“We need more biscuits.”
The Barretts ate more carbs than any family Kit had ever met.
Sarah poured two cups of coffee, then handed one to Kit. “How’d you sleep?”
Kit covered a yawn. “Well enough, I guess.”
Sarah glanced over the rim of her cup. “A wagon’s heading this way. Henry and John are walking out to the meet the driver.”
Kit watched as a crowd gathered around the wagon.
Sarah pulled the skillet off the burner. “Let go see what’s happening.”
“…it’s spilled over the bank,” the man was saying when the ladies walked up.
“Did you see it?” Henry asked.
The man shook his head. “A rider just rode up to our camp. He seen the river. Says it’s bad. I didn’t sign up to kill my family. We’re going home. Good luck to you.” The man snapped his whip over the heads of his team and the wagon rolled away.
“Go-backer—giving up at the first sign of trouble,” John said.
Henry scratched his chin. “Cullen left out a couple hours ago to check out the river. He’ll be back this evening to tell us what’s he’s seen. Just ‘cause we’re starved for news don’t mean we have to believe stories told third and fourth hand.”
“John and I’ve talked about those river crossings,’ Sarah said to Kit. “They scare me, but I don’t want him to know. It’ll taint his decision if one needs making. He needs to do what’s best for the family without worrying about my silly fears.”
To Kit, Sarah’s fears weren’t the least bit silly. People died crossing rivers.
John put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Henry said he’ll call a meeting tonight when Cullen gets back. We’ll talk about what we know not some scuttlebutt spread by a go-backer. Come on now. Day’s wasting. Let’s eat breakfast and get on the road.”
Kit saw a nervous tick around Sarah’s mouth and knew the upcoming meeting wouldn’t mollify her fear.
HENRY CALLED AN after-supper meeting. The rumors about the swollen river had floated around the wagon train all day. When Kit and Sarah arrived at the Camerons, the fire-lit torches illuminated dozens of tense-jawed faces. Calming this crew would take some powerful rhetoric.
Henry didn’t blow his bugle to get folks’ attention. He fired his pistol, which didn’t bother Tate curled at Kit’s feet, but scared Tabor right out of her arms. She knew the cat would find Frances who would comb and quiet his standing-on-ends fur.
Henry removed his hat, holding the brim with both hands, and looking like a preacher presiding over a funeral. “You folks know we’ll reach the Kansas tomorrow.” His slow and laborious voice, however, sounded like a preacher. “You heard that go-backer this morning. Well, don’t let him scare you. Cullen went to the river and talked to folks firsthand. He’s here now to tell it to you straight.”
Cullen stepped forward, planted his feet, and put his hands on his hips. “Crossing won’t be easy. Spring rains have swollen the river and water’s pouring over the bank. The current’s stronger than usual. That makes it dangerous.” He paused, but Kit sensed it wasn’t for effect. His deep, controlled breathing, along with an intense look in his eyes, told her he was softening up his listeners, but not in a manipulative way.
“What you haven’t heard is that Pappan’s Ferry broke down this morning.” There was a collective gasp. He gave the crowd a moment before holding up his hand demanding attention. “If the ferry’s not operating by the time we arrive, we’ll have to float the wagons.”
A heavyset man standing a few feet from Cullen shouted, “You know what that means? Some of us will get drowned for sure—or lose our wagons.” His tone raised a black cloud of uneasiness, and murmuring among the crowd increased.
“Folks have been crossing the Kansas for years.” Cullen grew quiet and looked around the circle of men, making eye contact with each one. Then he said, “If we stay determined and work together, we’ll get across this water, across the mountains, and we’ll make it to the Willamette Valley.”
His words instilled a heightened sense of urgency. In the dim torch light, Kit wondered if she were willing to risk her life and her animals. But wasn’t that what she already agreed to do? The entire trip was a risk, not just this river crossing.
“We can layover a few days,” Cullen continued, “wait for the water level to drop or the ferry to get up and running, or we can float the wagons. Keep in mind, every day we delay is one day later we get to the mountains. If we run into snow, the weather could kill us like the Donner party.”
The river crossing debate went on and tempers flared. Cullen listened to arguments and concerns until finally he said, “When the time comes, you men will make the right decisions for your families. I can’t decide for you. I can advise you, but the decisions are yours alone.”
The crowd disbursed, and Cullen and Henry joined the Barretts and Kit for coffee. John passed a plate of chewy molasses cookies. “What do you think we should do, Cullen?”
He chewed a cookie, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward. “If the ferry’s not running, I think we should float across.”
John squeezed Sarah’s hand. His face held no smile. “We’ll do what you decide is best.”
Later, as the Barrett family sought their beds, Cullen asked Kit if he could walk her to her wagon.
“That’s not necessary. I promise not to wander far.” She glanced up into the night sky where thready clouds darted across the full moon’s face. “Meet me by moonlight—”
“Alone, and then I will tell you a tale.” He sang the ballad’s first line with a lusty tenor voice that made her tingle.
“Your taste in music is as varied as mine.” She nodded toward her wagon. “Come on.”
He fell in step beside her. “No dancing tonight? Your suitors will sorely miss you.”
She gave him a teasing one-knuckle punch in the arm. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m Ben and Clint’s shill. They dance with me, so they can ogle the other girls.” She laughed, thinking of their sweaty palms. Then she remembered dancing with Cullen and the warmth of his hand pressed against her back. She breathed deeply, hoping fresh air would cool the heat building inside of her. She retreated to safer thoughts—teenage boys and sweaty palms. “Soon enough they’ll get up the courage to ask their secret sweethearts to dance, and I’ll be left without a partner.”
He removed his dusty, black fedora, swept his fingers through his hair, then put his hat back on. “Several wagon trains are already camped at the river. I’m sure we can find you a dance partner, one without sweaty palms.”
Was he reading her mind or recalling his own teenage years? Cullen as a gangly young man with raging hormones wasn’t easy to imagine. She searched his face. Something weighed heavy on his mind, and she’d bet a pouch of coins it had nothing to do with dancing. “The crossing will be difficult, won’t it?”
Beneath his black hat sitting low on his forehead, shadows covered his face. “I watched several wagons float across. Men stood at the shore, scratching their arms, hoping to scrape away their fear. Men on this train can take hard work, but the thought of putting their families in danger will cause them to question how much risk they’re willing to take.”
He tilted his head. With his face no longer shadowed, the stern set of his jaw told her what she needed to know. He was afraid, but not for himself.
“How much risk are you willing to take?” he asked.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to get to Oregon.” She said Oregon without stumbling over the word but felt guilty for lying. “If I have to dismantle my wagon and float it across, I will.”
“It’s dangerous—”
She held up a hand, interrupting him. “I appreciate your concern. If I need your help, I’ll ask.”
Several moments of silence hung between them.
“Well, good night then.” Cullen tipped his hat and walked away maybe ten paces then turned back to face her. “I’d like to dance with you one last time when we reach Oregon City. I can’t do that if something happens to you. Be careful out there.”
She gave him a wistful smile. “You’ve got a date.”
He walked off into the night, whistling.
Tabor rubbed against her leg. She picked him up, and he nuzzled her with his wet nose.
“We’re not going to Oregon City, Tabor. And I’ve already had a last dance.”
Chapter Nine
THE WAGON TRAIN reached the Kansas River crossing in the late afternoon as the sun melted on the horizon. Kit stood beside John near the river’s edge. Her churning stomach mirrored the swirls and eddies in the muddy water that spilled over the bank.
Is this an acceptable risk?
Her resolve seemed to fade as fast as the daylight.
“Cullen’s lost his ever-loving mind if he thinks we can cross this river in a wagon,” Kit said.
Tension puckered John’s face. “We’re not. We’re crossing in a boat.”
She pointed a shaky finger toward the long line of prairie schooners moving into circle formation. “Those are wagons, not boats. Removing running gear and caulking seams aren’t going to turn pigs’ ears into silk purses.”
His eyes darted up and down the bank. “Now’s not the time for doubts.”
“Doubts are spreading faster than a California wildfire. Cullen’s a lawyer for Pete’s sake. What does he know?”
“More than you. More than me. We already agreed on what to do.” John shifted nervously, kicking at the stiff-bristled brush growing alongside the river. “Here comes Sarah. Don’t go worrying her with your doubts.”
“Worry her, or worry you?” Kit’s words bounced off his thick chest and landed with a thud at her feet.
The wind skidded across the water’s surface, whipped against her skirt, and entangled her legs in yards of useless cotton. She always paid attention to signs and omens. Something made the back of her neck itch, and it wasn’t the scratchy fabric.
KIT PEERED OUT of the back of the wagon to watch the morning’s sun rise in a swirl of pink and yellow. Her first thought was not to shoot Henry for polluting the air with the God-awful sound he produced with his bugle. While she no longer worried she’d turn into a murderess, she did worry about the lies that poured out of her mouth like sour milk.
The temperature hovered in the low sixties, comfortable enough for early April if she wore a fleece jacket and gloves, but she hadn’t packed either one. So she piled on layers of clothes and looked and waddled like the Michelin Man wife’s.
Suddenly, knee-slapping, hoot-n-hollering
tore through camp. “What the hell . . .” She followed the noise, stopping at the Barretts’ camp where she found Sarah putting on a pot of coffee. “What’s going on?” Kit asked.
Sarah put more fuel on the fire. “Maybe God parted the sea during the night.”
Kit refrained from rolling her eyes. “Where’s John? He’ll know what’s happening,” Kit asked.
“He went looking for Cul—”
“Sarah. Sarah.”
John ran an obstacle course filled with tents and animals and children, waving his wide-brimmed hat high above his head. When he reached his wife’s side, he scooped her into his arms. “Pappan’s Ferry is back in business.”
With more enthusiasm than Sarah usually exhibited, she clapped him on the back as if he were solely responsible for the ferry’s repair. “The Good Lord answered our prayers, John.”
He kissed her, and she kissed him right back.
The heat of embarrassment spread across Kit’s face. She ducked behind the wagon, wrapped her arms around herself, and sniffed back a tear or two. Were her hot cheeks pink embarrassment or green envy? Neither. She’d watched her parents’ public displays of affection her entire life without reacting, and she’d never admit to envy. Instead, she settled on relief that a crisis had been diverted.
With a quick swipe, she dried her tears and glanced around camp. Her gaze went immediately to the one person who always appeared heads above everyone else in any gathering, large or small.
Cullen stood so close to the water that it lapped his boots. One hand bracketed his hip the other rubbed the back of his neck. He appeared to be deep in thought. She watched him with a hunger she wanted to ignore, but it gnawed at her, biting off small chunks of her protective coating.
Within a minute or two, he must have come to terms with whatever was troubling him. He stepped back, brought both arms to his chest, then pulled his arm back, and threw a fist-sized rock. The stone sailed through the air at major league speed and hit a piece of driftwood floating in the river. The accuracy astounded Kit. She expected some sort of nineteenth-century equivalent to an end-zone dance or chest bump, but he didn’t celebrate. He did, however, stare in her direction. Her face flushed again, but she didn’t drop her gaze.
The resemblance to her ghost was uncanny. She half expected him to reach out his hand to her. He didn’t, but he did check the time on his pocket watch. Then, before he returned the timepiece to his pocket, he rubbed the case cover with his thumb in the exacting manner she’d witnessed dozens of times.
She felt like a player in one of Shakespeare’s play and hoped to hell it wasn’t a tragedy.
WITH A FEW HOURS to herself while she waited her turn to cross over on the ferry, Kit sat by the water with her journal. The memory of Cullen throwing the rock continued to play in her mind. He moved with the grace of a dancer and the power of an athlete. Keeping her eyes off him, her mind clear of him, and her fantasies free of him were damn near impossible.
Tate trotted over and laid his head on her lap, ears relaxed. She rubbed his neck. “Well, look who’s here. So you want to spend time with me now, huh? Where’s Elizabeth?” He lifted his head and looked back toward the wagon. “Surely you’re not hiding from her. Has she worn you out?” He nudged Kit’s hand with his muzzle, dog speak for,
rub me again.
And she did. “I need both hands to draw. If you want to sit with me, be still.”
He rolled over and went to sleep.
“Bless your dirty paws, Tate.”
During her teen years, her dad had nurtured her passion for painting. He had been a dynamic artist who painted abstract shapes with vivid shades of red, green, and yellow, while she preferred muted colors and comforting landscapes. He had encouraged her to be more expressive and passionate.