“I thought I explained,” he said with a frown. “We’ll ride to Santa Fe, then take the train from there.”
“Ride? Like, horses?”
“You do ride, don’t you?”
Oh Lord. “I haven’t been on a horse in years.” And she would have preferred to keep it that way.
“I took your bay out this morning. I don’t think he’ll give you any trouble.”
“That would be Bob.” The last time he’d been ridden was . . . when?
“We’ll also take the mule, and board them in Santa Fe.”
Of course they had to ride. Otherwise, he’d have to come back here to fetch his horse. “How far is it to Santa Fe?”
He shrugged. “Three hundred miles. Maybe a little more.”
Shock darkened her eyes. Over three hundred miles on a horse? “Are there towns along the way?”
“We’ll camp out mostly.”
Camp out.
What on earth had she gotten herself into?
Upset without knowing why, Della changed her mind a dozen times regarding which items to pack. Cameron had explained, several times, that she could take only what would fit into the saddlebags. Rebecca the mule, he insisted, would carry camping supplies, no personal items.
In the end she packed her Sunday suit for the train ride, along with proper undergarments and shoes and gloves. She took as many shirtwaists as she could cram into the bags, and an extra riding skirt and stockings. Into the crannies she tucked a comb and brush and various toiletries. She took her wedding photo and Clarence’s last letter, plus a small pouch containing the few dollars she had saved, and her jet earrings.
Cameron eyed the bulging saddlebags before he swung them across Bob’s haunches and tied them down, but he didn’t say anything until he’d finished. “Ready?”
Della turned her face into the hot August wind and gazed at the small farm that had been her home for ten years. Without the noise of the animals, she heard the windmill creaking, a lonely sound that she didn’t usually notice. And she didn’t ordinarily let herself see how weathered and shabby the house and barn had become. The harsh Texas sun and the winter cold were hard on buildings. And women.
Pushing back her hair, she pulled her old work hat down to her ears and nodded. “I’m ready.”
If she never returned, there wasn’t a thing here that she would miss, a sad admission because she would return. This was her life and her future.
Cameron boosted her into Bob’s saddle, waited until she was settled, then he mounted and caught the mule’s lead rope. After running an eye over Della’s stirrups and reins, he rode down the driveway.
Della followed without a backward look.
He kept the pace slow and easy, stopping to rest whenever they came to a water hole. Even so, by midday he could see that Della’s early enthusiasm had slid toward grim-lipped endurance and determination.
When he helped her off Bob near the thin shade beneath a patch of low oak, she groaned and hobbled toward a tree stump.
“Lordy. You said three hundred miles?”
“Maybe a little farther.” He handed her a canteen.
She wet her handkerchief and pressed it to her face. Long ago she’d removed her jacket. Her shirtwaist was sweat-plastered to her back, and long damp ovals extended beneath her arms. In an hour the ragged brim of her hat would no longer protect her face, they’d be riding directly into the sun.
“Are you hungry?”
If he’d been traveling alone, he would have eaten some jerky or cold biscuits atop his horse. In a week or so, when Della was trail-seasoned, he’d suggest not stopping at midday, unless the temperature continued to soar.
“I honestly don’t know,” she said, her voice muffled behind the handkerchief. Already the handkerchief was drying in the heat. “The thought of walking over to Bob and fetching the sack and bringing it over here seems overwhelming. Give me a minute.”
She’d fried chicken at dawn and boiled a dozen eggs. Had packed raw carrots and onions, and wrapped thick slices of raisin cake to see them through the first day.
“I’ll get the food.”
The handkerchief dropped and her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you serving me. I’ve made up my mind that food is my chore. I don’t want to be a bother on this trip.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll get some coffee going.”
“How can you drink coffee in this heat?”
Instead of watching her struggle to stand and then hobble toward the horses, Cameron went in search of firewood. But he heard her muttering “lordy, lordy” every few steps.
He’d seen enough greenhorns to know that she was stiff and sore, and her back and shoulders ached. If her inner thighs weren’t red and chapped, they would be by tonight. On the positive side, sleeping on the ground wouldn’t bother her as much as she probably thought it would. She’d fall into an exhausted sleep the instant she closed her eyes.
“How far do you think we’ve traveled?” she asked after they’d eaten. In the end, she’d accepted a cup of coffee but claimed she didn’t want sugar. Cameron suspected she couldn’t force herself to walk back to the mule and search for the sugar sack.
“Maybe ten miles.” With all the rest stops, he figured it was closer to eight than ten. Alone, he could cover thirty miles a day. Today, he’d be pleased if they completed twenty miles.
“That doesn’t sound like much,” she said, letting a handful of sandy soil trickle through her fist. “You know, I was thinking. I suppose there’s lots of snakes out here.”
Her effort to sound unconcerned made him smile. “Snakes don’t like us any more than we like them. We could make this whole journey and never see one.”
“I had a rattler in my barn last August.” She made a face. “I shot him. Scared me half to death. I haven’t fired a gun all that often. Not at something living.” After glancing at the guns on his hips, she tossed out the coffee left in her cup.
“Had you fired at something before the snake?”
Everything she did fascinated him and fell into one of two categories. Something that seemed like his impression of the girl in the photograph, or something that seemed like a different person, the woman she had become.
“A couple of years back, two red wolves killed a few of my chickens. It took a while, but eventually I got them.”
“Wolves won’t be a problem much longer. Not many left.”
“And there was another time shortly after I moved to the farm.” She frowned, remembering. “I kept hearing noises in the yard after I’d gone to bed. So one night I sat beside my window with the shotgun in my lap. Along about midnight, I thought I saw a shadow coming toward the house. It might have been a man or it might have been something else, I don’t know. But I fired in his direction.” A note of pride crept into her voice. “I haven’t had that kind of trouble since.”
He could imagine the girl in the photograph shooting at shadows, but not at a shadow that might have been a man. While he packed up their utensils and kicked sand over the fire, and she pretended not to notice what he was doing, he asked where she’d learned to shoot.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Did the boy who taught you to whistle also teach you to shoot?”
“Actually, it was Clarence.” Unconsciously, she touched her skirt pocket and he realized she must be carrying something of Clarence’s. He’d hoped . . . well, that didn’t bear thinking about. “The hunt club Clarence belonged to had a target range.”
In a previous life, he too had belonged to a hunt club. Now the concept seemed so ludicrous that he could no longer recall why he had joined the society. Different times. A different James Cameron.
After he handed her back in the saddle, he gave her a pair of sunglasses. “You’ll need these.”
She turned them between her gloves. “Do you have a pair?”
He patted his vest. “The sun’s going to be in our eyes.”
“I read about blue lens. Very fashionable.”
&n
bsp; Maybe she was teasing him, maybe not. He couldn’t always be sure. “I prefer dark lens, but blue was what they had at the general store.”
She put them on and peered around her. “Very strange. Oh my, look at the sky.”
Perhaps the novelty of a blue world would take her mind off her aches and pains during the next five hours. Or for the next twenty minutes. Smiling, Cameron checked his horse and mule then swung into the saddle.
It was a slow but good beginning, he thought. She was stronger and tougher than he’d imagined.
His decision to reunite Della and her daughter had been impulsive, but it had felt right three days ago and it felt right now. On some level, knowing she was on the horse behind him fulfilled a longtime fantasy. But he didn’t examine that thought too closely. He did let himself realize that he had extended his time with her, a gift that tightened his chest, and felt a sense of relief that he didn’t have to tell her about Clarence yet. Telling her now would only make an arduous journey harder. He could wait a few more weeks.
He chose to make camp early when he spotted an old campsite nestled in a circle of twisted mesquite. A nearby riverbed was dry but not a concern, as he carried enough water for necessities.
“Is this when you would usually stop for the day?” She looked down at him from atop Bob, speaking through her teeth.
“You’re willing to continue?”
“If that’s what you usually do.”
“I’m usually not trailing with a greenhorn about to fall off her horse.” He lifted his arms. “You’ve had enough for one day.”
When he set her on her feet, she fell down.
“Della?”
She slapped his hands away, embarrassed and blinking hard. “Damn it!” After a minute she sighed, then extended her hand and he pulled her up. Immediately she doubled over. “I haven’t been this sore in . . . I’ve never been this sore. Damn. I’m sorry, but . . . damn.” She wasn’t crying; however, he suspected she wanted to.
“Let me fetch some liniment.” He looked around then cleared his throat. “You could have some privacy over there behind that big clump of mesquite. To rub on the liniment.”
He promised himself that he would not think of her pulling up her skirts and stroking liniment on her thighs. Naturally he could think of nothing else.
By the time she returned, he’d set up camp, had the last of her fried chicken on plates, a pot of coffee over the fire, and he’d laid out their bedrolls, placing hers on one side of the fire and his on the other. Whoever had first selected the campsite had chosen well. There were rocks to sit on beside the fire. And yes, he had thought about pale thighs. He was still thinking about pale thighs.
She sat down with a small sound, which she immediately bit off. “And I thought the saddle was hard,” she said, arranging her skirt over the rock.
She’d brushed the dust off her clothing and tidied her hair. The odor of liniment reached him every time she moved.
“The liniment isn’t helping much.”
“Give it time,” he said, irritated that from now on every time he inhaled the odor of liniment, he would think about her rubbing her thighs. “Here. Smooth this on your face.” Her cheeks and forehead were sunburned, getting redder by the minute.
“What is it?” Lifting the bowl he gave her, she sniffed and frowned.
“It’s egg white and castor oil.” They were lucky to have the ingredients. He’d overlooked sunburn as a problem.
She hesitated, then removed the sunglasses he’d given her. White rings were appearing around her eyes as her skin turned redder. Silently she smeared the concoction on her face.
“This journey is going to get easier, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Nodding, she glanced at the sun sinking toward the horizon like a huge red ball. “I’m sorry I wasn’t any help setting things up. I swear I’ll get better at this.”
“It’s fine the way things are. I have my own routine.”
Her gaze narrowed. “I meant what I said earlier. If I see something I can do, I’m going to do it. Gradually we’ll work out a new routine.”
At times like this, she irritated him. A stubborn expression tightened her mouth and made her eyes squinty. A sure signal that arguing would only make the situation worse.
He wasn’t accustomed to dealing with women, that was the problem. The women he’d encountered were whores who were generally straightforward and uninterested in changing a man’s routine, or respectable ladies of brief acquaintance who either feared him and said little or who gushed over him and sent him looking for an escape.
Even before the war, he’d been shy around women. The fair sex inhabited a world that impressed him as trivial. Therefore, it was difficult to talk to them. What did he know about embroidery, menus, china painting, piano pieces? And what did they know about law books, racing four-in-hands, stocks and bonds, or good whisky?
Granted, women in the West could surprise him. He’d met women out here who knew horseflesh as well as he did. Many respectable women had no time for trivial pursuits, but worked as hard as their husbands. He’d even met one or two females who could discuss politics as astutely as any man.
But he’d never spent as much day-to-day time with a woman as he had with Della Ward. She was proving to be as mysterious, puzzling, and irritating as he’d always thought women were. But he also saw her charm and beauty, as well as qualities he hadn’t expected. Courage, determination, and a quiet sense of honor and duty.
And opinions. She had opinions about things and expected him to accommodate those opinions, even if it meant changing routines that had worked well for ten years. He wondered if a more experienced man would know how to get around a woman’s opinions and her need to change things.
“Cameron?”
“Sorry. I was thinking about something.”
She waited a minute as if she expected him to explain what he was thinking. When he didn’t, she made an impatient gesture, then smothered a yawn.
A man shouldn’t feel guilty because he didn’t care to explain himself.
“Do we have plenty of water?”
Leaning forward, he poked the fire, thinking about the horses, coffee, the canteens. “I’d say so.”
“Good. I want to wash out some things.”
He glanced up at her. “You mean like laundry?”
“Yes.” She averted her gaze and images of stockings and undergarments flashed through his mind. First thighs, now undergarments. He, too, looked aside, cursing under his breath.
“We don’t have enough water to do laundry.”
“I was afraid of that,” she said unhappily. “Well. When will we come to a town? And will we stay there overnight?”
“The next town is about a week’s distance. We could stay overnight. If you insist.” And if the town had a hotel. He couldn’t recall.
But he did recognize another change in his routine. On his own, he didn’t travel from hotel room to hotel room. He camped on the plains until he smelled ripe and every item in his saddlebags needed a wash. Obviously that wasn’t how it would be on this trip.
Resentment began in the center of his chest, but receded when he glanced at her. Della stared into the fire with a morose expression that suggested she wasn’t happy about how the journey was shaping up, either. Plus she was aching in every muscle and bone, and her face was taut and shiny with egg white and oil. Clearly she was utterly miserable.
Just when he thought he’d figured out one small thing about her, she proved him wrong, this time by suddenly lifting her head with a radiant smile.
“We’re really doing this,” she said softly. “We’re going to find Claire. I’ll get to see my baby. Oh, Cameron, I’m so happy.”
Happy? She was so stiff and sore she could hardly move, and her sunburned skin had to be hurting. But he gazed into her eyes and believed her. The sadness seemed lessened tonight.
When she could no longer restrain her yawns, she excused herself as politely as if they w
ere sitting in a drawing room, and she left the fire to examine the bedroll.
Cameron had no idea what the protocol might be for traveling with a woman. Did he walk into the darkness and stay there while she did whatever women did to prepare for sleeping? Did he just avert his eyes? Pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary about sleeping a few feet from a woman he’d fantasized about for ten years?
Uncharacteristically indecisive, he waited to see what she would do, still considering a walk out on the range.
Keeping her back to him, she tugged off her boots, hesitated a moment, then crawled into the bedroll wearing her clothing. Thank God for that, he told himself, trying not to feel disappointed. Then she took down her hair and produced a brush out of thin air. Fascinated, he watched her brush a cascade of waist-length brown hair before she turned her face to the darkness and nimble fingers plaited a braid quicker than he would have believed possible.
While he was thinking about the brief glimpse of a silken waterfall tumbling to her waist, she wiggled down between the blankets. “Good night,” she called over her shoulder.
“Good night,” he said in a scratchy sounding voice.
Yes sir, this was going to be a very different kind of journey.
He poured another cup of coffee and did some flame gazing himself. There was no hope that he’d be going to sleep anytime soon.
Chapter 8
There wasn’t much to look at on the open range. With no shade and no rain, the sparse wildflowers browned in the heat, tucked amidst grass turned dry and tough. Occasional dust eddies spun funnels of whirling red sand across the horizon.
Cameron had explained that the ground rose to the west, and Della tried to see the lift but couldn’t. The plain looked flat as toast to her untrained eye.
By the third day she realized there was more definition than she’d first imagined. Gullies appeared, too wide and deep to cross, which necessitated going around and that often meant traveling an extra mile or two. Gradually she began to notice small hills and clumps of oak or wild pecan, began to realize that the lay of the land changed from hour to hour. Once she saw a small herd of prong-horns kicking up a plume of dust. She spotted enough rabbits that she stopped worrying about fresh meat.
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