Frontier Courtship

“Enough to get their attention. I never did intend to start another set-to.” He transferred the money he’d collected to the proprietress. “If you want more…”

“No need. This’ll be plenty. I bandaged her myself. You was right. She’s got a few sore ribs.”

“You bound her tight?”

“’Course. I did fine and so did she. She’s a spunky one, that Faith.”

Connell nodded. “That she is.”

“Too bad about her ma.”

They made their way to the base of the stairs, Connell in the lead. “Her ma?”

“Got kilt by the same twister that wiped out their house and most of their belongings,” Anna told him. “That’s why she and that worthless sister of hers are on their way to Californy to look for their pa.”

“Alone?” Connell couldn’t believe how many women tried to cross the plains without proper help or preparation. He didn’t fault them for their courage, only for their lack of common sense.

“That’s right. Ramsey Tucker’s supposed to be lookin’ after them. To my thinkin’, they’d be better off all by themselves than trustin’ him.” Heading toward the busy young man who was trying to wait on three families at once, she slipped the coins Connell had collected into her apron pocket. “I’m comin’, Will.”

Connell followed and asked, “When does the Tucker train pull out?”

“Tomorrow.” Anna smiled with understanding. “Don’t fret. Our girl’ll be able to travel just fine. Now, scoot. I got work to do.”

It wasn’t till Connell was outside that he remembered what Faith had said about having to drive her own team. Well and whole, she might be able to do it. Hurt the way she was, the pain would be dreadful. Besides, she might make her condition worse. Maybe even puncture a lung.

Muttering and gritting his teeth, Connell argued that Faith wasn’t his concern. Irene was. He found his horse where the boy had left it, rechecked the cinch on his saddle, then mounted. It was time to head for Maguire’s or some such place. The drink and eats he’d promised himself a whole lot earlier were way overdue.

Standing in the upstairs room in her chemise and drawers, Faith listened at the slightly open door, then quietly eased it closed. Thanks to the tight bindings around her midriff, she’d managed to get out of bed without too much discomfort. She hated corsets. Always had. But she had to admit wearing one might have spared her poor bones.

Placing her forehead and palms against the wood of the door, she closed her eyes for a moment, hoping that somehow, when she opened them again, her current predicament would prove to be no more than a bad dream.

Such was not the case. Breathing shallowly when she really wanted to sigh deeply, she straightened and took a long look at the room. The bed sagged in the middle where the ropes had stretched, but at least it was clean. Mrs. Morse had hung her soiled dress on a peg next to the pine washstand. On the floor in front of it was a small rag rug, just like the ones Grandma Reeder used to make, and laid across the foot of the bed was a plain lawn wrapper.

Barefoot, Faith crossed to the bed and slowly threaded her arms into the wrapper, folding it closed. The process was painful, though not nearly as bad as she suspected trying to put on her dress would be. Pensive, she tied the sash and padded across the cool wooden floor, in search of a breeze from the open window.

The wide, busy street lay below, it’s clattering traffic an ongoing performance. Wagons of all shapes and uses were passing, as well as riders and enough foot traffic to more than fill the fondly remembered old streets of Burg Hill. In the midst of all the hubbub sat a man in buckskin astride a giant horse the color of a rusty rose.

With a trembling hand, Faith drew aside the lacy curtains and studied the traveler who had so recently borne her to safety in his arms. It was a kindness she hadn’t expected here in this wild country. She fingered her pendant and thought of home. Of family. Oh, how she wished her mother were there to be a companion in her travails, to understand her the way Charity never could.

Well, at least her Good Samaritan had the hope of someday finding his missing betrothed, Faith mused, looking down at him and stifling a tiny twinge of jealousy. She would never again see her dearest ones or the home place she’d loved, no matter how hard she wished or prayed or toiled.

Suddenly realizing she had taken her deliverance for granted, Faith was penitent. Not only had she been spared the fate her poor mother had suffered, she’d been rescued a second time since then. Given the unsympathetic reactions of the other travelers she’d encountered at the fort, it was a wonderment she was not still lying in a heap in the street.

In retrospect, Faith realized she’d drifted in and out of consciousness while being carried to the trading post. She’d felt the rumble of the man’s voice beneath his buckskin shirt as he’d told the boy she’d fainted. There was also a vague recollection of a gentle hand on her face as someone touched her to brush back a lock of hair. Could that have been him?

Stepping in front of half of the curtain, she toyed with the loose curls that hung down over her shoulders. Decent, grown women didn’t let anyone but their husbands see them with their hair thus, Faith reminded herself. And they certainly didn’t stand in a window clad in nothing more than their chemise and a wrapper. Yet she didn’t move away, even when the man’s head tipped back and he gazed boldly in her direction.

Did he know who he was watching? He must. If not, why stare like that? There was plenty to see in the street below without bothering to peer into a tiny window fifteen feet above the entrance to the trading post.

Faith knew she should step back into the shadows. Displaying herself was indecent. Wanton. Still, there was the remembered touch of a hand on her cheek, the pounding of a strong heart beneath her ear as he bore her away in his arms, and the concern she’d glimpsed in his eyes as mental darkness had overcome her.

One more look, one more thought of intense gratitude wouldn’t hurt. She knew she’d never see the man again. He had a quest of his own—the search for his bride—while she must complete her own journey. That their divergent paths had crossed at all was amazing. She only wished she’d had an opportunity to thank him in person.

Wanting to memorize the image of her rescuer so she could later pay proper homage to his compassion, Faith swayed closer to the thick, white-painted casement. Beneath his beard and mustache, she thought she saw a smile, though it was impossible to be certain at such a great distance. Hopeful, she raised her hand as if bestowing a blessing.

In reply, the man tipped his hat, then squared it on his head, reined his horse hard and rode off.

Faith’s heart pounded as she watched him go. Clearly, he’d entered her life to profoundly influence it. No matter how far she traveled or how many more years she lived, she’d never forget him.

Sudden awareness made her breath catch. Of course! The man on the red horse had been the answer to her fervent prayers for deliverance. Accepting that notion tempered her perspective of the ordeal in which she was currently embroiled. Without his amazing intervention she might actually have died, alone and ignored.

And gone to be with Jesus, she countered, certain her lonely soul would approve of the idea, just as it had ever since her mother’s fatal accident. This time, however, Faith found she was no longer looking forward to joining Mama in heaven. Yes, she wanted to see all her loved ones again someday, but her earthly tasks weren’t complete. Not yet.

By proving she wasn’t truly alone in her current trials, a heaven-sent stranger had inadvertently opened her eyes—and her heart—to the possibility of a bright, worthwhile future.

And she didn’t even know his name.

Chapter Three

Near evening, the sun turned the adobe walls of Fort Laramie a pale crimson. Myriad cooking fires were burning in the distant wagon camps. Anna brought Faith a bowl of warm gruel with pork trimmings and a cup of broth made with boiled, dried vegetables.

“I’d a fetched you more if I’d figured you could hold it,” she said, setting the small pewter tray down on the top of the washstand.

“Whatever you’ve made is fine.” Faith managed a smile and arose with care, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Thoughtful, she paused. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to repay you for all your kindness. If I were going to be here longer I’d offer to work off my bill.”

“Ain’t necessary. It’s been paid.”

“But…how? Surely my sister didn’t…”

“Not her. Forgive me for sayin’ so, but she’s about as worthless as a pocket on a pouch.”

Blushing, Faith stifled a chuckle. The analogy was funny and most apropos. “Then, how was it paid?” Tempted by the aroma of the hot broth, she raised the cup to sip while Anna spoke.

“Them fellas what busted you up took up a fine collection—with a little prodding.”

Faith paused as the liquid trickled down her throat, warming her against the cool of the evening. “Prodding? I don’t understand.” But in her heart, she did. Unless she missed her guess, her buckskin-clad benefactor had once again come to her rescue. A faint smile began to lift the corners of her mouth.

Anna snickered. “From the look in your eye, I’d say you’ve got the right idea. Didn’t see it happen, myself, but talk is, your Mr. McClain dusted the floor of Maguire’s with them boys in blue.”

“Oh, dear.” Faith pressed her free hand to the base of her throat, over the mourning pendant. It was strange to hear the big man referred to as her Mr. McClain. So, that was his name.

“Quite a sight, they say, and I can sure see why. That boy’s a big one, all right. Strong as Finnegan’s ox.”

“He’s hardly a boy,” Faith observed, sipping more broth to cover her urge to smile at the ridiculous comparison. “Did he say what his given name was?”

Anna raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say as he did. Why?”

“I just wondered.”