The prairie still lay trackless before her. The long golden grasses waltzed in the breeze, darting together and apart, entangling amongst each other like amorous lovers. Here and there, bright red flowers lent a touch of gaiety to the dance, like delicate corsages on a lady’s wrist. The air was sweet with the scent of wildflowers, bringing back memories of youth. Running through the sweetgrass with Grey Owl and Walks-With-The-Wind, as Wind’s little brother Soaring Hawk tried desperately to keep up. Chasing butterflies when she should have been gathering berries. Cooling her feet in the stream while the hummingbirds sang their tune high above her head. Jen sighed in contentment. No, not Jen. Jen was a little girl with ribbons in her hair and perpetually scraped knees. She was Eagle Feather now. It had been years since she’d been able to lay in the long prairie grass, hearing nothing but the murmur of the wind and her own heartbeat. Feeling nothing but tranquility. It had been years because… Jen frowned. She couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. She was doing it now, and the grass tickled her nose.
She stretched lazily and found her frown returning as her movements were restricted. Rotating her shoulder to work out the kinks, her questing hand lit upon something lying abandoned in the long grass. Something that the whites must has foolishly dropped and left behind, she mused scornfully. A Lakota would never be reckless enough to leave traces of his passage. This item was well worn and smooth, reminding her of the soft buckskin shift she usually wore. Was she wearing it now? No. To her disappointment, her searching hand found the crisp starched collar of the whites at her throat. Yes… she remembered now. The blouse was cream-coloured with small green flowers at the neck and sleeves; her skirt was dark green to match. She’d put it on that morning when… when…
Jen sighed and dropped her hand back to the supple object she’d found, her fingers this time tracing its edges. A book. It was a book. Yes, there on the front she could feel the engraving. A cross. Buck Cross, her mind whispered.
No. There IS no Buck Cross. Not anymore.
A book. A book. A cross engraved on the cover of a book. The frown on her face deepened as Jen tried to tie this information together. Fighting past the headache that had suddenly taken hold, she tried to focus. A book with a cross on the cover.
A bible! The book was a bible.
Preachers used a bible.
And Reverend Moreland was a preacher.
Jen opened her eyes wide, a gasp of shock pulled from her body as the events of the past moments buffeted her senses. The stagecoach suddenly careening across the prairie, the violent motion waking her from the light doze into which she’d dropped. The fevered cry of the coach driver as he urged the horses to fly faster, harder. Reverend Moreland’s praying barely heard over the weeping of Mrs. Chamberlain. And above it all, the triumphant wails of the Indian braves as they closed the distance between themselves and the stagecoach. Their war cries had filled the air.
Then the wagon was flipping, one wheel lost, and the world turned upside down. She remembered pulling Jack closer to her. Then everything went black.
Jack!
Jen frantically tried to pull herself ahead, ignoring the stabbing pain that coursed through her chest at the sudden motion. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breath…
“Jack…” What wanted to be a scream of terror came out little more than a whisper. She struggled again to pull herself free… legs not working… fingernails torn out as she scrabbled against the hard dirt… All she could see was the damn grass, the golden grass of the prairie that had ‘welcomed’ her home… now splashed with the blood of her travelling companions. With a final desperate wrench, Jen raised herself onto her elbows.
The preacher lay in a heap just beyond his bible, his head twisted back unnaturally, an arrow in his back and his scalp taken. Jen fought back the bile that rose in her throat as her vision took in the destroyed wagon, the body of Mrs. Chamberlain, the young man with his fresh-pressed suit and his big dreams of owning a cattle ranch. Just a few days before he had tried to get fresh with her. Now he lay crumpled on the hard earth… across the body of her son.
“JACK!” This time the cry did penetrate the air. Jen flung herself forward, sending a second bolt of pain scampering through her body. Blood, so much blood…
Jennifer passed out.
* * * * * * *
“Jenny? Jenny, can you hear me?”
Jen kept her eyes closed and snuggled deeper into the blankets. This place was warm. This place was safe. She didn’t want to leave it just yet. Not yet.
“Jenny, honey?”
Reluctantly, Jen found herself pulled to wakefulness. Surely it couldn’t be morning already? She felt like she’d just fallen asleep! Was today the day that she’d promised to take Jack to the fair? She didn’t have as much saved as she’d hoped, but she’d still be able to get him some cotton candy. Maybe even a little toy. He’d had his eye on the train in the shop window for a long time. She couldn’t afford that, but maybe something smaller. He was a good boy; he’d be thrilled to get any toy.
She opened bleary eyes and murmured, “Jack?”
The man leaning over her bed smiled in relief. “No honey, not Jack. It’s your dad.”
Memory came flooding back in an instant. Jen tried to pull herself to a sitting position, only to groan and slide back along the pillows, biting back the tears that threatened to spill as she became reacquainted with the stabbing pain in her chest. She reached out blindly to find her hand grasped by the large paw of her father.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re gonna be okay.”
Jen shook her head violently, sending long hair flying as she tried to catch her breath. “Jack,” she managed to gasp out. “Where’s Jack? I couldn’t get to him… I tried…”
“He’s fine, Jennifer,” another voice said soothingly, and the face of her father was replaced by the calm and serene countenance of Rachel Dunne. “He’s outside playing.”
“I want to see him!”
“Jenny…” Her father’s tones. Just like she remembered. Warning. Gruff and demanding. Listen to me, they said. Father will tell you what to do. Listen to your Father.
Not anymore. Her mother was gone, and her father hadn’t been a part of her life for a dozen years. Jen pulled herself awkwardly to a sitting position, ignoring the sharp jab in her side at the motion. “I want to see my son NOW!” she demanded. Rachel and Tompkins exchanged dubious looks; without a word Rachel turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
“Uh… Jenny…”
Jennifer ignored her father and glanced around the bedroom, relishing the silence so that she could get her bearings. Jack was safe. The bed on which she lay was well-stuffed and comfortable, the blankets piled high around her. The room itself was decorated with a woman’s touch - tiny flowered wallpaper adorned one wall, a vase of fresh flowers sat on the vanity. With a start, Jennifer realized that this was HER room; the room her father had prepared for her return to Sweetwater. She also realized that they weren’t alone in the chamber - Teaspoon Hunter stood to one side, hat in his hand. When her gaze lit upon him he gave her a weary half-smile. And Jack was safe.
Jen’s hand moved tentatively under the blankets to the bandages wrapped around her middle. Tompkins noticed the movement and cleared his throat.
“Uh… you’re gonna be fine, Jenny, just fine. Doc says you bruised some ribs. He wrapped ‘em up nice and tight; you’ll be good as new once you get some rest. Got a big cut on your forehead too,” he added as her hand moved to the wound there. “He gave you some stitches. Might have a scar.”
His daughter nodded absently before turning her attention back to the Marshal. Damnit, Tompkins fumed, this wasn’t goin’ like it was supposed to! He looked around for Rachel - Rachel would know what to say - but the door to the bedroom remained stubbornly closed. His Jenny… his little girl. She looked so lost and tiny on the big four poster bed. He had so much to say to her. So many things he wanted to ask her. And now that she was here, his throat seemed blocked by a lump the size of Chicago.
He found his hands clenching into fists and forced himself to relax, wiping his palms nervously on his pants. Why couldn’t this have turned out the way he’d planned? Jenny would have gotten off the stage lookin’ like an angel, and he’d have swept her into his arms and given her a big hug and a kiss. And she would’ve hugged him just as hard and just as tight. Then he’d’ve explained about Rachel and the three of them would have gone back to his house - this house - and had a nice lunch. And there would have been no nervousness and no fear and no damn Indians attackin’ the coach and no little half-breed child sittin’ on the porch and calling his Jenny “Mama”.
He looked up tensely to find Jenny watching the door with a troubled frown.
“What’s taking them so long? Is Jack really all right?” Her voice became more strident as the worry took hold. “Don’t lie to me, Father!”
“He’s fine, Jenny, I promise.” When Jennifer regarded him suspiciously and moved to push back the covers as if to see for herself; he took a step forward quickly to retake her hand. The soft skin he remembered from six years before was work-hardened and rough now. He rubbed his thumb against the ball of her palm soothingly as he tried to work up the courage to talk to his only child. His baby… who now appeared to HAVE a baby.
He cleared his throat self-consciously. “The boy… Jack. He’s your son?”
Jen closed her eyes briefly as the headache tried to resurface. When she opened them her blue eyes were clear. “He’s my son,” she confirmed. “Do you have a problem with that?” she continued defiantly. “Because if you do we’ll leave as soon as I can get out of here.”
Tompkins eyes opened wide at the thought of losing her again. “No… no Jenny, I don’t have a problem…” He glanced over at Teaspoon for guidance, but the grizzled Marshal appeared content to simply remain a bystander to this little exchange. “I… I mean… he’s your son, so… did you adopt him?”
This time it was Jen’s turn to stare incomprehensibly at her father. “Adopt him?” she asked in disbelief. “No Father, I gave birth to him. He’s my son!” She leaned back against the propped-up pillows, shaking her head in resignation. “I knew it would be like this. I should never have come back. You see my child and all you see is a half-breed, a nothing, someone like Two Ponies that you can-“
“No!” Tompkins sat on the bed, pulling his daughter into his arms and trying to ignore the way her body stiffened at his touch. “No, Jenny. I’m sorry… so sorry for all the things that happened between us in the past. But I’ve changed, Jenny. I’ve changed. Give me a chance to prove that to you.”
After a long moment he felt her body ease against his as she took some small comfort in his embrace. He dared to ask the next question, the one that was burning in his throat. “Why didn’t you ever tell me, Jenny?”
The voice that she’d expected to be harsh and cold was instead soft and full of pain and hurt. Suddenly all the reasons for keeping Jack’s existence a secret seemed selfish and immature. She opened her mouth to explain, but no explanation would be good enough. Instead she rested her head against her father’s arm, surprised at the onslaught of memories that simple motion brought. This was the position she had always taken when William had read her a story before bed. Her favourite had been “The Legend of King Arthur”. That, she realized, was the story they were reading on the wagon train crossing. Before the wagons desecrated a Sioux burial ground. Before the Lakota attacked. Before her life changed. She remembered the story so well. All the daring deeds of the Knights of the Round Table had danced across her eight-year-old imagination as she lay in her cot, curled in the dubious safety of the wagon and listening to the howls of the coyotes blanketing the night. She would pretend that Merlin was laying a spell on the animals and soon, very soon, Guinevere would appear to take her to Camelot.
When she raised her head again, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I don’t know, Father. I should have told you about Jack. I’m sorry…”
“Jenny-“
“Here he is!” Rachel’s bright voice interrupted the discussion as the door re-opened and Jack came bounding into the room.
“Mama! Are you okay?”
Mindful of her injured ribs, Jen brushed the back of her hand across her eyes before moving gingerly away from her father and pulling Jack carefully onto the bed. She pitched her voice to a happy tone.
“I’m fine, Jack… are you okay? Did you get hurt? Let Mama see you!” The little boy sat still as his mother searched his body for signs of injury; when she tried to examine him a second time, though, Jack squirmed away indignantly.
“I’m all right!” he protested with exasperation. “Got a big bump though. Wanna see?” He proudly turned his head to show off the crabapple-sized lump on the back of his head before spinning back to face her. “Pretty big, huh? Betcha that’s the biggest bump anybody’s every got!”
Despite her concern, Jen had to smile. “Might be,” she agreed with her son.
Clearing his throat, Teaspoon stepped away from the wall he’d been propping up and moved toward the bed. “Well Jack, I got some things I need to talk about with yer Ma here… if that’s all right with you.”
Jack nodded smartly before turning back to his mother. “This here’s the Marshal, Mama.”
Jen smiled indulgently at her son. “Yes, Jack; we’ve met. Maybe you could go back outside and play while me and Teaspoon have a talk.”
“Okay.” Jack grinned happily, pulled his train from his shirt pocket and was halfway to the door before he turned back to regard Jen solemnly. “And Mama,” he added before rushing outside, “I TOLD ya we shoulda took the train!”
Tompkins wiped a hand against his eyes roughly. That was his grandson. His GRANDSON. Obviously a smart little whippersnapper. Tough too. Survived an Indian attack and didn’t even bat an eye. ‘Course, Tompkins considered, it might be the Indian blood in him too. Just what kind of Indian blood that was remained to be seen. Sally had said that Jenny was promised to be married to that brave… He searched his memory for the name. Black Wolf. That was it. Was Jack the child of Black Wolf?
* * * * * * *
Fifteen minutes later, Teaspoon shut the door to the bedroom softly, leaning against the frame briefly before wiping a hand over his grizzled beard. He was getting too old for this. He should be retired by now, he reflected. Sittin’ on the porch over at Lou’s place with a glass of lemonade and his feet up, tellin’ stories to the young’uns. Goin’ hunting with Buck. Leave the marshalin’ to the young folks that could handle it. He should give the job to Kid.
He realized that Tompkins was looking at him expectantly and gave his head a minute shake. Enough time for ruminatin’ later. He moved authoritatively into the room.
“Welllll, we don’t have much to go on,” he said more to himself than to the store-keeper.
“You sayin’ that Jenny’s lyin’, Teaspoon?” Tompkins growled from his place on the threadbare carpet. “She said she was sleeping. You sayin’ that my daughter-“
“Now hold on Tompkins,” Teaspoon raised a hand to halt the flow of angry accusations. “I ain’t sayin’ no such thing. I’m sayin’ that we ain’t got much to go on, and that’s all I’m sayin’. Jenny’s the only witness to the attack and she don’t remember a thing. Less’n you count Jack, and I don’t think the boy’d be a very reliable witness.”
“There’s that fella over at the doc’s,” Tompkins suggested.
“Bishop.” Teaspoon supplied the name of the young man they’d found hunched over Jack’s small body. “Doc don’t hold out much hope for him. He took two arrows in the chest. Take a mighty strong man to overcome somethin’ like that.”
“Well I don’t care about that!” Tompkins shouted bluntly. “I wanna know what you’re going to DO about it. We got a bunch of crazed savages goin’ about attackin’ our stages, killin’ OUR people, and I wanna know what you’re gonna do to protect this town!”
* * * * * * *
In the bedroom, the raised voice of William Tompkins was clearly heard. Frowning, Jennifer pulled herself forward on the bed and pushed her feet to the floor with a stifled groan. Rachel, rummaging in the bureau for a nightdress, turned to the girl with alarm. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she admonished. “Doc Crawford said you’re to stay in bed for at least a day or two.”
“My father’s out there causing a ruckus and I’m not about to sit here and listen to it,” Jennifer responded emphatically. “Looks like not much has changed around here,” she added regretfully as she made sure her blouse was buttoned. “I’m going to see if I can help.”
Rachel moved to place a restraining hand on the younger woman’s arm. “You already told them everything you could. Now you should-“
Jennifer wrenched her arm away, ignoring the jab of pain the effort caused. “You’re NOT my mother, Rachel. Don’t tell me what to do!” She saw the flicker of hurt in the older woman’s eyes and immediately regretted her words. Self-censoring… it was something she had to constantly work on. It was easier when Jack was around.
Contrite, she grasped Rachel’s hand briefly. “I’m sorry Rachel. I know you mean well. I just… I’m not an invalid. I’ve been taking care of Jack and myself for the past five years. I just can’t sit in here while my father argues in favour of an all-out assault-“
“We don’t know what he’s arguing,” Rachel pointed out reasonably.
“No, we don’t,” Jen agreed. “I’m going to find out.” She took a step forward determinedly and suddenly the room turned into a kaleidoscope. Jen clutched the wall for a moment before turning back to the blonde woman with a rueful smile, tinged only slightly green. “Wanna come with me?”
She couldn’t say she didn’t know where Jennifer got her stubbornness, Rachel reflected. The girl was worse than William himself! Grinning despite herself, Rachel took Jen’s arm lightly as the two women walked slowly to the bedroom door.
* * * * * * *
“…and I don’t wanna hear about WAITIN’ for more information. I say we go and hunt them savages down and show ‘em they can’t be attackin’ OUR people and getting away with it!”
Teaspoon shook his head in exasperation. When Tompkins got in a mood like this, there was no reasoning with him until he calmed down. He stole a glance toward the bedroom door, hoping that Rachel would hear the commotion and come to the rescue. Danged if he could figure it out, but Rachel’s presence seemed to instill some kind of sense in the man.
He was still trying to figure out what to say when the outer door banged open. Both men looked up in surprise at the breathless figure of Buck Cross. In irritation, Teaspoon knew the Kiowa must have heard the irate storekeeper’s latest declaration. To Buck’s credit, he kept his face composed as he spoke to the Marshal.
“I got here as soon as I heard, Teaspoon,” he announced without preamble. “Any idea who did it?”
“Bunch of damn Indians, that’s who did it,” Tompkins muttered angrily.
Buck’s eyes flicked in Tompkins direction but he disregarded the interruption. Rachel said the man had changed - hell, he’d even seen it with his own eyes - but he could never forget the way Tompkins had treated him in the past. The bitter words and angry accusations flung by the storekeeper years ago were still very close to the surface for the Kiowa deputy, no matter how much he tried to forgive and forget. Whatever had happened with this attack, Tompkins was taking it personally. And Buck wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why.
He turned back to Teaspoon with a raised eyebrow. The Marshal nodded briefly. “Was Indians,” he confirmed. “Me and Kid didn’t have much time to look around, so I don’t know what tribe. And I don’t know WHY.”
Buck nodded as he assimilated this information. His first order of business would be to ride to Independence Rock and investigate the scene. If there were any arrows left, he could identify the tribe. He only hoped that Kid and Teaspoon had left the area relatively undisturbed. It would be difficult to get an accurate account of how many braves had been involved if they’d allowed their own horses free rein there.
The Kiowa suppressed a shudder at the thought of going to the site of the massacre. The attack had occurred only hours ago. The air would be still be thick with the suffering of the dead. Tomorrow, he would pray to the rising sun and offer litanies to the gods, to cleanse his body and ease the transition of the spirits to the next plain.
The thought led to another. “Any survivors?” he asked the grizzled Marshal.
Teaspoon’s face suddenly went white. Damnit, in the excitement and rush of the past few hours he’d forgotten about… well, six years was a long time. The two months that Buck had been “dead” to all of them felt more like a nightmare than reality. But it was Jennifer who had told them about it: six years ago, she had returned from the Lakota with the news that Buck had stepped in front of the bullet that Black Wolf had meant for her. That Buck had died. He had mourned the loss as though Buck were his own son. Some weeks later Jennifer had left… and then Buck had returned to them, healed by the Lakota medicine man.
In the few weeks that Buck remained with the Express, letting his damaged chest continue to mend, they’d had occasion for many long talks on the bunkhouse steps. Teaspoon wasn’t sure anyone else besides him knew just how close Buck and Jennifer had been. He didn’t think the Kiowa had even confided in Ike. And now…
“Teaspoon?” Buck asked hesitantly. He didn’t want to hope but… Teaspoon was suddenly so quiet, and Tompkins was acting like he had a personal stake in this attack…
“Buck,” the Marshal finally said softly, putting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “There were two-“
But Buck was no longer looking at him. The Kiowa’s gaze had moved over Teaspoon’s shoulder to the open door of the bedroom. His mouth gaped open in shock as his eyes glistened with tears. After all this time… it must be a dream…
“Eagle Feather,” he breathed.
