He also blamed himself for taking that first drink from the Yankee conniver in the wagon. She really was some thing else. He’d probably applaud her resourcefulness— if only she hadn’t made him her target.
Women! They were nothing but trouble. Why couldn’t they be honest and straightforward, like men? Ellie’s betrayal of him, Lissy running off with a Yankee, Rebecca Elliott manipulating him into marriage… a sisterhood of Jezebels that had begun with that damn apple in Eden. That should have been a warning to all men.
Instead, we keep reaching out for the fruit.
Well, not anymore. He had learned his lesson the hard way. And, like it or not, he was stuck with the Jezebel in the wagon.
“But I’m sure as hell not going to make the mistake of trusting her,” he said, with a punch to his pillow.
“You still got Ellie on your mind?” Garth asked drowsily.
“No. Go to sleep.” Clay rolled over and closed his eyes.
Much of the camp was still asleep as Rebecca struggled to get the fire started the next morning. The wood just wouldn’t take to the match. The small loaf she had prepared had risen beautifully during the night, and she was determined to bake it this morning, but she couldn’t spend the next hour just getting the darn fire going. After wasting two more matches in the effort, she was on the verge of giving up.
“What are you doing?” Clay asked groggily.
“What does it look like?” she said, exasperated by her failed effort. She turned and looked at him. He was sitting up in his bedroll, scratching at his head. “I’m building a fire.”
“
Trying
to build a fire,” he corrected. He pulled on his boots, then stood up and tucked his shirt into his trousers, and came over and knelt beside her. “Give me those matches before you use them all up. What time is it, anyway?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Four o’clock! What in hell are you doing up this early? We’re not pulling out until seven.”
“I’m going to bake bread.”
He shook his head. “Rebecca, what are you doing on a wagon train? You’ve never handled a mule team, you don’t know how to use a rifle, you can’t even build a campfire. You should have baked the bread last night when you had a fire, instead of trying to do it at four o’clock the next morning. A few more hours wouldn’t turn the bread stale, you know.”
Drat, he was right! She could have set the dough yesterday morning and baked the bread last night. But he was the last one she’d ever admit that to.
Within minutes he had a fire going and had lain down again. Rebecca got her bread baking, and then put a pot of coffee on to brew. She still had plenty of time to cook breakfast.
When she saw the VonDiemans were up and about, she went over to their wagon and got a small pitcher of milk from them, then returned to cook oatmeal and fry bacon.
An hour later Rebecca and the two men sat down to a breakfast of hot oatmeal and milk, fried bacon, freshly baked bread, and mugs of hot coffee. The bread was a little well done on the outside, but it was only her first attempt to bake bread in a reflector oven. She was confident the next time it would be perfect.
All in all, her second meal was as delicious as the first one she had prepared, which bolstered her confidence. Rebecca was so proud of herself, she almost popped the buttons off her bodice.
Arms akimbo, she struck a pose. “So, Captain Fraser, what do you think?”
“You can call me Clay,” he said, generously spreading orange marmalade over the last slice of bread.
“Of the breakfast?” she persisted.
“It wasn’t bad.”
“It was darn good, and you know it.”
“The bread was a little overdone.”
“Yes, I noticed you actually had to chew it, instead of inhaling it like you did the rest of the food.”
Garth snorted with laughter, and Clay reluctantly grinned. “It was good,” he allowed.
“We’ll just see how well I can do on this journey, Clayton Fraser,” Rebecca murmured as she watched him ride away. “And I hope you like the taste of crow, because you’ll be eating a lot more of it before this is over.”
Promptly at seven the wagons up front began moving on. Rebecca finished hitching up the team and climbed up on the box.
Once again she had no trouble with the mules. She had given each one a name, and talked to it sweetly as she fed the animal a slice of apple before she harnessed it to the wagon. None of them had balked or tried to kick and bite, like some of the other mules were doing.
With a slight flick of the reins, they moved forward like trained trotters, following the Garson wagon. Rebecca couldn’t help smiling, wondering if some sweet talk and a slice of apple would be as effective on Clay.
All along the line she could see women and children walking beside their wagons. As the hours wore on, she wished she could join them, just to have relief from the reins.
Mike Scott came riding down the line talking to each family, and when he reached her wagon, he greeted her warmly.
“Any problems here, Mrs. Fraser?”
“No, everything’s just fine, Mr. Scott.” She tried to sit up straight, and grimaced with pain.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Yes, just a little stiff. I’ll be glad when we rest for lunch.”
He frowned. “I see.” Then he glanced skyward. “Sky’s clouding up. Hope we aren’t in for rain.”
“Do we stop if it does?” she asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not. We’ll be driving through thunderstorms, dust storms, sandstorms, and possibly even blizzards before we reach California. It takes some powerfully wicked weather to stop a wagon train, Mrs. Fraser. Lost time is our worst enemy.” He nodded, and then rode on to the next wagon.
When they stopped for lunch, Rebecca didn’t feel like eating. She drank a cup of water and ate an apple, then stretched out to try and relax her back. As she lay in the shade of the wagon, she wondered how long it would take for her body to adjust to the driving. All too soon it was time to get going again.
Shortly after they were under way, Henrietta Garson came back to her wagon and offered to drive it for a while.
“Have you driven mules before, Henrietta?”
“Oh, yes. On the farm.” The girl climbed up beside her and took the reins. “And call me Etta, Mrs. Fraser. That’s what my family does. Grandma says your shoulders and arms must be pretty sore by now.”
“Your grandma is right, Etta. I can’t tell you how good it feels to relax them. They hurt so bad, I could cry. And please, my name’s Becky. That’s what my…” She stopped. Charley had always called her Rebecca, and since her parents died, nobody had called her Becky except her brother and Garth Fraser. Yet the name had slipped out so naturally now.
Funny, she had never thought about that before. And she had always liked the nickname. Maybe, deep down, she was finally putting aside the sadness of the past years and carrying forward only pleasant memories into the new life she had chosen.
If that was the case, she sure had started out on the wrong foot by marrying Clay Fraser. It gave her a lot to think about as they rode along.
Hawk had chosen a pleasant area by a river for the campsite that evening. By the time Clay and Garth rode in, Rebecca had a fire built and had just finished rolling out the crust for the cobbler. She had soaked the dried peaches in a bowl of water all day to soften them, and now popped the finished product into the reflector oven.
She’d been around Clay long enough to realize that the first thing he always reached for was the coffeepot. He poured himself a cup of coffee, then without a hi or good-bye, he took the hatchet and disappeared.
So, he was angry again—there was no doubt about that. She glanced at Garth, who was sipping his coffee.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Scotty told Clay not to ride flank tomorrow, but to stay with you and drive the wagon.”
“And that doesn’t sit too well with Captain Cavalry, is that it?”
“Cut him some slack, Becky. He signed on as a rider. He didn’t expect the responsibility of a wife and wagon.” Garth walked away.
So now Garth was displeased with her, too. It wasn’t her idea to pull Clay away from his duties; she was much more comfortable when he was out of her sight. Surely it wouldn’t take more than a day or two for her body to stop aching. Then she could convince Mr. Scott that she could handle the team herself, and Clay could go back to doing what he wanted to.
While the cobbler was baking, Rebecca rolled out some baking soda biscuits, and dinner was ready when Clay returned carrying some small limbs and twigs for firewood. “This is the best I can do. Everything’s been pretty well picked clean.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Where’s Garth?”
“He’s over helping Otto VonDieman tighten a wheel on his wagon. Dinner’s ready whenever you are.” She had mixed together a hash of dried beef, potatoes, and onions, and the aroma of it bubbling in the spider skillet was inviting.
“Give me a chance to wash up.”
“I figured you would want to. There’s hot water in the kettle.”
Clay put the wood in the sling attached to the side of the wagon. Then he ladled some hot water into the wash-basin, set it on the wagon tongue, and began to shave.
End of conversation.
Garth returned and handed Rebecca a cup of butter. “Mrs. VonDieman churned some butter and sent this over for our use.” He went over to the fire and sniffed the cooking food. “Hmmm, it should go well with that hash.” It sounded as if he’d gotten over his disgruntlement, at least.
It was pretty obvious that Clay’s displeasure was only directed at her; he seemed to get along pleasantly with all the others.
He
sure wasn’t trying to make the best of a bad situation, she thought as she ladled some hash onto a plate. Smiling, she handed it to Garth.
“Grab a couple of those biscuits, Garth. That butter will taste good on them.”
In Rebecca’s unbiased opinion, the meal was once again a tasty success. Not a crumb remained when they finished, and Garth was his usual gracious self in letting her know how much he enjoyed it.
“That peach cobbler sure was good, Becky,” he said again as he helped her clean up the dishes.
“Thank you. I figured you liked it, the way you and Clay finished it all off.”
“Anything tastes better in the fresh air,” Clay said. He settled down with a book, and once again had managed to have the last word.
Rebecca gritted her teeth and handed Garth a soapy plate.
“You sure have a hand with turning flour into something real tasty, Becky. Did your mother teach you how to bake?”
“No, both of my parents died from consumption when I was thirteen.” Her forehead creased in a worried frown. “I’m afraid poor Blanche suffers with the same malady.” She forced aside the painful thought.
“Actually, my husband taught me how to bake. I married Charley when I was eighteen, and we worked in the bakery of Charley’s maiden aunt, his only living relative.” She shook her head, recalling the woman. “Aunt Charlotte was a bitter old woman who hated life as much as she did people. Charley and I lived in the two rooms over the bakery. We’d only been married for three years when he was conscripted into the army at the outbreak of the war, and he was killed shortly after. I’ve been a widow for four years. When Aunt Charlotte died two months ago, she willed her house and the bakery to an animal organization that will provide care and shelter for her six cats.”
Garth shook his head in commiseration. “You mentioned you have a brother in California?”
“Yes. Matthew headed west after Charley and I were married. I got a letter from him last month, and he painted California as a land of milk and honey. I had nothing to keep me in Vermont, so here I am.”
Garth chuckled. “Well, Becky, from what you can do with a little flour and water, there’s no telling what you’ll accomplish with all that milk and honey out there.”
They broke into laughter.
“Why are you and Clay heading West?” she asked. “Looking for some of that milk and honey, too?”
“No, we’re chasing our sister. Lissy ran off with a Yankee soldier who’d been quartered at Fraser’s Keep during the war.”
“Fraser’s Keep? Is that the town you’re from?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s the name of our family’s plantation.”
She might have known they had a plantation; it was easy to tell they hadn’t been raised in a backwoods cabin.
“We figure they’d have to be on the train that pulled out ahead of this one.”
“So what do you intend to do when you catch up with them? Shoot the Yankee scoundrel?” she said lightly.
“We’re hoping she’ll return home with us.”
“And what about this man she loved enough to run off with?”
“If she’s happy and he’s made an honest woman of her, then I guess we’ll have no say in it.”
She stopped what she was doing and looked at him intently. “And if he hasn’t?”
“Like you said, we’ll shoot the Yankee scoundrel. It’s a question of honor, ma’am.”
She couldn’t help gasping. Garth always seemed so happy-go-lucky, but the grimness in his tone made it clear he’d do exactly what he said.
The dishes done, Garth put aside the towel and departed, drawn again to the music farther down the line.
As Rebecca repacked the dishes and utensils, she couldn’t stop thinking about Garth’s statement. So their code of honor had brought these Fraser brothers West— not the hope for a new life, like the rest of the desperate souls here. It was one more thing that she didn’t have in common with the man she married.
Rebecca grimaced with pain as she picked up the heavy spider skillet.
“Let me do that.” Clay put aside his book and hurried over to her.
“Thank you.”
“How badly are you aching?” he asked, putting the skillet away in the storage box.
“I’m sure it will pass soon,” she said, not about to give him the satisfaction that maybe she’d bitten off more than she could chew.
She went into the wagon and changed into her nightgown and robe, but even with the flaps raised, it was too stifling inside to remain there. Rebecca lit a lantern and went outside, laid her pelt on the ground, and sat down. Clay had extinguished the fire for the night, and it was quite comfortable to lean back against the wagon wheel and feel the slight breeze as she listened to the strains of music coming from farther down the line.
With Clay’s attention absorbed again in a book, Rebecca slipped off her robe. The neckline of her plain white nightdress was no more revealing than a ball gown, and she was able to rub more liniment into her aching arms.
Other than the nagging pain in her arms and shoulders, she felt contented. Strangely enough, more contented than she’d felt in years. Maybe because it was the first time in so long that she had something to look forward to.
“I’ll do that.”
Clay’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. He knelt down and took the tin of liniment from her. “I think it will be easier if you lie on your stomach.”
Rebecca felt torn. As much as she welcomed the help, he was the last person she would ever have asked. But, she’d be glad to be free of the pain. She turned over on her stomach.
“Slide the gown off your shoulders,” Clay said.
“What!”
“I can’t rub this into your shoulders if they’re covered with your gown.”
“But… but—”
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling modest, Rebecca. After all, unless my memory’s failed me, you had on something much skimpier than this on the night you tricked me into marrying you.”
If he thought his baiting would rile her, he was mistaken. “I only intended to say that slipping the gown off my shoulders is easier to do sitting up,” Rebecca said. She sat up and unbuttoned the top of the gown and managed to get it off her shoulders while preserving her modesty. Then she lay down again, awaiting his touch.
The warmth of his hands on her bare shoulders sent involuntary shivers of delight through her as he worked the salve into her tense muscles.
“Relax, Rebecca,” he said, in a mocking tone. “At the moment I’m not about to do anything that will jeopardize you getting your annulment.”
His long fingers curled around the tendons at the back of her neck, working the taut cords until they relaxed. She laid her head on her crossed arms and closed her eyes, shivers of delight surging through her as his stroking fingers moved to her shoulders. The pressure was as stimulating as it was healing. It had been a long time since she’d felt a man’s hands on her bare flesh, and her body responded with feelings she believed she’d buried when she lost Charley. It felt so good—too damn good to feel like a woman again.
Her last thought before she drifted into sleep was the realization that Clay Fraser could be even more of a threat than she’d thought.
Her skin felt so soft and satiny. Under all that spit and vinegar, there was a soft, vulnerable woman, with a responsive body longing to be caressed and loved. He could tell that the moment she’d relaxed under his touch. Why hadn’t she sought a lover after her husband was killed? Or maybe she had, for in truth, what did he actually know about Rebecca?
No, he doubted she had taken a lover. While he was massaging her arm, he’d observed that she still wore her old wedding ring, not the one he’d given her. Apparently she still cherished the memory of her dead husband. Charley Elliott must have been one hell of a man to win the heart and devotion of a woman as independent thinking as Rebecca.
But now she was his wife, and her wearing the ring of a dead husband was a slap in the face to him. A glaring testimony to the fact that she did not consider him her husband.
Well, she was mistaken. He was very much her husband. He’d signed that marriage license, so it didn’t matter what she thought. He had his pride, too, and her walking around with another man’s ring on her hand was an insult to his honor.
He had listened to the conversation between her and Garth. Orphaned young and then losing a husband in the war, Rebecca Elliott had had a pretty hard life. But while he sympathized with her desperation, he couldn’t justify her fouling up his life. If she’d been honest and straightforward from the beginning, something might have been worked out between them.