

Review of The Owen Family Saga

Marsha Ward really does write Westerns with heart. And her Owen family saga is among the best you'll ever read. Learn what our ancestors did to build this land. Like the Man from Shenandoah. Highly recommended.

~Chuck Tyrell, author of The Snake Den and The Prodigal

The Owen Family Saga Sampler

Marsha Ward

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Marsha Ward

http://marshaward.com

Cover Photo: Fall in Whiteoak Canyon, Shenandoah National Park

National Park Service http://www.nps.gov

Three chapters each from the first three novels in The Owen Family Saga, plus a bonus look at the forthcoming Book 4: Spinster's Folly.

All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced in print or electronically, other than brief excerpts for the purpose of reviews, without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

The Man from Shenandoah

Ride to Raton

Trail of Storms

Bonus Chapter: Spinster's Folly

About the Author

Connect with Me Online

The Man from Shenandoah
Chapter One

The gaunt-featured young man with the lanky build choked down the last of his moldy bread, then got to his feet and climbed atop the stone wall against which he'd been sitting. Carl Owen looked as far as he could see down the Valley Pike, about 200 yards, but no one was in sight. Turning to look at the burned-out field the wall enclosed, he surveyed the gray-toned devastation made muddy by today's intermittent rain.

Rage rising in him, thundering in his ears as his heartbeat quickened in frustration and hate, he shook his fist at the sky.

"Phil Sheridan, may God spit in your eye for the ruin you brought to this valley. Rot in hell, Sheridan!"

"Get him!" he heard, just before he was tackled from behind, tumbling him off the wall and into the mud. Carl came up sputtering muck. As he wiped gluey sludge from his eyes, someone kicked him. He was hauled to his feet—arms brutally twisted behind his back—and dragged over the wall to where a huge, red-faced sergeant in a faded blue uniform stood waiting for him.

"Yankees," Carl groaned, berating himself for letting his guard down enough to miss their approach. Panic coursed through his belly. He tried to tear free, but two soldiers gripped his arms, and he finally quit struggling.

The sergeant stood with his legs spread apart, looking Carl up and down. "Johnny Reb, you're on the loose. We have a stout prisoner of war camp for you up in Washington City." He bent forward, laughing in Carl's face, who involuntarily wrinkled his nose and squinted shut his eyes at the overpowering odor of liquor fumes. The man frowned, drew a knife from a sheath on his belt, and tested it on his thumb.

"You look at me, Johnny Reb," he snarled. "Look at me when I speak to you!"

Carl opened his eyes and stared into the Yankee's mean eyes. "I have parole papers," he said, raising his muddy, stubbled chin in defiance.

"You're violating your parole, wearing the uniform of the Confederate Army," the Yankee said, and put his blade against Carl's throat. The young man sucked in a breath, then held it, careful not to move.

Just then, a burly soldier came up behind the sergeant. "Sarge, you told us we were going to find some Southern belles to entertain us," he complained. "Let's dump him in the woods."

"Keep your nose out of official business. I'll open him up a bit and teach him how to act around his betters."

From the north, a rider came pounding up the road, spurring his horse, then sawing on the reins to bring it to a halt. He alighted and ran to the sergeant.

"The major's coming down the road. You'd better not let him catch you cutting another Reb."

The sergeant cursed and turned back to Carl, grabbing the front of his coat.

"You got no right to wear a uniform, you dirty Rebel pup." He took a fresh grip on his knife and addressed the soldiers restraining Carl. "Hold him tight while I teach him a lesson."

Carl felt the tight prickle of fear racing up his spine as the soldiers freshened their hold on his arms. The sergeant looked around at the road, cursed again, turned to Carl, and cut the embossed buttons from his coat. He jerked the coat open, grinning evilly, and cut the buttons from his shirt, as well.

"Now you're not a soldier." The man cackled as he pocketed the buttons and sheathed his knife. "Let him loose," he ordered, motioning to the soldiers. As they dropped his arms, he looked Carl up and down once more, his expression changing to hatred. The sergeant half turned away, then spun back, and with a massive fist knocked Carl flat. "Mount up," the sergeant barked, and strode toward his horse, weaving a bit.

Lying in the mud, propped on one elbow, Carl wiped blood from his jaw, tasting salt as he tongued his molars to see if they were still tight. He watched the patrol leave, hate burning his belly. He turned over onto his knees and got to his feet, wincing at the pain, then whistled for his horse. Looking around for his hat, he found it on the wall where it had landed when he was attacked. He brushed at the soft, shapeless felt, removing a splash of mud, then he jammed it onto his head.

Sherando came trotting out of the trees, gray coat glistening in the misty rain that had once again begun to fall. The horse jumped the fence to reach Carl and nickered softly. Carl checked to see that the Yankee rifle was secure in the scabbard. "Sure glad them Billy Blues was so drunk they didn't find you, boy," he whispered through raw lips.

He swung into the saddle and straightened his back, swiped at his face with both hands to remove as much mud as he could, then ran his fingers through the blond hair at the nape of his neck, tugging loose both tangles and mud. He hoped someone at home had a comb, for he had lost his personal gear in a wild, last-ditch ride for freedom with Colonel John Mosby. Carl's patrol had ridden into a Yankee camp to surrender after the war's end. Union officers gave the Confederate cavalrymen parole papers and turned them free instead of holding them as prisoners of war. Carl had stolen the rifle as he left camp, but hadn't had a chance to replace other gear.

The young man turned his horse onto the Valley Pike, laughing as joy surged through him. "Benjamin will have a comb. It'll be fine to see him again." Carl kneed Sherando to a trot, and launched into a tune he'd heard somewhere. "Oh Shenandoah, I'm comin' to ya. I'm here, you rolling river."

Carl looked toward the shallow river flowing beside the road and grinned at the cleverness of his new words to an old song. "Hold up that head, horse. We'll show the folks that a passel of Yankees can't lick a Virginia boy. We're goin' home!"

~~~

"Ma!" Albert ran in yelling from the trees at the corner of the yard. "Somebody's riding in, mighty confident like," he panted.

Julia Owen looked up from the corn she was grinding and pushed back a loose lock of dark hair.

"Confident, you say? Does he look like a Yankee?"

Albert hung his head. "I mostly just saw him a-coming before I ran in, Ma. But he's riding real straight and sure of himself."

"Get your pa," she said, grabbing the Sharps rifle from the corner. "There won't be no Yankees set foot in this house."

Julia walked through the doorway with the Sharps in firing position and watched as a horseman neared the end of the lane from the pike. Albert spoke the truth, she thought. That man rides bold.

"Hold up right there," her voice rang out. "Put them hands where I can see 'em, and get down off that horse."

The mud-covered young man in the gray coat laughed. "You always did look fine with fire in your eye, Ma."

"Carl?" She took a step, lowering the rifle barrel toward the ground. "Carl! Is it really you? Lawsy, boy, we almost gave up on ever seeing you again." She swiped at her eyes with one hand. "Get off that horse and hug your ma." Her son dropped gingerly to the muddy ground and approached with long strides.

"Ma, I'm home." He grabbed her—rifle and all—and swung her into the air.

She caught sight of the wince that he tried to cover and the dried blood on his face, and immediately began to worry over his health.

Setting her on her feet, Carl brushed at the mud he had transferred to her dress. "I'm sorry about the mud, Ma. I had a little trouble with some fellers down the road a piece, and we wrasseled around a bit. Here, let me put that rifle aside. I reckon you don't want to put a ball into me."

"You ain't been hurt? What's that blood?" She followed him to the front of the house, where he leaned the rifle against the stone wall. "Here, let me look at you." Julia grabbed his arm, moistened the corner of her apron with her tongue, and dabbed at his face.

"Ma!" he protested. "It's just a little cut."

"And it needs tending to," she insisted, then hugged him again.

~~~

Roderick Owen came around the corner of the house, puzzled by the sounds in the front yard, but ready for Albert's Yankee invasion. He stopped short at the sight of a tall, very grubby man embracing his wife, and Albert bumped into his father from behind.

"Look here," Rod threatened, stepping forward.

Carl turned to meet him. "Have I changed so much, Pa?" He grinned under his smeared camouflage.

"Rod, it's Carl. He's home at last." Julia wiped the mud from her face with the apron.

Without a word, Rod enveloped his son in his arms. After a long embrace, he held him off to look at him, and shook his head. "By gum, you sure get your growth dashing around with Mosby. We thought you were dead, boy, not hearing from you, nor seeing you home yet."

"I took the long road home, Pa. The Colonel disbanded the Rangers about three weeks into April, but me and some thirty others wouldn't leave him, so he took us south to join up with General Johnston in the Carolinas. The General gave up before we got there, so Mosby cut us loose and made us go in to get paroled." He paused a moment, scratching his nose. "They won't give him a parole, Pa. There's a price on his head!"

"I reckon there's mighty little justice around now, son. Your colonel won't get fair treatment since Booth shot the President. There's rumors Mosby had a hand in it."

"Somebody shot Jeff Davis?"

"The other president, Abe Lincoln."

"Is he dead?"

Rod set his jaw, turned his back on his son, and walked toward Carl's horse, his hand worrying the mud at the front of his shirt and pants. He picked up the horse's trailing reins and approached his son. "Yes, and it brings hard times upon us. There's no mercy in the boys running the country now."

"Mosby had no part in it. I rode with him day and night for over two years. He done no such a thing."

"I reckon."

"He didn't. That's all." Carl's stomach growled aloud, and he looked at his mother. "Is there anything to eat? It sure don't look like Phil Sheridan left much. We heard about his orders to burn out the Valley, Pa, but we laughed. Not one of us believed he could do it with you and Jeb Early's troops on home ground."

"They sent in two and three times our number, son. All we could do was pester them around the edges some."

"Well, I'm home now, and this ground will grow food—if we can get seed." Carl looked about the yard. Albert stood in the shadow at the corner of the house.

"Who's that young'un? I don't recollect leaving anybody that big at home when I left."

"It's me, Albert. I growed a mite."

"Can't be. You were just a little bitty sprout."

Albert came out of the shadow and stood where Carl could see him. "I ain't a sprout now." His voice was a touch heated. "I'll be fourteen nigh on to Christmas time."

"You aged a right smart bit, Albert. Been doing most all the chores, I reckon."

"You left 'em to do."

Carl nodded. "I figured you three boys could handle the farm. When Peter died, I felt obliged to take his place in the fight."

"I reckon." Albert looked at the ground and kicked the mud.

"I didn't know James would go, too."

"They drafted him."

Julia moved forward and pulled on Carl's arm. "Come in and set, boy. Doubtless you're weary, riding all day. I'll finish the pone we're having for supper while you tell your pa what shape the Valley's in down south of here. He's been asking after news of the state of things since he got home."

"Now Julie, the boy's just got here. I can quiz him later while he eats." Rod turned to his youngest son. "Albert, take your brother's horse out back and put him in the pen behind the barn. See if you can find some grain. That animal's come far with your brother."

"Yes, Pa." Albert took the reins and led Sherando around the corner of the house.

~~~

After knocking the mud from his boots, Carl entered the house, shrugged out of his wet coat, and hung it on a peg inside the door. He pulled his shirt together the best he could and glanced around the room, savoring its warmth and cheerfulness. Then he took the stool his father indicated and moved it close to the fire before sitting.

"What happened to your buttons, boy?" Rod asked. "Were you obliged to sell them for food?" He also sat, and crossed one leg over the other.

"Naw. Some fat Yankee sergeant down the road a ways cut them off me. Said I was in uniform and didn't have the right."

"That's where you got the cuts and bruises and the mud, Carl?" his mother asked.

"I reckon, but they didn't hurt me none." He eased his rib cage from side to side to be sure.

Rod slapped his thigh in anger. "Yankees," he spit out.

Carl looked up, feeling a similar heat. "They ain't mannerly, that's for sure, but I came out lucky anyhow. Didn't lose nothing but my buttons. I hid my horse back in the willows along the creek, and they were too drunk to spot him, so they missed the rifle I snuck off the Yankee weapon pile after I got my parole."

"Drunk, you say? That sounds like the same Yankee bunch that's been back and forth through this part of the Valley, teasing and tormenting the folks."

"Could be them." Carl shrugged, then looked around the room once more. "Ma, where's Marie and the little girl? Ain't they supposed to help you?"

Julia smiled. "Your little sister is nigh on to twelve years old, boy. We kept having birthdays while you were away. You've had a couple yourself. Ain't you about nineteen now?"

"Closer to twenty, Ma. I ain't a young'un no more."

Julia looked at Carl's bearded face. "I see you been over the mountain, son." She paused to form a corn cake. "I sent the girls in to Mount Jackson to Rulon's place. Mary's not feeling well, and she's got Rulon to tend to, so they're helping out with young Roddy. You heard Rulon got hurt bad?"

Carl nodded.

"There's also more food in town," Rod explained. "Your ma has her wits scraped down to a nubbin to find us enough to eat since Sheridan paid his call."

"Clay went in with the girls," Julia added. "He's got a job at the livery, so there's just Pa and James and Albert to fix for."

"And Benjamin," Carl reminded her.

He watched his mother's body stiffen, and saw his father take a protecting step toward her. Silence hung in the room like a curtain made of combed cotton fibers, thick and heavy and oppressive. Then Rod spoke, his words muffled and measured.

"Benjamin fell at Waynesboro. I had no way to get word home. Your ma only found out when I got here."

The words bucked into Carl with the kick of a mule. He sagged on the stool and his head dropped against his hands. First, Peter had fallen at the Second Battle of Manassas, or Bull Run, as the Yankees called it. Then Rulon, the eldest, was sorely wounded in the siege of Petersburg last October. Now Benjamin was gone. Carl felt his ears ringing hollow, filling his skull with a soft buzzing.

He rose to his feet and faced his parents. "I'm powerful sorry," he said, holding himself still. "Benjamin was always such a lucky cuss, full of life, and all. It don't seem right he'd be gone."

Carl bowed his head, took a deep breath, and began again. "Ma, I know he was your favorite son, and I don't hold it against him. He was the favorite of everybody."

He took a step toward his mother, watching her white, crumpling face. With another step he had her in his arms, patting her head and shoulders. "There, Ma, you cry. It'll do you good."

Rod's arms went around the pair. "The boy talks sense, Julia. You ain't cried since you got the news. Let the tears wash out the grief you been carrying around." He continued gruffly, "I reckon I already done my sorrowing."

The men waited, suspended, as Julia's sobs tore the air. After a long time, she quieted, wiped the tears from her cheeks with her apron, and stepped out of the men's arms. Her face was changed, resigned. "I reckon that'll have to do for Benjamin, 'cause the living need their daily bread." She went back to the table, wiped her hands, and continued to fix supper.

Rod approached his chair and sagged into it, while Carl returned to his stool. Both men sat slumped for a time, saying nothing as the pain sat upon their shoulders. After a time, Rod threw back his head.

"Your ma's kept the family going whilst we were gone, son, and she's the one saw to it that we didn't starve when we returned. I got a leave to come home in December, on account of our mounts were starving for lack of forage, and I'll be switched if she hadn't outsmarted that cocky Phil Sheridan. She saved most of the corn by tying the sacks on the backs of the stock, and sending Clay and Albert to the hills with the animals. She saved the crop and the herd, both. I'm mighty proud of her."

"Ma, that was right canny thinking. I'd like to see Sheridan's face should he find out you outfoxed him."

Julia shook her head and continued with the meal.

"We ain't tooting our horn about the food we got, Carl," Rod said. "It's mighty little for our needs, and even so, we had to send the girls into town."

"How serious was Rulon hurt, Pa?"

"Well, he had a right smart mess of holes in him. The surgeon sent him home to die, but there ain't no quit in Rulon. That little wife of his nursed him along real well, too. He's mostly out of bed now, finally on the mend." Rod rose to his feet. "Say, come out and help me milk, son. That brindle cow the Yankees stole last fall wandered up to the fence today, bawling and kicking and carrying on to be let in the gate, but she's still half wild. There's a calf trailing her, so she must have milk."

Carl nodded. "Sure, Pa. I reckon a body don't forget how to do the chores."

As the men stepped out the back door, Carl glanced around at what was left of the yard behind the house, and took in a rasping breath. The vegetable garden was a sea of mud, while out yonder, wreckage marked where the barn had been. All that remained were the burned beams and blackened supports that had fallen onto the floor. Two mounds of gray ashes, scattered by wind and rain, showed where the hay had been stacked. The animal pens were in ruins, poles broken and strewn about. Someone had piled brush in the gaps until new poles were cut.

Carl waved an arm at the view. "Was it like this when you got home, Pa?"

"Pretty near. The boys and I ain't had a lot of time to clean up much."

The brindle cow tied in the pen rolled her eyes and lowed in fright at the men's approach. Rod expelled his breath. "She always was skittish, Carl. I reckon she got away from Sheridan's soldiers and wintered back in the oak groves. She had her calf, then got lonely for home."

Carl stepped around behind the cow. "Mind that hoof." Rod spoke sharply as the brindle kicked out at the young man.

Carl dodged away and snorted. "She must be a Yankee lover. Welcome home to you too, cow." He patted her flank.

"Grab the pail and set to work, son. She wants milking."

Just then the hungry calf tied behind the remains of the barn began to bawl. Brindle pulled her head backward, and Rod reached for the rope to snub her on a shorter line. Lacking a stool, Carl squatted on his heels and began to milk.

The cow sidestepped, nearly catching Carl's foot. He avoided her hoof, and then she whipped her tail against his face. He turned away, saving his eyes from the coarse hair. Then she lifted her hoof and banged it hard against the pail, but Carl snatched it away in time to save the contents from spilling.

"Whoa, cow!" he yelled, as she swung her hindquarters against him. "You're right, Pa. She's gone wild." He scrambled out of the way, bringing the pail with him. "I call the job done. Let that calf come over here."

Rod grinned, went for the bawling creature, and untied the tether rope. "We're all out of practice of milking, son," he called. "I reckon I'd druther fight Yankees than get stepped on by a wild cow. I know James feels the same, after milking the white-face cow."

"Is he in one piece?" Carl asked, looking sidelong at his pa.

Rod turned the calf loose, and it ran to its mother. He grinned again as it began to suckle. Then his face went somber. "He got a flesh wound at Five Forks, outside Richmond, but it's healing clean. He can swing an ax, so I sent him up by the mountain to cut wood. Likely he'll be home tomorrow night with a load of fence poles."

"It'll be good to see him." Relief softened Carl's voice.

The two men headed for the house as the sun dropped toward the horizon. The rain earlier in the day had left the air cool and sweet, and a light breeze was blowing the final clouds away. Carl handed the milk pail to his father at the door.

"I'm all covered with mud, Pa. Best I wash up before I eat."

"You'll have to use the crick, son. The Yankees knocked the top of the well apart and dumped it into the shaft. I ain't got it cleaned out yet."

"Then I'll bring back some water."

Carl took two pails from the back stoop and slogged his way through the muck of the yard to the creek path. He felt like a small boy again, recalling the times he'd walked this path before the well was dug.

Carl came up to the creek, knelt, and dipped the pails into the deepest part of the water. After he set them high on the bank, he removed his shirt, tossed it aside, and plunged his arms into the water. Gasping with the impact of the cold, he splashed it onto his head and chest.

Once his face was clean, he wiped off his boots and rubbed most of the mud from his pants, then rinsed his shirt in the stream and wrung it out several times. He shook out the shirt and put it on, shivering when the cold, wet cloth made contact with his flesh.

Twilight took away most of the daylight as Carl paused to look into the water of the creek where it pooled below him. He saw a distorted reflection of the outline of his form in the dim light. Nineteen years had built his body well and tall, but the last four, with the privations of war, had hardened the muscles of his frame and made his features gaunt. His hair was too long, and the week's growth of sandy red beard itched. He'd have to hunt up scissors and a razor as well as a comb.

As night fell, Carl shrugged his shoulders to rearrange the damp shirt, picked up the pails, and headed back to the house, guided by the lamplight from the kitchen window. Breeze on the shirt chilled him, and he walked a little faster. At the steps he re-scraped his boots, then opened the door and went inside.

"We're just fixing to eat," Julia called. She turned and saw the water buckets. "Thank you, son. You saved me a trip."

Carl pulled up a chair to the table and joined Rod and Albert.

"It ain't much, Carl, but it'll keep you from blowing away." Julia waved her hand toward the food. "We're lucky to have greens. They popped up down by the crick, and I picked them late this afternoon. 'Course, there's corn pone, and we have milk, but there ain't no real coffee, just roasted chicory." She sighed as she sat at her place. "We'll have real food again once we get a crop up."

"That's something we need to do some talking about," Rod declared. "First, let's give thanks for Carl's safe return, and for this food we got."

At the end of the grace, Carl glanced across the table at his father. There'd been something in his voice that foretold serious business. Rod must have felt his stare, for he looked up, his beard wrinkling as he chewed.

Rod swallowed. "Tell me how it looks south of here, son. What did Sheridan leave for the folks in the south end of the Valley? You came from Staunton, I reckon?" Rod took a bite of greens.

"He burnt or pulled down homes, barns, crops, orchards, 'most everything, all the way to Staunton and beyond. It's a famine time. A crow flying by would have to bring his own rations." He paused to chew a piece of pone. "Ma, it's a wonder to me the Yankees left our house alone when they came back through."

"I had my good Sharps rifle, and I set right there in the doorway and wouldn't budge none. After a while they left me be and went out back to burn the barn."

"Marie could-a been killed," Albert said, frowning. "Them dirty Yankees didn't wait 'til she was out of the barn to set it afire." Albert's eyes looked dark and fierce. "I wish I'd a been down here shooting me some Yankees instead of up in the hills with Clay and all them cows!"

"Likely they'd have shot you, Albert," Carl said. "Praise God you was up there!"

Rod's mouth tightened. "What about livestock, son? What did you see?"

"I reckon we've got more cattle than any five stock men down the Valley, Pa. Maybe five pigs, thin stuff; not more'n ten hens anywhere. I reckon Grant didn't want no more supplies coming out of the Shenandoah. He meant for little Phil Sheridan to clean us out, and he did the job."

"Lucky I was warned some," Julia said, "or I wouldn't have had time to send the boys off up the hill."

Rod chewed his food slowly, his face looking thoughtful. "I reckon we're eating about as well as Rand Hilbrands. The Yankees missed burning the store in Mount Jackson, so he still has food to put on his table."

"What happened over to Chester Bates' place, Pa?"

"He lost his barn, and the house is gutted out. They burned his fields bare. The Bates family is about wiped off the face of the earth, I'd say."

"Are they all dead?"

"They've got their lives and little else."

"That's sure a pity." Carl wiped his mouth with his hand. "They had the prettiest stone house I believe I've ever seen. Where are they living now?"

"Right on the place, in the old tool shed."

"Hush, that's a shame. There's no finer man than Chester Bates, 'cept for you and John Mosby, Pa."

"Andy Campbell says his pa's so mad about his place being wrecked, he wants to clear out and go someplace else," Albert reported.

Rod Owen cleared his throat. "That's just what I aim to do."

Chapter Two

Rod's words seemed to echo in the room, fading into silence. Stunned, no one moved or spoke for several seconds, then the air was split with the clamor of the family reacting to his declaration.

Julia raised her chin a bit as she stared down the length of the table. "This has been my home since we wed."

"Pa, I took an oath I'd come home and wait to be exchanged proper. I don't reckon the Yankees will let me leave." Carl shifted in his chair, sitting up straight.

Albert jumped to his feet. "But Pa, I was born right here in this house."

Rod waved away the arguments and held up his hand for silence. "I've decided to sell the farm and go to the Colorado Territory. You ma's brother Jonathan is out there somewhere, and we'll find him. There's gold and silver to be mined, but I been contemplating." Rod paused to lift his cup and try the chicory. He made a face, then drank some more before setting down the cup.

"There's no future for us here in the Valley. Since we're going to cross the country to make a new start, why not start a cattle ranch?" Rod looked around at his family. "We have good cattle here that we can sell as beef to the miners," he said. "There's a sight of folks out there that like to eat. I reckon raising cattle is as good a way to earn a living as digging in the ground for metal."

"I took an oath, Pa." Carl leaned forward. "I'm bound to stay here until my papers come."

"Carl, an Owen's oath is sacred word, but you saw the way of things out there. Since the Yankees paid their call, if we stay here our only choice is to starve. I reckon your oath is null and void."

Carl slouched against the back of his chair. "Who'll buy a burned-out farm? Nobody around here has any federal cash to give you."

"There was a feller here last week from New York State, looking for farmland. His brother was one of Sheridan's torch men, and told him all about the fine crops he set fire to. Well, the man offered a good price, and I took it."

"But Pa," Albert burst out, "he's a damned Yankee!"

"Watch your tongue, young'un. Yes, he's a Yankee, but he has good Yankee currency and coin to give me. Now that you're home, Carl, I aim to leave in two weeks."

"Two weeks!" Julia echoed. "We can't be ready by then."

"How long did it take you to send the boys off up the mountain with the corn?"

Julia stared at her plate.

"We'll be ready in two weeks, because Mr. Avery will take possession then. He'll be back from Washington next week with the money, then he's off to get his family to move them here." Rod slapped the table and stood up.

"You really sold the place?" Julia got to her feet. "You never thought to ask me?"

"We're bound for Colorado. That's all." His words were sharp, final.

Julia reached down for her plate and turned her back in silence.

~~~

Rod climbed into bed. Julia turned away from him.

"Still mad at me?" Disappointed, he reached out to touch her shoulder. She shrugged off his hand.

"I got a right."

"I figured you'd want to leave this place."

"I defended the house. I saved it, and I aimed to live in it." She turned over to glare at him.

"You need a change. This war has took your spirit, along with your boys, Julie. I figured you'd want to go."

"There ain't nothing wrong with my spirit, Rod Owen. I've plenty left to tell you what I think. It's a low-down, slimy, snake trick to take a gal's home away from her, without even a by-your-leave."

Rod pushed himself up with his elbows and stared at Julia. "You've changed a right smart whilst I was gone."

"I've had to fend for myself and the young'uns, Rod. I got so I was the boss around the place. I did my chores and yours, too. Now you come home and sell my place without considering my side of the matter. Yes, I've changed a right smart, and I'm mad at you." Julia turned away and hit the wall with her small, work-worn fist.

Rod sank back into the featherbed and let the air leave his lungs in one fast exhalation. When he spoke again, his voice was contemplative.

"I reckon we've both changed. Me, I got used to having my orders obeyed without a word of question coming back at me. It was do it right now or die. My guess is we've lost the habit of working together like we used to." He screwed up his face and rubbed his beard with both hands. "I just hope we ain't lost the habit of loving together," he added, barely audible.

"Um," she sighed, almost a sob, and after a long silence, she turned to look at Rod.

He put out his hand, touched her cheek, and said, "My Julie."

"I never got free of needing you to love me," she whispered. "We need to learn again how to get on with one another, is all."

"I give you my word I'll work hard to look after you like I used to."

"I don't need looking after like I did before the war took you away. I need you to work with me and think about my feelings and thoughts before you jump into something like this."

"I can't change what I did. The paper's signed."

"Oh, Rod, that means we have to leave Baby John lying over yonder in the burying ground." She clutched his forearm, then relaxed her grip to smooth the grizzled hair. "It about breaks my heart."

"Julie, I ain't an unfeeling man. I know it pains you to leave him, and Peter and Benjamin, too, but this is our chance to make a new start." Rod sat up, and the covers fell forward from his torso, exposing his long underwear. "We'll have the cash to buy an outfit to get to Colorado Territory. I'll try to shed my bossy ways, if you'll forgive me, and go with a willing heart."

Julia looked at Rod's back, gauging his excitement by the rapidity of his breathing. It finally returned to normal, and he sank back into the tick.

"Twenty-five years ago I made my vow to love you and to live with you wherever you went," she whispered. "Since you're bound to go, I'd best keep my promise."

Rod turned and looked at Julia. "I love you, woman," he sighed, gathering her into his arms.

~~~

Carl woke up in his bed. I'm home, he marveled, rolling over in the quilt. He was warm under the covers, barricaded against air chilly from the night's rain. Looking over at Albert, he saw the regular rise and fall of his brother's chest. He's such a young'un, Carl mused. He's been doing all my chores for three years. It's time I took some of 'em back and let him sleep.

He sat up and flicked the covers back from his bare legs. It had been a long time since he'd had a chance to get out of his pants at night. On the run with the Rangers, he had practically slept in his saddle. Carl got up and dressed quickly, yearning for a change of clothes.

He left Albert still asleep and went downstairs to stir up the fire. As he made it blaze to life, the chill around the fireplace faded, and he put a boiler of water on the hearth to heat for washing up later.

Carl crossed the room and got his coat before he went outdoors. From the doorway he looked at the morning sky. The clouds were thinning out, waiting for the sun to rise, and the rain had quit falling. Toward the east, the bulk of Massanutten Mountain rose up to prevent Carl from seeing the Blue Ridge Mountains, but he knew they were there, and he knew they were hazy and covered with fog on such a morning as this. He'd spent enough time dodging the Yankees, riding up into the sanctuary of the isolated gaps and hollows, that he knew the moods of the mountains.

The yard was under water from the night's rain, and Carl wondered how the animals would fare in the open in this weather. Then he recalled with a jolt that soon they would be used to it. There were no barns on the way to Colorado Territory.

Carl set about feeding the animals, and with courage born of morning freshness, he decided to tackle milking Brindle by himself.

"Cow, I been over the hill and down the river in the last few years. I ain't going to be licked by the likes of you."

Brindle promptly knocked him over, sprawling him into the mud and water. He scrambled up, soaked and sputtering, and went back to work, wiping his hands on his pants.

"I reckon I'll milk you, so you'd just as well surrender, you crazy cow." Carl set his jaw and grabbed a handful of teat. Brindle turned her head and rolled her eyes, unconvinced of Carl's prowess. He went on the attack, and the cow mooed with fright.

When he had a half-pail of milk, Carl figured he'd won the battle, and let the calf have its breakfast. He straightened his back, then probed the sore spot on his side where the cow had kicked him, but decided it was nothing to worry about.

Carl took the milk to the house and washed up with the water he'd left heating. Checking the wood box, he found it half empty and returned to the yard for an armful. From the looks of the stack of firewood on the left edge of the clearing, James had made more than one trip to the mountain for wood. Carl pulled some logs from the center of the pile where the wood was dry, and took them into the house.

Julia was up, tending the fire and baking bread for the day. She looked up at Carl, then down at his feet.

"Hush, Ma, I'm sorry. I forgot to wipe 'em. I ain't used to living in a house, but I'll try to keep the mud in the yard where it belongs."

Albert came into the room, yawning and stretching, and looked accusingly at Carl. "You left me a-sleeping. I got critters looking to be fed."

"You was up late, and looked like you were relishing your sleep. I took the liberty of doing your chores this morning. Set and eat."

"Thanks, Carl. Don't mind if I do." Albert sat and attacked his breakfast.

Rod came into the room, looking pleased with himself. He carried a list of purchases to make as soon as the Yankee money passed into his hands. He sat and greeted his family.

"Morning, Julia, boys. Fine day. Carl, you make ready to ride into town with me after breakfast. We'll fetch back your sisters to help your ma get the foodstuffs together." Rod paused to chew a mouthful of cornbread, then turned to his youngest son. "Albert, who did you say was willing to leave the Valley on account of his place was wrecked?"

"That would be Andy's pa, Angus Campbell."

"Pa," Carl broke in ahead of Rod's next speech. "How are we going to get out to Colorado? Me and my outfit blew up so much track hereabouts, I reckon the railroad's useless."

"I been studying on that, son. We'll take wagons, like those who went to Oregon in the early days, and the Mormon folk in the forties. I reckon we'll keep off the northern trails. I can just see a Yankee farmer taking pot shots at us, calling us wild Rebs. Likely we can get through Kentucky and Missouri on the back roads and hit the Santa Fe Trail at the city of Kansas. We'll follow it along the Arkansas River into Colorado, then turn north and strike out for Denver City to find your uncle."

"We're getting a mighty late start."

"I know, and wagons are slow, but I figure we can haul more goods for less cost that way. I reckon we'll need four, five months on the trail, but the weather should hold pretty fair until then." Rod turned his head to his wife. "We'll take that old box of Jonathan's to him."

Carl's gaze shifted from his father's face to the leather-covered strongbox on the mantel. Uncle Jonathan brought it with him when he returned from his trip to the Territory in 'Fifty-nine. He told his sister it was hers if they ever got word of his death. Then he went back west to his gold fields. The box had never been opened, and sat, padlocked and dusty, where he'd placed it.

"How long since you heard from Uncle Jonathan, Ma?" asked Carl.

"It's been a couple of years, but mail has been real chancy with the war on."

"It'll be good to see him again." Carl rose from the table. "I'll saddle the horses, Pa."

"I'm nearly through here." Rod paused to wipe his mouth. "Albert, you'd best get to shelling the corn. Your ma will need to make it all up into cornmeal before we leave."

"Yes, Pa."

Chapter Three

Carl rode with his father down the Valley toward Mount Jackson, feeling a wrenching in his gut at the desolation and ruin in the homesteads they passed. These folks had worked for years, generations even, and now everything was gone, wiped out by the advance of Sheridan's army. Some of these farmers might listen to Pa's plan to go west.

As they rode through the gray mist and green trees, they approached Mount Jackson, which sat near the Shenandoah River. The damage here was not so heavy. Old stone houses still lined the streets of the residential section, where the town folks were scratching out a post-war living. An occasional empty lot in the business district gave testimony of a wooden building gone up in smoke.

Rod pulled up his horse at an intersection and turned to Carl. "We'll go to Rulon's house first, let the girls know to pack up their bundles. Then I'll go talk to Randolph Hilbrands. He could make a pile of money with a store in Colorado, and he's always been partial to money." Rod chuckled. "Let's see how long it takes me to convince him."

Rulon lived on a quiet back street in a brick house owned by his father-in-law, the same Randolph Hilbrands. Rulon and Mary had lived there since he was sent home to die.

As Rod and Carl rode up to the door of the house, someone pulled aside the curtains of a window on the ground floor and peeked out. The men dismounted and tied their horses to the fence, then the door of the house was flung open, and out boiled two young females.

"Papa!" Julianna, fair colored and exuberant, with the energy of eleven years, threw herself into Rod's arms.

"It's Pa," squealed Marie. "And Carl's here, too!" Forgetting the decorum she had gained in sixteen years, she wrapped her arms around Carl, nearly knocking him off balance.

"Whoa, hold up there, Sis." He put out his hand to steady the two of them against the fence. "You've growed up," he said, astonished.

"Sure have." Marie giggled, tossing her dark head. "And you're a man, looks like." She backed away for along appraisal.

Carl went hot with embarrassment. His sister was looking at him with woman's eyes.

"I'm just real skinny," he protested. "It makes me look taller."

"Wait 'til the girls get a look at you," laughed Marie. "You'll have to drive 'em off with a hay fork. It's been a long time since we've had any suitors around."

"Suitors! You and your friends ain't never had no suitors. You was just babies when us men went off to fight." Carl took a deep breath, on home ground now that he was bantering with Marie.

"That's all you know," she replied.

Julianna dragged Rod toward the house, so Carl grabbed Marie's hand and followed.

Mary Owen stood in the doorway, offering her hand to her father-in-law, who gave her a bear hug instead. She looked pale, and a crease appeared on her forehead as she endured the hug.

"Roddy," she called to a small, dark-haired child playing by the hearth. "You come over here. Your granddaddy just came. Give him a welcome."

The boy looked up, then jumped to his feet.

"Poppy!" he cried, and ran over to grasp Rod by the knees. Rod bent down and boosted him up onto his shoulders. The boy whooped, and held on to Rod's ears.

Julianna plumped a pillow in the best chair in the house, saying, "Papa, come an' set down."

Rod put the youngster on the floor, and Roddy scampered off to play with his blocks.

"Pa, it's right nice to see you again," Marie said, hugging her father. "Carl, come over here and set a while," she urged her brother, placing a chair for him.

The men sat, and Julianna tiptoed behind Carl, then ambushed him with a big hug, startling him into standing again.

"Jule! You'd best not surprise a man thataway. I might've hurt you."

"Carl's home, Carl's home," she sang, dancing her way around the room, heedless of his discomfort.

Rulon, hearing all the uproar, came down the stairs, leaning against the wall for support. Upon seeing his father and brother, he lowered the pistol he carried and entered the room. Mary glanced up and gave a little cry of alarm, but he waved aside her concern.

"I'm fine, Mary," Rulon grinned, sweeping his dark hair out of his eyes. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and held out his hand to his father. "Just the sight of my kin makes me feel strong."

Rod arose and took Rulon's outstretched hand, then passed him on to Carl, who carefully embraced him.

"You look a mite thin, Rule, but likely you'll never get as skinny as me." The younger brother measured himself against the older, found himself to be taller, and grinned with delight. "Seems you've shrunk a mite, too."

"Taller don't make better, Carl. I still outweigh you in a wrestling match. Wait 'til I get my strength, and we'll have a go at it." Rulon stepped back to look at Carl's spare frame. "'Pears to me you're healthy. Did you catch any Yankee lead?"

Carl grinned. "Colonel Mosby kept us riding fast enough to beat the bullets. That's not saying we didn't lose a few men here and there." His expression changed. "We lost more than a few. I reckon we paid a powerful price."

"Amen, brother."

"Leastwise, you made it home, Rule. Pa just told me about Ben yesterday. That's a mighty blow, I tell you."

Rulon nodded, clapped Carl on the shoulder, and took a chair. "Pa, what brings you into town in the middle of the mornin'?"

"I've come to fetch your sisters home to help your ma. We've got a right smart job of work to do in the next fortnight. Well, so do you, come to think of it."

"What's that you mean, Pa?"

"I've sold the farm, and we're going to the Colorado Territory to hunt up Uncle Jonathan. I aim to thumb my nose at these Yankees, light a shuck out of here, and make a new life growing cows for all them miners to buy."

"Do miners need lots of milk and butter, Papa?" asked Julianna. She looked around, confused by the hoots of laughter that greeted her question. "Well, do they?"

"I don't mean milk cows, daughter. We're going to raise beef critters."

"Are you asking us to go with you, Pa?" Rulon asked.

"I'd like it, Rulon. It'd be best to keep the family together. You need good clean air to help you mend proper, and Mary here could use a change, her feeling so poorly just now."

Mary sank to her knees beside Rulon's chair, looking anxiously up at him. "I don't feel like I can leave Pa and Ma and go traipsing over the countryside dodging Yankees, Rulon. Please say 'no'," she implored him.

"Don't you go to fretting, Mistress Mary," Rod chuckled. "I aim to fix things with your pa right now. Marie, you girls gather up your things into a bundle and get ready to leave with us."

Rod turned to Rulon. "I'll leave Clay to help you get things together. He's a handy young'un, for his age."

Marie wagged her finger at her father. "Pa, don't let Clay hear you talking like that. He's done more than his share of the work since Carl took off to ride with Mosby. Then when James got drafted, well, he was the man on the place, and he's mighty proud of the job he done."

Rod laughed and tipped his hat onto his head. "Comin', Carl?"

"Ready, Pa." Carl rose to his feet and accompanied his father through the door.

"We'll go over and catch Rand in his store. He won't know what hit him." Rod laughed as he mounted his horse.

~~~

When he entered the Hilbrands Mercantile a few minutes later, Carl sniffed the spicy odors of the candy counter, just as he had in years past. This was a friendly place, as well known to him as his home or his saddle.

Rod walked in as though he owned the mortgage, moving with an easy, strolling gait. "Rand," he greeted his friend, hand outstretched.

"Well, Rod Owen, you old nag-rider, you found you another son." Randolph Hilbrands took

Rod's hand and shook it. "Seems like a new one comes home every day."

"Just got in yesterday. Colonel Mosby kept his boys in after school let out."

"You, with five sons left to you, you can joke. Me, with five daughters, and only one married, well, I'm past laughing." Rand stroked his thin black moustache.

"Now Rand, it hardly seems likely that your girls are all of a marryin' age. Why, wasn't Amanda just having a child about the time I left for the fighting?"

"That would be Eliza. But Ida, now. She fancies herself quite a lady, and her not yet seventeen. Always going around worrying about when she will marry. I'm afraid Mandy's filled that girl's head with a mess of nonsense." Rand shook his head and eased his tall, fleshy frame back onto his stool.

"She's just the age of my Marie. I reckon she's the same way."

"Not like my girl Ida. You never heard the like of the plans she makes to catch her a beau. It'd curl your hair, Rod."

Carl felt the heat of embarrassment creeping into his face, and turned away from Mr. Hilbrands' somber description of his daughter's antics. Looking around at the displays to find one out of earshot, he bumped into the saucy Miss Hilbrands herself, who had just entered from the street.

"I declare, you are the clumsiest—" As Ida got a good look at the object of her verbal attack, she backed up a step and started over. "I am so sorry," she drawled. "Silly me, can't help but trip on this old floor. Now let me think. You must be Carl Owen, Rulon's brother. I declare, you have grown up so nicely."

Carl stared at her, hoping his mouth wasn't open. Ida Hilbrands had grown up very nicely herself. Above a pair of merry blue eyes was the blondest, silkiest mop of curls he had ever seen. Her nose was tiny, with a hint of mischief to its tilt. Her mouth looked as though it laughed a great deal of the time, and was just now curled upward as she smiled gaily at her prize.

Ida threw back her head and gave a little sigh, and Carl became aware of other curved portions of her body.

"Carl Owen, I declare, has the cat got your tongue? You haven't said one little word since you bumped into me!" Ida smiled encouragingly, tapping her foot.

"I—I'm truly sorry, Miss Ida. I'm not used to being home yet, and in the company of such a pretty little thing as yourself. You have surely changed since last I saw you." Carl recalled a vague person with long braids and knee-length skirts.

"Have you been home long?" Ida inquired sweetly.

"I arrived last evening. Got my parole last week near Charlottesville."

"All this talk of paroles! Makes our men folks out to be a passel of criminals."

"We was prisoners of war. The paroles mean we're on our honor to come home and wait for an exchange. I got my parole, like I said, then snuck me a Yankee rifle. Almost got caught, but I slipped away."

"Well, I never heard of such a thing," Ida exclaimed. "Why on earth would you want a dirty Yankee rifle?"

"Because it's an almighty good one, a repeater. I needed me a good firearm."

"I don't know anything about rifles and such," Ida murmured, looking at Carl with dreamy eyes.

"I have to see if Pa needs any help," Carl gulped, anxious to be away from the gaze of those eyes. "It was wondrous fine to see you again, Miss Ida."

"You'll have to come around and see us from time to time, now that this nasty war is over," she countered.

"I'd be pleased to," Carl nodded. He looked down and stared at his boots.

Ida tossed her head, greeted her father, and went into the back room of the store, sending one last smoldering look towards Carl.

He dropped a sigh of relief, then walked over to where his father and Ida's were deep in discussion.

"I've got my store," Rand said. "I can make a living. You go ahead on. I'll not set the Yankees to your trail."

"I hope you'll give it a bit more thought, Rand. You've got goods here for a store in the Territory. Look around you and see the conditions hereabouts. Folks are starving, and all you can do is hand out credit and pray they'll get a good crop to repay you." Rod paused to scratch his nose. "Those miners in Colorado Territory have good hard money, gold dust and nuggets, mostly, and dug fresh out of the ground by their own hand. The things they lack are the goods you have right here. It don't seem right when you could make a bunch of money, were you in Colorado. It's not fair, somehow."

Carl wondered how long the silence would last. He glanced at Rand, and nearly laughed out loud at the hungry look that came across the older man's face.

"Gold dust and nuggets, you say?" Rand passed his hand over his face. "I'll go with you Rod, but with all this inventory and my house goods, too, I'll be needing an extra driver, and I'm willing to pay a good wage. Will you give me Carl, here?"

Rod turned to his son, eyes twinkling. "Will you drive Mr. Hilbrands' wagon, son?"

"I reckon. You've got help a-plenty with the other boys."

"It's done then, Rand." Rod shook hands with his friend. "Have your wagons ready to go in a fortnight. We'll meet at my farm, and get an early start."

"Good. I want to get out there before some other merchant garners all the business." Rand chuckled, and rubbed his hands along his apron front.

Rod waved good-bye and left the store, followed by Carl.

"Well, Pa," the young man said, once they were outside. "It didn't take so long to change his mind."

"I reckon I saved the best for last, son. I knew Rand Hilbrands could never stand the thought of good hard gold a-slipping through his fingers." Rod mounted his horse.

"It surely was comical to watch his face change." Carl swung into his saddle. "Who else do you aim to see here in town, Pa?"

"I'm going over to speak with the blacksmith. I hear he's been itching to go west since his wife died last winter. If he goes with us, Tom can take his little ones along, not leave them with the Campbells."

"Isn't Tom O'Connor some kind of kin to the Campbells?"

"Closer than most. Mistress Molly is Tom's sister. Now if Angus will agree to go with us, the whole passel of them can stick together and make a new start in the Territory."

"Why don't I go give the girls a hand, Pa? You don't need me to talk to Mr. O'Connor."

"Have them ready to go when I get back. Look, there's Angus Campbell himself, crossing the street up yonder. I may be gone for a while, son. I'll see you back at the house." Rod nudged his horse into a trot, and little puffs of dust arose as he went up the street.

Carl turned off toward Rulon's house. The sun had come out bright and strong, and it felt good and warm on his back. He grinned. "Hush, we're going west."

As he reached the corner, Carl saw a group of mounted men dashing up the cross street in front of him. Panic rose in his throat as he recognized the Yankee patrol that had jumped him, and he wheeled his horse to find a place of concealment. Then he realized where he was, turned Sherando again, and tried to calm his pounding heart. The soldiers were probably racing through the streets of Mount Jackson to make a ruckus, and he felt foolish to be caught in their trap.

"Easy, boy," he told his horse. "It ain't likely they'll take after me in town."

The Yankees drew up at the far end of the street, then turned and started back to town. As they thundered toward him, Carl noticed a young girl opposite him, evidently trying to decide whether to cross. She hesitated a moment, then bolted out into the street. In the middle, she looked around at the approaching soldiers, tripped, and fell into the road.

Without thinking, Carl spurred his horse into the street, leaned out from his saddle, and plucked the arising girl from the muck. Sherando carried them across the road while the Yankees whooped and whistled as their horses rushed by, venting their disappointment. Carl got down the street, turned a corner, then pulled up and set the girl on her feet and slid off his horse.

"Hush my mouth! That was the foolest thing I ever seen a body do!" Carl made no attempt to stop the hot words from tumbling out of his mouth. He glared at the girl, standing in the street with her chin up and her eyes flashing, auburn hair disheveled, the front of her clothes mud-caked and dripping. "You surely could have been killed, and that's a fact! You keep clear away from that gang of Yankees, you hear? Darn fool girl, anyhow." He got on his horse and left her standing there, pridefully biting back tears of relief. Then he rode away, shaking mud and slime off his arm, and muttering to himself.

~~~

Carl dismounted at Rulon's fence and tied his horse, then rapped on the door. Marie answered and looked him over a moment before letting him enter.

"Did you fall off your horse, brother?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Carl glared at her. "Don't start in a-teasing me, Marie," he warned, stalking into the room. "Where can I clean up?"

"The well is in the back. I'll bring you soap and a towel if you'll tell me how you got so dirty."

"Keep them. I ain't going to give you the satisfaction." Carl left through the kitchen.

Marie heard the squeak of the windlass as she headed toward the stairs. "Stubborn," she proclaimed. Before she had gone up two steps, someone rapped in the front door again. Marie sighed, came back down, and opened the door.

"Ellen Bates! Whatever happened to you?"

"Please let me come in. I'm afraid those nasty Yankees will bother me again." Ellen's voice quivered dangerously, and Marie stepped back to admit her. Then she closed and bolted the door.

Ellen Bates was covered in the front with a slimy layer of mud. She stood by the door, shaking and dripping on the floor. Marie grabbed her arm and led her to the fire.

"Set here by the hearth while I get some water to clean you up." Marie went toward the kitchen, then halted. "Ellen, my brother Carl just went into the back yard with his arm all covered with mud, and in such a rage. Does he have anything to do with the state you're in?"

Ellen moaned and covered her face with her hands. "Is that who he was? I'll never be able to face him." She got up and moved toward the door. "I have to leave."

"Oh now, you ain't going anywhere." Marie barred her way. "I won't let you go out there looking like you fell down in the road. Oh lawsy! That's what happened, ain't it."

"I was crossing the street in front of those stupid Yankee soldiers running their horses down the way, and I tripped and fell. Your brother kicked that big horse of his and fetched me out of there. Then he set me on my feet and cussed me up and down. He really flapped his tongue some at me," she mumbled. "You've got to hide me before he comes in."

"You're not afraid of Carl, are you?"

"Not afraid. Just shamed. It was highly foolish of me to try to beat those Yankees across the street, and to get plucked out of the mud like a rag doll." She shuddered. "I'll never be able to hold up my head around him my whole life long."

"That's likely, but you can't keep from seeing him. He's here to take me on home. Ma needs

me right now. We're going...." Marie looked sideways at Ellen. "I mean, we're going to be busy with...the planting."

"Marie, you're telling a fib. What's happening?"

"I'm sorry, Ellen. I can't say." She sighed. "But I will tell you, real soon, I promise. We'll clean you up, and I'll find some clothes so you can go home."

Marie left Ellen by the fire and went into the yard. She found Carl washing his shirt in a bucket of water. As she approached the well, Carl flicked drops of water at her and grinned.

"I'm sorry I was so fierce with you," he said. "Seems like ever since I got home, I've been muddy more than clean, and it's wearing on my nerves. Once, a cow knocked me into the mud, and now I'm filthy on account of a dumb girl."

"Well, that 'dumb girl' was coming to visit me, and she's out in the parlor dying of fright that you'll cuss at her again. Carl, how could you?"

"What? She's here?"

"She's my best friend."

"You surely do pick dumb friends."

"I ain't looking to fight with you, Carl. You had no business yelling at her, though."

"She nearly got us killed by a bunch of Yankees I had trouble with once before." He held up his dripping shirt. "Look at that. I was on my way home and they cut off all my buttons. Claimed I was violating my parole. I do not favor them casting their eyes on me again, seeing as how they're running the show hereabouts."

"Ellen knows she done a fool thing, but she's sorry. You'd best come in and make amends for yelling at her."

"Not me, Sis. Let her die of fright. I ain't apologizing for giving her something she earned." Carl put on his wet shirt and tied it closed with some bits of string.

"I see. Well, she needs to clean up, so if you don't aim to meet her, you'd best remain out here."

Carl mumbled something.

"What did you say?"

"You don't want to hear it."

###

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Ride to Raton

Chapter One

As soon as James Owen heard the Spanish priest's final amen, he stepped back from the makeshift altar in the Colorado meadow and made his legs carry him to the edge of the forest. Behind him he knew Ma, Pa, and the rest of the family and guests were crowding around to congratulate the bride and groom.

The bride was Ellen Bates—who'd been his fiancée.

And the groom was his brother, Carl.

His own brother...

James gagged.

When his stomach had emptied itself over the pine needles and columbines, he straightened up, chest heaving, and gripped a sapling until the quivering left his legs. He yanked his high, stiff collar loose and threw it on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve, then threw a quick glance behind him.

Carl now sat down on the chair his brothers had used to bring him to the meadow. The bridegroom's gunshot wound was bleeding; a crimson stain spread across the hip of his trousers. Ellen fussed around, pointing at his brothers, Rulon and Clay. She shooed off the other cowboys, who seemed eager to put her on their shoulders for a shiveree.

Ma was looking toward James, her forehead furrowed with worry. She took two steps toward him, then stopped. He cleared his throat and spat, straightened his shoulders—which ached from the strain of keeping himself tightly under control—and took the path that led through the forest to the ranch headquarters.

He heard Ma call out, "James!" then "Rod, go see—"

"Leave Pa out of it," James grunted so low that she couldn't possibly hear him, and kept moving. He stamped through the trees, pounding his fist into his open hand and wishing it was Carl's face. He approached a holding pen, where a wild horse wheeled and snorted, upset by the young man's noise.

James swore at his brother for getting injured. When he gets well— He pressed his lips tightly together, as though to restrain his vengeful thoughts.

The black horse watched every move James made, its wary eyes following him as he approached. It snorted, sniffed the air, then whirled around to track his progress along the fence line. James looked at the beast that Carl had caught as the Owen men returned from Texas with a herd of cattle and a crew of cowboys. When a gang of ruffians had kidnapped two young ladies, the Owen crew had confronted them in a gun battle. Carl had been sorely wounded.

A harsh sound escaped James's throat. It wasn't quite a laugh. He took Miss Ellen. I'll take the mustang.

James stalked into the shed, snatched a rope from where it hung on a peg pounded into the wall, and stalked out again. Entering the enclosure, he leaned against the gate and built a loop in his rope. Let's see if the Texan's roping trick works. He looked up.

The black snorted and moved off as far as it could get in the pen. James stepped toward the horse, holding the rope behind him. He crowded the animal to one side of the corral, then flipped the loop up from the ground and around the horse's neck.

Gripping the rope with one hand, he ran to the horse, grabbed a handful of mane, and hauled himself up. The horse tried to shake him off, but he got his right leg over its back just as the animal reared on its hind legs, bellowing. James stayed on, clamping his knees against the rough hair and bending low over the neck.

You're not so easily rid of me.

The black met the ground stiff legged, screaming, and James felt his stomach crowding his throat. He swallowed hard, digging his boots into the barrel of the animal as it whipped up its heels, tucking its head toward the earth. Then the two of them were airborne, and James braced for the shock of landing against the black's spine. His teeth jarred together, then again and again and again as, pitching, bucking, whirling, the beast tried to get James's weight off its back.

"Blasted devil horse," he muttered as he came down hard, a little off center, and grabbed for a new fistful of the stiff black mane hairs. But the horse was in the air again—head and heels together, back arched—and James lost his grasp on the mane and the rope. Flying off, he landed on his left shoulder in the center of the ring.

"You fool, you're like to be killed!"

James shook his head to clear away his father's strident voice, looked for the horse, then rolled clear when it dove at him with stiff front legs. Rising from the dust, he ran after the animal, grabbing for the trailing rope with his left hand as he kneaded his sore shoulder with his right.

"Don't you know when you've had enough?" yelled his father as he opened the gate. "Get out of there, you—"

James had the rope in his hands and wrapped it around his left arm. Then he dug in his heels to bring the horse under control.

"You're crazy," Roderick Owen shouted, shutting the gate and lending his weight to the end of the lariat whipping free behind his son.

"Get off my rope!"

"You're double dumb crazy." Rod held on, hauling backward.

"Get off! You're cutting my arm!"

Rod let go of the rope, and James was jerked forward, scrambling to keep his feet under him. Suddenly the animal quit fighting, its head drooping. It stood against the fence, quivering, its slick black sides heaving as it filled its lungs.

James flipped the noose off the animal's neck and dropped it in the dust, to the accompaniment of catcalls from a line of spectators along the fence. Doubled over, hands on his knees, his gasping matched the horse's. When he finally got his breath, he spat the grit from his mouth, surveyed the men peering through the fence, and waved his arms at them.

"This ain't a free show," he yelled. "You'all get away from here!"

The crowd broke up, each man muttering his displeasure as he drifted back toward the meadow. James watched them go as he kneaded his shoulder again. He turned on his father.

"Why'd you butt in on my business?"

"You were next to getting killed, trying to ride that outlaw horse."

"I'm not talking about the horse. I'm talking about Miss Ellen. And Miss Jessica! You forced me to leave her behind in the Shenandoah and hatched a scheme to marry Miss Ellen to me. You got her pa to agree for a few sacks of provisions and a wagon!" James spat on the ground.

"It wasn't quite like that."

James ignored his father's response as his words rushed on. "You dragged me across the country, preaching duty every day. I obeyed you. I put off Miss Jessica to court Miss Ellen. I did my duty, Pa, and I even grew fond of her. I looked forward to settling down, having a little house, raising up young—"

"Stop it!" Rod's eyes narrowed. He squinted at his son's left sleeve, watching a line of blood seep through the fabric. "You're hurt, boy."

James glanced at the sleeve, then shook his arm, wincing as pain lanced through the shoulder. He looked up, glaring. "Carl had no claim to Ellen, yet you let him take her from me. Did you think I wouldn't mind?"

Rod Owen's face resembled a limestone outcrop bristling with fire blackened buffalo grass stubble. His voice came out in a whisper. "It was Ellen's choice, James. She loves Carl."

"No!" James sucked in a ragged breath. "She wouldn't gainsay her pa's pledge."

"James, there's no telling what's in the mind of a woman. Maybe Miss Ellen didn't cotton to the idea of being traded for a wagon. I thought it was a good deal for both her and her folks. Somehow she didn't come to care for you."

"That didn't matter to me!" James shouted.

"She came to love your brother, and when he saved her life, that was good enough for her pa." Rod shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Set your mind to keeping peace, now, and we'll get back to ranching."

The young man's breathing tore at his throat, and pain seared through his belly. "Peace?" He looked square at his father, then fury rose up and he jabbed the man's chest with his forefinger. "My pride and my affection for that girl is stomped into the ground, and now you call for peace?" He swore, his voice venomous, and his finger jabbed harder.

Rod knocked down James's hand. His voice was quiet, yet rumbled around the corral when he spoke. "Keep your place, son."

James reared back, gathered himself, then spat on the ground. "There is no place for me here."

Silence stretched like silver cobwebs between the peeled logs surrounding the two men. Even the horse was quiet. A bushy tailed squirrel rushed up a nearby pine tree, found a limb, and held its breath. Suddenly it chattered, scolding the frozen humans, then flicked its tail as it scuttled away up the tree trunk.

"Once you leave go of that anger, your place will be as large as your brother's. We got a big job of work ahead, son. Now settle down and let's get back to the party."

James stood still, his head thrown back. He was silent.

Rod scowled. "I've preached peace amongst my sons as long as I've had them. It makes the work go smoother." He rubbed his beard. "I need you here, James, but if you can't keep..." His voice trailed off to silence.

James squinted at his father.

Rod pulled in a breath and held it a long time before he let it go. His words came out soft as a breeze down the mountain. "Son, I reckon you're too prideful and angry right now to keep peace. Until you get free of that, the best thing is for you to light a shuck for someplace else."

Chapter Two

As Amparo Garcés y Martinez wrung another rivulet of soapy water from the twisted white blouse she held in her brown hands, she gazed above the roofline of her home toward the sun-bathed mountains notching the horizon beyond Santa Fe. Puffy white clouds hung above the hills as though they were pinned on a clothesline stretched across the brilliant blue sky. Vegetation painted the slopes in variegated hues of greens and browns.

This is beauty, she thought, sighing, and glanced toward the shrine tucked into a niche in the corner of the courtyard. María Santísima, is Heaven so lovely a place as Santa Fe? Is my dear papá there? Tell me it is so, Holy Mother. If I know he is happy, I can bear to live without him.

Amparo wiped one eye with the back of her hand, then gave the blouse another twist. I miss him so much, Little Beloved Mother. I never got to tell him goodbye.

She took a deep breath and let it escape slowly from between her full lips. Oh, Madre de Dios, give me a little of your strength. Help me to bear my burdens with a light heart.

Amparo remembered the blouse clasped in her slim hands, shook it gently to uncoil it, then thrust the garment into the rinsing pool of the stone laundry basin. A few drops of water splashed onto her richly embroidered green satin skirt. She frowned, exclaimed, "¡Vaya!" and grabbed for a dry rag to sop up the liquid before it spotted the stiff cloth. She dropped the rag to the flagstone beneath her soft slippers and raised her arm to her head to push back the fringe of soft black hair clinging to her damp forehead.

I am sorry, Virgen Santa. I became distracted. I know it is absurd to wear my best clothes for this task. But they are the only clean clothes I have left, and if I am to have anything else to wear, I must do the laundry myself. You see, the woman came home from her errand this morning and dismissed the maid before she could even begin the washing.

"¡Chica!" cried a disapproving voice from a doorway. Amparo jumped. The voice continued. "Why do you wear your good clothes to do the wash? You will ruin them, and I cannot buy you any more fine things."

"Señora Catarina, you startled me!" The girl turned from the washtub and snatched up another blouse from a woven basket at her feet. "I could not help but wear these clothes. They were all I had left when you sent Lupe away." She rubbed the blouse with a bar of soap smelling strongly of lye, then began to scrub the garment against the stone washboard in front of her.

A slender woman with thin red lips and wide eyes fringed with spiky black lashes stepped into the courtyard, her long black taffeta skirt swishing with the motion of her hips. She approached a pot of geraniums hanging from a bracket against the kitchen wall and, plucking a blossom, inserted it into the black knot of hair coiled at the back of her head.

"You forgot to call me 'Mamá'," said the woman, hiding a yawn behind her hand. "Until I met with the lawyer, I did not realize we were so poor that we could not afford to keep Lupe," she added, arching her dark brows. "We will have to conserve until matters improve, so for the time being, you will wash the clothes and linen, and I will watch that Rafaela does not waste any food as she cooks."

"My papá would not want me to do the wash always," the girl protested, shaking her shoulder to dislodge a thick braid of black hair that rested upon it. "He said I must learn to keep a household, but I also must remember to be a lady."

"Then your papá should have left more money to me and not so much to the beggars on the street," the woman answered in a sharp tone. "You will do as you are told, chica."

Amparo drew herself up proudly, rapidly blinking her dark brown eyes. "My papá was a great man to give money to the poor. He said we did not need much, and he was looking forward to receiving his reward for good deeds in Heaven, once he arrived there."

"And for his stupid deeds, I have to suffer." Catarina folded her arms across the front of her white blouse.

Amparo bit her lip. "My papá was not stupid. And it will not injure us to suffer in life." She looked at the woman for a moment, then resumed her labors.

The woman drew in a noisy breath. "If you like to suffer, then we will do so," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "We will not buy cream for the coffee, and no more sugar."

Before Amparo could protest, the iron knocker boomed against the front door six times. The sound filled the courtyard with echoes. The girl stopped scrubbing and looked up. "Shall I see who is at the door?"

Catarina shook her head. "Keep working. I will go." The woman moved in the direction of the front hallway, and Amparo went back to her work.

As she worked, she heard a murmur of voices at the front door. When it stopped, Catarina came back across the courtyard toward the laundry basin. Her mouth was brittle with a smile of satisfaction as she slowly fanned a folded sheet of paper before her face.

"Well, chica, perhaps I will have cream and sugar after all."

Amparo raised her arms from the washbasin and dropped a skirt into the rinse tub. "What is that?"

Catarina regarded the girl with a cold look in her narrowed eyes. She tapped the paper against the open palm of one hand.

Why does she hate me so much, Holy Mother? Amparo asked silently.

Presently the woman spoke. "It is a way out of our difficulties, chica." She turned away.

"What do you mean?"

Catarina cocked her head, then slowly pivoted on her high-heeled shoes. The smile on her lips sent a chill up Amparo's neck, and she felt a prickle at her scalp. The woman held the paper high. "If you must know, this is your salvation."

The girl took two steps forward, then stood stiffly beside the washbasin as Catarina came toward her, looked her over, then circled behind Amparo, trailing her free hand along the girl's shoulders.

Amparo shuddered at her touch.

"When your papá had the poor taste to die, I asked my friend Señor Fuentes for his assistance." Now Catarina was again in front of Amparo, her carefully rouged upper lip curling as she tilted Amparo's chin upward with two fingers. "He saw you in the marketplace one day, and suggested that there is one good solution to my struggles."

The woman turned Amparo's head from side to side with her hand. "I am sure now that he was right." Catarina loosed the girl's face and tapped the paper. "Señor Fuentes received this communication yesterday. There is a man, a young man, who lives in the Territory of Colorado." She paused, again arching a brow. "He is seeking a wife."

"You are going to remarry?"

"No. It is not I who shall be a bride." Her thin lips twisted toward a smile, and her eyes went hard as she gloated.

"¡Ave María, Madre de Dios!" Amparo whispered as comprehension froze her face. Her body went rigid, her hands in midair.

"You are to meet him in a small village known as Leones on the twenty-sixth day of October. Señor Fuentes is making arrangements for your jornada."

"My journey?" Amparo's hands dropped to her sides.

"Yes." Catarina consulted the paper. "In the mission church you will marry the man, one Julio Rodríguez y Guzmán. In a few days, he will make a fine settlement on you. I, of course, will see to the disposition of the money."

"Vaya, mi mamá," said the girl, almost whispering. She swallowed, trying to wet her arid throat. "It is too soon to talk of marriage. I am not seventeen for two more weeks. I know nothing of men." Virgen Santísima, intercede for me now in this time of trial.

"You've gone pale, chica. You do not appreciate our wonderful news?"

Amparo shook her head to clear it, then took a deep breath to settle herself.

"I suppose you do not want to go to the man? You would rather stay here and starve?" The woman laughed as Amparo shook her head again. "You need not worry, chica. It is very simple to please a man."

Catarina approached Amparo and, taking her by the hand, drew her out into the middle of the courtyard. She tilted her head and looked at the girl.

"First, you will undress, so that he may appreciate your charms." Catarina's voice was low, seductive. "Do not look so shocked, chica. After all, you will be married. He will touch you." The woman caressed Amparo's cheek, and the girl shrank from her. Catarina laughed and drew her handkerchief from her pocket. "He will probably kiss you. Then he will take you to the bed, and you will lie down, perhaps upon silken sheets and pillows." The woman trailed the scrap of silk across Amparo's hand. "That will be pleasant upon your skin." Catarina gave a bark of a laugh, and waved one hand in the air matter-of-factly. "Then he will do what he will do. You will pretend that you like it."

Amparo lowered her head, attempting to hide her horrified face. After a moment, she looked up to find the woman appraising her.

"Will you like it?" Catarina smiled on one side of her mouth. "Will you like it when he touches you, strokes you, when he makes you a woman?" She laughed. "No, I do not suppose that a timorous child like you will appreciate the pleasures your bridegroom will bring to you." She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course, it is possible that he will not be gentle. No matter. I will have cream in my coffee, and you will be the mistress of a large rancho. Make an heir for the man quickly, chica." She turned away dismissively.

Amparo drew a quick breath. She took another, then angry words burst from her mouth. "You are selling me to this stranger! You are selling me like a...whore!"

Catarina gasped, turned, and struck Amparo across the face. The girl fell to the tile floor, hitting her arm against a large carved chest. She hunched her shoulders, clasped the injured arm against her chest with her other hand. Her eyes were tearless. Santa María, I will not cry.

"It is impossible to help you, chica. You appreciate nothing. Nothing!"

"You cannot make me do this hateful thing," Amparo cried out, her back braced against the chest.

"Evil, willful girl, if it takes a stick to teach you, that is how you will learn to be obedient."

"I will not do this," Amparo whispered.

"Ungrateful child! Because of your thoughtless, selfish deviltry, your papá will weep in Purgatory forevermore!" The woman swept from the room, skirts rustling.

Forever in Purgatory? It cannot be so! Amparo fell forward onto the cold floor before the shrine. Blessed Virgin, tell me my papá is safely in Heaven!

~~~

Sunset blazed orange and gold across the pale blue rim of the western sky as Amparo paused at the edge of the plaza. She adjusted her white lace shawl to cover her black hair before she ascended the stone steps leading to the portals of the whitewashed church. Waves of heat rising from the stonework shimmered in the air like silken veils barring the way between her and sanctuary. Her feet, girdled by leather sandals, felt shriveled and gritty, as though they were baked by the afternoon air. The oppression of the day's oven-like temperature would soon abate with the coming of the night, but what could relieve the oppression in her heart?

O mi papá. What have I done? Have I truly kept your soul in Purgatory? It must not be! Holy Virgin, show me how to send my papá to heaven!

The girl climbed the steps, passed through the large open doors of the church and stopped in the welcome cool of the hall to dip her finger into the waiting font of holy water. The moisture caressed her finger as she made the sign of the cross, whispering the words that accompanied the action. She moved forward between the rows of wooden pews into the church, trying to gather peace to her from under the vaulted ceiling above her head. She put out her left hand and grasped the back of the nearest pew, sank to her right knee before the Host, then arose and slipped into a pew on her right.

Her knees found depressions in the hard leather cushion of the kneeler as she bowed her head, pulled her mother's rosary from her pocket, and whispered the "Our Father." At the end of her prayer, as the hush of the place surrounded her, her soul cried out: Blessed Mary, my papá was so good, so kind to all. Surely his soul will have ascended to Heaven by now? Oh, Holy Mother, can my little wish to stay in Santa Fe be so evil?

Half a dozen people knelt in the half-light of the church, although evening mass would not be celebrated for another hour. Amparo leaned back into the pew, worn smooth by the sliding action of hundreds of worshipers over the years. She pulled the ends of her shawl tightly across her chest, as though she were attempting to draw a cloak of privacy around herself.

After a while, her hands began to twitch from tension, and she stretched them out in front of her, opening them wide. Her beads clicked against the missal box attached to the back of the pew, and her hand closed on the nearest book. She drew it toward her, enfolded it against her breast. Her head bowed, she sank forward onto her knees once more.

Then the idea came, the offering she must make, the sacrifice she must suffer to show God her intention.

Amparo rose and placed the missal back in the box. She moved quickly across the center aisle and into the left-hand row of pews, heading toward the side aisle. Her sandaled feet slip slapped on the bare stone walkway as she moved past the confession boxes toward the front of the church where a small chapel branched off to the left.

She stopped before a large wrought iron stand containing both lit and unlit vigil candles, and dropped a small coin into the offering box before she lighted the wick of a candle on the front row. As its light flickered heavenward she slipped into the side chapel to kneel at a rail before which a metal latticework grille protected the painted plaster statue of the Virgin Mother.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee," she said, gazing up at the haunting sadness on the face of the Madonna and wondering if the same sadness was reflected on her own. "Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen."

Amparo looked at her hands, tightly woven around the rosary and resting on the rail. Then she looked upon the Lady's face once more. The moment had come. The vow must be spoken.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, I have no money to buy an indulgence so that my dear papá may ascend from Purgatory into Heaven," she whispered. "To show Our Lord how much I love Him, to show my complete devotion, dearest Lady, I offer up a vow. It is this: I will obey the woman in her plan. I will go to the Territory of Colorado, and I will marry the stranger."

Amparo paused to take a shuddering breath. Then she continued. "This is my intention, the desire of my heart, to please Our Lord Jesus enough that He will take my papá to His bosom." Her head bowed until it touched her thumbs, and she waited for a moment, hearing the pounding of her pulse in her ears. "Blessed Virgin, let your prayers ascend to God that He may hear my petition."

Amparo stretched out her arms in supplication to the figure of Our Lady, and she remained in that position, listening to the rustle of the wax candles burning behind her, to the click of rosary beads being told among the pews.

It seemed a very long time later that her soul found strength enough to raise her body from her knees.

Blessed Mother, I must go now. There is much to do. The woman says it is arranged that I leave in two days. Do not forget me, Blessed Virgin! Do not forget my petition, and my sacrifice!

Amparo crept with slow steps from the church, harboring a small joy in one corner of her heart because she was leaving obedience as a sacrifice upon the altar. The rest of her heart was full of unease at the thought of going into a world of strangers, like the one awaiting her in Colorado.

Chapter Three

James felt a shudder cross his frame. Pa was still talking. "Are you of a mind to tell me where you're bound?"

Bound? Pa's words kicked dirt over some of the fire of James's rage, and he swallowed hard. Where was he bound? What could he do? A list of his skills ran past his mind—farmer, stock raiser, horse breaker, soldier—

"I don't reckon there's call for an infantryman anywhere about." James bit his lip at voicing his absurd thought.

"Not likely." Rod waited for a moment before he continued. "What's your plan?"

"I'll . . ." James looked around the enclosure, then raised his chin and exhaled. "I'll dig out Uncle Jonathan's mine."

Rod was silent again for a time. He sniffed once. "It was a rich hole before it fell in on him." He rubbed his beard again. "I'll lend you a dollar or two to get you on your way. Take the sorrel and the mule and the mining gear."

James looked at his hands. The nineteen-year-old palms were callused from years of work. The fingers were large and squared off at the tips. Worker's hands. Hard work would help. He curled the hands into fists. "I'll take the animals and the gear, but I won't take your coin. I'll work my way north." James glanced up. Pa looks like I took a strap to him. He swallowed again. "Tell Ma I'll miss her." His voice seemed caught in his throat.

"Say your own good byes," Rod said in a voice that was tight with emotion.

"No. It'll spoil the party for her."

James bent, picked up his rope, and coiled it. Then he turned his back on his father, pushed the gate open, and started for the log corral beyond the main cabin, bleakness filling his belly. Ellen was gone, yoked to Carl. Ellen, with her blooming red hair and the dusting of freckles on her nose; with her crooked smile and merry laugh—ripped from him like a piece of flesh by the foreign words of a Spanish priest. The world lost its brightness as he trudged through the dust.

To his left across a creek was a small cabin—home to his oldest brother Rulon, his wife Mary, and their two babies—and to his right stood the main cabin that housed his father and mother and the children younger than himself. He went behind the bigger log house to the corral, and stooped to get under the top pole of the fence that enclosed several grazing horses.

James whistled to a light reddish brown colored horse. It continued to crop grass, although its ears swiveled in his direction. He glanced at the sun; its rays shed no warmth on him today, and he shivered as he made a loop in his rope and pitched it toward the neck of the sorrel horse.

The loop soared over the horse's head and settled squarely on its shoulders. James walked up the rope toward the animal, talking to it in a soothing tone. He led it through the gate to the nearby shed and saddled up. When James mounted, the sorrel bucked a few times, but he rode out the kinks in the animal, then turned it toward the big shed his father called the stable.

He roused the mule from its slumber and put a pack frame on its back. In one corner of the shed lay the mining equipment four of the Owen men had brought back from a rubble filled hole at Central City that had claimed the life of Ma's brother.

I never had no mind to go digging in the earth, James thought, squinting at the pick, shovel, and pans. Mining sure wasn't lucky for Uncle Jonathan. He approached the pile of equipment and gave it a kick. But then, I reckon my luck ran out today. He blew out his breath between pursed lips.

James kicked the equipment again, and figured it would take two weeks of hard riding—no, it would be more like a month, working his way—to get to Central City, northwest of Denver City. And when he got there.... I'll have to hire out to a miner until I get a grubstake together.

James loaded the tools onto the pack saddle and tied them in place. He raided the cook shack for a handful of dried meat strips and a few hard corn dodgers. With the mule's lead rope in his hand, he mounted, and kicked the horse toward his unfinished cabin.

A few moments later, the sight of two log walls standing head high, and two others up to his hip deepened James's gloom. After working full days at his father's place, he had labored by lantern light to fashion a home for Ellen Bates, but she had slipped from his grasp like quick silver chased across a tabletop.

"Tarnation!" he growled as he looked at the shell of the house that now represented a future that would not be. He slid from the saddle, tied the horse and mule, and ducked under the suspended wagon sheet that roofed his bed and belongings.

James changed his clothes, rolled his bedding, and packed his personal goods into the leather carryall he'd toted during the war. He stepped through the doorway, carrying the war bag and bedding. He stopped beside a mound of logs piled up against the wall and ran his hand over the length of one he'd peeled for use inside the house. Even though the color of the wood was bleaching from bright yellow tan to gray, the piece still had a silky smooth surface that reminded him of the one time he had held Ellen in his arms and kissed her.

She had stood alone on the prairie early one morning near the end of their journey, staring as the first light of dawn revealed a mountain peak in the distant west. Pike's Peak, it was called, and Ellen was first to spot it as she stood apart from the wagons, the wind whipping her skirt, and her hair streaming loose over her shoulder. She stretched out her arms to the mountain as though she meant to embrace it.

James had felt a quickening of his pulse at the sight of her, a dryness of the throat, a quivering of the sinews that surprised him, as he hadn't to then felt more than fondness for her. With swift, light strides he went to her and stepped into the circle of her arms. A peculiar look widened her eyes as his mouth came down toward hers, but her lashes descended and shut it away from his view.

Wondrous sensations warmed his veins as James kissed the trembling girl. His arms enfolded her. His hands crept across her shoulders and through her hair until he held her face between them. Only then did he notice her hands pushing gently against his chest. She rolled her head out of his grasp and opened her green, green eyes.

"No, James. Please don't," she whispered, and was gone from his arms.

She's modest, he thought. That's good and proper. Then he chastised himself. Do your wooing in private, James.

Since that day, he'd kept the memory of the feel of her cheeks in his fingertips, marveling at the softness of a woman's skin. Now he would never touch her again, and cold flowed down his body as though he had stepped naked under an icy waterfall.

James pressed his lips together and drew his knife, looking at the keen edge of the blade, the finely-honed point. He drew the blade along the meat of the edge of his palm. It was sharp, as always, leaving a thin bead of crimson. A dark thought fluttered in his mind, but he pushed it away and cut the wagon sheet free of the thongs that held it in place above the log walls. He spread the canvas cloth on the packed earth, wrapped all the gear inside, and tied it atop the mule's packsaddle. Then he mounted up and put the horse onto the trail.

North. Up through Pueblo to Denver City. Then to Central City. I got to put distance between me and Ellen's eyes.

James settled the horse into a trot for a bit over a mile, then reined in to cross the stream that ran slowly down from behind Carl's cabin. As he rode through the water without stopping, not looking toward the house on the wooded bench of land to his left, he glanced at his fists. They were balled tight as caterpillar cocoons.

Eyes green as the spring grass, filled with flecks of gold and maidenly modesty. Eyes to lose my soul in.

The horse scrambled up the slope of the bank, the saddle lurched back onto the horse's croup, and James halted to check the front cinch. He dismounted, raised the stirrup leather, and adjusted the knot on the latigo, but the work didn't quiet a rage that burned like a prairie fire within: rage against Carl, and against Pa. He cursed his father and brother. If he never set eyes on this range again, he would rest easy. But the horse wheeled when James climbed into the saddle, and his gaze caught Carl's little house tucked in among the trees.

A chill rose up his spine, lifting the hair on the back of his neck. I am a blind fool, he berated himself, then shouted, "Girl, I would've loved you!"

He gigged the horse into a lope through the broken countryside. The mule followed, braying in protest. James merely tightened his grip on the lead rope and lowered his head over the horse's mane.

James stopped twice to let the animals breathe, cool down, and drink. Other than that, he pushed forward, heedless of the approaching dusk. A last gleam of light streaked the sky, and night lay in wait to engulf the three of them when he finally turned off the trail.

He found a flat area covered with buffalo grass that lay next to a stream of water. His raw anger had abated somewhat, and he tended the animals carefully, removing saddles, packs and head gear. He checked hooves for stones, and led the animals down to the water. While he waited for them to drink, he dabbed at the dried blood on his arm with a water soaked bit of handkerchief. After he hobbled them, he turned them out to graze. When he'd eaten his handful of supper, he lay down with his hat over his eyes and fought his nightmares for an hour's worth of sleep.

~~~

The sun climbed overhead into a cloudless, burnished bowl of a sky. By mid-morning, a tiny hammer pounded against a miniature anvil in James's skull. As he rode through the broken hills and undulating plains toward the first big town on the trail—Pueblo City—the size of the anvil and the hammer increased until he felt sure the thud was ringing clear to Kansas.

When James at last noticed outbuildings around him, he had to force his eyes open from the squint they'd taken on to shut out the sun's glare radiating upward from the parched earth. He rode into the welcomed darkness of the runway of a livery barn, rubbed his burning eyes, and dismounted.

"How much to put up my horse and mule?" he asked a tow headed youth lounging on a bale of hay beside the door, just out of the sun's reach.

"Two bits," said the boy, poking at his broken front teeth with a sliver of wood. "That includes grain."

James put his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out his money. "Humph," he said, rubbing the two quarters in his hand. He gave one to the boy, then stared at the remaining coin before he slid it down into his pocket again. "Can I get a meal cheap around here?"

"The saloon down the street puts out a free lunch...for customers."

"That'll have to do. Where can I throw my saddles?"

The boy raised his chin toward the rear of the barn. "Tack room's got an empty corner. I won't charge if you haul the gear yourself."

"I'm obliged," James muttered. "See to it the animals get the grain." He turned to lead them away.

"Wait a minute, mister," called out the boy.

James looked back, raising one eyebrow.

"If you could use some work, ask the bartender for Len Strummond. I hear he's got a job open."

"Thanks." James began to ask what sort of work it was, then clamped his mouth shut. What did it matter, so long as it was hard work, good and hard, and didn't give him time to think?

He tugged on the reins, and the horse and mule shuffled forward and entered a pair of stalls. When James had stripped the saddles and packs from the animals, and carried the gear into the tack room, he picked up his war bag—the ancient brown catchall with the leather crazed like old china from the neglect the urgency of war had imposed—and walked down the runway toward the sunshine. He took four or five steps along the street in the powdery dust, then heard the youth calling him.

"Mister, wait. I forgot that saloon's full of Yankees. You can't go in there."

James turned half around, anger narrowing his eyes. "That squabble's done with," he said, his voice gravelly. Then he spun around and continued down the street.

"It isn't over in this town," the boy yelled. James didn't stop. The boy shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the barn to do his work. "Oh well, what can they do, shoot you?"

James kept walking, watching for the saloon. It loomed ahead in the middle of the block, a free-standing, unpainted lumber building, narrow in width, but standing two stories tall. Noise from the dinnertime crowd poured through two small windows in the front wall.

James shut his eyes for a moment in an attempt to ease the pain throbbing in his head. Then he pushed through the batwing doors and eased to one side of the opening, pausing to look down the long room. After a while his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the saloon, lit only by the windows and a trio of lamps hanging behind the bar.

Seven tables filled the open space of the room. Around them, diners sat in barrel and ladder backed chairs; not a seat was empty. Three or four sturdy men stood along the mahogany bar, drinking their dinner and tucking up their tails, for the crowded tables seemed to push the men against the wooden barrier. Laughter came from a door at the right of the room behind the bar, accompanied by the clink of dishware and the clatter of cutlery dropped to the floor.

The aroma of fresh baked bread teased James's nose, and he moved into the room and threaded himself between the bar and the tables, brushing the leg of one of the drinkers with his war bag as he passed.

"Yeow!" the man yelled, gripping a half empty whiskey bottle. "That's me sore leg."

"I'm almighty sorry, friend. I beg your pardon," James drawled, trying to squeeze past the man and his neighbor at the bar, who stepped into James's path. James half-turned and backed a step into the room, facing the bar.

The first man swore, turning from the bar with a lurch. He looked at James, his eyes traveling from his hat to his boots. He spat on the floor. "Ye're one of them 'Suth-ren' butternut rebels come to stink up tha place. This be a Union bar, Johnny Reb. Ye don't come in here."

Something cold as a chunk of river ice congealed in James's belly as he listened to the Irish brogue that was neither pleasant nor lilting coming from the older man. As he turned to face the man's outraged face, a chill seeped from that icy lump into every empty space in his gut, spread into his chest, then bubbled up into his shoulders and ran down inside his arms to tingle his fingertips. "The war's over, friend." There was a hard edge to his voice.

The man's partner grabbed James's shoulder. "'Twon't never be for Danny O'Brien," he said, his voice whining. "He's got a crook leg from that war, and it pains him night and day, Rebel."

"That's not my doing." Irritated, James shook himself loose from the man's grasp and backed as far as he could into the room, sensing that danger came chiefly from the man called Danny.

"Liar! Ye're the man thet just now set it off agin," Danny shouted, bending over to rub his injured thigh. He started to pour himself a drink with his free hand, but it shook so badly that he raised the bottle to his lips, instead, and took a deep swig of the liquor.

The tingling and the sense of danger left James, and he shrugged his shoulders. "It was an unhappy accident. I already begged pardon. Now I'll be about my business." He turned toward the man's friend. "Let me pass," he said in a curt tone of voice.

The second man backed up a step, then his eyes widened as he looked over James's shoulder.

"No, Danny! You canna do that!"

James whirled to face the Irishman, who held the bottle in his left hand, and a revolver in his right. The blued barrel wavered, describing circles in the air between the two men.

"Ye're going to be a'payin' me back for my pain, Reb," Danny growled.

James put out his hand, palm in front of him. "Friend, you picked the wrong man to rob. I've only two bits to my name."

"I've no need a' yer money. It's yer blood I want, and that spilled!"

Danny twisted to his right to set the bottle on the bar. It teetered on the turned edge for a moment, then fell to the floor, the sound shattering the bustle in the room as effectively as the wood planks shattered the glass.

Silence spread in the room like ripples on the still surface of a pond, widening in circles that soon lapped against the farthest reaches of the room. Then the silence fled as men scattered, scrambling from the chairs nearest the bar to huddle against the walls.

"I'm unarmed," James said, lifting his war bag slightly in his left hand and trying to raise saliva in his mouth. The cold and the tingle were back. He silently belabored himself for not buckling his Army model Colt around his hips when he left the cabin. Icy fingers throbbed to feel the weight of the .44 caliber weapon, which was buckled away out of reach in the carryall.

"Ye canna shoot him down like a dog, Danny," said a cracking voice behind James. "He has no gun, man."

"I can and I will, Liam. He's a dog of a Rebel, and deserves no better."

"Danny—"

"Quiet, Liam." Danny laughed. "He's got his stinking Rebel pride. That's weapon enough," he hissed.

James considered if the man was drunk enough that he would miss his shot. He's holding pretty steady, he thought. A draining sensation sucked at his belly. This fellow wants to plow a furrow through my chest. The cold gathered in from James's arms and shrank into a frozen lump that lodged just under his ribs. Ma, this is not the way I want to die.

Danny's laughter was a raw sound as he drew back the hammer of the pistol. James heard the click of the action, and the snick of the cylinder moving into place.

"That's right, Reb," Danny whispered. "Ye're going to pay for this leg, and all the nights I lay crying out in pain, and all the shame it brung me." His voice rose with his fury. "And then ye're going to pay for the wife that left me for a whole man."

"You're crazy," muttered James, and his belly twisted in agony because of a girl who had left him for a broken man. Ellen. No! I can't think of her now. He wrenched his thoughts away from the girl with the laughing green eyes. The gun stopped moving, pointed at his chest, and James whispered, "Don't do anything foolish, Danny." Then the muscles of his upper arms bunched as his mind rehearsed the motion of releasing the catch to the war bag.

Danny replied with a yell. He squeezed the trigger and a bullet whined over James's left shoulder and struck the back wall of the saloon. James heard a wild cry of "No, Danny, no!" As he ducked, crouching over the war bag, tearing at the buckle, the man to his left dropped to the floor and huddled against the bar, whimpering, "Don't do it, Danny boy."

"He's a damnable Rebel, Liam. This is war!" the man howled, re-cocking the pistol.

Still crouched forward, James managed to open the buckle to the bag as Danny got off another shot, yelling all the while. The lead ball caught the flesh of James's left arm and slammed him to the floor as he yanked his pistol free.

James raised his arm, gritted his teeth, pulled back the hammer, and aimed toward the man as Danny's third bullet struck him in the right side. He jerked the trigger. The clap of the shot smote his ears.

Danny fell against the bar, screaming, and dropped his gun as a cherry colored stain spread across his left shoulder. The man slid inch by inch down the bar to plop onto the floor as blue powder smoke swirled in the open space. James raised and cocked his gun again as several men stepped forward, muttering. Danny's friend scuttled across the floor and bent over his fallen comrade.

"You didn't have to shoot him, mister," he complained. "Danny was a good man, up until Rosie left him." He pulled out a grimy handkerchief and pressed it to the Irishman's wound.

"He didn't give me a choice." Breath was coming hard against a shattered rib, and James fought to keep his wavering gun trained on the unfriendly group as he tried to sit up.

"What's going on here?" A brawny man wearing a pistol in a belt holster and a tin star on a leather vest came through the crowd. "Drop your weapon, boy," he said, not even bothering to draw his own gun. "I'm the law in this town."

"The kid shot Danny," shouted the friend.

"Is he dead?"

"No, but he's pretty bad off."

"I don't think he's dying, Connolly. I'd say the boy just clipped his shoulder. Get him down to Doc's place."

The marshal watched as the man's friends carried him away, then stooped and plucked the gun from James's hand. Blood gushed from James's wounded side, and the man plugged his own handkerchief into the hole. "There," he said, "That should hold you. Got a name, boy?"

"I'm James Owen," he said, struggling against a darkness that flitted across his mind like a thousand bats' wings brushing against his face.

"Well, James Owen, you'd best come with me," the marshal said. "Watch it now! Looks like you're fainting. A couple of you fellows hoist him to his feet and bring him along. Chancy, get the doc when he's through with Danny. Tell him to meet me over to the office."

Two men dragged James to his feet as he strained to keep his eyes open. "Where're you takin' me?" he muttered.

"Guess he's still alive, boys. Haul him up a bit there. He's unsteady on his feet." The marshal yawned, then glanced at James. "We've got a nice jail to keep you snug until we find out if you're a wanted man or just a gun brawler, boy."

The man took a step toward the door, then turned back to look at James.

"Doc'll be along by and by to patch you up. He don't mind calling on his patients in a jail cell, as long as they pay him." Then the marshal turned his back and banged his way through the doors of the saloon.

###

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Trail of Storms

Chapter One

"You girls stick tight together. Those blasted Yankee riders are still botherin' folks."

Jessica Bingham paused outside the bakery's front door, letting Ma's words roll off her shoulders as she rearranged the loaves of freshly baked bread in her basket. She looked down the quiet street. The rising sun's pink and gold rays chased night's shadows from the cracks and crannies of Mount Jackson's storefronts. She inhaled the fresh scents of the morning to clear the heavy odor of yeast from her nose. Spring was here. "Hmmm," she sighed, and felt a smile of satisfaction lift her mouth. Ma was wrong to worry. This perfect day could hold no danger to her or her sisters.

And yet... the previous week, two young married ladies had been knocked to the ground by a band of cavalrymen of the occupation force. One merely had the wind knocked out of her, but the other had lost her unborn babe. Her husband had protested. He'd been badly beaten. A feeling of unease crept over Jessica. Perhaps there were no perfect days in Virginia anymore?

Her older, recently married sister, Hannah, pushed past, saying, "Jessie, get yourself out of my way. This bread won't deliver itself."

Jessie stepped aside and let Hannah pass, since she always seemed to be in a hurry. She had to take the lead in every endeavor, and couldn't abide being late. Maybe that's why she was born first of the twins.

The other twin, Hepzibah, came out of the door and stopped at Jessie's side. She nudged Jessie and said, rolling her eyes, "Hannah's just so rude. Don't give in to her. Ever since she got married, she thinks she's the queen of the world."

Jessie shrugged and stepped out into the street, Hepzibah following after. "Maybe she is, in Robert Fletcher's eyes. He treats her like a fine lady."

Hepzibah made a small, anguished sound. Jessie looked around at her sister, whose expression had changed to chagrin.

Jessie said in a rush, "Oh Heppie, don't mind my prattle. I reckon George loves you just as much as Robert does Hannah. He's bound to say so real soon."

This time, Heppie's sound was definitely a sigh, and her eyes began to redden.

Jessie, trying to divert Heppie from having a crying spell in the middle of the street, called out to Hannah, who strode along five yards ahead of them. "Wait for us. Ma will have a conniption if we don't stay together." She looked around the deserted street, her nerves beginning to twang. "Do you see any riders down the road?"

"No," Hannah replied. "It's too early for those lazy bums to be out. Besides, I ain't seen 'em for days. Ma's just got a bug in her ear." Hannah carried her basket of baked goods on her hip. She stopped walking and gave it a little hitch to make it ride higher.

"Do you reckon they've left town?" Heppie asked Jessie as they followed Hannah.

Jessie shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe a customer told Ma they're still here." She turned her head to look behind her. "I don't see them."

"That don't mean they're not around the corner," Heppie said, sniffing, then wiping her nose with a tiny scrap of a handkerchief. "Look sharp."

Jessie shivered. Her stomach began to ache, and she felt vulnerable and unsafe. The Yankees had already won the war, ravaging the country in the process. It was terribly hard to make ends meet these days. She'd heard Ma crying at night on that score. Why didn't the Yankees go home and leave the people of Mount Jackson alone?

She thought of Hannah, who lived with Robert in a house on the other side of town. During the time he worked at the bank, Hannah was all alone. She may lord it over Heppie and me for not being married, but maybe she's afraid too. She does spend an awful lot of each day at our house.

Jessie stepped over a stick in her path. I reckon I don't blame her, she thought. She hesitated a moment, sniffing the air. Was that dust she smelled? Don't panic. Likely a wagon passed on the Valley Pike. At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats coming up behind them raised chills along her spine. She whirled and faced four mounted Yankees, who had seemed to rise out of the very ground.

The men caught up and circled the three women before they could take another step. Two of them spat tobacco juice near the girls' shoes. One failed to launch his mouthful properly, dribbling juice down the front of his shirt.

"Cal, you can't hit a tin can with a turnip," said one man whose dirty red hair poked out in points where it escaped his cap. His laughter rang through the empty street.

Jessie grabbed hold of Hannah's arm with her free hand. She felt Heppie clutching at her skirt band. Jessie looked around, frantic. Where were the Miller brothers? They were always up early, coming down the street as the girls left the bakery.

"Sez you, Red," the Yankee named Cal said, spitting a fresh stream that landed on Heppie's shoulder.

Heppie screamed, dropped her basket, and tried to wipe the juice off.

Cal chewed on his wad of tobacco, turned, and shot a spurt of juice in Hannah's direction. She shrieked as it hit her cheek. Red laughed again, and waved his cap in the air.

"Hannah!" Jessie shouted, and pulled her sister closer to her. The stink of the tobacco filled her nose as she dashed it away from Hannah's eye with her hand.

The third man, whose black moustache contained bits of food, said to Heppie, "Here, let me wipe that for you." He leaned down and grabbed a lock of Heppie's blonde hair. She cried out as he yanked on it, pulling her closer to his horse.

"You need a knife, Bull?" asked the fourth Yankee, reaching into his pocket.

Bull swore. "I can get my own trophies, Foster. Put away your knife."

"Get away from her!" Jessie shouted. Her heart thrummed in her chest. She tried to think of what to do even as she shoved at the man's arm, getting the juice from her hand on his uniform sleeve. He let go of Heppie's hair and turned on Jessie, trying to swat at her hand, but she evaded his reach. Hannah was cowering away from Foster, who called her unpleasant names. The other men rode in circles around the three young women, laughing, whistling, and making rude talk.

"Go back to the store," Jessie urged her sisters. She stripped the white towel from her basket and flapped it in the face of the nearest horse. It reared, dumping Red, and galloped off down the road. The girls pushed their way through the interrupted circle and ran for the front door of the bakery. Behind them, Jessie heard the laughter and catcalls the other men showered on the unseated rider, who swore at them, his horse, and Jessie herself.

Heppie made it to the door first, wrenching it open. Hannah followed hard on her heels, and Jessie brought up the rear.

"Lock it, Jessie," shrieked Heppie. Her big blue eyes seemed ready to leap out of her face.

Jessie twisted the lock, wondering if it would keep the men out if they wanted to enter. "Ma," she cried out as her mother rushed into the shop from the kitchen. "Those Yankees! They spit tobacco juice at us. Just look at Heppie's dress!"

"They're so crude," Heppie moaned, swiping at her shoulder. "I'll never get this stain off me!"

"There, there, girls." Ma gathered the young women into her arms. "Did they hurt you?" Jessie felt her mother's body shaking.

Hannah loosed herself from Ma's grasp and dabbed at her cheek with a handkerchief. "I hate tobacco!"

Ma let go of the girls. "Jessie? You ain't been harmed?"

"No, Ma." Jessie started to hug herself to control her quaking, but remembered in time that her hand was still smeared with slime. She walked behind the bakery display case, found a cloth, and wiped her hand with it. The day had just begun, and already it was a disaster.

Ma went to the window and looked out. "Are the Yankees still out there?" She craned her neck to the right. "Looks like they're goin' off down the street," she said. "One of 'em is chasin' a horse. What happened?"

"Jessie spooked his mount and got us out of there," Hannah said. Her voice sounded calmer. "Heppie, let's go clean ourselves up." She took Heppie's arm, and the twins went into the kitchen.

"Ma." Jessie joined her mother at the window. "Do we have to go out there again?"

Ma took a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out slowly. It seemed to steady her. "Folks'll be lookin' for their bread and pastries. If you leave by the back door, it's most likely the Yankees won't even spot you." She gave Jessie a pat on the shoulder. "I know those Yankee louts are mighty rude to folks, but I don't think you'll come to real harm if you stay together. When Hannah and Heppie have cleaned up, you three scoot."

Jessie sighed. Ma's right. Folks need their baked goods, and heaven knows we need the money. She shivered. They would have to go back out. Without a protector. Her brother Luke was too young to do much good. Her heart pounded in her chest. Oh Pa! Why did you have to die and leave us so helpless?

~~~

Jessie looked over her shoulder at Hannah and Heppie, who walked away from her toward the street corner, leaving Jessie to collect payment for a pie. Mrs. Wiggins, however, seemed inclined to chat.

Please just pay me, Jessie thought, looking the other way down the street. I don't want us running into those Yankees again. She turned back to Mrs. Wiggins, anxious about the distance between her and her sisters. She didn't want to be alone, even for the few seconds it would take her to catch up.

Mrs. Wiggins looked at Jessie expectantly. She must have asked a question.

Shrugging her shoulders to shake off her reverie, Jessie said, "I'm so sorry, ma'am, I fear I was woolgathering. What's that you said?"

The stout little woman sighed. "Jessie dear, I was askin' if your ma could bake me a loaf of sourdough bread for tomorrow morning."

"I'll need payment for the pie first, ma'am," Jessie said, hoping it didn't sound too rude.

"Can't y'all wait to the end of the week?" Mrs. Wiggins looked flustered.

"Times are hard, ma'am. Ma needs to buy supplies." Jessie glanced over her shoulder again. Hannah and Heppie were a half block away. A cold chill ran through her.

"That's right, Jessie dear. Times are hard indeed, but Mr. Wiggins wanted an apple pie for his birthday." Mrs. Wiggins sighed. "I'll get your money." She turned her back, left the door open, and took the pie into the house.

Jessie tapped her toe as she waited, watching her sisters grow smaller and smaller. Her stomach tightened on her breakfast and made her queasy. Hurry up! she thought, and mentally berated the twins for leaving her here. She was the "little sister." More often than not, they stuck together and left her to do the more distasteful things like collect money from customers.

After what seemed like forever, Mrs. Wiggins returned with a few coins and counted out the price of the pie.

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll tell Ma about your bread," Jessie said as she put the money into her pocket.

Mrs. Wiggins closed the door forcefully, as if to protest Jessie's insistence on being paid.

Jessie snorted. Silly old bat! Of course she has to pay Ma now. How does she expect— Jessie left the thought alone and went on to her more immediate worry. With one hand she scooped up the basket she'd put on the porch while she waited, and with the other she grabbed her skirt, racing off after her sisters. "Hannah," she called out. "Heppie! Wait for me."

Jessie had covered half the distance that separated her from the twins when she tripped on a root and fell, landing on the hard dirt with her forearms straddling the basket.

Pain lanced through her arms but was instantly supplanted by the smart of her embarrassment. Oh, what mortification! You'd think I was twelve years old instead of eighteen, trippin' over a danged root.

Heppie had looked back in time to see the fall. "Jessie," she cried out, and started toward her, motioning for her to get up—as if Jessie were perfectly content to lie sprawled across the path as she was. Hannah continued on to the corner, then turned and waited while Jessie scrambled to her feet and Heppie helped her brush off her skirts.

"Jessie! Are you hurt?"

She rubbed her sore arms, getting the dirt off. "I reckon I'll be—"

Jessie saw the man at that moment, the rider the Yankees called Red. In what seemed only a few seconds, he jumped off his horse, grabbed Hannah around the waist, and was back in his saddle, having thrown Hannah over the front of his horse like a sack of grain. Her basket tumbled through the air, spewing loaves of bread onto the ground. Jessie cried out and pointed, unable to form words to describe what she was seeing. Heppie turned and began to scream. Jessie lifted her skirts and ran toward the corner as fast as she could. He can't be takin' her, she thought, her heart pounding in her ears.

~~~

Jessie shoved open the door of the bank with such force that it banged against the wall. Several customers turned to gaze at her in surprise. The clerks and tellers looked up from their work.

Jessie located Hannah's husband, Robert Fletcher, in the teller's cage at the end of the row. She ran across the tile floor and pushed aside the woman standing opposite him.

"You must come, now!" Jessie said to the man, gasping as she struggled to draw air into her burning lungs.

"Miss Jessica—" He turned to his customer. "I'm sorry, Miz Addison. I'm sure she didn't mean—" He broke off and faced Jessie again, frown lines deeply creasing his face and sweat breaking out on his forehead. "What happened to you? You're quite... untidy." Robert took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the brow on both sides of his pronounced widow's peak.

"Mr. Fletcher—Robert—Hannah's been taken!" Jessie put out a shaking hand and grasped the counter to support herself. "We've got to get help."

Robert took in a sharp breath. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket as he turned and leaped over the gate separating the teller's cages from the customer area.

Before Jessie could blink, he grasped her by the elbow and shook her arm. "What do you mean, 'Hannah's been taken'?"

Jessie's trembling almost overcame her. She forced herself to find her voice, still breathing with difficulty as Robert's grip tightened. "You know those Yankee riders? One of them grabbed her and took her off. Oh, Mr. Fletcher, Heppie's in such a state I had—"

An oath escaped Robert Fletcher's lips as he dropped her arm. "Take me there," he grunted, barging through the door to the street. She caught up to him and led off at a run, lifting her skirts out of the way of her feet.

They cut across the street, darting between vehicles and horses, bumping without apology into passersby, their silent haste fed by adrenaline and fear.

When they arrived at the street where Hannah had been abducted, Heppie bolted out of Mrs. Wiggins's door, crying into her handkerchief. "Oh, Mr. Fletcher, I'm so glad to see you."

Robert nodded briefly to Heppie, then turned and asked Jessie, "Which way did he go?"

Jessie pointed south on the Valley Pike. "It's the redheaded one."

Robert thrust Jessie into Heppie's arms, saying, "Go to your ma's. I'll bring her there," and ran down the street.

"Jessie, did you see his face?" Heppie wailed.

Jessie shook in her sister's embrace as new fear enveloped her. "Yes. I'm afraid he'll kill that Yankee."

Chapter Two

Hannah screamed as the Yankee carried her away from her sisters. She took a breath to scream again. The odor of tobacco and sweaty clothes worn too long without washing almost gagged her.

"Don't bother yelling. Nobody's going to help you," said the man in a rasping voice. He jammed his free arm underneath her stomach and yanked her roughly against him. "None of your yellow-bellied rebel men have the guts."

Hannah twisted and turned in the man's grasp. She tried to get her fingers to his face to gouge his eyes, but he swatted her arm down with his rein hand and pinned it to her side.

"No more of that, missy," he growled, and prodded his horse to a faster pace with a few kicks.

"My husband will come. He'll find you, and he'll kill you," Hannah gasped, struggling anew to find a way to hurt the man.

"You won't be worth the bother when I'm done with you."

The Yankee's words ripped through Hannah's mind. Oh dear God, no! Help me! Don't let him do this. "Robert!" she shrieked between sobs that seemed to tear all the flesh from her throat.

"Your Bobbie-boy can't help you, missy," the man growled, and punched Hannah on the side of her head. "Behave now. We've got a ways to go."

Pain sent Hannah slumping forward against the horse's neck as she tried not to lose consciousness. Her ears rang. Her nose filled with dust thrown from the horse's hooves. She closed her eyes and coughed. I won't let him kill me, she thought. I'll be strong. No matter what he does, I'll be strong until Robert comes.

After a long time, the horseman pulled up and pushed Hannah to the ground. She rolled to her knees. Three startled chickens ran into the brush at the edge of a stable yard. Before she could arise and follow them, the man was beside her, grasping her around the waist. He dragged her to her feet and into the stable, tugging on a rein to make sure his horse followed. He kicked the door, but not hard enough to close it, and it stood open a ways, letting in a stream of sunlight.

Hannah screamed, lashing out at the man, pulling his hair with both hands. I'll mark him, she thought. If he's gone when Robert comes, I'll tell him what to look for.

The Yankee hit Hannah across the mouth, and she lost her grip on his hair with one hand. She tasted salt against her tongue and knew she was bleeding, but she tugged on the man's rusty-colored hair with her other fist. They whirled around, struggling back and forth in the alleyway of the stable. Hair came loose in her hand. She spit her blood on his shirt. He hit her again and she spun and went down onto the straw-covered floor of a stall.

Hannah choked and coughed at the dust her fall had raised. She heard the man coming toward her and tried to curl into a ball, but he knelt on top of her, ripping her blouse until her flesh was exposed and pulling at her skirt. She smelled his rank breath as he tried to kiss her. "No!" she screamed. He slapped her, but she only cried out again. "Help me!"

The man swore at her, calling her vile names as he unbuckled his belt and slid down his trousers. Hannah thrashed back and forth, clawing him with her nails and calling for help as he tore at her skirt, ripping it open nearly to her waist. She screamed again when he shredded her underclothes, then wrestled with her until he restrained her hands above her head.

The pain of his assault wrenched through her body, tore at the sanctity of her womanhood, and bludgeoned her soul until she believed that neither her body nor her spirit would survive. She clenched her eyes shut, as if that could hide what was happening, and felt tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. He is a fiend of hell, her thoughts shrieked as he slumped on top of her.

Hannah shivered under him, too spent to cry out any longer. She could not avoid inhaling the stench of his hair lying on her face. It seemed that hours passed while his loathsome body pinned hers into the straw. At last he raised himself above her. She kept her eyes closed, but couldn't hold back the sob that rose in her throat.

"What's the matter? You don't like my looks?" he growled. "That's too bad, missy. You've got to bear them until I'm finished with you." He reached down and touched her breast, laughing at her. "I told you no one was coming for you. I've got as long as I want."

~~~

Robert ran down the Pike, his heart thudding in his chest. Where would the man take Hannah? If he was intent on doing her harm, he'd want a private place, like a barn or a grove of trees, even though the occupation soldiers and cavalry were doing pretty much as they liked these days. He'd have to ask if Hannah and the rider had been seen passing by. That might be useless—folks were staying out of each other's business. His breath rattled in his throat. His side burned with pain. His legs seemed made of lead. No matter, he thought, and continued his headlong dash. Hannah needs me.

When he stumbled and fell, Robert lay with his face in the dust for a moment, then raised his head and eyed the road. The marks of horses' hooves mocked him. I don't know how to track. I don't know what's fresh and what might be five days old. He scrambled to his knees, got to his feet, and looked around. He was outside of town and had passed two farms already. Have I gone too far? He took a steadying breath. No. Those farms had been burned out by the Yankees. Their barns hadn't been rebuilt yet and the woodlots were gone. No privacy there. Robert began to run again. George Heizer's dairy farm was next. He had a barn.

Robert approached the Heizer place. From the lane he could see two men standing by a wagon in the barnyard, talking. They seemed calm, not looking over their shoulders or fidgeting. No Yankee's been there, he decided, and continued down the pike. I'll try at McNeely's.

Robert ran another two hundred yards, turned into McNeely's farmyard, skidded to a stop at the door of the house and rapped. His windpipe wheezed and his lungs burned as he sucked breath into them. After a moment, Mistress Maude moved the curtain to one side and peered out. She opened the door a crack, her white face telling of her fear.

Before he could say a word, the woman began.

"Mr. Fletcher! Oh, please, can you look? My Patrick won't be home until after dark."

"Look where, Mrs. McNeely?"

"Oh my! Out in the stable. There's been the most horrid sounds coming from out there for such a long time. Screams, very terrible sounds, they were."

He ground his teeth. "Do you have a gun?"

"A gun? Oh, no, Mr. Fletcher. We had to give it up."

"A knife, then. Lend me your butcher knife."

Her gasp told Robert how she felt about that idea as she closed the door in his face. He heard the lock snapping into place.

He found a stout stick of firewood he could wrap his fingers around, not thinking what he would do with it, but somehow needing to feel the wood's heft, needing to have a weapon. He strode toward the stable.

The door stood open enough to let him through, and he stopped a moment to let his eyes adjust to the semidarkness. The Yankee's horse munched straw to one side, still saddled, reins hanging loose. A rack of farm implements hung on the wall, next to a couple of saddle blankets arranged over a rail. The burly redheaded Yankee knelt over Hannah in a stall, pants at his ankles.

Hannah! What has he done? I'm too late to spare you that—

Robert swallowed hard, his thoughts a torment. The sight of Hannah's bare knees being forced apart for the brute's pleasure enraged him, pushing him past reason, past honor, and he ran toward the man, raising his bludgeon to strike him from behind.

Hannah opened her eyes. With his last vestige of wits, Robert saw hope spring into them, then she turned her head away, but not before he recognized the look of shame on her face.

Robert swung his club down toward the Yankee's head, but Hannah shrieked at his attack. The sound startled him, causing him to miss his target. The blow glanced off the side of the man's skull, and he fell on top of Hannah. Robert threw away his club, grasped the back of the man's jacket, and hauled him to his feet.

Robert turned the Yankee around. Hannah had done damage with her nails. One of the man's cheeks was striped with raw lesions.

The Yankee groaned, wagged his head, and then spat in Robert's face. "I'll kill you, rebel scum," the man rasped through his patchy beard. He threw a punch at Robert, striking him on the chin and knocking him backward. Robert crumpled to the floor. The Yankee loomed over him, and gave a gargling laugh as he pulled up and buttoned his trousers. "She wasn't even that good," he said, and stomped on Robert's cheek. "I've had better times with a whore."

A red blur swam before Robert's eyes. My sweet Hannah, compared to a whore? He cried out, "She was good at defending herself." Rage flashed through his body, giving him strength he didn't know he possessed. He leaped up and connected with a blow that sent the man staggering into the aisle of the stable. Robert followed, punching him time and again until his knuckles bled. He jabbed the man's ribbon-slashed cheek with a thumb. The man yowled.

Robert's fingers closed around the man's throat. "I'm here to finish the job."

The Yankee clawed at Robert's fingers, finally breaking their hold. Then he retreated, stumbling backward until he found a pitchfork and jabbed it toward Robert, murderous intent glittering in his bloodshot eyes. "You'll finish nothing, you slimy reb. I ain't through with you, nor with her."

Robert lunged back in time to avoid the lethal tines. If he kills me, he'll continue with Hannah until she's dead. I can't let that happen.

The man came at him again, and Robert's hand closed over the handle of an ax that he swung blindly at the oncoming fork. The clash of metal on metal split the air. The pitchfork flew from the man's hands and landed against a partition near where Hannah crouched with her hands covering her ears, shrieking.

Robert swung the ax once more to keep the Yankee at a distance, but underestimated his strength and turned himself half around.

The man rushed Robert, grabbing him by an arm and a leg, then spun and threw him against a wall. Momentum carried the man in another circle, until he screamed in agony and fell silent.

Robert lay in a heap, wondering at the cessation of the man's cry. He pushed himself to his knees, his own panting sounding loud in his ears, louder than Hannah's hysterical sobs. The Yankee hadn't returned to the fray. Robert staggered to his feet, wary, looking for his enemy.

The man stood close to a partition, bent over a bit, his face a mask of astonishment. His mouth gaped open, and his arms hung at his sides, but he didn't move.

Robert could hear Hannah, weeping uncontrollably, but he couldn't see her anywhere. I've got to deal with him first, he told himself, struggling with his instinct to find her, to gather her into his arms and console her.

Robert searched for a weapon, located and picked up the ax from where it had fallen, and approached the man, on guard. "You ain't through with me, you say?" he challenged. Hannah's cries filled his ears, louder than ever, but the Yankee made no reply. A fly buzzed down from the ceiling and settled on the man's eye. He didn't blink.

Robert did blink, finally seeing the streams of blood trailing down the front of the Yankee's chest from where small black iron points emerged from his shirt. Hannah squatted behind him against the partition, the handle of the pitchfork clutched in her hands.

Almost stuttering between crying and speech, Hannah gasped out, "Is... he... dead?"

Robert nodded. He dropped the ax, reached behind the man and forcibly uncurled Hannah's fingers from the pitchfork so he could push the Yankee aside. He pulled her to her feet, dragging her away from the sight. As they reached the other side of the stable, he snatched up a saddle blanket, and drew her into his arms.

"Hannah," he crooned in her ear. "Hannah love." He pulled her blouse closed and covered her with the blanket.

His wife shook in his embrace, sobbing out, "I wanted him to stop hurting you."

He stroked her hair. "I... Hannah, he can't hurt anybody anymore."

"I killed him." Hannah's cry came out strangled.

Robert swallowed, wishing he could take her burden upon himself. He glanced over at the dead Yankee, face down in the straw. Bile rose in his throat, and he wanted to vomit. Instead, he steeled himself and said, "We have to leave."

He stood up and helped Hannah to her feet. She stopped crying, but swayed against him, at the point of collapse. He picked her up, but his own strength was spent and he staggered, almost dropping her. How would he get her home?

The Yankee's horse.

Robert set Hannah down and went to the wild-eyed animal. "Hey, boy, quiet now. Come here." He mounted with some effort, then kneed the animal forward to where his wife stood. "Put your arms up, love," he murmured, and as she did, he reached down and, grunting, pulled her onto the horse.

As Hannah settled against him, he stiffened involuntarily. Hannah whimpered, "You're hurt, ain't you?"

Robert bit his lip against the pain throbbing through his head and body. "Some little bit," he agreed. "But I reckon we can make it as far as the Heizer place."

Chapter Three

George Heizer leaned his head against the warm flank of the cow, his fingers squeezing in the age-old rhythm of milking. When the knock came on the barn door, he paused, not sure he'd heard it. When it came again, he stood up and grabbed his pitchfork. Who knocked on the door of a barn?

Before he had sorted out in his mind whether the visitor could be a customer or someone bent on doing harm, the knock came again. He waited a moment, but no one spoke to offer him a greeting.

George crept out of the stall, stepping as quietly as he could. "Who's there?' he called.

"Robert Fletcher. George, I need your help."

Robert Fletcher was his good friend. They'd seen action in the same company during the war. Robert had come home unwounded, but George's right ear was half gone from a close shave with a Yankee bullet. Robert had tied his own handkerchief around the bleeding ear. Later, in the same battle, he had saved George's bacon when he was wounded in the leg.

George went to the small door and wrenched it open. A horse stood in the shade before the opening, two people hunched over its withers. One slid to the ground, fell to one knee, and struggled to get to his feet. It was indeed Robert, his brown hair darkened by sweat, and—was that blood?

Robert held out his hands to the other figure, still sitting on the horse. That person half fell into his arms, and the two of them went to the ground.

The horse moved aside. Again, Robert climbed to his feet, stooped, and tried to raise the other person. At length he stood, his arms around what was clearly a woman in a high state of disarray. Robert had married not long ago, and George finally recognized the second person as Robert's wife, Hannah.

George cried out in dismay. Robert had taken a beating, and Hannah had obviously suffered a great deal of misuse. Her pale yellow hair was matted to her head. Her face was bloodied. Her clothing was torn. Although she tried to clasp the pieces about her, she was having difficulty remaining covered. George stared at her, knowing he should look away, but unable to do so.

He finally shook himself free of the fascination and asked, "What happened to you? Yankees?" The mere thought of the occupation forces made him shudder and look down the lane. "Come inside," he said, backing through the door.

Robert bent to retrieve a saddle blanket on the ground. When he straightened up and draped it around Hannah, he grimaced in pain. "Yes. I had a set-to with one of those riders." He shepherded Hannah through the door, paused and coughed, then examined a spot on his head with careful fingers.

George slammed the door shut. "I hope you killed him."

"He's dead," Robert said, and spat out a gob of blood. "Can you help us get to Mrs. Bingham's bakery?" He paused, wiped the blood from his lips, and blurted out, "I hate getting you involved in this, George, but I don't know where else to go." After a moment, Robert continued, "Unless you can't see your way clear."

George swore to himself. Yes, helping Robert was risky. The Yankees would find their crony dead. If they discovered Robert had killed him, then learned that George helped Robert, who knew what they would do in reprisal.

Hannah moaned in Robert's arms.

Robert had pulled George off the battlefield when he'd been shot in the leg and lay bleeding and stunned by the force of the blow and the pain. No matter what happened, he owed Robert a debt.

"I'll hitch the team to the milk wagon. It's covered, so no one will see you."

"Thank you," Robert said.

George said nothing, but shook his head as he hurried to get the harness.

~~~

A hard knock on the back door made Jessie jump. She looked through the curtain of the back window. "Oh, thank God," she said, unlocking the door and throwing it wide. "Hurry in," she whispered, unable to take her eyes off her bedraggled sister, who sagged between Robert Fletcher and George Heizer. "Hannah?" she asked as she locked the door behind them. But she couldn't continue. She didn't know what words to use in asking what had happened.

Jessie followed the group into the kitchen. Her younger brother Luke sat at the table, fiddling with a half-eaten plate of food. George said to him, "Give Hannah your chair," and Luke hopped up as Heppie screamed. George and Robert get Hannah into the seat, then George stepped away and went to Heppie. "Shhh," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Jessie heard her mother gasp repeatedly behind her. Ma isn't dealing well, she thought. George is distracting Heppie. Who's going to tend to Hannah? She threw back her shoulders. Me, she told herself, and went to her sister's side. Hannah's head hung low, but her hand flew up and gripped Jessie's forearm.

"Steady," Jessie said. "You're home safe."

"There's nowhere safe," Hannah got out through lips crusted with blood. "Nowhere in Virginia."

"Oh, my dear daughter," Ma said, breathing in great rasping breaths. She elbowed Jessie to one side, and hugged Hannah around her head.

Jessie peeled Hannah's fingers from her arm and went to find a cloth to wet. She heard her mother's wild questions to Robert, and his soft answers.

"She was in McNeely's barn. I pulled the Yankee off her, and he's still there."

"Still there?" Luke asked. "Didn't you fight him?"

Jessie came back with the wet cloth and caught Robert nodding in answer to Luke's question. Luke's stupid question, she thought. Anyone with eyes can see Robert's been in a fight! She said a quiet word to her mother and got her to release Hannah. She started cleaning the blood from her sister's face. Her eyes smarted as she struggled to hold back tears. What kind of monster had done this? Her stomach lurched as she cleaned a clot of blood off Hannah's ear. She'd always had an aversion to blood. This isn't so bad, she told herself, trying to contain her tendency to gag. It's dried, not flowing.

"How come he's still there? Isn't he looking for you?" Ma's voice soared, and Jessie wanted to hush her as she would a wailing child.

"He's dead."

"Thank the Lord. Thank the Lord." Ma stood by the stove, rocking back and forth, her voice uplifted in prayer.

"Ma, softly now," Jessie said. She glanced at Heppie. "Can you get some water for Mr. Fletcher to clean up?" What an impossible event, having to prompt her older sister into action. The whole world was coming apart.

Ma finally stopped praying, came back to Jessie, and took the cloth from her. Jessie began to pace, rubbing her arm where Hannah had clasped it so hard, wondering what would happen to them, how they would go on.

"Now everything will be fine," Ma said.

Robert shook his head as he took a basin of water that Heppie gave him. "I have to leave, Mrs. Bingham. As soon as someone finds that dead Yankee, the commander will investigate. Mrs. McNeely knew I was there, and with so many Yankees still around—"

"No. We'll be safe now that the Yankee is dead." Ma said. "You did the right thing, Mr. Fletcher, exactly the right thing." Her voice broke, and she blinked back tears, wiping Hannah's face vigorously.

"That hurts, Ma." Hannah's voice was feeble.

"Ma'am, folks will remember Mrs. Fletcher was kidnapped. When Miss Jessie fetched me, the bank was full of people. They all saw us leave in a hurry." Robert put one of his hands into the water to soak and with the other scrubbed his face with a cloth. "Folks are frightened. Someone's going to say something."

"But what of Hannah?" Mrs. Bingham asked.

Robert looked up, his face hard with offense. "I'll not leave her behind!"

As the buzz of the discussion continued behind her, Jessie paced between the stove and the back door, trying to wrap her mind around how different her world was from what it had been when she woke up this morning. Hannah had been carried off in broad daylight. From the looks of her, she had been terribly abused by the Yankee. Could Heppie, could Jessie herself expect any better treatment in the months to come? Jessie kneaded her hands together. What could they do to keep safe? Nothing. Hannah was right. There was no safety for women in Virginia. They were all subject to Yankee whims and carpetbagger tricks. If the Yankees didn't leave Mount Jackson, why couldn't the whole family leave instead? She stopped pacing and stood still. She held her breath. What if they left with Mr. Fletcher and Hannah? Yes. Yes! That was the answer.

"Ma!" she interrupted. "Do you have that letter Max sent you?"

Mrs. Bingham turned her head sharply. "What?"

"The letter. Didn't Max ask us to join him in"—Jessie made circles beside her head, frustrated with the mental fog the day had brought to her mind—"that town with the strange name?"

"Oh Jessie, you don't mean—"

"Ma, let's all go. George, I mean Mr. Heizer too, if he wants—if he must."

"Albuquerque is far away, Jessie," her mother argued. "It's almost to California."

"Isn't that a good thing? We'll get lost to these troublesome, hateful—" She couldn't think of a word bad enough to describe their tormentors. Her eyes settled on Hannah, her broken countenance. "Conquerors!" she spat.

"Miss Jessie," George began. He stopped and pursed his lips for a moment. "I'd like that better than anything, but I can't leave. I've had a letter from my brother Ned. He was in the hospital for a long time, but they finally released him. He's not very strong, but he's on his way home." He glanced over at Heppie with a somber expression on his face.

Jessie looked from George to Robert, who was bent over Hannah, patting her on the arm and murmuring soothing words to her. He straightened up when George finished speaking. One of his eyes was swollen and blackened. His lips were cracked.

"As many of you as wants to go with us can do so, but if you're coming, you need to pack up right away. We're leaving tonight. Miss Jessie's right. After all—" He looked at Hannah again, and Jessie thought she might have seen tears in his eyes before he regained control. "After all that's happened, leaving this place, leaving all of this behind is the only way to go on."

Heppie gave a little shrug. "I'm goin' with you. Hannah needs nursing, and I can do that."

"Heppie," George said, disappointment strong in his voice.

She looked at Hannah, then back to George. "Hannah needs me more," she said, her voice cracking.

Jessie knew that was not an easy thing for her sister to say. Heppie whispered to her each night before they fell asleep about her growing affection for George Heizer. Leaving him behind was no trifling act on Heppie's part. But what else could they do?

"Ma," Jessie said. "I'm goin' too. There's been nothing here for me since..." She stopped herself, unwilling to say it out loud. The wound of James Owen's leaving her to go west with his family was still raw, even if it had been almost a year ago. "What about you and Luke?"

Ma clasped her hands together. Jessie saw her knuckles turn white with the pressure. Her shoulders hunched together. At last she sighed and let them relax. "Lucas, cut your pa's picture from the frame. We're going to New Mexico."

~~~

Heppie sat with George on the floor of the darkened bakery, her knees drawn up to her chin. The others were still packing, but he had insisted they take a little break and talk one more time.

George lifted her hand and stroked it. "Stay here with me, Heppie," he whispered. "We'll get married and you can help me run the farm. I'll keep you safe from the Yankees."

Tears ran down Heppie's cheeks as she blinked her eyes. What should she do? Hannah needed her so desperately. Besides, she was Hannah's twin. Hannah's marriage had caused the greatest parting they'd ever experienced, but they still managed to see each other almost every day. George was complicating her life with his plea. If she married him and stayed here, she'd never see Hannah or her family again.

"My family needs me. I want to be with them. They love me." She swiped at the tears.

"I love you, Heppie. I've loved you for years."

She shook her head and took her hand away from George's fingers. "You never said that before. You talked of us marrying but never declared yourself to love me. Maybe that's why I didn't give you an answer." Her words trailed off into the void between them.

George hung his head. "That was wrong of me. I meant not to pressure you." He looked up at her, his blue eyes pleading. "Heppie, don't go off and leave me alone."

"You won't be alone for long. You said your brother's comin' home. You said that's why you can't leave." Her voice sounded flat, expressionless, devoid of hope.

"Heppie, please. He's still not recovered. How can I up and take off when he expects me to welcome him home? And the cows. I wouldn't do them a service to leave 'em without someone to take care of them."

Heppie waited for a long time before she spoke in a terse voice. "I need to be with my family. You need to take care of your brother and your cows. I reckon that puts us on different paths, Mr. Heizer."

"Heppie, don't say that."

She struggled to her feet, and he also arose. "Good-bye, George," she managed to say, and walked back into the kitchen.

###

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Bonus from the forthcoming Book 4: Spinster's Folly

Chapter One

Marie Owen pressed forward through the crowd that surrounded her brother Carl and his new bride, Ellen Bates. She pushed her way across the patch of trampled grass in the Colorado meadow, trying to get closer to the bridal pair. Ma was hugging on Ellen while Mrs. Bates dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Bates stood alongside them, looking stern.

Someone leaving the site of the makeshift altar in a great hurry bumped Marie's shoulder hard, and a flailing hand knocked her bonnet askew. She cried out, "Have a care!" as she turned to see who had been so heedless, then shook her head as she realized it was only her next older brother, James, fleeing from Carl's triumphant grin.

"You behave, James," she muttered, loosening the strings beneath her chin so she could straighten her headgear. When she was satisfied that it was once again firmly in place, she returned to her purpose of reaching Ellen.

Her youngest brother, Albert, was her last obstacle. He had wormed his way to the front of the crowd, and was enthusiastically engaged in kissing Ellen's cheek. Marie elbowed the youth aside, reached her friend, and threw her arms around her.

"Lawsy," Marie whispered in Ellen's ear as she hugged her tight. "I thought this day would never come for you. Now you're my sister, Mrs. Carl Owen!"

Ellen pushed back from the embrace slightly, her green eyes shining like dewdrops above her freckled cheeks. "It was so sudden. I didn't figure Pa would bring the priest with him." Her voice quivered. "Who would have thought . . ." She scanned the meadow, craning her neck back and forth. "Where is James?"

Marie squeezed Ellen's arm. "Now don't you fret about him on your weddin' day. He'll get over a little disappointment."

"I want to tell him I am sorry."

"Don't you bother. He's been acting like such a ninny. It was plain as the nose on your face that you loved Carl and not him."

Ellen ducked her head, but when she raised it a moment later, her radiant smile spoke of her happiness.

Marie couldn't help kissing her cheek. "I'm thrilled for you," she murmured, and gave Ellen another hug.

"I cannot believe this happened so fast," Ellen whispered. She took a deep breath, then turned to look at the new husband, who was sitting himself down on a chair, his face white.

Ellen's smiled disappeared, and she turned back to Marie as people shoved against them. "Carl's bleedin'. I have to get him back to the cabin." She gripped Marie's shoulder. "You'll be next to marry," she said in a rush. "I see the way Bill Henry looks at you."

"What?" Marie protested, but Ellen had slipped away, entreating Rulon and Clay Owen to haul up the chair and carry Carl to the house.

Marie stood rooted in place by her friend's astonishing words, and watched a crimson stain spread across the hip of Carl's trousers. A shiver of fear coursed down her spine. Carl had been wounded in a shootout with kidnappers. Would he bleed to death because he got out of bed to marry Ellen? No! Surely not. Ellen was as good a nurse as anyone hereabouts. She would take ample care of Carl and pull him through this bad spell.

"James!" Ma's sharp call cut through the babble of voices.

Marie turned to see what had alarmed her mother, and saw James loping into the forest. She breathed out in exasperation. He had been so temperamental lately, stumping around like a bear with a hangnail.

"Rod, go see—"

Marie went to her mother's side. "He's fine, Ma. Give him a fortnight to clear his mind, and he'll be the light of your eyes again."

Ma grasped Marie's wrist without looking at her. She spoke low. "Daughter, he's not fine. Make your pa go after him." She glanced down at her clenched hand, opened it, and let Marie go free. "Tell your pa—"

"James is man-grown, Ma."

Her mother seemed not to hear her. "Good, Rod is going." She called out, "Bring him back," sighed, gave herself a shake, then turned her attention to the departing newlyweds.

Marie shrugged her shoulders and followed her mother's gaze. Ellen walked beside Carl, fussing a little, patting his hand. His brothers carried his chair toward the little log house Carl had built with his own hands to receive his bride. No matter that his wife wasn't the one Pa had intended for him. It seemed such an age since Pa had connived to arrange marriages for two of his sons before they'd all fled the ruins of the Shenandoah Valley, and headed out for Colorado Territory. Carl's betrothed, Ida Hilbrands, was long gone.

"Good riddance," Marie said aloud.

"Good riddance to what?" a young female voice said behind her.

Marie jumped and whirled to face her sister. "Julianna! Don't creep up on me like that. It's not ladylike."

"What do you know about being a lady? More like a spinster, if you ask me."

"Spinster? Don't you call me names!"

"I will if I want to. You're gettin' awful long in the tooth, Marie. You've got no beaus in sight. Pa surely wasn't thinking when he left you off his marryin' list." Julianna swished her skirt with both hands and stuck out her tongue.

Marie felt warm blood rising into her neck and face at her sister's insolence. "Leave Pa out of this," she barked. "You see how well his plans turned out." She gestured toward the departing couple. "True affection conquered his meddlesome—" She fumbled for a word, then spat out, "meddling. Ellen is happy, so I am happy."

Julianna smirked, pointing toward the forest. "James ain't happy. He stomped off. Pa went after him, glowerin' almost as much as James."

Marie balled her fists, glaring at her sister. "Thank you for telling me something I already know, Miss Snippety Nose. James'll mend, given enough time."

"But in no time at all, Pa will have to put you on the shelf. Nobody will even look at you by Christmas, Old Maid!"

~~~

Marie turned and stalked off toward the plank tables set out under the oak trees nearby. When Ma had found out Carl was rising from his bed to get married, she had bustled about, with the aid of Rulon's Mary, putting together a special wedding dinner. Well, special, if you count honey drizzled on corn cakes as special. Add the meat pulled from the bones of a few roasted chickens, gallons of milk, cold from sitting in stone crocks in the spring, and the meal could pass as special.

No matter what irritating things Julianna may say, Marie couldn't take the time to tussle with her. There was a-plenty of work to do today. Even so, she felt burgeoning anger consuming her good sense as she eyed a wash tub full of tableware sitting on the grass beside the table. Which of her brothers had left the dishes on the ground instead of putting them on the table? Inconsiderate clod! She bent over, pulled a stack of tin plates from the tub, and slammed them onto the table. Her ears rang with the cacophonous sound. She retrieved a second bunch of plates, dropped them onto the first pile, then grabbed a double handful of tin cups, which she banged down on the planks, not caring if she dented them.

After a few moments of rebellion, reveling in the clinks and clanks of the tinware, she straightened up, put her hands at her waist and stretched her back. Then she blew an escaping lock of hair out of her eyes and twisted the kinks out of her neck. Remembering that despite Carl and Ellen's hasty withdrawal, there were still plenty of folks to feed, pulled her out of her misery and helped her transform back into sensible, responsible Marie.

The Spanish priest robed in brown was the first to enter the shade under the oak trees, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The Texas cowboys followed, discussing the possibility of a shiveree that night. Mr. and Mrs. Bates came along with Ma. Pa was nowhere to be seen, but the rest of the family pressed forward, intent upon taking nourishment after the arduous work of getting Carl wed.

Marie hurried to get behind the food-laden table to serve, and after a few false starts, as her younger brothers pushed and shoved to grab generous portions, they formed more or less into an orderly line, aided by a few well-placed smacks on the backs of their hands with the bowl of Marie's honey spoon.

"Ow!" howled Albert. "There's no call to beat me."

"Guests first," she replied, pointing with the spoon. "Get yourself to the end of the line."

Clay licked honey off the back of his hand and glared at Marie, but obeyed without a word.

The priest had been escorted to the head of the line by Mr. Bates, accompanied by many polite gestures on the part of both men. Marie smiled at the priest, racking her brain for something to say, then, as she heaped his plate, remembered a Spanish word she'd heard recently. "Señor," she said, and made a bobbing sort of curtsey.

"Muchas gracias, muy amable," he replied, smiling back at her and making little crosses in the air over the food table.

"Muchas grachius," she parroted back, wondering what she'd just said as the priest moved on.

By and by, everyone who had crowded around the table had their plates full, and all were engaged in seeking places to sit to devour the comestibles. After consolidating the leftovers into order, Marie picked up a plate and fork.

Just then, an excited voice called from the woods, "Hey, James is riding the mustang!" and the Owen brothers and the cowboys abandoned their plates and cups on the grass and hurried off to see the spectacle.

Marie watched them go, then forked up a bit of chicken, put a corn cake on her plate, and drenched it with honey. She found a place to sit by herself on the grass, and bit into the sweetened breadstuff. The bland corn cake reminded her of all such dry mouthfuls she'd endured in the years since Lincoln's Northern soldiers had come marching into Virginia. As she chewed, she wished she'd thought to get a cupful of milk. Eventually, the honey helped ease the ground corn down her throat, but she hoped Pa would trade a beef cow or two with Mr. Bates for wheat after harvest time. Wheat bread would be such a welcome change.

Young Roddy, Rulon's boy, came galloping under the oaks astride a stick Pa had fitted with a stuffed horsehead made of burlap. "The horsie bucked," he announced in a high, shrill voice. "Unca James fell off." He pranced around his mother. "Mama, he said bad words."

Marie didn't fight the chortle the boy's comment brought upon her. I reckon he did, she thought, covering her mouth. James don't like blemishes on his reputation as a horseman. She watched Mary bend over and exhort her son about sticking close to her. That baby's growin' up. Good thing Mary's got a new wee one to hold. Then she wondered if Julianna's words about her being an old maid had any truth. She was eighteen now. She closed her eyes and felt a chill move up her arms.

Mary and Rulon had wed years ago, as he went to the war. Now Carl was a married man. When was her time to marry and have a family? Maybe it had passed her by when Virginia got tangled up in that cursed fight. Marie shivered as the chill enveloped the rest of her body. So many young men had gone for soldiers. So many hadn't returned home when the fighting was over. Now that she was away out here in Colorado Territory, her chances for finding a suitor weren't showing any more promise than they had during the Unpleasantness.

Marie opened her eyes at the murmur of voices and a few laughs. Evidently the show at the corral was over. The cowboys drifted back to the serving table and piled their plates a second time.

She shook off her somber thoughts and wondered if she should take Carl and Ellen a bite of dinner. Surely, with Carl so sorely wounded, the two of them wouldn't be in a romantic frame of mind.

But what if they were?

"Oh claptrap," she muttered. "If Carl's hungry, Ellen will come fetch something to feed him."

"I reckon that's so," a male voice said. "May I refill your plate, Miss Marie?"

Drawing in a gasp of air and jerking to attention, Marie almost spilled her leftover food to the ground. Bill Henry!

"I . . . reckon I've had plenty to eat, thank you, Mr. Henry. You're most obliging to ask."

"Not even a cup of milk?"

"No. No, I'm real content." She smoothed her skirt, brushing at a wrinkle.

"Well then, would it be amiss if I joined you here while I ate?"

"Ma might need me," she said, trying unsuccessfully to figure out how to get to her feet in a ladylike manner.

"I reckon she's otherwise occupied, bidding folks good-bye," Bill said, nodding in Mrs. Owen's direction. She stood near a cluster of horses, talking to Mrs. Bates.

"Suit yourself," Marie murmured, wishing she didn't feel trapped. Bill Henry was a good-looking man, but all the world knew he was heading back to Texas someday soon. Besides, Pa wasn't likely to give his consent to a match with a cowhand. Except it's very likely Pa hasn't given me much thought at all, Marie mused. He has always worried first about setting his boys up in life.

Bill sat beside Marie and tucked into his food. After chewing up a bite of dark chicken meat, he swallowed and looked at her. "Surprising doin's today." He gestured in the direction of Carl's cabin. "Your brother's got pluck to stand up on that leg and get married."

"There's no shortness of pluck amongst my brothers, Mr. Henry," Marie said, measuring her words. "Every single one of them is stuffed full of it. You'd think it would run out their ears, they're so plucky." The last word almost exploded from her lips from the exasperation that unexpectedly rose up like gall in her throat. "Pa built it into them from the time they were in short pants."

"Whoa there." Bill held up his hands. "What did I say to cause you hurt, Miss Marie?"

She picked at a stem of grass beside her skirt, pulling it to pieces, playing for time to settle her voice into more suitable tones. She glanced up, saw that the Bates family was riding off with the Spanish preacher in tow. "Nothing, sir," she finally said after taking a deep breath. "I'm right pleased to see my brother wed. Nothing gives me more joy than the happiness of my great good friend, the new Mrs. Owen." She knew she was enunciating her words carefully, but she couldn't help the brusque note that had crept into her voice.

"Is it your brothers' pluck or your pa's heavy-handedness that has you in a dither, miss?"

"My pa? Heavy-handed? Oh, yes," she said, her voice sounding mightily sarcastic to her ears. She gave a little shudder, and tried to remember herself. She finally said in a more moderate tone, "But I speak out of turn, Mr. Henry. My pa is an honorable man."

"He is that," Bill agreed. "He's simply a commandin' figure of a man who wants every soul to do his will."

Marie didn't reply.

"He's also the boss, so I reckon I'm speakin' out of turn, as well." Bill lifted his hat and smoothed back his hair before he carefully replaced the hat. "Beggin' your pardon, miss, I'd best get back to work."

Marie looked around. The cowboys had drifted away and the glade was empty of guests. Only Albert remained, still stuffing food into his apparently bottomless maw. "It appears our party is come to an end," Marie said, rearranging the utensils on her plate. "I reckon it's time for me to gather the dishes and such."

Bill helped her to her feet without further comment, and walked her to the first table. "I'm thankful for our talk, Miss Marie, even if I am a fair lummox at conversatin'."

"You have no fault in speaking, Mr. Henry. I fear that I am in a bit of a cranky mood. I beg your pardon for putting you ill at ease."

Bill bent his head as though accepting her apology. "Next time, I'll not come up and surprise you, Miss Marie."

She nodded, and he went away, leaving his plate behind on the table. Marie sighed and made piles of the remains of the meal. Her thoughts buzzed in disarray, crossing themselves as she worked.

That Bill Henry! Is he toying with me? Why didn't Pa set me up with a husband? He took care of the boys, but nobody took notice of my needs. I was old enough to get married. Maybe Jule is right and I'm on the shelf. Who is there to marry me? Bill's surely going back to Texas soon. Pa wouldn't stand for me marrying a Mexican, even a landowner, but who else is there? Tom Morgan? Bill probably left a sweetheart behind in Texas. Kissed a pretty young thing goodbye when he hired on to trail Pa's herd and teach the boys about beef cattle. Why didn't Pa think of me?

Afraid she might dissolve into tears and betray her fragile state of mind to her brother, Marie dumped the dirty dishes into the wash tub and fled with it toward the house.

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About the Author

Marsha Ward is an award-winning writer and editor who has published over 900 pieces of work, including Western novels, short stories, numerous newspaper articles, and sections in books on writing. She is a member of Western Writers of America, Women Writing the West, and American Night Writers Association. Born a while ago in the sleepy little town of Phoenix, Arizona, Marsha grew up with chickens, citrus trees, and lots of room to roam. She began telling stories at a very early age, regaling neighborhood chums with her tales over homemade sugar cookies and milk. Visiting her cousins on their ranch and listening to her father's stories of homesteading in Old Mexico and in the Tucson area reinforced Marsha's love of 19th Century Western history.

After many years in the big city, Marsha now makes her home in a tiny hamlet under Central Arizona's magnificent Mogollon Rim. When she is not writing, she loves to spoil her grandchildren, travel, give talks, meet readers, and sign books.

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