The Sentinel office was quiet, and had remained that way all day, a rare occurrence for which Claire was supremely grateful.  Wincing in pain, she searched through the jumble of papers on the counter for the note that Uncle Matthew had left her.  Yes, here it was.  Her duties for the day, all itemized in Matthew’s neat handwriting, the most important tasks highlighted with a tiny five-point star.  Claire reviewed the list randomly.

Flyers for Thompkins’ store.  Done.  Well, almost.  The typeset was finished; she just hadn’t gotten round to the actual printing yet.  Soon.  She’d get to it soon.  Abigail had even agreed – shock of all shocks – to deliver the finished work to the store, saving Claire from the necessity of being seen in public in her condition. She shrugged the thought away, returning her attention to the list. 

Proofing Matthew’s editorial.  Done. Her notes and comments were neatly clipped to Matthew’s original and now sat at his desk, awaiting his return later this evening. 

Business correspondence to New York.  Boston.  St. Jo.  All done.  She’d even added a few letters of her own, jotting her ideas down quickly on one of the legal pads and leaving it on the desk with the other forms, along with some sample drafts of her propositions. Reviewing the list, she felt a small surge of pride.  She’d accomplished a lot today.  Funny how applying yourself to a few simple tasks could push the hurt and anger and pain away.  Well… a little bit. 

Again, Claire shook her head impatiently, irritated at how easily her mind could wander.  She forced herself to concentrate on the list in her hand, her eyes drawn to the last item there.  The Ledger.  She grimaced – “words” she was all right with, but “numbers”…  Balancing the books was no easy feat, at least not for her.  She groaned, pulled the heavy accounting journal forward and bent to her work. 

Fifteen minutes later, Claire pushed the book away with a sigh and hung her head in frustration.  It was no use.  Nothing added up, the debits were all wrong, and more that that… she hurt.  She raised a hand to her face tentatively.  The puffiness seemed to have gone down some; maybe Abby’s poultice had done the trick.  Or maybe, she considered sorrowfully, it was just her own wishful thinking.  She knew if she looked in the mirror right now, her face would still bear the large purple bruises it had this morning.  Of course, she had no intention of looking in the mirror. 

She leaned forward again, sending a sudden bolt of fire and ice through her right arm.  Abby’s poultice hadn’t worked on THAT, that was for sure. 

She had just buried her head in her hands, resigned to feeling sorry for herself for the next fifteen minutes, when the bell above the door let off its familiar tinkle and footsteps she recognized all too well approached the counter. 

“Hey sweetheart,” Buck said cheerfully, leaning elbows on the counter and trying to peek under her curtain of hair.  Her entire posture screamed exhaustion, and he mentally cursed himself for not getting there earlier.  The base repairs to the barn wall had taken longer than they’d thought; in the end, only the framework had been erected before the riders had halted work for the day.  Buck had begged off the trip to Crooks Hollow and headed immediately to town.  Apparently, he hadn’t gotten there quickly enough.  Claire looked worn out; obviously Matthew had left her with too many responsibilities while he was away.  Well, Buck reflected, now he was here.  He could shoulder some of the burden. 

“Tough day?”  He reached out to place his hand behind her neck where he knew her long braids hid, still amazed at the strength of emotion that flowed through him at the mere sight of her, the mere nearness of her.  He was startled to stillness, then, when Claire stiffened and jerked back, never raising her head. 

“Um… I’m… I’m not feeling good today, Buck… today is not…” Claire stammered.

Buck frowned.  “What’s wrong?” he began, reaching out to her again. 

“Don’t touch me!”  Claire’s voice rang out stridently in the small room. 

Buck froze in mid-motion, concern, hurt, and confusion warring for supremacy on his handsome features.  He shook his head.  What was wrong with her?  Just yesterday they had pledged their love… yesterday she had reveled in his kisses, craved his touch…  Now… now everything was changed?  Was that it?  Now that she had what she wanted – a taste of the “exotic”, a fling with the town half-breed – she was ready to toss him aside.  Now that she had his heart. 

No!  He felt a surge of red-hot shame flood his body.  No.  How could he even think such a thing, even for a moment?  Claire loved him.  Claire trusted him. Claire was NOT Kathleen. 

“I’m sorry Buck,” Claire was stuttering, holding her body stiff and still.  “I’m just… I don’t feel well…”

No, Claire was not Kathleen, but something was still awry.  Something beyond “not feeling well”.  She normally radiated warmth, caring, attention – an innate component of her character that flowed from within unknowingly.  It was why animals flocked to her; it was part of the reason he loved her.  Now that inner light was dimmed, its flicker masked by something darker and more sinister.

“Look at me, Claire,” he said softly.

“… there’s a lot of work to do, and…”

“Look at me.” 

Slowly, Claire raised her head. 

Buck felt the gasp of shock leave his body even as his eyes filled with tears.  Claire, his beautiful Claire… Cautiously, he tenderly pushed her hair away from her face, exposing the ugly purplish bruise that ran down her cheek, feeling her shudder slightly under his touch.  His breath came in uneven gasps; at his side, his other hand clenched and unclenched violently as he fought to control the emotions struggling within him.  He wanted to draw her into his arms and soothe her pain away, while at the same time he wanted to hunt down and destroy the man who dared to hurt her.  She was under HIS protection now.  He drew a finger down her face gently, and when he finally spoke, his voice was cold and dark. 

“Who did this to you?”

“No one!”  The lie tripped easily from Claire’s tongue, the same lie she’d told on countless other occasions when her father had seen fit to use his fists on his children.  She didn’t even have to think twice about it; it had been drilled into her since her earliest adolescence.  There were some things you just didn’t talk about. 

“No one, Buck!” she insisted again, when he shook his head.  “I… I fell!  I got up… It was dark, and I fell!  I hit my head, and…”

“It was your father.”  It was not a question.

“No!” Claire pushed away from the counter, pacing anxiously.  She drew her arms across her chest, ignoring the pain in her arm, desperate for him to believe.  “No!  I fell… I wanted some water and…”

“Don’t do this Claire.  Don’t lie to me.”  Buck’s voice held a pleading tone even as the anger at her attacker – her father – still coursed through his body. 

“Lie?”  Claire’s voice rose higher.  “I FELL!  Why won’t you BELIEVE me?”

“Claire—“

“Maybe you don’t believe anything I say,” she forged on, ignoring him, still pacing wildly, the words falling quickly from her tongue.  “Maybe you… you were the one talking about trust!”

“Trust?  Claire, calm—“

“You don’t trust me, you don’t believe anything I say!  Maybe this was all just a game to you, anyway.  Just a way to get back at the people who hurt you!  Just a way to get back at HER!”

Buck stood in the middle of the room, mouth open in shock.  He loved her.  He loved her with every part of himself, with every ounce of passion and desire he’d ever known… loved every part of her, even now.  Even with the vitriol that spilled from her, he loved her still. 

“Don’t do this Claire,” he repeated.  It was hard to form words, hard to breathe. His voice sounded strangled even to his own ears. 

“I FELL!” Claire shouted, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.  “And if you’re not going to believe me, then maybe we don’t have any trust at all.  Maybe you should just leave!”

He stood for a moment, staring at the floorboards and breathing heavily, unable to believe what he was hearing.  Events had spiraled out of control so fast that he found it difficult to think straight, difficult to comprehend.  Leave.  Just leave.  It was happening again.  He couldn’t believe it was happening again.  The ache of rejection tore at his soul, ripping at his dignity, destroying all that he was. Kathleen.  Now Claire.  No, even as the agony exploded within him, he couldn’t fully blame Claire.  She didn’t set out to manipulate him, as Kathleen did.  He couldn’t believe that of her, even now.  She just… changed her mind.  And what did he have to offer her anyway?   A lifetime of scorn as woman to a half-breed.  Target for the same abuse he suffered, object of derision and contempt.    Could he blame her for not wanting him?

But this time… oh, it hurt so much more.  This time, he was leaving behind a piece of his heart. 

When he finally raised his head, he had schooled his face into the mask of indifference that he’d had ample time to cultivate.  Only his deep brown eyes still showed the pain that he buried inside.  He looked at the woman he loved, knowing this final moment – this final image – would be burned forever in his memory.  “Goodbye Claire,” he said softly, unable to keep his voice from breaking as he spoke her name aloud for the last time. 

Turning on his heel, he stalked purposefully to the door, his back straight and his stride even.  Her last sight of him would be one of strength, not weakness… power, not dependence.  Perhaps he would do as he’d first thought, that day at the way station that seemed so long ago.  Return to Red Bear and the Kiowa.  Try to make his place, and his peace, with his people.  One thing he knew for sure: he had to leave the Pony Express.  To see her every day in town, knowing that he couldn’t have her, aching with a desire that he knew could never be fulfilled… he would surely go mad. 

Buck opened the door briskly, wanting to end this as quickly as possible, and had set one foot across the threshold when he heard it.  The sound of the bell jingling its tune above the door had almost drowned it out.  Her voice.  Claire’s voice.

“Buck…”

He stopped. 

She sounded so lost.  Frightened.  Alone.  Alone because she just accused you of using her and told you to get out! his mind raged inwardly.  He turned his head, feeling lost and alone himself.  This was too hard.  LOVE was too hard.  He couldn’t deal with this, couldn’t face this again… he should just walk out the door; why give her another chance to break his heart?

“Buck…please…”

He turned. 

She had moved around to the front of the counter.  Her hands trembled at her sides, lower lip the victim of her turmoil even as her eyes, glittering with tears, pleaded with him.  For understanding.  For forgiveness.  She looked haggard, the bruises on her face standing out in stark contrast to her pale skin and haunted blue eyes.  She looked defenseless.  Helpless.  Afraid, and adrift in a friendless sea. 

The whites needed the ceremony, the preacher, the vows.  “To have and to hold from this day forward.  In sickness and in health.  For richer and for poorer.  For better and for worse…” The Kiowa had no need for such public declarations of reverence, respect, and love.  With his words and his actions, Buck had made Claire his manyi.  His woman.  For better and for worse. 

“I… Buck, I…” her voice cracked, quivering with barely-suppressed emotion.

He opened his arms. 

Claire covered the space between them in an instant, throwing herself into his embrace with enough force to knock him back a step before he regained his balance.  Her arms wrapped tightly around his back as she buried her face in his chest, oblivious to the shooting pain in her arm, oblivious to the tender scraping rawness of her cheek… wanting only to ease the dull throbbing ache that had started in her chest the moment she lied to him.  His body was still and unyielding against her own, his bearing reserved despite the fact that he held her in his arms once again.  Words flew from her lips in a torrent as she tried desperately to ease the pain she’d caused. 

“Oh Buck, oh my God Buck I’m so sorry… I never meant to… I’m sorry, please don’t leave me Buck… I love you please don’t leave me… I didn’t know what to do, and I… oh I love you, please don’t go…” Her breath came in great hitching sobs as she held frantically to the man she loved. 

Slowly, Buck let his body relax against hers, his arms coming up to enfold her, his hands smoothing her long hair. “I’m not leaving you,” he whispered into her hair.  “I’m never leaving you.”  He pulled her more fully into his embrace, strong arms encircling her completely, creating a cocoon of safety and stability.  “I’m never leaving you,” he repeated softly, rocking her gently and murmuring soothingly in both English and Kiowa until finally her terrified pleas and sobs eased, then quieted altogether. 

After a long moment he pulled away reluctantly, lifting her tear-stained face to his own.  How much easier it would be let the issue end here.  They were together; one argument and some words thrown in anger could not tear apart two souls such as theirs.  But he had to know.  If they were to ever have a life together, she had to share as much as he had shared.  She had to bare her soul just as he bared his heart. 

“Isn’t it time you told me about your father?” he asked gently. 

Claire shifted apprehensively, staring into his dark eyes.  Years of indoctrination from her parents filtered across her mind – that such things were “family business”, that disobedient little girls needed to be punished.  The McKinstrys took care of each other, her father would say, and strangers can keep their prying eyes out of our business.  But she wasn’t a little girl anymore.  And this wasn’t a stranger.  This was the man she loved, and the time for lies was well past. 

“He wasn’t always like this,” she finally answered softly.  “He used to be… when I was little, he was my hero.  He used to take me and Abby everywhere.  One time, he took us to the docks… he worked on the dock then… and somehow he finagled our way onto a tugboat.  The captain let us steer.  Of course, the boat wasn’t moving, but we didn’t know that. He loves the stars, did you know that?  He’d take us out for long walks at night, me on one side and Abby on the other, and we’d find a quiet place and look at the sky. He’d show us the constellations.  The Big Dipper.  Cassiopeia.   I remember how big his hand felt in mine.  I always felt so safe when I was with him.”  Her lips curved upward in a wistful smile at the memory.  Then her hand came up to her face, happy childhood remembrance replaced by harsh present-day reality.   “I don’t know when he changed,” she continued sadly.  “Seems like once boys started to notice Abby – or when Abby got old enough to notice boys.”

“Why did he do this?”  Buck’s question came out strangled.  There could never be a reason for this.

Claire started, glancing at him guiltily and then away again.  “It doesn’t matter.  Tomorrow Uncle Matthew will—“

“It DOES matter, Claire,” interrupted Buck harshly. 

“WHY?” she protested hotly.  “Tomorr—“

“It was us, wasn’t it?  He found out about us.” 

Claire sighed, resting her head on his chest. He was stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery. “Yes,” she confirmed softly. “He found out about us.”

Buck’s body went rigid in her embrace and when he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion.  “My fault, this is all my fault… if I hadn’t loved you…”

“No!” Claire pulled back to gaze fiercely into his eyes, even as her arms strengthened their hold around his waist.  “Don’t say that.  Don’t EVER say that!  You are the one good thing, the only good thing in my life!” 

“Claire…”

“NO, Buck!  This is not my fault, or your fault, or anybody’s fault!”

“It’s HIS fault,” Buck said ominously.  Whatever happened, Buck vowed, Daniel McKinstry would never lay a hand on his daughter again.  His mind flew through the options, weighing alternatives, until he stood back and grasped her hand.  “Come on.  We’re going to see Teaspoon.  You can tell him what happened..."

Claire pulled her hand away harshly.  “No, we’re NOT going to see Teaspoon!”

“He’s the Marshal, he can—“

“He can do WHAT?” interrupted Claire.  “He can’t do anything, Buck!  I’m a woman, and the man who did this is my father.  He might as well own me the same as he owns his wagon mule!”

Buck ran a hand through his hair, the anger and frustration beginning to eat at him.  He had to watch over her, had to keep her safe.  That had to be his first priority now; dealing with her father would come later, after he knew she was protected.  But Claire was right.  Legally, there was nothing Teaspoon could do.  There were men out there – including some of Sweetwater’s “upstanding” citizens, he was sure – who would even agree with what Daniel had done to Claire.  After all, a father was merely protecting his daughter from the attentions of an Indian.  Yes, there were some that would consider Claire’s beating a proper punishment.  The thought made him sick. 

“All right,” he nodded, reaching out and taking her hand again.  “All right.  I’ll take you to the pony express station.  You’ll be safe there and—“

“Stop pulling at me!” Claire wrenched her hand away from Buck’s, sending another stabbing pain through her arm.  “You don’t own me any more than my father does!”  She winced, both at the fireworks in her arm and the shocked and hurt expression on Buck’s face. 

Sighing, she leaned against him, waiting until he replaced his arms around her before speaking.  “My father’s gone, Buck.  He always lights out after something like this. He’ll be gone till tomorrow at least.  And I’ve already told Mother that I’m leaving.”  She pulled back to look in his eyes.  “Uncle Matthew gets back from Blue Creek tonight.  I’ll pack my things and I’ll be moving in with him tomorrow.”

Buck gulped, uncertainty tearing at him.  In his heart, he KNEW that the way station was the only truly safe place for her.  There, not only could HE keep an eye on her, but she’d also have five other riders equally determined to protect her.  Maybe, he considered, she didn’t realize she could stay with Rachel in the house?  Or maybe she was concerned about the seemliness of the situation; was it proper for a young girl to stay, unchaperoned, with an unmarried woman and a crew of rowdy men?  He could fix that.  He loved her.  It was moving things along more quickly than he had expected, that was all. 

“You could come with me now,“ he began shakily.  “If you’re… if you’re worried about impropriety we could get married… I have a good deal of money saved, I could take care of you—“

“I can’t marry you, Buck” Claire interrupted.  She felt him stiffen against her slightly and snuggled deeper into his chest, secure in his embrace, certain that he would understand her explanation.  “Not now, not like this.  I love you but… I can’t run away, don’t you see?  I should be running TO a new life, not AWAY from an old one.  Do you understand?”

He shuddered in her arms, the fear of rejection still fresh.  She couldn’t marry him.  He was an Indian.  Half-blood.  She couldn’t marry him.

No.  He pushed the fear aside.  She couldn’t marry him… now.  But one day…  “I understand,” he said finally.  “But I’m not leaving you alone.  If he hurts you again…” As his arms tightened around her, the threat was painfully clear.

“He won’t,” interrupted Claire, overwhelmed at the cold-blooded fury in his tone.  She drew back to look him fiercely in the eye.  Verbalizing her plans had put her own fears – fear of her father, fear of the future, and most importantly the fear of losing Buck – into the past.  She felt confident now that she – that they, she amended – could withstand whatever the next few days would bring.  But looking into Buck’s eyes, she saw only the dark and savage need for vengeance. 

“And you’re not going to do anything about this either,” she said vehemently.  “As of tomorrow morning he’ll have no say over me, and I don’t want you going near my father until then.  Promise me, Buck!”

Buck remained still, refusing to look her in the eye.  Every fibre of his being cried out for revenge, reprisal against this act of brutality.    Daniel McKinstry had no honour, and was deserving of no respect.  Buck owed him nothing.  Daniel McKinstry had brutalized his woman, and the Kiowa in him demanded retribution. 

“Buck, please, promise me!”  Claire took him by the shoulders, shaking him violently, forcing him to look at her.  Her eyes were wide, tears held inside by force of will alone.  “Please.  He’s my father.”

He drew in a shaking breath before reaching up to run a finger tenderly down her bruised and swollen cheek.  Her father.  Yes.  Her father had done this – and she loved him still.  And now she asked him to bridle his anger and forsake vengeance. He wondered if Claire knew this was the hardest thing that he’d ever done.  “I promise,” he said softly.  He took her into his arms again, calming her trembling form.  “There’s more, isn’t there?” 

Claire sighed.  “Yes, there’s more.  But not today, all right Buck?  I promise I’ll tell you everything… but not today.”  Her eyes looked up at his imploringly. 

“Not today,” he agreed gently.  “But I’m not leaving you,” he reiterated forcefully.  “We’ll stay here, then I’ll take you home after supper.  AND I’ll make sure your father isn’t there before I leave you alone.”

“Buck, you have other things to do—“

“Nothing as important as this.  Nothing as important as you.”    He stepped back, surveying the room for the first time since he’d entered it.  “What do you want me to do?”

Buck moved to the counter, shaking his head over the confusion of papers, letters, and books.  Watching him, Claire let a half-smile overtake her features.  It was going to be all right.  She’d nearly lost him – she’d nearly lost everything – but it was really going to be all right. 

“Well,” she said, “do you know anything about balancing accounts?”
 

Chapter Thirteen

The day had begun with physical pain and had almost ended in emotional anguish too deep to contemplate.  Claire was, then, almost surprised to find herself leaning comfortably against Buck’s side, his arm around her waist and contented smiles on both their faces, as they strolled up the short walkway to her front porch.

After its rocky start, the day had gone well.  Claire marveled at just how well.  She had finished the flyers for Thompkins’ store while, impressively, Buck balanced Matthew’s thick accounting ledger.  The figures that danced incomprehensibly across the page to her, their accurate reckoning always tantalizingly out of reach, were nothing but a challenge to Buck.  After several false starts, he set to the task with the same intensity and stubbornness with which he attacked any problem – the ledger didn’t stand a chance. 

Abigail had shown up as promised and, again surprising Claire, had actually been civil to Buck.  She wasn’t exactly all rose petals and sunshine, but she didn’t snub or patronize the young rider either.  It was a start.  If Abby could change even a little, Claire reflected, maybe there was a slim chance that their father would someday accept her relationship with the Kiowa rider.  Maybe.  Someday.

Buck had treated them both to a steak dinner from the Hotel restaurant, delivered to the Sentinel on the promise of a handsome tip.  And they’d even managed to get in another round of instruction in Indian sign.  Claire could follow Buck’s simple hand phrases and short sentences now; she just had trouble responding to them.  But in a few days, she was confident she’d be able to have her first real conversation with Ike.  The thought of chatting with Buck’s best friend – without Buck acting as interpreter – filled her with anticipatory eagerness.  The bond between the two men – so different outwardly, but drawn together by shared pain and remaining together by a kinship stronger than blood – was one she longed to explore.  Ike wasn’t skilled at guile; she knew he had resented her appearance in Buck’s life.  She didn’t know if he resented her still.  She hoped that learning to speak with him – to HEAR him – would go a long way to gaining his acceptance of her place in his world.  She had to admit that she was a little envious of the very obvious love shared by the two men who considered themselves brothers. 

“I’m gonna go inside with you and look around.”

Buck’s voice, soft and sombre in the dusk of the evening, drew Claire from her reverie.  She turned to find his smile of a moment before turned into something reserved and serious.  The rider’s left hand clenched nervously at his side, aching to draw his gun.  Both their gazes fell to the empty holster.  Claire had insisted that Buck leave his weapons – knife and gun – at the Marshal’s office, despite his vow not to pursue vengeance on her father. 

“I’m sure he’s not home, Buck.”  Claire glanced at the house shrouded in darkness, her mother and sister no doubt long gone to bed.  “He always—“

“I know, he always lights out after somethin’ like this.  Well, I’m still comin’ inside to make sure.”

Claire nodded.  Again with the stubbornness.  This one wasn’t big enough to fight him on though.  She shrugged and opened the door with a flourish, inviting him to proceed her into the kitchen.  The evening was dark, clouds obliterating what little light the moon could provide, and Claire could barely make out the solid shapes of table and hutch in the small room. 

She turned to Buck with a tolerant smile.  “See, I told you.”

“I knew you’d be out whoring with that half-breed again, girl.”

The gruff voice from the shadows froze Claire in her tracks.  She couldn’t move, couldn’t breath.  It couldn’t be… it just couldn’t be…

Buck hurriedly pulled her behind him, his hand moving instinctively to the gun at his side and finding only empty air. 

“You know what they say…” Daniel’s voice continued, and now she could just make him out, rising from the spindle-backed chair in the corner of the room.

“… the only good Indian…”

The sound of his shot echoed across the tiny room. The pinpoint of light as flint struck steel illuminated the chamber, highlighting everything with the crushing brilliance of high noon. 

“… is a dead Indian.”

The bullet struck Buck square in the chest, sending him crashing backwards into the wall.  For a moment he could only stare, dumbfounded, at the hole in his torso, before finally turning stricken eyes to the woman he loved.  He managed a strangled cry – it might have been her name – before his legs buckled under him and he slumped to the floor, the dark red blood from his fatal wound already staining the floorboards beneath him. 

“NO!”  Claire’s agonized scream ripped through the room, through the house, through the town.  She dropped to her knees beside Buck’s prone body while behind her, Daniel McKinstry began to laugh.

“Noooooooo!”
 
 

Claire sat bolt upright in bed, eyes frantic and unseeing, hands clenching the covers tightly.  Her eyes darted around the room, breath coming in wild desperate gasps, until finally reality hit her. 

A dream.  It was just a dream. 

She glanced at Abigail’s bed, but her sister still slept soundly.  Claire drew a shaking breath, trying to calm the wild beating of her heart.  A dream.  Her cheeks were wet with tears, her body damp with perspiration – but it had just been a dream.  She forced herself to loosen her white-knuckled grip on her covers and lean back against her pillow, taking some small comfort in the familiar sound of Abigail’s even breathing.  Shivering, she closed her eyes – only to see in her mind’s eye Buck’s crumpled form, the final look on his face one of shock and horror.  Claire’s eyes flew open desperately as she once again found herself sitting in bed.  A dream, she repeated silently, just a dream. 

She lay back down, forced her eyes to close, and focussed her overflowing energy on keeping her breathing relaxed.  She tried to picture Buck as he’d been that afternoon at the Sentinel.  Diligently engrossed in balancing figures as he worked on the ledger, one hand absently toying with a long braid, tongue sticking out in concentration.  Laughing as she continually signed a word incorrectly, then placing gentle hands on her own to correct her.  Grimacing and choking elaborately after trying some of her strawberry tea.  But no matter how hard she tried, the dream-image of Buck's broken body kept trying to surface… and with it, the sound of her father’s laughter. 

In desperation, Claire kicked off her covers and moved silently to the dresser.  Careful not to wake Abigail, she lit a candle before drawing on her robe and making her way to the short hallway that led to the kitchen.  She’d wash up, she decided.  Wash away the damp perspiration that still clung to her body and with it, the fear of the dream.  Get some water.  Maybe she’d sit out on the front step and watch the stars.  Yes.  Watch the stars.  And imagine Buck, safe in his bed at the way station.  She could almost see him.  He was on his back, and a slim sliver of light from the window highlighted his ebony hair and dark features.  His eyelashes looked thick and full in the moonlight.  One arm was thrown casually outside the covers.  Yes, she could see it. 

“What are you doin’ up so late, girl?”

Claire blinked.  A dream?  No, she was awake.  She was SURE she was awake.  Yet there was her father, already utilizing the wash basin that she’d planned to make use of. 

“I…” Her reasons for getting out of bed flew from her mind as she tried to understand this turn of events.  Her father was BACK.  Maybe… maybe she was seeing things?  The dream-vision kept trying to intrude on her senses.  The spark of the gun, Daniel McKinstry’s mocking laughter.  She shook her head, trying to separate fantasy from reality.

“Daddy?”  Claire’s voice was a squeal, her face pale in the dim light of the candle.  She took a step further into the kitchen uncertainly.

“Who do ya think?” her father answered gruffly.  “Get yourself back to bed Claire.  It’s too late for the likes of you to be up.”

“Yes daddy,” she answered quickly, her throat suddenly dry.  She turned abruptly, bumping into the wall in her haste and sending a fresh bolt of pain down her injured arm.   The candle flame flickered ominously as she flew down the hallway to her room, no longer caring about the need for silence or the fact that her mother and Abigail still slept peacefully and unknowingly in their beds.  Reaching the relative safety of her bedroom, she gutted the flame hastily before climbing back into bed, pulling the covers securely around her and imagining they were Buck’s arms instead. 

It was just the after-effects of the dream, she told herself.  Just the lingering baggage of a horrible nightmare.  She couldn’t have seen what she THOUGHT she saw. 

Because, in the dim light thrown by Daniel’s lantern and her own small candle, the wash water in the basin has been tinged with pink. 

Blood, her mind screamed.  It looked like blood. 
 
 

 Chapter Fourteen

Pale sunlight, muted by the thick curtains, cast feeble shadows on the worn floorboards of the bedroom.  Outside the open window, a small bird hesitantly raised its voice to welcome a new day.  Seeing its offering of song accepted, another of its brethren joined it, and soon a chorus of birds chirped happily, finding joy and contentment in their song.  A gentle breeze wafted through the window, carrying with it all the hope and anticipation of a new day.

Claire opened her eyes slowly, surprised to discover that she had actually drifted asleep.  She lay motionless in her small bed, listening quietly to Abigail’s soft, even breathing.  Stretching her senses further, she could hear only the pops and groans of the old house, the creaks and moans that her mother called “the house settling”.  Beyond that, nothing.  Her mother and father still slept. 

Rising quietly, she slipped on her robe and crossed stealthily to the small mirror mounted above the dresser.  The bruises on her face, purplish only yesterday, were fading to a yellowish-green tinge already.  She touched her face gingerly and found that the pain had subsided some as well. Staring at her reflection, she allowed herself a comforting thought – perhaps her father hadn’t returned last night?  Her dreams had been so strange, after all.   Claire could hear Buck’s voice in her head, repeating her own assurances – “I know.  He always lights out after somethin’ like this” – and resisted the urge to stamp her foot in frustration.  It was true!  He always did.  Except this time. 

Her thoughts turned to the evening before, replaying the events in her mind before she could stop them.  She had risen for a drink of water, was going to sit on the porch and watch the stars… her father was there, shirt-sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, washing up in the basin… then the sound of the shot, Buck falling… the blood…

No!  No.  No gunshot.  The dream-image faded as she shook her head, bringing herself back to reality.  NO gunshot.  No Buck.  But the blood.  The blood was real.  The blood was all too real. 

She glanced again in the mirror, shocked at the image of the frightened child who stared back at her.  Her skin looked wan, her hair dull and listless.  Claire’s eyes widened.  The reflection didn’t lie, but she was truly surprised to see how much the terrors of the night – imagined though some of them might have been – reflected in her eyes and in her bearing. 

Resolutely, Claire straightened her shoulders and cupped some warm water from the bedroom basin into her hands, washing her face quietly.  When she raised her eyes to the mirror again some of the anxiety had faded, replaced by a calm assurance.  She could pack the rest of her things and be gone before her father ever struggled his way out of bed.  Most of her clothes were packed already.  She had only to finish cleaning out the closet and add a few personal items.  Then she’d be gone to Matthew’s in two shakes of a lambs tail, her father none the wiser.  Yes.  It was a good plan. 

She moved silently to the closet, deliberating for a moment before choosing a pale blue dress.  It’s fitted bodice and nipped waist highlighted her figure, the large blue and white flowers bringing a touch of gaiety to a day that surely needed some.  The dress was really too fancy for everyday wear, she knew, but she wanted this day to be special.  She was starting a new life today, and she wasn’t about to go slinking out with her tail between her legs.  She was going to be proud of herself, proud of her courage.  She had every right to be proud.

When she returned to the mirror to brush her hair, the face looking back at her looked a lot less like a frightened child and a lot more like a confident young woman.  Oh, the fear was still there – the image of Buck’s broken body kept trying to surface, Daniel’s mocking laughter trying to intrude – but Claire ruthlessly pushed them aside.  She finished with her hair, tying the long strands at her brow back with a dark blue ribbon but letting the greatest mass hang straight down her back.  The style meant that Buck’s braids – the “love knots” from a dime novel that she’d never admit to owning – were clearly visible.  She touched the plaits reverently.  “I’m thinking of you, Buck,” she whispered to her reflection.  “Are you thinking of me?”

The riders had risen with the sun as they always did.  After a hardy breakfast of eggs and sausages, the men had watched Lou ride out with the mochila before getting down to the immediate work of repairing the damaged barn wall. 

Buck, absently lugging an armful of wood from the wagon, had debated long and hard on whether to fill his friends in on what had happened to Claire.  In the end, he had decided that it wasn’t his place to mention it, although discussing the incident with Ike would have helped.  He made a mental note to ask Claire if he could tell Ike.  He had already promised to go to supper that night at the small apartment behind the Sentinel that Matthew called home.  He only hoped that Matthew wouldn’t be too surprised on his return from St. Jo, to find that not only was Claire his new houseguest, but that she’d also invited someone to dinner that very night. 

And then there was the promise he had made to her – a promise against retribution on the man who had hurt her.  That was not something he could discuss with Ike, however.  It was likely that only another Indian would understand how much that vow pulled at him.  It didn’t matter that the man in question was Claire’s father.  Buck wouldn’t break his promise… but he would also never forget. 

Buck dropped the armful of wood on the pile and half-turned to get the next load, still lost in thought.  Around him, the chatter of the riders and the sound of hammering filled the morning, but he was oblivious to most of it.  He had already taken two steps back to the wagon before he realized that Ike was standing on the other side of the buckboard, watching him thoughtfully.  Buck managed a half-hearted smile for his friend. 

If you wanna go into town… Ike began to sign. 

“No,” Buck cut him off before he could finish.  “No Ike, everything’s fine.”

Ike raised an eyebrow dubiously, crossing his arms over his bare chest, shirt long ago abandoned once the heat of the morning sun began to take hold. 

Buck shrugged.  He wanted to tell Ike, but… Then he realized that the reasons for Claire’s move might be secret, but the move itself wasn’t.  “Claire’s moving in with Matthew at the Sentinel today,” he offered by way of explanation for his distracted behaviour.  “I guess I’m just wonderin’ if the move is goin’ okay.”

Ike smiled, obviously relieved that Buck’s troubled demeanor was caused by something as simple as worry that Claire would misplace some books or drop a bag in the middle of the street.  Still, something about Buck’s eyes…

You sure?

Buck shrugged again.  “There’s a bit more, but it’s not my story to tell,” he answered, hoping Ike would understand and that his friend wouldn’t feel left out.   The sun was pounding down like an anvil on his back, and Buck suddenly realized that he DID want to go to town.  He DID want to make sure that the move was going okay.  Despite the fact that he’d made sure that Daniel McKinstry wasn’t home; despite the fact that he knew Claire was safe.  He pulled the shirt-tail out of his pants and used it to wipe at the perspiration on his face as he pondered the feeling, wondering if the sun spirit was trying to tell him something. 

When he raised his eyes to Ike’s, the mute rider was again watching him mindfully.  He raised his hands to sign, then let his arms drop to his side again and instead walked the several steps to Buck, resting a hand reassuringly on his shoulder.  For a moment the two friends simply stood, taking and sharing comfort. 

Then Kid dropped a long piece of wood, nearly beaming Cody off the head.  Cody stood suddenly and bumped into the ladder, sending Jimmy and a bucket of nails crashing to the ground amidst a cacophony of fluent curses that let everyone know that he was fine, but there was going to be hell to pay.  Buck and Ike shared a grin. 

Back to work?

“Back to work,” agreed Buck. 

Claire glanced at Abigail’s bed, but her sister still slept soundly. Sighing, she pulled Abby’s travel bag from the back of the closet, placed it on her own bed, and began silently adding her clothes to it.  Her own fully-packed bag was already stacked neatly in the corner; the only reason she hadn’t finished the packing yesterday was the need to get permission to use Abby’s bag as well.  However, the new “get out of the house before Father awakens” plan made getting permission impossible.  She’d just have to be extra-careful with the small suitcase, and hope that Abigail wasn’t too angry with her. 

Claire walked quietly but methodically, adding items to the bag without really thinking.  Two blouses.  One dress.  Pair of shoes.  Deliberating for a moment, she took the comb from the vanity set but left the brush.  The silver-plated set had been a gift from Marjorie to both girls.  A simple gold chain, the only piece of jewelry she owned, was wrapped carefully in a handkerchief and pushed to the bottom of the bag.  Her ribbons and bows.  All these and more went into the carpetbag as Claire packed silently, knowing that she was doing the right thing – the only thing – yet still a little shocked that she was doing it at all.  Leaving home.  She had always thought that when she left home, it would be to go to the home of her new husband.  That thought automatically led to Buck.  She could just picture him at the front of the church, shifting uncomfortably in a new suit.  No, she reflected, he probably wouldn’t be nervous.  He’d be calm and collected; she’d be the nervous nellie.  Or maybe he wouldn’t even want a church wedding.  Claire frowned as she folded another skirt, adding it to the growing pile of clothes in the bag.  They’d discussed a lot about the Kiowa in the past few weeks, but they’d certainly never touched on the subject of wedding rituals.  What if Buck wanted to be married in the Kiowa way, whatever that happened to be?  Would they still be married in the eyes of God?  Maybe they’d have to have TWO ceremonies, one Christian and one Kiowa?  Or maybe…

Claire stopped herself, shaking her head and smiling sheepishly.  Here she was, not even out of the house, and already she was planning her wedding! Maybe, maybe, maybe… MAYBE she was insane!  To her surprise, a wavering chuckle escaped her throat as she turned to fold the next item, only to find Abigail regarding her appraisingly. 

Claire gasped, dropped the shirt she’d been holding, and whispered, “Abigail, you scared the daylights out of me!”  before bending to pick up the fallen item. 

“Are you sure?”

Claire glanced sharply at her sister, but Abigail’s tone had held no reproach or anger, just a kind of wondering sorrow.  She followed Abby’s eyes to the clutter of clothing, books, hairties and knickknacks that surrounded her on the bed.  Her life reduced to the contents of two worn-out carpetbags.  Unbidden, her hand went up to her cheek, tracing the slight puffiness there. 

“Father’s back,” said Claire in reply, her voice flat and unemotional. 

Abigail’s eyes widened.   Saying nothing, she got quietly out of bed and joined her sister.  She took a skirt from the top of the pile of clothing, folded it neatly, and added it to the top of the bag.  She did the same with three more garments before saying softly, “I’m going to miss you.”

Claire smiled.  “I’m only gonna be five minutes away!” she scolded with enthusiasm.  Saying it aloud made her realize it for the first time. Yes, only five minutes away.  But oh, what those five minutes would bring.  Freedom.  The freedom to love.  Suddenly she felt almost giddy with relief and happiness. 

She opened her mouth to tell Abby her plan – the sure to be foolproof “get out of the house before Father wakes up” plan – when the door to their parents bedroom slammed open. 

“Girls, I need your help with breakfast!”   Marjorie McKinstry’s voice carried easily into the bedroom, followed by the sounds of pots and pans being taken down from their nighttime resting place.  Distantly, they could hear their father’s mumbles and Marjorie’s harried replies. 

Claire turned stricken eyes to her sister.  “He can’t know I’m leaving, can he?  Mother wouldn’t have told him, would she?”

Mother tells Father everything, Abigail wanted to say.  Of course he knows.  Why he hasn’t come in here already to talk to you… to talk with his fists again, the way he always talks… is anybody’s guess.  He MUST know. 

“No, she mustn’t have told him,” said Abigail aloud.  She put a reassuring hand on Claire’s arm.  “Get the rest of this stuff in the bag.  Is this everything?”  Shoving unfolded clothing onto the top of the now-stuffed bag, Abby struggled to get the two large buttons closed without everything popping out the sides.

“Yes, that’s…. No, wait.”  Claire moved quickly to the dresser, digging around in the bottom drawer before coming out with a thin book.  “This too.”  She handed the dime-novel to Abby, who regarded the title skeptically. 

“’Love’s Enchanted Embrace’,” she read.  “Claire McKinstry, what on earth are you doing with this?  This is nothing but a piece of trash!” 

Claire rolled her eyes.  “This is hardly the time to be scandalized, Abby!  I’ll explain later.  Now…” she gestured at the bag, and with a shrug Abby shoved the book into the last remaining inch of space. 

“There,” she grunted with satisfaction when the bag was closed.  “We’ll put these in the closet and we’ll go eat breakfast just nice and regular-like.  After breakfast I’ll keep Mama and Daddy occupied while you make your getaway.”

Claire nodded, helping to lug the bags to the closet and not even wondering why her sister, previously so against Buck and everything their romance could be, was now so willing to help her.  Then she caught sight of the two of them in the mirror… Claire washed and dressed, face flushed and eyes looking both scared and elated, and Abigail still in her nightdress, shivering despite the heat.  The faces of both sisters pale, but the yellowish bruise marring the face of only one.  Yes, she knew why Abby would help her now. 

“Abigail! Claire!  Get out here and help your mother!” 

Daniel McKinstry’s booming voice echoed through the house, sending both girls scurrying to the bedroom door.  Before they could pass through, however, Abby put her hand on Claire’s arm and regarded her sister with solemn eyes.

“Are you sure, Claire?” she repeated her earlier question.  Claire knew without asking what the question meant.  Pretend daddy’s not here, Abigail was saying.  Pretend daddy doesn’t even EXIST.  Pretend there is no pain to run from, and no fear in this house.  Pretend with me.  And then answer… are you still sure about Buck? 

Was she?

“Yes Abby,” Claire hugged her sister briefly before stepping into the hallway.  “I’m sure.”

Fifteen minutes later, Abigail set the table carefully while Marjorie finished frying the eggs and Claire removed the hot rolls from the oven.  Casting a baleful glance at her father, Abby paused in her work to cinch the belt of her robe a little tighter.  The robe itself was Claire’s, though it had originally been Abigail’s.  She’d long outgrown it, and Claire had been happy for the hand-me-down.  But after entering the kitchen in her nightdress and earning a smack from her father along with a muttered, “What do you think you are, some kinda cheap trollop?”, she’d scampered quickly back to the bedroom and snatched up the first robe she’d seen.  And now she didn’t have the guts to leave the room and get her own robe, even if her father appeared to be paying her no mind.  “Leaving in the middle of your chores” was sometimes an even worse transgression than “dressing like a trollop”, though not usually as bad as “not minding your tongue”. 

She cast a quick glance at Claire, but her sister was busy surreptitiously checking the rolls for any burnt bottoms.  These would be placed to the bottom of the bowl, so that Daniel – who was always served first, of course – would not have to eat anything not cooked to his idea of perfection.  Abigail started, realizing she was still standing at the table, lost in thought and most definitely not doing her chores.  She peeked guiltily at her father, but he was glancing idly through a feed supply catalogue, and she was able to get back to work without incident.

“Excuse me folks.” 

Teaspoon’s raspy voice cut through the silence of the room.  Claire glanced up quickly in surprise, her mind turning instantly to Buck, even as her mother stepped away from the pot-bellied stove, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“Why, Marshal Hunter, please come in,” Marjorie greeted their visitor warmly.  “Daniel, Marshal Hunter is paying us a visit!”  When her husband did no more than grunt, Marjorie turned her attention back to their guest.    “Now Marshal, don’t stand on propriety, step right inside.  That’s right.”  She herded the visitor inside. 

Teaspoon realized he was still wearing his battered hat and removed it hastily, toying with the brim.  This was the part of his job that he hated the most. 

“What brings you here to see us so early on this fine morning, Marshal Hunter?” said Marjorie pleasantly, unable to help stealing a pointed glance back to the eggs still popping happily in their pan.  Her voice was warm but underneath it Teaspoon could hear the unvoiced reproach – ‘and why are you here so early that you’re ruining my breakfast?’

Teaspoon cleared his throat.  “I’m afraid I have bad news ma’am.”

Claire found herself clutching the edge of the ceramic bowl with white-knuckled fingers.  Buck.  Something HAD happened to Buck, and her dream had been a warning, a sign.  She felt herself starting to sway and forced herself to concentrate on the feel of the bowl in her hand.  She investigated the scalloped edges blindly, letting the ridges dig into her fingers, picturing the large red flowers painted on the inside of the bowl.  And all the while, her eyes never left Teaspoon’s face and her mind never stop screaming the words… not Buck, not Buck, not Buck… 

“Bad news?” Marjorie was saying, a frown creasing her worn features. 

“Yes ma’am.  It appears that someone attempted to break into the newspaper offices last night.”  Teaspoon sighed heavily.  “Ma’am… Mr. McKinstry… I’m afraid Matthew is dead.”

Abigail stepped closer to her mother, who instinctively opened her arms for an embrace even as her hand rose to her mouth in shock.  At the table, Daniel McKinstry pulled his large form from the chair and moved to face the Marshal stoically. 

At her place near the counter, Claire didn’t move.  She dimly heard her father asking if the Marshal knew who did it, Teaspoon’s response that he did not, and a general babble that the man who did this should be found… Must be found… What were they doing to find him…? Is he sure Matthew is dead…?  And jumbled into that, Abigail’s soft sobbing. 

The ridges from the bowl still dug into her fingers, but Claire no longer felt them.  Instead, her mind turned to a dream of death – Buck’s body lying bloodied on the floor of this very kitchen.  Except that it hadn’t been Buck’s body, had it?  It had been Matthew’s all the time.  And her thoughts also turned to the question that she’d asked Abby not thirty minutes ago:  “Mother wouldn’t have told Father, would she?”  Abigail had responded in the negative, knowing that was what Claire needed to hear.  But both girls knew their mother better than that. 

The ridged bowl with the painted red flowers went crashing to the floor, but Claire neither heard nor felt a thing.  She turned grief-stricken eyes to her father, vaguely aware that everyone in the room was now staring at her, but beyond caring.  All she could picture was Matthew’s body – and her father, washing his blood-stained hands in the wash basin. 

“You…” she managed to choke out. 

Then she was past them, flying through the door as though possessed.  Outside the house, she stared about wildly before spying Teaspoon’s horse, tied to the post out front and grazing idly at the shrub grass that grew unrestrained around the fence.  Without a further thought, she untied the horse and mounted him… and then she away, flying down the street at the full gallop that she had never before attempted, before her family had even reached the front step. 

“She… she just stole your horse,” Daniel announced, dumbfounded. 

“I reckon she just borrowed it,” replied Teaspoon.  He regarded the little family thoughtfully. He didn’t know Claire McKinstry all that well, but he knew Buck better’n most.  As to what he was thinkin’, well… best to lie still and see how things turned out.  “Think maybe we all oughta go after her.  Miss Abigail, why don’t you get yourself dressed while me and your pop here get the buckboard ready.”  Giving them each a look that reminded them that he was the Marshal, and that this was NOT just a suggestion, Teaspoon replaced his hat on his head and set out to the lean-to that the McKinstrys used as a shed.

The tears fell easily from Claire’s eyes as she rode frantically across the empty land to the way station.  She remembered one of her first thoughts when she found out that Buck would be teaching her how to ride: that she could gallop across the plains, hair streaming out behind her, Buck at her side.  Buck had laughed when she’d told him, during that first lesson at the corral with Sunflower, The Laziest Horse in the Land.  His eyes had crinkled and his mouth had curved into the half-smile that she had fallen in love with.  And he had patiently explained that eventually she could gallop.  Once she’d learned to walk the horse. And walk her some more.  And canter.  And then canter some more.

He was wrong.  Now she WAS galloping, but what a difference between the reality and the daydream.  After almost being pitched off the horse several times, Buck’s training set in and she drew her legs in tighter, grasping the reins with more authority.   And all the while, the same thought kept running through her head: if she could only find Buck, things would be all right. 

“Rider comin’!”  Cody called out from the woodpile, squinting in the early morning sunlight. “You expectin’ company, Rachel?”

“Comin’ in too fast to be company,” Jimmy observed, hopping down from the ladder and joining the other riders at the wagon. 

Buck watched the horse and rider for a long moment before speaking. The horse was Teaspoon’s, but the rider…   “It’s Claire.”

“It can’t be Claire,” Cody contradicted at once.  “That girl barely knows how to ride, and—” Then he was speaking to no-one, as Buck dropped the wood he was carrying and ran to greet the unexpected visitor. 

Claire had scarcely reined in the animal before she pulled herself from the saddle, stumbling and falling to the dirt.  Buck reached her just as she fell, dropping quickly to the ground beside her.  Her face was wet with tears that still fell hard and fast.  He brushed the hair from her eyes gently before taking her by the shoulders. 

“Claire?  What’s wrong?  Is it your father?” 

Claire ducked her head, unable to speak past her sobs.  Buck drew her fiercely to him, all promises and vows forgotten.  If it was her father, then he WOULD have his vengeance.   Vaguely, he could feel the other riders and Rachel surrounding them as they knelt on the hard-baked earth.  He pulled her away from him again, holding her by the shoulders and giving her a little shake.  “CLAIRE!” 

Claire’s eyes focussed somewhat as she reached up to stroke Buck’s hair.  “Buck…” she managed to gasp out.  “I… it’s my… Matthew is dead… and it’s my… oh Buck, I killed him!”