The River Girl's Christmas (Texas Women of Spirit Book 4) (5 page)

W
ylder’s piebald mare neighed. She picked up her hooves with care, shaking mud off at each step.

“Sorry, girl.” Wylder patted her neck. “I know this isn’t the best night to be out, but at least the rain’s lightened.”

A deluge had begun right as the party crossed the iron bridge, and continued for the next three hours.

Instead of turning back, they pushed on to Del Valle, where they started a fire in a little pit under the porch of the tiny whitewashed building that served for the post office. They rubbed their hands over the puny flame, shivering. The sheriff and Grandpa pulled out pipes. Thin streams of smoke floated out and fizzled in the rain.

“We’ll hit Austin in a few hours. Do ya know the name of the fellow they were supposed to borrow the horses from?” The sheriff pulled off his worn leather vest, shook off the water droplets, then hung it by the fire where they’d put their overcoats and jackets.

Grandpa pulled out a creased letter from his pocket and studied it. “Good thing I kept this paper dry. Just so happens they did mention the business. Mr. Bollen’s Livery.”

“That’s mighty fortunate,” said the sheriff. “Maybe if we can find Mr. Bollen, he can tell us exactly when they left . . . or if they even showed up for the horses at all.”

Wylder pulled hunks of corn bread from a basket and passed them around. “They must have been delayed somehow, and then when this rain came, found some place to shelter until it passed, like we’re doing.”

Sheriff removed his pipe long enough to take a bite of bread, yellow crumbs sticking to his walrus mustache. “Walt, your granddaughter’s a sweet young lady. But you know how folks in these parts act when they see Indians. In my view, an Indian can be good or bad, same as any other man. But that’s not the way some people see it, especially those who fought in the wars and such.”

Doesn’t he realize we already know that?
Wylder picked up a stick and began to scrape the mud off his boots, though the effort was fruitless since they’d be right back out in the muck in a few moments. He favored his father’s Swedish blood, so if he was alone he rarely experienced the stares and snickers reserved for people of native heritage. But he still remembered when he was a little boy. His mother would wear her deerskins into town, her head held high. By then they’d lived in Bastrop for years and most of the business owners knew and trusted their family, but he’d never forgotten the one day she’d stepped into a new business and been asked to leave by the proprietor. Even as a little boy, his hands balled into fists and he’d charged the shopkeeper.

His mother pulled him back and pushed him out the door. “No, my little one,” she’d said, her dark hair whipping around her face. “We do not follow hate with hate. God must show that man the truth. We will go to a different store.”

Though Wylder obeyed his mother, the incident changed his life forever. He’d decided if he wasn’t allowed to defend his culture, he didn’t want anyone to know about it. When possible, he avoided going into town with his mother, though he knew this hurt her. If she presented him with any small token of his Comanche heritage, he’d hide it in his room. He refused to wear clothing suggestive of his culture.

Soonie had been different. She’d begged her mother for stories of their ancestors and asked to hear Comanche chants and songs over and over again. She wore native clothing any time she was allowed, and let her hair flow long and free when all the other girls wore bonnets.

An unspoken respect had always been between them, an acceptance of the sides they had chosen. But this time, after they found his sister and brought her home to safety, Wylder would find it hard to stay quiet
. Especially when this young man has led her into such danger.
His grip tightened around the stick. He walked to the edge of the porch and flung it into the rain.

“Well.” Grandpa stood and scratched his belly. “Looks like it’s letting up a bit. Better get goin’ if we’re gonna make it to Austin by nightfall.”

Wylder glanced at the Sheriff, then back to Grandpa. “Y’all don’t think we’ll find them this afternoon, do you?”

The sheriff shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t know. I have this hunch they got stuck in Austin somehow.”

Grandpa Walt laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, boy. We’re gonna find Soonie. Until then, we must place her in the hands of the Almighty.”

###

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.”

Patsy’s childish voice was sweet and high as she rocked Margo’s cradle. Firelight gleamed on the little girl’s russet hair, now washed and plaited into two braids, just as Zillia used to wear her hair when she was a child.

The rain stopped, with supper dishes washed and dried an hour ago. Orrie had fallen asleep listening to a wild story about gunslingers from Patsy, who seemed to have no end of tales in her head. She’d said she always told stories to her brothers and sisters.

Zillia was thankful for the little girl’s presence. She was helpful and respectful, and a welcome distraction while they waited for news from the search party.

I’m sure they’ll find them. Probably some misunderstanding. Old Mr. Miller at the Post Office doesn’t always interpret those telegrams right.
No one had considered the possibility that Soonie and her husband wouldn’t be found by nightfall. The sudden storm was sure to have thrown them for a loop.
They’ll most likely find each other and all stay in Del Valle for the night. Or they might have gotten as far as Austin. They wouldn’t be able to travel all the way to the city and back.

“Oh!”
She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Eckhart? Baby Margo is asleep.” Patsy stared up at her, frowning.

Zillia tried to smile. “My very good friend, the girl Mr. Eckhart went to find, is out there, somewhere. So I’m trying not to worry.”

“Yep.” Patsy sat down in the chair again and put her chin in her hands. “I’m wondering how my mamma is. And little Pearl. And my big brother, Wade. And baby Ida.”

A twinge of guilt crept over Zillia. She went over to the chair and put her arm around the little girl. “I’m sure your mamma will be back for you. And she’ll bring your brother and sisters, too.”

“No she won’t.” Patsy stuck out her chin. “She left Wade and Pearl with Aunt Freda in Smithville. She left ‘em in the night so Aunt Freda wouldn’t know to stop her. Then she brought me to Granny’s ‘cause Granny said she’d take me off her hands if I earned my keep. Ma took the baby and runned off with a man. Said they were going to San Antone and they weren’t ever coming back.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and her lip began to tremble. She hid her face in Zillia’s shoulder and sobbed.

“Oh, poor, poor dear.” Zillia held her tight and stroked her hair for several minutes, until she was able to calm down. “You’ve been so brave and good. I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

“I tried to help Granny,” Patsy said through her tears. “But I couldn’t make her better. What will I do in this world if she dies?”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Zillia said, lifting her chin. “We’ll figure something out.”

Patsy wiped her tears with the corner of Zillia’s old apron she’d been lent to help with the dishes. “Do you promise?”

“Of course I promise. But now I think it’s time for you to go to bed.”

The little girl went through the side door to Soonie’s tiny old room, and Zillia followed with a lantern. Earlier in the day she’d dusted and put fresh sheets on the straw tic. There hadn’t been time to change out the straw, but it seemed fresh enough, and the house cats did a good job keeping mice out. Strings of feathers and bright leaves covered the walls from collections Soonie had put together when she was a child. Zillia had found a cheery quilt to spread over the bed, and some of Soonie’s keepsakes, including a rag doll, made the room more appealing to girlish eyes.

Patsy turned with a bright smile. “I get to sleep here all by myself? I don’t have to share the bed with anyone?”

“Sure you do. You won’t be lonely, will you?”

Patsy picked up the doll and stroked the calico dress. “Can I sleep with this dolly?”

“Sure you can. Soonie wouldn’t mind.”

“All right, then, I think I’ll be fine.”

Zillia tucked Patsy into bed and said a prayer over her. She picked up the lantern. “Sleep well. Maybe we’ll find out some good news about your grandma tomorrow.”

“And I’m sure your friend will be safe.”

As Zillia went back to the kitchen, a new resolution settled into her heart.
I will help this little girl. I will make sure she has a better life waiting in the future.

Sleep was hard to find without Wylder next to her, and Zillia spent most of the night reading her Bible by candlelight or pacing her room, with no companion but her own long shadows. She checked Orrie once, in his little bedroom. Margo slept peacefully no matter which of the squeaky boards Zillia trod on by mistake.

Why didn’t they come home tonight? Did they at least make it to Austin? I hope they were all right in the storm. Oh, Soonie . . .
She sank down on the bed and buried her head in the feather pillow.

I
n the morning, a new resolution filled Soonie’s heart.
I must go for help somehow. I will have to leave Lone Warrior here and trust God to care for him. He needs medicine, warmth, and better food.

Sitting up, she clutched the small of her back. Though she’d spent months sleeping in the wilderness with few blankets, it was never an enjoyable experience.

She stroked her husband’s chiseled face, usually strong and determined, now pale and drawn with pain.
Why, why did I ask for us to come? How can I still deny the possibility of evil when it’s stared me in the face so many times?

Lone Warrior’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, there you are.”

“I’m going out to get more water. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Giving a hint of a nod, he closed his eyes again.

Dawn had come. Blood-red clouds swarmed the sky, little pools of yellow peering down at her like accusing eyes. Water still dripped from sodden branches, and sparrows fluffed dowdy feathers on the rotted fence posts.

Soonie rushed down to the little stream and filled the bucket and her canteen. “God, give me wisdom!” she cried out, since Lone Warrior couldn’t hear her now. “I can’t lose him. I can’t! Please!” She sank down to her knees on a rock beside the stream, sobs filling her lungs and taking every bit of air.

“Trust me, Soonie. Trust me.”

She opened her eyes and looked up. God had spoken to her many times; she knew His voice well.  “God, I don’t know what to do. Please show me something--something to give me hope.”

A flash of white a few yards away caught her eye. At first her mind dismissed it as a scrap of paper or a leftover bright fall leaf. A flower would be impossible this time of year. And yet . . .
Could it be?
A cluster of tiny flowers, with delicate, fern-like leaves.

“Yarrow,” she whispered. “Is it really a yarrow?”

With shaking hands, she plucked several stems from the plant. She bundled the fuzzy, spicy-scented leaves, picked up the water and hurried back into the cabin.

Lone Warrior smiled when she came in. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

“I’m filthy.” She pulled the packet from where she’d tucked it into her dress. “But wait until you see what I found.”

“Something to eat?” His voice was hopeful.

“Better.”

“How could anything be better than food?”

“Wait and see.”

An old skillet served to crush the leaves to a pulp. Soonie pulled back the bandage on Lone Warrior’s shoulder.

‘This is going to hurt,” she told him. “But it will help.”

“What you got there?” His eyes rolled towards the crushed leaves.

“This is yarrow. I’ve seen Molly use it in her clinic for small wounds and cuts. It should help draw out the poisons the bullet might have put in your blood. It will help the blisters on my hands too. And you can drink some in a tincture to help with pain and fever. I’ve seen flowers in the fall, but never this late in the winter. God must have sent this little plant, just for us.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Lone Warrior’s lips, but turned to a grimace when she pressed the poultice against the wound.

“Sorry.” She wrapped the bandage tightly around the mashed-up leaves. “We’ll leave the yarrow until I return. Let me just get this tincture prepared, and then I can go.”

Lone Warrior patted her arm with his good hand. “My Soonie-girl. You are wonderful.”

“I will be more wonderful if I can get you some help.”

He rolled to his side and pushed himself up on his good elbow, grimacing. “The night’s sleep was good for me, I think. I’m a little better today. Go and do not worry for me.”

Soonie gave him a slanted look. “All right, but I’d better not find you chopping wood when I come back.”

More water was soon boiled and cooled, and the tincture prepared. Soonie surveyed the cabin. There was nothing else to do but to leave the love of her life behind. And if someone else found him--

This could be the last time I see him alive.
Tears fell thick and fast, and she could not stop them as she bent to kiss his lips. “My love, I have to go now. It shouldn’t take longer than a few hours to get help and come back for you.”

He lifted his left hand and stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here when you return. I’ll be fine.”

As she stepped out the door, she heard his voice, low at first then rising through the cabin walls. He was singing in Kiowa, the song of a warrior who has come home in triumph.

###

The stable hadn’t been opened when the search party reached town for the night, so Wylder, his grandpa and the sheriff sheltered at a small boarding house. They arrived at the livery stable just as Mr. Bollen stepped outside to turn the open sign around.

Grandpa explained the situation. “Have you seen my granddaughter?”

Mr. Bollen ran his hand along his chin. “Yep, boys, one of the sheriff’s men brought two horses back to me yesterday afternoon. Said someone had turned ‘em in as stolen property and they recognized my double R brand. I said they wasn’t stolen, at least when I sent ‘em out.” He leaned over the fence and squinted at Grandpa Walt. “I rented ‘em to your granddaughter and her husband yesterday morning at eight of the clock. The injun man had a letter from my good friend, Captain Wilkenson, and I trust whatever he tells me.” He stepped back. “Besides, I liked the look of him. Seemed like a good man, fer an Injun.”

“And the men that turned them in to the sheriff didn’t give any details?” asked the sheriff.

“Nope. The deputy didn’t even know who’d brought ‘em in. The whole thing seemed fishy to me. But the horses still had packs tied to the saddles, and once I explained things to the deputy he turned ‘em over to me so I could give them back to their rightful owners, if they came back. Hang on a minute.” Mr. Bollen disappeared into the stable.

“What are you thinking, Sheriff?” said Grandpa.

“To tell the truth, I’m a bit flummoxed. Either the horses were stolen from Soonie and her husband, and then recovered by good folk who wanted to make sure they were returned, or something very wrong happened out on the trail. And I’m thinking Soonie must not have gotten too far, or the folks who found these horses would have come to me, not rustled them all the way back to Austin.”

Mr. Bollen came back outside, carrying two large saddlebags. “That’s the thing. Deputy said they were left at the post office in Del Valle around three yesterday. He happened to be passing through.”

“We just missed him,” the sheriff mumbled.

Wylder unfastened one of the bags and looked inside. Beaded clothing, small bundles wrapped in brown paper. There it was. He pulled out the leather-covered book. “This is the Bible we gave my sister before she left for her teaching position.” His fingers shook. It was one thing to hear the stable owner’s story, but this was tangible proof he couldn’t deny. Soonie had been here, at this very place. And now his sister was gone.

When Uncle Isak had asked Soonie to journey to North Texas as a teacher, she’d acted so excited, so certain God had called her to the task. He’d begged her not to go, but she’d been so happy. After a time, he’d given up and tried to share in her joy. He stuffed the Bible back into the bag.
Why didn’t I put my foot down? Why didn’t I try harder to make her stay? Not that she’d ever listened to me before.

“She’s so stubborn,” he said aloud before he’d realized.

“Yes, she is.” Grandpa Walt took the bags and loaded them on his horse. “But it’s held her in good stead all these years, and she’ll fight through whatever she must to come out ahead once more.” He turned to Mr. Bollen and shook his hand. “Thank you kindly for the information. Looks like we have more searching to do.”