After four more weeks of wandering between the Powder, Little Powder, and Tongue rivers, slowly making his way through drifts sometimes as tall as the paint’s belly, Trace finally admitted his search was hopeless. After the first week the weather had cleared, still the storm had been so severe that the snow lay frozen on the ground. Crusted hard in the lower draws, sheltered from the sun, the snow scraped and tore at the horses’ shanks and fetlocks, making travel difficult. He had hoped to stumble upon the boy’s captors, but he was now resigned to the fact that it would take no less than a miracle to do so. With game scarce and supplies exhausted, he knew he would have to abandon his search for White Eagle and the white man who captured him. Reluctantly, he turned back to the south, headed for Fort Laramie. He had a few furs he could trade, and maybe Luke Austen had been able to authorize some scout’s pay for him—possibly enough to supply him with the basics again.
The weather improved steadily as he rode south, and pretty soon he was able to make better time. When he reached the North Platte, the horses were moving easily through a six-inch covering of snow. Although the weather was brighter, his thoughts were troubled and heavy, for he felt he had failed White Eagle. His common sense told him that it was just bad luck—the early snowstorm—a man could not follow a trail hidden under a blanket of snow. That bit of wisdom did nothing to relieve his mind of its burden. He would find the boy, and he would avenge the death of Blue Water. These two things he solemnly promised himself—if he had to search forever. But for now, he had to wait out the weather.
* * *
Sergeant J. C. Turley stood passing the time of day with the sergeant of the guard near the post bakery. Turley was off duty, it being Saturday afternoon, and he had just come from visiting with Lamar Thomas. As the two sergeants stood there talking, Turley’s gaze was captured by a lone rider approaching in the distance. Not many travelers passed through Laramie this time of year, so Turley continued to watch the visitor with an ample measure of curiosity. The rider was leading a packhorse, and when he got within a few hundred yards, Turley recognized the paint he was riding.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” he interrupted the sergeant in midsentence, and abruptly turned and started walking across the parade ground, stopping in the middle to watch the rider approach.
Riding easily in the saddle, his rifle cradled across his forearms, Trace McCall passed the outer buildings and headed for the structure that housed the post commander’s office. Recognizing the sergeant standing in the center of the parade ground, he nodded. “Turley.”
“Trace McCall,” Turley returned in greeting. “We wondered if you would ever show up again. Did you finish that business you had to take care of?”
“Nope—trail got covered with snow.”
“I heard it snowed pretty heavy up in the mountains.” Turley fell in step with Trace and walked with him as Trace led his horses to a hitching rail. “There ain’t been much going on around here—the old man sends out a patrol once or twice a week, lookin’ for God knows what. The Injuns ain’t doin’ nothin’ but settin’ by the fire.” Trace offered no comment, so Turley went on. “Lieutenant Austen got you some pay for the part you had in that little shindig near the Belle Fourche. From the looks of them horses, I reckon you could use it.”
“I reckon,” was all Trace replied, but he was mighty pleased to hear it.
“You’re just in time for the social event of the season,” Turley continued, his face a broad smile. “We’re gonna have a weddin’ tomorrow. Lieutenant Austen and Annie Farrior is gittin’ hitched.”
“Do tell,” Trace replied and raised an eyebrow. “I thought those two might tie the knot—make a fine coupling.” It was good news. Trace had taken a liking to both of them. It helped take his mind off of White Eagle for a moment. “Where they gonna have the wedding?”
“In the post trader’s store—only place big enough. We’ve got a chaplain now—come up from Fort Kearny a month ago. He’ll tie the knot. Everybody’s invited.”
With Turley tagging along, Trace stepped up on the small wooden walkway and entered the sutler’s store. Lamar was in the back storeroom, mending a hole in a sack of grain, so he didn’t hear them come in until Turley called out, “Mr. Thomas, there’s a feller out here lookin’ to trade with you.” Trace glanced briefly at Turley, wondering if the sergeant intended to do all his talking for him. Turley met Trace’s glance with an open-faced grin. Trace couldn’t help but be amused.
After a moment, Lamar came from the storeroom, still holding a large needle and a ball of twine. “Damn rats,” he offered in explanation. “Mr. McCall,” he acknowledged when he saw who his customer was.
“Yessir, Trace,” Lamar countered. “What brings you back to these parts?” Lamar had always held a certain curiosity for this tall sandy-haired friend of Buck Ransom’s. To Lamar, Trace McCall was a strange one—a loner who just appeared, mostly in the summer, but at any other time of year as well. He always seemed dead serious, although Buck claimed McCall had a sense of humor about him—if you got to know him. As far as Lamar could tell, very few people got to know him that well. Buck said Trace was mostly raised by Crow Indians, lived four years with old Chief Red Blanket’s band. Maybe that explained why Trace never wore whiskers, even in the dead of winter—and he looked more Indian than white if there was such a thing as a sandy-haired Indian.
The man had a way about him that Lamar found hard to define. Many so-called mountain men had passed through Lamar’s store—including Jim Bridger, Buck Ransom, and Frank Brown—but none to match the likes of Trace McCall. Looking at the towering, broad-shouldered trapper, whose eyes seemed to penetrate a man’s very thoughts, Lamar could understand why the Indians called him the Mountain Hawk.
In answer to Lamar’s question, Trace said, “I’m needing some supplies. I’ve got a few skins and four buffalo hides. It ain’t much, but I reckon I’ll take whatever you can give for ’em.”
“We can always use buffalo hides,” Lamar said, “and I’ll take a look at the other plews, maybe I can give you a little something for them. I reckon you know you’ve got a voucher for credit that Lieutenant Austen arranged for you.”
Luke had been as good as his word, a fact that didn’t surprise Trace. The young lieutenant had already established himself as a man of character in Trace’s book. “Good,” Trace said. “Maybe I’ll take a sack of that grain, then. My horses could use a good feed. They’ve been living off mostly cottonwood bark for the past couple of weeks.”
After Trace had completed his dealings with Lamar Thomas, Sergeant Turley walked along with him to the bachelor officers’ quarters. Trace wanted to express his thanks for the line of credit Luke had established for him, as well as offer his congratulations on Luke’s marriage to be performed the next day.
Luke Austen seemed every bit as happy to see Trace as Sergeant Turley had been. He came striding across the snow-covered parade ground in front of the bachelor officers’ quarters when he caught sight of his sergeant and the tall mountain man approaching. “Trace McCall,” he exclaimed when within hailing distance. “I should have known you’d show up. You always do when you’re needed. I damn sure need someone to stand up with me tomorrow when I surrender my freedom.”
Trace smiled. He was happy to see the young officer again. “I heard you’d gone a little crazy in the head,” he teased. “Turley here told me you’d decided to stick your head in the yoke.” He dismounted and extended his hand.
Luke shook Trace’s hand vigorously. “That’s a fact,” he said, beaming unabashed.
“Well, if I can put in my two cents’ worth, you couldn’t have got yourself a much better woman than Annie Farrior.”
Luke’s face remained awash in a grin that seemed permanently afixed, making no effort to hide his excitement. “I mean it, Trace, I want you to stand up with me when I get hitched. I’d appreciate it.”
Trace hesitated. “I don’t know . . . ’course I will I guess. . . . What do I have to do?”
Luke couldn’t help but laugh. “Nothing, really, just stand up with me, and hold the ring, I guess. For a man who walked into the middle of a Sioux camp and killed the chief, you ought not be afraid to face a chaplain.”
Trace laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, then, we’ll do her.”
Sergeant Turley, an amused witness to the exchange, laughed with him. “I don’t know, Trace, your job might be to make sure the groom don’t cut and run.”
When they had finished with the off-color jokes and asides that most males indulge in when teasing a prospective groom, Trace took a serious moment to thank Luke for the line of credit. Luke affirmed that Trace had certainly earned it, and Leach’s replacement, Captain Theodore Benton, heartily approved.
“Have you thought any more about what I said when we left you near the Belle Fourche? About hiring on as a scout?”
“Well,” Trace replied, “not really.” In truth, he hadn’t. His mind had been too heavily occupied with graver thoughts. But now the idea held more merit. There was no disputing the fact that he needed the income. And it was useless to try to find White Eagle until the snow had cleared the mountain passes. So why not? Although he was still uncertain what being a scout for the army involved, and how much it would infringe upon his freedom.
“We sure as hell need scouts who know the country as well as you do,” Luke prodded. “Why don’t we go talk to Captain Benton?”
Trace continued to hesitate, then said, “I ain’t saying I’m not interested, Luke. I reckon I could try it till spring. But when spring gets here, I’ve got something I’ve got to take care of, and I’m gonna take care of it, come hell or high water. I can’t tell you how long it’ll take—it just depends on how lucky I get.”
“Let’s go talk to the captain,” Luke said. He knew that spring was the time of year Trace would be needed most, when the wagon trains would start passing through, and the Indians would most likely be riled—treaty or no treaty. Still, there were patrols occasionally during the winter months where a competent scout was necessary. It was Luke’s guess that the captain would be anxious to hire Trace, even with the conditions he set.
Luke was right. Captain Benton was more than agreeable to the idea. He was in desperate need of more white scouts experienced in the ways of the Indians. Like Luke, Benton pressed the tall mountain man to consider permanent employment, but Trace was steadfast in his conditions. He allowed that, if his few months’ service were satisfactory to both parties, he would consider coming back after his spring leave of absence. He and the captain shook hands on it and Trace was now a scout for the army.
* * *
Sunday at noon, Trace rode over to Lamar Thomas’s place of business, where a small gathering of friends awaited the arrival of the bride and her party. Although he was not completely comfortable being inside with that many people, he had promised Luke he would be there, so he went in the door. On the counter where he had traded his plews with Lamar Thomas the day before, a small altar had been placed. In lieu of flowers, a spray of willows had been arranged for a romantic touch, and a clean white cloth laid across the altar to represent the purity of the occasion, Trace supposed. Off to one side, at the end of the counter, next to a molasses barrel, Luke stood talking to the chaplain. When Luke spotted Trace, he immediately signaled him over. All eyes turned to watch an uncomfortable and self-conscious army scout as he made his way through the gathering. Trace became acutely aware of his animal-hide attire in a room mostly filled with soldiers in dress uniforms and a couple of ladies in the finest they had.
Luke greeted his best man with a wide smile. “I don’t know who looks more scared, me or you.” Trace answered only with an embarrassed grin. Luke turned to introduce the chaplain. “Trace McCall, Captain Gunter.” The chaplain grabbed Trace’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. Turning back to Trace, Luke took a thin silver ring from his pocket. “You take the ring. All you have to do is give it back when the chaplain asks for it.”
Feeling his face slightly flushed, Trace said, “I reckon I can do that. Anything else?”
“Nope. When it’s over, you get to escort Grace Turner out the door. That’s all.”
At that moment, Grace Turner entered the store, followed by Rose Thomas. “All right,” Rose announced cheerfully, “the bride’s here.” Grace walked down to stand before the counter while the chaplain went around behind and prepared to receive the happy couple. Luke took Trace by the elbow and guided him over in front of the counter beside him. When Annie appeared in the doorway, the gathering parted to form an aisle and an enlisted man attempted to force the wedding march through a protesting squeezebox.
Trace glanced across at Ned Turner’s widow. He had never met the lady. Meeting his gaze, she returned a pleasant smile, and he immediately looked away. Grace Turner looked to be about the same age as Annie, maybe a year or two older. She was comely enough—not really a pretty woman—but attractive in a homespun way. Trace decided that she probably had a good heart. When he stole a second glance, she was looking back at the bride. Trace turned his head to watch Annie as well.
Smiling graciously, Annie nodded to the few people on both sides as she walked slowly toward the counter where Luke waited.
Trace was almost startled. This was the first time he had seen the young lady in anything but an ill-fitting army uniform. Walking gracefully now on the arm of Lamar Thomas, she was a vision of innocence and beauty. When she made eye contact with Trace, her smile became wider and she beamed up at him. Trace was suddenly overcome with thoughts of regret. He glanced at Luke, the young bridegroom obviously joyfully enamored. Then he dropped his gaze to his crude buckskins, wishing he had not come. Feeling pitifully out of place, he realized that this kind of happiness that Luke possessed was never to be in his own life—a life of his own choosing, so there was no blame to be assigned. It might have been, he told himself. Maybe he was a damn fool for not finding Blue Water years ago. But he was so young at the time, and inexperienced. He believed that she had left because she did not want him to follow. Well he thought, you passed up that chance for happiness with a woman. And that was most likely the best chance he would ever have, because Blue Water’s lifestyle was his lifestyle. His thoughts skipped for a moment to Jamie Thrash. At least she told him that there was no future for them. He knew it, anyway. He was never meant to be a farmer. I wish to hell I hadn’t agreed to do this, he thought as the chaplain began the ceremony.
It was a brief ceremony, delayed only when Luke had to nudge Trace with his elbow in order to get the wedding ring. At last over, Luke and Annie kissed and turned to receive congratulations from the few friends gathered there. Grace smiled up at Trace and reached for his arm. Holding it out stiffly for her to hold onto, he walked her to the front door.
“Well, I reckon that’s that,” Trace sighed and tried to retrieve his arm from Grace Turner.
“You can’t go yet, Mr. McCall. Rose and Annie, and I have been cooking all morning. Somebody’s going to have to eat the food we prepared after we slaved over it.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am, but I don’t think . . .”
“Oh no you don’t,” Grace interrupted. “You have to be there. What kind of best man doesn’t even go to the wedding banquet?” He was about to tell her that nobody told him where to go, when she said, “Please,” so sweetly that he couldn’t bring himself to be abrupt with her.
“Mrs. Turner . . .”
“Grace,” she interrupted.
“Grace,” he began, “I like a big feed as well as the next man. It’s just that I feel kinda out of place, what with all you folks dressed up in your fine clothes. These buckskins are all I’ve got. It was bad enough having to go to the wedding.”
“Is that what’s bothering you? My, my. And Lieutenant Austen said you were the most fearless man he had ever met. Surely you can face a few dinner guests,” she teased. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll stay right beside you to protect you. We can even eat outside the house if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
Feeling completely cowed and a little foolish, Trace gave in. The lady might as well have grabbed him by the ears and slipped a halter over his head. Trace frankly did not know what to make of it. After making him promise not to move from that spot, Grace left him for a few moments while she talked to Rose Thomas. When she returned, it was to say that she had told Rose to go on to the house without her, she planned to walk over with Trace.
“Where’s the house?”
“About a mile away, by the creek,” Grace answered.
“A mile?” Trace replied as Lamar Thomas’s wagon pulled away from the store. He looked at the wagon, then back at Grace in her church dress, and scratched his head thoughtfully. “You can ride my horse and I’ll lead him, if you don’t mind straddling him. He’s kinda particular who climbs on him, but he’ll be all right as long as I’m leading him.”
Grace laughed. “Oh, I could straddle him if I was of a mind, but I’d prefer to walk with you.”
So they walked, their feet crunching along a dirty brown layer of snow where wagon tracks and horses’ hooves had churned the white powder in with the mud. Grace stepped carefully along the wagon track, avoiding as much of the mud as possible, all the while rejecting Trace’s repeated offers to put her on his horse.
About halfway to the cabin, the track dipped slightly where a branch crossed it and covered the trail with about three inches of water. It was no more than two feet wide and certainly no problem to step across, but Grace paused.
“I’m afraid that’s too wide for me to step across in this dress. I know I’ll ruin these shoes.” She looked up at Trace expectantly, but the mountain man was too dense to be courtly, and her obvious hints were left lying at his feet. Rather than irritate her, his manner seemed to delight her. With a teasing lilt in her voice, she prompted him. “Mr. McCall, do you suppose you could assist me?” She held out her arms, indicating that she wanted to be carried across.
“Oh,” he blurted, and before he knew it, she was pressing against him.
When he still made no move to respond, she chided, “You have to pick me up. I can’t jump that high.” Then she laughed, delighted by the sudden flush of red on his suntanned cheeks. She was not a frail girl, but he lifted her as easily as if picking up a child. As she was swept up from the muddy trace, she could feel the strength of his arms and the solid muscle of his chest. She instinctively locked her arms around his neck and laid her head in the crook of his shoulder.
Trace found himself in unfamiliar territory. At first, he was confused by suddenly finding this woman—a complete stranger short hours before—in his arms. Then he became acutely aware of the softness of her body, and the subtle hint of perfume in her hair—and he knew that he wanted to hold her longer. Lost in the warmth the sensation of her body generated inside him, he didn’t realize until she spoke that the narrow branch of water was some twenty yards behind him.
“I think I’m safely across now,” she said softly. There was a twinkle in her eye as she smiled up at him.
Flushing with embarrassment, Trace quickly set her feet back on the ground, and started to stammer an apology. She stopped him before he could get the first word out, and with a giggle, grabbed his elbow with both her hands, and strode merrily on to the cabin. Trace, still uncertain as to what was happening, let himself be led.
Grace released his arm and went inside the cabin while Trace tied his horse. As he looped the reins around a corner post of the porch, he paused to examine the moments just past. Had Grace Turner been flirting with him? A rough mountain man like himself? It wasn’t likely, he decided. She was probably just teasing him, having a little fun at his expense. The only woman who had ever wanted him was Blue Water, and that was long ago. The thought of the Shoshoni maiden tore his mind from the joyous occasion of this day, and he felt a moment of melancholy when reminded of the mission he had set for himself.
Bowing his head to clear the door frame, Trace stepped inside the cabin. He was immediately hailed by Luke Austen, who along with Annie, motioned for him to join them. Before he could seat himself at the table, Annie stepped up and kissed him on the cheek, whispering, “Thank you for bringing Luke back safely to me.” Trace was too flustered to reply, blushing for the second time in the last hour. He was ready to leave right then, feeling an overpowering desire to be back outside and away from the cabinful of people. But Rose Thomas set upon him with a plate of food and threatened to brain him with a skillet if he didn’t finish it all.
While he ate, he was careful to mind his manners, feeling a dozen eyeballs watching his every mouthful. I guess they expect me to eat with my hands, he thought, as he chased some corn pudding around his plate with his fork. Occasionally, he glanced over toward the opposite corner of the room where Grace Turner was involved in a spirited conversation with Lamar Thomas and a young lieutenant. She had not given him so much as a casual glance since he came in the door—a fact that made him feel all the more foolish for some of the thoughts that had crossed his mind before.
As soon as he finished eating, he thanked Mrs. Thomas for the fine meal, wished Luke and Annie a long and happy marriage, then begged to be excused, saying he had some things to take care of before dark. Luke reminded him that he would be going out on a patrol the next morning, and Trace acknowledged with a nod of his head. As he made his way to the door, he glanced around, looking for Grace, but she was nowhere to be seen. Missing also, he noticed, was the young lieutenant.
Once outside, he breathed in a great lungful of air to clean out the close, smoky atmosphere of the crowded cabin. There had been too many folks in a confined space to suit him. Untying the paint, he stroked the pony affectionately on his face—snow white down to the muzzle—and prepared to step up in the saddle.
“Trying to sneak away from the party? Some best man you are.”
Startled, he turned to find Grace Turner directly behind him, the same impish grin on her face that she had teased him with before. “I expect I’d better be going,” he offered in defense.
Ignoring his remark, she said, “Come on. I’ll show you where the groom proposed to Annie.” With that, she promptly turned and started walking toward the creek. Dumbfounded, he stood there. After taking a few steps, she stopped, turned back to him and scolded, “Well, come on,” turned again, and strode toward the cottonwood trees by the creek. He shrugged his shoulders and followed, leading his horse.
“This used to be Annie’s secret place,” Grace said as she stepped across a frozen rivulet and stood beside a large log near the edge of the creek. “Only it wasn’t so secret,” she added with a laugh. “Rose and I both knew she was meeting Luke down here.”
Trace wondered why she was telling him all this. He really had no interest in Luke and Annie’s courtship. When it appeared that Grace intended to walk no farther, he dropped the paint’s reins to the ground, knowing the horse would not wander.
“It really is a lovely spot, don’t you think?”
He glanced around as if judging for himself, but he didn’t answer before she started brushing the snow from the log, clearing a space for them to sit. “You’ll get your dress wet,” he offered in his practical manner, not being a man of impetuous nature.
“It’ll dry,” she tossed back lightly. “Come sit by me.”
“Wait,” he said, and unrolled a buffalo robe that had been tied behind his saddle. He laid it across the log, and they sat down together.
“Now, I’ve heard nothing but tales about you,” she said, “some wild and some downright hard to believe. So, Mr. Trace McCall, I want to know the real you. Are you really as wild as an Indian?”
The question was so ridiculous that he couldn’t help but laugh. “No, ma’am, I’m not wild. I’m just the same as any other man. There isn’t anything to tell.”
She was insistent upon knowing all about his past, but all she found out was that he was an extremely private man who was reluctant to talk about himself. Encountering a stone wall with him, she instead began to talk about herself, her marriage to Ned Turner, their hopes and dreams—in short, more than he cared to know. Still she talked, and as the afternoon wore on, bringing a chill in the air, she moved closer to him in an effort to keep warm.
“We’d best get back now,” he said. “You’ll catch a chill with no more clothes than you got on.”
“No, let’s not go back yet,” she said, moving even closer. Then, with that mischievous glint in her eye that he had seen earlier, she whispered, “I bet I could stay as warm as can be if I was wrapped up in this heavy robe—even with no clothes on.”
He looked at her for a long moment, puzzled by her remark. “I suppose you could. I’ll get up so you can wrap it around you.”
Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she stood up and faced him. “I swear, Trace McCall, you are the thickheadedest man I believe I’ve ever met. Am I that unattractive? I meant wrap the robe around me and you.” That said, she reached up and pulled his head down to her and kissed him hard on the lips.
Too startled to think straight at first, he almost jerked free of her embrace. Then realizing that she had planned on this encounter from the beginning, he dropped all the reservations he had harbored and let it happen, returning her kiss. After a long moment, they parted, but only long enough to pull the buffalo robe from the log and spread it on the ground.
It had been a long time for both of them, and the need was overwhelming, creating a mating that was feverish in its urgency. They came to each other with animal-like passion, frantic to know the release each needed so desperately. It had happened so fast that there had been no time for words of love or gentle caresses. And when it was over, there had been ecstasy—wild, violent release even—but no fulfillment or complete satisfaction. Grace lay in his arms then, thinking of the years she had been married to Ned, and how much she missed the intimacy they had shared. She wanted that back in her life. But even in this starburst of ecstasy, she knew there would be no future with Trace McCall for her. She had purposely selected him to fill a physical need that had been growing within her. He did not disappoint, and she had been left with the feeling that she had mated with a wild stallion.
They lay there until their heated bodies began to feel the chill of the winter air. Then Trace wrapped the robe around them, and she cuddled closer to him. In a little while, the flame of passion brightened again, and he began to explore the mysteries of her body. With his fingertips, he gently traced the contour of her breasts, marveling at the softness of her skin, watching in wonder as she responded to his touch. In a short time, his passion was reborn, and they came together once more. This time it was gentle and warm, of longer duration, bringing the complete satisfaction that Grace so longed for.
“We’d better go now,” Grace whispered, gently kissing him on the cheek. “The wedding party may be winding down, and someone might wonder where I am.”
Trace helped her up and rolled up the robe while she got back into her clothes. Still amazed by what had just happened, he found conversation difficult, even when Grace made joking remarks about the disheveled state of her dress. Confused before, when she had insisted that he follow her down to the creek, he was even more so afterward. He didn’t know what to make of this sudden development, and he was struggling to put some meaning into it. Already, he felt a sense of responsibility for compromising the lady’s virtue.
She studied the perplexed scout’s face as she buttoned the last buttons on her dress, sensing the uncertainty in his thoughts. The Mountain Hawk, she thought. You are a magnificent animal, but inside you are like a child. “Trace,” she said, placing her hand on his arm, “I owe you an apology. I used you shamefully. I hope you won’t be angry with me.” She gazed directly in his eyes, noting the uncertainty she saw there. “I think you needed me as badly as I needed you.” She smiled and gave his arm a little squeeze.
Trace could not understand why she felt she should apologize until she explained as they walked back toward the cabin. “You are a good and decent man, Trace, but I’ve got sense enough to know that you belong to the mountains. There is really no room for a woman in your life, unless she could live like an Indian—and I can’t do that. Lieutenant Masters has asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted. We’re going back to Fort Kearny in two months where he’s permanently stationed. We’ll be married there.” Reading the astonishment in his eyes, she pleaded, “You can understand why I can’t make love with him, can’t you? I want him to think more highly of me than you probably do right now.”
Masters, so that was the young lieutenant’s name with whom Grace had been talking so intimately before. Trace wondered why he felt so dejected. He was certainly not in love with Grace Turner. Still, there was a definite feeling of despondency. He had an inclination to defend his character, to assert that he would make as good a husband as any man, even though deep down he knew he wouldn’t. Instead, he said, “No, ma’am, I’m not mad at you. You did me a great honor, and I’ll always appreciate it.”
She smiled, relieved. “You’re a good man, Trace McCall, and I thank you for this day.”
Thinking it more discreet, they said good-bye before they reached the clearing before the cabin. Trace climbed aboard the paint and wheeled him around, riding back along the creek. He didn’t look back to see her standing there watching him until he disappeared into the trees. He felt the need for a ride, and after a hundred yards or so along the creek, he crossed over and emerged on the open prairie.
Urging the paint into a faster pace, he rode across the snow-covered grass, feeling the chilly wind on his face, clearing his mind and sharpening his senses. He did not deny that he might have needed the tryst with Grace more than she. He had lost touch with those feelings. He thought about her plans to marry the young lieutenant and the urgency to find his son suddenly returned. He desperately wanted some sense of family. Even a hawk had family.