Wed Under Western Skies Read online

  He wiped at it, cleaning most of the blood, noting her wince as he carefully swept his kerchief across her eyes. He wiped the rounding of her cheek, allowing him to see the wound, which welled up afresh with his touch. The cut was not deep, but might need a stitch or two, he thought, thankful for the presence of a doctor on the train. He could have sewn it himself, but the thought of driving a needle through her tender flesh didn’t sit well. He’d help the doctor do his work, offering his help as she was examined for damages and then cleaned up.

  She was sleeping now, her breath even and her eyes shadowed by pain. Cameron tucked his kerchief away.

  Ahead of him he saw the smoke from campfires, where breakfast was being cooked and readied for the families who rode the wagons. He and Joe would be greeted at any of several fires, offered plates of food and welcomed by most all of the men and women who depended on them for safety.

  His horse broke into a lope as if the lure of oats drew him to the circle of wagons. Cameron had a barrel of feed for his mount. A man who didn’t take good care of his horse was a foolish man indeed, his pa had always told him.

  Elizabeth had felt the rocking rhythm of the horse beneath her, and known the warmth of the masculine arms that held her. Now, recognizing the scent of bacon and the redolent aroma of coffee, she knew for certain that she was alive. She stirred, attempting to sit erect, but the arms that held her only tightened around her and the gruff, masculine voice she’d heard against her ear was once more speaking, this time impatiently.

  “I’d rather you didn’t end up on the ground, lady, after all the trouble we took to get you here alive.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes, leaning her head against a wide shoulder and looked up into a dark gaze she seemed to recall. It was the man who had lifted her so recently from the ground. His were the hands that had wiped her face with a damp cloth, and his arms had been her security for the past…hour perhaps?

  Time had seemed to come to a standstill once the painted figures had surrounded her wagon. She’d been hauled off the seat, thrown to the ground and mauled by two men who seemed to have been torn between stripping off her clothing or knocking her senseless.

  They’d succeeded at one, as her aching head testified, but she was still clothed, so they must have been diverted by more pleasing prospects. Maybe the three women in her train, who were heading for a saloon at the end of this journey. Even on a trip such as this, they had dressed in satin and lace, crushed and soiled to be sure, but the men hadn’t seemed to mind.

  It could be that her own attackers had sought out the more attractive sights offered by the saloon girls. That they hadn’t stripped her of her clothing was a good sign, she thought. Perhaps they’d decided to leave her for the buzzards. The memory of a hatchet aimed at her head would haunt her forever, but somehow, she knew she was safe now. The man holding her had said so, and for whatever reason, she believed him. Knew that his harsh voice and the strength of his body were to be trusted.

  Strong hands gripped her, lifting her from the horse, and Elizabeth knew a moment of piercing pain, her head striking the shoulder of an unknown person. “Watch it,” the familiar, gruff voice said from above her. “I’ll guarantee she’s got a dandy of a headache.”

  Doggone right, I have. The words were her last conscious thought as she slipped once more into the depths of darkness.

  “What do you think, Doc?” Cameron watched the medical man as he examined the girl, checking her for broken bones, his blunt fingers gentle as he opened her eyes to peer into their depths. Her dress was no barrier to his instrument, and tucking the ear-pieces in place, he listened to the sounds of her heart and lungs.

  “I expect she’ll live,” Doc Forrest said roughly, as if his throat ached at the sight before him. “Don’t know what would make a man treat a woman thisaway. Makes me ashamed of my gender sometimes, when I’m sewing up the results of some man’s brutality.”

  “I doubt the Indians look at it that way,” Cameron said. “White men, and women, too, are their enemies. They treat ’em all alike. Except that the women get taken as slaves, or even wives, if they’re real lucky. Can’t figure out why they left this one behind.”

  “I reckon they thought she wasn’t worth the trouble, figured she wouldn’t live long enough to make it worth their while to haul her back to their camp.”

  “Is she that bad off?” Cameron resisted the urge to reach out to the girl, his fingers itching to touch her hair, the soft flesh of her arms. That they were marred by bruises from uncaring hands mattered little. He’d brought her back, held her close to his body, and had known a sense of responsibility for her well-being. Now he was freshly aware that his feelings had turned to a possessive need to shelter her from harm.

  “She’ll need some nursing, someone to watch her tonight anyway, make sure she doesn’t pull at her bandages.” He taped a soft, white cloth bandage over her chin, then another at her temple, his hands careful not to apply hurtful pressure. Turning her head a bit, he inspected the place on her cheek where the skin had split, probably from the force of a man’s fist.

  “I’ll stitch this up right quick,” he said, “and we should be about done. Witch hazel is the best thing we’ve got for the bruising, and that’ll need to be used again every couple of hours.” He met Cam’s gaze squarely.

  “Are you planning on watching her? Or shall one of the ladies stay with her?”

  “I’ll look after her,” Cam said without hesitation. “I’ve already fixed her up a bed in my wagon.”

  “You’ll cause tongues to wag, you know. They’ll think it’s not decent for you to be tending a female.”

  Cameron smiled wryly, yet anger lit his eyes. “If any of these folks think I’d take advantage of a woman in this condition, they’re not worth the time of day.”

  “Guess you’ve made up your mind then.” The doctor bent low over the girl, his needle threaded and ready. “Want to hold her down a little?” he asked Cameron. “I’d hate to have her jerk while I’m sewin’ this up. It’s pretty close to her eye.”

  Cameron felt his hands tremble as he placed them on either side of the woman’s head, his fingers lost in the golden waves and curls. She was warm to the touch, and her hair was the texture of silk against his rough fingers. Her jaw clenched against his rough palm as Doc took the first stitch, and Cameron looked down into blue eyes that widened with pain, even as he watched. Eyes that held questions he felt compelled to answer.

  “Hush now, sweetheart. Doc here is sewing up a cut on your face. He’ll be done in no time, and I’m just holding you still so you don’t jerk or jump and hurt yourself. Can you understand me?”

  Her eyes blinked once and he nodded. “You’re in the middle of a big wagon train, sweetheart, with about fifty guns ready to fire in case someone should decide to come looking for you. Does that make you feel any safer?”

  She blinked again and winced, her mouth trembling as the needle pierced her flesh once more.

  “Pour a little whiskey right here,” Doc said, moving his hand back to make room for the potent liquid. Cameron’s mouth flattened as he did as asked, knowing that the sting of alcohol in the raw wound would be the most painful part of this whole thing. The girl cried aloud and Cameron was quick to hold her still once again, allowing the doctor to complete his work. Tears slid from her eyes and made twin trails into her hairline where they were lost in the wealth of curls, and Cameron watched, his teeth gritting, his heart aching for her pain.

  In mere minutes, Doc Forrest bandaged the cut, having carefully put five stitches in place. He nodded in Cameron’s direction. “I’d suggest she oughta eat something, Cam. See if you can get a bit of bread or oatmeal down her before she settles down to sleep.”

  “You think she’ll sleep now?” His voice sounded dubious, as Cameron picked up the slight weight of the girl and turned toward his wagon. He looked down at her, attempting to smile reassuringly. “You hungry, sweetheart?”

  Her lips formed the negative reply
and her eyes closed.

  “Just a piece of biscuit maybe?” he coaxed. “Mrs. Perry sure knows how to make good ones. And it looks to me like she’s got a few left over from breakfast. I’ll bet they’re still warm, sweetheart.”

  He detoured past the Perry wagon, and Dora Perry grinned at his approach.

  “Got you an armful, haven’t you, Cam? Where you taking her? If you want to leave her with me, I’ll take care of her.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Cam told her briefly. “I want to keep a close eye on her myself. Guess I feel responsible for her.”

  “I’ll bring over some coffee and biscuits,” Dora said obligingly. “There’s even some jam to sweeten them up.”

  “That’d be appreciated, ma’am,” Cameron told her. “This little gal might not eat one now, but I’ll bet when she wakes up, she will.”

  “Well, I’ll be puttin’ on a kettle of stew for dinner at noontime. You come on by and get some for the both of you,” Dora said. “It’ll fix what ails her, at least part of what her problems are.” Her gaze touched on the girl’s face and traveled down her body, where her dress was torn and bruises covered her arms.

  “You may be right,” Cameron said. “I’ll be waiting for that coffee, ma’am.”

  “Comin’ right up.” Dora set to work, filling two cups and wrapping biscuits in a dish towel before she followed Cameron to his wagon. He managed to climb inside and settle the girl on his feather tick and then turned to see Dora approaching, her hands full.

  “You gonna let her sleep in the back while you drive?” She peered beneath the white covering of the wagon to where the woman was curled beneath a light quilt.

  “She won’t bother me any,” Cameron said flatly, his eyes narrowing as if he dared the woman to suggest anything wrong with the arrangement. A blatant possessiveness toward the girl blinded him as his plans were put under Dora’s scrutiny.

  Dora backed off and a dark flush colored her features. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Mr. Montgomery. I just wondered if she needed to have someone with her, maybe another woman.” Her eyes told him she thought he was sadly lacking when it came to looking after a female.

  “She’ll be fine. I brought her to the train. I’ll take care of her. And if I need any help, Joe Campbell will be glad to lend a hand.”

  “Well, I declare,” Dora returned, her brows lowering as she shot a nasty look in Cameron’s direction. “Doesn’t seem quite right, is all. She’s a woman, after all.”

  “I noted that, right off,” Cameron said with a grin, one he knew would really tangle Dora’s garters. He was right, for she walked directly from his wagon to where the wagon master stood.

  “I’ll bet he gets an earful,” Cameron muttered to himself. His eyes swept over the team of oxen he drove, noting the yoke was not fitting his team perfectly. And that would never do. He jumped down and approached the team, rubbing their noses and speaking softly to them. And while he spoke, he straightened the yoke, sorted out the harness and checked the animals over.

  Twin pails of water stood by the wagon, and Cameron took them to the head of his team and watched as they drank their fill. They’d been staked all night in the meadow grass, so food wasn’t an issue, but he hung the empty pails beneath the wagon, hoping they would find a source of water during the day or perhaps tonight.

  He’d not traveled with his own wagon before, but this scouting job might very well be his last. For the land he’d bought and for which he held a deed, lay ahead, and he’d brought along supplies and necessities for setting up a household should he decide to settle there after this trip, putting his scouting days behind him.

  His was the second wagon in the train, Joe having cast his lot with a family who traveled last in line. Cam’s own wagon contained only the barest of necessities; his clothing, a barrel of oats for his horse, and a large stack of hay in one corner and an assortment of items he knew would be necessary when he set up his home. A home he yearned for, on his own land. He let his eyes feast on the girl he’d claimed. If she was willing, he would build her a home, a haven for them to share.

  And unless he had it figured wrong, they would be seeing the mountains ahead come morning, signifying an end to the lush prairie grasses.

  He hadn’t seen anything that promised a stream ahead during his predawn jaunt with Joe. But then he’d only concentrated on tracking the shoeless Indian horses and their riders, until they found the small group of wagons, burned and deserted.

  He climbed swiftly to his seat now and spared a look into the shadowed space behind him. His dark gaze took note of the cool cloth he’d placed on her forehead, still in place. Her bandages had not darkened with seeping blood, and he was encouraged by its absence. She was on his feather tick, but since he slept most nights beneath the wagon, it hadn’t had much use on this journey, and he was happy to see it providing comfort for her. She was lying as he’d placed her, her hair tangled on his pillow, and he allowed his gaze the privilege of resting on her for a moment. He’d never been so drawn by a female in his life. Not only the physical presence of her, although there was a lot to say for her hair that gleamed like sunlight and eyes like a summer sky. He sensed, more than that, courage and a will to survive. For she would survive, no matter that Joe held out little hope, given the cruelties dealt upon her. She would survive, for Cameron would see to it.

  Chapter Two

  The bed she lay on was moving. Elizabeth shifted a bit, heard the involuntary groan that left her lips and opened her eyes. The light was dim, the pale canvas stretched above her shielding her from the sunshine, and she recognized the rolling rhythm of the wagon as it made its way at a slow pace.

  “It must have been a dream, a nightmare,” she whispered to herself. And yet, her mind did not recognize the bits and pieces of clothing and equipment surrounding her, nor the bed she lay on.

  “You awake back there?”

  The man’s voice was deep, his eyes dark and searching as he turned on the seat at the front of the wagon and looked down at her. “Your head feeling any better?”

  She lifted a hand to the bandage that adorned her brow and shook her head, a slight motion, but one that sent a sharp pain winging its way across her forehead and back.

  “I hurt.” It was an effort to say the words and she was amazed at how puny her voice sounded as she spoke them.

  “I’ll just bet you do, sweetheart.” A twitch of his lips transformed his face and she felt his appraisal upon her shift from her head down the length of her body and then back. His eyes were dark, almost black it seemed, for the dim light of the wagon’s interior did not lend itself to improving her eyesight. His hair, as dark as his eyes, brushed his collar, indeed covered the fabric. Thick and wavy, his hair seemed glossy in the sunlight that appeared at the front of the wagon, causing her to squint against the bright glow.

  She sighed deeply, knowing a sense of security, yet why that should be so was a puzzle. The man’s name was not known to her, nor the circumstances of her presence in his wagon, but an aura of safety enveloped her and his presence appeared to be the reason for it. She recollected the faint memory of hard arms holding her, of that deep, rough voice speaking to her, and then his gentle movements when he deposited her in this wagon. For unless she was mistaken, she lay on a feather tick, and a pillow lay beneath her head. The pillowcase smelled of fresh air and lye soap, and she inhaled the familiar scent, aware of its place in her memory.

  “You want to tell me your name?” the man asked. “Or shall I just call you sweetheart?”

  “Elizabeth.” She spoke the syllables carefully, lest the effort to speak caused her head to throb from the attempt.

  “You got a last name?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, of course,” she said quickly, and then subsided as she realized that it was unknown to her. Her first name, Elizabeth, she was certain of, a faint memory of a man speaking her name still fresh in her mind. Beyond that she saw only a pale mist, with no knowledge of what lay beyond it.

>   “I’m Cameron Montgomery,” he told her. “You can call me Cam if you want to.”

  “How did I…” She halted her question as the memory of a cruel face appeared before her in her mind. A hatchet held upright in his hand, the overwhelming smell of horses and blood, the knowledge that death awaited her momentarily—she shivered and felt tears running down her cheeks.

  “He was going to scalp me,” she whispered. “I don’t know why he didn’t.”

  “Just be thankful he changed his mind,” Cameron told her. “Probably the rest of the warriors were leaving and he didn’t want to stay behind. What surprises me is that he didn’t take you along with him. The Indians set store by yellow hair, either in their tepees or hanging from their belts.”

  She shivered at his words, and felt more hot tears well up in her eyes and then knew their heat on her cheeks.

  Cameron wrapped his reins around the upright post at his side, and the wagon moved on at a plodding pace. Turning back toward her, he reached a hand to touch the top of her head. “Your head will hurt worse if you cry,” he murmured. “And I’ll bet it’s bangin’ away like a sledgehammer right now.”

  She nodded reluctantly, feeling the stitches in her cheek pull against the pillow. “How badly am I hurt?” Her body felt to be in one piece, nothing appeared broken, only the bandages on her face seemed to be a problem. Beneath them were cuts of some kind, of that she was certain.

  “You’ll live,” Cameron said, his voice flat now as if he remembered the place she’d come from. “You’ve got a couple of cuts and a lot of bruises, but you’ll be feelin’ better in a few days. Can’t say that for the rest of your group.” He paused and his voice lowered, became more concerned. “Were you with your family?”