Chapter Two
Connell met the breathless boy halfway to the trading post.
“She die, mister?”
“No. Fainted. Where’s Mrs. Morse?”
“She ain’t comin’. I told her what you said but she didn’t believe me.” He trotted alongside, struggling to keep up with Connell’s long, purposeful strides. “Kin I have my penny, anyhows?”
Connell muttered under his breath. No telling what had happened to the coin. Chances were he’d dropped it when he’d had to catch the girl.
He glanced down at the eager child. “Look in the dirt, where we were before. If it’s not there, follow along and I’ll get you another. And bring my horse. His name is Rojo. That’s Mexican for red. Call him by name and he won’t give you any grief. He’s a full-blooded canelo I picked up in California and I’d hate to lose him. I’d never find another one like him out here.”
“Aw, shucks. You said…”
Connell was in no mood for argument. “Go, before somebody else finds your money.” The boy seemed to see the logic in that suggestion, because he took off like a long-eared jackrabbit running from a pack of coyotes.
Crossing to the trading post, Connell and his frail burden solicited few inquisitive glances. He looked down at the sweet face of the girl. Her cheeks were smudged and her hair nearly undone. The bonnet hung loosely by its ribbons. Her doe eyes were closed, but he could still picture them clearly.
She stirred. Long, dark lashes fluttered against her fair skin like feathers on the breeze. She was so lovely, so innocent looking, lying there, the sight of her made his heart thump worse than the time he’d fought with Fremont against the Mexicans in San Jose in ’45.
The quick lurch of his gut took him totally by surprise. He stared down at the girl. She was all-fired young. Much younger than Irene. Couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen if she was a day. That made her ten or so years younger than he was; about the same distance apart in age as his mother and father had been.
Clenching his jaw, he tried unsuccessfully to set aside the bitter memories of his childhood, the mental image of his mother’s funeral and the cruel way his father had behaved afterward. If it hadn’t been for Irene and her family taking him in and showing him what a loving home was supposed to be like, no telling what would have become of him back then.
Connell took a deep breath and started across the street, his purpose redefined, his goal once again in focus. It didn’t matter how attracted he might be to this woman. Or to any other. It was Irene he had to think about, Irene he had sworn to find. To marry. If he had to spend the rest of his life looking for the truest friend he had ever had, then he would. Without ceasing.
The unconscious girl moaned as Connell mounted the walkway in front of the trading post. Several Indians edged out of his path.
As he made his way into the store, all conversation ceased. He headed straight for the proprietress.
Anna Morse clapped a hand to her chest. “Land sakes! The boy was tellin’ the truth.”
“Obviously.” The plainsman reached her in six quick strides, his tall cavalry boots thumping hollowly on the floor. “Where can I put her?”
“Let’s take her upstairs,” Anna said. “Her sister’s right over…” Pointing, she snorted derisively. Charity had fainted dead away. The girl lay draped across a stack of flour sacks while two other women and a child patted her hands and fanned her cheeks. “Never mind. We’ll see to her, later. Bring Miss Faith this way.”
Faith. Connell turned that name over in his mind. He’d have guessed she might be called after a flower or some famous woman from the Bible, like Sarah or Esther. Hearing that she was, instead, Faith, gave him pause. Yet it fit. A strong trait, a gift necessary for survival especially when crossing the plains, Faith was appropriate. How was it the scripture went? Something about…“if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you can say to a mountain, move, and the mountain will move.” This tiny woman was going to need that kind of unwavering faith if she was to survive the many rigors that would face her on the trail.
The upstairs room Anna led him to was small but clean. An absence of personal items led Connell to believe Mrs. Morse probably rented it out whenever she could. Careful not to jostle his limp burden, he lowered Faith gently onto the bed.
As he straightened and slipped his arm from beneath her shoulders, he reached up to gently smooth the damp wisps of hair from her forehead. The act was totally instinctive. Until the older woman cautioned him, he didn’t think about how improper his actions must look.
“That’ll do, mister. We’re beholden to you for totin’ her here.” Anna wedged between him and the prone figure, which was beginning to stir. “I’ll take good care of her.”
Connell nodded and touched the brim of his hat. “Yes, ma’am. It doesn’t appear the sister’ll be much help, that’s a fact.” Keeping his voice low, he added, “This one got herself knocked down by a bunch of drunken horse soldiers.”
“Figures. I swan, this old world has got to be nearin’ judgment day.”
“Don’t know about that, ma’am, but there’s four boys in blue who will be when I get ahold of them.”
“You ain’t plannin’ on startin’ trouble, are you?”
“No, ma’am.” Connell took a few backward steps toward the open bedroom door. “Finishing it.”
Anna made a noise of disgust. “Bah! All men are fools. Every bloomin’ one of ’em.”
At that, the plainsman managed a half smile. “You’re probably right.” Peering past her, he tried to get another glimpse of Faith. “You think she’ll be all right? I reckon her ribs are broke.”
“Soon as she comes to, I’ll be able to tell for sure.”
Turning toward the door, Connell paused. “I’ll be back to pay you for whatever the girl needs.”
The older woman shook her head. “You ain’t her kin. You done enough.”
He scowled, his helpful attitude hardening into determination. “I told you why I was here. Whatever I do for Miss Faith, it’ll be like I’m doing it for my Irene, too. Understand?”
Anna nodded solemnly. She wiped her hands on her apron. “That, I do. Long as you remember your money buys you no rights to the Beal sisters.”
The growing smile lifted Connell’s mustache. “Oh, it won’t be my money,” he said. “I aim to collect damages due from the sons o’—’scuse me, I mean the soldiers who did the hurting.”
That seemed to satisfy Anna’s sense of decency. “Good for you. Think they’ll pay up?”
For Connell, the question was already answered. His decision was firm. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes of his time to enforce justice on Faith Beal’s behalf. To see to it that she was recompensed. He was certain that was what Irene would want him to do.
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” he said flatly. “Those four boys’ll be real tickled to help out. You’ll see.”
Anna shook her head. “I don’t want to see any of it. You do what your conscience tells you to do, son, but leave me out of it. You hear?”
Tipping his hat, Connell nodded in affirmation and left her. By the time he’d reached the bottom of the staircase, his anger in respect to Faith’s plight was white-hot. How dare those drunken fools abuse a refined, gentle soul like her and then ignore what they’d done without so much as a backward glance or a word of apology?
He left the trading post, jumped down to the street and started off toward the saloon. Very little time had passed since the incident. He had no doubt he’d easily be able to locate the perpetrators.
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