on to the next knot.
Find more mares for his herd. Some of the mustangs he had seen here in the West had descended from quality stock, he could tell that. And with some work and gentling, they’d make fine broodmares. Their colts, with his Morgan as the sire, would make as fine a string of remounts as the US Cavalry could wish for.
Test the next tie-down. Loose. He pulled at the soaking knot. The plan had to work. What would become of the children if this chance didn’t pay out?
He retied the rope, tightening the wet cover against the rising wind. The plan would work if it killed him.
Nate pressed his left cheek against the damp, cold canvas, easing the burn of the scars that covered his neck and shoulder and traveled down both arms to the backs of his hands. The constant reminder of his failure to save Andrew and Jenny. The reminder of what his cowardice had cost the children. A chill ran through him. What if he failed again? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Olivia’s song filtered through the canvas, a song of God’s protection and care.
With a growl, Nate pushed away from the wagon and headed toward the horses. When had the Lord protected them? When he was nearly blown to pieces in Georgia during the war? When Ma and Pa died in ’64, leaving Mattie alone to fend for herself? When Jenny and Andrew were burning to death? When three children were left homeless and orphaned?
He could live without that kind of protection. God had His chance, and He hadn’t come through. They would just have to get along on their own.
And they’d get along without any busybody schoolteacher stepping in. As if he’d let some stranger take care of Andrew and Jenny’s children. It didn’t matter that the scent of violets curled like tendrils when he stepped close to her, pulling him deeper into those eyes.
He shook his head. The children were his responsibility, and he’d make sure they had everything they needed.
When he reached the team he checked the traces, and then each horse. Pete and Dan, the wheel horses, stood patiently. Ginger, his Morgan mare, tossed her head as he ran his hand over her legs. At just three years old and growing larger with her first foal, she had the lightest load of them all, but she’d have to throw her shoulders into the harness to get the wagon back on the trail. She could do it, though. Morgans were all heart.
Last was Scout. The stallion rested his nose on Nate’s shoulder, mouthing at his neckerchief as Nate scratched behind the horse’s left ear and smoothed the forelock back from his eyes. This horse had saved his life more times than he could count during the war and carried him all over the West as he had searched for Mattie the years since then. Nate owed him everything.
Scout nudged his shoulder.
“Sorry, boy. No carrots today. We’ve got work to do.” He stroked the dark cheek under the bridle strap, holding Scout’s gaze with his own. The horse understood. He would get the wagon back onto the trail.
With shouts from the bullwhackers and the crack of whips, the train started out. Nate called to his team, “Hi-yup, there!”
The horses strained, the wheels turned in the mud and the wagon lurched up and onto the road. But as it did, Nate heard a sickening crack. Halting the team, he stooped to look under the wagon, dreading to confirm his fears.
The front axle was splintered and twisted along a narrow crack from one end to the other. A stress fracture. But it was still in one piece. He’d have to try to drive the wagon into Deadwood for repairs.
He stamped his feet to get some feeling back into them. The weather was turning bitter, and fast. He had to get the children into some sort of shelter for the night. The wind seemed to take a fiendish delight in whistling down the length of the canyon. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this weather was bringing snow behind it. But this was May. They couldn’t have snow in May, could they?
He’d have to walk to keep the strain off the axle. He glanced up at the wagon. Should he have the children walk, too? He shivered and buttoned the top of his coat. No, they’d be better off in the wagon, out of the wind. He pulled at Scout’s bridle, and the horses started off.
Glancing upward, he breathed out a single word. “Please.” As if he really believed someone would hear him. The wind pulled water from his eyes, and he ducked his head into the blast. When the gust eased, gathering itself for another onslaught, he looked straight up into the pewter sky, at the light breaking through the gray clouds in golden rays. He had to keep the children safe. He had promised.
* * *
“Oh, not again!”
Sarah caught hold of the branch of a juniper shrub as her boot slipped on the muddy creek bank. The night spent in the snug cabin Uncle James had built when he came to Deadwood last summer had been a welcome relief after days in the stagecoach, but she was quickly getting chilled and miserable again on this afternoon’s mission of mercy.
“Are you all right?” Aunt Margaret puffed as she tried to keep up with Uncle James’s pace.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Sarah pulled at the juniper until she was on the trail next to her aunt again and brushed a lank strand of wet hair out of her face. Uncle James reached out a hand to steady her, shuddering as a gust of wind struck them.
“This storm is getting worse, and it’s starting to snow. We need to be getting home.” Uncle James took Aunt Margaret’s arm.
“I’m glad we went, though. Mr. Harders would have been frozen solid by morning in that cold cabin with no fire.” Sarah buried her chin in her scarf.
“The poor man.” Margaret clicked her tongue under her breath. “If he was this sickly, he should never have come to Deadwood.”
James tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “His doctor told him to come west for his health.”
“And this place is healthy?”
“Wait until the weather clears, my dear. I know you’ll love it as much as I do.”
Sarah took her aunt’s other arm. “Let’s hurry and get home where it’s warm.”
“Wait.” Margaret clutched at James. “What is that? An Indian?”
Sarah peered through the brush along the creek. “She doesn’t look like a Sioux, unless they wear calico skirts.” Sarah started toward the girl, who was now bending to dip a pail in the creek. A few steps took her around the bushes and face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun.
“You stop right there.” The gun barrel wavered as the eight-year-old boy holding it stepped into view. The same boy she had seen yesterday afternoon, peering out of the covered wagon. Charley, wasn’t it? She looked past him to the empty trail. Her stomach flipped at the thought of seeing Nate Colby again.
“Young man, put that gun down right now.” Margaret’s voice was as commanding as if she was reprimanding one of the Sunday school boys.
“Uncle Nate said to keep a gun on any strangers coming around, and that’s what I mean to do.” Charley squinted down the barrel and raised it a bit higher to aim at Margaret’s head.
This was getting nowhere, and Sarah was wet and cold.
“Come, now, surely
