their last set-to over his brutality toward one of her mules that very morning, she’d suspected that the captain would shortly come up with some lame excuse why relief drivers, Ab or Stuart, could no longer be spared to handle her wagon. Well, fine. It would be her pleasure to show Ramsey Tucker that at least one Beal sister was capable of something besides giggling helplessness. If he wouldn’t provide the assistance he’d promised when she’d joined the train, Faith would handle the lines herself, just as she had at home in Ohio.
She set her jaw. Tucker had underestimated her for the last time. She’d stood up to him before and she’d do it again. And, oh, was he going to be scalded!
Faith shuddered at the memory of his dark, penetrating eyes, the way he’d stared at her, spitting that disgusting tobacco juice at her feet. He was not a person to be taken lightly. But then, neither was she.
Clouds of choking dust billowed from beneath passing rigs as Faith hurried down the street. Grasping the brim of her bonnet, she pressed it closer to her cheeks. The din around her was so loud, so packed with shouts, curses, strange tongues and the sound of rolling wagons and clanking harness traces that Faith didn’t see the danger or hear anyone call out a warning until a melee erupted directly in her path.
A door flew open. Glass shattered. Shutters banged. Three uniformed cavalrymen careened off the walkway and down into the street, tumbling, pushing, swinging and cursing as they went.
Faith jumped aside. One of the men, a thin, filthy fellow who reminded her of a rickety calf, was bleeding from his nose. He wiped the blood on his dirty sleeve, then flung it aside, dotting her skirt with ugly red splotches.
Disgusted, Faith was wiping at the stains in the green calico when a fourth man lurched off the porch. He hit her a jarring blow with his full weight. Breathless, stunned, she went sprawling in the dust.
For an instant she lost track of where she was or what had happened. All too soon, it came back to her. Raising up on her forearms she tasted the gritty substance of the well-traveled street and found her mind forming thoughts quite inappropriate for a lady. Her only clean dress was a grimy mess, her bonnet was askew and, worst of all, no one in the crowd seemed to even notice.
Pausing on her knees, she assessed her pain. Something was very wrong. If she hadn’t been in such unexpected misery she would very likely have lectured the careless men on the impropriety of brawling in the streets. As it was, she knew she’d be doing well to merely maneuver out of harm’s way.
One of the soldiers had collapsed, gasping and retching, in a drunken haze beneath the hitching rail. The larger of the two remaining was beating the rickety-calf man to a pulp.
Gathering her soiled skirts, Faith lifted them above her shoe tops with one hand, lurched to her feet and stumbled around a corner. Finding a bare wall, she leaned against it and closed her eyes.
It hurt to move. To breathe. She pressed both palms hard against her aching side. Dear God! As much as she hated to admit it, Charity was right. The streets of Fort Laramie were no place for a stroll.
At the passage of a shadow across her flushed face, Faith’s eyes snapped open. The muscled shoulder of an enormous reddish-colored horse was a scant three feet from the tip of her nose. She heard saddle leather creak as its rider leaned forward.
“You should have better sense,” he grumbled.
Her blurry vision focused. That beard. That hair. The buckskins. It was him. The man from the trading post who was searching for his lost bride-to-be. She drew a short breath and winced as pain shot from her side to her innards. “Sarcasm is quite uncalled-for, sir.”
“Where’s your man?”
“I hardly think that is a proper question,” Faith shot back, grimacing in spite of herself.
He dismounted beside her, his tone a little more gentle. “You’re right. My apologies. Guess I’ve been alone on the trail too long. Are you badly hurt?”
Suddenly not certain, Faith sagged back against the wall. “I…I don’t think so.” Taking a deeper breath, she assessed the searing pain that increased every time she moved or dared inhale. “Oh, dear.”
“Can you walk?”
“Of course.” What a silly question. Why, she’d never had a sick day in her life, not even when she’d been left to try to cope after Mama had died. Faith bit her lower lip. Today’s problems were sufficient for today, as the Good Book said.
The plainsman stood by, waiting, his mere presence lending her added fortitude. She would straighten up, stand tall and prove to him she was fine. The moment she tried, however, agony knifed through her body, bending her double. She bit back a cry.
“Have you got a penny?” he asked, sounding disgusted.
The slim cords of Faith’s reticule were still looped around her wrist. Had she been in better command of her faculties, she might have questioned his request. Instead, she raised the drawstring bag to him without speaking.
“Good, because I don’t. I’d hate to waste a whole dollar on this.”
Although pain was coursing through her like the racing water of a rain-swollen stream, she was still capable of a modicum of indignation. “I beg your pardon?” Her mouth dropped open. What audacity! The man had invaded her reticule to withdraw the asked-for penny.
“This will do.” Flipping the oversize copper coin into the air and catching it several times, he whistled at a young boy who was passing. “Son! Over here.”
The boy’s face lit up when he spied the coin. “Yessir?”
Connell bent low, holding out the penny as inducement. “I want you to fetch that Mrs. Morse from the trading post. You know her?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Tell her a lady is hurt and needs her. Then bring her here and I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
Young eyes darted from the coin to the pale, disheveled woman leaning against the wall. “Did you hurt her, mister?”
Faith managed to smile. One hand remained pressed tightly to her ribs, but she put out the other and laid it on the buckskin-clad arm of her Good Samaritan. “No,” she said. “There was an accident and this gentleman came to my rescue. Now, hurry. Please.”
“Yes, ma’am!” The boy was off like a shot.
Breathing shallowly to minimize her pain, Faith peered at the man on whose sturdy arm she was leaning. Soon, she would release her hold on him. Just a few seconds more and she’d feel strong enough to stand alone.
“I do thank you for looking after me,” Faith managed. “No one else seemed to even notice.”
“They noticed.” How delicate she seemed, Connell McClain thought. Her skin was soft, like the doeskin of his scabbard, only warm and alive. And her eyes. No wonder they had reminded him of a deer’s the first time he’d looked into them. They were the most beautiful, rich brown he’d ever seen.
He scowled. Better to keep the woman talking and draw her thoughts away from her injuries. She didn’t look well. If she passed out on him before Mrs.
