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The smell of frying dough drew her attention to the biscuits. They were about to burn; she refused to let that happen. With a well-aimed kick, the toe of her shoe dislodged the long-handled fork from where it had landed. The hem of her petticoats served as a pot holder as she wielded the rod to salvage the biscuits.
“Who’s out there?” came the low voice again.
Victoria thought she detected both wariness and anger in the deep, masculine voice. After she retrieved the last biscuit and set it on a china plate to cool, she approached the stockade. She wiped her palms against her skirts and took comfort in the sight of the metal beam lodged between two iron posts that guaranteed the prison door wouldn’t come flying open. Surely only the most hardened, most vile, of villains would have been locked inside such a horrible, crude cell.
Ah, but to be abandoned to a slow and painful death by starvation…
Every soft and feminine instinct she possessed urged her to set him free. What crime could have been so heinous as to warrant such cruel punishment?
Murder, came the immediate answer. A murderer might be left to such an awful fate.
Victoria continued to stare in horrified fascination at the simple but effective bar laid across the stockade’s entry.
It struck her suddenly that she was responsible not only for the oxen under her care, but also for the nameless prisoner on the other side of the rough wooden door. Unless the cavalry suddenly returned, it would be up to her whether or not this man lived or died.
“Answer me, dammit! Who are you?”
Victoria looked from the door to her shaking hands. Even though she might pity the stranger for being left to die this way, she would be a fool to let him out before discovering the crime he’d committed. She would also be a fool to let him know he was talking to a woman, she thought, reasoning that men credited other men with more intelligence than they did the weaker sex.
She coughed twice and lowered her voice as best she could.
“The question, sir, is who are you, and what did you do to land in such an awful situation?”
Chapter Three (#ulink_551cfe63-be30-5d7d-9af3-1a2c03497cd8)
Logan strained to hear the muffled question. Battered and hurting from the beating Windham had ordered, he’d lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been locked inside the stockade. He’d drunk the last of his water a few hours back.
“Sir, I asked you who you are,” came that suspicious sounding voice again.
Logan shook his head to clear it. He must have been unconscious for most of the day. It had been the glorious aroma of cooking food that nudged him to full alertness. He could have sworn someone had pitched camp outside his cell door.
Saliva pooled in his mouth, and his tongue seemed twice its normal size. Hot food. His stomach shuddered in sweet anticipation.
“The name’s Logan,” he growled, relieved the newcomer’s arrival hadn’t been a hallucination. “Logan Youngblood. How about letting me out of here and sharing some of that food? While you’re at it, I’d appreciate a drink of water.”
The only response to his request was more silence. Frustration, and the possibility that he was going to pass out again and never come to, snapped Logan’s patience.
“What are you waiting for? Open the damned door!”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. The soldiers who put you in there must have had a good reason.”
Outraged, Logan couldn’t believe he’d heard the newcomer right. “You mean you’re going to leave me in here to die?”
There was another silence.
“That would make you a murderer,” Logan pressed, anger gnawing holes in his control.
“I—I wasn’t the one who put you in there.”
“When they locked me up, they took away my gun,” he pointed out, just in case the nature of his plight wasn’t clear. “I’m unarmed and ready to pass out.”
More silence.
“Even if you’re alone, you’ve got to be carrying a rifle or a shotgun or a pistol,” Logan persisted. “How can I be a threat?”
Silence.
He ground his teeth, which made his head hurt all the worse. “Say something, damn you.”
“You swear too much.”
“Say something relevant.”
“I’m not letting you out until—”
“Hell freezes over?” he said savagely.
“Are you wounded?”
The words seemed closer. For the first time, Logan thought he detected a note of concern in the stranger’s tone. His hopes rose about the time his legs gave out.
“Some cracked ribs, and a headache that’s strong enough to split my skull in two,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”
“Then let me out.”
“What did you do?”
Even though the question was reasonable, Logan’s control unraveled further. “What does it matter? I told you, I’m too weak to cause you any trouble.”
“You could be lying. Perhaps you have a.club. If I were to open the door, you could attack me,” came the husky voice.
“So shoot me.”
More silence. An incredible notion struck him.
“Don’t tell me you don’t have a gun!”
Silence.
Logan swore feelingly. “What kind of fool comes poking around Idaho Territory without a gun?”
“Fortunately, there happens to be a cannon nearby,” came the snippy answer.
Logan suddenly was struck by a mental flash of what the unexpected visitor might look like.
A boy.
That would explain the odd fluctuations he heard in the low voice from time to time. It would also explain why the lad had such tender ears, and why he was afraid to let Logan out of the stockade. It all fit. A wave of reluctant sympathy tugged at Logan. A lot of young men had shown up in Trinity Falls, hoping to fill their pockets with gold. To them, every stranger was a potential enemy.
“You don’t have to raise the bolt to feed me, kid. Just shove some of that food you’ve been cooking through the small opening at the bottom of the door. I’ll pass you my canteen, and you can fill it at the well.”
“Why did you call me kid?” came the definitely edgy query.
“Hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”
“I’m no child.”
“I’m sure you’ve traveled far and faced your share of hardships,” he conceded. “Now how about that food and water?”
The metal grate came up abruptly. No light flooded through the puny opening. Logan realized night had fallen. He fumbled in the darkness for his empty canteen and pushed it through the open grate. Then he waited.
“Here,” came the gruff voice.
Logan cupped his hand beneath the slot. A fragrant, warm lump fell into his palm. When he took his first bite of the biscuit, his taste buds wept more saliva. Considering the exacting standards he expected from the hotel chef at the Prairie Rose, his starvation must be at an advanced level for him to take delight in such humble fare. Of course, when he lived with the Shoshone, he’d learned to appreciate simply cooked foods.
Moments later, his canteen rolled to his feet. He sat on the ground with his back against the log wall and tipped his head, letting the life-sustaining liquid trickle down his dry throat. Nothing had ever tasted so good, except for-”Do you have any whiskey you’d like to share, kid?”
“Certainly not! And stop calling me kid.”
“Don’t tell me,” Logan said. “Your folks don’t approve of a man enjoying liquor now and again.”
“That’s right!”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised. “I finished my biscuit. Do you have any more?”
The grate came up, and Logan held out his hand expectantly. Three more biscuits filled his palm. If he was a religious man, he might have burst into hallelujahs.
“You’re a good cook, kid,” Logan said around a mouthful of filling bread. “Do you do it for a living?” In between sips of water, Logan savored his third biscuit. “What’s your name?”
A hesitation followed his question. What else was new?
“Amory.”
Despite his desperate circumstances, Logan discovered, he could still smile. “That a first or a last name?”
“Last.”
“Got a first initial you’d like to share, or do you want me calling you Amory?”
Silence.
“You don’t talk much.” A feeling of welcome fullness coupled with incredible fatigue washed over Logan. “That’s fine with me, Amory.”
Silence.
Logan’s eyelids drifted shut.
“V.!”
The strident shout fairly rocked the stockade door. Logan chuckled. His ribs made their presence known. Grimacing, he sank onto a pallet. That he could find anything amusing in his present predicament suggested that he might live after all.
“V.A. it is.” Logan was going to have to tell him that each time he lost his temper, his youthful voice went up several notches.
Now that he had some food in his stomach, Logan’s exhaustion caught up with him. He told himself he’d rest a bit before trying to convince the youth to release him.
Victoria looked down for several moments at the small, square hole into which she’d shoved the prisoner’s food and water. Then she pushed shut the metal grate and stepped from the cell.
She bit her lip, trying not to feel guilty about keeping the wretched man inside the stockade. Yet the plain and simple truth was, she did feel sorry for Mr. Logan Youngblood. Not sorry enough, however, to risk her life by setting the foul-spoken criminal free. At least not until she’d discovered what he’d done to warrant such harsh punishment. Only a simpleton would ignore the fact that he’d been abandoned to certain death. It stood to reason that Logan Youngblood’s sins must be black indeed.
Victoria set about tidying the campsite. The familiar ritual brought a measure of peace. Later, she stretched out upon the blankets she’d spread beneath the wagon. For once, because of the smoothness of the military yard, no sharp sticks or rocks poked through her bedding and into her skin.
Even though the fort was filled with available beds, Victoria wasn’t tempted to spend the night in any of them. Too fresh in her memory was the eerie sensation of standing in empty rooms and feeling the ghostly presence of their former occupants.
“Amory, get your butt over here!”
The surly command jerked Victoria from the few minutes of extra sleep she’d tried to steal from the brightening dawn. She sat up and promptly rammed her forehead against the wagon’s underbelly. A disorienting wave of pain shot through her skull. Simultaneously, her back muscles protested the sudden movement. She pressed her eyelids shut and waited for the shocks to her body to lessen before crawling from beneath the wagon.
“Move it, Amory. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Victoria glared balefully at the stockade.
“I was asleep,” she said, her voice groggy.
“Kid, if you don’t haul your butt over here and let me out, we’re both going to be meat for the buzzards.”
In the morning light, the stockade was a small, crude building that looked both forbidding and forlorn. She steeled herself against any further sympathy for Mr. Youngblood, locked inside its dark interior. Again, she reminded herself that the man must be an evildoer of the blackest sort, and therefore was suffering only what he deserved.
Her jaw tightened. “Relax, Mr. Youngblood. No buzzard is going to get you while you’re inside your cell.”
As she waited for the prisoner’s response, Victoria’s stomach rolled over. She’d forgotten to disguise her voice as that of a man! Apprehensive, she awaited Logan’s next words.
“Kid, just how old are you?”
Victoria couldn’t tear her gaze from the small log building. She coughed once, then cleared her throat and tried to speak from the region of her toes. “Old enough.”
“Ten? Twelve?”
“None of your business.”
“I’m going to make this simple. Any time now, several bands of Indians are going to ride down upon this fort. If the United States Army didn’t care to hang around for the outcome, don’t you think you should reconsider setting up a camp here?”
At the open scorn coating the prisoner’s question, Victoria winced. She looked toward the fort’s gaping entrance. Perhaps she should have closed the gate behind her.
“Look, kid—” The man broke off. “Amory, the Indians plan on burning Fort Brockton to the ground. They don’t intend on taking any prisoners. Unless you want a burning arrow through the gut, I suggest we get the hell out of here.”
“How do you know they’re coming?” Victoria asked, her throat muscles tight.
“That doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we—”
