Chapter 3
Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867
The insistent tick of Buck's battered silver pocket watch echoed in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours. Lifting the timepiece towards the soft glow of the lantern, he checked the hour again with a squint – 5:57 am precisely. Sundays were a luxury for a man toiling in the harsh world of the railroad. Buck savored these stolen moments of solitude, from the first blush of rose-gold sunlight caressing the horizon to the fiery descent of the evening sun.
Sundays unfolded with a predictable rhythm. The devout souls, both white settlers and the Black freedmen sought solace within their respective houses of worship. The white men donned their Sunday best and trudged the dusty path into to the clapboard chapel. The Black congregation, voices raised in spirituals carried on the morning breeze, held their service in a clearing by the riverbank. The smattering of Indians, from various plains tribes, remained aloof from the Christian rites, each honoring their traditions in solitary reverence. Even in this isolated outpost on the fringes of the frontier, the different groups seldom mingled unity a distant dream.
For Buck, Sundays meant an escape from the demands of work. He would saddle his sturdy mare and ride into the cool verdant embrace of the nearby pine forest, often extending these solitary excursions into overnight stays. During his initial wanderings through the unexplored wilds, Buck had stumbled upon a secluded cave deep in the woods near a small stream, a sanctuary where he sought refuge. The silence and solitude were calming to his troubled spirit, a space to breathe the air freely, to quiet his whirling thoughts, and to wrestle with the demons that gnawed incessantly at the edges of his soul.
He constantly had to remind himself that this grueling railroad job, herding mule teams, and long days of laying endless tracks, were merely a temporary means to an end. Buck yearned to save enough of his wages to put down permanent roots somewhere, to build a true home and life for himself, and maybe even find a good woman to start a family with someday.
But that elusive "someday" seemed to be receding further and further across the vast horizon with each passing year. The relentless march of days and seasons mocked his dreams of domestic tranquility. At twenty-nine, he couldn't help but feel the creeping tendrils of loneliness wrap around his heart. The long-held dream of a family once so vivid and full of hope was starting to lose its luster, yet a stubborn flicker refused to be fully extinguished.
Buck savoring one of the last sips of lukewarm coffee from his tin cup. He was just about to swing his long, lean frame up into the saddle, the enticing promise of a solitary woodland ride beckoning, when an unusual sight across the dusty main street caught his keen eye.
There, perched atop a battered, trunk in the front of the saloon, sat a petite young woman with chestnut hair pinned up modestly beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her simple blue calico dress spoke more of virtuous propriety than the brash provocations of the saloon girls he occasionally glimpsed through the swinging doors.
Curiosity piqued, Buck watched as the young woman wrestled with the overlarge trunk, her slender frame no match for its considerable heft as she attempted to drag it across the deeply rutted road surface. The muddy ground from the recent rain showers offered little traction. Despite her determined efforts, the unwieldy trunk seemed possessed by a will of its own, progressively sinking deeper into the mud.
He couldn't stifle an amused chuckle at her tenacity as the trunk refused to budge, each futile tug only succeeding in miring it further into the muck. Yet beneath the humor, Buck felt a grudging admiration for the young woman's refusal to surrender despite the distinct disadvantage. Finally, he could bear to witness her fruitless struggle no longer. Downing the last swig of coffee, he ambled across the street, a silent offer of assistance.
Just as he reached the opposite edge of the camp's haphazard semicircle of log cabins and canvas lean-tos, the inevitable occurred. Having tugged the trunk into a patch of boot-sucking mud, the woman was caught fully off guard. With a startled cry, she went sprawling face-first into the thick mud, no chance to catch herself.
"Ma'am!" Buck cried out in alarm, quickening into a loping run. In two long strides, he scooped up her mud-spattered form with one arm and secured the wayward luggage with the other before quickly navigating them both to the safety of a nearby shadowed alleyway, away from any potential runaway stagecoach hazards.
As gently as possible, considering she was thoroughly slicked from head to toe with the vile-smelling muck, Buck settled her atop the trunk and knelt in front of the disoriented woman. He noticed with an inward smile that she still maintained a death grip on the lone remaining trunk handle, unwilling to relinquish her prize even after such a nasty tumble. A rumbling chuckle bubbled up from his broad chest but he stifled it, taking the carved wooden handle from her mud-caked grasp and gently placing it beside her on the dirt-packed ground.
The woman flinched at his touch, her tear-streaked face crumpling further in perceived humiliation as glistening trails of muddy water streamed from her reddened eyes. Each attempt to swipe away the stinging tears only succeeded in smearing the grime in crescent-shaped arcs across her cheeks and chin.
"Here now, hold still Miss," Buck murmured in a low, soothing tone, reaching out to still her flailing hands before she made even more of a mess. Careful to avoid introducing any new filth to her face, he took the cuff of his own faded shirt sleeve and tenderly wiped the mud and tears from beneath her eyes. "Don't rub at it, you'll only grind the grit in deeper," he cautioned, his calloused thumbs brushing lightly over her cheekbones to clear the muck clinging stubbornly to her delicate lashes.
Her eyelids fluttered open at last, the mossy green irises blinking rapidly to clear the foreign debris as she peered up at him with a disconcerted gaze. "Thank you, sir," she managed in a shy whisper.
Taking her small, grubby hands between his broad palms, Buck did his best to wipe away as much of the caked-on filth as possible using the thighs of his sturdy canvas pants as an impromptu towel. "Not exactly spotless clean, I'll admit," he said with a curl of his lips as he worked, "but hopefully an improvement at least."
His smile faltered as he felt her hands began to tremble within his grasp, a hazy sense of unease falling over them both.
"Good Lord, you're an Indian!" She gasped, a tremor of fear causing her to flinch ever so slightly.
Buck felt his easygoing manner evaporate, that all too familiar pang of weary resignation seeping into his bones as he retreated behind the stoic mask he typically wore. He acknowledged her observation with a curt nod, his jaw tightening. His only response was a low guttural grunt, "Mmm."
"Yer not like the one who attacked the train yesterday though, are you?" She pleaded, her dirt-smudged gaze searching his impassive features.
He had caught wind of the unsettling rumors whispering through the camp about a daring Lakota raid along the tracks – a brazen warning more than anything, but the warriors had effectively terrorized the passengers by barricading the rails.
"No, ma'am, I ain't," Buck stated simply, realization dawning that she must have been aboard the train caught in the crossfire.
She studied him for a lingering moment, her evident apprehension gradually giving way to hopeful relief. This tall, broad-shouldered Indian didn't seem at all like the brutish savages that attacked the train. A faint, derisive smile ghosted across her muddied lips as she vaguely recalled Henry St. Paul's warning – that all redskins were godless heathens to be feared and avoided at all costs lest they scalp you as soon as look at you. Yet this imposing man knelt before her now, his bronzed face creased in an expression, not of malice but of genuine concern.
"Were you on that train, Miss?" Buck asked, his curiosity piqued as to what circumstances could possibly have brought a well-bred white woman like herself to be traveling alone out here on the fringes of the Wyoming Territory.
"Aye," She admitted with a fearful sigh, subconsciously hugging her muddied skirts tighter around her legs.
"Whatchu doin' dragin' this trunk through the mud?" He asked.
"Well, I...I..." She began haltingly, but her words were cut off as a bellow of outrage erupted from the swinging saloon doors behind her.
"Róisín!" Lochlan stormed out into the street, grabbing the girl roughly by her arm and hauling her up to her feet with surprising force, causing her to cry out in shock and pain.
"Ouch!" She cried, wincing as his thick fingers dug brutishly into the soft flesh of her forearm.
"Ey," Buck interjected in a low rumble, rising fluidly to his full, intimidating height as he took an instinctive step forward. His words were measured yet imbued with an undercurrent of quiet menace.
"This don't concern ye, half-breed, keep that nose of yers outta my business." He growled with a dismissive curl of his lips, snatching up the young woman's trunk with ease and dragging her towards the saloon against her vehement protests.
"I ain't never settin' another foot back inside that house of sin, Lochlan Brannigan!" Róisín yelled defiantly as the larger man shoved her roughly through the swinging doors.
"This place may well be a 'house of sin' as ye put it ungratefully," Lochlan roared in rebuttal, slamming his fist down on the pockmarked bar counter in a resounding thud that set the bottles of cheap rotgut rattling, "but it's been me providin' you a roof over yer head and food on yer table!"
"You disgust me!" Róisín spat, tears of fury and humiliation stinging her eyes. She whirled on her heel and stormed up the creaky stairs, the tattered skirts of her well-worn dress swirling around her ankles. With a defiant shove, she slammed the flimsy door to her tiny room.
Chest heaving, Róisín crossed to the grimy window and stared down at the dusty main street below. Despite the sordid establishment she now found herself trapped in, she couldn't help but give a small, grateful smile to the kindly stranger as he rode his horse out of town. uncivilized outpost. She smiled at the irony, she certainly wouldn't have thought the one decent soul that existed in this town would be an Indian.
As his form dwindled to a speck, reality settled over her. She had nowhere else to go, no other family, no funds to her name. As much as Lochlan's deplorable business endeavors disgusted her very core, he was providing a roof over her head, meager though it was.
A brief knock at the door was her only warning before it creaked open, revealing Lochlan himself balancing her cumbersome trunk against his hip. With a grunt, he deposited the scuffed luggage beside the sagging bed. His jaw worked as if to speak, but seeming to think better of it, he simply gave a curt nod and pulled the door closed once more without a word.