Beloved Outcast. Pat Tracy
What terrible menace could have caused the commanding officer to evacuate his troops?
The incredible, numbing silence of the deserted military facility heightened her already taut nerves. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to do next.
It seemed madness to stay in a place that an armed militia had fled. Her shoulders sagged as she turned from the doorway and retraced her steps across the military yard. Returning to the unhitched wagon, she scarcely registered the presence of a squat log stockade. She was tired and hungry—a poor set of circumstances under which to make anything but a bad decision. Perhaps things wouldn’t seem quite so bleak if she took care of the gnawing emptiness in her stomach. Who knew, if her legs ceased to tremble and she didn’t feel quite so light-headed, she might be able to make sense of her macabre surroundings?
Within minutes, Victoria had set up a campsite in the middle of the military yard. Early in her exodus west, she’d learned the subtle nuances of building a vigorous fire.
To prepare the biscuits, all she needed was some coarse brown flour, salt, water and a bit of grease. It took no time at all to knead the dough into egg-size lumps and drop them into the bubbling grease that lined the thick frying skillet. The simple action gave her a sense of being in control.
Dusk fell across the buildings silhouetted by her fire. The frying dough sent a pleasant aroma through the cooling air. She reached across the rocks she’d interspersed with pieces of wood and used a long-handled fork to spear and flip the biscuits.
“Who the hell are you?”
The husky male voice leaped from the encroaching darkness and vibrated in the very air Victoria drew into her lungs. She jumped back from the campfire, dropping her fork. She scoured the deepening shadows for a clue as to where the intruder lurked.
“I asked you…” There was a pause, as if the man were catching his breath “…a question.” The gritty voice tugged at her nerves with the same raspy irritation as the gravelly rocks that shifted beneath the soles of her shoes. “Did Windham send you to let me out?”
Out?
Her gaze pivoted to the small stockade just ten feet from where she’d built her campfire. With stomach-tightening dread, she realized she wasn’t alone after all.
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?”
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