Читать книгу Cheyenne Wife - Judith Stacy - Страница 10

Lily woke with a start and sat up quickly on the narrow cot. A moment passed before she remembered where she was.

The fort, she realized. The room Hiram Fredericks had given her and her father yesterday.

She sank onto the pillow once again.

After the confines of the covered wagon Augustus had crammed full of the goods he intended to sell in Santa Fe, this room seemed like a palatial bed-chamber. A solid roof over her head, four sturdy walls, a real floor—even if they were made of the plain adobe of the fort.

Yet any pleasure Lily might find in her new accommodations didn’t relieve the anxiousness that hung over her, that had followed her, dogged her since her father had injured himself weeks ago.

She pushed herself up on her elbow, the familiar anxiety that she’d lived with for so long settling upon her like a thick quilt. She eyed her father on the cot across the room, his eyes closed, his breathing even. He slept peacefully, as he had during the night.

A good sign? Surely it was. But, really, she didn’t know.

One more thing this journey had shown her she didn’t know.

Thank goodness Hiram Fredericks had helped her yesterday. Tall, lean Mr. Fredericks, with his head of white hair and bushy mustache, had proved a godsend. He seemed to be in charge of things here at the fort, though Lily didn’t know if he had an official title.

He’d secured quarters for her and her father, arranged for meals to be delivered to their room, and for her clothes to be laundered. He’d had the blacksmith take charge of the horses and their wagon.

Then he’d sent for the fort’s medical expert who’d examined her father’s wound and changed the bandage; he’d promised to come back twice a day, if that was what Lily wanted. She did.

Lily said a quick prayer of thanks that gentlemen existed, even in this hostile land.

Squinting against the morning sunlight that came in around the shuttered window, Lily washed and dressed. She hadn’t left her room since arriving yesterday, but had seen the Nelson family bedding down last night in their covered wagon outside the gate.

How odd it felt to be separated from them, after the close proximity of their wagons on the Trail.

The men in the third wagon who’d accompanied them to the fort had slept outside, also. Lily couldn’t remember their names and hadn’t especially liked them, anyway, yet she wondered how they were faring.

She would let them know when her father was well enough to resume their travels, and they could all continue on to Santa Fe.

A knock sounded at the door. Lily jumped at the unfamiliar sound. She hesitated answering, still a little uncomfortable in her surroundings, despite the kindness that had been shown her; she wished Mrs. Nelson would come by.

When she finally opened the door, a young man stood before her holding a breakfast tray covered with a white linen cloth. Tall, thin, he had brown hair in need of a trim, and wore clothing that, more than likely, used to belong to someone else; he was no older than she. His generous smile put her at ease.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said, and ducked his head. “My name’s Jacob. Jacob Tanner. I work over in the kitchen. The cook sent me over here with breakfast for you and your pa.”

“Thank you,” Lily said, reaching for the tray, genuinely pleased.

“I’d better set it down for you, ma’am. It’s kind of heavy,” Jacob said, hesitating on the doorstep. “If’n that’s all right with you, of course.”

While allowing a man into her quarters would be unheard of in other circumstances, Lily decided Jacob seemed harmless—and her life hadn’t exactly been filled with her usual circumstances, anyway.

“That’s very kind of you,” Lily said, stepping back from the door.

“There’s broth here for your pa. Cook made it special, just for him.” Jacob placed the tray on the little table in the corner, took a quick glance at Augustus in bed, and hurried back outside.

“Did you prepare the other food?” Lily asked, anxious suddenly to have someone to chat with this morning.

“I do some of the cooking, ma’am. But mostly I just fetch and carry for the cook.” His cheeks flushed slightly, and his gaze wandered over the door casing before he spoke again. “If you need anything special, just let me know. Mr. Fredericks says we’re supposed to take good care of you and your pa.”

“Thank you,” Lily said. “I appreciate everything that’s been done for us. In fact, I thought I’d go over to the kitchen tonight after supper, when the cook’s not busy, and thank him personally.”

Jacob’s expression darkened, and he met her gaze for the first time. He lowered his voice and leaned just a little closer.

“No, ma’am, you ought not be out alone after dark, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he told her. “It’s not safe for a…a woman.”

A little chill slid up Lily’s spine. “Well, all right. Thank you for bringing breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jacob murmured. He ducked his head and hurried away.

Lily closed the door quickly. Now she really wished Mrs. Nelson would come by.

After Lily ate, she attempted to get her father to drink some broth the cook had sent, but Augustus remained in the deep sleep that had kept him quiet throughout the night and morning.

She was relieved when Oliver Sykes, the man who served as the fort’s doctor, came to check on Augustus. He was an older gentleman, not much taller than Lily, who had somehow managed to grow a round, soft belly here in this lean, harsh land.

“He’s better, don’t you think?” Lily asked, twisting her fingers together as she and Sykes stood beside her father’s bed. “He’s resting so comfortably now. He didn’t wake once during the night.”

“Maybe you ought to get some fresh air, Miss St. Claire,” Sykes suggested, not looking at her, “while I check over your pa.”

A knot of anxiety rose in Lily’s chest. “But—but he’s doing better, isn’t he?” she asked.

Sykes’s heavy jowls wobbled as he worried his lips together, his expression growing intense. “You just run on outside for a while.”

Lily searched his lined face for a hint of his thoughts, but found nothing.

“Very well,” she said, easing toward the door. “But I’ll be right outside in case…well, just in case.”

When he didn’t answer, she slipped from the room and closed the door behind her. She hesitated a few seconds, wanting to go back inside. After all these weeks at her father’s side, the separation seemed odd and uncomfortable.

But Mr. Sykes was a capable man—much more knowledgeable than herself. She should leave him to his task, let him handle it. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted since her father had injured himself?

Lily turned away and took in the fort. Upon her arrival yesterday, she’d hardly noticed the place in her hurry to get her father settled in a room. Now, she took a good look around.

The two-story fort was the only major permanent settlement on the Santa Fe Trail, according to what everyone on the wagon train had told her. Yesterday, Hiram Fredericks had proudly explained that the fort provided travelers, explorers and, occasionally, the U.S. Army, with a place to obtain supplies, livestock, food, fresh water, as well as rest and relaxation.

There was a bell tower and bastions at opposite corners of the fort that were used for lookout posts and for storage. Each bastion was armed with a cannon. Fredericks had explained that, so far, they’d never been used for defense, but for signals and to welcome important people, a fact that Lily was pleased to hear.

The fort housed much the same things as a small town: a kitchen, dining room, blacksmith and carpenter shop, warehouses and, of course, the trade room. Lily wasn’t sure what was upstairs on the second floor of the fort, other than more living quarters and the billiard room Fredericks had mentioned last night.

What Lily did know, for certain, was that the fort was populated mostly by men.

She kept her eyes forward as she walked, but felt the gazes of the men upon her. They paused in midstride. They stopped their chores, their conversations. Their faces appeared in windows and doorways.

Men. Big men. Frightening-looking men. Wild hair and unkempt beards. Buckskins stained with sweat. Faces lined with wind and sun. Trappers, mountain men, hunters, prospectors, explorers, adventurers.

A new awareness came with Lily’s every step, her every movement. The sway of her skirt, the rustle of her petticoats, the tug of the breeze in her hair, the fabric of her collar against her throat.

Lily glanced around. Where was Mrs. Nelson? Surely other women were here at the fort. Where were they?

A fear, a vulnerability settled in the pit of Lily’s stomach. Outnumbered. Overmatched. A lamb among the wolves.

She considered rushing back to her room, closing herself up inside, bolting the door, but Mr. Sykes had asked her to leave while he examined her father. She couldn’t burst in unannounced. What would he think of her if she walked in at an inappropriate moment?

Lily kept walking, dozens of gazes tracking her steps. She held her chin up, feigning a leisurely stroll, then darted through the passageway near the carpenter’s shop and into the alley behind.

No men.

She waited and held her breath as she watched the passageway. No one followed.

Relieved, Lily eased between the wooden crates and barrels stacked in the shade of the building, and found a spot to sit down. Hidden in the clutter, she felt somewhat safe and secure.

Across the alley, a horse was tethered to the corral fence at the corner of the stable. It stamped the ground, stirring up little dust clouds, and tossed its head fitfully, pulling at the rope.

The animal was no more comfortable at the fort than she was, Lily thought.

She sat back, trying to get comfortable, trying to relax, willing herself to shake the feeling of foreboding that still hung over her like a dark cloud, and turned her thoughts to her aunt in Richmond.

What would Aunt Maribel be doing at this exact moment? she wondered, turning her face skyward to catch the sun.

Or better still, what if Lily had talked her father out of making this trip altogether? Yes, that was a better fantasy, she decided. He’d be well and healthy, going about his business, as usual, in Saint Louis.

But the prospect of how different her life would be at this very moment if she’d gone to visit her wealthy aunt instead of making this trip, came unbidden into Lily’s mind once more.

She sighed quietly, indulging herself in the imaginary scene her mind conjured up.

She’d have spent her first week in her aunt’s lovely home getting acclimated to the new house, recovering from the journey, learning about the city. She’d luxuriate in a steaming tub, nap often, and be fawned over by a parade of maids and servants. Then preparations for the social outings to come would commence. Fabrics and patterns discussed, new gowns commissioned. The parties, teas and luncheons given in her honor to introduce her and welcome her to the city would take weeks, all amid ladies and gentlemen of good breeding and impeccable deportment.

Yet here she sat on a wooden crate, civilization but a distant memory, with the vague odor of animal manure in the air.

Lily settled her feet onto a lower crate and wrapped her arms around her knees. Another wave of loneliness washed over her. She’d never felt so isolated in her life. So vulnerable. So lost.

Tears pushed at the backs of her eyes, but she forced them down. If she allowed one single tear to fall, a torrent would follow—and she hadn’t thought to bring a handkerchief with her. Madame DuBois would be appalled.

The stallion tethered to the corral across the alley tossed its head and nickered, its eyes widening to circles of white. Fighting the lead rope, it pulled back, pawing at the earth. The animal was young and strong, a fine specimen of horseflesh. Lily knew he’d fetch a fine price—if he didn’t injure himself trying to escape.

A man appeared at the corner of the stable inside the corral. He wore trousers and a pale-blue shirt, with a black hat pulled low on his forehead that shaded his face.

Had she seen this man yesterday? Lily wondered. Something about him seemed familiar. Was he the man tending the brown mare she’d glimpsed as she’d spoken with Mr. Fredericks? The only man in the entire fort who hadn’t walked over to gawk at her?

A gasp slipped from Lily’s lips when she saw him headed toward the stallion. She almost called out a warning, but his slow, relaxed steps stopped her.

Low on the breeze, his voice came to her, a rumbling whisper. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was mesmerizing. The stallion thought so, too, apparently. As Lily watched, the man continued to speak softly as he inched closer, and by the time he reached the horse, it had settled down.

Still murmuring quietly, the man patted the horse’s neck and brought its big head against his chest. The stallion stood quietly.

Awe and mystery stirred in Lily. How had the man done that? Gentled the horse with nothing more than his words? She’d never seen anything like it.

Patting the stallion, the man turned his back to Lily. She gasped aloud. Straight, jet-black hair hung past his shoulders.

Indian.

A rush of emotion swept through Lily. Fear, apprehension, curiosity.

Everyone on the wagon train had warned her about these Indians, their savagery, their heinous acts, the atrocities they committed—things so vile men wouldn’t whisper them to a decent woman.

Yet this Indian seemed anything but menacing, despite his size. Tall, broad shouldered with thick arms and a lean waist. His pressed, well-mended clothing was the cleanest she’d seen at the fort.

And he had gentled the stallion. With words and measured actions, he’d not only brought the horse under control, but calmed it as well.

Sitting perfectly still on the crate, Lily watched as the breeze pulled at the man’s shirt and ruffled his black hair. One evening on the wagon train she’d spoken with a young woman who’d told her that Indian men had no hair on their chests. For the first time, Lily’s stomach tingled at the notion. Could it be true?

She’d seen a bare-chested man a few times in her life. On the journey west when the men of the wagon train had been forced to engage in some difficult work in the heat of the day, they’d occasionally taken off their shirts.

But what would a smooth chest look like?

Beneath the fabric of his shirt, muscles bunched, expanded, contracted. Were they bare? she wondered. Smooth, slick—

The Indian turned sharply, his gaze finding her on the crates and pinning her there.

Lily gulped. Good gracious! He’d caught her staring. Could he possibly know that she’d been thinking about his chest—of all things?

She shrank deeper into the crates, drawing her legs up under her. Humiliation burned her cheeks. How unseemly of her. How unladylike. Ogling a man. Wondering about his chest. Madame DuBois would indeed be appalled.

Desperate to escape the hiding place that had suddenly become a prison, Lily froze as she heard footsteps. Easing around the edge of the crate, she saw a man—this one rail thin with blond hair—walking from the passageway beside the carpenter’s shop toward the corral.

She’d not seen this man before. Lily was sure she would have remembered. His buckskins hung loose on his thin frame, blond hair streaked with gray lay across his shoulders, a heavy mustache drooped past his lips. His hat shaded most of his lined face.

The Indian saw him, too, watched as he approached. He’d not seen her at all, Lily realized. It was the blond-haired man who’d drawn his attention.

The two men faced each other through the corral fence, a contrast of tall and muscular, thin and stooped. Neither smiled. They didn’t shake hands. A few words were exchanged, but Lily couldn’t hear them.

The Indian glanced up and down the alley, then pulled something from his trouser pocket—a packet of papers, a wad of money, perhaps?—and passed it to the other man. He shoved it in his own pocket and walked away. The Indian glanced around once more, then turned and disappeared behind the stable.

Lily waited for a moment, the feeling of foreboding that had plagued her for so long growing stronger—but for a very different reason this time. Just as the Indian had done, she checked around to see if anyone was watching, then slipped quietly from her hiding place among the crates and hurried back to her room.

“There’s just no easy way to say this, ma’am,” Oliver Sykes said, ducking his head, refusing to make eye contact with Lily.

“What?” She looked back and forth between Sykes and Hiram Fredericks, both men grim faced and solemn. “What is it?”

Standing outside the door to her room, Lily gazed at the evening shadows stretched across the plaza bringing a cooling breeze with the disappearing sun. Sykes had come by to see her father again, then left and had just now returned with Fredericks. They’d called her outside.

“Your pa’s bad off, I reckon you know that,” Fredericks finally said.

“But he’s getting better,” Lily insisted. “He slept straight through the night, and he’s been resting quietly all day. He’s—”

“No, ma’am, that’s not so,” Sykes said with fatherly kindness.

“Yes, it is,” Lily told them. Why were these two men saying such things? She wanted them to leave. “Now, I must go back inside and see to my father—”

“He’s dying.” Fredericks closed his hand over her arm, holding her in place. “The fever took its toll.”

“It was just too much for him,” Sykes added. He paused, then added, “Your pa probably won’t make it through the night.”

Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes. “No…”

“He roused up a bit a while ago,” Sykes said. “He’s asking for you.”

Lily shook her head, her throat tight and thick. “But…”

“Go on inside,” Fredericks said kindly. He guided Lily into the room, then closed the door behind her.

Lily clung to the door, afraid to cross the room, afraid to approach the cot. Her father couldn’t be dying. Fredericks and Sykes meant well, but they had to be wrong—they simply had to be.

“No, Papa, you can’t—you simply can’t,” she whispered. “Not now. We haven’t even…”

But her father lay so still, awash in a gray, ghostly pallor, that she knew the men were right. Tears sprang to her eyes. Lily covered her face with her palms.

“Lily…?”

Her head jerked up at the sound of Augustus’s voice. She rushed to his bedside and dropped to her knees, joy filling her heart.

“Yes, Papa?” she said anxiously. “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t—”

“It’s…gone,” he whispered.

Lily frowned. “What—whatever do you mean?”

With effort, Augustus lifted his head from the sweat-stained pillow, but collapsed again, his lips moving as if trying to speak.

Lily leaned closer, her ear to his mouth. “What, Papa? What is it?”

“Money…” he whispered. “All…gone.”

She looked at him, unable to follow his reasoning. Why was he talking about money—of all things—at a time like this?

“Bad deals…lost it all…nothing left.” Augustus drew in a ragged breath, then wheezed. “That’s…that’s why I came West…to…to start over.”

“No, Papa,” Lily insisted. “That’s not true. You told me yourself that you’d always wanted to come West, to explore, to seek new adventures.”

His head moved back and forth with effort. “A lie. I told you that so…” He coughed. “Thought I could make my fortune over again…in Santa Fe. Thought I could…”

“But, Papa—”

Augustus’s eyelids sank.

“Papa? Papa!”