“You let them LIVE?!” 

Soaring Hawk made no move to duck the blow that came sweeping in his direction.  The force of the impact sent him tumbling to the ground, the bitter taste of his own blood acrid and metallic in his mouth.  Panting, he hunched on all fours, focusing on the hard earth beneath his palms as the stinging words of his war-chief reverberated in his skull. 

“Do you want to live on a reservation, Soaring Hawk?  Do you want to survive on rotting meat and weevil infested bread, rationed by the whites who will make you beg on your knees for their leavings?  Do you want to see your children die from their sickness?  Do you want to speak their tongue?” 

Black Wolf, war-chief to this small band of Lakota, circled the shaking man.  “You do not answer.  I see that I was wrong to choose you to lead us today.”

Soaring Hawk raised his head at once.  “No, Black Wolf!”

Black Wolf’s eyes glittered with the light of fanaticism as he took in the surrounding braves, ignoring the fallen man. 

“We must show the white powers that we will not be forced off our lands!  We will not cower before them, choking under their restraints as a dog on a leash.  We will fight!!  And when the great Sioux nation sees our triumph, the tribes will fall in behind ME to re-take our sacred hunting grounds!” 

Soaring Hawk quivered on the ground as Black Wolf’s attention returned to him once more.  When the leader spoke again, his voice was deceptively soft.  “Yet you let the white woman and the child live,” he sneered. 

Black Wolf raised his eyes to the sheltering sky overhead and laid his hands wide, his voice rising as the intensity of his fevered crusade overtook him.  “We must show the whites that WE hold dominion on the plains.  We must instill fear in their hearts until they are afraid to expose their soft bodies away from the safety of their pitiful towns!  Yet you let the white woman and the child live.” 

Black Wolf was suddenly on the ground beside Soaring Hawk, his sharpened blade glistening at the younger man’s throat.  “Tell me why I should let YOU live!” 

Closing his eyes briefly, Soaring Hawk fought the urge to beg for mercy and instead began a litany to the spirits.  When he had joined Black Wolf six years ago, he had pledged his allegiance to the war-chief even unto death.  He had thought that his death would come in the glorious battle to retake the revered lands of his people, not at the very hand of the man whom he loved like a brother.  Having supplicated himself before the gods, Soaring Hawk vowed that he would face the end of his life with the dignity befitting a Lakota.  He raised calm eyes to his tormenter, his gaze firm and unwavering.  “The white woman.   She is… was… someone dear to you, Black Wolf.”

“You choose to leave this life a liar, Soaring Hawk?  Who among the whites would I call ‘dear’ to me?  You sicken me with your pathetic attempt to prolong your worthless existence!”

Soaring Hawk’s eyes flashed in defiance.  “I was but a boy, but I remember, Black Wolf!” 

The young Lakota’s mind drifted backwards even as the pointed blade of the knife pricked the soft flesh of his throat.  It was the time before he had joined Black Wolf on his quest to re-take the lands of their fathers and their father’s fathers.  A time when he had not yet grown old enough to join the hunting parties of the braves, and had to be satisfied with tending their horses on the great hunts.  He had begun making his own arrows the year before, and had already proven to be a formidable marksman.  His brother Walks-with-the-Wind had promised that within thirty suns he would have shown himself worthy for the hunt.  Later, after he’d revealed his intention to join Black Wolf, Walks-with-the-Wind had renounced him, casting him out with only the clothes on his back and declaring him Unseen.

Soaring Hawk blinked away the memory of his parting with his brother and concentrated on his childhood.  Yes, he was but a boy, but he remembered her well.  Despite being several years older than he, she had allowed him to join her in the fields when she and his brother had sneaked away from chores.  She had soothed his tears and mended both his breeches and his hurt pride when he’d been thrown from a horse.  He had even thought that perhaps, one day, she would be given as wife to Walks-with-the-Wind.  For she had been accepted as one of their own.  Until her betrayal, she was Lakota.

“I remember,” Soaring Hawk repeated softly.  “Her face is clear to me.  As it would be to you. The woman on the stage… it was Eagle Feather.”

Knife paused in its downward trajectory, Black Wolf regarded his second-in-command with startled eyes.  “Eagle Feather?”

“I am certain of it, Black Wolf.”

With a fluid motion, Black Wolf sheathed his knife and assisted the younger man to his feet.  Grateful for the reprieve, Soaring Hawk rushed to explain himself lest his leader regret the action.  “We took many scalps, Black Wolf, but it was not until we reached the stagecoach that I saw her.  She lay underneath the wagon, pinned by its weight.  I halted the attack and rode immediately to get your guidance.”

Black Wolf nodded in silent approval, turning to gaze at the copse of trees surrounding the small band.   Soaring Hawk was a wise man.  Another brave – Snow Deer, perhaps – would have continued with the slaughter, eager only to fulfill Black Wolf’s orders to the letter.  Soaring Hawk thought for himself.  It was one of the reasons he had risen through the ranks of the modest tribe to attain the sought-after position at his side, despite his tender years.  Black Wolf smiled to himself.  Many among the tribe yearned to have his ear; Snow Deer was simply the most vocal in his mission to oust Soaring Hawk from his place. 

The war-chief regarded Snow Deer appraisingly.  “And the child?” he asked softly as he returned his attention to his braves.

Snow Deer glanced at Soaring Hawk before stepping forward, his bravery restored now that the younger man had taken the brunt of Black Wolf’s anger.  “The child lives,” he announced confidently.  “It was a male child, a half-blood.  I thought it might be Eagle Feather’s brother, Two Ponies.”

As Soaring Hawk shook his head, Black Wolf’s eyes narrowed.  “Fool!” he railed.  “Two Ponies was sent to the spirit plain three winters ago, along with the woman who bore him!”

Gulping nervously, Snow Deer shuffled his feet. “Perhaps—”

“No ‘Perhaps’!  Shining Eyes and Two Ponies were killed when the whites brought the coughing sickness to our world!  We know this from Standing Bear himself,” he raged irritably, naming one of the few members of their old tribe who still deigned to shared information with them.  A look of disgust on his face, Black Wolf dismissed the over-eager man with a contemptuous wave of his hand, pivoting instead to his lieutenant.  “What of this child, Soaring Hawk?”

Certain now that his status as chief counsel was restored, Soaring Hawk contemplated the events on the plains carefully.  He had glimpsed the child only briefly, after he checked to ensure that Snow Deer’s arrow had not pierced the white man’s body and entered that of the child laying prone beneath him.  Soaring Hawk’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the incident, and he reminded himself to speak with Snow Deer about such flagrant waste of arrows.  The man had already been shot; all that had been needed was to take his scalp. 

Soaring Hawk turned his thoughts back to the situation at hand.  His first theory had been that this child was, in fact, the son of Eagle Feather.  And if that was the case, was the child’s father not Black Wolf?  But he had no certainty with which to back up this assumption, and if he was wrong… he had no desire to face his war-chief’s wrath again.

“Half-breed, as Snow Deer says,” he finally said simply.  “And likely travelling with Eagle Feather.  The child means something to her, that much is unquestionable.”

Black Wolf nodded again as Soaring Hawk merely vocalized his own inner musings.  “Where was this stage headed?”

“Sweetwater.”  Snow Deer spoke up before Soaring Hawk had the chance to reply. 

Black Wolf’s eyes darted in Snow Deer’s direction as his hands clenched into fists at his side.  Sweetwater!  The world would be a better place if that filth-encrusted town was wiped from the face of the earth.  Sweetwater!  He forced himself to relax as he again turned away from his braves to visually inspect the grove surrounding them.  The sturdy timber stood tall and proud, not a weakling in the bunch, and none of the branches near enough to tough another.   It was part of the reason he had chosen this site as their temporary encampment.    Each tree reminded him of himself: hardy and strong, but alone in his bravery and wisdom.  As the trees could not touch each other, so too could none of his fellow Lakota – not here, not anywhere – touch him in the matter of courage and intellect.  It was why he had to lead the charge to re-align the Sioux nation under HIS leadership. 

But… maybe he no longer had to be alone.  With Eagle Feather at his side, as it was her place to be, victory for the Lakota was assured.  Her presence on the stagecoach was a sign from the gods, and Soaring Hawk had been wise enough to see it.  When Eagle Feather was returned to him, he would lead the Lakota to a decisive triumph over the white invaders, vanquishing them from this land.  And once the Lakota again held supremacy on the plains, he would burn Sweetwater to the ground!

Black Wolf spoke without turning, his voice calm and assured.  “I will go to Sweetwater,” he announced.  “And if it IS Eagle Feather… I will take her back!”
 

Chapter Four

Buck blinked rapidly and brushed past Teaspoon, unaware that his movement caused the older man to stumble backward.  His attention was focused only on the vision before him. 

It WAS Eagle Feather.  Her hair was shorter than he remembered, part of it pulled to the top of her head and then falling in a braid down her back while the rest hung free.  It was tangled and mussed now, dirty from the fall from the stagecoach, but to him it shone like golden sunlight.  She was plumper too, her curves become more pronounced as her body had shed its last vestiges of girlhood.  But it was her.  Finally, it was her.   He was filled with wonderment at the sight of her pale and still form.  His mind drifted briefly to the capriciousness of the gods – to extinguish the life force of the other stagecoach travelers, and then to gift him with the return of the only woman he had ever loved. 

He whispered her name again and took another step forward, reaching out to touch her.  He had to touch her.

Jennifer stood frozen in the doorway, staring blankly at the spectacle before her.  She was delirious.  Her injuries had obviously been far worse than the doctor thought.  Something was wrong with her head, because what she was seeing could not be. 

She shuddered as the realization hit her; when she had hit her head as the stagecoach overturned, she had damaged her brain.  She had seen the effects of brain injury – one of her many jobs over the years had been as an attendant at the New Haven Asylum.   Her dizziness in the bedroom should have been a warning.  This was only the first hallucination.   The first of many, to be sure.  Certain that the room was about to start spinning again, she reached out blindly for Rachel’s hand and came up empty. 

Stunned, she looked wildly around the room.  Rachel, she saw, had taken her place at her father’s side.  And her father’s gaze was drawn elsewhere.  Drawn to… To the vision.  How could this be?  How could her father see HER hallucination?  Her wide-eyed glance took in the other occupants of the room.  Teaspoon too was staring at the specter of the Kiowa rider, while Rachel’s hand clutched Tompkins’ arm as her eyes darted between Jennifer and Buck.  They could all see him. 

Jennifer trembled as a second possibility occurred to her. 

She wasn’t insane.  This was really happening. 

But it couldn’t be Buck.  It couldn’t be the man who had nurtured her when she had first come to Sweetwater six years before, dragged there by a militia unit when all she’d wanted was to stay with the Lakota.  The man whose own struggle for acceptance in the white world had helped to illuminate her own path.  The man who had taught her to believe in herself. 

That man was dead.

Oh, it looked like Buck.  His deep brown eyes seemed to bore into hers, sinking into the very depths of her soul. His lips moved, but she didn’t understand what they said.  The storyteller in her village had told of these things: demons and evil spirits that could possess the unsuspecting, and others who would rise from the spirit plain to harm the living. 

This was real, and now this… this thing before her that used her Lakota name…

She turned her attention back to the apparition just as it moved toward her.  My god, it was going to TOUCH her…

Mouth twisted in a grimace, Jennifer pulled back in horror, hands up to protect herself as best she could.  “Noooo!  Niya!  Get away from me!”

Buck stopped in mid-stride, his face betraying the shock of her reaction.  Niya? 

“Eagle Feather—” he began soothingly, trying to keep his voice calm.

Jen wanted to scream, but her fear seemed to put a lock on her vocal cords.  Her words came out a whimper.  “I KNOW who you are!  Stay away from me!”

Buck crossed the space between them in three quick strides as his startled mind suddenly grasped the meaning of what she was saying.  Grabbing her by the upper arms, he shook her gently.  “No, Eagle Feather!  Not Niya.  I’m not a ghost!”

Held quivering in his embrace, Jennifer struggled to keep from looking into his eyes.  She pulled against him, lost in panic yet wondering why no-one was rushing to save her.  Didn’t they see?  Didn’t they see what he was?

Holding the trembling girl, Buck struggled to remain calm.  “Eagle Feather, I’m not a ghost!  I’m alive!”  He turned imploring eyes to the other occupants of the room, finally alighting on the Marshal.  “Teaspoon…”

“I SAW YOU DIE!”  Jennifer twisted away when Buck’s attention was diverted, sending teacups and plates rattling like vengeful phantoms as she fell back against the china cabinet.  Hugging herself, she slowly edged towards the bedroom doorway.  “You are NOT Buck Cross!  Buck Cross was shot and killed six years ago.  I don’t know what the hell you are, but you keep away from me!”

Alarmed, Buck ran a hand through his long hair.  How could this be happening?  After all his searching, all the praying he had done to the gods, even to the white God.   Now his prayers were answered, and Eagle Feather was returned to him.  And she despised him.

Mindful not to move any closer to her, Buck opened his arms.  “I’m alive, Eagle Feather,” he said slowly and carefully.  “The bullet didn’t kill me.  I’ll show you.”

“Stay away from me!!”  Jen cried out shrilly, taking two sidelong steps to the doorway.  Three more… three more steps and she’d be free of this dreadful apparition forever

“Eagle Feather…” It was only two words, but something in his pleading tone and anxious gaze made her hesitate.  Tentatively she nodded, then watched as he slowly unbuttoned his blue shirt to reveal the scar that Black Wolf’s bullet had left behind. 

The wound was puckered and sickly white against his bronze skin.  Cautiously, Jennifer reached out a shaking hand and touched his muscled chest, noting with almost clinical disinterest the shallow intake of breath from the man before her as her finger traced the scar with a feathering touch.  His skin was warm; his breathing strong and steady.  Without conscious thought she splayed her hand against his chest, desperate to feel the heartbeat there.   Her hand looked so pale and ashen against the cool bronze of his body.  The last time she had touched him this way they had…

Lost in memories of the past and dreams of a future that she’d never thought could come true, Jennifer stared for a long moment before lifting her head to meet Buck’s eyes.  Not Niya the ghost come to steal her soul.  Not Inyan’s son or one of his minions sent to do her harm.  This WAS Buck.  Real.   Alive. 

“How?” she whispered.

Buck took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly.  She believed him.  “I don’t know,” he answered simply.  “They had prepared the funeral pyre when the medicine man of the village put a stop to it.  He said that he felt life in me.  It took many weeks, but he restored my health.”  At her doubtful glance, he shrugged. “He’s very powerful.  Running Bear says that he had the gift of prescient dreams as a boy.  He could always—” 

“No,” Jennifer interrupted, backing away from him slowly.  “No.  You lived… you LIVED…” She shook her head, and this time the room did spin.  “Then why didn’t you come for me??”

“Eagle Feather, I tried to find you—”

“Oh, you TRIED?” Jen put in sarcastically. “Like my father ‘tried’ to find my mother and me?”

“Now Jenny…” Tompkins attempt to join the conversation was routinely ignored. 

“NO, not like that!  Buck protested.  “I searched for you—”

“I can’t believe this,” Jennifer shook her head, fighting to hold back the tears.  “After what we had, after everything we shared that night—”

Tompkins head whipped up at her words.  Everything they’d shared that night.  And “that night” had been six years ago.  And Jack… Jack looked to be about five years old.  The pieces clicked into place.  What the hell had that boy done to his daughter??  Tompkins opened his mouth to speak his piece just as Rachel squeezed his arm gently.  He looked down into her calm and unperturbed blue eyes.  She too had done the math, and her look beseeched him to reconsider the rash words that had rushed to his mind. 

Everything they “shared”.  And shared meant… well… Buck didn’t go about forcin’ himself on Jenny.  If they shared, then… He could hardly berate his daughter for goin’ to the marriage bed before her wedding, when him and Rachel did the same thing. 

“Eagle Feather, I tried—”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you did,” Jennifer sneered.  “I see how hard you tried.  Deputy now, are you?  So busy searching for me you managed to find yourself a whole new career.”

Hand outstretched, Buck fought to remain calm as he took a step closer.  “Eagle Feather,” he began again.

She pulled away violently.  “No!  No, Buck!  All I ever wanted was a chance to belong.  To something, to someone.  And I really thought I’d found that with you.  I thought that we belonged together, Buck.  But I guess I was wrong.   I guess I didn’t mean anything to you at all.”

Buck’s hands unknowingly clenched into fists at his side. His voice rose to match hers as he was filled with equal parts of anger and fear.   “What do you want from me?  I spent months… You meant everything to me, Eagle Feather—”

“EAGLE FEATHER IS DEAD!” Jennifer burst out as the tears began to fall.  “She died the moment Black Wolf’s bullet pierced your body.  There’s just Jennifer now, and Jennifer doesn’t need you.  We don’t need you!” 

The sound of the bedroom door slamming shut echoed in the tiny house, seeming to reverberate long into the silence. 

Teaspoon finally stepped up to place a comforting hand on Buck’s shoulder.   The boy appeared to be frozen in shock, staring at the closed door as though will alone could open it.  If will alone could do anything, Teaspoon mused, his own would’ve eliminated this whole messy scene.  In fact, his would’ve put them all back six years and let Black Wolf’s damned gun misfire.   Hell, if he was gonna wish for misfires, he’d add Neville’s to the list too.  And the gun of that devil that killed Noah.  He shook his head to clear the thoughts from his mind.  What’s done is done; all they can do is get through the best they can. 

“Now son, give her some time,” he began softly.

Buck pushed roughly away from the Marshal and turned wild eyes to Tompkins.  “I always knew you hated me Tompkins, but I never knew how much until today!”

Surprised at Buck’s outburst, the storekeeper mumbled, “Buck… I…”

“You KNEW I was lookin’ for her.  I spent an eternity trackin’ her, and—”

“And I didn’t know where she was, son!” Tompkins objected indignantly.  “I wanted her back just as much as you did; more!  She’s my daughter, for cryin’ out loud!”

“And I loved her!”  Buck answered hotly.  “And YOU’RE the reason why she can’t believe that I’d actually try to find her.  ‘Cause you spent seven years buildin’ a store and a livelihood instead of trying to find your wife and daughter!”

“Now you just wait a cotton pickin’ minute!”  Tompkins pushed off Rachel’s restraining hand in irritation, his voice rising to match the Kiowa’s.  “You got no right bringin’ Sally into this!  I thought she was dead, and what the HELL business is it of yours anyway?”

“Right, it’s not my business,” Buck agreed bitterly.  “Nothing about this family makes any sense anyway.  You’re all crazy!”

“Well then maybe you should get the hell out of my house before our craziness starts rubbin’ off!”  Tompkins took a step towards Buck threateningly as Teaspoon stepped deftly between the two men. 

“Let’s just calm down and discuss this like civilized men,” the Marshall suggested quietly.

“It ain’t possible to discuss nothin’ with the likes of him!” Tompkins railed.

“That’s right Teaspoon,” Buck spat out angrily.  “I’m just a savage, remember?”  Pushing past the two men with a shove, Buck strode furiously to the door, his mind racing as fast as his heartbeat.  What did he expect?  In her own way, Eagle Feather – no, Jennifer now – was just as opinionated as her father.  Sally had been strong-willed as well.  After all his searching, did he really expect Jennifer to leap into his arms and cover him with kisses?

The problem was, he did.

Buck shouldered the door open roughly, feeling a perverse satisfaction when the door slammed behind him.  Ignoring Teaspoon’s bellow from within, he sped down the three steps to the street, almost tripping over a small boy who was playing in the dirt.  With hardly a backward glance at the child, he hastily unhitched his horse from the rail and grabbed the saddlehorn to pull himself atop the animal without touching the stirrups.   The feisty mare seemed to sense its owner’s distress and stamped zealously at the hard-packed earth, apparently eager to run off their frustrations on the open plains.  Even distracted by his own tumultuous emotions, Buck reached down to rub a hand reassuringly along the animal’s neck.

“Buck!  Calm down an’—”

The rider’s eyes flashed as he spun in his saddle to glare at his former stationmaster.  “This ain’t your concern, Teaspoon!”

“Buck…”

“No Teaspoon.  Leave it.”  Buck’s tone brooked no argument. 

Unnerved, Teaspoon slapped his hat against his knee and raised his voice. “Stop bein’ so ornery, son!  There’s something—”

“I’ll be checking out Independence Rock.”    Without another word, the Kiowa spurred his mount to a gallop and set out for the plains.

“—else you should know,” Teaspoon finished weakly.  “Or someONE else,” he added under his breath with a look at the small boy who now raised himself from the step and joined the Marshal.

“That man sure was in a hurry, huh Marshal?” Jack said amiably, tucking his precious train into his pocket for safekeeping.   He turned questioning eyes to the older man.  “What was he so all-darned mad about?”

Putting an arm about the boy’s shoulders, Teaspoon managed a smile for Jack’s benefit.  “Nothing you have to worry about, Jack.  Nothin’ at all.”
 

Chapter 5

Teaspoon pulled back on the reins smoothly, easing his gentle horse to a halt just outside the front yard of Buck’s property.  The grizzled Marshal reached absently into his shirt pocket and searched a moment for a cigar, before realizing that he’d given up the stogies six months before.  Sheepishly, he brought his hand forward again to rest on the pommel of the saddle, and regarded the grounds in silence.

The fence surrounding the corral was ramrod-straight, with not a board out of place.  In the adjourning stable, the soft nickering of several horses could just be heard, their gentle voices carrying on the light breeze.  Firewood was stacked neatly to the left of the barn, protected from foul weather by a sheltering overhang that was easily accessible from the house.

The house.  The small ranch-style abode was set back from the corral, atop a small rise.  Two windows, one to either side of the sturdy plank door, reflected fractured moonlight on each pane of glass – glass that Buck had imported at great cost from St. Joe.  When the oil-lamps were lit in both kitchen and bedroom, Teaspoon always felt that the house looked like some kind of malevolent god, eyes gleaming maliciously as it watched the puny humans from its lofty perch.

Damn.  He could use a cigar. 

Shaking off the melancholy musings, Teaspoon dismounted and looped the reins carefully around the corral fence.  Willow snickered contentedly, immediately latching on to some delectable scrub-grass, and Teaspoon rubbed the animal’s flank affectionately before turning once again to gaze at the house.  Fanciful imaginings aside, the building itself was well-built, durable and solid.  But empty, somehow.  No fence surrounded the yard.  No flowers or plantings lent gaiety to the desolation of dirt there.  The overstuffed porch swing creaked soulfully in the breeze, crying out that no couple in love had ever shared its embrace.

Suppressing the shudder he felt creeping along his spine, Teaspoon squared his shoulders and knocked at the front door.  He waited, listening for sounds of life within, before knocking a second time.  Then a third, a little louder than before, beginning to lose his temper.  He knew Buck was home. One lamp was lit in the house, its light showing feebly from beneath the door, and his former rider wouldn’t risk a fire by leaving it unattended.  Did the boy think he was a fool?

“It’s open, Teaspoon.”

Teaspoon pulled back, startled, before the realization hit him.  Of course Buck would know who his visitor was.  The Kiowa knew Willow’s cantor as well as he knew his own horses.  But Buck’s voice… The voice was weary and filled with resignation.  It sounded to Teaspoon like a man who had seen enough of the world and its unending battles, and just wanted it to be over.  For a long moment he hesitated on the stoop, suddenly afraid that when he opened the door it would be to find a wizened old man – a crippled, feeble figure that spoke with the voice of his ‘son’.

He pushed the door open abruptly – telling himself that it was simply drafty on the porch and the ice cold finger he felt playing on his spine was but a trick of the air – and walked quickly into the room, letting the door close behind him absently.  Teaspoon scanned the room.  Sideboard and counter; a small wooden divan piled with pillows; fireplace, lifeless now, but with a small pile of logs stacked beside it should the weather turn colder in the night.    Like the property itself, the inside of the house looked clean, efficient, and organized – and completely void of personality.  It may well have been abandoned.  There was nothing of Buck Cross here.

The Marshal turned his attention to Buck himself – not a crone, but merely the same Buck he’d always known.  The Kiowa sat at the small table, eating dinner.  Well, picking at dinner, more like, Teaspoon mused.  He stood watching Buck for a moment, but the former rider merely regarded him with baleful eyes before returning to his meal.

Not one to be so easily deterred, Teaspoon cleared his throat.  “Thought you’d come back to town, son.”

Buck shrugged.  “Takin’ care of things at Independence Rock took longer than I thought.”

The deputy kept his gaze fixated on his meal, his left hand restlessly moving peas from one side of the plate to the other.  Teaspoon’s own eyes gleamed. When the boy didn’t look you straight in the eye, you knew he was hidin’ something.  Teaspoon had called Buck’s bluff that way many a time, in everything from poker to checkers.

“Didn’t figure it’d take that long,” Teaspoon volleyed innocently. 

“Went riding after.  I had… some things to think about.”

An opening!  Teaspoon pounced.

“Well now, I’m glad you mentioned that, Buck.  What happened in town today—”

“Don’t concern you, Teaspoon,” Buck finished evenly.  Now he did raise his eyes to regard Teaspoon coolly.  “Jennifer’s made her decision. I was a fool to think it could be any different.”

“Buck—”

“I found an arrow.”  Standing abruptly, Buck walked to the sideboard, extracting the object that had been placed carefully behind it.  Rising, he handed the arrow to the Marshal.

Eyebrow raised, Teaspoon held Buck’s gaze a moment before taking the proffered item.  The Kiowa’s eyes were cool and reserved, his emotions hiding behind a mask of indifference.  Fine.  If Buck wanted to concentrate on the massacre first, then that’s what they’d do.  They’d come back to Jennifer later, since he wasn’t dropping this.  And he thought Buck knew it. 

Letting his glance drop to the arrow, Teaspoon’s eyes narrowed.  With a startled look at his deputy, he moved to the table and held the shaft nearer the light.  “Lakota?”

“Some of the markings indicate Lakota,” Buck agreed, but his voice was unsure.  He ran a hand through his long hair, then pointed at the shaft.  “See here,” he moved his hand to the arrowhead, “and here.  If it’s Lakota, it’s not any tribe I know of.”

“And you know most all of ‘em,” Teaspoon said.

Buck accepted the compliment with a nod.  “If it’s not a tribe I know, then I’m thinkin’—”

“Renegades,” Teaspoon finished softly.  Dropping the arrow to the table, he asked briskly, “Numbers?”

“I think… only 4.  Maybe 5.  A small war party to be attempting such a bold raid.”

“They nearly succeeded, son.  I guess it weren’t too small now, was it?” Teaspoon muttered.

“From the tracks I found, it looked like maybe they were scared off.  Could that Newlands boy have been wrong?  Could there—”

“Nah, Tommy Newlands worships the ground Kid walks on.  He told us everything he saw.”  Teaspoon waved off the question.  “Scared off?  You sure of that Buck?”

The Kiowa shrugged.  “They took one scalp.  Why not more?  They had the wagon down and the people defenseless.  But they left, and didn’t bother to cover their tracks.”  At Teaspoon’s eager gaze, Buck shook his head.  “I followed as long as I could but I lost ‘em at White’s Bluff.  I can’t track through rock, Teaspoon.”

The Marshal put a hand on Buck’s shoulder reassuringly.  “I know you can’t, son.  Don’t make me stop wishin’ for miracles though.”

Patting Buck’s shoulder, Teaspoon again studied the arrow.  “It just don’t make sense,” he said thoughtfully.  “The only people who seen ‘em was two children and their scared mother, yet they hightailed it outta there when Jennifer and Jack are still breathin’.  The other fella too, though they couldna known that at the time.  I don’t like unanswered questions, Buck.  Makes me ornery.”

Buck’s lips came together tightly – he meant it to be an encouraging smile, but it looked more like a grimace.  “Maybe they were just lucky.”

Leaving Teaspoon to inspect the arrow more closely, Buck took up his plate and utensils and moved to the small sink.  He worked the pump vigorously, splashing a liberal amount of water into the tub.  The physical motion went a long way towards relaxing his tense shoulders, which had tightened almost instantly with the mention of Jennifer’s name. 

He ran the soiled plate under the water absently, wishing that his own conflicted emotions could be washed away as easily and as completely.  It would have been easier if she’d never returned.  That thought was followed immediately – as it had been ever since he’d first thought it this morning and every time since – by the image of Jennifer’s broken body, pinned beneath the wheel of the stagecoach, broken and lifeless.  He closed his eyes tightly against the mental image, but the pressure of his closed eyelids only set off starbursts behind his eyes.  Scarlet starbursts.  Starbursts that seemed to pulse with blood.

Pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead, Buck took a deep breath.  Not for the first time, he wondered if HE was the reason for this.  He truly believed he had done all he could to find her.  He had tracked Jennifer to Boston and beyond, using all the skills taught to him by Red Bear.  He had followed the paper trail from part-time jobs and shabby lodging homes using every Russell Majors and Waddell contact he could find.  He’d called upon Teaspoon’s “bag of tricks” on more than one occasion.  And it had all been for naught.  Exhausted, hurt and dispirited, he’d finally had to return home to his express family.

Time had healed the physical pain, but the inner anguish wouldn’t abate.  Lou had urged him to talk about his feelings; Jimmy and Cody had advocated a quick return to riding; Ike had offered silent commiseration; Rachel had plied him with apple pies and motherly love.  None of it helped.  The ache of failure and loss continued to pull at him until he found himself wishing that Black Wolf’s bullet had finished him off.  He had used every skill and trick in his arsenal to find the woman he loved.  And it wasn’t enough. 

The worst part was the dreams.  Jennifer, her buckskin dress torn at the shoulder, her hair in braids, staring at him with wide imploring eyes as Black Wolf edged ever closer to her.  Or Jennifer, clad in a blue dress covered with large white flowers, standing in a sunlit meadow.  Long golden hair blowing gently in the breeze… and no matter how fast he ran to her, she drew further and further away. 

He had woken in the middle of the night after one such dream, his breath coming in ragged gasps.  Around him in the bunkhouse, the other riders slept peacefully, blissfully unaware of the torment of one of their brethren.  That’s when the idea had hit him.  Dressing silently, he walked to town.

The whitewashed church seemed to beckon to him, yet he still stood outside a long moment before climbing the four stairs and pushing the door open.  Inside, the building was hushed and quiet, and Buck sensed that it wasn’t just the early morning hour that made it so.  It was a mystical stillness, and for the first time he was aware of the power there.   Whether the power came from an outside source – the white God – or his own inner belief in the spirit world of the Kiowa… it didn’t matter.  It felt strong.  It felt clear.  It felt right.

Buck knelt at one of the back pews, crossed his hands in front of him as he’d been taught at the mission school, and prayed. 

For weeks afterward he waited for a sign.  For he was Kiowa and Jennifer was Lakota… but she was also white.   Surely by combining forces – by invoking both the Indian spirits and the white man’s god – surely then he would be told the path he needed to take to find her.  He was wrong.  There was no sign.  And eventually, Buck began to believe that there never would be.  So he slowly began to make a new life.  A life without Jennifer.

He tucked the memories away, sharing them now with no one.  Their time together had been so short, and the memories were so few, that they became like precious glass, certain to crumble to dust if he handled them too frequently.    So he kept them deep inside, only taking them out when the ache of loneliness seemed too much to bear alone.  Then he allowed himself to remember the way her hair had shone in the firelight, or the sparkle of her clear blue eyes, or the way she had stroked his hair as they lay together underneath the stars. 

Buck opened his eyes to find that the water had long since stopped flowing and the plate he was holding had been scrubbed to a clear shine.  Guiltily, he glanced around at Teaspoon, but the Marshal appeared to be lost in thought himself.  He shook his head minutely to drive away the memories of the past.  The past was the past, as Teaspoon himself had said on more than one occasion.  He couldn’t change it.  He would concentrate on his future.  His job right now was to assist Teaspoon in finding the renegades.  Once that was done… he’d have to leave.  Selling his ranch and leaving the only family he’d ever known would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. But seeing Jennifer in town every day… seeing her and knowing that she’d never share his life or his love or his bed… that would be even harder. 

Clearing his throat, Buck forced his attention back to the present.  “What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.

Teaspoon looked up distractedly.  “Hmmm?  Oh.  Call a town meetin’ tomorrow afternoon and let the folks know what we’re up against.  But we can’t track them renegades and we got no idea where they’re holed up, so I don’t think there’s much we CAN do at this point.”

Recalling the way the people of Sweetwater had reacted to past Indian trouble flashed through Buck’s mind in a blur.  “They ain’t gonna like that.”

“Nope,” Teaspoon agreed.  “But if we go wandering off tryin’ to find somebody when we ain’t got no idea where to look, the only thing that’s gonna happen is a bunch more people gettin’ killed.  I’m jus’ gonna have to convince ‘em of that.”

“Good luck.” 

Teaspoon grinned.  “Now Buck, from the way you said that I’d think you didn’t have no faith in my powers of persuasion.”   Dropping the arrow on the table, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded the Kiowa thoughtfully.  “Question is, what are YOU gonna do?”

Buck looked confused.  “I can go back to the Rock and see—“

Teaspoon waved a hand in the air impatiently.   “Son, you already done all you could to find them renegades and for that I’m grateful.  I’m talking about Jennifer.  What are you gonna do about this situation you find yourself in?”

Bristling, Buck replied, “There’s nothing TO do, Teaspoon.  I already told ya—”

“Yup, I heard what you told me and I got something to tell you.  I asked why you thought the renegades left Jennifer and them others alone and you said they were lucky.  Well, I don’t think luck had anything to do with it, Buck.  I think maybe there was a reason they got spared.”

“Reason?  What reason?  The renegades got scared off, and Jennifer and a couple of nameless strangers got lucky!”

The Marshal cleared his throat.  “About them nameless strangers—”

But Buck wasn’t listening.  He ran a hand through his long hair anxiously. “What are you implying, Teaspoon?  That the spirits would somehow return her to me, after all this time?  Why?”

Teaspoon had been thinking no such thing, but neither was he one to look a gift horse in the mouth.  It’s obvious that’s exactly what Buck WAS thinking.  Teaspoon ran his thumbs under his suspenders and leaned against the countertop comfortably.

“Buck, gods and spirits work in mysterious ways, and it ain’t up to a man like me to try to figure ‘em out.  I can’t say why they do what they do, or what purpose they got in mind when they do it.  But I been around this world a time or two, son, and I do know this – you turn your back, and you hide your head in the sand, and there ain’t nothin’ but sorrow and pain gonna come of that.”

The former rider looked incredulous.  “Running and hiding?  I spent the better part of a year looking for her, Teaspoon!”

“And you and me both know that.  You been through a lot of hurt, and so’s she.  I’d hate to see you throw away the second chance you been given just ‘cause you’re both too ornery to try again. You think about that, Buck.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Teaspoon.  She’s already made up her mind.”

“Then maybe you gotta do more convincin’.” Waving off the objection he saw coming, Teaspoon added mildly, “Besides, there’s more than just you and Jennifer to consider.”

When Buck only regarded him blankly, Teaspoon sighed.  “You remember a little boy playing outside o’ Tompkins house?  A little boy that you almost ran over ‘cause you were so all fired anxious to get outta there?”

“Nooo,” Buck replied softly.  But he did.  He had a brief flash of dark hair and blue shirt.  A small part of his mind – the part not overtaken by overwhelming feelings of loss and anger – had wondered why the child’s mother was not watching over him.  Had wondered why the child was playing in Tompkins yard to begin with.

Teaspoon saw the remembrance come into Buck’s eyes despite the denial.  “That little boy is Jack.  He was one of the survivors in the stagecoach.  Only got a bump on the head.  He’s a lucky boy.”

“So?”  The word was almost inaudible. 

“He’s almost five years old.  His mama had to work real hard tryin’ to make a good life for him, as best she could.  She was alone, you see.”  Teaspoon took a deep breath.  “His mama is Jennifer Tompkins.”

Buck staggered back against the counter, closing his eyes.  “No,” he whispered, but Teaspoon’s voice continued whether he wanted to hear it or not. 

“Jack is your son.”
 

Chapter Six

Jennifer finished rinsing the final beaker and set it on the counter with its mates, wincing reflexively at the pain in her side as she reached across the countertop.  The parade of glasses seemed to regard her mockingly, droplets of water glistening on each surface.  Jen glanced skeptically at the tea towel hanging on the hook by the stove, then back at the line of glasses and plates needing to be dried and put away.  Her hand crept unbidden to her bruised ribs as she decided that this once – just this once – the dishes could air dry.

Wandering to the back door, she poked her head outside to check on Jack.  When a quick glance at the yard failed to turn up her son, she felt an invisible hand clutch at her chest and squeeze gently.  Surely he was there somewhere.  Surely.  She would not panic.  She most definitely would not panic.  Repeating the mantra to herself, she stepped out onto the porch for a better view.  He wasn’t there.  HE WASN’T THERE.  Dread rising within her despite her best intentions, she had opened her mouth to call his name – to SCREAM his name – when she saw him.  Or rather, part of him.  Two small feet attached to two small legs clad in new blue dungarees could just be seen sticking out from beneath the bushes that ran alongside the house.  Holding her hand to her mouth to suppress the gasp of joy and relief that wanted to release itself in the form of a giggle, Jennifer moved to the top step and allowed the grin to surface.    Her son, his ubiquitous train set at his side, had carved an elaborate roadway in the dirt and leaves at the side of the building.  Jack was so intent on his game that he had no idea he was being watched. 

“Jack?  Don’t go far now.”  Considering how awash with anxiety she’d been just moments before, Jennifer was impressed at how calm and relaxed she sounded. 

A dirt-streaked face pushed its way through the tangle of leaves to regard Jennifer disdainfully.  “Aw Mama, you told me that ALREADY.”  When Jennifer simply smiled, he beamed back at her.  “I know, Mama.  ‘If it’s good advice, it can be taken twice’,” he recited in the tones of someone who has heard the phrase often in his young life.  He gestured excitedly to the bushes.  “Look, this is the forest, just like in Hansel and Gretel!”

“Exactly like it,” Jen agreed.  “Have fun, Jack.”  But her son was already re-immersed in his play. 

Returning to the kitchen, Jennifer sat at the table for a moment, but her gaze kept being drawn to the drying dishes.  Tin soldier lines of glasses sat waiting for her touch; the small stack of plates watched her leisurely behavior in seeming dismay.  With a sigh Jen rose, took up the tea towel and got to work.  Her friend Janie might have considered it neurotic, but Jennifer just couldn’t abide an untidy kitchen! 

Letting her attention wander to the view of the plains through the kitchen window, Jennifer absently picked up a glass.  Guiltily, she realized that she hadn’t thought of Janie in months, though they’d promised to keep in touch.  Letters had been frequent at first, as Jennifer found herself roaming through New York State with Jack in tow, desperately trying to find a place to call home.  Janie had been her lifeline, an acknowledgement that there was someone out there that cared how she and Jack were doing.  But the letters on both sides had slowly dwindled, then stopped altogether.  A sad state of affairs, she reflected soberly.  To make ONE friend in six years and then have that friend drift out of your life like passing sagebrush, and so insidiously that you didn’t even realize it had happened. 

That would stop, Jennifer thought resolutely.  As soon as she was done with the dishes, she would write Janie and bring her up to date.  On everything.  Lord knows there was a lot to tell.  Maybe they could even get together again.  Who knew?  Her plans were too vague at this point to make any guarantees, but…

Lost in thought, Jennifer jumped back in surprise at the knock on the door, almost losing her grip on the goblet in her hand.  Mr. Jenkins already!  She glanced distastefully at the dishes still left undried on the countertop.  She’d been daydreaming about the past instead of doing the work that needed to be done.  THAT never used to happen. Well, there was nothing to be done for it now.

“It’s open, Mr. Jenkins,” she called out.

“Well, I’m not Mr. Jenkins but I hope it’s open for me too,” the answering voice called back pleasantly. 

“Rachel.”

“I hope you don’t mind me stoppin’ by so early,” the schoolteacher greeted Jennifer warmly.  “I just wanted to make sure you were doin’ all right, and see if you needed any—” Rachel’s chatter stopped abruptly as she took in the towel in Jen’s hand and the dishes on the counter, and a frown crossed her pretty features.  “Now Jenny, you shouldn’t be doin’ that!” she scolded, plucking the towel from Jen’s startled grasp.  Deftly maneuvering the younger woman into a chair, she easily removed the glass from Jennifer’s other hand.  “You just sit there and rest.  I can take care of these dishes!”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Rachel.”

“Don’t be silly. You didn’t ask.  I volunteered.  Besides, Doc Barnes would have my hide if he knew I’d let you strain yourself any.  Not to mention your father!  You got to be real careful till though ribs heal.” 

Jennifer let herself fall back into the seat with a sigh.  In truth, her side was hurting more than she wanted to admit, and Rachel’s help was appreciated.  She regarded the attractive woman thoughtfully, sincerely astounded that her father was courting the lovely schoolteacher.  Her parents had been separated most of her life, so she knew that protectiveness of her mother’s memory didn’t cloud her perceptions.  She just found it… odd.  The Rachel that she remembered from six years past had harbored no romantic feelings toward William Tompkins, of that she was sure.

Propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands, Jennifer ventured the question that had been disturbing her since she’d noticed their closeness.  “Rachel, how did you… I mean, my father and you… well… I mean, I didn’t even think you LIKED him!”

Rachel’s giggle filled the kitchen, making her sound ten years younger.  “Oh I didn’t.  But things change.  People change.  He took in a little boy, did you know that?”  At Jennifer’s frown, her tone softened.  “Of course you didn’t.  I’m sorry, Jennifer.  There’s so much catching up to do, on both sides. Well, we have lots of time for that now!”

“Who was the boy?”

“Edgar Reynolds.  His mother died when he was born, and then he lost his father in a cave-in at the Erskine mine.  Ten years old.  Flaming red hair, big green eyes, just the cutest little boy you could ever lay eyes on.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jennifer smiled.

“Second cutest then,” Rachel amended with an answering grin.  “But what a hellion in the classroom!  I swear, I’ve never had so many pranks pulled on me in one week as I did with that Edgar.  Nothing will shock me anymore!  Needless to say, I ended up spending a LOT of time with your father, discussing little Edgar’s… uh… shall we say, ‘high spirits’.  Eventually I came to realize that underneath all that bluster and blarney there was a real man.  Then I made it my job to eliminate the bluster!”

Jennifer rolled her eyes.  “You’ve still got some work to do.” 

Rachel’s smile never faltered.  “Oh Jenny, getting there is half the fun!” she replied happily before placing the final glass in the cupboard.  “There, that’s done.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” Jennifer said sincerely.  “I hope I haven’t made you late for school.”

“I’ve still got plenty of time,” Rachel answered, “but that reminds me.  When are you goin’ to put Jack in school?”  When Jennifer only shrugged guiltily, Rachel continued, “I know you just got home yesterday and a heck of a lot has happened since then, but I really think it would be best for Jack to get back into a routine.  And he’d get to make some new friends, and—”

“The thing is, Rachel,” interrupted Jen, “I don’t think we’ll be staying on here.”

Rachel’s face fell.  Dropping the tea towel unheeded by the sink, she took a place opposite Jennifer at the small table.  “Oh Jen, don’t say that.  You just got here.  Why don’t you take some time and—”

“Things aren’t like I’d thought they’d be.”

“Things rarely are,” Rachel agreed.  “Look, if this is about your father, I’ll talk to him.  He was upset yesterday.  He just got you back and then almost lost you again.  Give him time, Jen.  He’s truly changed.”

“It’s not my father,” Jennifer replied. “At least, it’s not ALL my father.  It’s…” She didn’t want to say it. Thinking it was hard; saying it would make her heart break all over again. 

“It’s Buck,” Rachel said it for her. 

Hands twisting in agitation, Jennifer nodded sadly.  “I just can’t… I spent five years taking care of my son on my own.  I struggled and saved to try to give him the best I could.  And to find… him… alive and just happily goin’ on his way with never a care in the world—”

“Now that’s not fair.”  This time it was Rachel’s turn to interrupt.  “No matter what you think, Buck looked for you.  He did everything he could to try to find you.”

“But he didn’t find me!  And while I’m struggling to take care of his son—”

“That he didn’t know he had,” Rachel finished smoothly.  “Jen, you can’t go on blamin’ Buck for somethin’ he had no control over.” Taking Jennifer’s hands in her own, Rachel’s voice lowered.  “The two of you loved each other once.  I know something about that.  I was married; I was going to have a baby.  Then my husband, my dear sweet Henry, was killed.  Murdered.  And I lost the baby.”

“I didn’t know, Rachel.  I’m so sorry,” Jennifer said softly.

Rachel patted her hand reassuringly.  “I thought the grieving would never stop.  The pain was so unbearable that I did… well, I did some things that I regret.  And I did a lot of blaming too.  Blamed Henry for not having his gun handy, and for lettin’ Thad get the drop on him.  Blamed myself for ever gettin’ involved with Thad Browning in the first place.  Took a long time to let go of all that guilt and all that blame.”

Her grip tightened on Jennifer’s hand. “You got a chance most people don’t get.  Don’t throw it away because of some real or imagined hurt from the past.  Grasp it!”

“I’m scared,” Jennifer admitted softly.  “I don’t want… It took so long for the hurt to go away, Rachel.  I don’t want it to come back.”

She sounded so lost and alone, not the independent and capable single mother of a five year old.  That shouldn’t be surprising, Rachel mused.  Jennifer was barely a child herself when she brought Jack into the world.  Impulsively, Rachel leaned forward across the table and drew Jennifer into an embrace.  The younger woman stiffened at the touch for a moment before her arms came up to encircle Rachel’s waist awkwardly.  How long had it been since Jennifer had been held and comforted, Rachel wondered.   Since… since Jack was conceived?  She was forced to admit it was a likely possibility.

“You just got to take that first leap of faith,” she murmured.  “Maybe the first step should be telling Buck that he’s a father?” she suggested hopefully.

Feeling the nod against her shoulder, she continued, “And can I count on seeing Jack in my classroom sometime soon?  You need some time to come to a final decision about staying, after all.  Agreed?”

Jennifer pulled back from the schoolteacher self-consciously, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.  “Agreed,” she said softly, feeling like seven kinds of weakling.  Where was the tough and competent woman who’d braved the mean streets of New York?  Vanished in a sniffling haze.  Jennifer squared her shoulders and got herself under control, mentally reorganizing her priorities.  Writing Janie would still be near the top of her list, but confronting Buck – again – would have to be done first.  Perhaps she’d take Jack over to the school that afternoon.  She’d then be free to ride to Buck’s ranch and tell him the truth.  Yes.  Better to get it over with sooner rather than later.  She had never been one to put off the inevitable, and couldn’t quite figure out why she’d been trying to start that now. 

“Good,” Rachel was saying.  She stood and swept her hands briskly along her skirt, smoothing out any wrinkles.  “Now I DO need to get going.  I’ll stop by at lunch to make sure you’re doin’ all right.  And if you need anything – ANYTHING – you send Jack to the schoolhouse to find me.  You know where it is?”

Nodding, Jennifer smiled.  “I’ll be fine, Rachel.  And… thank you.”

Any response Rachel would have made was made inaudible by a sharp knock at the front door.  “Mr. Jenkins,” the two women said in unison, then shared a grin.

“What’s he comin’ here for, anyway?” Rachel asked curiously as they walked through the sitting room.

“The pump’s leaking,” Jen explained.  “Half the kitchen was flooded with water this morning.  I got up to find that my father had sat Jack on top of the counter, certain that he’d catch his death of cold if his feet so much as touched the floor.  There was talk of moving all of us to the hotel till the problem was fixed.”  At Rachel’s incredulous expression, she added dryly, “He over-reacted.”

“You think?” Rachel asked with a laugh.  William Tompkins did not often part with cold cash willingly.  Still smiling, she pulled open the door.  “Mr. Jenkins, I hear you’re just in time!” she said in greeting, then stopped abruptly.  Behind her, she heard Jennifer’s whisper of surprise. 

“Buck.”