The Heart's Frontier

EIGHTEEN





Luke had managed to fall into a dreamless sleep when Vic nudged him awake with a rough hand on his shoulder.

“You’re up for watch.” Exhaustion dragged at the man’s voice.

Luke stirred and saw that Griff had already roused McCann, who stumbled toward the remuda with an unsteady step.

“I’m up,” he said. “Go to bed.”

“G’night, boss.” Vic stumbled off and collapsed, clothes and all, onto his bedroll.

Luke tried to shake off sleep, and when he failed, walked on unsteady feet toward the campfire. McCann had left a row of clean tin mugs on the grass outside the fire ring, and the coffee pot rested on a flat rock set near enough to keep the contents warm. He poured himself a generous swig and downed it. The heat scalded his throat, and he took in draughts of cool air as he awaited the caffeine jolt.

Night lay quiet over the herd. He scanned the sleeping cattle for any signs of restless movement and found none. They had drawn close together before bedding down for the night, which would make his job easier in the morning. They would rise as one and be ready to hit the trail probably sooner than his tired men wanted.

Men and women. Luke glanced toward the Switzers’ wagon, where the women lay bedded down beyond. Emma had not been far from his thoughts tonight, even in sleep. The sight of her last evening, stumbling on legs numb from hours in the saddle with a determined set to her jaw, stirred emotions deep inside him. He was right to give the order to move forward without recovering the rustled strays from his herd. Her safety, and the safety of her family, were far more important than a few hundred head of cattle or any future job he may or may not land.

The horses in the remuda pranced nervously when he ducked under the rope Vic had strung to keep them contained.

“Whoa, there you go. It’s all right.”

He pitched his voice low as he made his way toward his favorite night horse. Bo had worked hard the past few days, and he deserved a full night’s rest as much as the men. With an outstretched hand Luke approached Whitey, whose name described him perfectly, murmuring words of comfort. Whitey was fresh, fully rested, and eager to escape the confines of the corral. Luke swung the saddle over his back and cinched the girth snugly.

“There we go, boy.” He lifted the rope barrier over the horse’s head, and led him out to the other side. The sight of his white hide circling the perimeter in the night had served to calm a restless herd before, though this one slept soundly enough that Luke doubted his choice of mount would make a difference.

He swung himself up into the saddle and started his circuit. At the south end of the herd, he met up with McCann, who had swung around to the east. The man nodded and waved a hand in silent greeting, then turned and headed back in the direction he had come. They would pass their two-hour watch repeating the same path, on the lookout for invaders or restless cattle.

After a few uneventful passes, Luke’s attention was drawn to the southwest. The moon lay veiled in clouds, but the sky painted a lighter picture than the blackness of the earth. Strain though he might, he could not make out the ridge of a hill in the distance, though he knew the land swelled high, like the waves of a restless sea. Beyond that the rest of his herd lay sleeping. As did the marauders who had stolen them.

Jesse was right. It would be ridiculously easy to surprise the rustlers and take back his cattle. Well, not easy, because there was always the danger they would put up a fight, and whenever a man drew a gun the possibility of injury or even death existed. Pa always used to tell him, “If you draw a gun against a man, you’d better intend to use it.” Luke had drawn his gun many times during his life on the trail, but never with the intention to shoot another man. Even this morning he hadn’t been able to bring himself to aim for the rustlers.

If I kill them, that makes me no better than they are.

He glanced beyond the camp, where six fresh graves bore witness to the morning’s violence. The loss of life—even those of the marauders—sickened him to the point of nausea. If he’d pulled the trigger that resulted in one of those deaths, he was certain he’d be in the same shape Charlie had been after shooting that rustler, unable to hold anything in his stomach besides guilt.

He slapped a hand against Whitey’s neck. “I’m not much of a trail boss, am I, boy? My pa wouldn’t waste a second thought about defending his herd.”

Or about taking back his charges. Luke looked again in the direction of the rustlers’ camp. The night was so peaceful.

On impulse, he whistled for McCann’s attention. When the man looked up, Luke swept a hand over the sleeping herd and then pointed at him. He understood the message, that he was to keep an eye on the cattle for a minute, and nodded.

Luke turned Whitey southwest with a gentle tug on the reins and galloped off. He wouldn’t be gone long, just long enough for one last look at those stolen cattle.


Emma lay awake on her pallet beneath the wagon, watching Luke’s white horse pace around this side of the sleeping cows. Beside her, Rebecca’s quiet breath was nearly drowned out by Maummi’s robust snores. Though she’d been tired when she left the campfire to find her bedroll, Emma’s sleep had been fitful. When Vic roused Luke to take the watch, she had woken as well. Now sleep eluded her the way wild jackrabbits avoided the snares in Papa’s vegetable garden.

A single question revolved in her mind. Why couldn’t Luke become Amish? Since the thought had occurred to her, she could think of nothing else. It was the perfect solution. He could move to Apple Grove and go through the baptism classes with her. They could be baptized at the same service in the fall. And then…

A tickle in her belly accompanied a myriad of tantalizing thoughts. Luke working alongside Papa on the farm. A wedding. Eventually, Papa would move into the dawdi haus, leaving her and Luke to live in the home where she’d been raised. And soon after, babies to cuddle and teach to love the Plain life, as she had been taught.

Beautiful images crowded her mind and drove the last possibility of sleep away. She raised up on her pallet and scooted out from beneath the wagon, careful not to wake Rebecca or Maummi. Perhaps a breath of night air and a view of the stars overhead would calm her enough to sleep.

When she stood, her gaze was drawn inevitably to Luke. Would he do that? Would he give up his cowboy life and embrace the life of a farmer?

Surely he would at least consider the possibility. That is, if he felt the same attraction, and she was pretty sure he did. She’d felt the weight of the looks he fixed on her, the way he leaped to her aid this afternoon when she fell from her horse. A blush threatened, hidden in the dark night. Not her finest moment, to be sure, but he had responded with chivalry and concern. Surely he cared for her as she had come to care for him. But what if the idea of living a Plain life had not occurred to him?

There was one way to find out. Emma snatched her kapp off the wagon and twisted her hair up as she crept quietly away from her sleeping family. She headed into the darkness, intending to make a wide arc around the herd and come up on Luke’s other side. The cows were sleeping, so they probably wouldn’t be startled, but she didn’t particularly want McCann or anyone else who happened to be awake to witness her approaching Luke.

With a guilty glance in the direction where Papa’s bedroll lay, she walked with quiet caution. His earlier question proved that he trusted her to make her own decision about the man she would marry. Amish parents were usually not privy to the romantic interests of their children. Often they were not informed of the intent to marry until a few weeks before the wedding. Of course, in a district as small as Apple Grove there were few secrets. Everyone knew of the attraction between Katie Beachy and Samuel Miller. As Papa was aware of the attraction between her and Luke.

And Papa liked Luke, she could tell. Wouldn’t he be thrilled to have Luke as a son-in-law, an Amish son-in-law?

When Emma was far enough from camp that her footsteps could not be overheard, she blew out a pent-up breath. A cluster of trees formed the perfect barrier where she could stand and not be easily overseen by anyone who happened to awaken and look around. Luke’s sentry path had reached the rear of the herd, a couple of hundred yards away. He would turn and head back this way, and she would be waiting for him. A nervous tickle erupted in her stomach. What would she say? She had no more than a few minutes to plan her speech.

But as she watched his hands rose to cup his mouth. A low whistle rode to her ears on the cool night air. He gestured, and then in another moment he turned and galloped away. Emma straightened and stepped away from the tree trunk, watching as the white hide of his horse diminished in the distance. Where was he going?

Something fell over her head and brushed her arms. She started to raise her hands to slap away whatever had fallen on her, but in the next instant she was jerked off her feet. She hit the ground with a thud that knocked the breath from her lungs. Stars exploded in the night, and it took a moment to realize they were not in the sky but inside her head.

When her vision cleared, she looked up into the face of a man on horseback, towering over her. He held a rope in his hand, the lariat at the other end pulled tight around her arms and across her chest.

A low, dreadfully familiar voice whispered in the night. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

The man’s lips parted in an unpleasant smile, revealing a set of rotted black teeth.