I’d grown up fast in the two years since the murder of my family. I’d had to as a matter of survival. And I guess somewhere along the line I grew up changed, because no more was I the good-natured, light-minded fifteen-year-old girl my folks had brought with them from Ohio to the High Plains of Kansas.
Death and tragedy dogged the heels of other emigrants in the 1880s and though the names were different, the stories always seemed the same. For me a large part of my life ended that spring morning, but the bigger part was beginning.
The morning that changed my life even more started quietly enough. I felt dirty and wanted a bath badly, so once my chores were done and I’d had some breakfast, I gathered up clean clothes, soap and a rough towel. With the rifle tucked into the crook of my arm I headed to the river.
Patch, the tomcat, cavorted in the warmth of the spring air. He was an ugly, gray cat with a yellowish patch across one side of his head and an ear. Pa had picked him up in town as a tiny kitten. The bluetick who also trailed me had followed our wagon faithfully all the way from Ohio. I was glad to have Tracker with me now. A good dog, I often thought contentedly to myself, was worth any man. As long as I had my animals I wasn’t in total solitude, though close to it. I preferred it that way. Critters had more smarts than most people, and made better company.
Tracker went off in pursuit of something more interesting than my bath, and the cat chased after a butterfly. I stripped out of my faded, too-small dress at the edge of a pool and dove in, glad to shed both clothes and dirt.
The bath was wonderful and I regretfully climbed out after spending a long time submerged. I dressed in a clean dress as faded as the other, smoothed the threadbare wrinkles and gathered up my gear. I headed back up the hill.
I’d gone no farther than twenty feet when a sound and movement in thick grasses halted me cold. I dropped my things and swung my rifle into firing position, squinting down the sights.
“You’d best sing out before I shoot!” I called fiercely.
I guess I didn’t sound too fierce at that; I could hear the quaver in my voice. It made me angry to show my fear like that. Fear never threatened anybody.
The grass moved before I could try again, and this time a voice accompanied it. “Please—don’t shoot….”
“What do you want?”
“Help—I need your help. That’s all.”
“You hurt?”
“Shot.”
Shot, is he, I considered as I chewed my bottom lip. I didn’t particularly want trouble of any sort coming onto my land, let alone shooting trouble. But if he was hurt badly I didn’t want him dying on me here. So I started to skirt around him, approaching cautiously.
“Keep in mind I got a rifle on you,” I warned. He was close enough for me to hear the laughter in his answer. “I don’t think I have the strength for it. You’re safe enough—from me.”
When I got up to him I saw he wasn’t going to cause me any trouble. He was hurt too badly for it. He lay on his belly, one arm outstretched like he’d been using it to pull himself along. The other one he held close to his left side. His shirt was dirty and torn, and dark bloodstains spread across his left shoulder. I saw newer, redder stains wetting the fabric as well.
“No strength,” I muttered softly. “I can see that clear enough. You look about done in.”
“I am,” he said softly.
I withdrew a step, startled by his voice, for I’d thought he’d fainted from the pain. His face was white and gaunt like he’d been doing some activity far past his physical ability, and the pain painted blue shadows under his eyes.
“You’ve got to help me,” he whispered. “I can’t run anymore.”
His eyes opened and I stared down at him, rifle still clenched in my hands. I saw his eyes wander dazedly up my bare legs, over my faded green dress and then to my face. I saw disappointment in his face.
“Just a girl,” he murmured. He swallowed heavily, keeping his eyes open with effort. “Fetch your pa, would you? I—I need help.”
“If you need it, you’ll get it from me,” I said brusquely. “If you truly need it.”
The free hand stretched and dug fingers into the grass, tautening to pull himself upright. His teeth shone in a fearful rictus of concentration, and the strain in his face drove away my suspicions.
“Don’t,” I said, kneeling to set the rifle aside. “Don’t spend any more strength than you have to. I’ll—I’ll tend to it. Stay still.”
I put my fingers to the hole in his shirt as he subsided into silence, breathing hard from exertion. He wasn’t lying. The bullet hole in his shoulder reminded me forcibly what I’d found in my family. The sight brought the whole recollection back as if it were two days old rather than two years, and I swallowed heavily.
“Listen,” I said to him, “I can’t move you by myself. You’ll have to help me. The house ain’t far. At least if you’re bound to die you’ll do it in a decent bed, what’s due a man, not lying in the dirt.”
Black lashes fluttered as his eyes came open. “I’ve never heard someone encourage me in quite that manner.”
I stared at him, then shrugged. “Come on, stranger. Let’s get this done with.”
He mumbled something and raised himself, screwing up his face at the pain. I moved in and lent a hand, then together we somehow struggled to our feet.
“You’re heavy!” I gasped, trying to remain upright.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, weaving on his feet as he tried a step.
He was about to keel over, but I hung on like a dog with a bone. I pulled his right arm over my shoulders and let him lean on me, though I staggered under his weight. He wasn’t much help, but he tried.
“Come on,” I gasped through clenched teeth. “Walk. Slow and easy. The house ain’t far ahead. Use me to hold some of your weight.”
“You’re the best crutch a man could ever have,” he said softly, and I grunted in response.
I discovered what was meant by dead weight. The burden I supported wasn’t quite dead—yet—but close to it. He was wobbly and stumbling, but I could feel him tense up with the effort to do it on his own. He never complained, though it must have hurt something fierce. Maybe he couldn’t force anything out between his clenched teeth.
“Don’t think about it,” I ordered. “Just walk.”
“I am walking.”
“Lean on me some more if you need to.”
“If I do, you’ll collapse.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Willingly.”
When we got to the house I used a foot to shove open the door of the bedroom my parents had used. For a moment I felt a wavering regret, for I hadn’t been in the room since, but had no time to think about putting him somewhere else. He was due a good bed and time to himself for healing.
“Here’s the bed,” I said.
“I never thought I’d see one of these again,” he gasped, and fell forward onto it.
I winced as he landed, but it didn’t seem to bother him. I put a hand on his good arm.
“Here, let me help you turn over.”
He muttered something and shifted, pushing himself onto his side. I halted, stricken by something in his face.
“They want me dead,” he murmured, nearly incoherent with pain and weakness. “Dead….”
“Who does?” I demanded harshly, stiffening. His blue eyes were wide, staring, but saw no more than his own images. “They shot me.”
“Who?” I hissed sharply, but saw I’d get no answer. He’d passed out.
The bullet had gone through his left shoulder, leaving a clean hole with no ragged edges. But he’d lost a lot of blood, and dragging himself along the ground had put dirt in the wound, causing inflammation. I made a poultice after cleaning the wound thoroughly, and bandaged the wound carefully.
A low growl came through the door as I finished and it climbed in pitch as Tracker scrabbled into the house, toenails scratching deeply into the wood floor. He came through the door as fast as he could move on the slick wood, sliding, lips drawn back in a menacing snarl.
I put a hand out to him. “Tracker! No! It’s safe, safe. Settle down, old hound, settle down.”
My tone eased the dog and he quieted his loud growl, but I could still hear the low rumble in his throat as he posted himself at the end of the bed. He was hackled from shoulders to tail, tensed to leap onto the stranger if I asked for it.
I hushed the dog again and he finally retreated to a corner by the door, curling down in the floor, keeping a wary eye on the man in the bed. I felt safe now, even if the stranger did mean me harm. I trusted Tracker to take down any man in an instant.
I cut my patient free of the bloodied shirt and dropped it so the hound could smell it, accustoming himself to the stranger’s scent. He’d still jump him if I ordered, but I’d have no battle if it wasn’t necessary. I left his pants alone; a man is due his dignity even while hurt. I pulled up a chair and sat with him, fearing he might grow fevered. I used the time to study on what sort of a man he was, or might be.
He didn’t look a whole lot older than me. The sick white color of his face made him take after a child, I thought, seeking peace in the big bed. His hair was dark and shaggy, needing cutting.
A man’s character shows in his face, so I studied his closely to get an idea of him, vulnerable in sleep. His jaw was firm and sharp, as if he could be stubborn. The bones of his face were clear and good. His was a young face, but I thought the age might be coming very soon. Out here a man grew up fast.
His eyes, though closed now in sleep, were deep blue and fringed with black lashes long enough to do any girl proud. But there was no hint of girlishness in him.
I sat on my chair and stared into his face, wondering apprehensively what had brought him practically to my doorstep, shot and running, badly frightened, yet wearing no gunbelt.
“Who are you?” I asked softly. “Who are you, stranger, and why have you come?”
He lay quietly in the bed, telling me nothing as he slept and dreamed and began to heal. Half of me badly wanted him to waken and tell me his reasons for being here; the other half refused to consider his problems. I’d learned to say little of my concerns to the townsfolk, and I knew it would be hard for me to demand explanations from him. When a person’s reluctant to say anything of himself, he’s equally reluctant to ask it of someone else.
I glanced around the bedroom, reflecting that I hadn’t been in it since my first day back on the farm after the shootings. I had unpacked everything the bank’s people had packed up, thinking I’d willingly sell and leave, and had carefully brought order back to the room my parents had made part of a home.
The lovely handworked cradle sat in a corner, dusty from lack of attention, empty of the infant who had been my brother. I felt familiar anguish squeeze my heart, then banished it as I always did. It didn’t serve me to recall the pain of the first weeks I spent alone on the farm, determined to make it my own with help from no one.
I’d managed, and that was all that needed to be said.
At first, of course, I’d wished the scavengers had killed me as well. But the knowledge of whose daughter I was and a sense of family pride kept me from giving in to the pressure the townsfolk heaped on me. They claimed it wasn’t possible for a lone girl to work a farm and make a decent living, but I knew better.
It was more than just stubborn pride that kept me going, more than a simple wish to prove them wrong. I felt a kinship with the land, something my pa had spoken of with warmth and wonder in his voice. The land wouldn’t kill me if I respected it and treated it as an equal, and gave into it when necessary. Somehow the silent land and I had struck a bargain. I never expected an easy life, so the troubles didn’t bother me. I just kept on, willing to compromise with the prairie plains. They were my home.
I blew out a breath as I studied the stranger, wishing I knew exactly what he was. Over the two years alone I’d learned to fend for myself, backed by Tracker and the rifle, but my confidence didn’t extend to dealing with a man who brought violence along with him. Until he roused enough to explain matters fully, I’d have to treat him with care. No telling what sort of a man he was.
“You’re hurt, just like any critter,” I said softly. “I won’t have your death on my soul, unless God prefers to put you to some angelical task in heaven. Guess I’m stuck with you for now.” I sighed. “Just don’t bring your troubles to me.”
Later, as I boiled a hot stew in hopes of feeding him, Tracker’s growl snapped me to attention. I left the stew simmering on the stove and went to see what sort of mischief my visitor was concocting.
He was attempting to sit up, but the exercise was a failure. The sick pallor of his face had flushed with feverish color and his eyes were dazed and bright. I placed my hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back against the pillows, glad when his small strength gave in. I smoothed the blankets over his chest and felt the trembling sickness in his bones, realizing I’d most likely miss my sleep. He’d need tending.
“Just lie easy, the rest will do you good. There’s nothing more for you to run from now. Rest.”
He stared wide-eyed at me. “Am I sick?”
“Can’t you tell?”
He shivered and slid further beneath the covers, disoriented. “I don’t feel well. I must be sick.”
“You’re sick, but not enough to fret over. It’ll pass, and you’ll feel fine again.” I tried to make my face look friendly. “Do you feel like eating something?”
“No,” he said plaintively, pushing his right hand through his hair. “No, I’m not hungry.”
I nodded. “You will be soon enough. Well, the broth will wait. Go back to sleep.”
“Are they out there?” he demanded suddenly.
“Are who out there?”
He shoved the trembling hand through his hair again, sucking in a deep breath. “They’re there,” he muttered at me. “Somewhere. They’re there.”
I gritted my teeth. “You’ve already got me sounding like an owl, asking ‘who?’ all the time. Do you plan on telling me?”
“Maybe I got away,” he whispered blankly. “Maybe they’ll forget about me.”
“Let’s hope so,” I agreed. “Though I admit you’ve got my curiosity riled. Maybe if they came looking for you I’d discover what it is you’re mumbling about.”
His stare was oddly piercing. “Tell me they’ve gone. Tell me!”
I swallowed, nodding. “They’re gone. Whoever they are—they’re gone.”
His color ebbed to corpse-white again. “Are you sure?”
He needed to be told. So I did. “The men who are chasing you are gone,” I said flatly. “Gone. Now go to sleep.”
He let his breath out in sudden relief and with it went his strength. Once more he lay deeply gone in sleep, or unconsciousness. I shivered once in response to his fear and obsessive need for safety, and left him alone.
I went to my garden and lost myself in the weeding, liking the chore as I dug in the cool, loose soil. I was always happy and content with life when I got back to the land; it did me good to work with growing things. The blue of the sky was heavy enough to blind a person, and bright sunlight lay like a blanket across the land. I forgot my sick stranger as I tended the vegetables, and felt the tenseness leave my body as I worked.
I grew thirsty and headed for the well. Tracker interrupted my drink of cool water with a bark of alarm, and I dropped the dipper and ran.
He was sitting upright again and this time he’d accomplished it. I stopped dead in the bedroom doorway, wondering just how strong a man could be in fever. I doubted I could force him back down if he didn’t feel like doing it.
Tracker stood stiff-legged, growling and hackled. I put a hand to his neck as he moved to my left side. He would attack only if I gave the word, or if the man threatened me. I held my tongue, wondering.
He glanced wildly around the room in a mixture of fear and aggression. Fresh blood stained the bandages and I realized in irritation he’d broken open his wound again. My hands went to my hips.
“Lie back down, mister. You’ll do yourself no good thrashing around like that, and you’re only making more work for me to look after you. Lie back down, or I’ll put the dog on you.”
Maybe my words had some effect or maybe his strength gave our right then, but he did slump back on the pillows. I smiled to myself as he stared at the snarling hound. Then he wrenched his gaze to me.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Lonnie Ryan. I’m the one who nearly stumbled across you by the river earlier. You always creep up on a person like that?”
He blinked at my tone, though he continued to stare at me, a blank look in his eyes. He looked thoughtfully at me without the wild-eyed glare of before.
“Then I really am here.”
“Of course you’re here,” I said. “Where else would you be?”
“I thought—I thought maybe I’d dreamed it all.”
I lifted an eyebrow suspiciously. “All? Or just the part where I found you?”
He swallowed. “I really did get away.”
I sighed. “I sure hope you make better sense when you’re awake and alert. So far this passle of trouble you’re involved in sounds like some sort of a lunatic’s tale.”
Color left his face. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know you.”
I bit at a finger reflectively, trying to piece together whatever it was I’d gotten myself mixed up in. He didn’t look crazy to me, just sick and scared, and apprehensive about what my intentions were. Well, we were even on that. I removed my finger and smiled soothingly at him.
“If I’m all you have to worry about, it ain’t much. You may as well sleep peacefully. I don’t shoot without just cause.”
“Shoot?” he asked warily.
“Of course someone already beat me to it,” I said lightly.
His brows lowered into a frown. “What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. But you weren’t making any sense either, so I thought I might try it.” I sighed wearily. “You are safe here, you know, for the time being. So long as you make no threat to me.”
“To you? Why would I?”
I shrugged. “I guess that’s your secret. In addition to the one you’ve already got.”
The puzzled look faded and he was withdrawn once more. “I can’t tell you.”
“Fine,” I said. “Can I at least replace the poultice? Turn on your side.”
He did as I asked and never said a word as I fixed a new poultice and wrappings for his shoulder. Already some of the swelling had gone down, though the inflammation still looked angry and sore. The fever was fading for now, but I knew he’d sicken again come nighttime.
“Where’s everyone else?” he asked once I’d finished.
“I’m all there is.”
He stared at me. “All?”
“All,” I said firmly. “I’m alone out here, but don’t go thinking I’m helpless. I was never that.”
“But you must have people here. A family.”
“None.”
Perhaps something in my tone sounded guarded, for he hesitated as he spoke again. “What happened? Indians?”
“Why do folks always lay trouble at the doorstep of Indians?” I asked bitterly. “What happened to me came at the bloody hands of white men.”
“White men!”
“Plains scavengers.”
“I’d sooner call them animals,” he said.
I shook my head. “I’d sooner call them men. Animals don’t kill needlessly.”
He opened his mouth to say something more, but I left him with his words to rid myself of the dirtied bandages. When I returned he was plucking at the bedcovers. He looked up at me curiously as I observed him silently from the doorway.
“I guess I should tell you my name.”
I shrugged. “If you want to tell it.”
He smiled crookedly. “So you think I’m running from the law and hiding my true identity.”
“I never said that.”
“I see it in your face.”
“You see nothing of the sort in my face,” I retorted. “Besides, you don’t look the outlaw kind to me.”
His eyes slid away from mine. “You might be surprised about that.”
I opened my mouth to speak but he shook his head. “You’re right. I’m no outlaw. I’m Tobias Markham. Toby.”
“You hungry yet, Toby Markham?”
“Some.”
“I’ll get you some broth.”
He fed himself after I settled his pillows higher. Tracker, after a word from me, accepted that the stranger would be moving around some now. But he remained in the corner close by, watching.
Patch appeared suddenly, stalking through the bedroom door with tail held high and curled at the tip. He rambled on at great length about something in his quiet purring yowl. He landed on the bed and began kneading, so I moved in to pick him up. Toby stopped me.
“Let him stay. I don’t mind.”
“A cat’s got no place on a sickbed.”
“I’m not sick.” He seemed to quail beneath my glance. “At least—I’m feeling better. Let him stay.”
I cocked my head at him. “Maybe right now you feel better, but come nighttime you’ll be sick as before. Fevers always worsen at night, and you had enough dirt in that wound to kill you flat out from infection alone.”
He stared at Patch curling on the bed, but I could tell he wasn’t seeing the cat. He was past that, somewhere far beyond. For a moment I feared he was getting feverish already, then he looked straight at me. His mouth twisted.
“I should tell you why I’m like this. Why you found me where you did.”
“You should,” I agreed. “But it’s no business of mine. So long as you don’t bring your trouble to my door, I’ll leave you be about your circumstances.” I held his startled stare with my own. “Out here you won’t find folk as open about some things. ’Specially trouble. But you’ve been muttering about people trying to kill you, so you could say I’m a mite curious.”
He swallowed and avoided my eyes. “Men,” he said. “They were men. That’s all.”
It wasn’t in me to pry, so I let it alone. But it was only fair to say I was somewhat worried about this stranger’s trouble.
“Your clothes were stained and torn and the bullet wound is at least a day or two old, untended,” I told him quietly. “You’ve got no gunbelt. Keep your silence, if you like, but don’t think it ain’t obvious you’re running from someone.”
“Isn’t,” he corrected absently, then stared at me as I gaped at him. “It’s as plain as that, then.”
“To me, and to others around these parts. We don’t talk much. We don’t particularly feel the need.”
His eyes had gone hard and bright and his voice took on a mocking tone I’d heard others use to me before. “Why don’t you feel the need? Aren’t you sociable?”
“Sociable’s got nothing to do with it! In this part of the country a man doesn’t ask another man his trade unless he’s willing to tell it, and he’ll speak first if he is. That goes for personal things, too.”
He was amused at my expense. “But you’re no man, Lonnie Ryan, and there’s a lot about you that puzzles me.”
My head came up, scenting something familiar. I’d heard this said many times before by townsfolk despairing of my future.
I took myself and the empty bowl to the door. My injured guest stared after me, waiting for a word in return.
I shrugged and grinned lopsidedly at him. “Stay puzzled.”