“Are you saying I don’t have as much sense as a horse?”

Lily demanded, scrambling to her feet. “How dare you! You have the gall to stand there and—”

“We have to go back to the fort.” He reached for her arm.

Lily jerked away. “I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”

“It’s a longer walk back than you think. It’ll be dark soon.”

She squared her shoulders, a strength she hadn’t felt before filling her. “I’ll manage, thank you just the same.” Lily drew in a great breath. “I’ll go back to the fort when I choose. And I’ll get there on my own.”

“You won’t make it,” North said, anger creeping into his voice. “Most of the men at the fort will end up out here searching for you, risking their own lives.”

And she isn’t worth it, his look seemed to say….

Praise for JUDITH STACY’S recent titles

The Nanny

“…one of the most entertaining and sweetly satisfying tales I’ve had the pleasure to encounter.”

—The Romance Reader

The Dreammaker

“…a delightful story of the triumph of love.”

—Rendezvous

The Heart of a Hero

“Judith Stacy is a fine writer with both polished style and heartwarming sensitivity.”

—bestselling author Pamela Morsi

Cheyenne Wife
Judith Stacy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To David, Judy and Stacy—

thanks for keeping me sane.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank the following people for their assistance with this book: Debra Brown, Candace Craven, Martha Cooper, Joan Fry, Jane LaMunyon, Jolene Smith, Bonnie Stone, Tanya Stowe, Gary Kodel, M.D., Greg Holt, National Parks Service.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

Santa Fe Trail, 1844

She’d gone to hell.

Lily St. Claire pressed the damp cloth to her brow, desperate for a moment’s relief. She’d died. Yes, that must be it, she decided. Because right now, she had to be in hell.

The covered wagon lurched, a wheel finding another rut in what some overly optimistic guide—a man whom Lily believed truly deserved to be cast into the pit of eternal hellfire—had referred to as a “trail.” She braced her foot against a wooden trunk and grabbed the edge of the narrow bunk to keep from toppling to the floor.

A mournful groan reminded Lily that she was very much alive despite the heat, the suffocating wagon, the foul stench of sickness. The man lying on the damp sheets mumbled incoherently. Sweat trickled from his fevered brow, soaking his hair, his tangled gray beard and his thin white nightshirt.

Her father.

A stranger, really.

For weeks—Lily wasn’t sure how many—Augustus St. Claire had burned with fever, flailed his arms, conversed with unseen people, even Lily’s mother, dead twelve years now.

Lily dipped the cloth into the bucket of tepid water and laid it on her father’s forehead. Fear and guilt crept into her thoughts. Fear that he wasn’t getting any better. Guilt that he was dying before her eyes, and she didn’t know how to help him.

A wealthy businessman from Saint Louis, Augustus had stunned Lily when he’d told her of his plan to explore the West, to expand his business holdings in the wilds of Santa Fe. His plan to send her away.

Again.

Since her mother’s death when she was seven years old, Lily had lived in boarding schools. Fine institutes all, catering to the daughters of the wealthy. She’d just graduated from Saint Louis’s most prestigious academy for young women, prepared to do what was expected of her and take her place among polite society, when her father had revealed his intentions.

He’d wanted her to move to her aunt Maribel’s home in Richmond, Virginia, where Lily could take up the sort of life she’d been raised to lead. He told her harrowing accounts of Indian raids on the Trail, stories of disease and hardship. Yet for all his attempts to discourage her, Lily insisted that she accompany him. She had to take this chance—perhaps her very last chance—to get to know the man who was her father.

The trip had promised to be an adventure. Before leaving Saint Louis, Lily had been contacted by the editor of the newspaper and was asked to chronicle the trip in a series of articles. She’d packed her journal, her paints and brushes, intending to write poetry and sketch the scenery along the way.

Setting out, she’d envisioned she and her father working side by side to start the new business, carve out a living together in the new land. Finally, they would truly be a family. Lily’s heart had soared at the prospect. Perhaps, she’d hoped, he might even tell her all the things she’d longed to hear about her mother.

But barely two weeks into the journey, Augustus had sliced open his leg with a hatchet while attempting to split kindling. A deep, nasty cut; Lily had nearly fainted at the sight.

Her years at boarding school had been spent learning deportment, etiquette, menu planning, the proper way to supervise a household staff. Madame DuBois’s lesson plan had contained nothing about medicine.

With no doctor on the wagon train, a few of the older women had told Lily how to care for her father. She’d forced herself to look at the gaping wound, the oozing mustard-colored pus, and endured the stench. She’d sat at his bedside tending to him endlessly. Yet despite everything she’d done, his condition had only worsened.

And grew worse by the hour.

A slice of sunlight cut through the wagon’s dim interior, bringing a welcome breath of fresh air with it as Jamie Nelson pulled back the canvas opening. He was only fifteen years old, yet he handled the team of horses like a grown man.

Augustus had hired the Nelsons, a family also heading west, to assist them on the journey. Though they traveled in their own wagon, Mrs. Nelson cooked and cleaned for Lily and her father, while Jamie, their oldest son, took care of the horses and drove the wagon.

Lily’s stomach lurched. “Are we there?” she asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

“No, not yet,” Jamie said, holding the reins, looking back over his shoulder.

“Is your mother coming?” she asked, her words more a plea than a question.

“Ah…no, Miss Lily,” he replied with an apologetic dip of his head.

Why not? she wanted to scream. Why hadn’t they arrived at the fort yet? Why wouldn’t Mrs. Nelson walk back to her wagon and help nurse Augustus?

And why wouldn’t someone make this nightmare end?

“You—you want to come sit up front for a while, Miss Lily?” Jamie asked. He gulped. “With…me?”

The desire to escape tempted Lily. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to be confined in this airless wagon, trying to figure out how to care for her ailing father, worried sick with fear, scared that he might die at any moment.

For an instant, Lily wanted to shout at Jamie to turn the wagon around, take her east again, deliver her to her aunt’s home in Virginia. She wanted a bath—a hot bath with lavender scents, a maid to style her hair, fresh clothing. That’s where she belonged. That’s where Augustus belonged, as well, with real doctors and nurses who knew what they were doing. Neither of them belonged here, suffering under these inhumane conditions, horrified by the constant threat of Indian attacks and fatal disease, filled with an aching loneliness.

Augustus groaned and Lily turned back to him. He mumbled something she couldn’t understand. She removed the cloth from his forehead and wrung it in the water, then swiped it over her own forehead, smoothing back an errant strand of her dark hair.

If she weren’t here, who would take care of her father? Again, Lily wondered at his original intention of making this trip alone.

“Miss Lily?” Jamie asked, jarring her thoughts.

She shook her head. “No. No, I’ll stay here. With Papa.”

“Oh…”

“But you’ll let me know when we get there, won’t you?” she asked, her excitement building. “When we get close, I mean. When you can see it?”

After the wagon train had reached the Arkansas River, most of the wagons had taken the Cimarron Cutoff, the southern—and more dangerous—branch of the Trail for the final leg into Santa Fe. With her father so ill, Lily had gone with two other wagons along the Mountain Branch toward Bent’s Fort. The fort was a center for trade along the Trail, not a military installation. There, they would rest and re-supply before continuing.

“Sure thing, Miss Lily. I’ll let you know the minute I see the fort,” Jamie promised, then pulled the canvas closed.

Lily gulped hard, forcing back a sudden wave of tears. Once they reached the fort, surely someone would make this nightmare end.

“Here comes trouble.”

Standing in the shadows of the adobe walls of Bent’s Fort, North Walker whispered the words to the horse tethered to the hitching rail. The brown mare rubbed her head against his pale-blue shirt, seeming to nod in agreement, but North didn’t notice.

The arrival of covered wagons at the fort—even as few as these three—brought news from the East, a chance to trade goods and services, make money.

But this one had brought something else.

Trouble.

North pulled his black hat lower on his forehead as he watched men step out of the trade room, the kitchen, the dining room. They stood in doorways and lingered in the shadows, staring. North’s gut tightened a bit, urging him to cross the dirt plaza as well.

Young white women—especially pretty ones—were rare at the fort and in this part of the country. This one, who had just climbed out of one of the wagons, hardly seemed to realize she was the center of attention as she spoke to Old Man Fredericks.

North kept his distance.

Half Cheyenne, half white, North was accepted by the men at the fort for what he was. A horse trader, a guide, a messenger.

His other activities he kept to himself.

Tall and broad shouldered like his father, North dressed in Western clothing to better blend into the activities at the fort. He had his Cheyenne mother’s dark eyes, but his skin was more white than bronze. His only concession to his Indian heritage was his long black hair, tied at his nape with a leather thong.

His father had been a mountain man who’d left his family and a comfortable life behind and come west with the beaver trade; he’d eventually married a Cheyenne woman. North had learned Eastern customs and Indian ways from each of his parents, and was equally comfortable in the two worlds.

Worlds that were on a collision course.

Evidenced by the young white woman who was still talking to Hiram Fredericks, sending four men scurrying to do her bidding.

Stepping out of a hot wagon after weeks on the trail, she somehow looked refreshed and poised. Dark hair artfully piled atop her head, a dress of delicate, light fabric that flowed in the late-afternoon breeze. There was an economy of movement as she spoke with Fredericks, a grace North had never seen.

A lady.

That’s what his father had called women like this one, North realized. Telling his stories of growing up in the East, he’d described the pampered women there, the hours they spent on grooming, attire and appearance, the value they placed on personal conduct. North had thought it outrageous. Hours spent in the practice of walking? Not to surprise an enemy or spring a trap, but to simply look pretty while in motion?

North had hardly believed him.

Until now.

This one moved like the whisper of the wind, a silent call in the wilderness.

Trouble.

North patted the mare’s thick neck, content to keep his distance for now.

This woman was trouble, all right.

But maybe just the sort of trouble he was looking for.

Chapter Two

Lily woke with a start and sat up quickly on the narrow cot. A moment passed before she remembered where she was.

The fort, she realized. The room Hiram Fredericks had given her and her father yesterday.

She sank onto the pillow once again.

After the confines of the covered wagon Augustus had crammed full of the goods he intended to sell in Santa Fe, this room seemed like a palatial bed-chamber. A solid roof over her head, four sturdy walls, a real floor—even if they were made of the plain adobe of the fort.

Yet any pleasure Lily might find in her new accommodations didn’t relieve the anxiousness that hung over her, that had followed her, dogged her since her father had injured himself weeks ago.

She pushed herself up on her elbow, the familiar anxiety that she’d lived with for so long settling upon her like a thick quilt. She eyed her father on the cot across the room, his eyes closed, his breathing even. He slept peacefully, as he had during the night.

A good sign? Surely it was. But, really, she didn’t know.

One more thing this journey had shown her she didn’t know.

Thank goodness Hiram Fredericks had helped her yesterday. Tall, lean Mr. Fredericks, with his head of white hair and bushy mustache, had proved a godsend. He seemed to be in charge of things here at the fort, though Lily didn’t know if he had an official title.

He’d secured quarters for her and her father, arranged for meals to be delivered to their room, and for her clothes to be laundered. He’d had the blacksmith take charge of the horses and their wagon.

Then he’d sent for the fort’s medical expert who’d examined her father’s wound and changed the bandage; he’d promised to come back twice a day, if that was what Lily wanted. She did.

Lily said a quick prayer of thanks that gentlemen existed, even in this hostile land.

Squinting against the morning sunlight that came in around the shuttered window, Lily washed and dressed. She hadn’t left her room since arriving yesterday, but had seen the Nelson family bedding down last night in their covered wagon outside the gate.

How odd it felt to be separated from them, after the close proximity of their wagons on the Trail.

The men in the third wagon who’d accompanied them to the fort had slept outside, also. Lily couldn’t remember their names and hadn’t especially liked them, anyway, yet she wondered how they were faring.

She would let them know when her father was well enough to resume their travels, and they could all continue on to Santa Fe.

A knock sounded at the door. Lily jumped at the unfamiliar sound. She hesitated answering, still a little uncomfortable in her surroundings, despite the kindness that had been shown her; she wished Mrs. Nelson would come by.

When she finally opened the door, a young man stood before her holding a breakfast tray covered with a white linen cloth. Tall, thin, he had brown hair in need of a trim, and wore clothing that, more than likely, used to belong to someone else; he was no older than she. His generous smile put her at ease.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said, and ducked his head. “My name’s Jacob. Jacob Tanner. I work over in the kitchen. The cook sent me over here with breakfast for you and your pa.”

“Thank you,” Lily said, reaching for the tray, genuinely pleased.

“I’d better set it down for you, ma’am. It’s kind of heavy,” Jacob said, hesitating on the doorstep. “If’n that’s all right with you, of course.”

While allowing a man into her quarters would be unheard of in other circumstances, Lily decided Jacob seemed harmless—and her life hadn’t exactly been filled with her usual circumstances, anyway.

“That’s very kind of you,” Lily said, stepping back from the door.

“There’s broth here for your pa. Cook made it special, just for him.” Jacob placed the tray on the little table in the corner, took a quick glance at Augustus in bed, and hurried back outside.

“Did you prepare the other food?” Lily asked, anxious suddenly to have someone to chat with this morning.

“I do some of the cooking, ma’am. But mostly I just fetch and carry for the cook.” His cheeks flushed slightly, and his gaze wandered over the door casing before he spoke again. “If you need anything special, just let me know. Mr. Fredericks says we’re supposed to take good care of you and your pa.”

“Thank you,” Lily said. “I appreciate everything that’s been done for us. In fact, I thought I’d go over to the kitchen tonight after supper, when the cook’s not busy, and thank him personally.”

Jacob’s expression darkened, and he met her gaze for the first time. He lowered his voice and leaned just a little closer.

“No, ma’am, you ought not be out alone after dark, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he told her. “It’s not safe for a…a woman.”

A little chill slid up Lily’s spine. “Well, all right. Thank you for bringing breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jacob murmured. He ducked his head and hurried away.

Lily closed the door quickly. Now she really wished Mrs. Nelson would come by.

After Lily ate, she attempted to get her father to drink some broth the cook had sent, but Augustus remained in the deep sleep that had kept him quiet throughout the night and morning.

She was relieved when Oliver Sykes, the man who served as the fort’s doctor, came to check on Augustus. He was an older gentleman, not much taller than Lily, who had somehow managed to grow a round, soft belly here in this lean, harsh land.

“He’s better, don’t you think?” Lily asked, twisting her fingers together as she and Sykes stood beside her father’s bed. “He’s resting so comfortably now. He didn’t wake once during the night.”

“Maybe you ought to get some fresh air, Miss St. Claire,” Sykes suggested, not looking at her, “while I check over your pa.”

A knot of anxiety rose in Lily’s chest. “But—but he’s doing better, isn’t he?” she asked.

Sykes’s heavy jowls wobbled as he worried his lips together, his expression growing intense. “You just run on outside for a while.”

Lily searched his lined face for a hint of his thoughts, but found nothing.

“Very well,” she said, easing toward the door. “But I’ll be right outside in case…well, just in case.”

When he didn’t answer, she slipped from the room and closed the door behind her. She hesitated a few seconds, wanting to go back inside. After all these weeks at her father’s side, the separation seemed odd and uncomfortable.

But Mr. Sykes was a capable man—much more knowledgeable than herself. She should leave him to his task, let him handle it. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted since her father had injured himself?

Lily turned away and took in the fort. Upon her arrival yesterday, she’d hardly noticed the place in her hurry to get her father settled in a room. Now, she took a good look around.

The two-story fort was the only major permanent settlement on the Santa Fe Trail, according to what everyone on the wagon train had told her. Yesterday, Hiram Fredericks had proudly explained that the fort provided travelers, explorers and, occasionally, the U.S. Army, with a place to obtain supplies, livestock, food, fresh water, as well as rest and relaxation.

There was a bell tower and bastions at opposite corners of the fort that were used for lookout posts and for storage. Each bastion was armed with a cannon. Fredericks had explained that, so far, they’d never been used for defense, but for signals and to welcome important people, a fact that Lily was pleased to hear.

The fort housed much the same things as a small town: a kitchen, dining room, blacksmith and carpenter shop, warehouses and, of course, the trade room. Lily wasn’t sure what was upstairs on the second floor of the fort, other than more living quarters and the billiard room Fredericks had mentioned last night.

What Lily did know, for certain, was that the fort was populated mostly by men.

She kept her eyes forward as she walked, but felt the gazes of the men upon her. They paused in midstride. They stopped their chores, their conversations. Their faces appeared in windows and doorways.

Men. Big men. Frightening-looking men. Wild hair and unkempt beards. Buckskins stained with sweat. Faces lined with wind and sun. Trappers, mountain men, hunters, prospectors, explorers, adventurers.

A new awareness came with Lily’s every step, her every movement. The sway of her skirt, the rustle of her petticoats, the tug of the breeze in her hair, the fabric of her collar against her throat.

Lily glanced around. Where was Mrs. Nelson? Surely other women were here at the fort. Where were they?

A fear, a vulnerability settled in the pit of Lily’s stomach. Outnumbered. Overmatched. A lamb among the wolves.

She considered rushing back to her room, closing herself up inside, bolting the door, but Mr. Sykes had asked her to leave while he examined her father. She couldn’t burst in unannounced. What would he think of her if she walked in at an inappropriate moment?

Lily kept walking, dozens of gazes tracking her steps. She held her chin up, feigning a leisurely stroll, then darted through the passageway near the carpenter’s shop and into the alley behind.

No men.

She waited and held her breath as she watched the passageway. No one followed.

Relieved, Lily eased between the wooden crates and barrels stacked in the shade of the building, and found a spot to sit down. Hidden in the clutter, she felt somewhat safe and secure.

Across the alley, a horse was tethered to the corral fence at the corner of the stable. It stamped the ground, stirring up little dust clouds, and tossed its head fitfully, pulling at the rope.

The animal was no more comfortable at the fort than she was, Lily thought.

She sat back, trying to get comfortable, trying to relax, willing herself to shake the feeling of foreboding that still hung over her like a dark cloud, and turned her thoughts to her aunt in Richmond.

What would Aunt Maribel be doing at this exact moment? she wondered, turning her face skyward to catch the sun.

Or better still, what if Lily had talked her father out of making this trip altogether? Yes, that was a better fantasy, she decided. He’d be well and healthy, going about his business, as usual, in Saint Louis.

But the prospect of how different her life would be at this very moment if she’d gone to visit her wealthy aunt instead of making this trip, came unbidden into Lily’s mind once more.

She sighed quietly, indulging herself in the imaginary scene her mind conjured up.

She’d have spent her first week in her aunt’s lovely home getting acclimated to the new house, recovering from the journey, learning about the city. She’d luxuriate in a steaming tub, nap often, and be fawned over by a parade of maids and servants. Then preparations for the social outings to come would commence. Fabrics and patterns discussed, new gowns commissioned. The parties, teas and luncheons given in her honor to introduce her and welcome her to the city would take weeks, all amid ladies and gentlemen of good breeding and impeccable deportment.

Yet here she sat on a wooden crate, civilization but a distant memory, with the vague odor of animal manure in the air.

Lily settled her feet onto a lower crate and wrapped her arms around her knees. Another wave of loneliness washed over her. She’d never felt so isolated in her life. So vulnerable. So lost.

Tears pushed at the backs of her eyes, but she forced them down. If she allowed one single tear to fall, a torrent would follow—and she hadn’t thought to bring a handkerchief with her. Madame DuBois would be appalled.

The stallion tethered to the corral across the alley tossed its head and nickered, its eyes widening to circles of white. Fighting the lead rope, it pulled back, pawing at the earth. The animal was young and strong, a fine specimen of horseflesh. Lily knew he’d fetch a fine price—if he didn’t injure himself trying to escape.

A man appeared at the corner of the stable inside the corral. He wore trousers and a pale-blue shirt, with a black hat pulled low on his forehead that shaded his face.

Had she seen this man yesterday? Lily wondered. Something about him seemed familiar. Was he the man tending the brown mare she’d glimpsed as she’d spoken with Mr. Fredericks? The only man in the entire fort who hadn’t walked over to gawk at her?

A gasp slipped from Lily’s lips when she saw him headed toward the stallion. She almost called out a warning, but his slow, relaxed steps stopped her.

Low on the breeze, his voice came to her, a rumbling whisper. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was mesmerizing. The stallion thought so, too, apparently. As Lily watched, the man continued to speak softly as he inched closer, and by the time he reached the horse, it had settled down.

Still murmuring quietly, the man patted the horse’s neck and brought its big head against his chest. The stallion stood quietly.

Awe and mystery stirred in Lily. How had the man done that? Gentled the horse with nothing more than his words? She’d never seen anything like it.

Patting the stallion, the man turned his back to Lily. She gasped aloud. Straight, jet-black hair hung past his shoulders.

Indian.

A rush of emotion swept through Lily. Fear, apprehension, curiosity.

Everyone on the wagon train had warned her about these Indians, their savagery, their heinous acts, the atrocities they committed—things so vile men wouldn’t whisper them to a decent woman.

Yet this Indian seemed anything but menacing, despite his size. Tall, broad shouldered with thick arms and a lean waist. His pressed, well-mended clothing was the cleanest she’d seen at the fort.

And he had gentled the stallion. With words and measured actions, he’d not only brought the horse under control, but calmed it as well.

Sitting perfectly still on the crate, Lily watched as the breeze pulled at the man’s shirt and ruffled his black hair. One evening on the wagon train she’d spoken with a young woman who’d told her that Indian men had no hair on their chests. For the first time, Lily’s stomach tingled at the notion. Could it be true?

She’d seen a bare-chested man a few times in her life. On the journey west when the men of the wagon train had been forced to engage in some difficult work in the heat of the day, they’d occasionally taken off their shirts.

But what would a smooth chest look like?

Beneath the fabric of his shirt, muscles bunched, expanded, contracted. Were they bare? she wondered. Smooth, slick—

The Indian turned sharply, his gaze finding her on the crates and pinning her there.

Lily gulped. Good gracious! He’d caught her staring. Could he possibly know that she’d been thinking about his chest—of all things?

She shrank deeper into the crates, drawing her legs up under her. Humiliation burned her cheeks. How unseemly of her. How unladylike. Ogling a man. Wondering about his chest. Madame DuBois would indeed be appalled.

Desperate to escape the hiding place that had suddenly become a prison, Lily froze as she heard footsteps. Easing around the edge of the crate, she saw a man—this one rail thin with blond hair—walking from the passageway beside the carpenter’s shop toward the corral.

She’d not seen this man before. Lily was sure she would have remembered. His buckskins hung loose on his thin frame, blond hair streaked with gray lay across his shoulders, a heavy mustache drooped past his lips. His hat shaded most of his lined face.

The Indian saw him, too, watched as he approached. He’d not seen her at all, Lily realized. It was the blond-haired man who’d drawn his attention.

The two men faced each other through the corral fence, a contrast of tall and muscular, thin and stooped. Neither smiled. They didn’t shake hands. A few words were exchanged, but Lily couldn’t hear them.

The Indian glanced up and down the alley, then pulled something from his trouser pocket—a packet of papers, a wad of money, perhaps?—and passed it to the other man. He shoved it in his own pocket and walked away. The Indian glanced around once more, then turned and disappeared behind the stable.

Lily waited for a moment, the feeling of foreboding that had plagued her for so long growing stronger—but for a very different reason this time. Just as the Indian had done, she checked around to see if anyone was watching, then slipped quietly from her hiding place among the crates and hurried back to her room.

“There’s just no easy way to say this, ma’am,” Oliver Sykes said, ducking his head, refusing to make eye contact with Lily.

“What?” She looked back and forth between Sykes and Hiram Fredericks, both men grim faced and solemn. “What is it?”

Standing outside the door to her room, Lily gazed at the evening shadows stretched across the plaza bringing a cooling breeze with the disappearing sun. Sykes had come by to see her father again, then left and had just now returned with Fredericks. They’d called her outside.

“Your pa’s bad off, I reckon you know that,” Fredericks finally said.

“But he’s getting better,” Lily insisted. “He slept straight through the night, and he’s been resting quietly all day. He’s—”

“No, ma’am, that’s not so,” Sykes said with fatherly kindness.

“Yes, it is,” Lily told them. Why were these two men saying such things? She wanted them to leave. “Now, I must go back inside and see to my father—”

“He’s dying.” Fredericks closed his hand over her arm, holding her in place. “The fever took its toll.”

“It was just too much for him,” Sykes added. He paused, then added, “Your pa probably won’t make it through the night.”

Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes. “No…”

“He roused up a bit a while ago,” Sykes said. “He’s asking for you.”

Lily shook her head, her throat tight and thick. “But…”

“Go on inside,” Fredericks said kindly. He guided Lily into the room, then closed the door behind her.

Lily clung to the door, afraid to cross the room, afraid to approach the cot. Her father couldn’t be dying. Fredericks and Sykes meant well, but they had to be wrong—they simply had to be.

“No, Papa, you can’t—you simply can’t,” she whispered. “Not now. We haven’t even…”

But her father lay so still, awash in a gray, ghostly pallor, that she knew the men were right. Tears sprang to her eyes. Lily covered her face with her palms.

“Lily…?”

Her head jerked up at the sound of Augustus’s voice. She rushed to his bedside and dropped to her knees, joy filling her heart.

“Yes, Papa?” she said anxiously. “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t—”

“It’s…gone,” he whispered.

Lily frowned. “What—whatever do you mean?”

With effort, Augustus lifted his head from the sweat-stained pillow, but collapsed again, his lips moving as if trying to speak.

Lily leaned closer, her ear to his mouth. “What, Papa? What is it?”

“Money…” he whispered. “All…gone.”

She looked at him, unable to follow his reasoning. Why was he talking about money—of all things—at a time like this?

“Bad deals…lost it all…nothing left.” Augustus drew in a ragged breath, then wheezed. “That’s…that’s why I came West…to…to start over.”

“No, Papa,” Lily insisted. “That’s not true. You told me yourself that you’d always wanted to come West, to explore, to seek new adventures.”

His head moved back and forth with effort. “A lie. I told you that so…” He coughed. “Thought I could make my fortune over again…in Santa Fe. Thought I could…”

“But, Papa—”

Augustus’s eyelids sank.

“Papa? Papa!”

Chapter Three

Lily stood beside the mound of fresh-turned earth and the wooden casket that would be her father’s resting place for eternity, cold despite the heat of the midafternoon sun that bore down on them.

Augustus had passed away peacefully in his sleep during the night, just as Oliver Sykes had predicted, with Lily at his side.

Hiram Fredericks had made the funeral arrangements; he seemed to be in charge of such things, much like everything else at the fort.

Oliver Sykes, who had worked diligently to heal her father, had arranged for his casket to be built, then had laid him in it. Lily didn’t know who’d dug the grave, here among the other wooden markers outside the fort.

Fredericks read from the Bible, the thin pages rattling in the breeze, his white hair undulating on the unseen current. About a dozen men—most of whom Lily didn’t know—gathered there also. She wondered if they wanted to pay their respects, or simply craved a diversion from their daily routine.

Jacob Tanner, the young man who worked in the kitchen and had brought meal trays to her and her father, stood near the back of the gathering, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes lowered respectfully. Lily appreciated his presence and felt his intentions were honorable.

Not in attendance was the Nelson family, the people her papa had paid to drive their wagon and assist them in their journey. Nor were the men from the wagon train, who’d come with them to the fort, present for the service.

Lily sniffed, choking back tears—bitter tears. Augustus deserved so much more at his passing. The presence of his friends and business associates in Saint Louis who really knew him and would have truly mourned his death. A carved, marble marker befitting a man of his stature, rather than a simple wooden cross. Men—knowledgeable men—who would have stepped in.

Someone who would tell Lily what was to become of her now.

She touched her finger to the corner of her eye, catching another tear. In the plain wooden casket lay her father. More of a stranger to her now than she’d ever imagined. She’d thought she knew what sort of man he was, but after his deathbed confession last night, she obviously did not.

Could it be true? she wondered as Fredericks’s reading of Bible verses droned on. Had Augustus really lost their entire family fortune?

Sitting at his bedside last night, hearing his confession, Lily had thought it was simply more of his nonsensical fevered ramblings. He’d been incoherent for days. He’d talked to people who weren’t there, flailed his arms against unseen foes. Surely something in his dying mind had prompted this delusion, fabricated the loss of his business empire.

But didn’t the mere fact that they were here in this forsaken wilderness give credence to his confession? Her father had lived his entire life in a large comfortable home, waited on by a number of servants, his every need catered to by others. When he’d told Lily of his dream to go West and explore new lands, she’d thought it odd. So unlike him.

Yet it made perfect sense if he’d indeed lost all his money and wanted to start over in Santa Fe.

It also explained why he’d been so reluctant to have Lily accompany him on this trip.

Other thoughts floated through Lily’s mind as the men, gathered around her father’s gravesite, sang a hymn.

Last Christmas she’d wanted to travel to Memphis to spend the holiday with her friend’s family. Augustus had told her no. When she’d asked for funds to commission several new gowns, he’d never sent the money; she thought he’d simply forgotten. Just before her graduation, he’d appeared unexpectedly at her boarding school and met privately with Madame DuBois. Now Lily wondered if there had been a problem with her tuition; that would explain why some of the other girls had whispered behind their hands as Lily passed them in the halls.

Fredericks gently touched Lily’s arm and she realized the service had ended. The men nodded toward her, putting on their hats, respectfully touching the brims, then drifted away. Jacob lingered a moment as if he wanted to say something to her, but finally he wandered away after only a respectful nod.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice tight, barely more than a ragged whisper. She fought off another swell of emotion. “Thank you very much, both of you, for arranging everything.”

Oliver Sykes, standing on the other side of her, nodded. “It was a nice turnout.”

“I thought the Nelsons would be here,” Lily said, gazing around as if she might see them. “They helped us all along the journey. We’d gotten to know them quite well, I’d thought.”

“Oh, they left already,” Sykes said.

“Left?” Lily looked back and forth between the two men, an odd feeling tightening her belly. “What do you mean they left?”

“Gone on to Santa Fe,” Sykes explained. “Them and those other fellas from the wagon train who drove in with you. They all left at dawn.”

“But…” Stunned, Lily just gazed at the men. They’d gone? Left her behind? Abandoned her in this place? Without so much as a farewell wave?

“But my father paid the Nelson family to look after us,” Lily said, desperation creeping into her voice. “They’re supposed to do the cooking, drive the wagon, take care of the horses.”

The two men exchanged a troubled look that squeezed Lily’s stomach into a tight knot.

“This isn’t hardly the best time, right here at your father’s funeral, but I guess you’ve got to be told.” Sykes pulled at the back of his neck. “I mean, you’ll find out, sooner or later.”

Lily pressed her lips together, afraid to ask what he was talking about.

“Last night…” Fredericks cleared his throat. “Well, last night, your horses were stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yeah, and your wagon was looted.” Sykes shifted uncomfortably. “Pretty much everything you had in there is gone. The wagon was torn up, too.”

Her horses were stolen? Her belongings stolen? Lily pressed her hand to her forehead as the world suddenly pitched sideways.

She was penniless—and stranded?

“Who—who did it? Who’s responsible?” she asked.

Fredericks shrugged. “Don’t know. Sam Becker—he’s the blacksmith—he saw what had happened to your wagon this morning, then went to check on your horses and realized they were gone.”

“Shouldn’t we report this to someone?” Lily asked, spreading her hands.

“Well, Miss St. Claire, it’s not like we got a real lawman here at the fort,” Sykes said.

“Me and the boys, well, we just take care of things as they come up, best we can,” Fredericks explained. “Becker said he didn’t have any idea who might have taken your belongings.”

“I—I’d like to go lie down,” Lily gasped, feeling light-headed.

“That’s a good idea,” Fredericks said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Sykes agreed, as if he were glad to be rid of her.

“I’ll walk with you—” Fredericks began.

“No.” Lily pulled away from him. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

Though she wasn’t sure that she could, Lily somehow made it to her room and closed the door tight behind her. She fell back against it, her heart thudding in her chest, her mind whirling.

Her horses and her belongings were gone. Her wagon damaged. And she had no money.

Without cash how would she buy horses? How would she repair the wagon, let alone reprovision it?

How would she ever escape this dreadful land?

Lily pressed her fingers to her lips, holding back a sob. What would become of her?

Her gaze landed on the cot across the room, the cot on which only yesterday her father had lain, then died. She’d never felt so alone.

Bile rose in the back of her throat, closing off her breathing in this airless room.

She had to leave. She had to escape. She couldn’t abide this room—this fort—another moment.

Lily opened the door and slipped out of the fort into the prairie.

North paused outside the trade room as he glimpsed a swish of skirt disappear out the gate. Even without seeing her face he knew it was Lily St. Claire, the woman whose father they’d just buried. No other woman wore that sort of dress.

And no other woman would be foolish enough to leave the safety of the fort.

North shook his head. Why would she do this? Didn’t she know any better?

Or did she simply not care that she was a danger not only to herself, but to others who might have to go after her?

Since arriving at the fort she’d been waited on hand and foot, seemingly unable to accomplish the smallest task, or fend for herself. Was this customary behavior for white women?

North recalled the stories his father had told about women in the East, his mother, sisters, aunts, left behind like all his other family members. Women so unlike North’s own Cheyenne mother, his sisters and the other women of the tribe.

North waited and watched the gate. No one else, apparently, had seen Lily leave. The routine of the fort continued on, as usual. Minutes dragged by. The sun drifted toward the Western horizon.

He watched. Still no sign of her.

He hoped she’d realize that the prairie was no place for her and come back on her own. He waited longer. She didn’t return.

North glanced around. No one, still, had noticed that she was gone. That meant he’d have no choice but to go after her himself.

He hesitated. Something about that woman bothered him. He didn’t know what it was, exactly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But it was there, lurking in the back of his mind, and in the pit of his stomach.

“Damn…”

North headed for the stable.

A dark shadow fell across the ground startling Lily. She gasped and twisted around. A man stood behind her, his approach so silent she hadn’t heard a sound.

Seated on the ground, Lily brushed the tears from her eyes, then shaded them against the setting sun, squinting to see his face.

“Who are you?” she asked, unwilling and unable to sound pleasant.

He didn’t reply, just looked down at her quizzically.

Lily leaned her head back to see him clearly. He was the Indian she’d seen whispering to the stallion in the corral, she realized.

She gazed past him and the horse he’d left grazing a few yards away, to Bent’s Fort, now small on the horizon. She hadn’t realized she’d gone so far. She’d walked—then run—through the short, green prairie grass to the river, then followed its banks, finally collapsing here beneath a cottonwood tree, mindless of the distance.

She didn’t know why this man was here or what he wanted—and she didn’t care, either. All she wanted was to be left alone to cry, to scream, to indulge the ache in her heart and the emptiness in her soul. Was that too much to ask? Surely it couldn’t be, after what she’d been through today.

“Go away,” she told him, turning away, tears filling her eyes once more. “I want to be by myself. I don’t want any company. Can’t you understand that’s why I came out here in the first place?”

He walked closer, still staring down at her. Though he’d said nothing, his presence seemed to demand something of her.

“This has been the worst day of my life. Everything—absolutely everything—has been just awful. Why, I didn’t even have anything decent to wear to my own father’s funeral.” Lily shook the skirt of her green dress, the simple act bringing on another rush of emotion and a fresh wave of tears. “Why, I—I—I don’t even have a handkerchief!”

The magnitude of her woes descended upon her, crushing her. She sobbed into her hands, not bothering to hide her tears or wipe them away.

“My horses were stolen!” she wailed, turning her face up to him. “My belongings, too! My wagon is ruined! And I don’t have any money!”

She flung herself onto the ground and cradled her head against her arms, sobbing and gulping in ragged breaths of air.

Lily glanced up. The man still stood over her, his head tilted slightly to the side, watching her as if she were an insect in a jar.

“Is that all you can do?” she demanded. “Stand there and stare?”

His brows drew together, but still he didn’t offer a response.

She pushed herself up and huffed irritably. “Don’t you have any manners at all?”

His frown deepened.

“Do you speak English?” she wanted to know. When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Eng…lish. Do…you…speak…English?”

The man rocked back slightly, regarding her with caution.

“Oh, lovely!” Lily dug the heels of her shoes into the ground and launched herself to her feet. “Here I am pouring out my heart to someone who doesn’t even speak a civilized language!”

She whirled away and flung out both arms. “What sort of godforsaken place is this? Savages running loose! With no sense of decorum! No manners! Unable to even communicate!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Lily gasped at the sound of his voice, and spun toward him. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “You do speak English.”

He watched her curiously. “Your dress. What’s wrong with it?”

Lily planted a hand on her hip and pushed her chin up. “You should have made your language skills known earlier, sir, and not allowed me to carry on like that. And you should have introduced yourself.”

“North Walker,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by her scathing accusations about his heritage. “Your father has just died. Yet your concern is with your dress?”

“It’s the wrong color,” she told him and shook her skirt once more. “It should be black, not green. Black is always worn to a funeral—in civilized places, that is. And, of course, I’m upset about my father’s death.”

Tears filled Lily’s eyes again. Emotion swelled in her, robbing her of her strength. She sank to the ground, her skirt pooling around her, not wanting to put forth the effort to stand.

“We were supposed to be a family—finally—on this trip. But now Papa’s gone, and I’m alone. All alone,” she whispered. Tears tumbled down her cheeks once more. She covered her face with her hands. “This was our last chance…our last chance to be together.” After a few minutes, she sensed North move closer, his nearness somehow calming her emotions.

“Your father is dead,” North said softly, kneeling beside her. “Gone to a better place.”

Lily sniffed and lifted her head.

“Isn’t that your belief?” North asked gently. “That he’s in heaven among the angels, free of pain and suffering, in the presence of the Holy Spirit?”

“You’re a Christian?” She swiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“I know God.” North waved his hand encompassing everything around them. “I know the spirit of the land and all things in it.”

“But—but you’re an Indian?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he told her.

North closed his hand over her arm. Heat seeped through the fabric of her sleeve, oozing outward, filling her with warmth.

He looked directly into her eyes. “Your father is at peace. Rejoice in his place in heaven. Don’t wish him into the torment of this earth again.”

Lily gazed into his eyes—rich, dark eyes that seemed to peer into her soul and, somehow, lift her burden. Almost magically, a sense of peace filled her. Her problems drifted away as if they were feathers on the breeze.

“Thank you for your kindness,” she whispered. “You’ve made me feel so much better.”

“It’s the same way I talk to my horses.” North rose and said. “But horses have more sense than to come out onto the prairie alone and get themselves in such a dangerous situation.”

It took a few seconds before his words sank in.

“Are you saying I don’t have as much sense as a horse?” she demanded. Lily scrambled to her feet. “How dare you! You don’t even know me, nor do you have the slightest idea of what sort of person I am, yet you have the gall to stand there and—”

“We have to go back to the fort,” he said and reached for her arm.

Lily jerked away. “I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”

“It’s a longer walk back than you think. It will be dark soon.”

She squared her shoulders, a strength she hadn’t felt a moment ago suddenly filling her. “I’ll manage, thank you just the same.”

He gestured toward the horizon and the orange glow of the setting sun. “Coyotes prowl at sundown. There’re snakes.”

Lily drew in a great breath. “I’ll go back to the fort when I choose. And I’ll get there on my own.”

“You won’t make it,” North said, anger creeping into his voice. “Most of the men at the fort will end up out here searching for you, risking their own lives.”

And she wasn’t worth it, his look seemed to say.

A sickly feeling wound through Lily’s stomach, shame that this man thought so little of her. Memories of the weeks on the Trail came back to her, the other women caring for their families, tending to them with practiced ease. She’d been unprepared for the journey. She’d known it from the start. She still knew it. But, somehow, seeing that look on North’s face hurt worst of all.

“I don’t need your help,” Lily said, holding up her chin.

A long moment dragged by while North just looked at her. Finally, he simply nodded.

“Fine,” he said, then mounted his horse and headed toward the fort.

Lily gasped and her eyes rounded at the sight of him riding away. He was leaving her? Actually riding away? Abandoning her here so far from the fort, in the middle of nowhere?

“Wait!” She ran after him. “Stop!”

She caught up with him. North rested his hand on the saddle horn and glared down, the brim of his hat shading his eyes.

“You’re—you’re not going to leave me out here, are you?” she exclaimed. She drew herself up, thinking of the nastiest thing she could call him. “You, Mr. Walker, are no gentleman.”

He gave her a long, slow once-over that sent a strange warmth flooding through her. Heat crept up her neck and onto her cheeks, then arrowed downward to the center of her belly. Still, Lily refused to look away.

Finally, North shook his head, almost to himself, and climbed down from the horse.

Relieved, but still clinging to her pride, Lily said, “I decided that it would be prudent to accept your offer and—Oh!”

North grasped her waist and hoisted her upward, plopping her into the saddle. Lily grasped a handful of mane to keep from tumbling backward off the other side, then glared down at him. He glared right back.

An odd warmth leaped from him, covered her, touched her in strange places. She’d assumed he thought her worthless, but the look on his face made her feel as if—

Lily broke eye contact, afraid—but of what she wasn’t sure.

North picked up the reins, then reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. He held it up to Lily.

Stunned, she looked at it for a moment. The white, pressed linen fabric. His big hard long fingers. She’d complained earlier that she had no handkerchief. He’d remembered.

Without a word, Lily accepted it. North led the horse toward the fort.

In the moonlight the fort looked almost pleasant, Lily thought as she gazed out the window of her room. She rested her arm on the sill, looking up at the stars, searching them for—

What? A glimpse into the future? A window into her own heart?

When they’d drawn close to the fort this evening, Lily had jumped from the horse, marched right past North and entered the fort alone. She’d hurried to her room, not bothering to even thank him.

Not that he deserved to be thanked, after the way he’d insulted her.

Yet it was her pride that hurt more than anything. He thought little of her, and she’d done nothing to prove him wrong.

But what was she to do? She didn’t belong in this place, was totally unprepared for life here in the uncivilized West. Yet, somehow, North’s low opinion of her still hurt.

Sighing into the dark night, Lily decided this was but further proof that she should leave immediately for her aunt’s home in Richmond.

She’d be glad to go. She’d miss nothing about this hard, unforgiving land. The land that had taken her father and the last chance she’d ever have to know what it was like for the two of them to be a family.

North floated through her mind. Tall, wide shoulders. So strong. He’d lifted her into the saddle with no effort. And he was handsome, surprisingly handsome. When Oliver Sykes had stopped by her room to check on her a short while ago, she’d casually—she hoped—asked about North. An English father and a Cheyenne mother, Sykes had said. His mixed heritage had blended to give him a unique handsomeness, to Lily’s mind.

Her stomach warmed at the memory of the two of them beneath the cottonwood tree. He belonged here in this land. He was strong and brave and rugged. Everything this place demanded.

And she wasn’t. A thread of sadness filled Lily’s heart at the thought. Then alarm took its place.

North had seemed decent enough under the cottonwood. But he was, after all, half-Indian. Half-savage. What if his Cheyenne side had presented itself at that particular moment? Would he have ravished her? Scalped her? Left her for dead?

A chill ran up Lily’s spine. She had to leave this place. Tomorrow she’d make the arrangements.

She’d get to her aunt’s home in Virginia—no matter what it took.

Chapter Four

Gray clouds hung over the fort, stretching to the horizon, heavy with the threat of rain. The morning breeze tugged at the loose strands of Lily’s hair as she crossed the plaza.

She stepped inside the trade room, the economic heart of Bent’s Fort, the primary reason for its existence in this vast wilderness. Here, merchandise, goods and services were traded or sold to Indians and trappers, travelers and explorers.

As she hoped, Lily found Hiram Fredericks and Oliver Sykes busy at work among the dry goods, hardware, tools, guns and knives.

The two of them had done so much to help her these past few days, they deserved her thanks and so very much more. That was, however, all that she could offer these two fine gentlemen, in light of her newly discovered financial straits.

“Good morning,” she greeted, and managed a small smile as she cross the room.

Both men looked up from the desk they were huddled around, and smiled in return, looking a little surprised but pleased to see her.

“How’re you doing, Miss St. Claire?” Sykes inquired, giving her an earnest look, setting aside the stack of papers in his hand.

“Well enough,” she said, trying to push her chin up a little and sound brave, “considering the circumstances, of course.”

“Of course,” Fredericks agreed.

“Could I trouble you gentlemen for a little information?” Lily asked, pushing on.

“Sure thing,” Sykes told her and leaned forward just a little.

“How soon before one might expect a wagon train to come up from Santa Fe, through the fort, bound for the East?” Lily asked.

Wagons routinely made the journey east from Santa Fe, loaded with handwoven blankets, buffalo robes, furs and other riches that would be sold in Eastern markets. The trade route worked both ways.

“Oh, we get wagons through here every week or so. Sometimes more often than that.” Sykes glanced at Fredericks for confirmation.

“Yeah, about that often, I’d say,” Fredericks agreed, stroking his chin.

“Fine,” Lily said, a sense of relief coming over her. “I’ll join the next wagon train that passes through heading east.”

She’d thought about it most of the night, tossing and turning on the little cot in her room, then pacing across the floor and staring out the window, until she’d come up with a plan.

While she had no money to pay her way east, she did own a wagon—albeit a damaged wagon—which was surely worth something and could be offered in trade. If that failed, she could provide a service of some sort to the travelers. Take care of young children, perhaps, or act as a schoolmarm on the trip. She could give art instruction, read books or poetry.

If, of course, any sort of payment was required. Surely, the people of the train would appreciate her plight and allow her to travel with them.

Fredericks nodded his understanding. “Seems like leaving is the sensible thing to do. I mean, for a woman like you, that is.”

He’d said it kindly enough, but an insult lurked there just the same. Lily felt its sting, yet couldn’t disagree.

“Would you be kind enough to let me know when the next wagon comes through, so I can be on my way?” she asked the men.

“Sure thing, Miss St. Claire. You can head on back East any time you like,” Fredericks said. His expression hardened. “As soon as you settle your debts here, of course.”

She blinked up at him. “My…debts?”

Fredericks and Sykes nodded in unison.

“Hiram’s got it all writ down, nice and neat,” Sykes said, and wagged his finger toward Fredericks and the desk. “Show her the ledger, Hiram.”

“Ledger…?” Her stomach jerked into a knot. “But I thought—”

“Thought what?” Sykes asked, and gave her a hard look. He shifted closer. “You didn’t think all this stuff here was free, did you?”

A rush of embarrassment—and panic—coursed through Lily.

Fredericks pushed aside some papers on his desk, searching until he found the ledger. He opened it and flipped through the pages.

“Here we go, Miss St. Claire,” he said, finding the spot. “I got a whole page, just for you.”

Lily gulped. “A whole page?”

“Now, first off,” he said, holding the ledger at arm’s length, “there’s meals. Three a day, every day you were here, plus the cost of bringing them to your room. And meals for your pa, of course.”

“But Papa didn’t even eat—”

“Then there’s the laundry you wanted done,” Fredericks said, running his finger along the page, “and the cost of your room. An extra charge for two people together, of course.”

“Papa was sick,” Lily implored. “I needed to be at his side—”

“Doctor’s expenses,” Fredericks went on. “Two visits a day, at your request. Medicine, bandages, that sort of thing.”

Footsteps, shuffling feet sounded behind Lily and she sensed other men coming into the room, adding to her embarrassment.

“Then there’s board and care for your horses,” Fredericks said.

“My horses were stolen!”

“That don’t mean they didn’t eat while they were here,” Sykes pointed out.

“And then there’s storage on your wagon,” Mr. Fredericks continued.

“It was ransacked!”

Fredericks paused, and he and Sykes looked at each other as if considering the point she’d just made.

“Somebody get Sam over here,” Sykes called over Lily’s head, then said to her, “Sam Becker. He’s the blacksmith that took care of your horses and wagon.”

She glanced behind her and saw one of the men lean out the door and yell.

“Let’s see now, what else?” Fredericks squinted at the page. “Oh, yeah. There’s the funeral. Making the casket, digging the grave, of course, carving your pa’s name into the cross.”

“I did the carving myself,” Sykes said to Lily and grinned proudly. “Thought it was a nice touch, if I do say so myself.”

“Well, I guess that’s about it. So there you have it. That’s everything,” Fredericks announced, closing the ledger with a snap. “As soon as you pay up, Miss St. Claire, you’re free to be on your way.”

Lily’s breath came in quick little heaves, making her heart pounded harder in her chest. She owed these men money? A lot of money? And they wouldn’t let her leave this retched place until she paid them?

“But—but I don’t have any money,” Lily said, spreading her hands.

The two men exchanged a troubled look, then both shook their heads.

“Well, now,” Sykes said. “I guess we got ourselves a problem.”

“I guess we do,” Fredericks agreed.

A little murmur went through the gathering of men situated behind Lily. They’d overheard every word spoken in the room, knew it was a private conversation, yet they’d stayed as if she and her plight were their morning entertainment. Lily’s embarrassment deepened.

Fredericks looked up suddenly and smiled broadly. “Morning, Sam. Come on in here.”

Sam Becker, the blacksmith, murmured a greeting to the men in the room, then shouldered his way past Lily to stand beside Fredericks and Sykes. She’d seen him around the fort, but had never been introduced. He was young, short, thick chested, with muscular arms and meaty hands. He was always sweating.

Fredericks opened the ledger once more, then gave Becker a rundown on Lily’s situation. Becker looked over the older man’s shoulder and nodded.

“I don’t think it’s fair that I be charged for boarding my horses when they were stolen while in your care,” Lily said, trying to remain calm.

Becker looked up at Lily and dragged the back of his hand across his damp brow, leaving a smudged trail of dirt all the way across. He shrugged. “Knock a dollar off my bill,” he said to Fredericks.

“A dollar?” Lily gasped.

Fredericks made a notation in the ledger, then presented it to Lily. “There’s your total, Miss St. Claire.”

Her eyes widened. She felt light-headed. It was a fortune. An absolute fortune. How would she ever manage to pay it?

“I—I have the wagon,” she said and heard the desperation in her own voice. “Would you take that in trade?”

Fredericks and Sykes turned to Becker. He shook his head.

“That wagon of yours ain’t worth what it’d take to roll it off a cliff,” he said to Lily, shaking his head sadly. “Whoever stole your stuff ripped the canvas all to hell— Pardon me for saying so, ma’am. It’s tore up real bad on the inside, too. Running gear’s not much better.”

“But what about my belongings?” Lily offered hopefully. “Surely the vandals left something of value I could trade with.”

Becker shrugged. “All that’s left inside is a bunch of fancy dresses, some dishes, books—nothing that’s worth nothing.”

“Those dresses were designed and sewn by the finest seamstress in the East,” Lily insisted. “And the china is a pattern designed specifically for my family, sent all the way from—”

“You got anything of real value?” Fredericks asked her, cutting her off. “Tools? Whiskey?”

“Well…no,” Lily admitted.

“Huh…” Fredericks stroked his chin and looked back and forth between Sykes and Becker. “What you reckon we ought to do with her?” he asked them.

The three men gazed at Lily and it took all her willpower not to blush.

“How’s your cooking?” Sykes asked.

“Well, I don’t actually cook,” Lily said, then forced a hopeful smile. “I supervise cooks.”

Fredericks shook his head. “You got any sort of a trade?”

“No, not exactly,” Lily admitted.

“Well, what can you do?” Becker asked, looking her up and down.

“I can paint—I’m especially gifted with watercolors—and I embroider,” Lily announced. She drew herself up straighter. “I can plan a party for a hundred people, supervise a large domestic staff—”

“We’re not planning to have no parties any time soon,” Sykes said.

“And our domestic staff?” Becker said. “We gave them the summer off.”

A round of chuckles erupted from the men gathered in the trade room behind Lily. She blushed red, the heat burning her cheeks.

The laughter was followed by a long, uncomfortable silence as the three men continued to look at Lily, assessing her value.

“She can’t do anything,” Fredericks proclaimed, sounding the death kneel on Lily’s worth. “She’s too small to do any real work, she’s got no trade, no skills.”

Becker and Sykes nodded in agreement.

Lily’s embarrassment deepened because they were right. She really was of no value here in the West.

Yet might that work in her favor? Hope sprang in Lily’s thoughts. Since she was so obviously of no value to anyone here at the fort, would they simply let her leave, let her go on her way, knowing they couldn’t possibly recoup their money?

“I know people—wealthy people—in Saint Louis,” Lily said, her spirits lifting. “If you’ll just let me leave here, I’ll send your money back—every penny—as soon as I set foot in the city. I swear I will.”

“Naw,” Fredericks said, shaking his head. “That’s not a good idea.”

“How do we know you’d really send it?” Sykes proposed, then added, “No offense, Miss St. Claire.”

“We need the money before you leave,” Fredericks said, announcing it with a finality that caused Lily’s stomach to jerk into a tighter knot.

Lily’s mind spun. Her father’s business associates, friends in Saint Louis would send the money to her here at the fort. Aunt Maribel would gladly do the same. But it would take weeks—months, even—for her message requesting the money to be delivered and the funds sent to her here at the fort.

Revulsion tightened around her heart. She couldn’t—absolutely could not—stay at this fort for that length of time.

Mr. Sykes looked at her one more time, then sighed heavily and said, “Well, I guess there’s only one thing we can do.”

Lily’s hopes soared. She leaned forward trying to hear the three men as they crowded together and whispered. She prayed—desperately—that the men would take pity on her and simply let her leave.

“All right, then, it’s settled,” Sykes said when the huddle broke up. “Here’s what we’ve decided to do for you, Miss St. Claire. We’ve decided to set you up in business, right here at the fort.”

“Business?” Lily asked, stunned.

“Makes sense. Good sense,” Becker said, eyeing her critically, seeming to see her a little differently now. “After all, you’re just about the only white woman around these parts.”

Alarm spread through Lily. “What sort of business?”

Sykes shrugged. “You’re a pretty little thing, even if you can’t do much.”

“What sort of business?”

“Here’s how we’ll work things,” Fredericks explained. “We’ll give you a room here in the fort. Once word gets out, well shoot, I expect we’ll have men lined up all the way out the gate.”

“Are you suggesting that I become a—a—” Lily struggled to find her breath. “A—prostitute?”

“You got any better idea?” Sykes asked.

Raw fear raced through Lily. She backed up and turned, looking for an escape. But more men had come into the trade room and were blocking the door. And every one of them leered at her, as if contemplating her naked.

“I—I can’t possibly…” she said, shaking her head frantically.

“We’ll give you a break on your room rent,” Fredericks told her.

“N-no, I can’t—”

“Then you’d better figure some other way to come up with the cash you owe us,” Sykes told her.

“There must be something else you can do,” Lily insisted. “Please, I can’t—”

“Get her a room close to the kitchen,” Becker suggested. “More convenient that way.”

“And I’ll put up a sign,” Sykes offered.

“Paint it red,” Becker advised.

“No!” Lily insisted.

“Don’t worry,” Fredericks said. “You’ll pay off your debts in a couple months’ time.”

“Listen to me.” Lily clenched her fists. “You can’t force me to do this.”

“Then how are you going to pay us?” Fredericks demanded, his voice growing angry. “Do you think you can just waltz in here with your high-handed Eastern ways, take everything at your pleasure, then leave like none of it happened? You’ll do as we say, and that’s that.”

Tears threatened, and Lily fought to gulp them down. “Please, there must be something else I can do.”

Fredericks gave her a hard look. “Listen up, Miss St. Claire, we’re—”

“I’ll settle her debts.”

The three men looked past Lily to the back of the trade room. Lily whirled, her hopes soaring, searching the crowd for the man who’d made the offer.

North Walker stepped forward, sparing not even a glance at Lily.

“I’ll trade you,” he said to Fredericks. “For her.”

Snickers rumbled from the men.

“Hmm…” Fredericks rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He glanced at Sykes, then at Becker.

“I guess we can hear him out,” Fredericks said with a casual shrug.

“All right by me,” Becker agreed.

North looked at Lily. “Go outside.”

She couldn’t move. She could barely think.

“Go outside,” he told her again, more harshly this time.

Lily’s temper flared. She’d had enough of men today—every single one of them. And she wanted to tell them all exactly what she thought of them, but decided it more prudent to keep her mouth shut for the moment.

She pushed her chin up, whirled and strode out of the room with all the dignity Madame DuBois had taught her, despite feeling the hot gaze of every man in the room on her back.

Outside, she eyed the gate and, for a moment, contemplated making a break for it. Right now with her anger up and her heart pounding, Lily thought she might actually hike all the way to Aunt Maribel’s home in Richmond—by sundown.

That foolish notion left a moment later when Jacob Tanner squeezed through the crowd in the trade room and walked over to her.

Embarrassment heated her cheeks. Jacob was a nice young man, and he’d been present for her humiliation. He looked as uncomfortable as she when he stopped next to her.

“They had no right, saying those things and talking to you the way they did,” Jacob said softly, nodding toward the trade room. “It ain’t right, but… Well, that’s the way it is around here.”

Lily nodded, comforted and mollified somewhat by his compassionate words.

“Why do people stay here, Jacob?” she asked. “Why do you stay?”

He gazed thoughtfully across the plaza. “Came out here a couple of years ago with my ma and pa, my sister. We all got sick. They died.”

“Oh, Jacob, that’s so sad,” Lily said, feeling a new kinship with him. “But why do you stay? Why don’t you go back home?”

“Got no home to go back to,” Jacob said with a shrug. “My pa sold our farm in Tennessee when he decided we needed to come out here.”

“Don’t you have any family back there?”

“Yes, some. But I haven’t heard nothing from them in so many years now—” Jacob stopped abruptly as North walked out of the trade room. “You take care now, Miss Lily,” he said, and hurried away.

“They can’t do this,” Lily insisted to North, her anger flaring again. “They can’t force me to stay under those—conditions. Where is the sheriff of this territory?”

“They’re the law around here,” North told her and jerked his chin toward the trade room. “They can do whatever they want.”

Her boiling anger cooled slightly because she knew he was right. Jacob had told her the same thing.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked North. “You heard what the other men said about me. I’m of no value to anyone here.”

He eased a little closer. “I think you’re perfect,” he said softly.

Her anger dissolved and an odd tingling took its place, deep inside Lily.

Then his gaze dropped to the hem of her dress and rose slowly, deliberately over her waist, lingered on her bosom, and finally rested on her face.

“For what I have in mind for you, Miss St. Claire,” he said, “you’re perfect.”

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