Rampant River

CHAPTER ONE

Spring 1857

POUNDING HOOFS KICKED up big clods of prairie sod; the black stallion plodded to the top of the knoll. Sam Morgan tightened the reins. The horse was a prize from a bandit he gut-shot, four years back when riding shotgun for the Jim Birch stage line. The horse snorted and pranced in a tight circle. Smell the water? Hearing the gruff voice, the horse whickered. Sam Morgan stroked the sweat damp neck of the big black.

The big man shifted his weight to ease his weary back and shoulders. He grinned at the sight of the silver-blue river and lush green meadow grass. A thin trail of smoke curled from a cabin hidden down river behind a thick stand of cottonwoods. The trail he followed Zebulon Pike pioneered in 1812. North was his destination, Fort Pike. He had a slim change to reach the fort and beat the sunset. Best to pitch camp along the river, he decided.

Beyond the river the rolling prairie dunes rose gently. Rampant River, swollen by the snow melt, cut a wicked swath across the plains of the Kansas Territory. Sam figured he traveled far enough south to cross Kansas land once claimed by Texas. He looked along his back trail; piercing black hawk eyes scanned the vast plains. Slate gray clouds cut across the horizon. Slouched in the saddle, Sam Morgan watched and waited. Satisfied no danger threatened from behind, he looked again at Rampant River and grinned.

The horse whinnied and strained muscles. Sam flicked the reins. He gave the sleek black horse an encouraging pat. Guiding the animal down the gentle slope of the knoll, the long, hard ride across the plains was lost to his memory.

At the river, Sam swung from the saddle and buried his face deep in the cool rushing water. The horse drank beside him. Once Sam’s thirst was satisfied, he laughed loudly and sprawled on the soft river grass. This could be home, he thought. Rich dark soil for planting crops of corn and wheat. It was time for him to settle down, live his final years in peace.

He scratched the gray stubble on his chin. His face bore the scars of smallpox. Smallpox killed his wife with child and his daughter long ago on the Mississippi valley frontier. Ten years of hard work and happiness ended. Sam left his farm, drifted to Texas and fought the war against Santa Anna. When the war ended in 1848, he chased Indians across the badlands with the Texas Rangers for three years. He figured to die. He went through hellfire, never a scratch.

He rode shotgun for the stage across Arizona Territory. He herded cattle from Fort Worth to Saint Louis. He explored the Rockies, trapping mink and beaver and fox. Summer past, he panned gold from the Feather River in California. He patted the pouch of gold dust sewed into his thick mackinaw. Sam figured he could settle some land and start a small herd of cattle with the money he’d saved. Time to settle down. He was too old to continue drifting from town to town and job to job.

The wind was growing stronger, the sound rustling through the grass. Bright yellow sunflowers bowed under the force. An orange butterfly glided around a servis berry bush. Sam reached for a purple berry.

Perhaps the contentment of well-being relaxed Sam Morgan’s inborn reflexes against danger. In the corner of his eye Sam caught the glint of sunlight on brass. He looked over his shoulder, shaded his eyes with his hand. A man stepped from behind a tree, twenty feet away, rifle aimed. Sam’s hand came down like a salute and closed over the grip of his gun. His torso twisted. The rifle cracked. Instinct fought the agony of pain. Back-shooter, Sam cursed. His hand jerked the Patterson free of his holster. His fist held cold steel under his coat. The gun rested on his chest. He felt a numbness spreading through his body. The blue sky clouded over in dark patches.

Through the shroud of blackness, Sam saw the man methodically reload his rifle and check the spark. He didn’t need a second shot. The prairie wolves would gnaw bones before sundown, Sam thought. The man walked toward him and stopped, rifle barrel pointing at Sam’s chest.

Sam admired the polished stock, a Kentucky Long Rifle. Before his mind went blank, he remembered firing the Patterson.

The tall, slim girl hunched over the black pot heard the rifle shot. She was fixing a stew for dinner: chopping potatoes and carrots, and cutting thin slices of venison. She paid no attention to the sound. The second shot made her frown; she knew that wasn’t Allen’s rifle. She kept busy with her morning ritual: hauling water and firewood, clearing the breakfast table of plates, spoons, and knives. One mug still steamed with pine tea.

An hour passed and Allen didn’t return. Andrea went to the door of the cabin. Down along the river a scattering of buzzards hovered in the sky. Allen shot himself, she thought. She caught the half-wild mustang in the small corral next to the cabin and swung up on the animal’s back. The spirited mustang broke into a fast trot. Andrea urged him toward the river and the circling buzzards.

She saw Sam Morgan’s sleek black horse first. The saddle on the horse meant it wasn’t an Indian’s horse. She swung down from her mustang and saw her husband, Allen, crumbled on the ground; his eyes stared at the river. Sightless eyes. She knew he was dead. Andrea’s mouth twisted at the sight; she felt no great emotion. Her breasts throbbed with pain from the beating last night. She was glad he was dead. God forgive her! She made the sign of the cross.

A moaning sound startled Andrea. She moved cautiously toward the source of the moan. Panic seized her for an instant when she saw Sam Morgan’s body in the tall grass. Forcing a control, she bent down close to the big man. The buffalo grass, crushed and crisscrossed, was crusted with blood. His shirt was soaked with blood. The bullet had gone through his collarbone and lodged above his heart.

He’s alive, Andrea thought. But he won’t be for long if I don’t help. It took all her strength to get him to his feet and onto the mustang’s back. Supporting him, she led the mustang up the meadow slope toward her cabin. The black stallion followed.

Sam screamed once when Andrea lowered him to the ground at the front of the cabin door. He locked his jaw, looked at her with a sick grin, and bore the pain without another sound. She half-carried, half-dragged him inside the cabin. He was unconscious by the time she got him on her bed. Steeling herself, Andrea pulled open the bloody shirt. Blood oozed from the hole below his neck. She dipped a cloth in water and washed away the blood. She could see a jagged splinter from the collarbone. I’ve got to cut the bullet out or he’ll bleed to death, she said aloud. Before God, I’ve got to try.

She pressed the cloth tightly against the wound to slow the bleeding. Then, she poured boiling water from a kettle on the fire and added a portion of Allen’s whiskey. Allen’s thin skinning knife was on the fireplace shelf. Sweat moistened her brow. She hesitated. Tensing, she probed with the knife, never even pausing to wipe the sweat falling from her brow, she worked like a woman possessed. This man’s life or death depended on her strong will and the help of God.

Andrea felt the chunk of lead under the knifepoint. With her free hand she pressed hard on the flesh below the wound. She took a deep breath and stabbed below the lead and lifted. The bullet was free and the ugly black lead came out, dragging a bloody clot of burnt cloth. She poured the hot whiskey water into the wound. Tearing a blue cotton dress, she cut the cloth to bandage the wound.

Finishing the task, Andrea used her faint strength to undress the man. A flush crept into her cheeks as she looked at his heavily matted chest and powerful muscled body. She wondered why she had saved his life. God only knows, he killed Allen. Though her husband had bushwhacked him for no good reason. Probably only Allen’s fool greed, she thought, he was fixing to steal that black horse.

The next thing she did was release her two children from the woodshed. Allen locked both up last night, punishment for spending half the day along the river and neglecting chores. The shed was unlocked. They never dared escape, not after the repeated whippings for disobedience. She had seen to it they had blankets last night. They were huddled together on a bed of straw in the corner. She knelt beside them and hugged them in her arms and cried.

Andrea felt the ache in her body from the exhaustive struggle. There was a loneliness inside her heart rising in conflict, forcing aside the weariness. Allen was dead. She had to bury her husband. She rose and took a shovel from the tools propped against the wall. In a trance she went outside. The boy and girl followed.

Watch over that stranger in the house. Don’t let him fall out of that bed. He’s hurt real bad. Andrea wiped sweat from her brow. I’ve got to bury your pa.

Andrea dug into the soft soil near a cluster of boulders above the highest flood mark along Rampant River. By the time the hole was big enough the sun was touching the horizon. Only a numbness offered feeling as she dragged Allen into the grave and spaded the dirt over his stiff body. There was only a finality of action as she patted the dirt firm. Since the beginning, Allen hadn’t been a husband. He was only a reflection of a man. It wasn’t strange that she felt no grief, not even sympathy. She stayed with him because of the children. Daniel born out of wedlock. Heather a year later. Allen treated her like a whore and a slave, not like a mother and lover. Jesus, he was a wicked, weak man. Quick to poke a girl. Strong. She resisted him that first time, damn him, told him no. He raped her.

Shaking from weariness, she walked to the cabin. The black horse near the corral neighed. Andrea managed to catch the reins. Allen owned a pair of big blacks like this one in New Orleans. Now, he tried to kill to own this horse. The truth was clear.

Andrea’s heart felt contempt. Her husband had fostered the contempt ever since they came to this new country. Away from the security and luxury of New Orleans, Allen had proven himself totally incompetent, without the skills to survive life on the edge of civilization. He had turned to drinking to cover his weakness. Andrea was bound to Allen because of family; her father demanded she marry Allen when she confessed being with child. Her pa captained a Colton merchant ship until the hurricane of 1845 took him and his crew. God rest his soul.

Andrea was a proud woman despite her humble heritage and she knew Allen was the wrong man to marry. Often she felt like she was sold to Allen because of his wealth. Allen’s family was successful merchants. They shipped guns to Texas during the war with Mexico. The Republic of Texas paid for the guns with a land grant, all land south of Rampant River to the boundary of the Indian Territory, Missouri border east and prairie west. She had forgotten the measure of the ranch in square miles. The ranch extended six days ride west, that she remembered.

A laugh caught in her throat. She was beholden to a strange man for killing her husband. The thought was sinful, and before God she prayed for understanding.

Entering the cabin, Andrea stood beside her bed and looked for a long moment at the man’s dark face. He was breathing easy and sleeping. I’ve got you to thank and I’m not even sure I’m grateful, she thought. I should hate you. She fell to her knees beside the bed and prayed for forgiveness for her sinful thoughts.

The steady whack of an axe on oak, the scent of wood smoke and sourdough biscuits, a sharp pain in his neck: the impressions brought the awareness to Sam Morgan that he was alive. His shoulder felt like the flesh was being branded with searing fire. His memory came back slowly. The river, a man with a Kentucky rifle, the shot, then he remembered falling under a wave of blackness after pulling the trigger of his Patterson. Sam stared at the timbers of the roof, the sod walls. Then, he saw the woman.

How-dy ma-am. Sam managed to say the words in a whispered drawl.

Andrea didn’t answer, she stared at him.

She was a beautiful woman, Sam thought. Tall and straight, her head nearly touched the ceiling. She was big boned, but not fleshy. Her hair was raven black and she had defiant, angry blue-gray eyes that made Sam think of smoldering wood smoke about to ignite into flame.

She continued staring, without speaking. Curiosity, a shade of opposition, and the sensation of fear held her transfixed. Finally she said, I figure you must be hungry.

Sam nodded and the pain burned in his neck.

Andrea brought a plate of hot cornmeal mash. Sam concentrated on the food, swallowing was a torture, but he ate until the plate was clean. He wiped his mouth and smiled.

There’s more, Andrea said when he finished.

I’ve had enough, thank you, Sam replied, gritting his teeth. Each word he spoke sent hot needles into his lungs. You can tell me how I got here.

I brought you from the river. My husband shot you yesterday morning. He was after your black horse. Allen gambles, gambled. He owes money; he never won at poker.

Your husband?

Allen Colton. You killed him, she said quietly with no show of emotion.

Sam half lifted himself from the bed and then sank back as a wave of fever and pain overcame his intention to stand.

You move and the bleeding will start over again, Andrea warned. I’m used to stitching broadcloth not flesh.

Sam’s fingers closed on the bandage wrapped around his shoulder and neck. His face flushed when he realized he was naked. You brought me here after killing your man?

Andrea moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her cheeks trembled slightly. You needed help. Allen shot first; I heard the shots. I found you and that black horse and Allen, dead. Brought you here and cut the bullet out as best I could. I mean no harm to anyone, mister. I’m a Christian woman; I send no man to hell.

Sam touched the bandage again. It meant he’d been helpless and unconscious for over twenty-four hours. He looked at Andrea. What the hell kind of a woman was she? There was no grief in her eyes, no resentment. Just cold detachment, he thought. He had to respect her. She could have let him die.

Your name? Sam asked.

Andrea.

Sam Morgan. Your husband shouldn’t have gone for my horse. Bad business in this country. Sam sank back into the mattress.

Andrea leaned forward and pulled the blanket aside to examine the bandage. Sam caught her wrist. I don’t need attention. He felt anger at the way she impersonally looked at his nakedness and she smiled at his obvious arousal despite his condition. She was a woman to tempt any man.

You best sleep, she said.

Right now I’m more interested in why you didn’t leave me to die. Sleep can wait. He lifted on an elbow, sagged back, unable to lock the joint.

She pursed her lips. Her gray eyes challenged his black questing gaze. No reason except my Christian duty, she answered.

You’re an awful tempting woman. I figure near half my age. Sam grinned wickedly.

Twenty-seven come winter, but I feel old, she said and paused. Years don’t mean too much out in this country. I’ve grown some since I left New Orleans. The defiance in her eyes was suddenly sparked with hatred.

You’re a lot of woman. Sam laughed. Can’t understand why someone pretty like you would leave New Orleans for this country.

A woman follows her man. Allen came out here and I had to come along. She could see a smudge of red on the bandage. Rest, please.

And that’s all. No grief for your dead husband?

You don’t know. My pa captained a Colton merchant brig. I have a younger sister. Allen helped my family and my pa gave me for his wife. Tears filled her eyes. After Allen got me pregnant.

Forced to marry. And you accepted that man?

Christ! she screamed. I was fifteen. He raped me. That’s the way things are done with Bayou women. Andrea looked at Sam, her eyes wild. I was his wife.

Sam forced a laugh. Seems more like you was his property. That makes little sense to my way of thinking. This country is wild, blood spilled for no cause. No place for a girl. A man should know that and consider. Sam’s thick bushy eyebrows arched slightly. He smiled. You wanted to be free from that man.

She survived eight brutal years on the frontier. She didn’t need this man to explain a woman’s place. The marriage was a sham. Allen fucked with as many women as he wanted, as often as he wanted. She cared for Daniel and Heather. He sometimes came to bed and forced his way without passion. A drunken ritual, without love.

He never cared. Was in gambling trouble in New Orleans; his folks disowned him, gave him this ranch and cut him loose. He wasn’t a man for this country, nothing but drinking, she said evenly. The ranch, a joke. I keep a truck farm for victuals and he drinks and gambles. Allen begged money from friends in New Orleans.

Sam let his eyes move slowly and deliberately over her figure. I think I should warn you, I’m a man that takes a fair share. Your husband figured I’d settle for six feet of his land.

She arched back at the sound of his harsh voice. The movement outlined her firm breasts against her thin white blouse.

I look out for myself. And, it’s best you understand that, she retorted angrily. Now you need sleep.

Sam’s mouth curved in a hard smile. Sleep might be dangerous.

If I wanted to kill you, I’ve had plenty of time, she flared and turned away.

Later, when Andrea knew he was sleeping, she came back and looked at Sam Morgan. He’s right. He’ll take whatever he wants, she thought. The way he looked at me with those black eyes. When he was delirious he called to his wife. I love you Kate-he repeated the words over and over and cried. The love he expressed pained her heart. She prayed for God to spare his death. Allen wasn’t a man and before God her hurt inside for a man was raging. Andrea felt a rush of shame at her thought. She had no right to think that way. This man was a stranger. God forgive my wickedness.

A splinter of light pierced a crack in the sod wall. Sam Morgan awakened with the first ray of dawn creeping over the horizon. Andrea was sleeping on the floor, covered with a blanket. He felt helpless and beholden to her and that made him angry. And, he was angry because she made him think of his wife.

His memories raced through his mind. Ten years ago his wife and daughter died from smallpox. His son stillborn. His future ended. The eyes of his friends and neighbors were a constant reminder of what his life could have been. He abandoned his farm along the Mississippi and drifted. There were women in his life but never a woman like his Kate. He loved a senorita in San Antonio, the daughter of a don. Working cattle in Oregon he came close to wedding a widow. The passion was there but not the love. Riding shotgun on the stage route crossing Arizona, he was a frequent visitor to the brothel in Dos Cabezas. Gloria was his special girl. Trapping in the Rockies a squaw kept his bed warm. He froze and baked in the Sierra goldfield, alone. And now, a hankering for land to settle brought him to see Kansas. A woman always complicated matters.

The woman stirred and opened her eyes. A slight smile played across her lips. I guess I was more tired than usual. Have breakfast ready in no time, she said.

The two children peered down from the loft.

Daniel, Heather fetch water. Andrea set a bucket and kettle on the table.

Yes, ma. They said and climbed down, their eyes on the stranger.

Outside, Andrea ordered.

Both jumped, grabbed the water bucket and kettle and ran out the door.

Sam watched her busy herself at the fire. She was a pretty sight to watch, lithe and quick as a stalking cat. The sleep had helped him. He felt a lot stronger. Watching Andrea he felt a carnal heat in his blood. The boy and girl returned with water.

She fed him breakfast. The boy and girl stared. Sam stared back, seeing the bruise on the boy’s temple and the blue patches on the girl’s arm. They were hard treated, Sam thought. He finished the bowl of mush. After a mug of pine tea he closed his eyes. He heard Andrea hush her children. He tried to open his eyes, managed one last peek at the woman, then dreamed.

Sam Morgan’s aroused blood grew stronger in the weeks that followed. And, he found out a great deal about Andrea. She was a willful woman. She patiently attended his wound and no amount of protesting could dissuade her from her purpose. Whenever she felt it necessary to examine or replace the bandage, she did just that. There was honesty in her words and actions and stubborn pride. In every respect, she was a complete woman. Sam felt a strong urgency to possess her.

Her son and daughter kept their distance. He suspected they expected him to be cruel like their father, quick with a whip and a lack of praise. Sam greeted them each day with kind words. He told them tall tales after dinner and made them laugh.

One morning, while he was shaving he caught Andrea watching. He smiled at her face in the small cracked mirror. The wound no longer bothered him. The night before she had removed the bandage. A dark red jagged line of catgut crisscrossed the torn flesh. The wound seeped a few drops of blood.

I’ve decided it’s high time I did some work around here. I’m going to clean a strip of land along the river and plant corn. Notice plenty of seed in the bin in the barn, Sam said flatly.

This land is mine. Andrea placed her hands on her hips and glared at Sam.

I figure we share the harvest. Sam said and flicked the last streak of soap off his chin with the straight razor.

She looked at him, saw the tenseness in his eyes. A rebellion tore at her insides. He knows I can’t stand against him, she thought. And, he knows I want him bad.

You’re not answering. Sam buckled the Patterson on his hip and donned his wide-rimmed Stetson.

A man can be evil, force his way. God protects those that believe. As she spoke she saw the storm in his eyes, an intense blackness with shadows of wildness.

Sam laughed. He felt the heat rush in his blood. She might put that skinning knife in my heart in the night, Sam thought. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever known before. Sam Morgan knew he had to love her. He had to possess her lithe body, touch her bold breasts, taste the sweetness of her lips. He knew she had a desperate need for love. A woman like her couldn’t live without love. He easily caught her arm and before she could fight held her and kissed her.

Andrea wrenched free and stepped back, her hand brushed away the taste of his lips. You think you have that right, she screamed.

The proper right, girl. Sam laughed. But, I won’t force you.

She struck at him with her tightly clinched fist. Sam caught her arm again and his fingers tightened. A man can’t control his blood when passion burns like hellfire.

And you think a beginning in hell is proper? A quiet fury was in her words.

Don’t talk about hell. I know all about hell. He released her.

Her eyes moistened and tears fell down her trembling cheeks. I can’t stop you, Sam, you know that. Her voice softened almost to the point of resignation.

Sam looked at Andrea for a long moment, then stalked out of the cabin. A dark anger tore at his guts as he saddled the big black horse and then rode toward the curve in the river. The memory of the warm fire of her lips mocked his pride.

Soon, he thought and slapped the reins. His horse broke into a fast gallop. The spirited animal had spent too many weeks in the corral.

Sam Morgan believed in determining his own destiny. Years before, when he built a home for his wife, a compulsion drove him, forced him to reap a profit from his farm and double his harvest in five years. He possessed an indestructible will power. The years of struggle could not break that will. Now, he was given a second chance. He knew what he wanted. And, he knew Andrea wanted him.

Darkness was drawing moon shadows when Sam finally returned to the cabin. He spent an hour giving the black stallion a rub and brush, until the coat shinned. He had rode a long way, surveying the land, thinking things out. He remembered the map Andrea had shown him of the land she owned.

To the north Sam reckoned the ranch ran along Rampant River. Snowmelt and streams poured water into Rampant River. South was the Indian Territory. The ranch stretched east to the border of Missouri. The boundary of the ranch to the west was six days ride across the prairie. Texas paid the Colton family mighty generously. Sam grinned. Fate was strange, he thought. Could be he fought the war against Mexico with a gun provided by a Colton.

Andrea didn’t say a word as she spooned stew on his plate. She watched him eat in silence, each concentrating on their own thoughts. The children were already asleep in the loft. When he finished the meal, Sam made no attempt to light the lamp. Andrea finished her kitchen work by the light of the wood fire. Behind her, she heard the creak of her bed.

Come over here, Sam whispered.

Andrea trembled. She went to the bed because a compulsion was inside her, a torment that had to be released. It was cold away from the fire, but the cold held no meaning as his hands undressed her and caressed her body. She felt like she had never been touched before. Never this way. Her flesh responded to the tenderness of this man. A moan, a tremor in her throat, a soft cry of anguish, and then she was lost in his strength.

The sun was warm, sending flickers of bright light through the window. Andrea awakened. She twisted on the bed and looked at the big man beside her, breathing gently.

A flood of color flushed her cheeks. A shame burned in her eyes and yet she couldn’t look away. Sam Morgan was a big man. His chest was white, thick with blond curly hair, a contrast to the sun burned skin of his strong arms and shoulders.

He made me become a woman, she thought. He gave me more passion in one night than she’d known in her lifetime. I must love him, she decided.

Then the shame came again as she realized she was giving worship to a man’s body and calling that worship love. A prayer formed on her lips and quickly died. It was a sin to turn to God at this time. She thought it was impossible for God to care enough to forgive her for her wrong. She would pray later for understanding.

Last night was alive in her heart, the details vivid in her mind. There had been a sweetness, an exquisite torment of pain and pleasure and savage uncontrolled impulses.

Sam opened his eyes and caught her staring. His mouth curved in a lascivious smile. You’re a beautiful vision, Andrea.

A woman shamed. She made the sign of the cross and covered her naked breasts with the blanket.

No cause to be shamed. Sam reached for her, winched. A sharp pain extended across his chest.

Andrea hastily rose and started to dress. She was aware of him watching her, his eyes on her breasts, her body-the body she had surrendered last night. In defiance, she dressed before him, forcing a challenge.

She woke her children, sent them for wood and water. She fixed hot mush and more pine tea.

During breakfast, he kept looking at her. He felt the longing still there, his blood still needing her. The night proved she was a woman, a woman needing a man. And she had fought him with wildness and passion. Sam wondered at the calm look on her face.

I told you I was going to plant this land and I know it’s right, Sam said.

Andrea stared across the table at him. She felt the scald of tears in her eyes. You take me and this land. It doesn’t matter. And my children?

Heather dropped her spoon. The boy ate faster. They were both aware of their future being decided.

We can live proper, Andrea. Find a preacher. Sam’s eyes held her gaze.

Proper! Andrea frowned. The fort is a half-day ride north of Rampant River. Her voice was hesitant.

Sam grinned. Reckon we can visit the preacher, soon as the crops are planted.

God, damn you, Sam Morgan. Her voice was hushed, taunt. God forgive me.

CHAPTER TWO

Fort Pike

SAM MORGAN PLANTED the cornfield along the river, laboring from the first light of dawn until darkness forced him to stop. It was hard work, forcing the Indian mustang to pull the plow, but Sam refused to quit. He cursed the lack of ox or mule. And, he wished he owned a John Deere steel plow blade. Gasping for air, a bandana covering half his face to keep out the choking dust, he kept working.

The nights when his weariness wasn’t too great, he found peace and comfort with Andrea. He tried to think of love, but the love turned to memories of his wife, Kate.

Andrea found happiness, and at times, a deep remorse. Sam no longer mentioned riding to Fort Pike to find a preacher. Andrea consoled her troubled heart with the excuse that the time would come after the fields were planted.

The day finally came when the first field was sown. Late afternoon, Sam sent Daniel and Heather to pick raspberries along the river. Sam made love to Andrea with a wild elation. She finally broke free, insisting she fix supper.

Now you rest a spell, she whispered. This be the first day you finished work before sundown.