“Small but not young,” Banner corrected. “Charity’s nineteen. Don’t be fooled by appearances. She’s shouldering heavy grief, but she still managed to keep up with us all. Give her the night to let this news settle. Come mornin’, things will be better.”
Banner’s words echoed in his ears the next morning. Things will be better…. It was going to be a rough day. Wagons measured all of forty inches across and ten to fourteen feet long at the base. The sides flared upward to permit ease of movement and make them float boat-style if fording a river became necessary. He’d built his to the maximum specifications, so he had a bit of room in his for Miss Davis’s things. Still, he reckoned she might be unreasonable about wanting to haul too much. He whispered a prayer for wisdom then rapped on the side of her wagon.
She peered down at him. The moisture in her eyes didn’t bode well at all, but he acted like he didn’t notice. “Good morning, Miss Davis.”
“I’ve started sorting through things.” She gingerly handed him a brand-spanking-new Colt patent rifle. “Careful. It’s loaded. Banner said you’re a crack shot, so I presume you’ll want all of the ammunition and arms.”
“I’ll bag you some fine meals with this, miss. Before you start handing more down to me, it might be best if you come look at my wagon. It’ll help us decide what to take and what to leave.” He added on, “Gracie Adams said she’d watch the kids for us today, but they’re hoping to meet you first.”
A timid smile lit her face. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
Ethan set aside the rifle and reached up to help her out. The tentative way she set her hands on his shoulders told him this gal wasn’t accustomed to a man’s touch. He braced her tiny waist and swept her earthward. Yards of petticoats whispered—a sound he’d just about forgotten after three years of being widowed. She’d left off her hoops and donned an apron today. Did that indicate she possessed a streak of practicality? He sure hoped so. A hint of flowers swirled in the air, and since she barely came to his chin, he realized the fragrance came from her hair. In daylight, the red and gold strands blended together like a fine piece of carved cedar. Half a dozen faint freckles sprinkled across her finely chiseled nose. A fetching pink suffused her cheeks, and she shyly dropped her lashes. “Thank you kindly, sir.”
He picked up the rifle and fought the urge to caress the sleek walnut stock. He’d seen fine Colts like this in a mercantile, but they were far too costly for a simple carpenter to own. “I’ll pull my wagon alongside yours in a while. It’ll make transferring things easier.”
She gave him a perplexed look. “I thought I was just to bring essentials. Food, clothing, my Bible, and a quilt.”
Ethan settled his free hand on a wheel spoke and looked into eyes bluer than the sky. Her unwavering acceptance of the necessary sacrifices came as a complete surprise. “Miss Davis, I’ll do my best to help you take as much as possible. You’re going to need more than that to set up a home once we reach Oregon. We’ll work on it.”
Charity thanked him, but she tried to quell her hope. She hadn’t yet seen his wagon and didn’t know if he had any space at all. She walked beside him to his rig. Two bedraggled children sat on the seat. Both had their daddy’s deep brown hair and eyes. From the way the little girl wiggled, Charity knew she was excited. Charity opened her arms, and the tike leaped at once. After all of her grief, an armful of love felt heaven-sent. She cuddled the waif and looked up at the boy. “Hello.”
“This is Tad.” Mr. Cole set the rifle under the wagon seat and lifted down his son. “He’s eight. This is Catherine, but we call her Cricket. She’s three. Kids, this is Miss Davis. You are to obey her at all times.”
“Yes, Pa,” they said in unison.
“We’ll get along just fine,” Charity declared. She shifted Cricket onto one hip and touched the button string around the girl’s neck. “You sure have a pretty collection of charmglass started. My gracious, what a big girl you are!”
Mr. Cole took his daughter and unlooped the string over her head. “She has thirty-one buttons already. Cricket, I told you you’re not to wear this ‘cept for Sunday worship. If you lose the buttons, you’ll never collect enough to be a married lady when you grow up!”
“Gotta have a thousand buttons to marry a beau,” Tad said. “How big is your button string, Miss Davis?”
“If you’d like, I’ll show it to you later, Tad. It has 982 buttons.” Like so many of her friends back home, Charity’s parents started her collection on the very day she was born. An exquisite assortment of buttons, all carefully corded on her string, lay nestled in her trunk. She’d earned buttons for spelling bees and gotten them as gifts. She’d traded with friends, too … all with the understanding that someday a very special man would follow the custom and give her the last button—the thousandth—then ask for her hand in marriage.
“Son,” Mr. Cole said, “we’ve got plenty to do. You take Cricket and go off to Gracie Adams. Take the milk with you.”
Charity turned her attention to the wagon. She knew Mr. Cole was a carpenter. He’d made his own wagon, and folks said it was the finest in the train. The tar seams promised it would be watertight. He patted the side and said, “I’m hoping to fasten one of your water barrels here and balance it with a flour barrel on the other side. We’ll try to work in a fair share of your goods. Let me lift you in so we can get to work.”
Charity suspected he tried hard to be gentle. The breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his hands made it clear he was a powerful man. Brawn like his would mean protection—something she appreciated after the last few days of feeling terribly vulnerable and alone. The fact that he kept a sheathed jackknife on his belt instead of wearing a holstered pistol reinforced the fact that this man, though reputed to be a marksman, preferred preparation to violence. He followed her into the wagon and winced.
“I didn’t pay much mind. I fear it’s a mess.”
“We’ve both had more important things to tend.” Clothes cluttered the floor. A trunk and wooden crates lined the walls. Food storage looked haphazard, at best. A lumpy straw mattress rested atop a square of wood. When he shoved the ticking out of the way and flipped up a hinged lid, Charity’s nose twitched.
“Cricket is too tiny to sleep outside. The kids sleep safely on this makeshift bed, and I built storage boxes below it. The other side has my tools. Over here, there’s a section for each kid.” Two sections each held a few things, but the third lay conspicuously empty. “That space was my nephew, Sam’s. My sister-in-law, Lydia, wanted to make a new life for her and little Sam, but she didn’t bargain on travel being so hard. They turned back with the Wilsons and Chroners when we reached Chimney Rock. Things fell apart when she left.”
“I’m not managing any better on my own,” Charity confessed. “I’ve had to have men see to my oxen and do guard duty for me.”
“We need each other, Miss Davis. I give you my word, I’ll provide as best I can and do all it takes to keep you and the kids safe. I know you must feel uneasy, but I’ll continue to observe the same proprieties I did when Lydia was with me.”
At least he was sensitive to the more delicate aspects of combining their wagons. His words gave the reassurance she’d prayed for. Charity promised, “I’ll tend the children diligently and do my best for you. Would you mind if I worked in here a bit so I can determine what essentials to bring along and how to combine our food?”
“Not at all.”
Charity knelt and surveyed the contents of the children’s boxes. She rocked back on her heels and thought for a moment. She needed to say some things, but they weren’t easy subjects to bring up. The last thing she wanted to do was offend him.
“I can see you’re struggling to be polite. We may as well speak plainly between ourselves, Miss Davis. Tiptoeing around is liable to cause us more problems than being outright.”
“Your daughter is still young. She’s not gotten up enough at night.” She didn’t want to dwell on the problem and chagrin him, so she
hastened to solve the difficulty. “We need to dispose of the mattress and bring one of mine over. The quilts are in need of attention as well. I have a length of waterproof gutta-percha we can put under her in the future.”
He nodded curtly. “My sister-in-law took the length we kept under Sam and Cricket. I should have thought about that.” Relief mingled with embarrassment. This gal was already seeing to the housekeeping and food supplies. Could it be that God had blessed him with a truly remarkable travel partner?
“With everything else we need to do, I’m not sure salvaging the quilts is a good use of time. Do you object to leaving some of them behind and bringing more of yours along?”
“I have plenty. As long as you don’t care …”
“The only one I’m particular about is the wedding ring quilt. My Justine made it our first year, and I hold it dear.”
“I’ll see to it.”
Ethan waited at the end of the wagon while she separated the quilts. He’d posed the question tentatively, but after it was out, Ethan was glad he’d asked. She actually almost smiled. He should have realized how hard it was for her to give up most of her possessions. Women were, as a rule, quite proud of the quilts they spent hundreds of hours making.
He looked at her ruffled day gown and glanced at the elegant way she’d styled her hair. It stretched his imagination to picture her cleaning, cooking, and minding the kids for more than a day or two. “Miss Davis, the trail is only going to get harder. It’s best you know from the get-go that I’m a man who isn’t fancy in the least. I reckon things are going to be difficult betwixt us because you’re a lady, and I’m a common man who lives by the sweat of his brow and the swing of a hammer.”
She gave him the sweetest smile. “I cannot imagine better company. Jesus was a carpenter, too.”
Chapter 2
Ethan Cole grinned. “You mentioned your Bible earlier. Am I to take it you’re a sister in the Lord, Miss Davis?”
“Yes.” The way he phrased that let her know he was a believer, too. “Undoubtedly, our faith will ease things between us.” She drew a breath to bolster her gumption. “Mr. Cole, my father was about your size. You should go through his things and have first call. I don’t mean you any offense; but you’ve been without a wife, and my father had two women to care for him. His breeches and shirts were all newly made for the trip and should last you a long while. Whatever fits, you’re free to claim.”
“That’s very generous of you, Miss Davis.” His compassionate brown gaze didn’t waver. Between his neatly trimmed mustache and beard, a warm smile tilted his lips. “In truth, I could use a few things.”
“While I see to combining our sugar and cornmeal supplies, maybe you could go through Daddy’s things. There’s a crate holding his ammunition and pistols, too. I’m sure you’ll want those.”
He stepped over a box and went to the front of the wagon. “If you stay put, I’ll roll this rig next to yours so we can set to work.”
As he got the oxen from the rope-fence enclosure and hitched them, Charity cast out the mattress and three spoiled quilts. Once done with that, she untied the edges of the double-layered, homespun wagon cover and rolled up the sides. Air wafted through as she carefully examined each article of clothing. If space permitted, Charity quickly determined to bring along more of Mama’s clothing. The fabric in one of the wool skirts would yield a couple pairs of britches for Tad, and Cricket needed flannel nightgowns and another frock or two. Poor motherless children!
Charity’s father bought whatever he felt necessary. A restless man, he’d come just for the sake of adventure. After Mama died, they discussed going back, but Charity declined. He had wanderlust, and she knew he would never be happy being tied down. Luckily, his inheritance had been enough to support them in whatever his whim happened to be. He’d spared no expense in outfitting them well with clothing, food, and trade goods.
Ethan Cole, on the other hand, was a hardworking man of meager means. He’d laid by modest food supplies but obviously counted more on hunting than Daddy had. His clothing had seen far better days, but he’d gotten a new set for both of his children. The way he prized the quilt meant he cherished his wife’s memory, so beneath that rugged exterior, he had a tender heart.
Charity began to tidy the chaos and assess his goods. Clearly, his sister-in-law had taken food and supplies without regard to how it robbed him of essentials. More soap, a washboard … Charity mentally listed basic things to bring along.
He drove his wagon so close to hers, they nearly touched. She let out a small sigh of relief. It would make her job far easier if she could simply shove things across.
While they’d been gone, Banner and her oldest daughter pulled the heavy cotton bonnet off Charity’s wagon and folded it. “You’ll need this to make a tent to live in once we reach Oregon,” Banner said as she pulled a strip of twine tightly to make the bundle smaller. “You two take a bit of time to work out some details, then I’ll be over with breakfast.”
“Much obliged, ma’am,” Ethan said as he set the brake. “We’ll certainly work up an appetite today.” Banner left, and he climbed into her wagon and stood by Miss Davis. In the short time he’d been gone, she’d worked wonders in his wagon. “I’ll take the oxen back. Is there anything you want me to do before I go?”
She bit her lip and surveyed things. In an uncertain tone, she asked, “Is there any chance we could take along my highboy? I’m using it as a pantry, and I could add your supplies to it.”
Ethan studied the walnut piece. A master craftsman must have spent weeks making this. He reverently ran his hand across the satiny finished surface, clearly appreciating the fine fit of each drawer and the exquisite carving of a ribbon. He thought for a moment then nodded. “It’ll actually free up some floor space if we empty a few bags and crates into it. I’ll need to counterbalance the weight by putting another water barrel out on the other side.”
A few men came over to help, and the job was done in a flash. They also moved Charity’s trunk across and set it in the corner. One of the men said something under his breath to Ethan, cast a quick look at her, and then left.
Charity started tucking food tins and bags of beans into the highboy. Ethan came alongside her. “Miss Davis, we need to discuss a few matters before we go on. I could see by their mark the Studebaker brothers made your schooner. They’re fine wainwrights, and it’s a well-built rig.”
She stopped working and faced him. “Mr. Cole, even to my uneducated eye, your wagon reflects remarkable workmanship. Due to your talent, it has several extras my wagon can’t match.”
He felt a surge of pleasure at her words. “It’s mighty nice of you to notice. Jed Turvey’s getting by with his old farm wagon, but I doubt it’ll last the trip. He asked how much you want for your rig.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course I’d much rather see one of our fellow families get it than leave it behind. Please tell him he’s more than welcome to have it.”
“We’ll get back to that in a minute.” Conducting business with a woman made him feel awkward. Ethan took a deep breath and broached the next subject. “Between us, we have ten oxen. Providing water for all of them will become impossible. Folks are asking about them. I’m of a mind to sell the extra.”
She knelt and started to sort through other bags to see what they contained. “Daddy knew nothing about livestock, so I know full well yours are superior. Why don’t you choose my best pair to keep and give the other four away?”
“Miss Davis, you can’t afford such a generosity. You’re going to need every last cent when you reach Oregon. I helped bury your pa. The two hundred dollars from his pocket won’t last you very long once you have to set yourself up again.”
She dipped her head and tried to blink back tears. “I thank you for your concern, but Daddy didn’t leave me destitute.”
He made a wordless sound of comfort and squeezed her hand. Neither of them moved for a few moments. She finally took a deep breath to gather her compos
ure. When she looked at him, he tenderly wiped away her tears from her soft cheek with a brush of his thumb. “Mind you, I’m not asking for any specific number, but did your pa really leave you so you aren’t too strapped?”
She swallowed hard and whispered, “That was his carrying money. I have more.” She ignored his sigh of relief. “Please make the oxen a thank-you gift to the Washingtons for helping me these last days. Rick already lost an ox to the rogue log in the river and didn’t replace it at Fort Kearny, so I know money is tight for them. My conscience would trouble me if I took his money—especially since I’m in his debt. As for Mr. Turvey—he’s using that old wagon because a new prairie schooner was too expensive. They floated across the river instead of paying the five dollars for the ferry, and I overheard Leticia mention most of their things got soaked. I can’t think of anything more shameful or selfish than to deny them a sound schooner.”
Ethan shook his head. “I won’t argue about the wagon. If the Turveys don’t take it, it’ll be left behind. Oxen are a different story. An ox costs twenty-five dollars back at Independence. By the time we get to Fort Hall, one will be worth forty, maybe even fifty. Men can’t accept something that valuable as a gift.”
She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “I’d be delighted if the Washingtons took a pair. If pride is at stake, maybe you could charge them five dollars. Certainly no more. Since your oxen will be carrying me and my belongings, it’s only fair that you determine the terms of what happens to the other pair. You must promise one thing though: you’ll keep that money to help pay for river crossings and such. I fully expect to cover those expenses since you’re kind enough to take me on.”
His voice went harsh. “I don’t accept charity!”
She arched her brow. “Oh, yes, you have. Charity’s my name, and you’ve taken me on.” Sensing she’d dented his pride, she then curled her hand around one of the prairie schooner’s riblike bows. “Please, Mr. Cole, let’s not quibble. I’m stranded without your help, so I’m thankful you’re willing to let me ride with your family. If I cannot contribute, I’ll feel as if I’m accepting charity. I’d feel so very wrong. There is so little I have to offer. You must accept what I am able to give toward our eventual success.”
Bartered Bride Romance Collection Page 7