Wind of Promise

Book 3: Wind Series

by Dorothy Garlock

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Vanessa is determined to cross the prairies, ford the mighty rivers and climb the Rockies to reach Colorado. But her resolve weakens when a tall, lean stranger as wild as the western wind takes her in his arms. Will surrender to this restless roamer bring her happiness - or will it break her heart forever.

Release date: April 12, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

 

Under the star-filled western sky . . .

 

“It was your money the thieves were after tonight, and you’d be dead if that bullet had hit you,” Kain said.

“I was protecting what was mine,” she said stubbornly, but her voice lacked the sharpness it held before.

“If I let go of you to light a smoke will you run away?”

“Run? Why should I? Am I your prisoner?”

“No.” And then he said, as if to himself, “but I may be yours.” The match flared and he held it between cupped hands until it blazed. The light outlined his face and turned it into a bronze mask.

Vanessa’s eyes clung to the smooth skin and straight brows. He was too handsome, far too handsome, despite the jagged scar that slanted across his hard cheekbone and disappeared into the thick brown hair. The gold-tipped lashes lifted and the amber eyes looked into hers. Oh, my God! Why did she have this feeling of rightness when she was with this . . . stranger?

He blew out the match. “What were you thinking, little red bird, when you looked at me with those beautiful eyes?” His fingers gently fondled her cheek and looped a strand of hair behind her ear. Vanessa caught her breath sharply. She tried to move away, but he held her with his words. “Don’t go.”

 

 

“THE RAREST OF ALL GIFTS . . . DOROTHY GARLOCK BRINGS AN OBVIOUS LOVE AND UNDERSTANDING TO THE MEN AND WOMEN WHOSE COURAGE AND SPIRIT OPENED THE FRONTIER.”

—“Ann’s World,” Hurst Cablevision

 

 

Books by Dorothy Garlock

 

Almost Eden

Annie Lash

Dream River

Forever Victoria

A Gentle Giving

Glorious Dawn

Homeplace

Lonesome River

Love and Cherish

Larkspur

Midnight Blue

Nightrose

Restless Wind

Ribbon in the Sky

River of Tomorrow

The Searching Hearts

Sins of Summer

Sweetwater

Tenderness

The Listening Sky

This Loving Land

Wayward Wind

Wild Sweet Wilderness

Wind of Promise

With Hope

Yesteryear

 

Published by

WARNER BOOKS

 

 

 

 

To a special man, with special love—
my husband, Herb

 

 

 

 

ROCKY MOUNTAIN WIND

 

 

Blowing through the towering crags of hard rock;

across blossoming but wild blankets of nature;

bringing seasonal and occasional violent changes in weather;

the billowing wind of the Rockies—the wind of promise.

 

Adam Mix

 

 

Only death would end it now.

The cheering crowd in front of the Dodge House watched the primitive game called lap jacket being played by two Negroes. It was said to be an African sport. In reality it was supposed to be a way to settle a dispute without a killing if one of the participants cried uncle while they lashed each other with a bullwhip. The fight had turned into a murderous duel; blood flowed freely, ears had been lopped off, jawbones exposed. Now each was aiming at the private parts of the other while the crowd, worked into a frenzy by the vicious fight, cheered them on.

Kain DeBolt leaned against the porch post and watched the duel. It was easy to see that the town marshal, who was overseeing the settling of the dispute, had no intention of stopping the fight. Kain turned away in disgust, stepped off the porch, and ran headlong into a woman in a dark sunbonnet with a basket on her arm. He reached out to steady her to keep her from falling. As soon as she regained her balance, furious blue eyes blazed up at him and she jerked her shoulders from his grasp.

“Get you hands off me!” she hissed.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Kain was surprised by the venom in her voice. The collision had been as much her fault as his, and he was tempted to tell her so. Instead, he put his fingers to the brim of his hat and moved aside so she could pass. He watched her walk away, head up, shoulders erect, indignation expressed in every line of her slender body. He couldn’t suppress the grin that played at the corners of his wide mouth as her quick steps took her down the boardwalk. She swept past a drunk who had just been tossed out of a saloon, holding the skirt of her blue calico dress aside so it didn’t touch him, and then turned the corner.

In 1873, Dodge City, Kansas was living up to its reputation of being a wicked little town. The Kansas City Star, which Kain had tucked inside his coat pocket, proclaimed it the “Gomorrah of the Plains.” “Dodge City,” the reporter wrote, “is the beautiful bibulous Babylon of the frontier. In truth, Dodge City is hell in a loosely tied package.”

Less than a year before the Sante Fe Railroad had arrived and a station was opened in a sidetracked boxcar. At that time the infant town already had two saloons under tents and a general store. Within a month track workers, teamsters, rawhiders, whores, pimps and gamblers had flocked into town and mixed it up with the tough frontier soldiers from nearby Fort Dodge. Frame houses and false-fronted stores sprang up along Front Street. Dozens of boxcars arrived each day with grain, flour and provisions, and left again filled with buffalo bones and hides. The hides were shipped to the eastern tanneries, the bones to manufacturers for all manner of products from fertilizer to bone china. Buffalo hunting was the pillar of the town’s economy, and the bull whackers who brought in the hides, the soldiers, and the railroad gangs its populace. Both the hunters and the freighters had about them a peculiar smell from their dead cargo, and remarks made about those unpleasant odors often led to gang fights and killings.

As Kain passed the Lady Gay Saloon, an overweight trollop leaned out of one of the upstairs windows and wheezed, “For five bucks I can give ya a mighty fine time.”

He looked up at the bloated face and decided a man would have to be desperate, crazy, or both to relieve himself with a crib girl from the Lady Gay. He shook his head and walked on.

“Piss on ya, then,” she yelled. “You probably ain’t got nothin’ but a little ole bitty, nohow!”

Kain grinned, reached into his pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and paused on the street corner to light a match. People, he told himself, were the same world over. Those same words, or a cruder version thereof, had been flung at him in a hundred towns such as this. He glanced at the reflection of himself in a darkening store window. His eyes could make out no detail, but he knew what was there. A tall man, lean of body, wide of shoulder. His face was narrow and clean shaven, his cheekbones high, and his jaw strong. A bullet scar on his jaw gave his face a somewhat sinister look until he smiled. His hair was brown and wavy, and his eyes, beneath straight dark brows, were a light tawny gold. He wore a black frock coat, a fancy vest and a flat-crowned, black hat. Yet Kain DeBolt saw a great deal more than what was reflected in the window. He saw a restless man, seeking to fill an emptiness inside him.

At any time, day or night, there were about a hundred freight or light wagons in the streets of Dodge City. Now, in the late afternoon, a wagon carrying a crude wooden coffin turned off a side street, and Kain paused to let it pass. A black man playing a moaning tune on a squeeze box sat on the tailgate of the wagon and a whiskered man in black broadcloth coat and high silk hat drove the black-draped team of horses. Another resident for Boot Hill was making his last journey. The cemetery, reserved for the many characters who died with their boots on, had received its first resident only six months before and already had a population of twenty.

Kain walked past the harness shop, the dry goods store, and the Longbranch Saloon. He passed the depot where he had stepped off the train early that morning. At the edge of town he paused to take a deep breath of fresh air. Even the smoke from the locomotive that brought him from Kansas City was preferable to the stench of hides, rotten meat, unwashed bodies and privies. His dust-reddened eyes swept over the sod houses that surrounded the town. Dirty and desolate were the only words that came to his mind. The people who lived in those huts lived with despair and hardship. He would be glad to see the last of this place.

A commotion at the end of what appeared to be a peddler’s or traveling troop’s wagon parked in the middle of a vacant lot well back from the railroad tracks drew his attention. A dozen men had formed a circle and were laughing and throwing coins into the center. Another fight—one of the many fought each day in Dodge City, Kain thought. He started to retrace his steps back to the Dodge House when he saw the woman in the dark bonnet and blue dress running toward the wagon from the other side of the tracks. He wondered as he hurried toward the wagon if it was curiosity that had put his feet into motion or if he wanted to see her furious blue eyes again.

The woman reached the scene first.

She grabbed a shovel and forced her way through the ring of shouting, laughing men. A thin-bearded youth had a big blond man down on the ground and was pounding his face with his fists.

“That kid’s a fightin’ son of a bitch!” an excited male voice rang out over the jeers of the crowd.

The woman lifted the shovel and brought the metal scoop down on the back of the man on top. She lifted it again and hit him with a resounding blow to the side of his head. The small man came up fighting and her next blow caught him on the shoulder.

“Leave him alone, you filthy, little swine!”

The short, shaggy haired, thin-bearded youth clenched his fist as if to hit the woman, then thought better of it and backed off. He spit in the dust, grinned cockily at his friends and began to pick up the coins.

“I tole ya I could do it,” he crowed. “I tole ya I could beat that big ole boy into a spitball.”

The woman in the bonnet stood protectively between the man on the ground and the trail hands who had fallen back a few paces when she had lifted the shovel threateningly.

“Get! Get, I say!”

“Ah, ma’am. We was just funnin’. We was waitin’ on the pie.”

“Funning? Why you unwashed bunch of mangy . . . warthogs! I don’t bake pies for a bunch of lily-livered clabberheads who think it’s funny to encourage a cocky little rooster to show off. Now get out of my camp! Go on, get!”

The men backed away. They were rough, but they knew that to bother a good woman in Dodge City was like putting a noose around their necks. An older, whiskered man with a bald spot on the top of his head who was holding his hat in his hand moved to the front of the crowd.

“I ain’t with ’em, ma’am. I shore be sorry. I didn’t have no idey ’bout the young feller there. I heared ya was sellin’ pie ’n I come to get me some. We ain’t had no makins fer pie since Injun Territory, ’n it’s many a dusty mile pushin’ that team to Dodge.”

“All right, stay. The rest of you big, brave men,” she spat the word contemptuously, “hightail it back to the dung hill you crawled out of.”

“Now see here, ya ain’t got no call to be so uppity.” The cocky youth was still looking around on the ground for coins.

“I’ve every right to be whatever I want to be. If I were small like you, I’d not choose to make myself appear bigger by standing on someone else.”

Her words stung the youth and his head snapped up. “Goddamn! Why you . . .” He took a step toward her.

The woman in the bonnet stood her ground, holding the shovel as if it were a club. “I thought that’s what you were trying to prove. I’ve seen your kind before—a little man who’s only knee-high to an ant trying to make up for his lack of size by picking on someone bigger than himself. You’re nothing but a cocky little bully!” Her clear voice was filled with contempt.

The boy muttered a few curses and his fists clenched. He was so angry he was shaking. “At least I ain’t no dummy,” he said spitefully, and spit toward the man on the ground.

“I’m not so sure about that! I’m surprised you’ve got enough brains to hold your ears apart. Run along, little boy. If you come around here again, I’ll spank your bottom and send you home with a tail full of buckshot.”

There were snickers from the men, and then a cough to disguise a laugh. The tables had turned and the men were enjoying the show. The bully was livid with anger.

“Ya . . . ya . . . bitch,” he snarled. “Ya’d better watch out! That’s what ya’d better do. Ya’d just better watch out!”

“And you’d better watch your mouth, kid.” Kain spoke quietly, but his voice carried to each man. They turned in a body to look at him, as did the girl in the bonnet.

“Ya wantin’ a little a what I give him?” The youth flashed a boastful grin at his companions before he looked fully at the man who had spoken.

“If you think you can do it, come on. I’ll chew you up and spit you out in nothing flat. The best thing for you to do is to run along, like the lady said.”

“I ain’t runnin’ along cause a duded up, spit ’n polish, greenhorn tells me to.” He put on his hat, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and looked at Kain belligerently.

Oh, no, Kain thought. Why the hell hadn’t he kept his damn mouth shut? He stifled a sudden burst of temper. The damn fool kid was probably suckled on wolf’s milk and didn’t have enough sense to back down.

“Don’t make a move toward that gun, kid. I don’t want to kill you—not that I’d aim to. That gun hand is only inches from your belly and I’ve been known to shoot wide.”

“C’mon, George. Yore goin’ to mess around ’n get yoreself killed.” A youth in a flat-crowned hat and the ragged buckskins of a rawhider stepped out and took the boy’s arm.

“Your friend’s right.” Kain stared unblinkingly at the boy.

“I ain’t no greenhorn with a gun,” the kid declared in a strident shout.

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“C’mon, George. The old man said we could collect our pay at sundown.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ this,” the boy said threateningly as he turned away.

“You’d better forget it and leave these folks alone. If the lady doesn’t fill your hide with buckshot, I will.”

Kain watched the men leave. They were not a bad lot and he doubted they would give the woman any more trouble. The kid and his friend were another matter. He turned to look at her and saw that the man on the ground had rolled over onto his knees and was crawling toward the wagon. Kain felt a spurt of embarrassment and glanced away before looking at the woman. She met his eyes defiantly as if daring him to comment. The big blond man reached the front of the wagon and sat with his back to the wheel, his head in his hands. An older woman hurried from around the wagon. She went to him, knelt down and placed a wet cloth on his face.

“Apple or raisin?” the young woman asked him.

For a long moment Kain stood looking at her white face. She did not move any part of her body, but her breasts strained against the soft material of her dress with her intake of air. Her brilliant eyes staring at him through the tunnel of her stiff-brimmed bonnet barred any advance on his part.

“Or did you come to buy a quirt?” Her voice came faintly to him from across the vast emptiness yawning between them.

“Quirt?”

“Quirt or pie. Which do you want?”

“Oh, uh . . . pie. Raisin.”

“Get the man a raisin pie, Aunt Ellie, and collect his money. Which do you want, mister?” she asked the old man who was still waiting with his hat in his hand.

“One a each, ma’am. If’n ya got ’em to spare.”

“We’ve got plenty. It looks like our business will be off today.”

“I’ll spread the word, ma’am. If ya be awantin’ me to.”

“We’d be obliged. You do that and we’ll charge you for just one pie.”

“That’s mighty kind a ya.” The old man placed a coin in her hand, picked up his pies and hurried away.

“A quarter, please,” the older woman said as she walked up to Kain holding a platter of fried pies. He dug into his pocket and placed a coin on the platter before he selected one.

“Thank you for what you did.” The woman’s voice was low, but the young woman in the bonnet heard it.

“Aunt Ellie,” she said sharply.

“But Vanessa—”

“We’ll be selling pies again this time tomorrow.” Her cool voice dismissed him.

Vanessa. A grand sounding name for a grand looking woman. Kain felt a little foolish. There was no reason to linger, but some stubborn streak in him made him want to see her remarkable eyes flashing at him again.

“I may be back tomorrow, it depends on the pie. Are you sure there are no flies in it?” He carefully scrutinized the open end of the pie. “They’d be hard to find among the raisins.”

That brought her head around. Her brilliant blue eyes met his and held; in that breathless second her face was like the light at the end of a dim corridor. Kain took in a shallow breath and hoped to God the woman didn’t know the devastating effect her magnificent eyes had on him. He shook his head as if saying no to an unasked question, shifted his weight from one foot to the other as gradually the magnetic connection between them loosened its grip. Then, as if somehow seeking revenge, he slowly ran his narrowed eyes over her face, down her slender figure in the blue cotton dress, and back up to her white face enclosed by the bonnet brim.

The woman stiffened as his eyes roamed. Her flushed face made him smile, and he knew she would like to slap him. But she controlled her temper, took a deep breath, and eyed him in exactly the same way he had eyed her. The blatant contempt in her eyes was enough to discourage even the boldest of men. This time, however, it didn’t work.

“Do you like what you see?” The devilish urge to tease her couldn’t be denied. His laughing eyes mocked her.

“If I was looking to buy a puffed-up jackass, I might be interested.”

He let loose a shout of laughter. “Lady, you really know how to get a man where the hair’s short. You did a good job of stomping that kid’s pride in the mud. He’s not going to forget you cutting him down to size in front of those men. That tongue of yours has the sting of a scorpion, but the rest of you looks mighty sweet. Now, I just can’t help but wonder what you’re hiding under that bonnet.”

“Mister, my advice to you is to get the hell out of here.” As she spoke she moved to the front of the wagon, climbed up on the wheel, reached under the seat and brought out a double-barreled shotgun. Handling it as if she had been born with it in her grip, she cocked it and pointed it at him.

Kain looked deeply into her angry blue eyes before he shrugged his shoulders. “You and your . . . friend have persuaded me. Ma’am,” he said to the older woman, “I don’t think she’s got a sense of humor at all.” He tipped his hat politely, shot an amused glance at the girl with the shotgun and walked away.

 

*  *  *

 

Vanessa lowered the gun and waited until the man crossed the tracks and started up Front Street before she leaned the weapon against the back of the wagon.

“Why didn’t you get the gun, Aunt Ellie, when that bully started picking on Henry?”

“I wasn’t here. I’d run over to take some pies to that poor woman who came by yesterday with that parcel of younguns—”

“Oh, Aunt Ellie! We can’t feed everyone we feel sorry for,” Vanessa said gently. Then with more spirit she said, “This is the worst place we’ve ever been in, bar none! I’ll be glad to see the last of it.”

“So will I, dear. It seems the farther west we go the more the people act like animals.”

Vanessa went to the other side of the wagon and looked down on the big blond man who sat with his face in his hands. She knelt down and pulled his hands from his face with gentle fingers.

“Are you all right, Henry?”

His sky blue eyes between thick, spiked lashes were filled with tears. One eye was swollen almost shut and his beautifully sculptured face was cut and bruised. Light blond hair hugged his well-shaped head and Vanessa pushed it back from his forehead, then stroked his cheeks with her fingertips.

“Ah, Henry . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she whispered.

“I’m just not a fighter, Van.”

“Of course not—”

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

Vanessa had known her cousin Henry all her life, and all her life she had been fighting his battles for him. They had been born to sisters within six months of each other, and since she was old enough to understand that Henry was of a simple nature and never raised his hand in anger, Vanessa had shielded and protected him the best she could.

“They sold some of your quirts at the store,” she said eagerly with a bright smile. “Look at all this money I’ve got in my pocket.” She opened her pocket so he could peer inside. His swollen lips quivered.

“That’s about all I’m good for, making quirts.”

“Don’t say that, Henry Hill! I don’t know what Aunt Ellie and I would do without you. It’s because of you we have all this money. We should have enough to leave this place by the day after tomorrow. Here, put this in your pocket.” She placed a silver dollar in his hand. “Wash your face now, and go water the mules.”

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

“If they do I’ll fill their butts with buckshot,” she said staunchly. She stood and Henry got to his feet. He towered over her even though she was considered a tall woman. Henry managed a smile of sorts, but his worried eyes showed it didn’t go beyond his lips. “You’d like to see me do that, wouldn’t you?” she chided affectionately. “Now get, you rascal!”

Vanessa watched him walk away. He was a fine figure of a man, tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. She had never seen a more handsome man. Not until someone talked to him did they realize that Henry was as naive as a child. Vanessa loved him as if he were her own. Because of that love she had let Aunt Ellie talk her into making this trip to Colorado to find Henry’s uncle, who Ellie believed would take some responsibility for his brother’s child.

They had been in Dodge City three days; as far as Vanessa was concerned, it was three days too long. Never had she imagined a place so wicked. The farm home where she was born and had lived until just three short months before now seemed to be in some other world. At times she was so homesick she thought she would die from it. But there was no going back. The small farm outside Springfield had been sold, and the money hidden in the bottom of their wagon would help them get settled into a business when they reached their destination. In the meantime, they sold their pies and the quirts Henry made and bought supplies for the next leg of their journey in each town along the way.

Vanessa wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to her old home, now that she thought of it. The people there had been unkind to her father when he returned from the war. He had been a fine doctor when he left, but the memory of the bloody battlefields had caused him to turn to drink, and the only time a patient had gone to him was when there had been no one else available. And then, more often than not, they had sought help from Vanessa because she had picked up an amazing amount of medical knowledge from her father before he died.

Vanessa leaned against the wagon and watched her aunt. Men were coming to the wagon from across the tracks, and Ellie, gracious and smiling, was dispensing the pies and taking their money. The men doffed their hats, thanked her aunt repeatedly, paid their money, and went away eating their pie.

Ellie Hill was the only mother Vanessa had ever known. Her own mother had died when she was a baby, and Ellie, bringing her own small son, had moved in to take care of her. Henry’s father and Aunt Ellie had been married in Springfield, and he had gone back to Chicago saying he would send for her. Nothing was heard from him until several years after Henry was born. Ellie received a letter from her husband’s brother in Colorado saying he had been informed his brother had been killed saving a small child from being crushed by a runaway team. Ellie idolized her dead husband’s memory. She had a small tintype of his likeness that she looked at often. When she got out the picture, the letter, and her marriage paper, Vanessa knew she was suffering from a bout of melancholy and was thinking about the one short month of happiness she had had with the man she loved.

She watched Henry walk across the field carrying two buckets of water. Animals liked Henry; children liked Henry. Grown men had no tolerance for his slowness to understand. Henry was good help if someone told him what to do. But he had to be watched like a child whose curiosity outweighed his judgment. Aunt Ellie was right to worry about what would happen to her son when she wasn’t around to take care of him. She thought it would be unfair to saddle Vanessa with the responsibility. She was convinced that she and Henry had spoiled her niece’s chances with wealthy, handsome Martin McCann. He had stopped courting Vanessa because, as he put it, he wanted a wife, but not one tied to an old woman and a dummy. Vanessa sighed deeply. Aunt Ellie wouldn’t believe it, but Martin McCann made her want to throw up. She wouldn’t have married him if he were the only thing walking on two legs. Anyway, the relationship had ended, and the idea of going to Colorado to be near Henry’s uncle took root in her Aunt’s mind. And, Vanessa had to admit, her own adventurous spirit welcomed the idea.

The opportunity to make the trip fell into their laps much sooner than they expected when a traveling medicine man had stopped at the farm. He was dying, he explained, and if they would take care of him until the end and give him his pain-killing medicine, he would leave them his fine caravan and two strong mules. He had had the caravan specially built of light lumber. It was compact and neat, with two sleeping shelves attached to the sides. Every inch of space was utilized. A small wood stove heated it in the winter, and an opening in the ceiling cooled it in the summer. It was a marvelous vehicle and had served as his home for four years. The old man had lived for only six weeks after he arrived at the farm, and in the spring they had sold out and begun the journey.

Vanessa allowed herself a minute to think about the tall, well-dressed man who had spoken up for her earlier. She had no doubt at all that she could have handled the situation. More than likely he was a gambler or a railroad speculater, and she wanted no obligations to such as that. He was everything she disliked in a man, bold, insolent, much too confident. She had seen him standing on the hotel porch watching the Negroes lash each other with the bullwhips. Anyone, she thought, who could get pleasure out of seeing two men mutilate each other was little more than a barbarian. She had also seen him look at Henry and then away, as if Henry were an embarrassment. That had really set her teeth on edge. How could a man like that possibly know how confused and frightened Henry was?

 

*  *  *

 

By evening Dodge City was in its hip-hip-hurrah stage, and by ten o’clock the hell raising had just begun. Vanessa and Henry brought their four mules and one saddle horse close to the caravan and staked them for the night. They doused the campfire, not wanting to call attention to themselves, and settled down in their chairs near the back of the wagon for an hour of rest before going to bed. The double-barreled shotgun was within Vanessa’s reach.

“I liked that man who was here today,” Ellie said.

“Which one?” Vanessa asked, although she was sure she knew which man her aunt meant.

“The one that faced up to that little . . . weasel.”

“Oh, him.” Vanessa had removed the pins from her hair and was massaging her scalp with her fingertips. What a heavenly feeling! While they were in town she never took off her bonnet until after dark, and on the trail she wore one of Henry’s old hats. Her fiery, copper colored hair drew too much attention. The thick, curly and often unruly mass covered her shoulders and spilled down her back. She was resigned to its contrariness in the same way she was resigned to the fact that God had given her pale, fine skin that had no resistance whatsoever to sun and wind. She had learned to protect herself from burning by wearing a stiff-brimmed bonnet while in the hot sun. But on this trip the bonnet had served two purposes, the most important one being to cover the mass of hair that shone in the sun like a red-hot flame and brought unwanted attention.

“I liked him.”

“You liked him? Oh, Aunt Ellie, I swear. You like anyone who’s polite and clean. Those duded-up, smooth talking galoots are the worst kind. That’s how they make their living—smooth talking people into doing what they want. I bet he has two horns under his hat.”

“Who has horns under their hat?” Henry sat on the ground between the two women with his back against a wheel.

“Vanessa is just funning, son. What she meant was the man wasn’t what he seemed to be.”

“I wonder if those people plowed the corn.” Henry’s mind was always forging ahead, flushing out one notion after the other as they came to mind.

“I imagine so,” Vanessa said

“Sometimes I wish we’d stayed home.” His face twisted as he tried to puzzle through an idea. “I’d be plowing the corn and old Shep wouldn’t have got killed.”

“Maybe we can get another dog before we leave Dodge City.” Vanessa knew her cousin was still grieving over the loss of his dog, which had