Cheryl St.John - Badlands Bride

“Hellfire!” she said aloud. What had she gotten herself into? She could just hear Charles and Turner now, berating her for being ten kinds of a fool. Providing she made it back home so that they could yell at her. If wild animals or hostile Indians killed her out here, they’d lament forever about what a foolish, headstrong girl she’d been.

She’d sent a telegram from Buffalo, telling them her plan, and another from a place on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was purely conceivable that the letter she’d written today would never reach them. She could die out here and they’d never know if she’d arrived or what had happened to her.

Hallie snorted in self-derision. It would be the first time she’d made headlines. Foolhardy Daughter Of Newspaper Owner Perishes In Wilderness! Evan would probably write the damned piece.

The wind tore through the branches overhead, but down here near the bank, the air was calmer. Hallie laid her head on her leather valise and watched the leaves whip against the bright blue sky. When ticking off the pathetically few businesses, DeWitt had listed the freight company, the trading post, the livery and the saloon.

She hadn’t seen the saloon, thank goodness. After that crude man’s comment, she knew there were no respectable jobs or places to sleep alone.

She turned on her side and closed her eyes. This dilemma was too much to deal with right now. Perhaps she’d have a clearer head after a few minutes’ rest.

Hallie opened her eyes to pitch-blackness. Her back hurt intolerably. Behind her, the gentle sound of lapping water blended with the exultant chirr of crickets and other, more unfamiliar night sounds. Occasionally, a loud croaking sound echoed across the river’s surface. Something stung her chin and she slapped it.

Disoriented, she sat up. Her predicament came back to her, and fear trembled in her aching limbs. She was alone and unprotected in the untamed badlands of the Dakotas. Her very existence was at the mercy of Indians, wild animals and uncouth frontier men. What in the blazing Sam Hill had she been thinking of?

Hallie reached up for her hat and realized she’d left it at DeWitt’s. She opened her valise. Once her eyes adjusted to the night, the moon provided enough light to see the contents and the nearby area. No wild animals lurked within eyesight. She withdrew her brush, unpinned her hair and brushed it out, securing the new braid with one of the ties from her reticule.

Gingerly, she picked her way down the bank and knelt near the water, scooping several handfuls and drinking deeply. A cool breeze blew across the water and she shivered. Her warmer jacket was in her trunk — in DeWitt’s barn.

Nearer the water, mosquitoes feasted on her tender skin. Tall weeds nearby provided a place to relieve herself, though she worried more about having her backside chewed alive than someone seeing her. Quickly she finished and hurried up the bank to her spot beneath the trees, where she sat scratching her neck and wrist.

What should she do? Wait the night out here? Walk up near the buildings where it might be safer from animals? Perhaps she could find a spot in DeWitt’s barn to hide for the rest of the night. Or did that Jack fellow sleep there?

Wings flapped overhead, and Hallie stifled a startled cry. She glanced around, searching the unfamiliar darkness. Just an owl. Or a bat.

An eerie hoot came from somewhere nearby.

Or Indians? Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. She’d devoured too many dime novels not to know that Indians signaled one another with animal sounds, and that an unsuspecting white wouldn’t know the difference. They moved with stealth and silence and often took white women as slaves.

Maybe she would be safer nearer DeWitt’s place. She stood again, picked up her case and hurried up the slope to the road. Men’s voices came from the tent structure she’d seen earlier. Light glowed from inside. A revival tent?

Hallie hurried closer and listened to the voices through the canvas wall.

“Stood there pretty as you please with her skirts hiked up and her prissy white drawers bared to all nature—whoo-ee!” A gleeful cackle followed. “And when that fella reached for her, she all-fired brung that skinny knee up and busted his nose! He couldn’t absquatulate fast enough!”

Men’s chuckles followed.

Hallie burned with embarrassment and aggravation. Why, that dirty, low-down coot! Mr. Tubbs had treated her with the utmost respect and dignity, only to turn around and make jest of her nearly disastrous episode with the bandits! She ought to go in there and give him a piece of her mind.

Glass sounded against glass and a belch erupted.

“Don’t get too corned, Ferlie. You gotta head that stage out in the mornin’.”

“Never was a mornin’ I couldn’t sit atop a horse or a stage, no matter how many jugs or women I polished off the night afore.”

Laughter erupted once again.

The saloon. She backed away. She’d been around enough men in her life to know not to draw attention to herself when they were drinking.

Hallie stole away from the tent and found her way in the moonlight. The livery was dark. Imagining the huge black-haired man watching her from a crack in the wall, she switched her valise from one hand to the other and continued on. A beckoning yellow glow burned from the window of DeWitt’s home, and she followed it easily.

She had no idea what time it was, her timepiece having been stolen, and wondered if he was asleep—she paused several feet away—or back at the saloon.

The barn wasn’t lighted, but she found it easily enough. A sliding barrier now covered the wide opening he’d pulled the wagon through. A regular door stood to the side. She rested her fingers on the latch.

Did they tie their horses up in here or would she be trampled? Was Jack in here somewhere? This no longer seemed like such a good idea.

“We hang horse thieves out here.”

Hallie gasped and dropped her valise, whirling to face the man who’d spoken at her ear. Beneath the palm she flattened against her breast, her heart beat wildly. A broad-shouldered, unmistakably masculine form was silhouetted against the moon. “Mr. DeWitt!” She dropped her hand and caught her breath. “You nearly frightened me to death!”

“Better than hanging.”

“I wasn’t going to steal a horse!”

“No? What are you doing sneaking into my barn, then?”

Hallie’s confidence had taken a beating. She struggled for poise. “I—” she didn’t want to admit this “— I was just going to spend the night.”

“And abandon your cozy spot by the river?”

She gaped at him in the darkness. “You were spying on me?”

“Spying?” he asked, and his head tilted uncertainly.

“Snooping? Watching without permission?”

“I was spying,” he agreed.

“Well!” She adjusted her jacket and stood straighter. Good heavens, had he even known when she’d hung her backside in the weeds? Hallie’s posture went slack. She scratched absently at the place she’d just thought of.

“Come.” He picked up the valise and reached for her arm.

Hallie pulled away. “What are you doing?”

He wrapped his fingers around her arm and hauled her forward. “You can’t stay outside all night, and you can’t stay in the barn.”

Through her jacket his touch was just firm and unyielding enough to not hurt. “Is Jack in there?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To my house. You’ll stay there, and then I’ll get some sleep.”

“I can’t stay with you! You’ve already said it’s highly improper.”

He stopped before his door and released his hold. “Proper doesn’t hold much water out here.”

She realized that. But she wasn’t from here. She was from the East, where propriety meant everything. She glanced back out at the unending expanse of darkness. But then, Bostonians didn’t have to deal with wild animals and Indians, did they? “Are there any bears near?”