Daisies In The Wind

Daisies in the Wind

By Jill Gregory

Smashwords edition 2011

Copyright 2011 © Jill Gregory

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eBook Formatted by A Thirsty Mind

eBook Cover Design by Marsha Canham

First published by Dell Publishing, 1994. All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Jill Gregory.

For Isadore and Jenny, and Morris and Sophie, with love.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Excerpt from Cherished

Excerpt from When the Heart Beckons

About the Author

PROLOGUE

Arizona Territory

1866

Stillness gripped the valley but for the hawks wheeling in the hot, merciless air. The run-down outlaw shack hidden among the sage-gray rocks and juniper appeared empty.

But Wolf Bodine knew better than to trust appearances. Though he was only twenty-two, his four-year stint in the U.S. cavalry had taught him shrewdness and caution. As he sidled through the rough-hewn door, his gun was drawn and at the ready, and every muscle in his large, rugged frame was taut.

The reputed hideout of Bear Rawlings’ gang was not the place to get careless.

But it seemed his caution was for nothing, Wolf concluded in disappointment after prowling through the main room of the shack and the small, windowless bedroom in back. If Rawlings had ever been here, he was gone now, and there was no sign of him or his gang. The shack contained nothing but a rusting water pail in one corner, a bed, a few pieces of stacked wood near an ancient stove, two chairs, and some tin cups and plates in a cupboard. The place had been cleaned up and cleaned out. But as Wolf moved toward the door, he heard a sound from the bedroom.

His gray eyes grew hard, wary. Stealthily he made his way through the doorway into the bedroom, his boots treading lightly across the hard-packed earthen floor.

A faint film of sweat glistened at the open neck of his blue cambric shirt as he ran his gaze once more over the room. There was only one place to hide—beneath the narrow cot on the far bedroom wall.

Then came another sound, a tiny one, the merest scuff of a heel, but Wolf was on it in a flash. He heaved the cot up with one hand and sent it crashing against the back wall while with his other hand he aimed the pistol at the shape huddled, exposed, beneath.

Don’t move!

But even as these words rang out, Wolf knew a keen disappointment. He realized at once that the culprit who’d been hiding beneath the cot was not Bear Rawlings or another one of his outlaw pards, after all, but only a scrawny kid, no more than ten or eleven years old.

Wolf swore under his breath. Carefully he holstered his gun and then with one muscle-corded arm hauled the youngster up.

The boy struggled wildly against the iron hands that lifted him clear off the dirt floor, but he was no match for the six foot two, very agile, and very strong Bodine.

Let me go! The kid kicked, punched, spat like the devil—missing his aim, however, each time.

Take it easy, boy. Wolf s lean face relaxed as he pinioned the boy’s thin wrists in one fist, and he knelt down to study him at eye level with a steady, appraising glance. I won’t hurt you if you tell me where Bear and his pards are hiding.

And then he stopped. His eyes narrowed on the scrawny, raggedly dressed boy flailing wildly against his grasp. Boy?

Hell and damnation, not by a long shot.

Brilliant violet eyes blazed back at him from within a small, pinched, nut-brown face. Wolf saw the she-cat sizzle in those dazzling eyes, saw that they were fringed by spiky, sooty lashes, and he noted simultaneously the fragile sweep of cheekbone so delicate, it could only be feminine. The dark brows were slim, daintily arched. And as he watched in stunned amazement the youth’s flea-bitten sombrero slipped sideways, and a tangle of jaggedly cut long black hair flopped forward.

Let me go, you dirty, low-down, no-good lawman!

A girl. Stunned, he rocked back on his heels and let her go.

Instantly she swung her arm at him in a wide, vicious arc that swooshed through the air and narrowly missed his jaw.

Why, you little hellcat. He grinned. That wasn’t very polite.

As he reached for her wrist again, she lunged at him, her dirt-encrusted nails clawing, her small mouth working contortedly as she spewed out a string of curses that would have done a cavalryman proud. Wolf grasped her again by both wrists, holding her only as tightly as was necessary to keep her still, trying not to hurt her. Easy, peanut, he said soothingly. Take it easy. I only want to talk to you.

She was perhaps eleven, maybe twelve, no more—a dirty, swearing, ragged little beauty, with legs skinny as twigs and tiny breasts only beginning to bud beneath her greasy flannel shirt.

But one day, Wolf guessed, she’d be a stunner. What the hell was she doing here?

What’s your name? he inquired as she at last ceased struggling and glared at him with unmitigated loathing.

For answer she drew a deep breath and spat square into his face.

Wolf wiped away the spittle with his bandanna, all the while holding both her wrists easily in one large hand, trying to retain his patience. He’d endured all the rigors of war, seen his friends and enemies brutally slain, withstood heat, hunger, fatigue, and despair. He could certainly manage one feisty eleven-year-old girl without losing his temper.

One undoubtedly frightened eleven-year-old girl. Though her face radiated defiance, plain common sense told him that beneath the furious rebellion she must be plenty scared. Her pulse raced beneath his thumb. Her violet eyes shone dark and wild in the shadowy dimness.

Wolf tried to be cool and professional about the situation, but he was touched with pity. The last thing he wanted to do was terrify a child, but he couldn’t very well leave without finding out who she was and what her connection was with the Rawlings gang—if there was any connection. He kept his voice quiet, calm, speaking to her the way he would have to his own little sister, if she’d lived past infancy.

I won’t hurt you, honey. I promise. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m not letting go of you until you give me some answers. And I’m a real patient man, so I’ll wait all day—all night—if I have to.

Bear’ll kill you if you touch me! Say your prayers, mister, you’re going straight to hell!

Where is Bear? Did he leave you here all alone? You know where he is, don’t you, peanut? Are you his daughter?

Her mouth twisted with contempt. Who wants to know?

Wolf Bodine.

She went very still. Her skin seemed to pale beneath her weathered tan. She stared intently, all quiet and coiled like a rattler.

You want to kill my father. She breathed at last, hate and loathing throbbing through her voice. I’ve heard of you. You cleaned up Medicine Bend. And killed the Foster gang. Well, I won’t let you kill Bear. I’ll shoot you myself first!

Look, sweetheart, I don’t want to kill anyone. But Bear Rawlings and his gang stole a very important payroll a few days ago from the stage headed to Tucson, and that money doesn’t belong to them. They broke the law—you understand that, don’t you?

I’m not stupid! But Bear says if you can outsmart folks and get their money away, you’ve earned it and they don’t deserve it! If he catches you here, you’ll be real sorry! Bear can’t stomach lawmen. Me neither! So let me go and get the hell out of here while you’re still breathin’, cuz when they come back ...!

So they were coming back for her. That was all he needed to know.

What’s your name, honey?

None of your damned business.

Wolf shook his head. You shouldn’t be here, he said quietly, releasing her wrists and rising to his full height. It’s no life for a pretty little girl.

Those were the last words he uttered before he saw her eyes flick upward, focusing on someone behind him—someone, he realized instantly, who’d sneaked in while he was intent on her, and who in the next split second hit him from behind—hit him hard with something that sent Wolf Bodine crashing into iron blackness.

* * *

Reb sprang forward, her heart skittering like a jackrabbit in her chest. You’ve killed him! she cried. Fearfully, she knelt over the handsome young stranger with the chestnut hair and quiet voice and touched his unmoving shoulder. She was crying, she discovered, and she didn’t know why.

Russ Gaglin fingered the butt of his gun, which had just slammed Wolf Bodine in the skull. He studied the blood that ran from a gash in the fallen man’s temple. He ain’t dead, Reb. See his chest goin’ up and down? Should’ve killed him, though, he grumbled. Don’t know why I didn’t. Could’ve shot him in the back easy as pie. Matter of fact maybe I should finish him off right now—

No!

She was on him in a flash, shoving him backward. You’ve done enough! Leave him be!

Russ snorted in disgust at the way the kid had herself all worked up over Bodine. Bear’s girl sure was a strange one—she could be quiet as an ant for days and then suddenly explode in your face like a miniature firecracker. But he slipped his gun into his holster and held up his hands in surrender.

Okay, Reb, okay. But don’t waste your tears on no lawman. Bear’s waitin’ for us up on the Rim.

Tears ... what’re you talkin’ about? She swiped at her face with grimy fingers. Who’s crying? Not me!

Yeah, sure. Let’s go.

He stomped to the door of the cabin and waited for her to scurry out in front of him, but she lingered a moment, biting her lip, gazing down in agitation at the unconscious man bleeding all over the floor.

Maybe we should do something ...

You deaf, missy? Bear’s waitin’! Let’s ride!

Sorry, Mr. Wolf Bodine, Reb thought as she leaped onto the back of the hardy pinto mustang Russ had kept hidden for her in a remote section of the valley. But you shouldn’t have come after Bear. You shouldn’t have tried to track down our gang.

Still, as she galloped across the blazing Arizona wilderness with Russ in the lead, she couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger. He was unlike any man she’d ever encountered before, even Bear.

When she’d looked at him, despite her anger and her fear, something had happened inside. A topsy-turvy feeling. It had been real hard to breathe.

It wasn’t only because he was so handsome, she mused, as the pinto galloped up a steep rocky incline bordered by mesquite and scrub. He’d been nice. Decent.

And there had been something kind in his cool, clear eyes.

Don’t think about him, a little voice inside instructed. He’s a lawman. He’s no good. Think about how he wanted to put Bear in jail.

But later that night, reunited with Bear and the rest of the gang at the hideout on the Rim, Reb couldn’t stop thinking about the tall stranger with the cool gray eyes. She huddled on the ground before the campfire while the men played cards and drank whiskey and argued under the trees, and she found herself gazing up at the wishing star. She wanted to make a wish, but she didn’t know exactly what it was—and anyway, she decided, tossing her heavy hair back from her face, wishing was for babies.

And she was no longer a baby.

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand what was happening to her. Her body was changing in strange, unnerving ways. It scared her. It was confusing. All she knew was that everything was different, and she wanted everything to stay the same.

The red flames of the fire danced in the cool, pine-scented night. Reb stared moodily into the glowing heart of the fire and saw a face, a lean, strong-jawed face she knew she should forget.

Go away, she whispered, and hugged her arms around herself.

But the face in the campfire remained, shimmering and clear, and something ached deep inside her heart.

She was possessed suddenly by a sweet, hard, powerful yearning.

Wolf Bodine, she whispered in wonder to the dark, empty Arizona night.

It was the first time she ever spoke his name, as the longing and the loneliness welled up in her, but through the years of Rebeccah Rawlings’ growing-up it would not be the last.

1

Powder Creek Montana

1874

Stage’s late.

Ernest Duke shifted from one foot to the other and peered into the rolling, green distance as if trying to conjure the stagecoach out of thin, crystal-clear Montana air. But there was nothing, no sign, no sound other than the usual town sounds, of horses’ hooves and creaky plankboards and children hollering and folks greeting one another in passing. Stage is mighty late, he reiterated nervously, drawing wrathful stares from the little greeting party of Powder Creek dignitaries who waited uneasily alongside him outside Koppel’s General Store.

We know that, Ernest, snapped Myrtle Lee Anderson, head of the town social committee. Her doughy cheeks flushed a deep, ruddy shade that matched her stiffly pinned-up hair. She plopped her hands on her ample hips and glared at him. "Question is, why is it late? You tell me that, or keep your thoughts to yourself."

My dear Mrs. Anderson, Ernest said with injured dignity, puffing out his spindly chest and casting her a pained look from beneath gray brows that arced in an inverted V over eyes as black as the Montana night sky. "If I knew the reason why the stage is late, I could do something about it. I could help Sheriff Bodine round up a posse to ride out and find ‘em, in case they’ve lost a wheel or overturned, or—"

He broke off, not wishing to continue with any of the other possibilities, such as an Indian attack or a holdup by one of the brutal outlaw bands roaming Montana and preying on unprotected citizens. No one wanted to think about that yet. As mayor of Powder Creek it was his responsibility to see that things ran smoothly, properly, according to schedule, plan, and recognized procedure. Late stages were not all that uncommon, he tried to tell himself, but this one was nearly four hours late, and he, Myrtle Lee Anderson, and Waylon Pritchard had been waiting in the hot sun for a good portion of that time ready to welcome Powder Creek’s new official schoolteacher—only now they were wondering if this might turn out to be a burying party instead of a welcoming one.

They were wondering it, but no one wanted to say it.

Still, as the late-afternoon sun inched across the sky, and the brilliant August day ambled on toward hazy sunset, each of them knew that something was wrong.

Ernest Duke felt it in his bones. Myrtle Lee Anderson sensed it in the air. And Waylon Pritchard, son of the most prosperous rancher in this part of Montana, detected it in his gut.

Waylon, whose pa had insisted he make up part of the welcoming committee, glanced in disgust at his gold pocket watch, then stuffed it back into his black Sunday-best suit. He scowled out at the lush, emerald-green horizon that dipped and rose and curved in every direction past Powder Creek, at the majestic splendor of the snow-capped Rocky Mountains to the west, and thought yearningly of all the fun he could be having with Coral right now in the little room above the Gold Bar Saloon, ‘stead of wasting his entire afternoon waiting for some prissy schoolteacher, like his pa insisted.

Damn Pa anyway. He’ll never let me marry Coral, just because she’s a dance-hall girl. Well, I’ll be a lizard ‘fore I saddle myself with some mousy little schoolmarm for life, Waylon reflected resentfully, and glanced up at the window of the room Coral shared with three other girls. Even as he looked, she appeared magically in the window, lovely in a low-cut crimson gown. She waved to him briefly before disappearing.

Dad gurn it, Waylon exploded, knowing he didn’t have time to visit Coral now and still get home before his ma served supper, why don’t we git Sheriff Bodine to send out a search party? It’s been long enough. I’m goin’ home. Maybe you have nothing better to do, but I’m not standing here one more blasted minute—

But Waylon broke off as from a distance came the low rumble of hooves and coach wheels, and a dust cloud billowed up far down the road.

Here she comes! Ernest crowed, wiping the sweat from his face. Myrtle Lee gripped her parasol in both hands and squinted down the road.

Slim’s comin’ mighty fast, she muttered, and stepped forward to lean over the boardwalk railing for a better look.

It was true. The stagecoach driver was whipping the team of six horses to a furious lather as the stage roared up with a thunder of hoofbeats, ringing gunshots, and shouts of Whoa!

When the dust cleared, the driver hollered down at the welcoming committee: We was held up! Got a dead man on top!

Sure enough, a corpse was strapped to the top of the coach, wrapped in a blood-soaked horse blanket beside a pile of baggage.

That a passenger, Slim? Waylon asked as Myrtle gasped in horror beside him.

Nope. One of the varmints who tried to rob us!

You shot one? Ernest gazed approvingly at the sweating, dust-caked face of the driver as he leaped down from the coach and threw open the door. Good work, Slim—

‘Fraid I cain’t take credit for it, or Raidy neither, the driver said, interrupting. With one quick motion, he let down the stagecoach steps.

Well, if you didn’t shoot him, then who—?

"She did." He jerked his thumb toward the door of the coach as a bright-eyed young woman gracefully alighted.

Behind her straggled a batch of other passengers: a portly silver-haired man; a matron in black bombazine and high-laced boots, and a gawky young fellow with spectacles perched on his thin, high-bridged nose and carrying a satchel over his arm. But no one in the welcoming committee paid any of them the least heed—they all stared with varying degrees of amazement at the slender, dark-haired girl in the sapphire-blue silk traveling dress who paused in the street and regarded them with quiet appraisal. For a moment there was silence as the sun beat down, the horses tossed their heads, and the wind whistled down from the mountains.

Then the girl straightened her shoulders, pushed back a loose tendril of her heavy hair, and strode across the street with brisk, assured steps. She addressed the welcoming committee curtly.

Someone kindly send for the sheriff. I would greatly like to finish this business at once and be on my way.

Thus Rebeccah Rawlings arrived in her new hometown of Powder Creek. While the townsfolk looked her over with good old-fashioned curiosity, gaping and whispering among themselves, she gripped her reticule in weary fingers and managed, as she had for the last several hours, to keep from retching.

She’d never killed a man before. She’d shot at some and target-practiced at tin cans, tree stumps, and even coins tossed in the air, but never had she aimed her gun at a man and meant to kill him. Until today.

But that desperado had actually fired inside the coach—he could have killed any one of the passengers, herself included, and no one else had seemed inclined to do anything. So she had done what Bear had taught her to do—shoot back, defend herself. Afterward she’d wanted to scream, moan, and vomit out her guts, but she couldn’t. Too many people around. She’d have looked like a weak little fool.

And she was hardly that. She forced her shoulders straighter. She was Bear Rawlings’s daughter. She was far too tough to flinch or cry or even ponder about the life she’d snuffed out with the squeeze of a trigger.

And she couldn’t ever forget it, even for a moment. She had too many enemies now, she reflected. For a moment her stomach clenched as she remembered the man who had accosted her in Boston before she set out. Neely Stoner had sent him to scare her. As if she were a sniveling coward who would have turned over the papers to the silver mine even if she had them!

But Neely’d tried to get them anyhow. She knew he—and the others—would try again. It was possible, Rebeccah acknowledged with a cold pinprick of fear, that she had even been followed to Montana, that somehow the men who were after those papers had found out about the ranch. And that meant that sooner or later—probably sooner—some mean, greedy hombres would show up to steal them or force her to hand them over.

She couldn’t let her guard down even for a moment, couldn’t let herself go soft or weak. If she did, Neely and the rest would close in for the kill.

Through her weariness and the bilious waves of nausea, she exerted every effort to appear brisk and unconcerned. She allowed herself a swift glance around the town and drew comfort from what she saw. In all the years she’d been away in Boston, she’d forgotten just how rough and primitive frontier towns were. This one was as rough as any of them. But something inside her lifted at the sight of Koppel’s General Store with its large swinging sign and false front, at the apothecary and dry-goods stores alongside it, even at the numerous saloons lining both sides of the narrow street. She gazed quickly about at the rough wooden boardwalk and hitching posts, at the water troughs and the dusty street filled with cowboys, merchants, horses, chickens, and dogs, at the women in homespun calico clutching babies in their arms. Her gaze rose to sweep over the wide-open stunning blue horizon.

The sky was huge as heaven. The towering Rockies loomed majestically in the distance, dotted here and there by tiny crystal lakes that glimmered like miniature sapphires among the high firs and pines. At the feet of the cobalt mountains the valleys were lush and breathtaking with late-summer flowers: poppies, asters, Indian paintbrush, lilies, and white and purple heather.

Montana was a land of glittering beauty—sharp mountains, jade prairies, bluegrass, laurel, red cedar, and spruce.

And space—shining clean, tingly, wide-open space, where she could breathe and ride free and lose herself—and lose her memories, every single one of them.

Her gaze returned almost dazedly to the scene before her—the street with its wandering chickens, the dogs, children, horses, and buggies all part of this raw little town before her—and she took hold of herself with quick effort. But deep inside she felt glad—quietly, joyfully glad.

She was free. Free of Boston. Free of Miss Elizabeth Wright’s Academy for Young Ladies, free of that horrid, stuffy brick building trimmed in ivy, free of the cramped little room that she’d called home the past two years. She was free now of the dry, tasteless meals at table, the prim stares of the rest of the teachers, any of whom would have probably fainted away at the sight of this wild western town. No more schedules, prissy gowns buttoned up to the neck, long days teaching literature to girls who never bothered to pick up a book. This was home now. Not this town precisely, or any of these staring people. But once she rode out to the ranch, found it in its lovely little valley, threw open the door of the ranchhouse her father had bequeathed to her, and stepped inside, she would be home. And the moment she unpacked her own belongings, her books, her piano music, her paintings, she’d be free for good.

Weary as she was from her journey, from the violence of what had happened this very afternoon, from the bloodshed in which she had been forced to play a part, she knew a taut pulling of anticipation, of longing as she thought of the ranch. She couldn’t wait to get there, to be alone, at peace in her very own home.

Ma’am, are you telling us that you shot that varmint up there? Ernest Duke couldn’t believe his ears. This elegant, spectacularly lovely female dressed in all that silky, lacy finery, with those feathers sticking out of her little blue velvet hat, and her dress so fine—a little crumpled but rich-looking for all that—this girl had killed an outlaw? He peered at her incredulously, unable to conceal his doubt. With what, may I ask?

Rebeccah’s intense violet eyes skewered him. Are you the sheriff, sir?

Ernest took a step back beneath that blistering stare.

Why, no. I’m Mayor Duke. But—

I prefer to tell my story to the sheriff. She turned away from him with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand, let her glance flit over Myrtle Lee’s bulky form, and allowed it at last to come to rest upon Waylon Pritchard’s sweating one.

Would you be so kind, she said in slowly distinct accents, as if speaking to a very small child or someone bereft of sense, to fetch the sheriff to me? I have no wish to stand here in the sun for however many hours remain in the day.

Waylon flushed beneath those large, brilliant, icy eyes. He had never seen a woman like this before. He’d thought Coral was beautiful, with her pale, curly hair and sweet light-green eyes, but this girl took his breath away. Regal as a princess she was and talked every bit as fine. Her face was heart-shaped, as delicately formed as his ma’s best china. Beneath that little feathered hat of hers, her skin glowed like fresh cream. He was fascinated by the way those eyes of hers tilted slightly upward at the outer ends. Most appealing. They were a rich, wild violet hue, so deep and brilliant, they put the poor sky to shame. She was tall, willowy—but not too willowy, he noted admiringly. A few wisps of jet-black hair had escaped her heavy chignon during the journey and now sprang rebelliously about her cheeks, adding dark, earthy drama to the beauty before him.

Ma’am, Waylon stuttered at last as she continued to stare at him with growing impatience, I’ll be glad to fetch the sheriff for you. It’d be an honor. It’d be a privilege. I’d like nothing better than to do you this service.

Then git goin’! the driver, Slim, bellowed, tossing baggage down onto the street.

And then someone from the crowd yelled, Hold yore horses, Waylon! Here comes the sheriff now!

And Rebeccah sighed with relief. At last. The crowd parted. She braced herself for the explanation ahead of her, for the tough stance she was prepared to take in order to get possession of the reward money. She had exactly forty-seven dollars in her reticule, all the money she possessed in the world, and it wasn’t nearly enough to build up and maintain a ranch. She would need every penny to survive on her own out here. The thought of how close she was to poverty frightened her, but she took refuge in knowing that at least she didn’t look poor. Anyone seeing her fine clothes and the ruby ring winking on her finger, the pearl choker at her throat, would think she was rich as Midas. But appearances, Rebeccah knew well, could be deceiving.

She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered through the opening in the throng. She had a deep-seated distrust and resentment of lawmen and was eager to get this business over with as rapidly as possible. The less she had to do with the sheriff of Powder Creek, the better, but she needed this money, and he was the only one who could get it for her. Rebeccah believed in facing up to difficult tasks immediately instead of putting them off. She’d dispatch matters with this sheriff, she told herself, and then get out to the ranch in time to sleep in her very own bed tonight.

She didn’t know precisely what she expected, perhaps a balding, middle-aged lawman with a paunch and red-rimmed eyes, or an ancient oak of a man, leathered and squinty and bow-kneed, but the man coming toward her with easy, purposeful strides was none of those things.

He moved with the grace of an Indian. Something