Sweet Desire

By Sara Orwig

An army scout vows to protect a young woman traveling to Texas—but his heart is left unguarded—in a tale by the bestselling “star of historical romance” (RT Book Reviews).
 
When Comanches threaten Caroline Brandon, a spirited young orphan fleeing the ruins left by the Civil War, handsome army scout Sawyer Day agrees to accompany her to her uncle’s Texas ranch. But as they brave the dangers of the wilderness, an undeniable attraction tempts them both, and soon they find themselves surrendering to one another’s embrace.
 
Suddenly awakened to the heat of desire, they promise their hearts to each other. Even when Sawyer leaves to reclaim his stolen fortune, Caroline vows to wait. But can their love survive the test of time, or will it fade into the vast distance between them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626817739

Sara Orwig

Sara Orwig lives in Oklahoma and has a deep love of Texas. With a master’s degree in English, Sara taught high school English, was Writer-in-Residence at the University of Central Oklahoma and was one of the first inductees into the Oklahoma Professional Writers Hall of Fame. Sara has written mainstream fiction, historical and contemporary romance. Books are beloved treasures that take Sara to magical worlds. She loves both reading and writing them.

Book preview

1

Spring 1868

During the middle of March the warm Georgia sun beat down on rooftops, slanting through the high windows on the landing, glinting on a jagged pane that had broken from a cannon blast during the war. Smoothing a loose tendril of golden hair, slender fifteen-year-old Caroline Brandon was on her way downstairs to breakfast when she heard the sound of weeping. Alarmed, she followed the sound to the parlor, where she found her aunt sobbing quietly into her handkerchief.

Aunt Letty! Caroline cried. Her aunt had suffered gravely during the war, losing first her husband, then her son. To find her in such a state gave Caroline a jolt.

Come here, Caroline, I must talk to you. Letty waved her hand before pressing the linen handkerchief to her thin red nose.

Caroline approached the slight figure dressed in coarse black cotton. Aunt Letty’s graying curls were fastened in a chenille snood, a stray lock tumbling over her pale forehead. Caroline sat down on a chair upholstered in frayed yellow satin and waited.

Since I’ve lost my darlin’ Zechariah and I’ve lost Oakley, you know I don’t have anyone to lean on for protection. I’ve tried to get along in these years since the war.

I know you have, Caroline assured her.

Aunt Letty paused to cry. Finally she dabbed at her eyes and said, A single woman with a young girl can’t stay in Atlanta in these trying times.

No, ma’am, Caroline answered dutifully, thinking that they could stay in Atlanta if they wanted. Her heart began to flutter with fear. Too many times she had been shuffled from relative to relative, and she knew how to recognize the signs that indicated a new move.

Darlin’, I don’t know what else to do.

Yes, ma’am, Caroline said, patting her aunt’s thin shoulder. Finally Aunt Letty raised a tear-streaked face. Caroline, I’ll give you a choice. With your Uncle Zechariah gone, you still have two other uncles. You know you can go live with your Aunt Matilda and Uncle Daniel in Natchez—or you can go live with your Uncle John in…Texas. Darlin’, I know how you feel about Matilda, but they would give you a good life.

Caroline barely heard the words. Her heart and mind had stopped. Live with Aunt Matilda! The woman would take over her life down to the smallest detail. And when the time came, her marriage would be arranged without consulting her at all. Yet the prospect of living with Uncle John was worse—he lived in the wilds of the Texas frontier, where it was dangerous and primitive, a wilderness without any of the niceties of life. The choice seemed impossible. She loved Aunt Letty and wanted to stay in Atlanta.

For an instant her throat tightened and burned, her eyes stung with tears, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t add to Aunt Letty’s misery. Letty Brandon had had enough trouble from the war, from losing her husband, her son, her servants, and her way of life.

Can I think about it, Aunt Letty?

Sobs racked her aunt as she shook her head. I’m sorry, Caroline. Everything has happened so swiftly, too swiftly. You’ll have to make a decision now.

Stunned, Caroline thought of Matilda’s stern manner and whispered, I want to go live with Uncle John.

Letty sighed and looked relieved. Caroline suspected that she preferred sending her niece off to the frontier. It would have been trying to persuade her haughty sister-in-law to take Caroline into her elegant Natchez home.

Caroline, precious child, I’m sorry, Letty said tenderly. She flung her arms around Caroline and broke into a fresh bout of weeping.

While Caroline held her aunt, her mind swirled with this new change in her life. Another place to live…always a new place, a new family. She stared over Letty’s head out the window, where a redbird flitted in the branches of a magnolia. Someday she would be free and independent and no one would shuffle her from person to person. Someday…

An Abbot-Downing Concord stagecoach lumbered along the rutted road, jolts cushioned by the flexible thoroughbraces while the wheels stirred dust in rolling clouds behind it. Land stretched ahead endlessly. Two wagons followed the stage, and horses were tethered to the rear.

The driver’s brown eyes swept the surrounding countryside, they paused momentarily on a slight rise in the ground ahead that shielded the road from view. The beauty of the land was lost to him; he saw the ridge only as a shelter for marauding Indians. The man next to him shifted slightly, his fingers curling around the Sharps rifle that lay across his knees. He spat a mouthful of tobacco over the side of the coach and turned to look at the wagons behind them.

We came out better’n I figured we would with them wagons coming along, he said quietly.

Yeah. I didn’t relish this run by ourselves none, the other drawled. Not a leaf stirrin’.

The other man nodded. He knew full well that a slope lay ahead, with rocks, trees, and rougher ground—and far more danger of ambush.

Caroline Brandon knotted her icy hands together and looked out the window. Too anxious to relax, she tried to ignore the other passenger. He leaned forward, shifting his bulk on the seat, his plaid trousers pulling tightly over his fat thighs as he dangled a golden locket close to her eyes.

Ain’t this here a pretty little gewgaw?

She nodded stiffly.

It can be yourn if’n you want, little gal.

No, thank you, she said, taking a deep breath. Instantly his gaze dropped to her small breasts and she burned with embarrassment as he stared.

You’re a sweet little thing. If’n you stay in Fort Worth with me, I can get you all the pretty gewgaws you’d like—silk dresses, food you ain’t ever tasted before.

No, sir.

He chuckled. Right polite little missy, ain’t you?

She turned her head and stared out the window at the land spreading endlessly away from the road. She felt like bursting into tears and clamped her hands together until her fingers ached. For a painful moment she thought about the parting with Aunt Letty, and wondered when, or if, ever she would see her aunt again.

Wouldn’t you like that, little missy?

Her companion’s foul breath brought Caroline back to the hard reality of the present. She looked into watery, pale eyes only a few inches from her face. Fat fingers dropped to her knee and squeezed.

Sir, get your hand away, she snapped, shifting her knees and smoothing the buff-colored muslin. With its floral pattern of tiny claret-red blooms on green-sprigged leaves, her dress, though inches too short, was one of her best. Her bonnet of green uncut velvet had two ribbon streamers that hung down the back, though they were now covered in a thin layer of dust.

Little missy, how old are you? Seventeen? The man laughed.

She wasn’t about to tell him she would be but sixteen in July. I’m eighteen, she said, and saw the amused glint in his eyes. He reached into his portmanteau to produce a bottle.

Caroline ran her hand across her perspiring forehead. In spite of her chilled hands, the day was hot. She wanted to take off her bonnet, but it wouldn’t be proper, and the slightest lessening of cool propriety would not bode well for her in the coach with her companion. Her eyes scanned the line of trees. She remembered Aunt Letty’s whispered fears to their black servant, Carter, about sending Miss Caroline into that unholy wilderness filled with savages.

Caroline had heard of the Indian threat from other passengers, all of them gone now save for the obnoxious J. A. Barnweed. One reassuring thought was the presence of the two wagons that had joined them at Gainesville. At night, when they stopped, she had met the families from the wagons—young women with babies, small children, boys near her own age, and their fathers, folks who were kindly and pleasant. If things became too bad with the stranger, she would call to the driver to stop the stage and ask if she could ride in a wagon until they reached Fort Worth. Perhaps there she could hire someone to escort her to Uncle John’s ranch, southwest of Fort Griffin, Texas. Aunt Letty had written to Uncle John to let him know that Caroline was coming, but she had never received word back from Uncle John. So Letty’s own letter might never have reached him.

Want a little sip, missy? Barnweed wheedled, holding the bottle beneath her nose and bringing her thoughts back to the present. It would take your mind off the Injuns.

No, thank you, she said stiffly, raising her chin.

He chuckled, and she heard him gulping as he drank. He belched, then corked the bottle and moved closer, pressing his knee against hers.

She moved instantly, scooting against the door. Sir, keep your distance!

Laughing, he shifted to the seat beside her, slipping his arm around her waist.

Sir! She pulled from him, momentarily breaking free as she gripped the window and leaned out to call to the driver.

Rough hands yanked her back down on the seat and a hand clamped firmly on her mouth.

Fighting for all she was worth, Caroline felt fear she had never known before, because the arm around her waist was an iron band. At close range Barnweed was more repulsive than ever. His skin was coarse-grained, his beard a day old. Adding to her fright was intense revulsion. His fat lips were covered with saliva, his breath was foul, smelling of alcohol and chewing tobacco. His pale, watery eyes looked at her in a manner that made her blood run cold, and he was strong beyond belief. He caught her wrists in one hand behind her back and held them in such a grip she gasped from the pain.

You ain’t gonna scream, missy, and with the rumblin’ of the coach, those ribbon-handlers ain’t gonna hear you.

Swiftly he moved his hand, his mouth covering hers, silencing her scream as his lips and teeth pushed cruelly at hers. She bucked and writhed, feeling his weight pin her down while his free hand squeezed her breast. The nightmare worsened as his hand drifted down to slip beneath her skirt.

Frightened to the point of panic, Caroline fought blindly. Then, without warning, his hands were gone, and it took a moment for the sound to penetrate her terrified mind. The stage began to rock as high, shrill cries rent the air and rifle shots rang out. When the stage spun around, Barnweed toppled into the aisle. He righted himself, then gripped the window and paled at what he saw. Holy…Comanches! he gasped, and fumbled in the portmanteau.

Caroline’s emotions underwent a swift upheaval as one threat was exchanged for another. She had heard tales about Indians on the frontier—the Comanche, the Kiowa, and the Kiowa Apache. She watched as Barnweed pulled out a pistol; as he raised it to fire, the stage lurched to a halt.

Barnweed opened the door and jumped down, to disappear beneath the stage. Caroline, who had tumbled to the floor, climbed up to look out.

An arrow whizzed past her head, landing with a thunk in the back of the seat, where it quivered and vibrated. When another followed, she was stirred into action. She crawled out the door to climb under the stage with Barnweed. Her hat had tumbled off into the dust and her long golden hair spilled over her shoulder as she coughed and blinked, watching horses pound past.

The wagons had pulled together to form a triangle with the stage. Caroline felt dazed and numb with terror as she watched fire arrows flying, horses racing across the ground, and Indians whooping. Caroline shook violently and fought back tears of fright as she watched men with brown skin, multicolored feathers in their long black hair, streaks of paint on their faces. They rode bareback, their legs hugging the mounts as if man and horse were the same animal.

The whoops sent chills coursing through her. She had heard that the Indians cut off men’s scalps and captured women, making them slaves. A fire arrow whooshed overhead and hit a wagon; flames licked and danced high, burning the canvas and sending ribbons of dark smoke into the air. A woman screamed and fell out of the wagon as an arrow hit her. When she landed, limp and lifeless, Caroline thought she would be sick. Feeling her stomach heave, she clamped her lips together.

Bastards! Barnweed snarled.

As he fired his pistol, a Comanche screamed and plunged from his mount. In seconds Caroline saw a horse ride to within inches of the stage. A Comanche hit the ground running while Barnweed primed and loaded his pistol. He raised it to fire, but a tomahawk swung down viciously, severing his head from his body.

Caroline gasped, her mind reeling. She reached out to grasp the pistol and raised it as she looked into dark eyes. The brave reached for her, winding his fist in her hair and dragging her from beneath the wagon.

Terrified, she screamed. Then, without stopping to think, she raised the pistol with both hands and squeezed the trigger, closing her eyes and feeling the pistol jump in her hand.

The terrible, aching pull on her hair stopped, and she opened her eyes. The Indian lay sprawled facedown on the ground, blood spreading on the dust. The sight of him made her stomach heave. Momentarily she was sick, shaking with a brief chill. A volley of shots came, and she heard another whoop. She tried to scramble beneath the wagon, but found that she couldn’t move because her hair was still tangled in the dead Indian’s fist.

Panic-stricken, she tried to yank free. When she saw a knife on his hip, she snatched it up to hack away at her hair, sobbing with fright and desperation. When she finally wriggled free, Caroline grabbed Barnweed’s pistol and scooted under the wagon. A brave pounded by on his pony and grabbed at her. Suddenly he screamed and fell from his horse, blood spurting from his back. Another volley of shots came, and then it was over.

Swooping down to gather up their dead, the Indians turned their horses, disappearing over a ridge to the west as swiftly as they had come.

Dazed, Caroline emerged from beneath the stage. Children and women were weeping; a man swore roughly and picked up the body of the slain woman. Two men lifted another man’s body into a wagon.

Let’s get the hell out of here, snapped the driver of the stage. You all right, miss?

Caroline turned to stare at him. Yes, yes, of course, she whispered. Stunned, she climbed back into the stage, and the driver slammed the door behind her. Conversation swirled outside as men picked up the bodies, but she didn’t hear them. Too many frightening things had occurred too rapidly. In the past thirty minutes, Caroline sensed, she had crossed some point in life and would never again be the child she had been.

It wasn’t until the stage was rolling that she realized she still held Barnweed’s pistol in her hand. For the first time she began to understand the hazards of life on the frontier. It was a rugged, uncivilized land where danger was constantly present.

When the stage halted for the night, she climbed down to help the women prepare a meal. When she walked up to the wagon, Mrs. Slocum spotted her.

Miss Brandon! You poor little thing. Are you all right?

Dazed, Caroline let herself be embraced. She was unaware of the cuts on her face and hands from scrambling in the dirt.

What happened to your hair? Marietta Slocum asked gently.

An Indian tried to pull me by my hair. When he died, he was holding it tightly, so I cut it loose, she said, barely able to get out the words, because she hated the memory and her scalp still hurt.

Now, don’t you worry about it. I’ll give your hair a trim so it won’t be uneven and soon it’ll grow out again and you’ll look as pretty as ever.

Thank you, ma’am, she said obediently, her hair a small concern compared with facing life on the frontier.

After supper, Caroline sat in stony silence while Mrs. Slocum cut the jagged ends of her hair. Caroline didn’t care about looking pretty if all it did was attract the likes of Barnweed.

Thank you, ma’am, she said when Mrs. Slocum had finished.

It’ll grow out before you know it, Mrs. Slocum said in her gentle voice. Would you like to bed down with us in our wagon tonight?

Caroline knew that the Slocums were crowded with their family of five children and an aunt. Thank you, she said. But I don’t mind sleeping on the seat of the coach. She squared her shoulders and returned to curl up there, where alcohol fumes from Barnweed’s spilled flask still lingered.

Two days later, on the third day of April, they crossed the west fork of the Trinity River into the settlement at Fort Worth. Caroline looked out the window to see a man who had been hanged, his bloated body dangling from a tall cottonwood, a sign around his neck: Horse Thief #16. In the heat of the day she felt cold. Her anxiety deepened when the stage stopped and she was faced with gambling places, rough men, and dance-hall women, every man armed and the law a thin formality.

Caroline secured a plain, clean room with a bed and washstand at Mrs. Opal Ellsworth’s Boardinghouse. That first afternoon, she began the task of searching for someone to take her the rest of the way to Uncle John’s, because there was no way to tell how long it would take for the next stage to arrive. Two of them had been attacked by Indians, and the best time given was a month. She wanted desperately to get out of Fort Worth as soon as possible, and was determined to hire someone to escort her southwest to her destination.

Within three days Caroline began to grow desperate. Before leaving Georgia, Aunt Letty had surprised her with five hundred dollars in gold, explaining it had been left to her by her father in addition to money she would inherit as an adult. At the time it had seemed a fortune; but by the time she had paid her stage fare it had dwindled to three hundred, and now each dollar she paid out for her room and board was an alarming reminder of how much she might have to spend before she reached her destination. Feeling vulnerable and afraid, she asked questions of men she thought she could trust, and the farrier was the most help.

One afternoon, holding a horse’s hoof up to clean the frog, he listened patiently to her question. You want to go through Comanche country, he said. And the best man for that in these here parts is a deputy sheriff, Will Thatcher. Only you may be a mite late. He released the horse’s hoof and wiped his brow. The U.S. Army needs a scout. Two fellas talked to me not half an hour ago, and I told them about Will.

Her elation at being given a lead faded. Now she would have to get to Will Thatcher before the U.S. Army did.

The U.S. Army is going west? she asked.

Yep, they’re going to string a telegraph wire from here to Fort Richardson and on to Fort Griffin. A job I wouldn’t want, because it’s right through Comanche territory.

Do you know where I can find Will Thatcher?

The farrier shrugged. It’s eating time. He takes his meals at Mrs. Muldoon’s. She’s a widow with three young ’uns. Husband was killed in a robbery. She cooks regular for about ten men here in town, besides the drifters that come and go.

Where’s that?

Down at the end of Main Street. She has a little house there with a picket fence around the yard.

What’s Will Thatcher look like?

Red hair like a ball of sunshine. He’s tall and thin as a beanpole and mean as a hungry wolf. But he knows how to get across this country and he knows how to fight Comanches, Apaches, Kiowas, Mescalero Apaches, you name it. He’s got nine fingers. One was cut off by an Apache.

Thanks, mister!

Hey, missy. Stay away from buffalo hunters.

Why? she asked uncertainly.

The men sent in here for hides by the big outfits have scruples, but a lot of others don’t. It’s a way to make money fast. You couldn’t trust some of ’em with a blade of grass. His gaze flicked over her and he shook his head as if feeling regret over something. A little slip of a girl like you, out here alone, seems a shame. You be careful who you trust, you hear?

I’ll remember, she said, conscious of her hair that hung straight and limp just below her ears now. She wore a blue broadcloth dress that was patched and too short, but during the war and the hard times afterward, she and Aunt Letty had done the best they could to extend the wear of their dresses. She didn’t own a crinoline or hoops. Until she left Atlanta, she starched her petticoats to achieve a degree of stiffness, but now her skirts hung limply. The dress’s prim high collar and elbow-length sleeves were cloying in the heat. A small blue bonnet was perched on her head, and with her short hair, she thought the hat looked ridiculous. But as the farrier looked her over, he didn’t seem amused.

Anybody you want to ask me about, you come ask.

Thanks! she said, grateful for his kindness. She headed down the boardwalk toward the houses beyond the two blocks of stores. She squared her shoulders as she stood outside the gate to a white frame house.

Caroline didn’t relish walking into a room full of men, but she had to get to Will Thatcher before the army men did. She pushed open the wooden picket gate, crossed the porch, and knocked. In minutes a small auburn-haired woman came forward to greet her.

Afternoon, miss. Can I help you?

Mr. Dade said I could get lunch here.

Blue eyes behind spectacles gazed at Caroline with obvious curiosity. You’re the young lady staying at Opal’s, aren’t you?

Yes, ma’am, but I wanted to talk to a man who’s here. And I’d like to try your cooking. Everyone says it’s the best in town. Caroline hoped the compliment would help melt the obvious disapproval she was getting.

Mrs. Muldoon sniffed and gazed at Caroline. You’re nothing but a young sprout, and you’re traveling alone. There’s no men here that you should have business with, dear.

Yes, ma’am, but I’m afraid I do. I want to talk to Will Thatcher before the U.S. Army does.

The army men are already talking to him, but you go right in, because I’d be glad to give you lunch. I’m serving soup, and ham and biscuits with red-eye gravy today.

A bowl of soup sounds good.

I run a respectable house, so you won’t have any trouble here, but you shouldn’t be out by yourself.

No, ma’am. Thank you. I won’t be long, Caroline said. She was desperate now that she had learned the cavalrymen were already talking to Will Thatcher.

She marched inside the dining room, and stopped for an instant to gaze at the shiny wooden tables, red gingham curtains, and clean board floor. As she inhaled deeply, the enticing odor of hot bread made her aware of her hunger. Then her heart jumped to her throat. Two men in the blue uniforms of the U.S. cavalry were seated at a table with a red-haired man who looked as grizzled and tough as boot leather.

Looking around the nearly empty room, she noticed a man noisily eating a bowl of soup near the front window. Another customer, long and lanky, sat at a table in a corner not far from the soldiers. Two men wolfed down hot biscuits and ham at a table near the door; and all except the cavalrymen glanced quickly at Caroline, and just as quickly away.

Caroline walked purposefully to a table near the soldiers, close enough to be able to hear their conversation easily. She pulled out a chair and sat down quietly. Again her gaze swept the room to see if anyone was paying attention to her, and she looked into a pair of cool gray eyes that held her own, and seemed to look right through her.

Her heart thumped violently, but then the man shifted his attention to the soldiers and seemed to lose interest in her, and Caroline let out a sigh of relief. She took the opportunity to study him. A scar ran across his jaw, and his wavy brown hair was clubbed behind his head with a strip of leather. A wide-brimmed black slouch hat sat squarely on his head. His slender build made him appear young, but when she looked at the breadth of his shoulders and the harsh angles of his face, she guessed he must be older than he first appeared. It wasn’t his physical size that intimidated, but there was an intangible toughness about him.

Mrs. Muldoon came from the kitchen and served Caroline a glass of milk and a bowl of steaming soup thick with beef and vegetables.

Thank you, she said softly, paying two-bits for soup and a short-bit for milk and smiling at Mrs. Muldoon, who smiled in return.

As soon as she left the room, Caroline’s attention moved to the conversation going on only a few feet away.

…you’re recommended as the best scout and Indian fighter in these parts. The sheriff said it would be just fine to ask you if you would go with us. He said it’s all right to take you out of town.

Fellas, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, the redheaded man said, and took a deep drink of hot coffee. He lowered the white cup and faced them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Not now, I ain’t goin’. I’m fixin’ to get married to a purty little gal, and I don’t want to tangle with Comanche on a hard trek.

Look, we need to get the telegraph wire strung from here to Fort Richardson and on to Fort Griffin. We can’t do it without an Indian fighter. We’ve tried—

The U.S. cavalry ain’t enough?

We need a scout who knows Indians and knows these parts well. Our cavalry detachment has no such man. We’re Easterners, most of us are veterans of the War Between the States, but that wasn’t traveling on this damned frontier fighting Indians!

The red-haired man chuckled. You Yankees don’t want to give us Rebs the right to vote unless we take an iron-clad oath of loyalty, but you’re sure willing for our help in fighting Indians! If you take enough men, you’ll make it to Fort Griffin.

Two platoons have already tried and were almost wiped out by Comanche, one of the soldiers replied tersely, his face turning crimson. On the last attempt we lost sixteen men, and only ten telegraph poles were erected.

The other officer shifted his weight. We’ve been told you’re the best scout in these parts, the very best. We’ll pay you well. Three dollars for every day we’re gone, twenty-five dollars the day you agree to go. In gold, not paper money.

Caroline held her breath, her hopes sinking like a rock in a pond; she couldn’t offer him that kind of pay! She thought grimly of her dwindling savings. But if he agreed to lead them, maybe they’d let her come along. The thought cheered her.

Gentlemen, I appreciate your trust, as well as your offer, but I ain’t gonna do it! I promised my gal, and I’m stayin’ here and gettin’ married. He thrust out his chin stubbornly, and Caroline’s hopes plummeted again. If the U.S. cavalry couldn’t get Will Thatcher to take them away from the fort, how could she? Thatcher spoke up again. Now, there’s other fellers in this town that are just as quick a draw, just as knowin’ about Comanches as me. Go see Barkley Green.

We did, and he told us to see you.

Will Thatcher guffawed and slapped his knee. Did he, now! Well, try—

Maybe I can offer my services, a quiet voice said.

2

A hand fell on Caroline’s shoulder as the man she had noticed in the corner moved a chair to get past her table.

For the instant that he touched her, she was keenly aware of the contact. She caught a faint whiff of leather, and heard his spurs jingle with each step as he moved to face the soldiers. Then she noticed the butt of a pistol worn in a holster, low-slung across his tight butternut pants, a knife in a scabbard on the other side.

I can take you south and help while you string the telegraph wire, he said. He stood with his thumbs hooked into his belt.

Instantly Will Thatcher stood up, pushing his chair back with a scrape. Stranger, you sit right down here and have a talk with these fellers. I’ve got to get back or Sheriff Dowdy will be huntin’ for me. Nice talkin’ to you fellers, he said quickly to the soldiers, and left, his boots echoing on the bare polished floor.

Caroline’s nerves felt on edge. She sat where she could see the stranger’s face. He wore a second pistol tucked into his belt. Two pistols—every other man she’d noticed had worn only one. She wondered what this stranger did for a living. He extended his hand before he sat down. I’m Sawyer Day.

Lieutenant White, one soldier said, and this is Lieutenant Meachum.

They shook hands and sat back down, and then silence descended. You know anything about Comanches? Lieutenant Meachum finally asked.

Yep. I grew up northeast of Austin. My folks came from Tennessee when I was eight years old and they planted cotton in Texas. I was raised on the frontier, he added, and Caroline could imagine that he was all but born in the saddle. She looked again at the pistols he carried, and listened to his quiet, calm voice, and made her decision. She would try to hire Sawyer Day to get her home to Uncle John’s. Her attention returned to the men’s conversation. Both my parents were killed by Apache, Sawyer was explaining. I sold the farm and now I’m on my way west to California. I can lead you to Fort Griffin and I can keep you from getting scalped by Comanche on the way.

The two soldiers exchanged a long, silent look. You look kind of young, Lieutenant Meachum said skeptically.

You grow up early on the frontier, he said coldly. A fast draw and a knowledge of the land and Indians are all you’ll need from me.

Anyone around here know you? Is there anyone who can tell us if you’re who you say you are? Lieutenant White asked. He was well aware of the pitfalls of the frontier and the lawless men who thrived living by their wits.

Nope, I just rode into town on my way west. All you can do is take my word for what I tell you.

The two officers looked at each other in another silent exchange, then Lieutenant Meachum said, It’s good to talk to you and we’re glad to have your offer. We’ll go back, talk it over with Captain Ridgeway, and then we’ll let you know. You’ll be in town a few days, won’t you?

Yep. You won’t have any trouble finding me.

Sawyer Day sat quietly watching the officers leave. He stared at the backs of the two blue-uniformed men, but in his peripheral vision he knew the kid at the next table was watching him. The kid didn’t belong in the dining room alone. She must be about twelve years old, with a mop of yellow hair that looked as if rats had gnawed off the ends. Idly Sawyer Day wondered what the kid wanted, because he knew she wanted something. She hadn’t touched her soup and she had listened and watched the soldiers every second. Sawyer leaned back in his chair, giving the soldiers time to be on their way.

Caroline’s heart pounded. She knew she should get up and approach the stranger, but her nerve was fading. The man was formidable just sitting there doing nothing. A scar laced the back of his left hand, and his jaw seemed permanently set in a stubborn line. At last she took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over to his table.

Sir, may I sit down?

Gray eyes squinted through lashes as long and thickly fringed as a woman’s. One booted foot pushed out a chair.

She sat down. I’m Caroline Lark Brandon, sir.

He nodded and sat in silence, staring at her with an unsettling directness. She took a deep breath and plunged into the matter. Have you fought Comanches as you told the soldiers?

Yep.

He wasn’t one to waste words. There was something disturbing about looking him in the eye, but she did. Then I would also like to hire you.

To do what?

She wasn’t sure if she detected a glimmer of amusement in his frosty stare. Can we go somewhere private to talk, sir? she asked. Everyone in the dining room could hear their conversation, and she didn’t want to talk about her gold in a room full of strangers.

Yep, he said, and stood up. C’mon, kid, I’ll take you to my place.

She followed him out, half-running to keep up with his long steps. Have you fought Apaches as well?

Yep, and Kiowas and Cheyennes and a few other breeds.

Mister, are you angry with someone?

He stopped so abruptly she almost ran past him. His head swung around, and he focused on her. Why’d you ask a question like that? he inquired in a quiet tone of voice.

I don’t know! she blurted. You seem all…wound up tight. It doesn’t matter.

He started to walk again, and again she had to run to keep up. At a frame boardinghouse, he took outside wooden stairs to a room on the second floor. He opened the door and preceded her inside.

Caroline hesitated for an instant, realizing the jeopardy she might place herself in once she crossed the threshold. But there was no other way to get to Uncle John. Deliberately she stepped inside and faced Sawyer Day.

Sit down, kid, he said, and plopped on a creaky iron bed, propping himself on pillows, letting his long legs stretch out before him. Caroline hesitated. She didn’t want to bargain with a glacial-eyed, gun-toting stranger who was stretched out in bed only a few feet away.

She remembered the farrier’s warning and wished she had thought of it at Mrs. Muldoon’s. Sir, are you a buffalo hunter?

It’s a good thing I’m across the room from you.

Blushing and stammering, she said, I just wanted to know.

I’m not a damned buffalo hunter, he snapped, knowing he would have become one if some other opportunity hadn’t presented itself quickly. How many hide hunters have you known?

None, sir. I need… She gulped and swallowed. Her voice was too high, too weak. She forced it lower and started over. I need someone to help me get to my uncle, John Brandon. He owns land just southwest of Fort Griffin.

Sorry, kid. I may be taking the U.S. cavalry south, but I’m not taking a girl along.

I can pay you well, she said, lifting her chin and looking him in the eye. One dollar a day, an additional ten dollars before we go if you agree. In gold.

There wasn’t a flicker of change in his expression, but she knew she had caught his interest. You live here? he asked, wondering how the kid had that much gold, knowing even as he spoke that it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. What she was asking was untenable.

No, sir. I’m on my way from Georgia to live with my uncle. Another stage may not be through here for a long time because of Indian attacks on the last two, and I need to find another way to travel. I would rather pay you to get me home than pay for a room and food while I wait here. And there isn’t a stage from Fort Griffin to the Brandon ranch.

There was a moment of silence. Finally he swung his feet off the bed and sat up. I don’t want to take a girl along with a bunch of cavalrymen. Sorry, kid.

A dollar a day in gold, and twenty dollars before we leave, she said, determination making her voice low.

Nope. A girl can’t ride with a bunch of soldiers.

He looked ready to end the conversation, and her desperation increased. He was the one for the job—no doubt about that. He looked mean and angry and tough, and he was a cold one to deal with. She thought about her hoard of gold and of the good it would do her if she never made it to Uncle John’s, or if she was robbed while waiting for another scout.

I’ll double your pay, she said, guessing it was the only possible way to bargain with Sawyer Day.

He stared at her, unblinking, as if he were thinking deeply. Caroline tried again. Two times what I offered, including three times the ten I said I’d pay you before we start. In gold.

He clamped his lips together and looked at her intently, his gaze so fierce it made her flinch. Caroline’s heart pounded violently, but she clamped her lips together, raised her chin, and stared back without blinking, until her eyes hurt.

A girl with a bunch of soldiers! he said contemptuously.

That’s a fair amount of gold, she replied firmly, knowing the offer she’d made would badly deplete her funds if the trek took a long time.

You can’t keep up with a troop of soldiers, he argued, and she knew he was weakening.

Yes, I can, she rejoined. They won’t expect much because I’m a kid.

You want me to tell you what the Comanches will do to you if they get you?

I’m offering you a lot of gold, more than you’re going to earn around here. At least in an honest way.

He glared at her again, but Caroline knew he was thinking about what she had said. He tilted his head to look at her, and thought about the money. A ranch hand earned about thirty dollars a month—this would be five times that much if he agreed to take her, and it