Page 57 of At Love’s Command

“That shirt stain’s gettin’ wider. All this walking’s keeping that wound from closing. You ain’t gonna do the lady doctor any good if you bleed yourself to death.”

Matt shot his corporal a glare. “I’m not gonna do her much good if I sit down in the middle of nowhere and take a nap either.” He tucked his arm close to his throbbing side and let out a sigh. “I know you’re looking out for me, Preach, and I appreciate it, but I’m not the one we need to be concerned about. Josie’s alone with an entire gang of outlaws.” Ruthless men with the morality of snakes. His throat worked as he fought to keep the worst visions of what might be happening to her out of his brain. “Charlie won’t be able to protect her. Her father might ransom her, but Taggart can’t be trusted to keep his word. There’s no telling what he’ll do to her before or after he gets his money.”

The image of Taggart’s knife blade on her face shot raw terror through Matt and energized his tired muscles. This was why he wasn’t supposed to let himself care about a woman. It tore a man up inside when he failed to protect her. When circumstances stole her well-being from the realm of his control. Left him feeling helpless and fearful and . . . and none of that mattered. He couldn’t undo loving her. Didn’t want to. So he’d use that fear as a weapon and let it push him harder. Straightening his stance, he quickened his pace.

“We’ll get there, Matt,” Wallace said, coming alongside them. “In the meantime, she’s in God’s hands. We have to trust that he has things under control.”

Matt nodded, but the sentiment didn’t soothe as much as it should have. Plenty of good men had been martyred doing the Lord’s work. And plenty of evil men had thrust their will upon the innocent, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. A cavalryman didn’t work long on the frontier without seeing that truth played out. Death. Rape. Mutilation. He’d seen it all.

Yes, God was capable of protecting Josie, but there was no guarantee that he actually would. And it was that uncertainty that drove Matt step after grueling step.

He supposed a more faithful man would take comfort in knowing that God’s will would prevail, and whatever happened would be for the best. But Matt believed there was an evil force with a will of its own at work in the world too. A force that inflicted pain for its own sadistic delight. A force that would steal a five-year-old boy’s parents and sister from him and make him bear witness to the atrocities. He didn’t believe their murder was God’s will. A God who spoke commandments against murder wouldn’t condone such an act. Yet this same God had done nothing to stop it.

His uncle had offered what explanation he could, trying to help a hurting boy who harbored anger toward the Almighty. Sin had consequences, his uncle had said. And God had to allow those consequences to play out even when it meant innocent people got hurt.

Hatred led a Comanche war party to violence against a family of white settlers. A hatred that had been born from white men stealing their land and attacking their villages. There was plenty of blame and plenty of sin on both sides. But on that day thirty-two years ago, Matt’s parents had been the ones to pay the price.

If the cavalry had been there, they could have stopped it. That was why Matt had joined. To get in the way of those consequences taking innocent lives. Soldiers were fair game in war. Civilians weren’t. As far as he was concerned, Josie was a civilian in this war with Taggart. Using her for extortion was man’s will, not God’s. Which meant man could change the outcome. If he could get there in time.

“Road’s up yonder,” Jonah said, pointing to a level area about a hundred yards away.

Matt’s heart stuttered as hope surged to life in his breast. “Good work, Sergeant.” He set off at a lope, his wounds forgotten. “Let’s go, boys.”

They’d covered half the distance when the sound of wagon wheels and a jangling harness broke through the stillness of early evening.

Matt started running in earnest, ignoring the jabs at his feet, intent only on catching the attention of whoever was driving. Despite the pain in his side, he waved his arms above his head like a wild man and shouted.

“Hey! Over here! Stop the wagon!”

The other Horsemen joined in the clamor as they raced for the road. The wagon kept rolling, showing no sign of stopping. Either the driver was hard of hearing or he had no intention of pulling over for a bunch of crazed beggars. Matt dropped his hands and sprinted forward. This wagon was not getting away.

He crossed the plane of the road just behind the wagon and turned to give chase. Thanking God for a sedately paced team of horses, he gained ground. Lungs burning, feet screaming in agony, side cramping, he ran.

He caught up to the back wheel. Then the side of the wagon. Then, finally, the driver’s bench.

“Please,” he huffed. “Stop.”

The driver startled in his seat, then jerked on the reins. “Whoa!”

Matt doubled over, bracing his hands above his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. Never had thirty-seven felt as old as it did at that moment.

“Land sakes, fella,” the driver declared as he brought his team to a halt. “You ’bout scared the spit out of me, running into the road like that. Shocks like that take a toll on the old ticker, you know.” He thumped his chest, but then his eyes widened as he took in Matt’s bedraggled condition. “Goodness, son. What happened to you?”

A clamor behind Matt alerted him to the arrival of the rest of the Horsemen.

“Heavens to Betsy! You hombres look like you been tossed off a train and left to rot. What’re y’all doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere, and on foot?”

Matt forced himself to straighten his posture even though his side protested. “Attacked by outlaws.”

The driver let out a low whistle. “Lord have mercy. They done took your horses?”

Matt nodded. “Guns too. Even our boots.”

“Your boots?” He looked more affronted by that indignity than by the stolen horses. He shook his head. “That’s downright despicable.”

“We sure could use a ride to town, mister.” Matt took a step closer to the wagon. As sympathetic as the driver appeared, they didn’t have time for the long version of the story. “The gang who attacked us took a woman hostage. I gotta get to the depot in Chatfield before the last train departs.”

“Took a woman? The fiends!” The driver gestured swiftly toward his wagon. “Never let it be said that Paxton Whitaker failed to help a lady in need. Hurry up, now. Climb in. I’ll get ya to Chatfield before the 7:40 leaves the station. On my honor.”