Buck swept Claire effortlessly into his arms and rose, carrying her swiftly to the porch.  Behind him, the other riders followed, exchanging worried glances. 

Buck’s own face was carefully blank.  As he carried the quietly sobbing girl, he fought to control the rage and anger he was feeling.  Matthew McKinstry was dead, and it seemed impossible that his death could have been from Claire’s own hand.  Impossible, until one looked at the fading bruises on Claire’s face, courtesy of another McKinstry.  If Matthew had also abused her…   No, there were no fresh bruises, at least none that Buck could see.  But there were other ways to hurt a woman; ways that eliminate physical evidence but leave scars just the same.  He remembered the haunted look in his mother’s eyes, and his arms tightened around Claire as he silently asked the spirits to have spared her the disgrace and humiliation that Red Flower had endured. 

Ten minutes later, Claire sat next to Buck on the porch swing, bathing her face with a cool cloth.  Though calmed down somewhat, her free hand still clung to Buck’s arm desperately.  The riders ranged around them on the porch, shuffling somewhat uncomfortably.  After giving her a moment to compose herself, Buck asked softly, “What happened to Matthew, Claire?”

The girl’s eyes filled with fresh tears at the mention of her uncle’s name.  “B…Buck… he… he…” she stammered helplessly.

One arm coming around her back to hold her gently, Buck turned Claire to face him.  He brushed the hair out of her face, gazing deeply into her dark blue eyes.  Pitching his voice soft and soothing, he said, “It’s okay.  Whatever happened, it’s okay.  But I need you to calm down and tell me.  Can you do that, Claire?”

For a long moment she merely stared into his eyes, losing herself in their murky depths.  Trusting eyes, eyes that neither judged nor condemned.  Eyes that shone with love and patience, respect and courage.  Eyes that tried to hide the pain felt by the man.  Tried, but failed. 

Claire took a deep shuddering breath, and began. 

“You know there was more to… to my father,” said Claire, voice trembling with barely suppressed emotion.  Buck’s body tensed slightly as he nodded, memories of his mother’s violation again coursing through his mind.   He forced himself to stillness, pushed the past away. 

“Back home in Boston, our lives were… different from here,” she explained.  “Daddy had jobs – tons of different jobs – but he always flitted from one thing to another.  And then he always had something else on the go as well.  We never knew what.  Maybe Mama did, but she never mentioned it. He always seemed to be coming up with grand schemes to make us some money.  And sometimes they paid off.  And when they did, we’d move to a fine townhouse, and Mama’d hire a servant, and Abby and me’d go shopping at the finest boutiques in Boston.  We never really questioned it… it was just one of Daddy’s goldmines coming in, you know?  And then the money’d dry up, and we’d have to move out of the house and back to a – what Mama could call a ‘less socially acceptable’ part of town.  And there we’d stay, till one of Daddy’s schemes came in again.”

“What’s this got to do with Matthew?” Cody put in abruptly. 

Claire turned stricken eyes to the young blonde man, missing the irritated look that Buck threw in his direction. 

“Please Billy, let me tell it my way,” Claire said softly. 

Cody had the good grace to look chagrined.  “Sorry.  I’ll just stand here with my mouth shut.”

“Do you want us here at ALL?” Rachel asked apologetically.  “This really ain’t any of our business.”

“I’m tired of running away,” Claire answered.  “So tired of it.  If I’m going to have a new life here,” she glanced at Buck shyly, “then it’s time for you to know the truth.  All of you.”  Turning her attention back to Buck, she continued. 

“This last time though… well, the money never dried up.  Whatever my father hit on, it paid off good and it kept paying.  We moved again, this time to a real fine house, and Mama even got two servants.  Daddy had a good job for once, honest work in a bank.  He was the handyman, and he was doing real well.  And he was even in a good mood, a good mood all the time!  There was never any...” Claire’s voice faltered as her hand went to her cheek involuntarily, eyes clouded for a moment.  Buck’s arm tightened around her waist, drawing her infinitesimally closer to him, as though his body could somehow shield her from the remembered pain. 

“Then,” she began again, “it all went wrong.  Daddy started drinking.  Not a lot, but he’d never been a drinker before.  And he started seeing a… a… a saloon-girl.”  Claire spat the word contemptuously.  “I didn’t know this at the time.  Lots of this I only found out from Mama after we left Boston and joined the wagon train to come here.   So he was seeing this ‘woman’ in her rooms, and I guess another man came in.  There was a fight, and my father killed the man.”  Claire drew a deep breath.  “At first we thought it was still going to be all right.  Father said that this man, Hawkins, just barged into the room and started waving a gun around, threatening the woman.  He swore it was self-defense.  He SWORE.”

Buck waited for her to continue, but she had dropped her eyes to her lap, where her hands fidgeted restlessly.  He snuggled her closer to him, unwilling to force her to continue with a tale that was obviously painful but knowing that they needed to find out what happened to Matthew.  And if this round-about fashion was the only way she could tell it, he’d listen and offer whatever support he could.  Time, however, was probably not on their side.  If Claire HAD killed Matthew, then he knew her reason would be valid.  And he’d need time to spirit her away before dealing with the consequences, then joining her.  He forced himself not to steal a glance at the sun, not needing to look anyway to know that precious minutes were being lost while Claire regained her composure. 

“What really happened, Claire?”  The question was from Cody, and this time the look Buck shot him was one of gratitude. 

“Hawkins didn’t even have a gun,” Claire snorted.  “And the saloon girl conveniently disappeared.  And Hawkins and Daddy worked together… he wasn’t a stranger at all!!   Hawkins was one of the partners at the bank, and when word got out, the whole city went crazy.  There was a warrant, and Mama said we had to leave.  She gave me and Abby an hour to pack our things, and then we left.  We were supposed to meet Daddy by the river, but he never showed up.  We waited and waited, but he never came.  And we thought that maybe the police had got him, or one of the citizen patrols that were always cruising around.  Nothing but mobs, usually drunk too!  And even though he’d lied, we still…” She shook her head, stopping the thought before it could be vocalized.  Had they REALLY thought that he was innocent?  No, not then. 

“He’s my father,” she said weakly instead.  “Even after what he’d done, he was still my father.”  She raised her head finally, to look into Buck’s eyes.  She knew he didn’t understand her loyalty.  How could he understand it, when she didn’t understand it herself? 

“Of course he was,” Rachel said comfortingly.  “You love him.  It’s only natural that you’d want to help him.”

Claire’s eyes dropped to her lap again.  She knew Rachel meant well, but her words didn’t make what she had to say any easier.  And Buck was still gazing at her intently.  She felt him brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, intentionally tugging at a braid as he did.  Maybe he didn’t understand it, but he understood HER.  She raised her eyes to his again, and when she spoke her voice was determined.

“Abby was sick with a fever, and Mama didn’t want to leave her.  But we couldn’t leave without my father.  So… so Mama asked me to go find him.  I went back into the city, and I searched and searched, and I finally found him…” 

Claire’s eyes grew distant for a moment.  It seemed like yesterday, while at the same time it also seemed like a lifetime ago.  But she’d never forget…
 

“I wouldna be stayin’ in this part o’ town, lass.”  If the thick shock of red hair and long mutton-chop sideburns didn’t give him away, the thick brogue of the carriage driver left no doubt as to his origins.

“I’ll be fine,” Claire assured him as she stepped carefully down into the street.  No night lanterns burned here, and the narrow avenue was close and dark, its only illumination the faint glow of a trash fire from the next block.  Waves of pungent odor assaulted her senses: moldering trash and refuse piled in recessed doorways and left to decay; that particularly acrid smell of urine; and beneath it all, the overwhelming scent of rotting fish.  She reached up to pay the driver, managing a weak smile for the concerned man before covering her mouth and nose with a handkerchief. 

“Aye,” agreed the Scotsman doubtfully.  He shook his head.  The wee slip of girl looked barely old enough to be out of pigtails, never mind handling herself with the likes of the men she’d find ‘round the docks.  Why, she couldn’t be much older than his own Lottie, now safe at home asleep in her bed.  If her hair were a bit lighter, she could BE his own daughter.  ‘Fine’, she said!  An item in tomorrow’s paper, she’d be, or stuck down here like so many of the other poor lasses that get caught in that trap and can’t get out. 

“Why don’ya climb back up here, lass?  I’ll drive you back to the Commons, free o’ charge,” he found himself blurting out. 

The red-haired girl lowered her handkerchief and pulled herself onto the carriage step, and the carriage driver smiled brightly.  Now here was a girl that would listen to reason!  The smile faded abruptly as Claire pressed a coin into his palm. 

“I’ll be fine,” she reiterated softly.  “But I thank you for your concern, sir.”

Sir!  Now and the likes of her, calling HIM ‘sir’.  Seamus Daly, that couldna read nor write!  He grasped the girl’s hand before she could withdraw, making a last attempt to persuade her.  “This place… it ain’t the proper place for you, lass!”

“I know,” the girl answered, and now he heard the regret and fear in her voice.  “But there’s something… something I need to do.”

“Sure and that something couldna wait till the full light o’ day, and with a proper member of the constabulary at your side!”

Claire blanched at the mention of the police, and Seamus frowned.  So it was THAT, was it? 

“It can’t wait,” Claire all but whispered.  “Perhaps… if you’re going to be around this way… you’ll look for me on the trip back?” she suggested hopefully. 

Seamus folded his hand around hers and squeezed it gently before pocketing the proffered coin.   “I canna make no promises, but I watch for ye if I can,” he agreed, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.  Whatever this child was mixed up in, it couldna lead to no good, any fool could see that. 

Claire hopped nimbly down from the carriage and began making her way down the alley.  Seamus Daly watched her until her form blended with the darkness and he could no longer tell where shadows ended and she began.  Pensive and melancholy, he resolved to spend the next hour dock-side in the hopes he’d be able to take her home.  And if he didn’t find her in that hour, he knew his nights business was concluded at any rate.  He’d go home, kiss his dear Lottie and the other littl’uns, thank the Lord that his children were safe and happy, and love his wife.  It was enough.

Claire picked her way carefully down the narrow passageway, avoiding the stagnant pools of water long untouched by sunlight, for sunlight could not reach this dismal place.  She ignored the large rats who rummaged without fear in the trash piles, pretending that their eyes did not glint in the refracted moonlight and that they did not stare at her as though appraising their chances of a fresh meal.   The oppressive odors no longer bothered her so much as her nose became accustomed to the stench. 

She followed the twists and turns of the streets, doing her best to keep her eyes down to evade prying eyes.  Just when she thought she’d become hopelessly lost, the unmistakable sounds of habitation reached her.  Dimly, she could hear voices raised and the reverberation in the air that could only be from music.  She followed the din and came upon it: The Spotted Cow.  One of her father’s favourite public houses, discussed in great detail around the dining room table.  NOT the saloon in which he’d killed Hawkins, of course… THAT one was an upscale tavern, if there could BE such a thing.  The Spotted Cow was her last hope; if her father wasn’t here, then she had no idea where else to turn.  Her search of her father’s other haunts had proved fruitless.

Claire pushed open the door of the tavern, cringing as the wave of noise and smells almost overcame her.  The place was crowded wall-to-wall with rough-looking customers: seamen most of them, clad in coarse clothing and with language to match their appearance.  Against one wall, a minion dressed in long-past-new finery pounded unmercifully on a badly out-of-tune piano, only adding to the general din of the place.  She advanced hesitantly, scanning the room for her father’s large form. 

Yes!  There he was, hunched in the corner with one large paw clutching a mug of beer, head lolling against his chest as he half-slept through the chaos around him.  Claire raised her chin and began pushing her way determinedly through the crowd, and had almost made her way to her father’s table before a rough hand grabbed her waist. 

“Now here’s a pretty,” a raspy voice said close to her ear.  She found herself pulled backward onto the lap of a grey-haired sailor, his occupation obvious by the stink of his clothing and the tattooed arms he displayed with pride.  Her squirms of indignation only seemed to amuse him as he settled her more firmly against his thigh.

“She must be a new one,” one of his companions said conversationally. 

“Ayuh,” Grey-Hair agreed as Claire glared daggers into his friend.  “And a feisty one at that!”  He returned his attention to the girl, his scraggly beard scratching her cheek as he spoke again.  “How much for a round with you, pretty?”

Claire forced herself to relax in his arms, relieved when the pressure of his grip on her waist eased slightly.  She turned slightly in his loose embrace, lifting his pint from the table and smiling sweetly. 

“You couldn’t afford me,” she said mildly, and almost before the laughter of his companions had begun, she hefted the mug and brought it down on Grey-Hair’s head with as much strength as she could muster.  The man’s eyes took on a comically surprised look as he regarded her with shock before slumping to the table. 

“Don’t,” she warned the others as she leapt from their reach, now-empty pint glass held before her as meagre protection against a potential advance.  Grey-Hair’s companions obviously decided that she wasn’t worth the trouble and returned to their beers with nary another look at their fallen comrade.  To Claire’s shock, the commotion had caused nothing more than some raised eyebrows at the nearest table, having gone unnoticed by everyone else.  Still, she eyed the surrounding customers warily as she negotiated a path to her father’s table. 

He rose without incident, bleary eyes regarding her without surprise as she pulled him to his feet and pushed her way back through the crowded bar, towing him behind her like a pliant child.  The distance to the door seemed further than when she’d entered the noisy establishment, but finally they were outside, the loathsome stench of the narrow street more than welcome after the more insidious rot of the ale-house.  A jolt of cold air brought Daniel McKinstry more-or-less to his senses, and he vehemently pulled his hand from that of his daughter.  Not speaking a word, he strode ahead, only stumbling a little as the cool breeze (or the thought of capture) served to alleviate the effects of the beer he’d consumed.  He didn’t speak until they’d reached Marjorie and Abigail, waiting fretfully at the wagon. 
 

“…and I got him back to where Mama and Abigail were waiting.  We left Boston and found the wagon train, and came here.  And I thought… I really thought we could all make a new life here.  I thought things would finally be different.  But nothing’s different; nothing’s changed at all!   Last night, I got up to get a drink of water.  My father was home, Buck, he came home!  He was washing up in the basin, and he… he doesn’t know I saw it, but I did, Buck, I did!”

Buck darted a startled glance at the others.  Claire’s voice had gone from quiet determination to trembling panic in last than a minute.  Buck rubbed her back reassuringly and tried to keep his own voice calm as he asked, “What did you see, Claire?”

“The blood.  Oh Buck, I saw the blood in the basin.  He knew Matthew was going to let me live with him.  My father killed Uncle Matthew, but I’m just as responsible.  It’s my fault he’s dead, Buck… it’s all my fault!”

She let herself fall into Buck’s arms even as she held back the tears that wanted to fall.  There’d been enough crying.  This death – Matthew’s death – was HER fault.  Tears would not change that.  She had to bear the responsibility for all that she’d done.   Her fault… her fault…

“This is not your fault, Claire.”  Buck’s voice was quiet.

She shook her head against his chest.  “It IS,” she replied just as softly, her voice muffled but earnest.  “If I hadn’t gone back to get him – if I’d left him in that stinking tavern where he belonged – this would never have happened!  Matthew would still be alive!” 

“Then this is my fault too,” Buck said.

Claire turned troubled eyes to his.  “No, Buck…”

“Yes,” he answered fiercely.  “This is my fault.  Matthew was letting you move there because of ME.  If I hadn’t loved you—“

“NO!  Buck, this has nothing to do with you—“

“It was my fault,” Buck insisted, letting every ounce of rage and frustration enter his voice.  His face twisted as he forced memories to the surface – every unkind word ever spoken about his people and his heritage, every act of scorn and contempt.   “How could I think it would be any different?  I’m just a half-breed.”

Claire pushed herself up from her prone position, grabbing his arms and trying to see into his downcast eyes.  “How can you say that?” she demanded furiously.  “Don’t you EVER say that!  This has NOTHING to do with you, do you hear me?  It’s not your fault!  How can it be your fault?”

His eyes raised to hers then, and they were cool and calm.  “It’s not my fault,” he said softly.  “It’s not your fault.  What you should or shouldn’t have done back East is a decision from a lifetime ago.  We’re not responsible for this, Claire.  All we did was fall in love.”

She looked into his eyes, seeking the peace radiating there.  ‘All we did was fall in love.’  Yes.  The blame… she still felt it, still wanted to erase that crazed search for her father from her memory.  But without that search, she wouldn’t be here, now.  She wouldn’t have Buck.  Wouldn’t have gotten to know and love Matthew for the short time that they were allowed to have together.  Would he have refused her asylum from her father, if he had known what a terrible price he would have to pay?  She’d never know the answer for certain, but she had known Matthew.  She knew that he had felt that love was a precious commodity.  He’d never remarried once Aunt Elizabeth had passed on, feeling that one pure love was enough for one man’s lifetime. 

“I think you’d better tell Teaspoon what you told us,” Cody’s voice broke the silence.  He shrugged.  “Could be it ain’t even what you think; there’s more’n one reason to be washing blood off your hands.”

Claire reluctantly pulled her eyes away from Buck’s, only noticing then how their hands were clasped together as though drawing strength from each other.   The riders and Rachel had faded from her thoughts as she stared into the eyes of the man she loved, but now she took in the concerned and anxious faces of Buck’s friends.  HER friends, she amended silently.  Cody and Kid stood side by side, both watching Buck expectantly.  Jimmy studied the floorboards of the porch intently, but his face betrayed his thoughts.  And Ike had crouched down to kneel beside her, his warm eyes shimmering with kindness and understanding. 

“They’ll hang him.”  She expected the words to come out sounding tremulous and unsure, and was surprised to find them almost matter-of-fact.

Rachel leaned forward to pat her arm soothingly.  “You don’t know that.  That’s for the law to decide.  And Teaspoon’s a fair man.”

“Yes.”  She rose slowly from her seat, suddenly feeling as old as Methuselah.  She had to tell the Marshal but… how many children had to condemn their own father to death by hanging?  She pulled a hand through her hair.  “Yes,” she repeated, almost to herself.  “Let’s go into town.”

“Don’t think there’s gonna be no need,” Jimmy said from his place by the railing.  He pointed into the distance, where the figure of Teaspoon on his horse and the McKinstrys in their wagon could just be seen.  “Looks like the town’s comin’ to us.”
 

Chapter Sixteen

The horse and wagon pulled to a dusty stop outside the white picket fence that ranged around the small yard of the way station.  Claire found herself hesitating at the gate; felt the restless anxiety of the riders as they took up stations nearby.  Buck was a rock solid presence at her side, his arm looped around her waist to provide the support she so desperately needed. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but her father leapt from his seat atop the buckboard and crossed the distance between them with an agility that belied his girth. 

“How dare you steal the Marshal’s horse!” Daniel McKinstry bellowed, stopping a few feet away.  “You’d best have an explanation, girl!”

Claire regarded her father dispassionately, drawing strength from Buck’s nearness.  “I have an explanation, Father,” she said coolly before dismissing him from her thoughts even as her soul cried out in anguish over what she must do.  Only by dismissing him could she DO this, and she knew that part of this self-conditioning was Buck’s influence over her.  If not a Kiowa contrivance, then it should be, she thought impassively.  Her father did not deserve her attention because he did not act as a man did, but rather as an animal. Only an animal could do the things he’d done.  Only an animal could kill for the reason he killed – or rather, for the lack of reason. 

She directed her attention to Teaspoon, who watched the exchange with a considering eye.  “My father killed Uncle Matthew,” she said bluntly, allowing no tremor to enter her voice.  “It’s not the first—“

“She don’t know what she’s saying!”  Daniel interrupted before she could continue.  He turned imploring to the Marshal.  “It’s that half-breed, he’s makin’ her say these things!”

A minute tremble went through Claire’s small frame, stilled as Buck squeezed her waist reassuringly.  She sensed his purpose, and let the racial slur pass.  Her father wished to divert her from what she had to do.  She couldn’t let that happen.  She’d allowed a murderer to go free once, and it had cost her beloved uncle his life.  Not again.  “It’s not the first time,” she began again.  “He killed—“

This time Daniel turned to his daughter, fists clenched at his sides and anger turning his face a deep and ugly red.  “Silence your tongue, or I’ll silence it for you!” he growled.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you myself.”  The words from Buck were deceptively soft, but anyone present could read the deadly intent in his eyes.  His arm crept unnoticed from Claire’s waist, his entire being tense and ready should Daniel make a move towards his youngest daughter.  In a strange way, he hoped Daniel did misjudge the threat that he represented.  A clean death for her father might be far easier for Claire to bear. 

The elder McKinstry glared at Buck for a long moment before taking a step backward, turning again to the Marshal.   “She don’t know what she’s saying!” he entreated a second time.  “She’s confused—“

“I saw the blood, Father!”  Claire spun towards her father, her tight control wavering, fear that he would talk his way out of this seizing her.  “I saw it!  You killed Matthew, just like you killed Hawkins in Boston!”

Marjorie and Abigail had moved from the wagon behind Daniel and stood numbly to one side, watching the exchange and feeling powerless to stop it.   Now Marjorie stepped forward, smoothing her skirt with one bony hand. 

“Oh Claire.  Poor poor Claire.”  She advanced past her husband and raised the hand to her daughter’s cheek, all the while shaking her head in sympathy.  “Don’t you see it was all for you?”

Claire voice came out in a whisper.  “Mother, you knew..?”

“He was going to take you away from us, you know,” Marjorie went on as if Claire hadn’t spoken.  “He was going to give you to this heathen.”  Her eyes flicked to Buck, rigid at Claire’s side, then back to Claire.  “Now I’m sure that Buck is a fine young man,” she continued conspiratorially to her daughter, “but he IS an Indian after all.  Who knows what rituals he might practice?  Who knows what he might make you do?”

Claire shook her head from side to side, not willing to believe.  “Mother?” she tried again.

“You need a fine, strong young man.  Somebody who could take care of you in the style to which you’ve become accustomed.”

“The style to which…” Claire closed her eyes, confused. They’d gone from poverty to wealth and back to poverty again more times in her childhood than she could count.  There was no ‘style’ to become accustomed to. 

“Marjorie, hold your tongue!” Daniel warned from somewhere behind them. 

“Oh hush Daniel,” Marjorie replied mildly, not noticing how both her daughters’ eyes widened in shock at this admonishment.  It was the first time either had ever heard their mother censure their father, and Claire found herself speechless.  Her eyes darted between mother and father, seeing fear in her father’s eyes for the first time in her life.  And her mother…

Marjorie’s head was cocked to one side like a newborn chick, perhaps communing with voices that only she could hear.  Her questing eyes lit on Cody standing at Buck’s side, and she brushed past her daughter to grasp the blonde rider’s arm tightly. 

“Yes, someone who could take care of you,” she said cheerfully, seemingly ignorant of the alarmed and bewildered stares from the silent party that surrounded her.  “Someone like Mr. Cody here.  Mr. Cody wouldn’t force you into any pagan rituals, would you Mr. Cody?”  Her too-bright eyes stared into Cody’s feverishly. 

“Ma’am…” Cody disentangled his arm from her grip, looking helplessly past Claire and Buck to where Teaspoon stood at the wagon regarding them solemnly.  He stole a glance at Jimmy, saw that his fellow rider was alert and ready for any confrontation.  A quick look at Kid and Ike told him the same thing.  He turned his attention back to Teaspoon, eyes demanding that something be done to stop this sideshow before it went too far.  Teaspoon saw the intent and made a subtle chopping motion with his hand.  Cody inclined his head slightly.  They’d let the game play out, but…

“No, of course he wouldn’t,” Marjorie answered her own question, then returned to Claire’s side.  Her hand once again crept forward to caress her daughter’s cheek, and when she spoke her voice was tinged with sadness. 

“He was going to take you away from me, don’t you see that?  I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Mama?”  Claire’s voice came out a broken sob.  Not her mother.  Not her mother!  The three of them – the McKinstry women – had shared the same oppression.  Her mother feared Daniel just as she and Abigail feared him.  And, her mother loved Daniel just as she and Abby did as well.  They stood together, always together.  Memories of childhood crashed against her awareness… shopping in the Commons; sitting in the front parlour while her mother patiently taught her to knit and sew; baking cookies on a hot summer day.  Surely THAT woman could not condone murder? 

“I just went to talk to him,” Marjorie was saying reasonably.  “He had to be convinced that you needed to stay with your family.  But Matthew was always a stubborn man.  How that Elizabeth put up with him for so many years, I’ll never know!  Ah, she was a stubborn one herself, though.”  Her eyes went distant for a moment, head cocked to one side again before she returned her attention to her daughter. 

“He wouldn’t listen to reason!  He laughed at me Claire, laughed at me!!  How dare he!”  Marjorie’s eyes glinted with remembered insult.  “He thought me a fool!  And when he turned away, I picked up the candlestick… It was so easy.  Just as easy as before.  He fell, and when he fell I made sure he wouldn’t get up again.  Your father… oh, he knew I did what I had to do.  And my Claire, there was such a mess!  He helped to clean it up, of course.  He’s a good man, your father.  He tries his best.”

“Oh my god… Mama…” Claire’s hand went to her mouth as the full import of her mothers words fought their way to her mind.  She felt Buck’s arms go around her from behind and clung to the solidity they represented, noting without conscious thought the strength there.  Not just physical strength, but a deep emotional power that lent itself to her through those arms.  She darted her eyes fearfully in Daniel’s direction, and felt another shock wend its way through her body only to be absorbed by the unfaltering arms that held her so tenderly.  Her father looked… defeated.  Fear and anger and protest no longer filled his face.  Now he only looked beaten...  crushed not by the weight of the law or his daughters accusations, but by his own wife’s tongue. 

Abby… She sent her gaze flicking in Abigail’s direction and saw the shock in her own eyes reflected in the unbroken stare of her sister. 

Marjorie reached up to tug at Claire’s sleeve, and Claire felt the arms around her tighten protectively.  But Marjorie only smiled benignly.  “Your father and I have always done whatever we could to protect you,” she said softly. 

Claire felt a scream beginning in her throat and fought to keep it inside, even as she pulled away in revulsion from the woman who had given her life.  If this scream of pain and anguish ever reached the surface, she felt she might never be able to stop it. 

Behind her mother, Teaspoon cleared his throat and stepped forward, taking Marjorie’s arm gently. 

“Ma’am, why don’t we get you back to town,” Teaspoon drawled soothingly.  “It’s been a long morning.”  With a slight nod and a glance that the riders were able to interpret from past experience, he sent Jimmy and Cody to Daniel’s side, certain that they would bind him securely for the trip back to Sweetwater. 

Marjorie turned her attention to the Marshal distractedly, seeming to have forgotten his presence in the proceedings entirely.  “Town?” she questioned.  “But… my daughters?”

“Oh, I think they’ve decided to stay and visit a spell,” Teaspoon responded smoothly.  “Come along now.”  With benevolent hands he guided her to a seat in the wagon then pulled himself in after her, waiting until Jimmy and Cody secured Daniel in the rear of the wagon and took up guard positions on either side before directing the buckboard to town. 

“I only did what I had to do, you know that, don’t you Marshal?” Marjorie could be heard saying softly as the procession pulled away.  “A mother’s got to watch out for her children.”

Claire watched the wagon for as long as she could before she turned and buried her face in Buck’s chest, arms drawn around his shoulders as she shuddered in his embrace.  No tears.  Hadn’t she said that the time for tears was past?  No, she would just hold him… let him hold her.  Draw on his strength; that inner strength that saw him through so many troubled times.  It was potent, that strength.  Even he didn’t realize how potent. 

Buck drew Claire into his arms tighter, hand brushing her hair gently as she fought the emotional tide within.  Now that the crisis was passed, he allowed himself to feel the shock and horror that registered through his body, knowing that the woman in his arms would feel it as well. 

After a long moment, Claire raised her head.  “What will happen to them… to her?” she whispered. 

The question was meant for Buck, but the answer came from Rachel.  “That’s for the law to decide.”

“That’s not an answer!” Claire railed.

“I know,” replied Rachel softly.  Her hand on Claire’s arm drew her from Buck’s comforting warmth.  “Come on, let’s get you inside.  We’ll make a nice cup of tea.” 

“Tea.  Yes.”  Claire allowed herself to be led a few steps.  Some part of her was aware that she was in shock; that the revelations of the past few minutes were just setting in, and she was helpless to stop it.  But there was something… something else she should be doing…  “Abby!” she cried out suddenly.  She spun, seeing her sister being led in similar fashion by Ike.  Abigail’s eyes still looked glazed, her expression uncomprehending, her hand in Ike’s loose and relaxed.

“Abigail is coming as well,” Rachel soothed from behind her.  Unsure, Claire waited until her sister came abreast of them.  Abigail’s hand reached out to Claire’s with desperate eagerness, and the two girls clung to one another.  Finally Abigail pulled back, and Claire saw with relief that her eyes were a little clearer. 

When Abigail spoke, however, her words weren’t to her sister. 

“Can I stay?” she asked softly. 

Buck started, realizing that the question was being asked of HIM.  He regarded Claire’s sister quietly.   Her dark curls were mussed, her face pale in the bright sunlight.  He saw that even in the rush to get to the way station – even with her uncle dead and her sister fled – she had taken the time to apply a light dusting of rouge to her cheeks.  How different these sisters.  One had regarded him as heathen, pagan, half-breed… and the other had taken him to her heart and shown him love. 

Now Claire’s mother and father were on their way to Teaspoon’s jail, and this flighty girl was all that remained of her family.  Family.  Now was the time to consolidate family.  And just the fact that she had asked HIM for permission to stay showed how far Abigail had come in her thinking.  In her mind he may still be half-breed, less than white… but she knew he held her sisters heart.  And knowing this, she was beginning to understand that there was more to the world than what she’d been taught. 

“You are sister to the woman I love,” he answered solemnly.  “You will always be welcome in my home.”

Abigail nodded slightly before turning back to Claire.  With Ike and Buck at either side, the foursome made their way to the house. 
 

Chapter 17

Claire sat quietly on the bench outside the Sentinel office. She kept her hands clasped stiffly in her lap, certain that if she held them tight enough she’d be able to still their restless fidgeting.  Her mind turned to her “To Do” list sitting on the counter inside.  It seemed there were still a hundred things to be done before The Sentinel could begin publishing again.  But today she couldn’t concentrate on any of them, no matter how hard she tried.  She finally gave up, removed her ink-stained smock, and resigned herself to a tense vigil outside.  She tried to focus on the flow of customers from Tompkins’ store down the street, or the sound of children playing in the Millers yard, or the smell of steak and onions wafting from the Sweetwater Hotel.  But despite her best intentions, her eyes kept turning to the west, searching for Kid’s distinctive paint pony amidst the hustle and bustle of the street.  Teaspoon had said there’d be news today.  He’d said that Lou and Kid would be returning from the Fort most definitely.  The trial could never last longer than this.  He was sure of it.

Buck reined Warrior to a halt and dismounted gracefully, tying the spirited horse to a hitching post a few yards from the Sentinel office.  For a long moment he simply stood there, watching Claire silently.  The noon sun turned the red highlights in her hair to a symphony of copper, reminding him again of summer feast days with the Kiowa, and the ritual bonfires lit to appease the spirits.  His gaze fell to the closed door behind her, expecting it to open any moment to disgorge his best friend.  The door to the Sentinel office, however, remained stubbornly closed. Buck found himself scowling.  Where was Ike?  He’d specifically asked his friend to stay with Claire until he finished his run.  She needed someone with her, today of all days.  Shaking his head, he glanced down the street towards the Marshal’s office, already knowing by Claire’s stance that he’d find nothing in that direction.  Moving quietly, he walked to the bench and took a seat beside her, sliding his arm across her shoulders. 

“Any news?” he inquired softly.

“Nothing yet,” Claire replied distractedly, not dropping her westward gaze.  She slid closer to Buck, drawing comfort from his nearness.  Her thoughts all morning had flicked crazily from worry about what was happening in Fort Laramie to a quietly desperate need to have Buck at her side.  Now that he was here, his mere presence eased some of the ache of her heart.

“You all right?” he murmured against her hair.

“I’ll be all right.  It’s just the not knowing.  I need to KNOW, Buck.”

He nodded, twining his fingers through hers and squeezing gently to show he understood. The weeks leading up to the trial of Daniel and Marjorie McKinstry in Fort Laramie had been distressing all around.  The story Teaspoon had managed to get from Claire’s mother that first day following her confession had been confused and contradictory at best.  She had admitted killing Matthew McKinstry as well as the man, Hawkins, in Boston – only to recant her story the next day.  Daniel McKinstry had refused to utter a word.

Claire could have gone to Fort Laramie, of course.  But, Buck reflected, what girl wants to see her parents sentenced to death?  There were few other options likely for the pair.  So, she waited for news.

And she had waited alone.  Buck found himself tensing again.  Where WAS Ike?  He knew that Buck couldn’t trade off his run today.  With the Comanche troubles lately, they needed a rider who could speak the language and explain himself if the need arose.  As it turned out, his ride had been without incident and he could have stayed with Claire when she needed him.  But dammit, he thought he could rely on his best friend!

“Where’s Ike?” he asked, trying to make the question sound casual and failing miserably.

Now Claire did turn to face him, her eyebrow arched in an unerringly accurate imitation of Buck himself.  “Oh, I sent your babysitter away,” she said dryly, then held up a hand to forestall his protests of innocence.  “I know you meant well Buck.  But honestly, the way Ike was hovering around made me more nervous than ever!  Don’t worry, he didn’t go far.”

She gestured down the street, motioning for Buck to follow the direction she pointed.  The Kiowa’s gaze took in the Cambridge clan, all ten of them, crossing the street in front of the blacksmith’s; Barnett, doing his version of “courting” with Caroline Martin; and there, clustered in a small group in front of Tompkins store watching a checkers game was Jimmy, Cody, Abigail… and Ike.  The young bald man glanced towards the Sentinel at just that moment, then spotted Buck and ducked his head quickly in hopes of avoiding eye contact.

Claire caught the scowl crossing Buck’s face and touched his arm to get his attention.  “He’s been stealing glances this way all morning,” she explained.  “Don’t be mad at him.  It was me that made him go.”

“All right.”  Buck kept his voice neutral as he glanced back down the street, inwardly plotting the discussion that he and Ike would have over this little incident.  One thing… he asked his friend to do one thing for him today, and Ike lets himself get scared off by a woman!  He turned his attention back to Claire and reconsidered the argument against Ike slightly. He’d been on the losing end of too many ‘discussions’ with Claire himself – thoughts of sharing apples and hardtack with their horses danced in his mind – and he knew how persuasive she could be.   He tried not to consider that he might just be turning into a marshmallow where she was concerned.

“I hope that Kid and Lou were able to get back on track while they were gone, anyway,” Claire said lightly. 

“WHAT?”

“Well, you know… four nights alone.  Don’t get me wrong.  I know they’re there for the trial, but the trial only runs in the daytime.  They have to do something with their nights.”  Suddenly realizing that Buck was staring at her incredulously, she gulped and hastened to explain.  “I mean… well, what I mean is… well… it would be nice if something good could come out of this, don’t you think?”

Buck closed his mouth, quickly considering and then rejecting a possible Kid/Lou reconciliation.  They’d already been down that road before and it hadn’t worked out then.  And if anything, Lou had become even more independent than she was last year, while Kid was just as protective as ever.  There were ways that Kid thought a woman should act and things that Kid thought a woman should do, and Lou just didn’t do many of them.  After all, it had been Kid who’d been surprised – even shocked – when he found out that Claire was planning to re-open the Sentinel and run the newspaper on her own.  For her part, Claire watched the thoughts running clearly across Buck’s face in amusement.  She knew exactly what Buck was thinking, realized some of them were even true, and also knew it didn’t matter one whit.  Those two were in love – a blind dog could see it. 

Seeing the look of undisguised mirth in Claire’s eyes, the young rider cleared his throat and wisely changed the subject. 

“How’s everything comin’ along for your big first edition?”

Since her parents had been taken for trail three weeks before, Claire had focussed all of her energies on re-establishing the newspaper left to her by her uncle.  Conversations with her were peppered with details of deadlines, copywork, and printsetting. The work took her mind off the trial and, as Buck found out, she was also good at it.  Very good.

It had been the right thing to say.  He was gratified to see her eyes light up and an effortless smile dance across her features at the question, as thoughts of Fort Laramie left her mind for good… at least for a while. 

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…” she began, but Buck was only half-listening.  His gaze was drawn to the familiar figure walking towards them down the dusty street.  The presence of Marshal Teaspoon Hunter at this moment could only mean one thing: Kid and Lou had returned, and the fate of Claire’s parents was known.

Claire stood still as a statue at Buck’s side, willing herself to wait patiently for the verdict.  The older man drew abreast of them, removed his hat, ran a hand through his long grey hair and drew one shirt-sleeve across his sweat-soaked brow.  It was mid-October, but Sweetwater was enjoying a rare day of warm air and sunshine before winter came along and hit them full blast.  It was the kind of day her mother always called a “pretender” – the one that makes you think winter will never arrive – then BOOM! You’re under three feet of snow.

Her mother.  Was Marjorie watching this day through the barred windows of a cell, or… Claire forced herself to complete the thought… was her mother already gone?  Buried in a murderer’s grave on the grounds of the fort?

As Teaspoon ran a hand under his suspenders distractedly, Claire felt Buck’s hand grasp hers.  Still the old man didn’t speak, and yet she couldn’t find her breath, couldn’t seem to find the way to form the words she wanted to say.  She NEEDED to know… but did she WANT to know?  How much easier it would be to pretend that Marjorie and Daniel were merely “away”.  She stole a glance at Tompkins store and noted that Abigail was still engrossed in the checkers game.  Was Abigail’s way of dealing with the situation really any easier?  Her sister’s breakdowns in her small cot each night argued that it wasn’t so.  But…

“Well?”

The question came, finally, from Buck.  Claire let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and squeezed his hand, receiving a comforting squeeze in return. 

“Well…” Teaspoon began, “Kid and Lou got back about a quarter of an hour ago.  Ran the horses straight through so’s they could get the news here real quick-like.  Trial just ended no more’n four hours ago.”

Buck groaned.  “Teaspoon…”

The Marshal held up his hand.  “Trial went longer’n we thought ‘cause there was a lot more to it than we imagined.  End result is,” he turned to Claire, “your parents is still alive.”

For a long moment Claire could only stare, open-mouthed and stupefied.  Alive?  She hadn’t realized until just this moment how certain she had been that Teaspoon’s pronouncement would be ‘execution’ or ‘death by hanging’.  Alive?  Then her breath came out in a rush as her fingers closed around Buck’s crushingly.  “What?  How?  What?”

Teaspoon leaned against a post.  “Well, like I said… turns out there was a bit more to this thing than we figured on.  Now you know that man Hawkins in Boston, the one that—“

“We know, Teaspoon,” Buck interrupted quickly, not wanting the older man to actually say the words, not wanting any more pain than necessary inflicted on the woman he loved.  Yes, they knew of Hawkins.  The one that Marjorie killed. 

Clearing his throat, Teaspoon understood Buck’s intentions and modified his story slightly.  “Well, turns out it weren’t no chance encounter that night in the saloon.  It seems Hawkins had been helpin’ himself to quite a bit of the cash at that there bank him and Claire’s pa worked at.  It was all done on paper, transfers to comp’nies and such.  Made it look real legal.  And he weren’t keepin’ it all for himself neither.  Seems like he was funnelin’ some of the money to the South.”

“The South?” Claire asked.

“They could use it to buy weapons, ammunition… planning to be prepared if there’s a war,” Buck explained.

“Yup,” Teaspoon agreed before turning his attention to Claire again.  “Your pa found out about it somehow and started blackmailin’ that Hawkins fella.  I guess that’s where that money you came into just before you left Boston came from.  Then Hawkins decided he weren’t gonna pay no more; your pa went to see him at the hotel, and your ma snuck along clean as you please… your pa didn’t even know she was there.  There was an argument, and…” Teaspoon let the couple in front of him fill in the rest. 

Claire stood for a moment digesting this news before turning troubled eyes to the Marshal.  “But Teaspoon, all that tells me is that my mother IS a murderer!  I mean, how…”

“Seems there’s this newfangled lawyer up at Fort Laramie, and a good thing for your folks that he was there,” Teaspoon interrupted.  “Daniel had himself a list of all the people involved in that little money-scheme at the bank, and this lawyer fella got your folks a lighter sentence ‘cause of it.  It’s somethin’ called a ‘plea bar-gain’,” Teaspoon pronounced the term carefully.  At the confused looks on the faces of Buck and Claire, he explained.  “Means that Daniel turns over the list of names and all the other information he has, and in return your folks don’t suffer under the… uh…” Teaspoon hesitated a moment over his wording at a glance from Buck, not wanting to actually mention the word ‘death’ or ‘hanging’.  “The…uh… full extent of the law,” he finally finished.  “There’s gonna be an investigation into them bankers; government’s gettin’ papers to check out all the transactions they done.  Be a full-scale turnover at that bank ‘fore they’re through.”

Claire could care less about the bankers.  “But my parents… you mean… they’re not free?” she asked incredulously.  She loved her parents. Regardless of anything they had done, she would always love them.  She knew that the man at her side still didn’t understand that, but he accepted it and that was all that mattered.  She would never forget the relief that suffused her when Teaspoon said that all-important word, “alive”.  But… but not even she would want her parents released.  Not now.  Not after what they’d done.  That man Hawkins… and her beloved Uncle Matthew… they deserved more than that.  They deserved some brand of justice. 

The Marshal was shaking his head slowly.   “Nope.  Your folks is still gotta pay for the crimes they done.  I’m afraid your pa’s gonna be in jail for a long time. They still charged him with extortion, theft, and accessory to… well, to your ma’s crimes.”

Her mother.  “What about my mother?” Claire managed to rasp out, her throat suddenly gone very dry.  She held onto Buck’s hand tightly, feeling as though he were the only anchor holding her in place.

Shuffling uncomfortably, Teaspoon said, “Your ma’s been assigned to a state hospital.  A place for people with… uh… mental difficulties.”

Claire breathed a sigh of relief.  “A psychiatric hospital?  She’ll be able to get help there, won’t she?” the girl asked hopefully.

Teaspoon darted a glance at Buck.  “I’m sure she’ll get the best care a place like that can offer,” he answered ambiguously.  He shared a knowing look with the young Kiowa at Claire’s side.  Both he and Buck had witnessed the ‘care’ given to mental patients in the state-run facilities, when they’d traveled to Texas with Teaspoon’s old war buddy from the Alamo.  The “patients” were malnourished, uncared for, and the doctors had no idea how to improve the quality of their lives.  But at least Marjorie McKinstry would be safe… unable to harm either herself or anyone else.  It was the best they could do. 

“Good,” Claire was saying, so lost in her own thoughts that she’d missed the look that passed between the two men.  “Good.”

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to my duties,” Teaspoon said finally when it became apparent that Claire had no more questions.  “Things’ve been pilin’ up a lot more than usual now that Barnett’s got a hobby,” he joked, motioning at the young man who was again trying to gain Caroline’s attention.  Buck offered him a wan smile, but Claire merely murmured “Hmmm…”, her mind still obviously on the news he’d imparted. 

“I’ll see you two later.”   He took a step towards the man he considered his son, and pitched his voice for the Kiowa’s ears alone.  “You take care of her today, Buck.”

“Every day, Teaspoon.”

The Marshal had taken several steps away before he was called back by the sound of Claire’s voice.

“Teaspoon!  Tell Lou and Kid ‘thank-you’ from me.  Tell them that I’m grateful and that… I owe them for doing this for me.  The long ride, the waiting… I owe them, Teaspoon.”

The older man smiled kindly.  “I’ll tell them, but they won’t think you owe them nothin’.  That’s the kind of thing family does for one another.”

The Marshal had barely moved away before Claire turned to find herself enveloped in Buck’s comforting embrace.  She wrapped her arms around his back and nuzzled into his chest with a sigh, taking deep breaths to draw in the dark earthen scent that she associated with the man she loved. 

Her parents were alive.  She thought that perhaps she should feel something other than the relief that was washing over her.  She’d expected that she’d cry when she heard the news.  But she felt only an almost overpowering sense of release.  It was over.  Her parents would never hurt anyone again.  The part of her that she called optimism and some others called naivete even hoped that, perhaps, Daniel would come to terms with his actions and come to regret them… maybe even leave the jailhouse a changed man.  And Marjorie would get the care she needed to live a life of, if not happiness, then maybe some kind of contentment.  Maybe she would gain peace.  Uncle Matthew, Claire thought, would approve.

“I’m not sorry,” she murmured against Buck’s shoulder.  “I wanted them to live, Buck.  Is that wrong?”

She felt his body move as he shrugged, then he pulled her back to gaze into her eyes, seeing the forgiveness there.  “I don’t think I could do it,” he answered honestly. 

Reaching up to caress his cheek, Claire knew where his thoughts had turned.  “Your father—“ she began.

“My father raped my mother and condemned me to life as an outsider!” Buck’s eyes flashed as he pulled away from her touch.  Seeing the look of pain that briefly crossed Claire’s face, he fought to keep his emotions in check, struggling to clamp down on the raw wound his body became when thoughts of his mothers violation and his fathers cruel and remorseless act were drawn to the surface.  He shuddered slightly when Claire took another step toward him, replacing her hand on his cheek gently.

“Still,” she said softly, with the assurance of youth, “there must be something good in them.  In our fathers.  Else we wouldn’t have turned out all right.”

Buck rocked back on his heels.  Something good in them.  Was it possible that there was anything decent in either Claire’s father or the nameless man who sired Buck himself?  What good could there be in a man who berates his wife and beats his children, blackmails and swindles, cheats and steals?  It was highly possible that it was Daniel’s incessant cruelty that drove Marjorie McKinstry to her current instability.  As for his own situation… the man who brutally used his mother and left her with an unwanted half-breed child would never be his father.  Buck realized that when he allowed himself to think of his ‘father’, two images immediately came to mind: Red Bear and Teaspoon.  His brother had taught him the ways of the Kiowa and had loved him unconditionally; while Teaspoon had embraced him for his spirit, nurturing his beliefs while helping him to make his way as an adult in this still-sometimes-new white world.  Yes, he had turned out all right, thanks to the two men who loved him like a son.

He realized that Claire was staring expectantly into his face, wearing her expression of hopefulness like a cloak, still waiting for an answer.

“Maybe so,” he said noncommittally.  “Maybe so.”

He looked over Claire’s shoulder.  The checkers game apparently finished, Abigail and the riders had moved down the street, animatedly engaged in conversation.  Even from a distance, Abigail’s peals of laughter over some comment that Cody had made could clearly be heard.  “When will you tell her?” he wondered aloud.

Claire followed his gaze and allowed a gentle smile to play over her features as she regarded her elder sister.  “Tonight, after supper.  Abby’s in “pretend” mode right now.  It won’t hit her till tonight.  I think that’s when it all starts to be real for her.  Sometimes it’s easy to pretend when it’s sunny and bright and you’re surrounded by friends.  But when it gets dark and quiet, and the only sound is the Millers dog squabbling with a stray over scraps from the hotel kitchen… well, then everything suddenly seems real.”

Re-taking her hand, he squeezed it gently.  “If you need anything… do you want me to stay tonight?”

“Really Mr. Cross, what would the townspeople say?” Claire admonished mockingly, letting a hand flutter to her chest melodramatically. 

“I suppose they’d say… that Buck Cross must really be in love.”

Claire’s eyes went wide, but before she had a chance to recover, Buck had plowed ahead.  “You said you wanted to ask me somethin’ about the newspaper?”

Coughing behind her hand to hide her astonishment at his previous statement and hoping that her blush wasn’t too pronounced, Claire’s eyes still sparkled as she recalled their earlier aborted conversation.

“Yes!  Well, you know that Uncle Matthew had big plans for expanding the paper—“

“Oh I don’t know… DO I know that?” Buck teased.  “It’s only all you’ve talked about for the past month.”

“You just be quiet,” she swatted at him playfully.  “I’ve already got a response from one of the design houses in Paris, agreeing to send us reports on the latest styles the minute the designs are released.”  Unable to miss Buck’s rolling eyes, she continued, “I know that doesn’t mean much to a man, but believe me this is a big thing for a small-town newspaper.  One of the New York houses answered Matthew’s letter too. So they’re all ready to sign contracts, once I get them properly drawn up.

“But it won’t just be fashions,” Claire continued excitedly, drawn more into her vision for the Sentinel as she spoke.  “I want to keep things local too!  I’m thinking of adding profiles of the local townspeople, like Tompkins for example.  I could interview Amos about driving the stagecoach, I’m sure he has a hundred tales to tell.  And open the paper up to submissions – stories and tales by the readers!  And then of course, besides the local emphasis we’ll also have national stories.  We have access to people who are THERE when those stories break, and return home to us every day!”

“We?” Buck said dryly, not surprised when he was ignored.

“The riders!  They’re all over the territory, all over the west!  I think they’d be willing to work as… well, as sort of freelance reporters while they’re out on runs.  If something important happens, they take notes and write it all down!”  She twirled in place, sending her long hair flying. “Oh, think of it Buck!  It could be a real national paper, not just the latest reports on grain prices and Indian attacks but so much more!”

“Sounds exciting,” Buck agreed, getting caught up in the emotions of the whirlwind at his side despite his best intentions.  “But… I’m almost afraid to ask… what does this have to do with me?”

“Ah yes,” Claire answered, eyes still sparkling.  “Well, that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?  The Sentinel could be wonderful, Buck!  But the equipment is worn out; we need a new copy-machine for sure, and really the whole office needs to be revamped if I really want the paper to be the best that it could be.  And well, that takes money.”

“Uh huh,” Buck said, still not quite understanding.

“Money is... well, it’s something YOU’VE got.  I remembered when you said you had some money saved.  So,” Claire took a deep breath, “I wanted to know if you’d like to become my partner in the Sentinel.” 

She pushed forward quickly before the Kiowa had a chance to speak.  “You’d be a full partner of course.  You provide the cash up-front to get us started and I’ll do all the work from then on in.  You can do it however you want… I mean, you can be a silent partner and just collect your part of the profits…um, not that there’ll BE profits for a while. We’ll have to maybe even give the papers away free of charge, to vendors out of the city for awhile, you see. Then when people start to like what they’re reading and demand the paper, we can start charging the vendors for it.  Or you can get as involved as you like.  Think of it Buck!  You could write editorials if you wanted to!  Really let people know what the Indians situation truly is… or write about anything you wanted to write about!”

Claire finally stopped, breathless at last, and only then saw that Buck was laughing.  “What?” she managed to sputter out indignantly. 

“What?” the rider replied incredulously.  “You!  So full of big dreams.”  Before she could protest he drew her into his arms, pressing his lips against hers lightly regardless of the shocked looks they were sure to encounter, then leaning back to gaze into her deep blue eyes.  Eyes that still reminded him of crystal clear streams, alive and vibrant.  “And if anyone can pull it off, you can.  My money is yours.”

“Buck!” She couldn’t contain the squeal of delight, pulling the rider into a delighted embrace before dancing away, then suddenly coming to a stop, her expression serious.

“But I meant what I said.  You’ll be a full partner, an editor.  OH!” she exclaimed enthusiastically as another thought occurred to her.  “We could get Ike to design a new banner!   You know that he’s been working on sketches lately.  We could get him to do something that shows the best of us… maybe a claddagh ring for me, and… um… an eagle for you!  The eagle that showed you the way to your Kiowa spirit.”

“I’ll ask him,” Buck promised, then grinned as again his words were ignored as Claire continued to plan for the future of the newspaper. 

“Just picture it, Buck,” she said animatedly.  She drew her hand across the sky, envisioning the banner of their prospective enterprise. “’The Sentinel’, in big black letters.  And underneath that, ‘Editors: Claire McKinstry and Buck Cross’.”

“Now, that I don’t—“

“Oh Claire, why didn’t you ever tell me that Ike was such a nice boy?” The excited tones of Abigail McKinstry interrupted Buck’s reply.  Long black curls bouncing, she bounded to a stop next to the couple, seemingly unaware of her tousled appearance.  Claire wanted something good to come of her parent’s incarceration, Buck reflected.  Well, here it was.  Forced by circumstances beyond her control to move out of the pampered existence her mother’s twisted values had placed on her, Abigail McKinstry was finally learning how to have fun.  How to laugh.  Oh, she still had a ways to go and could be almost insufferably condescending and intolerably vain, but she was making progress every day.  The Abigail he’d met months ago would never have allowed herself to become flushed and breathless from running… heck, the Abigail he’d met months ago would never have run anywhere!

“I did tell you, Abby,” Claire was saying with a laugh.  “You just never believed me.  Clyde Maxwell was just oh-so-more appealing,” she teased, mentioning the name of Abigail’s latest paramour.

Abby’s noise crinkled in distaste.  “I don’t know WHAT I was thinking,” the girl announced primly before reverting to the subject at hand – Ike McSwain.  “I want to talk to him, Claire.  Teach me something to say!”

Claire looked from her sister to Buck, then back again.  “Well,” she began, “if you really want to learn Indian sign it would be better to learn it from an expert, don’t you think?”

Doubtfully, Abigail turned to regard the Kiowa at her sister’s side.  Despite living at the Sweetwater way station for a week, despite Buck’s constant presence in their tiny apartment behind the Sentinel office, and despite the love she knew Buck and Claire shared, she still couldn’t completely put the frightening tales of Indian attacks and savagery that she’d been raised on behind her.  Intellectually she knew that Buck wasn’t like that, but a part of him still scared and intimidated her, and Abigail McKinstry was intimidated by NO ONE. 

Shyly, her normally strident voice barely above a whisper, she asked.  “Um… Buck… would… would you teach me something to say to Ike?”

The rider flashed a quick grin at Claire before turning his attention solemnly back to her sister.  “Sure,” he agreed, then quickly flashed a complex sign pattern, noting to his surprise that she watched observantly and attentively. 

Faster than Claire had ever learned, Abigail had already begun repeating the sign easily before Claire’s mind was able to comprehend what Buck had ‘said’.  She swatted her sister’s hands down, then whirled on Buck who was laughing uproariously. 

“BUCK CROSS!!”

“What?  She wanted something to say to Ike.  That surely would have got his attention!” the Kiowa managed to sputter out between gales of laughter. 

Against her best wishes, Claire found herself joining him in the laughter.  Yes, that would certainly have gotten the mute rider’s attention. And after learning a few more phrases like that, Abigail could find a job in the local bawdy house!  She managed a half-hearted scowl at Buck – he surely wouldn’t have let her sister actually USE that phrase, would he? – before turning back to Abigail, who stood watching the couple as though they’d suddenly spouted a third head between them. 

“Never mind, Abby.  You can say this.  It means ‘I’d like to get to know you better’,” she explained as her hands moved.  Abigail repeated the movement fluently as Claire puffed with pride.  Abigail would be a better student at the language than she was. And Claire thought she’d be needing to learn more of it before long. 

“Got it,” Abigail announced, running off to rejoin the boys who still gathered down the street.  “Thanks!” she called over her shoulder. 

“Hmmm… should we be worried about them?” Buck grinned.

Claire’s eyebrow rose.  “Well, you know Ike better than I do.  Is my sister’s virtue in danger, Mr. Cross?”

“It’s Ike’s virtue I’m worried about!” 

Sidestepping Claire’s playful slap easily, Buck allowed her to grasp his hand before continuing.  “About the newspaper…”

“Come inside,” she urged, pulling on his hand, “I got some companies to send me the information on their presses – just on the chance you might be agreeable to being a partner, you understand – so you need to take a look and help me decide which one to buy!”

The Kiowa allowed her to lead him a few steps before coming to a halt, a look of consternation on his features.  “First, we need to talk about the banner.”

“The banner?”

“Yup.  I don’t think I like it.”

Claire frowned.  “No?”

“No.  ‘Claire McKinstry and Buck Cross’.  It just doesn’t sound right.”

Sighing, Claire mentally rolled her eyes.  Men!  Aloud she said only, “We can change it then; I don’t mind.”  Again she sketched the banner of the imaginary paper against the skyline. “’Editors: Buck Cross and Claire McKinstry’.  Sound better?”

Buck scowled elaborately as he reflected on the change.  “Nah… still not right.  I was thinking of something short and snappy.  What about this?”  He drew his own outline against the horizon, waiting until Claire’s attention was focused on his illusory banner.  Then he took a deep breath. 

“I was thinking: ‘Editors: Buck and Claire Cross’.  What do you think?” 

He turned to look at the woman at his side, daring to let his eyes show the hope he felt. For a long moment Claire simply stood quietly, long enough that he began to fear that he’d moved too soon and he began to steal himself for rejection.  A temporary rejection, he prayed. Then he saw that her eyes, though still focussed on the distant vista of the plains, had filled with tears.  Tears of joy. 

“Oh Buck,” Claire whispered finally, turning to look at him with eyes that shone with love, “I think that sounds just fine.”

With an unrestrained whoop of delight, Buck Cross lifted Claire McKinstry into his arms and spun her in circles in the middle of the dusty street.  And if any of the townspeople observed or cared, neither of them seemed to notice.