Page 16 of The Heart’s Charge

“Which are you, Mr. Brooks?”

Jonah straightened from his crouch, realizing too late he’d not kept up with Samuel’s prattling. “What?”

“A gunslinger or a lawman?” The kid pointed to the pistol strapped to his thigh. “Mama says only two types of men wear guns like that, and I’m supposed to steer clear of both.”

“Sounds like your mama’s a smart woman.” Steering clear of trouble of all sorts, no matter which side it came from, was a good idea. “I’m actually neither. I’m a Horseman. Rode with the 10th Cavalry until a few years ago. Then with Captain Hanger. Now, I suppose, I’m retired. Still carry the gun, though.” He shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“You’re a Buffalo Soldier?” The awe in the kid’s voice made Jonah uncomfortable.

He’d felt much the same as a youngster, idolizing men who served their country with courage and distinction. Men who looked like him. Shared his heritage.

But being on the other side, having experienced the ugliness of war, the brutality and injustice, Jonah didn’t feel comfortable being cast as a hero. Not after Wounded Knee.

“Not anymore, kid.” Jonah thumped Samuel’s back and strode forward to check on Bessie and Tessie, two old girls who wouldn’t have the energy to tangle their traces even if they discovered the inclination.

“But you used to be, right?” The boy was persistent, trailing after him like an eager puppy. “Maybe you can stop the kiddy-snatchers.”

Jonah spun around. “The what?”

“The kiddy-snatchers.” Samuel’s wide eyes blinked up at him, nothing but sincerity shining in their depths. “Rawley told me about ’em. They come out of the woods when no one’s around and snatch up boys old enough to be out on their own but too young to put up a fight. Once a boy is snatched, he’s never seen again. Ever.”

“Samuel Crawford Harris! What have I told you about tellin’ tales?” Georgia Harris stood with hands planted firmly on hips, a glower darkening her previously pleasant countenance.

“But Gramma Georgia, it’s the truth!”

His adamancy didn’t leave a dent. She raised a brow. “Have you seen a child be snatched?”

“No, but Rawley said—”

“Rawley is a boxcar boy who rides the rails with a gang of troublemakers who steal from honest folk and stir up mischief. He probably made up the story just to frighten you.”

Samuel’s expression turned mulish. “He wouldn’t! He’s my friend.”

“Even though your mama told you not to see him again?” She wagged a finger in the boy’s direction. “Do I need to have a conversation with your daddy when he comes to pick you up tomorrow?”

All defiance leaked out of Samuel with the speed of water passing through a sieve. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Georgia nodded in satisfaction, and a smile returned to soften her face. “That’s my good boy. Now, run up to the house and help yourself to a slice of Gramma’s bread for helping Mr. Brooks. There’s jam on the counter too.”

Samuel headed for the house, defeat drooping his shoulders. He passed Miss Southerland along the way. Her brow crinkled, and she twisted her head to watch him go but made no move to interfere.

“Let me give you the directions to Tildy’s house,” Miss Georgia was saying, but Jonah only listened with half an ear, his focus on the boy.

When Samuel reached the porch, he grabbed the railing, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Directly at Jonah.

A small shiver vibrated against Jonah’s nape. Tall tale or not, he couldn’t leave the kid hanging.

He dipped his chin. Samuel dipped his in return.

The Horsemen had just been hired.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Mark leaned against the side of the house and watched the kids play in the yard. Kate was avoiding him. Had been for the last hour. After he’d seen to the horses, he searched her out in the kitchen and found her peeling potatoes. He’d offered to help, hoping to spend some time with her and maybe wheedle past whatever reluctance was keeping her from answering his questions. He’d start with some innocuous questions about her family. Share a few tidbits about his own from his mother’s last letter. Do a little reminiscing over old times. Then gently move into the unknown territory of what had transpired between the past and present.

He’d barely managed the opening smile of his campaign before the little minx retreated. She’d thrust the bowl of peelings at him, thanked him for his help, then left. Left! With no explanation beyond a muttered excuse about needing to restock the baby supplies in the downstairs cabinet. As if that were a matter of great urgency. Supper seemed a more imminent need, in his estimation, but he had let her go, staying behind to peel potatoes.