Pat Tracy - Beloved Outcast

There was a distinct pause.

“I brought the warning of the attack.”

“And they put you in the stockade for that?” Victoria couldn’t suppress her disappointment that he would prevaricate in this dire situation.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what was it exactly, Mr. Youngblood?”

“They wanted to know how I knew the Indians’ plans.”

“A most sensible question,” she pointed out.

“I told them Night Wolf had warned me.”

“Night Wolf?”

“He’s an. acquaintance of mine.”

“Really?” Victoria asked, intrigued that anyone should count an Indian among his circle of acquaintances. “How did you meet?”

“That’s hardly important.”

“I suppose not.” Still, she was curious about such an odd circumstance. “Why did Night Wolf warn you about the attack?”

“He realizes that more bloodshed will only make it harder for his people to coexist peacefully with the white man.”

“I see.”

Victoria knew she was in the minority in sympathizing with the primitives. To her, they seemed like beautiful and free people who were rapidly losing their home in a land that had sheltered them for generations. If only there could be an end to the violence that raged between the settlers and the Indians, and a place could be preserved for the country’s native inhabitants.

“You still haven’t told me why they locked you up.”

“I refused to lead Colonel Windham to Night Wolf’s camp.”

“Why on earth would you object to doing that?”

“I told you, Night’s Wolf’s people are at peace.”

“Then they have nothing to worry about.”

“Boy, you can’t be green enough to believe that.”

Victoria’s teeth clicked together. “I’m smart enough to stay out of jail.”

“But foolish enough to land in the middle of Indian country during a war.”

“Mr. Youngblood?”

“Yes?”

“Are you comfortable in your cell?”

“Not really.”

“That’s unfortunate, because at this rate you’re going to remain there.”

“Amory, we’re running out of time.” A pounding blow sent a flurry of dust motes flying from the stockade door.

She jumped back. “Stop that!”

“Listen to me, you stubborn brat—the Indians are coming.

“So you said.”

“And you don’t believe me?” he asked, his tone furious. “Where the hell do you think everybody went? To a barn raising?”

Victoria stood before the barred entry and eyed the heavy beam holding it closed. For the first time, she was tempted to unlatch it. If the man was telling the truth about having brought news of an attack, he didn’t deserve to die.

The sun’s rays bore down. She closed her eyes and sent a hasty prayer heavenward, asking for divine guidance.

“Kid?”

The deep voice was relentless.

No answer came to her prayer, at least not in the form of words. But as she stared at the stockade, a sense of inevitability washed over her. The plain and simple truth was that she was incapable of leaving Mr. Youngblood to rot inside his log prison.

“I’m going to open the door.”

“When?”

She struggled to lift the heavy bar lodged tightly between the metal posts. “Now.”

“Smart move, Amory,” came the approving voice. “We’ll ride hard and fast for Trinity Falls.”

“And, once we’re there, we’ll be safe?”

“Since the last gold strike, the town’s swollen to more than five thousand miners,” he informed her. “It’s in no danger of being attacked. Do you have a good horse?”

“No.” A splinter stabbed her index finger. “I’ve got a team of oxen.”

“Well, hell, what kind of time do you think we’re going to make with oxen?”

“They may not be fast, but they’re steady. And they’ve had time to rest. They’ll pull my wagon just fine.”

Victoria gave up trying to raise the bar with her bare hands and went to fetch her cooking fork. She was sure it was sturdy enough to dislodge the metal beam.

“You’ve got a wagon?”

Her efforts began to noticeably budge the crossbar. “That’s right.”

“I don’t like the idea of using a wagon.”

The heavy iron arm finally came free and toppled to the ground. The stockade door swung outward, revealing a sinister black hole.

The prisoner stepped toward the light. “Wheel tracks are too easy to follow.”

Without the barrier of the log portal between them, the deep voice sounded alarmingly close.

“We’re going to need the wagon. I refuse to leave my precious cargo behind.”

Mr. Youngblood emerged from the shadowed doorway, blinking against the sudden onslaught of sunlight.

“Precious cargo—?” He broke off abruptly. She saw his dark eyes narrow at the sight of her. “Well, hell.”

The observation was his, the sentiment hers.

The man before Victoria was unlike any she’d ever seen. He filled her entire field of vision and, with every foot he drew closer, seemed to grow in stature. Her mouth went dry, and she took a stumbling step back.

The morning breeze ruffled the tattered remnants of a white shirt that, despite its torn state, managed to adhere to his muscular shoulders. She had never seen an uncovered male chest before, and thus was unprepared for the shocking sight of the lush pelt of black hair that grazed his bared flesh. Goodness, surely no American Indian roaming the western plains could appear more awesomely proportioned than Logan Youngblood.

Or more distressingly primitive.

“Where’s the kid?”

The gruff question jerked her gaze from his almost naked torso to a dark pair of glittering eyes. She swallowed. The man looked as if he’d been pummeled by an angry mob. His blackened right eye was almost swollen shut. He also sported a bruised, whiskered jaw and a split bottom lip.

The single thought that danced in her head was that, if she hadn’t released the devil himself from the stockade, she’d surely freed one of his henchmen to murder, plunder and pillage.

“The—the kid?” she repeated stupidly.

He took another step forward. She tipped her head back to keep his daunting visage in view.

“The one I’ve been talking to since last night.”

“I told you I wasn’t a child,” she answered, hearing the wobble in her voice and regretting it.

His savage gaze shriveled to a blistering slit. “You mean all this time I’ve been talking to you? A female?”

The derisive way he pronounced “female” caused a hot flush to singe her cheeks. She stood taller, digging for a measure of her normal pluck. “I should think that would be obvious to anyone of reasonable intelligence.”

Usually she didn’t approve of cutting remarks designed to wound another’s sensibilities. But in Mr. Youngblood’s case, she felt justified in making an exception. Clearly the criminal possessed no sensibilities with which to concern herself.

His glare was of sufficient scorching intensity to fry a buckwheat biscuit without benefit of fire.

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.” Had his confinement addled his senses, making him incapable of grasping that she had only pretended to be of the male gender? “I can assure you I am traveling alone. There is no one with me, least of all a child.”

She couldn’t make her explanation any simpler.

His good eye, the one that wasn’t fiercely swollen, studied her balefully. “Why?”

“Why what?” She assessed the challenge of getting the confused man to Trinity Falls. Of course, there was a positive side to his apparent simplemindedness. It was possible that he was mistaken about the Indians being on the warpath. “Are you wondering why I wanted you to think you were talking to a man?”