Prairie Song Page 10

  “When will I see you again?” Cherish knew she was being bold, but she couldn’t go for days again without knowing where he was or if he felt anything like she did. She’d opened her soul to this man and all he’d said was that he had to go. Since she’d waited until she was twenty for her first taste of passion, she couldn’t afford the luxury of dallying. She wanted Brant Coulter, but she wanted his love with his desire. She wanted the tenderness his eyes promised, not just the physical touching he offered. Suddenly, she realized she wanted it all from this man or nothing at all.

  Brant looked up at the stars and tried not to think about her hands resting on his shoulders. “Tomorrow night,” he whispered as he stepped away. “At midnight. I’ll be in the barn if I can. But if you’re wise, you’ll stay away from me. And if I have any sense I’ll never touch you again.”

  He walked away unsure he could leave her if he turned and saw her face again in the moonlight. God, how he wanted her. And yet she scared him more than a hundred posses. How could she pull away one minute and beg to see him again the next? She wasn’t like the women he’d met. What she wanted might be the same, but she wanted it slow and deep, not fast and meaningless. Other women might want his money, or his body, but Cherish wanted him heart and soul. She was either as pure as she acted, or as crazy as old Hattie.

  Chapter 10

  Margaret lifted one wet child and handed her to Grayson. While he dried the baby she stripped the next victim for “a good cleaning,” as she called it.

  “I’m glad Westley and I had no children.” Margaret pushed a strand of ebony hair from her flushed face and continued, “I’m about to decide I’m not very maternal.” She’d developed a habit of talking to Grayson without ever expecting an answer or caring that he didn’t seem to understand a word she said. “I wouldn’t have been able to go with Cherish if I’d had a child. There hasn’t been more than a few weeks since she was born that I haven’t been near her just in case she needed me.”

  Grayson really wasn’t listening to her words. He was watching how her wet blouse clung to the rounded curve of her shoulders and loving the way she moved as she worked. Every day with her was a new level of hell for him. The more he burned for her, the more she talked about the angel of a man she’d married, her Westley. His memory was an invisible wall that kept Grayson away and made him realize that loving her would never happen except in his dreams. After all the years, he’d finally fallen for another woman, and she was married to a memory.

  As he watched her, he smiled. He knew she was lying about not wanting children. All three little ones were better today and could have gone back to the mission, but Margaret had already told Father Daniel that she was keeping them for a few more days.

  Grayson helped dress the children and bed them down. He smiled at what his supervisors would say in the office if they knew he was spending his time staring at a beautiful woman and rocking babies. He’d spent ten years convincing everyone how heartless he was when it came to criminals, and he’d never live it down if they saw him now. He’d had enough time to get away twice and send messages back to the office by way of an old stagecoach driver he’d used as delivery man before. He was beginning to believe that all the talk about a secret clan known as the Knights of the Golden Circle was just a tale cooked up to frighten blacks and skittish Northerners. Logic told him he was wasting his time with both the mission and the woman, but a few pieces didn’t fit together around this place. And Grayson never left a job half-done. So, he’d asked to be assigned temporarily to the nearest post at Camp Wilson.

  Leaning back in a chair, he thought of what he’d come up with so far: The accident hadn’t been an accident at all. Cherish disappeared sometimes for hours. Old Hattie guarded her room like it was a bank depository. None of it made much sense. Even Azile’s constant warnings about the house were starting to get on his nerves. The latest was her claim that she smelled death in the woodwork. But Maggie swore it was only the whiskey Azile mixed with her tea. Sometimes Grayson thought he could almost feel evil whispering through the hallways when everyone else was asleep.

  “Grayson.” Margaret grabbed his arm in panic. “Someone’s out front.”

  Grayson started from his daydream. He moved to the window and watched as shadows drifted around just beyond the gate. There were several cottonwoods on the other side of the road that now darkened the spot where a dozen men met. Grayson watched in horror as he saw the men pull material over their heads as masks. He’d heard of this kind of trouble spreading through the South like a cancer, but this was the first proof he’d witnessed. He’d bet a year’s pay that a few of these men were members of the Knights he’d been searching for.

  The men were laughing, and judging from the volume, they’d been drinking. Several riders joined at the crossroads from town. A shot rang out as a call to ride, and the horses bolted into a full run. Shots echoed through the streets as others joined in the race out of town.

  Grayson clutched Margaret against him and fell to the floor. His body rolled and covered hers as they waited a long, silent moment to make sure the firing had stopped. He was so aware of her as a woman that not even the danger penetrated his mind. He leaned his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes to dream for one moment that she was in his arms for another reason. He longed to tell her how she affected him, but one word would mean his betrayal, and she’d hate him for the rest of her life. How could she ever love a man who had fought against her beloved Westley? How could he ever compete against a ghost?

  “Grayson.” She whispered his name, and he fought the urge to press her into the floor with his entire weight. “I think they’re gone.” There was no passion, no hunger in her voice. The realization that she didn’t feel the same about him was like an ice storm against his soul.

  Slowly, he rose and helped her up. The pat she gave to his arm was an insult. He doubled his fists to keep from grabbing her and showing her he was a man and not a lapdog.

  He turned to the windows and allowed the icy wind to cool his blood. He had a job to do, he reminded himself, and by God he’d do that job. Then he’d drink this woman out of his mind if it took six months.

  As he stared into the night he saw one lone figure mount a horse and ride off to the west. There was no mistaking the slight build of the rider as he mentally cataloged this new evidence in his already growing file on Cherish Wyatt.

  Cherish followed the gray dust trail of a dozen or more riders for almost a mile before she turned her horse and took a shortcut through rocky ground. She knew it was dangerous, but she had to reach the farm before the others, and this was her one chance.

  As she rode, she tried to piece together all that had happened in the past hour. She’d waited for Brant in the barn long past the time they’d agreed on. Finally, voices drifted from the road. Silently moving around the house, she’d slipped unseen into the shadow of the cottonwoods. As more men arrived, their destination and purpose became clear. First, she’d listened to them argue about taking the short trail she was now on, but the vote had finally been that it was too risky at night. Then she’d heard parts of conversations about beating or hanging a few former slaves at Hank’s place to teach them a lesson.

  Even now, after miles of hard riding, their words still doubled her fists with anger. She had to reach Hank Stevens’ farm first and warn everyone. She remembered a letter her mother had written early in the war about a family near Fredericksburg, Texas, who sided with the North’s beliefs. Masked riders had raided their farm in the middle of the night. They’d demanded that the man and all his sons over twelve step out. When the peaceful farmer did as they’d asked, the masked men gunned them all down while the wife and smaller children watched. Cherish wouldn’t let that happen now.

  She spotted the large farmhouse in the distance and pushed the bay she’d borrowed from Grayson without asking into a full gallop. They must be given a chance to run or hide before the drunken mob of men reached them. If she had to, she’d stand alone while th
ey had time to hide, but there was going to be no more killing.

  “Stop!” someone shouted from the blackness. A man’s shadow appeared from nowhere to stand thirty feet in front of her horse.

  Without warning, the bay balked, throwing Cherish over his head and into freshly plowed dirt. She was almost on her feet when a strong arm clamped around her waist and pulled her across the ground. Before she could scream, the attacker dropped into a hole and pulled her down with him. He ran his hands along her sides, then, when seemingly satisfied she was not injured, he shoved her against the wall of the freshly built trench.

  “Uncover a lamp and see who it is,” someone snapped.

  “No!” said her attacker in a voice that sounded familiar. “I know who she is. I’ll see that she keeps her head down and stays out of trouble.”

  “I will not keep my head down.” Cherish fought at the arm holding her as she glanced toward three men huddled in the trench. “There is a group of men on their way that are planning to beat, maybe even kill, some of the blacks on this farm. I’ll not—”

  A gloved hand covered her mouth, the touch oddly familiar. “You idiot,” he whispered. “Quiet, or you’ll let them know we’re here waiting for them.” His lips were only an inch from her ear and there was no mistaking the familiar aroma of danger that always seemed to surround Brant Coulter.

  As he spoke, the sound of horses thundered through the air. Brant shoved Cherish against the dirt wall of the trench with his body. She could feel the earth move as the horses grew closer. A thousand questions jumped into her mind, but the nearness of his hand to her cheek kept her silent. She turned to watch.

  When the riders were within thirty yards, the men in the trench uncovered lanterns and set them on the ground. All four, including Brant, raised their rifles and she heard one mighty click as they cocked their weapons.

  The men on horseback stumbled to a stop, some losing their balance and falling off their horses.

  A lone man stepped out of the trench and for a moment he seemed to face the hooded men alone. “I’m Hank Stevens and you’re on my land.” Three other shadows climbed up to join him.

  Brant leaned close to Cherish as he climbed. “Stay here and don’t move, or I swear this time I will break your pretty neck.” Before she could ask any questions he’d jumped up to stand with the others.

  A man on horseback, his face completely hidden in white cloth, yelled, “Get out of our way, Hank. We’ve come to teach your blacks a lesson! They’ve been giving some of the other darkies ideas.”

  Hank raised his gun. “The only lesson to be learned here tonight is that folks should keep off other folks’ property if they want to stay healthy.” His words were punctuated by the raised weapons of his friends. “I’ll figure you got lost since you can’t see very well out of those masks. So either take them off or turn around and go back to hell where you belong for all I care.”

  “But, Hank!” someone shouted from the back of the horsemen. “You ain’t sidin’ against us and for those darkies?”

  Hank’s rifle turned toward the voice. “Any slave I had on this place is free now, and the way I see it every one of them is more man than the whole pack of you.”

  The masked men were angry. They’d ridden all this way and done a great deal of talking and drinking, and now they had no intention of returning to town without a fight. One man slid from his horse. “There ain’t but four of them. We’re almost twenty. Hank wouldn’t shoot a fellow Confederate over a few slaves.”

  Hank pointed his gun at the man now standing on the ground. “I see no Confederate soldiers before me, only cowards. In all the years of fighting I never had to hide my face as you do now.”

  The hooded man moved forward. “I’m bettin’ you’re fed up with killin’, Hank.” He kept advancing. “I’m thinkin’ it would take more than this to get you to kill again.”

  He’d guessed right. Hank hesitated a long moment, then turned the gun barrel skyward. He couldn’t kill anymore. But he couldn’t stand by and allow his former slaves to be beaten either. The law might have taken them out of his hands of ownership, but he still felt responsible for them. In one mighty jerk of anger Hank raised his gun butt and slammed it into the hooded man’s head. The gun fired harmlessly in the air, but all hell broke loose on the ground. Horses reared. Guns fired. A few riders kicked their mounts and ran, but most scrambled to the ground and joined in the fight.

  Cherish blinked in amazement. All had been still one moment and now men were fighting all around her. In an instant she realized how outnumbered the four men were. Gathering up her skirts, she climbed the embankment and joined the fight. She grabbed one of Brant’s discarded Colts and began using it as a club, swinging at every cloth-covered head she saw.

  A few times the victims turned, then froze as they saw their tiny attacker. Before they had a chance to react, she landed another blow, sending them into a peaceful sleep. Dust billowed up to her neck but still she fought. The smell of blood and anger assaulted the night air as the pounding of blow after blow against flesh echoed around her. One by one, the men fell until finally only Brant and Hank remained standing. Hank shook his head, taking no pleasure in what he’d done. Brant gripped his shoulder in pain.

  Hank wiped the blood from his nose and pointed toward her with his head. “Thanks, little lady. You’re not bigger than a chigger, but you pack a mean bite.”

  Brant whirled to face her and she saw murder in his auburn eyes. He was bleeding from several cuts on his hands and face, but none seemed to give him near the pain as looking at Cherish.

  Hank pulled one of his men up. “You all right, Phil?”

  The man mumbled as he wiped both blood and sweat from his face. “Take more than the likes of them cowards to kill me. Why, I’ve gotten hurt worse fightin’ nightmares.”

  Hank bellowed several names and a line of black men appeared from the side of the house. For the most part they were old men, long past their prime, or boys wild-eyed with fear from what they’d seen. Hank pointed as he issued orders for the hooded men to be tied to their saddles and sent home. He lifted one of his friends in his arms and turned toward the house. “Brant,” he added over his shoulder, “bring that little filly of yours in the house. I’d like to meet her.”

  Brant stood where he was until Hank was several feet away. “I’d like to kill her with my own hands for not following orders,” he whispered only for her ears. “Don’t you know what you’ve done?”

  “I’ve helped.” Cherish’s anger matched his own. She’d ridden out to warn them, she’d fought like the others, and now she was being yelled at like she was a child. “I have just as much right to be here and stop this injustice as you do. How could I have stayed in town when I overheard that those men planned to hurt innocent people?”

  As she talked, she moved closer until now they were only a hand’s width apart. His rust-colored eyes turned a deep brown as passion replaced anger. Instinctively, she wiped a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. His head turned slightly to follow her touch.

  “I did what I had to do,” she whispered as the longing for his arms became a great ache within her. Her instinct about him had been right. He wasn’t evil. He’d stood with Hank to fight for what was right. She’d never wanted to hold anyone in her life as much as she wanted to hold Brant Coulter right now.

  But he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. When his words finally came they were slow and filled with agony. “Don’t you see? They’ve seen you. You’ve signed your own death warrant.”

  Chapter 11

  Dawn broke without any peace at Hattie’s Parlor. The children had been taking turns crying as if conspiring to keep the adults up all night. Hattie was yelling for her pain medicine. Azile, half-drunk, swore she’d seen a raven fly by her window before breakfast. Although she wasn’t sure what it meant, she was sure it was something bad. Stacked on top of everything was Margaret’s growing panic that Cherish was missing.

  Grayson had hi
s own theories, but he remained silent as she stormed and worried through the hours of darkness. If the girl hadn’t taken his horse he might have left Maggie with the children and tried to follow Cherish.

  By noon Maggie could stand the wait no longer. She had to see if she could find her niece. She dressed in her most proper clothes and went to the sheriff’s office with Grayson following a step behind.

  The deputy was the only one in the office when they arrived. He was a nervous man in his mid-thirties. He proved to be of no help, and foolishly suggested that young girls sometimes run away with their fellows. He was quickly and sharply corrected by Margaret, who assured him that Cherish would do no such thing without talking it over with her. Finally, more out of self-defense than interest, the deputy promised to file a full report, but Margaret doubted he could sharpen his own pencil, much less use it.

  A sheriff, looking like he’d been in a bar fight, wandered in while they were talking and slumped into his chair. After he listened to Margaret’s description, he raised one eyebrow, paid close attention, and even asked a few questions about Cherish.

  Margaret glanced in his direction. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

  The sheriff shook his head vigorously, then cradled it as though deeply regretting the action. Finally he answered. “I saw her once at the back door of Holliday’s saloon.”

  The deputy quickly agreed and offered to go over to Holliday’s and ask a few questions.

  Margaret badgered the sheriff for several more minutes but gained no more information. She refused to believe that any possibility existed that Cherish might have visited a saloon.

  As they marched back home, Grayson debated whether to tell her about Cherish leaving or not. She was guessing all kinds of things that could have happened to Cherish, but Grayson knew one fact. The girl left of her own free will and there wasn’t much the law or Margaret could do about that.