Propping herself up on her arm in an attempt to get more comfortable, Jennifer let her head loll against the ledge of the window as she stared out at the vista of the plains.   The world – her world – seemed to have been reduced down to only the golden grasslands of the Nebraska territory.  Could there be more than this?  The prickly shrubs seemed to nod at her approach; the long sweetgrass swaying in the breeze of the stagecoach’s crossing waved a welcoming hello; the rare trees they passed saluted as they stood guard on the prairies.   Was it her imagination, or did they all seem anxious to escort her back?  Not home.  She’d had too many dreams shattered, too many plans unraveled at the seams to believe that this trip would finally end in a home.  But it was good enough to be coming back.   Sweetwater was a decent town with decent people.  She had to believe that.  Once they were settled she could look for a job.  Maybe the hotel was hiring?  And when she had a bit of money saved she could find a little place.  Maybe she and Buck could…

Jen woke with a start, sitting abruptly upright in her seat.  She stole a quick glance at her traveling companions, but none seem to have noticed either her nap or its sudden end.  Reverend Moreland was still deeply absorbed by his Bible.  She didn’t think the Chamberlains had moved during the entire expedition.  The elderly woman had knitted half a sweater since their departure and her husband never seemed to wake up, his stout form swaying easily with the uneven and rocky movements of the coach.  The fifth adult in their party, a young man with darting eyes and roving hands, had made it his business to stay as far away from Jen as possible once she had set him straight – with a right hook – back in St. Joe.  With shaking hands, she ensured the lid on her ink was tightly capped before replacing both it and her journal back into her carpetbag.  Obviously she wouldn’t be writing anything on this journey. 

Buck. 

It had been six years since his death.  Six years since Black Wolf’s bullet had torn him from her.   They’d spent one night together, and that night still burned in her memory despite the time that had passed and the people and places that she’d encountered since then.  The coach was stifling, yet Jen found herself shivering.  It’s only natural, she told herself.  Returning to Sweetwater again, it’s reasonable to remember your lost love.  But that didn’t stop the pain in her chest or make her head hurt any less.  And truth be told, she didn’t have to return to the town of her father to have unanticipated memories and unexpected daydreams of Buck Cross inflicted upon her.  She only had to look at Jack for that. 

Most little boys would probably have been bored on the long coach trip, but Jack had been good as gold.  She smiled down at her son and resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.  He was almost five, after all, and tended now to frown upon such doting.  She settled for putting her arm around his slim shoulders instead. His hair – dark brown and long as befitted a Kiowa – rested on her arm; his skin was the colour of golden bronze, so vastly different from her own pale complexion.  At the movement, he gazed up at her for a moment with twinkling blue eyes – her eyes – and a bright smile before returning to the toy train that had enraptured him ever since it’s purchase in New York.   Oh yes, he looked very much like his father, and he grew more like Buck as the years passed.   With a jolt of surprise, she realized that the similarity wasn’t just physical; he was already developing the same intensity and concentration that she remembered in his father. 

The ‘Train Game’ was a case in point.  Leaning down so that her long blonde hair was brushing his own, she could just make out his small voice over the creaking of the carriage.   “All aboard… yes ma’am I can help you with that… Tickets please… All aboard now…” He kept up the constant patter, using his fingers as people, all the while moving the train about on his lap, up his arms, across his legs. 

Jen let her gaze drift back out the window, suddenly overcome by doubts.  Was she right to be uprooting her son yet again?  And more to the point, was she right to bring him to Sweetwater, a place that held such bittersweet memories for his mother?  In New York, it hadn’t seemed like she had a choice.   After working 12 to 14 hour shifts washing dishes at the slop-shop that passed for a restaurant where she was employed, and then walking a dozen blocks back to the only ‘home’ she could afford – a cheap tenement, part of a row of shacks in the worst part of town – she felt like collapsing.  Striving to keep the place clean and to keep Jack away from the influence of “undesirables” sapped the remaining strength she had left.  But even the miserable job and the slum would have been tolerable if only her son had been accepted.  She had chosen New York as their latest abode simply because she knew that it was the stopping point for many immigrants.   Certainly those people – people that came from other lands, perhaps to escape intolerance of their own – certainly they could accept the idea of a half-breed child?  She was wrong.  Even in New York, Jack Cross did not belong. 

The wire to her father had been sent in desperation after returning home from work to find her four-year-old child covered in mud, bloodstained and crying.  The halting story she got out of him – between bouts of sobbing and then sad yet valiant attempts to be a ‘big boy’ and stem the tears – was simple enough.   The details didn’t even matter… it simply boiled down to the fact that he was Not White.  To the people they encountered in cities and towns too numerous to name, Jack was not a little boy.  He was an Indian, and thus the object of derision and contempt. 

She’d gone to the telegraph office that very day and sent a short message to her father: Need to come home.  Jennifer.  She’d wanted to say more.  Wanted to explain that she’d tried her best, but that Jack needed more than she could give him in New York.  Wanted to explain that she was returning to Sweetwater for her child’s sake. Wanted to… mention the fact that she even HAD a child.  Before now, it hadn’t seemed necessary that her father KNOW that he was a grandfather.  He had never respected Buck; he had regarded her brother Two Ponies as nothing more than a half-breed.  Despite their attempt at reconciliation after Buck’s death, deep down Jen had feared that her father’s prejudices would cause him to denounce Jack as well.  That would have destroyed her, even if the baby was too young to understand the rejection of his grandfather.  And, if she was going to admit truths here, she might as well confess this one too: part of her had enjoyed punishing her father by withholding the knowledge of Jack’s existence. 

She’d wanted to say more.  But telegraphs cost money.  So she’d kept it simple. 

William Tompkins reply was short and concise: Will expect you.  Wire again if you need money.  She did need money, but she hadn’t wired again.  Instead, she’d taken their meagre savings and bought two train tickets for St. Joe.  Jack was thrilled at the prospect of another train ride, and less than thrilled when they transferred to the stage for the latter part of their journey.

And now they were but a few short hours from Sweetwater.  From the people that had turned their backs on her mother when she needed them.  The people who had refused to stand against Running Bear and the Lakota.  The people who had often scorned the father of her child. 

Jen shivered again as she caught sight of Independence Rock in the distance.  Sweetwater was but an hour away, two hours at the most, and it was too late to change her mind.  There were good people in Sweetwater, if they were still there.  Rachel Dunne had been nothing but kind and patient; the Marshal had loved Buck like a son.  And Ike… she thought that Ike deserved to know Buck’s child.  From Ike, Jack would have the opportunity to learn things about his father that Jen couldn’t begin to imagine. 

“Are we almost there, Mama?”

Looking down at her son, Jen gave in to the urge to ruffle his hair, then giggled as her son rolled his eyes and squirmed indignantly.   She made herself sound as cheerfully optimistic as possible.  “Almost.”

“Woulda been quicker to take the train,” the little boy said matter-of-factly.

“Well yes, but I told you Jack, there is no train to Sweetwater.” 

Jack nodded thoughtfully, the judgment behind his eyes clearly readable.  No train to Sweetwater? those eyes said.  Inconceivable.   In Jack’s world, there were trains to China.  Jen found herself grinning and was pleased when her son smiled back eagerly before settling again into the Train Game.  She watched him for a moment before turning her attention back to the passing scenery.  Independence Rock was even closer now.  Beyond that was the stream, and beyond that… Sweetwater. 

She leaned back against the cracked padded seat and closed her eyes.  The long sweetgrass that had seemed to welcome her back now rustled ominously against the side of the carriage, every turn of the wheel causing them to whisper a steady and monotonous “No”. 

Jen shifted slightly and forced herself to relax.  This HAD to work.   For Jack.
 

Chapter One

Teaspoon leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and heaved a melodramatic sigh.   “Are you waitin’ on a sign from above, Barnett?”

The man in question grunted.  “Don’t rush me, Teaspoon.  I’m concentratin’.”  With elaborate care, he moved his red checker one place to the left before smiling triumphantly.  “There.  Your turn.”

His smile rapidly faded as Teaspoon rubbed his hands together and smirked.  “You played right into my hands, Barnett,” the Marshall all but cackled as he quickly appropriated four of the hapless Deputy’s red men.  He squinted across the table at the younger man.  “See if ya can get out of that one!”

Chuckling shamelessly as Barnett buried his head in his hands, Teaspoon rocked back in his chair and closed his eyes.  Knowing Barnett, it would take him a good fifteen minutes to figure out his next move.  And Sweetwater hadn’t had a day this quiet in a coon’s age.  Now was the perfect time for a little shut-eye.  The Marshal had positioned his chair just right when the door to the office creaked open. 

“Teaspoon, Barnett,” the newcomer’s voice said in greeting. 

Teaspoon blinked one eye open lazily.  “Kid, what’re you doin’ here?”

Kid stood in the centre of the room, hands thrust into the front pockets of his trousers.  He shrugged.  “Dunno.  Was passin’ by, just thought I’d check in is all.”

“Well, we got everythin’ under control,” the Marshal responded, waving an arm around the room lethargically, “as you can see.”  Closing his eyes again, Teaspoon settled back into position.  Maybe he could still get in a quick cat nap…

Kid grinned half-heartedly.  “Yeah, guess so.”  His questing gaze lit on the mop bucket propped in the corner of the jailhouse.  “Hey, didn’t you say you wanted that last cell scrubbed out before—“

“Already done it,” Teaspoon interrupted without opening his eyes.

“Oh,” came Kid’s almost inaudible reply.  He shuffled for a moment in the centre of the room before starting eagerly towards the stack of papers propped haphazardly on the Marshal’s desk.  “You got a new set of Wanted Posters!” he announced eagerly.  “These should go up right away! You know Teaspoon, I’ll be glad to do that for ya—“

Teaspoon sighed heavily and rocked his chair forward, clamping a large hand down on the pile before Kid’s enthusiastic grasp could tear them away.  So much for his nap.  “It’s your day off, Kid. What are you doin’ here? 

Looking down at the floor, Kid answered,  “Told ya, I was just passin’ by, thought I’d check in and see if you needed a hand.”   He peered up to meet Teaspoon’s disbelieving gaze. 

“Oh all right!”  Cracking under the unrelenting stare of the Marshal, Kid threw himself down into the chair.  “I’m bored.  Heck Teaspoon, I ain’t had a week off since… well, since before I was ridin’ for the Express.  I don’t know what to do with myself anymore!”

“If you’re lookin’ for somethin’ to do,” a new voice announced from the doorway, “helpin’ to pick out new shoes could be a start.”

Kid rose from the chair to give his wife a kiss.  “Awww Lou,” he groaned theatrically, meeting her dancing eyes. “You know I was comin’ to do that.” 

“Uh huh,” Lou answered dubiously as she ushered the children inside.  With a sheepish smile at Lou, Kid knelt down to open his arms to his daughters – who promptly ignored him, heading straight to Teaspoon’s chair instead.  Kid rose with an uncertain grin. “Guess I’ve been told.”

“It ain’t your fault, Kid,” Teaspoon spoke up, trying to juggle one little girl on his knee whilst preventing the other from making short work of the Wanted posters.  “Your family just got impeccable sense, is all.  They automatically gravitate to the most special-ist person in the room.” 

“Daddy’s s’posed to get us new shoes today,” Mary Louise put in, ignoring the adults conversation.  “But why don’t YOU come help us pick ‘em out instead, Grandpa Spoon?”

Kid and Lou exchanged amused glances.  “That’s a great idea.  Why don’t you come along, ‘Grandpa Spoon’?” Lou seconded her daughter’s opinion.  Mary Louise and Emmy had picked up the appellation “Grandpa Spoon” the month before from Emma and Sam’s visiting children, and Kid and Lou hadn’t been able to convince the children to change it. Though in all honesty they hadn’t tried very hard. 

“Uh… well…” Teaspoon shifted in his chair, gave up trying to disentangle Emmy’s chubby hand from his hair, and directed his attention to the little girl at his side who stood gazing up at him hopefully.  “Wellllll,” he drawled, “I would love to do that, Mary Louise, but I’m on duty today.  And you know that we can’t leave the town unprotected.” 

Mary Louise nodded her head solemnly.  Keeping the town protected was her Daddy’s job too.  Instead of answering the Marshal, she spoke resignedly to her sister.  “Guess we have to go with Daddy then, Emmy.”  Emmy, having discovered that it was possible to insert not one, not two, but THREE fingers into Grandpa Spoon’s ear, couldn’t care less.  Neither child noticed the incredulous stare that their father gave their mother.  “You’d think I was chopped liver,” Kid muttered under his breath. 

Rising from his chair, Teaspoon handed Emmy to her father before carefully getting down to eye level with the Knights’ oldest daughter.  “But I’m comin’ out to your place tomorrow night for supper,” he told Mary Louise.  Pitching his voice to a stage-whisper, he continued conspiratorially, “Maybe then we can finish that story I was tellin’ ya about.”

“The one with the Prince and the Princess?” the little girl exclaimed excitedly. 

“The very same.  And let me tell ya, there’s some purty interestin’ things still to happen in that story,” he confided.  “But ya gotta be a good girl today for your Mama and Daddy, and eat all your vegetables at supper tonight AND tomorrow—“

“I WILL, Grandpa Spoon,” Mary Louise fairly jumped up and down in anticipation.  She spun to tug on Kid’s hand, sending her long brown hair flying.  “Come on Daddy, let’s go and get them shoes!” 

Laughing, Lou took charge of Emmy as Mary Louise pulled Kid to the door.  “We’ll see you tomorrow night, Teaspoon.”

“Lookin’ forward to it,” the Marshal smiled.  He pointed at Kid.  “And I don’t wanna see YOU again ‘til then, hear me?”

“Don’t worry Teaspoon, I can find plenty to keep him occupied.”  Lou winked at her husband lasciviously, enjoying the blush that spread up his cheeks.  Grinning wickedly, she walked forward to take his hand as they stepped out onto the street.

“Hey Teaspoon,” Kid called over his shoulder as the Marshal was about to re-enter the jailhouse.  “What’s Tompkins doin’ all duded up?”

Teaspoon followed Kid’s gesturing hand to the sight of the storekeeper across the street.  He shrugged.  “You got me, Kid.”

William Tompkins pulled out his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes.  Staring agitatedly at the time displayed, he lifted the watch to his ear and shook it rapidly.  “Is this thing even working?” he muttered.

Rachel reached forward smoothly and took the watch from his hand, replacing it in the pocket of his vest.  “It’s workin’ just fine,” she soothed, “and you’re as nervous as a buck in a sharpshooter’s sights.  Calm down.  The stage ain’t even due for another hour.” 

“Aw, them things is never on time,” Tompkins growled, fidgeting with his string tie.

Smiling, Rachel again reached forward, adjusting the tie before moving to smooth out the wrinkles on the shoulders of his suit.  “Be that as it may, we’ve still got lots of time,” she answered pleasantly.  “I can’t believe you didn’t even tell me about this until today!”

She looked at the big man expectantly, but when no reply was forthcoming, Rachel merely returned to her primping.  She pulled his vest tighter around his midriff, then brushed a speck of dust from the collar of his shirt before stepping back to admire her handiwork.  “There.  You look perfect.” 

She expected a gruff denial, so was surprised when Tompkins eyes turned to hers apprehensively. 

“I wanted to tell ya Rachel; I really did.  I couldn’t believe it when that wire came.  She’s my little girl and I thought… I just thought… maybe she won’t come.  What if she doesn’t come?” 

Rachel took Tompkins’ arm in hers and squeezed it gently.  “You and Jennifer might’ve had your difficulties in the past, but that’s over now, William.  The two of you had made amends when she left, right?”

Tompkins shrugged uncomfortably.  “I guess so.  But the things I said… the things I said to her mother—“

“Are in the past,” Rachel interrupted.  “Jennifer’s obviously willing to make a new start.  You just gotta be too.  God knows, you’re not the man you were six years ago!” 

She was pleased to see his mouth turn up in a reluctant grin.  “If I was, I sure wouldna won a fine woman like you,” he agreed, trying to draw her into his arms.

Rachel danced back with smiling eyes, still marveling at the changes that the past few years had brought.  Bill Tompkins was no longer the gruff and bigoted man that he once was.  Though still hotheaded and opinionated, he was also no longer so quick to judge and was certainly never quick to condemn.  She liked to hope that it was partially her influence that had brought about the transformation in him.

Laughing, Rachel wiggled her left hand invitingly.  “I don’t see no ring on this finger, William Tompkins.  You ain’t won me yet!” 

Catching her hand, Tompkins brought it to his lips.  “All in good time, Rachel Dunne.  All in good time.”

Closing the door carefully behind him, Teaspoon made his way to the overcrowded desk, not surprised to find himself grinning from ear to ear.  Emmy was getting to be more of a handful every day now.  And he found himself wondering how Lou could ever keep up with Mary Louise; that child was smart as a whip.   Good thing she’d be starting school soon; she could give Rachel conniptions instead of her mother.  He had a feeling that Louise McCloud had her hands full with those two young’uns. 

Teaspoon mentally shook his head.  Louise Knight.  It was “Knight” now.  All that fuss and bother over Kid not wanting to tell his real name, and it turns out to be somethin’ as simple as “Knight”.  ‘Course they still didn’t know his first name…

Teaspoon paused at his desk to look over Barnett’s shoulder.  Nope, he still hadn’t made his move.   One thing you could say for Barnett – he was predictable.  One of the few things that had stayed the same over the years, Teaspoon mused.  After all, it wasn’t odd for him to still think of Louise as Lou McCloud.  She’d become a fine woman, but sometimes Teaspoon found it hard to realize that she’d grown up.  That all “his” children were grown now and making their way in the world. 

He sighed.  At least they’d all turned out all right.  He’d feared for all of them on more than one occasion; Buck and Jimmy mostly.  Thankfully Buck seemed contented enough – Teaspoon refused to let himself think of the many ways he’d come up with to find the Kiowa a woman; god knows the discussion was at a dead end now – and Jimmy was… well, Jimmy was Jimmy.  Last they’d heard he was doing some kind of prospecting work near Colorado City.   The most he could hope was that the boy would keep out of trouble.  Settling down didn’t appear to be in Jimmy’s nature. 

Teaspoon shuffled half-heartedly through the Wanted posters on his desk.  Kid was right; they SHOULD go up right away.  But then again, his chair looked mighty inviting.  Decisions, decisions.  One thing he hated about this job… he always had to make the right decisions.

Behind him the door swung open, colliding against the wall with a loud bang.  Teaspoon turned, wincing at the sound.  “Dangit Kid, I told ya to go and enjoy your—“  Teaspoon stopped. It wasn’t Kid.

Tommy Newlands stood just inside the door.  The boy leaned forward and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Tommy, you look like the devil hisself’s been on your tail,” Teaspoon said by way of greeting.  “What’s got you all riled up?”

The boy raised his eyes to meet those of the Marshal, and what Teaspoon saw there made his blood turn cold.  Tommy was afraid.  No, Tommy was terrified.  He moved immediately to the young boy’s side.  “What is it, Tommy?” he said softly.

The boy drew in a great gasp of air. 

“Attack,” he blurted out.  “Me and Ma saw it; Martha too.  Ma told me to ride fast as I could to get ya, Marshal.”

Frowning, Teaspoon directed the boy to a chair before asking, “What kind of attack?”

“Indians.”

Indians.  Jumpin’ jehosephat. 

“Barnett, go get Kid,” Teaspoon gruffly ordered the deputy, who stood immediately and was out the door before Teaspoon could utter another word.    Teaspoon knelt before the young boy’s chair before continuing softly.  “What happened, son?”

“We was out ridin’,” Tommy explained haltingly.  “Ma wanted to gather some… some…”

“Don’t matter,” Teaspoon soothed the frightened boy.  “You was out with your Ma and your sister…”

Tommy nodded.  “And we saw ‘em.  Ridin’ towards the stage.”  His voice became barely a whisper.  “Marshal, I saw… I saw Amos get shot.”

“Who did it, Tommy?”  Kid had rushed through the door just in time to hear the boy’s last declaration. 

Tommy relaxed noticeably as Kid knelt at his other side.  Now that Kid was here, everything would be all right.  Deputy Kid was his friend.  His schoolmates might tease him for calling him “Deputy Kid” instead of “Deputy Knight” but that didn’t matter.  Kid helped fix the barn after the storm blew it all down, and Kid’s wife brought yummy pies when his Ma was sick.  And Kid was gonna teach him how to shoot once he got old enough.  He’d promised. 

Tommy looked up into the calm blue eyes of his friend.  “It was Indians, Kid.  All painted up and whoopin’ and hollerin’.  They was chasin’ the stage, and they kilt Amos.  They really did.”

“We believe you,” Kid assured the blonde-haired child.  He exchanged worried glances with Teaspoon over the boy’s head.  Amos had been driving the stage for as long as they could remember.  The man certainly knew how to handle himself on the plains.   “Where was it, Tommy?  Did you see how many?”

The little boy shrugged, wiping his nose on his sleeve.  It wouldn’t do for Deputy Kid to see him crying like a baby.  He was eight years old, for goodness sake.  He tried to remember just what he saw and get it all straight so he could help the Kid.  “Four or five, I reckon.  Ma turned the wagon around right quick and took Martha straight home, so I couldn’t see that much.  We was way over by the Hollow, but the stage was right by Independence Rock.  Ma said to ride as fast as I could to come get you.  I rode real fast, Kid.”

“You did real good.  I’m real proud of ya.” 

Tommy smiled hesitantly and sat up straighter on the chair.  HE had helped the Kid.  Now Deputy Kid and the Marshal would ride out and catch the bad guys who killed Amos.  Kid patted the reassured boy on the shoulder before rising. 

“Tommy, Barnett’s gonna stay here with you and keep you comp’ny till we get back,” Teaspoon told the child soothingly before lifting himself painfully to his feet to join Kid. 

At the child’s nod, Teaspoon was all business. 

“Kid, looks like you’re back on active duty.”  Not waiting for Kid’s affirmative reply, the Marshal turned to Barnett.  “I don’t want no word of this getting’ ‘round town till me and the Kid’s had the chance to check it out.  Understand?”

For once the Marshal didn’t have to spell things out to his sometimes slow-witted Deputy.  Barnett nodded at once.  “Sure, me and Tommy’ll have a nice visit.”  As Teaspoon and Kid headed out the door without another word, he turned to the boy with a lopsided grin.  “You know how to play checkers, Tommy?”

Outside, Teaspoon and Kid mounted up grimly.  “Wish there was more than the two of us,” Teaspoon muttered under his breath.

“Buck?” Kid suggested hopefully.

Teaspoon shook his head.  “He’s over in Harper Ridge sellin’ some of his yearlings.”  The Marshal mentally cursed himself.  Why had he agreed to let Buck have the day off?  With Kid being on “vacation”, he should have known that Sweetwater might have need of it’s other deputy.  The peacefulness of the town the past few months had lulled them – no, had lulled HIM – into a false sense of security.  He vowed that it wouldn’t happen again.

“Looks like we’re on our own, Kid.  Let’s ride.”

Teaspoon spurred his horse into a full gallop, noting that Kid did the same.  If they were lucky, they could reach Independence Rock within an hour. 

Tompkins stepped back in disgust as Kid rode by at full speed, spewing dust into the air and onto his freshly pressed suit.  The storekeeper coughed, waving his fist after the rider in irritation.  “Danged kid!” he cursed, good mood forgotten in the light of his ruined appearance.  “What the hell does he think he’s doing!?!”

Rachel’s hand had risen to cover her mouth from the onslaught of dust; now she held it there to keep from laughing.  “We got lots of time to get you fixed up before the stage comes in,” she placated the older man. 

She wasn’t quite able to keep the amusement from her voice.  Tompkins turned to her with a scowl.  “It ain’t funny, Rachel!”

The schoolteacher lowered her hand and fought to keep a straight face.  “I know it’s not, William,” she said solemnly.  “But you forget that that ‘kid’ ain’t a kid no more; he’s got a family of his own now!”

“All the more reason for him to behave in a respectable fashion!” Tompkins railed.  “Look at me! This suit is destroyed!  It ain’t gonna come clean if you wash it for a month of Sundays!  When he gets back I’m chargin’ him for this – he can pay to get me a new suit!”

“He’s not going to do any such thing,” Rachel replied reasonably.  She held up her hand to forestall the protests she knew were coming.  “And that’s the last word on that subject, William Tompkins.  Now come on; we gotta get you changed so you can look presentable for your daughter.”

Knowing better than to argue when Rachel got that look in her eye, Tompkins let Rachel lead him back to the house, successfully resisting the urge to sneak a look at his watch.  He already knew they didn’t have much time… the stage was due in less than an hour. 
 

Chapter Two

Jen opened her eyes.

The prairie still lay trackless before her.  The long golden grasses waltzed in the breeze, darting together and apart, entangling amongst each other like amorous lovers.  Here and there, bright red flowers lent a touch of gaiety to the dance, like delicate corsages on a lady’s wrist.  The air was sweet with the scent of wildflowers, bringing back memories of youth.  Running through the sweetgrass with Grey Owl and Walks-With-The-Wind, as Wind’s little brother Soaring Hawk tried desperately to keep up.  Chasing butterflies when she should have been gathering berries.  Cooling her feet in the stream while the hummingbirds sang their tune high above her head.  Jen sighed in contentment.  No, not Jen.  Jen was a little girl with ribbons in her hair and perpetually scraped knees.  She was Eagle Feather now.  It had been years since she’d been able to lay in the long prairie grass, hearing nothing but the murmur of the wind and her own heartbeat.  Feeling nothing but tranquility.  It had been years because… Jen frowned.  She couldn’t remember.  It didn’t matter.  She was doing it now, and the grass tickled her nose.

She stretched lazily and found her frown returning as her movements were restricted.  Rotating her shoulder to work out the kinks, her questing hand lit upon something lying abandoned in the long grass.  Something that the whites must has foolishly dropped and left behind, she mused scornfully.  A Lakota would never be reckless enough to leave traces of his passage.  This item was well worn and smooth, reminding her of the soft buckskin shift she usually wore.  Was she wearing it now?  No.  To her disappointment, her searching hand found the crisp starched collar of the whites at her throat.  Yes… she remembered now.  The blouse was cream-coloured with small green flowers at the neck and sleeves; her skirt was dark green to match.  She’d put it on that morning when… when… 

Jen sighed and dropped her hand back to the supple object she’d found, her fingers this time tracing its edges.  A book.  It was a book.  Yes, there on the front she could feel the engraving.  A cross.  Buck Cross, her mind whispered. 

No.  There IS no Buck Cross.  Not anymore.

A book.  A book.  A cross engraved on the cover of a book.  The frown on her face deepened as Jen tried to tie this information together.  Fighting past the headache that had suddenly taken hold, she tried to focus.  A book with a cross on the cover. 

A bible!  The book was a bible. 

Preachers used a bible.

And Reverend Moreland was a preacher.

Jen opened her eyes wide, a gasp of shock pulled from her body as the events of the past moments buffeted her senses.  The stagecoach suddenly careening across the prairie, the violent motion waking her from the light doze into which she’d dropped.  The fevered cry of the coach driver as he urged the horses to fly faster, harder.  Reverend Moreland’s praying barely heard over the weeping of Mrs. Chamberlain.  And above it all, the triumphant wails of the Indian braves as they closed the distance between themselves and the stagecoach.   Their war cries had filled the air. 

Then the wagon was flipping, one wheel lost, and the world turned upside down.  She remembered pulling Jack closer to her.  Then everything went black.

Jack!

Jen frantically tried to pull herself ahead, ignoring the stabbing pain that coursed through her chest at the sudden motion.  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breath…

“Jack…” What wanted to be a scream of terror came out little more than a whisper.  She struggled again to pull herself free… legs not working… fingernails torn out as she scrabbled against the hard dirt…  All she could see was the damn grass, the golden grass of the prairie that had ‘welcomed’ her home… now splashed with the blood of her travelling companions.  With a final desperate wrench, Jen raised herself onto her elbows.

The preacher lay in a heap just beyond his bible, his head twisted back unnaturally, an arrow in his back and his scalp taken.  Jen fought back the bile that rose in her throat as her vision took in the destroyed wagon, the body of Mrs. Chamberlain, the young man with his fresh-pressed suit and his big dreams of owning a cattle ranch.  Just a few days before he had tried to get fresh with her.  Now he lay crumpled on the hard earth… across the body of her son.

“JACK!”  This time the cry did penetrate the air.  Jen flung herself forward, sending a second bolt of pain scampering through her body.  Blood, so much blood…

Jennifer passed out.

“Jenny?  Jenny, can you hear me?”

Jen kept her eyes closed and snuggled deeper into the blankets.  This place was warm. This place was safe.  She didn’t want to leave it just yet.  Not yet.

“Jenny, honey?”

Reluctantly, Jen found herself pulled to wakefulness.  Surely it couldn’t be morning already?  She felt like she’d just fallen asleep!  Was today the day that she’d promised to take Jack to the fair?  She didn’t have as much saved as she’d hoped, but she’d still be able to get him some cotton candy.  Maybe even a little toy.  He’d had his eye on the train in the shop window for a long time.  She couldn’t afford that, but maybe something smaller.  He was a good boy; he’d be thrilled to get any toy. 

She opened bleary eyes and murmured, “Jack?”

The man leaning over her bed smiled in relief.  “No honey, not Jack.  It’s your dad.”

Memory came flooding back in an instant.  Jen tried to pull herself to a sitting position, only to groan and slide back along the pillows, biting back the tears that threatened to spill as she became reacquainted with the stabbing pain in her chest. She reached out blindly to find her hand grasped by the large paw of her father. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.  You’re gonna be okay.”

Jen shook her head violently, sending long hair flying as she tried to catch her breath.  “Jack,” she managed to gasp out.  “Where’s Jack?  I couldn’t get to him… I tried…”

“He’s fine, Jennifer,” another voice said soothingly, and the face of her father was replaced by the calm and serene countenance of Rachel Dunne.  “He’s outside playing.”

“I want to see him!” 

“Jenny…” Her father’s tones.  Just like she remembered.  Warning.  Gruff and demanding.  Listen to me, they said.  Father will tell you what to do.  Listen to your Father.

Not anymore.   Her mother was gone, and her father hadn’t been a part of her life for a dozen years.  Jen pulled herself awkwardly to a sitting position, ignoring the sharp jab in her side at the motion.  “I want to see my son NOW!” she demanded.  Rachel and Tompkins exchanged dubious looks; without a word Rachel turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

“Uh… Jenny…”

Jennifer ignored her father and glanced around the bedroom, relishing the silence so that she could get her bearings.  Jack was safe.  The bed on which she lay was well-stuffed and comfortable, the blankets piled high around her.  The room itself was decorated with a woman’s touch – tiny flowered wallpaper adorned one wall, a vase of fresh flowers sat on the vanity.  With a start, Jennifer realized that this was HER room; the room her father had prepared for her return to Sweetwater.  She also realized that they weren’t alone in the chamber – Teaspoon Hunter stood to one side, hat in his hand.  When her gaze lit upon him he gave her a weary half-smile.  And Jack was safe.

Jen’s hand moved tentatively under the blankets to the bandages wrapped around her middle.  Tompkins noticed the movement and cleared his throat. 

“Uh… you’re gonna be fine, Jenny, just fine.  Doc says you bruised some ribs.  He wrapped ‘em up nice and tight; you’ll be good as new once you get some rest.  Got a big cut on your forehead too,” he added as her hand moved to the wound there.  “He gave you some stitches.  Might have a scar.”

His daughter nodded absently before turning her attention back to the Marshal.  Damnit, Tompkins fumed, this wasn’t goin’ like it was supposed to!  He looked around for Rachel – Rachel would know what to say – but the door to the bedroom remained stubbornly closed.  His Jenny… his little girl.  She looked so lost and tiny on the big four poster bed.  He had so much to say to her. So many things he wanted to ask her.  And now that she was here, his throat seemed blocked by a lump the size of Chicago. 

He found his hands clenching into fists and forced himself to relax, wiping his palms nervously on his pants.  Why couldn’t this have turned out the way he’d planned?  Jenny would have gotten off the stage lookin’ like an angel, and he’d have swept her into his arms and given her a big hug and a kiss.  And she would’ve hugged him just as hard and just as tight.  Then he’d’ve explained about Rachel and the three of them would have gone back to his house – this house – and had a nice lunch.  And there would have been no nervousness and no fear and no damn Indians attackin’ the coach and no little half-breed child sittin’ on the porch and calling his Jenny “Mama”. 

He looked up tensely to find Jenny watching the door with a troubled frown. 

“What’s taking them so long?  Is Jack really all right?”  Her voice became more strident as the worry took hold.  “Don’t lie to me, Father!”

“He’s fine, Jenny, I promise.”  When Jennifer regarded him suspiciously and moved to push back the covers as if to see for herself; he took a step forward quickly to retake her hand.  The soft skin he remembered from six years before was work-hardened and rough now.  He rubbed his thumb against the ball of her palm soothingly as he tried to work up the courage to talk to his only child.  His baby… who now appeared to HAVE a baby. 

He cleared his throat self-consciously.  “The boy… Jack.  He’s your son?”

Jen closed her eyes briefly as the headache tried to resurface.  When she opened them her blue eyes were clear.  “He’s my son,” she confirmed.  “Do you have a problem with that?” she continued defiantly.  “Because if you do we’ll leave as soon as I can get out of here.”

Tompkins eyes opened wide at the thought of losing her again.  “No… no Jenny, I don’t have a problem…” He glanced over at Teaspoon for guidance, but the grizzled Marshal appeared content to simply remain a bystander to this little exchange.  “I… I mean… he’s your son, so… did you adopt him?”

This time it was Jen’s turn to stare incomprehensibly at her father.  “Adopt him?” she asked in disbelief.  “No Father, I gave birth to him.  He’s my son!”  She leaned back against the propped-up pillows, shaking her head in resignation.  “I knew it would be like this. I should never have come back.  You see my child and all you see is a half-breed, a nothing, someone like Two Ponies that you can—“

“No!” Tompkins sat on the bed, pulling his daughter into his arms and trying to ignore the way her body stiffened at his touch.  “No, Jenny.  I’m sorry… so sorry for all the things that happened between us in the past. But I’ve changed, Jenny.  I’ve changed.  Give me a chance to prove that to you.”

After a long moment he felt her body ease against his as she took some small comfort in his embrace.  He dared to ask the next question, the one that was burning in his throat.  “Why didn’t you ever tell me, Jenny?”

The voice that she’d expected to be harsh and cold was instead soft and full of pain and hurt. Suddenly all the reasons for keeping Jack’s existence a secret seemed selfish and immature.  She opened her mouth to explain, but no explanation would be good enough.  Instead she rested her head against her father’s arm, surprised at the onslaught of memories that simple motion brought.  This was the position she had always taken when William had read her a story before bed.  Her favourite had been “The Legend of King Arthur”.  That, she realized, was the story they were reading on the wagon train crossing.  Before the wagons desecrated a Sioux burial ground.  Before the Lakota attacked.  Before her life changed.  She remembered the story so well.  All the daring deeds of the Knights of the Round Table had danced across her eight-year-old imagination as she lay in her cot, curled in the dubious safety of the wagon and listening to the howls of the coyotes blanketing the night.  She would pretend that Merlin was laying a spell on the animals and soon, very soon, Guinevere would appear to take her to Camelot.

When she raised her head again, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.  “I don’t know, Father.  I should have told you about Jack.  I’m sorry…”

“Jenny—“

“Here he is!”  Rachel’s bright voice interrupted the discussion as the door re-opened and Jack came bounding into the room. 

“Mama!  Are you okay?”

Mindful of her injured ribs, Jen brushed the back of her hand across her eyes before moving gingerly away from her father and pulling Jack carefully onto the bed.  She pitched her voice to a happy tone. 

“I’m fine, Jack… are you okay?  Did you get hurt?  Let Mama see you!”  The little boy sat still as his mother searched his body for signs of injury; when she tried to examine him a second time, though, Jack squirmed away indignantly. 

“I’m all right!” he protested with exasperation.  “Got a big bump though.  Wanna see?”  He proudly turned his head to show off the crabapple-sized lump on the back of his head before spinning back to face her.  “Pretty big, huh?  Betcha that’s the biggest bump anybody’s every got!”

Despite her concern, Jen had to smile.  “Might be,” she agreed with her son. 

Clearing his throat, Teaspoon stepped away from the wall he’d been propping up and moved toward the bed.  “Well Jack, I got some things I need to talk about with yer Ma here… if that’s all right with you.”

Jack nodded smartly before turning back to his mother.  “This here’s the Marshal, Mama.”

Jen smiled indulgently at her son.  “Yes, Jack; we’ve met.  Maybe you could go back outside and play while me and Teaspoon have a talk.”

“Okay.”  Jack grinned happily, pulled his train from his shirt pocket and was halfway to the door before he turned back to regard Jen solemnly.  “And Mama,” he added before rushing outside, “I TOLD ya we shoulda took the train!” 

Tompkins wiped a hand against his eyes roughly.  That was his grandson.  His GRANDSON.  Obviously a smart little whippersnapper.  Tough too.  Survived an Indian attack and didn’t even bat an eye.  ‘Course, Tompkins considered, it might be the Indian blood in him too.  Just what kind of Indian blood that was remained to be seen.  Sally had said that Jenny was promised to be married to that brave… He searched his memory for the name.  Black Wolf.  That was it.  Was Jack the child of Black Wolf? 

Fifteen minutes later, Teaspoon shut the door to the bedroom softly, leaning against the frame briefly before wiping a hand over his grizzled beard.  He was getting too old for this.  He should be retired by now, he reflected.  Sittin’ on the porch over at Lou’s place with a glass of lemonade and his feet up, tellin’ stories to the young’uns.  Goin’ hunting with Buck.  Leave the marshalin’ to the young folks that could handle it.   He should give the job to Kid. 

He realized that Tompkins was looking at him expectantly and gave his head a minute shake.  Enough time for ruminatin’ later.  He moved authoritatively into the room.

“Welllll, we don’t have much to go on,” he said more to himself than to the store-keeper.

“You sayin’ that Jenny’s lyin’, Teaspoon?”  Tompkins growled from his place on the threadbare carpet.  “She said she was sleeping.  You sayin’ that my daughter—“

“Now hold on Tompkins,” Teaspoon raised a hand to halt the flow of angry accusations.  “I ain’t sayin’ no such thing.  I’m sayin’ that we ain’t got much to go on, and that’s all I’m sayin’.  Jenny’s the only witness to the attack and she don’t remember a thing.  Less’n you count Jack, and I don’t think the boy’d be a very reliable witness.”

“There’s that fella over at the doc’s,” Tompkins suggested.

“Bishop.”  Teaspoon supplied the name of the young man they’d found hunched over Jack’s small body.  “Doc don’t hold out much hope for him.  He took two arrows in the chest.  Take a mighty strong man to overcome somethin’ like that.”

“Well I don’t care about that!”  Tompkins shouted bluntly.  “I wanna know what you’re going to DO about it.  We got a bunch of crazed savages goin’ about attackin’ our stages, killin’ OUR people, and I wanna know what you’re gonna do to protect this town!”

In the bedroom, the raised voice of William Tompkins was clearly heard. Frowning, Jennifer pulled herself forward on the bed and pushed her feet to the floor with a stifled groan.  Rachel, rummaging in the bureau for a nightdress, turned to the girl with alarm. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she admonished.  “Doc Crawford said you’re to stay in bed for at least a day or two.”

“My father’s out there causing a ruckus and I’m not about to sit here and listen to it,” Jennifer responded emphatically.  “Looks like not much has changed around here,” she added regretfully as she made sure her blouse was buttoned.  “I’m going to see if I can help.”

Rachel moved to place a restraining hand on the younger woman’s arm.  “You already told them everything you could.  Now you should—“

Jennifer wrenched her arm away, ignoring the jab of pain the effort caused.  “You’re NOT my mother, Rachel.  Don’t tell me what to do!”   She saw the flicker of hurt in the older woman’s eyes and immediately regretted her words.  Self-censoring… it was something she had to constantly work on.  It was easier when Jack was around. 

Contrite, she grasped Rachel’s hand briefly.  “I’m sorry Rachel. I know you mean well.  I just… I’m not an invalid.  I’ve been taking care of Jack and myself for the past five years.  I just can’t sit in here while my father argues in favour of an all-out assault—“

“We don’t know what he’s arguing,” Rachel pointed out reasonably.

“No, we don’t,” Jen agreed.  “I’m going to find out.”   She took a step forward determinedly and suddenly the room turned into a kaleidoscope.  Jen clutched the wall for a moment before turning back to the blonde woman with a rueful smile, tinged only slightly green.  “Wanna come with me?”

She couldn’t say she didn’t know where Jennifer got her stubbornness, Rachel reflected.  The girl was worse than William himself!  Grinning despite herself, Rachel took Jen’s arm lightly as the two women walked slowly to the bedroom door.

“…and I don’t wanna hear about WAITIN’ for more information.  I say we go and hunt them savages down and show ‘em they can’t be attackin’ OUR people and getting away with it!”

Teaspoon shook his head in exasperation.  When Tompkins got in a mood like this, there was no reasoning with him until he calmed down.  He stole a glance toward the bedroom door, hoping that Rachel would hear the commotion and come to the rescue.  Danged if he could figure it out, but Rachel’s presence seemed to instill some kind of sense in the man. 

He was still trying to figure out what to say when the outer door banged open.  Both men looked up in surprise at the breathless figure of Buck Cross. In irritation, Teaspoon knew the Kiowa must have heard the irate storekeeper’s latest declaration.  To Buck’s credit, he kept his face composed as he spoke to the Marshal. 

“I got here as soon as I heard, Teaspoon,” he announced without preamble.  “Any idea who did it?”

“Bunch of damn Indians, that’s who did it,” Tompkins muttered angrily. 

Buck’s eyes flicked in Tompkins direction but he disregarded the interruption.  Rachel said the man had changed – hell, he’d even seen it with his own eyes – but he could never forget the way Tompkins had treated him in the past.  The bitter words and angry accusations flung by the storekeeper years ago were still very close to the surface for the Kiowa deputy, no matter how much he tried to forgive and forget.   Whatever had happened with this attack, Tompkins was taking it personally.  And Buck wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why. 

He turned back to Teaspoon with a raised eyebrow.  The Marshal nodded briefly.  “Was Indians,” he confirmed.  “Me and Kid didn’t have much time to look around, so I don’t know what tribe.  And I don’t know WHY.”

Buck nodded as he assimilated this information.  His first order of business would be to ride to Independence Rock and investigate the scene.  If there were any arrows left, he could identify the tribe.  He only hoped that Kid and Teaspoon had left the area relatively undisturbed.  It would be difficult to get an accurate account of how many braves had been involved if they’d allowed their own horses free rein there. 

The Kiowa suppressed a shudder at the thought of going to the site of the massacre.  The attack had occurred only hours ago.  The air would be still be thick with the suffering of the dead.  Tomorrow, he would pray to the rising sun and offer litanies to the gods, to cleanse his body and ease the transition of the spirits to the next plain. 

The thought led to another.  “Any survivors?” he asked the grizzled Marshal.

Teaspoon’s face suddenly went white.  Damnit, in the excitement and rush of the past few hours he’d forgotten about… well, six years was a long time.  The two months that Buck had been “dead” to all of them felt more like a nightmare than reality.  But it was Jennifer who had told them about it: six years ago, she had returned from the Lakota with the news that Buck had stepped in front of the bullet that Black Wolf had meant for her.  That Buck had died.  He had mourned the loss as though Buck were his own son.  Some weeks later Jennifer had left… and then Buck had returned to them, healed by the Lakota medicine man. 

In the few weeks that Buck remained with the Express, letting his damaged chest continue to mend, they’d had occasion for many long talks on the bunkhouse steps.  Teaspoon wasn’t sure anyone else besides him knew just how close Buck and Jennifer had been.  He didn’t think the Kiowa had even confided in Ike.  And now…

“Teaspoon?” Buck asked hesitantly.   He didn’t want to hope but… Teaspoon was suddenly so quiet, and Tompkins was acting like he had a personal stake in this attack… 

“Buck,” the Marshal finally said softly, putting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.  “There were two—“

But Buck was no longer looking at him.  The Kiowa’s gaze had moved over Teaspoon’s shoulder to the open door of the bedroom.  His mouth gaped open in shock as his eyes glistened with tears.  After all this time… it must be a dream…

“Eagle Feather,” he breathed.