Beloved Outcast. Pat Tracy
who is funny, smart, brave, strong-willed, independent, athletic, artistic and beautiful.
Sweetheart, you’re definitely heroine material.
Mother’s Note: A couple of months after this
dedication was written, Sheriann was killed in an automobile accident. She was fourteen. Darling, you have my heart—always. Love, Mom
* * * * * *
I would like to thank Sherry Roseberry, Vicki Scaggs and Martha Tew, gifted writers and true friends. Without your generous editing efforts, I would look sooo foolish. (I’m thinking particularly of my hero being “within” instead of “without.”) And thank you, Patti McAllister, for your last-minute read of the final version. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Idaho Territory, 1868
“Sit down, Youngblood.”
Logan Youngblood stared at the army-issue revolver pointed at his chest. “Somehow this isn’t quite the welcome I expected, Colonel Windham.”
The mustached cavalry officer gestured with the Remington’s barrel toward the chair that faced his desk. “By your own account, you rode for two days and a night to warn us about the fort being attacked. Surely you could do with a rest.”
The only outward evidence of the colonel’s displeasure, other than the drawn weapon, was reflected in his cold blue eyes.
Logan glanced at the other three uniformed men present. They were young lieutenants, dressed in pristine dark blue uniforms trimmed with enough newly minted gold braid to make a dead man stand up and salute. From their uneasy expressions, though, he could tell they were baffled by their commanding officer’s behavior.
Logan moved toward the waiting chair. Until he found out what was going on, he would accept Windham’s not-sogracious hospitality. Unexpectedly, Logan’s thoughts turned to Madison, and what would happen to her, should the gun barrel he was staring down serve its intended purpose.
But then, Madison’s tumultuous arrival in his life seemed to herald the beginning of a series of complications, not the least of which was the necessity of securing a qualified woman to educate the twelve-year-old girl.
“Wait a minute,” the colonel ordered tersely. “Take his gun, Lawson.”
“Sir?” the young soldier queried, as if he weren’t sure he understood the order.
“You heard me.”
Logan stood perfectly still as the Colt.44 he’d taken to wearing since coming west was extracted from his holster. He didn’t know what Windham was up to, but he was fairly certain the officer wouldn’t shoot him in front of three witnesses.
Logan claimed the proffered chair.
“Tie him up,” came the next tight-lipped command.
Logan shot to his feet. “Enough is enough, Windham. I came here to warn you that several tribes are planning to attack. Now that I’ve done that, I’m going to ride out of here and—”
The ominous click of a service revolver being cocked interrupted Logan. His attention again focused on the drawn gun.
“I don’t like Indian-lovers, Youngblood. As far as I’m concerned I’d be doing the entire territory a favor by killing you where you stand. Unfortunately, because I am civilized, I have to obey the law. So, by the letter of that law, I’m placing you under military arrest for abetting murderous redskins. Now sit the hell down!”
The revolver’s nine-inch barrel remained steady. With four armed soldiers against one unarmed civilian, the odds weren’t exactly in his favor. Still, having survived countless Civil War battles and his first few hazardous months in the Idaho Territory, Logan felt reasonably calm. He couldn’t see his life ending in this room. He was grateful, however, as he eased onto the chair, that he hadn’t put off seeing to Madison’s future. Thank God his good friend and associate Martin Pritchert had already made arrangements to bring a tutor from the East to instruct the uneducated girl. Since she was now legally Logan’s ward, she would be cared for no matter what happened to him. For the time being, Martin’s wife was watching over Madison.
It took all the self-discipline Logan possessed for him to submit to having his hands tied behind the back of the chair while another length of rope was secured around his ankles.
“Your time has run out, Youngblood.” Windham pushed his face an inch from Logan’s. “I want to know where those murdering savages are camped, and I want to know now.”
Logan stared into Windham’s unyielding features. Somehow, even though he suspected the military man was beyond reasoning with, Logan had to convince him that not all Indians were “murdering savages.”
“Night Wolf’s people are at peace,” he pointed out flatly. “They had nothing to do with attacking the families on that wagon train, and they won’t have any part of assaulting the fort.”
Windham turned his back to Logan and, with careful deliberateness, laid his gleaming revolver upon the desk. Then, without warning, the officer spun around and plowed his fist into Logan’s jaw.
The chair he’d been tied to scraped stridently against the wood-planked floor. Logan’s head shot back, but the pain was tolerable. Windham didn’t pack much of a punch, which was true of most small men wrapped in gold-spangled uniforms.
“That was the wrong answer, Youngblood.”
Through a dull haze of pain, Logan noticed a loop of spittle hanging from the colonel’s curled upper lip. The frozen image of a mad dog Logan had seen once as a boy in Scotland danced briefly in his thoughts. Yet Windham’s manner remained eerily calm.
“It’s the only answer I’ve got.” Logan’s gaze went to the three other men in Windham’s office. Each soldier wore a look of distaste. Logan didn’t know whether their grim expressions were a result of their commanding officer’s violent behavior or Logan’s refusal to provide them with directions to Night Wolf’s camp.
“Leave me alone with the prisoner,” Windham ordered abruptly. Open contempt radiated from his pale blue eyes.
“Sir, do you think that’s a good idea?” one of the young lieutenants questioned, his voice notched with uncertainty.
“He’s tied up, Lawson,” Windham answered with heavy sarcasm. “There’s no danger of him getting free and doing me any harm.”
“Uh, sir—he did bring the warning about the Blackfeet and other tribes going on the warpath.”
“He won’t tell us where to find them,” Windham snarled. “I want to wipe out every heathen man, woman and child infesting the Idaho Territory.”
“But this is Mr. Youngblood here,” Lawson pointed out, his tone placating. “He’s the president of the Territorial Bank.”
“Are you questioning a direct order, soldier?”
Lawson’s cherub cheeks reddened as he snapped to attention. “No, Sir!”
The two other cavalrymen present were already filing from the room. It didn’t take the young lieutenant long to rethink his tenuous position with his commanding officer and follow them.
When the door shut behind the departing soldiers, an oppressive silence filled the commandant’s office.
“Well, Youngblood, it’s just you and me now.”
“Under