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Authors: Elaine Levine

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BOOK: Logan's Outlaw
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They moved up the porch and stepped inside the cool foyer of the Millers' home. Sarah drew a breath and released it slowly, relieved to have walls around her once again. “I don't want to be a bother, Mrs. Miller.”
“Nonsense! I am happy you're here. We have so few visitors.” She smiled as she led the way back to the kitchen at the rear of the house. “Being an army wife, I know the hardships we face out here. If we don't help each other, who will?”
In the kitchen, a small stack of mail sat half opened on the table. She pushed the fashion journal toward Sarah, chattering about the exciting new designs while she bustled about, putting a kettle on to boil, drawing a screen around a tub, filling the tub with cold water, fetching a towel, soap, and a change of clothes for Sarah to borrow. When the preparations for the bath were finished, she made a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea.
“Come to the sink, dear. We'll just let you freshen up a bit before eating our snack; then you can have a long soak in the water. I'll get your room ready—I'm sure you'd like to rest before supper.”
Sarah moved to the wash basin that held a pool of tepid water. There was no way to hide the marks on her hands and lower arms, souvenirs of her stay with Swift Elk. She hardened herself to Mrs. Miller's inevitable reaction and began drawing her gloves off her hands. The older woman made no sound. Sarah unbuttoned her cuffs and turned her sleeves up, aching to dip her hands into the water and splash it across her face. She looked at Mrs. Miller, who kept her gaze on her face and did not appear to notice the burn marks dotting her wrists, the scars from tethers kept too tight, the lash marks that striped her hands.
Sarah picked up the bar of soap and rubbed at her hands and nails, then scrubbed her face. Mrs. Miller smiled and handed her a towel. “There, doesn't that feel better? There's nothing like a quick wash-up to restore a person's equilibrium after a long journey. I bet you're starving. Let's sit and have a bite.”
Sarah followed her to the table.
“I've known Logan since he first came down from Defiance. He's grown into quite a fine young man, but don't you dare tell the colonel I said that. He's turned the head of many an army wife. Occasionally, he's graced us with his presence at a couple of our dances. While he was kind to all of us poor unfortunates stuck out here on the wretched frontier, he's never singled one of the women out. Never until you. It does my old heart good to see that he's found someone special.”
Sarah yearned to tell the colonel's wife about her predicament, but she feared the way she would react. How did one tell a proper army wife that a trader had claimed her, had bought her from her Sioux husband? Doubtless she would think Mr. Taggert had taken liberties with her. She might even put her out of her house, leave her to find lodging elsewhere. In the end, she decided to say nothing.
“Mr. Taggert and I are just acquaintances. We only met a little over a week ago. I can't imagine that he could have formed such an attachment to me. I certainly hope he hasn't. I'm in no position to consider changing my circumstances. I would not be a fit wife for him.”
“We'll see, my dear. We'll see. Now help yourself to a sandwich—or four. You need to store up energy for the journey to Cheyenne.”
Sarah felt her stomach tighten at the thought of being back on the open prairie, traveling without cover. Any vehicle they used, even with an army guard, would be easy prey. She fingered a tiny sandwich that had been cut in quarters. “How long does it take to reach Cheyenne from here?”
“By horse, it takes about three days. By stage, it takes a little over a day. There are several stopping points between here and Cheyenne. They don't stop for overnights—they just pause long enough for a quick bite and a new team of horses every fifteen miles or so. It's tedious in the extreme, but quick. The next stage won't be coming through for another few days, though, so you'll have plenty of time to recuperate. You've had one ordeal after another, my dear. I'm glad you'll be here to let me fuss over you!”
Chapter 6
Logan whistled as he walked down the road toward the colonel's house the next morning, his arms full of the supplies he and Sarah would need for their trip down to Cheyenne. They wouldn't be leaving for several days, but he thought Sarah would be less fretful if she knew he'd acquired what they needed for the journey. He still had to pick up a couple of saddles, but he could do that at any time.
A unit of men was forming on the parade grounds, preparing for a detail. He adjusted his load and when he looked up, he noticed Sarah's Indian pony tied up outside the colonel's house. Sarah stood next to the colonel and his wife, wearing her bonnet, her coat draped over an arm.
Logan deposited his supplies in the grass near her. “What's going on?” he asked as Sarah and Mrs. Miller finished embracing.
“I'm going to Cheyenne, Mr. Taggert.” She held her chin high, but the grip she still had on Mrs. Miller's hand would probably leave a bruise. She looked tired. He wondered if she'd eaten last night, if she'd been able to sleep at all. He hadn't. He'd tossed and turned.
Logan looked at her, then at the column of men forming nearby. “No. I'll take you in a couple of days, as soon as I'm finished with the trade I came to do.”
“The colonel has a unit of men riding out this morning. I'll be leaving with them.”
He frowned. “What's the rush?”
“I have business to see to that cannot wait. I will find a way to repay you for the horses, Mr. Taggert.”
“I don't care about the horses. I said I'd get you to Cheyenne, and that's what I aim to do.”
“I'll be safe with the colonel's men.”
“
I
can keep you safe.”
A group of civilian men rode by. One shoved his hat farther back on his head and grinned at Logan. The hairs rose on Logan's neck as he flashed back to the first time he'd met that particular frontiersman three years earlier.
He'd been traveling between a couple of his trading posts in southern Colorado when he stopped in Poncha Springs for a steak and a whiskey, his mind on starting a friendly game of poker.
The steak was good and the whiskey smooth, but the game was a horse of a different color. One by one, the cowboys and vaqueros folded, leaving only Logan and the man sitting opposite him.
It was a hot night. No breeze stirred the stench in the dimly lit saloon. Even through the haze of smoke, Hugh Landry's hazel eyes were focused, unblinking. Skinner, they called him. His forehead was slick with sweat. His brown moustache was bushy and growing into a month's worth of beard. A cigar was clamped in the corner of his mouth, each exhalation adding to the gray fog in the room.
Three hundred dollars sat on the table between them. Logan knew Skinner only had twenty-five dollars left. He bet a hundred, intending to end the game. Skinner looked at Logan, his eyes narrowing as he weighed his next move. Logan rested his hand near his holster.
“You know I'm all in, but I can meet your bet.”
“With what?”
Skinner reached for something beside his chair. Logan drew and cocked his gun, the clicks loud in the now quiet room. Skinner held perfectly still. Logan shook his head. “Not you,” he said to Skinner. “You—” He nodded to the man on his right.
The man lifted Skinner's old parfleche. The beadwork was mostly gone, leaving skeletons of strings and knots behind. It was stained a dark color from wear and time. The man looked at Logan, then at Skinner. The room was absolutely silent as he reached his hand inside the pouch and withdrew a fistful of black hair and skin. He couldn't get it out of his hand fast enough. He turned the bag upside down and dumped the rest of its contents on the table. Five scalps. One with baby fine hair that might have been cat fur.
“I got twenty-five dollars cash,” Landry said. “And I can get a hundred and twenty-five for these. Will you take it?”
Logan uncocked his gun, but kept it near at hand on the table. “Where'd you get them?”
“Took 'em off a Cheyenne family. Easy as pie. Even had a pass at the squaw a time or two before I finished her.”
Skinner.
Jesus H. Christ. “Not interested in a bunch of hair. You got a horse?”
Skinner's eyes narrowed. “The horse ain't on the table.”
Logan looked at the pile of money. “Then I guess you're out.”
Skinner cussed. He took his twenty-five dollars back. “You can have the goddamned horse.”
“And the cash. Your horse ain't much better than a mule, but I'll take him and the cash.” Being horseless would, at the very least, slow the bastard down, keep him from attacking another Indian family for a while.
“Done. Let's see what you got.”
Logan showed his hand, a straight flush. Skinner threw down his flush. The room erupted in noise. Someone clapped Logan on the back. A crowd gathered to see the scalps and hear Skinner's story as Logan took up his winnings. It was all Logan could do not to lose his dinner.
And now the bastard was here, fixing to make a journey with Sarah. Logan sent the colonel a dark look. “Tell me he isn't riding with them.”
“He requested safe passage to Chugwater.”
“He doesn't deserve safe passage. He's a goddamned scalp taker.”
The colonel's face tightened. “I'll thank you to remember women are present, Logan. And Mr. Landry doesn't do that in this territory.”
“You know as well as I do that he doesn't care if he takes an Indian, Mexican, or black-haired white man's scalp. And he ain't too particular where he does his scalpin'.”
Mrs. Miller put an arm around Sarah. “You're scaring the poor child, Logan. Enough of that talk.”
“She should be scared.” He looked at Sarah. “You aren't leaving.”
“I am.”
“Is there a problem here?” Skinner's voice broke into the tension of the group. Before anyone could answer, Logan grabbed him by a fistful of shirt and dragged him away from Sarah. “Get back on your horse and keep your damned eyes to yourself.” He shoved him toward his horse.
Skinner shrugged the wrinkles out of his shirt. “I was talking to the lady.”
“And I answered for her.” Logan stepped close to Skinner, almost nose to nose. “If I so much as hear you looked at Mrs. Hawkins on the way down to Cheyenne, I will hunt you down, cut out your bowels, and feed them to the wolves. Hell, I might just do that anyway for the sheer pleasure of it.”
“You hearin' this, Colonel?” Skinner asked without taking his eyes from Logan. “You're a witness.”
The colonel ground his teeth. “Lieutenant!”
The lieutenant dismounted and hurried over. “Yes, sir!”
“Escort Mr. Landry back to the formation, and then return for Mrs. Hawkins.”
Logan kept Skinner in his sights until he'd rejoined the line of men. He drew a long breath, then slowly released it. He looked at Sarah's pony, which was saddled with a cavalry saddle, her bedroll tied to the back. “What are you going to eat on the long march to Cheyenne? Are the colonel's men carrying your provisions?”
“Mrs. Miller packed some items for me.”
Logan cursed under his breath. “Mrs. Miller, would you please fill this canteen for her?” he asked as he handed over one of the new canteens from his pile of goods. He untied her bedroll, then opened it near the supplies he'd purchased. He set pouches of ground coffee, sugar, flour, oats, dried stew contents, and jerky at intervals on the blanket, then rolled the whole collection up. He tied that behind her saddle, then tied her coat and one of the slickers he'd just purchased over the lot.
Sarah twisted her hands. “Mr. Taggert, I can't accept these things. I cannot pay for them.”
“I didn't ask you to.” He leaned toward her, lowering his voice so that their conversation would not carry. “Why are you really doing this? Why now?”
“I have to.”
“Where will you go in Cheyenne? How will I find you?”
She lowered her gaze. “There's a teaching position open.”
“You're lying.”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes liquid with tears. “Please, please, don't come after me.”
Logan cupped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I will come after you, and I will find you,” he growled before pressing a kiss to her forehead. He didn't care that everybody saw him do that. He didn't care that she stiffened at the contact. Damn it. She was his. Two weeks. He'd known her barely two weeks and already she'd turned him inside out. He pulled some coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand.
“No. Mr. Taggert, you've done too much.”
He turned from her. “Lieutenant, see that she arrives safely in Cheyenne. It may be that I can conclude my business here quickly. If so, I'll be able to catch up to you. If not, check her into the Inter-Ocean Hotel.” He removed some money from his wallet and handed it to the soldier. Sarah had turned red at his proprietary air, from anger or embarrassment, he didn't know. Or care. “She's to wait for me there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Logan helped Sarah to mount. He held onto the pommel for a moment, glaring up at her. “Take your bonnet off.”
“Why?”
“Because you're gonna wear this.” He took his hat off. “It ain't pretty, but it'll keep your neck dry—spring rains are running late this year.” He tied her bonnet to her gear. His hat was too big on her, but the straps would hold it in place. He reached up and drew the two cords tight under her chin.
“I'll see you in a week.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Taggert.”
“A week, Sarah.”
He watched the unit depart, the column of dark blue uniforms softened by the cloud of dust stirred up by their horses. The colonel cleared his throat, drawing Logan's attention back to the middle-aged couple standing behind him. Colonel Miller clasped his hands together behind his back. Rocking forward on the balls of his feet, he lifted his eyebrows and gave Logan a piercing glare.
“I hope you're going to marry that poor woman, Logan dear, after that display,” Mrs. Miller declared.
Logan frowned. “That display was for the benefit of the men. If they know I'll gut them—beggin' your pardon, ma'am—for mistreating her, they're likely to think twice before crossing that line.” It was the only protection he could offer Sarah.
“My men are not dishonorable curs,” the colonel sputtered, affronted.
“They aren't, sir. But Skinner and his crew are.”
“I know you're awaiting the arrival of White Bull's people. Why don't you stay with us?” Mrs. Miller offered. “I promised my sister a pair of those beautiful moccasins you'll receive in the trade. I thought perhaps we could discuss a fair price. Bring your things inside and get settled. Who knows how long it will take White Bull to arrive, but I hope you'll be our guest. Come inside, Colonel. I'll make you both some coffee.”
The colonel grumbled about the work awaiting him at the office and took off. Mrs. Miller went inside. The warm sun beat down on Logan's shoulders as a cool breeze swept around him. He stood in the scattered debris of his morning purchases. In the far distance, he could still see the cloud of dust marking the path the column of travelers took. Riding alone, he could catch up to them before they reached Cheyenne if he left within two days. He hoped White Bull would arrive sooner rather than later.
 
Three days after Sarah left, Logan sat in the tepee of White Bull, smoking a pipe. Logan had spent the day visiting with White Bull's children, speaking with the elders of the band, catching up with the chief himself. Logan wished Sarah were with him, wished she could see this side of the Sioux. White Bull's wives had served Logan a delicious meal of meatballs and flat bread. At last it was time for the bartering. The women had arranged their beaded products on a blanket outside the tepee, where the soft evening light made the intricate works of art even more striking. They offered a stunning array of moccasins, pouches, shirts, dresses, belts, hair pieces, necklaces, and earrings beaded in intricate designs using the band's signature colors, white, yellow, and orange.
Logan took his time examining each piece. White Bull's people stood at a distance, stoically observing the trade, their excitement evident only in their rigid posture. White Bull's head wife stood across the blanket, staying nearby in case Logan had questions about their products. Her eyes were sharp and danced over each piece he touched. He could feel the energy in the artwork, threaded into the suede with each tiny stitch. It was almost as if he could hear the stories the women had shared as they worked through the long winter months, feel their joy in the art they made and the benefit their trade with him would bring their band.
BOOK: Logan's Outlaw
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