Cheyenne Wife. Judith Stacy
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“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
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.