Cherish by Catherine Anderson Page A

from her chin to her waist. Fifty of them, at least. It seemed like that many, anyhow; all of them so little, he had trouble getting hold of them.
    When he finally got her completely dressed and tucked back under the quilts, he was worn to a frazzle. She thrashed her legs, her lips moving as she whispered things he couldn’t make out, her small face twisted with what could only be anguish. Race’s heart caught at her expression. She was obviously reliving the events of the day.
    “Whoa, sweetheart” He lightly stroked her goldenhair, fascinated by the flyaway tendrils that caught at his fingertips. The only time his own hair had ever gone that kinky was when he’d bent too close to the cooking fire and singed the ends. “You’re just havin’ a bad dream, that’s all. You’re safe. Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. I swear it.”
    She quietened and turned her cheek against the inside of his wrist. A defeated whimper came from her, shrill and broken.
    The sound cut through Race like a dull-edged knife. He’d walked through that encampment, and he’d seen enough to know that her papa hadn’t done much of anything—hadn’t gone for a rifle or lifted a hand. He’d just stood there and let the unthinkable happen.
    Now, in her mind’s eye, she was seeing it all unfold again, and as before, an able-bodied man was standing aside, doing nothing. Every instinct Race possessed bridled at the thought. He wanted to crash through the barriers between dream and reality—to take her in his arms and press her face to his shoulder so she wouldn’t see, if nothing else. Anything to take the pain away. But she was trapped in a world he couldn’t reach.
    Race had no idea how long he sat there, stroking her hair and trying to call her back from her troubled dreams. Minutes? Hours? He only knew he sat in one position for so long that pain knifed through his legs and zigzagged up his spine. When she finally quieted and drifted into a deep sleep, he was so weary he could scarcely keep his eyes open, and his head felt as if someone were driving a spike through it. He stretched out beside her on top of the blankets, using the crook of his arm as a pillow. As he let his eyes drift closed, he promised himself he’d only lie there long enough to get rid of his headache. It wouldn’t do for her to wake up and find a strange man in her bed.
    That wouldn’t do at all.

Chapter 3
    Eyes closed and feeling oddly disembodied, Rebecca came slowly awake. First she became aware of the familiar sounds of early morning that drifted to her from outside the wagon—the muted shuffle of footsteps on loose dirt, the clank of cooking pots and utensils, the sporadic snap and crackle of campfires, the indistinct clucking of chickens, and another noise coming from directly behind her that reminded her of someone snoring. Strange, that. Papa had never been one to snore. Then she heard a dog bark, which struck her as even stranger. No one in their caravan even owned a dog.
    On the tail of that thought, Rebecca began to notice other noises that didn’t fit. In the distance, there was a monotonous droning sound, like the lowing of cattle. And somewhere close to the wagon, a gruff male voice muttered a profane expletive.
    She frowned in bewilderment. Was that tobacco smoke she smelled? And what on earth was making that persistent jingling noise? It reminded her of the sound riding spurs made as the rowels dragged in the dirt or stuttered across the planks of a boardwalk, a distinctive chuhchink—chuhchink—chuhchink .
    Something wasn’t right. None of the brethren used profanities or wore spurs on their boots, and worldly indulgences, such as the use of tobacco, were strictly forbidden. Vaguely alarmed, Rebecca struggled to open her eyes, a feat that proved to be beyond her. Tired. So awfully, horribly tired . Her arms and legs felt as if they were anchored to the bed with iron weights.
    No need to worry, she thought drowsily. Papa was out there, and so were