He’d said he’d marry her. He wanted to marry her.
He’d take care of her. He proved it during the cholera. He wouldn’t leave her again.
He loved her.
And she loved him. She’d never stopped. She could have him back, make a stab at restoring some of what she’d lost, heal at least some of the pain he’d caused her and, yes, she’d caused him. She should have taken her chances, told him about the child. She’d had nothing left to risk. Michael would have been a splendid father.
But it wasn’t enough, even now.
Caroline knelt again and dabbled her fingers in the west-flowing trickle. She looked up at Michael, tall and unsmiling in the moonlight. “Michael, the Bible says ‘How can two walk together if they are not in agreement.’ And it says, ‘Be not yoked to unbelievers.’ I can’t marry a man who doesn’t serve the Lord.” She stood and touched her damp fingers to his lips. “This water can’t flow east and west at the same time. It’s a divide, Michael. And that’s how we are.”
She left him, standing in the moonlight. She dared not look back.
~*~
Michael knew better than to follow her. It wasn’t his place, and they’d given people enough to talk about.
Could he be a Christian? He’d given up the drink on the boat coming to America. A man on the run had to have his wits about him. He’d given up other women long before Caroline walked back into his life. They always got attached, and a man on the run couldn’t afford that. Besides, they weren’t Caroline. He could shuck off his other bad habits if he had to. His temper? Mayhap. Were there other ways to defend people? He could find out. But Michael knew the external sins were just that. He’d had it drummed into him enough as a boy. This Christianity, this Way Dan and Caroline spoke of, demanded so much more. A submission to God’s plan, a giving up of one’s will.
His will had gotten him in trouble more times than he could count. But it had also saved Dickie and Oona. His will would get Caroline to Oregon if he had to carry her.
Without his will, what was left of him?
And what would God want with the likes of him?
24
It was mid-August when they reached Fort Hall, on the Snake River. The fort was a wooden stockade with two bastions, built in 1834 by Nathaniel Wyeth of Boston and later turned over to the powerful Hudson’s Bay Company. Owned by England, it was a crossroads for all manner of Western enterprise.
Fort Hall was a breaking-off point. Here, wagons bound for California turned off the Oregon Trail and headed South. They crossed the Great Basin and the Sierra Nevada before reaching that fabled land of sunshine, oranges, and treasure. At Fort Hall, the Oregon-bound replenished everything they could before that last push. And it would be a push, Michael and Pace assured them.
The wagon train passed through marshy areas, wet bottom lands with grass that grew to three or four feet. Caroline’s arms itched with mosquito bites. But the air was drier here as the trail inched forward, up toward the mist-shrouded mountains. Dry and clean and perfect, with warm days and cool, easy-sleeping nights.
They were halfway to Oregon.
And all the waters ran to the West.
Pace’s company made camp in late afternoon. Caroline cleaned up quickly, laid a fire in preparation for supper, and walked to the fort, she and Michael and Pace and Jenny. Pace knew people who worked at the fort, and he wanted to check on the weather in the mountains.
Jenny? She claimed she was bored. Or maybe she didn’t want to stay at the camp without at least one of them for protection. Jenny wasn’t afraid of much, but poison tongues sent her running for cover.
They passed Ben, mending a harness by feel, his fingers sure as he guided the awl through the leather. Samuel worked beside him, sneaking glances of unguarded tenderness to his father. Martha crouched nearby, building a fire. She shaded her eyes and gave Caroline a quick smile. “We’ll be up later. Maybe we’ll see you there.”
Caroline swung her split-oak basket. Halfway there. Halfway home.
Michael was in a good mood, teasing all three of them, planning out loud what Caroline would cook with whatever the trading post offered. He was good company, coaxing Pace out of his reticence, Jenny out of her wariness. What Michael did best. No, they couldn’t be friends, but maybe they could pretend for one day.
Inside the enclosure a tall white man, dressed in buckskin pants and shirt, jostled her. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, but his accent was liquid and French. His black hair flowed around his shoulders, and he carried a string of animal pelts.
“Trapper,” Michael said at her side. “They have a huge meeting in spring, they call it the Rendezvous. Only time some of them come out of the hills.”
“Have you been to it?”
“No. It gets rowdy. Too rowdy for the likes of me.”
“Mr. Moriarty, there is nothing ‘too rowdy for the likes of you.’” He laughed, more heartily than the mild joke warranted, and she looked away.
There were Indians and white men dressed like Indians, blue-clad Cavalry officers, a few pigtailed Chinese, and even a few Negroes, all men, who automatically searched each new face before dropping their gazes. Some of the customers had brought their mounts inside the walls, and she swerved to avoid a pile of steaming waste, carelessly covered with straw. Horses twitched impatiently outside a blacksmith shop as the ring of iron on iron sounded through the compound. Money changed hands, deals were made, a donkey brayed. The smells of animal waste, unwashed bodies, and strange food blended on the dusty air.
And there were white women here—not emigrants, but busy women with chapped hands who shouted orders to their children and looked as though they belonged here.
A massive white woman, one who could have been two Marthas and a Lily put together, washed clothes in the courtyard. Her muscular arms were bare as she rubbed men’s dungarees against a washboard, and then rinsed them in a mammoth iron tub. Her broad face split in a grin when she saw Michael and Pace. “So it’s you two again. Dangerous rascals!”
“‘Tis us, Tess. Your bad pennies.” Michael brushed the woman’s cheek. Pace pumped a free hand. But it wasn’t good enough, and Caroline hid a grin as the woman yanked the trail boss closer and gave him a clumsy hug. She winked at the women over his shoulder. “And will you be introducin’ me to these lovely young ladies?”
“They work for us.” Michael was suddenly, blessedly businesslike. “Mrs. O’Leary is our cook, and Miss Thatcher is our second scout. Ladies, this is our friend Tess. She and her husband work for the Hudson’s Bay Company.”
If Tess thought more about their relationships, she didn’t say it. “You’ll be after talking with himself, though he’s as full of malarkey as ever.” She gestured toward the sutler’s store. “Come for supper, I’ve got plenty. And stop by tomorrow before you leave, and I’ll have a sack of treats for you.”
A man even bigger than Tess worked the counter of the trading post. A leather apron the size of a small tent covered his plaid shirt, and he wore his hair in a braid like the Indians. But the voice that boomed across the crowded store was distinctly New York American. “It took you long enough.”
Michael pushed his way through the crowd, weaving through soldiers, trappers and both white and Indian children. The others followed in his wake, brushing against piles of furs, barrels of dried meat, stacked tools, and guns. “Jacob, ‘tis lucky we are to be alive. A rough crossing, and us only halfway.”
“Truer words were never spoken, except perhaps by Moses the Lawgiver.” The shopkeeper’s eyes twinkled, and included Caroline and Jenny.
An Irish woman, a Jewish man. No wonder they chose to live in a place that barely had a name. Caroline stole a look at Jenny, and the raw pain on the girl’s face stopped her heart.
White Bear?
Michael rushed to fill the silence. “These are our associates,” he said. “Miss Thatcher is my assistant, and Mrs. O’Leary cooks for us.”
It was nicely—and quickly—done, a forward s
trike to protect both their reputations lest Jacob think there was anything more. Well, even Michael had learned something on this trip.
“Pleased to meet you, ladies,” Jacob said. The brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing turned to Pace. “So the rest of your outfit, they don’t need food?”
“They’ll be along. In the meantime, what you got to sell us? Mrs. O’Leary’s a mean cook.” Though he devoured her meals, Pace seldom complimented her verbally.
Caroline shot him a quick smile.
But Jacob Schwartz was already piling items on the counter. “Got a shipment of sugar. You’re the first train to get here for that. Got fresh butter, and our hens are laying.”
“Hens?” Eggs. Did she—could she…
Jacob Schwartz noticed her hesitation. “I have five dozen for sale, ma’am. Don’t be shy.”
“She’ll take a dozen,” Michael answered for her. “What else, Mrs. O’Leary?”
Caroline looked around the crowded, cluttered shelves and risked it. “You wouldn’t have any peppermint sticks?”
Schwartz shook his head. Those huge dark eyes were mournful. “No, ma’am. All I have. I just got in a shipment of lemon drops, but you wouldn’t want those.”
Lemon drops. As she gaped at him, Michael reached around her and pulled a paper candy sack from the pile behind the counter.
They walked back from the fort together, Caroline between Pace and Michael, Jenny striding a few feet ahead. Caroline breathed deeply of the dry air. Though the day was warm, the dryness made it seem cooler. Crisp clouds dotted the blue sky. The company’s oxen were picketed around the campsite, munching on the long grass after weeks of deprivation. A small sparkling stream ran nearby, while the Snake River gleamed in the distance. She had tea, eggs, sugar, and even a bit of butter the size of a walnut, in a paper twist.
“I think I’ll scramble eggs for our supper,” she said.
Michael grinned down at her. The dark blue eyes were vivid in his tanned face, but he’d tipped his hat back, and she saw that his forehead was white from being shaded all these months. “That sounds good,” he said. “Then ‘tis not the candy you’ll be needin’.”
Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed the paper sack and tossed it to Jenny, who caught it with one hand. When Caroline tried to grab the sack from her, bobbing helplessly in her wake, Jenny lobbed it to Pace. Caroline flailed between the three taller people, jumping like a jack-in-the-box as they passed the lemon drops over her head.
It was just a game. She knew none of the three would deprive a Harkness or Smith child of a long-postponed treat. But she huffed and jumped and threatened, losing herself in the giddy childish game.
Until they reached the camp.
25
Pace stopped short, Michael and Caroline on his heels. The knot of men in front of their two wagons represented the major families of the company, with a smattering of their wives in the background. At his approach they broke off talking and faced him as a group.
Caroline sucked in a breath, and Michael gave her a warning look.
Pace tipped his hat. “Gentlemen. And ladies. What can I do for you?”
Caleb Taylor stepped forward. He crossed his arms across his broad chest. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he boasted of his Welsh blood and sang in a rich bass voice at their rare parties. But he wasn’t singing now. He looked around at the other men and cleared his throat. “Pace, we got to talk. All of us. If you folks don’t mind—”
“Anything you got to say, you can say in front of my crew.”
Jenny stood next to Caroline, her arms folded, her legs slightly apart. Fighting stance. Michael flanked Caroline on the other side, and she could feel rather than see his coiled tension. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
Caleb’s eyes darted to the other men and back to Pace. “All right. Fact is, we got a mind to move on without you.”
Pace stood with his legs slightly apart, his hat cocked back. He looked relaxed, but Caroline saw his hand steal to the holster at his waist. Just in case. He wore a fixed smile, and she’d learned that that smile meant he was anything but pleased. “You boys signed a contract for me to deliver you to the West. Better have a good reason.”
Caleb licked his lips. “Fact is, Pace—” He drew himself up. “Truth of it is, you’ve got loose women travelin’ with you. And we don’t want ‘em around our young’uns.”
Pace’s smile had become even more fixed. “Meanin’”
Ina Prince elbowed her way to the front. “Meanin’ one of your women is a whore!”
Jenny stood very still, her face like an ivory carving. Like Ina’s cameo. A lovely face with the life leached out of it.
Pace cocked his head. “If you’re referrin’ to Miss Thatcher, you can keep a civil tongue in your head. She was a saloon girl, that life’s behind her, and she works as hard as anybody on this trip.” That, his tone implied, was that.
But Ina wasn’t finished. “Then there’s the other one,” she shrilled.
Pace barked a laugh. “Mrs. O’Leary?” Michael had already moved forward, his sleeves rolled up and his face scarlet. His fists were coiled, but Pace stopped him with a raised palm. “Wait,” he mouthed. “I’m interested,” he drawled, “in how you got the idea Mrs. O’Leary was ‘loose.’”
Lily Taylor flanked her husband. She could not or would not meet Caroline’s stare. “A woman told us. From her old town. We met her at the sutler’s store at Fort John, and she told us everything. She said Mrs. O’Leary and your scout were lovers in Ohio. She was ruined, and he left her there. But now they’ve picked up where they left off.”
“Lily, let me handle it.” Caleb’s voice was stretched thin.
Lily scowled at him, but subsided.
The rebellion of Korah. Caroline wished the ground would swallow her.
Michael towered over Lily, her husband and Ina. He knew better than to lie. Mary Alice would have had times, dates, witnesses. “Maybe we were foolish, made some mistakes in Ohio,” he said. “But there is nothing between Mrs. O’Leary and myself now.”
“Not so!” The voice sent a chill through Caroline as Lyman Smith pushed his way forward.
“I seen them,” he cackled. “Ever’ night out on the prairie. She looks so prim and proper, but oh, my! She’s a hot one. Gives as good as she gets—”
Michael flattened Smith with one punch.
The other men receded a little, murmuring under their breaths, but they continued to look defiant.
Michael stepped back. “Does anyone else want to insult Mrs. O’Leary?”
They were silent. They’d seen what their scout could do.
Lyman got clumsily to his feet. He pressed a dirty bandana to his bleeding jaw, looked around for sympathy he didn’t get. Nobody liked Lyman enough to defend him.
His oldest daughter forced her way to the front of the crowd. “You’re wrong, Pa,” she said. “Mrs. O’Leary is so good, she gave me dresses, and she taught me to read.” Loretta trembled like the long grass. “She’s good and she’s nice and–and you’re wrong, Pa! And all the rest of you.”
It would probably earn her a beating. Lyman gave her a furious look and then stomped off to his wagon. But Loretta, a reed of a girl, stayed with her arms folded and her face defiant.
“Would anyone else want to offer an opinion on Mrs. O’Leary’s virtue?” Michael challenged.
Henry Prince was visibly shaking. “Not me,” he said, his reedy voice rising to be heard. “I don’t believe a word of it, and even if it was true, I wouldn’t care. Mike and Pace—yes, and Miss Jenny—they helped me make it this far. Couldn’t have done it without them. Mrs. O’Leary nursed us when we were sick. And–and the only reason I’m going with the group is because I can’t leave Ina on her own.”
“Henry, you can’t believe that she—that they—”
Henry rounded on his wife. “You’ve been with these people every day for four months, twenty-four hours a day. And you’d rather believe some stranger you met at a t
rading post.”
“Henry—”
“Ina, shut up.” He turned on his heel, and the crowd parted to let him through.
Pace’s smile was gone for good. “You will not insult my crew,” he told the rest, with the promise of his own clenched fists to back it up. “Now. Wouldn’t the trail get a little crowded with two wagon trains?”
Caleb had regained his composure. “We’re not goin’ to Oregon. We decided to split off and head for Californy instead. It’s a coming place, and the winters are better. We’re done, Pace.”
“California?”
“Yeah. We split off here and go south. I got a map. We’ll figure it out.”
“Easy as pie. Of course you’re planning to pay us,” Pace said in that dangerously pleasant tone.
Caleb flushed brick red. “No. We signed a contract for you to take us to Oregon.”
“But it’s the same contract you just broke,” Pace went on in his reasonable way.
“The deal is over, Pace. We’re going on. You can’t make us pay.”
“Sure and he can.” Michael, now standing on the wagon seat with a cocked rifle.
On the other side of the crowd Jenny had clambered onto a barrel, and had a shotgun trained on her side of the group.
“You pay me before you leave camp,” Pace said. “What you owe me, and enough for my two scouts. And then I don’t care if I see your sorry faces again.”
Four months. Twelve-hour days. Fording rivers, pooling foodstuffs, burying each other’s dead. They had nursed each other through the cholera epidemic, and taken turns at the night watch. They had banded together with the knowledge that, until Oregon Country, they were all they had. What had it been worth?
Nothing.
Even with trained leaders, the California Trail would kill some of them. Caroline had heard it discussed in whispers. Instead of prairie, desert; instead of the dusty Platte, no water at all, and alkali dust so thick one breathed it. And the Sierra Nevada were as lethal as the Blue Mountains, if one didn’t treat them right.
The rest of the emigrants stood there, reluctant to disperse. The faces, filled with loathing, stared back at Pace and his crew. Caroline scanned the crowd. Lily, Ina—no more than she expected. Silly Alice Carver, with a malevolent gleam in her eyes. What had Caroline ever done to her? Even Sarah Potter turned away, her young face set.
Westward Hope Page 17