Whitefeather's Woman (20 page)

When he finally recovered consciousness, John found himself washed up on an outcropping of rock. His whole body felt like it had been pummeled almost to jelly, and he knew it would hurt even worse if the numbness ever wore off.

Shivering and gasping for breath, he gazed around, hoping to see some familiar landmark or a place of shelter. He didn't recognize anything on the rolling prairie, but the distance of the Crazy Mountains in the west told
him the river's swift current had carried him far from the roundup.

A weak but insistent bawling drew John's gaze back to the river. “Maw! Maw!”

The white face of a shorthorn calf poked out of some bushes, now partially underwater. It must have been one of Caleb's herd, John decided, carried downstream by the same tree that had abducted him. The calf made a feeble attempt to scramble up the riverbank, but its hooves could find no purchase in the slick mud.

John knew if he tried to drag it up the bank, the calf might pull them both back into the river instead. But it was the only other warm-blooded creature around, and he couldn't leave it to die when it had fought to survive this long.

Unbuckling his belt, he slid as close as he dared. If the roots of those bushes gave way, both he and the calf would be in big trouble.

“Hush now, little white face,” he murmured in Cheyenne. “Maybe you and me can help each other get home to our kin.”

When the word
kin
passed his lips, John knew he didn't mean his Cheyenne band, or even Ruth and her family. He meant Jane.

Pulling the long strip of leather into a loose loop through the buckle, John managed to get one of the creature's hooves through it after several failed attempts. When the calf thrashed and rolled its eyes, John wondered if this foolishness was going to cost him his life. He knew he had to try, anyway.

He talked to the calf some more and stroked its nose. A rough tongue thrust out and swiped across his hand.

“All right, little one, it's time to get you out of the
water before you pull this bush out by the roots. Come on now.”

John stretched out on his belly and began to tug on his belt. It was hard to get much force behind his grip in this position, but trying to anchor his feet in the sodden earth of the riverbank would be way too risky. Inch by inch, he dragged the heavy little animal up the unstable slope until it finally got something solid under one of its hooves. A final desperate lunge brought it sprawling onto solid ground.

“Good for you, little white face!” John rubbed its hide to warm it up. “You and me may make it back home in one piece, after all.”

To his surprise and relief, John realized his heart was beating stronger and he felt warmer. When he tried to rise to his feet, though, the stabbing pain in his booted ankle made him cry out.

The calf bawled, too.

“Don't worry, it's just my leg. I must have twisted or busted something when it caught in my stirrup.”

Surveying the landscape, John assessed his options. If he stuck to the river, moving along the bank, chances were good he'd meet up with somebody looking for him. But how long might that take on a busted ankle? Long enough for Jane to hear he'd been killed and leave town?

If he struck out south, away from the river, he'd eventually come to the tracks of the Northern Pacific Railroad. He wasn't going to make very good time crawling on his hands and knees, though.

As if it could read his thoughts, the calf shook itself and struggled to its feet.

“One good turn deserves another, little friend.” John grabbed the end of his belt with one hand and pulled himself up on his sound leg until he was able to throw his arm around the calf's neck.

The creature bawled and bucked, but John hung on, murmuring a mixture of Cheyenne and English. He hadn't spent most of his life gentling animals for nothing. The calf soon calmed and began to walk in roughly the direction John wanted to go.

The clouds parted, and before they'd ventured too far, the sun appeared and began to beat down on them.

“You know, the thing I hate most about this country is that it never does anything by halves.” Wiping the sweat from his hairline, John asked himself what kind of idiot made conversation with a calf.

A few more halting steps and they crested a gentle rise. Before them lay the tracks of the Northern Pacific.

John sighed. “Come to think, that's what I love most about it, too.”

“J
ane, the telegraph dispatcher brought this wire message over to the bank for me to give you.” William Kincaid handed her a piece of paper. “He said it's from Boston. Not bad news, I hope.”

Boston.
The word still made the back of her throat tighten.

“I hope so, too, Will. Thank you for bringing it.” Something to do with Emery, no doubt. Well, she was beyond his power to hurt, now.

Unfolding the paper, Jane read the dispatcher's meticulous print. Then she read it again. And a third time. Each word separately she understood, but taken together they made no sense. “It
is
bad, isn't it?” Will's tone of solemn concern warmed a tiny spot in Jane's cold, aching heart. “Don't worry. Lizzie and I will help you out any way you need. So will Caleb and Ruth…all the Kincaids will stand behind you.”

“I—it's not
bad.
” She handed the paper over to see if
he could make anything of it. “Just puzzling. Can you tell me what it says?”

As he read the telegram, the banker's tensely furrowed brow relaxed. The corners of his mouth began to curl upward. “What is it about the message you don't understand? This appears to be from the lawyer you sent that money to. He says your Mrs. Endicott has been looking high and low for you ever since you disappeared from the hospital in Boston. After reading the letter you sent, she's disowned her scoundrel of a nephew and thrown him out. It says you are…and have always been…heiress to her fortune, and she's frantic to have you back home as soon as possible.”

That's what she'd thought it said, but it couldn't be true. Could it? Understanding those clicks from the telegraph must be a tricky business. Perhaps the dispatcher had just taken it down wrong.

“Well, well, well.” William shook his head, beaming. Then he called out to his wife who was rocking the baby in the sitting room. “Lizzie, wait till you hear! We've got a Boston heiress working for us.”

“What are you going on about, Will? You didn't stop in at the Centennial Saloon on the way home, did you?”

Back in the kitchen, Jane swayed on her feet, then sank onto the nearest chair. She felt as though she had just downed several strong drinks in quick succession.

Heiress to Mrs. Endicott's fortune? The very idea was preposterous. Why had Mrs. Endicott never hinted at such a thing? Why had Jane and Emery needed to keep their engagement secret because his aunt wanted him to marry a girl with better prospects?

“Oh, my stars!” Jane whispered to herself. “
That's
why Emery wanted to marry me. I always assumed he'd get Mrs.
Endicott's money, but he must have known it was coming to me.”

In the light of that insight, so many confusing aspects of her life in Boston and her relationship with Emery suddenly made perfect sense. His need to isolate and control her. His violent flashes of temper. The unexplained sense that he'd resented her presence in the house, even though he'd claimed to care about her.

Lizzie tiptoed into the kitchen. “I got Will to put the baby up in his cradle. Now I'm going to make you some tea, Jane Harris. What a shock this must be to you—a pleasant one, but a shock just the same. And after what you've already been through.” She shook her head.

“Sit down, Lizzie. You really shouldn't be out of bed yet, much less working in the kitchen.” Jane pulled Lizzie down onto a chair beside her.

The two women sat in silence for a moment, each mulling over what this telegram from Boston would mean for them.

“I suppose you'll want to head back East right away.” Lizzie fumbled in her pocket and produced a handkerchief. “Don't mind me blubbering a little. Haley says it happens to most women a day or so after they've had a baby. We'll cry at the drop of a hat.”

She dabbed her eyes. “I'm really happy as can be for you. If anyone ever deserved to come into a nice fortune it's you, Jane. But I get lonesome just thinking of you going so far away.”

“It still hasn't quite sunk in.” Jane shook her head slowly, as if trying to adjust her mind to the news. “I suppose going back to Boston is the only sensible thing to do.”

If such a telegram had been waiting for her when she'd arrived in Whitehorn three months ago, Jane would have hopped the next train East so fast it would have caused
a minor tornado. Mrs. Endicott was offering her the one thing in life she'd always craved. Security.

With Emery gone she'd never again need to fear for her safety. Mrs. Endicott's fortune would protect her from the specter of poverty. Even the emotional sterility of the house in Beacon Hill would numb her shattered heart.

Not so long ago, she'd been ready to barter her soul to find such a safe, tranquil haven. Now it loomed before her like a prison.

“Of course, you're welcome to stay with us for as long as you care to,” Lizzie offered.

Stay in Whitehorn to be constantly reminded of John? To witness the wedded bliss of Will and Lizzie and the other Kincaids, until her bitterness and envy poisoned her affection for them, warping her as Emery's covetous resentment had warped him?

“I appreciate that, and I'll certainly stay until you can find somebody else to help you out.” Jane sighed, conceding defeat. “Boston is where I belong, though.”

Lizzie nodded. “I understand. Everyone will. A woman can't turn her back on an opportunity like this. Don't you worry about us, though. I'm sure Ruth wouldn't mind letting that Mrs. Muldoon come here for a while.”

Maybe if she could get out of town fast enough, Jane reasoned, the past three months might feel like a dream or a particularly vivid story she'd read in one of Beadle's dime novels.

“Do you suppose Will would mind driving me in to Big Timber to purchase my train ticket?”

 

An hour later, with no more worldly goods than she'd brought to Montana, Jane drove down the main street of Whitehorn. The passage of traffic on the muddy roads had
turned them into rutted pig wallows. The false fronts of the town's businesses looked rather shabby, and the whole place smelled of horse manure, damp sawdust and raw spirits.

Jane wasn't sure she could bear to leave it.

She tugged on Will's sleeve. “Would you mind if we stop here for just a minute?”

The banker cast a glance at the Double Deuce Saloon, then cocked an eyebrow at Jane.

“I saw some of Caleb's ranch hands go in,” she explained, “and I'd like to say goodbye to them.”

Jane couldn't bring herself to part from Ruth and Barton face-to-face, fearful she might change her mind about leaving. But something compelled her to pass a final word with the men who'd last seen John alive.

“If that's what you want.” Will pulled up to the boardwalk and helped Jane down from the buggy. “I'll just be over at the bar if you need me.”

She found Caleb's men at the corner table where John Whitefeather had been sitting the first time she'd laid eyes on him. They were all drinking sarsaparillas.

When he glanced over his shoulder and recognized her, Floyd Cobbs jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair. “Miss Harris, ma'am. Good to see you again. Will you join us?”

“Thank you, Mr. Cobbs, I will.”

For a long awkward minute, they all sat. Clearing throats, but not speaking. Desperately avoiding eye contact. All their thoughts clearly turned in the same direction.

“They'll find him alive yet, don't you worry,” said Clel Harding in a voice so hollow it was obvious he did not believe his own words.

“Them Cheyenne're great trackers,” Floyd chimed in. “Real smart fellers.”

The other men spoke admiringly of the Cheyenne and how John had recruited them to help with the roundup. More and more John's name crept into the conversation as the men recounted his actions on the range in hushed, respectful voices.

Jane listened in silence, wounded, yet strangely comforted at the same time.

“Something was weighing on his mind, I reckon.” Clel took a swig of his drink. “I seen him and Mr. Kincaid talking by the fire.”

Something weighing on his mind? Jane stifled a whimper that rose in her throat. Had John's preoccupation with her and their impossible relationship cost him his concentration just when he'd needed it most?

“It's all my fault!” The thought had flared in Jane's mind, but the words had come out in a man's deep baritone.

Floyd Cobbs raised a trembling hand to shield his eyes. “I—if I hadn't fallen off my horse like some dang tender-foot, he'd have never been in the middle of the creek when that old tree came a-sailing down.”

“Don't blame yourself.” Jane patted the cowboy's arm. “I know he wouldn't blame you.”

John wouldn't blame her, either, she realized. And he wouldn't want her punishing herself. Was that part of the reason she'd decided to return to Boston?

Around Jane, the Double Deuce fell ominously silent, except for the sound of a single set of footsteps behind her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck bristled. Had Emery come to get her, at last, now that his aunt had thrown him out and he had nothing more to lose?

A tight, cold ball of fear vaporized in her chest, like snow in a furnace. Jane rose and turned to face him.

So certain she'd see Emery, at first her mind refused to recognize the tall, battered man limping toward her. Their
eyes met and his smile lit up the dim interior of the Double Deuce Saloon.

In a voice raspy as tar paper he asked, “What does a fellow have to do to get a sarsaparilla around this place?”

Feeling like she'd died painfully and been just as painfully reborn in a matter of seconds, Jane ran into his open arms as the Double Deuce exploded with joy.

 

Will let him have his drink of sarsaparilla, which John drained with scarcely a pause for breath. Then he had to answer enough of the cowboys' questions to satisfy them that he'd really survived. Once they were convinced, they poured out of the Double Deuce, threw themselves into their saddles and galloped off to bring the good news to the Kincaid ranch, Sweetgrass and the remaining Cheyenne who were combing the banks of the Yellowstone for his body.

Through the haze of celebration, John clung to Jane's hand as though she might slip away from him at any minute.

“Enough of this,” said Will at last. “You need to be seen by a doctor, John. Dr. Gray is supposed to be coming out to our place to check on Lizzie a little later. Why don't you come back there and wait for him?”

“Whatever you say, Will.” Now that he'd reached his destination, John could hardly keep his eyes open.

He wanted to talk to Jane. To sort out everything between them and tell her what a cowardly fool he'd been to doubt her. Even if she doubted herself.

Then there was the question he wanted to ask her. By now she must have a pretty good idea whether or not his child was beginning to grow inside her. The fact that she'd lingered in Whitehorn made him hopeful.

Such talk and questions needed more privacy and more energy than John could muster just then. So he settled for clinging to Jane's hand and nourishing his soul with the sight of her beautiful face.

Lizzie Kincaid almost fainted dead away when they walked through the door, John supported by Will on one side and Jane on the other.

“Sorry to turn your house into an infirmary, ma'am,” he croaked. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Good heavenly days! John Whitefeather.” Lizzie collapsed onto the rocking chair and pulled out a handkerchief to catch the tears that abruptly poured down her cheeks.

“If you're sorry to see me, I can go away again,” John joshed her. Had the bartender at the Double Deuce spiked his sarsaparilla? He felt giddy and light-headed.

“Go away? I should say not!” Lizzie blew her nose. “Will, you just take him into the little back bedroom beyond the parlor. I don't want to see him have to climb stairs. I declare, you look like you lost a fight with a grizzly bear, John!”

“Not a bear, ma'am,” he chuckled. “Just a river. I wonder who's got that calf of mine. No slaughterhouse in Chicago for her, no sir. That little heifer can graze and calve until she falls over dead of old age.”

He barely heard Will mutter to Jane, “Any notion what he's going on about? I hope the poor fellow didn't hit his head too hard.”

The next thing John knew, he was lying in bed, flinching from the gentle swipe of a washcloth over his scrapes and bruises. He managed to winch his eyes open a sliver.

“I'm sorry if I hurt you,” said Jane, “but Dr. Gray told me it's important to keep your wounds clean. He'll be right back to look at your leg and at the bump on your head.”

She smiled, an expression that held more worry and
wistfulness than joy. He wanted to gather her close and see what remedy they could find for
her
wounds.

“I've got a powerful thirst.”

“Shall I fetch you some water?” Jane rose so quickly, it was all he could do to reach out and catch her sleeve. “Not
that
kind of thirst.” He pulled her back toward him.

“Have you been thinking about me as much as I've been thinking about you since we parted?”

His eyelids ached to slide shut, but he forced them open.

“Of course I thought about you.” Her voice sounded choked with emotion, and the forest hazel of her eyes glittered, as if with dew. “I thought I'd never see—”

While she was speaking, he drew Jane close enough to kiss. Before she could finish, he kissed her.

Had she thought she would never see him again? Then perhaps she could understand his fear that one day she might walk out of his life. She might see how it had held him back from committing his whole heart to her, as he longed to.

For now, he settled for committing his lips to hers. Becoming reacquainted with their ripe sweetness. Awakening potent memories of the night they'd first discovered each other as man and woman.