The fence surrounding the corral was ramrod-straight, with not a board out of place. In the adjourning stable, the soft nickering of several horses could just be heard, their gentle voices carrying on the light breeze. Firewood was stacked neatly to the left of the barn, protected from foul weather by a sheltering overhang that was easily accessible from the house.
The house. The small ranch-style abode was set back from the corral, atop a small rise. Two windows, one to either side of the sturdy plank door, reflected fractured moonlight on each pane of glass – glass that Buck had imported at great cost from St. Joe. When the oil-lamps were lit in both kitchen and bedroom, Teaspoon always felt that the house looked like some kind of malevolent god, eyes gleaming maliciously as it watched the puny humans from its lofty perch.
Damn. He could use a cigar.
Shaking off the melancholy musings, Teaspoon dismounted and looped the reins carefully around the corral fence. Willow snickered contentedly, immediately latching on to some delectable scrub-grass, and Teaspoon rubbed the animal’s flank affectionately before turning once again to gaze at the house. Fanciful imaginings aside, the building itself was well-built, durable and solid. But empty, somehow. No fence surrounded the yard. No flowers or plantings lent gaiety to the desolation of dirt there. The overstuffed porch swing creaked soulfully in the breeze, crying out that no couple in love had ever shared its embrace.
Suppressing the shudder he felt creeping along his spine, Teaspoon squared his shoulders and knocked at the front door. He waited, listening for sounds of life within, before knocking a second time. Then a third, a little louder than before, beginning to lose his temper. He knew Buck was home. One lamp was lit in the house, its light showing feebly from beneath the door, and his former rider wouldn’t risk a fire by leaving it unattended. Did the boy think he was a fool?
“It’s open, Teaspoon.”
Teaspoon pulled back, startled, before the realization hit him. Of course Buck would know who his visitor was. The Kiowa knew Willow’s cantor as well as he knew his own horses. But Buck’s voice… The voice was weary and filled with resignation. It sounded to Teaspoon like a man who had seen enough of the world and its unending battles, and just wanted it to be over. For a long moment he hesitated on the stoop, suddenly afraid that when he opened the door it would be to find a wizened old man – a crippled, feeble figure that spoke with the voice of his ‘son’.
He pushed the door open abruptly – telling himself that it was simply drafty on the porch and the ice cold finger he felt playing on his spine was but a trick of the air – and walked quickly into the room, letting the door close behind him absently. Teaspoon scanned the room. Sideboard and counter; a small wooden divan piled with pillows; fireplace, lifeless now, but with a small pile of logs stacked beside it should the weather turn colder in the night. Like the property itself, the inside of the house looked clean, efficient, and organized – and completely void of personality. It may well have been abandoned. There was nothing of Buck Cross here.
The Marshal turned his attention to Buck himself – not a crone, but merely the same Buck he’d always known. The Kiowa sat at the small table, eating dinner. Well, picking at dinner, more like, Teaspoon mused. He stood watching Buck for a moment, but the former rider merely regarded him with baleful eyes before returning to his meal.
Not one to be so easily deterred, Teaspoon cleared his throat. “Thought you’d come back to town, son.”
Buck shrugged. “Takin’ care of things at Independence Rock took longer than I thought.”
The deputy kept his gaze fixated on his meal, his left hand restlessly moving peas from one side of the plate to the other. Teaspoon’s own eyes gleamed. When the boy didn’t look you straight in the eye, you knew he was hidin’ something. Teaspoon had called Buck’s bluff that way many a time, in everything from poker to checkers.
“Didn’t figure it’d take that long,” Teaspoon volleyed innocently.
“Went riding after. I had… some things to think about.”
An opening! Teaspoon pounced.
“Well now, I’m glad you mentioned that, Buck. What happened in town today—”
“Don’t concern you, Teaspoon,” Buck finished evenly. Now he did raise his eyes to regard Teaspoon coolly. “Jennifer’s made her decision. I was a fool to think it could be any different.”
“Buck—”
“I found an arrow.” Standing abruptly, Buck walked to the sideboard, extracting the object that had been placed carefully behind it. Rising, he handed the arrow to the Marshal.
Eyebrow raised, Teaspoon held Buck’s gaze a moment before taking the proffered item. The Kiowa’s eyes were cool and reserved, his emotions hiding behind a mask of indifference. Fine. If Buck wanted to concentrate on the massacre first, then that’s what they’d do. They’d come back to Jennifer later, since he wasn’t dropping this. And he thought Buck knew it.
Letting his glance drop to the arrow, Teaspoon’s eyes narrowed. With a startled look at his deputy, he moved to the table and held the shaft nearer the light. “Lakota?”
“Some of the markings indicate Lakota,” Buck agreed, but his voice was unsure. He ran a hand through his long hair, then pointed at the shaft. “See here,” he moved his hand to the arrowhead, “and here. If it’s Lakota, it’s not any tribe I know of.”
“And you know most all of ‘em,” Teaspoon said.
Buck accepted the compliment with a nod. “If it’s not a tribe I know, then I’m thinkin’—”
“Renegades,” Teaspoon finished softly. Dropping the arrow to the table, he asked briskly, “Numbers?”
“I think… only 4. Maybe 5. A small war party to be attempting such a bold raid.”
“They nearly succeeded, son. I guess it weren’t too small now, was it?” Teaspoon muttered.
“From the tracks I found, it looked like maybe they were scared off. Could that Newlands boy have been wrong? Could there—”
“Nah, Tommy Newlands worships the ground Kid walks on. He told us everything he saw.” Teaspoon waved off the question. “Scared off? You sure of that Buck?”
The Kiowa shrugged. “They took one scalp. Why not more? They had the wagon down and the people defenseless. But they left, and didn’t bother to cover their tracks.” At Teaspoon’s eager gaze, Buck shook his head. “I followed as long as I could but I lost ‘em at White’s Bluff. I can’t track through rock, Teaspoon.”
The Marshal put a hand on Buck’s shoulder reassuringly. “I know you can’t, son. Don’t make me stop wishin’ for miracles though.”
Patting Buck’s shoulder, Teaspoon again studied the arrow. “It just don’t make sense,” he said thoughtfully. “The only people who seen ‘em was two children and their scared mother, yet they hightailed it outta there when Jennifer and Jack are still breathin’. The other fella too, though they couldna known that at the time. I don’t like unanswered questions, Buck. Makes me ornery.”
Buck’s lips came together tightly – he meant it to be an encouraging smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Maybe they were just lucky.”
Leaving Teaspoon to inspect the arrow more closely, Buck took up his plate and utensils and moved to the small sink. He worked the pump vigorously, splashing a liberal amount of water into the tub. The physical motion went a long way towards relaxing his tense shoulders, which had tightened almost instantly with the mention of Jennifer’s name.
He ran the soiled plate under the water absently, wishing that his own conflicted emotions could be washed away as easily and as completely. It would have been easier if she’d never returned. That thought was followed immediately – as it had been ever since he’d first thought it this morning and every time since – by the image of Jennifer’s broken body, pinned beneath the wheel of the stagecoach, broken and lifeless. He closed his eyes tightly against the mental image, but the pressure of his closed eyelids only set off starbursts behind his eyes. Scarlet starbursts. Starbursts that seemed to pulse with blood.
Pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, Buck took a deep breath. Not for the first time, he wondered if HE was the reason for this. He truly believed he had done all he could to find her. He had tracked Jennifer to Boston and beyond, using all the skills taught to him by Red Bear. He had followed the paper trail from part-time jobs and shabby lodging homes using every Russell Majors and Waddell contact he could find. He’d called upon Teaspoon’s “bag of tricks” on more than one occasion. And it had all been for naught. Exhausted, hurt and dispirited, he’d finally had to return home to his express family.
Time had healed the physical pain, but the inner anguish wouldn’t abate. Lou had urged him to talk about his feelings; Jimmy and Cody had advocated a quick return to riding; Ike had offered silent commiseration; Rachel had plied him with apple pies and motherly love. None of it helped. The ache of failure and loss continued to pull at him until he found himself wishing that Black Wolf’s bullet had finished him off. He had used every skill and trick in his arsenal to find the woman he loved. And it wasn’t enough.
The worst part was the dreams. Jennifer, her buckskin dress torn at the shoulder, her hair in braids, staring at him with wide imploring eyes as Black Wolf edged ever closer to her. Or Jennifer, clad in a blue dress covered with large white flowers, standing in a sunlit meadow. Long golden hair blowing gently in the breeze… and no matter how fast he ran to her, she drew further and further away.
He had woken in the middle of the night after one such dream, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Around him in the bunkhouse, the other riders slept peacefully, blissfully unaware of the torment of one of their brethren. That’s when the idea had hit him. Dressing silently, he walked to town.
The whitewashed church seemed to beckon to him, yet he still stood outside a long moment before climbing the four stairs and pushing the door open. Inside, the building was hushed and quiet, and Buck sensed that it wasn’t just the early morning hour that made it so. It was a mystical stillness, and for the first time he was aware of the power there. Whether the power came from an outside source – the white God – or his own inner belief in the spirit world of the Kiowa… it didn’t matter. It felt strong. It felt clear. It felt right.
Buck knelt at one of the back pews, crossed his hands in front of him as he’d been taught at the mission school, and prayed.
For weeks afterward he waited for a sign. For he was Kiowa and Jennifer was Lakota… but she was also white. Surely by combining forces – by invoking both the Indian spirits and the white man’s god – surely then he would be told the path he needed to take to find her. He was wrong. There was no sign. And eventually, Buck began to believe that there never would be. So he slowly began to make a new life. A life without Jennifer.
He tucked the memories away, sharing them now with no one. Their time together had been so short, and the memories were so few, that they became like precious glass, certain to crumble to dust if he handled them too frequently. So he kept them deep inside, only taking them out when the ache of loneliness seemed too much to bear alone. Then he allowed himself to remember the way her hair had shone in the firelight, or the sparkle of her clear blue eyes, or the way she had stroked his hair as they lay together underneath the stars.
Buck opened his eyes to find that the water had long since stopped flowing and the plate he was holding had been scrubbed to a clear shine. Guiltily, he glanced around at Teaspoon, but the Marshal appeared to be lost in thought himself. He shook his head minutely to drive away the memories of the past. The past was the past, as Teaspoon himself had said on more than one occasion. He couldn’t change it. He would concentrate on his future. His job right now was to assist Teaspoon in finding the renegades. Once that was done… he’d have to leave. Selling his ranch and leaving the only family he’d ever known would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. But seeing Jennifer in town every day… seeing her and knowing that she’d never share his life or his love or his bed… that would be even harder.
Clearing his throat, Buck forced his attention back to the present. “What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.
Teaspoon looked up distractedly. “Hmmm? Oh. Call a town meetin’ tomorrow afternoon and let the folks know what we’re up against. But we can’t track them renegades and we got no idea where they’re holed up, so I don’t think there’s much we CAN do at this point.”
Recalling the way the people of Sweetwater had reacted to past Indian trouble flashed through Buck’s mind in a blur. “They ain’t gonna like that.”
“Nope,” Teaspoon agreed. “But if we go wandering off tryin’ to find somebody when we ain’t got no idea where to look, the only thing that’s gonna happen is a bunch more people gettin’ killed. I’m jus’ gonna have to convince ‘em of that.”
“Good luck.”
Teaspoon grinned. “Now Buck, from the way you said that I’d think you didn’t have no faith in my powers of persuasion.” Dropping the arrow on the table, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded the Kiowa thoughtfully. “Question is, what are YOU gonna do?”
Buck looked confused. “I can go back to the Rock and see—“
Teaspoon waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Son, you already done all you could to find them renegades and for that I’m grateful. I’m talking about Jennifer. What are you gonna do about this situation you find yourself in?”
Bristling, Buck replied, “There’s nothing TO do, Teaspoon. I already told ya—”
“Yup, I heard what you told me and I got something to tell you. I asked why you thought the renegades left Jennifer and them others alone and you said they were lucky. Well, I don’t think luck had anything to do with it, Buck. I think maybe there was a reason they got spared.”
“Reason? What reason? The renegades got scared off, and Jennifer and a couple of nameless strangers got lucky!”
The Marshal cleared his throat. “About them nameless strangers—”
But Buck wasn’t listening. He ran a hand through his long hair anxiously. “What are you implying, Teaspoon? That the spirits would somehow return her to me, after all this time? Why?”
Teaspoon had been thinking no such thing, but neither was he one to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s obvious that’s exactly what Buck WAS thinking. Teaspoon ran his thumbs under his suspenders and leaned against the countertop comfortably.
“Buck, gods and spirits work in mysterious ways, and it ain’t up to a man like me to try to figure ‘em out. I can’t say why they do what they do, or what purpose they got in mind when they do it. But I been around this world a time or two, son, and I do know this – you turn your back, and you hide your head in the sand, and there ain’t nothin’ but sorrow and pain gonna come of that.”
The former rider looked incredulous. “Running and hiding? I spent the better part of a year looking for her, Teaspoon!”
“And you and me both know that. You been through a lot of hurt, and so’s she. I’d hate to see you throw away the second chance you been given just ‘cause you’re both too ornery to try again. You think about that, Buck.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Teaspoon. She’s already made up her mind.”
“Then maybe you gotta do more convincin’.” Waving off the objection he saw coming, Teaspoon added mildly, “Besides, there’s more than just you and Jennifer to consider.”
When Buck only regarded him blankly, Teaspoon sighed. “You remember a little boy playing outside o’ Tompkins house? A little boy that you almost ran over ‘cause you were so all fired anxious to get outta there?”
“Nooo,” Buck replied softly. But he did. He had a brief flash of dark hair and blue shirt. A small part of his mind – the part not overtaken by overwhelming feelings of loss and anger – had wondered why the child’s mother was not watching over him. Had wondered why the child was playing in Tompkins yard to begin with.
Teaspoon saw the remembrance come into Buck’s eyes despite the denial. “That little boy is Jack. He was one of the survivors in the stagecoach. Only got a bump on the head. He’s a lucky boy.”
“So?” The word was almost inaudible.
He’s almost five years old. His mama had to work real hard tryin’ to make a good life for him, as best she could. She was alone, you see.” Teaspoon took a deep breath. “His mama is Jennifer Tompkins.”
Buck staggered back against the counter, closing his eyes. “No,” he whispered, but Teaspoon’s voice continued whether he wanted to hear it or not.
“Jack is your son.”
