Upon the Broken Range - The Oregon Promise, Book 4, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

***

Jeremiah stared at the beautiful woman who had somehow appeared in the sunken compartment in the floorboards of the Slade wagon. Outside, thunder crashed, and a flash of lightning lit the sky so brightly that for one brief moment, he could see the fading bruise on her face that the lights from the lanterns hadn’t revealed.

He released the floorboard door to rest against a crate and stretched a hand down to her. “Setting to blow a fierce one tonight. Don’t think you’ll get much sleep down there. You gonna tell me how you came to be in this here wagon, you better come on up outta there.”

Her hand was delicate in his—no bigger than that of a teenage child. And when he hauled her to her feet and helped her balance in the aisle of the wagon on the other side of the trap door, he realized she wasn’t much taller than a child, either. How old was she, this delicate, tiny, trembling package of uncertainty?

Her large eyes studied him above the curled arms and fisted hands she tucked beneath her chin as she shivered before him. She looked like a wary boxer about to throw the first punch.

Jeremiah handed her a lap robe and then stepped back and folded his arms so she’d hopefully understand he meant her no harm. “How’d you get in here?”

She made no response other than her eyes growing a bit rounder and her lower lip trembling slightly.

Right. He was frightening her. He relaxed his arms and lowered the trap door into place. He angled his body and stepped to one side as best he could in the cramped aisle of the wagon, before he swung a gesture to the tick stretched across a bed of crates at the back of the space. “Please, take a seat.”

She continued to look at him for a long moment before finally easing past him to sit on the pallet.

Good. “Let me get you something warm to drink.” Would she still be here when he returned?

He paused at the tailgate to peer out. He dreaded going back into the weather he’d just escaped. His dry clothes would almost immediately be as wet as the set that still lay in a heap on the floor, and he had no others to change into, but there was naught for it.

He reached to swipe the canvas aside.

“Please,” she said, the word barely audible above the storm pounding the canvas.

He paused and turned to look at her.

“Please don’t go out into that caterwaul on my account. I ate not long ago and need nothing.”

Relief eased through him.

There was a slight touch of the South in her words. The sound of it took him straight back to the shanty where he’d grown up behind the plantation home owned by Striker’s parents.

He tilted her a nod and bent to retrieve his wet clothes. He wrung them out at the back opening of the canvas and took the opportunity to check the area, but thankfully, no one appeared to be headed his way. One good thing about this storm was that most folks would be tucked away under cover, trying to stay dry. A break in the clouds to the west showed the storm should ease within the hour.

Lantern light still shone from Miss Acheson’s wagon. Likely, she continued her work on the parson. Other than hers, most wagons around the circle lay dark and silent.

Another crack of thunder rolled, followed more distantly by a lesser flash of lightning this time.

He turned back into the wagon, gave his wet pants a flick, and draped them atop a stack of crates. He did the same with his discarded shirt.

Then he settled into his heels, folded his arms, and looked down at the bit of a woman who was now at the farthest edge of the tick with her arms wrapped around her knees. She had draped the lap robe over her knees, and behind it she huddled into her blue cape like it was a shield that could protect her. The whole package of her didn’t take up more room than a sack of flour. His mama would have said she looked no more substantial than a “cob o’ corn the chickens done picked clean.”

She was of mixed blood, like him—that much was clear. But he knew all too well that it made no difference to many a man who held power. One drop of black blood was enough to mark a person as lesser in their eyes—enough to justify chains, cruelty, and stolen lives.

Chains which she had only recently escaped, judging by her raw wrists. He eyed her abrasions and felt his fists tighten, ready for war.

He didn’t want her to think he was upset with her, however, so he purposely drew in a long inhale and forced himself to ease. He leaned his shoulder against a stack of crates. There had been many times in his life when he’d been ready to go to war, but if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that some battles would drag a man down into the mire of inhumanity, and he never wanted to be that kind of man.

He would need to wrap her wrists, and maybe her ankles too. But he’d give her a minute. Judging by her dry hair and clothes, she’d come this way before the rain.

“What’s your name?”

She rolled her lips in and pressed them into a tight line. “Maybe it’s best you don’t learn my name. I won’t be here long. I promise.”

He frowned. They could deal with that later. “You want my help, you’re gonna have to trust me. You ended up in my wagon. I presume that’s because you knew I was a man of color like yourself?”

She shook her head. “Only on account of Betsy telling me. The mercantile owner—she’s the one who helped me escape and told me to come here.”

Ah. That would explain why the woman had been watching him so carefully the other day. She’d wanted to see which wagon was his. But her sending this girl to him could get them both killed. He bit back a sigh before he made the girl feel like she was putting him out.

“My name’s Jeremiah Jackson.” He waited. The silence stretched long.

Finally, she said, “My master calls me Delilah.”

Something curled in Jeremiah’s stomach. A reference to the woman who had been Sampson’s weakness? Such a man would want his prize back.

“Don’t want the name your master gave you.”

Her brow slumped, and she worked her teeth over her lower lip. The silence lingered as she searched his face.

His hands clenched tight again. Some fool who would one day stand before God had her afraid to even speak her own name.

He softened his voice. “You can trust me. What’s your real name? The one your mama gave you.”

She frowned and swept a glance around the inside of the wagon as though trying to decide. Finally, she settled her gaze on his. “My mama named me Deliverance. You can call me Del. Never had no second name.”

Deliverance. He smiled at the woman, pleased that she’d decided to trust him. “Deliverance is a good name. Right glad to meet you.”

Now to figure out who she was running from.

Even as the thought registered, weariness washed through him. He pressed his fingers and thumb against his eyes. Wished he wasn’t so tired. Last night had been his watch, and he’d only gotten about three hours of sleep. With the long day of rescuing Mrs. Houston from the no-good Brad Baxter, the brother of the fort’s colonel, and Brad’s subsequent arrest, exhaustion had Jeremiah about dead on his feet.

He eased to his haunches in the aisle. Maybe if he weren’t towering over her, this conversation would go better.

“Who you running from?” For some reason, that question set him on edge. Evil was about to be named, and evil did not like to be dragged into the light.

She swallowed. Licked her lips. “My master. C-colonel Boone Baxter.”

Jeremiah jolted his head back as the name hit him square in the chest. The man with the most power for hundreds of miles. That was the man she was running from. The man whose brother had kidnapped the parson’s wife and those two kids. The man who now held the kidnapper in his jail down in the fort.

Thank God the wagon train was pulling out first thing, and yet a man like that one wouldn’t tolerate the loss of a woman such as this. The loss of his Delilah.

If she were caught—

Jeremiah didn’t want to think about what would happen to either of them if she were found and he were discovered helping her.

And now it would be up to him to make sure that didn’t happen.

Lord, You gonna have to show me how to help this one. I know it’s not Your will for either of us to end up at the end of a scourge and then a rope simply because we have different colored skin.

***

Deliverance wrapped her arms more tightly about her knees as she studied the man squatting in the aisle before her. She’d shocked him, that was certain.

Also certain was the fact that Master Boone was going to tear this wagon train apart as soon as he discovered she was missing! Would he even go down to the basement where she ought to be tonight? Sometimes when he was tired or overworked, he didn’t take her to his room. On those occasions, he left her in the basement overnight and only let her out early in the morning to use the necessary before returning her to the basement for another day.

Her arms ached just thinking about it.

She’d planned to simply rest in this wagon’s hidden compartment until dark and then make her escape, but the storm had come, and she’d known there would be no shelter for miles in any direction. With a child on the way, no matter how unwelcome—guilt pierced her for the thought—she’d needed to stay dry.

And then this man had found her.

Now, as she waited for him to speak, she studied him. What had she expected to find in a “free man of color” as Betsy had described him? Certainly not this young, strapping man with the broad shoulders stretching his shirt to near capacity, and certainly not those gray eyes studying her in the lantern light. She’d expected an elderly man perhaps, set free after years of service to a master. Or maybe one bent with the weight of servitude. The strength revealed by the taut stretch of his sleeve across his upper arms made her tremble. And yet, he seemed . . . kind. Thoughtful. Generous. Just as Betsy had said he was.

He hung his head and studied the boards between his feet. Ran one broad hand around the back of his neck.

“You really free?” The words blurted out before she could think better of them.

He lifted that gray gaze to her. “Yes’m. Grew up on a plantation in South Carolina, not far outside of Charleston. My master’s son took a liking to me, charming sort that I am.” He offered her a scallywag’s grin.

She tucked away a smile, lowering her mouth behind her knees.

“Striker talked his daddy into giving me to him, and afterward he gave me my manumission papers.”

“Striker?” She felt her eyes go a little round. That name sounded rather lethal, like a bounty hunter or a marksman. A tremor slithered down her spine.

But Jeremiah only grinned. “He earned that nickname working at the forge on his daddy’s plantation. That fella could shoe a horse faster than anyone in five counties. Can you keep a secret?”

The twinkle in his eyes raised her curiosity. She nodded.

“Striker’s real name is Sebastian Jebediah Moss.” He grinned. “I like to remind him of it every once in a while so’s to bring his feet back to earth, if you catch my meaning.”

Deliverance wanted to smile. She liked this kind man who made her feel at ease even though she’d inserted herself into his life without permission. But the most she could summon was a crinkle of her eyes. She felt weary. Exhausted clean through.

Only when she heard him stand did she realize her eyes had fallen closed. She opened them to find him looming above, reaching for her.

She gasped and cowered back.

He stilled and raised his palms. “Easy. I was reaching for the extra quilt there.” He pointed past her to a folded blanket on a shelf that extended beneath the driver’s seat.

Feeling foolish, she tugged the blanket from the cubby and handed it to him, if only to get him to retreat. “Sorry.”

Despite his kind eyes and nod of thanks, she couldn’t shake her tension.

He clutched the quilt in one hand, but didn’t step back. He hung his head instead for a moment. “You can trust me. Understand?” He lifted those gray eyes to her, brows raised.

It was his hopeful expression that finally helped her relax. She nodded.

“Good.” He retreated down the aisle and, with a quick flip, unfurled the quilt in the narrow space between stacks of crates. “I’m gonna need a couple hours of shut-eye before we decide where to hide you.”

Del frowned. “I can’t hide here?”

“Not if you want to live.” The man said the words wearily as he sank onto the blanket on the hard wood floor and pulled the covering over himself. He was breathing deeply before she had the presence of mind to realize she’d stolen his bed.

But with him asleep, maybe this was her time to skedaddle? She rose to her knees and parted the cinched canvas above the bed enough to see out through the slats of the driver’s bench.

The rain was naught more than a drizzle at the moment. She glanced back at the man. Not if you want to live. He was right about that. Boone would search this wagon train, top to bottom, as soon as he discovered she was missing. And if he found her here in the company of this man . . . Fear pumped a breath past her lips. She didn’t want to bring trouble.

Another quick peek at the sky outside revealed that the clouds didn’t seem as dark and ominous against the blackness of the heavens now. Maybe she could make it to the trees by the river and find shelter before the storm grew heavier?

It would be better for these folk, if not for her.

She shivered at the thought of wandering through those woods in the dark. Were there wolves? Mountain lions? Snakes? Spiders? She clenched her eyes tight. But facing all of those would be better than getting innocent folk killed.

She turned back to look at the man sprawled in the aisle. He took up most of it with his big frame. She would have to scoot past him to get out because climbing over the wagon bench would likely raise a squeaky ruckus that would wake him.

She stood and scooped up the rucksack Betsy had packed for her, ignoring the pain that flared to life in her wrist when she hefted it. With the pack on one shoulder, she assessed the best path forward. Moving past his legs wouldn’t be a problem—she had plenty of room to tiptoe past them. It was his shoulders that would be an issue. Each one nearly touched the crates on either side, and there was no room for her foot. She would have to jump over him, then.

She took a couple of steps back and hefted her skirt enough so it wouldn’t encumber her feet.

The man surged upright, rubbing his fingers and thumb into his eyes.

She gasped and plunked backward onto the pallet, feeling the blood drain from her face.

He looked at her, weariness drooping his shoulders. “Listen now. You go out there and you finished for sure. I spent the evening with the colonel today, and he’s got a good tracker.”

She felt a swirl of lightheadedness. Of course he did. She’d heard Boone mention him more than once in a purposeful way meant to get her attention. She pressed one hand to the base of her throat.

Jeremiah rested his arms against his knees and clasped one wrist with his other hand. “You believe in the Lord?”

Tears blurred her vision. Oh, how she did. She nodded.

“Good. Then I’m asking you to believe that the Lord brought you here to me. And I’m asking you to trust me, weary man that I am at the moment.” He pointed to the bed. “Please sleep for just a little while. And let me do the same.”

She moistened her lips. “I thought you already was asleep.”

His lips nudged upward almost imperceptibly. “You thought right.”

For a long moment, they looked at one another. His weariness was evident in the sleepy squint of his eyes. But there was determination, too. He would out-wait her if he had to.

He tilted his head. “You gonna let me sleep and get some for yourself?”

She frowned. “Don’t want to bring trouble on you. It’s dark now. Best time for me to slip away.”

“You won’t be able to run fast enough or far enough to outrun Colonel Baxter’s tracker and mounted men.” His expression was sternly fierce as he continued. “Come morning, that man will be on your trail. The rain will help. But if you run out there . . .” He thrust a blunt finger toward the outside. “. . . they will find you.” He pinned her with a stern look. “I’m thinking on a plan. But first, you got to let me rest a bit.”

She frowned, but nodded. “All right.”

“Reckon your word will do.” He flopped back down and tugged the quilt over himself once more.

Almost immediately, his breaths filled the space, deep and steady.

Deliverance eased the pack to the floor and settled herself against the soft tick on the pallet. Weariness washed over her. How long since she’d slept in a bed this soft?

The thought sent a shudder through her. She’d slept in Boone’s bed plenty of times—if one could call such subconscious, tense alertness “sleeping.” But alone? It had been a very long time ago.

She pulled her blue cape, the lap robe, and the coverlet on the tick over herself like a shield and relished the warmth of it. Closed her eyes. Allowed her weariness to pull her under.

***

Boone arrived back at the fort, weary and heartbroken over Brad. He wanted to fetch Delilah. To relish the warmth of her in his arms as he slept. But there were too many men still wandering about tonight. She would want to go out to the necessary and might be seen.

He couldn’t have word getting about that he had a weakness for a woman. Especially not a woman like her. A man in his position had to maintain authority. And respect.

She’d be fine until morning. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been left for such long hours. But this time his conscience did prick him because there was a child to consider.

But Delilah was a tough little she-wolf. She’d be fine.

And he was too tired to wait for all the hubbub to settle.

Tugging off his gloves, he tromped the stairs to his rooms above the store.

Brad. Stupid fool. He was going to die, and Boone wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. He couldn’t risk his career on his no-account brother.

He shuffled into his room and sank slowly onto the edge of the bed to tug off his boots.

Ah. Much better. He massaged his aching feet, then slipped off his uniform and took time to hang each piece carefully in the wardrobe.

After a quick rinse of his face and arms in the washbasin, he toweled dry and then sank against his pillows. Closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would shore up his strength. For tonight, he allowed himself to weep for the brother he would lose. Not the adult brother who had caused him so much angst and anger, but the boy he had been. The boy Boone had once loved.

As the thought registered, it eased through him. It was true. He no longer loved Brad. He was simply a burden Boone couldn’t disassociate himself from because they shared a last name. Soon, he’d no longer have that burden.

He would cling to that truth. It would help him get through the next few days.

The truth and Delilah. He always found comfort while with her.

 

Would you like to keep reading this story? Click here to find it in ebook, audiobook, or paperback.