“Point taken.” John pressed his bandanna against his swollen eyes. “Make up some nonsense about a gear allowance. Buy him out of gloves and anything else they need.”
Pops clicked his tongue. “We’ve only got another day or two before Fort Preble. That’s a lot of money spent without much chance of return.”
John thought of Moira’s hands, the blisters already forming on her palms. “I guess I owe them something. They’ve gotten us this far. I can always sell off a bull or two, or wire the bank for money.”
“Robert will wonder why you’re wiring for money.”
“Let him wonder. It’s none of his business.”
The jingling of bells signaled the arrival of the peddler and John tensed. “I still don’t like the idea of a stranger in camp. I don’t need word getting out. We’re too far from Fort Preble.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve crossed paths with Swede before. He’s harmless.”
John pulled the bandanna from his face and squinted. “Is there anyone you don’t know?”
“I’ve been walking this trail for thirty years. You’re bound to run into the same faces. Don’t worry about Swede. We go way back. He’ll keep your secrets. He won’t be spreading rumors about our crew. And he’s promised me a deal on a new frying pan for bringing in the business.”
“I knew it. You have an addiction to frying pans.”
“And taken a liking to good food.”
“At least we agree on one thing.”
By the time the drummer lumbered into camp, John could open his left eye and make out hazy images. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d felt more helpless, more inadequate. While the girls set up camp and made use of the washtub, he’d bathed and changed his clothes at the nearby watering hole. He’d worn the bar of soap to a whittling, but he still felt the skunk’s odor glazing the back of his throat and saturating his hair.
The others steered clear, giving him a wide berth. Someone had pressed a steaming hot cup of coffee into his hands and quickly retreated. Someone else had slapped a tray of food before him. Tony, judging by the forceful presentation.
Having a stranger in camp while he wasn’t at his best force left him feeling exposed. Since he’d discovered that rubbing his eyes only made them worse, he’d forced his hands back to his sides. No matter how much they itched and annoyed him, he remained stoic.
With his eyesight impaired, the rest of his senses heightened. The air had turned heavy and he feared an oncoming storm. Voices swirled around him and he felt disconnected and out of sorts.
He pushed off from one knee and stood. The girls remained huddled around the campfire.
“I need you outfitted,” John declared. “All my men have full kits. You’ll need hats, coats, gloves, a change of clothes and sundries. It’s part of crew pay.”
Tony sat up. “No fooling.”
“No fooling. A crew can’t function without gear. You’re my crew. Every one of you should have a canteen and a pocketknife as well as a box of matches. You’ll carry them with you in your saddle bags at all times. Jerky as well. If we get separated, those items are the difference in survival.”
Tony sidled nearer the wagon, keeping a wary eye out. Her hesitation confounded him. A look passed between Darcy and Tony, raising his hackles. Darcy had performed well on the ride, but a certain rebellion in her demeanor kept him wary. While he didn’t know the source of his unease, he trusted his instincts.
Sarah held Hazel’s hand and they both kept their heads bent. He searched the surrounding area and realized Moira had taken her turn caring for the horses.
A man rounded the corner of the wagon. He sported a dark, scruffy beard that covered his face and stretched well down his neck. His black hair was parted down the middle and hung slightly over his collar. He wore mud-brown trousers held in place by a pair of suspenders, and his red union suit showed beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his chambray shirt.
Hazel buried her head in Sarah’s shoulder.
The movement caught the newcomer’s attention. His gaze narrowed. Darcy scooted away.
The newcomer stalked toward the girls.
John blocked the man’s progress and caught him by the collar.
The newcomer spun around. “Are you John Elder?”
“I am.”
“I’m Swede. Sheriff Taylor sent me.”
“I figured as much.” John kept his grip on the man’s collar. “You want to explain what you’re all fired up about?”
Swede jabbed a finger at the cowering girls. “I ain’t letting them near my wagon. That one stole an apple off me cart not two days ago.”
Hazel cowered into Sarah’s arms.
John’s suspicions crystallized. Even before the sheriff’s arrival, he’d suspected they were thieves working together. Without proof either way, he’d let the issue remain unresolved. The arrival of the drummer had forced his hand.
John released his hold on the man’s collar. “Surely you can forgive a slight transgression.”
“The apple is what I know’d about. Who knows what else they took when I wasn’t looking.”
“They’re children.” John recalled his thoughts from that first day. “Starving children forced into desperate measures.”
Swede wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “That ain’t my problem.”
John glanced to the hinged door on the wagon, already propped open, revealing a colorful array of wares. “You’ve come a long way to leave empty-handed.”
The drummer tore his gaze from Hazel. “I ain’t letting them girls pilfer my stock either.”
John considered his options. As he mulled his choices, Moira appeared.
His breath hitched. Her hair remained damp, the curls darker and lanky at her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed from her time spent in the sun and her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She wore the same dress she’d been wearing since the moment she’d dropped from the sky. The blue was faded from washing, the fabric worn thin. And she was the most captivating sight he’d ever laid eyes on. She glanced between the two men and a wrinkle appeared between her cinnamon-colored brows.
Swede’s attention flicked in her direction and he appeared to quickly dismiss her. John didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he released the pent-up air in his lungs.
“I’ll vouch for them,” John announced.
Darcy’s eyes widened. Hazel raised her head. Sarah and Tony turned in his direction.
John shrugged. “I’ll vouch for them. They’re my crew. They’re my responsibility. They’ll do right by you.”
Tony fisted her hands on her hips. “You’d do that? You’d trust us. Even after what he said?”
John mulled over the question, the implications of his answer. “I want an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage. You’ve done that. You’ve never given me any reason to believe I can’t trust you.”
He considered the earlier reticence from the girls. They weren’t afraid Swede would recognize them, they were afraid John’s assistance came with a cost. They’d been conditioned throughout their lives, trained that their worth came with a price. Even among the four of them there were uneasy allegiances. Snatches of remembered conversation filtered through his memory.
They didn’t entirely trust one another. They certainly didn’t trust him.
What about Moira?
The deeper he dug, the more he realized he didn’t know much about their pasts. They were young enough he figured he didn’t need to dig far. He couldn’t unravel the events that had led them to this point. One thought hadn’t escaped him: Fool’s End was an odd place for a bunch of orphans.
While he couldn’t change what had brought them to this point, he could offer them his trust.
Moira remained motionless near the tent, sensing the undercurren
ts, no doubt.
Swede tugged on his suspenders. “You’ll vouch for them girls with your wallet. If I find anything missing, I’ll hunt you down for payment.”
“I consider that fair.”
The drummer puffed up.
“You needn’t act like you’ve done anything special.” Sarah flipped the hair from her eyes. “Mr. Elder has given us leave to purchase whatever we need. Why would any of us steal from you?”
The drummer squinted one eye. “Because you’re thieves, that’s why. It’s all you know. Once a body gets a taste for thieven’ he don’t wanna work no more. You’re like a bunch of magpies, you are, always looking for something shiny.”
Moira gasped. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you and what gives you the right to say such horrid things?”
John tossed her a sharp glance. “We all need each other. The girls need new gear and Swede has stock. The sooner we get the girls outfitted the better. We can all be on our way again.”
“I got my eye on ya’.” Swede pointed at his face and then at Hazel. “You most of all.”
Pops lumbered around the wagon carrying the Dutch oven by a hooked metal pole attached to the lid, his gait hitched against the heavy load. He glanced at the newcomer. “Taking over the business from your father, are you, Swede?”
The drummer blanched. “I didn’t know you was part of all this.”
“Swede, you’ve got your dad’s beard and your mother’s coloring,” Pops spoke to the drummer. “I thought you were working out of Silver Springs.”
“We moved up to Fool’s End. More business.”
“You’ll not be getting any business by insulting your patrons. That’s for certain. Why don’t you keep an eye on this stew instead?” Pops wrinkled his nose and glanced at John. “Wouldn’t hurt to buy yourself a new slicker. You’re still sending off a powerful stench.”
John lifted his elbow and caught a nauseating whiff of his sleeve. “Will do.”
He’d placed his trust in the girls. He sure hoped his faith wasn’t misguided.
Chapter Twelve
Moira glared at the drummer. He ate his stew with gusto, filling his bowl twice more while the girls rummaged through his wagonful of supplies. She snatched a pair of denim trousers and held them at her waist. The hem stretched well beyond her feet. She’d need four rolls in the cuffs, but at least she’d be able to ride more freely. Satisfied with the fit, she added another pair to her pile.
Hazel’s clothing proved the most difficult. The drummer had brought a selection of clothing suitable for an adolescent boy.
The smallest of the group held up a pair of trousers over her head and the cuffs reached the dirt at her feet. “Everything is too big.”
“Don’t worry,” Tony said. “We’ll find you something.”
Moira caught sight of a beautiful leather case. She flipped open the hinged lid and discovered a sewing kit nestled in the velvet-lined interior. The kit contained a pair of silver scissors with ornate detailing on the handles, a delicate thimble and wheels of cardboard with the spokes wrapped in a colorful array of thread. There was even a lidded cylinder for needles.
Tempted for a moment, she glanced over her shoulder. Would John balk at the expense? The men remained in deep conversation around the campfire.
Darcy caught her gaze. “Don’t do it.”
Moira started. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re thinking of stealing that. I can see it in your eyes. You can’t. It’s too big.”
Moira slammed the lid over on the kit and set it aside. “Don’t be absurd.”
A hint of skunk caught her attention. She turned and found the cowboy leaning over her shoulder. He glanced at the kit then at Hazel.
She’d tugged a chambray shirt over her head and the hem reached well below her knees. John reached for the kit. “Looks as though we’re going to need this.”
He rested the leather case atop Moira’s pile of clothing before setting off toward the cattle in the distance.
Darcy’s expression turned speculative. “I think he likes you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Having someone like that take a shine to you. Could be real useful. For all of us.”
Moira tensed. “What are you implying?”
The girl raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Well, he’s not bad-looking and he seems nice enough. A girl doesn’t have much choice out here. You could do worse.”
“I’m doing fine on my own. I don’t like the direction of your thoughts.”
“You’re not doing any better than the rest of us. You’re just faking it better. You might have fooled Mr. Elder, but you haven’t fooled me. I know your kind.”
“You don’t know me.” Moira shoved the sewing kit off her pile of clothing and stacked her new boots on top instead. “You don’t know anything about me.”
She grasped her bundle against her chest and walked a few paces away from the wagon. Her heartbeat raced and her hands tingled. She thought of Mr. Gifford, how he’d once sidled up to her in the hallway and pressed her against the wainscoting, his hot breath on her cheek.
John wasn’t like that. Their relationship was different. Her thoughts scattered. What was she thinking? They didn’t have a relationship.
Moira glanced over one shoulder at Darcy. “Find yourself something to wear. We have a job to do.”
* * *
Keeping his eyes open was exhausting. John rested his head against the wheel of the chuck wagon. A heavy weight landed near his bent knee.
He groped and discovered the pitted leather of a well-used valise with the word O’Mara stamped on a brass plate. “Give it to the redhead.”
“My orders were to give it to you. That’s what I’m doing.”
John inclined his head. “Hope it wasn’t hard finding us.”
The man cackled. “I’d sooner track a slug. I left shortly after Sheriff Taylor found me. After that I took the road out of town. I cut off the path and circled back. Still beat you to the watering hole.”
John felt his ears heat. “My crew did well considering they’d never seen a longhorn before two days ago.”
“At least you’re going in a straight line. That’s something.”
“Yep. That’s something.”
Swede tugged on his suspenders. “The sheriff filled me in on your situation, and I added a few extras to the stock. Things that appeal to the girls.”
“Put it on my tab.”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
The girls’ chatter ebbed and flowed around him. After a moment, he sensed someone else approaching.
He knew it was Moira before she spoke. There was something about her. Her footfalls, the way she smelled like peony blossoms. He didn’t quite understand the connection, but since that first moment, something sparked between them when she was near.
“Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.
“Nah. I’m fine. You get everything you need?”
“You’ve set the girls free in a candy store. I don’t think any of them have had anything new in ages.”
“Send his wagon back empty. Everyone should have something new once in a while.”
She touched his forehead, her fingertips featherlight. He sucked in a breath.
“The swelling has gone down,” she said. “Can you see?”
“It’s better. How’s the smell?”
“Better.”
“You’re not much of a liar, Miss Moira O’Mara.”
She laughed and he recalled what Swede had brought. “There’s something special for you.”
He hooked his hand through the handle and hoisted the valise over his lap.
Moira gasped. She immediately knelt on
the ground and rummaged through the bag, emerging with a dog-eared sketchbook. She flipped through the pages then hugged the book to her chest.
Curious, he glanced over her shoulder. “What have you got there?”
“My sketchbook.”
She proudly displayed a page featuring a young boy. The details were flawless, delicately formed and perfectly displayed. He forced his sore eyes further open. “You’re very talented. That’s truly wonderful.”
Moira blushed. “I practiced a lot.”
He took the book from her hands and flipped through the pages. Every inch of every page was covered in sketches. Her subjects were disparate: people, animals, flowers, anything and everything. She had a great eye for particulars and an excellent sense of perspective. John angled the paper and realized the sketches covered both sides.
Moira tugged the book from his hands. “I don’t like to waste space.”
“You’re good. Real good. You’re running out of pages, though.”
“I still have some space in the back.”
John cast a surreptitious glance at her bag. She didn’t have much.
She clutched the handles to her chest. “How did you talk the sheriff into sending this along?”
“I asked.”
“I can’t believe he agreed.”
“He’s not such a bad guy.”
Moira snorted. “Did you have to pay him?”
“Nope. He wanted information.”
“About what?”
“Land. He was looking to buy some land suitable for raising horses. Wondered if I had any leads where I was heading. I put him onto a parcel down the creek in Cimarron Springs.”
Moira laughed. “Wouldn’t that be the way? You’ll be neighbors with the man who kicked you out of Fool’s End.”
“He saved those girls’ lives.”
“He did no such thing! We could have gone back into town but for him.”
John had considered the events of that first evening over the past few days, and he had a bad feeling the girls hadn’t acted alone. “Those girls weren’t safe there and you know it. Not after, well, you know.”
“I don’t think we should paint Sheriff Taylor as the hero of this story.”
The Cattleman Meets His Match Page 17