The Major's Daughter

by Regina Jennings

  “Hey, you only get one. . . .”

  Caroline used the distraction to open the map in hand. She spun it around, trying to place the railroads marked on the map with where she knew them to be. And that lake? There wasn’t a lake like that anywhere that she’d seen. She held the map closer and squinted at the title. The word Oklahoma was carefully printed over Ontario.

  “Thief!” she gasped. “These aren’t maps of Oklahoma Territory. They aren’t accurate at all.”

  A burly man with two sons scowled. “What d’ya mean, miss?”

  “I mean that this man is a huckster. These maps are useless.” She raised her voice along with the map. “Don’t buy these,” she announced.

  The peddler stuck his nose right in her face. “You’d better be mindful of name-calling. What do you know about it?”

  “Everything, I suppose.” Caroline brushed back a wisp of her red hair. “My father is the commander of Fort Reno, and he and his troopers will not look kindly on you taking advantage of these people.”

  Before the madness of this land run had brought strangers to the nations, everyone knew who Caroline was and who her father was. She had to admit it was gratifying to see the effect the information had on an outsider.

  He snatched the map from her hand, and even though his tone was congenial, his expression was not. “Are these the wrong maps? My goodness, I must have pulled the wrong crate out of the wagon.” He lifted the stack of papers and tucked them under his arm. “I’ll just put these away.” And with that, he spun on his heel and took long, quick steps away from the crowd. Judging by the way the burly man took after him, Caroline had no doubt the peddler would be giving back at least one dime.

  A strong young fellow with a double cowlick nodded at Caroline. “Fine work clearing him out,” he said. “If you think that’s something, you should see the chap over there. He’s not just selling maps, he’s selling the land itself.” The boy snorted. “As if he can lay claim to any property yet.”

  The infamous city lots that her train companions were talking of? Caroline checked her watch. She had time to right one more wrong. Honestly, with this many swindlers about, how would the new territory ever get lined out straight? Thanking the young man, she followed his gesture to another group of people gathered around a man doing business on the end of a barrel.

  She couldn’t see much, but looking through the crowd, she could see a paper spread over the barrel and money exchanging hands.

  “That’s lot ninety-six on Buchanan Street, just north of Tenth. Here’s your certificate.”

  The lucky buyer, a young wrangler wearing chaps and a bandanna, popped out of the crowd, waving the paper over his head.

  “Excuse me, may I have a moment of your time?” Caroline asked the cowboy. His eyes lit up at the sight of her. In this case, the scarcity of well-dressed women on the street worked to her advantage. “What exactly did you just purchase?”

  “It’s a city lot in Redhawk. It’s not on a main thoroughfare, but I only paid one dollar for it.”

  A dollar? Caroline fumed. “And where exactly is Redhawk located?”

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “On some fertile soil with a healthy creek and a railroad passing through.”

  “Step on up. Only thirty-eight lots left in Redhawk,” the barker chanted. “You can trust me, folks. I know this land better than my own reflection.”

  It was too much. “You should get a refund,” Caroline said before excusing herself to confront the barker. She huffed as she wedged her shoulder between two men and made herself a space, although they weren’t pleased to have to make room for both her and her bustle. Caroline tugged her skirt to pull it out from under a boot. It was worth a ruined hem to disrupt this huckster’s game.

  With the charlatan still bent over the map, the first thing she saw was the top of a bowler hat, then a nice tailored suit. Nicer than she’d expected from a confidence man. Evidently he was successful at his deceit.

  “I apologize for disenchanting your audience,” she said, “but by whose authority are you selling city lots in a town that doesn’t exist?”

  The pen paused over the map. The customers surrounding the barrel straightened to get a better look at her. Caroline met their wary gazes. They would thank her for interfering if they understood what she was protecting them from.

  The man in the bowler hat raised his head, and a pair of sparkling dark eyes met hers. His smile was as slow as honey dripping from the comb. “Miss Adams, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Frisco Smith. Caroline’s hand went to her stomach. She’d thought she was prepared to see him. She was wrong.

  “Mr. Smith,” she stammered. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  He folded up the map and gathered his papers into a worn traveling bag. “That’s all for now, folks. As you can see, I have to attend to more pressing matters. I’ll be back in half an hour, as soon as I settle some business with this kind lady.”

  He was laughing at her, probably remembering how she’d idolized him when she was younger. Well, she was grown up. She’d been in society—real society. Now it took more than a flowery compliment and dashing smile to turn her head.

  The time he took gathering his things gave her the chance to compose herself. “Where are your buckskins?” she asked. “In that fancy suit, I took you for a city attorney.”

  “That’s what I am.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I’ve heard a lot of malarkey associated with this event, but that tops them all.”

  “Who do you know that has spent more time in court than me? And all those hours in guardhouses and jail cells? Instead of carving on a pine knot like my incarcerated neighbors, I read law.” He picked up his traveling case and offered her his arm.

  Another lawyer? She’d met enough of those in Galveston. With his black curls and swarthy skin, he looked more like a pirate than a solicitor, so obviously he wasn’t spending all his time at a desk. She eyed the offered arm warily. She had grown. She had matured. Having an escort through a crowd was no sign of weakness. She slid her hand into the crook of his arm and allowed him to part the crowd as they headed toward the depot.

  “And I suppose that was legal work you were doing just now,” she said. “Selling lots off a map in a town that doesn’t exist?” Her tone might be cool, but she wanted him to know that her options for entertainment were no longer limited to his incarcerations at the fort.

  “Well, it is legitimate. I’m well aware of the legal constraints.”

  Caroline bit her lip. If anyone knew the Unassigned Lands, it was Frisco Smith. On that, he was telling the truth. He’d been a boomer for years, petitioning the United States government to open the territory for homesteading while leading forays into the forbidden land to show its benefits. Every time her father’s troopers caught him, he was confined to the guardhouse at the fort until he could get a court date. If it weren’t for Frisco and his allies, this land run wouldn’t be happening.

  “Perhaps it isn’t technically illegal, but is it ethical? The nature of this contest should be kept pure. An attempt to fix the outcome—”

  “I appreciate your attempt to explain my errors, but with your train departing, I don’t have the time or inclination to defend myself further.”

  “I’m sure it’s so complicated that someone like me couldn’t understand,” she said.

  He drew his head back and studied her through narrowed eyes. “I’ve never questioned your intelligence, Miss Adams. I hope you don’t give me reason to now.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Caroline asked.

  “It seems you’ve changed a lot since I knew you.”

  So he had noticed. “Yes, I’m no longer the impressionable child I used to be.”

  They’d stopped before the depot, and Amber was making her way toward them, her parasol bobbing over the crowd.

  Frisco followed her gaze to Amber. He released her arm and took her hand. “You might have been young, but you weren’t ignorant,” he
said. “At least then you knew that fancy manners are no substitute for substance.”

  Caroline inhaled so sharply that she hissed. When she tried to pull her hand away, he pressed a firm kiss on the back.

  His black eyes sparkled under a rakishly tilted bowler. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Adams, but I’d recommend that you get back to the fort and stay there. This here game is high stakes and could get rowdy. Better stay close to your daddy and out of the way.”

  Caroline yanked her hand free, dismayed that her heart had skipped a beat at his kiss. He was little more than a criminal. No fortunes, no prospects. All that gallantry that had been directed at her over the years hadn’t meant a thing. Just a charlatan trying to get under the skin of a major enforcing the law.

  But before Caroline could fire back with a sharp retort, Frisco tipped his hat and disappeared into the crowd with his satchel. He no longer wore the frontier garb of the interlopers, but he still had the heart of one.

  But he didn’t have her heart. For that she could be thankful.

  Chapter two

  You mean all I have to do is follow this map, and it’ll get me to the North Canadian River? That’s where the best farmland is, right?”

  “That’s right, sonny. This map can’t lead you wrong.”

  Would that man never give up? Frisco had shut down his scam twice already, and the huckster had just moved his pile of fraudulent misinformation to another corner. Frisco ran a finger beneath his starched collar. After a few days of rain, the April sunshine was welcome, but not the humidity. It made tempers short, and his had been pushed to the limit.

  His satchel crushed against him as he squeezed through the crowd of suckers standing under the balcony of the bank. Cash sprouted from the confidence man’s arm garters, showing that he’d been busy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Frisco proclaimed in his best oratory voice, “the race of next week is supposed to be a fair contest. Everyone who stands on the starting line will have an equal chance to find a home, no matter their age, race, or creed. Buying a map of Ontario, Canada, will not increase your odds.”

  “Ontario?” A man flipped open his map and held it at arm’s length as he squinted. “This says Ontario! I demand a refund.”

  “Ontario? What?” The shyster manufactured the same counterfeit shock that he had the last two times Frisco pointed out the error of his product. “Honest mistake, gentlemen. Honest mistake.” He dug deep in his pocket and began distributing dimes as Frisco gathered up his stack of maps. “Hey, where are you going with those?” he demanded.

  “I’m going to find a privy that’s running low on paper,” Frisco said. “That’s all these are good for.”

  The peddler puffed up like a potato getting ready to split its skin. “Mr. High and Mighty. Let me guess—your father is a general at the fort, and he’ll throw me in jail if I don’t stop.”

  Frisco couldn’t help the grin that broke out. So Miss Caroline hadn’t changed entirely. No wonder she was suspicious when she saw him with a map selling town lots. While he had nothing in common with this crook, he could understand her confusion. That was Miss Caroline for you. Always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

  “He’s not my father,” Frisco said, “and he’s not a general. He’s a major, and he’ll throw you in the guardhouse, not jail. On this, I speak from experience.”

  And then he left to find a burn pile so the loathsome pamphlets couldn’t do more harm. For years Frisco and his mentors—men like David Payne and William Couch—had demonstrated against the government keeping good land unclaimed when there were so many willing hands ready to farm it. Years ago, all Indian Territory had been set aside for the tribes, but it was 1889. The tribal boundaries were set. Now, whether those treaties were fair or made under duress, that wasn’t for Frisco to say. They were law, and there, right in the midst of all the native nations, was the jewel of the territory sitting fallow and unused. Nearly two million acres ready for the plow.

  According to the Homestead Act, adults over twenty-one had the right to claim empty government land if they could hold the land for five years and make improvements on it. But for some reason the government thought the rules didn’t apply to the Unassigned Lands. So Frisco and other boomers like him decided to test their resolve. In 1884, the government lost their case against Payne, and it was ruled that it was legal to settle on the Unassigned Lands, yet even the court’s decision didn’t change the soldiers’ orders. Thus the charade continued—soldiers following their orders to arrest boomers on the land, boomers being taken to court, the court releasing them because they hadn’t broken the law.

  It was a parody of justice, but Frisco and the others persisted, knowing that public opinion was lining up behind them. And finally they got the news they’d been waiting for—the government was declaring the Unassigned Lands open for homesteading.

  And all these people—wagons as far as the eye could see, depot crawling with newcomers, tents pitched in every empty lot—were proof that the boomers were right. Americans needed this land. They needed a new start, and they’d do anything to get it.

  Flames licked the sides of a cauldron situated in the center of a group of tents. A harried woman wiped the sweat from her forehead as she stirred her laundry in the bubbling brew. Frisco tipped his hat and stuffed the maps into the blaze.

  A tent flap burst open, and a young pup rushed out and began yapping at Frisco’s heels.

  “Chauncey, come back.” A stout little fellow barreled out of the tent and caught the dog around the middle. He grunted as he lifted the long-eared pup off the ground, but it stretched as he pulled. Doggy toenails never left the ground.

  “Get him back on his tether,” the woman ordered. To Frisco, she said, “Sorry, sir. It’s a lot of excitement for a dog . . . and a boy.”

  “No harm done,” Frisco replied. His nose twitched at the smell of lye soap. “You wouldn’t happen to be taking in laundry, would you?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s a week until the run. Might as well pass the time while bringing in some coin.”

  “Well, I’ll be. That isn’t Frisco Smith, is it?” a new voice said.

  Frisco spun on his heel to see a bull of a man coming out of the tent. He was clean-shaven, with a fresh haircut and eyes that nearly disappeared when he smiled. His swagger was so like the little boy’s, there was no denying the connection.

  “Patrick Smith!” Frisco cried. Patrick extended his hand, but Frisco pulled him forward for a hearty embrace. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

  “And look at you!” Patrick clutched him by the forearms and stepped back to survey his suit. “You’ve been busy.”

  Frisco nodded at the boy. “So have you.”

  Patrick beamed as he motioned the boy to his side and ruffled his hair. “Millie, come here and meet my partner foundling in crime.”

  Frisco hoped she didn’t notice his wince. He hated the word foundling. It sounded so weak, so vulnerable.

  “Mrs. Smith.” He removed his hat as he bowed. “I should have known Patrick wouldn’t settle until he’d won the most beautiful lady for his own.”

  Her cheeks were already pink from the fire. She pushed back her damp blond hair and said, “This is Frisco? I thought you said he was a wild rabble-rouser.”

  “Don’t let the clothes fool you, ma’am,” Frisco said. “They don’t change the man.”

  “Have a seat.” Patrick ducked into his tent and carried out two milking stools. “I suppose you mean to run next week.”

  If he only knew. “Of course. And you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve got my sights set on a homestead but would settle for a town lot. Being the first saddler in an area is my goal. Guess I’ll hop the train and head to Oklahoma Station. If all the lots are full there, I’ll ride on up to Guthrie.”

  “Oklahoma Station is the train’s third stop,” Frisco said. “By the time you get past the Norman depot and Moore, the horsemen from t
he eastern border will have reached it. Never mind Guthrie. You’re on the wrong border for that.”

  Patrick stretched a leg out in front of him. “It might not be a good plan, but it’s all I got. My old draft horse isn’t fast enough to get us anywhere. I’m better off jumping from the train and trying my luck on foot. Surely I’ll find something.”

  No, not surely. Very unlikely, with the fifty thousand people coming in.

  Frisco pulled his satchel around in front of him and unfastened the latch.

  “You’re still hauling that old bag around, I see,” Patrick said. “Looks like you could afford a new one by now.”

  “It’s the perfect size to carry my things,” Frisco said. “I’ll unpack it when I get home.”

  “Home? Have you got a home I don’t know about?”

  Frisco ignored the stab of pain the observation brought and shook his head.

  “You are a mystery, Frisco Smith,” Patrick said.

  “And here I am, ready to explain the world to you. Let me tell you how your luck has changed.” Frisco pulled his city plans out of his satchel. “I’ve spent the last four years traversing the Unassigned Lands looking for the best place to set up a city, and I found it. Fertile land, adequate water, nearby timber, and almost a guarantee that the railroad will be passing through in the next three years. Redhawk is going to be a prosperous city. Why don’t you and Mrs. Smith settle there?”

  “If there’s no railroad, how am I going to get there? I may be strong, but you know I’ve never been fleet-footed.”

  “I’m going to claim it. I know the best route—the only route from the west—and instead of sitting on one hundred and sixty acres, I’m dividing it into town lots.”

  Patrick’s dark brows lowered. “You always have a plan, and you’d think by now I would’ve learned not to get caught up in your grand schemes. I like the sound of it—”

  “Of course you do—”

  “But how much is it going to cost me?”

  Frisco watched Mrs. Smith lift a heavy paddle dripping with water. Industrious even while waiting for the grand event. He turned his attention to the boy playing with his puppy and then looked back at his friend. “How about free laundering of my sundries for a month? But you can never tell any of your neighbors what a bargain I gave you.”