PART 2

Boon’s hand closed around the revolver.

Martha stared at him from beneath the wagon canvas.

The gates of Fort Laramie stood less than a mile away, dark timber walls rising against the pale Wyoming sky. She could see riders moving near the entrance. Smoke curled from chimneys beyond the palisade. Somewhere inside those walls there would be water, food, beds, soldiers.

A doctor.

Everything she had prayed for.

Yet Boon stood in the road as though the fort were a graveyard.

“Why are we stopping?” she asked again.

His jaw tightened.

“Martha, stay in the wagon.”

“No.”

His eyes flicked toward her.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“And I’m not one of your freight crates.”

For five days she had watched Boon face storms, swollen creeks, rattlesnakes, and a wolf pack without so much as raising his voice.

Now, looking at Fort Laramie, the mountain man appeared afraid.

That frightened her more than the revolver.

Martha pushed aside the blanket covering her legs.

Boon took one step toward her.

“Don’t climb down.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong.”

He looked toward the fort again.

A mounted patrol had appeared outside the gate.

Three soldiers.

They were coming down the trail toward them.

Boon slowly pulled his revolver from its holster.

Martha’s heart began pounding.

“Boon.”

“Stay behind me.”

“What have you done?”

For the first time since meeting him, something like pain passed across his face.

“Enough.”

The riders approached at an easy trot.

Dust rose around their horses.

The soldier in front wore sergeant’s stripes. He was perhaps fifty, with a gray mustache and a cavalry saber hanging beside his saddle.

His expression changed the instant he recognized Boon.

The sergeant pulled his horse to a stop.

The two soldiers behind him did the same.

Nobody spoke.

Wind moved through the dry grass.

Finally the sergeant said, “Well.”

Boon’s revolver remained pointed at the ground.

“Elias.”

The sergeant’s eyes hardened.

“Haven’t heard anybody call me that in twelve years.”

Martha looked from one man to the other.

“You know each other?”

Neither answered her.

Sergeant Elias Warren stared at Boon as though he had seen a dead man walking.

“You’ve got nerve coming this close to the fort.”

“I didn’t come for you.”

“No?”

Elias looked toward the wagon.

His gaze found Martha.

Then her belly.

His expression changed.

“What happened to her?”

“Broken wagon,” Boon said. “Husband’s dead. She needs the doctor.”

Martha watched the sergeant.

A decent man, she thought.

Or at least a man capable of looking like one.

Elias swung down from his horse.

“You bring her in.”

Boon did not move.

The sergeant glanced at his revolver.

“You think I’m going to shoot you in front of a pregnant woman?”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

“That makes two of us.”

One of the younger soldiers shifted nervously in his saddle.

“Sergeant?”

Elias raised a hand.

“Ride back. Tell Doctor Whitmore we have a woman seven months along who’s had early labor pains. Have him ready.”

The soldiers hesitated.

“Go.”

They turned their horses toward the fort.

Martha exhaled.

“Thank you.”

Elias nodded politely.

Then he looked at Boon.

“You can leave.”

Martha frowned.

“What?”

Boon’s shoulders stiffened.

Elias repeated, “She’s safe now. You can leave.”

Martha stared at Boon.

He still had not holstered the revolver.

“Why would he leave?”

Silence.

Martha’s patience snapped.

“I have spent nearly a week being hauled across the plains by this man. He fed me, carried me, slept beside the wagon in storms, and kept me from delivering a child two months early. Somebody is going to tell me what is happening.”

Elias gave a humorless laugh.

“That sounds like Boon.”

“You say his name like it tastes rotten.”

The sergeant looked at her.

“Ma’am, do you know who this man is?”

“I know exactly who he is.”

“No. You know what he told you.”

Boon finally holstered his gun.

“That’s enough, Elias.”

The sergeant stepped closer.

“You’re right. Twelve years is probably enough.”

Martha saw it then.

Not merely anger between the men.

History.

Deep history.

The sort that never disappeared.

Elias spoke quietly.

“Boon Mercer is wanted for murdering three United States soldiers.”

Martha stopped breathing.

The wind tugged at the wagon canvas.

Somewhere far away, a meadowlark called.

She turned toward Boon.

He did not deny it.

“Three?”

Elias nodded.

“One was my brother.”

Martha’s eyes stayed fixed on Boon.

“Is that true?”

His face had gone still.

“Yes.”

The word struck harder than she expected.

She thought of the nights beneath the stars.

Of Boon handing her the larger portion of rabbit without mentioning he was hungry.

Of him rubbing warmth back into her frozen fingers after a mountain storm.

Of his arms around her while contractions tore through her body.

“You killed them?”

“Yes.”

Her voice dropped.

“Why?”

Boon looked at Elias.

“Ask him.”

The sergeant’s face reddened.

“You murdering bastard.”

“Ask him what happened.”

“I know what happened.”

“No. You know what they wrote down.”

Elias lunged.

His fist caught Boon across the mouth.

Martha cried out.

Boon staggered but did not reach for his gun.

Elias hit him again.

Blood appeared on Boon’s lip.

“Stop!”

Martha tried climbing from the wagon.

A sharp pressure twisted through her abdomen.

She gasped.

Both men froze.

Boon was beside her immediately.

“Martha?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re pale.”

“I am seven months pregnant, exhausted, widowed, and surrounded by idiots.”

Even Elias looked ashamed.

She pointed toward the fort.

“We are going inside.”

Boon shook his head.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“They’ll arrest me.”

“Then they arrest you.”

His eyes met hers.

“You want that?”

“I want my baby alive.”

That ended the argument.

Boon climbed onto the wagon seat.

Elias mounted his horse.

Together they rode toward Fort Laramie.

The moment Boon crossed the gate, soldiers recognized him.

Whispers spread.

Men stopped carrying barrels.

A blacksmith lowered his hammer.

Two officers emerged from headquarters.

One of them shouted, “Mercer?”

Boon raised both hands.

“Woman needs a doctor first.”

Rifles appeared.

Martha’s stomach tightened.

Elias rode ahead.

“Lower those weapons! Doctor first!”

The soldiers obeyed reluctantly.

Doctor Whitmore arrived at a run.

He was a thin, balding man with spectacles sliding down his nose.

He climbed into the wagon, examined Martha briefly, then barked orders.

“Get her inside. Slowly.”

Soldiers lifted her on a canvas stretcher.

Martha reached for Boon’s hand.

His fingers closed around hers.

For just a second.

Then soldiers surrounded him.

A lieutenant stepped forward.

“Boon Mercer, you are under arrest for murder and desertion.”

Martha’s grip slipped away.

Boon did not resist.

As they placed irons around his wrists, he looked at her.

“Get that child born.”

Then they took him away.

—

The doctor ordered Martha confined to bed.

“The baby is staying where it belongs for now,” he told her. “But I suspect only because it has inherited your stubbornness.”

Martha almost smiled.

Almost.

She was given a small room inside the hospital building. Clean sheets. Fresh water. Broth.

Safety.

She hated every minute of it.

Three days passed.

Nobody would tell her what would happen to Boon.

On the fourth morning, Sergeant Elias entered carrying a tray.

Martha narrowed her eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Breakfast.”

“You’re a cavalry sergeant.”

“Today I’m carrying oatmeal.”

“Why?”

He set the tray down.

“Because every orderly in this building is afraid of you.”

“Good.”

Elias pulled up a chair.

Martha studied him.

His anger toward Boon remained, but something else had crept beneath it.

Uncertainty.

“Tell me what happened twelve years ago,” she said.

He looked toward the window.

“No.”

“Then leave.”

“Martha—”

“Mrs. Hale.”

He sighed.

“Mrs. Hale.”

“That man saved my life. I would like to know whether I should thank him or despise him.”

Elias rubbed both hands over his face.

“My brother’s name was Thomas.”

Martha waited.

“We were stationed south of here. Small detachment. Nothing important. Boon was civilian scout.”

“Was he a good one?”

“The best.”

Elias gave a bitter smile.

“He could find water where a preacher would swear God had forgotten to put any.”

“What happened?”

“A wagon train came through.”

His expression changed.

“There had been sickness among the travelers. Fever. Children mostly.”

Martha felt suddenly cold.

“One family had medicine.”

“What kind?”

“Quinine. Maybe some laudanum. Whatever they had, people were desperate.”

Elias stared at his hands.

“My brother and two other soldiers were accused of stealing supplies from the wagons.”

“Accused?”

“That’s what Boon claimed.”

“And you didn’t believe him?”

“Thomas was my brother.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Elias looked at her sharply.

Martha did not look away.

After a long silence, he continued.

“Boon confronted them outside camp. There was shooting. When it ended, all three soldiers were dead.”

“Did anyone see it?”

“No.”

“So Boon said they were thieves.”

“Yes.”

“And the Army said Boon murdered them.”

“Yes.”

“Was the medicine found?”

Elias’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

Martha noticed.

There.

Something.

“You think he was telling the truth.”

“I think my brother is dead.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Elias stood suddenly.

“You weren’t there.”

“Neither were you.”

The sergeant turned toward the door.

Martha spoke before he could leave.

“Why didn’t Boon run when he reached the fort?”

“He did run. Twelve years ago.”

“No. This time.”

Elias stopped.

“He could have left me on the road when he saw the fort. He could have sent you to collect me. Instead he drove through the gate knowing exactly what would happen.”

Elias said nothing.

“Would a murderer do that?”

“Yes.”

But his answer came too quickly.

That afternoon Martha walked out of the hospital.

The doctor caught her halfway across the yard.

“Where are you going?”

“To the jail.”

“You are supposed to be resting.”

“I rested yesterday.”

“You cannot accumulate rest like money in a bank!”

“Then send someone to carry me.”

The doctor stared at her.

Martha folded her arms.

Ten minutes later, two privates were carrying her in a chair.

The jail stood near the western wall.

Boon was alone inside the small stone cell.

When Martha appeared, he laughed.

“You’re impossible.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

The soldiers set her down.

She dismissed them.

Boon sat on the narrow bunk.

His wrists were chained.

There were bruises along his jaw.

“They hurt you?”

“Not much.”

“Who?”

He shrugged.

“I fell.”

“Boon.”

“I fell repeatedly onto several fists.”

Martha glared.

He smiled faintly.

“You look better.”

“I feel terrible.”

“That means you’re alive.”

For a while neither spoke.

Then Martha said, “Elias told me about his brother.”

Boon’s expression closed.

“He tell you Thomas Warren stole medicine from dying families?”

“He said you claimed that.”

“It wasn’t a claim.”

“What happened?”

Boon leaned back against the stone wall.

“Thomas wasn’t stealing for himself.”

Martha frowned.

“There was a trader named Silas Creed working the Oregon Trail. Sold medicine, whiskey, powder, anything people needed badly enough to pay triple for.”

Martha listened carefully.

“Creed paid soldiers to steal supplies from emigrant wagons. Then he sold the same supplies back farther down the trail.”

Martha felt sick.

“The medicine?”

“Came from a family with three feverish children.”

“What happened to them?”

Boon did not answer.

He did not need to.

Martha looked away.

“Thomas and the others were delivering the medicine to Creed when I found them.”

“And you shot them?”

“I tried to stop them.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Boon’s eyes hardened.

“One of them pulled first.”

“And the others?”

“Same.”

“You expect me to believe three soldiers drew guns and you killed all three?”

“No.”

The answer surprised her.

“I don’t expect anything from you.”

He looked toward the barred window.

“I spent twelve years learning not to expect much.”

Martha’s anger softened.

“Why didn’t you return and explain?”

Boon laughed quietly.

“To whom? Elias? The Army? Creed owned half the witnesses between here and Independence.”

“You ran.”

“Yes.”

“That made you look guilty.”

“I was guilty.”

Martha stiffened.

Boon looked back at her.

“I killed them. Whatever reason I had, they were dead when I left.”

“That doesn’t mean murder.”

“Tell that to a rope.”

Martha went quiet.

“Are they going to hang you?”

“Probably.”

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

“When?”

“Army courier leaves tomorrow morning. Commanding officer wants confirmation from headquarters. Could be a week.”

“A week?”

“Maybe less.”

Martha gripped the arms of the chair.

“You don’t sound concerned.”

“I’ve been expecting this day a long time.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

His gaze settled on her.

Something passed between them.

Something neither named.

Martha finally whispered, “I don’t want you to die.”

Boon looked down.

“That makes one of us.”

She hated him for saying it.

She hated even more that she understood.

He had been alone twelve years.

No family.

No home.

No place where he could enter without watching the door.

Perhaps a rope felt less frightening than endless running.

Martha leaned forward.

“You listen to me, Boon Mercer. My husband died thirty-seven days ago. I buried him beneath stones because the ground was too hard to dig properly.”

Boon raised his eyes.

“I walked away from that grave because this child was alive.”

Her voice trembled.

“I wanted to lie down beside Jeb and stop. I wanted the sun to burn me into the earth. But I didn’t.”

He said nothing.

“You told me I was too stubborn to die.”

“You are.”

“Then take your own advice.”

Boon gave a sad smile.

“You planning to bully the Army into letting me go?”

“Yes.”

That made him laugh.

A real laugh.

Deep, startled, almost forgotten.

Martha had never heard it before.

She smiled despite herself.

Then pain exploded through her belly.

Her breath vanished.

Boon shot to his feet.

“Martha?”

She doubled over.

The contraction tightened.

Harder than any before.

“Oh God.”

Boon reached through the bars.

“Martha!”

Warm liquid suddenly soaked her skirt.

She looked down.

Then up at him.

Boon went pale.

“My water broke.”

He began shouting.

“Guard!”

The contraction came again.

Martha screamed.

Boots thundered outside.

The door burst open.

Doctor Whitmore appeared.

One look at Martha was enough.

“Hospital. Now.”

The guards grabbed her chair.

As they lifted it, Martha caught Boon’s hand through the bars.

“Don’t you dare go anywhere.”

Despite the pain, he almost smiled.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

—

Labor lasted fourteen hours.

By midnight, rain hammered Fort Laramie.

By two in the morning, Martha could no longer scream.

By three, the doctor’s expression had become grim.

“The child is turned badly.”

Martha barely understood him.

“Fix it.”

“I’m trying.”

“Then try harder.”

Outside the hospital, soldiers gathered beneath the eaves, listening to her cries.

Inside the jail, Boon sat with both hands clenched.

He could hear everything.

At four thirteen in the morning, silence fell.

Boon stood.

The silence continued.

One minute.

Two.

Then a sound came through the storm.

Thin.

Angry.

Alive.

A baby crying.

Boon closed his eyes.

His forehead touched the bars.

For the first time in twelve years, he prayed.

—

Martha woke near noon.

The storm had passed.

Sunlight lay across the room.

For one terrible moment, she remembered nothing.

Then she heard a soft sound beside her.

A bundle rested in a wooden cradle.

Martha’s heart stopped.

The nurse lifted the child carefully.

“A boy.”

Martha began crying before the baby touched her arms.

He was tiny.

Far too tiny.

But breathing.

His face was wrinkled and furious.

Dark hair covered his head.

“Hello,” Martha whispered.

The baby opened his mouth and complained loudly.

She laughed through her tears.

“Hello to you too.”

Doctor Whitmore entered.

“He’s early, but strong.”

“Can Boon see him?”

The doctor’s expression changed.

“Mrs. Hale…”

“What?”

“There has been a development.”

Cold spread through her.

“What happened?”

“The courier never left.”

“Why?”

“Someone killed him.”

Martha stared at him.

The doctor closed the door.

“His body was found before dawn near the south stable.”

“Boon was locked in a cell.”

“Nobody thinks Boon did it.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

Whitmore hesitated.

“Because the courier was carrying the Mercer case records.”

“And?”

“They’re gone.”

Martha looked at the child in her arms.

“Who would steal them?”

“We don’t know.”

Outside, a bell began ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Alarm.

Men shouted in the yard.

The doctor hurried toward the window.

Martha saw soldiers running toward the gate.

Then gunfire cracked from somewhere beyond the fort.

“What is happening?”

Whitmore’s face drained of color.

“Stay here.”

He ran out.

Martha listened.

More shots.

Horses screaming.

Orders shouted.

Then boots pounded along the hall.

The door burst open.

Sergeant Elias entered.

Blood covered one side of his uniform.

Martha gasped.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not mine.”

His face was white.

“Where’s Boon?”

“In the jail.”

“No.”

“What?”

“The cell is empty.”

Martha stared.

“Empty?”

“The guard is unconscious. Chains are cut.”

“He escaped?”

Elias shook his head.

“That’s what I thought.”

He held up a leather pouch.

“But this was found beside the guard.”

Martha recognized it instantly.

Her husband’s tobacco pouch.

Jeb’s.

She had buried it with him.

Her blood turned cold.

“That’s impossible.”

“Whose is it?”

She could barely answer.

“My husband’s.”

Elias’s eyes changed.

“Martha.”

She clutched the baby tighter.

“My husband is dead.”

“Are you certain?”

“I buried him.”

“Did you see him die?”

Martha’s mind returned to that terrible night.

Jeb feverish.

Jeb coughing blood.

Jeb slipping in and out of consciousness.

She remembered waking before sunrise.

His body cold.

No breath.

No movement.

She had buried him beneath stones near the river.

Of course he had been dead.

Hadn’t he?

Gunfire erupted again.

Closer.

Elias crossed to the window.

A rider galloped through the fort gate.

The man nearly fell from the saddle.

Soldiers surrounded him.

The rider shouted something.

Elias went rigid.

“What is it?” Martha demanded.

He turned slowly.

“There’s a wagon train two miles east.”

“So?”

“It’s burning.”

Martha’s stomach twisted.

“And the survivors say the men who attacked them were looking for someone.”

“Who?”

Elias stared at the baby in her arms.

“You.”

Martha stopped breathing.

A shadow moved across the doorway.

She looked up.

Boon stood there.

His chains were gone.

A rifle was in his hands.

Blood ran from a cut above his eye.

Elias drew his pistol.

Boon raised the rifle.

“Don’t.”

Martha stared at him.

“Boon?”

“We have to leave.”

“You escaped.”

“I was released.”

“By whom?”

Boon’s eyes moved to the tobacco pouch in Elias’s hand.

His face changed.

Not surprise.

Recognition.

Martha saw it.

“You know that pouch.”

Boon said nothing.

“Answer me.”

Outside, someone screamed.

A bugle sounded.

Boon closed the door and shoved a wooden cabinet against it.

“Creed is here.”

Elias went still.

“Silas Creed?”

Boon nodded.

“You said Creed disappeared.”

“I was wrong.”

“Why would he want Martha?”

Boon looked at her.

For the first time, Martha saw true fear in his eyes.

Not for himself.

For her.

“He doesn’t want Martha.”

His gaze dropped to the newborn.

“He wants the boy.”

Martha instinctively pulled her son against her chest.

“Why?”

Boon’s jaw clenched.

“Because Jeb Hale wasn’t just your husband.”

“What does that mean?”

“He was Creed’s partner.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“No.”

“Martha—”

“No.”

“Jeb was moving something west for Creed.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

She stared at Boon.

The man she had trusted.

The man who had carried her across the plains.

“Did you know who I was when you found me?”

Silence.

That silence answered everything.

Martha’s voice broke.

“You knew.”

Boon lowered his rifle.

“I knew your husband’s name.”

“All this time?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t rescue me by accident.”

“No.”

The betrayal cut strangely deep.

“Then why?”

Before Boon could answer, a violent crash shook the outer hall.

Men shouted.

A gun fired.

Elias aimed toward the door.

Boon stepped in front of Martha.

Wood splintered as a bullet tore through the wall.

The baby began crying.

Then a voice called from outside.

A voice Martha knew.

A voice she had heard whisper goodnight beside a campfire for four years.

A voice she had mourned for thirty-seven days.

“Martha.”

Her blood froze.

Nobody in the room moved.

The voice came again.

“Martha, open the door.”

Her lips trembled.

“No.”

Boon looked back at her.

Martha could barely breathe.

“That’s impossible.”

The man outside laughed softly.

Then he spoke the words her husband had said every morning of their marriage.

“Sun’s up, Mattie girl.”

The baby went quiet.

Martha’s entire body began shaking.

Elias whispered, “You said you buried him.”

“I did.”

Boon’s face had become hard as stone.

“Martha.”

She looked at him.

His next words were almost lost beneath the pounding of her heart.

“That man outside isn’t the husband you buried.”

The doorknob slowly began to turn.

Boon cocked the rifle.

“And if he gets inside,” he said, “you’re finally going to learn why your husband chose you to carry Creed’s child.”

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