Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Page 2

  Ginny.

  He nearly dropped to his knees. In all the lives he'd lived over the centuries, he had never faced her. Not ever. He glanced around quickly, but saw no other familiar faces. Relief filled him. There had been times, in the past, when Lance had been present briefly—always at a distance. Arthur had never been certain enough of his purpose to approach him. Lance's duplicity was something he could always count on.

  But…Ginny. He could feel his heart begin to dissolve in his chest. No. No. He could stand anything but this.

  Somehow, he'd always figured if they should all three come together once more it would be the miracle which would end everything. The miracle that would see the end of his hope.

  He shook his head, as if in a daze, turning away until he could decide how to handle the situation. He'd never expected Ginny to be here. She was so delicate, so fine—so pure. Or so he'd thought. This life was too rough for someone such as Guin…Ginny…with her all-seeing, damnable…beautiful green eyes.

  "Give me a hand over here!" The shout from one of the men galvanized him into action, giving him something to divert his thoughts. He walked across the room hurriedly, grabbing the other side of the massive buffet table and hutch to move it in front of the door.

  He'd been a king for many, many years, but he'd been a warrior for much longer. Admired for his wisdom and cool head as a leader, he knew how to take orders as well as assume command.

  "Where should I be?" Arthur asked, seeing that the other men were taking positions by windows and cross notches in the shutters.

  The tall man he'd helped with the buffet gave him a quick nod. "You know how to use a gun?"

  Arthur smiled. "Yes."

  Thompson gave him a dubious look. "Over here, then. Do you have lead?" He started for the side window, and Arthur followed.

  "Lead? Oh, uh, yes."

  "There's more if you need it—on the table." He pointed to the kitchen table where boxes of bullets were stacked in the center.

  "Thanks."

  Thompson put his hand out. "Harley Thompson. I own this place." They shook hands and Thompson peered at Arthur closely for a moment. "Brit, huh?"

  Arthur nodded, breaking open his revolver and loading the empty chambers.

  "So's my wife."

  Arthur stopped in mid-motion. "Your wife?"

  "Yeah." He grinned. "Not much time for introductions, but Ginny's my wife." He nodded toward the settee, where all three women were gathered, tearing and folding bandages. "That's her on the end."

  I know.

  "Been married two years now," Thompson went on proudly.

  Anger surged up inside Arthur's gut. Why would he bring Ginny to this wild, rough country? Danger was everywhere here. And Ginny…was a lady. Arthur averted his eyes. At least she wasn't married to Lance.

  Guilt washed over him. Would it matter? If she were with Lance, she might be safe. He cast another glance her way. She was as lovely as he remembered, even though she was a few years older than when he'd seen her last, centuries ago, speeding away with Lance toward the safe haven of Joyeux Garde. Away from him. He tore his gaze from her, and made his voice casual.

  "Does this happen often? Indian attacks?"

  Thompson nodded ruefully. "More than I had believed it would."

  "They're comin' in again!"

  Thompson quickly reached for the heavy wooden shutters, closing them across the window. He peered out of one of the gun wells at the narrow view of the barren terrain outside.

  "There's holes here and here—" He pointed out the obvious places in the walls on either side of the window. "'Course, time it's all said and done, there won't be one piece of glass left in the place no how." He shook his head. "I've replaced these windows twice already in the two years we've been here."

  Arthur shrugged, turning his narrow gaze to the cross-spaces cut in the shutters. "Why not just use oilskin of some kind?"

  "My Ginny, she loves the windows. She says there ain't much to look at, but she wants the light." After a pause, he went on. "I try to give her everything she wants. Why she took up with me, I'll never know."

  It is a mystery, Arthur wanted to say. Yet…what had he expected? He'd known, someday, he would see her again. He just hadn't been prepared for it to be here. He certainly hadn't thought she'd be married to a stage station proprietor. He stole another glance at her. Had she recognized him?

  She raised her eyes to his at that instant and he was as lost to her as he had been the first moment he'd been introduced to her. It had been an arranged marriage at the start. But once he'd met her, talked to her, laughed with her—she had captured his heart and held it. And she would have it forever.

  Her eyes were as green as ever, like the endless spring fields of Britain in May. Leaf green, like a secret forest glade. They shimmered with unshed tears, now, just as they had when he'd sentenced her to death all those centuries past. Tears of sorrow, tears for what she'd thrown away, and tears of forgiveness for what he'd been forced to do. There had been no other way. He looked away from her, wary of the treachery of his own heart.

  Outside, the stillness was broken by whoops and screeches from the Indians as they made their next attack. As they came into view at the front of the station, the men on that side began shooting.

  The warriors rode around the corner into Arthur's view, and he took careful aim, then pulled the trigger. Satisfaction rolled through him as one of the savages fell from his horse with a scream, then lay, unmoving, on the ground.

  "Good shot," Thompson muttered approvingly. He took aim and squeezed off a shot of his own as two more warriors rode into view. One of them raised a pistol and fired, deliberately shattering the glass in one of the small, high windows. Thompson and Arthur both instinctively ducked away.

  Arthur took a quick assessment of the other occupants of the station. To be effective, they needed to have some sort of plan. Merlin had always told him that he over-thought things, until he had no imagination, but he knew no other way. Still, he mused ruefully, some things were just going to happen, no matter what. Events had been set in motion which couldn't be changed or stopped, however much forethought or planning was involved.

  Mrs. Franklin, who had shown such determination in the coach when the attack began, seemed to be the backbone of the female contingent. She barked orders at Ginny and the other young woman, Sally Dodge, as they reloaded and cleaned the weapons.

  "Can you manage without me?" Arthur heard the older woman ask. "I'm a dead shot. I'll be of more use with the men."

  "Yes—yes! Go ahead, Mrs. Franklin," Ginny called above the din. "We'll be fine. Sally and I have become quite expert at this, haven't we?" She gave Sally a quick glance, her uncertain smile wavering before it disappeared altogether.

  Arthur recognized the note of suppressed anxiety in Ginny's tone. He knew her so well—she could hide nothing from him. Nothing, except the one thing he'd never thought possible. Betrayal that, it seemed, they were doomed to repeat, or at least remember, throughout the ages.

  The portly older woman hurried off toward the back room, carrying a shotgun and a handful of shells. Arthur watched as their driver, Joe Danforth, stopped her, giving her a vehement shake of his head. Her chin lifted in defiance and she moved on past him. Danforth followed her in exasperation.

  "Thompson!" he yelled. "Take over here!"

  Thompson nodded, then looked at Arthur. "That boy know how to use a pistol?"

  Arthur glanced at where Jeremy huddled near the table. "Don't know. Just met him twenty miles back when he got on with his uncle."

  "We could sure use another gun."

  Arthur watched Thompson's back as he ran across the room to take Joe's crucial place at the front of the building. The boy was young. No more than eleven or twelve. About the age he'd been when he pulled the sword from the stone. Too young for such responsibility, but in desperate times…

  "Boy!" He searched his battle-fogged mind for a name. "Jeremy!"

  The boy looked at h
im blankly, and he wondered if he'd called him by the wrong name. He motioned for him, and the boy leapt to his feet, clutching his chest as he ran to Arthur.

  Arthur glanced down, searching his gray eyes. It was then he saw what the boy held so dearly to his heart. The book. The damned book. But the boy met his look with something akin to worship. Almost as if he knew.

  "Jeremy, do you know how to use a gun?"

  "No, sir. My papa didn't allow it. He believed it was wrong to kill."

  "This is different. You are defending yourself." Arthur pulled Evan Davis's Colt from his waistband. "This was your uncle's."

  "Yes, sir. But…I don't know how to use it."

  Arthur turned his attention back to the window and took aim again as one of the Indians rode into his view. "Watch."

  But as he prepared to pull the trigger, something stopped him. The Indian turned his head toward the place where Arthur stood, glaring as if he could see through the shattered window. The late afternoon sun caught the savage's long hair, revealing a deep chestnut color—not black. Arthur's breath caught at the piercing blue of the warrior's eyes. Though his skin was naturally dark, baked even browner by the sun, Arthur knew this was no Apache, but a white man.

  The breath rushed out of him.

  "Lance."

  Chapter 4

  How many times had he longed for just this very moment? To have Lancelot du Lac right where he wanted him—at the end of his weapon—was such a gift. The traitor. The son of a bitch. How he would love to have killed him a thousand times over. His finger itched on the trigger, even as he fought the impulse to throw down this instrument of death and run to his old friend amid the hail of bullets.

  There was a time when he'd loved Lance as a brother. He'd never had a better friend before Lance—or since. The vision Arthur had held for Camelot had been shared by the knight. And Lance had gone through hell for him, gladly, with no complaint.

  Then, he'd slept with Ginny.

  And though the anger and hurt had brought down everything they'd worked so hard to build, Arthur couldn't help but remember the times before…when everything had been good. That was the only reason his finger stayed put.

  "Aren't you going to shoot him?"

  Jeremy's voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked down at the boy. "No. I don't have a clear shot. We won't want to waste our bullets."

  Jeremy nodded. "He doesn't look Indian," he observed quietly.

  "No," Arthur agreed.

  "Maybe he's a prisoner. Sometimes they kidnap babies and children, and raise them as Indians…" He suddenly looked stricken, and Arthur knew his thoughts.

  "Put that out of your mind, lad," he said kindly. "We've other things to worry about now."

  He handed him the gun, and this time, the boy took it. "It may not be what your father would do, Jeremy, but you are going to have to defend yourself." Arthur holstered his own weapon, laying a sure hand atop Jeremy's trembling fingers. "Hold it steady, like so—" He felt the slight movement fade to nothing, until Jeremy's hand was still beneath his.

  As another Apache rode into view, Arthur put his finger over Jeremy's and pulled the trigger. The kick of the Colt surprised the boy. He looked up at Arthur, then back outside. The Indian was gone.

  "I missed," he said, disappointment edging his voice.

  Arthur shook his head. "I don't think so. I think you got him. He just managed to hang on to his horse."

  Jeremy looked up at him, a new determination in his features. "Never thought I'd spend Christmas Eve killin' people."

  ****

  The Apache rode away once more, and though Arthur felt the same relief as the others, he couldn't tamp down the frustration of a battle fought but not ended decisively.

  Jeremy stood looking out the slatted spaces in the window, keeping a wary eye for any sign of movement.

  Thompson did the same from where he stood at the front of the station. He'd been right, Arthur thought grimly. There wasn't one piece of glass left anywhere in the structure. All for Ginny.

  His gaze followed his thoughts. She had never been one to show her inner turmoil like most women. Maybe that had been why he'd never read the signs…or maybe, there hadn't been any to read. She stood now, calm as ever, expertly cleaning a shotgun one of the men had laid on her dining room table.

  The sight of her with her hair askew, wearing a simple green muslin day dress as she cleaned a weapon struck him funny. Not that she couldn't manage in circumstances such as these—married to a peasant, living in little better than a crofter's cottage—Ginny always made the best of things. That was one of the qualities he'd loved most about her. Here she was, doing it again. Something old and familiar stirred in his heart, just watching her. He'd missed her…in spite of everything.

  From the back room, Joe Danforth's voice rose. "Confound it, woman, what in tarnation did you do that for? I had my sights on that murderin' savage and you made me miss!"

  "Yes. I did, Mr. Danforth."

  Though Elizabeth Franklin didn't raise her voice, in the small space, it was easily heard.

  "That was a white man you were trying to kill," she went on. "Not a 'murdering savage.' Perhaps your eyesight fails you."

  "I'd rather be stone blind than take leave of my common sense, woman!"

  "Unfortunately, Mr. Danforth, you seem to have suffered a double affliction."

  "Damn it!"

  "Vulgarity, Mr. Danforth, is the verbal evidence of a weak mind. Please restrain yourself."

  They entered the great room, still at odds, Joe unwilling to give her the last word.

  "Don't you ever do that again!" he blustered.

  The older woman turned to him slowly. Silence filled the room. Then, "Mr. Danforth, let me assure you, I will do whatever is necessary. Don't get in my way."

  Danforth took a step back, eyes widening. Before he could respond, Sally hurried to Mrs. Franklin's side.

  "Elizabeth—will you come see to my Ernie? He's been awful sick—that's why we're still here. He couldn't travel 'til he got to feeling better. Please—" She put her hand on the older woman's arm urging her away from Danforth.

  Mrs. Franklin gave Danforth one last long look, then turned away. "Certainly, dear. I know a thing or two about healing."

  "Thank goodness! I'm afraid neither Ginny nor I have much talent in that area."

  No, Arthur thought. Certainly, Ginny was no healer. Though she'd never been squeamish about helping treat the wounded, she had not possessed the intuition needed to anticipate a patient's needs. It wasn't her fault, really. Maybe if they'd had children…

  Sally and Mrs. Franklin hurried toward where Ernie leaned against the wall, and Harley motioned for Joe to help him get the man back to his sick bed.

  Ginny made her way to where Arthur stood, a few feet away from Jeremy. She didn't speak, as if she waited to see what he'd say first—if anything. When he remained silent, she said, "It's…been a long time, Arthur."

  "Ginny." He moistened his lips, feeling like a schoolboy once more.

  "How are you?" She put a hand out, then stopped herself and drew it back, finally clasping her hands together.

  "I'm fine. And you?"

  Christ, they sounded like two strangers. This was Ginny. His Ginny. Guinevere. His queen. The woman whose virginity he'd taken on their wedding night, all those centuries past. Did she ever remember how good their lives had been in the beginning?

  She smiled faintly. "Who could ask for more?" She glanced around the great room. "A roof over my head, food on the table, a good man—" she broke off, looking down at the floor. "Of course, I've had all those things before and lost them—so I don't take this for granted." She raised her eyes to his. "I suppose it isn't meant to be for me to have a child—ever."

  "I'm sorry, Gin. I know how much that meant to you."

  "No, Arthur, I don't think you do."

  Something in her clipped tone said the blame was his. They both knew better, but perhaps she needed to be reminded. And Arthur las
hed out, hurt.

  "We both know the fault for that didn't lie with me, Guinevere."

  She sucked in a shocked gasp and turned away.

  "Would that the son I was given had never been born." Bitterness filled Arthur at the thought of Mordred's machinations. "Here we are—you with no child and me with one I wish to God had never been conceived." He gave a mirthless chuckle.

  Ginny laid a hand on his arm. "Arthur, it's Christmas Eve. Can we try to put the past behind us, just for tonight and tomorrow? For pity's sake, even armies call truce on this day!"

  "Yes…" he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose we could put the past behind us, if it didn't keep slapping us in the face at every turn." He sighed wearily. "It doesn't signify. No matter how civil our 'truce', the outcome will always be the same." Suddenly, he gripped her arm. "Why are we here, Ginny? I don't understand why—"

  "It's Christmas, Arthur." She looked up at him imploringly, every bit as lovely as she had been at seventeen. "It's Christmas. And anything can happen, if we but believe."

  Arthur couldn't help but smile at her childlike trust. "A miracle? Is that what we're talking about?"

  She nodded, biting her lip. "It's already started. Oh, Arthur if you only knew how much I've wanted to tell you—"

  "Hey, what's going on here?" Thompson's voice cut across the room, and Ginny turned to face her husband, a quick smile coming to her lips.

  "Harley, can you believe it? Why, Arthur and I were childhood playmates! Our families lived near one another. I haven't seen him since we were—what? Twelve?"

  Arthur nodded. "You were twelve—I was a bit older. It's good to see you again, Ginny—even under these circumstances." He looked up at Harley, whose face had relaxed at the explanation. "How is Mr. Dodge?"