Jackie Manning - Silver Hearts

“He’s not my Mr. Douglas. I-I mean, Mr. Douglas is...was my trail guide, not...” She felt embarrassed to explain anything to this man. “I-I won’t leave. You’ll have to fix the wagon wheel.”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Won’t leave? Why the hell not?”

“I’m carrying precious cargo. That’s all you need to know.” She brushed her fingers across her damp collar. “And I’d prefer that you speak to me without profanity, Mister...?

“Savage.” She sniffed.

His mouth curled, revealing the dimpled scar. “Luke Savage.”

“I’m Noelle Bellencourt. I’d be obliged if you’d fix the wagon, then guide me into Crooked Creek. I’ll pay you most handsomely.”

His black eyebrows rose, and wary dark eyes appraised her. “Miss, I’ve been on the trail for six straight days. All I want is a bloody steak, a bottle of rye whiskey and a bed with a...” He paused, as though weighing his words. “Real sheets,” he added without looking at her.

She felt her cheeks warm, aware that he’d meant a woman—a painted-hussy woman that she’d heard about. She delicately cleared her throat. At least he’d been enough of a gentleman not to say so.

“I’ll more than pay you what it’s worth, Mr. Savage.”

“I’d help you without payment, if I could. But it’s a matter of life or death that I make Crooked Creek by Friday noon. Now put down that rifle and gather your things. We’re losing time we don’t have.”

Noelle raised her rifle. “It’s you who does not understand, Mr. Savage. You’re not leaving without me and the wagon.” Her voice held strong. “I’m a good shot, but even if I wasn’t, at this range I couldn’t miss shooting your head off.”

His deeply tanned face showed no sign of her threat as he studied her. “Where you heading, anyway?”

“My uncle, Marcel Bellencourt, lives in Crooked Creek. He’s a very wealthy silver miner who struck it rich during the fifties. He’ll reward you for your trouble, Mr. Savage.”

Luke scratched his week’s growth of black beard. “Funny. I know all the folks in Crooked Creek. Never heard of a Marcel Bellencourt, rich or poor.” He eyed her in that suspicious way that made her uneasy. “Sure it’s Crooked Creek where your uncle lives?”

“Of course. My family received Uncle Marcel’s letters from there since he arrived in Nevada. When my father died, my uncle asked me to make my home with him.” Noelle felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks. She hadn’t told a fib, exactly. But what difference did it make if Luke Savage thought her uncle’s request had been recent rather than a general understanding? Her father made her promise that if something were to happen, she should go West to live with Uncle Marcel. All that mattered now was that she persuade Luke Savage to help her.

Luke scratched his head and frowned at the broken wheel. His deep sigh spoke louder than words. “That wheel’s busted up good, miss. I’ll take you to town, then you can find your uncle and have him come out here with another rig.”

He sighed again. “You’ve no proper tools to fix a wheel. Didn’t your Mr. Douglas tell you that?”

“I’ve brought my possessions all the way from New York City. I’ve traveled the last three and a half months by steamboat, railroad and wagon train, and I’m not giving up this close to Crooked Creek, Mr. Savage.”

“Miss, I don’t want to scare you, but Indian pony tracks were all over the area where I found your trail driver.” He brushed his hat with his hand, waiting for her reaction.

She raised her chin a notch.

“If those Indians meet up with you, they won’t just take your clothing and rifle like they did your trail guide.”

Noelle gasped. “Took his clothing?” Her stomach almost turned with revulsion.

“Can you describe the clothing Mr. Douglas was wearing the last time you saw him, miss?”

Noelle steadied herself. “A b-brown leather vest, grey trousers and shirt. A g-gold pocket watch and ch-chain...” Her voice broke.

“I’m truly sorry about your guide, Miss.”

She felt her throat constrict with tears, but she fought back with anger. “If these Indians are as beastly as you say, then you’d better hurry and fix the wagon wheel.”

“You’re either the most stubborn woman or—”

“I’ll fix you something to eat while you’re working.”

“I tell you, I can’t fix the damn thing!”

“Please, there’s no need to yell or swear in my presence, Mr. Savage.”

“All right, all right.” He mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

She felt grateful that he thought to spare her.

“I noticed a stand of cottonwoods over that yonder ridge.” He tipped his head in the direction of a high rise covered with sagebrush. “Maybe I can cut a few trees, run one over the wagon’s front and under the rear axle, then maybe we can walk the wagon into town. Got a saw or an ax?”

Relief and hope swelled within her. “Yes, mister...” She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “There’s an ax in the trail box.”

“I’ll get it.”

Her relief was short-lived when she remembered the stories told by the emigrants in the wagon trains loading at Leaven worth. Many guides took advantage of the lone women who drove rigs. After taking their money, the guides would break from the caravans, deserting the helpless women after only a few miles.

But Luke had ridden out of his way to backtrack Mr. Douglas’s tracks to the wagon.... Luke Savage was no gentleman, but she felt she could trust him. There was something about the way he looked at her when she reacted to the news of Mr. Douglas’s death.

When Luke returned with the ax, he tied it to the horse. “Best you come with me to the ridge in case Indians come. Bring the oxen, too.”

She jumped down from the wagon and began unhitching the animals while Luke slipped the handles of the water jugs over the pommel. Luke’s horse fidgeted back and forth, kicking clouds of dust into the air. When Noelle had unfastened the oxen’s yoke and hooked on their leads, Luke motioned her toward his horse.

“I’ll help you mount.”

She glanced up in suspicion. “What if you’re only saying that you’ll fix the wheel so I’ll leave with you? Why should I trust you?”

He lifted the brim of his hat up a notch. His dark brown eyes glittered with speculation and something else that caused a fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The buckskin whinnied impatiently. Luke grabbed the oxen’s leads, then mounted his horse. Staring down at her, he said, “Miss, I’m the only ace you got up your sleeve. Get on the horse, ’cause I’m leaving. If you decide to come, bring the rifle. You’ll be the lookout while I chop down those trees.”

Reluctantly, Noelle grabbed her rifle. He was right; she had no choice. She took his hand, but averted her gaze as she swung up behind him.

She heard him mumble under his breath. She didn’t have to see Luke’s solemn face to imagine his begrudging expression as he wheeled the massive buckskin in the direction of the high ridge.

Luke lifted the ax sideways and swung the final blow that brought the quivering young cottonwood crashing to the ground. The rush of air provided a fleeting respite from the oppressive heat. He inhaled the fresh wood smell while he mopped a bandanna across his brow.

This log and the one he’d previously cut would be enough to fix the wagon. It had taken him nearly an hour, he reckoned—time he didn’t have.

The buckskin shied nervously, its eyes huge.

“I know, Deuce. I sense ’em, too.” Luke glanced at the spreading cottonwood about a hundred feet away where Noelle sat on a limb, rifle in hand, her gaze scanning the sun-baked range like a hawk. She turned toward him, then shook her head.