The Fortune

by Beth Williamson

  “All right, then let me show you.” John pulled the boy over to the oxen and spent the next fifteen minutes demonstrating the proper placement of the yoke, traces and cinch. By the time they were done, Tom was nearly bouncing up and down in the saddle with impatience.

  “It’s time, Malloy. My brother’s about to call the start.”

  With one last pat on Arthur’s head, John swung up into Blue’s saddle and headed for Buck Avery. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. This was not only the beginning of the trail for these pioneers, it was the beginning of his final trail ride.

  Finally. John Malloy would get his piece of land. He could hardly wait.

  Frankie stood beside the wagon, vaguely listening to her sisters chatter on beside her. She watched the rest of the wagons impatient to move as the Chastains waited their turn. They were toward the back of the line, their rig slightly ragged but serviceable. It had been what they could afford.

  She shifted from one foot to the next, leaning against the canvas. Her thoughts drifted to John Malloy and the way he treated the old woman who refused to leave. Francesca didn’t blame her for not wanting to go. She was nearly ancient—there was little chance she’d survive the trip to Oregon. The family had made a choice, a difficult one, to make the trek to the land of milk and honey rather than wait another year. The old woman was a casualty of the family’s decision, as horrible as it was.

  John had treated the old woman like a lady, with respect and gentleness. Frankie didn’t need to see that side of him. She wanted to believe he was a silly man with little regard for women. Yet he had shown a completely different approach with the old woman. Perhaps it was for show, to get the woman settled so they could get moving this morning.

  Her heart had performed a silly pittypat after watching Mr. Malloy with the old woman. Frankie wanted to hear that tone spoken to her, as stupid as that was. There was something about his voice that sent a skitter of awareness down her skin.

  “Don’t you damn well think so, Frankie?” Charlotte was dancing from foot to foot, her still boyish figure swallowed in a dress two sizes too large. Frankie recognized it as one of Isabelle’s that had been outgrown years ago. Charlotte never cared much for how she looked.

  “Papa will spank you if he hears you cursing.” Francesca shook her head at Charlotte’s stubborn expression.

  “I don’t care a whit.” Charlotte stuck her chin in the air. “I’m nearly sixteen. I can damn well curse if I want to.”

  Frankie remembered being fifteen, being naïve and full of herself. Now at twenty-one, unmarried and wiser, not to mention cynical, she ached to be that innocent. Choices made and decisions never to be undone shaped her life.

  “Of course you can.” Frankie pulled her into an impulsive hug. “Do not ever change.”

  Charlotte pulled back and shook her head. “You sure are acting dotty. Hell if I know why.”

  Frankie laughed out loud, and it felt so good, she did it again. She took Charlotte’s hands and danced in a circle. Isabelle and Josephine stopped to stare, and even Maman peered at them from her perch on the wagon seat.

  “Francesca, cherie, what is happening?” Maman called.

  “I am happy to be free and on our way.” Frankie’s smile was genuine for the first time in nearly a year. “And although they drive me to distraction, I love my sisters.”

  “How interesting.” Maman gave her a small smile and disappeared from view.

  “Well, I’m not professing goddamn love for any of you.” Charlotte’s expression told the story. “There’s no chance in hell.”

  This time Josephine chuckled, then Isabelle tittered. Frankie held in another laugh until Charlotte’s expression melted into mirth.

  “You are ready for an asylum, Frankie. Crazy as a shithouse rat.”

  This time all four sisters laughed together until Frankie’s stomach hurt and tears squirted from her eyes. The future and potential happiness were ahead of them—dark times lay behind them. Frankie could finally stop looking over her shoulder.

  “Oh, the wagons are moving.” Charlotte wiped her eyes and stood on her tiptoes to peer at the line of wagons.

  Frankie’s belly fluttered. Oregon had been their only choice, and she had done everything in her power to make sure the Chastains made the trip west. Now that they were here, ready to leave, to embark on the longest, toughest journey of their lives, her heart had begun to beat again. Excitement jumped through her.

  A hush fell over the wagon train as Buck Avery stood tall in the stirrups. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. He was a bear of a man, with dark curly brown hair and blue eyes. “Our first leg of the journey will begin here to the Kansas River Crossing, a little over a hundred miles. If anyone breaks down or needs help, please give us a shout, we’ll have riders up and down the sides of the trail.”

  The silence of the waiting group was only broken by the occasional shuffling of the oxen as they waited.

  “If there’s no more questions, we’ll be on our way,” said Buck. He turned his mount west and raised his right arm over his head. “Wagons ho!” he shouted.

  With that, the wagons began to move one by one.

  The dark stranger arrived in Independence under the cover of night. His bulky form slid into the hotel as quietly as a gust of wind. He stepped up to the counter, his hat hiding much of his face except for the bushy black beard on his jaw.

  The young clerk behind the counter stared at the man, goggle-eyed behind his thick spectacles.

  “I need a room.” The command made the clerk jump about a foot in the air. The stranger was used to the reaction and counted on it. A poor Irishman had few choices, and he’d made his long ago.

  “Y-yes, sir. I’ve got one right on the second floor. It’s c-clean and only steps from the washroom.” The clerk’s hand shook when he held out the key.

  The stranger slapped down two dollars and snatched the key. “The wagon train headed to Oregon still here?”

  “Um, they leave regular-like, mister. Right now there is one just west of town, but another left two days ago.” The clerk slowly reached for the money.

  The stranger squeezed the key in his hand. “The wagon train that left, was that led by Buck Avery?” That name was hard-won and cost him days of tracking his quarry.

  The clerk’s eyes widened more, impossible as that seemed. “Um, y-yes, sir. It was.”

  “Fucking hell.” He pounded the desk with one meaty fist. “Where can I find a horse to catch the wagon train?”

  “I’d talk to old man Gunderson at the livery.” The clerk didn’t let go of the money, but he didn’t step back either. The boy had balls after all.

  Declan Callahan stomped up the stairs, his bag slung over his shoulder. He cursed his luck for arriving two days late. Damn it to hell. If he went back without the woman, he would be dead before he had a chance to tell his story to his boss. He had to catch them. There was no other choice.

  During the first week out, the mood at each night’s campfire was jovial and full of laughter. The four Chastain sisters snuggled together for warmth as they had done since they’d arrived in Missouri. Frankie, as always, sat in the middle with Charlotte tucked under one arm. Isabelle and Josephine were on either side. They were all different pieces and parts of their parents.

  Maman and Papa sat on the other side of their small fire, his arm resting gently around her shoulders. They were affectionate with each other and their daughters, an unusual occurrence many people attributed to their French upbringing.

  However, Frankie knew that wasn’t the real reason. After meeting various French immigrants in New York, her parents were an anomaly amongst their fellow countrymen. Theirs was a true love match, one that she envied and at the same time wondered how she would survive such an intense relationship.

  “Papa, tell us a story.” Charlotte was sleepy, but she always had the energy to beg their father for a tale. He was a wonderful storyteller.

  “You will not stay
awake for one.” He smiled at his youngest daughter. “Your eyelids appear to weigh more than you.”

  Charlotte struggled to sit up straight, bumping her sisters in the process. They all chuckled at her attempt to ignore her sleepiness. “I am wide awake.”

  Their father hesitated, glancing at Maman. She lifted one shoulder with a smile. He kissed her forehead and looked at his daughters again.

  “One short story, then it is bedtime for everyone, oui?”

  A long day of walking made each of them tired. Going to sleep should not be a problem, but they pretended to moan and groan, mostly for Charlotte’s benefit, before agreeing to their father’s terms.

  “Do you have a favorite you would like to hear?” he asked.

  It was all part of the game they played. Their favorite story was always the same one. Papa told it so well, with such passion in his voice, it had captivated each of them from the time they were small.

  “The story of the princess and the carpenter.” Charlotte spoke for all of them, never needing to ask what they wanted to hear.

  “Ah, of course. Why would it be any other?” Papa grinned. “It was 1825 and a young apprentice carpenter was practicing his craft in a small village outside Paris. He was poor but proud of his skills, although he was barely making enough money to feed himself.”

  Frankie watched her sisters’ faces as they fell into the story immediately, taken by the tale of how their parents met.

  “One day the apprentice was approached by his teacher, an old carpenter with the skills of more than fifty years, to create a music box. It was to be a gift for a rich young lady for her eighteenth birthday from her father, a physician.” Papa paused, waiting until Charlotte could not keep quiet.

  “Tell us what happened!”

  He grinned at her. “The apprentice spent hours crafting the gift from the most beautiful rosewood music box. He included music from the great composer, Herr Mozart, a tune that spoke of the beauty of life, of the notes and of the owner of the box.” Papa glanced at Maman. “When the day arrived, he wrapped the music box in a piece of white satin and delivered it to her house. Unaware of the gift her father had commissioned, the young woman answered the door.”

  This time it was Maman who smiled. “And found a scruffy young man with two days’ growth on his cheeks and dirty fingers. She sniffed and closed the door in his face.”

  Frankie chuckled, despite the fact she’d heard the story a hundred times. She knew what was to come, but she never tired of hearing it.

  “In that brief time, the apprentice fell in love with the young woman. He knocked again, overcome with the need to know who she was. This time the girl’s father opened the door and took the gift, paying the man in coin. Yet it was not the last time he came to the young woman’s house. He made her many gifts, one each week, until the father grew sick of seeing him.”

  Maman picked up the thread. “The girl examined each gift, finding her heart melt with each of the wooden creations. From the looking glass, to the writing set, the small desk and the wooden menagerie, each piece was crafted with care, with love. She did not know the young man, but she felt his hands on each creation she held in her own.”

  Papa smiled. “One day while on the way home from taking a walk in the park, the young woman saw the apprentice leaving another gift on her doorstep. She stepped forward and thanked him. The sound of her voice rendered him speechless. Her smile made his heart stop. Her father protested the match, but in the end, love and the talent of a carpenter’s apprentice won the heart of the princess.” Papa kissed his wife’s hand with all the passion and love he had found more than twenty years ago.

  Maman finished the tale. “She learned to be a nurse under her father’s tutelage and the carpenter crafted art from wood. Together they made the most beautiful children the world had ever seen.”

  “And they lived happily ever after.” Charlotte sighed. “There is one thing I don’t understand, though.”

  “What is that, ma petite?” Papa asked.

  “Why did you leave France? That’s where you fell in love. It must be a special place.” She leaned forward, her chin on her palm.

  Frankie knew part of the story, remembered some of it, but it wasn’t her tale to tell. She petted her youngest sister’s hair, waiting to hear what their parents would say.

  Papa’s expression saddened and he looked at Maman. “Things changed after the July Revolution, after Louis-Philippe took the throne. We did not believe it was a safe place to raise our children. Those without money were without hope. We found that hope again in America.”

  “Without money? I thought Maman was a princess.” Charlotte was nothing if not guileless.

  “My papa was a physician until the revolution, then he was accidently killed.” The weight of the memories weighed on their mother’s words. “We needed to leave France.”

  Papa pulled his wife close, until Frankie could hardly see where one ended and the other began. “But we have each other and our girls, and that is what is important.”

  This time their parents kissed and Charlotte groaned. “I don’t want to see that part.” She got to her feet. “I’m going to go to sleep and dream of a prince making me beautiful gifts.”

  The sisters rose, each kissing their parents goodnight before crawling into their beds beneath the wagon. Frankie lingered over hugging her mother, then her father. They had risked everything for each other and their children.

  Papa and Maman were still so much in love. Frankie felt a pinch of envy, but it passed. The thought of depending on someone else, for her life, her happiness, even her future, made her quake. She wanted to rely on no one but herself. Ever.

  By the time she found her bed, the rest of the girls were talking quietly. She closed her eyes, comforted by the sound of her sisters’ voices. In their new life in Oregon, her family would be all she had. Frankie was grateful to have them at her side. Life was hard at times, but family made those dark moments bearable.

  Chapter Four

  Frankie successfully avoided seeing John Malloy, except from a distance, for four days. She walked beside the wagon as they traveled, too tired to do much but fall asleep beneath it at night. Mr. Malloy was everywhere she looked, however, helping folks and doing his job. It wasn’t her fault if he happened to be in her line of sight.

  The wagon train had finally stopped for the night. Frankie was gathering kindling in a thatch of trees when she noticed John nearby, chopping wood without his shirt.

  Frankie tried to swallow, but her mouth and throat had gone dry as the desert. She looked at John’s back as he worked. His skin was bronzed by the sun and she could see a slow trickle of sweat weaving its way down the middle of his back. She watched the droplets as they meandered through the topography of his spine. His well-toned muscles rippled with each stroke of the ax. The muscles were bunched together tightly, showing years of hard work. A white scar marred the left shoulder blade, at least six inches long and jagged. She’d helped her mother enough to recognize a knife wound.

  What am I doing?

  She gave herself a mental smack and started moving. Staring at the man was not only a bad idea, but if he caught her staring, she would be mortified. Her hands grew damp as she tried to sneak past him, the kindling clutched to her chest. She stepped on a stick, which cracked beneath the sole of her boot. Cursing softly, she quickened her pace, hoping he hadn’t heard her.

  John turned to look at her as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a swatch of cloth. He smiled. “Good evening, Frankie. Doing chores, I see.”

  As though she had no control over her own reaction, she stared at him. “What? Oh, yes, of course, my chores! Your chest is bare again.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. What would possess her to say something like that? “Well, that was foolish. My apologies, Mr. Malloy. I must go.”

  “I thought I was alone out here. Didn’t know I had a Peeping Tom.” He was obviously not going to be a gentleman. This did not surprise her.


  “How kind of you to make me feel even more foolish.” Her smile was more of a teeth-baring.

  The rogue grinned as he slipped on his shirt then slapped his hat on his head. “Let’s walk back together.”

  Frankie wanted to throw the wood at him, but she grudgingly admitted it would be safer to walk with him. The gathering darkness reminded her of just how isolated the prairie was, and how many dangers lurked. Perhaps some small perverse corner of her mind wanted to be in his company, much as that thought appalled her.

  John gathered his wood into one arm, carried an axe with the other and fell into step beside Frankie. She kept a brisk pace, hoping to make the journey as short as possible. However, her curiosity burbled along merrily, and she was never one not to speak her mind, even considering how much pain it had caused her.

  “May I ask you a question, Monsieur Malloy?”

  “’Course.” His scent wafted through the air, one of man, sweat and outdoors. While not sweet, it was appealing, which surprised her.

  “Where did you get that scar on your back?”

  John stopped short. A hard look came into his eyes.

  “My apologies. I did not mean to—“ Frankie began.

  “I can see how people can be curious, but it’s not something I like to talk about.” He walked on, his long legs eating up the distance quickly.

  Frankie felt guilty for prying into his personal business. She had no call to ask him about the scar; it was none of her concern. Judging by the look of the skin, the wound had taken place two or three years ago. Someone hadn’t stitched it properly, leaving a jagged mark on his otherwise perfect skin. If her Maman had doctored it, the scar would be cleaner.

  Unfortunately, Frankie was lost in thoughts of Mr. Malloy and didn’t watch where she was going. Her foot stopped on a tree root and the rest of her didn’t. Hindered by the bundle of kindling in her arms, she let out a yelp and headed for the ground at a high rate of speed.