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PROLOGUE
Kansas—1839
One minute the men were talking to her father, the next they shot him dead.
Barely tall enough to see over the window sill, nine-year-old Hallie watched the tattered band of militiamen celebrate by riding circles around her family’s cabin, whiskey bottles in one hand, roaring pistols in the other. Their whooping laughter conveyed the pleasure they took in taunting those left alive inside.
Terror kicked Hallie’s legs out from under her, leaving her huddled on the dirt floor of her home. She pressed her hands to her ears trying to shut out the gunshots, the pounding hooves, the jeers and calls for her and her mother to come out. But her mother did not heed them. Instead, she crouched beside Hallie in the shattered glass, firing her own gun to hold them off.
Suddenly, all sound ceased.
Mustering what little courage she had left, Hallie rose on trembling legs to once again peer out the window. The grubby men in their ragged mismatched clothing had stopped circling, seeming to grow bored of galloping around in the midday sun amid the clouds of churning dust. Their pale sweat-streaked faces were bent as they busily stuffed scraps of cloth down the necks of their whiskey bottles.
Had they grown tired of drinking too?
Bright orange flames burst from the bottle tops and, putting heel to horse, the renegade mob rushed the cabin. Hallie jerked back in disbelief, her heart lodging in her throat. The men tossed their makeshift torches onto the roof and then withdrew to a safe distance, knowing mother and daughter were still inside: her mother’s rifle told them so.
Hallie lifted her eyes to the ceiling. A slash of red ripped across the wood planks, then another and another, like the eyes of a dozen demons. Screaming, she flung herself into her mother’s arms. The cabin crackled and hissed as the flames snaked around her, making her skin hurt as though she'd come too near a boiling cook pot.
“Hallie, climb out the back window,” her mother ordered, her voice hoarse with the same ash that choked Hallie’s lungs. “Run as fast as you can to the ravine. Hide under the bramble bushes there.” Her cornflower-blue eyes swept over Hallie's face, burning with pride and love. “I’ll keep firing so they won’t know you’ve left. They won’t come after you if they think we’re still inside.”
Hallie hesitated and her mother gave her a gentle push. “Go on now,” she said, her tone turning firm. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
Hallie did as she was told. She ran until her lungs ached. When she reached the bramble bushes a hundred yards away, she ignored the thorns that tore at her clothing and skin, drawing blood. She crawled and wriggled in as far as she could. Laying flat on her stomach with her cheek pressed against the dusty earth she listened to the comforting crack of her mother’s rifle.
Soon her mother would come out and join her.
But she didn’t.
Time crept forward, second by slow sluggish second. A niggling worry wedged into a corner of her heart. With a gasp, she dug her fingers into the ground, scrambling back the way she’d come. She didn’t get far. Too late, time sprang forward like a stone from a slingshot. And her home turned into a roaring fireball, buckled in on itself and collapsed, burying her mother, her childhood, and all she’d ever known. All hope was seared from her heart, leaving a charred void. She slumped to the ground, sobbing while hot tears burned her cheeks.
Hours later, the evil men were gone but Hallie lay, as if dead, in the crack in the earth under the brambles.
The towering funnel cloud of black smoke was fading to a wisp of a memory when a band of Osage Indians cantered up. And, even though she was embedded in her hiding place, one of their sharp-eyed warriors found her. When they dug her out she came alive, shrieking and fighting like a wild animal. The braves looked bewildered by such fierceness in one so young. They fell back, forming a circle around her. Tall dark men with sharply cut features, they uttered not a word as the lines of their faces settled into expressionless granite.
Their silence unnerved her as much as the noise of the white marauders. She darted around her cage, seeking an escape route but finding none, and finally she hunched over, panting.
A woman pushed through the wall of bodies to stand in front of her. Hallie tensed, preparing to flee while she glared with stinging eyes. Tall and straight and as composed as any queen, the woman wore no jewels or garments of grandeur. Her mane of shining black hair was her crown and her simple buckskin dress was her mantle. She did not regard Hallie with the curiosity of a stranger or the calculating look of a superior; instead her dark eyes were filled with kindness and compassion…with understanding.
Something primitive tugged at Hallie. Surrounded by a ring of severe emotionless faces and the stench of smoldering rubble, a tiny spark of hope ignited inside her. Acting on instinct, she ran forward, throwing herself into the woman’s arms—and into a whole new life.
CHAPTER ONE
11 years later…
Fort Leavenworth, Kansas
God help her, for she had entered Hell.
“Well, what’a we got here?” someone yelled from behind her. The voice was rough with malicious undertones.
“Don’t reckon I know,” replied another man. “Though she be a purty lil’ yellow-haired thing.”
“Maybe, but we’d hafta get them injun’ clothes off ’er to tell fer sure.”
Hallie stiffened in her saddle, but pressed her knees against her horse and kept him moving. She fought the urge to pull the collar of her frayed coat together or to touch the feathers and ribbons in her leather belt for comfort.
Don't react. Don’t make eye contact. Don't look back.
A mountain man, the size of a bear, spat a foul black stream of chewing tobacco at her horse’s feet and leered at her from lips stretched over rotting teeth. Behind him two squat and round shopkeepers dressed in ruby-red jackets lounged in front of a dry goods store and raked her with condescending eyes.
A group of dusty cowhands rose from their card game, waved their whiskey bottles at her and hollered, “Ooh-wee, lovey! Come on down from yer horse. Let us show you a good time!”
Raucous feminine laughter erupted and Hallie’s eyes darted up to find a row of women dressed in bright calico dresses. They draped themselves over a balcony railing and glared down at her from darkly painted eyes.
Hallie sucked in a shaky breath and fixed her gaze on the dusty street in front of her. If she ignored them maybe they would leave her alone. Or maybe, coming to Fort Leavenworth wasn’t such a good idea after all.
From her cabin, secreted in the hills to the north, it had taken four long days to ride here and three more to work up the courage to enter the imposing wooden gates. Now, even though her nerves felt like snapping, she was determined to see her plan through.
She was getting the hell out of Kansas. She had to, her life depended on it. Fort Leavenworth would give her the means of accomplishing her goal, but she hadn’t anticipated she’d have to ride through Hell before she could begin her journey.
She thought she’d found her answer when she’d heard one of the wagon trains bound for the Oregon Territory was scrambling to hire a scout. They wanted a crack shot, a strong rider with a good horse. Most importantly, someone who could speak some Sioux or Pawnee, or at least knew the sign language used by all the Plains Indians. Things she’d mastered years ago. She could join this wagon train, earn her keep and travel in the safety of a group to a place as far away from her past as possible.
She’d been lucky so far, but if she stayed in Kansas then Eagle Feather would find her sooner or later.
Sensing her growing unease, White Cloud broke into a trot. Hallie tightened her reins, easing her horse back into a walk. Hurrying conveyed fear. She didn’t need the added attention; she needed to find the people in charge of hiring.
She’d heard talk of a recruitment tent, inside the fort. Absolutely the last place on earth she’d wanted to go. Everything inside—buildings, roads and wagons—was a monotonous brown. And every inch of that brown stank of animal droppings, rotting garbage and humans pressed too close together. The fort overflowed with people of rough temperament, their loud voices and laughter hurt her ears. She'd never liked enclosed spaces and this was the first white settlement she'd ever been in.
Why couldn’t they do their recruiting outside the fort? Where all the wholesome God-fearing families were congregating before they embarked on a great migration across two thousand miles of the unknown to a land of promise?
She continued riding through the fort, more eyes following her. She must look a sight even among the strange jumble of humanity that had taken up residence within these walls. A woman riding astride wasn’t uncommon in these parts, but a young white woman dressed the way she was—a cross between a trapper and an Indian—was something she was sure few had seen before.
Hallie felt the same way about them. This fort and its inhabitants were different from anything she’d dreamt possible. She felt penned in, trapped.
She exhaled a breath when she spotted the recruitment tent, a simple structure consisting of a rough-hewn wooden table under an open-sided canvas. About twenty-five people clustered in front of it, their backs to her, whispering amongst themselves.
Pulling her horse to a halt behind them, Hallie chewed her lower lip as she pondered her next move. How was she going to convince these strangers to hire her as their scout? They didn’t know her from the next candidate who’d bend their ears with tall tales of talents and past adventures.
Their chatter changed from many excited voices, rippling back and forth, to a single infuriated one. She sat up straight and scanned the crowd with curious eyes.
Oh no, she had competition. And not the friendly sort. Never mind the flaunting and embellishing of abilities, this contender was kicking up a ruckus something fierce. A barrel-chested man of medium height with a wide neck and a heavy-jowled red face was yelling at three men seated behind the table.
The first man had a distinguished air about him. He wore faded navy-blue clothing and his silver hair framed a worn but kind face. The second one was in his late teens with sandy-brown hair and smooth skin. Respectively they appeared frustrated and flustered.
Of the third man seated behind the table, all Hallie could make out was jet-black hair beneath a weathered cowboy hat and wide shoulders encased in a fringed buckskin jacket; a hardness radiated from him. Maybe not seeing his face was for the best.
The air crackled with tension and the horde pressed closer toward these men.
“Yer cutting me loose?” the barrel-chested man hollered, stomping up and slamming a meaty fist down upon the table, sending it rocking. He leaned across its vibrating surface. “You can’t! I'm the best damned scout this side of the Blue Mountains.”
The silver-haired man shook his head. “I don’t know about that, but I do know you’ve been drunk and a nuisance every night since we’ve had the unique pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mr. Dawson. Not, one might say, an auspicious start to our journey.” His composure emphasized the other man’s crudeness.
“Yer angry cause I got a lil’ roostered up?” Dawson threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he waved a hand dismissively and said, “Yer dead wrong, General Douglas. I be deservin’ a little bender before this here journey and none a you can begrudge a man this.”
“No, you are wrong,” countered the older man in the same mild voice. “On this wagon train if you do not take your responsibilities seriously,” his tone hardened, “and obey orders, there is no place for you with us.”
“N-now, hold up!” Dawson sputtered, his face turning purple. He gave his head a shake and shoved himself away from the table. Thrusting out his massive chest, he returned to strutting before the onlookers. “Who you gonna get to take my place?” he asked in a mocking voice. Spinning on his heel, he jabbed a finger and a smug smile twisted his lips. “I’ll tell you who—not a soul. You’ll come a cropper ’cause you don’t have enough time and—”
“Then we shouldn’t waste any more time and start searching for someone right away, Dawson. Because believe me when I say this: we can replace you,” advised an unfamiliar voice. The tone was razor sharp, shredding Hallie’s remaining composure like the claws of a wolverine…but the words. We can replace you.
Unable to stop hope from creeping into her heart, she turned toward the voice. The owner was the dark-haired man in the fringed buckskin jacket and she could see his face now. And what she saw were high cheekbones, full lips and a square jaw line, all shrouded by a brutal glare.
But it was his eyes that stampeded her defenses, causing a wave of alarm to race up her spine. Never before had she seen such eyes. Metal-gray, hard as the cold steel of a gun. Thankfully, those eyes were not looking at her, but instead skewered Dawson.
Dawson’s strutting halted.
“Callahan,” he growled, “you think yer so all-fired smart. Well, I don’t give a damn if you’ve traveled all over Texas, Oregon and the land in-between to boot. Let fly! Find someone.” His eyes narrowed. “Hell, I’ll help you. How ’bout him?” He planted himself in front of a gangly lad unlucky enough to be standing nearby. The boy blushed beet-red and retreated several paces.
Dawson snorted. “I didn’t think so, he’s between hay and grass.” Turning to a soldier with one leg, leaning on a crutch, he demanded, “And this one?” He didn’t pause long enough for a response, proclaiming, “He ain’t fit to shoot at when you want to unload and clean yer gun.”
His crafty eyes sought his next victim. “Wait! I’ve found yer man.” He thrust a finger at a rail-thin fellow with a pregnant wife and a small boy clinging to him.
Hallie admitted Dawson was building a solid case for reinstatement to his post. He probably would’ve been successful too, if he’d quit there. But his eyes kept moving and stopped on her. His face twisted maliciously and he strode toward her, forcing the crowd to open a path for him. As he came closer, her senses were overpowered by the sour smell of whiskey and the stench of someone who hadn’t bathed in months. Her nose wrinkled.
If Dawson noticed her distaste, he did not show it. He flicked a hand at her and asked, “How ’bout the lady?” A corner of his upper lip snaked upward in disdain. “She may be sitting pretty on that there horse, but in a pinch I bet she’d tumble off in the dust.”
Laughter swept through the throng and Hallie hunched her shoulders.
Dawson’s guffaws joined in, his eyes raking over her one last time before he turned back to his audience. “Now look at me! I’m the only feller for the job. No one here can shoot or ride better ’n me,” he vowed, thumping his fists on his chest.
Hallie gritted her teeth and her slender fingers balled into fists. The nerve of the man, how dare he dismiss her so thoroughly! She was not without skills. She was not without value. She drew in a breath, raised her chin and uncurled her spine until she sat ramrod straight. Her gaze swept angrily over the crowd and continued along the recruitment table, only to be ensnared by a pair of gray eyes, now firmly fixed on her.
A startled gasp burst from her lips. She felt like someone had grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed. Eyes wide, she floundered in the smoky depths of his glare and shrank back into the center of her being until a spark ignited at her very core. She’d experienced a similar sensation once before…long ago. But this feeling was not hope. Anger burst into flame and coursed through her veins, beating back his hold over her. She was not angry with him or Dawson though; she was angry with herself.
Who was this timid person who had taken up residence inside her? Had she not faced death and come out alive? Not once, but twice? She was stronger than this.
“Would you care to put that to a test?” she challenged. Her words were meant for Dawson, but her eyes never left the man named Callahan.
“Don’t insult me. And don’t insult these good folk. You wouldn’t last a minute in a competition with me,” Dawson scoffed.
Hallie tilted her head and blistered the braggart with a searing perusal. “Maybe…” A smile, without warmth, lifted her lips. “Though there is only one way to find out for sure. And if I do beat you then I am surely the right person to take your place.”
Now that she wasn’t staring into unnerving gray eyes, her old confidence was coming back. A spark of mischief shot through her and one of her brows rose with it. “But that will never happen, right? I would need—what is the word?—exceptional skills to beat a man like you.”
She’d found the perfect trap. Now she could let her actions and abilities speak for her. She would win a place on this wagon train.
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