“I’m always careful. He’s a big horse, isn’t he? Can you ride him? Do you fall off? Are you ‘fraid you’ll get hurt? Do you—”
“Whoa, young lady. Give me a shot at the first question before moving on to the rest.”
Frances crossed her arms and remained planted as if Stormy were only a statue. “Ma said your horse is dangerous. I’m supposed to stay away from him. You’re not scared, and you’re not much bigger than me.”
Kit gave the child’s bonnet strings a little tug. “But I’m a lot older.”
“I’m eight. How old are you?”
No one needed to know Kit’s age. By their standard she qualified as an old maid. What would Cullen think if he knew she was twenty-five? And why did his opinion matter? “Stormy is five. He’d just been born when I saw him the first time. Not much taller than you are now.”
“Did he walk?”
“On shaky legs.” Stormy’s birth was a slippery issue, and she didn’t want to talk about it. “I’ll ask your mom and dad if you can ride with me sometime.”
With the innocent face of an acolyte, Frances asked. “Do you mean my ma and pa?”
Kit snapped her fingers like a magician pulling surprises out of the air. “That’s exactly what I meant.” Pretending to be a nineteenth-century widow wasn’t going to be easy with a precocious child posing questions faster than Tabor could skedaddle from a room. “I’m going for a ride this morning, but this afternoon we can read, if you’d like.”
“Can Elizabeth read too?”
“Sure.”
Kit hoped Frances’s reading was better than her writing.
With a bubble of excitement, Frances ran off with Tabor pouncing on her heels. The cat needed more attention than Kit had given him. Maybe he would be over his depression by the time they returned home. Maybe she’d feel better too.
She finished grooming Stormy, slipped on a pair of wool trousers under her dress so she could ride astride, and then helped Sarah prepare picnic baskets with the family’s lunch. When all was ready, Elizabeth and Frances, along with Tate and Tabor, climbed in the back of the buckboard.
“We’re ready, Ma,” Elizabeth said.
Sarah glanced at Kit. “You ready?”
“I’m going to take Stormy and ride ahead. I’ll meet you in a couple of hours.” Sarah wore disapproval in the tight set of her jaw, but before she could voice it, Kit escaped again.
NOT FAR FROM town, Kit found a bluff overlooking the trail. A breeze rustled the underbrush along the switchback she followed to the top. A twig snapped. A tree fluttered its budding branches. A bird sang. Nature’s quiet symphony.
Turn down the volume on the silence.
If that wasn’t a song, it should be. At least it wasn’t the eerie silence she’d heard the night Scott died in her arms. No other sound in all of creation compared to the last whisper of breath. A shiver rolled up the length of her body. She shifted in the saddle. If she fell into an emotional quagmire on her first full day living in 1852, she might as well quit and go home because she’d be of no use to anyone.
She stiffened her spine and focused on the scene unfolding below her.
The wagons' white bonnets shimmered in the morning sun, and the wind, blowing across the long grass, created an illusion of schooners sailing over the ocean. The view made her drawing fingers itch. She grabbed her pencils and journal from the saddlebag and within moments became lost in her work.
“If a man’s dream could be painted, you’re looking at a masterpiece.”
Adrenalin exploded in her body. The journal and pencils flew from her hands. She jerked around to find Cullen reining his horse alongside her. “Damn, you scared me.”
His expression changed from surprise to smoky in a single heartbeat. “You shouldn’t be up here by yourself.” He dismounted, slow and easy. “It’s not safe.” He picked up the journal and pencils, then he handed them over.
“I appreciate your concern, but—”
“—You can take care of yourself.”
“Exactly.”
He withdrew a cheroot from his pocket and put a match to the cigar. “Out here we need each other. Where we’re going, we’ll need each other more.”
A flock of honking geese, flying in V formation, pulled their gazes toward the sky.
Cullen puffed, and wisps of smoke formed a halo around his head. “There’re lessons to learn from geese.”
“What? Fly high enough not to get shot?”
The corner of his lip twitched. “That’s one.”
They remained silent for a moment or two, then he said, “The flock works as a team. If a bird falls out of formation, he soon realizes he can’t fly by himself and gets back in line. If one gets sick and drops from the flock, two others fly with him to the ground and wait until he gets better or dies.”
She cocked her head, giving him a sideways glance. “Is that true?”
“The birds share a common goal, Mrs. MacKlenna, a common direction. And they’ll get where they’re going quicker than one bird could get there on its own.”
“I sense you’re not just talking about birds.”
He returned her gaze. The look in his dark blue eyes grew intense. Her heart beat faster than normal. The pencil in her shaking hand tapped lightly on the page. “What’d you say about dreams? If a man’s dreams could be painted…”
“You’re looking at a masterpiece.”
She wrote the word
dream,
then drew a faceless woman. “All those folks on the wagon train are filled with dreams, aren’t they?”
“Just like you and me.”
“I wonder how many will give up on theirs.”
He took a long, slow pull and blew out the smoke. “We’ve got close to a hundred strong-willed folks traveling with us. If they stay healthy, most will make it to Oregon. But some of their dreams will be shattered along the way.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers. “Don’t let one of them be yours.”
THE VAST EXPANSE of the landscape stretched out before Kit in rolling swells. A carpet of bluestem grass peeked through the prairie thatch. The occasional turkey buzzard gliding through the air broke up the repetitiveness of the plains. From the eye of an artist, beauty abounded
The wagon train’s destination for the day, the Blue River, lay only twelve miles from their starting point. They had to do better than that if she was going to reach South Pass in time.
When they stopped for the nooning, she unsaddled Stormy to let him graze. She had promised Frances they would read, and she didn’t want to disappoint her.
As Kit and Sarah repacked the buckboard with kids and lunch supplies, Kit watched a little boy jump from his family’s wagon. “That’s so dangerous.” Out on the trail, mistakes and stupidity killed people. “Have there been any accidents you know of?”
“Every day fingers or toes go missing,” Sarah said. “Folks are careless. John’s on the boys all the time to pay attention, but they’re children. Tend to get distracted. Why?”
“Guess I’ve seen too much bad stuff.”
Sarah let out a hefty sigh. “The girls are my biggest worry. They’re still innocent. Don’t know about death and dying. I’ve tried talking to them, but—”
“Hold on a minute. I have an idea. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t go riding off now. It’s time to leave,” Sarah said.
Kit rushed back to her wagon and rearranged boxes until she found her guitar. A few minutes later, she put the case in the buckboard.
Frances’s eyes lit with anticipation. “Can
you
play the guitar?”
“I thought we might sing this afternoon,” Kit said. “Would you like that?”
Frances rubbed her small hands along the black guitar case. “Yes, ma’am. What songs do you know?”
Kit did a quick rat-a-tat-tat on the case with her fingers. Then with a final tap on an imaginary ride cymbal, she said, “I thought we might write our own.”
Chapter Six
THE SUN SAT low in the western sky by the time Sarah pulled the buckboard into camp with the wide-eyed
von Barrett
children singing the song they wrote to the tune of
Yankee Doodle
.
Little boys and little girls from wagons never jump.
We turn around and climb to ground to safety on our rump.
Caution always on our mind so carefully we leap,
and stay away from rocks and caves where creatures go to sleep.
We wash our hands and eat our food that we prepare and cook,
and stay in sight of ma and pa for us they never have to look.
We pick up twigs out in the sun and never fire a big bad gun,
and stay on watch all through the day until the evening’s done.
When dark announces time for bed, we gladly go along,
for rest is what we need tonight to get to Oregon.
Kit couldn’t help but feel that beneath each line a disaster waited to happen. Could she keep the Barretts from becoming victims? Could she even keep herself safe?
After unloading Sarah and the children at their campsite, Kit drove the buckboard to hers to unhitch the team. The men had already pulled the wagons into a circle then fastened them together with ox chains creating a corral to protect the animals. Tents and campfires would ring the corral.
“I’ll take care of Stormy and the mules,” Adam said.
She handed over the reins. “Then I’ll go wash up and help your ma.”
“I reckon she’s got the biscuits cooking, but let her know her boys’ got tapeworms hollerin’ for fodder.”
That was a new one. She had started a list of his colloquialisms, but didn’t think a thousand miles would give her enough time to figure them all out. He was right though. By the time she washed up and returned to the Barretts, the dining tent was up and the biscuits were in the cook stove.
“What can I do?”
“Mix up another batch,” Sarah said. “We’ve got a hungry crowd tonight.”
Frances slouched over to her ma. “What can
I
do?”
“Why don’t you help your pa pull the chairs to the table?”
The child turned a slow circle, frowning. “I can’t find him.”
John walked up behind her carrying a long bench. He sat it down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “There’s my helper. Are you going to stand still to Sunday or help your old pa?”
“You’re not old. Not like Mr. Peters.”
John’s face crinkled. “Mr. Peters wouldn’t appreciate hearing you say that about him.”
“He says he’s old, Pa. Why can’t I?”
John rubbed his nose to cover a smile. “It’s not polite. Now take hold of one end of this bench and help me out.”
“Where’s Mrs. MacKlenna gonna sit?”
“She can sit on the bench between you and Elizabeth.”
“That’s Mr. Montgomery’s place if’n he’s taking supper with us.”
John patted his daughter’s head. “Believe we have room enough.”
Sarah carried a pot over to the table. “Call the boys. Food’s ready.”
John struck the large steel triangle with a mallet, and its clang peeled out over the campsite. Three freshly washed boys and Cullen appeared as if they’d been hanging out in the wings waiting for a curtain call. The lawyer look was gone. The scruffy look was back. Kit didn’t mind the scruffy look at all.
“Sit here, Mrs. MacKlenna, Mr. Montgomery.” Frances scooted to make room.
“No wine tonight?” Cullen asked.
His whisper came so close she felt the warmth of his words on her neck. He smelled of sun and summer heat and freshly washed cotton. Although the thought of drinking made her sick at her stomach, the thought of drinking with him—
“Bless the food, John. The boys are hungry,” Sarah said.
Before he said amen, pots and pans flew across the table along with seven different conversations. Kit watched with wide-eyed fascination. Cullen chewed his food slowly, his eyes hazy with thoughts or perhaps the pleasure the food gave him, or like her, he was simply following multiple willy-nilly conversations. He didn’t have enough room for his long legs and kept bumping his thigh against hers.
When had her leg become an erogenous zone?
Adam’s eyes strayed toward something behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw two young girls saunter pass, heading toward the river. Adam’s lips curled into a puppy-love-grin. “May I be excused, Pa?”
John pushed back from the table. “You can all be excused, but don’t forget your chores.”
Kit watched Adam run off with his brothers, completely ignoring the girls. It tickled her, thinking back to her own adolescence. She turned to the older Barretts. “You have a precious family. You must be proud of them.”
John packed his pipe with tobacco. “We’re mighty proud, aren’t we Ma?”
“I think Adam’s got a bit of spring on his mind,” Cullen said, putting a match to his cigar.
John lit his pipe. “I noticed that a few days ago. Believe the girl’s a Baue. Her pa’s got no sit in his ass.”
Kit lifted her hands in a gesture of confusion.
“Baue can’t sit still,” Cullen interpreted. “He’s always up doing one thing or another, making a racket when folks are trying to sleep.”
“If Adam’s interested in courting their girl we should be making a call soon.” John slipped his pipe between his teeth and closed down on the stem with a click.
“She’s a pretty girl,” Sarah said.
“It’ll take more than a pretty face to keep that boy’s interest. He’s got plans,” John said.
Sarah turned to Kit giving her a worried sigh. “Mr. Montgomery’s been talking to him about going to a university, but I don’t know where the money would come from.”
“Money will work out.” John pointed his pipe toward Kit. “The boy did fine work today. If you have problems, go to Adam directly. If he don’t do what you ask, you come to me.”
“He’s a fine young man. I can't imagine having—”
“Pa.”
Elizabeth ran toward her father with arms flapping like a baby bird unable to fly. Tate trotted at her heels.
“Pa.”
Frances mimicked her sister’s scream, but instead of waving her arms she half-carried a dangling cat. Tabor’s paws pushed against her tummy trying to either hold on or make a quick escape.