Chapter One
Julia Colton stood in the doorway of her home, caught between two worlds. In one lay a dream--sunshine and warmth, the scent of earth, grass and water, life and freedom. In the other lay reality--shadows and damp, the stench of herbs and medicine and sickness, death and drudgery.
Guilt flooded her, as it always did when she began to feel sorry for herself. Her future at least held the promise of life. Julia glanced back at the still shape upon the bed. Her mother's held only the certainty of death.
"Mama, I'm going down to the creek to get some fresh, cool water. It'll help your fever."
The shape on the bed shifted, moaned, and then swallowed the sound of pain, of weakness. Elvira Colton's gray, bone-thin face appeared from the nest of blankets, and her feverish eyes met those of her daughter.
"Go on ahead, darlin?, I'll just sleep awhile. Why don't you take a little time in the sun? I'll rest better if I'm alone."
Julia gave a quick nod and grabbed the bucket from its resting place next to the door; then she turned away and plunged into the sunshine before her mother could see the tears spill from her eyes.
Mama would not sleep. The pain and the fever would not let her. At times she fell into an exhausted state that resembled death, and when she awoke she was always weaker than before. Whenever Julia urged her to rest, her mother would say, "I'll be restin? for eternity soon enough," and since Julia could not argue with that, she did not argue with Mama at all.
Mama had been bedridden since Julia was a little girl. Too many births, too close together, had weakened her. Then, a few years back, while the boys and her husband had been off harassing the Kansas folk, she and Julia had been caught in a burning cabin. Though Julia had awoken and dragged her mama outside before they both died. Mama's lungs were burned from the smoke, and the doctor said it was only a matter of time until they gave out completely. Julia had never forgiven herself for sleeping too deeply that night, nor forgiven the Hell-sent Jayhawkers for burning the cabin in the first place.
Her mother's admonition to take a little time in the sun made Julia's guilt throb harder and hotter in her stomach. Mama knew she'd been aching to get outside, and in her typical, selfless way, had given Julia a reason to go. Though she felt it was her duty to stay inside and do what she could for Mama, Julia took the gift of freedom and ran with it to the creek.
The day was a surefire keeper--too early in the year to bring the stifling heat common to a Missouri summer, and a cool breeze that smelled of new grass and just-sprung flowers rippled the shiny surface of Colton Creek. Julia put down the bucket and stepped closer. Through water as clear as glass, she watched fish shadows dance along the multicolored bottom rocks.
"Ho, there!" The distant call of her father to the plow horses made her start and jerk her head in that direction.
With her four brothers gone to join the renegade Confederate militia, Sam Colton had more work than he could handle. Not that he begrudged his sons the fight. The Coltons had been Jayhawker-haters since the word was invented, and since the immigrant Irish, abolitionist Murphys had gone and bought the land on the other side of Colton Creek, her father's hatred had become an obsession.
The Murphys? farm, which had once been Colton land, had been sold many years back when times were particularly rough. The fact that the land had not only left Colton hands but had later become a part of Kansas made Julia's father nigh on to obsessed with getting it back, through any means--legal or otherwise. The rumor that the eldest Murphy son had ridden with the group of Jayhawkers who had burned Sam's farm and maimed his wife only made his hatred for the family that much more fierce.
There were always arguments and fistfights whenever her father and Shamus Murphy met up, not to mention an ongoing history of malicious mischief on both their farms. There was even occasional sniper fire from the tree line on the creek. Thus far no one had been seriously injured, though a bullet had once gone through the fleshy part of Julia's oldest brother's hand. Didn't hurt him much, just served to make him madder and meaner.
Since the boys had gone off with Quantrill, Julia's father, who had never been an easy man, had become downright nasty. These days the depth of his anger at the world, and the Murphys in particular, frightened Julia. He had become a hard man, and he would not be happy if he saw Julia malingering at the creek.
Julia reached for the bucket, then hesitated. Mama had told her to stay awhile, and her father was too busy to leave the field before sundown. He'd only come looking for her if she didn't bring him his dinner at noon. A glance at the sky revealed she had at least an hour before then. In a rare moment of youthful abandon, Julia turned her back on the bucket, pulled off her shoes and stockings, hoisted her skirts and stepped into the shallows.
"Eeek." A short, sharp squeal of surprise escaped her lips when the water, still cold from the winter melt-off, captured her feet. But after the initial shock she began to enjoy the tingle of the cold and the lap of the waves against her calves. Her toes scrunched into the smooth stones, and fish flitted just ahead of her as if leading her onward to a secret, special place.
Mama always said Julia was a dreamer. The life she led had made her so. Mama, a teacher before she'd become a wife, owned a trunkful of books. Julia blessed those books every day. If it hadn't been for those books, Julia would never have believed there were men in the world who did not thrive on murder and mayhem, who did not dismiss women as servants, who did not speak to them as though they were fools. Just once she'd like to meet a man who was strong on the outside but gentle on the inside, a man who could listen and learn, a man who could protect a woman and love her.
Her brothers loved her in their own way, she was certain, and they would protect her with their lives. She had fond memories of their youths together, though the men they'd become bore little resemblance to the children she had known. Their father and the times had produced hard, rough, dangerous men who no longer seemed to have any patience for a sister who did not understand them any more than they understood her. Julia sighed. She put aside thoughts of the past and an uncertain future. She became so enthralled with the game she played with the fish that she didn't realize she was no longer alone until she laughed at the antics of a particularly brave fish and someone laughed with her.
Her head jerked up. A gasp stuck in her throat. Her heart began to thud with uncertainty, then fear. A man sat on the opposite bank of the creek--the Kansas side. His clothes consisted of bits of Union blue combined with mismatched confiscated pieces. He had Colts in his belt, ammunition strung across his chest and two rifles in the spider scabbards strapped to his horse. There was no question. He was a Jayhawker--part of the renegade Union militia.
Trouble.
Julia started backing toward the Missouri side of the creek, but where before the stones had seemed smooth and easy to walk upon, they suddenly became sharp and shifted beneath her feet, causing her to stumble.
The man stood, watching her with a smile that made the water run colder and the sun shine less brightly than before. Julia could hear the frightened rasp of her breath, at odds with the peaceful lap of the creek against its banks. She'd seen his type before, when they'd burned down her home. Now, again, in a single instant, looking into the eyes of this Jayhawker, she saw all that was bad, and it was coming toward her.
"Well, howdy do?" He began to advance, stepping into the water, his boots causing ripples in the creek, ripples that became bigger and bigger as he waded toward Julia. "And what might you be doin? out here all alone?"
"I-I'm not alone. M-my father's just over the hill."
"Over that hill, you say?" He pointed to the swell of ground behind her. Julia nodded. "Well, that'd make you a Missouri gal, a Bushwhacker woman. Wouldn't it?"
Julia didn't answer. Calling her a Bushwhacker was an insult, but she knew she wasn't in any position to take offense. Why, oh why, had she wandered so far downstream? ?H-he'll be coming for me if I don't bring his dinner."
The man's smile widened, though it never reached his eyes. "It's not dinnertime yet, missy, so I believe we've got time for a visit. First me and you, and then, if you like," he snickered, "or even if you don?t, you can visit the same with my friends over the Kansas hill yonder."
All the time he had been advancing, Julia had been retreating. Her heel hit the creek bank, and she stepped out of the water. "Th-that's mighty nice of you, but I have to get home."
She hiked up her skirts higher and dashed for the safety of the Missouri hill. If she could get in sight of her father, he could drop the Kansas varmint with a single shot. She hadn't taken two steps before he was on her. She went down hard in the red Missouri dirt. The skirts she'd tried so hard to keep from getting wet tangled with her legs and ground into the blood-colored mud.
She drew in a deep breath to scream, and he shoved her mouth into the dirt, making her see bright, shiny points of light when her nose and teeth met the unyielding earth. The sound of rending cloth and the sudden trickle of cool air across the back of her legs alerted her to the loss of her skirts.
Though she'd spent a great portion of her life nursing her mother, Julia had been raised with four brothers. She knew how to fight, and she knew how to win. Her first elbow jab connected with his ribs.
Sour breath exploded across her cheek, followed by an oomph, and he released his hold on her arms. She rolled quickly onto her back and instead of the common knee jab, she drove the heel of her hand into his nose.
Blood spurted and he howled. Then she used her knee, and the howl became a shriek. She was free.
But only for a moment.
The degenerate's screams had brought his friends at a run, and though Julia had been halfway to freedom, the click of their rifles being cocked brought her to a stop. She turned to meet the stares of three more pairs of evil eyes, and she knew her fate was sealed.
Julia swallowed and fought tears. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her cry, nor of watching her beg. Though she was twenty years of age and should have been long married, the war and her home situation had left Julia both unmarried and uncertain of men and their intentions. And what she saw in the eyes of these men terrified her.
This was her punishment for taking a selfish minute to herself. She should have known better. As her father had told her often enough, her purpose in life was to care for Mama. Julia had no other duty upon this earth, and if she forgot that, God would punish her for certain.
Julia stood on the banks of Colton Creek and watched the three men carefully ford the stream, keeping their rifles fixed on her. It didn't take them long to splash through the creek and join the first, who had recovered enough to stand. They circled her like a pack of mad dogs. She thought she'd seen all of Hell's fury in the first man's eyes, but now she realized how wrong she'd been.
One reached out with his rifle and poked her in the stomach. She winced but did not retreat. How many times had she fought all four of her brothers and won? Though they were tough and mean, they probably weren't very smart. She knew how to bide her time, wait for an opening and then strike, or run like hell.
The back of her skirt was grabbed and tugged; she spun in that direction. To her left a flash of movement, then to her right. She began to feel dizzy, sweaty, panicky. She could not catch her breath. A shove from behind made her stumble forward, directly into the arms of the man whose nose she'd bloodied.
"Enough playin?," he snarled. "She knows how to fight, and I don't aim to let her get another shot at me. Let's have done with this." A bloody hand reached for the front of her dress. Rabid eyes glared into hers. "You're gonna beg to die, Bushwhacker bitch." Dirty fingers gripped her neck. She closed her eyes and said a prayer.
I need a hero. A knight with the bravery of Lancelot. The strength of Hercules. The wisdom of Solomon. Rancid breath filled her mouth and nose. She flinched and her captor laughed.
Or anyone you've got right now will do.
KABOOM!
The gunshot froze them all. Julia's eyes snapped open, and she peered hopefully toward the Missouri hill.
"Help?" she whispered, but all eyes had turned toward the Kansas side of the creek where there stood a single man, his horse and his gun."
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