Ash caught the inside of her lip between her teeth in an effort to keep from dissolving into sobs. "It's not fair," she said fiercely. "It's not—"
The wagon bumped over a rut, and she saw Jones's lips tighten in pain. His lashes fluttered open. For an instant Ash felt a surge of hope, the black orbs lucid as he looked deep into her eyes.
"Life... not always fair... girlie." His voice was halting, faint, almost lost in the horrible rattling sound deep in his thick chest. "But sometimes... can be good. Sometimes find gold in... sea o' mud."
"Kennisaw," Ash whispered, smoothing the tangle of fire-red hair away from his bruised forehead. "Don't talk. Just rest."
"Have... eternity t' sleep. Precious little time t' say... what needs sayin'." He swallowed painfully, his grip tightening about Ashleen's hand. "You're an angel... Sister. Runnin' off to help... man you barely know."
"Just hold on a few more miles," Ash urged him. "I can see West Port in the distance. We'll be there before you know it."
The corner of Kennisaw's mouth twisted up in a mockery of a smile. "Too late."
"No!" Ash's fingers clutched his, as if she could give him some of her strength.
Jones moved his head just a fraction in denial. "Not going to make it... but you, girlie, you will. Find... young'uns future. Keep 'em... safe... strong."
It was as if even with death tugging at his soul the old man had sensed her deepest, most secret fears, as if he were trying to comfort her.
Ash's throat felt swollen shut.
"Pocket... look in... my pocket."
She barely caught the old man's whisper.
Turning back the quilt, she did as he asked her, withdrawing a beautifully crafted doeskin bag, its beaded design obviously worked by loving hands. A hint of light flickered in Jones's eyes as he looked upon it for what he must know was the last time. Ash remembered his story about the Sioux woman who had made moccasins for John Logan's boys and wondered if Sweetest One had fashioned this pouch as well, filling it with simple treasures for the man she loved.
"Open it," Kennisaw bade Ashleen.
She fumbled with the soft leather thong knotted about its top, tugging it free. She slipped her fingers into the mouth of the bag, but it was not the polished shells or herb medicines she would have expected as gifts from an Indian maiden. Rather, the bag contained something thin, flat, bound up carefully in a small piece of canvas, no doubt to keep out the dampness from rainstorms and fording creeks as Kennisaw Jones wandered the prairies.
Carefully Ash unfolded the canvas, withdrawing two sheets of age-yellowed paper. In the dim light filtering through the opening at the back of the wagon top she was able to make out a bold, official-looking scrawl upon the first sheet, a heavy wax seal, cracked, yet still clinging to the paper's edge.
"Land," Kennisaw wheezed. "Deed to Stormy Ridge."
The piece of wilderness Tom MacQuade had carved into a farm. The place where Garret MacQuade's dreams had died.
"I'll give it to Garret when I find him," Ash said.
"Garret won't want it. Vowed never go back. Want you to... have it."
Ash's mind filled with images of her most cherished dream: land to work, a home, fields for the children to run wild in. But she shook her head, disbelieving. "I couldn't."
"Missed wagon train... 'cause of me."
"You don't owe me anything. We'll manage fine."
"Know you would. But it pleases me... to think of you... and young'uns there."
Grief tore through Ashleen, mingled with gratitude for this old man who had again placed hope in her hands. At last she nodded, unable to speak.
"Garret'll... take you there. Tell him I said he would."
"I will."
"And this." Kennisaw's weak fingers grasped the edge of the second piece of paper, a page so old its creases were fragile, worn. "Give him... this. Tell him I saved it... all this time."
Ash spread the page open, holding it in the light. And what she saw broke her heart.
