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Wounded Heart

By Colleen Hall

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WOUNDED HEART
Chapter 1
He was the most fascinating man she had ever seen, unlike the gentlemen she was accustomed to associating with in Boston. A fringed deerskin shirt molded to his wide shoulders and muscled chest. Deerskin trousers encased his legs. He sat his long-legged gray grulla mustang as though man and horse were one.
Della Hughes gripped the top rail of the stockyard fence, unaware the rail soiled her pristine white gloves. Unable to wrench her attention from the man hazing the mares into a smaller paddock, she breathed, “Who is he?”
At her side, Lieutenant Emory Dyer also watched the horseman work the mares. “Hunter? That’s Shane Hunter. He’s the army scout your uncle hired.”
“An army scout!”
Lieutenant Dyer shifted toward Della, propping an elbow on the top rail. His hazel eyes squinted as he studied her. “Don’t get any romantical notions into your head. He doesn’t mix much with females.”
Watching in fascination, Della held her breath. She stared at Shane Hunter as he spun his mustang to cut off a group of mares who attempted to bolt away from the paddock gate. He seemed unaware of the people who lined the fence, watching. His attention centered solely on the uncooperative mares. His gelding lunged, blocking the mares and sending them whirling in a blur of flashing manes and sleek hides back toward the gate. Dust from the horses’ hooves hung in the air like a hazy ochre mist.
The man on Della’s left, a weathered individual wearing canvas trousers and battered boots, spoke up. “Hunter isn’t what you’d call sociable. Lived some with the Cheyenne. People say he’s more Cheyenne than white. Whatever he is, he’s one tough hombre.”
Della glanced at the worn man on her left, then faced the paddock again. Her attention focused once more on the horseman astride the grulla gelding. Shane Hunter had hazed the mares into the second paddock and now sidled his mount alongside the gate. He shoved the gate closed. Leaning down, he secured the latch. The fringe on the front of his shirt danced with the motion. He straightened and lifted his black, wide-brimmed horseman’s hat from his head, swiping an arm across his forehead. The slanting afternoon sun painted his tawny hair with brushstrokes of gold before he settled his hat once again on his head, tilting the brim low over his eyes.
As if he felt her scrutiny, Hunter swung his head toward her. Their stares locked across the space of the paddock. Della felt his gaze like a blow. She sucked in her breath, nearly stumbling back a pace at the impact of his glance. A bolt of heat sizzled through her, beginning in the pit of her stomach before flaring out through her chest and her lower limbs. His eyes impaled her where she stood. She could neither move nor breathe, nor could she turn her stare from his face. For long moments, their glances locked. Then, without acknowledging her, he swung his mount about and jogged toward the opposite gate. Della’s gaze followed his deerskin-clad back as he disappeared into the warren of fencing, loading chutes, and holding pens of the stockyards at the western edge of Kansas City.
Once freed from his stare, Della sucked in a quivering breath. She trembled and ignored the urge to fan herself. No man had ever roused such a reaction within her. This particular gentleman had both paralyzed her and captured her will with a single glance.
Beside her, Lieutenant Dyer stirred, turning away from the paddock. “I’d better get you back to the hotel or your uncle will have my hide. He wants us all together for dinner tonight. We’re meeting the men who will be helping with our venture.”
Sending a final glance in the direction down which Shane Hunter had vanished, Della pivoted away from the fence. She tucked her hand into the crook of Lieutenant Dyer’s proffered arm and strolled beside him. They walked into the gray shadows cast between two of the stockyard sheds. The plaintive bawling of the cattle contained in the barns rolled out from between the rough planked walls.
Della shut out the sound, not wanting to dwell on the cattle or their plight. She hated to think of the poor beasts being loaded onto trains and shipped to eastern slaughterhouses. Trying not to breathe the bovine stench, she tilted a glance up at Lieutenant Dyer. “We’re having company for dinner?”
“Captain Asher, for one. He’s the officer in charge of the cavalry detail your uncle has arranged to provide protection for us.”
“Uncle Clint isn’t taking any chances with those Morgans. He doesn’t want to lose a single horse.”
Lieutenant Dyer’s unremarkable but pleasant face crinkled in a smile. “He has more valuable things to protect. A wife and a chubby toddler who have stolen his heart are more important to him.” He patted Della’s gloved hand where it rested on his arm. “And of course, he has the care of a beautiful niece who’s too willful for her own good.”
Della poked his shoulder with her free hand. “Willful! Me? Much you know about that.”
“What would you call climbing out the window of the young ladies’ academy and running away to see the circus? The headmistress was about to have the vapors when you didn’t show up for dinner. I’d call that willful. And ill-advised.”
“Oh, pooh!” Della waggled her fingers as if to brush away his chiding. “I didn’t run away, exactly. I wanted to see the dancing bear and the bearded lady. And when the trapeze artist offered to carry me across the wire to demonstrate his balancing skills, I couldn’t resist. When would I ever have had another opportunity for an adventure like that?”
“When, indeed?” Lieutenant Dyer drawled. “The headmistress was convinced your uncle would seek to have her removed from her position because you risked your good name while under her care. You spoke to a member of the male sex with whom you hadn’t been properly introduced. And you consorted with carnival people, all while being unchaperoned. The poor woman was distraught.”
Della recalled that incident very well. “I intended to return to my room before anyone missed me, but I forgot the time.”
“I was present when your uncle received the telegram from the headmistress. You can be thankful you weren’t close enough for him to get his hands on you.”
A blush stained Della’s cheeks. Her gaze lowered to the path before she squared her shoulders and tilted up her chin. “I was just climbing back through the window into my room when the tree branch broke. How was I to know the branch would break?”
“You might have used the front door and the stairs and saved everyone’s nerves when you broke your arm in the fall.” Lieutenant Dyer shook his head. “You’ll never know what it took for your uncle to smooth the incident over with the headmistress and the advisory board of the academy. The board members were determined to have you expelled. The men thought you weren’t up to the genteel standards they required and your behavior would reflect on the school’s good name.”
“Well, that’s in the past, and now that I’m twenty, I’m sure I’m a lady.”
“Just you remember that, and no more escapades. Your Uncle Clint has more important things on his mind right now than rescuing you from your own impulsive behavior.”
They left the cattle yard behind and reached the street where their buggy waited. Lieutenant Dyer handed Della up into the equipage, loosened the reins from the hitching post, and climbed in beside her. The vehicle rocked with his weight. He settled himself on the black leather seat and turned the horse about.
When they reached the hotel where Clint Logan had reserved rooms for their group, Lieutenant Dyer deposited her at the front steps and continued around behind to the stables. Della paused, tipping back her head, and surveyed the hotel. Towering oaks on either side of the steps shaded the long veranda that fronted the building. Pink, orange, and yellow snapdragons flourished along the lawn’s edge bordering the veranda and provided a spot of cheerful color to contrast the building’s whitewashed siding. Bushes of crimson tea roses added another bright splash of color. Wicker rockers boasting yellow cushions ranged along the porch, inviting guests to sit and relax. The whole scene evoked a sense of understated elegance.
She should enjoy the hotel’s comfort these next few days. Once they left Kansas City for the west, no such luxuries would be found.
Coral, her uncle’s Southern wife, waved to her from one of the rockers while a curly-headed sprite pattered about her chair.
Della placed a foot, encased in a soft kid walking shoe which buttoned up the side, onto the bottom step and gathered up her dimity skirts so as not to snag the hem while she mounted the stairs. At the top, she crossed the gray-painted veranda floor to her aunt’s chair. Flossie, her two-year old cousin, shrieked and scampered toward her, sorghum-colored curls bouncing, the skirts of her blue gingham pinafore swirling about her chubby calves. She babbled in a language only she understood, holding out a red tin toy top decorated with strips of yellow and blue circling its rounded body.
Crouching, Della caught Flossie’s warm, wriggling form in her arms. The toddler leaned trustingly into her, holding up the toy for Della’s inspection.
“Play, Del, play.” Flossie begged, shoving the top at Della.
“Do you think Cousin Della can make the top spin?”
Flossie nodded. “Spin top.”
Della placed the toy’s pointed bottom end on the porch floor, pumping the handle to make the top twirl. A low humming sounded from the spinning toy. When the top had reached the speed where it could balance, Della let go of the handle. The whirling top flashed in a blur of red, yellow, and blue, skipping across the boards.
Flossie giggled, clapping her hands, and darted to her mother. She flung herself at Coral’s lap and pointed at the top, prattling.
Della rose, smiling. “She’s easily amused.”
A breeze sifted along the porch, wafting aloft the scents of sun-warmed grass and roses. The leaves of the oaks rustled.
Coral shook her head. “When she’s getting her way. She can be a thundercloud if her wishes are thwarted.” She stroked her hand down her daughter’s curls and lifted Flossie onto her lap, hugging her close.
Longing filled Della’s heart when she glimpsed the maternal love evident on Coral’s face, in the tenderness with which Coral held her daughter. Della’s parents had been killed in a carriage accident when she’d been a young child not much older than Flossie, so her memories of her own mother were hazy and few. Her grandparents and her Uncle Clint had reared her. Though she loved them dearly, she wished she’d known a mother’s love like that of Aunt Coral’s for Flossie.
Coral kissed the top of her daughter’s head and gathered her against her bosom, rising to her feet. “It’s time to turn this imp over to Silvie, and we need to dress for dinner.”
Della scooped up the top from the veranda floor and accompanied her aunt through the wide front door and inside to the hotel’s foyer. “I hear we’re having company for dinner.”
“Yes. Clint has invited Captain Asher to dine with us. You’ll be pleased to meet him. He recently graduated from West Point. This is his first assignment to the West.”
“And who besides Captain Asher?” With one hand trailing on the mahogany stair rail, Della climbed each step in rhythm with her aunt. Their skirts whispered against the burgundy-patterned carpet runner.
“I believe he’s also invited the army scout who’ll be heading up our expedition, Shane Hunter.”
“I saw him today, when Uncle Emory and I were at the stockyards. He was putting the last of the Morgan mares into the paddock.” Della paused and considered her impressions of the scout. “He’s not like any man I’ve ever known.”
Coral cut a sideways glance at Della. “I doubt you’ve ever met anyone like him. You wouldn’t encounter him taking tea in a Boston drawing room.”
The mental image of Shane Hunter, wearing his fringed buckskin shirt and trousers tucked into heeled leather boots, sitting in a Boston drawing room and holding a china cup in his large hands, caused Della’s mouth to tilt upward. Having Shane Hunter in a drawing room would be akin to setting a cougar loose among a flock of pigeons. “Boston matrons would swoon should Mr. Hunter cross their drawing room thresholds.”
“From what I’ve heard of Mr. Hunter, I don’t think anyone could entice him into a drawing room.” Coral shifted Flossie to her other hip and reached for the crystal doorknob of the private suite her husband had reserved for their use. “Captain Asher, on the other hand, would be very much at home in a drawing room. His father was in the diplomatic service, so he grew up in Europe and is much accustomed to society.”
“He won’t have a need for society where he’s going.” Della recalled the tales she’d heard about the West and wondered if Captain Asher’s background had prepared him for such an assignment. “I hope he knows enough to stay alive in Indian country.”
“That’s why we have Mr. Hunter. His experience and skills will guide us through the dangers.”
They entered the elegant parlor separating Della’s room from her aunt and uncle’s bedchamber. Picking up the silver hand bell resting on a lamp table beside a medallion-back sofa, Coral rang for Silvie. Della turned toward her own room, crossing the parlor to her door.
Inside, Bridgette, Della’s maid, turned to her with an elegant evening dress in her hands.
“Your Uncle Clint wants you turned out smart for dinner tonight. I think this gown will do.” Bridgette held up a creation of ruched pink silk trimmed with lace and ribbon. Her round face glowed beneath her white mop cap.
Della peeled off her gloves and tossed them onto the bed. She sauntered toward Bridgette. Reaching out, she stroked the frock’s delicate fabric. “Yes, I think this gown will please Uncle Clint.” And what would Shane Hunter think when he saw her wearing her fashionable finery? Or even the unknown Captain Asher?
When Della had been dressed and coiffed, she crossed the room to the mahogany-framed cheval glass and surveyed her reflection with a critical eye. Her dark, curly hair had been swept up and back in a high knot, with a fringe of bangs dropping over her brow and ringlets curling over one shoulder. The gown boasted a fashionable square, off-the-shoulder neckline and short, puffed sleeves. The skirt, tight at the waist, fell in a straight line to her feet in the front and was gathered about her hips in a bustle. A swath of foaming lace, silk tucks, and ruching formed an elaborate overskirt. A single dark pink ribbon had been tied about her neck. Diamond teardrops swung from her ears. In this gown, she could have graced any Boston drawing room.
Almond-shaped violet eyes fringed by smoky lashes gave Della’s oval face an exotic look. The men of her acquaintance had never seemed to mind that her slender form was taller than most women, and Della had never cared. Her height lent her a willowy appearance.
Bridgette hovered behind her, clasping her hands in her apron. “Will your uncle approve?”
Della swing about and studied her maid. Apparently, Clint Logan’s status as a general in the Union cavalry during the Civil War and his authoritarian air had impressed Bridgette, who seemed anxious to please her employer. Della patted Bridgette on the shoulder. “Uncle Clint will be impressed with your handiwork, I’m sure. Even Boston’s social matrons couldn’t find fault with my appearance tonight.”
Relief crossed Bridgette’s face. “You’re being ever so kind, mum.”
Hearing footsteps crunch on the gravel walk beneath her open window, Della glanced outside. Shane Hunter approached from the direction of the stable at the rear of the hotel, following the path around to the front. He walked with a lithe, loose-jointed gait, shoulders held erect. His black, low-crowned, broad-brimmed horseman’s hat hid his face from her view, while his easy stride brought him closer to her window. Della remained motionless, watching him.
When he had almost reached her vantage point, he halted and swung his head up, as though he felt her stare. As had happened at the cattle pens, their gazes collided. His mouth firmed into an unsmiling line, and his lids hooded to half cover his eyes.
Della froze, unable to move. She held her breath. The world outside seemed to have stopped. Once again, Shane Hunter held her imprisoned by his force of will. Silent moments ticked past while neither of them stirred. At last, the scout acknowledged her by a dip of his head and a finger to his hat brim before he continued along the footpath.
When he had disappeared around the front of the hotel, Della stirred, drawing back from the window. There went the man whose knowledge of the West and whose experience with the
Plains tribes would guide them across the vast Kansas prairie to the Colorado territory. Captain Asher’s cavalry detail might lend firepower to the group of men already assembled, but their very lives rested in Shane Hunter’s hands.
Turning away, Della breathed deeply and concentrated on slowing her racing heart. Now she must go down to the private dining room and meet the man who twice in one day had captivated her completely.

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