Jacqueline awakened in the gray predawn, suddenly aware that, despite her knotted stomach, she had closed her eyes and gone out like a snuffed candle.
And because of last night’s fit of modesty, she desperately needed a trip to Charlie’s outhouse. She lifted her head and peered around the belly of the stove.
And bolted upright. Fitzgerald’s bedroll was gone and him with it. Had he left her alone? She’d cursed his presence, but once she’d gotten used to the idea of such solid protection, losing it filled her with terror.
She wildly looked around the cramped interior of the cabin. Then it dawned on her that the stove was still going. Fitzgerald hadn’t been gone long. Probably he would be back any minute.
Now was her chance to take care of necessary business without enduring his prying questions.
She scrambled out from under the blanket and shoved her feet into her boots. Snatching her hat off the table, she wound her brown woolen scarf around her throat and stumbled outside. The blast of frozen air on the other side of the door nearly made her forget the pain of a full bladder and head back to the warmth of the stove. Gritting her teeth, she put her head down against the icy wind and trudged toward the rear of the cabin.
A few minutes later, frozen of backside but otherwise considerably more comfortable, she headed back to the front door. Maybe she should check on Celeste, though. No telling where that nosy Micah Fitzgerald had got off to. She hadn’t heard a sound that would indicate his whereabouts.
He was a very quiet man.
Inside the barn, with the bite of the wind on the other side of the door, Jacqueline paused and listened. The snuffle and blowing of the animals drew her into the dim interior.
“Celeste? You all right?” She shuffled her way down the inner aisle as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The mule poked her bony head over the stall door and lipped Jacqueline’s shoulder.
She laughed. “Hungry, huh? I’ll find you some hay, hang on.” Shivering, she ducked into an empty stall, where she’d found clean hay yesterday. She picked up the pitchfork leaning in the corner, jammed it into the pile and took an armload back to Celeste’s stall—and halted. Fresh hay was already scattered on the dirt floor. Fitzgerald had beat her out here.
Uneasy, she glanced around. Was he hiding somewhere, watching her to see what she would do when she thought nobody was looking?
But there wasn’t another sound, except for the blue roan gelding in the other stall, munching on his own breakfast.
Jacqueline put the hay and pitchfork back where she’d found them and walked to the gelding’s stall. He ignored her as she rested folded arms atop the door.
“You’re just as quiet as your boss, big boy. Wonder what’s your name.” Fitzgerald hadn’t said, she would’ve remembered, but the horse was clearly cavalry stock. “Probably something military. Sarge or Major maybe.” The gelding looked up, sudden interest in the big dark eyes. “Major? That it?” Whuffling, the horse moved toward her and nuzzled her arm.
She petted him for a moment, enjoying his warm breath and body heat. It occurred to her that she had an opportunity to shake her unwanted companion. She could ride out, leaving the scout with her rickety mule, and he’d never catch up to her. The horse was nearly sixteen hands, much bigger than typical Pony Express stock, but she thought she could handle him.
Still, she’d have to hurry.
“Where’s your saddle, Major? Wanna go for a ride?”
She looked around the barn and found the gelding’s tack neatly piled at the far end. Hurriedly she gathered the bridle and blanket, leaving the saddle for the second trip. When she went back for it, she staggered under its weight, barely managing to heave it over the horse’s withers. But Major was well-trained and stood patiently while she tightened the girth.
She patted the winter-thick coat of his neck. “You’re a good boy.”
For a moment she stood holding the bridle, shivering, indecisive. Horse thievery was no small matter. If, as she suspected, Fitzgerald was a lawman rather than a telegraph scout as he claimed, she could be in big trouble.
If she got caught.
And she was a Christian. The right thing to do would be to go back into the cabin and face whatever consequences befell her.
On the other hand, she had no way of knowing what this stranger’s goals and motivations might be. Every man she’d known in her short life had focused on his own selfish aims—with the possible exception of her brother, and even he had his shortcomings. Didn’t the Bible say that “all have sinned and come short of the glory of God”? How could she trust a man she’d known less than twelve hours, no matter how steady and gentle his eyes and voice?
Perhaps taking Micah Fitzgerald’s horse would be forgiven in the light of self-protection. Surely God didn’t expect stupidity out of her. And she could always leave the horse for him when she got to the next station—where, surely, she would find traces of Neil’s whereabouts.
Pressing her lips together, she gathered the reins and led the gelding to the door. She pulled the latch and pushed it open, gasping when a gust of wind yanked it outward with a thump against the outside wall of the barn. Major flinched but held steady as she whispered to him and stroked him. “Good boy,” she repeated, over and over, calming herself as much as the horse.
She peered outside and saw nothing but dark, still, silent prairie. The sky looked like gunmetal, heavy with snow clouds that smothered the rising sun. She hoped Micah Fitzgerald would stay occupied for long enough that she could get away.
“All right, then.” She sucked in an icy breath. Keeping the reins in her left hand, she put her foot in the near stirrup and grabbed the pommel.
She was off the ground, halfway in the saddle before the gelding reared. Caught completely off-guard, balance shattered, Jacqueline hung on as best she could as the horse danced like a circus performer. Jigging one way, slamming to all fours again, rocking to the left and heaving into a demented silent bucking, Major threw his would-be rider off in less than ten seconds.
Wheezing, Jacqueline lay flat on her back looking up at the horse. Apologetically he dipped his beautiful small head to lip her hair.
Without warning she started to cry. Just rolled over on the dirt-and-straw floor and buried her face in her arms.
That was where Micah Fitzgerald found her.
Just pondering a bit today. My father served as a medic in Germany during the Korean conflict. He never made much of a big deal about it, except for telling funny tales about giving shots to GI’s, and teaching me a couple of German drinking songs….But one of the most moving parts of his graveside service several years ago was the playing of “Taps” and the firing squad to honor his service as a veteran.
Here’s a little about Robin:
