Silver Hearts

Chapter Two

Ayeee! Hoop hoop hoop! Ayee! Coo-wigh!

Anger and fear raged within Noelle, but fury won out as she listened to the rising shrieks behind her wagon. Several spotted ponies stood nearby. A tall, lanky Indian, dressed only in a buckskin breech clout and knee-high leggings stood, reloading a rifle. His head shot up when she and Luke galloped within sight.

In a lightning-fast motion, Noelle positioned her rifle, ready to take aim.

“Don’t shoot!” Luke yelled in her ear. “That’s Little Henry, the chief’s son.” Luke pointed to the lanky Indian, who by now had grabbed the rifle and ducked behind the wagon to warn the others.

“I don’t care if he’s President Andrew Johnson!” Rancor sharpened her voice. “He’s attacking may wagon!”

Although she was breathless with rage, she didn’t resist when Luke took the Hawken from her.

He drew the six-shooter from his holster and shot into the air, the acrid smell of black powder was everywhere. A stockier Indian, a few years younger than the first, jumped from the wagon bench and staggered to his knees. He hesitated, shaking his head as though dazed.

Noelle gasped, her blue eyes wide. Her small hand flew to her mouth as she stared. Luke glanced at the brown leather vest and gray shirt the savage wore. From Noelle’s stifled cry, he knew the garments must have belonged to Mr. Douglas.

Luke stopped the horse a safe distance from the wagon. After he dismounted, he gave Noelle a stern glance. “Stay on the horse,” he commanded, not trusting her to remain out of the fray. “Don’t aim, but keep your rifle handy.”

Renewed anger lit her eyes, but she nodded. Her teeth clenched as her wide-eyed gaze returned to the stocky Indian bent over on the ground.

Another Indian, wearing a black cowboy hat, stuck his head from the front of the prairie schooner. He shook his fist, then shouted a blood-curdling scream as he tossed an earthenware jug into the air. The bottle bounced along the sand, finally breaking in two.

Whiskey! Luke swore under his breath. Damn the luck. Even peaceful Indians, when drunk, were unpredictable.

Luke strode cautiously toward the chief’s son. “Little Henry,” he said in the native tongue of the Paiute. “Take your braves and go peacefully.”

The dark eyes studied Luke for a long moment, appraising the man and the situation.

Luke noticed the gold watch fob and chain dangling from Little Henry’s left braid. No doubt the chief’s son took what he deemed the most valuable of their booty. Luke also knew that Douglas’s horse must be tethered nearby.

“Tell your father, Captain Henry, that the yellow-haired woman sends her compliments to him, and wishes to give the horse you found, which belongs to the lady, as a gift for raising such a fine son as yourself.”

Little Henry’s almond eyes lit with surprise, then he glanced back at Noelle, who waited anxiously on Luke’s horse. When he gazed back at Luke, his expression, wiser than his eighteen years, held a question. “You will tell my father of this happening?”

Luke took his time answering. He knew that a lengthy spell was required to show Little Henry that his question was considered serious. Luke stared into the deep-set eyes of the brave who would one day become chief of the Paiute Nation.

Little Henry had showed good sense in waiting to search the wagon after Noelle and Luke had left. Besides, Luke understood the young brave’s need to prove himself. When the Indian found Douglas dead, with his chestnut alone on the prairie, Little Henry knew a horse was the highest honor to give his father.

“I have given your question great thought.” Luke spoke the words solemnly. “I find no reason to speak to your father of this happening. If you leave peacefully with your braves and do not bother us again, I believe the matter should be forgotten.”

Little Henry began to untie the watch fob when Luke stopped him. “No. That is yours. A gift to you from the yellow-haired woman.”

Without any sign of emotion, Little Henry strode to the dazed Indian, still stooped over in the sand. He helped the brave onto a pony. Without a word, Little Henry leaped onto his pony, the other braves following his example. Amid the ponies’ whinnies, they rode off, yellow dust kicking up at their hooves.

Before Luke could stop her, Noelle slid from the saddle and dashed toward the prairie schooner.

“Let me go inside first! There may be others,” Luke shouted, racing after her. Before he reached the wagon, he heard her cry out.

Noelle shuddered a gasp and stared at the shambles inside the wagon. “Oh, my God!” She rushed to the splintered crate leaning on its side.

Those savages had touched her mother’s things. A jolt of revulsion raged so violently inside her that she thought she might be sick. She touched the china cabinet, its fragile door still swaying from the broken hinge. Delft earthenware, once her mother’s pride and joy, was reduced to a heap of blue-and-white shards, littering the shelves.

Noelle shook her head, refusing to give in to the threatening tears. The clamor of Indians’ taunts and galloping ponies’ hooves still rang in her head as she stared at the wooden crates and wicker cartons ripped open, mounds of clothing scattered everywhere.

Behind her, the wagon’s floorboards creaked. She jumped, expecting to see another...

Luke’s long shadow appeared across the bleached canvas sides as he stepped inside the wagon. She let out a muffled cry of relief.

Luke’s jaw tightened as he glanced about. “They’ve gone. No need to be afraid.”

“What if they come back?”

“No. The chief, Captain Henry, is a friend of mine. Little Henry will know that to do so will dishonor his father as well as himself.”

“Those friends of yours were wearing Mr. Douglas’s clothing. How do you know that they didn’t surprise my guide and frighten him to death?”

Luke picked up a broken teacup, turning the delicate china in his hands. “Because I know.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because the cadaver showed no signs of fright. Death came from a massive heart attack, brought on by extreme exertion—”

“You’re not a doctor. How do you know—?”

“I was once, miss.” Luke regretted the words as soon as he saw Noelle’s eyes widen with surprise. He saw the questions forming in her mind.

How he knew those questions. Those questions had kept him awake more nights than he could remember.

“But I’m a gambler now. Not much difference between gambling and doctoring, really.” He grinned, trying to make light of something that he’d refused to think about any more. Damn, what was there about this woman that brought the past back like the deep ache of an old wound?

“It’s nothing I want to talk about, so forget I mentioned it.” He placed the broken cup fragments upon an overturned crate.

He turned his back on her as he stepped to the rear opening. “Maybe you should file a report about the Indians at the sheriff’s office, Miss,” he suggested over his shoulder. “What you do is none of my business.”

“B-but...you’re a witness.” She shouted after him.

“My witness. Just look what those fiends did.” Noelle’s hands trembled when she bent to pick up a black leather-bound book. “My Mother’s Bible,” she cried. Her eyelids closed as she caressed the gilt-edged tome to her chest. “I can still smell those savages.”

Luke turned back and leaned inside the wagon. “Most of that is whiskey smell.” He glanced around.

“Any more whiskey in the wagon?”

“No. The only jug I had was for medicinal purposes. Mr. Douglas took it with him when he left to get help.” No need to tell Luke that Mr. Douglas hadn’t asked her permission.

“Recognize the empty crock jug...broken, on the ground outside the wagon?”

She glanced out the front of the wagon, then darted back inside. “Y-yes, it’s the same jug.”

“The Indians probably found the jug where they found Douglas’s body. Drank the whiskey while they staggered along Douglas’s backtracks.” Luke stroked the dark stubble along his jaw. “That’s why it took so much time for them to get here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whiskey. They drank the liquor first, then came looking for more.” Luke’s mouth quirked. “That whiskey might have saved your life, miss. You’re one lucky lady.”

“Mr. Douglas is dead. I’m stranded with a broken wheel a day’s ride from Crooked Creek. And you’re telling me I should be thankful for a jug of whiskey, Mr. Savage?”

His smile faded, and she regretted her words immediately. He was only trying to make her feel better.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound cross.” A rush of gratitude welled within her. “I appreciate your kindness. You came to help, and I’m indebted to you. I don’t know what might have happened if you decided not to follow Mr. Douglas’s tracks.”

“What’s in these boxes that’s so valuable?” Luke asked, as though purposely changing the subject. His dark gaze raked across the carelessly thrown floral gowns, red and black petticoats, black beaded jacket and a man’s formal top hat.

Noelle rose, then straightened the small trunk containing her father’s handmade props that he had used in his magic act. Shaking it gently, she felt relieved when nothing inside rattled. She forced a weak smile and glanced around the wagon. “My belongings are of little worldly value, but priceless to me and my uncle Marcel. It was my father’s dying wish that I deliver what was left of their magic act. How could I refuse?”

Luke shuffled his feet uneasily. “Maybe some of it’s salvageable.” He straightened a squat wooden box from its side. The crush of broken glass made him wince.

Noelle squeezed her eyes shut. The mingled scent of rosemary, oregano and peppermint told her that the herb cabinet had fallen, her precious herb jars smashed.

“What’s this?” Luke asked, peering into the largest crate of her father’s.

Noelle glanced at the padded lid, ripped from the long wooden box. “Father’s mirror!” She dashed beside Luke, forcing herself to be brave enough to view the damage. “My father and Marcel used the looking glass for their most famous act—the disappearing man.”

Luke’s brow furrowed. “The disappearing man?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Thank God, the mirror’s not broken.” She studied the mirror carefully, her pale, serious expression staring back at her. Luke stood behind her, unwrapping the stiff packing. She was immediately aware of how large he was. Broad shoulders, powerful forearms. Her blond head barely reached the middle of his chest.

She felt Luke’s warm hand when he placed it on her shoulder. “I’ll help you straighten this mess later.” He turned and his dark gaze met her blue eyes in the glass. For a moment, she thought his dark brown eyes might stare through her. He was so very attractive, in an uncivilized rugged way. His thick, wavy black hair framed his sun-bronzed face. Far away, the straight black fans of lashes gave a piercing look to his expression. But up close, Noelle saw the soft, mahogany velvet of his eyes, like warm, rich coffee.

The heat from his hand felt strangely comforting, and she made no move to remove it. For a moment, she thought of how consoling it might be to lay her head upon his chest and cry.

The shocking idea jarred her back to reality. No doubt, it was the sudden brush with danger, the loss of her possessions and the death of Mr. Douglas that beckoned such a foolish idea.

She turned from the mirror to meet Luke’s darkening gaze. He removed his hand, then averted his eyes. “While it’s still daylight, I must fetch the oxen.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Luke found the oxen, still tied with their loads, grazing peacefully on needle grass. With a sigh of relief, he waved an okay sign to Noelle, who waited in the distance. She glanced around cautiously, then followed with the buckskin while Luke led the beasts, dragging their load, back to the wagon.

“Fix something to eat while I water the animals,” Luke said when they returned to the wagon.

Noelle wiped her palms on her apron, then climbed into the wagon. She blinked away any trace of emotion as she made a path through the shambles of her worldly goods to prepare their meal.

By the time Luke had returned, the campfire was crackling, and the aroma of strong coffee filled the air.

Noelle glanced up from tending the fire to watch as Luke hung the empty pail on the water barrel. A welcoming sense of relief flowed through her as she realized Luke could repair the wagon wheel. Soon, she’d be with her uncle.

Noelle’s gaze lingered along the sparse knots of prairie grass while she fed the cattle chips to the fire. She’d purchased the bag full of animal droppings from a passing Conestoga wagon over a month ago. Survival had forced Noelle to quickly forget any squeamishness at using dung as fuel. In fact, she was proud of all she’d accomplished—more than she would have thought possible—since leaving New York City.

Her mouth felt as dry as the endless dust. What might have become of her if Luke Savage hadn’t arrived? But he was here, and he’d promised to see her safely to Crooked Creek. Yes, she was very lucky, indeed.

Beside the wagon, Luke balanced the half-empty coffee mug on a rock while he shimmied the cottonwood bolts into place. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the thought of Noelle Bellencourt out of his mind. But the harder he tried, the more those startling blue eyes made him want to take her in his arms and protect her.

Damn, he wanted to do more than that, if he was honest. But women like Noelle spelled trouble, in any language, and he was too smart to get caught up with the likes of her, again.

Once had been enough for a lifetime.

Noelle looked nothing like his fiancée, Alice. But the Eastern manner of speaking and thinking were the same. Luke shook his head at the comparison. Alice had wed his best friend while Luke had been in the war. At the time, Luke thought he’d never get over the betrayal, but now, he realized that if he had married Alice, he would have been miserable to be part of that Philadelphia social circle.

It takes a special breed of fool to be enticed by a woman, regardless of how alluring. And damn, he was no fool.

Luke propped up the side of the wagon where the broken wheel had been. Greenhorns. They come out West, their wagons full of wares, their heads full of dreams, only to find their hopes busted like a broken wheel at the end of the trail.

He swore under his breath. Why was he thinking about Noelle? His mind should be on Blackjack and getting his money back, not on a greenhorn woman who’d be on the next stage back to New York when she first set her eyes on Crooked Creek.

“Supper’s ready, Mr. Savage.”

His stomach growled. The tantalizing aroma of panfried biscuits and something else he couldn’t quite identify nearly drove him crazy. He grimaced.

He dismissed his wayward thoughts as he took the tin plate of fragrant baked beans and biscuits she offered, and sat upon a flat rock a few yards from the campfire. Never had beans and biscuits smelled so delicious.

“More coffee, Mr. Savage?”

He shoved his hat back from his forehead. “Yes, miss,” he said with a jaw stuffed with biscuit. He watched the feminine curve of her hip as she leaned forward, pouring the dark brew into the cup. Where had she learned to cook like that? What else might she have learned about how to please a man?

He frowned, totally disgusted with himself for his inability to ignore her.

She smiled as she returned to the plate she had dished up for herself. Before she lifted a spoon, she bent her head and said a few words under her breath.

Luke felt like a heathen. But he recalled a time, not so long ago, when blessings, manners and polite talk had been a part of his life. He scraped the last of his beans with a spoon. He’d prefer feeling like a heathen than remembering the past.

He soaked up the bean juices with the ragged edge of the biscuit. Manners, be damned. West of the Mississippi, manners could get you killed if you took your mind off your six-shooter for long. No room for fancy manners in Indian country, Miss Noelle Bellencourt.

“Mighty tasty,” he said instead. “Last time I had biscuits that melted in my mouth was in Philadelphia when—” His voice halted, as though he had divulged a great secret.

“You’re from Philadelphia?” Surprise lit her blue eyes.

He nodded.

“Is that where you had your doctor’s practice?”

“It’s not polite to ask questions of strangers,” he answered. He saw her cheeks color, and he felt ashamed for his rude remark. Yet if he admitted that he’d begun his practice in Philadelphia, she’d only ply him with more questions that he wasn’t ready to answer. He took a swig from his coffee mug.

“Your voice doesn’t sound as though you’re from Philadelphia,” she said after a few minutes.

Luke reached for the last biscuit, broke it in two and popped half into his cheek. “Best to talk like the locals. That way, you don’t go bringing attention to yourself.” He washed the mouthful down with more coffee.

“Are you hiding something from your past?” Her eyes brimmed with questions.

“Nope. Trying to forget.” He sensed her growing inquisitiveness. In the lengthening silence, he wondered if she could control her curiosity. After a long time, he discovered that her strong will had won out.

“So, what will you do if you can’t find your uncle?” Luke asked, despite his refusal to get involved.

She lifted her head and stared at him as if the idea never crossed her mind. “I thought you said it was impolite to ask questions of strangers.” Her mouth tilted into a smug little grin.

“Of course I’ll find him,” she volunteered anyway.

“Marcel Bellencourt. Never heard the name, miss. Where’s this silver mine of his suppose to be?”

“I’m not certain. I do know that he owns a grand house with a small army of servants.” She laughed, and for the first time, he realized how very pretty she was. He wished he hadn’t noticed.

“I’ve written to the lawyer in town, telling him of my arrival.”

“Mike O’Shea?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

Luke nodded. O’Shea was a good enough lawyer for fixing miners’ quarrels, but he didn’t have the experience for much else. No need to tell her that, Luke decided.

“Mister O’Shea will escort me to my uncle.” She smiled again in that confident way that often worried him.

Luke ran his fingers across his chin. “You know, miss. It’s not unheard of for a man to work the mines for years, then not strike color—”

“Strike color?”

“It means not to find gold or silver.”

She nodded, intent on his every word.

“Not strike color,” Luke continued, “but write to his family back East, and with a gut full of the Silver Hearts Saloon’s finest whiskey, compose a boastful yarn or two.”

Her chin lifted defensively. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Savage? Hundreds, no thousands of men and women have struck it rich in Nevada. Are you insinuating that my uncle is lying?”

Damn, she and her uncle were none of his business. “Didn’t mean any disrespect, miss.” Luke scratched his beard as he glanced at her. No sense adding his abject speculation to what she’s already been through today.

“Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out.” Luke gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He stood up and drained the last of his coffee. “We’ll leave as soon as I finish fixing the wagon. In the meantime, why don’t you pack away your gear and throw out all the broken crockery.” He glanced up at the growing clouds in the west. “We might be in for a storm.”

Luke put the cup on the empty tin plate. “Before nightfall tomorrow, you’ll be safe with your uncle, God willing.”

The thought brought a soft glow to her face. She smiled and leaned back against the buckboard. “My uncle is all the family I have left,” she said wistfully.

A ripple of uneasiness coursed over Luke. He’d wager all of the money Blackjack owed him that Marcel Bellencourt wasn’t a wealthy miner living in Crooked Creek. But there wasn’t anything he could say to a woman as stubborn as Noelle. She’d have to learn from her mistakes, like all the other tenderfeet. But she sure made a doozie of a mistake when she decided to come West.

Luke cleared his throat. “Miss, I’m afraid you’ll have to part with some of your things. The wagon should be relieved of as much weight as possible. That mirror of yours is heavy and cumbersome—”

“No!” She looked as shocked as if he’d asked to kiss her.

He groaned. “Besides the mirror, those trunks and boxes—”

“Mr. Savage?” she said, her eyes glittered with determination. “I’ll walk alongside the wagon, but what I have left that’s intact remains aboard.”

“Miss, that cottonwood dragging along the ground isn’t as strong as a wheel. The stretch of dust up ahead has no trees, in case another wheel breaks—”

“We’ll just have to chance it.”

Luke swore under his breath as he pulled his hat low on his head. No need wasting a man’s breath on a stubborn woman. “Then help me shift the load to the side of the wagon with the two good wheels.”

“A fine idea, Mr. Savage.”

Noelle smiled in such a heartfelt way that he almost forgot his anger. He mumbled to himself as he stepped up on the trail box and pushed one of the trunks to the opposite side of the wagon.

Damn, Luke thought. Why couldn’t he have just kept on riding?

Noelle listened to the slow, steady pounding of Luke’s makeshift hammer while she dried the last frying pan and tied down the equipment with ropes.

Tomorrow. How she dreamed of the day she would finally arrive in Crooked Creek. But after the tragic experience with poor Mr. Douglas, then Little Henry and his band, she felt nothing but relief to finally end the long, perilous journey.

This rugged country was full of wild, savage encounters, and she prayed she’d seen the last of them. She stole a glance at Luke Savage.

Wild, larger than life, almost as savage as his name.

No, she decided, after a thoughtful pause. Beneath his rough exterior, Luke Savage could be dangerous, she was certain. But he held to the Code of the West. She felt safe with him. She sensed he was a decent, good man, despite a certain reluctance.

The man was fascinating. Beneath the rough manners were intelligence, keen insight and strong hands that had once had held a scalpel. She sensed that he was hiding something. A dark past, no doubt. I wonder how he came by that dimpled scar below his cheekbone? A knife fight, no doubt.

Noelle bit her lip. She stood motionless, her arms clasped over her midriff as she watched him work. His large, steady hands drew the timbers into place. He then began lashing the log to each axle. A few minutes later, Luke tested the log by applying his weight to it between the wagon and where it touched the ground some ten feet behind the wagon bed.

Luke Savage was a genius. Self-consciously, she straightened the folds of her apron. Her gaze met his. “Please forgive my earlier bad manners. I was quite rude. I hope you accept my sincere thanks.”

He lifted a dark brow. “You’re not under your uncle’s roof, yet, miss. Best hold your thanks until we get there.”

A flash of her earlier pique ignited. Why couldn’t he say, you’re welcome, instead of adding another dose of his cynicism?

“You should be more optimistic, Mr. Savage. Those who dwell on the misfortunes of the world often receive what they expect.”

“That’s because the pessimists are so busy helping the optimists out of one fix after another.” His dark eyes glittered with amusement. “You’re just lucky this pessimist happened along when I did.”