop off of the families, and keeping to the trail. She knew he was tired, but like a moonstruck animal he paced, his hand-rolled cigarette a red taper in the blackness.

For some reason, she shared the feeling. Every muscle in her body was as tight as a fiddler’s string, and her nerves jumped with the slightest noise. Annoyed at herself, she braided her hair and wondered why the wagon seemed so empty, why she felt so alone. Aesop watched her with wide, unblinking yellow eyes, but even his presence didn’t soothe her. Picking up her pencil, she stared at the page, but it stared right back at her—white and unfilled.

They would be arriving in Waco tomorrow. There would be a solicitor in town, of that Amanda was certain. Luke would seek him out, put an end to this marriage, and then the two of them would—

Would what?

They had planned to share the ranch, in an equal partnership. But how could they now, after sharing so much? Try as she might, Amanda could not imagine Luke acting as foreman, and herself as his ranch teammate. Every time she tried to envision any kind of working relationship, she drew a blank as empty as her paper. They had been intimate. They had lived as husband and wife. True, she had fought him every step of the way until recently, when he’d made life more pleasant than she could have dreamed possible— but she had always wanted him.

What did Luke Parker want from her?

It was a question that couldn’t be answered. Frustrated, Amanda went back to her work. Books had always helped her when she was upset, but she discovered that now nothing did. She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind, normally brilliant, would not even piece together a sentence. Exasperated, she tossed the pencil aside, barely missing Aesop, who ruffled his feathers indignantly and turned his head around away from her.

She wanted him. Amanda knew what the ache in her stomach meant, and also knew that tonight might be her last chance. Something had happened between them that day, when he had encouraged her to cross the river and conquer her fears, something that made her wonder if she could overcome her biggest fear of all.