“I don’t know why any savages are still here on the Front Range. We moved them all out years ago.” Ernest Turnbull stood stiffly at the end of the picnic table, his eyes narrowed on Sarah and her sons. “They’re vile and deceitful—the whole lot of them.”
Emma could hardly breathe. How could Randall’s father be so mean and prejudiced? Her hands shook as anger welled up in her stomach. A glance around the tables showed most of the picnickers felt uncomfortable with Mr. Turnbull’s pronouncements, but no one seemed to be offended enough—or brave enough—to speak up. Well, she wouldn’t stand to listen to such talk, if he meant to continue hurling insults at Sarah.
Emma watched as Sarah, her sons, and Lucas Rawlings helped themselves to food from the long tables, which Emma understood had been set out for anyone wanting to feast. The whole point of the picnic was to show generosity to all. Many of the less fortunate from Greeley’s outlying communities had been coming over and filling their plates, their gratitude expressed for such kindness. The town’s churches organized this event, which Emma felt was the perfect example of Christian charity.
Apparently, Mr. Turnbull’s Christian charity had its restrictions.
One man with big moustaches and thick eyebrows waggled a finger at Mr. Turnbull, when he had an opening to speak. “There’re plenty of peaceful redskins. We’ve lived here much longer than you have, Mr. Turnbull. And we still do trades with Indians who bring us buffalo hides even now. For years, they were our biggest suppliers. Before the settlers came to the territory, the trappers and Indians got along just fine—”
“Hogwash!” Mr. Turnbull said, craning his red neck and squinting his eyes at the man. “When we began laying out the railroad line for Union Pacific, the savages attacked settlers, burned their homes along one hundred and fifty miles of trail. And they’d still be plotting their vicious attacks against peaceable citizens if they hadn’t been carted off to Oklahoma—where they can be watched and controlled.”
Emma had hoped Sarah and her sons would take their food to eat elsewhere, but they seemed impervious to the heated discussion going on and took seats at a nearby empty table. Surely they heard every word being spoken, but from their faces, she couldn’t tell. Maybe they’d heard such talk so often that it didn’t bother them. But it bothered her—greatly.
Lucas seemed to be whispering something to one of Sarah’s sons—the younger one.. She guessed Lucas was trying to calm him down, for the young man started getting agitated. And when Emma saw him throw a look at Mr. Turnbull, Emma cringed, fearing something terrible might happen. Would a fight break out?
Emma turned back to look at Randall, who had his head down and was eating his food in quiet concentration. He kept a blank expression on his face, and Emma wondered just what he was thinking about his father’s tirade. Did he share the same opinions? How could he? Yet, he didn’t say a word, or give a hint of reaction as the argument around them grew in volume.
A few of the men had joined in the heated discussion over the evils of the red man. Emma’s parents listened with interest, and at one point her father even grinned. She felt incensed at him too. This was not a theoretical discussion; they were making sweeping statements about a race of people who had been forced off their land and herded onto reservations far away from where they’d be living. But Mr. Turnbull did not see any evil in that. All he seemed to care about was the railroad paving the way for good Christian families to settle out West following the mandate of manifest destiny.
Emma pushed her plate away, unable to eat another bite. The food soured in her stomach. It grieved her to see so few defending the oppressed. And to see the cruel remarks being made in public—in front of Sarah and her sons. No one in their social circles back in New York would ever dare show such rude behavior—at least not in public.
Emma stood and turned to the table where Lucas sat with Sarah’s family. Lucas caught her eye, his look questioning her. She felt as if she were in a raging river, trapped between rocks, the current pulling her in different directions. But when Sarah smiled at her, a smile full of gentleness and wholly lacking in malice or anger, Emma could no longer tolerate a moment longer at her table. Randall looked up at her and touched her arm.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a quiet tone. Fear danced in his eyes.
Suddenly Randall disgusted her. He had spent his life trying to be invisible, hiding from his father’s wrath, and here he was—still doing the same thing. He avoided confrontation at all costs. And she understood why. But at some point avoidance became cowardice. And a man who couldn’t stand up for right and decency was hardly a man at all.
Emma pulled away from Randall and walked resolutely over to Sarah’s table. Her sons eyed her curiously, but said polite hellos as she nodded and smiled.
“Hello, Sarah,” she said, her nerves on edge, sensing dozens of eyes on her back. She looked at Lucas, and his smile warmed her all over. “Do you mind if I join you and your family?”
Sarah scooted over and patted the bench. “How nice of you to come sit with us.” Emma thought she looked pretty, with her hair done up in a bun and wearing a new calico-print dress with pearl buttons. If Sarah paid any mind to the mean comments, she didn’t show it.
“Boys, say hello to Miss Bradshaw. I think you met LeRoy at the ranch,” Sarah said. Her sons tipped their hats at her—a gesture Emma had come to understand was the Colorado equivalent of “hello.”
Emma nodded at Sarah’s older son, who resembled her quite a bit with his dark eyes and hair. And he had her smile.
“This is Eli,” she added, nudging her son sitting beside her. He gave Emma more of a grunt than a hello, then turned all his attention on the plate of food in front of him. She wondered if the bandage across his nose was the result of his competing in the roping events.
Emma told him, “I watched you and your brother in the horse show. You’re both excellent riders. Very impressive.”
Eli grunted again, but LeRoy thanked her for the compliment. He picked up his fork and waited for her to say more.
“Please, don’t let me interrupt your meal. I’ve already eaten.” She blew out a trembling breath, feeling very self-conscious and wondering if coming over here was akin to declaring war. From under her lashes, she looked back at her family and saw stern looks on their faces. Her mother was back to fanning herself, waving her hand in a frantic flutter. Lynette kept a polite reserved expression on her face, but Walter’s glare held nothing back. Well, what did he care about where she sat and with whom she spoke? Her father was now engaged in some heated discussion, but Emma could tell they’d changed topics and were talking about some town ordinances, much to Emma’s relief.
Lucas, sitting across from her, pulled her attention back. He picked up a roasted ear of corn and bit into it. She couldn’t get over the enormous amount of food piled on the men’s plates. But then again, she hadn’t spent the afternoon competing in horse races. “So, Miss Bradshaw. What brings you over here to the Indian camp?”
Emma’s throat constricted. She didn’t know how to answer. He seemed to be teasing her, and she didn’t find any of this funny.
But he then lowered his voice, and his tone was kind. “There will always be people like him,” he said, motioning with his head toward Mr. Turnbull. “Fear causes folks to close their hearts. To distrust others. But in a few more years most folks will have forgotten that Indians had ever been dangerous or that the buffalo and antelope had once freely roamed the plains.” He looked around the park as if seeing past it all, seeing into the future. “You are a witness to the last of the true West, Miss Bradshaw. Take a good look before it vanishes forever.”
Emma let Lucas’s wistful words soak in. He of all people would be able to grasp such a bigger, encompassing vision of their country. So much was changing. Her life had changed drastically. But she could see how the whole nation was undergoing change, like a woman in labor. A civil war had nearly ripped apart the country, and soon it would be the twentieth century. Maybe for someone as brave and competent as Lucas Rawlings, the future was promising, and exciting. But Emma understood why many were fearful. Change was often frightening.
She looked over at Randall’s father and frowned. But that is no excuse to treat other people unjustly.
“Lucas tells me you’re thinking of getting a good, sturdy horse,” Sarah said, breaking Emma’s thoughtful mood. “I think I might have just the horse for you.”
“Which one, Ma?” Eli asked between bites of chicken. “That slowpoke paint you’ve been working with?”
Sarah answered him, but her eyes were on Emma. “No, I’m thinking Emma would do better with a more spirited horse. Hoonevasane.”
Eli’s eyes widened in surprise, but Lucas nodded his approval.
“Protector.” Lucas turned to Emma. “That’s what his name means. Sure, he’s spirited, but he’s as loyal and attentive as Hoesta.”
“Who’s Hoesta?” she asked Lucas. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her face as the wind began to pick up, then retied her bonnet’s strings. It was always so windy on the Front Range. She would have to figure out something to make her hair behave better.
“Ma’s dog,” LeRoy said with a chuckle. “Although he’s pretty much adopted Lucas. Follows him everywhere—even in five feet of snow.”
Emma nodded. “I think I saw him the other day—when you were out with the Edwards boys.”
Lucas finished off the ear of corn and started in on a piece of cornbread drenched in honey. “Yep. His name means fireball. When he was a pup, he tripped and fell into a campfire. We had to roll him around to put the fire out. He was none the worse for wear, although most of his fur had fizzled off.”
Eli laughed. “He sure looked ugly for a time.”
Emma chuckled but said, “Poor dog.”
Lucas shook his head, amused. “Anyway, Sarah knows her horses. And she can always tell which one will suit a particular rider, even if the buyer disagrees. They would all do well to take her advice.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I haven’t yet discussed it with my father, but I would like to come over and see your horses. I’m sure they’re all fine quality.”
Sarah nodded and slathered a piece of cornbread with butter. “Some are a bit wild and feisty. But a mustang’s surefooted and doesn’t spook easily. Why, Ransom—Lucas’s horse—takes delight in stomping on rattlesnakes. It’s a favorite hobby of his.”
Emma felt the blood drain from her face. But Lucas threw his head back and laughed.
“She’s pulling your leg. But truthfully, he has been known to step on a snake or two because he hates those pesky creatures. I don’t think he delights in it though.”
Emma felt some of the afternoon’s tension drain from her limbs. She chatted with Sarah as the men around her ate, and soon they were sharing stories with her about horses and roping. Emma asked Lucas about the reining event he’d won, and he talked a bit about the skills horses needed to learn to work with cattle, a gleam in his eyes. Emma listened, enrapt by his passion and respect for these animals that seemed to be his whole life.
Sarah explained how, ten years ago, her husband had been thrown by a horse he was trying to break, and his neck had snapped when he hit the fence post. After his death, she and her then-teenage sons ran the ranch. Emma was astounded to hear of Sarah’s fortitude and determination to keep the ranch afloat, even though the workload was often overwhelming. Having Lucas come join them three years ago, to Sarah, was a godsend.
Sarah then told Emma a bit about her parents and grandparents, and how her father, a buffalo trader, had met her mother, a Cheyenne daughter of her tribe’s medicine woman.
Emma had so many questions about Sarah’s Indian heritage, and Sarah willingly answered. She was especially fascinated hearing about the many plants that could be harvested on the plains, and their many medicinal uses.
“I would love to learn more about all these plants. My dream is to paint and catalog as many native plants as I can.”
Lucas nodded enthusiastically while wielding a chicken leg in his hand. “Emma’s a fine artist. You should see her drawings. They’re as good as any I’ve seen in medical texts.”
“That so?” Sarah said, her eyes dancing at Lucas’s words. A funny look passed between Sarah and Lucas, making Emma feel as though they’d been talking about her.
Sarah then said to Emma, “Come to the ranch some morning. I’ll take you out on a river walk and show you some plants that can be made into salves, or prepared and eaten. Ever eaten a cattail?”
“A what?” Emma’s horrified look had Sarah’s sons roaring in laughter.
Lucas tipped his head coyly and questioned her with a smirk. “You do know what cattails are, right?”
“I . . . I suppose I don’t. At least, I don’t think you mean tails belonging to cats.”
That set off more laughing. Lucas chuckled. “Cattails grow in marshy areas. They look like brown sausages on a stick. The rhizomes are edible.”
“And mighty tasty,” LeRoy added.
“You can make flour from the starch, and from that make cattail bread,” Sarah added.
Emma shook her head. When she looked out at the dry, vast plains to the east, all she saw was dirt and cactus and danger. Now she was beginning to understand how the prairie would appear wholly different to those who lived off it for survival. What she thought was a land of desolation and emptiness was really one rich in food and sustenance. Now more than ever she felt excitement stir inside, thinking of all the wonderful facts she would learn about these plants she planned to draw and detail. In addition to the drawings, she could write about the many uses the native peoples had for these plants, with instructions on how to prepare the foods and medicines. Her original idea of sketching plants had now blossomed into a project that would require years of learning—an education she could never get at Vassar.
“Sarah, I would be so grateful if you’d teach me about the plants on the Front Range.” She shot Lucas a smile, her heart overflowing with excitement. “I would even be willing to try some of that cattail bread.”
Lucas studied her face as if really seeing her for the first time. His shimmering green eyes sent her heart racing.
He leaned across to her and said so quietly she could barely hear him, “Don’t you think your beau might be missing you?” He tipped his head toward where Randall was sitting behind her. She didn’t want to look back to see anyone at that table. It would only spoil her happy mood.
What should she tell him? She didn’t even know if Randall was her “beau.” And right now, she wasn’t at all happy with him.
Before she could answer, though, a young cowboy with scuffed-up clothes and boots, his hat askew, came stumbling over to their table.
“Howdy, Lucas . . . so, who do we have here?” The man nearly tripped and banged into the table. Emma could smell the liquor on his breath, and his acrid stench told her he hadn’t bathed in a very long time. She winced and drew back.
Sarah jumped up and moved out of the man’s way as he leaned across the table.
“Gus Woodson, you’ve been drinking,” Sarah scolded sternly. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Get on home.”
Lucas also stood, but Sarah’s sons sat and glared at the man, who had a hard time staying upright. Eli fumed and tried to stand, but LeRoy yanked his arm. Emma wondered at the undercurrents of anger coming from Sarah’s sons. Who was this man?
Lucas took Gus’s arm, none too lightly. The man swatted at him, then turned his full inebriated attention on Emma.
“Well, looks like you’ve caught yerself a purdy one, Lucas. Whas her name? Whass yer name, you purdy thing—”
To Emma’s horror, the man grabbed the back of her head and pulled her close to his face. Emma winced and tried to pull back, but the man pulled harder, pursing his lips as if he planned to kiss her. A squeal slipped from her throat.
“That’s quite enough,” Lucas warned, pulling harder on Gus’s arm but failing to wrench him away from the table.
To Emma’s horror, the drunken cowboy pawed at her blouse, getting his fingers stuck in the fabric. As he pulled back, the first few buttons popped off and her blouse ripped open, revealing more skin than Emma would ever show in public. Even her chemise underneath was torn. She gasped and cried out as she covered her exposed chest with her arm.
“Jes one little biddy kiss . . .” Gus crooned, pawing at her again.
Somehow Emma managed to wriggle up from the table, with Sarah’s arm around her in a protective manner.
Gus swung around, throwing a wide arcing blow at Lucas’s face, but Lucas dodged the blow adeptly and tightened his grip on Gus’s wrist. He then twisted the man’s hand until he yelped. Gus began spewing curses at Lucas. And not only at Lucas, but saying awful things about Sarah and her sons.
“That does it, you bumptious rogue!” Eli wrested his arm away from LeRoy and jumped to his feet. “You’re a good-for-nothing piece of buffalo hide. I’m tired of your disrespect.” He lunged at Gus and punched him hard in the gut. Gus groaned and crumpled, but then came at Eli like a bull.
Now Lucas had two unruly men to get under control. LeRoy leaped from the bench and helped him, and Emma couldn’t tell whose arms were swinging. But someone then clipped Lucas in the eye, and he pulled back in pain. Emma wanted to rush to him, but she knew she’d only get hurt. How could she help anyway?
Sarah calmly and quickly extricated her younger son from the foray, missing the wild swings of his arm—showing she’d perhaps had practice at this. Eli seemed to have a volatile temper—as evidenced by the way his mother and brother reacted almost instinctively to his sudden outburst. Lucas, rubbing his eye with one hand and collaring Gus with the other, finally managed to calm the drunken cowboy down.
“Gus, rattle your hooks on home, before you regret this more than you already do,” Lucas hissed at him, looking sternly at the drunk and shaking him for good measure.
Gus lowered his head, looked around as if trying to figure out where he was, and stumbled off toward the entrance of the park.
Lucas blew out a breath and smoothed his shirt, tucking it back in. He looked over at Emma, noting the damage to her clothes. Emma could tell her face was bright red. She stood by the table, shaking and embarrassed. Sarah pulled a woolen shawl from a cloth bag she had on the bench and draped it around Emma’s shoulders.
Emma thanked her and noticed her family had suddenly gathered around the table. Her father was livid.
“What on earth is going on over here? Emma, what happened to your clothes?”
Her mother nearly screeched. “Your blouse is torn! Who did this to you?”
Walter didn’t wait for an answer. He marched up to Lucas and grabbed him by his shirt collar. “How dare you, cowboy.” Lucas stood, unruffled, not saying a word or moving an inch. “I’ll show you not to treat my sister like a whore—”
“Walter!” Emma yelled, shocked at both his language and behavior. “Lucas didn’t touch me. It was that drunken cowboy.” She pointed through the crowd, but her assailant had left the park—thank God.
Walter stared Lucas down, then released his grip in a sudden push. Lucas stepped back and rubbed his eye. Emma now could clearly tell Walter had been drinking. Surely her father must have noticed. What would he think? Her father had strict views regarding where and when a man could drink liquor.
Emma’s father shook his head. “Emma, get your things. We’re leaving. I can’t have you looking like this in public.”
“That’s what happens when you associate with Indians,” Walter said, to Emma’s shock. “Why did you go over and sit with them?” His berating tone did not ask for an answer.
“I’m thoroughly upset with your behavior, young lady,” her father said between clenched teeth, aware of the group of people watching their conversation and eyeing Sarah and her sons suspiciously.
“My beha—” Emma couldn’t even finish the word; she was shocked he would accuse her of causing this altercation.
Violet pushed through the crowd and came over to Emma. “Are you all right?”
Emma nodded, but her entire body trembled. She didn’t know if it was due to that man’s attack or her anger at her father.
“I’ll go back home with you,” Violet offered.
Emma’s mother firmly pushed Violet back. “Emma doesn’t need company right now. Come, Emma, let’s go.”
All Emma could do was apologize to Violet with her eyes.
Her father looked at Walter and snapped, “Get the carriage ready.”
Walter nodded and headed toward the entrance to the park, leaving Lynette behind with a befuddled look on her face.
Emma felt tears pressing the backs of her eyes. She had been having such a wonderful time—until that cowboy ruined it all. But thankfully Lucas stepped in when he had. She shuddered thinking what more the drunken man would have done had Lucas not gotten him off her. She grimaced at the realization that he had saved her yet again.
And where had Randall been this whole time? As she stood there waiting for her family to say their hasty good-byes and gather up their things, she finally spotted him standing beside his father.
Emma’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it. Randall’s face was blank and emotionless. But not his father’s.
Mr. Turnbull stood next to Randall, like a judge presiding over court, scowling at Sarah and shaking his head in judgment. No doubt he blamed her and her “savage Indian” sons for the altercation and disruption of the picnic. Emma wanted to run up to him and set him straight, but what would that do? Only prove she was an Indian sympathizer. And no doubt he’d have words for her as well. She forced down the bitter taste in her throat. She’d suffered enough embarrassment for one afternoon.
She looked back at Randall. He finally met her gaze, and she saw concern in his eyes. Had he seen what transpired? Or was he unaware of what had happened? Why wouldn’t he come over and talk to her?
She gritted her teeth. She knew the answer. His father had made him stay out of the fray. He wouldn’t allow his son to get into a fistfight and muss up his expensive clothes. Not even for the woman he loved. Or maybe didn’t love. Either way, he should have done something. What would he do if, once they were married, some man tried to attack her? Would he still stand back and do nothing, afraid of getting hurt or ruining his clothes? Afraid his father would be ashamed of him? Worried he wouldn’t do the proper thing?
Emma closed her eyes in disappointment. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t care. At that moment she knew she would never be able to love Randall. How could she love a man who didn’t run to her aid when she was threatened? Who didn’t put a woman’s safety ahead of his own?
Emma felt someone touch her arm. She opened her eyes and through her tears saw a blurry Lucas. Over his shoulder she saw her parents glare at him, their expression casting blame on him for what had happened. It was so unfair.
Her father stormed over—no doubt intending to get another dangerous cowboy away from her.
She whispered quickly, “Thank you, Lucas. I’m grateful to you—once again.”
He stepped back when he saw her father approach. “I’d do it again, Miss Bradshaw.” He whispered as he tipped his hat and gave her a reassuring smile, “I’m growing fond of rescuing you.”
A rush of gratitude coursed her body. His words were like soothing water in a barren wasteland.
Emma’s father grabbed her arm and put on a show of being incensed. She threw Lucas a look of apology as her father nearly dragged her toward the entrance of the park, pressing through the crowds at such a hurried pace she kept tripping over her feet. She hadn’t even had an opportunity to thank Sarah or her sons. Well, she still had Sarah’s shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She’d have to find a way to get out to the ranch and return it to her.
Emma glanced behind her. Her mother and Lynette were making their way to the entrance, and Emma noticed Lucas following. Perhaps he wanted to see her off safely, worried that drunken cowboy might still be around. She noticed him scanning the crowds as he kept up with her pace. To her chagrin, Randall was nowhere in sight.
Emma tightened the shawl around her shoulders, reliving the fear she’d felt at the man’s groping hands and his whiskey breath. Once again she realized how much she needed protection in this dangerous place. A man who could—and would—loving defend her and keep her safe. A rescuer—that’s what she wanted.
A man like Lucas Rawlings.
If only Randall were more like him, she thought with bitterness.