Chapter 2

Trudging through prairie grasses and over another rise, Ian Kamden set one heavy foot in front of the other. It seemed all he’d been able to manage since Doc Le Beau climbed out of the Conestoga and told him Rhoda hadn’t made it.

Angus, the eldest of their five children, had tied their horses a quarter mile back so they could hunt on foot. His son walked beside him, his shoulders slumped and his voice silent. No doubt, still wrestling with his own memories.

The sun, beginning its journey to the horizon, seemed bent on harassing Ian. He tugged down the brim on his tam cap to block the glare. If only he could yank the troublesome thoughts from his mind as readily. He scrubbed the beard he’d let go. He never should’ve taken Rhoda away from Saint Charles. It had been their home for five years, until he’d loaded his goods and family into two wagons and set off across the wilderness with the Boone’s Lick Wagon Train Company like some kind of crazed man in search of gold.

Now Rhoda was dead. He’d walked away from the fresh mound of dirt that concealed her lifeless body in order to journey on … to where? They’d talked about Montana, Colorado, Idaho, even California, where so many of the company were headed, but they’d not made a decision. They had time, or so they thought. And Mither, well, she didn’t seem to care, as long as they hurried to get there.

Ian shifted his Colt’s long barrel, resting it closer to his collar. It’d be nice if even a slight breeze would lift the damp fabric from his arm and shoulder to cool him. Today the company had only traveled ten miles, stopping early, which afforded him daylight for hunting.

“Faither?”

Angus’s voice cut into Ian’s thoughts and halted his steps. His son sported a smattering of freckles across his nose like the ones Ian had despised on his own childhood face. And at eleven years, Angus was nearly as tall as his mother.

Had been.

Ian looked toward a stand of scraggly cottonwoods. “Did you spot something?”

“No, sir.” His son’s sigh lifted a lock of brown hair that draped across his forehead. “Were you thinkin’ on Mither?”

“I was.” Little else could gain ground to occupy his thoughts. But now that she’d been gone awhile and the initial shock was wearing off, he had his motherless children to think about.

Ian blew out a long breath and rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’ll take us some time to—”

To what? Grow accustomed to not having a wife or mother?

Angus pointed to the trees about a mile away. “I’ll climb a tree. Might be able to spot somethin’ from there.”

Several minutes later, Ian cupped his hands beneath his son’s shoe and gave him a boost. Angus grabbed hold of a low branch and swung up into the cottonwood then crawled out onto a sturdy branch. His legs curled around the gray bark, and he peered off into the distance.

“You see anything, son?”

“Nothing at the closest watering hole.” His arm hooking the branch, Angus pointed toward the north. “But I see something off that way. It’s dark. Brown. And real big.”

“Buffalo?”

“That’s what it is, all right. Lots of buffalo.” His son’s voice swelled with excitement, while Ian’s chest tightened.

“How close are they?”

“Looks like a couple miles away, maybe.” Angus inched back toward the trunk of the tree.

Ian wouldn’t mind coming across a buffalo off on its own, but he had no intention of tangling with a herd of the enormous beasts.

“So long as they don’t get spooked, they won’t be any bother. We’ll go a little farther south with our gunfire, away from them. Better safe than sorry.”

Angus dropped to the ground and fell into step with Ian.

They hadn’t walked but a quarter mile, just reaching the other side of a rise, when a gunshot rang out.

Both of them froze in their tracks. No one else from camp had come this direction, and they hadn’t seen any other companies in the area. But clearly they weren’t alone. Whoever had fired that shot either hadn’t seen the buffalo or didn’t know any better.

A sudden thunderous rumble tensed Ian’s shoulders. He turned around and hurried back to the rise with Angus at his heels. A brown mass in the distance kicked up a cloud of dust that threatened to block the sun.

“Stampede! Hurry, son. We’ve gotta get into a tree.”

A lone tree stood about thirty feet away, and they both ran toward it. When they reached the sycamore, Ian lifted Angus onto a low branch. As his son scrambled higher, Ian followed, using only the sturdiest limbs for his ladder. Once he’d climbed as high as he dared, Ian laid his trusty single shot across his leg.

“Look! There, Faither.” Angus pointed at a small man on foot, darting toward the tree. One gloved hand held a sombrero on the man’s head, and the other gripped a limp rabbit. A pair of six-shooters bounced in cross-draw holsters. He had to be the one who set off the herd.

A few feet from the base of the tree, the man, wearing a poncho despite the heat, stopped and looked up at them. Panting, he glanced back at the growing cloud of dust then dropped the rabbit and leaped toward the lowest branch. His boy-sized boots scrambled up the trunk. Quite a feat, given that his trousers would fit a man two sizes bigger.

Ian sighed. He didn’t wish anyone harm, even the lout who had gotten them into this mess. He hooked his arm on the branch then braced his rifle, leaned forward, and extended his other hand.

The fellow grabbed Ian’s wrist and swung up into the tree. When he’d settled onto a branch just above Ian, he tugged the brim of his hat down, hiding his eyes. His chin was curiously smooth.

“The buffalo, they scared my horse away.” A youngster’s voice. “I’d gotten off him to hunt the rabbit.” What was a kid doing out here alone?

Ian hoped the herd would turn before their horses became spooked. Or worse. He braced himself against the tree trunk and raised his rifle. Faster than he could draw a breath, the kid had the barrel of a six-shooter pointed at his chest.

Ian shook his head. “Put that thing away.” Whoever this kid was, he was fast on the draw. Come to think of it, he was a good shot, too, if he had nailed that rabbit with only one bullet.

Ian fired his rifle into the air. “That should turn the herd away.” He looked up at the interloper. “You always draw on a man who helps you into a tree and out of danger?”

“You could’ve said something.” The kid slid the six-shooter into its holster and shifted, brushing his hat against the branch above him. The sombrero tumbled to the ground, revealing short, golden-brown curls.

“It’s a girl!” The rise in Angus’s voice expressed Ian’s surprise as well.

Ian looked away and started down from the tree. He wasn’t dealing with a boy. A vein in his neck throbbed as he swung to the ground. What was a female doing out here alone? Especially one with the sense of a groundhog and the skill of a marksman?

Neelie held onto the Scotsman with her fingertips. When Ian Kamden had refused to double up with his son and let her ride the pinto, she said she’d ride with the boy to the wagon camp. Mr. Kamden wouldn’t hear of it. Not that she blamed him for being cautious. Given the chance, she might’ve taken off with the boy’s horse, if for no other reason than to find Whistle. How was she to put on Wild West shows without her mustang, let alone get all the way to San Francisco?

Mr. Kamden insisted she ride behind him. The boy, Angus, carried the rabbit she’d shot, setting off a chain of events that chased off her horse and left her beholden to a stranger out in the middle of the prairie. He and his son were part of the wagon caravan she’d spotted from the hills. If only she’d been looking in the direction of the buffalo herd instead.

Neelie stared at the wall of broad shoulders in front of her. She had no horse. No supplies. With only the clothes on her back and the guns in her holsters, she had no option but to hook up with the wagon company. If she sowed her seeds right, she might be able to put on a show in exchange for a horse and supplies. If Whistle didn’t find her first. The reality, though, was that she didn’t know how far her mustang had run or if he’d fallen into the hands of someone on the trail.

Mr. Kamden’s palomino stumbled, and Neelie tightened her grip on his striped shirt, breathing in the smell of sweat and wheel grease. A family man with a wife and at least one child.

The boy called Angus cleared his throat. “Mem, you have a husband?”

Neelie swallowed hard. “I did. But he died.” She’d trusted Archie with her heart, and within moments of her arrival in Santa Fe, he’d crushed it. She wouldn’t let that happen again. She was the keeper of her heart. And she’d locked it and tossed away the key.

“My mither died, too.” The boy’s words stung her spirit.

That meant Mr. Kamden was widowed. Neelie loosened her grip on the shirt in front of her and looked at the child. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, mem. Yours, too.” Angus scrubbed his freckled cheek. “She was real sick. Died on the trail.”

They rode a mile or so in silence but for the sound of horse hooves and the squawk of a magpie overhead.

Angus guided his horse closer to her, his shoulders and his chin drooping. “I’m sorry about your horse, mem. I’d be real upset if Patches run off.” He patted the pinto’s withers.

Neelie nodded. The mustang had been her only friend the past couple of years and her right hand in her shows.

“Faither, are you sure we can’t go look for Miss Neelie’s horse?”

Mr. Kamden angled toward his son, his profile revealing soft crow’s-feet framing his eye. “Like I already told her, we can’t risk wandering aimlessly looking for a horse that could’ve gone anywhere, or …”

Been trampled. Neelie’s mind finished the thought for him, her stomach knotting in its wake.

“The sun’s already sinking in the sky, Angus. It’s too dangerous to be wandering out on the prairie come dusk.”

A frown pinched the boy’s eyes. “Sorry we can’t help you find your horse, Miss Neelie, but we probably have extra stuff in our wagons.”

Wagons? “You have more than one wagon, Mr. Kamden? Are you the captain of the caravan?”

“That would be Mr. Garrett Cowlishaw.”

Cowlishaw was the man she’d talk to about putting on a show, then.

“We have five children,” Mr. Kamden continued. “That’s why we have two wagons. But I’m sure we have a few supplies we can spare.”

We. After Archie was killed, it took Neelie three or four months to stop saying we. If his wife had died on the trail, this man was likely less than two months out from the burial and caring for their five children. She didn’t envy him his load.

“My mother is with us. And there is a young woman traveling with her brother and mother who helps us out during the daylight hours.”

Clouds of smoke drew Neelie’s attention to a valley just beyond the rise. The woodsy scent of campfires teased her senses as a semicircle of wagons came into view. They’d camped beside the Platte River at the edge of a scanty line of oaks and elms.

Neelie brushed a persnickety curl behind her ear. It would feel mighty good to wash up before setting off on her own again.

The wall of shoulders turned slightly and Mr. Kamden pointed to an encampment at the bottom of the hill. “This is it.”

Cows and oxen congregated in the grasses while hobbled horses grazed. Several children darted around, apparently engaged in some sort of game. Women stirred pots at the campfires. Off to the side, three men bent over shovels. Looked like latrine duty. One man big like Mr. Kamden, only rounded. Another short and wiry, who wore a cavalry hat. Brown hair dusted the collar of the third man. A sweaty shirt clung to a torso nearly equal to the length of his legs.

Just like—

“That don’t look like any wild game I ever seen, Kamden.” The wiry fellow wiped his brow with a kerchief.

Mr. Kamden cleared his throat. “You best finish up there right quick, Boney. Me and Angus found a female.”

The third fellow straightened and looked at her with eyes the color of cocoa. Like Mother’s.

But he couldn’t be Caleb. Caleb was dead.