Chapter 4: Thunder in Colby

As they made their way west from Fort Larned, the mood was morbid. For days, a sense of glum hung over the group. Terrible images of the botched hangings plagued their minds while Meeker worried for the Packer twins. They were so young; just how could such young children make their way in this violent land? Marshal Tucker’s act of kindness intended as a blessing would cause great troubles. The Packer twins had no way of knowing they weren’t wanted for murder. They were free of the law, a real benefit; but not knowing this, what would they do?

In no time, Michelle came to the realization that the life she had chosen was not as she had expected. Still, it was her choice, and she had no regrets. One thing was sure—Michelle Tanner’s life was devoid of boredom.

The Culbertson girl also seemed out of sorts. The loss of her parents would have been troubling enough, but immediately following that she was adopted into this odd group of people. She did not know these strangers, not yet. It was a peculiar situation; one could say she lived in a clamorous time. She took to the old Indian, calling him Grandpa, as a term of endearment. He was her rock, and she clung to him for support. For Sarah, it was more than those complicated matters, yet it was far simpler.

She did not feel well. She was ill. Soon, things turned awful for the little girl. After a couple of days, it was noticeable to every member of the group that Sarah wasn’t feeling well. She had a queasy stomach and diarrhea. Not being one to complain, she made a brave attempt to keep it to herself. That notwithstanding, the group realized she was ill.

On the fifth day, they stopped early, making camp at noon near the river. In the shade of the cottonwoods, Michelle made Sarah a bed underneath the wagon. This provided the girl as much comfort as possible. Buffalo Head doctored the young child. The old man wiped a damp cloth on her face as he asked her questions. Questions he would use to determine what was wrong with her.

Sarah held back some in her answers, not wanting to be a bother to the group. The old Indian, in a soft, persuasive manner, prodded her until she told him everything he wanted to know. Always, Sarah would say she was sorry, and he would say, “No need to be sorry, it is not your fault.”

Joseph Nathan Meeker’s mood took an even darker turn than that of the others in the group. The events at Fort Larned weighed heavy on him. He remembered the vicious and vindictive judge from earlier dealings he had had with the man. Even the judge’s death did nothing to close his open wound. If anything, it caused it to boil up in him. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he tried to ease the pain. Leaving the camp, he walked west along the bank of the flowing water. Wishing for nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts, the frontiersman sat on an old fallen tree trunk next to the stream. First, lowering his weight to the fallen tree, testing to be sure it wasn’t rotted out, he then let his weight rest on the wood. He watched the water flowing into a deep pool. Miniature whirlpools moved from a small waterfall where the river took a five-foot plunge from a pool on the adjacent hill.

Back East, the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain had concluded with Sherman laying waste to farms and towns in a blatant attempt to destroy the South’s ability to fight, along with their will. Meeker was happy to be away from the butchery of the war. Still, his mood became morose; as the day wore on, the former mountain man watched the river. All the while, reflections of his past crystalized in his mind, a pleasant memory washed away by a dismal remembrance. Like the whirlpools, swirling near the waterfall, recollections spun in his mind. Memories of his wife and child, his son, that precious little boy haunted his mind. Little Bear was what she named him, but they called him Nate. Nate Little Bear Meeker, the child she gave him.

All those sweet memories he held of his wife and son. Like the time little Nate picked out his father’s new horse. It was back in ‘59, and the boy picked out a white horse. What was in the boys mind ... choosing a white horse? White horses are always wacky! And yet, the horse his son named Star was what Meeker still rode. As it turned out, white horses are not always fool-headed, after all. Star certainly was a good horse. Nate would be eleven now if that Limey Bastard hadn’t killed him.

He remembered the time his wife quarreled with him about Sunday go-to meetings. He had finally walked the aisle after a long time off from going to church. Meeker had drawn the line at baptism. He wished he had let them dunk him now. He did believe in God and Jesus; he just did not like anyone telling him to do something. Not even her. It was such a small matter—why had he refused to do the thing? That buggered-up Brit is still above the snakes, while my wife and child are in the bone orchard! His thoughts darkened more.

Haunting him was an image, a terrible vision, which obsessed him. Meeker could see Hannover, standing over a pot, stirring the remains of his wife and child ... a part of “Two Tongues” vile ritual. The knowledge of what Daniel Hannover was scorched him. Reading and rereading the telegraph did nothing to improve his disposition. He wondered if Hannover had taken the time to perform his horrendous ritual with their remains.

“Two Tongues” Daniel Hannover, the lying British transplant, a gun for hire with even more sinister leanings. “Two Tongues” was not the only name applied to him. The other was a far worse name with a wicked meaning: “Bone Picker.” “Bone Picker” was nowhere near as evil sounding as the real reason he earned the name.

Pulling his bowie knife from its sheath, Meeker threw the blade into the ground. The knife sank deep into the soft, moist soil of the riverbank. Drawing the big blade from the sod, he again threw it down into the ground. The point again went deep into the grimy, sandy earth. Mindlessly, he threw the pig-sticker, each time thinking about holding down Daniel Hannover and thrusting the blade into him.

With caution, Michelle walked toward Meeker. She could tell the darkness in his temperament. The friends had only known each other for less than a month, yet Shell already knew when the best course of action was to leave him alone. Nevertheless, she wanted to help her friend. As a result, with a tentative approach, Michelle advanced to her companion. Hoping for nothing more than to give him some comfort.

“Nate,” she said, speaking in a soft voice, “got ya’ a cup of Arbuckle’s here.” Shell extended the coffee cup to him. Glancing up at her, he took the coffee and sniffed it. Shell sat next to him as she put her hand on his shoulder, kneading his muscles. “Want to tell me about what’s bothering you? Or should I mind my own business?”

His eyes turned glassy as ice, fluid welled up and flowed from them, and streaking over the raw, weather-worn landscape of his face, the tears flowed like a river. At forty-nine years of age, Joseph Nathan Meeker felt ancient, as if he had outlived his time. A faint smile came to his lips as he lifted the coffee cup to them. With caution, he sniffed the coffee again, took a small sip. He drew in a large mouthful—Damn, not quite as cool as I thought. He allowed the hot drink to trickle down his throat in a slow, deliberate manner. The searing pain in his mouth reminded him of how he could be impatient sometimes. Once the feeling returned to his tongue, he spoke openly with restrained emotions.

“Much of what I’m about to tell you, I have secondhand. I can’t vouch for how accurate it is.” Michelle slid down the log slow and easy, then made herself more comfortable on the ground, pressing her back against the thick, rough bark of the fallen tree. “Some of what I tell you I know firsthand, that’ll be the God’s honest truth. Buffalo Head’s preaching at us about mercy and forgiveness is good for him. It might even be the right thing for us; however, mercy has a price. Yes sir, it can be a mighty high price too.

“You remember me telling you not to hesitate and not to shoot to wound, always shoot to kill? I was mad as a hornet at you for not offin’ Powers that day.” Meeker wiped the tears from his eyes, cleaning the moisture from his face with the palm of his hand. Picking up his coffee, he sipped with it caution and glanced at Michelle. She nodded her head but said nothing. “There’s a reason for that. My act of kindness had a high price. That act of kindness back in Larned shown to those young girls by Marshal Tucker, well, by God, that’ll have a price as well. What it will be I don’t know! I reckon I should tell you about my act of kindness.”

Pulling his hat off, Meeker wiped his bandana through his hair and down his face. “Hotter than hell today, isn’t it?” Pausing, he tied the bandana around his neck, then realized the date, saying, “It’s so easy to lose track of time when you travel. You know, ayuh, it’s my birthday, girl. It rained a downpour the day I was born. I remember that because I was mad as hell with that old midwife for slapping me on the ass. I proceeded to cuss her out right proper for it too; she shot back her own threat, told me she’d hold me out the window in the rain if I didn’t shut up and be a good child. That was the last time I complained about anything.” Shell laughed hard when he said it. Holding her side, she rolled to one side and then back, laughing so hard she nearly wept. Turning to him, she hit him in the shoulder with her balled-up fist. Feeling how hard she punched him in jest, he hoped never to make her mad enough to strike him in anger.

“Well, happy birthday, Nate!” she said, wiping tears from her eyes as she spoke. “I’ll get old Buffalo Head to bake you a cake.”

“No cake—thank you kindly, I’m forty-nine years old, widowed and childless. It just isn’t such a happy birthday.” He paused as he pondered where he should begin. He took a big swig of the now cooler coffee. Bundling up his courage, he jumped into his story.

“It’s Monday, July 21st, 1864. I swear to God; it’ll be a day you will remember for a long time. The day you learned about Daniel “Two Tongues”...”Bone Picker” Hannover.

“There was this English Lord what lived South of London town. Well, this fine English lord had himself only one offspring, a son. He had always been a troubled boy, often getting into scrapes. He was a short-tempered lad who fought with schoolmates in brawls, which he started over minor disagreements. The boy’s nature was dark from when he was little. I heard he killed pets and wildlife in gruesome ways just to watch them die. He derived some twisted pleasure from his acts of cruelty. Some folks are that way by their nature. Hurting others gives them some kind of perverse thrill. They got a name for it, but I can’t remember what it is right now.

“When the boy moved from boyhood to a young man, he took to drinking; with the alcohol came brawling. Ayuh, old man Hannover knew that eventually young Daniel would do something so awful that no amount of money could save him. After all, money can only cover up so much. This was worrisome to him. He feared the boy would swing from a rope. No man wants that for his son. No man wants his wife to worry about her child ending badly.

“The way I heard it, the Lord and his wife came home one night from attending some high-class entertainment in London. Upon entering the house, their nostrils filled with the smell. It was all sweet and meaty. The unfamiliar odor wafted through the air. Something was cooking, but they couldn’t tell what it was. Oh, there were some familiar smells mingled in with the unfamiliar. They could tell it was meat of some kind but weren’t sure what kind. I’m sure the couple wished they had never walked through that kitchen door.

“To the old man’s horror, he and Lady Hannover discovered their son had murdered their butler and his wife, their cook. He cut some meat from the woman’s arms, legs, and more sensitive places and then stewed the vile concoction into soup. Standing there over that kettle, it must have been quite a sight for that old English Lord and his wife. Their son is covered in blood, calm as you please, cooking himself a dinner of woman-servant and taters. They tell me, Daniel Hannover had read about the Donner party and just had to see how human meat would taste.

“Quick as you please, Lord Hannover got ahold of some people he knew. People of power and wealth can do grand things when they want ... or dreadful things when they feel the need. Covering up the crime, he shipped the troubled teen to America to live with a relation here. The boy ran off nearly as soon as he arrived. That’s what I heard. I can’t attest to the accuracy of that. It makes sense to me, knowing what I know of the odious mongrel.” Looking over at Michelle, he noticed she looked shocked; who wouldn’t be? The coffee had grown cold. Meeker tossed out the fluid, set the cup next to him. Turning, he slithered down the log to the ground, trying to get comfortable against the old fallen tree. Shell’s keen green eyes were misty looking. He could not remember ever seeing her look so ready to shed tears. The tough exterior she worked hard to preserve seemed to crack, if only a mite.

“He sounds like a monster.” Her words were hollow, with no trace of emotion. Working hard to contain her feelings, she clenched her jaw while she refused the urge to grind her teeth. Turning from him, she wiped her eyes. “Damn, got some dust in my eyes.” He knew she lied. There was a first time for most things.

“A monster, monster indeed ... Yes, Shell, that is a good word for him for that is just what the black-hearted beast is, a monster.” Clearing his throat and calming his own emotions, he looked at the flowing water. “The river sounds pleasant, doesn’t it? Peaceful. I enjoy listening to the water flowing over rocks and tumbling down a fall. It can calm my soul.

“I can’t imagine that Daniel Hannover has ever had a moments peace in his life. He has darkness in him, a type of hunger. His darkness taint just a craving for human flesh. He has this yearning to inflict pain on people. Must be a clamoring in his brain, you know what I mean? The two sides there always are trying to gain control. What do the Irish call it? ‘The devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.’ There must always be this war raging in his brain.

“You know, he is a likable fellow. Till you scratch the surface, that is. I met him when I was a deputy US marshal. I was on the hunt for a man who was killing women, murdering the squaws of the Crow tribe. Not just murdering them, you see, but cannibalizing them as well.” Drawing a deep breath, he paused and looked at Michelle. A gust of wind blew her hair back. The bright red hair was breathtaking; it moved from her head in a wave, not unlike the flame flaring from a fire. Her brilliant green eyes appeared bloodshot from “the dust” she’d had to clean out of them. He never ceased to marvel at her, tall and muscular, yet unmistakably a woman at the same time. She was a damn large woman, though.

“My wife, being a Christian and a Sioux, thought catching this madman was my job. Having bathed in the blood of the lamb nine years before, my woman considered all women her sisters, all men her brothers. So, she berated me till I requested I be assigned to finding the bastard. The marshal’s office was still in Kansas City, and Kansas was just a territory. You know, what Colorado Territory is now, was part of Kansas Territory then. Politicians worried about an uprising, and we didn’t want that. The Crow had always been friendly to the whites. By God, we needed all the friends we could get with Indians because there were—are—plenty that aren’t too fond of us. Perhaps they have a good reason. Hannover killed the Plains Crow women as if they were sheep for the slaughter. I figure the number was in excess of twenty.

“I sat next to him at a poker game in Colby one night, just shooting my mouth off that I was closing in on a murdering, wild man. Unawares I sat shouldered to shoulder at the table with that murdering wretch. At the time, Daniel Hannover worked for the dearly beloved, now recently departed judge back in Fort Larned,” He spewed out the word ‘beloved’. “A regulator, you know, a private policeman. For the most part, the men are murderous bastards, their actions protected, to a degree, by the laws of possession.” Meeker took a deep breath as emotion welled up in him for a moment. Then with his anger calmed, Meeker continued his tale.

“I learned later that his job was to get rid of anyone nesting on the judge’s property or anyone homesteading on the open range. He must have murdered fifteen or twenty people under the guise of a regulator. He never had to pay the price for those killings. Soon after he left town, I got the information needed to put the jigsaw together. After months on the trail of the Bone Picker—that was what the Crow called him—I discovered it was Hannover. Damn if I didn’t feel a fool. I had let him slip through my fingers. I imagined him grinning like a possum eating a yellow jacket for fooling me.” Meeker shook his head. “Most times ‘bone picker’ is used for a man what scavenges animals’ bones to sell, usually those bones being buffalo. But that taint the reason for his name. No sir-ree, he picked them women’s bones clean.” A shiver ran down both their backs at the same moment. Meeker shook himself and took out his knife again. He played with the bowie as he talked.

“I tracked him down and cornered him in a valley off the Pooter Canyon,” Meeker laughed, knowing he mispronounced it, but that was what everyone called the Poudre (powder) River and Canyon. “The bastard stood next to a dugout some miner had made. Knowing the jig was up, ‘Bone Picker’ jumped on his horse quick as he could. He took off up this narrow slit of a canyon and then turned up the side with Star and me in hot pursuit. It was a tough go for his horse, trying to clamber the steep embankment. Pulling up my horse, I got my Hawken out, the one I still carry, and took careful aim.

“I shot his horse out from under him. I wished to God it had been Hannover and not the horse that I killed. I felt sorry for the poor beast. Hannover clambered further up the side of the mountain, right fast. It wasn’t five steps and he lost his footing on the rocky ground. He plummeted hard to the rocky ground, but got up again. The bastard turned to fire his gun at me. I was quicker on the trigger than him. Yanking her free of the holster, I blasted away with a shot from my Army .45.” He patted the gun in his holster. “I aimed at his shoulder, only wishing to wound him just like you did ole’ Powers. Dropping his weapon, he slumped down to his knees, then ‘Bone Picker’ tried to retrieve his iron again. In an act of kindness, I dropped the rifle, leaped from my horse, ran up to him, and kicked his gun away from him. I still clutched my Colt revolver, eyeballed him down the barrel.” He paused and cleared his throat. Looking at his reflection in the knife blade, he remembered something and whistled for a moment. He shook himself angry that he had thought about that damn song!

“Took me two weeks to get him back to Larned, where the warrant was issued by the Army. All the way back, he would whistle or sing this little song. A nursery rhyme, I just whistled it. I can’t sing the damn thing, but the words are... ‘Ring-a-ring o’ roses, a pocket full of posies, Atishoo! Atishoo! We all fall down,’ God in heaven, I hate that song!” he grimaced.

“The local judge held a trial where the jury convicted him. Our murdering scoundrel of a now-dead judge gave him seven years. Can you believe it, seven years for the rape and murder of seven Crow squaws? That’s one year for each woman. They only tried him for seven; there was more, a lot more, as I already told you. I don’t reckon the judge remembered me when we met last week in Larned. If he did, he ignored it and acted civil, even though he knew I thought he was lower than a snake’s belly.”

Getting up, Meeker walked down to the river. “Hold on, Shell, I got a hankering for some water, ayah.” Dipping his cup in, he drank the fresh water, refilled it for Michelle, and then returned to his place beside the woman.

“Now, when I shot him back at the Poudre, my bullet lodged right down in his shoulder joint. Hannover’s arm didn’t heal right. His shoulder joint still has that ball in it. Let me think ... left arm? No, right arm ... yes, that’s it. His whole arm seized up tighter than my Aunt Nelly’s corset. You might say he was annoyed with me. Even now, he can’t lift his right arm above the elbow. I don’t reckon he cottons to life as a gimp.” Picking his new hat up, he looked it over and frowned.

“I miss my damn French floppy sum-a-bitch, with its wide brim, and that big ole Peacock feather. Funny what one finds important. My wife sent me that bugger for Christmas in ‘62. In April of ‘63, damned Limey Bastard got out of Leavenworth for ‘good behavior.’ Can you believe that? I guess they mean good behavior for a murderous bastard! Made his way straight to Denver City and found my wife. He murdered her and killed my boy,” he said, then paused before continuing.

“They think he started a fire that night, blaze burned down half the business area of Denver City. They delivered me the telegraph neigh on to four months later, at Gettysburg. My old boss, Marshall Uriah Holloway, sent me a letter with all the known details early this year.” He looked at Michelle again, right in her eyes. He wanted her to understand the gravity of what he told her. “Girl, I considered it an act of kindness not to kill him where he stood back in ‘59. You remember that next time push comes to shove. Every kind thing you do has a counterbalance of something else. I have read the damned telegraph every day from the hour I got her, until today. Same with Holloway’s letter—every blasted day I take them out ... read um ... and think about killing that...” he chewed the word around in his mouth then spat it out to the air, “bastard.”

They turned as Buffalo Head walked up, saying one word only. Looking at the pair with concern painted on his face, he said, “Cholera!”

Fort Larned had been in the middle of a mild outbreak of cholera while they were there. Exposed to the disease in the town, poor Sarah fell ill within hours of their leaving. Meeker spoke to Buffalo Head in a hushed voice, “I’m glad I didn’t tease her about her ‘Quick Step’ and excessive use of the ‘newspaper’ supplies.”

“I’m figuring she got it from the community corncob in the outhouse in Larned. She has it, but not as bad as it could be or may get. I think we best head up to Colby. I got no medicine to ease her pain. They have a good sawbones there. I think she will be okay after we get her there and she gets some rest.” Before sunrise the next morning, they filled up both water barrels and struck out for Colby; it was quite some distance to the northwest. They had to go north some to get to Denver City. Meeker had planned on a more gradual detour northward. The turn of events being what they were, Colby was their new destination.

Having to make frequent stops due to Sarah’s discomfort, it took several extra days to get to Colby. Sarah lived in constant fear that the next bump would cause her to soil herself. Her fever was high, but she was able to sit on the wagon seat next to Buffalo Head. Leaning against the old man, she took great comfort from him.

Once there, she went under the care of Dr. Hansel McAdams. Sarah’s improvement was slow but steady. Every night Shell would brush Sarah’s hair one hundred strokes. At first, Sarah would watch while Shell brushed her own hair. Soon, the girl felt well enough to return the favor, and the pair of roommates’ routine returned.

The days dragged by, filled with tedium. Buffalo Head sat beside Sarah, comforting her through the day. At night, the old Indian would sleep in the wagon. Meeker whiled away the hours just visiting with his old friend, City Marshal Cord Connelly. He would spin yarns for all around to hear. Michelle divided her time between Meeker and his friend and consoling Sarah, which gave some much-needed breaks to Buffalo Head. Shell spent her evenings playing poker at the Mule Skinner Saloon. Shell returned before ten thirty at night to allow Buffalo Head to leave the hotel at a decent hour.

After three weeks, Sarah was much improved. The group planned their return to the trail. Still, they needed to give Sarah a good week or two to recover fully. Buffalo Head started to worry about how long it would take the group to get to Denver City. He then sent a wire to his employer, apprising him of the situation. Fearing that winter could set in on them, he pondered whether they should sell the wagon and contents; he dismissed that thought as soon as it formed. The wagon held all Sarah had left of her family—furniture, tintypes, fine china, and silverware. Even if it were late August before they could leave, there would still be three months until the snow would be a worry.

On several occasions, Michelle spent hours talking to Cord Connell’s wife, Brenda. The friendship grew between the two women, and Michelle took to having lunch with Mrs. Connell. Brenda owned a dress shop, and invariably Michelle would show up around eleven o’clock in the morning. When noon came around, the two women would wander over to the café and dine together.

Brenda made Shell new leathers, a fine buckskin shirt, pants, and coat for her to wear. Shell learned to sew the skins herself with Brenda’s tutelage. The women grew close in a short period of time. Brenda held a fascination of Michelle and the odd choices in her life. Despite her mannish habits, her strange choice of attire, and even her gruff manner, she grew fond of the girl. She recognized that Michelle was a sweet and even gentle person in spite of the gruff exterior. It was obvious to Brenda that Michelle Tanner was a complicated person. She also became aware that in some way Michelle had what amounted to a crush on her.

Michelle was no fool; she knew that she had to fight her attraction to Brenda. It wouldn’t be acceptable to show affection beyond friendship to a married woman. Her “unnatural” inclinations had always been a sore spot. In truth, she held a distinct disinterest in sex. Still, she craved female companionship, and friendship could satisfy that penchant. The women back east always mistook her friendship for something more. Those who were more than willing and those who were appalled by what they supposed she wanted shared one thing—they were mistaken.

At times, Michelle would stay most of the day at the dress shop. She would watch Brenda work, making some woman a new outfit. She would hold the dress onto her body for Brenda to get a look at it, often commenting, “It’ll look better on a real woman rather than me.”

Brenda would scold her for making such an unkind remark about herself. At one point, Brenda offered to make her an elegant dress for free.

“No, ma’am; I haven’t worn a dress since I was ten years old. I just can’t get on with all that rigging. Much more comfortable with trousers and shirt.” Smiling, she would add, “I’m just not a feminine kind of gal.” Her use of the word “gal” was intentional; she held back on adding the “boy.” Gal-Boy was a derogatory term for women who were manlike in their actions. It implied far more than the less offensive moniker of a tomboy.

Days turned to weeks, and by mid-August Sarah was well enough for them to travel. This was about the time that Jack “Red” Wilson and Jebediah “Slim” Bryce arrived in town. That night at the Mule Skinner Saloon, Michelle was engaged in her favorite pastime—Five-Card Stud. Red and Slim were the last men standing as Michelle had dispensed with the other players several hands earlier. The other men watched with great appreciation at her skilled play. The house dealer ensured a straight game. The house took five percent regardless of who won.

Down to his last thirty dollars, Red felt confident his full house would beat her hand. His hands twitched. Michelle knew that he was not bluffing. His nervousness betrayed his anxious feeling that he was a winner. Over the last two days, she had figured out both of Red and his partner’s tells. He could not leave his coins alone either, arranging and rearranging them in expectation of a win. After all, there was no way she had a fourth three in the hole. That last card could not be a three of hearts. Still, she did not fold, so Red raised his last thirty dollars, knowing she would fold. Michelle pushed out a twenty-dollar gold piece, two quarter-eagle gold pieces, and a half-eagle.

“I call ya.” She gave the faintest smile to the man. His heart sank as Shell turned up her hole card; sure enough, the three of hearts glared at him. Red stared at her in disbelief. His heart sank into his belly, knowing he had lost.

“Four threes.” The dealer announced the results to the room full of stunned onlookers. Michelle had won six straight hands, many by bluffing. Well, the men thought she bluffed; Michelle never turned up the hole card if the player did not pay to see it. Anger boiled up in Red; then it spilled out of him.

“You’re a four-flushing BITCH!” he hollered at her, jumping up. Michelle, viewing the pile of money she was about to pull to her, froze when he shouted at her. Without moving her head, she rolled her gaze up, fixing her eyes on him. From under the brim of her hat, Shell scowled; bright green eyes flashed a long, cold look. Her face, a ruddy red from the sun, turned a darker shade as her countenance changed. It was the hardest look Red had ever seen on a woman. Her head raised, her body straightened, and her hands dropped to her side. With her lovely face looking at him, her glare seemed even colder and meaner.