Frontier Woman

The Republic of Texas 1840 At seventeen Creighton Stewart didn't need anyone, and she liked it that way. That was why she'd been particularly disturbed by father's heated rejoinder during their argument that morning: "Perhaps a husband can curb your tongue!" Cricket hadn't meant to holler at Rip, or to call him a noodleheaded lumpkin. But if he thought a husband was going to do any better at controlling her than her own father, well, he was a worse wag-wit than she'd accused him of being. Besides, it was his fault she was the way she was. What man in his right mind would willingly choose to raise his daughters as sons? Thanks to her father, Cricket possessed all the skills necessary to survive on the Texas frontier without the aid of another living soul. That sort of self-reliance was a real advantage in a wilderness where she might meet Comanches or Mexican bandidos or outlaw drifters over the next rise. Actually, Cricket and her nineteen-year-old sister, Sloan, had taken to Rip's survival lessons like a newborn calf to a cow's teat. However, their eighteen-year-old sister, Bayleigh, had never managed to meet Rip's high standards of excellence. The truth was, Cricket admitted, Bay didn't even come close. Still, she should have known better than to try to convince Rip that it was a waste of time to send Bay out hunting. He didn't want to hear it. Rip Stewart hadn't become the richest gentleman planter in Texas by giving up. His last words as she'd stormed out of the house had been "Take Bay with you. Make sure she does the tracking. And don't come home empty-handed!" Cricket shook her head as she watched Bay draw her bow to take aim on a stag. Bay's arms hadn't the strength to hold the bow cocked for long, and they were trembling so much it was spoiling her aim. That wouldn't have been so bad, except Bay kept taking her eyes off her target. Was it any wonder Cricket had called her father a stubborn oat-eater when he'd insisted that Bay only needed a little more practice? Cricket opened her mouth to suggest that Bay raise the angle of her arrow upward, but before she could speak, Bay yanked the gut bowstring and loosed the shaft. Cricket watched the arrow dart, swift and totally off the killing mark. "You've only wounded him, Bay. Another arrow. Quick!" The deer bolted and was gone from sight before Bay even had another arrow out of her quiver. Bay toyed with her bowstring distractedly. "I'm sorry, Cricket. His eyes kept pleading with me not to do it, and at the last second " "At the last second you jerked the bowstring instead of just releasing it." Their prey had disappeared into the heavy growth of sagebrush and gnarled mesquite as completely as if it had never existed, yet the fierce yowling of Cricket's three half-grown wolves in full chase gave raucous witness to Bay's failure. Tears welled in Bay's eyes, making Cricket instantly contrite for the sharpness of her reprimand. At least Bay didn't flinch with a bow and arrow like she did every time she shot a Kentucky rifle. However, the choice of weapons wasn't really the problem. The truth was, Bay simply had too soft a heart for killing. Cricket distinguished between a too-soft heart and compassion. She couldn't bear to see the wounded suffer, either, so she'd learned to kill quickly and cleanly. "What do we do now?" Bay asked, keeping her eyes focused on the whitened knuckles that held her bow. Cricket encircled her older sister's shoulders with anJohnston, Joan is the author of 'Frontier Woman' with ISBN 9780440236771 and ISBN 0440236770.