Wild Rose Pass Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for WILD ROSE PASS

  Wild Rose Pass

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Honey and Pine Nut Tarts

  Turkey Giblet Soup

  Old-fashioned Molasses Taffy

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Reining his horse between catclaw and prickly-pear cactus, Ben Williams squinted at the late summer sun’s low angle. Though still midafternoon, shadows lengthened in the mountains. He clicked his tongue, urging his mare up the incline. “Show a little enthusiasm, Althea. If we’re not in Fort Davis by sunset, we’ll be bedding down with scorpions and rattlesnakes.”

  As his detachment’s horses clambered up Wild Rose Pass, the only gap through west Texas’ rugged Davis Mountains, Ben kept alert for loose rocks or hidden roots, anything that might trip his mount. A thick layer of fallen leaves created a pastiche of color shrouding the trail from view. He glanced up at the lithe cottonwood trees lining the route, their limbs dancing in the breeze. More amber and persimmon leaves loosened, fell, and settled near the Indian pictographs on their tree trunks. When he saw the red- and yellow-ochre drawings, he smiled, recalling the canyon’s name—Painted Comanche Camp.

  “How far to Fort Davis, lieutenant?” called McCurry, one of his recruits.

  “Three hours.” If we keep a steady pace.

  Without warning, the soldier’s horse whinnied. Spooking, it reared on its hind legs, threw its rider, and galloped off.

  As he sat up, the man groaned, caught his breath, and stared into the eyes of a coiled rattler, poised to strike. “What the…?”

  Flicking its tongue, hissing, tail rattling, the pit viper was inches from the man’s face.

  A sheen of sweat appeared above the man’s lip. “Lieutenant—”

  Praise for WILD ROSE PASS

  “When Ben Williams, a mustang—an enlisted man promoted to lieutenant on the battlefield—transfers to 1880 Fort Davis, Texas, Cadence McShane’s world is turned upside down. The captain’s headstrong daughter Cadence was raised in the sheltered shadow of the fort. As their two worlds collide, Cadence and Ben grapple with Apache raids, Tejano refugees, Buffalo soldiers, jilted suitors, land grabs, arson, bigotry, discrimination, and burgeoning love in the Old West. Couldn’t put it down!”

  ~Dianne Mueller, MSLIS

  Wild Rose Pass

  by

  Karen Hulene Bartell

  Trans-Pecos Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Wild Rose Pass

  COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Karen Hulene Bartell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2020

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-3083-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3084-6

  Trans-Pecos Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Peter Bartell, with all my love.

  With admiration for the Texan women

  who’ve invented their own destinies

  Acknowledgments

  My deep appreciation to Olga Harwell and the family of José Maria Bill for sharing his story.

  The African-American contribution to the settling and safeguarding of the American West deserves recognition. I’d particularly like to acknowledge the courage and contributions of the 24th and 25th Infantry Regiments—the Buffalo Soldiers of the 1870s and 1880s. In keeping with the historical accuracy of the era, I’ve sometimes used the term ‘Negro’ when referring to these soldiers but primarily ‘colored,’ as in the ‘United States Colored Troops (USCT),’ when referring to the troops.

  The American West of the late nineteenth century was a crossroads of cultures: Native American, European, and Asian. I’d like to give tribute to the Indians of every nation who struggled to provide for their families while surviving in a harsh environment and a rapidly changing world. Again, in keeping with the historical accuracy of the era, I’ve used the term ‘Indian’ most often, but it in no way is meant to offend.

  I’d like to acknowledge Emily Dickinson, Clement Clarke Moore, and Anthony Trollope, whose works I’ve referenced. Emily Dickinson’s poem “Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church” was published in 1864 under the title “My Sabbath.” “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” also known as “The Night Before Christmas” and “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” is a poem originally published anonymously in 1823, then later attributed to Clement Clarke Moore in 1837.

  Chapter 1

  Catclaw and Cactus

  Reining his horse between catclaw and prickly-pear cactus, Ben Williams squinted at the late summer sun’s low angle. Though still midafternoon, shadows lengthened in the mountains. He clicked his tongue, urging his mare up the incline. “Show a little enthusiasm, Althea. If we’re not in Fort Davis by sunset, we’ll be bedding down with scorpions and rattlesnakes.”

  As his detachment’s horses clambered up Wild Rose Pass, the only gap through west Texas’ rugged Davis Mountains, Ben kept alert for loose rocks or hidden roots, anything that might trip his mount. A thick layer of fallen leaves created a pastiche of color shrouding the trail from view. He glanced up at the lithe cottonwood trees lining the route, their limbs dancing in the breeze. More amber and persimmon leaves loosened, fell, and settled near the Indian pictographs on their tree trunks. When he saw the red- and yellow-ochre drawings, he smiled, recalling the canyon’s name—Painted Comanche Camp.

  “How far to Fort Davis, lieutenant?” called McCurry, one of his recruits.

  “Three hours.” If we keep a steady pace.

  Without warning, the soldier’s horse whinnied. Spooking, it reared on its hind legs, threw its rider, and galloped off.

  As he sat up, the man groaned, caught his breath, and stared into the eyes of a coiled rattler, poised to strike. “What the…?”

  Flicking its tongue, hissing, tail rattling, the pit viper was inches from the man’s face.

  A sheen of sweat appeared above the man’s lip. “Lieutenant—”

  “Don’t move. That’s an order.” Gripping his saddle horn with a sweaty palm, Ben eased down from his horse.

  “I’ll get ’im, sir.” Unsnapping his holster, Dawson reached for his Colt .45.
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  “As you were, soldier.” Don’t need twitchy fingers shooting McCurry by mistake. Scouting the area, Ben spotted a forked branch on a nearby live oak and snapped it off. Faster than the snake could strike, Ben pinned its head to the ground with the cleft stick. Then before it wriggled away, he grasped the rattler just behind its jaws with his free hand and tossed it out of range.

  Dawson stared, slack-jawed. “Why didn’t you kill the varmint, sir?”

  Ben shrugged. “No need, soldier.”

  McCurry paled. “But it could’ve attacked me.”

  “That snake let you off with a warning. It’s only fair to return the favor.” Ben helped the man to his feet. “Now round up your horse, and steer clear of sidewinders. If you find one on the trail, you might find more nearby—could be a nest.”

  McCurry gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he turned to pick his way through the piled leaves. Grumbling, his voice faded in the distance. “Why didn’t he just shoot the danged thing?”

  ****

  As the sun’s fingers lost their grip, slipping behind the mountains, Ben led the cavalrymen inside the fort. Tucked in a canyon with steep volcanic rock walls flanking it on three sides, the garrison provided shelter from the winter’s blue northers. However, from a military tactical perspective, the fort offered little defense against Apache attacks launched from the surrounding vertical cliffs. The elongated barracks and most of the structures clustered at the south end of the parade grounds. Several larger houses were huddled at the north end.

  He swept his gaze across the fort’s crew of buffalo soldiers, officers, dependents, and civilians. Washerwomen hung laundry near their thatched, wattle-and-daub huts along “suds row” as they watched the infantry drill on the parade grounds. The officers and their families socialized on their front porches during the evening Retreat Parade as the Tenth Infantry band regaled the garrison with spirited march tunes.

  Ben noticed a chestnut-haired young lady on the veranda glance toward him and then, seemingly absorbed in her companion’s story, turn back to the officer. Her laughter floated on the twilight’s breeze. As he rode through the entry, Ben returned the Negro sentry’s salute. “Where can I find the commanding officer?”

  The guard pointed to a short, trim figure standing beside the woman. “That’s Captain McShane.”

  “Obliged.” Ben turned toward his retinue. “Follow me.” Then he guided his mare toward the porch, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he sensed the young woman’s gaze. Riding closer, he noticed the freckles on her buttermilk complexion and her upswept, auburn hair. He stared at her starched, gold-and-green tartan dress, comparing it to his dusty, wrinkled uniform.

  Though her amused eyes twinkled, her demeanor was condescending. Look but don’t touch. Outclassed, he squared his shoulders and sat taller in the saddle. Then he turned to the graying captain with a crisp salute. “Second Lieutenant Ben Williams reporting for duty, sir, with Privates Dawson and McCurry.” Though seated on his horse, he still had to look up at the imposing figure on the building’s high porch. He counted the steps—seven. Not a porch, it was a podium, a stage.

  “Welcome to Fort Davis,” said Captain McShane, his back ramrod straight. “I’ve heard excellent reports about your reconnoitering skills at Fort Clark.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ben straightened his spine.

  The captain indicated the woman seated beside him. “Allow me to present my daughter, Cadence McShane.”

  Ben tipped his hat, his throat dry. “Miss McShane.”

  His backbone rigid, the captain gestured toward the officer seated beside her. “This is First Lieutenant James West.”

  “Sir.” Ben nodded to the mustachioed man as his eyes grazed the woman’s.

  “We can use another good man.” West nodded. “Too many Apache attacks on travelers along the San Antonio-El Paso Road.”

  “If I understood the commander at Fort Clark,” said Captain McShane, “Williams knows Indians. He was raised by Comanches.”

  Uncurling her spine, the lady stared at the newcomer. “Is that true, lieutenant?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ben nodded, mesmerized by her copper-flecked, amber eyes that trapped and radiated the sun’s ebbing light. As she sat in a rocker on the raised veranda, her eyes were nearly level with his. Gazing into them, he was reminded of a hungry wolf.

  “Fort Clark’s commander also spoke highly of your hunting skills.” Captain McShane puffed on a cigar. “After you get settled, maybe you could organize a wild turkey hunt for the officers.”

  Ben’s shoulders drooped. When will I be accepted as an officer instead of a scout? “Yes—”

  “Hunting’s good in the area,” said West, rising, “though as the situation is now, we can’t go more than three or four miles from the fort.”

  Chafing at the interruption, Ben stifled his sigh. “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Too many Apache raiding parties,” said West. “The remnants of Victorio’s renegades would like nothing better than to ambush a lone hunter. Private Willis found a good lake for bass fishing, not five miles from here, but unless a large detail is assigned, the men are easy pickings.”

  “No skirmishes if they’re outnumbered. They just make quiet retreats.” Familiar with the Apaches’ tactics, Ben nodded. “They prefer guerrilla warfare, ambushes, and sorties.”

  “With your skills, you’ll be a welcome addition to Fort Davis.” Then waving a hand, the captain signaled to a passing soldier. “Corporal, escort Lieutenant Williams to the unmarried officers’ quarters. Then show these men to the barracks.”

  “Yes, sir.” The corporal came to attention as he saluted.

  Dismissed. Though his skills were welcomed, Ben reckoned, I’m not…socially. Saluting, he sat tall in the saddle. “Thank you, sir.” Again the outsider looking in, Ben watched the captain and his group settle in for the evening. Then ignoring the familiar pang of exclusion, he tipped his hat with a courtly flourish. “Ma’am.” Looking for validation as a fellow human being, he watched her response. Just because they see me as a savage, do I have to act like one?

  Chapter 2

  Painted Comanche Camp

  Cadence McShane watched Ben’s retreating figure, a dark silhouette against the waning sunset’s ruddy blush. While he had talked to them, she couldn’t help but notice his chin-length, dark, wavy hair, warm brown eyes, or how his uniform hugged his lean, muscular body. Neither had the tantalizing chest hairs peeking from beneath his shirt’s neckline escaped her. What would running my fingertips over his chest be like?

  “Cady. Cadydid.”

  As his raised voice drew her attention, she spun her head toward him. “Yes, Father?”

  “You were a million miles away.”

  “I was just watching the sunset.” Covering her fib, she glanced at the sky’s last glimmer of light. The evening’s crimson and gold colors morphed into plum and amethyst. Elongated shadows stretched across the parade grounds.

  “Tell your mother to set another place at the table. I’ve asked Lieutenant West to stay for dinner after we make the rounds.”

  Echoing his words, the bugle sounded retreat as the post officially observed the day’s end.

  She glanced toward the unmarried officers’ quarters. I wonder what Lieutenant Williams is doing tonight?

  ****

  The following afternoon, Cadence sat on the front veranda, sipping tea with two officers’ wives. She wore a straw hat, perched at a jaunty angle, that waved with the breeze. Both shielding her eyes from the sun and concealing her as she peeked from beneath its broad brim, the hat let her watch unnoticed as Ben mounted his horse while she chatted with the ladies.

  A sudden gust of wind swept down from the mountains, blowing sand into a dust devil. It captured several dried leaves, swirling them round and round as they spiraled higher into the air. As another gust lifted aloft her bonnet, she shrieked, helpless as the wind carried it to the ground and rolled it along its rim toward the tiny cyclone. r />
  Ben dug his heels into his horse’s sides, steering it toward the dust twister at a gallop. Veering at the last moment, he reached with his left hand and grabbed the hat just before it lifted skyward. Then slowing his mare to a walk, he kept his gaze on the young lady as he rode up to the high porch. “I believe this hat is yours, ma’am.”

  Standing, she smiled, never taking her gaze off his. “Thank you, lieutenant.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  As he reined away his horse from the veranda, she inhaled, catching the masculine scents of sun-warmed leather and horses. Warmth crept to her cheeks. “Cadence,” she said. Her voice stilled his hand on the reins.

  His smile faltering, he touched his fingers to his hat. “Pleased to be of service, ma’am—”

  “Cadence,” she corrected him. Noting her companions’ raised brows and exchanged glances, she gestured toward him, her palm up. “Mrs. Sarah McIntyre and Mrs. Flossie Purdue, permit me to introduce Lieutenant Williams.”

  “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat to each. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  Seeing him start away with an informal salute, she gave a polite bow. “Thank you again for fetching my hat…Ben.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am—”

  “Cadence.” Though she meant to establish an informal friendship, she hoped for more.

  “Cadence.” Maintaining eye contact, he grinned as he pulled the reins to one side, turning his horse. “Ladies.” With a courteous nod to the women, he rode off.

  Cadence watched him canter away. How wonderful to be so free. Sighing, she glanced back in time to see the lieutenant’s petite, fair-skinned wife pouring tea. “Thank you, Sarah, just half a cup.”

  “A handsome man, but once you’re spoken for, is flirting prudent?” Flossie arched her brow.

  Cadence resisted the urge to argue. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “It’s common knowledge you’re pledged.” Sarah narrowed her gaze.

  “Not to my knowledge.” Cadence lifted her bare left hand.

  Flossie exchanged a sidelong glance with Sarah. Stirring her tea, she gazed at Cadence. “But you have been seeing a lot of James, haven’t you?”