The Beholding, page 16
“Of course,” she assured her son, hiding her feelings behind a smile.
In that one unselfish moment, Luke fell in love with Tess Harper. It didn’t matter what she felt. Tommie’s well-being came first. As rain streaked down his face and dropped to his bare torso, Luke thought he would burst with pride for Tess and weep with pity for the love he had offered his own mother which she’d chosen to ignore.
Settling into the saddle, Luke accepted Tommie and the trust Tess showed. “Don’t worry, I’ll watch him like he were my own.”
“I know, Luke. I know.”
Before he could question her tone, she turned and accepted Daggert’s hand to mount. The sight of her threading her arms around the gambler’s waist was unsettling to Luke. He almost felt her doing the same to him now, pressing her breasts comfortably against his back.
But he needed to put his mind to other things … to the boy’s health. “Chisholm’s not far out. Ride north and listen for the bawl of cattle. Just keep your ears pinned for a constant rumble.”
“Stampede?”
Jim voiced the question rising in Tess’s mind.
“A herd spooks easy. You saw what happened to the mules.” He looked at Daggert, then at Tess. “If that happens, ride like there’s range selling for a penny a pasture.”
“Can we outrun a stampede?” Tess’s gaze searched the prairie. Where could they run?
“Anything’s possible as long as one of these mules don’t balk.”
“And if it does?” Caution filled Tess’s tone.
Jim patted her hand reassuringly. “Then hope to hell it ain’t the one under us.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Did you hear that?”
“The coyotes?” Tess listened to a lobo bay at the now visible stars. The rain had stopped a half hour ago as the wind drove the storm clouds south.
Tess strained to separate the night sounds and finally heard not only the mournful bay but a low singing. A good singing voice crooned “Beyond the Heather Morn,” a song from the Scottish Highlands about star-crossed lovers.
A faint breeze stirred, bringing the unmistakable odor of cattle and upturned prairie beneath their hooves. In the distance, dark forms took shape on the horizon. The coyote stilled, silenced by the cowboy’s song and the answering bawl of cattle.
Suddenly a big longhorn trotted into sight. Then another and another. The lead steer halted, lifting his head sharply.
“Don’t move,” Luke warned, reining the mule to an abrupt halt in front of Daggert’s mount.
Tess felt Jim’s arms tighten on the reins and his stomach clench against possible danger. She strengthened her hold around the gambler’s waist in the event they must run. “Is it a stampede?” she asked innocently.
Luke’s voice cracked in a half-joking, half-warning tone. “Not yet. And we don’t want to give them reason.” The long-horn walked a step or two toward them.
Tess watched Jim’s right hand slide slowly to his gun, lift it and ease back on the hammer. The click echoed into the night. The big steer twitched an ear at them but kept his eyes trained on Luke’s mule.
“That’s not a smart thing to do, Daggert,” Luke condemned Jim’s action. “You shoot and we’ll all be trampled.”
A man in a yellow rain slicker rode into view, still singing below his broad-brimmed hat. He took a look at them, wiped a sleeve across his handlebar mustache and kept right on singing. But the words no longer followed the Scottish tune.
“The herd’s uneasy; speak low and confident,” he crooned. “Ol’ Get-Me-There’s full of sass and a bit skittish tonight.”
The big steer ducked his head as he moved up a step. Tess almost saw his nostrils flare. Well, Get-Me-There, old fella, I’d like nothing better than to get me out of here.
“It’s the woman,” the drover sang. “They’re used to the wild smell of my drovers. Osage, Cheyenne, Creek. Hardly get nervous ‘bout a bear or cat anymore ’cause the men wear skins. But they’ve had no dealings with a lady and her scents. So just bring the mules in slow and sit powerfully still, ma’am. A rustle of skirts and you’ll set off the whole lot of ’em. They’ll run you clear into Tuesday.”
“We need your help, sir,” Tess insisted, careful to keep her voice calm. “My son is ill.”
Luke spoke in an equally low tone. “Jesse Chisholm, this is Mrs. Contessa Harper, the woman you asked about.” He nodded toward the gambler. “You’ve met Daggert. Now, if you will, this boy’s burning with fever and he needs to get dry or he’s gonna be powerful sick.”
Jim had said their trek across Indian territory made news in Wichita, but she thought he meant to flatter her in some odd way. “Is there any chance we can build a fire to heat up medicine for my son?” she asked. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find the right herbs this late at night, but something will turn up. If you or your men have salve to spare, I could crush the herbs into it and make him a plaster. Our… Mr. Reeves’s wagon burned a few miles back and we’ve lost everything, you see.”
“A dun and sorrel skirted the left flank of the herd a while back,” Chisholm informed them. “Recognized the dun from this afternoon. Told the Cheyenne riding swing to rope and put ’em with the change-outs. Figured something unfortunate had happened to you folks. Glad to see you’re still sporting scalps.”
Tess reached up to smooth her hair.
“Eaaasy, ma’am. Never know what’ll set off a herd. No need to worry about my drovers, if you’re thinking it won’t be safe in camp. They’re plenty glad to be working for the North. We’re taking these cows to forts out in Indian territory and on to others in New Mexico.”
She realized that he prattled in a low monotone to soothe the beasts after her abrupt movement.
“A boy, you say?” Chisholm reined half-quarter, slow and precise. “Just keep on talking, ma’am, and follow me. Seems Ol Get-Me-There’s took a liking to you. We like to think we decide where the herd’s gonna bed down for the night, but Get-Me-There takes a notion to differ with us now and again. The herd will follow his lead.”
“Bless you,” Tess whispered at the lead steer as Jim followed the trail boss through the divided sea of hide and hoof.
As the second mule fell into step behind the first, Luke clutched Tommie a bit closer. The boy stirred. Luke patted him reassuringly. Couldn’t waste time letting the skittish long-horn make up its mind whether or not he liked the boy. “You sure have a way with malefolk, Mrs. Harper,” Luke praised.
Tess chuckled, rich and low, daring to strike the tune Chisholm had left off, “Only the bull-headed ones.”
A grin curved Luke’s mouth even as his shoulders balked from the constant pressure of cradling the child, but watching Tessa ride ahead of him made Luke forget the discomfort. The Kansas moon outlined all the reasons she attracted him, but it was the hidden Tess he liked the most. The gentle laugh. The flare of anger. The touch of reassurance that showed she cared.
The strange sight of a woman riding up to the camp forced the men to concentrate on the beans in their tins. Two of the buckskinned drovers got on their horses and started for the herd strung out to the west of camp.
Their departure drew Luke’s ire. “They got something against the widow?”
“Against any woman riding into a man’s job.” Chisholm reined up short. He dismounted and a boy of no more than fourteen sauntered up and took the leather straps from his boss. “See to the mules as well, Garth. The dun and sorrel that came in today belong to these two gentlemen. Make sure their stock is rubbed down good and fed an extra helping of grain.”
“Yessir, Mr. Chisholm.”
Tess thanked the tow-headed lad as he helped her dismount, then lifted Tommie from Luke’s arm so he could do the same.
“Looks like Cookie already has a fire going. I’ll see what kind of salve he’s got put back.” Chisholm tipped his hat to Tess. “Give me a few minutes and we’ll clear a place in the chuck wagon for the boy. Sorry I don’t have better accommodations, ma’am, but we’re used to sleeping out here rain or shine.”
Offering a sincere smile, Tess quickly looked back at her son’s wan face. “We appreciate your trouble. Thank you most kindly.”
“Pleasure to have someone so good to look at in our midst. Cook’s over here.”
As Tess followed the man’s jingle of spurs toward the cook-fire, each Indian drover kept his attention on other matters. The Anglo cowboys touched their hats but didn’t say anything. Those who had lounged now stood stiffly as if they were being scrutinized for entry into Heaven.
“Ahh, Mrs. Harper. So good to have you with us.” A thin, crane-necked man wiped flour from his hands onto the apron strung around his waist, offered his palm, then thought better of it. “Charles Peabody. Cookie, to these ruffians all. So happy to make your acquaintance.”
The booming tone and British accent were startling in comparison to the man’s waifish physique. Beneath his beak of a nose and flaming red mustache, and above his fiery beard, the most beautiful span of white teeth flashed her a genuine welcome.
“How do you do, Mr. Peabody.”
Jim walked past his host and stood next to the skillet of beans. “Can introductions wait until later? I’m sure we’re all hungry.”
“Mr. Daggert, is it?” Peabody’s nose lifted in disdain. “Would you be so kind as to allow the lady first honor?”
Tess jostled Tommie as her arms began to tremble from holding him so long. “Please let him go ahead. I must see to my son.”
“Your son? This dear little thing?” Peabody rushed to look. “May I?” Receiving her nod, he unwrapped the buckskin and peered closer. “Dear me, but he’s simply stunning. Oh, and quite ill, the poor fellow.” Looking at Chisholm, Peabody furrowed his brows. “Now why wasn’t I told about this?”
“You didn’t give me time, Cookie.”
Peabody waved a hand as if to dismiss the trail boss. “Well, yes, yes, of course. You men serve yourselves. I intend to help this fine lady with her darling child. May I, Mrs. Harper?” He took Tommie from her arms before she could answer. “My, but this fever is a regular conflaguration, isn’t it? Don’t you worry for a moment, though. I have just the thing to cure him.”
Tommie began to whimper softly. “Y-Yuuke.”
“Puke, did you say?” Peabody nearly shrieked and held Tommie out away from him.
Luke walked up to the aproned man and took the child from the cook’s outstretched arms. “He said Luke. That’s me. The boy has trouble saying his L’s. Got a problem with that?”
The firelight revealed Peabody’s large Adam’s apple as it dipped, held as if he had a hard time swallowing, then rose again slowly. “Not a solitary one, Mr. Luke.”
“Reeves.”
“Mr. Reeves.”
Unable to endure seeing the delightful Englishman so flustered, Tess gently touched his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Peabody … Charles. It was kind of you to offer. But Tommie’s become such close friends with Luke, he rarely wants me to help him. In this state of discomfort, I think it’s best we let Luke see to him, don’t you?”
“Of course, my dear,” Peabody replied, regaining his sense of self-assurance. “As his mother, you know best.” His mouth twisted to one side in a conspiratorial whisper, “This Reeves is rather imposing, isn’t he?”
“To be sure,” she answered. Let the man discover Luke’s better humor for himself. “Mr. Chisholm said you would allow us the use of the chuck wagon for my son.”
“I’d be honored, madam. Wait here and I’ll arrange everything.” Armed with a mission, Peabody forgot his leeriness of Luke and set to work. A lantern flared behind the canvas covering the chuck wagon.
“Do bring him here, Mr. Reeves.”
Tess followed quickly behind, watching as Luke lifted Tommie into the cook’s care.
“Now get some water, will you, Mr. Reeves? The bucket is hanging near the front wheel and the water barrel is strapped next to it.”
“He doesn’t need more water. He’s soaked.”
Peabody sighed impatiently. “I don’t mean to argue, but it is necessary. Now if you’ll just—”
“I’ll get it,” Tess said, trying to run interference between the two men. Luke wouldn’t let the boy out of his sight with Tommie calling his name over and over. “Let Mr. Reeves calm Tommie. I’ll fetch whatever you need.”
Tess headed for the barrel. Finding the bucket, she filled it to a manageable level and bit back pain as her hands gripped the handle and several blisters popped. Putting her mind on other things, she wondered how a man such as Charles Peabody ever got involved with a herd of cattle being driven by a mixed group of Indians headed to New Mexico. Better yet, did he happen to have a pair of ladies’ gloves in his possession?
When she returned, Tommie was much calmer. Luke quietly talked to him. Tess set the bucket by Peabody and asked about the salve. Taking the jar he handed to her, she added, “Do you have any cayenne pepper and sarsaparilla?”
“Completely out of sarsaparilla, but I gathered some wild sorrel and hops. Either one are good substitutes to add to the pepper. So young.” Pity etched his features. “Rheumatism?”
“Inflammation of the joints, and one leg is a bit shorter than the other.”
“Then we’ll use them all. I have plenty and this should reduce the inflammation.”
Luke bent on the other side of Tommie, staring down at the small blond head and narrow shoulders. Tommie looked pale and tiny in comparison with Luke’s dark hair and broad bare expanse.
Tess knew how comforting it was to be cradled in that strong embrace. The bounty hunter chose that moment to look up and she suspected he knew what she was thinking.
“I’ll dip the cloth and keep it on his forehead, if one of you can rub in the mixture.” She held up her palms as if reluctant to show them, but thought it necessary. “I don’t think I’ll be able to apply enough pressure.”
Taking the cloth and bucket, Luke motioned to Peabody. “You see to her hands and get her to eat something. I’ll take care of the boy. Got any dry wrapping I can use to replace this?” He set the bucket down and began to unwrap the cloth binding Tommie’s leg.
Peabody slid open a drawer built into the chuck wagon and pulled out a skein of cotton binding. “Use all you need. There’s plenty more.”
“Now go on, Tess, and quit your worrying,” Luke said. “I’ve got everything under control. He’s not burning with fever. We’ll have this puny fever out of him in no time.”
She allowed Peabody to take her elbow and guide her out of the wagon, but not before glancing back in uncertainty. “Mop his head with a cold rag. Wipe off the old liniment before I bring you the new and—”
“Peabody, get her out of here.”
“With pleasure, Mr. Reeves.” Charles exited the wagon and anticipated the thrill of sharing some gossip with the woman. Oh, the stories he had to tell. “My pleasure, indeed.”
“He’s my son.” Tess’s temper flared because she was so tired. She sounded petty, even to herself, but Tommie was all she had.
“What do you want me to do, Tess?” Luke demanded. He had expected the anger long before now and admired her restraint. Even the thought of Tommie having loved Clifton first struck an arrow of envy through Luke’s own heart every time he thought about it.
Tess relented, overcoming her jealous thoughts. “He wants you. Forget what I said. I’m tired.” She accepted Peabody’s hand helping her down. “Just remember, he’s little.”
For such a small mite, the boy possessed a wail of a banshee.
“I know it hurts, Tom. I’ll be gentler.”
Tommie’s wail died into whimpers. Sobs shook the small body until Luke stopped what he did to make certain he hadn’t accidentally hurt the boy in some unseen manner. The bounty hunter checked him over thoroughly but didn’t see anything. The hip and leg were well massaged, newly linimented and wrapped. The binding wasn’t too tight. From the press of Luke’s hand against the boy’s forehead, the fever seemed well under control.
“What’s wrong, son? Why are you crying?”
“Thammy!”
“What about Thammy?” Oh God, not that. Tommie didn’t need that.
“He’s dead. Burned up.”
“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t see your critter when I was carrying you out of the wagon. I just didn’t think to look for him.”
“You reckon he went to Hell?”
Luke stretched out beside the boy so they were eye to eye. “What makes you think Thammy went to Hell?”
Tommie gulped. “Preacher at the fort said if you go to Hell, you burn up.”
Luke muttered an oath. His God didn’t send disciples to preach fear. His God promised forgiveness of wrongdoings if one sincerely hadn’t mean the harm. His God offered love and the courage to be wrong so a soul could find the strength to be right. “Thammy was a good salamander, wasn’t he?” Luke asked.
A tear trickled down Tommie’s cheek, and Luke wiped it off with one thumb.
“The bestest.”
“Then he went to Heaven.”
“With Daddy?” The three-year-old’s voice rose an octave in hope.
Is that what his mother told him? “Yes, with your father. Don’t you think that would be nice for Thammy to meet your pa and your pa to have something of yours to play with?”
What else had she told him? For a reason Luke couldn’t fathom he felt a deep desire to tell Tommie the truth. Maybe it was the boy’s trust in him. Maybe it was his own need to be able to look the child in the eye and not have this one secret always hounding him. But fear of losing Tommie’s respect and friendship made Luke hesitate and reconsider. Was cleansing his conscience worth the possible loss?
“Mista Yuke … was my daddy good?”
The expression on Tommie’s face looked years wiser. “Why do you ask, Tom?”
“If Daddy was mean, how did he get to Heaven?”
How was he supposed to explain such things to a three-year-old, when his own opinion of good and bad differed so much from other folks’ views? Like a gift from Heaven, an idea sprung to mind which might help him resolve both his and Tommie’s troubled questions. “You know how you accidentally left Thammy in the wagon and he died?”
