Sweet desire, p.1
Sweet Desire, page 1
Sweet Desire
Sara Orwig
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1988 by Sara Orwig
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com
First Diversion Books edition April 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-773-9
Also by Sara Orwig
The Civil War Saga
Atlanta
Memphis
New Orleans
The Southwestern Saga
Albuquerque
Denver
San Antonio
The Comanche Series
Comanche Temptation
Comanche Eagle
Comanche Passion
Oregon Brown
Heat Wave
The Goodies Case
Sweet Desire
Texas Passion
Tides of Passion
Warrior Moon
With love to David
1
Spring 1868
During the middle of March the warm Georgia sun beat down on rooftops, slanting through the high windows on the landing, glinting on a jagged pane that had broken from a cannon blast during the war. Smoothing a loose tendril of golden hair, slender fifteen-year-old Caroline Brandon was on her way downstairs to breakfast when she heard the sound of weeping. Alarmed, she followed the sound to the parlor, where she found her aunt sobbing quietly into her handkerchief.
“Aunt Letty!” Caroline cried. Her aunt had suffered gravely during the war, losing first her husband, then her son. To find her in such a state gave Caroline a jolt.
“Come here, Caroline, I must talk to you.” Letty waved her hand before pressing the linen handkerchief to her thin red nose.
Caroline approached the slight figure dressed in coarse black cotton. Aunt Letty’s graying curls were fastened in a chenille snood, a stray lock tumbling over her pale forehead. Caroline sat down on a chair upholstered in frayed yellow satin and waited.
“Since I’ve lost my darlin’ Zechariah and I’ve lost Oakley, you know I don’t have anyone to lean on for protection. I’ve tried to get along in these years since the war.”
“I know you have,” Caroline assured her.
Aunt Letty paused to cry. Finally she dabbed at her eyes and said, “A single woman with a young girl can’t stay in Atlanta in these trying times.”
“No, ma’am,” Caroline answered dutifully, thinking that they could stay in Atlanta if they wanted. Her heart began to flutter with fear. Too many times she had been shuffled from relative to relative, and she knew how to recognize the signs that indicated a new move.
“Darlin’, I don’t know what else to do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Caroline said, patting her aunt’s thin shoulder. Finally Aunt Letty raised a tear-streaked face. “Caroline, I’ll give you a choice. With your Uncle Zechariah gone, you still have two other uncles. You know you can go live with your Aunt Matilda and Uncle Daniel in Natchez—or you can go live with your Uncle John in…Texas. Darlin’, I know how you feel about Matilda, but they would give you a good life.”
Caroline barely heard the words. Her heart and mind had stopped. Live with Aunt Matilda! The woman would take over her life down to the smallest detail. And when the time came, her marriage would be arranged without consulting her at all. Yet the prospect of living with Uncle John was worse—he lived in the wilds of the Texas frontier, where it was dangerous and primitive, a wilderness without any of the niceties of life. The choice seemed impossible. She loved Aunt Letty and wanted to stay in Atlanta.
For an instant her throat tightened and burned, her eyes stung with tears, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t add to Aunt Letty’s misery. Letty Brandon had had enough trouble from the war, from losing her husband, her son, her servants, and her way of life.
“Can I think about it, Aunt Letty?”
Sobs racked her aunt as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Caroline. Everything has happened so swiftly, too swiftly. You’ll have to make a decision now.”
Stunned, Caroline thought of Matilda’s stern manner and whispered, “I want to go live with Uncle John.”
Letty sighed and looked relieved. Caroline suspected that she preferred sending her niece off to the frontier. It would have been trying to persuade her haughty sister-in-law to take Caroline into her elegant Natchez home.
“Caroline, precious child, I’m sorry,” Letty said tenderly. She flung her arms around Caroline and broke into a fresh bout of weeping.
While Caroline held her aunt, her mind swirled with this new change in her life. Another place to live…always a new place, a new family. She stared over Letty’s head out the window, where a redbird flitted in the branches of a magnolia. Someday she would be free and independent and no one would shuffle her from person to person. Someday…
An Abbot-Downing Concord stagecoach lumbered along the rutted road, jolts cushioned by the flexible thoroughbraces while the wheels stirred dust in rolling clouds behind it. Land stretched ahead endlessly. Two wagons followed the stage, and horses were tethered to the rear.
The driver’s brown eyes swept the surrounding countryside, they paused momentarily on a slight rise in the ground ahead that shielded the road from view. The beauty of the land was lost to him; he saw the ridge only as a shelter for marauding Indians. The man next to him shifted slightly, his fingers curling around the Sharps rifle that lay across his knees. He spat a mouthful of tobacco over the side of the coach and turned to look at the wagons behind them.
“We came out better’n I figured we would with them wagons coming along,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. I didn’t relish this run by ourselves none,” the other drawled. “Not a leaf stirrin’.”
The other man nodded. He knew full well that a slope lay ahead, with rocks, trees, and rougher ground—and far more danger of ambush.
Caroline Brandon knotted her icy hands together and looked out the window. Too anxious to relax, she tried to ignore the other passenger. He leaned forward, shifting his bulk on the seat, his plaid trousers pulling tightly over his fat thighs as he dangled a golden locket close to her eyes.
“Ain’t this here a pretty little gewgaw?”
She nodded stiffly.
“It can be yourn if’n you want, little gal.”
“No, thank you,” she said, taking a deep breath. Instantly his gaze dropped to her small breasts and she burned with embarrassment as he stared.
“You’re a sweet little thing. If’n you stay in Fort Worth with me, I can get you all the pretty gewgaws you’d like—silk dresses, food you ain’t ever tasted before.”
“No, sir.”
He chuckled. “Right polite little missy, ain’t you?”
She turned her head and stared out the window at the land spreading endlessly away from the road. She felt like bursting into tears and clamped her hands together until her fingers ached. For a painful moment she thought about the parting with Aunt Letty, and wondered when, or if, ever she would see her aunt again.
“Wouldn’t you like that, little missy?”
Her companion’s foul breath brought Caroline back to the hard reality of the present. She looked into watery, pale eyes only a few inches from her face. Fat fingers dropped to her knee and squeezed.
“Sir, get your hand away,” she snapped, shifting her knees and smoothing the buff-colored muslin. With its floral pattern of tiny claret-red blooms on green-sprigged leaves, her dress, though inches too short, was one of her best. Her bonnet of green uncut velvet had two ribbon streamers that hung down the back, though they were now covered in a thin layer of dust.
“Little missy, how old are you? Seventeen?” The man laughed.
She wasn’t about to tell him she would be but sixteen in July. “I’m eighteen,” she said, and saw the amused glint in his eyes. He reached into his portmanteau to produce a bottle.
Caroline ran her hand across her perspiring forehead. In spite of her chilled hands, the day was hot. She wanted to take off her bonnet, but it wouldn’t be proper, and the slightest lessening of cool propriety would not bode well for her in the coach with her companion. Her eyes scanned the line of trees. She remembered Aunt Letty’s whispered fears to their black servant, Carter, about “sending Miss Caroline into that unholy wilderness filled with savages.”
Caroline had heard of the Indian threat from other passengers, all of them gone now save for the obnoxious J. A. Barnweed. One reassuring thought was the presence of the two wagons that had joined them at Gainesville. At night, when they stopped, she had met the families from the wagons—young women with babies, small children, boys near her own age, and their fathers, folks who were kindly and pleasant. If things became too bad with the stranger, she would call to the driver to stop the stage and ask if she could ride in a wagon until they reached Fort Worth. Perhaps there she could hire someone to escort her to Uncle John’s ranch, southwest of Fort Griffin, Texas. Aunt Letty had written to Uncle John to let him know that Caroline was coming, but she had never received word back from Uncle Jo hn. So Letty’s own letter might never have reached him.
“Want a little sip, missy?” Barnweed wheedled, holding the bottle beneath her nose and bringing her thoughts back to the present. “It would take your mind off the Injuns.”
“No, thank you,” she said stiffly, raising her chin.
He chuckled, and she heard him gulping as he drank. He belched, then corked the bottle and moved closer, pressing his knee against hers.
She moved instantly, scooting against the door. “Sir, keep your distance!”
Laughing, he shifted to the seat beside her, slipping his arm around her waist.
“Sir!” She pulled from him, momentarily breaking free as she gripped the window and leaned out to call to the driver.
Rough hands yanked her back down on the seat and a hand clamped firmly on her mouth.
Fighting for all she was worth, Caroline felt fear she had never known before, because the arm around her waist was an iron band. At close range Barnweed was more repulsive than ever. His skin was coarse-grained, his beard a day old. Adding to her fright was intense revulsion. His fat lips were covered with saliva, his breath was foul, smelling of alcohol and chewing tobacco. His pale, watery eyes looked at her in a manner that made her blood run cold, and he was strong beyond belief. He caught her wrists in one hand behind her back and held them in such a grip she gasped from the pain.
“You ain’t gonna scream, missy, and with the rumblin’ of the coach, those ribbon-handlers ain’t gonna hear you.”
Swiftly he moved his hand, his mouth covering hers, silencing her scream as his lips and teeth pushed cruelly at hers. She bucked and writhed, feeling his weight pin her down while his free hand squeezed her breast. The nightmare worsened as his hand drifted down to slip beneath her skirt.
Frightened to the point of panic, Caroline fought blindly. Then, without warning, his hands were gone, and it took a moment for the sound to penetrate her terrified mind. The stage began to rock as high, shrill cries rent the air and rifle shots rang out. When the stage spun around, Barnweed toppled into the aisle. He righted himself, then gripped the window and paled at what he saw. “Holy…Comanches!” he gasped, and fumbled in the portmanteau.
Caroline’s emotions underwent a swift upheaval as one threat was exchanged for another. She had heard tales about Indians on the frontier—the Comanche, the Kiowa, and the Kiowa Apache. She watched as Barnweed pulled out a pistol; as he raised it to fire, the stage lurched to a halt.
Barnweed opened the door and jumped down, to disappear beneath the stage. Caroline, who had tumbled to the floor, climbed up to look out.
An arrow whizzed past her head, landing with a thunk in the back of the seat, where it quivered and vibrated. When another followed, she was stirred into action. She crawled out the door to climb under the stage with Barnweed. Her hat had tumbled off into the dust and her long golden hair spilled over her shoulder as she coughed and blinked, watching horses pound past.
The wagons had pulled together to form a triangle with the stage. Caroline felt dazed and numb with terror as she watched fire arrows flying, horses racing across the ground, and Indians whooping. Caroline shook violently and fought back tears of fright as she watched men with brown skin, multicolored feathers in their long black hair, streaks of paint on their faces. They rode bareback, their legs hugging the mounts as if man and horse were the same animal.
The whoops sent chills coursing through her. She had heard that the Indians cut off men’s scalps and captured women, making them slaves. A fire arrow whooshed overhead and hit a wagon; flames licked and danced high, burning the canvas and sending ribbons of dark smoke into the air. A woman screamed and fell out of the wagon as an arrow hit her. When she landed, limp and lifeless, Caroline thought she would be sick. Feeling her stomach heave, she clamped her lips together.
“Bastards!” Barnweed snarled.
As he fired his pistol, a Comanche screamed and plunged from his mount. In seconds Caroline saw a horse ride to within inches of the stage. A Comanche hit the ground running while Barnweed primed and loaded his pistol. He raised it to fire, but a tomahawk swung down viciously, severing his head from his body.
Caroline gasped, her mind reeling. She reached out to grasp the pistol and raised it as she looked into dark eyes. The brave reached for her, winding his fist in her hair and dragging her from beneath the wagon.
Terrified, she screamed. Then, without stopping to think, she raised the pistol with both hands and squeezed the trigger, closing her eyes and feeling the pistol jump in her hand.
The terrible, aching pull on her hair stopped, and she opened her eyes. The Indian lay sprawled facedown on the ground, blood spreading on the dust. The sight of him made her stomach heave. Momentarily she was sick, shaking with a brief chill. A volley of shots came, and she heard another whoop. She tried to scramble beneath the wagon, but found that she couldn’t move because her hair was still tangled in the dead Indian’s fist.
Panic-stricken, she tried to yank free. When she saw a knife on his hip, she snatched it up to hack away at her hair, sobbing with fright and desperation. When she finally wriggled free, Caroline grabbed Barnweed’s pistol and scooted under the wagon. A brave pounded by on his pony and grabbed at her. Suddenly he screamed and fell from his horse, blood spurting from his back. Another volley of shots came, and then it was over.
Swooping down to gather up their dead, the Indians turned their horses, disappearing over a ridge to the west as swiftly as they had come.
Dazed, Caroline emerged from beneath the stage. Children and women were weeping; a man swore roughly and picked up the body of the slain woman. Two men lifted another man’s body into a wagon.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” snapped the driver of the stage. “You all right, miss?”
Caroline turned to stare at him. “Yes, yes, of course,” she whispered. Stunned, she climbed back into the stage, and the driver slammed the door behind her. Conversation swirled outside as men picked up the bodies, but she didn’t hear them. Too many frightening things had occurred too rapidly. In the past thirty minutes, Caroline sensed, she had crossed some point in life and would never again be the child she had been.
It wasn’t until the stage was rolling that she realized she still held Barnweed’s pistol in her hand. For the first time she began to understand the hazards of life on the frontier. It was a rugged, uncivilized land where danger was constantly present.
When the stage halted for the night, she climbed down to help the women prepare a meal. When she walked up to the wagon, Mrs. Slocum spotted her.
“Miss Brandon! You poor little thing. Are you all right?”
Dazed, Caroline let herself be embraced. She was unaware of the cuts on her face and hands from scrambling in the dirt.
“What happened to your hair?” Marietta Slocum asked gently.
“An Indian tried to pull me by my hair. When he died, he was holding it tightly, so I cut it loose,” she said, barely able to get out the words, because she hated the memory and her scalp still hurt.
“Now, don’t you worry about it. I’ll give your hair a trim so it won’t be uneven and soon it’ll grow out again and you’ll look as pretty as ever.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said obediently, her hair a small concern compared with facing life on the frontier.
After supper, Caroline sat in stony silence while Mrs. Slocum cut the jagged ends of her hair. Caroline didn’t care about looking pretty if all it did was attract the likes of Barnweed.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said when Mrs. Slocum had finished.
“It’ll grow out before you know it,” Mrs. Slocum said in her gentle voice. “Would you like to bed down with us in our wagon tonight?”
Caroline knew that the Slocums were crowded with their family of five children and an aunt. “Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t mind sleeping on the seat of the coach.” She squared her shoulders and returned to curl up there, where alcohol fumes from Barnweed’s spilled flask still lingered.
Two days later, on the third day of April, they crossed the west fork of the Trinity River into the settlement at Fort Worth. Caroline looked out the window to see a man who had been hanged, his bloated body dangling from a tall cottonwood, a sign around his neck: “Horse Thief #16.” In the heat of the day she felt cold. Her anxiety deepened when the stage stopped and she was faced with gambling places, rough men, and dance-hall women, every man armed and the law a thin formality.
