Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings by Heather Graham Page A

and started to turn his bay for the westward course he needed to take. Sherman was traveling along the Washita, he had been assured by Mr. Delaney. The general was moving very slowly because he was visiting officers stationed at forts deep into Indian territory.
    â€œWait!” Jessica cried suddenly. She picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps, running to him. She came to a halt as he quickly reined in, and stood looking up at him, concern in her eyes. Liquid, shimmering, so beguiling. “You shouldn’t be doing this! It’s not your fight, not your problem, and I’m so afraid.…”
    â€œAfraid of what?” he asked her.
    She moistened her lips. “You never said that you weren’t an outlaw!” she reminded him softly.
    He smiled. “I’m going to be all right,” he told her. “Now let me move on while there’s still a little bit of daylight left.”
    She stepped back. He started to ride. She ran after him once again. “Blade!”
    He reined in. “Jessica—”
    â€œI love you,” she said swiftly. “Please, please, take care of yourself. I—I love you.”
    He nearly fell off his horse. He wanted to. Wanted to forget the damned letters, forget revenge, forget everything in life. He just wanted to hold her, and live with her, and know that he could wake with her every morning of his life. He wanted to grow old with her.
    But it wouldn’t be any good. They could never run from Harding. They couldn’t run from his past, either. He reached out and touched her cheek and felt the dampness of her tears there. “I love you, too,” he told her softly.
    Then he spurred his bay. He dared not wait any longer.
    He rode through the night. Thankfully, the moon was still nearly full and there was plenty of light. It was easy enough to follow Sherman’s route along the river—remnants of camp fires along the way, broken branches on the foliage, heavy footprints along the trail. Blade could tell that there was a fairly large encampment moving west, for there were marks from many tents, little things that people lost along the way. A rag doll lay in the trail, a broken pipe, a strip of calico that had tied back some pioneering woman’s hair. Army officers often brought their wives with them. Women cast into a hard lot, but an intriguing and adventurous lot, too.
    He picked up the little rag doll and carried it with him. Maybe he could return it.
    It was just at dawn when he came upon the camp. He saw the sentry by the river before the sentry saw him, and he called out quickly. Men had a habit of shooting first and asking questions later when a man looked as much like a Sioux as he did.
    â€œHo, there!” he called out, raising both hands in a peaceful gesture to the very young soldier by the river. The man took a look at him and began seeking his gun—where he had lain it by a rock by the river—too late. “I’m looking for General Sherman!” Blade called out irritably. “And don’t pick up that weapon because I don’t want to shoot your damned fool head off!”
    Maybe it was the warning. Maybe it had just been his very natural use of the English language—with a little bit of Missouri thrown into it—that advised the young sentry that Blade was not his enemy. Maybe the sentry realized he still had his scalp.
    â€œThe general is in camp, sir!” the sentry called out quickly. He had gained some dignity. He held his army-issue rifle, but did not aim it at Blade. “I’ll call for an escort, sir!”
    The sentry whistled, and a second man in cavalry blue appeared, this one an old-timer, one who quickly eyed Blade. He saw that the half-breed was alone and presumed he might be a scout. “I’ll bring you into camp,” the older man said, still watching him curiously.
    â€œThank you. I’ve letters with information I think he’ll find